#they have a beautiful cornflower blue color

[inthishousewelovejoeybatey]

i have recently started working at a flower shop and while i love the idea that dandelions and cornflowers are the signature for our lovely bard, i would like to raise you

blue candle larkspur

[feyhunter78]

Description: During your Uncle Robert's Royal Procession, you find yourself enraptured with Ned Starks' bastard son. While Jon has never dreamed so vividly until your arrival. A thread seems to exist between you and him, pulling you together. Luckily for you both, your father Tyrion sees the need for a sworn sword in his beloved daughter's life.

Ch 2

You should know better, truly you should, but you’ve always had a weakness for pitiful-looking creatures, or at least that’s what your father has always said. He stands a pace ahead of you, watching as your uncle, the King Robert, embraces Lord Ned Stark with a boyish joy you have never seen in your uncle. Your Aunt Cersei stands to the side of them, smiling politely at the Lady Catelyn Stark, Joffery all but hanging from her skirts, demanding attention. Usually, you would scowl at the back of the boy’s head, but the sight of Ned Stark’s bastard son has you quite distracted.

He is pitiful, even his name, Jon, it’s so common, so often used it cannot differentiate him from others. He stands stiffly, with gray eyes so dark they almost seem black set beneath thick brows. He has curly dark hair that frames his face, an unchanging frown upon his face, and his hands clasp and unclasp nervously as he watches the mingling of your two families. Jon’s dressed like all the other Starks, but somehow lesser, as if he has chosen only the drabbest of colors in an effort to blend into the dreary landscape. There’s a solemn softness to him that intrigues you. What secrets does he keep? Why does he look so mired in grief? He notices your gaze, and his face tints pink as he ducks his head further into the fur collar of his cloak. You bite back a laugh, for a moment he looked like a turtle.

The boy beside him, Robb, stands an inch or so taller with cornflower blue eyes, and auburn hair. The clear son of Lady Catelyn radiates confidence, nearly bordering on arrogance, as he surveys the servants unloading your family’s belongings from the wheelhouses. Beside him stands a boy whose arrogance you wouldn’t mistake for confidence, even if you were less astute than you are. But the arrogance rings false, you can see the cracks in his bravado, the insecurity leaking from every pore. It’s in the way he hovers so close to Robb, as if he fears to be away from him would be his undoing. This one you know inside and out; your father had drilled you on everyone you were going to meet before you even stepped foot outside King’s Landing.

Theon Greyjoy, last surviving son of Balon Greyjoy, a war prisoner disguised as a ward, the closest companion to Robb Stark, both accepted and held at a distance, Lord Stark’s sword an ever-looming threat should his father ever revolt once more. Theon has eyes like the sea and tousled hair the color reminiscent of the mahogany desk in your father’s study. He is lankier than the other two, hungrier, and when your eyes meet his, he winks. You resist the urge to wrinkle your nose in response, you were a lady, a Lannister, you were not so easily swayed. Theon is handsome, but if your father’s reports were true, he spent much of his time in brothels. The tactics that worked there would not work on you.

“And this is my eldest daughter, Sansa.” Lord Stark says, motioning to a girl that was perhaps two or so years younger than you. She is beautiful, with fiery red hair, eyes like Robb’s, and high, graceful cheekbones. She curtsies with the air of a Southern lady, and smiles when you do the same. This is who you are meant to befriend, and it does not seem it will be too difficult, Sansa’s eyes eagerly drink in every aspect of your being, as if she wishes to glen all she can of Southern life before it is ripped away from her.

“She is as beautiful as her mother.” Your father says, giving her then Lady Catelyn a smile.

They both thank him, Lady Catelyn beaming at the praise, while you notice Sansa’s cheeks flush with color. She is easily flattered; you must remember that.

“Allow me to introduce my own daughter, Y/N Lannister.” Your father introduces you, putting emphasis on your surname, the very fact that you have one. You are not a bastard, no matter what awful Joffrey likes to say. Your mother and father had married in secret, she died giving birth to you, it was tragic and left your father quite saddened, but you were not a bastard.

Your eyes dart back to Jon taking him in subtlety. You wish to see him blush again, but you will not make your actions so easily observed.

“It is too cold, why must we stand here all day?” Joffrey whines, crossing his arms over his chest and stomping his foot resoundingly.

Your aunt fusses over him, and Lord Stark leads you all inside, talking jovially with your uncle as you hurry to catch up with your father.

It is loud in the Great Hall of Winterfell, made of gray stone and smelling of smoke, meat, and a hint of dog, which you must assume is from the Direwolves. It is well lit and filled with people, all enjoying the bountiful feast set before them on long wooden tables. You’re seated away from your father, something you despise. He is closer to your Uncle Jaime, nearer to the King and Lord Stark, while you have been seated with the other children. It has only been you and your father for so very long, a part of you feels anxious to be separated from him, but you are a Lannister, if you cannot charm the strangers around you then can you truly call yourself such?

“Will you tell me more of King’s Landing, Lady y/n?” Sansa asks, looking enraptured by the mere thought of it. She is dressed in a gown of blue silk, her fur lined cloak on the back of her chair, her hair done up in a style you’re quite familiar with. She is very beautiful, and you spot many men staring at her, one of them being Theon who is seated at the lower tables. You catch his eye and smile knowingly. In response, he scowls and ducks his head.

You must mention this observation to your father.

You smile and return your attention to Sansa, regaling her with tales of festivals and feasts, of tourneys and services in the Great Sept. Her siblings either listen as well or turn their attention elsewhere, which you don’t mind. They are not who you are here to befriend.

Sansa sighs dreamily and turns her gaze to Joffrey, who is seated next to his mother further up the table and is staring down at his food as if it has offended him. “And what of Joffrey? Surely you must be close?”

Your cousin, and closest companion, Myrcella snorts into her drink, and you shoot her a look. Myrcella was meant to be sitting next to Joffrey but had convinced someone to switch with her so that she could be next to you.

“Joffrey is a…spirited boy, he has many…passions.” You say carefully, running your finger along the rim of your glass.

Your father suspects Robert will wish to wed Sansa and Joffrey. It’s a strategic match, but your cousin is a horrible bully, you have marks hidden beneath your sleeves to prove your words, and you do not wish to see innocent Sansa suffer in such a way. True, you have not spent much time with her, but she has been warm and welcoming, her innocence shining through like the sun on a spring day.

“Does he enjoy tourneys? I have heard the King was quite the warrior, he and father fought together.” Sansa continues, resting her chin in her hand.

You smooth out the nonexistent wrinkles in your skirts. “Joffrey has not competed in any tourneys quite yet, Lady Sansa, he is too young.”

“He is three and ten, is he not? Most squire by one and ten, why has he not been sent to one of your bannermen like his uncle?” Robb says, taking a long drink from his glass.

“My mother does not wish for him to get injured; he is heir to the throne, after all.” Myrcella chimes in, saving you from coming up with another excuse for why Joffrey has not been allowed to leave King’s Landing.

Sansa nods and gazes longingly at Joffrey once more. “That seems most wise, what a dutiful mother Queen Cersei is.”

“Where is your mother, Lady y/n? I did not see anyone else arrive.” Bran, one of the younger Starks asks, his round innocent face not dulling the sting of his words at all.

Myrcella takes your hand under the tables and squeezes it. She has been privy to the nights of crying, of mourning the mother you would never know.

“Bran, that is not polite.” Sansa hisses.

You shake your head, a soft smile on your face. “My mother died giving birth to me, but I am told she held me in her arms before the Stranger came for her, that she named me and spoke of how dearly she loved me.”

Bran makes a soft noise of apology, and the conversation lulls, until finally you have finished your meal and are free to retire to your chambers.

You wave off any offer to escort you, telling them all you wish to admire the architecture of Winterfell in solitude.

It’s not wholly a lie, though you cannot say you ever wish to be alone , you enjoy the company of others, are invigorated by it, but tonight feels different. Perhaps it is the mention of your mother, or the false face Joffrey is putting on for the Starks and their bannermen, the sound of his laughter ringing about the hall. You wander the halls of Winterfell with a faint knowledge of where the guest chambers lie, when you find yourself approaching the training yard. The night is quiet, snow falling gently, the brisk air seizes your lungs, purifying them with an icy chill.

You are not alone, the thud of blunt metal upon wood, the sounds of exertion, the turn of boots in snow covered dirt. You slowly move towards the sound, knowing your father will scold you later for such carelessness. There are countless people here, and you cannot be assured they all wish you well.

Jon Snow, the ever so distracting bastard, stands in the middle of the yard, training alone, the moonlight shining down on him, making his pale skin glisten. You rest your hand on the stone archway, one foot on the dirt, the other still firmly planted on the stone. You should leave him alone, you know it, but you’re mesmerized by the sight, the tension in his muscles, the expanse of his back, the strength in his arms. He is a little older than you, six and ten to your five and ten, both old enough to be married, yet both remaining unbetrothed.

There had been offers for your hand, even though you were the imp’s child, and many wondered if you would sire broken children, if you would pass on your father’s curse. But for the gold that backed your name many were willing to risk it. You didn’t like your suitors, they were too brash, too lewd, too old, or simply just not right.

Jon stops and lifts his tunic to wipe the sweat from his brow. His stomach is toned, his skin mostly smooth, though there are some faded scars.

Yes, they were simply not right, they did not look like that.

You feel heat rise to your cheeks and you avert your eyes. What were you, a child? A lovesick maid? You have spent no more than mere minutes in his presence, and already you are lusting after him like some silk street whore? It must be the chill that is muddling your mind, yes, the chill. Not the kindness that you saw within him as he played with Arya and Bran in the courtyard earlier in the day. Or the way he stood stiff lipped while Joffrey threw barbed insults at him as he passed him in the hall, or the stack of novels you had overheard the maester say were to be set aside for him. Merely the chill. The chill and the flights of fancy all young girls are prone to.

With that in mind, you wait until he has returned his tunic to its rightful place and step fully into the snow.

He turns on his heel, weapon at the ready. He is perceptive, you note, good reflexes, excellent hearing, fine form, carved from marble, glowing like a god in the moonlight.

Gods y/n, pull yourself together.

“My apologies, I did not mean to startle you.” You say, wrapping your cloak tighter around you. It is thin, far too thin to wear in the chill of night.

Jon lowers his sword. “Lady Lannister, why are you not inside at the feast? Are you lost?”

“Yes.” You lie, batting your eyelashes at him, crafting your expression into one of helplessness. “I wished to return to my chamber, but I lost my way.”

Jon stows his sword and retrieves his cloak from a nearby rack. “I will escort you, if you do not take offense?”

You tilt your head in faux confusion. “Why would I take offense?”

He shuffles his feet and busies himself with his cloak. “You are a lady of a great house, and I am…” He lets the unspoken words hang in the air, and you have the grace to act surprised.

“Oh, yes, right, you are a Snow.” You say, taking a step towards him and extending your hand, waiting to set it on his arm. “Well, I care not if you are a Stark or a Snow, I am sure you are more than capable of escorting me to the guest chambers of your home.”

He ducks his head, that delightful blush returning to his cheeks, and he holds out his arm for you.

You take it gratefully, allowing him to guide you back towards the way you came. The wind blows through the yard as you walk and cuts straight through your thin cloak, a shiver shooting down your spine.

Before you can blink, Jon has draped his cloak over you, clasping it shut with a surprising boldness. “It is far too cold for such a thin cloak; you must remember to wear your furs if you find yourself wandering out here once more.”

You look up at him through your lashes, your heart skipping a beat at the proximity between you and him, the depth of his dark eyes. “And if I were to wander out here again…might I be able to count on you to escort me? I must confess I find the halls of Winterfell quite confusing.”

He lingers for a moment, drinking you in, his head nodding almost imperceptibly, then he wrenches himself away, his gaze set forward. “Anyone in Winterfell would be more than able to escort you, My Lady.”

You nod, feeling the sting of rejection. It’s no matter, this is only the first night, there’s still plenty of time.

Yes I used a Hozier line bc it's perfect for the vibe of this fic

[calmcoldevening]

Pov: You knew slashers, when you was a child (Slashers x fem!reader)

I'm back! Well, it os a lazy post from my drafts, until I end my new idea <3

TW: no

Characters: Thomas Hewitt, Brahms Heelshire, brothers Sinclair

P.S.: English is not my native language, so lot of these words was translated by simple translator, sorry for misspells and e.t.c.

Enjoy this!

Thomas Hewitt

The transition to a new school has always been a great stress for a child, especially in the middle of the school year.

