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Slow Burning Dreamer	By : Breathing2nd Category: +A through F > Dragon Age (all) > Dragon Age (all) Views: 3692 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Age, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-1
- 2-2
- 3-3
- 4-4
- 5-5
- 6-6
- 7-7
- 8-8
- 9-Nine
- 10-Ten
- 11-Eleven
- 12-Twelve
- 13-Thirteen
- 14-Fourteen
- 15-Fifteen
- 16-Sixteen
- 17-Seventeen
- 13
- 14
- 15
She stood for a long while, just staring out at the night sky through the ruined wall just outside of the war room. The moonlight spilling in through the gaping rubble was hypnotizing. The silver wisps of light piercing through the otherwise darkened hall to cool against her skin.
She couldn’t sleep. No. That wasn’t it. She was afraid to sleep. She was a mage, had been for so many years now…she should have been more aware. She shouldn’t have been so easily fooled. But it was so real. So much like the waking world she couldn’t…no, she didn’t want to. She knew that was the real reason. It wasn’t that she couldn’t discern the Fade from the waking world. She simply didn’t allow herself to. Dreaming was so much easier than being awake.
Isala sighed, shifting on her bare feet to face the massive doors of the war room. If she stayed in her room, she’d end up falling asleep again. If she wandered the courtyard, she’d have to inevitably explain herself or talk to someone too curious to let her be. At least at the war table she could be productive. Read over a few reports. Map out the next expedition. She knew they would be heading into the Western Approach soon and it seemed they knew very little about the vast desert.
She padded softly over to the great wooden doors and with her hand raised to open them, noticed they were already parted slightly. The gap was too small to slip through, but wide enough to look into.
The Inquisitor tiled her head a little to the side and peered inside the darkened room. There wasn’t much to see without candlelight. A dark foyer, the subtle outline of the massive table, the towering stained glass windows and a silhouette of a man down on one knee.
There was a soft murmur lifting from his lips, a whispered prayer. Isala could just make out the words as they drifted up and into the darkness.
“…they who stand before the corrupt and wicked and do not falter…do not falter…” his breath shuddered from him in a sigh. “Andraste preserve me.”
Isala licked her lips and took a single step back from the door, considering her next moments. She felt like she’d just stumbled upon something she wasn’t meant to see. Something intimate and terribly personal, and yet…Cullen was not one to weigh his burdens upon others. He would remove himself from an equation before allowing himself to become a liability, even if he was the only one who saw himself as such.
Her hand was light against the heavy wooden door, but she parted it easily enough to slip through.
“Cullen?” She called out softly as the door clicked shut behind her.
He stood and spun in one great motion, framed in the light of the windows like some chosen, holy thing.
“Isala?” Her name was a hushed breath across his lips. A choked confession on his tongue. He stood without armor, yet his shoulders were weighed down. She’d never seen him without leather to hide his fingers; without metal and cloth concealing nearly every inch of him. Now he stood before her in little more than a shirt and trousers with his feet haphazardly covered by unlaced boots.
She wanted to run to him. The urge suddenly so strong she’d crossed nearly to the war table before she had presence of mind enough to stop herself.
“I…I didn’t know anyone else was up.” He said sheepishly. She watched him run a single, bare hand through his unkempt hair and squeeze just behind his neck. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“No,” she shook her head quickly, reassuring him. “I couldn’t sleep.”
The Inquisitor moved around the massive war table, more slowly now. The hem of her sleeping gown tickling the tops of her feet as it swirled just above the floor. As she left the table behind she found she could make out more of the Commander’s details. The undone laces loosening his shirt, the hem untucked. The darkened shadows beneath his eyes. The faint tremble in his hands.
“I don’t wish to disturb you.” She blurted. Why had she walked in when he’d clearly come here for privacy he felt he couldn’t get inside his own bedchamber? “I can leave if you…” She didn’t finish the sentence as she turned back toward the doors.
