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Jeff Moreau can't think of a time he's ever seen his commanding officer nervous. The woman has faced a countless number of quite literally unbelievable threats without so much as a flinch. Hell, she got herself spaced and miraculously brought back to life by a terrorist organization just to save his sorry ass – a fact that he thinks about constantly, in just about every quiet moment he's had since it happened.
Olivia Shepard has stood toe to toe against more insane odds than he could care to count and has done so with the selflessness of a saint and the stoicism of, well, a gargoyle, if you ask him. A steadfast protector, always showing a little teeth to intimidate – he’s had a lot of time to think about this, okay?
Lately, though, that selflessness of hers has morphed itself into a recklessness that scares the shit out of him; not that Shepard wasn’t always a little reckless, this just feels different. He hears the crew talk after missions – sometimes to him directly, sometimes to each other – about the way she’s started to charge to the forefront of every fight, pushing her biotics to the brink of failing instead of relying on her squad members to help. About the way she’s been leaping from the Hammerhead before they’ve had a chance to touch it down in a safe zone. He’s watched the way she sneaks off nearly every time they dock the Normandy and doesn’t return until most of the crew is asleep, either drunk or high off her ass on who knows what.
It’s like the mission on Horizon broke something vital in her, and who could even blame her? Rather than seeing half a colony saved, he’s sure she sees the half that was lost, engineered by the very man who brought her back from the dead just to test a theory. Not to mention that they know next to nothing about the Collectors, other than that they are working with the Reapers – who the council still refuse to believe are a real threat. If Jeff wouldn’t break half the bones in his body doing it, he’d kick all their asses.
The problem, aside from everything just mentioned and a veritable landslide of other issues, is that Shepard won’t fucking talk to anyone about it. She’s so dead set on carrying the burden of the entire universe on her own shoulders that she’s unable to see how wide the cracks in her armor have become. Either that or she simply doesn’t care anymore, and that thought is more paralyzing to him than the neurotoxin those damn seeker swarms use. His commander needs a reminder that she doesn’t always have to be in charge, that she can rely on her team to help carry her through the moments she’s feeling the weakest, that inside the walls of the Normandy she’s allowed to be vulnerable.
Trying to talk just isn’t working. He’s tried so many times, he knows they all have, and he’s getting real tired of Garrus pacing a trench into the floor behind his console.
Joker wants to grab Shepard by the shoulders and shake her, wants to throw a punch or two that might rattle whatever shook loose in her head back into place. He wants to lift her off her damn feet, shove her against a wall, and fuck her until she cries just to see some semblance of human emotion on her face.
Which leads him to now, with Liv standing at the foot of her bed in nothing but a blindfold and one of the baggy tees he left in here for those rare, stolen moments they get together. She squeezes his hand so gently, and he can acutely feel the little tremble of her nerves in each of her fingers. “Jeff,” she whispers into the quiet of the room, restlessly fidgeting in a way he’s never imagined was even possible. “Is this really necessary?”
He squeezes her hand back with a little more force before slipping away from her altogether. “Why yes, Olivia, it is,” he lets just a little of the irritation he’s been feeling recently slip into the words, and sees her spine go ramrod straight. “Do you trust me?” he asks before she can question or protest.
“Of course,” her response is immediate and firm and it would make Joker smile if her actions hadn’t been proving the opposite recently.
“Good. Hands forward, Commander.”
…
Shepard falters a bit when she hears the command in the flight lieutenant’s tone, despite the use of her formal title. Her hackles rise, this pieced together body of hers constantly primed for fighting. She knows that the crew is worried for her, that Jeff is worried for her, but it all feels secondary to the rush of adrenaline during a good fight – it’s just about the only thing that she can feel at all anymore, and it’s a thousand times better than the inevitable numbness that sinks deep into her bones otherwise.
The Illusive Man failed in his goal of bringing her back wholly, she’s sure of that. Her Cerberus funded body might look identical, her memories might be perfectly intact, but her feelings are deadened and have been dying more and more with each passing day.
