#funeral corsage

[rosewind2007]

My uncle died nineteen days ago and his funeral is tomorrow

I’m going to wear Cornish tartan: because he was Cornish: a headmaster who loved to sail and was also involved in the coastguard —all down here (where I am right now) in Cornwall

I am also going to wear some flowers, in what can only be described as a “funeral corsage” and due to the obvious dissonance of that juxtaposition of words I googled them and find someone saying:

I have recently been asked about the appropriateness of wearing flowers to a funeral. Please let me make it very clear, it is inappropriate to wear corsages or boutonnières at a funeral.

This is a somber occasion and the wearing of flowers symbolizes celebration.

Well, I disagree

They’re pretty and Cornwall/West Penwith themed—my uncle would have liked them

I like them; and whilst funerals can be sombre, it’s hardly mandatory—he was 79 and had a full life and a good death

[match-your-steps]

ok I promise I finished my sketchbook and will answer the rest of the asks (which is 2) tomorrow but also I had a fun idea where you give me a color scheme and I make up a flower arrangement from my imagination with actual stuff you can use to make an arrangement irl. I may also illustrate them possibly.

[wuntrum]

woke up from a dream where i got to see the set where they were filming season 2 of severance 😢😭 TAKE ME BACK

[birchboxflowers]

Sympathy Florist Near Me - Birchbox Flowers

Are there any cultural considerations for sympathy flowers?

Yes, there are cultural considerations to keep in mind when sending sympathy flowers. Different cultures and religions may have specific traditions or customs regarding funeral or sympathy flowers. Here are some general guidelines:

Religious Considerations: Different religions have their own customs regarding sympathy flowers. For example, in some Christian denominations, white flowers symbolize purity and peace, while in Jewish traditions, flowers may not be as commonly used in mourning rituals.

Color Symbolism: The choice of flower color can hold significance. White flowers are often associated with purity and peace and are commonly used in sympathy arrangements. However, in some cultures, other colors like yellow may be associated with happiness and therefore may not be appropriate for sympathy occasions.

Cultural Traditions: Some cultures have specific traditions regarding sympathy flowers. For instance, in Asian cultures, white flowers are often used for mourning, while red flowers may symbolize happiness and are not typically used for sympathy purposes.

Personal Preferences: It's also important to consider the preferences of the deceased and their family. Some families may have specific requests or preferences regarding the types of flowers or arrangements they would like to receive.

When in doubt, it's always a thoughtful gesture to ask the family or consult with a local florist who is familiar with cultural customs and can provide guidance on appropriate options.

[sourcherryandsprinkles]

Conrad and Belly beach scene but it’s reader instead of Belly. They kiss and it’s emotional and I was really hoping their would kiss! So happy she and Jere didn’t!

The beach scene had me screaming!! They finally used snow on the beach <3

my taglists are here + you can send requests here at any time

—

‘’Leave me alone,’’ you slurred, your back turned to Conrad as you watched the waves crash over your feet. 

Coming to the beach in your intoxicated state was far from wise — an outright perilous choice. However, reason and prudence had abandoned you at this moment, too drunk to properly think.

‘’I can’t,’’ he responded. 

His footfalls reached you, his presence palpable and audible in the water. Without preamble, Conrad hoisted you over his shoulder like a potato sack and took you out of the ocean.  

‘’No! Conrad! Put me down,’’ you demanded the moment your feet left the ground. ‘’Just put me down.’’ 

‘’You’re drunk.’’

‘’Put me down!’’ You hit at his back as he walked up the beach.

‘’I’m not gonna put you down.’’

‘’Conrad, let go!’’ 

He did, letting you down on the sand ungracefully. 

You glared at him and dusted the sand off your shorts. ‘’Just go.’’ 

He extended his hand to help, but you smacked him off. ‘’I’m not leaving you.’’

Those next words would never have come out if you hadn’t drunk so much of the bottle left forgotten in the sand.

‘’But you already did,’’ you let slip, standing up with a little bit of struggle. You felt tears coming as you looked at Conrad, memories of that night coming back in flashes. ‘’Why didn’t you tell me you went to Jeremiah about us? Why?!’’ 

When he showed up to your house in October, all he said was that Jeremiah had moved on and was seeing other people. He didn’t tell you that he asked for his brother’s blessing despite knowing how hurt Jeremiah was about the situation. Coming from someone who never talked to anybody about his feelings, it meant a lot to you that he talked to Jeremiah. He fought for you. He was serious about you.

‘’I don’t know!’’ Conrad blurted in response, genuinely not knowing why he kept this from you. 

‘’If I had known that you had done that, that you cared that much about me and about us— If I had known, then I would have fought for you.’’ Tears blurred your vision, distorting his image.

Conrad looked down at you confusedly. ‘’What do you mean?’’ 

‘’I mean I would have fought for us. At prom, and at the funerals…’’ A tear slipped down your face, but you didn’t wipe it. ‘’And I would have been there for you through everything.’’ A sob left your lips, your heart breaking over the boy you swore you would never cry for again. 

‘’I thought you knew. I thought you knew,’’ Conrad repeated, his deeply buried feelings starting to come through his walls. ‘’From the moment we kissed on the beach I thought you knew.’’

‘’Why did you throw it all away? Why, Connie?’’ You reached for him, then pushed him away, undecided if you wanted him to hold you in his arms or to hit his chest in anger. ‘’I…I thought that we loved each other.’’

‘’We did,’’ he confessed for the first time, swallowing thickly. ‘’I still do.’’ 

Tears welled up in Conrad's eyes as he looked at you, his defenses crumbling under the weight of his emotions. The tension in the salt air was palpable, a mixture of regret, longing, and the weight of unspoken words hung between you.

‘’Then why, Conrad?’’ you choked out, your voice trembling. ‘’Why did you let me end things? Why did you get in your car at my prom? Why didn’t you fight for us?’’

He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to touch your cheek gently. You didn't pull away, torn between the anger you felt and the overwhelming surge of emotions that his confession had stirred within you. 

‘’Because I didn’t want to be a burden to you. I kept disappointing you…’’ 

Conrad did disappoint you on prom night, but not for the reasons he thought. You didn’t care about the corsage or if he wasn’t in the mood to dance all night. You would have settled for just a few dances if that’s all he was able to give you. His head was elsewhere and you understood that. Yours would be too if your mother was terribly sick and approaching her last days.

You wanted to tell him that, but you were drunk and standing way too close to Conrad to make any rational decisions…so you closed the remaining space between you and kissed him.

—

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[gullemec]

Lion's Den

Golden Cage - Chapter Three

series masterlist ao3

Pairing: Billy Butcher x f!reader

Summary: A late-night stake out with Butcher turns into something unexpected. You and Hughie embark on your highest-stakes mission yet.

Warnings: mentions of death, depictions of grief, language, alcohol use, smoking, Homelander is his own trigger warning, needle injection, body horror/gore, blood, murder, explosions

Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3

WC: 7k

A/N: This chapter contains one of the first scenes I ever came up with for this fic and I'm super proud of how it turned out. Thanks for reading <3

Your chest heaves in fits of laughter, the sound escaping in gleeful bursts that ripple through the warm summer air. Hair floating behind you like the tail of a comet, catching the light as it swirls and dances. The soft fabric of your dress billows around you, its folds fluttering with every swing. Your toes stretch forward, daring to brush against the edge of the sky. For a fleeting moment, a hint of fear creeps into your belly. 

Too high, too fast. 

But then there are hands at your back, firm and steady, guiding you. A gentle push, a quiet assurance. The embrace that follows is warm and full, carrying the familiar floral scent of comfort, safety, and love.

Nothing can hurt you now, not while I’m around.

Your high school prom. A shimmering haze of hairspray and perfume, your gown a vibrant turquoise that catches the light like sunlit waves. Awkward poses frozen in the flash of cameras. Corsages pinned with trembling hands. Laughter and whispers shared between girlfriends as music thrums faintly in the distance.

And then her voice, soft yet full of pride, as she peers at you from behind the lens. Her eyes crinkle with warmth, her smile radiating maternal joy.

So beautiful. So special. I love you so much. 

Later, a university acceptance. The email you read over and over, half in disbelief, and the student visa that followed. A one-way plane ticket tucked carefully into your carry-on. At the airport, the crowd swirls around you in a blur of movement and sound, but all you feel is her arms wrapping tightly around you, her lips pressing a kiss to your temple. You promise to call every weekend, visit every holiday.

You're so smart. I'm so proud of you. You can do anything you set your mind to. 

And you believed her. You always believed her.

The fatherly absence always stung. The missed recitals, forgotten birthdays, the empty chairs at family dinners. He was a phantom presence, his love expressed through impersonal checks and extravagant gifts, always with a neatly written card promising: Next time. When things aren't so crazy at work.

But she was enough. More than enough. Her laughter, her warmth, her unwavering belief in you filled every void he left behind.

Until the night it didn’t.

A phone call at 1AM, shattering the quiet of your dorm room. Your heart lurching as you fumble for the phone, squinting against the harsh glow of the screen. The voice on the other end is jumbled, nonsensical, the words bleeding together.

There's been an accident. I'm so sorry. 

Mourners clad in black gather under a colorless sky, their umbrellas dotting the cemetery like wilted flowers. The rain is steady but light, just enough to soak through the fabric of your dress and chill your skin. A closed casket sits before you, a hollow, unyielding box you can’t bring yourself to approach. You really shouldn’t see her like this. It’s for the best, the funeral director told you. The six foot deep trench yawning before you, her new home. Your father stands beside you, his hand resting awkwardly on your shoulder. His touch feels foreign, unwelcome, but you don’t shrug him off. You don’t have the energy.

It's okay. You'll be alright. Don't cry. 

But how can you not? How can you not cry when the one person who made the world feel safe, who saw the best in you even when you couldn’t, is gone?

You stare at the grave, your vision blurring as raindrops mingle with tears, and you wonder if you’ll ever feel whole again.

~~~

The sticky heat of the laundromat clings to your skin like a second layer, oppressive and inescapable. The hard plastic of the school chair you’re perched on digs into your thighs, leaving faint indentations every time you shift your weight. You adjust your tank top, its damp fabric sticking stubbornly to your back, and glance at the clock for what feels like the hundredth time.

The rhythmic hum and occasional clang of the washers and dryers should be soothing, but it only grates on your nerves. Across the aisle, an elderly woman works on a crossword puzzle, her lips moving soundlessly as she taps her pen against her chin. She’s utterly oblivious to the undercurrent of anxiety rolling off of you.

You’ve been here nearly half an hour.

Where the fuck are the Boys?

Your mind begins to spiral. Had they changed their minds about bringing you into the fold? Decided it was too risky to work with someone so closely tied to CytoGenix and Vought? It wouldn’t make sense—Starlight works with them, after all. Starlight, who comforted you when you were on the verge of breaking, who fought on your behalf, who insisted you call her Annie.

No, they hadn’t forgotten about you. They were just being cautious, you reason. But the nagging thought lingers. Maybe they’ve written you off after all.

You’re startled out of your reverie by movement behind the abandoned front desk. A familiar head pops up. It’s Frenchie, grinning and offering a quick wave to follow.

You jump to your feet, abandoning the chair with such urgency that the crossword woman glances up, giving you a sidelong look. You don’t care. You follow Frenchie through the hidden doorway and down the creaking staircase to the basement.

The Boys are gathered in their usual disorganized fashion. MM leans back in a chair with his arms crossed, Hughie paces idly, and Kimiko sits cross-legged on the floor, her sharp eyes scanning the room with quiet intensity. Butcher, as always, is the picture of brooding discontent, his trench coat draped over the back of the couch.

Annie is the first to notice you, her face lighting up as she waves you over. “Hey, you made it! Just in time for the riveting sixth hour of our surveillance party. So far, the highlights include... absolutely nothing. But hey, fingers crossed for the next six.” Her words are drenched in sarcasm, but her grin is infectious, and you find yourself laughing despite yourself.

“Ah, don’t listen to her,” Frenchie says, gesturing grandly as he flops into a chair. “It is not nothing. We are detectives, uncovering the truths of the universe!”

“Yeah, well, the truths of the universe are boring as hell,” Hughie mutters.

Butcher throws him a sharp look. “You’d think babysitting a couple of blinking dots was rocket science, the way you’re whining about it.”

Your attention shifts to the screen dominating the far wall, where two red dots move steadily across a digital map of Manhattan.

“Who are we watching?” you ask, curiosity overtaking your nerves.

“Your dear ol’ dad and his ball and chain,” Butcher says without looking at you, nodding toward the screen. “Been swannin’ around the city all bloody day. No idea where they’re off to next.”

You squint at the map, noting the dots’ meandering paths through Manhattan. “Yeah, they’re networking,” you say, rolling your eyes. “That’s what they call it when they spend hours sipping $500 bottles of wine with their friend and patting each other on the back for being obscenely rich. My dad swears it’s ‘essential for business,’ but it’s just an excuse to indulge.”

Butcher huffs out a low chuckle. “Sounds about right. It’s all bollocks, anyway. Rich pricks just finding new ways to circle jerk each other.”

You snort, caught off guard by the crude but accurate assessment. “Yeah, that pretty much sums it up.”

Butcher starts filling you in on the day’s surveillance. You sit beside him on the couch, leaning in as he explains the patterns of movement they’ve been tracking, the occasional stops your father and Monica have made, and how they’ve been prioritizing intercepting conversations with the bugs. His voice is low and steady, and for a moment, you forget everything else, your nerves, your exhaustion, even the slight embarrassment of sitting so close to him.

For the rest of the evening, the group takes turns monitoring the screen, scribbling down notes about the movements of the little red dots. The mundane nature of the task feels a little silly considering the high-stakes world you’ve stepped into, but you don’t mind. You feel like you’re contributing, even if only in a small way.

At one point, Hughie grumbles, “You know, we don’t have to watch this in real time. Everything’s being recorded. We could just check back later.”

Butcher doesn’t even look at him. “And if they do somethin’ worth jumpin’ on? You wanna miss it, do ya?”

Hughie mutters something under his breath, and Annie shoots you a knowing grin. “He’s been like this all day. Hyper-focused and grumpy as hell. Don’t take it personally.”

You glance at Butcher, his jaw tight as he studies the screen, and feel a pang of understanding. It’s not just determination driving him; it’s something deeper. Something raw and unresolved. You’ve seen that look before—in the mirror.

The grief radiating from him is palpable, even if he hides it well. You don’t know the details, but you can sense it. Loss has a way of marking people, leaving a shadow that never fully fades.

It draws you to him.

Misery loves company, you suppose. 

