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Normally, the Commander isn’t one for simply hating people. Tolerance is key when dealing with Salarian/Krogan/Turian skirmishes and ending centuries-long wars with as little bloodshed as virtually possible. Such situations need a careful touch and gentle nudges now and again, which is something Shepard provides with elegance and poise. Tolerance, patience, and diplomacy go hand in hand, and if Shepard is anything, it is diplomatic. Normally. But, then something happened. And, that something is James fucking Vega.
Shepard wants to strangle the lieutenant sometimes. And by “sometimes,” he means every time he looks at the bastard’s face. He is the rowdiest, mouthiest, insubordinate-iest person he has ever allowed on his ship. Guh, Vega just gets him so riled up, he has to make up words to describe the fuckery that is the lieutenant’s existence. He doesn’t deserve to be on the Normandy; he belongs in a cage or a frat house or the vacuum of space. Shepard’s leaning towards the last one, actually.
There is nothing more irritating than James Vega.
Still, despite the walking mass of arrogance, pig-headedness, and unprofessionalism that Vega is, Shepard has to admit that he packs one hell of punch.
Pain blossoms in his face and the padded floor rushes up at him at a fierce speed. His brain is so rattled that he actually has to think about the fact that he is the one who hit the floor, and not vice versa. A long moment passes, his breath and heartbeat thundering his ears and the taste of blood coating his tongue, before a blurred shadow enters his vision.
It nudges his face; he warbles eloquently.
Laughter thunders above him like a storm and whatever nudged him rolls him onto his back. Shepard blinks up to clear his vision. James fucking Vega grins down at him with his stupid teeth and stupid tattoos and stupid sweat that he wipes off his brow with the back of his stupid hand and . . . Shit, Shepard thinks, holding his throbbing head, How hard did he fucking hit me?
“You alive, loco?” comes Vega’s voice, he shifting his stance as he folds his arms. He laughs when Shepard shakily flips him off. “I thought you said you could handle me going all out?”
Shepard exhales loudly and pushes himself up by his elbows. He takes him a second to find his vocal cords. “I didn’t realize that “all out” meant slamming me with a fuckton of dumbass.” The Commander doesn’t swear often, at least not out loud, and he feels like he’s letting Vega win by doing so.
Vega’s grin twists into something less victorious, but then it returns tenfold. “Didn’t take you for a sore loser, Commander.”
“I don’t believe I lost anything, Lieutenant. We’re just two different fighters: you fight like a wild animal and I fight with restraint.”
A definite frown this time. “Bullshit. You don’t expect me to believe that you wouldn’t kick me in the cojones if I gave you the chance.”
Shepard bites his lip when he realizes that he currently has perfect cojones-kicking access. He restrains himself. “Unlike someone here, I don’t see a point in injuring my comrades. And, I also play fair.”
“Bull. Shit.”
“I’d quit while I was ahead, James,” Cortez announces, walking towards the pair. He’s wiping oil from his hands with a rag. “I heard that you’ve headbutted Krogans, sir. And, lived,” he adds with a smile. “That true?”
Shepard mirrors the smile and gratefully accepts the hand the pilot offers. “I did, yeah.” Vega snorts and turns away, his . Cortez is such a nice guy. Why does he even deal with Vega, Shepard wonders.
The Lieutenant practically peels his shirt off and tosses it at his little station. The muscles of his back bunch as he rolls his shoulders. Shepard’s mouth goes dry.
Oh. Right. That’s why. It’s also why Vega’s not floating in pitch black space right now. Just—Just . . . Damn.
A hand clasps Shepard’s shoulder and he frowns under Cortez’s knowing gaze.
“Hey, jarhead!” Cortez calls, stepping away to grab tools. “Want to help me with the Kodiak?” He’s like a father trying to appease his son with ice cream when he didn’t get the toy he wanted.
And, just like a spoiled child, Vega sulks for a moment, before mumbling, “Yeah, alright, Esteban.”
Shepard watches the pair step into the shuttle, Cortez with a respectful nod in his direction and Vega, still shirtless, with a scowl.
Speaking of shirtless . . . As the doors of the Kodiak shut, Shepard eyes the black shirt left crumpled in Vega’s area. He feels a burn crawling up his cheeks and curling around his ears.
No. No no no. That isn’t . . . This isn’t . . .
Oh, god, but it is, Shepard thinks guiltily, crossing the room and taking the fabric into his hands. It’s cool to the touch, damp with sweat and smelling sweetly of pheromones and cologne and detergent as well. Heat pools in the Commander’s stomach; he bites his lip. This is gold. As much of a pain as Vega is, there is nothing more irritating than just how much Shepard wants him.
With a quick glance at the Kodiak, Shepard quickly leaves the Shuttle Bay, James fucking Vega’s shirt tucked under his arm.
Shepard has always had this weird sort of thing for smells. Certain smells. For all he knows, it could be the only real reason why he’s attracted to men, military men especially. There’s that constant lingering smell of sweat and musk that clings to them, no matter where they go. Especially soldiers. Like Vega. And, it’s just so fucking good. But, the entire thing embarrasses Shepard more than anything; it’s hard to lead men when he wants nothing more than to shove his nose into their pits.