She must get too caught up in her own thoughts because Jeff’s warm hands are suddenly around both of her wrists, tugging them forward demandingly, and it takes every ounce of her self control not to yank them out of his grasp; he’d asked if she trusted him, and she does, so she refrains. It doesn’t stop her from uneasily shifting her weight from one foot to the other, wondering what the hell has gotten into the man. They’ve slept together a handful of times since her return from the dead, but with Jeff’s condition it’s always had to be slow and sweet, never blindfolds and – is he binding her wrists now? “Jeff,” she can hear the protest in her own voice, and feel the way he ties the knots tighter in retaliation. She hears the familiar whisper of a door opening and closing, but Jeff cuts off her questions yet again.
“Do you have any idea how it feels to have to sit in that chair while you go out there and risk your life every day?” he asks suddenly, and the sweetness that he used to coax her into her room in the first place has completely vanished from his voice. “And if it wasn’t already bad enough, now I have to hear after every mission how you’ve been trying to throw away a life you just fucking got back.”
A flicker of something like guilt sparks in her chest, but it’s small and weak and she stamps it out before it can grow. “It’s none of your business.” She hears his huff of disbelieving laughter and wishes she could tear the damn blindfold away so that she could see his expression. She’s about to do just that, bound hands raising towards her face, when an iron grip clamps around one of her wrists and effortlessly halts the motion. Confusion pinches her brow, followed swiftly by something like panic when she tries and fails to remove herself from the hold. “Joker – ”
“Shepard,” his answer is far too casual and far too distant, somewhere off to the left where her little seating area is situated. “Say the word and we call this off.”
She feels like her lungs suddenly aren’t drawing enough air, her next question spoken on a shuddering exhale, “What is this? ”
“Let’s call it punishment.”
Heat floods her body like a wildfire, spreading first from her cheeks to the tips of her ears, then further down, pooling in her lower belly and between her thighs. She’s more surprised by the visceral reaction than anything – surprised and delighted by the intensity of the sensation.
Her pilot must be more attuned to her emotions than she thought, because he laughs low and husky. “Yeah, I thought so.” The creak of leather is her only indication that Jeff has taken a seat in one of the nearby chairs. “Feel free to fight if it makes you feel better, sweetheart. Safeword is Blasto.”
Shepard would have rolled her eyes in any other situation. Instead, she tests the grip on her wrist once more, putting more strength behind her movement and finding it utterly unyielding. “Let me go,” she whispers, and the fingers start to slacken.
Jeff’s laugh is wicked, “Baby, that’s not how we play this game. I want you helpless.”
Her sharp, aroused inhale is apparently the only trigger needed. Her head swims as she’s spun around and pushed up against her fishtank, her cheek and chest flat against the cold glass the only indication of where in the room she’s been shoved. The hand once holding her wrist now tangles up in whatever fabric Jeff used to bind her and forces her arms up above her head. She attempts to free herself yet again, puts more of her strength into it just for fun, and the headrush she feels when she realizes that she’s well and truly pinned is divine. A rough hand brushes feather-light against her thigh before trailing higher, up under Jeff’s shirt to settle against her bare hip. Her mind stutters for just a moment before kicking back into gear – helpless, Jeff had said, and she’s certainly not that. Not yet, anyway.
Shepard blindly sweeps her leg out, grinning in triumph when the heel of her foot makes contact with a shin. She hears the low grunt of pain from the impact, but instead of the hold around her wrists loosening as she expected, her arms are only lifted higher, pulling her entire body taut. She’s calculating her position and what exactly she can do to escape it when the hand on her hip slips between her thighs. The gasp that tears from her throat is ragged, but nothing compared to the sound she makes when two clever fingers press to either side of her clit.They dip lower, gathering her wetness before rubbing a firm circle that has her seeing stars behind her eyelids.
Holy hell – this is really happening.
One foot hooks around the inside of her ankle and forcefully drags her legs further apart at the same time that those fingers push inside of her and curl. She nearly hiccups on the moan it pulls from her. She's spread thin, balancing on the precipice of something earth shattering as those fingers work her higher and higher, the other hand offering her outstretched arms absolutely no slack.
