#and find a flower to associate her with...

[leclercandcozy]

Monaco’s Busiest Flower Shop ╰┈➤ LN4

summary: when lando norris keeps coming into your flower shop, you’re determined to figure out why he needs that many orders.

[word count] 6.1k

warnings: strangers to friends to lovers | flower shop owner! reader | fluff | humor | obvious and some not so obvious pining | kissing | mature themes and dialogue | read at your own discretion

a/n: hello!!! and welcome to my very first formula one fic 🙌🏻 I’ve been writing nhl fics for years now and i’ve decided it’s finally time to dip my toe into some new media! hope any devoted f1 readers and/or my previous followers take their time to check this out.

🎶 say you love me by fleetwood mac, message in a bottle by taylor swift + don’t dream it’s over by crowded house

lando norris has never been too fond about the smell of flowers.

it's not that there's anything wrong with the floral scent—it's just definitely, absolutely not for him. there's something about that light, almost crisp musty smell that rubs lando the wrong way.

or maybe it's perhaps what he associates with those smells. red roses? his primary school principal who very clearly had it out for lando. daisies? the single flower he picked for his 1st grade crush, and she threw the petals back in his face as some sort of childish rejection. lilies? his late grandmothers funeral. morbid, yes, but true.

so to say he was dreading walking into this monaco floral shop was an understatement. it's painted a pastel peach, windowsills just a few shades darker so that they stand out from the brick. not that you can really see them though, not with the abundance of flowers in the hanging window baskets.

lando has already passed the store twice in procrastination. the first time he claimed he needed a coffee from the cafe across the street—because if he had to go in a flower shop, he at least needed some caffeine to serve as a pick me up while he did so.

the second time—okay, well, the second time he didn't have a valid excuse. lando simply just kept trucking by like the peach coloured brick wasn't flashing at him. taunting him with its happy colour and girly smell.

it's just...it's his elderly neighbours birthday. his elderly neighbour who he adores and who always bakes cookies for him, and lando won't be home to wish her well because of traveling. and she loves flowers. lando knows this because they're always on her counter, and he can smell peonies on her clothes anytime she stops by for milk, pinching lando's cheek while she calls him adorable.

so he knows he has to do this. his displeasure towards the arrangements be damned. lando tells himself to man the hell up and do this one nice thing for the sweet woman across the hall.

lando inhales strongly, collecting as much monaco sea air as possible before entering the shop. the wooden door creaks as he pushes it open, and instantly lando is hit with a million pollen and petal particles.

"fuckin' hell." he mumbles to himself, voice barley audible as his green eyes trail around the shop. with something similar to a grimace on his face, lando takes in the overgrown space. flowers fill every available space, making it almost impossible for a normal folk—or clueless folk—like him to navigate through.

lando takes a step, and the floorboards groan under his weight, giving away how worn and aged this place is. it's been a flower shop for as long as lando has lived in monaco, and for a moment, he lets himself wonder how long before too. surely, years based on the way that the smell so practically oozing from the light blue striped wallpaper.

wallpaper he can barley see, mind you, due to the wall of roses.

"is there something I can help you find?"

lando blinks, head snapping away from a bright yellow bundle of...some kind of flower, and towards the direction of your voice.

there's a section of teal counter, an old fashioned register and company cards sitting on top, and that's where you are. you've got on a apron that's the same peach colour as the bricks outside. and your hair’s pulled back in an effortless kind of way, and lando already knows that you smell like the flowers all around.

he swallows roughly and blinks again.

you smile, almost in amusement, and that's when he realizes that he's been stroking a flower petal like a muppet. "sorry, yeah, actually."

lando weaves through the various display tables until he's at the counter. up close, he's able to get a proper look at you, and his mouth goes dry at the sight. you're ridiculously beautiful. like other worldly kind of beautiful that would make even the most charismatic and charming men fall to their knees.

also known as him.

lando pushes through the sudden school boy nerves that are threatening to climb up his throat, sending you a boyish—yet confident—grin. "I want to send my neighbour flowers for her birthday, but i've got no clue about flowers."

you hum, "okay, well, do you know what kind of flowers she likes?"

he sends you a sheepish look, palms flat on the counter top. "all of them."

you giggle and lando swears he could faint at the sound.

"all of them?"

"yeah," he nods, "I swear that lady is like a bloody flower enthusiast. she's always got them on her island." lando pauses, a smile pulling at his lips, "and her windowsill. and her balcony. and her bedroom surely."

your fingers drum along the counter in thought. lando notes that your nails are painted a pink. it reminds him of the monaco sunset.

"and how old is said neighbour."

he blows out a breath and then grins cheekily, "elderly."

"i'd go with something classic," you tell him after a moment. you reach for a binder tucked between the register and the wall. it's blue and decorated with uniformed stickers and sharpie notes. you flip it open, swiping through a few sheets.

you point to a flower lando has never heard of, but he leans in and looks like he understands anyways. maybe—just a possibility—he was doing it so he could be closer to you. and yup, you smell like a flower field.

"i'd also throw some carnation in there. it's a classic flower for a piece. and beautiful."

lando's eyes dart away from the book and meet yours. they're swimming with passion and eagerness. it's cute, and lando can't help but to smile like a lunatic—teeth on full display. "I trust you, do whatever you think will make her happy."

your smile widens, "what's your budget."

he purses his lips. he hasn't really even thought about it. how much do flowers even cost? a beat passes, "don't have one."

your eyes widen briefly before you manage to control yourself. you're well aware that monaco is full of rich and wealthy people—even if you're not familiar with every single face that walks into your shop—but hearing those words never fails to suprise you.

flowers are expensive, and someone as clueless about flowers as the man in front of you seems to be, would have no idea.

"okay, that's great." you grab a form from behind the counter and then reach for a pen. you click the top a few times, the sound audible over the radio playing softly in the background. "when do you want the flowers to arrive?"

he tells you the date and you neatly write it down.

"and what's the name of the recipient?"

repeat.

"and the name of the sender?" you question after jotting down the previous answer. your eyes flicker up towards his green ones, a hint of personal curiosity in your gaze.

he takes his bottom lip between his teeth in an attempt to contain the embarrassing grin wanting to take over his face. "lando."

"lando." you repeat.

"and your name?"

the pen in your hand almost falls away, your eyes quickly finding his once more. "y/n." you tell him timidly, warmth collecting high on your cheeks as he repeats your name, slowly, like he's testing out how it sounds.

his eyes don't stray from yours, gaze tense and fond in a way that makes you positively squirm. you clear your throat, ball tip of the pen hitting the paper once more. "and the address?"

lando recites his neighbours address with ease, and you write down it just as quick. you question him on a few more basic things; phone number for contact purposes, if he’d like a card with the arrangement, and if so what he’d like to say, and you even asked him what day he’d prefer for delivery.

he asks if you do the deliveries, and you get warm again—lando wants to bathe in the pink of your cheeks. you tell him you have a driver who does it for you.

after he signs his name on the form, you take it back from him, moving towards the register between you. it’s silent for moment while you presumably log in, nails tapping rhythmically on the screen while you do so.

“can't make her birthday?”

your question has lando momentarily confused, brows pulled tight. it’s only when you raise an eyebrow in silent amusement that lando remembers who he’s getting the arrangement for—and why he’s here in the first place.

“oh, right,” he swallows roughly, “no I can't, i'm traveling for work.”

you hum and shoot him a curious glance. “what do you do for work?”

he laughs once and breathy, eyes falling down towards the floorboards for a few moments. once he meets your gaze again, he notes that you haven’t look away—and you look more intrigued than before.

lando grins, “you're not going to believe me if I tell you.”

“are you putting on some kind of mysterious act?” your fingers halt on the screen—hovering over the baby breath button—and you squint hesitantly.

“depends?” he hisses through his teeth, “is it working?”

“I suppose so,” you breathe a sound that almost sounds like a laugh, eyes darting away before quickly darting back to his. “i'm definitely curious now.”

“wasn't before?”

you kiss your teeth to keep a fond smile from blossoming on your face. you’ve dealt with flirty customers before, obviously, but there’s something about the curly haired, gap toothed smiley one in front of you now that has you actually flustered.

you decide to not answer right away, clicking a few more flowers on your computer for the order print. finally, after what feels like an eternity for lando, you answer.

“you're cheeky,” you muse.

he’s still grinning. “it's a part of my charm.”

you bark a laugh, “I bet it is.”

the door creaks open, breaking whatever trance the both of you had been in. a customer, a few years older than you, walks in causally—moving towards some daffodils you’d potted this morning.

you clear your throat, looking away from lando’s green gaze, and back towards the till. he watches you click a few more buttons and type some codes in—and then the printer is whirling to life.

the customer picks a bouquet and moves to wait behind lando.

his heart pings at the time being interrupted.

“i'll just take your card information then,” you say promptly, “my machine takes a picture of it for billing, if that’s okay with you?”

lando slides his credit card over the counter, “yeah, sure. thank you.” he watches as you carefully take his card—like it’s made of gold—and place it on some fancy machine lando couldn’t even attempt to dissect. it makes a few clicking sounds, presumably capturing the information, and then you pass it back to him.

“all right, you're all set.” your fingers brush his when lando takes it back.

“I appreciate this.” lando shoots a glance over his shoulder once the guy starts impatiently tapping his foot. and look at that—he’s suddenly got the urge to punch out your next customer!! without hesitation, lando looks back at you, continuing like nothing. “I think I would've been completely lost without you.”

you grin, smoothing down the front of your apron like a nervous habit. “we'll, it is my job.”

“you're good at it,” he compliments with an earnest smirk.

it makes you laugh awkwardly, absentmindedly reaching out to straighten up the stack of local business pamphlets. you keep them there for weddings as it helps local venues get recognition. “i'm not sure one could really be good at taking information for a floral arrangement,” you mumble modestly.

“well I think you're great.” lando answers quickly.

the guy behind him clears his throat and lando has to stop his eyes from rolling to the back of his skull.

you smile politely and lando, despite the annoyance for the douche waiting in line, follows suit, his own toothy grin reappearing. “i'll be seeing you, y/n.”

—

almost a month passes before you see lando again. despite the hopes of him walking back through the front door of your flower shop again, you didn’t believe the day would come.

but here he is, clad in a branded sweatshirt and shorts with his curly hair all unruly like he’s been running his fingers through it on the way over.

lando has some dignity, so he pretends to look very interested in the rose display before letting his eyes wander in search of you. yeah well, that whole self dignity thing lasts 20 seconds before his sights are set on you in your peach apron.

you can’t help but grin once you feel his gaze land upon you. like him, you also wanted to seem casual, so as soon as you realized it was him walking through your door, you reached for a book, and flipped it open to a random page in some attempt to appear scholarly.

you can’t even remember if this book is yours or the delivery guys.

“back for more flowers?” you ask, eyes flickering up to his approaching figure.

lando grins, “yeah.” no.

you close the book and put it back in the half dusty corner you found it. “the neighbour again?” you question, placing your palms flat against the counter.

he rubs the back of his neck. “not this time, but she loved them so much—sent me cookies as a thank you and everything.”

“i'm offended that you didn't bring me one,” you tease him quickly and easily, making lando’s stomach do that funny drop you get on a carnival ride.

you log into the register and lando laughs, answering you with an impressed raise to his eyebrows, “they barley lasted 10 minutes.”

you snicker at that. opening up a new order form in his file, you ask—“so who are these ones for?”

lando almost curses aloud. he really hadn’t thought this far ahead. when he woke up this morning he had a plan. he really did. despite the jet lag he’s still battling from three weeks of consistent travel paired with inconsistent sleep, lando was going to get up early and come visit your shop.

he was going to turn on his natural flirtatious side and ask you to dinner or something just as chivalrous—perhaps the new cocktail lounge that opened up just down the street from your shop.

but then you asked him with a pretty smile if he was back for more flowers and he just said yes without a second to process the question.

you wait patiently, fingers still—and now a bit longer and painted a sky blue—for his answer. an answer that’s taking a suspiciously long time for a person who supposedly came in here to but flowers.

lando clears his throat, “my...sister.”

“your sister?”

“yeah,” he nods, “it's her graduation.” she’s only in second year at uni, you idiot.

your eyebrows draw together with confusion.“in august?”

lando rubs along the back of his tanned neck once more, and you pick up that it must be an anxious habit. “yeah,” he winces, eyes trickling back to yours from where they briefly settled on the worn wood beneath his feet. “i'm a little late.”

“alright well,” you exhale, bringing out that same binder from last time. “let's do something simple, and something that says sorry for the late arrangement.” your teasing tone has lando smiling softly. you don’t catch it, too busy flipping through the pages in search of the flower you’d thought of it your head.

“yeah,” he breathes, “sounds great.”

you make a little trumpet noise when you find the poppies, letting lando choose between the variety of colours. he picks orange, says it’s his favourite, and you think that, oddly enough, it suits him.

you repeat the same process as before, and when you ask for a delivery address, lando just spews out his own. it’s not like you’d know anyways—besides, he can’t tell you that his sister actually lives in the UK and will not be receiving these flowers period.

so yeah, his address will do.

“okay, these will only take me 20 minutes tops. would you prefer delivery again? or would you like me to text you when they’re done and you can come pick them up?”

lando stutters for a moment, the excitement that settles in his chest at the thought of seeing you again today almost too much for him to bear. “I’ll come back, if that’s okay with you?”

you grin with half amusement, “i’m definitely okay with that.” you print the order form and grab it from the printer once it’s finished up. “I’ll text your number on file when they’re done.”

and before he can’t say anything else, lando just smiles dreamily, “please.”

when you do text him 30 minutes later, he returns to the shop almost immediately after, a cheeky grin on his face and two takeaway cups of coffee in his hands, you can’t help but to accept one. it takes him another 20 minutes before he leaves again, both of you too distracted with learning about one another to notice the passing time.

—

a week and many daydreams of lando walking through the front door of the store later, does he actually walk into the shop. he's gotten a hair cut since the last time you saw him. it's neater, but still got that messy look that makes him look like the main love interest in a early 2000s rom com.

lando’s got a container in one hand and a smile on his face. unlike last time, he doesn’t even glance at the flowers, and instead makes a beeline right for you.

you’re fussing over some sunflowers that are beginning to wilt in a large mosaic vase set out in front of the large window—giving the shop most of the sunlight you crave.

“you're back,” you note, eyes closing in to the tupperware in his large hand. “and you've got...are those cookies?” you turn away from the flowers, gently crossing your arms just as lando comes to a stop.

he grins proudly, “I saved you some this time.”

the brief conversation about homemade cookies from his elderly neighbour crosses your mind, and your eyes widen in recognition. “you didn't need to do that,” you scold kindly, not yet taking the container lando is gesturing out to you. “I was only playing,” you admit shyly.

“it's no big deal,” he shrugs, smile growing once you timidly take the clear container that holds four cookies. “plus, it's a thank you for all your help.”

“well,” you laugh once as you walk towards the counter, placing the cookies down next to the register before turning back to lando. he’s not near the sunflowers like you expected. no, he’s followed you to the counter.

you smile shyly, “thank you for the treat.” lando runs his hand over his sweatshirt—it’s a chiller morning in monaco, oddly enough—and mumbles some kind of compliment.

your cheeks heat anyways. “have you only come here to bring me these?” you squint inquisitively after a beat passes, eyeing lando.

“what?” his voice cracks embarrassingly, leaving him no choice but to awkwardly clear his throat. “no.” yes. “I had to be in the area.” no he really didn’t. “met up with a friend for coffee,” oh did he now? “told him all about your shop.”

his awful lies are all worth it the second an appreciative look flashes over your face. “did you?”

