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Saren should have known. Aria had been gracious enough to drop a hint, mentioning 'another Spectre' as he did the customary assurance that he would not cause her any more problems than he usually did. She disliked him, in the way that anyone dislikes a person they regard as a threat and competition, and the feeling was mutual. The Queen of Omega had a fickle sense of humor, one that could be beneficial to Saren one moment, and lead him into nothing but pure trouble the next.
He had dismissed her remark – he cared little for other Spectres, now that his own status as one was forfeit due to one bullet and one human who refused to be scared away.
One human, whose words sank into him, filling him with doubt and uncertainty. Those barbed thoughts which chafed at his resolve, gnawing at the faith of survival which drove him.
Even when she uttered them he had wanted to choke her, and when he did close his claws around her neck all he could think about was how smooth the skin was. How crushable that neck of hers was, and the strength with which she struggled even as the hand closed tighter, cutting off her air supply.
The worst about Shepard was her eyes: the intensity with which she pinned him. They haunted him, a constant reminder of too many things. None of which would matter in a few days. Nothing that could be considered important in the long run. Yet those eyes, the startling force of them...
It was how he recognized her, feeling the shudder of familiarity before it clicked, the hot shudder of rage traveling through him in an instant. Shepard was on the dance-floor of Afterlife, flowing along to the music in the throng of sweaty bodies, the standard-issue Alliance military outfit clinging to her skin.
Throwing back the bitter drink he'd been nursing so long that the ice was mere drops of water, he pushed his way through the swaying dancers, focused intently on her. She passed in and out of his sight, glimpses of skin and naked arms before another's body obstructed his view of her. She looked different without the thick, protective armor – smaller, almost fragile. Saren could simply reach out and rip her throat open, her dead body falling to the floor without a chance for rescue.
While tempting, he was not close enough just yet. She was dancing with her eyes closed, back turned to him as he drew nearer. The hatred he harbored was like a static buzz in his head – no, not hatred exactly, but close enough to warrant him to loathe how she was rolling her hips as if there was not a single thing weighing on her mind. How could it not matter to her, the knowledge of the Protheans, of the inevitable that was about to unfold?
Saren attempted to grab her wrist but she moved it away, and his hand instead landed on her hip. For a brief moment she became rigid under his palm before relaxing into the soft pliable state of a body in motion, one of her own hands covering his. She moved up against him, the heated body against his, before she put a slip of space between them.
Shepard's actions were startling, frustrating and... Oddly tantalizing. The way she moved, partly in her own world and at the same time intent on keeping his hand on the soft curve of her body; she did not turn around to look at him, assuming that he was a nobody she could seduce and use. He leaned in close and drew a deep breath of air from her neck, smelling alcohol and musk, human skin and acrid smoke.
The geth-crafted hand moved up the side of her body, catching on the moist fabric before he ran a finger along the throat. There were swollen welts there, and when the lights flashed bright he could see the purple bruises and burst blood vessels. His handiwork, he thought, strangely proud that she had chosen not to cover them up after their altercation on Virmire.
Shepard fascinated Saren, in all too many ways. He knew her intimately from Nihlus' files, having read through them more than once to comprehend who his pursuer was, to figure out how the events of her life had coalesced into the seasoned Commander. There was an enigmatic touch to her, as if she refused to be summed up in a few quick phrases: Nihlus left behind extensive analysis on everything from how Shepard treated subordinates to how she cracked jokes in deadly situations.
None of it succeeded to explain how she survived interacting with the Prothean beacon; none of it succeeded in explaining her. As she brushed back against him he dug his fingers into her thigh, keeping her there, the other hand felt the pulse throbbing in her neck. Her chest shook with an unsteady breath, the lips parting in a silent exhale. With the drowning beat of the music either of them could have said anything without the other hearing.
There was so much he wished to tell her. To let her know that he was about to mend the resolve she had tried to shatter, that Sovereign was about to sharpen his determination with another series of enhancements. That he still remembered the last time he submitted to upgrades, the pain lingering at the edge of his nightmares – but that what he had seen of the Reapers was enough to convince anyone of what was the right thing to do.
