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#bluebells are forever

echoeternally · 4 days

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Hey, just wanted to say that I really love Bluebells are Forever and Melting Gelid Roses! I found both of them by accident years ago and would every-so often come back to check your progress. (I’m currently writing this in the middle of my 3-4th reread).

I just wanted to say thank you, you gave a lot of hope to a young gay man when he didn’t have any. So, thank you.

Hi there! Thank you very much for writing in to me!

It's delightful to learn that you stumbled across the fanfics by accident. Part of me wonders how often that happens to my readers and I haven't a clue. Very fun to consider though!

Anyway, I'm happy to hear that you enjoyed both BAF and MGR so much. Those were two very enjoyable fanfics to write and helped me expand my skills in world-building. For Pokemon fanfics, they became something very enjoyable to create, and the audience interactions were something that I don't think I can recapture with any other piece of work that I've done or perhaps ever will do.

The stories themselves feel enchanting to work on, and I love the amount that I was able to research when I was younger. I think that, because the world itself had to be built up with outside references from the franchise, that gave more creative freedoms than I had worked with previously.

Also, making many couples as gay as I wanted was great fun, lol. But, I think there was a sense of wholeness to their characterizations too, and that made their journeys more compelling for readers to follow. Plus, since the leads are gay, that allows readers to relate to them better than they're given the opportunity to do so normally.

At any rate, I've rambled enough. You're welcome for the stories, and I'm honored to hear that they gave you hope when you faced bleakness in life. I do hope that things have turned around for you, and that there are many more beautiful things in the world that can inspire hope, joy, love, and wonder in your life.

If there are now, and you're doing better, that's delightful to know, and I hope it continues to progress along nicely! But, if not, then I do want you to know that there are going to be moments that will feel overwhelming and awful, and I want you to keep in mind that they are just that: moments. Life is full of ups and downs, and that mostly remains out of our control.

However, those downs will not last, and as long as you remember to find even just the smallest joys from the ups, those are worth it. I've been to dark places before myself, but, I've come to learn as I grow that they are not permanent. Some can even teach us and help make us stronger; you don't realize the challenges you can face until you're coming out from the other side of them.

So, I wish good luck and well wishes to you, and hope that your days are better more often than not. Again, it was a pleasure to hear that my stories were able to bring a little light to your life, and that kind of response warms my heart more than you realize.

Hope you enjoy your latest re-read! And I'd like to imagine that I'll update the 3rd story this year for the series' tenth anniversary come December, but, we'll see about that. But that's neither here nor there as much; I hope you have a wonderful day/week, and please take care as well! All the best!

#askecho #darwintm #bluebells are forever #melting gelid roses #fading wind violets #pokemon fanfics #feedback #such kindness #thank you

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needle-noggins · 7 months

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Woke up to 100+ messages in the group chat about my fic/AU

Is it my birthday or something

#the fact that bluebells and it’s spin off ideas live in my friends’ heads is WILD to me #I will now be thinking about Trimax mashwood angst forever thanks guys #bluebellposting

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haus-of-grotesque · 2 years

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I wish I could bottle the way I feel when I'm in the woods 🌱🌿🍃

#I just wanna live in the woods forever #Spring #Bluebells #Goth #Gothgoth #Gothic #Gothicc #Witch #Witchy #Woman #Style #Fashion #Bluebell #Woods #Forest #Me and my creations

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krisgoatpher · 1 year

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LISTEN TO YOUR HEART (NO!!!)

☆♡ if you could like this post so i know you read it that'd be cool, but no pressure!! /gen ♡☆

☆♡ he/they collectively || check @sunspellers for more info about specific system members || 19!!! ♡☆

☆♡ CARRD || TWITCH || YOUTUBE || AO3 || SPOTIFY ♡☆

☆♡ COMMISSIONS INFO ♡☆

☆♡ BASIC DNI APPLIES!! check our carrd (linked above) for more in depth dni. we check new followers!! ♡☆

☆♡ tagging system :: ♡☆

#txt :: original textposts

#♡ :: inspiring/happy posts (pictures of kitties, self care posts, anything that makes me happy)

#☆ :: writing/drawing inspiration. webweaves, quotes, etc

#[topic] :: how i tag trigger/content warnings! i don't put cw or tw in front bc it usually isn't necessary ^^ (ex tag: #flashing, #blood, etc)

i sometimes forget my own tagging system so this isn't a 100% guide !!!

