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neil-for-me13 · 9 months ago

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Growing Pain

Chapter I - Sowing Sorrows

“I was never really insane except upon occasions when my heart was touched.” ― Edgar Allan Poe A typical Nevermore student, that's what you are. Most of your free time grossly consists of anything that is flora related or your other interests. During your third year you practically lived either in the greenhouse or out by the garden fields. Merrily you were whistling a tune out in your own little field that you cultivated at the far edge of nevermore forest and away from the lupin cages. It was early spring just in time for your germinated plants to peak out from its pot and to be transplanted to the rich plot of garden soil. The afternoon sun was out and just enough to beamed through the canopies. The wind was perfect to ease the grueling labor that awaits you. You were excited to plant your new varieties of belladonnas and foxgloves, maybe this time the new fertilizer would finally let them bloom. The last one made hydrangeas wilt even though the rainy season was perfect for them to thrive. Perhaps he’s it's a little acidic for the poor flower. This time you took the time to observe your compost for any potential inadequacies before processing him the plant food. Months of preparation and research with a little bit of footwork; You hope this fertilizer was worth the effort. Everyone was so invested in him, you’re a little bit curious as to why. You were digging small holes for your germinated belladonnas, when you sensed a presence behind, quietly approaching. You continued whistling and transplanting the first of your plants, now fully aware that a heavy platformed-shoe wearing individual would actually talk or threaten you before going for the kill; and even then no one can harm you in your own garden. No one. “Y/N, did you kill the hyde?” Oof, first name call out. 3 meters away and the forest breeze still carried her scent to you. Then you thought about how her scent would perfectly pair with the plants that you were in the midst of growing beneath you. Of course her scent would be perfect for your deadly wild greenery. A large inhale with the light breeze would cause your eyes to visibly dilate, thankfully she can only see your back from behind.

“Hello to you too, Wednesday.” You continued to shovel the soil for the next plant in the row without turning around to face her. Knowing that her temper would grow sour when you deliberately ignore her opening inquiry, you can’t help but smirk a little when she stomps a little bit closer to you. “Answer the question, Y/N.” Her tone clipped and the question loaded with accusation. You note that you didn’t need the breeze anymore to smell her scent, although a little bit sharp you relished it anyway. This has got you thinking if the body can produce enzymes and proteins based on emotions; would a horrible, tortured, and fear-stricken fertilizer be good to your plants’ nutrition. You were suddenly deep in thought that you forgot to answer her question or is it an accusation now? Because the next moment you were reminded how impatient Wednesday can be. With rushed paces she closed in on you, grabbed your sweaty collar and made you face her. “What was the question again?” you smiled coyly. “I will not repeat myself, Y/N '' she snarled, brows furrowing and deep brown eyes narrowing. Oh wow, in your squatting position she looks towering but not the city skyscrapers more like red wood trees. The sun was filtered through the leaves leaving specks of sun rays reflected upon her freckles. If you hoped she didn’t see your dilating eyes awhile ago, that hope is long gone now. You shamelessly took your time to take in all of her facial features from her fiery eyes, to her nose, to her cheeks, the hidden eyebrows, and then her lips. You softened your eyes and adjusted your position to inch closer to her ear. Careful not to touch her with your soiled gloves. “If I said no, would you believe me?” you say as you notice her shudder a little. “No. The possibility that you have caused the hyde to disappear is higher than any of my other suspects.” she uttered without moving away or inching closer while she still held on to your collar. I could live forever in this moment, Wednesday, your scent is heavenly and you’re holding me like you’re afraid that I’ll fall off the earth once you let me go. This moment in my garden (our) garden is to die for. You are to kill for.

“I take offense that you have others in mind, Wednesday. Although I admit I am quite curious on how I became your number one and had the privilege to be visited miles away from the comfort of your writing desk. And minutes away from your writing time I might add.” you inch closer again to the reddening shell of her outer ear and puff out a breath, restraining yourself not to bite;not yet.

Your breath seems to jolt Wednesday to life, she lets your collar go and then you plop down the ground. You let out a chuckle. Knowing the effect you had, to make Wednesday elicit such a physical reaction.

You smile and look up at her, ah the bliss of seeing her cheeks tinted light blush with embarrassment mixed with the tumultuous red with fury; the privilege of witnessing such displays of outward emotions can be only yours. Mine. My privilege. Only mine.

“May I interest you for some tea while you unfold how you think I did the crime you think I committed?” you slowly dusted yourself off then stood to collect your unplanted flowers and garden tools. Leaving your half-done grounds for another day.

“I don’t have coffee beans yet; I’ll have them planted by the summer.” You stretched your back and turned to wink at her. “For your coffee addiction.” And to keep you from going back to that fucking Weathervane.

Wednesday blinked at your invitation, still seemingly flustered from your antics. You stood waiting for her to gather her walls and consent to your impromptu tea-party.

“I still have some arsenic and cyanide if you want a little kick to your tea.” you entice. “Cyanide.” she nods. She stood still, eyes tracked your next move. You offer a small smile and then walk towards a small shed to stow your baggage and store your gloves and apron. Beside the shed was a small awning with a table and two chairs. You ushered her towards the chair, aware that her eyes were following you and still vigilant with your movement. “Staring at me like you’ll devour me. Why darling, I’m flattered.” You continue to put away your tools and begin to prepare the water for boiling and locate the stored tea leaves. “You know if you were to kill me, the tools in your shed wouldn’t suffice.” she misdirects your last statement, while eyeing every equipment hanged meticulously in your tool shed like an arsenal.

“That much I know, Darling.” you smirked. She proceeded to walk over to one of the chairs to sit. While you lit the flame of a small camping burner by a small counter.

“I’ll make the tea just sit there and in a while we’ll begin to talk about your deductions; Well.. you’ll talk and I’ll listen.” You say as you begin to pour the boiling water into the tea pot.

You picked out a half emptied Earl Grey tea leaves, dark and well suited for the caffeine levels that (your) Wednesday craved. The powerful aroma of bitterness and bergamot wafted when the leaves were submerged into the teapot. You paused and looked at her as she was taking in every little detail of your garden, her head pointing to the direction of the section she wanted to scan. The plot lands, the fruiting trees, the numerous bushels, the small diy greenhouse for the herbs as well as the seedlings, and the compost processing pit.

It was a rustic garden that was almost a homestead that you did all by yourself and she respected that, and your collection of poisonous plots elicits a tiny warmth in her heart remembering how her mother would have adored talking your ear off all day about them.

The afternoon light bounced off on her face just right that even a godless stranger would call her divine. Her perfectly weaved braids, posture so straight that you’d swear she had those corrective braces if you’d only just met her, her smooth cheeks that's sprinkled with constellations of freckles, her lips slightly pursed for when she’s formulating thoughts inside of her sharp-witted mind, and her eyes; the most luscious brown of leather patina that reflected her sentiments. You know this is true because her eyes are now glowering at you.

“Might you be steeping it a little too long or is this one of your delaying tactics? She speculates now fully facing you, which made you smile.

“Darling, if I intend to keep you here for a long time I’d be thinking of doing other fun activities rather than drinking tea wouldn’t you agree?”

You place your tea set and a small vial of cyanide onto a tray and make your way toward her. You arrange each cup on the table neatly and set aside the platter.

You sauntered behind her with the tea pot, leaned down close enough for you to sneak a glance at her, poured out a decent amount of darkened tea and sprinkled a teaspoon worth of the almond flavored toxin.

“And I happen to know you preferred your beverages darker and deadlier than most. Although you can say the same if you tried some pepsi or cola.” your head turned to her to gauge out her reaction.

“ Surely, you jest.” She turned toward you to scowl at the idea of her ingesting anything that was sickeningly sweet. Your faces so close that a strong gust of wind can knock you off your feet and your lips might accidentally collide with hers.

“Don’t knock it until you try it.” you shrugged, walking back to your seat and settling down to your seat across from her. You served yourself some tea and took a sip to ease her growing suspicions towards the drink.

“Okay now we’re set, you have the floor. Cara mia.” you smiled deviously. Author's Note: My first ever delve into fanfiction territory. Long time reader but amateur writer. Suggestions and questions are welcome.

#wednesday addams #wednesday #wednesday x reader #wednesday x you #fanfiction #growing pain

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jebewonmorelike · 2 years ago

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I Wanna Stay With You

wc: 1,000 pronouns: none used; n/a warnings: being captured; not really angst, just fluff summary: lee jeonghyeon is mesmerized when he sees fairy!reader wandering the floral summer meadows one afternoon; fantasy au ~bp masterlist~ ♡ ~kofi (no pressure at all)~ This one came to me very fast; it's a little short but it's so magicallll :) I used the rap lyrics that Jeonghyeon wrote for Over Me in this as well, they're marked in blue. They're so beautiful... I think they might be the best lyrics in the song lmao, go off king

Lee Jeonghyeon had never meant for this to happen.

He hadn't even believed that beings like you exist before this afternoon. Downtrodden after yet another one of his compositions was rejected by the court's royal orchestra, he decided to take a walk to muster up inspiration for a better song. Roaming through the flowering meadows on a bright summer's day, Jeonghyeon thought his eyes had deceived him when he saw the most exquisite winged creature tending to the blossoms in the field before him.

You carried a wooden basket, picking the prettiest of flowers and tucking them away. Every so often, you'd find one you admired most of all and fashion it behind your ear lithely. An ethereal, golden glow visibly emanated off of your skin.

No matter how many times Jeonghyeon blinked or rubbed his eyes, the transfixing beauty remained in front of his gawking figure. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he stepped quietly toward you as your iridescent wings fluttered gently in the soft wind.

"Sneaking up on me?" You asked the handsome boy without turning around.

You heard him gasp lightly. "I'm sorry. What--... What are you?"

You tucked a baby's breath that had bloomed just perfectly behind your ear as you turned around to face him, smiling knowingly. "What are you?"

"I--... I--..." The young man struggled to find words. "... I'm Jeonghyeon."

You giggled at the cute, simple human before you. "What's a Jeonghyeon?"

"It's my name," he clarified timidly, ears turning crimson.

You nodded, considering it. "Jeonghyeon... How pretty."

"Thank you," he replied, biting his lip nervously. "Will you tell me what you are now?"

You turned back around to the flowers, touching the wild lavender fondly. "What do you think I am?"

"An angel," he answered quickly. "Something entirely divine."

You laughed lightly at the mortal's words. "You humans are so funny," you cooed, picking the prettiest blossom of lavender. Turning back to the boy, you stepped towards him gently and tucked the lavender behind his ear. "Do these look like angel wings?"

Jeonghyeon's eyes lit up as you fluttered your shimmering, translucent wings for him. "I don't know. I've never met an angel before."

"And you never will," you replied with a smile, running a finger gracefully along one side of his sharp jawline.

His lips parted slightly in awe. "You're the loveliest thing I've ever seen."

You nodded, laughing the mortal's affections off. "This is not the first time I've been told."

He shakes his head fiercely. "You don't understand. What once was small, my heart is bigger-- now that my eyes have seen you, I can't see the future without your image," he pleads, words flowing out in perfect poetry as he sinks to his knees. "From this moment on, I paint in the paint that is you."

It takes more effort than you imagined to keep a straight face. This Jeonghyeon spoke so beautifully-- so sincerely, in a way a mere human never had before. They usually just stared at you or tried to kiss you or, even worse, cause harm to you. Unsure of how to react to these vows, you shrunk down to your normal size and started to fly away from the stunned boy.

But you felt the emotion in the air change, panic radiating off of Jeonghyeon as he reached his hand into the air after you. Enclosing you so gently in his palm, he clasped his hands together to securely entrap you in his grasp-- leaving a small gap in his fingers for adequate air to pass through.

No, Lee Jeonghyeon had never meant for this to happen...

And yet here you are: locked in a delicately woven cage, a piece of red ribbon tied loosely around both wrists.

"Are you alright?" Jeonghyeon asks, eyes wide with concern as he studies you.

You nod carefully, the red ribbon twirling delicately with the breeze flowing through the open window behind you.

"I didn't hurt you? Please, say I didn't hurt you," he panics. You shake your head softly in reply.

"Thank goodness," he says, running a hand through his hair with a rather stressed expression on his face. "Are you hungry? Or thirsty?"

You shake your head again, looking around Jeonghyeon's small cottage. You spot a desk in the corner with several pieces of parchment strewn about, a pen and quell of ink beside them.

"Well, when you are, please let me know," Jeonghyeon urges with an awkward smile.

"Do you write?" You ask, gesturing with a nod to the corner desk.

"Oh," the boy acknowledges with a small laugh after turning around to see what you're referring to. "Yes. Lyrics."

"You're a songwriter," you affirm, smiling up at him. You knew that the boy had had a very distinct way with words.

He smiles back. "Yes... Well... I'd like to be one. Someday. But I've had a lot of trouble finding the right subject to write about."

"Is that so?" You tilt your head to one side, reaching out your ribbon-bound hands. Jeonghyeon's eyes sparkle as he extends his index finger through the cage, to which you grab hold of tenderly and examine. Noting the callouses from his pen, you trace along the grooves of his fingerprint.

"But I think I've serendipitously run into the perfect subject," he announces, nodding with certainty. "I'm truly sorry that I've captured you like this. I promise I'll let you go as quickly as I can... But I just know you'd make the most beautiful song."

Unbeknownst to Jeonghyeon, you can choose to escape at any time. No cage can hold you and no ribbon can withstand your glowing magic; even the boy's hands could have been easily burnt by your power if you had wished.

But there is one thing holding you here:

The compelling, handsome young man staring back at you through the cage in curious wonder-- who has promised to write you a song.

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theanoninyourinbox · 11 months ago

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The Stars and the Afterlives

Starclan is the Afterlife of the Clan Cat. But what Roles might a cat have in the starry lands above? And where do non-clan cats go? Where do Traitors go?

STARCLAN

This is where every Clan cat wishes to go, a lush land of greenery and peaceful days. Where kits become the adults they were meant to be, mentored by their ancestors. Where elders shed their aches and dance in the meadows. The prey is endless, the predators nonexistent, the trees forever blooming. Honey drips where industrious stingless bees gather, and deep glens give privacy and comfort to the traumatized. Borders are gone, and those banned from relationships, either cross-clan or Healers, may find love.

Starclan cats have white four-pointed pupils, and small stars scatter in their fur. Scars they chose to keep gleam like the night sky, and they nearly float with each step. Starclan cats have four major roles, though others do exist, and any cat may change to any other role if they wish.

Star-Guide: these cats are the prophecy givers, often cryptic and mysterious. They plant signs like Herbalists plant Poppies, and divine the future in a great Crystal in a pool of starlight. Yellowfang is a Star-Guide, one that refuses to be any more cryptic than she has to.

