tongue gilding

it’s something of a cliché to say that we all think we’re monsters [pike’ahlia]

Vex knows.

It is not so hard a thing, to see yourself reflected in the facets of others; she has seen herself in her the strained lines of her brother’s laugh and the twist of his shoulder when he throws a dagger and the roll of his silent feet upon the earth. She knows how to find her own doubt in Keyleth’s bold uncertainty, and her lingering shadows in Percy’s stalwart refusal to speak of the past, and her brimming anger in Grog’s rage-blind eyes. Even Scanlan’s gilded tongue holds slivers of her silvered speech. 

For all this familiarity, rough-edged figures cut from cloth that is not the same but similar, is something different to see it in Pike.

Pike does not wear her similarities outwards; she holds them tight inside, and if it were not for Vex’s sharp eye (and that is hers; that she shares with none of them, the keen glance, the discernment, the quiet certainties about the pressing world) she would not know it. But Vex’s eyes are quick and clever, and Pike is not so good at hiding as she likes to think.

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anonymous asked:

I love your Sith in plain sight au!! What happens next? do Padme Anakin and Obi-Wan begin to plot out Palpatine's death together? Do they have a few close calls with the Council/clones when they try to have to alone time together?I'm happy with anything you give us!!!

Obi-Wan set the rules clear from the get go.

Nothing was to happen in the temple.

Anakin was not to touch him in the temple in an overly familiar way or speak to him in an overly familiar way, nothing that would suggest a deepening of their relationship.

And that was…hard.

Especially when Vos or someone flirted with him.

Because damn it, Anakin was a jealous man.

Of course it made him feel better when Obi-Wan would docilely follow him out of the temple and once they were alone, pounced on Anakin like a ravenous mountain lion. Force the amount of dark alley blow jobs…

“Do you have ANY idea what it feels like in our bond when you glare at them?” Obi-Wan hissed into Anakin’s neck, hand in the others hair, clenching lightly as he nipped and sucked a trail of hickies. “Knowing its because you want me, all for yourself?” The lithe body shuddered against him before Obi-Wan dropped to his knees, hands at the laces of the leggings.

‘Force if anyone knew how hot Obi-Wan burned…’ Anakin moaned, dropping the back of his head against the alley wall. ‘No one would believe me…oh FORCE!’

()()()

Glancing between the two Jedi, Rex blinked a bit.

He had been sure…

But both looked put together, Kenobi focusing directly at him and Skywalker doing something weird with a droid head in his lap, tinkering.

“The report Rex?” Kenobi questioned carefully, smiling at him.

“Oh, yes sir, I was just…” He trailed off again, blinking at Kenobi.

Was that…

“Rex?”

Skywalker was looking at him too but Rex couldn’t look away from the bruising on Kenobi’s neck.

Was that a…hicky?

“Rex!”

()()()

Something has changed.

Everyone knows it but can’t pinpoint it.

There’s a charge of something in the air, itching its way through the entire galaxy as if something has been turned on its head.

And Obi-Wan can’t do anything but hide the smile itching along his lips as the rest of the council debates what this change may be.

‘Well at least its not malevolent.’ He thought as Plo argued that whatever it was seemed to be beneficial to the Jedi Order and the light even if the basis of it seemed dark.

He shifted a bit, a tell tale soreness on his hipbone reminding him of Padme pushing him to the sheets, her grasp surprisingly strong for such deceptively slender and graceful hands. Thumbs digging into his hipbones, her clever eyes staring up at him with seductive charm.

Anakin strong against his back, arms wrapped around him to trap Obi-Wan’s to his sides, leaving him unable to do anything but squirm for them.

‘Honestly, we need to focus on planning.’ He thought to himself as he shifted a bit in his chair, responding to his own memories.

“Councilor Kenobi? Do you have anything to add?” Obi-Wan looked up, meeting Mace eyes as the Korun stared him down.

‘Seeing more shatterpoints Mace?’ He wondered before sitting up and stretching ever so slightly. “I don’t see why. This has happened and there is nothing we can do to change it until we learn more information. The Order can do nothing as of now with the little we have.” He looked around, his voice mild. A negotiator double gilded tongue and slick words with double meaning, it was useful even in the temple.

There were some soft words exchanged but Obi-Wan was right.

They knew nothing concrete now.

‘They’ll learn soon enough…as soon as Padme and Anakin can focus that is.’ Obi-Wan thought in amusement.

He glanced towards the Senate dome and only years of control kept his anger and anticipation masked.

‘Soon.’ He thought.

sing-for-your-lover  asked:

MEGHAN! pls do ronsey for the ship thing 💕😘

ADRIANA!! I can always count on you to add trc to my inbox thank you babe <3

SEND ME A SHIP AND I’LL TELL YOU…

who is more likely to hurt the other?

look….. ronan hurts so bad that it kind of gets on everything and I feel like gansey’s in the splash zone?? Gansey hurts ronan by caring about other people more than him but ronan hurts gansey when he hurts himself ie: all of book 1&2

who is emotionally stronger?

Like probably gansey sorry to say I think he has a lot of practice with being absolutely pristine and tucking his emotions into his waistcoat pocket, etc

ronan is resilient and rebellious but he is an open nerve man he takes everything deeply personally

who is physically stronger?

EXCELLENT question let me break it down: Ronan is the obvious choice - boxer, brawler, carries the weight of his huge crushes on his friends 24/7. buT Gansey has those rowing club arms and if it came down to it you best believe gansey would throw any member of the gangsey over both shoulders and carry them to safety

who is more likely to break a bone? 