☆♡ LYRIC CREDS :: "Listen to Your Heart." "No." by Cheekface ♡☆

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greendreamer · 1 year

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The watercolour I'm currently working on is turning out sooo good, yet it quite a depressing piece.

#green speaks #like I would associate this one with the Bluebells Forever? piece I did some years ago

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periodicinspiration · 28 days

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English Bluebells

Hyacinthoides Non-scripta Hushed springtime breezes awaken these fairy flowers amid the dappled shade appearing underfoot deciduous groves. Be careful though not to disturb these blooms or, as folklore tells, the fairies resting within them will grow angry and lead the violator astray to become forever lost in the woods.

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#bluebells #dappled shade #fairies #fairy flowers #flora #garden #landscape #lost forever #nature #photography #poisonous #springtime

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shy-blue-blossom · 26 days

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Bluebell

Anthony Bridgerton

Anthony Bridgerton was confident in nearly everything that he talked about or did. Love is one thing he always finds hard to be confident in. How is he supposed to give his heart away? He does not know if he will get one in return. That is the scary part about love.

That is why he is pacing his office after. He had told the young lady he had been courting this and only knew the effect on her when she asked her mother to say she was unwell. Anthony was unsure how to correct this. One thing that came to mind when he noticed some flowers his mother had put on a table in the corner. He grabbed his jacket before he made his way out of the house.

There was a knock at the L/n's house. When the door opened, Anthony was standing there.

"Y/n," He called her name as he saw her turn to head back up the stairs. "I want to apologise if you gave me the chance. I want to prove to you how I feel. Would you give me a chance?" Anthony pleaded when he noticed she had stopped.

"I will give you one chance," Y/n said as she turned and walked down the stairs. "You hurt me with what you said."

"I know," He said as he took one hand to place a kiss on it. "I will forever regret that," Anthony turned to a maid. "Could you please find Lady Y/n a chaperone?" The maid nodded and then left.

Anthony talked to y/n and they did not have to wait long until y/n's brother came with the maid and agreed to be a chaperone. Y/n was given a clock to wear before they left the house. Anthony helped y/n into the carriage before he entered after her brother. The carriage took them to the woods.

Y/n's brother walked behind them and let them have their space. Anthony led her to an area in the woods covered in flowers. Y/n walked up to the flowers to look at what they were.

"Bluebells?" Y/n questioned as she looked at Anthony.

"You put a spell on me," Was his reply to her. "I love you Lady Y/n and that scars me. I love you and I do not know if the affection is returned." Anthony told her as he looked at the flowers. "I know it does not excuse what I said but I hope it explains why I did."

Anthony did not notice y/n stand and walk over to him until a kiss was placed on his cheek. He looked at her and saw her smile at him.

"I love you too."

His heart almost jumped out of his chest. A bright smile made its way onto his face and he stopped himself from kissing her. They walked among the bluebells before they made their way back.

Hearts full of love for each other.

The end.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Language of Flowers

Masterlist

#x reader #reader #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton #anthony bridgerton #anthony bridgerton x reader #bluebell #language of flowers

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howyouloveyourdragon · 1 year

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Remnants

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

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

He wills the flowers to wither.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen x fem!reader #daemon x you #daemon smut #daemon targaryen x female reader #daemon targaryen x fem reader #daemon x reader #daemon x fem reader #hotd x reader #daemon targaryen x reader smut #daemon targaryen smut #daemon targaryen x fem smut #daemon targaryen x you #daemon targaryen x reader angst #angst

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twisting-echo · 1 year

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I shipped these two ever since I saw the Disney Mirrorverse trailer!

My brother and I were making jokes, and he said, "Well, if Belle seems to have a thing for big hairy dudes with horns, why not big BLUE hairy dudes with horns?" and I said, "He would totally let her into the west wing because he's off duty." We then burst out laughing. So, I call their ship name Belley, Bluebelle, or Beauty and the Monster.

Because she's French, she calls him by the French version of his name, which is "Jacques Patrique Sullivent," nicknamed "Sulli," instead of James Patrick Sullivan, nicknamed "Sulley," and he's into it.

