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partystoragechest · 25 days

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A story of romance, drama, and politics which neither Trevelyan nor Cullen wish to be in.

Canon divergent fic in which Josephine solves the matter of post-Wicked Hearts attention by inviting invites four noblewomen to compete for Cullen's affections. In this chapter, read the first line.

(Masterpost. Beginning. Previous entry. Next entry. Words: 3,380. Rating: all audiences. Warnings: fighting and blood mentions.)

Chapter 39: Duel Purpose

“The Commander is going to duel Lady Orroat!”

Trevelyan almost spat out her tea.

Lady Samient had burst through the door of the Baroness’ chamber, disrupting the quiet morning conversation being had within. Both women whirled on her, but—before they could query what she had said—Samient was already gone.

Trevelyan locked eyes with the Baroness, their faces equal in confusion. With nary a word spoken between them, they threw down their tea, and gave chase.

They pursued the sound of Lady Samient’s vanishing footsteps along the corridor, and down the stairs—tumbling out into the Great Hall, where they at last managed to catch her.

“What is going on?” asked Trevelyan, to no answer. Samient hurried them out of the door instead, to the courtyard beyond.

Emerging into the glare of the sun, they caught sight of a crowd below, forming around the training ring. Soldiers, servants, visiting nobles: most of Skyhold had turned out for the event. Word, as always, had spread rather quickly.

Yet, within the ring, Trevelyan saw only two individuals of note: a battle-ready Lady Orroat, plated in iridescent obsidian, preparing to fight—and a flailing Lady Erridge, who tugged fruitlessly at her arm.

“Really, Lady Orroat, it is quite all right!” she pleaded, as the Ladies neared. “I suffered no injury from the Commander’s rejection, I assure you!”

Lady Orroat fastened her pauldrons.

“I am completely fine—I swear!” continued Erridge, to seemingly little effect. “I don’t mind at all! This is surely unnecessary!”

Lady Orroat turned. She hooked a finger beneath Lady Erridge’s chin, and tilted her face towards her own. Soft morning light trickled around them, motes of dust dancing through the air. The crowd almost melted away; time appeared to slow. Just their silhouette, in the shape of two lovers.

Gentle as her touch, Lady Orroat spoke:

“My dearest Tam, though you may bear the insult, I cannot. No man shall walk this plane and feel entitled to so callously discard your treasured affection.” Her thumb traced the curve of Erridge’s jaw. “Please, my Lady. Allow me this.”

Trevelyan’s mouth fell open. Lady Samient gripped her arm. The Baroness fanned herself. All those romances Lady Erridge had read, and somehow, she had failed to realise that she was, apparently, living in one.

Naturally quite helpless to do anything but gaze back at Lady Orroat, her eyes—wide and innocent as a doe’s—fluttering rapidly, Lady Erridge assented:

“Oh, well—um, don’t hurt him too much, I suppose?”

Lady Orroat took a step back, and bowed low. “Anything for you, my Lady.”

She strode away, to meet her foe. Lady Erridge listlessly waved her off, before stumbling over to where the Ladies had gathered. She was a mess of giggles and squeaks, unable to say anything that was not in relation to her dear Lady Orroat.

The Baroness took to helping her regain her faculties; Trevelyan and Samient shared a smile at the display. Certain that Erridge would recover from her stupor, they were able to return their attention to the ring.

Lady Orroat—sword drawn—had taken position at its centre, and performed spectacular practice swings, to the adoration of the crowd. Yet, while all eyes were on her, Trevelyan’s drifted, to the other side of the arena—in search, perhaps, of the Lady’s opponent.

Her breath caught.

There he stood. Soldiers flanked his sides, aiding him to prepare. Armour was placed upon his body; leather straps were pulled taut by his iron grip. He tested his breastplate with a beat to the chest; it clanged against the metal of his gauntlet.

His mantle was brought, and draped over his back, amplifying the broadness of his shoulders. His helm was presented—a lion’s roar, frozen in steel—and lowered upon his head, his fearsome glare framed within its maw. His sword was last, offered in its belt and sheath. He strapped it around his hips, good and tight. His fingers curled around the blade’s hilt.

The sword was drawn; he needed no practice. He was the Commander of the Inquisition—and Maker, did he look it, in the entirety of his regalia. Intimidating, unwavering, he stalked towards his opponent.

“Hey.”

Trevelyan startled, quite unaware how how enraptured she had been by the display. She glanced about for the source of the voice, and found Varric beside her, holding up a pouch of coin.

“I’m taking wagers on who’s gonna win. Want in?” he asked.

Lady Samient, whom Trevelyan had definitely not forgotten was beside her, took an interest. “What are the odds?”

“Winning side splits the pot.”

The Baroness tossed a coin to him, which he caught with ease. “One crown on Lady Orroat.”

Lady Erridge applauded. “Oh, good choice!”

Varric noted it down, and moved on to the next group of punters. Trevelyan watched him go, then returned her gaze to the arena. A Captain addressed the combatants; both nodded in agreement. Satisfied, the Captain withdrew, and raised an arm.

Hush fell over the crowd. Anticipation slowed the air around them. A breath spilled from Trevelyan’s lips. The Captain’s arm dropped.

They charged. Swords clashed.

It was the Commander who dominated first. His muscular build and experienced arm were a force to be reckoned with. He struck out with a barrage of blows, each one ferocious as the last. Each one as confident. Each one as precise. He commanded the battlefield, as was his right.

Yet Lady Orroat showed no signs of yielding. She was a fleet-footed fighter, taking each hit and turning it into momentum. Dodges and blocks; no counters. It seemed she was not interested in fighting back—not yet. She was biding her time. She was waiting for something.

Whatever opening this was, the Commander would not give it. He stepped back only to return, with even greater force. Trevelyan admired the arc of his sword through the air, its flash in the sunlight, as he thrust hard toward her abdomen.

Lady Orroat deflected it away. The crowd gasped. The Commander was open.

She delivered a swift slice to his arm, before it could straighten. The Commander’s grip weakened. She moved in, butted her pommel direct into his helm. The Commander stumbled back. A mighty kick to his chest, and he was thrown to the ground.

The crowd roared, the Ladies cheered. The Baroness was going to get that crown back.

Lady Orroat strode to where the Commander lay. Before he could recover, she knocked his helm away, with the tip of her blade—and then held it to his throat.

“Yield.”

The crowd waited, for the reply.

The Commander let his sword fall from his grasp. “I yield.”

The Captain’s arm went up, on Orroat’s side. The crowd began to holler and cheer. Soldiers, trained hard in this same ring, applauded the satisfaction of seeing their Commander humiliated.

Lady Erridge burst out from the masses, running to Lady Orroat’s arms. The Lady dropped her sword, and embraced Erridge entirely, twirling her through the air.

Over the noise of the crowd, one could barely hear what was said between them in that moment. But as their dance ended, and Orroat set Erridge down, she sank onto one knee—and the crowd fell silent once more.

“Lady Tam Erridge, of West Coldon,” said Lady Orroat, loud enough for all to hear. “My dearest friend. My most ardent love. I have been enamoured with you since the day we met; in the years I have known you, my love for you has only grown. I have always cherished our friendship, but I wish to cherish you, as well. Please, I beg—will you marry me?”