The firm, warm grip of his hand around her wrist spun her back and nearly into his arms.
“Don’t go!” His fingers slid slowly from her wrist, down her hand. “That is…you don’t have to go.” He tried for a smile and failed and the elf stepped into the circle of his arms then. Her hand reaching up to cup his cheek. Cullen closed his eyes reflexively, his much larger hand sliding up to cover hers, holding it against his skin.
“Cullen…you can talk to me.” She reassured him gently. Her pale eyes searched his face in the moonlight but he gave her only a weak smile.
“Thank you, but it’s just bad dreams.” He nuzzled her palm, placing a kiss in its center that Isala felt all the way to her toes. He curled her knuckles down into a fist, kissing across those too as he gazed at her with sad eyes. “I couldn’t sleep either.”
The elven mage swallowed hard. Guild swimming up hard and fast as a tidal wave inside of her. It wasn’t that she couldn’t sleep. Just that she didn’t want to show her face in the Fade. She felt as confused as a newly awakened mage and just as unsure of herself. Part of her wanted Solas. Wanted the familiar touch of another elvhen. She was drawn to him in ways that were both magical and primal. Longed for the caress of his magic pushing against her own. Needed the sound of ancient elven purred from a tongue that was…Creators…
Isala took a deep, shaking breath, clenching her thighs together beneath the long chemise. She swallowed hard and willed herself back to the here and now. To him. To Cullen. This human she could not keep away from, despite…
“I missed you tonight.” She confessed softly. Surprised at the sound of her own voice.
Cullen loosened his hold on her hand, lowering it along with his own but not completely letting go.
“I am sorry.” He held her gaze while he apologized. His eyes were so warm. Always so warm. “I wanted to be there.”
“You were.” She interjected quickly. “I saw you.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, pulling at the little scar across his lip. “I saw you too.” The smile broadened. “At the top of the stairs…you looked like…” She could almost see the heat rising into his cheeks. Eyes lowering in bashful adoration. “I have no words.”
Creators, what was it about this man. This human.
“You looked like a Prince.” She told him and that earned her another smile.
“I would not have done justice at your side.” He whispered. Isala shook her head. Her pale hair curling over her delicate shoulders and over the layers of chiffon.
“Stop that.” She hissed. “You were perfect, would have been perfect…you’re more than what I hoped for.”
His eyes rolled up beneath the filtered light of the moons and there was a weight in them now that hadn’t quite been there before. Somehow, Isala knew they weren’t just talking about the ball anymore. At least, she wasn’t.
She felt heavy. There was a burden against her chest she couldn’t explain. It made it difficult to breathe and so, she held her breath.
When she felt his knuckles brush against her cheek her breath huffed out in a nervous chuckle. She drew her face back and away from his tender touch, feeling suddenly unworthy of it.
She stepped back, her bare feet crushing against the wisps of gauzy fabric that made up her gown.
“I’m only saddened we did not share a dance.” She admitted in retreat.
Cullen claimed the space she’d put between them. She couldn’t help but watch the linen of his shirt open where the laces were undone. The flesh beneath was muscled and strong. His shoulders were broad, moving tightly beneath the fabric. His hand reached out, touching her at the hip, just barely, just a graze of fingertips, but Isala stilled.
He licked his lips and drew his hand back slightly, tilting his palm up in offering as he bowed gently at the waist. “Then dance with me now.” His voice was so soft. So inviting. Isala felt her heart stop for an instant.
She touched his palm with the barest tips of her fingers first and then, slowly, so slowly, she slid her hand in his and let him draw her little by little toward him. His other hand nestled at the swell of her hip and found its way around to the small of her back. He pulled her close, curling his fingers around her hand. Her free hand hesitated only a moment before resting against his chest. She could feel the warmth of him beneath the linen, the hardness of the muscles hiding there.
“I must warn you, I’m not much of a dancer.” He murmured.
She was blushing. She knew she must be. “That makes two of us.”
