The first time Cullen and the Inquisitor are intimate it’s a mess of tongues and teeth and lips, tangled limbs and clothes discared without care, soft sighs and pleased growls.
And then, his hand takes her marked one, and she freezes, eyes open wide, because he clealry wants to remove the half glove she always has on that hand. The glove which saves her from glares and murmures, the piece of cloth which shields a dreadful, unknown spell from the rest of the world, allowing her to walk, sometimes, without feeling a sort of strange, magic crafted weapon.
And now his lips are ghosting just a breath away from that glove, from that magic.
He senses her hesitation and stops, looking at her, waiting for a word. His hands are so much bigger than hers, she notices, wondering if his Templar training will be stronger than his passion - than his affection - and he will be horrified. Scared. Disgusted.
Cullen rubs gently his tumb against the glove, exploring gently the surface.
A silent asking for a permission.
And when she, reclutant and scared to see him looking straight at that green thing, nods slowly, he kisses her palm, lingering there.
He takes off the glove slowly, gently, giving her time to change her mind. When her bare hand stands in front of him, the emerald light casting a faint glow on his face, he kisses even kinder the wounded skin. And her wrist. And every inch of her skin.
His eyes never change, the tenderness and the other stronger feeling still there, untouched, a soft, golden look which sees the woman in front of him.
Nothing more, nothing less, and it’s all that matters.
The Inquisitor understands she can love that man until her last day of life.
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