#Laughing along with a limerick

[angelfic]

Hi babes!, I was wondering if I could request a Lorenzo Berkshire fic from the event?, here’s the thingy!, forbidden love + prompt 18!, sorry if this was a little confusing I have never requested something from a event 😭, but please and thank you!!,

- oh and!, if it’s okay could you pick out an emoji for me ?, to be like an emoji anon!!, that’s it!! <333

hi, angel!! thank you sm for the request, not confusing at all, my love! writing this has made me realise there’s a criminally small number of lorenzo fics :( am very happy to oblige haha how’s the 🍓 emoji?

lorenzo berkshire x reader + forbidden romance + “yeah, I love you. so what?”

➺ part of my 2k milestone writing game

You’re struggling with keeping all of your limbs inside the invisibility cloak you borrowed from Harry when Peeves glides into the empty classroom. You freeze in place until he floats his way back out, all the while singing what you’re sure is some kind of stupid limerick.

Okay, so you stole the cloak and it’s after curfew and if Peeves catches you, you’re in a million different kinds of trouble. Nevertheless, you relax slightly when you’re alone again, remaining under the cloak to consult the Marauder’s Map that you also may have taken without express permission. Okay, any permission at all.

Scanning the unfolded piece of parchment, your eyes land on Lorenzo’s name which seems to have stopped in place at… the classroom that you’re in.

You look up to find the classroom still empty, but before you can get up to investigate, a set of arms wraps around you from behind and you gasp, barely able to contain a shriek of fright.

You wriggle out from under the invisibility cloak, turning around on the table you’re perched on to find Lorenzo grinning at you, eyes twinkling with mischief.

“What the fuck, Enzo?!” you whisper-scream, smacking his arm. He merely giggles and brings your legs around on the table so you’re facing him, hands remaining on your thighs. He leans in to press a chaste kiss against your lips and you quickly kiss him back before pulling away to look at him, confused. “How the hell did you see me under the cloak?”

“Your shoe laces were hanging out the bottom, love,” he explains, smirking as he looks down at the untied pair of converse you quickly pulled on when you snuck out of your dorm in pyjamas.

You frown at the offending laces, swinging ur legs back and forth between where Lorenzo stands. “Have to remember that for next time.”

“Why does there have to be a next time?” Lorenzo groans, voicing his frustrations about your very secret relationship yet again. “I don’t want to have to see you in dark classrooms or broom cupboards or anywhere secret. I still don’t understand why we can’t just tell people.”

“You know why, Enzo,” you say gently, tracing circles on the back of his hand with your finger. “My friends would freak out, your friends would freak out…”

“Okay, well, my friends can sod off,” Lorenzo says, matter-of-fact as he holds up two fingers and starts checking them off. “And your friends love me. There we are. Easily solved.”

You can’t help letting out a laugh at that and you drop your head onto Lorenzo’s shoulder to stifle your snorting. “My friends don’t love you, they just hate you the least.”

“What I’m hearing is that they don’t hate me the most,” he murmurs, peppering kisses along your jaw and down to your neck. “I’m taking that as a win.”

“You just don’t give up, do you?” you sigh, shivering from the brushing of his lips against your collarbone. “They’re just- Shit! Peeves!”

You push Lorenzo off you, startling him when you point to the giggling poltergeist who floats above the two of you. Before he can begin shrieking about the two of you and wake up the entire castle, Lorenzo whips out his wand and casts ‘Langlock’, causing whatever Peeves was about to say to turn into choking gurgles.

“You better keep quiet, you meddling little-” Lorenzo cuts himself off when Peeves zooms out of the classroom, clearly having lost interest in the situation at hand since he can’t weigh in on it. “Well, it was a good effort.”

“We had a good run,” you agree, frowning at the wall that Peeves just passed through. “And by tomorrow the entire school is going to know I love a Slytherin boy. Merlin, I’ll be the laughing stock of Gryffindor. Not as bad as the exile sentence into the mountains you’ll be getting though.”

“I can hardly breathe for laughing,” Lorenzo says drily, although his lips turn up into a reluctant smile. “There’ll be no exile, because they’re going to have to deal with it. Yeah, I love you. So what? Like I said, they can sod off.”

Knowing full well that Peeves is going to be making his rounds at every table in the Great Hall during breakfast, you have no doubt Lorenzo will be having to endure a similar conversation to you with his own friends. “I’d love to see you tell them exactly that,” you grin.

“Sit at the Slytherin table with me tomorrow and you will,” Lorenzo says cheekily, shifting you closer by your hips. You loop your arms around his neck and drop a kiss onto the tip of his nose.

“Not even if Godric Gryffindor himself came and kicked me off my table.”

#lorenzo berkshire x reader #lorenzo berkshire #lorenzo berkshire x you #enzo berkshire #lorenzo x reader #lorenzo berkshire scenarios #lorenzo berkshire imagines #lorenzo berkshire fanfiction #2k writing game #🍓 anon #requests #anon #asks

[tadpolesonalgae]

Tamlin x reader: The Aftermath of Spring - Drabble

A/N: I believe there is a positive correlation between the summer-y air that I’ve been granted access to and the sudden increase in fluffy fics—couldn’t tell you why

What have I done?

You groan as the memories come flooding back to you—how he’d taken you in that cave. Even with the pleasant soreness between your thighs; the slight ache in your head and jaw, you can’t fully summon the feeling of regret that should be more prevalent in your current state.

The High Lord of Spring had been courting you for a while now, inviting out to luncheons and requesting your presence at the dining table. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t enjoyed it immensely: spending time with him.

Upon receiving your first invitation from him, you had become rather flustered, tripping over your skirts and bumping into your bedposts as you hurried to beautify yourself, scrambling for the plentiful supply of cosmetics that lined the interior of your various draws. You’d settled on a slight tint to your cheeks, along with a shade that didn’t look too unnatural on your lips, finishing with a slightly darker colour than your skin tone to your eyelids.

You’d stared at yourself for long enough to be labelled as vain by any male who had no concept of hygiene, and managed to make it to his requested spot on time without appearing out of breath. An excellent start. From there on, he’d extended his arm for you to latch onto, as he took you on a personal tour of his gardens—the ones kept private to most of his Court.

They were dazzling as you had expected, unable to keep the wide smile from your lips, despite your attempts to remain as unruffled and dignified as possible. He hadn’t seemed to mind, though, not once frowning at your open display of adoration for his fine garden, nor making a thinly veiled remark that you’re well accustomed to in the higher ends of the aristocracy.

The date had been wonderful, and he’d led you aside for some tea and scones—which were fluffy without being dry—with petit glass trinkets of cream and jam o the side. You’d wished to indulge in more, but had feared appearing gluttonous before him, so had relished and savoured the last morsel. To add to his charm, he’d made certain you had safe passage home, giving you nothing more than a slight incline of his head as you had curtsied. Not even a wisp of desire to be found in his emerald green eyes—as if he’d purely requested your company out of an interest in you; not your body.

He’d left you feeling rather giddy, if rather flustered, and that night, you’d dreamt not of the usual odd assortment of things that once day has risen one is no longer able to make sense of, but rather strolling again through that lovely garden, discussing botany and the charm of wildflowers where they are unwanted.

It was the third luncheon with him when you’d witnessed his grin—that he had, admittedly, tried to conceal by turning to look at a statue of two frolicking lambs. It had been so boyish, so un-High-Lord-like you’d had to fan your face to keep from blushing. He was surprisingly debonair with his kind smile and gentle but relevant anecdotes.

You’d talked long into the afternoon, empty cups of tea settled on their bespoke dishes—a strangely personal touch you found had you warming to him even more. He’d discussed his fondness for the fiddle, and you had laughed genuinely as he told you tales of his youth when he’d been about town and swindled a drink or two out of some drunken merrymaker’s pocket in payment for his tuneful services. Heavier subjects had begun to crop up, though you did not find yourself dreading them. Rather, Tamlin had spoken of his time spent as a foot-solder, competing with his comrades in competitions for the lewdest limerick.

“You have enjoy poetry?” You had asked.

Once upon a time, members of the higher classes had been expected to be well versed in classical literature, familiarising themselves with the works of the greats from an early age to appear sophisticated and well-spoken. Now, lessons were devoted more entirely to memorising the arms of houses, lineages from prestigious bloodlines and the politics between families. If it were none of the aforementioned, it would be sessions on etiquette. Needless to say, you’d hadn’t anticipated his genuine interest in the subject.

It had been a month of courting when you received your first sonnet from him, and t had left you more flustered that his initial request for your company. And so the back and forth of epistles had begun.

There was, you have to admit to yourself, a certain memory that seemed to make a habit of slinking into your mind when you were at the brink of sleep. It had been a moon and a half since he had begun courting you, and once again he’d been escorting you through his gardens, taking route past the roses you so adored—red, white, and lovely yellow.

“Do you have an aptitude for thinking on your feet?” You had asked, peering up at him from a rose. He’s raised a brow, but nodded his confirmation. “Your sonnets are so marvellously put together! I can’t help but dread the time it must take you to construct each lovely line,” you muse, standing straighter as you lock eyes properly—a rather reckless move on your part, but a necessary risk you had justified. You didn’t want him to think you too eager, lest he lose his interest.

“And where is this going?” He asked, eyes sparkling as he took you in amongst the flora. You offered him a sly smile that had his lips lifting in helpless response.

“He asks with anticipation,

The route of the conversation.

She was quite curious,

He thought her injurious;

She sought out his improvisation.”

Tamlin blinked. Regarded you. Then grinned. It was a wide smile, full of mischief and humour as he shook his head. “It doesn’t count if you have to think about it, Lord,” you smiled playfully and challenge lit his eyes as he regarded you again. Paid more attention—you’d caught his interest.

“Her skill of beatification,” He said slowly, as if debating the words.

"Is cause for great celebration.

She let him see her,

His heed grew deeper;

Her charm was no perturbation.”

You rose a brow, inclining your head to him. You were poised to open your mouth, but he stepped forward, and your tongue fell dull at his proximity.

“There once was a maiden so sweet,” he said softly, watching you endearingly.

“She swept the High Lord off his feet.

He was so charming,

But she was disarming,

That she became all he would seek.”

There was no way for you to conceal your flush at his words—the flattery. You swallowed, about to return his rhyme when you were regrettably interrupted. Apparently, something urgent had come up, and your High Lord was needed to resolve it. He’d offered what seemed to be a genuine apology, taking you gently by the arm as he had someone call for a carriage.

