Chapter Text
Commander Shepard, the very model of an indomitable alpha, was more than just a legend in the Alliance fleet—she was living proof that reputation could be earned down to the last syllable. Her presence on the Normandy didn't just command respect; it infused every deck with an almost tangible sense of purpose. From the sterile efficiency of the med bay to the thrumming heart of the drive core, her authority and unwavering commitment to her crew shaped the very soul of the cutting-edge warship.
But today, the burden of command seemed to press upon her with a weight that threatened to bow even her proud shoulders.
Confined to the sanctuary of her private quarters, Shepard paced with a caged ferocity, her restless strides eating up the limited space with a predatory grace. The dull thud of her boots against the unyielding metal deck formed a syncopated counterpoint to the constant, subliminal hum of the ship's advanced systems, the discordant rhythm a manifestation of her inner turmoil. The air hung thick with her scent, the potent musk of an alpha in the throes of rut permeating every surface, saturating the recycled atmosphere with pheromones that could not be filtered out.
Each movement, each whisper of contact of her uniform against her skin, sent sparks of sensation cascading through her nerves, stoking the flames of her already smoldering need. The cutting-edge suppressants that coursed through her veins, a necessity for any alpha in her position, had long since mitigated her ruts to a mere biannual occurrence—a welcome respite from the debilitating monthly cycle that had once held sway over her body and mind. Yet even that hard-won chemical reprieve was a small comfort in the face of her current predicament.
As the familiar, primal heat of her rut pulsed through her veins with renewed ferocity, Shepard was forced to confront the undeniable truth: even the dampened intensity of her twice-yearly mating imperative was a force to be reckoned with, an all-consuming fire that threatened to reduce her formidable self-control to ashes.
Shepard paused in her relentless pacing, a low growl of frustration rumbling up from her chest as she raked a hand through her hair. Her skin felt too tight, stretched taut over a frame that vibrated with barely leashed energy, every muscle and sinew primed and ready to claim a mate. Past experience had taught her the futility of attempting to sate her rut with her own hand; with each release, the urge for another increased a thousandfold, leaving her more frustrated and agitated than before. For her, only an omega could suffice.
But the unforgiving demands of her mission parameters left no room for the indulgence of sequestering herself away with a willing omega for days on end, even if such a partner could be found aboard the Normandy. The stark reality of her command, the unyielding demands of her position, precluded the possibility of seeking relief with any member of her crew, leaving her with precisely zero options and an aching, throbbing cock that pulsed in cruel synchronicity with each hammering beat of her heart.
The sudden crackle of the intercom shattered her frustrated ruminations. Joker's voice, tinged with its usual hint of mischief, filled the room. "Uh, Commander? Got a minute? Or are you preoccupied?"
Shepard couldn't entirely suppress the wry quirk of her lips despite her irritation at the jarring interruption. Leaning forward, she jabbed at the flashing indicator on her terminal, perhaps a touch more forcefully than was strictly warranted. The chill bite of the interface offered little respite from the inferno raging in her blood. "Joker, I swear if this is another one of your 'urgent' calls about EDI's search history..."
"Okay, first of all? That was one time," Joker shot back, the affronted tenor of his voice not quite masking the mischievous undertone. Static crackled across the channel as he paused, considering. "Alright, maybe twice. But I promise, this is the real deal, grade-A, classified-out-the-ass intel. We've managed to track down the elusive offspring of one Matriarch Benezia."
The words had scarcely registered before Shepard felt the shift, the subtle reorientation of her focus as the razor-edged clarity of purpose cut through the fog of her rut-addled mind. Instinct and training took over, her posture straightening, her fingers flying over the closures of her uniform as she reassembled the mantle of command around herself. The abrasive rasp of the high-tech weave against her hypersensitive flesh was a distant annoyance, ruthlessly suppressed. "Location?”
"Therum," Joker supplied readily, the name conjuring images of scorched earth and roiling magma floes. "Seems the good doctor has a penchant for poking around Prothean ruins in the most charming of vacation hotspots. Gotta hand it to these academic types, they sure know how to pick 'em."
A scoff of amusement, rusty and fleeting, escaped Shepard's throat. "Set a course, best possible speed. ETA?"
"Already plotted and locked in, Commander," Joker confirmed. “We should be hitting dirt in just under two standard hours. What can I say, I'm a regular prodigy of preparedness."
Shepard lifted a brow, smile curling at her mouth. "Careful, Joker. You keep this up, people might start to think you're angling for a promotion."