The pause afterward felt as though a lifetime. Though no one suffered it as much as Orroat, the Ladies held their breath. They looked to Erridge—as did the entire crowd—and waited.

Erridge, fixed in place, blinked. “Oh, Lady Orroat,” she gasped, “well—of course! I could not think of anything more wonderful in all my life!”

Lady Orroat shot to her feet, and collided with Erridge. The Ladies screamed, joyous and in sheer disbelief. The crowds applauded. At long last, a kiss that had waited for years to exist, finally came to be.

The Ladies rushed the arena, and many more followed. They met and embraced both Erridge and Orroat, smiling, laughing, squealing in delight. The world became nothing but noise and happiness. Congratulations were given, and received with joy. Invitations to a wedding, promised and assured.

Never had Trevelyan seen such mirth, and such festivity. Though very few of Skyhold knew the significance of the event, they celebrated nonetheless. The happiness of others was enough motivation.

And yet, in the crowd, Trevelyan found one face to be missing. As her friends continued their revelry, she continued to sweep their surroundings. Somewhere, in this maelstrom of merriment, surely—

“Your winnings!” came Varric’s voice, not quite the one she’d been looking for. He passed a handful of coins to the Baroness, who tucked them discreetly into a pocket, and told some joke about starting a fund for her wedding attire.

Yet before he moved on, to pass out his next prize, he stopped—for but a moment—beside Trevelyan.

“Armoury,” he said.

Trevelyan looked out, over the heads that surrounded her. The vaguest shape of red wool and silver plate disappeared into the building nearby.

“Thank you,” she said to Varric—but he had already gone. She made her excuses to her friends, instead, and began to find her way through the crowds.

It was difficult, to move against the flow of excitement—but soon enough, she found herself at the edges of the hubbub. The armoury door lingered open, just a crack, in the distance. She hurried over.

Peeking just her head through, Trevelyan took in the space. She’d not been here often. It acted as a second smithy, with forges and furnaces along the back wall, swathing the room in their warmth and light.

Yet, unlike the smithy of the Undercroft, soldiers would frequent this place. Armour and weaponry lined the racks, ready for use in training. A long bench, where they would prepare for exactly this, waited below.

Today, however, it boasted only one occupant.

The Commander had collapsed upon the bench, wrenching the plate from his body. Each piece clattered to the floor as soon as the straps came free. With all outside celebrating, there was no one to attend him.

And so he continued the task himself, stripping his mantle and laying it over his lap. Arms free, he tugged at his gorget until it came loose; removed it and the breastplate beneath. Just a gambeson, now, and his helm.

He discarded the latter first, his face at last revealed—exhausted, and panting.

Sweat-streaked skin glistened in the glow of the fires. But not mere sweat alone. Trevelyan gasped. Blood. There was blood.

The Commander must have felt it, for he raised his hand to his upper lip, and pulled it away, red. Bloody nose. That strike to the face.

He sighed, and, like the weight of the world was holding him down, leant back against the wall—

“Forward, Commander!” blurted Trevelyan, before she’d even thought of what to say next. “You... need to tilt your head forward.”

His eyes widened at seeing her there, but he followed the instruction regardless. “Thank you.”

Trevelyan watched him a moment, then glanced back to the door. She stepped for it—but, out of the corner of her eye, saw a drop of crimson splash against the floor.

She could not leave him like this.

She let the door shut, and turned back. A hand dipped into her pocket. From within, she produced a small cloth.

“Commander,” she said, creeping closer, “use this.”

Head still forward, the Commander’s hand clumsily found hers. Their fingers overlapped for the briefest of moments—before he took hold of the cloth, and fled with it.

Yet he hesitated, in bringing it to his face. “This is from the banquet,” he muttered.

Surprising that he’d somehow remembered. But he was right. It was the napkin he’d given to her that night, to dry her tears.

“I had it cleaned,” said Trevelyan.

He held it back out. “I... can’t use this.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to stain it.”

Trevelyan sighed. “Commander, you’re bleeding. Please.”

His hand withdrew, and he pressed the napkin to his nose. Trevelyan took a little step back, and watched him. Her hands twisted around each other, unsure of what to do with themselves.

“Commander?” she whispered.

He started to raise his head.

“No, no—keep it forward,” Trevelyan instructed. “Please.”

This order came not only for the benefit of his bloodied nose. She wished his gaze to be upon the floor, instead of her. She could not have him look at her, when she said what she said next. And thank the Maker, he did as asked.

“I’m... so sorry, Commander, for my behaviour, last we spoke,” she murmured, breathing through the words so as not to let them falter. “My response to your situation was entirely unsympathetic, and undeservedly harsh. My temperament at the time was not balanced, and it is you who bore the brunt of that. I am sorry, truly, I am.”

He was quiet for a moment. A terrifying, excruciating moment. Until, that is, he said:

“You needn’t apologise to me.”

Trevelyan blinked. “What?”

“Nothing of what you said to me that day was incorrect or undeserved,” the Commander told her, voice firm. “You had every right to despise me. I treated you all disgracefully.”

He lifted his head, if only for a second, to look at her—despite the pain it seemed to bring.

“It was not your fault, but mine. There is nothing for you to apologise for. I am sorry. For everything I did.”

She waited until his head dipped back down, and moved a little closer. “But even if I were upset, even if I were right, I needn’t have been so wicked in how I addressed you.”

“No. I deserved to know the consequences of my actions, in as clear and difficult terms as possible. I was cruel, and ignorant. I needed to understand the hurt I had caused. Especially to you. And... I am sorry that I did, cause it.”

Trevelyan sank to her knees before him. Gently, she took the napkin from his grasp, and examined his nose.

“The bleeding’s stopped,” she told him.

Unable to meet her eye, he nodded, head still bowed.

“I understand why you did it,” she muttered. “Lady Montilyet explained to me, what the court of Orlais has put you through. Were I faced with the same, I cannot imagine I would have acted differently.”

The Commander’s head shook. “You would. You would never have done what I did to all of you.”

“Oh, come, Commander. You’ve seen my less savoury side, now.” She folded the napkin, so that she made a clean little square. “You should have heard the things I called you the first night we met.”

“Deserved, I’m sure.”

“Stop punishing yourself, Commander.” Trevelyan raised the napkin to his face. “May I?”

He nodded. She placed her fingertips beneath his chin, and tilted his head. The cloth was dabbed upon a small cut, lancing across his cheek.

“Besides,” she said, “I hear you’ve had punishment enough.”

The mere mention was enough to eke a little smirk from his mouth.

“Yes, the Ladies made quite sure of that,” he murmured. “I... ought to have listened to you, and Lady Montilyet. They are good women.”

“Impressive, even?” she suggested.

“Yes.”

Trevelyan smiled. She turned his head, and brushed dirt from his other cheek.

“Their ‘punishments’ were more endearing than I believe was intended,” the Commander confessed. “I quite enjoyed their company.”

“Finally.” Trevelyan withdrew her hand, let him face forward once more. “I told you.”

“You did. Though… I was right about one thing.”

“What is that?”

He smiled, eyes askance. “I still much prefer yours.”

“Oh.”

Trevelyan stared at him. No longer seeking his skin for wounds, she took in his face, closer now than it had ever been. Every prick of stubble was in perfect focus. The exact curve of the scar that marred his lip. Each lash that framed his honey eyes.

She caught their gaze.

