home made salve

okay, but where are the happy Shrios moments?

Imagine Shepard humming a tune and pressing her fingers into cookie dough, pulling and rolling them into shape—Thane is behind her, watching with amused onyx eyes as he mixes. He keeps the memory of that smile, those swaying hips and the messy fingers with him on the worst of days. When they kiss she tastes of stolen cookie dough.

Imagine Shepard waking up, muscles sore and eyes bleary. She stumbles into the bathroom and her eyes are still too fuzzy to really see anything yet, and so she shoves a toothbrush in her mouth and begins scrubbing. When smooth hands start putting water and soap on a washcloth for her to scrub her face with, she doesn’t mind, and when they start gingerly gathering up her hair to tie back, she leans against his shoulder. He is gentle and kind, and always thinking of her—she wishes she could do more to ease him.

Imagine Shepard sitting in bed reading status reports, Thane besides her laying on his stomach in absolutely nothing at all, fingers fiddling with some type of Drell puzzle game. He twists it’s parts around thoughtfully, trying to get the shape to align. Shepard can’t help but smile, because there’s a naked assassin in her bed and he’s playing with the Drell version of a Rubix Cube.

Imagine Shepard pressing warm hands into the smooth skin of his back, the skin too cool to be comfortable for him, and kneading the thick muscles there. He has many knots in them, and for someone with apparently no knowledge of Drell anatomy, she’s doing a divine job. Thane is practically purring by the time she kisses a line down the black streaks across his shoulder blades, nose lightly tracing the bright green spots and almost blue patches.

Imagine Thane discovering what a tickle is; Drell skin and muscles are too tough, and their awareness of their body makes the sensation dull enough they do not laugh—but when Thane digs a gentle finger into Shepards ribs she twists and squirms and laughs until there are tears rolling down her face. She’s probably the most stubborn and dedicated military Commander in the galaxy, but all it takes to make her face crack into a smile are his fingers wiggling against her ribs, her neck, down her sides. She has dimples when she smiles like that.

Imagine Thane meticulously applying some home made healing salve to Shepards scrapes and small cuts, places where her armor dug in a little too hard and pinched away flesh. The salve is warm and makes her a little dizzy, but when she wakes up there’s no trace of the cuts. Thane’s hands are so gentle she can’t help but kiss the side of his face, his forehead—he worries about her too much, and she takes pride in reminding him just how real she is.

Imagine Shepard leaning back, her head in Thane’s lap as they watch the stars over the Observation Deck. For a few minutes there’s nothing but them and the great abyss of space, a calm settling over before the storm. Thane’s fingers trace over her face, across her eyes and down her nose, a thumb sweeping over her bottom lip. She can tell he’s trying to remember these moments just like she is, but neither think about why. Because all is calm, nothing is wrong; there just two souls looking out at a vast universe, insignificant and tiny. Atleast for a moment, please, just one moment.

How do you go about asking a coworker if she’s a witch. Because between her having a home made herbal salve for everything, carrying rocks around in her pockets and talking about charging them with positive energy, showing me pics of her cats interrupting her reading by flopping over on her astrology book, and her talk of space and cosmos and having rituals she does for certain cosmological events? Witch.

There’s also the girl in another department who wears a pentacle ring and a necklace that I’m sure is a talisman of some kind, and when I asked about it she got all flustered, muttered something about the Wild Hunt and ran off.