...the song became a sigh...

Bering & Wells // Knights AU v.4.0

Bering & Wells // Knights AU v.4.0

racethewind10:

ddatrw:

https://soundcloud.com/ddatrw/itilmm

IT GOT BETTER
absedarian:

Hustle, 4x06

absedarian:

Hustle, 4x06

racethewind10:

redlance:

crazycat9449:

themysteryvanishing:

Because my wardrobe will never look as good as hers.

I’m just going to go with the head canon that every year Myka and HG re-enact their first meeting with fun bondage play and no Pete.

…. Raaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaace  

There are, of course, some modifications. The first is that they swap the standard-issue metal cuffs for custom-made, thickly padded black leather. Helena didn’t seem to mind the pain but Myka took one look at the red marks and bruises on those delicate, pale wrists and was adamant about it. 
Not that Helena doesn’t still end up with bruises. 
There is a place Myka loves to bite - high on the inside of Helena’s thigh - where the muscles tremble from want and the strain of trying to be still and the sound of Helena’s ragged breathing fills Myka’s ears. When she can taste the salty sweet of desire and need on the bound woman’s skin, she leaves her mark. Teeth and lips. First sharp pain then languid suckling, until the pale skin is dark and red, a sudden rose bud in a frosty garden.
Myka loves it because the skin is so tender and the sounds Helena makes are so beautiful. 
Helena loves it because the skin pulls for hours, even days after. And each twinge brings with it a cascade of memory…
The ache in her arms as she struggles against her bonds, her not-inconsiderate strength utterly, perfectly futile. The thick, throbbing pulse of desire in her chest and between her legs that Myka knows how to hone sharper than the keenest blade and then pierce her with, agony and ecstasy blurring together until she is shattering beneath that tender touch and wicked, knowing tongue. The darkened, lust-glazed green eyes that look upon her with anticipation or satisfaction or simply love…
Of course that assumes they even make it to the part where Helena is at Myka’s mercy.
There have been years when - laughing and shedding coats and rain drops - they never make it past the foyer. (Though those times are less often as the years pass and joints grow less flexible. Helena bought the house back years ago and has it kept up and it has a perfectly lovely modern bed now thank you very much.)
There are also those years where no amount of passion can overcome the need for comfort and solace. When bloodspattered or singed or merely weary in spirit, they sink to the floor or the settee and cling to each other, trying to calm hearts racing from yet another close call.  
Such is the toll they pay for the other times. Times when Helena’s gaze is dark and challenging and Myka’s hand around her throat, tightening ever so slowly, sets both of them to struggle for breath.  Times when Helena’s hand caresses Myka’s as she is cuffed to the chair and Myka stops to take those delicate fingers into her mouth, sucking and teasing with her tongue until the other woman is squirming and whimpering. 
Times when they bind and are bound again and again, by leather and steel, flesh and fate and their own hearts in their private ritual that is beginning and middle and end all in one.
Forever Destined…

racethewind10:

redlance:

crazycat9449:

themysteryvanishing:

Because my wardrobe will never look as good as hers.

I’m just going to go with the head canon that every year Myka and HG re-enact their first meeting with fun bondage play and no Pete.

…. Raaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaace  

There are, of course, some modifications. The first is that they swap the standard-issue metal cuffs for custom-made, thickly padded black leather. Helena didn’t seem to mind the pain but Myka took one look at the red marks and bruises on those delicate, pale wrists and was adamant about it. 

Not that Helena doesn’t still end up with bruises. 

There is a place Myka loves to bite - high on the inside of Helena’s thigh - where the muscles tremble from want and the strain of trying to be still and the sound of Helena’s ragged breathing fills Myka’s ears. When she can taste the salty sweet of desire and need on the bound woman’s skin, she leaves her mark. Teeth and lips. First sharp pain then languid suckling, until the pale skin is dark and red, a sudden rose bud in a frosty garden.

Myka loves it because the skin is so tender and the sounds Helena makes are so beautiful. 

Helena loves it because the skin pulls for hours, even days after. And each twinge brings with it a cascade of memory…

The ache in her arms as she struggles against her bonds, her not-inconsiderate strength utterly, perfectly futile. The thick, throbbing pulse of desire in her chest and between her legs that Myka knows how to hone sharper than the keenest blade and then pierce her with, agony and ecstasy blurring together until she is shattering beneath that tender touch and wicked, knowing tongue. The darkened, lust-glazed green eyes that look upon her with anticipation or satisfaction or simply love…

Of course that assumes they even make it to the part where Helena is at Myka’s mercy.

There have been years when - laughing and shedding coats and rain drops - they never make it past the foyer. (Though those times are less often as the years pass and joints grow less flexible. Helena bought the house back years ago and has it kept up and it has a perfectly lovely modern bed now thank you very much.)

There are also those years where no amount of passion can overcome the need for comfort and solace. When bloodspattered or singed or merely weary in spirit, they sink to the floor or the settee and cling to each other, trying to calm hearts racing from yet another close call.  

Such is the toll they pay for the other times. Times when Helena’s gaze is dark and challenging and Myka’s hand around her throat, tightening ever so slowly, sets both of them to struggle for breath.  Times when Helena’s hand caresses Myka’s as she is cuffed to the chair and Myka stops to take those delicate fingers into her mouth, sucking and teasing with her tongue until the other woman is squirming and whimpering. 

Times when they bind and are bound again and again, by leather and steel, flesh and fate and their own hearts in their private ritual that is beginning and middle and end all in one.

Forever Destined…

see-the-red:

The flawless face of Myka Bering.

Watching the body switching scenes of Lost Girl.

And I’m pretty sure I just saw Zoie Palmer snarl

*deaddyingdeath*

redlance:

Oh. My. God. If you’ve heard “Call Me Maybe” (which I know you have because EVERYONE HAS), I demand that you go and watch this. Right now. Go. Now.

beforebrittanakiss:

Looks like this blog won’t be up much longer. :’)