You and your parents often moved from city to city. Maybe it was their work, or maybe they just wanted to show you as many different places as possible so that your childhood would remain really memorable — you didn't know. But the constant moving was followed by a change of schools and kindergartens. On the one hand, you liked it — new acquaintances, interests and a lot of positive emotions, after all, you were a cheerful and active child — but it also brought its inconveniences — you didn't have "best" friends, you had no more than a couple of months to communicate with each of them, and multiple the change of the team has made you a real chameleon in society.

You were ten years old when you and your parents moved to Texas. The age when most classes have already been divided into peculiar interest groups, which are quite difficult for a new person to join. That's why your mom decided to bake cookies that you could distribute to new classmates. Who doesn't like homemade cakes? You actively participated in the cooking process. A little more practice, and you could learn these cookies on your own. As soon as the treat was ready — several pieces were successfully taken away by your father — your mother beautifully put it in a colored box, now tied with a ribbon. The inscription "Welcome" was painted on the lid in gold paint.

It was very hot in this area of Texas. Therefore, on your first day of school, you decided to limit yourself to a beautiful white T-shirt with some simple pattern and black shorts. The first impression is the most important, right? Your mom took you to school by car. At the reception desk, your mom introduced you and found out the number of the right office. After kissing you goodbye on the cheek, she left you to your own luck. Although you were already used to it, a nervous feeling of anticipation bubbled somewhere in your chest; your palms were sweating.

After a good seven minutes, you were standing in front of the right class, 212, clutching a box of cookies to your chest. Adjusting the strap of the gray backpack, you exhaled anyway.

Your homeroom teacher, Mrs. Sullivan, introduced you in the office. A lovely woman with curly locks hanging down on both sides of her face and freckled cheeks. Her soft figure, dressed in a white blouse and a black pencil skirt, caused a surge of strength and confidence in you. The woman lightly put her arm around your shoulders, so motherly, and asked you to tell about yourself.

"My name is Y/N Y/L," your voice trembled slightly while your gaze ran over the children sitting in the classroom, "I'm ten. I like animals and beading... Mm, my parents and I move around a lot, so I don't think I'll stay here for more than two months. I hope we'll become friends."

You ended your performance with a sincere warm smile. Mrs. Sullivan asked you to take an empty seat. Your choice fell on the farthest place by the window; a guy was sitting behind it, hunched over and staring at the street. Was he weird? No, rather unusual. He had long black hair, so unusual for a boy; his gaze was lowered somewhere on the dusty road near the school, so you couldn't see his eyes. Sitting down next to him, you quickly took out a notebook and pencil from your backpack.

"Hello?"

The boy seemed startled by your voice. He looked at you uncertainly, and you saw a face wrapped in bandages. Sad cornflower blue eyes peeked out from under the white cloth.

"I'm Y/N," you whisper, holding out your hand to the boy, "And what's your name?"

There was no response. Disappointed, you lowered your hand, now paying attention to the teacher's explanation. The woman was writing down her words on the blackboard, and you quickly began copying them into your notebook, clutching a pencil until it crackled.

There was something about this boy that attracted you. It doesn't matter if it was his shyness or isolation — you decided that you definitely want to make friends with him.

At recess, you approached a group of girls. They were dressed up like girls from fashion magazines that you often saw in kiosks by the road.

"Hi," — you said with a light smile.

"Well, hello," said one of the girls, popping a bubble of gum.

"I want to ask. M, that boy," you pointed to the long—haired boy, "What's his name? I asked, and he ignored me."

"Haha, he won't answer you. That's our little Tommy," another girl hissed sarcastically, giggling, "Thomas Hewitt is weird. Very strange. I heard that his father is his brother!"

"And he's also a terrible freak!"

You awkwardly put your hand in your hair. Thomas didn't look as disgusting as the girls described him. It's all rumors. And what to take from these children, they probably didn't even try to talk to Hewitt!

You didn't talk to this company anymore. After waiting for lunch, when all the children went out to the garden at the school, you again approached the boy. He didn't budge. It seems he hasn't even written anything since you sat down next to him.

"Hey, hello?" you waved your palm in front of the guy's face, "Thomas, right?"

This time the boy paid attention to you. There was no emotion visible under the thick layer of bandages, but you were sure that he arched an eyebrow questioningly. He's wondering how you know his name?

"You were sitting alone, so I came over. Your name is Thomas, right?" you repeated the question, finally the boy nodded, "That's wonderful! I'm Y/N, let's get acquainted."

Smiling happily, you hand the guy an open box of cookies. Golden crust with chocolate chips. You had no desire to share such a delicious thing with such terrible and tactless people. And Tommy. Tommy was different. He was timid and calm, unable to cause harm.

"Help yourself," you babble, sitting down next to Hewitt, "I made them myself! Not without my mommy's help, of course..."

You blush slightly and see Thomas's eyes narrow. He smiled! He seems to be starting to like your company.

"Can I call you Tommy?"

• Thomas has become noticeably happier since you met him. The boy began to spend more time outside the house, in your company (Luda was very surprised by this, because usually after school Tommy always came home and sat in his room).

• For your birthday, Thomas himself sewed a soft toy for you, a fox, as he found out later, this is one of your favorite animals. The toy was sewn from different, but matching pieces of fabric, a little sloppy, but quite skillfully. It made you smile. You threw your arms around Hewitt for joy.

• Once you praise him, Tommy immediately blushes a lot. It's good that it's not visible under the layer of bandages. From the moment you became friends, Thomas's self-esteem has risen a little.

• When you first offered to help Thomas change the bandages, he strongly refused. The boy just couldn't let you see his face. But when he finally gave up, Hewitt was pleasantly surprised that you didn't scream and run away. You didn't call Tommy a freak or a monster, but only sympathetically stroked his scarred cheeks.

• Over time, you began to understand Thomas without words, absolutely. You found the right answers in his movements, grunting, awkward head turning or excessive gesticulation. Even Luda was a little amazed at your nonverbal communication, but the woman was glad that her son finally found a real friend.

• Tommy often showed you his drawings. It was like the scribble of a five-year-old child, but you were always happy to accept the leaves and hang them over your bed. Basically, Thomas drew his family: angry Charlie in the corner of the paper, Monty sitting next to him in a chair, a little further away, Luda was cooking, and in the center of the drawing you and Thomas holding hands and smiling.

• It was the first time you begged your parents to stay in this city longer. Fortunately, they agreed after seeing your enthusiasm for the "strange boy".

Brahms Heelshire

• Your parents and the Healers kept in touch for a while, you can say your families were very close. You first met Brahms on his fifth birthday. He was a very well-mannered but private boy, so Mrs. Heelshire was only too happy to introduce you.

• At first, your communication did not work out. Brahms was a rude child in places, took away your toys and teased you.

• His true attitude towards you showed up when you didn't come to his house, although you were visiting the Heelshire family every Monday and Wednesday. He was seriously worried. All morning Brahms sat in his room by the window and looked at the road going through the forest, waiting for your little body in your favorite blue dress to appear from behind the trees. But you were never there. It turned out that you were just sick. That day Brahms went to your house and did not leave your bed, squeezing your hot palm.

• Your parents worked most of the time, so they were not against your games with Heelshire Jr. You stayed in their house more and more often, sometimes even overnight, and you and Brahms made noise all night, forcing his mother to swear. But still, the woman was glad that at least Brahms was behaving quite comfortably and boldly with someone.

• You were only a couple of months younger than Brahms, but you thought it was a good reason to tease you.

• The boy allowed you to enter his room without knocking, consider it a worthwhile privilege, because Heelshire does not let everyone into his personal space.

• When you were sad, Brahms brought you bouquets of flowers hastily made with his own hands. That's why his palms were green most of the time.

• Brahms makes wonderful sandwiches. He often makes them when the two of you are having a "picnic" in the garden. Although in fact he agrees to it only to admire you.

• Heelshire loves sweets very much. Very. His mom doesn't allow the boy a lot of sweets and cakes, so you secretly bring them to him from home. The boy is insanely happy.

• Brahms loves kissing. This habit, or rather the need, appeared in him because you praised the boy in this way. Has he finally cleaned the room? A kiss. Did he break his mom's precious vase during the catch-up today? A kiss! So now he can demand them for any reason. He especially likes it when you kiss him before going to bed, and Brahms falls asleep hugging you.

• You're his best friend. That's why Brahms trusts you with all his secrets. You are the only one to whom he has told about the strange and frightening thoughts that sometimes sound in his head.

"Good night," Mrs. Heelshire said, turning off the light and closing the door behind her.

You smile and blow her a kiss, covering your mouth with your palm. When the woman's footsteps recede, you exhale with relief, plopping down on the pillow with force. Squinting your eyes, you wrinkle your nose, trying to blow away the stuck strands of hair from your face. Brahms giggles and gently tucks your hair behind your ear.

The room is cool. The window is slightly ajar, letting in a light autumn wind. The curtains are swaying from side to side, taking chaotic frightening shadows.

You get under the covers up to your nose. Brahms follows your example, pressing his whole body against you, and you stroke his head.

"If I ever do something very, very bad, will you stay with me?" Heelshire whispers, looking up at you.

You look into his sad emerald eyes and laugh. He likes to put pressure on your pity, because he knows that at such moments you see him as a tiny abandoned kitten.

"I don't think you'd do anything so bad, Brahms."

"But if I do. What if everyone turns away from me. Even mom and dad. Will you stay with me?"

You pressed your lips together, frowning. Brahms had never asked such strange questions before. And how can a child who is only eight years old think about something like that after a while. Looking down at the ceiling, you turned your head, looking into Brahms' eyes.

"Yes. I'll stay."

"Honestly?" Heelshire asks incredulously.

"Honestly."

"Promise?"

"Yes, I promise you, silly boy!" you abruptly cover his face with a blanket, holding the edges on both sides of his head.

The boy was kicking, trying to get out from under your weight, while you tried not to laugh. Taking pity on his futile attempts, you took off the blankets, admiring Brahms' flushed face. Heelshire was breathing heavily, and his cheeks and nose were burning like Chinese lanterns that your parents launched on your birthday.

"I won. Again," you grin.

Brahms is silent. You sigh and lie down again, turning your back to Heelshire. Your eyes are shining with joy, and your lips continue to curve in a smug grin. You know that Brahms will not dare to do something to you in return. He always let you get away with such antics. Absolutely always.

When you are ready to fall asleep, through the chatter in your head you hear a plaintive whisper. Having opened your leaden eyelids, you groan with displeasure.

"Kiss me," Brahms whines, and you get up on your elbows, chuckling softly.

"Okay," you kiss Heelshire on the lips, "Good night, Brahms."

• "Now I've won," Brahms croaks, pressing you against the wall and spreading his hands on both sides of your head. Just like a child. Except now he's not the victim here, but you. Although was he ever a victim in your games? Rather, he always played the role of a presenter, you just didn't notice it, as if you were looking through your fingers. And who would have thought that that innocent little boy would ever stand in front of you, towering over your body by a good two heads, and grinning with eyes shining in anticipation through the black slits of the mask.

Sinclairs

Christmas is the most mysterious and magical holiday of the year; the day when the whole family gathers at one big table to properly celebrate this moment together; the day when you receive a lot of gifts from all kinds of relatives, which you sometimes did not realize; the day when all wishes come true.

You clumsily shuffled along the road, shaking your back every now and then to adjust the heavy backpack. Things inside rattled a lot, and you tried to straighten your back faster to avoid crumpled packages.

Christmas was your favorite holiday. And although your parents have been working constantly lately, you were glad that you could spend this family holiday with your friends.

You met not so long ago, only about four months ago, when you first moved here. Ambrose turned out to be a very nice and cozy city with friendly and caring people. Mrs. Sinclair, Trudy, and your mom became friends right away— their interests converged on art. That's when I met her sons, the woman suggested that you make friends with them because of their similar age. And it turned out to be a very good idea. The boys quickly became addicted to you.

Once again adjusting the canvas straps of the backpack, you quickly climb the steps requested by the snow and knock on the sand-colored door several times. On the other side, there is a fussy shuffling and dissatisfied grumbling.

"Hello," you say, smiling, when the door swings open in front of you, revealing a view of the timid Vincent.

The guy nods to you and opens the door wider, motioning you to enter. You kiss Sinclair on the cheek of the mask. Brushing off your feet at the threshold, you quickly take off your shoes and leave your backpack at the shoe shelf. Music from an old radio is coming from the kitchen, some station unknown to you is playing old songs from the seventies. As soon as you entered the room, Vincent stood at the stove again, frying something in a frying pan. Whenever Trudy was busy making figures and arranging a museum that she someday wanted to open, it was Vincent who did the cooking and other household duties. Bo was stubborn and didn't want to do "women's" work, and Lester was still too young for such a large-scale activity. The latter was now sitting at the table and skillfully sliced an apple with a hunting knife into neat pieces.