"And risk exposure to the kind of crazy that constitutes your average day? Hard pass," Joker snorted, the eyeroll practically audible in his voice. "I'm more than happy right where I am, thank you very much. Even if your current situation is making things a bit ripe up here. So, you know, if you find yourself in need of a little personal attention, I might know a guy. Who knows a guy. Or in your case, a very lucky lady..."
"Joker," Shepard warned, her voice packed with enough authority to make even the most insubordinate of soldiers snap to attention.
"Aaaaand that's my cue. Joker out."
As the comm went dead, Shepard drew in a steadying breath, squaring her shoulders beneath the weight of her responsibilities. This was familiar, this honing of mind and body before a mission. The thrill of impending action, the razor-edged anticipation of confronting the unknown—these were the currents upon which she had long charted her course, the fuel that propelled her ever forward. And now, with the promise of long-awaited answers finally within reach, the hunter within her stirred to newfound wakefulness, eager and hungry.
Slipping from her quarters, Shepard strode from her quarters and into the corridor beyond, her bootsteps ringing against the deckplates with the crisp, measured cadence of authority. Her presence rippled outward like a shockwave, electrifying the very air as she made her way towards the armory, pheromones and purpose wafting from her like a banner.
Crewmen scattered before her, clearing a path with an alacrity borne of equal parts respect and self-preservation. Some averted their eyes in deference, while others followed her passage with gazes that mingled awe and apprehension. But Shepard paid them little heed, her focus already light-years ahead, fixed upon the arid hellscape of Therum and the secrets that awaited her there.
Ashley materialized at her side, the younger woman's stride matching her own with the easy synchronicity of long practice. The gunnery chief's scent preceded her, an aggressive melange of gun oil, ozone-laced exertion, and the unmistakable musk of an alpha squaring up to a potential rival. It set Shepard's nerves to jangling, the primal thing caged behind her ribs throwing itself against its bonds, howling its challenge to the upstart encroaching upon its territory. With an effort that sent a fresh sheen of sweat stippling her brow, Shepard wrestled her inner beast back under control, meeting Ashley's searching gaze with a hard, unwavering stare of her own.
Ashley's brows pinched, concern warring with the challenge sparking in dark eyes. "Permission to speak freely, ma'am?" At Shepard's brusque nod, Ashley forged ahead. "Are you sure you're in fighting form for this op?" She sketched a vague gesture in the air between them, indicating Shepard's clearly agitated state. "If your head's not on straight down there, it could land us all in a world of hurt."
Shepard rounded on her subordinate, drawing herself up to her full, imposing height. Power crackled in the space between them, a near-visible arc of clashing wills and pheromones that had the unfortunate crewman caught in their wake scurrying for cover. Shepard allowed her iron control over her scent to slip, just a fraction, just enough for a controlled pulse of pure alpha authority to saturate the air, staking her claim.
"I appreciate the concern, Williams. But I'll handle it." Each word was polished steel, hard and unyielding as the woman who spoke them. "When have you ever known me to let anything compromise the mission?"
Ashley met her glare for glare, unflinching in the face of Shepard's unspoken challenge. But as the seconds ticked by, understanding slowly dawned behind her eyes, a grudging respect gradually tempering the doubt and defiance. At last, the chief dropped her gaze, inclining her head in a terse nod of acceptance. Her own scent shifted, tempering to a frequency of wary concession, if not quite outright capitulation.
"Aye aye, Skipper." The words were clipped, flavored with a hint of irony. But then the hard line of Ashley's mouth softened, just a tick, her voice dropping to a register meant for Shepard's ears alone. "Just remember, if you need someone to watch your six—in the field or... elsewhere?" Dark eyes flashed with a hint of heat, there and gone. "I've got your back. No strings."
The weight of the unspoken hung heavy in the charged air between them, a live wire of implication and possibility. Shepard acknowledged it with a slow dip of her chin, wary of giving an inch lest the other alpha take a mile. This was a dance, primal and precarious, and it wouldn't do to stumble.
There had been a time when she was younger, back in the pressure cooker of training on Mars when options and restraint were even more limited than here on the ship, that Shepard had sought out the company of a fellow alpha. Once and only once, a collision of wills and sweat-slick limbs that had ended with both parties bruised and bloodied and somehow still unsatisfied. Since then, her preference for the velvet yield of an omega’s flesh, for the sweet tang of an omega’s scent, had been firmly cemented.
