#Casablanca lilies

[flowerdeliveryphilippines]

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[wintersky1994]

Prototype Sailor Mars Fanart 🔥🔥🔥🏹🏹🏹💖💖💖

This is my fanart of Sailor Mars' prototype design from the Materials Collection. I added the Casablanca Lilies as a callback to one of the short stories of the Sailor Moon Manga "Casablanca Memory" which explains Rei Hino's backstory and why she wasn't very trusting of men. She's pretty much the opposite of Minako Aino, who has a history of kissing almost every frog in hopes of finding a prince if you get my drift. LOL

[bubbleaestheticnikkitea]

I draw this new version of my art but in a Cookie Run style so that it would be lore like.

Casablanca Lily Cookie wouldn't able to forget Vanilla Twirl Cookie's story of the tale of monsters from Beast-Yeast; she would sometimes have nightmares about it. She heard rumors about the last ancient hero located has been disclosed so far; thus she headed there despite Vanilla Twirl Cookie's warnings and a discovery of the Five Beasts that is related from the unforgettable story sealed in the continent of Beast-Yeast.

Song Here

Original Version Here

[p0orbaby]

Born to Love You Back

summary: a very important question is on the horizon

warnings: none

a/n: some rich!reader for you all

word count: 1.7k

-

The jeweller’s salon is tucked into a narrow street in the 1st arrondissement, down a street so narrow you almost missed it, the kind of place that doesn’t need signage because everyone who matters already knows where it is. The building itself is unassuming but pristine, a five-storey townhouse with cream-coloured stone, wrought-iron balconies, a double door painted a deep charcoal with brass fixtures that gleam in the waning afternoon sun. Outside, a delivery van idles, spilling faint notes of Edith Piaf from its radio as a man unloads crates of flowers: cyclamen, lilies, eucalyptus branches arranged in bursts of green and white. They’ll likely find their way to the salon’s interior within the hour, arranged with almost mathematical precision to evoke a studied nonchalance.

Inside, it’s quiet—museum-like but less sterile, hushed but alive. There’s a balance between the soft hum of conversation from another room and the faint, barely perceptible scent of lilies and leather. The floors are a herringbone parquet, polished to an impossible sheen, and the walls are panelled in dove grey. Everything about the space is designed to whisper money. Even the receptionist, stationed behind a desk lacquered to such a high gloss that it might double as a mirror. She’s mid-twenties, probably just out of university—Sciences Po, perhaps, or one of the Grandes Écoles—wearing a black crepe shift dress that hits just above the knee. Chanel, you’d bet, though it’s hard to tell from here. Her hair is sleek and straight, parted sharply in the middle, her nails painted in Rouge Noir, a colour so iconic it’s practically shorthand for Parisian sophistication. She greets you in French first, then switches to English the moment she hears your accent, though her tone remains precisely the same—warm but not too warm, deferential but not subservient.

Aurélie is waiting for you on the stairs. She’s maybe late thirties, tall, with that certain froideur that women in her line of work cultivate like a second skin. Her blazer is Saint Laurent—black, sharply tailored, peak lapels—and her silk blouse is an ivory so fine it catches the light in a way cotton never could. Her trousers skim the tops of her Louboutin heels—black patent leather, red soles so subtle they barely register. Her jewellery is minimal but deliberate: a single strand of Mikimoto pearls, their lustre so perfect they almost look artificial, and a pair of matching studs. She smiles when she greets you, her lips painted a nude so neutral it could have come from any number of Tom Ford palettes, but you’d guess Casablanca.

“This way, please,” she says, gesturing towards the stairs with a hand that’s manicured in a soft ballet pink, not a chip in sight. You follow her up, noting the faint scent of her perfume—Chanel No. 19, not a popular choice but a discerning one, with its crisp notes of galbanum and iris that feel both professional and unapologetically feminine.

On the landing, there’s a painting—a still life, maybe Cézanne, maybe a very good imitation. You don’t stop to look, but it catches your eye enough to linger in your mind as Aurélie opens a door to the second-floor where Its quieter, darker. The walls are a deep navy—Farrow & Ball, maybe Hague Blue—and the rug beneath the central display case is thick enough to swallow the sound of your footsteps. The case itself is glass-topped and backlit, the kind of lighting that renders diamonds almost supernatural in their brilliance. The rings are arranged by cut and carat, each one nestled in its own velvet slot, the symmetry of the display both calming and slightly overwhelming.

