Work Header

Lonely and fragile ghosts.

Work Text:

You give enough, Cullen. I’m not asking you for more. The Inquisition can be your chance to start over, if you want it to be.

Standing there, in that moment, the Dalish elf in front of him was not the Inquisitor. With the snow white hair and the lilac eyes, he was just one. Standing there, telling him that he was fine without the lyrium, that he didn’t need it when Cullen so desperately thought it wasn’t enough.

He was barely able to meet his eyes when he answered, his tone unsure and quiet.

I don’t know if that’s possible.


A hand, reached out from the mist of his mind to clear it, grabs at his arm, tightens in confirmation. To assure him, to ground him. Lavellan’s voice, such a stark contrast to his own. So comforting, so certain.

It is.


He’s overcome with both gratitude and affection, wants nothing more than to kiss at his vallaslin, to touch his cheek and trace the lines of his face. Instead, both to clear his head of the thought and suppress the effects of withdrawal for but a moment, Cullen inhales deeply, and exhales just the same.



The smile he got from that was too much, Lavellan was always pretty, but he was able to control such thoughts. Still, in that moment, he leans forward to grasp at his face, watches the eyes widen in justified stun. And pressed his lips, slightly chapped and worried between his teeth, against warm ones, smoother than he thought, but always parted, with a bit of white teeth behind.

He hears the sharp inhale, feels the hand on his arm go lax in confusion, however, before the Inquisitor could react, he’s pulling away. Hand to his mouth, and wondering why. Why had he done that? He blames the lyrium.

If he hadn’t been so focused on it, maybe he could have prevented that. Could have kept himself further in check, and instead, he’s pushed past boundaries. Pushed through friendly conversations and games of chess.


Lost in his mind so completely, the military adviser misses the movement until it’s too late. He’d have thought the elf to have left, if not for the hand on his face, chasing his worry lines until they smoothed.

There were no words. Lavellan was never one to speak more than necessary, instead choosing actions to show what he means.

In that time, he expects a slap, a shove, anger, anything but what happens.


He’s being kissed, just as he had before, and those white teeth that are just a little sharper than humans are pulling at his bottom lip. Almost missing his chance to kiss back, Cullen nearly fumbles with himself to find a place to put his hands, before they settle on those thin hips. Come to think of it, the outfit he wore in Skyhold did nothing to hide his features, where his curves were and weren’t. In this moment, he’s never been more thankful.

Neither of them pull away for a while, sharing breath when they need it. It doesn’t go beyond kissing, no, Cullen’s mind is still too muddled for anything that might hint of a extension. Yet, Lavellan is patient, more patient than anyone gives him credit for, and he doesn’t push, or shove, simply takes what he’s offered after being certain it was alright.


He agrees with his earlier statement, the Inquisitor was very pretty, and he certainly liked his kisses.