#this is a beast! but so glad its done :)

[clericofshadows]

the revenge of a king

Description: Regis Shepard gets word from an Alliance ally of his about an issue at Liara T'Soni's apartment, that quickly turns into an opportunity to take down the Broker that originally wanted his body... and the asari that gave him to Cerberus in the first place.

AO3 LINK

Paring: Regis Shepard/Kaidan Alenko/Zaeed Massani Part of my Regis Shepard - Lament of Kings series

Word Count: ~20K

Note: This fic is not very Liara friendly, and as such, be aware of that, thank you :)

Regis settled down at his desk with a yawn, rubbing his face and beard.  They were docked on Illium, handling some affairs.  He helped Miranda get her sister to safety, and he could tell that took a load off her shoulders.  He ran a few errands on Illium, getting some information about the galaxy, but pointedly avoiding that fucking office and blocked requests to talk.

T'Soni must know that he knows.  He hopes that she does.

She had no right.  None.

Even if she did indirectly bring you, Zaeed, and Kaidan back together…

He let out a sigh as the doors to his cabin opened, and he smelled the aroma of fresh pasta that immediately made his mouth water.  Shit, he forgot how hungry he was, knee deep in dealing with all the bureaucracy that comes with every single Illium trip.

“The asari know their way around pasta,” Zaeed said as a greeting, placing one takeout box by Regis’s terminal and sitting down on the couch with his own.  “Came as a recommendation from an old friend.  Told her I’ll hunt her down if she wastes my goddamn credits.”

“Well, it smells amazing,” Regis said, thankful for the distraction from his thoughts, hating that she was taking up all his space right now.  “Chicken parm for me?”

“Of course.  Well, their equivalent for it.  Shrimp scampi for myself, but with some asari shellfish replacement.  We’ll see how good it is,” he replied.  “And don’t worry, I got the higher caloric option.  All the fucking fuel you need right there.”

He’s so sweet when he wants to be.  

“Did you get that so I wouldn’t steal your food?”

“Obviously, you selfish asshole,” he chuckled.  “Knew you wouldn’t touch it even with your goddamn biotics if it had seafood on it.”

Regis rolled his eyes and opened the box, getting out the utensils and taking a bite, pointedly ignoring his comment even though he was right.  Zaeed will take his lack of answer as agreement, as always.  The chicken was beautifully fried, the sauce had a lot of flavor, and the pasta was perfectly cooked.  “You better tell your friend that she chose well,” Regis said in between bites.  “Holy shit.”

Zaeed hummed in agreement.  “Whatever this asari shrimp is, it’s incredible.  You’re missing out, babe.”

“No, I’m not.” Regis took another bite.  “God, this tastes damn near like my mother’s recipe.”

Regis still has yet to call her.  Both her and Adrian for that matter.  

He’s afraid.  Afraid of their reaction, of their acceptance of what has been done, of what he has to do to get out of this fucking ship alive.  A part of him knows that they won’t judge–hell, his mother learned her lesson after Torfan–but he can’t shake the fear of losing what little family he has.

“Didn’t know your mother liked to cook,” Zaeed said, his voice piqued with interest.  

Did he meet her at some point? Since he and Kaidan got together in those two years made him wonder.

Knowing Kaidan, he probably did introduce them, if only so she wouldn’t have to find out elsewhere somehow.  No, that’s why he would’ve done it.  If he was being completely honest with himself, Kaidan did it to absolve the guilt of moving on… letting Hannah decide for him what she thought.

Regis got up with his food and joined him on the couch, shutting down his terminal.  “Originally, it was Atlas’s recipe, but he was one of those that wasn’t really specific with instructions, you know?” Zaeed nodded along.  “So Mother took it upon herself to try and recreate it to her and Adrian’s memories of it, and finally nailed it when I was… probably ten or so.”

“You should call her,” he said pointedly, gesturing with his fork speared with shellfish.  “And give her your review.”

Regis didn’t know much of anything about Zaeed’s family, if he even still had a living one.  So it was telling that he, once again, was goading Regis to get off his ass and do something.

“Kicking me in the ass to contact my family again, huh,” Regis said, leaning against him.  “You’re right, as always.”

“It’s a learned skill.  You should look into it.”

Regis glowered at him but accepted his kiss on his cheek anyway.  “Maybe later.  I’m just… not in a good headspace to talk to her right now.”

“Because of her?” Zaeed asked, emphasizing the pronoun.

Regis only nodded, burying himself back into his dinner.  “I’m trying so hard to not let her invade every fucking part of my life, but she… she fucking violated me for her own selfish wants.  And a part of me keeps saying I can’t be mad because of what she gave me.  And us.”

Zaeed wrapped an arm around him.  This wasn’t the first time they’ve had this conversation since he learned about her involvement in his resurrection, and it sure as hell won’t be the last.  “I’ll say this every time.  You have the goddamn right to feel how you do.”

“I know.”

About to dig back into his food, his omnitool pinged with a message from his private server.  He let out a small sound of surprise when he noticed it was from Hackett. 

SH: Clarkson has something for you.  Alenko has patched her into your server.  It sounds like something that we all might want to look into, even if I know you would rather get the hell away from Illium.

Regis raised an eyebrow and pushed away the to-go box with a sigh.  “Looks like we’re not finished with this place yet.”

“Wren’s the… N7 that Hackett uses as his main agent, right?”

Regis nodded, standing up from his terminal.  “Old friend of mine.  She’s a Fury and one hell of a great infiltrator despite her biotics.  She’s been looking into T’Soni, according to Kaidan when we met up.”

“Think this could be the chance to get your fucking revenge?” He asked, his tone light.  Zorya still lingered in his mind.  Zaeed’s impulsiveness, Regis’s moral code… they were good now and arguably better from it.

Revenge didn’t sound so sweet anymore.

Regis shrugged.  “I’m hoping that we can find a way to ensure she can never work in Alliance space ever again at the bare minimum.”  He brought his terminal over to the coffee table and loaded up Wren’s message.

WC: Call me as soon as you can.  I understand that you have a lot going on, but this could be big.

They shared a look.  

RS: I’m free.  Zaeed’s with me.

A moment later, a vid call request came through.  Regis accepted it and Wren appeared on the screen, her violet hair pulled into a messy bun.  She hadn’t changed much since he last saw her, although the scar under her eye was new.  To his surprise, though, she was in Destroyer gear.  Heavier than what she normally went for. “I still can’t believe I’m able to talk to you again,” she said, her face breaking out into a watery smile.  “God, I missed you and your asshole self.”

Regis smiled back.  “Despite everything, I can’t help but be a little glad to be back.  Wren, not sure if you’ve formally met Zaeed, our boyfriend.”

She nodded and waved.  “Only in passing through vid calls like this with Kaidan.  I’m glad to hear that you three have gotten together.  Nice seeing a bit of good in this fucked situation.  Hackett and Kaidan are trying their damndest to get you back as cleanly as possible, but if we can get something directly from her… that may give you what you need to help clear your name without much trouble.”

“Considering how eager she was to try and be in my good graces,” Regis began, side-eyeing Zaeed who scoffed.  “I might be able to get a statement.”

“Good, because I think you’ll want to hear what happened.  T’Soni was nearly the victim of an assassination. She even stuck around in her apartment for a bit and fled,” Wren continued. “Traced her to Baria Frontiers over in the Dracon Trade Center.  I'm tempted to go there myself, or send Nomad after her.  Feels like this is Shadow Broker related. She’s been trying to find leads on him for a while now.”

Seth Nomad.  A Paladin class.  Quiet, stoic guy with an incredible mind for on the fly hacking and intelligence.  His drones were damn near revolutionary.  Regis trusted him with this kind of mission.

Interesting. It appears her sordid past has finally caught up with her.  Angering the Shadow Broker has consequences.  Regis was only partially sorry it failed, if only because she deserved more consequences for her actions than that. “Whatever you think is best, Wren. As always, I trust your judgment.”

“Appreciated.  Then I’ll send Seth after her, and I’ll meet up with you in Illium.”

Regis nodded.  “Obviously, I’ll be bringing Zaeed with me.  Need me to bring anyone else to take point with me?”

Wren shrugged.  “I’ll let you decide that.  What do you usually do out in the field now?”

“Myself and two others, maybe three.  Rest on hold for backup.  The types of missions I��ve been doing haven’t required a lot of firepower.”  Except maybe Horizon so far, but he wasn’t about to take just anyone there, not when he knew Kaidan was there.

“To echo what you said to me, I trust your judgment.  Meet me at the taxi stand ASAP.  I’ll send you some more details about T’Soni’s apartment and let Hackett know we’re on the case and to reopen her  case file.  Being an associate on the Normandy gave her some basic citizenship in Alliance space, so we're looking to ban her from the cluster if at all possible.”

An intriguing loophole to use.  He didn't see any problems with that interpretation, looking forward to seeing if they could get that result.  Petty, but she had the capability to put an Alliance soldier officially to rest, and she knowingly gave his body for experimentation for something that could've failed. 

Or turned him into something worse. 

“Thanks,” Regis said.  “Zaeed and I will get suited up as soon as possible.  I’ll be bringing our resident Justicar as well.”  At her nod, he continued, “Don’t want to do anything to offend you.”

“The only thing you could do to offend me is to let her go after all this bullshit.  Here’s to hoping we see something to give to the brass.”  Wren ended the call.

Regis shoved some more of his food in his mouth before tossing the container in the trash to be dealt with later.  He motioned for Zaeed to go on ahead as he activated his personal terminal to send a call to the observation deck Samara kept to herself in.

“Samara?” He asked, waiting for a response.

“Yes, Shepard?”  Good, she was in her room.

“I have a personal request.  Can you get suited up and ready to join me and Zaeed?”

“Of course, I will be right there.  May I have a few more details?”

“It involves Liara T’Soni and her apartment here on Ilium.  She was the one that brought my body to Cerberus, and has been hunting down the Shadow Broker to stop his attempts on her life,” Regis explained.

She was silent for a few moments.  “Thank you.  I will get ready to join you both at the airlock.”

Regis acknowledged her and ended the call.

– –

Regis rejoined Zaeed and Samara at the airlock, nodding at both of them.  Zaeed had opted for his Ajax gear–and Regis couldn’t help but eye him appreciatively–while Samara wore her ornate plate armor.  Moreau eyed them from his spot at the helm.

“Moreau, we’ll be heading back down to Ilium.  It’s a personal mission for me, but it involves T’Soni,” he said, watching as he raised an eyebrow.

“You mean that asari we picked up back on the SR-1?  Thought you wanted nothing to do with her,” he replied, narrowing his eyes.  “What’s going on?”

“Cerberus wasn’t the only reason why I’m back.  It was her.”

Moreau blinked and swore a moment later.  “You’re shitting me.  She is the reason why Cerberus got their hands on you?  Are we talking about the same person?  Last I remember she was just a nerdy archaeologist in over her head.”

“I thought so too,” Regis said quietly, but enough for them to hear. “I’m working with an Alliance contact of mine.  If I can get her to confess, it will do a lot to help clear my name.”

A pained expression flashed on his face for a moment, and Regis felt himself soften.  “Yeah, you have my full support on that.  Shit, Shepard, I had no idea.”

“Neither did I, but my uncle, Vikram, was able to get some information they later gave to Kaidan not long after Alchera…” Regis trailed off, waving away Moreau’s wince at the mention of the planet.  “Alliance has been keeping an eye on her ever since, but it wasn’t until that little Omega shoreleave that I was able to connect the dots for them.”

He nodded.  “You need anything, you just let me know.”

“I will, thanks.”  

Zaeed reached for his hand, squeezing it tightly.  Regis kept his grip on his hand until they left the docking bay, Samara’s presence behind them a comfort.

“What an injustice,” she murmured as they weaved through the shopping terminals.  “Did she do it for herself or for the galaxy?”

“I’m not sure if I want to know that answer,” Regis admitted.  “A gift and a fucking curse all the same.”

“You remember… everything, then,” she guessed, and Regis stopped in his tracks to readjust his scarf, feeling the soft fabric and remembering the scarf he wore when he died.

“I do.”

She nodded and they continued on.

Soon enough, they were at the main taxi stand, and Wren had her arms crossed, sitting down at one of the benches, still clothed in her heavy-duty Destroyer gear.  Not his favorite set from his N7 days, opting for his custom Sentinel gear that he later requisitioned for Kaidan and Ashley on the SR-1, but he liked the extra protection and shield generation it gave.

She brightened when she saw them, standing up.  She nodded at Samara.  “I’m Major Wren Clarkson, N7 Fury and a liaison from the Alliance concerning our case on Liara T’Soni.  And an old friend of this guy.” She inclined her head towards him.  

She’s been promoted.  Good.

Samara nodded.  “Justicar Samara.  Pleasure to meet you, Clarkson.”

“Pleasure's all mine.  I see Regis has gathered himself a decent crew, despite it all.”

“That he has,” Zaeed said with a nod.

“And good to see you, Zaeed.  I have the coordinates ready.  Police are already on the scene, but we should be able to get in,” she said, waving her omnitool.  “I heard you obtained your Spectre status back.”

“Anderson granted it back to me,” Regis said.  “But the new Council refused to meet with me.”

“Fucking cowards,” Zaeed muttered.  “You’re the reason why they are even in their positions.”

Regis thought the same, but he didn’t voice it aloud.  He doesn’t regret his decision.

Sovereign was the main target.

“Well, if you’re willing to leverage it, we should be able to get in.  Let’s go.  Nomad’s already on his way to grab T’Soni.”

– –

The apartment complex was typical asari architecture, but it appeared to be expensive to Regis’s amateur eye.  Anything but nondescript.  He noticed police skycars parked around the area, and many asari and turians in basic armor were moving and running around. High security.

They didn’t seem to spare him much of a glance once they reached the entrance.  An asari walked over.  “What is your purpose for being here?”

“Spectre Regis Shepard.  My team and I are investigating the T’Soni apartment,” he announced, activating his omnitool to transfer his credentials.

“I’ll send word to the officers in charge.”  They waved their omnitool.  “Have a good day, Spectre. You aren’t the only one here.  Must be important.”

He hasn’t dealt with other Spectres since Nihilus.  Curious.

“May I ask who?”

“Spectre Tela Vasir.  She's already inside.”

Regis didn’t recognize the name, only noticing that it was asari.  He nodded in acknowledgment and entered the elevator.

It was a quick trip up to the floor that held T’Soni’s apartment, and soon enough, they followed the commotion to a blocked off entrance.  The asari officer at the door waved them in without a second glance.  The apartment was modern, open, with plenty of space.  Too much space for one person, he thought, but maybe her new career in information gave her enough perks to afford such a place in Illium. Officers were scattered around the building, scanning and examining the area.

An asari in blue and silver armor approached, walking down the stairs, her face covered in purple markings.  A Spectre logo sat proudly on the shoulder of her armor.  “It seems like you’ve heard what happened, Commander Shepard. Someone tried to kill your friend.”

It took a lot of will-power to not object to that descriptor, but Regis wasn’t about to reveal too much too soon, just in case.  

She dismissed the officers, waiting for them all to walk out of the apartment before introducing herself.  “Tela Vasir.  Special Tactics and Recon.  But you probably already knew that by now.”

Regis nodded.  “Only by talking to the officers downstairs.  Regis Shepard,” he offered belatedly.  “But you also probably know that by now.”

“That I do.” She smirked.  “One of our most famous operatives.  I feel like I should get my chestplate signed by you.”  

Regis merely raised an eyebrow at that.  “Depending on how you define ‘famous.’”

“A human having the balls to damn the Council… the Council that even granted you our role in the first place.  I don’t know whether to be impressed or spit on your name.” 

Regis couldn’t get a read on Vasir, scanning her face for any tells.  Her voice was carefully neutral, almost a bit playful.  He needed to talk to his squad and get their view on the situation later.  

“I did what I thought was right, same as any other Spectre.”

“I respect that, Shepard.  What brings you here?  Business with your friend?” She asked.

How much to reveal… 

Wren stepped forward to stand beside him.  “Not so much.  Alliance has been looking into her and her role in putting our best operative in the hands of Cerberus.  I’ve been tracking her for some time now.”

“And you are?” Vasir sounded curious.

“Major Wren Clarkson.”  She motioned to her chest plate.  “N7 designation.  This is most likely Shadow Broker related.”

Regis glanced over at her, wondering her motive.  He also noticed an earpiece in her ear.  Must be how she’s keeping in contact with Nomad, recognizing the sleek Alliance model from anywhere.  

“A dangerous enemy to have.  What do you need from me?”

“An overview, if you don’t mind,” Regis said, motioning around the apartment.  “What happened?”

Vasir went into detail, talking about how someone took a shot at T’Soni, pointing at the series of bullet holes in the window.  She stuck around for a few moments after the attack before leaving.  Vasir noticed it must’ve been important.   She had no idea where T’Soni ended up, which was a point in Regis’s favor, keeping that information to himself as she continued on.  No blood, so no signs of any clear struggle.  There was a kinetic barrier in place to keep her safe from the sniper.  

“Clever girl,” she praised.  “Paranoid, but clever.”

Regis didn’t comment on that either, which was an answer in itself by the curious look she gave him.  Instead, he asked, “Did the police investigation turn up anything useful?”

“Just the mess and the bullet holes.  I gave them a gold star for finding the bullet holes.  Think she would’ve left anything for you?”

“She didn’t know I was coming,” Regis said.  “I came here because of Clarkson.  But, I can take a look around and see if there’s anything only I would notice.”

“Go ahead.  The floor is yours.” She stepped aside and nodded at him and his squad.  Wren decided to go her own path, walking away from them and looking at the bullet holes.  

Regis turned the corner to check out a desk tucked up against a wall lined with bookshelves.  Out of the corner of his eye he noticed her doctorate.  Vasir followed his gaze.

“University of Serrice, back on Thessia,” she translated for him. Regis could read it just fine, but he didn’t make it known aloud. 

Vikram, ever the studious matriarch when they wanted to be, made a point to teach him asari the moment they could.  Visits with his uncle were often laced with asari standard, getting immersed in their language when he was in his preteens to his teens.  He continued studying the language when he went to university, but it's not something he has to use often out in the field.   “She’s getting good use out of all that education,” she continued snidely.

Perhaps he and Vasir have more common ground than he expected.  

He rounded the corner and a glass case caught his attention, housing something beat up, charred and damaged, out of place in the admittedly elegant home.  He approached it, and immediately felt sick, his gaze first landing on a piece of scorched, frayed cloth, a scrap of black and red fabric that mirrored the one around his neck.  Something that always gave him comfort, a way to connect to his father through a tradition, a way to show his love by giving it to those he considers friends, family… lovers.

And here it was, imprisoned and stolen from him, alongside the armor that he took his last breath in.

Dark energy coursed through him, a flash of violet biotics that surrounded his hand into a bastardization of a Warp that was aimed straight for the display case, chaotic energy shooting forward and raw with power.

The sound of glass shattering filled the air, the once pristine display case reduced to nothing more than a pile of shards. He reached out for the battered torso of his armor, taking it apart, piece by piece, ignoring Samara's and Zaeed's noises of concern, ignoring Vasir’s shocked protest.  

Where is it, where are his dog tags, where is his father's goddamn ring?

He ripped away the scarf, pulling apart the seams of the armor, throwing away long since compromised plating and reinforced fibers, destroying his once beloved armor without a second thought.

How did she get this?  Did she tear it off his corpse when she felt she had the right to deliver his body to Cerberus?  He knows this is the one he died in, the grey armor he commissioned for himself, Kaidan, and later Ashley during the Normandy mission.

He remembered Kaidan touching his scarf with a gentle hand before they went their separate ways on the quickly decaying ship.  He remembered wishing it could give him warmth and comfort as he faded away in the vast emptiness of space that became his grave. 

There was nothing inside it, nothing more than a gruesome reminder of how he died and who brought him back

They can't be lost, can they?  If she was able to get this off of him, they had to be out there somewhere?

Did she take them too, thinking she had some sick claim?

"Regis!" Zaeed said, breaking Regis out of his thoughts.  Regis realized he was kneeling on the ground, clutching the remnants of his scarf in his hands, torn by his grip. 

Samara knelt down beside him, a calm and steady presence.  Regis looked around and saw Zaeed holding Vasir back with his arm, shaking his head.  Her face was neutral, but something burned behind her eyes.  

"I died in this armor," he said, his voice cracking at the end. 

Samara closed her eyes.  “What a terrible thing to keep.  To display in her own home.  Macabre.”

Wren rejoined them.  “Fucking hell,” she cursed, kneeling down next to them.  “God, I remember the day you requisitioned this set.”

“You… died in that armor?” Vasir stated, echoing his earlier words.  “How the hell did she get it?”

“You tell me, Vasir,” Regis spat, dropping the remnants of his scarf on the ground.  “Take whatever you need, Wren, for your dossier.  I need some fucking air.”

There wasn’t exactly a private place to go, so he walked over to the balcony next to the bullet holes.  Zaeed joined him, leaning against the barrier.  

Regis moved closer, the shoulders of their armor touching.  “Zaeed, I am going to be the worst goddamn hypocrite right now.”

He shrugged.  “Don’t feel like you have to apologize for fucking Zorya again.  None of us expected to see that.  What a fucking–” he shook his head.  “Don’t even have the goddamn words to say how angry I am on your behalf.”

“She has to have my dog tags.  My ring.  God, she tore that off of my corpse!  Cerberus didn’t have the full armor…” Regis swallowed down bile.  “I felt violated before, but this?” He let out a shuddering breath.  “This is unforgivable.”  

His fingers itched for a cigarette.  Not just one Astra to feel the sharp nip of red sand, but a whole goddamn pack.   He hasn’t smoked a whole pack since the days after Torfan.

The urge to ask Zaeed for his lighter kept growing every second.

“Do whatever you feel is right,” Zaeed said.  “But don’t let it destroy you.  She is not going to take away who you are.” He finished that statement with a hard look.  If Regis wasn't about to compromise his morals for one of the men he loved, he shouldn’t do it for himself either.  And then he will be mad about Zorya again.

Regis only nodded, his hand going back up to his own scarf.  Wren joined them next, her omnitool open.  A moment later, his omnitool pinged.

WC: Nomad found T’Soni.  Showed her a picture of us from N training.  She let down her guard and was able to meet with a contact.  I sent word that we were working with a Spectre and gave him her name. Turns out, she tried to kill T’Soni.  And her contact?  Has the location of the Shadow Broker.  She’s hellbent on getting revenge for some reason, but wouldn’t say until you meet up with her.

Wren shut off her omnitool and walked back over to where Vasir and Samara were by the stairs.

She was waiting for his move.  

What was Vasir’s motive for hunting down T’Soni?  Regis cursed himself for not knowing more about his Spectre “colleagues.”  There had to be something.

Regis glanced over at Zaeed who inclined his head towards Vasir.  He leaned in close and brushed a kiss against his cheek, whispering into his ear.  “Your move.  Think she could be an ally?”

“I want to think so.”

They rejoined the group by the stairs.  Vasir looked back at his old armor.  “I wondered what that was.  Now I know.  Dare I say that I was wrong with assuming that you were friends.”

“It’s a fair observation to make.  Wrong, but fair.  I’m only here to get information that could help me and my name,” Regis said.  “What brought you here?”

“Illium is my territory.  T’Soni made a name for herself, not that it was a good one,” she replied.  Vague but Regis couldn’t sense a lie.  Wren stayed neutral as well.  “You didn’t seem all that worried when you saw the carnage here.”

“Can’t say that I care very much for her well-being right now.  Besides, I would let the Shadow Broker deal with her, but I want my life back.” Regis said, staring her down.  “So I’ll ask one more question.”

“And that is?”

“I applaud you for your efforts here.  What made you stay behind after trying to take her down?”

Vasir tilted her head to the side, her face staying neutral.  “What the hell are you talking about, Shepard?”

“When I say that Wren has been looking into T’Soni, she has been tracking her every move.  Wondering why she’s dealing with Broker agents and Cerberus… making sure she can never return to the Alliance…” Regis gestured around.  “Wren told me two things.  Where T’Soni was, and what happened to her apartment.  I chose the apartment.  Our friend in the Ns chose her location.  And he found out something interesting from her and from a contact.”

He stepped closer, standing in front of Vasir.  “I told myself when I heard about what happened that I was only partially sorry that this shit failed.  That still remains true with what I learned just now.”

“And you’re going to trust whatever she says despite what you’ve learned from her apartment?  About the hand she played…” Vasir trailed off, seemingly at war with herself.  She let out a sigh a moment later, tensing up.  “Fine.  None of you are raising your weapons against me.  What game are you playing?” Her face twisted, morphing into anger. 

Wren spoke up.  “We’re not.  Why?  Why try to kill her?  What are you looking for?”

“You’re speaking to the Butcher of Torfan, a Justicar, and a former Blue Suns,” Regis said, not rising to the bait.  “I don’t think any of us have any moral ground to stand on, so neither do you.  Be honest.  I’m simply curious.”

She let out a surprised snort.  “You surprised me, Shepard.  I was wrong about many assumptions.  Fine.  You said it yourself.  She had dealings with Broker agents.  One such agent is now back in his clutches ever since she wronged the Broker.  He wants revenge.  She also wants revenge.”

“And he hired you?” Zaeed asked, sounding unimpressed.  “A goddamn Spectre.”

Before Vasir could reply, Samara filled in the blanks.  “You use his information for the Council, but it comes at a cost.”

“What’s a few lives for the good of the galaxy?  You would know, Shepard.  How did it feel losing the Ascension?”

Like resigning humanity to a different fate in the eyes of the galaxy.  

“Is this that ‘spitting on my name’ you were talking about earlier?  I own my shit, Vasir.  I’m the goddamn poster boy for Cerberus right now.  We are the same.”

Vasir stepped back away from him.  He’s made his point.  She made hers.  “And here I expected a friend hellbent on revenge to save his darling asari.  Instead, I got something better.”

“You know, Vasir, I think we have a similar goal in the end,” Regis said, rejoining his squad.

“Do we?” She asked, her markings rising up in surprise.  

“Stop hunting down T’Soni, and I’ll make sure you can keep doing what you’re doing, as I have my own plans for her,” Regis said, crossing his arms.  “I may end up having to work with her, but she will be the Alliance’s concern.”

“What do you have on her?” She asked, narrowing her eyes.  

“Nothing that helps you right now,” Wren said.  “Else I see you as another way to get what we want.  She wants the Shadow Broker.  Shadow Broker wants her.  We’ll meet up with her, see what plans she has.  If all she wants is that agent you mentioned, we can work a deal, perhaps?”

“Meet up with her.  I’ll stay here and later go dark.  Won’t be the first time it takes me a while to radio back in.”

“Do I have your word?” Regis asked.

“That I won’t follow you?” She chuckled.  “I didn’t know she had Alliance watching her.  I won’t be able to fool you.” She turned to Wren.  “Why aren’t you a Spectre, Major?”

“I have too much fun working with my favorite people,” Wren shrugged. She would make a good Spectre, but he doesn’t see her trying to pursue that path.  Vaguely, he knew that she was on the shortlist because of the Blitz and Elysium, but she’s never been one for ship command.  “How loyal are you to the Shadow Broker?”

“Why?  There’s not a goddess-damned thing any of you will be able to do to him.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Wren said.  “None of us care for him.  If it gets us closer to what we want with T’Soni.  Tough shit.  He’s just another obstacle.”

“You’ll take down an entire shadow organization just to get back at one person.” She scoffed.  “I guess I should've expected that of you.”  She faced them all down. “Put someone better in his place, if you're planning on going that far.  I won't be happy if we lose this resource.”

“Neither will I,” Regis admitted, watching as she tilted her head to the side in surprise. “I can't guarantee anything.  I have one goal in mind, and that’s to make sure T’Soni faces consequences for what she did.”

“I’ll accept that.  It won’t look good for either of us if a Spectre turns up dead.  But don’t count on my future help if you dismantle one of the few resources in the galaxy that can do some good.”

“What made you change your mind so readily about the Broker?” Samara asked.  “Loyal to a fault?”

She smirked.  “I see the writing on the wall, Justicar.  Shepard is a determined man.  He is looking for something and he’ll do anything to get it back.  I’d rather not get in his way.  I know his methods.”