It's a purposeful distraction, one that she hates is working. It would be so easy to submit to the pleasure she's being offered, but her blood is still singing with the desire to attack. So she goes on the offensive, softening the lines of her body, and arching as best she can while held in her current position. She breathes a sultry moan when her ass finds the cradle of the hips behind her, and she hears a sharp intake of air near her ear when she rolls her hips in a slow grind against the hardness she finds there.
“Oh, I’m disappointed. You lost all that fight of yours pretty quick, Commander,” Jeff teases from across the room, but his voice sounds even more wrecked than her own. “Here I was thinking – ”
She uses both the diversion of her body and the perfectly timed interruption to rear her head back before those fingers can resume their maddening patterns. The back of her head collides painfully with, she assumes, the face of their mystery guest.
“Oh, shit!”
Shepard relishes both in the fleeting pain and in the way that the grip on her wrists finally slackens. Hell, she even relishes in Jeff's surprised exclamation. She rolls her shoulders as she brings her arms down, smirk quirking up the corner of her mouth as she turns, “You really think I'd give up that easily?”
“A miscalculation, siha,” comes the smooth reply. “One I will not be making again.”
Oh shit.
…
Joker had put a lot of thought into his decision. He needed someone physically strong enough to handle the challenge Olivia would surely pose, someone clever and quick enough to think ten steps ahead of her brilliant mind, and, most importantly, someone they both trusted implicitly.
Garrus had been an obvious choice, but his concern about creating awkwardness in their friendship combined with the occasional looks he'd see pass between the Turian and their resident Quarian had him staying his overeager tongue.
He'd been ruminating about his idea for weeks when they had a run in go wrong with the Blue Sun's on Omega. Their stupid, careless commander had managed to take a bullet to the thigh, hip, and stomach all in rapid succession after refusing to back down even after her shield failed. Thane had seen to it that every bastard that harmed her was taken care of before carrying her back to the Normandy, a stormy emotion warring with relief in his dark eyes.
He knew then who he'd ask – a conversation that was far easier than he initially thought it might be. The assassin agreed with his sentiment about their commanding officer and her seemingly increasing desire to throw herself into danger, and his only requirement was the consent of both parties.
Joker isn't a jealous man, he’s confident in his relationship with Olivia even if he isn't exactly confident in Olivia herself at the moment. He'd seen the way her gaze often followed the Drell and had no doubt her consent would be freely, even eagerly, given. It had all been so stoic, so businesslike despite the details of the pilot's request, that Joker just assumed Thane carried himself with that same impassivity through all aspects of his life. Not that this was a surprise – he'd seen him kill men with ease and then absolve himself of all guilt by likening himself to a weapon.
So, imagine his surprise when he sees the fire in Thane's eyes as he wipes green blood from his nose.
Liv stands frozen near the fishtank, her nipples peaked from the cold glass and straining against the soft cotton of his sleep shirt. Her bound hands are slack in front of her, and her mouth opens and closes wordlessly for a moment before a single whispered word breaks the straining silence, “Thane.”
The assassin reaches for her, gently caressing the fingers that had just been buried in her cunt across her cheek. “Now that you know who I am, I'll afford you one chance to end it here, Olivia.”
Joker's breath catches as she hesitates, turns her blind gaze towards him, and damn if her spatial awareness isn't keen because he feels the weight of her stare like a brand. Or maybe that's just them, always able to find one another despite time, despite distance, despite death. His eyes don’t leave the fabric that obscures her eyes as he speaks to Thane, “I want you to fuck her until that pretty, little head is empty of every thought. Except maybe an apology.”
…
Shepard feels like she can’t breathe through the tension that soaks the silence following Jeff’s order. Her fingers twitch with the desire to pull the blindfold off, but she remains otherwise motionless. She feels exhilarated, alive, and the heady rush of endorphins has her taking one tentative, curious step backwards.
Thane is on her in moments, lithe body crowding hers against the fishtank once more, close enough to pin her bound hands between their chests. He threads his fingers through the hair at the nape of her neck and yanks her head back to expose the column of her throat, nipping the tender flesh just once as his other hand picks up right where it had left off.