“Um…”

“Commander!” came a shout, from just outside the door. As it burst open, Trevelyan scrambled away, to her feet, and hid the napkin in her pocket.

Lady Orroat—half-out of her own armour, as well—strode in, with Lady Erridge hanging upon her arm.

“Oh!” gasped Erridge, eyes wide at seeing Trevelyan. “Lady Trevelyan is here. Um, dearest Hul, perhaps we should leave them, for a moment—”

Lady Orroat, apparently as oblivious in nature as her fiance, continued marching in.

“But we must make certain the Commander is all right,” she begged, heading for where he sat. She winced, upon seeing his face. “Oh, Maker—I am so sorry, Commander.”

“It’s fine,” he said—though Trevelyan could not help but note a tone of confusion in his voice. He mouthed, to Lady Orroat: “Does she know?”

‘She’ referring here to Lady Erridge—who promptly began to giggle.

“I’m afraid I do!” she confessed. “My dear Lady confessed all to me after the duel had ended—though I had suspected it might be a ruse. Dear Hul would never truly be so insistent upon fighting if I objected so!” She took Orroat’s hand, and squeezed it tight. “Oh, it was so terribly romantic. Thank you, Commander. I am ever so sorry that it got you hurt.”

He waved it off. “Perhaps that makes us even.”

Erridge nodded. “I believe it does.” She glanced between Trevelyan and the Commander once more, and tugged at Orroat’s hand. “Come, my love, we’d best be off.”

Orroat finally allowed herself to be led away—but as they left, called out:

“There’s been some kind of impromptu party arranged at the tavern nearby! Do come along!”

“No, no,” said Erridge, hurrying Orroat out of the door, “stay here as long as you like!”

The door swung shut, and silence fell again. Trevelyan looked to the Commander. He had begun to occupy himself with the removal of armour once more, now busy loosening his greaves.

“Is that why you invited Lady Orroat here?” she asked.

He glanced up. “Hm?”

“You conspired with Lady Orroat to stage a duel?”

The Commander released the straps, and straightened up. “Not originally. I invited her because I realised Lady Erridge cared for her. I thought it might be a start, at making amends. I spoke to her privately after she arrived. She told me of how she and Lady Erridge had met—through a duel, between a boy and Lady Orroat.”

Trevelyan nodded. “Lady Erridge told me the same story.”

“I suggested we recreate the circumstances, to provide Lady Orroat an opportunity to reveal her affection. I thought it... might be poetic, in some way.”

He shrugged. Trevelyan smiled. A little warmth gathered in her chest.

She moved closer.

“Will you be attending the party, Commander?”

He shook his head, and continued working off his greave. “I am unsure the loser would be welcome at the celebration.”

“I believe it would a show of humility,” Trevelyan teased. “You do have an arrogant streak.”

“I’m working on it.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like it.”

The Commander glanced up at her, hand finding the back of his neck. “I, ah…”

Trevelyan giggled. “Here,” she said, offering him the napkin, sullied as it was, “in case you need it. I’d best get to the party, before any rumours begin.”

He took it, and nodded. “Yes, of—of course…”

“Perhaps I will see you,” she said.

“Perhaps.”

She smiled, and bid him farewell, with a curtsy. He bowed as best he could, and watched her go.

Trevelyan had thought, that when she spoke to him again, she would know what she wanted. Whether she wanted to forgive him, whether she wanted to trust him.

She was right, in a way. For when she glanced back, one last time, before slipping through the door—she knew exactly what she wanted.

It was simply not an option she’d expected.

#unwanted fic #unwanted #cullen rutherford #cullen x trevelyan #you know what those tags mean folks #he's here #and ohoohoooohohohooo #spoiler warning for the next tags #i've been soooo looking forward to this. the tension. the atmosphere. cullen panting and sweaty. it's got it all #on the other hand i am very sorry because next chapter is not the party as nothing of import is going to happen there #and cullen does not show up #but dont worry #there's another party coming soon enough #(and congrats to anyone who gets the deep cut cullen girlie reference in this chapter lol)#(btw this was 99% done for days but it took me so long to get the beginning right that i kept it back and im glad i did bc i like it now)

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riyacrane · 1 month

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#cullen rutherford #inquisitor trevelyan #cullen x trevelyan #dragon age #dragon age inquisition

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plisuu · 1 month

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-sounds of rattling tin cans-

WIP Wednesday Tags:

@broodwolf221 @rosella-writes @dreadfutures @greypetrel @blarrghe @sulky-valkyrie @daggerbeanart @exalted-dawn @inquisimer @skinwalkingxana @hollytree33 @oxygenforthewicked @kayjaydraws @alienturnip

no pressure, as always!

#dragon age #cullen rutherford #cullen x trevelyan #cullevelyan #bi cullen #cullen x male trevelyan #connor trevelyan #my art #my wips #boys go 'clank clonk'#smashing together cans of beans from my pantry

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theluckywizard · 1 month

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In the Shattering of Things, Ch. 71: Carnage

Summary: Rose's investigation at the Winter Palace leads her to the servant's quarters and grand apartments where she uncovers a rather full scale Venatori incursion. Fic Summary: Lady Rose Trevelyan's idle, aristocratic life blinks out in a haze of irrelevance when the breach destroys the Conclave. She may be soft and coddled when she joins the Inquisition, but there's a fierceness inside her she's yet to fully recognize. Armed with only a few relevant skills and the mark that makes her a legend, she is thrust onto a path delivering hope where it’s long been scorched away and finds comfort in the grumpy, handsome stick in the mud charged with her protection and training. As she stumbles her way across southern Thedas, she begins to realize she's tangled at the center of machinations she barely understands, and she's not alone in that. Enter Hawke. Excerpt below the cut 👇

Vivienne squares me to her, fussing with my hair, repinning the disheveled strands that have broken free. I’m damp around the edges of my face and my upper lip, a sheen of sweat reflecting the light no doubt. I draw my skirt around me and fasten it under the edges of my bodice. Dorian and Blackwall guard the back entry while we pull ourselves together for the ball once again.

“Leave it to Briala to make such a brazen offer,” Vivienne spits, dabbing a perfume of vanilla and ambrette on one side of my neck.

“Well it’s not as though she offered nothing,” I counter. “We could use elven spies.” And whatever that weapon is.

“Don’t trust a word that crosses that woman’s lips,” she continues. “If instability is what Corypheus seeks then Briala and her elven revolution would certainly fit the bill.”

“Perhaps you resent her because she’s a little bit right,” I remark, with a careful look up at her. “Elves have been denied rights and representation just as often as mages.”

Vivienne’s dark eyes challenge mine, formidable in their intensity, but I don’t back down either. I know I’m right.

“We’ll talk about this tomorrow,” I whisper. “We have leverage. What if I showed them both the locket— What if I could soften their positions toward one another? Wouldn’t they be stronger united?”

Vivienne sidesteps my point with a shake of her head, dabbing the edges of my face with a handkerchief. “This will not do. Not when you haven’t been seen inside for a spell.” She manifests a palm full of ice and blows across it at my face, cooling me. She stands back to inspect me, smoothing a wrinkle in my gown and then begins tying my mask back on. With no further discussion, she opens the door and shoves me out alongside her. The others remain to pack up and stow our gear discreetly.

I fold my hands behind my back and find an elegant, leisurely pace like I’ve just come out of the guest garden and stroll toward back toward the ballroom.