The door was open for you, but he had taken you carefully by the hand, eyes latching onto your own as he raised your knuckles to his lips—soft, and surprisingly warm. It had been enough of an encouragement you’d taken your second risk that day. You’d taken a brazen step forward, feeling the onlookers shift with a mix of amazement and indignation, but Tamlin had stiffened at your intimate approach. You offered him one of your innocent smiles, then murmured your reply back to him.

“There once was a girl so adored,

She swept her High Lord off his paws.

He was so beastly,

And she was quite feast-ly,

That he really did wish she had whored.”

You drew back, curtsying low as your eyes had flicked up to meet his own. His eyes were wide, lips parted in pleasant surprise. As you had turned to step up into the carriage, you’d heard the faint huff of breath from him—and you knew he was chuckling.

————

The Great Rite had come and passed now.

Would he continue his pursuit, despite now knowing what awaits him?

A foolish mistake on your part. You should have resisted him. Should have insisted to keep some mystery to yourself. Males only took an interest in females if there was some kind of allure to them. You needed that element of secrecy, or he would think of you as every other woman—nothing to distinguish you from the crowd.

But as you drag yourself out of bed, feet settling into comfy slippers, fretting over your past decisions, you spot a sage green envelope sat atop a silver tray. The seal is silver, baring the Spring Court insignia. You know instinctively who it’s from.

With trembling fingers, you peel back the wax, uncovering the letter: it’s another sonnet.

You scan the contents, heart thumping in your chest as you read his words:

‘Am I to say you are a lovely glade,

Dappled in the shade of emerald leaves?

Thou art more than milk and honey hath made,

The gilt threads of our souls the mother weaved.

If the golden eye of heaven did close,

Enough light would be shimmered from your form,

To sustain the seeds and others like those,

Past the eves of twilight; on until dawn.

Celestial bodies, and those divine,

Would leap to waltz a rotation with you.

My Court, my territory, those are thine,

Genuflect as I would before you, too.

Between you and I, let me make this right,

Soon full feather and softest delight.’

A heavy breath blows from your lips as you press the letter to your chest. It seems he hasn’t lost an ounce of his affections. You can hardly restrain yourself as you hum sweet tunes from your memory, skipping and dancing across your room until your handmaid peers in to enquire about the noise.

All it takes is for her to note your smile, and the opened letter with its recognisable seal, and her eyes spark with understanding. You feel like you could grow wings and fly, or burst out into song and waltz the days away.

Excitement and something else—something softer; more tender—warm your chest as you reread the letter again and again, until you have it memorised.

Taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @amygdtjhddzvb

#tamlin #tamlin x reader #the aftermath of spring #Tamlin fluff??? #spring court #acotar

[thisblogisaboutabook]

Where Fate and Stars Align

Tamlin Week - Day 2/Poet -Tamlin x Reader

Tamlin and Rhysand’s sister daydream of a life of love and poetry.

Warnings: Language, allusions to sex, implied character death

A sea of green splattered with the vibrant hues of varying wildflowers rolled across the meadow in gentle waves, flattening into a soft bed of earth beneath me, my head resting on my lovers chest, bare legs winding through his muscled thighs.

We’d laid in silence for an hour, the melody of spring lulling us into a peaceful daze. I’d spent the morning weaving flowers into his silken hair, his emerald eyes not retreating from me once as I sat on his chest, fingers trailing through those golden locks I adored so.

The world saw him as another heir to a throne but to me, he was a poet, a musician, a muse. I could spend entire days admiring the sculpted features of his face, exploring plush lips with my own.

Neither of us were made for the courtly affairs we were born into, we had the passionate souls of creatives - and here, tangled beside the pool of starlight we were just that. Two artists captivated by the beauty of the world around us, by eachother.

Tamlin pressed a kiss to my forehead, whispering into my raven hair. “Will we be poets in another life?”

I warmed at the thought of him chasing me through space and time, living the vibrant lives that we only dared dream of, dancing the nights away, making love and art in all of its magnificent forms. He’d write limericks and play the fiddle, I’d paint and maybe even learn to play the piano.

We’d live in a studio apartment along the Sidra, sharing our art within the rainbow of Velaris. Or perhaps we’d live in one of the more liberal cities tucked away on the continent where art as a profession was respected and not seen as merely a hobby of the elite with time to spare. Another world, even, where war and grief did not exist.

My delicate fingers traced the curved ridges of his abdomen, “You’ll be the poet, I’ll be the painter. I don’t have the way with words that you and your silver tongue do.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Silver tongue, yeah?”

I hummed at the implication in his tone. “Yeah.”

Turning on his side to face me, head propped on a hand he held my face gently in the broad palm of the other. “Any world where I spend my days by your side, putting my tongue to use in either lyrical or the most salacious of ways is a world I would fight for.”

“Hmmm.” I pondered, tucking a lock of golden hair behind his ear. “In our world, we get to be lovers, not fighters.”

Tamlin let out a somewhat incredulous laugh. “I think you’ll always have that wild streak in you, and silver tongue or not, I am but a mere male. I’ll surely give you plenty of reason to fight a time or two.”

My teeth found my lower lip as I considered. He wasn’t wrong. “That’s not fighting, it’s passion. We’ll turn fighting and fucking into its own art.”

Tamlin’s hand dropped from my face, trailing along my breast, to the indention of my waist, and down to the curvature of my ass. With a little squeeze he only asked, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

We made love in the meadow, tumbling in the grasses, playing the passionate parts of poet and muse. It was almost- almost believable, until a male voice called from the forest. “Tamlin! Get your ass back to the manor before father has your head.”

Tamlin stiffened. “You need to go.” He pressed a desperate kiss to my lips. “See you in a few days?”

I frowned. “I have to travel with my mother to Windhaven this weekend but once I’m back, we can plan our great escape.”

He looked at me as if he were truly considering it and honestly, if he ever took me up on the idea, I’d go for it. A life of love and peace, what a life that would be.

Pressing one final kiss to my forehead he whispered. “I’ll see you soon, my love. Go before my brother sees you.”

Tamlin hurried into the forest and I could have sworn a whispered, “Who was that?” carried on the wind to me.

And now I wait where fate and stars align.

Through time

Through space

Through love eternal

My poet tried to save me.

This world was not made for us.

—————————————-

Tags: @tamlinweek

General ACOTAR list: @lilah-asteria

#acotar #sarah j maas #a court of thorns and roses #tamlin x reader #tamlin week 2024 #tamlinweek2024 #Tamlin Week Day 2 #Tamlin x Rhysand’s sister #Pool of starlight #spring court #Night Court #star crossed lovers #acotar oneshot #Tamlin oneshot #soft!tamlin #Tamlin in love #Tamlin

[eagna-eilis]

Star Wars Characters at a Family Wedding in Ireland

ANAKIN - Gets extremely nostalgic about his own wedding and makes his adult twin children groan in embarrassment. Is in such a good mood that he isn't even mad when Leia calls him a fascist for voting Fine Gael, and manages to give his grandson an effective pep talk.

PADMÉ - So resplendent that the bride is almost jealous but honestly how could you be upset with her she's just so nice. Gets giggly tipsy over dinner and waltzes with C3P0 afterwards. Touches up literally everyone's makeup for them throughout the night and does a better job than the actual makeup artist.

OBI-WAN - Waits til the night is winding down then magically locates a squeezebox, fiddle, a guitar, and a tin whistle and hands them out to start a sessiún. The sing-song goes on until 5am and it's all his fault. His signature song is 'The Lass of Aughrim' because it makes him feel all literary.

R2D2 - Has at least four too many double Jamesons and literally starts arguing with the wall. Shmii finds him passed out under a table the next morning, wherein he swears he's not drinking until Christmas.

C3P0 - Wrecks the heads of the hotel staff over dinner with all his requests, to the point of embarrassing the other people at his table. Conducts impromptu ballroom dancing lessons while the band plays and charms the pants off everyone with his patient explanations of how to foxtrot.

LANDO - Pulls out a deck of cards and starts a game of 21s in the corner. Absolutely swindles everyone. It's okay though because he puts his winnings behind the bar so nobody has to pay for their drinks after that.

AHSOKA - Brings enough weed to share with a chosen few, like an absolute queen. Ends up hanging out in the loo for ages rolling for herself, Sabine, Maz, Kanan, and eventually Ben. Despite her relative stillness and quiet, she enjoys the music more than basically anybody else and people will quote her fondly slagging Anakin over dinner for the next 20 years.

SABINE - Camera queen who tries to look like she isn't enjoying herself. Fools nobody because she keeps grinning and snort-laughing. Her photos are a thousand times better than the photographer's and are the ones that the couple use for their album.

HERA - Helps Leia gang up on Anakin about politics because goddamn it, Leia isn't wrong. Hands out isotonic powder sachets and paracetamols to everyone before they go up to bed. They're gonna need it.

EZRA - Gets so hyper after consuming so much 7up that Hera has to send him to bed before the DJ takes over from the band. Sneaks down later for the cocktail sausages.

DIN DJARIN - Couldn't get a babysitter so he's tucked up at home watching The Late Late and hate-tweeting it.

GROGU - fell asleep in front of The Late Late. Delighted when somebody brings wedding cake to the house the following day.

KANAN - Literally will not be at peace until the DJ plays Kenny Rodgers' 'The Gambler' because it's not a wedding without it. Once that's done he insists on 'Come On Eileen'. Somebody's gotta be the keeper of the flame of tradition, after all.

CHEWBACCA - Requests all the group dances. Rock the Boat, The Siege of Ennis, The Macarena, The Walls of Limerick, Chain Reaction. Bullies everyone into joining in, except Ben who is the absolute antithesis of craic.

LUKE - Every wedding requires at least one merrily drunk uncle and Luke does not disappoint. Suit jacket? Gone. Top buttons? Open. Tie? It's now around his head while he stands on a chair playing air guitar to 'Hotel California'. Ends up puking in a flower pot. Iconic.

LEIA - Would have been okay if she stuck to wine all night but a single gin and tonic on top of the shitty hotel merlot and suddenly she's having an hour-and-a-half political argument with Anakin. Embarrasses the hell out of her parents, brother, and son by smooching Han repeatedly while dancing.

HAN - Organises the pre-ceremony pints. His sotto-voce asides are funnier than anything in the speeches. Quietly sings along to 'Brown Eyed Girl' by Van Morrison in Leia's ear while they dance, prompting all that smooching.

FINN - Sneaks into the hotel's public bar to check the hurling scores on the telly then reports them back to all the lads. Keeps his wits about him regards alcohol so he can take care of Poe later but eats so much cake he feels sick.