Tali awaited them in the armory, a bastion of beta equanimity amidst the roiling sea of alpha pheromones. The familiar susurration of her envirosuit's systems and the soft, omnipresent hum of her activated omni-tool washed over Shepard like a balm, gentling the jagged edges of her frayed composure. Even filtered through the complex layering of Tali's suit, her scent was a subtle, grounding thread—a whisper of sterile, recycled air underlaid by something indefinably, uniquely quarian.
"Keelah, you two," Tali sighed, the exasperated cant of her helmeted head speaking volumes despite the modulation of her voice. She fixed Shepard with a look that managed to convey both wry amusement and gentle reproach. "If you're quite finished with your posturing, might I remind you that we have a wayward scientist to retrieve? Although I must say, Shepard..." She paused, head cocked as if scenting the air. "Your pheromone output is particularly robust today."
A huff of laughter, rough-edged but genuine, gusted past Shepard's lips, the sound acting as a pressure valve for the coiled-spring tension of her body. "Apologies, Tali. Some of us can't seem to help our territorial tendencies." The sidelong glance she slanted at Ashley was heavy with irony, one dark brow arching in silent challenge.
To her credit, the gunnery chief accepted the verbal jab with good grace, the gesture she tossed over her shoulder decidedly on the friendlier side of obscene. "Like you've got room to talk, Skipper. I've seen you get territorial over your coffee mug when Pressly's in sniffing distance."
"Truly, the ancestors smiled upon me the day they granted me this suit," Tali deadpanned, the sentiment only slightly marred by the undercurrent of amusement threading through her voice. She hesitated at the yawning hatch of the Mako, the glow of her eyes dimming pensively behind the purple sheen of her visor. "Although even quarian ingenuity has its limitations."
As they clambered into the confines of the armored vehicle, Tali emitted a soft, staticky sound of discomfort, the sophisticated filtration systems of her suit laboring audibly to scrub the air of the dueling alpha pheromones. The aggressive tang of Ashley's scent competed with the thick, honey-and-spice miasma of Shepard's rut, both heady and strong enough to choke.
"Keelah," Tali muttered, slender fingers flying over the haptic interface of her omni-tool, no doubt making some minute adjustment to her olfactory dampeners. "I don't know about you two, but I'm hoping our good doctor reveals herself to be a nice, sensible beta.”
At the mere mention of Liara's possible designation, Shepard felt something hot and hungry twist behind her breastbone, a flare of speculation that bordered on the obsessive. If the asari proved to be an alpha, it would be problematic. Shepard's blood hummed with the atavistic urge to eliminate the threat of a rival, to prove her dominance beyond all shadow of doubt. But oh, if the fates decreed Liara to be an omega...
A surge of pure, molten want ignited in Shepard's veins at the mere idea, her body reacting with a ferocity that stunned her. Her mind's eye conjured a forbidden cornucopia of images—sapphire skin flushed with passionate surrender, the lilting asari accent broken to wanton moans, the impossible, perfect sweetness of an omega parting open beneath her fingertips...
Shepard wrenched herself back from the brink of that precipice with a mental wrench that left her feeling flayed. No. Tali was right. For the sake of the mission, for the sake of her own tenuous grip on control, the asari scientist had to be a beta. Any other outcome would be courting disaster of the most intimate kind.
Exhaling sharply through flared nostrils, Shepard flexed her fingers against the phantom itch of tightening them into fists, willing the agitation to bleed from her through sheer force of will. Beta. If stubborn determination alone could shape reality, Shepard would bend the very laws of probability to ensure it. Beta. Beta. Beta.
There was no other acceptable outcome.
As if operating on autopilot, Shepard's hands found their accustomed position on the Mako's controls, the textured surface of the grips slotting into her palms like well-worn gloves. Machinery rumbled to life around them as the vehicle was released from its docking clamps, the bone-rattling thrum of the engines a familiar counterpoint to the subtle, ever-present vibration of the Normandy's drive core.
The drop to Therum's surface was jarring even by Mako standards, the impact resonating through the vehicle's reinforced frame like the hammer of an angry god. A lesser commander might have paused to reorient, to assess, but Shepard was already in motion, one armored fist slamming against the hatch release with more force than was necessary.
A scorching gust of superheated air flooded the compartment, carrying with it the acrid stench of sulfur and the electric tang of imminent danger. It scoured Shepard's lungs, seared the back of her throat, and she welcomed the discomfort, used it to anchor herself in the here and now as she set a grueling pace forward.
