#Mass Effect Confession | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sol-consort · 10 months ago

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Trial Of A Saint | Illusive Man

[Stalking, possessive obsessive behaviour over Shepard, implied sexual content, creepy fluff, fantasising and longing, Shepard is reader, Gender neutral Reader]

A short piece from the Illusive man view as he watches you, Shepard, return from a mission and all the thoughts that flow through his head while you go on with your daily routine.

Back from another mission, he watches you take off your armour. Piece by Piece, you strip the outer metal layer with expert hands that have been doing this their whole lives. He had no doubt you could do it blind.

The pilot greets you with the warmth of an old friend. He's never this outspoken with anyone else but you, or so EDI has claimed in its reports.

He made sure they'd engineer it to take his mind off of things, to lessen your burden, your guilty conscience for leaving your only friend all alone aboard a ship filled with strangers.

You frequented the bridge after every mission, smiling at their light quarrells. Their playful rivalry worked as a small stress relief for your overworked mind.

Two fingers hold the cigarette between his lips as he breathes in the smoke, the delicious burning sensation of his lungs that lasts for a mere second before the nicotine spreads through his veins in a rush.

Is this what you must have felt like? Swimming in the abyss of space so far away from any sign of life, limbs withering as you fought back against the burning pain in your chest. lungs collapsing in on themselves, the heart stills, your brain activity spikes one final time.

You gasp for breath, an involuntary reflex, an old human instinct since the dawn of time.

One that saved our kind. Only it ends up being your doom as you naively surrender whatever oxygen left in your body to the gluttonous vacuum of space.

A spec of burning ash falls down against his flesh. He doesn't flinch. The delicious sensation of burning, the proof of being alive.

You're waiting inside the elevator, half-lidded eyes from exhaustion, and yet your posture remains straight. The military discipline runs in your blood like narcotics run in his.

lowering the cigarette away momentarily, his other hand brings up the crystal shot glass from the small table next to him. A golden liquid glitters inside, he takes a sip, and it glides down his throat.

His eyes never leave you for one second, courtesy to the various bugs and hidden cameras in every corner of the ship. plant some obvious ones for the smarter kids of your crew to find and assume safety, unaware of the legion embedded within the husk of the ship.

Yet, how curious, you never removed yours. Even the most blatant obvious one of them all, sitting out in the open right next to the medal showcase on your desk, you've obviously spotted it and yet didn't even turn it down.

Not when your adoring asari friend visited, not when your eager assistant came up for more than drinks.

He wondered, Do you enjoy the thrill? Or do you simply not care?

The first thing you always do whenever you arrive at your quarters is feed your pretty pets. various colourful fish swimming up to catch the bits and pieces of food you drop with the press of a button.

He makes a memo to give Miranda a raise. It was her suggestion to add the aquarium after all. With only a single press of a button in his omni-tool, he, too, feeds his beloved pets.

Crossing his legs, he leans back in his chair as you open your wardrobe. Changing into a more casual uniform than your armour padding. Each one of those clothes he hand picked himself amidst the hundreds of concepts the fashion designers sent him.

Are you happy with the collection? Do you have an interest in fashion? Would you have preferred to show more skin or cover more? Something enticing or something that shows authority?

Miranda's clothing suggestions were almost approved, wasn't it for Kelly bringing up how you might be furious to be met with such inappropriate options first thing after your recovery.

And so all the remaining funds were funnelled into getting you these unique one-of-a-kind armours, giving you full access to send any parts back to be repainted however you wished them to be, with an instant delivery.

Checking your private terminal, there are no new messages, Kelly has informed you on the way here.

He opens another screen, mirroring the same one you're looking at.

The same message, the single one you refuse to archive and keep marked as unread in your inbox.

The Horizon mission.

Your eyes move with the words, rereading it carefully. How many times has it been already?

How many nights spent without sleep?

How many drinks did you drown your sorrows in because of it?

How many wounds must you reopen, how many heartaches must you relive, how many headaches must you reawaken.

He reads it with you. He had it looked at by various decryption experts and even had it translated into thousands of languages.

There was no second meaning, no hidden message behind the remorseful words.

Those dots resembled no codes, spelt no secret except a juvenile show of hesitation.

