#and sky does have a pretty big scar on her neck and collarbone this was the closest i could get

[simonxriley]

Skylar "Phoenix" Jackson (r6s), pre US Marines, FBI SWAT & Rainbow || Skylar post US Marines, FBI SWAT & Rainbow.

Liz Walker (cod) pre WW3 || Liz post Shepherd's betrayal.

Maci Dalton (Fc5) being forced to put the beetle outside by her daughter || Maci living her 'best' life during the reaping.

Redacted (strike back) living her best life after being honorably discharged || Redacted being pulled back into service bc of Damien.

I was tagged by the wonderful @detectivelokis to use this cute picrew, thank you! 💜

tagging @playstationmademe @nightwingshero @leviiackrman @sstewyhosseini @hoesephseed @teamhawkeye @corvosattano @thomrainer @chuckhansen and anyone else that wants to do it!!

[bubuslutty]

Pirate!Captain Price au (nsfw ver)

word count: 1.2k

tags: nsfw, f receiving, p in v, making out, spitting, skinny dipping, mentions of public sex (nobody gets caught tho)

warnings: kidnapping

a/n: I tend to go on a tangent with the story telling n lore instead of sticking to John fucking. ANWAY. I love him and if you also love him and have silly thoughts abt him and his boys, send me an ask, or comment, or reblog, whatever you want 💙

pirate!captain Price fucks like he's trying to kill you, with determination and pure hunger for it. He's a man on a mission, and nobody can stop him from getting what he wants.

Captain Price has wicked hips and a filthy walk, he's hot and he knows it. He's so comfortable in his skin, scars, fat, muscles, freckles and all. His movements are confident yet relaxed. He appears to be so sure of himself without doing anything, just standing there and people hate him for it. How infuriating is a man with such charm and confidence decided to become an outlaw, a pirate of all things.

So he knows how to use those hips, pounding his sweetheart on the mattress and making her wail and scream for him with how good he's making her feel.

pirate!captain Price has ridiculous core strenght, he could fuck his sweetheart for hours, rolling his hips against hers like he was born to fuck her. And he's so fucking filthy with it as well, "Too much for you? Should I slow down, sweetheart? hm?"

And slow down he does, rolling his hips deep deep in her guts, forcing her to listen to the filthy squelch that resonats in his Captain's cabin everytime their hips meet. And he has a dumb smile on his lips, obsessively watching where they meet between her legs.

And you better believe he'll kiss his pretty lady like he wanted to drink her up, he's nasty and it would be embarrassing to call what he's doing to her kissing, not even making out can cover how sinful he's with his mouth and tongue.

Pirate!Captain Price, when he's in a mood he'll even spit in her open mouth, holding her pretty face in his bigger, rough and scarred hand, then spitting right in her tongue, and he watches how her eyes roll at the back of her head and she moans loudly, swallowing his little offering.

He's also big on eating her out, be in his cabin, outside on the deck in the middle of the night under the stars, where anyone can catch them, or in a dark alleyway behind a pub. And because he has a beard, he likes to get it absolutely drenched and leave his sweetheart's inner thighs all red from the friction.

And he doesn't mind when she whines how much her inner thighs are bothering her, he just has a smug smile on his lips and apologizes with a coo, placing a wet kiss to her forehead and cheeks, and deep down he's not really sorry, but for his sweetheart, he'll coo and coddle until she melts over and over again in his arms.

Pirate!Captain Price barley kidnaps rich folks in exchange for ransom money from their rich family. If he has an excuse to dress his sweetheart in the finest of clothes, he would take it without hesitation.

So she's the one who sneaks in a ball, so she can later open the gates for them so they can sneak in, rob the place while everyone is busy dancing and then kidnap the wealthiest person in there.

And of course she's dressed in blue, John's favourite colour, the colour of the sky and the sea. Her dress is shiny, made out of silk and fabrics only found in far, far away countries, that even rich folks struggle to get, but not pirates, pirates can get their hands on anything if they tried hard enough.

She's wearing a layered blue gown, the sleeves long, with her whole neck, collarbone and a generous chunk of her chest exposed, and she looks so so beautiful, her hair half up, decorated with pearls and gold. And she's quickly stealing everyone's attention, coyly tucking a stray strand of hair behind one of her ears with a gloved hand.

She's invited to dance by many people, and she makes up elaborate stories about being a foreign Duchesse, laughing and giggling at stories and anecdotes she's been told, forgetting for a moment she was an outlaw, a criminal, who stabbed her to-be-husband right through the heart on their wedding day.

When the job is done, she returns to their ship on horseback, laughing in delight with John's men.

When the kidnappee is tied and locked in the basement, they sail away and celebrate with music and drinks of their own.

Sometime in the same night, Price's sweetheart is running and giggling on the ship, chased by Price, who's trying to catch her, still dressed like a dream. And she gasps and swoons when he catches her in his arms.

She acts like she's trying to fight him, wiggling in his arms and telling him, "Let me go, you pirate! I'm a woman of honor and dignity!"

Price tickles her and she laughs, trying to slip away, and he has his arms securely wrapped around her waist, breathing the perfume she sprayed on her neck in, sighing in pure bliss.

"You're mine now." He speaks against her naked shoulder, placing a wet kiss on the skin.

"I'm not yours! Let me go or the Royal Navy shall have you hung!" She threatened, turning in his arms and pushing his chest away.

"Hm, no. Finders keepers." He hums and pulls a string that kept her corset securely tied around her body, and when she felt it getting loose she squealed and crossed her arms over her chest, "John!"

"What? You'll be naked by sunrise, I'm just speeding this up." John says, shrugging while wearing a small smirk, "You've got a problem with that?"

"If that's the case, let me help." John's sweetheart says, wearing a smirk of her own and starts undressing right there on the deck, while his men are still having a party not far off, the only privacy they've had was the shadow of the Captain's cabin and nothing else.

"What are you doing?" John asks, looking over his shoulder and panicking a bit because as much as he enjoyed fucking his love where they could get caught, he still made sure nobody was around, and if someone happened to pass by, he'd use his body to shield her away. But this, this was madness, any of his boys would just turn around and see her standing there naked, glowing under the moonlight like a siren.

The only things she still had on was her pearl earrings and a necklace John gifted her a while back. "Come swim with me." She offered, smiling and still fucking standing there naked with her clothes a puddle to her feet.

John gulped and decided to just get naked as fast as possible while she watched him, and when he was done, she tiptoed to where he was standing, cupped his cheek and placed a kiss to his lips.

And before his fingertips could graze her skin, she pulled away and dived into the open cold sea.

Fuck this.

John dived right behind her, controlling his breathing and taking a deep breath when he resurfaced, his body freezing due to the cold water, but he knew his body would soon get used to it. He then felt arms hugging his shoulders from behind, and he grinned when his sweetheart kissed his cheeks with her cold plush lips.

"Did I just see Cap'ain and his bonnie jump in the sea naked?" Johnny said with a frown, cheeks pink due to how much he's drunk.

"Hm?" Simon hummed with his eyes closed next to him, leaning his head on his shoulder.

"Never mind." Johnny said and yawned, scratching his chin and leaning his head on Simon's.

tag list (pls ask to be added or removed): @obiwankenobis-lap @goapgrim @smalldemonlover @silviafantin15 @reveluving @bobastayhigh @originalsimp @h-leigh @gxldyjess @msdrpreist @chaoticevilbakugo @Lacunaanonymoused @whore4dilfs @canadianmilkbag @ahoeformando

[hayleysstark]

Anonymous

Words: 2749  Warnings: Swearing Summary: When Poppy was sixteen, she started getting anonymous love poems. When she is twenty-three, she finds them again.

