#The confidence of the song with his general personality just works so bloody well!!!

[solar-nightengale]

18 or 36 + lampwick?

HIIIIIIIIII!!! First off: i'm so SO sorry for how late this one is I've been ruminating on it for the while DFCDSTJBHKDCTRL BUT!!!! I'M HERE AND PRESENTING THE RESULT FOR IT!!

spotify wrapped game: send me a number from 1-100, optionally with a ship or character, for a moodboard based on the song it corresponds to!

36. Make it All Right - The Offspring

[theoreticslut]

“You’re probably bloody soulmates or something”

fred weasley x reader

background: your soulmate (fred) can hear you whenever you sing and he’s thinking that you’re singing about someone else when really its about him.

warnings: fluff 

word count: 2,380

song: Sofia by Clairo

A/N: so obviously this isn’t my idea, its been around for who knows how long. I just really like the idea and thought I’d write one about a song I tend to think about the twins with. Anyways, I hope you like it! Let me know if you’d like to be added to a general taglist for my works. I have one specifically for one of my series, but I’m more than happy to have a general one for everything. Also, I am doing requests so please message me any you might have and I will get working on them as soon as I can! 

��Merlin, he is just so cute.” You groan to no one, smiling happily as you lay back on your bed.

You found yourself having quite a crush on one of your best friends. A certain red-head who just so happens to have a twin. You, Fred and George have been pretty good friends since first year when they pranked you and the only response you had was on how to make it better.

From that point on, the twins decided they needed to have you around. Fred because you made their pranks that much better and George because he noticed how having you around made his twin just a little bit tamer.

Over the years though, you’ve found yourself slowly falling for Fred Weasley. At first it was just how happy you felt when he got excited that a certain invention worked after getting your help. Then you started getting flustered when he’d compliment you on your work and then on your appearance. Somewhere between year 2 and 3 the twins had started using pet names for you, which really sent you away flustered the first time Fred called you one. Then it became you realizing just how attractive he truly is. Then it was suddenly noticing every little thing he does from the way he pushes his hair back or the way he smiles to the way his voice drops or raises in different situations.

You were continuously falling for him, but you could never tell him. No, you were sure he would never feel the same about you. Instead, you’d pine for him in the safety of your own room.

~.~

“She must be singing again?” George asks his twin as he watches him sit back and seem to listen to something.

“Most every night.” Fred smiles.

“I wonder if she knows you can hear her? And can she hear you if you sing?”

“I don’t know. I’m not even sure why i can hear her. I mean, you can’t hear anyone can you?” Fred asks, looking over at his twin.

“Not like that.” George chuckles.

“And you have no idea who it is?” He asks after a second.

Fred shakes his head, frowning. If only George knew how desperately he wished he did. He loves when she sings. It’s the highlight of his day, well other than when he gets to see you of course. He won’t confess it to anyone, not even his own twin, but he has a major soft spot for you.

It had started when your only response to getting pranked was on how to improve it. From that moment on, he knew you were something special. Since becoming friends, he’s only found himself becoming even softer towards you. He’s not sure what it is, but he just can’t not have you around. The first few breaks from school when you both went back to your homes, he realized just how lonely he felt without you around, even though he had a house of 8 other people around him.

He had often thought how cool it would be if you were the voice he heard singing, but he was sure it was impossible. He honestly had no clue why he heard this girl singing, and what it was supposed to mean if anything, but he came to love the voice, even if he couldn’t place it to anyone around him.

~.~

“Fred weasley, you are too bloody adorable for your own good.” You sigh, thinking back on how he winked at you jokingly today. You were positive had you not been surrounded by people you would have fainted.

As you often did in the evenings you had your iPod playing some music. You recognized one of your favourites from the playlist and started turning it up.

“You know I’ll do anything you ask me to,” you sigh, dancing around your room.

“But oh my god, I think I’m in love with you!” You smile, giggling at the thought of Fred.

~.~

“Standin' here alone now, think that we can drive around...”

“George, she’s doing it again.” Fred smiles, settling into his happy state of just listening.

“Hey, we have someplace to be Freddie. Keep walking as you listen, please.” George chuckles, shaking his head at his brother.

“I just wanna say how I love you with your hair down.”

Fred smiles, wishing it was him she were singing about. He and George had been growing their hair out and he’s aware that there were some girls at school that found it attractive, but he doubted any of them were her.

“I think she’s singing about someone else, though, George.” He sighs, looking to his twin who had begun to leave him behind.

“George!”

“I told you to keep up, did you already forget we’re on our way to see Y/n for her input on these?” George asks, casually holding up the new candy the two had concocted. You weren’t especially happy about it, but you had somehow become their go to product tester which had landed you a trip to the hospital wing more than a few times.

“No, I’m right behind you.” Fred mumbles, following along behind.

When the two enter the common room they sigh when they can’t find you.

“Hey, Katie? Have you seen, y/n?” George asks.

“Up in her room.”

The twins nod in thanks and make their way up the stairs to the girls’ dormitories.

“George, wait.” Fred says, hearing the music coming from your room and recognizing it.

“What?” He asks.

“Y/n’s music. I- I think it’s the same song I heard her singing....”

“You’re kidding.” George says, shaking his head as he smiles at his twin.

“No, dead serious, George. Y/n is listening to the same song.”

“That actually doesn’t surprise me. You’re probably bloody soulmates or something, and fate is trying to tell you to grow the balls and tell her you like her.”

“What do you mean tell her I like her?”

“Freddie, mate. I know you’ve got a soft spot for her. You get even happier when she’s around, and have you seen how excited you get when she compliments an invention?”

“Not to mention, how many times I’ve seen you daydream when looking at her and I’ve heard you moan her name more than enough times in your sleep and....in private.” George chuckles.

“I’ve never- why would I-“ Fred stutters, turning red at the accusation that may have been a bit true.

“You like her, end of story, and you need to tell her.”

Fred sighs, leaning against the wall as you continue singing.

“I think we could do it if we triiiied.”

“What if she doesn’t like me back, George?”

“I highly doubt that, if it make you feel better I’ll wait out here while you go in and I’ll push in if things go south. Yeah?”

Fred sighs, listening to you sing behind the closed door, wondering how in the world he was able to hear you everytime you sang.

“Fred.”

“Yeah, yeah. Give me a minute.” He sighs, not bothering to look at his twin.

“Fred, just get in there. I don’t wanna have to shove you inside there myself.”

“I’m going, George. Merlin.” Fred sighs, poutingly stomping his way to your door. 

He knocks lightly and when he doesn’t hear a response, but rather more singing as you replay the song, he decided to just go in.

Slowly he pushes the door open to see you dancing around your room, singing into your wand as if it were a microphone. Your eyes are closed and you have such a big smile on your face that he wonders who you could possibly be thinking about while singing.

He chuckles, smirking a bit as he watches you. Oh how he’d fallen for you, and now realizing that you probably danced around like this often when you sang made his heart swell. You are such an adorable being and he’s wanted for far too long to just hold you and kiss you anytime and anywhere he pleases. Watching you in such a blissful moment really makes it difficult for him to not go over there and kiss you right at this moment.

“You know I’ll do anything that you ask me too, but oh, my god I think I’m in love with you!” You smile, not realizing you had an audience. You were far too lost in your daydream to even consider that others could possibly hear you and/or be watching you.

“Standing here alone now, think that we can drive around; I just wanna say how I love you with your hair down!” You smile, thinking about Fred and how he’s grown his hair out and how bloody attractive it was.

When you first saw him with his long hair, it took everything in you to not run your fingers through it. You always had a thing for longer hair on a guy and Merlin did Fred wear it well.

“Baby you don’t gotta fight, I’ll be here til the end of time wishin’ that you were mine; pull you in, it’s alright...” you smile, finally turning around and opening your eyes enough to see the person you had been singing about standing in your doorway.

“Fred! Hi. W-what are you doing here?” You ask, waving your wand to quickly turn down the music.

He chuckles, taking note of how flushed you’ve become in a span of seconds. Unsurprisingly you were still extremely adorable when embarrassed. It really was unfair, he thought, just how cute you were.

“Hi, it’s nice to see you too, princess.” He smirks, chuckling as he teases you for your brash greeting.

“It’s nice to see you, Fred.” You roll your eyes. “Now what are you doing here....and, uh, how much of that did you see?”

He chuckles, loving how embarrassed you were. He was so used to seeing you so confident and in control that this was new and very welcomed.

“Well, uh, George and I have a new candy for you to try. He’s on his way; had to go back and get something he said.”

“Okay, what is it?” You asked, sitting down on the end of your bed and crossing your legs underneath you.

“This one is a nougat, very tasty.” He says, stepping a bit further into your room.

“What does it do?” You eye him. He knows you don’t like trying products without knowing what it’s supposed to do.

“You’ll see. You know, you have a really nice singing voice.” Fred smiles, knowing his twin is in the hall shaking his head at him because he came in here to tell you how he feels and instead you’re talking about the new product.

“Yeah?” You ask as you look at him, blushing with a small smile on your face. You can only look at him a few seconds before you have to avert your gaze because you’re so embarrassed.

“Uh, thank you. I-I don’t usually sing around others.”

“How come?” He asks, fully walking into the room and taking a seat beside you, his one leg bent underneath him so he could face you.

“I-I don’t know. I guess I got teased so much for not really being the best when I was younger that I just, stopped.” You admit, not meeting his gaze as you blush.

“Well I think you sound lovely, princess. Who were you singing about?”

“Oh, well not really anybody.” You lie, looking up at him for only a second to meet his eye as he had been watching you.

“Come on, y/n. That is a song you sing when you’re thinking about someone. Who is it?” Fred asks, smirking as you won’t look at him.

“Fine, let me guess then!” He chuckles, dramatically trying to figure out someone you might like.

“Hmm, how about Wood? No, never mind. I don’t think I’ve ever really seen you talk to him.”

“Oh! Is it Harry?” He asks, smiling as he watches your face twist in disgust.

“Ew, no. He’s like a younger brother, Fred.” You laugh, your face still showing disgust.

“Okay, fine.” He laughs, smiling as he thinks some more.

“Well if Harry is like a brother to you, that leaves out Ron. Is it Cedric? You two look pretty close when your talking after classes.”

“He’s sweet, but no.” You chuckle as Fred’s mouth drops open in mock surprise.

“Oh, I’ve got it! It’s me, isn’t it?” He asks, winking at you.

You don’t say anything, instead looking away from him. You could lie, but you know it’d be useless to try. If you did, he would only tease you about it for who knows how long.

“Is it me?” He asks again, this time completely serious, and even a bit surprised.

“Princess, please give me an answer.” Fred begs, lifting your chin up and making eye contact with you.

You nod a bit, blushing. When Fred sees you nodding, his mouth drops in pure surprise before he starts smiling, pulling you into a tight hug.

“Do you really love me with my hair down?” He asks, smiling as he pulls back and looks at you.

You chuckle and nod, smiling at the dork you have as a best friend who you just so happened to fall for.

“Yes, Fred. I actually do.” You chuckle.

“So, that also means that you’re in love with me?” He asks, hopefulness shining in his smile. You nod and watch him light up, pulling you close to him.

“I love you, too.” He smiles, before kissing your lips. You smile as you pull away chuckling, not believing this luck.

You kiss him again, this time your hands going up to his hair you’ve been wanting to play with forever now.

“It’s about bloody time! You seriously tell her that I’m on my way right off the bat? How dumb are you, Freddie?” George asks as he walks into the room.

You both chuckle, a small blush rising to Fred’s cheeks as he shrugs at his twin.

“But it worked out, didn’t it?” He defends.

“It sure did.” You smile, placing one last small kiss on his lips before turning towards George who has the new products that need testing.

[dameronology]

tea & whiskey {jack daniels x reader} - 2

part two: a comprehensive study of how far you can push a cowboy before he breaks

summary: you continue to try and break jack’s ego, but nothing seems to be working - especially when you have to play a married couple, and his observant tendencies begin to break your confident facade instead 

song for this chapter: my friend by hayley williams

ok so this wasn’t gonna be out until december 1st but someone who donated to my ko-fi asked for part 2 and...i couldn’t resist. this also touches a little more on the reader + eggsy’s relationship and it’s background. enjoy!

- jamie

series masterlist

You had to give to the the Statesmen - the apartment they had leased you was fucking nice. 

It struck the balance between modern and homely, complete with a bath tub big enough for the whole damn agency and a bed to match. You knew that they had money, but not this much. The Kingsmen were wealthy but the Statesman put them to shame. It was a lifestyle you were happy to get used to, especially on the first morning. You’d woken up not long after 6AM - your body was still working on British time, after all - when it was still dark outside. The navy blue of the sky was pouring through the large windows, and paired with the remaining city lights, it lit up the bedroom in a cerulean glow. 

Blinking under the distant blue smoulder, you rubbed your eyes and sat up in bed. The bedroom itself was about the same size as your apartment back home and man, it was something you could have easily gotten used to. A bathtub the size of a swimming pool? Don’t mind if I do. A bed big enough to roll to your heart's content and not fall out? Fuck yeah. It made you wonder how rich some of your new colleagues were. You had noticed that Tequila drove an unusually expensive sports car. 

You frowned when you noticed that there was something heavy sprawled across your feet. It wasn’t necessarily in the bed, but rather strewn across the duvet. You rolled your eyes, letting out a sigh. 

‘Fuck’s sake, Eggsy!’ you raised your leg, kicking him front under the covers. ‘Why the bloody hell are you in here?’

Your friend suddenly jumped awake, almost falling off the mattress as you kicked him again. ‘Ow! Ribs!’

‘Well?’

‘Well what?’

‘You haven’t tried to share a bed with me since we were ten!’ You tossed a pillow at him. ‘So I’ll ask again - why the bloody hell are you in here?’

‘I couldn’t sleep.’ He grumbled. 

Your frown softened, and you let out a sigh. ‘Have you been having nightmares about Galahad again? Because Merlin said he was making strides towards getting better-’

‘- That day from the church is still ingrained in my head.’ Eggsy cut you off, tucking his knees into his chest and under his chin. ‘It keeps playing over and over.’

It was something you sympathised with. Working as a Kingsman brought good days and bad days, but the latter would stick in your mind a thousand times more. You’d learnt to live with it by that point but then again, you were easier at separating your emotions from your professional life. You had a good rapport with your colleagues - minus the doofus at the foot of your bed, who might as well have been an annoying brother - but you tried not to become attached. It only made it harder when you lost them, 

‘Time, Eggsy.’ You leant over the bed to give his arm a squeeze. ‘You need time.’

‘It’s been almost a year-’

‘- recovery isn’t a race.’ You firmly interrupted. ‘And healing isn’t linear, for you or for Gala - for Harry.’ 

You’d become so accustomed to codenames that they felt personal. Harry was Galahad, and Amish was Merlin. You’d never called Roxy anything other than Lancelot. It just didn’t feel right. 

‘I hate when you make sense-’

Eggy’s rumbling was cut off by the sound of the front door and the fall of footsteps. You immediately leapt out of bed, tearing your gun from the bedside table. Pointing it out in front of you, you slowly kicked open the door and crept out in the hallway, weapon leading the way. 

‘Morning sunshine-’ Whiskey stopped in his tracks when he saw the pistol aimed in his direction. ‘Well that ain’t a very warm welcome is it, Percy?’

‘Percy?’ The words rolled off of your tongue with a tone of disbelief. Admittedly, the new nickname shouldn’t have been your first concern when you were a) wearing Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle pajamas and b) pointing a gun at your new colleague, but priorities didn’t apply in this situation.

‘Short for Percival!’ Eggsy called from the bedroom.

‘Oh, I do apologise.’ He held his hands up in surrender. ‘Was I interrupting something-’

‘- Gross!’ You exclaimed. ‘No!’

‘Hey!’ Another call from the bedroom. ‘You would be lucky-’

You cut your friend off by slamming the bedroom door. ‘What do you want, Whiskey? It’s six in the fucking morning.’

‘And yet you’re up and pointing a gun at my head.’ The cowboy reasoned, complete with a small shrug. ‘Want to put the weapon down, pretty lady?’

Growling at the use of another nickname, you threw the gun onto one of the side-tables. That was when you realised you’d sprinted out the bedroom in cartoon pajamas, only to come face-to-face with Whiskey, who was in his usual leather jacket and hat. Frankly, you should have slapped it right off his head. That would have taught him to come bursting into your apartment at the crack of dawn. 

‘Maybe knock next time?’ You suggested, stalking through to the kitchen. ‘Especially considering that it’s not even light outside. A little bit predatorial, don’t you think?’

‘If you’d checked the schedule I emailed you, you would know that we have to be in the field in forty-five minutes.’ Jack shot back, leaning against the counter. ‘You should check your phone more often. I thought that most of your generation had their cell-phones glued to their hands.’

‘Okay, grandad.’ You snorted. His dark eyes followed you as you darted around the kitchen, piling together a cup of coffee on autopilot. ‘What’re we doing in the field?’

‘Recon.’ He said. ‘One of Calahan’s contacts has been spotted working a jewellery stand down at 30 Rock.’

‘Okay, give me thirty minutes.’ You tossed a piece of bread into the toaster.

‘Dress...touristy.’ 

--

‘That is not touristy.’

Usually, Jack Daniels would have been the last person to object to a woman wearing a dress and heels, but you were supposed to be blending in with crowds, not standing out. He clearly hadn’t got the memo that you didn’t do casual - not in a professional sense, at least. In some way, you were matching, because you too were wearing a leather jacket. It was a staple in your wardrobe. 

‘Would you rather I have stayed in the turtle pajamas?’ You glanced across the table at him, thinning your eyes. 

‘Tourists don’t wear Christian Louboutins.’ The cowboy muttered. 

‘I wear Christian Louboutins.’ You shot back. ‘But points for recognizing the brand.’ 

‘Here.’ Jack swiped a t-shirt off of a cart as they passed by, thrusting a fifty in the vendor’s hand. ‘Wear this.’ 

He shoved a t-shirt into your hand; it was about ten sizes too big for you with ‘I ❤️  NY’ blazoned across the front. For a minute, you thought he was kidding, but Jack’s serious expression barely faltered. You tried to counter the look, quirking your brow as if to say yeah, good one. 

‘I’m serious, Agent. We can’t blow our cover.’ 

‘What cover?’ You frowned. ‘You never said anything about a cover.’ 