“And I do as well,” Samara glanced over at him.  “Yet while this mission has forced his hand, he has kept his own word to me and has not strayed against a moral code with actions that I would find reprehensible.”

“Noble and moral to a fault, like all Spectres,” Vasir said, nodding at her and Regis.  She waved her omnitool, and Regis received a data transfer request.  “Here are my contact details.  Keep me out of the fallout.  I’m curious to see what next galaxy shattering act you’ll do next.”

He accepted her request, confirming the details.  “Next time, I hope we meet under better circumstances.”

“As do I, Shepard.  I don’t know whether to wish you luck or not.”

“With Shepard?  Luck is always appreciated,” Zaeed chuckled.  “I’ve done a couple of dealings with the Broker myself.  I wouldn’t mind seeing a different one in charge.”

Regis wasn’t surprised to hear about that, considering he himself had also dealt with the Broker on the SR-1, not seeing any reason to get on his bad side.  Turns out it didn’t matter in the end and he still tried to sell Regis to the Collectors.

T’Soni saved you from that fate.  She is the reason why you’re here.

He let out a sigh and tried to clear his head.  Her intent was why he was so mad, her selfishness, and her acting like she did nothing wrong.  She could’ve made things far worse for the galaxy if The Illusive Man didn’t want him as he was.

He may be fine with Miranda now, but he won’t forget the mention of the control chip so easily.  And a part of him can’t wait to throw that in T’Soni’s face.  

Zaeed glanced over at him as Vasir replied, “Then I’ll wish you luck.  Be careful out there.”  She walked out of the apartment with barely a glance behind her.

The moment she was out of sight, Regis sat down on the bottom of the stairs, heed in his hands.  His squad joined him: Zaeed said beside him, Samara behind him, and Wren on the step below him.

“Are you alright?” Wren asked.  “And be honest.  I don’t want any of this ‘I’m fine’ bullshit when you clearly aren’t.”

“I can’t reconcile any of this shit in my head.  I don’t know how to feel about any of this.  She gave me life, but…” he swallowed, trying to find the words but nothing came out.

“But she did it for herself first,” Samara guessed.  “She didn’t tell your family or your love about what she did.  She’s the reason why you’re leading his mission, but she’s also why you got a second chance.  I see why you’re so conflicted.  Good came out of her selfishness, even if you may not see it that way.”

“The thing is, I do,” Regis said.  “Because I may have died and remembered every goddamn second of it, I also–” he reached for Zaeed’s hand, who squeezed it tightly, “I also got something I’ve always wanted out of it.  But that doesn’t mean she can’t face consequences for her selfishness and recklessness that could’ve made things far worse for me.  For us.  For the fucking galaxy.”  He stood up, letting go of Zaeed’s hand.  “Let's not delay the inevitable any longer.  Where does Nomad want to meet up?”

“More like where T’Soni wants to meet up,” Wren said with a wry grin.  “Her office.  Nomad has the details on the Shadow Broker’s location.  He wasn’t too keen on letting her have it.”

Sounded like Nomad.  Quite protective of secrets.  

Quite protective of his fellow Alliance.  

“Then I guess we head back over to the main port,” Regis said with a sigh, steeling himself for that conversation. “At least we'll be close to the Normandy if we need her resources.”

– –

They barely opened the door to her office when Nomad waved them in.  He looked different, the two years changing him more than others.  He lost his long braids for a close shaven look, now sporting a beard that rivaled Regis's. It suited him well.  “Good to see you, Shepard.”

“Same to you, Nomad.  Wish it was under better circumstances.” Regis shook his hand. 

“Don't we all?  She's at her desk and not very happy, just letting you know.”

“And are you the source of that?” Wren asked playfully.

“Maybe.” A smile tugged at his lips before he stepped aside.  “She’s waiting.”

Regis walked up the stairs with Zaeed and Wren flanking him on both sides, Nomad and Samara a half-step behind him.  When he entered her office properly, she shot up from her desk and headed towards him.  Already clothed in armor, a more asari styled set than the Gladiator gear she chose for herself, if necessary, back on the SR-1.  It never was.  “Shepard!  What is going on?  Did you deal with Vasir?”

He stepped back, trying to put distance between himself and her.  “Vasir has been dealt with.  Though, I have to ask: What the hell were you thinking ever getting involved with the fucking Shadow Broker?”

“It was the only way I could–”

“Trust me, I know what you did,” Regis interrupted, unable to keep the venom out of his voice.  She flinched.  “T’Loak was kind enough to tell me, no strings attached.  You need to be better at stealth.  Lots of footage of you consorting with Cerberus.”

“Is that how the Alliance got involved in this?”  She pointed a finger at Nomad.  “Have you been watching me?”

He snorted.  “No.  The honor of that role goes to Wren Clarkson.  Word of advice, T’Soni.  You’ve made yourself a target of the Alliance, and by stealing away what could be considered Alliance property in some loopholes and interpretations of the law… you have burned any bridge you may have made while on Shepard’s old ship.”

“Just goes to show how careless you’ve been,” Wren said.  “Shepard has many friends and allies.  After his death, one such friend got their hands on that damning footage.  We’ve been watching you on and off for two years.”

T’Soni opened her mouth, her face twisting in anger, but Regis stepped forward, holding up a hand.  “The only reason why I'm helping you take down the Shadow Broker is because he damn near sold my body to the Collectors and I wouldn't mind seeing someone else in charge.  Consider yourself lucky that I'm not going after you for being a goddamn hypocrite and selling my body to a terrorist organization. Pot, kettle, T'Soni."

He’s not going after her yet.  And everyone in the room save for her knew it.

“But it worked out for you in the end!  I saved your life.  I couldn’t let you–”

“You couldn’t let me die?” Regis finished for her.  His family did.  Kaidan did.  The Alliance did.  Zaeed did.  But she couldn’t.  

She didn’t object.  He shook his head, stepping back.  “Whatever.  No use arguing about it now.”  The image of his armor in the glass case burned in his mind.  “Good job on preserving my armor though.  Was it hard to remove from my body?”

She flinched again, stepping back this time.  He felt a small amount of satisfaction at her reaction, but she didn't offer up any protests or arguments. 

Nomad inhaled sharply from behind him.

Wren stepped forward, cutting through the tension in the air.  “I think we’ve spent enough time on this.  The Shadow Broker awaits.  But what is about him–other than his dealings with the Collectors–makes you so damn determined to take him down, T’Soni?”  She asked, sincere, crossing her arms.

“I don’t have to answer to you,” she replied, balling her hands into fists.  

“But will you answer to me?  I am offering my help, but I can go, do this on my own, and forget all this and leave you here,” Regis said, narrowing his eyes.  

She seemed to be at war with herself, looking at Regis, his fellow N7s, and his squad.  “Fine.  He has taken my friend–that friend, mind you is part of the reason why you’re here.  Combine that with his desire to get rid of me for taking away his precious cargo, I have plenty of reasons why I want to take him down.  And your N7 refuses to part with the information that could lead us directly to him.”

He chose to ignore her pointed comment about him and turned to Nomad.  “Ready to part with it now, Nomad?”

“For you, sure,” he said, throwing a smirk over at T’Soni.  “Location data at your service, my friend.”  He passed over the disk, and Regis pocketed it in a pouch of his armor with a nod.  

“I see no reason to delay any longer,” Regis said.  “We’re taking the Normandy.  Nomad, Wren?”

“I’ll join you,” Wren said.  “Nomad?”

“I have my own transport.  I’ll stay behind,” he replied.  “Think you’ll have enough firepower without me.”

He waited for T’Soni’s response.  She looked between all of them before nodding.  “It would give us the best chance to fly in undetected, assuming the stealth systems are the same.”

He nodded.  “Unfortunately, I’d argue it’s better.”  He opened his omnitool with a flick of his wrist and hailed Moreau.  “Moreau, prepare the Normandy for takeoff.  I’ll wire you the coordinates.  We need to go in as quiet as possible for this trip.”

He answered almost immediately. “On it, Shepard.”

“Wren, T’Soni. I'm wiring you temporary access to the Normandy. Don't abuse it,” he said with a pointed look at Wren, who merely smiled in response. He gave her some of the highest authority he could, while T’Soni got the same guest access he gave her back on the SR-1. 

He pushed the requests through, appending another message to Wren’s request asking her to join him in his cabin the moment they can.  

“What is your plan, Shepard?” Samara asked, speaking up after standing silently for so long.

“To take down the goddamn Broker, what else?” Zaeed said, turning to the Justicar.  She narrowed her eyes slightly, betraying a hint of annoyance before nodding.  “How big of a squad are you taking?”

“That will be seen,” Regis said.  “Let’s get back to the ship.  T’Soni, are you ready?”

She nodded.  “I am.  I’ve already made my preparations.”  She grabbed a pistol and a SMG from her desk. “I’ve never been on the battlefield with you, Shepard.”

“You’ll be following my orders,” Regis reminded.  “I kept you grounded on the SR-1 for a reason.  Seems like now you have the training to keep yourself alive.  Don’t give me any reason to bench you.”

He kept wanting her to lash out at him, to react, to be angry at him.  She never did, only nodding and following behind him.  Wren took up the back, only stopping to say something to Nomad he didn’t catch before rejoining them.

They must’ve been a hell of a sight walking through Illium, but Regis didn’t care.

He was one step closer to hopefully getting rid of T’Soni and her influence on his life.

– – 

As they entered the Normandy, Regis stopped in front of the cockpit, knowingly keeping Moreau in earshot.  “Welcome aboard.  T’Soni, you’ve met our pilot, Jeff Moreau.  Moreau, I don’t think you’ve met Major Wren Clarkson.”

He nodded at T’Soni but didn’t offer a greeting, which was telling.  His gaze landed on Wren’s chestplate.  “Alliance on board a Cerberus ship?  Scandalous!”

“Could say the same thing to you,” she laughed, looking around.  “Hell of a frigate.”

“I appreciate your compliments, Major,” EDI’s hologram appeared.  To her credit, Wren barely flinched, her eyes lighting up in interest.

“Regis, you didn’t tell me there was an AI on board!” she said, turning to him with a grin.  “They got you good with that.”

Regis rolled his eyes.  “Because I knew you would get like this.  Were you able to input the location data, EDI?”

“Yes.  Hagalaz, Sowilo system in the Hourglass Nebula, known for its violent storm cells.  A curious destination.”

“I agree.” Regis paused for a beat.  “It’s the location of the Shadow Broker’s base, so stealth will be required.”

“Wait a minute, we’re going where?  Why?” Moreau asked, spinning around in his chair.

Before Regis could reply, Zaeed spoke up.  “T’Soni picked a bone with him when she stole Shepard’s body out from under him.”

“Right…” he narrowed his eyes, his gaze landing on T’Soni before turning back around.  “Why can’t we have an easy, low stakes mission for once?  Let’s take down the galaxy’s biggest information broker that no one knows anything about, that’s going to be easy!”

“This is what you signed up for, Moreau,” Regis said, walking towards the CIC.  He motioned to get Chambers’ attention.  “Chambers, show T’Soni where the medbay, armory, and cargo are and confirm that she has level 1 access for me.”

Surprised at his attention on her, she jumped to it, first motioning for T’Soni to follow her to the armory.  Maybe Taylor can distract her as well.

Before she was completely dragged away, she said, “We need more time to plan, what about your other guest?”

“My other guest is far more equipped for this mission due to her years of experience as an Alliance infiltrator and N7.  I don’t have that same background for you.  We have plenty of time to regroup before the mission, but you also need to be aware of the ship’s necessities in case we have a problem.”

“Besides, he’s long since leaked the SR-2’s plans to the Alliance,” Wren shrugged.  “Which they stole from us, so it’s only fair.”

Regis keyed in his personal cabin code into the elevator and walked inside, motioning for his squad to follow.  It was a bit of a cramped fit all in their gear, but it was the most private place to talk and regroup before they do an official rundown.

There wasn’t a lot of seating in his cabin, so he and Zaeed sat next to each other on the edge of the bed, while Wren and Samara sat on the couch.

Regis took another deep breath.  In and out.  “We’re heading in straight to a large mobile ship,” Regis began.  “It uses the storm as cover, so once we land on the outside, we have to move quick.”

“Or else we get fried,” Zaeed said, pulling out his omnitool to look up facts about the planet.  “Helluva cover.”

“It does ensure a particular amount of safety,” Samara agreed.  “However, after we get inside, what is the plan?  You are serious about dealing with the Broker?”

“To an extent,” Regis admitted.  “I would like to make a deal if I can, but I doubt that will even be possible.  I may have made a deal with Vasir and I understand what the network can do, but I’m willing to go as far as to destroy it if it comes to it.”

“Maybe not,” Wren mused.  “We kill the bastard and ensure that you are no longer a target.  We put someone else in his place, and we throw the book down on T’Soni.”

“And who exactly do you suggest for that?” Regis asked, raising an eyebrow.  “I’m hoping I can distract T’Soni with her friend the Broker has held hostage, but it’s not like any of us can just take the helm.” He looked back over at Wren, a small smile forming on her face.  “I see,” he said, crossing his arms.  “You want to turn this into an Alliance asset.”

“Don’t tell me you weren’t thinking of something similar,” she said.  “At the very least, I can keep it alive until something happens.”

“I would say that is foolish,” Samara began, causing the attention to fall onto her.  She did not waver.  “Going up against a powerful, corrupt institution with the expectation you can change it for the better.  But then again, is that not why you still helm this ship, Shepard?”

Regis clenched his jaw, knowing she had a point.  Wren spoke up once more, “Worst case scenario, we blow the whole thing up and deal with the fallout from Vasir.  I wonder if she’ll appreciate being free from the reigns herself, or maybe we will give ourselves another enemy.”

“Considering the whole point is to deal with T’Soni,” Zaeed said, crossing his arms.  “The Broker is just another goddamn obstacle.  Though, with the right Alliance in charge… we’ll be more prepared for the Reapers.”

Regis could agree with that.  “We’ll proceed with the assumption that we will be shutting down the network or putting it into severe disarray.  But, if there’s a chance we can take it for ourselves, I say we do it.”

“I can concede to that,” Samara nodded.  “Even if I do find parts of this plan foolish.  I understand your reasoning, Shepard.  You have my support.”

“Does Hackett know what you are planning, Wren?” Regis asked.

“Partially,” she admitted.  “Plausible deniability at the moment, you see.”

Figures.  This felt like something Wren would come up with on her own, and Regis would be lying to himself if he said he hadn’t thought about taking the network for himself.

His fingers itched to message Kaidan.  Hell, even his mother, who he had yet to call.

This was yet another suicide mission they were preparing for, not knowing the full breadth of what they were getting themselves into.

And it didn’t help that his greatest betrayer was aboard this ship.

Regis finally nodded at her statement, standing up from the bed.  “You just like giving him more shit to deal with.”

“He’s made a point to ensure no one in the Alliance is going after you,” Wren said.  “This could be yet another way to clear your name.”

“Taking over a whole network just to make my life easier?” Regis barked out a laugh when she didn't immediately interject.  “Fucking insane.  Fine, I’ll start to approach this mission as if we are taking over the network.  Selfish as all hell, but at this point, I want to use everything I can to burn this fucking organization to the ground.”

Regis waited for Samara to object or comment, but she did not, only nodding and rising from her position on the couch.  “When I signed up for this mission, I didn’t expect another mission that could be coined as a ‘suicide’ mission.  You continue to surprise, Shepard.  You will still have my support on this, as I would also like to see T’Soni be put to justice for what she did.  I doubt the asari leadership would be happy to hear about her dealings either.  My word has weight in some circles.”

“Thank you.  I appreciate having your guidance,” Regis said.  HIs omnitool pinged with a message.

EDI: Chambers wanted me to inform you that T’Soni is getting impatient.  

He looked up at the covered viewscreen in his cabin and let out a sigh.

“Got your message, EDI.  Please inform her that this is my ship, and she is merely a guest at my discretion.  We will be down momentarily,” he replied aloud, preferring to speak to her in person.

Her ability to respond immediately to text messages bothered him some, even though it was benign.  Plus, he enjoyed talking to her verbally, hoping that she felt the same.

“Understood, Shepard.  May I inquire as to why you brought her on board despite your clear antagonism towards her?”

EDI sounded curious, her robotic voice tinged with something more underneath her usual inflection. 

Regis decided to indulge her curiosity.  “She’s a means to an end, and this way I can keep an eye on her until I ensure she’s no longer involved in my affairs.”

“Understood, Shepard.  I'll ensure she stays out of our systems in case she decides to try anything.  Judging by her new background on Illium, I believe she could be a potential security risk.  Your message has been relayed.”

“Much appreciated, EDI.”  She didn’t comment on Wren’s obvious security risk.  She must have picked on Regis’s feelings towards the both of them and came to a conclusion accordingly.

He’s stealing EDI off this ship the moment he gets a chance after his tenure with Cerberus ends.

“I'll go ahead and head down to deal with T’Soni,” Wren said, standing up from the couch.  

Samara stood up as well. “I'll go with you, Clarkson.  You said you were a Fury, yes?  I'd like to talk more about your techniques before we reach our destination.”

“I would love to,” she replied.  Once Samara turned her back, Wren looked absolutely excited at the idea, giving Regis a grin. 

Regis merely smiled in response, reaching out for Zaeed's hand to squeeze. After the ladies left his cabin, Zaeed cupped his face, pulling him in for a kiss.  Regis closed his eyes, letting out a sigh and parting his lips, allowing this indulgent gesture, allowing him to stop being Commander Shepard for one goddamn minute and be Regis, Zaeed's and Kaidan's lover. 

“You've been asked this plenty lately, but are you okay?” Zaeed murmured into his ear, pressing a kiss on the sensitive spot underneath his ear. 

Regis shivered, letting out a quiet chuckle. “I won't be okay until I'm off this fucking ship for good.”

Zaeed snorted, having heard this plenty of times before. “Tell me how you really feel.  Want to call him?”

“I do, but I’ll make him worry more.”

“He’s already worried, what’s a little more?  He’s probably already somewhat aware of what Wren’s plans are.”

“Other than her dossier?” Regis snorted, knowing that she kept her cards close most of the time, though he wondered how close they got during the two-year gap.  “I doubt it.”

Zaeed gave him a look and held out his omnitool.  “Remember that goddamn promise we made?”

Regis winced.  Of course he does.  They promised to keep him updated.  

“Call him,” he said, pointedly.  “I’m going to bother T’Soni.” He squeezed his shoulder as he stood up, and Regis didn’t protest as he walked out of his cabin.

With a breath, he opened his omnitool and scrolled to their server connection, opening up a private link and sending it through, getting up to link to his vid screen at his side desk.  Glancing at the time and doing a quick conversion… it would be afternoon on Arcturus.  

A moment passed, and the link opened, Kaidan’s face appearing on the screen with a smile.  It quickly disappeared as he took in Regis’s appearance.  “What’s gotten you all geared up and ready to go?  What’s wrong?  Don’t tell me it’s already time…”

Regis shook his head.  “Not yet.  Still have a few things to work through.”

Recruiting Tali, as much as he wants to keep her out of Cerberus. Dealing with more final personal requests from the various ground crew. Anything to ensure they are as ready as possible.

“Then what has gotten you so on edge?”

“Hackett messaged me.  Wren’s surveillance got us something good.  T’Soni’s been hunting the Shadow Broker ever since she stole my body out from under him,” he began.

Kaidan leaned back in the chair he was sitting in, rubbing his temples.  “Utter insanity.  Although… I can’t help but be thankful you didn’t end up in his clutches.”

Regis had conceded to that point long ago.  “Honestly, this whole situation isn’t something I like thinking about, but in some ways, she did me a favor.  A fucking terrible one.   But get this.  We went to her apartment, and you want to know what was displayed in her home?” Already, venom and disgust had made themselves known.

“With the way you sound, I don’t think I want to know.” His eyebrows were furrowed.  Leaning in closer to the vidscreen, he clasped his hands together, holding them tightly, preparing for bad news.

“My goddamn armor and scarf.  The chestplate,” he spat, feeling the dark energy crackle underneath his skin, spurred on by his anger.  

Kaidan shook his head, turning away.  “I read every bit of that report you sent me.  All of those hundreds of pages, pouring through every detail of their meticulous recount of everything they did to bring you back.”  Regis couldn’t help but close his eyes at that, thinking of his sleepless nights spent pouring over those words.

Those terrifying words.

“And I noticed their initial report on the state of your body.  Some armor intact.  No chestplate.” He almost sounded clinical.  “Focusing on all the oddities.  Hell, I called Vikram, and we both were stuck on that one goddamn point.”

Regis remembered the call they had with Kaidan not long after he initially found out T’Soni gave him away to Cerberus.  Post-orgasmic bliss with Zaeed turned sour because they knew they had to update him on what they learned, about what a former member of the SR-1 did to him.

Kaidan was stuck on the chestplate then.  

He swallowed visibly, almost looking a little pale.  Concerned, Regis almost stopped and interrupted him, but he had to hear what Kaidan was going to say.  Even if it was hard on him, on both of them.

“I know you want your ring back and your dog tags back.  So, all points to her.  If she’s the one that kept them… Ruin her, Regis, not just for yourself and your career, but for what she stole from you and us."  His voice was carefully still, carefully low, but his eyes burned blue.

“You can count on that.” Regis clenched his fist.  “Wren has plans that might work out well for the Alliance.”

“I wasn’t worried.  That tattoo on the front of your neck is proof enough.  What was that quote you found about Labolas when figuring out how to say ‘Fuck you’ to regs after Torfan…” 

The demon on his neck.

Regis touched his neck, tracing down with his gloved hand.  “I’m paraphrasing, but: A merciless butcher… once it has sunk its teeth into an enemy, it will not let go until their last breath.”

A rueful smile appeared on his face.  “And that’s how I know you will get your due.  Good luck, and please be careful… and whatever Wren is planning, I don’t want to hear about it until it succeeds.  I love you, and give Zaeed all my love.”

“I love you, too.  We will be safe.” Regis kissed his fingertips and brought them to the vidscreen, resting them against Kaidan’s face.

He mirrored his gesture and ended the call with a grim smile.

Regis let out another breath, and he steeled himself for the upcoming mission.

– –

Regis delayed going down to cargo as long as he could.  He knew he was being avoidant.  He knew he was delaying the inevitable.  

But he did not want to deal with her any longer.  No more justifications or platitudes.  Nothing can justify what she chose to do. 

Even if…

Regis shook his head to rid the thought. Doesn't matter what good came out of it now. There's plenty of far worse ways her terrible decision could've gone. 

Miranda and admitting the control chip possibility to him continued to linger in the back of his mind, even as he grew to like her.   He can't deny the allure of such a choice.  He's proven to be a menace in more ways than one. 

They had to have known his views on Cerberus before they chose to carve and sculpt him again.  Yet they wanted him whole and intact…

Briefly, a thought occurred that T’Soni could have also been behind that.  Considering she was the one who hauled him over to the enemy, she may have had reservations of her own to keep them in line. 

Nothing that can be gained without talking to her, and he wanted to do as little of that as possible.  

He stopped by Miranda’s office to update her on the situation, being vague on the Alliance details, but she could read between the lines.  

“Wren is just looking out for me,” he offered at the tailend of their conversation.

She didn’t seem impressed, merely raising an eyebrow and brushing away the stray hairs from her bun away from her face.  “I’ll keep looking the other way.  I owe you that much.  Still, I’m surprised you offered the ship for this.”

“I need to keep an eye on her, and we all know the Normandy is the best choice for this kind of mission.”

“That she is.  Can’t say I won’t miss the Shadow Broker in his current state.”

“You and me both.  I’ll keep you on standby in case we need more backup alongside Samara?”

She nodded, not at all surprised at his preferred team at this point.  “Who are you taking down there other than Zaeed?”

She knows him a little too well at this point.

It should concern him, even more so knowing how much intel they had on him in order to recreate him… but she’s admittedly become a reluctant friend.

He hopes she’ll follow him into the Alliance.

“I was thinking Samara, but I might need to pare down the ground team to reduce potential interference from the Broker.  As of now, you and her will be on direct standby, and Wren, Zaeed, T’Soni will be going down with me.”

“Even her?”

Regis met her questioning tone with a hard look.  “Especially her.”

“Maybe I do want to know what you have planned,” she murmured.  Regis only smiled.  She seemed to take it as an answer, nodding, tapping her fingers on her desk rhythmically.  “Fair enough.  I’m sure I’ll figure out the details later.  Be careful out there.  Sounds like you are taking on another suicide mission in the midst of our own.”

“At least you can acknowledge it as such,” he chuckled.  

“I would be a fool not to.” She went back to her screen, and Regis took his leave from her office. 

He was tempted to make a few more stops. Say hello to Chakwas and give her a heads up about the situation, even if Chambers did take T'Soni there already.  Check on the Normandy’s weapons and triple check Vakarian’s work on them to make sure they will have no issues if the Normandy needs to fight her way out.  Pack a few extra energy bars and supplements in case he crashes out on the field, even if he knows that Zaeed always keeps extra supplies on him since Kaidan isn’t here to do the same…

He needs to stop stalling and face the numbers.

Why did he agree to bring her on board?

Closure. The potential to get his due. 

He has to remember that.  

He stopped by the armory to grab his Widow, Eagle, and Mattock, checking each gun over and locking them to his suit.  

He hesitated, looking over the heavy weapons, and decided to not bring any.  The extra weight wasn't necessary, and Zaeed usually kept his grenade launcher on him anyway. 

“Deciding if you need to prepare for the worst?” Taylor asked, breaking the silence. 

“Something like that,” Regis said, closing the cabinet that housed his personal arsenal. “Wasting time, mostly.”

“Everyone else has already stopped by.  Was beginning to wonder about you. Need anything?” He crossed his arms. 

Even after all this time on the SR-2, Regis still wasn’t sure of his opinion on Taylor.  Already soured due to him leaving the Alliance for Cerberus of all things, it was hard for him to change his opinion on him.  It only took Miranda telling him the truth about everything involved in his resurrection to slowly warm up to her.

In time, Regis figures he too might come to an understanding with him.  But for now, things are still distant.

“Be on standby in case we have a problem on board the Shadow Broker’s base. Other than that–” Regis keyed in his passcode to his cabinet, locking it up. “No. I appreciate it, though.”

“Will do. Good luck out there.  Seems like you’ll need it.”

“I won’t argue with that, Taylor.  Thanks for the extra maintenance on my Widow.  Damn good calibrations on the scope.”

Normally, he trusts Zaeed with it, but weapon maintenance felt like a good olive branch to have with Taylor. Not a bad man. Former Alliance... but that fact also soured part of his opinion on him.

He does trust him on the battlefield, which is more he can say about some of his other recruitments.

“Might even send you the details on how I did it.  Just let me know.”

Weapon maintenance tended to be an easy way to get an in with Regis, he has to admit.  Mostly.  It helped with Zaeed back in the day… he started to respect them a hell of a lot more when Regis and Kaidan both were working on their borrowed guns and making notes on the mods Zaeed had made to them.  2180, a far simpler time.

“I'll hold you to that,” Regis replied good-naturedly, pointing at him before walking out and back towards the elevator. 

“We will be reaching the ship shortly, Shepard.” EDI announced as he entered the elevator to finally head down to cargo.  

“Thank you,” he replied, steeling himself for what’s to come.

He’s survived Torfan, he’s survived death for fuck’s sake. 

Thanks to her.

He can handle what’s ahead.

– –

Everyone was ready in the bay by the time Regis joined them.  Zaeed was off to the side, sharpening a blade.  Wren was glaring daggers at T’Soni the moment she stood up to greet Regis.  Samara was meditating in the bay, at the ready.  He appreciated her volunteering to stay behind after hearing the plan, realizing that a smaller squad has its benefits.

This was going to go swimmingly.

He cleared his throat.  “We don’t know much about the Shadow Broker save for a few key points on his operations.  This mission is high risk with little reward if we don’t take care.  Zaeed, on point with me.”  He nodded, sheathing the forged blade.

Regis looked over at Wren.  “I want you to flank.  Scout ahead once we’re on the ship. Depending on the situation, we may end up sticking close.”

“Of course.” She acknowledged. "Likely best to stay together."

“And T’Soni?” He met her gaze.  “You’re sticking with Zaeed and me.”

