AESTHETIC MEME: List your muse’s aesthetic. Anyone can do this. List your muse’s aesthetic from taste, smells, outfits & sceneries. Add as many subjects as you like, it can help people tagging you in aesthetically pleasing things towards your muse!
Tagged by: @queenxcersei
Tagging: @aroseofyork ; @agirlingrey ; @lucythelioness ; @hisnextlife ; @handofhonor && anyone who wants to do it.
TASTE: open air crisp ‘pon your tongue. grief && regret && fear cloying in your throat. heavy meats && wines so sweet, so cloying it is more sugar than anything else. the taste of innocence on hammering pulse point ;; dirt in your teeth, excitement in your veins. love for your family, love for your lands, love for the one person who should not have it && it chokes you, tearing at your throat from the inside out every time you attempt to swallow it back down into oblivion where it belongs. desperation. berries so ripe the juice drips down your chin && your fingers rush to catch it, smearing more against your flesh than anything else. the sleek inside of your own cheek, tang of your own blood as you attempt to sooth where your teeth ravaged it.
SMELLS: dirt && snow && wilderness. equine musk && rose water in your hair. the smell of your brothers as your face burrows into their chest, holding close in greeting too long in the making. adolescence vivid in clean scents, frail scents dropped upon your form. there is only one you need to lure && he is already deemed yours on his whim. all else are of little consequence. darkness, dankness, the smell of a place you go to be forgotten. forgiven. to pray at the feet of your ancestors.
SIGHTS: stone, great && grey && dull beneath the sun yet bursting with energy && warmth. roses on the vine, blue as frost bitten flesh. bloodied palms, bloodied dress, tears on cheeks left ruddy in fever. silver locks not your own pooling on collar bones that are. a too small body in ill fitting armor disappearing before they can be found. rose petals not blue but black spilling over limp fingers, unfeeling palm onto bedclothes. a smile, wide && pretty && pink, creating curves && divots of dimples && almost too big for small face its found itself on. she has never been one to hold back her emotions && when she smiles it can feel like fire or like ice. warm or uncaring. scratches && bruises on palms, on knees hidden by fabric, the sheen of sweat unbecoming a lady of your station. wolves in their natural habitat, printed on banners, caged within bloodstream. freedom. shattered pottery, jewelry flung from table tops, dumped from their settings. get them away from me.
SOUNDS: laughter sweet && mischievous in equal parts, songs played on harps, the whinny of horses && their hooves on dirt. secret whispers && rustle of wings, of paper as you read printed promises. a babes shouts mixed with your own && the anguished cries of a child for that is all you are. wood against wood ( ‘ clack !! clack !! ‘ ) followed by laughter, the taunts of siblings. pleas in weakened tones. exhalation ( the gentle ‘ haaaa ‘ ) just to plumes of white as if you can see shapes in their nonsense. a fathers gruff affections ;; steel on stone ;; war outside your window.
OUTFITS: the feel of fur at your wrists, the curve of your jaw, ‘long prominent collar bones. grey, white, silver, winter held in fabrics heavy yet no less fine than those of the south. dirtied hems && articles thrown out with holes worn into their slick finery. white gowns splattered red && fitting so well within clutch of fingers, molding to the body sticky && telling. blue laurel vivid against dark locks, hidden thorn tearing at every motion made ‘til blood runs at your temple. mens clothing borrowed without asking from brothers clinging to hips && gaping at knees but all that matters is the ease now afforded when riding, when practicing swordplay with felled branches. every stitch speaks of care for the one wearing it ;; illusion of worldliness for the sheltered, for the caged. you wear no loops of gold or silver at your throat. you are suffocating enough without your realization.
BODY: they call you beautiful, see something in the contours of mien, the lines of body that you sometimes fail to see yourself. slim arms, the beginnings of curves, you wear your youth within your bones. heavy steps, swinging hips, boldness ;; all know when she arrives. the world knows when she arrives && if not she shall shake it until it does. but, indeed, there is softness. softness in her throat ( so easily crushed ) softness in your smallest movements ( blink && you miss them ) a child playing at adulthood && not liking what she finds but there is no way backwards. a swelling belly, lines tracing its curvature. you were not made to bare this burden yet they seem to think you are. not forged for seduction, for battle, for waging. for tears. a girl for freedom of choice && space but wings never did emerge. grounded like the rest of them. you will take their words && twist them into something pretty, take your praise && turn them to insult, so fickle, so vain. they will dream of your eyes && ignore the iron in your bones, diminish you to a sum of your parts as if that is all you are. too bad your dreams are bigger than all of them combined.