‘Our guy works for a jewelry vendor.’ Jack flashed a grin at you, before pulling a pair of glasses out of his pocket. ‘We need to get inside and get footage of the shop for the agents coming in tonight. These babies will live stream it right back to Ginger HQ.’

‘So I have to go jewelry shopping?’ 

‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘We are going ring shopping, Mrs Daniels.’ 

‘You’re not serious.’ Your eyebrows shot up. 

‘I think we would make a very attractive couple.’ He retorted. ‘A bright-eyed Brit falling in love with a cowboy, their feelings for each other spanning the Pacific-’

‘- Atlantic-’

‘- ocean.’ 

‘Whatever.’ You pulled off your jacket, yanking the t-shirt from his hands and tugging it over your head. The shirt ended up being longer than your dress, and with your tights and heels it worked in a way that it definitely shouldn’t have. ‘Let’s just get this over and done with. I’m tired.’

‘Incidentally, that’s something you would also say if you were my wife.’

You responded again with a groan, elongating it slightly when Jack wound an arm around your waist, as though somebody had just yelled action! 

How hard could it be? You’d been undercover as part of a couple before - admittedly, that had been with people you’d already had a rapport with, and ones who didn’t drive you up the wall as much as Whiskey. Eggsy was a close call, but having been your best friend for the better part of twenty years, it was easy to convince people you were a real couple. It had been a little awkward with Merlin and you had almost flat out refused to do it with Galahad, but there hadn’t been so much at risk then. If this recon went well, it could lead to leaps and strides in your bigger mission. Finding Calahan, proving yourself worthy of a promotion and eventual world domination (in a hero kinda way). 

‘Let’s go over the fine details.’ You murmured to him, glancing around as you entered the shopping strip inside 30 Rock. ‘Where did we meet?’

‘London. I was on a business trip.’ Whiskey quickly replied. ‘How did I propose?’

‘In front of the Eiffel Tower.’ You said. ‘And where do we live now?’

‘Kentucky, but we’re in New York because we plan on getting married here.’ He said. ‘You ready?’

‘Let’s go.’ You linked your arms with his, plastering on a fake grin as you entered the jewelry store.  ‘My glasses are recording this straight back to HQ.’

‘Hey there, cowboy!’ Calahan’s contact greeted you immediately. He wasn’t what you’d expected - the man was decked out in a suit and tie, complete with a dodgy looking spray tan and teeth so white they could probably reflect the fucking sun. ‘And pretty lady.’

It had been bad enough when Whiskey called you that. But this guy? Gross - and Jack couldn’t help but notice how you tensed up at the nickname. 

‘Watch it, pal.’ Jack joked. ‘That’s my fiancee you’re talking to.’

‘And I assume that’s what brings you in today?’ He flashed a grin at you. ‘I couldn’t help but notice she doesn’t have a ring.’

‘See if you can move closer to the case by the fire exit.’ Ginger’s voice came over your earpiece. 

‘These ones here look pretty!’ You suddenly exclaimed, grabbing Jack by the arm and yanking him in the direction that Ginger had requested. The cowboy let out a surprised yelp as you did, stumbling slightly as you dragged him across the store. 

‘Perfect. Thank you.’ She quietly said over the line. 

‘Any in particular catch your eye, Miss…’

‘It will be Mrs Jones when we get married.’ You plastered on the biggest shit-eating grin that you could muster. ‘And that one in the top corner is very pretty.’

‘That’s one of our most expensive rings.’ The jeweler’s grin was bigger than yours. ‘Is your event going to be as big? You know...price wise?’

‘Oh yeah!’ You chimed in, barely giving Jack a chance to think. ‘We’re renting out the Plaza Hotel. I’m wearing a vintage Emanuel dress inspired by the Princess of Wales and our honeymoon is three weeks in the Bahamas.’

You just had to ramble for a little bit longer whilst Jack looked around to get the footage. Luckily, it was something you were good at. You could talk somebody’s ear off if you had to and bullshit to the next degree; it had saved your ass on missions more times than you’d care to admit. If you ever retired from the Kingsman, you probably had a promising career as an actress. 

‘All this before you’ve chosen a ring?’ He raised his eyebrows at you. You’d been quick on your feet - so much so that you’d tripped and fallen. 

‘My baby’s been planning this thing since was a little girl.’ Whiskey quickly stepped in. ‘And it’s my job to make sure she gets it.’

‘He’s a lawyer.’ You went up on your tiptoes, pressing a kiss to Jack’s cheek. ‘I’m marrying good.’

‘Oh!’ The jeweler glanced between the two of you. ‘This makes more sense now.’

‘Right, we’ve got enough footage.’ Merlin said. ‘You two can get the bloody hell out of there before I puke.’

After making an appointment to return the following day - which neither of you planned on going to, obviously - Jack took your hand and led you out the store. To keep up appearances, you kept your fingers intertwined as you walked back through the shopping mall. The fact you had managed to play a believable couple on such short notice was almost astounding. 

‘Oh my god.’ You murmured, glancing over your shoulder as you exited the mall and turned the corner. You pulled your hand back from Jack’s, stifling a laugh. ‘I can’t believe we actually managed to do it.’

‘Why are you so shocked?’ Whiskey peered down at you, a grin playing on his lips. ‘Like I said - we would make a very attractive couple, sugar.’

‘In your dreams, Daniels.’ You shot back. ‘But if I ever do end up in a relationship like that? Shoot me. I beg you.’

You kept strolling together, slowly heading for the Statesman headquarters - but neither of you were in a rush. Whatever the hell that was had just broken the initial tension between you, and you were actually enjoying one another’s company for the moment. 

‘What’s wrong with it?’ He asked. ‘Ain’t nothing bad about a man looking after his woman.’

‘That’s so outdated.’ You groaned. 

‘It’s not!’ Jack protested. ‘A man looks after his girl and his girl looks after him. Or a husband and husband, or wife and wife-’

‘- how progressive of you.’ You cut him off, rolling your eyes. ‘I don’t rely on anyone. Ever. I look after myself.’

It was probably a cultural difference. Jack had grown up in the south, in a household where his dad worked and his mum looked after the house. It had been the same with his late wife; had things not gone the way they had, he’d probably be the breadwinner whilst she stayed home with the kids. You, meanwhile, had grown up in a working class area of London where a majority of the households were headed by women - and most of the time, single women. If there was some unheard of future where you got married and had kids, like hell would you give up your career. Your job was your baby. 

‘We all need people to look after us sometimes.’ Jack nudged you with his elbow.

You shook your head. ‘Not me.’

‘Well you sound like a real heart-breaker, Miss Independent.’ 

‘It’s my speciality.’ 

--

Once you’d handed over the footage from your glasses to Ginger, you and Whiskey headed to the office. There was a comfortable silence between you - pretending to be a married couple had been one hell of an ice breaker. At least it was proof that you and Jack could work well together. You’d stayed on the same page for the entirety of your little improv love story, and it meant your first mission, however minor, had been a success. If working with him was going to like that for the rest of your time in New York, you might have been able to tolerate him and his ridiculous Southern drawl. 

(Not to mention the nicknames. It left you wondering if Jack had forgotten your actual name and was too afraid to ask.) 

Eggsy was waiting for you in the lobby outside the lift. He was leant against the wall, feet crossed in front of him as he tapped away on his phone. A frown came over your face when you realised that he had a bag beside him. He was scheduled to stay in the city with you until at least the following weekend. You had plans for a few days time to try and use your contacts to sneak into a filming of Saturday Night Live. 

‘Hey!’ Your best friend brightly greeted you. ‘Guess what? Tilde called!’

‘That’s great!’ You forced a smile. ‘So you’re heading back to London tonight?’

‘Yeah.’ His grin didn’t falter. ‘I figured since you two played a married couple successfully, you didn’t need me to stick around to babysit you and make sure you didn’t eat him alive.’

‘It’s still early days.’ You reasoned. ‘Are you sure you don’t wanna stay a couple more days? Adam Driver’s the guest on SNL this weekend.’

‘I gotta get back and fix things, man.’ Eggsy said. ‘I just wanted to say goodbye before I left.’

‘Right, of course.’ You held your arms out to him. 

He stepped forward and wrapped his own around you, lifting you off the ground and giving you a tight squeeze. If you had to choose one of your favourite things about Eggsy, it would have to be his hugs. The only reason you’d stopped calling him Hugsy was because he’d threatened to take them away entirely. They were far and few, usually when you were going to spend time apart, but you always appreciated them. 

‘I’ll see you in a few weeks, tops.’ He said, placing you back on the ground. ‘And I promise we’ll get into SNL then.’

‘You better.’ You poked his chest. ‘I’ll miss you, Egghead.’

‘I’ll miss you more.’

You let out a tiny sigh as Eggsy picked up his bags and headed for the lift. You weren’t mad at him for going home early - just disappointed. And not at him, just at the situation, It had been a long time since you’d got to properly spend time together outside of work. Above all, however, you knew you had to respect his relationship. What kind of friend would you be to stand in the way of him and love? 

Once he was out of sight, you regathered yourself and headed to the office. Jack was already inside, his feet propped up on the desk and a glass of his namesake whiskey in hand. It was the first time he’d taken off his hat in front of you, and his hair was a little ruffled from it. 

‘Don’t need anyone my ass’ was the greeting he offered you. 

‘What?’ You furrowed your brow. 

Jack pushed his feet back to the floor, handing you your own glass of...well, Jack.  ‘I saw the way you looked at your boy, Percy.’

‘I told you before!’ You snatched the glass from his hand, dropping into your chair. ‘Eggsy is not my boyfriend.’

‘Doesn’t have to be’.’ He shrugged. ‘You looked like you were losing your brother. Tweedle Dum ain’t nothing without Tweedle Dee.’ 

Eggsy was your brother, by all intents and purposes. Heck, he might as well have been your twin. Your fathers had been best friends when they were in Kingsman, and you and him were reflections of that. You’d gone through every high and low of your teenage years together, and eventually adulthood. As previously established, he often came to you and he often needed you, but you hated to consider how it might have gone the other way. He was the only exception to your needing no one rule. And, considering that not even your own mother had made the cut, it was actually quite complimentary. 

‘I don’t need Eggsy.’ You insisted. 

‘How long have you known each other?’ Jack ignored your statement, instead posing a question. ‘Since school?’

‘No. He’s six months older than me, so...my whole life.’

‘I rest my case.’

‘You know nothing, Whiskey!’ You exclaimed. ‘You can’t make massive assumptions about me when you’ve known me for two days.’

‘I’ve met a woman like you before.’ He replied. He pondered for a moment, and his eyes were almost...vacant. ‘She pretended she didn’t need a damn person either, but she did.’

‘And who was that?’ You thinned your eyes at me. ‘Because I can’t think of a single person who I need.’ 

‘She needed me.’ He casually shrugged. ‘And I needed her.’

‘Right. Naturally.’ You murmured. ‘It’s too early for this, Whiskey.’

‘Got too deep for you, Tea?’

‘The hell did you just call me?’

‘Tea.’ He offered you a shit eat grin. ‘Get it? Because you’re British-’

‘- this face isn’t because I didn’t get it.’ You cut him off. ‘And on that note, I am done here. I shall be working from home this evening and possibly for the rest of eternity.’ 

Swiping your glass up, you poured the entirety of its contents down your throat in one swig, before slamming it back on the table. The whiskey burnt for a split second, but it felt good - and you didn’t need to be skidding down that slippery slope at two in the afternoon. Gathering up your bag, you swung it over your shoulder and stood up. 

‘Oh, c’mon!’ Jack protested. ‘We were just starting to get along, sugar!’

‘We were!’ You shot back, pausing when you were half-way out the door. ‘Then you started therapising me.’

He grinned at you. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

‘Maybe.’

‘You’re contractually obliged!’

‘Fuuuck off!’ 

[lovysmtalks]

uwu

Alexa, play uwu by chevy

It was well known for people to act differently around people that they like.

Some people aren't even recognizable when their crush walks past them.

But.

Marinette was well known shy and bubbly.

So when she was having a crush on anyone, dosen't matter girl or boy.

You won't exactly know.

And this is how it started...

✎؂

"C'mon girl, you gotta tell your feelings to Lila! I'm sure she'll accept them, I mean come on! You'll be couple goals." Complained Alya as she tried to help her friend.

"I-I don't know Alya...I'm not sure if she's into- you know what I mean..." stutters Mari as her face started to get pink.

"You never know until you try babe!" Alya pulls her into a hug.

Marinette, shocked by the hug, could feel herself start tearing up as she hugged her bestfriend close and tight.

✎؂

"Hey girl! I have something for you." Says Alya as she runs to the girl's locker as the school day ended.

"Yes?" Says Lila surprised by the excitement.

Alya gives Lila a letter with a heart on it.

"I've gotta go, mom said I need to babysit! Byeeee" says Alya as she runs with her boyfriend.

Lila smiles at the girl.

She opens the letter and reads it.

'Hey...wanna meet me at the backyard of the school? I mean it's fine if you say no! -^^'

Lila looked around to see if anyone could have send her the letter.

'Ok. Let's do this.'

✎؂

Marinette was shaking.

While she kept her eyes into the ground trying to keep herself from having a panic attack.

"HEY! Marinette, you wanted to meet me here?" Says a voice that makes Mari jump.

Mari's cheeks go a little red when she sees who was there.

"Y-yea."

"So, what's up?" Says Lila as she smiles at the girl.

"I uhm-I really- uh..." Marinette opens her mouth but the words don't came as they should.

Lila sees her starting to panic and speeds infront of her.

"Hey, hey no need to panic. Breath. And then spit." She puts her hands on the short girl's shoulders for support.

Mari sighs deeply.

"Ireallyreallylikeyouilikedyouforawhileandidontwannamakeitweirdyouaredeallykindandohmygodyouresocoolandwholesomeimsososososososososorryishouldnthadcalledyouhereijustdestroyedourfriendship"

Marinette said in Eminem rap god speed.

Lila opened her mouth in the shape of an 'O' and blinks in confusion trying to comprehend what the short girl just said.

"Come again, just shorter and slower, my brain is too slow for this." She chuckles awkwardly.

Marinette looks at the her hands.

"I-I really, really, really like you, n-no I mean- I l-love you..." Marinette sniffed.

Lila stares in shook of what the girl just said.

Marinette begins to worry and feeling bad for confessing.

Her hands start shake.

"I-I am s-sorry, I s-shouldn't have said a-anything." Marinette sniffed and begins to walk backwards.

Lila wakes up from her shook and runs towards Marinette.

She grabs her hand and pulls her back.

"I'm sorry it was my fault, you got me in shook that's all. Look I'm very proud of you." Lila pats Mari's hair.

Mari stares at her in confusion as some tears fall down her cheek.

"W-why are y-you proud exactly?" Mari asked.

Lila smiles.

"I know how hard is it for you to confess something so big, hell is hard sometimes for you even to talk but I'm really glad you did, it's a start." She looks down at her.

"Look I'm not exactly feeling what you feel. IT'S NOT YOU, I'm not exactly the one with crushes and 'feeling in love'" Lila says mockingly.

Marinette then realized.

"You are aromatic." She says.

Lila winks at her.

"OH GOD, IM SO SORRY IF I MADE YOU UNCOMFORTABLE!" Mari looks at the ground in shame.

Lila moves her head in confusion.

"No, no babes, you didn't." She laughed.

Marinette looks at Lila and wipe her tears.

She walks up to Lila and hugs her tightly

"Thank you." The short girl whispers.

Lila hugs the girl back feeling like a proud mother.

✎؂

Meeting Damian was a mistake from the start.

They meet at a Gala where Marinette was invited and she couldn't refuse, her heart wouldn't have let her do refuse.

She was sitting alone, her social anxiety stoping her from talking with even a person.

'What the heck am I doing here? Those people are rich and professional. What in the name of god I was th-'

"Hi." A young looking man sit next to her.

Marinette blinks rapidly and turns to the guy.

"H-hi." She turns her head away quickly, not trying to look mean.

After some awkward silence moments the guy started to speak again.

"So...why are you sitting alone while everyone is having fun?" He turns to her.

Marinette opens her eyes and looks at the ground.

"I-I don't want to make people awkward...I-I'm very bad at talking to people in general."

She stutters quietly.

The boy narrowed his eyebrows and then chuckled.

Marinette didn't know if he was mocking her or just straight up annoying her.

"W-what's so funny?" She tries but fails to stutter.

The man smirks and then looks at her, making her more confused.

"Ahem. Nothing special, I just normal think beautiful people are supposed to be confident and aching to show their beauty, but I guess I was wrong"

Marinette's brains shuts down.

Her cheeks go BLOODY RED.

The guy sees her expression and laughs. LAUGHS. DUCKING LAUGHS.

He stops laughing.

"The name's Damian." He holds his hand for a handshake.

"M-Maria, I-I mean M-Marinette" she shyly shakes his hand.

"So Maria-nette?" He dad jokes.

Marinette chuckles.

"So would this beautiful girl give me her number?" He asks.

"W-why, we don't even know each other." She says.

"Well, I would like to know you, Marinette." He pet's her head gently.

"O-ok."

✎؂

They started talking for days, days turned into weeks and the weeks turned into months.

She knew from the start she shouldn't catch feelings for a friend but she couldn't control it.

One day Mari and her friends we're hanging out at the bakery

Mari was showing them the ukulele that her grangran gived her some weeks ago, on her birthday.

"Why don't you try and sing something for us? I've seen you write song with Luka and Kagami before, show us some of you work."

Alix said.

"Agreed" Lila and Adrien said at the same time.

Marinette turned to her friends, about to disagree.

"Pleeeeeeeeeeaaaseeee!" Said Rose.

"O-okay." Mari says as she picked up the ukulele.

sigh

I'm startin' to feel some sort of way

You give me goosebumps every day

And when you look at me and smile I wanna say

"I think you're okay"

×

I guess I'll stop here and not hint at all

That you're one I've fallen for

But if you ever think of me as anything more

I'll be here at your....call

'Is this for Damian?' A girl asked.

'IT IS, LOOK HOW SHE BLUSHED AWWW' a guy shouted.

The live stops some minutes later when the LadyBlogger realizes she was live.

Damian stared shocked at his phone as Jon showed him a video leak of Marinette singing.

He was frozen.

'Mari...likes me?'  That's all he could think of.

