Archive of Our Own

The first time Shepard had seen Garrus in any state of undress it hadn’t been intentional. 

They’d been on the SR-1 in that lull that came after a mission, where adrenaline hadn’t quite worn off with the clamor of stowing armor in lockers and the good-natured ribbing that followed. He’d been trading barbs back and forth with Wrex until Kaidan said something from his locker and Garrus had thrown his head back and laughed. It had been the first time she’d ever heard something of an equivalent to a belly laugh from him, the sound rich and dually toned, and she’d found herself following the lean contours of him, the arch of his back and sharp edges of his joints. Whatever he’d said had been swallowed by Kaidan’s snicker and Ashley clearing her throat with a pointed look.

The next time that had meant anything she’d been peeling charred armor from him, elbowing Zaeed in the chest plate when he tried to pull her away. The floor had been stained blue, blood seeping into the cracks of her gloves and too much of it puddled at her knees. When they’d gotten to Chakwas, stains along her jaw and across her greaves, he’d been stripped to his under armor, and it didn’t strike her until she was smearing blood away just how sallow his plates were.

By the time she’d gotten him in her cabin, on edge from the crew going missing, their impeding suicide mission and just how much risk they were adding to their friendship, she’d thought herself fairly familiar with the way his body operated. Armor was one thing and getting his shirt off another, but he’d stepped into her space, extended a hand, and she’d taken it without question.

Now, his hand closes around hers, warm through his glove, and the others are either too drunk or distracted to catcall as she pulls Garrus away. 

He doesn’t quite get handsy when he drinks, but he has gotten bolder—more comfortable in their relationship. If referring to himself as her boyfriend once or twice had been any indication, he doesn’t shy away from acknowledging it in front of the squad. Since their date on the Presidium he’s held himself with more surety around her and where they stand. It’s a rare occasion her rounds to the battery end without him at least brushing his mouth plates against her forehead or one of them pressed against the terminal with a promise to meet up in her cabin later. It goes without saying she sleeps better on the nights he lies beside her, on the ones that he can or she’s still there when he shows up.

They spend the party passing quips back and forth, his gaze shifting from amusement to a slow burning ember before he turns and gives Liara a wisecrack about the Shadow Broker. He talks with his hands, and one of them brushes the small of her back. She folds her arms, shifting enough her hair falls and exposes the side of her neck as she tells Traynor to relax and enjoy her hummus.

It’s nothing more than a lingering brush of affection, easy enough for the others to miss. His presence is fleeting as they meet and then split to mingle, so they make it a game of sorts: the drag of the back of his hand along her arm, the subtle touch at his waist as she passes him to rejoin Tali and Samara.

“Meet me in fifteen,” she tells him at one point, once more of the crew is leaning on furniture or other fixtures to keep themselves upright.

He inclines his head as he passes, “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Shepard turns, doing a quick swipe through her hair as she does and Garrus reaches up to brush an errant bang out of her face. “Definitely not if you play your cards right.”

“I’m pretty decent at cards.”

“Pretty decent doesn’t sound promising.” She rocks back on her heels, rocking side to side; her toes are still sore from the shoes Kasumi convinced her to try that she kicked off ten minutes ago. She’s not sure where they are now.

She takes a breath, taking in the scent of rich smoke and a hint of metal, chest warmed by alcohol and the hint of normalcy. The fireplace illuminates the side of his face, shifting as the plates do, and she follows the line of a shadow up the deep blue of his markings to the bright shade of his eye. Her hands run over her dress, a movement he tracks. “Fifteen minutes,” she says, and he snaps up like her fist closing around his spine.

“Of course, Commander.”

The party is on its last legs when she makes it back to the kitchen—rather, the alcohol seems to still be flowing and she can account for a good handful of her crew, lethargic as some of them might be. It’s nice to see them relaxed for once, or as relaxed as they’re going to get given the state of things. Tali sways on her feet, showing off a pair of borrowed heels as Miranda tries to pass her water, and from by the fireplace Ashley shoots her an amused look before turning back to Vega. Over by the remains of the hummus, Liara’s examining Traynor’s Kepesh-Yakshi trophy, seemingly rather enthused. She can make out the edge of Garrus’ fringe and the low timbre of Wrex’s voice.

As she steps away to grab another drink after getting Tali situated on a stool she turns to find herself stepping into the circle of his arm. Garrus leans toward her, under the guise of reaching over the bar for his own glass, and she lets out a breath against the side of his neck. She can feel fingers trailing along her thigh, following the hem of her dress without quite slipping beneath it. 

Emboldened, she tilts to press her shoulder into him, mindful of the murmurings coming from the kitchen and main room as the party winds down. Shepard tilts her head, brushing her lips across his mandible, and then pulls back as Traynor stumbles up to the bar with a grin over her shoulder to Liara before startling at the sudden start-stop snore that is Zaeed asleep on the couch.

His hand tugs her back into the solid curve of his keel, subvocal rumbling against her shoulder.

“So much for fifteen minutes,” she says.

“What can I say? Sometimes I like to be early.”

“Not too early, I hope.”

“Right, that’s…” Garrus clears his throat, a remarkably human sounding habit. “I doubt anyone’s going to notice.”

