#*piece

— 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠:

@sunsofdawn, @pavus, @happilyobsessing, @girliefailure, @alvsanne

@auricfog, @jamessunderlandgf, @weisshaupts, @grapecaseschoices, @risingsh0t

@shellibisshe, @florbelles, @full---ofstarlight, @fenharel, @unholymilf

@aelyosos, @anoramactir, @roofgeese, @cloudofbutterflies92, @griffin-wood

@southernreaches, @chainsawsangel, @leviiackrman, @tethrras, @rosykims

@tommyarashikage, @carlosoliveiraa, @courtana, @lilywatt, @kroganloveinterest

@shadowsofrose, @celticwoman, @shadowsofrose, @dialdrunk, @kissingwookiees

@neonshrike, @confidentandgood, @lavampira, @adelaidedrubman, @imogenkol

His lips were soft against her cheek, stubble a pleasant frisson. “Beautiful, brave woman,” said, his hand against her hip, thumb caressing. She was nude while he still wore his armor and yet it thrilled to have the metal plate hard against her back, edges of buckles neither hard nor soft as they pressed into her. Thrilling of all was his gloved hands glide across her flesh, the soft leather pleasant and buttery. He secured and made a sanctuary in his arms, her reflection grinning mischievously as he hardened against her wiggling hips. The curve of her hips contrasted so with the slimness of his, his broad shoulders dwarfing her frame. Perhaps her body could not be called “dainty” or “petite,” but with his exploring touches and reverent lips against her shoulder, she banished every ill thought she had of her body and her scars. She saw every inch the beautiful and lived woman he called her.

 “Let me love on you,” he whispered in her ear as his gloved finger lightly traced the scar that curved under her breast. She remembered showing it to him the first night he ever gave her his mouth. He spoke of the scars that littered his body and implied the fear he had that she wouldn’t want to touch him because of it. Her reply was to push down her nightgown past her breasts and show him where she’d been scarred. He didn’t understand at first. He looked longingly at her bare form and called her beautiful with her small breasts. He didn’t understand till she took his hand and let him outline the pink and silver thread across her skin between her breasts. He’d done it all times together ever since, with his hand or with his tongue.

Through the mirror she watched him outline it once more, watched as he grasped her hips and said “let me love on you always.”

 "Let me show you something.”

He watched as she shifted in his arms, intrigued as her nimble fingers began the slow removal of every buckle and belt of armor. He helped her, bare soon enough. In front of the mirror the two stood as the Maker first intended, painted in the evening light that spilled through her open balcony. She marveled. Cullen was radiant, time and hardships fashioning and tempering his body. Shocked she was when they first became lovers to learn that he had never been proud of his body. Each new year brought new scars and reminders of his hard life, from tiny pinpricks, to more obvious marks along his abdomen along with the bigger pinkish burn against his chest. Their first night together he admitted he despised the reminders. Endless kisses during long nights alleviated the worries she wouldn’t find his body worthy of lusting. Her body was hers and Cullen’s body was his. They found each other beautiful because they had both lived.

Gentle caresses in reverence shifted to desperate touches as his cock pressed against her belly. She had an inkling to kneel and take him in her mouth. Temporarily however, she refrained as his callused palms slid down her body to her hips, grasping the plump flesh. She observed them through the mirror, the long line of Cullen’s naked body pressed so perfectly to hers, his broad hand on her curved hip. They kissed and it tasted like fire and home.

“I want your taste,” he said when they parted.

 She pooled at the sound, his lusty and heady request. “Let me see you.”

The back of her legs hitting the bed, she sat. He kneeled before her, left warm kisses to her knee and thigh, his strong palms grasping her calves and kneading the sinews. He spread his large palms on her thighs. She parted for him. She observed through the mirror as his head dipped down. Strands of brown hair kissing her shoulders, cheeks flushed with pink, she watched herself grasp the pretty head of golden curls. She looked like a woman in love, a woman slowly unraveling at her lover’s ardent mouth that left wet kisses to her outer lips before his tongue darted across her seam.

Her gaze fell to him. She wanted to watch him. His back was strong and ropey, scarred but not as scarred as his chest as he remained kneeling before her, offering everything he had. Briefly her eyes flitted to his face between her, his eyes closed in bliss with only the vaguest peeks of amber behind golden lashes. He wrapped his lips over her clit and she cried out, twisting her fingers through his hair as she watched him grasp himself in his hand, touch himself while tasting her. She came against his mouth, riding it out and grinding against his face as he tasted her end and her wet traces. He rose and they kissed each other, wrapping her body to his.

She drew moans from his parted mouth as her lips glided across his neck. “Come here,” she beckoned, stretching and laying herself on the bed. On his knees with his cock leaking and erect, his hands grasped her legs and calves. He was luminescent against orange sunset with his scars here and there, silver and pink against the sunset, with golden hair slightly darker than the hair on his head peppered on his chest, thighs and on his abdomen leading downward. He was beautiful. Fuck anyone who didn’t think so, or thought he was too scarred or broken. Her Cullen was never broken and the sight of him was to drink cases of holy wine.