Fuck, that sounds wrong. But, still.
That’s why this whole thing started, really, stealing Vega’s shirts (because he’s done this more than once before, as loathe as he is to admit). His stupid, weird fetish with scents. With James fucking Vega’s scent.
The second the door to his cabin hisses shut, Shepard brings the shirt to his face and just inhales, a moan catching in the back of his throat. That first inhale nearly does him in, makes him so hard so fast it sends him reeling back into his desk, rattling the collectable ships in their case. “Fuck,” he whispers reverently, images of tensing muscles and slick skin and Vega flickering behind his eyelids.
He can’t stand Vega, he really can’t, oh, but god, the things that he would do to that body. It’s the only reason why he still spars with the bastard. Just to be close to him, to press against those unyielding abdominals, just to take in that sharp musk of man. “Fuck,” Shepard reiterates, rocking his crotch into his hand, the corner of the desk digging into his ass. He presses his nose further into the dark fabric, unzips his trousers and slips a hand inside, and wants and wants and—
“Commander.”
Shepard nearly drops the shirt. Oh shit. He braces himself for the attack too late; the display case cracks when he’s slammed against it. Shepard gags at the arm that pushes against his throat, whimpers when his hand was pulled from his underwear.
A moment passes.
God, Vega smells fucking good right now.
“You sick bastard,” the Lieutenant growls, breath heavy with coffee and collar fresh with soap and musk. A harsh grip yanks the shirt from his Commander’s hand. “I knew you were the one stealing my shit.”
Unconsciously, Shepard’s hand gropes fruitlessly for the item; his face burns with shame when it’s jerked away. That doesn’t stop him, though, from trying to save face, trying to take control of the situation.
“D-Do you realize the regulations you are breaking, Vega?”
The Lieutenant gawps at him.
“I’m breaking regulations? You hypocritical sonuva—fuck!”
Vega staggers backward with a howl, clutching at his head with both hands. Shepard pitches forward, but quickly recovers, shaking his head to set it back to rights. Funny, the Lieutenant’s head was almost as hard as a Krogan’s. He would have declared this find if said Lieutenant didn’t launch at him, which he did. They skidded across the floor and down the stairs, landing in a heap at the bottom. After fierce rolls of pulling and biting and elbowing and cursing across the carpet, a knee to the stomach knocks all the breath out of Shepard.
The grin on Vega’s face is nothing less than victorious. Victorious and vengeful. He just wants to wipe that fucking look off of his face. Just wants to hurt him so fucking badly.
“Shepard.”
But, all Shepard can see is the sweat gathered on a dark brow, sweat rolling down cheeks. He actually keens, eyes fluttering shut when a drop hits his face. He inhales deeply.
“Fuck, Shepard.”
He’s hard he’s hard, oh fuck, he’s so hard. Without thinking, he tries to wriggle away, so fucking close to hyperventilating that he—
“Fuck—shit—Shepard, no, don’t—”
The rest of the sentence is swallowed by a throaty groan and a non-English curse and Shepard realizes with equal parts dread and excitement that this has taken a dangerous turn.
The silence is almost painful. Then:
“You’re shitting me.”
“Don’t start, loco.”
“And, you call me the sick bastard.”
“I’m not the one who gets off on stolen boxers!”
“I don’t steal underwear!”
“The fact that you steal anything is fucked up enough.”
“You just—just—fuck you. Fuck you and your stupid fucking . . . hair.”
Vega snorts and Shepard winces under his smirk. “My hair? Is that all you’ve got, loco?”
Shepard scowls. “Like hell it is. You—You are the most ill-tempered, bratty, disobedient, idiotic walking disaster that I have ever met and,” the Commander licks his lips, “You can’t cook for shit.”
Now, it’s Vega’s turn to scowl; he presses mire of his weight down on his Commander. “Oh, fuck you. At least I’m not some tight-ass, dogmatic prick with the stick so far up his ass he can’t sit down. And, at least I can dance.”
The Commander makes a sound that knocks his maturity down a few levels. “That’s fucking low, dickweed.”
Said Lieutenant huffs a laugh, like it pains him to release it. “Oh shit, man. Wait until I tell everyone about polite, sophisticated Shepard’s dirty fucking mouth. That and his underwear fetish.”
Fuck. And, it's not an underwear fetish.
“You wouldn’t dare,” Shepard growls, the threat barreling over him, because, oh fuck, if that got out . . . “I’d throw you off of this ship so fast—”
“Not fast enough, eh, loco? The damage would be done.”
Shepard throws his head back and howls. “Oh fuck off, you oaf! I just want to shoot you in the face sometimes, fuck what your body looks like.”
A beat.
“That reminds me,” Vega says, his voice hitting an unfamiliar note that reminds Shepard of something as well.
They roll their hips at the same time.
“We’re not,” Shepard bemoans, feeling a familiar pounding in his forehead.
Vega grins. “Oh yes we are, you perverted fuck. You want the real fucking deal, don’t you?”