Read on Fanfiction or AO3. 

The paper in Poppy's hand is white.

The paper in Poppy's hand is plain white—practical, sensible, no fuss, no frills, no bright colors or flashy patterns or shimmering glitter, not even a heart or a cupcake or a rainbow cut out and pasted in the corner—and Branch actually stops in her doorway to take a second look, to make sure it's not just a trick of the light, of the sun through her window.

Since when does Poppy use plain white paper? Hell, since when does any other troll in the entire town use plain white paper? As far as Branch can tell, he's the only one—even all the printed books in the village are alive with rainbow colors, with scented stickers and yellow smiley-faces and bright pictures—but it looks like he's wrong, it looks like Poppy does use plain white paper, here and there, because it's in her hands, and it's scattered all around her on the floor like snow, like a second carpet. Her bright eyes flick over the page, and her small, soft pink lips open and move as she reads, as she whispers the words, under her breath, to herself, that thing she does where she reads out loud but she doesn't actually read out loud—

God. It's such a small and stupid thing to focus on. It's such a small, and stupid thing to love about her, but Branch loves that about her—like he loves the tiny curl at the end of her bubblegum pink ponytail, like he loves the little dimple deep in her left cheek, like he loves when she bumps into doors or tables or chairs and says sorry and the way she wrinkles up her nose when she's irritated with him, because she still doesn't know how to scowl, and it's so goddamn adorable—

"Branch!" Poppy tosses the (plain, white) paper back down to the floor with all the rest, bounces up, and rushes over to him, flinging her arms around his neck. "Oh, my gosh, you're back! I missed you so much!"

"You saw me an hour ago," Branch points out, and he tells himself he's only breathless because she knocked into him like a damn hurricane. "Can't have missed me that much."

"I always miss you when you're gone!" Poppy pulls back to smile at him, and her eyes crinkle up at the corners and her left-side dimple shows, and the he's-only-breathless-because-she-knocked-into-him-like-a-damn-hurricane theory is complete bullshit.

And he doesn't even care. He just smiles back.

"I got Harper set up in Smidge's pod," he tells her. "I'll keep an eye on her for the next few days, but I don't think that bump on the head was anything to worry about. She was already feeling better when I left, she was joking around with Biggie and Guy. Looks like she's in the clear."

"Oh!" Poppy perks up even more if that's possible. "Gosh, that's great! I'm really glad she's okay. Thanks for taking care of her, Branch, you're a life-saver." She hugs him again, her breath warm on his collarbone, her nose deep in the hollow of his neck, and he has to actually remind himself to breathe.

"Uh," he says, very ineloquently, "no problem. Um." He clears his throat a little too loudly. "So, what's with all the—?" He pulls back to jerk his chin at the papers.

"Oh!" Poppy spins on her heel to look down at the stack on the floor, and Branch tries not to stare at the flare of her skirt around her long legs. "Just goin' down memory lane, you know?" She smiles, small and—sad, almost, slightly wistful, a tinge of bitter mixed in with all the sweet. "It's been a long time since I went through all my stuff, and I just—I found—" she glances over her shoulder again at the heap of papers strewn all over her fuzzy carpet, and a red tinge edges steadily into her pink cheeks, "—I found old love letters."

Branch's stomach drops. "Love letters?" His mouth goes so dry, he can hardly push the words past his numb, frozen lips. But that's ridiculous, because she's Poppy, and she's had strings of admirers at her heels as long as he can remember, because she's Poppy, she's—God, just look at her, of course she got love letters, and of course she still gets love letters, and she's probably gotten at least one love letter from every troll in the village at this point, because she's Poppy, so there is absolutely no need to freak out about this. Really, what are the odds, anyway? "Y-You—" he tries to swallow, but his throat is dry, too, and it sticks, "—you get plenty of those, though. Right?"

"I mean," Poppy bites her lip, and tucks a lock of bright hair behind one ear, "yeah, I guess I kinda do, now that I think about it, but—" she kneels down to pick through the pile again, "—but there was this one troll—" she riffles and rustles through the stack for a minute before she finally plucks out a single paper, and reads it over before she looks back up at Branch. "They never signed their name. Weird, huh?"

Branch is at least ninety-seven percent certain his chest has just tied itself in a particularly complex knot, because why else would he feel like maybe a Bergen has made itself at home on his chest? "Weird?" he echoes, and even in his own ears, it sounds too high, too sharp, too fast, and that's ridiculous, because there is absolutely no need to freak out over this, there is absolutely no need to blow this up, to turn this into a big deal, because it could be anyone, it could be anyone in the entire village, remember, she's Poppy, it's impossible to not fall a little bit in love with her, so there's no need to freak out, he doesn't need to freak out, don't freak out, don't freak out, don't freak out, do not freak out. "Is that weird? Are they the only troll who never—?"

"Never signed their name? Yeah!" Poppy glances back down at the paper clutched in her pink fist. "Yeah, that's the thing! What kind of troll would write anonymous love letters? It's so weird!"

Oh.

Oh, no.

The paper in Poppy's hand is white, and all the rest of the paper in the stack is white, and Poppy never uses white paper and no one in the entire town uses white paper, and Branch is the only troll in the town who uses white paper and they never signed their name and can he freak out now, is he finally allowed to freak out now? Please?

"—really weird, though, they weren't actually 'letters', it was more like—" Poppy tips her pink head to the side, "—like poetry. You know?"

Holy fucking shit.

This is so bad.

"Um," Branch says, and slides down to the floor.

"Oh, but it was always so pretty!" Poppy gushes, with the page crushed to her chest and a soft little smile on her face. "I mean, it was always so sad, but it was always so pretty, they were so good at it, like—hang on—" she drops the sheet into her lap again, and smooths out the wrinkles and creases with the flat of her hand. "I know very well you'll never love me—only let me love you, let me live out my fate—to adore you, forever, from afar, let me burn for you until—"

"Okay!" Branch says, except it's actually a kind of, well, a squeak, maybe, a little bit—he sounds much, much higher than he usually does—but he cannot let her say the rest of that. His cheeks are already burning with the little bit she did get out. "Okay! That—that's enough. You shouldn't waste your time on this troll, Poppy. He never signed his name, and he's stopped writing to you. You'll never figure out who he is, so there's no point in talking about it."

Poppy frowns. She pushes her hair back again, and leans back a little. "Yeah," she says, with a heavy sigh. "Yeah, I guess you're right, I just—I just always wondered—" she drops her chin in her own open pink palm, "—I guess I just worried about them, you know?"

Branch definitely does not know. "You don't even know who it was," he points out, as nicely as he can. "I mean, what if it turned out they were awful? What if it turned out they were someone you hate? What if it turned out he was—" he can't look at her, "—what if it turned out he was really mean? You shouldn't waste your time worrying about a troll like—"

"But they sounded sad!" Poppy bursts out. "They sounded so lonely, Branch! All the time! Every letter! They sounded like they didn't have any friends, and they sounded like they didn't think anyone loved them, and I just—!" She huffs out a heavy breath. "I just really wish I could have helped them."

