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The shower ‘schedule’ was fucked. The two bathrooms were technically gender segregated and ‘regulated’ on paper, with crew members having designated windows during which to use them. Now, though, with the majority of the preexisting Cerberus crew missing and the rest of the crew composed of various aliens some of whom lived perpetually in suits, Jack figured the schedule had gone out the window. Not that she had bothered adhering to it in the past.
Having once again avoided dying on one of Shepard’s batshit fucking crazy missions acquiring what looked like a simple data chip, Jack threw her trusty shotgun onto her cot. Taking off her golden earpiece – dulling the sound of the world – she stalked right back up to the women’s shower block.
Arms covered in blue gunk – reaper guts – she tried at one of the two functional showers, the one in the back of the bizarre triangular room, spinning the dial to run ever so slightly too hot. The red light over the dial filled the small screen to the top, counting her down. Each shower was limited to 7 minutes for reasons she didn’t question or care about; and when the 7 minutes ran out and the water stopped, she turned it back on.
Slowly, the reaper guts drained through the floor to god knows where leaving her still tired but at the very least, clean. Her muscles ached pleasantly, the last reminder of a stellar gun fight leaving its mark on her body.
A gash on her shoulder bled, leaving a trail of red in the otherwise clear water.
The reaper who had inflicted the cut – a fuck ugly husk, face like the meat slop she had been served during one of her many prison stays – was mere inches from her jugular when he died. Jack was still not clear on whether husks, who were technically already dead, could be killed, but the nitty gritty of the situation wasn’t what she thought of as the hot water ran down her back.
The husk’s head had exploded quite violently. So violently, in fact, that she was still washing its dark blue blood out of the crevices of her ear.
Worse, it wasn’t Jack who’d killed it.
Her fingers scrubbed angrily at her scalp as she took her irritation out on herself.
Miranda Motherfucking Lawson had saved her life.
On the one hand, she wasn’t dead. On the other hand, this was just plain old humiliating. It was, of course, her own damn fault. She ran out of clips, and wasn't paying attention as she shot her last one straight into the reaper core. And just as she reached for another, finding her pockets empty, the husk sunk its disgustingly long nails into her shoulder, second arm already around her throat.
And there she was. Miranda Motherfucking Lawson with her goddamn tiny pistol pressed firmly to the husk’s temple.
Maybe Jack would have rather died.
It was too late for that, though. Now, she owed the Cerberus bitch.
Under Shepard’s extremely questionable orders, the pair had dragged the defunct Geth sniper back to the Normandy. It was only as they trudged on in a hurry, the hunk of metal between them, that Jack had caught her gaze wandering right past the thing’s drooping head. Miranda, as covered in blue blood as she was, huffed with the effort of lugging the geth through the reaper’s halls. Bright blue energy wisped around her, pushing her further and further back to the Normandy.
Just like that, covered in reaper blood, sweat, and likely some blood of her own, Miranda Lawson was a hot hot mess.
After they’d nonchalantly flung themselves back aboard the Normandy, Miranda had shot her a scowl that stirred something she was actively trying to suppress, and, shoving right past her, locked herself in her quarters.
Standing silently in the now slightly steamy room with a detailed image in her mind, her fingers traced past the southern point of the compass star tattooed on her stomach, sliding right into warm slick flesh. She let out a sigh, lips parting gently, fingers dragging slowly over her clit.
Miranda Motherfucking Lawson. Black hair plastered to her face, a small cut through her lower lip leaving a smudged red trace down her chin.
Jack’s fingers found a comfortable pace automatically but, despite herself, her ears burned red. Leaning back against the cold wall, she stood, legs spread apart just enough to give herself access.
That fucking scowl.
Soft, pretty face contorted into something meaner, stronger, fiercer than she thought possible. As though the operative were instigating her on purpose. As though she were saying ‘that’s right, I'm a killing machine, watch me desecrate a whole horde of husks with a shitty pistol and sheer force of will.’
