Weeks have passed, and you wake up every artificial morning to another day of pointless work. Slowly, you've started to recognize the people you see on patrol: an annoying, unlicensed hanar street preacher, a perpetually arguing couple, two loitering turian businessmen lounging around a bank. Patrol duty is boring, but you'd rather spend hours on end working meaninglessly outside than sitting in your office and working even more uselessly. That, and you can't look the requisitions officer in the eye. He knows, he has to know.
He must have heard you that day so long ago, that day which still feels fresh in your mind. The Citadel keeps you awake at night, as always, but now even your precious hours of sleep are invaded with troublesome visions of red hair and freckled skin.
You wonder what her breasts would feel like. You've never been with a human before, only in your dreams and fantasies. Every night, you dream about her. Every damn night.
You haven't seen her since that day. You wonder if she even lives on the Citadel at all. Maybe she was just a tourist passing through, or a human soldier on shore leave. There are enough of those milling about. They cause some trouble in the bars and gentlemen's clubs, but that's not really your division and so you don't really pay attention. You should, but you don't.
Humans aren't interesting unless they're her.
This is the secret that keeps you up at night, the darkness that claws at your heart through your carapace. You, Garrus Vakarian, have fallen in love with a human that you will never meet, will never see again, will never hold and cherish and fuck, fuck her like an animal and tear her apart into bloody crimson pieces. Love is destructive. You never should have succumbed to the sound of her voice and her cries of ecstasy as another turian fucked her and made her his own.
You want to ball your clawed hands up into a fist and punch yourself in the face, but instead you stand perfectly still and watch the rabble mill about on the too-bright, too-artificially-sunny surface of the Presidium.
It's the same scene every day: same hanar preacher, same arguing human couple, same loitering turians.
Your visor detects movement in your peripheral vision, and you turn your head to see what it is.
Spirits.
It's her.
She's wearing a lovely dress, and there's a pistol at her hip. So she's a soldier. And she's laying her hand on the shoulder of one of the turian businessmen and laughing as she trails her hand through the other's fringe.
You can't hear the words she says to them, but there's a quiet rumbling of agreement and hunger and desire in the subharmonics of the two turians that carries over the ambient buzz and chatter of the Presidium and you can see the way their eyes light up like predators towards her. You can see how they turn her into meat with their lusty gazes, and you're no better than them.
You feel sick, a darkness weaving its way deep into the pit of your gizzard, and you should look away as she takes them by the hand and wanders off into a more secluded alleyway, but you don't. You shouldn't find yourself walking after them, a seamy tightness insinuating itself into the crotch of your too-tight armor, your breath hitching in your throat and choking in your dual vocal chords, but here you are.
The shadows give you enough cover for them not to notice you, and your visor is a faint indigo light in the darkness. Quietly, you switch its video recorder on and watch.
She's on her hands and knees, and this time you can actually see her face as she moans and wraps her lips around the ridged cock of the first turian while the second, a barefaced young man, rams into her from behind. Her breasts bounce back and forth mesmerizingly. You zoom in so you can record it for posterity.
By posterity you mean yourself, tonight, fucking your fist violently and screaming muffled curses into the plates of your forearm.
You notice the color of her eyes. It's odd that, out of all things, this is the thought that comes to your mind. In the midst of the lust and the animalistic desire and the subharmonic whispers and groans of ecstasy, you're noticing that her eyes are green.
You suppose you must be losing your mind. It's easier to look at her green eyes and copper hair and freckled breasts than the scars that crisscross her back and body. You don't want to wonder why she's got those scars.
It's hard to remain dispassionate and maintain your façade of secrecy and stay hidden in the shadows, it's harder than your cock, which twitches uncomfortably against the plating of your armor. You can't loosen your armor without making a sound and giving yourself away. If you'd come out of the safety of darkness only a few minutes before, maybe you could have been spared. Maybe you could have joined in. The thought is enough to force you down to your knees, imagining what it'd be like to share a human woman with two others. Would she favor your cock above the other? Turian women complimented you for your reach; maybe she would too.
At this point, they've flipped her over on her back, revealing creamy white skin lying taught over—Spirits, look at that fucking waist, you want to whisper. Barefaced turian is pulling out, a string of cum connecting his still-hard cock to her slick pink vulva.
"Ready for round two?" she asks, her voice obscured by the rhythmic impact of the other turian's hips snapping against her chest as he titfucks her. She leans her head around his hips so that bareface can see her wink cheekily.
You have a great view of the whole thing. Fuck. Not masturbating gets harder and harder, just like your cock, which is also getting harder and harder with each second. Spirits, why did C-Sec make its armor so fucking restrictive? You resort to fumbling clumsily at your crotch plate to try and relieve the pressure. There's a slight pneumatic hiss, its sound lost in the wet noises of interspecies fucking, and finally, you're free.
The recycled night air is icy in contrast to the tepid heat of inside your uniform, and you suck in a short sharp hiss of breath with shock. Your poor, neglected cock is overly sensitive and its skin is stretched taut and thin over engorged flesh. Gingerly, you stroke your hypersensitive cock, wincing a little at the friction between rough, gloved palms and thin skin. Your sheath must have retracted already in your armor.
There's no abundance of lubrication, though, and you thank the Spirits for that as it soaks into your gloves, leaving stains that you know it'll take ages to wash out. Like you care about that now, when you're getting such a great show of that girl, that fucking girl. She's up against the wall now, and her back's to you, and her breasts are bouncing up and down. Her hair's so red. So fucking beautiful. You never thought you'd be into that kind of thing but Spirits, if you got to touch her even once, you know you'd never go back.
Someone puts his claws to her waist and you want to cry out in indignity. Her waist is a thing to worship, a thing of beauty. Nobody should tarnish and mar it—nobody but you, that is. It's strange how possessive you're getting over this girl you've only seen once in your life. Your precum-sodden gloves lie discarded in a shabby corner and you're doubled over, your fist tighter around your cock than ever before in your life.
She's moaning and whining and whimpering away in some strange human tongue, soft words bubbling out of her mouth, and even though she doesn't have subharmonics, her voice is fucking beautiful. You're not sure what she's saying but you could listen to her all day. Your visor continues to record her bouncing up and down on turian cock as you shut your eyes and pretend that you're the one she's moaning litanies of lust for.
Finally, like the unstoppable, destructive collision of an asteroid with a planet, you feel your orgasm smash into you in a great pulsing haze of heat. Your eyes snap open as your seed spills out onto the dim light of the filthy alleyway, and she's looking right at you. Her eyes are linked to yours. Spirits, you're fucked, you're really, really fucked now. The other turians are taking turns with her, and her eyes are locked onto yours and all you can do is pry yourself away and run away as fast as you can, proverbial tail tucked between your thighs.
Your gloves are gone, left behind for homeless quarian scavengers and hungry varren, and you refasten your crotch place clumsily, trying to forget the come-hither look she had in her eyes for you. You're a fucking coward and you hate yourself.
Like a child, you're running all the way home, and you can feel the stares of everyone else around you. You know they can smell the pheromones all over your armor, and you try not to look them in the eye. You've had enough eye contact for today, you don't think you can handle looking at anyone else at all today. Because they'll know.
Spirits, you're fucked up. You're so fucked up.