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dairsmuids · 28 days ago

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｢ ➥ ｣ D A T E N I G H T femshep x zaeed word count 1.2k • tags established relationship, canon-divergence, mostly fluff, slightly suggestive • also on ao3 • [divider cr.]

The Silversun Strip’s Castle Arcade is abuzz with its typical obnoxious symphony of repetitive sound effects and dance music, as well as laughter and excited screams from both adults and children alike. The lighting in here isn't much more tolerable than the noise: migraine inducing flashing lights bathed in a blue and purple glow, while rows of white spotlights lead up the grand staircase.

Shepard makes her way up the stairs, eyes darting around as she looks for the person she's meant to be meeting here. She feels a little awkward in her leather dress, tugging at the hem of it slightly in an act of self-consciousness. It's almost laughable: she can lead the galaxy through a painful and bloody war, yet something as small as wearing a dress in public makes part of her want to go hide in the nearest corner.

As she reaches the top of the stairs she finally spots him, and she can't help but snort in exasperated amusement. Zaeed. He's here, as he promised he would be, which she's glad about. What she's less glad about, however, is that he's chosen to belay her request for him to dress casual. He's sticking out like a sore thumb in his trademark yellow armor.

As she comes to a stop a few paces away from him, she crosses her arms and tilts her head, watching as Zaeed glares at the claw machine like it’s personally offended him. His scarred hand is resting on the joystick, his mouth set in a hard line as he eyes the coloured capsules inside the machine.

She finally walks up to him, coming to a stop in front of the machine. “You look like you’re about to fire an impact shot through the glass, Zae,” she remarks in a teasing greeting.

Zaeed is unperturbed by Shepard's sudden presence, letting out a grunt as he shoots her a brief sideways glance. “Wouldn’t be the worst idea. Bastard thing’s rigged.”

Shepard shakes her head with an amused sigh, but before she can say anything else, her eyes drift over his outfit once more. She gestures vaguely toward him with a single hand. “Okay, but I have to ask. Why the hell are you wearing that?”

A frown crosses Zaeed's face as he gives himself a cursory once-over. “Didn’t know we had a dress code.”

“Um, yes you did,” she tells him, narrowing her eyes. “I told you this was supposed to be a date. And this is an arcade, Zaeed. Not a damn merc base.”

He scoffs and turns back to the game. “Storming a merc base is a picnic compared to this fuckin’ thing, I tell you.” He moves the claw into position, presses the button, and watches as the damn thing yet again fails to grab onto the capsule. His scowl deepens. “Bloody fix is what it is.”

Shepard's leather-clad chest jolts as she barks out a laugh. “Oh, for the love of — move your ass aside, Massani.” She nudges him a few steps to the left with her hip, giving a roll of her shoulders almost as though she’s preparing for a round of combat at the Armax Arena. Zaeed watches, arms folded in front of him, as she takes the joystick in hand with practiced ease. “The trick is to go for the ones that aren’t too wedged in,” she explains. “And you have to drop the claw slightly off-center, not directly on top.”

“You sound way too familiar with this, Ez.”

“What can I say, I'm good with a joystick in my hands,” she teases, a grin forming on her face as she gives him a lingering look.

“Mm, you bet your sweet arse you are,” he mutters gruffly, slinking up behind her to slip his arms around her waist, planting a kiss to the side of her neck, to which she laughs and squirms.

“Fuck off, Massani, do you want me to win a prize for you or not?” she chastises playfully through her soft laughter.

He relents with a low chuckle and releases her, moving to stand beside her once again. Shepard uses the joystick to manoeuvre the machine claw, presses the button, and — almost like magic — the claw immediately grabs hold of the colour capsule, lifting it up and dropping it neatly into the prize chute.

Zaeed stares over her shoulder, mouth agape. “... What the bloody hell —”

Shepard smirks and bends down, retrieving the capsule and popping it open to find an adorable volus plushie inside, which she proceeds to hold up triumphantly. “See? Not rigged. Just requires a bit of finesse.”

He lets out a scoff at that. “Right. Finesse. Because you’re just full of that, ain't ya.”

Shepard cocks a brow, jabbing her elbow into his side, though it's a futile gesture against the hard lines of his armor. “Damn right I am, more than your decrepit ass.” She holds out the volus plushie to him. “Here. Your prize.”

Zaeed eyes it warily, almost as though it's a bomb about to go off. “I don’t want the bloody thing.”

“Oh, really now?” She narrows her eyes, amusedly suspicious. “Because from where I was standing you were looking awfully determined to win it.”

Zaeed scoffs. “Nah, there was some snivelling brat here earlier, asked me to win it for him. No fuckin’ clue where he is now.” But despite his words, he snatches the toy from her hands, inspecting it like he’s assessing the quality of a new weapon. The corner of his mouth twitches, just slightly. “... Hm. Not bad. Not worth the amount of goddamn credits I poured into that thing though.”

Shepard folds her arms, amusement dancing in her eyes. “You’re welcome. Perhaps you should've put the credits towards something more practical. Like clothes not made to fight in.”

Zaeed gives a groan at that. “Alright, woman, bloody hell. Said I was sorry, didn't I?”

Shepard thinks for a moment, eyes darting from side to side. “No, actually, you didn't,” she responds, though the amusement etched into the corners of her lips contradict her attempts at outward irritation.

“Oh.” He rubs the back of his neck in a rare show of sheepishness, though he doesn't make any attempt to actually verbally apologise. “Well, c’mon. Still got some credits left. I'll take you to dinner.”

A soft snort escapes Shepard's lips as she presses a single hand against his chest, shaking her head. “Nuh uh, Massani. I'm not walking into a restaurant with you looking like you're planning on shooting up the place.”

Zaeed gives her an irritated glance, idly rubbing the side of his cheek with a single calloused hand. “Your loss, sweetheart. Takeout at yours, then?”

“I dressed up for you.” She takes a step back, holding her arms at her sides in a presenting motion — though Zaeed doesn't miss a beat, his eyes roaming over her dress-clad form with an expression that’s entirely inappropriate for the setting they’re in. As he moves to pull her into an embrace, burying his face roughly into the crook of her neck, she lets out a surprised laugh and bats him away. “Zae, there are children here.”

“And you know where there aren't children? At your place. Where we can order takeout.” He drops his voice lower. “And you can undress for me.” He steps back out of her personal space, holding out his hand expectantly.

“Perv,” Shepard mutters with a grin, giving his hand an affectionate squeeze as she threads their fingers together.

#mass effect #zaeed massani #commander shepard #femshep x zaeed #oc: ezi shepard #otp: the specter and the spectre #ro.doc #mass effect fanfiction

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dairsmuids · 2 months ago

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— and i could love you violently, if i let myself

summary: when shepard visits the citadel to investigate volus ambassador din korlack and his possible ties to cerberus, she doesn't expect to find herself confronted with a ghost from her recent past in the process.

pairings: zaeed x femshep, garrus x femshep (mention only)

word count: 2.8k

a/n: for reference: my canon shepard is lucrezia "ezi" shepard, a mostly-renegade vanguard with a spacer background and ruthless service history. ezi had an ongoing fling with zaeed during the events of me2, but as a pair of grumpy idiots who'd rather shoot first than share feelings, they never fully expressed how they felt about each other. so their romance fizzled out, and ezi ended up getting involved with garrus.

ezi is a fury-driven mess of a human, and i adore her.

dedication: my two best friends, anli & lya, who aren't even in this fandom but always make time to listen to my ramblings & encourage me to be more vocal about whatever is on my mind. thank you both for always letting me annoy the shit out of you. i love you ♡

also on ao3 here.

Zaeed Massani emits a rough exhale, shifting his grip on his rifle as he glances down at the pile of mercenary corpses cooling on the apartment’s tiled vinyl floor. Din Korlack, the volus he's spent the last few weeks chasing, cowers in the corner, wheezing anxiously into his breather mask. Not that Zaeed gives two shits about him anymore. His focus has now shifted to the woman walking in through the apartment doorway.

She looks beautiful as ever, he thinks to himself before immediately internally brushing off the too-soft thought. Though he can't deny it's true, she does look good. Lucrezia Shepard — Ezi to her friends — is the stunning yet dangerous force of nature she always was. And yet Zaeed can clearly see there's something else in her stance now. Something heavier. The weight of war, perhaps. The same war that's currently burning half the goddamn galaxy down.

"Shepard," Zaeed greets, the mercenary’s voice tinged with its usual sandpaper quality as he rests his gun casually over his shoulder. "Took your damn time getting here. Glad I wasn't just making an ass out of myself over a hunch."

"Been a while, Zaeed," Shepard murmurs, a surprising level of amity to her tone as the apartment door hisses closed behind her. Bright blue eyes flick over the dead mercs before landing on Zaeed again. A part of her still can't believe that Massani of all people is involved in this. She'd, of course, wondered where he'd gone after she'd returned to Earth, but allying with Cerberus again was not what she expected. "Where's Korlack?"

Zaeed jerks his head towards the volus huddled in the corner, not taking his eyes off Shepard. Goddamn sentimentality, he thinks to himself as his mind betrays him with a flash of a memory: his body covering hers in her bed on the Normandy. "Lucky for our little friend here, he's alive. Guess you could say I had a change of heart." He expels a short grunt sound that's almost a chuckle, as his eyes find the corpses of his fellow mercs once again, giving one of them a slight nudge with his boot. "Undisciplined bastards. That's what I get for signing up at the last minute."

