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[Mass Effect] "Photograph" - Liara solo, thinking of female!Shepard
Summary: Liara in her office, masturbating to a picture (and thoughts) of femshep.
Length: 1800 words
Rating: M for explicit F/F sex
Notes: I feel like this fic makes me appreciate Liara more, for some reason...
The picture had spent its first few weeks on her desk.
Then, once she felt herself forced to admit that it distracted her, that those moments spent gazing into the unresponsive green eyes were taking up time she needed to spend working, it had spent another couple of weeks on a shelf.
It was only when she finally realized what was causing the crick in her neck that she gave up and put it in her bottom drawer, facing down, where it couldn't distract her.
And yet it still distracted.
The logical choice would have been to rid herself of it - to at least set it in her apartment if she couldn't bear to destroy it, though doing that would probably have been for the best. To keep the past in the past.
But it would have been like admitting defeat. Like admitting that the Commander was truly gone. And so she let it lie where it lies, and every so often, she would stop what she was doing, takes the picture out and let it distract her, again, for a brief moment.
When the Normandy pulled into port, it was a great weight off her chest - to finally know, to meet once more, to touch once more... if only barely.
She takes the picture out more often lately. She finds herself smiling when she looks at it.
Truth to be told, it is not a very good picture. The Commander's features are pulled into something halfway between a wince and a smile, as if surprised by the camera suddenly shoved in her face, and her short auburn hair is mussed and untidy. There is a narrow burn on her left cheek, red skin and black soot; they had been fresh from a mission, although she is finding it difficult to remember which one. That part is unimportant, but she can still recall the smell of that day, of metal and sweat and sunlight.
If she lets her mind wander, she can recall what happened later. Details - laughter, awkward, experimental touches... a companion's warmth, scent, taste.
A slender blue finger traces the burn scar on Shepard's cheek. It never fully healed - left a tiny imperfection to speak of a wild, dangerous past.
The photo frame is cold and hard, but the memory remains, of soft, warm skin against hers, of pink and blue complementing each other. It had been... beautiful.
That's if she lets her mind wander. She rarely does. But tonight, all alone in an office that seems unusually cold and empty, she allows herself to dream. Her elbows on the desk, her chin resting on her interlaced fingers, she stares at the photograph - through it, and beyond.
Human hair, fascinating, soft and wispy, still a little moist in places after a quick shower. A warm, clean scent. Skin still flushed and hot from the water, strong arms around her. Rough, powerful hands, hands able to kill without mercy, now gentle and searching, exploring every line, every curve of her body. Lips. She had no idea human lips were so soft. So quick and capable of so much. Smiles. Kisses. Kisses... everywhere. Kisses slowly trailing up the inside of her thigh, leaving a moist trail. She can feel that touch even now, a gentle pressure slowly making its way up-
-Liara jerks her hand back when she notices where it's heading. Glares down as if her fingers had become sentient, moving independently of her will.
She aches to be touched. To add another memory instead of just re-living the old ones. She could go out, head to the bar, go home with a stranger - but it wouldn't be the same. Wouldn't be her.
She looks back up at the photograph, Commander Shepard smiling awkwardly at her from within the black and silver frame. The smile is warm, despite everything. Like her own tiny, private sun.
Her fingers twitch where they lie against her thigh, and she wonders if Shepard would mind, if she knew, if it were just this once... if she would think it weird, think that she is weird for even considering.
She sits still in her dark and empty room, hesitating.
The memories continue to play in her head.
Hands no longer moving uncertainly, but with a purpose. Callused fingers on her breasts, hot breath against her - against - against that sensitive area down between her legs, where the light blue hue of her skin takes on a warmer note. Green eyes twinkling up at her, a silent question. She nods, firmly, knowing that she wants this, wants it in a way she has never quite wanted anything else. A hand leaves her breast to stroke her cheek for a brief moment; she catches it to kiss those strong fingers. She is rewarded with a kiss in turn, and gasps, her entire body stiffening. Warm breath replaced by warmer lips. A tongue. Oh, goddess... that tongue.
She licks her lips, swallows, almost as nervous as she was back then.
But she doesn't pull her hand back. Not this time.
Her fingers are a pale imitation of the sensation she remembers, a dull presence through the fabric of her clothes.
The awkward smile in the photograph seems to widen. To urge her on.