~~~

The clock reads just past midnight, and the room hums with the kind of stillness that makes every creak of the old laundromat basement feel loud. The dim light casts long shadows over the haphazard mess of wires, surveillance monitors, and makeshift furniture. It’s just you and Butcher now. The others have drifted off to sleep or left for the night.

MM had slipped out hours ago, muttering something about tucking Janine into bed. Hughie and Annie left together not long after, their quiet farewells fading into the night. Frenchie and Kimiko are sprawled together on a cot in the next room, limbs entangled in quiet comfort.

The audio transmitters have been silent for hours. The dots on the tracker map haven’t moved, signifying the cars have both come to rest at the CytoGenix office. Your father and Monica must be asleep in the office quarters. You glance at the dormant monitors, feeling the weight of the lull settle in your bones.

“Think you’ll stay awake much longer?” you ask, stretching to ease the stiffness in your back.

Butcher, leaning against the armrest of the couch, shrugs. “Suppose so. Don’t usually sleep ‘til mornin’.” He watches you with a detached air, like he’s trying to gauge why you’re still here. “You can head home if you like.”

You nod absently but don’t make a move to leave.

The truth is, you don’t want to go. The long hours of surveillance have been uneventful, sure, but there’s something about the waiting, the anticipation, that grips you. Every crackle of static, every blip on the tracker, feels like it could be the moment everything changes.

And the alternative? Returning to your empty loft, with its hollow silence and the weight of your own thoughts? No contest.

You hedge your bets with William Butcher. 

“Mind if I stay?” you ask, careful to keep your tone light.

He gives you a sideways look, one brow quirking upward. It’s a look that says, Why the hell would you want to do that?

You respond by flopping back down on the couch next to him,  pretending the blank computer monitor is the most fascinating thing in the room. You can feel his stare lingering on you, his skepticism practically radiating.

“So,” you say, assuming an air of casualty about you, aloof and haughty. “How many people have you kidnapped?”

Butcher snorts, leaning back with his arms crossed. “That’s usually a second date kinda question.”

You smirk, meeting his dry humor with your own. “So you make a habit of kidnapping young women, then?”

He rolls his eyes. “No.”

Feigning shock, you gasp and place a hand on your chest. “I’m your first? I’m flattered.”

For a moment, his face contorts into genuine bemusement. “Hardly,” he mutters, shaking his head.

Your laughter bubbles up, filling the room with a warmth you hadn’t expected. There’s something oddly satisfying about getting under Butcher’s skin, peeling back layers of his gruff exterior.

When your laughter subsides, he shifts the conversation. “How long you been workin’ for your dad?”

“Six months. Six long months.” You inhale deeply. “I moved home after graduating university. Cambridge, actually. Started interning at his company pretty much right away. It wasn't really my choice, you know? But I do it because…” 

Shit. What do you say? Because having your father's approval means regaining some small shred of self-confidence? Because Monica's preoccupation with your wardrobe, despite her infuriating mannerisms and less than ten-year age gap with you, feels just enough like motherly love that you're willing to entertain it? Because you're so goddamn desperate for love and belonging that you'd lick it off a knife at this point?

“Because it's the right thing to do,” you say finally. And really, is there a better answer than that? 

He nods, his expression softening slightly, though his eyes remain sharp. “And how’s that workin’ out for you?”

You hesitate, tempted to spill everything—the suffocating expectations, the desperate need for approval, the resentment simmering beneath it all. But you settle for a noncommittal shrug.

“What about you?” you counter. “How long have you been in the Supe-killing business?”

His grin is slow and wolfish, the kind that sends a ripple of unease down your spine even as it intrigues you. ��Too damn long.”

 Shit, he's charming. 

The two of you fall into an easy rhythm, swapping stories that seem to stretch the hours until they blur. You tell him about your time at Cambridge, the interns at CytoGenix who annoy you, the monotonous ways you fill your free time. He lets you in on how the Boys were first formed, telling you all about a remarkable sounding woman named Grace Mallory. He offers you an abridged version of what happened to his late wife, Becca. The conversation, which began light and easy, takes a quieter, heavier turn as the night stretches on.

Butcher leans back, his gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the walls of the room. He swirls whiskey in a glass, the sharp lines of his face softened by the dim light. “You ever love someone so much it felt like they were the center of your whole bloody world?”

The question catches you off guard. You pause, searching his face. “Yeah. My mom.”

He nods faintly, the corner of his mouth pulling into a bittersweet smile. “Becca was that for me. She was my whole world. Smart, stubborn as hell… too good for the likes of me, if I’m being honest. But she had this way of makin’ you believe in yourself, y’know? Like you were worth somethin’, even when you knew you weren’t.”

There’s a softness in his voice, a vulnerability that makes your chest tighten. You don’t interrupt, sensing how rare these moments are for him.

“I thought I’d done it, beaten the odds,” he continues, his voice quieter now. “Found somethin’ good, somethin’ real. And for a while, I had it. We had it. Then one day, it’s just... gone.”

You don’t know what to say, how to respond to this sudden vulnerability in the stoic man.

“What happened after she was gone… it weren’t just grief. It was like someone ripped my bloody soul out and left me with nothing but rage. I didn’t know how to function without her. I still don’t, most days.”

His jaw tightens, and he looks away, as if the memories are too much to face. You see his fist clench, knuckles turning white.

“I couldn’t save her,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “She needed me, and I failed her. And after that, I had nothin’ left to lose. So I made it my mission to take down the bastards who took her from me. All of ‘em. Vought. Homelander. Every Supe who thinks they can play god.”

You reach out hesitantly, your hand brushing against his arm. “Butcher… none of that was your fault. What happened to Becca… it wasn’t on you.”

He lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Maybe not directly, but I didn’t exactly make it easy for her, did I? I put her in the crosshairs just by bein’ me. She deserved better. Better than me, better than this whole bloody mess.”

You sit in silence for a moment, letting his words settle between you. “She loved you, though,” you say softly. “It sounds like she really loved you.”

He exhales sharply, his expression hardening as if trying to shake off the vulnerability. “Yeah. And look where it got her.”

You don’t know what to say to that, the weight of his pain pressing down on you. For all his bravado, for all his rage and resilience, there’s a part of him that’s still broken, still carrying the ghost of Becca with him everywhere he goes.

“You’re not just fighting for revenge, Butcher,” you say finally. “You’re fighting because you want to make sure no one else has to go through what you did. That’s worth something.”

He looks at you then, his gaze softening for a fleeting moment. “Maybe,” he murmurs. “But it don’t bring her back, does it?”

You shake your head, your throat tightening. “No. But it means her loss wasn’t meaningless. You’re doing something with it. And that matters.”

For a while, neither of you speaks. The silence feels heavy but not uncomfortable, as if the words that needed to be said are enough to fill the space between you. Butcher just sits there, his expression unreadable, and you wonder if there’s anything more you can say.

So you offer him stories of your mother, warm pockets of safety and love tucked away in the otherwise chaotic mess of your childhood. You tell him about the way she’d hum old jazz standards as she folded laundry, the soft, lilting tunes filling the house with a strange kind of peace. You remember how Sunday mornings smelled of pancakes and maple syrup, her insistence on cooking breakfast herself rather than letting the kitchen staff take over. Those moments were hers, small rebellions in a life that otherwise wasn’t her own.

“She wasn’t perfect,” you admit, picking lint from the couch. “But she tried. She did her best to give me... something good. Something that wasn’t him.”

Butcher leans back, watching you with a quiet intensity. “Your dad?”

You nod, your lips twisting into a bitter smile. “Mom stayed with him for years, not because she wanted to, God knows she didn’t, but because she was terrified of what would happen if she left. He would’ve dragged her through every court in the state if she tried to take me. And with his money? His connections? She didn’t stand a chance. So she stayed. For me.”

Butcher nods, his expression guarded but attentive. “Sounds like she had some steel in her.”

“She did,” you admit, a small, bittersweet smile tugging at your lips. “But steel can break, too. He wore her down, little by little. Made her feel small, worthless, like she was lucky to even be in his orbit. And then…” You hesitate, swallowing hard. “Then there was Monica.”

Butcher curses under his breath at the mention of her name and you can’t help but laugh.

“My dad didn’t even wait six months after my mom died before marrying her,” you say, your voice laced with bitterness and resentment. “She’s this perfect little trophy wife. Perfect hair, perfect nails, perfect clothes. She treats me like I’m some stray dog she’s graciously let into her perfect little world. Every look, every word, it’s like she’s reminding me I don’t belong. God, I can’t fucking stand her.”

“She sounds like a right piece of work,” Butcher says, his tone laced with disdain. “For the record, I’d never confuse you for her. Frenchie and Hughie are just idiots.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Thanks, I guess?”

It's comfortable, this dialogue between the two of you. He's sarcastic, sure, and rough around the edges, but he listens to you when you speak, never cutting you off or zoning out mid-sentence. But above all, you realize, you feel safe with the man. 

The two of you are engrossed in a heated discussion about just how deep the Vought rabbit hole goes when the crackle of the audio transmitter cuts through your banter like a blade, and you both snap to attention. Your father's voice hums through. You glance at the computer clock: 4AM. It's not unusual for him to get up this early to start his work day; his associates know to remain on standby to accommodate his erratic working hours. 

“Henry, it's Stanley.”

Your ears perk up at the name. You know Henry, having worked alongside him throughout your internship. 

Your stomach knots. You mouth quality control to Butcher, who nods, his expression sharpening.

“Listen, my wife wants to bring her friends down for a presentation on what you’ve been working on. I told her she could bring them Monday at ten.”

There’s a pause, then a heavy sigh from your father, the kind you’ve come to dread. A sigh that meant dissatisfaction, and god help the man who dissatisfied Stanley Morgan. You ground yourself, remembering that you are here in this laundromat basement with Butcher, safe.

“Look, Henry, I'm tired of you complaining about cutting corners. You're already way behind schedule, so just do whatever you have to do, and give my wife and her friends a good show, alright?”

You hear the phone receiver land in its cradle with a satisfying click. 

You turn to look at Butcher, finding a devious smile on his face. You return it, beaming at him. Finally, a lead. 

“Monday at ten,” he repeats, his voice practically dripping with glee. “How’s that work for you, sweetheart?”

