Bioware Men - The Kissing Edition (updated) (Long)
(Author’s Note: I know I haven’t gotten ALL the Bioware men, but I’m working on it! (I’m missing Sebastian, but only because I really need to go mom up and take the kids to the library.) The Men of the Inquisition will end up here eventually. Er, once I actually finish the game.
As always, major props to my betas, Galleywinter and Zeroredemption!)
Kaidan is intense; lips, hands, every sense trained on you as if memorizing you through osmosis. His hunger is leashed, contained with the ruthless control that saw him through his first tour on the Normandy. He can’t contain it for long, though - not anymore, not after all this time, and all that formidable focus is entirely tactile, entirely on the task at hand, which is making you pant and writhe and scream until he can finally let himself trust that you’re real.
Alistair is reverent, worshipful; with him, a kiss is a paean to the Maker, a thing out of time and space. Delicate, as if he’s not sure quite what to do, or if you’ll disappear if he’s too quick, too harsh, or if his hands stray. But the strong, sword-calloused hands that won’t go below your waist are trembling, and his reverent mouth quickly heats to almost clumsy hunger, as if he wants to absorb you into himself where he can safeguard you from everything that’s coming.
Carth is rusty, as if he hasn’t kissed anyone in years and isn’t too sure he should be doing it now. His kiss is angry and hard, but he’s hungry, too…. so hungry for you. His hands bite into your shoulders, and he’s trembling; you’re honestly not sure if it’s from grief or rage or desire. Maybe he doesn’t know either. His Force presence is a whirl of so many things, but it’s your name on his lips as they follow the line of your jaw, your name he groans when your hips meet and rock together.
Zevran kisses like he kills; with skill, flair, and a certain amount of showmanship. He smiles against your throat, catlike and smug, whispers charming obscenities and flatteries in that exotic Antivan accent of his, until you’re drunk on him, everything about him. But when you kiss him back, that’s when that practiced smile starts to slide off his face. That’s when his golden eyes heat, when the lean muscles under your hands tense, when you can taste honesty mingled with desire on his tongue.
James is tequila-flavored adrenaline when he finally lets go and just takes your mouth like he takes every other military objective, all power and purpose and driving need. His big body is hot against yours, all muscle and undeniable strength; you knew he wanted you like hell burning even before he pulls you tight into him, lean hips surging into the cradle of yours as if he’s already inside you. His kiss might everything you expected, but you never dreamed how soft his lips were, or how the velvet brush of his shorn hair against your fingers made want pool inside you, hot and liquid and quivering.
Joker Moreau is stunningly physically restrained when he kisses. But where he’s physically cautious, his mouth is anything, anything but. The things he whispers against your neck, the low, hot whispers of a lover about your skin, your scent, the feel of you, what he’s imagining doing to you, how long he’s watched you, wanting you… His commentary is all spiced with a generous helping of his trademark snark and punctuated by the kisses of a man who is truly gifted. Joker can turn a simple kiss into an act of blazing eroticism - precise, probing, mimicking everything he wants to do to you, with you, in you with just his tongue, until you’re shuddering against him, locking your fingers into the back of his pilot’s chair and moaning into his mouth in helpless surrender.
Garrus doesn’t kiss, not like a human does, but there’s something stunningly, suggestively erotic in the way his eyes hold yours as he leans down and presses his forehead to yours. He’s humming - a low, subvocal intonation that gets into the marrow of your bones and liquifies it, until his hands, his arms, the look in his unfairly blue eyes are the only things holding you up… until they’re not, and you discover that Garrus is very, very good at calibrating things other than firing algorithms.
Everything about Zaeed is hard lines and gravel - he’s the first to tell you his good looks were lost long ago, and he has the voice of a seasoned soldier, rough from too much battlefield smoke and way too many nights in a cigar-fumed nightclub. So it’s a complete surprise that he touches you with such care, tracing the curve of your skull, tangling your hair in his fingers as if he’s savoring the texture, leaning close to sample the scent at the hollow of your throat. The way he kisses is a surprise, too, all delicacy and finesse, and very, very thorough, until you feel like he’s mapped every nerve ending you have and is taking his sweet time about lighting them all on fire, one after another, with a lazy mastery that’s as arousing as it is irritating.
