Mois : août 2018

elivhenan:

Home – Blackwall/Inquisitor (for aerodromes)

His lips taste a little like freedom, wild and unreserved, with whispers of new beginnings and promises to be kept. These lips that are so often curled into a smart remark or pressed together in determination as he prepares for battle – tonight they are a wonder. When he kisses you it’s rough and desperate and perfect. Even when you stop to catch your breath, muffled laughter breaking the silence between you, he can’t wait to meet your lips again.

His hands are scarred and worn. A warrior’s hands. Thumbs and forefingers callused by countless years of training with sword and shield, palms roughened from guiding shapeless wood into function and beauty. His fingers have strength and now, purpose. As he reaches for you, takes your hands into his own, you marvel at the gentle restraint behind his touch.

His chest is broad, his arms strong and unyielding. He is a man whose skill and physique comes not from fancy swordplay or magic, but from honest work and dedication. He’s not a man easily shaken. Yet when he holds you close, arms folding your body into his own, you can hear his heart beating, thrumming wildly beneath his breast.

His eyes are special. Not in quality, certainly. They are eyes like any other eyes, though you are rather partial to his eyes in particular. You like the way they crinkle at the edges when he smiles, how they soften when his gaze reaches yours. But tonight, it’s when he looks at you, really sees you. He looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters in this world, like you are the one person keeping him from falling apart.

And when you lie together, your bodies close and your hearts closer, he knows. You are his redemption. His inquisitor, his lover. You are his and he is yours. In your arms he is home.

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