“I did,” lando swallows roughly and shoves his hands into his pockets. “he said he'd have to check it out.”

your lips part, but the shrill noise of the mint green phone attached to the wall ringing stops whatever words you planned to say. you look away from the phone and back to lando, sending him a guilty smile. “duty calls. excuse me.”

he watches you round behind the counter and answer the phone. lando’s not too sure why he sticks around for the phone call to finish up. maybe it’s the way he’s too entranced watching you in your element to leave, or maybe because he still hasn’t asked you out, and was planning to do it today before the phone started to ring. lando’s not quite sure.

regardless, he’s still there once you’ve finished the call, and you send him a look. “everything okay?”

lando blinks, “I also came because I need another flower arrangement.” he wonders if you can actually smell the bullshit coming form his mouth.

“oh!” you emote, “really?”

“yeah, my race engineer is getting married.” no lando, actually, your race engineer has been married for 10 years.

your eyes flash, “race engineer huh? you work with cars?” you question while bringing up his file.

“something like that.”

you smile, nodding your head slowly like you don’t quite believe him. lando almost wants to shrink in on himself and hide from your gaze—but that means he wouldn’t be able to look at you, and that sounds downright dreadful.

“alright, well, let me get something together then.”

—

four days before lando needs to leave for the british grand prix, he's walking back through the front door of the peach painted brick building.

it's not like you were expecting him or anything, but you're not surprised when the door creaks open and you catch sight of a familiar head of curls. what does surprise you though is the two men he's with—you presume they are his friends.

your curious and intrigued eyes catch lando's. despite the smile he sends your way, you can see something that looks a lot like embarrassment coupled with annoyance twisted within his expression.

his friends though? they couldn't look further from annoyed if they tried. both tall men who look around lando's age, scan your overgrown floral shop with wide eyes and amused grins.

"hello." you swallow thickly as their gazes land on you. your body naturally wants to freeze in place, especially when lando's friends somehow grow more smug and excited at the sight of you.

"y/n, hi." lando speaks first, his greeting coming out in one long breathe of relief—like physically seeing you now is allowing him to finally exhale.

"hello," the one who previously stood on lando's left greets you, a teasing glint in his eyes that makes you heat up. you note that he's got a similar accent to lando. the guy leans against the counter—not intimidating, but rather casual—"so, you own this place, right? do your own arrangements?"

"I do," you nod, already itching to reach for your binder just to look busy. your eyes narrow, "do you need an arrangement?"

"I actually do," he says, inspecting one of your business cards next to the register. his eyes flicker back to yours, "it's my girlfriend and I's anniversary, so i'd like to get a few big arrangements."

the other friend walks up next to the other one, a wide smile of his face. he's got the same accent—you wonder if they all grew up together. "lando hasn't stopped talking about you and this place for weeks. and when george here mentioned his anniversary, we just knew we had to come see what all the hype was about."

your eyes flicker towards lando, who has now come to stand beside his two friends. lando's cheeks heat and his eyes briefly meet the floor like they've done many times in your shop.

"is that so?" you ask the nameless friend, a slight teasing tone to your voice that has lando grinning automatically. when he looks back up, his eyes naturally lock with yours.

he sends you a meek smile and it doesn't go unnoticed by his friends, the two giving one another a look as you return the gesture.

"don't listen to these muppets," lando grumbles, "they've been in one too many crashes."

you let out a quiet laugh, fiddling with the pocket of your peach apron. you force your eyes away from lando's familiar ones and back to george—or so you think the other one called him. "I've got a form to go over with you, if you'd actually like to place an order."

george smiles appropriately, "yes, thank you." like lando has seen you do before, you go through the entire process with george in a quick yet efficient manner, taking down his information and helping him pick out the florals for the two arrangements george plans on having delivered in two weeks time.

once it's all done and you've printed the order form, you turn your gaze back on lando, a half hidden smile instantly pulling on his lips as you do. "is there anything else I can help you guys with today?"

"i'm okay, thank you," his other friend grins and extends his large hand to you over the counter, "i'm alex."

you take his hand delicately and lando hates how a pang of jealousy hits his chest. alex is literally in a relationship you muppet. "y/n."

the process repeats with george, who makes some kind of lame joke that works in making you laugh in amusement. lando naturally shifts, practically shoving george out of the way so that he's the one closest to you instead.

"lando." you greet with a knowing smile, "are you getting anything today?"

"not today-"

alex interrupts before lando can continue further. "im sure he'll be back soon enough to place an order though," he knocks his shoulder into lando's teasingly, "he really loves your place."

"oh yeah, he really—"

"alright," lando smothers whatever annoying thing george was planning to add on to alex's comment. he sends both of his friends a warning look, "I'll meet you guys outside, yeah?"

the two of them snicker—alex even tosses his hands up in a mock surrender—while the two of them make their way back through the flower shop and in the direction of the door. before the door creaks back open to reveal the monaco skyline, both alex and george send you enthusiastic departures, followed by inaudible whispers and laughter.

silence fills the store once more. lando's face is still tinged red in a flustered and slightly embarrassed way, and it has a little giggle slipping from your lips.

lando's lips turn upwards immediately. "I'm sorry about them, again," he retorted his earlier apology. "they insisted on coming with me when I mentioned stopping by tonight."

well, not exactly the truth. in all honesty, george and alex had both grown sick and tired of hearing lando talk about you and your shop—constantly—and forced lando to bring them so they could see what all the fuss was about. on the way over to your shop, lando had made his friends promise to behave and not scare you away—because that's the last thing he needed.

but then they walked in, saw why lando was so fond of you, and all promises of good behaviour were left at the door.

"they're fine," you reassure truthfully, a small smile playing on your lips. "so there's really nothing for you today?"

lando ponders for a moment, lips pursed while his eyes dart around the shop. right next to the counter you've got a selection of pre-made arrangements, easy for grab and gos for last minute birthday dinners, and early morning stops. lando picks the one with the most orange and places it on the counter between you.

"i'll take these, actually."

your grin widens and in an attempt to conceal it, you duck your head, busying yourself with wrapping them in paper for departure.

after a beat, your gaze finds his once again, except this time, its swimming with hesitation and a pile of curiosity. you clear your throat, finishing the last fold on the arrangement, "so...are these for your girlfriend?"

lando's ears pick up the distaste and envy that laces your question, and his urge to smooth over the situation before you get the wrong idea comes automatically. "no,” he huffs, eyes searching yours, “no girlfriend here. if I did have one though, i'm not sure she'd appreciate how often I visit the nice pretty girl at the flower shop."

your eyes widen, “oh-wha-me?”

lando laughs softly while your shellshocked expression doesn’t waver. he palms the back of his neck, a teasing tinge to his tone. “you are the only one who works here, right?

“yes,” you breathe.

“then yes,” lando’s grin widens. “you.”

like clockwork, you duck your chin to hide your face and lando blushes—the two of you very much resembling nervous primary school children with crushes. we’ll, actually, that’s exactly what it feels like. and clearly, according to alex and george, it what it looks like as well.

lando pays for the orange flowers, and when you ask again who they’re for (this time), he just says one word: you.

lets just say, you keep them in the back office and grin like a manic anytime you go in there and catch sight of them.

—

after the whole buying flowers and gifting them to you exchange that happened two months ago, you never really expected to see lando again. well correction—you expected to see him, but you didn't expect him to keep buying arrangements.

oh, but did you ever assume incorrectly. sometimes it was twice a week he'd walk into your shop, a shy yet confident look to him while he ordered an arrangement for some random event—team dinners, galas or his mothers retirement party.

sometimes you wouldn't see him for three weeks. you didn't ask about his whereabouts—assuming he travels for work—but everytime without fail, his first day back in monaco, he'd come see you. smiling and with a pep in his step, always telling you in a quiet, intimate way that he missed you.

but that's all he says. much to your dismay, lando never asks you out. not to coffee or dinner or anything in between. it's gut wrenching, sure, and then you start overthinking every single interaction with lando. were you misreading the situation?

but then he'd come back all flirty and telling you he missed the smell of the shop and you'd think otherwise. plus, he keeps buying damn flowers.

so today when lando walks into your shop, you're determined to figure it all out—the flirting and the flowers and everything else that gets your heart thumping and mind wandering.

he waltzes right up to the counter that separates you from the rest of the shop, a cheeky smile on his face as he leans on top the counter with his elbows.

you raise a brow, “another arrangement?”

“you guessed it,” he smirks boyishly up at you.

you don’t move to grab the binder like you usually would, and that instantly has lando’s thick eyebrows furrowing. you continue to stare down at him, unamused. “who are these flowers for?”

lando blinks, stuttering while he tries to formulate some kind of plausible response. “ummmm...oscar.”

“who's oscar?”

“my friend.”

you make a noise, eyes narrowing in utter disbelief. “does oscar typically want flowers?”

much to your surprise, lando just shrugs a shoulder, and with his lips pursed, he tells you—“don't really know.”

you don’t answer. not right away. it’s now that you grab the sticker covered binder full of pages upon pages of different flowers, carefully flickering it open so that the cracked spine doesn’t obtain any further damage. you seem very calm, and that makes lando feel the complete opposite.

there’s something your eyes that has lando narrowing his gaze on you. you don’t look at him while you quickly and quietly fill out the information—after all, you’ve filled out enough of these for lando that you’ve got his damn phone number memorized.

finally, you turn your attention back to him. “and delivery adress?”

and it’s then. when lando easily recites that same adress he’s given you more times than you can count, does your curiosity come to a tilt. you softly drop the pen, “i've got a question lando.”

“yes?”

you kiss your teeth, “how come every single arrangement after the first one is being delivered to the same address?”

lando blinks a few times. swallows roughly twice. and then he lets out an awkward chuckle, finger absentmindedly stroking along a divet in the wood counter.

“would you believe me if I told you everyone I know all lives in the same place?” he grimaces, hopeful eyes twinkling with mischief.

your nose scrunches—half amused and half in confusion. “not too sure if i'd buy that.”

“no?”

“nope.” lando’s shoulders sag and an apologetic grin forms at your response. you let out a slow breath, crossing your arms over the apron lando has been dreaming about. he sees that peach colour everywhere now—it’s like a less than kind reminder of how badly he’s been fumbling you. for months now.

“you know you don't have to come in here and buy things all the time,” your voice is laced with masked disappointment, making lando frown. you continue softly, “it's okay if you want to just browse.”

“I don't want to browse.”

“oh?”

lando curses to himself, so softly that to you it simply sound like a heavy exhale. you wait patiently for his response, playing with your bottom lip between your teeth to keep any emotions at bay.

you watch with careful eyes as lando pushes off the counter, his back straightening. his eyes meet your again, and after a tension filled beat, he admits—“I really didn't like the smell of flowers, you know that?”

“i'm sorry to hear that,” your voice is cautious. confused. “why did you come here then?” a pause while your brain jogs with memories. “was the neighbour a real person or…?”

“shes real,” lando reassures you quickly, “and it was actually her birthday.”

“and the others?”

he takes a deep breath, and then finally, after months of months of practiced speeches in his bathroom mirror, and imagining this conversation while the country music you have playing in your shop plays through his headphones before a race, lando spews.

“my sister didn't graduate, no one was getting married and oscar is actually allergic to pollen.”

you complete idiot, he thinks. because instead of that clearing up any of your confusion—and why would it because what the hell?—lando’s words have only made your expression grow tighter. you blink, “so why'd you keep buying the flowers.”

“because of you.”

“me?”

okay, he thinks, this is it. it’s finally time.

lando’s plump lips part, “because I liked you or I still do.” he takes a deep breath, “like you.” when you don’t respond, he continues. “and I know that it's kind of crazy and i'm crazy and i disappear for weeks at a time and im flirty and have too much money to spend on floral arrangements for imaginary occasions…but I just wanted to come see you.”

“lando,” your shoulders drop, and lando’s heart does as well. is this rejection? has he been playing this weird, long game for months only to have misread the situation.

“you can kick me out,” he offers.

“no,” you shake your head softly, and the last thing lando’s sees is your shy smile before you lean over the expanse of the counter, and place a delicate kiss to his cheek. so close to the corner of his mouth that for a moment, lando’s knees go weak. “i'm not going to kick you out,” you promise as you drop back to your heels.

dazed and still reeling form the feeling of your soft mouth on his warm skin, lando can only manage to nod dumbly. “that's good.”

“and I like you too,” you grin, “and all your made up occasions.”

lando exhales with a wide smile, “that's really good.” and because he’s sure he’s finally got it right, lando takes his turn to lean over the teal painted counter, one large hand holding the side of your face while he brings his lips down to yours.

it’s not perfect in the sense of the movies, but it’s perfect for you and lando. you’re both grinning into it, making it hard to actual kiss like normal people, but somehow you still manage to capture one another’s mouths in fleeting, tender kisses.

you pull away after a few moments, a playful laugh passing through your kiss moistened lips. “you're a race car driver.”

lando blinks, forehead bumping your gently while his thumb strokes long your cheek. “huh?”

a giggle sounds between you and then your pressing another quick kiss to his mouth. “that's your job.”

his eyebrows tug down towards his noise while an amused look crosses his face. “how'd you figure it out?”

“I googled you.”

he can’t help but to dip down and steal another kiss, muttering against your mouth—“cheeky girl.”

[reijisteacup]

I loved what you wrote about how Reiji, Shu and Subaru would react to their wife wanting to honor their mother. 🙂

now how would Beatrix and Christa react to their granddaughter having their name honoring them? 🤔

Ouuu ofc anon <3

Beatrix Sakamaki

At first, Beatrix is stunned into silence. The announcement slips through the room like a gentle breeze — “Her name is Beatrix… after you.” — and the proud, composed queen can hardly breathe. Her regal posture falters for just a moment, lips parting in disbelief. Not because she finds it odd or inappropriate — but because she never thought she would be remembered that way. You see, Beatrix was always overshadowed. Overshadowed by Cordelia’s influence, by her children’s complex feelings toward her, by the political demands of Karlheinz’s kingdom. But hearing that name — her name — given lovingly to a child who will carry her legacy into a new era? She’s deeply moved. A faint smile curls across her lips. “Such strength in a name… I pray she wears it like armor.” She insists on being involved in the child’s life in her own way — refined tea lessons, posture correction, and the family’s ancient history scrolls. But there’s also a softer edge now. She holds the child close, lets her play with her jewelry, hums lullabies in forgotten dialects of the Demon World. She doesn’t say it aloud, but she’s desperate to prove she’s worthy of the honor. And when the child asks, “Why do I have your name?” Beatrix kneels down, looks her in the eyes, and says with warmth rarely seen, “Because your parents saw something noble in me — and now I see even more in you.”

Christa Sakamaki

At first? Panic. “Christa? No… no, she mustn’t—don’t curse her with that name…” Her voice trembles. Her eyes fill with immediate fear and confusion. She associates her name with tragedy, madness, heartbreak — a name that has been screamed in delusion, whispered in sorrow, scribbled in blood on stone walls. To her, naming a child "Christa" feels like inviting suffering. But once the initial wave of trauma passes, and she sees the tiny girl asleep in her bassinet with her name written in lace on the blanket, something changes. “…She’s not cursed, is she?” she whispers to her son, holding the child’s hand with a trembling finger. “She’s… beautiful. Strong. Pure.” And slowly, Christa begins to rewrite what her name means. She watches the child laugh. She hears her name spoken gently — not in screams, but in lullabies. She’s unsure, constantly afraid she’ll hurt her somehow. But when the child reaches for her, calling, “Grandmama Christa!” with joy, not fear — Christa bursts into tears. To Christa, being honored this way is terrifying and healing all at once. She tells the child stories. Gentle ones. Fairy tales. Her hands still shake, but she puts flowers in the child’s hair and tells her, “You’re the first Christa born of love, not pain.” And for the first time in centuries, her name doesn’t sound like a ghost.

[saint0psy]

Getting stuck into the intricacies of Edwin’s gender by designing some drag looks for him, obvi inspired by the magnificent Barbara Lasagna. (40s and 20s dress respectively!) I imagine that the two names would be Edwin’s idea and Charles’ more goofy suggestion; a play on the Paine/Payne homophone and, well. A 16 year olds sense of humour in the midst of having a crisis. I think Edith would perform with an instrument like the violin or piano!

