Thank you, shretl (girlundone), beta reader extraordinaire!
Shepard expected to find little more than desolation, desperation, and despair among the smoking naval base and grim, dark landscape of Menae. The destruction was just another warning of what was at stake, but after escaping the warzone that was Earth, she did not need to see yet another reminder.
But as Palaven sorrowfully burned overhead, Shepard discovered that she was still capable of unabashed joy even surrounded by the miseries of conflict. She heard him before she saw him—his flanged voice chasing away wayward fears best left unspoken, lest imagination manifested into reality.
Clad in shining silver and blue armor, Garrus swaggered towards her with a sense of majestic confidence that was severely lacking six months ago. It was like seeing him with fresh eyes all over again. He found renewed purpose during their time apart, rediscovering the spark lost to the all-consuming flames of his disastrous campaign on Omega. Steely-eyed and determined, Garrus allowed himself to evolve. She quietly celebrated how fortunate she was to witness and share in his journey with an almost giddy sense of delight and admiration.
His presence provided her a much-needed dose of optimism throughout her psyche, and Shepard's heart skipped a beat when Garrus took her hand in his, gently lifting it towards him while his other large hand covered hers like a shield. At that moment, nothing compared to the comfort and security of having Garrus hold her hand. Never before had she appreciated his touch to that magnitude, never realized how much she needed it. It created a spiritual vein through which strength, comfort, and hope transfused to revitalize her spirit.
Leaving Menae with Garrus lifted some of the burdens heaped upon her shoulders—he was always good at offering support to make mission after mission bearable, and at times, survivable.
But, time was a precious, finite commodity now—arguably the most valuable resource that the war demanded from its strained participants. The entire crew worked in tandem to keep the Normandy running at a smooth capacity, and there was no time to slack. Fraternizing was kept to a minimum. With too much work, too many duties, and too much stress, Shepard deemed it too selfish an indulgence to purposely schedule Garrus' responsibilities around her own just so they could steal a few kisses—and a quickie—in the Main Battery.
Eventually, there was an overlap—a couple of hours of respite that they could spend together, and Shepard's emerald eyes twinkled with greed and anticipation. She showered, then slid under the crisp, cool sheets in nothing but her panties, a scheme of seduction playing out in her mind.
But her plan was falling through. No longer dressed in stiff BDUs or confined to a compression layer and hardsuit, Shepard was feeling weightless and whimsical. Instead of propping herself up on her elbow with a sultry gaze focused towards the door, she laid back and watched the iridescent solar wind streaming past the hull. It was an enchanting, hypnotic display—a continuous spectrum of light rushing overhead, cycling through vivid, electric colors that cast her quarters in a moving prism of ruby red, peridot green, and brilliant sapphire blue.
It was the same shade as his eyes.
Like so often, Shepard's mind drifted back to Garrus, reminiscing about his voice, demeanor, body, and perfect hands that cradled hers on Menae.
And suddenly, Shepard craved to see his bare soul more than his bare body, and the idea of sleeping next to Garrus was far more tempting than sleeping with him. Despite his lanky, plated physique, Garrus was a top-notch snuggler, leaving Shepard to wonder how two bodies with so many differences could fit so well together. He had not spoken the word love yet—which she suspected was merely a cultural difference—but when Garrus whispered sweet nothings like, "You make every day worth living," into her ear, Shepard couldn't doubt his devotion to her.
Watching the cosmic jetstream with half-shut eyes, Shepard was on the cusp of falling asleep when she heard the door open. Garrus was the only one who knew the security code to enter her quarters. Weeks ago, she had sent him a nonchalant text consisting of nothing but a sequence of numbers, and even without explanation, he knew what the message meant.
Turians could be remarkably quiet when moving, and Garrus was no exception, especially out of his combat suit. He barely made a sound walking towards the bed.
Shepard muttered his name as the bed dipped, and he lifted the covers, exhausted muscles making his movements stiff and slow. His warm, spiny body settled heavily next to her. Crimson strands of silky hair obstructed her vision as she rolled over to greet him, yet she didn't need her sight to guide the chaste kiss to its destination—the side of his scarred mandible. It was not the sort of open mouth kiss that led to passionate lovemaking—not yet—for the energy between them was placid, unhurried, and yearned for a more visceral connection.