You can’t help it. You beam back at him, the thrill of finally having a lead coursing through you. For the first time in a long time you no longer feel like you’re treading water. You’re moving forward.

~~~

Sunlight filters through your eyelids, prying you from a restful sleep. You squirm against the intrusion, desperate for a few more minutes of oblivion. Your hand reaches instinctively for your alarm clock, searching for the familiar plastic edge atop your side table. Instead, your fingers meet only air.

Your eyes flutter open, and the world comes into focus. You’re not in your room. The chipped paint on the walls and the musty smell of the basement remind you of where you are—the couch, the monitors, the remnants of last night’s vigil. And then it hits you.

You freeze, gaze snapping to the far end of the faded floral couch. Butcher.

He’s sprawled out awkwardly, face mashed into the armrest, one arm hanging limply over the side. The other, to your horror, is resting on your leg, his large hand curled protectively around your calf.

Shit. 

The memories flood back. You’d celebrated the breakthrough, the first solid lead since you joined. There was laughter, more than you’d ever expected to share with Butcher, and a quiet, companionable silence as the adrenaline faded. Somewhere in between, exhaustion had claimed you.

You’d promised him you’d stay awake. Promised you’d call a taxi as soon as the sky started to lighten. But here you are, wrapped in a scratchy blanket you don’t remember asking for, with Butcher asleep next to you like you’d both done this a hundred times before.

Heat floods your face, embarrassment unfurling in your chest. Embarrassment that you'd fallen asleep on the job, despite your protests that you were fine. Embarrassment that you'd let Butcher see you so vulnerable. But more than that, you feel embarrassed at how deeply and comfortably you’d slept, nestled on a decrepit couch with a man already too large for the shabby piece of furniture, more comfortably than you'd ever slept in your King-size memory foam bed at home.

But you're clearly not that embarrassed, because you give yourself several long, lingering moments to let the warmth soak into your bones. 

With great effort, you shift, slowly extracting your leg from beneath his hand. The warmth lingers as you pull yourself upright, and you let out a soft sigh of relief. The motion is enough to wake Butcher.

He jerks upright with a sharp inhale, eyes wild for a split second before they focus on you. His hair is a tousled mess, and his expression shifts from alertness to something resembling guilt.

“What’s all this?” he mumbles, his voice gravelly with sleep. His gaze flicks to the abandoned blanket, then to you hastily shoving your things into your bag. “Where you off to in such a rush?”

“I, uh…” You avoid his eyes, too flustered to form a coherent excuse. “I just—I need to get going.”

Realization dawns on his face. He glances back at the couch, then down at himself. “Ah, shit,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his face. “I didn’t mean to... y’know.” He gestures vaguely, his expression unusually sheepish. “Thought you might be cold, that’s all.”

You freeze mid-step, one hand gripping the doorframe. His tone is softer than you expect, less of the brash bravado you’ve grown used to.

“It’s fine,” you say quickly, your voice tight. “Really, it’s not a big deal.”

“Doesn’t seem that way,” he counters, leaning forward now, elbows on his knees. His dark eyes are sharper, scrutinizing you even in his groggy state. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I just… I wasn’t supposed to fall asleep,” you say, a bit too fast. “I should’ve gone home last night.”

He snorts softly, leaning back against the couch. “You and me both, then. Not like I planned to kip here either.”

You glance at him, your rush to leave faltering at the casual way he shrugs it off.

“Don’t worry about it, love,” he continues, voice dropping into something softer, almost teasing. “Not like you drooled on me or anythin’. Far as disasters go, I reckon this one’s survivable.”

A small laugh escapes you before you can stop it. He smirks, pleased with himself, and the tension in your shoulders eases.

“Thanks for the blanket,” you murmur, glancing down at it again.

“Don’t mention it,” he replies, waving a hand dismissively. “You looked knackered. Figured it was the least I could do after you went an’ pulled a late one with me.”

You nod, unsure of what to say, the warmth from his small gesture still lingering. You glance toward the stairs, bag in hand, ready to leave but no longer feeling the need to escape.

“Monday,” you say, breaking the silence. “We’ll need everyone ready. Let Hughie know?”

He nods, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “Got it. You take care, yeah?”

With one last look at him, still sprawled on the couch, already reaching for his phone, you head up the stairs. The door creaks as you push it open, sunlight spilling into the hallway.

As you push the door open and head up the stairs, you hear him mutter something under his breath, probably a jab at your dramatics. You don’t turn back. The slam of the door echoes behind you, but his gravelly voice lingers, like the warmth of the blanket you left behind.

~~~

It's Monday. 

The air outside the laundromat is brisk, carrying with it the faint metallic tang of the city morning. You lean against the brick wall, one hand stuffed into the pocket of your coat while the other holds a cigarette between your fingers. The cherry glows faintly as you inhale, the smoke curling into the cold air like a soft exhale.

You really don’t try to make a habit of smoking, but your nerves are buzzing under your skin like live wires and the cigarette between your fingers feels like the only thing tethering you to reality right now.

The faint squeak of boots on pavement announces Butcher before you see him. He rounds the corner, a thermos in one hand, his coat hanging open like he couldn’t be bothered to button it up against the chill. His eyes land on you, and his brows jump just slightly, surprise flashing across his face like a flickering bulb.

“Didn’t peg you for a smoker,” he says, voice thick with that familiar edge of mockery. “What is it? Bit of rebellion against Daddy’s company policy?”

You exhale a stream of smoke, turning your head so it doesn’t blow in his direction. “Something like that,” you reply dryly. “Don’t tell HR.”

He snorts, stepping closer. “Secret’s safe with me.” He gives you a once-over, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Though I’ve gotta say, not exactly the picture I had of you. Thought you were more the yoga-and-juice-cleanse type.”

“I contain multitudes,” you say simply, flicking ash from the end of the cigarette.

“That you do,” he murmurs, his tone quieter now, less biting. He digs into his coat pocket and pulls out a crumpled pack of smokes, shaking it slightly to reveal one lone cigarette. “Want another for the road?”

You glance at the cigarette, then back at him, arching a brow. “Didn’t think you were the sharing type.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” he says with a crooked grin, lighting it with a battered silver lighter. He takes a long drag and lets the smoke curl out of his mouth slowly. “Just figured it might take the edge off before you head in.”

You hesitate, then shrug. “Alright.” You take the offered cigarette, lighting it with your own lighter. The shared silence that follows is strangely companionable, the kind you wouldn’t have expected when you first met him.

“You nervous?” he asks after a beat, his voice softer than usual.

“Would it matter if I was?”

He studies you for a moment, his gaze sharper than you’re comfortable with. “It’s good to be nervous,” he finally says. “Means you’re payin’ attention. It’s when you stop that you get sloppy. Or worse, dead.”

“Comforting,” you say wryly, taking another drag.

He smirks, tilting his head toward the laundromat. “Come on. Hughie’ll start wringin’ his hands if we’re out here much longer.”

You stub out the cigarette on the brick wall, tucking the butt into a pocket so it doesn’t litter the street. Butcher watches this with a faintly amused expression but says nothing.

As the two of you head inside, the air between you feels lighter, the tension from earlier diffused into the cold morning. Hughie looks up from the monitors, his face a mix of relief and nervous energy.

“Ready?” he asks, glancing between you and Butcher.

Butcher claps him on the shoulder, all mock bravado. “’Course we are. Let’s get on with it, then.”