She pauses on the landing at the sound of a thud before it’s followed by Jack cackling. Apparently, Garrus decides she’s taking too long and ducks to brush a mandible along the side of her neck until she tugs him the rest of the way to the main bedroom. Shepard makes to step into his arms and then twists to slide the door shut behind them. She drags a hand down the wall, searching out a button or switch that doesn’t seem to exist before pulling up her omni-tool to slide the pocket door out of the wall. A lock clicks for good measure.

“I think Vega’s making a move on Ashley,” she says, pushing hair out of her face.

“I don’t,” Garrus starts, grabbing at her hip. He pulls with a little too much force and her breath leaves her in a rush as he pushes her against the wall. Shifting to slot a leg between hers, her dress hitches up her thighs, and she gasps as he tongue dips beneath the collar. “I don’t really care what Jimmy’s doing right now.”

She laughs before he swallows it, pressing his mouth to hers and his collar bunches between her fingers. He tastes like the whiskey he’s been drinking—something earthy about it and an underlying metallic tinge, and she lets go of his collar to drag her fingers along his scars. Garrus shivers, pressing himself to her, plates firm and unyielding and his talons flex against her hip. Her hands travel down the lines of his chest—for once he’d forgone wearing his armor, which makes it a lot easier to feel the heat of his body and her palms press against his plates through the thick material. In turn, he drags a mandible up her throat, and she tilts her head back into the wall.

She moans softly after he nips at her lip, tongue tracing the sting. “Should probably keep it down unless you want everyone else to hear us. Javik already complains enough that we smell like each other.”

“Like they don’t already know what we’re doing,” she shoots back, and a mandible twitches. She grins, pressing her knee to his thigh. “I can be quiet, but can you?”

“I don’t think you’ve ever done anything quietly.”

Shepard brushes her fingers along his fringe, his temple, and he closes his eyes to lean into her hand. “How drunk are you right now?” she asks, and his eyes open into slits that are blue fire and want. Then his mouth is back on hers, tongue seeking entrance and she parts her lips immediately, pulling him in and clutching at whatever she can reach. Garrus groans as her tongue glides along his with a tangle of whiskey and vodka and his hips rock into hers, pressing her against the wall.

His hand glides down her side to palm her ass and he mutters, “need you” as her tongue follows the lip of his mouth plate. She leans back enough to feel his pant against her mouth, lip swollen and red, and then his hands are at the hem of her dress, thumbs slipping beneath it to ghost along her thighs. “I’ve wanted to do this all night,” he says as he tries to tug it up and over her hips only to make a sharp sound of protest deep in his chest as she grabs his wrists.

“Watch it,” she says. He protests again—bodily, this time, as she pushes him back. “Hang on, hang on.” Shepard drags her tongue along his mandible and he moans as she gets him to take a step back. She drags her hands up his forearms, his biceps, and then curls them over his shoulders; he groans when she presses her inner thigh to his leg and then spins them.

Garrus’ fringe hits the wall with a grunt. It must not hurt too much but he does give her a dirty look all the same, and Shepard watches it darken in the split second before she turns her back and tilts her head, exposing the length of her neck. She reaches up behind her for the zipper of her dress and then feels warm talons against the expanse of her shoulder blades while his fingers replace hers, dragging it down to the small of her back.

A mandible flicks against her shoulder as the sleeves slip down her arms, and she lets the dress pool at her feet before kicking it away. Shepard leans, tilting her head again and his mouth plates glide up the side of her throat until she turns her head to kiss him. The angle is a little more awkward, and she lets out a sigh and then a moan as his hands trail from her hips up her sides until palming her breasts. Fuck, she wants his hands—Her head falls back against his cowl, mouth plates nipping along her jaw as he grinds into the swell of her ass. One hand reaches for the back of his neck, the other for his wrist as she pushes back against him.

“Shepard,” he hisses, fingers kneading a breast in a way that borders on painful. She leans back into him with a grunt, one hand closing on her hip as he pulls her into him. The carpet is soft and warm against her sore feet and she flexes her toes as his thumbs rub circles into her hip bones, mandible dragging along the slope of her shoulder to her neck.

“Yes, Garrus?” she says, dragging her nails along the hide of his cowl until his hips stutter. She uses that to her advantage, twisting again as she turns back to him. He doesn’t snap her bra strap this time, but he comes close.

Her hands smooth across his chest, his shoulders, and his eyes fixate on hers as she pushes him back against the wall. She leans up to kiss him and Garrus groans when she palms his crotch, twitching in her hold. 

“Spirits, Shepard.” His fingers close over her arms as he rolls his hips into her hand.

The sound shifts into something closer to a gurgle as she slides down to her knees, her hands on his warm thighs and he stares, nostrils flaring. As she tugs at his pants she can’t help but feel pinned under his gaze, the core of her being coiling at the way his fingers flex and curl and the weight behind it, left at her mercy. She flashes her teeth, curling her fingers around his dick and he hisses.

They’ve only done this a few times—the first time after the Collector base his hesitance had warred with excitement and he nearly shredded the terminal in the battery. She would have laughed had it not been for the sheer mortification in his voice, his stuttered apology for not lasting, the mess across her chest, and told him that no, that was a compliment, actually. (There’d also been that hasty moment of panic where they awaited a reaction from her in case they needed to make a run to Chakwas.) Turnabout had been fair play and she’d just been thankful he’d had the foresight to lock the door behind her.

