The Fan

 

The Fan

 

It's past midnight when they get back to the room.  Her tail hangs slightly askew, dragging on the floor intermittently.  It was fine before dinner, so someone must have stepped on it since then.  He hopes it wasn’t him, or if it was, that she didn't notice.  And she did get smacked in the face with a Hra'tarr'i sword hilt when that guy in the buffet line turned around too fast.  Talk about adding insult to injury, he apologized in English.  But still, she's in good spirits.  She got into the evening panel discussion, which was standing room only.   And that kiss on the cheek from P'tar Mahia-K'rata, ruler of the Northern Oasis: an unexpected delight.  It hadn't even been clear that the actor would make it here, with the blockade still going on.  Overall, it's been a pretty good day.  In fact—



"Melanie...   Are you tired?  I was thinking..."



"Of course, Conrad.  Great idea. "  She reaches out and touches his face.  "I need to take a long, hot shower."



She goes into the bathroom and turns the water on.  There's a rustle of clothing, the soft thump of her costume and its extraneous body parts being divested.  After a few moments he hears the squirt of her almost-empty shampoo bottle, then her voice as she hums her favorite theme song.  The original series, not that new generation crap.  He listens, smiling fondly, as he taps commands into his omni-tool, setting data in motion between here and the servers back home.  And he roots through the suitcases, finding something for her to wear when she gets out, and other, needful things.



When he's done, he unlocks the sliding glass door to the balcony and steps out into the darkness.  They have the top-tier convention package, transportation and all meals included, complimentary champagne, and a suite with a view of the city.  And there it is, laid out before him.   If he ignores the neon signs and billboards, the streetlamps and windows form constellations of light, a very orderly galaxy.  He can almost imagine he's up there somewhere, between interstellar dust clouds, watching the stars wheel around him.  But here, the air is warm, with hints of sagebrush wafting in from the desert, and a strong suggestion of barbecue from the poolside restaurant below.  Not cold and sterile, like the vacuum of space.



Conrad looks down at his chest and traces the N7 with one finger.  The armor isn't perfect, but it's pretty damn close.  It's even got scratches and dings in the right places—he's got pictures of the real thing.  It's a hell of a lot better than some of the other stuff he saw walking around on the convention floor.  But then, that's Mel for you.  She doesn't do things half-assed.  No expense spared, and, well, it's not like she can't afford it.  The company just IPO'ed, and the stock price is stratospheric.  What did they say on the financial news network?  Wildly exceeded expectations.  He's been working for her the past five years—married  for the past three—and it’s still a damn accurate description.



Like the day she got that message.  The one from Commander Shepard, containing vids of all Conrad's conversations with him in the Upper Markets.  Of course Shepard would do a background check on him, find out who he was married to, who his employer was, and contact her.  Standard security procedures, right?  Before you decide to bring someone onto your team, you have to check them out.  That had been around the time they were preparing for Round Two funding, and everyone was working their asses off getting a demo together for the investors.  So he was expecting Mel to be furious that he'd been hanging around the market, instead of writing code.  But... she wasn't.



She'd asked him, gently, why he was so nervousaround Shepard.  Anyone else would have said creepy.  But Mel knows better.  He was the same way around her, at first.  He's always like that, and afterwards he feels stupid for doing it, but he can't help it.  He just... gets anxious, and  caught up in everything and...  it's the way he is.  He's not good with people.  And he can't see himself through their eyes, doesn't know when he's crossing the line.  Mel, she's like, the opposite of him.  Everyone loves her.  She always knows what to do.  She didn't say how she replied to that message, or even if she replied at all.  But he trusts her.  She understands him.  And she understands how much the Commander means to him.



So it's thanks to the Tech Entrepreneur of the Year that he's attending this convention in the closest thing to Shepard's real armor that still exists anywhere in the galaxy, maybe.  They never recovered the armor he'd been wearing.  Never even found a body.  They did find the wreckage of the Normandy, but not the man.  If he's even dead, that is.  No, he can't be dead.  Not Commander Shepard.  He's probably  gone off the grid, undercover, a top-secret mission.  He wouldn't just die,  not when the galaxy needs him.  No.  He's definitely not dead.  Conrad closes his eyes, and says the words out loud:  Tell me you're not dead, Commander.



"Of course I'm not dead."



The contempt in the familiar deep voice lifts his heart.  He spins around.  Shepard's leaning in the doorway.   He looks the same, exactly the same.  A little more unshaven, maybe.  And he still exudes that thoughtless confidence, that calm disdain that could erupt into terrifying carnage at any moment.  Conrad drinks in the sight, his throat dry.



Shepard walks onto the balcony and leans over the railing, next to him.  "Nice night."



"It's always nice in Vegas," Conrad says.



"Thought you were based out of the Citadel."  He's staring out into the darkness.



"Yeah, I am.  Didn't expect to be visiting the old home planet this time of year.  You know how it is. Sometimes the duty takes you to strange places."



"Don't I know it."  A pause.  "How have you been, Conrad?"



"Good, I guess."  He shrugs.  "They haven't killed me yet.  Though not for lack of trying."