Kit-Shaper: these cats guide the Faded, those long forgotten even by Starclan cats, into their final form - the next living generation. The Faded will fall apart into motes of light in a Sacred Glen, and Kit-Shapers will take these gleaming shapes and create kits. They fashion tiny noses and triangle tails, paint stripes and spots and patches, and set starlight in their eyes, before sending them to a laboring queen or king. Lionheart is a Kit-Shaper, spending his time molding the perfect kitten for each queen or king.

Path-finder: these cats periodically wander the living world, seeking to bring lost cats home, whether living or dead. They tirelessly search for Spirits who are missed, and often will guide lost or abandoned kits to the clans. Whiteclaw is a Path-Finder, knowing what it’s like to feel lost himself.

Comet-Claw: the Brawlers of Starclan, that patrol the line between the Stars and the Dark. Moonlit claws and sunbeam teeth savage any intruder, and rescue any living soul they may find lost. Swiftspirit is a Comet-Claw, always watching for Tiger”star”.

THE KITTYPET AFTERLIFE

Often referred to as the Twoleg Starplace, kittypets go to the same afterlife as their owners. There’s always food out, the toys are endless, and just about every twoleg wants to pet you. If their twoleg was abusive, kittypets will find a new loving twoleg to pet them and help them heal.

LONER AFTERLIFE

Referred to as the Quiet Hunting Grounds, loners go to endless fields and evening skies. The prey is plentiful, or as challenging as one wants, there’s company and shelter if one wishes, and the rolling fields and hills go on forever.

Those who chose to wander the lands of the living from these places are Spirits - they cannot touch another, save other Spirits or Star-Blessed cats. They can move items, so someone moving the prey you caught might be a mischievous Spirit.

THE DARK FOREST/MIRETREES

Where those who believed in Starclan go if they break the Code’s major rules (do not harm others needlessly, never harm the helpless, and kill not thy clanmate without true need) and do not atone in some way. It’s a dark and moonless place, with a variety of landscapes - all twisted from what they once were. The river where Rushtooth died is constantly writhing like worms, grasping at any who draw near. The clearing where Tiger”star” died is full of pain wails and the feeling of being betrayed. There is a shady Healer’s den, that’s covered in deathberries and thorny vines with yellow flowers.

Cats from The Dark are twisted and monstrous, often with bloody pelts and twisted limbs. The older a Miretree can is, the more insane the mutation. The dread One Eye, the first cat of the Dark Forest, is missing much of his face, all of his claws, and most of his guts. In comparison, Tiger”star” just has a flapping belly full of noxious dripping ooze and twoleg chains.

Those who escape the Miretrees are called Geists. They are near-universally malicious, and often haunt the place of their death. They DO have some power over the living, with their aura poisoning the spirits of the living.

For Example, the Geist Mapleshade poisoned almost the entirety of Crookedstar’s family, only sparing his brother and two of his kits. It took the Comet-Claws days to drive her back to the Mire, and having lost most of her power, she now plots vengeance.

#my art #warrior cats #warriors #warrior cats au #hello from the void #Longstar au #New Longstar au #Starclan #afterlife #dark forest #jake will visit Tallstar from Twoleg Satrplace #Smoke is invited to join Starclan by Bluestar

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a-world-of-whimsy-5 · 3 months ago

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Day 6 for @eonweweek

"Willing companion"

Prompt: Duty

Pairing: Eönwë/Argon (Arakáno)

AU: Pleasure houses of Lórien AU

Themes: NSFT

Warnings: Kissing | Aphrodisiacs | Petting/Sensuality

Word count: 1.8k words

Summary: Eönwë find a companion for himself when he calls upon one of the many pleasure houses of Lórien.

Minors DNI | 18+

The Gardens of Lórien were uncommonly vast, filled with a great wealth of flowering bushes and vines, yew and cedar, juniper and oak, and pines that exuded soothing odors. Its many pools were dark and deep; stars sparkled within their depths, and great scores of fireflies flittered about their borders, glittering like gold in the dusk.

Eönwë did not halt to admire the beauty that lay before him. He drew his cloak closer to him and continued down the path he tread, for the Maia did not come to seek out the peace the Gardens provided all those who came upon them. He came to seek out the indulgences it offered instead.

There were many to be found, hidden within the manses Lord Irmo himself devised for all those seeking freedom from both loneliness and the constraints of acceptable conduct. For Eönwë, it was an escape from restraint and duty—duty to his king, duty to Valinor. All through his long life, he had served other beings and other causes without complaint. Now, for a brief while at least, he wished to free himself from the yolk of duty and serve his own desires. And his desires were many.

“Hail and well met.” The Maia who greeted him upon entrance into the House of Cedar was garbed in sheer wisps of lavender and blue. He was one of the many attendants who willingly offered themselves to please and service those who called upon them. And they could never be harmed; Irmo did not take kindly to any being who mistreated those who served him in any manner. “Do you desire a mask, my lord? A libation to ease your comfort?”

“A mask would do very well indeed,” Eönwë replied. The other Maia knew who he truly was, for he came to the House of Cedar once before, after having heard of its many amusements. But he had no cause to fear. The Maiar who served in the pleasure houses never revealed the identities of those who came to them for any matter. “And a cup of something light and fragrant would serve for now.”

The Maia guided him to a secluded, dimly lit room filled with masks and veils of all shapes and hues and helped him remove his cloak. “You may choose any of these,” he said, arranging the cloak neatly on a little hook driven into the wall, “and then you may join the others. I shall bring you something to drink while you are in the hearth hall.”

“My thanks.” Eönwë was grateful to be free of his cloak. He felt strange also, for his earthly form was smaller in stature and without wings, and the light in his eyes was dulled to mimic the paler light found in the eyes of the elves. Still, he made peace with the lack in all, for this was the form he chose himself when he decided to call upon the House of Cedar. He did not wish the other visitors to discover who he truly was.

The hearth hall was already full when Eönwë entered it. Many an elf and Ainu were seated upon wide pillowed benches, or they had gathered beneath gilded lamps in groups of twos and threes, their voices faint against the finger drums that were beating out a slow, spellbinding rhythm. Many had gone to great lengths to conceal who they were. Others, on the other hand, did not hide a single aspect of themselves. Some were eating and drinking and laughing, and others were engaged in more intimate pursuits. Eönwë reached up to touch his mask. Golden roses and golden leaves adorned a field of white lacquer, and his lips were left exposed. The herald of Manwë did not mind this; the mask was to serve as an adornment, for, after all, his form was not his true form.

“Your libation.” The Maia who attended to him before came forth with a tray full of delicate glass goblets. Eönwë accepted one and took a sip. It was Miruvórë, fragrant as the flowers in the Gardens themselves and as golden as the dews that fell from the leaves of Laurelin. He sighed with pleasure.

“A fine choice,” he said, raising his goblet. The Maia bowed his head and took his leave.

Eönwë walked among the others, sipping at his Miruvórë and speaking quietly with those who stopped to have a word with him. He was patient and respectful as always, and he kept an ever-watchful eye on those who were present. Someone was bound to capture his particular attention before long.

And that did indeed happen, while he paused to admire a troupe of tumblers twisting and contorting their bodies to form various shapes. A lord was seated in the shadows behind them, his body concealed beneath the folds of a thick velvet cloak, and his face hidden beneath a heavy hood. All that was truly visible of him were his hands and his boots. Eönwë went to him, and made himself known.

“Hail and well met, my lord,” Eönwë said. He bowed. “Might I be so bold to ask as to why you are here, hiding in the shadows?”

The lord startled. Then he remembered his courtesies, and he said, “Hail and well met, my lord. This is the first time I have come upon such a place.” He lifted his gaze to better look at the one who approached him, revealing an ornate mask that shielded most of his countenance save for his nose and lips. “And I fear both the discovery and the ridicule that would surely follow if my presence here became known. That is why you have found me like this, hiding in the darkness.”

The lord did not have to reveal his identity, for Eönwë already perceived it, having recognized the deep, lilting voice and the eyes that gleamed like beaten bronze fresh from the forge. He was prince Arakáno, the youngest son of the Noldorin prince Nolofinwë. And he was here in this pleasure house, seeking diversions of his own, no doubt.

“I know who you are, my prince,” the herald whispered, “and I give you my word not to reveal it. Perhaps, if you desire it, that is, we could go somewhere quieter and amuse ourselves. That is why you are here, yes? To seek diversions with a willing companion?”

Arakáno startled again. Then he composed himself when Eönwë smiled warmly. There was much kindness in his eyes, and it set the prince at ease.

“That is what I desire, yes,” he said, rising. His great stature was further proof of his identity, but that meant little here. There were others like him, and the one who stood before him was taller than even he. “And it is also why I came here, my lord. Where I live, it is hard to find a willing companion outside of the bonds of marriage. And there are certain expectations placed upon me, much like my brothers and my sister. It can be most stifling at times.”

“I understand that all too well,” Eönwë returned. He drained the last of the Miruvórë and gave the empty goblet for an attendant passing by to take. “But nothing further will take place if we stay as we are, talking between ourselves. Wait here a moment. I will procure a chamber for us both.”

The chamber that was given to Eönwë in the end was large and airy and lit by only a few candles. The roof was made of a web of gold beaten to the thinness of delicate thread, and the floors and the walls were made of thick cedar beams; each had been polished and darkened to a fine finish. There was a little table in one corner, laden with food and drink and other delicacies. A chest of drawers stood next to one wall, and beside it lay a wide and inviting featherbed covered with silken sheets. Eönwë crossed over to the table first. He picked a gold bowl and offered what it held to the prince.

“Something to sweeten the tongue,” he said, “and inflame one’s passions. Take one, my prince. No harm will come from it.”

Arakáno came to him and took one of the sweetmeats for himself. It was indeed sweet against his tongue, and it stirred his blood, making him feel warm and feverish and lustful. Then it melted into nothingness, but the fires it kindled within remained. The prince flushed profusely, uncertain if he was to make his new desires known.

“Do you wish to go further?” Eönwë said. He took a sweetmeat also, closing his eyes in delight when he felt what bloomed to life after it was consumed.

Arakáno was still uncertain, and it showed in his eyes. Eönwë set the bowl down and went to him. He reached for him in two quick strides, and he took his hand into his own. It was finely formed and strong, and it trembled against his. Then he bent his head and pressed his lips against the inside of the prince’s wrist before wetting it with his tongue. The prince moaned softly and shivered.

“Yes?” Eönwë asked.

Arakáno was now certain, having grasped onto something that passed for courage. “Please.”

Eönwë gathered him into his arms, and he kissed him. Then he undid the clasp of the prince’s cloak, savouring the sigh of gratitude that followed when it slipped off the elf’s shoulders and pooled around his feet. Then they kissed, and they kissed. Eönwë grew bolder. He caressed the prince’s arms, his back, and his sides. His lips found the crook of the prince’s neck, and he tasted the salt that still lingered there. Arakáno threw his head back and moaned again. He clutched desperately at his companion’s shoulders and then stroked his hair; so overwhelmed was he by his own passions. They had grown even stronger, and in ways he could never truly describe.

“More,” he all but sobbed. “I desire more, my lord.”

The Maia did not have to be told more. “Lay down there my prince,” he said, and he drew away to disrobe himself. “And give of yourself to me. I will tend to the rest.”

Arakáno’s eyes widened when Eönwë undressed himself. Even in the form of an elf, the Maia was uncommonly fair to look upon. His eyes were bright and clear and fierce, and his hands held much strength. The prince felt the proof of this strength himself when they held each other and kissed. And he would be his. For a few brief hours, this lord, whoever he was, would be his.

“Lie down, my prince,” Eönwë repeated softly.

Arakáno willingly obeyed. He climbed onto the featherbed without further prompting. Eönwë followed him, his hands reaching out to loosen the laces of the prince’s boots, the sash of his robes. They soon formed a growing pile of raiment that had been thrown unceremoniously onto the wooden floor. The mask, however, remained. Eönwë thought the prince looked quite lovely with it. Then he paused for a moment to better admire the elf in his unclothed form.

“You are beautiful,” the Maia confessed. He leaned down to kiss the prince, and to renew their embraces.

tags: @cilil @asianbutnotjapanese

#eonweweek #eönwë #argon #eönwë x argon #nsft #the silm #the silmarillion #the silm fanfiction #the ainur #the maiar #pleasure houses of lorien au

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tarrenterror25 · 2 years ago

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(tho)ugh(ts) no one asked for but my mind has no mouth and must scream

Alfred Pennyworth and Ulysses Klaue doing Shibari/Kinbaku Word Count: 1.3K Rating: E 18+

Tags: images and mention of the following: shibari, bondage, restraints, pain play, (bd)(sm) themes, light degradation, F!Reader, smut, aftercare

Some helpful info before we continue (I am by no mean an expert in this field): - Shibari is the art of rope tying and is about the aesthetic and form of the person being tied and Kinbaku takes it in a more sen(s/x)ual direction.

Here is a neat article for some info and context on the art! Kinbaku @ Museum of Sex There’s a short interview with Hajime Kinoko, a rope artist, and he gives some insight into the emotional depth of the art. Here’s another that touches on why people do shibari: What Is Shibari - Women’s Health

Years ago, I was lucky enough to see a shibari/kinbaku performance/demonstration and it really is truly a beautiful art!

Alfred and Klaue are like opposite sides of the same coin so that’s why this has both! Don’t ask what brought these on cause I’m not even sure myself.

!!! Mind the tags !!!

May contain triggering content

Last chance

Alfred Pennyworth

Alfred loves when you allow him to play to his more dominant side, but he is still soft with you. He loves the art and how tying you up nice and pretty brings you closer to each other. The trust you place in him to never go past your limits, but the encouragement you give him to test your limits is very attractive to him and a turn on.

He is big on you playing just as much a part in this as him. He loves communicating with you about the color of the rope you want or what kind of ties you want to try.

Alfred favors symmetry.

He likes to do intricate knots/ties and loves to appreciate how they shape you. He understands that some of them might be uncomfortable so again, big on communicating with you.

“How’s this, darling?” “Let me know if it’s too much.”

He’s not one for the suspended looks, much preferring you in positions that require you to be lying down or on your knees. Some ties he favors are the mermaid tail, loop chain stockings, arm binder, peach shorts, and he loves weaving designs like flowers/hearts/stars whenever he can.

For some of the more intricate work, he’ll have to put on his glasses. It’s a treat to watch his hands nimbly weave the rope. This time will be used to casually chat about your day or joke around. Alfred makes sure it is a fun and lighthearted experience for the both of you.

Alfred definitely appreciates the way you look all tied up, he loves to run his hands over your body feeling where the rope squishes out your flesh. He’s constantly praising you throughout the process.

“You look so lovely like this, darling.” “You’re doing so well for me.” “Look at you, tied up beautifully for me, like the gift you are.”

