#row row row your boat poem

[incorrectgliyeraba]

Galinda: How do I tell Elphie I like her? Fiyero: Just tell her? Galinda: No. It needs to be special. Fiyero: Write her a poem. She likes poetry. Galinda: Like what? Fiyero: Roses are red. Violets are blue. Guess what? My bed has room for two. Galinda: No. Fiyero: Okay, how about: "Twinkle twinkle, little star, we can do it in a car."? Galinda: No! Fiyero: Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream. Merrily, merrily, merrily, I can make you scream. Galinda: Absolutely not! Fiyero: You're right. That last one is edging dangerously close to serial killer territory.

[thenumberhuntress]

Yuu: Okay, guys

Yuu: I want to ask Rook out, but what should I say?

Jack: So you want it to be romantic

Jack: Like a poem of something?

Deuce: Roses are red, violets are blue

Deuce: Guess what, my bed has room for two

Yuu: Oh my gosh, no!

Ace: Twinkle, twinkle little star,

Ace: We can do it in my car

Yuu: Stop it, please

Epel: Tow, row, row your boat, gently down the stream

Epel: Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, I can make you scream

Yuu: Are you serious?

Epel: That one can be used for murder

Yuu: Why did I even bother?

Sebek: Honestly, what did you expect from us?

[lild00td00t]

Hi, I hope you are doing well! Can I request headcanons on how Crocodile, Buggy, Mihawk and Doflamingo would propose to their s/o or how they would react if their s/o was the one to propose to them? (Which ever you feel like is fine! :))

Have a great day!

One Piece War Lords: Proposing to their S/O

This was so adorable thank you for requesting the War Lords!! I’ll have to write a part 2. Buggy was honestly my favorite for a bit… 👉🏻👈🏻 but these are gonna be so HELLA friggin cheesy. I’m a hopeless romantic.. so please… COURT ME LIKE WE’RE IN PRIDE AND PREJUDICE.

Buggy

• He’s so nervous, his hands are clammy, even on the inside of his gloves sweat is lining along the fabric of them. He’s talked it over to himself multiple times, rationalizing the best and worst case scenario.

• He can’t help but melt when he sees you with the promise ring he gifted. He sweats bullets when you tease him about getting married… at dinner he nearly choked, and poor Mr.3 nearly had a heart attack just trying to dislodge the food that got caught in his throat. But he felt like that a majority of the times you discussed it. Like something was lodged in his throat and cutting off his air.

• So when you’re watching the crew bring a haul back on the ship, hands on your hips in a relaxed stance, you barely notice when he slips a ring on your finger, and he discreetly prays you don’t say anything about it until you screech and throw your arms around him, his body probably splits in 2 out of shock- this poor man -

• “ How does it feel knowing you’re going to be married to the future pirate king ?! Flashy ?! As it should feel?! “ Then the second you romanticize over the idea he practically hemorrhages 🥲

Mihawk

• The most poetic. God - he probably leaves you little poems every where, and they’re all based on you <3

• Your dates are so adorable. Like picnics, or going on row boats. It’s so quiet on the water, so you don’t notice when he slips down on one knee, clasping your hands in his while presenting a ring.

• You nearly flip the boat when you finally comprehend what’s happening but luckily your better half is much more calm and collected.. he was prepared for this reaction.. atleast he thinks he was -

• He kisses your knuckles, then overlaps your hands with his and holds them to his heart

• “ It seems as though the love saga of my poems will continue until death do us part…“

Crocodile

• Posessive..

• He truly is materialistic and is telling the truth. You genuinely will get what you want. But he can see it in your eyes that you’re not after his money, or his valuables or even his status. He can see the way you adoringly look up to him when he talks. And he’s not used to such an innocent form of love you offer.

• He feels that you must be protected, for what you make him feel is vulnerability. Which scares him. Because no one has ever made him feel that way before. So when the time is right, most likely on a starry night when you’re on a walk he’ll stop, just long enough to kneel and pull out the box, just long enough for you to realize what he’s doing. And with that, he confesses his love

• “ With this ring, you are mine.. whatever you want you can have. You will always be treated with my respect and my love, nothing will ever be enough to satiate how I feel for you. No amount of gold compares to that ring on your finger, for it holds the greatest power in all the world.. my promise to you. “

Doflamingo

• Like crocodile he’s possessive.. but with a sweet?? Spin ?? To it ???

• The moment he slips the ring on your finger he brings your hand to his lips for a sweet kiss, giving you that bone chilling smile while keeping his lips pressed to your skin.

• He doesn’t make a big, fancy show out of it. Because he knows that you don’t need everyone to know. It’s obvious that you’re his

• You listen when he talks. You’re never put off by his nightmares or bad moods. You urge him to talk about his brother and family. You talk about starting a new one… as a second chance.

• “ A second chance for the Heavenly Demon.. “ he thinks to himself, lost in thought. You weren’t scared to say that he was flawed, but it didn’t matter, because you could work on it together

• “ As long as you are mine, you will be taken care of and no one, I mean no one, will ever mistreat you ever again, lest they want my wrath… “ And he means it. He means every word of it. He would wage wars in your name, bring cities to the ground, and split the ocean in two if he could, unlike crocodile, who is alittle more materialistic with his promises. <3

[frost-queen]

Valentine's with Anthony bridgerton

Anthony would have prepared everything for the day. I'm talking weeks of planning ahead in secret.

Stressing the evening before to make sure everything was in order. Annoying his siblings with it, who only wanted Valentines to be over at this rate.

When the sun had risen, he would keep you in bed for as long as possible.

Breakfast in bed, snuggling, hugging, kissing 🩷 enjoying every second of you.

Rose petals leading from the bedroom to downstairs.

He'd force his siblings... or some of them to help for his perfect day.

Make Francesca play a beautiful piano play. Let Hyacinth and Gregory be hosting guests. Having nagged Benedict's ears off to help him write a poem for you.

Serenading it with shaky hands and a trembling voice.

Lot's of hand kisses, touches.

The entire day was dedicated to you.

A stroll around the park where you'd end up at a picnic.

Anthony feeding you strawberries with chocolate. Sweet words and constant compliments.

Ending up cursing at some pidgeons that came stealing some bread. Waving his arms around in anger at your delight.

Needing your constant reminder that it was alright. That it was already a perfect day for he would take every little slip up as a failure.

Forehead kisses, neck kisses, hand kisses. Tender kisses on your lips. All smiles and lovey dovey eyes.

This man loves his wife and he isn't shy to parade you around.

Perhaps a boat ride with Colin rowing if everything went right.

Ending the evening with a dance. A private dance at the Bridgerton household. Not wanting to share you with any of his other siblings that wished to have a more upbeat dance with you.

Asking you constantly if you enjoyed the day and if you were still happy with him. He is a puppy that needs constant praising.

Ending the night with passion.

[bridgertonpixies]

Colin: How do I tell Penelope I like her?

Benedict: You could just tell her?

Colin: No, it’s PENELOPE, it needs to be special.

Benedict: Why don’t you write her a poem?

Colin: Like what?

Benedict: I’ve got this. Roses are red. Violets are blue. Guess what? My bed has room for two.

