#she's a real turkey

[theluckywizard]

HAPPY FRIDAY LUCKY Okay but consider: "Writing them little sticky notes and putting them in random places." from the intimacy prompts... for either Rose/Cullen or Rose/Hawke, whichever you think fits best (I couldn't decide akjfnkjrengjk). Happy writing!!

This is ALSO for @ar-lath-ma-cully who asked for:

As is tradition, I wrote most of this for @dadrunkwriting last Friday and passed out before finishing 😴 The nice part is that I got to do some sfw art for it today before posting 😳 Rating/CW: Explicit, sex

WC: 2212

Summary: Inquisitor Rose Trevelyan is away clearing rifts along Sulcher's pass but she leaves plenty of reminders behind for Cullen to find while she's gone! (Fluff smut)

Cullen shuffles to his trunk by the inadequate light that spills in through the splintered roof and reaches in for fresh smalls and a shirt, the motion a reflex at this point. A scrap of paper flutters to the floor that he almost misses, but he steps on it and curious, picks it up, squinting in the darkness to read it.

Miss me yet?

A laugh bubbles up and snuffs through his nose, and his whole chest warms up. He presses the note to his smiling lips. Rose has been gone less than twenty four hours and he does, in fact, miss her already.

Late into the evening after briefing his scouts and sending them off, after stacking his paperwork into their designated piles, Cullen climbs to his loft heavily. The distractions of work are put away for the night. The distractions of Rose somewhere along Sulcher’s pass where she’s closing rifts to secure the route. He mounts all his armor on its stand and strips to his smalls and settles into the sumptuously comfortable bed she’d insisted he have. As his head hits the blessed pillow a rustling and crumpling accosts his senses. He wrestles his way into the pillowcase and withdraws the note, reading it by the fidgeting candlelight.

I’m actually impressed you found this one. Gold star, my love!

He fails to restrain his chuckle, grinning stupidly as he rubs his hands over his eyes. Even away from Skyhold she finds ways to play with him, reminding him of the first half of his life before trauma and responsibilities muscled out that impulse.

The next day he finds one in his ledger, drifting down onto his desk.

Eat something, handsome.

He stifles his grin, shakes his head and wanders down to the Skyhold kitchen to beg and scrounge.

Cullen goes to shave, opening the Order-issued wooden box that houses his kit.

I’ve often wondered how you’d look with a beard. Think about it?

He laughs and shaves his face anyway. 

Bodner’s Siege Tactics, second edition, which usually hangs around his desk in want of referencing, holds a note inside.

I miss your kisses. 

Cullen sighs, feeling the longing smart in his chest like it might gnaw him to pieces. He’s lucky he didn’t loan that one to Lieutenant Taryn the other day.

The next morning he takes a peek into his mended lyrium box to perform his daily ritual: lay his eyes on the one luminous bottle he keeps around and roundly reject it. There’s a note inside of course.

Don’t even think about it.

He covers his eyes with a hand but the smile sneaks out. She’s always been a brazen one. 

He hasn’t the faintest clue how many there are and where they’ll jump out of next, but it sustains him. And when the bell rings twice to signal her party’s approach after a week away, he’s startled to see her leaning against the inside of the southern door frame.

“Maker’s breath!” he chokes, clutching at his chest as he recovers himself. “How did you beat the bell?”

“Witchcraft, of course,” says the Inquisitor with a pert little smile so smug he has a mind to kiss it clean. He submits to her pull, striding toward her, hunger flooding his groin.

“I got your notes. Breaking into my office again?”

“Notes? I don’t have the faintest idea what you're on about,” she says, but her cheeks give her away. She’s never been a convincing seductress, too busy tripping over her own wicked little plots to pull it off completely, but it’s better in every dimension. And Cullen dearly needs a laugh.

“You don’t know anything about a note in my lyrium box?” he says, as he nudges her against the wall with his hips.

“Who would do such an outrageously inappropriate thing?” she asks, and he eradicates her mischievous grin with a sweep of his open mouth. He curls a hand around the back of her neck the way he always does to draw her into his kiss. Her gauzy blue calico scarf crunches and rustles slightly under his hand and he draws back, shaking his head because he already knows. Rose’s blush is fierce but she wrestles her expression into something resembling mild amusement as Cullen feels around under the folds of her scarf for the note. He makes a show of unfolding it with a stern look up at her, tugs it open with a snap, clears his throat and reads it out loud before he has any conception of what it says. 