Tali and Ashley slotted into position at her flanks, the staccato crackle of comm chatter filtering through their linked hardsuit systems the only thread tethering Shepard to coherence amidst the maelstrom of her body's rebellion. Ironically, the telltale flares of geth plasma fire stitching across the horizon came as a welcome distraction.
The world narrowed to the flex of a finger on a trigger, the thunder of boots against blasted earth, the serpentine flow of motion that kept breath in the lungs and slugs from the heart. Against the backdrop of the firefight's fury, the howls of her rut subsided to a distant memory, subsumed by the all-consuming immediacy of survival.
But each exchange took its toll, the staccato percussion of gunfire beating against eardrums rubbed raw by hormone-fueled sensitivity, the caustic stench of expended heat sinks rasping in sinuses flayed by the cloying musk of her own need, the actinic glare of Tali's combat drone searing across a gaze maddened by the hunt for more than prey. By the time they plunged through the last blast-riddled barricade into the innermost sanctum of the Prothean ruins, Shepard vibrated with the need for release—whether through violence or passion, she could no longer say.
And there, after cutting through waves of relentless mechanical foes and dancing with death too many times to count, after traversing subterranean labyrinths filled with ancient mysteries and cryptic warnings, after skirting the very bowels of hell itself—there she was, in a shimmering veil of biotic light and a crackle of raw power.
Liara T'Soni, suspended in a corona of blue that cast her features in an unearthly light, at once ethereal and untouchable. In that moment, something within Shepard stilled, the hungry roar of her alpha quieting to a curious, abrupt silence, as if the entire galaxy held its breath, waiting for their paths to converge.
As the bubble of ancient Prothean tech dissipated, Liara’s knees buckled, her frame swaying alarmingly as exhaustion claimed its due. Shepard lunged to catch her, one gauntleted hand finding the graceful curve of a hip, the other clasping around fingers cooler and more delicate than she had dared to imagine.
Mistake. Chivalrous, honorable, stupid mistake.
This near, Liara's scent engulfed Shepard like an ocean swell, sweeping her under and stealing the breath from her lungs. Petrichor and parchment, the loamy richness of undisturbed tombs, and beneath it all, something so singularly Liara that it defied language, winding its way into the deepest recesses of Shepard's hindbrain and branding itself indelibly into gray matter too shortsighted to be grateful for the favor.
A vivid blush raced cross Liara’s face as she glanced down to where their bodies touched, her pulse fluttering visibly beneath the delicate skin of her throat. A sudden, irresistible urge seized Shepard to draw closer, to trace the elegant lines of those scaled markings with her tongue, to learn if that beaconing blue flush extended beneath the collar of Liara's skintight labcoat.
It took a supreme act of will, a flexing of the formidable self-restraint that had seen her through a career punctuated by stacked odds and suicide missions, for Shepard to release her tenuous hold. Her alpha aspect, that fundamental part of her she had long since harnessed to duty and honor and iron resolve, bayed in reproach, hurling itself against the confines of her control with a ferocity that staggered her.
"Thank you for the timely intervention," Liara said, her melodic voice slightly breathless as she straightened her spine, clearly struggling to regain her composure. Her eyes darted briefly to Ashley, a flash of something—wariness?—crossing her face as she registered the other alpha's presence. "Though I must admit, I find myself wondering what could have brought a team of Alliance soldiers to such a remote dig site."
"We're here for you," Tali answered, her wry tone carrying even through her suit's audio processors. "Or at least, for your knowledge."
Liara's browline furrowed, twin marks of confusion etching themselves between those captivating eyes. The genuinely perplexed expression, so artlessly charming in its innocence, tugged at something deep within Shepard's chest. She fought off the need to reach out, to trace the pad of her thumb along the delicate crease and smooth it away.
"My knowledge?" Liara echoed, her melodic voice colored with curiosity and a touch of trepidation. "About the Protheans?"
Shepard swallowed convulsively, her throat working against the sudden dryness that threatened to close off her words. She was more than the sum of her biological imperatives. She was Commander Shepard—N7, the first human Spectre, the immovable object and the unstoppable force. She had faced down pirate armadas, thresher maws, the very horrors of the void itself without flinching.
Surely she could master the primal howl of her own alpha soul in the face of one single omega.