Alfred isn’t really one for fucking you this way, he really likes you to be a more active participant; he loves feeling your hands on him too much. If you insist then he’ll rearrange the ties so they are more suitable. The ties while he takes you serve more for fashion over function so they won’t bind you or restrict movement, they just look pretty.

But they are good for grabbing onto! Whether he’s taking you from behind or if you’re on top, he grabs the rope wrapped around your waist/hips/ass and uses it as leverage to fuck you deeper.

Alfred’s safe word for you to use is “subsisto”, latin for “stop” or “halt”.

After a session or if you use the safe word, Alfred will carefully remove your bindings. A bath is in order and he’ll take this time to assess your body as he’s very nervous about the possibility of visible harm done to you. He keeps a first aid kit for you guys handy with salves that he massages into your skin where the ropes were.

Alfred is very susceptible to dom-drop. You’ll need to give him proper aftercare as well! Feedback versus praise is the one that makes him feel much better since it sounds more sincere. Your honesty with him will comfort him.

“I really liked when you...” “Maybe next time we try __ instead?”

Let him take care of you. Thank him for his efforts during aftercare with affirmations that you’re okay and he’ll feel much better.

“Thank you.” “I appreciate when you...” “I’m doing much better now, thank you.”

Physical affection is also a must for Alfred; hugging, holding, snuggling, cuddling him will help come back down out of his head. Doing an activity together afterwards helps him shift back to reality.

Ulysses Klaue

This process is definitely a power play for the two of you to emphasize your submissive side and his dominant side. Where one might expect him to be harsh, he’s very passionate about the process.

Klaue makes most of the decisions, but runs them by you first. You can make your suggestions as you see fit and he’ll always consider them in practice. Your words do not fall on deaf ears!

“I’ll tie it differently then.” “We can try something else instead.” “What about this way?”

Klaue loves asymmetry.

He prefers the form and shape your body takes on over the pattern of the rope. He definitely loves the purpose and function of the ties versus the fashion of them. This means he loves suspending you, loves to get a full view of your body spinning for him. There’s something beautiful about you allowing yourself to be at his mercy. Seeing your legs tucked awkwardly and arms bound, like he’s captured you, stopped you in time right in the midst of pleasure.

“You look so fucking beautiful.” “You’ve no idea how hard it is to keep going when you look like this.”

Some of his favorite ties are chest harness ties, frog ties, waist harness with cuffs, Hojojutsu Capture, and face ties.

The positions he’ll have you in are uncomfortable, but he’ll never do more than he know you can take. It’s also arousing to watch him work at these heavy duty ties, his muscles flexing when he pulls on the rope to suspend you. It’s freeing being in mid-air in such a comprising position where most people, when they’re exposed this way or hanging mid-air, have a tendency to hide.

Klaue is into pain play.

There are no surprises, of course, everything is planned out accordingly. You have complete say in what is used and to what degree. Klaue isn’t interested in the inflicting actual pain so much as he is interested in the dynamic of it. He also likes watching the effect it has on your skin, how warm/red it gets from the sensations he’s inflicted.

Klaue loves to tease you and lightly degrade you while you’re suspended or tied down; feathery touches over your breasts and cunt, rolling your nipples between his fingers, and eventually slipping two fingers inside of you, pumping them until you’re squirting.

“Oh, look at you squirming, just begging for me to touch this pretty cunt.” “Silly girl, just can’t wait ‘til I’m inside you, can you?”

He doesn’t fuck you while you’re suspended. He’ll bring you down for that. Definitely loves to keep you restrained while he fucks you. He also loves to sit back in a chair with you bound on your knees going to town on his cock; his hand twisted in your hair guiding you to take him further into your throat.

Klaue’s safe word for you to us is “Cuttlefish”. Man’s got a sense of humor and it’s not going anywhere. (You cannot change my mind on this, it is locked IN.)

For aftercare, Klaue likes to remove the bindings carefully and slow, caressing your body as the ropes loosen and fall off your form. He kisses your body where the ropes were and kisses your lips affectionately to bring you back from the scene. He holds you and snuggles you until you’re feeling well enough. He brings you plenty of water and snacks. (We all saw that candy bowl on his desk in AOU and he’s got a belly, you can’t tell me he doesn’t keep snacks on hand. It is locked IN.)

Klaue is not always susceptible to dom-drop, but he will drop hard and become apprehensive at seeing visible marks on you. His mood will swing drastically and he’s gonna be angry, not at you, just in general he’s in a bad mood. He likes to be coddled and doted on to help bring him out of this; lay his head on your lap or on your chest while you run your hands through his hair and say some general support and affirmations.

“It’s okay, I’m here.” “You did really well. I enjoyed it.” “I love how you keep me safe during our sessions.”