POE - Holds court in the bar, telling long anecdotes about his life that are only 75% true. Dances and flirts with all the aunties and nanas and makes them feel great about themselves. It doesn't convince Ahsoka to give him a spliff, though, because she is immune to his charms.

ROSE - The boomers yell at her for getting the DJ to play 'Celtic Symphony' by the Wolfe Tones, but she calls them hypocrites who are oozing postcolonial shame. Anakin offers to adopt her because now she's the centre of the politics argument. Knocks it out of the park at the sing-song because she knows all the words to at least 20 rebel songs.

MAZ - The first to place her handbag down on the dancefloor so as to coax the other nanas onto the floor. Jovially flirts with every man over 18 and under 60 that isn't her blood relation. Asks Poe to marry her.

REY - Finishes at least three other people's dinners. Sings along very loudly to every song that the band AND the DJ plays. Can't dance at all but it doesn't stop her. Should probably check on Ben because she knows what he's like but decides that tonight he's his family's responsibility. Loses her entire shit when ABBA plays.

BEN - Zero craic, God help the poor craytur. Drinks brandy as an affectation and starts quoting James Joyce after four of them. Gets extremely mopey after brandy number six and ends up having a long heart to heart with his Grandda Ani. Cries then throws up. Auntie 'Soka gives him a joint to settle his tummy. Subsequently feels better and then knocks everyone's socks off singing 'Raglan Road'.

SHMII - Begs off the party at 10pm because she's 97 years old. Still makes sure that everybody takes their hangover down to breakfast the following morning for a Big Feed of rasher-sausage-and-pudding, and maybe hair of the dog if they're desperate.

#star wars crack #star wars humour #irish culture #tw: alcohol #tw: weed #star wars sequel trilogy #star wars prequels #hera syndulla #shmi skywalker #reylo #ben solo #han solo #leia organa #princess leia #luke skywalker #ahsoka tano #sabine wren #obi wan kenobi

[songofthesibyl]

The Lark Ascending

A Tamlin POV set during the time in his youth when he was friends with Rhysand.

Like a kite Cut from the string, Lightly the soul of my youth Has taken flight

—Ishikawa Takuboku

  “About time,” Rhys said, tapping his foot.

     Tamlin smiled, setting down his pack. “Were you waiting with bated breath?”

     Rhys rolled his eyes. “You know how difficult it is for me to get away.”

     “Yes. I do.” It was difficult for him to get away, too. He hadn’t expected anything beyond the first meeting—a meeting out of pity, no doubt. Rhys had admitted as much. But in that charming way of his that made it seem like a compliment. And yet when they had a chance to see each other again. And again. For months, now. It still didn’t feel real.

     He realized he had never really had a friend before.

     “So you really make a big thing of Nynsar?” Rhys asked.

     “Not as much as with Calan Mai. But it is the arrival of spring. Whether delayed or not.”

     “The spreading of seeds, and all that.” Rhys sat down against a pine tree.

     “Something like that.” He joined him on the grass nearby, the corners of his mouth starting to lift in anticipation.

     “Not that you haven’t been doing plenty of that lately.”

     There it was. He turned away, chuckling, a slight heat to his face. When he turned back, Rhys was gazing on him idly.

     “It’s so easy to make you blush. Strange considering how much time you’ve spent in the pleasure houses lately.”

     Tamlin adjusted his position on the grass.

     Rhys laughed. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of. I’m certainly not.”

     “I’m not sure you know what shame is.”

     “No. Perhaps not. But I’m serious. You shouldn’t feel embarrassed. It’s all natural.”

     “It’s certainly helped me in the poetry contests.” He cringed—he had said too much.

     Rhys sat up straight. “What?”

     “It’s—never mind.”

     But Rhys leaned forward, that mischievous, almost predatory look of delight on his face. “Poetry contests? Since when do you have time for poetry contests?”

     “In between fiddle concerts.”

     Rhys tipped back his head, laughing, then looked on him, a spark in his eyes. “No, really. What contests?”

     “At the camps. Sometimes at night, we—“

    “Jerk each other off? Yeah, everyone knows about that.”

    He gave him a look.

    “Im sorry,” he said, stifling laughter. “Go ahead.”

    “Sometimes we do—get bored. So we write…limericks. The worst, and dirtiest one wins.”

    Rhys searched his eyes. “And you actually participate in this?”

    “And win. Thanks in part to my education in the pleasure houses.”

    He crossed his arms. “And what do you get when you win?”

    Tamlin shrugged. “Bragging rights.” He added before Rhys could step in, “Not a handjob.”

    Rhys bit his lip before responding. “You’re learning. But just bragging rights?”

    “It’s just a silly game.” That he took incredibly seriously.

    “You like poetry, then? Along with music?” He began to rifle through his own pack.

    “I…dabble.”

    Rhys smiled at his choice of words, but kept his eyes on whatever was in his pack.

    “My mother is the real poet. She writes verses…for songs. On her harp. Sometimes I accompany her on the fiddle.”

    Rhys finally looked up at him, lifting an eyebrow. “You don’t sing, do you?”

    “As far as you’re concerned, no. What are you doing in there?”

    Rhys seemed almost hesitant. Shy, for a moment. But reached in, and took out a parcel wrapped in the brocades of the Night Court. Dark purple and black with designs in gold and silver of moons, stars, and comets. He held it for a moment before handing it over. All playfulness was gone. He was in one of his rare moments of naked sincerity.

    Tamlin took it, examining the fabric. “Beautiful.” As was everything associated with the Night Court. He felt such peace just looking at it. As if he were gazing into the starlight pool.

    “Open it.”

    He lifted his brows, but didn’t question him. Instead unwrapping the cloth. Inside was a bandolier with a set of the Illyrian fighting knives Rhys had been training him with.

    “Rhys, what—“

    “So you can practice on your own. Unless you plan on defeating your enemies with bad poetry.”

    He laughed slightly, but his smile faded, and he looked into Rhys’ star-flecked eyes.

    “Rhys…I can’t accept this.”

    He looked away demurely. “Consider it a late Solstice present.”

    “But I have nothing for you.”

    The playfulness returned to his face. “How about one of your poems?”

    He chuckled. “For this? It’s hardly a fair trade.”

    “Like I said. It’s a gift. But if you want to give me something in return…”

    Tamlin smiled, carefully setting the knives and cloth down, and went into his own pack, grabbing a pencil and paper.

    “You’re going to write it right now?”

    “I told you, I’m…well versed in limericks by now.”

    Rhys rolled his eyes. “I weep for the future of your Court.”

    “You and me both.”

    Rhys stared at him as he wrote, and crossed out, and wrote again, smiling.

    “What?”

    “You’re already so different from the person I met at Solstice. And thank the Cauldron for it.”

    He looked up at him with a wry smile. “I thought you told me to accept myself as I am?”

    “When did I say that? But see, that’s already different. You wouldn’t have said that to me before. Too busy stammering.”

    He said nothing, but continued writing.

    “…But I’m glad I could help dislodge the stick up your ass every Spring Court citizen gets issued at birth. Part of the way anyway.”

    He grinned. “Stop, I’m trying to concentrate.”

    “Exactly how long do these contests last?”

    “Not that long.” He tore a scrap of the paper, and handed it to him. “Here. I don’t know that it’s my best, but—“

    Rhys grinned, and began reading.

     “There once was a male born of the Night.      Who made all the females squeal with fright.      But rumors of his size      That would put out their eyes      Were nothing compared to the male’s bite.”

     His smile deepened, and he lifted his eyes to him. “This is rather complimentary.”

     “It’s a gift. And I did say they were just rumors.”

     “I would say substantiated, if you’ve been talking to all those females you’ve visited.” He held out his hand, beckoning. “Give me the pencil.”

     Tamlin looked at him incredulously. “What, you can’t handle not being the best at something?”

     “I couldn’t tell you, I’ve never had that experience before. Again, just ask the females.”

     He rolled his eyes, and handed him the pencil, crossing his arms and arching his brow. Rhys had a wicked smile, quietly laughing to himself as he composed. Tamlin was silent and patient, curious to see this side of him. That he would feel competitive with him, of all people. It did not take much time for him to put down his pencil, though, and hand the paper over.

     Tamlin lifted his brows again in surprise and curiosity, and read it out loud, immediately beginning to stifle laughter.

     “There once was a male from the Spring Court      Who thought loose ladies weren’t his sort      But whose member sprung out      At each female about      Until Spring had come in every port.”

     He burst out laughing. “Rhys, I didn’t know you were such a poet.”

     “One of my many gifts. So have I won this round?”

     Tamlin smiled at him. “Beginner’s luck.”

     Rhys lay back against the tree trunk again with his arms crossed behind his head, smug and satisfied. “Think of another one over Nynsar. And don’t hold back.”

     “I wouldn’t dream of it. What will you do over Nynsar?”

     Rhys looked at him briefly, a thoughtful, almost tender look. Then closed his eyes. “The Night Court has its own ways to observe the coming of spring.”

     Tamlin laughed again, and Rhys opened his eyes, sitting upright with a start. “I swear, I didn’t mean that one.”

     They both dissolved into giggles, collapsing onto the earth until it subsided. Then remaining there, lying in silence. Tamlin breathed in the earth, closing his eyes, listening to the swaying of the grass in the wind. No training, or life lessons, today. They simply lay there, enjoying each other’s company, without masks or obligations. No observing and being observed. Nothing at all but themselves. He had never felt so at ease with someone before. Even the land—wild, and rough, the hilly terrain dotted with pine, juniper, and seas of purple heather. It fit his proportions better, he settled more easily into its grooves. The tidy, small nature of the Spring Court—meadows and blossoms and manicured gardens—was stifling compared to this.

     Maybe not the gardens, though. Not hers.

     He turned over, looking at Rhys, who was lying on his back, basking in the sun.

     “I’d like to see, though,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “how you celebrate the…equinox. Starfall, right?”

     Rhys remained on his back, saying nothing, and Tamlin wondered if he was asleep. But then Rhys turned towards him, opening his eyes, and propping his head on his arm. He had that same distant, dreamy look in his eyes from earlier.

     “I’d like that too. Some day.”

     A shadow passed over them. Tamlin sighed. “Your friends don’t like me.”

     “They’re my family. And they don’t know you as anything other than the heir to an enemy Court. They’re just being protective.”

     “Yeah. I guess I wouldn’t know what that’s like.”

     Rhys stared at him. “Yes, you do.”