I wish you were watching me.
Uncertainly, she reaches for the zipper on her dress, pulls it down, unusually clumsily. The night air is cold against her bare skin, makes her shiver. But it is not only the cold air that is making her nipples hard.
She stands and lets the dress fall, steps out of it and sits back down. The chair, at least, is warm.
Her hands rise to her chest, cupping the swells of her breasts, thumbs and forefingers taking hold of those little aching nubs of dark blue flesh. Shepard's fingers weren't this soft. She tightens her grip, pinches and rolls her nipples between her fingers. Her touch becomes rough, and it hurts, it hurts in a raw, fizzy kind of way that seems to spreads curiously through her body. The sensation pools deep in her stomach, and further below.
Hesitantly, her right hand follows, over her stomach, and - further below.
It feels warm - she feels warm inside. Warm and ready. Even before her fingers reach their target, she can feel her body opening, feel those folds of sensitive flesh parting slightly as if to welcome the touch. She takes a deep, unsteady breath and looks down at her fingers, resting right where her lover had a dark patch of curly red hair. She remembers it so well. How she played with it, fascinated, and how Shepard hummed and smiled and whispered encouragingly to her.
Her gaze rises to the photograph again.
Then closes her eyes. Imagines herself back in the cramped bed on the Normandy, on her back with Shepard on hands and knees over her. Later, this time - after she had learned to relax, to simply allow herself to experience and enjoy.
Not her tongue this time - Liara's own fingers were too poor a substitute. Fingers. both in reality and in her mind. Still not right, but better. Shepard leaning over her, supporting herself on one hand, the other down between Liara's thighs, doing magical things.
She eases herself down, leans back in her chair, not really made for this. Stretches her legs out, parts them just enough to let her fingers move between them. Just a fingertip, slowly brushing against her clitoris through its hood. It feels like electricity. Rising from the ground, through the soles of her feet. Her toes curl inside her slippers. Higher. Her legs shake. Rising, as inevitable as the tide. Up to her hips, and to where her fingers are touching.
Shepard's breath on her skin, calm and even. Her own breath coming in quick and unsteady gasps and escaping in moans and whimpers. Shepard's eyes, impossible to look away from. Green, so green. She shudders helplessly, hands fisting in the sheets. Her legs try to close, to catch the hand with those rough, clever fingers between them, but no matter how much she kicks and writhes, she can not budge the woman hovering over her.
Each brush of her fingers against the little aching bundle of nerves between her legs sends twinges of tension through her, out through her trembling legs, up through her clenching stomach, and sometimes those twinges reach all the way up inside her head and set off little flashes of light before her eyes. She feels a pulse inside her, something almost, but not quite releasing, and a sense of urgency that grows, grows and grows with each touch. She whimpers, chews on her lip; tries to move her left hand, still on her breasts, and it feels leaden, stiff and unresponsive, as if simply moving the fingers on her right is taking all the will, all the energy she can muster.
She can barely keep her eyes open. Shepard's features become a blur, and the blur smiles and whispers to her: No. Look at me, Liara. And Liara does. She has no other choice. Loses herself in green, in the intense vertigo of flying, rising and falling at the same time, but even when she bucks and screams, she is not once afraid. No, she feels safe, because no matter what, she feels Shepard's warmth above her, Shepard's fingers on her, inside her, even when everything seems to dissolve.
She lets out a quick, rasping sob, and her body curls forward, then falls back against the chair, her heels thumping against the floor. Once. Twice. Thrice. Then she lies tense and trembling, like a guitar string after the last chord has been struck.
Blinks, slowly, as her head clears. Begins to remember that her body is not weightless. Begins to feel its weight again, even though she is still light-headed. Too heavy to move, she half-lies, half-sits in her chair, waiting for her breath and pulse to calm.
Shepard smiles at her from the desk, awkward and beautiful.
A trembling hand reaches for the picture, fingers glistening with her own moisture. The frame scrapes against the tabletop.
Her hand is heavy. The picture is heavier still. But Liara manages to pull it close, clutch it against her chest.
She tells herself that there will be another time, that they will have another chance.
Then she raises the picture and meets that piercing green gaze once more, and realizes that she actually believes it.
She presses a kiss over the Commander's forehead, lowers the picture and holds it tightly against her chest, over her heart.
The office is still cold, still empty, but she has hope.
