Note: More like seven or eight times kissed. I yanked this prompt from Tumblr.
ANYWAY. Tell me all you want about the Lavellan/Trevelyan X Cullen ships, but I will forever be dedicated to Cullen X Amell. My heart WEEPS for this ship, and I will go down with it as it sinks in a sea of Inquisitors. This is to be part of my series Scar Tissue—which is an entirely different fic of its own. Some of what appears in this short drabble will be in the multi-chapter fic I have in the works, though this is somewhat of an AU in regards to the main story.
There's some smut if you just barely squint (in which I shamelessly listened to Take Me To Church on repeat while writing). /waggles eyebrows/
[ EDIT ;; 1, April 2015 ] — New part added!
—O1—
She was but a young woman, confined in a caged named a Circle. They'd clipped her wings, and thrown her into a world closed off from the one she so desperately missed. It'd been maybe three years since her capture, and already, she was growing to loathe the Chantry and its Templars. Most were vile and sadistic. They poked and prodded until mages broke to pieces—tore them to bits. Shredded them and forced them into fighting for their very lives.
She fell prey to their wretched ways as well, unable to hang her head low enough to hide from their view. The scar on her jaw was proof enough of her abuse and trials. They'd corner her, push her around, and spit both words and phlegm. The threats were constant, and sometimes carried out—sharp blades nicking her once untouched flesh. But she learned not to cry—not to resist and call out for help and mercy. It did no good: no one listened, too set on flying under the radar to stop the torment.
Why? She did as she was told—most of the time. She studied the best she could, learned to control her magic, and she passed her Harrowing when the time came (though it was done so by a hair). What more did they want? She'd been tossed into solitary at their whim for silly little things—supposed "back-talking" and "disobedience". The barrage of torment never ceased.
However, there were a few who did not cause her harm—in fact, they did their jobs as they were supposed to: protect, to an extent. They never did truly help her, but in the end, she would've trusted them with her life.
One in particular—Cullen, as she had heard—had completely and utterly infatuated her. A silly little crush, and nothing more; but, he appeared to be just as infatuated with the mage. Scandalous. He'd stutter and trip over words he barely had when she spoke to him, her demeanor teasing and testing the thin ice she strode across.
It was a dare, of course.
"Kiss him! Just do it!"
How could she resist? It would've been so innocent and playful, had there been no punishment for frolicking with those who were under the Chantry's rule. But it didn't matter, so long as she caught him alone, walking back to his quarters.
She did just that, miraculously. He was caught in a trap as she practically skidded in front of him, rocking on her heels. It was quick and chaste—a brush of her lips at the corner of the Templar's mouth. Nevertheless, his face reddened horribly and he stood in shock as she darted away.
—O2—
The second time was not a kiss at all—it was a punch, though he did not touch her. A brutal twist of words upon the Templar's lips—chastising the mage though she had saved him from an eternity of torture. She'd banished his tormentor, but her actions did nothing in his eyes. She was a mage—though she wielded a sword: fearing her own magic.
She was an abomination in his eyes. She could snap at any moment and turn to blood magic. And worse, she could be possessed. He wanted no part in dealing with her, so it was distance that he preferred. Still, she fought to protect him with all her might. Cullen had never done her wrong, and the words stung her: a sword piercing her chest. Her stomach twisted, and she was rejected once more because of what she was.
—O3—
It'd been ten years, and the tides had changed. No longer a Templar, Cullen found himself in a stiff, red dress uniform as he dealt with Orlesian nobility. They poked and prodded—assaulted his personal bubble that he held so near and dear. He hated it: the nobility had no other interests besides giving him a throbbing migraine. They were pests: leeches who could speak. And all they did was spew lies and jests as the nudged and groped. It was disgusting, for lack of a better term.
But he maintained his post, skulking by a window that offered at least some illusion of freedom from his now cramped space. He watched bodies flow through narrowed eyes, trained on a particular blur gliding across the ballroom floor. It was a flouncy, deep blue dress trimmed with silver lace and saltwater pearls: a get-up unlike any he'd seen before. Then again—he'd hailed from such a quaint place, any form of elegant wear was foreign to him. But this? This was different. It flowed, and the skirt bounced as though it was weightless.
