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umbracirrus · 9 months

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Okay, so, I have recently been thinking about axes and their importance in Nord culture in Skyrim, in part because I have something planned in a fanfiction that involves giving an axe and have been doing a little bit of research into it, and I have gone down a bit of a rabbit hole so please bear with me on this mini essay in which I have pulled together my thoughts/observations about axes in Skyrim and my two favourite Jarls, Balgruuf and Ulfric.

So, as anyone who has done the Civil War quests in Skyrim would know, there is a pivotal point in which the balance of power in Skyrim shifts either towards the Empire or the Stormcloaks based purely upon the player's alignment - when Whiterun either aligns with the Imperials or is taken by force by the Stormcloaks. Of course, there is one particular event which happens immediately before the battle begins, and that is the delivery of an axe.

However, at this point I would just like to bring up something which will become relevant later no matter what your alignment - at the point of the axe being sent, you have been named a Thane of Whiterun. Balgruuf won't hear anything to do with the Civil War when a dragon is attacking the Western Watchtower, so becoming both Dragonborn and a Thane is a prerequisite to the Civil War.

If you align with the Empire, it is Balgruuf who decides to send an axe. If you ask why, he gives the explanation that "if he returns it to you it means we have business to settle. If he keeps it, then we are at peace.", and if you ask whether you should say anything, he says that Ulfric knows what it means (also important for later!). The other dialogue option which isn't just 'sure, okay, I'll do that' also says that it is tradition, and that Ulfric honours traditions.

Obviously, Ulfric doesn't accept it and you return to Balgruuf with the news that he will be attacking Whiterun and suddenly, the city is under siege. When you win, Balgruuf personally thanks you for what you have done after his victory speech.

Now, on the other side of things, if you side with the Stormcloaks, it is Ulfric who gives you the axe to take to Balgruuf, but his explanation is much more... succinct. "If he keeps it, I will bide my time. If he returns it to you, it means war."

And as with the other side, because the game would be pretty boring is Balgruuf was to go "sure, I accept Ulfric's axe", he rejects the axe and that in turn means that you return to Ulfric with his axe, and he expresses his disappointment that Balgruuf had done so.

The two Jarls wanted the other on their side, but their views were fundamentally different they couldn't accept. 😭Sending their axes was just a formality, a way of saying 'this is it, we have to fight now'.

So what I am basically getting at, the civil war quest establishes that giving an axe is a way of determining allies and enemies, depending on whether it is accepted or rejected.

Coming back to what I mentioned earlier, in order to do the civil war quest and to talk to Balgruuf in order to either give him Ulfric's axe or to give his axe to Ulfric, you have to have become the Dragonborn and are a Thane of Whiterun. When you become a Thane in Skyrim, you end up receiving a weapon as a reward, typically named 'Blade of *insert hold name here*'. Except in two places.

Whiterun, and Eastmarch. In those places, you get either the Axe of Whiterun or the Axe of Eastmarch.

If I remember correctly, the blade weapons are randomly generated so have the potential to be axes, but these two are specifically named to be and are axes.

What else is in common with Whiterun and Eastmarch?

Their Jarls (Balgruuf and Ulfric) are the only two people in Skyrim who actively partake in and have knowledge of the tradition of the sending of axes.

When you become a Thane of these two holds, you are not just becoming a Thane, you are becoming a trusted ally of the Jarl, somebody who they can rely upon. Even more so with Ulfric, because you can only become a Thane of Eastmarch with Ulfric as Jarl if you are Stormcloak aligned.

Speaking of being Stormcloak aligned, how about a diversion back to the Civil War, specifically when the battle for Whiterun has reached its penultimate stages, Balgruuf has been defeated and has surrendered control of Whiterun. After an argument with Vignar (and I'll get into him later because he makes my blood boil), Balgruuf turns to you and says a line which absolutely breaks my heart - "And you. A Stormcloak? I'd thought better of you." 😭

Balgruuf thought you his ally, he had given you his axe, and you have just gone and stabbed him in the back (figuratively, and quite possibly literally depending on character build). As I said, it breaks my heart when he says that line.

