Chapter Text
He runs.
The loud screaming from behind him can almost overwhelm the sound of weapons fired; he drives like a madman on a stolen skycar over the wards district. Underneath him, lives come and go with barely any notice: people pile up like numbers, no matter the species. Misery follows wealth, no matter where you go, and Omega has always been the back alley of Illium’s lavish, scandalous lifestyle. Where big fish go there to drown in alcohol and designer drugs, here the manufacturers of their vices wither in red sand kitchens, consume the garbage that lingers at the bottoms of their flasks for a moment of heaven before decomposing in some corner like any other junkie fuck, too broke to feed oneself and too gone to care.
Lucky knows. For he was one.
The chase becomes too close; he clashes against a window that brakes under the weight of his car but the momentum prevent him from barging into someone’s apartment. Five chasers become three; the narrowing space gets rid of his company for him.
Was is also not the right word.
He’s clean now, sure, but that doesn’t make him any better; he’s still learning how to sleep again, how to think of anything else. The cold sweat and too vivid nightmares keep him up at night; the pang of a hunger he tries his best to ignore calls for him the second the noise stops.
So he makes sure the noise never stops.
A sniper rifle pops out of one of the windows behind him; he knows because he sold it to the fucker that is now aiming it at him. A laughable heat sink but impeccable precision: you might get three shots before it tries to char your hand like a krogan barbecue but you only need one. Anything else is a skill issue.
The thing is Lucky is skillful. With some things, at least, and none of those are guns. But he’s a smooth talker, too loud for his own good yet impressively adept at fixing the holes he makes. And that’s what he kept in mind before selling that rifle. The buyer is one of Aria’s men, the Queen of Omega, and treacherous by default; no matter what he did, that scope was going to find his head sooner or later. And Lucky does not appreciate the idea: he put fucking effort in his looks for his beautiful defined curls to be splattered with brain matter.
So he fixed the hole he made.
He’s just waiting for the jackass to fall in it.
The first shot meets his rear window, close to his shoulder for him to feel the heat. It buries itself on the frame of the windshield, the metal resistant enough to bend but not pierce on impact. Tough little thing; he should borrow toys out of them more often.
Or not, if he doesn’t wish to be chased around the whole fucking city for a car he had no intention of keeping.
Lucky knew they were coming. They always are.
Aria gives him work sometimes, as an attraction at her club. Well, she doesn’t personally oversee the hiring of the acts, but she’s told him once or twice how fitting his name is; with such a life, he should be one of those unnamed carbonized lumps at the edges of the wards, ignored and forgotten.
He jokes that his ego is too big to do so; he might just end up haunting her club then so his name is always on people’s mouths.
Some days she even laughs.
Her guards hate it.
He’s no one: a regular made a teacher's pet, a little human fiddler lost, away from his home, too drunk and out of his mind to be of any use but to be watched and played with. He doesn’t deserve their boss’ special attention, and in reality he doesn’t have it, but boys are jealous little things, and Aria’s goons are no men.
He can hear his own name being hollered from the cars behind him: three become two, become one, and that fucking laser scope is still on him.
The second shot lands way too far, whipped out of target by a sudden curve on their chase.
Lucky is aimless; he has no place to call his own. All he owns he carries with him, now in a pile on the front seat. He does keep some extra clothes and toiletries on a room somewhere along the hallways of the wards, but no more than that.
All he is is a name, a story, and a violin.
The third shot fires; Lucky can see the light from his rear view mirror. It flares out like fireworks. Sure he told him three shots were his limit, because why would he take any more chances?
He missed two. He didn’t deserve the third.
Lucky, on the other hand, earned his next cycle fair and square.
He starts decelerating, pulling downwards; the skycar too much trouble for what it’s worth, will be abandoned soon a safe distance away from his place. He will walk, violin strapped at his back and hood up, to the streets like the anonymous shadow he sometimes remembers how to be, when his feet get too deep in the muck.
And then, he’ll go to bed. Wake up again.
And who knows, maybe his name is fitting, after all.
He cannot feel the morning cycle starting but for the racket around the house; kids running in front of his door, cutlery clinking against plates as several parents join forces to make breakfast. He learned much too quickly that groceries last longer when shared, and hardly ever has cooked for himself alone ever since.