Colin: Absolutely not.

Benedict: Okay, how about: “Twinkle twinkle, little star, we can do it in a car”?

Colin: No! You’re meant to be good at writing poetry!

Benedict: Wait, I’ve got it for real this time: “Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream. Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, I can make you scream”.

Colin: NO!

Benedict: You might be right. That last one is edging close to serial killer territory.

[city-of-ladies]

"In the mid-1700s, a seawoman in Iceland named Björg Einarsdóttir composed a poem teasing men on her boat for their weak rowing:

Do row better my dear man, Fear not to hurt the ocean. Set your shoulders if you can Into harder motion.

Einarsdóttir was not only a talented poet but an excellent fisher. She often caught more fish than other crew members, and people believed that her ability to lure the animals was supernatural. When she was dying, she reportedly passed on this uncanny skill to a farmer by writing a poem about him catching trout.

Her work at sea may seem unusual. After all, fishing is generally considered a man’s job. But recent work by an American researcher, Margaret Willson, suggests that Einarsdóttir was one of hundreds of Icelandic women in the 18th and 19th centuries who braved towering waves and icy waters to catch fish. Willson’s team combed through historical archives and publications to gather examples ranging from a female captain who led crews made up entirely of women, to expectant mothers who rowed late into pregnancy.

The sea “wasn’t a male space,” says Willson, a cultural anthropologist at the University of Washington in Seattle and a former seawoman. “It was not a feminist act in any way for them to go to sea.” It was just part of everyday life."

[cometblaster2070]

Apple: How do I tell Darling I like her? Raven: You could just tell her? Apple: No, it's DARLING, it needs to be special. Ashlynn: Why don't you write her a poem. She likes poetry. Apple: Like what? Briar: I've got this. Roses are red. Violets are blue. Guess what? My bed has room for two. Apple: Absolutely not. Briar: Okay, how about: "Twinkle twinkle, little star, we can do it in a car."? Apple, horrified: No??? Briar: Wait, I've got it for real this time. Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream. Merrily, merrily, merrily, I can make you scream. Apple, Ashlynn and Raven: NO! Briar: You guys might be right. That last one is edging dangerously close to serial killer territory.

[sylenth-l]

Did someone order a horrendously down bad poem from Felwinter's pov? No? Yes you did :))) I think you may need to sit down for this one

(also I am currently reading The Tale of Genji, which has many a beautiful love poem in it—and I couldn't resist adding a line from my favourite in here <3)

the softened edge

Snow drives down and settles, soft

On the sharp mountain stone

But remember, when sent on a knife-wind

these jaunty, fluttering flakes

may cut you to the bone.

One ought to see:

how these melting flurries die

how they wax and wane

how they will return to the sea

and the bitter winter sky.

I'll now put aside my pen, love.

Ah, how boundless, how clear is the air

that surrounds us at the top of the world?

All that drifts through it are whisps of cloud and birds.

I put aside my pen to share, and make sense of,

Your burning boundlessness of mind

The clearness of your eye,

Because I cannot capture you in rhythmic verse alone.

Your soul abounds. It spreads its wings and soars.

Each feather of that bird must be but a multitude of thoughts in your clever head

Each cry from that beak a mere whisper from your eternal mouth

And those whisps of vapour, surely, that must be me.

I cannot put aside my pen until I have you written in the stars, love.

I sit, I watch you,

Holding my book for cover,

And you do not notice, engrossed in your mind as you are.

I keep my pen in my hand, distraction,

twilight glinting off its metal nib through the window

And you hold your own, filled with twilight ink,

your fingers stained with it,

your own book smudged with it.

I hold my book as cover for my brazen eyes

and yet I see you there, reclining:

The fullness of your shoulders, the slope of your back,

you lay in the bed, the thinker, perfect.

The heart-stained sheets around your waist.

The orange pillow behind you, sagging slowly.

All I can see is the burnished sun setting beyond the snow-capped peaks.

There is not enough oxygen up here for me.

I cannot set aside my pen until the star charts show your form in constellation, but I am running out of ink.

I used it all to paint the fathomless depths of your eyes.

And while I was distracted you came close

and tried to warn of danger

But, perhaps, I think you are the true danger:

your hands are near.

Your fingers sink into fur

do you think it is snow?

Or do you somehow seek warmth?

You are so rash. You are the sun-bird.

I have little warmth to give, yet you persist,

and you are more dangerous than a snow bridge.

You are here, and proud of it, and I cannot set aside my pen.

We have spoken much. Recited ancient history,

performed ancient literature.

I should not know poetry.

And yet, I see a verse, and I am struck, when you are gone—

how I wish to see the little boat she of Ise rows

as you fly beyond the mountains without me.

I cannot bear not knowing when I shall see you again.

But back you paddle,

radiant, rising,

and I should not know poetry.

But you have given me a pen.

But, I suppose

the most human thing of all

is the attempt to write the knowledge

of seeing another's soul.

Aaaaaahh you actually did it!!! Yes, it was my order and I... indeed need to sit down... or better lay down actually...

Thank you so much for sharing, that's beautiful! 😭💙 Maybe there's something wrong with me, but to me it doesn't sound down or sad, quite heartfelt, wholesome and full of love actually?? (says the person found curled on the floor in the pool of tears)

[exhausted-think-bucket]

The Beatles and Leonard Bernstein

Daddy loved the Beatles, too, which made me particularly happy. In the swimming pool the following summer, he came up with a third part to “Love Me Do,” so that he, Alexander, and I could sing the song together in three-part harmony, right there in the corner of the deep end. On one of his Young People’s Concerts, Daddy explained the A-B-A structure of sonata form by singing a Beatles song. Oh, how the girls in the audience squirmed and squealed as he accompanied himself on piano, singing “And I Love Her” in his not-so-McCartneyesque voice! He must have known he was onto something, because he began regularly incorporating the Beatles, and other pop music, in his Young People’s Concerts, to illustrate his various points. It kept the kids in the audience interested, just as it had for Alexander and me. (We, and later Nina, were in effect the ongoing guinea pigs for Daddy’s Young People’s Concert ideas.) John Lennon was Daddy’s favorite Beatle, as he was mine. We were both enchanted by Lennon’s book of poetry, “In His Own Write,” and pored over it together. Daddy invented a singing game for Alexander and me to play with him while the three of us lay wedged into the hammock under the big maple tree after dinner. We would invent a round, à la “Row, Row, Row Your Boat,” using Lennon’s poem “The Moldy Moldy Man.” Whoever started the round got to choose what kind of melody it would be: sad, perky, waltz, military. After the first line — “I’m a moldy moldy man…” — the second person had to come in, echoing person number one. Then the third person would come in. The fun of the game was, of course, that you couldn’t possibly repeat the line you’d just heard while simultaneously listening for the next one. It was deliciously hopeless, and a raucous shambles every time — always punctuated at the end by person number three dolefully singing the last line all alone after the other two had finished: “… I’m such a humble Joe.” Eventually, word got back to John Lennon — or to his manager or press agent or somebody — that Leonard Bernstein was thinking about possibly setting some of the “In His Own Write” poems to music. This led to Daddy being invited to meet Lennon backstage during a dress rehearsal for “The Ed Sullivan Show.” It was by now the summer of 1965, and the Beatles were returning to the U.S. to make their highly anticipated second Ed Sullivan appearance. Naturally, our father asked if he could bring his two older children with him to the rehearsal.