"Doctor T'Soni," she began, her voice remarkably level despite the tempest raging beneath her skin, the wildfire coursing through her veins. "I'm Commander Shepard. We're investigating a possible connection between the geth attacks and certain Prothean artifacts." She held Liara's gaze steadily, willing the asari to read the sincerity in her words, the earnestness of her intent. "Given your expertise in the field, we were hoping you might be able to help us make sense of what we're up against."
For a moment, the world narrowed to the space between them, the air practically crackling with the electric potential of something—an unspoken understanding, a recognition of like to like, that transcended mere duty or circumstance.
If Liara sensed the current of want flowing just beneath the surface of Shepard's professional veneer, she gave no outward indication. But there was a knowing glint in those arresting blue eyes, a flicker of... intrigue? Appreciation? The commander couldn't be certain, but she felt an answering flutter low in her stomach all the same.
"Fascinating," Liara murmured, her initial apprehension giving way to the fervor of academic enthusiasm. "The idea that Prothean technology could be linked to the geth's sudden resurgence..." She trailed off, her gaze turning inward as she contemplated the staggering implications. A heartbeat later, she refocused on Shepard, determination etched into the elegant lines of her face. "I will assist in whatever capacity I can, Commander.”
Another tremor rippled through the cavern, more violent than the last, showering them with a fine mist of pulverized stone. Liara glanced upwards, unease flickering across her features like quicksilver. "Though I suggest we continue this conversation in a more stable environment. I fear your earlier altercation may have compromised the structural integrity of the site."
As if to punctuate her words, a shimmering field of biotic energy encased her form, a reflexive measure of protection against the shifting debris. The casual display of power, as much a part of her as breathing, sent a thrill down Shepard's spine. It ignited something primal and hungry within her, an alpha impulse to test herself against this tantalizing strength, to harness it, to redirect it into more pleasurable persuits.
The rasp of ceramic plates drew the commander back to the present as Ashley shifted beside her, coiled as tightly as a spring. "With all due respect, Commander," she gritted out, her words clipped with strain, "this could be a setup. Matriarch Benezia might be using her own daughter as bait."
Liara recoiled as if physically struck, hurt and anger warring for dominance in her expression. The bitter tang of distress cut through her alluring scent like a knife. "I have not spoken to Benezia in decades," she retorted, her lilting voice hardening. "Whatever her agenda may be, I assure you, I am not a part of it."
Shepard quelled Ashley's protest with a single, searing look, the weight of her authority conveyed in the flex of a finely-arched brow. The gunnery chief subsided, but the rigid set of her shoulders radiated disapproval.
"Doctor T'Soni's motivations and alliance will be assessed in due course, Lieutenant," Shepard said, her tone unyielding as forged steel. "For now, we extend the benefit of the doubt. Clear?"
"Crystal, Skipper." Ashley's acknowledgment was terser than strictly professional, but she deferred to the chain of command.
Shepard surveyed her squad, satisfaction glinting in those piercing eyes as they snapped to attention. "Alright people, let's move. I want the good doctor safely aboard the Normandy before this whole place comes down on our heads."
The trek back to the landing zone passed in a blur of adrenaline-fueled firefights and taut silences, the weight of tension pressing down like the cloying heat of Therum's atmosphere. Shepard operated on pure instinct, her body automatically navigating the lethal dance of combat while her mind orbited helplessly around the captivating asari in her wake. She found herself constantly maneuvering to shield Liara from lines of fire, an unshakable compulsion to protect her overriding all other priorities.
It was with immense relief that Shepard practically lunged into the Mako, her hands clenching the controls in a white-knuckled grip as if she could physically restrain the primal urges rampaging through her system. Tali guided Liara into the rear compartment, the hatch sealing shut on a tangible wave of that intoxicating scent. Shepard punched the accelerator, the Mako roaring out of the ruin's crumbling jaws as if the very demons of hell were in pursuit.
The Normandy crouched open and waiting to receive them, her gleaming hull a blessed reminder of order and purpose. The instant their tires kissed the deck, Shepard was in motion, all but flinging herself free of the Mako's confines. She hit the cargo bay floor in a rush of crimson armor and coiled tension, striding to put precious distance between herself and the source of her unraveling. But the metallic clang of the Mako's rear hatch disengaging and the hesitant clack of feminine footsteps chasing after her slowed her steps, an invisible leash she could not sever.
"Commander," Liara called out, her voice soft and tentative as she approached. "Wait. I..."
