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It’s not often that Garrus Vakarian is left helpless in any arena. Then again, it’s not often that women have this level of upper body strength – especially not human women. But, he mentally admits as his head drops back with frustration, it’s not often someone is as good as Commander Shepard. Of course she’s criminally good. Good in heart. Good in mind. Good in body. So fucking good. How she can rush into cataclysmic circumstances to carefully lift up a child and return them to their mother with the gentle touch of a maiden, then slam her fist with halting force into an approaching husk, the attack powerful enough to shatter their deformed skulls. Who even does that? Anyone hearing of Commander Shepard might doubt her – until they see her in action. And Garrus has seen her in action for years. And she’s consistently so damn good.
Well. Mostly. Right now, she’s not so good.
He struggles to withhold a hissing sound in the base of his throat, mandibles flaring against his accord. The wiry muscle layering his biceps tighten with the effort to draw his hands out of her grip, but give up when they find little give. He’s not completely without odds. If he can state it without laughing, he does have reach. He has height on his side, talons, natural armor, and his feet are unbound. If he needed to, he could easily kick her out to release himself. That is, if she didn’t fight back.
But at the moment, where her tongue and sinfully soft human lips have managed to find a clever spot just behind his left mandible, he doesn’t know if his legs have the clearance to fight back. The difference in anatomy prevents them from kissing in the human fashion, but that doesn’t seem to stop her. He almost laughs -- creative, tricky human – but the chortle is halted and forced instead into a groan as her teeth introduce themselves to the soft skin. He pulls his hands again, talons twitching with the desire to do – anything. Touch her. Flip her. Scratch her. Something.
“Don’t make me tie you down, Vakarian,” Comes a sultry tone slithering directly down his ear canal. It takes everything in him to keep from shuttering, but it’s a close thing.
“You’d have to get up to do that.”
She chuckles softly, the fluttering of her breath tickling the curve of his neck. He’s sure an untranslatable expletive falls off his tongue as his head falls to the side – and what a marvelous thing. To expose the soft, delicate expanse of skin beneath one’s head plating to the power (and teeth) of another. If she was Turian, her mouth plates could tear the thin hide in seconds. Her talons could pierce it, ending him before he could blink.
But she’s not. She’s so startlingly not. A light, impossibly smooth leg falls between his as she lowers closer to the exposed skin, her thigh sliding against his open plates. The sound of ripping fabric interrupts the moaning and kissing; his talons must have caught hold of the mattress’ sheets beneath where she holds him down. She clicks her tongue in disapproval at him, but he can’t bring himself to feel a single shred of regret or remorse. Not with the way her unused hand cradles the opposite side of his throat, nor the way her thigh manages to fall menacingly between the thin gap of his plates.
“Miko,” he rasps with little vigor. He’s a bit distracted with the move of her hips, introducing a new, glorious friction that should definitely be illegal.
“Miko,” he tries again as she grants him a moment of clarity by abandoning the sensitive spot upon his neck – but the second her lips fall away, he knows there’s a mark there. A dark, bruised mark. Spirits, he didn’t know humans liked to do that. Turians are a territorial bunch, in action and in symbolism. It’s not uncommon to bite out a mark upon a mate’s sensitive skin, to stake a claim. But human teeth are hardly the stuff of predators. He remembers the sharpest part of a human’s dental structure, the frontal canines, were evolved to tear at meat, but they were hardly something to call a natural weapon. But this mark, he can feel a dull, throbbing pain rather than a sharp bite. It shivers with the wet chill of where her tongue fell, but he knows it’s a circular bruise, almost like suction.
Damn. He wants twenty more.
The feeling of it draws his tongue to scratch against his mouth plates, practically itching with the desire to sink into her skin. She had only a few areas to choose from: the throat, the neck, certain parts of the arms and chest. But her body? He has an entire canvas of space, every inch of her covered in soft, malleable hide. His talons curl into his palms at the thought. (He could seriously hurt her.)