Basically, what I am getting at, is that the depth of such a simple tradition in Skyrim is immense and I wish that there were more things like it (beyond the duel to the death for the throne thing, looking at you Ulfric) or saw it used more in the game. And that Balgruuf and Ulfric are by far the best Jarls in terms of character development and just how much their homeland and traditions mean to them. And I wish that there was a way to keep Balgruuf as Jarl even if you are Stormcloak aligned because fuck Vignar, and you know what? Fuck Maven Black-Briar too, she sucks. Laila is pretty incompetent as Jarl but at least she isn't Maven and that's a rant for another time. But not having Maven as Jarl is main reason I join the Stormcloaks more often than not. Balgruuf is usually the main reason that I join the Imperials on playthroughs.

Now... Vignar Gray-Mane. When you make him Jarl of Whiterun and he names you Thane, he gives you the Blade of Whiterun, not the Axe of Whiterun (yeah, I know I said that I think the blade weapons can be randomly generated as axes, and no doubt it was given to stop you from having multiple axes of Whiterun, but I just don't like Vignar soooo....). That's mean. Especially after we protected the city and helped him become Jarl too. There's another layer of insult there if you've rescued Thorald, his nephew, from the Thalmor. At least Brunwulf Free-Winter gives you the Axe of Eastmarch when he is Jarl if you defeat Ulfric for the Imperials and complete that shitshow of a quest 'Blood on the Ice'. Brunwulf is a bro, not Vignar. Hmph.

#Skyrim #elder scrolls v #the elder scrolls #skyrim civil war #tes v #tes v skyrim #jarl balgruuf #balgruuf the greater #jarl ulfric stormcloak #ulfric stormcloak #save me from this hell that is gushing over Balgruuf PLEASE #i wish I could marry him in-game and ahhhhhhh #I have been thinking about this ALL DAY at work after looking through the game scripts last night #and then realising that I got an axe from Balgruuf in a current playthrough #then checking the uesp page about weapons you get for being a thane and just going :O

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screaming-sparrow · 3 months

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the vocabulary of torchwood

#you can check out any time you want but you can nEVER leaveeeee (alive)#that last one might be the worst thing ive ever created im sorry #i just realised the parallels of jack holding them all in their last moments and felt like i had to curse everyone else with this as well #torchwood #jack harkness #gwen cooper #ianto jones #owen harper #toshiko sato #john hart #gray thane #towen #janto #sparrows memes #sparrow has emotions

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sea-buns · 10 months

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Thinking about what remains of this group and how it carries over into the future of Calorum. Amethar inherited a spymaster who has worked for 20+ years to carry on the legacy of the best, though the world will never know it. Serving the son of a woman she helped kill. Her daughter, dead at the hands of this new emperor’s cousin and ward. Somewhere out there is a man, self-stripped of any title he ever held, wandering the land. Left bare in the throes of knowing he was seen as useful, and thus taken advantage of, simply because he was young. Maybe he finds his mother. Maybe he crosses paths once or twice with his old friend. Nothing he finds will ever replace what he’s lost. Or heal what he’s done. Somewhere else is a man who’s dedicated his life to cutting down anyone who would dare to replicate the horror he’s seen. Who has, in a way, been freed by that tragedy. Discarding any titles he’s ever held, any fear for the name he’d been born with, any hesitation to act. All that remains is an allegiance to the few living who never ceased to have his back and the memories of those who fell trying to protect the only semblance of a family he’s ever known.

All that remains is a resolve to do better.

#fully subscribing to the theory that plumbelina is trans #good luck prying this out of my grubby little hands #dimension 20 #d20 #the ravening war #trw spoilers #trw #queen amangeaux epicée du peche #thane delissandro katzon #colin provolone #karna solara #bishop raphaniel charlock #last two only mentioned or alluded to but they created the people who came out alive so fuck it #a crown of candy #acoc #acoc spoilers

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foxprints · 1 year

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My gift for @natalyelle as part of the 10th annual @masseffectholidaycheer January Jubilation! Happy new year and I hope you like it! Having started my first playthrough romancing Thane just before our assignments went out, I was super pleased to find your Katarina Shepard also romanced him!

