Your personal Tumblr journey starts here
That shit makes me wish I was a medieval knight wounded in the heat of battle, finally home and (scandalously) falling to my knees before my beloved. I crumble before her, dire wounds needing tending, as I refuse any aid or touch but hers. I kneel, wounded and in agony as if I have naught but a scratch, if only to have a chance to press gentle kisses to her hand as she mercifully lays her countenance upon me and softly agrees to tend me, only for it to be revealed that I, a woman, have been masquerading as a long dead, distant relative, so that I might be able to serve king and country as a knight in order to earn enough valor and glory to be worthy of being in the presence of my beloved. That I might be worthy to breathe the same air that she does, that I might kneel on the same ground her feet have walked upon. As I know that it is unspeakable that I might love her and she might love me, but I’d do anything to be worthy of her, even if it means I must resign myself to loving her from afar, yearning and needing until my last bloody breaths are rended from my chest at the swords-end of a swordsman much greater than I. And as I sputter out my last breaths, my mind can’t help but drift to her, her soft ethereal presence calming me in my last, torturous moments and my dying thoughts can’t help but pledge fealty to her, in this life and this world, and in every other; resigned to love her in whatever form I may from now until eternity.
wound tending is everything. unparalleled intimacy. let me care for you. let me touch the skin around your open flesh. let me stain my hands with your blood. let me get close and breathe in the same air as you and stare into your eyes for a few seconds too long. let me make you think of me every time you see the bandage, or scar
Years have passed, and you no longer write letters to Santa, but still the peculiar, one of a kind gifts keep arriving. The gifts range from opulent jewelry that has a tendency to grow warm, and sometimes even white-hot, at random intervals to small seemingly custom-made stuffed animals of nightmarish creatures turned cute and cuddly. Every year, six gifts come, wrapped in a glowing, reddish paper that was always warm to the touch, just for you, labeled in number order: 60-66. And every year, you and your family ponder who the gifts are from, and if your family should be concerned. This year, as you sit around the tree, the gifts arrive, as usual, but something is different. This year, each parcel of unknown origin is still wrapped with care in the same, ever warm, glowing wrapping, but this time, the boxes are numbered differently. The first is labeled 66.1, and they follow in order with the last labeled 66.6, and that one has a key tied into the center of the large box with a lavish bow. The key is an intricate skeleton key, forged in a reddish metal, blackened by either time or design. Its artfully carved handle looks alive, with its winding serpent-like design, and the gems inlaid at the center of the winding mass, that form an eye. As you go about your Christmas morning traditions, the eye seems to follow you as you bask in the joyful holiday, the ever-present gaze of the key blanketing you in a strange sense of security. Eventually, you get to the special, almost reverent, moment of privacy that you partake in every Christmas morning. You collect the six warm boxes, and bring them into your room, settling onto the lush rug that you had received from your unknown proprietor in a Christmas long since past. You murmur your thanks to the kindness of whatever stranger offers you these gifts, and sit staring at them all at once unnerved by the change, and oddly comforted by the key’s watchful eye. As you sit, your feelings about the strange gifts at odds with one another, curiosity leaps at its chance to take the reins. So, you reach out, and carefully lift the first box, drawing its warmth into your awaiting lap, fighting the urge to draw the familiar warmth into you, much like a child would with a teddy bear. Running your hands across the familiar wrapping, you find the tapeless edge, and slide your fingers under the lip. With a gentle tug the warm paper gives way, and you find the same wooden frame, carved by deft hands into arching landscapes of a far off land that no amount of research can locate. A smile tugs at the corners of your lips as you see the artistry, your fingers reliving the comforting texture of each stroke of the craftsman’s blade. Opening the box, you find the gift, as thoughtful and unique as ever, and murmur your thanks to your anonymous friend. You repeat the process, each gift just as unique and ornate as the last, until you get to 66.6. This box was different from all the others that had come before it. This box's carvings were just as unique as all the others, but the landscape on each side arched and twisted until it gave way to a castle. One with a threatening throne, and a several devastatingly gorgeous men and women perched about the thrones on each side. The box itself felt… different. Something about it made your chest ache, like a fresh heartbreak, but that pain was mixed with a yearning for something you couldn't quite place. Before opening the box, you survey the gifts bestowed on you by your mysterious benefactor.
Should I continue this? Because I definitely have more planned… (read written) I just hit the text limit hehehe…
When you were a child, you accidentally wrote a letter to Satan instead of Santa. Now, every year for christmas you get presents from the lord of hell himself.
I write for myself
*checks AO3 every few hours to see if I got any new kudos, comments or subscriptions*