"Man, I feel bad for her. Imagine how bad she's feeling."

Damian opened his phone and got straight up to the message.

"She doesn't answer me." He says.

"Bruh, obviously she won't, she feels bad. You didn't get the memo? She's shy and has social anxiety. It's not gonna be easy." Jon explains the obvious.

After minutes of silence, Jon's phone rings.

"That's me, gotta go, dad's gonna beat my ass if I don't show up to dinner" Jon looks at his phone.

"I should go too. Talk to you later." Says Damian, not really paying attention to anything that was happening.

✎؂

As he walked infront of the bakery, he could see Marinette helping her parents to close the bakery, meaning that the parents were going on vacation.

He rushed to enter.

"Hello? Is this still opened?" He asked even the obvious answer is that they were closed.

"No sweet sir, we are cl-" as Marinette's gaze meet his she closed he mouth in shock.

"What exactly 'cl' mean, blossom?" he jokes while smiling.

"Damian, what are you doing here?" She asks avoiding his eye contact.

He chuckles. FUXINGDICKEAD

"That's not a nice way to greet your future boyfriend darling" (smooth bastard)

Marinette.exe stopped working

Marinette just passed out.

The parents walked in

Sabine looks at her daughter.

Tom looks at Damian.

WAR STARTS AFTER OUR SPONSOR, RAID SHADOW LEGENDS!

(I couldn't careless about editing this lmao)

[kazoo5480]

Almost finished! 30 chapters down, a few more to go. Thanks to those of you who wrote awesome notes, and who provide inspiration to us newbies every day with your lovely tales!

Chapter 1 Arrivals

Prologue – September 1943, New York City

25-year-old Killian Jones steps down the ramp off the Algernon straight from Belfast. He has $40 to his name, the clothes on his back. Having lost his brother in an accident, his mother to illness, and abandonment of his father when he was 7, Killian made a choice to leave his homeland and make his way to America. America was currently engaged in World War II, with no family left, he decides that a fresh start in a new land and a new line of work away from the IRA is just what he needs after the arrests and massacres taking place back in Ireland.

Gun running and violence is not a life he wants any longer, nor is a life in prison, or death. He is hopeful that despite his heritage, he will be able to settle into a new life, away from the massacre left behind on the emerald isle. Finding honest work is harder than he expected, even in a city this large.

Waiting in those long lines with all those other expats, hoping to find honest work and nothing. He goes every day for two weeks but quickly realizes that no one wants to hire an Irishman or give him a fair shake. But he believes you make your own destiny and believes in hard work and determination.

He hears the other men talking, that security and lounges, the US Army, and driving taxis are just about the only people hiring anyone right now if you aren’t American.

Killian has no interest in joining Americas crusade, so he finds a gig working the doors and security a little dingy nightclub at first, but slowly descends into the more glamorous nightclubs and lounges.

Word spreads quickly to his newest employer, Louis Lepke, who owns the Riobamba- one of Manhattan’s most posh nightclubs that Killian was once part of the IRA and has a hell of a left hook. Lepke, one of the most dangerous mob bosses in New York at that time sees potential in Killian, thinks that his past IRA ties could be beneficial to their enterprise, and he offers him a better paying job running pickups and drop offs of packages that Killian doesn’t open and doesn’t want to open.

While the money is nothing to turn your nose up at, Killian continues this path, socking away the cash and crafting an entirely new persona for himself while making his own contingency plans to disappear for a quieter life someplace near the sea, perhaps finding peace and burying his demons for good at last.

Killian will never forget the day he was able to move out of the vermin infested room he had been renting in a boarding house on the lower east side, and into a three-room apartment of his own for $80 a month near Washington Square Park. Not cheap by any means, but it’s a second-floor walkup, with a fireplace, and wide windows that overlook the street.

Lepke pays him three hundred a month right now, but he always earns tips from both ends of pickup and delivery, and that extra cash is always appreciated.

He will never forget the first suit he purchases, or his first pair of new shoes in god knows how many years. He knows with his new employment, he needs to look the part, so he only is careful in his wardrobe choices, dark colors that won’t show dirt easily, well-tailored shirts, wingtips in black and white, and two hats that he sees the other men wearing.

He manages to pry a floorboard in the back of his new closet loose, securing the hole with a thin layer of wood, ensuring nothing would fall through or be lost to the ageing building, and he uses this as home for his cash and very little valuables. He has no furniture to speak of, except a mattress on the floor with linens, but he knows soon enough he will have money to furnish his new home.

For now, he is only willing to spend money on rent, and groceries, he saves every dollar that he earns after his necessities are purchased.

What he does not expect is meeting Emma Swan, an enchanting blonde lounge singer at the Riobamba. Frank Sinatra even plays there on occasion, so the joint was always packed. But amongst all those entertainers, is Emma. With the voice of an angel, the body of a bloody goddess, and a fire in her green eyes.

He knows that from the moment he saw her dancing and singing across that smoke filled room, that he was going to have her no matter the cost. Tonight, her golden curls pinned back on one side with a glittering clip, wrapped in a floor length sequin dress cut scandalously low in the front, even for the nightclub scene at that point in time.

She is easily the most beautiful woman he has ever seen, and he wonders if she works for Lepke as well, a personal relationship perhaps, and the thought of any man touching her at all has him see red when those thoughts flit through his mind. He always hopes divine intervention is on his side to catch a glimpse of her during her sets, whether picking up or dropping off to his boss.

Occasionally he just sits in the back nursing a rum while he watches her, gliding around the small stage, dressed like sex personified, singing in that angelic voice of hers, enchanting the entire room.

She sings songs of love and happiness, sometimes she covers popular music of other entertainers, but he sees the sadness and demons lingering behind those emerald eyes, the glittering dresses and gorgeous gold curls. He wants to know more, scale those walls he can spot a mile high surrounding her.

On more than one occasion he is thankful for the low lighting of the club and his dark suits to hide the evidence of his rock-hard arousal that she stirs up every damn time he lays eyes on her. Green eyes that sparkle in the low lighting, locking on his blue. She sees him and he sees her, never exchanging words, just eye locks and then he is off.

In a rare occasion that Killian indulges the other members of his crew in playing craps, he casually asks about Emma to one of the kinder men, Bill Starkey, a slightly older married man, who handles the books for the clubs that Lepke owns.

“What of that lounge singer Starkey, she is a sight for sore eyes if I may say so myself”, Killian mentions with a smile. The older man looks him over for a second, and replies “She is a quite a dame, isn’t she? Voice of a siren an everything, but she is not to be trifled with - She keeps to herself, is a bloody fantastic piece of entertainment, draws the crowds in, but she does not mess with our crew. Many of ours have learned that the hard way he says with a laugh, Tough as brass that one is, so don’t bother with her”, and the man went back to the game.

When Starkey bids goodnight, leaving the younger men to their games, another crew member that Killian has somewhat befriended named Victor Whale leans over, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “If its Emma you’ve set your sightings on, you are not as slick as you think ya git, my girl Ruby mentioned that she caught you watching her shows on occasion, but Emma doesn’t date anyone around here, if she does date, it isn’t anyone related to our line of work”.

Bidding goodnight to Killian and the few stragglers still playing, he stands and Killian notices Ruby Lucas in her coat waiting by the door with a smile on her face. Whale takes her hand and pulls them out the door. Killian feels a pang of jealousy at their obvious companionship but pushes the thought away.

Ruby Lucas, the costume coordinator for the club, is a gorgeous specimen of her own right with long chocolate locks, hazel eyes, and legs for days. She has worked in the club a long time, and if anyone knows Emma, its Ruby. Killian decides that perhaps he shall inquire to Ms. Lucas about Swan but tucks the thought away for another time.

He has gained enough information about her for one night, he will have to just be patient. If Ruby has noticed him watching Emma, he would bet the few dollars left in his lightened pocket tonight that she has told Swan about him, and that is something he is not quite sure he knows how to feel about.

He wonders what Ruby would tell Emma, since she was obviously very much with Whale, she must know more about their conducted business, but appears to know when to keep her mouth shut. Maybe, the tides will be in his favor since he tends to keep a low profile in his job. The bosses like him because he is discreet and is known not to be messed with.

Emma sees him alright, black suits, navy wool suits, tuxedoes at parties, custom made shirts, and she would bet her last dollar that those cufflinks he always wears are actual sterling silver.

He has slicked back inky hair, tousled in just the right places, a permanent five o’ clock shadow, and forget me not blue eyes that haunt her for days every single time she catches a glimpse of him staring right back at her. 

She notices the way he carries himself, so confident, dangerous, and definitely a hustler. He must be connected somehow, and Emma does not want that complication in her simple life.

He looks at her sometimes like he would devour her like a man on death row, and she being his last meal. She cannot get mixed up with someone like him, she has survived this long without someone, and the last time she allowed someone into her heart it nearly broke her in two.

Her friend Ruby has casually mentioned him, his name is Killian Jones, he works with her boyfriend Victor, but she does not know exactly what his role is. Ruby giggles as she talks about how handsome Killian is, and notes that he always throws her a generous tip, never ogling her or being disrespectful like some of the other crew who think that any woman in the club is dumb enough to roll in the sack with them.

Ruby has been with her boyfriend for a few years from what she mentions, having been together since before Victor’s job with Lepke’s crew, whatever that may be. Ruby is also one of the few people that makes Emma smile genuinely and lifts her spirits. Emma considers the brunette one of her very few real friends.

One night after her set is done, Emma enters her dressing room, and slips out of her dress, carefully hanging it inside the garment bag, and lights a cigarette, swallowing a sip of her Manhattan. Her roommate Mary Margaret is getting better and better with her sewing skills, her emerald green gown tonight is delicate, covered in sequins and green feathers float around the hem of her dress, she admires the gown once more before zipping the bag.

Standing in her silk stockings and garters, she begins removing her jewelry and realizes suddenly that she is not alone. Sitting in a low chair in the back corner of the dressing room is Killian fucking Jones. She grabs for her silk robe, tying it quickly- trying to regain some of her modesty. Watching her with those blue eyes, fingers crossed under his chin while he leans forward, elbows on his knees.

"Don't stop on my account love, I simply wanted to introduce myself, and I thank the bloody gods that I was granted enough luck to watch your private show just now. He smirked at her, running is tongue over his bottom lip, and she wanted to punch that smirk off his smug face, even if her heart beat faster in her chest and not from anxiety.

“Emma breathe,” she internally chastises herself. Her brain reconnects, she stamps out her cigarette, and she manages to spit out “listen pal, I don't know who the hell you think you are, but I am not that type of woman. Go buy one down the street if you need to get your rocks off but get the hell out.”

He stood up, adjusting his trousers by the belt, which she noticed were fitting awfully tight, the evidence of his arousal clear but now covered as he buttoned his coat up.

He spoke, his voice a lilting Irish accent, “I apologize lass, I simply wanted to introduce myself and give you these in person,” he held out a large bouquet of creamy white roses tipped in pale pink, tied with a black silk ribbon. 

“You are a vision, both on and off the stage Swan, and I simply was hoping to make your acquaintance as we seem to catch each other’s eye from time to time. I thought perhaps my interest was reciprocated, but clearly it is not, and I shan't bother you again”.

Emma did not know what to say, still shocked, her red painted mouth in a grim line. She caught his cologne as he made his exit, carefully avoiding touching her in any way. He smelled of wood and spice, and definitely rum.

Right as he was crossing the threshold to exit, Emma made a rash decision, and grabbed his hand, locked eyes with him and said, “Don't ever do that again, thank you for the flowers, but I am not interested.” 

“They're nothing compared to you Emma, but I do apologize again”, and with that parting line Killian quietly exited, making sure to close the door fully behind him.

Emma locked the handle, ensuring no one else would interrupt her. She cleaned most of her face off and pulled on her burgundy wool dress and matching coat, gathered her things, and her flowers hailing a cab home.

Tagging a few who might be interested! @wefoundloveunderthelight @itsfabianadocarmo @purplehawkcaptain @the-lady-of-misthaven @the-captains-ayebrows @thesschesthair @myfearless-love @kmomof4 @jonesfandomfanatic @hookedpirate @xhookswenchx @let-it-raines @letmedieahooker @captainswanouat @captainswoon @cathloves @laschatzi @timeless-love-story @asluve @ao3feed-cs @ahookerandproud @ineffablecolors @the-darkdragonfly @donteattheappleshook @kymbersmith-90 @elizabeethan @the-darkdragonfly @tnlph @the-captains-ayebrows @captainswoon @captainswanouat @captain-swan-coffee​ @jrob64​ @whimsicallyenchantedrose​​ @captainirishstubble @onceuponadaily​ @resident-of-storybrooke​​ @greenlef777 Let me know if you want to be added or removed! 

[leesh]

because i have zero self control when it comes to christmas films and, well, cheesy christmas films are #life. 

basically, i have developed a collection of favourites over the years, including both classic christmas films that are fun for the whole family and terrible, dripping with all our favourite favourite cliches hallmark christmas films, and yet i am still always on the hunt for more. so, i thought i would try a little thing to share them with everyone else as well (and actually remember them for future reference)!

check out the tag here i will try and remember to use as i live blog some of these movies or head on down below the cut to see all of the christmas films i’ve watched in 2020. thoughts and star ratings included! as expected, i will also be updating this as i watch more and more this holiday season (follow along on twitter too if you want).

note: since i LOVE terrible hallmark films, some that i give a higher rating will not actually be......critically acclaimed. i am just #obsessed and have my reasons as stated, i’m sure.

holidate (2020) 

⭐️⭐️| first time watch | someone on letterboxd compared this movie to when you watch a rom com in sims and it’s just a bunch of random scenes that make no sense and they’re absolutely right. its only saviour is an australian dude and the line “so you know me well enough to cum in my mouth, but you don’t know me well enough to get me a christmas present?”

my christmas inn (2018) 

⭐️⭐️| first time watch | i’ll be honest, this film was pretty forgetful. i watched it over a month ago and don’t really remember what happened. however, i do remember being impressed that the leading lady wasn’t a stereotypical thin white woman. so i guess at least it has that going for it.

christmas made to order (2018) 

⭐️⭐️⭐️| first time watch | i actually thought this was pretty cute. it’s not the best, but also not the worst, so a decent medium if you need to fill up those figurative christmas stockings. the concept of hiring someone to decorate your entire house with no budget sounds pretty cool, but when the guy is aaron samuels and looks far from straight, it becomes a little questionable. 

last christmas (2019) 

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️| rewatch | now this is not a cheesy hallmark film. in fact, i LOVE this film a lot and think i saw it twice at the cinema. last christmas is a top tier christmas song and i remember theorising about it when the trailer first came out, but i will say tissues may be a requirement to watch this. AND henry golding is my husband thank u and goodbye.

operation christmas drop (2020) 

⭐️| first time watch | interesting concept in theory, but this is nothing more than US military propaganda and a cgi lizard. bonus: white saviourism. 

the knight before christmas (2019) 

⭐️⭐️⭐️| rewatch | a medieval knight transported into today’s world and has never seen a car before can drive better than me. that’s it. that’s the movie. also, he literally says the words “modern technology is lit af” at one point. solid christmas film if you ask me. 

the princess switch (2018) 

⭐️⭐️⭐️| rewatch | i strongly believe in the vhcncu (vanessa hudgens christmas netflix cinematic universe). i also have so many questions, like how did they afford the flights or solid conversation or was it all expenses paid? how did they finish a bulk of the cake without a mixer? why does everyone always speak english with a posh english accent even though it’s a non-english european country?

the princess switch: switched again (2020) 

⭐️⭐️| if we learnt anything from a christmas prince, it’s that sequels are generally never better than their predecessor. that being said, this was much less cute body swapping christmas fluff and a little more literal kidnapping and saving the day. either way, blonde vanessa was hot and i appreciated the amber/richard cameo that insinuates a christmas prince is actually a dramatic documentary.

midnight at the magnolia (2020) 

⭐️⭐️| now if you’re after an absolute cheesefest that ticks the boxes on best friends meets fake dating over the holidays, then this is the movie for you! albeit it takes place between christmas and new year’s, it’s still filled with their families knowing they were soulmates the whole time and two people who are a literal too comfortable on the radio. also, the dad’s totally should’ve been gay. they had more chemistry.

christmas wonderland (2018) 

⭐️⭐️⭐️| tbh, i genuinely enjoyed this one. post breakup/high school sweethearts is a personal favourite trope of mine, so throw christmas & being forced to spend time together when she goes back home into the mix and i’ll have a serotonin explosion. bonus points for the guy telling the girl to go back to nyc to follow her dreams without being a dick. OH and the scene when he points a fuck load of sugar in his hot beverage.

a wish for christmas (2016) 

⭐️⭐️| who doesn’t love a good office romance between a boss and an employee at christmastime? especially when you throw in a little christmas magic that makes her more confident that results in her finally getting what she deserves and having to travel and rekindle with his family? also, fuck them rich white dudes, but props to her for the significant job promotion.

christmas with a prince (2018) 

⭐️| this was TERRIBLE and not in the good way. it featured: an entitled prince who suddenly had growth even though he did nothing to achieve it, majority of the film set in one hospital room, and the fact that she’s the only one with a tiara at the party filled with people who actually have titles. also, thought there was a decent ending but turns out there was still another 30 mins to go. ugh.

a royal christmas engagement (2020) 

⭐️| don’t be fooled by the title. the engagement doesn’t happen til the last two minutes. it’s actually about a prince (bet you didn’t see that one coming) who travels to america, pretending to be his best friend who works for this major marketing firm because he’s tired of being the spare. this gets one star purely for the line “she’s not a commoner, patrick. she’s an american.”

christmas wedding planning (2017)

⭐️⭐️| it looked like it would be half decent, and while it’s definitely better than the last two, it was still pretty eh. i could get on board with her texting her dead mother’s number as a way to talk to her still, and i understand we all experience grief differently, but.....actively paying your mums phone bill 3 years later? girl. also, the end made me SCREAM. WHY DID THEY DO THAT!!!!

santa girl (2019)

⭐️| this was just painful to watch. evil jack frost makes memes in his free time, santa has a fancy car and doesn’t eat sweets, and there’s an odd comparison between the elves, minimum age workers, and racism. however, one star purely for the entertaining (read: bloody awful) tooth fairy cgi that gave me a right laugh.

the christmas chronicles (2018)

⭐️⭐️⭐️| this was really cute and had the makings of what could be a christmas movie staple along with the likes of elf and the santa clause (but will never reach that standard, obvs). tbh, it’s just a nice heartwarming family christmas movie about two siblings who band together to help santa and save christmas. also, santa was a #dilf.

the christmas chronicles: part two (2020)

⭐️⭐️| one of these days i would love to see a sequel that’s better, or at least on par, with its predecessor, but that day is not today. sadly, this film lacked all the heart and magic the first one was filled with and some scenes were pretty redundant. kurt russell and goldie hawn, however... one star for each of them.

forever christmas / mr. 365 (2019)

⭐️⭐️| the title varies depending where you’re from, but that’s probably the most exciting part of this movie. a guy celebrates christmas 365 days a year and a reality show wants to invade his house? ok, sure. one star for the eye candy and one star for, surprisingly enough, their chemistry and all the kissing scenes that don’t usually make the mark in the hallmark world. 

noelle (2019)

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️| did i renew disney plus just so i could watch this (and a couple of others)? maybe so... this movie is so fun! and family friendly! and is actually funny! it gives me major elf vibes, but if elf was set in a more modern day setting. either way, i had a great time and have been holding out on this one after loving it a lot last year!

the nutcracker and the four realms (2018)

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️| anything nutcracker related is an instant win in my book because it’s my favourite ballet of all time (except for graeme murphy’s version, we don’t talk about that). does this movie actually deserve the four stars? maybe not. am i going to give them anyway purely for my love of the nutcracker and the soundtrack? absolutely!