A low “fuck” escaped her parted lips. Jack picked up her pace, fingers moving with practiced efficiency, knees weakening with every drag of her fingers through soft skin. Gasping, she shut her eyes to the mental image of Miranda ripping a husk clean in half with her biotics. It wasn’t something she herself couldn’t do, but to her vivid, lust drunk mind, the image felt electrifying.
The door to the shower block slid open silently.
Jack, whose golden earpiece lay soundly on her cot in the cargo bay, didn’t notice. Slotting her throbbing clit between both fingers she rocked her hips gently into her own touch.
“Fucking cheerleader,” she groaned into the stream of water still pelting the top of her head.
“Flattering.”
Jack’s eyes snapped open to the sound of Miranda’s crystal clear voice, fingers stilling in place.
“Oh don’t let me stop you,” she smirked, still covered in blood, clearly here for the same reason Jack was.
Fuck.
“Perv,” she shot, hoping the dim light concealed exactly how flustered she was.
“You don't strike me like the shy type,” Miranda replied simply, taking in every inch of her nude body with an open gaze.
“That's cause I'm not,” Jack retorted.
“Prove it.” Miranda's clean robe, tinted blue where the unwashed blood dripped from her face, hit the floor.
Jack stared.
Jack hated that she stared, but every instinct she had in place that would normally prevent her being so pathetically obviously was immediately drowned out by the absolute majesty of Miranda's form. Jack felt all at once mesmerized and disgusted with herself, as though she’d discovered a new fetish she wasn’t too fond of.
Casually, as though she didn’t notice the obvious gaze lingering between her breasts and just below her waistline, Miranda ‘Motherfucking’ Lawson flipped on the switch to the shower closest to Jack. Dark blue blood slowly seeped from her thick head of hair as she watched Jack, whose fingers were still firmly planted between her legs, with an instigatory smirk.
Not one to back down from a challenge – despite how hot it was beneath the figurative collar – Jack resumed her self pleasuring. Tepid at first, then more, faster.
Miranda raised her arms, pulling her fingers through her hair. More blue poured down her skin, wet bloodied skin catching the light. A long moan escaped Jack’s lips as she slipped a digit inside herself, watching the curve of her breast through the steam.
Pressure built behind Jack’s clit, slow and steady with each thrust. The very sight of Miranda, soaked head to toe in blood, sweat, and water bringing her closer and closer to the edge of the cliff. Just as she felt herself slipping off the edge, the water shut off, her first seven minutes elapsing.
Jack exhaled sharply, fingers never stopping their rhythm, but Miranda seemed to view this as an invitation.
Pulling the hair back, letting it cascade down her shoulders, she approached Jack as her body stuttered into her palm, standing mere inches from her, looking down at her with her steady blue gaze. Jack tried – really tried to meet it. Tried all the way up until Miranda bent down, bracketing the biotic’s body with both hands, and flicked the shower back on, light dial resetting to seven minutes.
“Fucking perv,” Jack whispered, slowing but not stopping.
“Little freak,” Miranda countered, “might want to hurry, don’t want to waste too much water do you?”
Jack’s gaze dragged down involuntarily, hands stuttering between her desire to touch and to be touched. Her head tipped forward slowly, knees bucking until she was eye level with Miranda’s nipples.
The operative let out a soft chuckle, looking down at Jack with a demeaning smile.
“Get up you poor thing, it’s past your bedtime.” She pulled at Jack’s hand, pulling her finger out and her arm straight up until she was back at her full height.
“Fuck off,” Jack replied, not fighting back with any particular commitment. Slipping a greedy hand around Miranda’s slippery waist, she stared at the small cuts peppering her pale skin, at the red bruise lining her jaw, and the one beneath it; leftovers from the fight. Stared at every inch of her as though she’d paid a fortune for the privilege. Every inch except her eyes, that is.
“Then tell me,” Miranda muttered, straight into her ear, sending a jolt of need straight through her core. Her wandering fingers slipped into Jack’s cunt easy. Way too easy. “Tell me you don't want this and I'll stop.”
Jack sank lower, searching for more, gripping Miranda hard.
“You were saying?” Miranda grinned, pushing her fingers deeper, hard enough to lift Jack off her heels.
“Fuck,” she gasped leaning forward into the crook of her neck.