Aurélie steps aside, giving you space but remaining close enough to anticipate your needs. She stands with her hands loosely clasped in front of her, her posture immaculate.

“Take your time,” she says, standing back with the same attentive grace she’s shown since you arrived.

You nod, your gaze already falling to the rings. You’ve thought about this for weeks, maybe months, but standing here, it feels more real, the weight of the decision settling in your chest. Not because you’re uncertain—you’re not—but because this is a moment you’ll remember, whether you want to or not.

The first ring is a cushion-cut diamond, two carats, set in a band of pave diamonds. Platinum, naturally. The proportions are flawless, the craftsmanship impeccable, but as you turn it in the light, you know immediately it’s wrong. Too ornate. Too eager. Alexia would hate it. You imagine her wearing it for a moment, and the thought feels so ridiculous you almost laugh. She doesn’t like excess, at least not in the obvious sense. Her taste is clean, modern, unfussy.

The second ring is pear-shaped, slightly smaller, but with a brilliance that draws your eye. The stone feels alive under the light, its facets catching every subtle movement of your hand. For a moment, you hesitate, thinking about how it would look on her hand, but then you remember something she said once, flipping through a magazine in bed: “Pear cuts are too delicate. They look like they’re trying too hard.”

You sigh, not quite aloud, but enough for Aurélie to notice. She steps closer, just enough to offer a quiet suggestion. “Does she have a preference?” she asks, her tone light, neutral. “For the setting, or the cut?”

“She likes things simple,” you say, the words coming out more clipped than you mean them to. It’s not her fault, this unease you feel. “Classic, but not boring”

Aurélie nods, her expression unchanged, and steps back again. You wonder if she can sense the weight of what you’re doing—if she’s seen enough of this to know the signs. The third ring catches your eye before you reach for it. A round brilliant diamond, 1.8 carats, set in a plain platinum band. No pave, no halo, no embellishments. It’s striking in its simplicity, the kind of ring that doesn’t need to assert itself because it knows what it is. You pick it up, holding it to the light, and as you turn it, something settles in you. This is the one. You don’t need to overthink it.

Aurélie smiles faintly, as though she already knew. “Shall I prepare it for you?” she asks.

You nod, handing it back, and she takes it with both hands, disappearing into a back room.

While she’s gone, you pull out your phone. You shouldn’t call her—she’s probably still at training, her mind on drills and tactics—but you do it anyway. She answers on the third ring, her voice steady but soft, with that familiar cadence you’ve missed more than you’d care to admit.

“Hey,” she says, her voice clear, grounded, with just the faintest lilt of distraction. In the background, there’s a low murmur of voices, the familiar thud of a ball meeting turf, maybe a coach shouting something that’s swallowed up by the wind. You imagine the sun slicing through the Catalan sky, the kind of relentless brightness that makes the whole city shimmer.

“Hey,” you reply, smoothing nonexistent creases from your blazer out of habit, though no one is watching. Your reflection in the polished glass of the display case looks composed, disinterested, but the sound of her voice pulls something taut inside you. “How’s training?”

“Same as always,” she says, and there’s a pause—just long enough for you to hear her exhale softly, almost imperceptibly. You know she’s stepped aside, moved to some quieter corner of the training complex where no one will overhear. She’s careful like that, never careless, always aware of her surroundings.

“Still exhausting?” you ask, and she laughs under her breath—a low, warm sound that lingers longer than it should.

“Mhm,” she hums, the sound of it makes you smile despite yourself. “But it’s a good kind of exhausting. You know how it is”

“Not sure I do,” you tease, leaning against the edge of the display case, its surface cool against your hand. “I can’t say I’ve run laps around a pitch lately. Unless you count running several businesses as exercise”

“Of course,” she says, dry but affectionate, “such an athlete. Truly inspiring”

The corner of your mouth twitches upward. “I aim to impress”

There’s a faint rustle of movement on her end—maybe she’s leaning against a wall, maybe adjusting the strap of her training bib. You picture her in that effortless way she carries herself: shorts sitting just right, socks perfectly rolled down, hair tied back in that half-loose, half-styled way that only someone like her can pull off.

“Where are you?” she asks, not because she doesn’t know, but because it’s the kind of question you ask when you want the conversation to last a little longer.

“Near Rue de la Paix,” you say, keeping it vague. “Finishing up a meeting”

“You’re always finishing up a meeting,” she says, and there’s a lightness to her tone, but it doesn’t quite hide the subtext.

