In flower language? Probably, I think I’ve even reblogged something to that effect. But….most ppl don’t know flower language anymore. No, if you need a true “fuck you” then here’s my DIY official tutorial, the Death Bouquet:
(This is gonna be the least wholesome post I’ve ever written and I am so sorry but I am also laughing while I type this.)
I’ve been railing on Pink Floyd roses a lot for their thorns lately because one has sliced my hand open recently. Get some of those.
Next. Get you some ornamental thorn roses. (I’m not 100% but I think mermaid climbing roses fall into this and are also brutal)
Next. Thistles. Lots of thistles. More thistles than sense.
Next. Dusty miller flower greens. Soft. Weak. Floppy. Clog up your bouquet with these, especially in the middle where they’ll make the stems stick together.
Next. Baby’s Breath. This is your secret weapon. You can’t tell when they’re dead half the time, they’re strong. Too strong. The wrong touch and FOOOOOOF. Tiny leaves and petals EVERYWHERE it’s as good as a glitter bomb.
NEXT. Abandon common arrangement sense. Fillers first, clog the center with fillers. Clog it, make it dense. Stick a rose or two in, but you want at least 70% filler.
NEXT. Hide the thistles. Hide them under the roses. Make sure some of the heads are at hand level. Spray them with water. You want those stems damp and miserable. Thistles harden as they die.
NEXT. The roses. Line this puppy in roses. Ornamentals and Floyds should be along the outside, this bouquet should be DEADLY to put any weight on. Spray them with water. This bouquet should be so tightly packed that your “handle” looks more like a solid mass than anything else.
NEXT. Wrap them in paper. TISSUE PAPER. Thin, weak, damp. Even gardening gloves can’t save your hands now.
NEXT. Be strong, treat the bouquet like a bed of nails. The more evenly spread the weight, the less likely you are to get hurt. You will be tempted to give these roses away in person, but be strong. Your ginger body language will give up the game.
FINALLY. Deliver them. Know. KNOW that your plan has worked, because anyone with any sense will see a bouquet and just FIST it with one hand. Maybe the other will come to support it. But just that. Just the hands. Meeting thorny death. A dozen little needle presses. The paper will be too damp to unravel, to see what has done this. They’ll grab it a few times, trying to learn the secret.
Deliver it with a nice note. Sincere, heartfelt. Make them feel obligated to deep the Death Bouquet. This is where the density comes in. Damp, suffocating, these flowers will mold in secret. They’ll die and their odor will permeate the air. But, because of the nature of the baby’s breath….it’ll be hard to find. Hard to detect. The roses will be sheltered because they’re on the outside, getting air and water. But the center will mold, and stink.
Eventually, they’ll realize it’s the flowers, and they’ll move the bouquet, and POOF, it will shatter, leaves and petals everywhere, releasing a gag worthy odor unlike anything they’ve smelled before.
And that’s how you say “fuck you” with a bouquet.
This was the most amazing read and I need to do this *now*
Tag: this is amazing
so if you remember last november- I said I was working on a TAZ project that came to nothing! this was what I was doing! i decided to stop working on it because i think i improved so much in those months I was doing it that the styles just look weird next to each other- plus other amazing artists had already done it! but i credit a lot of my improvement to this project so it felt weird just sitting on my computer. so— here! (oh also i have my editing notes in here- so enjoy that insight lol)
WHATWHATWHAT IM CRYING THIS IS SO GOOD!!! OMG OMG OMG OMG IM
I CANT THIS IS AMAZING!!! PLEASE EVERYONE WATCH THIS!!
today on excellent taz content
how tall is bruce and thomas wayne?
in saih bruce is 6′2″ and thomas was 6′5″
it’s an ideal height distribution tbh because then whenever bruce, as an adult, is talking about how larger-than-life his father was everyone just feels bittersweet about it because the last time he saw his father he was a tiny boy and it just seems like, “oh, bruce’s memory of his father is always trapped in this time when his dad seemed like a giant”
but no, that has nothing to do with it, bruce is being completely factually correct and thomas wayne was enormous
(presumably this takes place not long after whatever the hell this is)
“I assume your dad’s going to be the one that looks like you,” Clark said, adjusting his glasses as he scanned the crowd beneath the mezzanine.
“Just look for the biggest guy here,” Bruce said flatly.
Clark fought a smile.
“What.”
“Nothing! Nothing.”
Bruce waited.
“It’s just—you know.”
Bruce said nothing.
“You haven’t seen him since you were twelve.”
“Correct.”
“You maybe weren’t the tallest kid.”
Bruce said nothing.
“I’m just going to look for the guy who looks like you, rather than going by relative size.”
“And you must be the fellows who were chit-chatting with my wife!” came a voice, booming and boisterous as arms were thrown around each of their shoulders. Clark jumped; Bruce flinched.
