#bluebell glue

[frimleyblogger]

Bluebell Glue

The folklore associated with the #bluebell and how it was used to make #books and #arrows

Bluebell bulbs are full of a viscid juice and are poisonous in their fresh state, at least for humans and most animals except, curiously, badgers. To consume them in large quantities could be fatal. Some folk traditions played on the flower’s inimical properties. Bluebells were said to be used in witches’ potions. Nightmares could be warded off by placing bluebells under a pillow or hanging them…

[bonefall]

Ok, im back with more names. The bog was hard to find, so I’m basing it off of the area of Carrington Moss, which is in the area I think BB takes place if I’m reading the maps right

Also bc we’re talking about Shadowclan

Ok, so the names

First of all: Fen, Bog, Mire, and Peat, all names for this biome. There’s also marls, a rock found in the area

Again, I’ll only be using names I don’t remember being in the series (the obvious one being moss. It’s all moss)

Asphodel (bog asphodel), rosemary (bog rosemary), cranberry, cotton (cotton sedge), blackberry, bluebell, foxglove, iris, a plant called Mad-dog weed, also known as a water-plantain, admiral (red admiral), pipit (meadow pipit), partridge (gray partridge, but very rare) bullfinch, and bunting (reed bunting)

Close but you're a bit off-- Carrington Moss is, confusingly, an example of a moorland!

Specifically it is a lowland peat bog. Upland peat, lowland peat, blanket bog, dune heath, upland heath, lowland heath, maritime heath... all of these biomes are completely different, but all of them are referred to as moorlands.

Also, those names for the biome are not interchangeable. Those all have more specific meanings;

Fen: An alkaline wetland. Fed by fresh groundwater or runoff, these biomes are a lot richer in nutrients and the water is higher in oxygen. Because of this, they often have a much larger diversity of plant and animal species. Fens can sometimes become bogs over time.

Bog: An acidic wetland Thick moss, lots of dead matter, mostly a result of still water building up over many many years. Since the water is low in oxygen, you won't find many fish in these, and generally bogs are home to specialists who can handle the conditions.

Mire: Wet, muddy land that's hard to walk on Only synonymous with "bog" if you're using it in the informal sense of "being bogged down," not in the ecological sense-- a bog is a mire, but not all mires are bogs. You could have a mire made out of glue, tar, or caramel, if you were writing a really cool fantasy series.

Peat: A dark brown material formed from partially decayed plant matter. Essentially what happens when the top layer of moss or grass dies in a really wet place, is quickly grown-over by living plants, and then rots slowly underneath. A VERY important component of a bog, extremely useful as fuel.

For ShadowClan I'm actually modelling wetlands in and around Delamere Forest, specifically, because I ran into the issue you did of the British-English dialect having a lot of "overlap" in region names and scientific terms. If you want to go scouring for cool prefixes to suggest, you can check out Blakemere Moss, Black Lake, Mouldsworth Gap, and Abbots Moss.

Most of the plants you mentioned still grow here, though! Some other fun prefixes I've been thinking of though;

Lime (type of tree, no relation to citrus!)

Linden (another name for lime, which there are two types of)

Sphagnum (Important type of moss)

Snipe (type of bird that picks up its babies and flies away with them)

Coot (funny name bird)

Chaser (type of dragonfly)

Podzol (ashy soil found in places where plant decomposition is inhibited)

Quiver or Quake (Describing the movement of thick moss that has formed over the surface of stillwater, Q is a really rare letter in WC names)

Vetch (Common type of plant with a name I think is really cool)

Nymph (Baby dragonfly)

Skater, Skimmer, or Strider (Bug that hunts by gliding across the surface of water)

[adevotedappraisal]

Who Is The Living Queen Of Soul?

You can vote on the Queen on the R&B subreddit here

In particular, the death of singer Aretha Franklin in August 2018 left a gash in the collective cultural psyche of America, a deepening crevice that I believe worsens the longer the title of Queen of Soul music is left uninhabited.

Upon reflection, it becomes apparent that what Aretha’s reign of Soul music most importantly did was to codify the musical textures, vocal phrasing and techniques of presentation comprise Soul music and R&B in general.  Since her death, R&B music has given me a curious, rudderless impression, as if waiting for a style to settle upon, or for an emotion clear enough to spin into a groove of sentiment.  What the genre needs, is a refocusing of its strengths, that broad-chested arrogance that imagination brings and the polestar of excellence that only a queen can bring. Therefore, it begs the question: who is the living Queen of Soul?

Four candidates come to my mind when thinking of living embodiments of the genre of Soul music: Gladys Knight, Patti LaBelle, Chaka Khan and Mary J. Blige.  These women have each created multiple classic Soul, R&B and Disco records, spanning multiple generations, each one with enough lasting resonance to be sampled in prominent Hip-Hop records.  They exemplify the genre, but with their own idiosyncratic strong points, and would chart a disparate course for the future of R&B if one was chosen as Queen of Soul over the other.

To many, especially in the American South, Gladys Knight would be their reflexive choice, the Southern Georgia bred voice that, between 1957 and 1987 powered her group The Pips 19 top 20 R&B hits with 16 of those becoming top 20 Pop hits. She imbued a deep pathos of longing on songs “Help Me Get Through The Night,” “If I Was Your Woman” and the classic “Midnight Train To Georgia.”  Her church-taut control of her alto voice is the engine of the group's biggest hits, that reign brightest during her Motown years of 1966 to 1973, her languished phrasing falling out of favour by the late Seventies, over-shadowed by Disco and Pop hits, the Eighties only yielding one minor hit for the group with “Love Overboard.”

While her Sixties masterpieces have been sampled by the late J Dilla to 2000s rapper Freeway, I’m not sure that her vocal phrasing or songcraft has influence on the current generation of singers, and a choice for her would signal a traditionalist desire to return to the classic sound of Soul music, which might not be such a bad thing all things considered.

Ms. Patti LaBelle has been around just as long as Gladys, and, truth be told, is the voice I am slightly biased towards when I think of R&B.  her voice contains a range of voices, from the high-pitched screams of adoration of “My Love, Sweet Love” to the hot scat at the end of “You Are My Friend.”  Her voice is a sweet glue that powered her group The Bluebelle to early Sixties hits like “I Gave My Heart To The Junkman” and “The Wedding Song,” which helped to standardise the Rhythm & Blues genre in the process.

What she is missing is notable songs between 1966 and 1974, when Soul music was in heyday, with hits by Aretha, Stevie Wonder and Marvin Gaye.  As a Pop culture figure though, she has endured, her songs covered by Christina Aguilera and sampled on classic Rap songs by Outkast and Nelly.  Her voice is instantly recognizable, still a mainstay on quiet storm radio, an elemental thread in the perception of Soul music today.  Her ad libs at the end of her hit “If Only You Knew” are legendary, each syllable coming hot and incandescent from her throat into our ears.

If you were looking for a queen that can bridge the old and new idioms of Soul then you would be looking for Chaka Khan.  Rising to prominence with funk band Rufus with the number one hit “Tell Me Something Good” from 1974, producing 12 top 20 R&B hits with the band.

As a solo artist she was on the cutting edge of R&B, utilising the latest drum machines and synths, like on number one Pop hit “I Feel For You,” and on “Through The Fire,” famously sampled by Kanye West.  Khan’s voice is an electric and druggy funk, perfect for the weird 70s and the messed-up party of the 80s.  I love how she phrases sorrow and wonder, with yelps and deep layered harmonies, her wild voice writhing like the untamed want underneath Soul music itself.  While she isn’t as big of a household name as others on this list, none of them were as adventurous with their sexiness as Chaka.

From her debut “What’s The 411?” Mary J Blige was a generational talent.  The rough-hewn vocals expressed a working class anguish and joy that connected with young Gen X Black women looking for an alternative to Whitney Houston and Anita Baker.  With her 1992 number one hit “Real Love and her hit “Be Happy” from her sophomore album, she fit in the pocket of those Hip-Hop drums, threading her runs around them.

Of the women mentioned here, Mary J Blige has consistently been on the charts the longest, a presence though the 90s, 2000s, 2010s and the 2020s with her latest album “Good Morning Gorgeous.” She had early 90s rap trendsetter Grand Puba on her debut album and buzzed-about rappers from the Griselda label on her latest.  While she was not active during the 70s zenith of Soul music, Blige knows where her voice is most effective, and always has her finger on the pulse of current music.  Could it be she is the queen our 21st century needs?

Aretha’s death hit me harder than I thought it would, for reasons I outlined here, but the vacuum she left has been felt as well when it comes to the state of R&B.  Does it return to conservative roots with a play to its true strengths of musicianship and gospel-esque ad libs, or does it embrace the brave new world of technological improvements, production and vocals that create a ‘vibe’ to be mixed into streaming playlists? Well, only a queen can answer that.

[processandenquirykyrstenmackay]

Paper Vessels

For our next workshop we were tasked to use a technique called ‘quilling’, I choose to use strips of paper and making tight coils then glue them together to make an interesting sculpture. It was at this stage that I realised the tight coils held a resemblance to the buds of bluebells that grow in my forest, they are the purest form of nature still too young to bloom but still hold potential to be something more as they age, much like a child running through the forest wild and untamed, but once they bloom the clock is ticking.

