this old rose is always in bloom

I stopped shaving my legs every other day
I stopped only eating citras and drinking a gallon of water a day
I started smoking weed with my friends
I stopped bringing my phone with me to Temple, to coffee houses, to record stores, to concerts
I stopped ignoring my family and started baking cookies and pancakes with bananas and nuts and apples
I’ve made 32 pancakes since Friday,
I’ve burnt 13 but I’m getting there
I won’t let you burn me anymore I’m so fucking sick of flames
Turns out I don’t get off on pain
I don’t get off on being treated like a toy
I do not enjoy having a collection of sticky notes covered in conversation topics because you never held up your end
It’s true that one person always loves more but the other side needs to give something
You knew this would happen I have to go for my own self respect
I should’ve known when you stopped sending good morning texts
Or when your texts didn’t come at all until
late at night
When your words were always about sex
Maybe I should have turned my phone off or blocked your number when you told me about the first girl
Or the second or the third
But I thought you were worth it that I’d never find a better guy
You always listened you respected my boundaries
It’s probably easy when you have six other girls who will give you what I protect
I’m not picking up this time
I’m not checking your timeline I’m not listening to your music
I’m not dying my hair your favorite color or getting a tattoo
You don’t deserve my kind of love
Not from me,
You deserve a quiet love that won’t take up too much time
You killed me over and over again
You wasted and
disrespected me without even noticing
My heart has been replaced with beetles and old peach pits but soon
You won’t live there anymore to poison my wood
Flowers will bloom in my brain once again
Watered by my own love and confidence
Planted by me for me
You will never see them
Lilacs and roses were my favorite before you
Fuck your daisies you’re the one who cut them down
—  I Always Grow Back
— leave a light on

anonymous requested → a min yoongi smut where you’re friends with benefits & he comes to your house to confess in the middle of the night. 

pairing : reader x min yoongi
themes :  smut / angst / fluff?
warning! → graphic sexual content
word count :  4.0k
summary : through the murky window pane he spies that familiar golden glow, radiating warmth from the other side of the tenebrous street. it is you. you are awake, waiting and you always leave a light on for him.

a/n: thankyou to the beautiful @sugaspen for beta reading (i love u!) as always feedback is always welcome ♥

The first time you lay eyes on Min Yoongi you are eight years old. He is twelve, with willowy limbs and pitch black tresses, a child of secrecy and rotten intentions. You watch, disquieted, from your bedroom window as he plucks every petal off the peachy pink blooms of your parents’ prized rose bush — for absolutely no reason.

The second time you catch a fleeting glimpse he is older, taller and puberty has kindly graced him with a defined jawline and an Adam’s apple to match. In the hours of twilight, he perches pensively on the ledge of his bedroom window, an embodiment of pure tranquility; until he feels the heat of your curious gaze. He draws the shades.

The third time it is raining, a shower with drops thin and weightless, the type that soak your clothes before you have a moment to breathe. The downpour is anything but lenient on his unsheltered body, bleach blonde locks dripping as his stygian eyes burn scorch marks into yours. Don’t look at me. But you do, from the exact same window from all those years ago.

You curse your penchant for good manners and saving lost souls, the moment you invite him and his sopping attire into your home. Up close he is stigma stained, hues of blue and purple decorate his cheekbone like faded war paint. Min Yoongi has destructive tendencies, your brain warns dubiously, everything he touches turns to stone.  

But aren’t emeralds and rubies the most beautiful jewels in the world? How you long to be a gemstone, a clear cut diamond. To glitter, gleam and glow and captivate others with your brilliance. Right now, you are nothing more than a dirty pebble but Min Yoongi can change that.

So you let him take what has always been his, a shaky breath knocked out of your lungs the second his mouth crashes into yours. He is heavy, damp, smothering your mouth with the coppery metallic taste of his tongue. Sharp icy chills race down your back when your shoulder blades meet the wall and the tempo speeds up tenfold, overwhelming vertigo taking hold.

You swallow your juvenile uneasiness whole when his lips begin to travel over untouched areas — the curve of your jawbone, the space behind your earlobe. You’re keening, squirming in his enclave when he passes his tongue over the vulnerable skin of your neck, like some kind of ravenous and hungry stray dog. He has you pinned, marking his territory with wet handprints on the cream coloured wall and you hope to God they become indiscernible before the clock hits seven.  

His designation slips off your tongue in a split second of clarity but he’s not listening, or at least that’s what you tell yourself. You intend to express your desire again, but you are pacified by those greedy lips, ones that have little concern for romantics and the sensation of both your shorts and your undergarments being yanked downwards crudely, the last remnants of your innocence sliding down your bare legs.

Were you to meet the same sorrowful fate as the pale roses of the past? Was Min Yoongi to pick you apart piece by piece, to deflower you as well? The full exposure of your lower region tied with the inevitable concept of your virtue being stolen has you sinking your teeth into your saliva slick lips, the knots of lust tightening in the depths of your stomach when he drops to one knee.

Min Yoongi is going to treat you with the courtesy commonly afforded to sovereignty, smouldering stare from below indicating his desire for you to spectate, whilst he proves chivalry is far from dead. Leg up. You do as you’re told, miss law-abiding citizen with her thigh resting on his shoulder and you’re rewarded with humid breath tickling your inner thigh, painting an invisible trail northwards to that sacred space.

He’s reminds you of a curious child, eyes strung out in wonderment, tastebuds deeply interested in the slick sweetness you’re presenting just for him. Without breaking eye contact, he closes the void and just like that, he presents you with one singular slow savouring lick, back to front. The second feels even better, deeper, the rough tip of his tongue lingering for a fraction longer against your clit and a pretty but desperate whimper leaps from your oesophagus into the thick atmosphere.

When he pulls away, the evidence of your arousal is stark, his bottom lip glistening under the dim luminesce of the hallway chandelier. Deeply focused, he stares at your soaked sex possessively for what feels like an eternity, seemingly entranced by your engorged folds. You wish he would voice his thoughts, tell you how you tasted, how much he loved having you spread out for him, but of course, that’s not in his modus operandi.