“You’re always training,” you counter, matching her tone, and you hear her chuckle, soft but genuine.

“Buen punto”

There’s a brief pause. In the background, someone calls her name, a voice you don’t recognise, and she responds with a quick, sharp “Un momento.” The way she switches languages so fluidly—it’s seamless—and yet it reminds you, in a small but certain way, that her world is different from yours. Barcelona, with its golden afternoons and relentless sun, its terracotta rooftops and restless streets, feels a thousand miles away from the polished stillness of this Parisian jewellers.

“You should,” you encouraged knowing full well she’ll make no move to end the call herself.

“I’ll see you tonight?” she asks, and it’s a question, but not really.

“Of course,” you say, without hesitation this time.

There’s another silence after that, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s the kind of silence you could live in, one where nothing needs to be said because the words are already understood. Finally, she says, “Te quiero,” and you hear the faint click as she ends the call.

Aurélie returns with the ring, now nestled in a velvet box so pristine it looks almost untouched by human hands. You slip it into your pocket, the weight of it grounding you, and leave the salon with a nod of thanks.

Outside, Paris feels sharper, brighter. The air smells faintly of rain and burnt sugar from a nearby crepe stand, and the light is just beginning to soften as dusk approaches. For the first time all day, you feel steady.

[thewritetofreespeech]

pleeease do the wedding headcanons for bg3!! can you do all the main boys (and maybe ascended astarion??) 💍

Gale

Gale does try to subtly warn you that it will be a big wedding, with the Dekarios Clan far & wide, but you hadn’t realized how big.

Cousins, uncles, aunts, friends of the family, friends of friends of the family all come to attend. To the point that you can’t have sides at the wedding as the groom’s side would swell over the other. So you choose to have no sides.

Gale’s mother is head of the clan and officiates the wedding. Utterly beguiled by you and the happiness you bring to her son. And a day she thought would never come while he was intwined with a goddess.

Tara acts as ring bearer. A title she is at first insulted about but then refuses to give up. No take backs.

They will have to transmute another wing onto the tower for all the presents. Gale blushes & stammers at other well wishes of having children right away. He’s not against it but he wants to have you to himself a little while longer.

Wyll

Given his background that I made up and also his rank in society as the eldest son of Ravengard, it was probably always an expectation of Wyll’s to get married. Family lines and all that.

Even when his life was in shambles, deep down he always believed that he would one day be free, get married, and have children with his partner.

It would be a very traditional wedding, with military aspects given his link to the Flamming Fists. This includes uniforms, sword arches, etc.

He cares very little for the formality but takes great pains to follow the traditions.

Wyll is much more interested in the reception. To dance with you who is finally all his, makes nearly ending with the world almost worth it.

Astarion

He’s surprised you want to get married and have a proper wedding. Can you just be continuing on as you are? Together because you want to be, not because you have to be. Astarion also doesn’t like…labels.

But, if it’s what you want, he supposes it wouldn’t be the end of the world. It’s just a big party at the end of the day, right? He likes parties.

It’s an intimate little affair with all your core friends come to join you. You couldn’t possibly have everyone you helped or made acquaintance with at the wedding. Astarion insists on keeping it small as you’ll never financially recover from all the ale you would need for that.

Makes his partners outfit and his own. Something matching, but not on the nose. More of a photo negative matching set. With no red. He doesn’t want to think about blood or the past today.

After it’s all said and done, Astarion can see what all the fuss might be about. To tell everyone you’re his. To tell everyone that you’ve chosen him. To have a symbol of that for all time. He’s glad you made him go through it.

Ascended!Astarion

Why? You’re already his. A piece of paper or foolish mortal ceremony is pointless when you have eternity together as Ascended and consort.

But….there are advantages to a wedding. Nobility and the merchant class of all Baldur’s Gate, not to mention powerful allies from afar, striding in like obedient lambs into his castle to pay tribute to the two of you. That is something he can get behind.

He has the grand ballroom flooded with night orchids, casablanca lilies, and any other night blooming flower he can think of. Just because they have to have the ceremony at night doesn’t mean that he’ll have your wedding be dull and dingy, devoid of color.

A costume change couple as there is an outfit for the ceremony, the reception, first dance, and departure. All custom made with the finest materials available. The kind of craftsmanship that takes 7 seamstresses 7 days & nights to finish on time. But it’s worth it.