Read the rest here Start the fic here

#In the Shattering of Things #Dragon Age Fan Fiction #Dragon Age Inquisition #Rose Trevelyan #Cullen x Trevelyan #Hawke x Trevelyan #Wicked Eyes Wicked Hearts #cullen rutherford #garrett hawke

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trevelyawn · 2 months

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WIP Wednesday

cullen and gwen meet as children; as recruit and apprentice.

line div credit.

“How long have you been here?” he asked, raising a brow.

“Oh, I don't know. Has winter passed?”

A shocked guffaw escaped his lips and he tilted his head. “And spring. Summer fast approaches.”

She nodded. “A few months, then.” She hesitated and worried her lower lip before she continued. “The journey here took some time but I remember snow falling when I crossed the lake.”

Cullen couldn't quite pinpoint when it had last snowed. Three months had passed since, at the very least. Looking around now, he saw that there was a stark lack of windows. Thinking back to the short tour through the tower, he remembered that there hadn't been any windows until they had reached the third floor and even then, they had been set so high in the stone walls that their only purpose was for sunlight and ventilation. Cullen realised with a sad clarity that his new acquaintance hadn't left the tower in a long time. She hadn't felt the sun's warm rays or felt the cool breeze against her skin.

“Why don't you go outside?” he said quietly, mainly pondering the question to himself. He noticed a wry smile growing and a small dimple took shape at the corner of his companion's mouth.

“You are going to be a Templar?” she deadpanned and Cullen could have sworn that her eyes shimmered with a mischievous quality as she tilted her head and raised a brow.

It didn't occur to Cullen that she hadn't answered his question.

Cullen sat up tall and puffed his chest out, suddenly feeling defensive. “What do you mean by that?”

She hid a smirk behind her hand and she gave a half-shrug. “You seem nice.”

Cullen scoffed and relaxed back into his chair. “I am nice,” he muttered as he crossed his arms. He pouted as he looked away from the girl, forcing his gaze elsewhere so he didn't have to see how she looked even prettier when her face was lit up with glee.

There was a pause before a soft giggle broke the quiet.

“I don't know if you're cut out for the job, recruit,” she teased. “We mages are a wily bunch.” She wiggled her fingers at him and Cullen saw that her nails were bitten short, the cuticles red from where she fidgeted.

He rolled his eyes but returned her humour with a boyish grin. “Oh, certainly. I've never met a more deadly foe,” he joked as he brought a hand to his chest and splayed his fingers in mock surprise.

The mage pressed a hand to her mouth to silence her giggles and Cullen watched in quiet adoration. He knew it was a fleeting fancy, that maybe he just hadn't seen a pretty girl his age in a while, but he found himself saddened by the fact that he wouldn't see her again when he and his group had to return to the monastery. It was probably for the best, though; he doubted that a friendship between a Templar and a mage would be looked upon with approval regardless of how silly that seemed to him now.

“What's your name?” he asked.

She hesitated for a moment and she blinked once; twice. “Gwendolyn,” she replied. “You can call me Gwen. And you?”

Cullen let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding in. A small smile graced his lips. “Cullen. You can call me...” A pause. “...Cullen.” He winced at how silly he sounded but she didn't seem to mind. She let out an amused huff of air but she returned his smile.

#dragon age #dragon age inquisition #trevelyan #cullen x trevelyan #cullen rutherford #cullen x inquisitor #my wips

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newbordeaux · 2 months

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—I assumed that much.

remake of this 🌙

#daedit #dragon age inquisition #cullen rutherford #cullen x inquisitor #cullen x trevelyan #c: aaliyah #x: darling won't you ease my worried mind #so guess who found out that i can port whatever weird format fraps saves in into photoshop <3 #i know this scene has probably been giffed to hell and back and this isnt even flycam. but never with goth women <3 #*edit #*mine #i need to gif the part where shes like would you rather im locked up like a good little mage. thats the most aaliyah thing in this romance #just hatergirl things

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nirikeehan · 2 months

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🔺What kinds of lies does Thalia tell herself about her relationship with Cullen?

Game rules here; ask me an invasive question about Thalia

How badly does she not want to answer this, on a scale of 1-10: probably like. 9.5 lmaooo

Mainly: that because she's with Cullen now she has no more feelings for Blackwall. FALSE. She has a lot of festering, unresolved baggage and attraction there and it's hard to just turn them off.

I think there's also some lingering rosy sentiments about their respective pasts, too. Thalia would like to believe because she dissolved the Mage Circles and allied with the mages all her trauma with the Circle and her relationship to the Templars as an institution is resolved, but it really isn't. And sometimes Cullen acts a little too much like a Templar and it really can trigger her. He's patient about it because he's done far more deconstruction of his trauma than she has, but it's not like there's no issue there. I think it would be healthier for Thalia to face this and they would be able to move forward better.

#ask meme #thalia trevelyan #thalia x cullen #cullen x trevelyan

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katiemakena · 3 months

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#I love them so much #cullen x inquisitor #cullen x trevelyan #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #the inquisitor #inquisitor trevelyan #Adira Trevelyan

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gabumonisbestdigimon · 6 months

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I kinda want to write something around this line I came up with, but I have like four different wips right now.

"Josephine, I have had four people grab my behind, two touch my hair, fifteen ask for a dance, and seven who asked if my wife would share. I would like nothing more than to go home, see my dog, prop my feet up, and wait for the Inquisitor to return."

#dragon age #cullen rutherford #dragon age inquisition #writing wip #cullen x trevelyan #cullen x inquisitor #I have two just for dragon age and a couple fnaf movie wips all about Vanessa

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warpedlegacywrites · 23 days

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Chapter 21: Perfect Storm

Weeks of suffering and turmoil have all built up to this moment, and Theresa and Cullen may have reached a point of no return.

Theresa stands on the precipice, and looks down. Her dreams of late keep returning her to her favourite view from her balcony at Skyhold. Her whole life, circling the same point of reference. As steady an anchor as the Black City that floats on the horizon. She feels it the instant Cullen’s mind enters the Fade. The shift in the flow of thought is unmistakable. Her awareness has been trained on that empty pocket where he normally manifests, perched like a hawk scanning the horizon. Deliberating with herself. The air around her ripples with worry. A slow-building fear has been taking shape in her mind despite her best efforts. Fear that he’s keeping something from her. Fear that she knows what. And that fear turns her thoughts inexorably toward an imprudent notion. Theresa stands on the precipice, and looks down. Down into darkness and decay. Into the festering blackness of Kirkwall laid out below. She shouldn’t. It’s wrong to enter another’s dream without permission. The ultimate transgression. The very thing most feared about Dreamers. Never before has she crossed that threshold, and especially not Cullen’s. Only guarded from the outside with wards, or pulled him into her dream. To protect. To shield. Is that not what she would be doing here? If he won’t tell her the truth of it… She cannot let him linger in pain. If she’s to help him, she has to know. Theresa stands on the precipice, looks down, and takes the leap.

