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partystoragechest · 6 months ago

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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, the competition is won.

(Masterpost. Beginning. Previous entry. End. Words: 1,762. Rating: all audiences.)

Chapter 50: Wanted

It was hard to overstate how impossible it was to marry Trevelyan off. A mage of such little accomplishment, and such signifcant unimportance, she had always been unwanted.

And thank the Maker for it.

For had she not been so magnificently undesirable, Trevelyan would have none of what she had now: a home; an occupation; a hope, for her future.

And she would certainly not be preparing to tell Cullen that she cared for him.

But she was. Within the sanctuary of her room, she readied. Her hair was tidied into place, her dress selected and draped over her body. In the little looking-glass upon her dresser, she inspected herself for the thousandth time.

Caught, within her reflection, were the golden rays of a setting sun, filtering through her window to herald the arrival of the evening hour. The moment had come.

Trevelyan begged the trinkets upon her desk to bring her luck. Beside her book of astronomy and a neatly-folded napkin, lay an onyx-encrusted Orlesian mask, a ribbon of pink chiffon, and a little wooden chess piece. Reminders.

They’d be proud of her. They would support her.

(They’d want the gossip after.)

Smiling, emboldened by their memory, Trevelyan found the courage to leave the room.

The corridors of the castle beyond carried on as if normal, blissfully unaware of what transpired within her mind. No soul she passed could tell how extensively it practiced the words she’d practiced all night and all morn:

Cullen, I care for you.

Such a simplification. Those few words alone could not tell of how every time she heard his voice, her ears did warm. Of how every time he smiled in her direction, her eyes could not bear the sight. Of how every time their fingers brushed, her body gnawed itself from within.

But that was perhaps a lot to say, so the simplified version would have to do.

Yet words fell away, as she reached his tower. Skyhold came to a hush, breath and breeze the only sounds. The drum-beat of her heart quaked through the valley. Evening sun cowered below the horizon. Mountains watched, in anticipation.

Ancient, gnarled wood stood between them. A door Trevelyan feared to open. She raised her hand to knock.

The door opened anyway.

A startled messenger appeared on the other side. With a hasty, “Sorry, ma’am,” they hurried past, and left her to the room beyond. Trevelyan shook the concern of their business from her mind, and peered inside.

Cullen’s office was warm, inviting. Candles flickered in every corner, an intimacy radiated by their glow. His desk had been cleared of its usual clutter, place settings prepared on either side. A chair waited, for her to take it.

Cullen already occupied another. But his mood did not match that of the room. He leant hard upon his hands, eyes shut firm. Only when her foot crossed the threshold, did he look up.

“Arcanist,” he greeted, solemnly rising from his seat. “Are you well?”

“I am,” Trevelyan confessed. “And—you?”

Cullen shook his head. “I am afraid I can’t stay.”

“What?”

He made his way around the table, hand trailing its prefectly-prepared surface. “We’ve received word, from the Champion—the Grey Wardens have been corrupted. The Inquisitor has called the War Council. We may be at war with Adamant.”

Everything Trevelyan had been worried for mere minutes ago now paled. Though words could hurt, the theatre of battle could kill. And a general must ride with his army.

“How soon will you march?” she asked, afraid of the answer.

“...At dawn.”

Breath spilled from her lungs. “Oh.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, no—it’s… I understand. It cannot be helped.”

The Maker had a wicked sense of humour. Truly, at last, urgent business did call him away. Yet it was this. Yet it was now.

“You can stay, if you like,” he offered, as if a concession. “You may eat—I can still have the food brought.”

“What about you?” Trevelyan asked. She meant it more ways than one.

So did he: “I’ll be all right.”

His hand almost reached for her, but any attempts at gestures or reassurances died in place. Though the ache upon his face told the story of a man who wished to do something to fix this, there was, in truth, nothing to be done.

“I’ll try and see you before I depart,” he told her, his only consolation.

“Thank you,” she said.

Little more to do or say, he retreated from her side. Though she could feel his lingering gaze, linger he did not. The War Council beckoned.

“Wait—”

She said it before she’d even had chance to contemplate what came next. Cullen halted at the door. Anticipating.

“Arcanist?”

Trevelyan resolved herself. She would not have this moment taken from her. She would not allow him to leave, to march off to battle, for Maker-knows-what to happen—not without first knowing this:

“Cullen, I care for you.”

The candles flickered. Cullen’s fingers slipped from the door handle. His voice was but a whisper:

“You… even after everything..?”

Even after everything. “I thought you should know.”

The door was abandoned; he padded towards her. “Are you certain?”

“I am,” she said. He drew in close. She asked, “Do you..?”

“I do,” he murmured, “also. Care for—care for you, I mean. As well.”