When he stroked himself the sight was so erotic her own fingers drifted to her clit to draw tight circles. They touched themselves, enamored by the sight of each other, until she outstretched her hands, her ideal to have the press of him engulf and encase her frame. He sunk against her body, to that space between her breasts. He kissed her there, his fingers rolling against pert nipples and down to her belly to kiss her there too. She was never ashamed of the slight plumpness, the softness there. Not with him. Her body was fashioned for no one but her, and in her life she allowed one soul to touch her, to make love to her. She could imagine no other mouth but Cullen’s to paint her body, no other pair of hands to slide and grasp her flesh, and truly she could imagine no one else buried inside her, no one else that could love her body the way he loved her. The day he took her in the grove outside of Skyhold, eyes asking is this alright before he lifted her skirts, Cullen parting her thighs before he slipped inside was the day she was ruined for any other lover.

He rose to his knees. He was inside her, slow to fully bring himself to the hilt. She slipped her ankle on his shoulder, closed her eyes as he began to move. So often had they done this ritual. Still he took her hand like it was the first, caressed her like it was the thousandth and still in awe.

 “So beautiful.”

 She hummed as he moved, touched her body for his eyes. “Yours.”

 “As I am yours.”

She glowed and he beamed, and she turned her head to their reflections in the mirror. She reveled as he fucked her, pace gradually growing to a steadier rhythm. Their eyes spoke a thousand words, a thousand I loves yous and a thousand you’re beautifuls. Then she wanted his body to press her into the mattress, wanted him to engulf once more. He understood her silent plea and he brought most of his weight for her to bare, her legs wrapping around him. Nails lightly scratched the back of his neck as a stubbly mouth pressed warmly to her neck and throat. Their reflections compelled her, the line of his body long, his legs and back sinewy and scars silver pink threads along his shoulder blades. His back flexed as he moved, and she saw him smirk through the mirror, watching her watch him. She held her gaze through the mirror with sweet, possessive euphoria. He performed for her viewing, kissed her neck and took one of her hands, pressing it against the mattress.  Her free hand wandered to touch him, grasp the curve of his arse. She could feel the smirk against her neck, and there was a sharp clap in the room as her hand affectionally smacked.

He chuckled before he took his revenge, stopping his movements. She mewled with displeasure, yet before she could compel him to move, his fingers fell to her clit, rubbing and making her arousal pool further onto her thighs and sheet bellow.  He attended to her, knew only the tightest drawn circles could make her come quickly. Seconds or moments passed and he kissed her as she came, breathless and hazy and bright.

Her head angled toward the mirror, her body rose, his lips pressed against her ear. “You’re beautiful when you come,” he whispered softly, placing another tender kiss against her forehead.

“I only saw you.”

She both felt and saw his smile. “Get on top of me.”

She wrapped her arms around him, blissful and content and still wanting to watch. “Fuck me some more.”

 “I want to watch you.”

Her palms against his chest, she caressed the faded burn. She’d let him watch. With a kiss, his arms wrapping around her, he moved to his back, her body flush against him. It took a moment to adjust, Cullen helping her straddle him. She lost herself to him, shared his joy and wonder as she slowly slid down on his cock, observing and drinking in his brows bent in bliss, his parted lips and flushed cheeks. He moved to grip her hips, moved to meet her movements. Ecstasy. She took one of his hands, kissed the rough palms and scars from battle. Maker, how she loved his lived hands and loved them on her body.

“Look.”

At what, she wondered, at you? She always looked at him. He caught her eye from the first and always had a glow about him different from others she had known, and only later did she recognize it as love. She’d never stop looking at him.

“Look at yourself,” he said. “You’re beautiful.”

She looked. Unashamed, proud, beautiful, she looked. She saw what he always saw as she rode him, her cheeks flushed and her hair in a wild disarray. She saw their bodies join, her and him in their blissful togetherness. The scar between her breasts didn’t mar, nor the ones on her shoulders. It outlined her past and what she had done. She’d been bruised and beaten but withstood to be loved on. Their pasts forged them, their scars reminders. They were beautiful.

She touched herself, eyes drifting from herself to him. She brought her own end with his hands steadying her. She didn’t allow herself to fully leave him after he came a beat after, warm inside. They rode out their mutual tides, Lydia acknowledging his scars, his own outlined past of strength, leaning down and paying attention to one scar in particular, the one across his lips. She felt it when she kissed him, the rough fissures from the healing against her tongue.

 “Cullen,” she whispered, kisses leaving her breathless and sated. “You make me feel so beautiful.”

 “Now you know how you make me feel.”

He smoothed the hair away from her face. She could have lived a life of only gazing with him.

 “We were made to be like this together.”

Did he think it true? She wasn’t so sure he agreed. He admitted as much, moving to bring her back to the mattress and entwine his limbs with hers. Life fashioned their bodies he said, making them a work of art in their own right. When they joined they were a different sort of art, home. Lydia smiled with the thought, kissing the soft lines on his forehead.