For further development I wanted to go up the forest and take some photos of my old playground, where the bluebells grow. Once I had my photographs, I printed them off and created spirals inspired by the workshop, the spirals remind me of the bushes and vines that grow around the path of the forest, they are unpredictable and grow like wildfire, they are hard to tame, much like I was in my younger years.

[thenumbersgameif]

What are the Number’s favorite flowers? How would they react to Four given them a bouquet of them pre- and post-relationship?

Zero: they love gardenias--if given the flowers pre-relationship, they'd have no idea what to do with themself, just blinking slowly while looking at the flowers, unsure on what to do as they never received a bouquet in their life. In-relationship, their cheeks would flush with color, as a soft smile breaks on their face, and they thank Four for the gift.

One: they love purple hyacinths--if given the flowers pre-relationship, they'd at first think it's an elaborate joke. Waiting for a punchline, they examine the bouquet, looking for some hidden blades, hot glue or anything of the sort. When they find nothing, their expression grows more grumpy as they storm back to their room. In-relationship, they have no idea how to react. They blurt out an awkward "thanks" though, before running off.

Three: they love the calla lilies--if given the flowers pre-relationship, they'd be unsure on how they should proceed. They give a polite "thank you" and go on with their day, still thinking about the situation and what it could have meant. In-relationship, they immediatly melt, giving Four a rare but warm smile, thanking them for the gift. They later dry the flowers, to keep them for longer time.

Five: they love bluebells--if given the flowers pre-relationship, they'd be quite confused, and stunned. Loss for words, they'd just quickly nod their head and run into their room. In-relationship, they'd smile softly at Four, taking in the beauty and smell of the flowers, thanking them for the gift.

[asimplemulti]

Tikki sighed as she alighted on a corner of the bed, a tiny frown on her face. Out of all the things to happen after the battle, a strange new world like this had not been on the highlight of things she'd assumed would happen by any means.

And, yet.. here they were. It was a lucky thing that Tikki had been smuggling a few things of marinette's into the box. Just on the off chance the teen had needed to flee. she would be decently ok once she woke up.

And that's what happened a few long hours later, bluebell eyes forcing themselves open as if glue was holding them shut and letting out a slight hiss!!

asimplemulti​:

“Kiwami’s are Divine concepts. We are created when the concept of Something comes into being for the very first time. We traveled the stars for eons until we found our world’s Earth and began to long to interact with the humans of that realm. It took five thousand years, but a magi were able to create special jewels, and we were finally able to interact with human beings. Without the jewels, not only are we able to interact with you like this, but our powers are more settled. When we first came to our earth there was a… mistake with my counterpart and the dinosaurs were a causality for the moment…”

gently Tikki trailed after them, looking a bit sheepish.

“Marinette is the current Ladybug, and one of my finest I must say! She’s going to do even better now that the whole Paris issue is behind us and Nooroo and Duusu are finally safe….”

The water bubble holding the girl drifted along with them as Dalitso and Ghislain head towards the school. Both once again sharing confused glances as the kiwami talked. Though neither said anything as Dalitso focused on getting to the medical ward and Ghislain soon found himself slightly distracted as he noticed the squirrel had followed and stooped down a moment to offer a hand to it.

Said critter then crawled up his arm to rest upon his shoulder before the redhead sprinted just a bit to catch up.

Eventually they reach the medical ward where, after placing the girl down upon one of the beds, the Dormleader explains to the nurse what they'd been told though they seemed to understand about as well as they had. Still at least now the strange girl would be safe until she awakened. Ghislain's bird and squirrel friend remaining behind to keep an eye on such while the students headed out for now.

[redux-iterum]

What would happen if a newborn/young kitten was adopted into ShadowClan, only for the clan to find out that they’re actually a giant breed like a Maine coon? I have a character like this, a large cat adopted in a clan of small cats, and I’m curious to see what this situation would be like in your redux universe. I’m sure many crazy antics would ensue, especially when they get older and they’re already as big as a thunderclan warrior as an apprentice. I’d imagine their clan mates wouldn’t challenge them in fear of being sat on and crushed under all that fluff. Would they automatically get the suffix claw? At the very least the little ants of ShadowClan now have an awesome defense system on their side, I can only imagine what would happen if they end up being a skilled fighter or a matriarch.

Also, my deepest condolences for you regarding puppy!

Well, we've seen how a small cat does in a big cat Clan. A big cat in a small cat Clan shouldn't be much different!

As for the details, I will say that bluebell juice can be used to make glue.

[dmitrigivesgoodblood]

Dmitri: Love is a weakness. It's an evolutionary mistake.

Illium: You're literally making a birthday card for Honor right now.

Dmitri: *pointing a glue gun at him* you're on thin fucking ice, Bluebell.

[ghostis-plonts]

Easy pressed flower method!

You will need:

Flowers (duh!)

Two sheets of kitchen paper

Two sheets of newspaper

At least one book

Potentially, also some additional heavy objects (could be anything: tins of beans, water bottles... get creative!)

Method: (pictures below)

Choose your flowers! Ideally you want thin and vibrantly coloured flowers. Avoid juicy things like bluebells because they tend to go mouldy before they dry out, and you don’t want that! Make sure that you have permission to pick the flowers, and don’t take too many from one plant/area - be considerate to the environment!

Don’t wash your plants, but make sure they’re clean and free of bugs and dirt etc. If they were damp or dewy when you picked them, just dab some kitchen paper over them to make sure you’re not putting them into the book wet.

Open your chosen pressing book somewhere in the middle, and on the bottom page, place a piece of kitchen paper. This is just to make sure that the pages of the book are protected in case any of the moisture from the flowers seeps that far through the newspaper. It didn’t for me, but protec those books!

Open out the newspaper and place the sheets on top of the kitchen roll. It helps to close the book once at this point so that you have a nice crisp seam in the newspaper before you put the flowers on, so that they don’t jump out when you close the book.

Lay your flowers onto the sheet. It helps to place them with the flowers facing towards the spine and the stems towards the edge so that when you close it, they stay flat-ish. Some might get squished, but that’s just part of pressing flowers.

Once all your flowers are safely on the newspaper, gently close the top sheet of newspaper over the top of the flowers, and place another piece of kitchen paper on top of the newspaper, before closing the book completely. Make sure nothing gets too squished or dog-eared in a way you don’t want. It’s tricky, so don’t be too fussy about it.

Place the book somewhere out of the way, and either put a load of other books on top of it, or stack (carefully!) your other heavy objects on top of it to create the pressure needed.

Leave the book without opening it for about a week.

Check to make sure nothing’s gone mouldy or whatever after one week. If all is fine, close it up again and leave for another 7 days or so to make sure everything is completely dry.

After 2 weeks in total, you should have dried, pressed flowers. You can attach them to journals with a liquid PVA glue or use them in resin or whatever you want to do with them now! Have fun!

Pictures:

3.

4. & 5.

6.

7.

Stack up the books to add weight

Here’s some I did earlier...

Feel free to add any tips or tricks if you have more experience with pressing flowers than I do! I used to do it a lot as a child, and recently had a go at doing it as an adult, but without the little flowerpress I built back then (they’re super cheap and easy to make, if you want to get into pressing flowers in a bigger way than just the odd occasion!).

[xbunnybunz]

Flowers Between Ribs [Sans x Reader]

Summary: Papyrus is cooking downstairs and Sans is asleep. Of course, you would take this opportunity to stick flowers in his ribs... You did not know he was sensitive there.

Genre: Fluff

Date: July 21, 2016

-----

It was an unusually peaceful day. A comfortable yet rare silence had settled in the humble abode of two skeleton brothers, which was usually bustling with noise and strange misendeavours. The sun was just starting to set, and the hues in the sky cast their light into the house. Gradients of the fading twilight slipped past the curtains and washed over the room, bathing it in it’s palette of orange, pink and purple watercolor.

You would soon attribute the odd spell of quiet with the absence of a certain boisterous skeleton-

“SANS, WE HAVE RETURNED WITH THE INGREDIENTS FOR DINNER!” Papyrus kicked the door open, almost sending it off of its hinges.

The door bounced off of the wall with a splintering ‘CRACK,’ and would’ve slammed back into Papyrus’s armful of groceries if you hadn’t jammed it open with your foot.

Whew, that was a close one. There were eggs in there.

“AND I BROUGHT A GUEST! (Y/N) IS STAYING FOR DINNER AGAIN TONIGHT!”

You poked a head around Papyrus’s towering frame and peeked inside the familiar house. As always, it was relatively clean, leave for a sock in the corner. (Which was bombarded with sticky-notes.) You visited Papyrus and Sans on a regular basis, and knew this place better than the back of your hand. Scanning the room, you realized that something was missing- or, to be specific, someone.

“Hey Papyrus, do you know where Sans is?” You ask as you shift the brown bags in your arms, and walk towards the kitchen. Papyrus follows close behind, scanning the room as well.