You follow Butcher and Hughie out, a small ember of calm glowing within you.

~~~

Exiting Butcher's discreetly parked van, you nudge Hughie down the narrow alley, leading the way toward your old smoking spot. It’s quiet here, and the less attention you draw, the better. You swipe your ID pass through the scanner, tossing a glance down the fluorescent-lit corridor. The hall stretches in that sterile, clinical way it always does, but today, it feels like a goddamn maze. It feels like you’re on the other side of a mirror, like you're not supposed to be here.

You bite back the urge to whisper “All clear!”  to Hughie, but you quickly swallow the words. It’s too risky; you know Butcher’s listening. One slip-up, and he’ll be all over you like a fucking rash, reminding you of your amateur status. You bite your tongue just in time to avoid the barrage of shit he’d throw at you later.

Inside the building, you inspect your new “intern.” You ditched your monogrammed designer lab coat in favor of a plain, CytoGenix-branded one, lifted from a storage closet. Nothing flashy. Hughie’s got one on too, also stolen, one of the last clean ones in the closet. You’ve opted for business casual today, trying to blend in as best you can.  In an effort to obscure yourself further, you'd styled your hair differently and worn fake glasses. You want to look like just another office drone. Like you belong.

“You good?” you ask Hughie, keeping your voice low. He nods, trying his best to look confident, but you catch that little tremor in his fingers as he adjusts the collar of his borrowed lab coat. Poor guy’s barely keeping it together, and you’re not doing much better yourself.

The mission, should everything go to plan, is simple. You and Hughie disguise yourselves as nameless interns puttering around in the lab, eavesdropping on Monica's tour. Once you figure out what it is they're working on in the lab, you quietly slip out and report back to Butcher in the van parked outside. Butcher who you've been avoiding since your makeshift sleepover. Butcher who, in turn, has seemingly rebuilt the cement walls of his gruff exterior that he let slip that night. Today feels just as much like a test as it does a reconnaissance mission. 

Here goes nothing. 

You guide Hughie to the Quality Control lab. Thankfully it's only three floors down into the basement, as Hughie blanches when you explain just how deep into the earth CytoGenix’s headquarters go. 

When you get to the lab, you spot the small group of VIPs that’s gathered for the tail end of the tour. Perfect timing. 

“So, as you can see, thanks to the cutting edge technologies at our fingertips, CytoGenix is leading the way in pharmaceutical breakthroughs,” says the chipper tour guide. Monica stands with the group, preening under Homelander and Ashley Barrett’s attention. The gooseflesh on your arms prickle at the sight of the evil Supe and corrupt CEO. 

The tour guide gestures toward a large window at the back of the lab. “Now, if everyone could follow me,” she chirps, her voice grating, “we’d like to give you all a demonstration of V2’s first human test subject!”

Your stomach twists. Human test subject. You weren't sure what you were expecting from this tour, but it wasn't this. The lab’s always been about gene splicing and advanced therapies, but this? This is something else. Something darker. Was your father’s company involved in testing on people, or was this just the tip of a very fucked up iceberg?

The crowd gathers around the window, tittering with excitement. You and Hughie hang back, miming preoccupation with the lab supplies laying around. 

A light flickers on, illuminating the dark window. A two-way mirror. Inside, the room is featureless and blindingly white, save for a young man curled up in the corner, his face drawn and terrified. As the light flickers on, he jerks upright, eyes wide with panic. You feel your gut twist.

A woman enters the room, clad in the same branded lab coat that you wear now. She carries a syringe filled with green liquid that seems to emit a glow from within. She murmurs something to the young man, who hesitantly rolls his sleeve up, offering his arm to her. She injects the liquid, taking a long step backward. 

Then the screaming starts.

Purple veins spread from the injection site, skin rippling unnaturally, his body contorting in ways that aren’t human. Suddenly the arm that had been injected begins to elongate, stretching into a grotesque tentacle. You can hear the faintest squelching sound as his body twists. The man stares at his arm in horror, mouth gaping, before his face suddenly goes slack, vacant eyes lolling toward the female lab technician. 

The woman is scrambling toward the door she came in through, but it's closed now, flush against the wall with no handle for her to grasp. She bangs and thrashes against the door, begging for someone to open the door and let her out. 

Then the tentacle shoots across the room, faster than you can react. It wraps around her head and jerks back. The sound of skin tearing from bone echoes in the sterile white room as her face is ripped off like peeling wallpaper. Her face hits the two-way mirror with a wet slap before her body collapses to the floor.

The tour guide quickly steps forward, flicking a switch on the wall. You hear a soft hiss as the room begins to fill with gas, the man's eyes rolling backward as he loses consciousness, slumping against the wall. The locked door is suddenly thrust open, and this time a man clad in biohazard gear enters. He makes a wide arc around the faceless lab tech, reaching down to grab the tentacle man around his armpits, dragging his limp body out of the room. The lights finally, blessedly, go out. 

The tour guide smiles like it’s all part of the show, like she’s done this a thousand times. The group is dead silent, some swaying with lightheadedness. Monica's eyes flit around the crowd, desperate for a reaction.

You can feel the tension in the air. Your hand clenches at your side, but you don’t dare look around. Not yet.

Then, slowly, the applause starts.

Clap. Clap. Clap. 

Homelander starts clapping slowly, grinning like a predator.

“Bravo!” he says, his voice rich with mock sincerity. “Truly remarkable.” He’s fucking giddy, practically glowing at what he just witnessed.

You, on the other hand, feel ill. There's no way that woman can't be dead. And the man… He seemed so afraid. There's no way he knew what would happen to him once he was injected. Was he dead now?

But then the crowd picks up, clapping, cheering. It’s all a fucking spectacle to them. Monica beams, her fake smile stretched to the limit.

“Everyone, V2!” she says, as if she’s introducing the next big thing at a tech expo.

More cheers.

“More potent than Compound V alone, V2 more reliably gives recipients powers in the A-tier or above,” she announces, spinning the whole thing like it's some kind of miracle drug. “It also inhibits the prefrontal cortex, meaning the Supes it produces will be more... suggestible. Easier to control.”

Homelander chuckles darkly. “So, a Supe lobotomy?” His voice is casual, but the tension in the air spikes.

Monica blinks, taken aback, but then her smile returns—brighter, more fixed. She can’t afford to offend him.

“Exactly what we need if we're going to make a Supe army,” Homelander agrees. “Excellent work, Monica.”

The crowd erupts in cheers again, and you feel like you're suffocating. The air is thick with their sick excitement, and you’re drowning in it.

 There was so much blood, so many little pieces of muscle and tissue painting the paper-white room, like a fucked up Rorschach. The man looked like he could have been younger than you. There's no way he knew what was going to happen to him, no one would ever agree to that. 

Monica's inhumanly white veneers are bared in a painful smile, beaming like a mother at what she'd help create. Was this how your mother died? Had she spent her last moments in fear and pain? It was a closed casket… Was that to hide the damage? Your heart starts to race. The air feels too thick, too hot. 

You catch yourself just as your vision darkens, hunching over a utility cart carrying empty test tubes. The tubes jostle, glass clinking, drawing the crowd's attention to you. Your hair, having fallen around your face, acts as a curtain separating you from the prying eyes. Still, you can feel the laser eyes on you, watching, only a moment away from thinking, Doesn't she look familiar? Is that Stanley's daughter? What's she doing here, with that guy? 

The woozy feeling in your body is immediately replaced with intense, soaring adrenaline. Before you can think, you make a break for it, keeping your head down to continue obscuring your face. Hughie follows, his steps frantic behind you.

The crowd hesitates before you hear quickening footsteps and yells. 

The frantic voice of a lab tech rings out “Homelander, no! No lasers in the lab!”

“Fuck!” You yank Hughie forward, forcing him to move faster.

The sound of lasers tearing through the air is unmistakable, the pops of small explosions echoing out. You dive into the stairwell, barely avoiding the beams as they scorch the air around you. The heat on your back makes your skin crawl.

You hear the security team yelling, but you don’t stop. You push forward, practically pulling Hughie up the stairs, praying like hell that the explosions Homelander triggered are buying you enough time. The sound of blood rushing in your ears deafens you to the metal clattering your steps make as you race to reach the ground floor. 

You burst out of the stairwell back into those fluorescent lights, not bothering to look upward on the chance that an errant glance might get caught on security cameras. You head straight down the hall, not breaking speed, not letting go of Hughie until you're both careening down the alleyway. Butcher's white van is waiting exactly where you left it. 

Only, the door you just exited out of slams open, a chorus of feet smacking the cement twenty paces behind you. They're close, too damn close. 

The van is so close you can see the flecks of rust around the wheel wells, can almost read the vulgar bumper sticker barely clinging to the back door. But they're too close. You'll barely be able to close the doors behind you before the posse at your backs clamor around the vehicle, blocking Butcher's escape. 

You make a split second decision and pray to whatever greater being might be listening that it's a good one. 

You're vaguely aware of the van in your periphery as you speed past it, unable to see Butcher in the driver's seat, but knowing he's there nonetheless. What you don't see is his panic, the frantic foot on the gas pedal, the mental math trying to determine what the fuck you two dimwits are doing as you descend into the New York subway system.

@bluemerakis

@mystic-writings

@imherefordeanandbones

[carlos-in-glasses]

Thank you for the tag @whatsintheboxmh and @nisbanisba 🧡

This is from chapter 12 of Rhythms, coming on Sunday! It might be my personal favourite chapter so can't wait to share! Also...12 weeks of posting down already 😭 It's all going too fast.

In which we join Carlos, Buttercup and TK at Gabriel's funeral wake:

“Oh, you want one of these?” Carlos feels himself actually smile, taking a couple of baby carrots from a bag in the crisper drawer. Rocky always loved carrots. “Here, have one for Rocky,” he says, feeding Buttercup from his hand and regretting it for the palmful of drool.

Carlos washes his hands but can’t resist returning to Buttercup to pet him. Dogs are creatures of enormous comfort.

He crouches and takes Buttercup’s face in his hands. “Thank you, Buttercup. Thank you,” he whispers.

Buttercup boofs and dusts the floor beneath the island with his wagging tail.

A couple of sets of footsteps come crashing into the kitchen. For some reason Carlos freezes where he is, crouches down lower behind the island, his instinct to stay hidden.

“You want something, Casey?” A young, male voice asks. “They’ve got tequila.”

“Nah, I’m driving,” a second guy replies, “They’ve got so much booze here, man.”

A beer can cracks open and hisses. “Hey, did you know the Major’s son is a f*****?”

“What?”

“Yeah, he’s engaged to a man – I met the fiancé; this is his dad’s place. He was like, hey, I’m Carlos’ fiancé. I had to try so hard not to laugh.”

“Bruh.”

Eyes wide, Carlos slowly drifts up from behind the kitchen island like Titan rising out of the sea.

Two rookies who are barely out of training pants freeze where they stand, their faces draining of color as their mouths fall open.

The rookie with the beer can slowly puts it down. “I – we were just–”

Carlos clocks their names on their badges. “Marsh and Ross, Get the fuck out of this house,” he whispers, “Right now.”

Marsh and Ross look at each other and hurry away in the direction of the front door, brushing past TK as they go. TK spins in the whirlwind of them.

“What are they doing?” TK throws a thumb over his shoulder as he wanders towards Carlos and Buttercup.

Carlos is too stunned, too gut-punched to answer.

Buttercup lopes over to TK, his favorite boy in all the world.

“More cars have pulled up outside,” TK says, stroking a finger down Buttercup’s snout. “And your mom just opened the condolences book.”

“I’ll write something,” Carlos says shakily. A little message of love for his mom to find. The book is for her. 

Carlos follows TK in a stupor. The words of the homophobic rookie – it’s like someone has driven nails into his ears. There’s a sharp pain across his cranium, in his jaw, that makes his eyes water. He no longer feels like he’s at the same altitude as everyone else.

Open tag and tags below:

@paperstorm @thisbuildinghasfeelings @strandnreyes

@bonheur-cafe @lightningboltreader @goodways @reyesstrand

@rmd-writes @welcometololaland @ladytessa74

@heartstringsduet @irispurpurea @liminalmemories21 @alrightbuckaroo

@cold-blooded-jelly-doughnut @chicgeekgirl89 @lemonlyman-dotcom @freneticfloetry

@theghostofashton @honeybee-taskforce @sugdenlovesdingle

@herefortarlos @orchidscript @tellmegoodbye @three-drink-amy

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@emsprovisions @sapphic--kiwi @anactualcaseofthetruth

@corsage @nisbanisba @the-126-family @carlossreaders @henrygrass - If you want to share/haven't already! No pressure ever! ❤️🩷🧡💛💚💙🩵💜

[writingonleaves]

bundles of flowers (we'll wade through the hours of cold) - brock boeser

pairing: brock boeser x original female character

warnings: literally nothing, lots of fluff, flower research i did two years ago, not proofread

title: “promise" by ben howard

word count: 2.7k

author’s note: dug up a creative writing piece i wrote two years ago for a class and tweaked it a bit to create this. happy holidays to all. hope you all enjoy <3

*****

It’s a routine.

When Amber Chen was a young girl, she spent most days after school at Petals Lab & Design, zooming through the front door into her father’s waiting arms, chattering about the meal she had whipped up in the play kitchen at Kindergarten that day. Customers would fawn at her pigtails as she hid shyly behind her father or skipped behind the counter and hoisted herself up on a stool, munching on apple slices her mother had cut.

During her high school days, she would be sure to lock her car twice, twirling her keys around her pointer finger as she walked in. She’d drop her backpack, placing her iced green tea in the center of the counter. If the shop was filled with customers, she’d go into the back room and check the whiteboard filled with her father’s scrawl. If the shop was empty, she’d lean her head on her chin while listening as her parents rattled on about shipments or what was going to for dinner that night. On Mondays and Fridays, it was just her and Xavier or Willow in the shop. On those afternoons, she blasted the music a little louder, swayed her hips a little bolder and dragged whichever poor soul was working that day into a dramatic dance that always left both of them laughing. 

Once Amber went to college, she still found herself coming in every other Sunday to help out, with a sample of whatever baked good she had made that week, an iced green tea, a hot black coffee and a cappuccino. Her mother would always roll her eyes, before reaching for a cookie or cupcake or brownie, chewing it thoughtfully for a couple of seconds and scrunching up her nose. 

“This is too sweet,” she’d say, or, “Too much chocolate.” 

Her father would then wander out, taking a small sip of his coffee first before placing a gentle kiss in her hair. 

“Missed you. How are classes?” Before she could answer, he would always get distracted by something else, whether it be a customer, a phone call or the sudden epiphany of remembering something he had to do hours ago. 

Amber knows that a bouquet of lilies was always acceptable for a funeral or that corsages cost $30 on average, and that yes, they can find a flower color to match the dress. She could rattle off cost estimation for bouquets by the time she was 13. She even finds herself from time to time sitting across from couples at a table tucked in the back corner of their shop, pulling out wrinkled papers to consult them about the floral arrangements for their wedding. 