She nodded, surprisingly offering up no comment.  He’ll have to talk to Zaeed and Wren later to find out exactly what went down here while he was wasting time.

Or perhaps EDI will know.

In a few moments, they boarded the shuttle, waiting for the word from Moreau to depart to the ship.  

“You are ready to get out of here. Good luck, you crazies. I wouldn't be caught dead flying in this kind of storm,” Moreau announced.  Their pilot–Samson, he knew the last name, yet to have bothered to remember her first name–affirmed that they were on the way to the ship without a snipe back to Moreau. 

He had to give it to her for staying away from the bait. 

Already, despite being inside a shielded shuttle, Regis could hear and feel the lightning storm around them.  Thunder clapping in the air like bombs dropping on the surface of a planet, softened by the soundproofing of the shuttle but still clear as day.  

The Shadow Broker's ship was a monster.  A whole city flying through the air, covered in unique shielding and nodes designed to keep itself in alliance with the tumultuous conditions of the planet.  A true beast he'd love to see in his own hands or crashed to the surface if it came down to it.  An engine covered with shielding that was as bright as any sun.

Wren leaned forward, resting her chin on her arms. “Seems like what they said is true about all the storms.”

“Makes for a helluva backdrop,” Zaeed grumbled, crossing his arms and leaning back in the seat.  “The surface of that fucker must be covered with rods or some shit to keep the poor sods from getting fried.”

“Seems like a terrible way to live,” Regis said.  He brushed his gloved hand against Zaeed’s thigh.  Zaeed put his hand over his, keeping it still on his leg.

A comfort he hated to admit he needed right now.

“His ship follows the sunset. Completely undetectable in the storm, unless you know where to look,” T’Soni said, leaning forward.  

Zaeed made a noise that Regis couldn’t quite read.  “Wish it was easy for us to board that ship.  Obviously, the bay is going to be locked down tight.  Finding a hatch might be like looking for a needle in a goddamn haystack.”

“And we can’t be out for long,” Wren grunted, standing up from her seat and peering out the window.  “This is going to be a shitstorm.”

“I think there’s already one going on outside,” Regis said with a half-hearted chuckle, and it was worth the annoyed look Wren gave just to see her lips quirk up in a smile anyway.

“Seems like dying and coming back didn’t change your sense of humor.”

Ouch.  Appreciating her bluntness, he barked out a laugh.  “Means I’m still me, I guess.”

“Was a bit worried something might've changed.  But if Kaidan didn’t see anything different, even being blinded by that ass of yours, then I can trust that it’s the same asshole I’ve always known,” she admitted, glaring more daggers at T’Soni.  She wisely stayed silent.

“He didn't let me off easy.  Felt him Reave.  I’m still learning how to do that from Samara,” Regis replied, twisting his fingers into a false mnemonic.  “He’s so powerful.” He didn't even try to keep the awe out of his voice. He's so proud of how far he's come with his biotics, only wishing he was right there with him to learn them, especially from Vik... To continue their trend of learning and creating together…

“God, you’re so in love,” she said, shaking her head.  Her tone was light, however. “He told me all about it.  Felt pretty damn guilty about it afterwards.”

“He found it pretty damn hot,” Zaeed interjected with a hint of a purr.  Regis huffed out a laugh, not denying it because he did find Kaidan wrapped in his corona very enticing. Wren let out a disgusted noise and rolled her eyes, likely regretting joining them for this mission at least a little.

He missed this type of easy dynamic.

Shame it took this kind of mission to bring it out.

“Preparing to reach the surface of the ship.  Be ready for a drop, Commander,” Samson announced, swinging the shuttle over to the surface of the ship.  

“Be ready for us to return,” he replied, brushing away Zaeed’s hand and standing up.  Soon enough, they were all gathered at the hatch, and the moment it opened and ready for them to drop, Regis went down first, flanked by Zaeed.

How it should be.

How it always should be.

While he enjoyed having Wren back with him, dropping behind him with a flourish, she wasn’t Kaidan.  And how he yearned to be the three of them on the battlefield.  

Regis, Kaidan, Zaeed.

One day, that will be true.

For now, it’s back to dealing with the Shadow Broker, destroying the Collectors, and seeing what comes next.

Now onboard the ship, the wind whipping around them as lightning and thunder clashed in the air, Regis took a moment to look around.  The ship was reinforced with various panels and shielding, some sparking bright with electricity.  

Does the ship also get power from the storms?  Smart if so.

T’Soni spoke up, her voice sharp via the comms.  “It's hard to pinpoint in this lightning, but I'm picking up signals from a communications array near the back of the ship."

“Agreed.  Use a noise reducer and it's loud and clear.  Appears to be our target,” Wren affirmed, unholstering her N7 Valkyrie.

Zaeed stayed close to him, his Raider at the ready.  

The easiest way to travel on top of the ship was via the slanted side panels that flanked the main top deck, some already reinforced with railing, but close enough to a drop that gave Regis pause while leading his crew.  

"There's nothing below but maintenance equipment. We have to find an entrance near the back shielding,” T’Soni continued.  Seemed like she was able to read up on the ship.  Useful.

Before Regis walked underneath an arch, his visor came to life with proximity warnings.  Some type of tech is nearby… the outputs implied to be drones.  A quick glance at the detection seemed to be non-combat models.  

Maintenance perhaps.

“Watch out, we’re going to trigger the maintenance systems,” Regis said, holding up his fist.  “Be ready to take them down.”

He didn’t wait for an affirmative and walked over the trigger point, throwing off an Overload the moment he saw a bright orange drone pop out of a hatch.  Beside him, he heard Zaeed switching ammo types.  Disruptor ammo would be useful here.  

He felt biotics come to life behind him, one field familiar, yet cool and soft, like Wren herself.  The other… he knew it belonged to T’Soni, but it wasn’t the warmth and comfort he associated with Kaidan or Wren’s icy haven. Rather, something invasive, like even his biotics recognized his feelings towards her and wanted her field to stay back. Similar to the incessant buzzing of flies on a hot day–unavoidable and a nuisance.

He grit his teeth and continued forward, keeping an eye out for more drones.

Their path led them to another straight away.  LIghtning hit the ship, aimed at two pillars pointed towards the sky.  They lit up brightly, sparkling with energy.  Best to stay away.

“Capacitors,” Wren said over the coms.  They collect and discharge built up electricity.”

Right as she finished her statement, agents of the Broker poured out of a hatch that closed behind them, getting into position behind the capacitors.

“Fucking idiots,” Zaeed said, swapping out his shotgun for his Mattock and shooting at one of the capacitors.  In a flash, the energy discharged, shooting out and shocking the agents, knocking them out.  “Don’t stand next to the goddamn bombs right next to ya!”

“Nice one, Zee!” Regis praised, leading the squad over to the hatch.  Appeared to be one way, and the ship likely had layers upon layers of security.  No outside terminal access seemed to be nearby.  Wireless hacking would take too damn long.

“Looks like we need to find another way in,” Wren muttered.  “Guess we do have to take the long way.”

“Seems like it,” Regis affirmed and prepared himself for the long walk.

It was a repetitive journey, making their way down the ship.  Taking side paths covered in drones and repair mechs armed to the teeth, followed by squads of agents of all species fighting against them.  

Part of Regis hated to admit that T’Soni adapted to them well, using her biotics primarily as support, firing off singularities that rivaled Kaidan’s and pulling mechs off the side of the ship before their lights could turn on.  It made the trek easier, knowing that he didn’t have to cover for her the same way he, Kaidan, and Ashley did on Therum all those years ago–but perhaps that wasn’t even fair, considering she had been trapped in that prothean contraption for days on end…

Still, he holds that she was a civilian risk and she had no place on his ship.  

But her being there brought you–

Enough.

A brief reprieve in their fight brought Zaeed closer to him, putting a hand on his shoulder plating and holding it tight before giving him a soft look.  “Later,” Regis said, not quite shrugging him off, but stepping back.  Zaeed nodded, furrowing his eyebrows but not protesting.  Not when they are out in the field.  Not when they have an audience.

One thing at a time.  First, get inside this ship.  Then, deal with the Broker and see if T’Soni’s partner is still alive.  From there… he can deal with the shit in his head.

They reached the area where the communication array signal was coming from, a large inset door with a med station on the wall next to it.  T’Soni walked up towards it, activating her omnitool as Wren did the same.

“Whatever you have on you will be stronger with my own programs,” Wren said, putting a haptic display on the door as T’Soni put one on her side.

“I have a bypass shunt program, what do you have?” T’Soni asked, sounding skeptical.

Regis looked between them and sighed.  Wren’s face looked pinched, but she answered all the same.  “Something similar.  Built on Regis’s own bypasses that won him Torfan.”

He grit his teeth at the mention of his past mission, knowing exactly what he used it for.  No survivors, he had ordered.  

Still, it was a damn good program, and he imagined that Wren had improved on it greatly with her own personal twists.

“I imagine the Shadow Broker’s security would be far better than some Batarian basics.” T’Soni sounded unimpressed.  Here we go.  He should intervene, and even Zaeed’s eyes behind his breather mask looked pinched instead of interested in the inevitable fight that was about to break out.

Wren can fight her own battles.  She displays the N7 proudly for a reason.

“And I imagine that you just bought that bullshit program off of some black market without confirming its validity and accuracy,” she shot back.

“Who out of the two of us has broken into a Broker’s base before?” She didn’t deny it.  Regis filed that tidbit away for later if her program failed, and as more context for what she went through to steal his corpse and ship it off.  She wasn’t just on Omega… but in the Broker’s territory?

“And who is actually trained in infiltration and espionage, hmm?” Wren replied, sounding bored.  “Either one will work, both will work, or neither one of them and Zaeed can blow this place up!”

Zaeed almost seemed to perk up at that next to him.  Always up for a bit of destruction.

Regis stepped forward.  “Exactly.  Now, I can’t imagine that the Broker’s forces will let this slide, so get into position!”

Zaeed returned to his spot next to him, while T’Soni and Wren flanked both sides, knowing that the sides of the ship were more likely to have forces pouring out.  For a brief moment, Regis wondered how the Broker was able to amass an operation to this kind of scale–experimental ship, lower ranking agents who go through higher ranking agents, and countless recruits ready to put their lives down for him.

But then again, Regis has seen what his own name has inspired in others, and it makes him shudder.  Influence goes a long way.

As both programs activated, alarms started to blare out, and Regis readied himself for another fight.

– –

Thankfully, at least one of the programs worked–and Regis didn’t care to know which one.  The hatch opened as Zaeed took out the last group of agents with a well placed grenade, grinning as they burned alive.

“Hurry, get your asses inside,” Regis commanded, motioning for them to follow before he locks the doors, eyeing an emergency release that will seal the door.

The moment everyone was inside, he pulled down the release, sealing the door shut behind them.

No easy way out now.  Nor was there any time to regroup and prepare for their next steps.  More agents began to ambush them, and Regis caught sight of one agent carrying a ML-77.  With a twitch of his fingers, he blasted dark energy towards them, tossing out a powerful singularity to knock out the agent off their feet before they could fire the launcher.  Before he could toss out another order, Wren moved in and detonated his singularity with a nasty warp, knocking out the group of guards trapped within.

“Don’t see any more of them, we’re in the clear,” T’Soni announced. Regis kept his Eagle in hand, slowly moving forward.  With clinical precision, he shot the heads of each of the guards to ensure no one tried to follow them further in the belly of the beast, and ejected the thermal clip without a second thought, slotting in a new one as they trekked on.

It was the same song and dance as they traveled through the ship.  Tight hallways and groups of loyal Shadow Broker agents at every twist in turn.  Biotics and tech explosions and a handful of inferno grenades to clean up the mess, alongside firepower.

They kept up with each other well, even with T’Soni now taking up their flank.  Regis would’ve never guessed the transition would’ve been this smooth, but he’s always felt that biotics almost give you more of an attuned “battle” sense, and she and her blasts of dark energy ended up complimenting them well.

And he hated it.

Eventually, their fighting led them almost to what looked like more of a reception area, with desks and various screens all around, providing ample cover for more agents to attack.  The battle was starting to wear on him, his amp feeling like fire underneath his skin, his hands shaking with every mnemonic thrown.

He needs a boost and a break, and he doubts he’ll get either.  Zaeed had a pinched look on his face, one he knows well when his merc is starting to feel the stress of combat on his bones.  Wren was as quick and spry as ever, but even she seemed weary.

He couldn’t read T’Soni.  He wasn’t sure if he wanted to be able to.

Once the next group of agents was dealt with, a glass window caught his eye… peering into a room with what looked to be some kind of torture device.

“I think someone’s strapped to it,” Wren said, holstering her Hurricane.  She checked the door.  “Locked.  Regis, you want to do the honors?”  She stepped aside, giving him a wide berth to the door. 

He nodded, opening his omnitool interface and started to breach the security, looking for patterns until he was able to break through and get the door unlocked.  The display of his ‘tool was bright in the low-light of the ship, seeming even brighter with the weariness he was feeling.  

The displayed lock on the door quickly turned green, waiting for input to be opened.  Before he could step forward, Wren was already making her way back over.

“T’Soni, with me to check on this poor bastard and see if they’re a friend or a foe.  Zaeed, Regis, you want to take a second and scout around?” Wren said, looking between them.

“Sounds like a good goddamn idea.  Come on, Regis,” Zaeed replied, damn near pulling him towards him as they backtracked through their destruction, not even waiting to hear T’Soni’s response.  Distantly, an indignant “Should we really be splitting up?” could be heard echoing through the hallways, but he didn’t give enough of a shit to care if the plan was wise.

He just wanted to get the hell away for a moment.  Wren was always too damn astute.  

Once the torture chamber was out of their sight, Regis slumped against a wall and blindly searched through his pouches on his armor before he grabbed one of his biotic emergency injections.

“Let me, love,” Zaeed murmured, taking the injector out of his hand.  “Breathe, for one goddamn minute, and let someone else take care of something.”

He nodded, taking a deep breath, closing his eyes as Zaeed cradled his neck, pulling him forward so their foreheads were touching.  “In the neck, Zee.  It’s fine.”

“I know.  I know how to take care of a goddamn biotic,” he rumbled, his rough voice feeling like a warm blanket in the confines of the Broker’s ship.  And Regis knew he did.  Between Omega adventures in 2180… to those two years with Kaidan without Regis… Zee was a fucking blessing to have with him on board this ship.

With a practiced ease, he injected the medication–glucagon to spur an increase in his blood sugar to keep him going.  The sting was barely noticed as he kept his gaze on Zaeed, even as he carelessly tossed the empty injector on the ground.  “Now, eat something too.”

He wanted to roll his eyes, but Zaeed’s hard look prevented him from doing it.  He grabbed one of his high calorie bars and broke it in half after tearing away the wrapper, handing him part of it.  “You too.”

He took it and started shoveling it down.  Regis was more delicate about it, but he realized how hungry he had gotten while munching on the bland energy bar.  “You’d think by now they would’ve figured out how to make this shit taste good,” Regis said, wiping his mouth.

“Too busy traveling the goddamn galaxy to figure out the easy stuff.”

Regis let out a snort at his comment.  He was starting to feel… marginally better.  Not great.  Not one-hundred percent.

But better.  Progress is progress.

He wanted to stay longer… pretend that he had all the time in the world to rest with Zaeed.  The mission still loomed… and Wren had graciously allowed him this break.

It was time to return to being Shepard.

With a returned grip on his Eagle, he nodded to Zaeed, and they broke from their embrace, and headed back over to the chamber.  As they got closer, he could hear their voices echoing in the hallway–and then a scream of pain that distinctly sounded like a drell.

Shit.  He and Zaeed ran towards the entrance to the chamber, and hear a cry from T’Soni, a tearful “Feron!” before he saw Wren push her away from the console.

Was this her friend that helped steal his corpse?  

“It’s never that easy, T’Soni, it’s obvious this shit is rigged with something nasty,” Wren began, but quickly fell silent when the drell started speaking.

“You’re right.  The equipment is sensitive to tampering.” He takes a pained breath.  "This chair plugs into the Broker's info network. You have to shut off the power. Pull me out now, and my brain cooks."

T’Soni starts to scan the drell–Feron, Regis has to remind himself–with her omnitool, sounding panicked, concerned.  "Do you know where we can cut the power?"  He could use this, exploit this.

Regis stays silent for now.  As do Zaeed and Wren, who also watch with interest, all who are likely coming to the same conclusion as him.

He takes another breath, almost writhing in the chair.  How long has he been there… is this a new trap, a new little piece of bait just for T’Soni? "It won't be easy. You'll have to go to central operations."

Central Operations?  “Where the hell is Central Operations?” Regis steps forward and asks, holstering his pistol for now.  

Feron turns his head, barely, to look at him.  “You’re… it worked–aaah!” He cried out in pain as his cage sparked.  The activation of the trap must be tied to… some form of activity.  Physical?  Mental?

“Yeah, her fucking meddling worked,” Regis replied, his tone harsh.  “All I care about is where that bastard is!”

He clears his throat and slowly speaks, each word tinged with pain.  "Central operations is down the hall. You know the Shadow Broker's waiting for you, right?"

“Clearly,” Regis scoffed.  “We’ve wasted enough time here.  T’Soni, stay here with Feron and make sure no one follows us in, we cannot–”

She cuts him off, her marking scrunched on her face in anger.  “You are not leaving me behind.  This is my–”

“Your mission?” Wren stepped forward.  “You wouldn’t be in this situation if you had just let the dead die and given Regis the proper burial he wanted.  Cremated to ashes.  A headstone on Earth.  But no.  You interfered.  You got your ‘friend’ trapped and tortured for an info broker’s amusement.”

Regis looked between them, feeling both of their corona’s spike with energy.  The familiarity of Wren’s.  The invasive itch of T’Soni’s.  “Knock it off.  You said you will follow my orders, yes?  Well, my orders for you are to stand the fuck down and keep an eye on him and our backs.  If you can’t handle that, then you’re even more of a poor combatant than I thought.”

The tension was thick in the air.  Zaeed had even kicked off the wall he was leaning against, cracking his knuckles underneath his gloves.  

She let out a frustrated sigh, but her corona never quite died down..  “Alright.  You’re right.  We cannot risk all of us heading towards the Broker’s true lair.”  She unholsters her pistol and positions herself by the door.  “You’re going to come back for us?”

Regis didn’t say a goddamn word as he walked past her, his true team flanking him.  Zaeed did, however, turn back to say one last thing.  “I think you’ll know if we finished the goddamn job, T’Soni.”

– –

The constant announcements from the garbled voice of the Broker quickly faded into the background as they fought through the last few crowds of loyal agents, still willing to die for their precious Broker.

Who was he?  What was he?  How did he gain such power and influence… 

But all that was going to quickly come to an end, soon enough.  The last door to Central Operations loomed in front of them, the interface to unlock the door glowing a bright green.

He took a moment to check over his weapons, swapping over to his Valkyrie.  With a nod at Zaeed, his beloved, and Wren, his good friend, he unlocked the door with the interface and stepped forward.

A yahg was sitting at the desk, clothed in what appeared to be a yahg form of finery… perhaps… or a type of protective gear.  Not that Regis had any experience with yahg beyond the textbook basics–an intensely controlling, dominant species that killed the Council’s attempt for diplomacy–but he seemed calm.  Relaxed.  His fingers laced together on his desk, merely clearly his screen with a wave of his hand as if they were mere flies to be swat away.

How did he become the galaxy’s greatest information broker… as a pre-spaceflight species.

“Here for the drell?” He asked, steadfast as they stepped forward with their weapons raised. 

“Your information is wrong.  That’s only T’Soni’s concern,” Regis replied, his tone bored, neutral.  “I’m only here for you.  I don’t like it when there’s a price on my head.  Dead or Alive.”

“It was a mutually beneficial partnership with the Collectors.  As is yours with Cerberus, but fortunately, your arrival is convenient. The Collectors' offer still stands."

The grip he had on his gun tightened.  

“You have so much anger over her deed, despite what it gave you.  Curious.” He was just taunting them at this point, his calmness to their aggression.

“It'll be pretty hard to run a base this size with no goddamn crew.  All of them were fucking canon fodder for us," Zaeed spat, his face warped into a pissed off sneer.  They were all tired of his game, but none of them wanted to make the first move, to figure out what gambit the yahg was hiding behind his desk, behind his throne.

The yahg almost seemed to shrug.  "They're replaceable. Your arrival is barely an interruption.  But… I must say…” His blank gaze landed on Regis. “Thank you for bringing me one of your bedfellows, Shepard. His bounty from the Blue Suns is most generous.  And Miss Clarkson… Losing her will cripple your precious Alliance.”

Wren’s corona flared and burned bright, suddenly coated with dark energy.  “And losing you will cripple no one.  Regis, Zaeed, I’m done entertaining this.”

Her corona lights up around her before she twists her fingers into a powerful Warp, flinging it towards the desk. 

The yahg stands up and roars, his full height towering over them, throwing the desk up and at them, flinging it in the path of Wren’s biotics. They crash together, the desk exploding in a flash of debris.  In an instant, all Regis can think of is making sure Zaeed is safe, flashing back to Zorya and that goddamn piece of steel that nearly pinned him.  He tackles Zaeed out of the way, hitting the ground with a hard thud together.  Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Wren flash and dodge with her biotics, barely moving out of the way of the thrown parts of the desk.

They were alright.  They survived hoards of mercs.  They can survive this.

With a grunt, Regis stood up and helped Zaeed up, before rolling behind the nearest cover he saw.  Zaeed joined him quickly, just as the Broker started firing at them.  He noticed the shimmer of kinetic shields, and he started prepping an overload on his omnitool as Zaeed provided covering fire.  

“He’s got a Revenant,” Wren called out from his left, somewhere over by one of the pillars.  “Watch out.”

“Got it,” Regis yelled back, before firing off his program, watching as the Broker’s shields started to fizzle.  The yahg’s attention turned towards them, starting to head towards their position, reloading his Revenant with a roar.  A blast of biotics hit his side, another Warp from Wren.  

She was now his target.  She darted from her pillar with a flash of biotics, giving them room to strike.

Zaeed’s omnitool shined next to him as he forged his tech armor over his body, the yellow armor a familiar, welcome glow.  Dark energy burned underneath Regis’s skin, his fingers twitching into his barrier mnemonic, violet wisps surrounding him in a protective shield.  “Now or never, babe,” Zaeed murmured, firing shots over the barrier with his Black Widow, each shot a careful distraction with his dear sniper.  Always working on it.  Preparing it for that perfect shot.

Regis leapt over the barrier and summoned his omniblade, throwing off a Shockwave to stumble the yahg before slicing across his front, tearing the suit he was wearing and burning the flesh underneath.  He rolled underneath the yahg’s flailing punch, swinging blindly with his blade to catch another vulnerable spot.

He sliced against its leg, pulling out another pained roar, before a shield was forged from his omnitool, pushing him back with a surge of force.  He stumbled back, nearly falling on his ass.  Wren surged forward with her own blade, bursting forth in a blast of energy–a fucking charge–slamming into his unprotected side with a shout.  She pulled out her Piranha and started firing, the shotgun glowing red with inferno ammunition, emptying her thermal clip before dodging with her biotics once more.

Regis recovered enough to throw off another shockwave to cover her escape, stumbling the yahg again.  He made a move, flexing his talons, blood running down his suit in rivulets.  Another pained, aggressive, revitalized roar.

Zaeed whistled and pointed up to the ceiling.  Regis looked up, and finally noticed the glowing light in the middle of the arena.  Except, it wasn’t exactly light but some kind of pulsing energy, powering the room, perhaps?

With a nod back at his lover, Regis darted out of the way, Wren already safely out of the center arena.  Zaeed clenched his fist next to his head.  A signal.

A carnage shot and raw biotic power.  A common combo of theirs.  Explosive and effective.  Enough to hopefully shatter that confined energy… and get rid of the yahg for good.  

Zaeed swapped to his Mattock and fired off the secondary shot.  Regis flicked his wrist upward, violent energy surrounding him in chaotic power before shooting out, heading towards the center of the mass.  The glass cracked with Zaeed’s shot, but his dark energy shattered it, the electric power raining down on the yahg.  

“Get down!” Regis yelled, grabbing Zaeed and pulling him back behind their makeshift cover, the energy in the air growing unstable, feeling like it's going to blow.  

He didn’t dare look up to see how the yahg fared under the onslaught of power, waiting until those cries and roars died out.  A moment passed, and a blast surged through the room, the blowback nearly knocking him over even behind cover.  He listened out for Wren, but heard nothing, treating that as a sign she was safe.  Zaeed groaned next to him, slowly getting up before helping Regis up with a nod.

Wren slowly emerged from behind a pillar, the light of the room unstable with the cracked ceiling above.  

There was no sign of the yahg.  Deconstructed in an instant with the blast, he guessed.

It was over.

"Shadow Broker, this is Operative Murat. We had a momentary connection failure. Can you confirm status?"

But no, it wasn’t really over.  The screen that was originally behind the desk was lit up with various audio feeds, unnoticed by him until the end of their fight.  How long has his agents been waiting for a sign, a response?

"Operative Shora requesting update. Are we still online?"

Another voice, another sense of urgency.  

“Now or never, Wren.  This is what you fucking wanted.  Take it!” Regis yelled, spurring her into action.  She ran towards the console, and they jogged to meet her.  Her hands hovered over an interface, a keyboard built for a yahg.  With quick movements, she adapted it for human hands, before clearing her throat and steeling herself.  

"Shadow Broker, I've lost our feed. We are online and awaiting instructions."

“Now, goddamnit!” Zaeed yelled, turning around, his gun still at the ready, as if waiting for more agents to burst through the door at any moment.  

She shot him a dark look, gritting her teeth.  The voices from various agents continued to overlap, more and more waiting for some kind of response.  A chaotic symphony with no rhythm to follow.

She enlarged another interface, one that looked to be part of an audio program, and began to speak.

"This is the Shadow Broker. The situation is under control.  We experienced a power fluctuation while upgrading hardware.  It disrupted communications momentarily.  However, we are now back online. Resume standard procedures."  Her tone was calm, steady, even through the deep, warped garble that changed her voice into the one of the Broker, a curtain of anonymity.  

"I want a status report on all operations within the next solar day.  Shadow Broker out."  She closed out the interface and almost seemed to slump over the controls, her shoulders falling in relief.

“What the hell was I thinking,” she asked, looking between them.  “How can I–”

Regis stepped forward, grabbing her by the shoulders and meeting her gaze.  “You can do it because you’re Hackett’s best.  You’re my friend.  And you’ll have support.  I know damn well Nomad will help you with.  I will help you with this.”

She swallowed, shaking out of his loose grip and brushing away sweaty strands of hair from her face.  “I know.  Just needed to hear it from someone that wasn't in my head.”

She started to click through the files and feeds.  “There’s so much… no protections either. He was too confident.”

The adrenaline of the fight was starting to wear off on him, too, as he holstered his gun and let out a sigh.  “Guess we need to–”

The main entrance to the arena burst open, with both T’Soni and Feron.  Their weapons weren’t drawn, but they both headed towards them.  Feron already looked much better–the surge of power from the blast must’ve freed him from his cage.  

"Goddess of oceans.... It's… you three managed to do it,” Feron breathed out, nearly stumbling over to them.  Zaeed reached out to steady him, but T’Soni beat him to it.

T’Soni started to speak, her voice soft before quickly rising in volume, “It’s over.  It’s… finally over.  For two years… I’ve done everything in my power to reach him, mourning Feron and–” Tears began to stream down her face.

Him?  Was that what she was going to say?

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Regis said, cutting her off with a sharp bite.  “If you truly mourned me, you wouldn’t have sold me to fucking Cerberus!  Or, you would’ve informed the people I actually cared about of your crazy plan!”

The words were flowing out of him like an untamed river, no dam in sight to keep him steady.

“Sure… I gained a precious second chance because of you, but don’t think for one second, I did this for you.  I did it for me, for Wren, for the fucking Alliance.” Every word felt like a sweet release escaping his lips, but they were also sharp knives against his chest, stabbing him with every reminder of the two years that was taken away, of what her actions had trapped him into.

He could barely stand to look at her, silent and stoic even as the tears slowed.

