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I'm a sick, sick man.

It had been a little over a week since John took Tali down in the engine room and his engineer had still yet to even speak with her captain.

Captain? I don't deserve that title. Not in Tali's eyes...

The once bubbly quarian engineer was now giving the Commander the ever dreaded cold shoulder treatment, and, in John's personal opinion, she had a damn good reason to do so.

A week ago, Commander John Shepard had, under the influence of the Normandy's resident tattooed biotic specialist, pinned Tali, who was quite possibly the love of his life, to her work terminal in a manner that was in no way gentle and proceeded to fuck her silly using her suits nerve stimulation program.

John winced as he remembered her squirming form writhing against his touch, his rough assault in between her legs. He remembered her attempts to voice a protest that quickly devolved into a series of sweet sounding moans as he started pawing at her body like some sort of primitive beast.

The marine lay on his bed, his back aching against the hard mattress as he stared up at the ceiling of his quarters. He watched the stars drift by through the sunroof, thinking of all the people he had let down with his actions. All those people who praised him, called him a hero. The public adored him, some parents holding the Commander up to their children as a role model. "The Paragon of the Alliance" is what they called him after the attack on the Citadel, the "Lion of Elysium" before that.

John snorted bitterly.

Some hero I am.

John felt shame and disgust, felt utter hatred for himself. And her...

That bitch...

John frowned as another voice entered his mind, this one working against the first. The voice was his own, yet it wasn't.

Oh, would you stop sulking around like some fucking pussy? It's not you raped her or anything! As I recall, there was not a single "no" ever uttered during that whole ordeal. In fact, If I remember correctly, Tali enjoyed what we did quite a bit.

John scoffed at himself, mostly in disbelief that he would even think such things.

Just what the fuck kind of bullshit excuse is that?

It's not an excuse if it's the truth.

That comment made John sneer.

So according to you, if you kill someone before they can say "no", then it's not murder and therefore perfectly okay?

It's not nearly as bad as you're making it out to be, boyscout.

John shut his eyes, his head throbbing from the immense amounts of stress his inner thoughts were putting him through. In retrospect, consuming large amounts of alcohol wasn't John's best plan.

You're right. It's probably worse.

Oh, for fuck's sake! Making the girl of your dreams moan your name as she cums is not an act so heinous as to be compared to murder!

I wasn't comparing-

Well, you might as well have, the way you skulk around! Let me lay it out for you, nice and clear: You fucked Tali. The girl of your dreams. Made her moan loud enough for the whole lower deck to hear. You made her cum. Hard. It was a rather lovely thing to witness, as a matter of fact. Believe it or not, boyscout, I care about our engineer as much as you do. The difference between us is that I actually acted upon our feelings. I did us a favor.

All you did was sully her virtue!

Sully her virt-? Oh, Jesus Christ! What is this, the middle ages?

Fuck you!

Pussy!

Prick!

John forced himself off of his bed, steadying himself on sore, slightly drunken legs. He needed to clear his head, needed to sleep, needed to just fucking forget about all of these problems, just for a while. But, as he was, that simply was not possible. He was fighting against himself, fending off a corruption that was creeping at the edges of his mind.

He needed more booze.

John started for his mini-fridge, a nice little feature that was not present on the first Normandy.

Thank you, Miranda...

...You curvacious, cold-hearted bitch.

Shut up.

He knew that it still held some extra reserves of tolerable alcoholic drinks from his little stint with Dr. Chakwas. Some half-a-dozen bottles of Serrice Ice Brandy and perhaps he still had a case of that Mars Brew. If he was lucky there might even be some ryncol: a one way ticket to the worst hangover of your life. If it got him to sleep, it would be worth it.

Halfway there, John heard the familiar hiss of the elevator door sliding open, followed by the sound of metal boots clanking against a metal floor as someone stepped into his quarters, uninvited.

Oh, no. Please, not her...

John's vision focused enough for him to lay his eyes on the last individual he wanted to see.

Subject Zero was at his doorway in all her infuriatingly sexy, half-naked, corrupting glory. Jack was smirking every so smugly as she leaned against the wall next to his fish tank. John wanted to punch her.

"You," the hero sneered at the convict, "What are you doing in my quarters? Come to fuck with my head some more?"

John's voice held barely concealed fury, venom lacing every word. Most individuals would have soiled themselves right then an there. If Jack was afraid, she didn't show it, her twisted, beautiful face betraying nothing but a smug sense of satisfaction.

The convict remained silent, still smirking at her latest achievement. She took a few confident steps towards John, the little extra sway in her hips not going unnoticed by the Alliance marine. John also took note of how snug her usually baggy cargo pants were, how they hugged her shapely hips, despite how low they hung...

Finally, Jack spoke up, her voice low and sultry.

"Your quarian seems to be ignoring you, Boyscout. I'm guessing it was your fault?"

John shot the convict a glare, baring his teeth in anger.

"My fault?!" He spat, "All of this is your-!"

John quickly stopped himself, not wanting to give in to her obvious baiting. The marine would not stoop to her level any more than he already had. He grit his teeth, doing his best not to scream at her. This was all her fault, the manipulative cunt.

And she was laughing at him, the insufferable bitch! The audacity the biotic held was simply beyond comprehension.

"Boyscout, boyscout, boyscout," Jack shook her head, speaking as if lecturing a child, "When I told you to sink those teeth deep, I assumed that you would remember to actually hold on after the fact, and not bite off more than you could chew."

John said nothing, still glaring at the tattooed girl.

"Believe it or not, Boyscout, I'm trying to help you."

Confusion must have written itself all over John's face because Jack immediately followed up on that statement.