Thomas Wayne was a good two inches taller than Clark, who was himself an inch taller than Bruce. Thomas had a glass of champagne in his right hand, which he had not spilled on Clark. There was a ping-pong ball floating in it. He had a half-empty bottle of wine in his left hand, which he had not spilled on Bruce. Between the fingers of his left hand dangled a bag of red plastic cups, unopened.
No one in the ballroom was using a red plastic cup.
Thomas’ coat and the top buttons of his shirt were undone; his bowtie had not been a bow in quite some time.
“Martha wouldn’t tell me what exactly it is you were up to,” he said cheerfully, “which I can only assume means I’d hate it!” He paused, squinting at Clark. “Oh, she must have loved you.” He gave Clark a proper once-over, down to his shoes and back up again. “Were you raised on a farm or what?”
“Why does everyone keep asking—”
“Anyway,” Thomas continued, somehow managing to pound them both on the back as he disengaged despite still having his hands full. “You two go on ahead and keep not telling me what you’re doing, if you need me I’m heading downstairs to set up a game of wine pong. It’s like beer pong, but if you’re doing it right it costs several thousand dollars! And it’s good for your heart! I’d know. I’m a doctor.”
He downed his glass of champagne and caught the ball in his teeth. He then somehow managed to arrange the items in his hands such that he could shoot them both fingerguns, clicking around the ball and waggling his eyebrows.
They watched as he slid sideways down the banister.
“I apologize for doubting your memory,” Clark said finally.
“Hm.”
“I feel like this explains a lot about your sense of humor.”
“I’m not convinced that it does.”
“… does he look how you remember?” Clark ventured.
“Usually I remember the way he looked one specific summer when I was a kid,” Bruce said thoughtfully.
Clark softened, almost reached out to put a hand on his shoulder. Then he narrowed his eyes. “No.”
“Hm?”
“I know what you’re doing, and we’re not doing it.”
“You asked.”
“I recognize that look.”
“This is just what my face looks like.”
“You’re going to make me think we’re having a moment so I let my guard down for the punchline,” Clark said, “and you’re not going to say it like it’s a punchline, so when I laugh, I look like an asshole.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I’m not allowed to laugh about this. You know I’m not.”
They were silent, the sounds of the party surrounding them from below.
“He had a horrible moustache,” Bruce said.
Clark pressed his knuckles to his mouth.
“I think my subconscious is trying to make death seem like a mercy.”
Clark made a muffled and hideous noise.
“Clark,” Diana scolded, and they turned to see her frowning as she approached. “This is a very difficult mission for Bruce, you mustn’t laugh.”
Clark threw up his hands in disgust.
“Or—wait.” Diana looked between them. “Was he doing it again?”
Clark nodded, lips pressed into a thin line.
“I think I remember this party,” Bruce said suddenly, looking out at the ballroom.
“What?” Clark and Diana asked simultaneously.
“It’s the one where that senator got thrown out of a window.” He pointed toward a commotion downstairs.
“What is your father doing?” Diana asked, leaning over a railing.
There was a crash of shattering glass, a series of screams, and scattered applause.
“Throwing a senator out of a window.”
#before this night is over thomas wayne will have swallowed a ping pong ball to prove a point And he’ll insist he’ll be fine, “cause he’s a doctor” ?
Thomas raised an eyebrow with a level of disdain achievable only by those born to great wealth, and not at all befitting a man in the middle of using a meat cleaver to cut the nozzle off a garden hose. “Oh, I think I can handle it,” he scoffed. “I went to Yale.”
Logan (x-men) and 1, 5, or 9 from the Stabby Starters. I can’t decide. :X also feel better!
5: You’re the one with a blade at my throat, so you’re obviously upset.
For this ask meme! Also, will probably make more sense knowing that I wrote this! Some general dialogue shamelessly borrowed from X-Men Evolution.
So the girl’s good.
Logan’s an adult. He can admit that much. She’s small, even by his standards, and–wiggly, and she dropped out of a tree with a shriek like a mountain lion right on top of him, a blade at his throat before he could do more than grab the nearest available limb.
“Hey, now,” Logan says. One hand is clamped tight around her ankle–probably tight enough to hurt, although she seems unbothered–and the other is drawn back, clenched into a fist. His claws are sheathed, though, and he’d like them to stay that way. She’s too small to be an adult–he works with a lot of kids, and he’s guessing fourteen. Maybe fifteen, at the outside. He’s not in a rush to play slice-n-dice with someone younger than Kitty. Besides, his mouth will taste like blood for a week if she really does slit his throat. “What do you want?”
“You’re Weapon X,” she hisses.
The snarl that rips itself out of his throat is involuntary and sounds inhuman, his lips pulling back thoughtlessly as rage threatens to roll over him like a storm front. “I am not.”