. . . Yes, Shepard thinks, eying that sharp collarbone, Yes, I do. Actually fucking that body is far more appealing than jacking off to the thought it. The real issue is, though—
A slick muscle drags along his jaw, leaving Shepard feeling slimy and gross.
Fuck, can he actually stand Vega in bed?
The pressure of the hips grinding against his says yes. The wet feel of a lick across his cheek says maybe.
His dick says hell fucking yes, let’s do this right here right now, and while it usually doesn’t have the last word, he’s willing to make an exception this time.
Shepard sniffs disdainfully. “Okay, fine. We’re doing this, but first, you need to stop slobbering all over me. Second, we’re not doing this on the floor,” he adds, nodding to the bed not too far off. “Get it?”
Vega shifts to consider said bed, then looks back. He grins. “Yeah, no.”
“What?”
“I said no, fuck you and fuck your bed; we’re doing it here.” He holds down his Commander’s arms. “Right here.”
The pounding in his head has turned lethal, into a beast. He makes to hold his temples, but Vega’s hold is strong. The fucker.
“The bed is right there, Vega.”
“I still say no.”
“And, why the hell no—oh Jesus fuck!”
Vega snickers and nips at the sensitive flesh of his jaw again. “Mm, you probably like it rough, don’t you Shepard? You’re bigger than life being the first human Spectre and all, but you like getting held down like this at the end of the day, right?”
Shepard narrows his eyes; he swallows a lump in his throat. Shit, when did it get hot in here? “I . . . Well, I . . . Okay, yes, maybe I do. A little. Maybe. But, what does that have to do with the bed that’s right the fuck there, may I remind you.”
“Like the feel of thick dick up your ass, yeah?” One of Vega’s hands relinquishes its hold in order to shift Shepard’s body and cop a feel. A breathless laugh. “Fuck, I bet you’re hella tight, man. Going to feel so good around me.”
Oh . . . oh my. Shepard hums at that, rocking his hips up, straining for friction. “Stop changing the subject, dammit! I just want—” He chokes on the last words when his hand is brought against a hardness that is most certainly not his own.
“You ever have a dick like mine, Shepard?”
His first attempt at words fails, no sound leaving his lips at all. The second is a useless mantra of “buh buh buh buh buh.” On the third try, though, he manages, “I’d have to get a good look at it, don’t you think, Lieutenant?” in a voice stronger than he thought possible.
Vega offers a lopsided smirk. “I can arrange that.” He pulls back enough for Shepard to push himself up to his elbows, eyes glued on the show. . . . Which isn’t much of a show, honestly, not with the way Vega quickly undoes his trousers and pushes them and his briefs down his thighs. It improves, though, when the star takes the stage, half-hard and getting harder. And longer. And thicker. And, oh sweet mother of fuck, yes.
The Lieutenant reaches down for himself. “You like what you see.” It’s not a question. It doesn’t need to be. Shepard’s practically drooling over himself.
Shepard’s eyes flick up to Vega’s smug face, then back down to his prize.
Fuck. Fuck, he needs to—Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
“Come here.” Soft. Almost inaudible.
Vega cocks his head. “Hm? What was that—”
“Vega,” Shepard barks. “Your ass. Over here. Now. That’s an order.”
A blink. Two. A conflict.
Then, a grin.
“Oh fuck yes, Commander,” Vega breathes, stumbling over his still trapped knees in his haste to move closer.
“Damn,” Vega laughs when he’s just in Shepard’s reach, when he’s pulled closer by his ass. “I never took to be a size qu—what? What’re you . . . ?”
Shepard ignores him, nose diving into his balls and inhaling deeply. The smell he craves is stronger here, heavy with musk and sweat and precome. Man. Filthy, dirty, sweaty, horny military man. Oh yes. Yes yes yes. His tongue is out before common sense tells him that it might not be a good idea. A moan bursts from his lips, unbidden, because, fuck, this is just too good.
He can die now. Right now, nose squashed in dark pubes and lips around heavy balls. But, he doesn’t really want that, because heaven would have absolutely nothing on this.
He’s hard, so fucking hard, and so, so fucking close to just coming. The smell, the taste, the feel of the body under his lips—
Fuck, is he hyperventilating? He might be hyperventilating. Breathe, breathe.
Just as he sucks at the bristled skin, he’s pushed back. He lurches forward, but the force moving him is firm; he growls in dismay. Fucking Vega. Fucking Vega.
“Vega, I fucking swear—”
“G-G-Goddamn.” There’s something tight in that one word, something terribly unhinged. Alarmed, Shepard meets Vega’s wide eyes, his drawn eyebrows. His slack mouth. “I just—shit—fuck—I—“ He gives a shaky laugh, a blush blooming in his cheeks. “I nearly fucking came, loco. I mean, shit.”
Shepard’s taken aback at first, but then allows himself to laugh. “You’re kidding me. I barely even touched you!” His gaze hardens. “Unless you’re—”
Vega’s ears darken, but his grin remains constant. “You wish,” he says. “Just never had someone worship my nuts quite like you, Commander.”
“I take it that’s a good thing.”