“WELL, IF HE ISN’T IN THE LIVINGROOM, HE MUST BE SLEEPING UPSTAIRS.” Papyrus set the bags down on the counter and placed his hands on his hips, “THAT PILE OF LAZYBONES.”

You chuckled and plopped your share of groceries on the counter as well, snatching a particularly light paper bag off the table. “I’ll go wake him up, then! You better get started on cooking Pappy!”

“AH , YES. I SHALL BEGIN CREATING MY WONDROUS SPAGHETTI! HM, SHALL I USE GLITTER GLUE OR PUFFY STICKERS TODAY?” Papyrus thought out loud to himself.

As you slipped out the door, you couldn’t help but shudder at the skeleton’s strange sense of taste.

Sure, Papyrus may be sweet, but unfortunately that didn’t make his cooking any more palatable than a third grader’s macaroni-and-glitter art project.

Still, you were kind of thankful he sucked at cooking- it was what strengthened your bond with the brothers so much. Whenever you were free, you’d come by their place and give Papyrus some cooking tips (“GEE (Y/N), THAT MAKES QUITE A LOT OF SENSE. I THOUGHT THAT WHEN PASTA CAUGHT ON FIRE, IT MEANT IT WAS SPICY; ISN’T THAT WHAT THE COMMERCIALS MEAN BY ‘FIERY HOT?’”) while also preparing nice meal for the three of you. Of course, you’d leave room for one or two bites of Papyrus’s self-proclaimed “MASTERPIECE SPAGHETTI, NYEHEHEH!” which seemed to satisfy everyone.

With the bag delicately pressed to your chest, you tiptoed quietly upstairs toward Sans’s room, faintly hearing the telltale signs of light snoring. Luckily, he had left his bedroom door slightly ajar and unlocked, making your job a lot easier. (You knew Sans couldn’t be awakened by the mere sounds of knocking, and you didn’t have the adequate tools to lockpick.

(NOT THAT YOU LOCKPICKED.))

You shouldered his door open quietly and were greeted with the sight of his room- something people could politely describe as… organized chaos. It wasn’t often that you came up to Sans’s room. Perhaps you’ve been in and out of here once or twice when you were sleeping over and needed extra pillows, but that was done rather quickly.

You never really paid attention to anything (except for the odd flashlight-lamp-contraption on his dresser.) Taking a closer look at the room now, you notice many odds and ends you're surprised you didn't spot before. A dusty treadmill, heaps of clothes and stray socks littering the floor- and… A hurricane of a mess. Literally.

Typical Sans.

Stepping over the oddities strewn across the bedroom floor, you make your way over to a sleeping Sans, peacefully snoozing away while sprawled on his back. The corner of your lips quirk up a bit further upon hearing the faint clanging of pots and pans downstairs, along with the occasional “NYEHEHEH!”and you figure Papyrus  is entertaining himself: you'd let Sans catch z’s for just a little longer.

You plop down next to Sans’s bed and rest an arm on the edge of the mattress, propping your head up on it. Your eyes latch onto his chest, rising up and down at a slow and steady pace. No nightmares this time, huh? You let out a small exhale and give the sleeping monster a small lopsided smile.

Despite his endless slew of lame jokes and easygoing attitude, you knew Sans always had a torrential wave of thoughts consuming his mind- in both sleep and his waking hours. At one point, you had gotten worried enough about his worsening eyebags and asked if he was alright, only to receive a broad and somewhat conventional reply. You begrudgingly changed topics, taking the hint- but pressed him for answers once Papyrus called you up begging for help at 7AM on a Saturday.

You had dashed over there with a bad case of bedhead and mismatching socks, assuming the worst- only to arrive and find Papyrus in desperate need to use the only bathroom in the house- which Sans had fallen asleep in while brushing his teeth. “no need to get so pee-ved, can’t a guy get some bath-room to himself for a bit, heh?” “Sans,” You huffed “Look, we can tell something is bothering you- and it must be pretty bad, to lose sleep over.” He shifted from one slipper-clad foot to another, eyes darting away from you.

No response.

You sigh and place a hand gently on his arm, furrowing your brows at him. “You don’t need to talk about it if you don’t want to, but take care of yourself, okay? We can’t have you injured for small things that could’ve been helped, yaknow?” Sans chuckled and lightened up considerably as Papyrus came out of the bathroom, looking much more calm.

“hey, eye’m bagging you to let this go, (Y/N).”

“SANS!“

And that concluded your semi-serious conversation about Sans’s health. You knew Sans was only avoiding a direct answer to save you and Papyrus the trouble of being worried, but there was a nagging feeling in your mind that there was something more than that. Something that he was… Protecting you two from?

Your eyes travel from his rising chest to his ivory face, completely relaxed despite the constant grin that was plastered from cheek to cheek.

From afar the bony surface seemed flawless and smooth, but up close you could spot small imperfections. Chips on the surface, tiny indentations, ridges and occasional scratches decorated his face, and you found yourself struggling to keep your hands to yourself. It was strange how these small markings could be argued to be unattractive- but to you, be so entrancingly unique and beautiful.

It made Sans who he was.

Your stare catches on parts of his exposed lower ribs, a result of his white shirt and unzipped blue jacket riding up during his tossing and turning.

Your cheeks betray you and flush a deep red rivaling Papyrus’s cape, and you hurriedly avert your gaze elsewhere. It was then that you remembered what you had brought into the room with you, and an idea popped into your mind.

Smiling coyly, you pick your head up and dig a hand into the brown paper bag, careful to subdue any obnoxious crinkling. You pull out your hand. In between your pointer finger and your thumb was a dainty little flower with vibrantly colored petals and a thick, robust stem.

After you had gone grocery shopping with Papyrus, you spotted a flower vending cart next to the park you two passed to go home, covered from wheel to canopy with beautiful, multicolored flowers of all variety.

“GO AHEAD, HUMAN. I SEE YOU HAVE TAKEN A LIKING TO THE PRETTY WEEDS.”

Papyrus gestured for you to go with a wide and genuine smile, but you were too busy cringing at the unintentional jab to really notice.

“I SHALL WAIT FOR YOU HERE UNTIL YOU HAVE FINISHED LOOKING! I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, AM EXCELLENT AT WAITING! AMONG OTHER THINGS OF COURSE.” You wondered if bringing up the incident where he could barely wait for the bathroom would be appropriate, but bit your tongue.

Instead, you tossed him a grateful smile and went to pick out a handful of snipped daisies, bluebells, bleeding hearts and carnations.

Chuckling at the memory, you twirled the powder pink carnation between your fingers and eye Sans’s uncovered ribs. You honestly had no idea what to do with the snippets of flowers, and had only bought them in the spur of the moment. But now, you had an idea Would he feel it? He was asleep… This could be payback for that time he stacked ritz crackers on your forehead as you napped on the couch- needless to say you got a faceful of saltine cookies once you awoke. (“aw, come’on (Y/N), don’t be mad! I’m crackerin’ up over here!”)

Carefully, you slipped the smooth, dark green stem of the carnation between his second to last rib. Seeing that it stayed put, you felt a burst of happiness and immediately worked to place as many as you could in the exposed expanse of his bones.

Selecting a line of deep red bleeding hearts, you nestled those on the innermost part of his fourth to last rib. A cute daisy followed, placed snugly next to the bleeding hearts. You decorate his outer false ribs with baby blue bluebells and tuck some red carnations comfortably against the tip of his Xiphoid Process, grinning to yourself. Lines of fresh white daises and bleeding hearts dangle from his floating ribs, and you can’t help but admire your handiwork. The vividly colored flora somehow both complimented and contrasted perfectly against Sans’s milky white bones, framing the already strong and alluring structure with a collection of complimentary daisies and bluebells, gradiented red and pink carnations, and elegant yet sharply colored bleeding hearts.

After a few moments, you catch yourself staring and shake yourself out of your stupor. Glancing inside the brown paper bag, you are confronted with one more healthy-looking daisy sitting alone at the bottom. Removing it from its confines, you stare blankly at the garden in Sans’s ribs, wondering where to put the final flower.

Finally, you decide to place it with the other daises, but- Accidentally, your fingertips brush along Sans’s costal cartilage, and static shoots up your arm.

Oh, geez.

He was unexpectedly warm for a skeleton, and insanely smooth.

Your hand instinctively draws back as you sharply inhale, eyes darting up to Sans’s face. Fortunately, he was still asleep- although a strange bluish hue had dusted his cheeks. There was no way...

Was he… Enjoying that?

A shiver travels up your spine as you hear him give an almost inaudible but throaty groan, and you press your fingers to your lips. You didn’t ever really have a chance to find out what monster anatomy was like- but it was rather odd to you that ribs of all places could be a potential erogenous zone. Slowly, you lower them back onto the same spot and wrap the pads of your fingers around the bone, giving a longer, harder rub.

The response is immediate. Phalanges curl into the bedcovers and metacarpals twist into bedsheets.

Sans arches his back with a whimper and brings his ribs into your palms, reminding you of lesser dog and his keening.

Except this one moans.

