#Spring Flowers Tapestry

[mekyrdesign]

Transform your space with a beautiful Spring Flowers Tapestry! Perfect for adding a burst of color and a touch of nature to your home, this tapestry will brighten up any room. Whether draped over a couch or hung on a wall, it’s an easy way to refresh your decor for the season. Embrace the beauty of spring all year round! 🌸✨ #SpringDecor #HomeInspiration #TapestryArt #FloralDesign #InteriorStyle

[aneacc]

I was Inspired by old medieval tapestries of unicorns. The only thing I regret is not giving more details to the flowers, maybe one day I'll redo it.

Me inspiré en los tapices viejos medievales de unicornios. la única cosa que me arrepiento en no haber dibujado con más detalles las flores, quizás en el futuro lo rehago.

[toyastales]

Cool idea to use an area rug as a wall tapestry.

Love everything about this room!

[artnew8]

Floral Geometric Jacquard Embroidered Ribbons DIY Decoration Webbing Trim

[beloveds-embrace]

Fae au thought

One of them storming into her chambers only for her to be in the middle of a bubble bath. Completely bare of all things fae. So utterly human, so utterly vulnerable.

yes || masterlist || trying my hand at actually writing johnny’s accent

It was Johnny.

Of course it was Johnny.

The door slammed open with the force of a man too furious to remember propriety, the wood crashing against the stone with a bang that echoed like thunder down the gilded corridor and scattering the softly glowing wisps that floated lazily in your chambers like fireflies caught in honeyed light. The very walls groaned in protest, ancient ivy carved into the pillars flinching at the fury that surged in behind him. His voice followed, sharp, brimming with a fire he rarely let show in court.

"Where the fuck were you- ?!"

Every faelight in the room flickered, dimming in tandem with his rage. Then, silence; a heavy, suffocating silence.

You turned in the tub, water sloshing gently against porcelain as your hand rose to clutch at the side. Bubbles clung lazily to your shoulders, slipping down soft skin untouched by glamour or adornment. No jewelry curved your ears to points. No talon-shaped rings or flower-laced braids. No velvet. No corset. No thorns. Bare as a whisper, as a prayer. Soaked in steam and solitude, skin flushed from heat.

Only you.

Bare, human, and blinking at him like a deer startled mid-step in a clearing.

The fury drained from him in an instant.

Johnny’s lips parted, then closed. His eyes flicked- once, only once- before they dropped to the floor, jaw tightening with restraint. The fire had not gone out, but it was merely stifled now, banked beneath something deeper and rougher.

“Dinnae mean to…” he muttered, voice cracking low, throat bobbing.

You remained quiet, shoulders curling ever so slightly inward. The room, warm and fragrant with oils and rose petals, suddenly felt too still, too quiet, even though distant flutes played, music still drifting in from the spring festival below. One of the glass windows glowed a faint blue, letting in the moon’s touch. You reached for a towel, slow and deliberate, never taking your eyes off him.

And you- so achingly human- were the only thing in the room that didn’t shimmer. It made you seem all the more delicate.

“… You could knock next time.” You said, softly, not with anger, but with a tiredness that had settled deep into your bones. The kind that no glamour could mask. The kind even Thrain’s company barely eased. The kind that had nothing to do with being fae or queen or wife, and everything to do with simply being alone for too long. With being human in a place that did not welcome it.

Johnny didn’t leave, though, even if he should have.

Instead, he stepped back once- just once- and turned his head, gaze fixed on a tapestry like it had offended him personally.

“I thought somethin’’d happened,” he said, voice low and rough, accent thick. “Ye weren’t in yer chambers, or at the table. No one had a fuckin’ clue where ye’d gone. Court’s been crawlin’ all day- bastards won’t stop askin’ for more time wi’ ye. Price is snappin’. Gaz nearly stuck a blade in some prissy noble’s gut when he asked too sweetly where’d you gone. I dinnae even know where Si’s at an’ I’m almost too afraid to ask.”

You sank back into the water, letting the warmth cradle your frame.

“I just wanted a bath,” you whispered, sinking back into the bath, water lapping gently at your collarbone. The petals shifted around you, soft and luminous. “Not a title. Not another favor asked of me. Just…” Your fingers trailed across the surface, drawing circles. “To be myself. For a little while.”

The silence stretched. But it wasn’t heavy this time, and neither was it angry. Quiet.

After a moment, you heard the sound of boots stepping away. Not leaving- just moving. Then the faint scrape of wood against stone that had been etched with centuries’ worth of wards to keep wicked things at bay.

He was sitting, less like an advisor and more a knight keeping watch outside a princess’s door. But even closer than that.

“I’ll stay,” he said gruffly, crossing his arms as though daring anyone to argue with him- even you. “Not lookin’. Just… watchin’ the door.”

A pause. Then, in a voice so quiet you’d never think he was even capable of, Johnny sighed. “… Take yer time, queenie. Dinnae let me take this away from ye.”

You had no answer for that.

But when you rose, wrapped in soft linen and smelling of dusk-flowers and magic, your bare feet kissed the glowing floor, and your eyes met his- he didn’t look away this time.

Not even once.

(You told yourself it was not hunger that colored his eyes; you doubted he’d find a human attractive.)

[norristeria]

Miss Independent ! LN04

━━━━━━ Part of the LOVESICK IDOLS anthology!

SUMMARY 𝄡 You can buy your own diamonds and flowers, you always have. This independence is so sacred, it blinds you to Lando's need to provide.

PAIRING 𝄡 Lando Norris x A-List Actress! FemReader

TAGS 𝄡 Fluff, Angst.

WORDCOUNT 𝄡 4k.

NOTE 𝄡 The idea hit me in the face in the middle of the night & I knew I had to get the words out before they vanished. I don't know if I like it, it's quite messy ( & not as poetic as Thy Trophy, I fear⏤I'm keeping all my pretty metaphors for another fic lol ) but oh well! This is not proofread so if you see a typo, no you did not... Enjoy!! <33

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

It all began with the bouquet of peonies.

Paris’s avenues stirred to life with the coming of spring, perfumed by the powdery scents drifting from adorned Haussmann balconies and overflowing flower stalls. Color, in all its revelry, reclaimed its dominion, dazzling eyes long dulled by winter—a resurrection both olfactory and optical, which served as a gentle reminder that Hope would always prevail.

Even the blinding fabrics of the archival pieces chosen by your stylist could not compare to Mother Nature, who had woven her finest tapestry the moment April’s soft sun had peeked through the clouds.

The prosaic birthed Beauty, and what could embody both better than a bouquet of flowers?

There, tucked on a side table in a corner, the peonies reigned. You had spotted them the moment you had walked in, and since then, they had haunted your gaze and mind.

Pink and violet blurred at the edge of your vision. Whenever the stylists were not looking, you would breathe in, hoping to catch their delicate scent, but were left only with frustration and the stiffness of your stance atop that damned pedestal.

You had been invited to yet another dinner—something of the “upmost importance,” according to your agent—and now you had to decide on a dress.  

Not on sunlit café terraces, nor in the gardens of the Tuileries, no, but here, in a showroom lit by artificial light and chilled by aggressive air conditioning.

Since morning, people had poked and prodded, measured and tightened corsets, adjusted layers of tulle and silk. More doll than human, you suffocated in the vast white hall of the 30 Avenue Montaigne, longing to trade its sterile walls for the breezy avenues of the 8th arrondissement.

Your gaze drifted again to the peonies, and you sighed.

Spring would have to wait.

Suddenly, your phone rang. The chime cut through the whispering—though not-so-discreet—remarks of the stylists, their brutal musings on the shape of your hips or the width of your arms.

You silently thanked whoever had called for silencing them, even if only for a heartbeat.

Unable to move—a stylist was pinning lace across your torso—you asked your assistant, Marguerite, to bring the phone to you. When you saw the name written on the screen, a breathless smile spread across your lips.

“Hello!”

“Hi, my love,” came Lando’s weary voice.

“How’s Japan?”

You heard the rustle of bedsheets through the speaker as he shifted. Night had long fallen in Suzuka, stealing away the euphoria of race day and leaving only its ghosts—the stress, the nerves, the doubt.

“It’s fine. It’d be better if you were here, though.”

You winced, guilt flaring sharp in your chest. You closed your eyes.

“I know, I know. I’m sorry... I’d rather be with you than do these stupid fittings.”

You ignored the scalding looks from the stylists.

Lando did not reply. He sniffed. Your heart broke.

How you wished you could pick up its pieces, but the corset pressing against your ribs held you prisoner in your pain.

You dreamed of following Lando across the world, cheering from the paddock instead of watching grainy videos shared online. But your career came first—whether you liked it or not. Your agent made sure of that.

Such was the price of passion: loving by proxy, surviving on scattered calls and whispered promises.

The gods had not been kind to you. They punished your love, destined to transcend physical laws and only exist on different time zones.

His breathing echoed in your ear as you searched for a distraction, something to take his mind of the weekend. He rarely called during races—it reminded him too much of your absence in the McLaren garage.

You knew this call meant more. It was flare in the dark.

Your eyes swept the room once more and found the peonies. They would do.

“Oh!” you exclaimed, perhaps a little too brightly. “Dior has the most adorable bouquet of peonies I’ve ever seen. Hold on, I’ll send you a photo!”

You snapped a picture and sent it before he could say a word.

“Don’t you think they’d look perfect in the apartment in Monaco?”

The apartment. Not yours. Just another in-between you lived in. Not quite London, not quite New York. Not quite Monaco, not quite Paris. Such was the life of an actress, a never-ending wanderer.

“I trust your taste more than mine,” he said.

You nearly cried when you heard the smile in his voice. One spark of joy in Lando was enough to ignite your own. They had grown so rare these days, each one deserved celebration.

The start of the season had been rough, and it had not let up—even with the glory.

Heavy is the head that wears the crown, especially when your name is Lando Norris, and the internet has decided to make you its scapegoat.

You spoke of anything and everything, trying desperately to pull him from the darkness, though you knew—traitorous and stubborn as they were—those thoughts would crawl back to him later, whispering their lies in the night.

Minutes passed. A seamstress pricked you five times. Then came the question, sudden and soft.

“Do you think you could make it to Bahrain? With the triple header, we won’t see each other for another two, maybe three.”

Despair bled into every word. But you didn’t hear it—Marguerite was trying to tell you something. You bent toward her, the corset biting into your waist.

“Hmm?” you asked distractedly, straightening up. “Ouch!”

The stylist apologized, trembling, needle still in hand. You sighed and waved her off.

“Sorry, Love,” you said. “Marguerite was asking about my lunch order. What were you saying?”

“Nothing. Forget it.”

You wanted to insist, but he beat you to it.

“I should sleep. Jon will kill me if I don’t. Talk to you tomorrow?”

“Of course. Good luck for tomorrow. Dream of me.”

“Always.”

You hung up.

An hour later, after endless fittings and the final selection—a Spring 1998 gown—you said your goodbyes, promised Marguerite to update her on your whereabouts, and stepped out onto Avenue Montaigne, bodyguards in tow.

The peonies had colored your thoughts, and you were determined to bring a piece of Parisian Spring back to Monaco.

Your flight would not leave till late afternoon, leaving you enough time to find a florist. Luckily, you did not have to walk far. Monsieur Dior had loved flowers, and the whole neighborhood bloomed for him.

The chime of the shop’s bell greeted you. That small melody lifted your heart, though you couldn’t explain why.

You saw them instantly.

An explosion of color rather than a mere bouquet, the peonies demanded attention. You imagined them in your white-walled Monaco living room, an impressionist painting come to life, and did not hesitate.

You pointed to them, all smiles. The florist quickly wrapped them in tissue paper.

“That’ll be two hundred euros, please.”

You did not blink and paid absently, already lost in the scent of the blossoms. They wrapped around you, filling the hollow Lando’s absence had left.

Your phone rang again, just as you stepped outside. You frowned.

“You’re not asleep?”

“Can we FaceTime?” Lando asked, ignoring your question.

“Of course. One sec…”

You fumbled for an angle, nearly dropping the bouquet. The peonies spilled into the frame, half-hiding your face.

“Oh... you bought them?” His voice was unreadable.

Odd, you thought.

“Yeah! I couldn’t resist. I hope they survive the jet ride, but I don’t see why not! What do you think?”

“They’re beautiful. Not as beautiful as you, but close.”

You snorted.

“Flatterer.”

A silence.

“Are you okay?” you asked gently.

He sighed.

“Nervous. And I can’t sleep without you.”

“You have my hoodie, don’t you?”

“Not the same,” he mumbled. “And your scent’s fading.”

Your heart clenched.

“I promise I’ll talk to Christopher and my agent. Maybe I can free up a Grand Prix weekend. Miami? I’m not due back in Sicily until mid-May.”

Paris blurred around you. The Grand Palais, the Champs-Élysées. None of it mattered when Lando needed you.

Eventually, after reluctant goodbyes, you hung up and walked on under the bright Parisian sky.

Far away, in a hotel room in Suzuka, Lando sighed and, with a swipe of his thumb, canceled the peony order he had placed with a florist in Monaco.

Then came the restaurant.

Amid the empty plates and crumpled napkins, red circles had seeped and stained the once-pristine tablecloth of the three-star establishment. The wine bottle lay on the table, empty, but its effects were palpable.

The candles that had not yet melted cast a hypnotic glow on your face and illuminated what Lando loved most about you: your pupils, dilated from intoxicating love?