"Yeah, I've been hearing things.  That firefight in the wards last week."  An appreciative laugh.  "Damn, Conrad.  You took down fifty-seven mercs by yourself?"



"Had to be done," he says.  "Slavers.  You'd have done the same."



"Yeah, I would.  We think alike.  You and me...  we're the same, deep down.  And I always knew you had it in you.  Knew it from the moment we met."  He turns his head, and the constellations are reflected in his eyes.  "Feels good to know that if something ever happens to me, there'd be someone else to carry on."



"Nothing's going to happen to you, Commander.  You're indestructible.  A force of nature."  He smiles.  "Nothing's ever going to happen to you."



Shepard moves to face him, and by the dim light leaking out from inside the room, Conrad can see a small cut, unhealed, high on Shepard’s cheekbone.   He reaches up, almost touches it, but doesn't.  He doesn't ask how it happened, either.  Bar fight, probably.  They're both men on the edge.  Sometimes people get in the way.  Tempers fray.  It doesn't matter.  The mission is what counts.



"You  done looking, Conrad?"  



Shepard grabs his outstretched hand and pulls him close.  Shepard's other hand catches the back of his head.  Their armor collides, a solid impact.  Their lips collide.  A hard, bruising kiss.  Swift and devastating, a precision strike.  But then Conrad feels a tongue running along his lower lip, unexpected and gentle, tantalizingly slow.  He can't stop himself from opening for it, doesn't even try.  It penetrates deeper, seizing ground, claiming ownership.  The old, aching need rises in him.  He has no defenses against this, never did.  There's nothing he can do but give himself up to it.



Shepard trails his lips down Conrad's face.



"Conrad..."  he murmurs, low and tense.  "Tell me you want this as much as I do."  The sound of his voice travels through skin, down every nerve.  Searing, electric pleasure.



"Yes," Conrad moans.   It's almost a sob.  Yes.  More than anything...  Yes.



It's as if the word has magical power, because in a matter of moments, the almost-real armor is lying on the floor.  Shepard is pulling his own gloves off now.  He meets Conrad's  eyes. Piece by piece,  the real armor comes off, unfastened and dropped with great deliberation.  Conrad watches, frozen.  He knows he should help—it's only fair— but he can't move, can hardly breathe, paralyzed by desire.  He can only watch, as the lines of the man underneath are revealed.  More than a man.



"A god," he whispers.



A half-smile passes over Shepard's face like a shadow of a moving cloud, and he steps closer, over the piles of discarded armor.  His lips on Conrad's neck.  His hands, sliding up bare skin, leaving a trail of fire where they touch.  Pulling the shirt over Conrad's head.  His teeth, grazing –



A sudden shout of laughter from the ground floor.  The sound of something splashing heavily into the pool, the congratulatory clink of glasses, then running footsteps.  



Conrad pulls away.  "Uh.  Commander—"



He's cut off by another kiss, urgent, possessive, overwhelming.  He surrenders to it, letting himself be pushed up against the door.  The scent of Shepard is everywhere—sweat  and gun-oil and a heated promise of sex.  Conrad's eyes close, heart pounding, every part of him wanting, yielding to the body pressed against his.  His hands climb on the broad shoulders, trace the contours of that muscled back through the skin-tight fabric, feeling the coiled strength underneath. Anticipating that strength, driving into him.



When they pull apart, it's only far enough to breathe, and now there's a callused hand cradling his face, a thumb, lightly brushing his jaw.  His eyes open, and he seizes that thumb with his lips, draws it into his mouth.  Runs his tongue over the pad, down the side, and into the crotch where it meets the hand.  He hears the catch in Shepard's breathing.  Sees the flare of hunger in his eyes.  Feels the desire, hard against his own.  And a sudden joy, that he can inspire those feelings in this man.  



Shepard swallows, and gently withdraws his hand.  The words are calm, but his gaze is burning.  "You were saying something, Conrad?"



He can’t remember.  He wants the taste of Shepard in his mouth.  He wants it inside him, filling him —



A door slams, below.  There's a crackle of static on a security radio, an incomprehensible question asked, then answered.  The sound of water sloshing, the beeping of a forklift backing up.



"Commander, maybe we should go inside."



Dark eyes, piercing.  Another half-smile.  "Afraid someone will see us together?"



"No, of course not."  He licks his lips.  "But there's probably people who want to kill you—or me— out there.  And we've been standing here long enough for a sniper to get into position."



Shepard nods.  "Good point."  He unzips his suit meaningfully, steps out of it.   "You'd better keep your head down."      



The logic of this is unassailable.  Conrad falls to his knees.  With one hand, steadying himself on the back of Shepard's left thigh, the other reaching for—oh god—his cock.   It's everything he ever imagined.  Perfectly shaped.  Long.  Thick.  Rampant.  Beautiful.  Irresistible.  He puts his tongue to its tip, tasting it, a shimmering drop of salt and metal.  Then explores this wonder, navigating by feel, tracing every ridge, every fold of skin, and the smooth, warm expanses in between.  He hears a sigh from above, feels fingers running through his hair.  He wets his lips and sucks the length of this glorious cock into him.  The heat of it in his mouth—he's longed for this.  To be able to do this.  For the Commander.  He needs this to be good for the Commander.  Needs him to understand.