“Oh, shit yeah. Just . . .” Vega shuffles back and settles against the bed they were not on for some fucking reason. “Just give me a moment.”
Shepard snorts, crawls after him. There’s a curse.
“Dammit, Shepard, I said—”
“Simmer down, numbnuts. I’m giving you your moment.” The Commander settles in the Lieutenant’s lap, his hands sliding under that tight shirt to the steel-hard muscles beneath. He leans close when he whispers, low and rough, “So, let me get mine.”
Vega hums appreciatively when nails pass over his nipples . . . then, freezes at the sudden chill.
“Are you shitting me?” he hisses when his shirt is pulled behind his neck, his chest exposed but arms still in sleeves. He glares at the head pressed insistently into his pits. “I mean, seriously?”
Shepard moans helplessly into the damp fabric, inhaling with deep gulps. His fingers continue to map every ridge, every dip of those pectorals.
A huff. “You’re one weird son of a bitch, Shepard.”
Shepard pulls back, a strangled denial leaving his lips, but a big hand halts the movement and pushes him back into place. Vega rumbles when lines are scratched down his chest.
“And, I think I’m starting to like it."
Shepard pulls back with a gasp; smirking is hard with his harsh pants, but he manages. “Well, about time.”
“I’d like it better, I think,” Vega continues, his fingers carding through his Commander’s hair, “if you gave something else a bit of attention, too.” He rolls his hips lewdly, his prick bobbing against his stomach, precome glistening on his skin. Goddamn, that’s a sight.
. . . Best not to let him know that.
Shepard scoffs, hoping the expression is powerful enough to convey distaste, false though it is. “Why should I? If anything, I’ve been giving you enough attention. Too much, even.”
Vega’s eyes flick down then up again. “Damn. Yeah. Okay.” He starts tugging at Shepard’s shirt, then stops. “Just don’t expect me to, uh, sniff you, all right?”
A snort. Shepard pulls off his shirt and tosses it away; he settles more firmly in Vega’s lap, the Lieutenant’s erection settling on the curve of his still-covered ass. They are close, so close, with Vega’s breath painting his face with warmth. Shepard locks his hands behind Vega’s neck; Vega’s hands slide up Shepard’s back.
A long moment passes.
Shepard raises an eyebrow. “So, you just going to stare at me all night, Lieutenant? Thought I gave you an order.”
Vega laughs and shifts, the weight of his erection heavy on his Commander’s ass. “That was more of a suggestion, if you ask me, but . . .” There’s a pause here. Shepard suddenly feels very small under Vega’s stare. “I’m actually thinking about whether or not to kiss you, Commander.”
“ . . . Really?”
“Yeah. Can I?”
Shepard rolls his eyes. “You’re getting gooey on me, kid.”
“Gooey? I’m not getting gooey! And, I’m not a kid,” Vega adds indignantly.
“You’re wrong. On both accounts,” Shepard says with a grin. “Look, you’re even pouting.”
Vega turns his head and lets his pout deepen like the manchild he is. His cheeks are bright. He mumbles sullenly, “I almost don’t want to kiss you anymore.”
Shepard snorts. Almost? “You’ll get it over it. Now, if we could kindly turn our attention back to my pants and the fact that they’re still on?”
A puff of breath. “You’re gonna have to get off me first, pendejo.”
“Can do.” Shepard nips at Vega’s lips before standing, turning, and falling back on the bed which they are going to use whether the bastard likes it or not. His back arches in a stretch, sinking somewhat into the too-soft mattress. “Well, come on, then. Before I change my mind.”
Vega huffs again and his head pops up from the side of the bed. He begins unlacing his Commander’s boots. “Yeah, yeah, I’m on it.” His hands are warm, big as he pulls the footwear off with sharp tugs and follows them with dark socks. Once his left foot is free, a hand wraps around it firmly, a thumb digging into the arch. When it’s clear that the hand won’t be moving to the other foot any time soon, Shepard wriggles his toes. That earns him a damp, shaky sigh.
“That’s nowhere near my pants, Lieutena—” Shepard pushes up to elbows and is met with Vega eying his foot. Shit. That stare, that hapless, wanting stare, has Shepard sliding a hand into his trousers to the insistent lump beneath. “Vega? James, what are you—hey, shit, stop!” He tries to shrink away from the tickling fingers, but Vega is relentless, laughing loudly. The urge to kick him is strong, so Shepard gives in.
The Lieutenant catches the boot with a strong hand. It stops the tickling, but doesn’t stop Vega’s smug smirk.
“What the fuck?” Shepard grinds out for lack of anything better to say; his toes curl defensively. “You just don’t go tickling people like that! You just don’t—oh.” He twitches at the slick slide of tongue up the sole of his foot. That’s actually not too bad. Weird, but kind of good. Especially when Vega wraps his lips, his tongue, his teeth around his toes and there’s a moan that is not his and— “What . . . the hell.”
Vega pulls off with a wet sound, tongue giving a toe final flick. “So . . . yeah. You know your weird thing with underwear—”
“Not underwear—”
“—Yeah, whatever. Anyway, I like feet.”
