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who-knew-a-sheep-can-write · 7 months ago

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The Kids Aren't Alright: Werewolf!Cole Cassidy x Reader

I will never say no to werewolf cassidy/mccree, and if I do, kill me

Contains: Light werewolf transformation, blood, violence, drinking, self-deprecation, gunshot wounds

He had been so careful.

He’s sat at the edge of the base, back braced up against a rock, legs spread wide in front of him, his face settled in a pained scowl. He stared into nothingness, eyes trained somewhere on the waves that crashed onto the rocky shore just beneath him, the cliffside blocking his view of the darkness below.

God, he just wanted to sink into that darkness. He prayed for demonic hands to come up the cliff and drag him down, preferably to a cold chamber in hell.

The winds are chilly for a mid-summer night. Maybe it was the alcohol buzzing in his system, sitting in his stomach that was void of any food. His tanned skin was covered in goosebumps, but he made no effort in slugging his serape over his body to protect himself from the winds. A half-empty bottle of whiskey sat next to him, having been full when he cracked the seal with his teeth and started drinking from it like that drunkard he is maybe an hour ago. The first sip always burned, but it was becoming less painful as the years went by, now really just drawing a bit of a tingle on the tip of his tongue whenever he drank.

Forgoing a glass, Cole wrapped his fingers around the cheaply designed glass neck, human fingers trembling ever so slightly in a mixture of unstable emotions as he rose the bottle to his lips. Tilting his head back, he allowed nearly half of a mouth full of bitter whiskey before he swallowed, nearly dropping the bottle to the rock beneath him. The glass still made a sharp clinking noise, nearly shattering the glass bottom.

But he didn’t care.

He fucked up. He royally fucked up and now he was paying the price.

He could feel it inside of him, the damn thing never dying no matter how much he tries to drown it with cheap alcohol that could wash paint and rust off of metals. It was like it was pacing inside of him, dragging its horrid claws along a stony wall, its eyes piercing through the dark. He could make out very little of the beast, but he knew it was him right down to the bloodied hands flexing and waiting to dig into something alive. Even now in his drunken state, he could still smell the blood from last night. It was like it had just been spilled right under his nose, the scent of copper stinging his nostrils as the flared when he took deep breaths to calm himself down.

His mind was fucking with him, had been all day, had been all night last night. It kept him up, anytime he would try to close his eyes it would just replay all that happened just hours before like some sick snuff film. It got so bad that every time he blinked his mind would show him stills and images from when he was still lucid.

He can still remember the sight of you; On your back, scrambling away from him, bloodied and bruised, and utterly afraid of him as he towered over you. The love of his life is now terrified of him.

He took another swig from the whiskey bottle, nearly choking as a sob shook his shoulders. Tears stabbed at his eyes, burning at the corners as he forced himself to swallow. His shoulders shook, his back tightened, his ribs felt heavy.

He felt like he was going to throw up.

He had been so careful up until last night.

‘Be careful out there, yeah cowboy?’ your voice echoed in the back of his mind.

‘Always am, darlin’.’

A heavy sob forced its way out of him, dropping the bottle back down to the rocks as he pressed his back closer to the boulder. He felt bile creeping up in the back of his throat as it tightened.

It was a complete shitshow. Everything started off eerie and quiet, your team cautiously entering what was supposed to be an abandoned hotel that Talon had been using as a makeshift hideout after having been drawn out by previous missions. You as well as a few others went ahead of him, having been posted towards the front of the hotel in the trashed and very dilapidated lobby as a lookout.

He had a horrible feeling brewing in the pit of his stomach the entire time he was up front, uneasily rocking back and forth, placing weight on one leg and shifting it to the other as he fiddled with his armor and gun belt. Every noise made him jump a bit, his eyes constantly scanning around for any movement that didn’t belong to Overwatch agents. Straining his ears, he could hear you going deeper and deeper inside the hotel, going up creaking stairs that threatened to give out under the slightest weight. He focused on your heartbeat.

At the slightest hike in its rhythm, he would book it from his position.

