[Mass Effect] "Long Overdue" - Male!Shepard/Miranda
Length: 4800 words
Rating: M for explicit M/F sex
"This is not fair at all."
Commander Shepard grinned in a most unsettling way, leering down at the naked woman bound spread-eagled to his bed. "You spent two years poking around my body, Lawson. If anything, I'm overdue for some payback."
"That's not the same thing," Miranda objected. She was being pouty, she knew. It wasn't as if she hadn't agreed to this. Wasn't as if he wouldn't let her up if she gave the safe word (he would let her up if she gave the safe word, right? She had to tell herself he would).
Still, Miranda Lawson was a proud woman, and this loss of control - no matter how much control she may still have over the situation, or thought she had over the situation - was not something she could accept easily. No matter how long overdue it was.
No matter how much it made her tingle between her legs.
Shepard just grinned wider. "Of course not. If it were the same thing, I'd need a scalpel, gloves and a rubber sheet."
He was joking. Of course. Probably. Miranda swallowed.
"I think you are enjoying this far too much," she said, eager to lead the discussion away from the operating table.
It might not have been possible for Shepard's grin to widen further - she had a feeling that it would have, were it possible.
"Am I?" he wondered, rather idly, and reached down, flicking a finger across her left nipple. The little bud of flesh was erect and sensitive; Miranda bit her tongue, suppressing any reaction. "I don't think it's that cold in here."
"You are still wearing clothes," she countered, keeping her voice low and even. He flicked at her again; again, she remained unfazed.
He did it only to mess with her head - this would have been easier if he were naked, as well, and he knew that. It was all about power. She, naked and helpless. He, everything but. He, in a uniform with the Cerberus logo on the breast. She, deprived of both crest and authority. He wasn't stupid. She liked that, usually. Right now, she wished to whatever higher power may be listening that he could have been just a tiny bit less clever.
"That might have something to do with it," he admitted, blissfully unaware of Miranda's thought process. He captured her nipple between thumb and forefinger, rolling it a bit more roughly than comfortable. She suppressed her reaction once more - but this time, it would have been a wince, not a startled gasp or jump.
"But what about this...?" He pulled his hand back, laid it on her thigh instead. Long, rough, powerful fingers curled around her upper leg and hip, and his thumb slid purposefully down the inside.
This time she wasn't fast enough, and her eyes narrowed as he made contact, his finger gliding easily on slick skin, just for a fraction of a second before he withdrew. He held his hand up in front of her eyes, curled into a loose fist, thumb up, showing her what she already knew: she was wet.
"Dilated pupils," he continued, lowering his hand, thumb brushing her upper lip, making her unable to escape her own musky scent. "Flushed skin. This. I'd like to see you blame that on the cold."
No, she couldn't. And now, suddenly, she was furious at his smug grin, at the scent he had smeared under her nose, at the ropes holding her down. "Fuck you, Shepard," she spat, frustrated and helpless, and he laughed.
"That's all it takes, is it? Tie you up and taunt you for five minutes, and you're Jack."
"If I were Jack," Miranda retaliated, regaining some composure, "this is the point where I would be thinking of a good place to hide the body."
He laughed at that, too - surprisingly warmly. "All right," he said, and dropped his hand to her hip again. "It's a good thing you're not Jack."
"I suspect Jack would agree," Miranda muttered, but it was hard to stay angry - hard to remember why she'd even been angry - and now he was stroking her, his thumb (still a little slippery) nested in the dip inside her hipbone, the other fingers curling around the outside of her hip and side. There was nothing overly sexual about the touch, but it was close, and his hands were - her best work, Miranda thought with no small amount of pride. They were a reconstruction, but such a reconstruction! And her body went rigid as he squeezed her, anticipation hot in her chest.
"I know what you're thinking," he said. Not mocking this time, but simply a matter-of-fact statement. "You think I've teased you long enough."
"I certainly did not install any implants to facilitate telepathy," Miranda said, "so I can only assume you had it done elsewhere. I trust you know this voids your warranty."
That got another chuckle, and his hand slid down a bit, fingers easily following the outer curve of her hip. His thumb moved out and in, closer to where it had been a few minutes earlier. The touch tickled and tingled in equal measure, and she couldn't suppress a brief shudder. Even without the hand on her hip, he was observing her so closely that he couldn't possibly miss it.
"You're not denying it."
She would have crossed her arms, had they not been tied over her head. "I am not," she stated.
"I suppose hearing you beg is too much to hope for." His hand went lower still.
"Certainly if you want me to mean it."
