Reblog With What You Would Tell Your 13-year-old Self In The Tags.

Reblog with what you would tell your 13-year-old self in the tags.

"what's your favourite music genre" Horrible Histories songs

12 days of writer self care day 5: flower

This is just so cute!! Maggie and Stella’s families are very involved in flowers, so i felt it would be perfect to write about them. this was such a joy to write and explore more character backstory

Stella’s papa knelt down and held a closed fist in front of her. “Open it,” he said.

Her tiny eyebrows knit together as she pulled at his fingers. They didn’t budge. She grunted and pulled harder, tongue poking out from between her teeth. His pinky budged, then his hand opened all-of-a-sudden. Cheering, Stella seized the small, thin, wooden box.

“‘Tis it?” she asked, struggling with the clasp on the lid.

Taking the box from her, opening it, the handing it back, Stella’s papa asked, “You know how I grow pretty things in the garden?”

Stella bounced on her toes, the contents of the box rattling. “Yeah!” she said. “With Maggie’s mummy and daddy.”

“That’s right. So I took some of the flowers and I mixed them with water,” he explained.

“Like I make potions!”

He grimaced, but continued, “Exactly. And I let them dry. So now if you take this magic wand-” he placed a paintbrush into her hand “- and you add water to the paints, you can make pretty pictures.”

Stella’s eyes widened. She dashed to the kitchen and dunked the box in the bucket of water. Stella’s papa raced behind her and fished the paints out. 

“How about I show you how to do it,” he said, shaking the water off.

“Okay!”

That’s how they spent their afternoon. He started Stella on paper, and when she seemed trustworthy enough to leave, he went back to the gardens to work. This was a mistake. When he and his husband came home, the walls were covered in paint up to their knees. As was Stella. The paint palette was empty, and she was in love.

A few years later, Stella was knee-deep in flowers. Dirt was caked under her fingernails, and laughter bubbled within her. Maggie sat beside her, gathering flowers too. Finally satisfied with her haul, she brought the bouquet back inside.

“Just these please,” Stella piped up, setting the flowers on the counter.

Maggie’s mama smiled and said, “Of course.”

She wrapped the flowers up with paper and handed them to Stella, who struggled to make eye contact, hindered by the bundle. “Thank you!” she said.

“Do you want me,” Maggie asked, blushing, “to walk you home.”

Stella’s cheeks went hot too. “Only if you want to.”

“I do.”

Their hands swung together as they walked back to Stella’s home where she would make her first batch of paints; Stella dropped some flowers without an extra hand to secure the bundle, but with Maggie picking them up she didn’t mind.

More years passed. Stella planned an outing with her lifelong best friend and longtime crush. She invited Maggie to go material gathering — she collected all her own art supplies and regularly ran out of paint. Ensuring she had express permission from her parents given Maggie’s delicate state, Stella was delighted when Maggie agreed to the invitation.

She took her to her favorite meadow an hour before sunset. Softly rolling hills were covered in a sea of green and orange and gold, swaying in the breeze. It was almost hypnotic. Bouncing on her toes to get a better look at the field, Stella finally tugged Maggie down to sit. She ran her hands through her hair, disrupting the carefully manicured state she’d put it in before the outing. Her hands twitched on her leg. 

Reaching out to run her thumb along the back of Stella’s hand, Maggie’s brow creased. “Are you okay?” she asked.

Stella melted. “I’m fine,” she said, lingering in Maggie’s grip. Jerking her chin towards the flowers, she said, “Well? Let’s get picking.”

Careful to guide their direction, Stella began filling the basket Maggie had woven for her last birthday. Maggie helped, though slower as she checked each flower met Stella’s approval. This was why she was doing this. 

Finally, the pair stepped into a flattened part of the meadow. The flowers were bent in the shape of a heart. At the top of the heart, between the bows, a large piece of paper rested. It was decorated with intricately painted flowers surrounding words in a curling script. It read “Will you be my beau?”

“I- you- for me?” Maggie stammered.

Stella stared pointedly at the raked earth beneath her feet. She nodded.

“Of course! I’d love to be!”

Maggie launched herself at Stella. They tumbled down the hillside, laughing until their sides ached. The flowers danced around them, bouncing in the warming light of a setting sun.

fireflies lighting up a rural Pennsylvania field at dusk

do ppl actually call their grandparents “grandma and grandpa” that sounds so weird

*barges through wall* WHAT'S UP FOLKS I'm alive and not dead and also working on a WIP which is also alive and not abandoned, Tuned Teeth and Sour Symphonies. Sorry for the radio silence 'tis exam season-

that aside, I give you, Blorbo Bleebus:

He's an antagonist a bastard a bitch and has no redeeming qualities. I love him dearly. Ask me about Blorbo Bleebus? Please?