slowniczek

You tapped your pencil against your text book as you pretended to pay attention to whatever it was you were supposed to be reading. Really, you were trying to inconspicuously look at the dark-haired boy seated to your right. He was lazily slouched in his seat, not even bothering to pretend that he was studying. His desk was clear of everything, save for his linked hands. You spotted a few dark lines that criss-crossed over the back of his left hand and after a few moments of staring, you realized that they were the tails of some creature or other. Holy hell, did he have tattoos? You quickly turned away from him, even more uncomfortable with

An Englishman's Home Is His Castle Roses: fragile and docile petals, caressed by cruel, inescapable and unrelenting Thorns. The Thorns are harsh, their embrace on the soft flower almost unforgiving, unmerciful, and despicably necessary. Unbound, the Rose would be defenseless, subjugated to the twisted and unforgiving world outside. It was a delicate balance, the equilibrium between Chaos and Peace sometimes reaching the point at which it would shatter. The Rose needs the Thorn and the Thorn lives solely for the Rose. With all of the respect she possessed, (Y/n) would have to tell him that his garden was almost overly eccentric and obscene.