He was still running hot from the fight—his chassis plating radiated heat. As his optics devoured you, you could almost hear the recalibration of his priorities. The Forged Saber was gone, but you were here. He began to undress you slowly, his massive digits surprisingly deft, treating your plating like a puzzle he was determined to solve, cataloging every seam, every sensitive connection with a scholar's precision. His kisses weren't tender; they were deep, possessive explorations, drawing a deep, focused need from you that matched the intensity of his own. For this moment, the object of his obsession wasn't the relic of Solas Prime, but the perfect, consuming reality of the reader in his arms.