the proud flesh

Just Kisses

Since  today is the International Kissing Day, I did the headcanons for friendly kisses in another post. There we go with the romantic ones, instead. 

Demetra Trevelyan x Cullen Rutherford

He always lingers a little more than usual on her lips, when she’s ready to leave Skyhold. Their bodies are already picking different directions - she has a party that is waiting for her to go through a new mission, he has his duties to attend and a keep to defend.

But his lips stay on her owns a bit longer, gently, as one of his hands caresses her cheek. She opens her eyes slowly, a “See you soon” written there but not spoken. There’s no need for it. They have already told their goodbyes while he helped her to wear her armor. And maybe he has stolen a kiss or two, pressing his mouth against hers with devotion and a hint of fear. 

Demetra’s clearly prefers other types of kisses, however, his “Welcome back!” ones. 
Cullen is a kind man, but a passionate lover and his kisses are devouring, firm, hard. He demands all of her and gives back the same and nothing less. One of his hands on her soft cheek - the gloves discarded on the floor - the other grabbing her waist, he leans over her and they breathe together. When his tongue begs for permission, she gladly opens her mouth. He makes her back arch and steals her very soul. 

It’s beautiful.

After their love making, once that Cullen's sure Demetra’s truly there and safe, he kisses her skin inch after inch, scraping with his stubble against her flushed body, and repeating the motion with a smile just to hear her giggle again. He writes his love with velvet lips and playful nibbles on her flesh, secretly proud she’ll wear his marks under silk and satin. It’s their cherished secret.

He can’t kiss her when days are bad and all he wants it’s crawling to the storage room and choke with lyrium in his mouth. Shame and pain battle hard in his mind, biting his body merciless. He can just lay down, in a pool of cold sweat, and pray the Maker to give him the strength. The Maker usually answers in kind and sends her. Demetra arrives, passing a dump cloth drenched with an elfroot potion on his forehead - it makes his migraine slightly less unbearable. She forces him to drink, pushing fresh water or healing potions between his cracked lips, and after she just stays there. His skin can’t endure to be touched, so she simply sits next to him. Cullen knows she’s checking his breath, and he would like to reassure her that everything is going to be alright. But he can’t speak louder than the blue song. Finally, after hours as long as ages, he opens his eyes. She kisses away his tears, most of the time, and her lips against his are careful, while she murmurs reassurances and comforting words. He believes her when she says he’s doing well.

And then, there are the kisses he leaves on her lips when the life is bright and perfect, when she is his arms he can savor her presence, peppering her face with playful pecks. She jokingly scolds him, when he indulges on the tip of her nose, but she sighs happily as his lips press against hers.
She bites them slightly and makes him shudder pleasantly. They have gone through so much, he thinks tracing with lips and glances the lovely freckles on her nose. And yet, they’re still there, together and alive.

He kisses her with love and gratitude and hope and happiness. Those are Demetra’s favorite kisses.

I hope you enjoyed this little one shot. As always, I treasure and read all your comments, reblogs, tags… !

There are names for what binds us:
strong forces, weak forces.
Look around, you can see them:
the skin that forms in a half-empty cup,
nails rusting into the places they join,
joints dovetailed on their own weight.
The way things stay so solidly
wherever they’ve been set down—
and gravity, scientists say, is weak.

And see how the flesh grows back
across a wound, with a great vehemence,
more strong
than the simple, untested surface before.
There’s a name for it on horses,
when it comes back darker and raised: proud flesh,

as all flesh,
is proud of its wounds, wears them
as honors given out after battle,
small triumphs pinned to the chest—

And when two people have loved each other
see how it is like a
scar between their bodies,
stronger, darker, and proud;
how the black cord makes of them a single fabric
that nothing can tear or mend.

—  Jane Hirshfield, For What Binds Us

I know you’ve suffered 
But I don’t want you to hide 
It’s cold and loveless 
I won’t let you be denied 
I’ll make you feel pure 
Trust me 
You can be sure 

Me, making up my furry selfship tags: pick puns or phrases that can’t obviously sell you out as a furry

Imagine Kieren taking Simon shopping specifically to get him more diverse clothes because he’s kind of tired of seeing the same sweaters over and over. At every store they go to, Simon sheepishly picks out MORE SWEATERS and tries each of them on, and Kieren just sighs and let’s it happen, because honestly his boyfriend is so adorable, how could he say no?