"Morning, Lester," passing by the boy, you leave a small kiss on his forehead.

"Hi, Y/N!" Sinclair winces contentedly, flapping his big copper eyes.

You sit down next to the boy and imperceptibly take a piece of apple from under his nose, throwing it into his mouth contentedly. There were already several plates and cutlery on the table. Vincent loved order, so he prepared everything in advance.

"Where's Bo?" you ask, rocking slightly in your chair, for which you get a menacing look from Vincent.

"Mom asked him to help at the museum," Lester replied, "He should be back soon."

You notice how Vincent turns off the stove and turns his whole body in your direction. The guy takes a notebook lying on the table and quickly scribbles something.

"Have you had breakfast?"

"Yes," you say shortly, when Vincent closes the notebook and puts it back, "Honestly."

Sinclair puts the hot omelette on plates and pushes you a bowl of oatmeal cookies. You happily take one piece. Vincent sits down across from Lester and lifts the mask just enough to see his mouth. You frown, noticing the edge of his deep scar.

"Hey everyone," it was heard from the threshold, when the front door slammed shut with force, "Oh, honey, and you're here," Bo walks past you, lightly touching your shoulder in greeting, and sits down next to Vincent.

During brunch, you watch Lester and Bo actively negotiate. When their plates are empty, you decide to step in.

"Since everyone is here," you babble happily, clapping your hands to attract the attention of the guys, "I want to give you gifts a little earlier than planned, do you mind?"

"Of course not," Bo abruptly pushed away from the table, "I'm all for it, babe."

Bo winked at you playfully, to which you rolled your eyes. Vincent signed something, and you looked at Lester. Your sign language was not yet good enough to understand most of the phrases, you barely remembered the words of politeness. That's why you've always relied on little Lester at times like this.

"He said: "Why are you doing this so early?"", Lester explained, innocently blinking his eyes.

"What's the difference," Bo frowned, "Sooner or later — the main thing is that she gave."

You didn't comment on the elder Sinclair's words, but just got up from the table and went to your backpack resting in the hallway. When you came back, the brothers were already sitting in a kind of semicircle on the floor. Bo sprawled impressively closer to the sofa and grinned in anticipation; Lester, in his usual manner, sat cross-legged; while Vincent tucked his knees to his chest.

You sat down between the twins and put the backpack next to you, unzipping it. You said "Close your eyes" and, as soon as the boys fulfilled your request, you began to take out colorful boxes. All packages had the same color, different sizes. Alternately, you put the gifts in front of them and allowed them to watch. Lester giggled when he saw that his box was the biggest.

"Merry Christmas," you drawled, spreading your arms out to the sides.

The very first gift was opened by Lester. The boy happily tore open the package, scattering the paper around him, and screamed when he saw the cherished surprise. A big stuffed fawn. He had a soft beige body and neat brown horns sticking out in different directions. The muzzle was cheerful, with a big nose and shiny button eyes.

"I knitted it especially for you," you babble, smiling, when Lester looks up at you with an enthusiastic look.

"Thank you!" the boy throws himself on your neck with lightning speed, squeezing your body until the bones crunch; you stroke his back.

Bo was a little surprised when he saw a set of tools under the wrapper. He loved tinkering and was well versed in mechanics; the fact that you remembered about this hobby touched the guy a little; his lips curved in a slight smile.

"Well, thanks, babe," Bo grins, patting your hair.

You're pouting a little. All the time spent in the morning combing this tangled nest has gone to waste. You are dissatisfied with blowing off a few strands that caught your eye.

The last person to open his gift was Vincent. The boy very tenderly unwrapped the package, not trying to tear it, as if stretching and savoring this moment. You watched the deft but careful movements of his fingers with burning impatience. Finally, Sinclair took off all the paper, removing it from the side, and looked down at what he saw. A large set with colored pencils. Exactly the one that the boy looked at with undisguised envy in the window of an art store about a month ago. Did you remember that? With slightly trembling hands, Vincent takes the box and turns it in his hands. There were several more drawing pads under it.

Vincent looks at you, and you see the trembling gaze of his azure eyes in the slits of the mask. Such unbelievers, but at the same time grateful. You crawl up to the boy and hug him tightly, nuzzling his neck. Vincent lets out a ragged sigh.

"Merry Christmas to you, boys," you congratulate them once again, seeing the boys' satisfied smiles.

"So why did you decide to give it to us so early?" Lester asked, clutching the toy to his chest.

"Oh, that," you awkwardly fix your hair, "Well, my parents decided to leave. To another state. We'll leave tonight. So I thought I could have some fun with you now."

There was an oppressive silence in the room. You were afraid to look up, but you could feel the disappointment on the boys' faces. Your heart was painfully squeezed in your chest, from which you gritted your teeth with a creak.

"Will you come back?" Bo broke the silence.

"I don't know. Dad was offered a job in another state. Mom just said I wouldn't be able to see you."

You looked at each of the boys in turn. Vincent's head drooped, Bo's brows furrowed, and Lester's lips tightened into a crooked thread. The elder Sinclair sighed heavily.

"We'll be waiting. All together," he looked at you from under his brows, "Just try not to come back to us."

• Vincent loves sweets; but, often, Bo takes most of the goodies. That's why you put an envelope with several edible bracelets in one of the donated notebooks. Bo will probably consider them girly and will not take them away from his brother.

• You have been knitting a fawn for Lester for about five days; the boy is very happy with your gift. Your relationship is like a brother and a scary sister. He is always ready to rely on you; Sinclair is glad that he has such a caring person, unlike the same brothers (in particular Bo).

• Trudy adores you. You could say that in these few months she began to perceive you as her own daughter. You even know where the spare keys to the back door of the house are.

• Bo always tries to impress you as a self-sufficient high school student. He saw his father's old magazines with tackles, seduction and other materials not for children, so he decided to train on you. He didn't notice how he fell in love.

• Vincent is a good cook.

• Most of Vinnie's drawings in the new notebooks are you. He will paint your portraits for many years after your leaving.

[mads-nixon]

Meine Liebe

Dick Winters x Translator!Reader

Masterlist

Request: @flowers-and-fichte Hey! Thanks for the Chuckler headcanons! They're so cute! I've got another request :) it's BoB-related this time. Winters with a reader who is fluent in German and teaches him to speak it. And then one day he surprises her by speaking it (wedding proposal, just starts talking in it out of nowhere, whatever) to her and it's so freaking cute. Thanks! Take your time :)

A/N: i loved this concept!! thanks for the request! hbo owns the rights, and this is about the fictional portrayal of easy company on the show. nothing but love and respect for veterans on this blog!

Word Count: 4k

Warnings: none!

When (y/n) first signed up to be an intelligence translator for the Airborne, she had no idea what was in store for her. Jumping out of planes was expected, but what she couldn’t have expected was a red-headed man named Dick Winters. Nix introduced them in Aldbourne when she joined the company, and something about the Pennsylvanian struck her differently than the other men she’d met. Most eyed her warily, but the man she met that day flashed her a kind smile and a firm handshake, sending an unexpected warmth through her. 

“So you’re our new interpreter,” he stated, his polite eyes never leaving hers as he shook her hand.

(Y/n) nodded, her lips quirking into a grin. “Yes, sir. (Y/n) (y/l/n).

“Dick Winters,” he replied, releasing her hand after a few moments. “Welcome to Easy. Please let me know if you need anything.”

Before she could respond, Nix called out to her. “We’ve gotta get to battalion, come on.”

With a final nod to Winters, she saluted and turned on her heel, walking over to Lew who was sitting in the driver's seat of a jeep. “So, you met Dick,” he announced, shifting the jeep into drive. “Whatcha think?”

(Y/n) scoffed lightly as she gazed at the rows and rows of tents that lined the airfield. “I only spoke like two sentences to him, Lew.”

Luckily, Lew and (y/n) grew up in neighboring towns in New Jersey and knew each other through mutual friends. Everyone knew the Nixons for their nitration plant that was in Edison, but (y/n) knew the Nixon boy as the teenager who took her best friend to the prom and got so drunk that he threw up on her beautiful blue dress. Betty still hadn’t gotten over it by the time (y/n) left for basic. 

“No sparks flying yet?” he grinned, elbowing her shoulder playfully as he drove. “Give it time. I know it will.”

“What is wrong with you, Lewis?” she asked, her voice tinged with frustration. “I just met the guy! And we’re going off to war for Pete's sake, not some low-crawling pub where men are lined up to dance with me.”

Her job was to decode and translate intercepted German communications, as well as translate in the field and interrogate prisoners if need be. There were times when being the daughter of Austrian immigrants was awful, but other times, it came in handy. Without her parents teaching her their language, she wouldn’t be in her position in the Army. 

As the months passed in Aldbourne, (y/n) was swamped with intercepted communications, paperwork, and various intelligence reports. She rarely did anything other than work in her office, growing tiresome of the monotonous click-clack of the typewriter. What little time she did have outside the office was spent either visiting the Blue Boar with the other officers or quietly reading in the fields of wildflowers near her billet. 

The sun set perfectly on the lilies and colorful harebells, orchids, and cornflowers that were scattered among the grass. Any chance she got, she’d go lay out a blanket and get lost in the pages of “A Tree Grows in Brooklyn,” escaping the war as the words came to life in her mind. Time seemed to blur as the months stretched on in Aldbourne. 

With the follies of the Italian campaign, the Allies knew they had to try a different approach. Nixon and (y/n) had talked about the possible landing locations and tactics, but no plan was in motion quite yet. This did not stop them from preparing for the possibility. Easy’s training got increasingly realistic the further they got into 1944. By early February, Dick, Harry, and the other platoon leaders were brought in on the intelligence officers’ speculations. A few weeks later, (y/n) was working in her office when she heard a knock on the door.

“Come in,” she called, not looking up from her typewriter as she finished a translation.

The door creaked open, and in walked Dick who was wringing his hat between his hands, almost as if he was nervous. “Hi, (y/n). Sorry to disturb you.”

Hearing his voice, (y/n) looked up from the paper, a small smile forming as she took in his timid expression. “Hi, Dick. You’re not disturbing me,” she said, pointing to the large stack of papers on the corner of her desk. “These aren’t going anywhere.”

Dick clasped his hands behind his back and walked closer to the desk. “I wanted to ask you a favor.”

(Y/n) nodded, gesturing for him to sit in the extra chair beside her desk.

Dick sat down and continued. “Would you be able to teach me some basic German? I know that you are fluent in it, so-”

“Of course!” She interrupted, excitement lighting up her features. “I’d love to!”

Dick seemed surprised as he sheepishly smiled at her from across the desk. “It would be useful to know some phrases when we finally get into combat.”

“I think it’s a great idea.”

From that cold February day on, the pair met every Saturday night in (y/n)’s billet. Her host family, the Bennets, insisted on making a big family dinner every time (as large as they could with rationing), treating Dick as one of their own. (Y/n) watched from across the dining room table as he spoke to Mr. Bennet with a polite smile. The golden light from the setting sun filtered through the open blinds, highlighting the soft brown freckles that adorned his face. (Y/n) couldn’t help but admire his handsome features, a thought that she’d kept hidden mainly to keep Nix off her trail about the supposed ‘sparks’ that were supposed to fly between them at some point. 

“I was worried about you Yanks, but if they’re all like you lot, I think we’re in good shape,” Mr. Bennet laughed, scooping a forkful of roast into his mouth. 

Dick chuckled breathily, his eyes flitting to the (y/h/c) across from him, catching her staring red-handed. “Thank you, sir,” he replied, his face warming under her gaze. 

After the dinner table was cleared, they continued their weekly tradition, sitting across from each other once again. “These are pretty basic, but they’re important,” she began, her eyes locking with his. Repeat after me. ‘Guten Abend.’”

Dick listened carefully, his eyes drifting down to her lips before echoing her pronunciation. “Guten Abend.”

“Very good,” (y/n) praised, her smile growing. “Now how about ‘Bitte’ which means ‘please,’ and ‘Danke,’ which means ‘thank you.’   

“Next, let’s learn ‘Wie geht es Ihnen?” (y/n) said, her voice taking on a reassuring tone. “It means ‘How are you?’

As they repeated the words together, her beloved language created a unique connection between them that she never thought possible. It felt good to speak the language in situations other than wartime intelligence. As she taught Dick, she fell in love with her family’s native tongue all over again, but that love wasn’t the only thing blossoming in the cozy dining room.

Under the shade of a sturdy tree in the Bennet’s backyard, the late afternoon sun cast a glow over the yard. (Y/n) and Dick sat side by side, leaning against the trunk as they took a short break from their lesson.

(Y/n’s eyes began to droop, fatigue creeping in like a silent intruder. The lines of exhaustion were etched beneath her eyes, and Dick couldn’t help but notice her weariness. 

