"Are you all right, sweetheart?"
Clair nods, shooting him a thin smile. Her tense posture tells him otherwise. Being Clair, she's not letting it on. But he can read her pretty well by now.
And it hasn't escaped him how the prospect, the sheer dread of tomorrow's march on the Arbour Wilds is bearing down on her. How heavily it weighs on her shoulders. The uncertainty, the risks; each life their mission puts at stake pulls at her, drags her down further into that dark, lonely valley of anxiety and self-doubt.
Seeing her like this hurts. He wants to soothe her aches, show her she has every right to be confident.
But for now he lets it go, presses a soft kiss on her cheek that she leans into, humming just loud enough for him to hear.
"See you later?"
She nods again, and this time the smile reaches her eyes. Then she leaves for her final meeting of the day while he stays back at the office.
He scans the desk before him and sits down to make quick work of his remaining reports.
When he's finished he locks up and goes to make preparations, grinning to himself.
Clair's steps are heavier than she'd like. She's grasping the handrail as she ascends to her quarters. The pounding in her temples has accompanied her all evening. Her back seems wound up in a thousand knots.
Worse, however, is the bitter coil of apprehension in the pit of her stomach. That lingering restlessness she knows will haunt her through the few hours of sleep she'll be lucky to get.
She was expecting darkness and blinks in curious surprise when the room is lit up by pockets of light- clusters of candles, pairs of oil lamps; in corners, on the desk, by the bed, their flicker a whimsical play of shades.
And Cullen is sitting in the middle. Smiling like a child at Satinalia.
Immediately part of her wants to turn around, escape from whatever this is. She doesn't deserve it. Her feet stop moving, leaving her frozen on the stairs.
Cullen gets up. He's read her, of course he has. Stop disappointing him.
But he remains unfazed by her ungrateful hesitance. Right in front of her now, he offers a hand to help her up the remaining steps. His smile is unrelenting, full of determination.
Clair takes a deep breath, releases a shaky exhale and decides to let all doubt, all guilt go and enjoy this, whatever it is. Or to at least try.
She allows a timid little grin and follows him. Once in the room she's suddenly up in his arms, holding on to his neck as he carries her through the twilight…
… towards the bath chamber. Her heart beats faster.
A reassuring kiss is pressed into her hair as the door swings open, and she gasps.
The room is brightened by what looks close to a hundred tea candles. Fragrant water is steaming up from the bath. There's a stool, a drink and a book beside it. She blinks through the tears threatening to well up. He really has read her. It's precisely what her tired mind and body need. And he knew it.
"Do you like it?" Holding back a sniffle, Clair attempts to say something (though she's not sure what), but he shushes her.
"I want you to unwind. And I won't stop until you're jelly in my arms." She smiles then, blushes a little.
"May I?" A tug at her clothes. She lets him.
When she stands bare Cullen helps her into the bath.
Her whole body sighs when water envelops her gradually, blissfully; toes, feet, legs, hips, belly, chest, arms, shoulders. She leans back with a quiet moan, nodding her appreciation. But that's not all.
Cullen hands her a mug. Even among the bath aromas she recognises the raspberry tea. It has never tasted sweeter.
Then he reads to her. A history of Thedosian languages. Told like a fable. Entertaining and within her field of interest. The perfect choice. Like everything.
His melodic voice washes over her like the water. She closes her eyes here, laughs at his humorous inflections there, all while the hot soak relaxes her limbs, strokes her skin, tingles her scars.
Such is the effect that she must look about to doze off. A chuckle rolls from his lips as he reminds her they're not done. She sits up, and he produces a bar of soap.
And it's not any hair soap either, it's Antivan roses. Her favourite. The one she never affords for herself. More blinking.
Cullen's fingertips dig in deep, spreading the fragrant lather around. Covering her hair in creamy suds. Rubbing them in, not ignoring an inch of her scalp. When a frothy white hat adorns her head he stops for a moment, dips a finger in and paints a fluffy dot onto the tip of her nose. She giggles.
Next he produces a silver ewer. The water has the exact right temperature, the rinse is meticulous; he makes sure there's not even the trace of a bubble left in her hair. Now the last of her fears, insecurities and doubts pour off along with the soap. She feels cleansed.
When the water begins to cool he motions for her to get out. She's not sure where he got that towel- it's enormous, ridiculously fluffy. And warm. He actually heated it.
Her chest weighs heavy again with emotion. This time she challenges herself- if Cullen wholeheartedly believes she deserves this, maybe she does?
The flutter of kisses distracts her- down her neck, across her shoulders, back up to the shell of her ear. All while he's rubbing her dry. She hums.
She's swept up once more, brought back into their dim bedroom. Set down on the bed. Cullen grins when he notices her looking towards the night stand, at the collection of oil bottles.
"On your front please, Inquisitor." The title coaxes out a soft laugh.
She obliges, and the towel disappears. Cool air draws goose bumps onto her exposed backside. A shift on the bed, and the mattress dips.
Skin begins to itch, limbs to tingle in anticipation. The sound of a cork plopping, of palms rubbing. The oil's scent –orange blossom?- rises, both calming and invigorating.