Branch swallows. He looks down at his own hands in his lap—at his scarred-up, sky-blue skin, that vivid, vibrant burst of color, so bright against all the dark brown and deep green of his clothes, the color he hadn't thought would stick, the color he had thought would dim right back down to grey in a matter of days, in a matter of hours, even—before he flicks a glance back up at her. "I'm sure," he says, quietly, his heart in his throat, "that you did."

"I just—" she sits up again, with a little shake of her head, "—I just don't get why they wouldn't tell me. What kind of troll does that? What kind of troll goes to all this trouble, writes all these letters, all this poetry, says all this sweet stuff about me, and then doesn't even sign their—!"

Poppy stops dead. Right there in the middle of her sentence, with her lips still open, and her eyes blown wide, she grinds to a full halt—like she's frozen, like she's turned to stone, but it's not her I'm making a mental scrapbook complete with glitter and stickers face, and it's not her I'm planning a party complete with colored lights and full playlists face, either, because she hasn't got a smile on her face or a sparkle in her eyes, it's almost like a blank, dazed kind of shock—

"Branch," she says, sudden and sharp, and she snaps around to look at him, her bright eyes narrowed in her pretty, freckled face. "How do you know they stopped writing to me?"

"What?" Branch says, out loud, because it takes a solid two-point-five seconds to hit him, and it takes him an additional two-point-five seconds to think, oh, shit, this is it, isn't it, this is it, I'm fucked, I'm absolutely fucked. "Y-You told me. You were—you were talking about it in the past tense, you were all 'they sounded sad', and you said—you said you were 'going down memory lane', or—or something—"

"You said 'he'," Poppy cuts in, her voice like ice, cold and clear. "You said 'he never signed his name'. You said 'what if he was really mean'."

Can he freak out now? "I-I guessed," he says, but even he can hear the stammer in his voice, and raw panic claws its way up the back of his throat with long, sharp nails, "I guessed, Poppy, that's all, it was just a guess, I-I don't know any more about this troll than you do, I was just—"

"You came up with that poem," Poppy cuts him off again, but there's a—a twitch, almost, at the edge of her lip, like she wants to smile, but she won't let herself, and what the hell can she possibly find to be happy about? "In the skating rink. With Bridget and Gristle."

"B-Because the rest of you weren't coming up with anything!" But it's not enough, and he knows it's not enough, he's lost, and he knows he's lost, even as he says it, he knows he's lost. "I was talking off the top of my head, Poppy, I was tr-trying not to get us all eaten, I-I don't even remember what I—"

"'Your eyes'—" Poppy whispers, almost to herself, "—'like two pools so deep'—"

"No," Branch says, but it's over, it's all over, he's lost, he's fucked, because she knows, and she's not—she's not supposed to—she was never supposed to know— "no, that's—that's not—I wasn't—"

Poppy snatches up another paper off the top of the stack with a loud crinkle, and her mouth finally pulls up all the way, and a full smile blooms over her face, and it's like the sun, bright and warm and beautiful, and what the hell is she so happy about? Isn't she upset? Isn't she mad? Doesn't she know this is a bad thing?

"Do you think," she reads off, and every word comes out slow and steady and deliberate, "that your bright colors could bleed through my shades of grey?"

Teenage Branch really should have tried to be a little bit subtler.

The knot in his chest finally pulls tight enough to break, but he still can't breathe right around the pieces. This wasn't supposed to happen. This was never supposed to happen. She was never supposed to know, and all his—all his lies, all the times he held himself back, all the times he bit his tongue so he wouldn't say, God, I love you, it all meant nothing, it was all for nothing, because she found out anyway, and she knows, and—

Poppy lifts her head, and she looks up at him, all wide eyes and flushed cheeks and sunshine smile. "Oh, my gosh," she says, in a whisper, in a soft and shaky and almost ecstatic breath, and she leans in so close, he can count every single silver freckle on her cheek, every single bubblegum-pink hair on her forehead, "oh, my gosh, it's really you."

Branch is, admittedly, a little bit lost. She doesn't look upset. She doesn't look mad. She looks happy, and is there something to be happy about, is this something to be happy about, is this—? Is she happy about—? It hurts to hope, because he knows he's wrong, he knows he's made a mistake, he just knows there's a fatal dot he didn't connect, he just knows he's wrong about this, he just knows he shouldn't hope, but it's like he can't stop, and what if she's happy about this, what if she's really, actually happy that it's—that it's him—?

Poppy tips her head up, and she kisses him.

Oh.

Oh, she—her mouth, and she presses into him, warm and firm and steady, in a way he's never felt, in a way he's never been, and—and she tastes like her favorite strawberry lip gloss, and her hands—on his chest, on his cheek, tangled in his hair, and she kisses him, over and over and over again—

"You're—?" Branch murmurs, breathless, half into her open mouth, and he pulls back, even if it's the very last thing in the world he wants to do, because he has to—he has to be sure, he doesn't want to do this if she's not—if she doesn't— "You're—" he looks, almost desperately, for the unease or uncertainty or hesitance or—or revulsion, he looks for it, behind her eyes, but he—he doesn't see—"—you're—okay? With this? With You're okay with—" he bites down, too hard, on his bottom lip, and he can feel the skin break, "—with me? You're—you're happy—?"

Poppy laughs, and it's not her normal laugh—her normal laugh is bright and bubbly and loud, her normal laugh makes every troll around her turn to look—this laugh is too soft for that, but he thinks he might like this laugh even more. "I am," she says, and she sounds a little breathless, too, "completely happy with you."

And she kisses him again—warm and firm and steady and strawberry lip gloss and her hands on his chest on his cheek in his hair—and now he kisses back, his body tangled up with hers in a plain-white-paper pile of years-old letters, and he is completely happy.

[witchfall]

thread

summary: They say she invented the harpsichord. The melody of birds.

(He won't remember this when he is born again.)

(And he is born again.)

---

Also on AO3

SPOILERS FOR SHADOWBRINGERS WITHIN.

{inspired by Tales from the Shadows, the new Keane album, and my general instinct to go absolutely ape shit over past lives/memories. beyond that i have no fuckin idea where this came from lmao. except some wild conjecture @vaniccio and I have about What It Could All Mean re: the future of the FFXIV MSQ.

WoL x Exarch and the strange friendship of Emet-Selch and an unnamed member of the Convocation...}

---

You are eight years old when you first realize the world is not the way it is supposed to be.

You don't understand the shattering incongruence of your thoughts as you watch the water run down the shower wall, but you suddenly know the world is different now. You see its crushing dullness. What is the point? Why do the people in this world even try to live? It is beautiful, but it is wrong. Like when a baby chocobo spooks and your friend falls and skids their elbows horribly bloody. You can't stop looking.

You stumble out of the shower and grab your towel, for you are big enough to do this on your own, and you run to the living room. Your wet feet slap the metal floors of the airship; in the distance you can hear Ma singing. Your hands feel hot. You squeeze them in and out of fists. Maybe this is what Ma means, when she sings about heartbreak. You feel shattered.

Ma is speaking animatedly about something. "But don't you think the chord progression is off?" she says. Da, sitting in a nearby chair with a tome in his lap, lifts his hands in assent, or perhaps the act of giving in.

"I've only ever been a scholar to your ear, my darling," he says, in the tone you know means he loves her even when she can be frustrating. You know that because he's used that tone on you many times.