“Are you alright?” he asked gently, leaning closer to her, his brow furrowed in concern.

She sat up straighter, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand. “Yeah, I’m just tired,” she admitted, her voice a soft murmur.

Dick turned to her with eyes filled with worry. “Up late doing translations?”

(Y/n) nodded, her shoulders sliming slightly. “Yes,” she sighed, leaning her head back against the hard tree bark. “We’re getting more and more communications every day. It’s hard to keep up.”

Seeing her struggle, Dick scooted closer to her and paused before gesturing to his lap. “Here,” he suggested, his tone gentle. “It’s more comfortable than a tree,”

A small, tired smile crossed (y/n)’s face as she responded with a weary, “Yes, sir,” She laid her head on his lap, peering up at him through heavy-lidded eyes. 

Dick felt a warm, protective swell of emotion as she nestled into his lap. Her presence, despite her exhaustion, brought a sense of peace and contentment he hadn’t realized he was missing. He could always show up at her door and have dinner like there wasn’t a war going on. Their routine had developed into what he looked forward to the most as the week went on. Any conversations they managed to have during their daily regimens and workload were filled with smiles and talks of the upcoming weekend, Saturday’s dinner menu, and other little things that reminded him of home. 

A soft pink tinge rose from Dick’s neck to his cheeks as he brushed a strand of hair away from her face. “Better?” he inquired, his voice a soothing, gentle rumble.

(Y/n) let out a contented sigh, her eyes fluttering closed as she whispered, “Yes, thank you, Dick. I needed this.”

He watched over her with a mix of concern and affection, his fingers absentmindedly tracing circles on her shoulder. “You’ll work yourself to death in that office, (y/n).”

She squinted one eye open, her gaze focused on him. “I know,” she replied quietly, her voice tinged with desperation, “I can’t rest knowing my family is still stuck there, Dick.”

The lieutenant’s eyes saddened, his heart aching at the raw pain in her voice. He moved his hand from her shoulder to rub her hair back gently. “In Austria?”

(Y/n) nodded, her voice hushed and heavy with emotion. “Yeah,” she murmured, blinking to combat the tears that were filling her eyes. “My grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins…they all stayed. They’re still there, and we haven’t heard from them in almost a year.”

“So you’re doing this for them.”

“For them and all the other innocent people whose lives have been torn apart by Hitler,” she confessed, her voice wavering.

A tear trickled down the side of her cheek, and she felt a warm hand wipe it away gently. “I’m sure they wouldn’t want you to run yourself into the ground, sweetheart,” Dick murmured softly, the term of endearment slipping out before he could stop it. “When we finally do see action, you won’t be a hundred percent if you’re constantly running on fumes.”

She let out a shuddering breath, her emotions overwhelming her. (Y/n) sat up, shifting to bury her face into Dick’s shoulder, finding comfort in his embrace. His arms encircled her, pulling her into his side as he rubbed his hand soothingly along her back.

“Please take care of yourself. If not for them, do it for me. Please,” he whispered into her hair.

As the evening sun bathed them in a warm light, (y/n) pulled back from their embrace, her tear-filled eyes glistening with gratitude and adoration. She gazed into Dick’s calming, emerald-green eyes, vulnerability seeping from her. His eyes mirrored her intensity, and a soft, affectionate smile played on his lips. With her heart pounding in her chest, (y/n) brought her hand up to his cheek, her fingers tracing the contours of his skin with a gentle, trembling touch.

Their eyes met, and in that silent exchange, a powerful connection was forged. Slowly and with a sense of natural ease, she pulled him closer, guiding him toward her. Dick, momentarily taken aback by the unexpected tenderness of her actions, felt the soft, deliberate pressure of (y/n)’s lips against his. Their lips met, and their connection deepened as their mouths moved together, a tender and affectionate expression of their feelings. Their kiss was a gentle exchange of affection, an unspoken testament to the emotions that had quietly grown between them.

As (y/n) and Dick pulled back from their tender kiss, their actions spoke volumes in the quiet of that moment. Their lips slowly parted, the sensation of their kiss still lingering in the air like a sweet, unspoken promise. They looked into each other’s eyes, their gazes locked in a lingering connection that was filled with understanding. (Y/n) inched back slightly, her touch soft and tender as her fingers gently brushed over the freckles on Dick’s cheek as she withdrew from their intimate embrace. 

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice a gentle murmur, sniffling slightly as she rested her forehead against his. Dick’s heart raced, and he could feel her warm breath on his face. 

“They’ll be proud of you. I’m sure of it.”

MAY 7, 1944: BERCHTESGADEN, AUSTRIA

(Y/n) reclined on a wooden, sun-soaked deck chair, gazing out at the breathtaking landscape of the Bavarian Alps that stretched before her. The mountains stood tall and majestic, their peaks kissing the cloudless sky. She felt a sense of awe at the natural wonder surrounding her.

Harry sat at the end of her chair, and Ron and Nix were sitting on the one beside them, all three drunk as a skunk. Their voices filled the air with drunken excitement, and their ramblings brought a wide smile to (y/n)’s face.

Nix groaned in good-humored frustration, raising his fingers in a futile attempt to count off the main leaders of the Nazi party. “Hitler, Hitler…no.”

Rolling his eyes, Ron chimed in, his voice louder as they spoke over each other, creating a chaotic atmosphere. “Hitler, Himmler, Goering-”

“And Goebbels,” Harry finished, his grin infectious as he completed the list.

(Y/n) couldn’t help but laugh heartily, tears gathering in her eyes as she watched her friends stumble through their banter. The joy of the moment, the beauty of the scenery, and the relief from no constant action and danger all combined to create a warmth in her heart that was impossible to contain.

“I’m so glad I get to see this,” she wheezed between fits of laughter, her hand clutching her stomach as another wave of cackles escaped her. 

The sound of footsteps made her turn, and she saw Dick approaching with Lip. She smiled at him, her heart beating slightly faster when he returned a wink. 

“Hey, Adolf! Love your Eagle’s Nest,” Harry yelled, standing up wobbly and grabbing Dick’s shoulders. “I hope you don’t mind. We made ourselves at home. Love what you’ve done with the place here.”

(Y/n) chortled again, earning an amused look from Dick, who found the whole situation hilarious. But he had more important news to share.

Welsh grabbed a bottle of champagne and held it out for the major. “Hey, have a drink. Come on. Just so we can say we saw you do it,” he implored, staring for a moment as Dick didn’t respond. 

Smirking, (y/n) rose from her chair and gracefully pushed the bottle back toward Harry as she moved to stand between him and Dick. “You drink it, Welshy.”

Welsh retracted his hand, standing there for a moment like a pouting child, while Dick, who had patiently waited, pulled out a sheet of paper. He cleared his throat and started to speak, his gaze warm as he looked down at (y/n) beside him. “Listen up. From Corps, it just came in. Effective immediately, all troops standing fast on present positions.”

Nix rested his hands behind his head as he lay on the chair with a smirk. “Standing fast.”

Ron, his usually sharp eyes now glazed over from the alcohol, looked up and asked. “What does that mean?”

(Y/n) ran a hand down her face with a giggle. Her laughter was infectious, and the group chuckled, with Dick’s laughter being the loudest. His smile was the widest she’d seen in months, and the sight stirred something within her. 

“Do you want to hear it?” he asked the group as he wrapped an arm around (y/n)’s shoulder. 

Harry nodded, grunting in reply, and Dick repeated the sound, raising an eyebrow at the man. “Are you ready for it? Listen up, the German Army surrendered.”

The news sent a sudden hush through the group, and the jovial atmosphere vanished, replaced by a solemn and reverent feeling that settled inside each of them. (Y/n) looked up at Dick, her eyes widened in disbelief.

“Really?” she whispered, her voice filled with hope.

Dick nodded and squeezed her shoulder softly. “Yeah, sweetheart. They did.”

In that instant, she couldn’t contain her joy. She flung her arms around his shoulders, squealing happily, and he snaked his arms around her waist, hugging her tightly. The weight of the past years seemed to lift, replaced by a hope of peace in Europe for people like her family who were caught in the crossfire of war. As they pulled back from their hug, the sheer happiness of the moment made (y/n)’s eyes glisten with tears. Around them, the other officers were clapping each other on the back and expressing their own gratitude that victory in Europe had been achieved.

With a soft smile, Dick placed a hand on her lower back and led her to a farther part of the balcony, giving them privacy from prying eyes. He could see the curiosity in her eyes and as they found a quiet corner, he spoke in a hushed tone. “I got word today, (y/n). About your family.”

Her eyes widened in anticipation, and her heart raced. “My family? Where are they? She asked, her voice trembling with a mix of hope and fear. 

Dick placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, offering her the support she needed to hear the news. “They’re alive, (y/n). They’re living in Salzburg.”

The emotion she’d swallowed down came flying back, and tears welled up in her eyes again as her voice trembled with relief. “Salzburg? Oh, thank God,” she croaked.

(Y/n) couldn’t hold back her emotions any longer, and the tears streamed down her face as she wrapped her arms around Dick, hugging him tightly once again. It was a cry of pure relief, a release of tension that had gripped her heart for so long. 

Dick held her close, his own emotions stirred by the moment. He could feel her relief, his arms wrapped around her as he gently stroked her back. The news also meant that they were one step closer to going home. One step closer to spending the rest of their lives together.  

In the midst of the moment, (y/n) looked up at Dick, a radiant smile breaking through her tears. Her soft voice was barely more than a whisper as she spoke. “I love you, Dick.”

Their eyes locked in a tender, unspoken understanding as Dick leaned down to cup her cheek, his thumb gently brushing away a tear. “I love you, too, (y/n).”

The mountains of Berchtesgaden stood as silent witnesses to what was about to transpire. It was the perfect setting for a moment they would cherish forever. As they stood there, Dick took (y/n)’s hand in his, his gaze unwavering as he looked deep into her eyes. With a smile, he began to speak…but it wasn’t English.

“Meine Liebe, du weißt, ich bin nicht der Beste im Umgang mit Worten, aber ich liebe dich mehr als das Leben selbst. Ohne dich hätte ich das nicht überstanden und ich möchte nie wieder ohne dich sein,” he began, his heart pounding in his ribcage.

My love, you know I'm not the best with words, but I love you more than I love life itself. I wouldn't have gotten through this without you, and I don’t want to be without you ever again.

(Y/n) looked at him, her eyes widening in surprise and joy. She blinked in disbelief, her heart skipping a beat.

“Willst du meine Frau werden?” Dick continued.

Will you marry me?

A gasp escaped (y/n)’s lips as tears continued to trickle down her cheeks. She couldn’t believe what was happening, and her heart swelled. Dick got down on one knee, his eyes filled with a softer determination than the one she saw in his eyes on the battlefield. He reached into his OD pocket and pulled out a small, elegant ring.

In a voice filled with emotion, he asked, “Möchtest du mein leben mit mir teilen?”

Will you share your life with me?

Tears streamed down (y/n)’s face as she nodded vigorously, unable to speak through her overwhelming joy. She held out her hand, and Dick slid the ring over her finger. It fit perfectly, just as they did in each other's lives.

With a smile that held all the love in the world, he whispered, “Ich liebe dich.”

I love you.

With the golden rays of the setting sun casting a warm, enchanting glow on the balcony, Dick stood up from one knee and pulled (y/n) into a gentle, affectionate embrace. The light from the setting sun illuminated their features, turning their silhouettes into a work of art against the breathtaking backdrop. Their kiss was tender and sweet, filled with the promise of a future together.

Their actions were delicate and filled with longing. Dick’s arms enveloped (y/n) as he kissed her, his fingers brushing softly against her cheek, and (y/n) responded with more fervor, deepening the kiss. Her hands found their way to his shoulders, fingers clutching his uniform as if grounding herself in the reality of the moment. The hand on her cheek threaded into her hair and pulled her impossibly closer. 

With huge smiles on their faces, (y/n) and Dick pulled back from their kiss. The moment was perfect. However, their intimate moment was suddenly interrupted by a chorus of whistles and cheers coming from the adjacent balcony. Ron, Harry, Lip, and Nix watched on as the couple got engaged. They exchanged glances and held hands as they made their way toward the cheering men.

Nix hugged Dick and slapped him on the back, his expression a mix of humor and satisfaction. “Now if I remember correctly, some wise guy called this the first time you two met…oh wait, that was me.”

Dick’s brows furrowed in confusion, and he turned to his fiance for clarification. “What?”

Rolling her eyes playfully, (y/n) leaned into his side, patting his chest lightly. “Back in Aldbourne, Lew just thought that, and I quote, ‘sparks would fly’ between the two of us.