DAFF tag list: @rakshadow, @rosella-writes, @effelants, @bluewren, @breninarthur, @ar-lath-ma-cully, @dreadfutures, @ir0n-angel, @inquisimer, @crackinglamb, @theluckywizard, @nirikeehan, @oxygenforthewicked, @exalted-dawn-drabbles, @melisusthewee, @blarrghe, @agentkatie, @delicatefade, @leggywillow, @about2dance, @plisuu

#my writing #the black city #while time remains #theresa x cullen #cullen x trevelyan #rosalie rutherford #theresa trevelyan #cullen rutherford #feynriel #feynriel x rosalie rutherford #relapse #grief #relationship troubles #trauma #ptsd #this is a heavy one y'all fair warning

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partystoragechest · 3 months

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A story of romance, drama, and politics which neither Trevelyan nor Cullen wish to be in.

Canon divergent fic in which Josephine solves the matter of post-Wicked Hearts attention by inviting four noblewomen to compete for Cullen's affections. In this chapter, Cullen confesses to Trevelyan.

(Masterpost. Beginning. Previous entry. Next entry. Words: 4,093. Rating: all audiences. Warnings: angst.)

Chapter 30: Lesson Two

For the first time in days, the staff of the Undercroft fell silent. Hammers paused mid-strike, machines halted in operation. There was an usurper in their midst.

The click-clack of her heels heralded her entrance; her clothes, royal blue and shimmering gold, made her an object of note. Gliding as if a swan through the eagerly-parting crowd, Lady Josephine Montilyet walked the Undercroft.

And she was heading directly for Trevelyan.

Her arrival, of course, did not go without Trevelyan’s notice—the quieting of the incessant chatter naturally caused her head to raise. The moment she realised who approached, however, she corrected her posture, and tensed her hands.

This couldn’t be good.

“Lady Trevelyan,” Montilyet greeted, “I am glad to see you—it has been some days! You have been working terribly hard, I hear.”

Trevelyan glanced across the workbenches; Dagna hid from her glower.

“Is there something I can help you with, your Ladyship?” she asked.

Montilyet smiled. “To business, then. Yes. I came to inform you that Lady Erridge was to meet with the Commander today, but she has fallen ill. So as not to waste the opportunity, I wondered if you would take her place.”

Trevelyan could hardly muster up the sympathy for Erridge’s sudden sickness—likely some trifling cold, which would seem a plague to a noblewoman’s frail constitution. As for the Commander, his schedule was not her responsibility.

“No,” said Trevelyan. “I am busy. As you well know.”

“All the more reason for you to take a moment’s break.”

“No.”

There was no time for such frivolity. Much work was left to be done before their departure, and, Andraste’s flaming arse, Trevelyan was going to do it. She hoped to ensure at least one good night’s sleep tonight—for she certainly wasn’t to have any on the road.

“Go on!” Dagna piped up, emerging from her hiding place. “We won’t miss you for half an hour, and some fresh mountain air will do you some good. Herzt can handle things, while you’re gone.”

Trevelyan stifled a groan. “I don’t need a break.”

“You sound familiar,” Lady Montilyet commented. “I wonder where I have heard such sentiment before?”

Trevelyan glared at her. She knew exactly to whom Montilyet referred, and she didn’t like the comparison. Not for the man she was being compared to—but for the fact it made her a hypocrite.

“Fine,” she grumbled, humouring their demands largely in the hope that they would cease. “Half an hour at most.”

Lady Montilyet smiled. “That is all I ask. The Commander is already waiting at the stables. You will be riding in the valley.”

Trevelyan closed her eyes, to hide their roll. “Very well.”

Montilyet bid her adieu, and hurried on ahead, to let the Commander know of their little scheme’s success. Trevelyan cleared her desk of its paper-based bedlam, and instructed Herzt on the work she wanted done whilst gone.

“Worry not, your Ladyship, I will complete it,” he told her.

And Trevelyan had no doubt of that! But she would have rather completed it herself.

With a cheery reminder from Dagna to ‘have fun’, Trevelyan saw herself to the door. Finding her way through the hustle and bustle was easy—it was leaving that proved hardest. But with one final, forlorn look back, she summoned the strength to abandon the Undercroft.

To the stables, then. The courtyard was dismal when she arrived, a thick cloud layer having rolled over the valley. Trevelyan scowled at the sky, and continued on her way.

Things were quiet at the market, as she passed through—though at least it made the journey easier. And with no crowd to obscure her vision, it meant that Trevelyan had a perfect view of the stables beyond.

Her eyes first went to the cart by the barn, as it was being loaded with bedrolls and food. When the dawn came the next morning, she would be on that thing, and riding away. She wished she were on it now.

But no, she was not. For now what awaited her instead was a man, and the two horses he stood beside.

The Commander did not notice Trevelyan at first. He was quite occupied, sweetly stroking the muzzle of one of his equine companions. But soon enough, for some reason or other, he turned. Their eyes met, and the most subtle of smiles crossed his jaw.

Trevelyan almost softened at the sight—but, no. Stubbornness overwhelmed. She steeled herself anew.

“Lady Trevelyan,” he greeted, bowing as she approached. “I’m… glad you came. The Ambassador said you were busy.”

“I am,” said Trevelyan, “so let us not linger.”

His smile faltered, but he kept his composure. “All right—but I’m afraid we must wait a moment, the Ambassador sent for your cloak.”

Oh, good, a delay. “Very well.”

The Commander nodded, and pulled on his own. It was of a similar burgundy wool to his usual mantle, but somewhat bulkier, and draped over the arms. Furrier, too. A strap of thick leather secured it over his chest and armour. Terribly officious.

Trevelyan would have commented on it to pass the time, but fortunately enough, her maid Cara soon arrived, travelling cloak in hand. A witness, perfect! Cara could pass news of this encounter back to Ostwick, and thereby lessen the scolding Trevelyan was due for the events of the banquet.

“Well,” said Trevelyan, once dressed, “shall we go?”

The Commander nodded. Stablehands approached with a mounting-block, and assisted Trevelyan onto the chestnut-brown mare provided for her. The Commander rode a dapple-grey, and was rather more confident in the saddle than she. They were fortunate, at least, that her mother had insisted on some training in horseriding back in Ostwick. And that Trevelyan had worn breeches today.

The mounting-blocks were withdrawn, and they turned their horses about.

“I thought we might ride through the valley,” the Commander suggested.

Trevelyan glanced at the mountains surrounding them. “I think there is little choice in the matter.”

The Commander seemed not to pick up on her true meaning, for he agreed, and encouraged his horse on. Trevelyan followed.

There was a respite of silence, as they headed for the gatehouse. The portcullis was raised and ready; Cullen nodded to the soldiers who guarded it. Hoofsteps echoed off the stone, as they rode on through. And when they breached the other side, Trevelyan realised that, for the first time in weeks, she had left the walls of Skyhold.

The light of the valley beyond was harsh and bright, reflected a thousand times from the snow of the surrounding peaks, and the ice of the river below. Strange how much bigger it looked, from here rather than the battlements. And strange how much more frightening, too.

Trevelyan clutched the reins of her horse tight, as they began to journey over the castle’s ancient bridge.

“I wished to ask, if you don’t mind,” the Commander said (though she did), “I haven’t seen you on the battlements since the banquet. I hope I haven’t… deterred you from..?”

“I have been busy since the banquet,” Trevelyan explained, as if he didn’t already know.

“I see. That is a relief.”

Trevelyan offered a smile, forced as it was, and conversation lapsed once more. For a moment, the only sound became that of their steeds, clopping rhythmically across the cobbles. For a moment.