Itsy Bitsy Spider - Part 2

Summary: Reader x Dean (though not a lot of it yet tbh). You set out on your hunt for the spider-woman who is killing men in a town near by with your temporary hunting buddies.

Triggers: Spiders!

Word Count: 3358

Y/N = Your name

Part 1   Part 3   Part 4  Epilouge


“It looks like she’s trying to create an army of these monsters,” You said, the boys going quiet after you spoke taking in the news.

“Shit,” Dean muttered under his breath. The four of you shot into motion at the same time. The men quickly grabbing theircoats and throwing you a spare army green jacket they had lying around to takethe place of the thinner material of the coat you’d worn inside. Following them you let them lead the way out of the massive underground bunker and up to a waiting car.

Keep reading

alexiablackbriar13  asked:

Writer's meme: 7, 9 and 12!

7: A piece of prose from something I’ve currently written that I’m proud of. How ‘bout I write it right now?

Felicity closes the latch on her cobalt pocketbook, tucking away H.R. transmogrification device as if it was a simple red pen. She stares back at the full-length mirror from the foot of their bed. Bullet wounds and numerous incision marks are stark reminders of what she’s dealt with over six years. They’re starting to blend in with her skin tone, though the coarse texture shall next fade. Neither will the painful memories. 

But she’s here. She survived, and that fact alone is something to be damn proud of. Mangled flesh is akin to a few dimples in her back, contrasting the cotton of her emerald dress. There’s no changing it. Her pink glossed lips tick up in a gentle smile.

Oliver clears his throat, “You look beautiful.”

“Mm, tell me something I don’t know, Mr. Bond.”

“I’m not Pierce Brosnan, Felicity.”

“James Bond, Daniel Craig - except more muscle, Oliver. We’ve got to watch more movies from this decade.”

“Okay.” He agrees under his breath, carefully placing Felicity in an exact replica of Emma’s scarlet chair.

They press on button on Earth-19 Wells’ stolen tech, transforming into the Prime Minister’s daughter and her fiance. Emma had a similar build to Felicity, even similar scars from a skiing accident in the French Alps. Though her eyes are a gorgeous grin and her red hair pops against the jewel toned frock. Oliver’s disguised as Eugene - vast different man than the hero under the hood. More of a runner’s body with tawny skin, adorable freckles, and black wavy locks.

“Nice, but I want my Oliver back by midnight.”

“As soon as we’re done with the mission, same here….”

Why I’m proud of it: As someone with thirteen of her own scars, I don’t Felicity to forget her tragedies, but I also don’t want her bemoaning the way her body/skin are now. TV shows, fiction, and whatnot can always work on changing the perception of what’s beautiful.

9: Hardest fic to write: “Under Covers” - WIP chapter for @olicityhiatusficathon because I have characters who speak Arabic, Hindi, and Dutch, and Russian. So it’s slower and taking a bit more research.

12: Episode that inspired me more than others: Arrow 411 “A.W.O.L” because it’s domestic Olicity and disabled Felicity. I hoped to see that storyline more fleshed out, but didn’t. So, I write it anyway dammit.

Tagging: @muslimsmoak, @wherethereissmoak, @felicityollies, @thebookjumper, @sophie1973, and @almondblossomme

Aphorism I (a ‘19 Days’ fanfiction)


The door opened. 

And they stared at each other. 

And then, slowly, they moved inside, a too-small apartment that had every possible room pushed into one. Jian Yi sat in an armchair that had socks over it and an old packet of crisps shoved down the side. Zhengxi sat on the edge of his bed, and rubbed his palms across his thighs, and he hadn’t blinked for a while.

He swallowed, loud enough for Jian Yi to hear his throat click, bone dry. ‘Where’ve you been?’ he said.

‘Oh, around,’ Jian Yi told him, shrugging, pulling at the hairband on his wrist. He’d bought it recently and it was still too tight, the elastic too strong, and it left red imprints in his skin. ‘Here, there. I went to Maui for a bit. Beautiful place. Awesome storms. And then Wales, which was kind of beautiful in its own way. Have you been? Russia was cold. No one smiled much. And Prague – I mean, the language was kind of odd but wow that architecture. Did you know—’

‘Where the fuck. Have you been.’

Jian Yi coughed, and scratched the back of his neck. ‘Er. I was kind of telling you.’

‘I looked for you. For months. A year. I thought I was losing my mind. Thought I’d made you up. The teachers wouldn’t say anything – didn’t know anything. Your mother just left. I thought – I thought you were dead.’

Keep reading