#Tea-scented China Rose

[faguscarolinensis]

Rosa x odorata 'Mutabilis' / 'Mutabilis' Tea-scented China Rose at the Sarah P. Duke Gardens at Duke University in Durham, NC

[stardust-swan]

The Kind of Girl I Want To Be

Buys herself pink peonies and roses

Wears scents like Parfums De Marly Delina and Oriana, Miss Dior, YSL Paris, Prada Candy, Mon Guerlain and Chanel Chance Eau Tendre (she sprays it in the morning, after showers, and before going to bed)

Bakes heart shaped sugar cookies and macarons

Spends rainy days sipping rose tea from floral china while reading beautifully bound classic novels

Has a bookshelf filled with first edition poetry books, gilded editions of fairytale books, volumes of the Little Books of Fashion series, leatherbound classics, and Harlequin romance novels

Drinks peppermint tea in the morning and camomile tea at night

Sleeps on pink silk sheets and has a satin kimono robe

Plays Brigitte Bardot, classical music, and soft jazz in the background

Takes ballates or yogalates classes

Plays the violin or cello

Watches Audrey Hepburn and Anna Karina films

Adds sweet almond oil and rose bath tea to her vanilla bubble bath

Has a seasonal pass to the ballet and regularly visits the theatre, old bookshops, botanical gardens, and art galleries

Keeps things like French Girl lip tints/Glossier lip balms/Too Faced lip glosses, a hand mirror, a comb, some bonbons, a book, a rollerball of perfume, hand cream, a piece of rose quartz, a scrunchie, a nail file, spray on SPF and bubblegum in her bag at all times

Is always up to date with Fashion Week

Writes in her diary daily in swirly writing using coloured gel pens, pressing flowers between the pages and spraying perfume samples on it

Lights Yankee Candle Fresh Cut Roses or Rainbow Cookie, keeps soap and lavender in her wardrobe, and has vanilla diffusers around the house

Lives in a cosy home filled with beautiful things, like paintings by local artists, lots of cushions and throws, soft lighting from salt lamps and fairy lights, potted herbs and succulents, vintage vases filled with floral arrangements, DIY macramé and embroidery projects, a bowl of different crystals, signature Barbies on a shelf, rattan furniture, fluffy towels in white, pink, baby blue, and lavender, pink Dove or rose Roger et Gallet soap and Jurlique rose hand cream on the bathroom sink, pictures of her loved ones in antique frames, floral patterns everywhere, antique mirrors, and beautiful porcelain teasets

Goes to French cafés to enjoy a vanilla oat latte with a millefeuille or almond croissant

Always wears diamond or pearl earrings (often paired with a charm bracelet or gold heart locket)

Enjoys rosé wine, champagne, and strawberry daiquiris at lunchtime occasionally

Snacks on strawberries, sugared almonds, dried fruit and nuts, and Turkish Delight

Applies powder, rosy blush, lipgloss, and puts ribbons in her hair at her vanity table, which is decorated with a ballerina music box, vintage perfume bottles, and trinkets shaped like swans, angels and shepherdesses

Has her morning and evening routines down pat: waking up to melodic music, opening the windows, making the bed, doing gentle yoga, simple skincare, getting dressed, applying makeup, and eating a simple but delicious breakfast in the morning, and having a warm shower, doing more decadent skincare, putting on comfy cotton or satin pyjamas, journalling, enjoying a calming cup of herbal tea, reading, looking out the window at the moon, and falling asleep to relaxing sounds like ocean waves, gentle rainfall, and white noise at night. Her life runs like clockwork.

Is gentle, sweet, romantic, and full of love to give

[innerfare]

Sanji Fluff // Angst Compilation

Summary: A compilation of Sanji angst and fluff from my multi character posts (You're Wounded, Brushing Your Teeth Together, Flowers, Type of Date, You See His Cabin, Fighting and Making Up, Paradise, Nightmares, I Love You, You're Jealous).

Genre: Fluff // Angst

CW: None // SFW

———

You’re Wounded: 

Fusses over you while you see to your own wound, feels like they dodged a bullet, blames themselves for any harm that comes to you. “Never again,” they promise themself, bringing you a hot cup of tea to soothe you.��

Brushing Your Teeth Together: 

Slings his arm around you, gets a little too distracted by the sight of you brushing your teeth, ends up standing there with his mouth open and his toothbrush hanging out. Ends up speed running his when you’re finished so he can follow you out of the bathroom. 

Flowers: 

Classic red roses, at least a dozen at a time. He’ll buy you roses in shades of white and pink, as well as the occasional yellow, but a dozen red roses is his go to. He also makes very good use of the petals. Doesn’t need a special occasion to present you with a bouquet. In fact, he always makes sure you have fresh flowers on your nightstand. Additionally, he’s learned to cook a few dishes with edible flowers in them for you, presenting you with all manner of chamomile, chive blossom, and pansy dishes. 

Type of Date: 

This man will take you on the best picnic of your life, a picnic so good he’ll have you wondering why you ever thought restaurants were the epitome of fine dining. It won’t just be delicious, it will be an aesthetic dream, with a wicker basket, checkered blanket, and even a small bouquet of flowers in a glass jar. If he takes you on a picnic beneath the stars, he’ll light candles and be sure to have an extra blanket to keep you warm. Oh, and champagne. Definitely will open a bottle of champagne. 

You See His Cabin For The First Time: 

Sparkling clean, and yet, he’ll apologize anyway because the pillows aren’t fluffy enough, the rug isn’t completely straight, etcetera. His closet is very well organized, all of his clothes ironed and properly taken care of (Sanji’s the rare type to actually read labels and do his laundry accordingly). His most prized possession is a book on the All Blue, which he’s poured over countless times, using color coded tabs to flag various pages and writing detailed notes in the margins. He also came across one of Zeff’s old wanted posters in Loguetown, and he keeps it framed next to his own, the closest thing he has to a family photo. 

Fighting and Making Up: 

He’s far too protective over you, and it causes a lot of fights. He treats you like a china doll, and though that can be quite nice at times, he needs to understand you’re not made of glass. Alternatively, he’s the type to get upset with you for being too friendly to other men. There was also a miscommunication where he cooked something you didn’t like and you weren’t exactly gentle in your reaction to it, you thinking he already knew you didn’t like that thing when he didn’t actually know, him thinking you had an issue with his cooking and not an issue with one of the ingredients. He’s the type to bring you flowers even if you were in the wrong in order to jumpstart the making up process. Your fights never last long because Sanji can’t sleep, can’t eat, can barely even pull himself out of bed if the two of you are on the outs (early childhood trauma can be that way). 

Paradise 1: 

Wandering through a flower field and picking some of the more beautiful blooms that catch your eye, sprawling out on a picnic blanket in the late morning to bask in the sweet scent, enjoying the breeze as it ruffles your hair, weaving some of the flowers you picked into a delicate crown that they wear proudly while the two of you share sweet kisses. 

Paradise 2: 

Waiting until late evening to meet beneath a peach tree, speaking at first in hushed tones, worrying someone is on to the two of you, eventually forgetting about all of that and settling into easy conversation about nothing and everything simultaneously, him jumping up to pick a peach for you to have as an evening snack, you taking advantage of the last bit of light to carve both of your initials into the tree trunk. 

Nightmares: 

You’re in the clutches of his brothers while his father watches on in approval, and he’s trying to save you but to no avail. Suddenly, he’s seven years old again- too small, too slow, too weak to put up a fight, completely at the mercy of his brothers. Only, they aren’t tormenting him, they’re tormenting you, and from the looks on their faces, they sure are enjoying it. The look on your face, though, is one of complete anguish. And then you scream in pain, and he’s awake again, sitting up in bed with a sheen of sweat on his skin, the image of your face in such pain burned into his brain. He doesn’t register that it was only a nightmare until he puts eyes on you, and even then, it takes him several days to recover from the nightmare. 

I Love You: 

Sanji technically confesses first, but you’re the one who actually says those three words. He’s holding your hand in both of his, clutching it close to his racing heart, as he looks down at you, telling you all the ways you make his life better, all the things he’s looking forward to doing with you, all the energy he’s going to put into keeping you happy, healthy, and safe. And the words just sort of fall from your lips. He stops mid sentence, eyes wide and mouth open. The seconds drag on in silence before he’s pulling your lips to his. Both of you are very generous with these three words, saying them often and in public. If you ever hang up the transponder snail without telling him you love him, he’s calling you right back to make sure everything is alright. (Also, not really relevant, might do a separate post about this, but Sanji is definitely a heart-shaped jewelry sort of guy. He just is. Certified lover boy.) 

You’re Jealous: 

Even with a third eye, Pudding is stunning. And Sanji almost married her. It was before you two were together, but listening to the stories from Whole Cake, hearing how close he came to marrying another woman, knowing she really did fall in love with his kind heart and wonderful cooking, turns you into a little green monster. You know you shouldn’t feel jealous of a woman you’ve never met before, a woman Sanji chose not to marry, but you can’t help it. Sanji is completely shocked that you would feel jealous over his relationship (if it could even be called that) with Pudding, though after thinking about it some more, he does realize why you might be jealous that he had a fiancé. His solution is to bring you a bouquet of roses and walk you through the dark details of his life, telling you things he’s never outright told anyone, so you understand the special place you have in his life. 

———

Hope you enjoyed it! If you want more, you can check out my masterlist here!

[fizzyxcustard]

Those Hands.

Masterlist of fan fiction

Fandom: The Hobbit

Pairings: Thorin Oakenshield x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Insecurity, comparison, angst, sexual references, mutual pining, idiots in love.

Comments/Notes: From the imagine, "Imagine that Thorin is in love with you (from the race of Men) but constantly compares his body and features with other men, thinking you find him disgusting." Requested by multiple readers and anons. (THANK YOU!)

I hope you like the fic. As always, like, reblog and comment if you enjoy. If you wish to be added to any of my tag lists, let me know.

Thorin watched every little interaction that you had with other males, whether they be Dwarves, Men or Elves. He couldn’t help but watch you blush, avert eye contact and use self-soothing gestures, such as touching your face, curling your hair with your fingers, or rubbing your upper arms. 