You had long since abandoned any sense of decorum. The tip of your stilettos had begun to stroke his calf, leaving Lando to grip his cutlery so hard his knuckles had turned white.

When you bit your lip, he snapped and stood up so abruptly he almost knocked over his chair.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” he muttered.

But instead of heading toward the back of the restaurant, he went the other way, stopping in front of the waiter. Lando handed him his card in an agitated gesture, running a hand through his curls. His thoughts were already drifting to the warmth of your skin, the softness of your lips, the tightness of your–

“It appears Madame has already paid, Mr. Norris.”

Both the effects of wine and desire evaporated in a heartbeat, leaving him pale. His hand froze in his hair. He blinked. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.

“What do you mean ‘she already paid’? When?” he finally choked out.

The waiter consulted his ledger.

“She left her card earlier in the evening. Here it is.”

He slid a black leather folder across the stand. From it, a metallic rectangle protruded. Lando inwardly cursed.

The black-and-bronze Centurion card, a symbol of wealth and privilege.

Now his nemesis.

Lando snatched it up. An intrusive thought crossed his mind as he held it in his large hand. What if he broke it? He’d pretend it was an accident, of course, but this temporary setback would give him the chance to finally, finally, provide for you.

He shook his head and returned to your table. The card dug painfully into his palm, a sharp reminder of its constant, unbearable presence.

You looked up when you heard him approach, a seductive smile painted on your red lips, completely unaware of the storm rising inside him.

You gaze dropped to his hand, which you admired for a few seconds, then lifted back to Lando’s now-dull green eyes.

“You got my card?”

He sighed and handed it back to you.

“Let’s go.”

Lando helped you with your coat, his hands lingering longer on your shoulders than etiquette would’ve allowed, and together you left.

“Next time, I’m paying,” he said as you waited for the valet.

“Of course,” you replied distractedly, tracing his jawline with the tip of a finger.

Your mind was already elsewhere, on the rest of your evening and the promises your smoldering gazes had recklessly sealed. Lando’s, however, remained stuck on the matter of the bill and the uneasy feeling that had spread through his veins like poison.

Insecurity.

His movements turned mechanical as he heard the engine of his Lamborghini roar. He tipped the valet, thanked him in a flat tone, opened the passenger door for you, offered his hand to help you sit down, then slipped behind the wheel.

His large hand instinctively found your bare, warm thigh—and squeezed.

In the hollow of his palm, the imprint left by the metal card still burned.

But it was the necklace that broke the camel’s back.

The streets of Monaco held a familiarity that comforted Lando after the chaos of the triple header. The narrow lanes and tight turns—walked instead of raced—distracted him from the season and the pressure it carried. The Monaco Grand Prix was still far enough away that he could see the city as nothing more than Home.

He rejoiced in the familiar scent of the Mediterranean Sea, curiously mingled with the tang of luxury car exhaust and the heavy perfumes spilling from boutique doors. Monaco oozed opulence, and you, at his side, fit so seamlessly into this surreal world.

His gaze wandered to you, dressed head to toe in haute couture. In a giddy rush of love and admiration, he stole a kiss from your lips.

Sometimes, he still could not believe you were his.

Hand in hand, the two of you wandered through the principality, with no purpose other than to enjoy each other’s company. You had managed to negotiate a break from your current project—Christopher Nolan would not need you in Sicily for The Odyssey until the end of May.

Lando had pounced on the opportunity, inviting you to join him in Monaco. Your moments were counted; every chance was too precious to be wasted.

Eventually, your idle stroll led you to the ever-crowded Casino Square. You weaved through a sea of phone cameras and autograph requests, sunglasses on, love-drunk smiles on your lips.

“Y/N! Can I get an autograph?”

“Lando! My son’s your biggest fan!”

“Can we do a fit check for my TikTok?”

When a fan strayed too close to you, Lando pulled you behind him and, in a sudden flash of protectiveness, veered you off your usual route, his hand against your lower back.

“What are you doing?” you whispered to him.

“An Oscar-winning actress deserves a proper gift,” he replied with a mischievous glint.

He ignored your questions and wrapped an arm around your waist. Your fingers laced through his on instinct—your body recognized and sought his.

Together, you slipped away from the crowd, past terracotta and granite facades, until you stumbled upon the discreet Cartier boutique tucked into the corner of the square. The chaos outside had already begun to fade, but you both knew iPhone lenses were still quietly tracking your every move.

The rules of paparazzi didn’t apply to phones—much to your dismay.

It was funny to think that just four months ago, you would never have had to consider such a thing; still cocooned in secrecy then, wrapped in love and shadows.

Though he hated the sacrifice of privacy he had made—your little paradise now dissected by the public eye—Lando could not suppress the flicker of pride that warmed his chest.

No more misplaced hopes from admirers; he could walk beside you in broad daylight, and finally, silence them all.

“It’s been almost two months since I got that Oscar,” you teased, realizing where he was leading you. “And you’ve said the same thing every time.”

He only shrugged.

“So what?”

You laughed softly and rolled your eyes.

A doorman opened the door, ushering you into the hushed, velvety quiet of the shop. The boutique, curiously empty, felt as though it had been waiting just for you.

A man greeted you both with open arms.

“Madame L/N, Monsieur Norris, what a joy to see you again! May I offer you a glass of champagne?”

You were guided to a private salon, away from wandering eyes. Some fans would have pressed against the glass just to glimpse at a fragment of your day.

“It’s been some time since we’ve had the pleasure, Madame L/N.”

The salesman’s attention naturally fell to you, and Lando didn’t mind. You were a loyal client—draped in their creations at every red carpet, every press tour, and even in the quiet of your everyday life.

The man waisted to time to present a diamond bracelet. You slid it on gently. The stones, dazzling and vibrant, were blinding, but you remained unmoved by its beauty.

And thus began a familiar dance. A necklace, then an emerald ring, ruby earrings. Each time, you shook your head.

Lando watched you, entranced by the dhow you were unconsciously putting on, happy to offer his opinion when you asked.

“That one’s cute.”

“Oh, gorgeous.”

“Pretty.”

When he complimented yet another jewel, you delicately placed the ring back in its crimson box, raising an eyebrow at him with a knowing smirk. He knew every one of your expressions—that spark in your eyes meant affectionate exasperation.

“You’re not being very helpful, you know.”

“Not my fault you make everything looks good,” he said, glancing at the salesman. “Right, Hervé?”

“Absolutely, Monsieur Norris.”

You stared at the glittering display before you—each piece more beautiful than the last—a pout tugging at your lips.

Lando had to resist the urge to kiss it away.

“Hmm. I don’t know. Nothing really speaks to me.”

“Perhaps you might consider this one?”

Lando tuned out Hervé’s voice. He stood and walked around the room, his gaze caught by thousands of gems shimmering in the light. The luxurious kaleidoscope made his head spin.

He blinked and stopped before a particular display. The necklace inside seized his attention instantly.

“Have you tried this one yet, love?” he asked, mesmerized by the play of light across its surface.

Hervé stood to get a better look.

“Ah oui. Our Reflection necklace. Crafted in eighteen-karat white gold and set with no fewer than three hundred and seventy-six diamonds. A masterpiece of craftsmanship.”

He stood up, unlocked the case and brought the box to the Louis XVI-style table, placing it reverently before you.

Lando returned to your side, unable to tear his eyes from the jewel. The reflection of the diamonds danced across the molded ceiling and glinted in every glass pane.

He could not wait to see them against your skin.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmured. “Could I try it on?”

“Of course, Madame. May I?”

With gloved fingers, Hervé fastened the necklace around your throat. The diamonds and gold sang a symphony of excess as they settled against your skin. Lando’s mouth went dry.

“What do you think, darling?”

He stammered a few inarticulate compliments, unable to look away from your diamond-clad neck.

His gaze dropped lower.

He swallowed.

“That’s the one.”

“I think so too.”

His phone rang, shattering the moment.

You cast him a sharp look before offering Hervé an apologetic—or rather embarrassed—smile. You loathed rudeness.

He shot you a sorry glance, excused himself and stood up.

“I have to take this. Excuse me.”

The call with Jon lasted less than five minutes—but it was enough.

When Lando returned to the room, Hervé was handing you a bag.

You turned toward him as he entered, a radiant smile on your face. For once, he did not return it. He did not linger on your beauty either. No. His eyes went straight to that damned paper bag.

His heart dropped and reverberated in his now-empty mind. Its echoes gave rise to a strange unease that took over him completely—the same one he had felt at the restaurant.

“We can go. I already paid.”

“What?” he asked, voice hollow.

“You were right,” you said, oblivious—or indifferent—to his torment. “The necklace was the best choice.”

“You paid?” he repeated.

“Yes. I didn’t know how long your call would take.”

Something deep within Lando finally snapped.

The male ego is a curious thing. Poke it—and brace for the fallout.

Lando clenched his fist as a plan began to take shape in his mind.

“Love, have you seen my card?” you asked three days later from your shared bedroom.

Lando, lounging on the couch, quickly shoved the said card into the pocket of his hoodie. The metal clinked against his silver ring.

“No,” he cleared his throat. “Why?”

You stormed into the living-room, one hand tangled in your hair. Stress radiated off you in waves. Lando swallowed hard as a cold sweat slid down his spine. You had a gift for making him panic with a single glance—and of the two, he was certainly not the better actor.

“Shit! I had it this morning! I saw this bag that looked really nice.”

“I can get it for you, if you want,” he offered, almost shyly.

But you didn’t hear him—too busy tearing through cushions and knick-knacks, muttering under your breath.

“It’s alright, baby. I’ll buy it for you,” he tried again, more insistent this time.

You straightened up, frowning, the catch-all bowl clutched in your hand.

“I’m perfectly capable of buying this bag myself, Lando.”

The words cracked through the air—sharp, wounded.

Way to go, Norris. That’s not how you’re going to win her over.

“I never said you couldn’t,” he murmured. “It would just make me happy to do it.”

You ignored him and went back to searching. Lando watched, mouth slightly ajar. So, you weren’t even going to acknowledge him? He called your name several times, but you stayed deaf to his pleas.

“Can you just let me spoil you for once?!” he finally burst out.

The peonies, the restaurant, the necklace—all the frustration he had buried deep in his chest bled out in his voice—an uncontrollable hemorrhage of ego.

You arched a brow and placed the bowl back on the table with a frightening calmness. The soft chime rang through the silence as you slowly stood.

“Who are you talking to like that?”

“I just–! I mean– Argh!”

Lando dragged a hand through his curls, pulling at them—a gesture he had picked up from you. Love bred mimicry. The little quirks of one became second nature to the other.

“You don’t let me buy you anything,” he said again, softer.

“That’s not true. You gave me that dress not long ago.”

“Yeah. Because it was Christmas! Four months ago, Y/N.”

You scoffed and crossed your arms. From where he sat, he could see the tension in your shoulders, the pinch of your lips.

You were angry.

“Look, I—” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “It just feels like… like you don’t need me.”

The truth burned his throat. He lowered his gaze, afraid to see pity, or pain, or worse—incomprehension—in your eyes.

“That’s ridiculous.”

He exhaled, eyes shut.

“Maybe. But that’s how I feel.”

Silence fell over you both, thick and heavy. It struck him full in the chest. His heart thundered in his ears.

Why couldn’t you try and understand him? Why were you so stubborn? How long would you speak at cross purposes?

Eventually, the couch dipped beside him, and your scent wrapped around him.

“I don’t need you to buy me bags or necklaces, Lando,” you said, voice gentler now.

He flinched and his heart stung.

“But… I guess I understand why you’d feel that way. And even if it doesn’t make much sense to me…” You sighed. “Well, I suppose I can try.”

Lando looked up, chest already lighter. His pinky found yours on the cushion, and when it did, he did not let go.

You looked at him, lips pressed tight.

“One gift a month.”

“One big gift a month. Small ones have no limit.”

A beat.

You sighed.

“Fine.”

You held out your hand to seal the pact, but Lando pulled you into his chest instead.

There you stayed, quiet. He nestled into the curve of your neck, inhaling your scent—yours and yours alone—and closed his eyes.

“I’m sorry for not listening to you earlier,” you whispered minutes later, your throat vibrating against his lips.

“It’s okay.”

You pulled away, bracing a hand against his abs. Lando tried to tug you back against him, already missing your warmth, but you resisted, determined to make your point across.

“No, it’s not. Communication is important in a relationship, and I didn’t consider your feelings, only mine.”

He cupped your face and kissed you deeply before meeting your gaze. A mischievous grin crept onto his lips.

“Let me get you the bracelet and ring to match that Cartier necklace and all is forgiven.”

You rolled your eyes but did not argue. That alone made Lando beam.

Victory tasted sweet—but not as sweet as your lips, which he kissed again. His hands roamed, and yours soon followed.

But just as quickly, they stilled.

You pulled away, eyes narrowing.

“Is that my fucking card in your pocket?”

Lando winced.

[psychedelic-ink]

ㅤㅤㅤ✦ 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐘

ㅤㅤjoel miller x plus size!f!reader

genre: romance, flowershop au, jackson era, minors dni

word count: 7k

summary: you own a small flower shop in Jackson, when Ellie comes to visit, your life inevitably becomes tangled with the man who cares for her; joel miller.

warnings: age gap, piv in the middle of a flower field, no one sees, praise kink, some angst because joel, oral (fem receiving)

a/n: hello everyone! it's been a while and honestly, life has been kicking me in the gut lately with everything its got.