#mass effect #commander Shepard #thane krios #other people's ocs #other people's Shepards #gift #gift exchange #fanart #mass effect january jubilation #mass effect holiday cheer 2022 #let's pretend that thane definitely kicked kai leng's ass and that he is able to live out the last of his days in comfort #at heurta memorial hospital and that he was able to make semi regular visits to the apartment to hang out with Shepard #in peace and comfort #also you said that Katarina likes green so.... i went with a green pallete lol #hopefully it works.... i don't work with greens a lot ^^;#shrios

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withasideofshakespeare · 1 month

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Ross is the real tragic figure in Macbeth not because he has any kind of tragic arc but because he is predestined to be chronically in the wrong place at the wrong time. Macbeth is actually the story of Ross stumbling from one traumatic event to another. He witnesses the battle against Norway; just misses seeing the witches; is at Inverness the night Duncan is murdered; must be up all night because he relays the horrors of the night to the old man after Duncan dies; attends the Macbeth-is-guilty dinner party; tries to warn Lady Macduff to flee Scotland only to return and find her, her children, and all of her servants murdered; has to be the one to break this news to Macduff and Malcolm; and is present when Macduff shows up with Macbeth’s severed head in hand.

If Macbeth, Lady Macbeth, Macduff, and Malcolm (and Fleance?) end this play miserable, they’ve got NOTHING on poor Ross.

#shakespeare #macbeth #ross (Macbeth)#this is why I headcanon all the minor thanes as best friends #(except for Lennox… he’s weird. I’ll talk about that at some point)#ross deserves SOME happiness in his life #questionable semicolon usage in this post…#but a list that includes lists (I BELIEVE) uses semicolons rather than commas #does that make my last semicolon and Oxford semicolon?#I’m on team Oxford comma #nothing can change my mind about that

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lyrithim · 5 months

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[ColinDeli] For Old Times' Sake

Summary: After the end of the Ravening War, Colin and Deli journey briefly together to the Meatlands and do not sleep together. Pairing: Deli/Colin Word Count: 1,304 Rating: M AO3 Link

Dawn was beautiful rising from these frozen shores. Colin had forgotten. Or maybe he never looked closely enough when he had the chance. For a second, watching the folds of frail golden light sweep over the tundra, Colin could almost forgive Deli for everything he had done—could almost forgive himself.

“Up ahead,” Deli said beside him. Past the fork in the road, almost obscured by mist, there was a small thatched hut in the crevice between two great mountains.

Colin was a little surprised. There? That was Deli’s safehouse?

“Yes,” Deli replied. Then, correcting himself, he said, “Here was where I spent my boyhood.”

They were a full day’s ride away from the closest village. Years ago, the Chieftess had told Colin how she had raised Deli outside of her clan, forsaken by her kinsmen because of a fatherless pregnancy. Here the Chieftess had nursed Deli. Then, when Deli could walk, she returned to her clan and sought revenge on the men who had usurped her and her son’s birthright.

It had only been a week since the last treaty was signed and the war had ended—the war that they were now calling the Ravening War. To the victors fell the spoils; among the victors were the spoils divided. Men who had never before dreamt of riches were transformed by the sudden flood of titles and lands from Ceresian tributes. These men eyed those in the rungs above, where among others Deli stood.

Deli’s absence in the final battle of the war was noted. His mixed parentage was reexamined among the Meatland troops. Basha was loathed to let go his best advisor, his kingmaker. But Basha’s reign had been brief, despite his military victories, and therefore fragile. Deli told Colin that he did not want to force Basha’s hand, but Colin knew that Deli was tired of fighting.