Astarion would dance you around the ballroom. As if you were the only two in the room. Floating on air. He’s completely lost interest in his schemes and guests with you in his arms. He’ll come back to them later but they aren’t important when you’re with him.

Halsin

Never believed in marriage or weddings. Binding another person to another with words seemed unnatural to him. People are free to come & go as they please.

But, he also never considered himself a monogamist until he met you. His heart shifting from more of the bear into the wolf. Do not wolves bite and mark their mates like they might do with rings?

It would be a very small wedding. And by small he means just the two of you.

Together in a forest, under Oakfather’s gaze, using a traditional hand binding of the druids with crowns of flowers and simple garb, you make your pledge.

He would want to consummate your marriage immediately. Right there under your marriage tree; if you let him. He could be persuaded to at least wait until you’re back at your home, but it better be a short walk. Otherwise he makes no promises.

[breadedspider]

White Casablanca Lilies: Celebration of a life well lived

[aloysiavirgata]

Some kinky/m-rated post-revival headcanons for msr, please?? ☺️

1. Her moisturizer is obnoxiously expensive. It comes in a fancy little purple jar that he always winces at seeing in the recycle bin because he feels as though even the empty vessel must be worth money that he does not need.

Scully runs her fingers down her Vespucci throat, fingers slick with obscure polymers, and he remembers why he doesn’t care.

“Can I help you?” she asks, massaging nightingale shit or snail venom or some other unholy thing into those impossible cheekbones. Into eyelids taut and fine as dew-jeweled spiderwebs. Watching him in her Edwardian silver-glass mirror through lashes like opera curtain fringe.

Decades of touching her, but he cannot say she has skin like the finest vellum without sounding like Ed Gein. He cannot say, “I want to bite your calla-lily throat until it bruises into a violet,” without sounding like Ted Bundy.

“Nothing,” he says, his lip between his teeth. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your ablutions.”

He bites at his tongue like a cherry in April, almost ripened but not quite. He twitches a little in his faded yellow pants, twitches and considers, but isn’t fully hard yet.

Scully watches him in the mirror. Runs lotion between her high, bare breasts with her Rodin hands; studies him with her tourmaline eyes.

***

2. His forearms. She fell in love with restrained sexuality - no. No, she had a concept of it after she watched Casablanca one afternoon home from school with a stomach bug. Catholic girls fall in love with restrained sexuality very young, only they don’t know it. They iron their kilts and they pray and they confess to all the wrong sins. They fall in love with dark wool blazers and satin ribbons and the brave wilted starch of hand-me-down blouses.

The muscles below his elbows, woven like a braid. Like a scourge.

He’s past sixty. He’s past sixty and if she’d met him now at the same age she was then she still would have bitten her lip and said “Jesus H. Christ” and quietly, secretly, shamed her father.

Let him finger her in a Ford Taurus. Called her sister and said, “Ohh, Missy, I think I fucked up.”

Daniel, Daniel. She thought that was love.

Mulder smirks, a five-o’clock-shadow on his disparately perfect face. Mulder with his squinty eyes and his too-short chin and his beestung jigsaw mouth like the reason kissing was invented.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asks, tapping his nutmeg fingers on the scarred kitchen table.

“You don’t make very much money,” Scully notes, running her thumb along his brachioradialis. His skin is the color of sand castles, of the the edges of chocolate chip cookies. “With your blog.”

Mulder pouts. “I made it the old fashioned way,” he says, his thumb against her philtrum. Her lips. Her tongue.

“You certainly didn’t marry it,” she teases. “Living in sin.”

He nibbles the fleshy pad of her thumb. “I inherited.”

***

3. Her waist is sister to a Stradivarius. Her waist like Maud of Wales. He knows he shouldn’t obsess over this, her taut palimpsest belly, especially after the birth of a child they can no longer even claim. He knows it’s a quirk of genetics, like her startling eyes and her amber hair and her glorious brain. He knows she was born to be someone’s muse and that he has thwarted her destiny of Gauloises and pouting silver-nitrate immortality in a coffee table photography book.

She could still launch a thousand ships, she could bring Rossetti to his knees. He does not realize that the muse she is - a Perugino angel, a Lovelace polymath - remains his alone by her desire.

