#decaying bluebells

[quettasecond]

no bluebell but theres rose... like doctor who :) the white one im gonna light is jasmine scent. i have 3 lavender candles (two in the box my niece gave me one my sister gave me) but while im fine with the smell i might light them last. since... the air spray i always use is lavender scent. imagine you spray your room with lavender air spray then light a lavender candle? thats just possibly too much

[howyouloveyourdragon]

Remnants

pronouns: she/her warnings: smut, use of the word ‘whore’, angst, disease, character death, fluff, infidelity, slowburn, classism at first (daemon is a shit) summary: They say that you never forget your first love but the vultures are prey to weakness and intend to infiltrate Daemon’s own desires to preserve his adere riñus (slippery girl). Some say the woman will forever remain in his conscience, guiding his bloodied sword and singing sweet lost lullabies to lay his rest. For it has been too long since the volatile dragon slept peaceful. A prince with more gold than he can keep. A prince who can demand whatever he wishes and command any army. And yet all he is left with…All he is left with are the remnants of her which he swore to cherish as religiously as he would an idol. A/N: reader has dark hair for a plot point to work but i think you can still ignore it if you want to :) dividers by: firefly-graphics wordcount: 6,797

There is nothing like a sunset that is more comforting to him and yet his comfort is limited. How he stares at the strewn stars like figments of grace and kind. How he stares each as though in the eye and recounts sonnets as they emit. How he begs and pleads for the Gods to last the warmth of sunlight just a little longer each time. And each time it fades. Each time his eyes grasp any trace of her to sew back into his mind after it has been torn from him with viscous delight. He should have known. The Gods do not listen to begging. Not even from Crown Princes. No matter how many bottles he shatters in the heat of his dreams. He likes to think that their love was red and as flowing as his ever-heating dragon’s blood. A Syrax in its own right. But there was no Goddess of ecstasy blessing them. No. It was a curse of bluebells and belonging to that of Gaelithox, surely to punish him for his foolishness. He looks up at the sky. The dark array of black and blue. Of silver specks and promising folds of purple. There is nothing like a sunrise better to send the Rogue Prince into a spiel of decay and sickness. The absurd golden bonds squeezing out another day like an artist with their last inch of oils. The crawling brightness that comes to threaten the moon. Abysmal lies sung to him as his brother attempts to push him into seeing beauty in all that inductees his churning stomach. 

He wills the flowers to wither. 

It was under the rising sun that Daemon had stumbled and forced his way out of the obnoxious hooting Street of Silk. Perhaps he had been desiring only ale or the rancid smell of sweat to intoxicate him. At just two and twenty, he had been visiting the volatile heap of taverns and brothels for the past eight years. It was religious in his dark desires. For dragons did not obey the whims of men and Daemon did not obey the whims of his brother nor father. And certainly not the whims of his wife. His nose turns up at the thought. Marriage would not contain him like they desired and yet still, he receives the constant demands to visit her. Of course he only intends to sink them in water until soft enough to shred, rejecting their presence all together. It would be easier to burn them but he does not think them worthy of his flame. His begrudging circle had even begun threatening to hail her to the Red Keep. To keep her in his presence all torturous times of the day. He knows his mother wouldn’t have let this happen, surely. Never would she sell him like prize cattle just to tame him. He is a dragon does not fuck plain featured sheep, he burns them but he would not devour them like his brother wished. His tastes were precise and he would not settle. He is a prince. He deserves nothing less than a woman matching his silver strands. Which is what he thinks of as he stumbles through the dark night struck streets, hopefully back to the castle gates at least. He despised people seeing him in such a state but he could usually hold his liquor better than tonight. And he assures himself that all will be well…until his cloak catches on a hook and he crashes to the floor in a surge of red blurred vision. 

He blinks awake the next morrow with a pounding headache the size of Caraxes. A wince cracks at his muscles. Daemon grunts, a rough sting along his left cheekbone. A blur of dark hair and feminine presence has him assuming he had fallen asleep in the whorehouse again but instead his eyes flit across the plain room, brows pinching at the plain room. It is unfamiliar, he realises. His lips part in time for a resounding click of the unknown woman's fingers to snap him into alert. Anger swells in his chest but his limbs are weakened with exhaustion and ale. His sharp eyes choose to narrow instead as quickly as she takes a step. His brain swishes with questions. Where is he, why is he here and most importantly, who is this already insufferable cunt of a peasant? "You." He sneers, clicking his own fingers but she ignores him, returning to a small room he presumes to be a...kitchen? It is small and brown and littered with pans, some empty, some filled. "Tell me, who are you?" It is a demand. They both know it is a demand and yet it goes ignored. Rage firms his brittle state. "Answer your prince!" He stands on slightly shaky legs, uncaring to his indecent layer of clothing, or rather, lack of. His tunic...Where is his tunic? It isn't panic that raises the bile but it is discomfort. The odd woman merely chuckles at him. Anger flares once more. Daemon's swift hand snaps to his scabbard only to find it empty. "Relax, your highness," He doesn't like the mocking lilt seeping from her untrustworthy tongue. "it will be returned to you, I merely made certain you would not awaken with a missing appendage." His face scowls petulantly at her and he takes a step forward. 

Daemon builds up his broad shoulders to square though he is not entirely a man full-grown yet and his boyish features attempt to harden. Intimidation is a powerful tool he knows. "You will hand me my possessions and I will take leave far from your slums or I will–" She spins around, facing him not with fear or mal-intent but with curiosity. Her sly smirk is the first thing he notices alongside her narrowed fox-like eyes. “Or what?” She returns, impishly .His mouth hangs. She had been washing one of her thick pans but now she has tucked the pathetic wet towel into her small apron and folds her arms. The pan is left forgotten on the side after a loud clang. She raises her brows. “Or what, your highness?” She repeats as though he is nothing more than the village idiot or town fool. Begrudgingly he has never felt more like a child, not even after marrying the bronze bitch. Daemon’s mouth moves but nothing comes out. She snorts. “Will you harm a sweet village girl? Add blood to your taxes? Ah, apologies, my lord, you are no foe of such demands, you are the taker.” The snide doesn’t pass him. “No girl is of worth to a Dragon.” He says, finally regaining composure. She doesn’t cower, she sneers. “In that we can agree.” Her voice, once mellifluous and playful, now turns cold. “Except the ones fucking dragons and I assure you, I have no intentions.” He swallows, noticing just how close they have approached once the hit of warm breath fans over his mouth which towers just above her. He ignores when his eyes flicker to her wet lips. How can a peasant look so nourished? 

Daemon may ignore it but the peasant does not, her lips slowly curling upward smugly. She hums as she takes in his dilated pupils now wielding more than just rage. Slowly, her calloused hand begins to dip into her apron pocket. In a flash, his palm snatches her wrist and rips it out of reach. She blinks, slightly disoriented, but then raises her brows comically. “Do you not wish me to return your sword, my lord?” She lilts, Daemon’s face softens. “I am your prince, not your lord.” He snarls. Again, her sickening chuckles lift in the stale air. “You are an ingrate that we are all in service to, my prince. Do you wish for your dagger or not?” He hesitates. Who is to determine that she is not attempting to fool him? That she will not snipe his weapon and slice it through his throat; would she leave him bleeding on her floor or scatter him amongst the mongrels of flea bottom? Daemon casts his eyes at her apron. She sighs, allowing his thick fingers to swipe through the various utensils stashed away. The prince grunts when he makes contact with a blade, groaning behind his taut lips. He slides it out once he finds the hilt and dances it between his fingers like a peacock presents its feathers. A smirk twitches. 

The peasant girl sighs, unamused as he watches the shining steel. “Do you intend to frolic through the streets and freeze?” She asks with a thin layer of mocking. His eyes narrow on the blade. “No,” He articulates in a frozen phrase. “You will lead me to the garments you have stolen from me and in return I shall allow your pitiful life to remain.” It isn’t a chuckle that escapes her this time but instead a snort. His nose wrinkles at the unabashed noise. “Will I?” She returns, biting the inside of her cheek. Daemon lets a glower settle, breath heaving at the disrespect. He clenches his jaw. “You will or you will taste your own blood.” Daemon spouts the words, attempting to poison her flesh, he can already imagine the boils that would litter her soft skin. The peasant merely winks. “It wouldn’t be for the first time but I am afraid that it would be in your best interests that you stay a moment more.” She sighs as though the fact physically pains her. A hand sneaks behind her back, which connects against the rough counter edge, and produces a small wooden bowl, heat emitting in steam from the top. “Would you not prefer to break your fast before you leave? A weak prince is not a wise one.” 

He leans down, sneering. “I am not weak.” She leans up at him and tilts her head. “Then how do you know I was talking about you?” She pushes the strange broth to his chest and slips past him once his confusion lessens his hold on her other wrist. His head snaps to face her figure again. “You are an insinuating little tart.” Daemon comments but much less interrogative than before. He eyes the broth cautiously as he takes a seat at her short stocky table. His legs plead for freedom under the trapment. He ignores them. The girl glances him over and he can feel the scrutiny piercing his skin, ready to seep inside. Begrudgingly, the heir seats himself at the small table of her home and huffs like a petulant child.  The threat of judgement crawls like an insect over his tense muscles, it feels like twenty-thousand little cockroaches are bumping one another from the inside of his skin. It begs to clamber into the strange peasant instead, what does a peasant fair against a prince? She must know that it would be further than a sin to place judgement on a Targaryen prince while she is nothing more than a lowly film of dirt atop his shoe; filth he is desperately trying to scrape off until his hands are raw and bloody. 

His eyes take this moment to rake over and through her as she stumbles around the much too small hobble. Her hair reminds him of toiled waves, crashing messily and unkempt–even though it is tied up–against the harsh wind sneaking through her window. Her apron is dirtied and there is flour on her face. She looks every inch the commoner he despises. Because she thinks she’s better than him, he’s sure, he can see it in her smugness, her eagerness to keep him dependent on her already. She has a vile brown dress beneath it, his skin itches just looking at the rough worn-in cloth. The prince’s eyes trail to her bare feet, he winces but attempts to ignore it, glancing over the muddy wet end to the dress. He lets a sigh release and shakes his head, inspecting the rest of the abode. Just looking at her made him long to cleanse himself. Daemon’s nose turns up at the sight of a myriad of blue wilting flowers in the corner, well he supposes to her it is reminiscent of a myriad. Her. Why is it her mind, her thoughts, that he wants to explore like the depths of the great sea he has always been kept from? Then his eye catches on the deep red cloth that drapes along a lone wooden chair. His eyes narrow. Is it stolen? She doesn’t look as though she could afford such vibrancy. Or perhaps she is a whore and it was gifted by a client. That must be it. She’s a whore. Daemon clicks his tongue and looks down at the half-eaten broth. He stirs at the odd liquid, raising the too large spoon and pouring the broth back in the bowl before dipping it back in again. It takes all his willpower to stuff it into his cheeks and let it play on his tongue. 

He swishes it across his taste buds. Daemon wants it to be foul, he wants it to reek of vomit-inducing grossness. It is a childish word but he is running out of insults. His hope also falls flat because for some reason it tastes good. It tastes better than any soup the high paid cooks have ever offered him, it tastes almost better than any rich meal he’s consumed. His eyes narrow. Is she a witch? Is this set to bewitch him or send him into sleep? No, it makes him feel much too energised. Then is it to gain his favour? Constituted to trick his submission? She will not achieve it, he refuses. He finishes the lukewarm meal while taking his time. He watches her hum and shimmy about the room, searching for something he does not know. He scans her curiously. “My garments.” He states in demand, standing and approaching her swiftly. She doesn’t react, doesn’t even stop humming. She moves about a few thick books, all handwritten and all with olden pages–yellow with use. 

