(I- I- don’t know what you mean by that, but fuck it I’ll go with it lol Thanks for the ask!
Also, I don’t know much about flower meanings but I tried my best with google lol)
The first time you meet Dynamight, he’s stomping into your flower shop.
Broad-shouldered and tall, he swallows the space he’s in. His smell is a lazy thing, curling underneath your nose and swelling within your lungs like smoke. When he stops in front of your counter, you have to crane your neck up just to see his face, the inferno of his eyes; he leans forward and the world fades away beneath his shadow.
“I need flowers,” he says.
You continue to look at him, expecting him to say more but he stays silent. Just looks at you with a sharp frown and even sharper eyes, waiting, waiting, and you vaguely wonder if this is what it feels like to be a villain. To have him stare you down like this, like he’s trying to pick you apart, get to your soft insides, find out exactly what make you tick and-
It’s overwhelming. It’s all-encompassing.
It’s standing in the middle of a bed of coals, and the only thing you can do is curl your fingers and endure the burn.
“D-Do-,” you clear your throat; his gaze briefly flicks down to watch it before he meets your gaze again, “Do you know what type do you want?”
“Doesn’t matter,” he grunts and you think of borage leaves and the prickle underneath, the sharp curve of it petals; the dip of his brows is the danger of a rhododendron.
You flounder a bit, not knowing what to do. Dynamight stares at you a bit more before he sighs, some of the severeness bleeds from his face. He leans back and you breath a little easier.
“I’m- giving this to someone,” he says stiffly; the corner of his mouth gives a twitch, “Fucking idiot got himself hurt on the job an’ won’t stop whining ‘bout how boring his hospital room looks. I need somethin’ to shut him the fuck up.”
Ah, you think vaguely.
“I- uh- I’ll try my best, sir,” you say; Dynamight’s expression doesn’t change, “If you’ll just give me a moment?”
At that, his mouth twitches again. He seems to hesitate before he takes a breath through his nose, stuffs his hands in his pockets. He studiously avoids eye contact.
“Red,” he mumbles; you watch in fascination as a flush warms the tips of his ears, delicate and peeking like an unfurling mimosa, “Just make sure there’s a lotta of red.”
“Of course,” you say, and when he doesn’t bother to reply back, you take that as a cue get to work.
It’s easy enough, this kind of request. Unfortunately in a world of heroes and villains, it isn’t uncommon to make bouquets for the sick and hurt, and so you have a lot of experience with such things. But no matter how many times you do this, it is with a bittersweet touch that you pick out these flowers.
You pick the classic of roses, the good luck of peonies, the wistful afterthoughts of asters. Throw in some carnations and orchids for their longevity. And, you explain all this to Dynamight as you are wrapping the bouquet in a red ribbon, carefully setting it down on the counter. He listens with unexpected attentiveness.
“And this one here?” he grunts, pointing at a small cluster of round flowers in the bundle, “They’re yellow.”
It’s your turn to hesitate now. You shuffle your feet nervously.
“Those- are wild tansies,” you say, “They symbolize protection, health, and immortality. And…”
You pause. His stare is unrelenting.
“They also can mean a declaration of war,” you blurt out, nervous, “I thought you might like it to mean a warning about getting hurt again.”
Another pause and you briefly think of what flowers would look best in your casket, before his mouth turns up at the corners and he laughs. It’s not a long or loud thing, more of a bark than anything else, but god, does he look beautiful. His smile is more teeth than lips, his eyes the aftermath of a battle, and it reminds you of hot summers and picking for aloe. Of cutting the thick and prickly exterior to get to the insides, the softness underneath, a hidden treasure dripping from fingertips to wrist, the reward of a job well done-
Your face is ablaze. Your pulse is a hummingbird beat against your throat. He leans forward and his gaze is the bubble of sap beneath a sun warmed tree.
“Perfect,” he says, and he’s still smiling, smaller now, more private; still thorn sharp, underneath his molten presence, “This is perfect, bumblebee.”
You sputter and that only seems to amuse him further. He takes the bouquet and drops cash on the counter, a glance more than enough to tell you that it is more than you asked for.
“Keep the change,” he says and your left to stare at his broad back as he approaches the exit.
Halfway out the door, he gives you one last look.
“Next time,” he continues and god, his grin is absolutely feral, “I wanna whole bouquet of tansies.”