#turpisdeus

[marvelforged]

Things Bruce Banner sends to the Avengers group chat because he thinks he's hilarious

[immortalmuses]

A Closed Starter for @turpisdeus, because they're finally giving me the OTP that's spawned over a decade of brainrot!

ㅤㅤㅤNever let it be said that The Iron Bull isn’t a patient guy. ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤEspecially when it comes to Dorian Pavus.

ㅤㅤㅤIt’s been three days of this shit. Of missions with frosty silences, meals marked by scathing refusals for company, and always (always) the weighted heat of Dorian’s Glare™ directed at his throat, or between his shoulder blades... pretty much anywhere that isn’t Bull’s mouth.

ㅤㅤㅤ( It's nearly enough to make him regret kissing the ridiculous Vint in the first place..... Nearly.) ㅤㅤㅤAnd, ok. Maybe The Iron Bull acted a bit rashly, with the kissing. But the way Dorian had sucked on his lower lip… At the time, it hadn’t seemed like such a bad idea.

ㅤㅤㅤBut now it's clear that Pavus is thinking. Which of course means overthinking, which leads to regretting, because that's just how some people work. And Bull (who knows plenty about thinking and regretting, but not so much about Tevinter Mages with perfect hair) is just about ready to tell the other man to go ahead and fry with him with lightening bolts, if it would mean him getting over this snit.

ㅤㅤㅤThing is... Dorian might actually do it.

ㅤㅤㅤ“Alright–” The Qunari grunts, setting down his maul in the courtyard and rounding on the Mage before he can slip away to the library again. They're fresh from the road, dust and a lingering stench of red lyrium still clinging to their clothes. The Iron Bull doesn't care (even if Dorian does), and he's sick of the disapproving looks he keeps getting from the Inquisitor.  ㅤㅤㅤ“– c'mon, just… out with it." He says, gesturing to Pavus in a come at me kind of way, "You’re angry, Congratulations. Now tell me what I should do so you'll put an end to the theatrics." 

[azurwraith]

“what  do  you  think  for  the  scope, @turpisdeus?”   shepard  swipes  through  the  offerings  on  the  shop's  handheld  display,  back  and  forth  and  back  and  forth  as  if  the  decision  is  somewhere  to  be  found  in  the  blooming  of  pixels.   “the  armax  one's  a  little  more  expensive  but  it  links  up  to  my  visor.”

[nightsongs-archived]

@turpisdeus (fergus)

Chloe had never spoken to the Commander.

She had seen him around Skyhold often, though. Sometimes Josephine would have her sit in on the war table meetings to take notes, so she would sit in the corner and listen, carefully recording everything. Sometimes she would see him out training the soldiers. There had been a few times she'd peeked out the window to watch him train (and usually, she was caught by Josephine, who would scold her for staring).

Yet she'd never spoken to him. She'd never had any reason to.

Until today.

The stairs of Skyhold were her worst enemy. It took her ages to get around, especially with her cane. And of course at the top of this particular set of stairs her cane slipped from her hand, clattering down each step until it landed at the bottom. At the Commander's feet.

Well, that was embarrassing.

[prophetries]

@turpisdeus 「 INNER 」 : for sender to kiss along the inside of receivers thigh.

“It  is  hard  to  believe  the  Herald  of  Andraste  never  took  a  lover.”

Eternity  is  very  long,  and  the  sun  dips  and  rises  at  its  own  reckoning.  The  flowers  in  the  vale  shift  colors  with  every  brisk  wind,  and  turn  their  iridescent  faces  to  follow  the  pair  as  they  settle  into  a  warm  spot  to  play  their  game  of  Truths  and  Lies.  It  has  either  been  a  week  or  a  century  since  the  former  Inquisitor  followed  him  into  the  Fade,  for  no  other  reason  than  that  she  understood  how  it  felt  to  be  alone.  How  any  place  could  be  Hell,  if  filled  with  one’s  regrets.  And  though  she  has  regrets  aplenty,  a  burden  shared  is  a  burden  halved.  And  until  that  day  she  had  never  seen  him  cry.  She  had  never  seen  him  weak.  So  she  set  foot  into  the  unknown  with  him,  hand  in  hand.  A  fate  far  kinder  than  returning  to  an  empty  castle  in  a  ruined  land.

Far  from  that  blighted  battlefield,  Solas  rests  his  head  in  her  lap  as  she  scans  yet  another  new  book,  half-attentive  as  they  speak.  It  is  what  they  do  the  most,  in  this  ever-shifting  land.  For  however  long  they’ve  been  there,  they  never  seem  to  run  out  of  topics  to  discuss.  Evelyn,  ever  a  scholar  to  her  core,  is  never  short  of  questions.  And  Solas,  Wisdom  itself,  is  never  without  an  answer.  But  sometimes  they  exchange  roles  –  especially  during  Truth  and  Lies  –  and  there  is  something,  it  seems,  that  Wisdom  does  not  know. 

She  quirks  a  brow,  but  doesn’t  look  from  her  book.  Her  voice  is  flat,  devoid  of  humor.  “I  would  think  you  above  such  empty  flattery.”

He  winds  a  slim  finger  around  a  piece  of  her  hair  and  tugs  once.  “I  am  sure  it  was  not  for  lack  of  suitors.”