“How goes your work, in the Undercroft?” the Commander asked.

“Oh, we are quite occupied with the preparations for our trip,” Trevelyan dutifully answered. “Indeed, it was going rather well—until I was interrupted.”

She did not mean to sound so harsh—well, she somewhat did—but civility was rather beyond her capacity, right now.

“Forgive me,” the Commander replied, “I thought you might appreciate some time away.”

“Not quite, at the moment.”

“I see… then, I apologise again. I only wished to do for you what you had done for me.”

Trevelyan frustrated herself. She knew how she was acting. But she could not help it. There was so much of misery on her mind that she could not be anything but a miserable person. Yet the Commander looked on her with concern, and she felt all the more foolish for it.

Unable to say anything quite so nice, she chose to keep her mouth shut, and focused instead upon their descent.

The twisting slope that led to the valley was a cautious ride. Though the Inquisition had shored up the path and made it accessible, it was only just so. The horses, fortunately, seemed to take it with ease.

As they reached the bottom, Trevelyan’s gaze drifted back up. The valley, grown from an insect-like village to the full-size military encampment she knew it to be, opened up before them.

“We can ride to the second watchtower, and back,” the Commander said, indicating it upon the mountainside. “It won’t be long.”

Trevelyan nodded, not quite grateful, but at least placated. And so they rode.

The encampment was kept some ways to their right, to afford them privacy in their speech—what little of it they engaged in. Trevelyan thought it might afford them some peace, too, but this intimacy only seemed to encouraged the Commander’s sudden talkativeness, and his prying questions:

“Lady Trevelyan, are you all right?”

“Obviously not,” Trevelyan scoffed in reply, giving him no more explanation than that.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“No. There is nothing you can do.”

For it was already done. She was already here. And as for those other matters, of which she would attend to were she not here, what could she tell him of them? She had been given no lease by Samient nor the Baroness to inform him of what troubled them.

She contemplated whether there might have been a world in which they told him themselves...

“If there is ever anything—”

“I wonder,” said Trevelyan, “why you did not invite one of the other Ladies, instead? The Baroness, perhaps, or Lady Samient.”

Though she knew them to have no interest in him—he did not. And unlike her, he knew them not to be busy. She considered, if he had invited them instead, whether he would have gone to the effort of facilitating such a ride through the valley. Perhaps it was merely an excuse, to survey his troops.

“I have already seen them this week,” the Commander answered, adding quietly: “and I wanted to see you.”

Trevelyan could not understand this fascination with her in particular. Was he really so short of friendship, that he latched upon the first kindness shown to him? And if that were the case, why then did he ignore the other Ladies—unless they were, somehow, relentlessly wicked to him every time she looked away?

“Tell me,” he murmured, “given how busy you are, you still agreed to come here. May I ask… why that was?”

Trevelyan spoke truthfully: “Lady Montilyet insisted. And it was easier to acquiesce to her request, than to continue attempting to refuse it.”

The Commander shifted in his saddle. “...I see.”

What did he expect? She was not going to lie to protect his feelings. Besides, claiming that she had truly wished to be here would ring rather hollow, she thought, given her many protestations about the fact so far.

Though he looked solemn in the light of this answer, she could hardly find it within her to pity him. Was this not how he had treated her and the other Ladies, in the beginning? Pure reluctance, even abhorrence, of them all? Woe was he, for having a quarter back of what grace he had shown them.

“Perhaps you will tell me something in exchange,” Trevelyan muttered. “Why did you invite the Ladies to Skyhold? You have admitted to me previously that you do not find much interest in them, so I wonder—why bother dragging them to this isolated place, only to ignore them?”

The Commander glanced at her, then returned his focus to the valley ahead. “Lady Montilyet insisted,” came his answer.

Trevelyan scoffed. “And does the Commander of all of Skyhold have no power to overrule the Ambassador?”

“You know her as well as I do.”

“No, I do not. And while I am a mere guest here, you march armies across Thedas. Am I really expected to believe that you cannot tell her no?”

The Commander met her stare. “Not when she had already sent out invitations.”

Trevelyan finally softened. “What?”

“When I learnt that she had invited you all to Skyhold,” he explained, “you were all already on your way.”

And thus, his churlish attitude was accounted for. Hard to be civil to those who have been thrust into your company by force. Still—it needn’t have been this way.

“You couldn’t have told us this, when we first arrived?” Trevelyan murmured. “Instead of treating us with derision, you couldn’t have simply confessed that this was not your plan, not your scheme?” She searched his face, for some kind of answer. “You could have saved us, from making fools of ourselves.”

The Commander grew quiet, and shook his head. “I had no choice.”

That explained his anger, after the gala. Looking back on it now, it did seem ever-so-similar to that which Trevelyan had experienced, upon meeting each of the suitors her parents presented her with. Knowing this, she could hardly blame him for lashing out—she had done much the same, several times over.

Yet there was one difference, between the arguments she had with her parents, and the one he had with Lady Montilyet. One important difference.

“You agreed to it…”

She looked to the Commander. A shot of panic crossed his face, before it was quelled.

“What?”

Trevelyan pulled her horse to a halt. Her breath quickened, her heart thudded. That was what Lady Montilyet had said, was it not?

“You agreed to it!” she repeated. “After the gala, I heard your argument. When you walked away, Lady Montilyet said you had agreed to it.”

He shook his head. “I don’t… recall…”

“Do not lie to me, please!” Tears stung at her eyes. This couldn’t be happening. “You agreed to it. Why did you agree to it?”

“I had no choice,” the Commander pleaded, riding closer, “I—there is…”

“What? What is the explanation? What could it possibly be?”

He paused.

“Tell me!”

The Commander met her gaze. And he told her:

“Ever since the Winter Palace, I have received endless correspondence from Orlesian nobles. Proposals, requests, inquiries. I have tried ignoring them, and I have tried refusing them. To no avail.” He breathed deep, clenched his reins, and continued: “Josephine told me that this would make it stop. That if you all saw the truth of who I am, the allure would be lost. You would all return home, spread word of how undesirable and how ineligible I am, and it would finally stop. It would finally stop.”

Trevelyan bade her horse to back away. Mountains towered overhead, an intimidating audience to their spectacle. The cracking of ice could be heard somewhere along the river, a cackle of the crowd.

All of it was intended. The misapprehension, the mistreatment—it had been done with purpose. It was not some symptom of his being surprised by their arrival. He meant it.

Every moment he had known her had been entirely against his will. Every attention he had paid to her was in service of his own machinations. Lady Whoever of Ostwick. That was who she was. That was who she had always been, to him.

And that was who the Ladies were, too. Nothing and no one. He saw them as titles, not people. Those wonderful, beautiful, brilliant women.

How dare he.

“You used them.”

“You don’t understand—”

“No!” she spat, through tears. “I understand perfectly, Commander. I know what it is like, to have suitors sniffing around you. I know that pain; I know that discomfort. But I cannot ever imagine doing what you have done, to be rid of it—”

“Trevelyan—”

She shook her head. “You sacrificed the happiness of four women, four innocent women. They have been nothing but kind to you. By Andraste—it all makes sense, your keen disinterest in them! How you could not even make friends of them—because your intent was always to treat them like dirt and drive them away!”