I’m gonna go with ronan because he’s reckless as tits and I’m pretty sure he’s gonna skid too far at some point. gansey is a quester & he’s hell on history books but he’s so so cautious

who knows best what to say to upset the other? 

uhhhlmao its ronan NEXT

wait actually im pretty sure gansey could be like “im going on a study date w adam” and ronan’s head would explode but that’s more his deal than dick’s, u feel

who is most likely to apologize first after an argument? 

ronan would apologize to god himself that’s it. Gansey is like…….. never the source of an argument but he desperately wants everything to be mended and back to normal so he spends his time glossing over their fights. It’s a process. It’s paint over cracks in a wall, they’re still there buddy!!! fix the wall!!!!!!

who treats who’s wounds more often? 

>_>>_>>_> gansey literally probably held ronan together after he was shredded by his subconscious and I have no doubt that it never really stops like self loathing coupled w night horrors is a killer

(gansey never stops helping him, delicately at 3 am w blood on his hands, composure crumpling when he turns towards the sink to rinse them, holding ronan’s face still and then keeping his hands there).

who is in constant need of comfort? 

boooooth really really both. ronan is so outwardly ruined, he’s a building in the process of falling down, and like gansey’s gotta be support beams BUT that means he’s getting crushed?? like he helps so hard and he gives so much he hacks his own limbs off and hands them to the people he loves. he has trauma up to his eyes. He needs someone to unconditionally love him w their eyes & arms open

who gets more jealous? 

LMAO ronan jealous lynch from the jealous boys the jealous thieves jealous lily lily jealous and the jealous king

who’s most likely to walk out on the other? 

“i’d take you all everywhere w me if I could” did u read that me too neither of those fuckers are moving an inch

who will propose? 

u know i think ronan would?? my instinct was gansey but the truth is that ronan is all action and gansey still has the smallest shrapnel bit of uncertainty about where he stands with ppl so I think ronan would leap for him. he’s a leaper

who has the most difficult parents?

one pair is dead so take a wild fucking guess buddy

(if alive it would be a toss up: wild and dangerously intangible liars or high-brow, tongues so gilded w gold that they’ll cut you liars take ur pick)

who initiates hand-holding when they’re out in public? 

surprise it’s both ! ronan reaches for gansey bc he’s defiant and tactile and generally has never given a shit nor will he ever!! not one!!!!

gansey reaches for him because he knows physical contact brings ronan back from whatever shitty corridor his brain is tumbling down, and he loves to have people close like it’s thrilling to him. ronan’s pinky brushing his gives him fucking chills

who comes up for the other all the time? 

again if u mean in conversation idek maybe just by sheer probability of actually engaging in conversation for long enough to bring their bf up it would be gansey 

who hogs the blankets? 

ronan’s a messy fucking sleeper for obvious reasons and he can and will find the most inane ways to piss someone off so it’s him 

who gets more sad? 

everyone’s sad bish!! they’re both sad they’ve lost a lot times is hard

who is better at cheering the other up? 

ok maybe this is controversial but it’s ronan.. tbh…

he does THE dumbest things like idk proposes some sort of race between his dream creatures or shows gansey a fuckin meme or starts compiling a comprehensive list of compound swear words, like just dicks around so hard that gansey is busy pretending to scold him and his worries pack their gd bags

gansey is like. ronan’s life support like don’t get me wrong, but ronan’s just purposefully juvenile enough that it helps. it rlly helps

who’s the one that playfully slaps the other all the time after they make silly (dad) jokes?

gansey says THE most ridiculous garbage and ronan can and will punch him in the arm 

who is more streetwise?

A JOKE

(gansey’s probably wearing a salmon polo shirt rn why don’t u tell me)

who is more wise?

gansey’s an ancient forest & he keeps an aspiration journal ://

who’s the shyest? 

they ain’t shy my guy they just flat out refuse to show their true colours. like buried under ronan’s ritual of blistering eye contact and aggressive engagement there’s a real shock of anxiety and discomfort 

but under gansey’s plastic face there’s a whole lot of squirmy uncertainty and hatred of superficiality as well so……. like who knows

who boasts about the other more? 

they’re always bragging about each other dude if you say gansey’s name and ronan’s in the CITY he’ll be smug and impossible, and u don’t even need to mention ronan for gansey to be talking about him like at any given time he’ll be like have u met my boyfriend ronan lynch or my boyfriend henry cheng or my boyfriend adam parrish or my girlfriend blue sargent or my boyfri-

who sits on who’s lap?

don’t even joke about this ronan would sit in gansey’s lap like it’s a custom throne made for his ass, he needs to be held to live

No Strings, No Marks

Fandom: Skam
Ship: Chris x Eva
Summary: Every so often, Eva searched her skin for a name. 
Soulmate AU. Companion piece to this.
ao3

Every so often, Eva searched her skin for a soulmate mark.

Not as often as she once had—back when her world, romantic and social and otherwise, had revolved around Jonas, she had scoured her arms and legs and chest for some sign of a name, of him, of them. Sometimes, when she was lying in bed by herself and staring at the photos of her old friends that still hung on the wall, she would get up in the middle of the night to slant a hand mirror over her shoulder, just to make sure that ‘Jonas’ hadn’t sprouted across her upper back mid-sleep. She’d squint into the lamplight until she had no choice but to huff a sigh, drop her compact, and squirm back beneath the covers.

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2

Modern Worshippers: Kalliope

They twist words with ease and glitter-filled honey slips from their lips. The whisper words of advice to those who shake at the thought of public speaking. They themselves can stir a crowd gone cold with passion and fire just by opening their mouth. Some become motivational speakers, some layers to plead cases. Some politicians and some writers. They walk with a royal step and ink stains on their fingers like nail lacquer. But they also know when to hold a gilded tongue because silence too can be golden.