She shudders at the feeling of his fused digits pressing inside of her and wonders how she didn't recognize him before. He reads her like he's fluent, putting all of those observational skills she's so used to seeing aimed at others to good use as he captures with perfect memory each tremble and spasm, each angle and speed and pressure she prefers. He keys her up so quickly, she'd have half the mind to be embarrassed if she didn't feel so good.
She spreads her fingers across his chest, feeling the window in his jacket that exposes his scales and marveling in the feel of them against her skin. She moans his name, unabashedly rolling her hips to meet his fingers, jolting like she's been struck by lightning when his thumb flicks against her clit. Everything in her starts to pull tight, tight, tight –
“Don't let her cum,” her pilot warns, “she hasn't earned it yet.”
Thane halts immediately and that edge that seemed so close only moments ago ever so slowly fades. “Joker,” she snarls, but it comes out sounding much more pathetic than she intended.
“Shepard,” he fires back – the cocky little shit, he's actually enjoying this. She suddenly wishes she could see just how much, and the errant thought causes another bolt of desire to spark through her body.
“She wishes to see you,” Thane says.
“How would you possibly know that? She didn't say anything.”
“I felt her.” He curls the fingers still lodged inside of her right into the spot that makes her vision fuzzy, just for emphasis.
“Aw,” Jeff coos condescendingly, “that's sweet, baby, but you haven't earned me, either.”
She can all but feel the smirk on Thane's face as her muscles flutter helplessly around him once more. “She liked that,” he intones before slowly resuming his torture, this time adding a third finger. His grip on her hair relents and he instead skims his unoccupied hand across her covered collarbones, up over her shoulder and down to her wrist. He taps the delicate skin right over a pressure point, “Arms up, siha.”
The second time this evening her translator has failed.
She can hardly focus around the feeling swelling up inside her again, but when she feels those fingers start to slow she snaps to focus. “Don't,” she hisses, throwing her arms up over her head. “Fuck, not again, don't stop.” For a moment she thinks he might actually take pity on her because his pace picks up and his free hand slips down to pinch her clit, and she yelps at the intoxicating mix of pain and pleasure.
And then he stops, pulling away from her completely. A bitter little sob escapes her as she's left to slump against the wall.
“Not hearing any apologies yet,” Jeff singsongs.
“What the fuck do I need to apologize for?” she snaps, as if she doesn't already know. She can read Jeff's game as easily as she can read the Illusive Man's, and she's not about to apologize for getting the job done. If Cerberus brought her back from the dead once, what's stopping them from doing it again? Why should she need to be so careful with a life that shouldn't even be possible?
Hamburger, they'd likened her remains to. Nothing but minced meat and some scraps of metal.
Angry now, she moves to wedge her own hand between her thighs, content to get herself off without either of the men so content on seeing her crumble. She barely has time for a single stroke against her own sensitive flesh before her wrists are snatched by strong hands and torn away.
Thane's nimble fingers pluck apart the knots that Jeff tied with no trouble. The moment she's free, he spins her around like a ragdoll, collects her arms behind her back, and re-ties her with binds that are somehow more effective and more comfortable. Once he's happy with his work, his hands find purchase in her hips. “I will admit that I did not believe our flight lieutenant when he warned me how obstinate you would be.”
“Wow,” Shepard breathes the word against the glass where her face is now pressed. Again. “Two mistakes in one night? Maybe you're losing your edge.”
Jeff outright guffaws.
“Perhaps I am. Allow me to reacquaint myself.”
…
Joker would have laughed again at Thane's not-so-subtle innuendo had the assassin not then dropped to his knees.
He swallows thickly as the Drell tugs Shepard's hips backwards, forcing her spine into a pretty arch and baring every inch of the mess she's made between her thighs. His cock twitches with interest against his own thigh, and he clenches his hands tightly atop the leather sofa. Restraint, for now.
