Work Text:
Daylight is fading. Gold and crimson hues bathe your quarters in soft, calming light through the stained glass windows that surround you, bringing to mind images of him. The mere thought of him shatters your focus, but that’s fine; you’d just about been finished with your writing anyhow. It’s a hobby, one you enjoy, but it’s difficult not to let self-doubt creep in from time to time, filling your head with annoying thoughts of what if it’s not good enough until you have to force yourself not to ball up the parchment and toss it off the balcony. But there’s hardly enough daylight left by which to write, and your usually cozy shared quarters seem suddenly cavernous without your golden-haired lion at your side, so you allow your mind to wander briefly, careful to wipe the tip of your quill clean before setting it down on a bit of cloth and shaking out your aching hands, your writing put aside for the moment. Curling your legs beneath you on the settee, you finally let yourself relax, closing your eyes as you lose yourself in thoughts of him.
Every sunset reminds you of Cullen, and how could they not? You blink into the hazy glow —amber and honey, ochre and flame— the colors inextricable from the man himself, and so a fond smile graces your lips as evening’s last light weaves rays of vermilion through the empty spaces around you. Since Haven, has a single evening passed without your thoughts being consumed by him? His lopsided grin, his whiskey-bright eyes, the sturdiness of his frame… In truth, the setting of the sun hardly does him justice; Cullen is far more comforting and warm, more beautiful and brilliant. He is hard and lean and magnificent, all glinting steel beneath draping carmine cloth, his shoulders adorned with thick fur rather than heavy pauldrons. Beneath his armor is better, but even the simple juxtaposition of his attire thrills you; his garb is a perfect reflection of the man you know him to be. There is a balance to him that you never really expected— for every hard edge, a soft curve; for every barked order, a whispered exultation in the night. You enjoy both in equal measure, the way he commands you as much as his breathless adulation against your skin when you comply. And you do, willingly, eagerly, with every order he gives you. Who could resist when the reward for obedience is so utterly wonderful?
Every aspect of him excites you. Even his laughter, whether bright and confident or shy and hesitant, sparks a steady flame in your chest. The resonance of his amusement is lovely, and it startles you when it fills your ears unexpectedly, his soft lips pressing to the top of your head, muffling his chuckle. You didn’t hear him come up the stairs.
“Didn’t you tell me you’d be writing until late in the evening?” he teases. “It’s barely after sunset, and here I find you, lost in thought, parchment cast aside.”
You open your eyes and shrug shyly, caught, and watch him cross the room. He stops beside the bed and begins to undress. Someday, you might tire of watching him strip out of his armor. Not today, though. You thrill, watching as he pulls away each piece slowly, disrobing until he’s down to a pair of soft breeches and a loose tunic, and he rolls his shoulders with a contented sigh when he sets his heavy armor aside. He takes his time with this, each piece put in its proper place before he turns to face you, an inviting smile playing on his lips.
This is your favorite part of the day: when he finally comes back to you. His duties keep him busy, engaged with a million things that require his rapt attention, but here, in your quarters, the rest of the world melts away, and it’s only you and him. Just the way it should be.
You rise from the sofa to greet him properly now that he’s comfortable, wrapping your arms around him to hold him close. Caged tightly to his chest, you breathe him in as he nuzzles into the crook of your neck. His scent is intoxicating, all elderflowers and oakmoss with just a hint of leather and ink, an undertone that’s only noticeable when your face is pressed against him.
“So…” he begins, lifting a hand to brush a lock of hair from your cheek, “what was it that had you so distracted, my love?”
“You know how it goes,” you sigh with mock sorrow. “As soon as the day draws to a close, all I can think about is what the evening will bring. It’s a wonder I ever get anything accomplished past sunset, truth be told, knowing that such a handsome man will soon be making his way to my room.”
“Is that so?” he murmurs.
“Undeniably.”
