Prompt: Despite being the hero of the galaxy, Shepard is the dumbest person to have ever lived. Like, Peter Griffon/Homer Simpson/Andy Dwyer/Luanne Platter levels of adorable idiocy. Despite this, he/she is wildly successful, much to the astonishment of his/her comrades. Go nuts, anons.

"Take a seat." There was something wicked in Morinth's smile as she patted the space next to her on the couch.

Dick Shepard frowned for a moment, then obeyed, placing his hands over his knees, and struggling not to make a face as Morinth leaned in close.

"I love clubs." She purred, ghosting her fingers over the black strands of his Caesar cut. "People, movement, heat. I can still hear the bass, like the drums of a great hunt, out for your blood."

Christ, this was awkward. Maybe he could just pretend that she was Miranda. With blue skin. And no hair. Okay, scratch that last part. That's weird. But the blue skin…maybe he could rig her shower to—

Wait. What was that on the wall?

"But here, it's muted, and you're safe. Is that what you want, Dick?"

There were swords on the wall! Holy shit, that was so fucking cool! He was totally stealing them after this. Well, looting, since the owner would be dead soon enough. They were in perfect shape, too. All polished, and gleaming, and sharp.

"Well, we're never safe." Morinth finally answered, taking his silence for stoicism. "I've never understood the fascination with safety. Some of us choose differently."

He and Jess used to have sword fights all the time when they were kids. Dick had figured out how to rig duct tape and piping to create fake swords, and they had beaten the shit out of each other. It was awesome. But this…this would be so much better. Not with Jess. She might get hurt, or fuck up some stuff in her captain's cabin. Or the hamster might get hurt. What was his name? Boo. Weird. But his sister was always doing weird shit. Her idea of dancing proved that.

"Independence over submission. I think we share that, you and I."

He and Grunt could mess around the swords. Dick could heal himself in record time, thanks to the reave, and Grunt was built like a tank. They could run around the shuttle, and act out the scene from The Princess Bride. And they could decorate their swords. Grunt could paint a shark on the side of his—

Wait. He wanted a shark.

"Dick?"

Grunt could have the shark, he guessed. The kid was nuts about them these days. And maybe…a t-Rex? Nah. A dragon? Too stereotypical.

"Dick…are you listening to me?"

Naked Lawson?

Jackpot. She probably wouldn't like that very much, though.

Worth it.

"Seriously, Dick?"

He could probably commission that turian on the citadel to paint one. He sold guns. Maybe he could paint too. That was sound logic.

"Dick!" Morinth finally snarled, turning his head to face hers. "Have you been listening to me at all?"

"Swords." Dick blurted out, before remembering himself, "Yeah…You…uh…you look really pretty. Did you do something with your scalp? It's quite…uh…fetching."

"Just forget it." Morinth rolled her eyes, black soon spreading from pupils to whites. "I'm going to enjoy devouring you."

As Dick stared into the dark pits of her eyes, the ardat-yakshi whispered, "Look into my eyes, and tell me you want me. Tell me that you'd kill for me. Anything I want."

The two of them stared at each other for a long minute, before Dick cleared his throat in an awkward fashion.

"Uh…yeah. Sorry. Is there something you want me to do? Because to be honest, I never really saw the appeal of eye-sex." He shrugged. "I mean, its all well and good if you're a blonde sheriff visiting the mayor of Storybrooke, but it just never really did it for-"

"What?" Morinth hissed in surprise, grabbing Dick by the ears, and staring at him. "What's wrong with you?"

"I just said its not for everyone!" The mercenary replied hotly, glaring at the asari. "No need to get judgmental."

Morinth abruptly turned his head, and put his ear to hers—or what substituted for it, listening.

There was an echo in Dick Shepard's skull, similar to the sound of ocean waves one experienced when listening to a sea shell.

"You can't be serious." The ardat-yakshi groaned. "I don't think I've ever met a functioning beyond the higher forms of plantlife with neurological activity this low."

"Oh." Dick brightened at the remark. "Thank you."

"That's not a compliment."

But before Dick could retort, the door was thrown open. Samara marched in, and confronted Morinth. Thankfully, the mercenary's attention remained on the matter at hand, and he was able to wrest the ardat-yakshi's hands behind her back, stopping her from throwing a bolt of biotic power that would have shocked Samara's system, and left her vulnerable to further attack.

It wasn't until the justicar's fingers squeezed down on Morinth's throat, crushing her windpipe, that the merc spoke again, his tone surprisingly compassionate.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" He knew about death in the family. He knew better than to ask if she was okay.

"I would very much like to return to the Normandy." Samara whispered, her voice a shadow of the usual placid calm she carried herself with.

"Alright." Dick started to walk out of the room, when his gaze fell upon the swords again.

"Samara?"

"Yes?"

"Does your code say anything about taking those swords out of here?"

"It's frowned upon." Samara sighed. "But remember, I am sworn to follow the commander's code while I am present on the Normandy."

"Well, Jess has an open door policy about looting." Dick reasoned, prying the swords off the wall, and falling into step next to Samara.

"You understand that I may have to kill you after I am released from Jessa's service?" The justicar queried, her tone something close to dubious.

Dick stared down at the swords, contemplating the steel weapons for a long moment.

"Worth it."