✱ 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐋 !

✱    SUNFLOWER ,    SUNSHINE ,    O ’     SWEET    LITTLE    BIRD ,    WHO    CLIPPED    YOUR    WINGS ?

unprompted.    ( always   accepting )

✱  𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚞𝚜𝚜𝚎  𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍 :          "  Monsieur  Racine,  may  I  have  this  dance? "

      𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚏𝚒𝚡𝚎𝚍   𝚠𝚊𝚜   𝚑𝚒𝚜   𝚐𝚊𝚣𝚎   𝚞𝚙𝚘𝚗   𝚑𝚎𝚛.     the  light  twitch ‘pon  the  tender  edges  of  his  lips,  that  would  give  way  to  dimpled  haze  of  heated bloom  ‘crossed  his  cheeks.  was  it  shudder of  a  memory like  some  boyhood daze  of  love  that  left  his  lovestruck stupor  something  to  be  flustered upon?  or  perhaps it  was  lack  of  restraint, that  heady  glow  in  his  eyes  and  not  a  drop  met  his  tongue, nothing  more  than  the  visage of  her  he  would  need  to  be  swelled  and  swept  away  like  a  rising  tide.  all  the  more  happy  to  be  lost  to  her  he  was,  said  time  and  time  again.          𝚊𝚗𝚍   𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝   𝚊   𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐   𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚖   𝚑𝚎   𝚠𝚊𝚜 !     to  be  raked  across  any  harsh  underbelly  she  may  dare  show,  or  the  depths  of  which  the  love  she  harbored  to  be  felt.  all  she  could  throw  him  to  he  would  endure,  if  nothing  more  than  for  her  to  say  his  name  like  that,   𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗   𝚊𝚗𝚍   𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 !     looks  at  her  like  she  may  as  well  be  the  only  light  in  the  world, the  only  person worth  looking  at.  and  she  was!  genteel was  his  voice  as  he  adjusts  himself,     𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚠𝚗  𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔  𝚝𝚘  𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚎  𝚒𝚏  𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢  𝚋𝚢  𝚑𝚎𝚛  𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 !

prompt. ( accepting )

some   fractured   visions   of   who   they   were   left   and   buried   in   the   garden   outside,   ill   fated   night   sweeps   in   again   to   terrorize   the   ghosts   left   over   and   he   stares   like   a   specter   to   his   destruction   and   lack   of   restraint.   the   vision   of   him   had   become   more   of   a   suggestion,   for   what   could   be   told   of   a   man   who   should   be   dead,   who   had   lost   sight   of   all   reason   and   recklessness   --   tutted   only   by   the   sincere   and   twisted   thought   :   𝒑𝒆𝒐𝒑𝒍𝒆   𝒅𝒐   𝒄𝒓𝒂𝒛𝒚   𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔   𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏   𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚'𝒓𝒆   𝒊𝒏   𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆.   and   here   comes   another   !   .   .   .   was   it   borne   out   of   obligation   the   way   he   hears   those   creaking   steps   wane   and   drift,   weight   shifted   back   and   forth   like   a   wave   captured   there   at   his   door.   there   is   little   hesitation,   though   his   leaves   and   branches   had   all   but   been   mangled   they   quiver   with   the   suggestion   of   a   might   and   change.   as   if   they   could   feel   the   twisting   of   seasons   before   he   could,   an   olive   branch   reached   out   time   and   time   again.   his   voice   is   low   and   nearest   to   exhaustion   as   a   soul   could   get   when   draped   round   it   like   an   other   lover.   but   it   was   firm   in   the   intent   and   affirmation   of   what   he   wanted.

fingers   drift   along   the   bridge   of   those   glasses ,   glinting   tenderly   in   the   light.   his   vision   struck   upon   the   pages   with   such   fervor   and   intent,   before   his   gaze   seems   to   lift   up.   a   flittering   glint   of   mischief   in   those   eyes   as   the   corners   of   his   lips   quirk   upwards.   a   playful   lilt   in   his   voice   as   he   coos   softly,   bathing   and   near   radiant   in   that   summer   sunlight.