Since Thorin had been crowned King of Erebor, and re-building was underway, many people visited the mountain. Bard came from Esgaroth, often meeting with Thorin in council, to discuss trade deals and assistance in building. Much to Thorin’s distain, Thranduil of the Woodland Realm, also came. Again, he joined the council to converse around the subject of trade deals in precious metals and gemstones.  

Your relationship with Thorin was entirely built on trust. The two of you had been companions out on the road during the quest to re-take Erebor. He had always valued your opinion, spoke with you in private, and kept you close to him on his council of advisors. Erebor was now your home, despite you being of the race of Men. Your family were all gone, meaning that the Dwarves had now taken that place, welcoming you into the fold and treating you as one of their own. 

One morning, council was busy. Neldra, one of the kitchen staff, was on hand with jugs of cold drinks and pots of tea. Then once all the drinks were laid out neatly on intricately laced doilies, she came back with a trolley of fresh pastries. 

The smell was divine; you took an inhale and let the scent overtake you. Apple and cinnamon were among the selection: your favourite. 

You reached out to take one of the pastries, only to feel another hand graze yours. “I apologise,” a voice came, from the direction of the hand. 

It was Bard, from two seats down to your right hand side, who had stretched across to grab one of Neldra’s famous delicacies. “It was no bother,” you replied. “You first.” 

“Ladies first. I insist.” 

Thorin’s blue eyes studied the scene going on before him. No one else had noticed the exchange between you and Bard. Upon the impact of yours and Bard’s hands, Thorin felt a jolt in his chest. It rose up into his throat, and he closed his eyes for a brief second. The red hot sensation bore into him, feeling as if it were forming a hole straight through him. Upon opening his eyes, Thorin looked at his hands, then glanced across to Bard’s. The man’s hands were broad, but his fingers long and slender. Very much unlike Thorin’s. The Dwarf King’s fingers were short and bulky, with stubby ends. Surely Bard’s hands would have the dexterity and skill to caress your skin, drawing shivers from you. A Dwarf’s hands would be too calloused and thick to evoke any kind of pleasurable sensation upon a woman from the race of Men. 

Chatter continued, along with eating and drinking. In that time, Thorin tried his hardest to push the negative thoughts from his mind, and concentrate on the conversation at hand, which involved the realms of Erebor and Esgaroth exchanging skilled workers and apprentices. 

Thranduil was also present and merely rolled his eyes as the conversation got underway between Bard and Thorin. The Elven King did not like to waste his time, and being in this council meant that there were stints of time where his input was not needed. 

“Would you like another drink?” you asked Thranduil, picking up the nearest china pot of tea. 

“I would much prefer wine, but since I’m not within my realm, I would not say no.”

Thorin’s gaze darted over to Thranduil, and then to you. He saw you brush a piece of hair behind your ear, and then look up at the Elven King sat opposite you. Your ears were small, with one golden hoop earring in each lobe. Then Thorin looked at Thranduil’s ears; pointed at the tip, finely structured. They weren’t big, round and sticking out. Thorin’s ears were ugly, and thankfully he could keep them hidden under his long hair. Secretly, he had always imagined you whispering against them, your lips brushing them. It made Thorin shiver. 

Once council had concluded, Thorin left the chamber and headed back to the royal wing. Once inside and he stood in front of his full length dress mirror, staring at the protruding ears on the side of his head. Then he studied his large hands, thinking back to Bard’s. 

The males from the races of Men and Elves made you blush in a way that Thorin never had. Their bodies were more finely crafted, which complemented yours. They had finer features with smaller noses and brows. 

Thorin shifted back and sat on his bed, his hands in his lap. He took one more glance at them, feeling disgusted at what he saw. They would never be good enough for you. None of his body would ever be good enough for you. Everything about him was oversized, not delicate and handsome like Bard and Thranduil. Both of them had lost their wives, and may have wished to re-marry, so they would make better husbands for you. 

***

The following day and Thorin was sat in the council room, signing documents. His quill scratched loudly against the parchment. 

You walked in, holding a further stack of documents in your hands. “These should be the last ones,” you said, offering a smile. 

Thorin looked up at you. No blush on your face to be seen. 

“Is everything alright?” you asked. There was something in his eyes, a thoughtfulness. Maybe even a sadness. You sat down in an empty seat next to Thorin. “What’s wrong?” On impulse, you placed your hand on top of his. 

Thorin looked at your hands, watching your thumb gently caress his knuckle. How huge his hand looked against yours. But how right it felt, as if the size did not matter, and they were still able to fit together as one. 

“There is nothing wrong,” Thorin said, forcing a weak smile. “I hear that Bard is leaving this afternoon. Will you not be wishing him farewell?” 

“I barely know him,” you replied. “I’d feel it strange to do so.” 

“Would you wish to get to know him?” 

“I don’t know. Why do you ask?”

“Surely you find him handsome,” Thorin continued, pulling the new stack of documents over towards him. 

“Not really. Can’t say I do. There’s some reason to you asking this, Thorin.” 

“Why would I have any reason?” 

“There’s always a reason to anything that you ask. I know you enough by now. Talk to me. You’ve always given me more trust than I deserve, and never questioned me liked this before.” 

Thorin took a deep inhale and looked at you, dropping his quill. “Who do you find handsome? If not Bard, maybe Thranduil?” 

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Why ever would you think I’m attracted to King Thranduil?” The whole idea was so comical that you couldn’t help but keep giggling. “It takes….” You couldn’t stop the giggling. “A special….kind of woman….to…..” 

Thorin also began to chuckle, watching your face turn red in amusement and delight. His heart somehow felt lighter as he watched you, and that overwhelming love for you rose. It was a love that would allow him to do anything to make you happy. It was a love that would make him sacrifice his very life to keep you safe. It was sacrificial and unconditional. 

You could see the glow in Thorin’s eyes and the smile which curled his lips upwards. He was the one you found handsome, above all others. The intensity in his eyes made butterflies swarm in your stomach. His proud presence caused you to shiver whenever he entered a room. His voice was enough to make your imaginations travel to another place where only the two of you were, locked away in comfort, pursuing wondrous pleasure. 

You edged closer to Thorin. “You said you want to know who I find handsome?” 

Thorin’s heart was hammering now and he was sure that you would be able to hear it. 

“It’s you.” Your voice was a whisper. “It’s always been you. How could it not be you? Why would you ever think I’d be attracted to Bard and Thranduil?” 

Thorin closed his eyes in embarrassment. “My features and body are not like theirs.” 

“So why would that not make you handsome?” 

“My hands…” 

“Your hands?” you giggled. This time a blush did hit your cheeks, and it was even more vivid than it had ever been when in the company of any other man. “You have found out my secret.” 

“What secret?” Thorin asked, shifting ever so slightly closer to you. He had never wanted you any more than he did in those moments. The very thought that it was him that you found handsome was making his whole being rise, but anticipation was now racing down his spine in shivers. 

“I have had a fantasy for some time now, since meeting you, of what you could do to me with those hands,” you said, biting your lip. 

Thorin couldn’t hold back any more and moved even closer to you, his hand cupping your cheek. His breath was elevated and his eyes were sparkling with so much joy, but slight fear. 

His lips crashed against yours and you both groaned upon impact. Within seconds and the kiss had grown deep, your tongues both meeting. You couldn’t help but whimper as Thorin’s lips left yours and trailed down your neck. His beard tickled your skin and then as he grew more impatient, you could feel the tickle become a bristling, sharp sensation. Your hands became lost in his hair as he nuzzled at your neck, groaning and grunting. 

Thorin felt your fingertips brush over his ears, and it drew an overwhelming shiver from his very core. 

“I love you, Thorin,” you said again. “Now show me what you can do with those hands.” 

***

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[aphetaliamessages]

What are the countries thankful for?

America: FAACES fam, Tony and Mr. Whale, his Uncle Scotty, his Baby Uncle Sealand, and the Awesome Trio. And Russia's muscles 😤

Canada: For Gilbert, who finally noticed him

England: For all his sons even though they enjoy annoying him. His daughter, Seychelles. His brothers, too, maybe. And "I guess frogs for being tasty."

France: Makeup, cheese, wine, bread, cake, England, the BTT, ~England~, his kiddos, his sister, ghosts, labour unions, pretty dresses, pretty suits, his cat, the Pierres, tsundere compliments from England, love stories, his hair, roses, love songs, frilly curtains—

Russia: Alfie, his sisters, snow, sunshine, nature in general, little fluffy animals, sunflowers, borscht, vodka, and Christmas

Italy: Pasta, his friend Japan, pizza, pasta, nice clothes, siestas, Germany, linguine—that's a pasta, naked siestas, naked Germany, ravioli, his brothers, and cats!

Romano: Tomatoes. And churros 🤔

Spain: Definitely VERY thankful for his Lovito

Germany: Italy. Japan and Gilbert, too. And cake. Not just Italy. Other things as well. Ahem. Like wurst.

Prussia: His brother, his besties, Gilbird (his favourite wingman), Mattie, Mattie's hair, Mattie's ass, Mattie's dick, Mattie's thighs, Mattie in comfy sweaters, Mattie in a crop top, Mattie with no shirt, Mattie with no pants, pancakes, Mattie's pancakes (not a euphemism), Mattie's pancakes (as a euphemism), how excited Mattie gets over hockey, Mattie's singing voice, Mattie's blush, Mattie's smile, aaaand beer

Austria: The familiar scent of his piano, the smell of edelweiss in the summer, orchestral performances on YouTube, and not being invited to Alfred's Thanksgiving party

Hungary: Austria. Austria in a frilly dress. Austria playing piano. Austria eating wurst. Austria in a tight dress. Austria in her bed. Austria—

China: Peace and quiet, Hong Kong speaking Chinese even if it's the wrong one, buffets, Hello Kitty, and Mickey Mouse

and Rommy

Japan: Cherry blossoms, green tea Pocky, Hatsune Miku, anime, dogs, cats, Greece, Germany and Italy, his weird big family, Animal Crossing, America's promise to beat up anyone who bullies him, Ao3 and Pixiv

Hong Kong: Hip hop, when Bàba approves, when Dad disapproves, the word "yo," wearing hats backwards, white boys with puffins (well there's only one), dumplings, and unrestricted internet access!