He doesn’t even cook much for that matter, given his…. Schedule.
Lucky stretches, turning around in his bed enough for his blanket to knot around his legs; he groans at the idea of having to get out of bed, and the effort it will demand. He just came from fighting for his life; he’s had enough for a day or two.
He doesn’t even like his life that much.
He hears the rasp of little fists at the door, more talons than fingers, the muffled little chuckle, “Lucky, it’s food time! Dad says get up!” The high pitched voice carries a glee to his ears he hardly ever hears attached to his name.
Lucky doesn’t like living with children. They’re too young, too impressionable, too easy to corrupt. He would hate to see any of them along the path he was in when he was their age, but then again, most of them are now older than when his own nightmare started.
Ugh. Too early. Too hard to think. Too tired.
He blinks once, twice, breathing slowly until the migraine sets into a dull more manageable headache; his eyes start focusing, little by little. There are music posters around the room, clothes strewn all over the place. Most of it not his.
The room, just as the entire house, is just one more of the many abandoned homes, inhabited by the tunnel rats trying to find something better than the streets. Many were crawling with vorcha, but he helped clean this one and got the privilege of claiming a bedroom out for five.
Big house. It only made sense for it to protect just as many families.
He finds the courage to solve the puzzle that is his bedding in order to get off the bed, his hair pouring out of the bun that tried to become undone at some point during the night. His own demons chase him, now that there’s no chemical restraint for them, and it is almost encouragement enough to drown himself in red sand and spirit blood and -
His own eyes stare back at him from the cracked mirror on the closet door, half covered in stickers. This room must have belonged to a turian girl, given the kind of shit they were into, and the style of the clothing left behind. Hopefully, one who left for better places. Probably, one who met the wrong guy at an intersection or after school, sucked in by the system, taken and sold somewhere-
The thought, the memory makes his eyes dilate, his iris tinting deep violet as he balls his hands into fists against his side, clutching the fabric of the loose pants he wears to sleep. One, two…
He needs to calm down. He needs to calm down before everything around him collapses into itself, the way it always does. Power surges from his now trembling hands, crackling in between his knuckles. Three, four…
He tries to stay away, tries to survive on his own so nothing gets caught in the crossfire, but here he is. Again, surrounded by people who do not deserve such a fate. Again, promising care and protection he cannot give. Again, folding into the traps of compassion, promising, lying once again. Five, six…
There are children at the other side of the door. He can hear them running. He breathes. Seven, eight…
They do not deserve this. No child deserves this. Not this house, not his company, not the death that comes for everyone who crosses his path, stays for too long. If he can do anything to help it-
Nine, ten…
He must.
His gaze turns back to tired dirt brown. His knuckles, white from the effort, let go of the energy around them, dissipating into nothingness.
He’s back, and nothing is harmed.
Hopefully the girl isn’t, either. She’s got good taste, too.
Or Lucky is just into dressing like a different species teenage girl, probably.
He picks out a crop top with a translucent cape around it that hangs a bit off his shoulder. Different shapes do make for odd fitting clothes. It will do while he picks up his toiletries to run off to the bathroom before it gets too crowded again, sneaking a pack of smokes into his pocket as he does.
The second he opens the door he almost runs into one of the children. A little batarian boy with a bit of a snort as he speaks, and too much jam around his mouth.
“Mh, I might have missed breakfast.” He comments absentmindedly and the child laughs, wiping his mouth with a finger to offer him some of the fruit. “Ugh, no, thank you.” Lucky cannot help himself but grimace.
The little boy laughs.
“Spoilsport.”
“Weirdo.”
He runs along as Lucky finds the bathroom, the sink luckily empty. He wouldn’t mind missing breakfast and picking up something outside if it means he doesn’t need to give explanations about his whereabouts. He promised to not bring his shit into the house, and he hasn’t; it’s true he hasn’t been exactly trustworthy before, but he’s trying.
It counts, right?
Still, the parents do cook so much better than a lousy corner machine.
It might just be worth the trouble.