Sans unconsciously bucks into your hand and gives a crescendo of a guttural moan, sending your heartbeat sailing and skin crawling. Your head whips towards the bedroom door to make sure Papyrus hadn’t heard and come up to check on you, and once you were in the clear, you yanked  your hand away despite the tingling in your fingertips that urged you on.

Well, attempted to. Your eyes widened into saucers when you feel boney fingers- the same ones that were grappling at the bed a few seconds earlier- wrap themselves around your wrist and hold you in place- if not pulling you closer.

Sans gazed at you with one half lidded eye, a lazy but knowing smile licking at his usual cheesy grin. “mornin’.” You gulped and flushed red. Caught. “I-It’s more night than morning, but…” Your eyes followed his gaze to the small flower show in his ribs, and when you glanced back at you with a grin and a raised eyebrow, your blush reached the tip of your ears.

“I-“ You rushed to explain yourself, but found yourself tripping over your own words, “T-The flowers looked pretty and- and your bones were there and i thought it'd look good and alsobeacuseoftheritzcrackersthing-“ You visibly deflate with  complete and utter embarrassment, wishing you could either turn sink between the wooden floor boards or turn into one of the many heaps of clothing on his floor.

“it’s kind of like a garden.” Sans smiled at you, his long fingers still wrapped firmly around your wrist.

You mutely nodded, avoiding his gaze.

“the only thing im missing are butterflies in my stomach, but you already give me those.”

Your breath catches in your throat at the comment, and your pupils rapidly dart to-and-fro, intensely staring at anything BUT Sans. Ohgoshthiswasembarassingwhydidyouthinkitwouldbeagoodideaatall-

“hey”

You feel the metacarpals around your arm pull you forward so you were practically on the bed with Sans. Before you could part your lips to protest, another set of fingers brushed along the breadth of your jawline and firmly but gently grasped your chin and turned you to face him.

“look at me.”

He was so close- maybe just a little more and- Sans plucked the daisy you forgot you were holding from your hands, tucking it into your hair.

“don’t think I don’t know what you were doing, kid.” Sans chuckled mischeviously, the laughter coming from deep within his chest. Maybe it was just your imagination, but was his left eye glowing cyan…?

“I, uh-“

“(Y/N)!” A loud voice called from downstairs, “THE PASTA WAS COOKING TOO SLOWLY SO I PUT CANDLES IN THE POT TO MAKE MORE FIRE INSIDE.” Silence follows. “THE CANDLES HAVE DISAPPEARED.” More silence. “I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, WILL MAKE ANOTHER BATCH!”

As you opened your mouth to respond, Sans stopped you with a finger to your lips. “let’s finish what you started, hm? you might wanna keep quiet."

His eye flared

"my room's right above the kitchen."

[chaifootsteps]

Its turns wet at the end cause he and Striker fuck on the back of the horse while they ride off into the sunset.

Or he and Striker fuck in the barn while the horse watches, or in a field of bluebells while the horse watches, or Striker and three other cowboys fuck him at the same time, and sometimes it's just like:

Old Man Horse Man: Thank you, Blitzo pronounced without an o, you've won the horse race and saved Dapple Acres from the evil glue-- Blitzo:

[margravelucian]

TEMPERANCE

The solve to the Lovers’ coagula, Temperance draws things together, knitting them and binding them tightly, to create something from which they can move forwards.  Here, Fyn stands astride a stream in the form of Sagittarius’ astrological glyph, dousing themself in their own blood, at the precise intersection of land, water, forest and mountain.  Bluebells cluster at their feet - traditionally used in bookbinding to form a glue - and they are framed by knotted rope.  Above, Artemis’s arrows and moon-bow glitter.  Artemis the huntress, of course is goddess of, amongst other things, self-reliance.

Work on the booklet is going ahead nicely. Patrons will get the text as it’s ready (ain’t no-one seeing my grody drafts lol) and I’m excited to spend time with you all online as we have nice safe non-contagious fun indoors!

Pre-order your copy of the Threshold Tarot here!

SHOP / KO-FI / PATREON / INSTAGRAM

[captainmeowvelwrites]

You Times Two (Ch.3)

Pairing: Marinette/Ladybug | Adrien/Chat Noir Words: 3354 Summary: Ladybug knew this was necessary. She was the Guardian. He had the Cat Miraculous. But when his suit evaporated in a glow of pale green, she sure hadn’t expected him to have something far more precious: her heart. Cross-posted: AO3 and FFN

Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | ...

Recap: Previously, on You Times Two… Marinette considered growing a magnificent beard and running away to join the circus. She reflected on the ramifications of Chat Blanc, which honestly, the author is still too upset about to make light of right now. And just to top it all off, Clumsy Girl smacked Golden Boy in the face with a door, then somehow called him Chadrien. Has our favourite gal’s cover been blown? Has her kitty quite literally had some sense smacked into him? And purrhaps most importantly, is his lil’ button nose okay? You can probably hazard a guess, but read on, I say!

---

Chapter Three

Adrien left Marinette in the locker room and stepped out into the morning sun, its warmth bathing his skin.

But the heat of his cheeks had a different source.

As he twisted his ring – something he often did when his brain was abuzz – he glimpsed his reflection in a tinted window, a reminder that his hair was still a bit of mess. He reached for his bangs, his thoughts drifting a minute into the past.

There'd been a light in Marinette's eyes, and a sense of ease about her, when he'd ruffled his hair.

Of course, that had only lasted a second.

And then, like Ladybug, she'd called him Chadrien.

That had to be a coincidence.

Ladybug had fumbled over her words last night, as Marinette often did.

Marinette's eyes were like the sky after a storm, a stunning shade of bluebell, just like Ladybug's. How had he not noticed that before?

His hand fell from his hair to his side, as his lips drew into a resolute line.

No, his suspicions were impossible.

Marinette was Multimouse.

She couldn't be Ladybug too.

His eyes sunk to his shoes as he continued to think of his lady. The reality was, she wasn't his lady. She never had been.

There was a thickness in his throat and a void in his eyes as he wondered—again—if things might've been different, if not for that boy. She'd said she couldn't even imagine a world without him, whoever he was.

And that hurt.

A lot.

To an extent, it had depleted his hope of something ever blooming between them. But more than that, it always made him wonder if she could say the same for him. Could she imagine a world without Chat Noir?

Truly, Adrien didn't know the answer.

His fingernails dug into the flesh of his palms.

This shouldn't matter anymore.

He was dating Kagami.

Well, sort of.

The press had snapped them eating ice cream together. And yes, they'd almost kissed—but they hadn't made things official, despite what the media were saying.

Regardless, everyone thought they were official—including Kagami.

He hated this.

Not because Kagami was basically his girlfriend, but because he'd never imagined this unravelling quite as it had.

He'd imagined a rose-covered rooftop and a candlelit dinner. He'd imagined a passionate declaration and actually asking the girl to be his girlfriend. He'd imagined a night ending in a flurry of hugs and kisses and laughter.

And he'd imagined it all with Ladybug.

He buried his face in his palms, where the dent of his nails still showed.

This wasn't fair on Kagami.

But Ladybug didn't love him back. She never would.

And despite the way he felt about her, to say he didn't care for Kagami was a lie.

Kagami had always been upfront with him. Maybe that's why he'd been so drawn to her. She was assertive, strong-minded and knew exactly what she wanted.

A lot like Ladybug, a part of him whispered.

A very annoying part.

With a huff, Adrien pinched the bridge of his nose. It was still tender from its encounter with a door and for some reason, that made him smile.

Plagg peeked up at him from beneath his white overshirt. "So why'd you have to come out here to wait for your friend?"

Adrien tensed. "Plagg," he whispered, his eyes snapping around the school courtyard, finding it empty. "Hide before someone sees you." He tugged the edge of his white shirt over his kwami's head.

Of course, Plagg squeezed his way back out despite his chosen's protests. "People are blind," he whined. "Not to mention I blend in with your shirt."

Adrien heaved a sigh, yielding to Plagg's question. "I just have a lot on my mind. That's all."

"Like what, hmm?"

"Since when do you care about something that isn't cheese-related?" He was half-joking.

"Oh please," Plagg barked. "I just wanna know what's got you in such a tizz."

Adrien glowered at that and glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting Marinette to barge out of the locker room right that second. When she didn't, he looked down at Plagg. "Marinette: that's who Ladybug reminded me of last night."

Plagg groaned in time with an eye roll. "So what? Marinette's always talking nonsense. Ladybug did for one measly night!"

"But, Plagg," Adrien said, desperation seeping through his words, "this isn't the first time I've suspected she was Ladybug!"

"Have you forgotten about Kwamibuster?" Plagg grimaced. "She was Multimouse. We even saw her and Ladybug side-by-side."

A thought flashed in Adrien's eyes. "Miracle Queen," he announced, and Plagg tipped his head. "Why didn't she show up to collect the Mouse Miraculous?" He cupped his chin, glancing toward the morning sky. "Every other Miraculous Wielder did."

"She isn't a Miraculous Wielder anymore," Plagg said simply. "Ladybug told her as much after she revealed her identity to you. Or maybe she just didn't get stung by those nasty bugs."

His hopes were crushed as quickly as they'd come, and he realised how much he'd been hoping to begin with. Did he want Marinette to be Ladybug? Was that why he kept searching for reasons to suspect her?