For a moment, Miranda allowed it, thrusting two fingers into Jack with brutal force until Jack bit down hard. Deep white dents appearing just under the reaper husk’s bruise on her neck.
That was just about enough.
In one smooth move, Miranda pushed her back, pinning her to the cold wall while she pulled her leg up, warm palm holding up her thigh, spreading her open. Without warning, she pushed three fingers into Jack until she let out a wretched whimper, wondering if anyone else would be joining them inconveniently in the shower block.
“You’ve been thinking about this,” Miranda murmured, her breath hot against Jack’s ear. “Haven’t you? Watching me shoot. Watching me kill. Getting all worked up.”
“Fuck you,” Jack gasped, but it sounded weak, even to her own ears which were still ringing from the gunfire, still muffled from the lack of her trusted earpiece. She bucked against the hold, but Miranda just pressed closer, the hard line of her body keeping her in a vice grip.
“No,” Miranda said, her voice dripping with condescension. “I don’t think so.”
She pulled out slow, rough fingers finding Jack’s nipple, already tight from tension. She pinched hard. Jack – all guards dropped – cried out in pain. The pain shot through her instantly, pooling into a throbbing need low in her stomach.
“Quiet,” Miranda ordered, though her eyes darkened visibly at the sound.
Her hand abandoned Jack’s breast, sliding down her slick flank and turning her around roughly. Jack trembled, breath hot on the tile, her free hand scrabbling for purchase and finding none.
Miranda’s fingers were long, elegant. They dipped between Jack’s thighs from behind, not seeking entrance yet, just stroking through the slickness already gathered there, making Jack jolt into her touch.
“So wet for me,” she observed. “All that anger… just turns into this, doesn’t it?”
Jack couldn’t form a coherent answer. Whimpering loud against the wall, she forced her legs apart. Miranda’s fingers – all three at once – pressed slowly, inexorably, inside her, curling roughly, finding the spot that made Jack’s vision whiten at the edges, her knees buckling. Only Miranda’s body pinning her up kept her from collapsing.
“There it is,” Miranda whispered, her lips against the shell of Jack’s ear. She began a ruthless, slow rhythm, in and out. It was too much and not enough. It was engineered for maximum torment. Jack’s head fell forward against the tile, a litany of broken sounds falling from her lips – whimpers, pleas, curses that lost all meaning.
Miranda watched her unravel, a faint, victorious smirk on her face. This wasn’t about her own pleasure. This was about power. About reducing the stubborn, tattooed biotic to a quivering, begging mess under her skilled hands. Hesitating for a split second, she added a fourth finger, stretching Jack to the very brink of her breaking point.
“You can take it, can’t you.”
The world narrowed to the stroke of those fingers, the press of Miranda’s body, the steam choking the air. The ringing in Jack’s ears amplified the sounds of her own desperation, making them loud, raw, and unfiltered in her head. With a glint in her eye, Miranda sent a series of small shocks up her tattooed torso, biotic sparks leaving small red marks.
Jack was climbing and crashing all at once, the coil of hatred and lust pulled so tight she thought it might snap her in half.
“Come on,” Miranda goaded, her voice a dark ripple in the heat. “Let me hear it. Let everyone hear what I do to you.”
The permission, the demand, was the final trigger. The orgasm tore through Jack with violent, shocking intensity. Her back arched into Miranda a raw, screaming cry ripped from her throat – a sound she wouldn’t have recognized, deafened as she was to its volume. It tore through the steam, shameless and long while Jack’s muscles clenched desperately around Miranda’s fingers. Waves of pleasure crashed over her, leaving her boneless and shuddering.
As the tremors subsided, Miranda withdrew her fingers, slow and gentle. She brought them to her mouth, never breaking eye contact, deliberately sucking them clean. Her dark eyes held a banked, possessive fire as she left Jack there, slumped against the wall, breathing ragged. She could only stare as Miranda returned to her shower, turning it back on, lathering shampoo from a small wall dispenser. For a moment, she watched in a trance until her own shower turned off overhead. Regaining composure, she walked straight out, pausing long enough only to tie a towel around her waist.