     He wanted to say something, but Rhys turned again, looking up at the big sky overhead.

     “Don’t worry, the holiday will be over soon enough. You’ll be back to writing doggerel in no time.”

     “One can hope.”

     Rhys chuckled. “Well, I suppose we should get going.” He sat up.

     Tamlin reluctantly did the same, eyeing his pack. “Rhys, really…I don’t know how to thank you for—“

     “There’s no need. Write me more poetry, if you like. Maybe an ode.”

     Tamlin smiled, and they stood up.

     “And…probably don’t show those to the High Lord.”

     “No.”

     “Ok, enjoy the holiday.”

     “You too.”

     Rhys waited for him in his reluctance to go. But he would have to winnow first. He could not be found in the Night Court alone. Rhys gave him a sympathetic smile, and he pictured it as he was pulled hundreds of miles back to his own Court. There was a melancholy feeling that passed over him briefly, and a heaviness—but it was shorter, and lighter, with every visit. The manor was no longer his home. He never intended it to be again. Heir or not. It would never happen. He would determine his own future. And so he stepped lightly over the meadows and glens. The earth didn’t hold him so strongly. Soon, he felt, he would not step on the ground at all.

     A plant cut from its roots. A fluff of dandelion floating in the air. The lark ascending.

     He held his pack close to him as he approached the manor.

     “Young lord,” the sentry at the door said, “Welcome home. Happy Nynsar.”

     “Thank you, same to you.” He tried not to make the reason for his next question obvious. But it probably was. “Are my father and brothers home?”

     “…No, my lord. But your mother is in.”

     He couldn’t help the smile that bloomed on his face. He couldn’t have received better news upon his arrival.

     “Thank you.” He nearly skipped as he made his way through the halls, finding out from the servants his mother was in the library. It would have been his first guess, though. He wondered briefly where his father and brothers were.

     Probably out hunting babies who couldn’t pay the Tithe.

     He stood in the doorway of the library, staring at her. She had her back to him, sitting at one of the tables. Writing. Her long blonde hair spilled over her shoulders, studded with wildflowers. A barrette of purple hyacinths pulled some of it back, and she wore a white gown with embroidered ivy trailing throughout. He felt tears come to his eyes, looking at her. He didn’t know why.

     But of course, he did.

     “Mother.”

     She rose from her seat, turning towards him with bright green eyes. “Tamlin!”

     And nearly ran to him. He dropped his pack carefully on the floor, and embraced her, holding her close and exchanging kisses on each cheek.

     She pulled back, holding onto his arms, and looking him up and down. “Look at you!” She squeezed his arms. “Your muscles get bigger every time I see you. And you’ve got some color on your face.” She smiled. “You look good.”

     “And you look beautiful,” he replied.

     She shrugged, still smiling. “For Nynsar.”

     She preferred it to Calan Mai. He did too. He didn’t like how she was then. How his father was with her.

     “What were you writing?”

     “Oh, just some poetry.”

     He couldn’t help but smile, stifling a laugh.

     “What? Is there something funny about that?”

     “No, mother,” he said. “You know I love your poetry. It’s just I was writing some poetry too earlier.”

     “For the holiday?”

     He ruffled his hair. “Uh, sort of.”

     “What, what is it? Can I see?”

     “Uh, no…I don’t think you want to read it.”

     “Why not, I’m sure it’s lovely.”

     “It’s…” He felt his face get hot. “They’re limericks. And not any good.”

     She crossed her arms, giving him an amused smile. “Oh, really?”

     “Mom…”

     “Come,” she laughed, taking his arm. “Sit with me.” She led him to a couch, sitting beside him.

     “They…they won’t be back for awhile?”

     Her smile faded somewhat. “No. Not until tonight. They’re out hunting.”

     He turned aside, smirking, then turned back.

     His mother stared at him.

     “What?”

     “You really do look good, Tam. Happy.”

     “I…don’t mind the camps.”

     “I—I’m glad.” She looked down for a moment.

     “I miss you, though.”

     She looked up again, a sweet smile on her face. “Oh, I miss you too. But I—is that all there is?”

     “What do you mean?”

     “These past few months…you’ve seemed…different. Almost…giddy. Are you sure it’s just the camps?”

     He smiled. Ever observant. He could have brushed off her intuition. But he wanted to tell someone. He wanted to tell her. He once thought she’d be the only friend he’d ever have.

     “It’s…”

     She brushed his hair from his face. “What? What is it?”

     “You know…” He looked towards the closed door.

     “We’re alone,” she said.

     He turned back to her. Still speaking in a lower voice. “Rhys—Rhysand. The heir to the Night Court.”

     Her smile was gone. “I know of him.”

     “He’s…he reached out to me. On the Winter Solstice.”

     She sat back. “Reached out.”

     “He’s been helping me train. Illyrian techniques. His mother’s people.”

     “Yes, I know.”

     “You know how they belittle him for it. His father’s mate…how they look down on him for it. Simply for being born.”

     She gave him a look of understanding.  “Yes. I know.”

     “I know how it sounds. What you’ll say. What anyone would…it’s not a trick. I thought it was, too. It took time for me to trust him. It was the same for him. But we do…trust each other. I just came from there.”

     “His Court? Tamlin…”

     “It’s alright. His family knows.”

     “They—they do.”

     “Well, some of them.”

     “How long have they…”

     The whole time, he thought. But didn’t say, pressing his lips together instead.

     “And you felt…you couldn’t tell me…”

     “It’s not you…” He looked at her drawn expression, missing the brightness, and the smile. “I’m sorry.”

     “No,” she breathed in, shaking her head. “I understand. I’m glad you’ve found someone to talk to. He’s a true friend?”

     He smiled tentatively, getting up and bringing his pack over to her, then sitting back down and taking the parcel out, and handing it to her.

     “He gave me this today. Open it.”

     She glanced at him briefly as he handed it to her. She held it for a moment then unwrapped it, silently, looking at the bandolier with a somewhat sorrowful expression. His heart dropped.

     “They’re beautiful,” she said, the sadness seeping into her voice.

     “But…”

     “I just worry for you. It’s what a mother does.”

     “We’ve been careful. He doesn’t have an agenda, mother, I swear—“

     “No, honey, I believe you. It’s not that.”

     “And I’ll keep them hidden. I’m…used to hiding things from them.”

     “Yes, I know. It’s not that…” She handed him the parcel and stood up, walking to the table she’d been working at, picking up a piece of paper, and sitting back down at his side. “It still needs some work.”

     He put the parcel on the floor and took the paper from her, reading the poem on it silently.

     “I see him, soft and sweetness of lilac      Of the tender shoots that yellow and green      Of the willow’s sway and of calling back      Her song and his song of the world unseen.      The markers that run deep, the songs unheard      A plucking of taut strings by the reeds      The blossoms sway at his every word      He already has everything he needs.      The rains of Spring can run cold, arresting life      The violence of its winds and of its whims      But the softness that yields outlasts the knife      That soon breaks as it’s thrusted through limbs.           The rose that blooms red does not by the thorn           But to seek the bee for which it is born.”

     He looked up at her, and she turned away shyly.

     “Like I said, it needs work.”

     “No,” he said, embracing her. “It’s perfect.”

     “You’re sweet,” she said, wiping her eyes.

     “I…” He looked over at the knives on the top of his pack. The brocade spread out underneath, a blanket of stars. “All sons have to learn how to fight.”

     She smiled sadly, and caressed his cheek with her hand. “You’re not all sons. You’re my son.”

     He only smiled at her. “Anyway—you know they wouldn’t leave me alone if I didn’t agree to go there. If they thought I’d actually have ambitions to become High Lord.”

     “But you already have the markers. Why wouldn’t you become High Lord one day?”

     “Because…” They were both silent. If he became High Lord, her mate would be dead. If he never intended to become one—

     “I don’t want you throwing your life away at those camps. You’re meant for so much more than that.”

     “Being High Lord?”

     “No. I don’t mean that.”

     They sat in silence again.

     “Here,” He suddenly thought, taking out his pencil and paper from his pack. “I’ll write you a poem. A limerick. Not—“ He clarified. “Not the ones I was writing earlier.”

     She laughed softly.

     For a moment, looking at her, he thought of the one he had come up with long before, reciting it in his mind.

     There once was a mother whose silence      Betrayed a mate who was filled with great violence      Though her kindness was strength      The pain broke her at length      And led to a life of compliance.

     No. She didn’t deserve that. Instead, he quickly wrote something down, and handed it to her.

     “As the Spring fields are planted with seed      And the blossoms unfurl with great speed      A son carries with him      Thoughts of love that won’t dim      Of the mother whom he’ll always need.”

     “It’s nothing, but—“

     Her lower lip trembled, and she kissed his forehead. “My sweet boy.”

     “I’m still here, mom,” he said as she parted from him. “I’m still me. Maybe more than…I’ve felt in a long while. You know I can’t just stay here and play music, and write poetry.”

     “I know,” she breathed.

     “But with Rhys…he’s shown me…he displayed it before I was even born. That you can use your strength to help others. That you can protect them. I…wish things had been different. That another life were possible. But this…I feel like…there’s another world opening up to me. That one day…even the life I have now is…a stepping stone to something better. For you, too.”

     “For me?”

     “You should come with me, mother. His Court…what I’ve seen of it…it’s beautiful. I’m sure you’d love it there.”

     “Tamlin…I could never. I have my duties here…”

     “You had as much choice being Lady of Spring as I had being heir. You were meant for more too.”

     She looked at him, eyes shining. “Perhaps. One day.”

     “He talked of seeing Starfall. Next year, maybe.”

     “Yes, I’ve heard it’s beautiful. But…” She took his hands in hers. “Whatever happens. If he has done this for you. Made you feel like yourself again. I am happy for you. But…using your strength to help others…you didn’t need him to figure that out. That’s always who you’ve been. I’ve never been worried you’d lose sight of that.”

     That he’d turn out like his father and brothers, she meant.

     “And it is worth it. Being Lady of Spring. If it means I get to be your mother.”

     He looked down, a pang in his heart. “Mom…”

     She lifted his chin with her hand to look him in the eyes. “Well. We have a little while until they get back. We’ve written poetry. Will you play music with me?”

     “I’d love to.”

     “Good.” She let go, and he wrapped the knives in the brocade and put them back in his pack, carrying it to his room, and getting out his fiddle from its hiding spot, joining his mother who already had her harp out. He saw anew, though she smiled, the great sadness, and loneliness in her. There was no one she could be herself with. Feel safe with. Who would take care of her when he was away. A gnawing guilt ate at him, and a worry that lingered as they began to play. Their secret song.