Roughly, he pushes his shoulder back into your thigh signalling the seriousness of the actions you were already awaiting. He’d sampled the entree, now it was time for the main course and you’re eager to oblige, manoeuvring your hips forward to meet his expecting mouth, swiftly coating his lips in your juices once more.

Your eyelids flutter shut as his hot tongue dips back between your slit, nuzzling deep and exploring your tight entrance properly. Tugging frantically as his locks, your fingers trip over one another, lips uttering a string of curses so lewd you would need to rinse later with soap. Such dirty comments do good to spur him onwards however, attention is now diverted to mouthing that tiny sweet spot made purely for physical contact.

And he does it with no social graces, messy and overzealous as if he has been deprived of the taste of a female for too long. It’s getting harder for you to keep still, back arching off the wall like a marionette being tugged by an imaginary string. In an act of uncharacteristic mastery, you force his head inward into your core, your centre urgently requiring more stimulation.

Some kind of lustful squeal mixed with a weak moan comes next and lucky for you, Yoongi is fluent in your sexual language; latching hard onto the bud that is so sensitive and swollen, sucking hard and obscenely loud, the sounds of him swallowing and devouring your wet arousal hungrily invading your eardrums.

It wouldn’t be long until your legs give way completely, the speed Yoongi was working you over at too much for your inexperienced and innocent body to handle. Something is building inside you, a red-hot tingly sensation you haven’t experienced before. Out of uncertainty, you tremor attempting push his head away but your bundle of nerves is trapped in between his plush lips.  

You cry out, throwing your head back as he continues his relentless onslaught, your clit fully at the mercy of his tongue as it traces round and round, followed by a harsh suck every now and again. You’re seeing showers of stars in full technicolour, panting and making a poor effort to toss and turn out of his vice like grip.

Like he knows you’re teetering on the edge, he finally relinquishes your bud to your relief but grants you no intermission, stripping you bare and turning your t-shirt into a white puddle beside your feet. You’re his personal rag doll, spun so your breasts and palms press up against the cool plasterboard. Fingertips ghost down your ribs to the final destination — your hips, yanking them back so your spine curves and you’re exposed and open for him.

There’s rustling and the piercing clink of a belt buckle into the quiet and you know he’s stripping himself of the last restriction. In the time of physical separation, you’ve forgotten how to breathe until you feel his palms back on your outer thighs, sliding up to the curve of your hips. His mere touch is heavenly, exquisite and you wonder if it can get any better; it can and it’s his lips brushing, running up your backbone combined with the head of his cock brushing against your folds. He wants to coat his member generously in your arousal, slipping it back and forth like his tongue had done only minutes ago, bumping against your exposed clit deliberately.

A mewl of appreciation surfaces, your footing shifting to widen the space between your legs, a silent indication of your readiness for all of him. Trapped in your throat is an exhale and it isn’t able to reach the surface until he questions your desire.

“Do you want this?”

Surprisingly, you manage to utter out a stable and straightforward yes without adding on any explosive expletives and he complies to your wishes, the first inch of his member pushing into you with little restraint. Unconsciously, you tense up and Yoongi gets the message, easing your apprehension with a open-mouthed kiss to the crossroad where your shoulder meets the base of your neck.

He needs no guide or direction, understanding your need for alleviation and delivering with more passionate nips, showering the nape of your neck and caressing your abdomen lightly with his hands. Of your own volition, your head lolls back to rest on his shoulder, cheeks flushed a pastel shade of rose from the rush of hormones and the make-out session the sensitive skin along your neck was currently receiving.  

The first moan of many pours from your self-bitten lips but is transformed into a yelp of both surprise and agony as Yoongi fills you to the hilt at last, your back arching further, muscles twitching and clamping from being stretched to their limit.

The relief of finally being sheathed inside you causes Yoongi to emit a guttural groan, grip tightening on your flesh of your hips in gratification. He commences a gentle rhythm, languid and shallow, allowing you to adjust to the sensation and feel every contour and vein of his cock.

You feel achingly full, the dull soreness fading with each stroke so you encourage him with another lustful whine, a noise that signals the abandonment of your self-restraint. He alters the speed as a result, a little faster, rocking his hips back and forth, burying himself deeper inside your velvety core.

The slow, sensual motions have you exulting, a waterfall of wanton cries spill freely from your mouth as he moves in and out, your clit continuously stimulated by the base of his shaft whilst your soft, sensitive folds relish in the repeated contact.

But it doesn’t take long for the urgency and intensity to build, Yoongi’s interest in honeyed passion replaced with blind lust and the burning impulse to let go of his inhibitions. His pumping becomes rougher, each stroke setting your nerve endings on fire, the walls of your innermost place tensing with need. It’s dizzying and overwhelming and your lover ensures to hit that divine responsive spot deep within you, blessing you with a jolt of electric pleasure that shoots up your spine.

The sounds your bodies both produce as your hips mesh together over and over leave nothing to the imagination, an erotic hymn that sounds like heaven mixed with hints of hell. With nerves ablaze, firing shot after shot of euphoric ecstasy to your brain, your moaning shoots up a few decibels to a shrill cry. You’re close to release, rapture escalating and Yoongi is too, his digits kneading more forcefully into your behind as he pushes upward and into your pleasure centre.

He’s getting sluggish, lessening the amount of effort and bringing the tempo down to prolong your act of copulation. Excruciatingly slow, he withdraws inch by inch until the head of his member is all that’s left within you and he waits, teasing you with the feeling of hollowness and departure. You mewl, pushing your hips back, desperate for your dripping heat to be filled once more and you swear you hear a hoarse chuckle before he gives in and plunging back into your waiting center.

The pair of you luxuriate in the unhurried friction until he can’t resist any longer, soothing movements morphing into the hasty and chaotic pounding of your tightness. Such a change reignites your pending orgasm, your rosebud aching and consumed with indescribable pleasure. His hands find the taper of your waist, thrusting harder and deeper than previous and you’re milliseconds away from crashing down and falling into euphoria.