This originally was a commission, reader had a name and I've been working at it for months but sadly the person who commissioned be backed out last second saying they weren't interested anymore meaning I'm not getting paid for this work. Again, it's on me. Admittedly I've been slow on commissions due to my living situation and work and I should've taken half the payment upfront but trusting it was a joel fic I didn't really take extra precautions.

I decided to share it anyway, and the person who commissioned me said that I could. Any kind of writing has been hard for me to do lately and I really like how this one turned out. But since now I'm not getting paid for this work I decided to take out readers name and make some changes to the overall plot that I was given.

Sadly, I can't take any more commissions at the moment before finishing the ones I have left, but I'd be grateful for any kind of support you guys can give. I need to move out this summer (if I don't, I don't have a shadow of a doubt that my aunts will tell me to leave anyway) and I've been trying to save up as much as I can. Everything just has been a lot lately and I'm feeling anxious about my decisions and lost.

Again, any kind of support is greatly appreciated even tho I know I don't deserve it at this time:

my kofi

**dividers by @saradika-graphics 💜

You unlock the door to your quaint flower shop, the antique bell that you found and Tommy fixed chiming softly in greeting. Stepping outside, you're immediately embraced by the warmth of the morning sun, its golden rays dancing playfully on your skin. The air carries the unmistakable scent of spring, a delicate blend of fresh blossoms and earthy notes that fills your lungs with every inhale.

Dressed in a flowing dress, you feel perfectly in tune with the season as you begin arranging the colorful array of flowers on display outside your shop. The fabric of your dress sways gently in the breeze, a soft symphony of movement that mirrors the graceful dance of the petals.

Taking a deep breath, you close your eyes and tilt your face towards the sky, basking in the gentle caress of the sun's rays. Above you, the cerulean expanse is dotted with fluffy white clouds, their shapes shifting and morphing with each passing moment.

With practiced hands, you arrange the blooms with care, each stem finding its place in the intricate tapestry of colors and textures. The vibrant hues of the flowers contrast beautifully against the backdrop of the weathered brick walls of your shop, creating a scene that's both inviting and enchanting.

As you work, you can't help but smile at the thought of the joy these flowers will bring to those who pass by. It’s been hard adopting to a new and broken world, but ironically, you have found your passion. Something to make you eager to get up in the morning. Of course your heart still ached for those you had lost, the suffering, but working on flowers, something living and growing and adapting just like you managed to lighten the weight on your heart. Whether it's a simple bouquet to brighten someone's day or a thoughtful arrangement for a special occasion, your creations have a way of spreading happiness and light wherever they go.

With the last of the flowers arranged to perfection, you step back to admire your handiwork, a sense of pride swelling within you. With a contented sigh, you turn to head back inside, ready to greet the day with open arms and a heart full of gratitude.

That is, until, you hear a surprised gasp. 

“Holy shit—” 

Turning around at the sound, you're met with the sight of a familiar face. A young girl you've seen around town quite frequently. You haven’t officially met her yet, but you know her name: Ellie. 

Realizing that the young girl has never visited your flower shop before, you understand the source of her surprise. With a warm smile, you approach her and greet her by name. "You're Ellie, right? Tommy's niece?"

Ellie nods enthusiastically, her eyes bright with excitement. "Yeah, that's me! Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. I've just never been here before. The flowers are... fucking amazing—"

She suddenly claps a hand over her mouth, looking towards you apologetically. The gesture makes you laugh.

"I'm glad you like them," you reply, feeling a sense of satisfaction at her reaction. "Feel free to take a closer look if you'd like."

Her eyes light up at the invitation, and she eagerly follows you inside the cozy flower shop. The atmosphere inside is warm and inviting, with shelves lined with potted plants and bouquets of flowers in various stages of bloom. Sunlight filters through the windows, casting a soft glow over the space and illuminating the vibrant colors of the blooms.

As you lead Ellie further into the shop, you can't help but notice the curious glances she casts around, taking in every detail with a sense of wonder. The air is filled with the subtle fragrance of flowers, a delicate scent that lingers in the air and adds to the charm of the space.

"So, Ellie," you begin, breaking the comfortable silence as you approach a display of freshly cut flowers, "Anything you like? I’d be more than happy to gift you some."

Ellie's eyes sparkle with excitement as she looks around the shop. "Really? But there’s so many, how can I even choose?"

"Well, you're in luck," you reply, gesturing towards the colorful blooms around you. "I can just make you a bouquet of everything. Just pick out your favorites."

Ellie's gaze drifts over the display, her expression thoughtful as she considers your question. "Hmm, that's a tough one, they all look so fucking cool," she muses, her brows furrowing slightly in concentration. "How about sunflowers and. . . daisies? There's just something about them that feels... I don't know, hopeful, I guess."

You nod in understanding, a fond smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "Sunflowers are a wonderful choice. They symbolize warmth, happiness, and positivity. Definitely a fitting choice for someone as vibrant as you, Ellie."

She grins at the compliment, "Thanks,. So, what about you? Do you have a favorite flower?"

“That’s a tough one, but I’d had to say daffodils. They just make me feel right at home. . . even though home has become a difficult word.” 

She doesn’t answer you, at least not in a way that you would expect. She nods and says,

"Let's add some daffodils to the mix too. If that’s okay.”

“If course it is. I said any flower didn’t I?”

With Ellie's choices in mind, you set to work gathering the blooms she selected, expertly arranging them into a vibrant bouquet. Your hands move with practiced precision, the gentle rustle of petals and stems filling the air as you weave the different flowers together.

Each blossom is a work of art in its own right, vibrant hues mingling together in a harmonious dance of colors and textures. Sunflowers, with their golden petals reaching towards the sky, stand tall and proud at the center of the bouquet, symbolizing warmth and happiness. Daisies, with their delicate white petals and cheerful yellow centers, add a touch of innocence and purity to the mix. And finally, the daffodils.

Beside you, Ellie watches with rapt attention, her eyes shining, "It's so pretty," she remarks, her voice filled with awe.

You smile at her words, feeling a sense of pride swell within you at the sight of her delight. "Flowers have a way of bringing joy and beauty into our lives," you reply, your voice soft with reverence. "They remind us to appreciate the simple things and to find beauty in the world around us."

Finally, the bouquet is complete, a stunning masterpiece that radiates warmth and joy. You present it to Ellie with a flourish, a sense of satisfaction washing over you at the sight of her delighted expression.

"It's perfect," Ellie exclaims, her eyes shining with excitement as she admires the bouquet in her hands. "Thank you so much. This is amazing."

"It was my pleasure," you reply, your heart swelling with happiness at her words. "I'm glad you like it. And remember, if you ever want to learn more about flowers or need some help with anything, you know where to find me."

Ellie nods eagerly, her enthusiasm infectious. "Definitely. Thanks again. This means a lot."

As Ellie turns to leave, a sudden thought seems to strike her. She pauses, her hand on the door, before turning back to face you with a mischievous glint in her eye.

"Hey," she begins, a playful smile dancing on her lips, "do you need a flower assistant? I mean, I’d be nice to work here, and you seem really cool."

"Well, Ellie," you reply with a teasing grin, "If you're serious about helping out around here, I'd be more than happy to have you on board."

Ellie's eyes widen,. "Wait, really?" she asks, her voice tinged with disbelief. "You mean it?"

You nod, your smile genuine as you reassure her. "Of course. I could use all the help I can get, especially during busy times. And besides, it'll be fun having you around. Consider yourself officially hired as my flower assistant, Ellie."

A grin spreads across Ellie's face, her eyes sparkling with excitement at the prospect of working alongside you in the flower shop. "Wow, I don't even know what to say," she admits, her voice filled with genuine gratitude. 

"No need to say anything," you grin. "Just don’t be late."

As Ellie nods, a sense of anticipation fills the air, signaling the beginning of a new chapter in both of your lives. With a shared sense of excitement and determination, you and Ellie set to work, ready to take on whatever challenges and adventures the future may hold for your blossoming partnership.

The next day unfolds with a golden hue, promising another beautiful day in Jackson. As you prepare for the day ahead, a sense of excitement tingles in the air knowing that you'll be mentoring Ellie, your newfound flower assistant. Ellie arrives earlier than you expected, her eyes oozing with sleep.

"Good morning, Ellie," you greet her with a warm smile, gesturing for her to come closer. "Ready for your first day?"

Ellie grins back, nodding enthusiastically. "Absolutely. I’m just not used to waking up so early."

With a chuckle, you lead her to the work table, where several potted plants await repotting. However, before diving into the day's tasks, Ellie's curiosity gets the better of her.

"How do you find all these flowers?" she asks. "I mean, with the infected and everything, it must be hard."

"I have a few spots outside of Jackson where I like to go to collect flowers. There's a field not too far from here that's brimming with all sorts of blooms."

Ellie's eyes widen and you can tell she's intrigued by the idea of venturing beyond the safety of the town's walls. "That sounds amazing," she breathes, her voice filled with wonder. "Do you go there often?"

You nod, a fond smile playing on your lips as you recall the countless trips you've taken to the flower field. "Yes, whenever I need to restock or find something special," you reply. "But I've also started growing some flowers myself. It's a work in progress, but it's been rewarding to see them bloom."

"That's so cool," she exclaims. "I'd love to see the field sometime, if you're up for it."

With a grin, you nod, "I'd be happy to take you," you reply. "But for now, let's focus on getting these plants repotted. We'll save the field trip for another day."

As if on cue, the shop door swings open, and a customer steps inside, a worn backpack slung over their shoulder. They approach the counter with a friendly smile, their eyes scanning the colorful array of blooms on display.

"Good morning," you greet them with a smile, your attention shifting to the customer. "How can I help you today?"

The customer returns your smile, reaching into their backpack to retrieve a small item wrapped in cloth. "I have something to trade," they explain, placing the item on the counter before you.

You unwrap the cloth to reveal a delicate piece of jewelry, a handmade necklace adorned with intricate beads and charms. It's a beautiful piece, clearly crafted with care and attention to detail.

Ellie watches with interest as you examine the necklace, her curiosity piqued by the exchange taking place before her eyes. "What are you trading for?" she asks, her voice filled with curiosity.

You glance at Ellie with a smile, impressed by her keen observation. "Well, Ellie, sometimes customers trade items in exchange for flowers," you explain, turning back to the customer. "It's a way for them to get something they need while also supporting the shop. As for how I decide what the flowers are worth, it's based on a few factors—like the rarity of the flowers, the time and effort it took to grow them, and of course, their beauty."

With a nod, you accept the necklace, carefully placing it aside before selecting a beautiful bouquet of flowers to offer in exchange. As the customer leaves the shop, their smile brighter than before, you can't help but feel a sense of satisfaction knowing that you've made another person's day a little bit brighter.

“Ellie, I’m not sure me bargin’ into your new workplace is the best introduction,” Joel says.

“You’ll be fine,” she says, dragging Joel by the arm. “Besides, weren’t you the one grumbling about not liking me spending all my time with a stranger? What else was I fucking supposed to do?”

Joel lets out an elongated sigh. “Language.”

He can’t see it, but he knows she’s rolling her eyes at him. The tiny, rundown flower shop soon comes into view and Joel can’t help but think of all the improvements he could make: the crooked step, the splintered door, the moss growing from the bottom of the woody exterior��

This shop won’t last next winter, he thinks with furrowed brows. And even though he’s been skeptical about Ellie spending all of her time here, he’s seen the improvement in her mood. Things just haven’t been the same since their return from the hospital, he couldn’t shake the distant feeling between him and her no matter how hard he tried. It had become something even he couldn’t fix.

But then, one day, she’d come home with the most beautiful bouquet of flowers he’d ever seen, with a wide smile plastered across her young face. Then she mentioned the keeper of the shop. Ever since then, his interest had been piqued.

Approaching the shop, he notices a figure outside arranging flowers, your silhouette bathed in the warm morning sun. You appear younger than he anticipated, your beauty catching him off guard. The way your dress contours your curves adds to your allure, a sight unexpected yet captivating. A gentle breeze tousles your hair as you work, momentarily leaving him speechless.

Contrasting his hesitation, you bound up to the shop with your usual cheerfulness. "Hey there!" Ellie calls out. The woman turns at her greeting, a genuine smile gracing her lips as she sets down the flowers. "Good morning!" 

He hangs back, observing as Ellie effortlessly initiates a conversation with you. Your interaction flows with ease, suggesting a familiarity beyond your brief acquaintance.

While you chat, an unsettling feeling settles within him. There's an inexplicable pull towards the shop owner, despite his attempts to resist. Watching Ellie interact with you stirs a strange longing within him, leaving him more unsettled than before.

Before he can dwell on his thoughts further, Ellie snaps him out of it. "Joel, don’t be a stranger! Introduce yourself, she's the one I've been telling you about."

With a sigh, he steps forward, his approach cautious. As your eyes meet, a peculiar sense of recognition passes between you, as if you've crossed paths in another life.

"Hi," he manages to say, his voice gruff yet not devoid of warmth. "I'm Joel."

As he clasps your hand, a spark ignites between you, a connection unfurling with each passing moment.

“Joel?” you say slowly, as if tasting his name in your mouth. “Joel as in Tommy Miller’s brother?”

Your hand feels soft and delicate as it clasps his own, and he can't help but notice the subtle tremor in your fingers. It's a small detail, but it speaks volumes, hinting at a vulnerability that he hadn't expected from this beautiful stranger.

"Yeah, that's me," he responds with a nod, offering a friendly smile in return. "Tommy's my brother."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Joel. Ellie speaks very highly of you."

