A/N: I had originally written this for the Mass Effect kink meme...but it turned out to be devoid of true smut. ^/^ Oops!
Also, I wrote this in 2nd person for a change of pace in my style.
Disclaimer: I don't pretend to own the Mass Effect games or the characters within. Bully for you if you think I do.
Pairing: Dark Star Bartender/Femshep
Prompt: "I mean really, with all the Turian fics how could we miss this one? There has to be a reason he was so keen to get her drunk off her ass? Am I right?"
Warnings: There is lots and lots of innuendo, but that's about it.
NEWS! THERE IS NOW A SMUT VERSION. SEE IT AT MY LJ (remove the spaces for the link): h t t p : / / vixenofargentum . livejournal . com / 53599 . html
It's a typical night and the club is hopping, pulsating, gyrating out of control. The patrons around you drip off of one another like the ale that sloshes out of the shakily held highball glasses. You shift your weight from one foot to the other, stretching the muscles, your bones aching from the weight of a full shift on your feet. Sweat drips into your eyes, which you wipe off with the back of your hand. Too many bodies, too much noise, not enough space.
The asari swishing her hips as she shakes it on the dance floor catches your attention, eyes drawn toward the flash of the metallic lycra, then later to cutouts of ripe blue flesh. She notices that she has caught your eye and she dips lower in her dancing, her body moving in a more silken rhythm. You can almost picture her taste on your tongue, and the swelling the next day would be totally worth it.
"Hear about anything interesting going on around here?"
You blink your eyes, returning to reality after floating in azure heaven.
"I serve drinks. You wanna hear about what's going on, check the news," you snarl. "I don't know why humans always ask me that."
But the woman in front of you isn't just a human. Not to you, anyway. Her red hair tints purple in the strobe lights; her green eyes glow with the ultraviolet. She's in full armor, her muscular frame beautiful and perfect, unlike the waif-thin human females sipping the watered down synthetic garbage in the far corner of the room. You notice the curves of her body, the strength of her form and that tight, sculptured waist…
You swallow. Hard.
Damn.
"What'll it be?" You ask, your voice deepening itself. The low bass of the music echoes deep in your chest, thumping alongside your heart.
She stares you in the eyes, and you feel the electricity run down your spine when they meet. "I want the strongest thing you have."
"Easy enough."
You reach down and pull out the liquor to the left. Not the "hard stuff" that you pull out for the usual ladies who come in requesting the same. She's in a class above that. You shake the tube, tossing it from your left to your right before pouring it into the glass.
"This is…it's green?" she seems a bit surprised. A flash of heat climbs your chest with the pride that surges through you. You know she's never had this before.
"And guaranteed to knock you on your ass." You press one hip closer to the bar, teasing. "Unless you're dextro DNA like me. If you are, it'll kill you."
Her luminous eyes appraise the drink. She grabs the glass and knocks it down, shaking her head as she finishes it, slamming it back down on the table. She's not dainty with it and it excites you, a barely audible growl catching in your throat. You like to be handled with a firmer hand, and this woman has your favorite combination. A fist of iron in a velvet glove.
"Anything else?" You ask.
She smiles at you, but with only one corner of her lips raised. You wonder what they would look like with their softness pressed up against you.
"Let's have another one."
You shake the liquor again, stirring the air back into it. "There you are."
She grabs it again, throwing her head back as she takes the shot. Her pale throat bobs as she swallows and the desire in you rises to mark that skin, to nip it red. To make it yours.
"Anything else?" You ask again.
"Not done yet," she says, almost growling, but still pleasant to the ear.
You fill the glass one more time, the flask of liquor lightening as the last of the liquor is poured out. "I'm impressed I've never seen anyone drink 3 of these."
She takes this one too. You admire her out-thrust chest and wonder what it's really like behind the armor. You bet that the plating hardly exaggerates it.
"Anything else?" You say the words, almost in disbelief. Almost, because deep down, you know that she can take a lot more than that. Hell, she might even be able to take you.
"Hit me again." She winks. You cock your head to the side—she's onto you and she's not afraid of anything. You could tell that within five seconds of her divine presence. But this is a welcome development.
"How about we mix it up a little?" You're really flirting with her now. "This is genuine batarian ale. Uncut. Don't ask how I got it."
She presses her lips together in anticipation, then licks them. The warmth that was at your chest is now spreading, lower, and lower. You grind yourself against the counter to keep yourself sheathed inside…
"I've been serving here for 8 years. I've never seen anyone have this and stay on their feet," you purr.
This is true, you haven't seen anyone, but this lady isn't someone you want to stay on her feet. You very desperately want her off of them. On her back, in your bed, preferably. You feel strained, the want filling you more and more.
You throw the bottle up in the air, spinning, showing off as you catch it. You don't take your eyes off of her, tracking her gaze to see where on your body it goes. Your hands, your waist, your hips… You flip the bottle in the air, growing bolder with the need to impress, to woo her.
She sucks down the ale with the same gusto as before, in fact even more so, slamming it down on the table even harder, a challenge.
"Anything else?"
You repeat the phrase over again, because you're too stupid over her to think of anything else other than what the insides of her thighs feel like slung over your hips, her ankles crossed behind your waist, as you pound into her again and again as she sits on the bar countertop.
Ungh!
Too hot, too hot! You take a deep breath, trying to cleanse your brain. She's a customer and you provide a service. Provide a service… You must service her. Bend to her every desire.
Damn it. It didn't work. The thoughts are still there and they have grown in intensity.
"Do it!" she yells.
Her voice is starting to sound a bit lilted with the cumulative effects of her drinks, but it only makes her cuter. She's less of a lioness now, more of a kitten. But, either way, she's got claws, just like you, and you can respect that.
You reach back into a dusty corner under the bar. "Okay, for you something special."
You hope to the spirits that she's into turians, and if she is, that she's single. You watched her walk into the bar with one who looked worse for wear and vaguely familiar, but he's not here with her and you are, you lucky bastard. Regardless of whether she drinks this or turns it down, it's the perfect in.
"This is Krogan liquor-ryncol. You'll set off radiological alarms after you drink it. Should I pour you a quad?"
The look of challenge still marks her face, but she's not a little girl anymore, drinking as much as she can, whatever she can, because it's there.
She shakes her head. "I'll come back later," she says. She's unsteady on her feet, but her grace is not lacking.
"Good. Go eat some starches and drink some water, or you'll have a hangover tomorrow."
Eat some starches? Is this all you can say?
You slip her your address and your number on the underside of a napkin as she gets up. You can just see the curves of her hips over the top of the bar, and you want to reach over and grab them and reach behind, to feel the hard and soft contrasts, the differences between this woman and you…
She looks under the paper just a peep and you can see her blush a little overtop the alcohol. It's unexpected, and you like it. The turian and quarian that she came in with come to take her away, and she pushes them to the side, claiming that she can walk just fine, thankyouverymuch. She can, just not very straight.
You watch the sway in her walk as she leaves the club with her counterparts. She undulates like the wisps of a nebula, a sinuous movement, and you suddenly wish that you had done more than just slip her your information. But now you have a chance and you have her word.
Tomorrow, like she said, she comes back…
Later. Much, much later.
You pour her another drink one the house and grin. After all, tonight is your lucky night.