[ Mordin hesitates and then steps closer into the strange triangle they've begun to form, mind visibly working even through the haze that's settled over his senses, Thane's hand indescribably and alarmingly good against the hollow of his chest and suddenly much too hot.
It's rather tornado-like, the haste with which Mordin strips, as if he has to go fast enough that his thoughts won't be able to catch up, chattering right along as he does. ]
Yes. Of course. Wouldn't actually— [ He swallows. Takes a breath. ] Skin of salarians highly permeable, potential for exposure via simple contact. No idea how neurochemicals from chip will interact.
[ And then somehow his hand has dipped down to brush clumsily over Garrus's before joining it over Thane's cock, observing its weight and slickness, the way it hungrily soaks up the heat of their combined six fingers. ]
...One way to find out.
[ His undergarments cling to him from hip to sinuous mid-thigh, dark enough to obscure the steady swelling between them and the moisture that has long since started to slick the crotch, wanting to part, drip freely, come. It's an old refrain, if infrequent, but it's never felt quite this desperate. Mordin should hate this feeling, base instinct overriding his intellect, his restraint, his pride, but the thought is crowded out by the oppressive curious desire to feel one or both of these alien appendages precisely where they aren't meant to be, stretching him open, stuffing his neglected hole. Would be a challenge, would probably involve at least moderate pain, but probably could take both, could probably—
Mordin's pupils are giant inky ovals at this point; he breathes something that doesn't translate. ]
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branchandroot
whispers and it's all for me............
Date: 2014-06-03 04:35 am (UTC)It's rather tornado-like, the haste with which Mordin strips, as if he has to go fast enough that his thoughts won't be able to catch up, chattering right along as he does. ]
Yes. Of course. Wouldn't actually— [ He swallows. Takes a breath. ] Skin of salarians highly permeable, potential for exposure via simple contact. No idea how neurochemicals from chip will interact.
[ And then somehow his hand has dipped down to brush clumsily over Garrus's before joining it over Thane's cock, observing its weight and slickness, the way it hungrily soaks up the heat of their combined six fingers. ]
...One way to find out.
[ His undergarments cling to him from hip to sinuous mid-thigh, dark enough to obscure the steady swelling between them and the moisture that has long since started to slick the crotch, wanting to part, drip freely, come. It's an old refrain, if infrequent, but it's never felt quite this desperate. Mordin should hate this feeling, base instinct overriding his intellect, his restraint, his pride, but the thought is crowded out by the oppressive curious desire to feel one or both of these alien appendages precisely where they aren't meant to be, stretching him open, stuffing his neglected hole. Would be a challenge, would probably involve at least moderate pain, but probably could take both, could probably—
Mordin's pupils are giant inky ovals at this point; he breathes something that doesn't translate. ]