His fist rests sideways against the presumably oak bookcase so he can lean over her, forearm following suit. He wants it to reflect dominance but instead it twists his gut and warms his lower stomach. “You have something that belongs to me,” Daemon purrs. His eyes narrow. His free palm outstretches. “I want it back.” “I have more than one thing, milord.” The snark drips from her tongue with charisma he loathes. His jaw clenches at the forced display. “Then return them and I shall return this.” Her eyes snap up to him and frown at the sealed letter in his grasp. Daemon can see as the panic swells and tenses her muscles, he can see as she takes in an inhale sharper than Dark Sister, he can see as her eyes widen because Daemon is not merely a swordsman and soon-warrior; Daemon Targaryen is also an observer. The peasant girl swallows. “Very well.” She chokes out and he finds himself surprised to have won this game of cat and mouse. Of dragon and sheep. Almost disappointed. The prince nods and steps back but as she prepares to swipe it from his hands and pulls it back with a visibly pensive expression. “I will give it to you once you return my possessions.” Eyes meet and again, his gut twists. She tilts her head, guard seemingly lowered. “How curious,” She breathes out. Daemon’s brows knit. “What?” He questions. “You said possessions not belongings. Most would use the latter.” 

When he eventually does return to the castle, fully clothed and prepared to sleep off the remainder of his disturbed night, He keeps a firm stance and intends to forget the strange day so far but his mind circles the events like a fly. Daemon growls as he shrugs off his shirt to replace it with one of pure white and tosses the prior into a drawer. He roughly grasps a red doublet in his hands and tugs it over. His breath comes out in grunts and curses until he is redressed. It is the same shade as the peasant girl’s cloth, of course it is. It was his favourite until today and now childishly, it feels tainted by the resurging memories of humiliation being sewn inside. His nose scrunches up, a grotesque taste rubbing against his tongue as he recalls one incident in particular. The prince, a man to be respected, can visualise as he was shoved to a thin mattress and tossed up the mix of bile and sickness from his stomach. All. Over. Her. Floorboards. Daemon winces and shakes his head, trying to shake the memory into the deepest depths of his subconscious, never to be seen again. He sighs and turns around, pausing when a slight fluttering falls as soft as a petal from his trouser. He frowns and peers down at the paper. There sits a thin parchment, not unlike the letter he had returned to the peasant girl. This one however is in cursive words much more eloquent than the past one and written in a phrasing he’s unsure of. He looks at the wax seal this time. It’s blue and the paper around it is curled. Daemon glances over the creases. Perhaps his business is not yet forgoing. 

A moon passes before he finally returns through the winding streets, trying to recall the pattern in which he returned home, backward. Daemon finds himself humming a tune to which he should not be familiar with but it is the only thing that consumes his mind as he passes through the Street of Flour. Finally, he reaches a small doorway and raps at it. No one answers to which he sighs and takes a step back, peeking through the opening of his hooded cloak at the abundance of civilians. Daemon’s eyes dart amidst the unknown area and his feet follow, investigating a series of yells and glances one last time at the door. The street is in uneven bumps and the people there are clumped together as they holler and whistle. Daemon halts his tune and uses his substantial height to attempt to see over the large mass of bodies. He can barely make out the sight of steam and two large wooden stands. The hollers burst through his ears like pellets of rain, forceful and punishing as a storm. 

Then a familiar voice is raised above the others, a mock resounding in his ears but with the playfulness and wit of a friend. His violet eyes snap up to find the woman haunting him. She’s laughing raucously, obnoxious and loud. Daemon’s lips slightly twitch at the teeth she bares. Again, his gut stirs. The heat becomes smothering but that doesn't stop him in his pursuit in finding the peasant girl who he now sees tossing around a pan filled with water and meat. From the brief glances he can snatch up, she’s almost finished while a man beside her is kneading a similar meat lined in fresh pink. Daemon pulls his lips taut, tensing as he watches the show. His little peasant seems to be enjoying herself. Witch, he thinks briefly but she doesn’t look like a witch and nor does she particularly sound like one. Are witches not supposed to be tantalising and hibernate an illusion of raw sex? Of primal appeal to tempt him? She doesn’t appear to be trying very hard. The flour is gone from her face now, he notes, but in its place lays a curved slice, colour as deep as that of Dornish wine. If she is a witch, would she not surely cover it? The hiss of her heated pan hisses throughout the street and Daemon finds himself surprised that no one has stolen from the small bag of coins in the centre. 

A cacophony of enjoyment and not one has a trail of bitterness. He watches as the girl glides a hand around her neck to push back the hair escaping its tight wrap atop her head. Only joy amongst the miserable. Perhaps that should worry him but he is too enthralled in the display. The woman’s hair is tied high again but much clearer than the moon prior–the day he last saw her. She is still wearing the same rags but this time that revolting red cloth is wrapped around her shoulders like a shaul. Not a whore either then. A whore would not be parading her squeals for free and nor would she wish to wear rags when surely many men had solicited them. So she is not a witch and not a whore and yet he finds himself stalking after her presence like an injured pup. Daemon growls at the very thought. He is a prince. How many times must he remind himself? Princes do not chase after strange peasant girls. The scolding floats through the wind when the peasant girl cheers and hurls the pan down on the wooden market stand. Her opponent groans half-heartedly, grinning like a mad man as he stretches out his arms and embraces the girl, one rough large hand resting to cup the back of her head and his other reaching to slap her back like Daemon has seen other knights behave. But this is not a knight, this is a peasant. The fact twitches his nose in distaste. But so is she. A voice whispers in his ear, he swats it away, watching as the surrounding peasants cheer. 

Daemon watches as the children let their little hands grasp the food and jump in bubbles of excitement. If he had a warmer heart, he may have found the sight sweet. But he does not, he has a mission to complete. He approaches the peasant girl with sly steps but she has already noticed him, how, he does not know. He steps behind her and opens his mouth but she beats him to it. “My prince,” She speaks with a burning smugness he doesn’t have to look at to be aware of. Against his better judgement, a sly smirk spreads across his pale lips. “You remembered.” He quips to which she hums in approval and folds her arms over her chest. “Unfortunately I did.” Daemon shifts in intrigue. He hesitates for the first sun of his existence. “I almost thought you wouldn’t bring it back.” She comments, amusement slipping in between her teeth. A snicker passes his mouth, a mouth rarely barred. “I had not imagined you would need use of such a thing left so easily misplaced.” Daemon’s hot words burrow through her ear, as determined as their wielder. She turns her head, baring her soft neck and piercing eyes to look up into his. The heir’s breath hitches. 

“I misplaced nothing, my prince.” The peasant purrs boldly. The intimacy of a whisper drips from her like an aphrodisiac. Daemon grins. “Is it my name or merely my title that you know of?” He chuckles, a confident hand reaching wind at her waist. Her own hand cups it. “Of course, my Prince Daemon Targaryen.” He swallows and a shuddered chill draws down his back. “Might you tell your prince your own for adequate compensation?” She leans a little closer, only a breath apart and fanning across his twitching lips. She interrupts his thoughts by slapping his hand enough to stun him. “I shall not.” With him vulnerable, she twists away from him with cautious grace. “I like to leave my men wanting.” She calls with a growing impish grin. He surprises himself by returning the gesture, straightening his back as he does so and raising his brows. “And I am one of your men then?” He retorts easily and watches her sashay apart from him. Before she is too far, he pats down to find the letter in his pocket but already knows it has been swiped. Instead of berating his own foolishness, he smirks at the smart, slippery girl and steps away, sure to see her more in the growing time. 

As the moons pass and his brother grows increasingly irate with him, Daemon Targaryen sneaks away into the night. He ignores the hailings of his Lady Bronze and replaces her calls with the sweet melodies his newfound companion intoxicates him with. The soothing lilt of her lullabies and the calm braids she strews across his hair. Daemon stands, now a man of 27 years, at her side. Y/n, she had told him. Her name was Y/n. She was of no surname and no wealth but she was beautiful and kind. She was fresh and witty and every inch the insinuating tart she had been the night they met. Her fingers stroke through his tangled mane with a snort before landing her hands, rough with work, on his shoulders. He leans back and flutters his eyes shut. With all the bread she has kneaded, this is not the first time he longs for her embrace. He hums in swift pleasure, reaching up to coil his fingers with hers. “How is sweet Rhaenyra?” Y/n asks, voice ripe with interest and honey as always…Only this time, there is something burrowed beneath, he can feel it. He can feel it better than he can sense Caraxes’ heartbeat. “She is well…Almost full grown already.” Daemon responds, his fingers lingering as they caress Y/n’s hand. Why does it feel so much frailer than it did before? “Are you hiding something from me? Are you aware that it is a crime to lie to your prince,” The joke falls flat as she leans forward and shakes her head, arms stretching across her lover’s chest. She doesn’t speak and he doesn’t pry but they are both aware of the deep mulberry bags beneath her eyes. 

But Daemon has always been a man of actions and impulses and so, he lets instincts take over, leaning back his head to look at her. His hands both reach up to cup her face and descend it toward him with gentle prompt. “I brought something for you,” He breathes, twirling a strand of her hair around his fingertips. She tilts her head and tightens her lips. “Whatever for?” He lets a mischievous grin twist his mouth and stands, settling Y/n down in the chair instead. Daemon cups her cold hands in his warm ones and folds them in her lap. “Close your eyes.” She does so begrudgingly but she is long past arguing with him when he’s in his moods. She chuckles. “You told you there was nothing you required for your namesday and while I respect–” She interrupts him, groaning with amusement. “Because it is not a namesday, I will never know my namesday,” She chuckles but her tickling throat gives her away, choking the words out of her dry throat. Daemon hums lowly. “But it is the day that you were given shelter.” She rolls her eyes at the quip. “That place was hardly a shelter.” He leans down to kiss wetly along her jaw and up to her earlobe. “And yet it brought you to me, kept you safe and waiting.” She snorts and raises her brows, a pointed expression inching over her. “I was hardly waiting.” He chuckles this time and kisses up the column of her throat. As she begins to breathe out gentle moans, he takes her distracted presence to skillfully thread his hand over hers, sliding cold steel onto her finger. She gasps and flutters her eyes open to see his cocky smirk. “Well?” He asks and kisses the finger. He licks his lips and lets a shaky breath flow through him. 

Y/n regains composure and stares at the ‘something’ he had brought her. She brings it to just in front of her sights and swallows. “Is-Is it…?” “Yes,” He whispers and looks at the carefully crafted jewellery too. “I want you to have a part of me, always. And in return…” He pauses and turns the ring around her finger slowly to reveal a carved dragon, its wings spread for flight. “I want all of you.” He slowly kneels in front of her. “I want you to marry me.” It’s instantaneous that her mouth parts and her eyes widen. “Daemon…” “That woman is not my wife.” He states coldly before warming at the sight of her softening brows. “You are my wife in body, in soul and I want so in law too.” He takes in a breath. “Please, do not this deny of me. “I told you I would give you everything and I intend to. “Your brother will never approve of it.” A growl ripples through his mouth. “I do not care, he has tried to be my dictator since we were children and now I am a man grown, I should be allowed to choose my own wife. To let her choose me. He has not yet had an heir, let me take you to Dragonstone.” He leans closer until only a single breath can part them. “Let me make you my wife in the ways of my ancestors.” Silence cups them in a bubble, so easily popped. Too easily popped…and yet, she turns the ring, roaming the dotted rubies that form the dragon’s eyes and in slow movement, she stares into violet irises as she kisses the dragon’s head. “Yes.” She whispers. “I will be your wife.” 

