orchid spider

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Some (but not all) of my beautiful plant family. I had to move a bunch in from the porch for winter and do a mass watering… I may have let a bunch of them get way too dry…oops! All is well now and my monstera is LOVING the window seat. It’s pumped out three new leaves. 💕

A Beginner’s Guide to the Language of Flowers

The language of flowers is not a complicated code, and it isn’t intended to be a cryptograph. While composing sentence-long messages with floriography is possible, it is not particularly complex. For ease of reference, this guide is organized by meaning, not by flower. It includes bloom cycles, taxonomic names, pictures, and any other facts of interest such as typical clime or edible/medicinal uses.

This guide contains only European, North African and Eurasian flora (at least, I’m pretty sure. I may have fudged it up in some places).

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Dark Orchid: Palpater

“Blind red spiders with crown of fingers and long limbs frantically dancing, touching every bit of surface they cling to. Fingers tap, tap and wiggle, every touch is pain and ecstasy brewed into confused desire. These Palpaters try to walk as men, but broken limbs provide little stability. Do not let them touch you, as they obsess over the feeling of humanity and will molest every inch, even driving their fingers into every orifice just to feel the organs inside.”

@qadmonster

Chemical Collision

Pairing: Blaise Zabini x Ginny Weasley

AU: Modern, non-magical, competitive chefs AU

Word Count: 978

Written For: muclbloods (my muse? my muse)


Blaise can practically pinpoint the moment it all goes to hell.

His carefully crafted culinary career—his strong, silent, deliberately intimidating exterior—his record-breaking collection of awards and honors and accomplishments

He burns the fucking Chateaubriand.

He burns the fucking Chateaubriand, and then watches with raw, unfeigned horror as a self-satisfied smirk flashes across Ginny Weasley’s deceptively adorable face.

“Oops,” she calls out cheerfully, the rolled-up sleeves of her too-big chef’s whites drooping down her forearms. “Maybe you should’ve set a timer.”

Blaise clenches his jaw—a timer, God, this isn’t fucking amateur hour, he knows how to cook his fucking proteins—and takes a deep, calming breath.

Which he immediately regrets, because he can’t quite tell if the ensuing wave of debilitating nausea is due to the pungent odor of charred, blackened meat, or Ginny Weasley’s perfectly browned scallops.

He glares at the glistening pool of clarified butter coating the bottom of her pan.

He’s going to lose.

He never loses.

Especially not to distractingly pretty, third-rate self-taught sous-chefs from the non-gentrified part of Brooklyn.

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Window plants! Basically all non succulents that I have except one arrangement and a few small starters. I have so many spider plants I don’t know what to do with them they keep making more of themselves!