One claw sunk into the skin at her throat, drawing blood.
He needed to tell her that she was misguided and maybe – the ultimate reason as to why he hated her – there was a chance that she was right. That she alone stirred up enough questions to tear him apart, but that those very questions were soon to be silenced with the calming wisdom that Sovereign had to impart.
He smeared the trickle of blood along her throat, rubbing it into her skin, watching the redness coagulate and darken under the flashing lights. It was all too easy to injure those soft, squishy humans.
Then she slid out of his grasp, smoothly navigating towards the private booths. He followed as closely as he could, but she remained a few steps ahead, leaving the door slightly ajar as she slipped inside. The allure of cornering her in a secluded space was too strong, and he entered.
Immediately Saren found himself slammed up against the door with a knife pressed to him, the sharp point digging in between two plates at his throat.
“When did you know?” he hissed, discreetly balling one hand into a fist.
“The way you touched my throat,” she replied, voice subdued and devoid of the rage that jarred her speech on Virmire. She was not as he remembered her.
“How clever.” He meant to hit her in the stomach but her hand quickly absorbed the shock of that punch. She could not hinder him from using his biotics however, and flew across the small booth and landed on the table, the torso hanging off the edge as she sputtered and coughed, trying to pull air into her lungs. He grabbed on to her ankle and dragged her towards him, easily dodging the swinging fist as she twisted around.
The knife she did manage to stick into the side of his neck – not deep enough to cause severe damage, but the pain still caused him to stumble back. Pulling it out he winced, blue blood dripping from the blade and onto his hands. The handle became wet and slippery but he nonetheless lunged at her, but she was as fast as he was, deflecting the blade with the side of her palm against his wrist. He dropped the knife and they both dove for it, but slick as it was with blood and sweat it slid away and out under the door.
Using his biotics he pushed her away again, a bit harder so that this time he heard an audible crack when she hit against the table. Still, she moved, and that was enough for what he felt necessary to do. Locking the door he then moved in close, pinning her to table with his body.
Shepard was writhing and groaning beneath him, and he grabbed a fistful of that long hair and slammed her face down once.
“Be still,” he ordered with a snarl.
She grunted, ceasing with the infuriating movements.
“Do you understand yet? What is at stake? What has to be done?”
“There has to be another way.” Shepard, so adamantly blind.
“I have scoured the galaxy for that way. There is none. The arrival of the Reapers is inevitable, but we can lessen the losses.” He touched her chin, squeezing the sharp jutting shape. “You should have joined us when you had the chance, Shepard.”
“Is that why you're here, to kill me?”
“Not everything revolves around you.” But a great many things do. “You are a mere nuisance.”
She twitched, but his grip on her was too tight for her to break free. “What about Nihlus?”
He growled, dragging his claws down her back. The fabric of her shirt tore, bloodied welts rising up. Then he restrained himself, letting the flare of emotions abate as he watched the slow ooze of sweat and blood down her spine. He was losing control, giving in too easily. A flaw, one soon to be rectified once the cybernetic processes were implanted. “What about him?” he asked through gritted teeth, though she had no right to even utter his name.
“Is that what you count as acceptable losses?”
“There are losses which we never accept. Sacrifices that haunt us. We commit them anyway, because of who we are and what must be done. You know this to be true, Shepard.”
“You and I are nothing alike.”
“Are we not?” He withdrew enough so that she could maneuver, and she did not waste a second but instantly attacked him with those hard-hitting fists. They were easily countered, but she knew exactly where to strike to make it hurt – and he knew human anatomy just as intimately. The skin bruised and broke from so little, the bones shattering to fragments... Except that Shepard was there to block each attempt he made to injure her, deflecting and avoiding while also throwing a few punches.
Sweeping her leg and hooking it around the back of his knee, she hit against a tendon that had him reeling backwards. The next kick was aimed at his head, but he caught her ankle and wrung it around until she let out a small scream. Her fist connected with his cheek, a punch so powerful that his vision temporarily went black and instinctual rage took over.