"What a shame," he said, and his thumb slowly brushed through the small patch of dark curls over her sex.
The sensation seemed almost electric. Still, it was nothing compared to what came after, when his finger brushed against her clit from the side, maybe accidentally, though she doubted it - or rather, would have doubted it, had it not set off a bright flare in her head that made her mind go blank and made every muscle in her body rigid.
Shepard noticed, and chuckled darkly.
"If I didn't know better," he said, and ran his thumb up and down, scraping the soft skin of her perfectly symmetrical outer labia with the callused digit, "I'd say you enjoy being teased."
Miranda growled something underneath her breath - wasn't going to confirm; couldn't really deny, either.
"Let's have a look."
She raised her head, but couldn't see what he was doing with his hand - only feel as he pulled his thumb to the side, spreading her open, baring soft, dark pink flesh, moist and swollen with anticipation. Now the air seemed cool against that heated skin, but when she shivered, it had nothing to do with the cold.
"You're practically dripping." He slid his finger up and down her slit, first on top for a few seconds, then began to push his way in between the slick folds; began to tease the entrance to her cunt, but never pushing into her, and Miranda made a soft noise of frustration when she realized that he was purposely avoiding contact with her clit as well, never getting closer than vague almost-touches that did little to alleviate her need.
"Should we play a game, Miranda?" He pressed a little harder, the pad of his thumb straining against her entrance. The angle wasn't enough to let him easily slip inside, but he pushed against her nevertheless, and she felt herself stretching, her body trying - yearning - to accept him. "I wonder how long it'll take you to come if I keep this up."
She wondered that, too. Probably not as long as she'd expect, normally. Normally, she'd expect to need more, a finger or tongue on her clit, maybe penetration - whether fingers or a cock or toy or, hell, the barrel of a rifle - and preferably both, but he wasn't doing either of those things, and already her awareness had shrunk to a point where anything outside the warm, soft bed underneath her, the ropes around her wrists and ankles and the insistent pressure against her achingly tender flesh was hazy and unimportant.
She wondered, but at the same time, didn't really want to know. Wanted more, wanted it now. But she didn't want it enough to beg, and so she said nothing.
He grinned again. That infuriating, satisfied grin. "Just kidding."
Miranda didn't have time to make a scathing remark, because even as he was speaking, he slid his thumb sharply up, until the tip of his finger brushed erect little bud of her almost painfully sensitive clit under its hood.
This time it was far from the earlier accidental half-brushes, and Miranda arched up sharply, a strained squeal escaping her lips as she drew a deep, quick breath.
The sudden motion pulled her away from Shepard's hands, but she could not escape for long. Even before the stars stopped dancing before her eyes, she felt a large hand on her belly, pressing her down against the bed once more; then, as she landed again, his other hand was back between her legs, just the one finger stroking her in rough circles. She sucked in a hissing breath between her teeth, legs trembling, and her world began to crumble around the edges, leaving her with nothing but that slippery friction, that building tension at the centre of her being, light and fiery.
Oh, something in her head - at least she hoped it was just in her head! - seemed to say, yes, right there, right there yes oh yes yes yes yes yes-
- Shepard pulled back, leaving her wide-eyed and panting, her entire body tingling, her skin hot and fizzy.
"You," she breathed, "you. You! You bastard. Why!"
"Because I can," came the answer, calm and perfectly rational and suddenly she wished she were Jack, or at least enough like her to pick the smug fuck up and smack his smug face against a hard surface, but all she could do was gape in disbelief.
"Don't worry," he said, and put both hands on her hips, began to stroke her up and down, hips to knees, slowly, but the friction still burned on her skin. "I'm not done with you yet."
She didn't ask what he intended because she knew he wouldn't answer - that's what she told herself, but in reality it was because she could barely think, much less speak coherently; her head still spinning, coloured spots still dancing in front of her eyes.
She didn't have to wonder long. A finger - not his thumb this time, something more slender - parted her outer lips, toyed with the inner labia for a few moments before - finally! - sinking deep inside, all the way, until she could feel his knuckles pressing up against her.
It didn't rekindle the orgasm that fizzled out earlier, but she had been left aching and sensitive and before he could even start moving, she felt a familiar tension starting to build in her lower belly. It was just a trickle, the beginning of something, but it could grow into something immense - could, if it were allowed.
She whimpered when he pulled out, clenching down on the lone finger as though trying to pull him back in again. Didn't care that she whimpered; just wanted him to put it back inside her, no, to give her more than that, two fingers, three, his cock, anything.