Send an ask if you want more characters! — Mod England 🎸

[heylittleriotact]

La Vie en Rose - an Emmrook One Shot

Oops my fucking hand slipped.

(Rated M for some casual embalming chat between professionals)

Mourn Watch Rook x Emmrich

Pre-Release, probably not canon compliant, I don't care :D

Her arrival was heralded by the sound of her heeled Orlesian shoes winding down the staircase to the study. He looked up from the workbench, hands stilling over a bowl of various herbs and powders as she came into view. She looked distant; concerned.

She stiffened when she realized he was looking at her, the fingers of her right hand tightening just a little on the hand railing.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize you’d be down here,” she said, immediately turning to retreat up the stairs, the tips of her pointed ears going pink. 

Emmrich frowned: Amina Rook had been a reclusive phantom haunting this curious place from day one: one word answers awaited any attempts made by himself or any of their other companions to get to know her, and she was eager to mutter rushed goodbyes if she found herself sharing space with anyone else.

She was clearly terrified, and if even half of what he knew of her was true and not just idle gossip between mortalitasi and Mourn Watch, she had good reason to be. 

She was also nearly halfway up the stairs now and almost out of sight.

“Wait!” He cried out, rushing to the bottom of the stairs. “Manfred just put on the tea… won’t you stay for a cup?” Wide sage eyes stared down at him. “Only one… if it pleases you, of course,” he added. 

Those green eyes narrowed ever so slightly with what was surely distrust. He couldn’t blame her for that either: considering the circumstances surrounding her ‘sabbatical’ from the necropolis, it made perfect sense that she would be wary around colleagues within the Mourn Watch. 

“He always makes far too much tea,” Emmrich said in a stage whisper: he didn’t relish convincing her at the cost of Manfred’s reputation, but he had to at least try to help this blatantly unsettled woman. “You’d be doing me a great favour.” 

She pulled a handful of sleek black hair over her shoulder and ran her fingers through it nervously. “Fine.” 

One word. 

It was something. 

He stepped away from the stairs and unfurled his arm in the universally understood gesture: after you. She swept past him without a glance, and the scent of cedar, peppermint and rose water trailed in her wake. 

She stood in the middle of the study, her arms crossed defensively, back to him, tapping her toes on the stone floor as she looked around at the rows upon rows of books that stretched from wall to wall, ceiling to ceiling. 

“Manfred, would you please place another setting for tea? Amina has kindly agreed to join us.” Emmrich unbuttoned his sleeves and rolled up the cuffs of his shirt on his way to the wash basin at the end of the workbench. He dunked his hands in the water and soaped them up as Manfred creaked enthusiastically to the cupboard and rifled through it for another cup and saucer - such things were curiously difficult to come by in the Lighthouse for some reason. 

He dried his hands on the clean towel next to the basin and chanced a smile at Amina. She caught the expression and her gaze darted back to the shelves of books. 

Found in the crypts by undead as an infant - no parents were ever located - Amina had grown up in the necropolis, raised by the Mourn Watch. He’d never met her - not unusual considering the size of the city - but he knew of her. Everyone in the Watch knew of her involvement in the War of the Banners, and many did not look upon that involvement kindly. 

Emmrich was of the mind that ‘encouraged to travel’ was a rather droll way to say ‘indefinitely exiled from the only place she’s ever called home’. Add to that this business with the Dread Wolf… it was little wonder she was in such a state.

The shared silence was broken only by the rattle of china and effortful grunts and chatters made by Manfred as he prepared the tea.

Best get that mystery out of the way first, Emmrich decided.

“I don’t share the opinion that some of our associates have in regard to your perceived interference in the matters of the undead nobility. It was a difficult choice to make, and unfortunately you were placed in a position where you were the one responsible for making it. I can’t claim that I wouldn’t have done the same, were I in your shoes… it was the right thing to do.”

Amina considered him with those wide eyes and drew her lower lip through her teeth thoughtfully before saying quietly, “Thanks.” She stuffed her hands in the pockets of her thin black coat that fell midway down her thighs and jerked her chin at the wall of books. “Read them all yet?”

That was an astounding four words.

Encouraged, Emmrich chuckled. “I’m afraid my ancient elvhen is a touch out of practice, but I’m making good headway… or I would be if I only had another century or two to spare.” He went to the table in front of the fireplace where they would take their tea and pulled out a chair for her. “Please sit, my dear.” He smiled again. No threat. He was accustomed to people in general being unsettled by him, but not people who lived in the same world he did… knew what he knew. 

She visibly flinched at the gesture, but found it in herself to sit on the chair and let Emmrich push her up to the table. Her eyes followed Manfred as he shuffled over to the table holding the kettle and began pouring steaming water into the teapot. He replaced the lid with a ‘clink’ and leaned closer to Amina, cocking his head and cooing softly as he took her in.

“Curiosity…” she murmured, and she looked over the table at Emmrich who had seated himself across from her. “But you call him–” she caught herself and addressed Manfred, “Sorry, is ‘him’ right?” The skeleton chattered an affirmative set of gurgles accompanied by a nod and Amina continued. “You call him Manfred?” 

“He calls himself Manfred, so it would be astoundingly rude of me not to do the same.” Emmrich winked at Manfred and helped himself to a tea sandwich and a biscuit. 

It would seem Amina’s own curiosity was piqued. 

“Fascinating,” she breathed, watching Manfred with rapt attention as he poured tea into a cup for her and and a cup for Emmrich. “I’ve encountered spirits of curiosity on occasion, but they’ve never been keen to take a physical form. And he just… follows you around and… helps?”

“There is no better way to satisfy curiosity than by actively participating in the world around us, wouldn’t you agree?” His heart stirred with affection at the sight of Manfred offering Amina the plate of sandwiches. “He is not bound to me - he is free to come and go as he pleases… leave if he chooses, but he seems to be quite content rendering his tremendously valuable aid as my assistant… and I am eternally grateful for it.” 

Amina took a sandwich and Manfred set the plate down. He picked up the bowl of sugar and held it out to her with an inquiring chirp.

“Uh… two please.” 

Two cubes of sugar were dropped into her tea, followed by cream, and Emmrich saw delight in her eyes for the first time as Manfred stirred her tea for her.

“Thank you,” she actually smiled at his assistant then, and Emmrich’s heart was lightened at the sight of it. She sipped her tea. “This is perfect, Manfred.” 

Manfred’s bones quivered with excitement and he sidled over a pace to see to Emmrich’s tea next - he knew how he took it: one sugar, no cream - simple and without fuss.

“How we met is a delightful tale, and I’ll be happy to tell it to you one day, but for now I’d like to focus on you: how are you?” 

The remnants of her smile vanished and her cool, collected visage returned as she cradled the rather battered teacup in her hands. “I’m fine,” she said just a little too quickly. “No need to worry about me.” 

Emmrich nodded his thanks to Manfred who had finished with his tea, and the skeleton shuffled off. “Spoken like a true disciple of the Mourn Watch.” He watched her brow tighten and took a moment to lift his tea to his lips and blow on it gently. “But as it happens, I too am familiar with the fact that we tend to put the welfare of everyone else - including the dead - ahead of our own almost habitually.” Was that a scowl? “You are safe with me, Amina… you can trust me.” 

She sipped from her tea again. “Manual suture, or needle injector?” 

Emmrich raised an eyebrow, his own tea inches from his lips. “I beg your pardon?” 

“When closing a decedent’s mouth, which do you prefer: manually suturing with a needle and twine, or the needle injector?”

Truth be told, Emmrich hadn’t really been expecting to talk shop over tea with Amina, but she was talking, and that was leaps and bounds better than her skulking around the Lighthouse in terrified catatonia. 

“I have a strong preference for manually suturing where I can. It’s easier to control the placement of the sutures, and the resulting mouth position and shape tends to look more natural than when one uses the injector.” He reached for his biscuit. “Of course there are cases in which the injector makes for easier work, but I find the amount of time it takes to get each needle positioned correctly doesn’t make it much more efficient at the end of the day: I favour quality over quantity.” He dunked the biscuit and smiled at Amina again. “And you?” 

She studied him over the rim of her tea cup before saying, “Suture. All the way.” She tossed her head back, downing the hot drink in one go before saying. “Perhaps I can trust you after all, Mr. Volkarin.” 

“Please call me Emmrich.” 

“Perhaps the next time I join you for tea.” 

“The next time? So you’ll come again?” 

Another smile - this one with a rather mischievous tilt to it. “So long as Manfred is the one making the tea.” She stood from her chair and Emmrich shot to his feet as well. 

“Allow me to escort you back to your room.” He extended an arm to her. Amina breezed past and made for the stairs, her heels clicking over the stone. 

“That won’t be necessary,” she said, beginning to ascend the stairs. “Farewell, Mr. Volkarin. This distraction was… appreciated.” She shot him one more smile over her shoulder before disappearing from view, leaving behind only her lipstick stained tea cup, forgotten sandwich, and the lingering scent of cedar, peppermint, and rose water as evidence of her ever having been in the study.

Much to Emmrich’s surprise, she returned the next afternoon at precisely four, given away by the clicking of fashionable Orlesian shoes on spiral stairs.

“Hello, Emmrich. May I join you for tea?”

[dxkk1104]

First kiss

Hot tea was cooling by the open window. In the background could be heard the quiet murmuring of Sakura, who was most likely singing a song under her breath. She often did this, Sasuke noted, but he never asked her what the tune was. He concluded that he still had time.

The vanilla scent reached his nostrils. He glanced at the teacup, its perfect rim, well-formed handle and beautiful hand-painted flowers. Such looking porcelain would not want to be spoiled. Every time he picked it up and put it to his lips, it could end up falling. Sasuke was aware of this, and still enjoyed taking it in his hands and observing it from all sides, drinking warm drinks from it and marveling at its beauty. It was a selfish act that he was ashamed of after so many attempts to become a better person. 