“ . . . Feet?”
“Yeah, feet. Especially your feet.”
Shepard stares. “When have you ever even seen my feet before today?”
Vega hums, as though he’s reliving the memory. “Remember when I caught you sneaking—”
“I don’t sneak—”
“—in the kitchen after Tuchanka?
Shepard deflates slightly, remembering missing dinner that night, remembering Mordin. “Yeah. What about it?”
“You were in pajamas. And, you were barefoot,” Vega adds, a little breathless. “And, then you kicked up your feet on the table and . . . just fuck.” He climbs onto the bed, kicking his trousers off, his hands going to Shepard’s boot. Shepard’s mouth dries at the sight of Vega’s cock, dark with blood and the slit oozing precome.
He licks his lips, his own trousers painfully tight now. “That when you decided you wanted me?”
Vega brings the newly-naked foot to his mouth and kisses it. “Who said I wanted you before this?” he scoffs, massaging the foot with a thumb. “But, if you must know, that isn’t when, but it sealed the deal. Not that it matters.”
Shepard bites his lip and hooks his thumb into his trousers. He shimmies them down his hips. “Right. Okay. We seriously need to do this. Right now.” A hiss leaves his teeth when his erection bobs free. “Right now.”
A horribly needy sound tears through the air and frantic hands pull down his trousers the rest of the way. Vega towers over his Commander, two wriggling feet in hand and cock enticingly close. He grins.
“About fucking time.”
Shepard yips at teeth on the ball of his foot; his toes splay, then curl. “Goddammit, Vega,” he barks, his legs drawing back involuntarily. He sucks in a sharp breath when warmth sucks in his big toe. “I said, let’s fuck already!”
Vega hums appreciatively, his tongue laving and curling around the digit. There’s a pop when he slips off, kisses the arch. “Yeah, I know. Just tell me how you want it.” He drops Shepard’s feet and pounces, pinning his Commander’s body under his weight; Shepard’s legs wrap around that trim waist. Vega’s voice is breathless, when he murmurs, “’Cause, this is how I want it, babe.”
Shepard can’t stop the guffaws that last word draw out of him. His ankles on Vega’s back. “Pfft, what? First off, I’m no one’s ‘babe,’ you get me?” He flicks at his nose. “Second, what if I wanted to top, huh?” Unbidden, a grin spreads across his face.
“You can’t even say that with a straight face, Shep,” Vega says with a laugh of his own, shifting their position closer so that their cocks rub against each other. They both groan at the contact. There’s a long moment, with their hips grinding, their hands clutching, their mouths on each other’s necks. Precome and sweat eases their movements as they thrust.
“Shit, James—”
“Yeah, I know, it’s—”
“Shit, yeah—”
“Mm, loco—”
“Dammit, dammit—” Shepard digs his nails into Vega’s shoulder blades.
Vega growls at the pinpricks of pain and pulls back, but his hips continue their movements, just high enough to keep his heart rate up. He grins at his Commander’s curse when he reaches down, takes the both of them in his hand. “Fuck yeah, Shepard. Tell me what you want, tell me.”
Shepard huffs and flicks at Vega again. “Who said you get to call the shots, Lieu—mm,yes—” The pleasure curling in his groin only adds to the heat burning in him, making his thighs spasm and twitch. With a tight twist of that hand, Shepard throws his head back and gasps. When he’s finished arching into that amazing fucking touch and—oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck, that’s good— “Okay, yeah, shit, keep going, don’t stop—That’s a command, by the way. Totally a command. Just fucking—yeah, oh yeah—”
Somehow, command or not, it all stops.
“Ow! What the fuck, Shepard?!”
The man in question pulls Vega’s head down by his ears, sincerely hoping he’s drawing blood.
“Who said you could fucking stop?” he snarls, his lips drawing back and exposing gum. His teeth graze Vega’s lips as he rages. “Get that hand back on my cock, soldier, or I’ll kill you.”
Vega’s eyebrows are practically off his face, his face reading nothing less than ‘dumbfounded.’ His stare holds for a moment, before settling on something sinister. “You horny little bastard,” he coos affectionately. He winces at the lines being scratched down his back. “Sure, that’s what you want? Are you sure,” his voice lowers pitch here, “Are you sure you don’t want my dick, loco? Don’t you want to come offa it?”
That last bit brings Shepard to his senses and his grip eases, even running back up the welts he made with his fingertips. He offers a glare, but the throbbing between his shaking legs softens it around the edges.
It dies, though, his glare, when Vega’s lips find his.
Vega’s tongue waits for no invitation, slipping in and sliding with his Commander’s like he owns the damn place. And, fuck, Shepard is this fucking close to shoving the deed and keys his way, because Vega can kiss. He dominates him, tongue running over gums and teeth and the ridged roof of his mouth, and it leaves Shepard breathless and needy and wanting.
But. But, still.
Shepard turns his head away. There’s a moment as they catch their breaths, Vega’s head against his shoulder, his breath warm and wet.
“What did I say about getting gooey?”