vehement   declaration   would   lead   inevitably   to   the   fumbling   of   the   doe.   his   emerald   hues   glinting   with   some   mixture   of   terror   and   worry,   object   of   his   concerns   before   him   now   as   he   dares   with   shaking   limbs   to   step   back   to   the   comfortable   distance   afforded   to   him.   indicated   then,   by   the   district   lack   of   aggression.   in   spite   of   the   fear   that   grips   him,   wracks   his   fingers   and   worries   the   space   between   brows   in   a   tender   crease,   his   voice   reflects   a   sort   of   genuine   tenderness   that   would   give   cause   for   many   a   creature   to   wince.   the   folly   of   man   was   ne’er   trusting   in   their   fellow   humans,   and   thus,   becoming   that   which   made   them   in   the   first   place.   of   course,   the   brave   fools   who   continue   on   without   such,   bear   the   wounds   of   a   life   lived   daringly.   and   he   had   many   a   wound   to   bear   to   those   who   would   care   enough   to   ask.   his   voice   like   honey,   reassuring,   gentle.   the   voice   of   his   mother   in   his   mind   :   easy,   easy,   mon   chéri.   move   with   kindness   and   kindness   in   turn   you   will   get.   a   creed   he   lived   by,   and   surely,   would   die   by.

            ❛      easy ,   easy .   oh ,   toi   pauvre   chéri .   i’m   not   going                         to   hurt   you ,   and   i’m   not   going   to   touch   you .     ❜

it   was   the   truth,   as   much   so   as   he   could   convey   through   his   words   alone.   palms   raised   and   open   in   some   sort   of   movement   to   ease   his   mind.   not   a   step   made   to   trek   upon   the   space   he   needed.   his   lips   spill   forth   his   softness.   no   such   command   from   his   ethereal   form,   more   some   hushed   guidance   from   some   heavenly   creature   sat   upon   your   bedside   in   the   early   hours   of   morn   on   a   day   you   thought   you   wouldn’t   survive.

✱ @blindhunger​ asked :   why yes, he did just purchase an ornate piano! why yes, he DID just take an axe to it!

and   what   a   sound   to   rupture   the   warm   silence   of   their   manor   in   the   eve,   the   sound   of   ivories   crushed   and   crumbling   to   the   fine   flooring.   assault   upon   the   ears   of   strings   snapping   and   the   melodic   cries   of   the   instrument,   lacking   in   the   usual   rapture   that   it   gave   when   it   still   could   sing.   quivering   thing   he   is,   feels   as   though   he   isn’t   there   a   moment   ---   bearing   witness   like   some   godless   specter   in   forgotten   halls,   watching   in   terror,   were   the   real   monsters   in   the   house   the   ones   whose   hearts   did   beat?   only   stoked   for   any   life   when   his   lover’s   rage   is   floundering,   stilted   voice   trapped   in   throat   while   his   heart   thumped   in   his   chest.   akin   to   the   inexperienced   flight   of   some   dove   who   beat   wings   against   bars   feverishly.   digits   clutched   o’er   one   another   pressed   taut   to   chest,   wide   emerald   orbs   staring   doe   eyed   in   the   headlights   of   his   lover’s   wrath.   for   he   knows   he   has   such   an   inclination,   but   tender   hearted   bird   in   his   heart   could   not   withstand   the   feeling  that   clutched   him   so.   in   those   breaths   where   he   fears   he   could   turn   on   him,   tear   speckled,   gentle   flesh   from   bone   or   rip   hair.   to   speak   words   that   cut   deeper   than   any   blade   could,   it   was   a   venomous   thing,   and   he   was   not   so   resilient   as   he   was   before.   she   took   that   from   him.

❛    MMM...    ❜