hello vonnie
Not today Justin
Today's Document
YOU ARE THE REASON
tumblr dot com
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
Stranger Things
PR's Tumblrdome
cherry valley forever
No title available
we're not kids anymore.
dirt enthusiast
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
Product Placement
if i look back, i am lost
Cosimo Galluzzi
Kiana Khansmith
KIROKAZE
shark vs the universe
seen from United States
seen from Finland
seen from Poland
seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from Singapore
seen from Netherlands
seen from Brazil
seen from United States
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from Spain
seen from Belgium
seen from Malaysia
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Italy
seen from Switzerland
seen from France
seen from Poland
seen from Malaysia
@nocentiis
Nice one
@nocentiis / no kisses for u
“You clean up reasonably well, for a failed priest. I suppose those party boy tendencies were never far from the surface, were they?”
“Good taste has nothing to do with prodigal proclivities. If it did, I doubt you’d show up to a gala premiere in the same tired frock that Gallus girl wore last season.”
Maeve Millay: Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me? Hector Escaton: I`m just happy to see you. Maeve Millay: Pathetic.
@peacekeep
some tender sweet things ive been sitting on fr sebhawke, a favorite ship of mine:
sebastian and hawke have the tendency to reference one another as theirs, mainly in writing or conversation. it starts with hawke calling him ‘my sebastian’ in journal entries and picks up to in casual chats with the others. seb isn’t sure when he picks it up, but he does. (most of their friends agree it’s adorable)
hawke also likes to call seb their personal ‘religious experience’ and he thinks that’s stupidly cute he goes red in the face when thinking abt it
theyre the couple who has to touch when walking side by side, usually by loosely holding hands
seb and hawke talking about having kids/starting a family someday, even if that means adopting (for a hawke who for any reason can’t have them)
the two of them writing letters while hawke’s away during inq’s timeline. sebastian sends hawke little things - ties letters with red thread, adds pressed flowers, small things touches that touch hawke’s heart. hawke keeps every single last thing he sends
https://instagram.com/p/BUsOZVjBiXV/
@peacekeep
@peacekeep
The wind that whipped up from the sea carried with it a surprisingly algid scent, like chilled freshwater. It was pleasant, Sebastian decided, if only in that it did not smell anything like Starkhaven. Antiva itself smelled of the ocean and spices and sin, inciting a giddiness in the prince of Starkhaven that he welcomed wholly and entirely.
How long had it been since he’d let Starkhaven? Months, to his best recollection, and even then, it had been on some diplomatic mission to Tantervale. Or was it Wycome? He couldn’t be sure. The days and duties had begun to run into one another like a forgetful tide, so when Verity had suggested a sort of ‘diplomatic mission’ of her own, Sebastian had only been too eager to join her.
Stakrhaven he had left to Hawke and Fenris, his closest and most trusted friends, and he thought little of his city once he’d left the gilded gates, his imagination occupied instead with all the adventure they might encounter. He and Verity. Together.
His longbow had been left in their meager hotel, his chosen weapon replaced by two daggers hidden expertly within his bracers. It was hardly an inconspicuous weapon, and they were only surveilling tonight. Just to get a feel of the city and the terrain.
A band of traveling musicians in their tattered, particolored clothing had struck up a song, a languid, wistful sounding elegy: a low, keening baritone sung to an elegantly-strummed flourishing guitar. How very Antivan.
“Would it be silly of me to ask if you’d like to dance?” he asked, looking off into the indigo-tinted horizon. “Or is that too romantic for you?”
To be a French girl is not just a way of dressing,“ says Roitfeld. “It’s a way of talking, it’s a way of sitting, it’s a way of flirting all the time with the people. Flirting is very important in France.”
@peacekeep
paco rabanne ss04
@peacekeep
Christian Dior Fall 2007 Haute Couture
@eromai
@peacekeep
details @ Ralph & Russo HC 2016
@peacekeep
❂ postlapsaria
verity
“You are being sentimental again,” she said, almost accusatory. “I see that much hasn’t changed.”
Her fingers trailed over the broad bow of his back as she reclined where he’d laid her, gaze sweeping the dimly-lit room; her eyes had already long since adjusted to the darkness, revealing the bedizened furniture, the gilt and decor and ornaments gingerbreading the prince’s privy chambers.
It was still odd to think of him as a prince and not Brother Sebastian. She wondered how long that would take getting used to.
“Can you believe this is the first time we’ve been in a bed alone together?” she observed, letting her head fall back to the pillow. Down. Excellent quality. Silk covers. “Without one of your roommates lingering and listening above us?” Her fingers wound into his hair with a suddenly insistent tug. “I don’t want your mouth tonight, Sebastian.”