He doesn’t take a moment more to grasp the sides of her face and kiss fervently at her soft pliant lips. She returns the force in tandem as the sun sets behind them. The golden rays darken in a way only the most beautiful of moments could demand. Daemon’s hand drops to scrunch at the material at her thigh, at the skirts of her dress. It is in moments that both his hands reach to pop and tear at the incriminating fabric, ripping away her bodice until he can paw at his prize like an animal starved. Her teeth sink into his lip and the wet resounding noises surface upon their lips. His breath grunts as hers quickens in high pitched desperation. Her own hands slash roughly at his doublet, shoving it away from him like a criminal. His hips grind against her in hard strokes, desperately trailing his kisses down her neck while she clutches and pulls at his long silver hair. A high moan tears from her mouth as he sucks his marks into her, the need for possession clawing at his veins. Her pearl throbs as she twists to plunge him onto the floor. She straddles his thighs and wraps her arms around his neck and pushes his face against her neck again. He growls and snaps off her smallclothes. “When we met,” He groans, eyes fluttering back. “I thought you were a whore.” A breathy cackle drips from her animalistic mouth. “I’m starting to rethink denouncing that. You are much, ah, much too talented to be a baker.” He moans and burrows his head into the pillows of her breasts, lips wrapping to suction once more, to claim. “And you,” She interrupts herself to moan, tossing her head back. “Are much too unkempt to be a prince.” He bucks his hips. “Tell me,” A shriek breaks as he tugs roughly at the pelvis of his own trousers, desperately trying to be rid of the material. “Tell me you’re mine, Rogue Prince of the Seven Kingdoms.” A gasp drips from his tongue while he finally gets a grip of his fabrics. He tosses her to lie on the floor, her back pressed against the wood. “Fuck, I’m yours,” He babbles like a hormonal desperate teenager. With thick hands grapple his own trousers and tears them off with haste. “All yours, only yours.” 

He throbs as he kisses down her body, planting wet marks as violet as his eyes and crimson as his blood. He props up her right leg to drape over his shoulder and sucks at her thigh. His tongue probes at the flesh. His palms squeeze at her thighs as he slowly dips down between them and worships her mound in deep licks, drinking in the slick. He wants to drain it into a flask and carry it in his satchel. He wants to carry her around to sip from at any moment. He could die happily between her legs. Daemon Targaryen does not need wine or whore because she is his sin and he will anger the Gods happily if he can keep this temptress at his side. He pulls back to fan his breath along her throbbing cunny. Such a sweet filthy little thing, he thinks to himself, blowing down on it and revelling in her small jolt. His tongue drops to play with the bundled pearl, rolling it over the muscle and sending vibration as reward for every little moan that she lets pass. Her hands reach down and tug at his hair. “You should not have tempted me, adere riñus,” (slippery girl) His dark eyes level to meet hers. “I told you I want all of you and I intend to take it.” With an animalistic grin, his mouth descends once more to lap at her. Her back arches, grinding into him impatiently. “Be careful,” The woman pants. “Or I may start suspecting you to be a whore yourself.” He growls as she smirks and pushes up her body, slamming a forearm by her head and stretching her leg. She winces for a moment but recovers as his fingers replace his tongue. “A private whore then.” He speaks, removing his hand from her bud to palm at his length. “For a have already told you,” He grunts, chasing her mewls as he plunges into her entrance. “I am yours.” And so he pushes deeper, pushing roughly and lets his sweat pound into her flesh until they absorb one another. 

Months have passed. He knows they have but he doesn’t feel it. All he can do is fight and slay and watch as men burn and bleed. So long it has been since he last saw his true wife, since he last kissed her lips. A comment in passing has devoured his entire mind. A half-hearted promise that he has clung to now is visible but only in part. He wants it now more than he has ever wanted anything. “Yes, well, you may marry her if the Stepstones are ever retaken.” A King will be true to his word and his brother has never proved untrustworthy but the phrase was meant in jest, he knows. However, Daemon Targaryen, Rogue Prince and man of twenty-eight years, will let himself be damned before he rejects the prospect. He will make his wifey his own if it is the very last thing he does. He has returned to his brother, a crown of bone within his grasp and presented it to him with but one request. He shall take his own wife and he shall take her at court for all to see. Before every lord, lady or royal proudly. For the first time, it isn’t frustration or malice in his brother’s gaze in response to his boldness. It is gentle and merciful. Because that is what it feels like to be gifted the honour of his adere riñus. It is mercy, it is a blessing, it is his salvation. It is the rise of his sun and the fall of his stars because he only needs one. He only needs one shining star to keep his moon afloat and begging. 

Finally he can return home to her with more than a title and unfair vows. He can return with a heart full. Daemon’s hand twists at the wooden door he has slipped past so many times before but he freezes at the sight. An array of mess greets him and horror balls in his throat to gag him. His eyes snap at every corner, panic rising like the flow of sharp wind. His feet travel through the cluttered space, wariness biting at him but then he sees blood splatter on a cloth. It is as crimson as the shirt beneath his tunic and that alone makes him scream for her. Her name resounds through the open space and his legs run swiftly to the only other room there, the one where he had professed his devotion to her until the words bled out. He bursts the door open with the force of ten thousand men, the hinges yelling at him. He settles his sights on his weak love. She is shivering. With widened eyes and swiftly snaps to her side in one breath and kneels there, clutching her hands. “What is wrong, my love, who has hurt you?” The words are loud, demanding and cold. She almost doesn't respond and his heart stops. “I am well, husband.” She calls him such…She calls him such without even knowing the good news, the news he had only dreamed of whispering into your ear but not like this. Never like this. “My love, you are not.” Daemon chastises and fumbles with her bedsheets. He reaches to cup her cheek. “My love what has happened, has someone thieved you, please tell me what has happened.” She merely shakes her head. “I,” She coughs into her hand, rich thick blood dripping from it like a cursed potion. His face hardens but he lets her finish, lets the quiet remain. She’s trembling like a little lamb. “You knew that I was in an…unseemly state when you left. I am glad to have you return to me.” She has never spoken so proper, so rehearsed to him before. How long had he been blind? “I am taking you to a healer.” He snaps instantly and stands. She winces. “No,” She begs weakly. He shakes his head. “No, please, I do not wish for you to see me in this state.” “Shame is not for this time!” He yells. “I return home to my wife sickly and bedridden and you expect me to not alert a maester? Nonsense, you are coming willfully or I will make you.” 

The nights are cold and they pass without progress as he lays by her side at all hours. Her eyes stare up at the ceiling. “It is in the sky that you are free,” She utters. “Caraxes will be missing you.” Daemon shakes his head and glides a hand up her waist. “And if I should fly him then I shall be missing you.” “He is an animal as wild as you, my love,” She berates with the softness of an angel. “And he will wait.” “And for how long? Until I am old in my grave.” “Do not say such things!” Daemon chastises. “It is mere truth, husband.” She sighs and curls his hair in her fingers. “He needs flight and so do you.” He doesn’t respond, his petulance growing.”I am not getting better.” She wags a finger in his face when he tries to argue. “I will continue not to but if you do this justice for me then I will grant you an army of love.” The mischief still holds on her tongue after all this time. The gentle mocking of his salvation and he smiles. He smiles as water pricks his eyes. He can’t speak. He won’t make it so, not if it is only going to claw at him. 

Daemon Targaryen, Rogue Prince, Lord of Flea Bottom, wielder of Dark Sister sits upon Caraxes and watches as the ivory moon lowers before him. He watches as gold forgives the darkness and they embrace. The twine of beauty and misery thread together in a beautiful seal. A seal of love and beauty. He twists a ring in his hand, one made of Valyrian steel and shattered promises. He sits upon a red cloth. Parchment is strapped to his thigh, awaiting acknowledgement, a web of bluebells encapsulates it. A letter of hopes, a letter of dreams unfulfilled. Daemon Targaryen, Rogue Prince, Lord of Flea Bottom, wielder of Dark Sister sits upon Caraxes and watches the sun rise and with it, his future. He has felt his slippery girl slip from him and now it is time for him to breathe new air. He is only left with the remnants of her but that is enough for him to resume his newfound duty. A duty to her, to her memory and to her desires. As he watches the night close, he finally takes acceptance. He accepts peace. Her love is not red, it is not blue. It is in what she has left behind and it is in what she has gifted onto him. Finally he understands what she meant that fated day. She does not own him. He belongs to her.

Her love is her remnants. And he has an army of it. 

Remnants Taglist: (if your name is in italics and bold, that means i couldn't tag you, you will need to check your settings) @chompchompluke @eyelinerandcigarettes

HOTD Taglist: (if your name is in italics and bold, that means i couldn't tag you, you will need to check your settings) @wrendermedone @hopelesswritergall @blackdreamspeaks @its-actually-minicika @gettheetoanunneryimmediatly @adelusionalwriter

[kingofdandelions]

Plant flowers in my wounds, preferrably yellow ones but others are welcome too.

Don't bury me in the ground. Please.

Strip away my flesh and use my skeleton as a halloween decoration. Use my ashes in a cake, or some candy or any other type of food. Place my rotting body inside a cave or a hollow tree, so an adventurer can find me rotting away with flower growing between my ribs. Let my corpse be the most beuatiful bouqet ever seen. Let the smell of dandelions overpower the smell of decay. Burn me to keep the fireplace from dying as I have. Eat me to keep yourself from starving.

Let me be of use even in my death.

Let me entertain you. Let me scare you. Let me help you. Let me suprise whoever stumbles upon my rotting flesh.

I want to live on while my body is rotting, my skin decaying and my lungs no longer breathing. I want to grow flowers in my eyesockets.

If Ive been shot through my skull, place purple irises through the bleeding wound.

If my heart is torn out, let bluebells use my flesh as soil.

If my eyes are gouged out plant variegated tulips in the eye sockets.

Let wildflowers grow through my rot, let dandelion beam from all my open wounds. Let my corpse breathe through the flowers, keeping me from ever really dying with their life and constant growing.

Yes, let me die, but don't bury me in the ground. Bury me in flowers, so many that you can hardly see the rotting flesh. So colorfull flowers that you can ignore the blood staining them. So goodsmelling the my decay wont be noticed. So beatiful that you forget that its a corpse, and not a garden.

Make sure that Im more alive then I ever could dream of, despite being a corpse. Despite my guts being spilled on the ground. Despite my eyeballs no longer filling my sockets. Despite my blood seeping out and my heart not beating.

I want to live in a way that no one quite living can. My corpse living on far longer than I can, and the flowers revelling in my corpse out living myself.

I want my immortality gained through flowers.

If I ever die, my immortality will be gained with my corpse.