One hot morning in July, she’s left completely alone to open the shop. Her parents are helping with preparations at a large wedding. She had decided to play one of her favorite playlists over the speakers, soft guitar plucking and the honey-like voice of John Mayer accompanying the routine of putting out the flowers that had arrived that morning. The music’s louder than usual, as people usually flock in about an hour after opening.

But this time, the bell rings after two songs, and she looks up to see a guy around her age, gray hoodie over his blonde hair, black vans covering his feet. The neutral color scheme of his outfit heavily contrasts the bright colors of the flowers around him. He has a calm aura about him, hunched shoulders as if he’s trying to make himself smaller to fit into the shop. She shoots him a tired smile before going back to stocking the bouquets of roses. She waits until the end of the song to speak up, finding him glancing at the orchids.

“Anything I can help you with today?”

He looks up, “Uh, not at the moment.” His hand reaches up to scratch the back of his neck. “My mom’s birthday is today, and I’m a jackass who is getting her something right before she wakes up.”

“Well, orchids are always a solid choice.” Amber backs away with a small nod. “Let me know if you need anything.” He hums in thanks, and she walks back to the register. 

She pulls out her laptop and looks over the materials her eventual boss sent her to read before her first day of work in a month,  singing along to “Daughters” under her breath, ears alert for the tinkling of the bell at the front door. 

She looks up to see the guy shuffling to the counter, and closes her laptop. He clears his throat, eyes bright and smile contagious. “Do you happen to do custom bouquets?”

“We do.” Amber walks from behind the counter and leads him to their lab, eyes going to the multitudes of flowers and brain already spinning with ideas. “Tell me about your mom. What’s your relationship with her like?”

He blinks. “Good. She’s literally always smiling. Has never yelled at me once. She’s the strongest woman I know.” He trails off as she gathers a couple of various stems. “That all you need?”

“Well, let’s see.” She points at each flower as she describes them. “Gerbera Daisies represent happiness, pink carnations represent gratitude and peonies represent prosperity and good health. Pair all that with some baby’s breath and you got a beautiful bouquet right there.” She raises an eyebrow. “Ultimately though, it’s your gift. I can do whatever you’d like.”

“No,” he shakes his head with a nervous chuckle. “It’s perfect. Go ahead.”

She flashes him a grin before methodically cutting the stems of the flowers, arranging them into a lively arrangement of colors and wrapping it all together with tissue paper and a ribbon to match.

He pays for the bouquet at the register, and when she comes around the counter to hand it to him, he thanks her before ducking his head down and walking back out into the muggy Saturday morning air. She blinks as she watches him get into his car, but shakes her head to herself as the phone starts ringing. 

A few weeks later, Amber finds herself waking up to a frantic call from her mother, asking if she can meet up at Camrose Hill for a wedding. Her father has to deal with a shipping miscommunication back at the store, and she needs one more helping hand. When Amber arrives, she steps out, travel mug filled with tea in her right hand and her left hand smoothing down her red floral dress. After asking around, she finds her mother next to carts filled with roses in various colors. With a quick hug, Amber gets to work on building the arch, the light breeze making her regret not putting her hair up. 

“Funny seeing you here.”

She looks up and blinks twice, standing up from her crouched position. 

“Good morning.” She eyes him up and down, admiring his white button up and black dress pants. 

“You here for the wedding?”

“I’m the Best Man, actually.” He chuckles, shoving his hand in his pockets. “My best friend’s getting married.”

“Congratulations,” she says softly, climbing onto a nearby chair to reach the top of the arch. “Beautiful place to do it too.”

He nods, eyebrows furrowing as she stumbles slightly in her heeled sandals. “Do you need help?”

“Absolutely not. You’re a guest. You shouldn’t even be out here right now.” He eyes her warily when she attempts to reach down to grab some roses off the cart, hands automatically going up as she almost falls over. She sighs, “Fine. Grab me five ivory ones and three pink ones, please. And the scissors.”

“So, what do they mean?”

“Hm?”

“The roses. What do they mean?”

She glances at him as she intertwines the stems together, wiggling her fingers at him for more flowers. “They’re roses. Roses are pretty typical for a wedding, generally symbolizing love. I’m sure you know that.”

“How about the colors?” 

“Your friend’s soon to be wife chose ivory instead of white, and ivory usually means gracefulness. Peach roses are usually given as a thank you gift, so gratitude and sincerity is tied to that one. I’ll admit that green roses are more rarer in weddings, but it means growth, so perhaps the start of growing together as a married couple?” She shrugs. “Or maybe she just likes the color combination.”

“Knowing Stacy? It was probably very methodical.”

Amber laughs airily, before sticking her hand out. “Help me down? I need to move the chair to the other side.”

Before he can respond, someone from inside the tent calls his name. He helps her down quickly, before running his hand through his hair. 

She hums. Brock. It fits. “So that’s your name.”

“Can I get yours?” He asks hopefully. 

His name is called again and Amber shrugs with a sly grin. “Another time. Think you’re needed, Best Man.”

With a slight huff, he backs away with a wave. Her attention goes back to her fingers as she threads the flowers into the white arch, listening to the chatter of the other employees preparing. She’s out of the venue before the guests have even started arriving.

The summer always brings in tourists from all over, many itching to take a peek at a shop that has a rainbow of flowers outside of its doors. Balancing her new job at a PR firm, she pops in to help her parents, fingers slowly getting scars and cheekbones beginning to hurt daily. 

On a day where the sun is shining bright and the shop is in a lull during lunch hour, Brock walks in. His smile is wide as he makes small talk with her mother across the shop. Amber freezes when she sees both sets of eyes on her, and swallows her tea as he walks over. 

“Hi again.”

“I came in yesterday looking for you,” he said. “Your parents told me to come back today.”

“Looking for me?”

“Yeah.”

“Did they tell you my name?” 

“Amber.” Fuck, her name rolls off his tongue so sweetly. 

“That’s what they call me.”

“Beautiful name for a stunning girl.”

She snorts, “What can I do for you?”

He grins slightly at her professional tone. “My mom was complaining about how her place isn’t homey enough, so I figured I’d come to my favorite flower shop and talk to the experts about how to fix that.”

“My parents could’ve helped you with that.”

“I know, but I wanted your opinion.”

She moves from behind the counter, lips lifting into a smile as he immediately follows her. “If you want just a bouquet, you can never go wrong with sunflowers. And judging from your sporadically timed visits, you’re probably not around town much, so it wouldn’t be wise to get a plant that you would actually have to take care of. Unless that’s what your mother wants.”

“How do you-”

She stops in front of the sunflowers, ignoring his question. “We got a fresh delivery this morning. If you don’t like these, there are plenty of orchids I’d suggest as well.”

“I’ll take the sunflowers. What’s the special meaning of these?”

“Exactly what they look like. They bring happiness into people’s day.”

“That they do.” She feels her cheeks flush from his stare.

She quickly rings him up and bids him farewell as he walks out the door, smiling to her parents along the way. They both turn their heads to look at her as soon as the door shuts, and she rolls her eyes before venturing into the back room, ignoring the shout of questions and comments.

Winter rolls around quickly. Every time someone has purchased sunflowers these past couple of months, she can’t help but think of Brock; the last image of him imprinted in her brain was him walking out the door with sunflowers in his hand. That was four months ago.

Since then, Amber’s figured out who he is. Brock Boeser. Vancouver Canucks. Minnesota’s very own. She’s spent many nights with a few glasses of wine deep thinking too much about it. 

She’s outside the shop one day after a long day of work, on top of a ladder, gloved fingers fumbling around with the string of lights. Her cheeks are rosy, snowflakes are sticking to her hair and she’s been yawning every five minutes for the last hour, but she’s determined to get these lights up before she locks up in 15 minutes. The poinsettias, mistletoe and holly are scheduled to arrive the next morning.

“Are you guys still open?”

She straightens up at the familiar voice and tightens the gray scarf around her neck. “Yep. I’ll be down in a minute.” She hangs the last of the lights and plugs them in. Wiping her eyes with the heels of her palms, she stores the ladder away and walks in. 

“Brock. Hey. What can I help you with today?” She asks, ducking into the back room to hang up her coat. The shop is quiet, crooning notes of Spotify’s “Christmas Coffeehouse” playing in the background. The dark blue button up peeking out of his black winter coat makes her smile. It’s the most color she has ever seen on him.

“Can you help me with a bouquet?”

“Of course.” She observes the half-empty buckets. “What things do you want to symbolize this time?”

“I actually know what I want.”

“Oh yeah? Great. What would you like?”

“Purple lilacs, irises, pink roses and baby’s breath, please.”

“Just give me a second. The roses are in the back.” She begins arranging the flowers and looks up as she’s grabbing the wrapping paper, noticing his confused stare. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, you just, didn’t tell me what they mean. Like, the flowers.”

Amber chuckles. “You’ve obviously done your research. You still want me to?” Brock nods. “Okay, purple lilacs symbolize first love, irises symbolize wisdom and eloquence. Roses are romantic, but pink ones specifically? That symbolizes admiration. So I would guess you’re giving this to someone you like, maybe a romantic partner? Someone you haven’t been with for long?”

He whistles, “Damn. You’re good.”

Her heart sinks the slightest bit as she shrugs, before a particular set of flower stems caught her eye. “I know it’s your bouquet, but how would you feel about adding daffodils? It would add a beautiful contrast to all the purple you have in here. I won’t even charge you for it.”

“Add them in, and charge me for it too.” She plucks the daffodils out of the bin, separating them throughout the bouquet. “What do those mean?” Brock asks. 

“The daffodils?”

“Yeah.”

She clears her throat. “New beginnings.”

After adding the finishing touch of a purple ribbon, she punches the sale in the register and walks from behind the counter to hand the bouquet to him. 

Brock shakes his head. “Nope.”

Her eyebrows furrow. “Sorry?”

“They’re for you, actually.” She raises an eyebrow, and he continues, flexing his fingers continuously. “It’s my stupid way of asking if you would like to go on a date with me.”

She looks down at the bouquet and back up at him, raising an eyebrow. “Right now?”

“If you’re free. Or in a couple weeks. I, uh, I don’t work around here, unfortunately. So I won’t be back in Minnesota until about a month or two.”

“I know who you are, Brock Boeser.” She hands the flowers to him again. “Hold these while I close up?”

“Is that a yes?”

Amber grins, scanning the shop. “Yeah. It’s not stupid, by the way.” She shuts off the lights, grabs her coat and locks the front door, her date for the night following her obediently. “It’s actually really sweet.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah.” She tentatively reaches for his fingers with her other hand as she admires the bouquet. “Do you wanna know something?”

“Anything,” He says, leaning down so he can hear her better.

“Daffodils are actually my favorite flower.”

“Like, ever? Out of all flowers?”

“Out of all flowers.”

He leads her to Osteria La Buca with a wink that has her stomach flipping. “What a coincidence.”

She looks down at the bouquet with a smile.

[waltwhitmansbeard]

Prom with Vaxleth?

26. Prom setting this in grow with the flow! buckle the FUCK UP

It starts with a social media post—Vex's, to be specific. Vax groans, his phone hovering just a few inches above his face, and Keyleth turns her head away from the business email she's been writing and rewriting for the last half hour to ask, "What is it?"

"Look." And then the phone is shoved in her face, and she's looking at—

"Is that you?"

All limbs and sharp angles, a teenage Vax in an ill-fitting tuxedo, his hair slicked back with what must be an entire container of hair gel, gives a sultry look to the camera. He's back to back with his sister, who's wearing a shimmering blue strapless gown that makes her legs look a million miles long. They each wear a snowdrop, him on his boutonniere and her on her corsage.

"Is this your prom photo?" Keyleth snatches the phone, grinning from ear to ear, to look even closer. "You two look so good!"

"We look so dorky." Vax tries to grab the phone back, but Keyleth keeps it deftly out of reach. "Apparently, today's the tenth anniversary, and Vex decided to air our dirty laundry on social media."

Keyleth scrolls down to read the comments, and since Vax is tagged, the Grow with the Flow audience is having a field day. "Oh yeah, this is fun. It's half bullying you, half asking to have a threesome with you and Vex."

"Disgusting."

Keyleth finally returns the phone. "Did you guys at least have fun?"

"Well, I hooked up with both the prom queen and the theatre teacher, so...yes."

Keyleth's jaw drops. "At the same time?"

"No." That prompts more questions than it answers, but then Vax asks, "What about you? I wanna see sexy prom photos."

She snorts. "Good luck. I didn't have a prom."

Vax sits up in bed. "For real? Why not?"

"I wasn't kidding when I said Zephrah is small. My graduating class had eleven kids in it. We just had a bonfire instead. That was the first time I successfully shotgunned a beer. There may be pictures of that somewhere!"

Vax pouts, hooking his chin on your shoulder. "So you've never gotten to dress up all pretty, make all the boys and girls go oooooh?"

"Um, well, I got a pretty nice dress for my mom's funeral."

"Oh fucking hell." Vax swings his legs out of bed and snags up his phone. He paces a line in the kitchen, dialing someone and pressing the phone to his ear.

"Who are you calling?"

"My sister. We are fixing this."

.

Honestly, Keyleth forgets about it. The podcast is really taking off, and pretty much any time not spent researching and scripting and recording and editing is spent coordinating sponsorships and doing the annoying paperwork that comes with owning a business. Vax has some project that he's working on, but he won't tell her what it is, which is fine, because she has more than enough projects on her own plate right now.

She doesn't think to question it when Vex tells her they're going shopping one weekend. Vex likes to shop—well, no. Vex likes to window-shop. Vex rarely spends actual money. Except this time, they go to a little corner boutique, one that sells gowns for weddings and galas. She doesn't know why, but Vex is insistent that she get this long-sleeved emerald green dress that hugs her curves. She tries to argue that it's a ridiculous expense, but Vex promises her they'll do a photoshoot with it for the podcast, and hey, they've been making some pretty good ad revenue these days, so she caves. It's especially hard to say no when Vex buys a dress herself, a slinky black number that makes her look like danger.

She definitely doesn't connect the dots when Vex and Pike burst in unannounced one afternoon when Vax is out, each laden with bags of makeup and hair products. Keyleth's tugged away from her editing to get dolled up, for fun, they insist. The next thing she knows, they're all dressed up, each in their own beautiful gown—Pike's poofy golden dress makes her look like the sun incarnate—and Keyleth's being shoved out the door.

She probably should have figured it out before Vex pulled her car up in front of the botanical garden, where a red carpet lined with silver and gold balloons leads inside the building, but no, it takes Vax, dressed in a sharp black suit that fits like a glove with a slim green tie that matches her dress perfectly, stepping out holding a homemade sign that reads Will you go to prom with me? that she finally fucking gets it.

