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When he wakes, tangled in sweat soaked sheets, only a sliver of dim moonlight shining through the windows, the bed is empty beside him. His heart is beating loudly, a frantic thump thump thump , and Cullen does not know if it's because of the nightmare he can't remember, or because his love is gone and he does not know where she could be. It is the dead of night, and Skyhold is quiet, save for the sound of his racing heart and an owl somewhere in the distance.
Maker, it is so hot, even with the balcony doors ajar. He feels as though his skin might erupt into flame, and he kicks off the sheets in an almost violent burst. He has not woken alone in such a long time, and he feels a panic rising in his chest. The chapel, perhaps. She is not much for prayer, but Cullen's faith is strong still, in spite of everything that has happened. If he cannot find his love and take comfort in having her near, then he will take comfort in the Maker and his bride instead. In his feverish mind, he wonders if maybe the Maker could lead him to the one he seeks, the one he needs.
He throws on the first things he finds, a tunic and a pair of loose linen pants, not even remembering shoes in his haste. He makes it downstairs and through the main hall in record time, and is in the gardens at the chapel door without even really knowing how he got there. He places a hand against the door, palm flat against the cold wood.
When he opens it, he is surprised by what he sees – the Inquisitor, his love, praying before Andraste. He has never seen her pray before. She prefers action to prayer, and anyway, she says, she does not wish to pray to a god who allows his children do such vile things to each other in his name. He knows she means the way mages are treated when she says this, and he feels shame, for he has treated them unfairly himself.
She turns and stands at the sound of the door opening, smiling when she sees that it is him. She reaches out a hand to him and says, "Come, darling, and pray with me. I'm a little out of practice and could use your guidance."
He crosses the small room and nods, falling to his knees. “O Maker, hear my cry,” he whispers. He is kneeling before her as he prays, and for a moment he is not quite sure to whom he is praying - his lover, the Inquisitor, or Andraste herself. In the low light thrown by the few candles scattered about, his mind still caught up in sleep and fever, she is somehow all three - the self she only shows to those she is closest to, the title she reluctantly accepted, and the Maker’s bride herself. It doesn’t help that she is standing before him, slightly raised on the dais that also holds a statue of Andraste, looking just as regal as the prophet, and further confusing his sleep-addled brain.
“Guide me through the blackest nights.” He gives her a gentle nudge as he mumbles his prayer against her inner thigh, running his hands up and down the length of her legs. She takes his hint, sitting on the dais before him to allow him easier access to that which he most desires.
“Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked,” he continues to pray, as he rests his hands upon her knees, and spreads her legs apart. Maker bless, she is completely bare, wearing nothing under the robe she must have hastily thrown on before deciding to come to the chapel to pray. He cannot imagine that she expected him to seek her out here, and certainly not to pray with her in this way. He feels wicked indeed right now, straddling the line between prayer and blasphemy, unsure if what they are doing is defilement or worship. He decides that he does not much care in that moment.
“Make me to rest in the warmest places,” he continues, lips gliding along her inner thighs, almost agonizing in his slowness. As much as he wants to savor her, draw this out for both her pleasure and his, he is also an impatient man when it comes to her. She must also tire of him taking his time, for she whispers a plaintive, “Please, Cullen,” before her hands are in his hair, holding tight as she pushes his face forward, claiming what she wants.
“O Creator, see me kneel,” he continues, a whispered cry against her sweet cunt, “for I walk only where You would bid me.” He glances up for just a moment, wanting to see the look on her face before he continues a prayer of a different sort. She is resplendent, ringed in soft light from the candles, her robe slipping off her shoulders, eyes closed, her lips slightly parted. She is his goddess in rapture, awaiting his worship.
“Stand only in places You have blessed,” he whispers to her, his voice husky with need and want and awe. “Sing only the words You place in my throat." He stops reciting his prayer and then his mouth is on her, spreading her open and taking his fill of her. Sweet maker, though he's had her many times before, he thinks that he will never tire of her taste on his tongue. Her grip on his hair tightens as his tongue makes lazy circles around her clit and he knows exactly what this means she wants.
“My Maker, know my heart,” he whispers as he pauses for just a moment. “Take from me a life of sorrow.” His mouth is back on her again, licking and sucking, harder this time, and faster too. He wants to feel her come for him, to take her pleasure first before he is allowed the privilege of being inside her. When she finally reaches her climax, she lets out a soft whimpered cry, and loosens her grip on his curls. Such a sweet sound, and he is the one who brought it forth from her, the one allowed such glorious familiarity with her. To be so close to divinity, to taste her desire and bring her to euphoria… he is surely blessed by the Maker himself.
“Lift me from a world of pain.” She leans down, using her hand in his hair to tilt his head up so that he is looking at her, as if he is somehow worthy of her attention. As she places her lips to his in a hungry, devouring kiss, he thinks he might shatter from how much he desires her, needs her. It is almost too much, pushing against his skin from the inside out. She breaks the kiss, and they are both breathless as he picks her up, turning them both around so that he is sitting in the spot from which he just removed her and placing her on his lap to face him. “Judge me worthy of Your endless pride,” he mumbles against her lips as she straddles him.
“My Creator, judge me whole,” he prays, sliding her robe off further, exposing her breasts so that he can give them the attention they deserve. He runs his fingers along the sides, his touch feather light and sending a shiver through her body. So lovely, their hardened peaks begging for his lips and tongue. Ever the obedient servant, he obliges, drawing out another frantic cry as he flicks his tongue over one nipple before pulling it into his mouth.
“More, Cullen, please,” she cries out as he lightly scrapes his teeth against her sensitive flesh.
“Find me well within Your grace,” he mutters as he removes his mouth from her breast. He lifts her and she spreads her legs wider for him. He buries his face in her neck, inhaling her scent and whispering, “Touch me with fire that I be cleansed,” as he lowers her onto his cock. Maker, she is so wet for him, so fucking warm, and he worries that he cannot last long, for he is merely a mortal man, and she is divinity come from the Golden City itself to bless him with her presence. “Tell me I have sung to Your approval.”
“O Maker, hear my cry,” he says, voice breaking as he thrusts up into her sweet warmth. It is almost too much for him, and she must know, for she lays her hands upon him and smiles. She moves with him, rocking back and forth as he thrusts, riding him faster and harder as she climbs towards another climax. “Seat me by Your side in death,” he cries out, as he feels her walls clenching him tightly, her body shaking with her release.
“Make me one within Your glory and let the world once more see Your favor,” he tells her, thrusting faster so that he can join her in rapture and ecstasy. It doesn’t take long, just a few more thrusts and a soft command from his love telling him to come for her. His body is hers and it does as she says, like the obedient devotee that he is.
“For You are the fire at the heart of the world,” he whispers, cupping her face in his hands as he looks her in the eye. She returns his gaze, her neck and face flushed, her breathing heavy from their exertions, a smile playing on her lips. “And comfort is only Yours to give.”