His hand found hers resting across her flat, toned stomach, and Garrus fell asleep instantly. She envied him. It always took far too long for sleep to grace her consciousness. Shepard entwined her fingers with his and breathed through the warmth that seeped into her chest. Such a simple, sweet thing to do, yet holding hands in bed was incredibly intimate—a complex simplicity—even more so than sex at times. It was an act that spoke so much even by doing so little.
Their hands fit together perfectly like they are both made for each other—the spaces in between his three fingers created in such a way that her five digits could fill them with ease. Even in sleep, Garrus reacted to her touch. She squeezed his hand and felt him squeeze back—his grip a reminder that no matter how hard life was, it was a comfort to traverse those struggles hand in hand with someone you loved.
Side by side, with the pulses of their wrists beating together, her view softened, then darkened, sleep granting her weary body rest.
Shepard woke up first.
She always did.
But it was a good thing because it gave her time to analyze all the things about Garrus that brought her the purest happiness. But how did one capture the beauty of which mere words could not cage?
Love was when you stopped believing all the definitions given and started finding your own.
Love had no reason.
Love had no limitations.
It had no boundaries.
It could not be measured.
And Shepard quietly chuckled to herself—entertained and embarrassed by her romanticism.
During the few times they'd share her bed, she awoke to find Garrus rolled up in the sheets and covers with only his fringe sticking out of the rumpled material, leaving Shepard exposed to the cool air. Today was no exception, but amusement replaced her usual annoyance because his hand left behind the innocent position on her stomach to rest on the upper region of her thigh. Now, more prominent primal and physical urges fueled her imagination, and she gushed at the thought of those large, strong hands touching her skin.
Her leg looked so small under his grasp.
Rarely were they exposed. There was something about Garrus' fingers—the way they were crafted. The spaces between them always called out to her. Shepard wanted them intertwined through her existence, lost inside her soul. Only during the most intimate encounters did Garrus bare them, and it was during those trysts—as Garrus mapped and explored her body—that she memorized the details of his wrist, palms, and phalanges.
His palms were rough, knuckles round, fingers calloused and long. Symmetrical silvery-gray scales lined the dorsal side of his hand, and Garrus kept his glossy black talons filed shortly—just barely above the tip of his digits—so she never worried about accidental nicks or scratches. Still, even with such a conservative length, there was something inherently sensual about the danger those talons represented, especially when they were caressing the back of her neck, buried in her hair, taking off her clothes, gripping her hips, and...
And Shepard knew she wanted her hands interlocked with his forever.
Now his hand moved from her leg, up to her stomach, between her breasts, past her throat, and tenderly caressed her face. Garrus was awake and peering at her with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
"Daydreaming?" he asked in a way that was far too cocky for a man wrapped up to his head in his girlfriend's blanket for fear of getting a little chilly.
Shepard rolled over to her side, uncovering his face. "Just thinking," she answered with a smile and started tugging the covers lower to reveal his carapaced shoulders. She couldn't recall when he undressed but was grateful all the same. Lean—like all turians—but his muscles were so defined, especially his deltoids and biceps. The taupe-colored hide of his inner arms was softer and more sensitive than the leathery plates covering his outer arms from shoulder to wrist.
One mandible flickered out, subtle yet purposefully noticeable--Garrus was smirking. "About what?"
"God..." Shepard wistfully sighed, another rush of affection flooding her heart to the bursting point. "About how much I love your hands." Garrus quieted—he always did when she directed that word at him—as if amazed by her open honesty and her ability to express her emotions so freely.
She nuzzled her cheek against his open palm and pressed her body into his, prompting Garrus to leave his tranquil contemplations for carnal temptations. "Let's put them to good use then," he murmured, playfully running his thumb along her plump bottom lip. Within his throat, a low rumble sounded, and when they kissed, she felt the vibration through her tongue—lower still when he cupped the back of her head and plunged his tongue deep into her mouth.
There would never be enough time to share kisses with Garrus. She was impatient to feel him, yet her mouth watered to taste the power he possessed in those agile fingers. Breaking their kiss, she lifted his hand away from her cheek and planted a small peak to the pad of his thumb, index, and pinky.
Shepard rose to her knees, panties riding low on her round hips. She arched her back, an offering and display of desire. Garrus gave an appreciative trill, proving that some body language translated to any universal tongue.
Garrus flexed his fingers in expectation before lining them up above Shepard's lips. She knew he liked her mouth and all the things it could do for him—do to him. This sort of play was a unique experience for him, at least the kind that Shepard offered with her warm, slick, and wet mouth.