- "Famous Father Girl", Jamie Bernstein - 2018

Here is Leonard Bernstein being enchanted by The Beatles, in Inside Pop: The Rock Revolution, 1967.

Even though his viewpoint is understandably informed (and thus imo limited) by his classical background, he appreciated pop music a lot more than others his age at the time did.

I love everything about this, but honestly, to hear my favorite 20th century composer comparing Paul McCartney to Schumann is just...wild.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Now I’m Covered In You [Chapter 4: Midnight]

Series summary: Aemond is a prince of England. You are married to his brother. The Wars of the Roses are about to begin, and you have failed to fulfill your one crucial responsibility: to give the Greens a line of legitimate heirs. Will you survive the demands of your family back in Navarre, the schemes of the Duke of Hightower, the scandals of your dissolute husband, the growing animosity of Daemon Targaryen…and your own realization of a forbidden love?

Series title is a lyric from: Ivy by Taylor Swift.

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+), dubious consent, miscarriage, pregnancy, childbirth, violence, warfare, murder, alcoholism, sexism, infidelity, illness, death, only vaguely historically accurate, lots of horses!

Word count: 6.1k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @borikenlove @myspotofcraziness @ipostwhatifeel @teenagecriminalmastermind @quartzs-posts @tclegane @poohxlove @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @chainsawsangel @itsabby15 @serrhaewin @padfooteyes @arcielee @travelingmypassion @what-is-originality @burningcoffeetimetravel @blackdreamspeaks @anditsmywholeheart @aemcndtargaryen @jvpit3rs @sarcastic-halfling-princess @flowerpotmage @ladylannisterxo @thelittleswanao3 @elsolario @tinykryptonitewerewolf @girlwith-thepearlearring @minttea07 @trifoliumviridi @deltamoon666 @mariahossain​ @darkenchantress​ @doingfondue​ 

Let me know if you’d like to be added! 💜

It paints you like a canvas: sunlight, candlelight, sunlight again.

Two days after the miscarriage—the stillbirth, actually, the delivery, the beginning and the end all at once—you are searching the halls of Westminster Palace, the train of your gown dragging on the floor. It’s just a little too long for you now; it had been tailored to accommodate the additional weight and inches of pregnancy. And the court is just like they were before. They gawk, they jabber amongst themselves, but they can’t seem to think of a single word to say to you. Well…there is one exception.

“Sweet Jesus, what are you doing here?!” Nico exclaims when she rounds a corner and spots you. She rushes over and takes both of your hands in her own. “You look awful, you must be ready to drop over and sleep wherever you fall. Come on, I’ll walk you back to your rooms—”

“I can’t stay in bed for another second. I’m losing my mind. I’m just lying there, useless, staring up at the ceiling thinking about...everything.” The baby. The throne. Aegon. Aemond.

“Oh,” she says, sympathetic and yet proud. She sweeps back loose strands of hair from your face. “You have too much fire in you for that, I suppose. I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s a shame you were born a woman, you could have ridden into battle and butchered people and put all that ruthlessness to good use.”

“Being a woman didn’t stop Boudicca.” And she wasn’t just a woman. She was a wife, a mother.

“And where did that get her?” Nico retorts with raised eyebrows. “Nowhere enviable.”

You can’t think of a clever response. “Would you happen to know where Aemond is?”

“Not presently. He’s been looking in on you, you know.”

You do know: you’ve glimpsed him in the doorway, caught his whispers with the physicians and the midwives and your secretless English ladies. “I need to speak with him about something. To…” You pause. You can’t tell Nico about the poem that’s now hidden in the trunk at the foot of your bed; but you can tell her something else that’s true. “To thank him.”

“He’s been distraught,” Nico says, her voice low. “Quiet, secluded. Even more than before.”

As usual, she sees too much. “Yes.”

“He cares for you. Quite a lot, I think.”

“I’ll check the courtyard,” you say, hoping to change the subject. “Maybe he’s training there.”

“Do you want me to go with you?”

“No, I think I can manage.”

“What if you pass out and end up out in a field somewhere covered with snow? What if you find a boat and row yourself back to Navarre? What if you’re eaten by wolves?”

“Send out a search party if I’m not back in an hour. But don’t invite Daemon. He’d drag me headfirst into the lair.”

“Alright,” Nico relents, touching your hair fondly again. “One hour. And I’ll chew my nails to bits the whole time.”

“As long as they’ve grown back by the wedding.”

She beams, white teeth and starry eyes. When she at last marries Daeron in August she will be another princess from the Continent, another thread in the Greens’ tapestry. She will be a lot like you…except that she will be in love with her husband. And she will be able to give him children.

But Aemond’s will come before them in the line of succession, you think, with a mournfulness that shocks you. The sons he has with whoever he ends up marrying, Helene of Austria or Beatrice of Naples or Anne of Bohemia. Some other woman, some other future, parts of him I’ll never know.

“I want you to help me choose every detail,” Nico says. “From the food to the fashion.” This is how she plans to distract you from your own misery. And the Duke of Hightower will indulge her: with every pregnancy you lose Nico becomes more relevant, and in any case Milan is a greater ally than Navarre. If the Holy Roman Emperor’s daughter ends up crossing the English Channel, she will eclipse you both.

“I’ll endeavor to not be eaten by wolves until August,” you tell Nico, and then head outside into the courtyard.

Aemond isn’t sparring there with Sir Criston Cole; with the exception of a few amorous couples strolling through the powdery white snow, the courtyard is empty. You pass next through the palace gardens, frozen and naked, their treasures—angelica, feverfew, St. John’s wort, betony, chamomile, rosemary, pennyroyal—long-since plucked and dried and stored away for winter. Aemond isn’t there either, and he isn’t in the royal stables when you enter them, horses chomping noisily on oats and hay.

You go to Vhagar’s stall and she pops her great shaggy head out to greet you. “Hello, you big monster,” you murmur, smiling. You run your palm down the white stripe of her blaze. She’s killed people, and everyone knows those stories; she stomped one man to death and kicked another in the jaw, trotting away and leaving him to drown in his own blood. That was before Aemond tamed her when he was still a boy. He mellowed her, or she mellowed for him, and however it happened they’re both better off for it. She’s a weapon, the same as his sword or his strategies. She has a role to play in the Greens’ battle for the throne as well.

There’s rustling from Sunfyre’s stall, too loud to be a rat or a bird. You cross the aisle and peer inside. There on the floor, half-covered in straw, is sprawled your husband. Sunfyre looks passively down at him, stems of hay sticking out like porcupine quills from his muzzle.

“Aegon?!”

“Shh!” he pleads, waving one hand drunkenly. His white-blond hair falls over his face like a veil. “I’m hiding.”

“From who?” But the answer to this is obvious; you know before he says it.

“Grandsire. He’s furious, he’s a demon. He’ll have me drawn and quartered.”