When he could see clearly again she was flat on the table, her curves brushing against him as she writhed and clawed at the artificial arm that was pinning her shoulders and throat. The shirt hung in torn rags on her torso, revealing the smooth muscles; he noted the scars, the imperfections, memorizing them before pushing those thoughts away.
“Stop running, Shepard. You know, as well as I do.”
There was no response, just a wheeze as she flopped beneath him, trying to free herself. One of her knees slid up between his legs, too weak to do any actual damage yet the pressure had him grunting. The burgeoning arousal was an annoying side-effect, one he could not entirely figure out. Rage had a way of affecting him, but he could not brush it off as just anger, because there was something about the infuriating human struggling for breath at his hand that had him thinking of her all too often.
He eased his grip slightly, allowing her to draw in deep lungfuls of musty, recycled nightclub air. “I have known for twenty years. Survival in servitude is our only chance.”
“Spare me the lecture.” With a swift kick to his chest she reversed their positions, pushing him down onto the wide couch and straddling his chest, knee at his neck. “I refuse to go out like that.”
“Wasting yourself on petulant rebellion against fate.” He narrowed his eyes, and saw it: the same fear, the same glimmer of terror that he struggled with. She had no firm answers either, just vague guesses.
He had never hated her more than in that moment.
She adjusted her position on top of him, one leg nudging against his groin in a way that caused him to freeze up. Her keen eyes caught the motion, and she ventured a quick glance. There were insults resting on the tip of his tongue, aimed at her, when she surprised him by sliding a hand down his chest and to his crotch. A smirk passed across her features as she cupped the erection through the fabric. Then those sharp fingernails found a way past the barrier of cloth and squeezed his cock tightly, the tense pain interlacing with depraved pleasure as that soft palm moved over the tip.
As she opened her mouth to speak Saren pushed her off and she fell onto the floor, back arching as she gasped in pain from the impact. The final remains of the top had slid off in the struggle, and she was twisting half-naked on the floor. In the dimmed lights of the booth she could almost have been attractive.
“Fuck,” she gasped. He did not want to hear another word out of her mouth, immediately covering it with his hand. The blunt little teeth gnawed at his fingers but couldn't break his skin, and he raked the other hand down the front of her chest to the pants, the flimsy cloth tearing under his sharp claws. Only sheer underwear remaining, he tore them off her despite the wild flailing of her legs and stuffed them into her mouth.
Shepard glared at him, her hands working feebly to push him off when he kneed her in the ribs. Lungs deflated of air, she tried to curl up on her side, but he took the momentarily weak arms and held them down above her head. Stretched out in all her bruised and battered glory, he felt the heaving breasts brush against his crotch. More specifically, against the rigid cock that had sprung free in the fighting.
Her eyes flicked down to it, but she kept calm. Always that enervating serenity, as if nothing could faze her.
One of his hands slid down between her thighs and he snorted, feeling how wet she was. The fine edge of a claw scraped the thin skin and she stiffened up. He slid one digit along the slit, the blunt end rubbing up against her clit. She made a small noise and then spread her legs wider. He paused, and she bucked upwards into his touch of her own volition, arching an eyebrow when he still did not react.
That was all he needed. Sliding down her body he lay himself flat on top of her, feeling her soft flesh squished against his hard plates. The contact was irritating the claw wounds crisscrossing her body, and he enjoyed watching her squirm and wince as he positioned himself between her thighs and pushed inside in one swift move.
She thrashed once beneath him before he dug one talon into the side of her hip, stilling the erratic struggle she was putting up. He could not figure out what it was she wanted, but then one leg hooked around his hips and drew him deeper until they were both groaning.
“Even when down on the floor,” he snarled, thrusting once, “you can't stop trying to take control. This is why I like hating you, Shepard.”
The rhythm he fell into was relentless and cruel, slamming in hard and then pulling out to leave her gaping and moaning into the makeshift gag. Not once did her eyes leave his, and even in the dim light he felt the burning rage and basked in it as he hurt her another inch towards that boundary where she could possibly break.