She was trying to remember how to breathe as they took the first step. Moonlight and shadow crossing over their faces as they moved in a slow circle near the windows. He looked at her as if he could see something no one else could. Something deeper. Something purer. When he looked at her like that, she felt like…she wasn’t sure if she could explain it. If there were words for it. In the common tongue or otherwise.
“Happy Birthday.” He said, voice a whisper.
“Thank you.” She smiled.
“I had wanted to get you something, but I…I didn’t know…and then I---”
“Shh,” She shook her head. “This is more than anything I could have asked for, Cullen. This is perfect.”
His lips were warm when they brushed against hers, like the rest of him. He kissed her softly at first. Gently, chastely, and then, a little deeper. She parted her lips, opened her mouth to him. She slid her tongue just inside, caressing his, welcoming him. The hand she’d pressed against his chest snaked around his neck, beckoning him closer. The one he held barely touching the small of her back suddenly jerked her against his frame. Their dancing slowed to a near halt as they unlaced fingers. Each eager to touch some other aspect of the other.
Isala hooked her arm around his neck, drawing his mouth down as if she could climb inside of it. His braced between her shoulder blades, fingers splayed wide. His arms were strong around her and she could feel the hard press of muscles beneath every inch of fabric. She snuck a hand beneath the loose collar of his shirt, feeling the heat of his bare skin at the top of his back. Her other hand curled into his hair as she kissed him.
They were moving, ever moving. Isala couldn’t see where to until the back of her thighs bumped the edge of the war table. The kiss broke for less than an instant and she used the sudden jarring to adjust where her hands were. She let them fall to her sides only to slip them beneath the untucked and bellowing fabric of Cullen’s shirt. The elf couldn’t help the small sound that purred from her mouth as she touched the hard, rippling flesh of the Commander’s abdomen. Each and every muscle honed to hardened perfection.
She wanted to remove the linen entirely but she would need his cooperation for that and she didn’t want to stop kissing him long enough to ask. Instead, her hands dipped lower to the rim of his trousers. She felt for the tight, crossing laces that held the fabric taught to his trim waist. Her fingers worked swiftly, but the loops pulled awkwardly and she felt the strings knot. The elf groaned against Cullen’s lips, her hands finding purchase against the hard press of him beneath the trousers.
“Maker.” He swore softly, breaking away from her mouth to run his teeth across the vallaslin at her chin, nibbling the curve of her jaw as his breath quickened.
She abandoned the knot and rubbed her hand against the barrier of fabric, feeling him hard and ready beneath it. She maneuvered just so that she was balanced on the very edge of the war table, her legs parting in invitation. Cullen sank between them amidst the layers of delicate chiffon that covered her. He could feel the heat at the very center of her, despite the skirts and instinct rocked him against that heat.
Isala arced her back, hips tilting up in offering. Her hands taking up new posts against his ass, heels hooking behind his thighs. She urged him, pulled him as roughly against her as the cumbersome materials of their clothing would allow. He groaned against her throat and she moaned into the emptiness as he rubbed and rocked and ground himself against her. That hard length creating sweet friction against parts of her that were already mentally worked up.
The table shook with the force of his rhythm. Scrolls slid from the surface. Markers lost their place on the large map. Cullen let go of her, hands splaying wide on the table to either side of her body. Her tailbone almost hurt from the force, balancing on a thread at the table’s edge. His hand slipped and she heard something clink against the wood before rolling to the floor with an audible shattering of glass.
Isala couldn’t help it. She looked over to see what had broken. Cullen hesitated then stilled. His hand was covered in thick, black ink. It was running in a pool across the table and down to the floor where the inkwell had undoubtedly fallen and shattered.
The Inquisitor tilted her head back and almost laughed. “Shit.” She huffed, breathlessly. Somewhere, she knew, Fen’Harel was laughing at her.
- 13
- 14
- 15
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Slow Burning Dreamer