Work Text:
It's a quiet party. The kind of party Miranda likes. She's never been one for throbbing bass that rattles the bones and poorly mixed drinks. Low music and conversation are more her style, and she's grateful that's the mood Shepard has chosen. The person she's conversing with, however, is something of a surprise.
Jack.
The Miranda of two years ago wouldn't have imagined this in her wildest dreams: the two of them on opposite sides of the bar, her leaning forward on both elbows, Jack slumped in one of the stools. Having a civil conversation.
That's the most surprising part, really. Back on the SR2, she would have been too proud for this moment, and Jack would have been too angry and hateful. But they've both grown since then. Both changed, thanks to Shepard. And so, for once, their regular insults have softened into playful banter.
"So, you're leading the Grissom Academy students?" she asks over the lip of the bottle of wine she's pulled from under the bar. Thessian red, a fairly good vintage, but she's decided to be crude for once and drink straight from the source. With the end of the world upon them, wineglasses and propriety just don't seem that important.
Jack doesn't seem to notice. She snorts, shaking her head and drawing Miranda's attention once more to the horrendous approximation of a ponytail she's sporting. "Yeah? That a problem?"
"Just a surprise. Your psych profile suggested you were mainly interested in yourself."
"You're telling me I'm only interested in myself? Hmph. Oh, that's just fucking perfect." Jack leans over the bar, but instead of leering or making threats, she simply snatches the wine bottle, taking a swig for herself.
Under normal circumstances, Miranda would have objected—loudly and strenuously. She'd claimed it, first off, and second, she's always been a bit squeamish about having other people's DNA all over her food and drinks. But for some reason, she doesn't say anything. She simply waits for Jack to put the bottle back down on the bar.
“Did it occur to you that maybe I'm trying to grow as a goddamn person?"
Miranda rolls her eyes, but eventually, they settle in a surprising place: the generous dip of Jack's cleavage. Maybe the alcohol is settling in, but it doesn't seem quite the same as before. Not that she's looked. Well, not that she's looked more than anyone else. And it's not like she had any other choice, with the way Jack strutted shirtless around the SR2, showing off her tattoos and a lot more besides.
"Oh, I could tell you were growing," she drawled, using her gaze to make her point. “I assumed it was...whatever that is you're wearing."
"You mean these?" Jack adjusts the sides of her leather jacket, and Miranda has to force herself not to stare at the obvious bounce that follows. "Well...yeah. They were strapped down with a leather belt before. It's kind of a stupid move to show off your rack in the middle of a maximum security prison ship."
Miranda resists the temptation to point out that Jack’s breasts had been all too visible under the leather belt anyway. She’s in the mood for a little good natured sparring, but not an all-out war. She still has vivid memories of the time Jack had destroyed half her office in a biotic rage. “I’ve never had the pleasure.”
Jack merely scoffs. “You’d never survive. You might break a nail.”
Those same nails rake ever so slightly against the smooth surface of the bar as Miranda leans closer. She can catch a hint of something other than the alcohol on Jack’s breath. Something flowery mixed in with leather. Perfume, maybe? A little odd, given the androgynous way Jack presents herself. “You have no idea what I’m capable of.”
“You’re a spoiled, rich-girl cheerleader.”
Miranda arches an eyebrow, and after that, the insults fly. “Victim.”
“Test-tube clone princess.”
“Psychopath.”
“Daddy issues.”
That one stings a little, and she doesn’t have a ready response. Her father is a sore subject with her, although how Jack knows, she isn’t certain. It’s not common knowledge, is it? Or did Shepard… She can just catch a glimpse of the brave Commander quietly sipping a drink in the corner, pretending to mingle with the other guests. Their eyes meet for a moment, and then Shepard looks away sheepishly. Well, that answers that question. I suppose we’ll have to have a talk about revealing personal information later.
She turns back to Jack, pretending not to mind. “I think it’s past your bedtime.”
“Oh, did I hit a nerve?” Jack says, grinning wickedly. “I didn’t get to read your psych profile.”
“Ladies!” Both of them break eye contact and turn their heads, and Miranda isn’t entirely surprised to see Shepard approaching them with her usual swagger, hands shoved in her pockets. She’s wearing an expression Miranda suspects is supposed to appear disarming, but instead, it just makes her look fidgety, like she’s already had too much to drink and needs to visit the bathroom.
Good luck with that, Shepard. Tali was passed out in there, last time I checked, and Grunt’s upstairs.
Shepard clears her throat. “I see we’ve already had plenty to drink…”
Jack shrugs her shoulders, resting her elbows on the edge of the bar. “Relax, Shepard. I’m not gonna smear the wall with her this time. We’re just hanging out.”
