#papacullen

[pookydraws]

Not only loving husband, but protective father.

[gremlin--child]

Yep

I dig worshiping Peter Cullen like the God he is 😍👌😌

(papa cullen)

[cullywullycurlywurly]

The baby was just shy of eighth months the first night she was parted from her mother.

Important business in Orlais. He didn’t like it, and he hadn’t agreed with it. The Inquisitor was a target now, and a valuable one at that. Orlais was not the most trustworthy of ventures either.

But still, Elicia had gone. A duty call, she had said. Just because the Inquistion was not needed so desperately did not mean she was not needed at all. His fears had become realised when they had lost contact with the party, and local scouts reported heavy fighting along their chosen path. Fierce storms had seized the hold, and his units had taken refuge for the night, unable to press ahead. He had paced holes in the flooring of his office waiting for any news, frantic and growing increasingly inpatient by the second, praying for even the smallest slither of information, yet none such had yet come.

And thus, he was in sole custody of the tiny bundle he and the Inquisitor shared. A baby girl; Imogen, they had named her, with tufts of blonde curls, and a gummy smile rumoured to command with ease the very Commander of the Inquisition himself.

Elicia had left enough milk to feed her (and half of Skyhold, Cullen reckoned on inspection) but still, she wailed and refused any more. She was clean (a cautious sniff to the napkin had confirmed that), warm (maybe too warm…or cold?!) and yet, he sensed that his growing anxiety was the culprit in this mess, that his own fear was terrifying her.

He had tried everything to calm her,  Maker, to calm himself, but it was all to no avail.  He paced the floor of their private quarters, bouncing the tearful infant over and over, shushing her as he did. So when his shaky voice managed to find the words to the Chant of Light, and she began to quiet from a scream to a whimler, it was a miracle. A sad sort of smile crept across his face as she finally fell silent, instead choosing to simply stare at him.

“I’m sorry, my little one. I’m not doing very well, am I? Most certainly not up to your mother’s standards. Maker knows what you are thinking right now.”

She continued to stare up at him from his chest, with a quiet hic, the same eyes he recognised as his own, locked to him.

“Actually, I know what you are thinking. What an awful excuse for a father, and for a husband. And you aren’t far wrong. I am not worthy, not deserving of any of this, and you and your mother deserving of something better. I pray you forgive me, little one, for all the instances I fall short of perfection in your eyes. I do not mean for it to be this way.”

He drew her to him, soft head tucking into the crook of his neck, and his cradling arms wrapped her in warmth, and in the sudden fierceness of paternal love.

“But, Andraste preserve me, I love you more than you will ever know. My child, the light of my life, you…have brought love into such dark places of my heart, with such ferocious power I did not know was possible. You and your mother, little love, you have given this sinful wanderer such purpose. I doubt you shall ever know just what you mean to me. And I shall never fail you, I will change it all for you and I will give my life before the Maker a thousand times before I see you come to harm.”

It had become a feverent, hushed muttering, and he pressed a shaking kiss to the side of her head, the wide, innocent eyes of his daughter seizing him once again as he whispered to her, leaning his nose down to rest against her own tiny one.

“This I vow to you, precious one.”

She nestled her head against him, her small body curling against his broad chest, a fist twisting with his linen shirt, and he felt his heart leap, a proud, moving warmth rising in him as her lips twisted with a peaceful sigh; “Da.

Cullen Stanton Rutherford did not often cry. He had long believed that it was for the weak; a fault, a failing. But that night, in the midst of the wild weather, and worrisome wait, he allowed himself a single exception - after all, there was no possible weakness that could have moved him so greatly.

[pookydraws]

The Rutherford Family. [color]

[cullywullycurlywurly]

“No.”

“But Cullen, see here-“

“Did I stutter?”

“Anyone would think you didn’t want to share them.”

“Not with the nobility of Orlais, I do not.”

“I think you are being rash. This is an excellent reason for a peaceful, joyful gathering, as well as winning ourselves some influence with the nobility. Recently, things have been tricky to say the least. An evening reception could be the turning point for this.”

“They are not bargaining chips.”

“But they attract much attention-”

“So?”

“The children of the Herald of Andraste and the Commander of the Inquisition. Surely you understand the interest that garners; the people are curious.”

“They can stay curious, and preferably several miles away from Skyhold.”

Josephine let out an indignant huff, pointing her quill at him from across the war table. “You are being insufferable, and pig-headedly stubborn about this.”

“Good.”

“Cullen, it will be a fine evening!”