Crying, she throws her arms around his neck, chastising him for keeping such a momentous secret from her, but Vex is there to scold her for ruining her hair and makeup. Her friends lead her inside, where she's shocked to find the gardens filled with people, most of whom she does not know. Vax explains that he put the call out for anyone in the city who missed out on their high school prom and wants a second chance, with all profits from ticket sales being donated to Keyleth's favorite conservation organization. Keyleth dissolves into a mess again, but Vex and Pike get her cleaned up enough for the evening to begin.

And oh, what an evening. Scanlan's band plays them through a night of dancing, drinking, and all around fun. Keyleth has never spent so much time on a dance floor in her life, but even though she takes plenty of spins with Percy and Grog and the girls, she is happy to have so many with Vax, who can go from an elegant waltz to a shockingly gymnastic twerk with a simple key change.

Some of the other prom attendees are podcast listeners, and Keyleth is so grateful to get to put faces to the numbers she spends more time than she likes to admit obsessing over. Everyone takes thousands of pictures, and she is so excited to see the #growwiththeflow hashtag come morning. The gardens are filled to the brim with people just loving life and enjoying each other's company, and Keyleth, who had never put much thought into what it meant to miss out on such an adolescent right of passage, is beyond grateful to experience this night with these people.

When the evening is winding down, and most of the revelers have either gone home or gone to another location to continue the party, Vax tugs her by the hand deeper into the gardens, far from the area set aside for the event. He boldly strides past a sign forbidding entry, saying "This is not even in the top ten most interesting places I've trespassed" when she stutters in protest.

He stops when they're surrounded by the most beautiful blossoming cherry trees Keyleth has seen since she left Zephrah. The glass ceilings of the botanical gardens let in the light of the stars above, and the entire scene is so fragrant and beautiful. "Vax...this is lovely."

"So are you." She wrinkles her nose at him, and he kisses it. "Did you have fun?"

"I don't think I've ever had so much fun in my life. I can't believe you kept this a surprise from me for so long."

"I can't believe you didn't catch on. I mean honestly, Keyleth, don't tell me I have to be the brains in this relationship, because if that's the case, we're screwed."

She punches his arm. "Jerk."

"Yeah, well, this jerk has one more surprise for you. Look over there." He points over her shoulder and she turns. She squints in the low light, but she sees nothing beyond the cherry trees except more plants.

"I don't understand, is there supposed to be—" She cuts herself off as she turns around to see Vax on one knee, a small box in hand. Her hands fly to her mouth, her eyes instantly watery.

"Keyleth, I am not a man of the gods." His voice is cracked, strained, like he's choking back tears of his own. "There is little that I have ever had faith in in this life. Until you. Until I fell in love with a girl I'd follow to the ends of the earth. Until I learned that fate did not mean that my life was a cart on a track, hurtling toward an uncertain future I couldn't avoid, but rather a certainty, a knowing that in this life, in any life, I am yours until I die and long after. And now my faith is in how much I love you, in how much I know you love me. And I may be a lovesick fool, but I have every faith that love will carry us through whatever the gods have in store for us." Keyleth is openly weeping, her breaths coming fast and sharp. "So, then, Keyleth..." He opens the ring box, revealing a pair of rings, one with a gorgeous smokey gray stone. "Will you marry me?"

She doesn't answer him, choosing instead to tackle him into a kiss that knocks him pack onto the stone pathway of the gardens. She kisses him until she can't breath, until the crying and the laughing and the hyperventilating has him sitting her upright before she passes out. Her hand trembles as he slides the rings onto her finger, and it isn't until he closes the ring box again that he pauses and asks, "Uh, wait, was that a yes?"

"Oh, you are definitely not the brains in this relationship." And she kisses her fiancé again, beneath the stars and the cherry blossoms and the eyes of the gods.

[thebrickinbrick]

Waiting

DURING those hours of waiting, what did they do? We must needs tell, since this is a matter of history.

While the men made bullets and the women lint, while a large saucepan of melted brass and lead, destined to the bullet-mould smoked over a glowing brazier, while the sentinels watched, weapon in hand, on the barricade, while Enjolras, whom it was impossible to divert, kept an eye on the sentinels,

Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Jean Prouvaire, Feuilly, Bossuet, Joly, Bahorel, and some others, sought each other out and united as in the most peaceful days of their conversations in their student life, and, in one corner of this wine-shop which had been converted into a casement, a couple of paces distant from the redoubt which they had built, with their carbines loaded and primed resting against the backs of their chairs, these fine young fellows, so close to a supreme hour, began to recite love verses. What verses?

These:

Vous rappelez-vous notre douce vie, Lorsque nous étions si jeunes tous deux, Et que nous n'avions au cœur d'autre envie Que d'être bien mis et d'être amoureux, Lorsqu'en ajoutant votre age à mon age, Nous ne comptions pas à deux quarante ans, Et que, dans notre humble et petit ménage, Tout, même l'hiver, nous était printemps?

Beaux jours! Manuel etait fier et sage, Paris s'asseyait à de saints banquets, Foy lançait la foudre, et votre corsage Avait une épingle où je me piquais. Tout vous contemplait. Avocat sans causes, Quand je vous menais au Prado dîner, Vous étiez jolie au point que les roses Me faisaient l'effet de se retourner.

Je les entendais dire: Est elle belle! Comme elle sent bon! Quels cheveux à fiots Sous son mantelet elle cache une aile, Son bonnet charmant est à peine éclos. J'errais avec toi, pressant ton bras souple. Les passants crovaient que l'amour charmé Avait marié, dans notre heureux couple, Le doux mois d'avril au beau mois de mai.

Nous vivions cachés, contents, porte close, Dévorant l'amour, bon fruit défendu, Ma bouche n'avait pas dit une chose Que déjà ton cœur avait répondu.

La Sorbonne était l'endroit bucolique Où je t'adorais du soir au matin. C'est ainsi qu'une âme amoureuse applique La carte du Tendre au pays Latin.

O place Maubert! ô place Dauphine! Quand, dans le taudis frais et printanier, Tu tirais ton bas sur ton jambe fine, Je voyais un astre au fond du grenier. J'ai fort lu Platon, mais rien ne m'en reste; Mieux que Malebranche et que Lamennais Tu me démontrais la bonté céleste Avec une fleur que tu me donnais.

Je t'obéissais, tu m'étais soumise; O grenier doré! te lacer! te voir Aller et venir dès l'aube en chemise, Mirant ton jeune front à ton vieux miroir. Et qui donc pourrait perdre la mémoire De ces temps d'aurore et de firmament, De rubans, de fleurs, de gaze et de moire, Où l'amour bégaye un argot charmant? Nos jardins étaient un pot de tulipe; Tu masquais la vitre avec un jupon; Je prenais le bol de terre de pipe, Et je te donnais le tasse en japon.

Et ces grands malheurs qui nous faisaient rire! Ton manchon brûlé, ton boa perdu! Et ce cher portrait du divin Shakespeare Qu'un soir pour souper nons avons vendu!

J'étais mendiant et toi charitable. Je baisais au vol tes bras frais et ronds. Dante in folio nous servait de table Pour manger gaîment un cent de marrons. La première fois qu'en mon joyeux bouge Je pris un baiser a ton lèvre en feu, Quand tu t'en allais décoiffée et rouge, Je restai tout pâle et je crus en Dieu! Te rappelles-tu nos bonheurs sans nombre, Et tous ces fichus changés en chiffons? Oh que de soupirs, de nos cœurs pleins d'ombre, Se sont envolés dans les cieux profonds!(1)

The hour, the spot, these souvenirs of youth recalled, a few stars which began to twinkle in the sky, the funeral repose of those deserted streets, the imminence of the inexorable adventure which was in preparation, gave a pathetic charm to these verses murmured in a low tone in the dusk by Jean Prouvaire, who, as we have said, was a gentle poet.

In the meantime, a lamp had been lighted in the small barricade, and in the large one, one of those wax torches such as are to be met with on Shrove-Tuesday in front of vehicles loaded with masks, on their way to la Courtille. These torches, as the reader has seen, came from the Faubourg Saint-Antoine.

The torch had been placed in a sort of cage of paving-stones closed on three sides to shelter it from the wind, and disposed in such a fashion that all the light fell on the flag. The street and the barricade remained sunk in gloom, and nothing was to be seen except the red flag formidably illuminated as by an enormous dark-lantern.

This light enhanced the scarlet of the flag, with an indescribable and terrible purple.

(1) Do you remember our sweet life, when we were both so young, and when we had no other desire in our hearts than to be well dressed and in love? When, by adding your age to my age, we could not count forty years between us, and when, in our humble and tiny household, everything was spring to us even in winter. Fair days! Manuel was proud and wise, Paris sat at sacred banquets, Foy launched thunderbolts, and your corsage had a pin on which I pricked myself. Everything gazed upon you. A briefless lawyer, when I took you to the Prado to dine, you were so beautiful that the roses seemed to me to trn round, and I heard them say: Is she not beautiful! How good she smells! What billowing hair! Beneath her mantle she hides a wing. Her charming bonnet is hardly unfolded. I wandered with thee, pressing thy supple arm. The passers-by thought that love bewitched had wedded, in our happy couple, he gentle month of April to the fair month of May. We lived concealed, conent, with closed doors, devouring love, that sweed forbidden fruit. My mouth had not uttered a thing when thy heart had already responded. The Sorbonne was the bucolic spot where I adored thee from eve till morn. 'Tis thus that an amorous soul applies the chart of the Tender to the Latin country. O Place Maubert! O Place Dauphine! When in the fresh spring-like hut thou didst draw thy stocking on thy delicate leg, I saw a star in the depths of the garret. I have read a great deal of Plato, but nothing of it remains by me; better than Malebranche and than Lamennais thou didst demonstrate to me celestial goodness with a flower which thou gavest to me. I obeyed thee, thou didst submit to me; oh gilded garret! to lace thee! to behold thee going and coming from dawn in thy chemise, gazing at thy yourg brow in thine ancient mirror! And who, then, would forego the memory of those days of aurora and the firmament, of flowers, of gauze and of moire. when love stammers a charming slang? Our gardens consisted of a pot of tulips; thou didst mask the window with thy petticoat; I took the earthenware bowl and I gave thee the Japanese cup. And those great misfortunes which made us laugh! Thy cuff scorched, thy boa lost! And that dear portrait of the divine Shakespeare which we sold one evening that we might sup! I was a beggar and thou wert charitable. I kissed thy fresh round arms in haste. A folio Danto served us as a table on which to eat merrily a centime's worth of chestnuts. The first time that. in my joyous den, I snatched a kiss from thy fiery lip, when thou wentest forth, dishevelled and blushing, I turned deathly pale and I believed in God. Dost thou recall our innumerable joys, and all those fichus changed to rags? Oh! what sighs from our hearts full of gloom fluttered forth to the heavenly depths!”

[ravens-words]

Just watched the first three episodes of The Summer I Turned Pretty S2 and I have so many emotions about them, but first things first,

SPOILERS AHEAD!

I LOVED THEM. God, they are so so good.

This is gonna be mostly about Bonrad because they are my babies. This ship is perfect, and the way it's going, transitioning from present to past- it's FLAWLESS.

I loved their phone calls and how they had these deep conversations, but also some silly ones. I love that they were each other's confidants throughout them.

I loved seeing them alone in the snow and in the house, I loved how hesitant Conrad was, and how Belly couldn't stop smiling with him.

The Prom scenes, and what led up to them were heartbreak done to perfection. The slow build up honestly gave me anxiety because you can feel them losing each other. Props to Chris and Lola in these scenes because they acted their asses off. You can Conrad was miles away the whole time, forgetting the date, forgetting the corsage, and you can absolutely feel his anxiety building along with the guilt. Do I hate that he left her at Prom? Absolutely I do, but I also understand why he thought he needed to.

The Funeral scene was heartbreaking too because it hurt to see them fall apart yet again, especially when we've seen how happy they can be together. I do think Aubry was helping him, and it's with a panic attack. It makes sense since we haven't seen the guy cry in the funeral.

THE PANIC ATTACK- I cannot believe they left us at that, and we have to wait a whole WEEK (but I also kinda love it cause now I get the time to see theories and people TALKING about it) I love that it's Steven who noticed, and I hope we get a conversation and a hug there cause I love friendships. Also, I want to see Jer and Belly react to finding out about his panic attacks because I bet neither of them knows.

[amugoffandoms]

I FINALLY FOUND IT

@ozymandias5854

"Flowers: thank you to Puga and Oto in the MILGRAM Stanclub for identifying these!

Bird of Paradise: Paradise, freedom, joy. It can also symbolise faithfulness in romantic relationships and optimism. Wilted in the MV, which could suggest the absence of freedom, joy, etc, as well as a lack of faithfulness.

Dahlia: Elegance, inner stength, change, creativity, dignity. Alternatively, it can represent betrayal, instability, and dishonesty. It's also notable that in the Victorian era they symbolised a lasting bond/lifelong commitment between two people. Also wilted, which could suggest a lack of inner strength and a failed long-term relationship/committment.

ORCHIDS: There's a lot of orchids so I'm going to put their general meanings in here. Orchids are typically used at weddings and funerals and represent love, luxury, beauty and strength, as well as virility in Ancient Greece. They are very much associated with love, and their usage at funerals is often to represent everlasting love for the deceased. They can also be thought to bring good luck and fortune in love.

Elleanthus (orchid): It's sort of a purple/pink so: Pink orchids are the 14th wedding anniversary flower and convey pure affection. Purple orchids symbolise respect, and are generally given as a gift to show affection.

Egret orchid: Typically white, so they would normally symbolise innocence and purity, as well as elegance and reverence. However, the ones in the video are red, and red orchids typically symbolise fire, romance, desire, and passion. They're very rare in the wild, which is notable as in the tradition of gifting exotic flowers to show love and affection, the rarer the flower, the deeper the affection. (two seperate omori fans in the replies add: "My thoughts will follow you into your dreams.")

Dendrobium: Popular for use in weddings, particularly as corsages or in bridal flower arrangements to show the beauty of the bride.

Butterfly orchid: The most famous orchid species, they symbolise elegance, femininity and unity.

Cymbidium: Commonly known as a boat orchid, it represents morality and virtue, and in Asia it is an honour/gesture of respect and friendship to give a cymbidium.

Wilted: could represent a loss of morality/virtue.

--

Masterwort: Also known as astrantia. Can be a romantic flower, referred to in old folk tales as stars that have fallen to earth. Symbolic meaning is a strong, brave protector. Wilted, which could suggest that someone (probably Shidou) has failed in their role of protector.

Anthurium + Monstera: Anthurium signifies long lasting love and friendship, and it said to bring luck in your relationship. Known also as a flamingo lily, it's one of the most gifted plants on Valentine's Day due to it's heart shaped leaves and in Ancient Greece the flowers of anthurium were said to be Cupid's arrows. Monstera can represent suffocation, or long life and the honouring of elders.

King Protea: Named after the Greek god Poseidon's son Proteus, who would change his appearance to avoid detection. Generally thought to symbolise diversity, daring, transformation, and courage.

Calla lily: Symbolism varies by flower colour. However, they're generally used for occasions such as weddings and funerals due to their beauty and are also associated with purity, holiness, faithfulness. The 6th wedding anniversary flower. Dark red symbolises passion and intensity. Although calla lilies are not true lilies, lilies can symbolize that the soul of the departed has received restored innocence after death.

Roses: Love, romance, can also be linked to secrecy. Appears on four tarot cards: the fool, the magician, strength, and death. In Greek mythology, roses originated from Adonis.