Shepard strides over to Korlack, her black boots splashing in merc blood as she closes the distance. She grabs the volus by the collar of his envirosuit, hauling him to his feet with a sharp tug.

"You should've gone to C-Sec if your life was in danger," the Commander growls firmly, her light blue eyes flashing with a level of unbridled irritation that's pretty much business as usual for her. "I've got questions, and you're going to answer them. And don't even think about lying to me." She shakes him slightly, her grip tightening. "What intel did you give Cerberus?"

Zaeed watches almost nonchalantly as Shepard manhandles the volus, a small smirk playing at the corner of his scarred mouth. Her fire stirs something in him he's struggling to ignore, even if it's hardly the first time he's seen her act in such a manner.

Korlack lets out a surprised wheeze as he's dragged upright. "Information o-on a turian planet's defense system," he explains with a stammer, his small eyes darting nervously between Shepard and Zaeed, "B-but if I tell you which planet they're attacking, Cerberus will know I turned t-t-traitor."

Zaeed rolls his one good eye, crossing his arms over his chest. "You already betrayed your own people, you dumb bastard," he says, his voice a low growl. "Talk, before Shepard starts pulling bits off you to feed to her varren."

Shepard's grip on Korlack's collar immediately tightens, knuckles turning white as she does so. She can feel her practically-nonexistent patience begin to wear thin. She leans in close, her breath hot against the mask of his envirosuit. "We just saved your life," she mutters, her voice low and menacing. "Tell us what planet you've put in danger, or I swear to God, I'll make what Zaeed did to those mercs look like a picnic."

Cool metal meets warm flesh for a brief moment as Shepard’s free hand drifts to the pistol at her hip, the touch a silent but meaningful threat at the volus diplomat. And at that Korlack swallows hard, the combination of the Commander’s iron grip and her threats enough to finally wear him down. "Aethus," he immediately blurts out as he takes in another hiss of a breath. "It's Aethus. Cerberus will attack a colony called Aethus for its shipyards."

Shepard's eyes narrow as the volus spits out the name of the targeted colony, finally giving up the necessary information. At least I can pass this on to Victus and get the colony evacuated, she thinks, mildly relieved, That oughta save a lot of Turian lives.

"That wasn't so hard now, was it," Shepard mutters, releasing Korlack roughly. He crumples to the floor, making another hissing sound as he gasps for air. She watches as the volus stands, readjusting and fixing himself. "Now get out of here. Before I change my mind about sparing you."

Zaeed watches Korlack scramble to his feet and hurry towards the door with mumbled thanks, and the mercenary can't help but feel a twinge of disappointment that it's already all over. A small part of him wanted to see Shepard unleash a bit more of that infamous temper of hers.

As he turns back to Shepard he lowers his rifle, letting the weapon hang loosely at his side. "Took him long enough to spit that out," he remarks, his voice a low rumble. He takes a step closer to her, his heavy boots thudding against the blood-stained floor.

Shepard turns to face Zaeed, her light blue eyes flashing with a mix of relief and lingering anger. She rests her pale hands on her hips, her stance wide and authoritative as she regards him, letting out a small hum of confirmation. "I'll make sure the Primarch gets the information and evacuates the colony. We can't let Cerberus destroy any more innocent lives."

Her eyes flick over towards the mercs’ cooling bodies in the opposite corner of the room, eyebrow quirking upward ever so slightly before her gaze finds Zaeed's once more, the obvious question burning a hole in her brain. "Zaeed, what are you even doing here?" she asks, her tone betraying a combination of confusion and disappointment. Another lingering flicker of a glance toward the corpses. "Who were those people you were with?"

Zaeed's gaze lingers on Shepard's face, taking in the fierce determination practically carved into the sharp lines of her jaw. "Bunch of mercs from Omega," he explains. "Signed on with them when I heard they were making a hit on Cerberus. Didn't realise until it was too late that they were actually making a hit for Cerberus." A short exhale escapes his parted rough lips, a sound that's almost a regretful sigh, though Zaeed typically makes it a point not to harbour too many regrets. "Should've studied the job longer."

Shepard allows a single thin dark eyebrow to lift upward once again, though she doesn't give a verbal response. The alteration of her body language — the folding of her arms across her N7 hoodie-clad chest, the way she shifts her weight from one foot to another as she stares him down — is more than enough to relay her disappointment in his stupidity.

Zaeed can't help but let his gaze drift over her, taking in the changes since he last saw her. The most noticeable difference is her hair, once shoulder-length and now cut in a short cropped style, different from how he remembers her during their time together on the Normandy almost a year ago. If he concentrates hard enough he can almost remember the softness of the strands of her dark locks against his fingertips.

"Fuckin' hell, Ez," he says, his voice a low rumble as he gestures at her head with a quiet huff. "Y’know, I almost didn't recognise you when you first walked in." He smirks, his cheek scar pulling tight.

Shepard's gaze sharpens at Zaeed's comment, but a flicker of amusement sparks in her light blue eyes as the prior disappointment finally starts to dissipate. She reaches up to touch her cropped hair, a small smirk playing at the corner of her mouth. "Can it, you geriatric bastard," she retorts, her voice sharp and dry as her smirk remains firmly plastered on her face. "The upkeep was driving me nuts. Besides, I used to have my hair short like this long before you knew me.”

Zaeed chuckles roughly at her geriatric bastard comment, a sound that rumbles deep in his chest. Hurling insults always was their way of showing familiarity and affection, and he's grateful that hasn't changed, at least. "Reckon I've got more hair on my balls than you've got on your head, you cheeky bitch." He takes another step closer to her, until he's standing just a foot away, close enough to smell the faint scent of her shampoo.

"Relax, sweetheart," he continues as he meets Shepard's expression of amused indignance, his voice lowering to a rumbling murmur between them. "Never said it didn't suit ya." He almost wants to reach out, brush his calloused fingers against the short bristly hairs at the back of her neck, but he thinks better of it.

There's a brief silence between the pair, and Shepard tries to pointedly ignore the knot she suddenly feels in her chest at Zaeed's oh-so-typical bumbling attempt at a compliment. He can smoothly put a bullet between a set of batarian eyes from a few hundred yards, yet handles any kind of flirtation like he's trying to juggle a hot potato. It's ridiculous, and endearing.

"For what it's worth, you look like hell," she remarks as she takes half a step back, her arms still crossed across her chest, the zip of her hoodie digging a little into the side of her arm. It's supposed to be an attempt at humour, but there's also a hint of a bite to it, and Shepard realises then that she hasn't quite shaken off her disappointment in him just yet.

Zaeed gives a huff of amusement, showing himself unfazed by her words. "You always knew how to flatter a man."

Shepard allows the veiled facade of humour to completely drop, then — a mixture of irritation and something like concern flickering in her expression as she regards him. "And you always knew not to get played," she reminds him, "Not like this. Not by a bunch of pisspoor third-rate Cerberus goons who couldn't hit a target if Harbinger himself was hovering right in front of them."

She hadn't heard a word from or about Zaeed in months, and suddenly he shows up tacked onto a Cerberus job, even if he's admittedly not actually with Cerberus. Shepard's sure she could laugh at the irony. Suddenly Kaidan’s reaction to seeing her on Horizon last year makes more sense to her than it ever did before.

To her words Zaeed gives a shrug, but it's a stiff, awkward movement. Truth is, he had been off his game, and he knows that. Knows he's fucked up. But admitting it would be a level of emotional vulnerability that the mercenary veteran doesn't have in him.

"Didn't realise you cared so goddamn much," he manages, his voice a gruff grumble that gives nothing of his inner turmoil away.

His response would probably make Shepard recoil if she was a lesser creature, but she's been too hardened by the past to allow this frustration to seep too deeply into her war-weary bones. She's experienced enough horror to last multiple lifetimes. She's watched friends die in her arms. She's executed enemies without batting an eye, unflinching at their blood splattering across her face. Hell, she's even experienced the touch of death herself. Deliberate apathy from a man she once believed she could love? It pales in comparison. It's a dull ache that barely leaves a mark in the smoking crater of her life story.

She's about to turn on her heel and leave, about to mumble something about having to contact the Primarch — but Zaeed gets the jump on her, slipping his rifle onto his back before he starts to walk away toward the apartment door.

"C-Sec’ll be on their way soon enough," he mutters in his low, gravelly tone, "Won't be too pleased with the mess we've left ‘em, I imagine." The apartment door hisses as it slides open to allow the mercenary to depart.

Shepard stares blankly at Zaeed's back as the distance between them grows. She watches expectantly for him to turn the corner and head out into the hallway — but, in the open doorway, he does something she doesn't expect. He stops. And stands there, for a brief moment that feels like a lifetime.

He doesn't bother to look back, but he wants to. God, does he want to. A slow, measured breath escapes his cracked lips. Once again he doesn't think before he acts, though this time Zaeed's foolish act comes in the form of a question he wishes he'd thought better of. "Vakarian treating you well?"

That very nearly catches Shepard off guard.