“I’ve  been  told  I  am  somewhat…”  Evelyn  sighs,  closes  her  book  and  sets  it  on  the  emerald-green  grass  beside  her.  “...intimidating.”  She  has  not  seen  her  reflection  since  she  set  foot  in  the  Fade,  but  she  is  sure  she  has  changed.  On  their  first  day,  Solas  created  a  new  arm  for  her,  but  the  sensation  of  a  new  limb  was  too  much  for  her  to  bear  on  top  of  it  all.  So  then  he  crafted  a  new  prosthesis,  more  artistic  than  egalitarian,  with  delicate  fingernails  and  joints  that  needed  neither  oil  nor  runes.  Some  time  later,  she  asked  him  to  paint  it,  and  now  it  gleamed  in  the  light,  gold  vines  snaking  up  her  arm  like  arteries.

He  props  himself  up  on  one  elbow,  eyes  darkening  beneath  his  lashes.  “There  are  some  to  whom  an  intimidating  woman  is  impossible  to  resist.”  His  voice  is  nothing  if  not  academic.  He  loves  to  veil  double  entendre  in  sophistry. 

Such  a  look  might  have  sent  her  reeling  some  time  ago,  but  they  have  already  crossed  that  delicate  line,  and  Evelyn  only  simmers  like  embers  instead  of  roaring  like  a  blaze.  She  only  shrugs,  slots  her  thumb  in  the  crease  of  his  chin,  a  habit  she  picked  up  somewhere  in  the  muddled  passage  of  infinite  time.  “I  suppose.”

He  must  not  be  satisfied  with  her  reaction,  because  he  pulls  her  hand  away  from  his  face  to  press  a  kiss  against  her.  His  eyes  close,  drawing  his  lips  against  the  delicate  skin  at  her  wrist.  “Did  you  wait  for  me?”

She  releases  a  peal  of  laughter,  despite  the  flush  creeping  into  her  cheeks.  “There  is  that  Pride  I  keep  hearing  about.”  Her  words  are  soft,  indulgent. 

His  face  cracks  into  a  crooked  smile,  the  illusion  of  lurid  seduction  breaking  as  he  nips  playfully  at  her  wrist.  “Alas,  I  cannot  change  my  nature.” 

Evelyn  leans  back  onto  her  wrists  as  he  hoists  a  leg  over  his  shoulder,  kisses  her  calf,  the  inside  of  her  knee.  “I  was  married,  you  know.  To  the  Maker.”  She  drapes  her  other  leg,  bare  save  for  a  gauzy  skirt  that  might  have  been  made  of  spider’s  silk,  across  the  dip  in  his  waist.  Comfortable.  Content.  Lazy  in  her  affections.  As  if  they’ve  known  and  loved  each  other  forever.  And  who  is  to  say  they  haven’t? 

“I  would  imagine  such  a  union  absolved  at  this  point.”

“Perhaps  that  is  why  I  never  wed  again.”  At  some  point,  while  they  speak,  too  gentle  for  her  to  notice,  tender  kisses  become  heated,  laving  tongue  and  dragging  teeth  across  the  sensitive  flesh  of  her  inner  thighs.  Fingers  dig  into  plush  muscle,  his  nose  working  the  edge  of  her  gossamer  skirt  above  the  crease  between  her  leg  and  hip.  She  watches,  lips  parted,  as  he  licks  a  hot  stripe  into  the  divot  and  sucks  a  bright  red  mark  into  her  hip.  She  whines,  breath  hitched  around  the  words,  “What  mortal  could  ever  compare  to  God?”

He  is  so  focused  on  his  task  she  thinks  he  might  not  have  heard  her,  but  the  reprimand  is  swift  and  thick  with  want.  “There  are  no  gods.”  His  brow  wrinkles,  face  slack  with  reverence  and  desire,  as  he  kisses  the  bruise  he’s  left  on  her  skin.  She  eases  flat  on  her  back  and  he  tugs  her  closer,  lifting  her  hips  from  the  grass  below.  He  murmurs  his  words  against  the  core  of  her.  “Only  you  and  I.”

[muutosarch]

"i was hunting - well, poaching to be entirely honest, when a boy my own age came stumbling out of the woods. he was so dirty you'd have thought he'd been dug up out of the ground."

starter call. @turpisdeus.

[immortalmuses]

Can't believe that in the year of our lord 2025, @turpisdeus is still influencing me to write Leonard Horatio "Bones" McCoy

[immortalmuses]

@turpisdeus sent from Guin to The Iron Bull: i love you. if i can find you, i will. if not, stay alive.

ㅤㅤㅤ"No... Boss, No!" The Iron Bull's voice sharpens with an edge of desperation, gaining volume as he drops the head of his maul in the blight-soiled mud and takes a step after Guinevere. Darkspawn are... everywhere, or at least all over South Thedas. Their shrieks echo in the darkness like gulls on the Stormcoast.

ㅤㅤㅤSkyhold barely stands, and Bull knows.. he fucking knows that Guin intends to make for Minrathous, no matter how treacherous the journey.

ㅤㅤㅤ"We go together, remember?!" The Qunari counters, his weight leant on the haft of his weapon, easing pressure from the brace strapped to his left ankle. Ten fucking years since a world ending cataclysm, and The Iron Bull isn't getting any younger. Evenso, he jabs a finger at the former-Inquisitor, "--None of this splittin' up shit, that's how you get yourself killed!"