You’re whimpering, thighs trembling in his grasp and with a final intense snap, your core convulses around his length, contracting as the ripples of white heat rush through your bloodstream, your pelvis shaking and spasming, the heavenly warmth leaving you groaning and gasping for air. Yoongi’s climax isn’t far behind and he lets it overtake, his manhood jerking frenziedly into your opening before he pulls out with a strangled moan, shooting a hot, thick stream of his seed onto the mounds of your rear.

It is silent besides the chorus of pants you both expel, the pair of you letting the realisation of your indelicate actions sink into your weary bones.  

And thus, it continues for five long months.

As monsoon season departs and warmer weather delivers it’s signature crystal blue skies and crisp vibrant flora; Yoongi gifts you with the pleasure of no inch of your body left untouched, no space in your house unchristened and a fitting and extensive understanding of the birds and the bees, just in time for spring.

The linen curtains dance a gentle, uncomplicated waltz in the dusk breeze. The sun is fading, slipping beneath the horizon, painting the walls of your bedroom with a balmy golden glow. Wrapped up in comfort of the Egyptian cotton sheets lay you and your secret lover. The sunset softens the intensity of his jawline and blurs his creamy skin into a shade of subdued gold. Time has been brought to a standstill and the only evidence of life are the reverberations of inhaling and exhaling and the tip of your finger tracing lazy circles into his chest. The fruitless sketches you’ve drawn seem to please him, your forehead rewarded with a affectionate peck which has you smiling into the crook of his neck and humming out a sweet utterance.

“My parents are having this big dinner thing tomorrow night… it would be great if you could come.”

Unsettling your paradise, an weak grunt arrives, low and muffled as if his throat is trying to restrain the sound from being voiced. His eyelids twitch and those ebony eyelashes catch your attention, a deep contrast to the rest of the yellow hues that surround his facial features.

“Was that a yes?” you purr, words overcome by a playful spirit.


There they are, pupils so dark you can feel yourself somehow slipping and falling into the deadly darkness they present. At first, you had loved to jump into them with reckless abandon, the wickedness he exhibited so enticing to your naive nature; but they only give off feelings of vacancy and ephemerality now. As well as coldness much like his demeanour and you long hopelessly for something warmer.  

“Please,” you whisper, misery present in the cracks in your voice.

“I want them to know about us, I don’t want to keep it a secret any longer.”

He clearly doesn’t like that statement and like a swarm of fire ants are crawling up his skinny limbs, he sits up on his elbows breaking apart your embrace and the calm and solace you’d shared only moments before.

“There is no us,” he huffs, annoyed, tossing the sheet off his lower half and swinging his legs off your bed.

All you can do is gape at the vertical lines of crimson you’d left on his back whilst he hastily rummages the carpet for his clothes, discarded from the act of love making you both indulged in almost every weekend. It was your shared ritual but also a damaging weakness, your feelings deepening and blossoming with each passion-fused kiss and each time he made you come apart under his touch. As months passed, your emotions refused to let your brain assume control and it had gotten to the worst possible point where Yoongi practically owned the right side of your bed and unfortunately your heart.

“What do you call this then?”

“Just sex.”

You clutch your grey sheet to your chest tightly, attempting to hide all sights of naked skin. You were, in your opinion, less intimidating when you wore nothing and revealing your love-bitten chest would only strengthen his power and hold over you.

“I don’t want just sex anymore Yoongi.”

“That’s not how it works _____.”

You had done it — crossed that fine line between casual and serious and now he would morph into the most volatile and turbulent person you knew, a striking resemblance to a volcano on the verge of erupting. The disclosure of true feelings was nonexistent in your relationship, that was a fact, and perhaps that is why you choose to confess, your heart yearning for a chance to solidify and label whatever the hell this was between the two of you.

“I love you.”

“You don’t love me,” he huffs back almost instantly, snatching his khaki jacket with considerable force off the back of your desk chair.

“You love how I make you feel about yourself, you love what you can take from me. You love the idea of me, but not me.”

Each and every word is the equivalent of him severing every delicate cord you’ve tied to anchor yourself to him. When he is done, your tattered and rejected sentiments finally match the title of your relationship; no strings attached.

“That’s not true,” you protest, flaring up in a last ditch attempt to win back his affection.

“You don’t get to decide how I feel.”  

Your passionate defiance creates an irritated scowl over his mouth, upper lip twitching on one side, molten lava threatening to spill past the ivory barrier that is his teeth.  

“Then it’s over, you knew when we started this what the arrangement was,” he states without warning, dipping under your bedroom window and out onto the tiled roof, his anger less harsh and unforgiving under the dimming dusk sun illuminating his face.  

“I’m not coming back.”

And he doesn’t.

So you’re left to ponder the should’ve, would’ve, could’ve whilst the lustre of the Milky Way above watches over you, offering little to no sympathy. Days turn to weeks and you never find a definite explanation to why Yoongi had held you when he was afraid of warmth, of comfort, of a place to call home. How could your relationship have ever been no strings attached when you had tangled yourselves together in intricate knots, too tight to undo by with good grace?

The nineteenth time you see Min Yoongi, it is past two in the morning, and he is sitting outside your bedroom window uninvited and bathed in patches of moonlight. His attire matches how you envision him when he is absent — the personification of a gloomy, overcast day, bringer of your misery but even so, you had still left a light on for him.

The sting of cool evening air instantly bites your bare cheeks when you push your creaky window skyward, removing the clear, soundproof barrier that separates you from him. He’s motionless, inky orbs transfixed on the shimmering sea of stars that surround the moon.

“What happened to ‘I’m not coming back’?” you begin, feeling oddly brave enough to take on the darkness himself.

“I wanted to see you, is that a crime?” he deflects, refusing to be taunted or reminded of his prior aggressive comments.

“You left.”

It’s two sharp words spoken purely to create a reaction but Yoongi is unfazed, on account of the years spent meticulously crafting his blank, impassive facade. The glittering diamonds that paint the sky may still possess his visual attention, but that doesn’t stop him from voicing a blunt and poignant honesty.

“When something is going well for me, I like to destroy it before the other person has the chance.”