[jaskierswolf]

The Witcher’s Companion pt. 6/6

Main Summary: Geralt is summoned to Lettenhove to deal with a fiend when Jaskier is eight. Young Julian promptly decides he will do anything for the chance to travel with Geralt and have adventures outside of his stuffy castle life. (Also on AO3/my pinned masterlist)

Jaskier lunged at Ciri with his sword. The girl laughed and spun away in a pirouette before counter attacking. He parried her attack and flicked her sword from her hand. She yelled in frustration and stamped her foot.

“Ahh. Stop doing that!” She growled.

Jaskier let his sword dance in the air as he picked her sword up. “Well, hold your sword properly and you wouldn’t drop it so often.” He teased.

Geralt chuckled as he came up behind them. Jaskier sheathed his sword and flung his arms around his witcher’s neck. “Geralt! You’ve come to join us at last, Vesemir finally let you down from the roof.”

“Hmm.” Geralt buried his nose in Jaskier’s neck, a habit he’d picked up after the incident with the djinn that Jaskier had never built up the confidence to ask him about. “You used to hold your sword wrong too.”

“Ha!” Ciri pointed her sword and the pair of them but Geralt used Quen to shield them from her attack.

Jaskier stuck his tongue out from behind the glowing bubble. Ciri smirked and threw her hands forward. They were knocked over like dolls.

“Aunt Yennefer says your witcher signs are child’s play!” She giggled. “And I am a sorceress!”

Jaskier groaned as he pulled himself up off the floor. “Why did we let Yennefer near Ciri again?” He asked weakly.

“Because she needed a magic teacher and Yennefer is the best.” Geralt hummed.

Ciri smirked and threw herself at Jaskier with her sword. He swore and rolled out the way. He just managed to draw his blade to block her next attack. “Monsters don’t wait for you to be ready!” Ciri shouted.

Geralt laughed as Jaskier defended the onslaught of her attacks. “Princesses do!” He argued.

“I’m not a princess!” She ducked under his sword and swiped her blade at his feet.

He jumped over the attack and spun round, pulling his dagger from his boots. Over the years he’d decided he enjoyed the dance of having weapons in both hands. Geralt had bought him a shorter and lighter main sword to allow for the development in his style, and he often fought with a dagger in his second hand.

He swiped at Ciri’s side with the dagger and her armour tore open, a red ribbon fell from the gap. It had been Yennefer’s idea. She’d been concerned about their training and general lack of concern for personal safety so she’d enchanted their training armour to mimic injuries whilst not allowing any harm to come to them, as long as their weapons were similarly enchanted at the time.

“Haha!” He grinned.

“Fuck!” She leapt back.

“Ciri!” Geralt warned. “Don’t swear.”

Ciri growled and spun round to attack Geralt instead. Jaskier rolled his eyes but allowed the young witcher girl to swap sparring partners. Yennefer had almost bitten their heads off when she’d seen them ganging up on the girl last week, even though she’d insisted. He sheathed his weapons and pulled himself up to sit on the wall.

Geralt used a combinations of signs and melee attacks. It was Ciri’s second winter with the witchers and she was lethal on the training ground now. There was no holding back anymore.

Jaskier watched the pair of them spar. He couldn’t take his eyes off Geralt. He never could, not when Geralt didn’t know he was watching him. They’d been travelling together now for twenty-two years. He’d known the witcher for thirty-four years and yet Geralt never ceased to enchant him. Sure he’d had his own adventures without Geralt, particularly in his twenties but none of them held a candle to the ones where Geralt had been by his side.

Geralt was quite simply the most interesting man that he’d ever known. He was Jaskier’s best friend and their companionship was something no one else ever seemed to understand. Of course, to other people Jaskier played the foolish bard. It was easier to be underestimated and it had gotten them both out of trouble plenty of times when their enemies had focussed on Geralt entirely, not realising until their throats had been slit, that Jaskier was also armed and highly dangerous in his own right. Of course Jaskier’s indignant nature meant that he often got them into just as much trouble. He’d lost track of how many times Geralt had pulled him from a tavern or manor after he’d tried to start a fight when someone had insulted Geralt or witchers in general.

Jaskier liked that he was useful to Geralt. It was one of the things he prided himself on. He’d done what he’d set out to do. He’d become a perfect travel companion to a witcher, and now he had a family in the witchers, in Ciri, even in Yennefer.

She was sort of that sister that you really hated but would kill anyone else who tried to hurt her, and he was pretty sure the feeling was mutual.  

Ciri screamed and Geralt fell backwards across the courtyard.

“Oh shit!” He hopped off the wall and ran to the witcher. “Geralt!”

“I didn’t mean to!” Ciri cried.

Jaskier cupped Geralt’s face in his hands. There was blood staining his silver hair and running from him nose. “Come on, dear heart. Wakey wakey!” He cooed.

Geralt groaned. “Fuck.”

“Ah there we go. See, princess, no harm done.” Jaskier winked at the young girl. “It takes a lot more than that to take down the White Wolf.”

“Jask?” Geralt slurred.

“Yes darling?” He touched the cut on Geralt’s head lightly, pulling the hair apart. It wasn’t deep and wouldn’t need stitches. Geralt’s witcher healing would be enough.

“Your turn.” He mumbled and passed out.

__________________________

Geralt woke up with a splitting headache and a dry throat.

He grunted and tried to sit up but Jaskier pushed him back down.

“Oh no. Stay down, my dear.” The bard sang. “You just got blasted by a fourteen year old girl.”

“I am so sorry!” Ciri cried. “I just panicked!”

“I told her you’ll be fine.” Jaskier smiled brightly with a tilt of his head. “But I must say I am glad to see those beautiful eyes again, dear heart.”

Geralt grunted and sat up, pushing the bard away from him. “I’m fine, Jaskier.”

Ciri was staring at him with wide green eyes. “Are you sure?”

“Just a headache.” He pulled the young girl into a hug. “I’m sure Yen and the others will delight in this.”

Jaskier laughed melodically and lured Geralt into smiling back at him. “Oh yes, and naturally I already have two verses of a new song written.”

Geralt growled and knocked his friend off the bed.

“Oi! Hey that’s not fair!” Jaskier pouted.

Ciri was laughing now too, all fears forgotten.

He hummed and smiled at the pair of them, his family.

“Oh, Yennefer’s calling me.” Ciri said with a tilt of her head. “I’ll you at dinner, Geralt.”

Geralt nodded. Once she was gone he helped Jaskier up off the floor. The bard fell onto the bed and against Geralt’s chest. “Two verses?” He asked with a low chuckle. “You’re getting slow in your old age, Jask. I would have expected three by now.”

“Old age?!” Jaskier cried and scowled up at Geralt. “I am forty-two! That’s hardly old, witcher.”

Geralt scoffed. “Forty-two and still trailing round the continent after a witcher. Not bored yet?”

Jaskier pouted. “Of you? Geralt, never.”

The bard hummed under his breath as he curled up against Geralt’s chest. It wasn’t unusual. After so many years of travelling together, sharing beds when money was low or when it got cold at night, they’d become used to a lack of personal boundaries.

Forty-two.

Fuck.

How many years did humans live for anyway?

“Jask?” Geralt hummed as he threaded his fingers through the soft chestnut hair.

“Hmm?”

“What will you do when you get too old to travel?” He asked.

Jaskier snorted. “I will get a cane, the type with a sword in, and you’ll have to carry me when I get tired.”

Geralt frowned. “I’m serious.”

“So am I!” Jaskier sniffed and raised his head to look up at Geralt.

“Don’t you want to retire?” He asked, remembering what Jaskier had asked him all those years ago before the fated banquet.

“Witchers don’t retire so neither will I.” Jaskier insisted with a smirk. “What’s gotten into you?”

Geralt hummed. “I hadn’t realised you were so old.”

Jaskier laughed. “Ah yes, well. I do look pretty good for my age.”

“You have me to thank for that.” Yennefer said from the doorway. She was smirking at them. “Took you long enough to notice.”

“Yen? What?” Geralt growled.

“Oh no. What did you do to me, witch?” Jaskier snapped, sitting up and peering at the sorceress suspiciously.

“I did what I was asked to do. I saved your life.” She raised an eyebrow. “Permanently.”

“The fuck?” Geralt asked.

Yennefer shrugged. “Your witcher seemed desperate, bard. I was feeling generous. I was wondering how long it would take you to realise though. Honestly, I thought you’d worked it out years ago. Unfortunately that does mean Geralt won’t be carrying you anywhere any time soon.”

Geralt stared between the sorceress and the bard in shock. “Hmm.”

Jaskier seemed equally flummoxed for once in his life. “I’m… immortal?”

“Of sorts.” Yennefer smirked. “As long as you don’t get killed. It’s an old spell, found in an old witchers’ keep. Witchers used to have companions, back before humans turned on them. The companions were meant to make the witchers seem more… approachable, less like the monsters people think they are. A witcher and their companion were linked by magic, prolonging the companion’s life to match their witcher.”

“So what, you just… linked me and Geralt?” Jaskier gaped.

Yennefer nodded. “I didn’t think it would work. The spell was only supposed to work if the pair already had a deep emotional connection, which as I am sure you both know, is supposedly not easy for witchers due to the mutations. It’s why the companions ceased to exist and the spell was lost. An old friend of mine found it in the ruin years ago. I never thought I would have the chance to use it, and then you walked in dragging a bloody bard behind you.”

“Hang on!” Jaskier waved his hands. “A deep emotional connection?”

“That’s what the book said.” Yennefer nodded.

“But Geralt barely acknowledges that we’re friends!” Jaskier pouted.

Geralt groaned and pulled his pillow over his face.

“Oh, Jaskier.” Yennefer sighed. “I can read minds. You have no idea!”

“Get out!” Geralt threw the pillow at Yennefer. She waved her hands and the pillow turned to dust.

“Fine!” She grinned. “I was leaving anyway. Ciri is waiting for me.” She strode from the room, leaving Geralt to deal with the mess she’d created.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asked quietly. “Umm… is this alright? I know you didn’t ask for this. You probably thought you’d be shot of me in a few years.”

Geralt nodded and tilted his head. “It’s fine. Are you ok?”

Jaskier hummed. “Yes. Sort of. It’s a lot to take in, the whole immortality thing.” He said with a wave of his hands. “But with you? I suppose it could be alright. Just another adventure really, isn’t it?” Jaskier’s smile shone brighter than the sun, lighting up the entire room and warming Geralt’s heart.

Geralt nodded and Jaskier fell back against his chest with a contented sigh. Geralt felt himself smile.

Jaskier, the witcher’s companion.

Taglist: @alwenarin @slythnerd @davidtennan-t @flippinfricks @awitchersbard @genkitaco @innocentcinnamonpun @marvagon @elliestormfound @geraskier-trashh @panerato

[pl-panda]

Damienette arranged marriage: part 20

Credits: Miraculous Ladybug team for the elements I take from MLB show. DC for their characters, @ozmav for the AU, @maribat-archive for giving me access to so many different stories to have take inspirations from, @thyladyanput for idea for Chat Damian and me for the plot.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8

Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 part 14 part 15 

part 16 Part 17 Part 18

Part 19

Damienette arranged marriage: Part 20

NEXT

-------------------------------------

“But MDC is still...” Alix started and suddenly realization dawned on her. She finally connected the dots. From there, she realized more and more. It was like she woke up from some trance. Image of utter fear and regret on her face was priceless. “No…“

Alix run out of class just as madame bustier entered. 

--------------------------------

After the matter with Akumatized Alix crashed the classroom and was defeated by ladybug and her team, the classes were canceled. Marinette spent the afternoon with Damian, happy to crush him several times in Ultimate Mecha Strike and several other games.

“Can we play something else now?” He moaned as the big red defeat displayed on the screen. He convinced her to go to arcade to have more choice, which proved to be his biggest mistake. The girl decimated him in absolutely everything. 

“Oh. Ish baby shad that I win?” Marinette tried to imitate english babytalk, but it did not really work in her favor.

“I see no dishonor in losing to a titular champion.” Damian tried to defend his ego, but she only giggled.

“I have an offer for you. If you beat me in any game, you can choose what we do tomorrow.” She tried to motivate him.

“You want to repeat it?” He asked surprised.

“Yes silly. I really like you… I mean spending you with time… No wait! Timing with you spend… Spending time with you! I like spending time with you!” She finally shouted, getting some confused looks from people around. That is until they met Damian’s gaze and run away before Marinette could get more embarrassed.

“I was just kinda... surprised. Not even my brothers want to spend that much time with me.”

“They aren’t married to you now, are they?”

“Only you Angel.” Damian grinned as she blushed deep shade of red. “I challenge you for a dance.”

“What?” She asked confused.

“tt. Dance Off. The game. You asked me to challenge you for a game. That is what I choose.” He explained.

“I… never played before.” She said a bit shyly. 

“Is that a surrender?” He gave her a challenging look.

“Dream on.” She retorted and moved to the panels in the back. there were no people currently using it so they jumped on the platforms. 

Damian confidently got into stance while Marinette just copied him. One of Jagged Stone’s older songs started playing. While the boy immediately started to follow the rhythm and get the perfect score, Marinette clumsily tried to follow his footsteps. She was off balance and hardly following the keys. She missed every third one and never scored perfect. She would definitely loose. 

She stopped dancing and took one deep breath. She focused on the song instead of just pressing the buttons. When she started dancing, there was no more clumsiness or flailing hands while losing balance. She was confident, strong and she would totally kick Damian’s ass in this game just as well as in the others. 

As Damian danced, he kept perfect score. If not for the fact that she’s beaten him in every single other game in this arcade, he would actually pity his wife. At least until she started to get perfect score too. Suddenly, they were moving in perfect synch with music and each other. A crowd gathered around them. People were cheering for them. He was pretty sure he heard some wolf whistles from the boys in the back that were directed to Marinette and he was pretty tempted to drop the game and just throw some things at them. Maybe exploding batarangs. Yeah. That would work… 

By the time they were getting to the final, Damian had a quite firm lead. Then, he heard someone from the crowd actually dare to call some slurs at Marinette and got distracted. It was something along the lines “I want to see your other moves”, He only slipped for a moment, hitting several wrong buttons while getting up, but Marinette got in the lead by mere ten points. She was completely unfazed by the cries and words of the crowd. It was like she was in her own world. Damian caught himself staring at her instead of dancing so he doubled the effort. In the end, she still won. 

“Yeah! You go babe! I want to...” Damian saw red. It was the same guy as before. He jumped over the railing that kept players from falling off the stage and punched the guy mid-air square in the face. There was a cracking sound and the idiot fell down with bloodied nose. The crowd dispersed as if it was never there.

Immediately, almost half a dozen of other guys appeared around to support their mate. 

“Now you just got yourself a problem boy.” One of them commented.

“Actually…” A new voice joined the ‘discussion’. “I think your friend is the one in trouble. He was calling my friend here some very inappropriate names and suggesting several less than legal things.” Alix rolled into the sight.

“So since the girl can’t take some compliments! Doesn’t mean he can punch our friend.”

“He is her boyfriend who was defending her from an elderly man. She is underage so get lost before I call the police.” Alix threatened them. While the idiots were distracted, Damian took the opportunity to grab normal dusters and put them on his fists. He was ready for a fight. The fact that this tugs didn’t pull knives or guns already was close to a miracle. If it was Gotham, he would have a gang-fight on his hands ready and set. 

“Sowwy madame.” The one with broken nose spoke, showing that he also lost some teeth. “I was not awawe of that. You looked so full of confidence that I fowgot myself.” He apologized and got lost with his friends as per instructions. 

“Ugh! I swear they keep getting in trouble.” Alix complained to himself. Damian was suddenly in front of her. Because of her rollerblades she was taller so he had to look up. 

“Excuse me, but where from do you know this criminals?” He started to interrogate her.

“Calm down Short Stack.” She cooled him off. “My brother and I sometimes volunteer at the homeless center. They tend to come there from time to time. One of this guys even works there.” She explained. 

Marinette walked to the scene and practically pulled away the still fuming Damian. “Thanks for the assist Alix.” There was an awkward silence interrupted only by Damian’s breath. He was not tired, only angry. 

“No problem.” Skater girl finally shrugged. “Listen Mari. I wanted to… apologize. Lila is a liar and an idiot. I was even bigger idiot for believing her.”

“tt. My plan worked at least partially I see…” Damian commented.

“Your… plan?!” Marinette shouted at him. “I asked you specifically not to do that because we will have another scarlet moth at our hands!” 

“I think that is something the two of you should solve between yourself so I will leave you to it.” She was about to ride away, but Alix took one last look over the shoulder. “Are we cool MDC?”

“Yes Alix. Yes we are.” Marinette smiled before making an angry face at Damian. Alix chuckled and zoomed away.

----------------

Late in the night Red Robin, Ladybug and Robin met in the Wayne Enterprises headquarters. 

