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partystoragechest · 15 days ago

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A story of romance, politics, and drama, which continues ever on.

Supplemental material for Unwanted. In this post-script, Skyhold celebrates Satinalia.

(Masterpost. Beginning. Words: 4,941. Rating: all audiences. Warnings: alcohol mention, alcohol consumption - HOWEVER you can interpret the ambiguous drink at the end as spiced mead OR a nice sbiten.)

Bonus Chapter: Feastday

Satinalia at Skyhold was quite different to how the Circle always did it. While, yes, the Templars were allowed to laugh for once, and the food was slightly better than the usual fare, the most precious moments of Ostwick’s Feastday were those of dim candlelight and whispered conversation. Within the privacy of the mages’ dormitories, modest gifts were exchanged. Inexpensive trinkets, handmade goods, hard-to-obtain items. Nothing so loud or extravagant.

Then again, they did have an annual game with the Templars in which they would try to keep Knight-Captain Poller’s helmet hidden until midnight, by which time it had to be secretly returned to his room. If you were caught with it at any point, you lost. Trevelyan once hid it in the stores, between a box of empty vials and a broken crate. Undetectable.

Though Skyhold was more raucous than even that. Practically Antivan, in that the entire week prior was buzzing with both anticipation and preparation!

Trevelyan herself had been quite hard at work, sourcing the perfect gifts for her friends. An enchanted quill for Josephine (able to retain ink for far longer than a standard quill!), a draught of Fereldan beer for Dorian—delivered in secret, to maintain his precious reputation—and, of course, all the presents for the Ladies.

For Lady Erridge, Trevelyan had purchased a couple of pleasantly simple cookbooks as an endorsement of her kitchen pursuits—as well as a romance novel, in which the love interest was a baker, to serve as inspiration. In return, she received pretty silk handkerchiefs, monogrammed with Erridge’s delicate embroidery, and some hand-made flower paper, which was far too nice to ever be written on.

To Giles, Trevelyan had sent two little chess pieces—an emperor and an empress—carved by Blackwall to resemble everything Trevelyan could describe of Giles and Vichy. Despite the odds, they turned out far better than expected, and bore some genuine resemblance to their namesakes. Giles was quite pleased, and sent back a trio of finger-woven bracelets—one for each Lady—plaited with threads of pink, purple, black, and blue. Something to keep them all woven together.

The Baroness had been the trickiest recipient. The woman wanted for nothing—which is why Trevelyan turned her focus instead to Thallia. Books and materials of magical interest were sent, and had reportedly been received with great enthusiasm! So the Baroness, quite naturally, spared no expense in repaying the favour.

The package arrived on Feastday itself, swaddled in dainty, coloured paper, and tied together with a perfect bow. Trevelyan eagerly tore it open, to reveal a fabric beneath—boiled wool, soft as the clouds, in an elegant shade of muted blue. It was a dress, with long sleeves and a flared skirt—somewhat understated in its beauty, but made with elegant practicality, for the winter months.

The note with which it came offered some explanation as to the bestowal of such a treasure: the Baroness had thought Trevelyan in need of something to wear that was perhaps not of her parents’ choosing. And she was, as always, quite right, for Trevelyan already had an event in mind: the feast of Skyhold.

This feast was to be held in the Great Hall—as well as the tavern, and the armoury, and anywhere they could comfortably fit a table, really. Though the Undercroft had been suggested as a location and the idea of lyrium-enchanted cutlery floated, Josephine had been swift to tell Dagna ‘no’, and that the Undercroft staff would be dining in the hall with the rest of them.

Thus, Trevelyan arrived, to find the hall decorated as beautifully as her own self. Banners were unfurled, candles lit, tables set. Branches of fir and pine adorned the walls, scattered with colorful ribbons. Their vibrancy was shared by the guests, many of whom sported fantastical masks. Not the Orlesian kind—these were far stranger, and sillier, and more joyous.

Among them, her dear Cullen stuck out like a sore thumb. Maskless and muted in colour, she caught sight of him, mingling amongst the circus-like troupe of their friends. Yet, the merriment of the day could not long be kept from his face—as he saw her enter, and began to smile.

“Trevelyan,” he greeted, reaching for her hand out of habit, “you are… beautiful.” He pressed a kiss to her curled fingers, and she left hers upon his cheek.

“Thank you,” she said. “As are you.”