“I wanted to use this to burn you, to find a way to do everything in my power to get my fucking life back.  But now?  I want you out of my sight.  I want you to take Feron, and leave and I swear, if you are ever in Alliance space–”

This time, Wren interrupted.  “I’ll find out.  I’ll know.  You’ve done enough meddling.  Take this chance, and leave.  Punishment is too good for you.”

Feron nodded, gripping T’Soni’s shoulder tightly.  “You’ve given me a gift, despite my own involvement.  Liara, we should go.  Good luck, Shadow Broker.”

She opened her mouth to reply, but this time, Zaeed cut her off, stepping forward with a growl.  “Not just yet.  There’s one thing I want answers on.”

One thing?

“There was something so fucking precious to Regis in his armor. He ripped it apart in your apartment just to try and find it.  You’re the piece that ties all this bullshit together,” he began, glancing over towards him.  

He paused, giving him the chance to continue for him.

He took it with a grateful nod.

His ring and dogtags have been on his mind since the fucking apartment, since seeing his armor bastardized like a shrine to a false god.  Since tearing it apart, bolt from bolt, plate from plate, hoping, searching, yearning for what was his. A ring that belonged to a father he never met.  A ring lucky enough to be safe with his mother when his father died in a shuttle accident. A ring that was going to go to Kaidan after the SR-1 mission.

A ring that was now a symbol of another Shepard lost and dead in space.

“My ring and dogtags,” Regis said, crossing his arms, allowing dark energy to crackle between his armored fingers.  “That’s what I was searching for.  Perhaps that was part of my mission all along.  To figure out why when reading the Cerberus reports on my resurrection I had no fucking armor protecting my torso.  To see if my father’s legacy died and was truly lost in space when it was meant to be kept safe.”

She stayed stoic, a contrast to how she reacted when he threw barbs at her in her office.  That felt so long ago now…  

She lifted up her arm, her omnitool interface appearing in a flash of orange. “I’ll… send you the details for a safety deposit box in Illium.  I’m sure she’ll find a way to get this information no matter what.”

Wren grinned, showing lots of teeth.  

“You’re taking a lot of risk for the Alliance by leaving it in charge with them.  A misstep, and the whole galaxy will know who helms it,” T’Soni said, holding her chin high.

Regis stepped forward, unlacing his arms and pointing a biotic-laced finger towards her.  “Was that a threat?  I doubt you would’ve been a better pick, is that what you’re saying?  A third party should run this?  I don’t trust you, T’Soni.  You broke that a long time ago, the moment I heard of your involvement with my current… employer.”

With a sigh, he dropped his arm and let his biotics fizzle out.  “I don’t think I ever trusted you.  I wanted you off my ship the moment you came aboard.”  He activated his omnitool and accepted her data transfer.  He’ll be checking out these coordinates the moment she is out of his sight..

“Don’t give us any reason to shoot down whatever shuttle you choose to escape on,” Regis finally said after closing his interface.  A war waged within him.  You know this is the right thing.  You must accept what she’s done for you.  “You gave me life.  I should also spare yours.” 

For now.  But he knows within himself he won’t go after her.  

Feron started to guide her back over to the door with a nod.  She didn’t say another word, to his surprise, only nodding one last time.  Never uttering an apology.  Never making an excuse for what she did.

Silence.

He wanted more push back.  He wanted something to latch on, to be even more angry about.

Seemed like he still had some acceptance to do.  

And he won’t feel free enough to do it until he’s back in Kaidan’s arms, with Zaeed right there with them.

When the door closed behind them, Regis peered at the message and sent it over to Wren with a nod, hoping she would notice something he didn't.

“Looks legit,” she said after a moment.  She typed on the Broker’s interface and pulled up another audio channel.  “Agent Volto, escort our Asari and Drell guests to a shuttle of your choice.  Make sure it is laced with my preferred tracking software.”

The agent replied back with an affirmative, not even questioning her orders.  She let out another breath and closed the channel.  “I need to talk to Hackett and Nomad.  Get a few more people here of ours…” She stood up and started to walk around and pace.  “So much to do.  So little time… Thank you, Regis.  You know this will give us the right edge.  Even with all the risks…”

He nodded, reaching out to shake her hand.  “And you’ve helped me get a little bit of peace back.” Her grip was strong and steady, despite everything.  Despite the new weight she had on her shoulders.  Despite the greatest challenge her infiltration and security training will face.

“It’s probably not wise for you to come back… but if there’s a way to do it with Cerberus raising their yellow flags towards me… I might be able to give you something to work with.  Some information about… anything that catches my eye or relates to our circle.” She said as she returned to the workstation.  

Regis figured that was her way of dismissing them for now, already glued to the screens.

“It also looks like there’s a hidden pathway to a docking bay nearby.  I’ve wired you the maps.  Send your Cerberus folks over there.  I’ve entered your ship signature as friendly… it’s incredible how unblocked these systems are,” she said, throwing a grin over her shoulder.

He returned it with a tired smile of his own.  “Thank you.  Need me to make those calls in your stead?”

“Hell no.  Get out of here, my friend.  We both need rest… but we all know you won’t until you confirm that message.”

Zaeed had been a steady presence this whole time next to him, but now, his hand went to his waist.  He guided him towards where Wren highlighted on the map, his omnitool display out and ready.  

There will be time to deal with all the logistics of their choice later.  An asari Spectre to contact.  Dealing with Hackett and the news that they decided to let T’Soni go.  FIguring out the next move to clear his name.

Figuring out what this will mean for the Alliance and their never forgotten Reaper threat.

“I’ve sent EDI a message.  She’ll be here to pick us up soon,” he said as they passed through the narrow corridor that led to a small docking bay.  Hell, it was large enough for the Normandy to potentially dock, but the shuttle would be a better option to navigate through the storms.  They were alone, only a few mechs stationed around for maintenance. 

And Regis finally let himself rest, just for a moment, as Zaeed brought him in his arms.

He ignored the wetness that started to gather around his eyes.  Were they from relief?  Anger?  Desperation?

Regis didn’t know.  And frankly, he never wanted to know.

– –

There would be time to give an unofficial report later.  He gave an update to his crew that his personal mission was dealt with and left it at that.  By the look Samara gave him, rising up from her meditative stance in cargo where she greeted them, she knew what they did.

He’s sure they all know.  Or will know, in time.  

Before resting, taking a moment to begin his post-battle rituals, he sends the coordinates to EDI and asks her to plot another course back to Illium.

A moment passed, and he got a response back from her, and alongside it, a question from Moreau about the trip back.

He sent a quick message back/

RS: One last part of my mission.  That’s all.

Muting his omnitool, he finally got to work.

His steps to remove his armor were methodical, once in his cabin.  Zaeed had left him temporarily to remove his own gear, tend to his rituals before joining him.  A typical occurrence, with the limited space in his cabin.  But he wanted him with him now.  

Taking off his weapons, he placed them under his desk for now in a case designed for transport.  His armor to be put away later, strewn about on the floor neck to his couch, leaving him in his undersuit as he sat down on the edge of the bed.

Alone until Zaeed comes back up from his corner of the ship.

He sent Kaidan a quick vid request, and it was answered quickly.

His concerned face appeared on the screen, his hair mussed.  He looked like he had just woken up… or been up ages without sleep.

“We did it,” Regis said.  “Broker is ours now.”

Kaidan visibly relaxed, letting out a sigh of relief of his own, running a hand through his hair.  “I never doubted you.  But… that didn’t mean I was worried sick.  Where’s Zee?  I guess Wren is… lingering?”

He nodded.  “She’s… Dealing with the responsibility as about as well as I expected.  Zee’s doing his post combat rituals.  I just… needed to talk to someone.”

Kaidan’s eyebrows furrowed, but he smiled all the same.  “Well, I’m definitely someone.  What… happened with T’Soni?”

Regis swallowed.  “I ended up letting her go in the end.  She’s… not worth it anymore. We won and I got coordinates for something that I hope is my father’s ring.”

“What?” Kaidan cleared his throat after letting out a surprised sound.  “Hold on.  She was–holding it this whole time?  I couldn’t keep the image of your armor in her apartment out of my head and now–” He shook his head, letting out a breath.  “I guess that’s where you are heading now?”

“I am.  A bank in Illium.  And then… I can finally rest.”  The doors to his cabin opened, and he quickly waved Zaeed over.  He was wearing Regis’s N7 hoodie and a pair of sweats, and his hand was bandaged–shit, did he miss that.

“Talkin’ to Kaid without me?  Shame on you, love,” Zaeed said with a chuckle, joining him on the bed and pulling Regis into his side. “Hey baby.”  He rested his head on his shoulder, closing his eyes briefly, inhaling his scent.  They both needed a shower, smelling like sweat, smoke, and gun oil.  But they were safe and whole.  All that mattered, right now.

“Hey yourself.” Kaidan grinned, the earlier worry almost completely gone from his face.  “I love you both.  And I’m happy to hear that things seemed to work out.  So, tell me, how the hell did you manage to take down a galactic superpower–”

– –

At some point during the call, Regis must’ve dosed off, finding himself under the covers while Zaeed was nowhere to be found at first–until he caught him scrolling on a datapad on the couch.  “Almost to Illium, if you want to hop in the shower,” he said, raising up a glass of… something at him in greeting. "Get some good rest?"

“Celebrating and showering without me?” He let out a yawn while chuckling.  “Chakwas hasn’t tried to check on us, yet?”

“Told her it could wait until after our last errand.  Mentioned your ring–figured she knew about it.  She’s allowing it.” He flexed his bandaged hand.  “Ended up burning through my goddamn glove a little.  And a few bruises and cuts.  The usual.”

Regis couldn’t stop the frown, but it quickly gave way to a groan as he sat up.  “Shit, yeah, I’m going to need some rest.”

“Saw some bruises on your chest.  Miraculously free of cuts.  Something to be said about that skin of yours,” he said, finishing off his glass of what was probably whiskey now that he got a better look at it. He’ll pass on that kind of celebration.

He got up and slowly walked over to Zaeed, leaning down for a quick kiss, before stripping out of his underwear--Zaeed even stripped him down? How tired was he?--and stepping in the shower.  He was painted in a few blooming bruises across his chest.  Turning around revealed more on his back and an ache that rattled through his body, the hot water of the shower only providing minute relief.

He hurried through his motions, scrubbing his skin and his scalp, before stepping out and working on hair.  Putting in a bit of gel and leave-in.  Drying it with his hair dryer.  Usual motions and normalcy.

His chest tightened when he thought about their destination.  If the ring wasn’t there–

He can’t think like that right now.

Leaving the towel on the rack, he exited the bathroom completely bare, giving Zaeed a bit of a show and rolling his eyes at the whistle he let out.  “Shit, that looks fucking painful.  Need me to call Chakwas for a pick me up?”

“No, I’m fine, thanks love,” Regis said, reaching in his drawers for his underwear, then his socks, and then his N7 officer styled uniform.  Black pants and boots.  A high-necked jacket with red detailing.  Black and red sleeves.  A proud N7 logo.

Something that keeps him safe and secure while under the hexagon’s reign.

He felt better as he pulled on the gloves, zipping up the jacket, becoming the Commander once more.

“You don’t need to act so strong for me.” He scoffed.

“For this, I must.”

Zaeed opened his mouth to reply, frowning, but--

“Commander, we are preparing to dock at Illium.  Will this be a short trip?  I’ll alert the crew accordingly.” EDI’s voice echoed through the cabin, interrupting them.

“Shouldn’t take but more than a couple of hours, if that.  And then… we’ll fuel up and prepare to head to Haestrom for our final dossier.”

Tali.  What would she have thought of all this?

“Understood, Commander.”

He reached out to help Zaeed up from the couch, in which he proceeded to lightly push him up against the wall and kiss him soundly, his tongue exploring his mouth before pulling apart with a groan.  “Much better.  Now we’re ready.”

Regis closed the gap between them quickly and briefly, a much sweeter and chaste kiss.  “It’s always better when I’m with you.”

“You fucking know it.”

– –

The asari teller wasn’t even surprised to see a human requesting the box, nor providing the right security keys to match theirs, once inside one of the rooms where the small vaults were kept.

It was a modest one, barely enough to store a few valuables.  But enough… to when it popped open, he immediately saw the prize.

Two dog tags, beat up and warped.  And a ring, shined and polished and perfect as he remembered.  Tree branch engravings without a chip.  No sign of the hell the rest of the piece went through…

He yanked it out of the box before cradling it in his hands, running his thumb over the engraving over and over, thinking of the tattoo that matched it on his right arm, his yggdrasil tree.

The teller asked if he needed anything else, and he shook his head, slowly walking out of the room where Zaeed was waiting in the lobby.

His face must’ve said all it needed, because he met him halfway with a hug.

Finally whole once more.  Finally Regis Lucian Shepard.  

And finally with the prize to be split between Kaidan and Zaeed once this fucking mission was over.  For now, it was safe against his heart, a chain that needed repair and changing, dogtags that needed to be replaced… but it was his and it was finally back where it belonged.

And if Zaeed’s hand went to his chest once back on the ship and in private, feeling it underneath his fingers, likely knowing who that ring is going to one day… Regis didn't comment on it one bit.

RS: The ring is home, Kaidan.  And soon, it will be home with you and Zee.  I promise.

A promise he hoped he wouldn’t break, this time.

KA: I'm so happy to hear that. And I know. I await the day eagerly when you both are back in my arms.

[cowboy-robooty]

not going to name names bc thats messed up but omfg i was tryna find records of old heta fandom shit to show inu right and i found a hetalia iceberg and I SAW MY 2019 OPP ON THERE. IT WAS SO FUCKING FUNNY LIKE MY EYES BULGED OUT OF MY SKULL BECAUSE IM NOT EVEN JOKING I HATED THIS BITCH SO MUCH WHEN I WAS 14 AND NGL I STILL HATE HER. I DIDNT SAY NOTHING AND KEPT CURTIOUS AND NORMAL OBVIOUSLY BUT ON THE INSIDE I WANTED HER ASS DEAD EVERYDAY AND WELL... you all know im never in the loop with things and had no fucking clue that she was just the antichrist for an entire group of people lol. SHE WAS MY ANTICHRIST THO. I HATED HER AND SHE HATED ME OKAY AND IM LIKE RODF SEEING HOW SHES ON THE FUCKING HETALIA ICEBERG I WAS LIKE OMG.... I THOUGHT ONLY I FUCKING DESPISED HER

[oozeandgoo-art]

stupid asshole who lives in my brain

[leafy-m]

So I hit my 700th edit for the WHA wiki today, because I am a totally normal person

[the-trans-dragon]

Hehehe >:3 got a kissie and some headpats from a pretty girl >:3 muahahahahahaha >:3

[enniewritesathing]

I gotta tap into the mind of 14/15 year old me for this. That's what I need to do.

[alexthebordercollie]

I'm Here

“I've got you buddy.” Ford reassured. Huffing softly as he shifted Fiddleford's weight onto one arm. “You're gonna be fine.” Fidds was in no condition to walk. Ford had carried him all the way back to the cabin. 

Fiddleford yelped and whimpered fearfully when he felt Ford's other hand leave his body. Tightening his death grip around Ford's neck. “It's alright. I'm not going to drop you.” Ford reassured. He hoisted Fidds up a bit over his shoulder and did his best to unlock the door as quickly as he could. Pushing it open with his boot once he heard the click of the knob. He brought his hand to Fidd's back. Keys still hooked in his fingers as he rubbed little circles into Fidd's shirt.

“I've got you.” He breathed.

Fiddleford hugged Ford like his life depended on it. Shivering violently in his arms. His clothes torn, battered, bruised, filled with quills Ford desperately needed to remove. All of that paled in concern compared to the horrified thousand-yard stare Ford had been greeted with once the dust had settled. Fidds eyes were closed now. That seemed like an improvement. Maybe. At least Ford hoped it was.

He shuffled inside with the temporal displacement hyperdrive they needed slung over his other shoulder. The blasted thing better work. Its sudden alarm nearly got them killed. Not to mention all the supplies they lost. Left behind in the woods while Ford wrestled his friend back from that cursed beast. Oh well, what's done was done. They both made it home in one piece they got what they needed out of their expedition. A sloppy victory but a victory nonetheless. 

Ford carried Fidds upstairs to his room where he had the supplies he needed to a magic cure that should hopefully work for the gremloblin venom. At least he hope so. He knew less about this creature than he’d like and didn’t yet know the full effects of its toxins.

He gingerly draped Fiddlford across the couch Ford called his bed. “Fidds, I need you to let go.” He pleaded gently as Fiddleford clawed at his shoulders. Refusing to let go of his coat.

“No, no, no, no, no-” Fiddleford kept mumbling incoherently. He opened his eyes again. Looking up at Ford with a manic pain and desperation that felt like a dagger to the heart. His eyes still glowing faintly.

“Fiddleford, please.” Ford reiterated gently. Placing a hand over one of Fidds. “I need to go get the first aid kit.” And set the drive down, and close the door.

Fiddleford was still shaking. His chest heaved as he started back at Ford. His intense gaze seemed to scan Ford's eyes for something before he finally relented. Loosening his grip on Ford's coat enough for him to escape.

Ford wasn't sure what Fiddleford was looking for but he was glad he could provide it. Whatever it was. “I'll be right back.” He promised.

He slipped the hyperdrive off his shoulder and let it thunk heavily onto the floor. Flexing his aching shoulder once the weight was off him. He’d had to swipe a bit of rope from the barn they had crashed into so he could strap the piece of machinery to himself for the walk back. All in all, he wasn’t carrying much more weight than the travel supplies they had left with but the load hit differently after the day he’d had.

“Stay right there. I’ll only be gone a second.” Ford stressed before rushing out.

Fiddleford didn’t look keen on moving anytime soon. Curling up and facing away from him. Burring his face in the back of the futon and muttering incoherently to himself. That was probably not a good sign. None of this was good.

Ford rushed downstairs to slam the door shut and lock it before hurrying to the bathroom for first aid supplies. He kept splints and plaster on hand thankfully for breaks. Fiddelford’s arm was in bad shape. It had broken in the fall and the injury had only grown more obvious on the walk home as the bruises set in. Not that it stopped Fiddelford from gripping Ford like a drowning man at sea. The strain probably hadn’t done wonderful things for his injuries.

Ford grabbed what he needed and hurried back upstairs to his room. “Alright, let’s get you fixed up.” He tried to reassure his friend. Ford placed the first aid supplies on the end table by the couch and set to work.

The room was less a bedroom and more a study. Ford didn’t care much. He didn’t mind what he slept on and when he realized he’d invited Fiddleford over and forgotten to secure a proper bed for him he simply gave his old bedroom to Fidds. He barely used it anyway and his study worked just as well. Moreover, his study was filled with all manner of artifacts and samples Ford had collected. Hopefully, something in here could treat any lingering effects of the venom. 

Ford started first with removing the quills. Gently rolling Fiddleford back onto his back as he started pulling the quills out one by one. They had little hooked barbs on the end like a porcupine. Removing them made Fidds wince every time.

“Sorry, I’m sorry.” Ford kept reiterating everything Fiddleford flinched from his touch. 

Fidds skin was swollen and discolored from the quills. Every one oozed a mix of blood and puss on removal that Ford drained and cleaned with alcohol wipes. He’s scrubbed his hands thoroughly in the sink but still wore gloves just to be safe. The pinky kept threatening to rip on him from having two digits squeezed into it but there wasn’t much that could be done for it. He needed disposable gloves for this. He’d have to work on making his own latex gloves in the future.

Ford breathed a sigh of relief once the final quill was removed. Fidds was still shaking but seemed a little calmer. Still covered welts from the quills. Not to mention the mass of swollen blue and purple that had spread up his right arm from the break. It wasn’t the worst break Ford had ever seen, but still a nasty one. Stanley took the prize for that one. The memory of his brother’s tiba peeking out from the mass of mangled meat that was once his leg would haunt him forever. Pa made sure to take the cost of that hospital visit out of his hide. Ford learned a lot patching up his brother after that. He didn’t need hospitals. He could handle things himself. 

Ford got up to go search through his supplies. Rifling through drawers and cabinets for every healing tonic he knew of. He didn’t have anything that could mend a broken bone sadly but he did have some purifying water from a magical glave he’d found not long after his arrival in Gravity Falls. Unfortunately, the space disintegrated after he left and allegedly would only appear to a chosen few once in a lifetime. He was told this water could cure any poison though Ford had never tested it. He had a limited supply and couldn’t risk wasting it. 

He heard Fiddleford whimper softly behind him and turned back to look at his friend’s pale horrified expression. He had no idea what the grembloblin venom would do to him and the welts were turning a very concerning and sickly green color. If there was ever a time to use his magic cure it was now.

“Here, here, I’m back.” Ford reassured as he returned to the couch. He knelt back down on the floor again and snapped his fingers near Fiddleford’s face to try and get his attention. Trying to get his friend to look at him and show some sign of lucid thought.

Fiddleford choked like he was trying not to cry but didn’t turn his eyes. Only screwed them shut and gripped his chest. He was sweating despite feeling cold to the touch.

“It’s ok. This should help.” Ford assured him anyway. “You’re going to be fine. I’ll get you some painkillers once we’re done.” He promised.

Seeing the extent of the wounds Ford decided the best way to apply the cure was to soak strips of gauze in it and wrap Fiddlefords arms in them. Taking great care to pace out the healing water evenly and trying not to use more than he needed. Even still it took up the whole bottle. Thankfully the green pallor seemed to subside a bit as Ford worked. The swelling reduced. That was good. At least something was going right. Fiddleford’s clammy shivering seemed to improve as well. Thank god.

“Almost done.” Ford still got no clear responses from Fiddleford but he liked to think it helped at least a little. Letting his friend know how much there was left to go. 

He took great care when setting and casting Fidds broken arm. Trying his best not to cause any more pain than necessary. That said Fiddleford still seemed oddly numb to the pain. It was the only reason Ford didn’t give him the medication upfront. Fidds reactions were muted enough as is and he needed to know if he was hurting him. Pain was a useful tool for measuring the damage and identifying any less obvious wounds. Ford felt ashamed he was a little relieved to see Fidds hiss in pain as his bones were set. He didn’t like seeing him hurt but at least it was a natural reaction.  

“There, there we go, we’re done.” Ford held up his empty hands to show Fidds once the cast was set. Fidds still didn’t look at him or give any indication he processed what Ford was saying. Ford desperately wanted some kind of acknowledgment from his best friend. Even if it was just to yell at him for putting Fiddlford in danger in the first place. Literally, anything would be better than this.

Still, he steadied himself and peeled off his rubber gloves. He found his hands smeared with blood. He hadn’t even noticed his own wounds until now. Ford had cut up his hands shoving through thick brambles in pursuit of the gremloblin. More than his hands. His clothes were torn and bloodstained in places. All minor injuries though. He probably has some bruises from the crash but he wasn’t too concerned with them. He was overheated and sweating through his shirt though. He chucked his coat on the side table and peeled off his sweater vest and button down. Fanning himself briefly with his undershirt to try and cool off.

“Ok, aspirin.” Ford was talking to himself at this point. He knew Fidds wasn’t listening. At least talking helped him keep his thoughts clear. Ford got up to head back down to the bathroom for aspirin and a glass of water. Fiddleford might have been a bit numb now but he would be wanting those painkillers later once the shock wore off.

Ford was about to leave when he felt a tug on his pant leg. “NO! PLEASE!” 

Ford’s blood ran cold. He looked back at Fidds in stunned shock.

Fidds eyes were welling up with tears. Gripping Ford’s clothes with his good hand. “Please don’t go.” He begged. “Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me.” There was so much pain and desperation in his voice. Ford had never heard his friend sound so broken.

His heart ached. He pointed timidly towards the door. “Asprin.” He repeatedly meekly. “I’ll be right back.” 

“Please don’t leave me again.” Fiddleford choked. His voice cracking from the strain of some overwhelming fear. Something primal and beyond what Ford had ever seen.

“I-I won’t.” Ford promised. He returned to the couch and knelt down beside it. He took Fidds hands in his and tried to comfort him. “I’m not going anywhere.” He promised. He wasn’t much for comfort. He was never very good at it. Baring Stanley most people didn’t seem to take kindly to anything he had to say when tears were involved. Crying people scared him. Emotions were messy and complicated and he didn’t know what to do with them. Studying psychology could only get him so far.

Fidds was crying now. Some kind of dam had burst and he was properly crying. Gasping wheezing sobs. Dripping with saline and mucus. Redfaced as loud unflattering sounds escaped him.

Ford didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know how to fix this. Poison he could cure, broken bones he could set. He didn’t know how to mend a broken soul.

“It’s ok.” Ford said it though he wasn’t confident he believed it. He hoped if he said it enough he could convince the both of them it was true. Whatever this emotional outburst was it was a side effect of the gremloblin. It would pass. Fidds just needed time to rest, to recover. He’d be alright. Ford had to keep telling himself that.

Ford lifted Fidd upright on the couch and crawled into the seat beside him. Supporting his friend by his shoulders as the wailing man struggled to hold himself upright.

“I’ve got you.” Ford reassured him. “I’m here.”

Ford stretched out on the narrow futon and pulled Fidds over top of him. Letting him rest on his chest and soak his shirt in his tears. He wrapped his arms around his friend protectively. Holding him close and resting his chin atop Fidds head. “I’m here.” He repeated. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

Ford took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Focusing on his heartbeat and slowing it to a crawl. He held Fidds head, gently pressing his ear to his chest. Hoping the slow thump of his heart and the even rise and fall of his breathing would help soothe Fiddleford. It was a simple animalistic strategy but it was the only thing Ford could think to do. Slowly Fiddleford’s sobs began to wane. The shaking calmed. His tense body grew limp as he was lulled to sleep. 

Ford could feel the fatigue sinking into his bones as Fiddleford relaxed. He felt his own stress unwind. Felt the ache of his bruises and the sting of thorns. The rope burn on his shoulder. The cramping muscle pains of an overtaxed body. With Fiddleford sleeping on top of him it didn’t take long for Ford to follow suit.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

In The Gloomy Depths [Chapter 2: Tiger's Eye]

Series summary: Five years ago, jewel mining tycoon Daemon Targaryen made a promise in order to win your hand in marriage. Now he has broken it and forced you into a voyage across the Atlantic, betraying you in increasingly horrifying ways and using your son as leverage to ensure your cooperation. You have no friends and no allies, except a destitute viola player you can’t seem to get away from…

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), parenthood, dolphins, death and peril, violence (including domestic violence), drinking, smoking, freezing temperatures, murder, if you don’t like Titanic you won’t like this fic!!! 😉

Word count: 5.7k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @arcielee @nightvyre @mrs-starkgaryen @gemini-mama @ecstaticactus, more in comments 🥰

💎 Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 💎

The taxidermied tiger head hangs above the fireplace in the sitting room, its jaws agape in a perpetual roar and its eyes polished spheres of metamorphic rock the color of dusk. Daemon shot it in Burma years ago—valleys of saturated green earth, mountain ranges like a crooked spine—shortly after opening his third black opal mine in Australia. You stare at the disembodied creature and she stares back, a silent scream, a doomed eternal terror in her tiger’s eye gaze: Help! A man is killing me. A man is taking me from where I belong. A man is nailing me to a wall so all the world knows he is the one whose bullet severed my aorta, filled me with hemorrhaging blood until I sank down, down, down.

You say, still looking at the slayed beast: “Did we really have to bring that with us?”

Daemon glances over as he fastens his cufflinks, onyx with red beryl in the shape of a three-headed dragon, the Targaryen family crest. “I’m sure you’d prefer a finger painting from that Italian tosspot you’re so enamored with. What’s his name, Pizarro?”

“Picasso. And he’s Spanish.”

“Even worse.”

You turn to Daemon, and you can feel yourself wilting, becoming pitiful, vulnerable, needy. “Where are you going?”

He smirks as he stalks past you. “Wherever I want.” Then he passes through the doorway and out into the hall, flanked by the ever-grim Edward Rushton, black suits and polished leather shoes.

It’s midday on April 12th, and you and Fern are now alone in the Targaryen staterooms. Laenor is down on F-Deck enjoying the Squash Racquet Court with his new Parisian companions, Rhaenyra is in the Reading and Writing Room with a group of ladies led by the Countess of Rothes, and Dagmar has taken Draco…somewhere. Meanwhile, your sweet-tempered maid is flitting around making beds and collecting empty cups and soiled linens. “Fern?” you call.