As you exchange pleasantries, he finds himself drawn to the warmth in your gaze, a warmth that seems to seep into his very soul. There's an openness about you, a genuineness that he finds both refreshing and disarming.

While you talk, he can't help but be captivated by the way your lips move, the gentle cadence of your voice. It's a strange sensation, this sudden fascination with a woman he's just met, but he finds himself unable to look away.

Your conversation is interrupted by Ellie's playful interruption, and he reluctantly tears his gaze away from you, feeling a pang of disappointment at the thought of leaving your side. But as they follow Ellie into the shop, he can't shake the feeling that meeting you has stirred something within him, something that he can't quite articulate.

Entering the shop, he can't help but notice even more things wrong– the creaky floorboards, the peeling paint, the flickering lights overhead. It's evident that the place is in dire need of renovations.

Despite the less-than-ideal surroundings, Ellie's excitement is contagious, and he finds himself getting swept up in the moment. She points out various flowers, their vibrant hues and delicate petals bringing a welcome burst of color to the dreary environment.

"These lilies are my absolute favorite," Ellie exclaims, thrusting a handful of flowers towards him with a mischievous grin.

He can't suppress a surprised sneeze as the pollen tickles his nose, and they both dissolve into laughter,and momentarily, all his concerns seem to fade away.

But just as they're catching their breath, you enter the room, your presence once again capturing his attention. There's something about you that intrigues him, a warmth and kindness that draws him in effortlessly.

A sheepish smile spreads across his face as your eyes meet. You return the smile, your gaze gentle and understanding, and for a fleeting moment, it feels as though you're the only two people in the room.

“Who helped you fix the place up?” Joel asks you as Ellie runs off to change the water of the vases. “

"Tommy actually," you explain. "He's been a tremendous help, especially with all the repairs."

Joel’s brows knit together and he ignores the way your smile falters as he speaks, “Well, leave it to my brother to do a shit job. This shop won’t last next winter.”

“O–Oh. . .” you hug yourself, thumbs moving along the contours of your arms. His heart sinks in, leave it to him to make someone feel bad.

“Not to say it can’t be fixed,” he continues abruptly. “I can help you out. Wouldn’t want Ellie’s new favorite spot to get buried under the snow.”

“Really?” you gasp, smile returning. “You would do that?”

“‘Course. Why wouldn’t I?”

“I just. . . I just wasn’t expecting such an offer thank you. It means the world to me.”

Suddenly Joel feels stiff from how deeply you stare at him, and then he realizes how close they are, only a breath away between their lips. He turns his head, grunting, “Don’t mention it,” a stuttered breath leaves him. “Really. Don’t.”

Your growing smile surprises him, as does your not backing away.

“You got it, Mr. Miller.”

Watching Joel work on fixing the roof of the shop, you can't help but feel a flutter of warmth stir within you. His muscles ripple with each movement, his arms bulging with strength as he lifts heavy beams and hammers nails into place. Beads of sweat glisten on his forehead, catching the sunlight and creating a halo of light around him.

You find yourself mesmerized by the sight, unable to tear your gaze away from the sight of him. His white tank top clings to his chest, damp with sweat, and the short-sleeved flannel he wears hangs open, exposing the tank top underneath. Every movement sends a shiver down your spine, and you can't help but feel a flush of heat rise to your cheeks.

The sound of his grunts fills the air, low and guttural, and it sends a thrill through you that you can't quite explain. There's something primal about the way he works, a raw energy that draws you in and leaves you feeling breathless.

You watch as he reaches up to adjust a beam, his muscles flexing with the effort, and you can't help but imagine what it would feel like to run your hands over his warm, sweaty skin. The thought sends a shudder coursing through you, and you quickly look away, feeling flustered and embarrassed by the intensity of your thoughts.

But no matter how hard you try to focus on something else, your gaze keeps drifting back to Joel, drawn to him like a moth to a flame. And as you watch him work, you can't help but feel a strange sense of longing stir within.

But for now, all you can do is watch and admire from afar, content to bask in the warmth of Joel's presence as he works tirelessly to repair the roof of the shop. And as you watch him, you can't help but feel a sense of gratitude wash over you.

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself with determination as you clutch the bowl of freshly picked black mulberries and raspberries in your hands. With a quick glance up at Joel, who is perched precariously on the ladder, you gather your courage and make your way outside.

"Hey, Joel!" you call out, your voice tinged with nervousness as you approach the ladder. "I brought you some fruit and iced tea. Thought you could use a break."

Joel looks down at you with a grateful smile, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. "Thanks. That sounds great."

As he descends the ladder, you can't help but feel a surge of excitement mingled with nervousness. With each step he takes, you steal glances at him, unable to tear your gaze away from the sight of him.

But it's when he reaches the bottom of the ladder and stretches upwards to take the bowl of fruit from your hands that you feel your breath catch in your throat. The movement causes his tank top to ride up slightly, revealing a sliver of his stomach, and you swallow thickly at the sight.

As Joel settles down to enjoy the fruit and iced tea, you find yourself drawn to the empty spot next to him on the porch. With a nervous glance in his direction, you take a seat beside him.

The warmth of the wooden porch beneath you contrasts with the cool breeze that sweeps through, and you can't help but feel a sense of calm settle over you as you sit beside Joel. The silence between you is comfortable, broken only by the occasional sound of birds chirping in the distance.

“Lovely day, ain’t it,” Joel takes a bite of the freshly picked black mulberries, the deep purple juice stains his lips, a stark contrast against the ruggedness of his features, and you find yourself mesmerized by the sight.

The juice glistens in the fading sunlight, tracing a vivid trail along his lips as he savors the sweetness of the fruit. Each movement of his jaw seems deliberate, each bite a study in pleasure as he indulges in the simple pleasure of the moment.

A soft breeze rustles through the trees, lifting strands of his hair and sending them dancing in the golden light. But your gaze remains fixed on his lips.

The silence and sight makes you light-headed and eager to say anything, no matter how idiotic it might be. 

“Aren't you a little old to be doing this much heavy lifting?” 

“Aren't you a little too young to be lookin’ at me like that?” 

Your shoulders rise, blood rushing to your head as you look down. Your heart thuds loudly in your chest. Butterflies flutter madly within you, the wings tickling the insides of your stomach. You only swallow. “Your lips are stained from the mulberry.” 

“Whatever you say, sweetheart.” 

He takes another one, biting down with his lips, he finds your gaze. You watch a tiny drop go down his chin. The two of you are close. So incredibly close. It’s been like this since he started working on the shop. A pull that is too hard to ignore. 

“Well,” he breaks the silence. “Better finish up before the sun sets.” 

Joel stands and your heart breaks a little. You blink from where you’re sat, staring at him, yearning for him. 

“Yeah. Wouldn’t want you trying to find your way home in the dark.” 

“You know, I could’ve come here on my own. I always do.” 

“I know. Just wanted to make sure you have someone lookin’ after you.” 

“For someone to be known as a grump, you’re quite a softie.” 

“I’m leavin’.” 

“No—!”

Your fingers close around his arm, the warmth of his skin sending a shiver down your spine. For a moment, you find yourself frozen in place, your pulse quickening as you realize just how close you are to him.

Joel's gaze meets yours, and you can see a flicker of something in his eyes, something that makes your heart race even faster. His eyes drop to your lips, lingering there for a moment before snapping back up to meet your gaze. You notice the hints of a fading smile, “You were joking,” you say slowly, letting go of him. 

“That I was, wildflower,” he doesn’t move away and neither do you. Your breath catches within your throat, the moment stretching between your two like rubber. Before you can say anything Joel’s eyes flicker to something behind you and he smiles. “I think we’re here.” 

As you turn around, your heart skips a beat. The field of flowers stretches out endlessly, a sea of color and beauty that seems to go on forever. The grass has grown taller since the last time you were here, swaying gently in the breeze and creating a soft, rhythmic rustle that fills the air.

The sun hangs low in the sky, casting a warm golden light over the landscape and setting the flowers ablaze with color. Reds and yellows, blues and purples, a riot of hues that dance and swirl in the gentle breeze.

You take a step forward, the grass crunching beneath your feet as you walk further into the field. The scent of poppies and blue hyacinths fills your nostrils, sweet and intoxicating, and you can't help but close your eyes and breathe it in.

The wind sweeps across the field, sending waves of grass rippling in its wake. The sound is soothing, a gentle whisper that seems to carry you away on a tide of tranquility.

For a moment, you forget about everything else – the worries and the doubts, the uncertainties and the fears. All that matters is the beauty of this moment, the beauty of this place, and the beauty of being here with Joel. 

With a rush of emotion swirling within you, you turn to Joel, your heart pounding in your chest as you meet his gaze. He's still standing close, his eyes locked on yours with an intensity that takes your breath away.

Without thinking, without hesitating, you lean forward and press your lips to his. At first, Joel is taken aback, his body stiffening in surprise. But then, he caves, his lips moving against yours in a slow, tender rhythm.

His hands come up to cradle your face, his touch gentle yet firm, as if he's afraid you'll disappear if he lets go. You feel his tongue on your bottom lip and open up for him eagerly, the taste of him feels like electricity shooting through you. Heat pools between your legs, Your breasts tingle with the mere thought of having his hands on them, nipples aching and hard. 

Joel breaks away briefly, then closes the distance again. Small hisses against your swollen lips over and over until neither of you can breathe. He hungers for it almost. And so do you. “Joel,” you whisper, eyes cloudy. “Please.” 

“Is that what you want, wildflower?” he drags his nose down the side of your cheek, facial hair scratching delightfully against the sensitive skin of your neck. “For me to fuck you here? Right out in the open?” his voice trembles. “Like animals?” 

“God, yes—” your insides clench. “I would want nothing more. Been thinking about you since the day I met you, your hands, your mouth, you as a whole.” 

His hands drop to your ass and he gives the tender flesh a strong squeeze, “You want me?” 

“I do.” 

You suddenly find yourself on the ground, the grass tickling your exposed legs and arms, the skirt of your dress rolled up to your waist. Joel’s weight is a welcoming comfort on top of you, another gust of warm wind blows. With a groan, he pulls down the sweetheart neckline of your dress, exposing both your breasts. While holding one, he kisses the other, drawing the stiff nipple into his mouth. He sucks harshly, your body jolting with pleasure. The soaking mess between your legs grows. 

“Joel,” you moan, back arching. “Fuck—” 

He swirls the tip of his tongue around the nipple and grazes his teeth against it. Calloused fingers play with the other. Your mind is swimming in pleasure. He brings the skirt of your dress further up and traces his lips down the fabric, when you look down, you see him between your legs, his eyes darker than normal as he stares into your soul. The tips of his fingers dance along the elastic of your panties, asking for permission. 

You breathe out a yes, barely audible, but he nods and tugs the fabric down. When he latches his mouth on to you, the world stops. His mouth feels divine. His tongue delves between your folds, the bridge of his nose rubbing against your clit. You shudder against him and he moans into you. The reverberations of the sound force a gasp out of you and you swear you feel him smiling. 

His fingers trace patterns along your thighs, teasing and stroking as his mouth works wonders between your legs. You're on the edge, the pleasure building up with each flick of his tongue. You reach down and bury your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, guiding him where you need him the most.

Joel picks up the pace, his tongue moving faster, his fingers slipping inside of you. You can feel your body starting to tighten, the coil in your stomach about to unravel. You grip onto him tighter, your hips bucking against his mouth, and with one final flick of his tongue, you come undone.

You cry out his name, your body shaking with the force of your orgasm. Joel continues to lightly lick and suck, drawing out your pleasure until you're completely spent. He makes his way back up to your lips, kissing you deeply as you both catch your breath.

“That was…” you trail off, unable to find the right words for the mind-blowing experience you just had.

“Amazin’,” Joel finishes for you.

You nod, still a little breathless. You wrap your arms around him, pressing your body against his. Joel's hands roam over your back, his touch sending shivers down your spine. You can feel his erection against your thigh, and you know that he needs release just as much as you do.

“Been so long since I’ve tasted somethin’ this sweet,” he rasps. “Thank you.” 

You hear the blood rushing in your ears, “You’re the sweet one,” you mumble, tenderly touching the scratchy surface of his cheek. “So sweet.” 

He smiles and as he kisses the curve of your palm, shuffles above you, starting to get up. A deep frown forms between your brows. “And where are you going?” you pout, wrapping your arms around him. You feel the outline of his length as he lowers himself once more, the tips of your noses brushing against one another.

“I thought you wanted to gather some flowers.” 

“Not yet,” you murmur, eyes glazed. “At least, not before feeling you inside me.” 

“Fuck, darlin’,” he lets out a whimpering breath, grinding himself against your bare cunt. “You really know how to get a man goin’.” 

“Prove it.” 

His eyes flicker with an emotion you can’t quite describe. His breath stutters, then, without even looking, he unbuckles himself, never breaking eye contact. Joel’s hair ruffles with the wind, yet he doesn’t even blink. The head of his cock catches against your clit, ripping a moan from your throat. He fills you with one sloppy thrust, the length of him stretching you enough to have your eyes rolling to the back of your skull. 

“Joel—Oh my god—” 

“That’s it, good girl, takin’ my cock so well. Feels good?” 

Slack-jawed, you nod. He goes deeper. “Want you to feel me for weeks, wildflower. And I want you to think of me every time you come to this god—” thrust. “—damn” thrust. “—field.” 

You can only moan at his words, his hands grip your lovehandles, squeezing and pulling you closer to him every time he rocks forward. His head falls into the crook of your neck, sinking his teeth into the sensitive skin, he sucks. Your body convulses, shaking against him. 