"Do you like it?" the melodious voice he already knew so well, since he heard it almost every day, snapped him out of his reverie. 

He had been notoriously drifting his thoughts elsewhere lately. 

"Yes. Where did you get it?"

He took a sip from it, not taking his eyes off Sakura. The woman smiled softly, then took a seat across from him. With a mug of steaming tea, she looked out at the sky full of stars that reflected in her pupils. Sasuke couldn't stop falling in love with her more and more every day. 

"I did it myself. I was at a pottery workshop three months ago with Ino and Naruto." she squatted a cup in front of him "We should go there too, if you want."

Sasuke nodded, keeping his eyes too long on her hand, causing Sakura to get tense and quickly take it from there. Could it be that through his two-year absence, she had stopped having the same feelings for him as before? Had Sasuke begun to misinterpret her hospitality? The fact that she allowed him to stay with her until he decided what to do with himself could only have been an act of friendly service, nothing more. But then it would mean that he should get out of her apartment at the earliest opportunity. Sakura had her own life, and Sasuke could be in her way. And that's exactly how he felt, as if he were an intruder. 

He rose abruptly, accidentally tipping his teacup over in his haste. The tea spilled on the table, but fortunately the china did not disintegrate. Instead, a scratch formed on it. A bloody scratch.

"Sorry."

Putting it aside, he didn't look at Sakura once. It made him feel stupid; /him/. 

"What's wrong, Sasuke?" 

She approached him, but he dodged her, as if in an amok walking toward the exit. His feelings overwhelmed him. He felt too much at once. He was not used to this. He had spent the last few months alone, traveling and rearranging everything in his mind so that he could come back stronger and a newer man, not to hurt her again by not controlling his emotions.

"Nothing, it is not important." he said rather quietly, grabbing the coat hanging next to the door.

""It is important." sounded her voice firmly, "Sasuke, don't do it again. Don't cut yourself off from me. I'm here to understand."

He stopped and swallowed his saliva with difficulty. 

"I can't tell you what happened, Sakura, I'm not able to."

"Then show me."

His legs betrayed him; his body did what it wanted; his mind thought only of her as the woman he loved. Sasuke found himself next to her and kissed her, confidently and greedily, as if he hadn't fought with his head and his conflicting thoughts at all a moment ago. And Sakura returned the kiss, capturing his face in her gentle hands. The scratch on the cup can be repaired. 

[wonderlanddreamer]

Chapter 2: Florence continues to snoop in Peaky Blinders territory and John ups his intimidation tactics.

TW - Slight dubcon at the end. NO SMUT.

Masterlist here.

Florence awoke to the soft, diffused light filtering through the worn lace curtains of her bedroom. The hues of dawn cast gentle shadows across the room, illuminating the organised chaos that was her personal sanctuary. Her petite frame rose from the bed, the crisp linen sheets falling away to reveal her nightgown, a simple but elegant garment that spoke volumes about her understated grace.

She stretched, her long, wavy hair cascading over her shoulders like a dark waterfall. The braid she had worn to bed had come loose during the night. Bright blue eyes, framed by oversized circular glasses, flickered to the mirror on her vanity.

Her house, small and quaint, was a perfect display of her solitary life. Papers were strewn across the wooden floor, remnants of late-night research sessions and hurried mornings. Books were piled high on every available surface, their spines cracked and pages dog-eared, evidence of her voracious reading habits. Articles and photographs adorned the walls, a collage of her life's work and passions. In every corner, plants thrived, their vibrant greenery adding a touch of life and colour to the otherwise monochromatic palette of ink and paper.

Florence moved through the space with a quiet confidence, her steps light yet purposeful, as if each movement was part of a well-choreographed dance.

She pulled on a simple white blouse, its fabric soft against her skin, paired with a charcoal grey skirt that fell just below her knees. The ensemble was practical yet stylish, embodying the balance she strived for. Florence needed to blend into the background when necessary, yet command respect in the moments that mattered most.

Her fingers worked deftly, fastening the small, delicate buttons of her blouse with a ease. She slipped on a pair of low-heeled black pumps, the kind that allowed for quick movement but still gave her an air of professionalism. Her accessories were minimal: a watch with a leather band, a simple silver necklace, and a pair of stud earrings that glinted subtly in the sunlight.

Florence paused in front of the full-length mirror. She adjusted her glasses, the frames dark and sturdy, framing her intelligent eyes. She smoothed her braid, ensuring that not a single strand was out of place.

She made her way to the kitchen, where her favourite china cup awaited her, ready for her morning tea. The aroma filled the air as she poured herself a cup, savouring the warmth and comfort it provided. Her eyes scanned the morning newspaper, but her mind was already racing ahead to the day's agenda. She was undeterred by John Shelby's threat; if anything, it had only strengthened her resolve. She was ready to dig deeper, to uncover the truths buried beneath layers of intimidation and corruption.

With a final sip of tea, Florence gathered her notes and tucked them into her satchel. The weight of her work rested on her shoulders, but it was a burden she bore with pride. She paused at the door, taking a deep breath before stepping out into the bustling streets of Birmingham. The world outside was rife with danger and intrigue, but Florence was ready to face it head-on. She was a force to be reckoned with, a beacon of truth in a city shrouded in shadows.

The morning air in Birmingham was crisp and tinged with the scent of coal and industry as Florence stepped out onto the cobbled streets. The city was already alive with activity, the relentless hum of machinery mingling with the distant clatter of horse-drawn carriages and the murmurs of early risers.

Florence navigated the narrow alleyways and bustling thoroughfares with the ease of someone who had spent years learning the city's intricate rhythms. Her bright eyes, sharp and observant, caught every detail: the hurried steps of labourers, the haggling of market vendors, the furtive glances exchanged between men in dark overcoats. Each interaction, each whispered word, was a potential clue.

Her first stop was the local bakery, a modest establishment run by Mrs. Whitaker, a stout woman with a kind face and flour-dusted hands. The bakery was a hub of local gossip, a place where news and rumours mingled as freely as the scent of freshly baked bread.

"Good morning, Mrs. Whitaker," Florence greeted, her voice warm and sincere.

"Ah, Miss Fletcher! Good morning to you," Mrs. Whitaker replied, her eyes crinkling with a smile. "What can I do for you today?"

"Just a loaf of your finest, please. And perhaps, if you have a moment, any news from around Small Heath?" Florence asked, her tone casual but her eyes keenly observant.

Mrs. Whitaker's expression shifted subtly, a flicker of hesitation crossing her features. "Well, there's always something, isn't there? Heard there's been some trouble with the Peaky Blinders again. Nasty business, that lot."

Florence nodded, her mind filing away the information. "Anything specific?"

"Just whispers, really. Some say they're planning something big, but who knows with those boys? Best to keep your head down and stay out of their way," Mrs. Whitaker advised, handing over the loaf.

"Thank you, Mrs. Whitaker. Always a pleasure," Florence said, slipping the bread into her satchel and giving a parting smile before stepping back into the street.

Her next destination was the local pub, The Garrison, a known haunt for the Peaky Blinders. As she approached, she adjusted her glasses and took a deep breath, readying herself for the tension that always hung thick in the air around the place.

Florence entered The Garrison, the familiar hum of conversation and clinking glasses filling the air. The pub was a sanctuary of sorts for the locals of Small Heath, a place where deals were made and secrets exchanged. The dim lighting cast shadows across the room, giving it an aura of mystery that matched the reputation of its most famous patrons, the Shelby family.

Harry, the bartender, stood behind the counter, his bald head and kind eyes a stark contrast to the rough crowd he often served. He spotted Florence immediately, his curiosity piqued as she approached the bar. It wasn't every day that a woman like her walked into his pub.

"Not often we see a lady like you in here," Harry remarked, his voice carrying a mix of surprise and caution.

Florence met his gaze evenly, her expression unwavering. "Just doing my job. Heard there's been some activity in Small Heath. Thought I'd see if anyone had any information."

Harry shrugged, reaching for a glass and filling it with whiskey. "Depends on what you're looking for. Might be some folks who don't take kindly to questions."

"Yes, I'm vaguely aware," she replied, taking the glass from him and slipping a coin across the counter. "But I find people are more willing to talk when they know someone's listening."

Harry studied her for a moment, sizing her up. There was a determination in her eyes that suggested she wouldn't be easily dissuaded. He nodded slowly, a hint of respect in his gaze. "Just be careful, miss. This place has its shadows, and not all of them are friendly."

Florence gave him a small, appreciative smile before taking a sip of her drink. She knew the risks, but she also knew that the truth was worth pursuing. As she scanned the room, she felt the weight of Harry's warning. She was here to uncover stories, no matter how deep she had to dig.

She moved to a corner table, her back to the wall, and sipped her drink. Her eyes scanned the room, noting the subtle exchanges between patrons, the way certain names drew sharp glances and hushed tones.

A young man, scruffy and nervous, approached her table. His clothes were tattered and his hands trembled slightly as he clutched his cap, twisting it in his grip. "You lookin' for information?" he asked, his voice low and barely audible over the din of the pub.

Florence nodded, leaning in slightly to hear him better. "Yes. Anything you can tell me about the Peaky Blinders or crime in Small Heath."

The man glanced around the room, his eyes darting to the shadowy corners where danger might lurk. He leaned in closer, the scent of sweat and fear mingling in the air. "There's been talk of a big shipment coming in, something the Blinders are keen on. And there's been more fights, more blood in the streets. If you're smart, you'll stay clear."

His words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of the violence and danger they implied. Florence's mind raced with the new intel, piecing together the fragments of information she had gathered. The Peaky Blinders were notorious for their ruthlessness and cunning, and any shipment they were interested in was bound to be significant.

"Thank you," Florence said, her voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins. She reached into her purse and slipped him a few coins, the metal clinking softly as they exchanged hands. It was a silent agreement, a promise to keep their interaction discreet.

The young man pocketed the coins quickly, casting one last wary glance around the pub before slipping back into the crowd. Florence watched him go, her mind already turning over the possibilities. She knew she was treading dangerous waters, but the pursuit of truth was never without risk.