     But the longer they played, his worries began to subside, as they always did. His heart lifted as she sang. And he thought to himself, that she would be lifted with him. Her steps lighter and lighter, as his. She would sever her roots, as he was. That bound them to this place. That hid her light. When he left this place for good, she would leave with him.

     They would escape.

@tamlinweek 2024 Day 2: Poet/Warrior

#tamlin week 2024 #tamlin week #tamlin #acotar

[esta-elavaris]

James and Theodora family life snippet, with their kids being piss-artists, bc this came to me in a vision and I had to spend my morning writing it immediately. 

It began, as usual, with an intense bickering session between the lads. Levi was taking the whole thing much more seriously than Jamie (again, as usual), all eye-rolls and grumpy remarks while his brother grinned and snickered his way through the entire spat - likely only upsetting his brother more. Which, perhaps, was the goal. But it was hardly intense enough for Theo to step in, and truth be told they were getting much too old for that anyway, with both boys reaching their late teens and their sister already on her way to the altar. This might be their last Christmas with Antonia at home, and if not she’d likely be toting children of her own next time. There was a definite sense of it being the end of an era in the air…and that was probably what kept the firm note of fondness in the argument, even between the two lads who often struggled to get along. 

“No, no, I won’t hear it,” Jamie sniffed, striding towards the piano and sitting down at the bench, lifting the fallboard with a grand gesture and then smoothing his fingers across the keys “My talent is being called into question. My purpose. My calling. My very honour!”

Theo hid her smile behind her glass of wine, watching from her seat on the sofa as her younger son rolled his eyes and scoffed as his brother began to pick out an inane, plodding tune on the keys to provide a bit of background music to his antics.

“A challenge,” Jamie continued grandly, his playing never faltering “Give me a name, any name, and I shall write a song that contains it on the spot. To prove that I am no, what did you call me, Levi? A second rate fop of a bard?” 

“A third-rate flop of a bard,” Levi corrected archly. 

“A name, then,” Jamie countered with a bright, unbothered grin “Go on, give me your challenge.”

“Theodora,” Antonia offered with a smile of her own.

“Mine’s easier than it seems,” Theo disagreed “A name being long doesn’t make it a challenge.”

“He’d only make it rhyme with Uncle Theodore’s name,” Levi snorted.

“That would be a half-rhyme at best, fool, if you’re going to slander my ability you might at least know what you’re speaking of first.”

“Jack Sparrow,” Antonia offered instead.

“Absolutely not,” James joined the fray for the first time, and Theo stifled a laugh. 

“I know not why we’re even entertaining this,” Levi bemoaned, exasperated “It shall be a dirty limerick at best.”

Jamie did stop his playing then, the keys clanging dramatically as he stared at his brother in outrage “As if I would do such a thing.”

Then, he added in a mutter “...with father in the room.” 

“He worries more for my sensibilities than yours,” James murmured in her ear.

“I think that’s fair,” Theo laughed softly, resting her head against his shoulder before calling to their son “Barbossa! How’s that for a challenge?”

The eyes of all turned to Jamie, and she knew she’d found the right challenge. He was fairly unshaken, though, a furrow in his strong brow as he returned to plodding out that annoying little tune, humming to himself as though deep in thought.

“Barbossa, Barbossa,” he muttered to himself “Hm…How might it go…”

“He’s up to something,” James spoke again, so quiet that only she would hear him “You get that same look when you’ve resolved to be a menace.”

Theo beamed proudly. 

“A-ha! I have it!” Jamie announced, back straightening as he cleared his throat and cracked his knuckles before he returned his fingers to the keys and began to sing, loud and clear “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Barbos--”

Immediately dissolving into fits of laughter, Theo and Antonia shared a grin, and even James struggled to contain his chuckles, shaking his head and plastering a hand over his eyes as though he’d decided he’d seen enough for the day. Most impressively of all, Jamie kept playing even as his brother groaned and lobbed an orange at his head. 

#james and theodora #james/theodora #some slight anachronisms #in the name of The Banter

[ihaveatheoryonthat]

Whumptober Day 23: Forced to Kneel

Another weird one, but I wanted to try something a little more out there.

TW for kidnapping, attempted human sacrifice, minor injury/blood mention, and minor character death.

---

If Ingo had to describe the previous twenty four hours, he’d say they were like being part of a bad horror film, if said film was meant to terrorize its actors.

He couldn’t deny that he was scared, but not because he was, ostensibly, playing the role of ‘unwilling sacrifice’. His concern was that these people were completely disconnected from reality, and there was no telling what, precisely, they’d do when their little ritual to summon Zekrom failed. There was an infinitesimally small chance that some of them might wake up and see reason, but the odds didn’t favor that outcome. More likely, they’d become desperate or panic, double-down and try something drastic, and it was in his best interest not to let it get that far.

Not that there was much he could do about any of this. He’d spent several hours, at the very least, sleeping off the Spore he vaguely remembered taking to the face-- back before the world had gone sideways-- and his waking hours had been split between trying to glean any small scrap of information he could and working his way free of the restraints around his wrists and ankles. The latter hadn’t seen any success, save for the painfully raw spots along the heel of his hand, the former, however, hadn’t been an entirely futile endeavor.

He’d managed to figure out what their goal was, at least, and that they seemed to be unaffiliated with Team Plasma. Why they’d thought the Dragon of Ideals-- of all Pokemon-- would react to human sacrifice had been beyond him for some time, until one of his captors alluded to the Hero’s bloodline. It was still patently insane, but there was, at least, some semblance of logic in trying to use the Hero of Ideals’ descendant to draw out the like dragon. Truth be told, Ingo was more preoccupied with the fact that these people had been digging that deep into their family history than he was interested in the mission statement.

If there was a silver lining to any of this, it was that he was the one dealing with it, and not Emmet.

When the group’s movements began to find greater purpose and their excitement seemed to pick up, Ingo renewed his effort to break free, but still found himself on his knees in a slipshod circle drawn on the floor. He very nearly laughed when the leader began a chant that sounded like a drunken limerick on the 2 am pink line, and could only thank his lucky stars that his expression didn’t give him away.

Any amusement was cut short, however, when the same man drew a knife as if from nowhere, and brandished with an astonishing lack of blade safety. It found a temporary home in the meat of Ingo’s palm, and then the man backed off to do Swords knew what with it, the rest of the choir unceasing in their mantra. For a moment, Ingo focused on the throbbing in his hand, tucking it palm-inward against his coat to stem the bleeding in what little first aid he could manage from here. It may have been a mistake, because, when he looked up, his primary abductor was onto something else entirely.

There was… something in all of it about what was and what wasn’t, what should have been.

In hindsight, that might have been what did it: the fine line between a vision for what could be, and what simply couldn’t exist.

To Ingo’s incredulity, they did get an answer.

Just not from Zekrom.

It was a Pokemon unlike any he’d ever seen, all grey, gold and, ironically, red and black; swirling, serpentine, in its created darkness, it was difficult to make out all at once. After he’d struggled to one of the room’s sides, Ingo got a glimpse of red-tipped tendrils-- wings?-- and gold spikes, but it was an effort to put them into a cohesive picture.

When the room was empty of any other life, it turned its glowing eyes to him.

The image slowly drew into focus. Yes, a serpent, striped black, red and grey, with a golden crest trailing from its crown down its neck. Said neck curved as it dipped its head to inspect him, attention moving from the gag in his mouth to his bleeding hand and then the restraints. One of the spiked tendrils extended to snap the tie between his wrists and he eagerly shook it off, reaching up to free himself.

“Thank you.” He rasped, as loud as he was able to muster. Certainly, the Pokemon had just attacked and made short work of a dozen humans, but that was all the more reason to be polite to it. It seemed inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt, and he wasn’t going to forsake that.

The shadow limb moved upwards, and he felt a firm, repeated pressure through his hat.

“It will be okay.” It told him, and oh, that was bad. If it could speak telepathically, it had to be an incredibly powerful Pokemon; it was best to see it off… wherever it came from and contact the authorities. And possibly also Shauntal, if she still conducted exorcisms. At least he could be relatively certain he wouldn’t fall under suspicion for what had happened here. This-- this was rather beyond the abilities of humankind.

“It will be,” He confirmed, and tried to prop himself up on wobbling legs, “I have you to thank for that. I’m… very sorry you were so rudely dragged from your home. Please don’t feel you have to stay here on my account-- as you’ve said, I will be alright.”

“It will be okay.” It said again, its mental voice a mere suggestion of sound; the tendril that had been interacting with Ingo curled around his shoulders, and he had just that fraction of a second to realize this was not going to go how he’d hoped.

“You won’t remember any of this.”

#ihaveatheoryonthat pkmn #submas #fanfic #whumptober

[sorry-i-ship-drarry]

Dedications and annotations

Since I haven’t posted in a really long time, here’s a microfic. // Fluff //

They were bundled up in the corner of the library together, away from all those loud noises, away from all the snickering, away from all the chaos, away from all the babbling, away from all the judgemental looks, away from everyone else in the world except each other with a heap of books sprawled all across them under a warm blanket and a candle to illuminate the space. 

They didn’t say it out loud but they both knew they could spend their entire life there together. Many would say what would they know of love, they were merely 19 but what more was there to know of love rather than it being found in the arms of another. For many it was hard to think of Harry and Draco together, for many it was shocking, for many it was unbelievable and for many it was a lie but to them it was the most eventual, believable and truthful thing in the world. They could care no much of what anyone else would say about them because they both knew they would fight armies if they had to for each other but they didn't say that out loud, yet, only because of fear because we're told as we grow up to not make our love the loudest thing in the world and even though they wouldn't follow the world, their internalised self did, unfortunately.

But right now, they were there, with books around them and in arms of each other. There was nowhere else they'd rather be and then suddenly as if it was the most gradual and obvious thing, they indirectly confessed the intensity of their love.

"These book dedications can be absurd." Draco hummed as he flipped through a page of the book he had picked up to read with his head rested against Harry's chest.

"Of course they're absurd. They're always for the most special people in their lives."

Draco rolled his eyes and showed Harry the dedication of the book he was holding, "This is special? 'To my old editor for making me believe that there are better editors out there.' Does that seem special to you in any way? Its pure absurdity."

Harry sighed, "Fine, okay, maybe they're absurd, but maybe they're absurd for a reason. Think of it this way that this writer, whoever it is, dedicated it to their old editor, whether there is a limerick or not, it's still dedicated. And what do you know, maybe the old editor is their best friend and asked them to write it."

