Common

Cullen was a cold and glorious figure, and his patience was a still, deep pool- Varanduil could not help but feel that that calm surface was hiding slithering live things deep in its dark heart, and though he would eagerly lap up all the patience Cullen would grant him, the idea of dredging some of those slippery, toothy things from his depths made Varanduil’s skin crawl with both fear and excitement. For now, Cullen’s pale eyes on him were, if not kind, considering- thoughtful, even, though Varanduil was unsure if this should be a comfort. Even so, he found he liked it, regardless of the intent behind that careful attention, as he liked the bold, brutal scars that cut through Cullen’s pretty coat and left dark rivulets in his healed flesh; something vicious and tender all at once, and in this moment, something that was all his. The golden leader had nothing to hide in his dreams, it seemed, and he shared them openly- proudly, as Varanduil might’ve expected from his brazen new lead.

Vengeance was straightforward enough, but what of the other..? What did Cullen imagine, when his bright eyes wandered over the horizon around them while that soft pink mouth laid out such words as Scar and Nightmare and even World? What was the world to someone like Cullen..?

Varanduil found himself wanting to find out.

“Ready to come home?”

The young bronze beast pricked his ears, for a moment Home thudding through his ribs like an arrow, driven deep into hot, throbbing vital organs by Cullen’s quiet smile and attentive eyes, and he twitched toward him as if on a tugged leash. ‘...And one day you shall be wanted...’ He shuddered, some ugly and earnest black ichor rushing through him- perhaps the weighted blade of that ‘home’ had truly split something open inside him- and making his blood run hot and eager. He stepped closer again, this time under his own power, his every muscle and tendon taut and vibrating like a string waiting for Cullen’s patient, prowling words to pluck out a song on. His own voice was not so put-together; not so elegant with practiced idleness as it usually was, and instead pulled out of him in hushed, knotted cords, landing wet and heavy into that small, heaving, humid space left between them.

“I’m with you.”