But Shepard was in no hurry. He held up his hand, index finger glistening. Despite the fuzz in her head, she could see him with perfect clarity - his hand, rough and familiar; his finger, coated in slick; a wet trail down his palm, a droplet slowly rolling down his wrist.
She half expected him to say something, to tease her some more, but he didn't seem to find it necessary. Perhaps he felt the image was enough. And it certainly was; she knew what she wanted, what she needed, but the sight of her slick on his skin made it tangible, gave it weight.
He lowered his hand again, slowly, and Miranda's body tingled with anticipation.
"Count," he whispered as he teased her, pulled at her slippery inner lips with two fingers
"Two," she whispered, her hips moving against his touch, trying to find something to grind against, but he kept his fingers away from her clit, left her frustrated. "Two," she repeated, a little louder, and sobbed with relief when he finally sank both fingers inside her. They were long and thick and even just a single one had felt - large, forcing her to adapt, but now he was truly beginning to fill her up, to stretch her out. As wet as she was, he easily overcame her body's initial resistance and Miranda gasped as he stopped, hilted fully inside her.
Shepard began to pull out again, but this time he did not leave her hanging. Out just past the second knuckles - then in again, slowly at first, then faster, then faster still, until each thrust shook her helpless body. Miranda squeezed her eyes shut and allowed the rising tension to fill her, just as Shepard's fingers filled her cunt. No longer confined to the pit of her stomach, the sensation boiled over and seeped into her arms and legs, making her feel slow and heavy. Sweat beaded on her skin and ran in rivulets down her chest and sides; her fingers curled around the ropes that secured her wrists, holding them tight; she spread her legs as much as she was able and savoured every thrust, every time he made her body rock back and forth, made her breasts bounce. She felt him spread his fingers inside of her, stretching her further, preparing her for more, and when he began to push a third finger against her straining entrance, she gasped out "Three!", shrill and breathless, before he could even order her to count.
He gave her three, slid the first two fingers out to the first knuckle and eased the tip of the third inside alongside them; turned and twisted his hand back and forth to give her a chance to prepare, and - pushed.
Miranda drew a long, unsteady breath as he slid inside in one slow, fluid motion, then stopped, three fingers fully buried inside her.
As he began to pull out, she exhaled, slowly, so that she finished just when he stopped; so that she could breathe in again when he began to push once more.
Miranda breathed in, and out. In, and out. And gasped. Shepard had suddenly curled his fingers, angling the tips towards her navel, and with his next thrust, the sensation became very different indeed.
Shepard pulled back, then thrust. Fingers curled, pressing up against the front of her cunt.
Miranda shuddered and arched; pulled at her unyielding bonds, shook her head from side to side. This wasn't like before - that had been hot and fizzy and this was deep and fluid and - and amazing, like a glow curling up her spine.
He slowed down as she approached the edge, kept her floating there for - minutes? Hours? Days? Time had lost all meaning; all she knew was electric tension all through her body, anticipation, maybe even fear, as though she were teetering at the edge of an abyss.
That, and Shepard's fingers pumping in her cunt.
That, and suddenly - nothing.
Miranda sobbed, hips thrusting desperately, uselessly against nothing, and Shepard's hands were on her hips once more, holding her down as she shook and struggled.
All in vain.
She opened her eyes, blinking away tears of frustration, trying to glare at the blurry form in front of her. Why? she tried to say, couldn't find her voice; just mouthed the word, and he - patted her hip, as if that would explain anything, or make up for what he was doing to her.
"These pants are getting pretty tight," he said, and then his hands disappeared, and she heard the rustle of cloth. As her vision cleared, she saw that he was removing his uniform jacket, throwing it on the floor; then he unzipped his trousers, awkwardly pulling his straining erection free from his stretched boxers.
It was a wonder he hadn't torn the pants like that, she caught herself thinking; then she caught herself staring, her mouth suddenly dry, and turned away.
She wanted that. Wanted his cock inside her, wanted him to fuck her fast and hard until she came screaming and howling - no more teasing, no more interruptions, she wanted to come, and perhaps -
"Fucking with you is hard work," he said, and shuffled up, swinging one leg over her and coming to stop with the tip of his cock hovering a bit below her chin. She raised her head before she even knew what she was doing, tried to gauge whether she could reach him from there - if not well enough to suck him, then at least with her tongue - but he was out of reach, grinning down at her feeble attempts.
"That's nice," he said, and sank a little lower, filling his hands with her breasts and pushing them together around his cock, "but I'm in the mood for something different."