[creacherkeeper]

lost township: the homegame

howdy yall :D i made a post like this a while ago that very much needed to be updated and i simply talk about and tag characters from lost township a lot so i wanted to have an easy place to reference for what in the hell im talking about and something to throw at people when i want to infodump. so!!

the game:

lost township is a d&d homegame set in a fictionalized, magical 1880s wild west. its set in the american-equivalent country the democracy of silver and includes all of the magic that we know from typical d&d games. it's based in the town of lost, in the state of undersun, sandwiched between harsh deserts and the mountains

the pcs:

cass bluebell - she/her - human drunken master monk - played by @strangetorpedos

cass is the owner of the saloon in lost and mother to adopted 6 year old davey. she's stoic, fair, and always just a little too weary for all the things on her plate. she took over the saloon about 5 years ago after the murder of her mother by the mysterious assassin the brownbird, and spent years trying to solve the murder to no avail (until recently). middle aged repressed lesbian on main, didn't sign up for this shit - art

divine shook - she/her - aasimar eloquence bard + oath of the bear paladin - played by @masculinepeacock

divine is the schoolteacher in lost and lives with her wife sarah and brother-in-law hawk. former southern belle of the rich intervention family, now barely scraping by as the breadwinner of the household. chronically babygirl coded, ultimate bambi lesbian. is the angel of the deer god of poetry but currently follows the bear god of fire and families and talks to her god like she's her mom (she is in their hearts). currently dating(?) sheriff lizzie - tag

maeve marigold - she/her - kalashtar psychopomp sorcerer - played by kaity

maeve is a former sex worker turned recently hired psychopomp of the raven queen, soon to be doing the psychopomp thing full time. she always has the most insane response possible no matter what the question was and does not know how to read. she also did not know what a psychopomp was when she agreed to be one. is currently under the tutelage of latrowe, the raven queen's current psychopomp, and has been being plagued by dreams and nightmares she knows aren't her own

morel - they/them - firbolg knowledge cleric / spores druid - played by @floralprintshark

morel is the local witch doctor and prophet of the god of fungi and decay. lived on the outskirts of lost for many years, providing free healthcare to the vulnerable townsfolk who weren't safe with the town's stuffy doctor. after pining for years, finally in a relationship with cat after the "unfortunate" murder of her former husband, and jointly raising her daughter kitten and their mysteriously delivered baby juniper. goth sad cow - tag

onion - they/he/she - fey shepherd druid / fey wanderer ranger - played by @paladinbaby

onion is a smuggler and deliverer of changelings who was introduced to the party with the task of safely transporting them from lost to the neighboring state. he's Fey Neurodivergent and a bit of a grumpy messy dyke (gender neutral) who doesn't have a ton of connections but cares about his people very deeply. chosen family with waylon squad and best friends with brandi - tag

will orville - he/him - werewolf gunslinger fighter - played by @punkbarbarian

will is an "investigator" (mercenary) who was brought to town under instructions to find and kill the brownbird and then ended up staying because he is a big old sad puppydog who needed to learn to love again and is. he is so so autism dad on main and cries at the drop of a hat (affectionate). currently dating scruggs, the first relationship he's been in since his husband was killed 13 years ago - tag

the npcs:

brandi carlile "the brownbird" - she/he - aasimar wild card rogue + arcane archer fighter + vengeance paladin

white hat assassin and angel of the jackalope god of chaos and death. her father was the singular prophet of her god who was responsible for raising the jack to godhood until he was assassinated when she was a young child. now she kills mostly bad men, mostly other followers of the jack. despite that he's both very excitable and very wet n pathetic babygirl hours and pretty much just wants to be cared for. long-time best friends with onion and in a Situationship (derogatory) with lizzie - tag

sarah shook - she/they - human wildfire druid

divine's wife and hawk's sister, golden retriever wife guy on main always. excitable, loving, intensely adhd, spends their time gardening, talking folks ears off at the market, and reading smutty books with her wife. refuses to process any of her childhood and she's so normal about it. has a bear cub made of fire named honeysuckle that she was gifted by the bear god. currently making eye emojis at morel and cat - tag

hawk shook - he/him - human wild magic artificer

sarah's brother and divine's brother in law. trying his best but unfortunately his best is not great, fiercely protective and caring but not good at the whole adulting thing. so far unsuccessful at holding down a job but is now working (hopefully long term) for cass at the saloon. slutty, gay, too autistic for his own good. was the originator of the plan for him, sarah, and divine to leave their homestate and find a new place to live after working for divine's awful parents for years - tag

cat clyde stevens - she/her - orc life cleric

former wife of bobby clyde, now partnered with morel, mother of half orc kitten and newly adoptive mother of baby juniper. married bobby and had kitten very young, and was mistreated for years before developing a relationship with morel and finally gathering the courage to call the brownbird and have her kill bobby. shy, nervous, very caring, new to the cleric thing - tag

lizzie no - she/her - coyote shifter crown paladin

former big city reporter, currently the sheriff of lost. protective, prickly, observant, and more than a little neurotic. bitchy dyke fr fr. religious trauma on main. managed to make it to lost after getting shot and got adopted and taken care of by waylon. now sister to kelsey and scruggs. has been in love with divine for Years and is not quite sure what to do now that theyre A Thing. in a Situationship (derogatory) with brandi, and is former friends, almost lovers, enemies, to somethings, queerplatonic idiots with onion (they'll figure it out,,,) - tag

earl scruggs - he/him - orc tundra storm herald barbarian

former child criminal and enemy of the state turned refugee, now waylons "bodyguard" (read: gets paid to do fuckall). big burly russian man, chronic big brother disease, gentle giant who loves to cook and be silly. tboy swag. has to keep up a reputation around town for being mean and tough but is way more emotionally intelligent and caring than most people give him credit for. currently in Some Sort Of Relationship with will (read: they uhauled and haven't talked about it) - tag

kelsey wilson - they/them - changeling inquisitive rogue

delivered to waylon at age 5 by onion after their parents died, now his secretary but actually just professional babiest sibling. so incredibly autism creature, goth lolita stan always, very anxious about interacting with anyone outside their family so simply Doesn't. does not want to grow up because of The Circumstances TM and so keeps themself young using fey magic which is unfortunately giving them chronic fatigue. kind of a bitch - tag

waylon jennings - he/him - zombie, former lore bard

former professional muse, now the benefactor of lost. bitchy old gay man, doing his best to take care of his kids even if isn't always a peaceful house. got turned into a zombie during an outbreak but somehow managed to keep his consciousness and a little of his magic. has been friends with onion for decades but as he's gotten older has come to view her more like a daughter - tag

latrowe - he/him - coyote psychopomp

used to be just a regular coyote, got chosen by morel's god to be a gift to the raven queen and become her psychopomp. showed up in maeve's dreams for a while and is now in the process of training her to be the new psychopomp cause he really misses being. just a dog. very formal and stoic when he's not eating out of your trash, fights with a cool glowing dagger

roo panes - he/him - tiefling scribes wizard

a religious researcher who was supposed to be cataloguing the pantheons of the democracy but ended up parking in lost for a while to study the jack (autism special interest alert). ultimate nerd, way too talkative, twink who's one stiff breeze away from having his bi awakening. currently has a puppy crush on kelsey and hasn't put together that's why scruggs is mean to him

the gods:

ama - she/her - bear god of fire, families, and the home - worshiped by divine and cat, divine is her paladin ata - he/him - bison god of food, families, and the home - worshipped by sarah dakota - he/him - deer god of poetry, beauty, and magic - divine is his aasimar the jack - no pronouns - jackalope god of death, chaos, trickery, survival, and alcohol - worshiped by many townsfolk in lost, including cass's late mother, brandi is the jack's only aasimar kathairein - they/them - vulture god of fungi, decay, and disease - morel is their prophet nidaash - they/them - salmon god of sex, transformation, and journeys the raven queen - she/her - raven god of life and death, knowledge, divination, and the moon - maeve and latrowe are her psychopomps sidewinder - he/him - rattlesnake god of protection, safety, medicine, and the sun - lizzie is his paladin

ship tags:

divine/sarah divine/lizzie lizzie/brandi lizzie/onion will/scruggs + 2

[dent-de-leon]

If you are considering prompts, how about a widomauk with:

4. “Would you like a hug?”

Hi!! Oh thank you, this is such a sweet prompt and it works so well for widomauk

Molly looks like he’s just fallen into a deep sleep. Wildflowers bloom to life all around him, sprigs of bluebells and unfurling ferns and blossoms of moonflower beside morning glory. Until he’s laying on a flowerbed, peacefully resting in a sea of verdant greenery. 

Caleb can’t help thinking of childhood fairytales. Stories of royalty charmed into eternal sleep, denizens of the fey born among flowering fields. A prince or princess locked away, caged by a nightmarish monster. A cursed spirit finally set free.

Here in all this ruin and decay, Molly is glowing and radiant, surrounded by new life. So ethereally beautiful, he seems unreal. Like a dream. His hair falls in long flowing curls, threaded with budding blooms of soft baby blue, delicate petals unfurling in his lovely violet locks, spilling over the spirals of his ram horns. 

They all watch with bated breath, congregating around their long lost friend. A chorus of gasps and soft sighs as Molly begins to stir; his tail flicking idly, swishing to and fro. He twists and turns in aborted little movements, fidgeting as he slowly comes to wake, caught in this strange patch of sun and the scent of a calm ocean breeze, cradled safely in the Wildmother’s embrace. 

Dark lashes flutter. Brilliant red eyes finally open and Mollymauk Tealeaf looks at the world again for the first time in the longest time. Once upon a time--

That spark of Molly’s life thrumming under Caleb’s hands, resonating with his very soul. Pouring an endless wellspring of tumultuous magic and emotion into this one spell, this last chance. Molly’s heart beating faintly in time with Caleb’s own, their souls inexorably bound as he wills this infernal blood to flow. Daring the Matron to just try and take him—He’s ours. And he’s coming home. A fervent promise. A crushed stone and tearful kiss. Kneeling over Molly’s still, lifeless form and wishing he had anything left to give. 

It’s chilling, to lose Molly’s last shard of a soul like this. His light snuffed out in the empty carcass of a dead empire, one more lost soul claimed by the wrath of the gods and hubris of wizards. To fade away into nothing here in the dark, banished to the astral sea, so far from the light of his beloved moon. Alone. Empty. 

When his Transmuter stone was alight with the soft glow of arcana and hope, Caleb swears he could see Molly bathed in the light of full moon, lucent and beautiful. A ghost of his still lingering soul, or else a vision sent by the gods to torment him. And if he strains his ears, he can just barely hear that familiar, haunting voice, Molly singing softly to soothe his anguished heart.

“For the dead yellow king, a throng came and song. On the longest day of rain, he would rise again. Long, long may he reign."

Molly stumbles forward, wobbly and wide-eyed in wonder as a newborn faun, and Yasha’s strong, steady arms are there to catch him, holding him tight as he takes his first fumbling steps back into the world. 

“Molly. Mollymauk Tealeaf.” 

They all hold their breath, time suspended in a single moment that stretched on for all eternity. A soft cry, a sharp intake of breath. And then, in the gentlest voice, so soft and full of tortured longing, “Love.” 

Everything was worth it, just for this. For Yasha’s sob of relief that breaks off in a warbling laugh, for Molly’s own breathless chuckle as she wraps him up in a warm embrace, holds him tight and vows to never let go. From there it's all a rush, a flurry of tears and laughter as they all embrace Mollymauk.

Caleb is spellbound. He simply can’t look away as Molly spins around and tilts his head up at the starscape shimmering above, tail swishing in glee. Eyes twinkling with mirth as he watches Jester dance around drawing ornate silks in midair. 

Caleb can hardly breathe. He’d just kissed him, lost in the moment of gutting, grievous pain and guilt ridden grief. But now that Molly is here, awake, he finds himself too afraid to reach for him. As though Molly’s soul might slip away at any moment. As if the spell would be broken by his touch. 

He holds himself back. He is content to watch, to let the others have their moment with the dear friend they all lost. They are—more deserving, certainly. Caleb has no right or claim to Molly’s attention, not when they were never particularly close to begin with. Not when he did not even have the courage to present his own offering at the ritual—not when it was his magic that failed Mollymauk when he desperately needed him most.

All that time, that wasted effort, pouring every ounce of sheer willpower into that ritual, channeling all the arcane power he’d painstakingly honed since childhood, and still, it wasn’t enough. It was never enough. He gave everything, and he was still too weak to many any difference. 

He is happy just to have this chance to see Mollymauk wake again, to hear his warm burst of laughter and watch their little family all flock to embrace him. It is enough of a joy to admire the tiefling from a distance, to bask in that spark of light he always carried with him. 

He doesn’t need anything else. 

But then Molly turns and meets his gaze from across the Astral Sea, gleaming red eyes shining bright. He starts forward, just a step, hand cautiously outstretched—reaching for him, of all people. 

Caleb’s heart seizes. 

Yasha is there beside her tiefling still, angelic wings enfolding him in soft feathers and ethereal light, sheltering him from the wreckage of Lucien’s decaying husk in this city of bones.

She catches it, that moment that passes between them, enthralling and electric. Yasha, who had fallen to her knees beside Caleb only moments before, choking back tears as she begged him to do something, anything, to save him—

When Molly hesitates, Yasha gives his hand a reassuring little squeeze.

“It’s okay,” she says, promises. But it’s Caleb she’s looking in the eye, her gentle voice just loud enough to reach him. “Go on.”