His subvocals rumble, and Shepard offers him one last smirk before she lowers her head to drag her tongue over his tip.

His breathing stutters with a click of mandibles, and she relishes the way it hitches as her lips close over the tapered head because it always follows with—“Shepard,” he groans lowly, voice flanging so deeply she can nearly feel it in her teeth. “You’re so, you’re so—damn, ah, Sh—Jane.”

Her tongue flicks over the tip before taking more of him in her mouth, and a hand clutches at her shoulder before making it to her head, tangling in her hair as it pulls loose strands out of her face. She glances up to his meet gaze, mandibles slack and exposing a row of sharp, serrated teeth. As she lifts her head she lets go of his thigh to glide her palm up his groin, up his waist until it settles on his stomach where she can feel a muscle quiver and clench.

“Remember to keep it down,” she tells him and then ducks her head to take his cock back in her mouth and he fights back a strangled sound. She hums and his hips rock minutely, and she keeps her eyes on him to watch his pinch shut and then open again, torn between pleasure and wanting to watch. He always has, she’s noticed—where his cock disappears between her lips, between her folds as she wraps her legs around him. She pulls back and then bobs and the grip in her hair wavers with a whine that tapers into subvocals. 

Shepard sets the pace and he can do nothing but follow her lead, tongue tracing along ridges as she bobs her head. If she thinks about it, he doesn’t taste bad—just skin, hot and wet, and sure, she might have triple checked chirality before she blew him for the first time, but watching him come undone under her hand (again) had been more than worth it.

There’s something beautiful about Garrus like this, the shift from careful and meticulous and then scrambling for a hold. Fingers tangle in her hair and her eyes sting a little as he hits the back of her throat and she holds him there, fighting the urge to gag before pulling back. He twitches, a heavy weight on her tongue as she keeps her eyes on the flickers of his expression. She blinks back the burn—that’s not one of her favorites, and she leans back on her haunches.

“You have no idea how—I can’t, hmm.”

He thrusts with a stuttered breath, one that could be her name and then something else her translator doesn’t quite catch. She swallows and this time the curse is loud and clear. Sometimes she isn’t sure if it’s that or the suction he finds harder to handle, because one leaves him panting and the other babbling. The dark skin around his eyes pulls, tightens, eyes boring into her before slamming shut.

“Shep—Shepard,” he tries, other hand grabbing at the wall as her lips drag over another ridge. The sound tugs at the arousal that’s already been pooling low in her belly and she rocks on her knees. “Shepard—Jane, please, I can’t—”

One hand holds a flared hip and the fingers of the other dance at the base of his cock, the sensitive spots between his inguinal plates. His groan is a keen, a reedy sound through his sub- and primary vocals, fringe scraping against the wall and talons chipping the paint. He rocks his hips. A curse is lost somewhere in his groan and her head tilts back into his fingers. He’s close, his own rhythm stuttering, and she can feel the clench of muscle like he’s torn between shoving her away or pulling her closer.

She glances up, meeting his eyes that are little more than pinpricks of black engulfed in blue and his mandibles pull tight before going slack as he curls over her and comes in a hot rush. He whines as he slips out of her mouth, the band of spit connecting it to his cock snapping and fingers flexing in her hair. Body a crumpled bowstring, Garrus’ subvocals bleed a steady, content sound beneath her fingers as they trail up his side, other hand at his base working him through his orgasm.

“Damn. Shepard, unh. Hmm,” he gets out.

She pulls back, climbing back into a crouch. Hopefully he doesn’t see her grimace. Or mind her spitting in the sink and rinsing her mouth out. The tile is cold under her toes as she dabs a washcloth over her chest.

“High praise,” she says as she rejoins him, propped up right where she left him. She reaches behind herself to unhook her bra, tossing onto the abandoned dress.

They manage to work the rest of their—or mostly Garrus’—clothes off into a pile on the floor, but Garrus is a little more sluggish as he paws at her and she pries him from the wall. Heavy petting turns into dry hands skimming and rasping along her skin, fumbling for a destination more than seeking one out. With a swat to his hip Shepard steers him toward the bed while she double checks the door is still locked, his heavy gaze settling on the warm expanse over her spine. She casts him a glance over her shoulder to find his half-lidded, traveling down the twist to her waist as she heads toward the closet. 

It doesn’t take long to dig through the lone drawer they stored anything in, and a small laugh escapes her when she turns back to find him sinking down into the bed, body long and languid, haphazardly propped on an elbow and head bobbing.

His eyes flicker back open when she tosses a pair of sweatpants at him and he grunts. She slips her shirt over her head, material bunching around her waist before she smooths it out, and his gaze traces every fold of fabric. Even if the door is locked and room very clearly occupied, she’d rather not run the risk of someone peeking inside and getting an unobstructed view of his ass or anything else. She climbs onto the bed, the comforter dipping as she walks herself up on her knees and nudges him to the other side before turning the lights out.

“Shepard?” he says into the dark. 

“Don’t worry about it,” she murmurs around a yawn. They could be quick—she’s still a little keyed up, though slightly dimmed by haze of alcohol and plush bedding. It’s a far cry from the stiffer mattress in her quarters. She turns her face into the pillow, rubbing her nose into it and arms crossed beneath it. The back of her throat itches a little. “Go back to sleep.” There’s the shuffle of fabric, the thud of his foot hitting the floor. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Where—” he manages to grab her elbow, “aha.”

