Miranda doesn't remember when this all started. She doesn't want to. It's better to think it's always been this way.
Every now and then, Commander Shepard comes to her cabin, late at night. There's this strange, vulnerable look on his face, always the same look, as he enters without a word. Miranda can instantly tell these visits apart from the usual check-ins. It's that expression on the man's face. He's not in Commander Shepard mode anymore. He's raw nerves. All the stresses of the suicide mission are laid bare in his eyes. In that moment, Shepard's just a human being with a tremendous weight on his shoulders.
On this particular night, Miranda's sitting on the edge of the bed when she hears the door. She's been scanning through a data-pad, cataloguing Collector data, but stops the minute she sees Shepard. His gaze is downcast as he approaches. He's got on a casual Cerberus tracksuit, and his feet are bare. The soft material is slightly rumpled, as though he's already been in bed but sleep has eluded him. It's a familiar sight. The circumstances are nearly identical every time Shepard comes to her like this.
Miranda tosses the data-pad aside, gives Shepard her full attention. Not a heartbeat passes before the commander drops to his knees in front of her.
"I need it," he says, leaning back onto his heels. Shepard still hasn't met her eyes. Miranda's not sure if he can bring himself to.
"Of course, Commander," she tells him, and moves to fetch what Shepard needs.
She keeps the two silk scarves in her nightstand. One is to bind Shepard's wrists, the other, a blindfold.
"The safeword is Torfan."
Shepard never uses the safeword. It's more for Miranda than for him, because through all of this, he's still the boss, and there's no way she's going to somehow endanger the Lazarus Project for whatever this is. When the the commander nods, Miranda takes her cue.
"Take off your shirt," she orders.
Shepard tugs at the zipper of his sweatshirt, lets it fall open to expose his bare chest. He never wears a t-shirt underneath; just more clothing to take off. He's quick to shrug the sweater off and cast it aside, his eyes still firmly fixed on the floor.
Miranda knows Shepard's body better than he realizes. She rebuilt him, after all. It's fitting that he comes to her for this, that he trusts her to do it right. Miranda's the only one that has the firm planes of his chest memorized, the only one that knows the smooth dip of his hips, the soft trail of hair on his abdomen that disappears beneath his waistband.
Miranda takes her time fixing the blindfold around Shepard's head. It's black, completely opaque; he can't see a thing through it, but she makes sure it's tight. She gives him a moment to adjust to the darkness, during which a deep, scarlet flush creeps across his cheeks. Oh, Shepard definitely likes this. Needs it. Miranda's taken careful note of the things that arouse him. Studying Shepard is her favourite pastime.
"Are you hard, Shepard?" she asks.
The man swallows, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. Miranda catches the subtle, telltale shift of his hips and already knows the answer. Shepard can't hide anything inside those thin sweatpants. She can see the outline of him, straining against the material.
"I asked you a question," she says, and her voice is suddenly cold and authoritative.
Shepard snaps-to like a true marine. "Yes ma'am."
"Then show me."
In this room, during these meetings, Miranda's in control. That's how Shepard needs it, and he's quite good at doing what he's told. His hands, previously resting on his thighs, reach for the waistband of his sweatpants. There's a buttoned fly, which he undoes, letting him pulling his cock free without taking the pants themselves off. A quiet hiss escapes his lips as the cool cabin air hits his engorged skin. He even spreads his legs a little, keeping his weight resting back on his haunches.
It's quite a sight, Shepard's cock; the way it juts out from between his legs, still swelling under Miranda's gaze. She quite likes him on his knees like this, bare-chested, shame burning across his face. No one else will see the commander like this. Only her.
"Hands behind your back," she orders. "And stay still."
Shepard's quick to comply. He holds his wrists behind his back, allows Miranda to tie them together with the scarf. She's careful to make the knot even tighter than that of the blindfold. Intentionally or not, this bond is much more likely to be tested.
Once she's satisfied with the job, Miranda takes a step back to admire her handiwork. Shepard certainly looks debauched, exposed as he is. She's done a good job with his wrists; the scarf pulls his arms back tightly enough that his muscles must be screaming. His biceps are especially taut. The strain on them is visible even through his thick, dermal weave.
Miranda can't help but drink in the sight. All of this and she hasn't even laid a finger on him.
"Do you want me to touch you, Shepard?"
The commander swallows again. "Yes ma'am."
Miranda's asking obvious questions; they both know that. But she likes hearing Shepard answer her in that choked little voice he uses when he's aroused. Like there's so much blood flowing to his dick that it somehow takes all his authority along with it.
"I don't think you've earned it just yet."
Miranda grabs him by the chin, digging her nails ever-so-slightly into his skin. She can feel Shepard wince under the blindfold; feel the heat rising off his face. There are so many possibilities. She could have him do almost anything do earn her touch, and Shepard would do it. He'd bury his face so deep between her legs, licking and sucking at her, until he nearly suffocated. He's always eager when it comes to pleasing her, but Miranda doesn't always give him the chance. She's a voyeur at heart, interested mainly in watching Shepard debauch himself at her command.