Based on his reports, you two were close. An ex, be it friend or lover, they were the one to cut the red thread connecting your fates.

Part of him did hope that by tricking you into this confrontation on Horizon, that maybe your lover would see reason and join your side. Gain another priceless asset to your crew.

What an excellent morale boost your old friend would've been. For the best purpose anyone on this ship could ever amount to, is to be useful to you.

Alas, your usual cunning charm and bold intimidation seemed to evaporate the second you were hugged. He should've anticipated the fact you were too touch starved to think clearly, partially blaming Kelly for not finding her way into your bed sooner.

But it didn't break you. No, it made you stronger, more ruthless.

It was necessary to break your heart this early. He couldn't afford it getting into the way of your mission.

Either way, the outcome was always in his favour. The house always wins in these situations.

When you eventually sit on the bed, his attention narrows as he leans forward in his chair, uncrossing his legs and downing the rest of his whisky before setting the empty glass away.

You stretch, an old-school military technique meant to act as a quick way to unwind the muscles. Not very effective, akin to a band-aid rather than any actual muscle relief. Should he lend his personal masseuse to you one of those days? Have those expert hands that touched him feel your skin all the same.

Too risky, he discards the idea, you've gotten so used to working with a sore aching body, to loosen the knots in your muscles now would cause a dip in your performance as you adjust to your new flexibility. He can't afford that.

Part of him can't stop himself from giving you gifts. You're practically swimming in his graces as much as your beloved fishes are. You're the most expensive project he has ever built from the ground up, and you're still racking up quite the bill.

He hand-picked everything, from the thousands-thread sheets you're currently laying on, to the featherly pillow resting below your head. the scent of your body wash, the taste of your toothpaste, each and every song in the alarm on your nightstand.

Trying each one personally before granting it his approval.

Even Kelly was hand-picked, oh how beautifully she moaned under him, how delicately she unravelled. That look of pure ecstasy in her eyes during that moment made him feel like a god, and that's exactly when he decided that you should have her instead.

You took the bait with the confidence of someone purposely walking into a trap. How curious he was, on just how you'd be with her.

Would you take charge or let her worship you? Would you make her sing, or would you be the one playing a symphony? how would your thighs look shaking? How would your breath sound panting? What does your face look like when the rush of power and pleasure blanks all sense of duty from your mind?

You did not disappoint.

He was tempted to share more of his toys, the Matriarch, the twin sisters, the most beautiful human alive, just on the tip of your fingers.

But it was too late to introduce new staff to your crew. You've already made a close tight-knit group with yours. Almost close enough to convince them to go rogue and take the Normandy hostage, much like your old crew did to the alliance before.

That fire in you, burning bright enough to convince people to follow you to hell and back.

It was the most addicting of all of the drugs he had ever taken. You were the most intoxicating one. And he was sure to relish and milk every hit he could out of you before your eventual departure.

You can keep an animal in a cage, but on one of those days, it's going to fight back.

He watches the heart sensor on the screen next to him, watching your heartbeat slowing down as you approach REM sleep. The elevator access to your floor locks out automatically whenever your heartbeat falls below a certain threshold to prevent anyone disturbing you.

Likewise, when it raises during more intense activities.

It's cathartic in a way, watching you alive and well, sleeping on his bed that he gave you. After you were burnt to an unrecognisable degree in that explosion.

As the threat of the reapers creeps in, bit by bit, each second could be the last, and yet here you are, the saviour of the galaxy, sleeping like an innocent lamb.

Sleep smoothed out the glare in your features, the constant tense of anger in your jaw. You almost looked…angelic. He was almost tempted to preserve you like this for eternity, freeze you in a display for all to look at, for him to admire as he drinks.

Pouring himself another glass, he reminds himself that he has to settle for this for now.

Your hair looked so soft, your lips so tempting. His personal entertainment budget tripled shortly after the mission reports between you two became a thing.

The thrill your voice sent down his spine, the heat collecting in his core, you were responsible for every drop of arousal he suffered.

Be it yelling at him for tricking you or begrudgingly agreeing, each confrontation left him restless and breathless.

Immediately booking an appointment with his usuals, immediately seeking relief for the longing in his body, the fire you ignited and left to burn him.