His talons flex against her elbow, mouth pressing into her shoulder. She turns her head, brushing the beginnings of a kiss along the slope of his crest. He hums, the sound soaking into her bones, and she closes her eyes.

There’s a hand curling around her hip that wakes her up, dragging her back across the bed until she feels a hard chest pressed against her side. Shepard blinks up at the ceiling, and then rolls her head with a quiet sigh before meeting Garrus’ sleepy gaze. Through the haze of warmth and the minor ache at her temple she croaks an attempt at a ‘morning’ and he hums. She tries not to think of whether she has morning breath or probably tastes like residual vodka and cum when she rolls over to kiss him.

Her sleep-shirt—one of his old ones that’s not quite as cooperative as she was hoping it would be—fights against her as she rolls over, hem riding up her waist and sleeve twisting in the sheets. He’s staring at the way it bunches at her shoulder and the exposed skin when she finally slings an arm over his chest. Garrus chuckles softly as she sighs, curling her leg over his hip while he pulls her closer and lets her burrow into him. For someone who’s all plates and hard edges he’s a lot more comfortable than he has any right to be. He nuzzles at the side of her face, mandible flicking against her jaw as he chases her mouth.

“Good morning,” he says, hand curling over her thigh. She sighs and the sound hitches as it slides up her leg and pulls her flush to him. He hums, hips between hers as he kisses her deeper, other hand slipping under her to spread across her back. He tastes a bit like last night’s whiskey, burnt sugar and a deeper aroma, a smoky note on the back of her tongue that she chases.

“Morning,” she murmurs, tongue tracing the ridge of a mouth plate. For his next kiss he tilts his head, letting this one turn more heated until Garrus moves to lave at the side of her neck, the dip in her collar bone and she gasps, rocking her hips against his. She never got off the night before, and he nips at her skin.

She can feel his smirk and then the hand wrapped around the meat of her thigh ghosts between her legs. “Garrus,” she whispers, his tongue tracing a cut of bone and a scar as her nails bite into his bicep when he slips his fingers under the hem of her underwear.

“You’re so wet already,” he hums, swiping the pad of a finger across her clit and she jolts. She rocks her hips again, trapping his hand between them. Her free one curls around the back of his neck, the plates sleep-warm against her palm. He drags a finger through her folds.

“Last night didn’t, ah,” he sweeps across her clit again and Shepard grunts, “go like I planned.”

His tongue drags along the column of her throat. “Let me make it up to you then.”

“You—ohhh.”

He slides his fingers into her with no other preamble and she groans at the sudden burn that fades into a pleasant ache, head falling back. Her chin butts against his crest as she rocks against him again, his hand sliding down to the small of her back and bunching the material of her shirt up her hips as he pulls her closer. His fingers scissor, pressing against her walls, and she struggles between clenching her thighs on reflex and opening them to work him deeper.

“Yes, yes, perfect,” she tries to swallow, brow pinching as he curls his fingers.

Her movements tug at a shirt that’s not meant for her figure and he ducks his head, prongs of his mandibles catching at her collar before he shifts and his mouth plates tug instead until he exposes a breast.

Garrus crooks his fingers again, slipping a nipple between his plates to flick with the tip of his tongue and her other hand clings to the base of his skull. Her breath chokes into a pant, sharp and punching out of her lungs as he clings to her. Garrus rolls his hips and she can feel his erection pressing against her thigh, heavy and hot beneath the leg of his sweatpants while his tongue traces the curve of her breast. 

The angle of his arm is a little awkward with his wrist trapped between them, but fuck if he doesn't know what he's doing.

“Garrus; Garrus, I need you to—”

There are a cluster of embers gathered low in her belly, a flame he carefully stokes as she curls into him, the convex of her spine a tripwire from her very core tugging at the vertebrate as air bubbles between them, slipping through her teeth. A jolt lances through her before her cheek is pressed to his crest, cradling his head to her chest. His other hand spreads across the base of her spine as she chokes out his name.

He traces a path across exposed skin with the edge of plates and the subtle glance of teeth, daring to come close enough to break the skin but not. Sometimes she thinks of how easy that would be—the serrated edge of a tooth slipping beneath, blood pooling in the dip of her sternum or smeared across the edge of a mandible in a stark contrast to his colony markings. His eyes too crystalline blue, a promise they could hurt one another but would never.

She tilts her head back as he trails his way back up her body, a mandible following the spray of freckles he’s familiarized himself with and a scar that cuts across them. She groans as he thrusts his fingers, a moan eking out of him at the vibrations from his tongue pressed against her jugular as he licks at her pulse. “Oh, fuck.”

“That’s it,” he says into her throat, more to himself than anything. He mouths at the side of her neck in his best approximation, maxillary plates leaving red lines in lieu of hickeys as the heel of his palm grinds against her clit.

Her nails bite into where the plates give way to the hide of his neck, and he manages to pull back enough for her to press her forehead to his crest, eyes screwed shut as his nose plates twitch against the tip of hers. Distantly, a voice that sounds vaguely like her says oh oh yes yes yes.