Her thoughts momentarily drift to Garrus. Just a few hours ago she'd been standing at the top of the Presidium with the turian, confessing her love for him. Are you ready to be a one-turian kind of woman?, he had asked, his nervousness obvious even as he tried his best to mask it behind his trademark sultry purr.

And she does want that. God knows she does.

But as her eyes travel down the length of Zaeed's armour-clad back, a small part of her can't help but still wonder about the road less travelled.

"He is," comes her straightforward reply. Her response is much less complicated than the mental gymnastics it took her to arrive at it. Her jaw clenches, almost as though the admittance pains her.

Zaeed simply nods, as if that's all he needs to hear. Maybe it is. Maybe it has to be.

He leaves his questioning at that.

"Talk more later, Shepard," he mutters finally, a pathetic attempt to cling onto some sort of nonchalance — a nonchalance that isn't there and that hasn't ever been there when it comes to her, if he's truly honest with himself. "Catch up near the docks, if you like."

Without another word he finally offers mercy on them both by turning the corner and walking away, the apartment door sliding shut behind him. Once it's fully shut, leaving Zaeed standing out in the quiet hallway alone, he lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding, running a hand down his battle-worn face.

It’s better this way, Shepard tells herself once he’s out of sight.

But her body betrays her, as it so often does: shoulders locked tight, fists clenched at her sides, jaw so tight she half-expects her teeth to crack. A slight glow of blue permeates around her as her biotics flare.

And then out of nowhere the memories come fast, almost as though someone has pressed play on a vid in her mind. Some things are so vivid, so painfully clear, they could put Thane’s eidetic memory to shame. Meeting Zaeed on Omega, that first flicker of attraction that gave her pause for the first time in years. Countless missions she fought through with him by her side. Saving his life with a reach of her hand as they'd slid down those toppling platforms in the Collector base. Him saving her life with a reach of his hand as she leapt to the Normandy upon their escape and almost missed the jump. The nights spent tangled together, in her cabin, in his cot on the engineering deck, desperate touches and hushed words neither of them would ever dare repeat in daylight.

And now all she’s left with is his goddamn indifference.

She exhales sharply, but before she can let that frustration settle, another thought strikes her. Garrus.

The difference is staggering. Like night and day, even despite how similar the three of them are in so many ways. From the start, there was no guesswork with Garrus, no hesitation. Even in the early days of their friendship, she'd felt a kinship with him she hadn't felt with another since her Alliance training days.

With Garrus, there’s never been an unknown. No doubt. No question. "You realise this plan has me walking into hell too," he'd joked when he'd joined her on the Collector mission a year ago. And yet he stayed. His loyalty has been absolute, unmatched. And that has always been enough. More than enough.

She can't deny that Zaeed challenges her, makes her feel alive. Garrus does, too. But the difference between the two men is that Garrus also soothes her, grounds her when she feels like she's back floating over Alchera again, tethers her when she feels like she's sinking beneath the weight of the galaxy's expectations. And at a time like this that's not just what she wants: it's what she needs.

She drags in a single deep breath, and the blue glow dissipates as quickly as it came.

It's better this way.

#mass effect #zaeed massani #shaeed #shakarian #ro.doc #oc: ezi shepard #otp: the specter and the spectre

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dairsmuids · 24 days ago

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MASS EFFECT 3: CITADEL DLC • zaeed saves ezi (again)

#⚠︎ please don't reblog this #(likes/comments are fine)#oc: ezi shepard #otp: the specter and the spectre #starting yet another fic bc of this 👀#rodoesedits

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dairsmuids · 28 days ago

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in an absolutely SHOCKING turn of events (lie) this is an ezi post

first of all trying to color balance the red out of every screenshot i take in this game makes me wanna lose my gd mind BIOWARE WHY IS THIS GAME SO RED. (i even have some screenshots from jack's recruitment mission that are UNSALVAGEABLE because they're just bright red lmao)

second of all THE WAY SHE IS LOOKING AT HIM HELLO????

I AM GONNA CHEW THRU METAL

(ignore the stupid dress™ i came here straight from kasumi's loyalty mission and forgot to change first)

thirdly i'm cackling at this on the wall in the bg

gonna hc that that signage wasn't always there and only got added at miranda's insistence thanks to zaeed and ezi's intimate shenanigans

#oc: ezi shepard #ro.doc #otp: the specter and the spectre

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dairsmuids · 2 months ago

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— all i did was speak normally; somehow i still struck a nerve

summary: still reeling from her encounter with the leviathans on despoina, shepard receives an unexpected but not entirely unwelcome call.

pairings: zaeed x femshep, garrus x femshep (teeny tiny mention only)

word count: 1.6k

a/n: as always, for reference: my canon shepard is lucrezia "ezi" shepard, a mostly-renegade vanguard with a spacer background and ruthless service history. ezi had an ongoing fling with zaeed during the events of me2, but as a pair of grumpy idiots who'd rather shoot first than share feelings, they never fully expressed how they felt about each other. so their romance fizzled out, and ezi ended up getting involved with garrus.

also on ao3 here.

The soft blue of the fish tank emanates across the room, bathing the Normandy's captain’s cabin in its usual comforting glow. Shepard sits draped across the leather corner couch, a datapad clutched between her pale, battle-scarred hands as she tries to get her latest report finished. She's been at it for god knows how long — hours at this point, probably — but the words just aren't coming.

She knows she's fine. Chakwas confirmed it, after a thorough medical checkup and a few almost-stern words from the usually-unflappable doctor.

Though despite knowing the mission on Despoina hadn't done her any permanent damage, and had actually been something of a success, Shepard can't seem to shake that uneasy feeling. The memory of climbing into that squeaky old Triton and sinking into the ocean abyss still clings to her, gnaws at her, like some insistent wound that'll never fully heal. Not too different from Alchera, really. That almost blinding panic of suddenly not knowing where your next breath of oxygen is coming from, if it's even coming at all.

She reaches for the half-empty whiskey glass on the table and knocks the contents back in one shot, willing it to dull her dark thoughts. Don't go there, idiot. Not now.

The sudden incessant beep of an incoming vid call snaps Shepard out of her reverie, and she's grateful for the distraction but also irritated by the interruption. She tosses the datapad aside before rising to walk the few steps around to her private terminal, bright blue eyes flicking toward the screen to see the caller's name. Zaeed Massani.

With a slight crease of her brow, she reaches down to press a button, answering the call.

The moment the vid call feed connects, Zaeed’s scarred face fills the screen — and while he usually always has the expression of someone who could tear a krogan in two with his bare hands, there's something different this time. A deeper scowl than usual. A flicker of something in his expression that she sees rarely, if at all.

“Wanna tell me what the fuck were you thinking?”

Shepard gives a surprised blink, scoffing as she folds her arms. His tone immediately makes her temper flare up, the familiar feeling of a white-hot flame blooming in her chest, but she makes a conscious effort to hold it back — a sliver of patience that's rarely seen and only ever exercised towards those she truly cares about. “Well, hello to you too, Massani.”

“Cut the shit, Shepard,” comes Zaeed's short response, his sandpaper-voice grittier than usual. “Went down to the bottom of the ocean in some tin can and almost didn’t make it back is what I heard.”

Shepard's eyelids flutter slightly as she suppresses the urge to give an indignant roll of her eyes. “Who told you?” she asks, though she has a feeling she already knows the answer.

“Who d'ya fucking think? Vakarian,” Zaeed looms closer on the screen, blazing fury obvious in his good eye. “You scared the shit out of him, and that bastard's not easy to scare.”

“I handled it,” Shepard says sharply, the line of her jaw giving a flicker of a twitch. She can feel her N7 hoodie clinging to her sweat-dampened spine, a sudden sensory annoyance. It almost tempts her into barking out an excuse to end the call and hanging up in favour of a shower. Yet she remains. Her affection for him wins out. Again.

“S'not what I heard. Heard you nearly drowned then almost got stomped by one of them Brutes.”

Shepard makes a mental note to go down to the main battery and chastise Garrus for being a bigger gossip than Daniels and Donnelly. “I handled it,” she repeats, deliberately slower this time.

The sound of a harsh, incredulous laugh suddenly escapes Zaeed's lips, his good eye burning hotter than the Tuchanka sun as he stares at her. “Unbelievable. Galaxy's going to hell and you want to get yourself killed going for a swim. You’re a goddamn nightmare, Lucrezia.”

Shepard's eyes immediately narrow at his impudent use of her full first name. He knows she hates it. He only dares to use it when he wants to rile her enough to make a point. And then it becomes glaringly obvious to her what point he's trying to make, in his typical bumbling way. He was worried about me.

The thought softens and amuses her in equal measure.

“Starting to sound like you care about me, Massani. Getting soft in your advanced age.”

Zaeed scoffs, folding his armor-clad arms in a manner that's almost petulant, though Shepard catches the shift in his expression like a sniper spotting movement. Caught you, she thinks.

“Don't give a shit what you do, Shepard,” he insists, though there's no real bite to his words, and almost certainly no truth to them either. “Long as you live to tell about it. Can't imagine Vakarian'd be too pleased if you got yourself killed and broke the poor bastard's heart like that.”

“I see,” Shepard says, a teasing lilt to her voice now. “Well, I'll be sure to let Garrus know how concerned you are for him and his heart. Such selflessness.”