Vega pulls back, face red. “I’m not getting—I just—I—” He pauses, blinks, then sinks his head back into his Commander’s clavicle. His arms curl under him; his hips jerk, rubbing them together. “What’s wrong with getting a little attached, huh?” It sounds dangerously close to a confession, and the world hiccups.
“Plenty,” Shepard says, shortly.
Another thrust, a groan. “Shepard, no, just—Can we not talk about this?” Shepard opens his mouth to speak. “Please.”
The silence that follows is tense, then:
“Lube’s in the drawer. Over there.”
There’s a rush of warmth, a relieved sigh. As Vega rolls off and begins rummaging through his dresser, Shepard watches him, watches every (delicious) stretch of muscles, watches the (cute?) (confused?) (. . . hurt?) bunching of his eyebrows. And, he thinks. And, wonders. And, stops his line of thought so quick, he nearly gets whiplash. Luckily, the mattress shifts and James—Vega, dammit, Vega—returns, settles between his legs.
Shepard allows himself to moan, low in his throat, when Vega reaches for his cock, strokes it firmly.
“You’re uncut.”
“No shit.”
“Do you always curse this much?”
“What can I say; you bring out the worst in me.”
An alarmingly affectionate grin pulls that (adorably doofy) face of his; Shepard realizes that he’s far more scared than irritated. Scared of what, he isn’t sure yet. He almost doesn’t want to know.
Almost?
Almost.
. . . Fuck, what does that mean—oh. Oh.
Shepard hums against the back of his hand as a thick, slick finger runs up and down, circles around his entrance.
Vega asks, “You ready, loco?”
And, nodding too eagerly, reaching down for his abandoned cock too eagerly, Shepard hisses, “Yesss.” He closes his eyes when the digit pushes pass that ring of muscle, taking it in to the knuckle.
Vega whistles wistfully as Shepard strokes himself at an easy pace. “Damn,” he breathes hotly, head brushing against his Commander’s knee. “Just as tight as I thought. Tighter even. Shit, when was the last you got any—stop hitting me!”
Shepard swats him a little more kindly. “Then, stop making me want to. It’s as simple as that. Another finger,” he adds offhandedly.
The other man stares with that pathetic (adorable) pout of his. “Is that your kind of diplomacy?” he huffs, then there’s another finger, a stretching as they scissor. The slight burn spurs Shepard’s fingers to work along his foreskin, his hips rocking forward into his fist and backward onto the two, and soon three, fingers that corkscrew haphazardly. Seriously, Vega has the finesse of a drunken bull and does he really think—shit—fuck—balls—yes, right there.
Shepard swallows his whine when those fingers graze that bundle of nerves, relishing how the sharp spark of pleasure makes his toes curl, his legs shake, and his cock to deliver another burst of precome, it coating his hand as he strokes and twists and flicks. Then he’s bumping into something and, oh fuck, he’s jacking off against Vega’s cheek, leaving a slimy trail there as the Lieutenant leans do to press kisses, oh fuck, along the inside of his thigh.
When that mouth reaches pubic hair, when that tongue pokes out, it’s all Shepard can do to not shriek when he declares, “I’m ready, I’m ready, oh fuck, I’m ready! Fuck me.”
“Damn.” The one-syllable word is drawn out to two in his awe, Vega staring wide eyes. Then, he snaps back to reality. “I mean, shit, yeah, you don’t need to tell me twice, loco. Or,” he grins that insufferable grin. “I could just leave you like this and—ow, ow!—Joking, joking!”
Shepard retracts his teeth, relishing the red marks on Vega’s collarbone. “When have your jokes ever worked with me, you idiot? Now shut the fuck up and fucking put it in, put it in, put it in—”
Vega makes a strangled noise in his throat, pressing closer and clutching those knees and setting them on his shoulders. “Fuck, you’re feisty, loco! I think I could get used to this.”
Shepard rocks his hips, whines. He just wants to relieve the pressure in his sac, the tightness that keeps his dick straining and desperate. Fuck, he can’t—he can’t even words right now. “Your dick. Inside me. Right now, soldier. Make me come,” he finishes with a moan.
A choked sound, then: “Oh babe, yeah,” Vega croons, slicking himself with quick, lubed strokes and lining himself with his Commander’s entrance. One of Shepard’s legs drops from his shoulder and curls around his torso; he holds the other in tight grasp, grip sure to leave bruises. “I’m gonna—yeah—now,” he warns.
Shepard nods, humming when the swell of a cock head presses, enters. “Fuck me, Lieutenant.”
Vega . . . hesitates. “Commander, you, uh, think you can handle my, uh—”
What.
Shepard laughs, loud. “You—You’re joking right?” That blush says that he’s completely serious. “Oh god, get over yourself, kid!”
The Lieutenant growls and pushes forward, deeper. “Shut up, loco.”
“I mean, I’ve—ah—fucked Krogan—”
“Seriously, Shepard, shut the hell—Krogan?”
Shepard throws his head back, wriggles his hips. Goddammit, Vega! Just shut up and move. “That’s a conversation for another time. So, I’ll ask again, fuck me? Now? Please? Please?” That last bit dissolves into something filthy. Degrading. But, filthy. And, oddly enough, good. That’s enough for Shepard’s hands to stroke faster, too eager and too close to wait for the Lieutenant’s answer.