Tongue like sandpaper, you know that admission has scraped and grated his throat on the way up, his timbre has never sounded so foreign and raspy. It dawns on you that Yoongi isn’t rusty in the practice of confessing, he’s completely inept. You can’t bear the thought of him descending down the oak tree, leaving you again, so you bravely clamber out onto the roof tiles to join him — a show of devotion.

“I wasn’t trying to destroy us, I just wanted you to know how I feel,” you explain in a soft, warm tone once you’re shoulder to shoulder.

“But I know now, you weren’t ready for that.”

Your watchful eye waits for a physical response, a facial twitch, a shift of his broad shoulders, anything to know that your choice of comments haven’t caused the discussion to be cancelled. But it’s not over because Yoongi is braver, bolder than that and has come to you with a one specific purpose.

To tell the truth.

“I don’t like being… vulnerable and the way I feel about you makes me feel vulnerable…”

Suddenly, your heart is a ten tonne anchor, heavy from the weights of vagueness and ambiguity. What was that supposed to mean? Regardless, watching him wrestle with the exigencies of his own soul is painful, so you skim your fingertips along the tense biceps hidden under the woven softness of his black t-shirt.

You had always loved touching him; when you made contact you were an explorer wandering a desert with an endless landscape, always finding expanses of skin you were yet to feel, a constellation of freckles you hadn’t discovered or a faded scar turned milk-white in an obscure place. Every imperfection told a tale, the winding story of a boy who liked to play with fire just for the burn and you had a deep-seated weakness for imagining where and how he had acquired the blemishes that littered his body; filling in the gaps by yourself to the darker parts of his existence he hadn’t been so willing to share.

Breathe Yoongi, you think as you gaze at his shoulders a constant cycle of rise and fall, you can bloom, I will never pick off your petals.

“I just— I mean— fuck,” he mutters, digging his fingernails into his scalp, tufts of blonde peeking out the gaps between his thin fingers.

“I want you,” he settles for finally, releasing his lemon coloured locks and bestowing his deep, ebony optics onto yours and though the sentence is mildly cryptic, the glint in his eyes is anything but.  

“I want us.”

A silent firework of pure elation detonates within the confines of your ribcage, colouring your bones a vivid shade of ruby red — the colour of love. The happy virus has spread and it helps you find the courage to initiate a kiss, the first one after twenty two grueling days apart, not that you were counting or anything and Yoongi doesn’t resist your boldness, reciprocating, wild and fierce, devouring your mouth with his. He’d always been more suited to anatomy than vocables, a master of explanation with merely pressure, lips encompassing yours in a heated tango until you’re compelled by your insecurities to break apart.

“Stay the night,” you whisper dewy-eyed and breathless against his chapped lips and he gives a solemn nod, settling a sincere kiss on your lips to seal your agreement.

And so the duo that is now fittingly known as ‘us’ scramble inside, hands clasped together to conserve warmth. Saying goodbye to the sparkling spray of stars, the luminous moon and the crisp wind that nipped at your bare skin relentlessly had never been easier; because tonight Min Yoongi was staying;

and tonight, you turn the light off.

a wound is a wound 
is a wound except 
for when it is a scar,
when it is a memory 

when the roses never 
bloom, when the roses 
are all old love 
and pulling petals 

nothing is as it seems,
but we pretend 
as though a caress 
is always caring

as though wounds 
only ever bleed,
as though roses 
are always soft love

gifts given to be tender
despite their thorns
and their own death
that lingers like a perfume

—  what we are and are not || O.L.

anonymous asked:

hi there! I was wondering if you could explain to me why a lot of people think that the passage you have in your sidebar (about the blue flower from ice) means Jon x Dany? When I read the passage I always assumed it was about Lyanna

Hi there!

It’s about Jon’s identity as Lyanna’s son, and how Dany interprets the introduction of that idea.

The first time we are introduced to Blue Roses, it’s through Ned’s memories of Lyanna:

Her eyes burned, green fire in the dusk, like the lioness that was her sigil. “The night of our wedding feast, the first time we shared a bed, he called me by your sister’s name. He was on top of me, in me, stinking of wine, and he whispered Lyanna.”

Ned Stark thought of pale blue roses, and for a moment he wanted to weep. “I do not know which of you I pity most.” (Eddard XII, AGOT)

“Promise me, Ned,” Lyanna’s statue whispered. She wore a garland of pale blue roses, and her eyes wept blood. (Eddard XIII, AGOT)

Robert had been jesting with Jon and old Lord Hunter as the prince circled the field after unhorsing Ser Barristan in the final tilt to claim the champion’s crown. Ned remembered the moment when all the smiles died, when Prince Rhaegar Targaryen urged his horse past his own wife, the Dornish princess Elia Martell, to lay the queen of beauty’s laurel in Lyanna’s lap. He could see it still: a crown of winter roses, blue as frost. (Eddard XV, AGOT)

It’s clearly laying a trail here–that we are supposed to associate Lyanna with these blue roses.  But, more specifically, we are supposed to associate Ned’s guilt with Lyanna’s blue roses.  They are, to Ned, a symbol of her love, her death, and the promise he made to protect her son and lie about his identity for years.  The roses are a symbol that Jon is Lyanna’s son.

This gets compounded in A Clash of Kings when Ygritte tells Jon (Jon!) the story of Bael the Bard:

“North or south, singers always find a ready welcome, so Bael ate at Lord Stark’s own table, and played for the lord in his high seat until half the night was gone. The old songs he played, and new ones he’d made himself, and he played and sang so well that when he was done, the lord offered to let him name his own reward. ‘All I ask is a flower,’ Bael answered, ‘the fairest flower that blooms in the gardens o’ Winterfell.’”

“Now as it happened the winter roses had only then come into bloom, and no flower is so rare nor precious. So the Stark sent to his glass gardens and commanded that the most beautiful o’ the winter roses be plucked for the singer’s payment. And so it was done. But when morning come, the singer had vanished…and so had Lord Brandon’s maiden daughter. Her bed they found empty, but for the pale blue rose that Bael had left on the pillow where her head had lain.