“What’s he so upset about?”

“Oh, the same old thing, I’d imagine,” Aegon says vaguely. His shortcomings, his embarrassments. Then his murky ocean-blue eyes focus a bit and his voice goes tender. “Are you in pain?”

“I’ve had a lot of wine. It helps some.” Takes the edge off, smooths down the fangs, dulls the knowledge that parts of you are still collapsing down to fill the space where your child once lived. Blood drains away, blood fills up again, blood readies itself for the inevitable next attempt.

“Good,” he says, though uncertainly. His sentiment is clear, but he doesn’t know how to express it.

“Have you seen Aemond?”

“Not today.”

You sigh. “Never mind, then. I’ll keep looking.”

“Should you be running around the palace like this?”

“I haven’t done any running in a very long time. And I’m confident I can find my way back to bed when I need to.”

Now Aegon is gazing up at the stable ceiling, studying eaves and bird nests like constellations. “It should have been him,” he exhales like a confession.

“What?”

“Aemond. It should have been him. The one to shoulder the responsibility, to reign. I don’t belong someplace where people watch me. I have nothing to show them that they want to see. I belong someplace warm and wild, someplace I can disappear. Is it such a crime to not want to be held to a higher standard than an inconsequential man? Is it such a crime to not wish to be remembered? I never asked to be the heir. Not even the king wants me to be the heir. How am I the one in the wrong here?”

“I think many of us wish for things we cannot have,” you reply morosely.

“We could have them,” Aegon counters. “If we ran far enough.”

“That’s a coward’s way out.”

“I’d rather be a free coward than a jailed prince. Or a dead one.”

As if to emphasize his point, you spy something odd about his saddle, hanging from a massive iron hook on the stable wall. You move closer to scrutinize it. Then you return to Sunfyre’s stall. “Someone cut your stirrup,” you say, frightened. “Before the Christmas boar hunt. It’s sliced clean most of the way through and then the rest of it must have ripped as you were riding.”

Aegon squints up at you. He’s mystified. “Why would someone do that?”

Your exasperation—your contempt, not for him but for his failings—must show on your face.

“Please don’t look at me that way,” Aegon says. “Not you. Mother always loved Aemond more, Father always loved Rhaenyra, Grandsire loved the throne. You are the only thing I’ve ever had that’s supposed to be mine.”

And now you’re the one who is imagining a traitor’s death: hanged momentarily, cut down and thrown onto a table, drawn open like a gutted animal as the crowd’s screams mingle with your own, dissected into quarters once your belly is sufficiently emptied. Because surely you’re the worst sort of traitor there is. “You must be more careful,” you implore Aegon. And he smiles; he takes this as a token of affection.

You finally find Aemond somewhere you should have suspected. It’s where people go to find peace, solitude, wisdom. He’s sitting in a cascade of kaleidoscopic light pouring in from the stained glass windows, scenes of King Arthur and Saint George, lovers and swords and dragons. You slide into the pew, cool austere wood. The small private chapel is abandoned except for the two of you. On the altar is a cross: blood, pain, sacrifice, redemption. Aemond has his hands folded and propped on the back of the next pew. He stares straight ahead, grim and silent. He must know you’re there, but he doesn’t make any sign that he does.

“I don’t mean to interrupt,” you say.

“You’re not interrupting. I was just speaking to God, but I’m finished now.”

“Do you believe he can hear us?”

“I used to.” Still, he keeps his eye on the altar. Flecks of luminance pepper his skin: gold, ruby, emerald, sapphire. “You’re wearing green,” he marvels. He can see you well enough for that, a blur on his periphery.

“Yes. Like ivy.”

And only now does he look at you, afraid and yet with fragile hope.

“Aemond,” you say softly. “I didn’t know.” I longed for it, but I didn’t know.

Long seconds tick by, ten, twenty, a hundred. “I have envied Aegon my entire life,” he says at last. “I have felt that I was more suited to be the firstborn, to be the heir. I have watched him squander opportunities and defile morality and bring nothing but heartbreak to my mother. I have worked myself to the bone to prove myself worthy of what he was freely given. I carry scars in the shape of his absence. I have always envied Aegon. But never more than the day I watched him marry you.”

You move without thinking, reaching for his hands and interlacing them with your own. “Please don’t hide from me anymore. I can’t endure it. Not added to the weight of everything else.”

He feels your cheeks and forehead, his brow crinkled with hushed concern. “You’re in pain.”

“I was alright when I left my bedchamber. Now…” Now the cramping is very bad again, and the strip of thick linen folded between your legs is nearly soaked through with blood, and your mood is sinking; you feel shaky and insurmountably sad, like you could rupture into tears at any moment.

He is distressed. “Why did you exert yourself like this?”

“I had to find you.”

He stands and offers you his arm. “Then now that you have, allow me to escort you back to bed.”

“And you’ll stay for a while?”

He smiles, warm, a flicker of candlelight in a dark room. “I’ll stay for as long as you’ll let me.”

You walk very slowly together, you clutching his forearm, Aemond distracting you with English legends: myths, monsters, men. But he does not speak of children. Westminster Palace is frenzied when you step inside, courtiers rushing around and hissing gossip back and forth to each other. Greens and Blacks appear to be equally scandalized; you wonder what has happened. As you and Aemond make your way down a hallway—your steps halting and dizzy—Prince Daemon sails by wearing a cruel smirk, sharp, delighted, Scottish deerhounds loping alongside him. And then you peek into the Great Hall and you see them: the Montfords, Lady Joanna’s parents and uncles and her handsome, ambitious brothers. They’re all beaming and radiant, though they really have no reason to be, now that Aegon is long past bedding Joanna and the Montfords can no longer call upon the Duke of Hightower for any exceptional favors. Come to think of it, you haven’t seen Joanna since around the time Nico arrived in London, since August, since you discovered you were pregnant again. That was five months ago. The Montfords are passing around an infant swaddled in green cloth, showing him off to the other powerful families of Southern England, accepting compliments and proposals of betrothal to wealthy newborn daughters. From what you can tell, the child is fat and mewing and…and…

You gasp, and Aemond swiftly directs you farther down the hallway before anyone notices you watching. He says nothing, but you can read the shock and fury on his face. Because Lady Joanna Montford’s infant is a healthy living boy with silvery white hair just like Aegon’s. Because her child is a Targaryen.

There are yelps and whimpers coming from Aegon’s bedchamber. Somebody must have found him hiding in the stables after all. The door is open. Inside the Duke of Hightower has backed Aegon into a corner and is slapping him: his head, his face, his hands when he tries to shield himself. Aegon’s pale skin is freckled with angry pink welts, his hair in disarray. There are still bits of straw knotted in it.

The Duke of Hightower seethes: “To do this, to have a bastard before you’ve secured the succession! It’s a disgrace! You have muddied the waters yet again, you have undermined certainty when we so desperately need it, when all of our lives depend on it! You should be putting every last ounce of the miniscule effort that you possess into producing a legitimate son with your wife—!”

“Grandsire, she’s not capable of it!”