However, that was not intention – but in the muddled pleasure of fucking her, of pinning her down and showing her what he truly thought of her – it was difficult to hang on to a single great cause. All he wanted was to hurt and see it. All he wanted was for her to... Connect.
“Your understanding is flawed... You can't comprehend how Sovereign feels. How this feels.” She gave him a cold glare, and he slapped her cheek. “And you need to.”
Suddenly she went silent and rigid, arching off the floor as her eyes rolled back, revealing bloodshot whites. Ceasing with the thrusting, he took her by the throat and forced her to look at him, and it was then he realized that she had climaxed.
The sweat dripping off her brow, the tense expression of pure abandon, it was disgustingly beautiful to behold. Growling, he pulled out of her and forced her up onto her feet, the shaky legs giving out under her, wetness trickling down the inside of her thighs and leaving stains on the floor. He slammed her up against the wall, trying to keep her hands above her head but one slipped from his grip as he pushed into her again. Bracing for the elbow to his chest, he was instead surprised to find that she simply removed the gag.
She gave him one look over her shoulder, one that he could not bare to meet. It contained all too much, and he grabbed her by the tangled hair and pressed her face flat to the wall. Even so, her fingers skimmed along his shaft as he moved in and out of her, the calloused tips tentative and gentle while they stroked along the sensitive ridges. Of course she would know about that part of turian anatomy, and his hand tightened in her hair.
“If I fail, Shepard... Someone will need to–“ He was cut off by his own groan. “I want it to be you.”
Shepard remained strangely quiet as he ravaged her body; he glimpsed white teeth biting into a bleeding lower lip and then he twisted her head away. He didn't need to know all this about her, and yet... Yet he did. The confusion, the duality of intent she was stirring up had him pounding deeper and harder until she let out a moan and trembled.
“But you should have trusted in my offer...”
Saren was not about to offer her any reprieve, however. Despite how every limb shook and she was hammering her fists against the wall, screaming at the top of her lungs, he continued, finding the way she clenched around him when she came yet again nearly enough to drive him over the edge.
“You should have come with me...”
Close, and yet so far. She was howling, from pain or pleasure he couldn't tell, and he could care less. He covered her mouth with his hand, the other pushing her left leg up to give him a better angle. There was no strength left in her body, and she was being crushed between him and the wall, that soft and pliant flesh flattening out and changing shape as he touched her.
It was the first time he had taken a human, and he was not quite sure he liked it – but he did like that it was Shepard being taken by him. “You should surrender to me.”
He sunk his sharp teeth into her shoulder, an act that undid them both. She let out a frustrated cry and her muscles actually pushed him out at the moment he came, spattering her bottom with his semen. For a brief second he sagged against her, the two of them collapsing together against the wall smeared with her blood and sweat. For a moment, all he could feel was the thundering pulse of the soft body against him: all he heard was the erratic and light breaths that she fought to inhale.
It did not last for long. Her fist connected with his jaw, the entire room going black.
When he came to, he was unsure how long he'd been out. The stains scattered around the torn-apart room were drying, and his head was buzzing with the electric bursts of the implants. Shepard herself was gone, not a single piece of her left behind.
With a deep breath, he picked himself up off the floor and took one final look around, as if trying to find a sign, a message – hoping to find one. The clarity with which he could think came and went as the static noise increased, calling him back to the ship with a hull as dark as space and filled with mindless drones that stared into the empty air in front of him, refusing to eat or sleep.
He sent a message, a single line without any signature: Do you understand now? Then he erased it from the outgoing messages, trying to will the entire encounter out of his mind lest Sovereign would catch it.
Saren was losing more and more of his own self, and there was less and less which he could keep to himself and hidden away from the pervasive presence of Sovereign.
Increasingly, he was bleeding loss. In a way he wanted her to bleed out of him in the same way, but on other conditions, on his own terms. Not in the manner in which he was having to let go of everything that had once mattered, now that he was surrendering piece upon piece of himself.
As his shuttle pulled out from the docking station, he received a reply. I always did. –S.