He pursed his lips, wrestling with these ruminations and the risks that came with them. His suspicions were circumstantial, if that. And if he ever learned Ladybug's identity, it should be on her terms.

Still, he couldn't help but wonder…

"I… guess you're right, Plagg." The disappointment in his voice was thicker than glue.

"Of course, I'm right!"

Adrien tapped his lips, eyes drifting skyward once more. "And Ladybug did say we don't know each other out of costume." Though she'd also said she wouldn't tell him if they did. "You know who Ladybug is, right? From when we faced Mr Damo—The Dark Owl."

"If you're suggesting what I think you are—"

Adrien shook his head. "You know I'd never betray Ladybug's trust like that."

"Good," Plagg said, throwing his whiskers in the air, "because I couldn't tell you who she is even if I wanted to. Tikki would kill me." His paw emerged from beneath Adrien's white shirt, and he placed a thoughtful claw to his lips. "As for Ladybug's stuttering last night, maybe your identity just… took her off guard? For all you know, she was starstruck! Like that time you took me to the Aligre Market." His green eyes glided upward, glazing over, and he let out a dreamy sigh. "So… much… artisan cheese…"

Adrien gaped—and it took him at least five seconds to form words. "You… You think Ladybug could be a fan of mine?"

"It makes a lot more sense than your stupid theory."

Adrien had never even considered that possibility, but Plagg was right. It did make sense. Maybe that's why she'd freaked out.

"But," Plagg continued, "how should I know if she's a fan of yours? Just ask her at patrol tonight."

Adrien's chest tightened as he pictured that very scenario. "But what if she is a fan and freaks out again like last time?" Worry weighed on his lips. "Or what if she's not and thinks I'm arrogant and—"

The thump of a hand against wood made him jump, and Plagg vanished beneath his shirt.

"Sorry I took so long!"

He turned to find Marinette, her hair a little more frazzled. Her eyes snapped around the courtyard, not meeting his.

Oh no! Had she heard him talking?

Adrien threaded his fingers, his thumbs circling each other. "No – No problem." He swallowed and forced a small smile. "I was just – uhh…"

"Don't worry," Marinette chimed, finally looking his way. Her eyes creased as she smiled. "I stalk—uhh, talk to myself too. All the time. I mean – uhh – some of the time." She cleared her throat. "So I – uhh – guess we're both nosy—I mean crazy."

"Oh, I…" Adrien broke eye contact, glancing between her and the ground. "What did you hear?"

"N-Nothing!" Marinette shrieked, waving her hands back and forth. "Just – uh – mumbling and stuff." She looked away, her fingers drumming against the straps of her backpack. "So, umm…" She nodded towards the nearby stairs. "Class, then?"

Adrien forced a chuckle, only for his voice to crack. And now they were both blushing. "Ri-Right." He squeezed the strap of his shoulder bag with one hand and extended his other toward the stairs. "After you, then."

Marinette took a single step forward and, true to form, somehow tripped over air.

Adrien's hands were on her shoulders in an instant, barring her greeting with the ground. "Are you okay?"

"No—I mean yes!" She peeled his hands from her shoulders and practically jumped back to her full height. "I'm just – uhh – clumsy. Ha ha. I am so clumsy." She flashed an oddly wide grin, her hands flying this way and that as she spoke. "Like, the Queen of Clumsy. Any physical activity whatsoever and I am not your girl. Not by a mile. Heck, I couldn't even run a mile. Because, y'know – I'm so unfit. And clumsy. Did I mention I'm clumsy?" The second she finished her spiel, her eyes shot to her ballerina flats.

Adrien managed a laugh, despite how his brows squished together. "Uhh… Yes, you did mention that." His brows settled, but he continued to smile. "And Marinette, you're not as clumsy as you think you are."

Marinette wiped her palms across her pants. "I'm… I'm not?" she squeaked, peering up at him.

"Well, I've experienced your dancing first-hand, remember?" Adrien slid an arm around her shoulders, showing a supportive smile. "And let's not forget your fencing and ice-skating skills. Try not to sell yourself short, okay?" His arm slipped from her shoulders to rub the nape of his neck, and he laughed lightly. "But maybe do try to be more careful sometimes."

She stared at him with wide eyes. "Uh – Um – Yeah. I'll… try to be more careful."

With that, Adrien extended his hand toward the stairs. "Shall we?"

---

She'd eavesdropped on Adrien and Plagg – but not on purpose!

In fact, she'd been about to shove those pesky doors aside when her name – or rather, Ladybug's name – had given her pause.

She'd only caught bits and pieces, but by the sound of it, Adrien suspected she was Ladybug. And in that moment, Chat Blanc's petrifying face had flashed through her mind. That was all the incentive she'd needed to throw him off her tracks, by deliberately tripping over air and pointing out her lack of physical prowess.

He couldn't know she was Ladybug.

Not yet.

Perhaps not ever.

Marinette quite literally shook that thought to the outskirts of her mind. Now, around Adrien, was not the time and place for it.

Instead, she panted excessively as they scaled the stairs, hoping he'd bought her 'I'm so clumsy and unfit' charade—if she could even call it that. She wasn't unfit, but she was a royal clutz, even if Adrien didn't think so.

When they reached the top of the stairs, Marinette's mind wandered elsewhere. She wasn't late thanks to an akuma, so her secret identity wasn't at risk. Did she even need to make up an excuse?

She could just say she'd slept in.

In fact, that's exactly what she'd done.

On purpose.

To avoid the very boy she was arriving late with.

A groan slipped through her lips—and of course, Adrien heard it.

"Everything okay, Marinette? You sure you're not hurt?"

"Err – Yeah! I'm – I'm fine." Her eyes flew this way and that, as she considered an excuse. "I was just… uh…"

Adrien's eyes were fixed on her and once more, she took in his mussed hair… so reminiscent of Chat Noir.

"I was just wondering what to say to Miss Bustier?"

Adrien smiled, his bangs bobbing with each step he took. "You mean, how do we explain our lateness?" He adjusted the strap of his bag, his ring in full view. "We don't. In my experience, Miss Bustier is fine as long as you apologise and don't disrupt the lesson beyond that. It's Ms Mendeleiev that's a little trickier to deal with."

"Tell me about it," Marinette muttered, only to gasp and go tense. "I mean, uhh… Yeah, I've been crate—late to her class a few times. It's never easy."

They stopped outside their classroom door, Adrien's hand returning to her shoulder. He leaned in close and this time, her unfit charade wasn't the reason her breath hitched.

"Just follow my lead, okay?"

Marinette nodded, unable to hide a slight smile at the irony. Usually, it was him that followed her lead. He just didn't know it.

Adrien offered her an encouraging smile, then eased the classroom door aside. Miss Bustier was seated at her desk, her eyes on them and her hands hovering over the keys on her laptop. Their classmates looked up from their tablets, their eyes flicking between Marinette and Adrien.

Adrien entered first. "Sorry we're late, Miss Bustier." He held the door open and snuck Marinette a supportive wink that made her cheeks burn.

This time, Marinette's stumble was unintentional as she stepped inside, feeling all eyes on her. She didn't know what was worse: the way Chloe and Lila glared daggers at her or the bug-eyed look on Alya's face.

Behind her, Adrien clicked the door shut, and she cleared her throat. "Uhh. Y-Yeah!" Her face scrunched in apology. "Sorry, Miss Bustier"—she itched her cheek—"for interrupting the lesson."

Miss Bustier nodded, showing a gracious smile. "Please take your seats and pull out your tablets. We're starting a pop quiz in a couple of minutes."

Adrien and Marinette nodded in sync, and he gracefully claimed his seat.

Her?

She tripped on the first step, greeted the second with her shin, and crawled the rest of the way. Once she was in her seat, her panic-struck eyes shot to Miss Bustier, only to be met by a knowing smile.

A sigh of relief slipped from Marinette's lips as she placed her backpack on her desk.

That relief was short-lived.

Alya leaned into her personal bubble, rocking a smirk. "Girl," she whispered, her eyes narrow with amusement. "Start. Talking."

Marinette played dumb. "About what?" she whispered back, hunched behind her backpack to avoid Miss Bustier's stare.

Alya rolled her eyes. "Seriously? You and Adrien just showed up to class together. Late. With super messy hair." She raised a brow. "There's gotta be a story there!"

"There's no story, Alya," she said through a sigh.

"Oh, come on." Alya eyed her from behind her tablet, her smirk growing. "Did you two finally make out in the utility closet?"

"ALYA!" Marinette screeched, somehow knocking her bag over the back of her desk. It brushed Adrien's back as it descended toward the wooden floor, meeting it with a dull thud.

"Marinette," said Miss Bustier, looking up from her laptop to send her a stern look, "if you arrive late, I expect you to do it discreetly."

She stooped her head low. "Sorry, Miss Bustier!"

Adrien turned in his chair - his tablet already laid out on his desk - and with a sympathetic smile, he heaved her bag off the floor. She nodded her thanks as he placed it on the desk. Only when he turned back to his tablet did she shoot Alya a glare.