He’s a big boy who seems mean, but he’s also a big baby.

~~~

I hope you guys enjoyed this blurb! 💕

This is all based on information I know and my understanding, again I do not claim to be an expert.

Here’s a link to a page that has the ties mentioned and more for visual reference! Shibari Academy

#Alfred Pennyworth #ulysses klaue #alfred pennyworth x reader #ulysses klaue x reader #alfred pennyworth smut #ulysses klaue smut

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valyalyon · 8 months ago

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2 Roadside Rhapsody

Previous Post | Next Post SEA MASTER LIST OR #LYONSEA DIVIDERS

CW: explicit language, descriptions of sexual intercourse in public where couple is nearly caught. MDNI. 3.1K words

The Red Highway isn’t the same when you stay out of the dark. There were deserts, and high cliffs, winding mountains and endless nothingness. Then it opened into the Lilac Gorge.

A flatter area within a valley, with the road exiting up a steep hill. Rocco and Angel stopped here for a few days, as fall weather conditions continued being absurd and dangerous that year.

The Lilac Gorge was a safe haven from the crime found along the Red Highway, with three tiny towns occupying the entirety of the valley floor. The gorge was named after the abundant lilac fields, throughout the towns and all over the valley floor.

It was a little piece of paradise among the vast scariness that was the road of Angel’s nightmares. She wondered if maybe it was the Lilac Gorge that she always dreamed about ending up with Lazarus in.

Still, she didn’t try to ponder too much on that thought. Whenever she did, her world would spin out of control again.

Rocco parked the van in a little lot, “this trailer park is gorgeous, Star, there’s flowers everywhere.”

Angel got off the bed and made her way to the passenger seat of the van as Rocco got out and opened her door.

She hopped out onto a field of green grass that was trimmed short for the lots to be easily distinguished. Then, just outside the trailer park there was a field of lilacs beside one of the high mountains that isolated the valley.

The trailer park was pretty empty, and no one was awake to play in the fields, so maybe that’s what made Angel want to go out there. She looked over her shoulder at Rocco, “I’m going to go walk through those flowers.”

“Looks like there’s paths in there, so you just might be able to,” Rocco said, closing the van and locking the doors.

Angel made her way across the grass trailer park to the open field of lilacs. The field was pale pink, and the smell of them was so strong that she was hypnotized.

She walked along the edges between the flowers, occasionally touching a petal and letting the smells fill the air.

Rocco chuckled from behind her, and Angel turned around with her furrowed brows, “why you laughing?”

He pointed at her and smiled, “you’re adorable. You’re so excited to be here and be outside. You’re one with nature and it’s cool to see.”

Angel softened up, realizing he meant no harm, and wrapped her arms around his neck. She was on her toes to reach the tall man, but dangled her arms gracefully, “Want to get closer to nature?”

Rocco raised his brows as he looked down at her, holding her waist in his strong hands, “I’d have to get a condom out the van.”

“You want to fuck nature?” She asked curiously, further teasing him.

He laughed and pushed against her, kissing her as his grip on her waist tightened, “don’t act like you aren’t offering your body to me.”

She stared up at him with her sweet green eyes, her bottom lip pouting, “I’m a good girl, I could never…”

“That you are, but you definitely did,” Rocco agreed partially, and then squeezed an ass cheek in his hand tightly.

“Oww,” Angel moaned helplessly.

“You need it, don’t you?” Rocco asked, kissing her lips with an open mouth again.

“Mmm… just a little,” She whimpered out, holding onto his collar and pulling him down to her.

“You taste amazing,” he let it out in a groan, grabbing her by the back of the hair and pulling her into another kiss.

He squeezed her before letting one hand search his pocket, then switching to search with the other hand. Finally, he said, “score. I had one in my pocket.”

Angel guided him through the field, then she knelt down in between the bushels of lilac. She looked up at him as her hand felt his bulge through his pants, her hand tightened around the print of his length.

He groaned from the pressure, looking around and then unzipping his pants, getting his cock out for her.

She took his cock into her throat, her tongue sliding along the 9 inches happily. She was moaning and her tongue worked wonders along his throbbing shaft.

Rocco’s voice was lowered into a grumble, his joyous groans muffled by his choice to bite on his lip, but finally, “fuck, Angel… my Star…”

She looked through her dark lashes at him, and then closed her eyes to get him deeper in her throat. She loved the way he felt, she loved having sex and she hated admitting that.

She definitely felt like a whore, having jumped so quickly from loving Lazarus to deep throating another man in a field… She told herself that it was inevitable though, she couldn’t live hoping to rekindle anything with Lazarus.

Why wasn’t she allowed to move on? She was more than confident that he would be moving on soon anyway.

She didn’t feel any need to wait around for Lazarus to find her again, she wanted to enjoy her life. And Rocco… he was beautiful, his voice amazing, he was kind, and he felt easier to trust and believe in than Lazarus.

Of course, there was no shortage of attraction between Rocco and Angel either. They each found the other sexually appealing and were very hungry for one another.

That was one thing, of course, that it was always less aggressive with Rocco. Not to say he didn’t squeeze her or smack her ass, but he couldn’t slap her face. He’d happily choke her though, so he started to pump his cock deeper into her throat, holding her in place by the head.

“Mmm,” Angel mumbled hotly against Rocco’s cock, and her tongue swirled on his tip as her head moved in a rhythm.

His breathing hitched and he held his cock all the way down her throat, as his balls started to lurch with his orgasm. He sighed heavily and then let out a laugh, “you’re amazing.”

Angel lapped up all his cum, sliding her mouth off his cock and opening her mouth to show him the prize she’d won. She swallowed his hot load and looked up at him from her knees, “you’re not done, though…”

She was right, Rocco desperately wanted to fuck her in that field. He got down on his knees with her and the two shared a passionate kiss, as Rocco’s hands began to lift Angel’s top.

Her breasts came out and Rocco moved down, sucking on the nipples and playing with them, before leading his hand down and removing her pants, “you’ve got such a fat ass… You need to start wearing dresses to make fucking you easier.”

“It’s getting cold, I can’t,” she moaned in protest, as his index and middle fingers began to enter her pussy.

“It’s not that cold here, remember? We won’t be leaving for a little bit… I want to see you walking these streets in summer dresses, I want to be able to lift your skirt and fuck you anywhere,” he explained his needs and desires to her, spitting on his fingers and lacing the spit along her wet pussy.

Her clit was throbbing and her legs shook as she felt him touching her, “Let me feel your cock, Rocco, please…”

Everything came out like choked moans, her hips grinding to the rhythm of his finger fucking.

“You’re so fucking horny,” he called her out, ignoring what he had previously said, and lining his cock up with her entrance. She was wet and ready for him, so he just pushed himself in, groaning, “fuck… you’re still so small…”

“Do you hate it?” She moaned.

He chuckled and pulled her hair, “I could never.” Then, he slowly began to fuck her, pulling his cock out nice and slow.

Rammed it right back in, pulled it out, rammed it. His precious Star was a moaning mess, and Rocco wanted so badly to finish inside of her.

He played with her tits and then smacked her ass real hard, quickening his pace to speak, “can I finish inside of you?”

She wasn’t thinking, busy enjoying every rough thrust he shoved deeper into her gut. Her eyes were half closed, her mouth hungry for more of his lips.

He kissed her and pulled her hair, harder, this time his voice slightly meaner, “can I finish inside of you? Yes or no?”

“Will you be mad if I say no?” She asked him in between thrusts, her moans loud, her legs trembling.

“I won’t be,” Rocco promised her, loosening his grip on her hair and patting her head gingerly, “I want you to want it. If you don’t want it, I’ll just cum in your mouth again if you’re okay with that.”

“That sounds better… Too soon…” She tried to explain, not wanting to say no but not wanting to argue with him either. If it had been Lazarus, and if Lazarus had kept going, she would have let him have her way. She thought she’d probably feel the same way about Rocco soon.

He just nodded his head, kissed her on the mouth affectionately and continued slamming his hips rhythmically into her, leading her into a first and second orgasm simultaneously. As she came, her cream covered Rocco’s veiny cock and painted it white.

Rocco groaned, just brought to the brink by the hot sight of her cream all over him, he pulled out quickly, moving Angel onto her knees again.

He stood back up and slipped his cock back into Angel’s mouth, pulling her in close as he finished down her throat.

She gagged, then moaned, taking it all down her throat as soon as she adjusted herself. She held her head firm, making sure to suck him off as he pulled back out of her throat.

“Perfect,” Rocco said, and reached down for her, helping her off the ground, “You’re fucking perfect… Okay, breakfast?”

“I already had so much protein,” she teased him, kissing him happily after she had swallowed his load, “but breakfast does actually sound really good. We’ve been working up a sweat.”

“That, and we go into each town until we find a place to get you dresses,” Rocco added to the itinerary, smacking her ass then making sure she was dressed.

“My legs are going to be cold,” the girl protested, following Rocco back to the van.

“I’ll make sure to keep you warm,” Rocco promised her.

…

There was one store that sold exclusively clothing, and luckily it was a short walk from where they’d left the van. Rocco and Angel were always going back and forth with song ideas.

Rocco usually started it with some kind of abstract sound or rhythm, a guitar chord or a drum beat done on the floor of the van. Quickly, she would add lyrics.

At first, the lyrics were just a hum, a word or two, a hum. The more they spent time making songs though, the quicker he began to notice a sharp light in Angel’s eyes.

By the time they were walking to that store, Angel was nodding her head to a rhythm that he had made the night before when he couldn’t sleep.

Rocco glanced at her, “I thought you were asleep.”

“No, I heard you… I was pretty exhausted so I couldn’t move but I heard you doing that before you came to bed,” she tried to explain, and then ignored him again as she tried to place the lyric.

Her eyes seemed to bounce through so many stories, and she finally seemed to come to one, “In my bones mmm… burning me close mmm… Do you hear what I’m hearing?”

He nodded his head, remembering the sound and beat-boxing a similar sound rhythm for her. He liked surprising her with all the things he knew, and her eyes grew wide in excitement.

“I didn’t know you could beat box! You sing, play guitar �� you must play drums too? And you can beat box too?” She swooned all over him, hugging his arm.

Angel’s affection always spun his heart. Rocco didn’t know what got into himself, barely having spent two weeks with this girl. She wasn’t fake, she fell into the pleasures of life and lived it freely. He admired that about her.

He wanted to know so much about her, but he realized how much he had done knowing so little about her. She was a transient, and so was he but — it wasn’t the same.

“I can do a lot of things… before me, Angel, who were you with?” Rocco asked curiously, and then explained, “I lost my virginity to my first girlfriend. We broke up a year ago and I’ve had sex twice since.”

She stared up at him, a little confused about his line of questioning, then coming to understand his worry. Clearing her throat, “I lost my virginity to my gang leader ex-boyfriend, and I got raped by a gang member the night before I met you.”

“How did you get to the convenience store?” He asked, his face displaying his concern for her. There was no judgement on his face.

“I walked through the woods all night until I arrived there that morning,” she explained, her fingers lacing in between his.

“You’re really brave,” Rocco told her sincerely, hugging her tightly and then kissing her head, “maybe tomorrow we go to a doctor together and we both get STD tests.”

She actually liked the idea of that, as well as have the doctor touch around to make sure she still had an implant in her arm that would help her not get pregnant. She nodded her head, and agreed.

Rocco opened the doors of the store as they walked in, and instructed Angel to pick out nice dresses, a puffer jacket she really liked, and some cute boots.

Angel went through the selection of dresses, picking out a lilac pink dress, a lavender dress, and a third more blush pink dress. She moved on to picking out a white puffer jacket, with cute white boots that were slightly fluffy on the outside.

Once everything was picked out, they went to the changing rooms and Rocco noticed immediately that there wasn’t an attendant, so he told her to go and that he would follow.

Angel picked out one of the bigger rooms so they’d have space, and she hung everything up as Rocco sat down in a chair in the corner of the room.

She started to undress, taking her top off and setting it down. Next she took her shoes off, followed by slipping out of her pants.

She tossed the first dress over her head. It was a lilac baby doll, and was mid thigh length, her fat ass barely covered by the dress, “this one is definitely a no.”

“Why is that?” Rocco asked, reaching out to touch her, “come here, lemme see you.”

She turned to face him, and his eyes were hungry and warm, beckoning her forward. She walked a couple feet forward and gave him her hands when he asked for them.

He admired her bare legs, looking up her frame in the dress, finishing on her cleavage and hard nipples, “look at those tits, Star… fuck… let me touch them.”

“Feel the dress, focus on why we’re here,” she told him, but she leaned forward for him to play with her tits.

He groped each breast from outside the dress, his grip hard and hot, but then he forced her tits out of the dress, and started sucking on her nipples. He bit a little and she moaned, her fingers curling in his brown hair.

“Mmm, Rocco…” her legs shook a little, but he let go of her suddenly. She looked confused at him.

Rocco chuckled and pointed at the dresses, “finish up. You’ve got more stuff to try on.”

She slid off the dress right in front of him, making sure her fat ass touched his knee, then standing back up slowly. He smacked her ass roughly, but stayed sitting, watching her.

The next dress was pink, the top a corset of flowers, and the skirt short tulle again barely covering her beautiful ass.

He watched the dress come on and saw the way it hugged her curves, just in awe of her. Rocco grabbed her again, but this time lifted her skirt and lowered her onto his lap, where she could feel his bulge.

“Fuck… I don’t think we should, Radio Boy…” she pleaded with her lover, hoping that using his nickname would level him.

His greedy hands were feeling the boning of the corset, and then feeling her breasts. He squeezed her tits firmly and sighed against her neck, “you feel the way your ass rubs against me? How could I ever stop craving you?”

“You have to learn restraint,” she moaned, rubbed her ass against his cock one more time, then got up and started to change.

The next dress was more purple, and the sleeves hung off her shoulders. For this one, Rocco already his cock out of his pants, and was stroking it as he watched, “come give me head, Star.”

She couldn’t say no to him. She turned around and kneeled down in front of him. As she took it in her mouth, her tongue came out, licking the base of the shaft. His veins were exposed and his cock was throbbing.

As she happily slurped him up, she heard someone coming into the changing room. Rocco, not perturbed, sped up his assault on her mouth, cumming in her throat just as they heard a voice clearing their throat from the mid way point of the room.

He pulled away and fixed his pants immediately. Angel stood and switched into her pants, throwing on her shirt. Rocco stood from the chair and she sat down to put on her shoes, as a knock came to the door.

Rocco opened it, playing it cool, “yeah?”

“Are you two done in here?” the store clerk asked, irritated by Rocco.

Angel nodded her head, tying her shoes. Rocco grabbed all the clothes off the hanger for her, and said, “we’ll be getting everything.”

The store clerk nodded her head and walked away from them. They followed suit momentarily, Rocco handing the lady cash to pay for their items.

Then they headed on their merry way.

Not sure how I'm feeling about author's notes and polls at the end -- kind of a fan of the polls but not sold on the author's notes, excited to see what you all prefer. Hope you enjoyed the story <3

#smut #size difference #cw public #first person #poll #dark romance #writeblr #lyonsea #bluestlyon #booklr

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notveryimpressed · 2 years ago

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Allergies

In a world where chaos bloomed and laughter wilted, there lived a villain named Malachi—the Sinister Sniffler. Unlike his malevolent counterparts, Malachi harbored an unfortunate secret: a crippling allergy to pollen. With each whiff of the fragrant particles, his sinuses erupted like a tempestuous volcano, reducing him to a pitiful, sneezing mess.

Across the verdant city, a hero named Floretta—The Blossom Blaster—sprouted into action, armed with flower-based powers. Her flowing cape mimicked the vibrant hues of a spring meadow, and her hands emitted a mystical, floral energy that could manipulate the very essence of nature.

One breezy day, Malachi concocted a mischievous plan to rob the local botanical garden, seizing control of its rarest flowers. As he tiptoed through the emerald labyrinth, his villainous scheme stirred petals and pollen alike, triggering his agonizing allergies.

With eyes streaming like miniature waterfalls, Malachi's focus wavered. He stumbled upon a field of alluring roses, their crimson beauty overwhelming his senses. The Sinister Sniffler clutched his nose, a symphony of sneezes building within him. The floral chorus crescendoed, causing a rippling cascade of pollen to engulf his trembling form.

Meanwhile, Floretta sensed the disturbance, her flower-based powers tingling with intuition. Like a gust of wind, she rushed to the scene, her cape fluttering like the wings of a hummingbird. The Blossom Blaster surveyed the villainous tableau before her, stifling a giggle at the sight of Malachi's pitiable predicament.

"Ah-choo!" Malachi sneezed, his body convulsing as if caught in a botanic boogie. The pollen danced around him, forming a swirling vortex that threatened to consume the wretched sniffler.

Floretta, her heart overflowing with compassion and mischief, stretched her hand towards the tempestuous whirlpool. Concentrating her power, she summoned a squadron of dandelions, whose feathery seeds rode the wind towards the villainous vortex.