“I didn’t hear you come in last night.” The turian man doesn’t even turn from where he’s doing the dishes, his kid running amok around a tattered couch and stained coffee table in the middle of the room. Most people are picking up now to start their working days, some parents trying to get their own little chaos gremlins in line to get them to school.
Declan doesn’t bother; his girl has been out of school nursing a fever that doesn’t seem to make her any slower, as she runs around furniture and other people. Instead, he nudges a covered plate closer to the microwave door.
“I’m silent; you know that. Never a bother.” He throws his most charming smile, wide and full of mischief, and the man only snickers, watching him from his shoulder to turn back to his chores.
“I mean, I hope I didn’t hear you come in, and the shooting over us wasn’t you.”
Lucky moves the cover away form the plate: a bowl of some sort of porridge looks back at him, meaty and spicy with bits of veggies floating in it. Clearly the store clearance special; he sniffs it before putting it in the microwave.
“Who made this?” He asks absentmindedly, biting on a piece of bread that came with. It’s a bit hard but it will do. He hasn’t had anything to eat since…
Well, his body still forgets to tell him he should.
“Sylvie. She waited for you.” He absentmindedly leaves the last plate to dry; the place they got is perfectly functional but some appliance here and there still leaks from old drain pipes or shorts before finishing its cycle and the dishwasher is no exception. No one cares enough to fix it, anyways.
“I know, I know. Timing still eludes me a little.”
Lucky sit on the counter; the microwave dings while his attention is elsewhere. Declan finds his daughter, grabbing her as she runs by like a little missile and putting her up in his arms. He shushes and calms her down and she smiles; it’s a beautiful thing he wishes he could hear. There’s so many nuances in the galaxy that he’s not aware of, so many things he cannot feel.
It’s saddening to think. Yet it makes the sight before him so much more tender.
“Eat, then; we’ll be out. I’ll go to Mordin today.” He turns to him and the little girl on his arms clicks her mandible at him. That’s not something Lucky can do but he can absolutely pull his tongue at her at least. “This little one should be fine by now, so we’re checking up.” He rocks her softly and she gets startled in the middle of copying Lucky’s face. She only laughs when met with a questioning stare. “And could you please do your own dishes once you’re done?”
“Aye- aye, sir.” He salutes with a grin and it earns him the subtlest of smiles.
Well, time for breakfast it is.
The house falls into silence soon enough, with everyone out for work or school and only the noise of the usual gang brawls and petty crime beyond their doorstep. Silence is… nice. But not always the best company.
He quickly hurries to wash his bowl after breakfast, and the water helps a little; warm turns to hot, but his fingers feel like scar tissue, numb and foreign. Seconds go by, and he could count them, slowly, silently; anything instead of thinking.
At some point his mind comes back to him and he quickly jolts his hand away, turning the water off.
He needs out, actually. Anywhere but out.
The Afterlife is a constant maelstrom: people coming and going, bodies dancing together in a mixture of sweat and adrenaline and something utterly intoxicating in the strangeness of it all, and every substance you could ever want to find, if you knew where to ask.
Lucky very well knows where to ask. He does not like this place.
But much to his dismay, this is also the only place that doesn’t quite make him feel like part of the grime across the streets.
“Hey, hot stuff. Long time no see.” He jumps the line to greet Nishan, long time bartender and one of the only friends he still keeps in such a desolate, overcrowded place.
The turian barely nods his way, overcrowded with impatient patrons already complaining about the drinks they ordered half a second a go. He cracks his neck and leans his back on the bar, his hair tightly braided resting on the counter and his gaze pointedly fixed on the rifle of Aria’s security guard. He cannot do any more stupid shit in this place; he’s been warned.
He’s, however, not great at heeding warnings.
He’s made a promise, though, and he intends to keep it. For as long as he can make it. No matter how his brain screams at him for a reprieve, a quietness to all the noise, no matter how his skin itches as if it wants to crawl off of him.
The guard meets his eye, tightening his grip on the rifle. Lucky smiles.
It takes him a second to put his own reaction in line and turn around back to the bartender. Luckily he was not swarmed anymore: he’s good at his job, speedy and too soft for his own good. There’s two other bars inside the joint but people gather at his more often than not,mostly because of his mannerisms. He’s too tender for such a sharp edged, jarring place.