"We both just happened to be late," she quietly growled, "and I kinda forgot to brush my hair, so Adrien messed his up to make me feel better. And to save us interrupting class twice, we decided to show up together." The slightest smirk Alya still showed only had her eyes rolling. "Need I remind you he's dating Kagami?"

That swept the smugness from her face. "All riiiight, I believe you." She watched, her eyes squinting in thought, as Marinette pulled her tablet from her backpack. "But hey, speaking of dating… How're things going with Luka?" Of course, her teasing smile returned; it never did seem to be gone for long. "Maybe it's him you're smooching in a closet, hmm?"

Thoughts of last night swarmed to the forefront of Marinette's mind, and her stomach churned at the reminder of Luka. "I… No! We're just hanging out." She set her backpack on the floor and turned back to her tablet, bringing up their pop quiz with a shaky finger.

Alya turned to her own tablet. "So, does that mean you guys haven't kissed yet?"

Marinette's cheeks flushed pink and she shook her head excessively. "Don't you think I'd tell you if we had?"

Alya lightly elbowed Marinette's side. "When it comes to you, girl, I never know what to think."

Briefly, she chewed on the inside of her cheek. “Okay. Fair point, but trust me, Alya, if I ever get a boyfriend, you'll be the first to know."

---

Usually, sitting behind Adrien was a blessing.

Today, it was a curse.

No matter how hard she tried, Marinette's eyes kept drifting to the boy ahead of her. She studied the curve of his broad shoulders, recalling all the times she'd seen them wrapped in leather. She strained her ears each time he spoke and now it was impossible to unhear her partner. And during last period, when Alya struck up a conversation with him, she caught her eyes travelling the defined arc of his jaw.

Now that she knew he was Chat Noir, she just couldn't unsee it.

"So, Adrien," Alya was saying, leaning over her desk. "You gonna come play Ultimate Mecha Strike III tomorrow?" She glanced between the two boys ahead. "I might also pull out Just Dance if I'm feeling a little bit groovy," she added, shimmying in her seat.

"Yeah, Alya!" Adrien said, his face alight. "I'll definitely be there this time!"

Marinette bolted upright in her seat, horror flashing across her face.

"Good to hear," Alya said beside her.

"Yeah! Would you believe my father said yes for a change?" Adrien tapped his lips, his eyes wandering up to the ceiling. "He's been in a pretty good mood lately… I think." He looked back at Alya, smiling. "Kagami's excited too. And maybe a bit nervous. She hasn't really hung out with more than a couple of friends at a time."

A splash of pity washed over Marinette. It'd been a while since her last orange juice outing with Kagami and she knew those meet-ups meant a lot to her. For a moment, she considered arranging another one.

That thought was quickly crushed by the glaring reminder that sat before her - otherwise known as Adrien Agreste.

Chat Noir.

Kagami's boyfriend.

She pulled her arms across her torso, her eyes sinking to the dented surface of her desk. She was almost certain a catch up with Kagami would end tragically. Heck, it would probably start tragically too—at least while her knowledge of Chat's identity was still fresh.

Adrien and Kagami's relationship had been – still was – extremely hard to swallow. Knowing Kagami's boyfriend was also Chat Noir somehow seemed to make things more complicated. And now that she thought about it, it was no wonder Chat had flirted with Ryuko last week, during their brief fight with Loveater.

Marinette had a feeling she'd continue to be struck by realisations like this for at least a few weeks. Understandable, considering she's been unknowingly crushing on her superhero partner this whole time. She barely bit back a groan at that lovely reminder. It sounded like the punchline of a very bad joke. Or maybe she was the punchline?

"I'm excited for Kagami to be a bigger part of our friend group," Alya was saying, a teasing lilt in her voice as she continued. "Especially now that you two are an item." She elbowed Marinette, prompting a wince. "Isn't that right, girl?"

Rubbing her aching side, Marinette grinned a little too widely at the boys seated below her. At any other time, the red that crept across Adrien's cheeks would've been adorable. Now, it twisted her heart.

"I – Uhh. Yeah." She hoped her smile seemed genuine, at least to Adrien. "I can – I mean, I can't wait!"

[earthstartarot]

The seventy-fourth card of the Tarot is associated with the middle ten degrees of Taurus- Mercury in Taurus. Here are energies of mercy but also fairness, the law of cause and effect. It’s both aiding others and accepting assistance when needed. We’re all, at some point in life, in both positions. It’s best to be neither proud nor embarrassed about either. Be humble no matter what the current place in the world. Be logical and pragmatic. Even more important is to be grateful for whatever we have. We might examine health routines and make balancing adjustments. Also, consider where we could be sharing more, increasing the flow of love as well as material in our lives.

Bluebell is a symbol for humility, solitude, kindness and substance. It’s linked to Saturn (cool + dry/joints, bones, skin, gallbladder). The bulbs, though poisonous to consume, are a diuretic and styptic (can help to stop bleeding). The mucilage can be used as starch or glue. Some claim its juice can cure snake bites.

[artificialqueens]

Gloxalias and other ways to say I love you (branjie) - writworm42

A/N: Brooke works in a hospital gift shop. Vanessa is the mom of a young cancer patient who really loves flowers. It’s no match made in Heaven, but they might just be able to create their own.

This fic has the potential to be hugely, massively triggering. There’s grief, mentions of death, descriptions of anxiety, and explicit content to do with childhood cancer, surgery, and there’s a lot of medical content. PLEASE take care of yourselves.

Thank you Holtz for beta-ing this and for being a wonderful human. Also thank you to all the folks on AO3 who shared their stories with me. The responses from everyone who’ve been touched by cancer in some way have been truly humbling, and I hope readers here on AQ will find it resonates with them too.

The first time Brooke sees Vanessa, she’s combing through the hospital gift shop looking for flowers.

“Are you sure your unit allows flowers?” Brooke asks when the woman reaches the counter with an armful of daisies.

“Oh, um… No.” she looks taken aback by the question, like it was one she’s never considered. “You even allowed to ask me that? Consternationality an’ all that?”

Brooke is unable to keep herself from cracking a little smile. “Nah, confidentiality only applies to doctors. I’m just a lowly cashier,” she sighs with a fake forelorness that makes the other woman laugh, a loud, scratchy bark that makes everyone within fifty feet of the gift shop turn around in alarm.

Brooke thinks it’s infectious.

“Seriously though, mama, I ain’t actually sure.” the woman shrugs after they both finally calm down. “You know if the pod—peda—pom—the kids’ ward lets people have flowers? My kid loves ‘em.”

Brooke doesn’t, and she tells the woman so. For a moment, from the way the bright, lively twinkle in the woman’s eyes dies down a little, Brooke is afraid the woman might start to cry, or even yell. She’s seen it before; distraught family members upset at the exorbitant pricing of stuffed animals or the fact that their loved one’s favourite snack isn’t available taking it out on her, screaming until their voices are hoarse and their rage is subdued by a peace offering of a free purchase of any one item they want. Brooke isn’t supposed to do it, but it saves her jugular, and she can get the desperation and pent-up grief they’re feeling.

She’s about to offer the same consolation prize to this woman when the woman collects herself unexpectedly, letting out a sigh as her face smooths over into something that’s almost a smile.

“Alright, Mary. I’ll check with the nurse and come back if I can.”

“Brooke.” Brooke says, almost inaudibly, as the woman turns to leave.

“Huh?” the woman turns around, a confused frown knitting itself onto her face.

“Brooke. Not Mary. My name’s Brooke.” She blushes the minute the words are out of her mouth, realizing how nitpicky and stupid she must sound. But if the woman thinks so, she doesn’t show it; in fact, she smiles brightly, the sparkle returning to her eyes as she laughs again, making Brooke relax and laugh a little, too.

“Alright then, miss Brooke-not-Mary. See you soon as the nurses tell me I can come back down and pick up these flowers.”

“Alright then,” Brooke nods, an inexplicable thread of hope weaving through her chest, “See you around…”

“Vanessa. But my friends call me Vanjie.”

—

Vanessa comes back down a few days later, a triumphant smile spread across her face as she marches straight up to the counter.

“Guess who can buy flowers, bitch!”

Brooke looks up from the stolen magazine she’s not supposed to be reading and grins.

“I was hoping you’d come back.”

Vanessa arches a brow. “You flirtin’ with me, Mary?”

Brooke almost chokes on her tongue.

“I’m—no, I’m so sorry, I’m not—“

“Relax,” Vanessa chuckles, raising her hands in mock surrender. “I’m just jokin’, I ain’t mean nothin’.”

Brooke can’t figure out why she feels a little disappointed at the words, nor why Vanessa’s voice seems to hold the same feeling.

Or maybe she’s just imagining it.

Nonetheless, Vanessa circles the flower section for about five minutes before returning to Brooke with the same armful of daisies she had picked out yesterday. Only this time, there are twice the amount, such that the brunette’s face is almost completely hidden behind their petals.

“You good?” Brooke laughs as Vanessa drops the flowers onto the counter with a huff.

“Just ring ‘em up, mama.” Vanessa rolls her eyes, but she can’t hide the little smile she’s clearly trying not to crack.