As she left the pub, she felt the weight of eyes on her, a reminder of the dangers that came with her profession. But Florence was undeterred. She had a story to chase, truths to uncover, and no threat from a Shelby or anyone else would sway her from her path.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting shadows across the cobbled streets of Birmingham, Florence made her way to the Birmingham Gazette's office. The sky was painted in hues of orange and pink, a fleeting moment of tranquillity before the night claimed the city. The streets, usually teeming with life, were beginning to quiet down, with only the occasional pedestrian or horse-drawn carriage breaking the silence.

The Gazette’s building loomed ahead, an imposing structure of brick and stone that stood as a testament to the weight of the words crafted within its walls. Its façade was marked by tall, narrow windows and intricate masonry, though the exterior was darkened by years of soot and grime from the industrial heart of the city. A single lantern flickered by the entrance, casting a warm, inviting glow on the worn steps leading to the door.

Florence pushed open the heavy wooden door, and was immediately enveloped by the familiar scent of ink and paper. The interior of the office was a world unto itself, a haven of intellect and inquiry amidst the chaos of Birmingham. Rows of desks were neatly arranged, each one cluttered with typewriters, stacks of paper, and half-empty inkwells. The walls were adorned with framed front pages of past editions, chronicling the city's history and the Gazette's role in it.

The office was eerily quiet at this hour. The only sound that broke the silence was the distant, rhythmic ticking of a clock mounted high on the wall, its hands inching closer to the end of the workday. The occasional creak of the floorboards under Florence's feet added to the ambiance, a reminder of the countless journalists who had walked these halls before her.

Florence made her way to her desk, a solid oak piece that had seen better days. It was littered with notes, clippings, and a well-worn leather notebook she carried everywhere. She placed her bag on the floor and lit the small oil lamp on the corner of her desk, its soft light creating a circle of warmth in the otherwise dim room.

Florence settled at her desk, the familiar weight of exhaustion pressing down on her shoulders after a long day of chasing leads and delving into the dark underbelly of Small Heath. She took a moment to collect herself, her eyes scanning the cluttered surface before her. The desk was strewn with hastily scribbled notes, newspaper clippings, and a map of Birmingham marked with various points of interest.

Her fingers lightly brushed over the cool, metal keys of her typewriter, a trusted companion in her investigative journey. The machine was old but reliable, its black finish worn to a dull sheen by years of use. Florence took a deep breath, the scent of ink and paper filling her lungs, and let it out slowly, trying to steady her nerves.

She straightened a few sheets of paper, aligning them perfectly before feeding one into the typewriter. The paper slid into place with a satisfying click, ready to bear the weight of her words. Florence's fingers hovered over the keys for a moment, her mind organising the day's events into a coherent narrative.

The rhythmic clacking of the typewriter keys soon filled the room, a comforting and familiar sound that seemed to drown out the worries and dangers of the outside world. Each keystroke was deliberate, the letters imprinting themselves onto the paper with a crisp, decisive snap. As she typed, the story of Small Heath's underworld began to take shape, each word a step closer to uncovering the truth.

Her focus was so intense that she didn’t hear the door creak open, nor the soft footsteps that followed. The rhythmic clacking of the typewriter keys filled the room, a steady cadence that drowned out the subtle sounds of intrusion. Florence was lost in her work, her mind completely absorbed in the story she was weaving. It wasn’t until a shadow fell across her desk, cutting through the warm glow of the oil lamp, that she looked up.

Her heart skipped a beat as she met the cold, calculating gaze of John Shelby. He stood there, a picture of calm menace, his presence both commanding and unsettling. The dim light cast sharp angles on his face, highlighting the hardness in his features and the glint of steel in his eyes. He was dressed impeccably, as always, in a tailored suit and polished boots, but there was an air of danger about him that was impossible to ignore.

“Florence,” he said, his voice low and smooth, yet carrying an unmistakable threat, a reminder of the power he wielded.

Florence’s pulse quickened, but she forced herself to remain composed. Her mind raced, assessing the danger while her exterior remained calm and collected. “Mr. Shelby,” she replied, her voice steady and measured. “What brings you here at this hour?”

John took a step closer, his eyes never leaving hers, piercing through her facade with unsettling ease. The intensity of his gaze was like a vice, squeezing the truth out of her without a word. “Heard there was little lady in glasses digging her nose around at The Garrison today,” he said, his voice low and laced with menace. “Sounded a lot like you.”

Florence’s heart pounded in her chest, each beat a reminder of the peril she now faced. She fought to maintain her composure, her eyes locked onto John’s unyielding stare. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, her tone even and controlled. “I’ve been busy with my work all day.”

John’s lips curled into a sinister smile, a chilling contrast to the coldness in his eyes. The corners of his mouth lifted just enough to reveal a hint of amusement, as if he enjoyed the cat-and-mouse game they were playing. “Oh really?” he drawled, taking another step closer, the space between him and her desk now almost nonexistent. “You know, I fuckin’ hate liars.”

He circled around her desk, his movements slow, like a predator sizing up its prey. Florence could feel the tension in the air, a palpable sense of danger that made her skin prickle. She gripped the edge of her desk, her knuckles turning white as she tried to steady herself. The room seemed to shrink around her, the walls closing in as John came to stand behind her.

John leaned in close, his breath hot against her ear, sending an involuntary shiver down her spine. His hand brushed against her shoulder, the touch deceptively gentle, fingers trailing down her arm with a chilling intimacy. “I warned you, didn’t I?” he murmured, his voice a low, threatening whisper. “Stay out of our business.”

Florence’s eyes darted to her notes, the evidence of her day’s work spread out before her in a chaotic array of papers and scribbles. Each piece of information represented hours of painstaking effort, a tapestry of connections and secrets that she had painstakingly woven together. She knew there was no point in denying it further, but fear kept her silent, her throat constricting as if gripped by an invisible hand.

John’s gaze followed hers, landing on the scattered papers and the typewriter that had been the instrument of her relentless inquiry. His calm demeanour cracked, replaced by a flash of unbridled fury. With a sudden, violent motion, he grabbed the typewriter and hurled it across the room. The crash echoed through the empty office, the machine shattering into pieces, keys and metal fragments skittering across the wooden floor.

Florence flinched at the sound, her heart racing, but she quickly composed herself. The defiance that had been simmering beneath the surface now blazed in her eyes as she faced John. “You can’t scare me into silence, Shelby,” she declared, her voice stronger and more resolute. “The truth will come out, whether you like it or not.”

John’s eyes narrowed, his anger intensifying. The room seemed to darken as his presence grew more menacing. In a swift, brutal motion, he grabbed her wrist with an iron grip, yanking her to her feet. The force of his pull sent a jolt of pain up her arm, but she refused to show any sign of weakness.

“You think you can ignore me?” he spat, his voice a low, dangerous growl. His face was inches from hers, close enough that she could see the flicker of rage in his eyes. “You think you can lie to me and get away with it?”

Florence struggled against his grip, her fear morphing into a reckless determination that burned in her chest. “Please, Mr. Shelby, I’m just doing my job,” she pleaded, her voice trembling with a mix of desperation and defiance. She refused to let him see her break.

John’s grip tightened around her wrist, the pressure sending sharp jolts of pain up her arm. His eyes blazed with a dangerous intensity, and yet there was something undeniably magnetic about his anger, a raw, primal energy that seemed to fill the room. He leaned in closer, reducing the space between them to mere inches. His other hand rose slowly, almost languidly, to brush a strand of hair from her face, the gesture mockingly tender and intimate.

“Your job,” he hissed, his breath hot against her skin, each word a caress and a threat, “is to keep your nose out of our business.” His voice was a low, seductive growl, filled with a dark promise that sent shivers down her spine.

Florence’s breath quickened, her senses overwhelmed by the proximity of him, the scent of his cologne mingling with the raw power he exuded. But beneath the fear, a spark of defiance flared. She met his gaze head-on, her eyes flashing with an unyielding resolve.

“You cross us again,” John continued, his tone softening to a dangerously smooth whisper, “and it won’t just be your typewriter getting smashed.”

Desperation and courage surged within Florence, a volatile mix that fueled her next, reckless action. Her eyes darted to a letter opener lying on her desk, its sharp edge glinting under the dim light. In one swift motion, she snatched it up and slashed at John, aiming for his arm with all the force she could muster. But he was faster.

John’s reflexes were like lightning. He caught her wrist mid-swing, his grip like a vise, unyielding and painfully strong. He twisted her arm with brutal efficiency until she was forced to drop the weapon, a cry of pain escaping her lips as the letter opener clattered to the floor.

His eyes gleamed with a dangerous light, a mixture of amusement and fury, as he bent down to pick up the fallen letter opener. He turned it over in his hand, examining it with a calm, deadly curiosity. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that,” he said, his voice a deadly whisper that seemed to vibrate in the tense air between them. “But guts ain't gonna save you.”

With a final, violent shove, he forced her on to her back against the top of desk, the edge of the wooden surface digging painfully into her lower back. The letter opener was pressed menacingly against her throat, its cold metal biting into her skin. For a moment, the world seemed to stand still, the tension between them almost palpable.

With a sudden, predatory move, John surged forward, his body a blur of motion. In an instant, he climbed onto the desk, his powerful frame pinning Florence beneath him. The hard surface pressed painfully into her back, trapping her against the unyielding wood. His weight bore down on her, a suffocating force that made it difficult to draw breath. The edge of the letter opener felt like a shard of ice against her skin, a cold reminder of the lethal danger she was in.

Florence's breath came in shallow, rapid gasps, her chest rising and falling in frantic rhythm. Her heart pounded so violently she feared it might burst from her ribcage. She stared up at John, her vision filled with the furious intensity of his gaze. His face was contorted with rage, every muscle tight with barely restrained violence. Yet beneath the mask of fury, she glimpsed something else—something darker and more complex, a volatile mix of emotions that defied easy categorisation.

"Do you have any fuckin' clue who you're playing with, Florence?" he demanded, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that seemed to vibrate through her very bones. The words were laced with venom, each syllable dripping with contempt and menace. "Do you understand the fuckin' consequences?"