“Well, I’m so glad they did,” Harry laughed, holding up a wad of cash in front of him. “I’m a rich man now.”

The major blinked at Harry, his amusement evident. “How am I not surprised you bet on us?” 

“You think that’s all we bet on?” Ron slurred, sprawled out on a chair with his eyes closed. “We also bet on when-”

Thankfully, Lip stepped in to stop the Captain, who appeared to be thoroughly drunk. “Alright. Let’s get you to bed, sir.”

(Y/n) grinned, admiring Dick’s features above her. “Where did you learn all of that?” she asked. “Because I’ve never taught you anything that complex.”

“A man never tells his secrets,” he replied, kissing her temple lovingly.

“It was Liebgott, wasn’t it,” she chuckled, raising an eyebrow at him. “Cause only Joe knows that much German other than me.”

“Well,” Dick began, “There’s a lot more where that came from.”

“Oh really, Major Winters. Care to enlighten me?”

He sighed, “Nope. I’ve been practicing that for months. It’s all I’ve got.” 

“Then it’s a good thing you’ve got the best teacher by your side for the rest of your life, huh?”

Tag List: @liptonsbabe @footprintsinthesxnd @bucky32557038ww2 @flowers-and-fichte @merriell-allesandro-shelton @ronsparky

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[mrsvalbaker]

Sigtryggr x Uhtred's Daughter Headcanons Part I

Disclaimer: She is Uhtred and Gisela's daughter, a year older than Stiorra. Because of this I don't see the harm in naming her instead of calling her 'y/n', because I doubting 9th century times of Saxons and Danes with Dane parents she will be named Ashley or Cameron or Soledad, most of these languages didn't even exist yet.

With that rant aside, I am giving her the Norse name Kelda, and because she is Uhtred and Gisela's daughter she's going to resemble them.

Kelda is the oldest child of Uhtred and Gisela

When their mother left for Valhalla she took on the maternal role.

She looks after her father because he cannot look after himself when it comes to eating and getting enough sleep.

She encouraged Young Uhtred's dream of following the path of the nailed God, and was always trying to convince her father he must be supportive, and that he has that rebellious nature he inherited from him, and being a Rebel in this family means being a Christian

As much as she wanted to smother Stiorra for whining and complaining about being stuck with the children and in hiding, she refrained and understood how frustrating it could be. She prayed to Snotra at least ten times a day for guidance and wisdom.

She needed Stiorra though, for she's more of a warrior than Kelda.

Stiorra does what sisters do and taunt Kelda, saying she's too soft for a Dane and they would never want a flowery wife, Claiming she's better for a Saxon man.

Kelda rolled her eyes but she did worry.

She spends many time in the forest, worshipping the the huldrefolk, the skogsrå, Freya, and the nature deities. Often found dancing ritual circles outside, often naked.

She is very beautiful but doesn't see it herself, a womanly soft figure she resents, wanting to be petite like Stiorra like her mother was. Her breasts could hardly ever even be confined by her dresses.

And how she wished her hair were smoothe like silk like Stiorra and her mother.

Instead wild curls that tangled down to her wide hips was what Kelda possessed. A golden brown color amd usually adorn with flowers or prettily plaited. She washed it everyday with a lye soap she made with mint and lavender herbs, the lye is what caused her light brown hair to have a goldness to it. She would bathe in honeysuckle oil water she made as well and wash her face four times a day with chamomile soap and water. She dedicated these grooming times and beauty spells to Freyja.

Stiorra felt it to be silly and vain of Kelda, but these routines kept her constantly tumultuous life going, to being Uhtred's daughter, a little sane.

Kelda sewed herself dresses usually a similar color to cornflower, it was as her favorite as well as earthy blush tones, all made her hair color more pronounced, looked lovely against her sun-kissed skin (since she was always outside), made her very fully rosy lips appear more rosy, and her warm doe brown eyes appear almost golden.

She used to be very fond of Finan, and would learn Gaelic from him , but when she became older she realized how silly she was and felt nothing for him but familial love.

When she, Lady Aelswith, Stiorra, and Aethelstan were kidnapped, she was very afraid but only for the others not herself.

She vowed to do anything to protect them.

The stares of Haestens men did make her weary though, the way they'd comment on her sweet smell or her soft hair, or comment on her breasts. Stiorra squeezed her hand when she saw her sister tear up in fear of being taken by force.

But miraculously the journey to Winchester, or what was left of it, she was unharmed they all were.

When they arrived, she felt ill of the wild pregnant shieldmaiden, the Goddesses warned her she could feel it. But she stood in front of Stiorra and Aethelstan protectively looking brave and showing no weakness.

Catching the eye of the warlord, Lord Sigtryggr of Ireland.

His icy blue eyes had the most difficult time removing from this maiden who was obviously Freyja herself in the flesh.

He looked stoic to all in the room but all he could think of focus on, was how well her developed body filled out her torn blue dress, looking like a tempting huldrakall with her thick blood colored lips beckoning him like a spell, wild and beautiful goddess like hair with a color that reminded him of the sun lighting the earth, wanting to smell the locks. He looked into her wide, innocent eyes, lidded with long eyelashes and a pretty dark shade of the earth. Her cheeks are round and rosy despite her sun-kissed skin and Sigtryggr hardly recognized himself, for no maiden has ever made him feel this way. Unable to breathe, forgetting his plan and reason.

Brida demanded them to prove that they are Danes and asked the other girl who Frigga's handmaiden is, he was impressed with her correct answer proving her Dane heritage. She insulted the beauty and called her a Saxon outright. But she surprised Sigtryggr and all in the room when her sweet, soft voice spoke back with firmness. "I am a Dane like my sister, I worship Frigga and Freyja, I dance in midsommar for Sól and braid flower wreaths, I give myself to Freyja's Magick, pray at her alter. And right now I look to Snotra for guidance!"

His heart never raced so fast, and Brida seemed to recognize the girls claiming them to be the Dane-Slayer's children.

Brida wanted to throw the beauty to the men but Sigtryggr didn't let her, calmly demanding her presence with him.

Little did he know, she too could hardly take her eyes off of him as well.

[gffa]

Sometimes I get defensive about those house decor posts I see going around where people say that the neutral colors/black & white sleek look is "soulless" and they want to bite, kill, rend, and destroy for getting rid of the color in their homes. Setting aside that people should be allowed to do whatever they want in their own homes, let me tell you what "color" means to me: Everything in my life was a different color. Every room had every color crammed into it. Which sounds like, oh, that must have been a pretty rainbow effect! It wasn't, none of these colors were meant to go together, it's a hot pink plastic shoebox set on top of a dark brown folding table holding three wildly different shades of brown hand towels, some cornflower blue notebooks, and orange pens. It's burnt orange shag carpeting in the living room and hallway, with slate blue chairs, and a white tv tray loaded up with bright yellow pill and cornflower blue bottles and pale wood bookshelf next to dark brown folding table next to pine-colored dresser next to medium dark wood nightstand, all of those that fake material with the sticker made to look like wood, not actual wood. It's lime green countertops and dark beige flooring with one faded yellow wall, one off-white wall, and one faded mint green wall. It's a pine wood mimicking kitchen table with gold trim that's a sticker not actual wood, combined with one black rolling chair, one maroon and oak chair (not actual wood), and one gray upholstered chair. It's a robin's egg blue frayed blanket tossed over the red-and-black walker in the corner, which is also loaded up with the dark green and dark blue exercise bands. It's white and beige pieces of paper plopped everywhere. And all of these colors are faded so they're not really even pretty on their own, it's just a mishmash everywhere. All of this together in one house and that's just a fraction of it, it's a constant clashing of colors and, if there was a foot of space against the wall available, it had another dresser, nightstand, or bookshelf shoved into it. I look at some of these colorful homes that people love and I think they're beautiful and I get so much joy out of people in their homes loving their surroundings! But I will never be able to live in that kind of color for myself again without being heartsore about it. I've gone for a neutral palette now that I'm making the design decisions, I'm choosing white walls (admittedly with a little bit of a blue undertone that you only notice when it's picking up other things' colors), black trim, and gray/white/black/brown reclaimed wood flooring. I picked out a gray/white/black comforter to throw over the bed with a black headboard and black + gray pillows. I'm getting some subtle green accents to put in the room, the guest room has been going with a pale yellow theme (to accent the black/white/gray/grown colors), I'm not eschewing color all together, but those bright, overwhelming colors are not what makes my soul sing. Neutral colors are not a soulless choice on my part, it's the first time in my life that I feel like it's finally clean, that I can breathe properly. You could scrub down a room with seafoam and forest green colors and have it so clean you could lick the walls and I would still have to go outside and take a moment to gather myself together if I had to live in it, because for me "color" means messy and I've had an entire lifetime of mess. I love when people put bright orange or bright green on their walls, that rocks and I will come over and genuinely tell you how beautiful it is, because I understand that it makes your soul sing. But understand that, in turn, having sleek, subtle colors makes my soul sing in a way that's just as genuine.

[artsandculture]

Portrait of Maria Ivanovna Lopukhina (1797) 🎨 Vladimir Borovikovskiy 🏛️ Tretyakov Gallery 📍 Moscow, Russia

The portrait of M. I. Lopukhina is one of the intimate portraits painted by Borovikovsky at the turn of the 18th–19th centuries. Similarly styled works by the artist are his portraits of E. G. Temkina (1798, Tretyakov Gallery), E. A. Naryshkina (1799, Tretyakov Gallery) and others.

Maria Ivanovna Lopukhina (1779–1803) was the Count I. A. Tolstoy’s daughter and F. I. Tolstoy’s sister. In the year the portrait was made, she turned eighteen and got married to S. A. Lopukhin, a Jägermeister and chamberlain at the court of Paul I. The portrait appeared because of this event. It could have been commissioned by the prospective husband or the woman’s parents. The painting was intended for the family gallery and had to correspond to the latest trends in painting of that time, the trends of Sentimentalism.

The art of Sentimentalism praised the harmonious relationship between man and nature. In portraits the women images were incorporated into landscape themes (corners of parks with clear blue skies). Nature both beautifully framed a woman’s beauty and reminded of the world of the artist’s heroines who went on solitary walks, read sentimental novels, and had girlish dreams.

Borovikovsky created the image of a young woman whose perfection resembled an ancient statue. Everything in the image (the soft shape, the white marble skin, the grace of the pose, and the embossed folds of the tunic) seems to be borrowed from classical sculpture. But the earthly beauty of youth emerges through the charm of the statue that has the evanescent, soft complexion, and she looks lively with a blush and sparkling eyes.

The expression on Lopukhina’s face, like the famous “smile of the Mona Lisa” portrayed by Leonardo da Vinci, cannot be definitely described. The model’s look changes with each viewpoint and the light: it becomes either proud and indifferent, or soft and thoughtful, and then mocking and rather flirtatious. It was characteristic of Sentimentalist artists to wish to convey a rich range of feelings.

The landscape surrounding the woman’s figure was invented by the artist. It acquires the properties of a mirror: the woman’s shawl is similar to the color of roses; her tunic is akin to the color of lilies and trunks of birches; her belt is of the color of the sky and cornflowers, and the gold threads in the belt and the bracelet are similar to wheat seeds. The interchange of color emphasize Lopukhina’s inextricable relationship with surrounding nature.

The portrait of Lopukhina is the pinnacle of Borovikovsky’s art. Later, Ya. P. Polonsky dedicated his poem “To the Portrait” (1885) to this canvas.

[louis-antoine-leon-saint-just]

@camijust

Such a sweet and refreshing question, citizen!

Let's see... Unlike what some might think, I prefer simple flowers, like the ones that grow in the fields and trees around my house in Blérancourt. I must admit I have a soft spot for poppies. I believe this is why I knowingly altered Titus Livius' story and directed my adolescent ire towards those poor ferns instead.

There aren't many blue flowers, I think. (My favorite color is blue. I used to like red too before... before I see too much of it, let's say. It's still beautiful in flowers though. Flowers are pure and innocent...) There's the cornflower though. In the fields between Varennes and Valmy the blue cornflowers and the red poppies bloom with the white chamomile:

Isn't it poignantly beautiful? Sublime, even. I must say, these meadows have been sufficiently watered with blood for many centuries to come. May they humbly accept simple rainwater from now on.

OOC note: I swear this was going to be simple and normal... but of course it led to researching the flowers that grow in Aisne, and reflecting on the Livy anecdote and why he might have used ferns instead even though poppies are in bloom then (were there none? or was it a choice?), and ended with melancholic ramblings on the bleuet (cornflower), which is the equivalent in France to the poppy in the Commonwealth, because I found this beautiful picture on this page, and saw what region this page was about, l'Argonne i.e. these flowers grow right in the region where so many died during so many wars... The symbolism was too powerful - flowers, dead soldiers, La Marseillaise, Saint-Just just took over the keyboard. He had to make it sad again. He can't help it.