The realisation of this seemed to dawn upon his face. It fell, further and further, as she continued:

“I pity them. They are such breathtaking, awe-inspiring, magnificent women. How I wish we could have left, as you so desired. Yet I have no choice but to remain here, pursuing a falsehood. How I wish I had that choice to leave—because I cannot stand the sight of you now!”

She turned her horse, tried to ride away. But he followed.

“Lady Trevelyan, I—”

“You know,” she interrupted, “they have been so good and kind to me. I wonder—no, I know—if you had just told them the truth, they would have gone along with your scheme. They would have told all of Thedas how undesirable you were! Well, they shall now. You have what you wanted, Commander. We shall all despise you, and tell your suitors what an unplesant, unfeeling man you are, capable of such cruelty and deceit!” She looked to him, and said at last: “I hope you are pleased.”

He could give no reply; she kicked her horse into a gallop, and began to ride.

The tents of the encampment moved past as a blur. She heard only a distant call of her name, no more. All of her skill in riding she mustered, to race back to the looming figure of Skyhold.

Up its slope she hurried, horse beneath her grunting with the effort. A glance behind to check she was not followed—but no sign of him.

Across the bridge then, into the waiting maw of the gatehouse. Guards alerted as she shot past, curious of what had happened to return her so soon, and alone. She offered no response—once within the walls and safety of Skyhold’s courtyard, she dropped from the horse, and took off running.

The race to her room happened in a haze. Her feet honed on it without thought, and before she even knew where she was going, she was within it.

With a jerk of her hand, the door slammed itself shut. She stumbled to her bed, and sank down beside it, sobbing into her palms.

She was a fool to ever allow herself to believe that this would be different. That for once, she might truly belong somewhere. But she did not. She was here to be a means to an end, nothing more. To be abandoned, once her usefulness was exhausted.

Whispers in her mind promised her the opposite. They would never leave her. They would never treat her like this.

Through tears she glimpsed, in her periphery, the fuzzy approximation of a pretty blue leather-bound book. It lay where she’d left it, where she always left it, upon her nightstand. Her constant companion, all through the nights. A worthless piece of—

Burn it.

Trevelyan snatched up the tome, and rushed it to the nearest candelabra. The wick flared into a fire on her approach, unnaturally large, gaping and welcoming of the sacrifice she had brought. Trevelyan held the book aloft, prepared to feed it to the flames—

“Lady Trevelyan!” came Lady Erridge’s voice, from the doorway.

Trevelyan’s arm buckled. Her body collapsed entirely. She fell to the floor, book tumbling from her hand, tears streaming from her eyes.

“Baroness, Lady Samient!” Erridge cried into the hall, before hurrying inside the room. She landed beside Trevelyan, and without hesitation, pulled her into her arms. Voice as soft as the embrace, Erridge whispered: “It’s all right, Lady Trevelyan. You’re safe with me. It’s all right.”

Trevelyan pressed her face into Lady Erridge’s neck, hard enough to push the foul whispers from her mind. She listened instead to the assurances Erridge gave, and the sounds of the other Ladies, as they entered.

“You found her?” said Samient.

“Oh, dear,” breathed Touledy.

Her cane tapped closer. There was a woosh, like a strike, then the clattering of a candlestick to the ground. Flame perished beneath a boot.

Trevelyan lifted her head, tear-streaked visage now visible to them all, and all visible to her. Each one of their faces shared the same concern.

“Are you all right?” Samient asked, taking one of Trevelyan’s limp hands, and rubbing it in circles. “One of the maids said you came running in, distraught.”

It pained Trevelyan to know her distress had been seen. Her only reply was a shake of the head.

“What happened with the Commander?” the Baroness whispered. She could not kneel like the others, but stood as close as she could come. “He did not reject you—?”

“No,” said Trevelyan, finding the words. “It’s not… not that.”

Erridge squeezed her gently, and patted her back. “You take your time. Just breathe.”

Trevelyan did as instructed. Breaths in, and breaths out. Hard, at first, but over time, her tears slowed. How was she to explain all of this?

“The Commander admitted something to me,” she told them, voice trembling still. “He confessed he never had any intention to entertain our affections, nor give any himself. His intent was always to ignore and demean us. He has many suitors amongst the Orlesian nobility, whom he wished to deter by making us his martyrs. We have been nothing more than pawns, in his own wicked game.”

“Bastard,” Samient hissed, to the other Ladies’ agreement. “It isn’t as if I had much care for him myself, but I don’t think that matters.”

“It absolutely does not!” said Erridge. “What a cruel thing to do, whether someone holds affection for you or not! People are not puppets—and he is far too old to be playing with them anyway!”

The Baroness laughed. “Of course,” she muttered. “We should have known.”

“I almost did,” admitted Trevelyan. The Ladies looked to her; she shied away. However appropriate their displeasure, it did nothing to reassure her—because she was quite deserving of it herself.

“During the gala, I overheard an argument between himself and Lady Montilyet,” she explained. “He spoke ill of us, misremembered our names. It is why I gave up on him the very next morning. I am sorry, truly, I am—I should have shared it with you at the time, but I, I did not wish to cause you hurt by speaking of it.”

She expected anger from the Ladies. Betrayal, perhaps. But their expressions were that of curiosity. On their behalf, the Baroness spoke up:

“Tell me one thing,” she asked, “why did you then try to assist us with romancing him?”

Trevelyan laughed weakly, at her own foolishness. “I thought by showing him how wonderful you were, he might change his mind. You are such lovely people and—you, you deserve none of this!”

She crumpled into crying again, but Erridge held her firm. “Don’t you worry. You were trying to be kind. We quite understand.”

“And it is not as if he did not make his disgust known,” Samient added.

The Baroness smiled. “We have all concealed the truth from one another at some point—”

“Not I!” said Erridge.

“Except for Lady Erridge. But to judge you for such a small omission would be entirely hypocritical, on my part, at least. So I believe instead I shall say, that all is forgiven.”

Trevelyan managed a smile. Truly, they were as sweet and generous as she claimed them to be. She regretted no ounce of herself that she had put into aiding them, for they now gave it all back tenfold.

“Come, stand!” ordered Lady Erridge. “We must all hug you, and I wouldn’t have the Baroness be left out.”

Trevelyan nodded. With the help of Erridge and Samient, she rose to her feet. The Ladies surrounded her, and enveloped her in their embrace. A peaceful kind of warmth came over her, and Trevelyan did her best to hug them back.

“I just do not understand it,” she said as they parted, her eyes finally drying, “you are all so perfect. I cannot comprehend why Lady Montilyet would—”

She stopped herself. For the first time in days, her mind sharpened into focus.

“What is it?” Samient asked.

Trevelyan’s voice turned cold: “I need to speak to Lady Montilyet.”

#unwanted #unwanted fic #cullen rutherford #commander cullen #cullen x trevelyan #i've waited so long to write this one

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rom-e-o · 6 months

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☆Selfish of Me☆ (Cullen Rutherford/Inquisitor Trevelyan)

"The Commander of the Inquisition and the Herald of Andraste. That will get people talking."

An interpretation of The SceneTM. PG-13 and non-explicit.

He noticed her staring immediately.

General Cullen Stanton Rutherford glanced up from his strategy meeting with the new recruits to glimpse up and see who else but Inquisitor Trevelyan watching him from the shadow of the back wall.

The stare of her cinnamon eyes was incredibly distracting, enough for him to stumble over his words the moment he noticed her.