“Lord Brandon had no other children. At his behest, the black crows flew forth from their castles in the hundreds, but nowhere could they find any sign o’ Bael or this maid. For most a year they searched, till the lord lost heart and took to his bed, and it seemed as though the line o’ Starks was at its end. But one night as he lay waiting to die, Lord Brandon heard a child’s cry. He followed the sound and found his daughter back in her bedchamber, asleep with a babe at her breast.“ 

"Bael had brought her back?”

“No. They had been in Winterfell all the time, hiding with the dead beneath the castle. The maid loved Bael so dearly she bore him a son, the song says… though if truth be told, all the maids love Bael in them songs he wrote. Be that as it may, what’s certain is that Bael left the child in payment for the rose he’d plucked unasked, and that the boy grew to be the next Lord Stark. So there it is—you have Bael’s blood in you, same as me.”(Jon VI, ACOK)

So you have this story about a secret stark baby who is also strongly associated with blue winter roses.  This story, told to Jon, is undoubtedly allegorical about Jon himself, for what matters is that this little bastard Stark (for as far as we’re aware, the young lady Stark and Bael didn’t marry) became Lord of Winterfell after he was kept secret and his mother had been “abducted.”  In this case, that blue winter rose is symbolic of the exchange of the mother for the son, the maiden for the next Lord Stark.

So we have this blue flower symbol that’s staggeringly heavily laden with weight about how Jon’s Lyanna’s son, and then we have Dany, in the house of the undying:

A blue flower grew from a chink in a wall of ice, and filled the air with sweetness…

There’s a lot of symbolism in that chapter, and what everything means is something that’s still very up in the air.  But given 1) the blue flower symbolism for Jon’s identity as Lyanna’s son and 2) the wall of ice (ie, the Wall where he became Lord Commander), it’s fair to assume that it means him, and that that subsequent “filled the air with sweetness” is Dany’s own interpretation of what that flower physically leads her to feel.  It’s wistful, it’s longing, it’s loving, and it means Jon.

Could I request the guys with an S/O who’s a big fan of Broadway musicals and their reactions when she asks them to go with her when she finds out her favorite show will be performing?

Let’s see how many of them end up as broadway fans themselves, shall we?

Korekiyo Shinguuji

  • You were nuts for Les Misérables, so when you heard it would be performed, you freaked
  • Of course, you had to see it, so you immediately asked your boyfriend Shinguuji to come with you
  • It did not take much convincing
  • You wouldn’t think of him as a musical guy, but he loves humans. What’s more beautiful than seeing them working their hardest to tell a story through such a memorable medium?
  • And boy were you glad you went to see it with him
  • You didn’t often get to see your boyfriend show his emotions so clearly but
  • It was like this musical bared open his soul
  • He was enraptured, and so were you
  • The actor’s voices filled the entire room with their feelings
  • When Fantine sang her iconic song, he had his hand up to cover his mouth even though he was wearing his mask as per usual
  • During the suspenseful scenes, his hand was clutched tightly around yours, and his eyes were focused intently on the stage
  • And finally, during the last song when the voices enveloped everyone in a bittersweet ending, there were tears running down both of your faces
  • Shinguuji was extremely grateful he got to see such a moving display with you. It was something he’d never forget.

Rantarou Amami

  • After a few minutes of cajoling, Amami agreed to go see Mamma Mia with you
  • He didn’t really know anything about it, but if you wanted to see a live performance so badly, who was he to refuse?
  • Plus, he liked that you described it as a “feel good musical”
  • So, off you went to the theater.
  • He even dressed up for the occasion and took off some of his jewelry!
  • What a cute dork
  • And, what do you know, he enjoyed himself very much!
  • He thought it was hilarious that sophie invited all three of her potential dads to her wedding
  • And he visibly cringed when her mom found out they were all there
  • But he loved the whole thing
  • And somehow during the course of the show
  • He memorized like, three of the songs
  • So he was singing them on the way home
  • And when you got home, he downloaded the Mamma Mia soundtrack
  • Oh dear
  • But to be honest, you were singing along with him too

Kokichi Okuma

  • Ouma did not want to go see a musical with you
  • He thought the were boring and he did not want to have anything to do with boring things
  • But finally, finally, you convinced him to go see Little Shop of Horrors with you
  • He agreed primarily because of the title
  • “As an evil supreme leader, how can I not be interested in a shop of horrors?”
  • You were just glad he agreed to go
  • Of course, when you actually arrived at the theater, you started getting nervous because what if he doesn’t like it?
  • You’ve always loved Broadway, so it would kind of stink if the person you loved didn’t want to have anything to do with it!
  • As you sat down, he winked at you, though, as if to say “you have nothing to worry about”
  • That turned out to be true!
  • He loved it.
  • He loved the giant plant, he loved the dentist’s death, he loved the ending especially.
  • He even loved the love blooming between Audrey and Seymour. He said he didn’t and that it was boring, but you could tell he was lying.
  • When the curtain rose for curtain call, he was the first person to stand up and cheer!
  • It was nice to be able to grin at him and say, “I told you so”.

Shuuichi Sahara

  • You’ve always been a huge fan of broadway, and Into the Woods was an old favorite of yours
  • After seeing Bernadette Peter’s Witch, you became hooked on theatre and musicals especially!
  • So, when you heard it would be playing nearby, you thought it would be perfect as a date for yourself and Saihara!
  • After all, you’d been wanting to share some shows with him, and what better way than to go to a live performance?
  • Plus, Into the woods seemed like a show he would enjoy. It was funny, clever, and unpredictable, but it was also sad and thought-provoking. He’d get the full experience!
  • He agreed to go with you. Why not? He was always willing to spend time with you, and he wanted to know more about the things you loved.
  • He was not prepared.
  • During the first act, he laughed along with everyone, and told you how fun the show seemed to be during the intermission!
  • And then the second act started
  • Halfway through, he whispered to you, “Is this the same show or…?
  • When the narrator died, he gave you a look as if to say, “Are they serious??”
  • It was actually pretty funny
  • He applauded enthusiastically when it ended, though
  • And he told you that even though it went in some… unexpected directions, he’d love to watch more shows with you!