She peeks out of Draco’s bedroom. “Yes, ma’am? Do you need something?”

To leap overboard and swim back to Ireland. “Would you like to take a stroll around the Promenade Deck with me? Breathe some fresh air, look for dolphins and whales, have lunch at the Verandah Cafe?”

Fern is apologetic in that soft, skittish way that she has. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. I have to finish cleaning the rooms before Dagmar comes back.”

She doesn’t say why—that would be insubordinate—but you know. Just like on the family crest, the dragon has three heads: Daemon, Draco, Dagmar. All must be appeased lest their fire turn you to ash. And Fern lives in terror of the gaunt Scandinavian tyrant. “Right. I understand.”

“I should be done in an hour or two. When you return from your walk, I’ll make you tea.”

“You’re too kind.”

She is confused. “It’s my job, ma’am.”

“Still, I’m glad you’re the one doing it.”

Fern smiles, small and hesitant. “Thank you, ma’am. Enjoy your walk.”

Outside on the Promenade Deck, the sun is bright and the wind brisk, just warm enough to forego a coat, black mink or white ermine or grey rabbit or reddish fox, pelts harvested, creatures butchered. Your dress is a cheerful yellow, as if attempting to conjure the golden-haired magic of the Targaryens, their willfulness, their invincibility, their habit of bending the world’s truth in their hands until it snaps. Yet none of them are here with you; you are alone, you are unnecessary. As you walk, you pass women reading novels on teak deckchairs, children playing with spinning tops and dominoes under the watchful eyes of fathers and governesses, men smoking cigars as they debate business and politics and which gemstones they should purchase for their sweethearts. You have to get away from them.

You take the Grand Staircase up to the Boat Deck, the highest level of the ship, and to distract yourself you count the covered lifeboats that are stowed there. This does not assuage your anxiety; you see only twenty, and while you have made a practice of avoiding sailing and therefore are no expert on the issue, this does not seem like enough. You go to the railing—about as tall as your waist—and lean over it as you stare, thoughts troubled and brow furrowed, into the wild, uninterrupted blue of the North Atlantic, five hundred miles from the coast of Ireland. To your left is a man painting a sheet of paper clipped to an easel, a palette held in his hand, viscous globs of color from small silvery tubes. Seventy feet below where you stand is the sea, thrashing against Titanic, a wood-and-steel intruder. You lean a little farther over the side of the ship. The water is cold, you imagine; cold, deep, dark, silent.

If I fell in, this would all be over, you think. No more Daemon. No more anyone. The only people who would miss me are my parents, and they’ll never see me again anyway.

But no; you cannot abandon Draco. He’s a piece of you, even if he doesn’t know it. You cannot allow him to become a monster.

The viola player peeks out from behind his easel. “Not thinking about jumping, are you?”

You gasp, startled, and then cover your face as you groan. “Why are you always out here?!”

“Aw, fancy rock lady needs a member of the perpetual underclass to malign,” he says as he adds brushstrokes to his painting. He has procured a suit somehow—black, slightly too big for him, likely stolen—to better masquerade as a first-class passenger. “What’s the matter, rock lady? Did your servants not put enough sugar in your tea this morning? Did they tug a little too hard as they brushed your hair?”

“You’re not well mentally. You need a straightjacket.”

“I’m not the one about to throw myself into the Atlantic Ocean.”

You glare at him, bitter, defensive. “I wasn’t going to jump.”

“Then what were you doing?”

You can’t answer; you wring your hands and press your lips together so tightly they ache, watch dark smoke billow from the nearest funnel, coal shoveled into blazing furnaces, treasures of the earth extracted like teeth and consumed.

“Hey, I didn’t, um…” The viola player lowers his paintbrush, repentant. “It wasn’t my intention to upset you.”

You ask to change the subject: “What are you painting?”

“People,” he says, grinning, then turns his easel to show you. It’s a father holding his daughter so she can look over the railing and pointing to show her something out in the waves, dolphins, perhaps. His work is excellent, you are surprised to see: wispy curls of hair, irises alight with emotion, shadows and wrinkles and cheeks ruddy from gusts of wind, imperfections of reality.

“It’s good,” you manage once you’ve gotten your bearings.

“And of course you’re shocked.” He points to a scuffed brown leather portfolio resting against one leg of the easel. “I have plenty more, if you’re interested.”

You open the portfolio. There are men worriedly counting coins, women waiting on park benches, children beaming as they feed ducks or tend to their dolls, people giggling and scowling and burning up with clandestine longing, people sipping drinks in smoky pubs. In the bottom right corner of each painting is a moniker for the subject: Crystal, Big Red, Sunshine, Baron, Carnation, Tiny, Mars, Archer, Harpist, Pennies, Henry VIII, Belfast Belle. Unwittingly, you smile to yourself. “You give them names.”

“I watch people, but I don’t usually talk to them,” the viola player explains as he dabs thick oil paint on the paper clipped to the easel, treated to resemble the texture of linen. “I like to catch them unawares. Keeps the moment genuine, truthful. Otherwise they start acting for me.”

“Why paper instead of canvas?”

“Easier to travel with. Lighter and less bulky.”

You recall what he told Daemon at O’Connell’s Bar back in Galway: Well I’ve played all over Ireland, sir. All over Europe, in fact. You gingerly slide his paintings back into the portfolio and tease: “Who do you think you are, Picasso?”

He chuckles and shakes his head. His sand-colored hair trashes in the wind that blows off the ocean, salt and mist. “I am under no such delusion. I’ve met him, though.”

You gawk at the viola player. “You’ve…you’ve met Pablo Picasso?”

“Yeah,” he says casually. “In Barcelona. I love his Blue and Rose Period stuff. Now he’s doing some weird cubism bullshit.” The viola player shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s his art, he can paint what he wants. But I prefer something a little more…real.”

“I do too,” you confess. “I went to Paris once with my parents. I saw some of Picasso’s work in a gallery, but he wasn’t there at the time. I bought a few paintings.”

“Which ones?”

“Mother and Child from 1905. Flowers from 1901.” You hesitate. It’s a bit scandalous. “Blue Nude.”

But the viola player neither cringes nor makes a joke. “I remember that one,” he says softly, watching you. After a moment he asks: “Are they hanging in your rooms?”

“They’re in a trunk. Daemon doesn’t like them.” And the animosity in your voice is an act of treason, however small. You glance around for Daemon, Rush, Dagmar, Rhaenyra, Laenor, and thankfully find none of them. You avert your eyes, ashamed. A husband you hate, and fear, and obey, and lie awake at night conspiring how to please.

There is something that ripples across the viola player’s face—sympathy, distress—and then he resumes putting the final touches on his portrait of two unnamed passengers. “Do you paint?”

You laugh. “Very badly.”

He offers you the paintbrush, saturated with a reddish-gold color like dusk. “You can help me fill in the man’s scarf. That’s hard to fuck up.”

Your jaw falls open.

“That’s hard to mess up,” he amends.

Smiling shyly, you take the paintbrush and add a few tentative strokes to the scarf. The viola player accepts the paintbrush when you forfeit it.

“So besides making awful paintings, how did you spend your time back in Galway?”

Reminding my father who he is. Taking long walks through the fields with my mother. Sitting in the garden wondering how my life went so wrong. Trying to stop my only child from becoming a demon like his father. “I read a lot. Mostly Edgar Allan Poe, Jane Austen, and Shakespeare.”

“Shakespeare?” he echoes, amused. “Recite some for me.”

You take a moment to decide on a passage.

“Not for the world: why, man, she is mine own,

And I as rich in having such a jewel

As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl,

The water nectar and the rocks pure gold.”

“The Two Gentlemen of Verona,” the viola player says, much to your amazement. He’s a thief holding a third-class ticket, and yet he’s learned. This is rare outside the blue-blooded aristocrats and the titans of industry. Fern can barely read and write.

“Where were you educated?”

“The world,” he replies, grinning.

“And the world included lessons on Shakespeare?”

“Sure, sometimes.”

“Alright then, let’s hear an excerpt.”

He considers this, tapping the handle of his paintbrush against his lips. Then he says:

“My crown is in my heart, not on my head;

Not decked with diamonds and Indian stones,

Nor to be seen: my crown is called content:

A crown it is that seldom kings enjoy.”

“King Henry VI,” you say, admittedly impressed. “I didn’t know poor people read Shakespeare.”

“Shakespeare’s plays were written for everyone, fancy rock lady. Standing tickets at the Globe cost pennies.”

You study the viola player as he paints, feeling a bewildering combination of curiosity, amusement, fondness. “What’s your name?”

He pauses as if he’s not sure what to say, then gives you a sly, crooked grin as he replies: “Picasso.”

Now a steward is approaching, and the viola player is alarmed, perhaps anticipating being revealed as a fraud and dragged back to the third-class accommodations; but the steward is only passing by with a tray full of champagne flutes, offering them to illustrious passengers as they stroll the decks. You take two glasses and he continues on his way. You down one flute in just a few gulps and offer the other to the viola player. He smiles politely but does not reach for it.

“Thank you, but I don’t drink.”

“Really?” Have you ever met a man who doesn’t? You can’t think of one. And you are suddenly aware of how quickly you finished your champagne—unladylike, improper, but surely no great disgrace in front of this audience—and how yearningly you’re already glancing at the second glass, carbonated amber, fool’s gold.

“I’m not someone who can stop at just one or two,” the viola player says. “I’ve learned that about myself. Tried to fight it for a while, turns out acceptance is easier. I hardly even miss booze anymore.”

“How long did you fight it?”

“Ten years.”

You are caught off-guard. “What? How old are you?”

“Twenty-three.”

Since he was thirteen? Can that be right? “We’re about the same age,” you say instead, taking a distracted swig from the glass that would have been his.

“Yeah,” the viola player agrees thoughtfully.

You finish the champagne and hand both glasses to a passing steward. “I should go,” you tell the viola player. “I don’t know where Daemon is on the ship, and…” I don’t want him to see us. I don’t want him to hurt me.

“Sure. I get it.”

“Good luck with your painting.”

“I’ll make one of you next,” he promises, and you’re certain he’s joking.

You smile and turn to leave. “Whatever you say, Picasso.”

You walk towards the Grand Staircase that leads back down to the Promenade Deck. As you pass the Gymnasium, you steal a glimpse through one of the windows and see them inside: Draco giggling as he rides the electric horse and yanks gleefully on the reins, Dagmar beaming as her gnarled, arthritic hands hold him by the waist so he doesn’t slide off.

You lay your palm against the cold glass, separated by a few steps that might as well be miles, wreckage peering up through the darkness from the bottom of the sea.

~~~~~~~~~~

Fern helps you dress for dinner: a glittering gold gown, a tiger’s eye amulet from Burma. Laenor has brought a companion, one of the Parisians he’s become so well-acquainted with, a count’s son named Hugo. As Laenor is preoccupied, Daemon escorts Rhaenyra to the First-Class Dining Saloon down in D-Deck. They meander together, her arm linked through his, murmuring gossip about the other passengers and snickering contemptuously. You trail behind them, feeling invisible, a sun that casts no warmth.

All around you are other first-class passengers descending the Grand Staircase: Benjamin Guggenheim and his mistress two decades his junior, John Jacob Astor and his pregnant eighteen-year-old wife, railroad tycoons Charles M. Hays and John B. Thayer, steel industrialist George Dennick Wick, the glamorous Countess of Rothes, the newly-wealthy Margaret Brown, the eminent journalist W.T. Stead, the White Star Line’s managing director J. Bruce Ismay. But your gaze keeps drifting to Macy’s department store owner Isidor Straus and his wife Ida, neither young, neither beautiful, and yet so evidently devoted to each other. You wonder how that feels; surely nothing like a bruise, a reproach, a back turned to you in the marriage bed.

On the A-Deck landing of the Grand Staircase is the viola player, his horsehair bow gliding over four thick strings to loose an energetic, jubilant song, standing there in his suit that no one else notices is too big for him because they don’t really see him at all. He is less than a fixture of the ship; the first-class passengers marvel at the glass-and-wrought-iron dome overhead and the Neoclassical clock on the wall and even the bronze cherub statue at the base of the steps, but the flesh-and-blood machinery of Titanic wears a sort of camouflage, unremarkable and interchangeable, uncomfortably human. The viola player gives you a wink and a quick, subtle smile as you pass by him, and you smile back. And for a moment, it is like you have a friend aboard the ship, a groundswell of fleeting joy, gratefulness, peace.

Dinner is oysters, salmon with hollandaise, corned ox tongue, chateau potatoes, asparagus soup, Waldorf pudding, other things that you pick at without much interest. You miss Lough Cutra Castle, you miss your parents, you miss Ireland, you miss your life before Daemon Targaryen stalked into it with his ever-glinting green eyes and his talent for making you so desperate to satisfy him. Instead of eating, you mostly drink champagne, draining glasses of it until your cheeks are warm and your thoughts hazy. You look around for the viola player, but he never appears in the First-Class Dining Saloon. Instead, the five-piece string ensemble that welcomed you aboard Titanic yesterday is playing Alexander’s Ragtime Band.

Daemon has invited a guest to share your table, chief designer of the ship Mr. Thomas Andrews. He is gracious and even-tempered, exactly the sort of man Daemon likes to entrap and enchant and have his way with. As you drown in champagne, Daemon tells Mr. Andrews about surviving a hurricane while mining Larimar in the Dominican Republic, domesticating a ring-tailed lemur in Madagascar (Daemon had named it Aegon and kept it on a leash), getting lost for three days in the Australian Outback and resorting to eating snakes and dingoes, bludgeoned to death with rocks and roasted over campfires. Rhaenyra observes all of this with a proud, radiant smile, encouraging Daemon with nods and oddly girlish giggles. Laenor, meanwhile, is chatting with Hugo and paying little attention to anything else. He and Rhaenyra have three young sons back in England, though they resemble Laenor Velaryon far less than they do Harwin Strong, Viserys the Duke of Beaufort’s former Master of the Horse and Rhaenyra’s rumored lover. The virile, dark-haired Harwin Strong was killed last year in an unfortunate riding accident, whereupon Daemon rekindled his previously strained relationship with Rhaenyra in the interests of helping her cope with the loss. As it turned out, Daemon’s niece had grown up to be much the same as he is—daring, sarcastic, charismatic, incorrigible—and as if you didn’t have enough difficulty winning his affection before, now you must compete with his kindred spirit, a golden-haired wildfire only a few years older than you and who Daemon can delightedly torment his estranged brother with by capturing her in his orbit.

Daemon is saying, his elbows on the table and miming clutching a massive gemstone in his palm: “As a famed French fashion critic once wrote, The jewel, which is so well adapted to a woman’s adornment, is a combination of the riches of nature and art.”

“Not just any fashion critic,” you say without thinking, the champagne parting your lips before you can reconsider. “Charles Blanc. And I’m the one who gave you his book, remember? It was one of my wedding presents to you.”

Everyone turns to stare at you, as if abruptly being made aware of your existence. Laenor and Hugo appear puzzled. Rhaenyra is frowning with disapproval. Mr. Andrews nods politely. Daemon, after a moment, chuckles in that low, rolling, sardonic way that he does.

“Yes, dear, you certainly did. Clearly it made an impression.” He looks to Mr. Andrews. “You’ll have to forgive my wife, good sir. I’m afraid she has a weakness for champagne.”

“Don’t we all?” Mr. Andrews replies diplomatically.

“The truth is,” Dameon says as if he’s confiding in the shipbuilder; and yet there’s an exhilaration he can’t entirely disguise, a malicious triumph, proof of the power he has over you. “She’s petrified of sailing, has been for years. And this journey…well…it’s been quite an ordeal for her. But under no uncertain terms was I leaving Ireland without my family. Where I go, we all go.”

“I’m so sorry to hear about your rattled nerves, Lady Targaryen.” Mr. Andrews’ eyes are soft with pity for you, a neurotic and illogical woman, tortured by her own nature. “Is there anything I can say to alleviate your fears? Have you been on a ship that’s run into trouble before?”

“No, no sir, I just…” You push through the warm, amber-gold fog of the champagne to explain. “I’ve never been able to stop thinking of all the water beneath us, and a ship…even one as large and luxurious as Titanic…it seems too vulnerable to me. One puncture and we all go straight to the seafloor.”

“That’s why I built Titanic with watertight bulkheads that go up to E-Deck,” Mr. Andrews says, smiling reassuringly. “There are sixteen total, and the ship can stay afloat with several of them flooded. This is meant to contain any possible breach in the hull.”

“Oh, how ingenious!” Laenor exclaims. “Hugo, isn’t that extraordinary?”

Mr. Andrews continues: “Truly, Lady Targaryen, I have built you an unsinkable ship. You have nothing to worry about here on Titanic.”

“Of course she doesn’t,” Daemon agrees.

“And there are lifeboats, I suppose,” you say. “Although…I didn’t see very many up on the Boat Deck. What is their total capacity, I wonder…?”

“Over 1,000 souls, ma’am,” Mr. Andrews replies.

You are horrified. “That’s half the people onboard.”

“Yes,” he concedes. “But as I said, Titanic cannot sink.” Again, he smiles blithely. “Besides, in the event of an evacuation—engine failure or damaged propellers or some such thing—the lifeboats would only be needed to ferry passengers from Titanic to the vessel we’d hail to rescue us with the wireless telegraph machine. The lifeboats were never intended to be able to hold all the passengers at once, that would be absurd.”

“Impossible,” Daemon concurs. “What on earth would necessitate a swift and total evacuation?”

“What about an iceberg?” Hugo says as he eats a heaping spoonful of Waldorf pudding, vanilla custard mixed with nutmeg, apples, walnuts, and raisins.

Mr. Andrews titters patiently, as if this is the most ludicrous thing he’s ever heard. “No iceberg could damage Titanic enough to flood more than three bulkheads. And we have lookouts employed to spot them and sound the alarm so we can turn in time. Icebergs are not a concern whatsoever.”

“Très bien!” Hugo declares, redirecting his full attention back to his Waldorf pudding.

Mr. Andrews looks to you, his voice kind but patronizing. “Do you feel better now, Lady Targaryen?”

“Much better,” you lie.

“Good. Then no more worrying. And no need to drink yourself under the table either.”

Daemon says with a derisive snort: “Well, she is Irish.”

Everyone laughs; everyone but you.

~~~~~~~~~~

Back at the Targaryen staterooms, Rush is waiting by the door to take your coats. Laenor and Hugo bid everyone goodnight, then depart; Rhaenyra, seemingly reluctantly, takes her leave as well. She and Laenor have separate accommodations as they always do while travelling, not unheard of among first-class passengers but also not helping to dispel the rumors concerning her sons’ parentage.

Dagmar is perched on one of the sofas like a falcon on a branch, her talonlike fingers knitting a forest green blanket for Draco. Your son, meanwhile, is sprawled on the sitting room floor and at war with Fern, who is trying to coax him out of his shoes and day clothes and into his pajamas.

“Draco, please, my love, it’s time to get ready for bed now—”

“I want to go back to the Gymnasium!” he screeches, wriggling out of her grasp. From the sofa, Dagmar chuckles as if this is charming behavior, a portent of superb athletic fitness, perhaps. “I want to ride the horsey!”

Fern is exasperated. “Darling, the Gymnasium is closed, no one is allowed to use it any more tonight. But I promise you’ll be able to go back tomorrow—”

“No!” Draco shrieks. “Now! Right now!”

Fern finally manages to slip off one of his shoes, and faster than anyone can stop him, Draco draws back his hand and slaps her across the face, open palm, a sharp crack in the air, and of course he’s too young and too weak to do anything but stun her, but he won’t be four years old forever.

One day he’ll be able to hurt people. He’ll be able to break them, bruise them, ruin their lives.

“No!” you shout, then bolt to Draco and drop to the floor to hold him by his frail little shoulders, firm yet careful not to harm him, no scratches, no bruises, no pools of trapped blood that will ache with violent memory. “You never do that! You don’t hurt people! You don’t hit women!”

“Mam?” Draco whimpers, his lips quivering and tears shimmering in his eyes; and he almost never calls you that, he almost never acknowledges you as his mother at all. But he knows, he must, this proves it. “I’m sorry…I won’t do it again…please don’t yell at me…”

Immediately remorseful, you embrace him, and Draco clings to you as he sobs. Fern is watching you with huge, frightened eyes; then they flick to someone standing behind you.

Rush grabs you by both arms and wrenches you away. You yelp in shock and pain; Dagmar swoops in to take Draco and vanishes into his bedroom, glaring at you over her shoulder, frigid lethal fury. Fern is covering her mouth with her hands so she won’t scream.

Rush hurls you to the carpet and backs away. When you look up, Daemon is standing in the doorway of your bedroom, orange dusk-like light spilling out from behind him.

“Come here,” Daemon says, beckoning you with his right hand.

You are terrified; you are shaking. “No.”

“The longer you wait, the worse it will be.”

“No,” you say again. You glance at Fern, but she can’t help you; she turns away, stifling a cry with her palms. The room is spinning, your thoughts are slow, your skull aches with rhythmic pulses like blows from a hammer. You peer up at Rush, blinking blearily. “Do you like working for a man who beats his wife?”

Rush doesn’t reply; his face is grave but otherwise unreadable. Fern curls up on the floor, shaking her head. The taxidermied tiger head roars silently from above the crackling fireplace.

Daemon says from the doorway: “Dear, I’m losing my patience.”

There’s nowhere else to go. You crawl towards him, then at the halfway point stagger to your feet. Daemons steps aside so you can cross through the threshold. He closes the door and locks it. You stare at him, swaying a bit, your hands hovering in front of you. You’re trying to figure out where he’s going to hit you, but he’s good at not letting on, and you’re drunk. You guess stomach, but it’s your face, just like Draco struck Fern; his open palm sets your cheek on fire and rocks your head back. You lunge for him, fingers clawing and knuckles jabbing at his ribs. Sometimes you fight back and sometimes you don’t—occasionally he finds it endearing and leaves you alone, more often it exacerbates the situation—but tonight you are overwhelmed with wrath for this man who has taken everything from you, your home, your parents, your son, your future.

You shove Daemon into his writing desk, then he pins you to the wall, slides open a drawer of the desk with his free hand, pulls out his gemstone-studded dagger and lays the blade against your windpipe. And you scream, because for all his roughness and his threats Daemon has never done this before. No one appears to rescue you; no one would dare.

“You will not correct Draco,” Daemon says. “He is my son, and I will deal with him.”

You seethe, teeth bared: “I don’t want him to be like you.”

“Think about it, dear,” Daemon hisses, the blade cold against your throat. You can feel it stinging, a thin slice like a papercut you’ll have to cover with makeup tomorrow. “We’re on a ship in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. If you were to take a tumble over the railing, who could say if it was an accident or a suicide or a crime of opportunity committed by some third-class scoundrel? There would be nothing to investigate. You would be gone, and that would be the end of it. Draco is past the fragile years of infancy, he is healthy and he is fierce. Your father’s quarry is already under the control of my managers. What do I need you for now? Why the fuck would I tolerate any further obstinance from you? Your usefulness has come and gone. You stand on the thinnest of ice. One wrong step, and you’ll find it splintering beneath your feet.”

He lifts the dagger away and strides out of the bedroom. You stand there in the tawny lamplight like a sunset, trembling all over, gasping for air, your hands flying up to your neck. When you check your fingers, they are sticky and copper-smelling with a small amount of blood.

He could have killed me. I think he wanted to.

There is a tall oval mirror by the bed, its frame gilded and glowing in the ochre lamplight. You stare at yourself, tears flooding down your cheeks, a gold dress worth more than you are. Everything you own is Daemon’s. That will be true for as long as he lives.

You flee out onto the small private deck attached to your rooms, through the back exit, and into the labyrinthian hallways of B-Deck. You run towards the stern of the ship, dodging stewards who ask if you need assistance and men sauntering back from the First-Class Smoking Room after dinner, puffing on their pipes and their cigars, nursing stout glasses of brandy to keep them warm. When you break out into the open air, it is bitterly cold. The ocean is a vast lightless void; you could mistake it for nothingness if it wasn’t for the thunderous rumble and salt spray of the waves. Your gleaming gold dress billows around you as you sprint to the metal railing that encloses the stern, grip the top rung with shaking hands, stare down into the roiling depths churned by the propellers.

Where can I go? There’s nowhere to go. There’s nowhere else to run to.

“Hey,” the viola player says; you recognize his voice immediately.

You turn away, not wanting him to see the swelling on your face, the traces of blood at your throat. You are heartbroken, you are humiliated. You agreed to marry a man and now he’s ruined your life. You wrap your bare arms around yourself and sniffle, shivering, swiping tears from your eyes.

After a while, the viola player says cautiously, realizing you aren’t in the mood for disclosures: “It’s cold tonight.”

“Obviously.”

He takes off his black wool coat, presumably stolen like the suit he wears underneath, and offers it to you. “I have more layers on.”

“I don’t want you to be cold.”

“Please shut up and take the coat, okay?” You accept it and put it on, and instantly you begin to feel better. The viola player asks gently: “Does he hit you?”

You shrug, petulant like a child. “Sometimes I hit him back.”

The viola player sighs, but he’s not just disappointed; he’s saddened, he’s pained. “Look, I know what it’s like to get knocked around. That’s why I left home.”

You remember what he told you when you first realized he’d followed you onto Titanic: I have family in New York City. I left home and haven’t been back in years, and I think now’s a good time for a visit. “Why would you ever want to see them again?”

“Things are different now. I’m older, I’m not afraid to walk out and be on my own, I’m confident that I can advocate for myself better than before. And they aren’t all bad. I have…” He hesitates. “I have two brothers and a sister in New York, and I miss them.”

“What are their names?”

“Um,” he stops to think. Clearly he’s making them up. “Arnold, Henrietta, and Dean.”

“Do you actually have siblings or is this some sort of metaphor?”

He laughs. “No, they’re real. The names might not be, but the people are. Want to see your painting?”

“You were serious?”

He carefully pulls it out of the brown leather portfolio he’s carrying under one arm. And if it’s supposed to be you, he’s failed, but still the image is mesmerizing: a young woman—too beautiful, far too beautiful—glancing over at him from where she was pondering the waves under a clear midday sky, her hair in disarray from the wind and her eyes fearful, an oil-paint snapshot of desperation, defenselessness, wonder, hope.

“It’s very nice,” you say at last. “But I don’t look like that.”

“Yeah you do.”

You examine the bottom right corner of the painting to see what he’s named you. You skim your thumbprint feather-lightly over black cursive letters, drawn with the smallest of brushes. “Petra,” you murmur.

The viola player says self-consciously, as if hoping you’ll approve: “It’s Greek for rock.”

You smile faintly. “I know what it means.”

“Oh, fancy rock lady took Greek lessons in school.”

“Of course I did.”Greek, Latin, French, Irish Gaelic. You muse softly, still studying the painting: “Petra and Picasso.”

You don’t have to look at him; you can hear the grin in his voice. “Guess we’re friends now, huh?”

“I’ve never had a poor friend before.”

“Well, firstly, you can’t call me your poor friend. That’s offensive.”

With great unwillingness, you surrender the painting and give it back to the viola player. “I can’t keep this. I’m sorry, I want to. But Daemon might find it.” And then he’ll push me overboard and I’ll be dinner for the sharks.

He tucks the painting safely into his portfolio. “I’ll hold onto it for now.”

“Forever, you mean.”

“You might not always have to worry about Daemon.”

You share a dark, horrible truth: “I’ll never be free of him.”

“We’ll see,” the viola player replies, undaunted.

We’ll see.

[anyca786]

"DRAGON'S EMBRACE"

Daemon Targaryen x sister!Targaryen

WARNINGS: canon typical incest/targcest (brother & sister), fluff, kissing, violence ( at the tourneys) (possible rhaenyra x aunt!Targaryen?! Idk)

Series

Daenys stepped into the Dragonpit, her heart pounding with a mix of excitement and apprehension. The air was thick with the scent of sulfur and dragonfire, and the distant growls of the dragons echoed through the cavernous space.

A particularly menacing growl caught her attention. It was Caraxes, the Blood Wrym, Daemon's fearsome mount. The dragon, with its long neck and bright red scales, loomed over her, its eyes glowing with an otherworldly intensity.

