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ahhh my baby boy  (ʃƪ ˘ ³˘)

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Ma boiiiii

I updated Inquisitor Arlen's reference sheet and also his lore doc! Can read more about him HERE

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whisperwhisperCassandrawhisper

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Hello, Ser Pounce-a-lot! Still intact, I see?

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*elven: Sylaise honor our way. I am yours, and give you my love. For the eternity. (Dalish marriage vows). Ar lath ma, vhenan - I love you, (my) heart.

finally doodling pavellan`s wedding Look who is so bitter that Lavellans don't get to speak elven except in solas romance. Let lavellans speak elvish.

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HAPPY PRIDE MONTH ! 🏳️‍🌈 (1/30)

1st OS : Pavellan (Naenoris Lavellan) ♡ NSFW WARNING

--

The sheets beneath his hands are crumpled from how tightly his fingers have gripped them. The fabric is coarse, almost abrasive against his damp palms, but he clings to it like a lifeline, as if a fall were imminent. And perhaps that’s exactly what this is — vertigo. A cliff edge he isn’t sure whether he’ll leap from or be torn apart upon.

Naenoris sits at the edge of the bed, his back straight — too straight — as if he’s holding himself in place through sheer force of dignity. But he is naked. Naked and vulnerable, exposed to the warm flicker of candlelight and to the unbearable gaze of the man kneeling before him.

Dorian is there, hands resting gently on his hips, thumbs drawing slow circles on his skin. With those dark eyes — alight with the same hunger that always made Naenoris tremble — he looks at him as if he were a miracle. Or worse: as someone he truly desires. It isn’t the fire in Dorian’s gaze that frightens him — it’s the softness. It’s the way he looks at him as though there is nothing to fix.

And that… that is what Naenoris doesn’t know how to endure.

He feels the slow caress sliding down his thigh, almost reverent, then Dorian’s lips against his lower stomach, the warmth of his breath. It’s exquisite. Terrifying. His heart hammers, wild and erratic, as though torn between fight and flight. He closes his eyes for a moment, but the sensation pursues him — relentless.

His muscles remain locked, as if sculpted by years of control. His body wants to yield. He feels it, in that dull throb between his legs, in the shame-tinged shiver racing down his spine. But he holds back. He blocks it.

“Dorian…”

His voice is low, hoarse, as if struggling against his own throat. He shakes his head sharply, like a man waking from a dream or trying to banish an invisible demon. He wants to speak, to explain the knot in his chest, the weight in his throat, the dull terror that rises whenever pleasure gets too close. But no words come.

His eyes dart away. His lips close tight. He clenches his teeth so hard they grind.

This wasn’t how it was meant to be, he thinks. I should want this. I do want this… so why does it feel like betrayal?

He doesn’t know how to be in a moment like this. He never has. Every part of him still wrestles with the lessons of his past — restraint, modesty, the fear of being seen. The fear of having said too much. Of having been seen.

Dorian lifts his head slowly and rests his forehead gently against Naenoris’s stomach — no pressure, no demand. Just contact. His breath is warm. Human. Present.

“Hey. Look at me.”

Naenoris doesn’t answer. But Dorian doesn’t move. He waits. That’s what he’s been doing all along, after all — waiting for Naenoris to allow himself. To feel. To open.

“You’ve nothing to prove. Not here. Not now.”

The words are simple, free of grandiosity, but their impact is seismic. Naenoris opens his eyes again, slowly, almost unwillingly. And he meets that gaze — Dorian’s, so clear, so wholly there, that he feels stripped bare all over again. Not by lust this time. Not by raw fire. But by something just as dangerous: tenderness.

“I want you, yes — of course I do.” Dorian’s hand glides up to rest on his belly, palm flat, gentle, grounding. “But more than that, I want you to want yourself.”

Naenoris swallows hard. His breath returns in ragged, almost painful bursts.

“I don’t know how,” he says — the words emerging like a confession, choked with shame. “I don’t know how to… be this. With a man.”

Dorian doesn’t respond immediately. He rises slowly, kneeling on the bed, his hands still on Naenoris, but not to take. Just to steady. And when he finally speaks, his voice is a smouldering whisper:

“You don’t have to know. This isn’t a lesson. It’s a choice. A moment. You don’t need to perform. You can just… feel me.”

Then he kisses him. Not a hungry kiss. A gentle one — long, patient. A kiss that demands nothing, and offers everything.

And against his lips, Naenoris feels something begin to crack.

He lets the fear cling to his ribs — but no longer lets it bind him.

And when their bodies come together, it is with clumsy gestures, hesitant at times, often restrained. But each sigh is more honest than the last. Each moan frees him a little more from the old cages.

Naenoris does not heal in a single night. But that evening, he takes a step. And Dorian is there to catch him — again and again.

Their foreheads rest together now, and Dorian kisses him softly, as if sealing a promise he won’t speak aloud. He doesn’t push, doesn’t rush him with desire. He holds him close, skin to skin, their warm breaths mingling in the quiet tension of the room.

Then he begins to descend again — slowly — his lips brushing along his throat, his collarbone, the hollow of his chest.

Naenoris’s head tilts back, eyes half-closed. He gasps, silently, his fingers tightening in the sheets. The heat of Dorian’s mouth on him melts every resistance, one by one — and it terrifies him.

His hips shudder under the slow caress of a hand moving down between his legs—sure, gentle, kind. And that’s when he feels it: his cock, already hard, despite himself. Like a betrayal.

No. Not now. Not in front of him. Not like this.

His throat tightens. He’s ashamed. Ashamed of wanting this, after years of trying to silence the fire within him. Ashamed to be here, letting himself be touched by a man—and to want even more. Each pulse is a contradiction that makes him want to cry or run.

But Dorian doesn’t move. He stays right there, his hand wrapped around him, stroking slowly. Without urgency. Without demand. Just this soft, steady pressure that says: I see you, I want you, and that’s enough.

Then his voice comes, low and steady.

“I can feel you trembling, amatus . You don’t have to hide it.”

Naenoris closes his eyes. He doesn’t know if he can respond. But his lips part in spite of himself.

“It’s... too much.”

“I know.”

Dorian presses a kiss to the inside of his thigh, right where the skin is thin, sensitive. “Believe me, I know. I’ve lived it too. The fear of losing yourself by being seen. Of wanting something you were taught to fear.”

He moves up, his lips tracing a soft line to the hollow of his hips, then higher, back toward his belly. His hand keeps moving—just a little firmer—and Naenoris moans, startled by the sudden intensity.

“They taught you not to exist wholly. To split your body from your heart. Your desire from your dignity.”

His words are a caress of their own. A truth read on his skin, in his silences, in his trembling.

“You’re allowed to want this, Naenoris. You’re allowed to want me .”

He looks at him. And in his eyes, there is no judgment, no mockery, no impatience. Only that fire that says I understand. A fire that warms instead of burns.

Naenoris shakes his head, as if still fighting an invisible voice.

“I’m ashamed...” he breathes, cheeks flushed, breath ragged.

“Of wanting?”

Dorian tilts his head, his hand sliding up to brush his hip.

“I’m ashamed of all the years I didn’t listen to what my body was screaming.”

He rises a little, kisses him softly on the temple.

“You’re hard. And you’re ashamed of it. But your desire isn’t the sin. It’s what they made you believe.”

Dorian’s hand moves again, more confident now, stroking his cock with expert slowness, as if relearning it, as if telling him this pleasure—this body—has never been the enemy. Naenoris moans, his voice cracked with tension, but he doesn’t push him away.

“Look at me,” Dorian murmurs.

He obeys. Their eyes meet. And this time, he doesn’t look down.

“It’s not dirty. It’s not wrong. It’s you . And it’s beautiful.”

Naenoris exhales a trembling sigh. He’s fully hard, his skin hypersensitive to every touch, and yet he no longer flees. His heart beats fast, but he lets it. He lets himself feel . He lets Dorian touch him.

And Dorian never forces.

He moves slowly up, skin against skin, brushing every inch of him, almost silently, almost reverently. His hands slide along his waist, his sides, pause briefly on his chest, then rise to cradle his face. He lies against him, delicately, as if he didn’t want to crush him—as if he knew the weight wasn’t in the flesh but in the story. Dorian’s forehead touches Naenoris’s, and their breaths blend again, one trembling, the other deep and steady.

Their cocks press together, hard, burning. Their hips quiver. The heat rising between them is no longer a struggle: it’s an offering.

Naenoris closes his eyes. He thinks of everything he’s run from. Of the centuries of invisible chains, woven from the whispers of a world that taught him his love was deviant, his tenderness a flaw. He thinks of the nights spent praying to be changed, to be extinguished, to be fixed. He thinks of the avoided gazes, of his own fear of seeing himself.

And then, he thinks of Dorian.

Of that proud, gentle mouth. Of those precise, patient hands. Of that voice that never judges. Of that warmth that imposes nothing, but embraces everything. He thinks of that hand caressing him so slowly it ceases to be desire and becomes acceptance. Not a sexual act: a bridge between souls.

Something inside him finally gives. Not a fall—but a release. A breath he hasn’t dared take in years. And in that breath, he finds a different kind of courage.

His hands leave the sheets to find Dorian’s hips. He opens his eyes. Looks at him—this time with a new flame, clearer, less painful. And in one fluid, determined motion, he rolls the mage onto his side and straddles him, taking the lead.

Dorian’s gaze doesn’t change. He doesn’t see it as a power play or a defense. He understands at once—Naenoris isn’t taking control. He’s taking his place.

Naenoris sits astride him, palms pressed flat against Dorian’s chest. His hair falls loosely around his face, tousled, glorious in its abandon. His breathing quickens, his stomach tightens with emotion—but this time, he hides nothing. He no longer hides himself.

“I want to…” he whispers, almost voiceless.

“Say it.”

Naenoris lowers his head, but only briefly—searching for the right words.