“Fuck me.” He’d never have said it if he'd read it beforehand, flushing onto the tips of his ears and beyond, his shock and mortification nearly derailing the very thing she desires.

Rose’s eyes are expectant upon him, bold and penetrating even over her equally pink cheeks. Cullen’s breath deepens and his armor feels impossibly hot all of a sudden, the high pile of the fur of his mantle an utter absurdity. He claws it away from his neck, pushing it over his pauldrons onto the floor where he promptly forgets about it.

Rose is patient, reclining against the rough stones of the tower wall and he rewards her by drawing her hand up above her head and pinning it there as he drops his hips slightly to press his erection between her legs. He tugs her knee up alongside him to deepen the contact, nearly a week of separation charging his arousal like it’s a latent hum of electricity inside him, teasing moans of relief from her parted lips.

With only one hand, Cullen makes expert work of the clasps on her traveling leathers, familiar as they are and when it falls open, he reaches to feel the yield of her breast under his fingers, the fullness of it against his palm, the–

There’s a crisp rumple under his hand.

Rose strangles a laugh into a snort.

Cullen leans heavily against the wall over her, casting a look of playful consternation as he fishes the note from the folds of her breast band.

“Not here. Upstairs,” he reads. “Maker’s breath, Rose.”

He pockets the notes to save in his drawer of her letters and reaches a hand to swipe between her legs, reacquainting himself with the contours of her most intimate parts through the kidskin leather. She gasps, covering his hand with hers, begging for more by pressing his fingers into her harder.

“Just checking for other notes,” he grumbles softly from a breath away. “Go on. I’ll lock up.” 

While she disappears nimbly up the ladder, Cullen turns the key in each tower door, exhaling sharply as he adjusts his cock inside the now too small space of his breeches. He ascends eagerly, hoping to see her stretched fair across his bed but she waits with crossed arms.

“I think I’ve undressed myself enough for one week,” she declares, welcoming him into her arms, arousing in him suspicion that borders on certainty. He bares her with deft hands, waiting for another note to come out of the folds of something or other but it never does and they both work at the remainder of his armor, punctuating their efforts with joyful kisses. When he’s down to his breeches she wanders over and flops naked across his bed, her eyes slipping closed as she sighs away the exhaustion of the road. He kicks off his breeches beside the bed and climbs onto it in just his smalls. With her laid out bare before him, not a scrap of clothing or reasonable hiding place to be found he can’t help his next comment.

“I’m a little worried about where I’ll find your next note,” he says, his juvenile grin sneaking out momentarily before he penetrates her with a provocative gaze from under his brow.

“You’re more than welcome to search me wherever you suspect I’ve tucked it away,” she says, delighting in the spring of his cock with an appreciative look when he shucks off his smalls. 

A note flutters out of them.

“How in the Maker’s name–” he cuts himself off. Her look of triumph must be punished, but first, the note. He sits back on his heels and reads it. “What are you waiting for?”

Cullen throws the note over his shoulder with a grin and crawls forward to claim her, lowering himself between her legs and sucking on the pink peak of her right breast with joyful abandon. He tempers the need that devours him from inside, tamping down the feral response as the hairs of his chest engage the velvet of her skin, as the heat of her most intimate parts warms his stomach.

“Do I want to know how you did that?” he asks, kissing his way to her other side.

“Oh probably not. I know how you feel about blood magic.”

Her teasing once unnerved him, forcing unexpected blushes into his cheeks when he was desperately trying to look like the general of an army, but it didn’t take long for it to feel like sparks inside him, little flashes of hope to remind him of something other than his past. She gave him permission first to smile and then to laugh, reconnecting him with a lost part of himself. Now she allows him to desire and possess her.

On an elbow, Cullen reaches down to stroke his cock along the slippery warmth between her thighs, kissing her chin when her head falls back against his pillow. When she grips his rear in a plea, he drives into her, the friction of it knocking loose a sharp gasp. He thrusts twice and then connects completely and holds there, propped up on his arms so as not to squash her.