Your cold eyes staring him down haunted his memory as he relished in the warm body of another. Your commanding figure made him manhandle the one below him into submission.

Some nights he wants to break you, make you helpless and obedient. on your knees between his legs, head resting against his thigh as he runs a finger along your bottom lip. Pressing his thumb inside your mouth while you look up at him with doe eyes.

Other nights, he wants your jaw latched onto his throat as you claw his back. He wants you ordering him around in bed with the same authority that was your birthright. Fury pulsing in your red gaze as threats pour down like poison from your mouth, degrading and humiliating him to your heart's content.

Another drag of his cigarette, another sip of his drink, another hardness between his legs left ignored, and he kept watching you instead.

Did you know? You move a lot in your sleep.

The blanket falls away, exposing your body. The compromising positions you end up at, the way your legs part, wrap around a pillow, or stretch out.

Like looking at a piece of art, he immortalises every scene to his brain. fully focusing on your figure, your muscles and strong shoulders, your chest, and your bare stomach.

His eyes travel down to your hips, your strong thighs. His own hand grips the armrest of his chair, fingers digging into the leather. How would your skin feel?

The reconstruction of your body used your original DNA and form. Therefore, all previous scars and battle marks were lost in translation. Your skin was smooth again except for the stray moles. He has counted them many times.

It hasn't been long, and you were already making new scars, limping into Dr.Chakwas office as droplets of med-gel trailed after you on the ground. Staying only for the bare minimum of treatments and jumping into shore right after.

Leaving the scar removal technology, the one that he personally had the scientist design for you, to collect dust.

your lips part, and his own follow after as he returns the cigarette to his lips. Wrapping them around the end, wondering how yours would taste like.

Would you use teeth and make him bleed? would your eyebrows knit at the taste of smoke and alcohol in his mouth?

Would you reciprocite? Would you stand there like an ice wall? Would you punch him?

Unpredictable, versatile, ever adapting, that was your nature. Humanity's core traits shine in you.

There is also the chance you're into this, you've allowed him to watch after all, came to report your mission to him with no resistance, let him buy the right to address you as Shepard and not commander.

How much does he have to pay to be able to use your first name? The one everyone else acts as if it's blasphemy to say, or did they simply forget it?

Half of what he owns.

He is willing to part with half of everything he owns to call you by your first name. Replace your last name with his and make it his property forever.

Which man but him claims the right to that?

Who else but him could claim to ever have authority over commander Shepard's ship? To have the power to decide what happens, to make you plead your case and judgement to him in a report after each important mission.

Having you standing there as he sits down, stretching out the conversation and making you linger and hang on each word he speaks out slowly.

Long ago, you did obey someone else.

Occe you too were subordinate to someone else.

He looked into David Anderson's history. He was not impressed.

Could not see what you saw in him beyond surface level authority, could not understand why you eagerly served under him like a lost puppy.

Probably nurture. Maybe if it was him who got to you first, maybe if it was Cerberus who recruited you first, then you'd have been his eager puppy.

His sword and shield, his symbol of hope to reshape Cerberus around. Make you the token hero to justify his cause with. The main attraction for others, like you, to join his operations.

The Alliance undervalued you. The council used you. Both were a waste of you. Someone like you was a miracle that came down to humanity once every thousand years or so. Your limited lifespan already was a hindrance, so why do others feel the need to be annoying obstacles in your path.

Good thing he has already taken the steps to prolong your lifespan with the medication laced in your daily meals.

Making you reprove your worth over and over, respeak your truth louder and louder, establish your cause clearer and clearer.

Humanity's curse is still its short memory, history repeating itself.

Much like her, you too were put on trial for heresy, for your demonic words, your refusal for submission.

And if you're not careful, then you too will burn at the stake as the angels that once urged you to war and justice, wept at your feet for deciding to jump down that window.

As the flames rose, as the people shouted witch, as the girl burned.

As Joan gasped for breath, an involuntary reflex, an old human instinct since the dawn of time.

As God watched.

His cold eyes, mechanical in nature, devoid of any weakness, devoid of any humanity, omnipotent, omnificent, blue.

blinking, he poured himself a third glass. Snuffing his burning cigarette out with his finger.

The burning sensation was exhilarating.

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