"Oh, you're no -- " Ma starts, but then she sees you. She stops talking at once. She is by your side in three steps and tightens your towel cape at your collarbone. She kneels by you. She smells like Gramma's cookie spices. "You forgot your clothes, silly boy," she says softly, smiling warmly upon you, and it makes your eyes well up.

When you tell Ma about the thoughts and the weirdness -- Does it all matter? Is the world actually bad? -- she pulls you into her arms. She is warm and her skin squishes under your fingers and you sink your tears into her shoulder.

"Some things feel very big in our hearts," Ma says. Her voice reminds you of birds, sometimes, which makes you laugh and want to cry more. You don't know why. "Some things are hard for our souls to let go."

"My soul," you say, working through the bigness of that.

She smiles. She pushes your hair from your eyes and teases you about a haircut and tickles your ears and smothers your face in embarrassing kisses until you laugh and the thing around your heart relaxes just enough.

Ma rises to her feet. "I’m gonna go get your clothes, okay?" You nod.

Da has been standing there the whole time, watching. But then Da levels with you. Da's eyes are red like the pretty earrings Ma wears sometimes. Very red. Like you could fall into them forever.

"Souls are very strange," he says. He lays his hands on your shoulders. "I believe some of them even have memories."

You find this interesting. Your ears flick. "Was I thinking about a soul memory?"

Da makes the face you and Ma call the Old Man Sad Face. His eyes go out of focus and his mouth tilts into a smile with no mirth. He leans in, whispering a secret: "Maybe. What do you think?"

You aren't sure what Da wants you to say. You just shrug.

---

You love nothing in the world more than listening to Ma sing. You like it best when you are playing in the airship’s many halls and you hear it echoing from a lower floor, bubbling through the metal like steam. When no one is around to look, you’ll lay your head against the floor and feel transported very far away. You imagine the strangest things: lights that climb the sky. Buildings that shadow everything. A million, thousand stars. People cheering in auditoriums you have never seen...

“When did you first know you’d get married?” you like to ask Da. This time you ask while looking out over Aunt Lyna’s garden. The wind tosses your hair about and the air smells of roses.

“The first time she sang,” Da says.

Ma laughs every time at this. I was just 19. We were children. But Da always smiles. It’s alright. It’s always taken you a little bit to catch up to me. And then she whacks him with a spoon or something.

But you like to ask because it feels right, when he says that. Ma always tells the story of how Da reached through time and space to save her, and it is the best story of all time because it not only has travel through time and space but also Ma being awesome and killing monsters and bringing the night sky back. Then, then! She somehow reaches back through time and space to free Da from a tower, like a prince in a story. And then they get married and you’re born. It’s amazing.

“Your Da saved me so many times,” she says, when she tells you this story. You are sitting together, watching Da tell a frustrated Aunt Lyna how to plant a cabbage. “He’ll never admit it. But I think he is the more interesting character in that story.”

She says that, of course, and you nod. But you can’t help but think: If Ma’d been silent -- if Ma had never sang to Da, just the once -- there would be no world. You never would have been born.

---

You don't know much, but you know that Ma and Da are complicated.

One time when you were supposed to be sleeping you heard Ma talking about Da like he was once made of crystal. Sometimes I wonder if I'll wake and I'll still lose you to it, she said. Like it knows somehow that its supposed to take you back. The tower. I'll wake up and you'll be all crystalline and silent.

Oh no, Da said. We’re over. I left it at the first chance to find you again, love. I don't think it wants me like that anymore.

...you make it sound jealous.

Maybe it is.

They muttered together quietly until they started kissing, you're pretty sure, so you ran away immediately.

But this was very strange. Da is squishy and warm and has two blood red eyes and a tattoo on his arm and his neck and is not at all a man of crystal. You ask about this tattoo. He says it was from his time at school. You squint at this. You hope school does not make you get a tattoo, too. Everyone says you look like Da, except Da, who says you look like Ma, but they both have reddish hair and pale skin so it doesn't make a lot of difference to you. You even have one each of their eyes: one red and one seaglass green.

Ma has more wrinkles around her eyes and deep scratches on her face. She has a ragged, old gash on her shoulder. A few old burn marks here and there. Strange gold lines on her wrists where her veins should be. It makes you feel weird. Whenever you see them, you feel outside your own body with fascination and fury at whoever did this to Ma.

Not long after you overhear that, you get a terrible scratch by meddling with something in the engine room. So you decide to ask after her scars. Usually, she just laughs and tells you a big story about fighting a monster.

This time, Ma frowns. She touches your cheek and meets your gaze. Maybe it’s because she was talking about Da being a crystal man. Maybe she is just feeling sad. You don’t know.

"I fought in a lot of wars," she says. "I had to protect a lot of people. Because I was strong. And that's what strong people do."

You nod seriously. That's right. That's what all the heroes in all the tales do.

"I had to kill many people, too," she says.

You frown. "They were bad, though." Who would fight Ma, except people who were bad? Anyone that tried to hurt Ma deserved to die. You feel only a little guilt, thinking that.

Ma places her hand between your ears. Her eyes are dark and serious. "Not all of them, baby. Most of them were just...on the wrong side. Most of them thought that they were good."

Your heart speeds up. Your throat feels dry. "But they had to be bad," you say. "You're not bad, Ma."

She smiles down at you, but there's something broken about it. She rubs your ear. She says nothing for a long time, and guilt weighs on you in a thousand ways you do not understand. You think to run or squeeze her in a hug until she can't breathe but you are pinned by her gaze and so you do nothing. She says: "All we can do is try, my sweet pie."

And then she leans in very close, smiling as if she hadn't said anything at all. "Want to find the cookies I think your Da is hiding from us?"

You smile back, heart flying, and then she squeezes you in a hug instead. You feel forgiven and forgiveness in turn. Maybe you'll never know why.

---

They say she invented the harpsichord.

(He won't remember this when he is born again.)

The melody of birds.

(Maybe he doesn't deserve to be born again. Maybe that is his punishment.)

He still listens for it.

(But perhaps the weight of freedom would be most damning. The proof he had been wrong all along.)

---

You wake up and run to Da. As usual, he is already awake as if waiting for you to come to him, sitting on the observation deck of the airship and staring at the stars through great, rounded glass. The ship does not fly at night.

He turns toward the sound of your footsteps and beckons you to join him. You scramble onto his lap, suddenly feeling too cold to sit by him with dignity.

Da reminds you of the tales about mages in ancient cities that were swallowed up by water. Mages that knew everything there was to know. The gods smote them for knowing too many things. You hope very much that they do not turn their eyes upon Da.

"Trouble sleeping, my dear one?"

You nod into his chest. He wraps his warm arms around you and hums softly for a few moments, stroking your hair.

"Da," you say. "Where do people go when they die?"

Da takes a big breath and you move as his chest rises. His humming stops but he continues to stroke your hair. "Thinking deep thoughts tonight?" he asks, voice warm.

You 'hmph' against his chest.

"They go to the Lifestream. Though there is still much we do not know and may never know..."

"Do people know each other there?"

Da's hand falls still on your back. If this were Ma, she would begin asking why you want to know this so bad, but Da never does that. He answers your questions plainly. "We don't know. You live in a...much changed world, from when I was small."

You are unsure what to make of that.

"But that means there’s so many more worlds for you to know,” he says. “For you to explore. You know how we sometimes have to be very careful and sit still in our chairs? How the world around our airship goes Purple Wavy?"

You nod. "When we go between the worlds."