Shepard's gentle teasing earns her a death glare and a quiet muttering of “Cheeky bitch” in response. She brings her hand up to her face, pressing a hooked finger over her lips in an attempt to hide the triumphant grin threatening to manifest, though the creases at the corners of her eyes give her amusement away.

If there's one thing she's learned in the time she's known Zaeed, it's that he's never the kind of man to shy away from admitting anything to Shepard — except when there's emotions involved. And in those instances, where possible, he'll duck behind Garrus like the turian’s a piece of convenient cover. Some days, Shepard finds it infuriating. In this moment, however, she can't help but find it endearing.

A brief silence stretches between them, and Shepard watches as Zaeed lights up a cigarette, idly blowing his first puff of smoke in the direction of the camera, temporarily blurring him from her sight. Once the smoke dissipates he's still there, almost frozen in place, glaring at her profile almost like it's a battlefield he can't quite conquer.

“You know you don't have to worry about me,” she tells him, seizing the opportunity to coax some real emotion out of him, like carefully tugging on a loose thread. “For once, it feels like we actually have a chance at winning this damned war. And I'm sure as hell gonna live to talk about it.”

She stubbornly ignores the gnawing inner voice that tries to tell her otherwise.

“Yeah, well, be an embarrassment if you don't,” Zaeed mutters gruffly, taking another drag from his cigarette. “Proof you can't do anything unless I'm there to save your arse.”

At that, Shepard doesn't bother to hide her eye roll, returning her arms back into a folded position across her chest. “That so? You wanna put your money where your mouth is, Massani? Come back onto the Normandy?”

Zaeed's remaining eye narrows slightly, the scarred lid twitching as he studies her face. “And have the goddamn Alliance breathing down my neck each time I so much as take a piss? No thanks, sweetheart,” he replies, turning his head briefly to the side to blow out another cloud of smoke.

Shepard lets out a low chuckle, eyes meeting the floor beneath her feet briefly before she glances back up at him again. Even on the flickering holoscreen she can tell he looks more exhausted than usual. He looks how she feels. She wonders if maybe, to him, she looks the exact same way.

Suddenly she feels that longing, one she's had often since returning to active duty on the Normandy: a longing for how things used to be. Obviously not for the days of being on the Cerberus payroll or being surrounded by a crew of Cerberus minions who smiled at her just a little too enthusiastically. Rather, for those times when she could pad down the hallway of the Engineering deck, stumble into the starboard cargo hold, and revel in Zaeed's chaotic, comforting company. The now-renovated space no longer feels the same. Memories of sharing war stories and dirty jokes, heated sparring and even more heated intimacy — some of the best times of Shepard's life, now suffocated beneath the bleak sterility of Alliance interior design and even bleaker drone of Diana Allers’ reports.

“Ez,” comes Zaeed's voice, breaking the silence to wrest her from her thoughts, snapping her back into the present.

The way he calls her Ez, the way the nickname rolls off his tongue with that low, gravelly timbre: it only serves to exacerbate her yearning. The sheer sentimentality of it lands square in her chest, such an immaculately-placed shot that she's half-expecting to hear the familiar click of her armor's shields going down.

He takes one last drag of the cigarette, putting it out with a scrape against the wall behind him as he blows out the smoke to one side. His mouth remains open for a full second before he actually speaks again, hesitance in his stare, almost as though he's battling an internal war of his own. “Just goddamn watch yourself, alright?”

Five simple words. A broken old mercenary's clumsy approximation of tenderness.

And just like that, before she can say or do anything else, he abruptly cuts the call.

She stares at the blank screen for a long moment before exhaling, a tired smile tugging at her lips as she saunters back towards the couch. Love you too, you miserable bastard.

#ro.doc #mass effect #zaeed massani #commander shepard #shaeed #mass effect fic #mass effect fanfiction #oc: ezi shepard #otp: the specter and the spectre

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dairsmuids · 1 month ago

Text

— if i could hold you for a minute, i’d go through it again

At Shepard's party, Zaeed finally comes clean about his true feelings for her. (or, alternatively: they're horny and in love, your honour)

Fic based loosely on this, which lives in my mind rent free. So many moments in the Citadel DLC canonise the idea that Zaeed is a secret softie, so I'm taking that canon and running to the end zone with it. Also, for a visual reference, Zaeed is dressed in this, because wearing full armor at parties is sociopathic.

Some context, for anyone new: my canon Shepard is Lucrezia "Ezi" Shepard, a Renegade vanguard with a Spacer background & Ruthless service history. Ezi had a fling with Zaeed during Mass Effect 2, but as a pair of grumpy idiots who'd rather blow something up than be vulnerable, they struggled to express their feelings. So the romance fizzled out, and Ezi ended up with Garrus.

Fic title comes from Hozier’s song Francesca, which is so Ezi and Zaeed coded that it gives me chest pains.

Content warnings: some brief smut. Also, Ezi and Zaeed both like to use swear words like punctuation. Another also, this is 5.3k words. Apologies, I'm a yapper.

Swirls and flurries of dark shadows and fluorescent lights filter through the floor-to-ceiling open blinds of Anderson’s — no, Shepard's — penthouse apartment, a combination of the Citadel’s artificial night cycle with the Silversun Strip’s vibrant, flickering billboards. On the ground floor of this ample dwelling the party is still very much in full swing, the cacophony of dance music and drunken laughter mingling as it wafts upward. Shepard is stunned that there hasn't been a complaint yet; though after Grunt’s earlier command of the front door comm, she's sure her neighbours are simply too afraid to risk the retaliation of a krogan airdrop through their living room window.

Shepard herself leans idly against the balcony railing, glancing downward into the empty living area, her gaze slowly trailing across the clutter of empty glasses and beer bottles strewn across Anderson’s — her — usually pristine coffee table.

She doesn’t know if she’ll ever get used to calling this place her own.

The rest of the Normandy crew are gathered in various spots around the apartment: some are dancing in the kitchen whilst some are gathered around the poker table in the back room. Grunt is fast asleep in Shepard’s shower, no doubt racking up a water bill that could easily eclipse the water usage of the entirety of Zakera Ward. Kasumi has been suspiciously unaccounted for for the past half an hour, and Shepard can't help but wonder what secrets are going to end up on the extranet thanks to the thief’s snooping.

The slight frost of Shepard's mostly-full whiskey glass chills the inside of her palm as she clutches onto it, resting both her arms against the railing as she allows herself to revel in a few moments of relative solitude. She loves her friends and crewmates, but she can't fully get her mind off the war tonight. She thinks of Anderson, out there in the thick of it on Earth, drenched in sweat and blood fighting off Reaper forces with no reprieve. He should be here, sitting in front of the fire with Kahlee. He's earned that. More than I have.

The guilt gnaws unrelentingly at her insides.

Her head tilts to the side slightly as she gazes out towards the obscenely large windows. As she begins to lose herself in her thoughts, her reverie is broken by the sound of boots thudding against the polished floor.

“Wondered where you'd got to,” comes Zaeed's trademark rasp as he comes to a stop beside her, their elbows briefly brushing as he leans against the railing next to her. He doesn't have a drink in hand, which surprises her, since he's had a steady stream of beer bottles and liquor glasses in his hand since he arrived.

Shepard doesn't turn her head to look at him, but she gives a soft grunt in response to his greeting, chest gently jolting with the sound. The smell of him permeates around the pair of them, that sharp combination of cigarette smoke, sweat and alcohol, and for the very briefest of seconds she's sure she could close her eyes and perfectly imagine that she's back in the Normandy’s starboard cargo hold again, listening to another one of his ridiculous stories.

“Needed a breather from all the excitement,” she mutters in response, “And from Kaidan’s dad-dancing.” She forces out a laugh as she brings her glass to her lips, taking a slow but ample sip. The skyline in front of her glitters and pulses, a kaleidoscope of searing and engaging colour, and she suddenly remembers James’ comment from months ago upon his first visit to the Citadel. There's no war here.

Below, the muffled sound of Tali’s alcohol-slurred voice shouting “Nerrrrd!” — followed by Garrus’ equally slurred response of “Speak for yourself, vas Normandy!” — drifts upwards. The corners of Shepard's lips quirk ever so slightly in a mixture of amusement and affection. It's a reminder that this party, this shore leave, this break from everything… it isn't just about her. It's for them, too. The ones she cares for, those who have been fighting this war alongside her. And, particularly in Garrus and Tali’s case, they've been with her longer than most.

The silence between her and Zaeed feels surprisingly comfortable as they stand there side-by-side, staring out over the balcony. A C-Sec surveillance drone wails as it whizzes past the window, the shrill sound fading away in a matter of seconds.

Shepard turns her head toward Zaeed, finally taking the opportunity to drink him in. His attire is pretty simple and casual, just a sleeveless dark shirt, a pair of matching cargo pants and some scuffed old combat boots — it's hardly party wear, but she knows that Zaeed barely comprehends the idea of attending a party these days, unless it's to shoot up the place or take out one of the attendees. But, even despite his usual roughness and the obvious exhaustion etched on his face, she can't deny that he looks good out of his trademark armor for a change.

Her stomach gives a sudden fluttery twist, that familiar feeling of desire pooling low — though it's certainly not the first time tonight that the sight of him has made her feel this way. It's the same feeling she used to get whenever he'd corner her on the Normandy in stolen moments of intimacy. If she concentrates hard enough, she can remember the taste of his tongue sweeping across hers, the surprising softness of his short greying locks against her fingertips.