The woman, elegant and poised, covered her visage with a silver mask dusted with golden hues—a wolf with ivory teeth. And in a moment of both doubt and sudden divine intervention, he knew it was her. It was the very woman he scorned so long ago, casting her away like a rotted apple. But she had not rotted: rather, she had grown and bloomed into something only she possessed. Try as he might, the Commander could not avert his eyes from the flowing, silken fabrics that adorned her form. Captivating, as it was, all interferences were drown out by oceaned hues as dark as the Waking Sea.
Of course, she noticed. She'd known that the Inquisition would be present, but it had barely crossed her mind that her childish infatuation would be present. A laugh was hidden under her metallic guise—charming, how now he could barely go a second without scanning over her bird boned form, dancing on her toes.
She would not last the night without invading his post, just as the Orlesians had. It was somehow crucial to her that she made contact in the most scandalous of ways. So, she approached the Commander, whose face was tickled with a pink glaze. A single hand, decorated with lace reached out, dainty despite the sword she wielded. Another hand, shakey and unpracticed in noble affairs reached out and grasped it. Cullen, still awed by the simple fact that she was there—and very much so real—bowed before her, lips twitching in anticipation as they grazed across lithe fingers.
"Lady Amell."
"Commander Rutherford."
Her words were a blatant tease, as his surname rolled off the tip of her tough like she'd practiced speaking it throughout the night. She withdrew her hand, and swept her mask back to reveal the angular shape of her face. A smirk toyed at the corner of pink, plush lips as though she'd succeeded in some frivolous quest to fluster the man who towered above her.
"I—did not expect you to be here."
"No one expects me, dear Commander."
And that was true. She appeared like an apparition in the strangest of places, at all the right times. Her dark eyes shifted to those clustered about, casting mischievous and malicious glares at the two. Oh! So they were wrapped up in the Grande Game. If these sods wanted to silently stand by like frightened dogs, she would set the bar high in terms of winning.
"Forgive me," she quipped as a single hand clutched the Commander's collar. She tip-toed close, and feverishly slid her mouth over his. Surprisingly enough, it was reciprocated, though he hadn't the slightest of clues in regards to the placement of his hands. Without hesitation, he let one hand rise to rest on her forearm, but the kiss was over just as soon as it began. She spoke once more, her voice hushed in such a way that it poured over the dazed man like a broken cask of liquor.
"You shouldn't have any more—troubles."
She waltzed away, and the Commander could swear she purposely swung her hips in a tease. It was surreal, and she vanished back into the crowd of bodies before he could reply.
Leliana stood only paces away, giggling under her breath.
—4—
He'd frightened her in a fit of rage—throwing books from their shelves, along with glass bottles and paper notes. She'd only just flung the door open, stunned by what lingered before her eyes. Within a second of her entering, the Commander had her pressed against the wall of his office—cornered her with an arm threatening to crush her throat. She couldn't find the right words to ease him out of his hazed state. Yet, if she had any, they would have been drowned out by the ramblings of a man who'd slipped from reality. His own words were mumbles and harsh whispers: repetition of all he had told her ten years prior.
Blue no longer clashed with the reds in his veins—lyrium did not flow through and mangle every fiber of his being. Still, there was a price to pay as withdrawal crept in. Nightmares. Cold sweats. Aches and pains. Fits of rage speckled with hallucinations. He thought her to be possessed—the thought her to be the demon itself.
Rough hands near crushed her shoulders: pressing bone into the gritty stone behind her. Something had caught in her throat—a sob or words: she did not know which until the lion's name dripped from her lips like battlefield blood whilst he swore and cursed her into the Void. It wasn't enough to stop the man's tremors, but it gave Alex enough leeway to slip from his iron grasp. She darted away with no further actions or attempts at reason—it just wasn't possible.
The Commander, in a wretched daze only watched the woman leave. Ungloved hands raked down his face: drenched in chilled sweat and teary, salt-water droplets. His visage was tinged red—part anger and part embarrassment. Thoughts of chasing after the Warden strained through his mind, but it was unwise for him to do. So he waited and mulled over anything and everything he could possibly do or say; but, the thoughts simply were not there. He, as the other, was at a loss.
The night air hit him as though it were a solid wall of ice: cooling and calming his burning skin. It was to be a nightly stroll—to clear thoughts and ease the aches in his joints. He did not ask for company, but it was there in the form of the Warden whom he had jostled and frightened like a fawn. She sat perched atop the battlements, the scent of magic, milk, and honey carried by the wind. The Commander's approach was hesitant, as he grasped for any explanation and apology he could find, but her own whispered words found purchase before his own.