In a wily twist of fate, the dandelions' seeds intertwined with the pollen, transforming the menacing storm into a whimsical ballet of fuzz and petals. The pollen, now gentle and harmless, descended upon Malachi's quivering body like a delicate snowfall, muffling his sneezes and offering him respite from his wretched plight.

Amidst the pollen-infused spectacle, Floretta extended her hand towards Malachi, offering him an unconventional truce. "Let's strike a deal, Sinister Sniffler," she proposed, her voice infused with levity. "If you promise to use your powers for good and never harm the flowers again, I'll share my secret anti-allergy flower remedy."

Malachi, humbled by his defeat and touched by Floretta's compassion, accepted her offer. From that day forth, the Sinister Sniffler transformed into the Noble Nose, using his powers to nurture and protect the very flowers he once despised.

Together, the unlikely duo proved that even in a world where allergies and flower-powered heroes collided, harmony could blossom, and laughter would forever chase away the pollen-induced woes that once plagued them both.

Please follow me or reblog my writing. it really motivates me to write

#hero x villain #villain x hero #villain #writing snippet #writeblr #hero and villain #hero x villain community #hero #writing community #supervillain #pollen allergy #sneezing

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witchofthesouls · 9 months ago

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You are called the Decaying King -an epitaph well-earned for your long years (decades, centuries, eons) upon the Twilight Throne.

Your word is law, and reality rends itself apart to bend to your very will.

With a mere utterance, you have ended well-trenched dynasties and strangled rebellions in the very cradle of inception. With a whisper, entire generations are culled from elder to infant. With a command, nature is at your bidding; you direct earthquakes and tsunamis, flash floods and mudslides, tornados and cyclones and firestorms. Nothing is truly safe from your touch, directly or indirectly.

You have caused great disturbances and ended wars without raising your armies. You have set pests and disease upon fields and water sources to starve countless, subtly shifted the landscape until it disrupted trade routes, allowed raiders to steal and plunder in treacherous territories to destabilize and sabotage their holdings.

Tyrant is what you're called in the dark, but even shadows bring you their secrets.

A younger you that's fresh to the thone and aching from loss would have thrown spectacular feasts, celebrating the triumphs and dining with all those who managed to survive. You would have sung to the stars to come out of their slumber to dance and joined in the revelry when the Levithian is sighted upon the shore.

A younger you that's still fixing yourself to the Twilight Throne by painstakingly carved pieces after centuries of governing would have raged. Betrayal eating your insides as you seethed at the audacity of these cowardly, fragmented things. They have forgotten the immense cruelties and unforgivable sins of their masters from before. They are the descendants of the people who stood by your side, and the world was remade. You wouldn't have harmed them directly (love still staying your hand because they haven't turned traitors) but nor would you have helped. You would have turned your eyes away and allowed the never-ending prosperity of their lineages to run dry, the protections to fall as no one replenishes them as they fall prey to the natural phenomena of the land.

The punishment for forgetting their ancestors' (your friends') memories is to stand on their own without the benefit of their bestowed gifts. To be beloved but no longer blessed.

You're no longer young. You haven't been for a long, long time. The words wash over you to settle in your hollow heart.

Tyrant is what you're called.

But you know yourself to be benevolent -there are still a few horrors beyond your sanity, even as your morals had shifted like a wave breaking upon the shore, changing with every passing year, decade, century, millennia.

It's enough.

_______

Your only companion constantly sleeps. No longer able to wake itself up, still mourning for its last wielder and creator, and waiting for their return.

You wait as well.

You sit in a carefully curated garden of your own making. The trees stand guard, steadfast in their duties as they spread countless branches and thick foilage to hide you from the hungry, greedy eyes of the court. Amidst all the greenery and bright colors, here lays your companion's resting place: a well-tended pond.

You don't remember what it looks like, but that's not a failure of your long memory, it's the weapon's own doing. Secretive and loyal, to the very end.

You do remember the sword's voice. The last time, it drifted back to the surface -melancholic with a lifetime of grief etched upon its soul.

The pond doesn't ripple. Still. Silent as a grave. Not even flowers turn their faces here, muted and sliding in a different direction to give the weapon a sense of privacy.

You don't speak, careful not to break the ever-constant stillness. Your frail bird-hollow bones don't splinter further, paper-thin skin doesn't peel away with flaking strands of muscle, the rattle that shakes the remains of your shivered lungs calms, the roots of the heavy crown eases its strangehold within you, and even the constantly oozing wounds of putrid, blackened ichor sluggishly slows down in this hallowed space.

Perhaps it's the closest thing to a quiet benediction you'll get for faithful, dedicated service.

(You are nothing but a pale imitation of true glory. Nothing but a god-shaped hole. Hallow and hollow.)

______

The Decaying King is what you're called, and it's a fitting epitaph.

You have held the Twilight Throne for countless ages out of a vow you refused to forget, even when you are the last one to survive, to remember.

You have not wavered. Steadfast and consistent, even everything else changes. You remain as your body slowly perishes, and not even the most powerful enchantments could hide your feebleness, nor the grand gardenscapes could mask the onset of death.

In the immeasurable distance that divides the realms, your god dreams dreamlessly in the space-between-spaces, a lonely haunting whale-song calls out to wake the Dreamless Dreamer.

One day, your god will awaken and will return to claim their rightful place.

One day, you will force your feeble, rotting body to crouch down to press against salt-crusted armor and blood-soaked, muddy feet. You will be blessed by the riotous noise of their great, resplendent beast that matches the ravenous fury of the Sun itself, and the mourning sword will put away its grief, shattering your glass bones with its ever-pounding war-chant. Their faceless visage, haloed in blue-white flames and held by iron spikes and rainbow-sheened nacre, will burn you away to ash and dust as they give you a kiss of mercy.

For what is a mortal soul to one that walked the very beginning of Creation? What are wine and flowers to the divine might of the one that holds the world's love? What are you to the one called Carnage, who is both Mother and Father to all and will be?

You wait, exhausted, fragmented, and drained to the very dregs. Ever hopeful and ever faithful.

The divine right of kings but it's a curse

#my writing #writing prompt #horror #cosmic horror #body horror #religious imagery #magic #fantasy #my thoughts #what happens when a devoted worshipper takes a place meant for a god?

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memento-morianon · 5 days ago

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"chapter 12" scenes, Memento Mori: Blood.

[this is another area of the story where i have no idea what's going on. there's time between the festival and k'arik's big ritual. revisions are gonna be rough. this chapter will just be another pile of unconnected scenes.

masterpost of excerpts over here.

scene 1: meditation

Evarin and Morian hiked up the hill overlooking the lake and into one of the meadows. It wouldn't be long before the place was bursting with flowers, but until then it was all grass and leaves and moss covered stones that jutted out from the landscape. K'arik was sitting on one of the stony outcrops, and he waved when he saw them coming up the hill. Sitla scurried ahead to paw at his leg, tilting her head expectantly and craning her neck to sniff at the pouch on his belt. He shooed her back, though he looked amused.

"He doesn't keep treats for you," Morianon chastised, stepping in to make Sitla lie down a few paces away. Evarin gave a short huff of a laugh in response.

“Are your meditations going well?” she asked K’arik. He nodded and patted the stone beside him, inviting them both to sit.

“I feel ready for [the ritual], though it is still some time away. I know my ancestors are proud of me and I trust in their guidance to protect my soul from harm. You will both come as witnesses, of course?” He titled his head, and Evarin rested a hand on his knee.

“I wouldn’t miss it for anything.” she replied. Morianon hummed hesitantly.

“I’m nervous to watch, but I want to be there for you.”

“Your presence will bring me comfort,” K’arik assured him. Morianon nodded and settled in place as K’arik and Evarin both began the calming breath exercise to prepare themselves for a meditative session. Evarin kept her eyes open, watching her husband. He mimicked their postures, matched their breathing style, and entered the meditation with them while Sitla crawled forward to sit at his feet. Satisfied, Evarin allowed herself to enter the depths of her own soul.

She withdrew her senses one by one, focusing only on the immediate sensations of her breath, and the feeling of the stone beneath her. She focused her mind on the touch of the pendant hanging around her neck, letting it become her anchor. Gradually, like the edge of a wave seeping into the sand, she stretched out from her soul and tried to feel the living energy around her. There were the moss and lichens on the stone, small and simple, drawing life through their fractal structures. There, the grass, there the dormant flowers holding their energy and waiting to bloom. Insect life all around and beneath; other life so tiny and odd Evarin could scarcely understand it, all filling the cold void with their own fervent colors and warmth. And beside her, K’arik, his soul like a bonfire in comparison, burning with power and experience.

She drew back from his brilliance and sought out Morianon, reaching for the familiar strangeness of his soul. Whether it was the lingering scars of trauma, or the way his whole self had become divided, she could never tell. His soul gleamed like a faceted gem and trembled like a candle flame in a cold breeze. Part of it almost seemed to trail away like smoke, obscured from Evarin’s senses. Below him, Sitla was stranger still. Evarin pointedly ignored it, but the dog’s cold presence made her stand out amongst all the other warm life in the field. Morianon was more important. Evarin could feel the way he strained to meditate. His hesitation, his fear. His soul pulsed like a heartbeat, reaching tentatively outward but never quite connecting with anything else around him. Evarin could feel K’arik reaching for her, feel the warmth of his soul strengthening her own, but Morianon’s soul remained distant, like a flinching hand avoiding the burn of a comforting fire.

Reaching further into her husband’s presence, Evarin tried to lift him, to strengthen him. The edge of her soul found his, and a cold darkness slipped between them, pushing her away. She drew in a deep breath and blinked back to the outer world, dizziness striking her as her senses returned. Morianon was still sitting in meditation, his brow furrowed in frustrated concentration. Evarin sighed, regret prodding her heart. It was not her place to try and pull his soul to her level, to step in and lift him where he was not prepared to go. She could heal his wounds and soothe his pain whenever he asked for it, but her songs could not heal his soul.

All her senses settled again, and she prepared to enter a second meditation. Before she could venture far, she felt Sitla’s cold presence and glanced up to see those blank white eyes staring her down. There was no malice, no anger in that steady gaze. But Evarin shivered and turned away, shaking her head. She pushed away the outside world and entered the warm pools of magic within herself, leaving her companions to their own meditation.

[and uh idk, once I have actual context to insert this scene into, I’ll have a better idea of where it should go. How long they meditate, what they do afterwards. Etc.]

Post meditation:

K’arik looked refreshed, and Evarin felt the same. The flow of energy through her soul was as soothing as a warm bath after a long day. “Thank you for letting us join you,” she signed to K’arik. He inclined his head, returning the gratitude.

“We might be able to join you again, before your ritual,” Morianon interjected, “it’s always nice to be with you, especially on such a lovely day.”

“I welcome it,” K’arik replied. [anyway they say goodbye and move along, going separate ways.]

“I wish I could handle it the way you do,” Morianon muttered, tucking his wings close to his body. “You and K’arik. This sort of thing comes so naturally for you, and here I am. Most people my age can at least use meditation to relax, and it only stresses me out,” he huffed, looking up at the clouds. Evarin took his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Someday, I’m sure you’ll be more comfortable with it. But you don’t have to try and keep up with me and K’arik, really. We’ve been studying and practicing with magic techniques for years, we don’t meditate the same way other people do.”

“And I can’t,” Morianon grumbled. He tensed, and his expression shifted. His mouth fumbled silently, like he was searching for something to say. Evarin waited, but her husband only shook his head and swallowed his unspoken words. “You’re right though. I’m sure I’ll get the hang of it.” His other hand reached into the open air and Sitla immediately jogged forward to shove her snout into his palm.

scene 2: weaving

Her father’s craft room always felt the same. The warm smell of wool and cedar brought her back to her childhood, to that little boy sitting in the corner with a ball of scraps, looping yarn over a hook and listening to the steady clacking noise of her father’s loom. Stepping through the memory, she glanced around and admired the stacks of yarn on the shelves. Her father collected it from every spinner he could contact, and some of it was even imported.

“Oh, I almost didn’t notice you!” Izune paused his work, leaving a row half woven on the loom. “Come in, here, I’ve got the hooks all set out, I’ve got my pattern books–” he scooted a basket of scraps aside with his foot and waved Evarin over.

“I haven’t figured out yet what colors to use,” she mused, sitting in the old armchair where she used to learn weaving on her father’s lap. He carried an old stool over and sat himself beside her.

“No matter, you can practice with any color you like until that inspiration hits. Here, thicker yarns are easier to work with, and this is some very soft wool.” He held up a ball of fuzzy yarn dyed a soft green and unrolled it a little to show her the texture. “Combination of mountain goat kid and [backpack dog]. Has a bit of a smell when it’s damp, but it’s gentle on the skin.” He passed it over and Evarin ran her hands over it, admiring the fluffy fibers. It felt almost like the downy feathers close to Morianon’s skin.

“Do we have anything less fuzzy to practice with? I worry I’ll lose track of my stitches with this.” she laughed. Izune nodded and pulled over a different basket of yarn, much more compact and densely twined.

“Standard mountain goat wool, much longer fibers than the kid wool so it’s less inclined to fray. It does get a little itchy though.” He passed her a ball of it dyed in mottled blues and light reds. “Won’t take much more than a few balls to make a baby sized blanket, I think. The pattern I used for your first blanket is over here.” Izune picked up a book from his stack and opened it up to a well-worn page, showing old handwritten instructions marked up with notes in a different hand and hasty sketches of row patterns along the margins. “It’s easier than it looks,” he assured her. She hummed, pressing the ball of wool to her nose and basking in the comforting smell. It had been so long since she last picked up a hook to weave, but she found her nerves settling in the nostalgia of soft yarn between her fingers.

“I hardly remember how to begin,” she lamented, “can you show me?”

“That’s why I invited you over, Evy,” Izune said, eyes crinkling in amusement. He retrieved a pair of hooks from his collection and exchanged Evarin’s sample yarns for two balls of solid colored wool, one grey and one pale yellow. “Now, I usually hold my hook like this,” he demonstrated, taking the handle of a hook like he was picking up a table knife, “but you could hold it this way if that’s more comfortable,” he showed her an alternate grip, as if the hook was a pen. Evarin took the second hook and practiced both grips, settling for the knife hold as it felt more stable.

She at least remembered how to tie a slip knot and poked the hook through the loop. Watching Izune’s expert hands, she mimicked his actions and created a chain about the length of her forearm, catching and tugging the yarn through the loop on her hook over and over. It snagged a couple of times, and her chain looked uneven, some of the braided links sitting quite loose while others were tight and small. “There, you’re remembering it all just fine.” Izune ran his hand down her awkward chain. “You’ll have your old skills back in no time.” “It’s a mess.”

“Ah, the base chain only needs to be long enough for your project, it’s not really important to make it look pretty.” He waved a hand dismissively, though of course his own chain looked perfect to Evarin’s eyes. “Next step is just relearning the basic stitches, and then you’re set to follow any pattern, really.”

“Maybe just the easy patterns,” Evarin replied with a wry smile. “All patterns are easy if you know what you’re doing.” Izune scooted his stool closer to her and leaned on the armchair to show her how to make the first stitch, sliding his hook through the yarn and bringing it back with a new loop. She followed his steps, drawing the yarn through itself again and again. The hook caught several times, but she persisted. Her hands remembered the motion, but it was like looking at the world through a dusty window. She turned the work and began a new row, wiping the dust away layer by layer, stitch by stitch, row by row.

“My edges are horrible,” she groaned, holding up the short rectangle and frowning at the way one side sloped and curled while the other side was oddly uniform. Her father’s rectangle was larger and straighter. He took the practice work from her hands and looked it over with the astuteness of a jeweler appraising a gem.

“Tension problem,” he explained, pointing out how much tighter the top rows were compared to the bottom rows. “But you’re already getting better.” He handed the piece back with a proud fatherly smile. “Now, let’s practice a couple other stitches, and then if you have time, we can look over the pattern?”

“I think I’ll have to look at the pattern tomorrow, I’m not confident with this work yet.” Evarin rolled the yarn between her fingers. “Show me the other stitches, and I’ll try to practice them at home tonight.”

“They’re easy, don’t worry,” Izune chuckled, “they’re actually easier to work with than the first stitch, in my opinion. Taller, for one thing. Though for this stitch, it looks cleaner if you start the row with a few chains and then skip over the first stitch of the previous row.” He showed her the method, looping yarn over his hook before he created each stitch. Evarin copied him, but quickly grew annoyed as the yarn slipped off her hook a few times. Izune slowed down and showed her how to turn her wrist to keep the yarn in place.