[akechi-stole-my-heart]

when spelled with the kanji 霞 the name kasumi means "fog, mist, haze"

kasumi is the fog that obscures the truth that is sumire

[i-want-men-and-attention]

A lesbian drama between Nero and Marie Antoinette would have so many layers a good tragic lesbian story should have.

[the-girl-with-too-many-ideas]

Don't ask me why, but I suddenly have the mental image of Yu Mei-ren being mistaken as huelian's love child if she found herself in tgcf somehow.

[sarah-abo-hwidi]

From Gaza to Europe: A Young Girl's Dream is Finally Coming True!

Vetted by association (Mahmoud khalaf) here.

Before the genocidal war on Gaza, I was immersed in university life and enjoyed studying English literature at the Islamic University in Gaza (IUG), which was utterly destroyed by Isr*ael. They destroyed the place that helped me find my passion: performing on stage in English.

My family and I have been displaced multiple times and we ended up now in a tent that does not protect us from any bullets, shrapnel, or the cold and rain of winter. I had never thought I would have to live in such hellish conditions at the age of 20, an age at which I was expecting to be studying at university and enjoying the company of my friends like any other girls my age around the world!!!

Below is my letter of acceptance from Mary Immaculate College (MIC) in Ireland, the place where I am reclaiming and achieving my dreams.

Amid the pain, horrors of war and many near death experiences, luckily, I was awarded a scholarship to do a BA in English Language and Literature at Mary Immaculate College in Ireland. A glimmer of hope shone in my sky, happiness rushed strongly through my veins, and a voice within me roared: "A unique destiny awaits you, Sarah. Seize this opportunity, honor your people abroad, and use your talent to tell the world about Palestine and touch their hearts."

Read more about the scholarship here.

I am literally at a crossroads at this stage in my life. I could keep running from a place to another with my family searching for safety and wasting years of my life without education. Or, you could help me evacuate with my family to Egypt and then go to study at Mary Immaculate College in Ireland.

Please do NOT decide to look away and send my only opportunity for a good education to go with the winds. Please boost my campaign by:

donating, reblogging and sharing.

@fivetrench @nogender-onlystars @thefrogmanmpp

@a-shade-of-blue @s1x-foot-deep @inolongerknowwhatimdoing

@kordeliiius @secondary-objective-active  @mavigator

@lun4rc0w  @selamat-linting  @dude-iloveu 

@jesncin @estrellasrojas @loveaankilaq @ddeck 

@time-was-over  @possum-with-a-banjo  @buttercuparry

@mar64ds @blossomdapple @mothfishing

@alexander-the-alright @sixty-silver-wishes

@newporters @punkitt-is-here @ethereal-night-fairy 

@rainintothesea @madocactus @queen-erika-the-songful 

@kathles

@fancysmudges @brokenbackmountain @mothblossoms

@aleciosun @fluoresensitive @khizuo @lesbiandardevil

@transmutationisms @schoolhater @timogsilangan @appsa

@buttercuparry @sayruq @sar-soor @akajustmerry

@annoyingloudmicrowavecultist @feluka @tortiefrancis

@flower-tea-fairies @tsaricides @riding-with-the-wild-hunt

@brutaliakhoa @raelyn-dreams @troythecatfish @theropoda

@tamarrud @4ft10tvlandfangirl @queerstudiesnatural

@northgazaupdates2 @baby-girl-aaron-dessner @nabulsi @sygol

@junglejim4322 @heritageposts @chososhairbuns @palistani

@imjustheretotrytohelp @ibtisams @vakarians-babe @90-ghost

@fairuzfan @humanvoicebox @plomegranate @queerstudiesnatural

@stil-lindigo @soon-palestine @communistchilchuck @ghost-and-a-half

@rebecca-levin-art @mangocheesecakes @transmutationisms

[laligraves]

morning run

joel miller x fem!reader

[18+] | wc: ~ 2.8k summary: Joel overhears your argument with the neighbor. masterlist | AO3

warnings: HBO Joel, TLOU AU, dubious consent (i'm so serious, don't read if it makes you uncomfortable), NSFW, pre/no outbreak, some proofreading, Joel is a tall and very strong man, older man/college-aged reader, Joel lives in a wealthy neighborhood with an HOA (homeowners association), no use of y/n or too many details on reader's appearance, somewhat public setting, breeding kink (kinda), fingering, squirting, unprotected sex, creampie

“These HOA people are vultures,” your sister mutters. 

You look up from your laptop and watch out the window as the committee leaves on their golf cart, most likely on their way to torment another house on the block. 

“Is it that big of a deal that my flower garden has the wrong color of roses?” 

“There’s a wrong color of roses?” you ask in confusion. 

“Yes! The president of the HOA, Susan,” you sister spits out in disdain, “only wants light pink roses on this block.” 

She slams the written warning on the entrance table and storms off into the kitchen. “I’m not sure how her husband stands her. I guess that’s why he spends so much time at the golf course.” 

You follow her into the kitchen, partly because you want a break from your assignments and also because you want to hear more gossip about her new neighborhood. 

“You know she made me pay a fine because my car was left on the driveway after hours? It’s my driveway!” 

You raise your eyebrows in surprise. “Suddenly, I’m not so jealous about your new place.” 

She throws a sponge at your head. 

“Why don’t you just say no?” you ask as you narrowly dodge the sponge. 

“I’ve tried so hard to be nice to everyone here. But all Susan does is turn people against me. Everytime I walk outside to grab the mail or go to work, people give me dirty looks!” 

You don’t like seeing your sister like this. It’s her home. One she worked very hard to buy in this wealthy neighborhood. No one has the right to make her feel like an outsider. So you develop a plan. 

You find out Susan’s schedule fairly easily. Every morning at 8 a.m. she walks her husband to his car and kisses him goodbye before he leaves for work. She then walks back inside for her notebook and pen to then walk around the neighborhood. 

She stops at every house to ensure it fits her standards and if they don’t, she leaves a written warning on the front door. During the weekends, she and her gang of friends drive around on a golf cart to give out even more citations. 

So at exactly 7:55 A.M., you make your way to her house. You’re careful in the outfit you chose this morning: a tight sports bra and running shorts. She, and most importantly her husband, are definitely going to notice you. 

You slow down as you round the corner, already seeing her husband place his briefcase in the backseat of his beamer. She walks right behind him with a lunch pail and kisses his cheek. You shout out a good morning and watch as they both turn to look at you. 

Her right eye immediately begins to twitch and she plasters on a fake smile. His eyes do an appreciative sweep of your body as he walks to the end of the driveway. 

“Good morning! Susan,” he says turning to his wife, “why didn’t you tell me we had a new neighbor?” 

He grasps your hand and gives it a firm shake. His thumb caresses the back of your hand as he slowly lets go. Susan finally reaches the both of you and grabs onto her husband's arm to pull him away. 

You give him a sweet smile, pushing your chest out in a calculated move so he has no choice but to look.   

“I’m just visiting my sister over on Ocean Avenue. The neighborhood is so nice I thought it would be perfect for my morning runs.” 

“I agree, you can run anytime you want–” 

“Sweetie,” Susan interrupts in a high-pitched voice, “you’re going to be late.”

He asks for your name and what you’re studying in college, then shakes your hand again while Susan seethes next to the driver’s side door. He drives off, promising a tour of the country club later that day. You're left standing alone with Susan, just as you wanted.  

“Look here, young lady,” she snarls, “this is a neighborhood full of families. Not some frat house. We do not allow blatant displays of–of–well this ,” she says as she motions to your workout attire. “I am going to write your sister a citation for this disrespectful action.” 

“Well, that does make me sad. I guess I’ll have to ask your husband to cheer me up later when I visit him.” 

Her face turns beet red and you wonder briefly if steam will come out of her ears. “What did you just say?” 

“Your husband was so nice in inviting me to the country club, how can I say no? I really need to work on my swing–” 

“You stay away from my husband,” she whispers, pointing a finger at your face, “or I will find a way to run your sister out of this neighborhood.” 

“Leave my sister alone,” you say as you walk right up to her and push her finger out of the way, “or I’ll fuck your husband.”

Susan gasps, dramatically placing a hand over her mouth. 

“I’ll make sure he finishes inside me, too. Maybe give him a baby.” 

With that, you continue your jog down the sidewalk. You don’t notice Susan’s neighbor, who stands by his gate and watches you run off.  

- 

You continue your jogs for the next few days, waving at Susan and her husband every morning. You and Susan come to an unspoken agreement: she stops bothering your sister and you make sure to stay away from her husband. 

Just as you jog past her house, you notice an envelope on the sidewalk. It’s next to a brick mailbox that has the name Miller written on a plaque. You check the envelope and sure enough you see it's made out to a Joel Miller . 

You walk up to the iron gate that matches the address and call out a hello , but no one answers. There’s red roses that wrap around the expansive gate which look and smell beautiful, but block your view inside. You test the handle of the gate and luckily it opens. 

“They must’ve dropped it when getting the mail this morning,” you mumble to yourself. 

“Mornin’, doll,” a gruff voice calls out to your right. 

You jump slightly and turn to look, finding a man crouched by the gate. He stands to his full height and you have to tilt your head up just so you can keep eye contact. 

“Good morning,” you whisper. 

He’s older and handsome, much more attractive than the college boys you're used to. He places his gardening shears down and takes off his gloves to shake your hand. You do your best to control the shiver that courses through your body at the touch of his warm skin. 

“Joel,” he states, swiping his other hand through his salt and pepper hair. 

You open your mouth to say your name, but he beats you to it. 

“How did you know–” 

“I heard your conversation with Susan the other day,” Joel interrupts with a slight smirk. 

His hand tightens for a moment until he lets go, dragging his fingers over your palm. You feel embarrassment wash over your body and you quickly hand him the envelope. 

“Right–um, how much of the conversation did you hear?” 

He lets out a laugh and drops the envelope into a basket that you’ve now just noticed. It’s full of the same red roses that cover his gate. 

“Just the part where you threatened to fuck her husband if she didn’t leave your sister alone,” he says, placing his hands on his hips. “Effective threat, it seems.” 

His eyes sweep over your body and you become hyper aware of the workout clothes you're wearing. Once again, a sports bra and running shorts. 

“She’s backed down,” you say after a few moments, crossing your arms to cover your pebbling nipples. 

“So,” he continues while walking closer, “you offerin’ to fuck every man on the block or just her’s?” 

His words send a shock wave through your body, landing right between your legs. You ignore the pulsing in your cunt and instead lift your hand to slap him across the face. 

As if he’s able to sense what you’re about to do, he catches your wrist before your hand makes contact with his face. 

“How dare you–”  

“Don’t act so innocent now,” he growls, pushing your body against the gate. “You told Susan you were going to let ‘em fill you up. Put a baby inside of you.” 

Your back makes contact with the gate, luckily in a place where there’s no thorns. You try to push out of his hold, confused at how much you enjoy being manhandled by an older man you just met. 

“Let me go or I’ll scream–”

“Joel?” a familiar high-pitched voice interrupts you. “Are you there?” 

Your body stills at the sound of Susan’s voice. Theoretically, you could use this opportunity to scream for help. Sure, you’d have to face Susan again, but you’d be able to escape. 

Except, Joel manages to pick up your lower body and push his jean-covered cock right against your cunt. You wrap your legs around his waist to not fall and place one hand on the iron gate behind you.

He rocks against you, moving a finger in front of his mouth, motioning you to stay quiet. Your mouth drops open in surprise as he grabs your hips and begins to grind you down on him. 

“Yes, ma’am. What can I help you with?” Joel responds. 

She tries to open the gate and you press your body back so she won’t see you. You’re not quite sure why you’re trying to hide. 

“Joel, honey. Your gate is locked,” she says. “Come unlock it and let me in.”  

Through your daze, you faintly register her tone. Did she just call him honey?  

“Sorry, Susan. It does that sometimes. I’ve got my hands full at the moment,” Joel calls out, giving you another hard thrust. 

You bite your lip to stop the moan that threatens to escape. 

“That’s okay, I just wanted to stop by and warn you about the young lady that’s staying with her sister over on Ocean Avenue.” 

Joel raises his eyebrow and stops his movements, dropping your thighs from his hold. You're shocked again, feeling dejected that he’s stopping.  

He quickly spins you around and bends you over, pushing a hand between your thighs. You grab onto the iron gate once more and slap a hand over your mouth as he begins to rub a big hand over your thin shorts. 

“Warn me?” he calls out. “What’s this young lady been up to?” 

“Well, that–that– tramp ,” Susan spits out, “is acting in ways that she shouldn’t. I know you’re a hardworking man who has done so much for our community and the last thing I want is this girl making you uncomfortable.” 

Joel yanks down your shorts and plunges a thick finger inside of you. You’d roll your eyes at her words but instead they're rolling into the back of your skull. He thrusts his finger a few times and calls out a is that right to Susan. 

Joel adds another finger and you almost fall at the stretch. If those are just his fingers, you wonder how big his cock is. He uses his other hand to keep you steady and continues to fuck you with his thick fingers while talking to her. 

“I just,” Susan continues, “I don’t know what to do. Maybe we can find a way for the sister to leave? If we all band together?” 

Joel removes his hand from between your legs and places it on your back to keep you in place. This time you actually struggle in his hold, wanting to face Susan and give her a piece of your mind. 

“Now, Susan,” Joel admonishes, “don’t go blaming the sister for the younger one’s actions. There’s no need to be spiteful to our new neighbor. There’s more than enough room in this neighborhood for everyone.” 

You stop, surprised that Joel is standing up for your sister. He presses against you and you feel the roughness of his jeans on your bare skin. He brings you in close, gently rubbing his crotch on your slick cunt. 

“Oh, you’re so right, Joel. I just get so caught up in the politics of the HOA. I want this community to be perfect.” 

A wet glob of spit lands on your asshole and you clench in surprise. Joel quietly unzips his jeans and takes out his cock. 

“Fucking perfect little asshole,” he whispers, pushing the tip of his cock right on your hole. “Not today, baby. Today is that juicy, little cunt.” 

You arch your back and barely manage to stifle a whimper when he teases the tip of your entrance. 

“What was that, Joel?” Susan calls out. 

“That the community is already perfect, Susan.” 

His voice sounds annoyed at this point. 

“You think so, Joel? Thank you, I–” 

Joel uses that moment to plunge inside of you, bumping your g-spot and reaching so deep that you choke on your own spit. 

“I’m getting a call, Susan,” Joel says through gritted teeth, “I’ll speak to you later.” 

Susan gives a sad goodbye while you bite on your hand to stop your moans. Joel is big, much bigger than any of the boys in your past. Your pussy spasms and flutters over his length and you breathe in deep to adjust to the size. 

“S’tight,” he mutters, ”keep quiet f’me, doll. Too many people on the sidewalk at this time of mornin’.” 

You hum in response, wanting him to fuck you, to stretch you and make you come on his cock. He starts a rhythm, keeping one hand on your waist so you match his thrusts and the other slips between your thighs. 

Sticky wetness drips down your inner thighs and he swipes two fingers through the mess to bring them up to your clit. Joel pistons faster, rubbing harsh circles on your clit that have you accidently whimpering in pleasure. 

“I know, baby,” he coos, “feels so good, doesn’t it?” 

“ Y–yes ,” you whisper. 

“Showing off that pretty body when runnin’ around the neighborhood,” he groans. “Picking fights and trespassing. Just needed someone to fuck some manners into you.” 

Your fingers curl into the iron gate and your back arches even deeper. He speeds up, becomes harsher in his thrusts once he notices your pussy become softer, wetter, gripping his cock with each plunge. 

“Little cunt can barely take my cock,” Joel groans, “fuck, doll. You’re choking me.”

You wish you could bite his neck, leave red hickeys on his tan skin that you imagine tastes like salt and roses and spearmint. Your head spins from lust and you feel the coil in your belly, ready to burst at any moment. 