“And I couldn’t possibly think of anything worse to do to her than that haircut.” Actually, Miranda thinks it suits Jack better than the bald look, but she’d rather drink an entire vat of ryncol than say so.
Nonetheless, Jack looks mildly annoyed by the quip. “Hey, cheerleader, my hair and I have been fighting brutes and marauders on the front lines of this war. Meanwhile, you got your big bubbly butt kicked by some guy with a sword.”
Miranda blinks, struggling not to smile. There’s a compliment hidden in there somewhere, or she isn’t nearly as perceptive as her training should have made her. “I didn’t realize you’d taken notice of my backside, Jack.”
“Yeah, well…” Jack reaches back to rub behind her neck. “How can you not notice it? It’s just kinda round and out there, and you wear that fucking body suit. Ever heard of real armor?”
“You mean like leather straps, combat boots, and pants baggy enough to trip over?” Miranda shoots Shepard a sidelong look. “See, Shepard? Best of friends.”
Shepard glances between them, then at the half-empty bottle of wine in the middle of the table. Her lips twitch in a smirk, and she leans back, folding her arms across her chest. “Honestly, I think it might help if you two just kissed and got it over with.”
“What?” Miranda blurts out before she can stop herself. Kissing Jack is something she’s thought about on very rare, very brief occasions, of course. She’s a grown woman, with a healthy sexual appetite, and Shepard seems to have a habit for recruiting beautiful people. She’s also thought about kissing Jacob, and Kaidan, and… It doesn’t mean anything. She just has nice bone structure. It’s normal to admire nice bone structure, isn’t it?
“I mean, this is all just sexual tension, right?” Shepard continues, almost smugly. “Two powerful biotics, forceful personalities, confident in their sexualities…”
Jack shakes her head in disbelief. “You’re shitting me. I mean, maybe in the cheerleader’s dreams…”
“I’m afraid that would be a very disappointing dream,” Miranda says, suddenly grateful for all the practice she’s had at lying.
She waits, expecting Jack to laugh it off, but instead, she seems almost wounded. “Disappointing? Fuck you. If I did take you to bed and fuck the living shit out of you, I guarantee you wouldn’t be disappointed.” She rises off her stool, bracing her hands against the bar and closing in over it until their noses are nearly brushing. “Trust me, bitch. I’d have you begging for more.”
“I’m, uh… just gonna go check on the rest of the party,” Shepard mumbles, but Miranda hardly notices as she backs away. She’s lost in Jack’s eyes, and there’s a challenge in them. A challenge that convinces her to close the last inch of space between them, and…
Jack’s mouth is hot and wet and mostly teeth. Her tongue tastes like alcohol, but for some reason, Miranda wants more. So much more. Jack’s kiss leaves her feeling drunker than the Thessian Red, and her head is spinning. When they do break apart, violently, for breath, both of them stay close, panting in each other’s faces.
“I’d have you begging to stay until morning,” Jack insists when she can speak, and Miranda shakes her head. Tonight is an aberration anyway. It’s the end of the world, and she simply doesn’t care enough to be cautious.
“We’ll see.”
* * *
Miranda has no idea why she's doing this. No idea why she's kissing down along Jack's stomach, memorizing the outlines of her tattoos with an eager tongue, searching out salt.
It goes against who she is as a person. Against everything she's built herself to be over the last several years. She is logical. She is precise. Though she has made mistakes—she is well aware that she is far from perfect, despite her altered genetics—she prides herself on her calm, collected reasoning.
But there is nothing calm about the way Jack's fingers twist in her hair, pulling her back up for another greedy kiss. There is nothing collected about the way Jack's tongue slides against hers, thrusting into her mouth before retreating under the force of her own. There is nothing reasonable about what the two of them are doing, writhing on top of a bed in Anderson's guest room and competing to see who can tear off their clothes the fastest.
But here they are. Panting. Grinding. Fucking...or at least, they're about to, and Miranda still hasn't sorted it out in her head. She isn't a stranger to sex, or sex with women in particular. She's been with a few, although most of her partners have been men. But Jack? A few years ago, the idea of sex with Jack would have been repugnant. Nauseating. Offensive.
Now. Now, with Jack's fingers tweaking the stiff peaks of her nipples and Jack's thigh riding between her legs, putting pressure right where she needs it, the idea isn't any of those things. It's exhilarating. She knows she'll probably regret it in the morning, but she doesn't care. She doesn't want to stop. That's why she takes the curve of Jack's throat in her teeth and bites down hard enough to earn a raspy moan, just to show she still has a little control over the situation.
"Fuck, Miranda," Jack grunts, short nails raking down the nape of her neck, and Miranda feels the simmering heat in her lower belly burn hotter.