Colin was not. He could no more forget Raphaniel’s last screams and those teeth, those damn teeth of the Fellowship’s god, than he could sheath his sword. Since leaving Saprophus, Colin had been seized with a restlessness he had never before experienced. At the center of the restlessness was a terrible and intoxicating thing: a direction. All his life he had run away from this or that, drifted away, refused to engage, acted in the negative. For revenge, he now became clear-eyed. His life’s mission would be to hunt down the last of the Fellowship until the end of this land. He held this belief without embarrassment.

A hand on his shoulder. Deli’s. “Can we rest for a bit?”

Of course, Colin told him.

They set up camp by a river that was frozen over violently: the surface roiled with stilled currents, and huge solid white waves soared against the river banks. But the river itself was suffocated into silence.

Colin went through familiar motions: arranging twigs around dry land, gathering frost for water, raising the soup pot, waiting as Deli dashed together two pop rocks against the tinder. They stoked the fire. It grew warm and comfortable. Colin took off his outer coat, and Deli took off the fur draped over his bare shoulders.

They ate. This would be the last meal they would have together for some time. Colin understood this. He was serene in this fact—that was, until Deli spoke.

“We were here once,” Deli said.

Did they? Colin did not recognize the place.

“The river looks different now,” Deli said, gesturing in front of them. “It had been flowing. It was summer. And we weren’t here, exactly. We were somewhere more upstream or downstream. But we had pitched a tent around by a grand white fish-bone fir. It was steady. It saved us from the storm.”

Colin remembered now. Not the river or the fir tree, but the memory that Deli had been guiding him towards. It had been so early after they had left Comida. Deli, much younger, exuberant, had won the approval of his kinsmen and been named emissary on behalf of the clan that morning. It was all that was on Deli’s mind and in the glint of Deli’s eye.

In the evening, they had laid next to each other as usual. There had been no fire in the tent; their only source of heat was each other. The storm had lapped against the tent flap. Icy raindrops had sought to penetrate their thin canvas of a roof. They would have died of the cold if either the canvas or the entrance had given in. But little of this mattered to them. Colin listened to Deli talk about a beautiful future and a beautiful world for his people. There would be happiness, Deli said, and Colin had indeed felt great happiness. Then Deli had stopped, looked over at Colin, and kissed him.

“You were the one who told me that I should save myself for someone I loved,” Deli said now. They had proceeded no further that evening.

“I remember,” Colin told him.

“But I do love you.”

The confession stunned him, but it did not surprise him. It was a plunge into a cold pool—the body adjusted to the shock in a heartbeat. Love, love, love. Colin loved him. Of course Colin loved him. How long had Colin loved him. But they were past the time—the biological age? the historical epoch?—when a passionate confession could remedy all ills. How much time had they had to reexamine themselves and each other? How much time had they to say those words of love? Colin wanted to tell Deli that he loved him. The Colin of all of their travels together threatened to burst from Colin’s throat: I do love you too, I do. But Colin held himself back. It was restraint with the slightest edge of malice. Colin knew that he could hurt Deli then. Was it cruel of Colin to still want that power over Deli? He almost wanted to hurt him. Was there a part of him that thought the act of refusal ensured he would stay that much longer in Deli’s mind? Did he think Deli saw Karna when Deli looked at him? Was this fear that he felt fear for himself or fear for Deli?

Instead, he kissed Deli for the second time in his life. Deli kissed him back. What a lovely sight they now made: two figures intertwined together by a fire, the clansman’s bare back against the light and the cold, the man beneath him willing and pliant. How deeply they kissed each other then, as though they would never let each other go.

It would live forever in Colin: this kiss, this love of his, Deli, the young prince, his youth, Colin’s youth. Colin knew it. But everything became a memory as soon as they begun; Colin anticipated the end as soon as they started. Already he was living in the future, looking back curiously, the present in retrospective. He felt desire, he thought. He felt Deli’s desire too. Deli was trembling, was grasping at him, holding onto him, pulling him in by the collar in one moment, pushing Colin into the frozen ground in the next, clashing teeth, nipping at his lips, digging into his skin, forcing Colin to take shape as a physical entity. But Colin only held Deli in an embrace.