He didn’t like this place, didn’t trust it with any fiber of his being. Even the monster inside of him was starting to go nuts, gnawing at the bars of its cage, clawing at his ribs and tearing at his guts inside of him. He could feel icy claws trace along his spine.

The agents around him gave him an odd look out of the corners of their eyes, eyebrows all knit with slight concern at how he was acting. He didn’t care, though, he just wanted to get you and get the hell out of here. His throat burned for a cigarette, his nose crying from the overstimulation this place brought with all of its horrible smells of rot and mold.

Just as he was idly rolling a finger over the carton of cigarettes in his pocket, he heard your heartbeat hike,

And then came the gunfire.

He was the first to peel out of the lobby and into the crowded stairwell, taking the aged steps three at a time. Peacekeep felt as though it weighed a thousand pounds as he pulled the hammer back. He could barely make out the shouting over the gunfire, his voice barely loud enough to call out over it as he climbed the steps toward hell.

He broke through the door like a bat out of hell and shot dead the first Talon agent he saw. He called out for you, dodging bullets and bracing against walls and busted down doors, taking out whatever he could from the flood of Talon agents.

There were so many of them. How did he not smell them? How did he not hear them? If he had just focused hard enough, this all could’ve been avoided.

And then he heard it.

Your shrill scream cut through the chaos like a hot knife through butter. It felt as though he had been shot in the back with a silver round. He barreled through the hallways as though he had been suddenly possessed. He felt himself slipping and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

As he neared the room your scream came from, blood suddenly splattered out from the open doorway as the Talon agent fell backward. Peeling inside with Peacekeeper drawn, he nearly dropped his precious gun at the sight of you collapsed on the dusty floor nursing a nasty looking bullet wound in your side. Your gun clattered to the ground as you clasped both hands on the wound, wincing and crying, applying whatever pressure you could. Cole was at your side, kneeling beside you, encasing your hands with one of his own and applying more pressure as blood leaked between your fingers. You looked up at him with weary eyes, a faint smile ghosting over your lips.

‘Guess I shoulda took my own advice, Cass?’

He shot you a look before calling out behind him for a medic.

‘Yer gonna be just fine darlin’. You took a lot worse than this before. Yer gonna pull right through,’ he crooned.

You nodded, wincing as he applied more pressure. Seconds passed by like hours. His nerves were sparking like he was hopped up on adrenaline. Where was that fucking medic?

As he turned to yell louder, he instead got the same treatment as you did; A bullet, this time getting him right in the lower back, barely missing his spine by a few hairs.

Everything happened so fast. Colors faded together, his body felt like it was doused with icy cold water all while being lit on fire, there was a horrid ringing in his head. He didn’t even feel the pain it all brought on, just the feeling of his clothes suddenly becoming tight before tearing as brawny muscles flexed and covered with fur.

He should’ve known better. He always kept it under control.

The only other thing he remembered was the sight of you, face painted with pure fear, crawling backwards away from him into the dusty corner, blood seeping from in between your fingers.

Cole wiped his face with his metal hand, the plates were cool and strung a bit when he pinched around his eyes to stop the rest of the tears from falling. His body wracked with a harsh hiccup, hunching in on himself slightly. His serape fell forward, hiding his exposed skin from the chilly air.

“Cole?” It was like he had been shot all over again. Fear struck him right in the gut like an icy pike. He could suddenly smell them, he could even taste their worry it was that thick. “Cole?” the small voice repeated.

It was soft, barely audible, almost drowned out by the wind and the waves crashing. He could feel the warmth their body radiated, their smell lingered in his nose. It had started to calm him down without even doing anything. He couldn’t turn his head to face them, instead tucking his head down and allowing the brim of his hat to obscure his eyes.

‘If I don’t see ‘em, they’ll go away,’ he thought painfully.

“I’m not going anywhere, cowboy,” your voice was firm. He could feel your eyes rolling over him, taking in all of the torture he put onto himself. The wrinkled and messy flannel shirt stained with sweat and a bit of bile, the dirty jeans that hadn’t been washed in a while, the boots that had be scuffed with spurs all bent out of shape. Even his arm had lacked care and upkeep, the once shiny metal was dull from not keeping it clean. “Oh, Cass,” you doted, “don’t torture yourself.”