Then they see you, and Aegon has the decency to cover his face in shame; but the Duke just glares at you, as if he wouldn’t mind hitting you too, as if you are dangerously close to becoming an enemy.

~~~~~~~~~~

Two weeks after the miscarriage, the royal family has gathered for a private dinner. The occasion is Daeron’s sixteenth birthday, although the king mentioned it once and then seems to have promptly forgotten again. He is admiring a collection of tiny woodcarvings of horses that Joffrey has made, praising them as if they are great treasures, handmade tapestries or poems or blades. Alicent, much to the contrary, fawns over her youngest son. She frets with his curly white-blond hair—trying to make it lie neatly, a pointless aspiration—and asks Nico about wedding plans. Nico is effervescent, bubbling over with enthusiasm for fabrics, colors, cakes, flowers.

Aegon sits to your right, Aemond to your left. Your husband is drowning himself in wine and peering blearily down at the trappings of the table: duck, mushroom pasties, spinach tarts, salmon pie, bread, and makerouns of course, Daeron’s favorite. Aemond doesn’t say much, but he ensures that your cup stays full of apple cider and your plate piled high with winter delicacies.

“I can’t,” you complain when he serves you another spinach tart. You’re still bleeding, although it has lessened considerably. You still have very little appetite. Weight has fallen off you like leaves from autumn trees since you lost the baby, a fact that no one seems to have noticed except Aemond.

“Try,” he replies, and slices you a portion of duck too, the browned skin crackling and shiny with grease. Across the table, Daemon and Rhaenyra exchange fleeting caresses and gazes warm with desire. Jace chats politely with Baela, Luke giggles with Rhaena. They all wear lustrous black like a uniform. Even the king wears it, accented with maroon the shade of dried blood.

“We must get you a real horse,” King Viserys is telling Joffrey, who smiles adoringly up at him. The king coughs into his sleeve and then continues. “Would you like a Marwari, like your mother has? They’re nimble, gorgeous creatures, and with such peculiar ears! They’re very rare as well, only bred in North India. Seafaring traders can bring some here for you to choose from. They come at a great cost, but you are worth it, don’t you agree, Joffrey? You know, India was once partially conquered by Alexander the Great. He…”

Aemond glances longingly at the king; it’s a split second, and then it’s gone. You are well aware that Aemond knows very nearly everything about Alexander the Great. The king never speaks to him about it. He rarely speaks to Aemond at all.

You lay a hand on top of Aemond’s. “Will you tell me about it later?” you ask him. “Alexander and India?”

He smiles, his cheeks blushing pink. “Of course.”

The Duke of Hightower clears his throat loudly. “I have some happy news to share.”

King Viserys looks up, as if suddenly remembering that the Greens are here too. “Oh? Do enlighten us, Otto.”

“After much negotiation, the Holy Roman Emperor has formally agreed to a match between his daughter and Prince Aemond.”

“Very impressive, Otto!” The king claps politely. He’s already resuming his conversation with Joffrey, a six-year-old.

“Wonderful!” Nico heralds cheerfully. “Lose a Helaena, gain a Helene!” She holds her cup aloft in a toast, then lowers it as she observes the awkward atmosphere of the table. You and Aemond are so determined not to appear heartsick that you can only avert your eyes, Alicent frowns anxiously, Daeron is bewildered, Aegon drinks. Rhaenyra forces a stiff smile; Daemon watches you, deep-set eyes gleaming with dark mirth.

“Well…” the Duke says. “Perhaps I should have started with the unhappy news. Princess Helene is dead of fever, God rest her soul.”

“Oh, the poor girl!” Alicent laments, crossing herself. “And poor Frederick and Eleanor.”

“Fortunately, Frederick still has one daughter left—only one—and he is willing to send her to us.” The Duke doesn’t have to say what this means aloud: that the Greens have risen ever-higher in the Continent’s estimation, that their allies grow mightier and more numerous by the day.

“How fortunate,” Daemon quips. “Always a wise idea to have children to spare.” He winks at you, swigs his wine, licks red drops from his lips. His Scottish deerhounds, which follow him everywhere, sniff around the table for scraps. “And who is the lucky bride-to-be?”

The Duke of Hightower is glowing. “Kunigunde.”

“Kunigunde?!” Aegon blurts out, then drops his head back down when the Duke glowers fearsomely at him. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, staring into his wine cup. “What the hell kind of a name is Kunigunde?”

“She sounds…” Daemon raises his white eyebrows, choking back laughter. The Black children are following his example and snickering derisively, even little Joffrey, who doesn’t have the slightest idea what this marriage represents. Even the king smiles. “Germanic.”

“You’ll like her,” the Duke informs Aemond, ignoring his detractors. “You should be crawling on your knees to thank me for this match. You think I’ve taken no notice of your hard work, of your sacrifices, but I have. Kunigunde has received an extraordinary education for a woman. She studies astronomy and mathematics and history, not just languages. She practices archery. She is a renowned horsewoman and hunts often. She is intelligent, and she is bold, and she is precisely the sort of woman you would choose for yourself, is she not?”

“She is,” Aemond admits gravely.

“Kunigunde,” Aegon mumbles again, incredulous.

The Duke continues: “And so when she arrives you will wed her and bed her and I will hear not a single word of complaint about it. You will like her, or you will grow to like her, or you will endure it with grace if by some miracle you don’t like her. Is that understood?”

“How romantic,” Daemon chuckles. “A toast? To love?” He lifts his wine. Only the other Blacks join him, their cups clanging merrily against each other.

“I’ll be delighted to make a new friend, at least,” Nico says. “And one from so distant and vast a kingdom!”

Alicent nods distractedly. “Yes, we’ll have to ask her all about what it’s like there.”

“Hmm.” Daemon bites into a halved pomegranate, spilling juice like rubies, like blood. “Now my curiosity is aroused. Tell me, Navarre, what is your homeland like this time of year?”

“That depends on which region you have in mind,” you say frostily. Aemond is glaring at his uncle, measuring him, waiting, coiled. “The mountains are cold and snowy, the valleys are more temperate, the deserts are stark but still golden. Navarre is beautiful, even in January. It might be the most beautiful place there is.”

“You don’t find it to be…rather…” Daemon grins, pieces of pomegranate seeds caught between his teeth like bits of organs. “Barren?”

The table goes silent. Time slows until it stops. You should have a barb of an insult to hurl back at Daemon; you open your mouth to loose it like an arrow. But nothing comes out. Instead, hot sudden tears brim in your eyes and begin to spill down your face, your skull filled with flashes like white lightning: What would we have named him? What would he have been like?

Aemond bolts from his seat and goes for Daemon, fists swinging. Everyone is yelling; chairs are tipping over as people leap to their feet. Nico is shrieking and swearing at Daemon as her betrothed holds her back, his hands linked around her waist. Aemond’s knuckles crack across Daemon’s face as guards flood into the room and struggle in vain to separate them; Daemon strikes out, scratches, bites, yowls like an animal. Rhaenyra is pulling Rhaena and Joffrey away to safety. Unprovoked, Aegon pitches a handful of salmon pie at Baela, then screams and flees when she scrambles over the tabletop in pursuit. Alicent intercepts her, pinning Baela’s hands to her chest where they pose no threat. Jace and Luke try to join Daemon, but the Duke shoves them aside, bellowing ferociously, words you are too panicked to register. In the melee, Daemon snatches up a fork, turns to Aemond, and aims for his remaining eye. You dart beneath the table and knock Daemon off his feet, catching him unprepared. He whirls to you with his back against the floor, eyes glittering savagely, and, roaring, stabs at you with the fork. You duck, but the metal skates across your cheekbone, drawing a thin stripe of blood. The Scottish deerhounds are snarling and snapping at you. Aemond yanks you away and drags you to the other side of the room as Daemon follows, reaching for the hilt of his sword.

“Enough!” King Viserys thunders, and the turmoil dies. Alicent flies to him—attempting to pacify—but he ignores her.

“He must pay!” Aemond shouts, pointing at Daemon, whose nose is bloodied from his blows. “He must pay for what he’s said, for what he’s done!”

“It looks to me that he already has,” the king replies impatiently. He grimaces at everyone present, with no lines drawn between the blameworthy and the not. “This rivalry, this petulance, this bitterness, it must end!” He turns to the Duke of Hightower. “You must restrain your branch of the family, Otto, just as Rhaenyra must gain better control of hers—”

“Viserys, Daemon has ceaselessly antagonized the princess—!”

“I am not Viserys!” the king booms, then pauses to cough. “I am the king, I am your king, and since there seems to be enduring confusion, allow me to clarify some things, some exceedingly fundamental things. I have already chosen an heir, and it is Rhaenyra.” He looks to Daemon. “You have nothing to fear from Alicent’s children. You have no cause to provoke them. It is a waste of your many talents.” Now the king addresses Otto. “You can glorify your house however you see fit, but remember where this all ends. Rhaenyra and her heirs will inherit the throne upon my death. It stays with her, that is my most ardent wish. It is treason to undermine it. By all means, increase the wealth and status of your dukedom. But never forget who gave it to you.”

The king sweeps out of the room, Rhaenyra and her children following closely behind him. Alicent stands there helplessly, abandoned, forgotten. Nico and Daeron comfort her instead. Aegon meanders back to the table, sighs deeply, and pours himself a fresh cup of wine. Aemond examines the shallow gash across your cheek. Daemon watches, a dozen guards stationed between you and him. Growling Scottish deerhounds flank him like the train of a gown.

“I’ll kill you one day,” Aemond says calmly, matter-of-factly.

Daemon shrugs. “You’re welcome to try.”

And then he’s gone.