“Indulge me,” he insisted with a laugh, mouthing sumptuously at the inside of her knee. Soft. Silken. Just as he’d remembered her. He set down her little foot, before crawling over to hover just above her. “I am sentimental. A little. I was in love with you, then,” he murmured, the tip of his nose trailing along the cut of her jaw, his breath blooming warm against her throat. “Did you know that? You probably did. You knew everything, somehow.”
Even now, it felt intrusive to ask for a kiss. Somehow the thought of applying his lips elsewhere was within his realm of understanding, but a kiss —a proper kiss— felt importunate. So he kissed instead just below the corner of her mouth, something chaste that belied the heaviness that settled on her thigh.
“I’ll admit, I wasn’t exactly put out by the imprudence of those encounters,” he confessed with a roguish smile in the dark, lowering himself to her, but moving no more than that. Making love to Verity was like petting a capricious cat: he could never know how or why he’d offend her, but it was certain the offense would be met with death. And he could not deny it was a thanatic thrill on its own. “But now that you have full and free reign of my bed: how do you want me, Lady Verity?”
❂ postlapsaria
verity
“Sebastian,” she echoed, an indulgent sigh against his hair. “Just Sebastian.”
He laughed, his thumbs circling the delicate jut of her hip bones. “I’d be marrying for the alliances,” he pointed out wryly. “They’re strong ones, too. The children would be for me. But I’ll take your word under advisement. I’ll inform my council of your counsel should I choose to unwisely decline them. I’m sure they’ll understand.”
It was becoming more and more difficult to keep up the lighthearted conversation, when her hand, her hips, her warmth were all in conjunction to conspire against any meaningful train of thought he might have.
Her question. was answered by an arm around her waist, holding her firm to his hips as he pushed himself up to his knees while laying her down as gently as he could onto his feather bed. It was easy enough to find the pin that secured her hair, pulling it free, her dark hair cascading brilliantly against the stark paleness of his silken pillow, like a fan.
❂ postlapsaria
verity
“A ghost,” she scoffed, sitting back on her heels with her arms folded over her chest. “Listen to you speaking of ghosts like some romantic. That is what I should expect of a Starkhavener. You’re always bragging about your castle ghosts.”
She knelt above him, a knee between his thighs and hands planted on either side of his head. “I was in the area,” she said, voice softer as the point of her nose brushed the curve of his cheek. “There is no contract for you, if that’s what you are wondering. Can I not afford a personal visit every once in a while? And it has been so long, Brother Sebastian. Or am I to observe formalities and call you Your Highness now?”
Her hand daringly joined the press of her knee, just as her teeth scraped along his jaw. “One would think you hadn’t missed me.”
“Well, that’s a mercy, I suppose,” he managed to comment (a little breathily, perhaps), driven to distraction by the nose at his cheek and the lingering wonderment at her presence. “I’d like at least one heir before I die, and as it stands, I haven’t yet chosen between Viscountess Bertha of Cumberland, or Baroness Brunnhilde of Hossberg. If they sound like charming ladies, they’re not. Their personalities are as hideous as their names, and if phrenology is any exact science to be trusted, they’re bound to be degenerates, the both of them, of infamous degree—”
❂ postlapsaria
sister verity
She had thought it would be funny to bribe the cooks into making rosemary chicken, and even funnier still to add a sachet of the herb to his sheets. She was correct on both counts. Watching him sniffing at his sheets like a confused hound nearly had her laughing aloud from her windowsill perch.
She had traded a contract in Rivain for the one that had brought her to Starkhaven. How long had it been? Long enough that her sweet Brother Sebastian had transformed quite nicely into Prince Sebastian. It would seem, however, that he still bore his curious weakness for rosemary. Like those dogs trained to salivate at the sound of a bell.
She slid from the window, shutting it behind her without a sound. The rug, thick beneath the curl of her slippered feet, muffled any further noise; the bed barely rocked as she knelt on it. She fit easily against him—it was no secret what he was doing beneath those blankets—that much hadn’t changed, at least.
“Brother Sebastian,” she whispered, mouth fitting into the curve of his neck like a puzzle piece. “Wake up. Pay me attention.”
His head jerked up, hand snatched from its fervent occupation to bolster him up, his arm sweeping back to upset his assailant and pin them to the bed by their shoulders. Even now, years after he’d retired from the duty of combat, his skin still prickled at the touch of another, ever vigilant, ever on guard for any attack on his life.
His hand had flown to the delicate throat, fingers closing about it in warning. His eyes examined her searchingly, hardly able to recognize the woman he’d only just been dreaming of, if only for the inconceivable probability that she would be here. Right where he’d want her. After a decade of missing her.