Scully, nearly sixty. So soft and so hard and angular and curvaceous. How had he ever waited, her waist and breasts and hips all bound in wool and gabardine and fitted black poplin? How had he let her beg off the lyric of “If I were the king of the world/Tell you what I'd do/I'd throw away the cars and the bars and the wars/Make sweet love to you.”

He curves his hot palm below her rib cage with his left hand, thumbs her tailored blouse open with his right.

He sucks at her rosy-brown nipple, her clavicles, her pale calf; he a ucks at her like Eve drinking in the first sweet juices of the apple.

***

4. Mulder should have been a pianist or a surgeon, she thinks. Should have been conducting an orchestra with fingers that beautiful, but instead he’s massaging a focaccia into a lazy rectangle.

He’s a tactile animal, her love, with his rangy hands and his absence of physical boundaries. Mulder has loomed and leered and poked and prodded for decades. He’s touched her in wildly inappropriate ways since Monica Lewinsky could legally drink. The 90’s, what a goddamn time, with his wholesomely filthy calendars and his flagrant innuendo.

Scully’s watched him squeeze limes and kill terrible people and braid challah and still - shameless - she sucks her bottom lip when he unbuttons a cuff, grips the gear-shift in their Highlander.

Mulder slices a tomato, chiffonades the basil.

“How long to rise,” Scully murmurs, cupping her palm around the tender juncture between his thighs.

Mulder sucks in his breath, arranges a flower garden on his dough. Adjusts an olive slice with the precision of Michelangelo.

“Twenty-four hours in the fridge,” he says, pressing deeply into her hand. “I hope you haven’t got plans.”

***

5. He licks at it like someone’s elderly aunt, like a mother cat, like a judgemental yiayia, bubbie, meemaw.

Scully swats at him, irritated. “Stop it. It’s not schmutz.”

“No,” Mulder says, tenderly. Stubbornly. “All those years, who did you think you were fooling?”

She scowls, too thin and too pale and too aristocratic for his comfort. “When I was nine Aunt Olive said it cluttered up my face.” Scully presses a forefinger to the birthmark above her lip. “It made me self conscious.”

“Je suis coquette,” Mulder says, his tongue teasing her lips apart, pleased with his own cleverness. He took three semesters of French, traveled there, but studied Les mouches independently.

A gentle swat to his nose. “It’s a cluster of melanocytes.”

He would absolutely love to slap Scully’sAunt Olive. Scully's dreary biology professors. “Tell Marilyn Monroe,” he mumbles against her fleur-de-sel mouth. “Tell Cindy Crawford.”

Scully says nothing, but her skin warms. Softens, loosens. She melts, midway cotton-candy at the State Fair, into his waiting mouth.

[bloodraven55]

another gayass pose in one of the chapter covers and minako getting rei casablanca lilies for her birthday bc she remembered they’re her favourite flower….. oh the manga is feeding me well with these two

[sexilene]

smelling like an angel!

here is everything i use and i promise you’ll be smelling and looking angelic! 🪽🌸🐇

🪽 my daily go to's are for sure, britney spears fantasy and the midnight fantasy for perfumes, they have that soft vanilla scent while also being sooo 2000s! on fancier days i use the casablanca lily perfume from byredo it’s my fave!

🪽 for my hair the tresemme shampoo and conditioner makes my hair smell so good for days im not kidding!! if you are feeling a bit fancier/expensive then i recommend the oribe gold lust shampoo and conditioner it’s also heavenly.

🪽 i also blowout my hair with the extra strength color wow spray orrrrr the oribe royal blowout spray and use curlers so it holds its shape, then i lock that it with the sexyhair shine/weather proof hairspray then oil/serum (kerestase exlir ultime) or the oribe split end seal! i like my hair to shiny, soft and bouncy like 90s butterfly cut with slightly fluffy bangs, sorta like a supamodel!

🪽 i use the tree hut hibiscus ylang ylang body scrub when i’m feeling pinkkk heaven and if im feeling fancy i use the ouai st. barts scrub and the elemis salt glow. i also am using the sticky dates body wash from lush rn and it’s like sooo vanilla i love it! (i'm literally always going to lush lol). oh! and the necessaire unscented bar soap is fabulous as well!