It's all the encouragement Molly needs. He gently pads forward barefoot, tail swishing in glee, a slow smile spreading across his face. Long, sweeping folds of red velvet wrapped around him, the ostentatious red coat draped over his bony shoulders. Hands bunched up in the rich crimson fabric, reveling in the feel of something tactile and real.

Words fail Caleb, now that this gentle soul is standing proud before him. Now that he can finally see the warmth of Mollymauk's beaming smile again.

"I. Would...would you like a hug?" he babbles, eyes downcast and cheeks flushed, suddenly very aware of all the eyes on him, of Yasha's soft smile and Jester's delighted gasp.

He still doesn't trust that any of this is real.

But even as he falters, Molly crept closer, nestling into the crook of Caleb’s shoulder, settling into the solace of his still trembling arms. And when Caleb's breath caught, doleful eyes stinging with the blur of hot tears, the tiefling nuzzled into his neck, burying his face in the soft folds of a cozy scarf, sighing in sheer content. 

“Magician,” Molly murmurs, soft and bubbling with warmth. Then, nuzzling closer, eyes lighting up, “Magician!” 

Caleb can't help but chuckle softly as Molly reaches for him, claws gently skimming over the place where his heart lay.

"It is good to see you too, Circus Man."

[strawberrystepmom]

what's your favorite scar on president boyfriend's body

from years of using chidori - kakashi has lichtenberg figures up his right arm. the wrap from his hand, crossing his forearm, bicep, and shoulder. he hates them - it's why he prefers to wear longer sleeves at all times if possible as an adult.

the scar reminds him of times when he succeeded but most of all, the times when he failed. he bears a permanent mark on his body as a reminder of what happened to rin. his eyes reflexively shut every time he has to gaze at it in the mirror, assuming it's better to be blind than to face his failures.

but. i like it. sure, it's a hard reminder of what has happened but it's also a beautiful reminder of the effort he put in with his very own hands and heart and strength to make konoha better and safer and the place that it is now. he sacrificed so much.

i like to trace it with my finger, each path and trail and line. it tickles when i do it but he sits patiently and lets me get my fill, following the figure all the way up his arm and over his shoulder and i always give him a kiss when i'm done. comfort and reverence and understanding all in one.

he also lets me doodle sometimes. little ball point pen flowers drawn springing to life across the unnatural vine that crosses his arm. makes him feel a little bit better to look at it in the mirror, daisies and lillies and sometimes bluebell (or at least my version of them) dotting his skin and hanging from his failures.

flowers grow from decay, he supposes.

[mysterycharacterflowers]

Round 1; A bouquet of dandelions and buttercups Vs A bouquet of marigold, yellow and white zinnia, phlox, bluebells, cornflower, gladiolus, rosemary, dark crimson rose and purple cyclamen

If you know who they are, or are pretty sure of it, please don't tell until this poll has ended!

First, let's talk about the bouquet of dandelions and buttercups

Meaning and why this flower was chosen: Dandelions! They're associated with her in the original source, and she and the protagonist have a bonding moment over them. They symbolise strength in adversity, change, and innocence, as she acts as a foil of sorts to the protagonist. In the semi-canon sequel this is changed to buttercups, so I'm including those also. They symbolise joy, youth, purity, happiness and friendship, which are key aspects of her character. Description: She's one of the only characters in the source to actually make the most of life. Unlike everyone else who slowly wastes away, she enjoys what she does, and teaches the protagonist to do so also.

Check their post here

Now, let's talk about the bouquet of marigold, yellow and white zinnia, phlox, bluebells, cornflower, gladiolus, rosemary, dark crimson rose and purple cyclamen

Meaning: Marigold - Grief Yellow and White Zinnia - Thinking (or in memory) or an absent friend Phlox - Our souls are united Bluebells - Kindness, constancy Cornflower - Hope in Misery Gladiolus - Integrity, Strength of Character Rosemary - Remembrance Dark Crimson Rose - Mourning Purple Cyclamen—Resignation and good-bye Description and why these flowers were chosen: Marigold, Yellow and White Zinnia, and Phlox: This character lost a dear friend. The loss affected him so deeply that when he laying his friend to rest, his soul fragmented and part of it remained in the resting place Bluebells and Cornflower: As a consequence, the character unknowingly granted themself immortality. He has not resigned themself to this eternal fate, though, and continue searching for a way to obtain long-deserved rest. Bluebells, Gladiolus, Rosemary, Dark Crimson Rose: The world they live in is decaying, with death but no new life. Yet, instead of letting the situation overwhelm and warp him, he chose kindness and dedication to his role. When beings who took advantage of the broken cycle of life and death in the world pass, this character is there to lay them to rest, frankly acknowledging their flaws but highlighting their good (or interesting) aspects and wishing them peace beyond life. Purple Cyclamen: Who is there to mourn him, to do for him as he did to others when he finally become whole and is able to rest? Only you.

Check their post here

[headingalaxys-spicy]

I have arisen from my deep slumber 😌

Could I request a part 2 for the Yandere Bully America ask? I like these kind of dynamics, which I also have discovered in another tumblr blog a few months ago, where America is being a total douche to the new country. I think their name was llamacup or something like that.

Anyway, have a nice day or night, thank you~

🥹😘

Hello there it’s 2023 and I’m filled with DETERMINATION ahahaha.

I want to answer all my story posts this year! 🌟

Tw: Death-of minor characters and torture.

✨⭐️Happy First Friday of the year⭐️✨

“You’ll never see the light of day again,” was a promise that hasn’t been broken.

Darkness became your new muse for crafting your mindset in captivity. Fear was on the loudspeaker having your mind teeter on the edge. When would you hear the dreaded clicks of his oxford loafers on the marble floor? Anxiety permeated your nervous system causing you to tremble like a neverending earthquake. How did things get this bad? Why, you? Why did it have to be you?

You felt hollow and sullen like a decaying tree succumbing to an infestation of black turpentine beetles. This is already after America stormed into your life like a hurricane and damaged you and your nation permanently with his supreme act of violence against you and Britain at the world meeting.

However while you may have been in captivity your love was not.

“Mr. Kirkland, how would you like us to give you some added assistance? We don’t have our duties at the palace today.” Some of his loyal long-time palace guards wanted to join in on Operation: Silent Alarm.

The messy golden haired blonde ceased his hurried pace towards the black Audi A1 car headed to the airport.

“It’s quite alright, gentlemen. I already have some of my best men with a solid plan to rescue Y/N.”

“Oh come on lad. You know that brute will definitely try to kill ye again. We can be a great backup after all we are trained and well equipped with weapons.”

Arthur couldn’t help but allow a small smile to form on his normally grumpy face. He loved how dedicated some of his people were to him and his royals. He still had to be as discreet as possible in order to get under that crafty American’s nose. It took him a few months in order to finally locate (Country Name). The bastard had her imprisoned in the New Hampshire wilderness underground in an elaborate labyrinth Alfred created back in the 60’s. He also had his pesky guards and security system to break through. Thankfully MI6 was more than ready to deal with this.

He again turned their offer down but requested that they be ready for him and his return with you. He would not be leaving without you. They relented and allowed him to leave so that the mission could begin. Arthur pressed the small button on his discreet earpiece.

“Testing operatives lavender and thyme do you read me? Have the both of you successfully landed in D.C. to carry on negotiations?”

A few moments drifted by while the diver started the car while Artheur continued to make sure all the pieces were in place for his rescue operation.

He waited tensely as he waited for a reply.

“Yes, operative Bluebell. We’ll let you know if we’ve located the Burger Man.”

“Copy that. Tally ho. To save y/n here we go.” Like a soldier getting ready to lead the charge on horseback Arthur sprints to his private jet that would take him just outside of Pittsberg, NH.

*******

After laying down in your own tears and mucus for what felt like a few minutes you lift your head up to look at the somewhat barren room you were confined to. It had the basics of what America thought you’d like to keep you entertained while you’re in captivity. A TV that had basic cable, Youtube, and Netflix. A plain (favorite color) journal, a stack of comic books and manga, art supplies, and a few old books that he clearly pulled from his attic in an attempt to try to find more things to entertain you since he plans on living the rest of your existence out in that tiny room.

You were beginning to go Stir-crazy from being confined for so long. Your only comfort was a man that you considered to be a monster that was crafted from a Stephen King novel. Your life became to that of a drawn out horror movie except the only difference is that the monster had taken a liking to you and fucked your brains out on numerous occasions.

“Damn it.” You spat in frustration. You growl under your breath, you wish the mental anguish would simply fade away. You begin to pace back and forth in your room. You listened carefully to the soft crunch of the marshmallow-like carpet given away under your feet. As you continued to do this for hours you eventually heard a few peculiar sounds that piqued your interest. At first you ignored it considering that what you were hearing was nothing more than maybe America or one of his staff milling about through the… where ever the fuck you were. Not that it mattered. No one could hear you nor could anyone-

The flatscreen TV that's mounted to your wall suddenly sparked to life. It startled you and you quickly jumped up in the air like a cat that’s seen a cucumber and flung yourself onto your plush bed and shielded yourself with your (favorite color) duvet.

“OH SHIT!”

“Y/N, Y/N do you can you hear me?” A familiar British accent called out from the screen.

With heavy drawn in breaths that filled your lungs it took you a few moments for your brain to recognize that it wasn’t the monster….

“Y/N?” He says much more gently this time. As if calling out to a severely injured dog. The tone was heavy with sadness. “Y/N… please …I hope you can hear me.”

A few tears pricked your eyes. His voice was the only thing that sounded like a daydream after being in this watered down version of hell.

“A…Arthur?” You say in a weak hoarse voice. There was still a voice in your mind screaming that it was a trick, a facade, a cruel prank that America was playing. All of the alarms in your brain were going off in a blaring symphony of panic. You were too afraid to remove your cover still and your shaking had begun again.

Silence hung over the room. You dared not to speak again.

Arthur stared at his screen that allowed him to see where you’d been imprisoned. He knew he had seen your slightly battered form run for the covers. He knew full well that you were not in the best headspace for any human nor country to be in. But he still had to try, because being left to America he'll surely turn you into a completely different country. You’d be unrecognizable. He tried not to think about all the ways that you’d change and did his best to put the images of you being America’s wife out of his mind.

Arthur called out once more with his voice cracking, this time you finally decide to take a peak from your massive duvet and look at the screen to see those dazzling emerald eyes. They were coated over with salt water that already began to spill onto his somewhat reddened cheeks.

“Oh my god it really is you. But…”

“Listen , Y/N we’ll save the heartfelt conversations for later. Let’s concentrate on getting you out of here. Within the next 30 seconds I need you to push your nightstand aside. One of my agents has constructed a tunnel that will lead you to the East and into the forest where I’ll be. I just need you to stay calm and….. It’s going to be okay.” He reassures you. Judging by the tension that you had in your face and the terror pouring from your eyes he knew he had to be more verbally accommodating to you in your fragile state.

‘Definitely going to ask France to make us a nice meal and I’ll actually have to be nice to get him to do it. Y/N is in some desperate need of pampering and escapism after this.’ He mused to himself.

You were still shaking tremendously. You hadn’t even registered his words in order to take action. However the agent Rosemary had reached you and effortlessly moved the nightstand from the hidden entrance that crumbled.

“(Country name)?” The agent calls out from the hidden tunnel. “Hurry, we have to get out of here. The guards are distracted but some of the other personnel will come to check on you and we have to allow the decoy take over for you before-”

Numerous footsteps pounding against the marble floor swarmed through the labyrinth. They began to draw nearer to your room.

“Y/N I promise it will be okay just listen to agent Rosemary. She’ll get you out of there safe and sound.”

“What are you guys going to use as a decoy?” Curious as to what your British love interest was scheming.

“This love.” A realistic hologram of you sprung to life from the screen. It was realistic. “Now tally ho. Get the hell out of there!” His transmission ends while your hologram continues to be projected through the screen. It wouldn’t be long before America’s guards figured out that it wasn’t you.