Shepard took a firm grip on his wrist and nipped the heel of his palm with her flat teeth. Flesh unbroken, though she bit hard—playful, not menacing. One finger slid in easily. His cobalt eyes watched her lips stretch around his fingers—his eyes had a unique weight that she could feel no matter the distance.
She kept her mouth slack until Garrus moved his finger back, and Shepard sucked it in, her tongue rising to glide across the underside. She guided his hand to find a rhythm in the hollowing of her cheeks—pushing in and pulling out.
His other hand toyed with the edge of her panties before diving in past her pubic line, running a digit between soft, oily slick folds, gathering up the wetness from her body and swirling his finger around her engorged clit. Shepard moaned around his fingers, every noise carrying ripples of emotion and connection. It was his trigger finger that teased her in gentle, slow, secure flicks—the same finger that brought swift merciful death to their enemies. So much care, so much brutality, a protector and destroyer—the sweet juxtaposition that was entirely Garrus.
His finger matched the tempo of her mouth.
Shepard dropped her tongue back to his palm, smiling when his eyes widened as she traced every line and then lapped the gap of his fingers. With broad swipes of her tongue across the length of his fingers—pointed licks from base to tip—she tasted metallic salt.
His thumb stroked Shepard's cheek, and she opened her lips wider, tilting her head back to allow Garrus to push deeper. His dull talon nudged the back of her throat. Between her silky thighs, the fabric of her panties pulled and stretched around the movement of his hand, causing a breathy moan to escape from her lips, a warm breeze against the length of his finger.
Garrus suddenly twisted his hand, grinding his thumb against her clit, while his index massaged the threshold of her body. He carefully pushed in and curled his finger up inside. Soft, tight walls clenched his digit, but her arousal lubricated his finger to maneuver in and out.
She met the movements of his hand, hips rocking helplessly, riding on his touch. From this angle, Garrus could circle her clit, while rubbing against that sensitive spot inside her body. Beads of sweat ran down her face, blending with the smear of saliva around her whimpering mouth as her body shook—no rhythm, just friction and sensation. Her lips opened as exquisite pressure built at the base of her spine, just enough warning to pull his finger out before—
"That's it, baby. Make a mess." Were his words encouragement, praise, or both—it didn't matter—Shepard could barely hear his dual tones through the white noise in her ears, the blood rushing to her head, and the pulsing of her body.
Her inner thighs glistened—slick and hot—flimsy black lace completely soaked through.
Shepard sat back, toes still curling from the intensity of her orgasm. She loosened the grip on his wrist, placing it over Garrus' chest. His heart thumped against her palm as demanding freedom to run away with her. Between his fingers dripped drops of passion—his dark blue tongue serpentined out to lick and savor her essence.
Though satisfied, the almost predatory gleam in his eye reawakened the insatiable yearning for him.
Garrus gripped her knees, spreading her wide as Shepard desperately pulled him down on top of her—always in tune with the other. She wrapped her legs around his waist, and he buried his hard cock inside her to the hilt, filling her.
Yes, love was an emotion that couldn't be seen or touched, cosmically pure and beyond reach, a personal and all-consuming experience.
Infinite like space.
Where there was no limit to the number of stars in the sky.
Were the crescent marks caused by her fingernails digging into the plates on his back not measurable?
Was the strength of his arms wrapped around her body until there was no space between them save the steady motion of his pelvis not measurable?
Did one caress that became a symphony of passion, an unquenchable desire to possess and never let go—was that not measurable?
Shepard gasped then squeezed her eyes shut. Every thrust struck her over sensitized clit, and she cried out as each stroke slid against places inside that only Garrus ever touched. His warm breath enveloped the side of her neck, panting through his harmonics, gaining in pitch as he neared release. Garrus groaned out her name, and she felt a hardening, then a gentle throbbing sensation before he pulsed, pouring all his feelings into her, taking her over, inside and out. Hot spurts of liquid flooding her body, then spilled out as he pushed through his orgasm—a few more hard, deep pumps as his hips slowed. Shepard's toes curled in delight and satisfaction as warm liquid sunshine spread along her plaint walls—she loved sharing this moment with Garrus, loved knowing her body got him there.
Beneath the glow of the dancing rainbow above, Shepard measured the length of his fringe with caring, creeping fingertips, bringing him down from the aftershocks of ecstasy.
Shakarian (Established Relationship)
Fluff: "You make every day worth living."
Smut: "That's it, baby. Make a mess." & "God, I love your hands." "Let's put them to good use then."
Kink: (Playful) Biting & Body Worship