ETA: So fate played a very funny trick on me. It turns out that the flowers that grow around his house... are roses. And it is SO like Saint-Just to hide it behind "oh you know, just simple flowers growing around my house" and not say the truth except I swear I wasn't doing that this time, because I didn't check the pictures of his house in a long time. I was just picturing field and trees in general, you know, until @aedesluminis points me to that post. And this is SO FUNNY because roses ARE actually MY favorite flower, I, the real breathing living person behind this RP blog. But I don't think they would be Saint-Just. They might seem too aristocratic to him (though there are wild roses - that's what they originally were). All of this is so funny to me right now... this really feels like fate played a trick on me. Or like he does possess me after all. Who knows.

[bonefall]

personally i would enjoy an ivypool, if you haven’t done her yet. she is one of my favorites, i always picture her as a kind of lanky skinny pointy cat

[ID: BB!Ivypool, she is a gray-and-white tabby with cornflower blue eyes, a noteworthy swirled tail, and a 'beret' over one ear. A family tree displays how she is now the great-great granddaughter of Redtail, and a comparison is drawn between his facial features and hers.]

My takes'a little different from popular fandom interpretation! She is an echo of my Redtail design. They have a very similar personality and she's like a cool-color version of him. She even inherited his tail, also seen in Squirrelflight and Rosetail (Red and Spotty's new mom).

It's haunting for Tigerstar, to see Hawkfrost bring in a cat who reminds him so much of his first victim. He's harder on her than other trainees because of it, which is one of the reasons why Hawk's faith in his father starts... wavering.

Ivypool is dour, serious, and ambitious. She has her eyes on deputyship, but has a bad habit of keeping grudges a lot like her dad Lionblaze.

Though born to an accident between Jay and Poppy, she was raised by, and considers Cinderheart and Lionblaze her parents. She has... complicated feelings towards Fallenleaf and Toadstep, and had trouble bonding with her new half-siblings through Cinderheart.

We're not even getting into the tension she has with Dovewing because we'd be here all day

During ThunderClan's Tempest, three kittypets end up joining the Clan including Fiddles, who becomes Fernsong. He came at JUST the right time to accidentally spark a MASSIVE breakup between Blossomfall and Ivypool. Blossom never really got over it.

Fernsong was the primary parent of their kittens, Flipclaw, Thriftear, and Bristlefrost, with Ivypool happily continuing to do the jobs that give her the most fulfillment. Ivy is now one of the POVs in TBC, taking it from Bristlefrost who is executed publicly by the impostor.

She will eventually be covered in scars, the tons of white space is going to help with that. I won't put the scars on until I have stories for each though.

Hawkfrost is her Dark Forest mentor; Brightheart is her Waking World mentor.

She becomes incredibly close to both of these cats.

Hawkfrost is lost in the Great Battle, becoming a ghost among ghosts in the Dark Forest.

Thrift is named after a beautiful flower Ivy saw on a cliffside during a salt patrol, in Clanmew this name is "Paharl," an ancient Lakemew word shared by Fallenleaf.

Her favorite food is blackberry pemmican and she likes chewy textures.

Stats: Strong fighter, decent at most things.

[sixminutestoriesblog]

sapphire

Children born when Autumn leaves are rustling in the September breeze, a Sapphire on her brow should bind. It will cure diseases of the mind.

We're in September and its time to celebrate this month's birthstone, the sapphire. Hailing from the same mineral family as rubies, sapphires, with their rich blue color, have long been a favorite with royalty around the world. Most recently, England's Princess Diana was famous for hers. Did you know that sapphires come in more than just blue however? Sapphires come in almost every color from orange to green to brown to even a clear, colorless kind. In Sri Lanka there's a beautiful pink-orange version of the stone they call the 'lotus flower' - padparadsch. Particolored sapphires are stones with two different colors in them. Found predominately in Australia, these rare colored stones have yet to be recreated in labs, making them true natural wonders. Even when you have a blue sapphire the color choices don't stop there. The blue can range from a light cornflower blue to a deep almost violet color.

But wait! There's more!

Some very rare sapphires reflect the light back in the form of a six point star, something known as asterism. The Star of Adam is one of the world's largest gemstone, a massive star sapphire larger than a chicken egg. The Black Star of Queensland is an almost black star sapphire once worn by Cher. And the famous Star of Bombay sapphire had the British name a gin after it, Bombay Sapphire.

Now that labs can manufacture sapphires, clear sapphires are most often produced and used as the 'glass' for windows that need to be highly scratch and heat resistant and are often used in high pressure or vacuum chambers. There have even been attempts to use them in iPhone screens. Sapphires are popular with lasers as well, since they can be minutely attuned to a wide spectrum range of visible and invisible light.

As mentioned previously though, sapphires have fascinated humans long before science found a use for them. Colored blue, the stone is often associated with the sky and leaving the more mundane layers of this earth behind. The ancient Greeks and Romans thought that wearing the stone would turn aside the ill will and envy of others. In Medieval Europe, sapphires were thought to call in the blessings of Heaven and were often worn by clergy in the Roman Catholic Church. In some Hindu beliefs, the sapphire was only meant for some people, bringing bad luck to others. To find which you were, you slept with the stone under your pillow for three nights. If your dreams were good, the sapphire would bring you enlightenment, protection and luck. If your dreams were bad, the stone would only bring you sorrow and better to be rid of it.

There is a legend that the Ten Commandments were written on sapphires.

Sapphires are supposed to be able to ward off the evil eye.

Lastly, sapphires are supposed to be medicinally healthy for the eyes, to ward against melancholy and to protect against mental illness. Mary, Queen of Scots, wore a sapphire necklace she could rub against her eyes to relieve the strain on them.

[robinnsblog]

✨The demons and flowers✨

Because the girls aren’t the only ones with flowers associated with them. Maybe they can offer us some insight into the demons?

👁️Ozzy👑

Hibiscus, perhaps? It’s said that they’re associated with beauty, love, passion, wealth and fame, and the color purple in flowers also symbolizes respect, royalty, dignity, tradition and success.

Not sure if Ozzy feels any respect towards Elise —despite her framed portrait—, but if we compare how he treats her and how he treats her daughter (Goldia), it’s obvious who he likes better.

🐦‍⬛Murim💍

No doubt that those are poppies.

They’re a symbol of sleep, peace and death, and in Greek and Roman myths, they were used as offerings to the dead. They also have a second interpretation, the promise of resurrection after death — when they’re orange, like in Murim’s realm, they do stand for health and regeneration.

I don’t think the blue bird is carrying a poppy in its mouth, it looks more like a rose —I could be wrong—, but it does help in resurrecting Elise after a game over…

… and Murim doesn’t say that he’s ruler of crows, exclusively.

🐍Aziel🎼

It could be a type of cornflower, also known as bachelor’s button. This moniker comes from the old practice where men wore a cornflower in their lapels to signify their availability in courting, and it’s the reason romance and patience are associated with this flower.

It symbolizes hope in love, quite fitting for the demon who demands Elise to show how much she cares for her beloved, whose questioning foreshadows the good endings.

[shawnxstyles]

sweet alert!

DATE: JUNE 30, 2023

summary: peter invites you to the cabin. later, jax tries to talk to you and peter recalls his past.

song: Science- niall horan

words: 4.3k

warnings: mentions of death and blood, language, angst, and bits of fluff

note: the big chunk of italics are a flashback, but i think that’s obvious. i hope you guys like this part 5, it’s been awhile :) part 4 // peter masterlist

—

peter thought that walking you home would have been the most stressful thing in the world. but it turned out to be one of the most comfortable and heartwarming things he’s ever done. even in this cold weather.

together you talked about little things, but important things. things that seemed impossible, but only to the small-minded. not like your favorite color or schoolwork, but your dreams. what’s your dream vacation spot? your dream house? dream car? what do you aspire to be? who do you aspire to be?

questions like these were brought up, but not all were answered.

you said you wanted to get out of queens and live in the suburbs. or somewhere secluded and alone with nothing but the wilderness surrounding you. you didn’t care too much about money; you wanted to hear people’s stories. so you said you wanted to be some type of social worker too—in all, you just wanted to be happy. random, but notable.

were you not happy now? peter thought.

peter didn’t care what questions you were answering. but at the same time, he cared an overwhelming amount. he just loved hearing you talk and worshiped the things you said.

like you, peter had dreams. he believed everyone had dreams. who didn’t? besides his career dreams and bucket list goals, you were a walking dream in his eyes. a fleeting, golden glow of essence that affected him more than any superpower he had.

if only you saw him the way he saw you.

peter was a perfectionist. now, he wasn’t perfect by any means, but he wanted to be the best for you. he’d realized later, though, that you were simpler than that. sometimes, peter put you on a pedestal, afraid to touch you or even look at you. he didn’t need to be some perfect man to just hang out with you. so, peter resorted to being himself. kind of.

he wishes he was courageous enough to swoon you on your doorstep under the porch light. as you would turn away to walk inside, he would spin you around by your wrist and catch you in a deep, movie-like kiss. ha, imagine if he asked you to go to the cabin with him. now that would be ridiculous.

would it?

as he walked you home and envisioned this, these scenes were just one of the many fantasies he pictured with you. it was all only a fantasy.

“well, thank you with walking me,” you blurted out in the chilled air. your soothing voice shakes peter from his daydreams, or evening dreams because the sun was setting.

the sky faded from a cornflower blue to a deep indigo with white freckles. he forced himself to look away from the planet’s beauty because he could watch the sky all night—it was never leaving. however, you were leaving in a few moments.

“oh yeah, of course,” he stuffs his hand in his pockets to hide his fiddling fingers. you both slow down your stride as you approach your house, stopping in the front of your lawn.

“i’m sorry again about jax…” you look down as your eyes wander on the concrete, ashamed.

“it’s not your fault he’s a jerk,” peter is quick to reassure you as you slowly nod. you finally look up at peter, who is already looking at you. a familiar blush rushes to his cheeks, and he hopes you think it’s from the chill outside.

your eyes are sparkling from the streetlight as the area around you guys gets darker, colder. your face somehow still glows even during the night. not to be creepy, but peter could gaze at you forever like you were his favorite art piece in an entire gallery.

“sometimes, i wish i could get away, you know?” your eyes rip apart from his and stare towards your sneakers. your heart is beating way too quickly in your chest for a staring contest. it was cold and your body was trying to warm you up. simple.

“yeah,” peter’s first thought is the cabin, but you’d never want to go with him to that. you guys barely knew each other. even if you said you wanted to leave extremely bad, peter couldn’t ask you.

why? just ask her, you coward! the voice in peter’s head shouted. but what if she rejects you, dork? the devil on his shoulder retaliates.

you know what? he’s trying to be more courageous anyway. what’s the worst that could happen?

oh god i’m really doing this, he worries.

“i-i know a place where you can get away,” he stutters, mentally cursing at himself. you tilt your head in curiosity as you wait for him to continue. “my friend has this cabin that he’s going to next weekend with his girlfriend. he’s been begging me to go with him, but i didn’t want to third-wheel and you said you wanted to get away and i was just thinking maybe—”

“that sounds great, peter,” your soft, soothing voice cuts off his ramble thankfully. peter blinks a few times, in complete disbelief. instead of beating rapidly in his chest, his heart stopped abruptly. no blood, no breathing—he was just still.

wait, you said yes? no. fucking. way.

“fuck…” you groaned, clutching your stomach. peter pinches his eyebrows in concern.

“what—oh—right, sorry,” peter cringes at himself, realizing your pain. he wants to hug you and make it all go away. why couldn’t he have healing powers? but he can’t, so he just scratches his neck awkwardly.

“i should get going. text me the details,” you half-smile, clearly still in pain. peter waves you off, trying to hide his excitement. he waits until you shut the front door to walk away, a fluttery feeling erupting in his heart.

peter tucks his hands into his pockets, striding around the corner. looking all ways, he throws his hood over his head and readies his webs. he fires them towards the nearby lamp post and slings himself in the air.

while flying through the streets, he realizes that he doesn’t actually have your phone number. oh, well. that’s just another excuse for him to talk to you.

—

peter could not hold it in. he couldn’t wait the weekend to tell ned at school, so he facetimed him. he rambled from start to finish starting with the fight with jax and asking you to the cabin. ned’s jaw had fallen open in the beginning and didn’t close until the very end.

“peter…” was the only word he was able to form. peter couldn’t stop smiling, constantly replaying your soft voice in his head. it was like a dream; his dream making another dream come true. it was almost too good to be true. “you’re in, my dude! she totally wants you!”

peter didn’t think he could verbally deny it. of course, his head was telling him to not get ahead of himself, but he couldn’t help it right now. he felt like he was on top of the world, like the universe was finally on his side.

was it too good to be true?