He was "in the mood", she could tell just by looking at him, and feeling his throbbing shaft between her breasts only confirmed it. She had seldom seen him so hard, so aroused, and the tip of his prick already glistened with precome, as slippery as her own slick.
The cloth of his trousers chafed a bit as he began to thrust his hips against her, but it scarcely distracted from the sensation of velvety skin and unyielding hardness between her tits, or the way he was kneading her firm mounds, teasing her hard, aching nipples. She should have been angry, should have yelled at him for not finishing what he had started, not finishing her, but this was - this was turning her on, and she couldn't tear her gaze away from the thick shaft sliding in and out, the slippery, purple head emerging at the top of her tits, then disappearing back in between them, gliding on her soft skin with a mixture of their fluids. Shepard's jaw was set and his expression distant, and she knew it wouldn't be long until he finished and covered her with his come - then perhaps, hopefully he would take mercy on her, or at least let her up, allow her to retreat to her room and find a suitable toy to get herself off - anything.
Only a few more thrusts, and she felt his grip tightening, not quite enough to be painful, but nearly; his breathing grew shallow, and Miranda tilted her head back and closed her eyes, knowing well what was about to happen.
Shepard growled and his body grew rigid, and the first spurt of his come hit her chin, dribbling down her neck and upper chest; he thrust again, more shallowly, leaving the tip of his cock buried between her breasts, and she felt the hot, sticky fluid covering the inner slopes of her tits and ooze out between them. Again he thrust, and the next spurt went over her head, only a few drops spattering against her cheek and hair. Once more, she felt him twitch between her breasts, and though nothing more fell on her skin, it took a long time before he was satisfied and let go, allowing her breasts to bounce free, glistening and slippery with sweat and come.
Then he sat back, panting, his shirt clinging to him, outlining his powerful chest and shoulders. He was still hard, and for a moment she hoped he would continue, move down and finally, finally fuck her, but he just drew a deep breath and swung his leg over her, then swung his legs off the bed and stood up. His fingers were already working at his shirt buttons, undoing them with practiced ease (leaving dark stains on the white cotton). Then the shirt, too, fell on the floor, and he began working on his belt; moments later, his trousers fell and he kicked them over to the pile where the rest of his clothes had fallen.
That done, he turned back to the bed, looked down at Miranda's naked, sticky, bound form. Then he bent low over her to look her in the eyes, and she could tell before he even opened his mouth that she wasn't going to like what he was going to say.
"I need a shower."
Miranda gaped. "You - shower?" Could she really have heard - but of course she could; this was Shepard, and she was - for the moment - Shepard's plaything.
"If you're lucky, I'll be done before Chambers comes in to feed the fish," he said, and strode off while she lay there sputtering and trying to come up with something meaningful to say. Feed the fish! It was - he was - she -
From the captain's private bathroom came the sound of running water, and Miranda swore silently to herself; struggled some more against the ropes, and finally gave up, resigning herself to wait while the sweat and come first cooled, then began to dry on her body.
It took Shepard less than five minutes to shower, but the minutes stretched for Miranda as she lay waiting in growing frustration and discomfort. She glared daggers at him when he stepped out in a cloud of steam, a towel half-heartedly draped around his waist. Shepard grinned as he approached the bed, dripping water both on the floor and on the sheets, and eventually on Miranda as well as he leaned over her, smirking at her expression. Without looking away, he unwrapped the towel and climbed back into the bed, kneeling next to her.
"I'm going to let you come now," he said, and Miranda opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again before realizing that she could think of absolutely nothing to say and closing it once more.
By the time she did, Shepard was stroking her inner thighs, his hands perhaps a little softer after the shower, or perhaps she had just had time to cool down, was less sensitive.
If that were the case, it still didn't prevent her from jumping when he laid a hand over her sex - a large, warm hand - nor did it keep her from whimpering when he began to slide a single finger into her still sopping cunt.
One finger, then another; the middle two fingers on his right hand, and the palm of his hand came to rest over her clit.
He pulled out, and thrust.
Miranda gasped, eyes wide.
Shepard pulled out, and thrust.
Two fingers filled her. His palm ground against her clit, and her legs twitched as stars burst before her eyes.
Shepard pulled out, and thrust, and his other hand landed on her right breast, fingers seeking the nipple and tugging lightly at it; Miranda whimpered and shook, feeling yet another orgasm beginning to take form, not knowing if she could trust her partner to bring it to fruition.