Miranda. Not Princess. Not Cheerleader. Not Cerberus Bitch. Just Miranda, her name. Jack sees her as human now, and she...she can't help but see Jack as something more than the angry, violent mistake she'd once thought Subject Zero to be.
"That's the idea," she purrs, trying to play casual. Of course, it isn't easy with the way Jack's hands are kneading her backside, slipping dangerously close to intimate territory beneath her panties. They're already soaked, so there isn't much point in keeping them on.
Jack has similar ideas, because suddenly, she finds herself flat on her back, pinned beneath Jack's thin, wiry body. There isn't much muscle on her, but she's surprisingly strong for such a skinny woman. And honestly, Miranda doesn't mind the switch. She would have been disappointed if she'd been on top the whole time. Jack made promises downstairs at the poker table, and Miranda is curious to see how well she'll keep them.
"Remind me to thank Shepard," Jack says, stroking down her sides with eager hands. Her palms are calloused, and Miranda shivers, arching further into the touch. Jack's hands feel so good on her skin, like they're venerating it, claiming it, drinking it in.
"The bet?" Miranda reminds her, tugging none too gently at Jack's ponytail in an effort to goad her on.
"That you'll be begging me to stay by morning? Oh, I haven't forgotten."
Jack grins down at her, a smile full of such life that Miranda is left breathless. It's a rare treasure, in a galaxy full of so much death. And it isn't the blazing, angry spark of life she saw in Jack back on the SR2, the determination to overcome pain and survive. It's a hopeful light, strong but also soft, a deep-seated, burning belief that they can win. That life will win. That tonight isn't the end, and there will be a tomorrow morning to look forward to.
But tomorrow morning isn't here yet. Miranda grabs one of Jack's hands, guiding it down along the plane of her stomach and between her legs, beneath the waistband of her underwear. "Then show me what you've got," she gasps, just before they kiss.
Jack's fingers find her clit immediately. The first few strokes are light, clearly a test, not what Miranda is expecting. But when she doesn't react right away, the circles get firmer. Soon, she's bucking into Jack's hand and spilling moans into her mouth, amazed at how swiftly she's rising. Somehow, Jack knows just how to touch her, no instruction required. It's the mark of someone who has had a lot of sex before, probably with a lot of different people, but Miranda doesn't care. She's grateful she's the one benefiting from all of Jack's experience.
She wants to curse. To whimper. To use her voice for something, because the feelings inside her are swelling too fast. But Jack is swallowing all her cries, and Jack's fingers are doing absolutely wicked things between her legs. Two of them find her entrance, swirling around and around without going inside, and it isn't until Miranda bites down on Jack's lower lip, a clear demand for more, that they finally slam home.
Full. She's so full, and her head is spinning with the thought that it's Jack who's filling her. The last person she would have expected. But Jack makes her feel alive, and right now, that's exactly what she needs. She rolls her hips in a jerking rhythm as Jack plunges in and out of her, begging for more without words.
And Jack gives it to her. Fuck, does Jack give it to her, curling right into the sensitive spot along her front wall and pressing into it until it starts to swell. No one else has ever hit it quite so well, and Miranda's groans become screams. She rakes her nails down Jack's back, clawing at the tattoos there, hoping to leave some marks of her own, because she doesn't want to forget this. She doesn't want Jack to forget, either.
Her first orgasm crashes over her far too soon. She splinters, then shatters into what feels like a thousand pieces, full of shudders and sighs. Her inner walls ripple, clutching tight around Jack's fingers, and she pumps what feels like a flood into Jack's palm. She knows it must be dripping down Jack's wrist to stain the sheets, but she doesn't care. She doesn't even care that Jack has made her come first. Perhaps before, she would have considered it a loss, a point scored against her in some kind of game. But right now, it feels like a victory. An escape from all the death and destruction she's dealt with.
Soon her throat is raw from screaming, but all she can hear is Jack's voice beside her ear, a thick whisper. "Shit. If I'd known that cold bitch thing was an act before... you burn, Miri."
Miri. That's even better than Miranda. Her clit twitches beneath Jack's rough, circling thumb, and she pulses again, hips pushing greedily into Jack's hand. A second peak, or perhaps an extension of the first, has her biting down on Jack's shoulder to stifle her cries. The party's still going on downstairs, and she doesn't want to be heard by anyone else. Only Jack.
The next minute is a blur. By the time her climax has faded to aftershocks, they've reversed positions yet again. Miranda kisses her way down Jack's tattooed stomach a second time, but instead of pulling her back up, Jack clutches the top of her head, pushing her down. The scent of sex grows stronger, and Miranda can't help but lick her lips as she settles between Jack's thighs. Despite the urgency she feels, she resists the temptation to dive right in. She wants to remember at least a little of this moment. She wants to keep it with her for a while.