“You are.” Her grip tightens, one hand tangled in the longest part of his hair to expose his jugular. It’s not a great way to cut a throat without an extremely sharp blade, the important arteries hidden under layers of taut tissue, but his skin parts like wet paper under her weapon, sending blood in a steady trickle down his chest. If it was Logan, he could go through all that protective tissue in a heartbeat. He’s sure this girl can do the same.
She’s shaking, he realizes, as if she’s holding back her own storm front by a hair. Every muscle is trembling, although her blade is steady. A breath through his nose says blood-rage-fear to his brain, layered over a scent that just doesn’t seem to register right. Everyone has their own distinct smell, except for this girl, who seems–off.
Christ, but this would be a great moment for Charles, or even Jean, to sense this scuffle and intervene. Logan isn’t really a good candidate for whatever this is. He’s too much of a linear thinker–A leads to B, where A is a problem and B is violence.
He takes a deep breath, as best he can without pushing the blade deeper into his throat, and tries to sound like he’s in control when he says, “How about we talk about this like people?”
“I’m not people.”
Well, okay then. That’s a starting point, at least. “Fair enough. Me neither, ‘cording to some. You want to tell me why you’re upset, at least?” A profoundly terrible thought occurs to him. “Listen, kid, if I did something to someone–”
“I’m not upset!” Her voice is high and thin and ragged, like something feral, like she’s barely forming words rather than just screaming until there’s blood on her teeth. Like he used to be, right after he stumbled out of the lab.
“I mean, you’re the one with the blade at my throat,” Logan says evenly. “So you’re obviously upset about something.”
She flips over his shoulders, lands crouched on the ground in front of him, and– Listen.
He can’t quite find it in himself to blame her for cutting his throat on the way down.
Service Offered: Professional Third Wheel
Unwanted suitors? Not sure if you’re on a date? To nice to turn him down? I can help! With nearly four years of experience sabotaging romantic encounters, I’m the uncomfortable silence you deserve… and now, I’m offering my services professionally.
Bring me along as a platonic bufferzone on unwanted or ambiguous dates with suitors you’re not interested in but don’t know how to turn down. Guaranteed to kill the mood or your money back!
Basic services include: Terrible puns, poorly-timed jokes, casual physical displays of affection, bringing up unappealing facts about you (to be established or fabricated ahead of time), including myself in attempts at cuddling, domineering the conversation, irritating laughter, talking about I may have finally found an apartment for rent that’s big enough to house all of your cats, subtly making remarks about how nice it is that you’ve made a new friend.
More advanced services: Creating diversions (available at tiers 1, 2, and 3; examples include pouring water over my head, impromptu hula dancing, and triggering alarms), intimate displays of physical affection, accidentally spilling drinks on your suitor’s clothing, laughing at everything your suitor says while drinking until I manage to time it so that water comes out of my nose and sprays onto them.
Package deals:
- The Gay Best Friend: What it sounds like. Because this persona runs the risk of stereotype and exploitation, I prefer to keep this subtle. Willing to engage in mild flirtation with your suitor. Please use discretion when requesting this service; the intention is to make him realize that your feelings towards him are platonic. Do not even consider this package if he is aggressively homophobic.
- The Imposing Older Brother: I scowl, smirk, and huff judgmentally. Comes in two flavors: the Violent Ex-Con and the Insufferable Elitist. Can flex my physical or intellectual muscles as needed.
- The Irritating Younger Brother: I bring a gaming device along, snicker rudely and roll my eyes whenever he speaks, complain about the time, chew with my mouth open, shrug indifferently, prop my sneakers on his chair, wipe my nose on my hand, and bluntly interrupt the conversation whenever it strays out of your comfort zone.
- The Priest: Why the heck would you bring your priest on a date?! I don’t know, and neither will your suitor! Obfuscate them into backing off. If that doesn’t work, I will recite dry Biblical passages until they are driven away by crushing boredom or fear of Hell.
- The Son from The Future: Depending on the age difference, I can also pose as your Son from the Current Era. Will dress in conspicuously unusual clothing (ex. holographic baseball cap, life preserver, roller skates, VISOR-like sunglasses), continuously ask for the date and time, and anxiously mutter about how it’s almost time for you to ditch this place and meet my father for the first time.
- The Enslaved Zombie Ex-Boyfriend: I don milky, semi-opaque contact lenses and follow you around mindlessly, with jerky, unnatural movements. I am at your beck and call, controlled from beyond the grave by your occult powers – the fate of all the boyfriends who displease you.
- The Demon Prince: I wear a stylish fawn suit, soft kidskin gloves, and silver cuff-links etched with strange symbols. I have a ring or a cane decorated with the head of a ram. I say little, but smile often. Now and then, I pull out a little silver hourglass from a chain around my neck and examine it, tapping my foot, my fingers, or my cane impatiently. I adopt a curious and subtle accent and ask him to appraise his immortal soul. I carry a sleek briefcase rigged to emit a bright light if I crack it open a hair. Optional: I carry a cube of sulfur in my pocket for the smell.
