The past few nights have left you sleepless, tossing and turning in your sheets, your carapace an awkward protuberance behind your neck. You can't feel comfortable in your own skin anymore, and you suppose that it's all because you're a terrible turian. After all, good turians are supposed to be happy and content in their own stations, content with their own mediocrity. And you are the opposite of content.
In an attempt to distract yourself, you throw yourself into investigative work. Recently, organs have been popping up all over the black market, though the sheer volume of them doesn't match up with any reports of disappearances on the Citadel. You've found a lead, though, or maybe just a glitch in the system: one of the livers purchased by an undercover agent belongs to someone still living.
You're not sure if the turian's still alive, which has terrifying consequences, or if his death went unreported, but a lead's a lead and you type up a report and shove all your evidence into a manila folder of datapads (all the evidence is backed up into your omni-tool, but it'll be more dramatic to show your evidence to the Executor in person) and leave a message on your boss's answering machine that you'll be up soon.
You walk up what seem to be unending steps and staircases to one of the upper wards and take the elevator up to the surface of the Presidium. The automated doors slide closed and briefly, you think about that girl you saw months—or was it years? Spirits, you've been here so long, you've forgotten what it's like to have your taloned feet on real, solid ground—ago in an elevator like this one, her green eyes flirtatious before she turned away from you and pressed the button to go to some restricted, private, C-Sec only area that in retrospect, you should have taken note of. Who was she? You dream about her each and every night, but you never learned her name; her face is burned onto the insides of the delicate skin of your eyelids, and yet you've only seen her in brief snatches and snapshots, her lips wrapped around the anonymous cocks of barefaced ruffians and her legs wrapped around the thin waists of unfamiliar coworkers.
The embassies are bathed in false sunlight, like always. As you pass the front desk, an asari receptionist whose name, written on a little placard on her desk, you don't care to read pushes her chair in and strides out to her lunch break, breasts swaying in her low-cut dress. You think about saying something to her, Spirits know how long it's been since you've had any companionship other than the company of your own left hand, but she's gone before you can even think of something charming to say.
So you wander aimlessly through a maze of little worker bee interns and keepers that you've memorized until you reach Pallin's door.
You tap the entrance console lightly; you know he knows that you're coming. You know he's working today and he never goes on lunch breaks.
The light stays red.
The door remains locked.
You quietly curse to yourself and turn on the infrared scanner on your visor to check where he is; a cursory scan reveals two lifeforms: a turian reclining in a chair and a kneeling human before hi—Oh Spirits, it's her.
You just know it has to be her. After all, who else could it be? Pallin's got a reputation for hating humans on political principle more than the reflexive xenophobia that other turians tend to possess or the deep-seated resentment veterans and other good turians bury deep within their hearts and choke down every time they see one of those fleshy, pink abominations, as your father used to say before he put you back in your place; after all, you were raised a good turian, you were supposed to be a good turian from a good family.
You're a terrible turian as you set your custom-made visor to the "detect life" setting, and you're a terrible turian as you scan the area for anyone passing through. Your visor tells you that it's just you, your boss, and a human (helpfully labeled as Jane Shepard, an Alliance officer, the information gleaned from extranet databases and criminal records) all alone in this upscale office area.
Navy-blue blood beats against your eardrums in time to Shepard's head bobbing on Pallin's cock. You can't hear anything over the unbearable drum-like sound, and yet you can tell exactly what's being said and not being said. The visuals through your visor are low definition and heat-mapped, but you can see how he throws his head back; you can see how she strokes his plates with one hand while veritably swallowing his cock down. She's growing feverish by human standards, the scanner detecting changes in her physiology by the second. You can bet that beads of sweat are probably dripping down her bare chest, exposed by a happily unbuttoned blouse. You can imagine how there's an asari-like sheen of moisture across her pink body, you can imagine how she blushes and moans.
You're palming yourself frantically through your uniform, not daring to reveal yourself lest a secretary or intern or temp worker passes by and performs a citizen's arrest for indecent exposure. Your erection is a hard lump straining against blue fabric and charcoal-grey armor, and you can't bear it. Spirits, you can't bear it any longer, and you're recklessly unzipping yourself, shoving your cock into your tight dry fist with no sense of decorum or restraint. You know that you're being careless, you know you'll be chafed and raw and sore come tomorrow, but at the same time, you can't stop; you can't move in any direction except that towards your own filthy, reckless release.
Pallin's grabbed her by the hair and he's fucking her throat, her eyes are rolling back in her head and you know she can barely breathe. Does she get off on that? You think about what it'd be like to close your taloned fingers around her neck, claws just sharp enough to leave tiny dents in her skin, her face a flush of brilliant crimson as you slam into her soaking cunt.
Her fingers are roughly jammed into her pussy and she's frantically fingering herself, and oh, you'd never let her do that. If it was you in that room, she'd be on her back on that desk, papers and reports and extranet terminals scattered and shoved aside, her legs hooked over your carapace as you fucked her silly. The image's stuck in your mind as you climax, your cum splattering all over the wall you voyeuristically looked through to indulge your sickening perversion.
Your eyes flit around to see if there's anything that you could use to clean up; your efforts are not rewarded. Shepard's pulling away, her mouth opened in anticipation for your boss's anaphylactic semen, and you can't bear to look. You can't bear to watch her anymore, and yet you do. Your orgasmic rush is gone just as soon as you came, leaving you empty and hollow inside, just as you were before. Your knees are weak, and your cum dries on the wall, leaving a conspicuous stain, and you leave your datapad in an inbox mounted on Pallin's door.
You hate your job so, so fucking much.