“Your dress… I don’t believe I’ve seen it before?”

“Oh, yes—it’s new!” She performed a little twirl, so that he might see her skirt flutter and flare. “Clarisse sent it, as a gift. I thought it was perfect for the banquet.”

“Oh. Have you had many gifts?”

“A few, yes, though far more than I am used to! Oh, you should see it later—it’s in my quarters, and I’m yet to hang it, but—Josephine commissioned a portrait of the Ladies and I together!”

Rather ingeniously, too. To avoid the need for a sitting—given one was quite impossible—she utilised the pictures of the Ladies that had been sent to her whilst she was scouting for suitors. It was not easy by any means, but the artist had created the most lifelike resemblances, even from such meagre reference.

“And Dagna’s gift, Maker… she’s procured a telescope, for the mages’ tower!” Though technically requisitioned for the mages as a whole, Dagna made it clear of whom she thought and intended it for. “When the sun sets, if the skies are clear, I would adore for you to come with me and peer through it.”

“Of course,” said Cullen, “I would be glad to.”

Trevelyan ought to have been happy with such an answer—but the way he said it, it sounded so dour. And the little droop, at the corner of his brows. Something was wrong.

Had she to guess, she would say it was envy. They had agreed some weeks ago not to get one another gifts this day. He himself was plenty and enough—she had no need of material proof of his devotion. But she knew him, and his tendencies. To see others bestow her with such tributes and to give none himself would tug at him, no doubt (despite her asking a thousand times if there was issue with the agreement, and him repeatedly saying no).

Trevelyan cupped his cheek, and watched the smile return to his face. “I’ll be severely disappointed if we do not spend at least the evening together, Cullen,” she warned him, before withdrawing her hand, and sighing. “It is a shame I shan’t be sat with you.”

He looked out across the hall. Though there was a perfectly sizeable table for at least twenty by the dais, it was reserved for none but the Inquisitor’s innermost circle. “I know,” he muttered, reluctant for their hands to part. “But I won’t be far.”

“Everyone!” came a call, from the Inquisitor’s sacred table. Josephine stood before it, hands clasped together. “Please, make your way to your seats, so that our ‘Inquisitor’ may say a few words.”

There was a certain eagerness with which the gathered guests went about following this instruction—for they knew what was to come next. As was Feastday tradition, a fool had been named ruler for the day. Given Skyhold had no true ruler—but it did have an Inquisitor—it came to be that the chosen one was named as the Inquisition’s new (and temporary) leader.

The temporariness was certainly a boon, given the role had been granted to none other than Sera. Sat with her feet up on the table (for no one could tell her otherwise, today) she groaned as Josephine prompted her to speak. This grumpiness was not borne of nothing: several of her inquistorial decrees had already been denied. One, involving the nobles working the kitchen all day and serving the staff of the castle, was shot down quite swiftly by Josephine, with the Inquisitor pointing out that, ‘there is a limit to my power, Sera’.

Thus, she got up with a grumble and the sticking out of her tongue, and addressed the congregation—in the haughtiest, highest faux-noble voice possible:

“Ladies and whatevers, today one may do whichsoever shit one pleases! Use whatever fork, wear any shit you like, and be as loud as you want, or else we shall dunk your feet in pig slop!” She dropped the act, and with her usual brusqueness, shouted: “Now shut up and eat!”

Applause went up, cheers and whoops amongst the din. Cutlery banged against wood with childish enthusiasm, and tankards crashed into each other as toasts were made, to the new—and already quite beloved—Inquisitor. Bull leant over specially, to knock his drink against Sera’s, as she plonked back into her seat.

Chuckling politely, Josephine thanked her, and shared in her sentiments: “Well, I suppose we must do as our Inquisitor says! Please, friends—do ‘shut up’ and eat!”

She descended onto her own seat, as the room descended into cacophonous chatter. Yet the latter was cut short, as Josephine’s arse hit the cushion, and unleashed an almighty parping sound—which echoed to the very rafters.

All looked to her in the silence that followed, as she scrambled to her feet, and ripped away the offending cushion. Aghast, she held aloft that which had been hidden beneath it: a (now deflated) pig’s bladder. The giggles spreading across her table infected the room entirely, and all erupted into uproarious laughter. Yet, there were none so uproarious as Sera herself—whose reaction had her confidently identified as the culprit.