They are the Princesses and Princes of Spoken Word, under a crowing Queen.

2

Requested by anon

“I know a short cut” Kol said taking your hand and walking off the pathway and instead into the nearby woodland. You laughed lightly when you emerged from the trees to walk along the dirt trail in the forest. “You do know your way from here right?” you asked, raising an eyebrow being skeptical of his sense of direction. He smirked and nodded “There’s nothing I don’t know” he said cockily as you both began to walk again. You hadn’t even noticed that while you were walking for the first ten minutes he was still holding your hand. Another ten minutes had passed, you could see Kol biting his lip and looking down as you walked. You stopped walking and folded your arms, making him look up at you. “Everything okay darling?” he asked, furrowing his eyebrows. “Are we lost?” you asked, grinning slightly. Kol shook his head confused. “No, why?” he questioned. “We’ve been walking for twenty minutes, it takes ten to get to my house” you stated, continuing to grin. “And you were looking downward, you usually do that when you’re stuck in your thoughts” you pointed out. You’d know Kol for a long time and nearly knew what every gesture he did meant. He chuckle lightly and tucked his hands in his pockets. “Okay Ms. Observant, want me to show you what I was thinking about?” he asked, tilting his head. “Obviously” you teased. Kol stepped towards you and removed his hands from his pockets, he placed one on your cheek and leaned in slowly kissing you. You widened your eyes for a minute, before relaxing into the kiss and returning it. You unfolded your arms and wrapped them around your neck. Kol moved his other hand to your waist, pulling you closer to him as he deepened the kiss. You slowly slid one of your hands up the back of his neck until to reached his hair, your fingers roaming. Kol moaned lightly as he gilded his tongue over your bottom lip. You felt yourself smirk, before you parted your lips. Your tongue danced with Kol’s as he held your hip tighter, keeping you chest to chest. You both slowly pulled away and looked at each other, both of your smirking, though you felt the heat rise to your cheeks. “That’s what I was thinking about” he teased before returning to kiss you again.

Hurricane - A Nessian Fic

thank you to @sarahviehmann for betaing and cheerleading me through this :)  prompted by anonymous, sorry it took a while but I wanted to really try and do it justice! 

Title: Hurricane 

Length: 7,700 

Summary: Nesta and Cassian post ACOMAF oneshot. Nesta comes to Cassian after the events in Hybern. The two of them release their frustration over being broken and Made and find an understanding between them neither anticipated and a connection that alters their lives even further. 

Links: AO3 

“Still sulking?”

His spine stiffens. At first it’s merely at the sound of her voice, cool as the mountain winds he misses streaming through his wings, sharp as a winter storm. That voice gets his back up even before he registers the mocking tone and the sardonic words.

Then he sees her. Nesta. Lounging against the balcony door with an ease that might suggests she owns this entire house and everything in it – including him.

The sight of her, the sound of her voice, her words dripping contempt, punch through the numb walls he’s surrounded himself with since he lost his wings with such startling swiftness and brutality that that’s all it takes to get his blood boiling.

A thick, rippling growl builds in his chest, loosed in a vicious burst towards her like roiling thunder. He’s seen battle hardened warriors on blood-soaked killing fields pale and flee from him at the sound. She barely even deigns to blink coolly at him as she strides out onto the balcony. She actually has the bald nerve and gall to approach him after that snarl had made it perfectly clear he wasn’t in the mood for her company.

She still looks like her. She’s still veiled in that icy beauty that called so sweetly to the fire in his heart, threatening to tame it; daring him to challenge it. But the Cauldron has sharpened her features, hollowing her cheeks, sculpting her fine lips, refining the lines of her face making her at once more elegant and striking but somehow also more terrible, and dangerous, and wild.

It’s a face to make men pause – especially with those eyes burning with blue fire and glittering with silver steel – honed to an edge even Az would covet – a face to make men tremble if they have a scrap of sense about them. Cassian never has.

So he faces her boldly as she approaches him, contemptuous grace in every movement, a predator at her core. She’s a panther draped in silk, a huntress of a different sort than her sister but just as deadly if not more so. She’s the knife in the shadows, the poison in the chalice, the end that comes without ever being seen.

If he ever somehow forgot her face, Cassian thinks as she stalks to stand by him at the stone balcony rail, he would never forget the way she moved. Not in a thousand immortal lifetimes could he forget that.

She moves like a storm given substance, holds herself like a queen among mice, a god among peasants – as though this world and everything in it, all its history and power and potential, the things it’s contained, the miracles it’s seen made flesh are beneath her, unworthy of her notice.

Her eyes rake up and down his body with a sharpness that cuts, weighing, calculating, judging, lingering for a fraction of a second longer on his tattered wings than anywhere else.

“Mor says you haven’t left this room in three days,” she announces, tearing her piercing gaze away from him the moment she opens her mouth to speak to him, her words frosted with apparent indifference, “You haven’t eaten. Barely slept…” she trails off delicately, examining her nails.

He couldn’t sleep. Not without reliving it over and over and over again. His wings shredded into bloody ribbons by that burst of power. The agony. The heat of the blood against his skin. The tang of it against his tongue. The bile rising in his throat. The panic constricting his chest and ripping the air from his lungs. His wings. His wings. His wings. Every time he woke in a cold sweat, panting and gripping the sheets to try and anchor himself to reality. A reality that was every bit as cruel as the nightmare he’d just torn himself from and offered him no comfort or respite from his torment.