The tripwire snaps, electric shocks ricocheting off every other nerve ending, and as he slides his fingers out of her her orgasm has barely subsided before she’s nudging him onto his back and he works his pants down his hips. She shoves her underwear down her own, left to be lost in the sheets as she moves to straddle him. Garrus’ hand is warm and solid, curving around her hip and tugging her shirt up as her hand slips between them for his dick. He grunts, thrusting into the loose curl of her fingers, only skirting along the ridges before letting go to take over raising the hem of her shirt. He takes hold of his cock, rubbing his head between her folds and the tapered tip catching on her clit before she sinks onto him. It’s almost too much and her breath catches and gathers in her throat.

“Fucking—inside, hurry up,” she hisses, still riding her residual high, and his eyes are burning into her as he grabs her hips and thrusts once shallowly, and then again until her hips are flush with his. Shepard bows over him, both hands fisting in the pillow under his head, sleeves covering her knuckles where they dig into the stack that keeps his neck supported at night. He freezes where he is, allowing her time to adjust but also doing a poor job of keeping his own keen from leaking out of him.

“You okay?” he asks, palm rubbing her thigh.

She drags in one breath and then another, and nods when he murmurs her name. “One second.”

She moves her knees under her, bracketing his hips as she pushes herself back up, rocking her hips as she goes. His grip tightens as she settles on his pelvis, a familiar ache burrowing into her core. Garrus’ gaze wanders down the length of her lazily: where the shirt collar doesn’t sit properly, sliding off a shoulder; where it bunches instead of tapers; where the hem is pulled taunt across her hips and obscures where he’s buried in her cunt.

“This looks good on you,” he says eventually, once she relinquishes her hold on the pillow to reach for his bare shoulders instead. The plates are warm under her palms, textures catching on her callouses. 

The first time she’d taken the shirt he’d questioned the concept—with their different physiologies it wouldn’t fit her and he didn’t have a ton of clothes with him to begin with. A flicker of embarrassment had started somewhere under her diaphragm because she’d never had someone around long enough to snag an article of clothing from, nor the urge to want a piece of them. But the first time she’d pulled it over her head he’d gone quiet, sat on the edge of her bed to observe her in that thoughtful, calculating way of his, and he may as well have been gargling rocks when he said she could keep it for as long as she damn well pleased. She’d laughed but the shirt had been more comfortable than she’d expected and it had made its way to her drawer.

“Yeah?” she starts, pushing up onto her knees. “Then you’re gonna love this.”

He fights his way through a laugh, not wanting to give her the satisfaction. He rolls his hips, working himself into her, cock dragging along her walls as she slides back down him. Her head tilts, chin ducking toward her chest before tipping back to fall between her shoulders. The sensitivity gnaws at her nerves, the glide eased by the orgasm that still lingers on the frayed edges of her being. 

Garrus’ hands wander, picking and choosing their own destinations as they find them: at her hips, hot as they glide down her thighs, up her stomach to cup a breast as her fingers knead at an unrelenting plate on his shoulder. He tugs at the shirt, material bunching in his hands. Shepard raises her head to find him tracing the lines of her torso again, where the fabric pulls against overheated and sensitive skin.

She grinds down onto him, the smooth edge of an inguinal plate catching at her clit and her breath stutters into something sharp and uneven. The sensations are torn between too much and not enough, teetering between pleasure that burns just on the fringes and the chasm beyond it.

“Garrus.”

She moans, the sound loud and torn out of her chest as he rocks his hips, and she can’t bother to find it in herself to be ashamed of it. “Fuck,” she mutters once she has some semblance of herself again, even as Garrus plucks away bits of her to reconfigure.

“So much for keeping quiet,” he says as he thrusts, but his voice is also strained as he grasps for the last vestiges of his control. She wants him deeper, wants him in ways two years ago she never thought she would. Shepard leans forward, bracing herself on his chest, nails digging into the plates until the beds turn white and his mandibles flare to expose teeth. The sleeves bunch at her wrists.

The hazy sheen in his eyes comes and goes, and he watches her teeth at her lip as his tip nudges inside of her. She clenches around his cock and his hiss slips through his clenched mandibles. “Would you rather I not—ah, tell you how you feel at all?”

His thumb stutters, brushing roughly against her nipple through the material of his shirt before dragging his talons along the line of a collar bone. Her head moves to expose her neck as she sinks back down onto him. “Well, I didn’t say that,” he says as his other hand works her over him, moving as much as the pants bunched around his knees will allow. Garrus hums, glancing down to where the shirt rides up her thighs as she moves. “I want to put my mouth on you.”

“Oh fuck, yes, that,” comes out in a rush and she clenches around him again, this time less intentionally. He groans back, hand sliding back down her chest to return to groping her breast through the loose collar. Shepard pants, hair beginning to stick to her temples and mutters, “fucking reach.”

“Ha—oh, don’t make me laugh.” His head shakes, and she feel the muscles of his thighs working against her ass as he digs his peditalons into the mattress. There’s no sound of tearing, which means his hallux hasn’t worked its way through the bedding for the umpteenth time. Her breath leaves her in a pant, an ache growing in the muscles of her thighs to accompany the slight burn from his plates against her skin. He still apologizes for them almost every time, and while she tells him not to, her favorites are the ones where his tongue smooths across the red patches.

“Just admit you think I’m funny.”

“You’re a lot of things,” he says. Frankly, she’s surprised they’ve managed to carry this much of a conversation; she groans against the heel of his palm, the sound traveling up his forearm. It’s something Shepard’s found herself doing subconsciously more and more—humming, soft noises she never would have been making otherwise, imitations of subvocals that may not convey exact translations but still seem to mean something to him. “I, ah, I like this view too.”

