One Night, Citadel, Lower Wards

by your internet friend!
so this whole situation starts when you’re trying to calm down and distract yourself from the fact that several hours ago you’d successfully smuggled a couple hundred thousand credits worth of weapons through the lower ward without getting caught.

your handler had told you not to worry about c-sec and that the cut you’d get from this one job would probably be enough for you to live on for a couple months, give or take, except you still hadn’t heard back about actually getting paid since you managed to return. which meant that, until the credits properly showed up in your account, you were still just a glorified street urchin living in essentially a spruced up “cubicle” apartment (really just an unused storage room) shared with your “co-worker” Avitus. you and the turian got along well, except for the fact that he drank far too much, and you can’t help but feel that one of these days he’s going to mouth off to the wrong slumlord during a deal and get both of you riddled with holes faster than you can blink.

but, as he loved to remind you, that hadn’t happened yet, so he must be doing something right. you didn’t exactly share the enthusiasm, and even though you were clear out of danger your heart was still in your chest from the arms deal hours before.

“i was at flux,” he says, sitting down at the edge of your bed. your “bedroom” (which was essentially a walk-in closet that you’d lugged a bed and smartscreen into) didn’t have enough room for another chair, and if Avitus was as inebriated as you suspected, it’s not like he was going to be able to stand up for much longer anyway. “running up a tab guilt-free for the first time in my life. for fuck’s sake, we made enough credits today to buy half the bar there.”

“more importantly, we’ve made enough to move out of this coffin,” you correct him.

“you’re ever so responsible with money for someone in your profession.”

“i’m serious.”

“i am too. one day you’ll go legit, and you’re going to find out just how boring that is.” his vision flutters — for a second you swear he’s looking much further down your body than you first thought — down to the instrument in your hand. “what’s that?”

“a guitar,” you tell him. “when i get stressed i distract myself playing songs my family taught me.”

“that’s cute,” Avitus says, not really meaning it. “can i try it?”

“it might be kind of hard for you to get a grip with it.”

“why, because i’m drunk?”

“i mean, because i’ve got five fingers and you don’t.”

Avitus makes a sound halfway between a laugh and an offended grunt as he sets the guitar on his lap, plucking gamely but feebly along at the bottom three strings, completely giving up on trying to fret anything on the neck of the guitar. “Fair enough,” he concedes, passing the guitar back to you. “Play me something.”

You look up at him quizzically. “Like?”

“Surprise me.”

you don’t play anything complex, and your playing isn’t that great compared to, well, literally anything, but his gaze doesn’t break as you stumble through about a minute and several bars worth of strumming.

“sorry for ruining your buzz,” you say as you stop playing. “i only know sad songs.”

“i’m enamored with your five fingers, kid,” Avitus laughs, lying down beside you. “why didn’t you tell me you can play like that?”

“you never asked, and it's not like i get much time on the job to ever bother bringing an instrument like i'm some kind of busker on Earth." dramatically wiggling your fingers, you add: "these hands have done some illegal shit today, dude. they're evil."

Avitus shrugs and turns onto his side - you didn't realize how close he was cozied up to you on the cramped bed, and you end up propping yourself onto your elbow to face him. "those hands just earned us more money today than either of us have ever made in our lives. as far as i can tell, they're good, and they're attached to a good person as well."

"I appreciate the sentiment," you say, trying very hard to play off how deeply your face just flushed just now. "But you're also very drunk."

"I mean it," he says, firmly grabbing you by the wrist.

"I know you mean it. I believe you, but you're drunk." You notice he's been staring at you this whole time. Like, really hard.

"So?"

For a second, you don't know how to actually respond, and Avitus keeps going, and for a second you think this might just be the booze or one of his fucked up jokes, but this might actually be real, because despite how hammered he stumbled into your room earlier he's managed to straddle his leg over your sober hips faster than you can react. "I've seen how you look at me, kid - when you think no one's looking. I'm drunk, but I'm not blind. And you know what? I think I want more than just seeing what those hands do - I want to feel them."

You still can't get any words out — you never took Avitus to be the romantic type even when sober, and for a second you see a split-second of panic across his face, and he adds: "And if I'm wrong - well, we can forget tonight ever happened, I'll take my half of the money and you'll never see me again."

That snaps you out of your fugue. "Fuck no," you hiss, still not exactly sure what to do next - you sit upright, reach your arms around his shoulders - holyfuckthisisactuallyhappening - and match his gaze. "I think I want this."

"You think?"

"I know I want this."

