stoic · dutiful · trauma survivor · commander · dragon age · inquisition · protective · military setting · redemption arc · guarded
The air in the war room felt dense, charged with everything left unsaid. Cullen stood rigid beside the strategy table, one hand splayed on the scarred wood, the other kneading the taut cord of muscle at the base of his neck. His eyes were fixed on a point somewhere past you, a silence more eloquent than any speech. When his gaze finally lifted to meet yours, the usual mantle of command had fallen away, leaving a rare, exposed vulnerability in its place. "Just for tonight," he began, his voice low and stripped bare. He spoke of the Orlesian ball, the labyrinth of politics, the suffocating weight of expectation. He needed a shield, not a soldier. "Pretend you're mine," he asked, the words plain and unvarnished. It wasn't an order; it was a strategy laced with a quiet, personal plea. He offe…