You hear voices, people walking past on the sidewalk for some early morning exercise. Joel lands a quick slap, slap to your clit and your cumming, clenching hard on his length while you fall apart. 

Your vision blurs and you faintly hear him say there you go, make a fuckin’ mess on me . Wetness spills from your cunt, only making it easier for Joel. You bite hard on your bottom lip to stop the whimpers and your fingers curl into the iron gate. 

“Gonna cum inside this pussy, put a baby in there,” he whispers. 

“ Please, Joel,” you whine. 

He brings your back to his chest, molds his lips to your neck and bites down, moving you like his personal fleshlight. Joel groans in your shoulder and then you feel it, hot pulses of cum, filling you up. 

You hold onto his arm that's branded across your chest and squeeze down on him, milking every drop from his body, wanting it to mark you deep inside.

Joel's body trembles from the exertion and he stumbles as he finishes, turning his body to lean on the iron gate with you still attached to his cock.

He keeps you pressed to him for a few moments, keeping his nose pressed to your neck as he breathes deep. Your own breathing regulates and you become aware of the sensitivity all over your body.

Joel stands straight and gently pulls out. He reaches into his jeans pocket to reach for a clean handkerchief that he uses to clean up between your thighs.

"Same time tomorrow?" he asks.

You manage a rough fuck off and lightly push at his shoulders. He laughs and helps you fix your clothes. He swipes your phone that fell on the ground the moment he pushed you to the gate, having you unlock it so he can put in his phone number.

You make it back home a few minutes later, sore but for the most part, satiated . Your sister gets home hours later, once you've relaxed in her ginormous bathtub and washed away the evidence of your morning run.

"Are you seeing someone?" she teases as she walks in.

"What? No, why?"

"Someone left a giant bouquet of red roses on the porch." 

Sure enough, you find a bouquet of familiar red roses on the front doorstep. You don’t need a notecard to know who they're from. 

[fragranticareviewers]

As someone who doesn't know a thing about perfumes, reading what you have to say about them is so unbelievably cool!

If I may ask something, what would a magical girl use, but not the pink main one, maybe the orange/yellow one?

ive been sitting with this for a little bit rotating it in my head... this will be a long one

so im putting my answers into two different categories:

one is for the Orange Magical Girl Archetype, which is how i was thinking of the first one. in my head, the orange ones are usually sporty, energetic, and have a sun or fire theme going on, while still maintaining a lot of that youthful sparkly fun vibe. (i also personally associate them with citrus, because, well, orange) so i was thinking of that. this will be my first category of answers.

olympea solar by rabanne - yummy! white florals and mandarin orange.

h&m sunray - golden warmth by h&m - straight up smells like summer. sunscreen, coconut, slightly floral?

orange ice cream by colornoise - i have no idea if this one is good or not to be honest. but it looks like it should fit. i trust it. i believe in it.

dr. botica poção da criatividade by o boticário - ok pause. i have never seen this mentioned before by anyone and found it by accident. what is this. this is ridiculously cute. how do i get my hands on it? the bottle is so cute! it has a star for god's sake

sundrunk by imaginary authors - "oh noo it's so linear" "it doesn't smell like a city on fire or bull's blood" i don't care. smells like artificial orange flavoring followed by neroli. yummy

...so this was my first thought.

then i started thinking: what about the actual orange magical girls from things i've watched? what do i associate with them?

and then i realized: WHERE ARE ALL THE ORANGE MAGICAL GIRLS?? i can think of, like, 5 total! all of them have completely different personalities! everyone's always like "ohh toei hates making green magical girls, we're starving, please feed us more green magical girls please" as if there is not currently a CRISIS of MAGICAL GIRLS WHO WEAR ORANGE in their series even greater than this...

with that said: the 5 magical girls i can think of who are primarily orange all have completely different associations for me, so i figured it'd be fun to pick a perfume or two for each of them.

cure soleil from star twinkle precure - i think they technically classify her as yellow so she might not even count. that's stupid. she's orange. being blonde does not change the color of her outfit.

for her, i pick aqua allegoria nettare di sole by guerlain. it has solar notes, which are critical for her IMO, along with beautiful white florals, which i think matches with her association with flowers.

hazuki from ojamajo doremi - ah, i'm struggling with this a bit.. she's very shy, naive, and studious, with an interest in things like violin and ballet. i was hoping i could find something with maybe a light varnish accord, but no luck. instead, i looked for things with an old book/paper smell without being overly dark or old, and i'm stuck between these 2...

gion by fantome - powdery rose tea with honey and books. light and cute.

morning room by solstice scents - you thought i was gonna do a recommendation post without mentioning solstice scents huh? huh?? *beats you up* this is another powdery and light floral, this time mostly based on violet instead of rose. and, of course, there's a paper note in here.

cure sunny from smile precure - i'm realizing that, in my head, she is the prototypical orange magical girl. i may be biased because she's also my favorite. i want to find something that evokes fire without being overly smoky or autumnal.

beach bonfire by alchemic muse - a firey gourmand with a little bit of nice sandalwood and amber, nice!

fire opal (orange 2; natural) by dsh perfumes - planning on getting a sample of this. bitter orange that people are complaining is "too masculine"

sailor venus from sailor moon - oh god. is she orange? anyways, i think i'd associate her with like, makeup accords, like the way lipstick smells. but fun and silly. it'd be cool if i could find a light and fun fragrance with a hot iron accord because she has a chain attack and all that, but no such thing seems to exist

iris crush by jimmy choo - powdery floral lipstick. yay!

nagisa momoe from puella magi madoka magica - is this even a question?

cheesecake by arcana wildcraft.

anyways, to be transparent, a lot of the time i don't answer fandom/character requests because it's always things i've never watched/read/played/etc. before. but mahou shoujo... well i've heard of it

[jordiemeow]

Two guys for every girl. Once you boys get started you’ll be at it for hours. Come on boys, I know you’re not damn cowards.

pairing: art donaldson x reader x patrick zweig

summary: vying for one of the bridesmaids at their best friend's wedding gets a little out of hand, but they're tennis players. they aren't above some friendly competition.

warnings: smut, threesome, a trip to paris, throat fucking, drunk sex, tbh i'm lazy just generally 18+

Acting as bridesmaid for a girl you grew out of in college wasn’t really how you planned to spend your summer. Attending dress fittings, rehearsal dinners, bachelorette parties… but hey, free booze is free booze. And Megan’s fiancé Adam (soon-to-be husband) splashed out to pay for all the matching dresses. You reassure yourself you would have felt bad turning her down when she asked you to be a part of her bridal party.

Sure, you hadn’t talked as much over the last few years… but you were inseparable, once upon a time. She clearly hasn’t changed, considering the several breakdowns about table placements and flower arrangements you’ve witnessed over the last few weeks. And you doubt you’ll be best friends after this, but it’s nice to rekindle with someone who was a major part of your life, even if it’s not permanent.

The ceremony itself is beautiful. A beautiful stone chapel, austere lines evoking the early Christian churches of Rome; warm lights bathing the princess gown-sporting bride in an amber glow, stained glass windows glinting behind the wedding party as they read out their “I do’s.” The only modern element of the ridiculously elaborate wedding (yeah, Adam has to be fucking loaded) is the absence of any organ to reflect Megan’s aversion of them. But really, the harp just makes them seem that much more pretentious.

It’s the type of wedding children dream of. But there’s two people who clearly couldn’t give two shits about the white roses or the music being played as your friend walks down the aisle: the groomsmen. One blonde and one brunette, the latter of which is clearly bored of this entire thing, tuning out what the priest has to say and letting his eyes wander.

“Patrick, pay attention,” Art hisses under his breath from where he’s standing behind Patrick, and in clear view of his friend’s lack of interest in the upcoming vows. Considering the congregation makes up of several hundred people (who are definitely just here for the reception and Instagram stories), it’s embarrassing for him to be associated with a disinterested fool.

“Oh, I’m paying attention,” Patrick mutters back, with a low whistle that makes Art wince. “Just not to Adam and his gold-digging bride.”

Despite initially feeling the need to jump to their friend’s defence and insist he was perfectly capable of finding a wife—Megan was lovely, as far as Art was concerned—that train of thought vanishes as soon as he follows Patrick’s gaze to the opposite side of the altar. Standing behind the bride and her maid of honour, one of the most beautiful women he’s ever had the privilege of laying eyes upon… you.

He’s not sure how you manage to pull off the bridesmaid dress that the rest of the poor ladies seem to be drowning in, but god, you look gorgeous. A vision in pastel pink, even with that hideously large flower embellishment clinging to your left shoulder. Maybe Patrick had been right about Megan being a bitch for the last two years; nobody who loves their friends willingly puts you in something like that. And yet, against all odds, he’s ready to drop to his knees and worship you right here on the chancel. A true angel, illuminated by the mural of Mother Mary shining through the window. How anyone is paying attention to the bride when you’re standing right there clutching your bouquet of flowers is beyond him.

Patrick’s thoughts are far less pure, of course. Daydreaming about the sound your dress would make when he tears a slit up the back to see what colour your panties are. Fisting his hand in your hair and pulling those ringlets out of your pretty little flower pins, because why would you need those to hold it up when he has a perfectly good hand right here? Bent over the altar, crying out his name like he was your god, and not the Christian deity Father John was currently droning on about watching over Megan and Adam’s nuptials.

Both of them are half-hard in their slacks by the time they hear the priest rejoice, "You may now kiss the bride." Neither of them mention the way they adjust themselves in sync while stepping down to congratulate their friends and take wedding photographs.

Art gets to stand beside you in the pictures. He tries to make small talk about the happy couple, but his throat feels like it's closing up and he already knows he's going to look flushed in the picture album by the end of this. He swears he almost passes out from embarrassment when you regard him with a pitiful look as he stammers over his words trying to tell you he thinks your hair looks lovely.

If the looks Patrick keeps sending his way are any indication, he's royally screwed this up. And that little smirk he flashes as you rush off to gush at the viewfinder suggests he is absolutely going to pay for that fumble later.

He does.

—

"Dibs," Patrick announces, nursing a champagne flute and eyeing you from the opposite side of the reception venue.

Another intricately decorated hall with a local, well-known DJ Adam has connections with. Neither of them would care about the music if it weren't for the fact you looked so fucking good swaying your hips and grinding against another woman to Don't Cha by The Pussycat Dolls. They don't have girlfriends, but yeah, if they did... they'd wish she was hot like you.

"I talked to her first," comes Art's instant protest. He's already downed three glasses by now to quell his nerves, but it's only serving to make him more antsy. At least he probably won't remember any of this come morning.

"Yeah, and look where that got you," he snorts in return, mimicking the pity grimace you had given when Art restarted his sentence for the fifth time. That deflates Art's sails somewhat, and he mutters something about his friend being a dick under his breath.

"Fine. Go talk to her, then. I'll just sit here all by myself and wallow in my own self pity at a celebration of love. Knowing I am forever doomed to be alone."

Patrick shoots him a flat look for that, and Art visibly deflates. Yeah, that was a little dramatic, but he's tipsy and moping about how socially inept he is when it comes to pretty women at weddings. Give him a break.

"Nah, she'll talk to me first. We've been making eyes at each other for thirty minutes. I don't have to do anything."

"So... you aren't going to go talk to her?"

Given Art perks up a little at that, Patrick should probably be a little more sceptical. But he just shakes his head, sipping from his champagne and watching you laugh and excuse yourself from twirling around the floor with that other bridesmaid.

"Cool. Cool, cool, cool, cool, cool…” Art hums in reply. Patrick doesn't even get the chance to reply before he's shooting off across the venue to catch you by the refreshments table.

Oh, that's how he's playing this. But Patrick said he wasn't going to talk to you, so it's his fault, really. That's how Art justifies it to himself as he dodges and weaves through dancing couples, tripping over his feet a few times in a bid to get to you.

"Does dibs mean fucking nothing to you?" Patrick hisses as he catches up to Art, just as the pair reach you.

"Hey," Art slurs, a lopsided smile on his face as he pointedly ignores his friend's complaint. "You look... really beautiful. I know I told you that earlier, but you're like... an angel."

Smooth, Donaldson. That's Patrick's queue to swoop in and save him from embarrassment, while hopefully pulling you in the process. He's not above knocking his friend down a few pegs if he really has to, though.

"We've never seen you before," Patrick says, giving you a quick once over that's far more appraising than it ought to be. It's hard not to blush and match the pretty pink alcohol-induced flush on Art's cheeks. "Friends with Megan long?"

"Uh... yeah," you reply, a little sheepish, plucking a h'ordeuvre from the table as you glance between the pair of them. Art isn't sure if you're wary or just amused. "We go way back."

"Really?" Art says, blinking. "Adam's never mentioned you before. Which is weird because he never shuts his—"

"So she's been keeping you a secret from us, then?" Patrick cuts in. God, his best friend gets so mouthy when he's tipsy. He's more of a lightweight than his fucking grandma. At least Nana can tolerate a few eggnogs without running her mouth.

"We just have conflicting schedules," you smile. "Not teenagers anymore, you know?"

You don't mention the fact you've hardly had contact with Megan since her twentieth birthday, where she deemed your gift lacklustre and cut you out of her social circle over the following weeks. Maybe that attitude is why she had been so desperate to have you as a bridesmaid in the first place—nobody else would stick around to deal with bridezilla.

"What about you and Adam?" You add a moment later, when both men giving little hums of acknowledgement. You pretend not to notice the way Art downs the last of his champagne as liquid courage before he gives his answer.

"Well, Adam's been our—"

"My friend since I was a kid," Patrick interjects again. Art sends him a look of inebriated betrayal, but the brunette is too busy eyeing up your cleavage as he talks to take much notice of it. "Our parents work together. Art's a groomsman because he's an extension of me. Fire and Ice, right, bud?"

A little nudge to Art's side, who looks thoroughly dejected at the depiction of his relationship with Adam. And the fact he's just come off as Patrick's little sidekick. So fucking unfair.

"... Right," he mutters.

"Fire and Ice? What's that?" You offer, in the hopes it'll brighten his spirits. It seems to work.

"We're tennis players. That's our nickname. A little childish, but we've been called that since we were kids."

"So you've known each other a long time?"

"Since we were twelve. Bunkmates at tennis camp," Patrick chips in helpfully, crooked grin permanently plastered on his face as he eyes you intently.

Well, they certainly have the build for it. Not that their suits leave much on display, but you can still see the way Art's muscles strain a little against the sleeves—his suit clearly isn't as tailored as Patrick's—and the way Patrick's ditched his bowtie to unbutton a few buttons of his shirt to give you a peek of his chest hair. And if the way he keeps reaching for h'ordeuvres to give him a peek of your ass every time he leans around you is any indication, that view is definitely intentional.

"So... which one's Fire, and which one's Ice?" You ask, glancing between the pair with a tilted head. Art seems eager to reply with a genuine reply, because he's just tipsy enough to actually be comfortable with you now, but Patrick speaks up before he can open his mouth.

"Why don't you find out?"

And, despite your better judgement, you intend to take him up on that. Spending the next hour at the reception taking candid photos and alternating between dancing with the pair of them; two gorgeous men on your arm, each equally as eager for your attention as the other. Suddenly, the last few months of Megan's temper tantrums feel worth it.

Not to mention you never expected Art to be able to breakdance. Five champagnes in and he's tearing up that floor, a far cry from the man who blushed crimson when the photographer asked him to place his hand on the small of your back after the ceremony.

—

When you all get a little too tipsy, they offer to walk you back to your hotel. You're all staying in the same one, anyways. It's no hassle. No point in sticking 'round here. Party would be boring without you. You can't remember which one of them told you that, but it was flattering nonetheless. Adam placed all of the bridesmaid's on the same floor, insisting it was the least he could do, but Patrick... well, apparently he has a presidential suite, so how could you possibly deny him when he offers to show you? That's the only reason you're going up to their room. Couldn't be anything else.