But the rare occasions when he didn’t have that nightmare were worse. On those nights he flew through the wild, unforgiving mountains he had learned to tame centuries ago. Alive with the rush of air whipping past him, the call of the wind humming in his veins, and the taste of freedom gilding his tongue as he roared his defiance at the world that had tried and failed at every turn to chain him to its will.

Then he woke sobbing and alone in the blackness of the night; that exhilaration snuffed out like a candle by a thoughtless gust, leaving him blind and staggering and empty once more. He groped in the dark for his wings and felt the broken truth at his back and his soul howled its grief and devastation that he might never fly through those peaks again; might never soar into the arms of the waiting heavens as he was made to.

But he can’t tell her that. Can’t even begin to explain it to her, what this loss feels like for him, for an Illyrian male to lose his wings, to be grounded, what it means, the weight of what he’s lost. So instead he finds an easy smirk to toss in her direction – the kind he knows from experience will infuriate every inch of her new immortal being and says with idle arrogance, “Concerned for me, Nesta?”  

The look she gives him radiates such contempt that he can practically hear the disdainful word she sneers at him even though she never gives voice to it, please, before she says, picking at her nails in a show of unconcern that’s as tailored to his temper as his smirk was to hers, “Bored.” She says with a lazy shrug then cuts a glance in his direction as she adds, tone darkening like thunderheads gathering to blacken a bright blue sky, “And I thought might have something better to do with your time than brood over how hard done to you are, what with the war that’s coming.”

A harsh snarl erupts from him at her presumption, her insinuation, the knife she may as well have thrust between his ribs, plunging straight into the heart of him.

He advances a step towards her, wings barking in agony as they instinctively flare, a stark reminder of the loss he faces, the thing she’s trivialising with such brash arrogance.

Nothing without those wings. Nothing.

As before she barely shows any reaction to the fury she’s inspired in him and holds her ground with the same kind of serene indifference a deaf god might show the plight of an ant. Some part of him flickers, reluctantly impressed by her courage and resilience but it’s buried deep beneath the layers of raw, unbridled anger that fill his empty being – so long devoid of anything that centuries of hard training are as nothing to, forgotten in the face of her, in the way she reaches into him and rips at the most vulnerable parts of his self with cut-throat efficiency.

But Nesta, Cauldron damn her, just presses on cool and matter-of-fact, “I don’t really see what you’re complaining about myself.” He frowns down at her, expression dark as the corrupt hearts that plague the Court of Nightmares as she informs him evenly, “I’ve never been able to fly – it didn’t do me any great harm.”

Cassian has been interrogated by hardened, seasoned battle commanders with hours of time and centuries of experience at their disposal and not one of them even came close to getting this deeply rooted under his skin as this woman – barely old enough to be considered one, even as a human – has done in the space of a few minutes with a handful of icy, calculated sentences.

She knows just where to hit, exactly what weaknesses to exploit to bait a reaction out of him and the look in her glittering, unyielding eyes tells him she knows it. Damn her she knows.

He steps up to her, towering over her even in her new Fae body and she just leans in to him, arrogant, unflinching pride radiating from every inch of her.

“But if you could have flown,” he growls in her face, his barely controlled anger pulsing through every syllable and the way she glares at him, the way she gets right back in his face tells him she relishes every breath of it, “And then one day they took your wings from you and chained you to the ground and stripped you of every bit of freedom and independence I know you crave-“

Her face tightens into a soundless snarl at those words, that daring I know you, and he smiles so slowly, savouring the taste of her weak spot and he presses his advantage, digging his fingers into the cracks he’s made in that gloriously indifferent armour of ice and steel she’s encased herself in, prising them open wider.

“It would have done you harm then,” he breathes with all the arrogant certainty he can muster, “It would have driven you mad-“

“Don’t talk about me like you understand me,” she snaps, that fire flaring as her mask of ice shatters.

A broad, lazy grin spreads across his face. There you are some deep, instinctual part of him purrs to her – the being she truly is, that burning seething wildfire trapped in this immortal prison by the Cauldron’s cruel will.

“Oh but I do,” he murmurs to her, taking another step towards her as those feral eyes dare to him to do, “I do. You can try and hide behind your mask and your finery and your contempt all you like but I see you. I see you, Nesta Archeron,” rage has transformed those cold, sculpted features into those of a snarling hellcat, “You are a wild beast in skin that they have caged and tried to tame your entire life but all you want to do is roar,” he lets his smile widen, eyes dancing as he adds, “Like me.”

“I am nothing like you,” she hurls at him, voice surging with the same promise of violence and destruction as a roaring hurricane. But it shifts and becomes sharp and precise as a razorblade when she hisses viciously, “Wasting away up here and feeling sorry for yourself – you’re pathetic,” she snarls at him, venom dripping from every word.

He watches as those walls lock into place around her again, afraid she’d somehow gotten in too deep so now she shoves him out with every bit of her considerable strength and will no matter how ruthless she needs to be to do it.

“One little set back and you’ve given up,” she sneers.  

Set back? Set back?

Nothing without those wings.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” he rumbles, lethal warning pulsing from every word.

That smirk; that damned smirk snaps right back onto her lips beneath her flashing storm-tossed eyes because she knows she’s won. She knows that she’s managed to get his hackles up and has barely even broken a sweat in doing so. She knows that he’s on the defensive again and that’s exactly where she wants him to be.