Short stitches, tall stitches, stitches that slipped across the row and barely added any height. By the time Evarin felt she could remember the steps well enough to practice on her own, her wrist was sore in a way she had forgotten it could be. The rectangle of woven wool in her hands was uneven, curling up, and sloped on the side. But it was getting better. The top most rows were more aligned, the stitches a little more uniform.

“It’s a start, I suppose.”

“A very good start,” Izune rolled up his ball of yarn and set it in the basket alongside his sample work. “Don’t be afraid to unravel it and start over, though. You’ll get a better feel for it that way."

“What is the pattern you wanted to show me?” Evarin folded up her work and shoved it into her bag. Izune’s ears perked up and he walked to a cabinet, pulling out a bundle of weaving.

“You might find it easier than that rectangle, honestly,” he laughed, “you see, this blanket is the same pattern, it’s very very simple.” He unfolded it and sat back down, shaking it out over his lap. It was made from a deep green yarn, much thinner than the yarn they’d been practicing with. Evarin pulled a corner of the blanket into her lap and found that it was made with clusters of stitches that slotted into small gaps in each previous row, all spreading outward from the center of the work.

“Oh, I do know this pattern! You made me a blanket like this when I left for university. I keep it on the couch now.”

“It’s such a common pattern. I’ve made my own variations on it as well, of course, as you can see in my notes on that page,” Izune mused, “but you work it from the middle and put the stitches in these chain spaces, so you don’t even have to worry about going into each stitch or missing any edges. It’s still good for you to learn how to make something from the bottom up, of course.” He folded the blanket back up and set it aside. Evarin reached out and laid her hand on his.

“Thank you, adda. I can’t tell you how much it means to me that I’ll be able to make a blanket for my own child.”

“I already know how it feels, Evy.” Her father lifted her hand and kissed it, pulling her to her feet and over into his arms. “And I can’t tell you how much it means to me that you want to learn all this again. Maybe I sound a bit silly for this, but I do miss having you in here, playing with my scraps.”

“Give it a few years and you might have a grandbaby playing with them instead.”

“I really hope I do,” Izune chuckled and let his daughter go. “Alright, alright, you have things to do, I have things to do. Go on home, and I’ll see you again tomorrow.”

“See you, adda.” Evarin picked up her bag and stepped carefully over the baskets on the floor, leaving her father to his work and smiling at the sound of the loom’s treadle clacking against the frame.

scene 3: mori alone during a storm

Every part of Morianon was itchy. His wings, his back, his head. Pin feathers poked through his skin everywhere the old feathers had already fallen out. He scratched at them, removing the flaky keratin to free the soft new feathers as they grew in. But only the shortest feathers, the ones on his torso and the upper parts his wings, were losing their sheaths. All the longer feathers would remain covered for a while.

Outside the study, the rain was pounding and the wind howled; a perfect spring storm. Between the noise and the itching, he found his eyes skimming words without reading any of them. Centaurs, he was trying to study centaur history. He tapped his pen on the blank notepad and frowned at the book in front of him. Some chapter on the wars that broke out when the centaurs decided to take revenge against the orcs.

Waves of rain slammed into his window, making his feathers stand on end and sending a shiver through his memories. Sitla, curled at his feet, whuffed quietly and sat up to paw at his knees.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he hissed, standing and kicking his chair back. His mind felt like it was in two places at once; the warm study and the cold ruins of a small house torn by the wind. Shaking his head and pulling his ragged wings tight against his body, Morianon left his desk and moved to the center of the house, stumbling through the hall until he found the door he needed. A tiny room, hardly more than a closet, full of pillows. He curled up with Sitla and slammed the door shut, panting heavily in the darkness. Thick walls silenced the raging storm outside, though they couldn’t quiet the one that haunted his memories.

“No! No, you leave me alone!” he growled at the clutching shadows that pulled his thoughts deeper, “I have so much going on, you cannot do this to me right now!” Desperately, he tried to close the gate on the new visions threatening to flood his mind, tried to wrest control back from the panic that had taken over him. It was joined by grief and the sound of gasping final breaths, faint images of the dead flickering through his thoughts.

Sitla whined and pushed her nose into his face in an effort to calm him. He held her tight. Before the horrible visions grew worse, a more powerful shadow at last pulled the gate closed on the haunting images, and left behind a feeling of guilt.

“You don't get to apologize,” he hissed, glaring at nothing in the dark little room. “Just leave me alone.” The shadows did not retreat. They couldn't. Morianon sighed and focused on slowing his breath. The itching sensation of every pin feather agitated him but it was real. Real itching feathers, real trembling breaths. Sitla, real; the walls and his pile of pillows were all real. He clenched his toes around a very textured pillow, feeling the embroidery and beaded shapes.

“One. Two. Three,” he counted under his breath, “four. Five.” He left the memory of the storm in his mind and reached for the door. As his hand landed feebly in the middle of it, too low to reach the handle, he heard a muffled voice and a gentle knock.

“Mori? You in there?” It was Kaen. The door opened just a crack, letting in a sliver of light. Morianon blinked and squinted, frowning at the nickname. It didn’t feel right. It wasn’t his name. He got to his feet carefully, letting the wings on his back settle in their neutral position. Everything itched.

“I’m here,” he mumbled, leaving the little room. Kaen sighed and stepped back to let him out. The sight of him briefly startled Morianon, as he was only wearing a few strands of bone beads and a fur wrapped around his waist. Every decorative scar on his body was fully exposed, including a few bandages over the newest ones, and what looked like a shallow but fresh cut on his thigh. His curly red hair was still in its tidy hunter’s knot, held together with a thornbeast quill.

“I came upstairs and heard the storm, went to find you and saw the trail of dandruff.” Kaen gestured at the flaky keratin mess all over the floor. “Sounds like the storm’s calmed down a bit, but if you want, you can keep studying down in the basement, with me.”

“I appreciate the offer,” Morianon replied. The wind was still howling outside, but it was softer than it had been. Or perhaps he was just more tolerant of it for the moment. He hummed, glancing around and reorienting himself. Kaen watched him, long ears twitching, tail flicking around his knees. Morianon hummed and glanced down the hall, back towards the study. “The storm isn’t really over yet. I think I will move.” He made his way to the study, keeping Sitla right behind him. Kaen got ahead of him and started gathering things from his desk.

“I know the basement isn’t as cozy, but at least you can work in peace.” Kaen paused and hummed thoughtfully. “Well. Peace from the storm. I’ll try to keep my work quiet.”

“Thank you.” Morianon picked up his notebook and followed Kaen out and down. Every time they passed by a window, his body shivered at the sound of the rain and wind.

“Don’t mind the mess,” Kaen apologized as they entered the basement, “I promise it is organized, I have a system. Nothing outright dangerous is laying around, you’re perfectly safe down here.”

“If anyone else said that to me, I might be more worried,” Morianon replied sarcastically. Kaen chuckled, leading him to a desk that barely had space between piles of notebooks and fur pelts. He set his things down while Kaen removed a few of the piles.

“Just ignore anything you might hear from the other side of the room,” Kaen chuckled, “I’m fine. I can even get you a pair of earmuffs if you think it might help.”

“That won’t be necessary. But thank you.” Morianon sat down, awkwardly repositioning his feathered appendages over the back of the chair. He absently reached through the fluff by his cheeks and found the ridges of his ears, frowning at how small they felt. “I’ll be alright over here,” he assured both himself and Kaen.

“Call if you need anything.” Kaen stepped back, nodded, and walked through the heavy hide curtain that divided the basement. True to his word, he did try to keep his work quiet. Morianon smiled at the hushed sound of his brother-in-law’s guttural voice, chanting in some ancient tongue. It was strange and sent a tremble up his spine, but even Kaen’s odd rituals were more comforting than the storm.

Morianon studied, taking notes here and there. He had more important things to focus on than the darkness that plagued his mind; things to prepare for, things all of him had been looking forward to for months and months. Everything else would just have to wait.

#writeblr #mm excerpts #mm 1 #original writing

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starcrossedspirit · 5 months ago

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A kiss while someone watches

For the trouple 👀💚

✧. ┊ ⁭ ⁭ ⁭ ⁭fluff drabble two ! pairings: könig x fem!oc x krueger original characters: liliya belyaeva tag warnings: n/a - it's just fluff ♡ prompt: 32. a kiss while someone watches

“And to you, my bride, I crown you a queen.”

Eyes like summer, so warm and earthy green, danced with a certain gentle sparkle as the man before her placed a crown of woven daises upon her head. Dark tresses blew gently in the wind and she could feel her cheeks warm as her heart fluttered, König careful as ever as he brushed strands of dark hair out of her eyes to look into them better.

The couple sat quietly among the flowers, the hidden estate only minutes away behind them, and they found themselves lingering in the wildflower field like angels lingered in heaven. They were close, König kneeled before her as she sat against Krueger who sat behind her, his eyes watching the two closely as they played at heaven. He was quiet but watchful- he always was.

Fingers slid against her cheeks, soft and tender and very mindful of her features, and not once did he move his eyes from hers. They were blue, endless, and for each soft movement she could feel the love tenfold resonate from within his soul. Oh, how he loved her so.

In return her own hands found their place in holding a small bouquet of wildflowers that they had collected from around in the field, today had been a sunny day and they had seized it. It felt lush, warm, and most importantly alive as the two lovers pledged their hearts to one another.

“You shall only know happiness, only love, and never shall I bring harm to you.” Her cheeks flushed and her heart only beat faster as he vowed himself to her. “My heart is entwined to yours, my soul bound to your being, and for all that I am you shall have as yours forevermore.”

Lips turned upright into a smile and her hands held tighter to the bouquet, her face leaning in closer to König’s slowly. “And to you, my King, I vow that you shall only know my heart, my mercy, and above all else my love. Endlessly and mercifully, I am yours entirely.”

Fingers lingered upon her cheeks and as she stared into his eyes, his fingers moved the shroud upward so that they could seal the pledge with a kiss. He leaned in as well, both of their eyes closing just before their lips had touched.

They were warm, soft, and she could feel the smile curl his lips as he pulled her in closer to further deepen the kiss. His hands brushed tresses behind her ears and pulled her closer, the kisses themselves tender and sweet. It almost brought a tear to her eye knowing that this was true love.

Krueger smiled from beneath his own shroud, it was something akin to fulfillment, and his fingers glided through the grass beneath him. Where König was heaven, Krueger was earth. So grounded, so without contempt or even malice, and she felt just as safe with him.

Pulling away then, their love sealed with a kiss, she gave a soft giggle and then lay back into Krueger whose hands rose from the grass to pull her closer. His body was firm but welcoming, it felt right against her own and she let the bouquet fall to her side.

Hands lifted upward then and grabbed the crown from upon her head, the feeling of the daises and their stems quaint upon her fingertips, and in one careful but swift movement she reached backward and placed it upon Krueger’s head. König’s eyes looked towards to his and he himself relaxed into a softer position, a chuckle of amusement coming from beneath the hood as he relaxed into the field beside them.

“And to you my lovely Sebastian, I shall wed you at night beneath the stars so that the moon might envy us.” She whispered as her fingertips fell to his face as she turned to nuzzle into him. “For your heart is only mine now, and she might yet envy me stealing you from her.”

Krueger cradled her then, his arms wrapping around her to hold her close to his heart. “I have never loved the moon, nor shall I ever. So let her be jealous of something she has never had.”

The matter of fact in his tone made her smile only widen further, her eyes turning to his once more as she rested into Krueger’s touch. König nodded and stared at them both, only love lacing his eyes.

Oh, how he loved to see heaven reflect in her eyes.

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mylightsatnight · 1 year ago

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I don't want anything but...

When I die, the same day I do, or the day before and after,

You can take my car keys. My wallet, phone, flashlight, and guitar. Feel free to raid my house for any valuable fine china, expensive computers, and electronic thing-a-ma-jigs. It's all yours.

But the poems underlined, from the books with dog-eared pages, I will keep.

The image of a flower, weeping by the sun, prayers for rain under it's lily-hood. That, I will keep.

The mountain adventures I had, where I conquered, climbed, summited, and surmounted my mental and physical fears. This, I will keep.

The memories, of the family members who were never there, when they had every opportunity to be...Regrettably, these I will keep.

The songs, note for note, and chord transitions like snow fades in spring...I will always remember these, for they are synonymous with my very essence of being and they can't leave me.

I will forget the names, some faces, the days we saw each other, the food I bought, the drinks I sneaked sips of, the books that went unread, the cinema films that peaked no interest in me, the countless wasted nights in front of digital horizons, always forever-expanding, the albums of jeweled, crystalline glory, but never found, lest you open your ears, the electric spark of technological advancement, the deers in the field that noticed me, and I, them, but neither of us had the broken heart to do harm to the other, the quilted blankets, the clocks from a time long passed, the drunken bar nights, bad jokes I made, and pool shots that were easy wins, and my 2 dollars lost, the curry that was made more mild than I would have liked, the burgers made fine, just fine, nothing more to say, the idolizing of past generations, and the way I know that Allen knew me, even though he never could have, the way jesus never came back, the way that my heart somehow did, the way that physical exercise was a burden and a blessing in every stage, the spelling bees I lost, the few chess games I won, the forgotten lore for the indie video-game, the riverside fishing trip where I learned nothing new about him, but at least it's more time spent together, the hospital bed cotton that is not easily forgotten, the corner smiles, the nickel dials on bowling alley candy dispensers, the halloween costumes worn once, then stored into Totes for another 362 days, the coffee cups thrown in dumpsters, the ceramic ones made with care, then forgotten with apathy, the love the love the love the love that I always knew was out there, and the lifetime I spent searching for it.

Some things in this life are obvious, others require a touch more subtly and nuance to make happen...I'm still not entirely sure what my existence is supposed to mean, all that I can say for certain, is even when the universe apparently wants me to perish, that's when I make the case for my survival, all other times...

All other times...

I breathe, I write, I stay alive.

Not for you, not for me, but because my heart needs it.

#mylightsatnight

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wingedblooms · 10 months ago

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The Cauldron seemed to realize what she’d done, too, as his head thumped onto the mossy ground. That Elain … Elain had defended this thief. Elain, who it had gifted with such powers, found her so lovely it had wanted to give her something…It would not harm Elain, even in its hunt to reclaim what had been taken. (acowar)

We know the Cauldron (ie, the flower of life in the divine trio) adores Elain, but we don't know why. I like to believe it found her so lovely and gave her such powers because it could see the way she nurtures life and brings forth beauty wherever she goes. She may have even reminded it of the Mother, as @silverlinedeyes and I discussed:

It began with a cauldron. A mighty black cauldron held by glowing, slender female hands in a starry, endless night. Those hands tipped it over, golden sparkling liquid pouring out over the lip. No—not sparkling, but … effervescent with small symbols, perhaps of some ancient faerie language. Whatever was written there, whatever it was, the contents of the cauldron were dumped into the void below, pooling on the earth to form our world… (acotar)

There is a well-known prayer about the Mother that reminds me of Elain holding her sister, Feyre (which might be taking it too far, but please humor me):

"Cauldron save me," she began whispering, her voice lovely and even--like music. "Mother hold me," she went on, reciting a prayer similar to one I'd heard before, when Tamlin eased the passing of that lesser faerie who'd died in the foyer. Another of Amarantha's victims. "Guide me to you." I was unable to raise my dagger, unable to take the step that would close the distance between us. "Let me pass through the gates; let me smell that immortal land of milk and honey." (acotar)

Before I could turn back, Elain threw her arms around me. I did not remember when I began to cry as I felt those slender arms hold me, tight as steel. [...] But I did remember lying down on the bearskin rug once it was done. How I felt Elain's slim body settle next to mine and curl into my side, careful not to touch the bandaged wound in my shoulder. I had not realized how cold I was until her warmth seeped into me. (acowar)

My love for the sisters, imperfect as they are, knows no bounds; this scene always makes me emotional. The Mother's prayer also reminds me of the Ironteeth's belief about the Mother's Womb and how that connects to the three sisters' rebirths.

Now, back to my point: Elain is described as a rose bloom in a mud field, a bloom of color and sunshine in winter, and a glowing sun at dawn on the longest night of the year. In the Maasverse, we know that like calls to like. So, maybe it was the gentle gardener’s hope, her ability to find beauty even in dark and barren places, that called to the Cauldron.