He finally spared you a glance. You were in very loose clothes, the sweatpants you wore barely clung to your waist, dipping a bit. He narrowed his eyes at the sight of the sterile white bandages wrapping around your waist from where the bullet had been dug out of you. Your sweatshirt was unzipped, one of his worn shirts from long ago covered your front under it. You looked exhausted, not a single trace of shame or anger or even fear lingered on your person.

“You shouldn’ be up,” he slurred, turning to look away from you. “Shouldn’ even be ‘round a thing like me.”

He felt you step closer to him before slowly getting on the ground beside him. You didn’t dare sit, fearing the pull of your stitched up wound, instead you kneeled right next to him and kept your hands on your thighs. You both sat in uncomfortable silence for God knows how long before he felt you ever so gently place your hand on his outstretched leg. He stared at your hand, noting the small cuts and odd bruises you had, even staring at the nasty looking bruise in your inner elbow all wrapped up from where they drew blood and let the IV flow. He didn’t look up higher, though.

“I love you,” your words were soft but firm. “Nothing’s ever gonna change that, you know.” He still didn’t spare you a look. He heard you swallow thickly, your hand squeezed his leg a little tighter. “I understand why you never told me about… that. I’m not afraid of you, Cass.”

He broke down, startling you when a dry sob heaved his shoulders. You scooted closer, wrapping your arms around his trembling shoulders, holding him as he sobbed quietly in the mid-summer night. You pressed your lips to his shoulder, holding yourself firm against him as he crumbled with the sounds of the waves crashing beneath you both.

#overwatch #cole cassidy #cole cassidy x reader #cassidy x reader #jesse mccree #mccree x reader #werewolf!cole cassidy #werewolf!jesse mccree

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partystoragechest · 7 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, Cullen has an invitation for Trevelyan.

(Masterpost. Beginning. Previous entry. Next entry. Words: 3,410. Rating: all audiences, bar one swear.)

Chapter 48: Playing Nicely

The light of sunrise trickled through the window, and stirred Trevelyan from her slumber.

It took a moment for her waking mind to recognise where she was—but when she did, she smiled. This was her bed. Her room. Her Skyhold. Her home.

No one came to dress her or tidy her hair. She did it herself, selecting from the clothes her wages had bought her in Val Royeaux. New attire, of leather and linen, for the work of an Arcanist.

In the reflection of her window, she admired her appearance, then that of the mountains beyond. With a smile and a kiss, she bid them farewell, to gather up her notes from the bureau, and leave for the Undercroft.

Though not at peak activity so early in the morn, the place already hummed. Workers skirted out of her way as Trevelyan wound around their benches, with a nod of respect, and a greeting of, “Arcanist!”

This greeting she herself gave, as she sailed past Dagna—who was, quite naturally, in the midst of an intricate-looking enchantment.

“Morning!” she replied. “You look nice. You okay with trashing that?”

Trevelyan smiled. “I count on it!”

Dagna snorted. “That’s the spirit!”

Her laughter carried Trevelyan on her way, to a workbench of her own—and the assistant who anticipated her there.

“Good morning, Arcanist,” greeted Herzt. “I prepared for your arrival.”

“Thank you, Herzt.” She dropped her papers onto the bench. “Shall we?”

Their morning would be spent attempting to organise her many scattered notes into a coherent plan. The journey to and from Val Royeaux had been… ample, to put it politely, and Trevelyan had spent much of it thinking upon her theories regarding red lyrium.

(And a smaller, yet significant, portion of it thinking about the Commander.)

No—Cullen! Cullen. By Andraste, such a simple request ought not be so taxing! She really should be more practiced, before she saw him again.

Speaking of which.

As morning gave way to noon, Herzt departed her side. Trevelyan thought nothing of it; he had come and gone throughout the morn, scurrying off to collect materials, or put in an order for those in low supply. Yet, when he returned this time, he did not do so with a bundle of deathroot or a revenant’s heart, but a message:

“Arcanist, you have a visitor.”