Daenys approached Caraxes cautiously, her voice steady. "Be calm," she whispered in High Valyrian . "Remember me."

To her relief, Caraxes seemed to recognize her. The dragon's growls subsided, and it lowered its head, allowing Daenys to stroke its scales.

"Good dragon," Daenys praised, continuing to speak in High Valyrian. "You are a magnificent creature, a true beast of the skies."

Caraxes purred contentedly, its tail thumping the ground. Daenys pressed her forehead against the dragon's, feeling a surge of connection. "Good boy," she whispered.

Just then, Daemon entered the Dragonpit, a smirk playing on his lips.

“Came back after so long, and already on a mission to steal my dragon?” He grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief. Daenys rolled her eyes but couldn't suppress a smile. With a final pat to Caraxes' scales, she ran into Daemon’s arms.

He caught her effortlessly, pulling her into a warm embrace. “I’ve missed you,” Daenys mumbled into his ear, her voice soft and a bit breathless.

“I’ve missed you more, my love,” Daemon replied, placing a longing kiss on her cheek. “Though I’ve heard quite a lot about your adventure in the North, and let me assure you, I’m intrigued.”

Daenys rolled her eyes playfully, but a blush crept across her face. “Women have needs brother. And men in the North know how to satisfy their women.”

Daemon raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. “Their women? Sweetheart, you’re mine.”

Daenys blushed and walked towards Nyx, her dragon, who towered over Daemon’s Caraxes. Daemon followed quietly.

“You have a wife, Daemon,” Daenys said, patting Nyx, who purred in contentment.

Daemon wrapped his arms around Daenys from behind, placing a passionate kiss on her neck. Daenys bit back a moan, her body tingling with anticipation.

“Aegon, the Conqueror, had two wives,” Daemon replied, his voice low and seductive.

“You’re no Aegon,” Daenys said, turning to face him with a smirk. She pulled him into a passionate kiss, her hands tangled in his hair. Daemon’s tongue fought for dominance, and he deepened the kiss, his hands exploring her body.

Suddenly, a low growl interrupted them. Daenys laughed, realizing Nyx was jealous. “Someone’s feeling left out,” she teased, turning to pat her dragon.

Nyx huffed but seemed to relent "Calm down, girl," she said, patting the dragon's snout.

As they stood there, the wind carrying the scent of the sea, Daemon turned to Daenys. "I'm glad you're home."

"Me too," she replied, her heart filled with a warmth she hadn't felt in a long time.

"Alright, I've got to meet Aemma and Rhaenyra," Daenys said, pulling away from Daemon.

But Daemon wasn't done. He pulled her back for another deep kiss, his lips moving against hers with a possessive urgency. Daenys melted into the kiss, her body responding to his touch.

Catching her breath, she finally managed to pull away. "I'll see you at the tourney," she said, her voice a little breathless.

Daemon grinned. "Don't be late."

As Daenys turned to leave, she couldn't help but glance back at Daemon. A soft smile played on her lips as she walked away.

🥀

Daenys ascended the grand staircase to the balcony, her heart pounding with anticipation. The crowd below roared as King Viserys I addressed them, his voice carrying over the din.

"Be welcome! I know many of you have traveled long leagues to be at these games. But I promise, you will not be disappointed" the king announced.  

Daenys found her seat beside Rhaenyra, her niece, and gave her a warm smile. Viserys stood amidst the nobles, his voice booming.

"When I look at the fine knights in these lists, I see a group without equal in our histories. And this great day has been made more auspicious by the news that I am happy to share: Queen Aemma has begun her labors!"

"I'm yet to see your mother," Daenys said to Rhaenyra. "How are you, my sweet niece?"

"Pleasant, now that you're here," Rhaenyra replied, her eyes sparkling with admiration for her aunt. Daenys was everything Rhaenyra aspired to be or to be with.

Two knights, their armor gleaming in the sunlight, charged towards each other in the center of the stadium. On the second run, one was dismounted, sending the crowd into a frenzy. The winner approached the balcony, bowing.

"Who's that?" Daenys asked curiously.

"A mystery knight?" Rhaenyra replied.

"No, a Cole, of the Stormlands," Alicent Hightower, Rhaenyra's best friend, said.

Boremund Baratheon rode up to the balcony. "Princess Rhaenys Targaryen! I would humbly ask for the favor of 'The Queen Who Never Was.'"

The nobles exchanged glances. Rhaenys approached, dropping a wreath on Boremund's lance. "Good fortune to you, cousin," she replied.

As the tournament continued, Rhaenyra turned to her aunt and best friend. "Lord Stokeworth's daughter is promised to that young Tarly squire."

"Lord Massey's son?" Daenys asked.

"Mm-hm. They're to be married as soon as he wins his knighthood," Rhaenyra replied.

"Best get on with it. I heard that Lady Elinor is hiding a swollen belly beneath her dress," Alicent said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

Boremund and Criston Cole, the mystery knight, clashed. Boremund was unseated, the crowd roaring with excitement. Harrold approached Rhaenyra's seat.

"What do you know about this Ser Criston Cole, Ser Harrold?" Rhaenyra asked.

"I'm told Ser Criston is the common-born son of Lord Dondarrion's steward. But other than that, and the fact that he's just unhorsed both of the Baratheon lads, I really couldn't say," Harrold replied.  

Daenys teased her niece. "You seem curious about the Coleman."

The crowd erupted in cheers as a Targaryen flag was raised, signaling the entrance of a group of knights into the arena.

"Prince Daemon of House Targaryen, Prince of the City, will now choose his first opponent!" the Master of Reveals announced.

Daemon rode out, his eyes scanning the assembled jousters. He finally settled on a knight wearing the Hightower sigil. Daenys couldn't help but smirk as she realized it was Otto Hightower's son.

"For his first challenge, Prince Daemon Targaryen chooses Ser Gwayne Hightower of Oldtown, eldest son of the Hand of the King," the Master of Reveals announced.  

Rhaenyra squeezed her best friend's hand, Alicent's face pale with worry for her brother.

Daemon glanced at the crowd one last time, making eye contact with Otto before charging forward. The two knights collided, their lances splintering upon impact. Daemon was hit and lost his lance, but he managed to stay in the saddle. Otto looked pleased.

Both riders were given new lances and charged again. At the last moment, Daemon swung his lance in front of Gwayne's horse's hooves, sending both tumbling over. Gwayne was injured but managed to get up, eliciting mixed reactions from the crowd and nobles.

Daemon rode up to the balcony, where Rhaenyra, Daenys, and Alicent stood.

"Nicely done, Uncle," Rhaenyra said.

"Thank you, Princess," Daemon replied, his eyes lingering on Daenys. "Now, I'm fairly certain I can win these games, Lady Alicent. Having your favor would all but assure it."

Alicent hesitated, sharing a glance with Otto before dropping a wreath on Daemon's lance. "Good luck, my Prince," she said.

With one last glance at Daenys, Daemon returned to the tournament.

Daenys frowned as she saw a maester whisper something in Otto's ear, who then relayed it to Viserys. Viserys looked nervous and stood up to leave.

"What's happening?" Daenys asked Rhaenyra.

"I don't know," Rhaenyra replied, her voice filled with concern. "Something must be wrong."

The tournament raged on, the crowd roaring as another knight was unseated. The fallen knight, however, refused to yield. He pulled his opponent off his horse and began to attack, his actions met with a mixture of cheers and gasps.

The attacking knight raised his axe, the crowd holding their breath. With a powerful swing, he brought the axe down, ending the fight with a sickening thud. The onlookers gasped, the weight of the moment heavy in the air.

A dead knight was dragged away, the tournament briefly pausing.

"Ser Criston Cole will now tilt against Ser Daemon Targaryen, Prince of the City!" the Master of Reveals announced.

Daemon and Criston prepared to joust.

Neither was dismounted on their first pass, Daenys watching nervously. They took new lances, the crowd's anticipation building.

As they collided again, the world seemed to tilt for a moment. Daemon landed on the barrier in the center of the arena, barely managing to stay on his horse before tumbling off. He pushed away a man who tried to help him up as Criston dismounted.

"Fuck," Daenys muttered, her heart sinking.

"Sword!" Daemon demanded, a squire bringing him his weapon.

"Prince Daemon Targaryen wishes to continue in a contest of arms!" the Master of Revels announced.

Criston approached Daemon, his morningstar gleaming. With a powerful blow, Criston hit Daemon from behind, pinning one of his arms to the ground.

"Yield. Yield!," Criston said, offering his hand to help Daemon up.

Daemon hesitated for a moment before yielding, swatting Criston's hand away as he stood. As he surveyed the crowd, his eyes met Daenys', who, along with Rhaenyra and Alicent, had run to the edge of the balcony.

Criston approached them. "I was hoping to ask for the Princess Daenys' favor."

Daenys smirked, tossing a wreath down to him. "I wish you luck, Ser Criston," she said.

"Princess," Criston replied, clearly blushing. Rhaenyra coughed, noticing the interaction, and all three girls burst out laughing.

But the laughter was cut short as Otto approached the balcony, his face grave. "The Queen is dead," he whispered to Daenys.

Daenys stumbled back, her knees buckling. Otto caught her, his voice filled with concern. "Princess," he said.

Daemon noticed the exchange, a worried line appearing on his forehead.

The Queen was dead.

A/N- Filler Chapter, next one will have some🌶

Aemma deserved better😔

[novaursa]

The Dragon's Right (2)

- Summary: It was by grace of the gods that firstborn child of Viserys I and Aemma was born a boy and he lived. And all of the rest, scholars will later say, is by power of something more malevolent in kind.

- Paring: male!reader/Rhaenyra Targaryen

- Note: For more of my works, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Word count: 6 000+

- Previous part: 1

- Next part: 3

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

The noise of the crowd was a constant, thunderous hum that filled the air as you prepared yourself for the joust. The tourney grounds were alive with color and movement, the banners of noble houses snapping in the wind, the smell of churned earth mixing with the scents of roasted meats and sweet wines. It was a spectacle that King’s Landing had not seen in years, and today, it was all in your honor.

Your squire, a young Tyrell boy with a mop of curly brown hair and a nervous energy about him, was busy readying your horse. The beast was a magnificent stallion, bred from the finest stock in the Reach. His coat was a deep chestnut, almost black, with a mane that shimmered like polished mahogany. Muscles rippled beneath his glossy coat as he pawed at the ground, eager for the upcoming challenge. His eyes, intelligent and bright, reflected the excitement of the day, mirroring your own anticipation.

"Steady, Stormwind," you murmured, running a hand down the stallion’s neck. The horse snorted, tossing its head as if in agreement, and you couldn’t help but smile. Stormwind was not only powerful but also fiercely loyal—a trait you valued deeply in your mount. 

The young Tyrell squire handed you your helmet, his hands trembling slightly as he did so. "Good luck, my prince," he stammered, eyes wide with awe as he looked up at you.

You gave him an encouraging nod, slipping the helmet under your arm for the moment. "Thank you, Ser Trystan," you said, using the title you knew the boy aspired to one day earn. "You’ve done well. Stormwind looks ready for anything."

The boy beamed at the praise, the nervousness in his eyes giving way to a spark of pride. "I’m glad to be of service, my prince."

Before you could respond, a familiar voice called out from behind you. "Nephew!"

You turned to see your uncle, Daemon Targaryen, striding towards you. He was already clad in his own armor, the dark, polished metal reflecting the sun, the Targaryen dragon emblazoned boldly on his chest. His presence, as always, commanded attention—his confident gait, the slight smirk playing on his lips, the gleam in his eyes that spoke of both mischief and a thirst for glory.

"Uncle Daemon," you greeted him with a respectful nod, a smile tugging at your lips. "It’s good to see you."

Daemon clapped you on the shoulder, his grip firm. "Happy nameday, Y/N. The years have treated you well, it seems. I hear you’ve become quite the capable dragonrider in your time away. Even the Dornish trembled at the sight of Silverwing."

You chuckled, shaking your head modestly. "Silverwing did most of the work. I just held on."

Daemon laughed, a rich, genuine sound. "Don’t be so humble, nephew. I’ve heard the stories. You’ve made quite a name for yourself. Today, the court will see for themselves what you’re made of." He paused, his gaze sweeping over you, assessing. "I expect you’ll give them a show they won’t soon forget."

You met his gaze, the challenge in his eyes clear. "I’ll do my best, Uncle. But I’m sure you’ll make your own impression out there."

Daemon’s smirk widened. "That, I can promise. But remember, it’s your nameday. I’m content to let you have the glory today." He gave you a final pat on the shoulder before turning to leave. "Good luck, Y/N. I’ll see you on the field."

With that, Daemon strode off towards his own preparations, leaving you to focus on the task ahead. You turned back to Stormwind, feeling the familiar rush of adrenaline as you mounted the stallion. The weight of your armor settled comfortably on your shoulders, the reins firm in your grasp as you guided the horse towards the starting line.

The cheers of the crowd grew louder as you approached, the anticipation in the air palpable. You could see the royal box from where you sat, your father standing at the forefront, his face lit with pride. Beside him, Rhaenyra and Alicent were already in their seats, their gazes fixed on you. Rhaenyra’s smile was bright, filled with a mixture of pride and affection, while Alicent’s expression held a softer, almost admiring quality. 

You raised your lance in salute, first to your father, then to the rest of the crowd. King Viserys waved back enthusiastically, his voice booming over the cheers. "Ride well, my son! Show them the strength of House Targaryen!"

Your heart swelled with determination at his words. This was your moment, a chance to show the realm that the Targaryens were as strong as ever, and that their future king was more than ready to lead.

As you took your position at the end of the lists, your opponent appeared on the other side—a knight clad in the colors of House Bracken. The red horse gleamed on his shield, his visor down, obscuring his face. He was a formidable opponent, well-known for his strength and skill, but today, you were confident in your abilities. 

The horn sounded, sharp and clear, signaling the start of the tilt. You spurred Stormwind forward, the stallion leaping into action with powerful strides that ate up the ground beneath you. The world seemed to narrow, focusing only on the target ahead—the oncoming knight, his lance lowered, his intent clear.

You felt the familiar rush of the joust, the thunder of hooves, the wind whipping past your ears. Time seemed to slow as you lined up your lance, your aim precise, your focus unwavering. The distance closed rapidly, and just as the two of you met in the center of the field, you leaned into the strike.

Your lance struck true, slamming into your opponent’s shield with a resounding crack. The impact jolted through your arm, but you held firm, watching as the Barcken knight wavered. For a moment, it seemed he might recover, but the force of your blow was too strong. He was thrown from his horse, landing heavily in the dirt, his lance shattering into splinters beside him.

The crowd erupted into cheers, the roar of approval washing over you as you circled back to the starting line, victorious in your first tilt. Stormwind pranced beneath you, his energy undimmed, as if reveling in the glory alongside you.

In the royal box, King Viserys cheered loudly, his face beaming with pride. "That’s my boy!" he shouted, his voice carrying above the din. "Well done, Y/N! Well done!"

Beside him, Rhaenyra’s smile was radiant, her hands clapping enthusiastically as she shared in your triumph. Alicent, too, was applauding, her cheeks flushed with excitement, her eyes shining as she watched you.

Further down the box, Lord Otto Hightower nodded approvingly, his expression calm but his eyes reflecting satisfaction. He leaned slightly towards Viserys, speaking just loud enough to be heard. "The prince has truly grown into his own, Your Grace. He will make a fine king one day."

Viserys nodded, his smile not fading for a moment. "Indeed, Otto. He’s everything I hoped he would be and more."

In another section of the stands, Rhaenys Targaryen and Corlys Velaryon exchanged a glance, their expressions more reserved. Rhaenys, known as the Queen Who Never Was, watched you with a mixture of pride and something more complex—a recognition of the weight of the crown that would one day rest on your head.

"He’s impressive," Corlys commented, his voice low, but with an edge of admiration. "The boy has the makings of a true Targaryen king."

Rhaenys nodded, though her eyes remained thoughtful. "Yes, he does. But I wonder if he truly understands what it means to carry the weight of that legacy."

Corlys glanced at her, his brow furrowing slightly. "He’ll have to, in time. But for now, let’s hope he enjoys his moment. The realm is watching."

As you completed your victory lap, acknowledging the cheers of the crowd, you felt a surge of exhilaration and pride. The first tilt was yours, a testament to the skill and strength you had honed over the years. But more than that, it was a reminder to everyone watching that House Targaryen was still the mightiest in the realm.

You returned to the starting line, your gaze lifting once more to the royal box, where your father stood, his eyes full of love and pride. The next round awaited, but in that moment, you felt invincible. Today was your day, and nothing could diminish the glory of the Targaryen name.

As the next knight prepared to face you, you readied yourself for the challenge, determination burning bright within you. This was only the beginning, and you intended to make it a day to remember—for yourself, for your family, and for the realm.

The tourney grounds were abuzz with excitement as the next round of jousts was set to begin. The energy in the air crackled with anticipation, and the stands were filled with spectators eagerly watching every move of the knights and their steeds.

The knight who had just won, a Baratheon, called out to the stands, his voice strong and carrying easily over the crowd. "Lady Rhaenys Targaryen, Queen Who Never Was, I ask for your favor!"

A murmur spread through the audience as all eyes turned to the royal box where Rhaenys sat beside her husband, Corlys Velaryon. The Baratheon knight’s choice was a deliberate one—by choosing Rhaenys, he paid homage to her strength and legacy, but the title he used carried a certain sting, a reminder of the Iron Throne she had been denied.

Rhaenys, ever composed, allowed a small, knowing smile to grace her lips as she rose, acknowledging the knight with a nod. She lifted her hand and let a favor, a ribbon of deep blue, flutter down to him. The crowd erupted into applause, though there were those who caught the subtle tension in the exchange.

Beside her, Corlys shifted in his seat, a frown darkening his features. He leaned closer to his wife, his voice low but edged with irritation. "You shouldn’t allow him to call you that, Rhaenys. It’s a slight, a reminder of what was unjustly taken from you."

Rhaenys glanced at her husband, her expression calm, almost dismissive. "It’s just a title, Corlys," she replied, her tone measured. "Let them call me what they will. It doesn’t change who I am or what we’ve built together."

Corlys huffed quietly, clearly displeased but respecting his wife’s decision. "Still, I don’t like it. You deserve more than to be reminded of old wounds."

Rhaenys placed a hand over his, her gaze softening. "You’re a good husband, Corlys, but you mustn’t let such things bother you. We know our worth, and that’s what truly matters."

Before Corlys could respond, the attention of the crowd shifted as Daemon Targaryen prepared for his next tilt. He had chosen his opponent carefully, with a calculated intent that Rhaenyra recognized immediately. As she watched her uncle raise his lance and point it at Ser Gwayne Hightower, her brow furrowed in disapproval. This was not a random choice; it was a deliberate act of provocation aimed directly at the Hand of the King, Otto Hightower.

Rhaenyra leaned closer to Alicent, who sat beside her, nervously picking at the skin around her fingers, her anxiety apparent. "He’s doing this to spite your father," Rhaenyra murmured, her tone edged with concern. "He knows exactly what he’s doing."

Alicent’s lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes flickering with worry as she watched her brother, Ser Gwayne, prepare for the tilt. "I know," she whispered back, her voice barely audible. "I wish he wouldn’t."

The signal was given, and Daemon and Gwayne charged at each other, their horses thundering down the lists. The crowd leaned forward in their seats, the tension palpable. In a flash, Daemon’s lance struck Gwayne with such force that it shattered upon impact, the blow violently dismounting Gwayne and sending him crashing to the ground in a cloud of dust.

A collective gasp rippled through the audience, followed by a murmur of mixed reactions. Some cheered for Daemon’s prowess, while others whispered in concern for the fallen knight. Otto Hightower’s face drained of color, horror etched in his features as he watched his son struggle to rise, dazed and bruised.

Daemon, ever the showman, circled his horse back around with a triumphant air. But instead of immediately acknowledging his victory or his opponent, he rode directly toward the royal box where Alicent sat. The tension in the air thickened as Daemon approached, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

"Lady Alicent," Daemon called out, his voice loud enough for all to hear, "would you grant me your favor?"

Alicent froze, her breath catching in her throat. This was not what she had expected. She had hoped, in the quiet recesses of her heart, that if anyone were to ask for her favor today, it would be you. But now, with all eyes on her, she felt trapped.

Rhaenyra watched the scene unfold with a frown, understanding Daemon’s intent all too well. He was not only rubbing salt in the wound by asking for Alicent’s favor but was also making a pointed statement to Otto and the entire court.

Alicent hesitated, her fingers trembling slightly as she reached for the favor she had prepared. With a deep breath, she dropped the ribbon—a delicate piece of green silk—down to Daemon, who caught it with a flourish. The crowd erupted into applause, though the undercurrent of tension was undeniable.

Rhaenyra leaned toward her uncle as he passed by their box on his way back to the field. "Congratulations, Uncle," she said, her voice carrying both genuine admiration and a hint of reproach.

Daemon smirked, inclining his head slightly. "Thank you, dear niece. Let’s see if your brother can match me," he teased, his eyes gleaming with that familiar, dangerous light.

Rhaenyra forced a smile, but her eyes followed Daemon warily as he returned to the field. She knew her uncle well enough to recognize that his actions today were more than just about winning a tourney—they were about making a statement, and that statement had clearly unsettled more than a few members of the court.

As Daemon moved off, the focus of the tourney returned to you. The crowd, still buzzing from the previous tilt, quieted with anticipation as you prepared for your next round. You could feel the weight of their expectations, but you were undaunted. The lance in your hand felt like an extension of your own body, and Stormwind beneath you was eager for the challenge ahead.

The signal was given, and with a powerful kick, you spurred Stormwind forward. The earth trembled beneath his hooves as he charged down the lists, your focus narrowing on your opponent. You felt the wind whip past your face, the cheers of the crowd fading into the background as the world narrowed to this single, decisive moment.

As you and your opponent closed the distance, your lance lowered and your aim true. The impact, when it came, was a bone-jarring collision of wood and steel, but you held firm. Your lance struck your opponent’s shield squarely, and with a mighty effort, you felt the resistance give way.

Your opponent was sent flying from his horse, landing hard on the ground with a thud. The crowd erupted into wild cheers, the sound of your victory echoing through the tourney grounds. Your father, King Viserys, stood from his seat, clapping enthusiastically, his face a mixture of pride and joy.

Rhaenyra and Alicent joined the applause, though each had different emotions swirling within them. Rhaenyra was filled with pride, but also a renewed sense of possessiveness. Alicent, on the other hand, clapped politely, though her earlier anxiety had not entirely dissipated.

In the stands, Rhaenys watched you with a measured gaze, while Corlys, clearly impressed, leaned toward his wife. "The boy is exceptional," he murmured. "There’s no doubt about it. He’s everything a Targaryen prince should be."

Rhaenys nodded, though her expression remained contemplative. "Yes, but let’s hope he navigates the politics as deftly as he does the tourney field. Strength is one thing—wisdom is another."

As you circled back to the starting line, the crowd continued to cheer, and you raised your lance in acknowledgment. The day was far from over, and more challenges awaited, but for now, the Targaryen name had been upheld with honor and glory.

You prepared for the next tilt, your heart steady, your focus unwavering. The cheers of the crowd, the pride in your father’s eyes, and the knowledge that Rhaenyra and Alicent were watching—all of it spurred you on. This was your day, and you intended to make it one that would be remembered for years to come.

The opponent before you now was one of the Florent brothers, a knight known for his skill and speed on the field. His armor, decorated with the sun and fox emblem of House Florent, gleamed in the sunlight, and his stance on his horse was confident, almost cocky.

But you were not to be underestimated. The adrenaline of the previous tilts still coursed through your veins, and the roar of the crowd only fueled your determination. You glanced briefly towards the royal box, catching the eager gazes of Rhaenyra and Alicent, their eyes fixed on you. The sight of them watching spurred you on, a reminder of why you fought today—not just for glory, but for the pride of your house and the love of your family.

The horn sounded, sharp and clear, and with a powerful kick, you urged Stormwind into action. The stallion surged forward, his powerful hooves pounding the earth as you charged down the lists. Your lance was steady in your grip, your eyes locked on the Florent knight, who mirrored your movements on the opposite side.

The gap between you closed rapidly, the wind rushing past your ears as time seemed to slow. You could see the dare in your opponent’s eyes, but you did not waver. With a precise flick of your wrist, you adjusted your aim, your lance striking the Florent knight’s shield with a thunderous crack.

The impact was immediate and decisive. The force of your blow shattered your opponent’s defenses, and before he could recover, he was sent flying from his horse, crashing heavily to the ground. The crowd erupted into cheers, the victory swift and clear.

You circled back to the starting line, but instead of preparing for another tilt, you guided Stormwind towards the royal box. The cheers of the crowd grew louder as they realized where you were heading, the anticipation palpable in the air. Ladies in the stands leaned forward, their breaths held, hoping that you might stop before them, hoping that today they might catch the eye of the prince.

As you approached, the excitement among the ladies was almost tangible. You could see the hope in their eyes, the way they straightened their backs and smoothed their dresses as you passed. But your gaze was fixed ahead, your mind made up.

Instead of stopping before any of the noble ladies vying for your attention, you brought Stormwind to a halt directly below the royal box, where your sister Rhaenyra sat. The crowd’s murmurs grew louder, surprised and intrigued by your choice, while Rhaenyra’s heart skipped a beat as she realized what you intended.

You looked up at her, a soft smile playing on your lips as you raised your lance in salute. "Princess Rhaenyra," you called out, your voice clear and strong, "would you do me the honor of granting your favor?"

Rhaenyra’s eyes sparkled with delight, a brilliant smile lighting up her face. This was more than just a simple gesture—it was a public declaration of the bond you shared, a victory that she relished deeply. The attention of all the other ladies in the court paled in comparison to this moment, a reminder that she still held a special place in your heart.

With a graceful movement, Rhaenyra untied a ribbon from her sleeve, a delicate piece of Targaryen red silk, and leaned over the edge of the box to drop it into your waiting hand. "With all my heart, dear brother," she said, her voice filled with affection and pride.

You caught the ribbon with ease, tying it carefully around the tip of your lance before raising it high for all to see. The crowd erupted into applause, the gesture admired by all. It was not just a victory in the joust, but a victory in the hearts of the people—a symbol of the unity and strength of House Targaryen.

Rhaenyra’s eyes followed you as you rode back to the field, her heart swelling with pride and a sense of triumph. This was her victory, too—a small but meaningful reminder that, despite the attention you garnered from others, the bond between brother and sister was unbreakable.

Beside her, Alicent watched the exchange with a soft smile, though a flicker of something unreadable passed through her eyes. It was clear that your relationship was something special, and Alicent was content to see her friend so happy.

As you returned to the field, ready to face your next opponent, the favor of Rhaenyra tied proudly to your lance, you felt a renewed sense of purpose. Today was a day to be remembered—not just for the victories won on the field, but for the connections reaffirmed in the heart of your family.

The cheers of the crowd filled your ears as you took your position, the anticipation of the next tilt mounting. With the ribbon of your sister’s favor fluttering in the wind, you felt invincible, ready to face whatever challenge came at you.

The next knight approached, the crowd’s excitement building once more. As you prepared to charge, the weight of the day’s events settled comfortably on your shoulders. This was your day, your moment, and you intended to seize it with all the fire and fury of your house.

With a final glance at the royal box, where Rhaenyra’s smile still shone brightly, you lowered your lance and spurred Stormwind forward.

The sun hung high in the sky, casting its light over the tourney grounds as the final tilt of the day approached. The crowd was loud with excitement, their voices blending into a chorus of eager anticipation. This was the moment they had all been waiting for—the final showdown between the two most formidable competitors: Prince Daemon Targaryen and Prince Y/N Targaryen.

You sat atop Stormwind, the powerful stallion beneath you steady and poised, sensing the importance of the moment. Your heart pounded with a mix of adrenaline and resolve. The previous tilts had been challenging, but this was different. This was Daemon, your uncle, a man known for his skill, cunning, and unpredictability. The tension in the air was palpable as you both prepared for what would undoubtedly be a clash to remember.