Florence swallowed hard, her throat dry and constricted, each breath a struggle against the weight of the fear and tension that enveloped her. She could feel the heat radiating from his body, a searing contrast to the cold edge of the letter opener against her skin. The intensity of his gaze bore into her, a tangible force that seemed to strip away her defences and lay her soul bare. The air between them crackled with a dangerous, electric charge, a volatile mix of fear and something else—something she couldn't quite name, but that thrummed through her veins with an unsettling familiarity.

"I know the risks," she managed to say, her voice barely more than a whisper, each word a battle against her own terror. "But I won't back down. I can't."

John's eyes narrowed, the fury in them blazing like a storm ready to unleash its full wrath. Yet, as he searched her face, scrutinising every nuance of her expression, a flicker of something else crossed his features. It was brief, almost imperceptible—a softening of his hardened gaze, replaced momentarily by something that looked almost like admiration.

But the moment was gone as quickly as it had appeared, swallowed up by the relentless tide of his anger. His grip tightened, the letter opener biting more deeply into her throat, a cruel reminder of the precarious edge on which she balanced. The brief reprieve of humanity vanished, replaced by a cold, calculating menace.

"You’re a stupid, stubborn little girl," John said, his voice a volatile mix of frustration and grudging respect. Each word was tinged with a raw intensity that made Florence's skin prickle. "It's gonna get you fuckin' killed."

His grip on the letter opener relaxed slightly, and with a deliberate slowness, he allowed it to fall to the desk beside her. The metal clattered against the wood, the sound reverberating through the tense silence. Florence's heart pounded in her chest, each beat echoing the gravity of the moment. She barely had time to process the shift in his demeanour when his hand moved to her face, his fingers brushing against her cheek with surprising gentleness. The contrast between his earlier violence and this unexpected tenderness sent a shiver down her spine, a confusing mix of fear and something unsettlingly close to desire.

John's touch was light, almost reverent, his calloused fingers tracing the curve of her cheekbone with a delicacy that belied the brutality of their confrontation. His eyes, dark and stormy, held hers with an intensity that made it impossible to look away. The fury that had blazed within them moments before had softened, replaced by a deeper, more complex emotion that Florence couldn't quite decipher.

"You’re playing with fire, Florence," he murmured, his voice a low, intimate whisper that seemed to wrap around her like a physical presence. His face was inches from hers, so close she could feel the movement of his lips against her own. "I'd hate to see that pretty little face burned."

Florence's breath hitched, a jagged sound that betrayed the whirlwind of emotions swirling within her. Fear was there, a cold, unyielding knot in her stomach, but it was accompanied by something more confusing, more dangerous—a spark of something primal that flared in response to his proximity. She could feel the heat radiating from his body, a searing contrast to the cool air of the room. The intensity of his presence was overwhelming, a magnetic force that drew her in despite every rational thought screaming at her to pull away. It was intoxicating, and she hated herself for the way her body responded, a traitorous shiver running down her spine.

"I stand by what I said," she replied, her voice finding a steadiness that belied the tumult inside her. "I’m not afraid of you."

Her words hung in the air, a bold declaration that seemed to challenge the very fabric of the tension between them. John's eyes darkened, his expression shifting into a dangerous mix of anger and something more primal, more visceral. His gaze locked onto hers, a storm of emotions swirling in the depths of his eyes. He leaned in closer, his breath mingling with hers, the space between them shrinking to a hair's breadth. She could feel the heat of his skin, the roughness of his breath, and the raw power emanating from him.

"You should be," he whispered, his voice a rough, dangerous promise that sent a fresh wave of shivers cascading through her. His lips were almost brushing hers, the tantalising proximity a heady mixture of threat and temptation. Each word was a caress and a warning, a reminder of the perilous edge on which they both balanced.

For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. The tension between them was almost unbearable, a taut wire ready to snap. Florence could feel the rapid thudding of her heart, each beat a drumroll leading to an inevitable climax. John's eyes bore into hers, dark and stormy, a tempest of emotions she could barely decipher. And then, with a sudden, fierce urgency, his mouth claimed hers in a bruising kiss.

The initial shock was like a jolt of electricity coursing through her veins. His kiss was violent, a raw expression of dominance and control. Florence's mind screamed in protest, her body instinctively recoiling from the intensity. She raised her hands to his chest, pushing with all her might, but it was like trying to move a mountain. His body was a solid wall of muscle, immovable and unyielding.

His kiss was a battle, a clash of wills fought with lips and teeth and tongues. The taste of him was overwhelming, a blend of heat and fury that left her breathless. Her struggles only seemed to fuel his intensity, his grip on her tightening as if to prove a point. His hands were everywhere—cupping her face, tangling in her hair, pressing her harder against the desk.

With a surge of desperate energy, Florence managed to tear her mouth from his, gasping for breath. "Get off me!" she demanded, her voice a mixture of anger and something she couldn't quite name. She shoved at him again, her palms pressing against the hard planes of his chest, but he didn't budge.

John laughed, a low, mocking sound that sent a chill down her spine. "You think you can push me away, little Flo?" he taunted, his voice dripping with a dark, twisted amusement. "You think you have any fuckin' control here?"

His words stung, a cruel reminder of the power imbalance between them. But Florence refused to back down. She met his gaze with a defiant glare, her eyes blazing with determination. "You bastard," she spat, her voice trembling with the force of her resolve.

"Don't you dare fuckin' forget this," he said, his voice rough. "Remember what fuckin' happens when you cross me."

With that, he released her and stood, stepping back from the desk. John straightened, his expression once again cold and controlled. "Stay out of our business, Miss Fletcher," he said, his tone a final warning. "Next time, I won't be so forgiving."

John turned and left the office, each step echoing with finality on the polished hardwood floor. The door closed behind him with a decisive click, the sound reverberating in the silence that followed. Florence remained where she was, her chest rising and falling with rapid breaths, her mind spinning in a chaotic whirlwind of thoughts and emotions.

She slowly pushed herself up from the desk, her body trembling visibly as she tried to regain her composure. Her legs felt unsteady beneath her, as if they might give way at any moment. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to steady the trembling that had taken hold of her. Every breath was a reminder of the intensity of the encounter, the bruising pressure of John's lips still lingering on her own.

As her eyes roamed the room, they landed on the broken typewriter lying on the floor, keys scattered like fallen soldiers around it. The sight of the shattered machine sent a fresh wave of fear and anger coursing through her. That typewriter had been her lifeline, her conduit for uncovering the truth, and now it lay in ruins—a stark symbol of the power John wielded and the lengths he was willing to go to silence her.

With a deep, steadying breath, Florence forced herself to move. She knelt down and began picking up the scattered keys, each one a small, sharp reminder of what she was up against. Her fingers brushed against the cold metal, and she felt a pang of loss for the machine that had been her trusty companion in this dangerous game.

Piece by piece, she gathered the remnants of the typewriter, placing them gently on the desk as if by some miracle she could put it back together. But she knew it was beyond repair. The typewriter was a casualty of this war, but she wouldn't let it be in vain.

As she tidied up the office, straightening papers and organising her notes, her mind raced with thoughts of what to do next. The reality of her situation was clearer than ever—she was in over her head, but she couldn't afford to stop now. The truth was too important, and she was determined to see it through, no matter the cost.

The night outside had deepened, the city settling into a restless silence. The distant hum of traffic and the occasional wail of a siren were the only sounds that broke the stillness. The darkness outside the window seemed to press in on her, a stark contrast to the harsh fluorescent light inside the office.

As she placed the last of the broken keys on the desk, Florence stood back and surveyed the room. It looked more orderly now, but the chaos in her mind was far from settled. She knew she had to come up with a new plan, a new way to continue her work without the typewriter. But how?

She leaned against the desk, her fingers tracing the lines of her notepad. The battle had only just begun, and she needed to be ready for whatever came next. Ideas began to form, tentative and fragile, but they were enough to give her a glimmer of hope.

Florence's resolve hardened, her determination solidifying into a steely resolve. She couldn't let John's intimidation tactics break her spirit. If anything, she needed it to fuel her determination. She was ready to face whatever came next - at least she thought she was.

[sertrallne]

questions that no one asked about vesper!

NAME: vesper (midnight).

NICKNAME: espeon, esp, vesp, pinkie.

GENDER: cis man.

STAR SIGN: cancer 🌙

HEIGHT: 1'83.

ORIENTATION: bisexual.

NATIONALITY/ETHNICITY: japanese ft SPANISH!

FAVORITE FRUIT: apple and bananas.

FAVORITE SEASON: winter.

FAVORITE FLOWER: roses, tulips and rosa china.

FAVORITE SCENT: every fancy cologne.

COFFEE, TEA, or HOT CHOCOLATE: coffee.

AVERAGE HOURS OF SLEEP: he doesn't sleep.

DOGS or CATS: cats.

HOBBIES: playing baldurs gate and pokemon, reading lovecraft, go shopping and watch kdramas.

NUMBER OF BLANKETS: two bc he's cold.

RANDOM FACT: he has a younger sister and she's the only reason to contact his family.