“Anything new on hawkmoth?” She asked. It was more than a month of them working separately but so far there was little they could do.

“Well, I think I tracked the Akumas to this general area.” He pointed to the holograph map of Paris.

“This is like one-fourth of the city!” Damian was less than amused.

“It is still something. At least Akuma appear on camera.” He said, reffering to the time when Tikki (convinced by Marinette) sneaked into the building to switch Tim’s coffee for the non-caf version so he would get some sleep. He didn’t forgive her to this day, but he would not take vengeance when mr. I-stab-anyone-who-harms-her was on the same continent, much less the same city. 

“So we are not really that close.” Ladybug sighted.

“I do have some suspects. Out of the people in Paris who were not akumatized only handful match the criteria. And then, if you eliminate those who are not living in the area, then you have… an empty list.” 

“So hawkmoth only owns a hide-out in this area.”

“That would be hard, unless he works from the sewers.” Red Robin zoomed on the area. “This is stricltly living space. Not even that many shops. I also don’t believe a shop owner would have time to attack the city on so many occasions. At least not while keeping a steady revenue.”

“So we have literally no clue?”

“Well, if you take in account that Hawkmoth could somehow akumatize himself, we do have one solid lead.”

“Who?” Ladybug was very eager to finally be done with all of this and return to being a normal teenage girl.

“Gabriel Agreste.” Red Robin displayed a profile picture of the artist for reference.

——————————————————————————————————–

Taglist (sorry if I missed you)@pheonixashtree @sassakitty @unabashedbookworm @vixen-uchiha @maggiecc12 @actualdisasterwoman @tired-butterfly @shizukiryuu @floralfi @imanerddealwith @northernbluetongue @krispydefendorpolice @toodaloo-kangaroo @dast218 @bluesoulblueheart @theatreandcomicfreak @disneyfoxuniverse @mindfulmagics @alwaysnumberonetruth @nyaabinch @jardimazul @lenamau @rosep16 @dramatic-squirrel @sonif50 @daminett4life @lulutheawkwardess @weird-pale-blonde-person @mooshoon @jeminiikrystal @mochegato @moonlightstar64 @dragonflyswing @silverwhiteraven @shamefullove @magic-miraculous @valeks-princess @heaven428 @mlbchaosqueen @winter-gardenflower @spicybelladonna @emo-elaine13 @vetilora @karukofox21 @my-name-is-michell  @sturchling @lokiifriggasonn @redscarlet95 @melicmusicmagic @interobanginyourmom @the-fusionist @razzledazzle247 @miss-mysterys-blog @darkthunder1589 @i-is-mysterious @catthhay @the-one-woman-army @zestyzealot @dahjokester @write-for-your-life2 @mermaidreject @peachedpocky @sassakitty @dahjokester @crazylittlemunchkin @novicevoice @justafanwarrior @eliza-bitch @schrodingers25 @tired-butterfly @toodaloo-kangaroo @redscarlet95 @miukiiu

[ineloqueent]

Starstruck: Part 15

Brian May x Fem!Reader

This is Part 15 of a multi-part fic. Click the links below to read the Masterpost, the previous part, or the next part of the fic :)

Masterpost / Part 14 / Part 16

Summary: When studying at Imperial College in the 1970s, your path is crossed by a beautiful boy as much in love with the stars as you.  

Warnings: swearing, drinking

Historical Inaccuracies:

Mary didn’t go on tour with Queen in 1975

On the 14th of November, 1975, Queen did not leave early for the start of the ANATO tour. Indeed, they “had to rush from London to Liverpool” (x) because they had been shooting the music video for ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ in the very same afternoon as the day of their first gig on tour!

Word Count: 3.8k

⁺˚*·༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺

August, September, and October disappeared in such a whirlwind rush that you hardly noticed them. You didn’t have time to notice much these days.

Queen were running thirty-eight-hour sessions at multiple recording studios throughout London, working day and night to record and refine the material for their still unnamed fourth album.

Preparations for a release in late November were in full swing, and Queen’s manager Reid was neglecting meetings with Elton John— Elton bloody John, it would never cease to amaze you— to dedicate his time to organising the legs of Queen’s next world tour. Locations, bookings, the transport of instruments and equipment and people, lodging, catering, insurance; the list of things to arrange was endless.

Which was why you often played assistant to Reid, in the absence of Reid’s actual assistant— some clonker named Paul Prenter who turned up late to meetings and had far too much to say for how few hours he put into going to work. You couldn’t be Reid’s full-time assistant, however, because you also tagged along with Roy Thomas Baker, Queen’s producer, since Freddie had more or less insisted that you do so.

You spent a lot of time with Queen, both in the studio and out of it.

In the studio, Freddie consulted you on album concept, Deacy relied on you for input on the song he was writing about Veronica, and Brian taught you to play ‘‘39’. Hearing you sing along with Brian, Roger decided that you should help with backing vocals on one of Freddie’s tracks, and much to everyone’s delight, he coaxed you into agreement. You weren’t delighted with this arrangement, though; you were far too nervous that you’d ruin the vocals of the others.

Outside of the studio, Freddie continued to harp on about your musical education, as he called it, lending you records until you were listening to his music almost constantly.

“I want you to have memorised my collection, darling,” he said one night, swirling his wine, “by the time we set off on tour.”

“Um, okay… That’s a lot of music, Freddie,” you’d swallowed, eyeing the quite frankly enormous record collection that Freddie’s living room housed.

“Psh, all in a day’s work.”

You saw Roger the least out of the four, because when not at Queen’s various recording locations, he was… well, he was bedding Heather, to put it politely. He did take you for the occasional drink and a banter, though. You found that you and he shared a lot of similarities in terms of childhood and upbringing, and this made Roger more brotherly to you than ever.

When he had the time, John would join Roger and you for drinks at the local pub, and the three of you would spend far too long chatting away into the evening. But mostly, Deacy and Ronnie were knackered from their parenting of Robert, and when you could see it all beginning to take a toll on John— he went from the studio to caring for his son and did not sleep in between— you offered yourself as a babysitting service. Deacy and Veronica were immensely grateful for this, because Robert seemed to like you, Auntie Y/N, and though the child could scream bloody murder if he so wished, he was generally a good kid. It was enjoyable to see him learning the ways of the world around him, from lights and colours, to the sounds of his parents’ voices.

Sometimes, when you babysat Robert, Brian came along.

Robert may have liked you, but he loved Brian.

Brian had helped John and Veronica to hang glow-in-the dark stars and planet-mobiles from the ceiling of what was to be Robert’s room when he moved out of his parents’ bedroom, and Brian had been as animated by the activity as though he had been decorating a room for himself.

When Brian visited Robert, he sang to him and rocked the child in his arms and danced about the room, quite forgetting that there was anybody else there. Robert would giggle and occasionally attempt to poke Brian’s nose, which brought Brian no end of wonder, and once again affirmed for you that Brian’s aspirations of one day becoming a father were well-suited to him.

Unfailingly, on the nights when Deacy and Veronica were away, once Robert fell asleep, Brian would suggest that the two of you take to the rooftop to see the stars— of course bringing with you a baby monitor. Thus, you spent many an evening wrapped in a blanket atop the roof of your friend’s house while your best friend sat beside you, cheeks flushed with the cold but unwilling to return inside, even though his teeth chattered and his hair blew about his face in the chilly wind. You began to bring hot chocolate to the roof, though what you really wanted to do to warm Brian was to curl into his side and snuggle close to him.

You didn’t, though. You reserved your pining for him in the form of long, lingering looks.

He’d called you his best friend, and best friends, you told yourself, were built upon platonic principles. If he’d wanted romantic involvement with you, he would have made that clear, and he hadn’t, so you resigned yourself to pushing your feelings down in the pit of your stomach and pretending that his smiles didn’t melt you as easily as chocolate on a summer’s day. Naturally, however, pushing feelings down doesn’t make them go away, but rather concentrates them more, so that every brief glance and accidental touch makes one feel that everything is just that much closer to bubbling over entirely.

But Brian was everywhere you looked, inescapable, inevitable, smiling and just being generally goofy, spouting the most fascinating facts about the cosmos at odd intervals, urging you to sing with him when he sang, nodding at you approvingly over his guitar when you matched his vibrato almost perfectly one Thursday night. Because despite everything, despite Queen’s dawn-to-dusk-to-dawn schedule, Brian still made time for teaching you guitar on Thursday nights.

If it wasn’t for the nights, you might have thought that you could take it.

Take him winking at you and calling you ‘love’ at irregular moments so that your heart stuttered and your thoughts grew sluggishly slow. Take him being near you at almost every hour of every day, and long into the nights as well. Take him existing in his willowy gorgeousness, sunshine-warmed skin and sunlit eyes, soft curls, wide-eyes, angular frame.

But the nights were long, because Brian had confessed that he had begun to sleep better as of late, and this rendered his beauty healthier, more stark, in light of his getting enough rest.

Yes, the nights were long, not for him but for you, because you couldn’t close your eyes without seeing his gentle smile and his hazel eyes.

It was as though he had traded you a milder case of his insomnia, and it frustrated you perpetually, because when you weren’t working or lounging about with Queen, you were studying intensely so as to take your final exams early.

Indeed, you’d committed to not only Queen, but to astrophysics as well.

You were working overtime to finish this year’s coursework early— very early— in fact, by the middle of this month.

You’d been surprised that Dr. Carmichael had even agreed to help you in the first place, but you suspected that something about your situation had reminded him of himself. In the very least, when you’d boldly asked him why he was willing to help you with extra lecture hours and study sessions, he’d said something cryptic about once having missed an opportunity himself, and that he regretted nothing more in his life. You’d been floored that he would openly admit something so personal, being that Carmichael wasn’t the open-book type, but he’d only smiled sadly and told you to have your next paper on his desk by Monday.

It was all very stressful, going from the studio to studying and back to the studio. Your days dissolved into exam preparations and recording sessions, with only guitar lessons in between.

The most difficult part of it all was the guitar lessons.

Brian right across from you, biting his lip, bending strings up the fretboard with long fingers and a concentrated gaze. He’d glance up and nod to you, upon which you’d copy the movement he’d just done, and he would either nod again and continue in whatever song he was playing, or offer you critique. He was articulate in his teaching, and his manner utterly enamoured you, because he moved as though he were made of light.

God, you wanted to kiss him. Just the thought of him being so close to you, touching you, made you shiver. He was so delicate in everything that he did, and you wanted his delicate hands against your skin, his mouth on your mouth, breathing the same air, and you wanted him to want you.

Perhaps that was why you’d begun flirting with him, against your every notion of common sense.

It was just an innuendo here, a touch there, winking at him over your guitar. You didn’t even know where any of it was coming from, because you’d never once in your life had the confidence to flirt. Maybe you drew confidence from Brian’s reaction each time you said or did something suggestive; he blushed, looked down, smiled boyishly. Fucking hell, he was cute. And you felt an inexplicable rush of adrenaline every time you got away with pushing boundaries.

It had been Friday afternoon when Freddie opened a bottle of Moët et Chandon in the kitchen of his flat, and you were with him and Roger and John and Brian to cry woah! when the bubbly liquid shot out of the bottle and onto the floor.

“Freddie,” Brian tutted, shaking his head, and you tried not to laugh.

Roger tossed Brian a tea towel and Brian mopped up the spilled champagne.

“Well, darlings, that’s it,” said Freddie a few minutes later as the five of you gripped filled glasses, “that’s the next album!”

There was a cheer.

Roger raised his glass. “To…” He frowned. “To what? We haven’t exactly named the album.”

You all frowned. Then Deacy shook his head. “To the album!” he said.

“To the album!” you all chorused, laughter abundant in the moments before everyone drank their champagne.

This afternoon, it had been just you and the band, because Freddie had wanted an in-celebration before he threw the actual party for the album on the first night of the tour. But this afternoon gathering also had other significance: today was Reid’s deadline for when the name of the album had to be decided.

And by the time you left Freddie’s place at five that evening, a film had been watched, and a decision had been made.

The name of the album was to be as rivetingly dramatic and as magnificently opulent as the name of Queen.

The album was to be called A Night At The Opera.

⁺˚*·༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺

The wind was a character in itself, and the sky was weary with the plethora of grey clouds it carried, but it was not raining.

You noticed, because you wanted to remember. You wanted to remember everything about today, the day you set off for Liverpool. With Queen.

You were going on tour.

With Queen.

It hadn’t really sunk in yet. Still, it was happening, because you were walking from the Underground to the tour bus pickup point, which was by one of the studios Queen had been using to record the album.

You had packed light— a minimal array of clothes that would last you a while, being mixed and matched and reused until a washing machine could be located; some essential toiletries; a few well-loved books; your messenger bag; your guitar.

You’d dressed in your warmest, heaviest clothes from the beginning, layering as your mum had always taught you to do.

Your mum. She’d rung you last night.

“And you promise me you’ll call?” she’d said, as though she were in some dramatic film about her daughter leaving on some risky adventure, during which all the characters in the movie learn emotional maturity through a montage of artistically-shot scenes.

You’d sighed, every bit the exasperated daughter. “I’ve promised you before, mum. You know I always keep my word.”

But the dramatic film analogy had indeed borne a grain of truth. This was an adventure, and it was risky.

Money wasn’t something you’d brought much of, because it wasn’t something you had much of. Queen were already covering your expenses as far as food and lodging, and you hadn’t wanted to bother your parents for any money, given how you were already letting them down a little in postponing the completion of your astrophysics degree.

But, as ineloquent as the phrase was, this tour was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

How many people would be able to look back on their life and say, ‘yes, I went on a world tour with a rock ‘n’ roll band’? So few. So few that it was almost saddening that you were getting the chance to do something like this, while so many others would never.

And to think that you’d almost not come along.

Brian was leaning against the tour bus, a book held elegantly before his face as he rested his elbow on his other arm, which was wrapped around his upper body. He looked cold, with windburn colouring his cheeks, his lower lip tucked between his teeth, and his arm was likely wrapped around him more for warmth than in support of the book.

He lowered the novel as you approached, a lovely smile already on his face.

“Morning!” he said brightly.

“Shh,” you chided. “It’s three AM, Brian.”

“Ah, yes,” Brian nodded, his face serious. “No decent people have got up yet.”

“What does that make us?” you laughed.

He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Indecent,” he winked.

You’d thought there was only so many times that Brian May could make you blush, but here you were again, blushing like you were five years old, instead of twenty-five.

“Not on my bus, you’re not,” said Freddie to Brian, hopping down off of the tour bus.

Brian rolled his eyes. “Don’t be a hypocrite, Fred.”

“I think you should be directing your chastity comments toward Roger and Heather, Freddie,” you said, nodding in the direction of the two shadowy figures that had been approaching, only to stop in the middle of the empty road to have a snog.

Freddie wrinkled his nose. “Yes indeed. We may need some ground rules.”

Deacy stuck his head out of the bus. “ROGER! No shagging on the bus!”

“Shhh!” you and Brian and Freddie cried all at once.

“Three o’clock in the morning, everyone,” you said. “Three o’clock.”

“Now that, dearie,” Freddie raised a finger, “reminds me. I’m going back to sleep.”

He mounted the steps to the bus once more, and disappeared inside.

“Me too, I think,” said John, blinking tired eyes before following Freddie back onto the bus.

Tucking his book into the folds of his coat, Brian turned to you. “Can I give you a hand with that?” he nodded to your suitcase.

“Yeah, thanks.”

He took your suitcase and loaded it onto the bus, and offered to take your guitar as well, until Roadie-John turned up and muttered something about being put out of a job, confiscating your guitar from Brian.

Brian widened his eyes at you, and the two of you boarded the bus before you could offend any more roadies at far too early of an hour.

“By the way,” Brian said as he held the door open for you, “I like your scarf.”

You tugged on the end of the rainbow garment. “I wonder why.”

Inside, Roger and Heather had arrived and were sitting in a booth by the window, flicking through polaroids. Mary was there too, and she smiled sleepily at you and Brian as you entered, her eyes only half-focussed on the magazine in her lap.

Freddie and Deacy had each drawn the curtains of their bunks. From the sounds of snoring that drifted from their direction, it was obvious that they’d both already fallen asleep again. You envied their ability to slip into unconsciousness so quickly; sleep did not come easily to you, these days.

Brian seemed to think the same thing. “Lucky bastards,” he muttered, “falling asleep like that.”

“Treacherous,” you agreed, and Brian smiled at you. But then you yawned, and he raised his eyebrows.

“Am I to expect your betrayal as well?” he said.

You shook your head. “No, just my annoyingness as a travel partner. Chances are I’ll just yawn for hours and never have anything come of it.”

But Brian frowned thoughtfully. “Exactly what time did you go to bed last night?”

You winced, remembering the late hour. In fact, it wasn’t many hours ago at all. “Midnight,” you responded sheepishly.

“Midnight?” said Brian. “You’re worse than me! Go on,” he ushered you toward a pair of seats, “sit down, have a rest. Even if you can’t sleep, it’s good to close your eyes for a bit.”

“Says the insomniac,” you retorted, albeit half-heartedly. You really were rather tired. You slid into the narrow gap, taking the window seat, and Brian sat down beside you. “You know how hard it is to keep your eyes shut when they don’t want to be.”

Brian smiled, and you knew he empathised. “All the same. Less than three hours of sleep, Y/N. That’s quite bad.”

You sighed. “I know, I know.”

Soon, Roadie-John, Crystal, and Ian Brown, who was to be managing the UK leg of the tour, boarded, and with the driver in his seat, the bus rolled out of Osborn Street and onto the main road.

“Think I’ll try reading,” you said, pulling out the book at the top of the pile in your bag. Brian shrugged off his coat, folding it in his lap and retrieving his paperback from one of the inner pockets.

He looked at his book, and then at yours, and then back at his again.

“What is it?”

“We could just have brought the one copy and shared it,” he said, “saved that packing space.” A goofy grin was on his face as he waved his copy of Steppenwolf, the very same book you held in your hands.

“Oh! You like Hermann Hesse?”

“He’s my favourite author,” said Brian, and the same stupid grin he’d worn before appeared on your own face.

“Good taste,” you told him, covering a yawn.

Crystal dimmed the overhead lights. “I’m going to sleep,” he announced to no one in particular, and as you looked around, you found that, with the exception of the driver, you and Brian were the only ones left awake.