Though most reasonably expected her to scold, Josephine smiled, and shook her head. “It seems Feastday has truly begun!” she joked, to the applause of the attendees—who took the mirth of the moment, and went about their meals with giddiness and grins.

The Undercroft table was an exemplar of this spiritedness. Over bites of beef, and with toasts to health and happiness, gifts were exchanged and jokes were played. Trevelyan herself had agreed with Herzt that, instead of presents—which Herzt had declared no real want for—they would prank one another instead.

To this end, she presented him with a teensy, thin, and shoddily-wrapped parcel. Dagna, sat across from them, took an interest in it, as Herzt peeled away the paper with a practically fawning amount of care, laying it in an organised pile beside his plate. But, once he was done, he held up to the light its former contents: a small, fine-toothed comb.

“For all your bountiful hair,” teased Trevelyan, of the decidedly clean-shaven and hairless Herzt. Dagna snorted.

“Ah,” said Herzt, with a nod of approval. “Well done, Arcanist. That is, indeed, an illogical gift.”

“Why, thank you! I should hope yours is equally as terrible.”

Herzt revealed a single leaf of vellum, and handed it to her. “Here, Arcanist.”

Oh, an interesting move. Trevelyan pored over the writing upon it. It read as if a report on the efficiency of the Undercroft in its red lyrium investigations, but she was sure there would be something erroneous within it. Yet she read it three times as he watched, and found nothing except his typical calibre of infallible accuracy.

With a grin, Dagna asked, “Is the joke that you’re making her work her day off?”

Herzt shook his head. “No. Look, Arcanist.” He pointed to the date, written at the head of the report. “It is dated incorrectly. It says 8:42 Dragon, instead of 9:42.”

Trevelyan chuckled. “It seems the joke is on my abilities of observation!”

“Yes, Arcanist, you should have noticed it.”

“I fear this is why I need your assistance, Herzt,” she told him. “I am only half as useful without you.”

“Do not worry. I shall serve with you as long as I am required,” Herzt replied.

Trevelyan smiled. She folded up the little report, and tucked it aside, to be kept safe. “Forever, then?”

“If it be so.”

Warmed by the notion, Trevelyan returned to her meal. Dagna, it appeared, had done the same—and thus, it was through a mouthful of potato that she said (with worrying enthusiasm), “Next time, we should prank each other!”

Trevelyan laughed. “I dread to think the sort of joke you’d play on me! Will you enchant my clothes with a fluorescent glow, or shall you send my room to the Fade?”

Dagna’s eyes lit up. “Don’t give me ideas! What would you do to me?”

“Hm…” Trevelyan regarded her for a moment, and found the perfect answer. “Give you soap and a cloth.”

“Hey!” Dagna scoffed. “I made sure to clean myself up specially. I won’t let down the Undercroft.”

Trevelyan stuck her fork towards a charcoal-like smear upon Dagna’s neck. “Then what’s that?”

Dagna snatched up a napkin and wiped at the stain—only rubbing it further into her skin. “Well, I might have tried out the new forging mask you got me. In my defence, it fits great! Much comfier than the last one.”

“And much less likely to fall apart at a moment’s notice,” Trevelyan said, recalling how much the previous mask had deteriorated. The leather strap alone had been worn down to a ribbon! Though, such was the intensity of their work. “I’m glad it suits you. What did you test it on?”

That was all the prompting Dagna needed to launch into a detailed description of her latest experiment. Trevelyan and Herzt listened intently, as cups were refilled, and desserts brought. They chattered away until the feast’s end—and Josephine rose to announce that the dancing would finally begin.

But as the feastgoers’ feet hit the floor, they noticed something upon it. Shadows, rippling through the beams of low winter light which streamed from every window. All eyes swung towards the panes—and saw beyond them the remarkable wonder of fresh, falling snow.

“To shit with dancing!” Sera commanded. “We’re off outside!”

This order brooked no objection. The people of Skyhold spilled out into the courtyard. Not just those of the hall; crowds poured from the armoury, the tavern, the towers, and the walls. One might think them mad—for, living in the Frostbacks, they ought to have seen their fair share of snow. But one of the quirks of Skyhold’s warded climate was that it never really snowed. Blizzards came and battered against the buttresses, but the furthest they could breach into the castle was no further than the battlements. Yet, now, to the amazement of all—snow fell in Skyhold.