When he straddles the back of her thighs acute awareness surges through her. He's just in his smalls. The sudden stroke of his shush, straight into her ear, sends a shiver down her entire left side. Relax, she tells herself. Don't get aroused. Not yet anyway.
Then he starts massaging, and she groans.
Wide hands close over her shoulders, fingers dig in, thumbs circle. Knot by hard little knot he kneads the tension out of her. Clair tries to stay quiet but soon gives in, succumbing to his masterful skills.
Down her spine, to the sides. She melts, vertebrae by vertebrae.
A shuffle, the loss of contact and a movement behind her. Clair chuckles when freshly oiled fingers trace the upturned soles of her feet before he takes her right foot up and subjects it to the same deep, healing touch. When her foot is all soft and slick her toes are rubbed, rolled, pulled. Whenever a knuckle pops she chuckles. Her left foot receives no less of a thorough treatment. By the time he gets to work on her legs she's a boneless, lazy heap.
Up her calves, a tickle behind her knees. One leg at a time. When his thumbs press into her thigh she cannot help but feel it elsewhere, too. Along with relaxation a damp warmth begins to spread from her centre.
As he slides further up Cullen's breathing is louder, more shallow. The slightest tremble reverberates through his hands when they settle on the next target. They both sigh as he begins massaging her buttocks. Long digits, eager palms, the heels of his hands knead squeeze and mold. The depth, the lustful devotion of his motions only highlights his proximity to where she really wants him now. Each of his caresses leaves her wetter, readier.
When he speaks again it's a hoarse croak.
"Turn around."
She complies, shaking as she rolls over. Her nipples perk, attracting Cullen's gaze. From the cool shiver between her thighs she realises how soaked she is.
Their eyes meet, and it hits her. She is, has been, completely bare in front of him, exposed- her skin, her scars and burns, all those cruel imperfections.
And he's studying her, absorbing every little detail. More than mere lust lingers in his stare. Love, ardour, reverence. As if she was Andraste herself.
Awe constricts in her chest. In this moment she wants to open for him, take him in, be one with him.
Cullen's movements are slow, deliberate as he starts on her hands, then arms. She knows from the heavy rise and fall of his chest that he's trying to resist the urge, as she is, to abandon this massage and make love instead. But his discipline wins out. For now.
Shaky digits trail down her torso, hands parting at the valley of her breasts, It's all Clair can do not to arch up and shove them in his face. Eager touch traces her firm mounds, drawing slick, scented spirals towards her nipples.
He pauses for a moment, cups her breasts, looks on as if admiring their shape. His growl startles her as his head surges down and he takes in a greedy mouthful. Moist heat engulfs the stiff peak, and the tight suction sends a bolt of want straight to her core.
For as long as they've been intimate Cullen has been fascinated by her breasts so it's of no surprise that he takes his time weighing, nibbling and pulling. Before long Clair is squirming, getting damper tug by tug, suckle by suckle.
He does move on, if only to reach his next destination. On his way there her stomach, her hip bones, her upper thighs are dedicated fluttering kisses, a lick, a rasp of his teeth.
Dark, greedy eyes. A desperate nod. She moans as soon as his face moves in. When his lips come upon her, at last, she bucks up into him, earning herself a throaty chuckle. As calm and controlled as his motions were before, as restless is he now. Never spending long in one place, he sucks in her labia; kisses up and down the length of her slit; thrusts his tongue inside her just long enough to make her whimper with need. When dry, thirsty lips pull in her aching clitoris she's writhing, clutching the headboard, the corner of a pillow, anything.
Too fast. She wants to prolong it. "Please."
Claire's arms are spread and her legs unfold as he moves up her body to straddle her with his pressing, welcome weight. His erection lies hot and hard against her stomach but he resists any urge to plunge inside.
Instead Cullen rests on one forearm and brushes the tousled hair from her face, caresses her cheek. He smiles, slow and wide, leans in to plant a kiss on her forehead.
When he looks back at her his head tips sideways in an unspoken question. She breathes yes. The hand reaches between them, and the hard prod leaves her belly- only to sink into her. Slowly. Inch by blissful inch.
Claire watches in awe as Cullen's eyes cross for an instant, long enough to show he's as intoxicated as she.
A pleasant burn fills her as she stretches to accommodate his girth. They fall into a rhythm, languid and intense, pressing into each other for an extra moment whenever their bodies meet.
"Clair." Her name, her own name, enunciated in dripping honey. It alone brings tears, flowing as his mouth drops to her ear and he whispers. Of her, them, of forever.
Hands, fingers, legs, toes, her whole body clutches at him as they rock to a quiet climax. Cullen groans when he swells and spills inside her, a split second's promise of new life flickering among all this death and destruction. This is their moment, so precious, so holy.
They remain linked, breathing into one other, kissing away beads of sweat before parting reluctantly. Dreamy aftermath requires no words. Clair nestles into the warmth of Cullen's embrace. Fingers intertwine against her stomach, and his tender hum of a beloved Fereldan tune lulls her to sleep.
When she rises the next morning Clair is thoroughly rested, bursting with confidence and ready to take on whatever may come their way.