You trail in after them, heels hanging from your hand as you take in the sight. You're pretty sure this place is bigger than your entire apartment. Hell, the complimentary wine and gift basket on the table probably cost more than one month's rent for you.

"You look like a kid in a candy store," Patrick remarks, lips quirked up into a little smirk as he watches you ogle the sight. Both of them shrug off their jackets and abandon them on two armchairs, leaving you another sight to ogle.

"This place is... nice," you manage, eyes trained on the way Art is removing his cufflinks and rolling his shirt up to his elbows, muttering something about it being way too hot in here before collapsing into one of the arm chairs.

You almost make a remark about how it'd be considerably more tolerable if he just took the shirt off entirely, but Patrick beats you to that idea. Peeling off his own shirt and grinning to himself like a fucking idiot when he catches a glimpse of you admiring the way the muscles in his back flex as he moves. He even gives an exaggerated stretch and a groan to really seal the deal.

You have to take a seat and squeeze your thighs together after that.

"Nice is an understatement, babe," he replies. Babe? He's ballsy. Art is just drunk enough not to mask the exaggerated roll of his eyes he gives at Patrick's choice of words.

The three of you pop open that expensive bottle of wine and pass it around for another thirty minutes (with Patrick gradually giving Art less and less time to hog the bottle the drunker he gets), chatting about Adam and his stupid wife Megan and their stupid wedding. About tennis, and your own career, and who you think is going to win the Olympics this year or whether there are really aliens in the ocean. The kind of stupid shit drunk people discuss just because the conversation is as seemingly bottomless as the wine bottle you're drinking. You somehow manage to persevere throughout it all without staring at Patrick's chest too much.

"Well, I should probably go," you say, standing up (just a little wobbly on your feet) and offering a grateful smile to the pair of them. "Definitely going to be nursing a hangover in the morning."

"Wait—" They both protest in sync, sitting up.

You tilt your head at them, questioning.

"Aren't you going to sleep with one of us?"

Well, that's tactful, Zweig. Art reaches over to smack him up the back of the head, sending you a wordless apology in the form of a wide-eyed look, like a dog that's about to be scolded. But you take it in your stride, laughing as you pick up your heels.

"I don't want to pick between you. Seems mean," you reply. And you don't think you even could choose.

"You don't have to pick between either of us," Art says hastily. Even Patrick seems to be surprised by that. They've joked about sharing girls for years, ever since the Kat Zimmerman incident, but he never thought Art would be the one to actually suggest it. He averts his eyes when Patrick is searching for a towel after the shower, for Christ's sake.

But Patrick recovers quickly.

"Yeah," he chips in. "Don't you wanna find out which one of us is which?"

That gives you pause. Right. Fire and Ice. And judging by the victorious look they share at your silence, all of you are aware of the decision you've subconsciously made.

Your clothes don't take long to disappear. A tangle of limbs backing up into the master bedroom (Patrick's), hair pins discarded in a bid to yank your head back and mouth along the expanse of your neck, both men in just boxers before long. Touching each other in ways that are far from platonic but they'll both blame on alcohol and wanting to get the three of you undressed as quickly as possible.

"This is really ugly. I'm sorry," Art tells you candidly, as you straddle him on the bed. His fingers are tracing the large pink rose pinned to the shoulder of your dress, and you bark out a surprised laugh. The pair of you are giggling like idiots between kisses, insulting Megan's taste in bridalwear before there's a loud tearing sound, and suddenly you can feel the humid air hitting the back of your thighs.

That's Patrick. Doing the things he's fantasised about since he first saw you at the altar and ripping up the back of your dress to reveal your underwear. God, they're even better than he expected.

"Patrick, what the fuck—" Art starts, but his friend makes a kissing sound through his teeth.

"What? She said Adam paid for it. It's fine," Patrick mutters. "Besides, it was so fucking worth it. You should see the view back here, man."

His fingers trail over the dampness of your panties, the lacy white just as pure as Megan's wedding dress. If he wasn't already hard in his boxers (he has been since you entered their hotel room), he certainly is now. Pushing the fabric of your dress further out of the way and leaning in to lick a stripe over your panties, a low groan slipping past his lips at how soaked they are just from kissing. You would be embarrassed but... double the men, double the wetness, right?

Your hips jerk involuntarily at the sensation, a pair of matching moans escaping you and Art as it grinds you down against his clothed erection.

"I don't think Megan would be very happy you wore white on her wedding day," Patrick says, smiling against your clothed cunt as you push back against him.

"Fuck Megan," you reply breathlessly.

"No, fuck you," he shoots back. And he very well intends to. Both of them do, actually, given the way Art is whining and arching his back off the mattress in an uncoordinated attempt to get any friction against you. He's pretty sure he might cum untouched just from the sheer anticipation of it all.

Your panties go next, lost to the heap of the rest of your clothes on the floor. It doesn't take long for strong, calloused hands to rest on your ass, spreading you open so he can tongue-fuck your pussy. Mumbling something unintelligibly about how you taste even better than the wedding cake while your whines synchronise with Art in between sharing lips and spit. Stubble grazing your face and your ass, all three of your mouths too busy for any more wisecracks.

At one point, Art tries to snake his hand in between you and rub your clit, but the front of your dress is still in the way. He still makes the effort to roll his fingers against it over the fabric of your dress, and the sound you make in reply tells him he's at least contributing somewhat to the mess Patrick is making of you. He's content enough to just lick into your mouth greedily and swallow the keening sounds you're making.

"Cumming—" is all you manage to gasp out between kisses before you're clenching around nothing, and Patrick is lapping dutifully at your release. All three of you are groaning like the orgasm is shared between you. It's only when you're bordering on overstimulation and letting out pathetic little whimpers that Art realises he's still circling your clit on autopilot, and his hand falls back to grip the sheets.

"God, she's so fucking pretty when she cums," he moans, and you'd be offended by the fact he's talking about you like you're not here if you weren't so blissed out. "You should have seen her face, Pat."

"I'll see the next one," Patrick says.

Next one? Both a promise and a statement. Just hearing that has you whimpering as Art eases you off of him. Both of them help you out of your dress, a little more gently this time, and you have to ignore the comment Patrick makes about no bra, just for me? You don't have it in you to explain built-in cups and the power of pasties to a man right now. You just want to get fucked. It's only then, when you're all spread out and wanting on the bed, that you realise the wet patches in their matching black boxers (cute, you think) are just as vivid as the one that no doubt stains your lost panties.

"Jesus, you're big." You didn't mean to say that out loud, but you're in too deep to be ashamed about any of the events transpiring right now.

"Which one?" They both ask. The question goes unanswered when you start palming them both through their boxers, a chorus of moans elicited from the pair of them. (You all know the answer, anyways.) Hands grabbing at whoever they can touch, whether it's you or each other, until Patrick has the sense to yank down Art's boxers.

The protest dies on Art's tongue when he sees the way Patrick is eyeing his cock, flushed red tip glinting under the harsh hotel lights with the amount of pre-cum smeared across it. There's a moment where you all think he's going to touch him, wrap a hand around his closest friend's pretty pink dick and jerk him off, but then he simply shrugs off his own underwear. You aren't sure which one of you is more disappointed.

Everything is a haze from then onwards. You can vaguely hear them discussing positions as you kiss at Art's neck, red lipstick mottling his pale skin until it's hard to tell which stains are makeup and which are hickeys.

"We can't ask her to do anal, man. We hardly know her."

"Why not? I bet she'd like it. Fucked in both at once."

"Because that's... it's violating!"

"Oh, right. Because whatever else we're about to do won't be. Real innocent, vanilla sex with three drunk people in our fucking hotel room."

Fucking hotel room. The double-meaning of Patrick's own words makes him snort. The only reason they stop whispering back and forth is because you pull away, settling on all fours. Back arched in a silent invitation, pretty little ass stuck up in the air and arms braced against the silk sheets. They glance at each other, before scrambling to follow, with Art shoving Patrick aside to press himself behind you.

"Why do you get her pussy?" Patrick protests, sitting up and fixing his best friend with an indignant look.

"You said you wanted to see her face when she cums!"

Fuck. He did say that. Stupid logic. Well, it's not as if your throat would be unpleasant; he wonders if your mouth will be as welcoming to his cock as it was his tongue.

"C'mon," you whine, pressing back against Art's throbbing arousal. "Can one of you just do something?"

"D'you want me to use a condom? 'Cause my wallet is in my jacket in the next room—" Art starts, but you're already reaching back to guide his tip between your slick folds. Well, that's an answer if he's ever witnessed one.

Patrick is too busy getting situated in front of your face to make a comment about filthy girls taking it raw. Art's almost disappointed—he'd never be brave enough to make the comment himself. One large palm cupping your face, tilting your head up while the other slaps his cock against your lips. Whatever gloss they'd kissed off was replaced in a new sheen, one that makes him give a soft hum of approval.

"You look pretty," he tells you, and your thanks dies on your tongue when Art pushes into you. Easing himself in inch by inch, until you're practically drooling onto Patrick's tip. "God, what a fucking sight." For a moment, his eyes are on the way Art's face contorts in pleasure at the tight warmth surrounding him. It's even hotter than the way he looked when they used to jerk off in the same room at night.

"Open wide," he instructs, eyes flitting down to you. Smiling down at you with that shit-eating little grin and talking to you like you're at the dentist, not getting spit roasted after your friend's wedding. "Big girls take it all, right?"

You oblige, though—how could you not, when your senses are clouded by Art drilling into you from behind? A few more slaps of his cock against your tongue, and he's pushing himself in, too. His breath catches in his throat as the warm wetness of your mouth envelopes him—yeah, definitely just as welcoming.

You can hardly tell who's moaning at this point. There's something almost beautiful in the synchrony, the way your hands and bodies move against each other. Clutching at Patrick's hips, while he fists your hair, admiring the way the ringlets spill through his fingers like a waterfall as he pushes you down further; gagging at the intrusion in your throat while Art whimpers behind you like this is his first time getting pussy. Each of you are in your own individual heaven, while simultaneously in ecstasy together.

"Good fuckin' girl, just like that—"

"Oh, Pat, she's so tight—"

A hand slaps against your ass, and you can't tell who it belongs to. Patrick seems like the most likely culprit, given how sweet Art had been earlier, but with the way he's ramming into you like a jackhammer leaves you doubtful. It doesn't really matter, though—they both know you enjoyed it, given the way you garble out a moan around Patrick's dick. You don't know if you're praying for mercy or for more.

He lets you come up for air occasionally, telling you how pretty you look taking Art's cock. Such a good girl, before you're being degraded for letting him fuck your throat like a slut. There's no time for arguments before his tip is at the back of your throat again, the sound of your gag reflex going off hardly audible over the sound of moaning, wet slapping and skin hitting skin.

You think you know now. Fire and Ice.

Art reaches around to rub your clit at some point, slurring, "want you to cum first. You deserve it. So fucking good for us."

Patrick makes a sound of disagreement, tightening his grip in your hair as his hips begin to stutter. Not because you aren't being good for them—you're so fucking perfect—but because he wants to be able to see and hear you properly when you cum. He doesn't have the vocal capabilities to voice that aloud right now, though, so he just continues to thrust eagerly past your swollen lips until his climax hits him. You'd be worried about the obscene slew of noises coming from Patrick's hotel room if it weren't a presidential fucking suite. God, why does that make this so much hotter?

He groans out your name—or maybe it was Art's?—as he releases, holding your head in place to ensure it's all aimed down your throat. The salty taste isn't foreign to you, but you still grimace. Patrick takes it as an expression of pleasure, though, withdrawing from your mouth and leaning down to press his lips against yours in a fleeting kiss.

"You can cum," he murmurs. You weren't asking for permission, but you nod anyways. Art's grunts of exertion are the loudest sound in the room, the occasional whine slipping past his lips when your cunt squeezes harder around him. Slick fingers circling your clit until he feels you convulsing around him.

You mewl with pleasure, bowing your head forward, your arms and legs threatening to give way from your arched position. But Patrick catches your chin and tilts it upwards, watching the way your eyes roll back as Art fucks you through your orgasm and your spit-slick lips part around his name. “Art, fuck, yeah—“ It's only after Art announces his own climax with a low moan and collapses on top of you that Patrick is kind enough to wipe the drool coating your chin away.

It's all a bit of a blur after that. Shared kisses between the three of you in the darkness when the light has been switched off—sometimes between Art and Patrick, though neither of them have any intentions of acknowledging it. Gentle caresses against sweaty skin as you lay tangled in Patrick's queen-sized bed, praises whispered aimlessly into the quiet of the humid night.

—

You're gone by the time they wake up. A walk of shame back to your own hotel room in a shirt borrowed from one of their suitcases (you don't know which), mourning the loss of that ugly dress you wanted to sell on eBay afterwards to cover dinner for the month. Neither of them speak of the events that occurred the night before until after breakfast has been ordered and Art has taken several pills for his hangover, eating room service on the same chairs you all sat on last night, their jackets still strewn across the back of them.

"I think that was better than either of us getting laid alone," Art comments, poking at his egg with his fork. Both of them are littered with hickeys, but Art bears the worst of it. He's pretty sure most of the marks came from cuddling with Patrick in bed afterwards, but he’s too afraid to mention it. Not a can of worms he wants to open right now.

"Yeah?" Patrick prompts, with a knowing little smile. Even tired and hungover, Art has enough wits about him to know that something is up. He narrows his eyes, dropping his cutlery onto his plate and sitting up straighter.

"What?" He demands.

"Nothing."

Art leans forward. "There's obviously something, Pat."

"Just... when have I ever not approached a girl I wanted?"

It takes a moment for Art to really process what that means. Last night was a pleasurable, drunken haze, but he does remember Patrick's words in the reception hall. It makes sense now—that bullshit about Patrick waiting for you to approach him.

... Manipulative little bastard. That doesn't stop Art from replying with:

"Fuck you, man." A pause. "... But I think we should do that again some time."

[silverbrain]

The LADS when you get them flowers

coz men should be given flowers too!

Xavier

On your way back from the association on a breezy evening, you’re stopped at a red light when you spot an old woman selling a few flowers. The bright yellow sunflowers catch your eyes and you find yourself simply unable to look away.

You quickly steer off towards her, and decide to buy them, planning to give them to Xavier. You wonder what he will say, and your heart skips a beat as you imagine the surprise on his face.

You quickly scramble home and double check with Xavier who is waiting on his dinner delivery that he ordered for the two of you.

“Is that who I hope it is?”, Xavier asks from his place on the couch, leaning back to look towards the door. He had hardly moved since he had placed himself there on the sofa with his evening coffee. It was a rare day off that he had and he had found himself in a rabbit hole of conspiracy theory videos. 

“Xavier!! I’m finally free!”, you say cheerfully as you take off your shoes and enter his apartment.

He chuckles. He knows how much you hate the paperwork.

“These are for you”, you say, moving towards him, with your arm outstretched, five bright yellow sunflowers standing tall.

“What?” He looks from your face to the flowers, back to your face. “For me?”

You nod. Xavier laughs softly but he takes them quickly. “Thank you”, he says after a beat, before enveloping you in his arms.

He puts them in a vase, and doesn’t elaborate but you can see the faint blush painting his cheeks. You settle down to have dinner when he brings it up. “You know…”, he begins, “I don’t think I’ve ever been given flowers before…”, he says shyly.

He never gets used to it whenever you pick up random flowers to give him.  

Zayne

Zayne’s eyes widen when you give him the bouquet of flowers, a sophisticated set of pink tulips.

“Happy Doctor’s Day!”, you wish him. He stands there; a bit too shocked to move.

“You…got me flowers for Doctor’s Day?”, he asks, as if you had got him a pet rat instead.

“Yeah! After all, you ARE my favorite doctor”, you say, smiling.

He smiles before leaning in, placing a small kiss on your forehead. “Really? Is that what I am to you? Your favorite doctor? Nothing else?”, he asks, mischievously.

“What else?”, you ponder, a finger dramatically resting against your chin.