“What can I get you?” Nishan falls into his persona, but there’s a certain glint in his eye that makes Lucky smile and lick his lips.
“Two giggles, a bag of red sand, and an address number.” He winks for good measure and the bartender sighs, feigning exasperation.
“Really?”
“Preferably for this cute bartender. Turian, soft spoken, fucks slow-”
“Get this and fuck off.” Nishan presses a chilled glass into his hand before he can keep going; he giggles, too amused with himself and takes a too confident swig. Straight gin on ice, and he hasn’t drink in a bit; it goes down like cold fire, coating his throat and leaving a faint herbal tinge in his nose.
“Not gonna charge me?” He taunts, leaning over the bar to bend his lower back; if there’s one thing he knows it’s how to keep a turian’s attention, and his small waist has always serve him right.
That, and the fact he knows plenty about this particular turian.
“I refuse to let you know where to get most of what you asked for, not that you’d need me to do so.” He wipes the counter behind the bar absentmindedly, trying to keep his eye off of Lucky. It’s not working. “And you already have my fucking number.”
Some patrons roll their eyes and click their mandibles at the cheeky smirk on him; a couple of turian girls murmur something, clearly annoyed, before retreating to a table nearby. Lucky chuckles, triumphant. “I was just bragging, y’know.” He counters, earning a disappointed click of the tongue and a playful smile. “And spoiling your game. Not too sorry.”
Nishan shrugs, wiping a glass clean. “Not the game I play for, but you are fucking with my tips. Hope you’re ready to pay for that.”
Lucky sways his hips as his fingernails tap on the bar. “You were not making enough to afford me; I might need to be convinced.”
“So sassy to be the one making breakfast in the morning.” The bartender taunts him before moving onto sone human dressed in to expensive asari fashion and too cocky for her own good.
She’ll get robbed before the night is over with that attitude.
Lucky stretches away from the bar, cracking his neck this way and that, getting ready to leave. He cannot be idle while his mind is swimming with noises, with wants he does not want to hear.
And especially, he cannot be in a place like this for long. He’s not that strong.
“I was hoping you’d stay this evening.” Nishan’s voice feigns a nonchalance that disappears on the volume of his voice; he has to make himself loud enough for the music not to drown him. It’s endearing, in a way. Dangerous, but endearing.
“Can’t. Got things to do. But I’ll be back after your shift. I pay my dues.” He knows, everyone knows. Lucky has even seen himself in mugshots and other people’s pictures and cannot recognize the skinny guy that seemed to be clutching to life with nothing more than bony, tired fingers, all bloodshot eyes and dark circles and a smile so big and so phony it resembled a carnival mask.
He doesn’t wish to go back there. He cannot take his chances.
He can hear Nishan chuckling, surely muttering a comeback he’s too far away to get, and something keeps trying to glue his feet to the door.
He leaves.
There’s not much in the area of entertainment in this crappy forgotten rock that’s not vice and violence; Lucky is used to them but that doesn’t mean he enjoys them. He’s learned to live with their presence, gnawing at his mind like a phantom bruise, a pit in his stomach unable to be filled.
He drowns the sound of the city in music. That’s the one thing he took from home: music tried to kill him, he’d joke, but rescued him after and ever since. He cannot hold a grudge.
His omnitool pings in his ears every now and again; he got a pirate mod out of one of his contacts a while ago and was never really interested in using it but right now anything that keeps him out of trouble would work.
Not that illegal electronics are a good way to- eh. It could be worse. Easily.
The thing is supposed to pick up on conversations passing by, locking into them without much hacking knowledge, and Lucky know he’s only learned the basics. As much as he needs to survive, yet not enough to draw a bullseye on his forehead.
However mostly he picks up lousy drug deals, and people begging for their dinner, and maybe a teenage kid or two trying to talk dirty to their little paramour. Was he that awkward too? He can’t even remember.
He didn’t really get the privilege to be a teenager. He could have been even worse; his hair an unruly cloud that he kept tied or braided as much as he could remember to, and getting tongue tied at someone looking at him too softly, or looking too nice, or sounding too smart… The stolen pills and cocaine and lack of self preservation has always loose his tongue too much to not be a target.