It was torturous. Teased and sensitive, her body ached in so many ways; not only for release. The ropes weren't very tight, but she had been wearing them for a long time and they were beginning to chafe; she wished she could change position, maybe sit up, maybe just turn over, and her legs felt weak and useless, but she was willing to push all that aside, just one more time, and focus on the feeling of Shepard's fingers pumping in and out of her, of his rough palm coming down on her clitoris over and over, stroking and grinding. He was starting to curl his fingers again, turning each thrust into a 'come hither' motion and she - she was certainly going to do her best in that regard.
Shepard sped up, his fingers making slick, slippery noises as he pumped them in and out of her; his palm smacked against her with each thrust, and each time Miranda saw a brief burst of white light; each time she gasped and moaned.
It was different again. More complete than before, than just friction against her clit or the finger-fucking that came after. The hot, frizzy feeling of the external stimulation wrapped around the slower, heavy liquid sensation of the internal, taking her higher than either one could have managed on their own.
She felt aglow with desire, a blinding white light radiating from her spine and out through her bound limbs. It filled her head, washing away everything but the sensation of rising, rising, rising and the far, distant dread that she would be left stumbling and faltering before she could hit the peak, before she could take the plunge on the other side.
But Shepard wasn't going to let that happen. His fingers curled harder inside of her, thrust faster, and the rapid impacts of his palm began to feel like a continuous sensation rather than a series of brief bursts. Her muscles tightened and her arms shook as they strained against the ropes; she dug her heels into the mattress and arched her back, pressing herself up against his hand, against his fingers, wanting him deeper inside, faster, harder, wanted him to fuck her without mercy, and this time -
This time he obliged, and Miranda's body made a trembling arch, shuddered and spasmed and she screamed out her orgasm, raw and primal; felt hot fluid spattering against her thighs and lower belly as she squirted hard and explosively into the palm of Shepard's hand - ran out of breath, gasped helplessly, shaking and writhing, her mind blank.
He gave her no respite, fucked her fast and hard with his fingers, just as she had wanted, just as she had needed, until she thought she may be about to break. Her orgasm faded and flickered and burst into a second one, and she arched up even higher, straining against the ropes, shrieking as her body sang, as every nerve came alive with pleasure.
And still Shepard fucked her, his hand dripping with her come, slapping wetly against her with each thrust, hard enough to hurt, hurt so good she couldn't even think -
He paused for a moment, missing just a single thrust, and she began to collapse on the bed the sensation fading, and he thrust again, forcing her up into a trembling, whimpering arch once more, until her legs gave out and she fell back down against the bed, powerless and sated -
And still Shepard fucked her.
A third orgasm bloomed into a fourth.
Miranda sobbed and moaned, her voice strained and rasping, her body too tired to move, but still writhing and shuddering under his touch - weaker now, but the flashes before her eyes only grew in intensity.
This time, as the sensation ebbed, Shepard slowed down, straightened his fingers, and finally came to a stop, still sheathed deep inside her, with his hand resting over her aching clit, unmoving but still pressing down, announcing its presence.
She lay still, panting, the occasional tremor running through her limbs; sometimes whimpering softly as reality came creeping back.
Shepard chuckled below, unseen.
"Let's make it five," he said, his voice thick and dark, and Miranda's belly tightened with dread and anticipation. He couldn't - she couldn't - it wasn't possible, he had to let her rest - but even when she tried to speak, nothing came out.
He laughed again, and began working a third finger into her twitching cunt, sliding all the way in, and curling it sharply against that spot.
He barely even had to move.
Miranda's world exploded.
She might have screamed, but she could barely feel her body, barely noticed anything but the pain and pleasure flowing and mingling into something vast and incredible, something she was helpless before, and once more there was the climbing, the rising, and the peak, and the plunge...
She squirted again, and again she covered Shepard's hand and arm in her fluids, sending droplets spattering against her own heated skin, and that -
- that was all she knew.
When Miranda regained consciousness, she was free from the ropes that had held her; curled up on her side, wrapped in a blanket. She was lying on the couch - naturally, the bed must be a mess - and head rested in Shepard's lap, her long dark hair (tangled and messy, now) draped across his muscular thighs, and he had one large hand on her back, stroking her gently.
"Damn," he said, sounding almost impressed, as she squinted up at him, bleary-eyed and dazed. "I'm going to have to tease you more often."
She groaned and turned her head away, but she found herself... smiling faintly. Shepard was a bastard through and through, and under any normal circumstances she would be inclined to get revenge. But as he stroked her back, she felt warm and fuzzy and lazy, and she couldn't remember the last time that had happened.
Maybe she'd let him get away with it... just this once.