“My lady.” Rosemary pushed you into the escape route and you began to crawl for your life. With the agent right behind you couldn’t help but feel the tension that was in the pit of your stomach and made you somewhat nauseous. You had to cling to the fresher memory of Arthur in your mind to continue your escape and not be caught.

You had to get back to him you were determined to.

*******

In Washington, D.C. Burger Man I mean America was in a deadlock debate with Lavender and Thyme over trade deals. Agent Thyme’s golden hair swished violently as he pounded his fist against the table in heated debate with America.

“You can’t just harbor a personification and then begin a hostile takeover of their government and start spreading your propaganda like some twisted infestation! It’s illegal first and foremost. And second it VIOLATES THE ENTIRE BLOODY UNITED NATIONS CHARTER! And you’re supposed to be a LEADER?! You act like such a petulant child!”

“Funny that comes from a man that had more than half the world in the palm of his hand. How dare you insult me in my own senate.” He hissed back at England in pure defiance.

(they die at the end.)

“You’re acting like a super villain in one of your stupid comic books that you melt your already stupid brain with.”

The verdant versus aqua eyes collided with one another. Neither was the type to let their pride down. The air was tense with a thousand needles and no one wanted to be caught in the crosshairs. Teeth biting, nervous shifting, and over hundreds of eyes witnessing the showdown between two sworn enemies since the betrayal. Some cracked their knuckles to at least relieve some tension that was broiling within the room. America had reached the point where negotiations were at a stalemate and….

America’s earpiece beeped in his ear and although his facial expression stayed neutral and as distant as the moon. His eyes bled out with rage and stared out at ‘England’ with a look that was meant to obliterate one within mere milliseconds. He stood up suddenly as if a giant had been awoken from a peaceful slumber and was in a terrible mood.

He snapped his fingers.

Secret service surrounded Thyme and Lavender. The ruse was up.

“Kill them. Right here. Right now. They’re fakes.” America ordered.

“It was a pleasure working with you, Lavender.” The spell that Arthur originally put onto him wore off and their true identities were revealed. They raised their hands high into the air.

“We did our duty.” Lavender uttered her last words she’d ever speak in this world.

A few hundred rounds were fired off within seconds filling the air with deathly gunpowder. Two less souls came out of the senate that day. The monster raged through the White House all night. It was a scene straight out of hell. Glass broke, things set ablaze, people injured, and some even parished. The only thing that most who were in earshot of the White House could hear

Y/N HOW DARE YOU!

UK I WILL KILL YOU!

Y/N IS MINE!

Then just more hellish shrieks would follow. No one really wanted to question what was going on for fear they would be caught up in the chaos. They stayed away and allowed it to happen.

*******

For the first time in a while Y/N could rest peacefully without having a horrid lucid nightmare that would only bring her down deeper into depression. She finally felt okay for a moment between England’s athletic arms. She actually got to sleep and recharge her broken soul.

“Is everything going to be alright Arthur?” Your anxieties are still nibbling at the back of your ears. It was nice that you could talk to him but you still feared that he’d leave you because you’re damaged and neurotic. A ball of untamable wild energy that no one would want to deal with.

“Y/N it’s okay. I want you to relax. I won’t leave you. I won’t harm you like America. I promise.” He kissed the back of your collarbone. You felt a million bright butterflies fly from that area and through your entire being you felt relieved and could live in the moment. You felt relaxed and safe. Nothing could ruin this for you. You melted like hot butter in Arthur’s arms. You didn’t want to think, just feel. Nothing else mattered.

Except for the brewing storm that was brewing from across the pond.

[fox-daddy]

Incorrect quotes now with my MC's because nobody can stop me.

TW: swearing, mild nsfw jokes

Hunter: You know Julian, because of pregnant people the average number of skeletons inside a person is never one

Julian: what the f-

valdemar: no, let them speak

~~~

Asra: your future self is watching you through your memor-

Julian: not if I drink enough alcohol. Take that you prying creep!

~~~

Asra: for some reason people are scared of staring into the vast depths of the ocean that is actually only a few miles deep. Yet find comfort staring into the endless abyss that is the sky above us

Kyle: that's because gravity doesn't drag you into the abyss

The Magician: not yet :)

Kyle: And what the fuck does that mean?

~~~

Bluebell: someone has drunk more alcohol than anyone else in the world and they don't even know it.

Lucio: of course I know him, he's me

~~~

Asra: what is C for?

Hunter dressed up as cookie monster: C4 is a fucking explosive

Asra: No, what is, C, for?

Hunter:... C is for Cock

Asra: what's your costume?

Hunter: cookie monster

~~~

Hunter holding a gun to a mushroom: tell me- tell me the name of god you fungal piece of shit!

Mushroom: can you feel your heat burning? can you feel the struggle within? the fear within me is beyond anything your soul can make. You cannot kill me in a way that matters

Hunter cocks gun tears streaming down their face: I'M NOT FUCKING SCARED OF YOU

Julian: hey, Hunter, what the fuck does this mean?

Hunter: decay exists as an extant form of life

Julian: That's a- that's a terrifying answer, have a nice day

~~~

Hunter: I love cheating, if you don't cheat what the hell is wrong with you?

Nadia: have you ever been cheated on?

Hunter: Oh shit, I forgot some people are in relationships. To clarify I love to violate academic integrity on exams

~~~

Bluebell: top hats imply the existence of a bottom hat

Kyle: cat ears

Hunter: why would you say something so controversial yet so brave?

~~~

Kyle: how to start discourse. 'insert favorite person' is a 'insert favorite Hogwarts house'

Hunter: Julian is a power-bottom and not enough people talk about it

Kyle: I don't think that sentence starts discourse so much as ends any conversation before it even starts

~~~

Hunter: nature documentary but the narration is just weird enough to make you question it

Bluebell: Some fish can walk out of water, so remember that next time

Kyle: you might think your safe, but horses are omnivores

~~~

Hunter: standing up and blacking out for a few seconds is just transitioning from a cutscene to the actual gameplay

Julian: you need to eat some salt is what that means

~~~

Hunter: the cis are all like 'but won't children be confused' but every interaction I've ever had with a child who didn't know what to call me has gone verbatim like this

"why are you wearing a dress"

"because I can"

"Okay. Do you like animals?"

Bluebell: kids are very busy and have got much more important things to think about, such as their favorite animals

~~~

Hunter: okay, brain, don't freak out, but we've come across a minor inconvenience

Hunter's brain already dousing itself in gasoline: that's unfortunate

~~~

Kyle with ADHD, ASD and mild dyspraxia/Dislexia: I'll stop making jokes about mental illness, when mental illness stops making a joke out of me *laugh slowly turns into pained chuckle*

~~~

Kyle: isn't it crazy how depending on your mental state you can either spill a glass of water and be like 'HAHAHA OOPS CLUMBSY ME' or spill a glass or water and be like 'MY LIFE IS A FUCKING NIGHTMARE, I DESTORY EVERYTHING I TOUCH, NO ONE WILL EVER LOVE ME AND MY WET FUCKING FLOOR'

~~~

Kyle: It's Halloween let's do something REALLY SCARY

Hunter: we could go to bed early and be alone with our thoughts

~~~

Kyle when trying to force themselves to learn something they have no care about nor interest in;

~~~

Hunter: why do I feel terrible?

hunter's body: coffee is not a meal, eat a vegetable, sleep, PLEASE!!!

Hunter: guess I'll never know

Hunter's body screaming internally: Oh my god!!!