[katiajewelbox]

Could there be a more exquisite rose for Valentines Day than this red and white Osiria rose? The Osiria rose is a rare Hybrid Tea Rose (Rosa x hybrida), and I was stunned by its otherworldly perfection when I encountered it in a Mews house garden in London this summer. What is exactly is a "Hybrid Tea Rose"? There is a long and complicated history hidden in this term. Since at least 2000 BC, roses have been mentioned in writing and depicted in art in Europe and the Middle East. The Ancient Greeks associated the rose with the goddess of love Aphrodite, and the Ancient Romans used roses as a decorations in their festivals. There are several species of wild roses, notably Rosa gallica, Rosa moschata, and Rosa phoenicea, in Europe and the Middle East that were hybridised and selectively bred for scent, colour, and luxuriant petals. In Mediaeval and Renaissance times, Europeans had richly scented roses in a range of red, white, and pink shades but these plants had a drawback - they only bloomed for a limited time each summer. In the late 18th century, global trade and exploration brought the prized Chinese Rose (Rosa chinensis) to Europe. Cultivated in China for over 1000 years, these new roses had a more diverse colour palette and bloomed perpetually, with flowers appearing from April to November. European horticulturalists began cross breeding their native roses with the Chinese roses in a quest to unite the ideal traits in the same plant. Among these hybrids were "hybrid perpetual flowering" which were vigorous plants with plain flowers and "tea roses" which were delicate plants with flowers in an impressive range of colours. The name "tea rose" comes from their scent, which is like freshly brewed green tea. "Hybrid tea roses" are hybrids of these two hybrids, and combine the impressive flowers with stronger plants. In the 20th century, the hybrid tea rose was crossbred with other wild roses like Rosa wichuraiana to increase its cold tolerance. Next time you give roses to a loved one, take a moment to ponder this flower's global history! #rose #osiriarose #rosehistory #hybridtearose #botany #redandwhiterose #valentinesday #plantbiology #katia_plantscientist

[skinnerhousebooks]

Christmas Evensong

"It’s the deepest part of the night now. Many mothers give birth this night in Mexico, in New York City, in Kuala Lumpur; in Sinkiang, China, and Talinn, Estonia. Some are poor, some well to do. Some call this time Christmas, some do not. The midnight in Punta Arenas, Chile, is scented with summer roses, and groups of friends in Hobart, Tasmania, gather for mint tea on the patio, commenting on the beauty of Christmas sunsets. . . . Over Montevideo, the Southern Cross rises bright among the constellations as midnight yields its ancient Spanish carols. Over Montreal, Orion hovers, it’s belt a comforting sash across the icy-cold sky. A new mother sees the stars from her hospital bed and smiles. The world is great, the world is glorious and this wondrous night tells only one small part of its story. Yet I say even this part of the story is great. And each word in the story is great. And the breath of silence between each word, and the silence found at both the beginning and the end of this story is an emblem of a greatness and glory yet to be discovered."

—Mark Belletini Sonata for Voice and Silence

[seductive-things]

TEA FROM ROSE BUDS

Rose has gained an important place in cultures for centuries as a flower identified with beauty, love and elegance. Originating in Central Asia, especially Iran, Turkey, China and India, rose spread throughout the world through trade routes and has been accepted as a symbol of beauty over time. With its colors, scent and elegant structure, rose has been used for both aesthetic and medical purposes since ancient times. While the Persians used rose oil for healing, the Romans preferred it in their celebrations and temple decorations. It has also become an indispensable part of royal gardens in Europe and has become a sign of social status.

Today, rose has an important place in many areas such as cosmetics, perfume, decoration, medicine and cuisine. In the perfume and cosmetics sector, rose oil is used especially in skin care products as a moisturizer and soothing agent. While it is preferred as an aesthetic element in weddings and special events as a decorative element, it is also used in the kitchen as a flavoring ingredient in rose jam, rose syrup and desserts. In addition, rose is known for its stress-reducing effect in aromatherapy and natural medicine; rose oil or rose tea provides peace and relaxation.

There are many ways to use roses at home. You can brew rose tea, drink it as a calming tea, or apply it to your skin as a natural tonic. Rose oil diffuses a pleasant scent into the environment with the help of a diffuser and balances energy. In addition, rose water can be used both as a facial cleanser and as a tonic that nourishes the hair. You can add a natural and elegant atmosphere to your home by using rose petals or buds for decoration. Rose is a high-frequency flower and with this feature, it can positively affect the energy of the environment it is in. Thanks to its high frequency, it plays a relaxing, peaceful and balancing role. This plant with a high frequency is also frequently used in spiritual studies to support feminine energy and find inner balance. Rose is associated with compassion, creativity and inner calmness and is preferred in spiritual practices such as meditation, especially to increase feminine energy. Rose tea is prepared with dried rose buds and has a slightly sweet, soft aroma. It supports digestion, soothes the stomach and strengthens the immune system with its high antioxidant content. The health benefits of rose tea are quite extensive:

Stress and anxiety reducer: Calms the mind by calming the nervous system.

Immunity booster: Supports the body's natural defense system thanks to vitamin C and antioxidants.

Digestive system benefit: Regulates the intestines with its mild laxative effect and relaxes the stomach.

Contribution to skin health: Antioxidants renew, moisturize and brighten the skin.

Inflammation reducer: Relieves inflammation in the body with its anti-inflammatory properties.

Sleep quality benefit: It can help you have a quality sleep thanks to its relaxing effect.

Positive effect on hormone balance: It can contribute to hormonal balance, especially in women.

Mood improvement: The pleasant smell and soft aroma of the rose positively affect the mood.

Pain relieving effect: It is known to have a relaxing effect on headaches and mild muscle pain.

As a result, the rose is a universal symbol of beauty and elegance, as well as offering positive effects in the spiritual and physical sense. Having a wide range of uses in different areas, the rose continues to touch our lives with grace as a decorative element at home, beauty care, a relaxing tea or spiritual support. drink it, rub it, smell it. stay with Venus xoxo. w/chatgpt

[therosepetalrps]

Film, flower, nostalgia - @soulxremains

»»—— 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 ——««

𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐌 : what’s their favorite movies ( or in the case of muses that haven’t seen them , what WOULD be their favorite movies? )

Belle is a huge mystery buff. She loves a story that asks something more of you than just passively watching (essentially everyone she knows has sworn off watching them with her, because she will figure it out halfway through and spoil it for you).

Favorite films from the genre? Laura (1951), Witness for the Prosecution (1957), The Woman in the Window (1944), The Name of The Rose (1986), Gosford Park (2001), and Death on the Nile (1978).

And if the above list doesn't tell you, I also think she's strongly biased towards older cinema — especially black and white films or technicolor.

Her other favorite genres are period pieces (particularly Austen and Bronte adaptations), documentaries, comedies, and romances. Favorite film of all time? Barefoot in the Park (1967).

𝐅𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑 : what would be their favorite flower, and why? because of what it means in the language of flowers, or because they just like how it looks / smells?

Of course, I must make an obligatory rose mention. Belle is a romantic after all. They're timeless and classy in their simplicity, like pearls or fine white china. She might even like them best as a pattern on a dress or a pendent on a necklace, rather than the actual flower.

In terms of smell, nothing beats honeysuckle for her. Belle likes things sweet — her tea, her wine, her perfumes, and her flowers too.

I also think she has a big soft spot for wildflowers that are typically thought of as weeds; dandelions, wood sorrel, thistle, Queen Anne's lace, and so on.

𝐍𝐎𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐆𝐈𝐀 : what makes them nostalgic, and why?

Classical music. Every now and then, she'll hear a melody that sounds impossibly similar to a traditional piece of music from the Enchanted Forest.

Random antiques in Gold's shop. She can remember exactly which shelves and pedestals they sat upon in the Dark Castle, having dusted (and inspected) them a thousand times.

But there is nothing that makes her homesick like walking through Storybrooke's forests. Strangely, its the absence of things that make her nostalgic, rather than their presence. The leaves here are not so green, the animals not so plentiful, nor do the flowers bloom so vibrantly. The nature is lovely, to be sure — but it also stands as a reminder of what a truly extraordinary place the Enchanted Forest is.

The air even smells different here — not as crisp and aromatic. Perhaps in a realm of magic, you can catch its scent on every breeze. Or maybe Storybrooke's air is just really polluted.

[diverse-hearts-ocs]

@frozcnlight asked:

"We started collaboration with a new tea brand today.", Miran hummed delightfully, her fingertips glided over the new tea which was also new. Though she hated floral patterns, this one was quite nice. It was white with black lines, probably the branches of a tree and cherry blossoms in different shades of pink.

She was in awe of it's beauty, especially because it was said to be handicrafted. This had been one of the few meetings on this day she truly enjoyed - if not even the only one. One could never go wrong with tea when they offered it.

"My managers and me decided to only try the dried rose buds for now, before deciding if we truly collaborate with them. However, they gave us a tea set as well. So might as well try the quality of it as well, shall we not? After all, I would like to give us but also my guests only the highest quality." { to Annastacia c: }

Random Asks - Always Welcomed ~

Cookie sits on the back of her chair, allowing the woman to easily see the display that's been set out before her, a soft smile forming as she lifts one of the offered cups, holding it closer to her face in order to better catch the scent. When it comes to tea, she knows that Miran is the one to listen to, and from experience, she also knew that this hotel would never serve anything that didn't meet to her standards. Annastacia carried much love for the blonde that sat across from her - and if this could be repaid by the simple action of taste testing some tea, she was more than happy to help.

"Well, the colour alone has already captured my attention", she admitted, giving the cup a small tilt, just enough to allow the water to swirl within the china cup, "And this tea set...was this truly gifted too? I suppose it would be rather cynical of me to suggest they did so in hopes of winning you over easier...but I'm sure you too can feel the quality of the craftmanship". She hummed happily, allowing her fingers to carefully explore the warm cup she held in her hands, Cookie shifting now and then whenever she wished to examine from a different angle. It really was a beautiful item. "Rose bud tea though - I have to admit. This will be a first. Have you ever had such?". She knew that Miran was from a much wealthier background than herself. Most of the unique teas that Annastacia had gotten to taste were due to her staying in this woman's hotel and the friendship that had blossomed between them. Carefully, a small sip was taken from the cup, eyes slowly widening at the sweet taste. She wasn't sure what to have expected, but she found herself rather drawn to this flavour, "Oh. That is nice".

[kaizenhealthgroup89]

Heal and Rejuvenate: The Profound Benefits of Aromatherapy Massage in Mississauga

In the bustling city of Mississauga, where the daily grind can often take its toll, finding moments of tranquility and rejuvenation becomes essential. Amidst the rush and demands of modern life, there exists a sanctuary where healing and relaxation intertwine seamlessly: aromatherapy massage. More than just a pampering session, aromatherapy massage offers a myriad of profound benefits for both the body and the mind. Let's delve into this ancient practice and explore how it can transform your well-being in the heart of Mississauga.

