dripping queen

I just want to see more black girls in period pieces, I wanna see black women as queen dripping in diamonds and fancy dresses. I want them have making dramatic entrances and running around castles and shit I WANT MOR BLACK WOMEN IN PERIOD PIECES DAMNIT

Dear Black Women

Y'all Are The Most Beautiful

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The clouds

Innocents licking the clouds
Through the silence was heard a magnificent wind
That raged across the horizon
Our love started with a wink and ended in shame
Your heart is crocheting tangible dreams
Lost in the temple of the Holy Ghost
Behold the grudge in this temples of necrophiliac lust
There are skeletons sexting in roses beds
Irises bones caressing your mouth you vomit offensive cum
Queen blood dripping across the guillotine
Innocents hanged above the clouds
The clouds
The clouds


Her body… Every single thing about it is just heavenly.

They way she stands there

The way she looks me in the eyes as the water slowly glides down her body

The steam keeps rising as the water gets hotter make her skin so sensitive 

I wash every part of her body so carefully and gently 

As i stare her in the eyes i slowly lean in for her beautiful lips to touch mine

She squeezes my body as i bite her soft little lips and nibble on her cute little ears 

I glide my tongue down her neck and slowly to her chest

I kiss her nipples so delicately as the shivers shoot up and down her spine

Shes so sensitive everywhere, every touch is like dripping hot candle wax on her body

We finish cleaning each other and I dry her off and carry her to my room

Usually i would throw my little girl on the bed but today im going to be gentle with her

I tell her to close her eyes and I kiss every inch of her body

I make sure her little pussy is nice and wet for me

I slowly slide my cock inside of her tight little pussy just listening to the moans coming out of her

I gradually gain momentum till I am slamming my cock inside her so hard she cant help but screen for daddy to slow down

But i know my little girl she doesn’t want me to, she begs for me to cum in her so i give my girl what she wants

I release myself into her so she can feel every bit of me as i look into her eyes and ask if daddy did go for her.

Support Group for People Unfairly Maligned in Historical Fiction

Edward II: Greetings, everyone!  I’m Edward of Caernarfon, as you probably all know - do feel free to call me Ned - and I’m your moderator for this, the second meeting of all of us unfortunate historical folks maligned in fiction of the twenty-first century.  We’re here to share our pain, and to share the sillinesses perpetuated about us written hundreds of years after our deaths.  I’ll get us started.  As well as all the unfair and wildly untrue things about me I shared at our last meeting, there’s some new stuff.  According to one novelist, I react to things by ‘snivelling’ and am a coward who runs away from the battlefield of Bannockburn and is too afraid to fight, even though in reality I had to be dragged protesting from the field and fought 'like a lioness deprived of her cubs’ right in the thick of battle.

Piers Gaveston: Pretty damn sure I never saw you snivel, Ned.  I bet the terribly heterosexual manly hero Roger Mortimer doesn’t 'snivel’ in that novel, eh?

Edward II: Damn right, he doesn’t.  That same novel also accuses me of cowardice because I don’t beat up my wife, which was a real lolwut?? moment, I tell you.

Margaret Beaufort: May I have the floor, Ned?  I, apparently, am a religious maniac with a weirdly anachronistic Joan of Arc fetish - why? I mean, why?! - which I have to talk about every five minutes.  I mysteriously forget that I’m the countess of Richmond all the time.  But worst of all by far, I’m meant to have had Edward IV’s two sons murdered in the Tower of London so that my own son Henry Tudor could become king.  Because obviously I knew that Richard III’s son would conveniently die young a few months later and clear the path to the throne, and I could stroll in and out of the most fortified and well-guarded stronghold in the country and murder two princes without anyone noticing.  Yup.  Invisible Superwoman, that’s me.

Edward II: That’s awful, Margaret!  You mean people are willing to accuse you of the cold-blooded murder of children when there isn’t the tiniest shred of evidence whatsoever?

Margaret Beaufort: Indeed there are, plenty of them.  There are also people on modern social media who call me a 'snake’ and express a wish that I’d died in childbirth and my son with me.  I was thirteen at the time.  Yes, there really are people out there who wish a thirteen-year-old had suffered a painful death in childbirth.  It seems that they forget we were human beings with feelings too.

George, duke of Clarence: Hey, everyone!  Talking about blatant ways of making us appear really unlikeable and horrible, I’d like to protest at the way novelists in the twenty-first century portray me as this ridiculously one-dimensional alcoholic wife-beater.  That’s all there ever was to me, apparently.  Alcoholism.  And wife-beating.  I never even laid a finger on Isabel!

Henry VII: There’s this one novel where my mother Margaret Beaufort - who just hasn’t been maligned enough, apparently - tells me to rape my fiancée Elizabeth of York before we marry to make sure that she can become pregnant.  If she can’t, I’m to marry her sister Cecily instead.  Still trying to figure that one out - am I supposed to go through all the sisters until I find one who gets pregnant and then marry her?  Just so darn weird.

Elizabeth of York: Wait, let me see that one!  Oh yeah, I remember now, the novel where I spend half the time mooning over my lost uncle Richard III, who I was totally in love with, allegedly, and refer to constantly as 'my lover’.  My uncle.  There is not enough eeeewwwww in my vocabulary.