“They are children! One of them barely an infant, three months old!” Cullen’s lip curled as he snarled his response. “They will have no idea what is happening, other than being peered at and patted and prodded, on display for your politicking. I won’t agree to it.” He folded his arms firmly, glowering across the room at her, fully intending that the conversation be over.

“That’s a pity, because the Inquisitor already has.”

“What?!”

——

“I’d like to voice, once again, that I am entirely against this entire idea. Maker knows why you ever agreed to it.” Cullen’s scowl was fixed as the procession of caravans and trailers made their way into the courtyard of Skyhold, mingling with the welcoming party, the sounds of laughter and conversation rising in the air. Their daughter sat in his arms, young eyes watching the arriving banners and colours with fascination from the safety of the parapets.

“Is that why we have more guard on duty than the entirety of Val Royeaux?”

The displeasure on his face was evident. “Inviting half of Orlais in to our home, even just for the evening, is asking for trouble. Andraste preserve me, I will have lost my patience by the time the end of this debacle comes around.”

Elicia rolled her eyes, moving to stand at his side, gently leaning into him. The infant tucked in the crook of her arm squeaked at the movement, but continued to slumber on. “Cullen, love. You are overthinking this.”

She felt the soft scratch of stubble as he kissed the side of her head, free arm linking around her waist, pulling her in close, chest heaving with a sigh. “It makes me nervous.” The stark confession came as his previous stoicism slipped. “It is too easy, too open and exposed. It is bad enough having to agree to place you on a pedestal for all to see, to leave you so exposed, that I cannot control. But for them too…I know I cannot hide them here forever, but…To wish for some normality for them, to be safe in this uneasy world…”

“I cannot think of any way they will ever be safer. Skyhold is their home.” She let the silence hang for a moment before continuing. “We need to appease these families and win some favour for ourselves. I know you understand it well enough, and I know that underneath you distain for our ambassador’s posturing, you recognise the reality we face. This is difficult, but our duty to the Inquisition must also be a consideration. It is one evening.”

The sigh that began his reply told her he understood fine well. “They will be safe, because I have stationed guards at every possible problematic area within Skyhold, and will have all on high alert for any issues. I will not allow anything other than a trouble-free evening.”

“They will be safe,” Elicia countered, turning her gaze upwards to meet his, “because their father will be less than a breath away at all times. No would-be trouble maker would dare to do anything with that particular threat hanging over them.”

She allowed herself a coy grin as she felt his chest rise and fill with pride, the low chuckle that fell from his lips more relaxed. “At least we are in agreement about something.”

Any further response he had was interrupted by an excited cry from the toddler in his arms.

“Daddy, look! Flags!” ——

As it happened, the reception was undisturbed and typically boring. The nobles fawned over the new arrival (yes, he repeatedly answered, he had taken his eyes and hair from his father), whispered hushed remarks about the blessed second infant of the Herald (Connor, he did have a name, sweet Maker!)  and marvelled at how alike their young girl was to her mother (Maker’s breath, was that really a surprise?). Frankly, the events of the day did little to change his opinion on the uselessness of pomp and circumstance of nobility, and only further served to reinforce his belief that a few good soldiers was better than any damn party. He was polite, however, Josephine’s warning eyes often finding him, and he spent the early evening fielding questions with ease, and sheltering a shy Imogen in his arms from the squealing noble women attempting to pinch her cheeks.

But when she began to whine, and rub at her eyes, and the baby grew restless, even with a full stomach, Cullen merrily volunteered to commandeer the bed time effort. Elicia had thanked him as she had passed the boy, the look they shared telling him there would be an admittance later on that perhaps he had been right about inviting so many people at once. But it was gone in a flash, and she was drawn into another conversation with another masked noble. Cullen slipped from the Great Hall with ease, leaving instructions with the guard should his presence be required, before disappearing into the quiet of Skyhold and the safety of their personal quarters, the warmth of the embers from the fire glowing in the dark of the evening.

As the door closed, he felt the invisible burden slip from him. Complete. He could relax, now that privacy was once more theirs, that the peering eyes and sickly-sweet voices had disappeared. Elicia was capable, more than capable, of handling an evening reception full of finery and indulgence. She was, after all, noble blooded, born into that world, far more attune with it and less noticeably irritated; Cullen, despite valiant attempt, had yet to ever find the patience, and often fought to control the sarcasm that awaited on his tongue. For all that the Inquisition was, and had, the Ferelden farm boy at his core still yearned for the most peaceful life he could muster.