Trevelyan glanced up, expecting Dagna—peeking over for the twentieth time—or the wonderfully nosy Dorian. Neither. Instead, her gaze followed Herzt’s indication, to the entryway of the Undercroft. To where an unexpected Commander stood.

No, Cullen! Fuck.

Trevelyan thanked Herzt, and stepped away. He did offer to have Cullen brought to her, but no. Not when she worked with at least a dozen eavesdroppers. The sight of him alone would have their ears on alert.

“Cullen,” she greeted, forcing herself to get it right. “How may we help you?”

“Arcanist,” he replied. “You, ah—you’re busy?”

Trevelyan glanced at the workbench she’d left behind, and the papers strewn across it.

“No, not at all,” she told him.

“Oh, good—then, would you, perhaps, like to play chess? With me.”

Trevelyan smiled. Poor man. Josephine had done all the asking for him until now, and he was not one so accustomed to seeking out company. The effort was appreciated nonetheless, and the interruption was worth its purpose.

“Of course,” she said. “When?”

“I have some time now, if that’s…”

“Give me a moment, to finish my work.”

“Of course,” he told her. “I’ll wait for you, in the garden.”

“Perfect.”

Satisfied, and a little more sure on his feet, the Commander slipped from the Undercroft. A little unsteady on hers, Trevelyan returned to her bench.

She saw her papers into some kind of temporary order, and entrusted their guardianship to Herzt. He was offered a respite, of course—if she was to take one, he ought to, as well—but knowing his habits, it was best to leave him with a task. Just in case.

Free from her duties, Trevelyan hurried for the Great Hall. She would not keep Cullen waiting.

It was this very eagerness that caused her keen mind to momentarily lapse in its perception. For she did note, as she wove through the hall, the seemingly increased number of nobles who crowded its space. But—perhaps drowned out by the noise of their chatter—she paid no attention to the drumming against the window panes, and the streaks that marred the stained glass. It was only when she threw open the garden door, that Trevelyan did realise it was raining.

Though not just raining—pouring.

The garden was devoid of life, save for the critters that thrived in such weather, and the occasional song of a rain-soaked bird who sought them. But through the downpour, Trevelyan could see another. On the other side of the garden, sheltered beneath the arcade, stood her Commander. Waiting; patient.

She offered a smile, and made her way around the arcade, glad of its existence. The rain trickled in rivers down its roof-tiles, draining into the garden beyond. With the gift of their protection, Trevelyan arrived at the meeting-place quite intact. Cullen, however, had caught a little of the rain upon his mantle, and was attempting to pat it dry.

“Arcanist,” he said, “I’m sorry about the weather.”

“I hardly think that is your fault,” she told him. “Besides, I don’t mind.”

The rain fell like a waterfall, drawing a translucent curtain over them, creating an air of precious privacy. Its soothing sound provided accompaniment, in the pitter-patter of droplets against ivy leaves, and upon the once-dry earth.

She did not mind at all. Indeed, she quite liked it.

“Good. Then, shall we?” Cullen gestured to the chess table, neatly prepared. Its armies stood to attention, hungering for battle. Trevelyan took her seat, and the command it bestowed.

Her mind passed over the pieces. Though she had had some opportunity to play against Giles and Erridge before their departure, she was certainly not to the level of her Circle days. And Cullen came to sit with such predictable confidence, that she wondered if she had been too hasty, in her provocation to play.

“Would you like me to begin?” she asked.

He encouraged her to, with a wave of his hand. She trotted a cavalryman forward.

“I must admit, I had not expected an invitation so soon,” she told him. “It was quite the surprise.”

“Oh”—Cullen rubbed the back of his neck—“forgive me, I thought it best to remain in the habit.”

Out came his own cavalry, opening the line for his knight and chanter behind.

“I think that sensible,” Trevelyan said.

“I hope I did not trespass upon your work.”

“These are the early stages,” she reassured him. “There is little to trespass upon.”

Opening gambits played out between their words. Chanters shifted and knights lanced forth. Castles came to protect their emperors. Empresses watched from on high.