Note: a lot of them have different features like not being fully bloomed, so keep that in mind. I'll update this later"

posted 2 years ago as of october 24th, 2023!

HELLO!! sorry i just remembered to respond to this but thank you!!

the meaning of the wilted cymbidium is so interesting woag…. loss of morality/virtue really hits with shidou to be honest

[hannahssimblr]

Chapter One (Part 4)

In the last days of August, the Debs finally catches up to me. I spent the whole year trying very hard not to think about it, because I knew deep down that in the end I’d be going on my own, despite my most private fantasies that maybe, by some miracle, I’d eventually find somebody to ask. But of course, I never do, and by the time the date rolls around I’m left floundering. No dress, no date, no plan of what I’m going to do at all for the day that some girls spend a whole year getting ready for. 

The week before it, Claire gets frustrated with me and makes me take the dress she wore to Shane’s debs. “Take the shoes and bag too” She snaps. “And I’m going to do your hair and makeup.” She tosses everything at me in the midst of a tantrum, but she’s inadvertently being helpful. The only other alternative at this point would have been showing up in old ballet pumps and the dress I wore to my Grandad’s funeral. 

After that she forces me to ask Shane’s friend from the football team to go with me, insisting that it’s tragic if I turn up on my own. His name is Dave FitzGerald, but everyone calls him Bootsy because he got his name engraved on these metal plates on the laces of his football boots like he’s Ronaldo or something. Bootsy’s got small, pointed little features not unlike a rat, and this awful, gasping laugh that fills me with hatred, a regular occurrence because he thinks everything is funny. In desperation I ask if I can just call him Dave, but everyone insists that no, he’s Bootsy. I’m taking Bootsy to the Debs. 

The four of us and all of our parents gather at Claire’s house to take photos, and they cluck over us and insist that we all look beautiful. The boys show up in dinky grey suits with skinny ties, and Claire wears a pink gown with a wide tulle skirt and beading across the front, her blonde hair cascading down her back in loose curls. She looks like Serena van der Woodsen. My mam makes Bootsy put on and take off my corsage four times so that she can photograph him doing it from every possible angle, but each time he comes near me my nostrils and throat are assaulted by his Paco Rabanne One Million cologne. I have to try really hard not to cough and come across as rude, so I end up holding my breath. He must have bathed in it. 

“You look well.” Shane says to me with some awkwardness as we pose for another group picture by the stairs, because he’s trying out this new thing where he’s nice to me. Ever since Claire caved and told him about what happened last summer he’s abandoned the nasty jokes, and instead always looks at me with this pained expression on his face like he’s worried I’m going to start crying at any moment, which is somehow worse than the teasing.

“Thank you.” I say to him, “Probably because this is your girlfriend’s outfit.”

“You wear it way better than me, chicken.” Claire lies, as she throws her arms around me and grins for her dad’s camera. “Can we get a girly one with just us? I want something to hang up in our college apartment.” I put on my best smile for the photo. And then we take another, and another, and we keep going until the flash has blinded me and I can see nothing but white splotches dancing in my eyes.

“Can you let the gentleman hold your hands there, please if you don’t mind.” It’s an hour later and the official Debs photographer is trying his best to make me pose with Bootsy, but every time he tries to touch me I flinch. I keep fixating on the fact that he’ll leave fingerprints behind on me, but the photographer won’t give up. “Just for one second, darling, let me have one photo of ye for the papers.”

“Come on.” Bootsy insists. “Just take my bloody hands for the picture, sure everyone else is waiting behind us.”

I reluctantly slip my hands into his, and they’re spongy and warm. I smile for the camera, feeling it’s going to come out looking closer to a pained grimace, but nobody cares anymore. They all just want me to move out of the way. 

“That wasn’t that bad, was it?” Bootsy says to me, switching to a very kind voice, which is when I realise that he thinks I’m actually just very shy instead of someone who loathes him. When we sit down for the meal across from Claire and Shane, he thinks it’s gas that I refuse the soup course. “That’s my date there.” He announces to the table. “Sure she won’t even have the soup!” For some reason he believes this is comedy gold and starts doing his gasp-laugh. I grab handfuls of my dress and squeeze it in my lap, imagining it’s his neck. 

The meal is dry, an anaemic fillet of chicken wrapped in brittle strips of bacon with big floury potatoes on the side, and I choke it down with two glasses of the free wine. I’m not someone who enjoys this kind of food when it’s supposedly done well either, so the experience is close to excruciating. I’m thankful for the free sambuca shot that follows dessert, even though the taste always reminds me of getting felt up by the man with pupils for eyes in the rave tent last year. 

When I go into the bathroom I run into Kelly at the sinks. I utter a very quiet “hello.” because it feels rude not to, but she doesn’t care about social cues. She ignores me and makes a point of getting water droplets on my dress when she shakes her hands dry, so I use that as an excuse to hide in the stall until it dries. 

I sit on the toilet and take out my phone, and because it’s now an automatic response, I open Facebook, and then I navigate to Jude’s page, which is easy because he lives at the top of my search history. He hasn’t posted anything new in months, but it doesn’t even matter because all the old stuff is still keeping my dopamine receptors firing, and I could live off these crumbs forever. I look at my favourite photos of him for the thousandth time, like the one where he’s holding this enormous grey cat that he clearly just picked up off the street and laughing, I like to imagine it’s at the sheer size of the cat, and his eyes are all wrinkled up, and his arms looks nice from that angle. Then I read through all the “Thanks man!”s he wrote under the happy birthday messages just in case I missed one last time and didn’t get to imagine the way that he would have said that in real life. And inevitably I end up on Astrid’s page, checking to see if she took any new photos, even ones where he’s in the background somewhere, and when I don’t find any I feel sad and a little bit pathetic. I’m perched in a toilet cubicle on the day of my Debs thinking over and over about the things we had, what we didn’t have, and how my life would be now if things had been different.

“Evie, are you in here?” Claire starts knocking on the door, and I know my time is up. 

“Yes.” I bleat.

“Well you missed the group photo.”

“Oh no.”

She sighs. “Well you need to come out and dance at least. The DJ is here.”

“I have to dance?”

“Yeah, hurry up.”

I unlock the door and she looks at my phone in my hand with a raised eyebrow. “I’m going to delete your Facebook account.”

“I wasn’t on facebook.”

She doesn’t even bother to respond, and takes my arm to drag me out of the bathroom. “I get that you’re heartbroken, and I support you.” She says as she brings me through the lounge and towards the ballroom. “But you can’t keep on doing this to yourself. Eventually you’re going to have to say ‘okay, well, it’s been a year now, maybe it’s time for me to like…’”

“To move on?” 

She sighs. “Yeah.” We stop outside the doors and she takes my face in her hands. “You’re gorgeous and you’re only going to be eighteen once. You can’t spend so much precious time wishing that your life was different.”

“It’s so hard.” I whimper. “I don’t want to be like this either, but no matter what I do I can’t stop thinking about it, and I can’t get over it. Nobody said it would take so long. I know it’s stupid. I feel so stupid. If he heard about what I’m like now, I’d be so embarrassed.”

“The first time is the hardest, but after this it’ll be fine. You’ll forget about him eventually and you won’t believe that you cried so much, because you’ll know what? He’s so not worth it. He’s just another stupid boy. Do you think he cried over you?”

“No, he didn’t.” I say miserably. 

“Yeah. And what did he do? He went and hooked up with Astrid the Dane, and now he’s out there living his life and just being nineteen, which is what you should be doing. Show him that you don’t need him, and that you never think about him anymore. Next month when we’re in college it’s going to be different. I don’t want to see you like this after tonight, because it just breaks my heart. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“No more tears?”

“No more tears.”

She hooks her pinky finger around mine and stares me down. “You better mean that.”

I laugh. “Yeah, I do. This is the end.” I think that I mean it, I have to mean it. I steady myself and hold my shoulders back, acting like I’m somebody else, a new and improved Evie, and these will be the last days, the final gasping moments of my crush, and life restarts after tonight. “I’m not going to talk about him or even think about him again.” I announce, and it’s such a horrendous lie that I’m surprised I’m not struck down by a thunderbolt, but Claire nods satisfactorily and pushes me towards the doors with a boot up the bum. 

“Now get in there, I want to dance to Ignition.”

Prev // Next

[rabbitcruiser]

Flower Day

Flower Day is celebrated annually on May 20. It makes a toast to the beauty of flowers and the ways they are useful to us. On the holiday, environmentalists and conservationists create awareness about flower conservation and what can be done to save endangered flower species.

History of Flower Day

We love flowers because of their awe-inspiring beauty and fragrance. They also play a significant role in romance, medicine, rituals, and religion. You can spot them at christenings, funerals, weddings, and parties, as corsages and boutonnieres at special occasions, and as home decorations and thoughtful gifts. They are also used at places of worship, especially by Hindus. It’s not uncommon to see religious shrines adorned with flowers.

There are also some flowers that regularly feature in our meals! Nutritious vegetables like broccoli, cauliflower, and artichoke are actually flowers. Similarly, some flowers are used as spices, such as crocus (or saffron), cloves, and capers. Hops are used in beer, and dandelion and elderflowers are used in wines and cocktails. Moreover, some flowers are used to make herbal teas, while others are used as metaphors. For example, red roses symbolize love, poppies of death, iris and lilies of burial, and daisies of innocence. Artists and poets have also sought flowers as muses.

However, caring for flowers is no mean feat! Flowers have their own unique requirements in terms of growth and health. Some flowers prefer to be in the shade, while others need sunlight. Still, others thrive in damp soil, while some require the soil to be on the drier side. Flowers are divas, but they’re divas that have held our hearts for centuries.

Flower Day timeline

2500 B.C.

The Egyptians

The ancient Egyptians become pros at flower arrangement.

776 B.C.

Flowers and the Ancient Olympics

Woven garlands and wreaths are awarded to victors during the Olympics.

1000 A.D.

Flower Arrangements in Europe

Churches and monasteries are adorned with flowers.

1400 A.D.

Renaissance Painting Feature Flowers

Flowers became a common motif in Renaissance art.

Flower Day FAQs

Why do we celebrate Flower Day?

Flower Day encourages us to show love and appreciation towards friends, family, and even strangers through the gift of flowers.

What is a signature rose?

A single perfect red rose clubbed with a baby’s breath flower is considered a signature rose. It is the most sought-after flower on Valentine’s Day.

On which holiday are the most flowers sent?

Christmas and Hanukkah account for the most flower gifts all year.

Flower Day Activities

Attend a flower arrangement event: Flower arrangement is an art that requires talent, patience, and hard work. So, celebrate Flower Day by attending a flower arrangement class.

Buy flowers: What’s a better way to celebrate Flower Day than by buying flowers? Gift flowers to yourself and your loved ones. You could even buy some flowers to decorate your house!

Plant flowers: Celebrate Flower Day by planting your very own flowers. Buy a couple of saplings of your favorite flowers and pot them around your house. Look up how to care for the flowers and watch them bloom!

5 Unique Facts About Flowers

Roses and apples: The rose flower is related to the apple and peach family.

Flowers could ward off evil spirits: In some cultures, aster leaves were burned to ward off evil spirits.

Tulip bulbs are versatile: They can be substituted for onions in recipes.

The oldest flower was discovered in China: The Archaefructus sinensis flower bloomed around 125 million years ago in what is now known as China.

Sunflowers follow the movement of the Sun: They move from east to west throughout the day.

Why We Love Flower Day

Flowers are beautiful: We love celebrating and cherishing all things beautiful. When we look at flowers, they brighten our day instantly. Flower Day is celebrated in honor of flowers, which fill us with hope and joy.

Flowers are muses: During the Renaissance, flowers became the muses of various artists and poets. Even today, paintings, dresses, aprons, and other art pieces feature flowers. It is remarkable how flowers have inspired us with their beauty.

Flowers are important to us: Flowers are not just objects of beauty; they are a source of nutrition and healing as well. So, on Flower Day, we can express our appreciation for flowers.

Source

[frostyyyroyalmilktea]

Morpheus x Reader High School AU

Summary:

A little High School AU where the reader gets stood at prom, but once her charmingly awkward classmate gets the wind of this, he decides that he just has to be the one to save her evening.

No warnings apply

author's notes: in this au Morpheus and his siblings moved to the US with their dad after their parents got a divorce. I headcanon them to be around 17-18 for Morpheus and Death, and around 15-16 for Desire. I had to adapt their names for the modern world so Death is Desna in this AU and Desire is Desirée.

For now, it's just a little oneshot, but if I have any good ideas for this AU I might write another part in the future.

When I was writing this I headcanoned that reader has pink hair, but you can imagine any other eye-catching haircolor you prefer ;)

Title inspired by Steve Lacy's Bad Habit but the song is not particularly relevant to the story, I just liked the vibes

Hope you enjoy!

***

“Morpheus!!” Desna—once again—barges into his room without knocking. She is the only one of his siblings to be granted such a privilege. Desirée on the other hand has learned the hard way to always knock and to never enter Morpheus’ quarters without an explicitly extended invitation.

“Sister dearest,” Morpheus acknowledges flatly, without looking up from his book.

“Do you have a suit?” Desna asks with a somewhat manic edge to her voice.

“Indeed I do,” Morpheus replies absentmindedly, engrossed in his reading. “For funerals and such.”

“Great!” Desna claps her hands. “You always look nice at funerals.”

Morpheus sighs, places a bookmark on the page he was reading, and carefully closes the book. Once he looks up, he can immediately tell from the look on her face that Desna has her mind set on some sort of questionable scheme and that Morpheus will be dragged into it regardless of his opinion on the matter.

“You’ll need to buy a corsage too, and fast,” Desna mumbles to herself, pacing the room back and forth.

“Not this again,” Morpheus rolls his eyes with a sigh. “Desna, I have repeatedly informed you that I am not going to prom. I have been asked out on multiple occasions and I refused as I do not wish to attend.”

“That’s because you were asked by the wrong people,” Desna scoffs dismissively.

“The only person I would like to take already has a date,” Morpheus grunts.

His sister clicks her tongue, exuding some type of emotion Morpheus struggles to interpret. “Not anymore,” she says.

“I beg your pardon?” Morpheus asks, raising his brow skeptically. “There is,” he checks his watch, “less than three hours left till the start of the main event, so unless Trevor Birghin’s lifeless body is lying somewhere in a ditch, I can’t imagine a good enough reason for him to not show up.”

“Well,” Desna starts hesitantly, as if she's approaching a wild animal. “It’s not that he won’t show up exactly…”

“Desna,” Morpheus presses with a chilling edge to his tone.

“It’s just that I overheard Trevor and Danny yesterday, and they were talking about who’s taking who to prom and all that…” 

Desna takes a deep breath and proceeds to explain—in the most convoluted way imaginable no less—the trite and simple fact Morpheus was always all too well aware of: Trevor Birghin is a fucking asswipe.