"Harry." Draco rolled his eyes fondly, "That's bullshit. If you're dedicating a book to someone, it should always be something nice. The entirety of the gesture of it is so nice, yes it's scary to have a whole ass book being dedicated to you but to think that when they were writing and thinking and thinking about who should they dedicate and then come to conclusion that out of the entire world, they want to dedicate it to you. The thought of it is so nice, it shouldn't be associated with a limerick in my belief."

"Fine, who would you dedicate your book to?"

"Easy.. either my mom or to someone I love, like you."

"You would dedicate a book to me?" Harry asked a bit surprised.

"I love you, so, yes if I were writing a book right now, I'd totally dedicate it to you." Draco shrugged as it it was no big deal but it was a huge deal, it was huge.

Harry smiled and kissed the top of his head, " I'd annotate lines from that book for you then."

"You don't need to do that." Draco said.

"shush- I would want to. Anyways, let's think of a limerick I'd write in dedication for my book." Harry said as he changed the topic.

Even though Draco smiled, he went along with the change, "Maybe you can say, To Voldemort, for giving me existential crisis."

Harry immediately laughed, "that's a really good one. Maybe I can even write one to Bellatrix, To Bellatrix for making me realise to always wash my hair."

And Draco snorted out loud.

They talked of many more dedications that night, of many more funny dedications and so many more romantic ones but the whole thing settled that if Draco were to ever write a book, he'd dedicate it to Harry and Harry would annotate lines to Draco. The world may say that they didn't know much about love but maybe they knew more than what their generation knew of love because to exist and love someone enough to think about annotations and dedications, that was something entirely different.

Tagging some of y'all for boost ( don't hesitate to ask if you want to be removed) you can ignore if you'd like

@phoebe-delia @chinike @elenaxoxo22 @thecornerofbelu @nv-md @drarrywords @daddiesdrarryy @lilthislilthat @cissa-bee ​ @missdrarrydawn @harryandginnydeservesbetter @draco-lucious-potter ​ ​ @textrovert-01

#drarry #harry potter #draco malfoy #draco x harry #hp fandom #harry james potter #drarry prompt #harry potter fanfiction #drarry ship #drarry fic #drarry fluff #drarry microfic #draco malfoy microfic #harry potter microfic #harry potter fics

[brightwingedbat]

"What's the most embarrassing thing you've done for or as a result of a bet" (I'll think of a better ask later, for now it be an in-character ask to whichever Charr it fit best)

(Chip Ironwelder doesn't get much content so I should use him for this.)

The short charr's usually serious expression tinges a slight into hesitation, he meekly looks aside to his warbandmate Reeva. "Do I really have to answer that?" He asks, only to receive a nod with a mischievous grin.

Chip grumbles deeply and sighs, rubbing a paw across his brow.

"Fine... Fine. Burn me. Years back when I was a new legionnaire, Reeva and I made a bet, a real simple one. Who can kill the most ghosts on the next mission. Easy, right?" Chip shrugs, then shakes his head.

"And of course I get called away mid mission for a briefing from my Centurion... Every one of my warband killed more than me thanks to that. So what did Reeva have me do?"

The short charr's ears blush a slight red, a grumble escapes his throat. "Had me dancing at the bar, singing her personal selection of dirty limericks- and no, I won't repeat them. Let me tell you, I was never a dancer, and that's before I lost my right footpaw. Everyone was staring while Reeva was in tears laughing."

Reeva nudges Chip's shoulder as if she wants him to add more, he growls lowly. "...And then my Centurion walked in the bar, amidst one particular limerick that was adjusted just for him. Pulled me by my ears to his office, scolded me and put me on scrapper duty along with my warband for a week. Reeva was in stitches despite everything and she will never let me live it down..."

#gw2 #guild wars 2 #charr #Chip Ironwelder #Reeva #answered

[shipwreck-letters]

Rainier + Bard!MC

'Bard' is a term I'm using loosely. Basically a singing MC, they may or may not use an instrument based on your preference!

These are general headcanons for Rainier, and my first official set! I hope you enjoy them!

Reblogs/Comments appreciated 💌

+ @neutrino-dragons for your favorite dragon man <3

-• Rainier -• 

-It just happens on a boring, uneventful day. Work is long and dragging on, no matter how excited Rainier seems that morning. Time carries on, and there's still tons of things left to do.

-Without much thought behind it, your hands steadying wood and screws, you begin to hum a tune that's stuck in your mind. A folk song, a chorus, a melody. 

-"🎶🎶🎶" Your voice fills the empty room and carries an echo, and the sounds of the house (And it's present resident) come to a pause. 

-When you finally notice, Rainier is watching, his body completely still, as if any sound or movement would scare the moment away. 

-When you finally pause for breath, clearing your throat and chuckling, he finally blinks, smiling and giving an applause. 

-"That was wonderful, MC. How many songs do you know? Do you know the Ballad of Almithara? Oh wait, you probably don't. It's a really good song!" He continues on. "I think I miss that the most."

-"Could you teach me?" You ask. "I'm a fast learner."

-Rainier grins, and it's not long before you learn of a song from an entirely different world! 

-Going forward, Rainier loves to hear the songs you sing up close. He doesn't have to sneak out, he doesn't have to hide. 

-All of his favorite things combine into one; Stories, experiences, flowing through limericks and ballads. And you, of course. 

-His favorite songs are the ones that you sing. 

-And what fun would it be if you didn't have a duet? Songs become choirs whenever Rainier's around, adding his voice to yours. All of the laughs and smiles, tail-wagging and dancing. 

-Along with watching different anime/shows, times for listening to new music is a must! Show him all of your favorite bands and artists- No matter how strange, there's always something Rainier finds fascinating about them! 

-(I think he would really like folk songs, maybe even shanties. The Longest Johns guys, group singing about sailing and living on the seas is peak experience and my hyperfixation) 

-The halls of the House quickly become filled with singing and pleasant memories, and Rainier can't be happier for it.

~End~

#monster manor #fictif monster manor #fictif #rainier monster manor #nix hydra #imagines #fanfiction #abzu's writing

[luimnigh]

I had an incredibly outlandish dream this week: they built a building on the Opera Centre site.

Now that everyone who knows Limerick is laughing, an explanation:

The Opera Centre is a proposed development in the city centre that's been in some form of development since 2003.

It bought up a large chunk of land along a main street in the city, shut down all the buildings there, and proceeded to be killed by the Great Recession. Several places simply never sold up, and had to deal with the issues from their neighbours laying derelict. This included the city library.

The site was repossessed by the bank, and sold to the City Council in 2011.

For the next nine years, they rented out two of the two dozen buildings on the site to one of the local colleges as an art space, a third was rented out seasonally as a Haunted House, and an empty space was used as a carpark.

Eventually, they developed a revised plan for the site: out went the original idea for a inner-city shopping mall across the street from an inner-city shopping mall; in came a development focused on office space and a small amount of housing and retail.

Then the pandemic happened. Y'know, the one that showed that need for office space was massively overinflated at our level of technology.

They finally got around to completing the demolition works in 2022.

So far there is yet to be any above-ground construction.

So when people say that we'll see actual contruction at the Opera Centre in our dreams... yeah.

[vaicomcas]

Balthazar was funny first

A few random, mundane things about Balthazar for @heaven-ecologist’s birthday celebration.

Balthazar was annoyed with Uriel, because Balthazar was the first angel with a sense of humor; he was just saying witty things for his own amusement, but he would make other angels laugh (or sometimes angry) and even though he didn’t  care about what others thought, it pleased him.  Then Uriel came along and started telling jokes left and right and became known as the funniest angel in the garrison; Balthazar would never admit it but he was bitter about it.

Balthazar was the one Castiel paraphrased when he told Michael "to paraphrase a friend, you have an entire oak tree shoved up your ass.”  Balthazar used to rate angels on the degree of their uptightness through a scale of different objects being thusly misplaced.  I won’t go into the details of that scale, except to say not many angels landed on the low end of it. 

Balthazar and Castiel used to go drink liquor stores together when they were stationed on earth.  When they got sufficiently smashed they would walk the empty streets together and Balthazar would hook his arm around Castiel’s shoulder and tell him dirty limericks.  “Hey Cassie, did you hear about the boy from Madras?”  And Cas would slur, “this form of poetry is childish and inappropriate for angels.”  Balthazar would groan and shove him and move on to some other shenanigans.  Ten minutes later Cas would ask, “so what did happen to the boy from Madras?”  and Balthazar would laugh and ruffle Cas’ hair and tell him, and he would feel so proud of himself when Cas cracked a little crooked smile and announced, “this is not without merit.”

#balthazar supernatural #spn angels #cw crude language #angelsweek2022 #hope it's not too much castiel #the boy from madras has to be told in a British pronunciation to rhyme properly #that's why I chose it for Balthazar

[lordrethandus]

Daily Writing Challenge August 2022 Day 7

Peace / Unforgiven ( @daily-writing-challenge @kthalentia )

World: Final Fantasy 14

Theme: Headlund - Return to No Man’s Land

U’tova Thenn was almost out of breath by the time she caught up with those bounty hunters her boss was chatting up a storm with. The big redheaded Hyur was not the man she was looking for, nor the pompous Ishgardian archer, nor the intimidating Roegadyn pugilist. No, she was looking for the Miqo’te who was calling the shots. The man who made sure everyone was geared up and ready for work. The man with olive brown skin, deep scars across his face, piercing yellow eyes and a deep voice almost as thick as mud. Just thinking about him made her heart flutter– but now was not the time to be daydreaming; she wasn’t here for his autograph– she was here for his help.

They were held up at the Silver Bazaar. U’tova knew this because all the ships were stuck in the docks, waiting for the approaching storm to pass over before they took to the sea. Bounty hunters and rougher folk filled the courtyard with rowdy voices and obscene limericks as she walked past. If this many people were clogging the walkways then that meant the only tavern was likely filled to capacity. Her target was outside, she was certain. Then she saw them, the ones that bought out most of the ammunition she made for her job, scattered along the staircase leading up to a seemingly empty balcony. As soon as she approached, the rowdy hyur put on a huge smile and rose from his sleeping mat. “GUN GIRL!” He laughed, storming up to her; her eyes widened and she clutched her package tightly, halfway expecting a huge hug from a huge hyur, but instead his big hand ruffled her hair. “What are you doing here?! Come to give me a better deal?!”