“I read Dagna’s initial report regarding your aims,” Cullen said. “I was fascinated by your ideas.”

The cavalry Trevelyan was in the midst of moving almost tumbled over. “Oh—good. Well, if there is anything I could elucidate further for you, Commander—Cullen—please do say.”

“What did you mean,” he wondered, searching for a place to land his knight, “when you spoke of directionality in lyrium?”

Trevelyan’s brain buzzed with excitement. “Oh! Well—as I’m certain you know—lyrium energy is directional, and its users are a conduit. Templars direct it towards our world, and mages toward the Fade...”

She trailed off, and glanced at his face. With Dorian and Dagna, she could well assume interest, but for him—she simply wished to check. He met her gaze, and smiled.

“Go on.”

She continued: “Well, too much lyrium, and it overwhelms your ability to direct it. Your mind is pulled apart. Tranquil and dwarves may handle more potent raw lyrium because they lack connection to the Fade—therefore, it is harder to be torn asunder. Mages’ strength of connection results in the opposite.”

“So, what about red lyrium?” he asked. “Which direction does it take?”

“Both.”

“Both?”

“It nullifies magic, yet thins the Veil where it grows”—Trevelyan recalled that feeling, of being near it; of confusion, and haze; of a distant song, crying for help—“it’s almost as if it’s tearing itself apart.”

“Why would it do that?”

“To fight the infection,” she told him. “In our own bodily response to infection, inflammation is caused not by the sickness itself, but the body. Blood flows to the infected area, which causes the flesh to redden and heat.”

“Like red lyrium,” Cullen muttered.

“Like red lyrium,” Trevelyan echoed. “Lyrium is no ordinary mineral. Whatever has adulterated it, I do not know—but the lyrium is trying to cure itself of it. It may be pulling in one direction, and the sickness in the other.”

“The sickness could be magical, then,” Cullen mused. “The lyrium may be trying to reassert reality to nullify it.”

“Indeed—which may be an avenue to curing it,” Trevelyan replied. “If we could weaken the sickness, even aid the nullification, the lyrium may have the strength to overcome it itself.”

“At which point, we could entreat Orzammar to remove the cured lyrium safely.”

Trevelyan smiled. There was never so great a feeling, as being understood. “That is the hope.”

“A good thing you were made Arcanist, then.”

With that, Cullen’s eyes returned to the board. At last, some attention for the poor, neglected thing. No piece had moved in some time. They had sat and listened, just as their leader had.

It was somewhat difficult to recall if it was truly Cullen’s turn, but Trevelyan cared little about that. She was more concerned with her analysis of the words he had just spoken—for there was a quiet suspicion she’d been holding onto, waiting to confirm.

He was distracted with his chanter, in the midst of capturing a cavalryman. The moment was opportune.

“I wonder, Cullen—did you, perhaps, know I was to be made Arcanist?”

Cullen froze. “Well, I…” He sank into his seat, and sighed. “Yes. Whilst you were in the Dales, Josephine and I discussed finding some way for you to remain at Skyhold—if you wished to, of course. Then, when Dagna returned, she proposed your new position.”

With the tip of her finger, Trevelyan slid a castle forward, and toppled his knight. “Whilst I was in the Dales?”

“Yes.”

“But we were… not exactly on the best of terms, whilst I was in the Dales.”

Cullen stared at the board. “Your safety was priority. We could not, in good conscience, return you to Ostwick without presenting another option first. Had you refused Skyhold, we would have found you employment elsewhere.”

“But I didn’t.”

“No.”

She quirked an eyebrow. “That didn’t concern you?”

“As I say”—a chanter avenged his knight—“your safety was priority. My greatest concern was that you would refuse our help.”

Strange, his ability to say the sweetest things, whilst sounding so business-like. Trevelyan contemplated her next move.

“You don’t mind, then?” she asked.

“Mind what?”

“That I’m a mage?”

The words resounded as they fell, and shattered upon the ground. Whatever Cullen’s reaction, Trevelyan avoided it. Her eyes remained upon the board, as if in ponderance of her play. But her move consisted of a cavalry’s banal march, and any illusion that she thought of chess was dispelled in an instant.