Shepard froze mid-step. Her hands curled into fists at her sides, the servos of her gauntlets creaking audibly under the force of her grip. She could not turn around.
Drawing in a shuddering breath, she willed her voice to remain level, the effort monumental. "If you follow the illuminated path to the lab, you can start the decontamination process and take a moment to decompress. We'll debrief once you've had a chance to collect yourself."
"Of course,” Liara said after a moment. She hesitated a beat as she moved to Shepard’s line of sight. “And...thank you, Commander. I recognize that my knowledge is valuable to you, but you also risked your life to save mine. That's something I will not soon forget."
Before Shepard could formulate a response, Liara was gone, her rapidly retreating footsteps echoing in the cavernous cargo hold. But her scent lingered, an enticing whisper of sweetness, of something Shepard could not slake. It was almost enough to bring Shepard to her knees, her alpha instincts surging to the fore with redoubled intensity, howling the desire to pursue, to claim, to make the omega hers.
The walk to her cabin passed in a haze of barked orders and spiraling control, Shepard's frame vibrating with the need to act, to lose herself in the brilliant heat of Liara’s mind and body. She had little memory of stripping out of her hardsuit, of stumbling into the narrow coffin of a shower. All that registered was the relentless pound of water against her back, the sharp bite of unscented soap, and the thunder of her heart drowning out all rational thought.
When she finally emerged, skin flushed and raw, a fragile measure of equilibrium reasserted itself. The throb of arousal receded to a dull roar, the whipcord tension in her muscles easing to a manageable hum. Dragging on a fresh set of fatigues, Shepard steeled herself to again meet blue eyes, a siren scent, the omega who had not once left her mind.
In the debriefing room, Shepard's presence had every crew member deferring to her with a primal mix of respect and submission. The very air seemed to thicken with her scent, a heady musk that made each inhalation a labor, each exhalation a shuddering gasp.
But amidst the swirling discussions of Protheans and beacons, Liara's voice, soft as a caress, cut through the haze of Shepard's rut-addled mind like a beam of starlight through the blackness of space. "Commander, if I may... there might be a way to make sense of the visions from the beacon. A melding of our minds could potentially clarify the images you were given."
Shepard gestured to herself, a short, sharp motion that betrayed the tension thrumming through every sinew. Her voice, when she spoke, was rough with restrained desire, undercut by a thrum of self-deprecating humor that did little to mask the hunger beneath. "Not sure poking around in my head right now is the best idea, T'Soni."
A delicate flush bloomed across Liara's cheeks, a wash of color that only heightened her beauty. Her eyes seemed to pierce through the façade of rank and protocol, baring Shepard to her very core. In their depths, the commander could read a tempest of emotions—scientific curiosity, yes, but also something deeper, more primal, an echo of the same need that pulsed through her own veins.
"Perhaps not ideal, no," Liara admitted, her voice a melodic lilt that seemed to dance along Shepard's nerves. "But the information could be crucial. I assure you, Commander, I am quite capable of maintaining professional boundaries, regardless of biological factors."
"Three days," Shepard relented. The thought of waiting that long was a physical ache, a hollow throb in the pit of her stomach. Every cell in her body screamed for the relief that only this omega could provide. "I want answers as much as you do. So give me three days to get past this. Then we'll meld."
With a turn that was almost too sharp, Shepard retreated to her quarters, her boots ringing against the deck with each harried step. Her mind reeled, thoughts scattering only to circle back to one indelible truth: Liara T'Soni was the most captivating omega she had ever encountered.
It mattered little that they were strangers still; the pull was undeniable, magnetic, a force as inescapable as gravity.
As the door to her cabin slid shut behind her, Shepard leaned heavily against it. Her breath came in ragged gasps, each one sawing at her lungs, scraping at her throat. The cool metal at her back was a balm and a shock, a blessed relief against her fevered skin that sent shivers cascading down her spine. This attraction, this all-consuming hunger—it was dangerous, a complication she couldn't afford. Not with the fate of the galaxy resting on her shoulders.
And yet, as her eyes drifted shut, all she could see was the haunting perfection of Liara's face, the graceful curve of her neck, the swell of her lips. All she could smell was the memory of her scent, a phantom presence that seemed to linger in every molecule of recycled air, taunting her, tempting her. It was maddening, inescapable, a craving she couldn’t outrun.
The galaxy might need Commander Shepard, but Shepard only needed one thing—and she was currently two decks below. Two decks below, and entirely too far away.