“Well then,” Brian said in the darkness, “there’s not really any good light to read by.”

You snorted. “If you’re trying to convince me to go to sleep, you’re failing miserably.”

Wordlessly, Brian slid his book into the seat pocket in front of him, then eased your bag from your lap and the book from your hands, setting your bag on the floor and the book into its own seat pocket. He lifted his coat from his own lap and draped it over you, tucking it in around your shoulders.

“I’m sorry I’ve nothing more to offer you,” he said softly, as the lights of the city swept over his face through the uncovered window.

And yet he’d given you everything he had. Selflessly, without a thought, though the morning was cold and he still had not warmed from standing outdoors in the wake of the wind.

The simple gesture filled you with such an adoration that you had no way to express it.

You shuffled closer to him and laid his coat across you both, then settled your head on his shoulder. “Thank you, Brian.”

He leaned his head against yours, and you were reminded of the night at Ridge Farm.

You sighed quietly, cuddling into his side. You fought to keep your eyes open, but you were so tired, and Brian was so warm.

“Go to sleep and dream again,” he murmured sweetly, and your eyelids felt a thousand times heavier than before.

“What if I miss something?” you whispered, because the fear of the world passing you by was suddenly overwhelming.

Brian’s voice hummed in harmony with the peaceful silence around him. “I’ll be right here to tell you about everything when you wake up again.”

“Everything?”

“Every butterfly and every tree,” he promised. “Every hole in the road and every star in the sky.”

⁺˚*·༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺

“Y/N,” Brian was shaking your shoulder gently. “Love, we’re here.”

You groaned. “M’was fimally ‘sleep,” you said.

“I know. I’ve already postponed waking you for this long, though,” he said. “The others have left. They’ve unloaded the bus.”

You sat up blearily. “Well, I should get on with it, then.”

Brian smiled. “You can sleep when you get to your hotel room. It’s not like we’ve got anything to do today, anyway, until soundcheck.”

“Well, you’ve got to tell me about everything you saw while I was asleep.”

He laughed. “Shouldn’t take too long. It was London to Liverpool, there’s not much to report.”

You passed him his coat, which had somehow migrated entirely over to you, and he passed you your bag, slipping your book back into one of the pockets.

Brian looked at you a moment, and you stared back up at him, wondering what he saw in your half-open eyes and messy hair while you were met with the sight of pretty hazel irises and immaculate curls.

He reached for the rainbow scarf and wound it around you more tightly, adjusting your jumper so that it wasn’t in the way. His touch lingered on the nape of your neck, his eyes roamed yours. His lips were rendered a dusky pink in the pale morning light.

“It’s cold in Liverpool,” he said, and slid from his seat.

Your eyes followed him as he disembarked the bus, his curls bobbing as he bent a little to avoid hitting his head on a beam.

Anyone could have seen the longingness in your stare, how you yearned to call him back, pull him to you, kiss him until he was lost for both breath and words, watch him blush the way he made you blush.

There was really nothing stopping you.

You’re my best friend.

So perhaps there was one thing stopping you.

Brian poked his head back through the door. Affection bloomed in your chest at the mere sight of him. It was sickening.

“Coming?” he asked, far too awake for seven o’clock in the morning.

“Yeah,” you said. “Coming.”

⁺˚*·༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺

A/N: filler? call me out. it’s okay, because next week is chapter 16 :’)

taglist: @melting-obelisks @sgt-stardustkillerqueen @hgmercury39​ @topsecretdeacon @joemazzmatazz​ @perriwiinkle​ @brianmays-hair​ @im-an-adult-ish​ @ilikebigstucks​ @doing-albri​ @killer-queen-87​ @n0-self-c0ntro1​ @archaicmusings​ @cloudyyspace​ @annina-96​ @themarchoftherainbowqueen​ @annajolras​ 

Masterpost / Part 14 / Part 16

[ibijau]

Jin Rusong Lives / On AO3

Nie Huaisang says things nobody wants to hear, because someone has to.

As Jin Rulan explained how Jin Guangyao had faked the death of his son to put him in a magical sleep before still using the shock of that fake loss to eliminate enemies, Nie Huaisang was hit by an unkind thought. Of course, most of his thoughts were unkind these days, it was the sort of person he had become. Still this one, passing through his mind while a child he loved had found protection in his arms, struck him as particularly awful. 

Nie Huaisang would have preferred for Jin Guangyao to have really murdered his own son. 

It had made him so easy to hate after all. A man capable of eliminating such a sweet little boy could only be a monster. So finding that he had instead kept his son hidden, that he had secretly worked for years to try to save him, collecting piles and piles of information on the sickness that plagued his son… And although he hadn't performed the surgery, although he hadn't been there to see it, Jin Guangyao had saved his son. 

"He didn't have the skill to perform the surgery himself," Wen Ning mumbled, his eyes darting again and again toward Jin Rusong. "But his notes were very clear and well organised. I… I've been training on animals since little Jin Gongzi was discovered. He'll still need to be monitored for a while but… but he should be fine now." 

Nie Huaisang smiled at him. 

He also liked it better when the dreaded Ghost General was just an abomination to be despised. 

"Well, that's just amazing, Wen gongzi !" he laughed. "Such skill, you are truly worthy of being your sister's brother! SongSong, I know Wen gongzi looks a little scary, but you should say thank you. He worked very hard so you could be healthy again." 

Jin Rusong shot a look at Wen Ning, then shook his head and hid his face against Nie Huaisang’s shoulder, bringing up the fan in his hand so he really wouldn't have to see the fierce corpse. 

"I want mommy and daddy." 

Unsure what else to do, Nie Huaisang pulled the child closer against his chest and exchanged a look with the other three. 

Wen Ning, without surprise, only looked extremely uncomfortable and clearly wished he could be somewhere else now that he had played his role in this mess. Wei Wuxian still had one hand clenched on Chenqing, clearly expecting Nie Huaisang to be pulling a trick of some sort. Rude, considering the efforts Nie Huaisang had made to allow his return among the livings, but smart as well, all things considered. As for Jin Rulan… 

Since the death of Jin Guangyao, Nie Huaisang had done his best to treat Jin Rulan like an adult. He remembered how Nie Mingjue, rising to power at a similar age, had hated the condescension of other sect leaders. After taking so much from him, it had felt fair to treat that young sect ruler as an equal and ignore his youth.

But right there and then, it would have taken too much effort to pretend that Jin Rulan was anything but a lost and confused teenager who clearly ached over yet another family secret. He was too young to deal with this, and Jin Rusong would have no reason to trust the other two, and… 

Once, years before, Lan Xichen had confided to Jin Guangyao that he'd always resented the way his uncle had handled the news of his mother's death. Nie Huaisang had overheard that, present yet ignored as he often was. Something Lan Xichen had said had stuck with him: 'Children deserve the same honesty as adults, because they can feel pain no less intense as those older than them.' 

Nie Huaisang looked down at the sobbing child in his arms, begging for his parents. Both the truth and a lie would hurt Jin Rusong, but only one would let him move on, and Nie Huaisang did not trust the others to give his nephew that cruel mercy. 

Ah, well. He had little hopes of being allowed to see Jin Rusong again after that day, and they all hated him already. 

Jin Rusong deserved the truth. 

"SongSong, listen, you understand what dead means, right?" 

Wei Wuxian glared at him, and hissed. "Nie-xiong, don't !" 

Nie Huaisang ignored him. He had no lessons in honesty to receive from Wei Wuxian. 

"It's when people are gone forever," Jin Rusong mumbled. "Like LingLing's mommy and daddy, and like grandma when she got sick. They go and you cannot see them again. Uncle Nie, I want mommy and daddy. I really want them now. It's scary here."

Nie Huaisang’s heart clenched. 

"I'm sorry, SongSong,” he whispered. “But mommy and daddy have died. It's just you and LingLing now. But I know he loves SongSong a lot and will take good care of you." 

"No! I don't want that!" Jin Rusong shouted, crying heavily and throwing away Nie Huaisang’s fan. "I want mommy and daddy! I want them now! Uncle Nie, I want them now!" 

The child started hitting Nie Huaisang with surprising strength that would leave bruises, and pulling hard on his hair. It was an ugly tantrum from a usually placid boy, but those were ugly circumstances, so Nie Huaisang allowed him to let his anger explode against him. 

Jin Rulan, more disturbed by this display, dared to come closer again. He put one hand on his cousin's shoulder, trying to soothe him. 

"A-Song, calm down," he asked in a voice that reminded Nie Huaisang of Jiang Wanyin in his kinder moments. "It'll be okay. I'll take care of you, like when I was little."

Seeing that Jin Rusong wasn't rejecting his cousin's touch, Nie Huaisang tried to gently push him into Jin Rulan's arms. This backfired when Jin Rusong grasped his hair tighter so he could not be handed over to anyone. 

"I don't know him!" Jin Rusong wailed. "I want mommy! I want my mommy, I want her now!" 

Nie Huaisang grimaced, and pulled the child as tight against his chest as he dared, rocking him a little to calm him. 

"I know SongSong. Your mommy would prefer to be here too. She was very sad that she couldn't see you anymore. Mommy loved SongSong so much!" 

Qin Su had nearly broken when she'd lost her son. Nie Huaisang remembered how she had looked like a ghost for months afterward. 

Maybe it was understanding how and why she had lost him that had broken her in the end. Nie Huaisang could still see her with that dagger in her chest, pale and bloodied, so much like her son had been years before… and it had been his own fault. He had known she wouldn't take well to the news, but as long as it could hurt Jin Guangyao… nothing else had mattered then.

Pushing away those thoughts, Nie Huaisang continued rocking the little boy in his arms and whispering whatever soothing nonsense passed his mind until, after what felt like an eternity, the crying and thrashing stopped. Jin Rusong had fallen asleep in his arms. 

"Jin zongzhu should take him now," Nie Huaisang suggested, looking down at the little boy in his arms rather than the people around him. He looked so peaceful now, much more like the Jin Rusong of old. 

He startled when Jin Rulan took him on that offer and quickly snatched his cousin. 

The problem with those Jins was that they carried a strong family resemblance. Holding this child, the young sect leader looked like his father, and like his uncle… and neither were men Nie Huaisang wanted to think about at the moment. 

"Well, that settles it for the time being," Nie Huaisang said with all the good humour he could muster. "Try not to lose him again." 

"You shouldn't have told him about his parents," Jin Rulan hissed. "You had no right!" 

Nie Huaisang shrugged. Someone had to say it. It wasn't going to be Wei Wuxian who liked secrets far too much, enough so that Nie Huaisang himself had never found out about his core until that night at the temple. And it shouldn't have been Jin Rulan either, who would already have a hard time getting his little cousin to trust him. 

But for him to break his nephew's heart… well, he'd done enough wrong already, a little more was nothing. 

"Get Zewu-Jun here," Nie Huaisang advised. "Jin Rusong adores him and it has always been mutual. Honestly, I don't know why you didn't think to bring him here already. That child needed to wake to a familiar face, not to his nearly adult cousin and two boogeymen!"

Wei Wuxian glared at him, while Wen Ning appeared unconcerned by the accusation. He'd heard worse, most likely. 

"We thought of it," Wei Wuxian explained, "but he's still in seclusion, and Lan Zhan wasn't sure how he'd react to the news. It might come as a shock to you, but he didn't take well being tricked into becoming a murderer. You might be cold blooded enough to take it in stride that Jin Guangyao didn't murder his son, but Zewu-Jun actually has a heart."

"Wen gongzi, don't presume you know me," Nie Huaisang retorted coldly. "And apparently, you don't know Zewu-Jun either if you think he wouldn't overcome his grief for this child. But fine, it's your choice. Now tell me, having awakened this child and performed a miracle on him, what do you intend to do with him?"

Wei Wuxian glared harder, while Jin Rulan looked away and Wen Ning suddenly pretended he was busy tidying the room. Their silence was an answer in itself. 

Suddenly, Nie Huaisang almost missed Jin Guangyao. At least he always had a plan, instead of just following whatever fancy passed his brain and hoping someone would clean up the mess if it went wrong. 

"I see. Was Jin zongzhu planning to raise a child himself when he's not even of age, while also keeping together a sect that's tearing apart and will take any excuse to turn on him? If so, you should have left that boy to his sleep."

"I couldn't leave him like that!" Jin Rulan exploded, making the boy in his arms stir a little and whimper. All four of them froze, but Jin Rusong did not wake up, and Jin Rulan continued in a quieter voice. "We had all those notes on how to heal him, and he's family! What sort of person would I be if I didn't do everything I could to wake him up?" 

A kind one, Nie Huaisang thought. Eternal sleep would have been less cruel than this mess. But of course, that was only his opinion as someone to whom the truth had never been kind. Jin Rusong might be luckier. 

"He'll be in danger in Carp Tower," Nie Huaisang pointed out. "Your uncle had too many enemies and friends, and I'm not sure which ones will be worse. With the current political situation, I'm ready to bet a few people will try to use him to their advantage." 

He was sure of that, because it had happened with Jin Rulan himself after the death of Jin Guangshan. Jiang Wanyin had been forced to steal him away to Lotus Piers until the situation had calmed down in Carp Tower, with Jin Guangyao coming on top of the struggle for power. 

"Now that you've started this mess, try to get your uncle involved," Nie Huaisang advised. "He'll think of some way to help." 

Jin Rulan scoffed. "Of course he will! I've written to him already and he's coming, we just didn't plan for A-Song to wake up so early!" 

Hearing this, Wen Ning mumbled a pitiful 'sorry', but Nie Huaisang barely noticed. All his attention was on Jin Rulan. He was still mostly a child, but to be able to put aside his pride and ask for help at such a moment… 

Up until then, Nie Huaisang’s opinion of the young sect leader had been decent, but not great. Finding out he had brought his cousin back among the living without a plan had lowered his opinion of Jin Rulan, in fact. But knowing when to turn to someone with more experience… that was a good quality to have for someone coming into power so young, as was the fact that Jin Rulan had known not to trust anyone within his own sect with this business, turning instead to his uncle and Wei Wuxian who were both crazy but reliable.

Jin Rulan might grow into a better sect leader than the rest of them, if nobody murdered him for being a little too smart and too just. 

Nie Huaisang’s eyes then fell on Jin Rusong, still sleeping. He wondered what he would grow into. If Jiang Cheng ended up raising him, if Lan Xichen gave a hand as well… then Jin Rusong would become a fine young man one day. After all Jin Rulan and Lan Sizhui had turned out pretty well, in spite of circumstances. 

But of course, none of that was Nie Huaisang’s problem.

"I think you don't need me anymore," he said with forced cheer. "I'll leave you to your business. Jin zongzhu, considering the circumstances, I think it's silly to continue pretending we'll be able to continue discussing sect business at present, so I think I'll be leaving Carp Tower now. Unless you think I can be of use again?"

"We'll manage without you," Jin Rulan retorted, holding his cousin closer, as if he feared Nie Huaisang might try to get him back. 

A ridiculous notion. 

Nie Huaisang wasn't stupid to let himself get close to anyone again, least of all this child he loved so much. 

"Take good care of him," he still ordered as he went to pick up the fan Jin Rusong had thrown away earlier. It had suffered no damage, thankfully. "He is a sweet boy, and things won't be easy for him." 

Without waiting for their reaction, Nie Huaisang left the building and walked away as fast as his legs would allow. 

He couldn't wait to go home and pretend none of this had happened. 

[thosequeenboys]

The Way Old Friends Do (Queen)

Author’s note:  This work is based on the ABBA Song of the same name.   The story takes place New Year’s Eve, 1973 and New Year’s Eve, 1990.  In addition to those Queen Boys, the story features Freddie’s devoted friend and personal assistant, Peter Freestone, aka Phoebe.  Numbered text is referenced at the end. This piece was published in the Some Kind of Magic Fanzine.  Wishing everyone a happy, healthy and easier!! New Year! 

Kneeling before the fireplace framed in white marble, Freddie held the match under the log tower in the deep fire box.  As it ignited before him, the flames warmed his soul and his weary body. He let the mesmerizing light transport him to the beginning, back to when they had big dreams, of creativity, of recognition.   There they were in the reel playing in his mind, circa 1973, bumbling around the studio in the pre-dawn hours, perfecting takes.  Streetlights streamed through the dirty curtains, and high heels clip clopped on the damp pavement outside the window. 

One of Freddie’s many gifts was to synthesize – this drum lick, that riff, those voice overs.  He was not the leader, he would adamantly claim over many years, but he fell naturally into the role of mediator when tensions erupted during those long nights.  When terse exchanges invaded, Fred would ensure each boy felt heard and validated.   A flurry of scenes passed through him, and he remembered each of his calming responses:  “Roger has a point.”  “Perfect Deacy, Dear, let’s give that a go.”  “Lovely, try that softer, Brian.”   The angry tension had evaporated; the outcome of his coaxed camaraderie was perfection.

Refocusing his eyes on the fire, Freddie became of aware of Phoebe silently setting up the etched champagne flutes on the bar at the back of the room and easing the chilled Dom Perignon into the silver ice bucket stand.  Freddie rose slowly, returned the iron screen and made his way to the plush settee angled toward the fireplace, eager to continue that visit back in time.  After so many years, Phoebe could tell when Freddie was engrossed in his own thoughts, creating - or lately, like tonight, reliving.  The portly man finished his tasks, and before he left the room, he eyed his dear friend taking a seat to find the relief he needed. 

Freddie blinked away the pain running through his bones and returned to the dancing fire.  In it, he saw himself walking by the turntable gingerly so the album wouldn’t skip.  His long hair fell into his face.  The music blared from the speakers.    

“Five minutes to Midnight. Let’s go!” Freddie implored, as he passed Brian and Roger lounging on opposite ends of the worn couch, their feet tangled together in the middle, and John, sitting cross-legged on the tattered easy chair, leafing through a stained magazine.   Freddie ducked into the tiny kitchenette.  He grabbed four mismatched glasses and the bottle of cheap champagne he bought earlier in the day.  It would leave a sour aftertaste, no doubt.  Fortunately, there was sufficient vodka for chasers.

“Absolutely not, Roger!” Brian’s voice rose with annoyance.

“C’mon, Brian,” Roger’s ire could not be missed.

