let them howl beneath a bloody moon. hold red palms, merry go round, dance around the maypole. let them mischief. pass spells in class. wear velvet cloaks. take pictures of themselves in costume jewelry and lace, posing by the window seat, or in the backyard, next to the rose bush.
let them retrace their veins, remake their souls with new names, new family. sisters of reborn flesh.
playing cards to tell their fortunes (love is near, death is watching). rose quartz and emerald and amethyst. candles and incense. gin and crinoline.
Sunlight grew out of me and into her palms. Apricot blossoms dancing overhead, love shifting through the breeze; she inhabits the air as she blooms. Senses of ivory, she covers my skin in roses and I can’t get enough of her lips. Summer is more forgiving when she’s around.
INFJ Slytherins are:
the hope to be better, late nights studying the sky, New Year’s kisses, cold moss filled streams, tracing the lines of someone’s palm, large mirrors, dancing with a broom for practice, making a potion to help someone feel better, being congratulated by a friend, hot chocolate made with real cocoa, and the pleasant clash of a warm hearth fire in a cold winter room.
A spring formal event. Those with good family names, or had some kind of influence always went. The mix of humans and monster’s alike mingled together, danced together, laughed together. It was times like this that made most forget about the unspoken fight outside these walls. And in Russia, many would probably dare someone to pick a fight within their country.
Dainty clawed hands held a very bored head within its palms. Disappointed with each dance partner, the feathered dragoness had taken a moment to step out onto a balcony. To take a breath of fresh air, to let her paws heal from being stepped all over. Her ears perked however listening to the melody inside. Her feathered tail swayed side to side, the song catching on in her throat to hum along. Occasionally her eyes would drift closed as the rest of her body would almost start to follow. Only stopping when she noticed her skirts swaying around her legs. Which noteably reminded her how to choose a dress with more color other than a pale blue.
Her name was called, causing the young monster to turn her head to see who may have wanted her attention. Her mother? She was waving her over to join in what ever mayhem may be brewing. Righting herself and her dress she padded quietly over to her parent. The older woman was grinning, human cheeks a flushed pink. ‘Uh oh…mama’s had to much. Papa did warn her about Russian alcohol.’ “Sapphire! Love! Your fathef has made some new friends. They have asked to meet you after your father gushed about you!” The older woman though tipsy it seemed was just thrilled to be there. Though the yonger girl blushed she smiled. Looking past her mother, there was her father speaking with a bright smile. His tail rested on the ground in relaxation. These others must be good if he was that relaxed already. Her mother had already taken her hand and led the way over. If it were possible her father only brightened as Sapphire came up to one side. An arm slung around her shoulders. “ Here she is! This here is my daughter. Her name is Sapphire.” @chat-noir-knight
If i was blind I’d read your body like brail till was able to comprehend
You’d be the only person in this world that I’d ever care to read;
That I’d ever love to see
Behind my palms dancing ever so lightly across your toffee colored skin
I’m basking in your aura;
Comsumed by your raw beauty that none with two capable eyes could never fathom to truly see,
For what you behold; buried far beyond your stucture
Is far to powerful for any naked eye to see;
To magnificant for any ordinary human to believe.
She can’t recall if they were on the hood of the Pig underneath
the stars or on his unmade bed back in Monmouth Manufacturing or sitting
beneath the beech tree in 300 Fox Way, just out of view of the porch windows,
or all three at once. It’s all just a dream, so she guesses it doesn’t really
All she remembers is his sweaty palms dancing a path on her
spine and her fingers grazing his lower lip and the spirit of his pulse jumping
at her touch. He looks at her with a sort of fire in his eyes, something
thrilling and terrible and everything in between. Although she definitely likes
scholarly Gansey the best, Blue thinks that this other Gansey, this wild and
insensible Gansey, comes in a close second.
Even in sleep, a small voice reminds her harshly that this, this is NOT allowed, but she can’t help it; her body moves out of its own
accord, ignoring all reason and curling into his warmth. She is Blue Sargent;
she is less of her, and then she is more, much, much more, more than she’s ever been. She feels reckless and
powerful and just as insensible, and it
is positively the best feeling she’s had lately in a season of very unpleasant happenings.
This isn’t allowed.
She wonders if she should care.
And yet, his hands are so, so careful, holding her firmly despite their trembling. Dream
Gansey knows this isn’t allowed either.
Can a dream kiss kill
a dream Gansey?
It’ll be okay. He
says as if he’s read her thoughts, but his voice cracks at the last syllable.
It takes only a moment of hesitation before Blue decides to
hell with the curse.
Perhaps, messy is
too weak a word.
They’re too nervous; she feels the jitters all the way down
to her stomach, echoing on his skin and his breath. They bump foreheads and
mash noses. She uses too much tongue, and he, too much teeth. It’s wet and awkward
and rushed, although not entirely unpleasant.
After a while, his hands finally leave their place on her
spine to cup the back of her neck, trying to bring them closer than they
already are. Her own seek his hair with a certain urgency, fingers tugging at the
strands behind his ears and curling around his nape.
At once, she pulls too hard, making him break away with a
swear on his tongue. A bit of guilt creeps in and she opens her mouth to
apologize, but the words don’t come as realization swiftly hits her. They stare
at each other, eyes wide and cheeks flushed—he’s
still alive, the curse can’t reach us here—and then they’re giggling.
She realizes that they haven’t laughed like this in a long time.
She notices that dream Gansey laughs just like the real Gansey, that is to say,
he snorts very un-Aglionby snorts in between chortles and his eyes crinkle until
they almost disappear and he’s a dork,
an absolutely adorable dork, she
thinks. The thought makes her giggle even more.
Try again? His
eyes seem to say as they catch their breaths. Up close, she feels the warmth and
scent of him, of mint and sweat and the Henrietta sun. His hair stands in every
which way thanks to her efforts and his lips are tipped upwards in invitation. A
hand comes up to tuck her hair behind her ear; the attempt is fruitless, but he
does it again anyway.
This time she doesn’t think, just leans in at an angle and
closes her eyes.
His lips are softer than a boy’s lips should be, she wonders,
and then abandons that concept completely as they move over hers deeply,
slowly, like they have all the time in the world. Her fingers resume their
place in his hair, this time running through them in gentle apology. His mouth curls
and presses deeper into hers in response.
It is all she wants, really, to be able to kiss his mouth like this without having to worry about accidentally killing him, but she doesn’t realize how painful it would be. The softness of everything is enough
to make her chest burst, a strange heaviness amplified when she remembers that this is only just a dream.
It’ll be okay. He
whispers into her mouth. Again, an answer to her unspoken thoughts, although this time, it sounds more urgent, more real…
And then it ends.
Without ceremony. Without fanfare. A dream.
So why is her heart in her throat?
She opens her eyes to the white of her ceiling, although in
the shadows, they seem a bit blue in hue. She blinks once, then twice, and
then three times for good measure, her body still ringing with adrenaline while
her mind tries to grasp her surroundings.
It takes a few moments for her pulse to slow, but she can’t
forget the memory of his lips; the softness of them burns vivid in her mind,
making her shiver. Throwing her covers off, she gets out of bed and pads silently
into the phone/sewing/cat room.
Her fingers fly over the numbers in tactile memory. Real
Gansey picks up on the first ring.
“How do you feel about late night orange juice runs?” Already,
the Pig is roaring to life in the background.
In spite of herself, she laughs. This isn’t allowed.
“Actually, I prefer cranberry myself.” A pause, and then, “Come get