—

peter knew this school week was going to be torturous. he knew that he would be crawling towards this three-day weekend slower than a turtle in quicksand. the only thing helping him through it was you, and the fact that he would see you every day during third.

speaking of which, as he was sitting patiently (or impatiently) in his desk, peter watched you strut into the room.

your hair was straightened, which wasn’t too often for you. a black, ribbed shirt fits your figure perfectly along with loose, green camouflage pants. moving past him, he saw your large gold hoops poking from your hair. his eyes were trapped in a gaze at where you stood, mesmerized by the air you left. when the bell rang, he was still staring, daydreaming into space.

every time he saw you smile he swore the clouds parted and the sun shined a little brighter. your smile could make angels descend from heaven.

“hello, class,” the teacher starts, folding her hands together. “i’ve given you all a few days to answer the before-researching questions. that should be finished by now. at this point, you should have some of your research done and should be writing your source pages…”

peter honestly zoned out. this is one of the first times he hasn’t paid attention in school. he wasn’t really worried about it though; he would catch up easily. when the teacher claps, that’s the cue for everyone to gather in their groups. peter snatches his bag and heads towards the back with a smile on his face.

“hey, parker,” you smile widely, almost showing your teeth. peter smiled back. you looked great today. well, of course, you looked great everyday, but you didn’t look ill anymore.

maybe your period was over.

your period was over, thank the heavens. that was one of the good side effects of your birth control. the bad ones consisted of horrible cramps and a depressive mood.

you really needed to change it…

peter laid the groundwork on the desk in front of him and started filling out some of the questions. last class he did everything by himself because he didn’t want you to stress even more than you probably were. you found it sweet. you found peter sweet. in a store full of candies and chocolates, he’d be the best thing there. he’d be the reason people come into the store, just so they can see him.

peter was really the only thing that made you come to english, and with a little smile on your face.

did that mean something? no, no.

“i can help, you know,” you chuckled, “i’m not completely useless.”

“of course, i know that. i’m just trying to get this done,” peter didn’t really want to say it, but you guys were a bit behind. last class he was so infuriated with how jax was treating you that he didn’t get much done. he’s barely finishing the before-researching questions.

“oh okay,” you nodded and folded your hands, not really sure what to do. you actually felt good today and you wanted to assist peter with the project. you were in a better state of mind than you were on friday. peter notices this from the corner of his eye. his heart skips a beat for some reason, even though it’s been relatively calm next to you.

peter’s heart? calm? next to you?

“actually, can you go grab a computer? then we can try to start our research,” peter suggests. you salute him and slide out from your desk, following his orders.

he finishes up the last question with ease since he read the book over the summer. peter doesn’t actually know if you read it, but he wouldn’t be surprised if you didn’t. it’s okay, he doesn’t mind. he’s used to his partners not doing anything. but unlike them, you actually want to help. plus, peter really likes working with you.

suddenly, peter’s ears tingle, making his pencil halt. all the chatter in the room goes muffled for him besides the voices his ears are zoning in on.

it’s you and jax near the computer cart.

trying not to make it obvious, peter rests his head on his hand and sneakily peeks at you two while listening intently.

“looking good today,” jax clicks his tongue, smugness evident in his tone. you ignore and don’t engage—your motto. jax clearly doesn’t like that, so he continues on to get your attention.

“so, how’s your little nerd-friend?” jax taunts from behind you in line for the computers. you try not to indulge or be affected, keeping your face front as you wait patiently. but it was hard when your feelings toward peter were soft and endearing unlike jax’s poisonous intentions. he didn’t deserve to be bullied, especially by someone who’s a waste of space.

wait… feelings? like friend feelings, right?

“he’s good. thanks for asking,” you take a step forward, bending down to look into the cart.

“have you fucked him yet?”

your heart skips a chaotic beat, causing you to terminate your movements. your jaw and eyelids tick, frustration firing up in your veins. you swear to god you were going to hit him.

ignore, don’t engage.

“what the hell am i saying?” jax says with a dry chuckle, bending down near the cart. you turn your head towards him with an angry, confused expression. “you probably don’t even need to fuck him. he’s probably doing all the work for you and you don’t even have to bat a fucking eye. or—that’s all you do. just sit there and look pretty. isn’t that right?”

your lips were pursed together tightly at his words and your fingers were nearly shaking from rage. you swear at this point there was no one in your life that infuriated you more than jax. not even your father.

peter’s heart was pounding. he couldn’t believe the nasty words he was hearing. without thinking, peter stands up to head to the computer cart. his pencil snaps completely in half in his hand, too irritated from jax’s behavior.

you wanted to respond, but you couldn’t. you didn’t know what to say to such a comment. it was obviously wrong because peter wasn’t like that. he was pure and he was innocent, unlike anyone you’ve ever known. he wasn’t fucked up in the head. he didn’t need to go parties where there were drugs and drinks to make himself feel better. he didn’t need to fuck people to feel validated.

peter had a clear future, and you didn’t. he knew what he what he was doing, and you didn’t. he had self-control. and you didn’t. not anymore.

jax was getting in your head. you were more than just your looks. you were smart. you may not be peter’s level of intelligent and you might not be amazing at school, but you had your own thing.

as you opened your mouth to sprout fire on jax, a soothing voice appears like a guardian angel.

“i’m kind of stuck on one of the questions. do you mind looking at it? i can grab this,” peter rushes his words, trying his best not to stumble over them in anxiousness. his heart was racking impossibly quick in his chest with you staring at him and jax’s eyes burning into his face.

peter saw relief splash over your face like cold water. it was very rare for peter to need help on anything in school, so the fact that he was asking you proved that he was really helping you out. he gave you a clear out and you didn’t hesitate to take it.

“y-yeah, i’ll go look at it right now,” you tuck some hair behind your ear and shuffle your way towards the back, not giving jax another look.

peter didn’t think this far ahead. he didn’t think at all really. but now he was standing awkwardly with jax hovering practically above him, glaring at him with flaming machetes in his eyes. as peter reaches to grab a computer, jax aggressively pokes him with two thick fingers.

“you—”

“is there a problem here, mr. campbell?” the teacher announces beside both of the boys. her hands are folded together in front of her, waiting for him to respond.

with a strong jaw and the world’s tightest smile, jax replies, “no, ma’am.”

“we were just talking,” he roughly pats peter’s back before walking away and going to his desk. that whole interaction felt like hours, when it was maybe a few minutes. peter didn’t know. he just snatched a computer and made his way back to you.

“you okay?” peter softly asks, placing the device on the desk. you were completely zoned out, eyes still and lips remaining pursed. “y/n?”

you shake your head, hoops dangling through your hair. you turn to peter and give him a fake smile and lightly nod. the one you show when you’re not okay, but can pass for “i’m alright, don’t mind me.” people usually see that smile and leave you alone.

peter sees that look on your face and knows you’re not really okay. he’s seen the expression of someone trying to conceal their anger, fear, or sadness too many times. he’s seen it on victims in the street, his friends, family, and even in the mirror.

when peter lost his parents, he had that face a lot. people from everywhere asked him about his parents, even people who he barely knew or haven’t talked to in years. to peter, they didn’t really care, they just wanted to know more information. right after they say i’m sorry for your loss, their follow-up question is always what happened? even when they know. everyone knows. word gets around.

it’s not every day that someone’s parents die in a car accident while the child lives. devastating, right? peter was only eight years old. he remembers that night more vividly than any other memory. how could he think of anything else but the death of his parents?

his parents were the kindest people he’d ever known. most people don’t get to say that about their parents, but peter could say it without hesitation. when they were taken from him, right in front of his innocent eyes, everything just…

“that food was delicious,” peter’s father, richard, starts as they get into the car. peter was so full he could barely walk to the car, so his dad carried him. he got very sleepy just from the short walk.

“i agree,” mary, his mother, smiled with a nod. her teeth were big and white, while her bottom row was a little crooked. her hair was straight and short—a little past her shoulders like dark oak. peter thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world. and so did his father.

his father was a smart man; assistant of some sort that peter didn’t remember. he just knows that he got a lot of money because he said peter could have any action figure he wanted. that’s so many!

he was clean shaven. he rarely had a beard, but when he did, peter knew he was hard at work. he had smile marks around his lips and the darkest green eyes peter had ever seen.

“what did you think, peter?” his mom asked, twisting her head. he yawned in response as he sat in the backseat, little hands rubbing his tired eyes. his parents cohesively chuckled as his father started the engine.

“are you buckled?” his dad questions, adjusting the mirror a tad.

“yes, dad,” peter grumbled, shifting around in his seat to get comfortable. he rests his arm on the right side door, leaning on his open palm.

peter feels the smoothness of the road beneath the car and gets even sleepier. he sees the dim headlights flashing behind his closed eyelids as he drifts off to slumber. his parents quietly converse all the way home.

“our sweet boy,” he barely hears his mother mumble. he can envision the endearing look on her face.

what felt like a few seconds went by, and then peter was jolted awake. his body was flung forward, neck straining and slamming against the side door. his body erupts in an ache, his right arm screaming in sharp pain.

when the blurriness fades from his vision, he zones in on the scene around him. it was horrific.

his beloved mother and father lie drenched in their own blood, heads bent towards their laps. peter couldn’t see their faces, but he desperately wanted to.

“mom? dad?” peter croaks. he unstraps his seatbelt with his left hand, clutching his right wrist. he leans over the console, staring at his parents’ state.

he was in such shock he didn’t know what to do. his heart was beating uncontrollably fast, but he felt as if everything was moving in slow motion. with wide, glossy eyes, peter stares at his parents collided with some white balloon, nudging them with desperateness.

“mom! dad! wake up!” he shouts fearfully, but they don’t respond. he pushes them by their shoulders until they’re shaking and he’s screaming their titles, but they don’t answer.

peter blocked out the squealing sounds of the sirens and the sight of the red and blue. the amount of brightness around should have blinded him, but nothing blinded him more than the scene unfolded in front of him.

choked up and crying, tears streamed down peter’s cheeks as the left side of the car door was open. his hands were trembling, vibrant with crimson liquid he didn’t know was there. he stares at the man with a shining flashlight, urging him to exit the vehicle.

peter is hesitant, but follows out of fear. arm still in hand, a group of people crowd him and usher him around. he doesn’t know what’s going on, everything is just slowed down. looking through the chaos of people, he spots another car that collided with his parents.

sliding his way through the officers and emergency workers, peter makes his way to the car.

the car that crashed into his parents’ seemed less ruined, and the guy in the front seat seemed less hurt. peter stared at the man covered in his own blood. he watched as his body slumped over the console, giving out.

mindlessly, the world becomes muted as peter get dragged away into an ambulance. he winces in pain as he’s strapped into a stretcher, neck burning. from the bottom of his eyes, he can see so many lights; white, red, blue, yellow.

as the doors to the ambulance shut, the only scene replaying over in peter’s head is the sight of his bloody parents and the drunk man in the other car. their last words will always echo in his head: “our sweet boy.”

over and over. and over and over. for his whole life.

it never went away. it never really…

stopped.

as peter got older, he was allowed to learn more about his parents’ death. he was able to accept it more. he went to therapy since then, but he hasn’t gone recently. he hasn’t felt the need to. and yeah, he knows that that’s the point when you’re supposed to stay because it’s working. but he’s too busy now. plus, he’s been a bit distracted lately. maybe that’s just what he needs.

may just listens, and he loves that. yes, she gives him lectures and all the normal parent stuff, but she never forces him to talk about it. not only did she lose her younger sister, but she was given a child without a warning. may was always a free spirit, someone who never settled. but she had no choice but to when peter was placed into her hands.

she took him in without a second thought, and he’s never been more grateful for anyone or anything.

“peter?” your hand rests on his tightened shoulder, which relaxes from your touch. his glossy, zoned out eyes blink a few times before focusing in on you, just like you had moments ago.

you noticed a shift in his demeanor, but didn’t dare to comment on it. you just concentrated on researching on your computer. you two didn’t speak for the rest of class. it wasn’t awkward but comforting. it was good to know that you didn’t have to forcefully converse with peter. sometimes you could just sit in silence. even though the classroom wasn’t very quiet.

when the bell rang, peter sighed and tucked his notes into his backpack. you watch with some sadness, wondering what off-set his mood so much. you gently shut the computer as peter gets ready to leave.

“peter, wait!” you call out as you hurriedly shove the computer into its slot. he turns around with a wistful look on his face with a tad bit of sadness laced in his features.

“yeah?”