And Deli finally gave up on Colin. Deli’s kisses slowed, grew gentle. Then Deli broke away. Colin did not protest. Deli lifted his face to the sky and let go of Colin.

Later, on the path back to the harbor, Colin could not be sure, but he thought he spotted it near the horizon: that great fish-bone fir by the river, whose spine stretched into the heavens, next to which he and Deli had set up shelter together so many years ago.

#dimension 20 #colindeli #colin provolone #thane delissandro katzon #the ravening war #fanfiction #it has been two years since i last posted fic #life comes at you fast

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malwa1216 · 9 months

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Space Husband

#Thane Krios #Mass Effect 2 #MELE #ME2 #malwa1216 #gif #Space Husband #mods #man it's been ages since i last made gifs

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mysaldate · 1 year

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The way they went from standing back to back to a triangle formation including Brutus really means something to me 🥺 The growth here is so-

Bonus: Brutus and Thane fighting side by side

Bonus 2: Belinda and Solise

#afk arena #afk thaden #afk baden #afk thane #baden rayne #the last obsidian finch #the silent blade #afk brutus #afk belinda #afk solise #afk talene #afk maetria

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shamemanifest · 10 months

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😭

#mid tbh but its better than my last one and thats all that matter #d20 #dimension 20 #the ravening war #trw #thane delissandro katzon #colin provolone

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zet-sway · 11 months

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Fanfic: Cynosure

Or, another stream-of-consciousness Thane POV lol

[Read on AO3] - Rated E for EXTREMELY SPICY TIMES

Pairing: Thane/FShep | Rating: 18+ | Words: ~2900

The air is thin between them, but it’s perhaps the only time he doesn’t feel like he’s dying.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - He’s quick to volunteer for the trip. A supply run to Omega - it’s not where he’d imagined she would spend her credits. Shepard shrugs when he asks her about it. “Council said I had to keep operations in the Terminus systems.”

There are other, better markets to supply a ship, but he does not press her for more.

Not two cycles after he shakes Shepard’s hand in the Dantius towers, the quiet isolation of space is already starting to weigh on him. He hasn’t been off Illium in some time, and Omega, dangerous as it may be, gives him an odd feeling of nostalgia. The air is stale and heavy, the streets are stained with poorly-washed refuse that sticks to his boots as they patrol the markets. In some ways, it’s easy to appreciate how blatantly this station flaunts its identity. The same seedy underbelly as Illium, stripped of all preamble. Beneath the heavy years of battle sleep, operating in this environment feels easy. He falls in step behind Shepard, alert and at the ready.

It’s too soon to tell if her attitude is confidence or naivete, but in any regard, the time spent with her is exactly the plethora of intel he’d hoped it would be. Words exchanged with strangers are direct and purposeful; her negotiations frugal, but fair. Her weapons are holstered, but cleaned and ready. Most interesting to him, however, is her body language. Shepard has the gait of a person well adapted to low-gravity, but the muscle of an earthborn human. Armored though she may be, she seems relaxed.

Overshadowed by the ludicrous rumors that she’d died for two years, she’s a walking contradiction, and a distracting one at that. Despite his attention to their surroundings, he finds himself watching her as often as he can allow. So it goes as she engages with a Batarian shopkeeper deep within the Botza district.

Ammunition and weapons. Sanitary supplies. Spare parts. Mods and materials. The shopkeeper - her name is Ubresk - offers them a bulk discount. Shepard refuses.

“Won’t need it when I’m dead,” Shepard says nonchalantly.

The shopkeeper raises a pair of brow ridges. “Planning to off yourself with enough supplies to fuel a warship?”

Thane’s world is zeroed in on the two of them. Shepard leans in and passes her omni-tool over the kiosk with a shrug. “Stealth frigate.” Ubresk’s four eyes are sharpened with unanswered questions, but Shepard won’t meet her gaze. “Lambda-2 docking bay. How quickly can you have it delivered?”

“About two hours.”

Shepard flashes a smile and pushes her hip off the counter. “Appreciate it.”

