feverish thoughts

All glittering gold

Based on “Imagine cuddling with Thorin the night before the BotFA and making him promise that he will return to you (which he does)” from ImaginexHobbit

Note: I had to tinker with the timeline a bit to make this imagine work, but I really liked the idea, so I figured accuracy could take a little holiday.

A sequel to Pierced by Cupid


Thorin had returned to sit, brooding, on the throne while you lingered on the narrow walkway below the dais watching Balin, Dwalin, and Bilbo leave. When the trio had disappeared through the vast, arched doorway, you turned to him where he slumped, his eyes restless and constantly moving with his feverish thoughts.

“You’re not being reasonable, Thorin. How long will you test their loyalty?”

He glanced irritably at you before looking away over the cavernous chamber. “They owe me their loyalty.”

“And you owe them your trust, your patience,” you countered. “Have they not proved themselves time and time again, all of them?”

“You forget your place,” he warned, turning a dangerous gaze on you.

You opened your mouth to speak and closed it again, summoning all of your self-restraint to smother your simmering frustration, bite back the angry words that wanted to claw their way from your throat. “You are not the man you were,” you said finally, carefully. “You regard the ones who love you most with doubt and suspicion…you are consumed with the search for this accursed stone, and I fear for you, Thorin. I pity you.”

“You pity me?” He repeated your words incredulously, in a voice thick with contempt. “I am King under the Mountain. I have no need for the pity of a woodworker’s daughter.”

Anger flared in you again, threatened to burn what love remained between the two of you, frail and brittle as a fallen leaf, to ashes. “There was a time when you spoke of making a woodworker’s daughter your Queen,” you retorted, caring no more for self-restraint. “Or have you forgotten everything you said when you had me bare beneath you in Laketown?”

Even in his madness, Thorin looked stung, and still the words poured from your lips. “Was I only there to warm your bed?” you needled him. “Give you courage to face the dragon with my pretty words of love and faith?”

“Enough!” Thorin bellowed, rising to his feet with an almost convulsive movement, his glittering armor and the mad gleam in his eye making him larger, frightening. “You forget. Your. Place.” He ground out the words through clenched teeth, and just as suddenly as it had flooded you, your fury drained away, leaving behind only a cold, empty regret that filled your eyes with tears.

“I have no place here,” you whispered, searching for a glimpse of the man you loved in the face of the capricious, grasping tyrant who stood before you and finding no such comfort. With a trembling exhale, you turned to begin the long walk to the doorway, leaving him glowering on the dais.

“Where are you going? I have not given you leave,” Thorin said indignantly, behind you.

Your footsteps were loud in the oppressive stillness.

“I am the King!” Petulance crept into his voice. “I am the King, and you will stay until I have finished speaking to you!”

Only the silence answered him, and your retreating form grew smaller.

“Go, then,” Thorin growled, his call echoing on the stone walls. “Go! But know this: if you walk through that door, do not presume to show me your face again.”

With that, you halted, standing frozen beneath the great stone arch before looking back over your shoulder to meet his demanding stare, far away across the chamber. His lips began to curl into a victorious smirk that quickly faded when, without a word, you turned and left the throne room.

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A Class Act: Chapter Thirty-Four

A high school teacher AU. 

Chapter Summary: Mara tackles Adamant while Cullen deals with an unexpected visitor. 

Need to catch-up? Masterlist here!

Also on AO3. 

They were wrapped up together, feet tangled in sheets, skin still cooling from whispered promises and feverish touches. Mara thought perhaps she might love this time best, the slow wind down from bliss, holding to each other with kisses stolen between bits of conversation. The stolen quiet between the business of their lives was it’s own sort of balm, and for a while Mara could pretend that nothing else existed outside of that simple upstairs bedroom.

“Maybe we should go away this summer,” Cullen said, pressing a kiss to her bare shoulder.

“Away?” she asked, heart skipping at the possibility.

“On a vacation, just us,” he pulled back to meet her gaze, “We’ll deserve it after this school year, don’t you think?”

Mara grinned, “Most definitely. Where would you want to go?”

“Anywhere,” he replied, resting his chin on her shoulder. His hair was mussed, half curled from her fingers working it loose. Her mind immediately began flitting through possibilities of authorial landmarks and places in beloved novels they could visit.

“Oh no,” Cullen said. “I know that look. You’re going to suggest something literary.”

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The overwhelming response to Sounds Like Home is incredible? Like those were just feverish thoughts I had in the shower and lazily typed up. You guys are wonderful I can’t even believe.

Also the love for the Klance fic? I’ll be sure to do more with them.

If you want me to do more stuff like that (more Klance, more headcanons, more tummy aches, what have you), send me a message with a topic! I will happily continue to ramble and write for you!

The heart cannot remain firm in purity, so as not to be defiled, if it will not be crushed by fasting. It is impossible also to preserve holiness without fasting, and the flesh will not submit to the spirit for spiritual activity, and prayer itself will not rise up and act because natural needs predominate. And the flesh will be compelled to become feverish. And from thoughts the heart is aroused and is defiled, and through this, grace departs, and the unclean spirits have boldness to rule over us as much as they wish.
—  St. Paisius Velichkovsky, Field Flowers
these are the ways I love you


Ronan takes Robert Parrish to the ground not out of love but anger.

It is, he supposes, a sort of love all the same.

He’d seen the bruises and breakings in Adam before, but watching them as they appear, seeing the filthy hands that put them there – that was a different thing altogether. He does not recall grabbing his shoulder and spinning Adam’s father into his fist, he does not recall the words he’d said, the way he’d said them, the expression on Adam’s face.

He recalls, though, the shaky breath Adam had given as Ronan was pushed into the backseat of the cruiser – he recalls the way he’d begged Adam to leave this to him, not to worry, that Ronan would fix this.

And he recalls shaking in the backseat, half from adrenaline and anger but mostly from the feverish, delirious thought:

I love you, I love you, I love you.

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