Restraint that immediately becomes more difficult to maintain at the keening moan that leaves Liv's mouth as Thane licks a scorching path from one of her wet thighs all the way up to her dripping pussy.
“Fuck,” he groans to himself. She looks incredible like this, hair disheveled, panting breath fogging the glass, firm ass and long legs quivering with want. To be honest, he’s more than a little awed by how quickly the assassin has shattered most of their commander’s bravado – sure, she’s still got some fight left in her, but he can tell exactly how desperate she is. And it’s hot, hotter than he possibly could have imagined watching her greedily tilt her hips towards Thane’s mouth, watching the way she keeps lifting herself up onto her toes to grant him easier access. He almost feels bad for her as the assassin works her up again and again, but then he remembers that bratty mouth of hers and can’t help the satisfied smile that splits his face. This is exactly what she needs, even if she can’t admit it yet.
Thane eats her out with the single-minded focus that was trained into him by the Hanar, but Shepard has proved surprisingly resilient in her stubborn refusal to give in. Joker knows for fact he would've apologized for anything and everything after one, maybe two, interrupted orgasms, but he supposes he should've learned by now never to doubt the willpower of Olivia Shepard.
He watches Thane work her with lips and teeth and tongue, watches him alternate between biting her thighs and sucking her clit and stuffing her pussy full of his fingers. He wonders just how long she'll hold out when her moans pitch and the assassin draws his mouth away yet again.
Shepard wails. “Please! Oh my god, please just – ” her voice hitches and cracks “ – let me cum. Jeff, I'm sorry!”
He has to swallow the fucking drool pooling in his mouth before he can respond. “Why?” She breathes a shaky, incoherent noise in answer, so he spells it out for her, “Why are you sorry, Liv?”
…
Shepard can’t think of anything beyond the single-mindedness of getting Thane’s mouth on her again. She barely even remembers offering the apology in the first place, and now Jeff wants her to explain why? Her arms strain uselessly against their binds, her hips twisting and turning anxiously as she chases the phantom sensation of more denied pleasure.
Her silence apparently lasts too long because the assassin’s fingers suddenly, warningly dance up the inside of her thigh, and she knows she can’t take it anymore, not again.
“I’ve been,” she rasps, “reckless and careless and…” She gasps when those damned fingers slide higher, gliding through the slick combination of arousal and saliva that has gathered where her legs meet her hips. “I’m sorry,” she whimpers. Somewhere distant, she knows that it’s still not enough, that she owes explanations to the crew members who have spent so much time worried for not only their commanding officer but their friend, but fuck does she hope it’s enough for now.
The groan of her leather sofa is jarringly loud, as are the footsteps that follow, slow and calculated and louder with each step closer. Thane’s hand slips away from her as another, smoother hand cradles her cheek, carefully pulling her upright on her shaking legs. “Good job, sweetheart,” Jeff says into her hairline, placing an achingly tender kiss there before catching her mouth with his. Shepard’s moan is loud and needy and swallowed by her pilot as he angles her face and deepens their kiss for only a moment, just long enough for one seductive sweep of his tongue across hers. “Alright, Krios,” he says when he pulls away, and the note of unfettered hunger in his tone makes her shiver. “You know the drill.”
There is a brief rustling of fabric, more footsteps, more leather creaking. Gentle, gentle fingers unbind her arms. “You’ll need these now, siha.” And then hands are roughly spinning her around, grabbing her by the thighs and lifting. The protest on the tip of her tongue dies as Thane sheaths the entire length of himself into her in one smooth slide.
Shepard’s head knocks back against the fishtank hard enough to hurt, and she’s positive that she has more than disturbed all of her poor fish at this point, but she can’t find the will to care when every nerve in her body lights up like a firework. There is no easing into the feeling, no time to adjust – she doesn’t need it, as wet and soft and ready as she is, as she has been for what feels like forever now. He effectively pins her in place with his body and sets a pace that drives her mad; every ridge of his cock feels unbelievably good as it slides through the slick heat of her cunt. She throws her arms around his shoulders and leans in to bury her face against the side of his throat, but she doesn’t bite, not like she wants, not when she isn’t sure how sensitive that ruby red flesh really is. The answering rumble of Thane’s groan against her lips as she skims them against his skin is more than enough.
