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would anyone like to plot ?

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favorite max dresses [requested by anonymous]

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You’ll, you know. I will.

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progress cannot begin and suffering will not end until someone has the courage to go out into the woods and drown the damned cat 

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           “funny, but i do not recall asking for your preferred method of treatment,” costia seems to be scolding, though her tone remains deceptively conversational. all the while, her hands are making quick work of the poultice she’s presses into a gaping wound. “leave this to open air, and it will rot. there will be no more battles for you, because you will be dead,” matter-of-fact as ever, she arches an eyebrow. “so, i would advise that you steel your tongue to live another day.”

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           “the war is not always won with the sharp ends of swords and the poisoned tips of arrows,” she alludes over her shoulder as she meanders through the hut, a basket of freshly picked flowers and herbs cradled against her hip. “you should know, better than i, how a sharp tongue, a careful positioning of words, can prove far more fatal.”

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                         & like the cat i have nine times to die,                                           this is number three.

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hallo. es me.

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for one supposedly forged from fire and gravel, costia discovers that there is a softness to lexa that lingers beneath the branded armor of a war general.  there is a gentleness, a pillow of vulnerability that invites another woman's kiss in such a sacred gesture, it takes her breath away.  while costia maintains control, she relinquishes it, too.  the lion becomes the lamb, grazing in fields foreign from the ones she insists she has always known.  this experience is entirely new.

the brush of fingertips against her cheeks reminds her that she is here, that her body remains squarely upon the earth.  this summons the soul back to its vessel, exploding into the veins of an otherwise mortal girl stricken with divinity.  she inhales through her nose, the scent of honey and wine consorting with evergreen and loam invoking imagery of home.

discussion of falling seems childish, now, as she recollects something of an ascension:  a rise to the tips of her toes to ensure a full-fledged collision of body and heart.  the motion is endless and daunting, a permanent severance of feet and ground.  costia covers lexa's hand against her face with her own.

"a lion with the mouth of a lamb," she expands the thought reverently, fingers curling around the roughness of lexa's knuckles (the callous kisses of war) which she brings to her mouth, too, to mend. "such a beautiful intricacy." she drags her knuckles across her lips until she can caress each pad of her finger with the fealty of her adoration.

“----a more beautiful girl.”

BASHFUL  IS  SUCH  a strange sentiment to sport among formal cloaks  &  sharp edges.  she has  brutality  forged into rough knuckles, calluses stroked by her sword’s hilt.  but she feels warm  &  shy in the face of costia who somehow takes her over with such a sweeping power that it seems silly that it is  lexa  who is the leader of nations.  costia’s smile is better than honey to spread across her bread.  lexa dunks the curving edge of her knife into the amber pot anyway, only just smearing enough to  SATE  the craving cloistering at the tip of her tongue.  

she tries to busy herself with these menial tasks because her bluster is so fully on display.  she’s bandy-legged, a fumbling  second  on her first day at anya’s side instead of the grown warrior whittled with precision  &  caution.  where is the war seasoning her scarred skin now?  

a subtle chuckle tips the bottom ledger of her teeth.  her mouth opens to offer back a volley of the  amorous banter  she promised would not fade from their outing.  but when she looks up, she sees costia’s smirk plying her through the fan of her lashes.  so, her heart lurches in her chest just to spite her.  &  the butterflies that rush up from her belly rival any fluttering through the nearby fields.  their wings mash her lungs, her pulse.  

costia’s kiss catches her with parted lips, a question filtering through the rafters of her palate.  surprise rocks through her, who has been on the receiving end of ambush  &  the bloody pitch of battle.  she tilts to the back cradle of her hips in plush furs  &  mossy ground.  

but it’s only a moment before her palms come up to cup costia’s face in her hands, thumbs gracing over the breadth of her jaw.  her touch is searching for this  wondrous  new thing  &  she leans forward to chase after it, pleased with the friendly burst of emotion thrumming up from her breast.  

between the skim of another embrace, lexa murmurs.  ❛  it should not be considered  forward  if i welcome it gladly.  ❜  

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Paradise. 

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She had that look in her eyes. The look of a graceful storm that was going to change the world.

thecroazn (via wnq-writers)

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girls of the night, girls of the wild, girls with lionhearts and silver circlets. girls with animal blood in their veins and starlight in their eyes girls who know no other than themselves and whose selves are eclipsed in nature. girls with bare feet, who run with wolves with bows and arrows made from the moon. girls who are maidens, bound to the stars with no companions but each other. girls who are fierce, who are strong, who will take no prisoners. girls who are brave, who are free, who dine with a goddess. girls who make war and take blood, who have never lost a battle. girls who stand tall as olympus who watch you crumble. girls who are huntresses girls who might just hunt you.

the huntresses of diana // [t.r.] (via pynchs)

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perditioner:

lbr nothing beats “platonically sharing a bed until i wake up and you’re curled round me and my nose is buried in your hair so i’ll pretend to stay asleep to keep this for a little while longer” plots

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such domesticity feels foreign, and she, undeserving.  it has been such a long while since her last romantic encounter with another girl.  she finds herself, more often than not, consumed by the realities of daily life.  this is rather in spite of her heart's general yearning for affection, both given and received.  there simply isn't time - nor place.  

so to be here, to bask in the warmth of lexa's rapturous gaze, she finds herself bequeathed with an almost unfamiliar humility.  it is uncharacteristic of costia to hesitate in the presence of women, yet here she sits:  vulnerable and embroidered with heat.  it's something of a rush, a lick of flame to cheek, to neck, to chest.  

then their fingers touch, and she can't stop the way that her lips fall apart.  for the first time in her life, she's rendered speechless. words depart from her arsenal (normally so full with crafts and variable articulations) with the swiftness of an untimely demise, and she can't stop herself:  she laughs, softly, with reverence.

"thank you," she says, soon after, the expression on her face quite inexplicable. "you speak of being forward, and yet it is i who kissed you first," a coy incline of her lips suggests her intention.  having already betrayed the climax of her plot, she leans forward, slightly up, pressing her lips to lexa's with a gentle, inquisitive passion.

THE  HEAT  IN  her cheeks feels foreign, as though this brand of red does not belong underneath her skin.  &  traitorous as it is, it doesn’t stay in the apples of her smile but  travels  to the tips of her ears, rashes down the column of her neck,  &  sits in the cradle of her answering swallow.  the burn is almost pleasant though, warming her from the inside out.  &  if it is a symptom of gathering the private intimacy of time alone with costia with no prying eyes… 

she will gladly accept it. 

lexa withdraws the knife from her thigh holster  &  severs a healthy hunk of bread from the loaf:  one for herself, one for costia.  she sets in on the cheese, too, when costia’s question reaches her.  her throat swills as she weighs the merits of her answer.  

she rises with a handful of their picnic on a piece of cloth  &  a soft smile that  might  verge on shyness were she not heda with an entire court’s rule beneath the tender crook of her thumb.  ❛  i feared that perhaps…   ❜  lexa pauses to correct herself, a sip of wine spicing her tongue.  ❛   i had  hoped  that i was not too forward.   ❜     &  she takes comfort in the coy flirtation that tells her she was not, the reassuring weight of costia’s lithe form close enough                        

their fingertips brush  &  it stings her breath in the cage of her lungs.  

❛  you look lovely in that shade of green,   ❜   she offers instead, the curve of her lips in full bloom.