“No?” she mocks, arching an elegant eyebrow at him. Her voice hardens once more into that line of frigid steel when she grinds out, “The way I see it shit happens and you deal with it.” She tosses a look loaded with contempt at him as she crosses her arms over her chest with a snide sneer, “Or you don’t,” she says, her eyes flickering pointedly to his ragged wings again.

“You have no idea what I’m dealing with,” he spits at her.

Nothing without those wings. Nothing without those wings. Nothing without those wings.

He doesn’t care that he’s making this easy for her. He doesn’t care that she’s somehow slipped beneath his skin and is digging deeper and deeper into him with every word. He doesn’t care about the thick, smothering tension that’s getting tauter between them with every second, pulling the air from their lungs and the sense from their selves and making it more and more likely that one of them is going to do something incredibly stupid if it isn’t eased soon.

All he cares about is the challenge in her eyes and the way his blood roars at him to rise to it.

Her eyes narrow and lightning flashes in them as she straightens her spine and stares him down with something terrible burning in her blood as her mouth twists itself into a wordless snarl. And though he stands almost a clear foot taller than her, the rage that gathers from very part of her could make him tremble like nothing he’s seen in over five centuries of war and battle and bloodshed could do – such anger – anger that could level worlds and bring deities to their knees is all directed at him as she moves in so close that in a shiver he could touch her.

“No?” she whispers, words shaking with barely controlled fury, fury she’s trying so hard to leash to herself but with little success, “I have no idea? I have no idea?” she repeats, throwing his words back at him.

Her eyes are now glowing slits in her face and he realises then, realises that this is bigger than him and the sharp words they’ve been tossing back and forth, biting and baiting and testing each other’s limits, feeling each other out again after the things that have changed.

He’s caused something much deeper and darker in her to snap and make her forget the armour of indifference she’s used to shield herself from the world for so long. Because when she snarls the next words at him he sees, sees the cracks that splinter and fissure right down to the core of her where her ice and steel give way to vulnerability.

“They didn’t take you and stuff you into that Cauldron and turn you into something else – something you despise against your will,” her voice cracks with rage and despair and something like grief – grief for what she was, what she lost, what was taken from her.

Her breathing shudders as she goes on, apparently unable to stop herself now that she’s begun and this time her words tremble, tapping into a vein of emotion in her so deep that the impact it has on her – on him – staggers him.

“And they didn’t make you watch, make you feel helpless, and powerless, and weak as they did the same thing to the person you love most while you couldn’t do a single damn thing about it,” she rages, stamping her foot in a futile bid to relieve some of the crushing, unbearable pressure that’s hammering down on her soul.

Cassian had watched, watched as they’d dragged both girls to the Cauldron and forced them under. He’d listened to Nesta’s howling screams, seen her fight like a snared beast to get to Elain, felt that desire to tear her own being into shreds and all the world too for spite and for the sake of her sister. He’d felt her terror and her pain through that promise he’d made her, that bond he’d forged between them – the oath that had killed him when he’d failed to keep it.

The agony in his wings had been too much and he had tried, Mother damn him he had tried. Tried to keep that promise, tried to protect her, tried to die fighting on her behalf as he’d sworn to her he would.  It had destroyed a part of him when the pain had knocked him unconscious and stopped him going to her. He had failed. He had failed her. He had broken his vow. And that thought had haunted him since waking almost as much as the enormity of losing his wings had.

And if that was what watching had been like for him, what it had done to him, then to her…

“You chose this,” she hurls at him, her fury dragging him back to her like a leash on his soul pulling it in to hers.

Her hands clenching into fists at her sides as she fights to keep herself together; tries to stop herself from shattering entirely. And some part of him, some mad, wild part of him wants to reach out to her, to fold her into his arms and shelter her from it all. But the sane, rational part of him that remains tells him she would never allow him.

Her chest is heaving with the effort of containing the raw emotion that throws itself against her soul with the force of a relentless, furious ocean slamming itself against a steadily shattering cliff-face, emotion that he can somehow feel radiating out of her – anger and pain and grief and guilt and he understands.

With the impact of those three words he understands everything.

The difference in what they’d endured and all the fury and contempt she felt for him and his pain when she…

“You chose to shield your friend, your brother-“ as she had failed to shield her sister, “You chose to protect him this way- You chose.” Chose. As she would have. If they had given her that chance. “Was it not worth it?”

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insomnia

sleepless in a nightgown stinted like moonlight
the lace forlorn against my cold body

i’m gilded tongue, rosewater rinds, the jeweled 
evening’s soft mumbled lullaby 

pained by every crook of your belligerent bones,
the thudded heart spits out a peace offering

a kiss of candlelight for your winter-fractures, 
embossed like silvered embers and the brocade,

like the tips of your hair or sifting through the 
smokescreen of a madly grinning country

i see how you flirt with the rain, the way the 
stars ride your eyes like blurring trains 

the night and all her sisters, attuned to the 
sand & silt of your familiar touch, the

sorrowed veins of sempiternal dreams
and the frosted novices of sparrows 

brimming tears or fugacious flowers 
curling into the lantern of restlessness.

Klaroweek: Regency AU

HAPPY DAY TWO EVERYONE


Caroline tucked her feet a little closer to her body, uncaring of how terrible her posture was or the maid’s horrified reaction should she walk in. She’d pleaded a headache that morning, unwilling to face the quiet of the manor or the routine of dressing for the day.

The drizzle outside turned the English countryside grey, the usually picturesque view dull. It matched her mood perfectly. The past month had been slow, the recovery her heart and nerves needed - if only she’d managed to actually heal.