Trevelyan’s breath caught. Maker, let this be real. Let this not be a dream. Let her not have imagined this.

Yet here he was, before her. She hadn’t imagined it. She hadn’t imagined any of it. The pining looks, the accidental touches, the hopeful invitations—they had all been meant. And they had all been meant for her.

Cullen whispered, “I didn’t think, after all that’s happened, that you would…”

“I do,” she reassured him, “I do.”

His anxious face softened to a smile, the warmth of it flushing Trevelyan’s cheeks. Quite unable to meet his eye, she settled instead upon that smile. And the lips that formed it.

Cullen must have noticed, for he cleared his throat, and withdrew.

“I should... get to the War Council,” he told her, guilt strung throughout his voice. “But, we could talk, later?”

“Yes,” Trevelyan agreed, wholeheartedly, “please.”

“Good”—reluctant, he took a step from her—“good.”

Her eyes did not leave him, as strode for the door. Nor did his leave her, even as he opened it. And though his hand remained upon the handle, his feet hesitant to pass the threshold—with one last smile, he slipped on through.

And was gone.

Yet in Trevelyan’s mind, he remained; for within, she replayed the moment over and over and over. He cared for her. Maker, he cared for her. Weeks ago, she would not have wished to hear such a thing—but now, it was all she wished to hear. He cared for her! And she—

The door slammed open. Trevelyan had little time to express her surprise—as Cullen marched back in, took her by the waist, and asked:

“I… May I—?”

She kissed him.

Their lips met as if shaped for one another, as if sculpted by the same godly hand. His, warm and wetted, were as tender in their touch as the man to whom they belonged. There was a tangible distinction, between their caress and that of his scar, and there was an irreplacable intimacy in the knowledge of it. She did not know how she would bear it.

But bear it she would, for the kiss was worth it. No sensation in all of Thedas could compare to the sensation of him. To have the barriers between them burnt to ash; to feel the fire within him intertwine with her own; to succumb and melt into his form. There was nothing so perfect.

When at last he withdrew, her eyes opened. She had not realised they were closed.

“That was… really nice,” Cullen murmured, himself too dazed for grander description.

“Just one,” Trevelyan whispered, “or more?”

“More,” he replied.

Their lips connected again, and the sensation was no less divine the second time. Nor the third. Nor the fourth.

It was sweet, slow, satiating. Her curiosity to know the touch of his lips had long become a hunger which only they could satisfy. Dinner was unnecessary. His was a nectar she could sup on for eternity.

If only they had that eternity. But into their next kiss, she murmured:

“Shouldn’t you be on your way to the War Council?”

His reply was spoken upon her lips: “In a moment.”

Trevelyan had no objection. She would fight the war herself, for a moment more of this. But she wasn’t the one who had to.

“Cullen—”

He kissed her again, as if to stop her from saying it.

“Cullen...”

One more—and he finally relented:

“All right.”

Though their lips parted, their foreheads remained as one, each rested gently upon the other.

“You cannot forsake your duty,” she warned.

But the tip of his nose still trailed her skin, as if in search of another kiss: “Don’t tempt me.”

She stroked his hair back into place. “So you do find me tempting?”

He caught her hand, and brought it to his lips. “Naturally,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the centre of her palm. Trevelyan curled her fingers around it, and kept it safe within.

“The stars are out tonight,” she told him.

“Good,” he said. “I’ll see you there.”

“Yes.”

She leant in, to leave a final kiss upon his cheek; but felt his stubble graze her skin, as he turned and caught her by the mouth one last time.

It was only when he began to linger that Trevelyan did object.

“Cullen,” she whispered.

His lips withdrew, his body parted. The loss of his warmth and pressure left a chasm; the reluctance and hesitation of it was shared between them. Their hands remained intertwined until the last—until he took one step too many, and his fingers slipped away.

“Farewell,” he told her.

“Another time,” she replied.

One last look, one last smile, and he left the room. For good, this time.

Trevelyan collapsed against his desk. Her fingers traced the path of his lips, across her own, onto her skin, burning the memory into her mind, so that it would never leave her.

A feeling welled within her chest, entirely unfamiliar. But as she wiped the first, joyful tears from her cheek, she recognised it.

Wanted. Finally, wanted.

#cullen rutherford #commander cullen #cullen x trevelyan #unwanted #unwanted fic #thank you to everyone who has been reading unwanted #i appreciate you and your likes and reblogs and replies and messages #you're all wonderful and i wish you all the best in life #an epilogue to come #edit 29/10/24: i'll never be happy with the kiss because it'll never be as good as the anticipation of it #cont: this version may remain different to the ao3 version just because it feels wrong to change this one

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