~~~~~~~~~~

Two months after the miscarriage, the physicians say it’s time to try again. They are the ones who decide: not you, not Aegon, not either of the people whose bodies are requisite to the task. Just old men in the service of another old man: the Duke of Hightower. Men who have never had to feign pleasure as they were groped and invaded. Men who have never felt a child tearing from their own flesh, nor the cramping and blood that follows, reminders that are impolite to speak of.

Aemond keeps you company; you don’t even have to ask him to. Your ladies are no longer surprised when they walk into your rooms to find him there. He, Nico, and Daeron are frequent visitors, far more frequent than your own husband. You read together, or Aemond reads and you embroider, or you play card games, or you simply talk until the stars have rolled by overhead like a wheel and the first golden bars of daybreak spill in from the windows. Tonight, as you wait for Aegon to arrive—full of anxiety and impatience and hope, full of dread—you are embroidering a pillow with Vhagar’s silhouette. Aemond is sitting beside you on the bearskin rug and reading a book about the kingdoms of the Iberian Peninsula, including Navarre. The fireplace pops periodically, heat and red-golden light, sparks and shadows. Aemond is dressed in his usual dark green attire, but you’re only wearing a white nightgown. Once someone has seen you sobbing on the floor and coated with the blood of failure, it seems useless to try to reclaim your modesty.

“Does this look like a horse?” you ask Aemond doubtfully, showing him the pillow.

He blinks at it. “It certainly looks like…a large land-dwelling creature. Of some sort.”

You sigh defeatedly. “I’m so damned nervous. My fingers won’t cooperate, I can barely feel them.”

“I’d still enjoy the pillow. Even if Vhagar looks suspiciously like one of Hannibal’s elephants.”

You laugh. “Yes, that nose…a travesty, surely.” You set aside your embroidery. It’s a lost cause this evening. You stare into the fire, feeling warmth like the sun on your face, so hot it nearly burns.

“Why are you still nervous?” Aemond asks gently. “After all this time?”

“Will you be nervous when you’re expected to fuck Kunigunde?”

“Yes,” he says, a bit startled.

“Only the first night? If she never stops feeling like a stranger to you?”

“No,” he admits. “Perhaps not.”

“That’s why I’m still nervous.”

Aemond closes his book and studies you pensively, firelight dancing on his face. Several miles away in the Tower of London, the bells toll twelve times: midnight.

“He won’t be here,” you say, relieved and yet broken, no end of your prison in sight. “Not tonight. And why would he be? Who would want this, the way it is between us? He’s fumbling and drunk, I’m a resigned liar, both of us trying our best but just waiting for it to be over. Rhaenyra gets to enjoy lying with her husband, Nico will enjoy it when it’s her turn, but I don’t. I never will. I’ll never know what that’s like.”

Time slinks forward. It seems like an eternity passes before he speaks, dust to pyramids, castles, cathedrals, civilization and then back to dust. “I could show you,” Aemond says, so quietly you might have imagined it.

You don’t understand. “Show me what?”

“How good it can feel.”

You gape at him, stunned. “I can’t lie with you.” And then you think immediately, like a traitor: Can I?

Aemond shakes his head, staring down at his open palms. “Only my hands.”

You should say no, here in your bedchamber waiting obediently for his brother to arrive, here on the skin and fur of a beast Aemond killed for you, here with sweltering flames inking you both with amber-rust light like sunset, like dawn. But something stops you. It’s the fact that Aemond knows you somehow, all of you, or very nearly all; and when he stumbles into one of your rare secrets like an unfamiliar room he wants to get down on his hands and knees and memorize every floorboard, every fleck of paint. You nod, moving towards him, your nightgown whispering against your bare skin. “Just this once?” you ask.

“Just this once,” Aemond agrees.

You can already feel yourself aching for him, muscles and nerves waking up, violent red craving. You press your left palm cautiously to Aemond’s chest. “How…?”

“It’s alright. You can lean against me.”

Your right hand travels up to rest on the back of Aemond’s neck; you can feel his long silvery hair ghost across your knuckles. You inhale him: leather, smoke, musk, darkness and possibility all tangled up together like the two of you are now. One arm circles around your waist, drawing you in even closer, until your thighs are touching. You wonder what his bare, defenseless skin would feel like on yours; you wish the clothes between you were in a pile on the floor. But that is far, far too risky. You could not remedy that instantly if there was an unexpected knock at the bedchamber door.

Aemond’s pale blue gaze—rapt, intense, starving—stays on yours as his other hand settles on your ankle. His fingertips move slowly upwards, tracing your skin lightly, slipping beneath your nightgown: calf, knee, thigh. He hesitates there: one last chance for you to stop him.