"Yes. We couldn't always do that, you know. Before you were born...it was all very complicated but the worlds were all closed. Now we can do Purple Wavy and get there. And maybe one day that will include the Lifestream."

"And then I will find you and Ma and Gramma and then it'll be fine," you say, explaining this anxiety before you can even name it.

Da holds you tightly to him. "I have no doubts," he says, deep and warm. You don't look to see, but Da is looking up at the ceiling, trying not to cry. You are feeling sleepy again so you don't notice.

"When are we getting to Uncle Alphinaud? And Alisaie?" you ask.

"After you sleep tonight, love. One more sleep left."

"One more sleep until more books," you say, and that's all you remember before you drift off. When you wake up, you're tucked back in your bed. You think of the birds singing just outside your little window.

---

They say she invented the heart of music.

She wrote the tragedy about painters and light; it ends with a father giving in to the river of time. She wrote the comedy where three people marry in an explosion of color so beautiful that people in the audience sobbed. ("It is still, technically, a comedy," she would say when pressed.) She wrote music like velvet against the skin, heavy and sumptuous. She would pick your gaze apart in silence, distill you into notes that sung so high you'd see violet. The Convocation respected beauty, once -- respected creation that reached inside you and tore your heart from your ribs so you could examine it better.

This girl is not her.

This girl sings dirges and arias and poorly-paced limericks, yes, but her soul doesn't pull apart with each new composition. The world shifts around her, certainly, but the air no longer shimmers when she works. This girl doesn't sob over coffee because a boor called her latest draft "uninspired." This girl isn't her.

(Perhaps that is one subtle gift of the sundering. The world ends each day in little ways but they still believe in the promise of tomorrow.)

"Fond of her, are you?"

The Exarch had deigned him with silence, then, but Hades knows the truth. Even in this life, the souls around her are pulled toward her suffering brightness. In these last moments of his life, aether seeping from the gash in his body, he realizes they would have perished before her original glory.

He wishes for that. To be scalded, even a little bit, by her grace.

He fades into the light, and can only hope.

---

Your world is many places crossing the great sky. Your world is here in the airship with Ma and Da and maybe a sister soon, or so Ma keeps saying. You press your hands against the glass and hope you'll remember this always -- the way the world looks, perfect and green, as you fly over it like birds.

"What are you thinkin’ about so hard, cutie?"

Ma tousles your hair. Your love for her feels like it will eat the whole world.

"Nothin," you say. You look up at her and grin. "Just stories."

[distressedpanda]

Wild One (Daryl Dixon x OFC) Part 2

Warnings: Language, mentions of blood, Angst, So much angst, slow burn

Please like and comment!

Read more for length. As always, let me know if you would like to be tagged.

Part 1

He saw it happening, just as he heard her small cry. He caught her falling body, crouching to stop her decent. He rolled her over in his arms, cradling her head to his chest. She smelled like the autumn air, the crisp, bittersweet scent overwhelming his sense of smell. Dog came over to investigate, sniffed at her face and then sat back on his haunches waiting for an order.

Daryl snorted at the dog, “Ya like her don't ya?” The only response he received was the dog cocking his head to the side in question. “Keep watch,” he commanded, and Dog ran off to do just that.

Daryl pulled a rag from his back pocket, gingerly laying her down on the forest floor he moved to inspect the wound. He removed the bandanna, slowly carefully pulling it away from the broken bolt so as not to jostle it anymore. It was obvious, inspecting the injury through her ripped jeans, that the shot had done little damage, it was the walk and movement of the broken thing after, that caused the flesh to tear and rip, worsening the injury. He lifted her leg to inspect what remained of the bolt. The point was gone, the shaft having broken off at the front of her thigh, so that the fletching just barely protruded from the back. Normally, he would have grabbed the fletching and pulled the bolt cleanly out of the wound, but the break had left the metal shaft twisted and jutting in every direction but straight. He needed pliers, but they were at the camp with his motorcycle.

He tied the new clean rag in place much tighter than she had and lifted the unconscious woman from the ground. She really was tiny but solid. Though from the look of her, appeared to be a full grown woman. Maybe in her late 20's, early 30's. Daryl, shock his head, He was no good with ages so perhaps she was just a child. This world was no longer kind to the living, causing many to look much older than they actually were.

He gave a short low whistle, before starting for the camp again. Dog met him just as he was carefully navigating the last of the traps around his set up. He stepped over a string of cans, just as Dog crawled under and made his way over to lay next to the fire pit. The sun had crept down the sky after the trip away and he needed to start a fire before the night air grew too cold.

Laying the women down on his pallet, he cut her hands free, so she was laying comfortably. He set the crossbow and backpack down and set about building the fire. When it was rolling steadily within its confines, he went to the bike to retrieve his pliers and first aid kit.

Returning to the unconscious girl, he watched the firelight play across her features. He couldn't lie to himself, she was very attractive. Their was something familiar in the doe shape of her eyes and soft sloping nose complimenting her full lips, but small mouth. Her face full cheeks and a gently rounded chin, long dark wild waves of hair framed the chilling natural beauty. Even with her eyes closed, he could see the golden stare that had glared at him earlier. She was all smooth slopping curves and toned muscles, as his eyes traveled down her body. The slope of her neck, to the dip of her collarbones, the muscles in her arms well defined but still feminine. The small swell of her chest before narrowing to her tiny waist then flaring slightly at her hips again. Strong thighs and calves, well defined in her fitted jeans.

He shock his head taking a deep breath, Where did that line of thought come from? He asked this question only inwardly, before returning to the job at hand. He crouched over the girl, taking her knife from his belt he crudely cut the jean pant leg off, just above the wound. Then clipped the front of the bolt shaft right above her leg, creating a smother edge to pull through the already torn flesh. Lifting her leg, and placing her calf on his knee, he could now free the bolt. He hesitated just as he was about to grip the fletching, this was going to hurt her. And even though she was unconscious at the moment, she definitely wouldn't remain that way when he started.

He whistled for Dog, and when the animal approached, he commanded Dog to lie across the woman's chest. Daryl had enough traps and trip wires set up to protect or warn if she screamed and drew the dead. But he didn't have enough hands to pull the bolt and hold her down to prevent any further damage.

Daryl took a deep breathe steadying his hand and nerves before gripping the fletching. He counted in his head, 3. . . 2. . . 1. . .

The gut wrenching scream that escaped her lips, tore at Daryl's chest as much as the bolt had torn at the girl's flesh. But it was free now, tossing it aside he reached to calm her. She was pushing at Dog, who held his position growling at her in warning. Daryl seized her hands in his, shooing Dog and then shushing the girl. “Hey, shh, it's a'ight. I had to get that bolt out of ya, or you were gonna bleed to death.”

Her eyes danced wildly, before settling on his own. The scream dying on her lips as soon as he started talking, the gravel in his low timber somehow soothing. She was shaking from the pain that seemed to radiate out from her leg to her whole body. Her mind was muddled but she remembered what had happened. The chase, the shot, the walk back, and then dark. But out of everything she could ask, “Why?” tumbled from her trembling lips, confusing her as well as the man.

Daryl's brow knitted together, “Cause you were gonna die. Simple as that,” he released her hands, grabbing the first aid kit. “I need to stitch it now, so it'll go on and heal. Ya gonna let me?”

She lay in bewildered silence at his answer. Not really registering his question until he had the suture kit in his hand. She looked up into the bright blue of his eyes, which seemed to produce a light of their own as the firelight caught them. She nodded, unable to use her voice at the moment.

