#oflyriums

Send me ‘Just kiss already +’ an URL and my muse will have to kiss whomever it is.

( oflyriums ) x 3 

Diligence has it’s rewards, however sparse and menial. The praise of others to flood ears, to whisper notice, and corral fervor unto a sense of self. For what wanting does she find him bestowing an ethic upon himself, fingers shifting through mounds of papers and off hand haphazardly scribbling against stained vellum. He works not for recompense but for duty ; a man once fragile made into more than the bulwark standpoints surrounding. 

Languid approach is noted with the raise of whiskey hues, stern mouth twitching ever slightly at the sight of lighter flaxen tresses. It is with honesty and silence that he welcomes her or so she assumes, hands smoothing out upon the other side of his desk. For hours, dwindling candlelight and more she could watch him mull over maps and harsher missives. Usefulness never bored her; dedication thrilled her. Her opinion changed from months prior of the man that nearly stood a head and a half taller than her, immune to her bark yet weak to her bite. A part of play had never been so beautifully executed and finally did the advisors ebb and flow with a she-elf’s furious abandon, nary to yield only to compliment a woman tyrant.  

She notes the tip of his head upward when her hum catches in echoes against the room, brows lifting expectantly. Perhaps he awaits the slur and gnarled berating vocalization of a woman wrathful or the snide commentary of how messy his quarters have become. ‘Tis not silence nor the peculiar tilt of her own skull that he normally invokes yet gains. Unto him she could utter a benediction, a wanton praise or belittling harp — it does not come, words do not tumble from her lips and her throat clenches ever so. Would it be such a crime for her to use actions instead of words for once? Infatuation growing thicker with each inhale and the narrowing of those patient eyes.  

For herself to fall prey, to make weak, and flutter a feeling upon the damnable breast — she seethes in loathsome rapport at the idea of a human holding her so. Anyone holding her so. He does not repulse her, in fact, it is the exact opposite. That very reason causes her gaze to linger on lips longer than it should, to study the broken bridge of his nose, and the kindness lingering beneath pale lashes and softened brow. 

 It’s when his lips quirk, possibly amused at her enveloping silence that she forgets herself — when she is indeed the weakest creature. It is when his lips quirk that brazen attention seizes her spine and fingers alike, tentative reach to pad spindly digits against the line of his jaw. Attention demanded, unbrokering and willful. She is quick to satiate her own curiosity, imagination drudged in borrowed novels, and slant her own tiers along his. Chaste electricity to spark across plump lips at the touch — and oh, how warm he is, how soft by comparison to the armor that normally dons, how forgiving despite the roar he bemoans sometimes, how —

 The hitch of breath brings her back from her own idiocy. Surprise of herself lays across her features and she cannot find an excuse for acting so boldly. Fingers snap back, burned but chilled by the glacial facade returning as quickly as it melted, all for autumn brown and peckish pink. 

          ❛ I — did not… ❜ 

Winter's visage wears readily 'pon the pallid pallor of a woman gleaned from cold itself. Glacial countenance does not melt nor tremble at the sight of a man hunched, arms folded beneath a slumped head. Weariness takes them all in time, the cruel drag of exhaustion creeping through marrow; a disease of mortality. 

Her fingers slither along the edge of an oaken table, silently observing the hitch of breath, tumbling snore, and careful twitches. Bare feet scrape against the rough floor, toes catching against the haphazardly draped rug, hips swinging to round the other side of the desk. 'Tis a tentative feature that she displays in that moment, a quieter existence from grace of palm upon a shoulder stalwart, still covered in fur pauldron. 

          ❛ -- Cullen.❜ 

The use of the name falls foreign across her lips, even more so the harmony in which her timbre takes. Her nose crinkles, faint freckles marring in mild personal disgust. When had she become so pathetic as to tenderly fawn in concern? Nails grip harder upon him and a shake provides the motion to move and wake. Were it in her power, she would will him into the loft above if only to sate the current aggravation. 

Perhaps he should be more considerate; a flaw he will admit to when concerning the others of his party, of the Inquisition. There is a sigh, loud and perhaps undeserving of his irritable wrath.

Dawn erupted in downpour, acting as a waking system by pattering against the tents.

Cullen rose first, always did for he slept lightly, if it wasn’t due to the nightmares it was the aches and nausea the withdraws gave him. Perhaps, that’s why he stood in the midst of the rain, allowing it to roll off his jaw and nose. It felt nice, cooling him and waking him entirely. 

 His concept of time and surroundings must of been lost, because when he snapped back into reality, he had sunk through mud and was blankly staring at the Charger’s lieutenant. His clothing was extremely damp and heavy, only furthering the burden of yanking his boots out the mud in embarrassment.

Krem had his concerns, but tried not to pry too much into the commander’s actions.  After living with a group like the Chargers for so long, you learn not to question, but to ensure well-being.

So, without a word, he had aided Cullen, removing the tremendously heavy coat off his shoulders.  Then, the commander steps out of it, thanking Krem in a hushed voice many times.

The Lieutenant laughs, “There’s no need to. You seemed dazed enough. Boys won’t be up for a while, so don’t worry your fancy hair off.”

A smile is returned, “You think my hair is fancy?” Then, Cullen couldn’t help but notice how the other’s weighed down into a mop off the top in this weather, began to let out a bit of laughter himself.

Instinctively, he runs a hand through it to fix it. Krem doesn’t object.

 ”It’s all the girls talk about, can’t say I blame them.” 

"I’ve heard plenty of stories on your handsomeness myself."

Now, there is little space between them, and it’s difficult to stop fixating on each other’s faces, finding truth in what their friends have deemed attractive about each of them. 

—-But the leaning, that had a different reason. They were both just in need of comfort, it’s been days in mud and overcrowded tents. They were both men of operation, men of command…men with too many burdens to try to fix.

Their lips grazed only for a moment, but just as easily they pulled away.

She isn't surprised to find the Commander awake at such a late hour. They are both night owls, it seems--at the end of the day the candle stumps in their offices are more often than not the shortest. The quiet reprieve that the night offers is an opportunity to get as much work done as possible without being harassed by unwelcome distractions, well-intentioned though they may be.

        She doesn't realise how long she has been sitting at her desk, sifting through old treaties made amongst various Orlesian houses in order to find a loophole that she could exploit for the Inquisition, until he walks in and punctuates the stream of focus. Her brain remembers to yawn, and she makes an attempt to stifle this by covering her mouth with her hand.