He readjusts his grip on one of her legs, hooking his hand up under her knee and pushing it out to widen the space between her hips. He takes immediate advantage, pushing himself closer and deeper and huffing a small laugh at the desperate sob the motion elicits from her. “Keep it there, Commander,” Thane instructs, his already rough voice somehow even rougher. She wonders briefly if his subharmonics are going haywire and almost laughs at the idea of having to ever explain this situation to Garrus. That line of thought is wiped away quickly when the assassin releases her leg and it just about drops to the floor. He promptly swats the outside of her thigh, and the smarting pain only serves to ratchet her pleasure that much higher – he must recognize the way her pussy quivers around him because he does it again, with a little more force this time, before gripping her leg under the knee and forcing it back where he had it before. “I’ll only ask once more, Shepard. Keep your leg still, and I will reward your efforts.”
Fuck. She releases the death grip she has on his jacket with one hand so that she can hold her leg still, because there is absolutely no way in hell she’ll ever be able to keep it where he wants it with willpower alone. He responds with a thrust hard enough to shift her entire body higher, and her eyes roll into the back of her head. She’s so, so close.
Thane dips his now-freed hand between their bodies to rub his thumb across her clit and – hell yes, if this is her reward, she’ll hold onto her fucking leg for the rest of time. The pressure is building fast, swelling with every incredibly aimed thrust and circle of his thumb. She twists her face away from his throat and weakly brushes her cheek against his shoulder until the fabric of her blindfold catches and tugs away just enough to free one of her eyes.
Instantly, she finds Jeff, crowned by the haze of the bright, colorful lights that sparkle at the edges of her vision. His pupils are blown wide, eating up all of the green that she loves so much, his gaze flitting about like he can’t figure out where he wants to focus most. The second he catches her eye, she moans, and he grins, “Come on, baby. You’ve earned it.”
It feels like a detonation, an unwinding and rewriting, and a thousand other nonsensical, poetic similes. Tears prick in her eyes and her entire body goes rigid as she is finally, finally pushed over the edge she’d been denied time and time again and – fuck, fuck, it’s perfect. Thane stiffens against her, growling out that word her translator refuses to pick up over and over as the warmth of his own release spills and spreads through her. They collapse against one another, boneless, chests heaving. She slowly lowers her leg, wincing at the twinge and flexing her thighs around the assassin’s hips in a pseudo-stretch. He grunts, lowering his mouth to nip against her jawline, “I wouldn’t test my self control at the moment, siha. You will find I am not a merciful man.”
Shepard laughs – carefree and bright. “I think I more than learned my lesson in that regard.” She returns her attention to her pilot, offering him a warm smile full of mischief and gratitude and love, and is surprised to realize that the color swimming in her vision is not some bizarre side effect of being edged to within an inch of her life.
“Drell venom,” Thane supplies, and she’s too tired and sated to care how he knew. “A mild hallucinogenic. Jeff procured the antivenom from Mordin, should you desire.”
“You’ll have to come get it if you want it,” Joker says, raising the small vial of liquid. “I worked pretty hard to get it, you know. You wouldn’t believe how awkward that conversation was.”
Oh, she can imagine; the Salarian professor isn’t exactly known for his subtlety. “You won’t bring it to me?”
“Now where would the fun be in that? You’re not in danger – wait, she’s not in danger, right?”
She laughs, “The only one in danger here is you, Flight Lieutenant, when I finally reach you.”
…
Relief, sweet and potent, when he hears that laugh, sees that smile.
They’ve still got a long road ahead of them, conversations that need to be had and apologies that need to be said, and maybe even a new, recurring dynamic to their relationship that they need to work out because damn.
For now, though, it’s enough.
And as Olivia’s eyes dance over his form with a greedy, visceral sort of hunger that heats Joker’s blood to boiling, he offers in return a smile full of love and acceptance and just a hint of wickedness. “Bring it on, Commander.”