🪽 i use the pink dove deodorant im not sure what its called since ive gotten it so many times but i love the smell! for lotions i do a mix of a body shimmer from ionic london, or the soleil blanc shimmer from tom ford and the ouai st. barts creme which smells like a frosting vacation! i buy the i also use the sleepy dust powder from lush and basically cover my clothes, bed-sheets, inside of my shoes and body with that, go get it seriouslyyy! i also crush up glittery eyeshadow sometimes to mix in with the powder to leave things shiny and so when i offer some to guys to put on their gym clothes or whateverrrr they are slightly glittery and smell like me 😇😇 ‘swoon’

🪽 something i also like to do which is a little odd is that i like to very lightly spray tom ford cologne on my mattress and pillows because it smells like hotel to me!

🪽 always keep a spare mini perfume samples in your bag because you never know when you’ll need a touch up or if a friend need a quick spritz that way you both aren’t wearing the same perfume! 🤍

[bubbleaestheticnikkitea]

I was listening to one of Alan Walker's songs though and it gives me an idea for Casalily.

Casablanca Lily Cookie had been heard about the lore and rumors about Beast-Yeast and knew that there's creatures might been in the darkness; without hesitation, she ran away from the Vanilla Kingdom to discover those secrets and especially about between her mother and Dark Enchantress Cookie in the continent of Beast-Yeast despite those warnings from Vanilla Twirl Cookie but not alone at all, she is been accompanied with GingerBrave's Party.

Song here:

[sgtmickeyslaughter]

WEEKLY TAG WEDNESDAY

thank for for tagging me @mybrainismelted and the birthday gal @energievie

---

When is yours? August 23rd

Where were you born? The city of angels but we moved when I was a baby

How do you feel about your legal name? Are you using it online and/or IRL? Love it! I think it's so cute, but not a super common name and it's typically spelled with a "J" in the US and a "G" in the rest of the world (hence the nickname Gigi) and my name was stolen from an Aussie so my entire life it has been pronounced wrong by people reading it in the US which I don't love. I have a long running fantasy that someday I'll leave the US and go somewhere my name is always pronounced right.

How about your sign? Do you feel it "fits"? Yeah! I think all the typical virgo traits apply, and some leo since I'm a cusp. I would switch out the word perfectionist for pragmatist on all those lists, but that's just me

What's your earliest memory related to your birthday? I had a big fifth birthday party at the beach with the kids from my class and all my parents friends and their kids, there was a diy slip'n'slide and bbq and cake, and my dad set off fireworks he saved from 4th of july, very fun

What's one of the best gifts you've ever received? For my third birthday my mom's friend got me a teddy bear that I still have and adore and sleep with when I'm sad.

How about one of the best you've given yourself? I got myself a pair of nice gold hoops to replace the nasty tarnished 4$ ones I wear everyday

What's your favourite cake flavour? I love a classic birthday cake with rainbow sprinkles, but honestly I'm not a big cake person

How about your favourite flowers? I love roses and white lilies

Have your ever thrown a birthday party? If yes, tell us about your favourite one. When I was turning seventeen I threw a bonfire out in the woods that wound up being massive (the party not the fire) and I didn't know most of the people there by the time I left so that was weird but very fun! Now, I just stick to small parties on the roof of my friends building bc its summer in the city.

What's the ultimate birthday song? I'm going with Evie, I think it's true that hot girls cry on their birthday. So it's my party and I'll cry if I want to cry if I want to

And last but not least, pick a celebrity with whom you share your birthday. It's such a random collection of people, but I'll say Julien Casablancas in honor of all the guys I dated in college who had big fat crushes on him and wouldn't let me forget it

tagging:

@spookygingerr @jrooc @mmmichyyy @iansw0rld

@creepkinginc @gallawitchxx @catgrassplantdad @blue-disco-lights

@atthedugouts @stocious @burninface @ian-galagher

@heymrspatel @solitarycreaturesthey @thepupperino @mickeym4ndy

@doshiart @em-harlsnow @lingy910y @softmick

[saltshaker404]

Kouyou and Night Blooming Flowers Pt.1

Some Kouyou doodles from the past few months of Angel's Trumpet, Moonflower, Casablanca Lily, Abyssinian Gladiolus, and Evening Primrose.

[oshiokiyopod]

Happy Birthday, Rei Hino!

That's right! Today is April 17th, the birthday of Rei Hino, aka Sailor Mars!

Manga Mars in her side story Casablanca

And a full color image with Casablanca lilies!

90s anime Mars!

Bandai Myu Mars!

PGSM Live Action Mars!

Nelke Myu Mars!

And lastly, Crystal Mars!

Guardian of Flame and Passion, in the name of Mars, she'll chastise you!