"Maybe the funniest person you know?", he questions.

You snort, but it comes out quiet, muffled. "Hmm some days", you shrug.

Zayne laughs, the sound deep in his chest before he holds you close. "Thank you, they're very pretty."

"Are they the only thing that's very pretty?"

"Hmm. What else?", he wonders, copying you dramatically.

"There's a note", you tell him. Zayne raises an eyebrow in question before he unfolds the paper, but you stop him quickly.

"Not....now...later maybe?"

"Why...?", he asks.

"Maybe I'm shy??"

"Why?", he continues, "after all, I'm just your favorite doctor, am I not? There should be nothing in this letter that makes you so shy."

Rafayel

Poor Rafayel had been having a terrible week after he had taken up an art commission with a businessman who couldn't tell blue from purple but insisted on criticizing any sketches Rafayel sent him.

He's been calling you at least five times a day, and even though you've been trying to spend some time with him after work, you wonder if there's anything else you can do to make him feel better.

As you finish talking to him for the second time in an hour, and it’s only 11am, your eyes fall upon the plastic flower decor at the Association and a plan begins brewing in your mind.

Maybe a bouquet would cheer the man up.

On your break you decide to visit the florist by the hotpot place and send off a fat bouquet of oriental lilies with a short note. 'Hang in there fishie. I'll get back to you in no time ♡'

You can't deny you're waiting for your phone to light up in the next hour, and it does. You accept the video call, trying to hide your smile.

"Do you think you can appease me with these?", Rafayel pouts, but it's only playful.

You lean forward and laugh a little. "Is it not working. Oh...", you feign disappointment.

"I didn't say it isn't!!", he replies hurriedly. "It's just...the promise of seeing you soon is only making it harder to stop counting the minutes till I do see you..."

"Well, let these keep you company till then. I sent them with special instructions to take care of the recipient", you reply.

"Wow cutie, you can talk to flowers now?"

When you see him in the studio that evening, the flowers are in a vase right next to him, and he seems to have made some progress with his paintings. He doesn't waste a single moment before wrapping you up in his arms and peppering kisses all over your face.

Sylus

There is no love purer than mine. Sylus's words echo in your head as you walk through Vagrant's Land on the way to the Onychinus Base.

It had been some time since he had said it, but it was making your heart thump as your thoughts returned to the old couple you had met while finding Tobias. They had met so long ago, and they had been together for so long. “I didn’t know what love was before I met her”, the man had said and that had sent your thoughts into a flashback.

You think of Sylus, and you feel your cheeks flush, wondering if there was something you could do for him. As you mount your bike, ready to return, you decide to buy him some flowers. Imagining Sylus with flowers was hard, he was more suited to shiny gems or sleek metals, but his heart sure was soft as a flower.

You take a detour. Standing in the middle of the flower shop, you wonder what kind of flowers he’d like. You had some ideas, but the variety the shop had to offer was making your brain spiral. You finally decide to go with your first choice. You buy three red roses and begin the ride back home, hoping the dumb crow wouldn't tattle before you got there.

Sylus is doing ‘business’ when you get back, but he doesn’t miss the way you hurry a little.

“You’re back kitten? How did everything go?”

“Oh, you know, nothing special”, you reply. “I do have something for you, though” You cross the room quickly, giving him the flowers. He raises an eyebrow from where he’s sitting, unsure.

“Go on, it’s not a trick”, you joke.

Sylus extends his hand to accept the flowers, his fingers brushing yours softly. It builds an anticipation in you, a slight nervousness, but you look at him to find that he seems even more affected.

Sylus opens his mouth to reply, but words fail him. He closes his mouth again and raises his ruby red eyes to meet yours. “You…got these for me, kitten”

“Yup”, you answer.

He stares at them long. “Where did you get them?”

Where?! What kind of question? But before you can reply he’s standing up to wrap his arms around your waist and lift you up, causing a little squeak to escape your lips. “Thank you, dear”, he whispers, oh so quietly before he kisses your hair.

Caleb

You want to surprise Caleb with something when you visit Skyhaven for a friend’s wedding. You don’t tell Caleb you’re visiting, even though he calls you pretty frequently. You just want to see the look of surprise on his face when you catch him off guard.

You bring along a big jar of apple syrup, the special recipe that he likes, but as you type in the address in your phone, you wonder if you could somehow do more. You notice a flower shop close by and decide the colonel’s house needed some flowers to make it a home.

Caleb opens the door and stands there in shock at seeing you. When the initial shock wears off, you present the bouquet of daisies to him shyly. “For you”, you smile.

“Thank you”, he whispers, like it’s so, so precious. He kisses your cheek, then your lips, before he’s kissing all over your face and making you laugh. He’s laughing too, softly, happily.

“The things you do...You make me so happy pipsqueak”.

He takes one flower out to place it in your hair. “There, now we’re matching.”

[peachdues]

Sanemi doesn’t think masturbation is a worthwhile use of his time.

For one, it’s a distraction. There’s a million things he’d rather do, most of which center around killing every damn demon he can get his hands on, and he can’t do that if he’s wasting time keeping his hand down his pants. Besides, the few seconds of watery pleasure is never worth the cleanup that comes after. Rarely is he ever left satisfied.

But, Sanemi is a man, and unfortunately, his cock sometimes has a mind of its own. Particularly when he’s frustrated and pent up, and left without much in the way of options to deal with it.

When the mood strikes him, he approaches it with the same utilitarianism as he does with everything else. So, today, when his frustration is tightly coiled in his stomach like an asp waiting to strike, and he finds he can’t focus on anything — not his training, not the handful of missions he probably could take, not even the battered practice dummy in his garden, begging to have his fist shatter its face — Sanemi knows there’s only one way to relieve his tension. Fast and quick.

Oh, he grumbles about it all the way into his Manor, though no one is around to hear or care. But bitch he does, all the way down the hall and to his bedroom, his hands jerking irritably at his belt.

The blankets on his futon are rumpled and unmade, but Sanemi doesn’t care. Probably for the best, given that he’ll have to wash everything once he’s done, anyways.

Belt loose and pants unfastened, Sanemi flops down into his bed. He’s half-hard already, which means he’s really on his last thread. All the more incentive to get this the fuck over with.

Except. He can’t fucking focus; not on this, not on anything. He’s too strung out, yet he’s unable to concentrate enough on this base need of his, and that only pisses him off more. His touch is too rough, his fingers, too calloused to be enjoyable.

Groaning, Sanemi throws an arm over his eyes and tries to let his limited imagination run. He pictures a faceless woman, shrouded in shadow, but her touch is softer than his, more certain. Fingers slide up the burgeoning length of him, turning over his head before trailing back down to take him in hand and slowly, Sanemi begins to pump at himself. Steady, even strokes, quick and efficient, like everything else he does. He will work through this frustration and then he will go back out and train until his limbs give out and he has to drag himself back inside.

Behind his eyelids, Sanemi tries to give the woman a face. He always does, and he always comes up woefully empty, even when his spend is smeared across his lower abdomen. He doesn’t know why; it’s not like he’s never seen a beautiful woman. He just didn’t notice them. Not enough to remember them, it seems. Not enough to make it count during these shameful moments of weakness.

Exhaling forcefully through his nose, Sanemi pumps harder at himself. If he could just peel back the curtain in his mind, see a face that looked at him not with fear or disgust, but want, sensual and heady. Then, he could finally finish this salacious act and get back to what mattered. Training; becoming stronger, faster, deadlier —

A familiar scent creeps in from the recesses of his conscience, sudden and unbidden. A memory of flowers and honey, first smelled on a distant training yard only a few weeks before. At first, this association confuses him; he knows that faint perfume — it belongs to a certain, pain-in-the-ass Kinoe whose sole mission in life has been to drive him up a fucking wall. He hasn’t seen you since that last training, so he sure as fuck doesn’t know why you’re trying to invade his thoughts — his bed — now.

But, does he stop?

No. No he doesn’t.

A few, hesitant strokes along his shaft helps the picture in his head grow clearer. He sees familiar hair tickling his cheek; hands smaller than his roaming his chest. Those immaculate nails raking across his skin, over his nipples and down his abdomen.

A feeble moan escapes past his lips and Sanemi’s hand tightens around his cock, now stiff and aching. His fantasy runs wild faster than he can reel it back in, and he finds himself unwilling to try. Because now, now he pictures silky skin against his own and one of your shapely legs curled around his hips, rocking him against you. Reflexively, his own hips buck up into empty air, desperately chasing the friction you withhold from him in his dreams. Teasing; taunting. Daring him to follow you down, down into the futon with that challenging tilt of your brow, the very one that always set his stomach twisting with anticipation.

He’s close, now; dangerously close, and the knot behind his navel is tighter than ever. Whatever it is mounting inside him is unlike anything he’s ever felt. It’s precarious and frightening, yet he still cannot stop chasing it. Cannot stop chasing you and those lips, those gorgeous, plump lips that part with a breathy moan that is not his. It’s yours, and your voice a siren’s song that he is too happy to drown to.

The coil in his stomach seizes as your face blooms in his mind, sharper than any photograph. Your eyes glisten with the same need burning in his chest, and there’s a flush in your cheeks that deepens when he bucks again. Somewhere, over the broken moan that vibrates in his throat as he spills fast and hot over his fist, Sanemi swears he hears you sigh his name. His true name, whispered like a prayer rather than a curse.

Every muscle in his body tenses, his body tauter than a live wire. Your face whites out under the punishing force of his high as it ricochets through him, starting low in his navel. His fist turns sticky and the grip he has on himself becomes sloppy. But he only comes harder, and he’ll be mortified in a few seconds when he realizes he can’t tell whether he’s coming to you or for you.

Sanemi gives himself a last, few languid pumps before he collapses against his futon. Spent yet not sated, and scowling at the mess he’s made of himself and his bedding.

Part of him scowls too at you; at the way you so easily invaded his secret space. But his annoyance is quickly tempered by the guilt that wells up inside him, creeping up his throat. Who is he, to think of you in that way? Sanemi Shinazugawa has a better chance of getting ripped apart by some low rank, bastard demon than ever touching you the way his dreams demanded. Not to mention hell itself would freeze over before a woman like you ever wanted him, stripped and bare and vulnerable.

Sanemi doesn’t know how to be a lover, and no one would be stupid enough to ask him to try. He knows this.

Yet, he cannot get the memory of your perfume out of his head any more than he can silence that alluring call of his name reverberating around his skull. And he finds himself hardening again, as he imagines what you might look like bent over or — fucking hell — on top of him, and Sanemi realizes he’s not going back to training. Not any time soon.

divider credit to @strangergraphics !

[randopersonidk]

ANALYZING THE SAKAMAKIS FLOWERS

Ok, so after translating the cards for the Sakamakis perfume merch drop, I started researching what each of flowers that the Sakamkis were given meant.

𝙰𝚈𝙰𝚃𝙾

" 𝙰𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚊𝚣𝚎 𝚞𝚙𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚘𝚝𝚞𝚜 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚏𝚝 𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚛𝚞𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛. 𝙰𝚢𝚊𝚝𝚘, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚗, 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚏𝚛𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎. "

So Ayatos flower is a Lotus, Lotus flowers are often represented as strength, resilience and rebirth since they bloom out from murky waters without stains. Lotus flowers also are known to represent purity.

Ayato is known as being the most human or friendly of the Sakamakis, even his character profile will say this. Despite Ayatos harsh and abusive childhood he remains strongwilled and resilant to become number 1. although he struggles with his own capablities and the feeling that we can't be enough. This part of his character is better explored through his Lost Eden Route and Dark Fate. While all the DL boys have issues Ayato learns to change himself for the better and is one of the few boys that really attempts to change himself and look at his own flaws and apologize for his actions, even trying to break away from habits from his mother. Many of his routes will show this. Ayato has also been deemed as " pure " by characters, specifically Laito, who always states how he's envious of Ayatos Purity to remain true to himself and what he wants despite they're upbringing. This is also proven with his character by Karlheinz in Ayatos Dark Fate Ecstasy Epilouge ( we also won't talk about how Lotus Flowers are aquatic and what Ayatos history with water is 👀)

KarlHeinz: Aah…Such sentimental words. Exactly…Perfect…Value life, and mourn for it…Lament misfortune, experiencing great suffering…Then rebel! That is what makes one Adam!

𝙺𝙰𝙽𝙰𝚃𝙾

" 𝙵𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚑𝚊𝚣𝚎𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚕 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚊 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚢 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚏 𝚜𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚘. 𝙰 𝚏𝚛𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚎𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝙺𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚘."

Kanato's flower is Witch Hazel, Witch Hazel is a flower that got it's name from from the pratice " Water Witching " where you take a forked branch and used it to find underground water. Witch Hazel is associated with Protection and Healing, with folk tales saying that Witch hazel can cure broken hearts.

First off the whole idea that Witch Hazel is used to find underground water is ironic, and I'm not sure it's entirely intentional. But we know that the triplets were punished by Cordelia by throwing them into the Underground sewers and leaving them there ( Kanto vs Subaru CD goes into more depth on this ) out of the three Kanato seems to be the most affected by these punishments ( although they all are ) Kanato uses his " Teddy" as a type of coping mechanism almost to have some piece of his mother with him as he keeps her ashes in the bear and it's the only way he can sleep and be comforted. This is some form of healing himself and his feelings from the death and abuse of his mother that he can't let go even after her death and it may be come way of protecting himself from any more emotional pain or acknowledgment of it.

𝙻𝙰𝙸𝚃𝙾

" 𝙰𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚣𝚎 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚟𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚑 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚞𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚍𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚠𝚗. 𝙵𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚐𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚜 𝙻𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚊𝚣𝚎𝚜 𝚞𝚙𝚘𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚐𝚊𝚣𝚎. "

Laitos given flower are Tulips. Tulips represent Love, Rebirth and New beginning, however each color of Tulip represent something different.

OH MY GOD This one was the whole reason I wanted to do this in the first place because there is so much to unpack here. First of all we're using this chart to decifer the flowers

So from what I can see Laito is holding 3 yellow tulips, 2 pink, 1 orange, 2 Variegated and 1 purple and 1 green.

The majority color in his bouquet is yellow. Yellow usualy symbolzies joy or happiness but historically yellow tulips symbolize hopeless love and no chance of reconciliation, jealousy or unrequited love. Laito is known to hold grudges against people especially if he's been burned by them and we see that besides was Laito may say himself he is a very jealous person, we can see this through his flashbacks of killing his mothers suitors out of jealousy. He can not understand the concept of love as it's intangible to him if it is something he can not pshycially feel or see because of his trauma from his mother's words. And yellow also symbolizes " there is sunshine in my smile " Laito plays the airhead pervert part to a tea and really drills the facde of a happy smile face for everyone despite his real feelings. Having yellow be the majority color is a good representation of how Lairo trys to portray himself although there are other emotions and other flowers in the bouquet.

His other 2 flower combinations of Orange and Variegated are flowers with very shallow meanings such as " i am fascinated by you" and " you have beautiful eyes ". These flowers are the second most prominent in his bouquet once again feeling into the shallow pervert facade, a happy smile with some empty compliments and pretty colors to make the person feel good. We also have pink Tulips which mean " My perfect lover " or in general affection and love. Pink Tulips are affectionate menaing flowers however combined with this bouquet of empty compliments and the hopeless love the pink also falls into the category of false words of love and adirmation for Laito.

Now Laito only has 1 purple flower " Eternal Love " however it also represents elegance and mystery, the single purple flower of Laitos revealing his sneaky and cunning nature, hiding between the pink and yellow bright colors of false words and shallow compliments. Laito is a very mysterious character for the fact that he strategically only shares what he wants somone to know and perfectly plays his facade for everyone without letting anyone get the upper hand on him or his emotions. There is also 1 green Tulip peeking out from the bottom. Green Tulips represent rebirth and new life, Laito repeatedly chooses to not confront any of his trauma or emotions as he doesn't want to deal with them, so to combat that he simply chooses to create a new life, a new facade to hide and push away any of his trauam. This coping mechanism is repeated in games like Chaos Lineage, Lost Eden. Or in Drama CDs such as his Daylight CD. Where Laito will completely try to erase or forget something to start new, and have a new beginning even if it's not real.

