The Language Of Flowers Part Two, Irises

the language of flowers — part two, irises

warnings: more angst than part one which is great, also reader throwing stuff bc she’s a badass, and in character Anthony which is honestly more of a red flag than ooc Anthony but you love him anyway you nasty :)

word count: 1.4k (wow I impress myself sometimes)

author’s note: we love this part bc reader stands up for herself and Anthony is one major daddy issues boy.

read the other parts! — part one, daises | part three, peonies

i don’t consent for my work to be reposted or copied, translated, or transferred to any other platform, or this one, in part or whole.

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ii. 1804, iridaceae versicolor. irises, trust

Anthony paced the length of this study—which wasn’t all too large, but stress relieving nonetheless. His mind was a whirlwind of emotions, a tempestuous mix of newfound worry and lingering doubts. Today marked one year, one year without his father, one year his mother was cast into a depressive state, one year since he had taken on the mantle of viscount, and become the father figure that his youngest siblings did not have.

It had been far too long since he had last spoken to you—days? Weeks? He had never gone so long without even seeing your face, and that was a stretch. He’d spent his last few months mourning, brooding, and perhaps being a tad overbearing on himself, but he had to, for the sake of his family’s honour, it’s prestige. 

There’s a sharp knock on his door, it’s most likely Colin or Daphne, who are frequent in irritating him. He makes no effort to open the door, and with a practiced gesture, he dips his quill into the inkwell, resuming his task of poring over the estate's financial matters. How often had his father sat here, absorbed in these very same calculations? A pang of longing pierces through him at the thought, his heart echoing the emptiness his father's absence had left behind.

Another knock.

It must be Colin, his eyes sparkling, attempting to irritate him once again. “I’ve got a job,” he snaps, “and I suggest you get one as well, one that does not involve vexing me at every given minute.”

The door creaks open, candlelight flickering over the stacks of leather bound tomes and haphazardly organized scrolls, casting lanky shadows over his face, playing upon the strong angles, highlighting the lines of exhaustion that marred his usually composed countenance. His normally impeccable attire was slightly disheveled, as if he had been running his hands through his hair in frustration, and his ink-stained fingers spoke of long hours spent in diligent work. He wasn’t in a position to meet anyone, much less usher yet another one of his young siblings out of his room.

“Oh, I vex you? Is that why you've been evading me like the plague?” Your presence was like a sudden burst of sunlight piercing through the storm clouds—startling, yet warmly welcomed. The quill slipped from his fingers as his eyes widened in surprise, locking onto your face, a vision that brought back a flood of memories and feelings he had attempted to suppress.

Your stormy eyes burned through his deep brown ones, and you crossed your hands across your chest. Your soft hair was tucked behind your ear, and your eyes were wide, as if staring directly into Anthony’s soul, and for just a moment, he allowed himself to become lost, to dream, and to gaze into them as if he was merely a boy again, holding you in his arms.

“Say something, Anthony! I’ve not seen you in weeks, properly, and you’ve barely held a conversation with anyone other than your butler, and frankly, I—” 

Anthony quickly wrapped you in a hug, burying his face in your shoulder, your cotton dress soft to the touch. He mumbles. “I missed you.” He can feel you stiffen, but soon gently relax into his arms.

“That is why I came,” you smile, and pull away, holding him at an arm’s distance. “Oh, and my brother is getting married. I wanted to invite you personally to the wedding.” Your oldest brother, twenty eight years of age, was getting married, Anthony recalled. He was, of course, to be the next Duke when your father inevitably passed.

Anthony rubbed his eyes. “My sisters will come, of course, but I may not be able to.” Your invitation was tempting, and the prospect of seeing you again filled Anthony with a mix of excitement and trepidation. He hadn't realized just how much he had missed you until this moment, when you walked in the door. But his responsibilities as the viscount weighed heavily on his shoulders, and he feared that leaving the estate at this crucial time might jeopardize his mother’s already precarious emotional situation.

"I wish I could attend, truly," Anthony replied with a hint of regret in his voice. "But with the estate's financial matters in such disarray, I can't afford to be away for long. I must attend to my duties here."

You frowned slightly, concern glazed across your soft, delicate features. "Anthony, you can't carry the burden of the entire estate on your own. There must be someone who can assist you, even for a short time."

"I've considered that," Anthony admitted, his mind aching from the internal struggle. "But finding someone trustworthy, capable, and knowledgeable enough to handle the estate's affairs is not an easy task. I fear leaving things in someone else's hands might cause more harm than good.”

You crossed your arms, frustration evident in your expression. "Anthony, you can't keep shutting yourself off from the world. Your family's honor and prestige won't matter if you run yourself into the ground!"