He wouldn’t know how to make a different life for himself.
He changes channels. It’s too depressing right now to focus on such little, mundane things.
The next conversation is muddled in static, almost as if it was intentional. The voices are precise, words measured but it’s hard to recognize the sounds.
It’s a code, or an order, the tone feels military trained.
He recognizes a word or two: a passage, not too far away, long and with nothing but apartment doors at the sides for most of it. It was supposed to be a commercial street but so close to the slums it never prospered; it has nothing but cheap rentals and storefronts left to the mercy of squatters and looters.
He knows, for he has been both.
The food vending machines look like they were teared open with a crowbar and stolen of their insides, as long as salvaged for every piece of wiring they could rip out.
Luckily, their speakers have also been disabled. By bludgeoning them, even. The sound of the constant ads allowed down and distorted by lack of a proper power supply would be even creepier that whatever the hell is happening here. There’s a clear static covering their tracks; Lucky’s mod is meant to uncover decoded channels but only so far, and this is certainly more secured that what he can bypass. He still kneels next to one of the machines, trying to search for anything that might be useful; fuck knows he’s not been exactly a provider for the household lately, not that anyone is keeping count.
He knows, and that’s enough.
“Hey, you! What thef uck are you doing?” A woman, judging by her voice, yells at him from somewhere up on the tattered buildings; he doesn’t look up, he only needs a second. “You need to get out of here, now!” He huffs; there’s hardly nothing to salvage, much less anything to bring back to the house. Fuck his luck.
It only feels like it’s getting worse.
“Hey, kid.” A hard hand falls on his shoulder, squeezing to make him look back; a turian towers over his kneeling form, wearing a blue armor with no Blue Suns insignia on it. Odd. He doesn’t think he’s seen this guy before. “You don’t want to be here in the next five minutes.”
Lucky’s eyes fall down onto the unknown turian’s other hand, where he holds a sniper rifle with the easiness of someone born to wield it.
He wouldn’t like to take his chance in finding out about the stranger’s expertise.
“You know what?” He sports his best charming smile as he puts his hands on his knees and stands up; the stranger doesn’t let go. “You’re right, I think I’ll take my leave-”
“Why are you here?”
“Excuse me, sweetheart, I’m not taking you where I’m going, I already have company.” He tries to brush the hand away but the man insists.
“This is a private meetup place.” The grip on his shoulder is starting to hurt; he winces but can’t pull him off. “How did you find it?”
“Archangel, let him go; he’s just some guy!” The same voice screams from the top of the building.
Archangel? The maniac that’s killing gang members like flies?
Oh, he really needs to go. This is not a meetup: this is a hunting ground.
“Listen to the girl, she knows.” He keeps his charming fassade for as long as he can but the pain of his shoulder reacts before he can stop it. A flash of purple crosses over his pupils and the hand gets repelled by a force similar to a strong wind, pushing it away. It only lasted for less than a second, but Lucky cannot sty and let him put two and two together. “Good luck on your endeavors, or whatever. See you never.”
He bumps Archangel’s shoulder on the way out, running back from where he came and to the Arferlife; he’s had enough of a stroll, he’s good for the rest of the fucking week, thank you.
The guy could just dispose of him then and there: the hallways makes it for clean shot, even without a hideout.
Of course it is; it’s fucking Archangel. The guy is the kind of legend you do not want to meet.
Still, he only feels their eyes drilling onto his back, but no warning shots, no clean hole in the back of his skull. He comes out unscathed and fucking done with it all.
If he cannot get a hit at least he’s gonna get some satisfaction.
"A bit early. Are we that eager?" Nishan grins the second he looks up from cleaning some disgusting looking stain off his counter, all sharp teeth and arrogance.
He knew that was a part of what he wold get but Lucky doesn't mind; when the turian gets cocky, he puts effort into making it worth the big words.
"Ran into some nasty shit over there, needed a palate cleanse. Are you free?" Lucky smiles back, finding his way in through the people hanging at the bar. Aria must be up to something; the incredibly sneaky ears from the other gangs always clump up around the bar when she is.
It has to be about Archangel's death corridor, he's sure of it.