“Why would I—?” he whispered, in utter confusion. And yet he must have realised, for he continued aloud, “No, of course not… that’s not—”

“I have just reclaimed who I am, Commander,” she told him, some kind of explanation. “I should not wish to suppress it again.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to.”

She toyed with one of the captured knights. “So it may seem. But, it’s… it’s simply that, when you were suffering with your withdrawal, you said, ‘no magic’.”

“Oh.”

There was nothing, for a moment. No moves made. No words said. No bird’s song. Only quiet breathing, and the staccato rainfall of shifting clouds. The world knew, that whatever should come next, it was important.

“There was a time I was afraid of mages,” Cullen said at last. “The rebellion at Kinloch Hold left me scarred… in more ways than the physical.”

Pain contorted his face, as if the thought alone reopened those very wounds. Trevelyan murmured, “I’m sorry.”

“What I suffered… it was hard to recover.” His eyes shut, his head shook. “I no longer harbour that fear of mages—but I cannot seem to shake the fear of what magic might do in the wrong hands.”

The last ten years of history had certainly been no panacea to such an ill. “I see.”

“But,” he added, “whatever I might still fear of magic—I see none of it in you. I’m sorry for how I reacted that day. I wasn’t… myself.”

“So you don’t mind, then?” She turned her palm, and kindled a tender flame within. “That I’m..?”

He gazed at that flame, the reflection of its light dancing in his eyes. “No, I…”

His words trailed away. Instead, he shifted. A hand moved to the other; teased at the the fingers of his glove until the entire thing could slip away.

His rough skin laid bare, he reached for her palm. His hand mirrored her own, hovered above. The very tip of the flame touched his skin.

But there was no pain. Just warmth.

As if drawn to it, Cullen’s hand sank. Trevelyan let the flame lull, ebbing ever further as he came ever nearer. The pads of his fingers brushed upon her own, and there came to rest.

His hand lingered no more than an inch from hers. The flame yet burned between them.

Trevelyan smiled.

She fidgeted her fingers, puppeting the flame to lap at his hand, a streak of gentle heat sent skimming across the surface. That warmth repeated on his face, in the smile that blessed it.

Yet, it sombred. Cullen’s fingers curled in on themselves, and receded.

“I… should admit,” he muttered, “of the man I was in Kirkwall.”

Trevelyan’s flame flickered its last. Her quieted heart gained pace once more.

“I was Knight-Captain,” he told her, “of the Circle. Our Knight-Commander, she—she allowed atrocities to occur. Committed them herself. She claimed she was protecting people, and I believed her. I did nothing stop her, until it was too late. Until too many had already suffered—”

His breath quickened; his hand twisted and strained around the glove it had abandoned. Before any more words could leave his mouth, Trevelyan stretched over the table—hand yet warm, from the flame—and enclosed her fingers around his fist.

“Cullen,” she said, “I know.”

He glanced up at her, eyes searching. “Know what?”

“Mages talk.” And they had talked to her plenty, whenever she had done runs to their tower. “I never sought out any information about Kirkwall; that would have gone against your wishes. But there is much I was told, without ever asking.”

“Ah.”

“Varric, as well…”

His notes on red lyrium had not merely covered the subject of red lyrium. There were other parts of Kirkwall’s history that he had believed she ought to know.

“I see,” said Cullen. Something of defeat settled upon his face. And yet, their game was still at play.

For there was little of his past that was of her concern. What concerned her, truly, was the Cullen who sat before her at this moment. The Cullen she knew. The Cullen she told:

“Whoever that man was, I see none of him in you.”

He did not shift, did not stir. Only murmured, “If you’re certain.”

“The first time I saw you playing this game, your opponent was a Tevinter mage.” Trevelyan withdrew her hand, and smiled at him. “I am certain.”

The corner of his mouth finally twitched upward. “All right.”

The last of a lingering uncertainty washed away, replaced by a familiar sense of comfort and ease.

“Perhaps we needn’t be just a mage and a Templar, here,” Trevelyan mused, for they were more nuanced than that. “What if we were Cullen and Trevelyan, instead?”