She’d broken her betrothal, and quietly fled London. It would buy her a little time, as no one would look for her here. But all it did was delay the consequences of her choices - Tyler had cared about her, but his family would never tolerate the loss of her inheritance. It was only a matter of time before they retaliated.

Then word had arrived that Katerina was dead. The Mikaelson family had disappeared as quickly as they’d arrived, setting the Ton on their collective ears. Caroline sighed heavily, letting the chill from her window seep into her skin.

Tomorrow she’d find the energy to walk to the local church and ask for prayers for her soul. She’d seen the devil - danced with him in gilded halls, tasted the sin on his lips - and craved more. Caroline was intimately aware that monsters wore human skin, had been so careful to skirt the edges of her betrothed’s choice of lifestyle.

Until Klaus.

With black malady in his veins, the hot sting of his fangs against her throat as Tyler screamed and begged. She hadn’t flinched from her death - had refused to give him that - and instead of pain and death, the monster had cradled her close; had soothed her frantic pulse with his tongue until the wound from his bite had sealed. And Caroline had found herself shaken; the hot band of Tyler’s nightmare’s arm wrapped around her waist, his fingers tangled in her hair while he kept her close.

Fool that she was, for a moment she’d let herself relax. Then those hot lips and hotter skin had pressed against her ear. His fingers stroking down the nape of her neck with a proprietary hold that had alarmed her far more than his bite.

“As for you love, you’ll be keeping this quiet.” The softest press of lips against the ridge of her ear. “I can compel your silence - ensure your cooperation - but this will be more fun.”

Then he’d released her, stepping back to smile with her blood staining his lips, dripping down his chin. “Breathe a word of this, attempt to run and I’ll eat everyone you care about before I come for you.”

“Leave her out if this,” Tyler had pleaded hoarsely. “She’s not part of this. What use could you have for a mere girl?”

The devil laughed. His eyes flickered over Caroline’s pale face. “Bait. Such beautiful bait.”

And she’d played her part. Had refused to cower before her impending death - regardless of what Tyler thought, Klaus Mikaelson would kill them both. There was no life that could sate the monster Tyler had brought into her life.

But then…

He’d had the audacity to court her. To push aside all propriety and send her gifts. Leave them on her pillow. Small, carefully drawn pictures of her, little trinkets she admired when shopping.

Klaus had been so amused by her demands to stop. Dimples bracketing that charming, lie of a smile he’d laughed at her furious whispers. “Perhaps I admire you.”

Caroline lifted her chin. “You don’t see people as something to admire, you see us as food. My life was bargained so you could court Katerina Petrova.”

“I’m setting her up for the slaughter, which you well know; she’ll die before the next moon. Considering breaking our deal?”

“You’ve made your threats very clear,” Caroline replied, looking away from him.

“Yes, and unlike your betrothed, you seem to realize how easily I will execute them.” Klaus tilted his head, studied her profile. “Yet, you return what I give you, throw my generosity in my face.”

Caroline fisted her hands in her skirt, paused as she turned to leave. “I do not fear my death, which we both know approaches a little more each day, but you will not make a mockery of my life.”

“Is that what you believe?”

Caroline hesitated, but didn’t turn to face him. “You don’t care for my feelings and you have none yourself. I will keep my end of the bargain. I want to live. But I will not let you take anything else from me.”

Instead, she gave away pieces of herself.

In her bedroom, the hard line of him pressed close - his mouth open against hers, the soft seduction of his tongue, hot and slick against her own. Her day skirts and petticoats were useless barriers against the heat of him; he stripped her bare with his hands in the privacy of her room just as easily as he had with his eyes in public. There were no explanations, no soft words as he burned her alive from the inside out, his body branding hers as Klaus took and took until she was boneless.

She’d reached for the shame as he softened inside her, the guilt that should have mingled with horror as he angled her neck; fangs piercing her skin as the monster buried inside her groaned at her taste. But all she knew was a languorous greed as she felt him harden, the hard length of his erection pressing against tender muscles as his body thrust into her. That possessive, determined grip on her hair and breast as he drove her towards that nameless breaking, that terrible and wonderful heaven that numbed her to everything but him.

He spoke only when she was spent, body limp and pliant under her sheets, cold from the loss of his skin. Lips against her temple, he’d laughed at her noise of protest.

“Death is not always an ending, little love.”

Caroline hadn’t known if it was a threat or a promise, but something terrible sat in her chest. A knowing that whatever she’d been before - they’d changed it. Oh, he was careful with the outside world, his pretty words and gentle manners for Katerina. But he showed her his teeth and horrors, cradled her against his chest and carried her under his skin.

Caroline wished fervently that she’d hated it.

She wanted to say that her body didn’t burn for him. That in the secrets of her room, she didn’t slide her hands under the long cotton of her nightdress, didn’t shamefully explore what he’d shown her her body was capable of feeling. The memory of him left her pressing into her mattress with hitching breaths and muffled moans.

She kept waiting for the repercussions that never came. No servant talked, no rumor caught her desperate ears. Tyler suspected nothing - knew nothing of her body’s awakening, of the game she played with the devil.

Then it… fell apart.

Tyler slipped.

He confessed his double dealings. Promised her it would all be over soon. Caroline was stunned - one monster did not replace another. Worse, she’d discovered she… cared. She didn’t know if she liked who Klaus was or the monster under his skin; but she was incapable of the betrayal Tyler spoke of - even if she’d committed a worse betrayal and let Klaus into her bed, slept with his skin feverish against hers.

But as she stared at Tyler, she realized that it wasn’t Klaus she feared. The monster whose teeth bit into her throat was the same man who left her books on travel. Who listened when he finally coaxed her into discussing what she wanted from life.