He takes a step back, feeling defensive under your stern gaze. "I am taking care of things. I'm doing what I need to do to ensure the estate's survival, which is all that matters to me, at this point in time."

"Are you?" you snap, your voice tinged with disappointment that Anthony could see etched in your face. "You've barely spoken to anyone, including me, for weeks. You're burying yourself in work, and for what? To prove some sort of point? That you’re fit to be the man of the house?"

"I don't have a choice," Anthony replied tersely. "As the viscount, it's my duty to oversee everything. And after losing my father, I can't afford to let anything else slip through my fingers."

"You can't live in the past, Anthony," you urged, taking a step closer to him. "Your father's gone, and while it's natural to mourn, you can't let grief consume you. Of course, you have responsibility—"

His jaw clenched, and he shot back, "Responsibility? What would you know of responsibility? You don't understand the weight of responsibility on my shoulders. I can't just leave everything behind and go gallivanting off to weddings, like an immature child."

Pain flashed across your face, but Anthony was much too in his head to take a look at his surroundings. He continued, as if possessed by some spirit. “You’ve never had to work a day in your life. You’re spoiled, and the only thing your family has ever thought of doing for you is getting you married.” He spit. “So why don’t you worry about your responsibilities, and I’ll worry about mine.”

A single tear fell from your eye, and in that moment, Anthony wished he could take it all back, swallow the poison he had thrown at you so mercilessly. “I…” you bite your lip, and he wanted to take you in his arms, comfort you, and hold you.

“I’m sorry,” you choke out. “I’m sorry for whatever sin I’ve done to have you treat me like this.” You quickly wipe your tears and rush to the door. Anthony wanted to stop you, to scream about how he didn’t mean any of the words he said.

You quickly turn around, revealing a bouquet of irises, the specific ones Anthony had commented on the last time he visited your estate. He could barely remember when. “By the way, I bought you flowers. I thought they’d cheer you up,” you retort, before throwing the delicately tied bunch of flowers straight to his head, hitting his nose.

The door slammed, and Anthony was once again left alone, only this time, he’d have done anything to bring you back. Slowly, the petals of the irises cascaded down onto the ground, fracturing the flowers, and Anthony noticed a small piece of paper.

The Guide for Flora for Debutantes: In the quaint world of botany, the charming iris blooms have long been regarded as symbolic emissaries of trust and faithfulness. Like an ancient scroll unraveling before our very eyes, the iris, with its alluring hues and delicate petals, unravels the story of steadfast devotion and allegiance. Just as an honest man's handshake vouches for his sincerity, the iris bestows its trust upon those who approach with an open heart and gentle touch, and a receiving of this gentle bloom from either gender discloses that the gifter trusts you with their whole heart. Its regal demeanor, reminiscent of a gallant knight in armor, instills in us the assurance that this flower is a beacon of loyalty and constancy.

Trust. You had trusted him, and what had he done with that? He’d tossed it away, and your gift had broken. Anthony wasn’t usually one for symbolism, but these broken irises were pretty damn apparent.

thank you for the tag! mine was so lonnng

x — xnxx by joji

o — our song by taylor swift

b — blank space by taylor swift

r — …ready for it? by taylor swift

i — i did something bad by taylor swift

d — dress by taylor swift

e — enchanted by taylor swift

r — red by taylor swift

t — the great war by taylor swift

o — out of the woods by taylor swift

n — no body, no crime by taylor swift

b — bad blood by taylor swift

l — lavender haze by taylor swift

u — untouchable by taylor swift

e — endgame by taylor swift

s — sparks fly by taylor swift

my no pressure tags: @eviesaurusrex @nix-rose @arrowheadedbitch

@catastrxblues

thank you @malakiwis for the tag. Love you so much

One song for every letter in my username - God that’s too many songs. OMG ITS 14 SONGS!!!

B - Better Than Revenge by Taylor Swift

E - End Game by Taylor Swift

L - London Boy by Taylor Swift

O - Out Of The Woods by Taylor Swift

W - Wonderland by Taylor Swift

T - ‘tis the damn season by Taylor Swift

H - Heather by Conan Gray

E - Enchanted by Taylor Swift

S - Style by Taylor Swift

T - This Is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things by Taylor Swift

A - Astronomy by Conan Gray

R - Red by Taylor Swift

R - …Ready For It by Taylor Swift

S - So It Goes… by Taylor Swift

You don’t know how long it took me to do this, my mind just like died or something. I also feel like my inner swiftie took over when doing this.