“None of this.  Not tonight,” Freddie chided, reentering the small sitting area.  “It’s time to ring in the new year – And,”  Freddie purred, as he uncorked and poured the champagne, “Celebrate the first album of the next band bound for greatness!  Gather ‘round, boys.”  Languidly the three band mates rose and took the filled glasses Freddie offered them.  

“To Queen!  To this successful year we bid farewell!  -- and to the magnificence ahead in 1974 – and beyond!!”  Freddie said, his mouth broadening with each word.  “To Queen!” the boys echoed.   Smiles were exchanged as they raised their glasses and sipped in unison.  “This stuff is bloody awful, Fred,” Roger cackled, a look of disgust overtaking him.  The boys’ laughter accompanied the church bells pealing outside the small flat, signaling the arrival of the new year.  

Freddie chuckled thinking of that night so long ago, amazed that it was still as clear as the crystal glasses glistening behind him.  He dropped his head to his chest, and the image vanished.  

Over the years the crowds grew, their creativity blossomed, and fame erupted, the extent of which they couldn’t have imagined.  Though they all worked as a team and each had immense gifts, Freddie stood at the center of their evolution, which seemed limitless.  Each year presented many milestones to toast. Yet, the glory left in its wake an underside that swept him up and spit him out.  But at night on stage, Freddie rose -- a force buoyed by powerful lights above him, screaming crowds before him, the music surrounding him and those boys behind him. The spotlights showcased his immense talent and power to engage the audience, building a crescendo of rapture.  There were two sides, but the boys were always there as the reminder of who he truly was: an innovator, a creator, a collaborator, a musical genius --  and a loving, gentle, generous and witty friend. 

Freddie scanned the room and took in the paintings and unique artifacts he collected during decades of travel. Each had a story; each brought him joy.  Suddenly aware of the evening’s ritual, he glanced at the clock on the fireplace mantle. Any minute now.  And as if prompted by Freddie’s notice, voices reverberated off the brick outside the window as car doors slammed.

Pressing his arms into the firm cushion, Freddie stood carefully, gaining his balance.  He turned his attention to the entry foyer in the distance where Phoebe offered warm greetings and efficiently took coats, knowing this visit was limited as family parties awaited.  Phoebe gestured to the living room, and the boys stepped in, taking in the slight figure bathed in faint firelight before them. 

The fire was now blue-framed blushes of orange poking out from blackening logs.  Freddie stepped forward to tend to it.  “Here, Fred,” Brian said, taking long strides across the expansive room to the fire. “Let me.”  Roger quickly sidled up to the other side of the fireplace and silently removed the screen. Brian repositioned the burning logs to spark the flames and added a new one from the large Chinese porcelain jar painted with orange and blue dragons next to the fireplace. 

Freddie felt John staring at him and suddenly the younger man looked away, blinking. Were the cheekbones so hollow a month ago, he wondered, as the fire cast a shadow in the deep crevice of Freddie’s cheek.  In that moment he knew.  “This is the last one,” John said to himself, feeling tears forming.  Surprised that he allowed this thought, John quickly regained his composure and looked at Freddie.  A shy smile of admiration crept onto his face, and Freddie returned a warm grin.

“Beautiful!” Fred said turning to the fire, now bestowed with new life. If only there could be a comparable easy fix.  He made his way to the back of the room, the boys in tow.  “Gather ‘round, boys,” Freddie encouraged.  Between each pour, he wiped the bottle’s rim with the soft towel Phoebe had draped over the bucket.

“Hasn’t been such a bad year,” Roger said in his sincere, optimistic way.  The other boys nodded, hoping Roger would supply a litany of cheerful highlights to overshadow the glaring contradiction standing in front of them serving champagne. 

“Hey, we got the BRIT Award for Outstanding Contribution to Music.  Finally!  And Innuendo is fantastic!  Should do very well,”  Roger affirmed confidently, as the glasses were passed.

“A toast!” Brian raised his glass.  “To this successful year we bid farewell!”  He looked down, not sure what to add, where to go.  The other three boys joined him comfortably in the silence, for it was wrapped with the joys and sorrows and hopes of decades past, unspoken comfort and their unconditional bond of friendship.

“To fairy tales of yesterday that grow but never die,” (1) John added.  The boys exchanged glances nodding, and clinked their glasses. 

“To carrying on,” Freddie said firmly, breaking the wistfulness.

“To carrying on!” The boys echoed, trying not to sound somber, though they knew that carrying on meant until the end -- and beyond, concepts presently unfathomable.

“Glad you got the good stuff,” Roger said, raising his nose in the air satisfied, as he laughed and held his glass up to the light.  

“I always aim to keep you in the manner to which you’ve become accustomed,” Freddie quipped. They laughed in agreement.  “The manner that you all deserve,” Freddie added.  Freddie’s smile evaporated and he looked down.  “The best.”   Horns and bells sounded outside, along with the cheers from Freddie’s sitting room down the hall.  

The boys finished their drinks and set down their glasses.  They huddled together closely around Freddie.  Strong hands with long, graceful fingers rubbed backs and grazed knuckles.  Loving hands.  Musical hands.  They bent forward in their circle, holding each other just a bit tighter, and their heads touched.

I don't care what comes tomorrow. We can face it together. The way old friends do. (2)

Notes

1.       The Show Must Go On by Queen

2.       The Way Old Friends Do by ABBA

[mhaccunoval]

i finallyyyy finished the explanations for my tlb playlistttt so come get yall juice

if you haven’t already seen my first (official) post about this silly little playlist then you are still in luck !!! here is the spotify and the youtube links !!! oh yeah also all of the songs are in chronological order (maybe not by month but definitely by year) because i had to be organized like that sbjhshsjbs

———

❥ title

i mean. there isn’t much to explain about it but sbjshbsjhs it’s based on sam’s line “you’re a creature of the night, michael!” of course but i made it plural because this playlist is sort of a. general boys / movie playlist, if that makes sense??? but yeahhhh they’re all littol creechers who love the night >:o]

———

❥ paint it, black — the rolling stones

so !!! i was kind of trying to relate it to the boys vampirism and. love of black clothes sbhsjbshjs but no. similar to the title, they. literally live in darkness because of not being able to go into the sun and because of the few lights in the lair but there’s also a sort of duality where being vampires in an internal darkness??? like. each of the boys takes heavy advantage of the benefits of being undead but i can’t imagine it’s without its faults outside of the lack of sunlight and such. i’m sure there’s a kind of uh. monster complex that follows it, especially with the way outsiders view them, which certainly fits with the song’s vibe of being washed with this sort of sensory overload to color and earning weird looks for it

———

❥ riders on the storm — the doors

first of all, there’s a giant ass jim morrison poster in the lair therefore the boys definitely listen to the doors (if not idolize jim) so jot that down. but also !!! it has very Them vibes !!! i think the storm effects definitely relate to boys in how storms create a darkness that is soothing in its own way, and comes on strong, just like the boys’ presence. and. technically they Are killers on the road that Will kill a sweet family sbhjsbshjsb but no most of all the !!! “into this house we’re born // into this world we’re thrown” and !!! the found family that the boys have going. like, if you look at. vampirism as the house they have LITERALLY been born into it and been thrown into a whole new world, depending on each other for comfort and pleasure !!! oh also. they ride motorcycles so they’re also literal riders sbhjsbshjs (fun fact, according to genius lyrics: apparently it was the last song jim recorded before he died a few weeks later 😳)

———

❥ love her madly — the doors

whole jim morrison poster and listening to the doors reasoning is sustained. HOWEVER for the rest of reasoning… perhaps it’s more straight up 95060 than anything but sbhsjbsshj the whole woman walking in and out of the audience’s life is very symbolic of michael being in and out with the boys, never really deciding whether he wants to fully join them and straining. all of his relationships with that indecision and sitting on the picket fence (those who sit on the picket fence are impaled by it). although, it could also be partly symbolic of that indecision, as he does find Some charm in the boys’ lifestyle and keeps finding himself drawn back enough to even consider partaking in it. also, if you wanna go the parko route, paul loves marko madly enough to go after the frog bros personally for killing him <3

———

❥ walk this way — aerosmith

i am. blanking on how to tie it in other than being on the movie’s soundtrack (yes i avoided it and people are strange until the very end of making the playlist, but one of the evils got me clearly— have always ADORED people are strange though). but. i guess you can make the case that the song is full of innuendos and some scenes, like the feeding scene, are lowkey horny sbsjhbshjsbs and YES it’s the aerosmith version instead of the run dmc one because. i prefer this one and it’s my silly little playlist <3

———

❥ the boys are back in town — thin lizzy

technically the boys never Left town but !!! *christopher walken voice* Boys !!! them cast ARE crazy and they’re ALWAYS dressed to kill, ready to spill some blood and pick a fight !!! yeah no it’s just a very fun song that i think really works to. represent their crazy lifestyle and infamy around town due to causing trouble !!! and you can almost say that in this scenario star is the girl who used to dance a lot and slapped the shit out of someone <3 just girlboss moments <3

———

❥ xanadu — rush

hehehe… this started as the. desire to add more rush to the playlist for my own amusement but the more times i listen to it, the more i’m like “!!! it actually fits”… like. xanadu here is meant to a sort of utopia that’s long searched for, partly BECAUSE of the promise of immortality which !!! the boys have (unless. harmed in one of the ways at the end of the movie) because of their vampirism. like even if we don’t know the exact reasons they got turned, they all still, mostly indirectly probably, sought out that same principle. And the dining on honeydew and drinking the milk of ‘paradise’ is similar to their thrill-seeking tendencies and general enjoyment of being unable to die, leaving them to enjoy their undead lives to the fullest. not to mention, in [b part 2] (as genius refers to it) there’s talk of many, many years passing and waiting for the world to end, which we know there’s been quite a few years in between the boys getting turned and the movie, as well as i’m sure they sit back and wait on Some apocalypse, if not just to watch the world burn. in writing this, i’ve ALSO realized how it can be considered very Michael; he didn’t exactly seek this life out but he found it and indulged, only to be that “mad immortal man” towards the end of the song

———

❥ runnin’ with the devil — van halen

i just van halen is neat sbjshbsjsh and would definitely be something the boys would actually listen to hsjbshjsb i don’t Necessarily think vampires are in any way tied to the devil but. here it’d be more like a metaphor of “taking a walk on the wild side” if you wanna call it that; also, they all truly live their lives like there’s no tomorrow (not that they have to worry about death until the very end), have stolen a lot of things just to get by (probably in life AND death), don’t bode well with the ‘simple’ life (likely including the idea of a nuclear family like max proposed) because of it’s lack of pleasures, and don’t exactly have any “love [that] you’d call real” unless you read into the subtext 

———

❥ hot blooded — foreigner

originally this was going to be another joke about the. lowkey horniness of the boys and the movie as a whole but i’ve realized in writing these explanations thus far and rereading the lyrics that it’s. it’s just michael-centric sbshjsbsh sam is “at the mercy of his sex glands” and so is the audience of both the movie and the song sbhsjbshsj like. michael finds himself attracted to star immediately and tries for two secret rendezvouses, with only one working, and. can be said that he also finds a fever running within him when he’s around david and the boys sbhjsbshjs i just 🙈

———

❥ renegade — styx

renegade is my favorite styx song so i just said “fuck it” and added it sbshjsbshj but !!! you can say that, again, the boys live their lives on the wild side and. probably commit enough crimes to warrant dozens of sentences, some that would lead to death row (like, ya know, the. manslaughter) but they manage to get away unscathed. And the law man serving as an allegory to all of the people, including the frogs and grandpa, that want them dead for being vampires, with the bounty to be rewarded being the ridding of their trouble from santa carla

———

❥ big shot — billy joel

mikey :o) … ok yeah he isn’t the. silver spoon in hand (nose) type but he’s LITERALLY the type to open his mouth and get himself deep in enough shit that a fight breaks out, potentially bloodied his eyes, nose, and/or fists. i don’t have much of an explanation outside of he is a himbo jock who pulled a “i didn’t know how to talk to my crush so i wrote a note telling them to get out of my school” except he said it with his fist instead of his mouth sbjshbshsj

———

❥ boys don’t cry — the cure

pretty sure this is one of the ones i stole off of shovel (@/iswearimavamp) sbshjbshjs but i do love this song in a general sense too. in regards to the movie, like. none of the guys. obsess over masculinity or anything— and both david AND michael cry at different points— so that’s not necessarily an issue. but, there *is* still a lot of hurt and stepping on toes in many of the relationships in the film that can be stretched to fit, i would think sbjhsbshjs

———

❥ highway to hell — ac/dc

this and back in black were some of the last two i put on here because i. wanted to make an ‘even’ 35 sbsjhsbshjs BUT, like with runnin’ with the devil, it’s about a devilish lack of care for one’s own life or the “status of their soul” and just doing what feels right or like the most fun, no matter if it lands them in hell or not. and !!! “my friends are gonna be there too” fits with the friendship within the boys’ found family and how they’ll all always be together, no matter what !!!

———

❥ back in black — ac/dc 

i can’t really think of an explanation that differs from highway to hell so just reread the above sbsjhsbsh

———

❥ witch hunt — rush

OK !!! this is the song i’m the MOST excited to explain !!! right off the bat, moving pictures as a whole is an IMMACULATE album, absolutely love it. right so !!! this song literally SOUNDS like it belongs on the movie soundtrack; it has the same overtones and sounds as cry little sister and it’s just !!! and with the title, a witch hunt is BASICALLY what sam + the frogs went on in search of the lose boys, relying on little else but hearsay and catching glimpses at what was happening to michael, “confident that their ways are best” and moving along like a mob of three to get to the bottom of it. “features distorted in the flickering light // faces are twisted and grotesque” is very reminiscent of the faces the lost boys pull when they’re about to attack, and “they say there are strangers who threaten us” is symbolic of them being outsiders/outcasts that make everyone uncomfortable, even if You aren’t going to be their next victim. “the righteous rise with burning eyes” AND “quick to judge, quick to anger // slow to understand // ignorance and prejudice // and fear walk hand in hand” can apply to any number of characters, particularly the mains who are all pitted against each other, the humans fighting for their lives and the vampires fighting for their Right to live, neither taking into consideration the other’s perspective. i just… ADORE this song…

———

❥ red barchetta — rush 

this one was mainly just because of the car that grandpa keeps in the barn and both sam and michael’s fascination with it sbhjsbsshj and just to get more rush on here shjsbshjsbsh

———

❥ maneater — hall & oates

one of the first songs to hit the playlist !!! because the boys eat people !!! they’re the lean and hungry type that only come out at night !!! they’ll be sitting with you but their eyes are on the door and if you want love from them, you won’t get very far !!! the beauty IS there but there are beasts inside that can rip your world apart !!! they’ll chew you up but also leave you begging for more :o)

———

❥ hungry like the wolf — duran duran

the second song to have gone on the playlist !!! the boys are always on the prowl for fresh meat (in both the food AND turning senses) and they come alive while on the hunt, blood no doubt rushing through their veins (assuming it still can) !!! and in the movie, michael is the one they’re after for the turning connotation, all wanting a taste of him for themselves !!!

———

❥ subdivisions — rush

this rush song actually went on before the others shbsjsbshj but !!! it still fits just as well (certainly better than red barchetta)… the movie all takes place on the fringes of the city, “in between the bright lights // and the far unlit unknown”, and while it’s not exactly in the suburbs, there’s still little comfort to soothe the restless dreams of youth. there IS a drawing like moths into the city, for both the emersons and the lost boys, which is what ends up bringing all of them together, although it starts are cruising for action just to feel the living night. and just !!! NOBODY fits in !!! if you take the movie title as them being Lost instead of an allusion to peter pan, then you get slapped with thinking about what actually makes them lost and how they don’t conform in any way, shape, or form to just about. anything. and !!! the emersons are new, which immediately puts them at a social disadvantage, but they Also don’t seem too terribly great at making new friends in general so !!! “nowhere is the dreamer or the misfit so alone”!!! 