His thumb traced the line of her jaw, from the point of her delicate chin and back. And then it made sense. The rosemary hadn’t been happenstance. It had been intended. To make light of him, to ruin him. Either would have suited her, he was sure.
“What are you doing here?” he asked half in wonder, half almost accusatory, as he released her from his grasp. He was entirely sure that her not stabbing him in the ribs was a grace bestowed. For old times’ sake. “A ghost of you might have been easier to stomach, you know,” he added dryly, pulling the sheets up around his hips to hide his nakedness.
my favorite trope is the ‘we HAVE to kiss in order to keep our cover and that’s when we realize we actually have feelings for each other welp’ trope and i’ll love it every time
@peacekeep
❂ postlapsaria
[ @peacekeep. ]
Sebastian had been scribbling a furious note to his exchequer when the footman had arrived with the salver of his dinner. And while he’d announced it, Sebastian had hardly paid it any mind. He’d eat it regardless. Eventually. Whatever it was. But he was in the middle of a train of thought, a particularly eviscerating turn of phrase that perfectly encompassed his irritation at the banker’s ineptitude—
Until the cover was drawn, and an effluvium of rosemary and sage accosted him, sending him reeling into a sensory memory despondency that stopped his heart, his breath all at once. “Does it displease you, Your Highness?” the footman had asked, and Sebastian waved the question away with an imperious flourish of his hand.
He’d eaten it. Silently. Not without difficulty. Every morsel went down as though it were a jagged pastille. But he ate it anyways. Though he might have taken a little more wine with his meal than was usual.
Alone in his bedroom, the quietude of the house descending upon him like a welcome tide, he let out a monumentally long sigh as the night wind caressed his bare skin like a catholicon. The day had been long, made longer by the intrusive thoughts that assailed him most inopportunely. But at least he could be left to those thoughts now, whose edges he intended to dull with a little Antivan red. A lot of Antivan red.
The prince dove into bed, and the scent of rosemary seemed to rise up around him like an inescapable phantom of scent. Frantic, he smelled his covers, his sheets, and found that his pillow had been scented with the herb. A little sachet of dried flora that differed from the usual rose and cinnamon. At least it was no phantom. Only a maid with poor taste in aromatics.
Captive to the unwavering scent, Sebastian sat withing his silk sheets and stubbornly finished off two full bottles of the imported wine, his head lolling back in superfluously victorious relief to slap against the carved wood of his headboard.
Clearly, it was time for bed.
The scent had not lost its tooth, but Sebastian had stopped fighting the inexorable condemnation of memory. It reminded him of his days in the Chantry. Of an antediluvian peace he wished he could reclaims. Of a girl who haunted him in the scent of rosemary. Of a time before the ruin of his family, and the disarray of his heart, before Hawke, before Kirkwall, before Dite, before everything.
Rolling onto his stomach, his face effectively buried in the offending silk, he breathed it in like a poison. The rosemary was diluted by the scent of some other greenery in the sachet, and lacked the creamy warmth of her skin. Verity. That had been her name. A decade later, and he still could recall the taste of her skin, just at the hollow of her throat. How his lips traversed the long, delicate curve of her shoulder in a trailing of kisses. How lithe, how supple her skin felt beneath the application of his tongue.
He had loved her, with all the jejune fervor of someone who had finally met a worthy foil. Heatedly, steadfastly, fervently. How she felt for him, he’d never known. Never assumed more than her affections would imply at face value.
sister verity
“There are plenty of serious, studious, respectable sorts of men here in the chantry,” she dismissed, eyes downcast on the whetting of her sword blade. “If I was of a mind. Perhaps I enjoy impulsiveness.”
She glanced at him sidelong, sweeping her wild hair from her eyes. He was either absorbed in his work, or pretending to be. She surveyed the courtyard quickly, checking windows and doors as well, and then set back from the whetstone, sliding her skirt along the blade for a quick polish. Then she slid it back in its scabbard and stood, letting it dangle from her hand as she crossed to him.
Her hand lighted under his chin, tilting it back before she brushed her mouth, light as feathers, over his. She was struck by the though that it might be the first time they’d shared a kiss, which seemed markedly ridiculous considering how many times they’d been handsy in corridors and darkened rooms.
“You’re all right,” she said as she pulled away, landing a hard pinch to his cheek before she turned on her heel to head back towards the chantry. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
He could tell himself that the unexpected was to be expected from Verity. And that still could never prepare him for anything she could come up with.
Her kiss has left behind an earthy, verdant sapor of rosemary, which he licked from his lips, eager to savor once again. “I won’t,” he promised under his breath, his head bowing in defeat to the encompassing dead of falling in love.