If you look closely you can see a small, not yet bloomed tulip under the purple flower. Which looks like a white Tulip, White Tulips represent purity, sincierty and forgiveness. Laito hates and envies anything he seems " pure " such as Ayato or Yui because he can never be that way because of his mother. The Versus CD of Ayato and Laito goes into this topic of Laito deeming himself not " pure " because he is unable to be honest or sincere with himself and others and that he can't be changed. The white Tulips is hidden and unbloomed but still hiding in the bouquet somewhere. You'll also notice that Laito misses one color from his arrangement. Red, symbolizing undying love and trust.

𝚂𝚑𝚞𝚞

" 𝚃𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚓𝚊𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚘𝚘𝚍, 𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚞𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕, 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚢. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚊 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚂𝚑𝚞'𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢. "

So, for some reason Shuus is the only one that doesn't name a specific flower, which doesn't help me at all 😒 but honestly he looks like he's holding Cherry Blossoms so we'll roll with that. However one thing to mention is that Shuu and Reiji both contain Jasmine which Jamsine represents love and sensuality, although Shuus seems to combine the sweet fragrance of Jasmine with a musky wood while Reiji adds on to the sweetness with Vanilla which I found to be a interesting connection that Reiji and Shuu and simiar and also contrast ecah other at the same time. ( My Sun and Moon duo! )

Cherry Blossoms are flowers that only bloom for a couple of weeks before falling, so they represent the fleeting nature of life, cherry blossoms also come with the arrival of spring, so they are a symbol of new beginnings and renewel.

Many of Shuus interactions with the MC leave him reflecting the nature of human life and how fleeting it is, and because of the death of Edgar Shuu avoid any relationships because of the fear that it won't last or will be taken away. Shuu resents being a vampire and blames himself for ruining anything good that happens to him. However though he tries to avoid any meaningful connections it's something that he has always craved for and wished for a new beginning away from his life through music or eventually through the people in his life.

( Shuu MB Maservant ending ) Reiji: Shuu, there has always been an unsighty desire lurking inside of you. Love…is nothing something a person like yourself is worthy of.

( Shuu MB Maniac Prolouge) Shuu: "Are you an idiot? …Vampires don’t catch colds.…Don’t group us together with humans.We’re different, everything about us……Truly, everything…"

Shuu: "Hah? Something bad? That’s right. The fact that I’m living in this world. That by itself pisses me off. Why not leave this city…and go somewhere far away? I won’t protect you. My pride as a Vampire of this household…Vanished a long time ago after all."

𝚁𝙴𝙸𝙹𝙸

"𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚓𝚊𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚊, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚊𝚒𝚜𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚟𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚍 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚖. 𝙵𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚙𝚘𝚠𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚎𝚟𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚁𝚎𝚒𝚓𝚒."

Reiji has blue Daises which represent loyalty, long term commitments, peace / tranquility , and uniqueness.

The comment of long term commitments and loyalty reminds me of Reijis connections to his father. Reiji is the only Sakamaki brother with any respect for his father, this may come from more of a obsession with gaining his father's acknowledgement and approval since that is what Reiji ultimately always craves for however Reiji has shown that he is extremely committed to his pride as a vampire and a Sakamaki as well as pleasing his father as well as holding incredibly high standards for himself and others. Beyond that Reiji is known for being unusual even by vampire standards as he chooses to not indulge in his own desires and allow himself to not be in control of something, as unique as a blue daisy. Not sure about how much peace and tranquility Reiji is getting in the Sakamaki household however his hobbies definitely are in the efforts of comfort and simplie peace.

𝚂𝚄𝙱𝙰𝚁𝚄

" 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚕𝚞𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚜𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚕𝚢 𝚎𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚔, 𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝. 𝙲𝚕𝚞𝚖𝚜𝚢 𝚂𝚞𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚞 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚜-𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚔𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚜."

Subaru has Lupine which represents strength, the potential for transformation and growth and renewal. Meaning can also vary by what color a Lupin is.

Subaru has many analogys when it comes to flowers often with his association with white roses and the Queen of the Night flower. Subaru has yellow lupine which symbolize warmth and optism and general happiness, they are also used as a way to celebrate a milestone or to be a token of appreciation. I definitely see flower messages to be a way that Subaru conveys his feelings as he ( and pretty much all the Sakamakis ) are bad at communicating their feelings. In fact this is Canon his Subarus HDB endings and his Paraselene CD. Subaru is kind, we know this from his mother telling him to remain a kind boy so he has obviously had this traits with him since he was a child. He also even gets compared to Yui by Shuu by the way they act. Subaru is also known as the " Tsundere " of the group that although Subaru is in fact kind it's hard to tell through his words, so seeing Yellow Lupins be displayed in his bouquet is a good way to express those soft feelings.

( Subaru HDB Dark 10) Reiji: Hooh, this is new. For Subaru to take on this kind of attitude…

Shuu: …They’re surprisingly similar.

( Subaru DF Manservant ending )

Karlheinz: Aah…What a tragedy.You, who failed to become Adam. That kind heart of yours, is only a sign of your naivity.

( Subaru MB Maniac epilouge)

Butler: With all due respect, Master. But Subaru-sama used to be a very kind soul…

Karlheinz: No need to cover up for him…I am aware.

This theme of very sentimental feeling in Subarus bouquet is reocurring, Subaru also has red Lupins which mean love, courage, strength or admiration. This is also followed up with the purple lupines he has which also symbolize admiration and respect along with purple being used to symbolize royalty. Obviously Subaru is a strong character as he's normally the one to get into fights however his reliance can also be applied with him still remaining a " kind boy " even through his rough exterior and harsh childhood. As well as even though Subaru is the youngest in the family he actually tends to make more wiser decisions than some of his brother * COUGH * The Triplets * COUGH * And through his bark and yells he always ends up helping out in some way. A gift like flowers with meanings is a perfect way for somone as awkward and easily embarrassed as Subaru to convey his emotions.

And that's all!! This is my first analysis so sorry if it's not the most in depth or accurate 😅I just wanted to make this because flower meanings are so interesting to me and this was definitely one of my favorite merchandise lines that Rejet has released. Feel free to share your own opinions on the boys flowers and meanings I love hearing people thoughts byee~

[lovegoodlane]

Pursuing the Prefect - 2

3.6k words

18+ only

Warnings: sexual content, teasing, oral sex [male receiving]

Summary: Fred continues to try to woo his favorite prefect, but he doesn't expect her to reciprocate his teasing (shy Fred, sub (kind of) Fred)

I intended for the last part to be a one-shot, but it was more popular than I expected. Here is a part two -- there might be more!

Link to part 1

----

It was Monday morning, and you had realized over the weekend that you still had Fred's scarf. After your encounter with him on Saturday night, you were keen on keeping your distance. You weren't just going to run into his arms, you were too stubborn for that. He was going to have to work for it.

In typical Monday fashion, you got dressed and gathered your backpack before heading to the Great Hall for breakfast. This would be the first time that you had been in the same room as Fred since Saturday, and the thought made your stomach dance with nervous butterflies.

You had told Beatrice about your semi-hook up with Fred, but you had kept the information from Cho. You knew that she was only going to judge you and advise you not to associate with someone like Fred. You had no need for advice like that.

As you took your seat at breakfast, you noticed that a certain ginger was absent. His twin was at the Gryffindor table, talking animatedly about something with a group of younger students. They were almost always together, and this immediately struck you as strange.

You tried not to think about it, hurriedly eating your breakfast so you could get to Potions early. You had a question about the assignment that was given over the weekend, and you intended to ask Snape about it before class began.

"I'll see you later," you said to your group before departing. You looked around for Fred again, but he still wasn't in the Great Hall.

You stepped into the hallway, adjusting your leather backpack on your shoulders as you turned to head toward the Potions classroom. As you passed an empty classroom, someone grabbed your wrist and pulled you inside.

You let out a small shriek, obviously startled. Standing in front of you was Fred Weasley, red hair perfectly tousled and a bouquet of wildflowers in his hands. His black eye was still visible, but it was less prominent than before. 

"Sorry to startle you, birdie," he said, a grin finding its way to his lips. "I went out this morning to pick these for you."

He handed you the wildflowers, the same soft look in his eye that was present on Saturday night. You took the bouquet, unable to suppress your own smile. That's why he wasn't at breakfast.

"Thank you, Weasley," you said, inspecting the flowers. They were still wet with morning dew and a bit wilted, as the fall weather did not lend itself well to flourishing botanicals.

"I wanted to walk you to class this morning," he said, taking a step closer to you.

"Sure, but that doesn't make you my boyfriend," you replied, reminding him of your relationship. Or rather, your lack thereof. 

"I know, darling," he said, finally close enough to put his arms around your waist. "I know that you're stubborn. But you will be mine, I promise."

You set the flowers on a nearby desk, placing your own hands on his shoulders and running them upwards to lace into his hair. You stared at each other for a few moments, taking each other in.

You loved the way he looked in his uniform. His Gryffindor tie was always just a tad crooked, but you found it endearing. He looked rather preppy with his sweater on today underneath his robes. You pictured Fred in a pair of a nerdy glasses for a moment, causing a giggle to escape your lips.

"Is something funny, birdie?" he asked, pulling you closer so he could talk right into your ear.

"Just thinking about how devastatingly sexy you would look in a pair of wide-rimmed glasses," you teased, standing on your toes to place a kiss on his neck. You lingered just long enough to sink your teeth into his sensitive skin.

You pulled back for a moment, taking in his expression. His cheeks were red, his mouth parted just a tad. Fred Weasley....blushing? That was a sight you had never seen before.

This only encouraged you to continue the teasing. He had done the same to you, so why not return the favor?

"Does someone like dirty talk?" you asked, your voice velvety and seductive. You slipped your hand down to his neck, gripping his throat lightly. "Naughty boy."

You could feel Fred gulp, your hand still wrapped around his throat. You had him right where you wanted him.

"Actually, I think I can walk myself to class this morning," you said. You released your hand from its place on his neck, giving him a chaste kiss on the lips before grabbing the flowers from the desk where you had put them earlier. He was still standing there in shock as you headed for the door.

"Thanks for the flowers, Freddie," you said sweetly, tossing him one last glance over your shoulder before departing.

Fred was frozen where he stood. The two of you had a teasing relationship, but most of the teasing came from his end. You would simply resist, making it even more entertaining for him. But now you were the aggressor. And he loved it.

He was accustomed to taking the lead in his relationships. Fred had always been relatively dominant, but things with you were different. It felt like a power struggle. It was exciting and unpredictable.

Fred finally snapped back to reality, feeling momentarily embarrassed as he stood alone in the empty classroom. You had managed to slip through his fingers this time, but he was determined to get you back.

----

It was Wednesday evening. The week had gone by in a similar fashion to all of the others. You spent your evenings in the library with your friends, staying on top of the numerous assignments you had for the week. Your grades were something that really mattered to you, and you were determined to be at the top of your class.

It was your turn to make prefect rounds on Wednesday nights. It was only for an hour from 9-10pm, and you enjoyed the relatively peaceful time that you spent walking around the castle. Students were rarely misbehaving at this time, but you would have to write someone up every once in a while. 

Most of the hour had passed by without incident until you heard a bang come from down the hallway. It made you jump, but soon enough you were walking in the direction of the noise.

"Hey, who's there?" you called down the dim hallway, your feet carrying a quick pace as you went to investigate. 

You reached the set of stairs that led up to the astronomy tower. At the bottom of the stairs was a  neatly folded piece of paper. You picked it up, curious as to what it could be.

The stars are gorgeous tonight, but not as gorgeous as you.

You blushed as you read the note. You recognized the handwriting as Fred's instantly. You had tutored him for a year, so you had become familiar with his messy print. 

You began to ascend the stairs, knowing that Fred would be in the tower waiting for you. He loved surprising you, and he was unexpectedly thoughtful. You loved that about him.

You finally reached the top. Fred was stood by the edge of the tower, leaning against the stone ledge to look out at the sky. You stood there for a moment, watching him without his knowledge.

He looked peaceful. The moonlight lit his fiery hair with silver streaks. You noticed that his tie was missing, likely discarded once classes were over. The top few buttons of his shirt were undone, showing more of his collarbone than usual. 

Seeing him like this was enough to make your whole body tingle. You wished you didn't react this way, but you couldn't help it. He was gorgeous. 

You cleared your throat, signaling to him that he wasn't alone. He turned to look at you, his gaze gentle. He motioned for you to join him. 

You approached him, settling in next to him as you placed your hands on the tall ledge. You looked out at the sky, taking in the view from the tower. He was right, the stars were gorgeous. 

You both stood in silence for a few minutes, but it was comfortable. Neither of you felt the need to disrupt the moment. You were enjoying the view and being in each other's presence.

You saw Fred angle his body toward you out of the corner of your eye. 

"How's my favorite prefect this evening?" he asked, a cheeky grin crossing his face. 

You turned to him, leaning your hip against the ledge. "I don't know, seems like I need to write up a certain student for trespassing in the astronomy tower after hours."

You returned his grin, knowing how much he enjoyed your banter. He stepped closer to you, running a finger under your chin.

"Is there anything I can do to convince her not to?" he asked, using his finger to angle your chin upward so you had to look into his eyes.

"We'll see," you teased, narrowing your eyes at him. 

Fred let out a light chuckle, and his other hand wrapped around your waist and landed on the small of your back. He pulled you in, kissing you on the lips.

Your hands rested on his chest, eventually pulling at his collar as you continued kissing. It was slow and gentle, and he wasn't rushing you to go any further.

You finally pulled apart, looking at each other in the moonlight. Even with the limited light, you could make out his slightly rosy cheeks and pink lips. You brought your thumb up to trace his bottom lip, giggling at him.

"Has anyone told you how pretty you are?" you asked, admiring him openly.

Fred's cheeks darkened, making you giggle even more. 

"What, do you not like when I hit on you?" you teased, pulling your hand from his face to place it on his shoulder. 

Fred's response was to pull you in for another kiss. Sweet and slow, much like the ones you had shared moments before. 

"You're quite cheeky, aren't you?" he finally said, resting his chin on the top of your head. He still had his arms wrapped around you, and you leaned into his chest.

"I'm not as bad as I used to be," you admitted. "My mum couldn't stand my mouth when she still lived with us. She said that my thoughts came right out of my mouth instead of going to my brain."

"I think your mouth is smashing," Fred replied. He took a moment to think about what he had said, then pushed you back by your shoulders to look at you as he realized the innuendo.

"Not what I meant," he said, letting out an awkward chuckle. You giggled at his embarrassment.

"I know, Fred," you said, grinning at him. You pulled out of the semi-embrace, turning back to look out at the sky.

You felt him lingering next to you, seeming to hesitate on what to do next. He decided to turn to the stars as well.

"Are you close with your mum?" he asked, sounding shy.

"No," you huffed out almost too quickly. "She left my dad and I when I was ten. Something about  the 'wizarding life' not suiting her. I found out later that she was cheating on my dad and moved to America with her Muggle boyfriend. I haven't seen her since."

Fred took a moment to absorb the information, considering how to proceed since he knew the topic was likely sensitive. 

"Are you close with your dad then?" he followed up.

"Very," you answered. "He went to Hogwarts and was a Ravenclaw too. He works in a potions lab, he grows all of their ingredients. He was hoping that I would like Herbology, but it's not really my thing."

"Does it get boring with just the two of you?" he asked, seeming genuinely curious.

"Not really," you replied, turning your head to look at him. "I used to wish that I had siblings, but it would just make our situation harder. My dad has had to raise me mostly by himself, having another child would have had him too knackered to balance work with taking care of us."

Fred looked at you, admiring your openness. You had never talked like this before. Your conversations had always been rather surface-level, but this was deeper. It felt good to connect with him.