The lips of Jack's pussy are completely bare, which isn't all that surprising, considering what she's done to her head in the past. Her thighs are tense cords, quivering with anticipation, thin but full of muscle. Miranda is all too happy to lavish them with kisses and nips, and she knows she's done something right when Jack's hips give a needy push downward. She can't resist. She puts her fingers in a 'v' on either side of Jack's clit and takes the throbbing red tip into her mouth, swirling her tongue over it.
An electric jolt passes between them, and they both freeze. It's an instant connection, mental as much as physical. Their eyes lock, and Miranda feels her heart stop in her chest. Maybe this is about something more than forgetting. More than the constant competition between the two of them taking on a new dimension. Maybe... But those are thoughts for after tonight. For after the war. Right now, she doesn't want to pass up this moment.
She starts sucking eagerly at Jack's clit, and Jack clutches the back of her head, not pushing as hard as Miranda expects. She guides, but doesn't force, which is something of a surprise. Instead of competing, it's almost like they're collaborating on the shared goal of Jack's pleasure. Somehow, it's even better than fighting. She brings two of her fingers to Jack's entrance, circling instead of pressing in, asking for permission without words. Jack nods, tilting her hips to offer a better angle, and Miranda pushes inside without hesitation.
Jack is so hot and smooth around her. Tighter than anything Miranda has ever felt. But somehow, she's still able to thrust without even a hint of resistance. Jack is wet, dripping all over her knuckles, and she relishes the slips of heat that spill out to coat her hand. They're signs of a job well done, and God, does Jack taste fucking good. She can only get hints while her mouth is sealed around the stiff bud of Jack's clit, but it's enough for her to know she loves it. Enough to know she wants more...after she makes Jack come.
Making Jack come has become her only goal, and somehow, that's a relief. She's had so much to do lately, and the stakes have been so high, that having such a simple, direct goal makes her feel as though a heavy weight has been lifted. Make Jack come. She can do that. She wants to do that.
"Shit, Miranda, yes, " Jack pants above her, still gazing into her eyes. "Keep sucking me. Fuck me harder—"
Despite the mild profanity, the words almost seem...sweet? Maybe it's the tone of Jack's voice, the way it cracks on a slight plea. Miranda has never heard Jack beg for anything before, and she realizes that this is probably as close as she'll ever come. What should have been a victory instead feels more like a gift, one she's grateful for. She curls her fingers forward, the same motion Jack used on her, and she knows she's found something sensitive when Jack stiffens and shivers above her.
"Like this?" she murmurs, letting go of Jack's clit and placing lighter kisses around it.
"Don't stop sucking," Jack hisses, pushing firmly on the back of her head. "Shit, please—"
Please? Just when she thinks she's gotten everything she possibly can out of Jack, Miranda is proven wrong. But she obeys, pulling Jack's clit back into her mouth and hooking her fingers even harder.
Jack's release hits almost immediately. Heat splashes out around Miranda's fingers and spills onto her chin, and the firm point between her lips twitches with each pulse. She continues lashing the tip, sucking it deep, and drives her fingers forward until the tendons in her wrist burn like fire. But it's worth it. It's worth it, because Jack's scream of, "Miranda!" is the most beautiful sound she's ever heard. Nielsen's 5th will just have to take second place.
It's over too soon. The two of them become a panting heap, twined together with Jack's hands caressing her shoulders and her lips skimming the soft skin beneath Jack's navel. The star-shaped red lines there are one of the only splashes of color on her body, and Miranda finds herself drawn to them. “Shit,” Jack mumbles, a little awkwardly. “That was…”
“You win your bet,” Miranda murmurs, resting her cheek on Jack’s belly and smiling up at her. “You can claim victory, because I’m not moving from this spot.”
Jack grins, but for once, the smug look doesn’t bother Miranda in the slightest. “I wanna hear you say it, Princess.”
This time, the nickname doesn’t feel like an insult, although Miranda still prefers her name. She doesn’t hesitate to answer, either. Jack has already said ‘please’ to her once. The least she can do is return the favor.
“Please, Jack. Stay with me until morning? I don’t want you to leave.”
Jack’s fingers feather along the back of her neck. “Not going anywhere. But just to warn you, as my prize for winning, I wanna give you a tattoo.”
Miranda snorts with laughter. “Fine. If both of us survive this, I promise to let you give me a tattoo in some inconspicuous place. Perhaps the N7 symbol, since everyone else seems to have it. And since it was Shepard’s teasing that made this night possible...”
“Remind me to buy her some really nice booze,” Jack says. She surges up, and suddenly, Miranda finds herself flat on her back again, wrists pinned beneath Jack’s forearm. “Later. Night’s not over yet.”