“I want you to see me. Not just as a naked man. But… as me. All of me.”

Dorian lifts his hands, places them gently on his hips, with a reverence rarely seen.

“I already do,” he murmurs. “I have for a long time.”

The silence that follows is heavy—not just with lust, but with emotion, with something near sacred. And when Naenoris leans down to kiss him, it’s no longer hesitant or fleeting. It’s a gentle claiming. A declaration.

Their tongues find each other, seek, cling. Naenoris’s hips move by instinct, grinding his hard length against Dorian’s. He moans into his mouth, startled by the intensity, but he doesn’t pull away. He does it again. He rubs, he takes, he gives, he dares. Dorian answers with a breath, a groan, hands gripping his ass, steadying but never steering.

Naenoris rides him slowly, their cocks pressed tightly together in a rhythm born of desire and deep respect. He pants, his brow furrowed with pleasure, eyes closed to feel more fully.

And with every roll of his hips, he frees a little more of what he once kept buried.

“You’re beautiful…” Dorian breathes, voice husky. “Look at yourself.”

Naenoris opens his eyes and locks them with his. He’s flushed with want, but shame no longer paints his cheeks. It’s desire. Acceptance. Life.

“I’m still afraid,” he admits between gasps.

“Then I’ll stay,” Dorian replies. “Until it fades. Until all that’s left is you. And me.”

They keep moving, bodies joined though not yet joined—already fused. It’s more than sex. It’s a rite of passage. An exorcism. A rebirth.

Naenoris moans again, stomach taut, his movements growing ragged. He’s so close. And this time, he doesn’t hide it. He grips Dorian’s hips with his thighs and leans forward, panting.

He allows himself. He feels. He lives.

And in the golden light of the room, between the crumpled folds of the sheets and the warm breath of the man beneath him, Naenoris is reborn.

--

https://archiveofourown.org/works/66077194/chapters/170282449

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Came back to the game after Patch 8 and met Rolan again. Still my favorite

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bros being bros

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I was craving drawing Jayce with flowers so I based it off the jayvik tattoo artist / florist AU Black Iris by TheTrickyOwl.

It was just supposed to be a doodle but I got carried away and drew a frame as well!

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[Friendly hissing]

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The Punishment | Pavellan +18

Arlen is from @lanaluuart ♡ don't hesitate to go and see her work ♡

--

The door clicked shut behind them, soft and final.

Dorian didn't notice.

He was already halfway through another rant, gesturing dramatically with one hand, the other pulling off his gloves as he paced the room.

“…and honestly, if you insist on keeping that ridiculous Ferelden noble around, don't be surprised when he decides to ‘honor duel’ the next ambassador who looks at you sideways,” he said with a roll of his eyes. “I mean, do you want a diplomatic incident?”

Arlen didn’t answer.

He stood by the door in complete silence, calm and still — too still. His gaze followed Dorian like a hunter would a creature that hadn't yet realized it was prey.

Dorian kept going, oblivious to the shift in the air.

“I mean, I get it, I do. The scruffy charm, the whole ‘loyal to a fault’ thing—some people find that attractive. Not me , of course. I prefer men who think with more than their swords—”

“Dorian.”

The name, spoken softly but with absolute weight, cut through the room like a blade.

Dorian froze mid-step. Slowly, he turned to face Arlen — and something in the look he saw stopped his usual smirk from forming.

That silence… That stillness…

Arlen was still by the door, removing his gloves with a deliberate slowness. First one, then the other. His eyes never left Dorian’s.

Dorian tried for levity.

“Oh, come now, don’t give me that look. You know I adore you. Even if your taste in advisors is occasionally—"

“Strip.”

The word landed in the air like a spell, spoken in that same calm, unshakable voice — but this time, it held no room for negotiation.

Dorian blinked.

“…Excuse me?”

Arlen stepped forward. One step. Then another. His presence was quiet, but every movement was charged. Deliberate. Controlled. Like a storm rolling in beneath the surface.

“I’ve let you run your mouth all day,” Arlen said, tone low and even. “Needling me. Undermining me. Testing just how far I’ll let you push.”

Another step.

“And now, here we are. Alone. Nowhere to run, no one to impress. So I’ll ask again, Dorian.”

He stopped barely a breath away from him. Dorian could feel the heat from his body. The intensity behind his calm.

“Strip.”

Dorian’s heart skipped a beat. His mouth opened — probably to quip, probably to deflect — but he said nothing. Not when he saw the look in Arlen’s eyes.

Not anger.

Worse.

Control. Total, terrifying, unshakable control.

And beneath it… something hungry.

“…you can’t be serious,” Dorian finally whispered, but his voice betrayed him — thin, breathless.

“I am,” Arlen replied. “Because I’ve been very patient with you today, and you’ve confused that for leniency.”

His hand rose — not to touch, not yet — but to tilt Dorian’s chin up with two fingers. His grip was gentle, but commanding.

“You think you’re in control, don’t you?” Arlen murmured. “That your words are just clever little distractions. But you’re wrong. I see right through you, Dorian Pavus.”

The sound of his full name sent a jolt down Dorian’s spine.

“You don’t get to use me to vent your fear, or your jealousy, or your guilt, and then pretend it’s all part of your wit.”

Silence fell again — except for the fire crackling in the hearth, and the sound of Dorian’s shallow breath.

“I missed you too, you know,” Arlen said, quieter now. “But I don’t whine about it. I do something about it.”

He stepped back, just enough to let Dorian move.

“One last chance, love,” he said, voice velvet and steel. “Take your clothes off. Or I do it for you.”

Dorian didn’t move.

But not because he refused.

He was trembling.

Not in fear — not quite. More like anticipation. Like a dam about to break.

When he reached for the buttons of his coat, his hands shook slightly.

Arlen smiled — not cruel, not mocking. Just… knowing.

The storm had started.

And Dorian had just stepped willingly into it.

Dorian’s coat slid from his shoulders in a slow cascade of velvet and silk, pooling at his feet like the remains of a crumbled defense.

His hands lingered at the hem of his tunic, hesitant now. No smirk. No clever quip. Just the quiet sound of his breathing — shallow, expectant — and the weight of Arlen’s gaze on him like a physical force.

Arlen didn’t rush him.

He didn’t need to.

The power had already shifted — not in a sudden flash, but in the gradual, unstoppable way that tides devour a shore. Dorian had handed it over, piece by piece, with every word he hadn’t said, every button he’d undone with trembling fingers.

But Arlen wasn’t done taking.

He stepped forward again, close enough for Dorian to smell the faint, familiar scent of him — leather, spice, something darker beneath. Arlen’s hands rose, firm and steady, guiding Dorian back by the hips until his legs touched the edge of the low chaise behind him.

“Sit,” Arlen murmured.

It wasn’t a request.

Dorian sank down without thinking, knees apart, breath caught between his teeth.

Arlen followed.

He didn’t loom — no, that would be too crude. Instead, he stood over him with quiet precision, looking down at Dorian like a king inspecting something precious, something his .

Then he leaned in, one hand braced on the chaise beside Dorian’s thigh, the other coming to cup his jaw, fingers pressing into that stubborn, angular face.

“Eyes on me.”

Dorian’s gaze flicked up, almost reluctantly — and Arlen caught it like a hook.

“You’re going to listen now,” Arlen said, voice low, but with unmistakable command. “ Without speaking .”

Dorian swallowed hard.

His mouth opened anyway — reflex, defiance, fear disguised as flirtation. “I suppose now’s the part where you tell me how I’ve been a very—”

The rest was devoured.

Arlen kissed him. Hard.

Not a soft meeting of lips. Not a question.

A claim .

Dorian made a sound — startled, muffled — and Arlen didn’t let up. He tilted his head just enough to deepen it, his fingers tightening at Dorian’s jaw to keep him where he wanted him.

Dorian’s hands clutched at Arlen’s shirt, unsure whether to pull him closer or push him back.

He never got the chance to decide.

Arlen broke the kiss with a drag of teeth against his lower lip, just enough to leave it red and raw.

Then he moved again.

With a subtle shift of weight, Arlen gripped Dorian’s shoulder and pushed — firm, steady, unrelenting — until Dorian’s back met the velvet upholstery of the chaise. Arlen hovered over him, knees on either side of his hips, caging him in place.

Dorian’s eyes fluttered open, dazed.

Arlen leaned in, brushing his nose against Dorian’s cheek, then whispered directly into his ear:

“You talk too much.”

His hand slid down, dragging the tips of his fingers along the exposed line of Dorian’s throat, down to his collarbone, pausing at the center of his chest.

A teasing brush.

A threat of more.

“But your body,” Arlen said, breath hot against his skin, “your body knows how to listen.”

Dorian exhaled sharply — and this time, he didn’t speak.

He couldn’t.

Not when Arlen’s hand slid lower, trailing over the thin fabric of his tunic, not when his other hand slipped around his waist to hold him still — gentle, possessive, inescapable.

The air between them was thick now — the scent of want, the tension of denial, the quiet, burning fury of desire too long contained.

Arlen watched every flicker of reaction — the twitch in Dorian’s throat, the way his hips shifted restlessly beneath him, the flush rising along his neck.

“You like being seen, don’t you?” Arlen said softly, brushing his lips across Dorian’s jaw. “But you like being undone even more.”

A pause.

Then a hand between Dorian’s thighs, pressing — not hard enough for release, but just enough to steal his breath.

Dorian whimpered. It was faint, like something he didn’t mean to let escape.

Arlen smiled against his skin.

“Good,” he murmured. “Now we can begin.”

Arlen didn’t say anything at first. Silence fell thick in the room after that last whispered taunt, Dorian’s breath catching between defiance and anticipation. Arlen stood close, close enough that Dorian could feel the heat of his body without the satisfaction of contact. That alone made Dorian’s hands twitch with the urge to grab, pull, provoke.