Henry VII: I’m depicted as this pathetic little mummy’s boy half the time.  And I’ve been trying to block the horror of it out of my mind, but there’s another novel that has me - get this, folks - drinking the blood of young men.  Like wuuuuuuh?

Elizabeth of York: I don’t know.

Edward II: You don’t know what?

Elizabeth of York: I don’t know what I don’t know.  I don’t know anything.  Say anything to me and I’ll reply that I don’t know.

Elizabeth Woodville: Hey, everyone, did you know I’m a witch?  Witch witch witch.  Who makes witchy things happen all the witching time.  Because I’m a witch.  A witchy witch who does lots of witchy things.  On every witchy page of the witchy novel about how I’m a witch.

Anne Neville: I’m getting pretty annoyed with the way I’m almost always depicted as terribly frail, to the point where I faint or collapse about every five minutes.  Yes, I died young, but that doesn’t mean I’d been a permanent invalid all my life, people!  Yeesh, it’d be great to have someone write me as though I had an actual backbone and some personality, instead of as this weak feeble fainting little…thing.

Edward of Lancaster: True, and it’d be nice if someone would acknowledge that you didn’t necessarily spend your entire marriage to me weeping and wailing over Richard of Gloucester.

Anne Neville: I did a little bit at first maybe, just a tiny little bit, but I soon got used to the idea of being queen of England one day.  That was pretty cool.  Something else modern novelists never seem to realise about me is that maybe I had a bit of ambition and quite fancied being a queen!

Edward of Lancaster: Yeah, we kind of got used to being married to each other and didn’t mind it at all, did we?  And you know, it’s so unfair when a throwaway bravado comment you make when you’re still practically a child is then used for the next half a millennium as though it represents the sum total of your personality and is constantly used to present you as a sadistic murderous psychopath.  Modern people, would you like it if someone took one of your sulky adolescent pronouncements as though it’s representative of your entire life and attitudes?

Henry VI: And when one remark by one visitor to England, simply reporting a rumour he had heard that I supposedly said that my son Edward was fathered by the Holy Ghost, is taken that my son absolutely must have been fathered by someone else other than me.  As though my wife Margaret of Anjou isn’t maligned enough!

Margaret of Anjou: Oh, you mean I actually have a name?  Like seriously?  I thought I was just called 'the bad queen’.  Voice dripping with sarcasm here.

Elizabeth of York: I don’t know.

Edward II: Afraid we’re running out of time and will have to wrap this up now, folks!  Hope you all feel somewhat better after getting this rubbish off your chests, and take care until the next meeting of the Support Group for People Maligned in Historical Fiction!  Goodnight!

- Kathryn Warner from her blog edwardthesecond.blogspot.com (excepts about the Wars of The Roses historical fiction)

Loves Resilience

You call it a storm, yet in it I find peace. Lightning in the distance, across the sky it streaks. Acoustics of the drops in the puddles collecting. Looking up its lit up from nature’s electric. It’s comforting. Humbling my being at this world so majestic. Constant when it falls. A sweet resound as Thunder calls after his lover she’s to quick for him. Sort of like us, I’m in awe. But it never fails. Breathe. Pause. Crackling and crying for connection to her because, it was once but will it be again? It’s inevitable his resilience to show case the brilliance of his love. Then after touching once more erupting with a display from above. He makes peace with his queen and drips of dew spew from the connectivity in the clouds. I love the peace it brings when it rains and nature’s lovers are displaying a love that’s beautifully and ferociously tame. It’s not a storm to me, it’s a love story. All you have to do is be still, watch carefully, and listen.

It’s calculating. It’s plotting moves. It’s wondering just how many steps of his the Rat King has plotted of his to know how far he needs to jump. He’s coming , the man knows that for certain. He took the one piece the King needs to be strong. Hell would sooner rise to claim earth than him falling over defeated, however.

Time. They need so much time Chuuya doesn’t have.

Time is what it takes to gather forces, get everyone where they need to be and cooperating. He’s snapped…he doesn’t know how many times when the bickering starts. It’s not what they have time for when every tick, tick, tick of the clock he knows to be another drip, drip, drip of his Queen’s blood to plague infested soil.  It’s bad enough watching his princes actually get along, watching his princess attempt to handle a mental break down because she knows the danger and he can’t put her in it. The shock of seeing enemies come together to help him. He’s never felt so cold and ready to die for someone…it’s like a certain event all over again but he can’t lose this one. He can’t lose another person like this. Not to Fyodor, not to Yumeno…no.

This was just a game to them but this was his beloved’s life.
A life that meant living another day to him, a life that kept him grounded and human and here he was feeling less and less so as all the emotions rose and he couldn’t process them, shut them down to think. Think, think, think, calculate and plot the perfect placement for each body. Minimal casualties. He needs to bring everyone home. Even Yumeno. He needs him out of The Rat Kinds hand. He’s not a pawn for him. He’d rather he be Mori’s toy than Fyodors. No… More than that he wants the kid to get help. That…that was if he made it out.

If Dazai even made it out to drag his ass out.

“Mon petit feu… it’s far too cold without you by my side again…”  It was soft, Soseki gave him a look all too concerned and ushered him back to the others. They didn’t have time for him to crack. He had to be a King, a powerhouse like no other with an army to back him up. He had that…they just needed to execute the mission, dead of night when shadows move with ease.