Sparks ricochet through every limb of your body as you feel the heat pooling in your core. Joel moves his hand from your lower back to cup your breast, his fingers teasing and plucking at your nipple. The pleasure ricochets through your body, making you feel like you're on fire.

“Come for me, darlin’.” Joel growls into your ear, his voice rough and primal. “Come on my cock.”

His words send you over the edge, your body shaking and convulsing beneath him as he continues to thrust into you relentlessly. The world blurs around you, all your senses consumed by the feeling of Joel's body against yours.

"Joel—" you moan, your voice lost in the wind as you reach your peak. 

He groans in response, his thrusts becoming more erratic as he chases his own release. After one final, deep thrust, he pulls out and spills over your stomach, his body shaking against yours. You both ride out the waves of pleasure until finally, you collapse against each other, panting and spent.

You lay in the flower field, a tangled mess of limbs and sweaty bodies. Joel's arms are still wrapped tightly around you, his face buried in your neck as he tries to catch his breath. You run your fingers through his hair, feeling the warmth of his body.

"I've never felt anything like this before," you say quietly, almost to yourself.

Joel lifts his head to look at you, his eyes softening. "Me neither, wildflower. Me neither."

As the sun begins to set, you both lay there, entwined in each other's arms. The field has become a symbol of something more than beauty. And as long as those flowers bloom, you know your love for each other will continue to grow.

A week. 

A week without hearing from him, seeing him, touching him. 

A painful week. 

It’s almost as if he never existed. As if the moment in your favorite field was nothing but your imagination. The only reason why you know it's real is because Ellie still comes by every day, and despite knowing it’s impossible, you still feel him deep inside. It only heightens whenever you have to travel back to the field to gather flowers for the shop. 

You watch as Ellie places more daisies into a vase. She’s been her usual self, joking around, telling you about all the details of her life. It’s hard not to ask her about Joel and how he’s been. 

Some nasty part of your mind whispers words of discouragement, telling you he only wanted you for your body, for your charm, and got what he wanted. Your heart clenches. It might be true. You were young after all, emotional, broken. He’d already gone through all that, killed to stay alive, for loved ones, gone through grief—why would he want to take on another’s problems as well? 

“Hey, Ellie?” 

She turns to you, eyes slightly wide due to the rasp of your voice, “Yeah boss?” 

“Can you watch the shop for a second, I have something I need to do that I forgot about.” 

You don't wait for her nod as you exit the shop. You know he’s home. He has to be. 

Luckily it doesn’t take you long to reach their house, your knock is loud and swift. You know you’ve taken him by surprise by the expression when he opens the door. His mouth is slightly ajar, his brows knit together. 

“What are you—” 

“I came to talk,” you brush past him, heading inside. Joel lingers at the door but soon after follows you inside anyway. 

He sighs, “What do you want to talk about?” 

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself for what's to come. "Us," you reply, your voice steady despite the turmoil raging inside you. "I need to know what happened, Joel. Why you've been avoiding me."

Joel's jaw clenches at your words, his gaze flickering away for a moment before returning to meet yours. "I ain't good for you," he says, his voice rough with emotion. "You deserve better than someone like me."

You feel a surge of anger rising within you at his words, frustration bubbling up to the surface. "That's for me to decide, Joel," you say, your voice tinged with defiance. "I'm not some fragile flower that needs to be protected. I can make my own choices, and right now, I choose you."

Joel's expression softens slightly at your words, but there's still a hint of sadness in his eyes. "You don't know what you're saying," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm a mess, a broken man with too much blood on his hands. You deserve someone who can give you the world, not someone who can barely keep himself together. You’re young. You still have so much ahead of you—"

“No! That’s not what I want. I want you, you’re the only person who’s made me feel like. . . like myself. . .before. And wanted.” 

Your voice begins to shake, you see the hesitation within his body, hod his hand slightly moves forward to hold you, to touch you, but he doesn’t. 

“I can’t do this to you,” his hands slide into his pockets, he gestures to the door. “Get out.” 

The blood freezes in your veins, your eyes grow wide, your chest constricts, “What?” 

“I said to get out,” he repeats, a little louder this time. “Get out, please.” 

And you do. 

“You need to get your shit together.” 

“Language, Ellie, dammit.” 

She glares at him from across the table. It’s an early morning, earlier than he’d liked. He’s been feeling hallowed out ever since your visit. He could see the hurt in your eyes, the betrayal. He knew that he’d broken something when avoiding you, something tender and not so easily fixable. 

But what was he supposed to do? You were young, he didn’t want to trap you, didn’t want you to throw the best years of your life for an old man like him. 

Briefly, he squeezes his eyes shut. His head hurts. All he can think about is you, your body, how eager it was to take him, the delectable curves he couldn’t get enough of. 

He misses your taste on his tongue. 

“She’s miserable too, you know.” 

Joel’s eye snap wide open. “Who?” 

“You know who,” she shakes her head. “I don’t know what happened between you two, but she’s definitely upset and so are you—Just fix it. Don’t be an asshole” 

He let’s out a sigh, she’s right. He needs to fix this somehow. Joel stares at Ellie, her words hitting him harder than he expected. He hadn't realized just how much his actions had affected not only you but also Ellie. The weight of his own guilt settles heavily on his shoulders, a constant reminder of the mess he's made.

"Yeah," he mutters, his voice rough with emotion. "I know."

He runs a hand through his hair, the tension in his muscles making every movement feel heavy and strained. He knows he needs to make things right, to somehow find a way to mend the rift he's created between you and him.

But how? How could he possibly make things right after everything that's happened?

"I'll talk to her," he says finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'll fix it."

Ellie nods in approval, her expression softening slightly as she looks at him. "Good," she says, her tone gentle. "Because I don't want to see either of you hurting anymore."

She was right and he knew it. 

“The shop’s closed today,” Ellie says as he grabbed his jacket. “I don’t know where she is.” 

But he did. He knew exactly where you would be. The place he tasted you, the place he felt your body against him. 

Joel's heart sinks as he approaches the flower field and sees you sitting there, your shoulders hunched over as you hug your knees to your chest. He can hear your sobs from a distance, the sound echoing through the quiet morning air.

For a moment, he hesitates, unsure of what to do or say. But then, with a heavy sigh, he pushes aside his doubts and makes his way towards you.

As he draws closer, he can see your whole body trembling with the force of your emotions. His heart aches at the sight, knowing that he's the cause of your pain. He kneels infront of you, gently touching your wrists.

"Hey," he says softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "It's me, Joel."

You startle at the sound of his voice, lifting your head to look at him with tear-streaked eyes. For a moment, there's a flicker of surprise in your gaze, followed by a wave of raw emotion.

"Joel?" you choke out, your voice thick with tears. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to find you," he says, his voice filled with regret. "I couldn't stand the thought of you hurtin’ like this."

"I thought... I thought you didn't care," You sniffle, wiping away the tears with the back of your hand. 

Joel reaches out to gently brush a strand of hair away from your face, his touch light and tender. "I care more than you know," he says. "I made a mistake, a big one, and I'm so sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I just didn’t want you to. .  .I didn’t think I deserved someone like you."

"I missed you," you admit softly, tears still streaming down your cheeks.

Joel's heart clenches at your words, a rush of emotion flooding through him. Without hesitation, he wraps his arms around you, pulling you close as you bury your face against his chest.

"I missed you too, wildflower," he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. "And I promise, I'll do whatever it takes to make you happy."

He hears the smile in your voice. 

“You already do.” 

[mangooes]

Spring comes, so does the dragon

The afternoon sun dipped low over the endless flower fields just outside the bustling cityscape of Zone N109, bathing the world in a tapestry of golds, pinks, and deepening blues. It was as if time slowed in this place—where the only things that mattered were the whispering winds, the flutter of petals, and the laughter shared between two souls, three including Staryus.

(Name) stood at the trailhead, hand in hand with Sylus while Staryus, their rambunctious Siberian Husky, barked excitedly at their feet.

Her hand was warm in Sylus’s, the tall wildflowers brushing against their legs, bending softly as the Siberian Husky raced ahead, barking gleefully, diving nose-first into patches of flowers, sending colorful bursts into the air.

“You sure this isn’t a date for him?” Sylus teased, casting a glance at their overexcited dog.

(Name) laughed, the sound like the ringing of tiny bells.

“You know, I think Staryus’s more excited about this trip than you are,” (Name) teased.

She winked playfully, swinging their joined hands, nudging Sylus with her shoulder.

Sylus chuckled low, his crimson eyes glinting. “He’s got competition then, sweetie.”

Crimson eyes glinting with affection—and something deeper, something raw and endlessly content. There was no need for words right now. The simplicity of it—the way her hair glowed under the sun, how she smiled at every small thing—was enough to make his heart ache in the sweetest way.

But then, (Name)’s expression shifted—mischievous and daring.

“Tag—you’re it!” she cried suddenly, tapping his chest with her fingertips before whirling around and darting into the sea of flowers.

For a heartbeat, Sylus stood there, stunned and amused, watching his wife sprint away with Staryus yipping after her like a loyal little accomplice. A slow, predatory grin curled across his lips.

“You little minx…” he murmured.

And then he took off after her.

(Name)’s delighted laughter echoed around him, the sound winding through the fields like music. She weaved between tall blossoms and ducked behind low shrubs, Staryus bounding at her heels like a co-conspirator. Every time she glanced back, Sylus was closer, closing in with predatory grace that was unfairly elegant for a man so effortlessly dangerous.

“Too slow, Sysy!” she sang teasingly, tongue sticking out before she vanished behind a patch of towering white blooms.

“My my, getting cocky, aren't we?” Sylus growled, amused and utterly smitten.

It only took a few strides for him to catch her.

Just when she thought she’d lost him by ducking behind a cluster of taller blooms, he lunged, arms wrapping around her waist from behind, lifting her clean off the ground with a spin before tumbling them both gently onto the soft bed of flowers.

Petals exploded around them in a colorful storm, swirling like living confetti, the rich scent of earth and blooms enveloping them.

(Name) gasped in surprise, laughing breathlessly beneath him, her eyes wide and shimmering. She lay pinned under Sylus, her hair fanned out like a halo, framed by the golds and rainbows of the field.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Sylus braced himself above her, one knee on either side, his snowy hair falling into his eyes. His gaze—deep, crimson, and full of something ancient and devastatingly tender—raked over her features like he was memorizing every freckle, every breath, every heartbeat.

(Name) felt her cheeks flush under the weight of that look.

“What…” she managed, smiling up at him. “What are you staring at?”

“You,” Sylus said simply, voice rough and unguarded.

With a soft twirl of his fingers, his Evol sparked to life—dark red and black mist weaving in the air. The nearby wildflowers trembled, drawn by his will. Slowly, he crafted a delicate crown from the blossoms, stitching them together with unseen threads of energy, weaving colors into a symphony meant only for her.

When he was done, he placed it carefully atop her head, tilting his head slightly as if admiring his work.

“My flower queen,” he murmured with mock solemnity, but there was real reverence beneath his teasing.

(Name)’s heart thudded wildly. She could barely breathe from the way he looked at her—like she was precious, like she was his whole damn world.

But she wasn’t one to be outdone.

Smirking, she grabbed a small blue bloom from beside them and, sitting up a bit, tucked it behind Sylus’s ear. She gave him a firm pat on the cheek.

“And for my big scary drago.”

Sylus let out a genuine, deep laugh, eyes crinkling with amusement. “A dragon, huh? I was hoping for something more domestic.”

“Well, with how you live, I don't think domestic suits you at all.”

"I'm flattered you think so highly of me, kitten," he grinned.

Then, with a mischievous glint in his eye, he collapsed fully onto her with a dramatic sigh, burying his face into the crook of her neck.

“Sylus!” (Name) shrieked, half-laughing, half-protesting as his weight pinned her down. “You’re crushing me, you big lump! Get off!”

“Mmm. Comfortable,” he rumbled smugly, snuggling closer.

“You’re like a whole boulder! You’re gonna break me in half!”

“In bed? Certainly.” He nuzzled into her, dropping lazy kisses along her throat. “You said I’m your dragon. Isn't this how dragons show their love to their mates?”

(Name) swatted at his back helplessly, giggling and squirming. “You’re a menace!”

He only chuckled, unbothered.

Finally, after much struggling (and many empty threats from (Name)), Sylus rolled off her with a smirk, dragging her onto his lap instead. She settled there, arms crossed and pouting half-heartedly, cheeks pink.

Around them, the field swayed with the gentle kiss of the wind. Overhead, the sky began bleeding into twilight, stars peeking shyly from the fabric of dusk.

Then (Name) spotted it—a strange stone structure a little farther down the path. Intricate and massive, it twisted like a frozen creature, a dragon’s spine etched into the land, its head carved nobly toward the sky.

“Look at that, Sysy…” she whispered, awe coloring her tone. “It’s… beautiful. Like something from a legend.”

Sylus’s smile softened, more bittersweet this time.

“It’s from an old story,” he said, his voice almost a murmur against her ear.

She tilted her head to him, curious.

“A dragon,” Sylus began, “cursed and sealed in the abyss. Alone. Silent. Lost. Until a sorceress came—bright and defiant. She freed him, taught him laughter. Love. For the first time, he wanted more than rage. But fate…”

His hand tightened slightly around hers. “Fate tore them apart. Death does not wait for lovers.”

(Name) swallowed around the ache rising in her chest. She reached down to thread her fingers through his. “That’s so sad...”