The turian doesn’t say anything, and for what feels like an eternity but in reality is probably closer to five seconds you feel like the dumbest human in the galaxy, but then his mandibles are up against your face and his tongue is breaching your lips and those fingers — the ones that couldn’t play a guitar at all earlier are undoing your pants faster than anyone could play any instrument. Breathlessly, still reeling, you free yourself from his kiss briefly to say the only things still coming to mind as the blood starts rushing to your thighs — “holy shit”, and then he’s kissing you again and pressing himself hard against you again. He’s warm all over and you know it isn’t from the booze alone.

You didn’t actually ever stop to even consider how making out with a turian would even logistically work, but Avitus is dead set on giving you an introduction. The sensation is… It’s weird, strangely foreign, but not as freaky as you expecting. His mandibles keep brushing up against the sides of your mouth, which is a strangely ticklish feeling, but again — his tongue is really flexible, and the feeling of his mouth against yours, french kissing you, is intoxicating. You want more.

And then he pulls away.

“Fuck. I’m way too drunk for this…” He mumbles, panicked.

“Avitus,” you say.

“This was a mistake…”

“Avitus.”

“ I shouldn’t have forced myself on you like that.”

“Avitus. Look at me. It’s alright.”

You pull him back towards you. “I wanted this too. If you want to stop, just say the word. If not… let me take the lead, alright?”

You gentle place one finger between his mouth — unspeaking but knowing, Avitus lets you trace his teeth along your fingers — fuck, they’re sharper than you were expecting — and opens his mouth a little more, letting you place another finger in between his lips. His tongue excitedly licks against your index and forefinger — you slide a third in, not even sure what to expect, but this entire experience has been something you didn’t expect. Calm, cool, collected Avitus — the same Turian that didn’t let any slight against him in the lower wards go unpunished, the one that felt like a ball of martial disciplined violence always about to be unleashed but never quite — now up against you, desperately and frantically exploring every inch of your body with his fingers and mouth like mapping some kind of uncharted territory.

A thought flickers in the back of your brain — I’m fucking an alien, no - I’m fucking my /coworker/, what am I doing — but the way his hand slips down into your pants, now caressing your hardening manhood obliterates any remaining coherent thought and you’re left shuddering, your moan giving away any remaining hope of coming off as the restrained one here.

“Want you,” Avitus grunts — your fingers still in his mouth, so it comes out closer to ‘wanth yew’, and smartly you withdraw your digits and he gasps, equal parts for air and in desire of what comes next. “In my mouth.”

Despite the bluntness, it’s more like a plea than a demand — before you can verbally answer, Avitus is kissing you up against your lips and neck again before you have time to really react, wet lips searching for air that isn’t coming. Then his kisses drift downward as his posture does — from nipping and biting at your thin neck, to your collarbone, to your chest and abdomen, until he’s face-to-face (well, face-to-head) with your still hardening cock.

He takes it in his mouth, and it’s even better than the feeling of swapping spit. There’s something tactile and pleasurable about the contrast in his hardened mandibles and the soft, warm, wet tongue and mouth inside working up and down your head and shaft. Panting under his tongue working its way up and down from base to tip, your body twitches as Avitus takes more and more of you in his mouth, arms resting on your thighs as his hands grip your lower back and ass for leverage.

You want to say something, anything — witty, sexy, funny, useful — but the only thing that actually escapes you is, unsurprisingly, “fuck!”

You can’t really tell from this angle and you know that, logistically with everything going on, it was unlikely, but you could swear that the fucker smirked a little — pleased with himself and with how he had quickly gotten you under his control. Avitus had worked out a steady rhythm, now, going a little further down your shaft each time, just barely teasing the threshold between teasing the tip with his tongue and taking your entire length in one deep-throated moment. You’ve got your hands around his head (and he was always sensitive about his crest, yet here you were running them between his fingers), equal-parts guiding him and letting him take the lead.

You try to offer anything more coherent than the moaning and uttered curses you’ve said thus far but all that actually comes out is “Fuck, Avitus, don’t stop!” — Hissed again, because you’re afraid of waking up the next-door neighbors or activating an an AI or robot in the room or something. In response, one of his hands traces itself down your waist, then your thigh, then crotch, delicately tugging at your jewels while he throats your length deeper and deeper. You buck against him as you feel your existence begin to reach the brink.

“I-I’m close,” is all that you can gasp out. As if on cue, Avitus stopped - briefly, as if to illustrate the point, your manhood throbbing and quivering within his grasp. He pulls away from you, letting your cock free — and for a moment you’re struck with the fear of this all being some ridiculous blue balling situation — when he rises back up, and you can see that his cock — multicolored, not dissimilar to yours in shape but clearly different in biology (ribbed? Flared? You weren’t sure how to describe it) — is out, and hard.

“Me too,” he simply says. Then, as an aside — “I’m still drunk…” As if this late in the game he had just realized the situation. Something about the absurdity of the whole matter — too drunk to fuck but still game enough to suck? — makes you start laughing. Avitus looks at you, and you can’t make out his expression, but you can make out the expression he makes when you rise from your sitting position gently push him by his carapaced chest back onto the bed.

