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Aerith’s flower shop~❀

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my shop

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Chapter two!!! I'm addicted to Arthur discussing art. Morlawny but Charles Chatenay sneaks in there and other hints at past relationships.

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Three Hours Too Soon (RDR2 Fic)

Posted the first chapter of a long slowburn Morlawny fic I am writing-- don't be fooled by the first chapter, it's Arthur/Charles C. if you squint...

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what dreams may come (ffxiv)

Summary: A short-ish drabble with my midlander inventor and charlatan, the Great Garrett Brimble, and his long lost half-elezen friend(?)... Set in Lydra Lhan. Mostly SFW but gets a little weird at the end. Sorry. Art by me! Story under the cut! 

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It had been a loooooong day in the pixie dreamworld; Brimble, tuckered out from running around, doing manic pixie bidding, settled into a macaron cushion at a peppermint table, letting out a sigh. He picked up a daffodil teacup to peer into it. He wanted a cup of tea, but whatever was in this was likely sugar water.

 At his side, a few of the pixies had followed; they took to Brimble as naturally as they did to children, and treated him no differently. It was likely that they viewed him as a child still... albeit, a tall one. He had played here in his youth, after all, and though the pixies were hardly ones for sentimentality, they had grown accustomed to his presence, and he had to theirs. It had been a while since he had just sat in the dreamscape and... dreamt. 

"Haven't you got any fun dreams these days, Bumble?" A pixie chirped, hovering near his head. "It's all books, paperwork, inkwells with you-- and even worse...!" The pixie fixed little hands on their hips. "--money!" 

There was a reactive groan throughout the fluttering peanut gallery-- the collective struggle to understand what mortals found so appealing about dirty, yucky gil. Why not trade in candy instead? Much more fun. They posited this to him and amongst each other, for maybe the hundredth time... However, he did not have the energy today to explain economy to them, and so he sighed, relenting and taking a sip of the daffodil teacup-- which proved indeed to just be sugar water filled. He set it down afterwards, running a white-gloved hand back through his black and graying, slicked hair, then adjusting his monocle. 

"My friends," He started, spritely, "I've spent so much time here, eventually I'll dream of Lydha Lran and make another dreamscape entirely, within a dreamscape. How do you like that? You'll all make friends with your dream selves-- my dream yourselves, that is." This caused quite a buzz.  "Not possible! Is it?" "Well, I'd like to meet your dream myself, if I do say so! And I do! Me, this dreamself!" "What if we're already someone's dreamself? What then?"  Buzz, buzz. He leaned back, hands folded on his lap, successfully evading a deeper probe into what dreams he might be having, closing his eyes. Truthfully, he didn't really dream lately. He did, once. It was dangerous to dream here-- dangerously embarrassing, that is, but at the present moment, he didn't see any harm in just trying to remember what it was he used to dream about. Such thoughts had a nasty habit of appearing in Lydha Lran, however. His eyes shot open when he remembered just what had plagued him all those years ago-- but as two slender hands slid over his shoulders, he knew it was too late to recall it. The voice behind him was that of an achingly familiar half-elezen, a pretty swordsman he had befriended once upon a time-- the voice was reserved, serious, dignified: "Thinking of me, are you?" Arms slid around his neck, latching on, chin poised on top of his head. "I was wondering when you might." Brimble stiffened, looking up at the figure the dreamscape had conjured. "Ah! Captain! Yes-- though, I find I might be thinking of-- you specifically, the dreamself of the real you, and not the-- you that-- er, that is, I think--" He scrambled to clarify. Then, more softly: “Etienne, it’s good to see you.” Simple. Etienne let go, crossing over to sit down on a licorice bench just across from the inventor. He was wearing his Captain's uniform casually, collar undone, coat draped over his shoulders rather than on properly. He simply smiled and rolled his eyes at Brimble, and continued for him, "The me that lives in your head, as I imagine the real me might have some choice words for you. But-- I have some choice words as well." He levied a brow raise at him. Brimble sighed, resigned again, lifting his hands up in defeat. "Oh, peachy. Even my fantasies have criticisms to lob at me. Well, isn't that grand." "It could speak to what your fantasy is really about." Etienne said, tilting his head. His hair was golden in the light of the dreamscape, and he looked as young and radiant as the day he and Brimble had first met. Fair, freckled, doll-like in his perfection, as his elezen ilk tended to be. "Unless you want me to dress down in front of all these pixies." Playfully. "And children." Thoughtfully. "No--" Brimble said, sitting up, clearing his throat. "No, no, this is fine, no need to... do any dressing down.” He got up, after a moment, crossing to sit beside Etienne. He had no qualms about indulging; at least, as far as he wanted to, for the moment. Brimble could see the use in sorting out how he felt, from a psychological level, that made sense. And, this wasn't the real Etienne, so who really cared. He laid his arm behind him, along the back of the bench, and smiled. "This is fine enough for me. You know, I never got to see you in such a light! It's too bad that you and I hardly ventured out from Coerthas in those days. It would have been a treat to accompany you in some nicer weather." "I suppose. I didn't think of it much." Came the dry response. Garrett laughed and looked away. "That is... a very Etienne thing to say about it, that's for sure..." He trailed off, and picked back up after a pause. "... but, there were worse ways to get trapped in a cave, on a mountain expedition, certainly." "You had it easy. I daresay you liked the cold that day."