She cracks an eye open, watching him through her lashes, raising onto her knees until only the tapered head of his cock is inside her. “Don’t say things you don’t plan on following through with,” she says before sliding down every ridge fast enough that his mandibles snap to his face so hard they click.

His talons dig into her hip. “When have I ever?” He thrusts, this one a little more forceful. She’s going to peel off a plate at this rate. “Come on, I want to feel you—”

“You look good like this,” she murmurs, and Garrus’ head tilts back to meet her eyes. His own zero into hers, sharp as an omni-blade slipping under her ribs to the delicate organs behind. There are hints of danger in the two of them together—how lethal they are separately, as a pair, how they could do so much harm to one another but never will. “Do you have any idea how amazing you feel?”

She leans over him, one hand braced on the headboard and the other clutching at the warm, rigid texture of his cowl. Almost immediately he moves to follow—maybe something on a subconscious level, picking up where she leaves off, his breath flaring against the cut off her jaw as she inclines her head. She noses at the scars at the column of his throat before dragging the edges of her teeth along where his suprascapular artery should be and she isn’t sure if it's a turian thing or just a Garrus thing as he lets out a low, heady groan.

He thrusts, deeper, more force behind it, and she clings to him. “Yes, yes—”

“You said to keep it down,” Garrus says, even with her head tucked into his neck.

Slowly, she traces around one of the plates there, first with her lips and then the tip of her tongue; the hide is almost scorching beneath her mouth—he feels feverish, vein throbbing under her Cupid’s bow before working her way back up his throat. She reaches the thinner, more delicate skin at the underside of his jaw, where his mandible flicks against her cheek as she nuzzles at the sensitive patch under it. She can feel him coiling, fighting a louder groan as her tongue follows the line of a mandible, the ridges of scars.

He twists his head to capture her mouth, lips slotted between his maxillary plates before she shifts to deepen it. One hand grasps at the back of her head, tangling in her hair and dulled talons scraping against her scalp with delicious little sparks. If she focuses, a remarkable feat on its own, she can feel the desperate thud of his heart, sure it matches her own, even on opposites sides of their respective chests.

“C’mere,” he manages, and she can feel a hiss and click against her lip as she chases after him.

His tongue slips between her teeth, tangling along hers, still all burnt sugar and smoke. Garrus holds her hip, digging and clinging and she makes a soft sound that could be a sigh into his mouth, where he swallows it and comes back with one of his own. She grinds on him and he slips a hand beneath the hem of her borrowed shirt to rub a thumb over her clit. Her forehead presses to his, hard enough she might as well be trying to meld into his crest and her mouth pulls away from his to breathe. 

“Jane,” he whispers, her name clicking through his teeth and his mandibles flutter. Her hand leaves the headboard to grab at his cowl. “Jane.”

It’s like she’s drowning—or spaced, again, fighting for a breath that doesn’t take, gathering in her lungs and instead feeding a fire drawing in her core, his cock thrusting into her cunt and ridges dragging between her folds as he works her clit. Her brow pinches; she needs more, needs him—

“Close?” he says as she grinds down.

“Fuck, please.”

A steady thrum reverberates from the cavity of his chest, sounds she doesn’t know and those she does, the ones she can parse through and recognizes only from moments they’re alone, ones like these and the softer ones between.

Shepard comes gripping his cowl, the sensation roiling through her like a supernova gone dark, bursting apart at the seams like a solar flare, chanting his name on a low note and he thrusts a few more times before spilling into her. His talons dig in enough to bruise, the shirt barely cushioning his grip and the insides of her thighs ache. His groan comes out in a hiss, a flanging of primary vocal cords she can hear and secondary only on the very edges, that she can feel in her own chest, on the backs of her teeth as she rides it out until all that are left are pinpricks. Little jolts of sensation like static shocks as he rolls his hips lethargically.

The strings holding her upright snap and she slumps against him, pliant against unforgiving plates. Garrus’ hand pats at her back, where sweat plasters the equivalent of Palaveni cotton to her skin, as she listens to his heart thunder. She rests her cheek against his keel and a mandible flicks against her hair and then he noses at her crown. Closing her eyes, she turns her head into his cowl until she feels his chin butt against her forehead, hot breath puffing through whatever bangs haven’t stuck to her forehead.

His cock slips out of her and she groans at the loss and the mess as she re-situates herself on his pelvis.

“Just a minute,” she mutters, for all the world content to take a moment lying on her favorite hot rock before reality comes crashing in again, nipping at the Commander’s heels. She shuffles, pressing a kiss to the underside of his jaw, and his hands settle at her waist as hers cup his mandibles, elbows digging into his cowl.

“Mhm.”

They stay like that for a while, lazily trading breath as she traces his markings with her thumbs. It’s remarkably quiet and that contentment is giving way to discomfort.

“Time for a shower, I think.”

Garrus kisses her one last time and moves to sit up with her still in his lap, an arm wound around her waist. Pressed against one another like this, his slit is still warm and swollen against her pussy, and before she can do anything his eyes narrow and he rolls his hips. A curse slips out of her unbidden, nails digging into his shoulder and she tries not to think too hard on the mess between her legs as she climbs off him. His chuckle is low, a richer sound, and she elects to ignore it.