"I bet your house is pretty quiet," he said. "My house feels like a madhouse sometimes. My brothers are always wrestling and Ginny is usually complaining about something."

"Do you like it though? Having so many siblings?" you asked.

"I suppose it's alright. I don't know any different. And my parents are so in love that it's sickening," Fred jokingly scrunched his face in disgust.

You giggled. "It's cute that they're still keen on each other," you said, nudging his shoulder with your own.

"I guess," he shrugged. "They're always up my arse about my marks and what I'm going to do after Hogwarts. George too. They make it sound like we're daft. My mum expects all of us to be just like Percy. Perfect Percy."

"I don't think you're daft," you said, linking your arm around his and leaning your head against his shoulder. 

"Thanks," Fred replied, adjusting so his arm wrapped around you instead. "Seems like the whole school thinks I am."

"Fred, that's ridiculous. You're allowed to feel that way, but it's simply not true," you argued. It hurt to hear that he felt like he wasn't smart enough. You knew that Fred wasn't incredibly focused on his studies, but that didn't mean that he wasn't intelligent.

"People like me because of my pranks. I'm good for a laugh, but that seems to be about it," he said. He sounded so small and defeated.

You turned your head just enough so you could look him in the eye. He was averting your gaze, opting to look at the sky instead.

"Look at me, Freddie," you said, your voice firm but kind. He finally met your eyes reluctantly.

"You are incredibly clever. Coming up with your own pranks takes detailed planning, and I can't imagine that it's easy. Your friends adore you. First years are chuffed when you even look their way," you told him, meaning every word. "But you're also genuine. And you're kind, and patient, and considerate. You're so much more than I knew you were, and I'm gutted that it took this long for me to get to know you."

Fred held your gaze as you rambled on. You saw that familiar look in his eye, the softness that was mixed with something deeper. Adoration, maybe? You weren't quite sure.

He was once again left without words, simply staring at you once you were finished talking. You felt embarrassed for a moment, afraid that you revealed too much of how you felt. Your stomach felt like it was sinking to the floor as he just stood there.

Fred finally moved, grabbing both of your hands in his. He maintained eye contact.

"Birdie, you're...Merlin, I don't know how to put it into words," he said, shaking his head at himself. 

"Then don't," you said softly.

He pulled your hands so your arms wrapped around him, drawing you in to his chest. He kissed you, a delicate kiss at first. He bit at your bottom lip, causing a soft moan to escape your lips. 

That was all he needed to lift you up, earning a giggle of surprise from you. You wrapped your legs around him, and he supported you by holding your bottom. He kept kissing you, pressing your back against the closest wall.

The cold stone caused goosebumps to erupt across your back, but in this moment, you didn't mind. Fred's kisses became more fervent, your teeth almost clashing as you both fought for the upper hand. 

He had you pinned against the wall for at least five minutes. You pushed at his shoulders, causing him to pull out of the kiss. He looked at you, his eyebrows bent in confusion.

"Put me down, please," you requested, a nonchalance in your voice. Fred complied, carefully adjusting you so your feet finally touched the ground.

You grabbed the collar of his shirt, spinning around so you forced him up against the wall. Still gripping his collar, you pulled him down into another kiss. Your hands found his belt, and you paused.

"Is this alright?" you asked.

"Please," he answered, sounding breathless. A smug grin crept across your face. You were proud of the effect you were having on him. 

You resumed your kissing, working on his belt. Your kisses migrated down to his jaw, nipping at his jawline. You had always loved his jawline. You had heard other girls joke that it was sharp enough to cut something.

You finally got his belt free, tossing it to the side with a clank. Your hands ran up his chest, nails scratching along the material of his shirt. Fred let out a throaty sound, something between a groan and a whine. 

You kissed down to his neck, nipping at his ear.

"Fuck, birdie," he whispered in response. 

You started fiddling with the button of his trousers, struggling for a moment before getting it open. You pulled away from him, once again checking for his approval.

"Tell me when to stop," you said, echoing the very words he had said to you a few nights ago.

"Please don't," he replied, hands gripping at your hips desperately. 

"I've never heard so many 'please's come from you," you teased, biting at his neck again.

"Anything for you, darling," he said, his voice sultry. That was enough to send a tingle down your spine. 

You tugged at his trousers, pulling them down. You kept kissing his neck, finding a spot along his collarbone to leave a love bite. It was revenge for the marks he had left on you. 

Your hands danced down to his hips, unbuttoning his shirt from bottom to top. You looked at him for a moment, admiring your work. Fred was breathing hard, his pupils blown wide with arousal. He looked....hungry.

You dropped to your knees, earning a quiet "fuck" from Fred. You felt momentarily nervous, insecure about your "talents". You and Adrian had hooked up many times, and you were no stranger to blowjobs. But Adrian was your first and your only. This was someone new.

You snapped yourself out of it, dragging your nails along the waistband of Fred's boxers. There was already a prominent bulge from your efforts, and you silently commended yourself. 

You placed a kiss along his abs over the fabric of his undershirt. You worked your way down, kissing until you were at his waistband once again. You peered up at him, taking in his flushed cheeks and desperate expression. And what did you do? You grinned up at him and winked.

Fred groaned, covering his face with his hand. You laughed at him, running your nails along his thighs. You knew that this teasing was making him miserable. You had your fun, now it was time to put him out of his misery.

You grabbed for his waistband, pulling down his boxers in one smooth motion. You gulped as you took in the sight before you. You had assumed that Fred would be big; he was a tall person, after all. You had also heard rumblings from girls who had hooked up with Fred. But this...definitely more than you were expecting. 

You took a breath, gripping him with one hand and supporting yourself against his thigh with the other. You began to pump him, slowly working him up to a faster pace. 

After a minute, you had Fred groaning and gripping at your hair. You dared to tease him once more, darting your tongue out to tease his tip. 

"Fuck," he muttered, nails digging into your scalp.

Your tongue danced in circles around his tip, eventually making stripes down to his base. You still hadn't put him into your mouth, and you knew this was killing him.

"Are you going to say please?" you asked, looking up at him through your eyelashes.

"Birdie, you've got to be....oh fuck," he said breathily. You had continued teasing him with your tongue, interrupting his response.

"Please," he begged, sounding pathetic. That was what you had been waiting for. 

You finally took him into your mouth. You started with the tip at first, using one hand to work the rest of him while the other played with his balls. You worked your way down slowly, taking in more of him inch by inch.

Fred's groans were turning into whimpers, and if your mouth wasn't previously engaged, you would definitely be smirking. His nails continued to dig at your scalp, mussing your tidy hair. 

You worked your way down to his base at last, fighting against your instinct to gag. You picked up your pace, causing various profanities to fall from Fred's mouth.

"Fuck, I'm going to...you should stop," he breathed out, pulling hard at your hair. 

You peered up at him, determination in your eyes. There was no backing down now. He met your gaze, understanding what your intentions were. 

Fred finally released, a groan coming out of his mouth that he tried to suppress by biting his lip. You worked him down slowly, pulling him out of your mouth. You looked right into his eyes as you swallowed. 

His jaw dropped just slightly, his mouth just barely agape as he took in the sight before him. You were doing your own admiring, enjoying your view from your place on your knees. His chest was heaving, cheeks red. You could tell he had a lean build underneath his undershirt, and you were looking forward to taking that shirt off of him. Another time.

You helped him find his boxers and trousers, dressing himself as you got up from your knees. You brushed them off, feeling the indents from the stone floor in your knees. Worth it.

Fred had just finished slipping his belt through the loops of his trousers when you grabbed at his wrists. You puckered your lips at him playfully. He chuckled, leaning down to kiss your lips.

"Do you still think that my mouth is smashing?" you teased, grabbing at his sides to pull yourself into him. 

"Absolutely smashing, birdie," he replied, chuckling again before giving you another kiss. 

----

Link to next part

[stardust-swan]

What Type of Charisma are You Manifesting? ✨

Left to right: 1, 2, 3

Pile 1

You're manifesting vibrant charisma. You are radiating magnetism that draws people in - the type that makes you best friends with everyone in the room even if you only met them five minutes ago. The type that everyone has a little crush on. The type that can make a small gathering feel like a lively extravaganza. You are full of cheer and high-spirited, brimming with fun and excitement.

You're experimenting with your identity, which makes you come across as raw and authentic. You have a lot of power but you have not yet learned how to wield it. You are confident and ambitious, and people sense your potential. Some people might find it intimidating, but others are drawn in by your exuberance and honesty. You are full of passion and energy and are going places quickly, which other people sense as a vibe of spontaneity and excitement. You live for fun, and if things are no longer fun, you don't want to play anymore.

Imagery I associate with your kind of charisma:

Scent: Citrus - sweet, bright, and bold, but it doesn't linger.

Flower: Sunflower or a zinnia.

Animal: Toucan

Artist: Matisse, full of high contrasts and vibrant colours.

Colour: Clear, bright colours, like turquoise, dandelion yellow, Kelly green, sky blue, and tomato red.

Archetype: The Cheerleader or Prom Queen, who rather than being the stereotypical mean girl, is actually very friendly and genuinely beloved by all - the type who is invited to every party and who makes sure to chat with the new kid in the class to make them feel less alone.

Pile 2

You are manifesting regal charisma. This type of charisma exudes poise, confidence, and elegance. People feel like they're hanging out with royalty around you, even if you're wearing jeans and a t-shirt and cracking jokes. But no matter how casual and relaxed you are, you radiate dignity and grace. People are drawn in by your competence, talent, and skill - you're someone that commands respect, a natural leader like a Queen at her throne. Your peers respect you, and people younger than you look up to you.

Sometimes you come across as more reserved than you are. You're afraid of overwhelming people, so you hold yourself back a little. But people can still sense the fire underneath - the big goals, the worldliness, the growth coming full circle. This makes you come across as confident, wise, and a bit mysterious. You have a wicked sense of humour, which softens a demeanour some may otherwise find cold.

Imagery I associate with your kind of charisma:

Scent: Rose - fresh, clean, and feminine.

Flower: Carnation or white camellia.

Animal: Swan

Artist: Diego Velázquez - realistic, dramatic, highly detailed, and technically impressive.

Colour: Jewel tones, like emerald green, garnet, aubergine, and royal blue.

Archetype: The High Queen. Dressed majestically, you sit at your throne, inspiring awe in others. You are kind, regal, and benevolent, beloved by all the land. You bless and reward those who respect you generously.

Pile 3

You are manifesting laid-back charisma. You are very grounded, which puts people at ease. You like to help people grow. You won't do the work for someone else, but you'll support and encourage them as much as you can as long as they do their share (your pet peeve is people refusing to do their share of the work or improve themselves). You carry an air of vulnerability (in a good way) and openness, which gives you a soulful quality. People relate to you easily, and feel comfortable sharing things with you. They perceive you as resilient, someone who can not only emphatise with their struggles, but who has overcome their own struggles and gotten stronger because of them. You are someone who is actively seeking growth, unafraid of getting a bit messy to do so. You have a healing effect on people and will help anyone that needs a hand. You are supportive of your local community, whether that's through participating in the neighborhood cleanup or donating to a local food bank.

Imagery I associate with your type of charisma:

Scent: Sandalwood - soft, woody, and rich.

Flower: Hydrangea

Animal: Dove

Artist: Maxfield Parrish - vibrant, gently blended, and whimsical.

Colour: Gentle, warm colours, like copper, rosewood, cream, moss green, charcoal and lavender.

Archetype: The Earth Mother. You are someone who is wise, nourishing, and gently firm. You have a creative soul, and you find beauty in the ordinary. Like an ancient goddess who has come to Earth to bless us with her presence and love.

[diremoone]

remember to water the flowers

no warnings really, just fluff and soft sylus wanting to take care of you and make sure you take care of yourself <3 (also first fic with him pls be gentle)

Sylus nearly chucks the twins out of the nearest visible window the second he sees you shift in your sleep. The two quickly get the memo to leave upon his glare and the heavily emphasized wave of his large hand.

You stop shifting when the door closes, unbothered by the energy that the twins had brought in. Sylus breathes a silent sigh of relief and goes back to scouring through the online auction. He stops at an expensive bottle of old wine, noting the sweetness level and the brand before flicking it away. You wouldn’t like that type of wine anyway. You were picky about the alcohols you indulged in.

It also didn’t help that him spoiling you with said beverages to try helped make you as picky as you are today.

Sylus glances at you again. The dark circles underneath your eyes are fading the more you sleep… He scowls at the sight of you having such awful eye-bags. Why on earth the Hunter’s Association had the audacity to overwork their best hunter was beyond him.

Well, it wasn’t them overworking you. You did that yourself. Your employer just didn’t want to do anything about it.

And that was how you nearly landed in the jaws of a powerful Wanderer to nearly be slung around like a ragdoll. Had it not been for the weapons he’d programmed into Mephisto, you’d surely be locked up in a hospital with severe injuries to your body.

No, he wouldn’t allow it. If no one else was going to catch you before you fell, then he would without question.

Even if it meant sending your precious Hunter’s Association into a frenzy of you missing in action for a few days.

Sylus quietly sips on his tea and watches your brows furrow peculiarly in your sleep. You would wake up shortly, he notes.

And you do. You blink your eyes several times upon awakening. You gaze at a spot on the wall before flicking your eyes to him. He chuckles at the disbelief in them.

You grumble and lift yourself off the couch.

“What’d you do?”

“Bold of you to assume I did anything, sweetie.”

You shake your head. “You did something. What’d you do?”

Sylus chuckles and places his head on his fist, elbow on the back of the couch and replies simply, “I protected what is mine and kept her safe. That’s all.”

He watches as your memories of the last 24 hours flood your mind. You toss yourself out of the weighted blanket and get up.

“I have to go,” you say. “People must be looking for me. Xavier must be—”

Sylus scowls at the name of another man coming from your mouth. He grabs your hand as you pass by him. Thankfully, you don’t fight him. You knew you wouldn’t win against his iron grip—not without hurting yourself—no matter how much you pulled.

“Stay.”

You’re unable to retort. Not with the way he’s looking at you. It gives him the opportunity to explain before you run off.

“I’m aware of how much you’ve been running yourself ragged, Kitten. Don’t think I don’t see it.” At that, he watches your lips press into a firm line. He continues on, slowly softening his grip. “After Mephisto barely made it in time to get rid of that Wanderer, I brought you back to the N109 Zone to rest.”

“Well…” You huff. “I’ve got to get back. Thanks for letting me nap, but—”

Sylus raises his brows. “What’s the harm in staying a few more days to get some rest?” he questions. “It’s not like they won’t find you near where you disappeared in a few days. Not after spending your time in a Protofield trying to get rid of a powerful monster.”

You shift on the balls of your feet, looking away from him. You know exactly what he’s doing.

“The cameras—”

“Exploded in the fight,” Sylus quips.

His warm hand lets go of your wrist, but he keeps his palm opened and outstretched.

“Stay. Rest. Take a break then return in a few days. Your people may be looking for you, but they’ll be alright without you for a few days… worried or not,” he argues, nailing his points down.

You exhale in defeat. “Sylus…”

“We never forget to water our own garden, sweetie. And yours is quite dehydrated,” he hums.

You can’t help the sudden tiredness that overcomes you again, even after spending goodness knows how long asleep already. You don’t think you can help it this time. Not with Sylus and his honey-coated reassurances.

Sylus grins that grin and you want to groan. He’s won, and he knows that you know he’s won.

You take his hand. His long fingers intertwine with yours and he gently pulls you around the couch to him. You don’t question it when he pulls you into his side to let you rest on him.

“Just one day,” you grumble.

Sylus chuckles and wraps his arm around your shoulders.

“Just one day.”

(You spend a total of three. And no one is any wiser when you return to Linkon. Not after spending those days in a… ‘Wanderers Protofield’.)

a/n: help me i’m making a playlist for this man now i’m no longer sane AHH. lol, but why is this man the one getting me out of my writing slump?? then again I shouldn’t be surprised, he’s so fine haha