“I missed you,” she whispers, her earlier attempts at sauciness giving way to genuine vulnerability, her fingers tender on his cheek.

“I missed you too,” he says with shining, smiling eyes, determined to demonstrate just how much. “I loved your notes.” “Even the dirty ones?”

“Especially the dirty ones,” he murmurs, leaning down for an indulgent kiss and they softly, hungrily twine their tongues as they roll their hips into a rhythm.

“I thought they would remind you to laugh when I’m gone,” she manages between breathy little moans.

“Well you succeeded in that regard,” he says, wrapping his hand halfway around her breast and squeezing firmly. 

“Oh fuck yes,” she breathes. He bites her lower lip in a scold though he relishes the way he bucks the curses right out of her. Her legs looped around his waist, he spreads his knees wide to get deeper, and yields to the insistence of her look, that stunning indigo gaze. 

The new bed is much more cooperative than his last, straining only slightly under the force of their activities. He glances up at the substantial, sturdy looking headboard even as he ruts deeply into her and she follows his eyes, her brow popping as the same idea manifests inside her.

“Turn me around,” she breathes, releasing him from her legs so he can withdraw. Cullen guides her up to face the headboard, her knees tucked between his and then eases into her again, moderating his thrusts until they coordinate their movements properly. He gathers up her bouncing breasts with his forearm and hand, catching her nipple with his thumb and forefinger while he curls his right hand around to stroke her to what he hopes is a concurrent climax. He’s already teetering on the edge and reins it back to prolong his enjoyment. Rose grips the wooden edge of the headboard, bouncing back against him, the provocative sounds of his flesh slapping against hers working against every effort he makes to restrain his orgasm.

Cullen hopes his fingers bring her just as close and if her rhythmic cries are any indication, she’ll be melting back against him soon. Her voice gains pitch and intensity and he drives harder to exact her release, surprising himself as breathy groans actually  escape him. He’s usually more carefully managed, but the situation perhaps calls for it. He bites down on her shoulder, her clenching depths unleashing wildness within him and then tilts his head down to watch her plunge onto his length with each cry. 

Rose collapses forward against the headboard as her climax overtakes her, curses streaming through those pink lips of hers, and he hauls her back against his chest, grunting her name against her damp neck as he finally allows himself to come deep within her, convulsing with each surge. They laze against one another up on their knees, his arms wrapped tightly around her as they gasp for breath until their heart rates slow.

Craning her head to cast a lively look at him, she reaches over the top of the headboard and hands him a final note she must have fixed back there a week ago. The Herald of Andraste she may be, but these notes of hers are the machinations of some trickster god or other. He sets his chin on her shoulder and unfolds it.

I love you, Cullen.

He sighs through his euphoric grin, setting the note carefully on her pillow so as not to lose it and tilts his head to accept her kiss.

[hobbinch]

Just had my first instance of a friend sharing an AI generated recipe with Plans To Make It that would be physically dangerous for them to follow as-written :/

[elijah-loyal]

i think eponine would absolutely own a velociraptor if she could

[sightburdened]

To celebrate the ninth anniversary of The Wrath of the Lamb, I will be writing tonight! This is so exciting, I’ll never forget that finale, the power it held over me. I’ll be here a lot more frequently, I want to write and just feel the power of creation again.

I hope everyone is well and, if you’d like my discord, give this post a little like.

[radioisntdead]

Accidentally stumbled onto the dark side of Tumblr again, DEAR GRACE SOME FOLKS NEED INTENSE THERAPY, or need to stop doing drugs, maybe both, my eyes, my poor, poor eyes, I need a holy water and bleach combo

Also I should watch gravity falls again

[lightdancer1]

See the further irony is:

That in using 'Mall Goth Sauron' as the take on Dark Willow over 'misogynist has character randomly killed for LULZ' it also allows for greater accountability on the one hand and for Season 7 to thematically focus on repairing all this damage in the midst of facing an enemy of shadows reliant on lies to further itself. The only way to break the Druj is the absolute Truth in a very Zoroastrian sense. Characters don't get to neatly skip past accountability for their actions, and this would spiral over into further later seasons with the essential reality that in an otherwise lower-level setting this one random girl from California is a Dark Phoenix-tier reality warper and the most powerful person on the planet, or the universe.