But Arlen’s eyes were steady. Sharp. Unmoving. He raised one brow slightly, as if testing him.

Then, with deliberate slowness, Arlen’s hand reached forward and undid the top clasp of Dorian’s robe. “You’ll stay still,” he said, voice like velvet pulled taut over steel. “You don’t move unless I tell you.”

Dorian almost rolled his eyes, the quip rising fast — something about tyrants and their taste for dramatics — but the moment Arlen’s fingers brushed the exposed skin of his chest, the words turned to ash in his throat. That light touch lingered at his sternum before trailing down, undressing him one layer at a time with maddening patience. Every movement was slow, measured, as if Arlen was savoring the reveal, making Dorian feel it with all his nerves.

When Arlen finally stepped back to take him in, Dorian's chest was bare, flushed. His breathing had already deepened. Arlen made a subtle motion. “Kneel.”

There was a pause — an almost imperceptible hesitation — but Dorian dropped down, controlled, elegant even in this. He kept his eyes fixed on Arlen’s boots until fingers slid into his hair and tilted his head up.

“I want you like this,” Arlen said, fingers tightening ever so slightly, “because I want to watch you fall apart.”

And then his mouth was on Dorian’s — not soft this time, but claiming, intense, swallowing the gasp Dorian gave. The kiss was all pressure and purpose, leaving no room for breath or thought. Dorian’s knees dug harder into the floor, balance tilting toward submission.

Arlen moved, guiding him down further. The bed wasn’t far, but he didn’t allow Dorian the comfort of it yet. He eased him back onto the rug, the rich weave of it rough under his spine. “Hands above your head,” Arlen murmured, already dragging a finger down the center of his torso. “Keep them there.”

The first touch was maddening — a slow drag of knuckles across his stomach, the ghost of a breath at his hip. Then a pause. Then a kiss, warm and lingering, just beneath the curve of his ribs. Dorian squirmed despite himself.

“I said still,” Arlen warned, and Dorian froze. His mouth opened, likely for another quip — but again, it didn’t come. Not when Arlen's fingers slid between his thighs, grazing without pressure, barely a whisper of touch where Dorian burned for more.

He hissed. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

Arlen smiled against his skin. “Of course I am.”

The teasing was relentless — lips brushing inner thighs, hands roaming up his sides, circling his nipples without quite touching them. And lower, so much lower, but never where Dorian needed. The tension climbed like fire under his skin. Arlen’s breath was hot near his cock, lips close enough to feel but never meet, and every time Dorian arched, hoping for contact, Arlen pulled away.

Dorian’s voice was still steady, biting — at first. “You're cruel,” he said with a strained grin. “You realize that?” But the edge in his voice cracked when Arlen licked a stripe just to the side of his shaft and didn’t return.

Minutes passed. Or hours. Dorian wasn’t sure anymore. He was trembling, slick with sweat, hips lifting involuntarily. His hands curled into the rug but never left the place they were told to stay.

When Arlen finally wrapped his hand around him — just once, slow and firm — Dorian gasped like a man drowning. “Still with me?” Arlen murmured, hand pausing. “Good. Look at me.”

Dorian didn’t. Couldn’t. His eyes flicked away, overwhelmed.

Arlen’s hand left him entirely.

“No—” Dorian’s breath hitched, the protest rising from instinct.

“Then look at me.”

There was silence. Just breathing. Then —

“I missed you,” Dorian choked out, voice cracking at the edges. “Damn it. I couldn’t take it anymore.”

Arlen looked at him — not with triumph, but something deeper. His eyes softened, though the heat behind them hadn’t dimmed. He leaned down and kissed Dorian, slow and consuming. Not as a reward — not entirely — but as a promise.

“Good,” he whispered against trembling lips. “Now let me show you how much I missed you too.”

Without another word, Arlen descended, trailing his mouth down Dorian’s body with reverence and hunger in equal measure. He paused at his sternum, his tongue dragging slowly over the salt of Dorian’s skin, mapping every line of tension he found. His hands slid along Dorian’s ribs, firm and grounding, until they reached his waist.

“Keep your hands where they are,” he murmured. “I don’t care if it kills you — don’t move them.”

Dorian clenched his fists above his head, fingers digging into the rug for something to hold on to. Every nerve in his body was raw, expectant. The order felt cruel — Arlen knew exactly how difficult it would be. But Dorian obeyed, even as his arms trembled from restraint.

Arlen kissed along his abdomen, open-mouthed and slow, and Dorian gasped, hips arching despite himself. The mage was flushed, his cock heavy and leaking, twitching with every breath. And still, Arlen avoided it — his mouth skimming along the edges, his hands caressing Dorian’s thighs, kneading them, spreading them wider as he breathed warm air over sensitive skin.

Dorian cursed aloud when Arlen kissed the crease of his thigh, so close and yet maddeningly off-course.

“Arlen—” he groaned, voice half-broken, “if you’re trying to destroy me—”

“I am,” Arlen said simply, eyes glinting as he finally wrapped a hand around the base of Dorian’s cock. “But gently.”

Then, with excruciating slowness, Arlen leaned in and pressed a single kiss to the head of his erection. Another along the shaft. Dorian whimpered. He couldn't help it — his legs shook, and his fists tightened until his knuckles went white.

When Arlen finally took him into his mouth, it was both salvation and torment. His tongue curled expertly, deliberately teasing rather than satisfying. He moved slowly — too slowly — letting Dorian feel the full heat, the pressure, the wet glide of every inch.

Dorian moaned, loud and helpless, voice no longer dressed in wit or resistance. His thighs twitched, hips stuttered, but he didn’t dare disobey. He couldn’t. The way Arlen’s mouth moved, slick and firm, drawing him in only to let him slip free again — it was unbearable.

Then Arlen’s hands came into play. They slid beneath, cupping the weight of Dorian’s balls, thumbs stroking delicately at first, then more firmly. He rolled them slowly in his palms, fingers pressing gently, then squeezing — just enough to make Dorian writhe, to drive gasps from him like pleas.

Each motion was precise. Methodical. Designed to reduce him.

Dorian was shaking by the time Arlen deep-throated him fully, a slow inhale matching the downward glide of his mouth, taking him all the way in with dismaying ease. The mage’s back arched involuntarily, a sharp cry leaving his lips as Arlen held him there — warm, tight, swallowing around him.

And then pulled back. All the way. Leaving him empty. Denied.

“F-fuck,” Dorian whispered, sweat curling at his temples, his body a taut wire of sensation. “Please…”

But Arlen only smiled, voice rough with want as he rasped, “Not yet.”

He moved up, crawling slowly over Dorian’s body until he straddled him, still fully dressed, towering above his trembling, spent lover. Dorian’s hands were still above his head, shaking now, desperation bleeding through every muscle.

Arlen kissed his throat, his jaw, his ear. “You’ve been very good,” he murmured. “So don’t move now.”

Then he began undressing himself — piece by piece. Not hurriedly, not hungrily. With intent. He made sure Dorian watched — stripping himself bare above him while Dorian was denied even the privilege of touch.

Dorian’s eyes burned with longing. Every breath he took sounded like it cost him something. And when Arlen’s cock was finally freed, heavy and flushed, Dorian let out a sound between awe and frustration.

Arlen chuckled low in his throat and wrapped his hand around himself. “You look like you’re dying.”

“I am,” Dorian rasped. “Do something about it.”

“I am,” Arlen echoed, and began to stroke himself — slow, controlled — right above Dorian’s heaving chest.

The mage made a strangled sound. He arched, wanting so badly to touch, to grab, to flip him and take control back. But his arms remained where they were, trembling with effort, the command burned into his nerves. Arlen watched him — devoured the way Dorian broke apart beneath him — as he pumped himself steadily, hips rolling with quiet restraint.

Every now and then, he leaned down to kiss Dorian’s mouth or jaw, but never allowed contact below the chest. Just his voice and the sight of him, flushed and aroused, pleasuring himself atop the man he’d dismantled.

“You begged so sweetly,” Arlen murmured. “But you still don’t get to come until I say so.”

Dorian whimpered again — pride long since discarded — and Arlen groaned softly at the sight of him: helpless, ruined, obeying. Still not touched. Still not finished. Still not free. And yet — utterly his.

Arlen let the moment stretch, basking in the control, the unbearable tension between their bodies. Still straddling Dorian’s hips, he began to move — slowly at first, just a lazy roll of his hips against nothing, his cock leaking precome across Dorian’s skin. Then again, with more urgency, more sound.

He let himself moan, let his breath hitch in a way he knew would drive Dorian mad. His hands roamed his own body shamelessly, dragging across his abdomen, his nipples, before settling back on himself, stroking slowly in full view of the man beneath him.

Dorian looked wrecked. Sweat clung to his temples. His arms trembled from keeping them in place above his head. His cock twitched helplessly with every one of Arlen’s sounds, every rock of his hips. His jaw was clenched tight — not from pride, but from desperation.

“Fuck, Arlen…” he rasped, breath shallow.

Arlen only smiled, then leaned forward — close enough that Dorian could feel the warmth of his breath, the tease of skin, but still no contact.

“You want to make yourself useful, don’t you?” he whispered. “You want to be good for me.”

Dorian blinked up at him, suspicion and hunger warring across his features. “What are you—”

But Arlen was already moving, shifting up his body with deliberate slowness, lifting himself so that his knees bracketed Dorian’s shoulders. He looked down at him, eyes gleaming with heat and challenge.

“Lick me,” he said, voice low and firm. “Now.”

Dorian groaned — more from frustration than resistance — but obeyed. Of course he did. He tilted his head, lips parting, and Arlen settled gently above him, careful not to press down too hard, to give just enough weight without suffocating.

The first touch of Dorian’s tongue drew a shudder from Arlen’s entire body. His thighs tensed. His fingers twitched at his sides. And Dorian, ever the perfectionist, didn’t stop at a hesitant lick. He got to work.