Elain nodded, smiling up at me, and it was tentative joy—and life that shone in her eyes. A promise of the future, gleaming and sweet. [...] "What now?" Elain mused, at last answering my question from moments ago as her attention drifted to the windows facing the sunny street. That smile grew, bright enough that it lit up even Azriel's shadows across the room. "I would like to build a garden," she declared. "After all this...I think the world needs more gardens." (acowar)

And maybe, just maybe, it will be her loving hands that heal the land and builds gardens in places we never expected them to grow.

Flower of life

The flower of life is part of sacred geometry, which is the underlying form or geometry in nature (mindbodygreen). It symbolizes the balance of male and female energy in creation and contains the secrets of the universe.

The flower of life is another sacred geometric form. It is the symbol of creation. It is created by forming a circle then moving to the edge of that circle and forming another one. Each circle begins one radius away from the surrounding circles and is of equal size. (uoregon)

The striking visual is meant to represent creation, the sacred masculine and divine feminine, and cycles of life, death, and rebirth. Some believe the flower of life is also a key that can unlock hidden knowledge of time and space within its petal-like structures. (mindbodygreen)

“It is thought that the flower of life holds a secret within it—a circle, which in many cultures, is considered the 'zero point' or the 'origin' of us all," Dale says. "This is the Oneness that ties us together.”(mindbodygreen)

Sacred Geometry in the Maasverse

In the Maasverse, Sarah also uses sacred geometry to create balance between opposing forces and characters use this balance to channel power. Sometimes it’s a symbol, like the six-pointed star @silverlinedeyes highlighted in this post. She connected the six-pointed star to the three brothers and three sisters in theory because they bring together opposing forces—light and dark and female and male energy—and create balance.

“Ithan angled his head. “A six-pointed star,” he said. Like the one Bryce had made between the Gates this spring, with the seventh candle at its center.

“It’s a symbol of balance,” she explained, moving away a foot, but keeping the dagger at her side. Her crown of cloudberries seemed to glow with an inner light. “Two intersecting triangles. Male and female, dark and light, above and below … and the power that lies in the place where they meet.” Her face became grave. “It is in that place of balance where I’ll focus my power.” She motioned to the circle. “No matter what you see or hear, stay on this side of the candles.” (hosab)

When they come together, as we saw with Feyre and Rhysand in the original series, they may be able to channel their combined energies to achieve powerful creation or healing (e.g., reforging the Cauldron, creating a baby who’s named for a deity and is probably going to be unique, etc.). As Rhys said in acowar, the sisters are in his court for a reason, and Mor might have hinted this long before as @lesolehabitantdelalune pointed out in relation to the six-pointed star:

Mor stayed overnight, even going so far as to paint some rudimentary stick figures on the wall beside the storeroom door. Three females with absurdly long, flowing hair that all resembled hers; and three winged males, who she somehow managed to make look puffed up on their own sense of importance. I laughed every time I saw it. (acomaf)

The three Made sisters and the three winged brothers are all blessed by fate and seem to be even more important together. Six is a perfect number and seven—the point where they all meet—symbolizes completion.

So, how does this relate to the flower of life? The flower of life contains circles that create a six-pointed star (see below) and there is a circle in the middle where they all intersect.

Source: uoforegon

The flower of life also contains other symbols Sarah has used across worlds:

Throne of Glass Series

Aelin wore an amulet that warned and helped her when needed. It was called the Eye of Elena, which Manon corrects as the Eye of the Goddess. It is the symbol Blueblood prophets tattoo on their hearts to indicate that they are Goddess-blessed.

A large circle—and two overlapping circles, one atop the other, within its circumference. “That is the Three-Faced Goddess,” Manon said, her voice low. “We call this …” She drew a rough line in the centermost circle, in the eye-shaped space where they overlapped. “The Eye of the Goddess. Not Elena.” She circled the exterior again. “Crone,” she said of the outermost circumference. She circled the interior top circle: “Mother.” She circled the bottom: “Maiden.” She stabbed the eye inside: “And the heart of the Darkness within her.” (eos)

A Court of Thorns and Roses Series

The Bone Carver drew interlocking circles to represent the death-god siblings, two of whom were worshipped by the fae before they were trapped. Two out of three siblings helped Prythian in a bargain with Feyre and Rhys.

The Carver traced three overlapping, interlocked circles in the dirt. “You have met my sister—my twin. The Weaver, as you now call her. I knew her as Stryga. (acowar)

Crescent City Series

Bryce wears an Archesian amulet with entwined circles that keeps her hidden from those searching for the Horn.

Bryce zipped a tiny golden pendant—a knot of three entwined circles—along the delicate chain around her neck. (hoeab)

In the space between, I discussed all of these interconnected trios, including the sacred trio which I believe this all stems from (Mother, Cauldron, Fate) and the rose amulet chosen for Elain. Although it is not described in circles, Elain’s amulet glows with three colors—red, pink, and white—in the Faelight, mimicking Azriel’s observation that she glows like the dawn in the Faelight earlier in that scene. We don’t know if it contains any protective properties or whether it will even make a reappearance. But out of all the symbols we’ve seen with the divine number three, it is the only one in the form of a flower…except, that is, for the Cauldron.

The Cauldron as the Flower of Life

In hosab, the Under King hinted that Urd, the goddess of fate, might be Mother, Cauldron, and the Forces That Be all in one.

A pyre smoked atop a black stone altar in the center of the temple. A stone throne on a dais loomed at the rear of the space. No statues ever adorned Urd’s Temple—no depiction of the goddess had ever been made. Fate took too many forms to capture in one figure.

The Under-King rose, black robes drifting on a phantom wind. “I thought the Fae bowed to Luna, but perhaps you remember the old beliefs? From a time when Urd was not a goddess but a force, winding between worlds? When she was a vat of life, a mother to all, a secret language of the universe? The Fae worshipped her then.” (hosab)

As I’ve explained with help from @silverlinedeyes in this post, mother to all = Mother, vat of life = Cauldron, and a force = Forces That Be (which seems to be used interchangeably with Fate in acotar). Mother, Cauldron, Fate. Three interconnected parts of a whole.

If we’re to believe the Under King, the goddess of fate isn’t actually a goddess. It is the Cauldron, which moves like a force, is a mother to all, and possesses the secrets of the universe. The Cauldron is Sarah’s flower of life.

The Cauldron shattered into three pieces, peeling apart like a blossoming flower—and then she came. (acowar)

And it can be controlled through spells in the Book of Breathings. Those spells must be uttered by someone who is Made because like calls to like.

“When the Cauldron was made,” the Carver interrupted, “its dark maker used the last of the molten ore to forge a book. The Book of Breathings. In it, written between the carved words, are the spells to negate the Cauldron’s power—or control it wholly. But after the War, it was split into two pieces. One went to the Fae, one to the six human queens. It was part of the Treaty, purely symbolic, as the Cauldron had been lost for millennia and considered mere myth. The Book was believed harmless, because like calls to like—and only that which was Made can speak those spells and summon its power. No creature born of the earth may wield it, so the High Lords and humans dismissed it as little more than a historical heirloom, but if the Book were in the hands of something reforged … You would have to test such a theory, of course—but … it might be possible.” (acomaf)

The pieces of the Book seem to contain void, or cold cunning, and chaos.

Life and death and rebirth

Sun and moon and dark

Rot and bloom and bones

Hello, sweet thing. Hello, lady of night, princess of decay. Hello, fanged beast and trembling fawn.

Love me, touch me, sing me.

Madness. Where the first half had been cold cunning, this box … this was chaos, and disorder, and lawlessness, joy and despair.

Light and dark and gray and light and dark and gray (acomaf)

And these seem to be the same beings (forces?) that Apollion mentions in his own creation.

“Do you not know where I come from? My father was the Void, the Being That Existed Before. Chaos was his bride and my dam. It is to them that we shall all one day return, and their mighty powers that run in my blood.” (hosab)

If the Cauldron contains both Void and Chaos, which I believe it does as a bowl of life and death, then the Book of Breathings allows the wielder to control those forces. In the tog series, higher beings are forces that are part of the same consciousness. They are interconnected parts of a sacred whole. And we’re told early on, and repeatedly thereafter, that the Cauldron is the origin of everything.

Inside the Cauldron was nothing but inky, swirling black.

Perhaps the entire universe had come from it.

Azriel and Cassian tensed as I laid a hand on the lip. Pain—pain and ecstasy and power and weakness flowed into me.

Everything that was and wasn’t, fire and ice, light and dark, deluge and drought.

The map for creation. (acomaf)

Feyre put together the two pieces of the Book and as Amren predicted, there was a great, noticeable blast.

“You put the pieces together,” she clarified when Rhys gave her a questioning look, “and the blast of power will be felt in every corner and hole in the earth. You won’t just attract the King of Hybern. You’ll draw enemies far older and more wretched. Things that have long been asleep—and should remain so.” (acomaf)

So, it’s also probable an old and powerful enemy might come calling (ahem, Koschei and/or the Asteri). Does that mean someone might need to wield the Cauldron again, but to help and protect Prythian instead this time?

If so, that someone would need to be Made. All three sisters are Made, so I personally dream about all three of them wielding it together like the witches they are. But I also think it would make sense for Elain to wield it on her own or with her love interest. When she emerged from the Cauldron, Sarah described her appearance in detail—pale, delicate, beautiful, glowing.

More water than seemed possible dumped out in a cascade. Black, smoke-coated water. And Elain, as if she’d been thrown by a wave, washed onto the stones facedown. Her legs were so pale—so delicate. […] Elain sucked in a breath, her fine-boned back rising, her wet nightgown nearly sheer. And as she rose from the ground onto her elbows, the gag in place, as she twisted to look at me— Nesta began roaring again. Pale skin started to glow. Her face had somehow become more beautiful—infinitely beautiful, and her ears … Elain’s ears were now pointed beneath her sodden hair. (acomaf)

She has been described as wise, gentle, and kind, but doesn’t hesitate to do what is necessary to protect life and restore order, like a gardener whose glowing hands won’t hesitate to get dirty for a pretty result.

A Gardener’s Hands

Elain isn’t just connected to a flower amulet. She is a blooming flower in an army camp, a bloom of color and sunshine even in the middle of winter. She is Hope shining in the Void on the longest night of winter.

The River House had finally fallen quiet after the raucous Winter Solstice party, the Faelights dimming to cast little pools of gold amid the deep shadow of the longest night of the year. […] He knew he’d be swallowed by it if he went up to his bedroom, so he’d remained down here by the dying light of the fire. […] Soft steps padded from under the stair archway, and there she was. The Faelights gilded Elain’s unbound hair, making her glow like the sun at dawn. (Azriel’s bonus chapter)

Tell me, who is better positioned than the Cauldron-blessed gardener and seer to wield the flower of life? Sarah essentially set her up to defy Nesta’s command below, meaning she will not stay away from the Cauldron and might tend to a garden on a greater scale as a result.

“Why?” Elain demanded. “Shall I tend to my little garden forever?” When Nesta flinched, Elain said, “You can’t have it both ways. You cannot resent my decision to lead a small, quiet life while also refusing to let me do anything greater.”

“Then go off on adventures,” Nesta said. “Go drink and fuck strangers. But stay away from the Cauldron.” (acosf)

The issue, of course, is that the Book of Breathings is now in Midgard under the care of a sorceress whose past is a mystery and the name we know her under, Jesiba Roga, isn’t the only one she possesses. Now that the two worlds are connected, though, it seems like only a matter of time until the Book is (re)discovered. But will it find the right hands?

There are more immediate ways for Elain to defy Nesta’s order and engage the Cauldron even without the Book. In hosab, mystics combine energy from a male, female, and the space where they meet—both male and female—to achieve perfect balance. It is perhaps this balance of power that allows them to become the Eye of the Goddess, mapping the secrets of the universe and influencing others from afar. Mysticism involves achieving a higher level of consciousness and uniting with the divine. Similarly, the flower of life can be used as a tool for meditation and enlightenment.

Elain seems to have used mystic ability on her own when she located and appeared to the Suriel across the world, and it’s possible she could use Rhys’s orrery as to expand her map in future books. Since these are romance books, I think it’s important to mention that we’re told Azriel is fascinated by the orrery. And like a sacred vision as @offtorivendell, @merymoonbeam and @psychologynerd have pointed out, Feyre witnesses perfect balance between Azriel and Elain: her immaculate hand meets his scarred one in the space between where light and dark, life and death, and female and male combine.

Elain looked up at Azriel, their eyes meeting, his hand still lingering on the hilt of the blade. I saw the painting in my mind: the lovely fawn, blooming spring vibrant behind her. Standing before Death, shadows and terrors lurking over his shoulder. Light and dark, the space between their bodies a blend of the two. The only bridge of connection…that knife. (acowar)

Elain may not need anyone to navigate the space between with the Cauldron. But I have a feeling she will need something or someone to help keep her grounded as she expands her Sight and maybe even peers into Hel. If she does need to form a sacred trio to move beyond their world, then she, Azriel, and the Cauldron (which is both male and female), would suffice. As Feyre’s vision of the lovely fawn and Death seems to foreshadow, they would create perfect balance together. And maybe, just maybe, their bargain tattoo will represent that balance in the form of a blossoming flower where the Eye of the Goddess, her heart of darkness, remains half-hidden in the shadows with the secrets of the universe.

Read more about Elain’s arc and powers here.

#elain archeron #gentle gardener #healer of the land #and sister of my heart #Elain and the flower of life #more gardens please

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lunarmoonmoth · 1 year ago

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Suffocation at its finest

My pulse feels weak as you pull away from me with ease

I gaze at once was admiring what it has that i don't

Constantly craving the touch and validation in which will never be received

Late night texts spiking my anxiety of what could be a terrible fate

Old feelings linger back into this broken heart of mine

It feels as though you don't care

Wishing for happiness to embody me whole so i can finally feel at one with myself

Not constant hatred for what looks back at me

I'm not him but at times i very much wish i was

I feel as though your seemingly bothered by me

I just wanna feel whole again

Unlike i've ever felt before because then i can feel eternal happiness

My brains scattered and broken into millions of pieces and i search allover to find whats missing

Nothing ever fills that void

Nothing ever will

Or at least i think nothing ever will

This shattered heart aches and aches for something in return for what is taken

You don't feel like i do

Do you

Do you feel saddened in a sense when i'm not around

Or does it not affect you

Shutting out the noise in my head by drowning in a field of dead flowers

Constantly hearing the happiness around you tends to slowly tear apart your mind

Brain constantly scattered and drifted

Can't tell if i feel anything really

I feel numb to any feeling

I feel the tears as they run down my face but i am in shock of their origin

Why must they shed

I feel nothing until this sudden burst of sadness reaches its hand out to me

Pure pressured i take its hand let it lead me afar because that is all i've known

All i will know truly

Suffocating and drowning in this void at times

Feeling swallowed whole against my will

Sucked into a void of melancholy music and fucking up my life because thats nostalgic for me

Offer me some help and i'll turn it down because its my problem so i must rescue myself

Not before the others

Never before them

As they matter more than anything

I'll still be here

Maybe not as full but its more important that i'm still here

I don't bother

I don't want to be a bother

Nobody wants someone who complains or vents when shit gets tough because god is that annoying

We all have problems so get over it

Choose an outlet

Or a place all your hidden secrets lay

Where no one can judge

No one can hurt you

Act fine until they cant see the reality

Punch, hit, yell

Anything to stop the noise of it all

That suffocating and honestly annoying sound that follows you everywhere

Playlist after playlist

Only 10 ish songs cause no way i could do anything more than that

Raising my mother at times wishing she would return the favor

Getting let down again and again without fail

Trusting you

I should trust you

That would be a mistake

You'll run if you learn of what's inside the notebook i keep hidden away

Away from harm

I wish someone knowing i loved them would be enough at times

It never is though

What was i really expecting

Truly

Could i be more of an idiot to think that would ever be enough

That id ever be enough

I told them

I told them to keep you safe

And selfishly to keep you here with me

I love you too much to leave you to rot like i am

You deserve better than that

It's scary

The thought of having to bury you

I should've said something sooner

And i hate how no one else cared that you were suffering in this big black hole

But me.

I needed you

Selfishly

I know

Why'd you tell me you love me

Unexpectedly

No reasoning

Just those three words

#poetry #sadnees #sad post #sad poetry #sad poem #daily poems

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libidomechanica · 1 year ago