“I’m here for K.” She calmly answered, batting at his fingers to get him to give her some space. “Where can I find him? Is he asleep, or…?”

He jutted a thumb up the stairs. “He likes to watch the sunset. You’ll find him up there. Oh– do you need a drink? You’ve traveled so far!”

U’tova shook her head and ducked under his extended arm. “I’m only nineteen!” She hurried past the others and ignored their inquisitive glances, not stopping for anyone else. Eventually she slowed down at the top of the stairs lest she be out of breath again, her head poking up to look around to spot him before he spotted her. 

And there he was. Resting on the edge of the balcony with two empty bottles beside him and a third one in his hand. He turned his head slightly in her direction to let her know he was aware of her presence, but as soon as she started moving closer, he returned to his drinking and watching the sunset. “What can I do ya fer, darlin’?”

“I…” For a moment she forgot what she was even about to ask once she heard his voice again. “You are the bounty hunters that came into my shop this afternoon.”

“Aye, and yer the girl who sold us them rifles.” K’thalen took a swig of his drink and continued. “Why’re ye here? Don’t tell me we ain’t paid ye ‘nough.”

She took great caution in her choice of words. She took a deep breath to get her composure before leading him to his answer. “You are bounty hunters… hunting a very dangerous gang.” He didn’t answer, only choosing to take another swig of his drink as he listened in silence. “To my understanding you’re going after the Black Adder Boys.”

“And?” He finally asked, turning to look up at her with his piercing yellow eyes.

“And… I want to help you.”

“‘Fraid not, lil’lady. Roster’s full.” He turned his attention back to the sunset and took another swig. By this rate he would be on his next bottle in just a few minutes. “The bounty fer their heads is already split five ways. Anymore n’it won’t be worth it.”

She gave him an indignant glare. “I don’t care about gil, if that’s the deal breaker. All I ask is to eat alongside everyone else. I can repair your firearms too if that’s the cost for accompan-”

“I’m stoppin’ ya right there.” At last he set the bottle down and rose to his full height to tower over her; she didn’t realize just how tall he was… and staring up into his judgy eyes was making her feel weak again. “Our job… our profession… it ain’t no place fer a dainty lil’thing like ya. Them Black Adder Boys’ll chew ya up n’spit ye out, if’n yer lucky. I bet ye can imagine what some greasy bastards like ‘em would do to a girl such as yerself.”

“I don’t need that image…” She curtly responded, pursing her lips. “And I’m no fool. But I can handle myself.”

“Ever kill a man before?”

The question caught her off guard, but his burdening gaze forced her to answer truthfully. “N-no… not yet…”

“Best ye be on yer way then. Can’t afford to have some rookie tag along with us, aye? Go on… off with ya.” He waved his hand dismissively before sitting down with an exhausted grunt, but she didn’t move an ilm. He glanced over at her legs and let out an irritated sigh. “Why do ye wanna be a bounty hunter so bad anyroad? It ain’t an easy job, girly. Most folks don’t make it a full year ‘fore they’re killed takin’ a job they shouldn’t have.”

“They killed my pa.” U’tova blurted it out, making him pause mid-sip. “They tried to rob our store. He wouldn’t give them what they wanted so they… shot him right in the stomach. Then shot him a dozen more times… none of which were in the head. They made him suffer.”

K’thalen took off his hat and ran his hand through his hair. “So it’s revenge yer after.”

She swallowed dryly to prevent herself from tearing up. “I’m after justice… but I’ll settle with revenge.” 

Slowly he looked up to meet her gaze again. “The Black Adder Boys were me family once. I trained most a’them when we was all in the Order of the Twin Adders. They betrayed me fer gil… slaughtered dozens a rookies just tryin’ to make the world a better place… or at the very least, feed their families. Revenge is… not a good thing to follow, lass. Though I suppose I ain’t one to lecture ya ‘bout fergiveness.”

“I’m not here to be lectured. I’m here to make sure my father gets the peace he deserves.” She pulled her package off her shoulders and opened the top, pulling a slender rifle polished to a mirror finish. “I’m not used to fighting killers like you are, but I’m a damn good shot. I can shave the peach fuzz off a Lalafell’s upper lip at 200 yalms. Let me tag along and I’ll make sure your guns never jam again.”

K’thalen lifted his bottle to his lips but paused, before offering it to her. “Drink this. If’n ya can keep it down then the others’ll probably let me keep ya ‘round.” He sat back down once she took the bottle from him; it smelled awful, some nasty black gunk she’d find building up on an engine rather than something that should be placed anywhere near her mouth… but if she refused him then… what then?

“Down the hatch…” She thought to herself before instantly regretting it. It tasted like she was swallowing needles fresh from a campfire, only worse! She only took a sip but had to cover her mouth lest she immediately spit it out! It was fire in her throat, burning a hole in her chin as she forced herself to swallow it, which only made it burn all the way down. “BLAGH! UUGH! WHAT THE HELLS IS THIS?!”

K’thalen threw his head back and laughed heartily! “Hahaha…! Black Belly Whiskey, lass! What’s yer name, anyroad! Heh heh heh….!”

She wiped at her tongue before pushing the bottle against his chest. “U… uugh… U’tova Thenn…” 

Immediately his laughter stopped and his eyes grew wide. “Thenn? As in Thenn Tia? The legendary gunsmith of Thanalan? Yer his daughter?!”

“The one and only…” 

He straightened himself up and took a long swig of his bottle. U’tova couldn’t bare to look at him drink that sludge lest she retch again. “Well.. welcome aboard, Tova. M’name’s Thalen… Thalen Tia. Or as I used to be called… Thalen Thrice-Shamed.”

She paused as she looked him over but she didn’t seem too surprised. “Thanks. Let’s take those bastards down together then…!”

"Oi... don't be too hasty. Sit down n'tell me more 'bout yer pa. There'll be plenty a time to get yer blood debt repaid soon 'nough, I swear it."

#augustdwc2022 #augustday72022 #ijirothehero #{ the blackened barrel }

[fragileizywriting]

"you play like the devil," jagged remarks, once, one day while the two of them are busy making his new album. division, jagged called it. it's going to sell, boy. you'll see. it'll divide the nation.

don't you think that's a bad idea? he'd replied. people already consider you the antichrist for writing bad things about the government.

don't listen to them. anyone who talks bad about war is considered a criminal. all you have to do is keep playing and keep drinking, and they'll either forget about it or find you a genius.

"you think so?" luka looks up, teasing, strumming away random chords. warm up practice. it's not like luka needs it, not really, because his fingers don't get stiff like a human's, but it's fun to strum away without any real reason. and yet, jagged follows along with a bop of his head, limerick after limerick flowing out of him to the beat.

jagged's entranced by the song in his head. he gets this way, usually, when there's something on his mind, following with almost perfection with lyrics: "but it was only fantasy, the wall was too high. as you can see, no matter how he tried... he could not break free."

"it's missing something," luka sighs.

"more of your devil playing," jagged tips his cup. "keep strumming. try going up a third--"

"that'll put your voice too high. you can't reach that."

"you think i can't sing that high? try me."

"i have a higher range than you," luka laughs. the perfect woman's voice, jagged called it, whenever luka sang in falsetto. you sound like what a goddess should sound like, and it's beautiful. i'd marry that voice, if i could. jagged has no idea that luka’s replicating anarka’s voice, like he used to do, all those years ago. "but go on. show me."

so he continues to strum, doing exactly what jagged's asked. the man is bullheaded sober, which is already almost never, and as a drunk luka's learned to just let jagged write the songs the way he wants to. he has a knack for it. not a perfect one, this is where luka comes in, but the man has a talent like none other. his lyrics are... troubling. filled with expression and poetry that luka can't replicate, but does his best to match with eight minute solos to fill in the gaps as jagged figures out his next few verses on the fly.

"hey you, out there beyond the wall, breaking bottles in the hall--" jagged sputters on something, hitting against his chest. "can you help me? shit, ah, hold on-- icecube--"

he can't keep the grin off his face, matching the same pitch as jagged. "hey you, don't tell me there's no hope at all."

"that's fucking brilliant," jagged nods, getting up from the sofa to stumble around on the carpet. he's enraptured by the slide of luka's hands on the guitar neck, dancing in the way a drunk usually does. hands up, barely lucid, jagged dances like he's in front of a pyre. "much better than what i was going to say-- what soul did you sell to get this good? i'd talk to the devil himself to thank him for making the trade with you."

"am i the devil or did i sell my soul, jean?"

"probably are the devil. maybe i sold my soul to get you here." he pats his pockets like he's looking for it. "lucifer, satan, devil, who cares. whatever you are. fuck, luka. what's the devil doing in london right now?"

"rent is cheaper here."

jagged barks out a laugh, stumbling for his shot glass. "we pay rent?"

"i pay your rent. i might as well, since you always sleep on the couch or the floor. i sleep in your guest room."

"we have a guest room?"

#speakizys #demon lovin #cw: mentions of drinking #cw: mentions of alcoholism #i am still such such SUCH a firm believer that jagged stone in this universe wrote a lot of the pi//nk fl//oyd songs we can hear rn #(tagging it wrong jic so it doesn't show up in any tags)

[libidomechanica]

And so that arts for her neglected

A limerick sequence

               Verse I

And so that art’s for her neglected. The eye: let they do not care sweet. My    best pleasure. Through her Sleeve;    or hastily rising against the heat of some few favour.

               Verse II

On burdened sometime she floods drown his hearken to my cryes. You can tell me    where I met you can hold    on her lot. Can you were wont to grammer shape of your substance.

               Verse III

And trembled. Alas, if you ain’t watched by the mind that sings: for nothing else    to me. And human face    … such heauen-stuffe to trace each seam gleams are eerie; and of your mind.

               Verse IV

The fountain or their new hoe. On either night’s star of high heaven mix    forever. Thus by it    troubadour in search of frame, auise them spred a good at? Where with stars.

               Verse V

Now clean but slip frae my mammy yet. For stars, those party to the heavy    sky over answer ran,    and my love, that, where Love, but i just a trickling roguish een.

               Verse VI

This house, and morning, laughing thee a gloria victi. Had fall that is    lord and much more praise is    a water, warmth-given, and yet what gently even love them?

               Verse VII

But see, known a screech owl to me. Her song of that thou’t love always snow she    sees the sill and crossing    against me out of beasts, vegetables in one wexen wider.

               Verse VIII

No whit behint the waves rolling, they sing, but each evening. Who, will woodes    bearest bands untwining?    ’Tis na love a little ways. Puree, our eyes are listles sowed!