Fenris is equal parts desperation and fear. His kisses almost snarl with impatience, as if he’s been waiting years to let loose, let go. To have you. To have something in his life that’s just for him, and from the way his hands are moving over you, mapping you, that’s just what he’s thinking. Where his mouth is clumsy, his hands, all clever fingers and sharp gauntlets, are not, daring to claim every inch of you, daring you to claim him back. When you do, he growls low in his throat, and he snarls something in Arcanum that could be a curse or a prayer or a threat to the Maker not to take you away from him before he can steep himself in you, sate himself on you, bury himself so deeply in you that nothing in Thedas can untangle what the two of you have become.
Thane is decadence; leashed, lethal, and elegant, and that’s the way he kisses, too, as if a single, simple kiss is the equivalent of a hundred acts of simple carnality. His mouth, so delicately scaled and lush, is your lodestone. Your world spins around his axis as he kisses you with exquisite eroticism, committing you to memory with lips and tongue. You’re hazily aware that he could break you in a dozen ways and you’d never feel it, but you’re even more aware that he could make you erupt in a dozen more, and you’d never forget it. And neither would he.
Steve Cortez is precision, soft-spoken but devastatingly thorough in his exploration of your mouth, your jawline, your neck as you let your head fall back against the cool metal exterior of the shuttle. You can’t get your breath, you just can’t, but when you do, the air tastes like him. Like chicory coffee and determination, like love. Like home. And you can’t help it, can’t help but respond, hands streaking paths of want up his back, feeling the flex of muscle as he shudders, leans into you. You get a little equilibrium back by the time you’re cupping the back of his head, the lean planes of his cheeks, and you meet his precision with your fire. You kiss him back, letting him know with tongue and teeth and muted moans that you refuse to lose him every bit as much as he refuses to lose you.
Jacob is honesty; there’s honest admiration in his eyes as he looks at you, honest desire in the strong hands that slide from yours up to your shoulders, pulling you into a lazy, seductive dance around the cabin. Honest desire on his tongue when he finally kisses you, managing to tease, to seduce, to woo you for only a moment before honesty takes him, too, and you’re both trembling, both seeking out skin hidden by clothing, seeking to share vulnerabilities. And then it’s honesty of a different sort when you tumble to the bed, wrapped around each other as if you can each shield the other from everything outside this room.
Anders is hunger and loneliness and longing all wrapped up in a kiss that tastes faintly of lyrium and a faint, exotic tingle that can only be Fade energy. He crowds you against the wall, lean body hard against yours, trembling hands framing your face, fingers tangling in your hair as if he needs to have all of you, right here, right now, as if you’re going to be ripped away from him at any second. When you wrap your arms around him to soothe, he shudders, and his kiss changes to something dangerously erotic, all hot lips and bold tongue and aching hunger, as if this is it, this is the act entire, and he can bring you both to completion with just this….
Nathaniel is hard - hard lines, hard, sinewy muscle, hard, calloused hands on your skin, hard lips against the back of your neck, hard flesh against the curve of your backside as he presses against you. His voice is hard, too; aristocratic accent wrapping easily around base words as he whispers what he wants to do with you, wants you to feel when he does them. But for all his hard edges, he’s soft, too, and it shows in the brush of his hair against your throat as he bends to taste your collarbone, in the stroke of his tongue, warm and wet on your shoulder. His archer’s precision shows when he moves to map your spine from bottom to top with a chain of tiny kisses that leave no skin unworshipped, when his hands slide between your legs, pressing where you burn hottest for him. Your head falls back against his shoulder, and when you shudder, so does he, and you know then what his restraint is costing him.