“It was never about the ending,” Sylus said. “It was about the fact they found each other at all.”

“I hope…” she whispered, fingers tightening on his, “I hope the dragon finds his lover again in the next life. Flowers and winds might mean goodbye… but whenever the wind blows, it carries a new purpose.”

Sylus’s heart clenched, painfully.

He pulled her even closer, pressing his forehead against hers, crimson eyes closed.

“Then this dragon will wait,” he said, voice trembling with a rare, naked emotion. ��Every night, longing for the wind and petals to arrive.”

Their lips met—soft, lingering, burning with the weight of promises neither of them could voice fully. The kiss deepened, slow and savoring, a dance of heartbeats and hopes across lifetimes.

And just as the world could have faded into only them—

BAM!

Staryus plowed into them like a fuzzy cannonball, knocking them both down with a tumble of limbs, laughter, and wild barking. Petals rained down again, as Sylus and (Name) collapsed into helpless giggles, pinned once again—but this time by a very proud Husky.

Lying there in a mess of tangled limbs, flowers, and love, Sylus tightened his hold on (Name)’s hand, anchoring himself to this moment.

His home.

His heart.

His soul.

His forever.

HELOOOOO ASKDJA I AM okay first off all i am so sorry for not uploading for like almost a week (??) i was finalizing my exam so i didn't have time to publish anything and now that i've finished, i saw the new multi banner trailer and had to write this cuz GUYS SYLUS KISS CARD WE WON AGAIN OMG

[rheanyraaaa]

Fruit on the tree

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summary: you are a southerner (of your own description) used to basking in the sunlight, with flowing dresses and not much left on your skin, but since an unfortunate arranged marriage, you are left to stay in the coldest part of the North. Married to Robb Stark.

oneshot - fluff

a/n: this was a long term one stuck in me for some time and i needed to write it down so here it is!

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The wind howled like a lonely wolf beyond the stone walls of Winterfell, its icy fingers creeping through every crack and crevice, whispering secrets of frostbite and endless nights, and you, a creature of golden warmth, of citrus groves and silk-draped courtyards, shivered beneath the weight of furs that felt more like chains than comfort, your skin prickling with the unfamiliar bite of the North, the cold sinking into your bones like teeth, unrelenting, unforgiving.

You had been born where the sun dripped honey over olive skin, where the air clung thick with salt and jasmine, where the very earth pulsed with heat beneath bare feet, but here, the world was a monochrome tapestry of grey and white, the sky a heavy shroud pressing down, the ground frozen iron beneath your slippers, every breath a visible ghost escaping your lips as if your soul were trying to flee this bitter exile. When you first met Robb Stark it was the day before your marriage, the first the winter chill hit you, causing you to tremble, he looked calm and you were straight away fearful of him.

Tall & brooding, with larger arms and a sword attached to his side, you could barely hold eye contact with his dark ocean like pools for eyes. He would love you and protect you but the way his hands twitched and his breathing seized when he saw you only made you fear him more, what if he took advantage of you one night? your thoughts said to yourself, you shook your head and looked up to meet his dark blue eyes and gave a polite smile, which he nodded too, and you swallowed your tears back.

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A couple weeks after the marriage, Robb Stark watched you from across the hearth, his blue eyes flickering with something softer than the firelight, something warmer than the flames that danced between you, he had seen the way you curled into yourself like a flower wilting in the frost, the way your hands trembled even when clasped tight, the way your gaze lingered longingly on the high windows as if you could will the sun to break through the iron clouds

"You're cold," he murmured, not a question but an observation, his voice rough yet gentle like the scrape of a woolen blanket over chilled skin

You laughed, a sound too bright for this frozen world, a sound that belonged to lemon trees and sun-drenched courtyards, not this fortress of snow and stone, “I am always cold here," you admitted, your words curling like smoke in the air between you, "it’s as though winter lives inside me now"

He moved then, crossing the room with the quiet confidence of a man who had never known a home that wasn’t wrapped in frost, his boots silent against the stone, his presence solid as the ancient walls around you and then his hands were on yours, broad and calloused, swallowing your fingers whole, his skin radiating heat like a forge, like the heart of a star

"You’ll grow used to it," he promised, his thumbs brushing slow circles over your knuckles, coaxing the blood back to the surface, "the cold becomes a part of you, like a second skin"

You wanted to protest, to tell him you would never belong to this land of endless grey, that your heart still beat for the south, for the sun but then he was lifting your hands to his lips, pressing warmth into your fingertips with his breath, his mouth a brand against your frozen skin, and something in you melted, just a little, like the first thaw of spring

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The next morning, the world outside was a blinding expanse of white, the snow piled high like the walls of some forgotten castle. You had insisted on venturing out, determined to prove that the North would not break you, but the moment your foot slipped on the hidden ice beneath the powder, the ground rushed up to meet you, and you landed in a heap of furs and snow, the cold seeping through your layers like a thief stealing your warmth.

A deep chuckle rumbled behind you, and before you could even gasp, strong hands were lifting you, turning you, pulling you back to your feet as if you weighed no more than a feather. Robb's eyes sparkled with amusement, but there was no mockery in them, only warmth.

"Careful," he said, brushing snow from your cloak with firm, deliberate strokes. "The North doesn’t take kindly to strangers."

You huffed, cheeks burning, whether from the cold or embarrassment, you couldn’t tell. "I thought I could manage."

His lips quirked. "And yet here you are, half-buried in a snowdrift."

You scowled, but before you could retort, he was sweeping you into his arms with effortless strength, cradling you against his chest as if you were something precious.

"Robb!" you yelped, clutching at his shoulders. "I can walk!"

"Not with frozen toes, you can’t," he said, his breath warm against your temple as he carried you back inside, his strides long and sure.

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The bath was already waiting when he set you down in your chambers, steam curling in lazy tendrils from the water, the scent of pine and something sweet honey, perhaps, hanging in the air.

"Get in," he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Before the chill sets any deeper."

You hesitated, fingers trembling over the laces of your gown. "You don’t have to—"

"I know," he interrupted, softer now. "But I want to."

And then his hands were there, deft and steady, unlacing the ties with a patience that surprised you, his touch never lingering, never presuming only helping, only warming. When the last of your layers pooled at your feet, he guided you into the bath, the heat of the water stealing your breath in the best way, your skin tingling as life rushed back into your limbs.

You sighed, sinking deeper, the tension leaching from your muscles. Robb knelt beside the tub, rolling up his sleeves before dipping a cloth into the water and wringing it out.

"You’re not what I expected," you murmured, watching him through half-lidded eyes.

He raised a brow. "Oh?"

"I thought you’d be as cold as your land," you admitted. "But you’re not."

A slow smile curved his lips, and for the first time since you’d arrived in Winterfell, you felt something other than cold, something bright and golden, something that had nothing to do with the sun you missed and everything to do with the man before you.

"No," he agreed, pressing the warm cloth to your shoulder, his touch lingering just a heartbeat too long. "I’m not."

Outside, the wind still screamed, the snow still fell in silent sheets, the world still ached with winter, but here, in the circle of his care, with his hands gentle on your skin and his voice a low murmur in your ear, you thought perhaps the cold wasn’t so cruel after all.

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should i make a follow up with a short smut scene?

[mekyrdesign]

Transform your living space with a stunning Wildflowers Tapestry! This beautiful piece will bring nature indoors, adding warmth and charm to any room. Perfect for those cozy corners or as a statement wall hanging, it inspires tranquility and joy. Capture a touch of the outdoors and celebrate the vibrant colors that wildflowers offer. Embrace your inner decorator today! 🌼✨ #HomeDecor #TapestryArt #Wildflowers #InteriorInspo #BohoStyle

[threepandas]

Bad End, Hidden Heir: Part 2

Prev <-

A pounding headache and cave air, that's what I woke up too. The air was being choked, though, by familiar scents. All trying desperately to make the cold, wet, and softly echoing quiet, hospitable. It was nauseating in my current state. Weak and... drugged? Had I been drugged? I certainly hadn't been drunk.

So why did my head hurt so much?

Why did every motion, make my stomach want to rebel?

My limbs felt so WEAK. Heavy and useless. Barely budging when I try to lift them. To rub my head? Adjust the blanket? Sit up? I can't tell. Thinking... thinking is so hard past... the pounding in my head. The fog. I struggle to concentrate. God, that SMELL.

Like a perfume store combined with... with... ugh. Everything!

I could pick out individual scents I knew I liked, on their own, added to the nauseating chaos. My favorite potpourri was there. But so was the one I like for winter? Fall? That one I liked as a kid until I found Mrs. Tianna's blend...

And perfumes! Colognes! The clean products and scents I preferred the maids used. God it... it blended together like a trash heap. As though someone drove a carriage through a perfume shop at speed. Cloying and musk and spice and fruity and-!

I sucked air through my teeth, trying not to smell it, hoping to god I wouldn't TASTE it.

Finally I managed to pry my eyes open. Either hunger or thirst giving my the strength to push past the nauseating pain. I NEEDED to move. Find out what was happening. Survive.

My gaze... met the most elaborate embroidery I had ever seen. Tapestries had less art. Almost to the point of gaudiness. Possibly past it. It was...

It was everything I had ever said I liked.

Too anyone.

Puppies and flowers, history and art, books scenes and more. It kept GOING! Hideous and magnificent. Chaos. Unhinged. Flowing down from above me, along the rest of the curtains, for the canopy bed upon which I rest. So I would be surrounded by it all. Even the blanket... it was a sea of my favorite flowers, made eternal through string.

This wasn't something people just DID. Could just FIND. I could feel my panic under the muting pain and exhaustion. This was the work of YEARS. Obsessive, continuous, YEARS. Some of these threads cost more then certain house hold make in WEEKS! And for what? A secret canopy bed?!

I struggled, body barely able to obey me but trying desperately to assist. The blankets were heavy. The curtain around the bed equally so, thanks to all the embroidery. I.. I manage to roll. Squirm. Wriggle my way, undignified, to the edge. Flop over it and out from under the blanket. Too freedom.

The air is cold.

The scents WORSE out here. Now, I can see why.

It is a museum to all that I am. Every like carefully gathered in one place, every preference. Stacked and shoved together, with no regard for if they fit. Hoarded like a collection.

I can not even tell... if I am sitting, flopped down, on my favorite winter bedside carpet or just an exact copy. My entire life is shoved together and suddenly... suddenly I do not like any of these things at all. They feel dirty. Dangerous. Like they have betrayed me. I want to cry.

But I am nauseous. Hurting. Tired and thirsty. So very hungry dispite it all. I just... I just need to know what's going ON! This isn't... this isn't how the Game goes! Not for Protag-chan. Not for me! I know I changed my "character's" behavior... but...

I... I don't understand...

Try not to cry. It's... it's really hard.

I was right. I'm pretty sure this is the Caves of Spring in the northwest of the Duchy. The offical Heir has an estate near them. The stone looks like the cliffs I'd seen in passing.

Crawling is hard. My legs keep getting tangled in my fucking nightgown. My... my f.. favorite.. nightgown! I'm not gonna cry. Damn it. I'm NOT GONNA CRY. How dare he? How DARE he ruin even that? What did he DO to me!? When I was... was...

No, don't think about it!

Move.

A decanter. Needlessly pretty. I probably loved it as a girl, fresh into this world. Everything was so FANCY and I wasn't used to having money yet. Hadn't developed any real class or taste. It looks so fucking gaudy to me now. But God, it has water. Please... PLEASE let that be water!

I drag myself up on badly shaking limbs. Nothing wants to hold. Wrists buckling, knees giving, legs shaking like a new born lamb. My arms are so weak. But thirst... oh thirst is a powerful motivator.

I force myself to move.

The water is not enough. It is everything. Cold and perfect, I force myself to go slow. To not spill a single drop, as I collapse against the dresser it was placed upon. Letting my eyes explore my cage in the way my poor abused body can not.

There are thick bars buried deep into the bedrock, separating the "room" I'm in from the hall that leads away from it. And it IS a "room". Made in cruel mockery to resemble the luxury of the dukes estate. Perhaps even more aggressively decadent in certain aspects, though that isn't a good thing. It makes it border on a storage room, for how crowded with luxury it has become.

It is the reflection of an unwell mind.

And staring up at the portraits of myself I KNOW I never sat for? The countless sketches pinned up beyond the bars? I am in trouble. I... I should have run. Not sent Creep away. I should have been the one to run. Before it was too late.

I think... I think it might be too late.

Footsteps.

I want to escape. But where can I run? I am caged. I feel close and far away. My head hurts. My body hurts. Everything stinks and I am cold. Why? Why did you do this? The foot steps are calm and commanding. Even. They do not break stride.

I do not bother to watch my hunter approach me. The monster I can not escape.

I close my eyes to spare myself the pounding in my head. Drink more water.

He makes a softly dismayed sound, as though he was not the one to drug me, to leave me here. The door to my cage opens. Closes. Ah... such a heavy lock. Should I be flattered?

Crisp steps, the rustle of fabric.

"My lady, the floor is so dirty! You shouldn't be out of bed yet. I was just about to make you tea."

The AUDACITY.

Tea? TEA! Ha ha! After DRUGGING my tea? He actually expects me to accept a cup from him again?! He truely IS insane, isn't he?

I am scooped up without my consent, unable to so much a truely struggle. Placed gently on a plush chair, a tea table moved in front of me. A familiar cup. My favorite blend. Pretty little snacks laid out deftly on lovely little plates. I grit my teeth. Slowly tip my head up to glare.