She internally chastises herself, trying to will her mind to focus on anything but those unbidden memories.

“So, are you enjoying yourself?” she asks him, making conversation as a distraction for her thoughts. The beginnings of a grin play at her lips, growing slightly wider as he scoffs in mild amusement.

“S’pose so,” he mutters gruffly in response, though the amusement on his face morphs into slight disdain as he gestures at the sculpture and canvases further down the balcony. “Be better if this place wasn't so fuckin’ sterile. I've been in asari museums with more life.” There's a hint of a slur in his words, a reminder of the copious amounts of liquor he's already consumed tonight.

Shepard gives a soft snort at that, turning her body so she's fully facing him now, resting one of her arms against the railing as she leans on it. “Never expected you of all people to care about interior design, Massani,” she teases, to which he just responds with a smirk, folding his arms as he turns to face her in kind.

She knows better than to probe him on his knowledge of asari museum interiors: she's confident it would lead to a lengthy recount of one of his old contracts. As much as she enjoys the tales of his exploits, the thoughts in her own head are too loud for her to focus on anything right now. (Plus, the mental image of him taking down a target with his usual jarringly-cold confidence would only serve to exacerbate her lusts, though she'd never admit that to him).

Shepard brings her whiskey glass to her lips once again, barely noticing the burn of the alcohol anymore as it slides down her throat. She shifts her weight slightly, the fabric of her leather dress groaning with the movement. It's hardly her favourite piece of attire, but it's not like she had a huge selection of partywear to choose from. She lives out of fatigues and armor. Clothes shopping is hardly her forte. She still cringes thinking about that dress Kasumi made her wear to Donovan Hock’s party last year.

She notices the way Zaeed's gaze quietly skims down her body, but she doesn't comment on it. Doesn't trust herself to do so. The view of his arms in that sleeveless shirt has suffered her enough salacious thoughts since he got here.

“What do you think of the music? Great? Bad? What?” she asks then, gesturing around them in question of the obnoxious thumping dance number blaring over the speakers.

Zaeed's eyes lazily flick back up to find her face once more, and his expression is something she can't quite place. If she trusted him less, it might’ve almost unnerved her.

A pause of tentative silence brews between them.

“You don't really want to know what I think, Shepard,” he finally says, his words slipping out with an obvious hesitance, one of his hands coming up to rub absently against the barely-there scruff on his cheek.

Shepard gives a questioning head tilt at that, eyebrows knitting together as she emits a nervous chuckle. “Sure I do,” she replies, her teeth worrying over her bottom lip as she allows her eyes to dart between his own, searching, trying to figure him out.

Zaeed lets out a rough exhale, giving a gentle shake of his head. It almost seems as though he's going to back off, end the conversation here, walk away.

And then he doesn't.

“I’ve always thought you were beautiful,” he admits at last, his voice a low, intimate rumble between them, the smell of alcohol strong on his breath. His knuckles turn white where they grip the balcony railing, shoulders taut with obvious tension. “Beautiful and goddamn magnificent.”

He lets out a soft huff, a sound that's suspiciously like self-deprecation. “Never could walk away from you, Ez, not really,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his face, almost like he’s fighting exhaustion — the exhaustion of feelings, despite swearing for years that feelings were a weakness he couldn't afford, not again. His weighted gaze flickers back to hers. “Fuckin’ hell… you’re it for me, sweetheart. Always have been.”

As if suddenly realising he might have said too much, he shifts back half a step. His brows twitch upward as a short, rough breath escapes his lips, almost like he's been sucker-punched by his own words. “There. I said it.”

The sudden admission hits Shepard like the force of a krogan charge she hadn't seen coming. She gives a blink, her expression nothing short of stunned as she searches his eyes again. But there's no amusement there, no sneer, no sarcasm. His words just hang there between them, a raw and fragile thing, like an unpinned grenade that threatens to obliterate them both with each second that passes.

“Zaeed…” she starts, but then she falters, internally berating herself for not being able to find the right words. Talking down the quarians from going back into war with the geth felt less daunting than this.

And then, it seems, she hesitates far too long for his bruised ego to cope any longer.

“Shhh, don't say anything, just forget it,” he mutters bitterly, straightening up as he moves to take a step back from her, breaking the eye contact between them. “Just an old man chatting shit. Forget I said anything.”

Logically, she knows that he's not wrong — she probably should forget it. Let bygones be bygones. Let that be the end of it, perhaps for good, if she doesn't see him again after this party. And then her body tenses up, muscles in her shoulders tightening, stomach doing acrobatics to the point of making her nauseous. She knows, deep down, that this sudden tension in her bones isn't a reaction to his confession. It's a reaction to the thought of letting him slip away after all this.

As he begins to turn around, preparing to walk away, she lets the logical part of her brain scream, ignored, into a silent void. Her heart wins out. She reaches for him, fingers pressing against the inside of his wrist as she grabs onto his arm. His pulse hammers beneath her fingertips, faster than it should be for a man at rest, betraying his attempt at outward nonchalance.

He immediately freezes on the spot, unable to bring himself to look at her, a muscle in his scarred cheek visibly twitching.

“No,” Shepard says firmly. “How the hell can I? How am I meant to forget this, Zaeed?”

When he still won't turn back around or look at her, she feels suddenly irritated, her jaw clenching tightly as her mixed emotions swirl almost violently in her chest. She downs the rest of her glass of whiskey — in a quick shot that makes her grimace — and lets the empty tumbler drop to the rug-covered floor, silently grateful when it makes a thud sound instead of a smash.

“You never said anything before,” she accuses as she takes a step closer, though the tone of her voice gives way to a desperate hurt rather than any kind of genuine anger. “Why? Why say it now? Why not last year?”

Memories of moments spent with him on the Normandy flood Shepard's mind — hours of laughing through alcohol-fuelled swapping of war stories, sparring matches that left them both bruised and breathless, the husky growl of her name escaping his lips as he pressed her up against the weapon bench, his weathered hands mapping the scars of her rebuilt body. For a while they'd been the worst kept secret on the ship. Falling in love might’ve been easier than either of them expected, if only they hadn't given so easily into their mutual cynicism.

“What would you have done, eh?” Zaeed challenges, voice raw as he finally braves turning his head just enough to meet her confused stare. “If I'd actually fucking said it then?” He shakes his arm out of her grip so he can fully turn around to face her. “You'd have told me to piss off —”

“You don't know that,” she counters sharply, talking over him before he's even finished his sentence.

“I do,” he argues. “We had the Collectors on our arses, we had a job to do, and now you tell me you expected time for bloody hearts and flowers? Since when were you such a goddamn idealist, Lucrezia?”

Shepard's eyes narrow at his pointed use of her name. Their mingled breaths in the space between them are sharp and short, tension like a rubber band threatening to snap.

“Besides, you're telling me a woman like you would throw her life away on some old ghost?” Zaeed continues, folding his arms defensively across his chest as his ruined stare hits the floor. His tone is marginally less argumentative now. “What a fucking joke.”

Shepard's lips part as she prepares to shoot back a response, but then a flicker of sudden hesitation washes over her. Bright blue eyes bore into the crown of Zaeed’s head as he remains staunchly focused on the ground, his jaw working like he's chewing gravel, and it occurs to her then — like the flicker of a light bulb — that this insolence isn't just Zaeed being his typical difficult self. It's insecurity. A fear of rejection.

Her shoulders sag, any lingering shred of antagonism immediately draining out of her.

The two of them stand there in the tense silence, unspoken emotions stifling their shared air. Shepard loathes Zaeed's notion that they're too different, that she's some impossible dream he couldn't dare to hope for. They're cut from the same cloth, forged in war and violence: he was once a respected leader, co-founder of the most feared merc band in the galaxy. She's an Alliance hero, a human band-aid for the galaxy's biggest problems. Similar experiences, shaped by them in hugely different ways.

The specter and the Spectre.

In another life, with other choices, perhaps they would have met as equals. She wonders if that's a part of his insecurity, his reluctance to pursue her.

I am all you could've been, and you are all I might be, she thinks.

“A part of me always waited and hoped, you know,” she starts, breaking the silence, and immediately she hates how painful it feels to be emotionally vulnerable with him. It's not their thing: it never was. That had always been their unsolvable problem. “For you. Even when I kept telling myself I didn't give a shit, that I had Garrus, that he was enough. Even with all that, I still kept hoping. I couldn't stop. I… I don't think I'll ever fucking stop.”

Downstairs she can hear the distant sound of Garrus’ modulated baritone as he engages in conversation. She pictures the turian in her mind, hopeful eyes, the gentle flicker of his mandibles whenever he says something clever or just looks her way. She loves him, so deeply that sometimes she doesn't know what to do with the feelings.

And yet. And yet.

Zaeed slowly unfolds his arms, finally meeting her eyes again, his previous defensive posturing replaced with an action that threatens to take Shepard's breath away: he gently reaches upward to cup her cheeks tenderly between his hands, thumbs brushing against her cheekbones. She doesn't hesitate, immediately pressing her hands against his to keep him there. She knows she's playing with fire — any one of her friends could come up the stairs or round the corner and see this display at any moment, after all. Or even Garrus, to make matters worse.