They shake hands. "I'll give Aria your regards."

And as though she did not have his full attention already, that is a surprise. Whatever Shepard's relationship with the infamous Aria T’loak, clearly, her confidence is not misplaced. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - The trip passes without incident, and they board a taxi back to the Normandy. Watching her stare out the simulated windows, he allows himself a small comment.

“Far be it for me to interject, but I thought human crews employed requisition officers?”

She glances at him. “We’re not an Alliance operation.” And then she seems to think for a moment, before adding, "Besides, I get to bleed Cerberus dry.”

That earns her an authentic huff of amusement. “Fair enough.”

“We have some time to kill, you need anything while we’re here?” A grin crosses her face. “The Illusive Man’s buying.”

He takes a moment to consider and, ironically, lands on the same logic she’d expressed not long ago: “Won’t need it when I’m dead.”

“Hah,” her gaze returns to the window. “Suit yourself.”

And then her eye catches on something - the glowing neon perimeter of Omega’s Chuvost Quarter.

“Is that the red light district? Never understood why we couldn't have something like this on Arcturus.”

He blinks, processing her statement, but she doesn’t seem to mind his silence. Instead, she offers up a modicum of clarification. "Busy life. Relationships were more trouble than they were worth. Would've been nice to get off and get going."

An intrusive thought jolts through him.

Gods willing, he wants to be the one to change her mind. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - The gods, as it seems, may yet smile upon him.

It's true that he hasn't worked closely with many humans, but of the ones he's known, Shepard outshines them by a mile.

Nearly always, she retains her characteristic mission-forward attitude. But now and again, she allows him a glimpse behind the curtain. And slowly, he begins to know her as a thoughtful but troubled individual. Her death, he comes to learn, was not a fallacious rumor. And the more he thinks about her, the more he wonders if he was not brought to her company by the will of Kahalira herself.

He is eager to accompany her strike forces, both on and off her personal squad, if only for the chance to debrief with her. To watch her work, and wonder over her.

By chance, one evening, they take a meal in the mess together. She even seems to enjoy their conversations, further driving his thoughts toward her, until he finds himself watching her not only to learn of her character, but the rest of her as well.

Short, blunted fingernails, scarred hands, strong arms. The neat angle of her jaw, the pale freckles across her cheeks. Air-wisped strands of hair that shift across her brow as she turns to him with laughter in her eyes, sandwich dangling from one hand. His dry humor seems to delight her.

He smiles.

She is distracting. He wants to know what her skin feels like, wants to hear what desperate sounds she might make in his arms. If she notices this, she does not care. By now it's evident: even on a simply professional level, she trusts him.

To return to the solitude of his quarters feels more and more difficult after every mission. Night after night, he entertains the idea of inserting himself into her personal space. For an unknown number of cycles, he has resisted the urge. But on this night, he succumbs. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - It feels dishonest, to hide such desire behind a contrived moral dilemma. Thane is many things, but he does not consider himself a liar. Still, Shepard allows him entrance to her space with a smile.

True to her nature, she listens and validates. Gives him sound counsel, and directs him toward valuable resources. He listens to remember, because truly he does want her input on this non-urgent matter, but the true reason he is here is for any crumb of connection to her.

She's dressed simply: a dark hooded sweatshirt and a pair of standard-issue battle dress pants. Her posture is relaxed - almost vulnerable. He watches the way she moves, the soft twist of fabric around her body, the barely audible clink of dog tags beneath her shirt. His eidetic memory will feed him these visions of her, and the baser urges of his mind will imagine them sliding off her, revealing the forbidden expanses of her soft, human skin. It's difficult to ignore that her office is directly adjacent to her sleeping quarters. He tries not to linger on the thought of pushing her into the impeccably made bed just a few feet away.

Their conversation concluded, she stands to bid him goodbye.

He stands to meet her. Lingers beside her.

And endowed with Amonkira’s courage, he leans in to give her a simple kiss.

Their lips connect, just for a moment, and he pulls away to bid her goodnight. But when he meets her eyes, he finds more than just surprise.