It did not take long for the games to begin. Children were first to play, quite naturally—but the adults soon followed. Sera shoved snow down the back of Blackwall’s shirt and was chased for it, retaliatory snowball in hand. Krem announced that they ought to use Bull’s ‘tits’ as target practice, while Cassandra landed a shot square on Varric’s exposed chest. It was not long before the entire castle had commenced warfare, in the form of a snowball fight.

Trevelyan skirted the fray, hoping to spot Cullen among the throng. No luck. Flying snow criss-crossed her vision, and made it difficult to pick even the brightly-dressed amongst them out of the mayhem!

So she was fortunate, then, that Dorian announced his presence.

“Arcanist!” he called, drawing her gaze—which quickly snapped to the snowball in his hand. Her eyes flared.

“Dorian, no!”

Too late. The ball was soaring towards her. Trevelyan stumbled out of the way, fortunate that Dorian, unaided by the customary assistance of his magical abilities, was not so skilled with his aim.

“Dorian, don’t! You’ll ruin my dress!”

“It’s you who chose to wear it to this nonsense!”

His cackle heralded the throw of another snowball. Trevelyan broke into a run, fleeing from the battleground. Dorian made an attempt to pursue her, but gave up as she reached the defensible battlement stairs—and as a heroic Varric sent a snowball shattering against his back.

Trevelyan escaped, to the safety of Cullen’s tower. She expected to find it as if a fortress of old—steadfast, yet unoccupied—but noticed, as she neared, a hint of movement beyond the window. Curious, and forming a theory, she pushed open the door.

And she was quite correct. Inside—stood behind his desk, shuffling about his papers—was Cullen. Maker knows how he always got back here so fast, but there was a determination within him to work, which manifested as a kind of magnetism ever towards this damned office.

“Cullen?”

He startled upon noticing her entry into his sanctum of self-sabotage. “Trevelyan! I thought you were with the others.”

“I was, until they launched an attack. I came here for safety. Can I assume the same of you”—she tipped her head towards his reports—“or are you, perhaps, here for another reason?”

“Well, everyone was distracted,” he muttered, “so I thought I might be able to do some work.”

“Cullen…”

He shook his head. “I know what you wish to say. But, though we may be at rest, celebrating—our enemies do not do the same.”

“As if we needed any more proof that they are truly evil.”

Though he smiled, it appeared her humour was not distraction enough, and his eyes wandered back to his desk. Trevelyan rolled hers, and came to his side.

“Walk with me in the snow,” she said, snaking her hands around his arm, and squeezing it tight. “Just for a moment.”

Her touch made him falter in an instant. He could not help the grin which appeared on his face, she could quite tell. He abandoned his papers, and took her hand instead. “All right.”

Well-pleased—with him, and certainly with herself—Trevelyan led him from the room. Though the cold bit as soon as the door was opened and they stepped out onto the bridge beyond, he remained by her side, his warmth more than enough to stave off the chill.

Chaos yet reigned beneath them, the delights of Feastday ever-heightened by the snowfall. It was a few inches deep, now—plenty for restocking one’s ammunition. Trevelyan watched, as Dagna struck the Quartermaster with a deeply-satisfying snowball to the face, and laughed. Even Cullen cracked a smile at the sight.

“It reminds me of winters in Honnleath,” he said. “Playing like this was certainly one way to keep warm.”

Trevelyan settled against the parapet, and welcomed his presence beside her. “Mm. I remember winters like this, too.”

“In Ostwick?”

“Yes—not the Circle, my parents’ house. The first Feastday I can recall, it snowed. We all went outside and played in the snow. Oh, we made such terrible sculptures from it. It is the only time I remember truly feeling like we were a family. No one scowling at me, or telling me what to do.” She sighed. “For that brief moment.”

And yet, it was not the only Feastday that she could recall.

“The next year, I was at the Circle, and it snowed, just like the year before. The Templars let all the young mages go into the courtyard and play. It reminded me of that day, playing with my family. It was the first time at the Circle when I thought, perhaps, everything might be all right…”

Cullen’s hand—stroking along her back—shifted to her side, and drew her closer. “I wonder,” he muttered, kissing her temple, “if you might have had something to do with this snowfall?”

Trevelyan smiled. “We are simply lucky,” she said, before adding, “that Solas wasn’t here to scold me for meddling with the wards. He’d have noticed days ago.”

“How long will it last?”