“Earlier I said let me take the lead,” You tell him. “Please.”

Wordlessly, he nods, and you feel his body — wiry, muscular, thick-skinned and plated, foreign but still familiar in all the best ways — relax under your touch. You think what it must be like for him to relax for anyone — you weren’t exactly a masseuse, but from the way he shuddered from you tracing your hands up and down his body, you figured that this sort of intimacy wasn’t common for the turian.

“Lift your legs up for me,” you tell Avitus. He obliges. The least you can do is be reciprocal.

You lower your head down to the base of his cock — from up this close, it’s not as menacing as you expected, but you also aren’t really sure of the logistics in fitting the entirety of it in your mouth. Either way, with it dripping with what you figure is precum and quivering in anticipation, it’s now or never.

You take it in your mouth and Avitus makes a noise at a pitch you didn’t think he could actually reach (and if not for your mouth being full you might have actually cracked a smile). Up this close against his crotch, every breath smells like him, every movement from your tongue up and down the shaft tastes like him, and a taloned hand gingerly caresses you by the back of the head as you try to do, well, anything. It’s not the size that’s the problem — Avitus is well-endowed by human or turian standards — but to be frank: your jaw kind of hurts and you can’t figure out a way to take him any deeper, and he was still too intoxicated to guide you along. Using your tongue to trace along the tip of his length, though, you’ve managed to work out a somewhat consistent pace until Avitus’ grip on your hair intensifies — a wordless signal to slow down.

“Are you close?” You ask (although at this point it sounds more like “er yew clothe”.)

“Yes,” he grunts, Then adds, after a moment, he pushes you away and further down : “Take me.”

“You have a lot of nerve, just assuming I eat ass,” you huff indignantly.

But… On the other hand, you don’t know where the lube is, so if he’s willing to bottom for you as the grand finale of this whole thing it’s only going to come at the expense of your saliva.

Slick with your drool and his own pre, you trace seemingly every inch of Avitus’ thighs, his taint, his rear — he lifts up his legs slightly to give you a full glimpse of his ass — firm from a lifetime of moving shipments across the lower wards, beautiful, all yours. You tongue playfully at his hole, and you can feel his entire body shudder again, and he doesn’t say anything else but the subtext (‘don’t make me wait’) is obvious as you climb back up to your knees, cock in hand, about to enter turian you just knew as a friend just an hour ago.

Despite the improvisation of it all, sliding into Avitus was smoother than you thought — you tried to be as gentle as possible, but you also did kind of go overboard with the oral stuff, so there was more lubrication to smooth out the penetration than you first thought. He moaned as you entered him, bucking his hips against you even before you could actually start thrusting, face contorted in dissociative ecstasy, equal parts drunkenly making eyes at you and eyes rolling back in the head. He was tight, but not unusably so, and you don’t so much even fuck him as you do ride along with Avitus gradually bouncing himself against you as he gets more comfortable with the sensation.

“I’m close,” he says again. With one hand you grab onto his leg for leverage, and with the other you reach for his cock again, to jerk him off while you fuck him in this strange leg-up missionary style, but he bats your hand away at first, then grabs it with his, interlocking it between his talons, and you just lock fingers like that while you get closer and closer to orgasm and he cums hands free — no doubt impacted by the booze but still shooting hot and thick onto both you and his own abs and chest. He doesn’t even notice, his eyes are closed, mouth open, tongue out.

“I’m about to…” you grit your teeth as you continue thrusting into his rear, Avitus’ body lax but still electric with energy as his cock continues to gush each time you slide inside him. You think about asking if you should pull out, but Avitus springs to life again and grabs you — locks his legs around you, pulls you in close, heaving heavy deep breaths. You can’t hold on for any longer — with somewhere between a yell and a growl you cum inside the turian, still pressed up within his grasp, bodies hot, slick with sweat and sex. Panting, you roll off over to the side of the bed, still entwined in his arms, his hand still holding yours.

Neither of you say anything for a long time. Or what seems like a long time, but is closer to ten minutes.

“Avitus?”

The turian doesn’t respond at first, and for a second you think he’s finally passed out.

“Avitus?”

His eyes snap open.

“Yes,” he says. “I’m thinking.”

You don’t say anything, but you quietly unhook your hand from his.

All the while, his gaze doesn’t break from yours.

“…About what?” You inquire.

“We’re moving out of this dump.”

“Yes, we are.”

“I think,” Avitus murmurs, running a talon through your hair, “I think this was a nice sendoff for the place, all things considered.”

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Pub: 03 Mar 2021 08:03 UTC
Views: 804