He kicked off the leather boots that so pained his feet, setting the baby down amongst the covers on the bed before shedding the heavy dress jacket and waistcoat, and loosing the collar of his shirt. He set about changing Imogen from the ridiculously ruffled dress she had been subjected to, cladding her in fresh nightclothes and freeing her ever-growing hair from the confines of the plait Elicia had so carefully put in place.

“Come now, how about some peace from all that madness, hm? You have done a fine job as our newest ambassador. You look a little more like yourself now though, little one, and I fear I shall always prefer you to do so.” The soft giggle from her as he tickled under her chin made his heart swell, and he planted several kisses on her cheeks, peals of light laughter ringing out in response. Bundling both her and her brother back into his arms, he settled amongst the pillows on the bed, Imogen curling under one arm, the baby, with his golden tufts and rosy fat cheeks, nuzzling into his chest, breathing settling as calm descended. Cullen’s eyes closed almost automatically, the peaceful bliss addictive, and the content feeling of having both close, safe and quiet.

“So little, so new here, but so loved. Endless possibility, wrapped with hopes and dreams. Must protect, too innocent, too much evil in this world for them. How such little people have such hold over a heart.”

The sudden voice made him jump, eyes snapping open; even now, the Hedge mage could catch him by surprise. “Cole.” It was a rather obvious statement, and the boy, perched on the chair opposite, tilted his head.

“I was not aware you were sleeping. Did I frighten you?”

“I wasn’t, I…never mind.” He sighed, raising an eyebrow. “What do you want?”

“The Inquisitor asked me to check you had escaped in safety. She is trapped within conversation, mask after mask, words, words, words. It is so busy, but nobody notices Cole. I slipped up here very easily for her. She was worried it was too much.”

“Did she now?” He relaxed, returning to gently patting his son’s back, lulling him into a peaceful slumber with the quietest of sniffles. “Well, you can tell her that all is well, and she is free to continue with her evening. Although, I doubt I will be rejoining her, so please pass on my apologies.”

“Warm arms, broad chest, hands that guide, eyes that adore. Safe from all here, with my father, my favourite place in his embrace.”

Cullen’s eyes snapped up once more, following Cole’s gaze to his sleeping daughter, a dainty hand curled amongst his shirt, dark curls splayed as she found sleep, peace on her face, cheek resting at the arch of his shoulder. The creeping familiarity of fierce love wove into his chest as he watched her sleep, Cole’s words ringing in his ear, and a soft chuckle escaped him as he closed his eyes, knowing the spirit would be gone, leaving them in blissful peace once more.

[pookydraws]

Lion and little lion. ;)

[mosthopelessofromantics]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Cullen awoke early from yet another fitful sleep. He sighed as he rolled onto his back; he was used to restless nights, but sometimes he longed for the innocence of his youth. He’d been able to sleep like then dead then, and lately, with increasing frequency, he was finding himself wishing to be among the lifeless. The dead didn’t suffer nightmares or chronic headaches.

Rolling on to his side, he cursed his fate, like he so often did. There were days where he just wanted to end it all. A swift blade to end the pain, the torment, and the guilt that he suffered. He had done terrible things in his time as a Templar, and although there were many great things he accomplished with the Inquisition, only the despicable acts lingered in his deepest recesses of his mind. This was already shaping up to be one of those days, until his gaze fell upon his reason to carry on in this life.

She watched him with warm, honey-brown eyes that always beheld him with immense love and devotion. Even the slightest glance from the corner of her eye was enough to lift his spirit from the dark emptiness of the void and up into the vibrant warmth of a cherished life. The moonlight illuminated her fine features, casting her in a silver glow that validated his belief that she was Maker-sent.

“Did I wake you?” he asked softly. A warm smile spread across her face, crinkling the outer corners of her eyes.

“I’d happily be woken a thousand times a night, as long as I’m waking next to you.”

He snaked his arm around her shapely waist and drew her close.

“I love you, Bethany Rutherford.”

She brushed his bed-messed curls from his face and placed a lingering kiss to his lips.

“And I you, Cullen,” she whispered after slowly pulling away. “My darling husband.” Her fingers lightly traced lines across his face, and he could feel the soothing tingle of her healing magic as it wove its way into his aching head. “Go back to sleep, love. I’ll go start breakfast.”   

Cullen quietly moaned his acquiescence and sprawled across the bed once Bethany rose. She worked just the right spell to quiet his mind and ease the pain.  He felt incredibly lucky to have her in his life, and he would show her just how much she meant to him. It was Satinalia, and he managed to finally get her the perfect gift.