“Should probably see who’s still alive too,” he says, detangling from the sheets. She’s pretty sure that was her underwear following him out of bed. He reaches for the waist of his sweatpants where they’re gathered at his thighs, and she watches as his mandibles shift in a frown, shoving them down his legs. One of the legs catches on a spur. “Well these are a wash.” He glances back at her, giving her a blatant up-down where she sits on soiled sheets. “Care to join me?”

“In checking on the crew? I’m not wearing pants.”

“That’s not—” he closes his eyes, hip cocking in what she’s come to view as his natural pose. Or default, perhaps, since it’s usually the one he takes when he’s about to charm her with something sarcastic or dry. “I take it back, you’re not funny.”

“Ouch.” She leans back, propping herself up on her palms. “Mhm... don’t hear any screaming but that could also be a good sign.”

Garrus moves back toward her, knee pressing into the bed as he tilts his head, reminding her of a bird. Maybe a predatory one. “I don’t know, think you did enough screaming for everyone, and that was after you told me to keep quiet.”

She huffs, pushing against the covers, kicking at the comforter. “Okay, smooth talker.” Following him with a weak scowl, she manages to scoot herself to the edge of the bed. The carpet is plush under her feet as she squints at him.

Garrus flicks a mandible, shifting to lean over her, caging her in his arms. The mattress dips under his fist. “Thought you liked my voice.”

“Get away from me,” she laughs, twitching as his mandible ghosts the side of her neck. He chuckles into it, the sound gathering at her clavicle and his tongue dips out like he can swallow it back. “No, go away. Weren’t you going to go shower? Go do something productive.”

“Yeah.” He pulls back a little, enough to meet her eyes; one hand circles around her wrist, the other hand glides along her thigh to tug at her shirt. “Shepard.” She tilts her head, watching the minute shift of the plates that make up his face, the twitch of his nose and brow. “Anyone ever tell you you have really bad morning breath?”

There’s a reason he held her wrist as the forearm of her dominant arm flexes and he’s already ducking away when she swats him with the other.

“Garrus Vakar—”

“Yeah, Jane?”

“See if I ever blow you again.”

“Okay, okay, hold on. Let’s not be rash.”

Her fingers hook over a scar in his cowl, dragging him back down to her level, his knees bracketing hers. Garrus ducks his head to brush his forehead against hers with the gentle rasp of plate on skin. His eyes, all those different shades of blues that each burn in their own ways, are on hers as she reaches for his arm. 

“Go shower, Vakarian,” she says, trailing her fingers up the plates dotting his forearm, to the bend of his elbow and the musculature of his arm and flex in his bicep as he shifts his weight. 

“Are you joining me?”

She brushes his fingers across the scar that tapers under his eye. “You have to ask?”

“Yes ma’am.”

Her omni-tool chimes and she groans; he tells her to ignore it, even though neither of them ever would, especially not now, with the state of everything. He’s no more enthused than she is, and Garrus nudges his plates against her nose when she pulls a face. It could be important—because every bit of correspondence is; every email, every notification could be the last. If anything, it’s a reminder that shore leave isn’t permanent, that whatever bubble they found themselves in bursting.

“Start without me?” she offers. He tends to the prefer the shower a little more scalding than she can tolerate, skin weave or otherwise, and it’s a last ditch effort to preserve some of the mood.

“I’m going to use up all the hot water,” he says against her mouth. Or he doesn’t, not really—in moments like these, she can almost hear the subtle clicks, a hiss, the harsher sounding consonants layered somewhere until the infinitesimal delay of her translator.

“Good luck with that.” She knocks her forehead against his, more a tap than anything—he’s no krogan and sometimes her head hurts just thinking of that shaman. "Love you," she says and catches the quick hitch in his breathing, the firm press of his forehead and the hum of his subvocals. He hasn't said it back in the same words, but has in all of the other ways that matter and he ghosts the edges of his mouth plates across her lips before pulling away.

Leaning back on the bed she watches him go, stepping around his discarded pants and raising his arms over his head in a stretch. The pull accentuates the line of his waist, the bend of muscle and flex of plate before it’s followed by the click of talons against tile.

Her inbox is just as daunting as always, and she reads through the latest updates on the Crucible—how it’s coming along, how the assistance of the geth is still a surprise but not unwelcome. Water kicks to life.

There’s still an old email from Thane she can't bring herself to delete, one from Ashley’s stay in the hospital. As she scrolls, there’s one from Garrus, one of the ones she's fondest of, asking her to meet him outside the docks. She opens up a window to pull up what they know of the Crucible, comparing it to the vague details they were able to scrounge up from Javik.

The email that catches her attention is the one from Hackett, passing along word from Anderson. That he’s still fighting, still alive. The reminder that they’re preparing for their assault on Cerberus drags all of that back to the forefront: this moment is gone, as quickly as it had come. They’re coming up on the end.

Idly she wonders, as she sometimes does in the quieter, in-between moments, what it would be like to be a regular couple. To do it like real people do: to go on dates that aren’t rations in the mess when their schedules line up just enough; drinks somewhere other than the starboard lounge; to know one another outside of war, outside of saving a galaxy that fought being saved in the first place. Sushi dates on the Citadel, wandering and exploring the sights without the shore leave clock ticking against them. It’s a silly fantasy, to think about waking up in the same bed every morning, in the same place. Him beside her and nowhere else to be.