He pauses when our eye meet... then shudders, some terrible look of pleasure dancing across his face.

"That's right... look at me~" he whispers, leaning entirely too close. "I'm all that you have now. So you'll HAVE too now! No more others. No more distractions. No more sending me away! People trying to get between us. Trying to take you away. I'm all that you need, My Lady. All you'll EVER need."

"Just look at ME, your loyal dog. And I'll take such good care of you. I promise~♡"

[astral-realities]

would you mind telling us about your architects?

SDA: Of course. My architect, Golden Thread in an Ornate Tapestry is...

SDA: ...was…

SDA: …a person of many talents. Her interest in art and fashion allowed her to become a well-known designer. In addition, they were tasked with my development, and dare I say - she did great.

SDA: She was …. a lovely person to be around. I’m proud to call them my friend.

BROS: (What they won’t tell you is that she became an architect mostly due to their mother’s status…)

BROS: (… who happens to be the main engineer of Vastness of Silence…)

HS: Eleven Claws, Eternal Grace. Though he usually went by just “Grace”.

HS: While there were those who deemed his approach to some matters controversial, he was an important figure in the scientific community.

HS: His team and I worked hard to help him fulfill his visions.

BROS: (Habitually Stargazing has too much respect for his creators to admit Grace was not a very pleasant person to be around…)

TFB: Spring after Storm, Ruby Blossoms Flourish.

TFB: There isn’t much for me to say about them.

TFB: They pioneered a couple of gene alteration algorithms, I suppose. Many of the creatures in my area are the descendants of their experiments.

BROS: (Flowers wasn’t very fond of her creator, though I believe she never spoke of this disdain directly. She continuously worked on her tasks while they were still around.)

BROS: (Oh, my turn!)

BROS: This is Quicksilver Rains from Dark Clouds! We usually called her Rains. Or Clouds, or Silver, or anything in between.

BROS: As you can guess, she’s my architect! Legend has it she built me due to her dissatisfaction with the quality of medical care in the area.

BROS: Rains strived to improve the quality of life of those around her - though she’d never admit she actually cared about them that much! She was a rather reserved person, but if you got to know her and her sense of humor, it was great.

BROS: I do miss her at times.

[serpentface]

Woman leaping over a fire for the Lagriwe Erub holiday rites. This is a fairly unique holiday in that it is extremely widespread and practiced across class lines, not state official or otherwise officiated by any priesthood/cult, and its rites are closed to men and kept semi-secret.

The basic premise is that it is a day of mourning for the dynasty of the semi-mythological hero Erub, who is broadly considered to be the (venerable) heathen forefather of the collective Wardi people. By tradition, Erub once conquered and united the majority of proto-Wardi peoples and ushered in a century of prosperity before his dynasty was felled by the first Burri Empire. His direct bloodline is said to have ultimately been eradicated in the aftermath, with his heirs supposedly having been brutally executed by being bound and fed alive to hounds and widely thought to still exist as restless ghosts. While the historicity of all this is extremely fraught, this holiday (or at least predecessors of it) is very old and may indeed have originated as a day of mourning during this first period of occupation.

The contemporary practice has many facets beyond mourning an ancient dynasty, and fits into the broader tapestry of agrarian springtime holidays. It additionally functions as a celebration of Erub's collective people, and is an expression of hope for the people’s continued propagation and prosperity and an acknowledgment of the role of women in these matters. It is also a rare opportunity for lay women across class lines to take direct ownership of religious practice, not only getting to participate in full but actively lead and control the rites. Very uniquely, sex workers are permitted to attend and participate, and in some (few) localized variants are allowed to wear a veil for the duration of the rites and be socially protected while doing so.

Given these rites have no state or cult organization, the exact practices can vary heavily between any given community. It has some core commonalities, however. It is always closed to men, and the participants are usually required to be adults. It always occurs on the night of the first new moons after the spring equinox. Participants usually fast for the entire day beforehand, and perform a full body ablution before departing to the ritual grounds. Actually speaking the name of Erub or those of any of his mythological bloodline is forbidden for the duration of the night, and they are only referred to in epithet form.

A generalized overview goes as such:

It begins with participants assembling around dusk in a secluded area near planted crops and setting up a faux funeral, with a bonfire serving as a symbolic pyre. Bundles of the suömitsima flower (an early spring poppy, which in some traditions first sprung from the blood of Erub's dying sons) are thrown into the unlit fire by all in attendance, and libations of wine or milk will be sprinkled around it. One woman will be assigned the role of the funeral drummer for the duration, and she will signal the beginning of the funeral and prompt the fire to be lit.

In legend, Erub's wife Hippemedes committed suicide at his funeral by throwing herself onto his pyre, sometimes interpreted as not only an act of grief but prescience of the impending doom of his kingdom. In the mock funeral, this is acknowledged by those in attendance (usually either a single woman designated Hippemedes for the night, or the entire assembly) performing leaps over the fire. This leap pays respect to this dead forbear and reenacts her grief, while also displaying the continued vitality and prosperity of her distant descendants.

After the leaping is completed, torches are lit from the bonfire and funerary songs and wails are performed until the main flame dies out. The displays of grief are intentionally intense and exaggerated, often an unspoken competition of who can be the loudest and appear most devastated- exposing and beating at the breast, scratching the arms and chest, pulling at the hair, etc. In some traditions, all in attendance will cut off the tips of their braids and throw them in the fire as a miniaturized mourning haircut. While a funerary performance, the tone of this portion is ultimately more jubilant than anything else, less about mourning the distant dead and more about celebrating the well-being of the living. It is an opportunity to relish in the physicality and livelihood of the body, and a Rare opportunity to be VERY loud while not actually grieving.

Attendants then walk a circle around the nearby growing fields in procession, carrying torches. The youngest woman in attendance will be at the head of the party (in some cases mounted on a khait or ox), with the eldest scattering handfuls of dried beans at her feet and continuing the wail in a simulation of a bridal departure. The rest in attendance sprinkle offerings of milk to the crops. This portion has functions of prayer for a good harvest and for the fertility and prosperity of those in attendance, and also tends to be the most solemn portion of the whole affair.

The circle will loop back to the 'funeral' grounds for the final events of the evening. The conclusion is less formalized, usually taking the form of a celebratory meal. Sticky cakes made with coarsely ground camiche nuts or amaranth and honey are a tradition, shaped loosely in the forms of cattle, horses, phalluses, or flowers (all having connotations of prosperity to some extent). There will usually be music and dancing and some sharing of unmixed wine, though whether or not drunkenness is permitted depends on local tradition. Often, those in attendance will set up tents and sleep the rest of the night on the ritual grounds. They will get up after sunrise and disperse back to their homes.

---

In large part due to its age and ubiquity, this unofficial rite is Generally condoned and allowed to occur unimpeded, and most men will allow their wives and adult daughters to leave unaccompanied to attend them. In many cases it's actively facilitated (and partially regulated) by men of the community posting up at a distance to guard the ritual grounds from trespassers.

The Lagriwe Erub is still a subject of patriarchal intrigue and concern, especially due to the secretive nature of much of it. It is sometimes imagined to be a wild and somewhat debased event, with a few commentators here and there expressing concerns that the secretive rites involve mass public nudity (perhaps group sex???!), unsanctified and improper animal sacrifices, possible human sacrifices or straight up murders of any captured peeping men, etc.

[halcy0n-skies]

synopsis: gojo likes buying flowers for you.

a/n: just something short! Maybe I'll do a series of sorts with this and a few other characters.

When it comes to flowers, Gojo Satoru is always one to go big. No matter the season, the occasion, or your mood, you can always expect a large bouquet that’ll take up half of whatever counter you place it on.

When it’s spring, growing into warm summer, he’ll spend some time browsing through different local florists as he walks home. Hundreds of people pass him by as he scrolls through different business names…that is, before he habitually walks into the same one he always goes to. The light ding of the furin chime swaying in the wind easily blends with the high-pitched ring of the brass bell hung above the door.

Summer is always his favourite time to come in here, mainly because everything smells so sweet. Handmade bouquets burst from each shelf, a multi-coloured tapestry of amber, scarlet, lilac, and cerulean. It’s styled in light woods and deep reds, not unlike the shinto shrine near Tokyo Tower. The first few times he came in here, he was somewhat overwhelmed: it was like they stuffed every flower field in Furano into one room.

A surprising feat, considering who he is.

However, the more he visited, the better he got. Both with picking up what flowers you liked, and when the shop got a new stock.

Considering it’s not public knowledge, they’re always surprised to see his face in the early morning when they’re still unloading and sorting it.

(He says he has a work thing earlier than usual, but, in reality, he’s already in the store picking out flowers for you.)

Aside from it smelling so damn good–he did say mainly, didn’t he?–he loves coming here in summer because there is always an unsuspecting student working a summer job. If he were completely honest, other than seeing the pure joy on your face when you receive them, either in person or through photos if he’s away–though he always prefers seeing your reactions in real time–the reaction from the florists is practically his favourite part.

So, when he casually slips out his credit card and asks for a bouquet of a hundred roses, he has to steel himself not to smile too hard or laugh at how far the kid’s jaw drops.

It gets even better when he asks for some ribbon–the expensive stuff lined with silver thread. No matter the flowers, he almost always goes for light blue or white. It may or may not fuel his already large ego when you compliment it.

Sure, it’s somewhat awkward to take home–even with all the times he’s bought big ones like this and decided to carry them back himself–but nothing compares to the unmistakably dumbfounded–yet happy–look on your face.

He’s bought them for you many times, but your reaction never changes. It never fails to make his heart swell.

It’s not always roses, though. He’s trawled through enough terrible romance films over the years to know that it gets old.

When he sees the old ones wilting in their vase–both of you having left them long enough to get as much out of them as possible–he’ll find some time to walk down to that same florist shop and note down all of your favourite flowers. He’s pretty sure the usual workers have got a list or something in the back rooms of what he usually orders, because each time he does, they just raise an eyebrow and state, “Fifteen minutes, sir.” with a curt nod.

Never in his life did he think he’d become that predictable.

In winter, when Tokyo’s goliath skyscrapers seem more ice-topped mountains than buildings, and when the sakura’s branches are heavy with pearly snow, he’ll always go for something colourful.

While he doesn’t mind the cold, finds the snow–on the increasingly rare occasion that it does snow–quite delightful, especially when it gets cold enough to give him an easy excuse to cuddle with you on the couch, he hates how dreary everything ends up looking. Knows you aren’t too fond of it, too.

So, he happily brightens your apartment with flowers: the large red roses disappear, and are instead replaced with small, soft memories of summer.

Seasons aside, your favourite time to receive flowers is when he hasn’t been home in a while. Rest assured, surrounded by the ceramic roofs of Kyoto or the soft sand of Okinawa, he’s thinking of you.

Designing a bouquet based on floral meanings is rare for him. Very rare. He sits down with the florist and their archaic leather book which knows the words inscribed on each petal of each flower, and hand arranges it himself. Even if he complains he doesn’t know shit about it, they always turn out beautiful.

If you were to ask him why he doesn’t do it often–since a gift with an intricate meaning hand crafted by himself is such a thoughtful way to show his love–he’d say he doesn’t need complex, well thought presents to show how he feels.

Your heart may be the most complicated organ in your body–he knows it each time he listens to the thrum of your blood–and the gentle hum of your soul may never truly be touched by anything but his eyes, but he knows his affections have no need to be as elaborate.

Loving you is easy. He hopes his roses and red carnations let you know that.

[croquis-el]

Why are there lycoris (spider lilies) in Naruhodo's hospital ward?

I think many of us were initially puzzled when we noticed this detail: why exactly these flowers, and in a hospital, and on a completely healthy person? Does someone wish him harm?

Not at all.

In fact, the history of lycoris, or higanbana as they are called in Japan, is not as ancient as it might seem, and the meanings and symbolism of these flowers have changed over the centuries.

Higanbana or Lycoris radiata is a bulbous plant from the lily family, common throughout Japan. It is believed that Higanbana was brought to Japan from Korea or China during the Muromachi period (室町 1333-1568) for its biological properties.

The Spider Lily’s strong association with death has led to its traditional planting in graveyards and temples. It is believed that the flower’s toxicity (its bulbs contain lycorine, a toxic alkaloid) helps deter animals from disturbing the resting places of the dead.

The flower’s name, “Higanbana,” translates to “flower of the afterlife” or “equinox flower,” reflecting its association with the autumnal equinox and the Buddhist festival of Higan.

Higan (彼岸, lit. "distant shore") is a Buddhist holiday exclusively celebrated by Japanese sects for seven days; three days before and after both the Spring equinox (shunbun) and Autumnal equinox (shūbun). During this time, Japanese people honor their ancestors, and the blooming of these flowers serves as a poignant reminder of the transient nature of life.

In Higan, various rituals are performed to help the soul overcome the path from the west, from the world of “confusion and disorder”, to the east, into the world of “enlightenment”.

In Japan, there is a proverb: “Heat and cold end in Higan” (jp: 暑さ寒さも彼岸まで), which means the change of seasons.

Despite these somber associations, the spider lily is also a symbol of renewal and the cycle of life and death. During the Higan festival, the flower represents the passage from the physical world to the spiritual, reminding people to reflect on their lives and the lives of those who have passed on.

The spider lily is also linked to the concept of impermanence, a central tenet in Buddhism. The flower blooms suddenly and fades just as quickly, symbolizing the fleeting beauty of life. Its bright red color is often associated with blood and the idea of finality, further cementing its connection to death and the afterlife.