But then a wince gasps its way from his mouth as her hand tightens around his wrists, her grip alone driving his skin to border pain, and he remembers. Even like this, completely nude, soft, and pale, she is a deadly opponent. Somehow, the thought that she could land him directly on his ass if she needed to sends a thrill through him, despite the slight falter to his pride. A perfectly equal mate. (And he knows Turians who have scoffed at the idea of mating with a soft, defenseless human. They don’t know his human.)
“Miko.” The word manages to exude enough force this time to gather her attention. He can feel the curve of her unseen smile against his throat and he aches to see it. She doesn’t smile nearly enough.
“Did you need something, Garrus?” Damn, she has her taunting voice, her unused hand trailing its way down his body, carefully shifting and dodging to follow a line of unguarded skin until it reaches the exaggerated curve of his hip. She’s not usually one to take her time. She deliberates, she finds the best course of action, and she acts. And it’s usually the right one. But this time? He’s having his doubts.
“I need to do something.”
Her throat is close enough that her hum vibrates against his as her kisses trail up the side of his head, toward the edge of his fringe. “We all need a lot of things.”
For the first time, his heels of his ankles dig into the mattress, struggling with the desire to kick out at her. His patience is waning as his erection is not, straining against her thigh that isn’t doing enough. The flexing of his legs arches his knees higher off the bed, the frustration flowing off of him, until his own thigh reaches between hers. The heat of irritation suddenly takes a back seat at the sound of her soft moan.
What did he do?
With another twitch of his foot and her hips canting against the flat, smooth plate of his thigh, he suddenly remembers a little lesson she gave him on human female anatomy. That little spot of her that causes her stony façade to falter, forces her voice to shake. Garrus is a strategic man. He’s not one to give up his only line of attack. And so he moves again, shifting his heel in tandem with his back to lift his hips higher and rock with his thigh. It slides her leg’s contact away from his parted plates, but that doesn’t matter so much right now. He’s found a vantage point, and he’s going to use the hell out of it. The exercise slides her against the long slate of his thigh, forcing her into a ride, and he can feel her fingers falter at his wrists but he doesn’t use this advantage. He doesn’t need his hands now.
He can imagine this is something new for her. The human thigh is – for lack of a better word – squishy. The skin shifts and makes way upon contact. The human line of physical defense is flexibility, a rubbery substance that keeps their skin from shattering. Great to prevent injury, but not so great when they need a firm surface to rut against. But the outer thigh of the Turian male carries the pride of a strong plate, similar to the rest of their anatomy. A long, smooth surface. As unbroken as the femur, specializing in sturdiness rather than flexibility.
And, damn, does that sturdiness come in handy. He could win this battle.
That is, until her hand managed to find its way downward while he was busy with his new revelation. His next buck comes out of primal instinct as she takes hold of the sensitive flesh that managed to slide out of his plates. Human fingers. He still hasn’t gotten used to feeling human fingers. Smooth and calloused, small – five incredibly flexible fingers. Five. Her hands are small, but they cover a great deal, and he can’t help but push into their grasp. This time, their shaky exhales sync, lights flashing behind both their eyes. And when her thumb swipes in a practiced movement, he swears he can see the stars.
She’s so good. They begin to move.
Even when her hand finally releases his wrists to grasp the plated surface of his shoulder, she’s gorgeous. Maintaining a new level of balance, she moves of her own accord, riding his thigh as he pushes into her hand. It should be considered a secondary form – her hand, rather than her. But the brow-knitting, lip-biting, soft-moaning look of her says that he’s just fucking fine, thanks. Newly freed hands abandon their area of capture to grasp her spacious hips. Tightly enough to lift her and pull her back down in tandem with the rise of his leg. Tightly enough to force a louder, heavier moan from her lips, but not tightly enough to pierce the skin.
“Spirits, Miko…”
“Move, Garrus.”
And who is he to disobey a direct order from his commander?