“Aight then,” he said, cleaning the wound. It had started bleeding again when he had removed the bolt. When it was clean enough for him to work, he opened the kit to extract the threaded needle. “Name's Daryl, by the way. I ain't got nothin for the pain, so ya might wanna distract yerself somehow. Ya can talk or I can, sup to you.”

“Layla,” she answered through grit teeth. “Keep talking,” she answered, as he started to pinch the skin on the top of her thigh together.

Daryl pushed the needle through, tying the first knot in the stitches. He tried to think of things to talk about as he continued sewing, “Can't say it's nice to meet ya, but thanks for yer name.” He growled out, as he concentrated on pushing needle through skin.

Layla winced and sucked breath through her teeth, “Same here,” she answered, trying to remember to take deep breathes and stay still. Though her body continued trembling from pain and blood loss, she stayed as still as possible.

Daryl pinched and stitched, over and over. “It's gonna be an ugly scar. Can't say 'm the best at this. But if ya had let me look at it when I asked it wouldn't be this bad.”

She rolled her eyes at him, he was really starting to piss her off. Suddenly she realized that the angrier she got the less her body trembled or focused on the pain, “Purposely pissing me off, smart,” she sneered.

He snorted at her, his hands working diligently, “Who said I was doin it for yer sake? I meant what I said, I coulda kept this from getting this bad. Coulda carried ya, so it wouldn't rip more. Wouldn't of lost so much blood either. Now roll over I gotta stitch the back,” he said, tying the last stitch.

She grit her teeth and struggled to move. She lifted her uninjured leg and placed her foot on the ground and using her elbows she pushed trying to flip herself over, but she had no strength left to move. She kept trying, she wouldn't be defeated by this. Bearing down on the ground with her arms, she pushed with her leg again but didn't move not even an inch.

Panting from the exertion and pain, she looked up at Daryl and fuck him, he was grinning. Rocked back on his knees, hand on his chin scratching at his beard, grinning. Amusement danced across those damned blue oceans, before he cleared his throat, “I can help ya with that if ya want,” and the amused tone in his voice pissed her off even more.

“It was your idea for me to flip over, asshole. If you were going to offer to help, why the hell didn't you just do it yourself?” she lashed out.

Daryl flinched despite himself, it was small and well controlled, but it was there. He knew in that moment, that he had pushed to far with this girl. He really was just trying to help, well sort of. He really wanted to know why she had been watching him for so long. But he still hadn't broached that subject and now he was pretty sure he wouldn't get any answers out of her.

Before Layla knew what was happening she was lifted and rolled over to her stomach. The small grunt from her registered a very apologetic, “Sorry,” from him.

She huffed against the blankets, folding her arms beneath her and turned her head to face him. She watched him labor over the back of her leg, just as he had done the front. “Look, I know you were just trying to help. So I guess, I am sorry too.”

He grunted at her, but gave no other response. The back of her leg hurt worse than the front had, as he stitched it up. She gritted her teeth tucking her head down against her arms. She felt helpless and didn't enjoy it at all. "How much more do you have?" she questioned, trying to keep herself from slipping back under but the pain was making her light headed.

"Few more," he grunted.

Great she had pissed off the distraction by opening her big mouth. "Look, I am not good at this. You are the first person I have spoken to in months. I am not good at. . ." she breathed in sharply at the pain, and gritted out her last word, "Peopling."

He actually chuckled and Layla found that she enjoyed the sound. It was soft and soothing to her. "Yea, I'm not real good at the peopling thing either."

This peeked her interest, "Why is that?"

Daryl shook his head and scoffed, "Nah, ya don't answer any of my questions. Ain't bout to do ya any favors," he grumbled, baiting her.

Layla huffed, "Fine, I guess that's fair," she breathed through her teeth, adding, "Question for question?"

Daryl smirked, the bait had worked better than he thought. Maybe now he could get a few answers. "Deal, but me first," she grumbled under her breathe but stayed silent waiting. He took the cue and asked, "Why were ya followin me?"

She wasn't really sure she could answer that question and tried to say as much, "Well, I wasn't exactly following you. I watch people. I have since the beginning, never really stayed in a group. I was just better on my own. Safer. That's what I was doing here, just watching. Don't really know why I stayed so long, can't explain it. Just felt the need or maybe just want, to stay." Truth be told, there was a since of familiarity about Daryl. Like a string tugging at a long past memory that she couldn't quite pull into focus. Of course, she wasn't going to tell him that.

She wasn't really sure if she had made any sense and didn't really care. She had answered the question, so it was her turn, "So why aren't you good at the peopling thing?"

Daryl sat back on his heels, having finished the last stitch while she was talking. He chewed on his bottom lip, thinking about the best way to answer. "Don't know,” he finally admitted. “Just don't like bein round people anymore." He looked off toward the fire, before adding in a hushed voice, “Ya get close to people, ya lose 'em.

She frowned, turning her upper body and propping her head up on her hand. "So you have lost people?" she asked hesitantly.

He shook his head slightly, looking back to her, "Who hasn't, and that's two questions, my turn."

Layla inwardly cursed herself, but the distraction was working. Sure her leg still hurt, but she wasn't focused on it anymore. "Yea, alright," she conceded reluctantly.

He crossed his arms across his chest, noticing the chill that started to creep into the night air. It didn't bother him, he could have even done without the fire. But he started to worry about the girl, very aware that she had lost a lot of blood and would have trouble maintaining her body heat. "A'ight, so where's yer camp?"

She smirked at him, then she rolled back slightly lifting her free hand and pointing straight up.

He looked up at the trees, dumbfounded, "Yea, I saw ya up there earlier, swinging through those trees like a damn monkey. But ya can't sleep up there, without a stand or somethin."

He had been careful to keep it from being a question, but Layla decided to answer him anyway. "Throw me my pack," she grinned.

It was the most beautiful and terrifying thing Daryl thought he had ever seen. The fire danced in her golden gaze, and cast her face in shadows, turning that grin into something sinister. Something turned in his stomach, but curiously it wasn't fear.

He got up to retrieve her pack, mentally shacking himself. This girl continued to astonish him, kept making him think these foreign things. Well at least the intensity was foreign to him.

He grabbed the pack making his way back to her, but when she reached for it, he pulled it back. She furrowed her brow, but he cut off her question, "Ya don't get the pack unless this question doesn't count."

She felt like she was being manipulated and she cut her eyes at him. But being temporarily disabled as she was, she figured she was gonna have to play by his rules, "Fine," she huffed.

"Good," he nodded and knelt down in front of her. Putting his face mere inches away from hers, but keeping the bag well out of arms reach, he asked, "Be honest, ya got anything in here I should be worried about?"

She furrowed her brow at him again, momentarily confused. Then realization struck her, he had seen her go down and pop back up like it was nothing. Of course, he had every right to worry about her still having a trick up her sleeve. She shook her head earnestly, "No, it's just my climbing gear, some clothes, a little food, and some," she paused dropping her head. She didn't want to get into that with a stranger. She scrambled for a way to explain it, that wouldn't make him suspicious of her, "Keepsakes."

Daryl arched a brow, but decided to let her have it. Not like she could do much in her current condition. He handed the bag over and then took a few steps back before sitting down again. He might have decided to give her the benefit of the doubt, but he wasn't stupid.