Kaito Momota

  • Annie had been your favorite musical since you were a little kid
  • When you heard that there was a possibility you’d be able to see it, you begged Momota to go with you
  • He was a bit apprehensive, since he’d never actually gone to see a show before!
  • But it only took “It’s a Hard-Knock Life” and he was hooked.
  • When Annie met Sandy for the first time, he audibly gasped out loud.
  • And when she got her happy ending with Warbucks? He was sniffling like a kid with tears streaming down his face
  • What a softie
  • But you were glad. Now he understood your love for shows!
  • He wouldn’t stop talking about the show when you were on your way home
  • And he asked to watch the movie versions with you as soon as he found out there were three
  • Oh, dear
  • Well, at least he’s having fun


  • Kiibo’ll go see a musical, sure!
  • Robots can do normal things like see musicals
  • Just watch and see!! He’ll prove it!!
  • Kiibo, calm down
  • You talk to him about the general plot of the one you want to see, Hairspray
  • He’s very interested!
  • Even though he’s not black, and there aren’t enough robots for there to be institutionalized roboticism, he can identify with some of the characters’ struggles
  • And he feels sympathetic for the other struggles they deal with
  • During the show, he doesn’t really look too into it
  • But when it’s over, he’s really enthusiastic about applauding and cheering for it!
  • Then, he has a thorough discussion with you about the whole thing!
  • He even compares you to Penny, since, well. You’re dating him, despite how others see him!
  • If all musicals are as thought-provoking as this one, he’s happy to see more with you!

Gonta Gokuhara

  • Gonta didn’t even know what a musical was
  • The boy spent ten years in a forest, it’s not his fault
  • But watching people sing and dance sounded like fun! Of course Gonta wanted to see that!
  • Well, You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown was being performed nearby, so you dragged him off to see it!
  • He adored it
  • He was like a kid in a candy store
  • Of course, some of the jokes flew right over his head
  • But for the most part, he was enraptured
  • He loved Snoopy a lot
  • And Sally
  • And he loved the songs
  • And the dances
  • And the scenery!
  • And the costumes!!
  • Gonta loved the whole thing!!!!!
  • He thanks you for taking him to see something so amazing!!
  • And he’s excited to see more!
  • Just wait until he finds out about the musical with giant talking bugs…

Ryouma Hoshi

  • Wicked is showing nearby
  • You see the news online and immediately turn to your boyfriend
  • “Hoshi. We’re going to see Wicked.”
  • “Um-”
  • “We’re going.”
  • “Well, okay”
  • He doesn’t even know what it is until you actually get to the theater
  • Aaaaand maybe he feels like it isn’t his thing
  • But he really doesn’t mind being there
  • After all, it’s not like it’s bad
  • And he really likes how happy you are to be there
  • Heck, if that’s how much you love them? He’ll go see them with you every day.
  • Anything for you.


This rose is a rose and my hands are yours.
I’m a work of art seen in your eyes; behold
the lover: his hair caked with snow, his lips
cracked with stillness, his heart beating too
loudly for his chest, his hands warm with a
bouquet of flowers.


A rose is a rose be it dead or alive. You can’t
shut your eyes and call them tulips. Same as
me. You can’t just shut your eyes and call me
a stranger. I smell of roses because I’m always
standing in the middle of a garden for you, I’m
holding out my arms like I’m giving myself to
nature, she is reclaiming me for herself.


The dead man is a dead man. And his old house
creaks with emptiness, and silence and soon
the garden in his backyard drops it’s last petal,
and is lost forever. I can’t promise you forever
but I’ll always tend to the garden. I’ll keep your
red roses and your tulips and every little flower
that blooms in your name
alive for as long as I can.

—  haider m, Roses
Bael, Rose(s) of Winterfell, and Prophecies

So this meta is written in response to @bloomray and laney’s conversation that you all should read here before reading what follows. It’ll make more sense that way since this adds on a few things to B’s post. 

Preface of Sorts

So first, a quick confession. I’m real hard pressed to find any evidence in ASOIAF of Jonerys. I’m sure it exists; I’m sure shippers can point me to something somewhere, but everything mostly feels like a stretch. And hey, that’s okay because god knows you don’t have to ship stuff that’s even remotely canonical. To each their own and all that. What does annoy me, however, is leveraging certain lines and selectively reading without a lot of context in order to prove canonical foundation. For me, the line that gets stretched the most is this one from the House of the Undying prophecies: 

A blue flower grew from a chink in a wall of ice, and filled the air with sweetness.

Somehow, blue flower = Jon and sweetness = romance, and hence Jonerys is endgame. As bloomray pointed out in her post (and as other meta writers have as well), sweetness has a lot of negative connotations to it in ASOIAF, particularly in Dany’s narrative. Bloomray already outlined that in her piece, so I’m not going to rehash that here other than to say that perhaps the sweet smell could be the sweet smell of decaying flesh from the Others and Wights Beyond-the-Wall that Jon’s narrative is tied to? Just a thought. 

Anyway, what I’m most interested in is the blue flower part in this post. Laney came up with the initial idea of the blue flower alluding to the tale of Bael the Bard, and bloomray expanded upon it in her post. 

For this post, I want to talk about framing and the context surrounding the places where we hear about the tale of Bael the Bard to understand how it might fit into Jon’s narrative and, by extension, what GRRM is trying to get at in the HotU prophecy. 

Bael the Bard’s Song

First, let’s talk about where Bael appears most significantly in the text. The only places that Bael isn’t just name-dropped in passing are Jon VI in ACOK and Jon I in ASOS. The former is where the story is laid out, and the latter is when it is revealed that Mance infiltrated Bobby B’s visit to Winterfell. It may be worth noting, in passing, that Bael is never mentioned in ASOIAF outside of Jon’s POV. Thus, I think it’s fair to say that the story of Bael is meant to tell us something about Jon

So the story itself: 

“North or south, singers always find a ready welcome, so Bael ate at Lord Stark’s own table, and played for the lord in his high seat until half the night was gone. The old songs he played, the new ones he’d made himself, and he played and sang so well that when he was done, the lord offered to let him name his own reward. ‘All I ask is a flower,’ Bael answered, ‘the fairest flower that blooms in the gardens o’ Winterfell.’”