"Free is, uh, quite far, actually." People are clearly not here to drink, but they keep ordering nonetheless, buying themselves an excuse to linger. Aria's voice booms over the music when she's pissed yet she's been cautious, even now. Whatever it is, it's far too importantto lose her cool over it.
The problem is, Lucky is not willing to deal with the sensation of a sniper rifle at the back of his head for the rest of the evening until the shift is up. He needs to purge himself from the bullet that rchangel never shot, and he needed it now. Nishan is the best option: the next one might just involve all of the things he promised himself to stay away from.
The thought of a little red bag in his hands and the refuge of the steps behind the bar starts to make his fingers tingle.
"They barely even see you, babe, come on." He whines and it is fucking disgusting but he cannot stop himself; he's begging to be saved and a lousy shit job is stepping in between.
He could leave right now; there's a dealer, a girl no more than fifteen years old at the door, clearly waiting for customers. He knows because she looks exactly like he did once: hungry, so small anyone could snap her spine like a twig, thinking about trying the merchandise just because it's there, just because people seem to love it so much, just becuase it's the only constant, the only thing in her pockets at all times…
"It's the middle of the-" Nishan rolls his eyes at him but the insistent pout makes him stop in his tracks. He hands a beer without even looking (and to the wrong person, given the protests) and leans onto the bar to take a hand in his, talons delicately running across too soft skin. "It's not that I don't want to. I really can't."
Lucky wants to tell him. He wants to shout how much he need his blood to become fire so it burns every thought out of his mind, how his muscles tense in need, his skin shivering with a chill he knows it's not real, yet…
Nishan calls up to the other counter.
"Forvan! Take my place; I'm taking my break."
"It's too early for a break, man; have you seen the amount of-? Hey!"
Nishan doesn't wait for him. He jumps over the counter, his hand still holding Lucky's, ulling him behind towards the back door, and the warehouse under the steps.
The place is not pretty, but it's not too terrible. Boxes stacked almost up to the roof of drinks and glasses, and a lingering musty smell in the air, barely covered by the pungent stickiness of spilled alcohol. The door closes behid them and before Nishan has the chance to say anything, Lucky's arms are over his cowl, pulling him down for a hungry kiss.
"What's gotten into you?" Nishan whispers the second Lucky pulls away for air and the wolfish smile in him says more than enough.
"Any regrets?" Lucky murmurs against his mouth, his hands running up and down the softer hide along his neck and the back of his fringe, making his eyelids flutter. He cannot hear it but he can hear the desperate rumble of the subvocals vibrating against his chest.
Talons hold him from underneath his as to encourage him to hook his legs around Nishan's slender waist, carried until corraled in between the turian and the wall. One hand leaves his backside to find his mouth, where Lucky bites the glove off in a hurry.
"Never."
The now bare hand quickly finds its way onto his naked lower back and under his waistband at the sme time as Nishan's tongue delves inot his mouth, long and rough against his own, pulling little mewls out of him.
Even if he wanted to focus on anything else, the insistence of the taloned fingers kneading on his flesh, pulling him impossibly closer, as his sharp teeth scratch against his lips, mandibles tickling the sides of his face, keep pulling him into a thick haze where he can barely hear his own voice, drunk on the taste of the man's breath, the faint scent of an iced kava Lucky calls it his own legal addiction, and the growing need that's about to drown them.
Nishan pulls Lucky's pants and underwear over his ass and up to his thighs; the sudden chill does nothing to ease the fire coiling in his gut, especially when the turian rolls his hips to pull him up, one hand on Lucky's already painfully hard dick while the other snakes in between his legs to find his own zipper.
Lucky moans and it makes Nishan shudder. "Fuck's sake, stop being so hot for two seconds." He complains, struggling until he finally manages to unzip his pants and press the already opening seam of his groin against Lucky's warm, soft backside and bucks desperately against him.