Brooke starts to do just that, and soon the only sound that fills the room is the rhythmic beeping of her scanner.

—

“So… your kid really likes daisies, huh?” Brooke ventures the next day, when Vanessa was back with the same armful of flowers. The younger woman just blinks.

“I mean, they like most kinds of ‘em, I just don’t wanna fuck up, y’know? I been reading up on all that petal-talk shit, I ain’t want to get them somethin’ that means divorce when I’m tryna make them feel better. I know daisy means happy shit, so that’s what imma stick to.”

Brooke’s heart softens. She’s been working at the gift shop for about five years now, and she’s seen countless parents blow through looking for something to either get their kids or pass the time while trying not to worry about them. She’s never met a mother so hung up on details that she’d worry right down to the hidden meanings of the flowers she’s buying. It’s downright adorable, and even though she probably shouldn’t, she can’t help but get involved.

“Y’know, I used to be into flower language myself.” She shifts on her feet, suddenly acutely aware of how her suggestion could be taken. And, just as she feared, Vanessa laughs.

“There you go, flirtin’ with me again.” Vanessa winks, still giggling as she watches Brooke’s face go crimson. “Tell you what, I gotta go ‘cause my kid’s got an MRI, but imma be back tomorrow, an’ you can teach me all about that daisy tulip pussyfoot mumble-jumble. Sound good?”

“Sounds good.” Brooke smiles.

For some reason, even after she gets home that night, her body is still buzzing with nerves and something that feels suspiciously like excitement.

—

As it turns out, Vanessa isn’t just back the next day—she’s back the day after that, and the day after that, and so on for the rest of the week. At first, they stick to flowers; Brooke runs through every plant in the gift shop’s small collection, rattling off any fact she thinks Vanessa might find interesting.

“You know, even though tulips are commonplace now, in the 1600s, these things were actually more valuable than gold in the Netherlands. Isn’t that wild?”

“I actually read that the juice from bluebell flowers can be used to make glue. See how sticky it is?”

“Orchids are actually my favourite flowers–Did you know that they don’t even need soil to grow? They can get nutrients from the air!”

Vanessa always listens with intent, nodding and smiling in a way that Brooke can tell shows she’s genuinely interested.

Slowly, they get to talking more, Vanessa hanging by the counter long after she’s traded a creased wad of fives for a new vase or packets of plant food. Sometimes, she doesn’t buy anything at all, only stands across from Brooke, or drags her over to the flower section to talk, the perfumy smell of pollen tickling at their noses as they trade snippets of their life stories.

Vanessa is a fashion designer who works part-time for a swimsuit company, part-time on her own small business designing adaptive clothing for disabled people of all ages. Vanessa’s kid, Frances, is twelve years old and loves soccer, flowers, and their pet frog, Bertha. They’re in the seventh grade but doing math at a grade eight level, and they had come out as non-binary when they were ten, the same year they were diagnosed with a tumour lodged in their occipital lobe. Vanessa and Frances were Catholic, and even though cancer, transness, and faith were difficult to reconcile, the chaplain at the hospital was fearless and the two of them had managed.

Vanessa had been married before, but he had died of the same illness that Frances is struggling with now, long before Frances even knew him. They don’t remember him now, and for that, Vanessa is grateful.

“I still haven’t told them,” Vanessa shrugs through a noseful of baby’s breath. “I don’t want them thinkin’ that they’re goin’ the same way. It’s been two years now an’ the cancer’s gonna be gone after this last round of chemo and then their resection, I can feel it. I don’t want them worryin’ about how their daddy didn’t get the same chance.”

Vanessa leaves that day with an armful of violet chrysanthemums and a weight lifted off her shoulders.

–

“I can’t tell you how nice it is you don’t pity me.” Vanessa says the next day.

“Mm, what do you mean?” Brooke frowns as she deadheads a pot of violets that nobody’s buying.

“I can tell. Whenever I tell people it’s my kid I’m here for, they get all sappy, an’ tell me they’ll pray for me. An’ it’s nice and all, but it gets old real quick, you know what I’m saying?”

Brooke does. She’s seen it too many times before not to. It’s one of the reasons only she works at the gift shop now; other than the fact that it’s stocked by a rotating parade of high schoolers and a few well-intentioned volunteers on her days off, she’s the only person who’s ever been able to shut that pity off. Most of the time, it’s a survival mechanism.

With Vanessa, though, it comes easier than that.

“You don’t need my pity.” Brooke shrugs. “You need this pot of violets more.” she kicks the massive pot over to where Vanessa is kneeling, and relishes in the barking laugh that follows.

Everyone in the lobby hears Vanessa’s laugh so often now that no one turns snaps to attention at its melody anymore.

And as for Brooke, it’s become one of her favourite sounds.

–

The date of Frances’ resection approaches far too quickly, and the closer it gets, the more Vanessa asks to hear about Brooke’s life.

“Well, what do you want to know?” Brooke passes the illegally-opened bag of maltesers that she and Vanessa have been sharing into the smaller woman’s hands.

“I dunno.” Vanessa wiggles on Brooke’s stool, a spare volunteer vest that’s far too big for her framing her hunched-over form. She’s not supposed to be wearing it, not even supposed to be behind the counter, but at this point, nobody would know the difference, and Vanessa needs the shelter. “Tell me how you got into flowers, an’ how come you ain’t a florist.”

“I am one, technically.” Brooke pops another malteser into her mouth and chews casually. “It’s just hard to get work in a flower shop these days. I’d save up to open my own, but…”

“This job ain’t pay well.” Vanessa nods. “I can tell you kinda like it here, though.”

Brooke shrugs. “Some people collect stuffed animals, I collect stories.”

Vanessa looks at her with an expression she can’t quite decipher, but dares to hope means something good. Her hopes are realized when Vanessa’s face smooths out, her voice suddenly gentle.

“I bet you got lots of interesting stories yourself, huh, miss Brooke?”

Brooke can feel her face grow hot, and hopes to God she doesn’t look as flustered as she feels. Taking a deep breath and pulling herself together, she forces out a joke. “Wow, now who’s flirting with me?”

Vanessa arches an eyebrow, but doesn’t protest. In fact, she only hums as she pops the last malteser in her mouth, gets up, and walks away, a swing in her hips, twinkle in her eye, and stolen volunteer vest still hanging off her shoulders.

–

“Tell me more about you.”

Brooke is locking up the shop when she hears the telltale scratch of Vanessa’s voice behind her.

“Oh, hey.” she smiles reflexively, the muscles in her face so used to stretching into a grin when Vanessa’s around now that it feels second-nature. “I’m actually just about to close–”

“I’m not tryna buy anything.” Vanessa shakes her head. “I wanna… I just… Please. The third floor Tim’s is twenty-four hours, let me buy you a coffee or somethin’.”

The realization hits Brooke in the chest before she can feel any sort of celebration at the suggestion.

It’s April twenty-fourth.

The evening before Frances’ surgery.

“Okay.” Brooke nods, “Let’s go get coffee.”

–

Brooke can tell that Vanessa doesn’t drink coffee much from the way her hands start to shake about halfway through her first large triple-triple. Or maybe she’s just that nervous; either way, when Brooke offers her hand, Vanessa takes it without hesitation.

Their fingers knit together almost too comfortably, and Brooke pretends not to notice Vanessa’s blush as the warmth of Brooke’s hand connects with the cold sweat against her own.

It’s just a comfort gesture, Brooke tells herself, but from the way Vanessa grips back, soft and natural and like her hand has found its way home, she’s not sure she believes it.

They talk for hours, bouncing from topics like Brooke’s favourite childhood TV shows to how she used to dance to her top five role models. At some point, they run out of things to talk about, but rather than settle into silence, they lapse into a spontaneous game of truth or dare, letting swigs of even more coffee keep score as they trade escalating challenges between one another.

At first, the questions and dares are innocent enough. Vanessa asks Brooke her favourite hockey team, Brooke dares Vanessa to try to throw a balled-up napkin into the trash from her seat at the table. At some point, though, when they’re both full up on coffee and their box of forty timbits is running low, things take a different turn.

“Truth.” Brooke nibbles on one of the last sourcream glazed in the box, watching Vanessa intently. She’s expecting another commonplace question, something boring and by-the-book, but then Vanessa pauses, chewing her lip.

“What is it, Ness?” Brooke prompts. Vanessa exhales deeply in response.

“Are you single right now?” Brooke’s heart stops as Vanessa spits out the question, her eyes locked on Brooke’s face and anxiously searching for an answer in her expression.

It’s nothing; it’s probably nothing. Vanessa’s just trying to make conversation, that’s all. Their connection, their jokes about flirting, Vanessa’s hand still stuck intertwined with Brooke’s–it’s all just two women brought together by an unfortunate circumstance, two women who have become friends, no matter how much Brooke wants it to be more. Vanessa’s different. Vanessa doesn’t want the same thing as Brooke. She can’t want the same thing as Brooke. She’s a mom, an amazing, fearless, talented working mom, and Brooke runs a hospital gift shop. Vanessa is fierce and passionate, and Brooke sells flowers and candy while watching her life go by. There’s no way Vanessa is asking for the reason Brooke wants her to be. Brooke shouldn’t get her hopes up.