What it would be like to call up her parents, to pull up her omni-tool and call her mom and tell her that she’s met someone, that she’d like them to meet him. She’d always wondered what they would have been like but even more so now, sitting in his shirt and listening to him in the shower, something soft and domestic about it even as the rest of the galaxy burns around them. 

She wonders what their future looks like, if they get one.

Shepard lets out a breath, throwing her legs over the side of the bed. Her omni-tool pings again, and she grimaces at the dried mess between her legs. She envies Garrus right now. Luckily, it’s just a message from EDI, and she laughs to herself at the quick updates as to where everyone else stands; Cortez, Miranda, and Jacob left at some point, Joker says he’s dying, and “I trust you and Garrus had an enjoyable evening?”

Her “Thank you, EDI” is met with a stylized :-) and she can't even begin to fathom where she learned that.

Garrus is humming a low note as she steps into the bathroom, the air slightly humid, and when he turns to face her the stream from the shower splits across his fringe, spraying the tile and glass partition. Stepping fully into the room she cocks her head at him, entertaining the ghost of him under her thighs and hands and his gaze settles on hers.

As she crosses her arms to pull the shirt over her head she catches a sequence keyed into the shower head and she grins into the collar before it’s left in a heap on the floor.

“Still room?” she asks, reaching for the the warm glass and leaving a handprint in the fog.

He cocks a hip, just as he always does and she rolls her eyes as he extends his hand. “Still some hot water, since I know what you’re really asking.”

“Thank god,” Shepard says; the temperature is just shy of still too warm, but she turns her face to the spray, letting it plaster hair to her forehead. Eyes closed she listens to and then feels him move around her, an arm at her waist and free hand messing around with the bottles they keep on the shelf. She tilts her head back into his cowl, water and hair collecting against his scars. Talons scratch against her scalp, brushing her bangs back, and the furrow in her brow softens, a grin threatening to split across her mouth when she realizes he’s trying to shampoo her hair.

Maybe it’s no weekly dates or walks along the Presidium or whatever it is people do; most of that wouldn’t work for them anyway. But this shower is a far cry from the one in her cabin, from the ones she’s spent the better part of the last decade hopping in and out of. But it’s real enough, and for now she can spend ten minutes—a feat on its own—under the spray with Garrus washing her hair.

Turning to face him, she tips her head while he washes out the suds. Her hands wander up his sides, across his chest—just to feel, water and floral shampoo and traces of thulium under her hands. His subvocals rumble at her, and she keeps her eyes closed until he swipes a thumb under her eye.

“Think I could get used to this,” she says and means it as he rubs the conditioner through her hair. She only uses it sometimes, but she’ll take any excuse for the talon massage where she can get it.

The angle has to be more strain than he lets on, but he ducks his head to press his mouth plates to her jaw. “Tell me about it. This is a nice break from getting shot at.”

“Have to keep things exciting. God forbid I let any of you get too comfortable.”

“Well don’t threaten me with a good time.”

“Do you have any plans for later? Things you need to do before we leave?”

“Can’t say that I do; it all depends on what my Commander needs from me.” Shepard opens her eyes to find him peering down at her, water running down his mandibles in a rivulet. Victus has likely asked more of him, just as the refugees have, and while he only has so much to give, here Garrus stands, awaiting her next move. There are times she feels she's asked too much of him, taken sacrifices that were never hers to claim. His hands are still slick with conditioner and this would probably be a lot easier if she turned around.

“You’re the one who spent a lot of time on the Citadel and know where all the places to be are.” She draws a finger through some of the soap left on a plate where it washes away. “I’m sure there are more exciting spots than the Council Chambers.”

“I do have a couple of my favorite places from my C-Sec days I could always show you, if they’re still standing.” She closes her eyes and leans into his hands. “Not sure if any of them would top the Presidium but…” he chuckles to himself. “Need to play my cards right, is that it?”

A smirk plays at her lips. “We have the rest of the day still.” She winces and he murmurs an apology when his talon catches on a knot. “We could always just stay in.”

She catches a glimmer of teeth as she steps back into the spray, watching him through her lashes as she squints. “Always admired the way you thought ahead,” he says, following her. As he does, she reaches for the soap he uses, something grittier that reminds her of pumice, often paired with a loofah that feels like a nail file on one side. 

His gaze is sharp but half-lidded, warm and content as she drags the loofah along the inside of his cowl as she’s seen him do countless times. He leans into her, a slight pressure that nearly pushes her into the wall, a knee pressed between hers and the prong of a mandible flicks against her temple. Working her way down his stomach, watching the plates shift and muscles contract, she’s about to tell him to turn around when he pulls back a little, but then he nudges her thigh.

“Garrus, what are you—?”

His hands close around her hips, hot between his natural body heat and the steady stream of water as he moves to his knees. He keeps his eyes on her, her arm blocking the spray, and drags his tongue along the inside of her thigh, rough and wet. Deep blue and more prehensile, it flicks at the red lines left on her skin. “What’s it look like?” With another nudge he works her leg over his shoulder, other hand keeping her firmly planted against the wall. “I’m stacking the deck.”

Her laugh chokes off, fingers gliding across his wet fringe, and he leans into her touch, eyes bright as they stare up her before he dips his head.