The sunlight forced its way past the shield of his closed eyelids, waking him from a solid rest. As his senses roused, he smiled at the aroma of fresh bread and mulled wine emanating from the kitchen. Cullen pushed himself to sitting, and dangled his legs over the edge of the bed, waiting for the usual bout of dizziness. After it passed, he forced himself to his feet. Stepping into his trousers and pulling the deep red tunic over his head, he crossed the room to their dressing table.Glancing into the mirror, he hastily tamed his curls before making his way into the kitchen.

His heart fluttered when his eyes fell upon his beautiful wife. She was at the oven, removing a fresh loaf of honey bread from the heat. He quickly stepped behind her, wrapped his arms around her, and placed tender kisses on the smooth, ticklish skin of her exposed shoulder. He curled one arm around her chest, and his other hand rested on her belly. He longed to have a family with her, to have a brood of children with the woman that he loved, but after years of trying, they were still unsuccessful. As he regularly did, he cursed his Templar past and his prior lyrium addiction, for certainly that was the cause of their empty home.

Bethany giggled and squirmed, snapping him from his unhappy thoughts. With the lightness of a feather, his tongue danced over her flesh, causing it to goosepimple. She was unable to put up much of a struggle, however, since her hands were full.

“Do you really want your breakfast on the floor, Cullen? Because that’s where it’s about to go if you don’t stop!”

Cullen chuckled and nuzzled the back of her neck, taking in the scent of violets from her dark hair.

“Do you really want me to stop, wife?”

Bethany sighed and arched her back, pressing her rear against him. “Never,” she purred. “But let’s eat first, so you’ll have the strength to continue this later.”

“As you wish,” he growled softly into her ear, smiling at how she swiveled her hips slightly when his lips grazed her lobe.

He released her from his embrace and took his seat at the table. Bethany was the most doting wife, and was better to him than he deserved. She made sure that he ate well, and always made the most delicious meals. Today she set the hot, fresh bread in front of him, complete with butter, ripe berries and soft cheese. She poured him a mug of mulled wine and took her seat by his side.

He gave her a playful smirk. “I have your Satinalia gift,” he said before he popped some berries into his mouth.

“And I, yours,” she replied as she spread the soft cheese over her bread. Smiling, she lifted her eyes and met Cullen’s gaze. “I think I want mine first.”

Cullen was hoping that she would say that. He had been almost overwhelmed with excitement since he got it, and was aching to give it to her.

“We are moving,” he said proudly. Her wide-eyed expression caused him to grin.

“Cullen,” she gasped, “are you serious? Did you finally-”

“Yes, love. We finally have our own home, and a piece of land, in the Hinterlands. Nearly halfway between Lothering and Honnleath.”

“Oh, Cullen!” Bethany flung herself from her chair and into his arms, peppering his face with gracious kisses.

“Are you ready for your gift?”

Cullen cocked an eyebrow and smirked. “Always.”

Bethany gave him a playful swat and rose from his lap. “I’ll be right back.

Cullen watched her hips sway as she walked away from him and out of the front door. The Maker had blessed him with the most beautiful and caring wife, and the least he could do for her was move her from the Inquisition-owned cabin in which they stayed, to a real home of their own. The war was over, and the Inquisition was now primarily a peacekeeping force. He officially retired as Commander of the Inquisition forces the moment it converted to the Divine’s service and the writ was drawn.

The sound of the door opening drew him from his thoughts. Bethany entered, carrying a large lidded picnic basket.

Out of breath, she handed it to him. “For you, my love.”

He lifted the basket of formidable weight from her hands and placed it on the floor. Taking a knee beside it, he opened the lid. Tears instantly stung his eyes as the emotion welled, and his cheeks began to hurt from smiling.

“Maker, Bethany,” he whispered as he lifted a chocolate-colored Mabari pup from the wicker container, “he’s perfect.” He cradled his new hound against his shoulder and laughed heartily as his face was licked enthusiastically. Cullen scratched at the dog’s neck and noticed something hanging from it’s collar. He lowered the pup to his lap and held the dangling items in his hand. They were handmade, small little things, that looked to be-

Cullen’s eyes snapped up to Bethany, who was beaming. “Are these-? Are you-? Am I-?” he stammered.

Bethany nodded and drew up beside him. Cupping his cheeks with her shaking hands, she smiled and said through her tears, “They are booties. I am pregnant, and you are going to be a father.”

Cullen’s heart nearly leapt from his chest. He laughed joyfully and kissed his wife tenderly, thanking the Maker for hearing his prayers, and for this day, a most unforgettable Satinalia.