“thank you,” you inhale as you stare at him. eyes wondering over his face. he half-smiles at you, the same expression you were giving him earlier. “it’s going to be okay.”

you didn’t even know why you said that, but you felt like he needed to hear that. he releases a shaky, wavering breath as your hand lies on his strapped shoulders.

“you think so?” peter mindlessly asks, staring into your eyes. it’s the first time he’s ever been able to do it without feeling the need to look away.

“yeah, i do,” you smile, more genuine than before. you want him to know you mean it. “you’re a sweet boy, peter. so yes, it’s going to be okay.”

like before, your hands slide into his lightly gelled hair. your nails gently scratch his scalp, leaving peter’s head all tingly in their absence. with that, you leave the classroom and peter by himself.

he takes a deep breath, trying to internalize your words. you’ve called him sweet in the past and he never was affected this way. he would feel his heart pound and float because your words were so soft and kind. but after his recall of his parents death and their last, echoing words, he finds it crazy that you happened to say that.

our sweet boy, his mom’s voice lingers.

sweet boy, your kind voice repeats.

maybe with time, you’ll replace the sweet, painful words that kill him a little more every day. but he doesn’t know if that’s possible. not now.

even though he’s been able to accept it more now, there’s still a part inside of him that wishes he died that night too.

—

tags: @aesthetics-andfandoms @percyjacksonspeen @rafecameronsbadussy @invisibletrolleyson-jeremy @slut4sarahpaulson @lnmp89 @juliatpwk @whothafugh @harrys-humble-housewife @marine-mayday @aerangi @justanotherpasserby-blog @tinafuentes @moniffazictress11 @eywaheardyou @angelayse @alwaysclassyeagle @mrstealuregirl @bisexual-desi @sherlockstrangewolf @madsttx @bradtomlovesya @princesspannnn @sageisswaggg @geralddil26 @serendipity-y @girlbossnancy @lockwood-lover @marzipaanz @raajali3

crossed out= not able to tag

wow look at all the tags!! thank you!!

[wolfsbane-and-nettles]

“... do you know why it is so important to know the names and meanings of all the flowers? It’s because before we hobbits had a language, we used to communicate with flowers instead of words! If you were happy you could show it by wearing a dandelion behind your ear. If you were sad, you could let others know by putting a Lilly in the Valley by your heart. When we developed our own language, Old-Hobbitish, which eventually was influenced by Westeron…we were able to use words alongside flowers to convey our meanings. It is said that flowers are so important in the life of Hobbits, that the colors in your eyes are from the flowers that most represent you! So, you, my dearest little one, have beautiful hazel eyes. You’ve flecks of gold like yellow Yarrow in a meadow! It means everlasting love, courage, healing, and good health. Then there is the beautiful green, which reminds me of moss…that has many meanings as well. One meaning is hard work, and the other is “you are the heart of your family” because moss can grow and hold fast even without roots, keeping families and friends together. Then you’ve even got some flecks of Tweedia blue, I’d say…which means harmony and tranquility…I believe all of these suit you perfectly, my dear. You’ll grow up to be a wonderful, loving, brave, hard-working, and harmony-bringing hobbit. That I can say for certain.”  -Belladonna Took, Chosen Horizons, chapter 7.

Forget-Me-Not: faithful love, remembrance, memory, humility, resilience, and the desire for loyalty.

Cornflower: romance, patience, refinement, hope in love, life, resilience, and freedom. “Be gentle with me”...

Larkspur: love and affection, strong attachment, and a desire for laughter.

Blue Poppy: Imagination, magic, luxury, success

Lungswort: joy, devotion, and admiration. “You are my life”...

[xxsycamore]

Hello! Can I request a wlw Genderbent!Seth/MC in a Flower Shop AU?

Thank you so much! Have a great day.

Thank *you* anon for making me so excited to write this, it makes for a perfect combination! Hope you like it, have a great day too!

[ 🌈 part of the character x character or genderbent!character x mc requests🌈 ]

For Different Universe, Same Love content creation challenge, hosted by @queengiuliettafirstlady and me.

𝐅𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐏 𝐀𝐔 ┅┅┅Genderbent!Seth x MC

secret love

"Oop! Alice, sweetie, is that you? Goodness, hand that over to me and stay put while we put the rest of the Civic Center's order in the carriage!"

Before the melodic voice of the florist can reach Alice's ears, it's her hands that register the angelic presence first - as Seth takes the large vase from her, her hands cover hers ever so gently... of course, this is all to ensure the safety of the contains of the vase - many, many white roses, so many, that they'd blocked Alice's vision completely as she attempted to walk out of the shop just now, thus putting her in her current situation where she was a mere second away from bumping into the florist.

Working at the Civic Center, Alice is used to the chaos that comes with the annual banquet, especially now that she's put in charge of decorating the large hall where it takes place. The order for fresh flowers alone is a heavy task, one for which she was provided with help from five red army soldiers who are currently rushing to upload the heavier flowerpots in the carriage waiting outside. But it's the inevitable meeting with the beautiful clerk at Canis Major that sends Alice's heart for a sprint.

Now that the vase, as well as all that remains of the lingering warmth, is taken from Alice's hands, she spends a short moment collecting herself with upwards-turned palms still hanging in the air...

She always remembers Seth like this; holding onto dozens of pretty flowers and easily outshining each and every single one of them.

Her tall frame, her long lashes; the neat ponytail holding her Cornflower Blue hair, everything down to the French tip of her neatly trimmed nails is grace incarnated; the way she puts the vase in the carriage with utter delicateness only to nextly wrap her hands around the wheelbarrow's handles and push so effortlessly where a soldier previously left it at rest to pause for a breather... Uploading the heavy pots into the same carriage a second later without the need for assistance, not letting a single drop of sweat roll down to ruin her perfect image. Something so utterly androgynous and divine about Seth; breathtaking and unable to be put into words. Alice helplessly stares.

"Here, you can take this instead!"

As usual, the flowers blur to uninteresting colorful splotches when Seth holds them, so Alice is left to blush with embarrassment the way she needs to look down to see what exactly is Seth giving her.

"Huh? I don't think this was in the order— Hold on, the list is on me somewhere, let me check—"

"Tut-tut, silly girl! You won't find it on the list. These are for you!"

A flower pot with gardenias.

The book on flower language that Alice bought impulsively last week and totally not while thinking of someone will come in handy. If she reaches home without fainting once, that's it.

Taglist:

@arsnovacadenza @ale-teodora @kimi00twin @otomelady @privilegedpancake @g-kleran   @pumpumnnnp @thesirenwashere @ravenarld @kimmy-banana @devonares @galaxyprison @starshards26 @thewitchofbooks @acethephoenix256 @ikevamp-shrine-2 @nad-zeta @crystal13unny @lordsister @ikemen-banshou  @themysticalbeing @otome-scribbles @rhodolitesrose @coornn @kpop-and-otome @queen-dahlia @kisara-16 @chaosangel767 @ikemenlibrary @queengiuliettafirstlady @aurora-morning @aquagirl1978 ​ @ikemenlover24 @mcofthemansion @joy-the-reader @katriniac @ikemen-writer @tele86 @lovely-bubb1es @aria-chikage @babyblue0t7 @rhodoliteschaos @shrimpy-kitsune @nightghoul381 @xbalayage @lucyw260 @kittygrimm88 @lokis-laugh Let me know if you want to be tagged/untagged!

[strawberry-soot]

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ♠️DEUCE BIRTHDAY SSR FLOWER ANALYSIS* ♠️*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

*Mandatory reminder that I’m no flower specialist, which means these are all very subjective opinions. Take everything with a grain of salt!

Poppy anemones, also known as windflowers, symbolize loyalty and the fragility of life – with its name referring to either the wind that helps blow the flowers open, or their susceptibility to wind. The blue color gives them the meaning of protection (against evil), though anemones in general are known to provoke feelings of expectation and excitement. They’re one of the flowers that open during daytime, but close again at night, so they’re ideal gifts for those coming of age, or currently about to start a new chapter in their life.

Deuce has blue hydrangeas, which carry the meaning of forgiveness, rejection, and regret, and are typically gifted when you’re looking to apologize, or to symbolize a new starting point. In Europe and the Victorian Flower Language they’re symbols of arrogance and boastfulness, but nowadays, they’re more commonly understood to show understanding, gratitude, or even as a way to express your concern for the recipients’ feelings (which is derived from their Japanese meaning).

Blue carnations are relatively new flowers that don’t grow naturally, and thus don’t have much history. However, they’re associated with peace, truth, and devotion. Carnations in general are synonymous for affectionate feelings for someone loved and adored. They’re a symbol of distinction, creativity, and uniqueness – and a popular gift for Mother’s Day. (Interestingly, in the Netherlands they’re associated with defiance and rebellion.)

The gentiana scabra in his bouquet represent justice, accuracy and victory because of its upward flowering shape. Another reading is that of lonely love, or loving someone who is sorrowful, or that of chastity.

Cornflowers are symbols of reliability, anticipation, prosperity, devotion, tenderness, and love. Depending on what color you believe Deuce’s flowers to be (because color-picking in photoshop has revealed them to be a lovely indigo – so exactly between blue and purple): blue cornflowers carry an additional meaning of hope, and striving for the unattainable, while their purple variation symbolizes power and dignity.

The small, white flowers in Deuce’s bouquet are either lupines or larkspurs. Lupines are used to symbolize growth and change, strength and protection, as well as transformation and renewal. They represent a passion for life and different experiences, and inner strength since they’re resilient and durable and one of the few flowers that can grow in any soil. White lupines also stand for self-sacrifice, selflessness and forgiveness, and are symbols of compassion for others. Although highly subjective, many believe lupines to be astrologically connected to the signs of Gemini or Cancer (with Deuce being a Gemini). Larkspurs, on the other hand, are symbolic of swiftness, strong bonds, and a beautiful spirit. They’re associated with lightheartedness and youth, as well as a desire for lightness, or simply a pure heart. White larkspurs are typically seen as symbols of happiness, pride, and joy.

Clovers are signs of protection and are believed to be charms against negativity and hexes. They’re closely associated with good fortune and luck, but can also carry the meaning of success, fidelity, joyfulness, and lightheartedness.

Naturally, these are only my un-educated guesses, but feel free to let me know if I got anything wrong/what flowers I might’ve missed.

[dallina17]

What kind of flowers do you associate with Velvette and Emily?

Oh! I love this question!! Ty for asking <3

Velvette is easier. Her flower is one of the bromeliad family, specifically a Vriesea.

These types of flowers are more commonly found in Central and South America, they grow in tropical climates, hot, like hell. The thing about bromeliads is that they don't need too much to grow, just some water and light, they are extremely easy to take care of. Similar to Velvette, who doesn't need too much to make her way. Anywhere she is, no matter the conditions, no matter the difficulties, she will make her way through everything and climb to power.

Also, bromeliads represent joyfulness, willingness to change, the wish of growing and exploring, in a sense, it represents freedom. For me, those characteristics fit Velvette perfectly

"And I will do nothing else than what I please."

Velvette is someone playful, who likes to tease and is pretty joyful. But she is also someone strong, who wants to do what she wants and live by her own rules. She doesn't mind changes, as long as she can grow, be free to choose her path in life. She embodies freedom.

I chose specifically the Vriesea because of the colors, they share the red, but also because, compared to other flowers, Vriesea is very "normal", not that exotic, but it's still beautiful and captivating. Just like Velvette, compared to other demons (just look at Vox and Valentino), looks pretty normal, but still, she is beautiful and enchants everyone, she has the power to make people see and listen to her.

On the other side, Emily is a cornflower.

On top, they share the colors. I associate Emily with blue and purple. And, in a way, the petals of the flower remind me of seraphim's wings. Idk why, my brain does strange things sometimes.

Cornflowers have multiple meanings that vary from one culture to another. For example, in Germanic mythology, it was used as a protective and healing plant, just like Emily protects and helps people to heal. In Greek mythology, it was used as a symbol of love, and Emily is full of love to share with everyone.

Cornflowers basically represent purity; Emily is supposed to be "pure" due to her seraph status. Grace, Emily gives an opportunity to sinners to redeem and be saved. But they also represent independence and (surprise not surprise) freedom. Emily becomes a flower (a demon) when she breaks free from Heaven, when she starts to decide for herself, be independent, and let go of Heaven's chains.

Cornflowers grow more commonly in North America, Europe, and Asia. It's uncommon for them to grow in South America. Just like it's uncommon for a seraph to be in hell. But with the right care, cornflowers can blossom in another habitat. With the right friends and family, Emily will blossom in hell.

I wanted both Emily and Velvette's flowers to be related to freedom because their stories are very linked to that. And their flowers are some you never expected to be together, you would never expect a seraph and an overlord to be together, but they find their way, despite the odds, and make something beautiful.