"Perhaps if you beg me for it—if you be a good little pet—I'll consider granting your request."
There's a special kind of power in making Shepard beg until his throat is hoarse. Outside this room, the commander doesn't beg anyone for anything. Never has. He's the kind of man that takes what he wants and answers to no one. It's not surprising, then, that he struggles with this order. Shepard's a marine, he's good at following orders, but begging will never come easy to him. Miranda's pretty sure she likes it that way.
"Please..." he says after a moment, and it's so quiet, it barely carries over the ambient hum of the Normandy flying through space.
"What was that, Shepard?"
Miranda's still holding onto his chin. With the blindfold on, she can't savour the conflicting emotions in his eyes, but they seem to translate into his body language. The slight stiffening of muscled shoulders; the shifting of his knees on the cold floor. But his cock, as it bobs slightly between his legs, is hard as ever, and that's all the evidence Miranda needs of how much Shepard really enjoys this humiliation.
"Please ma'am," he says, louder this time.
Miranda suddenly lets go of him, as though burned by his skin. It's a rough gesture; it flings Shepard's head to the side, and he wobbles slightly, but doesn't lose his balance.
"I should leave you here like this. Hard, desperate, bound," she tells him. The threat must sound real enough; the commander's body goes stiff and he shakes his head fiercely. "No? Well if you want anything from me, Shepard, you'll have to do better than that."
Shepard's posture changes. He becomes determined, sets his jaw. "Please," he begins, desperation dripping from his voice. "Please touch me, ma'am. I want to be your good pet..."
Before Miranda can give him the praise he deserves for that, the commander rises up off his haunches and shuffles closer to the sound of her voice. Shepard's intent soon becomes clear when he guides his head to the familiar spot between her legs and presses his burning face there. Miranda feels him inhale through her suit—he's so desperate for even the faintest scent of her—before shoving the commander back onto his heels.
"You're already my pet Shepard. I can do whatever I want to you," Miranda tells him, and she can't help but smile. "But since you begged so nicely..."
Miranda crouches down in front of him and places a hand on the man's tight, muscled shoulder. She drags it down his bare chest, letting her nails scrape his skin as she goes. Shepard's leaning into the touch; his skin feels incredibly hot under her fingertips, and Miranda continues down over his stomach. She pauses just above the waistband of Shepard's sweatpants, where his cock is exposed. The commander's jaw goes slack.
"This is where you really wanted me to touch you, isn't it?" she asks, letting her hand hover not an inch from his neglected arousal.
Shepard must be able to feel the warmth of her hand hovering there. He nods; furious and desperate for stimulation. "Yes ma'am. Please..." he begs, and Miranda's almost impressed. But she's not quite ready to give up the game just yet. Teasing Shepard is too much fun.
Miranda does concede to touch his cock, but only for a split-second. She scoops up a drop of precum leaking from the head, savouring the sharp breath Shepard lets out as a result. He remains still, however, as Miranda brings the finger up to the man's face and smears the droplet across his lower lip. At that point, Shepard doesn't need to be told. He darts his tongue out to taste it. It's an extremely erotic sight, and Miranda decides she wants to put that tongue to even better use.
"Open your mouth," she says, "and suck."
The commander accepts two of Miranda's fingers past his lips and does as instructed, sucking on the digits and wetting them with his tongue. He's good at it. Surprisingly good. Makes her wonder if he's been on his knees like this in front of a man before. The way he's sucking on her fingers, so eager, so practiced... there were no past relationships listed for Shepard in the original Lazarus Project dossier, but encounters, much like these, wouldn't be on record. Especially if they'd been with other Alliance marines, which she's beginning to suspect.
"Good boy," Miranda says, letting the fingers slip from Shepard's mouth. He licks at the excess saliva coating his lips. Smacks them, even, once they're clean, and looks pleased with himself. "I think you've finally earned this."
When Miranda wraps her hand around the engorged head of Shepard's cock, he lets out a surprised moan. It's music to her ears, as are the ones that follow when Miranda slides her fist down to the base of the shaft. Shepard's saliva helps ease the friction just enough to make it comfortable.
It soon becomes apparent that the commander won't last long, not after all her foreplay. He's already in such a heightened state of arousal that the smallest thing could tip him over. Shepard wants it so badly; his arms strain fiercely against the silk scarf around his wrists. Miranda almost wants a vid of him like this, just to watch it again later. Instead, she has to savour the moment. Savour the feel of what it's like to be both literally and figuratively in control of Shepard's manhood.
Miranda repeats the motion a second time, sliding her hand up to fist the head, and then back down to the base. She squeezes tight around the bottom just to hear those delicious, choked sounds in the back of Shepard's throat. He's very vocal; just listening to the noises he makes, drinking them in, is almost as enjoyable for Miranda as the occasions when she does let Shepard please her.
