How They Kiss (Tara’s Romanced BioWare Companions Edition)

Alistair’s kisses are infused with wonder and gratitude and, under it all, the promise of heat, like a banked fire that only needs tinder to flare up into an enthusiastic bonfire. His lips are tender, soft as rose petals against the corner of a mouth, an eyelid, the curve of a brow. Capturing lips is a promise, a certainty, and with that certainty comes strength. His arms are strong and his heart open, a gift freely offered.

When Fenris kisses, it’s because he chooses it. He gives because he can; his mouth is his, his life is his. His kisses are heady, full of coiled strength, and yet there’s vulnerability in them, too, like a touch of honey in a fine wine; a gift of unexpected sweetness. Sometimes he smiles–that small smile, that Fenris smile, the smile like he has a secret he wants to share–as he curves his mouth against his lover’s and thinks I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m yours without having the words tainted by the memory of servitude. What freedom, what freedom there is in that.

Sometimes Sebastian kisses gently, tenderly, prayerfully–the kiss of a priest, the kiss of a penitent. Other times, his kisses are deep, wild, filled with passion and yearning. Mostly, though, his wild kisses are tempered with devotion, with love, with the certainty that sharing is more satisfying than taking (all his kisses used to take without giving, but that was a different time and he a different man). He kisses like a man who’s lost families, whose faith has wavered, but who still seeks salvation, and who knows home is found in his lover’s arms.

Isabela kisses like she drinks, with gusto and enthusiasm. Her mouth is vibrant, talented; it is easy to drown against Isabela’s lips, easy to drink of her and feel tipsy with need. Her mouth never lingers overlong. Later, though, curled against a lover she thinks is sleeping, her full lips find the nape of a neck, a bare shoulder and these are softer kisses, tenderer ones, the kind of kisses she cannot yet give on waking. Someday, perhaps. Someday.

Cullen’s kisses are prayers, sometimes grateful, sometimes pleading, sometimes reverent. He transports and is transported, and once he begins he does not hold back. He does not kiss without using his hands–as lips find lips, his hands cup a face, trail down a back, curve around a waist. His hands tell him this is real, is not a dream, that the mouth curving against his mouth will not vanish if he opens his eyes. He is himself when he kisses, not the collection of roles and titles and pieces of armor he has amassed. He is Cullen, hope and faith and fresh air rippling a secluded lake and the gift of a lover’s hand enfolded so gently in his own.

Garrus may not have pliable human lips, but he kisses in a hundred thousand other ways that can never be mistaken for anything but what they are. The brush of his hand against the small of a back, the linger of fingers as he hands over a cleaned weapon, the butt of one companionable shoulder against another, the exchange of banter. His kisses are the brief flutter of mandible against cheek, or the more lingering press of brow to brow. His turian mouth may not purse the way his lover’s does, but that does not stop him from trying. No one, no one kissed by Garrus Vakarian, could ever find that mouth lacking.

Even when he does not speak them aloud, each of Jaal’s kisses holds a term of endearment. The press of lips to cheek is darling one, of lips to brow is dearest, of lips to lips is beloved. He is intent when he kisses, never distracted, never anything less than entirely present. Whether it’s a swift peck or a decadent exploration, his focus is entirely on the moment. Jaal kisses with the passion of a poet, the curiosity of the boy who dreamed of stars, and the dedication of the man who knows he must be a soldier--always walking the line between life and death--to make the galaxy a place where poets and dreamers and kissers can thrive.

In the beginning, Vetra’s kisses are hesitant, as though she expects to find fine print or expected compensation at the end of the gesture. In the beginning, she treats each kiss like a deal--one for her, one for her partner; equal. Later, though, later her touches are easier, the press of her brow unaccompanied by the nervous flutter of mandible or moments where she waits for demands to be made. Instead, her kisses and caresses become gifts without strings: the perfect moment, the desired intensity, freely given and freely received, accompanied by laughter and the certainty of having found a home she will not have to flee.

Kandros does not kiss in public, though there is intimacy in the brush of fingers lingering a little too long over a report that did not have to be given in person. In private, he kisses like a man who knows the value of every moment, like he knows how swiftly something can be both gained and lost. The intensity and intellect he uses to shore up tactics and defenses turns to different matters; he sees at once where warm hands are needed, where a soft press of the brow will heal. One by one, defenses fall around him, until tenderness remains, and touch, and perhaps the hope of of safer, stabler tomorrows.