characters - Thane Krios, Ulver Shepard
description - My attempt at something that resembles smut. Blame BioWare's Social Network. :3
disclaimer - I wish I owned Thane, but he belongs to BioWare. So does Mass Effect.
"I'm unsure", she says, and he quiets her down with a tip of his chin, a trace of his tongue across the gap of her trembling lips and cutting the last syllable from that last word. His sharp eyes never leave her and she heats up a little more because she's trembling and shaking and shivering, nervous and anxious and eager, but he draws back with his mouth parted and his eyelids heavy and she takes his lead, never forgetting about what she's doing, about how she's moving and how her chest is at his eye-level - because she's heavy-weighted on the curve of her shoulders and the heave of her lungs - but wanting him to stop teasing. She doesn't know why he's touching her so lightly, why he traces the back of his fingers down her naked spine so slow to then dip his hand into the folds of clothing around her waist to tug her closer and press them together. The beast inside her is pleased, and the hum that she lets out, and the warmth of his body, and the feel of his soft scaled skin is new but familiar.
"This isn't what I meant", she gasps out when the low sound she gets in reply reverberates under her ear and against her neck. It wasn't what they both meant, logically and coolly answered, but the music is still playing in the background and they had yet to stop moving, and they decided to blame it for taking away that pressure inside them that stopped them from gravitating towards the other. She's clinging to him and biting his shoulder and his groans are not far from the bass and the motions of her body punctuate the drums. She catches him off guard and her cadence drops to a fast pace as she pushes him down, the cold floor prickling his back but not as overwhelming as the weight of her body burning his stomach, nor the red marks on his chest when she rakes her teeth. She lets out a soft sigh, something that he only hears from her when she's dreaming, and he reaches up to delve his fingers in that silky hair, sweat-damp and sweet-stand-scented.
"Too fast," he claims, and pushes himself upwards, and she finds purchase on his back, rippling with the movement as he sits up again, as he clutches at the strands on the back of her head, making her scalp prickle. That hand slides down again, slow and firm and demanding, and snakes around her waist, wrapping her close and she's curved back as he pushes her down with the insistent press of his lips, the flick of his tongue around each dented scar. She digs her nails into his skin and he smirks, setting the pace. Them's the breaks, and the shadows cast across them don't go by faster, but are somehow painted darker.