The Essence of Aromatherapy Massage

Aromatherapy massage is a holistic approach to healing that combines the therapeutic benefits of massage with the aromatic properties of essential oils. Dating back to ancient civilizations such as Egypt, China, and India, aromatherapy has been used for centuries to promote physical and emotional well-being. The practice involves the use of natural plant extracts, known as essential oils, which are carefully selected for their healing properties and aromatic qualities.

In a typical aromatherapy massage session, the therapist blends specific essential oils based on the individual's needs and preferences. These oils are then applied to the skin through gentle massage techniques, allowing their therapeutic compounds to penetrate deep into the body. The combination of touch and scent creates a deeply relaxing experience that soothes the senses and promotes overall wellness.

The Benefits of Aromatherapy Massage

The benefits of aromatherapy massage are wide-ranging and profound, addressing both physical and emotional aspects of health. Here are some of the key benefits:

Stress Relief: One of the most notable benefits of aromatherapy massage is its ability to reduce stress and anxiety. The soothing scents of essential oils such as lavender, chamomile, and bergamot have been shown to promote relaxation and calm the mind, making it an ideal treatment for those dealing with high levels of stress.

Pain Management: Aromatherapy massage can also be effective in managing chronic pain conditions such as arthritis, fibromyalgia, and migraines. Essential oils like peppermint, eucalyptus, and rosemary possess analgesic properties that help alleviate pain and inflammation when applied topically during massage.

Improved Sleep: Many people struggle with sleep disturbances and insomnia, leading to fatigue and decreased quality of life. Aromatherapy massage can help promote better sleep by using essential oils like lavender and sandalwood, which have sedative effects and can induce feelings of relaxation and calmness.

Enhanced Mood: The aromas of certain essential oils have a profound impact on mood and emotional well-being. Citrus oils such as lemon and orange are known for their uplifting properties, while floral oils like rose and jasmine can evoke feelings of joy and positivity. Incorporating these oils into massage can help uplift spirits and improve overall mood.

Boosted Immunity: Several essential oils possess antibacterial and antiviral properties that can help strengthen the immune system and ward off illness. By incorporating immune-boosting oils like tea tree, eucalyptus, and oregano into massage sessions, aromatherapists can support the body's natural defense mechanisms.

Skin Nourishment: In addition to its therapeutic effects, aromatherapy massage can also improve the health and appearance of the skin. Essential oils like rosehip, jojoba, and frankincense are rich in vitamins, antioxidants, and fatty acids that nourish and hydrate the skin, leaving it soft, smooth, and radiant.

Finding Balance in Mississauga

In a city as vibrant and dynamic as Mississauga, finding moments of balance and tranquility becomes paramount. Aromatherapy massage offers a sanctuary where residents can escape the hustle and bustle of daily life and reconnect with their inner selves. Whether you're seeking relief from stress and tension or simply craving a little self-care, aromatherapy massage has something to offer everyone.

Fortunately, Mississauga is home to a diverse array of wellness centers, spas, and massage clinics that offer aromatherapy massage services. From upscale spas in the heart of the city to cozy wellness retreats tucked away in suburban neighborhoods, there's no shortage of options for those looking to experience the healing benefits of aromatherapy massage.

When choosing a provider for aromatherapy massage in Mississauga, it's essential to do your research and find a reputable establishment with experienced therapists and high-quality essential oils. Look for places that prioritize client safety and comfort, and don't hesitate to ask questions about their practices and procedures.

Conclusion: Embracing Wellness Through Aromatherapy

In a world where stress and anxiety are pervasive, prioritizing self-care and well-being becomes essential for maintaining a balanced and fulfilling life. Aromatherapy massage offers a holistic approach to healing that addresses both the physical and emotional aspects of health, providing relief from stress, pain, and tension while promoting relaxation and rejuvenation.

In Mississauga, where the pace of life can often be hectic and demanding, aromatherapy massage serves as a beacon of tranquility and renewal. By harnessing the therapeutic power of essential oils and the healing touch of massage, residents can embark on a journey of self-discovery and wellness, finding solace and serenity amidst the chaos of daily life.

So why wait? Treat yourself to the transformative experience of aromatherapy massage and discover the profound benefits it can offer for your mind, body, and spirit. In the heart of Mississauga, a world of healing and rejuvenation awaits.

[partydecorationideas]

Unconventional Valentine Decorations to Make a Statement

Introduction

Forget the tired tropes of red hearts and fluffy teddy bears. This Valentine's Day, let your love story unfold in a setting that reflects your individuality and ignites conversation. Step beyond the saccharine and dive into the realm of unconventional decorations, because true romance thrives on surprise and personal expression.

Whether you're a crafty artist, a budget-conscious decorator, or simply seeking an aesthetic that breaks the mold, this guide is your ticket to creating a Valentine's Day experience unlike any other. So, dust off your creativity, roll up your sleeves, and prepare to make a statement with decorations that are as unique as your love itself.

Ready to ditch the clichés and embrace the unexpected? Here's how to transform your space into a love nest that reflects your true colors:

Beyond the Clichés

Let's break free from the predictable pink and red palette and explore themes that spark conversation and ignite imaginations. Imagine stepping into a world where Valentine's Day unfolds with...

Industrial Romance: Think exposed brick walls, metal accents, and Edison bulb string lights creating a warm, urban ambiance. Add vintage apothecary jars filled with red roses or hand-painted canvases with abstract hearts for a touch of softness.

Vintage Chic: Picture mismatched china teacups overflowing with wildflowers, framed vintage love letters adorning the walls, and a gramophone playing classic love songs. Upcycle old suitcases into side tables and decorate with antique maps or travel posters for a worldly touch.

Inspired by Love: Dive into your favorite movie, book, or artist's world and reinterpret it with a Valentine's Day twist. A "Pride and Prejudice" themed tea party, a "Star Wars" inspired galaxy projection, or a Van Gogh-inspired sunflower arrangement – the possibilities are endless!

Nature's Unexpected Twists: Forget the predictable flower bouquets! Embrace the raw beauty of pinecones arranged in rustic vases, create a miniature succulent garden in a vintage terrarium, or hang air plants suspended from macramé hangers for a touch of bohemian flair. Dried branches adorned with tiny fairy lights can add a whimsical and natural touch.

Statement Lighting: Ditch the flickering candles and embrace unconventional illumination. String lights can be woven into geometric shapes, glowing orbs can create a mystical ambiance, or even project constellations on the ceiling for a starry escape. Imagine the soft glow setting the mood for intimate conversations and stolen kisses.

Remember, this is just the beginning! Stay tuned as we delve deeper into adding the extra touches that make your unconventional Valentine's Day truly unforgettable.

Adding the Extras

Your unconventional Valentine decorations are set, but the story isn't over yet! Let's infuse your space with sensory delights and interactive elements that engage all the senses and create a truly immersive experience for your loved one.

Sensory Delights:

Aromatic Ambiance: Ditch the overpowering floral scents and explore more subtle options. Create a calming atmosphere with essential oils like cedarwood, cinnamon, or grapefruit diffused in candle warmers or ultrasonic diffusers. Imagine the delicate fragrance setting the mood for relaxation and connection.

Music to Their Ears: Instead of predictable love songs, curate a playlist inspired by your chosen theme. Think jazz classics for a vintage chic soirée, instrumental scores for a movie-inspired evening, or nature sounds for a tranquil escape. Imagine the music weaving its magic, creating a unique soundtrack to your love story.

Sweet (and Savory) Surprises: Ditch the heart-shaped cookies and indulge in unexpected flavor combinations. Bake lavender-infused macarons for a touch of elegance, create mini savory tarts with surprising fillings, or set up a DIY dessert bar with unique toppings like edible flowers and homemade jams. Imagine the joy of discovering culinary delights that tantalize taste buds and spark conversation.

Interactive Touches:

Capture the Moment: Set up a quirky photo booth with fun props like oversized sunglasses, mismatched hats, balloons and love-themed signs. Guests can capture memories and unleash their inner goofiness. Imagine the laughter and playful moments you'll cherish long after the decorations are gone.

Love Letters & Wishes: Create a "love letter station" with vintage typewriters or decorative pens and paper. Leave guests with prompts like "What I love most about you" or "Our dream Valentine's Day adventure" and watch the heartfelt messages flow. Imagine the joy of reading these cherished keepsakes in the years to come.

Wall of Whispers: Dedicate a section of your wall as a "message board" using chalkboard paint or sticky notes. Leave pens and encourage guests to write sweet messages, funny anecdotes, or even future aspirations for your love story. Imagine the wall becoming a visual tapestry of love and shared experiences.

Conclusion

This Valentine's Day, you've embraced the unexpected, crafted a space that speaks volumes about your unique love story, and added interactive touches that will spark laughter and memories. But your journey doesn't end there. Let's weave sustainability into the fabric of your celebration, ensuring that the magic extends beyond your doorstep and into the world around you.

Celebrating with Conscience:

Upcycle & Repurpose: Instead of buying new decorations, look for treasures at thrift stores or flea markets. Repurpose old suitcases, mason jars, or even wine corks for creative and eco-friendly accents. Imagine giving pre-loved items a new lease on life and reducing waste.

Embrace Nature's Bounty: Opt for seasonal flowers, forage for pinecones and branches, or use air plants that require minimal care. Decorate with greenery from your garden or support local farmers' markets for fresh, beautiful options. Imagine minimizing your carbon footprint and supporting local businesses.

Sustainable Lighting: Ditch disposable candles and switch to LED alternatives or rechargeable fairy lights. Utilize natural light whenever possible and embrace the soft glow of lanterns powered by recycled materials. Imagine enjoying the ambiance while making a conscious choice for the environment.

Consumable Delights: Instead of individually wrapped treats, prepare homemade desserts or opt for bulk ingredients and reusable serving containers. Consider offering plant-based options or locally sourced snacks to minimize your environmental impact. Imagine indulging in delicious treats while making responsible choices.

As you step out of your unconventional and sustainable Valentine's Day haven, remember, the most valuable decorations are the memories you create, the laughter you share, and the love that shines brighter than any spotlight. Take the spirit of creativity, individuality, and environmental consciousness with you, and let your love story continue to unfold in a way that is uniquely yours and inspires others to celebrate love responsibly and meaningfully.