Rating shifts to M for this chapter.

3.

Oh. Alive. She's alive, alive, alive.

It's always cold on the ship, but Miranda's body is flushed, her breath steaming in the recycled air. She grabs hold of Shepard's uniform collar and yanks her in close. Their tongues slide together.

Shepard's teeth are even and straight. Just as she made them.

"Ms. Lawson," Shepard breathes against her mouth, low and amused.

Miranda growls at her and bites her lip.

Shepard chuckles and winds Miranda's hair tight around her hand, pulling her head back. She kisses her long and hard. Presses her thigh between Miranda's legs.

Nnnf. It's all Miranda can do to restrain herself, and not shamelessly grind against her. Then Shepard wraps one warm, heavy palm around the curve of Miranda's ass, and does the grinding for her.

"God," Miranda stutters out. Her underwear is already soaked, and pressing up into her. Her hips roll, once, instinctively.

Shepard's eyes crinkle. Miranda glares at her, then tucks and falls backwards onto the bed, pulling Shepard down with her.

Her leg hooks around Shepard's hip. A quick twist and she's on top. She slams her palm into Shepard's chest, holding her down against the mattress. "You've ruined my life. You know that, right?"

Shepard gives her a broad, untroubled smile, and flicks open the snap on Miranda's uniform top. "Let me make it up to you."

"You couldn't even begin to try," Miranda retorts, but then has to reconsider her opinion when Shepard snakes a hand in to cup her breast. A gun-calloused thumb drags over her nipple, slowly, deliberately.

Miranda sucks in her breath. Shepard takes advantage of her distraction to flip them over again, and bears her full weight down on her, pressing hip against hip. Her tongue traces a long, hot line down Miranda's breastbone.

Enough. Miranda bares her teeth, hooks her fingers into Shepard's collar, and yanks. The snaps rip from the fabric and ping onto the floor.

"I'm going to need to requisition a new uniform," Shepard says mildly, looking down at her.

"Shut up." Miranda fists her hands in the ruined fabric. Pulls Shepard down on top of her, and bites her hard on the the side of her pale throat.

Shepard actually moans, and that long, beautiful body shivers against hers. Miranda flushes. One point to her.

She makes short work of Shepard's uniform top. Shepard tries to distract her with wet, dizzying, breathless kisses, but Miranda is a professional. And very good at her job.

She pushes her hand against Shepard's chin and shoves her off. Sits up, swings a leg over, straddles Shepard's hips, and runs her hands up along the curve of that well-muscled waist. Skates her fingers under the thick fabric of Shepard's sports bra, and snaps the elastic. "Get rid of this. Then put your hands by your sides, and don't move."

"Yes, ma'am," Shepard murmurs, a glint in her eyes, and it's done.

Miranda spares a moment to take in the sight of Commander Jane Shepard, lying topless and flushed underneath her. She knows her. Every last millimeter of that smooth, pale skin. Every little blood cell coursing through her overheated veins.

Shepard was her project, but now she's a person. Up and running around and rampaging through merc bases and mouthing off and sharing all of herself with everyone, her easy smile and her open laugh, her listening ear and her indomitable will, without even having to think twice about it.

It makes Miranda want to hurt her. How can she possibly hang on to that heartbreaking kindness? Those noble ideals? Doesn't she know what kind of galaxy this is?

She reaches down and brushes over one rose-pink nipple with her fingers. Then twists, viciously, sinking in her nails.

Shepard gasps and arches up against her, and Miranda mentally adds another point to her tally, but then notices the look Shepard is giving her. Dark and intent and burning with unspecified promise.

It's a little frightening. Good thing Miranda doesn't frighten easily.

She lets her biotics bloom to life. Traces her palm, thrumming with electricity, down over Shepard's skin. Skims the tips of her glowing fingers just barely over her other, untouched nipple. Shepard trembles and hisses through clenched teeth.

"I could do this to you all night, Commander," Miranda says, voice low. "Keep you itching for it. Never give you what you need."

She cups those beautiful breasts in her burning hands. Tiny flicks of blue-white lightning dance over the surface of Shepard's skin. Shepard swears and pants and writhes under her touch. Miranda can guess what she's experiencing: a hardline connection straight to her clit. A thousand needles through her nerves.