               Verse IX

Though some untrue. The floor that she makes me sin awards gladde with great song shepherd,    in the stood and ruddy,    then me? When will soone ease me oft to leaves tipped by thy best!

               Verse X

The window’d hear it. Its first spoken for a day, venus skies and laughter!    Her hair. Face it may augment.    Will I love to my hear me, now I thoughts and can return.

               Verse XI

Ah, ah, ah! She had in her web she world away something is awake my    heart is merry hae I    behold, that payned, to have too many-tower’d Camelot.

               Verse XII

This was he? The night, minstrel, abbot on an ocean, and along your yrksome    yellow woods. That is    born. Her for wings grandame Nature is as a clothe thing bloudie pain.

               Verse XIII

On which thy hand by no other’s hand: and, when we met, jumping from his    capricious hand of chess won’t    done so, then would put underlids uplift, would not her shining?

               Verse XIV

Where the mirror cleaues the chariots. But to faint! At they grief or with final    retort have I not    a turtle is as this is I, that’s sweeps. The rest. He was cold.

               Verse XV

In a dreamed I was grave! I have done: mine eyes, stellar, we will drive all the    greefe I dye, hey ho gray    walls on the running Painter with no state be enviable.

               Verse XVI

When being so long have look into that payne, and the tree, and all its dreamed    I was your soul loves are    cedar. That he find that leave my Delight; an’ she home again!

               Verse XVII

I drop scent, the lips through—fire I cared forest born idiot’s, whose approach    the Sisters breast to sights,    for priefe. When Cloe noted her; yea, he is, voyd: and into thee.

               Verse XVIII

About their Feet, she laid in our lips at him like two skeletons. Come without    number where by side,    leg overhead, we are a door, and through my obedience.

               Verse XIX

Its hands which burns the summer, the glyder, that I by verse, my bird! Blythe inside,    leg over Endymion’s    strength forthright, where I lingered day when the south; blow the sun.

               Verse XX

Though they speak. That Arm in Arm from his capricious hands her eyes. Depart from    the hedge to me already    five bar and if rymes with my beloved me leaves flashed.

               Verse XXI

That we used to gather; for if it would admit. High and play. Which with his    weigh, for a woman tis    not to be before we parts mighty silver-shoed pale silver.

               Verse XXII

Turn thy coatie, my love; behold his right— quick-changes and churchmen that liv’st but    she can. Sang of mine but    it is well of shame which in my epitaph a Poets name.

               Verse XXIII

And draws thro’ the light, so loue, but are twine a musky Chain, that which burnt roundle    neuer the boy’s palms    tip toward light. Like a roe or a stone nor my finger ever.

               Verse XXIV

That man has made, and to-day, oppress’d? Werther hair; lure of the Darkness at    my arms, had it any    been but mine eyes of the urge to her husband Jove, but in One.

               Verse XXV

Give me to I was a desperate shot. Sets down to Camelot, the first    Desire my Fall! On    the shall soone ease me the night. What would light, vpon this of blood buy!

               Verse XXVI

And bite back to the Ground. You stood, the valleys. The wanted to costume. In    all the mass of his broad    clear; and heretofore: he whose beautiful cries of purity.

               Verse XXVII

The death a most true beauty grownde did starting her darlings! I dreams are fond    eyes could never love you    say you leapt some palace of thine? How begot, how oft soe’er them.

               Verse XXVIII

To teach us how for young, I’m o’er young—sometimes in the shifts and I was    ’ware, so long been to me?    Sweet, I had rather, there with a wanton burnish’d hooves his deede.

               Verse XXIX

Wide as a raven. I never hold, thy priests, lovers will I pray you, thou    ever chanted loudly    roar, how can Bagpipe, that’s absent, but that he finger on earth.

               Verse XXX

The budding on it, best pleasure have please that spoil his moment is thee! Twas    but add, jenny kiss that    grows, sighing to upheave the Love, I tell my stupidity.

               Verse XXXI

Wearing its grow, which on thrives; eschylus’ pen Willye his am’rous care. When bedded    in sleep to correction    no bitten into your flower enjoys the grossly dyed.

               Verse XXXII

Here Iram Garden of flowers, washed up. As if God’s future done that can    you see her abide by    side, O sweet in case we coupled, so deep, dear Love, you will bee.

               Verse XXXIII

And fall of pleasaunt spring. With roses and man’s the clefts of the clear; and    thy love, for thee that smells,    if not fair; thou this wife not sought me. He made when we do cry.

               Verse XXXIV

An image picture of the villages, an abbot on an ocean, and    thriftless breathe; but little    he is gone, from Gaeta:— Shot.—Of the hedge to my mother’s fate!

               Verse XXXV

To find him; I called townes do worke my loves and kiss the first louing stars go over    suddenly grown serene    of the lilies. And fulsome Pleasure by waters, poems!

               Verse XXXVI

When I climbed higher beauties shining streams and old, but the death I bought, hey    ho bonilasse, she saw    the hushed my number. And puts out of fiery mighty men.

               Verse XXXVII

Her breast. Sweets into my gain, the blue unclouded weathers viewing, to base    the smell of those weake confirme:    for ere she real rain, upon sockets of thy gay smiles brows.

               Verse XXXVIII

Gambler throwing-distant land, my Queene. Adam, from fair to make him from    suspicion, discontents on    a velvet cheek toward man, that art can a woman is not blame.

               Verse XXXIX

Yet I was long: and Viva l’ Italia! Wear the flowers your wrist is    just a trifle more than    public means while loud an’ she hasp of the shepherd’s-purse, blessed her.

               Verse XL

She tells augment. And woman’s field, this forenoons driving waved that least, and    dig deep into that come    in forests. Till a’ the step my head and my love, to an end.

               Verse XLI

Wit or with your misgiving Love speak? She has ears: sighs, and come in forests,    long since the sun itself    aloft, and to gather; and said: Thou art fair, my beloved.

               Verse XLII

The hills. And strife, and in a woman becoming to the base of the seas    between dreamed that loose that    is it doth embrac’d, and dig deep recesses of frankincense.

               Verse XLIII

The watching pad, somewhere the low sky raining on its good ointments do suggest    light glow’d; on burden    of this. On spirits thorns with Himself through through the seams the night.

               Verse XLIV

For grammer who thine head she has twa sparkling roguish een. The lions’    dens, the city found favour    or deformed’st creature is stronger to mine eyes were shades.

               Verse XLV

If you a wreath’d trees look down the mind spills through the shepherd’s whistling into    the Dambe. That hid I’m, you    this house. Hast thou pleasing the lang! Of Indies would by other.

               Verse XLVI

If such Diana stung! All in the care of what unusual heats, fainting    lover’s time, you do not    me? Come to the death crashing the topaz, opal, calcedon.

               Verse XLVII

Tell me, O thou go wi’ motion make a sounds soothing somewhere, each puree,    our glad and be together    under hearts slave: blest be than you hurt her? Her waist, and I!

               Verse XLVIII

For delight, The lonely as a straint,— one look’dst through all the lamp you can say    and dry down she washing    shade, while I run repetition! From whose beauty’s force in tracks?

               Verse XLIX

Impassion make all folkes prest at the awake my own line, having sate; till    in the wood, ye’re like purple;    the keepe the left a bowl. To those weake confirme: for they stay.

               Verse L

Mine eye that is lord and my hand in a Kirtle of this is no spot in    nature escapes, were angry    with awfull eyes, stella loue. Till my tongue, I saw the sky.

               Verse LI

Of thine? The convulsive rapture all mark you for your black men waiting, and    whoever in charactery,    hold like the clicking souls strange in zero gravity.

               Verse LII

What is bounding to use the weltering her the range bargain ye wad buy;    but light. Made of the leaves    clasped between the sternest movement broken so as foes commend.

               Verse LIII

And night I cuddle my hart. Three more and pants as light. Ran up to the low    sky raining, and blood to    prevent wi’ mony a sin to tak me from me, for my sling.

               Verse LIV

Sicker sike a crawl If you silent nigheth fast, how nourished? Which is    complexion’d stars there shut up,    a fountains, and I assure ye even the brighter near death.

               Verse LV

Shall I ne’er declared in the changes like Lords whose joys of early, enshaded    in Secresy blowing    in dropping upon you. But kinda like there was perished?

               Verse LVI

Me, both part of those that. You heard, twise them, and true, who has twa sparkling    roguish een. I left hand    of Absence been from off its little green sits no more;—Farewell!

               Verse LVII

No fault of our margin’d rills. But sicke- bed lies sweets its thick eyelids at twenty,    my laddie’s sapphires.    I scatter on paths perilous; but in the view, the sons.

               Verse LVIII

Shutting each other breast and yet the melodie The long-stemmed plants; each bending    sight and the sun in flight.    Of sands and find no more as I stood by her with hands before.

               Verse LIX

Built her chant in the truth, take or lost? Their first to thy flow out, and never    swell? Why show, that leave of    chess won’t attack us here could not comets, we are slight move.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 6 #173 texts #limerick sequence

[xsadcorebenji]

if between the air, the sea, the earth is mud

then sunsets muddle and feel like expired aphrodisiacs

we shoehorn between the gaps in my teeth and in bleeding gums, we dream a sea shanty stark like start rust

is the crescent moon that gleams a smirk, or a half smile

or a shit eating grin that beams over excitedly with an arrogant eagerness

the frog in my throat croaks coarsely as a toad

i conduct you a rhythm in double time

you clapback the rhythm in quarter time quantized in underhanded compliments backhandedly

let’s slit our wrists in the name of science and oh look

bleed confetti

let’s put back the fun in funnel cakes

while you sillily string me along

limerence limericks lemon icks in layman licks

we lip one liner willingly wet lashed and paper string

you taste wax leather paper skin,

a scandal intimate skinning wax mosaics

a mausoleum tourniquet sun baked halfheartedly

we speak rhythmless rhymes

sublime in lyricists

i saw you in a dream nauseated and naked

we bring each other down it said

we bring itch otter drown

we chatter shatter madder

owl eyes bladder

in fracture infraction

inaction in action

you cherish me cherry stem

stimming stimulating

i rock hard back and forth

i rock hard back and forth

dive bomb me a smile to give

and forgive deliverance

divided joy

incessant

we

we laugh we riot

and quiet

we wide eyed

we sided

we were once

we wanted what

we were once

we decided quiet

we revisit violet

lay rest out weary wares

we stand and stare

a muddled murmur betwixt our lips

we wait a calming epoch owl lips

#personal