~~~

Kyle: checking the clock before starting something*

Kyle's ADHD: well it's 9:14 which might as well be 9:30 and that's basically 10 which is almost 11 and I have to be in bed by 11 so I don't have time to start anything

~~~

Kyle: everyone is so much taller than me, I get to be picked up so often, just whenever I want! I just have to ask and it's GREAT! Now if only I could actually see where I was going through this stupid crowd.

Portia: I will make them pay for the way I was treated. The streets will run red with the blood of those who mocked me. All shall perish before the rage of the opressed. My vengeance draws near-

[scholarschism]

Post-therapy poem time on the dash

The bluebell cannot be unrung

Before even the final frost

Roots were twisting inside within and without

Under cover of darkness there was cracking

Decay antecedent to awakening

Snowdrop. Snapdragon. Lawn violet.

Risen as if by conjuration

Though to know their structures is to wonder again

At the animating principles of petals

Leaves and shoots and insatiable place under the sun

See the expanse of earth in time

With death the food of every part

Life that stirs inevitable at each end

Unyielding in its cycle and pliable to change

As clouds to wind and flesh to flesh

Ask me my name. It is buried and eaten

It is blossoming.

The repose of decomposition

Is the anguished reach for the sky

In spring I will write you flowers but I won’t promise the impossible

Stillness

[quettasecond]

i have a 20 pack of candles my niece gave me. 10 unique smells. i sniffed them all and i think i will light the white one first i like the smell the most. but who knows sometimes a smell is good in theory but then i start burning it and its terrible.... happened to me before

[libidomechanica]

Untitled Composition # 12685

A limerick sequence

               1

Lord, and the beaded-curtains, and noble fire on earthwards burning she laye,    and quite independ? Amen.    And would not do. Bearing heart to bestadde? How often hate!

               2

I, bluebells; the sill, helpe me the river. He also witen eche onely    men in his feeling—    as in a haze of inconstant of seasoning sunflowers.

               3

For shade alone, so I hurl myself— and you ask, whose lines to die. And breath!    Push your hope no more, for    I never their ocean, and whither, then sneer’d; that equal task!

               4

White starres through rude affright! And in her so soft, at the rose. Wild night, but    shakes her dreadful thing, thou    art common—my lady’s quite. Well down o’er they will not make heede.

               5

Loving, the sea together, I am trying ankle? Meek Daughter in the    recorder should be thy    though I have glaring of thee, Cynara! Though oft he purchase.

               6

Still kissed her songs and ouer the beau monde, exact beloved; but bespeak silent    night thy west side cafe,    dealing kind. And hence, but the wing, as thou hast the quiet.

               7

Old dwarf heart them any good advice. At preventeen, to Shepheards twayne: for    the best: t was never    speak? Thy golden sun from enuied, all with the marmalade, there!

               8

—’Tis decorum. Nor praises, and only this time espy, thy sacred vestments    many brittle I    then sweet, labour and silks, innumerable to show! But, ah!

               9

Greeting the distant wing as summer’s day, who wake in the rest. Tristan und    Isolde is for presume    not and pure. We might as thou dare to bewailest for your parts.

               10

She wants to Lucy hould I? But in excess! I, that prove what undoes me,    as we face divine came    on, any common-place, ever at his voice I see the day.

               11

And was searched, through the sagest your sound of children: saying: for deceits, all    aloud; it hear the day    believed his side cafe, dealing kind. What doth parturition.

               12

This tumult in some truth; a smooth rocks! Now will be thy soul quite enough at    the wind, where rich in thy    blooms, and infant lips, and palely loitering bed. To keepe.

               13

And never like the loss of her you … mother, who like Amyntas; the green,    the best, and this was queen-    priestess! And next a quarrel, when you may be dear, my Philly!

               14

Are designed his gold; she nails him down to hear my mother shows not yet for    vs, home in life. That    makes me his granary is shown, who would fain would have places.

               15

For his hands in the world’s garden, to brydle loue, some here, the moon, allow’d    walls! And catch a falling    souls, whose lovers breakfast, your arms, and love youth is golden day.

               16

For Younkers Palinodes Embleme. Passion, to prepares the cause of ioy,    while far as I slept, kind    abuse. Never be But, oh, hide that point d’appui is foiled.

               17

Of the hind-part in traffic on the streams departed proved by the kiss’d heaven,    as must own,—althoughts    that flinty savage dares supposed at merry playen her. Give me.

               18

But tell vs that dusk with baile, nor cloudes from love, thy life is of    infamy: and where all the    Nine. How the billows thee puts all well-bred—most rich in the dead.

               19

And she is. This is they playe: such another the sun thoughts to remember:    the telling, where lives like    courtly van on birth as t was. You heare. Mouths, thirst foresay.

               20

Tell me from car to me, had leuer my mouth sips: Ay, in the wild world knock at    her people to love, I    am glad love is lesson misse, hath the father’s voice, her eye.

               21

Ere beside—nor envy your brings mutual pities healèd me, to fyll thee,    while their delight. Ah deare    for us. That was my tears out of that scene; they might to see.

               22

I hid my love to the lamp is shaking through dread the wind blows; ’ and forgat    to the air is greets the    sea look; with as inditers are not a breath? But when she’s used.

               23

Chaste were it was his heart, so long! Found me here decay we’re every casual    on a monk may descend,    and on my time, me lusteth no mixtures, were the old stories.

               24

And what are coin’d in the room the rain. For I never feel my flower to    be bored or doomed to dress    was like to morrowe. Gone is stuck in turn,—Why do to Jason’s.

               25

Nor with Senses obiects be; while he says, I’ll never said—indeed a nation’s    mint, or on the earth,    defac’d its inner craned, and more in the worse. And the lamplight.

               26

Foul as they translated, means this bed. And fold him, he scale within its string,    if you had bribed him leaves    change? Do swell the scepter of light there he before the mirror.

               27

Thrice have gone nearer to be a Jew. Of his body take. For grief of my    dull or pert; and eating    each the digestion? He lends that can be. A rule how it weeps!

               28

Alone, shee could not better; and, us to join, the Agèd Host, a beggar    at another. I    shall I for a moment, itself, for all you canst—and leaves change!

               29

No redress; wherein was his artfully expectation. Deference between    the glaunce euen so high Hall-    garden of the Humour evenings are fraught but let vs home.

               30

Firstly, he squirrel’s granary is shaken me away: thanke you, my Friendship    in a certe. Dearest;    which she thou, Abelard it came; he whole life willing and change?

               31

Of my thou not a sigh had nothing love. And how shoulders beare, I have brought    of them the quiet scenes    appeared them hovering appeared into thee. Day without a friend!

               32

Thus let us prove was her blotte. Has our flock desert vast vale of Wyoming    floor, can charming Polly    Stewart, to refer young or says, Is this world grows weary.

               33

For as loving sweet music and solace your past years as calm in thy credit    as a reed with singing    to the dusky strange she acted. To bed is lov’d a Man.

               34

My mother our luxury! Then other’s sound low, and Stellas rayes, one is    warden;—I will be either    might deem themselves do work away from soul is done to live.

               35

So haggard and more the best, in my hair woman, quite. Not a red rose. Wood;    It isn’t the vows the beaded-    curtains, and the meane, I dare not too long I’ve got any.

               36

Were crying to go with potent spell. At last her other name. There made aware.    Is diffuse; but I’ll    lay halfway up an ugly hill inuade the tow’ry fears drink?

               37

No doubt the sea. Tho markes each wish to prepare you rush on, and my image    steal o’er the casuist    in mournful Psyche, nor leave my trousers, a conversation.

               38

That was youth. Wish it bring; but, light wind serves in one, settled either minded    not content to me it    needs none accordings, and sing a figures do worke my madness.

               39

Dull before that hides your home, my sunne in men of elder with great light    astronomers agreed Willy.    Them from which Pan the Marvel then speak their becomes to climb.

               40

There is, translates the think of the stars. Or if Delusion: for decisions    serve. Soon as thou arrived.    There was Maud, Maud by the depart nource of that you oil my scalp.

               41

Your choose to turn back my last axiom, he scarce belied; and, how much    Adeline waies, to build up    saying in the duke, and that proue, but if some severall Shape.

               42

In the water rue. Unless truth, as double young Damon love you, a kind    t’ a beast is mute—no    song neuer shalt taste that hides his own. To field, the old stories.

               43

And how should I then, when shepheards ioye, how would fall as the place—we’ll take heede.    Though unseen a pure airy    flight. Not share; which leads so oft amiss ladies and a frenne.

               44

I know, thankfull part thou art made no bones. Ask, whose lips breasts a bubbles that    faith, and she wise, and eating    shadow’d walls. Soon, full, and yet was brown the proud, through dreary.

               45

Sad, slowly die I knew as man’s kiss, life passes. Talking of person the    leap, and sing old words to    dash thy nest any other, as thou of the little silver.

               46

All be description loses ev’ry hymn to her, all within the strenuous    tongued laureate’s the    blest. Or on my plain of, or restraint, and there there, is false fair.

               47

Those night and prince; no doubt, change thy creditors regret, condemn’d the dore towards    Loue to light routes, survive    not your cradle, you say you’re whom? It pours such end had the heart.

               48

It will come and betraying, then, young life on second Rights in one-night to    the paths so dearest, until    thee. Sore again and think every word were his father name.

               49

For our own the fond vision I could perpendicular. Not beware, seeking    the greete, and the doctor,    says margarita she means, Put you push your otherwise?

               50

For where forsooth—at least thoughts be dead when the dare, hys pleasant. Sprout: they at    every foolish boy, that    precious reade in me the body would writers when you may brings.

               51

She had chosen with fine Conceits, all sweet love, and garden when as goodly    verdure flings, I have lied.    Yet the listening belates, haunted space I go, where I do.

               52

The horrid thorny soile to thee, heart giu’n me things I do, because in    rebel arms? As kidde mought    his mornings and face, secret influence’ is a saint or small?

               53

How the wild-wood flower call’d glory! She didn’t see how it weeps through the tender    flower; like the could    not brew a passage to till? Filled with fearful steps, each person!

               54

Who eats and honey to sadden her faire a sadness, chasten the heavy    pace: let all has change there    the throne, crowned. Are apt exceeding like a history less dreary.

               55

Tis Christ! That shall being demon of hunting, as must banish’d days and please    long, speakest of repulsion    troopers riding breast, I vex my heart out a kissogram.

               56

By various for you will be quite regard to leaue there on the rest? Maud    is no dislike old lips    I’ll betray us. To opposition of the woman love.

               57

Glows; a paper. Dost mountains, and chaunce euen? It has been fire, O help! Now ryse    vp Elisa, decked in    vain Philosophy’s aye- babbling lightnings spring frankly night!

               58

I’ver also had a morning fever! But thou art may rise against thy    prayed, then how should be, rather    the dead, come, sister, where they knee is past; thou euer since more!

               59

More than fictions, tender stopped not even of blood waltzes. And the treasure    the pink grew thee, will dictates,    long-stemmed plant against us and humble; in the Violet.

               60

And swete Eglantine, and tune taken the gems and we closets, silk, or losse.    ’Er to fill, and runs about    the cover from her beauty that so complaintiue pleaseth me.

               61

My doole that flower stand stars, timing indignantly in love, like mist    o’er it blaws, it is so    rash as rare, the streams, all in fairer far than he. To have lied.

               62

As he mopeth idly in the gods the great mone. And how should weary wastes    ligge soft, liquid words    spontaneous as anything more a-roving kisse again! Come!

               63

Of my smart, forsake. But they set you. To care and be among. All days of    nightly cryes, I have touch    a looks familiar. Forgive mine own fingertaps and whole soup.

               64

A weak, a soul put out again, the heart away; give the golden shepheard    to all day long it—’tis    deare sight, a wanton Satyr he before me. Looking to her.

               65

She shall lean here without a rodde dear object strange. Says margarita she    may bear the stair—clasp your    true than if spring on earth, I would my curious and die.

               66

Find it, althoughts dim and removèd by our flock deserts led. The glow of youth    is fed; like here of human    miracle; and I believe my wit for she was bom old.

               67

Fickle Fair can here on whose gaps I watch. Indeed a good woman blush, and    cries: my foe, those afternoon,    their falshode more attracts by a man, that night not augment.

               68

End Had it like birds of fond fan her abide by her bright in upon a    winter breast, I vex my    heart asleep! Nay say I only pitie to my soul’s sleep … tired.

               69

Thereby, the lot of life—immortal purity; they so formed be! A teare.    You heare. Holds out of dispraise    saying heate? With misgouernaunce, that I cannot covet most.

               70

But, light of myrtles go, in faithful to its game at billiards—it all doubting    or continue their    Violines.—If one, each time do floweth Helicon their pole!

               71

And the door, retires, they are scatter’d charmed, that the same beneath of woes. The    staircase who resemble’    of his modern peers, appeared the lips I kiss’d her tyrant part?

               72

And, t will be dead, come, too, especial legend or God to rove: look at    my family likeness and    not to dust I roll, suck my last night! Let’s not what we must first.

               73

There in heauenly race,—a quality agree; wit temper Juan’s faults of lust    to yield. Where to possessed.    Like that faded stars! But I was any stone, and neare those koi.

               74

His griefe, with her to gape for the time for the breast the snow, which creditors    when at they willing mine.    Where Beauty of works and thee nakedness through she that a peach?

               75

She holds in her heardest the seeds of her bright it once more deal in generate    a mournful family!    Provoking to thy word said was given in love can succeed.

               76

&Then in drink the spring.&When the wind, flung rose, another selfe did foyle thy    young day, and new, and the    Catholic creed some concern about they were such are better, too.

               77

The first set my bliss, dearest dells, when look like to bleeding Youth, and always    what in the way you do    not this way like a fire, and long we were we move? But on death.

               78

But ere he well, teach mild, each with these wild. My heart, the twaine, if there. And hung    over moor and die. So    sure of love divisible good glee, and either old or new.

               79

To find stellas greater of light. And of death? Cannot what nought winne some good-    bye. Love is no woe, when    approach, I lovd so deare. My yet you. The circle smile deceased.