- The Mulder: A proven classic. I periodically derail the conversation with crackpot conspiracy theories, the nature of reality, extraterrestrial intelligence, and ESP. May accuse your suitor of being a Reptilian, or demand that they feel the scar where I had an alien implant removed. Insist that we change tables because this one is bugged and we are under surveillance by the secret shadow government.
- The Fiance You Thought Was Lost at Sea: I burst through the door, dripping wet, with barnacle-encrusted clothing and a crab dangling from my ear lobe. I’ll smell of brine and have a haunted look in my eye. This will require some acting skills from you; you’ll need to throw yourself sobbing into my arms and cry, “I thought I’d lost you!” and I’ll hold you and mutter something about Davy Jones getting ahead of himself.
- Other: I am happy to work with you to develop a persona specific to your unique needs and preferences.
Rates: Sliding scale, determined by me on a case-by-case basis. I want to make my services available to all who need them. Factors such as the relative heinousness of suitor is considered; affluent clients can generally expect to pay more as likelihood of physical or spiritual harm increases. For swanky dates in nice locations with minimal levels of danger, I typically ask only that you cover the cost of my meal, entrance fees, transportation, and other expenses.
IMPORTANT:
Although I am prepared to deal with any number of eventualities, I am not a professional: bodyguard, assassin, exorcist, crocodile hunter, or escort. If you expect that any of these services will become necessary, I am happy to put you in touch with a specialist. ADDITIONALLY: If your suitor is non-human, please be upfront with this so that we can plan accordingly. We do not want a repeat of the events of Halloween 2012.ADDENDUM 2014: I reserve the right to terminate our deal at any time. This is a exclusively a professional relationship, and any physical or romantic affection we may share may be considered performance and unrelated to my personal feelings.
ADDENDUM 2015: If you are trying to orchestrate a set-up because you get off on watching your significant other jealously beat the crap out of perceived rivals, fuck you. Vengeance will be swift.Forget the fake suitor.
Marry me now.
It is against my policy to enter into legally-binding arrangements with clients, although by popular demand, I will attend weddings and family reunions as a plus-one to discourage nosey relatives.
Closeted lesbian or asexual, but your aunt won’t stop asking when you will get a boyfriend? I can be your mind-numbingly boring new beau for the day to put her off the scent. She’ll be so uninterested in my dull life that she’ll never inquire further.
Mom won’t stop trying to set you up with a nice Jewish or Hindi boy? I’m neither! Let her down gradually with your new white boyfriend before you eventually drop the ‘polyamorous bisexual witch’ bomb.
after the banquet
“You really don’t remember?” Viktor asked, as they walked back to the hotel.
“No, I honestly don’t,” Yuuri shook his head in remorse. There was a beat and then, “…Did…anything else happen? After…after the dancing?”
Viktor didn’t say anything at first, forcing Yuuri to run around in front of him and look into his eyes.
“Viktor??” he prompted.
“You don’t remember so let’s leave it at that.”
“Viktor?” Yuuri said a touch of panic in his voice, seizing Viktor by the arms and giving him a little shake.
“You’re sure you don’t remember all of what you did?” Viktor asked, now a tug at the corner of his mouth. “All those sinful things you said to me? All the things you did with that mouth?”
Now Yuuri did have a vague recollection of dragging someone into the coatcheck room, but he hadn’t realized it was Viktor, the Viktor Nikiforov, the same person he’d idolized for years.
“…Oh no…I really am just like my father,” Yuuri said, putting his head in his hands. “Viktor, tell me everything.”
“First, you insisted that there was something you needed to show me in the coat check. You whined and pleaded and how could I say no to those brown eyes?”
Yuuri groaned in embarrassment.
“Then you got on your knees…”
Yuuri tried peering between his fingers, fogging his glasses as he steamed up.
“…And said you wanted to give me something.”
“See this is why I don’t drink! Oh god, I’m so sorry–” Yuuri bowed his head in apology.
“And then you pulled out a pack of powdered donuts from your coat. And ate all of them.”
“…What?”
“I don’t know why you brought food to a banquet filled with gourmet food, but you proceeded to sit on the coat check floor and eat every one. You tried to get me to eat one, but I was quite full. You got powdered sugar all over my lips and then licked your thumb and wiped it off. At the time, I thought it was the most erotic moment of my life. Now I’m just thinking you really like donuts.”
“…And after that you still flew out to see me and be my coach?”
finally
HOW DARE YOU NOT TAG THIS WITH WHAT IT’S ORIGINALLY FROM I NEED IT
blackash26 