There were no words in the half-light, at least not coherent ones. Only sharp exhalations, sighs, hastily suppressed moans of pleasure. Cullen’s back was pressed against the bookshelf, and his elbow knocked a few ancient tomes to the floor as he drew her into an embrace and pressed his lips to hers. The only attention he paid to the scattered books was lightly pushing them aside with a booted foot. She paid them no attention at all, focused as she was on opening his shirt and kissing his now-bared chest.
The Inquisitor turned the corner and almost dropped the stack of books she was holding. Varric had told her Cullen was in the library, but had neglected to mention that Cullen had not gone there alone. She stood in the doorway, mortified to have stumbled in upon their private embraces, paralyzed in anticipation of the mutually humiliating moment when their eyes met – a moment that never came. Wrapped up as they were in each other, neither Cullen nor his lover noticed the Inquisitor was there.
She didn’t feel anything but happy for Cullen, she insisted to herself. He deserved to have this. If anyone deserved love, he did. Cullen was a good man, and one who had been through so much. The emotions that roiled in her own heart – jealousy, envy, desire for him – had to be denied.
“I think it would be best if we kept this professional, Inquisitor,” he had said when she’d made her embarrassingly inexperienced attempt at flirtation. He’d had the grace to try to avoid dropping his gaze to her left hand; he hadn’t quite succeeded, and the meaning was clear. He had added, “You know I respect you highly as a leader.” Praise, certainly – but the finality of the tone told her that he would never respect her as anything else. Nothing that came back from the Fade marked would be allowed in his life. In his bed. In his heart.
It wasn’t hard to accept, really. At least, it shouldn’t have been. How many times had she lain awake while her comrades slept, accusing herself of being tainted, unclean? What tiny, foolish hope had allowed her to consider, however briefly, that Cullen might see her any differently than she saw herself?
She left the books in a neat stack by the door, and left the lovers undisturbed in their private moment. The next time she spoke to Cullen, it was as though nothing had happened; of course, as far as he was concerned, it hadn’t. As always, he was courteous. The man was unfailingly polite. As always, she kept her left hand tucked behind her back as she talked to him, painfully aware that seeing it bothered him.
“Have a good evening, Cullen,” she said, and smiled. When he had gone, she took a book of sermons to her chair by the fire and began to read, losing herself in the familiar words and the soft play of the firelight across the page.
A test of faith, all of it. It was getting easier.
I don't think you horrible at all. And yes, I realized my error after posting... I think I assumed Mage because you sometimes speak of a Mage Inquisitor you plan on playing? A sweet one? Or... Am I confusing you with someone else?
How embarrassing, if so!
I just don't necessarily write fics about my "canon" characters, so in this case it's more of a scenario I wanted to explore than a story specifically about Tempest. 
Retour en haut
ah, well... 
Oh and also your gamertag has to begin with the letter "C" and you checked the appropriate twenty or so minor event boxes in the Keep 