Klaus wrecked her. He shook her faith, destroyed her beliefs and left her craving his gilded tongue, his artist’s hands. And Caroline feared in the depths of her ruined heart that he’d done it on purpose.

A back up plan.

A pleasurable destruction.

Beautiful bait.

Standing before Tyler, she hadn’t cried. Hadn’t shaken from her epiphany, the knowledge of how thoroughly Klaus had ruined her. Instead she’d nodded, played along and planned.

Three days later she’d left Klaus a letter with everything she knew about Tyler and Mikael’s plotting. Then she’d quietly, carefully escaped from the city - heading to an estate that few would know her connection to and simply waited.

If Klaus won - he’d leave. Take his sister, the brother she’d heard him mention and reign his terror across the continent. Perhaps the Americas.

If he lost, in a few weeks, she’d face the consequences - likely her death. Tyler would not forgive her betrayal, nor would the creature who hunted its own son. In the end, she’d condemned herself, but it offered some peace. For the first time in her life, she’d made the choice she could live with.

“Did you expect that I would not find you?”

Caroline turned, faced the door to her borrowed bedroom in shock. Klaus stood there, loomed at her from the doorway in a simple pair of breeches and workman’s shirt. She felt her heart skip, torn between delight and alarm.

“If you lived, I did not expect you to try,” Caroline said finally, brows tucked together. “I assume whatever ritual you needed was completed?”

His eyes bled yellow, a double set of fangs dropping down and her stomach leapt into her throat. Klaus smiled at her, stalked into the room. “Mikael is dead. As is your ex-betrothed and the precious Katerina.”

Caroline nodded, wondered how harshly her soul was to be judged for her part. “Do now you have to tie the loose ends?”

Klaus reached for the end of her braid, tugged lightly at her hair. “Do you remember what I promised you?”

“That if I spoke about what you were, if I ran from you - you’d eat everyone I cared about before you came for me.”

“Good.”

Her back hit her mattress suddenly; the hem of her nightclothes, her robe shoved up past her hips and the hot stroke of his tongue against her most private area left her in shock. Hands nearly bruising on her thighs, he licked at her with rough, velvet strokes of his tongue until she cried out, until her hands fisted in his hair and her hips rolled helplessly against his lips.

Until she broke apart, body arching in supplication. Klaus lifted his head, hands smoothing down her trembling thighs until the worst of her tremors eased. Watching her from heavy eyes, he worked on loosening the ties of his shirt.

“I killed my father.”

His shirt hit the floor, and Klaus worked sharply at his pants. “I broke my curse.”

Naked, he crawled back to her body and shredded her gown, eyes sliding down her unfashionable slimness, the softness of her skin. “And free for the first time in five hundred years, all I can think of is a human girl - a breakable with a spine of steel. And all I can imagine is your death - how time will sink into the mortality of your bones, hollowing you out a little at a time.”

“Will you kill me then?”

He kissed her breast, sucked her nipple with his mouth, rolled her flesh against his tongue until she cried out, nails clawing at his back. Klaus gave her no mercy, merely switching sides until she was begging, body clinging to his. Then he spread her open, and sheathed himself inside her with a hard thrust. Caroline sobbed for air, eyes squeezed tightly shut.

“Yes,” Klaus said into her ear as he began to move, each stroke of his erection drawing a cry from her throat. “I will kill you. But first I’m going to drink - take my little human Caroline’s blood. And when you’re coming around my cock, I’m going to give you mine.”

Caroline tossed her head, her unraveling braid a wild mess on her pillow. He laughed, kissed her jaw. “No? Being a vampire will suit your fierceness, my love.”

And she opened her eyes to hold his gaze, saw the crawling death of his wolf and vampire in his eyes, hunting her. But behind the predator was the expression that made her heart pound. That touch of softness, that admiration he’d shown so unwillingly when she would not bend.

I will not let you go, his eyes told her. Time and death cannot have you. I’m stronger than both.

He bit her throat, the sharp pain of it so much more than before. She could feel the heat of her blood spilling down her back, sliding to her breasts as he took greedy mouthfuls. The pain burned but somehow, it made the pleasure more, dug into her bones and left her desperate.

Klaus lifted his head, bit at his wrist with his bloody mouth as she started to tremble around him, her eyes unfocused from the pleasure and blood loss. His blood spilled hot between her lips as pleasure engulfed her; left her chest warm as he shuddered between her thighs; thrusts stilling as she watched him with heavy lashes.

Slowly, touch tender, he brushed the blood away from her lips - licked his hand clean. Just as slowly, everything about him gentle as she watched him from the daze of her afterglow, he tangled his hands in her hair, and smiled his monster’s smile.

“The things I’ll show you.”

Caroline felt the world wrench; died from a broken neck.

She woke hours later - a maid between her teeth, Klaus’s lips at her ear, and his fingers stroking the wet heat of her.

“Welcome to death, little love.”

why do we speak in gilded tongues, in fatalities? why is my rose garden incomplete without the bloodstains? i just want to be an infinity, pin the wings of angels between my teeth, braid the stars into a waterfall and live a little larger, a little lighter, a little sparklier.

if you kiss me around the spring equinox, in the brimstone church where the sun is merely a breath away from the moon, then we get a chance at immortality. or something like that. there are myths coated in stardust that mirror our reflecting bodies.

are we not kinetic? did you not take the fall for me and create rain? winter was crocheted from the velvet lace of your heart, the first time you sobbed with your whole being, a twister hit Arkansas, the one day you forgot to say your midnight prayer, the world quaked beneath your feet. i claimed Eden’s garden after i accepted the apple from the witch. if the world ends tonight, it’s going to be because of you & me.