“Just for today.” She nestled into his form. “Though I must admit, I feel the chill more keenly than when I was a child. Perhaps I had a stronger constitution, then.”

“Or you were too busy playing to notice,” he said, wrapping his arms around her. “I… may have something that could help, if—if you’d like.”

“Please.”

Cullen released her, and she cursed the loss of his protection against the tender sting of the cold. But he told her to wait, and that he would only be a moment. Whatever it was, it was inside his office.

In his absence, Trevelyan observed again the rumpus and ruckus below. It seemed, as was only natural, that alliances had been formed and territory had been claimed. Unsurprising, for the denizens of a military stronghold. Yet before she could see who would emerge from this snow-war victorious, Cullen returned—and he bore, in his hands, a bundle of fabric, tied with leather cord.

“Oh, Cullen,” said Trevelyan, “if that’s what I think it is…”

No gifts. They had promised. What, in all of Thedas, could be so important to give her, that he would scythe through such a promise?

“I bought this for you before we said, ah, that we wouldn’t exchange anything.” He, with a hesitation in his hands, offered the bundle to her. “I wasn’t sure whether to give it to you. And after all the things everyone else got for you—well, it’s not quite as lovely as your dress or a telescope…”

Trevelyan smiled, and shook her head. “Which is why we said we shouldn’t do this—the expectation is too much to bear. Why didn’t you tell me when we made the agreement?”

“I, ah…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “If I’d told you, then you would’ve felt you had to find me a gift, and as you say—the expectation. I didn’t wish to burden you with that.”

“So you burdened yourself?” She stroked his cheek. “I wouldn’t wish that for you either, Cullen.”

“I know. Forgive me, I couldn’t resist. I... I simply hope you like it.”

Trevelyan accepted the bundle—forgiveness within the very act—and loosed the cord that bound it. The fabric, a sumptuously thick wool dyed deepest green, fell into its true form: that of a cloak. A very nice cloak, for its collar was a luxurious (and most importantly, warm) brown fur, fluffier even than Cullen’s. Trevelyan trailed a hand across it, speechless.

“Do you… like it?” he prompted.

She nodded, capable of little else. “I… it’s beautiful, Cullen. I’ve... never had a cloak so nice. Even my parents didn’t quite bother, in that regard.”

“I know,” he said, palms out in offering. Trevelyan accepted, releasing the cloak into his care, and turned. Eyes shut, she savoured every touch of the gesture, as he wreathed her in its embrace. “I thought,” he murmured, “since you often get cold when we spend our evenings under the stars, that instead of having to borrow mine, you ought to have your own. So we might be able to, ah, spend more time together?”

Trevelyan faced him, smiling. “But I like borrowing yours,” she teased.

“Oh, I know. But, with this… you’ll be warm, even if I’m not with you.”

As if to affirm this notion, he secured the clasp—a fine piece of delicate, carved metal—across her chest. His hands withdrawn, the cloak rested gently upon her body. She surrendered to its warmth, and the simple, beautiful feeling that came with it. The feeling of being loved.

Unable to respond in any other way, Trevelyan bestowed him with a grateful kiss. This thanks, however, seemed to more than satisfy Cullen, who returned it with equal gratitude. His hands sank beneath the very cloak she thanked him for, that now shielded their wanderings from prying eyes. Maker, the caress of his fingertips was so tender, were it not for the cold of the snowfall, the two would have been indistinguishable in touch. Until that touch, as he drew her closer, strengthened to a grip—

A thud sounded, somewhere just beneath their feet. A shout quickly followed, betwixt cheers and laughter:

“Almost!”

Trevelyan broke from Cullen, and whirled upon the source. Far below the bridge stood the Inquisitor’s inner circle—a.k.a. a group of people far more mature than the shenanigans they appeared to be getting up to. There was a splatter of snow across the stone, mere yards below where she and Cullen stood. Taken with the fresh snowballs being rolled into the hands of several of the supposed adults down in the courtyard, there appeared to be something of a competition going on.

“Are you trying to hit us!?” Trevelyan called.

“Doesn’t have to be both of you!” replied Bull, swinging his arm like a trebuchet, to launch an absolute stonker of a snowball at Cullen.

Fortunately, its trajectory provided Trevelyan enough time to act. She threw up a hand in front of Cullen’s face, and conjured a barrier. The snowball burst harmlessly against it.

“Oi! That’s cheating!” shouted Sera.