Vega pulls out . . . then, promptly dives back in with vigor. His pace is rough, every thrust shoving Shepard further and further up the bed. He braces his hands on the bed for leverage to move deeper. “This good?” he huffs into Shepard’s forehead. And, mother of fuck, Shepard can’t find the words to answer, because this is—oh god—this has just blown past ‘good,’ has absolutely blasted it to itty bitty pieces. So, he hopes his garbled moan is enough to say, “Yes, you are doing quite well, sir . . . for once.”
A groan echoes his moan. Vega’s eyes run over him appreciatively. “Goddamn, loco, you’re perfect like this.”
Shepard manages a laugh, eyes cracking open. “Aren’t I perfect normally?”
“Of course, you are. Always.” The sarcasm is there, but not as thick as Shepard expects. Then, suddenly, Vega is so much closer, having dropped to his forearms so that they are chest to chest, Shepard’s ass raised into the air. “So, fucking perfect, Commander. That’s why—” Vega grunts. “It’s why I—”
Shepard sobs. “Fuck, I’m—I’m coming—”
“What?” Vega stops.
“No! Don’t—” Shepard shouts as that line of pleasure behind his balls snaps and he comes in a haphazard spurting of white over his fist, across his chest. Even as he curls into himself from the pleasure, he repeats, “Don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop.”
Vega hesitates, but relents, cradling his Commander and his contracting muscles and thrusts with renewed fury. He pants hotly in the crook of Shepard’s neck. “Shit—fuck—Shepard, how long do you want me to—”
“Don’t come.”
“What?” Vega halts and it’s all he can do to ignore the other man’s whine and rolling hips. “How the fuck is that fair? I mean, you already . . .” The sentence fades off into nothing; Shepard suspects that he’s only just noticed that he’s still stroking himself between their bodies.
He turns his head, breathes in the sweat in Vega’s stupid hair. “Just give me a minute. I can—just give me—Don’t stop, all right? Just don’t fucking stop. And, don’t come,” he reiterates with a nip to the Lieutenant’s face. He would do more, would reach out to touch him, but he can’t bear to tear his hands from his dick which has crossed and passed that threshold of oversensitivity into renewed interest.
Vega must notice that, because he groans helplessly and delves back into fucking without a word.
Vega’s hold is crushing as he thrusts and fucks and wrings feral sounds from the both of them. His breaths are loud and wet against Shepard’s face, but he’s too far gone, too caught up in cock—the one in him, the one in his hands—to really care.
“God, Shepard,” Vega whines, licking a line up his neck. “Are you hard again? Seriously? Really? God, that’s fucking—fucking—god, this is too fucking good. I can’t—I mean, fuck—”
Shepard rolls his eyes at the babbling, but that familiar irritation is quelled at an abnormally fast pace. “I liked you better when you were grunting. And, slobbering, remember when you didn’t do that? In fact, can you go back to that?”
Vega chuckles and hoists himself up. Sweat runs down from his brow and down his face. “You want it hard, right?”
“Of course.”
“Doggy-style?”
A beat.
Shepard laughs into the crook of his arm. “I always took you for a mutt.”
Vega actually grins at that. He pulls out and falls back on his haunches.
“All right, okay.” Shepard rolls onto his stomach, brings himself up to hands and knees. He glances at Vega over his shoulder. “Well, come on. Not patient.” He hums when a comforting weight settles on his back, when Vega enters him. He moans as he lets himself be pressed down into the pillows.
Vega thrusts. Shepard chokes.
He breathes, “Goddamn, that’s deep,” curls his fingers in the sheets. He feels a smile spread across the back of his neck.
“Told you. Now let me . . .” Shepard moans when Vega reaches down for him, strokes roughly as he begins a fierce, brutal pace.
“Yes,” Shepard growls, curling his arms around his pillow. “Yes. I mean, fuck.” More, he doesn’t say, more, harder, fuck me fuck me, yes—
Vega huffs into his neck. There’s a soft pounding as the bed shifts and connects with the wall with every thrust. “So fucking tight, Shepard. So fucking good.” He gropes for the headboard with his free hand; once he gains more control, his movements are smoother, more balanced. Shepard’s legs, arms get wobbly in response, but the large hand still wrapped around his erection keeps him upright.
And, it’s so. Fucking. Good.
“Vega . . .”
The man in question pulls away from the wicked hickey he’s been working on.
“Yeah, loco?”
Shepard sighs deeply, inhaling the musky smell of sex now ingrained in his pillow. A familiar pressure, ache, builds in his groin, and he must be soaking Vega’s hand in precome right now.
“Shepard?”
“ . . . Close,” he manages. His voice breaks when he adds, “Make me come.”
Vega moans, the heat of the sound bathing Shepard’s shoulder blades, neck, and it’s so fucking intimate, he doesn’t know what to do with himself. “Don’t worry, Shep.” Thick fingers jerk him at a firm pace. “I got this.”