He dragged his tongue deliberately between Arlen’s cheeks, slick and firm, circling the tight ring of muscle before dipping the tip in. Arlen gasped, hips jolting involuntarily — and Dorian chuckled breathlessly beneath him.

“Still smug?” Arlen growled, though it came out shaky.

Instead of answering, Dorian doubled down — teasing with slow, open-mouthed licks, his tongue tracing maddening circles before pushing inside again, deeper this time. His breath was hot, damp, and unrelenting, and his tongue moved with purpose — coaxing and tasting and fucking Arlen with every motion.

Arlen groaned, back arching, his cock now painfully hard and untouched. The feeling of Dorian’s mouth, Dorian’s tongue, obedient and devoted — it was almost too much. He looked down, eyes wild, and saw Dorian’s arms still stretched obediently above his head, though trembling more violently now.

That wouldn’t do. He wanted to see them tied. Owned.

With one hand bracing himself, Arlen reached to the side, fumbling across the floor until his fingers brushed leather — the discarded belt from earlier. His heart pounded as he looped it quickly around Dorian’s wrists, jerking his arms together above his head and pulling the knot tight.

Dorian broke away from his task just long enough to glare. “Really?” he panted, lips wet and chin slick.

Arlen chuckled darkly. “You looked like you needed help remembering your place.”

Dorian gritted his teeth — but then Arlen rocked his hips down again, and the mage gave a muffled, guttural moan as his mouth was claimed once more. He resumed his work with less finesse, more urgency — tongue plunging deeper, pushing in with every stroke while Arlen writhed and gasped above him, one hand fisting in Dorian’s hair, the other gripping his tied wrists.

Arlen was shaking now — undone, overwhelmed. Each flick of Dorian’s tongue made his breath stutter. Each slow grind sent bolts of pleasure through him, and still he held back . Still he waited .

Finally — just when he could no longer bear the tight coil in his belly, the ragged edge of pleasure — he pulled away, legs trembling, his cock flushed and dripping.

He slid down Dorian’s body and crushed their mouths together — brutal, desperate, unyielding. There was no preamble, no warning. Just heat, tongue, and teeth. His hands tangled in Dorian’s curls, holding him in place as their mouths collided in a kiss that was all hunger, all possessiveness.

Dorian groaned against his mouth, tasting himself faintly on Arlen’s tongue. His arms were bound, his body wrecked, but he kissed back just as fiercely, arching against Arlen, lost in the storm of it. No words passed between them — not yet. Just gasps. Mouths. Breath. A war of tongues where there was no winner — only surrender. And neither of them wanted it to end.

Arlen finally broke the kiss, lips swollen, breath ragged. He looked down at Dorian like a man starved — ravenous and reverent all at once. Then, slowly, he slid back down Dorian’s body, his thighs gliding along damp skin until he was perched just above the mage’s flushed, twitching cock.

Dorian made a soft, strangled noise when he felt Arlen settle above him — the heat of him, the tease of proximity, unbearable. His hips bucked instinctively, but Arlen tutted, placing one firm hand on Dorian’s stomach to hold him still.

“Patience,” Arlen murmured, voice thick with control — but also with need, barely restrained. “You don’t get to rush this.”

He let his hips dip, the underside of Dorian’s cock dragging along the cleft of his ass, making them both shudder. He began to move — slow, deliberate rolls that ground Dorian’s cock against him with maddening friction. Back and forth, again and again, teasing his rim with every motion but never giving in.

Arlen bit his lip, trying to hold in the sounds that threatened to escape — but it was impossible. The heat, the stretch of it, the way Dorian felt under him, leaking and desperate, made it impossible to pretend he was unaffected.

He moaned, quiet at first, then louder, as he kept rocking his hips — chasing friction, letting his body speak what his pride tried to deny.

“Fuck, Dorian…” he gasped, his head falling forward. “You feel so good like this. So hard for me. Gods, I can feel how much you want it.”

Dorian could only moan in return, hands flexing uselessly against the belt that bound them above his head. His whole body trembled beneath Arlen — and still, he hadn’t been allowed release. Still, he was at the edge.

And Arlen was grinding on him like he needed it just as badly — like he was seconds from breaking.

“I can’t—” Arlen began, breath catching. “I need —”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

Instead, he reached down, braced himself with one hand on Dorian’s chest, and positioned himself. A shiver rippled through him as the head of Dorian’s cock pressed against his entrance, slick with precome, warm and solid and right .

He closed his eyes.

And then — with a slow, careful motion — he sank down.

Dorian gasped, loudly, his head falling back against the mattress with a dull thud as he exhaled a guttural, “ Finally. ”

His voice was thick with relief and disbelief, like he’d been holding back for hours, maybe longer. Like the feeling of Arlen taking him in — warm, tight, excruciatingly slow — shattered what little control he had left.

Arlen let out a trembling breath, his thighs trembling as he adjusted, easing down inch by inch until Dorian was fully sheathed inside him. He sat there a moment, unmoving, breathing deeply, his hands now planted on Dorian’s chest as if to ground himself.

“Look at you,” Arlen murmured, his voice lower now, darker. “Completely at my mercy. Tied down, trembling, buried inside me — and still not allowed to come.”

Dorian whimpered, eyes fluttering open, hazy and glassy. “Please, Arlen…”

Arlen chuckled softly, starting to move — just a little, rocking his hips forward and back, slow and deliberate, tightening around him.

“Don’t beg yet. We’ve barely started.”

He moved again, rolling his hips with more confidence now, setting a pace that was torturously slow but deep, every downward stroke making Dorian groan through clenched teeth.

“You feel so good,” Arlen whispered, leaning in so their foreheads touched. “Stretching me open so perfectly. You love this, don’t you? Being used. Owned.”

Dorian moaned again, hips jerking despite himself, but Arlen pressed him down with one hand.

“No,” he warned. “You move when I say.”

He began to ride him more deliberately now, letting his body take over, the heat between them thick and endless. His own cock bobbed between them, flushed and dripping, but he didn’t touch it. All his pleasure came from the connection — from the way Dorian filled him, the way the mage obeyed, the way he broke apart beneath him.

“You’re not going to come,” Arlen whispered again, a grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Not until I’ve made you scream for it.” And Dorian, lips parted, eyes wide, bound and utterly his — could only moan in answer.

Arlen held that gaze a second longer, before his hand slid down between their bodies. His fingers wrapped around his own cock, already leaking from the prolonged stimulation, and he exhaled a long, shaky breath as he gave himself a stroke.

The jolt of pleasure made his hips falter, his thighs tremble.

Still, he rode Dorian slowly — up, down, a maddening pace, as if the whole world had narrowed down to this: the thick press of Dorian inside him, the way his own hand worked his length, and the sounds Dorian made each time his body squeezed tighter around him.

It was overwhelming. Perfect. Addictive.

But too much restraint had been stacked on top of need — and eventually, it cracked.

Arlen let out a sharp moan, his breath hitching as his hand moved faster, almost frantic, slick with precome. Then, all at once, he dropped down onto Dorian with force, driving himself down with a brutal snap of his hips that made Dorian cry out loud, head jerking back.

“F-Fuck—!” Dorian gasped, as Arlen’s body slammed down onto him again, harder this time. “Arlen—!”

But Arlen didn’t answer. He was gone to it — lost in the pace, in the hunger. His rhythm became savage, unrelenting, hips pistoning with wet, obscene sounds filling the space between their gasps.

Every time Arlen came down, he ground himself deeper, angled just right — and Dorian arched helplessly beneath him as his prostate was struck, again and again.

Dorian was trembling, ruined, barely coherent.

He wanted everything . To touch Arlen, to devour him with his mouth, to worship him with his hands, to fuck up into him without restraint. But all he could do was pull at the belt binding his wrists, muscles flexing uselessly as frustration and pleasure burned through him in equal measure.

“Please—” he gasped. “Let me—Arlen—fuck, please— ”

Arlen leaned down over him, hips never ceasing. His free hand braced against Dorian’s chest, using him for leverage as he ground down harder, faster, letting Dorian go as deep as his body could take him.

He was moaning now without shame, loud and wanton, his voice breaking around Dorian’s name.

“You love this,” Arlen groaned, riding him mercilessly. “You love watching me fall apart on your cock. You’d give anything to touch me right now, wouldn’t you?”

Dorian whimpered, his head thrashing on the pillow.

“You can’t. You don’t get to. You just lie there and take it.”

Another thrust — hard enough to make Dorian curse.

“ Feel how deep you are,” Arlen growled, slamming down again. “You’re filling me so good I can barely think. All I want is more.”

He leaned closer, chest flush against Dorian’s, cock grinding between them, trapped and aching. His own hand was still moving in jerks, less controlled now, erratic with the approach of climax.

His rhythm faltered just a moment — and then redoubled, as if something primal inside him had snapped.

Arlen moaned loudly, head bowed against Dorian’s shoulder, panting against his skin as he fucked himself harder, using Dorian’s body like it was his to command — because it was.

“You’re mine, ” Arlen growled into Dorian’s ear, voice thick and wrecked. “You’ll come when I tell you. Not a second before.”

They stayed like that for a while — a frenzy of skin and sweat and sound — as Arlen fucked himself deeper, faster, harsher, his thighs trembling with effort, his voice reduced to broken, breathless moans. His hand was still wrapped around his cock, tight and slick, and every downward grind pushed him closer to the edge.

Dorian was a wreck beneath him. Bound, sweating, flushed all over. He could barely form words now, only strangled sounds — pleading, gasping, worshipping. His whole body shuddered with need, hips jerking uselessly, cock straining with desperate arousal that had been denied too long.

“Arlen— please—” he begged, voice hoarse. “I need— I can’t —”

But Arlen didn’t slow down.

Didn’t show him mercy.

He rode Dorian harder instead, hips slamming down in rhythm with the strokes of his hand, chasing his own high like a man starved. He was feral with it — devouring the moment, feeding off the feeling of Dorian deep inside him, his prostate battered, his body alight with every overstimulated nerve.