“Yes,” you murmur instead, resting your head against his chest, listening to the pounding of his heart. And already, you know this will be different; everything about it feels different. Because Aemond is the one here with you.

He reaches between your legs and finds warm, slick folds that are already wet for him. His breathing hitches, then quickens, his ribcage rapidly expanding and caving in again, a cycle like the moon or the seasons. He drags his fingers through your wetness and then places them on a spot that Aegon always paid great attention to, although to little effect. But when Aemond touches you there—experimenting with different pressures and motions—you are swept up in a euphoric riptide that can only carry you higher, higher, higher still. You’ve glimpsed this feeling before, but you’ve never been able to get lost in it. You are gasping, restless; your hand on the back of his neck wanders and inadvertently knots in his hair. “I’m sorry—”

“No,” he says, low and husky, meaning: no, don’t apologize, no, don’t stop.

“Aemond, something’s happening…”

“I’m here. I’ve got you.”

His fingers circle more quickly, more powerfully. You moan and bring your lips to his throat, delicious heat and salt flowering there. You fight the instinct to bite down, to leave bruises, to mark him as your own. He’s not yours and he never will be, and no one can know all the irrevocable ways he has written himself into you like the ink of a poem, words scaling the scarlet walls of arteries and veins, rhymes in your bone marrow. The pleasure keeps mounting; every time you think it can go no higher, you climb to a new height like the steps of a staircase. “I can’t stand it—”

“Almost there,” he pants, and pushes a finger into you, the heel of his hand still grinding against the place where the sensation is greatest. Your hips move in time with his thrusts.

“More,” you beg helplessly, and Aemond glides a second finger inside. You twist your grip into his tunic, into his hair. You meld yourself into him, never feeling close enough. Now he’s nipping at the line of your jaw, his free hand against your face, his whispered voice telling you to relax, to breathe through it, that it’s alright to give in. And then your eyes flick down and see the outline of him through his trousers—how large he is, much larger than his brother, thick and long, perhaps even too much for you to take—and it is this, the thought of having Aemond completely, of him spilling himself into you in body as he already has in soul, that sends an indescribable wave jolting through you: heat, ecstasy, contracting muscles, bursts of color.

“Stop, stop, stop,” you say in a rush when it ends and you’re too sensitive to be stroked. Aemond’s hand stills, but he keeps his fingers inside you, feeling your walls throb around him for what he undoubtedly fears is the first and last time, resting his forehead against yours, trembling all over.

Your thumbprint skates across his parted lips, and then you cup his face with both hands and kiss him deeply, soft and slow. It might as well be your first kiss, your only kiss. It blows the past out of you like stormwinds ripping up homes and centuries-old roots.

You tell him when it finally breaks: “I wish it could be you.”

Aemond searches your face, then kisses you again, fiercely this time, with an unspeakable desperation. Then he rises to his feet and leaves, no goodbye, no plans, no promises.

And when Aegon does stagger into your bed the next night, you’re able to nudge his hands into the perfect position and close your eyes and think of his brother, and for the first time you reach a shuddering, breathless peak with him. You try to stifle the sheer intensity of your pleasure, the arching of your spine and the way your fingernails bite into his skin, leaving dark pink blooms like roses. But he knows this time is different.