"If it weren't for me, you and the bucket-head would've became the most sickeningly sweet, chaste couple in the entire fucking galaxy. You would've given the reapers diabetes, what with the way she goes all googly-eyes for you behind that mask!" Jack's tone was one of distaste, it being no secret she held nothing but contempt for traditional romance, "Oh, and the way you fawn over her like she was some sort of alien goddess! Ugh! I honestly think your quarian would've worn that chastity suit for her entire life!"

John cooled down for a brief moment, and, to his own surprise, actually found himself slightly agreeing with the psychotic biotic.

She's kind of right...

No. Shut up. She's not right. None of this is right.

"You're tense, Shepard. I can practically feel that coal up your ass turning into a diamond from here."

Jack's rather tasteless comment drew John from his inner thoughts, the marine finally noticing just how close Jack had gotten while his mind argued with itself. The biotic was close enough to John that he could feel the heat coming off her body, a feeling of barely-there warmth that caused something to stir within him.

John took a step back, shocked with himself.

I can't possibly be thinking about that now, of all times!

Jack was closer now. Like really close. She pressed her half-naked body up against John's, placing her hands on his broad chest, her knee rubbing into his crotch. John grunted, though he himself did not know whether it was in arousal or annoyance. She brought her cherry-red lips up to one of his ears, her voice barely above a whisper.

"You need to loosen up, Commander. Just relax and let Jackie help you out." Jack cooed, the convict transforming into a siren almost instantly. As she finished speaking, one of her hands left John's chest and replaced her knee between his legs. She cupped him through his trousers, making John's breath catch in his throat. He felt her fingers rub him, making him go rigid and his pants grow tighter. John groaned at the sensation, his muscles finally relaxing.

His mind, however, was not as susceptive to her ministrations as his body. In his thoughts, John was screaming at himself.

Nope. This is not happening. Not again. John, you need to stop her. Do not let her own you!

John brought his hands up to push Jack away from him... or at least he tried to.

As much as he tried, for the life of him, John could not move a single muscle . It was as if his entire body was locked into place... which it was. On the edges of his vision, John could barely make out a blue aura, wisps of wavy tendrils that were barely visible.

She put me in stasis.

John groaned in his mind, shutting his eyes in what could be described as a mixture of frustration and annoyance. He felt ashamed of himself for allowing something like this to happen. He was a trained Alliance marine, one of the N7s in fact! He was not supposed to be rendered useless by some five-foot, ninety pound, tattooed convict!

How could I forget about stasis?

Jack, meanwhile, chuckled in that low, seductive tone, before giving John's cheek a short lick. Her hand had now buried itself down the front of his pants, worked its way past his boxers, and was slowly stroking his member. He found himself fully hard in seconds, his body reacting naturally to the stimulation of Jack's surprisingly tender hands.

It was something John felt was a little odd about stasis: while an object under it effects could not move of its own volition, it could still be manipulated by outside forces.

John groaned again, though this time in reluctant pleasure. Despite her off-putting appearance, Jack was very skilled in the art of sex. She knew how to get just the right response out of a man (or woman) through the proper application of... pressure and... physical persuasion.

In moments, his pants and boxers were around his ankles. Jack was kneeling on the floor between his legs, her cherry-red lips fastened around him, bobbing her head up and down. Her tongue was like a hot, wet cushion that slid along his member, making it twitch and throb with each lavishing stroke. Jack stopped for a moment, lifting John up by the head to give the shaft a nice, long lick of the underside, culminating at the top when she flicked her tongue across the slit.

"Fuck..." John quickly devolved to simply letting out groans and grunts of approval as Jack serviced him with surprising skill.

As much as he tried to just relax and enjoy what was happening to him, John was still more than a little drunk, and things still ended up going by in a blur.

They were now on his bed, John now completely nude. Jack was now only wearing her pants, though her losing that tiny-as-fuck tank top was no that much of a change. Jack's head was still down between his legs, though now she was paying some attention to John's boys. She took one testicle into her mouth, her soft lips sliding over the sensitive skin. She swirled her tongue over it, giving it a nice coat of warm saliva. The other, she held in one of her small hands, her fingers massaging it, careful not to squeeze to hard. Meanwhile, above, John's tool was throbbing, twitching for more attention.

John threw his head back against his pillows, groaning loudly in approval.

"Fuck... Jack..." John begged her, he needed her mouth around him again, needed his cock in something warm before it burst.

Jack released the testicle from her mouth with a lewd, slurping "pop", before quickly swiping her tongue over the second, giving it some attention as well. The hand that was once massaging his balls was now being run over his toned stomach, her black nails racking aver so slightly across his skin, teasing him beyond what he could bare.

"Jack!" John whined. How could she reduce him to such a state?

Jack smiled up at John, a cruel, mischievous smile that sent shivers down his body. She grabbed his shaft by the head and once again started a single lick up the underside of the pulsing member. This time, however, when she reached the tip, she immediately dipped her head down, engulfing John's cock in her hot, wet throat.

The rest was lost to a series of grunts and moans as Jack licked, slurped, and sucked for all she was worth, adding her hand in for good measure, stroking John, pumping him for his delicious seed.

John came with a roar and Jack locked into place, sliding him down her gullet, her throat muscles milking him for everything he had. Jack swallowed, gulping him down as if he were a delicacy, all the while she was staring up at him with her big, almost luminous eyes. Those evil, mischievous eyes...

John felt tired now, the invader known as slumber at his front gates. It was an adversary he could not fend off and soon after Jack let him drop from her mouth, allowing the slick, hardened organ to slap against her chin, sleep grabbed ahold of John and did not let go for hours.

As he fell into a dreamless sleep, John could only think of how he had failed once again. How he had given in to the corruption that was Jack's influence.

Ecstasy coursed through his body, but John felt nothing but shame.