Desire.

And in seconds, this simple gesture becomes a wildfire. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - She isn't forceful - not quite. Shepard has the quiet strength of a woman who has adapted to authority. She asks with a simple push and pull, requesting but nearly expecting him to follow along as they undress one another.

Before long, she's pushing him down onto her bed, climbing into his lap, gripping his chin, and stealing the breath straight from his mouth.

The air is thin between them, but it’s perhaps the only time he doesn’t feel like he’s dying. The heel of one palm digs painfully into his chest and he winces, but rolls his hips up into her regardless. Nothing has ever felt better than this.

Her legs are long and lean on either side of his hips, the naked heat of her grinding along his length. He's not inside her - not yet. She rolls above him like waves, kissing him with her cunt, panting with every pass of her pearl over his coronal ridge. It's the sweetest torture. The wet heat between her muscled thighs feels like the only thing that might save him from himself. Desire grips him like a vice and brings him to his knees.

With desperation on her tongue, Shepard groans into his mouth as she walks him along the edge. He can taste how close she is, can feel it in the way her splayed fingers twitch against his back. Her thighs shake.

"Fuck," she whispers. "I'm-"

It doesn't matter that this memory will never fade - he's not ready to leave it. Not ready to part with this image of his Siha, his angel, with a blush spread wide across her chest, her mouth gasping against his, her body trembling as though decades of discipline and rigor were not enough to prepare her for the way she will crest this wave in his arms.

With the last shreds of rationality he possesses, he grips her thighs hard. His fingernails leave crescent-shaped divots in her flesh, forcing her to slow, holding her just shy of the contact she’s chasing. She pitches backward as he bucks against her, tipping her balance in his favor. In moments he's gained the upper hand, rolling them both, folding her over and back until he is atop her.

All she can offer is a surprised gasp, her eyes fixated on his as he pushes her thighs back, back, back, until she's well and truly open to him. Shepard's knees settle in a wide spread, the gleaming jewel between her legs laid open before him. In this position, he can easily overpower her, but that was never his goal.

"If you wanted to fuck me, you could have just said so." she pants out.

"Mmh," is all he offers, taking himself in hand and drawing the tip of his cock down her seam. "Indulge me, Siha."

And then he’s sinking inch for precious inch into her depths. The heat of her makes his ears ring, his vision blurring around the edges, and then he's hilted deep inside her, wrapped in the molten silk of her body.

Her voice breaks, caught in the back of her throat.

"Fuck."

All he can do is echo her sentiment, a groan pulled from deep within his chest. If he's lucky, he'll make her crazy before he loses himself.

He paces himself. Allows his mind to wander for the fleeting chance it might hold him over. Beneath him, Shepard is alive with motion. Her body jolts each time their hips meet, arms gasping and shoving the sheets like each thrust is too much to bear. Her head tilts back, sapphire light gleaming off the sweat beaded on her throat.

In, breathe, out, breathe, in, breathe, out - over and over, until his heart measures the seconds between each deep thrust. She claws at him, urging him closer. Her legs are heavy as she attempts to leverage her hips into him. But strong as she is, he holds the advantage. Thane digs his thumbs just behind the jutting edges of her hips and holds her down. With Arashu's mercy, he may hold out just long enough to make her scream.

"Christ," she bites out. "Fuck me."

To this, he relents with an inward smile quickening his pace just enough to satisfy her for the moment. Shepard was never the patient kind. He burns with the need to take her to the edge of reason. To show her pleasures she could never hope to feel without a partner devoted to the task. To drive her to madness second by second, until she aches, truly lost beneath his hands.

She reaches for herself, as he knew she would, and he snatches her wrist, kissing her fingertips one at a time. When she squirms, he takes them into his mouth, sucking at her middle and ring fingers as though she were a drell, letting his split tongue drag over the distinctly human divide between them. Brilliant green eyes watch him beneath sweat-kissed strands of hair, lush lips parted in surprise.