“Well, wife,” Aegon says, grinning roguishly. “I think we’re getting better at this.”

~~~~~~~~~~

In the morning, Aemond fetches you without a word of explanation. He leads you to the royal stables, where the last of the winter’s snow and ice is melting away, dripping from the eaves like rain.

“Are we going to take Vhagar out walking…?”

But Aemond breezes right past Vhagar, who watches you both with large, intelligent eyes as she crunches on a mouthful of oats. He stops at a stall that has always been unoccupied, ever since you first arrived at Westminster Palace over a year and a half ago.

“What—?” And then you see her: pure glossy black like onyx, long mane and tail, intrigued ears pricked forward towards you. She’s heavy with muscle, bigger than Sunfyre or Caraxes, almost as large as Tessarion. “Oh, Aemond…”

“She’s an Andalucian,” he says, anxious, hoping you’ll approve of her. “I wrote to your brother Alonzo and arranged for her to be shipped over from Navarre a month ago, but she’s just arrived today.” He smiles faintly, wistfully. “So don’t think she is a gift for services recently rendered.”

You smile back. “I don’t recall having the opportunity to serve you.”

He flushes, but tries to ignore it. Still, his eye traces the curves and valleys your emerald green gown, all those places he never got to see, to taste.

You pet the Andalucian’s inky muzzle and she consents, nickering contently. “I never thought I’d have my own horse here,” you say. “Not unless I gave Aegon a son. Maybe not even then.”

“What will you name her?”

You look at Aemond as you answer, your eyes dark with craving for him, a curse you can’t break, a spell you’d cast over and over again. “Midnight.”

[buffetlicious]

The Dragon Boat Festival or Duan Wu Jie (端午节), is also known as Duan Yang Jie (端阳节), which means “Upright Sun” or “Double Fifth” (重午/重五). Falling on the fifth day of the fifth lunar month around the summer solstice which happened to be 10th June 2024 this year. The festival is also commonly referred to as the Fifth Month Festival amongst the Chinese. Its origins can be traced to southern China, and festivities include boat races and eating rice dumplings. The festival had evolved from the practice of revering the river dragon, to the commemoration of Qu Yuan (屈原), a third-century poet and political figure of the state of Chu in ancient China.

Legends and Myths - River Dragon (蛟龙)

The dragon was initially viewed as the benevolent spirit of the waters. It exemplified the masculine principle or yang in the Chinese ideology of harmony. Among common folk, it was believed that the River Dragon (蛟龙) controlled the rain and was thus worshipped during the summer solstice. Requests would be made for a balanced rainfall – sufficient to ensure a good harvest, without over-abundance that would cause destructive flooding.

Legends and Myths - Qu Yuan (屈原)

Primitive worship of the river dragon was often practised during the summer solstice. The Dragon Boat Festival was associated with Qu Yuan’s story only in the second century. Qu Yuan (屈原) was a poet and a statesman for the Chu kingdom (楚国) during the Warring States Period (战国时代). He served in high office and he advocated a policy of aligning with other kingdoms against the dominant Qin. However, political intrigue led Lord Huai to banish Qu Yuan instead. The ministry was left in the hands of corrupt statesmen and Qu Yuan helplessly watched his motherland decline. Depressed, he penned beautiful, patriotic poetry such as Li Sao (离骚) which means Encountering Sorrow, an allegorical poem stating his political aspirations and Jiu Ge (九歌) or Nine Songs, which gained Qu Yuan great renown.

With his top adviser gone, the king fell for the trickery of the Qin and his kingdom was eventually conquered. Upon hearing that his kingdom’s capital had been overtaken by the Qin, Qu Yuan committed suicide by drowning himself in the Mi Luo River (汨罗江). As he was adored by people everywhere, the local people did everything in their power to try to either save Qu Yuan, or at the very least, to protect him in the afterlife.

Hereupon the legend varies. Some suggest that fishermen at the scene attempted to save their minister. Having failed, they sought to appease his spirit by throwing rice stuffed in bamboo stems into the river to prevent the fish from eating Qu Yuan’s body. Others say that the rice offerings were snatched by a river dragon and the rice had to be bundled in chinaberry leaves instead and tied with five different coloured silk threads in order to be effective. The triangular Rice Dumplings (粽子) thus became entwined with the festivities. Another version tells of farmers rowing out in dragon boats in their attempt to save Qu Yuan. Hence, Dragon Boat Racing (赛龙舟) has been held annually on the fifth day of the fifth lunar month, in honour of the memory of Qu Yuan.

Or if reading through a wall of texts is not your cup of tea, here is a pictorial guide to summarize on the history of Qu Yuan (屈原) and how we ended up celebrating Dragon Boat Festival (端午节) with dragon boat racing and rice dumplings on the fifth day of the fifth lunar month.

All images are from the internet. Selected text info from here.

[89rooms]

I would like to give you the silver branch, the small white flower, the one word that will protect you from the grief at the center of your dream, from the grief at the center I would like to follow you up the long stairway again & become the boat that would row you back carefully, a flame in two cupped hands to where your body lies beside me, and as you enter it as easily as breathing in

Margaret Atwood - 'Variations on The Word Sleep,' Selected Poems II: 1976-1986

[mimble-sparklepudding]

Mimble Poetry Nonsense Examples.

Just trying to pull together some random examples of my silly poetry posts for potentially interested parties (who may or may not be stuck with me for the FFXIV Swap Meet doodah).

[irrealisms]

no apple but a heart liner notes

fic here if you haven't read it!

i had the idea of vitalasubz funerary cannibalism pretty immediately after seeing "cannibalism" on the prompt list. it's a good concept. but i wasn't sure if i could get it to the minimum word count (it ended up juuuuust scraping by) so i decided to write the time loop fic first and then do the cannibalism as a bonus if i felt up for it

and then one of my friends (unrelatedly! without knowing about this!) started talking about eclipse fed cannibalism on discord, and i was like Man....i should write eclipse federation cannibalism....unfortunately i only really have enough ideas for One Scene of it.....and they were like write one scene then! and i went You Know What. youre right. and wrote this in one sitting

for research for this fic i read all of @erstwhilesparrow's mcyt cannibalism fics in a row. check those out if you haven't already: double life desertduo(&/)boat boys, limlife mean gills, 3rd life desertduo, new life owen(&/)scott

i knew basically as soon as i had the idea that i wanted to do stuff with the despawn timer. how much can you eat in 5 minutes, when you're grieving and dissociating and in shock, your action spurred on only by the knowledge that whatever you don't eat will disappear forever? that this is the only way to preserve anything at all of the one you love?

in contrast i did not know until literally the day of writing it that i was gonna do something with hearts-as-hearts. it was a good idea, though.

did you know that after subz dies, vitalasy stands without moving or speaking for 50 seconds, turns slightly, and then continues standing there without doing anything or speaking for another 13 seconds. yeah. fun little canon moment. it's also 63 seconds off the 5-minute despawn timer!

the title is from quattrocento by margaret atwood, which is a great poem. idk how well it actually works for this piece thematically, it works okay i think but i'm not doing a ton with serpent imagery here (even though i could! subz and eclipse are in fact totally doing various mythological snake imageries!) or with garden-of-eden stuff? but the imagery always stuck with me when writing cannibalism stuff and i hadn't gotten to use it for a title yet and figured this was my chance

cannibalism as devotion.... cannibalism as memorial...... mm. good stuff. i should have made a way to make this Eucharistic somehow, cannibalism-as-worship doesn't show up here as much but it would've slapped.

something that didn't make it into the fic but that i did have some thoughts about is vitalasy's feelings wrt zam + subz after this. i think he's glad, on some level, that he got to eat subz and zam didn't, but also he feels kind of guilty for feeling glad, but also he's arguing to himself that he shouldn't have to feel guilty, it's not like he stopped zam from being there, zam wasn't there bc zam isn't/wasn't on their team.

other stuff that is even less fic-relevant but that i've been thinking about is that you could do a lot with "if you kill someone you get their heart" + the various meanings cannibalism can have. cannibalism as domination of an opponent. cannibalism as possession. cannibalism as respecting someone's sacrifice. killing someone and then handing them their own heart to eat, when you kill someone and give them back the heart. yeah. fun possibilities!

shoutout to ihob. nothing much to say here other than i'm glad i somehow included ihob in the vitalasubz cannibalism fic. i love ihob. i love that bacon only eats pork chops even though they're worse than golden carrots! he's on three hearts anyway, what's the added saturation gonna do! i love the dumb fucking three-way contract for its ownership. i love. ihob.

fun fact: the only other fic on ao3 tagged with subz's suicide stream is ALSO a vitalasubz funerary cannibalism fic. i genuinely did not know this until after posting. what can i say, it's a good concept.

[harrison-abbott]

Words can muck you up. You remember the insults far more poignantly than the compliments. There were far more of the former. 90% without provocation. Even your best friends. They just ripped you up without any pretence. And you can go into psychology; you can study projection and the reasons behind bullying. And can learn to understand why people say such things, act the way they do. But then: you’re the only one left with the memories. Snip and snap; they meant to attack you and they did so and they escaped into the night with their victory. Mean, wicked, foul, abhorrent. Meh. People just don’t care and that’s why fiends are elected in tall chambers and why a million bout by suicide each year. … To live with a mind is to row out on a brittle boat unto a pretty ocean with only these flagrant photos of horizons; the sketches of land in the distance; hills and houses and chimneys and of course the neon lights bobbling. It’s super hard to stay out there on the expanse of water, when everybody has bailed from you. They left. Ripped you mocked you beat you attacked you raped you left you bullied you jibed you raked you … may as well have tossed you in a medieval play. Man. Girl. … Dialogue in real time can last with you longer than the content within any book or film or play that you bought a mortal ticket for. When you listen to true crime podcasts or blink at headlines on the news; the snippets of what folks say to you, designed to blank your mentality. Those are way worse and better delivered than those spacked in the real time every day life; the ticktock realism that’s ignored in fiction: that fiction can’t quite replicate because of how awful people can be. Hmm. … One can go through human existence believing that it’s okay to sidle to the bullies, abandon the weak … easier to be a bad guy. What’s the issue with morals? This is why suicide seems a far finer option. Time out. Who cares? There’s a lovely woodland just outside the household with all of these historical trees. And the stairs of this house are beyond creaking value. … But, without words, we wouldn’t have been able to write this whole paragraph. Where you always a good man? No. You remember the string of iniquities in childhood. All of those evil deeds. Nasty stuff. Nothing to rear the angel that we can’t be in a modern portrait. … You just have to keep reading books and writing stories and poems. Because there’s nothing else going for you in existence. You are a complete muck up yourself. Nobody likes you for what you are. You were hated in school. The outcast of the family. Hey ho. … To exist is like going to sleep and wishing you won’t wake up. And the irony is that the dreams snip out the good bits and turn them into dramas that you don’t wish to revisit. Stop crying. They tell you. Stop being such a sensitive person. That’ll never get you anywhere. The wicked only go yonder.