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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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