I don’t know what gave me this idea, but it was a nice way to procrastinate on writing other things. I blame @wafflesrock16 XD

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When the younger Shepard female offers her hand in a human greeting, Garrus takes it in his own and covers their joined hands as he purrs and flares his mandibles in a soft smile. “If I profane with my unworthiest hand this holy shrine, the gentle sin is this: my plates, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.”

Her lips quirk as her hand squeezes his and she says, “Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much. Which mannerly devotion shows in this, for saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch, and palm to palm if holy palmers’ kiss.”

Where humans have saints, turians have oracles, yet he knows both serve a similar purpose. Just one more thing that the two people have in common, if only his and her species can come to this simple understanding amidst shooting one another.

Humming in mock thought, Garrus tilts his head slightly and asks, “Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?”

“Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.”

Being the Primarch’s son has come with the added need for Garrus to learn human expressions at the urgings of the asari ambassadors attempting to try and mend the discord between the two. That, and his father always warned him that humans speak with their faces. It was just as good a determinator of their intents as subvocals.

It’s how he knows that his company has found their conversation at least partially amusing by the slight curve to the corner of her lips.

“O, then, dear saint” he says, continuing with his attempts to woe her, “let plates do what hands do. They pray; grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.”

He feels her step closer and lift her chin just enough to keep his gaze with her own dark green eyes. “Saints do not move, though grant for prayers’ sake.”

Rumbling, he smirks as he steps closer to bridge the gap between them. “Then move not, while my prayers’ effect I take.”

He lifts his hand to cup her chin without letting go of her own with the other. Gently tilting her head, he bends his knees to lower to her height and presses his mouth to hers.

Her lips are soft against his own plates. Asari don’t compare to the sensation of her as he gently flexes his lips to nip her plump bottom lip. Leaning back, he purrs at the way her eyes search his face, lips parted slightly.

“Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purged.” His voice is soft, just between the two of them and she licks her lips, as if to take in a taste of him.

“Then have my lips the sin that they have took,” she nearly whispers, squeezing his hand as she lifts a hand to touch his chest, fingers ghosting over the clasps of his tunic.

“Sin from thy lips? O trespass sweetly urged!” He trills in mock shock and shakes his head once with a rumble of feigned apology. “Give me my sin again.”

This time, she too leans into the kiss and he sees her close her eyes as they touch. Her lips suckle gently on the edge of his plates as he purrs and strokes his thumb across her chin. Her kiss is like a burning fire, the heat something he can easily become addicted to.

It will be impossible to return to the turian battlement, only to face her people should their people not reach an agreement for peace.