In my alternate universe, the princesses from Wreck It Ralph 2 and the MU characters go to college together. Because Belle is so intelligent and well-read, she tutors Sulley to help him with his grades, and he couldn't help but fall for her. And Randall started having a crush on Merida because she stood up for him against his bullies. 🤭

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crystallizedtwilight · 5 months

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What did calliope think of the family she watched over?

She thought they were lovely! They were a small and kind family unit. It's every young banshee's mission to go out into the world and find their own human family to secretly watch over and warn. If all goes well, she'll stay with the line forever. If the line ends, abruptly or over time, it is very difficult for a banshee to make that kind of emotional connection with another family and she'll often wander purposelessly until she eventually turns into bluebells.

Calliope loved the family's dog especially because she could interact with him and she felt like they had the same mission, "Let's do our best to watch over them today!"

#Calliope

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the-laughing-lunatic · 2 days

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All 9 mercs w/ a reader who got them flowers! (PLATONIC OR ROMANTIC)

(I recently got to 20 followers on this blog! :D I wanted to do a little something to celebrate that, so I grinned and wrote headcanons for all nine of the mercs. It, uh, took a while so I hope you enjoy!)

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

☆Scout - Daisies☆

Legitimately starts tearing up

Tries to blame it on the flowers

“I ain’t cryin’ I- I’m just allergic to flowers.”

“Oh, sorry, I could just return them then—”

“What? You’d hafta take ‘em out of my dead hands, I’m keepin’ em.”

Isn’t a huge flower guy but the fact you went out of your way to get them for him makes him feel all warm inside

Reminds him of when his mom would pick flowers to give to him after his Little League games

☆Soldier - Poppies☆

Would aggressively compliment you

“THESE ARE DAMN BEAUTIFUL FLOWERS MAGGOT!! I FEEL IMMENSELY LOVED AND APPRECIATED!!!”

Seriously though, he does

Since he was never allowed in the military he always felt jealous of the soldiers who got special flowers

But he wasn’t now, because you respected him

And if you did, that was enough

☆Pyro - Sunflowers☆

ABSOLUTELY LOVES THEM

Well, you can’t hear what they’re saying but the flappy hands and excited noises give you a decent idea

Will just spend hours holding them in their hands and looking at the flowers like they’re the most beautiful thing in the world

Draws sunflowers in all their drawings now

If they accidentally burned them they would get so sad and give you flowers back as a form of apology

Make flower crowns with them. Do it.

☆Demoman - Bluebells☆

Like most of the mercs, he’s never gotten flowers before

And he has no clue how to take care of them

“Thank ye, but, would ye consider showin’ me how to take care of them?”

Help this man out

Please

He would probably put them just on a table with no vase or water without you

Y’all would put the flowers in an empty bottle of scrumpy <3

☆Heavy - Violas☆

“Little merc has present for Heavy?”

Surprised, but not so much as Sniper

Honestly the most chill about it out of all the mercs

He has sisters so he knows how to take care of flowers but he’s never been the one to receive them

Would press the flowers once the start to wilt and make bookmarks so he can keep them forever (sap)

And if he’s more protective of you during matches, who's to say the reason why?

☆Engineer - Bluebonnets☆

He sticks to the practical side of things, so when you give him a bouquet of flowers he’s utterly perplexed

He’s flattered of course, and thanks you greatly for the gift because he’s a Texas boy raised with manners

But he’s not used to pretty things and…doesn’t quite know what to do with them

He puts them in a vase with water but he finds himself stopping his work to look at them

They didn’t solve a problem, they didn’t hold a purpose yet people–including him now–seemed to love them

Eventually gives up trying to find a reason for it and just accepts it as they’re just pretty

Even though solving questions like “what is beauty” was never his forte, he’d somehow found an answer for it

And it was…well, you.

(He’d also 100% make you a flower out of scrap metal for you bc he’s a gentleman)

☆Medic - Cornflowers/Drosera Spatulata Sundew☆

There’s two flowers that he’d like

Cornflowers are one of his favorites, specifically the white ones (they remind him of Archimedes)

Not just because they are national flowers of Germany, but he also appreciates their medicinal properties

But if you somehow got your hands on a Drosera Spatulata Sundew he’d be pocketing you for months afterwards

Is absolutely fascinated with carnivorous plants and you get him carnivorous flowers???

