You're so fucked up as you lock your door, and you're so fucked up as you shut the blinds, and you're so fucked up as you hook up your omni-tool to a large monitor on the wall. Her voice is tinny and distant from your cheap shitty speakers, and you quietly remind yourself to go to Morlin's famous shop to buy some new ones at a ridiculous, rip-off price.
Not that it really matters to you how tinny and distant her moans are from your shit surround-sound speakers. All that matters to you is hearing her voice. At times, you don't even have to look at the screen to know her face, because it's been burned, white-hot, into the thin skin of your triple eyelids. You've spent so much time thinking about her in the time between buckling into the rapid transit and bucking into your fist that, even though there are a million words you could use to describe her (red frin—red hair, green eyes, pale creamy skin, blue veins but red blood, low voice and musical laugh, tiny waist, breasts) they will not—can never really compare to the image you've formed of her in your mind.
Of course, that doesn't stop you from enjoying your filthy private show in the privacy of your home. No, not at all.
Your chosen vantage point was really, really great for recording this, you think to yourself, as you watch a turian blow his load all over her face, leaving her covered in a sticky sheen as she fumblingly gropes at his cock to get it hard again. A second turian grabs her hips and slams into her cunt, his hips snapping arhythmically and jerkily into her.
You find yourself thrusting irregularly into your hand. Your left hand traces delicately over the sensitive hide of your throat and the back of neck and the base of your fringe, and you slowly close your fingers around your throat.
You're losing your mind, you're losing your oxygen, and you're delirious with lust and desire and hypoxia and she's spreading her legs on the screen, anaphylactic turian cum positively gushing out of her and dripping on the floor. Your fist grows tighter around your cock, and your fingers tighten around your neck. Blue blood pounds in your eyes and against your clawed fingers.
You can't think, you can't do anything but feel, and even that's slowly numbing itself. It's the perfect release from the stresses of your terrible life. As tiny black dots swarm themselves across your vision, and the human girl runs her tongue down a turian's ridged cock obscenely, you get a tiny, temporary reprieve from this prison that your father's trapped you in. It's exquisite, and you're in a haze as you spasm and come all over your couch and floor and arm.
Your fingers grow slack around your neck, and you let the sweet bliss of breathing come back to you.
From what seems like miles away, you hear your omni-tool beeping and ringing.
Curses springing unbidden from your mandibles, you wipe your cum off of your omni-tool and squint to see who's calling at this fucking hour. Your fingers are sticky and you fumble with the controls.
Your breath catches in your throat as you read the caller ID.
It's your father.
You have half a mind to just reject the call like you always do and curl up and go to sleep like you always do, but something feels like you should answer it this time. You press the "accept call" button on your omni-tool and try to compose yourself for the vid-call.
The first thing that you notice is that your father looks tired for just a second. The second thing you notice is him molding and reforming his face back into that stern fatherly mask that you've known him to wear all your life. You feel naked and self-conscious under his judgmental gaze, and you wonder if he can see the bruising finger marks on your neck, if he can detect the blue flush of blood on the more exposed parts of your face, if he can hear the tremor in your voice as you say, "Hello, father," to him and refuse to look him in the eyes.
Looking at him is like looking in a mirror through time. The resemblance between the two of you is uncanny, and every night you look at yourself before you go to bed and feel yourself becoming your father with every paycheck and every citation.
"Garrus." His voice is taciturn, like always. He clears his throat. Neither of you are looking one another in the face. "I," he falters for a second before regaining face, "I just wanted to check up on my oldest son."
You want to yell that it is the middle of the night, he could check up at you during office hours, when you're trapped and stuck behind your desk doing a job you don't want to do, a job you're only doing because he forced you to do it, if he really cared about you he wouldn't stifle you so much and let you actually reach your full fucking potential, I am not your clone, I am my own turian—but instead you swallow your pride down because it's all been said before and try to stay calm as you say, "I'm fine," as your treasonous subharmonic vocal chords scream all the things that you meant to say.
Never before have you been glad that your microphone is shit, because your father either doesn't notice the tone of your subharmonics, or chooses to pretend not to notice them.
You steel yourself for even more criticism, like always, but his face is a sick parody of fatherly love and affection (because there is no way that the Vakarian patriarch, and the words are acrid on your metaphorical tongue, could ever be a real father to you) as he says something that you could not have ever prepared yourself for:
"Garrus, I'm proud of you. I really am."
Despite the surprise which you're sure is obvious and evident all over your face, which is a double of his, he continues, "I know it's been hard for you to give up your childhood dreams and join C-Sec, but you've been doing really great work out there. C-Sec's the Vakarian way, boy. All that Spectre nonsense was completely out of your station, and you were saved from a world of hurt and disappointment."
You want to scream that it wasn't up to him to decide what was best for you. You want to reach through the extranet connection and fucking throttle him like he strangled your dreams. He sabotaged your Spectre training. How the fuck are you supposed to listen to him spouting this bullshit when less than a year ago, he so nonchalantly walked up to the head of training, a respectable Turian Spectre, and told him a filthy lie that you'd have to drop out of the program because Corpalis Syndrome, a disease that fucking nobody got, ran in your family?
He's still talking but hot blood is pumping through your ears so loudly that you can't hear anything that he's saying. You nod and dutifully pretend, like always, to listen to the bullshit pouring out of his mouth.
As he blathers on insensitively about carrying out the family destiny and the basic fundamentals of turian society, you mumble, "Maybe I don't want to be a good turian like you, Father," more to yourself than to anyone else. You feel like a child again as he patronizes you relentlessly. It's all you can do.
Your father stops and looks you in the eye. You bite down on your tongue and change the subject as you taste your very own bitter blue blood seeping into your mouth: "I said, how is Mother doing?"
He looks old and weary as he apologizes, "I'm sorry, Garrus, but your mother had a bad fall back in Cipritine. She's doing well now," and with a waver in his subharmonics, you know he's lying, because just like you, he can't control his second voice box, "and I'm staying with her in a hospital in Palaven just to check up on her and make sure she recovers properly. I'd have told you in person if I could."
You don't say anything. You can't say anything. The sadness behind his words and the inherent finality of his tone hits you like a freight elevator's doors, closing, closing, eternally separating you from a happier future that you could have held in your hands, if only you'd just stepped forward and asked the girl from the elevator's name. You feel crushed and emotionless and you can't say a thing in response.
You don't say anything as you close the communication, words failing to reach your throat from the terrible depths of your lungs.
Your apartment is dim in the artificial midnight and your blinds stay shut as you clumsily fondle yourself in an effort to try to make yourself feel anything, anything at all. It's an addiction and a compulsion and you can't help yourself. You can't stop yourself from doing this anymore.
Your cock stays flaccid and impotent, and you delete the video. The black screen of your television is like a twisted mirror, infinitely reflecting your shame back upon you.
Spirits. You're so fucked up.