"Conrad."  A groan.  Thigh muscles tensing beneath his fingertips.



He moves.  Deep.  Tongue flicking over the head, under it, circling.  With each movement, firm pressure, continuous suction.   Again and again, a slowly increasing rhythm.  Exactly how he would want it.   Conrad's own cock is throbbing from the simple pleasure of giving the Commander nothing less than he deserves.  The knowledge that he's doing this right makes him hungrier, pushes him further.  And when he hears the choked moans from above, the emotion that overcomes him is as intense as the first throes of orgasm.



Fingers tighten in his hair for a brief second, then he's being pulled up by the shoulders, and lips are crushed once more against his.  Hands  are working, unfastening Conrad's pants, stripping away the rest of his clothes.  When Shepard breaks off the kiss, his voice is raw and heavy.



"If you're as good a fuck as you are with your mouth—"



A shiver runs over him at these words, and he reaches desperately, pulling the other man closer to him.  Their bodies hard against each other, Shepard's tongue thrusting into his mouth.  And they're stumbling backwards through the open doorway, into the room, up against the service cabinet.  A sweep of the Commander's arm, a selection of fine teas scattered onto the floor.  Conrad doesn't need to be asked.   Every fiber of his body is screaming for this.  He spreads his legs and pushes back as Shepard pushes in.  



"You alright?" The voice is gentle, his hands light on Conrad's hips, but his breathing is harsh and shallow, barely in control, and Conrad groans at the sound of it.



Alright.  Not the word to describe the aching euphoria of being wanted, of being filled, of being connected, body and soul, to the man he worships.  But he can't explain any of that; he can only whimper, Yes.



Shepard  moves, and his aim is perfect as always.  Conrad groans as the sensation hits him like a bolt of lightning and travels up his spine, setting him on fire, curling his back, making his fingers scrabble blindly at the marble countertop. He can’t even breathe, and all thoughts of the Commander's needs are gone.  There's only space for his own: the pure, dark hunger gnawing at his core.  He meets Shepard's thrusts, the uncontrollable pounding of his heart blending, steadily, with the rhythm of the pleasure.  And he's moaning, pleading, begging for something, for what he doesn't know, because he's getting it, getting exactly what he wants—



Warm breath on his skin.  Teeth digging into his shoulder.  Shepard's arm sliding around him, his fist circling Conrad's straining cock, gripping, pulling, building waves of unbelievable intensity.   Shepard's strength is the arm wrapped around him, the hips hard against his, the cock deep inside him, pushing, stretching, driving him mad, and the sounds coming from his throat are wordless cries of longing and gratitude.  Every part of him is straining, reaching, riding the wave of unbearable pleasure as it crests and breaks— and from over his shoulder, from very far away, he hears someone groan his name.



 

*

When he opens his eyes, she's sitting next to him on the bed, holding her hair back to hook her headset behind her ear.



She asks, "I heard something about snipers?  Is this a new thing?  Getting shot at while fucking?"



"Very funny," he says.  "Environmental responses need some tuning.  There was a...  situation."



"Fine, you don't have to tell me."  She grins.  "Anyway.  How was it?  Was he good?"



"He's always good," he says.  "He's Commander Shepard."



She smiles and leans down to kiss his nose.  "So.  What do you have for me?"



He pulls up the new program.  She reads the summary, laughs and nods.  He looks into her soft, brilliant eyes and speaks the words that will begin it: How was your day, my love?



She slides onto him, straddles his hips, and runs her hands gently down his chest.  Her dusky skin is glistening with scented oils, and the black silk she's wearing ripples over her like water in a moonlit oasis.



"Terrible!" she declares.  "While I was walking in the bazaar, some naja'fia allowed the hilt of his sword to touch me.  A grievous insult."



"Surely, my turtledove," he agrees.  He reaches for the plate of turgid purple grapes, and feeds her one, watching the juice stain her lips.  "But you taught him a lesson, of course?"



"I did indeed.  I brought him to his knees and made him swear to serve me as faithfully as we of the shifting sands serve you, our Thrice-Blessed Ruler.  Shall I show you how?"



He takes her hand and kisses it.  The fragrance of jasmine and incense in a walled garden.    "Nothing would please me more, O flower of the desert."



 

*

It's almost dawn, though in a city that never sleeps, that hardly matters.  Shepard 's putting his armor back on, practiced hands finding the clasps and clicking the seals shut by feel alone.  He checks his weapons and holsters them.



"Where're you headed next, Conrad?"   



"Back to the Citadel.  A source with some intel about a drug ring in the Terminus Systems.  Worth checking out."



Shepard nods.  "You're doing good work.  There aren't many of us who can do it, but this galaxy needs us all, out there, doing what needs to be done.  People like you."



Conrad nods.



"Well, it was a pleasure running into you here."  Shepard smiles.  "Maybe we'll run into each other again sometime.  Wherever the duty takes us."



"I’m sure we will, Commander."

 

— END —

 

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Thanks to smehur for making it better.