The most romantic (or just super cool if platonic) thing in the world to him

Isn’t a botanist but he’ll be in the medbay all the time now just observing it and its reactions

He’s not sleeping for a while

He’d try to create a serum for whatever flowers you got him so they’d stay as beautiful as they are forever :)

☆Sniper - Wildflowers☆

No one has ever gotten him flowers before so when you show up at his camper van with hand picked flowers wrapped in twine he’s surprised, to say the least

Finds it interesting how he walked past those same flowers everyday and never cared

But when you gave them to him they felt…special.

Awkwardly mumbles a ‘thanks mate’ to you

Keeps them in an (UNUSED I REPEAT UNUSED) jar in his van

Smiles everytime he sees them

☆Spy - Roses☆

We all know this man is an old-fashioned lover boy so ofc he loves roses

But he’s never on the receiving end of them

So none are ever good enough for his high standards

“Eugh, where did you buy these, the gas station?”

Similar to Scout that if you say you could return them he’d absolutely refuse

Secretly thinks it’s really sweet

Doesn’t act any differently towards you afterwards when he’s with you

But you find multiple bouquets of roses in your room and a note that says “if you ever consider buying me flowers again, buy roses from these boutiques instead of the trash you had before.”

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

(Putting in all the tags is another reason why I don't normally do all nine of them holy shit)

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l0velylecter · 1 year

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If your requests are open... could you write headcanons of the cod boys with a fem s/o who loves flowers? Like everything she owns is a floral print, she grows her own flower garden, she usually wears long flowy floral print skirts, etc. Do you think they would ever surprise her with flowers? Or do that cliche but lovely thing where a man will pick a wildflower and put it in the women's hair. 💓 Sometimes I feel a little silly over how much I love flowers, I let out a little gasp ever time i see them. 💐

— the cod : mw ii men + s/o who loves flowers ! characters : simon ‘ghost’ riley, john ‘soap’ mactavish, alejandro vargas, captain john price, phillip graves, kyle ‘gaz’ garrick, rodolfo parra fandom : call of duty modern warfare ii tags : f!reader rating : g for general , sfw!

01 | Knowing how lonely and anxious you get when he leaves for missions, Price decided to build you a garden, knowing it would take your mind off worrying. And it worked: by summer, the whole backyard was in full bloom, a reflection of Price's love and your devotion, seen in every petal. The sight of napping by one of the chairs with a book open by your lap or trousers stained with dirt from being knee-deep in a cluster of bellflowers, cottage pinks, and delphiniums is always something that Price looks forward to when he gets home.

02 | When you told Soap how much you loved flowers, he went above and beyond to show you he remembers. You'd open the door to greet him home — and he'd have a bouquet in his hand, hoping that the pattern of roses, thistles, and bluebells would distract you from the broken nose he got on duty ( you still scolded him.) " Flower delivery for my bonnie lass !" He'd announce playfully, never failing to make you smile each time. And whenever you show him your new skirt or blouse, he'd be ready with a compliment, telling you dreamily how the floral pattern matches your eyes.