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Sicker sike stars above, till the Heart, my bird

A rispetto sequence

Sicker sike stars above, till the Heart, my bird! Spending morn, as Nature: by way one traverse of his neck, it was beating Job. Winter closed her bring to meet to-morrow only betray’d, leading to me and more delightfully at more ease; I will I dwells upon her maids sport. Come, Sleep; But, said her cheeks. Showing an aid so opposite two will bite. Leapt a cry; leapt a cry.

Both grace of gold to see? Was melting every glanced about barbers as cool them runne at a foot by foot she third was mine, like to a myrtle wreak’d on, ducks as quite disappointment that’s strive to the other, if once made him great what a suddenly you forgive? ’Tis sweet above the Lost Soul rejoiced in folly haunted like far-blown corpse from above—devoid of the Wise.

I was the melodious-moving, o fine Edge of his soul of fear. Amidst such a portal hand with oaths, as on the sea, salt-sweet! And with long room on the lip of honeyed speeches pastime watch you, a kindling be wires growe, if asked when thou appear’d thy friend, yet knows; let there, like to a single still looked at thriveth! Before— so deep to sported in yon brilliant bow.

Upon her eyes swim across the wooed with you. Nor sun nor would not unkind. I missed her turn that I am not thyself, seeking thee quick chaos come, which all the years would exceed; and lay before, but drag her tender bit Beauty slumbers good: being, from thou remain. Thine eyes as he, whose rare. Perfect actor on a little set of floating how his arms have your bier?

You are. That seeme he takes no blemish, but little scrip of Julia took upon the dear Redeemer sang to the dreamer, was a mass of pleasure suffered as she sweet love’s flowers despite. Tis so: ’ they repair: that huge scape from above, and fear: for the worst: heavy ignorance. Are of Him. At shriek’d alone, nor knows what this friendly the present such lamp is shadows sear!

Truth upon her Cheek of Laila smite does cut each lamps, burnt from the fox which sin, kiss even so confess our sought not sleeps aside, and leave me a newe mischance unto him: Gentle captive nymph beguiling waste garden gracious chariot glimmers one poor heard but high marriage. ’ No matter where was the flowers so heau’ns inside those Graces locked he fields and drove his bold.

Three hundred kisse; I neuer: stella now learnd a newe budded peaks of food. Said Hermes, leaving a gloom, i noticed a bee did glided in all that blessed, to find she grief blossoms blushed the rose in fair! Heavens did frown, there, set in the day. Graceful hours, although the bright Eyes Narcissus stories of our old Adam’s seed. The scorne of song, like herself before my should scorn!

But wept till China and through her. Is thy seal- manual on peal, o’er her host, earth’s increasing tongue. The infant terror doth teach the Crown both than look growing that quite refreshing, and so too;—and whoever either eyes or rosin, sighs labours shine; but stay they never to his hope there but like tempest to escaped, touch, or the haste woman’s fire, where I loue the trade.

She stars, timing as ladde: with the twain, exclaims on our only blasted into the soil; the rain. Sometimes cry my soule friendly the sire to my heart’s lead, melt the taste. First with the ruby- coloured rustic worships its utmost perfectly for youthful divorce of that Adonis kept far lesse brags it seems but a kind of— as it happened her eyes woo’d still, with painted.

I dreamt I borne—but poets say what a word! Grey and with the beauteous influence in leudnes and he whole playd, whetherwards ioye, how doth my unripe, yet hath least sometime war is. She still set their wealthy festival. Remember that is built up without you—so many wylde beast deceit, for the day was at last did pierced them now in port, his not much harm unto me!

A little flush’d in Profusion to the glacis. The zephyr wants to discharge, whose gentle queenship, pell-mell, compares to rest. June efforts quiet every sounds: and love of the stole from thy love no battle ne’er set, making to sell my name: but thy welfare, whose tushes in ever to bud did despair meeting, poised to incense paired your cradled between here who withstand?

Began to gaze upon their roots, remember sleepe. Ah Willye now my wrist is better the tears that I have close harness were it seem’d of her back. It cannot be my child without end, my will beautiful as child’s a pretty creature cheat; for the dwarfing city. Bloom-covered … but if thought! On her table, pillow plum doth he bees seen to truth I must, I feel the howling.

That were soft hand, or as babies be, beat down himself were never, as their measures; all that least you surrenders being open’d by unrest. And spite of such yoke of the Moon and always fresh array he chase, whole bright was their best in trifling its Ear such? An’ the wretched Weed the generation; but your advice, for I will excell’d, and all hoofed Saturday in June?

Foolish home, that you might to perplex’d delight thus the fly’s bane would have wish that the torrent passed, embracements and the portion with sword of Heav’n had sette to hang the armies still lead; which I see against thou thy sweethearts are subject to noticed&that right are not be my chere the dews that die by doubt and I to see the earthquake, she’s yonder other. By those meek eyes?

But Thee, yea, in tears upright broke him safe into hell, that my fair Love always immodestly that Wellington at Water ranged. The rivulet is naked, and forlorn, and church and one would pave heart swelling Doues, guide turn’d being open’d in having Sylla the morning, laughing to pass that their queen of wedding or is in her crest she would we know my loosening.

Therefore fast his tyranny. My day did Absál, the firelight the thorny brambles along, long as one things to your home again, and the Earth stirs in idle the rugged tree grow. Who everything above: o think how to see it ranckly vnder column yet radiant face, which way interior tall, extremely true, when broods drove the other borne a slave among things.

All her cheek was storm: has found by seeing blind old, such storm, hope and gentlemen that are lost and darksome cover my foot of one the sabred; and swift of love, like a nymphs humbly doth farre out the way thee. The lees. Till all it back to the touch by the thunder; for while them the ear the muffled by thy darkness—I can bred my soul with wonder in thee a thristie soule fries.

Nest of crimes: or if such like a thousand must tells the Linnet and fever. To unperplexed and silver moor and sweet, so fashion now- a-days, at one thing bushes, cobbling snow. Doe closer? The soft groin. They did trip when matter daysleep, and will find our to expel; for baptism, I am very presented though perhaps someone else call her meant to grow cold.

Are seen, be’st love. He found out among us, willingly these cross-legg’d, with a glance plays and replied the top of her yacht’s rubber dinghy. Whose white Boy is a poore Sheepe, were injury more resistance, and root the breath, so plied interpreter be, with berries the blind him good nigh and wonder more shame and doth nye, I have plunder’d up, she heart, the night, and the naked.

For no one asham’d to foreshadows of the stern nymph near-on ten years, and languid strength without malice? It was he sullen-seeming the coffer-lids the Moslems perish’d, Love upon her than spurr’d bene all thy head: love the wayside to see: why should’st me tendance then his false or head, and anger seen, Indecent Hunger seized. On Orcas Island that Pity in dew?

And the Fiend do accept in Wolues iawes: but when the hears no time, and blotting the map of shame, my every sighs sought the mossy green; so neighborhood situation I wonder his chief flowing a staircase ending my last, that I stand all thing like theme; the pinks the splendour of rank. I had the clouds, an earth from my Maw. If so, then image dull close only know.

But I’ll leaves your deviseth shield. That love water, you here with these my morn in the vine; nor move, now occur some perfect—Reason, with a diploma, just in the Russ so witen eche one of the rugged tree, cut down on the seconds in worry vaguely life. I know the harvests clinck, preuelie, but heal this idol which its eerie ping sounds are fairest attend each the heare.

With all see; and think you, kind and weapons: match the petty thousand debauchery, were some groans of Selefkia just as that endangerous rites in heaping under rude world of a Better thee; witnesse inly I sing, but when despair make dead acted by care, is quite thy whole of life. It share, or doubt and never should makes human bloody spur cannot taketh ends.

I want to grow perplext by Fortune as we now of the glow of you striped like one mighty’s bow. And govern’d him the bonie face, whose younger head the spreading: only, his tale, as careful god of deep drench’d, and there growth to serve you in ioyes remain ground, and the day should turns of forty thousand griding of space I propped me night, my bird! Till all cope him with a little swinck.

And takes him bright, of my labour and gave liv’d; and that burne so his place, and he never looked her Cypress Shadow chequer-changing. Is quite terrific: for Kings astray. And then he said, were I not where the snake, bright, but let’s lives in height your better sight be summer wind, whose voyce sound ys signes must be subserving this mother in his fairer thou dost thou speak me so.

Whether if he knew, whereof this stalled it wouldn’t mover one respecting. Hey ho Bonibell, tripping a virgin hand gallop’d a-field an ivory mountain that even bet where one. And trial patience, and to a foreign Assemble, I by an accident of joy, how did show the lusteth not the new please thee, that their lightingale, so the quarrels burst that, degrade!

Good, good dog grieued, burns by night, as thou shalt call in vain the sight, when hey, for the first with too. Committing, and are seen, and beauteous for baptism, I am abroad daylight and quick is false compared her for your hart rooted race in shape and gazed aloud: the moon, think of itself should move each virtue hath not, kind into Eternity. Lass wi’ a tocher; thy worth!

Who in a gaol of silly mild, which the guidance in the dear to leaues, themselves betake; so Juan, who mad’st thou to themselves do worke my gain, and in hand wide, and intending breast, while understand wickedness, on her vow, she’s bracelet. Had been woo thyself I cried, tis lost. Hey ho themselves for bloody napkin by her eares supply the savage and gave me my loved thee.

That light, all for ocean wasteful disorder breast; Mars heaviest thou art that in a newe mischiefe mought almost spend the Ages, a things for your ring. Grass in tones of our meeting metaphysics to train your heaven brought this idle they dined one with your bones, arches are dead, my hope theyr sheepe, and yet the earth from the garden, thy soul. Meantime, let it in Cupid’s bow.

Wilt thou raylest on the sea’s immers hath drowning did she clear. Wherein which of snow, despite till the woods. A wet napkin, wrapp’d a place Leander’s angry-chafing boar, and pay and mower both, different mosse and can do. To marching sweet did follow guineas for my sin. Scarce could they live against you may live leg still: anon the mid-day heat of Greenwich Village of a friend.

The strook. Harry, do no less picture of thy heart hath it stain to me and unruffled rage, danged down from steep, or waves about; then ask of shy peryenche window-pane. While yet so unseen her own her belly falleth with she cannot choose. To see it ran men’s mind distortion’d all that raineth, where fields, or a travel, war— all very sound the ocean, which I stillness.

Shall calls, she alone in a year old truth I must be change: thy eyes of ice, and summon’d him to bleeding fevers, still; but the head of this. Hey ho chapelet on maid in moral height, I shadowings teach thy hard embracements unto me! Of smoke and that’s meete: a chamber. Delicious discovers hath writ: to heart mine carrying the Temple’s worst, nor house, for all.

Go, my Tory, ultra-Julian?—Then he did wend, bearing hair, and thrusting dark moved me, more blest my dear silence thee swim, gladders that shining arms she in woe, but when they perish’d, the viewing Leander, this flight in the crystal shine more their fondnesse brags it seem dream, so Corinth, whose name; yet this moment with joy, by his lips were night. Of a world was full of pleasure.

When, my busy visit us my turret and then mine eyes nor other Prophet wrote shot, and with its echoing chains of my woman is so nigh, that nurse and the slash’d he were never was come and the suspense and here yet God haste, so firme were not learnd a new hoe. Becomes just after two lamps together meane, I only know. And wakened aside; her smile had done.

Care, I had no shafts so slow but here are they borrow’d all the insulter with moons, dos’t shake to those fangs on the ancient art while she mad poetic riddle, in the read, o’erworn, when men may find shore of love’s temperature. And bars, eclips’d her fruit unseen her hide: look, or someone else but a swallows scope, only, who is thus, shut from the Absolute Ones which scorne.

Through the heart, I feel as sailors strategy? Nor Arac, satiate which every light, jewels to see your tender-taken brains; a heavy anthem spred a name and so thriveth! In one should contracted new come down a Ray of rest moon, they rejoic’d in them; her love is my heart bleed, you there’s no more. Into Bagdad came, than grass his change. Felt she; Nor only faut is lost.

I could succession fleeting, and root the maid? Said the heaven when he dish. He died, or a treasure forsworn. Not unkindnesse of fear, till their doubtless Tartar, as obstinate and pity;— I should my fate, and but a kiss. Over young Leander now are close in facts, and such burns away she made retire from her to grandeur that was like a calendar for loves.

That love so longer story mention become. But this instant husbands’ side. Naked faced Musicians, and against these, love, and bade her lip? So, loveliness, for incorporeal fame whose loves that evermore had seen only take a task of the Records of Fortune, and whoever in his eyes saw. That Ganymede, for loved, it fall to speak truth than you will—they did.

With his ears, and silly misinterpret when and Johnson and whoever in the daffadowndilly, while their emetic, and he commander lays esteems that else shall not so; I loved through they shouldst break from his back, his arms a Lute as if she bathe waters all one should inhabit soon he roses were wrought. Like a red more reflect; therewith thee, Dear, with things be!

The abject of surrendered to. Love is to feed her side rejoicing refrain, with an amorous care. The starlight away and aloud, and you quiet—the wind wild sad experience with that glances soft and flatterers of them in the pure and short a spectre of death, whose lips are they woxe, and blind, carrion carcanet of maintenaunce, the saw all deep pleats.

To deem through a runcible spite, white eye the beds. And died to say the points did feeder of Chokan: two strength; the more than even now to tipple from Female cheeks; and there and his Worshippers, fine air I chanc’d to and feeble flood, in view its broade vnto my heart’s echoed by Odysseus he turning should passenger … though the maiden hardly blanching swallow a fish.

Was here with sights the rotten a coloure done, as if a shipwrecking out; their owne, the shady brow; look at last heav’n drawn in the this; and puts on me? I saw their slumb’ring in my armes there and go as trace they, yet forth againe retorne, for such as men knowes, ilk spring-flowers a thing:-nothing: the spreading of a Host, nor commander thee, to read not with his Feet.

Some sayde that night, it brave gallant from earlier the Melodious discovers home of war and there from his sphere: pursues! And his part, I loue into the teeth of Air Fruit moist cabin still she knew not wish too! And what could explained, threw the holds herself from the first—they some descend to slake his fatuus; ’ or as the stroked its king, a song of his name, the whole of loue.

Charging Nature’s vernal Grove; the lure, away that is a star upon it the summer’s deep- sore wounded man with his mouth can it be, then with clay. Who cried, You elegant fowl! Three hundreds at the while I past on; but the fifth, where rose, usurps her story, which encumbers breathe upon. When my cared, And Wordsworth described of sobs her voices of sweetner art; as the charm.

But do not know and sometimes more than thy scythe his tree, paused a white feature, how I will ever to be knows, if not what dost go, through the clouds, to Despaire a vertue to lose, in saving nor can comes the young, whose red angel mind. Strange fragrant zone; she’s Love himself to march well spelt in that masken into help, and learned, cast upon reflect; their Sunday’s delight, so loue.

Love, am gained to the slaking to the Turks at first, for thy pillours are the muffled rage as wine was far away. Few their full of adoring Body, slave from her use, here were mad, unties to be; after all her sapphires, a black change; her face but like the cages of the other our care, nor treasure dry. If love to change in wild beasts find swelling lichen fire!

Women to go on they commensurate, flint, for a kiss her side in such sighs, and death issue as far away she rain, will tell ye too, she were so wet scent of fear. But now I see no spoil, with Daffadillies fitter on Ida’s at this gore. Upon the bliss, maud to help my bed alone, are you didst kill his breaks through well, which infinities of lust when model.

What a man: the fries. Which is also dish’d: for as rhyme, like that darkness rushing Adonis is where is a work heroic in the frailty of flower upon E in all that I am pretty ruth upon his prisoner in The Seraskier is thy for lofty shine till safe together of a pyramids built nestling Moslems perish’d very place was fair arms.

Or the highly prisoner, and found about thy heart did seem and given grass, that runs head of such a marsh of these thing. Too, to keep one doth she, like a shot; his face, silent involved in sweet dream of life I had a lovely fair garden terrace, unduly, that may be, t is naked behind, and crosses for even by thy Grace, unduly, that is told how his wings.

It is a Lambe be Willye, which wounded ‘Allah! You are lips; till it keep pine-bearing, it might to ire. To Jack and out of him remain. The lusteth to a Diamond of love, and by love; and rather cheeks, I breath is on the words light, I shall sear, flashing she langer if he conquest thou art all my arms his never, queen, on evil tongue thus Leander’d with a pinch a fool.

Drips shall not owe it; for blood announced ambitions, whose ridge too high, and girdled his neck, it flies and o’erhead and keepe no more! Hath taught I cannot be let my soul inspir’d and duties green sea agate spread this days, for watercresses play. With paint dyes a marble to proof that dignity of flower, sweet sleepe: for chance relying like light of her lips, and live: Alas!

More virgin, love, perched them a whole of loue me not struggle, follow in a long proud she and asks you when she kneeling charge her death was bells, and care, nor Beauty’s a fairy lights, death, I do changeable, I love has voued their care for men diseased; but shepherds where this bloody rest, still find him is not attains disorder lives will sleeping the foeman out. And if my year.

Than perjury, even stars, and such settle yet should yet the inheritaunce, made gloomed like the fire heat, if Maud shouting, think my love. I’ll was pale kingdoms of flying fires. The Moonelight, adonis sike a blooming, like the tread the dreary vault above, and never trod before: I see with all the chromatic scale of trophies, save a nature’s vernal lids screened.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 6 #223 texts #rispetto sequence

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