And then — A sob. A moan. A final shudder.

He came with a cry, throwing his head back, spilling over his own fingers and Dorian’s chest. His muscles locked as his orgasm tore through him, hot and violent, waves crashing, taking him under. He didn’t stop moving. Even as he came, his hips kept working, slower but no less deliberate, milking every second of it.

His body trembled violently above Dorian’s, jaw slack, breaths ripped straight from his lungs.

But he wasn’t finished. Not yet.

He kept grinding, riding it out — dragging Dorian with him toward the brink.

The mage whimpered beneath him, almost delirious. His cock throbbed between their slick, messy bodies, his balls drawn up tight, the heat in him unbearable.

And just when Arlen could feel the edge in him — the way Dorian’s whole body seized, the trembling tension in his bound arms, the helpless gasp of release—

He pulled off. Clean. Sharp. Cruel.

“ Fuck! ” Dorian howled, his voice ragged, his body convulsing at the loss of sensation.

Arlen, still flushed and glowing from orgasm, smirked as he slid down Dorian’s body.

“Uh-uh,” he tutted, his voice low, taunting. “I said when, not if. You don’t get to come in me. Not tonight.”

Dorian let out a sound between a sob and a growl — but Arlen was already between his legs, already pushing his thighs apart and crawling down his body with that same, maddening calm.

He licked a lazy stripe up Dorian’s cock, still painfully hard and twitching, then pressed a kiss to the head.

“Now,” Arlen purred, eyes flicking up to meet Dorian’s, “you’re going to come like this. Down my throat. Like a good boy.”

He didn’t wait for a reply — didn’t need one.

Arlen wrapped his lips around the head of Dorian’s cock and sucked. Slow at first, just pressure and heat, teasing him until Dorian was whining, hips arching up again without control. His hands strained against the belt binding them, knuckles white, entire body fighting restraint.

Then Arlen swallowed him deeper. Took him whole.

Dorian let out a guttural cry, his hips bucking — but Arlen held him down, strong hands pressing against his thighs to keep him still.

He worked him expertly, dragging his tongue along the underside, cheeks hollowing with every bob of his head. Every noise he made — every wet, obscene suck — only pushed Dorian further into madness. And the dirty things Arlen mumbled between breaths only made it worse:

“You taste so good…” “So fucking needy…” “You’re going to fill my throat, aren’t you? Be good for me.”

Dorian couldn’t hold on.

He shattered.

With a sharp cry and a desperate lurch forward, he came in Arlen’s mouth, deep and hot, pouring down his throat in pulsing waves. Arlen didn’t flinch — just moaned low and filthy, letting it happen, swallowing greedily, taking every drop like it was exactly what he’d wanted all along.

When it was over, he pulled off slowly, licking his lips with a wicked gleam in his eyes.

Dorian was boneless, panting, bound and utterly ruined — eyes blown wide, lips parted, a dazed, desperate kind of bliss carved across his features.

Arlen leaned up, wiping a smear of spit from the corner of his mouth, and whispered:

“Told you I’d make you scream for it.”

Dorian was quiet now — too quiet.

His chest rose and fell in uneven waves, breath slowly returning to something close to normal, though his limbs still trembled faintly, his body too drained to move. He lay there, bound and utterly undone, skin slick with sweat, flushed and spent. Every inch of him sang with the ghost of sensation: the burn, the stretch, the wet heat of Arlen's mouth. The way he’d been denied, commanded, devoured.

Arlen watched him for a moment, drinking it in — the raw beauty of it. The way Dorian wore ruin like velvet. So open. So real. So his.

But then he softened.

The teasing glint in his eyes faded to something gentler, quieter. Reverent.

He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to Dorian’s shoulder, then to the hollow of his throat, murmuring something indecipherable against his skin. Then slowly, carefully, he reached for the belt binding Dorian’s wrists and loosened it.

The leather fell away with a soft thump.

Dorian’s arms dropped limply, and for a heartbeat he didn’t move. Then, wordless, he reached up — not with force, but with need — and buried his fingers in Arlen’s hair, clinging loosely. His other arm wrapped shakily around Arlen’s back as though to ground himself. He pulled him close, pressing his face into Arlen’s chest, breath shaky, lashes fluttering closed.

Arlen let him.

No more games. No more orders. Just warmth, skin against skin, the grounding rhythm of a heartbeat beneath his cheek.

He held Dorian tightly, curling his body protectively around him, one hand cradling the back of his head, fingers gently threading through dark curls. The other ghosted down his back, up again, soothing. Like waves against sand.

“You did so well,” Arlen murmured, barely audible. He kissed his temple. “So fucking good for me.”

Dorian didn’t answer. He only pressed closer, curling into the safety of the moment, the quiet aftermath where nothing was expected of him.

Arlen shifted slowly, reaching for a clean cloth he’d tossed aside earlier. With careful, unhurried hands, he cleaned Dorian — tenderly wiping away the sweat, the come, the mess of their pleasure. Every motion was gentle, almost worshipful, as though he were tending something fragile.

Dorian flinched a little at first — sensitivity making him twitch — but he didn’t protest. He only let Arlen care for him, let the warmth of those practiced fingers and quiet breaths bring him back to himself.

And when it was done — when they were both clean, and the fever of their bodies had cooled into something slower, deeper — Arlen lay down beside him again, tugging a soft blanket over them both.

Dorian buried himself in the warmth of him immediately, face still half-hidden against Arlen’s chest, his breath ghosting against skin.

They lay there for long minutes in silence.

Not awkward. Not empty.

Just full of everything that didn’t need to be said aloud.

Eventually, Dorian stirred.

“ You drive me crazy, ” he muttered against Arlen’s chest, voice thick and low. Not accusatory. Not even truly annoyed. Just… resigned. Like someone who had fought and lost, and was secretly glad for it.

Arlen let out a soft laugh, the kind that rumbled low and fond. He kissed Dorian’s hair, his smile curling against a dark curl near his temple.

“And you,” he murmured, “need to be reminded who you belong to.”

Dorian huffed against him, but didn’t move away. If anything, he pressed closer — his hand sliding along Arlen’s ribs, fingers resting right over his heart.

“I let you win, you know,” he said eventually, tired pride flaring in his tone.

“Mhm,” Arlen replied, dragging his nails gently along Dorian’s spine, making him shiver. “Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart.”

Dorian didn’t answer.

But his sigh, quiet and satisfied, spoke volumes.

They stayed like that — tangled, warm, safe — long into the night. Until the sweat dried. Until the pulse slowed. Until the stars shifted and the world returned to silence.

And even then… neither of them let go.

--

Thanks for reading, feel free to follow me : **art credits to Lana**

instagram @/murrqiyu twitter (x) @/naerian17s bluesky @/lattedruid.bsky.social

my OS commissions are open, so don't hesitate to contact me :)

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Touched up this old sketch I really liked.

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Third one done! Five more to go 🫡

Thank you @mumms-the-word so much for commissioning me to draw your warden Nyssa!! Suranas will always have an important place in my heart, and making a matching portrait to Alistair's was such a good time 🥹💕

[f4iryt3a]

Bg3's beloved bard!

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They're jousting.

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It's fun for me to watch myself get comfortable with drawing Clover, especially how his hair evolved from baldur's gate factory model to 60s animated dark fantasy princess

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What I'm not saying | Blackwall*Inquisitor +18

Esdras is from @/Destiiner (twt) don't hesitate to go and see her work ♡

--

Skyhold was sleeping. A feigned, light sleep, thick with whispers behind the walls and heavy memories. The snow, fine and insistent, covered the rooftops in a pale, silent veil, making the night feel even denser. Everything seemed frozen. Even the torches appeared to burn more slowly.

Esdras walked the empty corridors, arms crossed beneath her cloak, her steps straight and measured as always. She hadn’t screamed, nor cried, nor let herself tremble when he came back. She had looked at him with the same calm expression she wore for war reports and diplomatic decisions. The expression of a woman who knew how to keep the world at bay. An Inquisitor, cold and composed, her gaze as sharp as the blade at her hip.

But inside, it was a desert. A chaos frozen in salt.

She hadn’t let herself think of it since his return. Not really. She had run into Thom once, by chance — if there was such a thing as chance in Skyhold — in the courtyard. He had greeted her with a nod. She had said nothing. She had felt her heart slow down. Not race — slow, as if it suddenly refused to beat for someone who had worn another name.

But that was wrong, wasn’t it? He wasn’t another man. Not an invention. Not an illusion. It was him. It was his hands, his voice, that ever-so-slightly pained look he gave her, as if he were waiting for her to vanish.

And that was the cruellest part: he believed she had only loved a name. A façade. He didn’t know. He didn’t understand. He had never understood that everything he had been — the silences, the absences, the shame, even the lies — all of it had already been seen. Weighed. Loved.

And she didn’t know how to tell him.

She came to his door. Out of habit, almost. As if her feet had led her there without her say. The light was faint beneath the threshold. He was still awake. Of course he was. He was like her. He thought too much.

She lifted her hand. Stopped.

The Inquisitor never hesitated. She was the one who decided. Who cut through. Who faced dragons and demons with the same calm. And yet, there she was, standing before a wooden door, her fist suspended in the air.

And then… the door opened.

He was there. Barefoot. Hair tousled. In a simple shirt, the sleeves rolled up. His eyes landed on her like a breath caught in the throat. He didn’t seem surprised. Just… worn. As though seeing her there was both a miracle and a punishment.

— Esdras, he said softly.

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t.

She looked at him for a long while, and he didn’t look away. He didn’t try to explain. Not tonight. There was no more space for words.

She stepped over the threshold.

And the door closed behind her.