And finally, at least for the moment, Liara T'Soni feels at peace.
Length: 1800 words
Rating: M for explicit F/F sex
Notes: I feel like this fic makes me appreciate Liara more, for some reason...
The picture had spent its first few weeks on her desk.
Then, once she felt herself forced to admit that it distracted her, that those moments spent gazing into the unresponsive green eyes were taking up time she needed to spend working, it had spent another couple of weeks on a shelf.
It was only when she finally realized what was causing the crick in her neck that she gave up and put it in her bottom drawer, facing down, where it couldn't distract her.
And yet it still distracted.
The logical choice would have been to rid herself of it - to at least set it in her apartment if she couldn't bear to destroy it, though doing that would probably have been for the best. To keep the past in the past.
But it would have been like admitting defeat. Like admitting that the Commander was truly gone. And so she let it lie where it lies, and every so often, she would stop what she was doing, takes the picture out and let it distract her, again, for a brief moment.
When the Normandy pulled into port, it was a great weight off her chest - to finally know, to meet once more, to touch once more... if only barely.
She takes the picture out more often lately. She finds herself smiling when she looks at it.
Truth to be told, it is not a very good picture. The Commander's features are pulled into something halfway between a wince and a smile, as if surprised by the camera suddenly shoved in her face, and her short auburn hair is mussed and untidy. There is a narrow burn on her left cheek, red skin and black soot; they had been fresh from a mission, although she is finding it difficult to remember which one. That part is unimportant, but she can still recall the smell of that day, of metal and sweat and sunlight.
If she lets her mind wander, she can recall what happened later. Details - laughter, awkward, experimental touches... a companion's warmth, scent, taste.
A slender blue finger traces the burn scar on Shepard's cheek. It never fully healed - left a tiny imperfection to speak of a wild, dangerous past.
The photo frame is cold and hard, but the memory remains, of soft, warm skin against hers, of pink and blue complementing each other. It had been... beautiful.
That's if she lets her mind wander. She rarely does. But tonight, all alone in an office that seems unusually cold and empty, she allows herself to dream. Her elbows on the desk, her chin resting on her interlaced fingers, she stares at the photograph - through it, and beyond.
Human hair, fascinating, soft and wispy, still a little moist in places after a quick shower. A warm, clean scent. Skin still flushed and hot from the water, strong arms around her. Rough, powerful hands, hands able to kill without mercy, now gentle and searching, exploring every line, every curve of her body. Lips. She had no idea human lips were so soft. So quick and capable of so much. Smiles. Kisses. Kisses... everywhere. Kisses slowly trailing up the inside of her thigh, leaving a moist trail. She can feel that touch even now, a gentle pressure slowly making its way up-
-Liara jerks her hand back when she notices where it's heading. Glares down as if her fingers had become sentient, moving independently of her will.
She aches to be touched. To add another memory instead of just re-living the old ones. She could go out, head to the bar, go home with a stranger - but it wouldn't be the same. Wouldn't be her.
She looks back up at the photograph, Commander Shepard smiling awkwardly at her from within the black and silver frame. The smile is warm, despite everything. Like her own tiny, private sun.
Her fingers twitch where they lie against her thigh, and she wonders if Shepard would mind, if she knew, if it were just this once... if she would think it weird, think that she is weird for even considering.
She sits still in her dark and empty room, hesitating.
The memories continue to play in her head.
Hands no longer moving uncertainly, but with a purpose. Callused fingers on her breasts, hot breath against her - against - against that sensitive area down between her legs, where the light blue hue of her skin takes on a warmer note. Green eyes twinkling up at her, a silent question. She nods, firmly, knowing that she wants this, wants it in a way she has never quite wanted anything else. A hand leaves her breast to stroke her cheek for a brief moment; she catches it to kiss those strong fingers. She is rewarded with a kiss in turn, and gasps, her entire body stiffening. Warm breath replaced by warmer lips. A tongue. Oh, goddess... that tongue.
She licks her lips, swallows, almost as nervous as she was back then.
But she doesn't pull her hand back. Not this time.
Her fingers are a pale imitation of the sensation she remembers, a dull presence through the fabric of her clothes.
The awkward smile in the photograph seems to widen. To urge her on.
I wish you were watching me.