Lucky can feel the turian's cock coming out of his sheath, slick and hot against the back of his thighs; the head pushes in between his legs and he arches his back, letting his hands take the place of Nishan's, making him shiver. His voice becomes an undignified whimper when the rough ridges rub against the side of his dick as he tries to circle them both with his hands, and he rolls his hips, pulling his legs slightly away and back in place holding them as tight as he can. The natural lubrication leaves a glistening trail in between his legs as Nishan thrusts his way into his hand, gasping and making those choked little sounds that make Lucky want to take his time and work him until his voice gives out. It's mesmerizing to watch, to see the bright blue head poking out of in between his legs, to feel his whole body shiver like plucked strings, harmonizing with the vibration that comes out of him.
Talons curls into him, some against thesoft flesh of his ass, some in between his wild curls, and he gasps and whines, following the rhythm. "Don't- don't pull my hair- fuck-" He stutters as he feels his whole body tensing, asking him for a release he's not ready for; he wishes he could stay here all night, back against the unyielding wall, while Nishan fucks his thighs as if his life depended on it, head back and mandibles slack, showing threatenign sharp teeth that only help to make Lucky's throat go dry.
The slapping sound of hard plates against his tender legs cover the swift mechanism on the door, and if it wasn't because NIshan is holding his head back against the wall, Lucky wouldn't have noticed the batarian bartender actioning the door with his eyes on a datapad before he looks up. His eyes go wide as Lucky pulls a hand up and around NIshan's shoulder to focus a small burst of biotic power and force the door shut; theturian is about to turn around when he claws his fingers on the soft skin of his neck, scratching his way back and up his fringe and feeling the subvocals grow against his fingertips.
Nishan pulls his hand out of Lucky's hair to hook it around his knees, keeping his thighs closed as he fucks his way through violently, groaning as if they were alone in the whole city, his forehead falling against Lucky's. The pressure grows, electricity igniting under every inch of his skin, as his toes curls and his hands flex and he comes across his ownlower belly, begging unintelligible words and gasping after every spurt. The sudden clench of Lucky's orgasm brings Nishan over the edge, pale blue cum mixing in with clear white over his too soft, tanned skin, and still he thrusts, slowly, leaving an obscene trail dripping from his thighs to his belly.
They keep their foreheads together, their eyes unfocused, unti they can recover their breaths enough to find their words.
"You're such a mess." Nishan is such a charmer sometimes. It still makes Lucky giggle.
"I could be worse; just let me get on my knees." He shows off a wolfish grin and gets his ass pinched for his efforts. "Ow, dude, come on!"
"Spirits, puppy, stop." Nishan is still laughing, that's always a win. "Later." He adds, before pulling his tongue out to lick Lucky's mouth open, the sight of him almost too much to resist. The hand on his lnees lets go to grab the seam of his crop top and pull it towards his mouth. "Open."
Lucky obeys without a second thought and bites the shirt in place. He watches as Nishan moves some boxes with his only free hand, the other one still holding him, finally finding some napkins in between the bar supplies.
"What a gentleman." Lucky tries to mouth but it comes out too mumbled for his translator by the way Nishan looks at him curiously, before he starts wiping their cum off of him so terribly tender Lucky fears it might kill him; for fuck's sake, his cock is already reacting to it, soft and still twitching.
He tries it again, in palaveni this time, and Nishan seems to get it. He laughs, opening a mandible wide in lieu of a smirk. "There's so much more where that comes from. But for now," He pulls his hand away from Lucky's ass, to pull his clothes back in place carefully, and Lucky pouts. "Later, puppy." He repeats, and Lucky wraps his arms around Nishan's shoulders to pull his legs away from his waist, still trembling from the effort.
"Better not be getting any other company cause I'm coming back for you." He taunts, licking his lips as he circles the turian and walks backwards towards the door. Their eyes never leave each other, studying every curve, eveyr angle, every twist and twitch of each other's bodies.
Nishan turns to lean on the wall he was just fucked against with a satisfied smile. "Couldn't even imagine anyone else I'd want more to spend my time with."
Lucky bites the inside of his cheek, trying to suppress a smile. He hopes the dimlit room does enough to hide the furious blush Nishan can pull out of him. "Later, handsome."
"I'll be waiting." He barely hears behind him as the door closes and the cold night air meets his bare midriff and the sticky memory that just a few tissues cannot erase.
He walks. Anywhere, it doesn't matter. He just needs a bite, a drink, and to pass enough time to get to see him again.
To be able to take his time to make his man howl.