"Nooope, no, I definitely think things may have still gone on smoother if it wasn't miserable out. You’d be hard-pressed to convince me that getting stranded with you would not have been remarkably improved by a day as beautiful as this.” Etienne smirked. "What would you have done differently?" He asked, watching Brimble, intently, tucking his hair behind one subtly pointed ear. "That day?" Brimble feigned being in deep thought, stroking his chin. "I might not have let you catch me so off-guard."  "As in...?" "Well, this is still my fantasy, isn't it?" He looked over at Etienne. "It is." The halfborn was remarkably proficient with his responses. Without another word, the inventor slid his arm around him, and leaned in for a kiss, taking his jaw in his palm, guiding. Etienne kissed back, long lashes fluttering shut, and though he was just Brimble's fantasy, he reacted much the same way his real world counterpart had, accepting the midlander's affection eagerly, a near desperation in him. He had loved him, and he had so wished to love a man that would not have chosen his career over him once more; an innocent wish that Brimble had not loved him in return enough to fulfill. Brimble knew this, and so, it was easy to picture this dream Etienne doing as he asked, submissive, lovesick, and he had no trouble at all lowering the half-elezen back against the length of the bench, and began to pull away at his tie.   ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: 　　 :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧ A/N: Thanks for reading! (btw i’m on balmung if any ff peeps are lookin for rp!)

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- dusts this off -

Going to start putting some of my drabbles and short stories with my OCs and such here, because I pretty much only use Discord to organize them and I'm realizing that's a bad idea. Not that it matters all that much since pretty much no one follows me (that's active on tumblr at least), but, just in case you go looking, I'll try to tag the setting and the OC's used!

( tea gif - kitchenghosts @ tumblr, sorry i wish tumblr would auto-tag it but the app is bein' funky )

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“May flowers grow in the saddest parts of you.”

— Zainab Aamir (via themotivationjournals)

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““If a writer falls in love with you, you can never die.””

— (via hall3lujah)

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“In some parallel universe, I know you held me tighter. You tried harder. You said, “Look my love, I will meet you halfway.””

— N.M.Sanchez, from Initial Meeting (via wnq-writers)

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Clair De Lune playing from another room Claude Debussy

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Every time I think of you,  I feel shot right through with a bolt of blue.

New Order, Bizarre Love Triangle

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As long as the egoic mind is running your life, you cannot truly be at ease; you cannot be at peace or fulfilled except for brief intervals when you obtained what you wanted, when a craving has just been fulfilled. Since the ego is a derived sense of self, it needs to identify with external things. It needs to be both defended and fed constantly. The most common ego identifications have to do with possessions, the work you do, social status and recognition, knowledge and education, physical appearance, special abilities, relationships, personal and family history, belief systems, and often also political, nationalistic, racial, religious, and other collective identifications. None of these is you.

Eckhart Tolle

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i wish i was more careful

i had kept it for a very long time. there wasn't anything particularly special about the pocket mirror, no quality about it other than its practical use which made me inclined to keep it. i never had cause to replace it but i had never particularly cared to cherish it either- the fact that it had made it through several moves from purse to purse was just a coincedence. while fishing for something else in my bag, i dropped the mirror as i pulled out my phone. i decided to open it up and check on it, and sure enough, there was a giant crack through it, splitting my reflection diagonally. it was the first time i had honestly dropped the thing. i was unaware of how fragile it really was. i started to close it up when the downward tilt of the mirror revealed that the crack stayed slashed across my reflection's face, perfectly over the bridge of the nose and above my left eye. startled, i dropped it again and this time it shattered

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caution

it was already a dangerous alley, filled with rats and glass and who knew what else. beneath the white sky, between two black buildings, the alley and its floor offered the eye an array of dark gray mediums, relieving the contrast and grounding the picture plane. however, for the past week, someone had placed a simple, vibrant orange traffic cone in the entrance of the alley. simple, but effective, as those who had typically ventured into the narrow precipice stayed underwhelmingly away, noticing the cone with a simple 'oh' and turning to go a route that was convenient, and likely safer anyways, they muttered, shuffling away in the gray world without a second thought. at high noon, in the middle of the workday, there was probably no one in it. it was not, however, empty. locks of hair splayed out behind her, a girl laid in the alley, where she'd been as long as the traffic cone had been there, chest rising slowly, eyelids fluttering. she was unable to move, unable to move all but her eyes- a sudden bout of full body paralysis? uncommon. but no one had passed, no one had come to help her in the few days that she lay there, but she was by no means alone. it seemed that she had made great friends with the natural residents of the alleyway- she saw them every day, all day, and even then they had stayed through the night. they kept her company, and though she hadn't been much of a conversationalist, the beetles and bugs had liked her so much they decided to live in her.

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That in the stories we want told to us before we fall asleep, the heroes are ideals that never get reached and the villains are absolutely ordinary. And we are absolutely ordinary.

A Lot Like Birds “Myth of Lasting Sympathy”

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underneath

from where she was laying down she couldn't see a thing. the stale space carried herself, her voice, her grave. the fragile, white tissue sky was undisturbed by her mantra: help, please help me. unearthed, what was hers never proved better than any other. it was no different now. her nails were not stronger than the ones in her coffin.

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if pauses could kill

where i find footsteps there are fingertips quiet cuts through cold hands and rips through skin the wisps of your hair and thin eyelids are things i've found creeping on the ground.