Uncertainly, she reaches for the zipper on her dress, pulls it down, unusually clumsily. The night air is cold against her bare skin, makes her shiver. But it is not only the cold air that is making her nipples hard.
She stands and lets the dress fall, steps out of it and sits back down. The chair, at least, is warm.
Her hands rise to her chest, cupping the swells of her breasts, thumbs and forefingers taking hold of those little aching nubs of dark blue flesh. Shepard's fingers weren't this soft. She tightens her grip, pinches and rolls her nipples between her fingers. Her touch becomes rough, and it hurts, it hurts in a raw, fizzy kind of way that seems to spreads curiously through her body. The sensation pools deep in her stomach, and further below.
Hesitantly, her right hand follows, over her stomach, and - further below.
It feels warm - she feels warm inside. Warm and ready. Even before her fingers reach their target, she can feel her body opening, feel those folds of sensitive flesh parting slightly as if to welcome the touch. She takes a deep, unsteady breath and looks down at her fingers, resting right where her lover had a dark patch of curly red hair. She remembers it so well. How she played with it, fascinated, and how Shepard hummed and smiled and whispered encouragingly to her.
Her gaze rises to the photograph again.
Then closes her eyes. Imagines herself back in the cramped bed on the Normandy, on her back with Shepard on hands and knees over her. Later, this time - after she had learned to relax, to simply allow herself to experience and enjoy.
Not her tongue this time - Liara's own fingers were too poor a substitute. Fingers. both in reality and in her mind. Still not right, but better. Shepard leaning over her, supporting herself on one hand, the other down between Liara's thighs, doing magical things.
She eases herself down, leans back in her chair, not really made for this. Stretches her legs out, parts them just enough to let her fingers move between them. Just a fingertip, slowly brushing against her clitoris through its hood. It feels like electricity. Rising from the ground, through the soles of her feet. Her toes curl inside her slippers. Higher. Her legs shake. Rising, as inevitable as the tide. Up to her hips, and to where her fingers are touching.
Shepard's breath on her skin, calm and even. Her own breath coming in quick and unsteady gasps and escaping in moans and whimpers. Shepard's eyes, impossible to look away from. Green, so green. She shudders helplessly, hands fisting in the sheets. Her legs try to close, to catch the hand with those rough, clever fingers between them, but no matter how much she kicks and writhes, she can not budge the woman hovering over her.
Each brush of her fingers against the little aching bundle of nerves between her legs sends twinges of tension through her, out through her trembling legs, up through her clenching stomach, and sometimes those twinges reach all the way up inside her head and set off little flashes of light before her eyes. She feels a pulse inside her, something almost, but not quite releasing, and a sense of urgency that grows, grows and grows with each touch. She whimpers, chews on her lip; tries to move her left hand, still on her breasts, and it feels leaden, stiff and unresponsive, as if simply moving the fingers on her right is taking all the will, all the energy she can muster.
She can barely keep her eyes open. Shepard's features become a blur, and the blur smiles and whispers to her: No. Look at me, Liara. And Liara does. She has no other choice. Loses herself in green, in the intense vertigo of flying, rising and falling at the same time, but even when she bucks and screams, she is not once afraid. No, she feels safe, because no matter what, she feels Shepard's warmth above her, Shepard's fingers on her, inside her, even when everything seems to dissolve.
She lets out a quick, rasping sob, and her body curls forward, then falls back against the chair, her heels thumping against the floor. Once. Twice. Thrice. Then she lies tense and trembling, like a guitar string after the last chord has been struck.
Blinks, slowly, as her head clears. Begins to remember that her body is not weightless. Begins to feel its weight again, even though she is still light-headed. Too heavy to move, she half-lies, half-sits in her chair, waiting for her breath and pulse to calm.
Shepard smiles at her from the desk, awkward and beautiful.
A trembling hand reaches for the picture, fingers glistening with her own moisture. The frame scrapes against the tabletop.
Her hand is heavy. The picture is heavier still. But Liara manages to pull it close, clutch it against her chest.
She tells herself that there will be another time, that they will have another chance.
Then she raises the picture and meets that piercing green gaze once more, and realizes that she actually believes it.
She presses a kiss over the Commander's forehead, lowers the picture and holds it tightly against her chest, over her heart.
The office is still cold, still empty, but she has hope.
And finally, at least for the moment, Liara T'Soni feels at peace.