this is my inspirationlog; none of these snippets are mine unless they're tagged so. ♥ livejournal twitter facebook
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Maiden’s Hair - discretion
Lily (Eucharis) - maiden charms
Mountain Laurel - ambition
White Poppy - sleep, my antidote
Clematis - mental beauty, art
Moschatel - weak but winning
Lily of the Valley - return of happiness
Butterfly Weed - let me go
Pyrus Japonica - fairies’ fire
Asphodel - my regrets follow you to the grave
White Rose (dried) - death preferable to loss of innocence
Witch Hazel - a spell
French Honeysuckle - rustic beauty
Henbane - imperfection
Laburnum - forsaken, pensive beauty
Weeping Willow - mourning
Dead leaves - sadness
Locust Tree (green) - affection beyond the grave
Camellia (pink) - longing
Gerbera - innocence
Lobelia - malevolence
Amaryllis - pride, splendid beauty
Persimmon - bury me amid nature’s beauties
Carnation (green) - secret symbol of the followers of Oscar Wilde
Helenium - tears
Larkspur - lightness, levity
Hawthorn - hope
Auricula - painting
Queen Anne’s Lace - fantasy
Eglantine - a wound to heal
(Source: rosythumbelina)
“Well what did you suppose would happen? Between laundered shirts and autumn days that vie to be the crisper. Between your slight of hand holding my manicure. Between a pink handbag to match my dress, and the kind of man you are throwing the kind of woman I want to be into focus between kisses so tender on the nape of my neck, what did you expect?
Our hearts are different vintages. You pick out shrapnel and wait for the polished shoe to drop. You are robust and aged in this way.
But I am green. I still allow my eye to glisten with the steam that powers hope. I am led by the nose that is hooked to a rope that is hooked to my heart—she knows no obedience.
And the lines on our faces are maps the clock puts there. The forehead shows the path of the first worry. The cheek charts the hardest years. Laugh lines are easy landmarks, but beware fatigue at the corner of the eye, my son; it belies the optimist gaze. I can spot a broken heart and a happy man a mile away.
And maybe more lines on your face is what you were afraid of. Or maybe my touch was getting too soft, or maybe I’m not pretty enough, or maybe there’s some other girl. But I do not take kisses lightly. The smaller and softer they are, the more weight they carry.
When we met, I asked you to be careful with my heart. Fool! I wanted danger. I would have fired the guards and told the watchmen to go, but no. You took me at my word, and for the first time in my life I hated being a writer.
Between sleep and laughter, between barbeque and catastrophe, between June and October and the process of giving over I fell into you and didn’t expect that you’d pull away so soon, so I still see you. In the silver spoon that stirs my tea I still wonder what you didn’t see in me.
Chalk it up to timing, laugh it off to friends, pillow clutcher once again. Practicing a smile and the front it faints. I loved you. And it remains.
”
Mary Fons (via mllekeri)
While we obsess over the sex, the whips, the spankings, the plugs and the gags, D/s is a cerebral pursuit. We’re attracted to one another because of the ways that our minds work when it comes to sex, and so it’s exactly because the things that we want are driven by the mental side that we can revel quite so much in the physical.
It’s why I can tell you to dress up like a whore, and we can both entirely enjoy that. It’s objectifying but, because you’re safe in that mental space we’ve created between us, that’s ok. You can enjoy it, and flourish in it. You can savour the feel of the fishnets and the mesh against your skin, the latex and the ridiculously short skirts. You can let me write obscene things on your skin, and you can trace your fingers over it after.
We’re intellectual powerhouses behind closed doors. Chess Masters with whips and leather. We got this. We’re the sex nerds, the geeks who love it just a little bit too much, except it’s never too much. We obsess over the little things, and drown in a sea of bliss when it comes to the bigger ones. Things that are negative in other relationships, in other contexts, we’ve seized for our own, and turned into something beautiful and liberating.
I can call you a slut because we both know what I mean, and we can enjoy the perversion of that word that was already a perversion. We’re a twisting, turning, delicate dance of meaning and definition, all wrapped up in a delicious layer of masochism and depravity. I spank you because you like it, but also because I don’t spank you for the same reason a parent spanks a child. We’re adult enough to tap into that feeling, harness it, and turn it into something of our own.
We’re the geeks of getting laid, and we all know the geeks have the most fun.
wow. this was just… very fun to read, as a very interesting alternate perspective into smth undoubtedly quite taboo.
(Source: lundesnombreux)
(Source: aryastarkson)
(Source: devoureth)