He watched her open the big zipper on the pack, fumbling with the bag trying to dig and pull something out. Finally, she pushed the pack away and groaned frustrated.

Layla really hated being in this position, she couldn't do much laying on her stomach. She tried to roll herself over and managed to accomplish that much, it was easier to roll over from her stomach to her back. Breathing heavily, trying to ignore the pain and the light headed feeling she had, she tried to sit up. Straining, she lifted her head off the ground and then she was sitting up, but not from her own efforts. Daryl was crouched behind her, hands on her shoulder blades. She shivered at the contact, looking up, gold meeting aquamarine. She was captivated.

"Ya got a jacket er somethin in that pack too?" he asked, misunderstanding the reaction, for her being cold. She nodded slightly, still looking up at him. He reached for the pack with one hand, gently supporting her with the other. "Good," he handed it back to her, "You should put it on. Ya lost a lot of blood, even if ya don't usually, yer gonna feel the cold tonight. Jus take it easy."

"Thank you," she breathed.

He moved away slowly, making sure she could sit up on her own. But this time he stayed close, that damned knot in his stomach getting more uncomfortable. Her eyes tracked him, making him roll his shoulders awkwardly.

He looked down and Layla came back to her senses. She blinked a few times before rummaging through the pack again. She pulled out her jean jacket first, taking Daryl's advice. She moved to slide it up one arm and he was at her side again, pulling it around her back so she could slide her other arm in. She chuckled when he slunk away again, "Man, I must look rough," she joked.

Sitting with his knees up against his chest, he shook his head and started chewing at his thumb. "Didn't say that," he mumbled around it. He was struck by her familiarity again, he could distinctly remember a conversation much like this before. Though, as much as he racked his brain he couldn't remember who it had been with.

And then it was her turn to get flustered, she tucked her head down and started rummaging through the bag again. "This is what I was going to show you," she said, removing a wound up length of braided poly rope.

He scoffed as he looked at it, "'S just rope. Don't explain how ya make camp in a tree."

She rolled her eyes at him, "Well not by itself," she feigned annoyance and then preceded to explain. "I use climbing rope to tie myself to the tree, around my stomach and legs. With a wide enough limb to sit on, I can sleep quite comfortably up there. Keeps me safer too."

He stared at her in stunned silence for a moment, before arching an eyebrow at her. "Okay," He drew the word out to have about five syllables and scratched thoughtfully at his chin again, "What'd ya do before all this?"

She smiled, her eyes lighting up again, "I will only answer, if that is your second question. You have gotten away with to many already." Stuffing the rope back in her pack and tossing it at her side, she lent back on her arms, trying to keep herself up right.

Daryl grunted in affirmation, chewing at his thumb nail.

Layla sighed heavily, casting her eyes down to her boots. “I was a gymnast by profession, and a survivalist by hobby.” Daryl's eyes went slightly wider, but he gave no other response. “I know I don't really look the part, but my mother wanted me to be a gymnast and my dad wanted me to hunt, track, and camp with him. I decided not to choose.” She chuckled to herself and Daryl could here the pain in it. She shook her head and looked back up at him, “So what about you, who were you before?”

Daryl was amazed how she had gotten so personal and yet stayed so distant all at once. She was a lot like him.

Deciding not to comment on the personal part, he grunted with an almost amused sound, “Wouldn't believe me if I told ya.”

“Try me,” she dared him with her tone, her eyes dancing playfully.

Daryl could feel the heat growing in his ears when he shook his head. Is she flirting with me? He couldn't stop himself from inwardly questioning, “I was nobody. Just followed my brother around. Did odd jobs whenever I needed cash. Was a mechanic, carpenter, plumber, hell I was even a landscaper once.” He thought back on all the jobs he had before, “I was nobody,” he stated again. He folded his arms on top of his knees and rolled his shoulders uncomfortably.

Her head was getting fuzzy again, “I highly doubt that you were nobody,” Her vision blurred slightly, “Sounds like you kinda had a rough time, before all this,” her words slurring slightly together, she shook her head.

“You alright?” Daryl asked, moving into a crouch and inching closer to her. She was getting awfully pale.

His drawl wasn't nearly as strong when he was concerned, she noticed. This fact made her smile. She attempted to raise her hand to wave him off, saying “I'm fine,” but her other arm buckled under her. Her body collapsing back onto the pallet. She started breathing heavily and trembling.

Daryl was by her side instantly, holding her head up off the ground. He could feel her shaking, “Ya ain't fine. Ya need to sleep.”

She chuckled, trying to track him through her blurry vision, “But this was just getting interesting.”

The heat spread from his ears to his cheeks, “Stop,” he said sternly.

The pink in his cheeks made her chuckle again, but the trembling of her body made it sound deranged, even to her ears.

“You need to sleep, don't worry ain't nothin gettin in here.” He spoke softly, almost reverently and he wasn't quite sure where that had come from.

She shivered violently, “I'm not worried,” she admitted through grit teeth, “Just cold suddenly.”

He picked her up, cradling the small girl in one arm and dragging the pallet with the other. She clung to him with weak arms, as he moved them both closer to the fire. “Told ya, you lost a lot of blood. Ya ain't gonna be 100% for a while.”

He laid her down carefully on the newly placed pallet. Pulling one of the blankets up to tuck tightly around her. Her eyelids were heavy and he could see her fighting it. Brushing her hair back from her face, his hand falling to linger against her far too cold and pale cheek, “Stop,” he said again, this time much gentler. “Just sleep.”

She nodded her head against his hand, finally letting her eyes close completely. Her breathing slowly evened out and the trembles lessened slightly. “I'll keep watch, Layla,” Daryl whispered to her. Watching the corners of her lips twitch up slightly, he couldn't stop the grin that captured his own.

[forever-dreaming-cullen]

[FIC] In the Heat of Summer - Slightly NSFW

Late to the party for day 2 of @cullenappreciationweek: Day 2: Commander Cullen

Thank you to @ekoorb03 for the awesome beta!

Summary: It's summer in Skyhold and it's hot. Cullen and the Iron Bull are sparring, and Bull isn't the only one not wearing a shirt. You get a front row seat to the action, and the temperature just shot up about a hundred degrees!

Read it on AO3

The summer sun high in the sky greets you as you exit the Great Hall, trying to escape the endless prattle and demands of the simpering nobles your position forces you to deal with. As the cool breeze fluttering through the tree branches ghosts over your hot skin, you sigh in relief, happy to be free of the stifling air inside the keep.

As you hop down the steps to the courtyard,  you turn your head to the raucous shouting ringing out from the training yard where a crowd has gathered. Curious, you increase your pace as you jog toward it. When you draw closer, you curse your diminutive height because you can't see anything over the heads of people circled around the fenced-in area.

"Show 'im, Commander!" someone shouts near the front of the crowd.

"That's the way!"

You frown. Cullen? He’s fighting someone in the ring?

The clashing sounds of steel on steel reach your ears as well as the grunts of the fighting men and an embarrassing heat pools between your legs. Maker, you have to know. You push forward and as the onlookers notice who is jostling them for space, step aside to allow you through. Being Inquisitor has some perks, after all.

When you get to the fence, the sight your eyes behold stuns you into silent motionlessness. Dancing around the Iron Bull with a grace that no man his size should possess is Cullen, your Commander, and the man you have been pining for since the moment you saw him on the battlefield near the Temple of Sacred Ashes. And he is completely bare-chested.