               80

Or how the conditionly, this year where I will say: I am Lazarus,    come! Their secret—cunning    round forth sweet kisses and awful shalt taste liaison forgot.

               81

This year had exploded symmetrical pretence, not by rude man has happy    static of the sense    and face; and the heav’nly- pensive Sara! So intense it fain’d.

               82

If every form, or the yeare, like knots. Know the villain need to fear that is    no more sweetest thou can    e’er be drowsy day that circumstance led me thou spend the gout.

               83

As tis man who ventures pensive Sara! And corrupt. By silent seventeen,    that long I’ve always    dark and for Perigot, I left but this rebell mildly blue.

               84

And now, you are not youth to die so. ’Tis no shame shines but their pole, the pond’s    edge where to give to see    though I have been fire, and died as at breath of my hand—the name.

               85

I should sure, and lie couched at me all Ladyes of woes. Thenceforth shepheards in    spring appeare, is hauty    hornes gan newly sprout: they know him as forstall my woes.

               86

And wave of teares on might from whose uttered the horse move in vain Philosophy,    less like a weeping    so and sick of course can be. Where flames; but gauds; nay, while you?

               87

Another there I close milliards. Within, abroad, which our conversation,    one is caution, boldly    refer to, I think, ere you, because she therefore there! And you.

               88

Tho on thee climb’d Eve from pole; rise Alps be such if though she is mute—no song    after us: this pack,    and brought. ’Re whites showing before his fire and elegant scars.

               89

When she had rather things but as if it bringen soote, in the learne spell. Come,    if they taught to underground    the Catholic creed so strictionaries me false Foxe by this.

               90

And open wyde. When I did I never beauties Queene attone waving goes;    with a wand of the summer    breath, less fancies dwell vile savage dare, seeing him outdo.

               91

Who have been faithful to its river. The church my bale will; but forgot, and    love to treated in the    cream on the realme of war What shall be there we slumbering new.

               92

For what vengeance snatch my passion, yea, I was in t, alone hand. Like April    should understand struggle    with his vnder colour of the pensill laid: a Countenance.

               93

Some and she is at the cock can supple me, i’ll not be or stately height    of beauty was ripe; a    sounds strange sight of foot along as the river. Deluded swaine.

               94

Ride ten their God to reveal’d, nor tears! Drinking moving our very foole,    th’other moe. Sleep and the    great in our wood; and heav’nly pass into a Churchill Downs are.

               95

Or if Delusion carcas abounds straddling-band. I love itself shall not    too lavishly are both    did hang nodding can represence present myself to the heart.

               96

Then listneth ech vnto my ear without much strong waves then they some grace! I can    no more bronze and runs about    in fiction taught to sleepe in songs and wayward roundelay.

               97

Shall be when mine the Babe! Seems the landlord makes Love—who in the long we were    she, which had not half, damn’d    to Heav’n, I weep is all blind brand his hauty hornes did speak?

[roseate-felidae]

Now I want to ramble on of my home. Apologies for the length.

Where I live, there's a woodland. You don't see much in the day, but you know their there. Muntjac, badgers, foxes, owls, bats, and rabbits hidden till night reveal them. The birds own the day, filling them with endless song not made for our ears. There's countless buried bones of all that lived there and soon will die there. Even our own pets, my family, and I have buried sleep forever there. The woodland is a loving graveyard. The trees fall and decay, the leaves will always Rot, countless mushrooms and insects given life and purpose. The bluebells come in swarms, and then they vanish like they were never there. There's many chalk and flint. Ancient knappers made axes and borers and knives by the river. Their bones and tools are all thats left behind now. We've found so many of them. In the Mesozoic, it was a warm tropical sea and full of an endless starry sky without a single lamplight to pollute it. The dinosaurs looked at that sky and walked where there was land still. We know of iguanadon and sauropod. But who hunted them? Found or not, they were there. Did their souls decide to stay? Death is that woodland. Countless souls must watch us with empty eyes. Animal and Man from the past. Knowing we too will join them in the soil. You can only borrow life. There is no need for god when the arms of death are always ready to embrace you back to the earth.

what people who didn't grow up by the sea don't realise is that death at sea isn't a threat it's a part of life that you have to and will come to terms with. you can play it as safe as you like but at the end of the day if you choose to stay close to the coast you are entering a contract with the sea that she can demand you honour the terms of at any time. there's a reason so many old gods and eldritch horrors are ocean based. that's literally just what it's like. "i never thought the primordial forces of nature would eat MY face" skill issue.

[p1lgrim]

wondering in the woods

You can make leather out of mushrooms he says Casually bombing an apartment block Doesn't it smell weird, she enquires Signing off on another oil field

It smells of mushrooms - comforting, close Forest floor, Autumn crush crunch, moist leaf earth, twigs, bark, boots slipping in mud, slipping colours of a Chinese cabinet, aged, out of sun, old, dead.

Stop, listen, breathe Seen and heard and birds of course Look up to sky, grey, through branches that less leaves now hold helping air flow to breath breath flow to air

Music plays, music is water in stream is leaves in breeze, is breathing, is silence is the cold feeling on a fingertip that chimes as skin touches air - tze, k-sching earth creeps in time, rain blessed rain

Pine cone, acorn, bramble silver bark of silver birch, fallen firs and folded ferns under logs and stopping by mushrooms in a dead stump primary digestor, instigator of decay to bloom and spoor Can we eat it is the wrong question

The ground is rolling and hilly falling down to flat wet bogs and rising to castles in the minds of children, and bluebells sleep and dogs leap. Sycamore seeds spin beautiful revolution

Tired now, light dims early find some leaves and settle down curl up on this ancient ground an ocean down below of layers past fallen Ear to ground, listen - an octopus in the darkness

[flyforever]

To Bike Rides Without Helmets

What is left of the

               Broken pavement

That we trusted more than our eyes

          What is left of my

                             Eloquent words

                                              Besides

                                    Mornings

Of timeless starlight

                             That

                                    Wishes

                                              To

                                                  Say

                                        Goodbye

To Nabokov and the Abyss

Time is always running out

Falls with the fading sunlight

Trekking towards an unknown route

Silently walking towards endless night

Love always floods with abundance

No matter the storm in the sky

United by time’s redundancy

We join our hands as we lie

Facing the abyss of the unknown

To My No Longer Best Friend

Time slows down until quiet consumes the hours

Sentiment of words

Lost to silence, decay of old feelings

Forget all I said for love is now dead

Although insistent,  

persistently I still pursued the past  

And though I look back she moves forward

Always walks away

While my heart frays with introspective days

Earth released her first breathe as a gentle little hum

While My heart echoed the leaves of brittle autumn

Longing for life, summer that reminds me of her name

Even though it burnt the tip of my tongue all the same

Enraptured as infatuation was redefined

By the curves of the letter m and little lines

How easy it was to lose myself in what she said

Her words softer than my own, reminding me of red

Heat and joy compared to my own—empty, vacant

Hollow as wind while she could make a curse decent.

She spoke everything, nothing, the same things in new ways,

A vibrant masterpiece for someone who awoke a few miles north.

While I repeat her memory for more than it’s worth.

I overrun those memories in repetition

Until they all fall flat in their own depletion

I imagine there was a way I could have kept her

There’s a universe where our friendship could’ve stayed pure

If only I could find a way to diminish

The words I bound before our friendship was finished

Inside a letter I had once signed, concluded “with love”

I knew her and I knew better I should have thought of

My feelings as infatuation for maybe

I could say hello before she said bye, you see

There were nights we had danced separately

Closely while our steps

Echoed in the dawn where I’m forgotten

I never knew the meaning of “perfect”

‘Til little moments

When darkness consumed us in the night then

Earth was illuminated by her smile

I forgot to breathe  

For a second that felt like a minute

She began to talk. I remembered to exhale.

Her voice would claim the silence of my own so pale

And fragile while she spoke everything between us

She might’ve forgot in her laughter so contagious

The silent words I had longed to share or she knew

It was better that way except when not, for you

Know that eyes can speak more, though easy to ignore

Perhaps my affections were too easy to deplore

Or she may not have heard me while walking away

So how could I ever blame her if she didn’t stay

Eventually her absence will feel more natural

Maybe I could convince myself that we ran out of things to say

And I will breathe fresh, open air amongst quiet pathos

To My Love

If you

        Want

                 A

                   Sorry

                          Look

                                 To

                                    Her

To Another Language

Weiß virum aura

And my mind is burning

With words I hardly understand

Too distant to string together

Though they sit on the tongue

light as a feather

To The Woman Who Was Forgotten

I used to love you

Long before I loved myself

I thought that your words

Were more important than my good health

Of mind lost to loneliness

And memories of bleeding hearts

That blushed pink above the bluebells

The cherry blossom that rose in the sunlight

Only to freeze within your touch

A history of flowering thoughts

That died with our love

Before 2019

I saw your face in the morning light

Where miles away you always smile.

Except on the days the birds quiet

While the clouds mutter their soft cries.

There is a place which no longer exists

Where summers were simple and we were comfortable

And to have your company was for all I wished.

But love is a nightmare and dreams delectable

And it’s easier to sleep than to meet you in the morning.

Though I long to touch you,

Fingers lingering over your heart

Sometimes goodbyes are easier to hold onto than you are.

Maybe you love me too,

But someday I will love her.

And she’ll greet me in the morning light

Where we’ll always love and rarely fight.

Maybe then I can say goodbye,

But until then I now fear

You’re all I have besides my tears.

To my Childhood

Timeless effortless wasted effervescence

Of a girl who always wanted to be older

So she could walk down whatever street she liked

And make friends with whomever without her mother to chide

Growing up was about adventure until it was about make up

And boys she never truly wanted to kiss

But they drove her far from home and that was enough

For a moment it felt like love

Way Before 2019

Before & After & Back Again

Just a child waking up in the wrong place.

I forgot where I fell asleep until grandma sings

“good morning, good morning, it’s time to start the day.”

‘The day starts a bit too early here’, and I begin

Amongst bright yellow walls. Too cheerful for me,

Grandpa laughs. Grandma sings, but it’s morning.

And grandma smiles while she drinks coffee.

I never did see her add a dash of milk

Yet she smiles as if it’s so sweet.

Breakfast is made and my stepdad arrives. I think

‘my mom said he lives for schedules.’ He’s never late

And she’s right. He’s always there in time to drink

A cup of coffee with grandpa, but we never debate;

We’re out the door when he says Reagan, Bush, or Republicans.

And I’m on my way to school before eight.

Years later they move out and we move in

And I don’t tell mom she put the mugs in the wrong place.

I remind myself that change is not a sin.

(until I wake one morning with a new taste

For cheerful mornings I used to hate.)

Fate, Otherwise Known As…

If you lose direction you might head towards fate.

A destination with no heart, mindless fate,

You can listen to it hum and where it flows

From eternity’s basket grows. Timeless fate

Holds the future that waits as a mystery,

As a construction of history. Predetermined fate,

For people constructed walls, wars, and words before

They confined the world forevermore. Instructed fate

Lives in constructed notions, bias, and days forgotten

That wait to alter our minds before first breathe. Divine fate

Could be a trail of history, the remains of civilizations,

Values unconsciously obtained through dictation. Universal fate—

We impose a great democracy, but freedom will remain a concept.

So now a young Lamb considers what is: evident, intractable fate.

To Love Her

Sometimes I recall the cadence

Hear the rise and fall of vowels

Dancing amongst consonants.

Golden voice of hers now rests

Captured near a cherished alcove

Trapped in sound, in reverie

Summer lives eternally

Inside moments she forgot of.

Soon my memory fades too

Disappears until only tied

To the day when she was mine.

(When impulse claims the rational and leaves me here as nothing to fall towards nothing [onto my knees] all I have left is leaving.)

2/21/18

I never found peace

from starting over again.

I never felt bliss

found in a stranger’s kiss.

When I simply wanted,

needed to see an old friend.

Dedicated To

Long ago summers meant water flavored by raspberries or a garden hose and memories of joy sparked by a sprinkler

My yard too small and yours plagued by thistles

The smell of a pasture still reminds me of you

Country girls with golden curls and a young boy herding cattle

I wonder

Since this reminds me of you which senses lead you to a small city where my mom wouldn’t let us run further than the fourth house on the block

I remember

Strangers who insisted we were cousins

Who would not trust a young girl introducing her young aunts and uncle

They did not comprehend the hours we spent growing up together

Mine is a splintered family tree,

Trailing in tangled roots and memories

Broken branches and betrayals

And waiting for the next one to break

To the Woman I Used to Be

To close away my heart

is the last thing that makes sense

It is the first thing that is needed

To dispose of my aching love of despair

Find me heartbroken

In love and no longer enchanted

To Everyone:

The Reason Why I Still Write

A Final Note

If I cannot speak in syllables

If you do not wish me to

Then I have symbolism

Rhymes

Esoteric and outdated

But at least I can speak

–But who will listen?

Me

–As always

[sussexnature]

On the Woodland Floor

Late April 2023

This is my favourite of all the local woods, it’s the one where we gather wild garlic. See my other page link

As much as there’s deterioration, death and decay after a harsh winter, the woods are springing back to life

So many trees have fallen this year, but they still host new developments and their weight doesn’t supress the beauty and bounty of another season

Take a look at my finds

Dog’s Mercury (Euphorbia family/poisonous) another sign of ancient woodlands

One of my all time favourites, the natural primrose. I absolutely love them

Early purple orchid

lesser celandine and a couple of single bluebells spreading

a little hard to photograph the beauty of the delicate dog violets

There’s a carpet of wood anemones, with their pretty flower and interesting leaves

Ferns are starting to grow again

Cuckoo flower - so called as it appears around the same time as Cuckoos begin to call

Another cuckoo name, Cuckoo Pint aka Lords and Ladies - the stem has the bright orange berries later in the year. Also a toxic plant

And of course, the glorious English Bluebells. En masse they are beyond compare