"What do you want? Tell me," she orders. Her hand remains around the base of him; her grip still tight on the hot, swollen flesh. She won't give him what he wants until he spells it out, and only then, if it's a satisfactory answer. Miranda has become very good at this.
She could probably extract any number of Alliance or Spectre secrets from the man, just with a hand job alone. That's a power that not even the Illusive Man holds. He does know, of course, about her and Shepard's little sessions. He's been monitoring the ship since day one. He approves, because really, it's all to keep Shepard's leash as short as possible. At least until they stop the Collectors.
"I want to come, ma'am," he chokes out, and those words just sound so sweet, so shameful, dripping from Shepard's lips. "Please. Let me come..."
The begging always gets easier, the more desperate Shepard is. It's quite a change to behold. Miranda never tires of it.
"Have you been good for me, Shepard?" Her hand is still frozen in place around the base of him, and her grip has grown so tight now it might almost be painful.
If it is, however, Shepard doesn't let it show. He merely swallows. "Yes ma'am." His throat sounds incredibly dry.
"Have you?" she asks again.
"Please," Shepard breathes; and by God, he actually whimpers like a bitch in heat. It's the most beautiful sound Miranda has ever heard.
She cant get any more out of him at that point; Shepard bucks his hips, almost involuntarily, and his cock's weeping, desperate for release. Miranda surprises herself by finally relenting. She gives him two hard strokes and that's all it takes.
Shepard comes so hard, he's probably seeing stars behind that blindfold.
His back arches sharply, and Miranda drinks in the low groan from his throat as he explodes. Having carefully angled him toward his chest, Shepard cums over his bare stomach, his whole body shuddering with the pleasure. Debauching himself even further under Miranda's touch.
The commander's chest heaves as he comes down from the high. The tremble of his thighs is barely noticeable, but Miranda sees it, sees the muscles all over his body that are now spent after having been teased so long. Miranda can't help but think that for all his toughness on the battlefield, all his courage and resolve in times of war, Shepard's just as fragile, just as vulnerable as anyone else. And just as easy to please.
She brings a hand up to the side of his face, lets him nuzzle into it. "That's my good pet," she says, and Shepard seems vindicated. He was probably concerned about coming without her explicit permission. Miranda finds that endearing somehow. She makes a split-second decision to lean in and kiss him, which surprises Shepard. For all the other things that happen inside this room, kissing is not often among them. He can't stifle the little gasp that comes out of his mouth, which Miranda devours as her lips are suddenly upon him. Shepard melts into the kiss; opens to her without resistance, like he does in all else. The commander's not the only one with a punishing tongue. Miranda makes good use of hers. She's playful, fights for control as they go, and Shepard's not without that spark of playfulness himself. He fights back just enough to make it interesting without really challenging her authority.
When they break apart, there's a smile on Miranda's face.
"I can't send you off like this," she says, trailing a finger through the sticky mess on Shepard's stomach. "You'll have to clean it up."
"Yes ma'am," Shepard answers; and damned if there isn't a tiny smile at the corners of his lips, too. But he's got enough sense in his head not to be too smug about it, and opens his mouth obediently.
Miranda scoops two fingers through the offending mess and pops them into Shepard's mouth, pleased at the eagerness with which he sucks them clean. There's still a certain redness to his cheeks, creeping out from beneath the blindfold, but it's begun to dissipate in the wake of his orgasm. Miranda's almost disappointed. Being able to see his shame is half the fun.
They repeat the process several times, and it's not long before the evidence of Shepard's pleasure is gone. At that point, Miranda's satisfied, and she rises to her feet.
"If only they knew what a needy little slut you are, Shepard. I wonder what they'd think of you then."
Miranda doesn't specify who they are. The galaxy, the Council, the extranet; it doesn't really matter. The desired effect is achieved when Shepard squirms a bit on his knees, strains against the silk scarf around his wrists. He makes no move to deny it, not that he'd dare. Shepard knows it's true. He enjoys every second of these creative humiliations. And whatever this is that they do here in this room, somehow Shepard needs it to keep his head on straight. That's what it comes down to, no matter what Miranda's or the Illusive Man's take on any of this is.
Miranda moves behind Shepard to untie his wrists. Once the scarf's off, he rolls his shoulders several times, adjusting to the sudden slack in his muscles. She hands him his sweater then, lets him zip it back on and tuck his half-hard cock back into his sweatpants.
"Do you agree, Shepard? Are you a slut?" Miranda asks once he's decent again. Her hands are on the knot of the blindfold, waiting for a response.
"Only for you, ma'am."
And that's the right answer, isn't it? When Miranda finally removes the scarf, Shepard gets to his feet. Drawn up to his full height, he's much taller than Miranda, and has to look down just to meet her gaze. Shepard's eyes, however, are surprisingly clear and focused.
That's all Miranda needs to see.
"Dismissed."