That night, you dream of heat and haze and emerald eyes glittering like twin gemstones in the fogs of the Cipritine autumn. It's cliché, you know, but it doesn't keep your mind from making the metaphor. Shepard is a precious gem, iridescent and glittering, yet too precious for you to ever hold, lest you sully her. In your dreams, she's dressed like that poor asari trick you kicked out of Fist's private suite with tears running down her blue, freckled cheeks and feral fear in her girlish eyes.
The whore's clothes were grimy and sullied with sweat and the dim stench of the bar and its patrons, but the Shepard beside you shines brighter than the Trebian sun. Her outfit is shiny and tight in the autumnal sunlight, glossy latex hugging her every curve and blinding you with brilliance.
You are a Spectre, and your badge glows with warmth, deep within the cloth folds of your jacket. Your eyes glance to a loaded sniper rifle lying on your concave bed, then back to Shepard, whose skin is perfect and unmarred by the scars of the past, and that's when you know for sure you're dreaming, though you try your hardest to forget the fact as you breathe in her almost-real aroma and taste her scent on your tongue.
Your talons dance along her neck and impossible waist as the sun sets on the silver city and the sun kisses the sky goodbye as the moon rises above you both. You leave tiny nicks in the fabric along her waist and you don't care, you don't care, she is yours. She moans slightly and you know that even though she doesn't love you and will never love you, even in this dream, her arousal is real and that's all you'll ever really get. Your mouth twists into a terrible grin, all teeth and chitin and keratin, as she comes undone beneath you, her lust enkindling itself with your bestial ardor, your savage hatred.
In your dream, she whispers the secrets of Menae's riches in your ears as you but you cannot focus on the words because she is unbuttoning your shirt and deftly pulling off the clasps, her fingers groping for purchase in the plates covering your chests. Once you're undressed enough for her satisfaction, you cut her loose from her vestments with the carefully lazy flick of a sharpened claw, and she's finally, finally laid bare before your starving eyes. You've seen her nude form before, but this time, she's naked for you, only you, and you're not stealing snapshots of her from behind partitions and doors left ajar.
It's not really as satisfying when the sight of her body isn't being robbed away from someone else's touch; you can't win a game without someone else losing.
You pin her wrists beneath your palms and you hook her calves into your spurs like stirrups, your cock unbound and primed to enter her, at long last, when some horribly human expression you can't understand wells up onto her face and she speaks, each word ringing off your surroundings like a cacophony of tiny bells.
"Wait," she pleads, and her voice has no subharmonics for you to decipher and you cannot understand her without them and you push into her roughly, a deep shudder pushing itself from your lungs and rattling in the overtones of your subharmonics.
"Wait," she begs, "I just want to look at you."
You bite down roughly into the crook between her collarbone and neck to stop yourself from crying out with ecstasy in a high keening moan; bright red alien blood drips down your chin and clots in her fiery hair like spilled coffee in lace.
You count her freckles like stars in the black night sky as she screams nonsense words of bliss and shouts to the heavens out of pleasure. You fuck her like she's made of glass, haltingly and gently, though her ankles bruise purple and blue in the hooks of your spurs, and she belongs to you you have claimed her as yours and nobody will ever take her again but you.
Each ridge of your cock locks into her cunt like it was made to fit nowhere else, and you come inside her again and again as she shudders and spasms around you. She's soft and pliable like putty beneath your hands, and you mold her into the perfect shape as her orgasm rattles both your frames and your bed creaks beneath the force of each thrust of your hips.
You tell yourself that she's sobbing with joy and screaming out of rapture as you gingerly
pull yourself out of her and stroke yourself back to hardness, your inflammatory cum still dripping out of her pussy and staining your bedsheets. You've ravaged her with bite marks all over her neck and chest, and her breasts rise and fall with each heaving gasp for air she makes. She is yours, you've marked her as your bondmate, she is dirty and sullied with her blood and your cum and a thin sheen of your combined sweat covers her brow–she is beautiful and she belongs to you and only you, nobody but you will touch her while her scars heal and her lips stay red and swollen from the tiny nips and nicks you've made with your teeth upon them.
Your erection resurrected, you flip her over and raise her hips in the air like a varren bitch in heat before plunging into her once more. Each snap of your hips elicits a tiny wail, though it's muffled by the mattress pressed into her open mouth and dampened by her drool.
You find yourself capable of speech once more, your control and domination over her body extending to control of your errant tongue-tied voiceboxes, and you darkly vocalize, "You won't ever, ever, give yourself over to another again," each syllable punctuated by another thrust, and another, and another, your subharmonics pronouncing a deep jealousy and possessiveness that you never consciously realized, though it always resided within you deeper than your very bones.
She can't think rationally, and she can't say anything but, "Yes, oh yes, please, please, please," as she turns her head to try to look into your eyes, and you suppose that's as good an answer as you'll ever get.
Satisfied, you break your gaze and gently run your talons down her fringe to her back to leave only the tiniest of pink scratches on her skin.
Her legs grow weak and shaky, and she collapses on the bed as you pull out, your orgasm imminent and unrelenting, more unstoppable than your father's decision to keep you from being a Spectre.
You try not to think of that. You focus on the girl, remember that in this dream you are a Spectre and your father didn't win. You paint her back with blood and cum, and she is beautiful, more beautiful than anything you've ever seen, and you thank the Spirits for everything leading up to this imagined moment.
The blood slowly drains from your softening cock, and she turns over on rumpled sheets to face you, her hair tousled and wild, rings of bruises and cuts down her shoulders and waist.
"Garrus," she says, and you realize you've never told her your name, you've never seen her face to face. A pink flush forms across her face, she reaches up to stroke your mandibles, and her lips round themselves into the words "I love–"
You wake up with sticky sheets and semen encrusted on your stomach, the ghost of her touch still lingering upon your face but quickly fading away into nothingness. And you know, you know that in your dreams she loved you more than any human could ever promise, and you know that you will never be able to approach her like a normal turian and you will never be able to talk to her without tripping over your words and remembering all the times she's fucked men other than you, men better than you.
A wordless howl escapes your jaws, you slam your balled-up fists against the wall, and it's all you can do to resist wringing your fingers around your neck to calm down, you're hyperventilating you need to be still you need to calm down.
Your palms crush your voiceboxes closed to stop your shuddering sobs and your breathing slows down and it's just what you do to cope and breathe and manage. You chuck your visor in the bin, next to the forgotten business card, and start to prepare yourself for another day of work.