She lets the energy feather out and fade away. Shepard sags against the mattress, and draws in a deep, ragged breath.

"...But you won't," Shepard says, watching her out of slitted eyes.

"We'll see." Miranda scoots lower, unzips Shepard's trousers, and tugs them down over her hips. Presses her hands to those long, muscular thighs, and spreads them apart.

Well, well. Shepard's even wetter than she is. Miranda holds her hands up. Her fingertips flare with energy again.

Shepard sucks in air, watching her.

"Remember. Don't move."

Miranda leans forward, and delicately extends her pointer finger. Holds it in the air, inches away from Shepard's clit. The biotic field curls and writhes around her skin.

She moves closer, closer, holding her hand steady, her eyes locked on Shepard's.

When the field makes first contact with Shepard's clit, she makes a thin, high-pitched noise. Her legs thrash, sending Miranda lurching forward, but she was prepared for it, and catches herself against the mattress.

Slowly, Miranda closes the distance, and cups her entire, lightning-charged hand over Shepard's mound.

Shepard yells. The biotic field buzzes between them like a storm caught in a bottle. Miranda watches Shepard sweating, cursing, struggling, half trying to escape, half trying to drive Miranda's hand straight into her.

One hundred and eighty six pounds of muscle, cybernetics, and steel, reduced to a desperate, shaking mess. It's quite a sight.

Miranda takes mercy on her after a long moment, and pulls away, letting the energy dissipate.

Shepard lies flat on her back, gasping.

Miranda examines her handiwork. She does feel a little better. Three points. She can afford to be generous, now.

She bends forward and runs her tongue up Shepard's cleft. Her clit is dark and swollen and standing out from her folds. Miranda laps at it, swirls her tongue over it, softly, softly.

Shepard lets out a long, breathy moan. Then her fingers pat at Miranda's face. Grab hold of her chin, and pull her up.

"I thought I told you not to move," Miranda says, eyes narrow.

"I don't want to come without you," Shepard murmurs, and pulls Miranda on top of her for a deep, lingering kiss. She nips Miranda's bottom lip with her teeth. Licks her own taste up from Miranda's tongue.

Miranda softens a little. Kisses her back. "...That's mutiny."

"Execute me later, Ms. Lawson. I'm on a mission." Shepard shifts so they're lying side to side, and runs her hands down Miranda's chest, popping open the hidden snaps. She unbuckles Miranda's belt and flings it against the wall. Wraps her large, warm hands around Miranda's ankles, and pulls her boots off, one and then the other.

Shepard seizes her zipper between her teeth, and pulls it down, down, down. Her breath puffs against Miranda's skin. She peels the catsuit down over Miranda's hips, and then her legs, slowly, delicately, like someone unwrapping an expensive gift.

Shepard pushes herself up on an elbow and looks at her, eyes heavy-lidded, dark, then reaches an arm back and drops the catsuit onto the floor behind them. Her gaze never leaves Miranda's.

Miranda has never been particularly shy; her body was made to be looked at, after all. But something about the quiet intensity of Shepard's regard is getting under her skin.

Her cheeks flush. "Are you just going to stare at me all night?"

Shepard's voice is low and husky. "I'm thinking about it."

But she moves. She stretches back down next to Miranda. Looks into her eyes for a long moment, and cups her heavy, calloused palm around Miranda's cheek.

There's something oddly tender about it.

Miranda watches her, feeling strange. Off-kilter. She frowns. "Well?"

Shepard presses her lips to hers. Wraps her long arms around Miranda's back, and pulls her in close.

Ahh. Skin to skin. Heartbeat to heartbeat. Shepard is warm and solid and twined up with her like she's never going to let Miranda go.

Despite herself, Miranda's eyes flutter closed. She tilts her head, deepening the kiss. Reaches up and curls her fingers into Shepard's hair.

Shepard strokes her hands over Miranda's waist, hips, tracing the curves of her expensive body. She brushes her fingers over the swell of Miranda's breasts. Flicks and pinches one dusky nipple, and smiles when Miranda shudders.

"You're so beautiful," she murmurs, against Miranda's lips.