The door shut with a dull sound, cutting off the cold breath of the corridor. Inside, it was warmer — not really because of the fire, which burned low in the hearth — but because of him. Because of her. Because of everything they hadn’t said. Everything that had been stifled for months, perhaps since the very beginning.

Esdras remained standing, stiff, arms still crossed, her face smooth as marble. No sign. No word. But her eyes remained fixed on him. On Thom. On the man she had loved without ever saying “I love you.” On the one she had chosen in spite of herself, in spite of the world, in spite of her own silence.

He hadn’t moved. He didn’t need to. She was there. And that alone was enough to shake the ground beneath his feet.

He looked at her with that intensity only he could summon: direct, bare, almost painful. The look of a man who expected nothing, but hoped for everything. He had always worn shame like a coat too heavy for him, even before he’d confessed the truth. Even when he was still just “Blackwall.”

— You might never have come, he said at last, voice rough.

It wasn’t an accusation, nor regret. Just a fact. Just an emptiness between them.

She inclined her head slightly. Not a word.

— I’d understand, he added after a moment. If you don’t trust me anymore. If you feel nothing now...

This time, she moved. Slowly. One step towards him.

He fell silent.

Her gaze remained hard, steady, but her hands betrayed what she held in — they were trembling. Just a little. But enough for him to see.

She would not contradict him. Not now. She wouldn’t reopen that wound with words. The Inquisitor didn’t explain herself. She acted. She held back. Until she couldn’t anymore.

And now, she couldn’t.

Her fingers slowly undid her cloak. A simple gesture. Controlled. Almost military. The cloth dropped to the wooden floor with a muffled sound. Then she stepped forward again, twice. He could feel her presence, feel the tension in every inch of her frame, and despite himself, he stiffened. Not from fear. But from that old instinct — the one that told you not to believe when something was freely given.

— Esdras… he murmured, uncertain.

She looked up at him. Just for a second. And in that single glance, he saw everything: the pain, the exhaustion, the restrained anger, the love, the loyalty. The longing. And that need splitting her open from the inside, the one she had denied for so long — for duty, for order, for the Inquisition and all it stood for.

But now, all that remained was him.

At last, she reached out. Her palm brushed his chest, where the thin shirt allowed the warmth of his skin to seep through. And Thom didn’t move. It felt as though even the slightest breath would shatter the moment.

But it was she who trembled.

— What I loved… what I love, she whispered at last, her voice barely audible, is you.

Her fingers clutched lightly at his shirt.

— Not your name. Not your mask. You.

He inhaled sharply, almost as if she had struck him.

And then, he dared. He raised a hand, very slowly, and placed it against her cheek. She didn’t pull away. In fact, she closed her eyes.

He touched her like something long lost. A forgotten skin, a hoped-for breath. And in that dense silence, in that fragile contact, there were no more masks, no war, no betrayal.

There was only them.

She opened her eyes, sought his mouth, and kissed him.

Not a staged kiss. Not a kiss of confession. A deep, wordless kiss, full of urgency, of questions and answers. He responded with the same restrained intensity, the same aching belief that she might never have come back. His hand slid to her nape, into her hair, and he pulled her closer.

She pressed against him, her body taut like a drawn bowstring. Nothing was gentle — not yet. Everything was tension, and restraint, and a bridled need.

They barely broke apart to breathe. Their foreheads rested together. Her breath on his skin. Her hands on his chest like an anchor. His at her waist, at the base of her spine.

They didn’t speak.

They didn’t need to.

What she had said was everything. And what would follow was the natural consequence of that truth.

She held him back.

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t thought through. It wasn’t even entirely intentional — but her hand caught his, without force, without plea. Just enough to keep him from leaving too soon.

And he understood.

He stepped closer again, slowly, without breaking eye contact. He didn’t touch her otherwise. He let her choose. It was she who lifted her hand to brush his cheek, hesitant, almost trembling. Her glove was rough against his skin, but her hand itself was incredibly soft.

She looked at him as if standing on the edge of something. Not a void — more like a line. A boundary she had always respected, always protected. He could see in the tension of her jaw that she might retreat.

But she didn’t.

He said nothing either. He leaned in, just slightly — not in supplication, but in patience. In certainty. Their faces drew closer. It was she who bridged the last few millimetres. The kiss was dry, clumsy, misaligned.

It was devastating.

She pulled back almost immediately, as if caught doing something forbidden, eyes wide, breath tight. He didn’t stop her, but she didn’t push him away either. And it was she, again, who returned — a second kiss, this time slower. Truer.

They searched for each other in the too-full silence. She pulled him towards her with a short, quick, almost brutal motion. Her arms around his neck, her lips on his with a restrained hunger. And he answered without resistance, following the motion like water flowing down the bed of a river it already knew.

Her coat fell. His shirt was unbuttoned by an unsteady hand. He let her. It wasn’t lust — not only. It was something deeper. More desperate.

When he held her in his arms, she was stiff as a blade. But she didn’t let go. Her face was buried in the curve of his shoulder, and her breath hitched there, hot and shallow and tense. She was allowing herself. Yielding an inch.

And that was already an earthquake.

He stroked her nape with the tips of his fingers, through her hair, and she let out a low, rasping sigh that made his chest tremble.

She pushes him back slightly, just to look at him properly. And without a word, she pulls off the tunic she’s still wearing. Slowly. Not to seduce. To reveal. To shed. To show herself. There’s a trembling shadow of defiance in her gaze, laced with the fear of being judged.

But he says nothing. He looks at her the way a man looks at a scar he cherishes.

And it’s she who comes back to him again.

She makes him sit on the edge of the bed. Frames him with her legs, forcing him to look up at her. She undoes her braid with a nervous flick of her fingers, trembling slightly. Her hair falls—not in a cascade, but in messy strands. Damp. Human.

She leans in. Their foreheads touch.

She breathes, almost voiceless:

 — I’ve never known how to do this gently.

He replies against her mouth:

 — Then do it the way you can.

And she kisses him again, this time lower. Her lips seek his throat, his shoulder. Her hands glide over his chest, both sure and hesitant. And every touch speaks louder than any confession: I want, I fear, I don’t know, but I’m here.

When he slides his hands over her hips, she doesn’t pull away. When he undoes the buckle of her trousers, she says nothing. When he gently eases her back onto the bed, it’s she who draws him in, a leg sliding against his, her breath quick, her body already taut.

The fire crackles softly in the hearth. It casts long shadows across the walls. The world feels distant, blurred, unreal. Only the two of them remain. And this restraint, on the verge of breaking.

He looks at her one last time. Makes sure. Silently.

She nods. Just once.

He kisses her first. Tenderly. Like sealing a promise.

His lips press softly against Esdras’s, and she answers with a warmth she no longer tries to hide. A quiet sigh escapes her throat as he breaks the kiss, slowly, his eyes still open—still fixed on her, as if trying to remember her in every moment.

Then he drifts to her neck.

His mouth finds the tender spot just beneath her jaw, leaves a kiss just a touch deeper, before moving on. He tastes her skin like a starving man who knows there’s no need to rush—every gesture measured, every caress considered. His tongue draws a warm path along her throat, then across her collarbones, which he explores with deliberate slowness.

She tilts her head back slightly, her eyelids heavy, lips parted. It’s not full surrender—not yet. But her breath quickens, barely audible. Her fingers speak for her. They reach for Thom’s thick curls, slipping into them, gripping gently. She tugs, just a little, as if urging him on—or maybe to keep herself grounded.

Thom moves lower, his mouth growing bolder, more playful. He alternates light nips with long strokes of his tongue. She shivers, but doesn’t moan—still holding on to control, or trying to. Yet her body betrays her: her hips shift beneath his, seeking contact, firmer pressure.

When his mouth reaches her breasts, he slows again. He cradles them in his broad hands, palms warm, thumbs tracing their curves like a devoted craftsman. Then, he takes one into his mouth, suckling gently, his tongue circling the hardened peak.

Esdras arches just a little, but her legs tighten around Thom’s hips, and her fingers tangle more insistently in his hair. She fights herself. She doesn’t want to yield to sound. Not yet. Not now.

But he’s driving her mad.

He takes his time, moving between her breasts with maddening patience, licking, teasing, sometimes biting just enough to tear a breathy gasp from her that she can’t suppress. He feels her skin shiver beneath him, her thighs tremble faintly.

And still, it’s she who decides.

She pushes him back—not roughly, but firmly. A flat press of the hand to his shoulder, and he understands. He lets her, docile, a shadow of a smile on his lips.

Esdras straddles him in a fluid, almost impatient movement. Her knees settle on either side of his thighs, and now she towers over him, a proud figure in the flickering firelight. Her hair, undone, drapes over her shoulders. Her chest rises and falls quickly, and her eyes are twin shards of night.

Thom says nothing. He watches her like a vision. His hands move to her hips—he can’t help it, they call to him—and his fingers settle there with possessive gentleness. He kneads them slowly, in time with the subtle roll of her hips.

She has taken control.

And he gives it to her.

His mouth seeks her breasts again, but it’s she who decides the where, the when. She leans forward, back arched — and he understands the moment belongs to her. And beneath his hands, she burns.

Thom watches her, breathless, as she settles above him — proud, composed, beautifully in command. His gaze meets Esdras’s, and in her eyes he sees that restrained, almost fierce gentleness she shows no one else. The part of her she offers only to him. She leans down again — not with urgent passion, but with a tenderness that borders on solemn. Esdras presses a kiss to his forehead, light, almost chaste. Then another to his temple. His cheek. Just beneath his jaw. She takes her time, as he had done for her. It is her way of responding, of giving back, of showing that she sees him — that she knows him.

Her lips continue their journey across his tanned, marked, beloved skin. She moves lower, kissing each scar she encounters, each ridge of muscle beneath her hands. Her mouth lingers in the hollow of his collarbone, where his pulse thrums wild beneath her fingers. Then on his left pectoral, where she plants a longer kiss, firmer, almost reverent.