And the questions of how that power could and should be employed on the one hand and that Willow is essentially a Doctor Strange type who beats up Gods and Eldritch Abominations for her regular line of work where her counterparts deal with the more 'street level' crises would in turn be the logical conclusion of where the show ends. She doesn't do as much physical fighting for the same reason that Stephen Strange never uses magic to go punch the Hulk in the face, her narrative role is ultimately that of Sorceress Supreme of Earth, with literally nobody in an ancient established war anticipating that this one random ginger from California was and is the new Sorceress Supreme and that if they had had such awareness the realities are that this power would and could have taken worse forms.

Unfortunately for the world, the reality too is that it is a shy computer geek who has a not at all subtle dark side and the usual teenage anxieties and insecurities given the equivalent of being able to reliably actually do things other people might dream of but can never do.

But again as long as Dawn Summers being a good thing is a narrative convention that's established memory magic is a poor choice to show the corrupting effects of reality-warping. It's a case of 'yes as established in canon all of this is true for that one season but then they decided to retcon it, so the fans are not obligated to care about it any more than the canon does about this itself.'

[whileyoureinschoolidothisallday]

jesus christ chill

[viriborne]

Just realized Alecto and Thirteen could be troublemakers in arms except Alecto is actively trying to kill you

[patrice-bergerons]

I love season 9 for how real it is in its portrayal of everyday tragedies and it is very much so the case with Joan's ending too. Her ending is bittersweet because on one hand, Strange adores her and he *is* the best person she could have married (just to be clear--a far better match for her than Morse). But on the other hand, for Joan, marrying him is if not accepting defeat then certainly accepting a reasoned compromise against the societal pressures she fought so hard against for so long.

Her job means the world to her and yet we don't see or hear any mention of it in s9. She'd said she didn't want to end up in her parents' marriage with a two up two down and a pram in the hall and yet that is the house in Kidlington, where they are moving to because of her copper fiancé's job with her full blessing.

And the tragedy of it is that if there is one person who would listen to her hesitations and do his best to understand and accommodate, it's Strange. But. He is a excellent prospect for her in how kind and loving and stable he is, and there is a limit to these things you know? The society has roles for a wife and a husband and as a woman of that era you have to be very careful in the battles you choose -- if you push too much you can very quickly realise that you found and crossed the line with no way back. And so she doesn't trust him enough to be honest with him--or to ask for anything for herself. It's just a little sad in just how real it is.

[navramanan]

still heartbroken but cannot move

[evilkitten3]

he's not trying to

[lesbiangallagher]

the way i used to have an extreme phobia of getting my blood drawn to the point of fainting so my brother decided to tag along with me to my exam appointments. he would hold my hand and talk to me about south park LMAO and id be gripping on for dear life but the distraction and moral support helped tbh. afterwards, he’d take me to my favorite diner for breakfast as a reward for being so brave. ugh. disgusting how much i love my bro. he’s the best but also the worst but i know he is always there for me regardless.

[stormpainter]

my cook has made sandwiches for lunch this's.. turkey salad with dried cranberries and apple chunks, it aint fish but its okay

[gaphic]

you can't? really? fraudsters like this are a dime a dozen- people like sympathetic attention, and social media sockpuppets are an easy way to get it. the only thing that makes this odd is the fact that it spawned some legitimate advocacy

Absolutely speechless at this article. I cannot fathom what would drive someone to do something like this.

[gregmarriage]

watching simpsons and mama bouvier is so real.

marge: “mom! you made it! how are you?”

mama bouvier: “i have Laryngitis. it hurts to talk. so, i’ll only say one thing…..you never do anything right.”

•

selma: “it obviously comes from our side from the side of the family, huh, mom?”

mama bouvier: “leave me alone.”

•

mama bouvier: “at the risk of losing my voice, i’ll just say one thing. i’m sorry i came”

•

mama bouvier: “i’d say something comforting… but my voice…”

[kissmefriendly]

My mother just sent me this poster for a film she found on TV - on the phone now and her excitement and glee over it killing me