Life was too shirt, he thought, and he heaved a sigh.

"That will be all," he said.

"Yes, sir!" an underling saluted. The officer turned to the orders and nodded for them to take their leave. The soldiers collectively spun 180-degrees and marched toward the door unison.

Cullen didn't hesitate to close the door to its entirety, placing his palms firmly against the wooden pane as his head drooped with fatigue.

"There's always something more, isn't there?" He sighed, not yet removing his stance against the door as he gave his body a moment to rest.

Inquisitor Camilla Trevelyan eyed him from her post, her smile small but sad. She agreed with him, in many ways. It was impossible to escape the flood of work within the stone walls of Skyhold.

"Wishing we were somewhere else?" she asked fondly, laying a hand upon his shoulder with tender compassion.

"Always," Cullen murmured after a long pause, unable to resist the touch of her fingers against his back. It was simple - a gesture he saw as quite chaste, yet despite that, he savored it far more than he should have.

"Someplace far enough from the politics, the constant threats, the stress. Somewhere we could just... be."

Camilla nodded softly. The mage edged closer, desiring to close the space between them, especially now that they were alone.

"Do you...ever picture what such a place would be like?" she asked with soft, yet genuine interest. "What do you picture when you think of it?"

The blond man allowed his eyes to fall shut again, and he took an intentional yet deep breath.

"A cottage," he finally whispered. "An overlook on the sea, somewhere not too far from civilization but far away enough to find peace."

Cullen's eyes remained closed, his vision filling with the mental image of a picture in his mind.

"An ocean-breeze in the windows when I waken, fresh air and the smell of pines through the trees. A day spent fishing, gathering food to cook. My family would be nearby, perhaps a day's trip. My sister, Mia, would

He opened his eyes. "It sounds silly, doesn't it?"

"Not at all," Camilla said. "It sounds ... wonderful. Dream-like."

After a beat of silence, Camilla peered up at him from beneath her dark mahogany lashes. "When you picture that scene, am I ... there with you?"

This honor and integrity as a general and devout follower of Andraste would not allow him to hesitate when giving his answer.

"In fact, you're the only one I can imagine in it."

Cullen felt his face flush as he met her gaze. "Is that... is that so strange?"

"No," Camilla answered, perhaps too quickly. "It's not strange at all. Not to me."

Her reply made him puff his chest in excitement. There was no mistaking it, then. The quiet tension he'd felt the past months since arriving at Skyhold could not be denied - there was far more to their relationship than a duty or respect for one another's authority.

Camilla allowed herself to grin. After checking to make sure the door was locked, she drifted forward and laid a hand on his heart.

"Once this is all over, once the Inquisition accomplishes its goals and we seal the breach, I ... want to get away. To go somewhere. To escape prying eyes."

She tightened her grip slightly.

In fact, if...you wouldn't mind me joining you, I'd be incredibly honored."

Cullen's mind struggled to formulate the words, yet he didn't feel the need for any grand gestures. A simple statement would do.

"That... that is also what I want." His eyes shifted to meet hers. "Can I ask you something?"

He paused, awaiting her answer, before whispering, "Do you believe in fate?"

The mage shut her eyes and pondered the question.

"I...do," she finally answered.

A warm laughter, like summer thunder, rumbled in his chest. She felt its vibrations through her fingertips. "You sound so certain."

"When I was little, I don't think I did. I didn't like the idea that I couldn't master my destiny. I hated the idea of being resigned to a life I never wanted. But, after everything that's happened, I...want to believe in it."

She paused, her brown hair changing shades in the flickering firelight. Mahogany once second, walnut the next.

"I think fate must be real, at least in some capacity," she answered.

"I think we can choose our destiny, to some extent," Cullen whispered, glancing down at Camilla's hand laid against his chest. "Yet sometimes... no matter how hard we try, our choices might not be ours to make."

He met her gaze again with a smile. "But, I truly mean this... whatever choice we make, I hope we face it together. Whatever fate has in store for us, I want to experience it with you by my side."

Camilla was still, her hands still resting on the man's broad, armored chest.

"It'll be dangerous, Cullen," she said softly, as if she didn't want to speak the words into existence.

"I think we're past that, don't you think?" he asked, daring to smile even as she glanced up at him, eyes brimming with concern. Not corner for herself, but concern for him.

"My status as Inquisitor, the mark on my hand...we don't know what the future holds," she said, "I used to not care if I perished as the leader of the Inquisition. Now..."

She looked up into his amber eyes, seeking solace. "I don't want to leave you. Is...that selfish of me?"

"It is certainly not," Cullen said, reaching a hand up and laying it over hers. "You deserve happiness after everything you've done for this world."

He lifted his other hand as well, gently taking her face in his, looking deep into her eyes. His voice was as quiet as the first time they spoke, yet there was no denying its intensity.

"I don't want to leave you, either," he murmured, leaning closer. "Camilla..."

"Cullen."

She spoke his name only once before leaning forward, matching his movements.

A second later, she shut her eyes and pressed a kiss to his lips.

Their lips didn't linger for long - less than a second passed and then they parted. Cullen's eyes fluttered open, his gaze falling to Camilla's hands still clasped around his chest. His breathing had grown heavier, a hand resting against the nape of her neck as the tension had become tangible between them.

His mind wondered to places he shouldn't have, yet he was unable to stop it from happening. His heart fluttered inside his chest, beating fast, almost painfully so. A warm sensation filled his cheeks as a warm heat passed between them.

Noticing the way Cullen's eyes fluttered open and his breath quickened, she smiled to herself. His reaction pleased her.

"Was...that alright of me to do?" she asked.

It was a small gesture, yet, he couldn't quite explain it. It felt more than just a kiss, more of an unspoken connection and a hope for what could be.

"I should certainly say so," she said, his smirk and tone impish. "Although it was ... a bit brief, don't you think?"

Watching how his eyes licked over her form made her own heart flutter in her chest.

"You know, I think you're right. That...last kiss was a bit of a blur to me," she said teasingly, hands rising to cup his face. "May I do it again?"

"I can think of nothing else I'd rather have you do," Cullen murmured, placing his hand atop hers before they made contact once more. Her touch was light; she was soft against him, and she always felt like silk.

Camilla obliged, leaning in and angling her face to kiss him fully.

Gods, his lips felt perfect. Warm, soft, and the scratch of his stubble against her cheek was euphoric. All the times she had dreamed of him before and after their first kiss on the battlements, she felt felt the delightful scratch of his stubble or the cold burn of his armor against her bare skin in her dreams.

In this moment, she was dizzy with glee to feel his body beneath the layers of leather armor, and wished suddenly that there were no layers of clothing to separate them.

After giving his lips a playful nip, she back away slowly, her eyes glazed and dreamy.

Cullen's hands grasped at the back of her head, his fingers digging into her dark hair when she bit his lower lip. His breath hitched, his eyes fluttering shut as she backed away. With it came a rush of emotions - a blend of desire and something else he couldn't quite define.

The second they parted, he felt her hands grip his biceps and squeeze them.

"Cullen...can we...?"

She flicked her gaze toward his desk, watching his eyes glow bright with realization of what she wanted.

The general couldn't oblige fast enough, and thankfully, his lover had already latched the door.

#dragon age inquisition #cullen rutherford #dai #da inquisition #cullen x trevelyan

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