“Stubborn bitch, you are,” he mutters gruffly, but there’s no heat behind his words. “Could have your pick of any man in the galaxy, but you'd rather waste your time on a washed-up old merc. You're ridiculous. Should've never joined up with you in the first place.”

Shepard gives a soft huff at his words, holding his stare, her fingers tracing idle patterns against his rough, tattooed knuckles. “Admit it, your life would've been boring if you'd never met me,” she challenges playfully.

Zaeed scoffs at that. “Boring and a damn sight shorter, probably,” he concedes. He strokes his thumbs against her cheekbones once more, giving an almost resigned sigh. “You're the only thing in the galaxy that's ever made surviving worth the goddamn trouble.”

It feels like a laughable paradox. A bitter, haunted old mercenary's calloused palms cradling the face of a fellow soldier with seemingly-effortless affection. For this split second in time, it's as though they can pretend tenderness is a mutual proficiency. “Twenty years on my own, then I meet you and you turn me into some sentimental bastard.” His voice cracks, dry and rough, like the infertile land in the northernmost reaches of Tuchanka. He searches her gaze, assessing it with a kind of scrutiny that's not a far cry from assessing raid plans in his Blue Suns days. “Is he enough? Vakarian? I'll accept it if it's a yes, beautiful, but I need you to tell me.”

She doesn't know if it's the alcohol in her system, or the close proximity to him, or the way he calls her beautiful in a way that makes everything south of her belly button tighten up — but the whirlwind of emotions make her want to throw caution to the wind and fuck the consequences.

“I don't… know the answer to that,” she admits, and it's a bitter yet somewhat unsurprising truth on her tongue.

As if surrendering to the inevitability of it all, Shepard lets her hand drift downward between them, tracking the movement with her eyes as she toys with the hem of Zaeed’s shirt before slipping beneath. Her fingers splay over the sharp jut of his hip bone, her thumb tracing slow and deliberate circles, teetering on a knife edge between affectionate and indecent. Her hand moves with a kind of uncharacteristic reverence, fingertips ghosting over the expanse of his abdomen.

Once she slowly lifts her head back up her breath catches in her throat, as if it suddenly dawns on her how close he is, their faces hovering mere inches apart. She doesn't mean to stare at his lips, but their proximity almost feels like a dare to do otherwise.

“Tell me to fuck off, Ez. Do us both a favour,” he says, his gritty voice barely above a whisper. He reaches to tilt her chin upward, forcing her gaze back to his.

“I can't,” she manages. “Damn it, Zaeed, you know I can't, not when it comes to you.” Her fingers continue their journey across the warmth of his skin, tracking dangerously low down his abdomen until her palm brushes the soft curls of hair at his waistband.

And that’s what finally strips away the last shred of Zaeed's restraint. He lets out a low growl, immediately crowding her backwards until she hits the back wall with a soft sound of surprise, knocking against some ridiculous looking piece of canvas art that Zaeed definitely wants to use as a convenient place to put out his next cigarette. He acts with zero hesitation, not a care in the world for the fact that they're not alone in this apartment, his palm pressing possessively against the sharp line of her jaw as he catches her in a rough kiss.

There's no finesse to it in the slightest, teeth clashes and sloppy tongues, a rhapsody of mutual frenzy. Shepard arches upward, grabbing roughly at the front of his shirt as though she'll die all over again if he dares to let her go.

Zaeed's hand slips upward, disappearing under the hem of her dress, calloused fingers slipping past the barrier of her underwear to slide between her slick folds.

“Soaked through for me already, just like always,” he rasps against her lips. He probes two fingers inside her without warning, giving a gruff sound of predatory satisfaction when she responds to the breach with a needy gasp and a flutter of her eyelids. “Been like this all night, have you, sweetheart? Bet Vakarian never gets you this wet.”

Shepard opens her mouth with full intention to respond to his vicious and unnecessary remark, until his thumb begins to brush insistent circles over her swollen clit in a way that makes her whimper — actually whimper. A sound that she's sure most people wouldn't expect from the ruthless, volatile Commander. He remembers just how she likes to be touched, almost as though he's been keeping this knowledge carefully stored away for future use. Arrogant fucking asshole. She lets her head drop back against the wall behind her, her hand coming up to claw at his bicep, the skin beneath her fingertips an intricate tapestry of fading tattoos and healed wounds.

“Tell me to stop,” Zaeed utters gruffly as he leaves a path of kisses and nips up her jawline. The low, gravelly timbre of his voice rumbling against her skin only exacerbates the building pleasure he's coaxing between her thighs. “Tell me to let you go back to your turian.”

But she doesn't. This behaviour is a perfect representation of their mutual recklessness: the kind that rivals even their agreement to ignore the screams of those refinery workers on Zorya. A penchant for destruction in the name of immediate gratification.

The brief mention of Garrus is a whisper of guilt at her ear. A whisper she’s all too eager to ignore, muffled by a large amount of alcohol and even larger amount of repressed primal desperation.

Her lack of response makes Zaeed smirk smugly against her throat. “That's how it is, then,” he rasps, the sound practically vibrating against the pulse point of her neck. “Still mine, after all this time.”

Shepard's immediate scoff is a quiet, breathless thing between them, barely audible over the thumping vibration of the party music’s bass line. “I was never yours, Massani,” she retorts, bringing her hand down between them, groping at the rigid outline of his cock as it strains eagerly against the confines of his trousers. The sound he emits in response against her ear — a low, lingering groan of a curse followed by her name — is so delightfully obscene that it threatens to undo her then and there.

But even despite her retort, her hips continue to jolt upwards into his clever touch, her nails leaving crescent-shaped dents in his shoulder as she clings to him for dear life. The friction of his scruff against the pale expanse of her clavicle easily erases her lie in the space between them. She may have arisen on that slab at the Lazarus Project facility, but it was meeting Zaeed that truly reanimated her, and they both know it.

Some heated minutes pass, time that feels like hours. He's three fingers deep, his teeth grazing her neck, grinding his insistent erection eagerly against the palm of her hand, when the sounds of loud laughter and multiple pairs of footsteps coming from the upstairs hallway makes her body tense up and freeze. A stark reminder that they aren't alone in this place. A stark reminder that their actions have consequences.

A frustrated whine tears from Shepard's throat, and she gives a final deliberate clench around his fingers before moving to gently press her hand against his chest, signalling to him that they have to stop. His equally frustrated growl rumbles in the space between them, but he respects her too much to refuse her silent request. He laments the loss of her around him as he slips out his fingers, bringing them to his lips to suck them clean — an act of casual brazenness that makes her huff with surprise despite herself.

She reaches up to stroke her fingertips against his scarred cheek, letting the gesture and the look in her eye say all the soft things she knows she can't say. She's visibly trembling, heart thudding wildly in her chest, body running on a dangerous combination of adrenaline and arousal that almost makes her stupid with a want to pull him back in, wrap her legs around his waist and rut against him like an animal in heat.

He opens his mouth to speak, and she almost braces herself for whatever it is he's about to say — until the familiar figures of Tali, Garrus and Kaidan come striding round the corner, a low murmur of amused conversation between them.

Shepard drops her hand from Zaeed's face and the two of them swiftly separate as though they've been burned. She straightens herself up, forcing a jovial smile as she meets the faces of her closest friends and boyfriend.

“Hey, there you are Ez,” comes Kaidan’s warm greeting, his voice its usual raspy timbre with an addition of an alcohol-induced slur. “Hey, Zaeed. Good to see you.”

Zaeed just gives a simple nod, folding his arms across his chest in his usual guarded manner, making a gallant effort to act as though his heart isn't currently thudding manically against his rib cage. “‘Ello there.”

Shepard deliberately refuses to look in his direction, focusing her eyes on Kaidan’s face instead. She's grateful that her friends appear to be far too inebriated to notice the way Zaeed's pants are currently fitting a little too snugly in the crotch area, or that her own face and neck are flushed as though she's just returned from a shuttle bay sparring session with Vega. If this wasn't such a shitty situation, it might almost pass for comical.

“Ezi, tell this bosh’tet that Fleet and Flotilla is one of the greatest vids of our generation —” Tali suddenly pipes up as she gestures in Kaidan’s direction.

The Major responds with a here we go again eye roll and a quirk of his lips, interjecting before Tali’s even finished talking. “It's terrible, and you and Shepard were lucky I stayed to watch the entire thing. You have crappy taste in vids, Tali.”

“I do not! The only one with crappy taste here is you. In vids, in omni-tools —”

“Hey now, I already told you, the Logic Arrest trumps anything else on the market...”

Shepard doesn't even bother to interject between her friends’ ridiculous bickering, her gaze hitting the floor as Garrus moves toward her, slipping an arm around her shoulders in an affectionate yet protective manner. From beneath her lashes she sees Zaeed turn and saunter away with a gruff mutter of “I need another fuckin’ drink”, and she hates the way her chest suddenly aches with a mixture of guilt and loneliness once he's out of sight.

“You okay?” Garrus’ rumbling voice is like a warm blanket between them, his gentle eyes drifting across the side of her face as he drinks her in. He reaches out, talons brushing ever so delicately against her temple as he pushes back a strand of her dark hair. “What were you and Zaeed talking about?”