Tags: @localorphanage @moonagebooklover @risetherivermoon @olivers-cocoapuffs @lostforgottenspaces

the language of flowers — part one, daises

warnings: angst, of course, and bad writing? ooc anthony bc i suck and thats unwarranted <33

word count: 1.8k (wowza)

author’s note: hello! this is my first published fic, so im pretty sure it’s going to be horrible, but i had this idea after reading Sherlock Holmes, so… im excited, i guess? this is part of a series i will publish, but for now... yay! first fic celebration!

read the other parts! — part two, irises | part three, peonies

i don’t consent for my work to be reposted or copied, translated, or transferred to any other platform, or this one, in part or whole.

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i. 1802, bellis perennis. daisies, platonic love

It was a day in which the sun blazed as though it had a fury against all of England, the sweltering heat resulting in most of the country to stay indoors, and perhaps enjoy a cool glass of lemonade. The unforgiving rays of the sun shone glitteringly on the lake, as if to mock those who stayed inside, flamboyantly displaying its beauty.

Anthony Bridgerton was a boy, (or a man, as he liked to proclaim himself, as he was just a year from being eighteen), who did not like to stay inside, especially on a glorious day like this. He liked to forget the matter that it was well over 35 degrees celsius, but in his words, such a beautiful, sunny day should not go to waste.

“Why have you dragged me out here, Mr. Bridgerton?” You groan against the thick coat of your own horse. As the only daughter of a Duke with three sons, you had to dress up prim and proper, much to your chagrin, before going out, especially with a boy, whether it be one of your closest friends or not. You run your hands through your hair—which you've left open, because, in your words, damn society, no single person should be subject to those horrid pins in their hair on a hot summer's day!, before you stormed out of your estate, to head to the stables to find solace in one of your most trusted companions.

He grins, sending a flutter of butterflies amok in your stomach. Deep inside, you knew that there was no way that he would ever even consider you romantically, as you were exactly the age of his brother, Benedict, who, no doubt, was ever the charmer, but Anthony had a special place in your heart. Your first love, (could one even call it love? You would often dismiss it as infatuation, but when he looked at you like that, how could your youthful little heart disregard it?), and most of all, your first friend. “Well,” he starts, “first of all, you can cease the formalities, or I’ll push you off your horse.” He leisurely rides up next to you, smirking. “And there isn’t any harm in calling on my closest friend for a few hours of her time, is there not?”

“Of course not, but you know how my mother hounds me,” you sigh tiredly, rubbing the nape of your neck. “It is almost as if…” reddening, you bite your lip. You knew that your mother was always on a tirade on how you and Anthony would be perfect together, but you know that he did not feel the same way. You sneak in a gaze at his soft dark hair, and his gorgeous, deep brown eyes, always glimmering with mischief of some sort. 

He turned to you, frowning. “As if? She hasn’t got a problem with me, has she?”

Your eyes widen, and you quickly backtrack on your words. “No! No, of course she hasn’t got a problem with you, she’s just a bit… spirited, that’s all. Just very spirited and a woman very worried about what society has to say about me—not that I care, of course.”

“Just let her know that I’m most definitely not giving up my friendship with you just because of the nonsense the Ton spews on an hourly basis.” You give an extremely unladylike snort at his words, which sends the both of you into a fit of laughter.

The both of you finally reach the site that Anthony must have wanted to show you. It’s a corner beside the lake, with a patch of wildflowers and a small woodland area behind it. The sunlight shines onto the surface of the lake, and small dragonflies lazily float around the flowers. What entrances you most is the flora near the area. While, of course, you've seen flowers before, since your own father boasts one of the most intricate gardens in London, there isn’t any garden that could hold a candle to the natural beauty, the wild, untamed, disorderly allure of this particular strip of land. Fireweed and cattails rub against the agrimonies and bellflowers, and you have to physically stop yourself from letting your jaw drop and stare at the scene in front of you.

The dark-haired boy enthusiastically gets down from his horse, rubbing his eyebrow, and holds his hand out to your stunned self. You bite back a smirk when you notice his actions, and steady yourself against his glove. “I don’t need you to do all this,” you tease. “I can get down from a horse just fine by myself.”

“Really?” He smirks. “Alright then.” Letting go of you abruptly, he wipes off his hands on his breeches, while behind him, you trip to the ground, dust pooling and clouding around you, and you land on your ankle.

“Ow!” You shriek, your hands scratched from the rough, gravelly grass. You examine your ankle, which is slightly swollen and red, along with giving you large, throbbing pains. “Anthony, you’re such a prick!” You steady yourself against a tree trunk when he turns around and sees you, in pain. He quickly rushes to your side, steadying you by placing his hands on your hips, and you try, (and fail), to ignore your heart working on overdrive. “Y/N, I’m so sorry. Really, I didn’t know it would hurt you, I didn't know you were that high up.”