—  Won’t You Swallow The World Whole For Me, Dear? // j.r 

anonymous asked:

Dorian, covered in someone else's blood. He thinks that's another ruined outfit, Bull thinks that's hot.

Title: Lexicon

Notes: Dubious concent, mention of blood. Slightly mutated from original prompt, sorry.

It might have been slightly more tolerable if the beast didn’t reek of copper. Copper was too human of a scent, reminding Dorian of cutting down soldiers with with the butt of his staff while he struggled to draw energy for a spell to burn them away. He swatted at his clothing, flinging slick strings of fluid away from fine leather. The buckles, if he were lucky, he might be able to salvage.

“This is disgusting,” he muttered.

“Speak for yourself.”

Dorian arched a slender eyebrow and shot the Iron Bull a cold glare. “I am covered in…” He paused and wrinkled his nose before looking down at his ruined clothes. “Ichor,” Dorian said at last. “Filth. Unspeakable bodily fluids.”

“That’s blood,” Bull said, grin wide and gaze dark. “I could help you with that.”

Dorian stared. “What?”

Bull took a step forward and hooked a finger under a ruined strap, tugging Dorian forward. “You heard me, ‘Vint.” The Iron Bull smelled of fire and ash, sweat and steel. He rubbed his thumb over the ruined leather. His one pupil was blown wide and black within the ring of his gray iris.

“Sweet Maker, this… Of all the things…” Dorian’s breath caught in his throat. He dug his heels into the battered earth and wrapped his hands around Bull’s wrist. “No. Absolutely not. I enjoy a good post-battle romp as much as the next, but this is—”

He was silenced with a kiss that tasted of copper, Bull’s rough tongue thrusting into Dorian’s mouth.

Dorian grunted into the kiss and tightened his grip on Bull’s wrists. Stumbled, boots skittering on loose stone as he was pushed back against the rockface. No quarter to move, not with Bull’s hand at his jaw, thick fingers curving around the back of Dorian’s skull, not with Bull’s heaving chest pressed against his own.

Bull broke off the brutal kiss to bite at the junction of Dorian’s shoulder and neck.

Sharp canines at his neck and a muscled thigh pressed firmly between his legs. “Bull, this is hardly—!” Dorian sucked in a sharp breath. His body sang with it, adrenaline coursing through veins turned hot and liquid, pooling in the pit of his gut in a furious twist of panic and arousal. Dorian tipped back his head. “Kaffas.” Bared his throat.

That wasn’t the word.

Bull yanked at Dorian’s belt and his nails quickly scratched at Dorian’s skin. Something ripped and cold autumn air nipped at his abdomen and a rough hand reached for his cock.

“Kaffas,” Dorian said again, voice lost in the back of his throat.

The Iron Bull growled, chest vibrating with it.

A word, a word, Dorian sought a word through the haze clouding his vision as he clawed at the Iron Bull’s back and shoved at his chest. “Katoh.”

The Iron Bull froze.

“Katoh, Amatus.”

He trembled in Dorian’s arms.

“Festis bei umo canavarum,” Dorian muttered. Tevene fell from his lips and tongue, smooth and gilded and quick. Words of his youth to sooth a frightened child, to hush a startled lover before they could be found.

The Inquisitor called for them. She sounded so very far away.

Dorian smoothed his hands across Bull’s shoulders, his face, traced the lines of his scars and the shivering jump of the pulse in his throat. “I have you,” Dorian said softly.

“Kadan, I…” Bull’s hands, such strong hands, hung limp and helpless at his side and he stared off into the distance beyond Dorian’s shoulder.

“I know.” Footsteps crunched on loose gravel and Dorian yanked at his clothing. “I am fine, Bull is fine, everything is fine, may I be allowed a single blasted moment to catch my breath!” he yelled towards the Inquisitor.

“Dorian, is everything—”

“It is fine!” he snapped.

She stopped when she came in sight of them, her look of concern blossoming into a brief wicked grin. “Very fine, from the looks of it. Cassandra and I have the rift closed, but we need to head back quickly.” Something fluttered across Evelyn’s face. “Bull, are you…”

“Fine,” Dorian said softly. “A moment, if you will, dear?”

Evelyn glanced between the two men, brow furrowed. “Sure.” She ran a hand over her short shorn scalp. “Just… don’t take too long, alright?”

Dorian looked only at Bull as she walked away. He placed a gentle hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Bull?”

“Tal-vashoth.” It was confession and self-condemnation in the same breath.

“Yes,” Dorian said simply.

A slight tightening of his shoulders and furrowing of his brow. On any other man, Dorian would have said he flinched.

“But not savage. Not mindless.”

“Not yet,” Bull growled. His hands curled into fists and his entire body clenched tight.

Dorian dug his fingers into Bull’s shoulder, let go and grabbed at a horn instead. “You listened!” he snapped. “I said ‘katoh’ and you listened!”

Bull tipped his head in token protest, bowed his gaze to the rough ground between them. “You had to say it.”

He yanked Bull’s horn again until the other man had to look at him again. “I have you, Amatus. The Inquisition has you. The Chargers have you. We are all…” Dorian leaned in and pressed his face to Bull’s neck, his lips to the trembling pulse in Bull’s throat.

Words again, from his scattered knowledge of the Qunlat.

Dorian smiled as he found them.

“Asit tal-eb, Amatus.”

=====

Still taking requests for Iron Bull or Dorian Pavus or adoribull! Any kink, any prompt, any AU, any head canon! :D