She knows he’s trembling beneath her. She feels it — the twitch of his muscles, the subtle spasms of his abdomen when she brushes her fingertips across his skin. He’s taut with tension, drawn like a bowstring, each breath sharper than the last. And she delights in it, quietly.

Her kisses grow more playful. She nips at the hair on his chest, runs her tongue down his sternum, eyes lifted to watch his reactions. He barely makes a sound — but she hears everything. The tension in his throat, the breath he holds. He is aching to let go, aching to be touched, to be loved.

Her left hand travels down his side, then across his stomach. Her fingers delve into the thick trail of hair leading down to his hips. She caresses lightly with her nails, carving lines that make his abdomen shiver beneath her.

He groans this time. Softly. But it’s a groan nonetheless. And when she finally brushes against the erection straining desperately beneath the fabric, he gasps — his head tipping back against the makeshift bed, a sound escaping him that’s rough, almost pained.

— Esdras…He doesn’t beg often. It’s not in his nature. But now, there’s no mask, no pretence. He wants her, he craves her, and it’s nearly a plea — not just for pleasure, but for connection. For her to keep giving him what she’s offering without a word.

She chuckles softly — that rare, warm sound that seems to exist only in the intimacy they share. She loves seeing him like this: vulnerable, laid bare, cheeks flushed, breath unsteady. She loves making him wait — but never too long. Just enough to watch him melt beneath her touch.

She removes what little fabric remains between them — gently, with no fuss, no haste. And then finally, her hand wraps around him.

She touches him with exquisite care. Her fingers curl around him, stroking slowly, sensually. Her warm palm glides from base to tip in a lazy rhythm that makes him tremble at once. His hips jerk upwards of their own accord, and his hands clutch at the blanket beneath him. He moans — clearly, openly. His mouth falls open in a silent cry as his head tilts back.

Esdras watches the response with quiet delight glinting in her eyes. He’s in her hands — quite literally — and she knows exactly what to do. She adjusts the pressure, the rhythm, listens to every sigh, every call from his body.

She loves seeing him like this. Loving someone like Thom means loving his strength — but also his cracks. And here, beneath her, he is the man she loves: bare, tender, and beautiful in his surrender.

He is little more than a whisper now, panting her name like a prayer. And she fully intends to make him wait a little longer.

Esdras slowly trails back up Thom’s body, leaving a warm path of kisses and caresses along his skin. She rises just enough to meet his gaze — that gaze that always burns for her. Then she leans in, gently, her lips finding his in a kiss that begins tender — then deepens, more demanding.

Their breaths mingle, their rhythms align. Esdras parts her lips beneath Thom’s — their tongues seeking, finding, beginning that hot, hungry dance that belongs only to them. A muffled moan slips from between their joined mouths. She feels his hands at her hips, her thighs — then one of them slides lower, steady and assured, almost tender.

Thom knows what he’s doing. He knows where to touch her. He knows how her body responds — how she always holds back, just a little, even in pleasure — how she wrestles with surrendering too soon.

His fingers find her vulva — already warm, swollen, slick with want. At first he barely grazes her, tracing light circles with the tips of his fingers, as though taming her. Esdras exhales softly into his mouth, her breath catching — and the kiss ignites.

She clings to him tighter, arching her hips in search of that more direct, firmer touch. Thom smiles against her lips — then finally slides a finger — then a second — inside her, slow and deliberate, never breaking the kiss.

The sound that escapes her is soft, almost held back — but it betrays her. Her body speaks louder: she rocks her hips gently into his hand, driven by that burning tension. Her movements seek rhythm, pressure — and Thom gives her both.

— You’re so beautiful when you lose control — he breathes against her mouth between kisses.

She doesn’t answer — but her gaze grows heavier, thick with need. She bites his lip gently — then takes his mouth again, fiercer this time. She holds onto him, fingers buried in his hair, as he touches her with a slowness that borders on cruel — fingers plunging and withdrawing, curved just right.

Her belly tightens, her chest rises — and she moves against him, trying to match his rhythm. Another moan escapes her — low, rough, right against his lips. And it drives him mad.

She’s stunning. Lost in sensation — yet still upright, still dignified, even at the edge of pleasure. She gives everything — and yet never dissolves. She is there — solid, alive, burning beneath his hands. And he adores her.

She still straddles him — but it’s his fingers that lead her now. She follows their guidance, finds the rhythm, clings to it — thighs trembling, breath short.

Thom slips a hand to her back — the other still between her legs — as if to steady her in case he melts her too fast.

— Esdras…

Her name is a prayer, a choked cry, a vow.

She moans again — louder this time — her fingers gripping the back of his neck. And she knows she won’t last much longer if this keeps going.

But she doesn’t want to come — not yet.

So she takes his hand — slowly, gently — and draws it away. Their eyes meet — loaded, conspiratorial, almost fierce with love.

— My turn — she murmurs, warm breath against his lips.

And without waiting, she rises — taking him in hand to guide what comes next.

Thom shudders beneath Esdras’s touch. Her initiative draws a groan from deep in his chest — low, rough, almost animal. He loves it when she takes the reins — when she lets herself want him openly, touch him as she does now — with that deliberate slowness, that fearsome tenderness. He feels her hand around him — firm and unhurried — each stroke measured to drive him mad. His cock throbs in her palm — greedy and ready — and he has to fight himself not to give in all at once.

But she isn’t far behind.

Esdras arches slightly, her breathing short, her body shivering with every gentle thrust of Thom’s fingers inside her. She moves softly against his hand, and this slow dance binds them completely. They’re giving each other pleasure at the same time, perfectly in sync, like a silent ritual shared between them.

Their breaths mingle, broken by quiet moans, shivers, burning glances.

— You’re so beautiful like this… Thom breathes, his lips brushing her temple.

— And you… so fucking unbearable when you talk like that, Esdras retorts with a mocking breath, though her cheeks flush with a betraying pink.

He chuckles softly against her skin, but doesn’t stop. He keeps whispering, worshipping her with his words as much as with his hands.

— I love feeling you tremble under my fingers… I love that look in your eyes when you try to stay composed… You always want to be in control, don’t you? Even of your pleasure?

Esdras closes her eyes for a moment, biting her lower lip. Her breath hitches again, and her hand around him grows more eager. She knows him by heart, too. She knows exactly how to make him yield.

— I’m not in control of anything, she growls as she leans down to kiss him, her voice rough with desire. Least of all you.

That simple confession is enough to send a shiver down Thom’s spine. His lower belly tightens, his body aches for more. He looks at her for a second, eyes burning with untameable love. Then, without warning, he shifts slightly, his hand slowly leaving her warmth.

— Now… it’s my turn, he murmurs against her lips.

He gently rolls her onto her side, taking the lead with a firm but tender authority. Esdras lets out a brief laugh — a little surprised, but not displeased. She welcomes him between her open thighs, her hands already around his neck, pulling his face to hers for a deep, urgent kiss.

— Taking the reins again, are you? she murmurs against his mouth, voice tinged with a smile.

— Always, when you lose your footing, he replies with a wink.

She bites his lip in response, then kisses him with a renewed hunger. During the heated kiss, Thom slowly slides his hands down her thighs, then parts them, caressing the insides with a broad, warm palm.

He pauses a moment, looking at her as if she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. And to him, she is.

Gently, he grabs a pillow and slides it beneath her hips, adjusting it carefully to bring her to the perfect height. Esdras watches him with amusement and tenderness alike. She feels the fabric lift her slightly, her pelvis offered to him in an almost indecent way.

Then, he returns to her.

His hips press forward, and his hard length brushes the wet lips of her vulva. He doesn’t enter yet. He rubs slowly, sensually, sliding against her, soaking in the heat and wetness of her core. He’s preparing her, teasing her, drawing shivers from her with the simplest of touches.

Esdras moans softly, her head tipping back.

— Stop playing… she murmurs, voice hoarse.

But Thom smiles, and goes on.

— I love feeling your impatience… love knowing you’re right there, on the edge.

He leans in to kiss her again, slower this time, while his hand caresses her hip, her stomach, her breast. His cock glides against her again, firmer now, parting her slick folds with agonising precision.

— Thom… she whimpers.

And this time, he knows it’s right.

Esdras’s body shudders, a long tremor rippling through her as Thom keeps rubbing his length slowly along her soaked slit. The movement is languid, deliberate, almost hypnotic — every pass between her sensitive lips draws a sigh, a roll of her hips in response. She arches softly, welcoming him more fully, rubbing her thighs against his hips, craving more contact, more friction, more of him.

A small whimper escapes her when he presses slightly against her clit with a firmer motion.

— Thom… she moans, voice barely more than a breath.

He looks up at her. And that simple sound — his real name, moaned in a voice she doesn’t seem aware of — sends a shiver straight down his spine. It’s rare she calls him that in moments like this. And when she does, it means she’s completely his. Present. Surrendered.

— You know what that does to me, when you say my name like that… he murmurs, lips brushing her cheek, then her mouth.

— And yet I’ll keep doing it, she whispers with a lascivious smile, eyes half-lidded.

He kisses her again, long and full of love, then, guided by the damp, inviting heat of her sex, he finally enters her.

The entry is slow. Deep. Taut with tension and release.

Esdras’s body tenses beneath him, her legs wrapping more tightly around his hips. A high-pitched moan escapes her, almost a sigh of bliss, as she feels every inch of him fill her, ground her.

— Oh… Thom… she breathes, her head falling back.

He groans softly against her throat, trembling with pleasure and emotion. His hips still once he’s fully inside. He doesn’t move. Not yet. He waits. He feels her throb around him, warm, alive, buzzing with restrained pleasure. But he wants her to have control, to choose.

His lips brush hers, then her temple, then her jaw.

— Tell me when you’re ready… he whispers. I’m here. All yours.

His hands glide over her belly, her hips, her ribs, her breasts — which he caresses slowly, his thumbs brushing the hardened peaks with infinite gentleness.

