#f!shepard

The adrenaline, still pumping somewhere under the carapace from the conversation with the Councilor Sparatus, made his words sound more confident, his tongue working overtime to get enough time to spit out everything he knew. This is Shepard. The Shepard. When she offers him a chance to jump on the cause, he's already choosing a spot on the ship, preferably somewhere he can be the most useful.

Shepard... She-pard. It tastes metallic on his tongue as he bites down his glove, careful not to disturb other guests at the tiny hotel room he's renting for the shore leave. He knows her name, it's not classified - but it's another line he can't cross. Won't let himself cross.

Spirits, how he wishes she was a turian. It would be so much easier - getting the stress out of the system was encouraged in his own military, but this is Alliance. These are humans. From what he's heard, they are more strict about fraternizing.

– Fr... - he breathed out, shoving the pants out of the way, his slender legs uncovered by the material anymore. The underwear was considered to be a frisky little thing for civilians, especially those who preferred interracial relationships. Wonder what's the appeal of a piece of fabric?

–Ater... Fraterni... - he almost purred, trying to cope the intonation of Shepard's tone when he spoke the terrifyingly simple language of her people. English, she called it?

Even a single vowel that resembled hers made him throw his head back with a groan, putting one leg on the bunch of pillows laying on the mattress. His clawed hands, still clad in leather gloves, slid down in a familiar motion, searching for the small opening between the platings.

– Frater... No, no, she'd say it... - he mused out, tasting, feeling her tongue say the syllables. He's seen it, watched it peak out from between her stupidly blunt teeth. How are humans supposed to tear the meat off the bone? It could've been a good intimidation tactic though. To torture their prey a bit longer, their mouths filled with blood as the defenseless creature battled for it's life.

That thought made his breath hitch, the other hand traveling to rest lightly on his neck - just trying to get a feel, how big of a chunk she could tear our of his throat.

Although she did look good in red. Maybe she'd even lick his blood off her face with the...

Right. Tongue.

Tracing two talons across the slit, eager to prolong the daydreaming session a little longer, he closed his eyes and let the visor go over the pre-recorded scrambled mess of her voice messages. With his translation module turned off, he couldn't understand most of it - just when she'd say his name.

"Garrus. Garrus Vakarian" - the Shepard in his mind whispered it into his ear canal, that warm, pink, tongue sliding down his cheek right to the soft spot under his fringe.

Her hands trailing down his carapace. They were soft - he felt them while passing the cup of tea in the morning, when she passed him new weapons for inspection.

Would she be nice? He's seen her be kind before. She's a soldier first, but that big, unprotected by the metallic armour chest had fire burning hotter than any engine of the entire fleet.

She'd still tease him, he figured. Dip her fingers slowly, caress the gummy surface of his genital slit, rubbing over the opening to try and get a good feel. Then, she'd...

– Spirits, this is pathetic. I'm jerking off to the voice recording of my commander chewing out a recruit. - the translation module pops back in, reminding him of the cruel reality, and he almost regrets everything, repenting his sins, before his slit finally opens, his palm getting the familiar heaviness as lube drips down his glove. Okay, maybe once. It's not like he's the first one to fantasise about a commanding officer.

After a brief consideration, Garrus slides down from the bed, facing the poor pillows who's fate today was far from resting his head on. Pushing them together, arranging them neatly, he restarts the recording before making a trial, shallow thrust. This works.

– I'm Commander Shepard, Alliance Navy. The geth incursions are an orchestrated maneuver by none other than Saren Arterius... - the voice is raspy, she hasn't slept before recording that message. Did she ever sleep? She'd fit here, next to him. She's not as big as turians, she could fit right...

His talons dug into the sheets, almost tearing through the gloves as the pace turned more needy, more urgent. The slick sounds from sliding against the pillow cover were definitely a noise disturbance to the other guests, he noted absentmindedly, before chucking at his own remark:

– At least I won't be the only one not getting any sleep tonight.

Spirits, he's pathetic. She had a power to turn a respected officer into a mumbling recruit, all the experience with women flying out of the window the moment he watched those hips sway while leaving the elevator.

Grabbing the pillow from both sides, Garrus closed his eyes, giving himself the brief liberty to imagine it was her soft, warm body underneath - not the cheap pile of filling and a piece of fabric, but Shepard. His Shepard, the hero of many, his own undoing.

Spirits, she'd probably scratch him. Or better, she'd try to sink her blunt teeth into his neck - and he'd let her. Moreover, he'd ask her for it. She'd bite and tear until nothing would be left, he thought with a small smile, his breathing picking up as he felt the telltale pressure building up from his knot, nestled right under the heavy length.