Halfway to undone, he thinks. Gods as his witness, he will love her so senselessly that she weeps for more.

He sets her two fingers back atop her mound and watches as she begins to stroke herself, knowing his saliva will do untold things to all the little nerves between her legs. His hands settle around the hard softness of her pressed-open thighs as he settles into an easy rhythm.

There’s freedom in this. Her soft human nakedness laid out before him, the endless fight to prolong her pleasure until she can’t feel anything but him. The hypnotic, desperate slide of his ridges into her cunt, drawn out and deep, beneath the measured swirl of her fingers over her gleaming center.

She breathes his name as her eyes slide closed. She could not hope to know what such a blatant display of trust could mean to him.

There's no end to the pleasure he will relive when this moment is gone. As her knees tense against him, his toes curl against the sheets. She's incredible, from her heavy-lidded gaze to the raging heat gripping his cock. Each thrust is a prayer, a mantra, a physical manifestation of the deep need and love and lust he cannot help but give her, unendingly, maddeningly. Her fingertips brush against his shaft and he nearly breaks, the long, deep pace now lost to the chase of irresistible pleasure at her demand. In a way, she has beaten him at his own game. The desire to drag out her lust proves too much for him. He falls over her, covering her, lips connecting with her neck as he snaps his hips against her, driving his cock into her wanting body with the desperation of a man who hasn’t known the touch of another in a decade. One arm circles around his back, blunted human fingernails biting into the sensitive frills down his flank.

Her breath is hot at his ear, his name on her lips as she begs, "Please, Thane, please-"

One hand wrenches beneath her knee, pushing it back into her shoulder to give her better access. He can feel her fingertips moving with vigor against her cunt and she breaks.

There's nothing subtle about the way her body feels when she comes on his cock. Her insides ripple like waves, the strength of her taking his breath. His pace falters, his body slapping against her at a desperate, stuttering pace as he stumbles, gasps, and falls over the edge with her. The feeling is a blast wave to his senses, black blooming behind his eyes until there's nothing left but the huff of her breath at his cheek and the incredible, breathtaking, impossible clench and pulse of heat and pleasure between them.

Seconds stretch into eternity as he tumbles with her, release flooding her in abundance. It gathers in every available space inside her, squeezes out along the length of him, smearing between their thighs as he thrusts into her as long as his body can manage. Her ankles lock behind him. The possessive grip of her hands is nothing against the blood-curdling climax they share. And just when he thinks he's spent, she comes a second time.

His head is spinning, his body shaking, the base of his cock expanding within her. She lets out a low moan as he fills her like no human ever could, swollen knot forcing every last drop of white-hot desire into her quivering cunt.

Their bodies are tied. Heaven and hell could fall upon them and their last moments would only be bliss.

With some effort, they manage to find a comfortable position, interlocked for the time being. He can feel every twitch and quiver of her body around him, milking his knot for all it's worth. So intense it feels like she's strangling him, robbing him blind of every sensation that isn't the throbbing pulse of pleasure through his limbs and heart. Chills rake down his spine.

She strokes his trapezius as she murmurs, “You're amazing."

And for a time, their world is nothing but peace and pleasure. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Hours later, when she is fast asleep in his arms, he gazes out of her skylight ceiling and wonders how a man like himself was ever worthy enough of such a moment. Laid bare of her armor and authority, she seems almost delicate in this light - gleaming waves from her empty fish tanks washing over her in soft blue hues. How ironic that her cabin would be illuminated by a facsimile of Kalahira's depths.

He cannot help himself. Perhaps in his mind, or perhaps under whispered breaths, he prays. Offers thanks to his gods, and to the sleeping angel beside him. The rest of his days may not be enough to thank her for all the ways she has changed his life in so short a time.

If all that he has ever been is a sinner, at least for tonight, he has been made whole.

#zet writes things #shrios #thane krios #thane #shepard #mass effect fanfiction #fyi there's knotting in this fic just in case anyone is super not into that (no pun intended)#ive actually written a lot over the last few months but capitalism is slowly but surely wearing me down lol

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