She can’t help but get her hopes up as she answers with a quiet, hopeful, “Yeah. I’m single. Yeah.”

She can’t help but have her hopes melt into relief when Vanessa smiles.

“Your turn.” Vanessa’s grip tightens on Brooke’s hand, and the sparkle in her eyes, that beautiful fucking sparkle that always seems to feel like it’s just for Brooke, is somehow incredibly reassuring. Encouraging.

Almost like a dare.

Brooke takes a deep breath, and then she takes a chance.

“Truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

“Why do you want to know if I’m single or not?”

There’s a beat, and Brooke falters, an apology readying itself on her tongue. Before she can completely lose her nerve, though, Vanessa stands up, and then she’s crossing around the table, walking towards Brooke, and then she’s leaning down, she’s leaning down with her hands cradling Brooke’s face, and–

Oh.

Brooke’s eyes flutter closed as she leans into the kiss, her thoughts fading away as everything becomes focused on the feeling of Vanessa’s lips against hers, soft and wanting and tinged with the bitter taste of dark roast that’s been mixed with too much sugar. And when Brooke kisses back, Vanessa sighs just a little, her thumb instinctively moving forward to stroke against Brooke’s cheek, and Brooke finds herself wishing that the moment will last forever.

But eventually they separate, and even when they do, Brooke is still buzzing with nerves and happiness and, most of all, relief. Relief that Vanessa likes her, that Vanessa likes her back , likes her back enough to kiss her. Relief that she’s not the only one that the kiss left absolutely breathless, and that she has the foresight to push back a little in her chair so that Vanessa can collapse onto her lap, relaxing against Brooke’s still-pounding heart.

Relief that not a moment later, Vanessa kisses her again.

“Wow.” Brooke mutters against Vanessa’s lips.

Vanessa’s mouth is too busy to answer back.

Brooke doesn’t leave the hospital that night���they’re too busy talking, giggling, and kissing some more, the weight of Vanessa’s body on top of Brooke’s keeping her awake and content until dawn.

–

Vanessa comes in a little later than usual that morning, but when she does, she’s not alone.

“You must be Frances!” Brooke exclaims as she bounds towards a little kid whose arm is interlocked with Vanessa’s, the hospital gown and cover-up robe they’re wearing billowing around them and almost sloping onto the white cane they hold in front of themselves. “I’m Brooke, I work here at the gift shop. I’m a friend of your mom’s.”

“No you’re not,” Frances smiles wryly in an expression that looks remarkably like their mother’s, “You two kissed last night, my mom told me.”

“Okay, that’s enough!” Vanessa blushes deep red as she shushes her child, “Brooke, we came by to see the flowers before Frances’ surgery.”

“I came to meet you, too, but the flowers are a good bonus.” Frances adds, and this time, Vanessa joins in the laughter.

“You’re just like your mom, you know that?” Brooke jokes, sticking her tongue out at Vanessa when she gets a silently-mouthed fuck off in response.

But still, Vanessa is smiling, and Brooke’s heart picks up a few beats.

Vanessa told Frances about Brooke.

And Frances is eager to meet her.

“Okay, well, if I swap places with your mom, I can take you to where the flowers are.” The minute Brooke suggests it, she’s seized with anxiety–what if that’s too much too soon, and she breaks the budding camaraderie between herself and Frances? What if Vanessa hates her because of it?–but Frances only smiles and starts to wriggle free from their mom’s grip.

“Sounds good.”

Within a few moments, Frances is leaning down to trace their hands over the petals, leaves, and stems of the plants around themselves, breathing in their smell and rattling off theories as to which plant is which.

“Okay, this is definitely a rose.” they say matter of factly, carefully tracing their fingers along the flower’s thorns so as not to prick themselves.

“Did you know that the world’s oldest rose is 1000 years old?” Brooke leans down, tentatively placing a hand on Frances’ shoulder and sighing with relief when the child doesn’t shrink away. Instead, they grab a handful of the flowers perched next to the roses and shove them excitedly into Brooke’s face.

“Carnations.” they state proudly, and Brooke smiles. Before she can tell Frances that they’re absolutely correct, though, a voice from behind them drags both their attention away.

“There’s a legend that says when the Virgin Mary cried at Jesus’ crucifixion, carnations sprung up where her tears fell.” Vanessa cuts in. “What?” she cries indignantly when the other two look at her in surprise, “Y’all hoes ain’t the only ones who can use google.”

They continue to pass the time like this until an alarm goes off on Vanessa’s phone, and the air in the room changes.

“We gotta go get you prepped, baby.” Vanessa’s voice is soft, and Frances’ mood is sober.

Brooke has seen this before; families seeing their loved ones off, spending time cruising the magazine racks instead of sitting in the waiting room worrying, not knowing if their husband or daughter or best friend will come back. Those moments are always the hardest for Brooke, the times when her sense of empathy leaks out just a little too much for her not to feel affected even a little bit.

Somehow, even though she’s only just met them, it hurts even more knowing that it’s Frances.

“Hey, good luck today, okay?” Brooke helps Frances up and wraps them in a friendly hug. To her surprise though, Frances only shrugs as they pull away.

“I’ve been through this surgery once before. My mom says this is gonna be the last one, she can feel it. I can feel it too.”

Brooke thinks about that long after Frances and Vanessa go, planting one long, calming kiss on Vanessa’s lips before the two retreat back up to the pediatric floor.

–

Brooke isn’t supposed to leave the giftshop unattended by whatever disaffected sixteen-year-old volunteer she’s working with that day, but no one really ever checks up on her anyway. Besides, being by Vanessa’s side is more important right now; so she tells the teenager restocking stuffed animals that she’ll be back before leaving with a bag of maltesers and huge stuffed frog under her arm.

She finds Vanessa in the chapel, sitting on a pew with a rosary in her hands, the beads clinking as she runs them through her fingers nervously.

They sit together for a while, saying nothing, Vanessa leaning over to rest her head on Brooke’s shoulder and Brooke hugging her close, humming the closest thing to a hymn she knows under her breath.

Later on, Vanessa will tease Brooke for thinking of ‘Always With Me’ from Spirited Away as spiritual, but right then, from the way she closes her eyes and breathes into the melody, Brooke thinks that Vanessa might just think of the song in the same way.

–

Brooke visits Frances the day after their surgery while they’re in the pediatric ICU, fading in and out of sleep.

The nurse lets Brooke and Vanessa know that they can’t bring flowers into Frances’ room, not while they were still at risk of infection, but after some fierce negotiation, they reach a compromise, and Frances snuggles happily into the frog’s overstuffed side as Brooke reads to them from a book about gardenias.

–

Two years later

“Babe, come on! ” Brooke calls upstairs to Vanessa, who crashes about in response.

“I NEED TO FIND MY EARRINGS! FRANCES, HAVE YOU SEEN MY EARRINGS?”

“No, mami, I haven’t seen anything in four years!” Frances calls back sarcastically, and Brooke has to stop herself from cackling when Vanessa answers back with a string of threats to whoop Frances’ disrespectful ass. But the rant doesn’t stop Frances from beginning to laugh too, their chin-length brown waves shaking as they double forward, lost in giggles.

Not for the first time, it strikes Brooke just how much Frances looks like their mother.

Eventually, Vanessa does stomp downstairs, rolling her eyes but smiling despite herself as she fixes her earrings into their place on her lobes.

“Can’t believe we’re gonna be late for our own grand opening because of some Claire’s jewelry.” Brooke teases sarcastically.

“ Claire’s? Bitch, this shit is from Pandora, so don’t you dare–” But Vanessa’s indignation melts into begrudging forgiveness as Brooke pulls her close and smothers her in kisses.

“Alright, alright, kids, before I puke, let’s go open this shop.” Frances coughs with false irritation, moving briskly right through Brooke and Vanessa and breaking the two lovebirds apart.

“Yes, mom.” Brooke replies saccharinely, hooting with laughter when Frances responds with loud gagging noises.

Consisting of only one room, Hytes-Mateo Flower Emporium isn’t quite as grand as the name makes it out to be, but to Brooke, it feels like a palace as she roams between rows of planters, pots, and perennial blooms.

“I’m so proud of you, baby.” Vanessa comes up behind Brooke, leaning on her tiptoes to kiss Brooke on her cheek as she wraps her arms around Brooke’s waist. Just beside them, Frances reaches up to flip their sign from CLOSED to OPEN, and Brooke lets out a deep, contented breath as the waiting crowd of family and friends begins to trickle in.

Everything in the room has been two years in the making, and now, it feels like home.

[bit-and-bridles]

One of my fondest childhood memories is summers picking flowers with my mom, at my grandfather’s expansive rural wooded property in western Pennsylvania. After picking the flowers we would press them between big, heavy books and then by the time it was time to fly back home, the flowers were dried and we could glue them to papers or make other crafts with them.

I decided to press the slowly fading bluebells that I got from the farmer’s market a little over a week ago, and it made my heart happy to connect with a simple and happier time, through a simple little ritual.