[thereal-moonknight]

Just ya friendly flower anon here. Got flowers for all three of ya, mostly casablanca lilies and evening primroses enjoy! - flower anon

oh, that's rather nice, thanks flower anon

[thatdruidgal]

Night-Blooming Plants

I focus a lot of my craft on lunar magick, so here is a list of my favorite night-blooming plants to put in my moon garden!

Moonflower

This vining perennial is perfect for vertical gardening using a trellis, pergola, or other supportive structure.

Maintenance: low

Water: drought-tolerant

Soil: well-drained soil

can become invasive — keep it in check by removing seed pods before they open

deer-resistant

Evening Primrose

Maintenance: very low

Water: drought-tolerant – little watering

Sun: full sun

Soil: well-drained soil

Night-Blooming Jasmine

Night-blooming jasmine can grow up to 10 feet tall, and its columnar shape is perfect for planting as a privacy screen or windbreak.

Maintenance: low

Water: water regularly

prune to shape

fertilize in summer every few weeks

Four O’Clocks

Maintenance: low

Water: drought-resistant

resistant to disease and pests

fertilize only if leaves turn pale green

Tuberose

Sun: full sun

Soil: well-drained soil

space them 8 inches apart in 2 feet of soil (to accommodate their growth)

add 3-4 inches of mulch to keep the soil moist

use slow-release fertilizer at the beginning of summer

Casablanca Lily

Maintenance: low

Soil: well-drained soil

perennial bulbs

deadhead blooms

Gardenia

Water: when soil feels dry (about twice per week)

Sun: full sun or partial shade

Soil: well-drained soil

flourishes in acidic soil

prune to shape

deadhead blooms

fertilize in summer every couple weeks

Night Gladiolus

Water: not much

Sun: full sun

Soil: well-drained soil

allow plenty of space

Night Phlox

Night Phlox is a low-growing ground cover.

Water: drought-tolerant, water regularly

Sun: full sun

Soil: well-drained soil

in-ground or in containers

Chocolate Daisy

Water: not much

Soil: well-drained soil

not much fertilizer or mulch

deadhead blooms

Evening Rain Lilies

Maintenance: low

Water: moderate

plant 6 inches apart

Foamflower

These perennial plants work great as a ground cover.

Maintenance: low

Water: keep soil moist

Sun: shade

deadhead blooms

resistant to deer, rabbits, disease and pests

Mock Orange

Reaching 10 to 12 feet high and wide, this is one of those night-blooming plants that works perfectly as a privacy hedge around your moon garden.

Maintenance: low

Water: when soil is dry

winter-hardy

fertilize yearly with compost, not nitrogen.

Dame’s Rocket

While grown as a biennial, the Dame’s Rocket can last for years because of its self-seeding nature.

Maintenance: low

Water: water regularly

deadhead blooms

resistant to disease and pests

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[soli-flore]

How to Smell Like: Carmilla

“How beautiful she looked in the moonlight! Shy and strange was the look with which she quickly hid her face in my neck and hair, with tumultuous sighs, that seemed almost to sob, and pressed in mine a hand that trembled.”

Bloodmoon by Andromeda’s Curse -

Notes: Dripping Candlewax, Woodsmoke, Tobacco, Scattered Rose Petals, an Old Oak Coffin and Dirt

Vampire Blood by Ghoulish Goods Custom -

Top Notes: Red Fruit Middle Notes: Blood Orange, Red Cedar, Patchouli and Clove Base Notes: Plum, Incense and Tonka Bean

Rose Noir by Byredo -

Top Notes: Cardamom, Freesia, Grapefruit and Red Berries Middle Notes: Lily-of-the-Valley, Raspberry, Rose Damascena, Violet and Jasmine Base Notes: Moss, Musk, Patchouli and Cistus Labdanum

Mist and Moonlight by Wylde Ivy -

Notes: Vanilla, White Amber, Benzoin, Aged Cedarwood, Roasted Tonka Beans, Pink Peppercorns and Moonlit Musk

Memoriam by Alkemia Perfumes -

Notes: Heirloom Roses, Woodsmoke, Ashes and Balm of Gilead

Pomegranate Noir by Jo Malone London -

Top Notes: Pomegranate, Plum and Rhubarb Middle Notes: Casablanca Lily, Jasmine, Clove, Pink Pepper and Rose Base Notes: Guaiacwood, Virginia Cedar, Musk and Amber