“I’d like that,” Cullen said.

“So would I,” she replied.

The fall of the downpour began to wane; the cloud began to break. Sunlight pierced through, glittering over the rain-soaked garden. Trevelyan invited Cullen to make his next move.

Simple enough: he took her misplaced cavalry. She attempted to convert this mistake to an advantage, and laid a trap for his empress—but there was little use in it.

His confidence seemed to return with the sun, and he detected her trap before it had even sprung. Though it was dismantled with the demeaning ease she could expect from a player such as he, she took no offence—to know he was at peace was all she required.

Though ‘peace’ was not quite the word for how he played. Any of her attempts to regain an advantage were expressly forbidden. Her empress was taken, her cavalry line broken. The knights she brought to her aid were cut down by castles and chanters. Though pieces were lost on either side, hers were lost to defence—his, to noble sacrifice.

He ought to have had her, then and there—yet he brought himself to heel, and moved at disadvantage. Her pieces lay bare for his capture, and yet, he seemed to avoid them.

“A bold new strategy,” she said, with a smile. “What is this gambit called?”

He hesitated, and sent his castle off marching to the east—where not a single one of her troops stood.

“I don’t know,” he admitted.

“Are you stalling the end of our time together?” Trevelyan wondered. “Or do you think by allowing me to win, I’d be more inclined to play again?”

Indecision rumbled in his throat. “...Both.”

Trevelyan sent a knight far from the battlefield, and placed a finger purposefully on the tip of her emperor, to rock it back and forth.

“Do it,” she told him.

Reluctant, Cullen slid his empress forward. He had Trevelyan’s emperor caught, between her, a chanter, and a castle. No escape.

Trevelyan waited. “Say it.”

“Checkmate.”

Trevelyan let her emperor fall, a smirk spreading across her face. “Well played, Commander.”

She hadn’t forgotten that time. She simply thought he might like to hear her say his title, right now.

He relaxed in his seat. “Thank you, Arcanist.”

She reached her hand across the table, to shake that of her victorious enemy. “We shall have to do this again, sometime. Perhaps you can teach me a thing or tw—”

Oh.

Cullen had taken her hand, to be sure. But he had not shaken it. No, he raised it. To his lips. And kissed it. Square upon the knuckles.

Trevelyan blinked. Cullen’s eyes flicked up. He saw the shock of the moment upon her face, and the bravado—as well as the colour—drained from him in an instant.

“Forgive me,” he blurted, “I thought—”

“No, no!” Trevelyan hurried to say. “It’s, I, um—”

She wasn’t—she wasn’t upset, at all. No, no. It was very… nice. Quite warm, and pleasing, and he must have wet his lips beforehand because she felt it upon her skin even now and—

Oh, Maker.

“I should, I should return to my duties,” said Cullen, abandoning his seat.

“No, no,” she pleaded, rising from her own. “I was—about to ask if, that was, perhaps, how we are to say farewell, from now on?”

He stifled a laugh. Though his eyes could still not meet her own, and his hand sought the back of his neck—his embrassment was, at the very least, somewhat assuaged.

“Well...”

“Let us consider it a possibility,” she teased.

“All right.” He shifted, and asked, “Would you like to… play again, another day?”

“Yes,” she answered, “please.”

“Good. Good. Then… another time, Arcanist.”

“Another time, Cullen.”

The rain having ceased, Trevelyan was able to make her return over the garden path, as the first brave noble souls ventured out from the same Great Hall she headed for. Among their growing chatter, she slipped a glance back to the table, where Cullen tidied away their pieces, oblivious to her gaze.

Her thumb ran over the spot his lips had touched. She longed for that feeling again.

#cullen rutherford #cullen x trevelyan #commander cullen #unwanted #unwanted fic #it's time for That One Scene #anyway hi jess #hi fereldenpie #hi werewolf? keysmash if youre reading this #spoiler: the fun thing about having a character who canonically does not know how a thing in the world works #is that it does not matter if you know either #and this is how i'm getting around the lack of lore on red lyrium lol

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