Trevelyan scoffed. “Well, we can’t be cheating, because we’re not playing!”

Dorian laughed—he, and several others, armed with snowballs regardless. “Oh, you are now!”

Trevelyan squealed as the barrage was fired—about to create another shield—but was pulled below the safety of the parapet, as snowballs spattered upon the stone. Cullen, his body protecting hers, took her hand and said:

“With me.”

He whisked her from the bridge under fire of a second barrage, and ushered her into the door of his office. He slammed it shut behind them, just as a final snowball thudded against the window. The pair waited a moment, regaining their breath, expecting another attack.

Nothing.

With silence heralding peace—or at least, temporary relief—their eyes met, and their patient faces turned to smiles, and laughter.

“I had thought Skyhold safe from siege,” Cullen remarked.

Trevelyan giggled. “Well, at least this seems a defensible enough position.” She wandered towards a candleabrum, and—with the sun resting early in these wintry depths—brought it to burning life.

“You don’t wish to join them?” he asked, poised to bolt the door. “Play, perhaps, like those first Feastdays?”

Trevelyan nodded at his hands, a silent approval, as she strolled towards another candle. “That is my past, and I am at peace with it.” With a wave of her hand, it lit. “I’d rather make new memories.”

He bolted that door—and the next, and the next—as she continued to set wicks alight. The room now flickering with their ambient warmth, she turned, to see him stood over his desk, carefully clearing away his papers and reports. Trevelyan smiled.

“Not sweeping it all off, this time?”

Though the memory put a little smirk on Cullen’s face, he shook his head. “As… enjoyable as that was—it did take some time to re-organise it all.”

She drifted closer, and leant over his workings, to leave a kiss upon his lips. “Watch the snow fall with me?” she whispered.

“Of course.”

Satisfied, she trailed around the desk, and seated herself upon it. Such an arrangement was necessary, for he had only the one chair, and it was currently occupied by whatever he saw fit to leave there. Besides, the view from here was perfect: out of the window, into the valley. Oh, how the snow floated by.

But Cullen was not yet at her side. He fumbled with one of his desk drawers—it opened rather stiffly, and he’d not gotten round to fixing it yet—and pulled a bottle from within.

“Maker, that wouldn’t have lasted a day in our Circle,” Trevelyan joked. “The Templars would’ve found it before lunch.”

“Yet another reason to be thankful we are not in a Circle,” Cullen said, managing to scrounge two cups from the shelf.

“I suppose you’d be quite used to finding contraband.”

He uncorked the bottle, the sweet scent of honey and spice filling the air, and poured out a deliciously dark and syrupy liquid. “Yes, but not from who you think”—he handed her a cup, and perched with his beside her—“the mages were fine. It was Kirkwall’s Templars I kept having to confiscate from.”

“The mages were just better at hiding it.”

“Most likely.” He gestured to their cups. “Would you mind—?”

“Oh, certainly.”

The favourite party trick of any mage in winter. With naught but a drop of magic, Trevelyan roused their drinks to a pleasant heat, until steam curled enticingly from the surface. She cupped hers with both hands, to warm the fingers that had numbed outside. Cullen tested the temperature for himself, with a sip—and a smile.

“Perfect, thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

She rested her head upon his shoulder, little snowflakes drifting through her vision. It may have been cold out there, beyond that window—but she could barely feel it. Especially not while swathed in the comfort of her exquisite new cloak.

“I have to get you something in return, you know,” she told him. Cullen laughed.

“No, you don’t.”

“I do. This must have cost so much, Cullen.”

He shook his head. “You are worth it.”

“So are you,” she said. “What do you want?”

He caught her hand, to kiss it. “I have everything I want,” he told her.

Trevelyan chuckled, and rolled her eyes at him. “Unhelpful answer.”

“It’s the truth. I haven’t wanted much of anything, for a long time. I find that... all I want now is you, and this.”

His voice was husky and low, the candlelight warm and gentle, the snowfall slow and pretty. She quite understood, how he could want for no more than this. She certainly could think of no thing more fulfilling, more satisfying, or more affirming to one’s existence, than to exist like this, with him, in this moment.

“All right,” she said, sipping her drink. “Tell me another day.”

#unwanted #unwanted fic #cullen rutherford #cullen x trevelyan #blessings of the season to all #i put aside my other bonus chapter to bring you a little festive something #because it's not a dragon age fanfic until there's a satinalia scene

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