“I suppose it must be true.” He lifts his head to glance about the room, taking in the elongated shadows and dark corners. “So caught up on your daydreaming, you haven’t yet lit the hearth. You’ll catch a chill.”
“I thought perhaps there were other ways I might be kept warm this evening, Commander.”
He hums down at you, humor dancing in his eyes when you look up at him. “If we weren’t in the mountains, I might agree with you. But tonight promises to be a cold one, and I cannot promise that my ministrations will provide you adequate enough warmth. Not that I won’t do my very best, of course.”
He releases you, and you make your way back to the sofa while he tends to the fireplace. It doesn’t take more than a few minutes before it’s glowing merrily, filling the bedroom with cheery light and a warmth that’s nearly as soothing as Cullen himself. Nearly. Heat radiates from him when he sits beside you after wiping his hands clean, and you slide a little closer, your thigh pressing against his.
A strong arm wraps around your shoulders before he reaches across you, picking up the piece of parchment you’d abandoned in favor of delicious daydreams. “And this? Have you finished?”
You hesitate before answering. “I think so. I’m not certain it’s any good.”
“I’m sure it’s wonderful, darling.”
You feel your cheeks burn as your head shakes a silent no. “I ought to give it another pass. I was tired when I wrote the last part and distracted for the rest. I can’t imagine it’s anything close to wonderful.”
He hums again, only half-listening as his eyes scan back and forth across the page, a smile quirking up the corner of his lips as he devours what you’ve written. You bury your face in his shoulder while he reads, waiting for his estimation as anxiety roils in your gut. He must read it twice because it feels as if ages pass before he finally sets the paper on the small table beside the settee and tugs you closer to his chest, one hand stroking over your hair, the other pressed comfortingly to the small of your back.
“It’s not often I’m put in a position to tell you that you’re wrong. I’m not quite sure how to go about it.” His fingers play softly through your tresses, his touches light enough to be nearly teasing.
“First time for everything,” you mumble into his chest.
“Wonderful doesn’t begin to cover it, love. You know how many hours of my day are spent reading; if half the reports that cross my desk were written by you, time wouldn’t drag on the way it does while we’re apart.”
“Only half?” you pout with false indignation. “Then I’m in desperate need of improvement, ser. Which of the scouts’ reports do you find most engaging, I wonder? The ones detailing the quality of the water supply in the Approach, or perhaps those that make mention of courtly intrigue at the Palace?”
“The subject hardly matters,” he insists, “it’s the quality of the reports that rankle. Each one reads no better than a dry list. ‘We went here. We did this. We need that.’ Efficient and straight to the point, as they should be, I suppose, but ultimately, they make for dreadfully dull reading. But this?” He gestures to the piece of paper on the table. “Delightful.”
You dismiss his words of praise with an eye roll he can’t see, but senses, and he shakes his head down at you with mild exasperation. “When you wrote this, you were distracted? Tired, you said?”
His fingers catch your nodding head, gripping you lightly by the chin to turn your face up to his. His eyes are warm and reassuring, gazing down at you with love. “It doesn’t show. Your writing is fantastic, nearly as good as your—” He lifts an eyebrow suggestively, a sly smile spreading across his face.
“As…?”
“No matter how tired or distracted you’ve been, your efforts have never left me wanting.”
“My efforts in writing?” you laugh.
“In everything,” he breathes, letting his hands slowly wander, stroking down your body to settle at your hip. “You’re incredible.”
“I had no idea my writing moved you so, Commander. I ought to spend more time writing sweet stories now that I know how thoroughly they’ve captured your interest.”
“You should,” he agrees. “I rather enjoy being so captivated by you and your sweet words.”
“Do you?”
“Yes,” he whispers. He pulls you so fluidly into his lap that you hardly notice the transition. You straddle his hips, pressing yourself up against his chest, soaking up the promise of his smile and the quiet confidence he exudes.
In his embrace, the remainder of your misgivings bleed away, and you press a soft kiss to the scar on his lip. “Then prove it.”