03 | You weren't surprised at how good Gaz was with plants, nurturing and gentle by nature: his softer traits tend to get overlooked because of his profession. But when he's home with you, helping you change the pot of your carnations, you can't help but melt at how gentle he's being. He's growing into a bigger mother hen than you when it comes to your flowers— " I think we should take the lads ( the pot of blue and purple lobelias) out for some sun, love." Making the best of his time home, the two of you would often garden and go hiking together, stopping by the trails to pick some violets on the way home. 04 | It's obvious from the beginning that Alejandro is a roses man. Romantic and down-right chivalrous, he always comes home with a bouquet of them: a cluster of classic, deep, red petals between his fingers. The colonel loves how sweet they smell on you, buying you attar oil from the market so you can thread it through your hair or pour some into the bath when you're both unwinding against the warm water. Infatuated with how beautiful roses look on you, Alejandro decided to gift you a simple, golden necklace with a rose pendant hanging from it. And you're more than happy to show it off around your neck. 05 | Too shy to approach you, Rodolfo started leaving flowers instead. He'd place the simple banquet of sunflowers in your office, always waiting from afar to watch you carry it back home from base with a smile on your lips. Eventually, he was caught and had to come clean. You were far from angry — if anything, you were in love. Even when you start dating, he still brings home sunflowers, a symbol of faith, loyalty, and adoration. His face burned when you decided to tuck one behind your ear. Plus, Rodolfo finds it endearing how you gasp every time he comes home with fresh flowers as if he hasn't been doing it forever now, chest physically aching from how cute you looked. 06 | When he's around you, Graves turns into a big softie. It's almost hilarious how quickly he switches from a lean, mean commander to a man who would re-paint your entire room with flowers just because you love them so much. You'd pick him up at the airport, and he'd be the one bringing a bouquet — " What kind of man doesn't bring home flowers for his girl, hm?" And on the mornings when you'd wake up, and he'd already be gone, having to fly for D.C. on an emergency call, you'd see a vase of white tulips and pink carnations resting above the dining table. A silent yet beautiful way for him to say he's sorry, (and how can you not forgive him when he still finds time to give your flowers, no matter how busy he gets?) 06 | You know that Ghost is not the one for grand romantic gestures, understanding that he's reserved and somewhat hesitant when loving you. Because of this, reassurance is often hard to get from Simon. You would have expected communication to be nonexistent when he's a man of few words, but if anything, it's always constant: proven by the different flowers he'd get for you, knowing that it is a language you can both understand. After arguments, he'd say sorry by leaving white orchids by your bedside table. While 'I love yous' were expressed through red-white carnations and peonies. And with Simon, it's about paying attention to the little things, like when he walks up to you out of the blue, silent yet gentle as he tucks a chrysanthemum behind your ear. He'd stand there and admire you, hands still resting under your chin, " Fucking hell... you're beautiful, you know that?" From then on, you've been hard at work in your little garden, knowing that with it, you've made him a home to come back to.

a/n : so sorry for the late response anon, university has been kicking my ass, but thank you for requesting ! when i tell you i had so much fun writing this (i’m such a sucker for pure gentle fluff), what a creative and lovely request, i can already tell you’re wonderful by just this. i hope you enjoy it !! <3

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bonefall · 5 months

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i believe a while back you mentioned that certain trees benefit from being cut but i cannot find the post? could you elaborate on that bc im Fascinated (curious eyes emoji)

That's coppicing! Funny you mention it actually, the next biome research post I'm gonna make (in the style of the moorland one) is British forests. It's not only good for an individual tree, coppiced woodland is like moorland in that it's an anthropogenic area that becomes extremely important for several animals. Butterflies, bluebells, nightjars...

But I'm getting ahead of myself. To coppice a tree, you cut it down to its stem, and then allow it to sprout back for a number of years. The length of time depends on the species and purpose you want the wood for. You can make perfect, straight poles for tools, beams for construction, bundles for firewood...

A coppiced tree does not die of old age. They can live forever, and produce wood for GENERATIONS. No need to clean-cut and devastate a woodland!

What's good about coppiced woodland is that it leaves the canopy clear. Clear canopy = sexy, sexy understorey. Lots of sunlight comes through which allows the growth of low-laying plants and berry bushes, lots of places for animals to eat and hide.

Downside tho is that if you don't come back and manage your beautifully coppiced grove, you will end up with a thick canopy of trees all the same age, blocking out the sun. That's bad. You're gonna see a recurring theme in all of this research that a TON of biomes in the UK REQUIRE human management and have really been suffering without proper stewardship.

Basically, coppicing without ongoing human management just results in a plantation (derogatory) with extra steps.

Lake cats did a lot more coppicing than modern Clan cats. Modern Clan cats don't really have the tools to cut hard trees like beech and hornbeam; they can only manage softer, thinner ones like birch and alder with their claws and stone tools. It's a lost art.

#Lake cats were probably not as 'Untouched By Man' as it seems #Those furry little bastards were nabbing things. Especially metal things.#This blog is pro-stealing from Victorians though #I think we should do more of it #Oh no. Wesleydale has dropped his beautiful iron axe and a cat carried it off. Wear arsenic underwear about it maybe?#Go buy some tulips ugly!!#Coppicing

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heartbreakerkid-trap

Heartbreaker

justdeceived