"I'm not angry, Cullen."
He was still unsure, in regards of approaching the rather ill situation. The only thing he could muster was a cracked and nearly unintelligible, "Forgive me," that traveled as gently as the breeze that ruffled the furs on his shoulders.
"I forgave you a long time ago."
Her words sliced through the armor beneath his skin like a glinting blade. And yet, he knew what they carried: years of guilt and hurt and abandonment. Cullen watched her slide from her perch and move toward him—arms wrapped around her torso as though she was maintaining a certain kind of security. His only reaction was to reach for her: callused, paw-like hands cupping a soft and freckled face. And she leaned into his touch, calm painting her face. Lips brushed, and her arms unraveled to latch around the Commander's torso, pulling him close. It was not a deep and intensive thing: rather, it was lazy—calming any nerves that still sparked with doubt and fear. Eyes fluttered closed with each gentle collision—more worn than anything else. Words and phrases scattered in between, hushing qualms with arid murmurs.
"I'm here, if you'll have me."
—O5—
Her name was a prayer trickling from his lips. Holy, holy, holy—he repeated the syllables in whispers that mapped every inch of bared, freckled skin. In a pool of blankets, flesh, and bone: no barriers were left undemolished. They were smashed to bits as armor and clothing were shucked away—a trail of iron and cotton that lead from the ladder to the Commander's plush bed. Titles mattered little in their private exchange—he was just Cullen, and she was just Alex. Each breath was divine, and each touch a fire that engulfed both.
Lips met in desperation, tongues flitting out to meet halfway. And between each and every searing hot kiss, words lingered in mingled breath—names and praises and confessions that had been tucked away into pockets for years. Each feverish kiss was sanctimonious, and every breath and trembling sigh a hymn murmured through eigengrau night.
Limbs tangled with sheets and and each other, the scarred flesh of two pressing together as though they'd aimed to preserve a delicate flower between heaving chests that burned with desire. Hands navigated exposed skin in a dire need to remember every freckle and scar. His chambers became a confessional where all things left unsaid were thrown into the air without worry or doubt. Through the sighs and moans and the beaded sweat on his back where the Warden's fingers pressed, all was forgiven and made whole—though she had forgiven him the very moment he struck her down. With flushed faces, lips locked as though their love was the only thing that mattered—the only thing keeping each afloat in the midst of war.
—O6—
He was alive—blood rushing through his veins. That was all she could have hoped for. He'd returned: crimson staining the metal that adorned his body—but he lived and breathed, barely scathed by claws and swords. Bruised and worn, but by the Maker he had survived as the great hole in the sky was finally sealed. She had not rushed into his arms as he returned with the men and women under his command: there was a certain kind of properness that had to be upheld. But, as soon as she managed to peel the Commander from the grand celebration, she vowed to keep him to herself for at least a few days—if she could.
Sprawled out on the mattress they'd made into their place of worship, they lingered in bliss as sun peeked through the cracks and holes of the ceiling. Alex lingered behind him, tracing the constellations that the freckles and scars on his back created. It was funny how a previous child-like infatuation could grow into something so delicate and sought after—something so raw and unbridled. She laughed to herself, burying her nose into the blond, wispy curls that danced across the nape of his neck. He had a scent of his own: iron, leather, and sweat—parchment, black ink, and soap. The particles invaded her senses, sending a welcomed feeling of euphoria throughout her form.
She was bloody mad to have ever thought that what she now had was out of reach. It'd been at her fingertips from the start. Now, those very tips trailed along the gentle curvature of the muscles along his ribs: waves so close to those created by the sea, she could almost hear water crashing against stone and sand. Cullen instinctively twitched at the touch, and threw an arm over his face to shield himself from the rays of light jutting in. She laughed again, louder this time, as she planted a gentle kiss on the back of the lion's neck. It was enough to rouse him into rolling onto his back, pulling her in with one arm as he mumbled his "good mornings", though it was far passed noon.
Both knew that their shared intimacy and contentment wouldn't last as long as they'd like. But what was ahead did not matter. Each figured it was far better to focus on the present, and not dwell on the past and what was to come.
For now, this was enough.