You think you might faint as you watch him deftly block an attack from the Iron Bull with his shield and jab forward with his own sword. Sweat glistens on the rippling muscles of his chest, shoulders, and arms as he brings his sword up to catch the head of Bull's great ax with a force that shoves the larger man back.

You finally have some answers to things about him that you've wondered about, alone in your bed late at night. Things like, for example, does he have hair on his chest? He, in fact, does: soft golden down covers his pectorals, now darkened with sweat which narrows into a trail that arrows down his impossibly toned abdomen and disappears into the waistband of his pants...which are hanging low over his muscled hips. You bite your lower lip. Maker, if those breeches fall any lower, you’ll get the answers to the other questions you have about your Commander’s gorgeous body.

You scrabble up the fence and perch there to watch the rest of the fight. The Iron Bull has strength and stamina on his side, but Cullen has agility and tactical experience. The two warriors are evenly matched and watching them spar is a joy.

"Hey, Cullen," Bull calls out as he tries to get in a blow under the ex-Templar's shield. " Thought you oughta know. You got a special audience."

Cullen neatly blocks him and casts a quick glance toward the sidelines. You can tell when he spots you, for his eyes widen and his defense falters for a second. Taking advantage of the distraction, Bull lands a glancing blow to Cullen's left shoulder. You gasp, covering your mouth as Cullen staggers backward under its force. But Cullen recovers and maintains his balance, shifting his stance and swinging his sword threateningly.

"Now that was a dirty trick, Bull, " Cullen hisses through his exerted panting.  A dangerous smirk crosses his lips. “But it doesn’t matter — I’ll still best you!”

He launches himself into a leaping spin, performing a shield bash that stuns the big Qunari and lets him land a  hard blow against the other’s large hand with the haft of his sword, sending his opponent’s great ax flying to the other side of the arena. Sticking his sword into the ground, tip first, he tosses away his shield and offers his hand.

"Do you concede?"

Bull laughs loudly and engulfs Cullen's hand in a hearty shake. "Yeah, I concede," he says. "Appreciate the spar, Commander." The crowd erupts in loud cheers of victory and congratulations for the Commander.

“It was a good fight. Thank you for helping me  with this demonstration." Cullen nods to Bull, clapping him on the bicep, then turns to the recruits gathered on one side of the training yard. "And that is how you can best a much larger and stronger opponent."

The young recruits, apparently impressed by their fierce and experienced Commander, send up a rousing cheer. You watch as he gives them some further instructions before dismissing them for the afternoon. The sun shines down on his blond head,  picking up the paler strands in his golden hair. Would it feel as smooth as it looks? You shake your head to get rid of the image of you running your hands through his thick locks. He is the Inquisition’s Commander, and you are the Inquisitor. There is a war going on, and you have no time for such foolishness.

You are about to jump off the fence when you notice that on his way to the Herald’s Rest, Bull has stopped beside Cullen to tell him something, nodding his horned head in your direction. You can’t quite hear what he says, but Cullen shoots a quick glance at you and his cheeks pinken slightly. Bull grins wide and gives the Commander a shove toward you. What were they talking about?

You don’t have long to wonder, because as Bull leaves the ring, Cullen faces you and regards you with his golden eyes. The intensity of his stare unnerves you a little...okay, it unnerves you a lot, and you nearly topple backward over the fence when he starts walking toward you. No, he is stalking toward you, with all the savage grace of the lion he is nicknamed for.

And then he is in front of you, all 6 feet plus of him, so close that you can see the droplets of sweat clinging to his chest hair. You watch a droplet run from his collarbone down to where the hair is thickest at the center of his chest and swallow, very aware of the heat of him standing before you. You dare to glance up, and Maker, you almost wish you hadn’t because he’s looking at you with heated golden eyes.  He places one hand on the fence on either side of you and continues appraising you, one corner of his mouth turned up in that smirk that always makes you melt.

He raises one honey eyebrow and says "So, Inquisitor, did you enjoy the show?"

You blink and stare into his eyes."I —  yes, I did," you stutter helplessly. The scent of fresh sweat, dirt, and man is nearly overwhelming.

"I'm glad to hear it," he murmurs and leans in closer. "And now, my lady, I seek a small token of your...appreciation. Would you allow your humble Commander this?"

That golden stare is anything but humble. You lick our lips; your mouth has gone as dry as the Hissing Wastes. “W-what do you want?”

A warm chuckle rumbles through his chest. “Nothing so onerous, dear lady, I assure you. “ A hand comes up to hold your chin between his thumb and forefinger so that you can’t look away from his gaze. “It is only a kiss I seek. Surely you would not begrudge a man so little?”

So little, indeed. What would he say if you told him that you fear you might explode into a million pieces at the touch of his lips? That you’ve dreamed about kissing him every night since Haven? You lick your lips again, clenching your hands into fists to prevent them from reaching out to touch all that tempting skin that was so close, even as you feel yourself leaning forward toward him.

“Yes, alright, Commander,” you rasp out, your voice cracking from the dryness in your throat.

His smirk widens into a grin that shows off his beautiful white teeth. He leans in again and covers your lips with his. His lips are surprisingly soft, and the outline of his scar presses against your mouth. What would he do if you licked it?

Then his tongue presses against the seam of your lips, asking for entry, and already drunk on his nearness, you open for him. He slips it inside your mouth and explores its contours, sliding against yours, so slick, wet and delicious. Boy does the man know how to kiss!

And he tastes so good, of peppermint and his unique flavor  — better than you ever dreamed on those lonely nights alone in your tent. You drink him in and slide your own tongue against his, kissing him back with a fervor that you are pretty sure you've never felt for anyone else. He tilts his head and slants his hot mouth over yours to deepen the kiss, and one of his hands buries itself in your hair while your own wrap around his neck. When he lifts you off the fence and pulls you against him, your legs find his waist and wrap around him.

The kiss goes on and on, and you don’t want it to stop; you would happily die in his arms. Your erect nipples, separated from his hot skin by only the thin fabric of your sleeveless camisole, brush against his hard chest. A needy moan rises from your chest as his strong hands cup your ass and press you firmly against his erection. You grind against it, desperately seeking friction to assuage the ardor rapidly taking over your mind and body.

“Atta girl, Quiz!” It’s Sera’s voice, carrying down from her room above the tavern.  Other sounds come to you then, too: the hoots and hollers of the crowd that hasn’t yet broken up and are now shouting out encouragements to Cullen. Your cheeks heat as you pull away from his lips and he chases after the kiss before leaning back, one brow arching in question.

“You should let me down now, Commander,” you whisper.  “We, um,  have an audience.”

But he does not release you. Instead, the insufferable man tightens his grip on you and that damn sexy smirk of his turns up the scarred corner of his mouth.This close up, you can see each little crinkle at the corners of his eyes, and Maker, how you would love to kiss each one.

“If you think I am letting you go now when I have just discovered what a fiery minx you are, you are quite mistaken.”  With one hand holding onto you, he vaults over the fence, using his other hand for leverage and stalks through the crowd, making for the stairs to the battlements.

“Where are you taking me?” The pool of fire between your legs threatens to engulf you because you think you already know the answer.

He glances down at you, taking the steps two at a time. “To my chambers, Inquisitor. I need to debrief you in private about some important…matters.”

“Oh.”

You smile, waving to the soldiers you pass as your Commander carries you off to have his way with you. You couldn’t be more pleased.