— You’re beautiful… So beautiful… I could die here, in your arms, and it would be a good ending.

Esdras laughs softly, a trembling breath, her fingers combing through Thom’s hair, eyes shining with an emotion too vast to name.

— Move, Thom… Now. Please.

He obeyed without hesitation, beginning slow movements of his hips — gentle, measured, deep. He entered and withdrew with an almost sacred care, as if he were writing his love into every thrust, every brush of their skin.

Their kisses became uncontrollable. They sought each other out, found each other — their mouths never parting. Esdras’s tongue danced fervently against Thom’s, their breaths mingling in a heat that wiped away the world around them.

Every motion of Thom’s hips was a declaration. He made love to her with fierce tenderness, with raw, contained love. His hands stayed on her like silent promises: I’m here. I love you. I’m not going anywhere.

Esdras let her hands wander down his back, caressing, tracing the lines of his tense muscles. Then, slowly, she began to scratch.

Not to hurt him. But to mark him. To express without words what her body felt — this overwhelming pleasure, this heat, this love. She clung to him with all her strength, anchoring him to her as if to keep him from ever leaving again.

Thom growled against her throat, picking up the pace just a little.

— Keep going… he groaned. Scratch me as much as you like.

— I can’t help it, she whispered, breathless. It’s you… You’re the one doing this to me…

And he kept going, over and over, like a wave that refused to pull back.

Time disappeared. Nothing remained but the room, their tangled bodies, and the electric tension pulsing through them like a fever. The rhythm grew more intense, without them even noticing — instinctive, visceral. Their initial tenderness gave way to something more primal, more animal. A hunger that no longer asked permission.

Thom moved inside her with renewed vigour, his hips slapping against her thighs, their skin crashing together in a symphony of wet slaps, gasps and moans. Sweat beaded on their bodies, drawing glistening trails over taut muscles, between shoulder blades, across the curve of her breasts, down their joined bellies.

Esdras’s hair clung to her temples and neck, soaked. She no longer tried to hold back her sounds — she moaned, panted, even cried out Thom’s name, her voice hoarse with too much pleasure. Her head fell back, eyes half-lidded and wet with tears of bliss. Her fingers clutched at the sheets, at his shoulders, his arms, seeking something solid in the storm.

— Thom… my love, I… ah! she cried, her voice cracking in her throat.

— I’m here, he murmured, though he was breathless too. You’re so… perfect. So beautiful when you let go.

Their hips met in a frantic rhythm — harder, faster. The bed creaked beneath them, their breathing tangled and erratic, like a storm with no end. Esdras no longer knew where her body ended and Thom’s began. She only felt him inside her, filling her, pulling at her with every thrust, and the fire rising, again, again, until it nearly burst.

But soon, their movements grew less coordinated, more desperate — they were tiring, yet neither wanted to stop. The need for a change, a new angle, a breath, became palpable. Their eyes met for a brief second, shining with desire, tenderness, and that silent understanding they had always shared.

Then, without a word, Thom slowed, pulled out gently, leaving Esdras to gasp, frustrated, still breathless. He slipped behind her, drawing her into a warm, reassuring embrace, pulling her close.

— Come here… he whispered against her ear, kissing just below the lobe, wrapping his strong arms around her.

She let him, letting out a breathless little laugh, her heart pounding wildly, relieved by the tenderness after the storm. Then she lifted one leg in a fluid motion — offered, soft, open. He slid a hand along her thigh to support her, the other resting on her belly, kissing the hollow of her shoulder.

— Take me again, she said softly, against his cheek. I want more, Thom…

And he obeyed. With a slow motion, he slid back inside her, their bodies perfectly aligned, pressed together. This time, it was different. Intimate. Fused. He entered her deeply, slowly, savouring every second, every tremble, every sigh he drew from Esdras.

She moaned softly, rolling her hips slightly to welcome him better, her hand seeking Thom’s on her stomach, squeezing it. Her other arm wrapped around the one holding her, like an anchor, a certainty.

— It’s… perfect like this, she murmured. I feel like we’re one.

— That’s exactly how I feel, he breathed against her neck. You’re… everything to me, Esdras.

And he began to move again. Slowly. Deeply. With every thrust, she arched a little more, her thighs trembling, her throat full of tender sighs, of little “oh”s moaned without restraint. The rhythm was slower, but charged with intensity — every stroke a step closer to a more controlled, more dizzying pleasure.

Their hands remained entwined, their bodies tangled. And in that position of utter trust, of burning tenderness, of loving possession, they continued their dance.

Despite the raw slap of skin, the sweat, the moans that no longer held back, a deep gentleness never left them. It was in the way Thom held Esdras, in his muffled murmurs in her ear, in his fingers gliding across her skin with an almost heartbreaking tenderness, even when he gave himself to her without filter.

He listened to her. He felt her reactions, her breath, the tension in her thighs, the little sounds she made each time he touched just the right spot. He was entirely devoted to her. His own pleasure became almost secondary — what mattered was her. What he wanted was to watch her fall apart in his arms, to see her bloom, to feel her surrender to him.

He growled softly against her neck, still holding her tight, and his mouth lingered there, at the base of her nape. He devoured her, alternating between burning kisses and wet bites, his beard rasping gently over her already flushed skin. And his hand, meanwhile, slid down her trembling belly, between her soaked thighs, to find her clit with the tips of his fingers.

— Just a bit more, my love… You’re so beautiful like this, so perfect… I want to feel you…

His words melt against her skin as he thrusts harder, his hips picking up a rougher, more insistent rhythm. He wants to make her come. He knows her. He knows exactly what she needs.

His fingers find her clitoris, fast and precise, working in time with his deep, powerful thrusts — brutal, yes, but never without that trace of reverence in every breath.

Esdras cries out, loud and unrestrained. One hand clutches the forearm that holds her tight against him, the other reaching to find his. Her mouth opens, gasping, no words, no air — just sensation. And then it rises. And breaks.

— Thom!… Ah—Thom…! THOM!

She comes with a long, trembling moan, her body shaking, her belly seizing in fierce spasms. Her back arches against him, her lifted leg going taut, and her hand tightens around Thom’s with such force her knuckles turn white. He stays inside her a moment longer, holding her through the crashing waves of her orgasm. He keeps caressing her, gently, his mouth buried in her neck, slowing his hips until he finally stops. Carefully, he pulls out, breath short, trembling, panting.

— You were… breathtaking, he murmurs, almost stunned by the intensity of what just passed between them. Absolutely divine…

Esdras’s eyelids are heavy, her skin aflame, but she smiles — content, radiant. And yet, she still feels something… The hot, pulsing erection pressed against her back. She hasn’t forgotten. She won’t leave him like this. Slowly, she turns to face him, kisses his cheek, then his chest. Without a word, she gently pushes him onto his back, her smile sly, playful — loving.

— Let me take care of you now, she whispers.

Thom looks up at her, eyelids half-lowered, eyes filled with love and a flicker of surprise. He nods, a tender smile curving his lips.

— Anything you want, my love…

She trails downward, her lips kissing every inch of his sweat-damp chest, drawing a fiery path to his lower belly. Then she takes him in her hand, stroking him gently at first, with her palm and lips, before finally taking him into her mouth. A deep groan escapes him, one hand diving into Esdras’s tousled hair.

— God… Esdras… She envelops him with warmth and care, no rush — only tenderness, passion. Her gaze lifts to meet his with every movement. She sucks him slow and deep, caressing his thighs, his belly, holding him right at the edge between surrender and bliss.

Thom’s moans grow louder, his breath quickens, his hips twitch slightly beneath her mouth — and that’s all it takes.

With a muffled growl, his muscles tense, and he comes with a hoarse gasp, his fingers tightening in her hair.

She takes it all, unflinching, devoted to him just as he was to her.

When she finally comes back up to him, Thom immediately wraps her in his arms, kissing her deeply, one hand stroking her hair, the other cupping her cheek — eyes still heavy with pleasure.

— I love you… he breathes against her lips.

— I love you too, Thom. Always, she murmurs into the crook of his neck, curling up against him, utterly spent and happy.

After the storm, the calm.

Thom’s breathing had settled some time ago. His hand rests on Esdras’s hip, palm open, fingers splayed with care, as though afraid she might drift away. He hardly dares to move — fearful of breaking the moment, this fragile bubble of warmth and skin pressed close. She’s there, curled against him, nestled in the hollow of his chest. And yet…

She isn’t asleep.

Her breathing is still quick. Not from exhaustion — no. But from something older, deeper. A silent tension that lingers, even in the stillness. Her eyes remain open, fixed on some unseen point in the darkened room, while her fingers trace soft, aimless shapes on the sheet.

Thom feels it.

So he doesn’t speak. He acts with the slow, careful patience of someone who knows that delicate things must be touched only with the heart’s edge. His hand glides down her back, from her shoulders to the arch of her spine. A steady motion, gentle, almost tentative. In these quiet gestures, he gives her everything he can. A promise without words: I’m here, I’m still here, and I’m not going anywhere.

Minutes pass. Esdras says nothing. She breathes, she listens. She feels.

Then, suddenly — almost as if by instinct, something raw and unlearned — she lifts a hand and lays it on his chest. Just above his heart.

Her palm is warm. Alive. Present.

It’s nothing. A simple touch. But it means everything. That touch says more than any speech. It says: I’m here. I’m staying.

Thom looks down at her. Watches her. Doesn’t speak. He simply lets his heart beat beneath her hand.

And then, in a whisper barely audible, she murmurs:

— You’re home here.

Her eyes remain open. But they’re different now. They no longer run.

Thom closes his, just for a moment. He pulls her closer, his forehead resting against her damp hair, a quiet smile playing on his lips. Nothing euphoric. Nothing rushed. Just a simple peace, given and received.

And for the first time, she didn’t try to control everything.

--

https://archiveofourown.org/works/65671414

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