Across the field, Daemon adjusted his helmet, his expression hidden but his demeanor unmistakably confident. His dark armor gleamed in the sunlight, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen emblazoned boldly on his chest. He was already mounted on his dragon-black stallion, Caraxes, named after his own fearsome dragon. The horse, like its rider, was a creature of raw power and grace, snorting and pawing at the ground in anticipation.

The horn sounded, signaling the start of the final tilt, and the crowd fell into a hushed silence, their eyes glued to the two dragon princes facing off in the lists.

You took a deep breath, your focus narrowing to the task at hand. With a firm grip on your lance, you spurred Stormwind into a gallop. The stallion surged forward with powerful strides, his hooves pounding the earth in a rhythmic thunder. Across the field, Daemon did the same, his own mount racing towards you, the two of you closing the distance with alarming speed.

Time seemed to slow as you lined up your lance, aiming for the center of Daemon’s shield. The world around you faded, leaving only the blur of your uncle’s form charging towards you, the glint of his armor catching the sun, and the rush of wind in your ears. You tightened your grip, bracing for impact.

The collision, when it came, was fierce. Your lance struck Daemon’s shield with a resounding crack, but he met your blow with equal force. The impact jarred through your arm, but you held firm, refusing to yield. For a moment, it seemed like the strike had been a draw, both of you remaining in your saddles, but then Daemon leaned into his strike, his skill and experience showing as he directed the force of his lance just right.

Before you could fully adjust, you felt the world tilt beneath you. The force of Daemon’s strike, combined with the precise angle, knocked you off balance. Time seemed to stretch as you felt yourself falling, the ground rushing up to meet you. The impact was hard, the breath knocked from your lungs as you hit the dirt.

The crowd gasped collectively, the sound of your fall echoing in the stunned silence that followed. From the royal box, Viserys had already risen to his feet, his heart leaping into his throat as he saw you go down. "Gods, no!" he breathed, his voice tight with fear. But as you quickly pushed yourself up, shaking off the disorientation from the fall, he let out a long sigh of relief, his body sagging back into his seat.

Rhaenyra, who had been on the edge of her seat, her knuckles white from gripping the railing, exhaled the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Her eyes were wide with worry, but as she saw you stand, a rush of relief and pride filled her. She could see you were unharmed, but the sight of you on the ground had shaken her deeply.

You rose to your feet, brushing the dirt from your armor, your pride bruised but your spirit unbroken. You could feel the sting of defeat, but it was tempered by the knowledge that you had given everything in that tilt. Stormwind stood nearby, having stopped shortly after your fall, the loyal stallion snorting anxiously as if to say he was ready to try again.

Before you could fully gather your bearings, Daemon was there, dismounting with the fluid grace that came naturally to him. He approached you with a look that was half smirk, half respect. "Not bad, nephew," he said, his tone carrying both praise and a hint of playful mockery. "You almost had me there."

He extended a hand, offering to help you up. There was no malice in his gaze, just the familiar gleam of challenge that always seemed to light his eyes.

You took his hand, accepting the gesture, and he pulled you to your feet with a firm grip. "Almost," you replied, your voice steady, though there was a spark of competitiveness in your tone. "But you got me in the end."

Daemon patted you on the back, his smirk widening into a grin. "Today, perhaps. But don’t let it weigh too heavily on you. We’re both dragons, after all, and you fought well. The court will remember this day, not just for my victory, but for your strength and skill."

You nodded, appreciating the words, though the sting of defeat still lingered. "Thank you, Uncle. But next time, I won’t be so easy to dismount."

Daemon chuckled, clearly pleased by your response. "I wouldn’t expect anything less." He gave you a final nod of approval before turning to face the roaring crowd, raising his lance in acknowledgment of his victory. The people cheered loudly, celebrating the spectacle they had witnessed.

From the royal box, Viserys beamed with pride, his worry from moments before forgotten. "That was a fine match!" he declared, his voice booming over the noise of the crowd. "Both of you did House Targaryen proud today!"

Rhaenyra, still shaken by the sight of you on the ground, managed a smile, though her concern for you was evident in her eyes. She watched as you walked off the field with Daemon, your head held high despite the outcome. Alicent, sitting beside her, glanced at Rhaenyra and saw the worry that lingered beneath her composed exterior.

"Are you all right?" Alicent asked softly, her voice filled with genuine concern.

Rhaenyra nodded, though her eyes didn’t leave you. "I’m fine. It’s just… seeing him fall like that…"

Alicent placed a reassuring hand on Rhaenyra’s arm. "He’s strong, Rhaenyra. He’s always been strong. And you saw how he got back up. That’s what matters."

Rhaenyra finally tore her gaze away from the field to look at Alicent, offering her a grateful smile. "You’re right. He’s strong." But even as she said it, the image of you lying in the dirt lingered in her mind, a reminder of how much she cared for you, and how much she feared losing you.

As you and Daemon made your way off the field, the crowd continued to cheer, the happenings of the day’s events leaving everyone in high spirits. You may not have won the final tilt, but the respect you had earned was clear in the cheers and the admiring glances from the crowd.

Daemon, ever the warrior, clapped you on the back once more as you both approached the edge of the field. "Come, let’s find a drink and enjoy the rest of the day. You’ve earned it, and so have I."

You nodded, the tension of the tilt finally starting to ease as the prospect of celebrating with your uncle and the rest of your family took hold. "Lead the way, Uncle."

As the two of you walked off the field, the weight of the day’s events still fresh in your mind, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride. Though the final victory had eluded you, you had proven yourself today, not just to the court, but to your family. And in the end, that was worth more than any trophy or title.

Jugglers, dancers, and bards filled the air with music and laughter, while the smell of roasted meats and sweet treats wafted through the air. The day had been filled with adrenaline, and now, as evening approached, the court gathered for the grand feast that would conclude the festivities.

Inside the Great Hall of the Red Keep, long tables were laden with platters of food, and goblets of wine flowed freely. The room was alive with chatter and the clinking of silverware, the high vaulted ceilings amplifying the sounds of celebration. The lords and ladies of the realm, dressed in their finest, mingled and conversed, their faces flushed with the warmth of the firelight and the effects of the wine.

You found yourself seated at a table near the head of the hall, surrounded by some of the most powerful figures in the realm. To your right was Lord Tayland Lannister, his golden hair and fine clothes a clear testament to the wealth and influence of his house. Across from you sat Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, his eyes sharp and calculating as he sipped from his goblet, his mind clearly at work even amidst the festivities.

"Your accomplishments in Dorne have become the talk of the realm, my prince," Tayland said, his tone filled with admiration. "It's no small feat to have secured our borders against the Dornish. Your leadership has brought peace to lands that have known only strife for too long."

You inclined your head in thanks, though you remained humble in your response. "The credit belongs to the men who fought beside me, and to Silverwing. She was the true force that kept the Dornish at bay."

Lord Corlys leaned forward slightly, his gaze intent. "Don't sell yourself short, my prince. It takes more than just a dragon to win a war; it takes a leader who can command respect and inspire loyalty. You've shown that you have the makings of a true king."

You nodded, acknowledging his words. "I appreciate the compliment, Lord Corlys. But the work is never done. The realm is vast, and there are always new challenges to face."

A flicker of something passed through Corlys's eyes—perhaps ambition or a calculated desire. He chose his next words carefully. "Speaking of challenges, the situation in the Stepstones remains unresolved. The Triarchy grows bolder with each passing day, and their presence in those waters threatens the safety of our trade routes. The realm cannot afford to ignore this any longer."

Tayland Lannister nodded in agreement, his expression thoughtful. "The Sea Snake is right. The Stepstones are a vital passage for trade, and the Triarchy's control over them is a serious threat. The crown would do well to consider taking decisive action."

Corlys seized the moment, his tone subtle but insistent. "A leader of your experience and skill, my prince, could make all the difference in securing those waters for the realm. With your influence, perhaps the crown might be persuaded to take a more active role in the conflict."

It was clear what Corlys was suggesting—he wanted you to influence your father, King Viserys, to commit to a campaign in the Stepstones. The thought lingered in your mind, but you were well aware of the delicate nature of such matters. Viserys had been reluctant to engage in another conflict, especially after the long campaign in Dorne. He was a man who valued peace, and while he respected the needs of the realm, he was not easily swayed into war.

Before you could respond, the conversation was interrupted by a different sort of commotion. A group of lords, eager to ingratiate themselves with the crown, approached your father, each of them accompanied by their daughters, who were of marriageable age. They vied for Viserys's attention, each one eager to present their daughter as a potential bride for you.

"My daughter, Lady Elinor, is as wise as she is beautiful, Your Grace," one lord said, his voice oozing with pride. "She would make a fine match for the prince."

"Lady Alisanne is skilled in all the noble arts, Your Grace. She is well-versed in history, languages, and music," another lord chimed in, his daughter standing demurely beside him.

Viserys smiled politely, listening to their propositions, but it was clear that his mind was elsewhere. He had waited years for this moment, to have his son by his side once more, and he was determined to enjoy the evening without being burdened by matters of marriage and alliances. He responded with a noncommittal nod, offering a few kind words but making no promises.

As the lords continued their attempts to press the matter, Otto Hightower, ever the strategist, nudged his daughter Alicent, who was seated beside him. He leaned in close, his voice low but firm. "Alicent, you should seize this moment. The prince is listening to all these offers, and if you wish to catch his attention, now is the time."

Alicent hesitated, her gaze flickering to where you were seated, engaged in conversation with Tayland and Corlys. She knew what her father was suggesting—she had seen the way the other ladies had looked at you during the tourney, the way they whispered among themselves, hoping to catch your eye. But before she could muster the courage to act, someone else stepped forward.

Rhaenyra, who had been watching the proceedings from a distance, sensed the moment and made her move. She approached you with a confident stride, her presence commanding immediate attention. The lords and ladies around you parted, making way for the princess as she reached your side.

"Brother," Rhaenyra said, her voice warm and filled with affection, "I've been looking for you. Surely you don't intend to spend the entire evening in conversation with the lords?"

You turned to her, a smile spreading across your face at the sight of your sister. "Of course not, Rhaenyra. I wouldn't miss the chance to spend time with you on a day like this."

Rhaenyra's eyes sparkled with mischief as she glanced at the lords who had been vying for your attention. "I thought you might be in need of rescue," she teased, her voice carrying just enough playful humor to defuse the tension.

The lords who had been pressing their daughters as potential brides exchanged glances, recognizing that the moment had passed. With polite bows and murmured excuses, they withdrew, leaving you and Rhaenyra standing together. Viserys watched the exchange with a smile, pleased to see his children together, the connection between them as strong as ever.

Alicent, who had been about to rise from her seat, hesitated and then sat back down, her expression unreadable. Otto frowned slightly, but said nothing, his mind already working on another approach.

[pupyuj]

wony’s such a cutie i can’t 😭 like imagine her wanting to switch roles and be the one TO pleasure — and since its her first time, you’d have to teach her how to use her tongue and fingers 😭

short n sweet little thing but i hope this was still enjoyable! i know i had fun picturing this in my head, it was very cute~

so true anon! 🫶💕 she would see how much you’re taking care of every time you fuck and would definitely want to pay it all back by making you feel good! 🥺 sweet baby shyly making small commands in bed like “take your shirt off, please” with the cutest pleading look and that was when you realized what she wanted to do! and she has never done it before so why not? 😋 but as eager as she is to have her way with you for once, wony’s still your sweet baby so she’s very careful and gentle with you! 💕 pays super close attention to your reactions to her touches and all the things she does, knows immediately when you don’t like something even when you’ve only barely showed discomfort, and keeps alllll of your good spots in her head bcs all she wants is to make you feel good ☹️💞💞

and that’s all she really does! you’d be teaching wony about fingering you from behind while you’re bent over your bed, and she’d be all up in your ear asking for reassurance, praises, etc. 🥺 “is this good?”, “does this hurt?”, “am i doing well…?” UGH SHE’S ADORABLE 🥰🥰 wony growing super obsessed with the way your cunt is clenched around her long fingers, damn near abusing your weakest spot just to hear you scream her name so sweetly… oh, and baby would totally apologize if she thinks she’s going too hard but you’d tell her that it’s okay and that you like it and she’ll be soooo flushed but she’s glad you’re having such a good time bcs of her 😵‍💫

wonyoung definitely gets pussy drunk and literally begs you to sit on her face and have you teach her how to use her tongue that way 😭 sweet naughty baby gets so drenched at the sight of your cunt up close, practically pulling you down and eating you out like some hungry beast… ofc she doesn’t know how to do it properly so you’d tell her to slow down.. but wony’s having too much fun :(( and it somehow works?? she’s not necessarily doing anything wrong with her mouth, she’s just… intense and she’s making you feel so damn good that you don’t even care that you’re barely teaching her shit 🤭 all that left your mouth is her name, praises, and countless “good girl”s that turned wonyoung on so much that she came untouched.. 😳

[the-californicationist]

he lets you watch

When you overhear Captain Price watching porn in his office, you decide to turn his fantasies into a reality.

Link to AO3

MDNI/18+

TW: femdom, gagging, one slap

You were working late. Again. It was the most frustrating part of any operation: recon review. All the footage collected from all the soldiers’ body cams had to be reviewed and documented. Any dialogue? Syntactically tagged. Any shots fired? Counted. Any kills? Confirmed. You were glad to help the team, but this stage of discovery was dreadfully boring. 

Even worse, your new-found crush on your captain was driving you insane. To be honest, you’d had your eye on him for a while. There was something about a man in charge, but it was when this last set of footage came through that you really went off the deep end. 

Price had gone with Gaz into a warehouse that was suspected of housing enemy munitions, and the captain had uncovered crates and crates of target-marking spray paint. Huge canisters that attached to the bottoms of planes were all stuck in little rows, lined up and ready to use. 

Unfortunately for the captain, one of the canisters was propped open on the top of its box, and when he lifted the lid, he got covered in red dye. You watched it explode, covering the camera, and then when it reconnected, there he was. Shirtless. Down to his boxer briefs. Wiping red dye off of himself with his clothes. Gaz had brought a full kit, so Price was changing out, hoping to stay covert and camouflaged in the clean gear. Couldn’t well be a glowing red dot while trying to escape enemy territory. 

His chest was broad and full of dense, dark hair, laying flat like soft fur, untrimmed and natural. His beard was streaked red, and half his face was painted, making him look like an ancient Celt, ready for brutal highland battles and bedding willing lassies. He was frustrated by his accident, so all of his movements were sharp and aggressive, his muscles raging and wrestling against his skin. Then, he moved closer to the camera, and the bulge in his underwear became glaringly apparent. 

Hung. Thick. Not so long that it was out of place, but heavy. His cock was imposing, and when he readjusted himself, you could see how dense the muscle really was. You couldn’t help but pause the film, staring, in glorious 4k. You nearly had to wipe the drool from your mouth. 

Price looked so confident here. He was always self-assured, but sometimes, when you spoke with him, there was something that he was holding back. Some shyness perhaps, maybe just a reserved nature, but not here. Not in his livid rage, he was like a wounded beast - angry and virile. Full of righteous energy. It made you imagine making him come undone in other ways, in the ways a woman was meant to make a beast like that come apart at the seams. Ripping the constricting threads and freeing the hulking creature looming within. 

Now, he was sitting in his office, right next to yours, and he’d started watching footage of his own. Or, at least, you thought that he was watching the cams…until you heard a woman’s salacious moan penetrate the thin wall between you. 

Your eyes grew wide, and your breath caught in your chest. You sat in the silence of your office, hearing your heart pound in your ears. You waited to hear it again, just to be sure.

Then, a very quiet, 

“You wanna come?”

You let out the breath you’d been holding. It wooshed from you like a wave crashing against miles and miles of sand. 

Something snapped, some darkness possessed you. You found yourself standing, walking toward the door to his office. It was so late, everyone else had turned in. Just you and him in the west hall of the base awake. He never slept, it seemed. A night owl like you. 

You opened his door without knocking. You’d never done that before, and objectively, it was a truly insane choice. 

In your mind, his hand had lingered when he took his cup of coffee from your hands. In your imagination, he’d cocked a sly smile when you made a joke, just between you and him. You thought you’d seen him checking out your ass in the gym. But, you didn’t have any real proof. 

Popping open his door was the equivalent of pulling the trigger on a bazooka. 

He stood, caught like a fox in a snare, his chair clattering as you came into the room and shut the door behind you quickly. 

“Sergeant, uh,” he recovered, “What happened?”

“Captain.” 

It was a full sentence. And, it was all you had. You were finished. 

The video was still playing. The lurid slapping of skin on skin. Her over-acted moans, his ritual panting. Every few seconds, you counted three, there was another soft,

“You like that, daddy?”

You smiled. He turned red, just like he’d been painted again. 

“Sergeant, I was just…”

He paused the movie. Then, with his body, with the hand roughly rubbing down his face, with the palm tightly covering his mouth, he said a million other words. He was still pink with shame, and then he laughed,

“Yeah, no. I was ‘bout to have a wank. Not sure why I was trying to make you believe otherwise, love. Sorry. It’s too loud?”

You smiled wider. His genuine honesty was so smooth and effortless. A thief caught with his hands in the cookie jar, begging you to punish him for it. 

“No,” you shook your head, “Just wanted to see what you were watching.”

He didn’t register what you said at first, still staring down at his boots. Then, realization washed over him and he looked up at you, eyes shining, brows arched.

“Oh? That so?”

You nodded,

“Let me see what’s got you up so late.”

The captain rubbed a big, calloused hand across his mouth, smoothing his beard, a bit nervous. Then, he pulled a chair around and motioned for you to sit beside him. You sat. He sat. He hit play. 

A woman was straddling a man, both of them hairless and slick like brand new Barbie dolls, spray-tan orange and bleach-blond hair. Americans. She was riding his larger than average dick slowly, deliberately slow, edging him with her pussy. She had a hand around his throat, grasping his jaw tightly, pushing his head back. He was tied to the chair, straining against it, clearly desperate as he writhed beneath her, fighting his restraints. 

“Please, baby. Please, let me come?” He begged. 

“You wanna come, daddy?” She teased. 

“Yeah, can I come?” He begged. 

“Ah-ah! I don’t think so…” She teased. 

Begging. Teasing. Begging. Teasing. A vicious, uncontrollable cycle of cruelty on her part, always pulling the proverbial carrot farther and farther from his snapping jaws. 

You turned to Price who was watching, rapt. He noticed you staring at him. Before he turned to face you, he smiled, sighing,

“Sometimes, when you’re the one barking orders all day, it’d be nice to turn your head off and follow someone else’s for a change.”

“You could follow my orders,” some psychotic part of you spoke. 

He gripped the side of the chair, his once-relaxed hands now making the cheap aluminum frame creak and pop. 

“What’d you say, Sergeant?”

“You heard me, Captain,” you didn’t know if you should call an exorcist or what. Who was this version of yourself and how quickly was she going to get you court martialed?

“You think you can order me around?”

You leaned in, close enough to smell the tobacco on his breath, Cuban cigars leaving earthy notes of vanilla and licorice behind. You whispered,

“I know I can.”

He breathed out, his exhale caressing your lips, threatening to kiss you. 

You didn’t move. Not a muscle. You locked eyes with him, 

“Sit on your hands, Captain.”

“Sergeant,” he tried to kiss you, but you pulled away quickly. 

Part of your body screamed at you, wondering why you’d avoid his advances, but your mind knew what he wanted. He needed to lose control. For a man like Price to lose it, it must be taken from him. Forcibly. 

“I said sit... on... them,” you sneered, making yourself larger by standing over him, placing your hands on his thighs to press into his skin. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he laughed, patronizing and light-hearted. It made you want to break him of that habit. Of thinking you were just his sergeant. Just the girl who brought him coffee. Just his gym buddy. 

He still hadn’t complied, chuckling to himself. Out of no where, you straight up fucking slapped him. Hard. Right across the jaw. Grabbing him by the collar,

“Sit on your fucking hands, soldier. That’s an order,” you barked. 

He sat on his hands, staring at you like you had doused yourself in gasoline and caught yourself on fire, in awe.

You pushed his chair back until you had room to move in front of him, and you began peeling off your clothes, one by one. Your shirt, your cargos, your bra, your panties; they all ended up on the floor, leaving you naked and touching yourself lazily, letting your hands wander. 

He moved to lift his hands off his seat, wanting to touch, so you backed away from him. It was a warning: move and this ends. Follow my orders, and I’ll stay. He settled back down. 

“You know, I should punish you for slapping me, Sergeant. That’s insubordination,” he chided, trying to regain control of the situation. 

You took your panties off the ground and found the wet stain he’d caused, showing it to him coyly, like you’d picked up a pretty shell from the beach. It gleamed in the light of his desk lamp. Then, you walked over to him, swaying your hips, and bent down as if to kiss him. 

As he opened his mouth to kiss you back, you pushed your panties into it, past his teeth, clutching at his jaw with the other hand as roughly as you could, knowing you couldn’t hurt him. You shushed his surprised noises, putting a finger to his lip,

“Shh, Captain. That’s enough. You’re not in charge anymore, are you?”

He furrowed his brow as if he would fight back, as if he would remove his hands and teach you a lesson. Then, as he tasted you on his tongue, he realized that you were offering prizes for obedience. He would reap the rewards, if he was willing to play along. His face softened, and he shook his head no. 

“Good boy,” you whispered. 

You kissed his mouth, awkwardly, since it was full of your wet panties, there was little he could do except experience your kisses. He reacted as if he wanted to kiss you back, and as you moved to kiss his jawline, he moaned. 

Price’s moans were rumbling and deep, long and low like a bull elephant’s roar. You wanted to drag that noise out of him again. Your hand found his belt buckle, and you rugged at it, willing it to loosen. As you kissed his neck, you drug down his zipper and freed his cock from the fabric. 

The captain was not soft. If anything, he was harder than he should’ve been for a little teasing and some neck kisses. You decided to use that to his disadvantage,

“My, my, my. Someone’s eager…”

You tugged up and down with length in a long, languid massage, feeling how his foreskin slipped over the head and down the shaft, smooth and supple. He was hairy around the root of his cock, just as you’d hoped, and after seeing the video of him covered in paint, you wished you could strip him down and run your fingernails through his chest hair, delicately scratching his skin and peaked nipples. 

For now, you spit on his cockhead, using it as lube as you rubbed him. He threw his head back in ecstasy. You removed your hand. He snapped back to attention, staring at you a bit desperate for relief. 

You giggled, 

“Is this for me, or for her?”

Pointing over your shoulder, you motioned to the paused video. You took your hand away, feigning hurt feelings.

His body arched toward you, missing your touch, and he shook his head, trying to say something. 

“For her? How disappointing,” you pouted, playing with the head of his cock with one finger, drawing circles around the edge. 

Price was saying something muffled through the fabric of your panties, shaking his head, scooting his chair closer with a quick thrust of his hips, making his cock flag from the jolting movement. 

“You know,” you whispered, drawing him in with your quiet tone, “if this was for me, I’d really be looking forward to feeling it inside of me.”

“Mmm. Mm, mm!” He tried to correct you, his shoulders straining as he pulled them forward, struggling against his self-imposed restraint. 

“Oh?” You caressed his face, rubbing your hand through his soft beard, feeling the stubble on his chin, “It is for me after all?”

“Mm hm,” he nodded, leaning his cheek into your palm, eyes hooded with relief. 

You could tell he was enjoying the game. You were enjoying it, too. You could feel how wet you were, watching him gaze at your shining folds hungry. Impatient. 

“In that case…” you straddled him, planting your knees on either side of his hips, trapping his cock between you both. His body felt warm, and his breathing was labored. 

You rubbed your wetness up and down his shaft, spreading yourself along his length, making wet little sounds as you smeared him until he was slippery. 

Carefully, you moved his head into your eager pussy, your walls pounding for him like a heartbeat. Then, you held his throat with your hand, forcing him to look at you. 

“You don’t get to come until I tell you to. Do you understand, soldier?”

“Mm, hm,” he nodded, rolling in the ecstasy of your tight cunt. 

“Good, boy.”

[yawarakaizai]

wearing beast!dazai’s big black trench coat with only undies underneath ໒꒰ྀི ܸ. .ܸ ꒱ྀི১ !! swinging legs while sitting on his lap and messing with his paperwork until he gets mad and punishes u ૮꒰/ฅ//ฅ//꒱ა

m rlly glad u’r opening nsfw reqs luv (*ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ꕤ*.ﾟ hope have fun writing angel！

ⵌ NOT A SECOND THOUGHT, OH, ROMEO

SENDER Reader (Fem) RECIPITENT Beast!Dazai (BSD) CONTENTS 17+ CONTENT NSFW, dub-con, usage of 'daddy', fem pet names, dry humping, grinding, bratty impatient reader, implied sugar daddy dazai, dirty talk, degradation, implied unsafe bindings (stay safe during bondage guys!), no lube/dry penetration, maso/sadi, jealous dazai, slight edging, orgasm denial,mean dazai but slightly sweet dazai during aftercare NOTE It's not your fault. It's not your fault there's nothing better to do. It's not your fault daddy promised to be in bed with you soon. You needed him, and he was too busy with the work he promised to have finished earlier! You wouldn't let him get away with this. But - who really has the upper-hand here? COMPANY Lolita

A/N aahh back f rom scho ol trip ;///; first nsfw fic !! h ope its okay (☍﹏⁰) i have more reqs in i nbox !!! i hope you enjoy th is fic !!!!

This was a dangerous game to play.

How you were going to go about this was a gamble, one that could either go in your favour - or horribly otherwise.

Danger thrilled you. And perhaps maybe that is why you paraded right into Dazai's office wearing nothing but his black trench coat.

" Oh? "

His pen was placed on the desk gently. Gaze eyeing you up and down with an eyebrow quirked up in curiosity. " What are you up to, bella? "

You stood there at the entrance with cockiness written all over your face. He knew what you were up to, he knew all too well what you wanted and he decided to play cruel.

Displaying yourself to him in such a teasing manner was the dangerous game. Your bitchiness that will follow will be more reason for him to punish you. You wore your favourite black-lace panties that hung low on your hips, your pretty pussy nearly peeking from the fabric as it hung loose. Dazai's coat was much too big for you, which described why the sleeves covered your hands entirely and you left the jacket unzipped purposefully, the coat just barely covering your nipples, enough to tease - but not enough to satisfy.

" I'm bored. " You hummed, as innocent as an angel, making your way over to his desk.

You twirled his signature red scarf around your hands, pulling the coats sleeves up your forearms to reveal your fingers, adorned with the expensive finger he had bought you.

" I told you I was almost done, did I not? " Dazai stifled a small laugh, sucking in a nervous breath. He wore a white blouse and some black jeans while working in his second office. There had been an incident he needed to look over and the last thing he needed was a distraction.

Dazai really did love you, but it seemed that no amount of training was able to keep a brat like you in one place.

" You're taking too long! " You pouted, hands slamming on his desk as you bent over just slightly, the coat yielding and allowing him to peek at your perked nipples. " My butt hurts waiting for you in our room, so..! "

Standing back up straight, you swayed your hips around the table and - pap! Sat right on his lap, sliding in between his legs very soon after with your back pressed to his chest. " ..This is much more comfortable. "

You emphasise so by wiggling your hips left and right before his hands clamped down on the sides of your hips to stop your ass from digging further against his crotch.

" Princess. " His shaky breath earned a grin from you. " Now's really not the time, okay? I'm almost done, I promise. " He tried to pick up his pen but you kicked your legs, your body moving with the force of so, " But daddy! Please! " You cried out. " At least let me sit down until you're finished! "

Giving in, it was probably for the best knowing you'll bother him either way. " Then I expect you to not move. " Rubbing your hips as his iron grip relented, " Am I clear? "

Of course you weren't going to behave. You deserve to act out every now and then, especially when mean Dazai left you waiting for so long!

" Mhm! " Your head idly rocked with a childish tune playing in your head, leaning back slightly to allow Dazai some movement. He picked his pen back up and began to write while you tried to focus on the fast, cursive writing but just couldn't.

The many words had your brain jumbled and you kept on yawning before daddy even had a chance to tend to you after promising he would.

" Daddy, this is boring. " You complained only to be given a small 'tch, tch' as a response.

Even you talking was enough to distract him. It made you upset, and when you were upset, consequences weren't something you worried or even thought about.

You tried singing, he'd pinch your thigh. You tried humming, he'd pinch your thigh. You repositioned slightly to get more comfortable, he'd pinch your thigh.