And, he most certainly does, Shepard realizes, as Vega practically wrings the orgasm out of him. His grip is hot, adds to the heat growing in him, and Shepard rocks and grunts and twitches and moans and comes at an alarming rate, a howl rushing out of him along with the white striping his sheets. Vega holds him through the post-orgasm muscle spasms and shakes, and he’s silently grateful for it.
He’s more grateful, though, for the cock still inside him, still moving.
“Good?” Vega whispers, voice husky.
Shepard’s affirmation is muffled by the pillow. When he turns his head, though, dazed from his orgasm, he asks, “You going to come?”
Vega huffs, his movements firmer, bolder. “Yeah,” he says tightly, arms tensing as they pull Shepard closer.
“Shoot it,” Shepard mewls, like the porn star Vega’s sure he was in some past life.
Vega grins and kisses behind an ear. “Don’t need to tell me twice.” He goes on with his thrusts, his movements jerky and harsh and so close to the end. Shepard should probably be irritated by the way his pliant body is being taken advantage of, the over-stimulation too much for even him to take, but he’s enraptured by the huffs and grunts that Vega gives in his pleasure. He moans when he’s held tighter.
“Almost—” Vega warbles. He sounds so close to breaking. “Almost—”
You’re well past ‘almost,’ Shepard thinks when he feels the first spurt inside of him. Vega keens as he pulls out too quickly, finishing his orgasm down his Commander’s back in bursts of hot come.
Shepard rolls his eyes, but settles comfortably under the weight that’s draped over him. Vega wastes long moments making pathetic whimpering noises in his ear.
“Goddamn soldier, breathe!” Shepard says with a laugh.
Vega gives a tired chuckle, pulls Shepard into his arms as he rolls off onto the bed. He nuzzles his neck, snuffles into his hairline. “I’m trying, loco. I mean, damn, you blew my fucking mind.” Sloppy kisses are pressed to his jaw, chin, and Shepard’s caught between wanting to cringe and wanting to smile.
Shit. Shit, he doesn’t need this right now. This is when he should put his Commander pants on and direct Vega to the closest exit.
But.
But, fuck, Vega feels so good around him, his arms sheltering . . . safe.
Oh, and that smell. Dear god, to have this at his disposal every day—
Fuck. Fuck no. Nope. Nope nope nope. Nuh-uh.
“Shepard? What the hell—John, are you—”
“Shepard is fine,” he says too quickly. He stops trying to push himself away. “Or loco. Actually, I think I like loco more. I just—”
Vega shifts so that they’re eye to eye, still so close, so close. “Just . . . ?”
The words don’t come. Shepard just stares at him helplessly, his jaw lowered. Vega, for once in his damned life, waits patiently . . . or not. Shepard frowns as he’s released, the other man pulling away.
“Sorry. Too ‘gooey,’ right?” He smiles half-heartedly as he inches off the bed. He must be hurt.
All Shepard feels is cold.
He shrugs, holds himself. “Yeah. I guess.”
There’s a long, heart-wrenching pause as Vega sits on the edge of the bed and Shepard tries his damnedest not to crawl towards his warmth. When did it get so fucking cold in here?
“Vega, I—”
Vega clears his throat. “I should probably head out now. You know, clean up. Take a shower and shit.” He extends a hesitant hand, but then thinks better of it, and rubs his neck instead. “You probably, uh, should take one, too.” He grins as Shepard frowns at the crusty mess on his stomach, his back.
Shepard rolls his eyes, but manages a smile. “Shocking. A good idea? From you?”
A barked laugh. “A compliment from you? Hell must’ve frozen over.”
Just as the laughter begins to settle out of him, Shepard reaches out for him, takes his arm. Vega raises an eyebrow.
“Shep—”
“Stay here tonight,” Shepard rushes, scared that if he doesn’t now, he never will. “Just tonight,” he adds firmly. His scowl softens, though, when Vega lights up like Christmas has come early.
He practically pounces back into bed, grinning like a loon. “I’m not going to say no.” He envelopes Shepard in his arms, and the other man can’t find it in himself to complain . . . much. “What happened to getting ‘gooey,’ huh?”
Shepard growls. “I’m not getting ‘gooey’ at all! I’m just—” He panics for a second, then, “The last thing I need is for the crew to see you leave my room late at night. I don’t care for rumors. Now, if you don’t get off of me, I’m sending you to the couch, get it?”
Silence.
“Vega, I’m going to kick you off this bed—”
A snore tears through the air.
Oh hell no.
“You’ve got to be shitting me! You fucking—fucking—You—you—Get up and get off, or I’ll—I swear I’ll—”
Vega shifts with barely a flutter of his eyes, drawing Shepard into a tighter embrace. He mumbles nonsensically into the side of his Commander’s face. Which is . . . is . . .
Okay, he needs to stop being adorable. Right now.
Shepard can’t bring himself to hold Vega back, but he does run his fingers along that collarbone.
“Dipshit,” he mutters with only a trace of malice. He falls into an easy sleep, a little worn, a little gross, and aching to bash James fucking Vega’s face in when he wakes up.