“Now as it happened the winter roses had only then come into bloom, and no flower is so rare nor precious. So the Stark sent to his glass gardens and commanded that the most beautiful o’ the winter roses be plucked for the singer’s payment. And so it was done. But when morning come, the singer had vanished…and so had Lord Brandon’s maiden daughter. Her bed they found empty, but for the pale blue rose that Bael had left on the pillow where her head had lain.” 


“Lord Brandon had no other children. At his behest, the black crows flew forth from their castles in the hundreds, but nowhere could they find any sign o’ Bael or this maid. For most a year they searched, till the lord lost heart and took to his bed, and it seemed as though the line o’ Starks was at its end. But one night as he lay waiting to die, Lord Brandon heard a child’s cry. He followed the sound and found his daughter back in her bedchamber, asleep with a babe at her breast.”

“Bael had brought her back?” 

“No, They had been in Winterfell all the time, hiding with the dead beneath the castle. The maid loved Bael so dearly she bore him a son, the song says…though if truth be told, all the maids love Bael in them songs he wrote. Be that as it may, what’s certain is that Bael left the child in payment for the rose be’d plucked unasked, and that the boy grew to be the next Lord Stark. So there it is–you have Bael’s blood in you, same as me.” 


Alright, so there’s that–the tale itself. And the similarities to Rhaegar and Lyanna are definitely there within the story itself. Singer, Winterfell’s daughter, a son born to a dying line (Targs), etc. 

Perhaps Jonerys shippers read the similarities between the tale and Rhaegar/Lyanna and make the blue rose a connection to Targaryen bedding Stark. I say bedding here because (1) I don’t believe Rhaegar/Lyanna were ever married, (2) the power dynamics make consent very challenging in this relationship, and (3) as Ygritte says, maybe the Rose of Winterfell did love Bael like the song claims, but in Bael’s songs everyone is in love with him so it’s hard to say what the nature of the relationship was. 

Winter’s Rose v2.0 - Lyanna Stark; Or, Why This isn’t About Jonerys, but Jon’s Parentage

Now that we have access to the tale itself, I want to talk about what surrounds the tale. As I said in my preface, I think what frames the tale tells us a lot about how we’re supposed to read it both in the context of the chapter and ASOIAF as a whole. 

Let’s look at what comes almost directly before the tale first. Ygritte and Jon share the following exchange:

“You said you were the Bastard o’ Winterfell.”

“I am.”

“Who was your mother?”

“Some woman. Most of them are.” Someone had said that to him once. He did not remember who.

She smiled again, a flash of white teeth. “And she never sung you the song o’ the winter rose?”

“I never knew my mother. Or any such song.”

“Bael the Bard made it,” said Ygritte. - Jon VI, ACOK

And then what follows shortly after when Jon is tasked with beheading Ygritte: 

He raised Longclaw over his head, both hands tight around the grip. One cut, with all my weight behind it. He could give her a quick clean death, at least. He was his father’s son. Wasn’t he? Wasn’t he? - Jon VI, ACOK

The tale of Bael the Bard is bookended with mentions of Jon’s (1) maternity, and (2) paternity. Naturally, when Jon references being his father’s son, he’s talking about the man who passes the sentence swinging the sword. But it takes on such a beautiful, double meaning for the reader in the midst of mentioning his mother, telling the tale of Winterfell’s daughter (the Winter Rose) being abducted by a singer, and then Jon questioning his paternity. 

The blue rose is meant to represent Lyanna. Of course it’s tied up in the great Rhaegar/Lyanna debacle, but it’s first and foremost about the Rose of Winterfell. Jon is associated with the blue rose through his mother. Yes, through the crown of roses Rhaegar bestowed upon her, but even more significantly through this legend—Winterfell’s daughter and her bastard son who return to Winterfell while he’s still a babe at her breast.

We know Jon will be important in the War for the Dawn, just as Dany will be. It’s only natural they meet. They are, after all, the last surviving big-name Targaryens. But to see that her seeing him in a vision means that they’re going to have a romance or bang? Well, need bloomray and I remind you that Dany also saw a man with a wolf’s head being paraded around (Robb Stark). No one is pairing Dany with a resurrected Robb Stark. We can’t assume anyone she sees in the vision is meant to be her lover. 

Into Every Generation? Winter’s Rose v3.0 - Or, I’m Shipper Trash Always and Forever

GRRM loves his sets of three, almost as much as I love Jonrya. The parallels between Lyanna and Arya have been written about a thousand times over. We’re meant to see those two as freakishly similar, from looks to personality. It’s in canon. I don’t think I need to rehash any of that here. 

Likewise, bloomray already addressed a bit of the Jonrya parallels to the Bael story in her post. To briefly reiterate, on Jon’s behalf, Mance as Abel (read: Bael) goes to Winterfell in an attempt to save fArya and bring her home to Jon. Jon is the legend’s Bael by proxy, and Arya Winterfell’s daughter who Jon intends to spirit away from Winterfell. (Note: the 3.0 legend plays out by proxy on both ends, because Mance is Jon and Jeyne is Arya, but whatever). 

Now, surely you’re thinking that I’m reaching here. Look, at little, yes, but let’s look at the framing of Bael in Jon I in ASOS. Jon goes to meet Mance, and it’s revealed that Mance was present during the King’s visit way back in AGOT. Then:

“Bael the Bard,” said Jon, remembering the tale that Ygritte had told him in the Frostfangs, the night he’d almost killed her. 