“...and that’s when I remembered that at the start of the term,” Desna continues with her tortuous explanation, “Trevor said that he would love to take Christina to prom because, like, the whole quarterback/cheerleader thing, but she told him no because she wanted to ask someone else,” Desna gives Morpheus a pointed look, “but then she got rejected by that someone.”

“Are you implying any of this is my fault?” Morpheus asks, offended. “I have met oatmeal more capable of a riveting conversation than that girl. Can you blame me for not wanting to spend an entire evening in the company of her and her degenerate friends?”

“It’s not what I'm—” Desna starts. “I’m getting to the important bit, Morpheus, I promise. So Christina said no to Trevor, so he was forced—his words, not mine—to ask y/n because they kind of have a thing or whatever, I’m not entirely sure. But now that you rejected Christina, she decided to go with Trevor after all and so that leaves y/n dateless.”

Morpheus’ blood is boiling with righteous anger. He is not usually a violent person, but for someone like Birghin, he will be more than happy to make an exception.

“And I’m afraid that’s not the worst of it, love,” Desna adds quietly, almost apologetically.

“I’m struggling to come up with something that could possibly make this situation worse,” Morpheus grits.

“I’m like 99.9% confident that Trevor didn’t have the guts to actually tell y/n.”

Morpheus inhales sharply. “So, just to be clear, you’re saying that she is about to show up there without knowing that her date stood her up for another girl?”

“Mhm,” Desna hums, not meeting his eyes.

“Why the hell didn’t you tell her?!”

“And how exactly would that look, Morpheus?” Desna bites out. “I’m not even supposed to know about any of this. I don’t want to look like some nosy busybody.”

“While being one beyond any reasonable doubt,” Morpheus grumbles under his breath.

“Plus,” Desna adds, “I honestly think that y/n needs to clearly see the piece of trash that he is once and for all. She’s always trying to see the best in people, even when there isn’t anything decent there in the first place!”

Desna sounds genuinely distraught so just this once Morpheus decides against reminding her about maintaining personal boundaries of the people she barely knows. It’s not because he has a personal stake in all of this or anything like that, no.

“Why are you telling me this?” Morpheus asks, surrendering to the idea that there is no way he’s not going to involve himself now that he has all the facts.

Desna tsks, like she’s disappointed he even has to ask. “Morpheus, you know perfectly well why I'm telling you all this. You’ve been mooning over y/n since our first day at this school.”

“And she was evidently not interested,” Morpheus points out bitterly, “seeing how she went and got herself a thing, as you so eloquently put it.”

Desna flops down on the bed next to him, throwing her hand around his shoulders in a half-hug. “Morphey, darling,” she says softly, “that’s a load of absolute fucking bullshit. Anyone who had the misfortune to witness the two of you debate against each other in AP Lit felt like the biggest third wheel on this side of the Atlantic. This unresolved romantic tension makes people around you viscerally uncomfortable. Though I can’t exactly blame y/n for not asking you out. You did quite rudely reject—how many was it again, four or five—girls our first semester alone. I think you even made Mary Waylan cry.”

“Wonderful insight,” Morpheus deadpans. “Still doesn’t mean y/n likes me back.”

“Morpheus,” Desna sighs. “She always sits next to you in classes you share. Even the ones Trevor is in too.”

“Well, he’s an idiot and we get a lot of group projects as homework,” Morpheus argues weakly.

Desna rolls her eyes more dramatically than usual. “She remembered your birthday after I mentioned it once in passing, she got you an old-ass Lovecraft anthology for the said birthday, which made you possibly the happiest I have ever seen you in my entire life. She brings you coffee every Monday when you have calc together first thing in the morning because she knows you never go to bed before two am. She remembers all your odd opinions on Shakespeare and can refer to them months later, just to make a point to you about some poncy literary concept. She always says hi to you in the hallway even though you never reply and most people just think you’re just a pretentious brat, but I’m pretty sure she cracked you like a week after she met you and she’s in on the secret that you’re just painfully awkward when it comes to human interaction—”

“Okay, okay, I get it!” Morpheus stands up, throwing Desna’s hand off himself. 

“I’ll need to borrow your garment steamer later,” he grumbles, grabbing his wallet and car keys.

“I’ll see you at the venue, sweetie!” Morpheus hears his sister yell after him as he leaves the house and heads for the flower shop.

***

You stand in front of the entrance to a fancy-ass hotel, staring at your phone with a mix of incredulity and rage. This piece of human garbage only deigned to inform you that he can’t be your prom date mere fucking minutes before you arrived at the venue.

from: Trev🏈

hey quick change of plans

decided to go with the boys as a group

hope there’s no hard feelings, see ya at school😜

What the fuck is that even supposed to mean? All his friends from the team had dates last time you checked. 

You open Instagram and swipe through the stories of a few girls you know from his friend group. Just as you expected, they all are still very much going with Trevor’s teammates.

If you’re being completely honest with yourself, it’s not like you’re even all that heartbroken over Trevor’s general shittiness right now. He hurt your pride, obviously, but not really your feelings. Right from the start of your situationship with him, he was barely more than a poor substitute for the person you actually wanted. Going with Trevor felt like a safe bet at the time because the idea that the person you actually wanted to go with would say yes seemed like an absolute pipe dream.

But you didn’t even ask Morpheus, the treacherous voice inside your head reminds unhelpfully. You convinced yourself you were doing the smart thing here, avoiding guaranteed heartache and embarrassment of being one of the girls he rejected. Right now, though, it becomes harder and harder to ignore the fact that you might've just been a coward.

Morpheus is probably sitting in some high-end coffee shop right now, reading Kaffka, or something equally pretentious, being all dark and handsome and utterly unapproachable. Definitely not caring about your inner turmoil about a stupid high school prom.

Someone goes in at that moment and through the open door you hear a faint reverberation of the song playing in the main hall.

“Yeah, I am an idiot with a painted face indeed,” you say to no one in particular.

“Waiting for someone?” A calm deep voice behind you asks.

For a second you genuinely believe that thinking about Morpheus so much gave you some sort of hearing hallucination. You whip your head so fast, you hear a crack in your neck. 

It’s not a hallucination.

“What are you…? How…? You… I…” You ask very eloquently.

The corners of his lips crawl upward as he rather unsuccessfully tries to hold back a smile.

“My sister has informed me of the unpleasant predicament you have found yourself in this evening and I simply couldn’t stand to see a lady wronged in a manner so galling and distasteful.”

“Really?” You ask skeptically, raising an eyebrow at him. “Since when do you care about chivalry of random people's prom dates?”

“I care only about one,” Morpheus says quietly, looking down at his beat-up doc martens. Under the harsh neon lights of the hotel’s facade, you notice the faintest trace of blush on his sharp cheekbones. “About a girl with a hair color so aggravating, my eyes can’t help but be drawn to it the second she enters the room, the girl who can’t help but argue with me over every single stupid little thing, like a font for our biology presentation—”

“Hey! Comic Sans is dyslexia friendly!”

“The girl who completely overestimates the influence of Tolkien on English classical literature.”

“It’s impossible to overestimate!!” You shriek, mentally returning to the argument from two weeks ago that landed the both of you in detention, when Mr. Stevens accused you of purposefully disrupting his class and told the two of you to “get out of his classroom and go flirt in the principal's office”.

Morpheus looks up, meeting your eyes. You can tell he’s thinking about the same thing.

God, why does he need to be so beautiful?

“What I’m getting at here,” he continues, unperturbed, “is that you're not some random person in my life, and I would like nothing more than to be your date tonight. Would you be agreeable to that?”

He holds out his hand and you look down to see a beautiful black rose corsage. Very on-brand for him, you can’t help but smile.

“You’re so stupid, Morpheus,” you sniff, willing your eyes to dry before the tears ruin your makeup. “Of course I fucking want you to be my date, I've never even wanted anyone else to be my date except you in the first place.”

He seems taken aback by that but recovers quickly and starts carefully fastening the corsage onto your outstretched hand.

While he’s busy with it, you try to take a closer look at him. To be fair, even if he showed up in a Hello Kitty onesie, you would still think he is the most gorgeous bastard you’ve ever laid your eyes on, but he’s wearing a tailored black suit with a black turtleneck underneath and—oh god, his little pocket square is baby pink to match your dress!! This is literally the first time you see him wear something not black and he wore it for you. You just might explode from feelings™ right now.

When he’s done with the corsage, he doesn’t let go of your hand, but intertwines his fingers with yours and pulls the door open for you with his other hand. “After you, m’lady.”

This doesn’t fucking feel real. Maybe, you think frantically, you just inhaled too much hairspray while you were getting ready and this is all a delirious dream. Except the warmth of his hand in yours is very real and so are the double takes from your classmates milling around in the hotel lobby.

“Do you want to take a photo before we go in?” Morpheus asks, nodding at the huge full-length mirrors along the wall.

You blink at him dazedly before the question registers. “Yeah! Sure, yeah, let me just—”

You start rummaging around your purse in search of a phone when you realize it’s literally in your hand.

Morpheus smiles, amused.

“You enjoying this then?” You want to sound irritated but it comes out more…petulant. “Me making an idiot out of myself entertains you?”

“I just like looking at you,” Morpheus says simply. “Is that such a crime? Your emotions are always so…scintillating. I find it impossible to look away.”

How can he just say shit like that and be 100% serious while doing it, you think, while desperately trying to will your face into not going red as a fucking firetruck.

What a beautiful, brilliant weirdo.

“Yeah, okay, Mr. Thesaurus, we get it, you like me,” you croak awkwardly, opening the camera app. “Let’s take some pictures, I’ll need them for the PowerPoint presentation my mom will expect on how I ended up going to prom with a completely different guy than I initially told her.”

“I hope there’s a word amelioration somewhere in the title of that presentation,” Morpheus teases as he stands behind, wrapping his arms around you to pose for the picture.

You snort at the implication, relaxing into his embrace.

***

The photos come out very nice. Though with a face like his, there’s hardly a chance Morpheus could look bad in them. You don’t always like taking photos of yourself, but surprisingly you like most of the ones you took together Morpheus. Some of them are silly, with the two of you making faces, some are very prom-ish looking, perfect for showing your parents, and then there’s…

“This one,” Morpheus catches your wrist before you can swipe to the next photo. “I like this one. Can you send it to me?”

In the photo, you’re looking past the camera, at Morpheus’ reflection as he holds you gently in his arms.

“I look silly in this one,” you pout. 

Bessoted would be a better word to describe your expression in the photo, but you’d rather lick chalk than admit it to him.

He doesn’t need you to, though. Morpheus looks at you knowingly, “No you don’t.”

You look down at your phone, feeling your cheeks going hot again. “How would I even send it to you?” You grumble just to be contrary. “With pigeon post? Gosh, who even has a phone with buttons anymore, aside from, like, grandpas? No, you know, scratch that. My grandpa actually has an iPhone 7.”

Morpheus just smiles at you indulgently. “Send it to my sister, she’ll print it out for me.”

Ridiculous. He’s absolutely ridiculous, you think as you type out the message to Desna.

to: Desna 🌸🔪

Local elderly citizen requires your assistance in procuring a photograph

attached file: ridiculousman.png

from: Desna 🌸🔪

you guys are so cuuuuuteeee!!!! 

٩(❀ •̀ᴗ•́ )۶~♡

Desna has a tendency to text as if it’s 2010 and her enthusiasm can be terrifying and a bit overwhelming sometimes but she’s one of the sweetest people you’ve ever met. You’re tempted to ask how the hell did she know Trevor was gonna bail on you tonight, but in the end, you decide that you don’t really give a shit. The only thing that matters is the outcome and looking at Morpheus fumbling with the tickets—he printed out the QR codes on an actual piece of paper because he’s a literal grandpa—you think that the outcome has literally exceeded all your expectations. Come to think of it, you should probably send Desna a fruit basket or something. 

***

author's note: I'm still not over the fact that Tom Sturridge has a phone with buttons and without access to the internet😂 Good for him though, I hope he's thriving

[mesillusionssousecstasy]

The Summer I Turned Pretty 2x05 - “Love Fool”

When I started this new episode I wouldn’t thought for a second to hear Jeremiah’s voice.

But yes, it was Jeremiah’s point of view this time and let me tell you it was so sad, but also so beautiful. To have Jeremiah’s thoughts was a blessing. To understand how much he was hurt because of Belly’s actions. I honestly cried all the way long. I couldn’t hold back my tears, falling down my cheeks. It was a sad day. Maybe not the best way to start the day. 

I think this season will be pretty strong emotionally, because it’s about the death of a very important person and how you can manage grief coming from it. This season is about grief, hurt, mistake. Definitively not about love. 

Also, I learned this week (previous to the episode) that in the book it’s Jeremiah and Conrad’s father that wants to sell the house. That make so much more sense! I really don’t understand why they have created this aunt and her daughter. First, it’s legally wrong, she would be the fourth person to inherit the house only if Adam, Conrad and Jeremiah died before without any descendant. Second, I’m just thinking before even giving the house to Julia, Susannah would have gifted it to her best friend, Laurel. 

I think that Belly doesn’t know how much she have hurt Jeremiah. I don’t know if she will ever find out, but I hope she will, because she would understand how perfect Jeremiah would have been as her boyfriend (even better after the prom scene and the corsage). 

I think the worst part is that Belly wasn’t there for Jeremiah when his mother was slowly dying! Knowing that he was in fact the one taking care of her. That was heartbreaking. And yes, Conrad is a selfish asshole, who again need deep deep therapy. 

We also learned that Jeremiah was in fact the first to fall in love with Belly, way before Conrad, that’s amazingly good news for Team Jelly. 

But to this point, I think the most interesting couple would be Taylor and Steven. 

At the end, when Belly and Jeremiah were walking in the grass next to each other, Jeremiah should have taken Belly’s hand (the actor should have improvised on the moment). 

Finally, when Belly and Jeremiah slept next to each other, I think it was a direct parallel to Belly and Jeremiah in bed together during season 1.

I hope that Taylor and Belly will stick to their promise regarding first love. 

The only thing missing was the timeline. Can someone tell me in which order those events have taken place: Belly’s prom, Thanksgiving, Jeremiah’s graduation, the funeral?  And during how many month Belly and Conrad dated?

And the biggest question of all: Which month Susannah died? (The actrice was amazing in the this exhibition. 

Do you think that Belly will tell Taylor that she cannot join the volley team?

They have kept Cam Cameron and not Nicole, seriously what’s wrong with you?

Oh and we had back to back Frank Ocean’s songs. The playlist was good again with (not every songs) : - “Goodbye” by Cage the Elephant. - “Nikes” by Frank Ocean.  - “Moon River” by Frank Ocean. - “Heaven” by Niall Horan. - “Die For You” by Joji (I heard that you’re happy without me. And I hope it’s true. I’d still die for you). - “I can’t go back to the Way it Was” by The Kid LAROI.