The weighted secret of her infidelity hangs over her, heavy and stifling like one of those dust storms on Mars. She's suddenly grateful that Garrus is in casual wear instead of being armoured up: she knows that if he was wearing his visor he'd be able to clearly read how fast her heart is hammering in her chest, a combination of lingering arousal and intense guilt that she doesn't want to be held accountable for, even if she knows she should.

“Just the old days,” she replies, and she automatically leans her head to rest against his carapace, still pointedly avoiding his gaze. She can't look at him. He always looks at her like she put every single star in the sky, and right now it'd be more than she can bear. “You know how Massani gets with his reminiscing.” She forces out a laugh, the sound almost brittle and excruciating.

It's not a complete lie, she tries to tell herself, as though the technicality will make any of this better.

Out of the corner of her eye she can see Garrus still gazing at her concernedly, almost assessing her, and for a painful split second she's sure he's going to probe her further — but then the sound of Tali’s voice rings out as she loudly asks for his opinion on dextro cheese, and as he turns away to amusedly engage in their friends’ conversation, Shepard lets out a barely-audible sigh of relief.

As her gaze drifts downward, she catches sight of Zaeed stepping into the living area. He moves with his typical nonchalance, settling onto the armrest of the couch, a fresh bottle of beer in hand. He takes a slow swig, eyes lifting to meet hers, and the way she gazes down longingly at him feels like a second infidelity to the fiercely-loyal turian standing next to her. She thinks of the betrayal Garrus suffered through with Sidonis, and a sudden and intense self-loathing gnaws at her gut as she realises she's no better.

Shepard finally tears her eyes away from Zaeed as she moves to cuddle against Garrus’ form, slipping her arm around his waist. The turian immediately relishes the closer contact, mandibles giving a contented flicker as he leans in to press his forehead against hers for a brief moment.

For once, she’s startled by the way his affection doesn't immediately ground her like it usually does. But she knows that this change is nobody’s fault but her own, a consequence of the lingering guilt that seeps into her bones.

When she turns her head back around to chance another look over the railing, the space is once again devoid of Zaeed's presence. She swallows hard, a fight to ignore the hollow ache creeping into her chest, the same one she’d felt the last time they went their separate ways. A fight that somehow seems more bleak than pushing back the Reapers.

Back then — after Aratoht, when she prepared to go face the music on Earth and her suicide mission comrades all began scattering their separate ways — she’d told herself that distance between her and Zaeed was for the best. She’d told herself she’d moved on. But as she stands here now, the heat of his touch still lingering on her skin, she knows she’s only ever been lying to herself.

When she awakens early the next morning to make the rounds with her hungover friends and crewmates, Shepard's stomach drops as she realises Zaeed has already gone. No goodbyes, no words, just… gone. And despite everything — despite the warmth of her friends’ company, and the stabilising comfort of Garrus’ love for her — she can’t ignore the way this loss stings like no other.

#ro.doc #mass effect #zaeed massani #commander shepard #shaeed #mass effect fic #mass effect fanfiction #oc: ezi shepard #otp: the specter and the spectre

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dairsmuids · 1 month ago

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listening to this and thinking about post-citadel party ezi with garrus while still holding a torch for zaeed

#oc: ezi shepard #otp: the specter and the spectre #ro.doc

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merryfortune · 2 years ago

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A Monster in the Shape of a Child

Year of the OTP: January

Title: A Monster in the Shape of a Child

Ship: Respectfulshipping | Ryoken/Spectre

Fandom: Yu-Gi-Oh! Vrains

Rating: T

Word Count: 1,083

Tags: Pre-Canon, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Happy Ending

When he looked at him, Ryoken felt a very deep fear.

It rattled the bones in his tiny, pudgy hands. It stole the breath from his mouth. It made his heart race faster but through all these reactions, he steeled himself. He forced himself to smile.

This child… needed help. Just not the help that Ryoken was expecting.

That moment in the rain, outside of the facility that the Hanoi Project had taken place, they could both agree it was magical. It had been a beautiful stroke of luck that Ryoken had been there, to come and ‘collect’ Spectre back. He had been there for his own, selfish reasons. He thought that there might be a clue or hint as to how to get his Father back. His sudden sickness, how he wouldn’t wake up, it was all very worrisome and Ryoken was certain it was connected to the Hanoi Project. Meeting Spectre there… That was just a coincidence.

A good one, though, a lucky one. Any longer and his fate may actually have turned out worse for wear. He was starving, he was dirty and wet and cold and he needed a home. Ryoken took him home and he was so excited. They both were. It seemed like a good sign but when Spectre opened his mouth, Ryoken learned things about him that he would never have guessed.

He had seen Spectre, of course, inside the containment unit that he was placed inside after his kidnapping. He had duelled gallantly, and was definitely the most resilient of the children. He never seemed to tire or outwardly complain about his circumstances. Always smiling, laughing, getting up after a loss with a wicked expression, a hunger to win.

Ryoken never would have imagined why. Spectre had wanted to be there. He liked being there. He could innately sense the magnitude of the experiment, why it would be worth violating such precious ethics like not kidnapping and torturing children in the name of science and progression. And he wanted more. He wanted to go back.

How blithely he spoke about the Incident, it sent a shiver down Ryoken’s spine and very quickly, he became afraid of the child standing next to him. The child who was now living with him, sharing meals and toys with him. He didn’t know how to handle this monster. Especially a monster who loved him.

In the few days that Ryoken had become afraid of Spectre, Spectre had just as quickly become enamoured with Ryoken. He was all smiles around Ryoken, incredibly thankful for being severed from the orphanage that neglected him and of course thankful for being chosen for the experiment. He all but worshipped the ground that Ryoken walked on in his gratitude.

That scared Ryoken most of all, truth be told. He did not want the twisted affections that Spectre had unto him.

He could never tell this bright-eyed monster in the shape of a malnourished child that he was the whistleblower. That his laughter terrified him, made him break out in a cold sweat and made his hands tremble because he couldn’t imagine how a human child would enjoy the Incident. Ryoken had been witness to the suffering of all of them. It was Spectre’s minority which twisted his guts in an all new way compared to when he thought of the agony the other five children went through.

But Ryoken decided, at the grand age of eight years old, he could not live like this. In terror of the young boy who bounced along behind him, talking about his favourite Duel Monsters and what the scientific names for the trees and flowers in the backyard were. However, fortunately, there was a common ground and a place where even Ryoken could tame dragons and slay beasts.

That game of cards that had been the method in which the children of the Incident were tested and in which the Ignis were inspired by.

“Ah.” Spectre said, blinking. “I lost. Your really good, Ryoken-sama.”

“Thank you.” Ryoken replied in a small voice.

Spectre was… a good loser. His grace when lethal had been achieved on Ryoken’s side… That surprised Ryoken somewhat. However, there was a lack of sincerity to his expression. He had wanted to win. Or maybe he was hurt more by what had transpired over the course of the duel beyond what cards were played.

Ryoken had laid it all out and he had encouraged Spectre to do the same. The pretty pieces, the ugly pieces, all the pieces of what made them both individuals. Ryoken had revealed how Spectre scared him by coming on too strong and Spectre had revealed just how human he was when it came to love and lost. How it gave him joy, how it broke him. The ultimate as well, came to light: Ryoken’s place as the ender of the Incident, the one who had made the phone call to authorities, had even come to light.

And Spectre, in turn, revealed that it hadn’t all been fun and games. He had missed his Mother sorely. How he had cried, homesick for her tree branches and her roots, the feeling of grass underfoot and the gentle caress of her foliage on his face instead of the white chrome of the containment unit. No hugs, no nature, no love to nurture him better.

But Spectre could still play the game he liked best. He could still mean something, because that’s what he wanted above all, Ryoken worked out. So, Ryoken wanted him to mean something to him. His best friend, his future second-in-command, his right hand man, his crush.

“Do you want to go best of three?” Ryoken asked, already picking up his cards from the duel board so he could place them back into his Extra Deck or shuffle them in his Main Deck.

“I would like that.” Spectre replied, happy, smiling, more genuine this time.

Ryoken smiled as well. Spectre was still a monster in his view, because a normal human wouldn’t be like that, considering a tree to be a parent or so needy that pain and torture was preferable to being ignored. That’s what Ryoken thought, at least, about his companion that he now looked forward to standing beside, eating meals with and sharing toys with. Ryoken felt more confident now.

So now, when he looked at Spectre, he didn’t feel fear or undue admiration, but he did see someone very important to him and that was likewise.

#writing tag #respectfulshipping #yugioh vrains #vrains #yugioh #ryoken kogami #kogami ryoken #spectre (vrains)#specter (vrains)#year of the otp #a monster in the shape of a child #[slams hands on desk] spectre should've gotten a therapy duel as well!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!#and we should have gotten more ryospe backstory lore

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authoratmidnight · 6 years ago

Note

Ask meme for Ryoken and Spectre

Ryoken

Why I like them-

He’s an interesting character (and kind of a mess tbh). He fills the roll of being ‘antagonist’ without fully being ‘evil’.

Plus he has a unique connection with the protagonist that we haven’t seen before in any of the other series, that is he actually has a history with the protagonist which usually isn’t the case (arguably the closest we have would be Judai and Yubel, in that, Judai knew Yubel as a child much like how Ryoken and Yusaku first met as a kid, then later as teens/grown ups and on opposite sides of the conflict).