Miranda tenses.

Shepard blinks at her, and pulls back. "I'm sorry. That's not something you like to hear, is it?"

"I—" Miranda looks away. "I don't want to discuss this right now. Just touch me."

Shepard presses her hand back to Miranda's cheek, looking at her with— hell, this is exactly what she didn't want. Compassion. Pity.

Miranda huffs out a breath, pushes Shepard away, and sits up, feeling disappointed and— wrong, somehow. She'd always flaunted her nudity in front of previous lovers. Now all she wants to do is find her uniform. And then maybe a blanket.

She's startled by the weight of her comforter falling onto her shoulders. Shepard wraps an arm around her and pulls her blanket-shrouded body back into an embrace.

"You don't feel like you own it," Shepard says, quietly.

"I don't own it. This..." Miranda gestures down at herself. It's all concealed under the covers, at the moment, but she can't ever get away from it: her flawless skin, her ample breasts, her curving hips. "I didn't do this. I didn't choose this. I use it. That's all."

Shepard is silent for a moment, and squeezes her. Presses her face to the back of Miranda's neck, and leaves a small, soft kiss.

Shepard sticks her arm out, and holds her palm in front of Miranda's eyes. "I didn't choose my body, either." Fine, pale surgical scars thread across her hand and down her wrist.

Miranda remembers every single one of them.

"I had tattoos, and burns, and bullet scars, and some shrapnel in my butt that always gave me grief. All of that is gone now. Like it never happened."

"You're welcome," Miranda replies. "It took quite a while to dig all that metal out of your ass."

"Thanks. That part, I don't miss. But the rest of it..." Shepard wiggles her scarred fingers. "I didn't ask to be born the way I was born, either. But I took what I had, and I used it. And using it made it mine."

Miranda reaches her hand up through the masses of comforter that surround her, and traces a fingertip slowly down the line of Shepard's palm.

"Now I'm brand new," Shepard murmurs. "Unused. Just as you made me."

"So now you're mine, instead," Miranda says. Her voice sounds odd to her own ears. Half bitter. Half wistful.

"For a little while." Shepard pushes her face into the tangle of Miranda's hair, and presses another kiss to the back of her neck. "Until I find some replacement shrapnel."

...Who is she kidding. Shepard stopped being hers the moment she got off that slab.

Miranda stares out at the blank wall of her cabin, and doesn't move. Doesn't speak.

Shepard closes her fingers around Miranda's hand.

Her voice is low. Soft. "I hate that he still has this pull over you. I hate that you don't think you own yourself."

"Shepard—" Miranda squeezes her eyes shut. "I thought I said I didn't want to discuss it."

Shepard doesn't respond for a moment. Then: "Have you ever considered getting a tattoo?"

Miranda twists back around to stare at her. "What?"

Shepard gives her a half-grin. "I mean it. Like a giant eagle. You could put it right in the middle of your chest." She stretches Miranda's arm out from the covers and taps thoughtfully on her bicep. "Or maybe a bleeding knife, right here. That'd look fantastic."

Miranda smacks her hand away. "Stop talking nonsense."

"Would he approve?"

"Of course not."

"Well, then." Shepard smirks like she's just proven something.

Miranda rolls her eyes and sits up. "I'm not getting a bloody knife tattooed on my arm just to spite my father."

"I can come up with other things you could do to spite him."

"I bet. Shepard, honestly—"

Shepard sits up too, and leans into her. Their foreheads bump together. Her eyes are hard. "Like listening to me when I tell you that you're beautiful."

Miranda swallows. "I—"

Shepard holds up a hand to silence her. "Like believing that being you is good enough. That I don't want or need you to be anything else other than exactly what you are. And if doing those things is too hard for you, if you can't get there yet, then at least believe in me. Because I believe it."

Miranda realizes her jaw has fallen open, and closes it.

Shepard raises a finger. "...But I do reserve the right to butt heads with you about mission stuff. We're not leaving people behind. Not ever."

Miranda grabs Shepard by the hair, and presses a fierce, bruising kiss to her mouth.

Shepard grins against her lips, and slowly unwraps the blanket from Miranda's shoulders.