“What do you know, then?” You grumble, trying to hold weight on your foot. When you wince, Anthony immediately carries you in his arms in a bridal hold, and you have to take all the willpower you have to not stare at his biceps, or worse, swoon right there. “Anthony! Put me down!” You cry, halfheartedly, your inner thoughts wishing that he wouldn’t listen to a word you said. “If you drop me, I swear I will hurt you.”

“Y/N,” he smiles at you, “trust me, I know better than to cross you by now.” He readjusts his hands, and one of them, (you’re too frazzled to notice which), lands on the small of your back, and you are sure that you will combust within a second if he keeps this up. “And,” he continues, “I haven’t dragged you all the way here just so you can go home. And trust me, you're not heavy at all.” He smirks, raising one of his hands so that you can see it, and taps your nose.

“Anthony—oh god—what the bloody hell are you doing?”

“Proving you haven't got anything to worry about. Don’t worry, darling.” The word sends a shiver down your spine, and the moment just seems so perfect: you, in his arms, his dark, dreamy eyes gazing into your own, his breath hot on your cheek. He smells of sandalwood and citrus—the same smell that haunts you day and night, in your dreams and nightmares.

You relax into his arms, and are snapped out of your daze only by the soft brush of something against your nose—petals? You open your eyes to a grinning Anthony, tapping your face with a hastily bundled bunch of flowers.

“Anthony,” you frown, “I was relaxing. Do not forget that you caused my devastating injury.” You pout, widening your eyes and biting your lips, trying to play the fact that you’re merely an innocent bystander of his tomfoolery. He sighs, and waves the flowers in front of your face.

“That is precisely what this is for, you hypochondriac—ow! Sorry! I picked you flowers, because you're so microscopic that I can carry you with one hand.” He gently placed you down on a gravelly stone bench, among the wildflowers and its concomitant insects, hurriedly putting a bouquet of flowers in your hand. 

Daises.

The Guide for Flora for Debutantes: Resplendent in its simplicity, the daisy's tender white petals encircle a sunny heart, a poignant reflection of the chaste and enduring affection shared amongst esteemed companions of a non-romantic nature. The suitor that gives this flower to you may not desire to pursue a romantic relation, but shows no ill will towards you, and would in fact like to continue a relationship based purely on friendship. 

Your mind flashes to a paragraph in one of your least-loved books, but one your governess insisted you study. Perhaps he didn’t mean to give you these gut-wrenching, heartbreaking flowers, flowers that left your soul shattered on the ground, due to your dramatics. Men, in particular, were never very observant when it came to flowers. “Well, there might be a privilege to being microscopic then,” you smile, feigning delight. “Say,” you gaze up at Anthony’s eyes, “what made you pick these particular ones? Is there anything special about daises?”

“Er, no…” Anthony frowned. “They were the only ones that looked nice enough to give to you. The others looked like weeds, if I am being completely forthright.” You stifle a laugh, and perhaps there indeed was no symbolism behind the flowers the gave you, nothing other than fate.

As you settle on the stone bench, your ankle throbbing slightly, you peer at the bouquet of daises now cradled in your hand. The delicate blossoms seem to mirror the delicate dance of emotions within your heart, or so your heart believes. Anthony's actions have always been a mixture of exasperating and endearing, and this moment is no different.

"Anthony," you say, suppressing a smile, "your chivalry knows no bounds, it seems." He chuckles, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Ah, my dear, a gentleman's duty is to come to the rescue of a damsel in distress, is it not?" You roll your eyes with a playful sigh, though your heart flutters at his words. There's a familiarity between you that goes beyond mere friendship, a connection that has woven itself over years of shared experiences. But society's expectations and the complexities of your own heart keep those feelings hidden beneath the surface. 

"Are you suggesting that I am in distress, Mr. Bridgerton?" you retort, raising an eyebrow. His smile widens, and he takes a seat beside you on the bench. 

"Perhaps not in distress, but certainly in need of a flower-bearing rescuer." He quips, gently nudging your shoulder. You both share a laugh, the tension that briefly hung in the air dissipating like morning mist. There's a sense of ease in his company that you've never found elsewhere, a comfort that stems from him, merely his presence.

A sense of home—of love, and for now, it did not matter if he didn’t feel it, but the warm feeling that enveloped you was merely your own to enjoy.

tourism is an extremely large part of the Hawaiian economy. Without tourism, Hawaii would definitely become extremely poor and need lots of financial assistance. While house costs are going up, would you rather Hawaii become unlivable AND more expensive than it already is, or will you stop blaming people who want to go on a simple vacation for what the government’s been doing for decades?

ppl posting pictures from their vacation to maui as if they aren’t the whole reason Hawaii is unlivable

one scene i’m in love with anthony and then the next i’m in love with benedict. these bridgerton men have a hold on me

I love your Anthony stories!

thank you!! this gives me so much validation <333