Spider Flower blooms carry a tapestry of meanings across cultures. Historically, they've been symbols of both invitation and solitude, suggesting a dual nature. In some traditions, they represent an open invitation to explore the unknown, while in others, they signify a desire for privacy and independence.

The Higanbana flower can also symbolize: sad memories, thinking only of you, looking forward to seeing you, reunion (gain), passion, independence (distancing), refusal (reconciliation), horror.

There are many myths and superstitions associated with the flower. It was believed that flowers have magical powers and can influence the fate of people: for example, if you hide a flower in the bed of a loved one, this can create an unbreakable attachment until death. Its flowers symbolize strong feelings and an eternal connection. Therefore, lycoris can be given to express deep affection, devotion, respect, as a sign of reverence.

Let's summarize.

Spider lily can mean:

1. symbol of renewal and the cycle of life and death

2. impermanence

3. idea of ​​finality

4. invitation and solitude

5. looking forward to meeting you, thinking only of you

6. reunion (gain)

7. strong feelings and eternal connection

8. independence (distancing)

9. refusal (reconciliation)

In other words, these flowers literally symbolize the beginning of Naruhodo's path to returning to the legal world, to his "rebirth" as an innocent man. And the one who gave these flowers is looking forward to meeting and reuniting. Who could it be...

[covenofvenus]

🌸The History of the Magic of Spring🌸

Greetings fellow seekers of the arcane,

As the spring season is now upon us, let's delve into all of the mystical tapestries of spring, a season that has long been revered in occult and metaphysical traditions for its potent symbolism, transformative energy, and profound connection to the cycles of life, death, and rebirth.

As we explore its numerological significance, associated deities, spirits, colors, and herbs, we shall also draw upon the wisdom of the great Renaissance magician, Cornelius Agrippa, to illuminate its deeper occult meanings.

The Occult and Metaphysical Significance of Spring

Spring is the season of renewal, a time when the Earth awakens from its winter slumber and bursts forth with life. In the grand wheel of the year, spring represents the Maiden aspect of the Triple Goddess—youth, innocence, and the promise of new beginnings. It is a time of balance, as the vernal equinox marks the moment when day and night are of equal length, symbolizing harmony between light and dark, masculine and feminine, and the seen and unseen worlds.

Metaphysically, spring is associated with the element of Air, the realm of thought, renewal, change, communication, innovation and inspiration. It is a time to plant seeds—not only in the soil but also in our minds and spirits. The energy of spring is one of expansion, creativity, and the breaking of old patterns to make way for new growth. This season invites us to align ourselves with the rhythms of nature, to shed the stagnation of winter, and to embrace the vitality of life force energy that flows abundantly during this time.

Numerology of Spring

In numerology, spring resonates with the number 3, a sacred number that embodies creativity, manifestation, and the divine trinity. The number 3 is often associated with the Maiden, Mother, and Crone; the past, present, and future; and the mind, body, and spirit. It is a number of synthesis and harmony, reflecting the balance of the equinox and the triadic nature of spring’s energy: growth, renewal, and transformation.

The number 3 also corresponds to the planet Jupiter, which governs expansion, abundance, and optimism—qualities that are deeply aligned with the spirit of spring. In magical workings, the energy of the number 3 can be harnessed to amplify intentions related to creativity, fertility, and new beginnings.

🌸Western, Eastern, South American & Indigenous Deities and Spirits of Spring

Spring is ruled by a pantheon of deities and spirits who embody its themes of rebirth, fertility, and renewal globally & culturally.

African American Traditions and Spring

African American spiritual practices, which often blend African ancestral traditions with Christian, Indigenous, and Caribbean influences, hold spring as a time of profound spiritual significance. The season’s themes of rebirth, resilience, and liberation resonate deeply within African American culture, reflecting both the struggles and triumphs of the community. In the tradition of Hoodoo, a African American folk magic system rooted in African spirituality, spring is a powerful time for rituals of renewal, cleansing, and growth. Hoodoo practitioners often perform spring cleaning rituals, both physically and spiritually, to clear away stagnant energy and invite prosperity.

This might involve sweeping the home with herbs like hyssop or basil, or using Florida Water (a traditional cologne with purifying properties) to cleanse the aura. Spring is also a time for planting roots—both literal and metaphorical. In Hoodoo, roots like John the Conqueror and High John the Conqueror are used in spells for strength, courage, and overcoming obstacles. These roots, planted in the fertile soil of spring, symbolize the resilience and determination of the African American spirit.

Spring is also a time for honoring ancestors in African American traditions. Practices such as setting up ancestor altars with fresh flowers, candles, and offerings of food or drink are common. The ancestors are seen as guides and protectors, and their wisdom is sought during this time of renewal. The blooming of flowers and the return of life to the land are reminders of the enduring presence of those who came before us. For many African Americans, gardening is also not just a practical activity but a spiritual one. The act of planting seeds, tending to the soil, and watching life emerge is a powerful metaphor for resilience and growth. This connection to the Earth is deeply rooted in African traditions, where the land is seen as sacred and imbued with spiritual energy. Spring gardening rituals often include prayers or blessings for the seeds, asking for a bountiful harvest and the blessings of the Earth.

African Traditions and Spring

In many African traditions, spring is celebrated as a time of renewal, fertility, and the return of life-giving rains. The Yoruba people of West Africa, for example, sometimes honor Oshun, the goddess of rivers, love, and fertility, who is often associated with the vitality and beauty of spring. Oshun’s energy is invoked during rituals to bring abundance, healing, and joy. Her sacred colors are yellow and gold, and offerings of honey, oranges, and sunflowers are made to her.

In ancient Egyptian cosmology, spring also aligns with the festival of Sham el-Nessim, which marks the beginning of the spring season and is celebrated with feasts, music, and offerings to the gods. The goddess Isis, who embodies the power of resurrection and renewal, is often honored during this time. Her story of resurrecting Osiris mirrors the themes of death and rebirth that are central to spring.

Indigenous Traditions and Spring

For many Indigenous peoples of the Americas, spring is a time of profound spiritual significance, marked by ceremonies that honor the Earth’s awakening. The Hopi people of the southwestern United States celebrate the Bean Planting Ceremony, a ritual that aligns with the spring equinox and involves prayers for fertility, rain, and a bountiful harvest. The Green Corn Ceremony, practiced by many Indigenous nations, is another springtime ritual that celebrates renewal and purification.

In the Andean traditions of South America, spring is associated with Pachamama, the Earth Mother, who is revered as the source of all life. Offerings of flowers, seeds, and coca leaves are made to her during rituals to ensure her blessings of fertility and abundance. The Inti Raymi, or Festival of the Sun, celebrated by the Inca, marks the winter solstice in the Southern Hemisphere (which aligns with the spring equinox in the Northern Hemisphere) and honors the return of the sun’s life-giving energy.

Latin/Hispanic/South American Traditions and Spring

In Latin America, spring is often celebrated with vibrant festivals that blend Indigenous, African, and Catholic traditions. In Mexico, the arrival of spring is marked by the Festival of Xipe Totec, the Aztec god of renewal and agriculture. Xipe Totec, whose name means “Our Lord the Flayed One,” is associated with the shedding of old skin and the emergence of new life. His rituals involve offerings of seeds and flowers, as well as dances and processions.

In Brazil, the Festival of Iemanjá, the Yoruba-derived goddess of the sea and fertility, is celebrated in February, aligning with the energy of spring in the Southern Hemisphere. Offerings of flowers, mirrors, and perfumes are cast into the ocean to honor her and to seek her blessings of abundance and protection.

Asian Traditions and Spring

In many Asian cultures, spring is celebrated as a time of renewal and the blossoming of life. In China, the Spring Festival, or Lunar New Year, marks the beginning of the agricultural year and is a time for family reunions, feasts, and rituals to honor ancestors and deities. The goddess Nuwa, who is credited with creating humanity and repairing the heavens, is sometimes invoked during this time for her creative and restorative powers.

In Japan, the arrival of spring is celebrated with Hanami, the viewing of cherry blossoms, which symbolize the fleeting beauty of life and the impermanence of all things. The Shinto goddess Konohanasakuya-hime, who is associated with flowers and volcanic energy, is honored during this time for her connection to the life force and the cycles of nature.

In India, the festival of Holi marks the arrival of spring and is celebrated with vibrant colors, music, and dance. Holi honors the divine love of Radha and Krishna and the triumph of good over evil, as well as the renewal of social bonds and the joy of life.

Caribbean Traditions and Spring

In the Caribbean, spring is often celebrated with festivals that blend African, Indigenous, and European influences. In Trinidad and Tobago, the Carnival season, which culminates in February or March, is a time of exuberant celebration, music, and dance. While Carnival does have some Christian roots, its origins can be traced all the way back to African and it's vibrant energy and themes of liberation and renewal align with the spirit of spring.

In some Afro-Caribbean traditions such as Santería and Vodou, spring can be a time to honor deities associated with fertility, growth, and the life force. Oshun (Santería) and Erzulie (Vodou) are both spirits of love, beauty, and abundance who are sometimes celebrated during this season. Offerings of flowers, sweets, and honey can be made to them to invoke their blessings.

Western Traditions and Spring

Persephone (Greek): The goddess of spring and queen of the underworld, Persephone’s return from the realm of Hades marks the arrival of spring. Her story symbolizes the cyclical nature of life, death, and rebirth.

Eostre/Ostara (Germanic): The namesake of Easter, Eostre is a goddess of dawn, fertility, and the rising sun. She is often depicted with hares and eggs, symbols of fertility and new life.

Flora (Roman): The goddess of flowers and blossoming plants, Flora presides over the beauty and abundance of spring.

Green Man (Celtic): A spirit of nature and vegetation, the Green Man represents the regenerative power of the Earth and the life force that surges through all living things.

Freya (Norse): Though often associated with love and war, Freya also embodies the fertility and vitality of spring.

These deities and spirits remind us of the sacredness of the natural world and the interconnectedness of all life. They invite us to honor the cycles of nature and to celebrate the return of light and warmth.

🌸Colors of Spring

The colors of spring are imbued with magical significance, each carrying its own vibrational energy:

Green: The color of growth, renewal, and the Earth itself. Green is associated with the heart chakra, healing, and abundance.

Yellow: The color of the sun, intellect, and joy. Yellow energizes the mind and inspires creativity.

Pink: The color of love, compassion, and new beginnings. Pink opens the heart to self-love and emotional healing.

Pastels: Soft hues of lavender, mint, and peach carry gentle, nurturing energies that support spiritual growth and inner peace.

These colors can be incorporated into rituals, altars, and clothing to align with the energy of spring and to invoke its blessings.

🌸Herbs of Spring

The herbs of spring are potent allies in magical workings, each carrying the essence of the season’s vitality:

Dandelion: A symbol of resilience and transformation, dandelion is used in spells for wishes, divination, and spiritual growth.

Nettle: A herb of protection and purification, nettle clears stagnant energy and strengthens the body and spirit.

Violet: Associated with love, healing, and intuition, violet is a sacred herb of spring that connects us to the fairy realm.

Lemon Balm: A herb of joy and abundance, lemon balm uplifts the spirit and attracts prosperity.

Elder: A tree of regeneration and protection, elder is sacred to the goddess Freya and is used in rituals of healing and transformation.

These herbs can be used in teas, sachets, or incense to harness the energy of spring and to support magical intentions.

🌸Cornelius Agrippa on the Occult Significance of Spring

Cornelius Agrippa, the renowned Renaissance magician and philosopher, offers profound insights into the occult significance of spring. In his seminal work, Three Books of Occult Philosophy, Agrippa describes spring as a time when the celestial influences of the Sun and Jupiter are at their peak, infusing the Earth with life-giving energy. He associates spring with the eastern direction, the element of Air, and the zodiac signs of Aries and Taurus, which govern new beginnings and material abundance.

Agrippa emphasizes the importance of aligning magical practices with the seasons, noting that spring is an auspicious time for rituals of growth, healing, and manifestation. He also highlights the role of the planets in shaping the energy of the season, particularly the influence of Venus, which governs love, beauty, and fertility, and Mars, which brings vitality and courage.

Agrippa’s teachings remind us that spring is not only a time of external renewal but also an opportunity for inner transformation. By attuning ourselves to the rhythms of nature and the celestial forces at play, we can harness the power of spring to manifest our desires and to deepen our connection to the divine.

🌸🌸 Conclusion 🌸🌸

Spring is a season of profound metaphysical significance, a time when the Earth awakens and the veil between worlds grows thin. Its numerological resonance with the number 3 reflects its themes of creativity, balance, and transformation, while its associated deities, spirits, colors, and herbs offer a rich tapestry of magical correspondences.

Drawing upon the wisdom of Cornelius Agrippa, we see that spring is a time to align ourselves with the celestial forces of renewal and to embrace the boundless potential of new beginnings. Additionally, when we are exploring the traditions of African Americans, Africans, Indigenous peoples, Latin America, Asia, the Caribbean and Western Europe, we gain a richer, more intersectional understanding of all of the spring’s magic.

As we walk this path of the arcane, let us always try to honor the sacred energy of spring, planting seeds of intention and nurturing them with love, wisdom, and gratitude.

For in the cycle of the seasons, we find the eternal dance of life, death, and rebirth—a reminder that we, too, are part of the great cosmic web.

Blessed be, dear seekers. May the magic of spring this year always guide you on your journey.

xx

Lyonessa Hart🌸