It was torture to be kept here waiting especially after you spent so long not only anticipating him meeting you tonight but also convincing Chuuya why you needed Dazai's trench coat and scarf.

You reached over to pick a pen from the cupholder just almost out of your reach and leaned back after. Dazai must've thought you wanted to keep your hands busy since you began to twirl the pen in your fingers. But oh, no.

Because while he was busy on yet another useless paragraph, you scribbled a small little heart in the corner of the page. He didn't seem to like that.

" Princess. " He warned, but you only giggled in the face of his growing anger. " Whaaaat? I'm not doing anything bad! " You threw your head back and looked up, Dazai's head turned down to look at your stupid little smirk. He wasn't impressed, but you both knew deep down he was enjoying this. If that hard thing pressing in between your ass wasn't any indication.

" You can keep acting like a bitch as much as you want, but you know how this is going to end. " He left it at that, knowing you well enough to expect you to continue until he has you flipped over, choking back your words.

" Mm-mm, " You shook your head, scribbling more love-hearts into corner of the page, small little doodles, " I'm only being nice. Daddy's being unfair. " Your legs kicked back and forth as you drew away on the page as though it were your sketchpad.

With Dazai's patience running low, he put his pen away to gather his sheets to read over, his head peering over your shoulder at his notes. Organising information was hard. It was even harder when he had his princess humping back into his half-erect cock.

You could swear that he was reading slow on purpose just to piss you off. You needed his attention now. In a bold move, the next words spoken would end up changing a night that could've ended on a much nicer note.

" Would've just gone to Chuuya if I knew you were gonna be this mean. "

You didn't even have enough time to gasp before your head was pushed down onto the desk, your body bent suddenly and it ached with the unprepared stretch. Your whine came late, but the palm shoving your cheek down made your words muffle until he pulled back , tearing the red scarf from around your neck and bringing it behind you where your vision couldn't see. You didn't dare move from the new position he put you into.

" Ow, ow, daddy! " Your overreactions didn't earn you any pity as he bound your wrists together behind your back securely. It was a little too tight, but that's just how you liked it.

" Can't wait at all, can you? " He huffed, your head still resting on the table, on top of a few of his beloved documents that he spent so long researching for and writing.

" My fault for spoiling you so much, isn't it princess? Lettin' you run the show how you like it. " Unzipping his fly with haste, he let his cock spring free while his other hand pulled the trench coat belonging to him that you were wearing over your bottom, pulling your panties down and letting them pool down at your feet. " Baby got too greedy, now she's gonna be reminded just what she is. "

" But you-! " Your mouth shot open in a gargled cry as he shoved his rock hard dick into your unprepared hole. You were barely wet enough for it to slide in and out comfortably. There was only so much your pussy could give when you had to go through about an hour of being denied. " Daddy! Hurts! Hurts! " You wailed, your legs kicking back and knees buckling with the horribly uncomfortable intrusion. Daddy's cock was thick and long enough for you to feel it push against that certain organ deep around your plush walls. You felt a stabbing pain in your lower abdomen that surged through your body and you thought that maybe this had not been worth it after all.

Hooking a hand under your stomach to keep you from completely falling to the floor, Dazai held your hips and began to thrust as he pleased, picking up pace into something deep but slow.

He would have happily slammed fast if he wanted to, but you only now were beginning to provide him with some self-made lubrication. " Fuck, baby. " He groaned, watching how your cute pussy would stretch around his cock as he'd slam in and how it'd return to it's small plumpness when he'd pull out to the tip only.

It was such an addicting sight, he could silence out your little begs and apologies in favour of watching your pussy instead.

" Dah-ddy! " You squealed, trying to gain his attention, to alert him of the pain.

" Hurts, it hurts, really, for re-al! " Your voice cracked with a hard thrust that made the desk inch forward.

" If that were the case, you wouldn't be getting so wet over this, would you? "

Dazai acknowledged the pain you were allegedly feeling but made no effort in helping soothe.

" Good girls get rewards. Bad girls get punished. Those are the rules. " Dazai was so, so mean. Your tears did not sway him to go easy. " No bitch of mine is bringing up Chuuya while she grinds down on my dick like a cock-hungry whore. "

" I'm sorry that I said it! " You tried to apologise but knew that ultimately, daddy's word was final.

You had no option but to stay still and take daddy's idea of a fit punishment for today.

At this point, your body had given in to the abuse your pussy was given and finally, that pain evolved into something more hot and arousing as precipitation pooled between your legs.

" Then you've learned for next time, hm? "

Dazai was grateful feeling himself slip in and out easier. His thrusts became more brutal and he seemed to care more about his table that kept moving in sync with his thrusts than you.

You were being used as a cocksleeve.

" Aah- aa-a-aah.. " Your body bounced and rubbed against the polished wood all while you tried to form coherent thoughts.

You thought that maybe, just maybe, you preferred this over daddy's usual spanking.

" G'nna..! Cum! Daddy, think I'm gonna! " You cried out, drool wetting the sheets.

" Hold it. " The command alone made your body seize up with fear. " No! " You choked on a mixture of a sob and a moan. " I'm gonna die, daddy! I'm gonna die, please, please! "

He relished in the way your feet raised to pull his thighs in closer into you, begging him to cum inside you and to give you the early orgasm you wanted so bad.

" Just be a good girl. Just this fuckin' once. Can ya do that? "

You really did sob this time.

Unsure how long you could hold back your orgasm, just before you were pushed over the edge - Dazai pulled out entirely and you shrieked.

Rubbing his cock on your soft ass, you felt thick, hot ropes of his seed squirt lines over your plump behind, wiping away any excess on your inner thigh, just about touching your neglected pussy.

" Noo.. no.. " Your voice was hoarse from shouting, small body hiccuping little sobs at the orgasm stolen from you.

" I said bad girls get punished. " Dazai replied coldly, taking a seat back into his chair after undoing the knot keeping your wrists tied.

At first, you couldn't move, and he watched his cum trickle down your thighs and onto the floor. You stayed crying quietly for a while on the desk until you pulled yourself together - enough to stand up (albeit shakily) to take the two steps forward to be held in Dazai's arms.

" Daddy, daddy, sorry, 'm sorry, I am, I am! "

You held onto his shirt with shaking fists, shivering like you were left out wet in the cold.

" Shh, shh, I know you are. I know you are, princess. "

Cheeks and nose flushed red from tears, his hand rubbed up and down your thigh, squeezing the flesh when he could.

" You can be a good girl when you want to. "

" Y-eah. " You cleared your sore throat, breath hitching every now and then with a hard inhale.

" Daddy had to be mean today, you know why, don't you, my brave girl? " Dazai cooed to you, tucking strands of your hair behind your ear so he could get a better view of your tear-streaked face.

" I was bad today, never again, not gonna be bad again. "

" That's my good girl. "

You say it and promise it. You swear it up and down and daddy will give you what you want soon after.

And even then, it'll barely be another two weeks before your next punishment.

©yawarakaizai 2023 ﹒﹒ reblogs appreciated! requests open :3

[brucewaynehater101]

I think that prior to Tim being found out as a spider demon, only Cass had good thoughts about Spiders. And maybe Damian but in more of a "don't kill it, you put it in a cup and move it to the garden" kind of way. Dick *hates* them and Jason had a bad experience with Beast Boy using the form of a spider the size of a dinner plate to jump scare him when he was still Robin.

As for how he makes his silk, i once saw a design of a spider demon that had two black dots at the corners of its mouth and when it pressed a finger to the dots and pulled them away, a line of string was hanging between their finger and the dot. I think his thread looks like normal spider thread (including the size) but is durable enough that only a few strands can stop a charging Bane. It's possible for him to take the silk he produces and turn it into thread and from thread into fabric. The fabric moves and feels like high quality silk but is about twice as durable as Kevlar due to how strong his threads are.

The only reason all of the Bats aren't already decked out in full Tim Silk Gear is because of the sheer amount of time and energy it takes to make that much thread. If he uses all of his spare time to make thread and turn it into fabric as quickly as he can, he would only make 2 or 3 fabric napkins in a month. If he was only eating, sleeping, and making silk he could produce a single sheet about the size of a picnic blanket in the same amount of time. Not exactly a lot of fabric to work with. Plus there's the fact that his thread is very weak by the standards of his species due to a mixture of malnutrition, constant exhaustion, and frequent injuries.

However, most of his family does have at least one thing that he made with his thread for them. They have no idea what kind of fabric it is that Tim brings them things made of and when asked if he can get more, he simply shakes his head and says, "I wish I could, but farming to much of the material needed to make this stuff can seriously harm the type of creature that creates it. I'm keeping it vague so that you guys don't try to buy it yourselves. The person I get this from have been very, *very* heavily researched to make sure that it's done in a humane way. Basically anywhere else you find this stuff is almost garenteed to be horribly mistreating the creatures to force them to produce as much as physically possible. And I got my guys entire stock just to make this for you." This throughly covers his tracks and makes it so that the Bats won't consider trying to buy more silk from other sources. Most of the things he makes for them are small, like gloves or Domino Masks or at most an under shirt to give them an extra layer or protection. Cass's whole cowl is made of Tim's Silk.

As for what kind of malnutrition Tim has, the Bats already knew about that, sort of. John saw Bruce's new gloves and after feeling them asked where the fuck he got that much Jorogomo Silk and why it's such Shit Quality. When Bruce asked for him to elaborate, Constantine ran his hands over the gloves a few times while muttering to himself before sighing, "Malnutrition. Their silk is a direct reflection of their health. Whoever made this, they have *not* been eating well. Probably only just enough to survive and with no... well, you'd probably be glad to hear that the one who made your gloves hasn't been chowing down on an human flesh. But it's an important part of their diet. Yeah, this one seems to have been trying to use supplements for the shit it needs, but that'll never truly work. Like you can take all the vitamins tablets ya want, but unless you go out and soak in some sunshine every now and then you'll always be deficient in Vitamin D cause your body just won't process it. If I were you, I would get in contact with your seller and get them a deal with the local mourge. After all, you're from Gothem. I'm sure no one would notice if a few of the already dead disappeared."

That night Bruce had an uncomfortable conversation with Tim about how his seller might not be as good as he thought and what Mourges tended to "loose" bodies most often. Tim did start eating some from the already dead but he hates it. Not because hes eating people but because they've been dead for a while and only fresh bodies taste good.

As for Jack, he goes into a coma until Tim gets there and he uses some of his threads to make Jack his puppet. However, Tim doesn't have any practice with preserving the bodies of his puppets yet so after about a month, Jack is starting to fall apart a little so Tim sets up for him to be part of a car crash and makes a new puppet to be Uncle Eddie. The second puppet does last longer, but only about 2 and a half months and then Tim eats what's left of Uncle Eddie. Maybe one day he'll be able to make puppets that last for years like his mom did, but not just yet.

Also she isn't dead and does stay in contact. She just got bored of her life as Janet Drake and ditched her puppet, telling Tim "here's my new number and new name and the puppet of your father. Good luck kiddo." And Tim was like "YOURE THE BEST MOM" because really, by their standards she is. Most of his species are completely abandoned once they can walk, hide themselves, and produce silk. Most don't have any idea who their parent or parents are at all.

Ooh! The way you made his silk OP but then put in a very realistic limitation was cool as hell.

I'm also curious how the Bats would feel about Tim needing to consume human flesh. If Red Hood is still killing, it would he super cool of him to offer up some of the people he murders. Hopefully that will be a bit fresher and better tasting for Tim.

Also, would Alfred try to cook food for Tim's diet? Or would that be too much for Alfred to handle so he refuses to cook human flesh?

If Tim or someone else cooked that food (post-reveal), they probably would have to build an entire kitchen just for him. They wouldn't want to cross contaminate that since it could make the humans really really sick.

You mentioned that Tim doesn't hate consuming flesh. Does he have any reservations about it? Are there parts of his being that he hates for not being human enough?

At least Bruce doesn't seem to mind a creature consuming already dead people. Though, maybe Tim (pre-reveal) worries Bruce would mind if it was someone he knew.

I'm also hella curious where puppet Uncle Eddie comes from. Dead body? Bad guy Tim doesn't mind turning into a puppet?

Love Janet Drake. Maybe Tim could go visit her every once in a blue moon. If not, at least both of them seem happy and content with their relationship

[ma3mae]

Hello!! I hope you are doing well, wanted to say I love your work !!

Can I request how the BSD boys (Dazai, Kunikida, Ranpo, Chuuya, Fukuzawa etc) would react to gf!fem!reader saying “I am just a hole” after they did something attractive? Something fun and suggestive ehehe~

No brain, just horny!

Summary: No one cared about you being down bad for you bfs since everything's mutual, right? (Dazai, Kunikida, Ranpo, Fukuzawa)

Genre: fluff, maybe crack, def suggestive themes, maybe a tiny tiny bit of smut. Who knows 💀

Warnings: yall gonna be horny after this 🤓

A/N: was kinda difficult to think of fitting scenarios but i had fun writing this!! Also thank you for loving my work, anonnnn 💕💕💕💕

Part 2

Dazai Osamu

WHY WOULD YOU SAY THAAAAAAT 💀💀💀💀

HES HORNY 24/7, DONT EXPECT HIM TO HOLD BACK LMAOO 💀💀😭😭

okay okay so lets say yall are at the ADA office

hes done with annoying the shit ouf of kuni and now hes just sitting on the couch, literally bored out of his mind

Kuni tells u to tell "that dumbass idiot of a boyfriend🤩" to finally get back to work so u go up to him

u know that scene where he leans his head back onto the grave and slowly tilts it back down and opens his eyes while having that soft smile on his face? oda's only purpose was him dying so we'd get that scene, crying fr 😭😭😭

Yeah hes doing exactly THAT as he notices your presence infront of him, flashing you a smile and only for it to spread even further as he notices your dazed face 💀

"Oh, bella? Too lovestruck to talk to me, I see. Can't help it that I'm just so hands-"

"I'm nothing but a hole for you"

I DONT KNOW HOW SOMEONE COULD EVEN SAY THAT 😭😭 THATS SUCH A WEIRD THING TO SAY AND SO DUMB BUT NO ONE CARES 🥲🥲🥲

AND HIS HORNY ASS DOESNT GIVE TWO SHITS EITHER 🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️

his eyes are fking bulging as he hears you say that infront of him

ACTUALLY shocked that you had the guts to legit say that outloud and luckily no one rly heard that except him he wouldnt mind if the whole ass office wouldve heard that, we KNOW 💀

you manage to get a good laugh out of him before he just shoots you that god awful handsome smirk before he suddenly stands up

Towering over you, he leans in and whispers "Never thought you'd be so dirty to say stuff like that during working hours. Not that I'm complaining! I'm glad to have such a strong effect on you, bella~" got me blushing fr😳😳😳

Its too late to realise what you've just said. Your fate has been sealed.

OFF TO HORNY JAIL YALL GO 💀💀🗣️

no jk but nah nah he wont stop there

Youve awakened the fking horny beast in him and how could he refuse his love offering herself so blatantly while your coworkers were literally in the same room?? 🤩😋

He just takes your hand as he proceeds to leave the office

Kuni just yells "Oi, where the hell do you think you're going?! Only told you to tell him to work! Not join his stupid shenanigans!! 😡😡"

YOU KNOW that ur bf just turns around and shoots him that annoying ass smirk, only to say

"But Kunikida, we are off to work actually! Nothing you'd be able to do anyway. Tell me when you've found something interesting in all that paper work of yours! Can tell you that our job will definitely be more fun than that~ 😁😁"

You can only give poor kuni a sheepish smile as atsushi just deadpans at the both of you, muttering a "good luck 😐" towards you as your bf just drags you to his car because your job's gonna be too loud to do at the ada and going home wont be an option since dazai's not patient in that sense 💀💀💀

Already sending prayers to you for having to go back to "work" while being sore af and dazai looking like he got out of a 10 day wellness vacation 😭🥲🥲

dazai's actually gonna spare our poor kuni by kinda doing some paper work but our man will be forever traumatised bc hes not oblivious 🗣️

Especially after seeing your neck littered with hickeys 😭😭 u cant hide them, youve got a damn mosquito as a bf 💀

kuni just tosses a bottle of water your way without looking at u bc he thinks its not modest to shamelessly look at them 😤 I LOVE U KUNI

"thanks, i guess" is all you'll hear from him bc at the end, you DID get dazai to work but at what cost 😭

Kunikida Doppo

Flabbergasted. Shocked. Disappointed. Shamefully not too hard to turn on. 💀

His first reaction is gonna be like u just told ur mom u forgot to do the laundry 😭

DEF gonna scold your ass off for saying such things in such an inappropiate setting

its not your fault hes being so hot during work 😤😤😤😤

Tell him off for being so handsome!! 🤩

Wont stop his scolding but u cant take him serious when hes fumbling over his words

Still manages to thank you for ur compliment even though its embarassing af 😭 no way would he refuse such kind words from his love 😋

So anyway it could go two ways with him

The first would be if yall wouldnt be alone at the ADA

You go up to him to ask him about a report you need help with

Ive never seen kuni tie his hair up but... imagine catching him doing that...

With the hair tie in his mouth as he pulls his hair back and like...

It makes u think of the times you'd yank it back during yk what 🤭

So he notices you gape at him and is all like "🤨 are you alright?"

Cue to you just uttering "Damn, kuni. You only gotta ask. Am just a hole for you anyway" out of nowhere

LMAO you can just hear dazai cackling from the couch as your bf just looks at you like 😳 with his mouth agape and everything

Dazai just walks up to you to pat your shoulder

"Kunikida, you've got quite the daring girlfriend!" "SHUT YOUR ANNOYING MOUTH UP"

kuni just quickly ties his hair back and BROO he nearly feels so violated and exposed 😭😭😭😭

Why would u do this to him AT WORK 😭

Ngl u and dazai prob team up to annoy him to death like hes just so fun to TEASE 😤

Anyway he just tells you to get back to work and when u tell him you need some help, he begrudgingly does it bc its important but you can still his hands shake a bit and his face is red as he tries to give you advice on ur work skskksks 💀

Be ready to get scolded for HOURS when yall are on ur way home 🤓

But dw u know how to shut his beautiful mouth up 🤭😋

But if you do the whole thing while yall are alone at work bc kuni decided to stay a bit longer then THATS a different story

Lets say he does the same thing again as above ^ and u say the same thing

He'll def turn a bit red and tell you that you cant say stuff like that during work!

"But kuni, we're alone and no ones gonna come back anyway. It's nearly 8pm after all."

The sun's setting and the only light that softly illuminates the room and it just steals ur fking breath bc 😭 hes so gorgeous with his hair open 😭😭😭

But u can still see his gaze on u, making ur knees weak bc BROO

horny jail for kuni too????? 💀💀💀

jk but he'll clear his throat and just say "a work place is still a work place so i cant let this inappropiate behavior just go like that..."

You're like standing infront of him and he grabs you by your waist, softly kneading it as he tells u to sit on his lap 😭

"Will teach that mouth of yours how to behave. Maybe after this you'll be a bit more tame. Think that idiot has been a bad influence on you like he has with everyone but don't worry. I'll be sure to teach you everything again."

I'll let you imagine the rest here 🤭🤭

Edogawa Ranpo

man just wants to eat his candy in peace, get ur horny ass away from him 🤨🤨🤨🤨

u thought dazai's a whole bitch???? Nah nah this is a MAN CHILD right here

This man wont give u what u want, nah he'll let u suffer alone LOL 💀💀

if this happens at work then 🤷 honestly depends on what mood he is i think

its a hot day in yokohama and the air conditioning is not rly helping yall

so u kinda wanna go grab some ice cream during ur break and u dont need to think twice about asking ur bf to go with u

fr he'll be SO annoying if u dont take him with u 💀 but dw he obviously knows why u r approaching him rn 🤩

but he takes a while to catch on why u just stopped and looked like a fish rn like a combo of this :0 and 😳

he just goes "🤨"

"Damn, the bathroom's close. 'am just a hole for you anyway so let's go" u legit go 😨 after realising what u just said

How no one hears that, idk but this hoe DEF heard u well

U r even more scared bc he just sits there and doesnt react but oops

only needs some sec before he opens his eyes and smirks at u 🤭

"Eh~ You've got guts, Y/N. Saying naughty stuff like that during work hours. Not that I mind though. Just shows how smitten you are by the World's Greatest Detective~"

"N-"

He just waves a finger at u like you're a lil kid getting scolded rn 💀

"Ah ah ah, don't try to refute that fact. Can't blame you for your reaction after all. It's still funny to me that all it took was me losening my tie, gliding a hand through my hair and open up a button of my shirt. ~ "

He just gets up and gives you a peck on your cheek before walking ahead

"I still want that ice ream though! If it's good then I'll give tending to your needs a thought!" 💀 THIS BITCH

but dw he'll make sure to show u how smitten he is after that bc ur mouth just tastes better after some sweet ice cream, right 🤓??

but u know whats the best combo with saying that sentence?

a jealous ranpo 🤩

like ok quick scenario

lets move this outside of work, ok?

So yall are walking around and some random dude decides to hit on u and hello 🤨cant he see that u r legit holding hands with the world's greatest detective??

u kindly tell the man to fuck off but nah hes not letting u chill

wraps protectively his arm around ur waist, clearly showing him that YOU. ARE. TAKEN.

"with that scrawny lookin dude???" bro hes got a death sentence 💀

time for ur bf to show him his skills 🤭 which means threatening him to expose everything about him

immediately tells him where he lives, what he does for a living, where he likes to shop, where his parents live. E. V. E. R. Y. T. H. I. N. G

he just smirks and puffs his chest slightly out as that dude just fking runs off bc id be terrified too 😨

He deserves it tho ✋

"What a fool! Thinking he could challenge ME?! The greatest detective to ever live! See how terrified he was!" hes fking cackling before stopping as he sees ur face

brothers and sisters, we are LOVESTRUCK

and that hoe cann see that right away 💀

"Thank you..." like should we say how hot that was???? maybe 😳😳???

"And?" AH obviously he got us 😭

but we too embarassed to say smth but NICE, theres a nearby alley so u know where hes dragging us 🤩

Pressed up against the wall and hes just centimeters away from u as he asks again

"That wasn't everything you wanted to say, right~? Of course you find me" hot" but just wanna hear it from you, love."

"FUCK, am just a hole for u" 💀😳

goes wide eyed for a sec before chuckling and saying "Well, that wasn't what I wanted to hear but I'll let it count!"

His eyes travel down your neck before finally saying "Hm, I've got an idea in how to make everyone know that you're taken. I deserve a little treat after having saved you, no?" 🤭🤭🤭 got me blushing fr

Anyway problem solved, no one made moves onto u after that and it might turn into a habit before yall go out for the next times 🗣️

But no one's complaining hihi 🤭🤭😳

Fukuzawa Yukichi

oh god where do i even begin 💀

i gotta hold myself back from getting off topic when it comes to HIM 😭

honestly this man has seen and experienced so many things, u gotta do a lot to catch THIS man off guard 💀💀

bro he had to deal with mori's ass in his 20's for too long and STILL deals with it till this day 😐😐😐😐😐

not to mention the agency is like his fking orphanage at this point 😐

Already enough that his first child is still a child with his thirty years of living on this damn planet 🤓

lets say u work at the ADA as well and now yall r holding a meeting to go over some details for a random mission

Idk if its just me but... the way he sits there and is leading that whole shit, telling em what to do and how they could handle it the best way, while encouraging everyone to work hard n stuff... idk....

Its just so HOT 😳😳😳🤭

like hes so charismatic, fuck dazai, yall cant compare ANYONE to this man 😭😭😭😭😭😭 no wonder everyone follows him, id lick his shoes too 😭😭 HORNY JAIL FOR ME?????

anyway he dismisses everyone and the both of you are the last ones to be in the room bc u r just sitting at the table and staring at him like 😳

Dw my girl, hes been noticing the way you've been looking at him the whole time

"Is everything alright, my love? You've been staring at me for quite a while now."

"N-No its nothing 😳"

nah no need to hold back bc we know our knees r gonna buckle the second he takes ur hand

AND HE DOES 🤩🤩

his eyes slightly crinkle at the end as you can see amusement dance in them

"I know that look when something's on your mind. I'll respect your decision to not tell me but I'd like to know what it is."

honestly your red face is already proof enough whats on ur mind but how can u hide it when hes just looking at you with such an intense gaze UGH I LOVE THIS MAAAAAN 😭😭😭😭😭😭

"W-Well the way you just handle everything with ease even though its a lot of pressure and i dont know...it's just really admirable but also hot when you tell them what to do. wouldnt mind you doing that in the bedroom too, you know. id be a hole for u anytime like this... "

u tryna mumble that shit out of embarassement but he clearly heard you 💀

And he does go wide eyed out of surprise because DAMN thats still pretty straightforward and was kinda the last thing he'd thought you'd say but honestly... he doesnt mind it 💀

in facr hes liking it a bit too much for himself 💀💀 but who is he to complain? Especially when his lover is being so honest with him?

" So you want me to be a bit more authoritative in the bedroom? I-It might be a bit awkward for me to do so but if it's something you desire then we'll gladly try it out together. We should be done with the mission around the evening but if not then..."

you feel his hands gently cup your face as he presses his lips against yours before pulling a bit too soon for your liking

"Then I hope this will suffice until then. I'll be sure to thank you for your patience after everything's over."

THE ONLY THIINNGG

THE ONLY THING YOU CAN DO IS SAY YESSSS 🤩🤩😭😭😭😭😭

IDC IF IM NOT SPEAKING FOR EVERYONE BC

We WILL wait for him OKAY 💀💀✋✋✋

he just strokes your hair lovingly as you try to hide ur face bc hes just too blinding

anyway as the both of u get ready to leave, yall just hear quick shuffling behind yall bc OOPS

THE DOOR WAS OPEN 💀

THE KIDS DIDNT LEAVE LOL 💀💀 THEY HEARD EVERYTHING

"😳☺️🤭😏" u can choose which ADA member would make which face 💀💀💀

ngl u prob sometimes call them ur children and BRO

ranpo actually annoys u for some candy ngl 💀

u once punched dazai's gut bc yk he'd ask the stupid question like

"if you're our mom, would that make you a milf?"

send him back to the MAFIA trash can he came from 🤩🤩

jk but might write a oneshot about him even tho hes difficult to write 💀

will def do a part 2 of this bc it gives me an excuse to simp for these men 💀

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

How would Leona, Ruggie, Jamil, Kamil, and Vil be when half snow leapord-fae Crewle used them as model to make a winter coat for them with some fur from a beast she hunted with her grandfather and gifted to them as a form of freindship, maybe potential mate?

Fur Coat | Yandere Twisted Wonderland x Half-Fae Leopard Crewel Daughter Reader 

You unlike the og are a lot less interested in dirtying your claws 

And skimping out on getting you or your father a fur coat?

As if

They can shiver in the cold for all you care 

But if they asked or needed…compensation to fill out a request of yours

You figure you can spend some of your precious time to make an outfit for them

“Stay still, this is the closest you get to owning near perfection:

Leona Kingscholar

“Yeah yeah.”

Probably spotted you looking at some catalogue

Now he’s more than willing to be your mannequin 

If it means you’ll stop whining about that mauled lackey of yours

Ruggie Bucci

“Whoa this…this makes me look like a prince!”

“I told you didn’t I?”

He’s honored this is what you’ve made for him 

Not to mention your touches all throughout the outfit’s creation

It certainly makes using ‘laugh with me’ on those Diasomnia students a perfect gift for you

Jamil Viper 

“Just hurry up and accept it already…you’re honestly such a waste. You could be a model.”

“Ah but then my worth as a model wouldn’t be solely yours.”

“Grrr.”

To match his scar, now he’s got some wonderful garbs from you

Its just made everything perfect for him

All that’s left to do is hypnotize those wannabe copycats

Kamil Al Asim

“Yay! (Y/n)’s touching me!”

“Keep that up dog and I’ll neuter you!”

This is more likely a reluctant repayment 

Or maybe you were paid and so was Crowley to have you make something for him

Vil Schoenheit

 “Its been too long since we’ve done this.”

“Well I figured its about time you witness my perfection.”

He’s been trying to clear his schedule for this

And he’s so glad he has

Between acting, modeling, school, poisoning vermin, teaching epel