Why I don’t-

He can be, frustrating at times tbh Like with his ‘all the Ignis want to crush humanity’ like, my guy, 2 of 6 is not a majority, the other 4 are actually p. chill with humans.

Favorite episode (scene if movie)-

I mean it was satisfying watching him kick BS’s ass and toy with him.

Favorite season/movie-

Idk, I suppose s2, if only cause he seems to be more cautious about collateral damage and NOT dragging innocent people into this shit.

Favorite line-

When he told BS that he needed to chill. Like, thank you, at least someone said it.

Favorite outfit-

I really like his knew VR look.

OTP-

I mean, Datastorm obviously

Brotp-

Specter

Head Canon-

Kyoko and Aso basically raised him while his dad was being held captive by SOL.

Unpopular opinion-

I mean, from what I heart apparently liking him and not calling him ‘evil’ is uh, kind of unpopular :|

A wish-

I mean, I’d love a team up with him and Yusaku. Hopefully at some point.

An oh-god-please-dont-ever-happen-

I mean, the same as with most characters, don’t kill him off. At least not permanently.

5 words to best describe them-

Driven, angry, vengeful, loyal, determined

My nickname for them-

“Rev” idk if that counts. I’m just lazy so I shorten tend to shorten it when writing lol

Specter

Why I like them-

I just think he’s interesting tbh.

Why I don’t-

I mean, I don’t dislike him so *shrugs*

Favorite episode (scene if movie)-

I was just glad when we finally got some backstory for him.

Favorite season/movie-

Uhhhhh

Favorite line-

I can’t remember any off hand lol

Favorite outfit-

Ngl but his real world clothes actually look nice so, that.

OTP-

I do like some good RevSpec

Brotp-

I’ll take platonic RevSpec as well

Head Canon-

He probably lived at Ryoken’s place

Unpopular opinion-

Is ‘I like him’ an unpopular one? I try to stay out of drama so idk what’s an unpopular opinion about him.

A wish-

I just want him and Earth to meet. And then bond (to Revolver’s horror)

An oh-god-please-dont-ever-happen-

Don’t have him go the entire series without meeting Earth. That would be cruel.

5 words to best describe them-

Unhinged, loyal, proud, lonely, orphan

My nickname for them-

Don’t really have one I think.

#character ask meme #princessofdawn0718

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dairsmuids · 1 month ago

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time for a little untitled extended drabble, because my fav murderous couple live in my head rent free.

dedicated as ever to my best friend & eternal hype woman @ladysaturnsdust (side note sis pls bring back your girl zia soon, i miss her) ♡

also dedicated to the wonderful @bearchuckles - hope you enjoy the brief cameo of a certain someone i put in especially for you, lmk if you spot it ;)

word count: 1.2k / content warnings: misogyny, violence, swear words being used like they're punctuation

— LOWER MARKETS, OMEGA, 2186

The recycled air of the Omega markets reeks of skycar engine fumes, cheap alcohol and old blood, enough to make even the most hardened criminals recoil in disgust — though to residents and frequent visitors this olfactory nightmare is nothing new or surprising. Neon signs flicker above grotty stalls as vendors call out to potential customers, touting promises of 'top quality' weapon mods and ship parts.

Zaeed’s got an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips as he saunters beside Shepard in his typical aloof way — though deep down, he's relishing this time spent just being around her. Much like always. (He swears to take these thoughts to his grave. They couldn't waterboard this flowery bullshit out of him.)

Weaving through the crowds, the pair come to a stop in front of Harrot's Emporium. Shepard engages the elcor in a conversation about pistol upgrades as Zaeed stands beside her, patting his trousers down in search of a lighter. He takes a step back to clear the path for a striking-looking stranger, briefly glancing at the necklace glinting round their neck before meeting their eyes. The stranger flashes him a lingering smile as they pass, gathering their long dark hair over one shoulder, bleached silver-white tips catching the light. Zaeed’s hilariously-indiscreet stare follows the sway of their form as it retreats from view.

With Shepard finding Harrot's stock lacking, the pair move on. But as they make their way toward a volus vendor's storefront — the same storefront that used to be Kenn’s Salvage — an inebriated batarian stumbles from around the corner, swaying slightly as his plethora of bloodshot eyes all immediately lock onto Shepard. “Hey, human,” he slurs as he stares leeringly up and down her body, “Why not ditch your old man and come show me what that mouth of yours can do?”

Shepard stops dead in her tracks. Despite a portion of the offensive words clearly having been directed at him, Zaeed is relatively unbothered as he comes to a halt immediately behind her, a smirk tugging at his wrinkled lips. “Oh, this oughta be good,” he mutters under his breath, slightly muffled from the cigarette still hanging from his mouth. He turns his head briefly, gesturing to the volus for a lighter.

The wasted (and definitely imminently in danger) batarian somehow misreads Shepard's sudden stillness as fear. “Come on, sweet thing,” he sneers, stepping closer, batarian ale strong on his rancid breath. “I can pay you for an hour. Bet you'd love a real man’s —”

His sentence, as well as his swagger, are both suddenly and firmly silenced.

Shepard's fist meets the batarian’s face so fast that the sound almost rings out like a gunshot in the close quarters of the confined alley. He staggers back, clutching his nose, blood pouring out between his fingers. “You little —”

But Shepard, who's already in a foul mood at having to be in this shithole station in the first place, has decided this entanglement is nowhere near over. Turning her head sharply to assess the dingy surroundings for an impromptu weapon, she reaches over the counter to snatch up the latter half of a two-piece Kenn’s Salvage sign laying broken and abandoned on a stack of crates.

She straightens up, gives a wriggle of her jaw and a roll of her neck, then steps forward and swings the sign toward the batarian’s head with zero hesitation.

The batarian lets out an uncharacteristic and pathetic howl as he drops, flailing wildly onto the floor like an injured pyjak.

Zaeed — who's leaning against the adjacent wall, watching the scene like it’s a varren fight he's got good money on — finally pipes up with his trademark gruff laughter as he idly blows a mouthful of smoke out to one side. “Fuckin' hell Ez, you're on one today.”

Shepard immediately flashes him a glare, the kind that would intimidate most people. “This is restraint,” she snarkily replies. “I haven't shot him yet.”

“Should think himself lucky that Jack ain't here this time. Destructive little bitch would've already made paste of the bastard and smeared some of these walls with it.”

“Mm, I'm considering it myself,” Shepard remarks, pointedly casual as she gives the bloodied sign in her grasp a cursory glance. The volus vendor's breather suddenly crackles with a surprised gasp.

From his new location sprawled out on the dirt-streaked ground, the drunken batarian glares up at Zaeed, some shred of defiance still lingering in him even with a bleeding nose and his pained side clutched tightly. “Filthy humans,” he rasps groggily, eyes narrowing. “You're not even going to get involved? Just gonna let your little bitch of a girlfriend do what she wants?”

Zaeed maintains his stone cold nonchalance, despite the fact that hearing Shepard being verbally berated is giving him an urge to break every one of this bastard's limbs. “Mate, you must be pretty fucking stupid to think I’m the one in charge here,” he says with a mocking laugh, flicking ash off the end of his cigarette as he nods towards Shepard. She still has a face like pure thunder, stretching each of her legs out briefly as she clutches the edges of the sign like she's holding a turian clawball racquet.

“Your women are whores and your men are weak," the batarian coughs out. “Pathetic. Humans are a blight on the galaxy.”

At that Zaeed decides on a brief involvement, unable to contain his temper any longer as he gives the batarian a rough boot to the side of the face. “Try again, jackass,” he rasps. “Perhaps you oughta give my girlfriend here an apology 'fore she turns your sorry arse into a stain.”

Shepard gives Zaeed a sideways glance at his remark, the corners of her mouth twitching upward ever so slightly, the movement almost imperceptible.

The batarian lets out an irritated growl, but as he glares between Zaeed and Shepard, clearly he decides his xenophobia and wounded pride are beyond offering an apology. Instead he mutters something bitterly in his own language, so faintly that Shepard's translator almost doesn't pick it up.

Almost.

There's a brief pause as Shepard stands there, silently assessing him, and for a few heartbeats it seems like she's considering letting it be. But then in an instant she glows blue, biotics flaring with her temper. A loud thwack rings out as she darts forward, smacking the insolent batarian into immediate unconsciousness.

She tosses the ruined sign atop the counter, the red neon ‘L’ of the word Salvage giving one final flicker before it dies completely. The word S A V A G E now aptly sits, tattered, in front of the stunned-to-silence volus merchant.

Zaeed lets out a huff as he pushes off the wall, flicking the cigarette butt down before idly grinding it into the ground with his boot. “You done?”

Shepard's blue glow immediately dissipates as she gives a sharp crack of her knuckles, blowing a rogue strand of dark hair out of her eye. “For now.”

As the pair fall into step side-by-side heading through the marketplace, a sideways grin begins to form on Zaeed's face. “So, girlfriend, was it? That mean I get dibs on half that massive bed in your cabin, then?”

Shepard snorts, though the glance she gives him is equal parts affectionate and amused. “In your fucking dreams, Massani.”

You have no goddamn idea, sweetheart, he thinks.

#zaeed massani #mass effect #oc: ezi shepard #ro.doc #otp: the specter and the spectre

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