“Would that I were. I will not deny that Bael’s exploit inspired mine own…but I did not steal either of your sisters that I recall. - Jon I, ASOS

So here Mance likens both Sansa and Arya to the Rose of Winterfell from the initial tale. We’re invited to read all Stark daughters as the Rose of Winterfell. GRRM through Mance is putting Sansa and Arya in the same position as he put Lyanna. If anyone is the Rose of Winterfell/Lyanna Stark in the blue rose image and backstory, it’s Sansa and Arya

But there’s more. We see the tale appear in two important moments where Jon begins his decent into “breaking” his vows. Except he breaks his vows to play the long con on Mance & co. Sure, he bangs and falls for Ygritte (who reminds him of his little sister, which, weird), but he never truly things to break with the Night’s Watch. 

Except he does in ADWD for Arya, Winter’s Rose and Daughter of Winterfell. He tries to steal her from Winterfell, to take part in a war with the Boltons, and thus really and truly breaks the vow that he’s been able to (TWICE befre) resist breaking about taking no part in the affairs of the realm. 

But, you say, either Sansa or Arya could be the Winter Rose. Yeah, maybe, except let’s look back at the original story: 

“Now as it happened the winter roses had only then come into bloom, and no flower is so rare nor precious.”

Sansa flowered in AGOT. Who is expected to bloom and become a woman in TWOW? Arya Stark. Just check out “Mercy” if you need any proof that she’s using her body sexually as a weapon. And who is the most precious to Jon? His heart, the girl he broke his vows for, the girl he gave his dick to in AGOT. ARYA F-ING STARK


The beautiful parallels are there, my dears. Maybe v3 is too much to ask of you, and that’s totally okay. It makes a lot of sense to me, especially since ASOIAF up to this point has been basically an ode to Jonrya. Their love is about canonical as it gets. Platonic? Meh, if you must, but you have a lot of weird sexual thoughts to explain away if you think that’s just brother-sister stuff. 

I would invite you, however, based on the context surrounding the tale of Bael and in light of everything @bloomray said her post, view that prophecy in the HotU not as Jonerys as canon, but as a not-so-subtle nod to Jon’s parentage for the reader to put the pieces together. 

Loki’s Song (Part 9)



So they lived.
The mechanic and the demi god, in their big house on the edge of a wild lake.
Eventually neighbors moved in around them, and then, because Tony demanded that Loki be sociable,  they hosted poker nights, and barbecues on the big deck on warm summer nights.
They had a standing invitation to dinner on every holiday with the sweet old couple who bought the land next to them.

When the winters were too rough, they left to spend weeks in Arizona, passing the time exploring the desert and sipping cold drinks by the pool.
Tony’s money never ran out, even though Loki would have been content to glamour in and out of stores, snapping his fingers and summoning whatever they needed, Tony always insisted on ordering things and paying for them.

One day, when all the news anchors could talk about was the seemingly miraculous return of Captain America, and how refreshing it was to have real heroes back, Tony tossed the television into the lake, and Loki had retrieved it with a roll of his eyes and a stern lecture about littering and not letting his past make him so unhappy.
Tony had cried that night, for what had once been the happiest time of his life, and Loki had held him, pressing his mate’s head to the Mark on his chest, his hand wrapped tight around the corresponding one on Tony’s arm.

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A/N: Original stuff from me, which means you can skip it, but I thought I’d post it anyway. Written for a friend who’s an english teacher. So I guess this is my english homework?! QQ. Lemme know what y’all think.

Long Roads

Prompt: The child has asked something simple but profound. Something is exchanged between them, but the meaning is only really apparent to the reader.


Originally posted by livingstills

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Spirit Cole’s vague Trespasser conversations

I had access to these once I came back from the Eluvians/Crossroads the first time (as in, after all the initial companion conversations). They’re all those typically vague things Cole says, but DLC related:

  • “Your hand hurts. A heartbeat, not yours, hammering the beat of a song in its final verse. I’m sorry.”

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ENGLISH Magia - Madoka Magica
Amanda Lee
ENGLISH Magia - Madoka Magica

Original version by Kalafina.


One day
The light of love
Though it may seem far away 
Will shine again in your eyes 
(Transcend and rise above) 

But there’s only one dream 
And it has ripped at the seam. 
This world will end in ruin 
(And I’ll lose all I love)

Swallow all your doubt
Make your lust cry out
I will help you swallow your hesitation 
You’ll trust me 
Cause you yearn with greed 
Though your heart may bleed
Will we fade away from this world 
with no hope to hold onto? 

I remember you from a dream I thought was truth
You bright with magic and I blinded by my youth
All is wish is for your hand to hold, you see
Only your smile kills the dark in me 

With these hands I try to hold what I cannot seize
I’m like a rose thrown into a violent breeze 
All my strength blown away 
With my heart I will stay 
Praying for light 
Guiding my wish with all my might

One day 
It will come true 
That wish you have inside you 
To save the one that you love 
(Is that a selfish act?)

They will 
Latch to your heart
That’s when confusion will start 
You’ll say words you’ve never heard 
(Just how would you react?)

If I can go on 
And not lose my way 
I will sacrifice my heart and let it fray
To pieces 
What I really need
Is a spell to cast 
To stand up against all the pain 
and fear that will always last

You are still lost in a dream 
watching the past skies 
While I am the only dreamer that cannot rest 
But I will open my eyes 
And chase the hope 
That I will be at your side as if we’re blest 

With these hands I’ve picked a rose 
And have stopped its life
Only now I understand 
I stole its life 
Deep inside I’m alive
For my love I’ll survive 
Though I regret using my own heart as a sheath 

The stories that I heard as a child 
Kept me dreaming 
Where magic runs free
And imprisoned suns remain always gleaming 

The fairy tales I loved have taught me (have taught me)
That no matter what hurdles there may be 
Your wish comes true 
(Was I a fool to trust in those lies?)

In the night wild with fright 
The old magic stirs 
Blooming with grace
It rises up to meet my face 
“With your hands you can change this whole world of yours. Everything that you wish for is in your grasp" 
All I want is to fore ver dream with you 
To live a life where all of me is a live 
Deep inside I will give 
All my love just to live
I won’t regret making this sinful wish of mine

Prompt: Blush Peonies.

Ever since Harry was a little boy he’d always loved the garden, convinced he’d never find anything as beautiful as a rose in full bloom. Well that was until he met her.

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