———

❥ abracadabra — steve miller band 

i just love this song for whatever reason. and i think the allusion to magic to very fitting for the hallucinations that david gives michael, putting a sort of magic spell on him if you want to look at it that way. not a lot of silk and satin going gone but plenty of leather and probably some lace in there somewhere ( ;o] ) … also michael DOES heat up like a burnin’ flame whenever his name is called and the situation with the boys just keeps going round and round with no exact end in sight, only the calling of desire 

———

❥ separate ways (worlds apart) — journey

you would think i would have more journey on here ??? because i love them ??? but instead i stole this off of shovel too ??? it’s fine. time to be back on the 95060 bullshit sbsjhbsjhs we all know david Really wants michael to join them but. michael is reluctant, so that hesitance sets them worlds apart from each other— as if they weren’t already— and there’s still love between them, or at least the bgeinning sparks of it, even if michael refuses to act on them and only keeps pushing david away 

———

❥ cum on feel the noize — quiet riot

just some boys loving to party <3 some boys with evil yet dirty minds, out of time singing, funny faces, and that have a lazy time <3 yeah no this is one they’d rock out to and someone would probably pull a muscle over because it’s just such a banger sbshjsbsjh

———

❥ rebel yell — billy idol 

Another stolen off of shovel sbjhsbsjhs also ever since it’s been pointed out to me that david looks like billy idol i’ve just been losing it a little sbhjsbshjs Anyway. they’d definitely idolize him to some degree, even if just for looks, and it certainly fits the way that they. most Definitely let out a rebel yell at the midnight hour if you know what i mean— *taken out by a sniper*

———

❥ every breath you take — the police

would to believe to know i took it from shovel (i swear the last three where i say that will be rock you like a hurricane, livin’ on a prayer, and cherry pie sbshjsbsh) BUT !!! the watching every move is yet another. david keeping watch over michael and uh yearning from afar moment, heart aching the longer he’s away and the longer he keeps up this game of not knowing what exactly he wants to do 

———

❥ handsome devil — the smiths

ok THIS one was lent to me by ej (@/maybe-strawberry-blue) sbshjbshjsbs and let me tell you. this song (especially when paired with this charming man) is Very homoerotic, aka perfect for this movie shbjsbshjsbs like what got me first was “let me get my hands // on your mammary glands” and just. thinking about trans parko sbhsjbshjs but also in general the. “and i would like to give you // what i think you’re asking for” and “a boy in the bush // is worth two in the hand” and just sbhjsbshjs Everything. fits the ambiguous homoeroticism. And i think the boys would listen to the smiths (will elaborate more in the other smiths song explanation)

———

❥ panama — van halen

i Told you all i think van halen is neat sbsjsshjb what can i say. the boys like fast moving vehicles, hard partying, and tender loving sbsjhsbhsj also forgot to mention that i think they’d all be :eyes: about pre-1985 david lee roth and i cannot blame

———

❥ rock you like hurricane — scorpions

third to last shovel snatch sbshjsbh Here you can replace any one of the boys with the animals mentioned, as they’re always hungry and need to feed… they come out scratching and ready to win, willing to rock anyone who gets in their way like a hurricane— including with lust, depending on the situation 

———

❥ livin’ on a prayer — bon jovi

i actually can’t even manage an explanation for this one either just because of the song’s plot and how greatly it differs the movie plot <3 however it will stay because shovel said one of the boys (i forget which) would listen to it and friendship is more powerful than my small brain <3

———

❥ the queen is dead — the smiths

rightttt so here’s the deal, buds and duds. something in my gut just tells me that david would pull a me and. listen to this entire album on repeat, particularly bigmouth strikes again and i know it’s over when in dramatics bshjsbsjh BUT to make a case for the title track itself, breaking into buckingham palce— or really any major building— with only a sponge and rusty wrench would ABSOLUTELY be an endeavor the boys would get up to And they’d all pale (worse than normal) about finding out they’re the descendant of some royal. “oh, has the world changed, or have i changed” and “life is very long, when you’re lonely” is quite fitting of their immortality, which i can only imagine would leave them questioning how the world has evolved and, although they have each other, i’m sure living forever still can get a Little lonely. And they’d certainly celebrate the death of a royal (because anarchy <3). mostly i’ve just been listening to this song on repeat for days sbhjsbshj but, i think it’s the most. generally related to all of the boys, whereas like. cemetry gates would be more solely 95060 

———

❥ need you tonight — inxs

my favorite inxs song… technically the 21st century Wasn’t yesterday when the movie came out nor when the song did sbhjsbshjs but there *is* a lot of sweating from desire and aiming to put that passion into use, very blatantly letting everyone know that sbjhsbshjs

———

❥ bad medicine — bon jovi

there’s just something so fun about this song… and while listening to it on the drive home, i was thinking about it from a 95060 perspective where. david’s a bit lovesick (hence the love like bad medicine) and the choir of voices in the bg, saying “that’s what you get for falling in love”, would be the other boys knowing he’s gotten himself in over his head over what was supposed to be a minor tease or a small fling (would be a real fun and poppy animatic i think)

———

❥ pour some sugar on me — def leppard

legitimately this started as a “haha what about my ‘what if the blood was kool-aid instead’ joke” and then i realized it was. a fair enough fit, especially with the feeding scene. except they’re actual vamps not just video vamps sbjhsbshjs anyway. sugar highs and red hot flames of passion for one another <3

———

❥ cherry pie — warrant

ok THIS is the last song i took from shovel and. my reasoning is pretty much the same as pour some sugar on me and. Friendship

———

❥ somebody told me — the killers

i wasn’t going to add any modern songs but. i thought it’d be funny if michael had had a girlfriend before leaving phoenix that looked a bit like david sbshjsbshj and then it only just added to angst sbhjsbshj

———

❥ you know what they do to guys like us in prison — mcr

i was reminded that vampires will never hurt you exists but. i went with my favorite mcr song instead because. vwnhy is more like ??? a vampire that fears themselves ??? so like. an edward cullen type ??? while ykwtdtgluip is more about the homoeroticism and community ??? i said what i said

———

❥ house of wolves — mcr

thank god this is the last song because i’m getting tired sbjshsjshb a little less homoeroticism, a little more general sinning and egotism <3

[padfootagain]

Girl Crush (XXIII)

Chapter 23: Irises For Congratulations

 Here we go with a new chapter!!! I'm back from my event, and will come back to regularly updating this story again!

I hope you like this chapter, it's very cute. VERY VERY CUTE!! Be careful, as you read it, you might be smiling too much because of it!

Word Count: 2578

"Is that the last chocolate chip cookie?"

"It is."

"Are you gonna eat it?"

"You are stress-eating again."

"It's a chocolate chip cookie. It's chocolate, Harry. I don't need stress to eat the last of these."

He chuckled and ended you the last biscuit.

"Thank you," you chimed with a little happy wiggle that made his entire soul and heart and body melt with tenderness.

All air left his lungs and he found it unbearably difficult to inhale again. It took him several seconds to calm down again.

"I'm sure everything is going to be fine."

"You don't know that," you replied with your mouth full of food, waving your finger to strengthen your argument. "I could lose the deal on the shop if my bank doesn't accept the loan. And are you a banker? No."

"My dad is in finance…"

"Is your dad in charge of loans? I don't think so."

"Y/N, please, I am begging you, relax."

You sat cross-legged on the floor, dressed in your most comfortable pyjamas. Harry was wrapped in his purple bathrobe you loved stealing from him as often as you could, a little frown creasing his forehead.

He was so focused on this game of scrabble he fought against you… he did hope to win for once, after all.

"What if they say no?" you asked, and your voice was too fragile this time, Harry looked up from across the board game.

He reached out to imprison your hand in a tender, reassuring hold.

"They're going to say yes," he stated with an unbreakable confidence. "And if they don't, then you'll find something else. It's your dream, you're gonna make it. Maybe it'll take a little longer in the worst-case scenario, but you'll make it."

"Do you really think so?" you asked in a shy voice.

"You are the most deserving and hard-working person I know. You're going to make your dream come true."

"I mean… you did make yours come true, so… I guess I can too…"

"Of course you can. And don't forget that I still lost X-factor..."

"Twice, technically."

"Yep, I'm a loser. And yet…!" he gestured towards himself and put on a ridiculously exaggerated toothy grin. "I fooled everyone!"

You let out a laugh, finally feeling your shoulders relax a little. All your tension had not left yet, but you were one step closer to being your normal self again.

"More seriously though. Y/N, you are going to get your own flower shop. I know you will. The decision is out of your hands now. I know that it's nerve-wrecking, but there is nothing you can do about it anymore. All you can do is wait and see."

You nodded, knowing he was right. It didn't mean that your anxious mind stopped worrying, but the more rational part of your brain did accept the truth for what it was.

"There is something I can do though," you replied, giving his hand a playful squeeze. "I can kick your arse at scrabble again."

He narrowed his eyes, pulling the hood of his bathrobe up.

"This is war, Y/N."

"Well, a slow one then, cause you've been looking for a word for ten minutes!"

"I'm thinking!" he faked outrage. "Besides, we're also talking, and that's distracting."

He was also very distracted by the mere fact that you were there, close to him, in your adorable pyjamas, and the thought of kissing you was stronger by the minute. But he didn't feel the need to mention that part.

Outside, it was raining hard in L.A, thunderous clouds pouring their heavy shadows on the busy city, making it look like it was night. The sound of heavy droplets falling against the windowpane was the only sound echoing through the house. Harry was thinking about how he could place the word he had found on the board when your phone buzzed, distracting him again. You checked who was sending you a text, and he didn't need to ask who it was. The small smile that formed on your face as you read the name spoke volumes.

His heart tightened when he wished he was the one who made you smile with a simple text.

"How is Gareth?" Harry asked, his tone one of innocent conversation, but his fist clenching without him noticing.

"He's okay. He was asking about the loan. Also... uhm... he's been looking for a place for the two of us."

Harry froze, his breathing caught in his throat, and even his heart felt like it had stopped beating.

You... were going to live together?

"Oh... congratulations."

"We haven't found a place yet."

"Still... good news!" he lied.

You wanted to move in with Gareth... you would be living with him...

Harry tried to focus but it was an information hard to process. He reckoned that his mind was blocking all the meanings it involved, actually. He reckoned it was for the better too, especially for as long as you were sitting across from him.

"Yes! And Gareth is gonna look for a place while I take care of the shop, it'll save me time."

"Hmm…"

"I'm really happy you two get along!" you grinned, looking up to meet Harry's gaze again. "It's important to me that you can be friendly to each other."

Harry faked a smile to hide the lie he was about to utter.

He had always been so honest with you, and yet these days he felt like he spent his time lying. No malicious lies at all. And he hated himself every time he had to bend the truth to fit what he should say instead of uttering the words he meant. But how could he tell you the truth?

He couldn't tell you that the sight of Gareth touching you even in the most innocent manner made him sick. That he had nightmares about the two of you in bed together. That he couldn't think, nor sleep, nor function at all every time he thought of the two of you kissing. That he was so jealous he could barely breathe sometimes. That it was so painful to see you happy with someone else he reckoned getting his heart physically ripped off his chest would be more pleasant.

And now you were about to live with him... you would share a bed with him every night...

He pushed the thought away, it was too unbearable a thought for him right now.

But that was the thing: you seemed happy with him. You seemed to genuinely care about the guy, and no matter how much Harry hated the idea of him being with you, he couldn't deny that he seemed to have earnest intentions towards you. He seemed to really care about you, and no matter how Harry wished it wasn't the case, when Gareth told you he loved you, he meant the words just as much as Harry would have if he had the chance to speak them.

So what could he do? He was your best friend, and you had never let him think that you could be anything else, and now you were with another man who treated you right and made you happy. It would be so unfair if Harry spoke his mind.

So, once again, he lied. Or, as he liked to think, he 'bent the truth a little'.

"Yeah, I like him. He's a nice guy."

It wasn't a full-on lie. Harry couldn't deny that Gareth was a nice guy. He just happened to also hate that particular nice guy.

"I mean… it's so important to me," you repeated, giving him a shy smile. "I couldn't be with someone you didn't get along with."

"Really?" Harry asked back, genuinely surprised.

You replied as if your answer was the most obvious truth in the world.

"Of course. You're my best friend. You're the most important person in my life. I couldn't be with someone you hated."

He frowned slightly, studying your reaction with great care.

"So… if I told you that I didn't like Gareth, you would leave him?"

You shrugged.

"I would ask for a good reason, but… at the end of the day, you know me better than anyone. And I trust your judgement when it comes to people. So if you don't like someone, then I guess, yeah… I would. Or I would at least consider it. If you had a good enough reason, then I would listen to you, and call it a day. Besides, I wouldn't choose a guy I've known for a few months over my best friend, who has been with me for years! I'm too loyal for that. But you like him, so all is fine!"

Harry remained silent, intensely staring at you, as if he could pierce to your soul with a simple gaze.

Because he wanted to tell the whole truth all of a sudden. Tell you that he hated the guy. That he wasn't good for you. That you deserved better. That you could have so much better. That he was boring and you needed a guy who made you laugh with every word. That you were way too kind for him. That you should be with…

… with who? With Harry? Harry who was never around? Who would spend months thousands of miles away? If Harry didn't consider himself as an evil person, he knew he had room for improvement still. You had made him see that. You made him see it every day. He wanted to be funnier for the sole purpose of putting a smile on your lips and hearing your laugh more often. He wanted to be kinder because you were so generous yourself, and he was terrified at the idea of hurting you in any way. He wanted to make great songs because he wanted you to like them, because he longed to hear your voice sing the words he had written to the tunes he had invented. He wanted to be selfless because he wanted to give his entire being to you…

He wanted to be better because he wanted to be someone who would deserve you. Which meant that he knew that he didn't deserve you for now. And as he thought more about it, he reckoned he probably never would. He was already outrageously lucky to be your best friend.

And if he hated Gareth, it was because of his own bloody feelings, and had nothing to do with your boyfriend himself. How selfish it would be for him to tell you the truth then. Make you break your own heart because he wanted you? He valued your happiness way more than his own, had for what felt like forever. And he reckoned that if he acted like this, it would be the final proof that he didn't deserve to be with someone as wonderful as you at all.

So, he didn't say any of these words. Instead, he faked to be focusing on the game again, and nodded.

"Yeah, all is fine. I will cut off his balls if he hurts you in any way though."

You laughed, shaking your head, not recognizing how serious Harry was.

"I wouldn't expect anything less coming from you and your overprotective nature," you joked.

"Overprotective? Me?"

"You are."

"I'm not!"

"You are! You are overprotective. Clingy too. Jealous. But it's okay, I'm used to it."

"There's nothing wrong in me being worried about you. As you just said, we're best friends!"

"Forget I said that! And please, for the love of God, PUT A GODDAMN WORD ON THE BOARD!"

"You're the one distracting me!" he argued.

You laughed at his argument, and his laughter soon joined you, a perfect harmony echoing through his spacious home, as if the two sounds were meant to be heard in unison.

Your phone buzzed again, this time for an incoming call, and your heart jumped in your chest as you recognized the name of your banker. You shot a panicked look at Harry, but he gave you an enthusiastic thumb-up and you gathered yourself to answer the call.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Ms. Y/L/N?"

"Yes, it's me."

"Mr. Lopez here. I'm calling you concerning your loan for your flower shop."

"Yes, did you have an answer?"

Harry studied your features, but couldn't really read anything across your face, your expression was too neutral.

"Okay, thank you so much. On Monday, noted. Thank you so much again for calling, goodbye."

You hung up, and Harry waited for you to put your phone down.

"So? What did he say?" he asked excitedly.

"So…"

"So?! Stop torturing me!"

But when you looked up at him, you were grinning.

"I got my loan!"

"YES!!" Harry threw his hands to the air, cheering, before you both reached over the board to hug. "I told you!"

"Yes! I got it! I need to go back on Monday to sign a few papers, but… I did it, Harry! I'm going to open my own shop! I did it!"

"You did it! You did it! It's gonna be amazing! Hang on!"

He pulled away, jumping to his feet and disappearing to the kitchen, while you dried your eyes. You were so happy.

At last, you had a chance to make your dream come true. And you were sharing this moment with the person who was the most important to you. It was all perfect.

Harry came back a minute later with a bottle of champagne, two glasses and a box wrapped in blue paper.

"I had prepared everything, obviously. I told you I knew you would get it!"

"What's that?" you asked, nodding to the box, while Harry was putting down the bottle and the glasses.

"It's for you. Open it while I pour us some well-deserved champagne."

"For me?"

"Yeah. For your shop."

"Harry, you didn't have to."

"No, but I wanted to be the first one to give you something for your shop. Come on, open it."

The cork left the bottle with a loud 'pock' while you tore the wrapping paper apart and opened the box.

Inside was an elegant slate upon which the words Sunflowers and Peonies were painted in your favourite colour.

"You can put it on the counter, just the way you wanted," he explained, pouring some champagne in the two glasses. 'What do you think?"

"You remembered the name of the shop…"

"Of course, I did! Do you like it?"

You tried to be discreet as you brushed your tears away. You reckoned that you had never felt quite so happy and loved in your entire life.

And maybe you should have thought that the moment wasn't perfect, because Gareth wasn't here. But the truth was, you didn't even think of him. You didn't miss him at all, not now. Now, you were with Harry, and he was making it all absolutely perfect.

"Thank you so much. I love it."

"Good! Now, cheers! To Sunflowers and Peonies!"

"To Sunflowers and Peonies", you accepted the toast, and drank some champagne with him.

You cleared your throat, trying to stop any tear from falling, and decided that changing the subject was the best option.

"It's still your turn to play."

Harry finally did put a word on the board and wrote down the count of his points. It took you less than a couple of minutes to add a seven-letter word.

"Oh for fuck's sake, Y/N! Can't you let me win, for once?!"

****************************

Tag list :  @ponycake27 @horsesreign @xinyourdreamsx @jbluevelvet@notkeppeki @daynigt-dreamer-stuff @fudgeflyss @stuckupstucky@snek-shit @suchatinyinfinity@i-padfootblack-things  @buckybsarmy @heyohheyitsgabi@jigsawlover10 @emyyjemyy​ @addictedtofictionalcharacters @staringmoony@madamrogers @cronias13 @stylesfics-xx @mellamolayla @mariaenchanted

[badgersprite]

Fic: Desiderata (9/?)

 Chapter Title: Diversion

Fandom: Mass Effect

Characters: Miranda, Samara, Oriana, Jacob, Jack

Pairing: Miranda/Samara, slow burn, friends to lovers 

Chapter Rating: NC-17

Warnings: This is the first chapter that explores Samara’s depression and suicidal thoughts from her own perspective so trigger warnings for that section.

Chapter Summary: In 2186, Miranda struggles with her newfound feelings for Samara. After figuring out what’s going on, Jack suggests that the best way to get over Samara is to get under another asari. In 2185, The Normandy SR-2 crew go their separate ways following the destruction of the Alpha Relay.

Author’s Note: Alternative title for this chapter could be ‘Miranda Lawson’s complete history of mediocre sex’. Oh, by the way, this fic now has a Spotify playlist that I’m working on (under the cut if you’re interested). It’s a little weird when some of the songs correlate to chapters that aren’t out yet but hey.

(Link to Playlist)

*.    *     *

Miranda didn’t exactly have much that could constitute formal schooling left to finish when she joined Cerberus. Even at sixteen, had she been enrolled in any accredited university, she could have gotten her bloody PhD on gene modification, particularly if she’d continued exploring her research into gene therapy and other similar work she’d done with her father over the past two years.

However, there was one area where her father had, for whatever reason, deliberately underdeveloped her skills. One area that was highly valuable to her future career with Cerberus.

It came as no surprise that, as soon as she joined them, the first thing that Cerberus did for Miranda was schedule a surgery to insert a biotic implant into her brain and enrol her into a training program immediately thereafter.

Although she was a bit on the older side to receive an implant, such that The Alliance probably wouldn’t have even bothered investing in developing her abilities as a biotic at that point, Cerberus’s mysterious leader The Illusive Man had intervened from on high and had apparently personally approved her surgery and training anyway, confident that every cent he spent on exploring Miranda’s untapped potential would prove to be worthwhile.

It was the first time anyone had shown faith in her. Believed in her. And he’d never even met her. Suffice it to say, Miranda had no intentions of letting him down. No. If anything, she was determined to exceed his expectations tenfold.

She wouldn’t come to know it until later in life, but being a few years late to exploring her biotic potential and having the support of a high-tech organisation like Cerberus which didn’t play solely with what was approved for mass-consumption also meant she was fortunate enough to receive the most cutting-edge, state-of-the-art implant available anywhere in ‘66. This meant Miranda avoided the notoriously side-effect laden L2 implants every other biotic her age was saddled with, and would suffer from for the rest of their lives. But those problems with L2 implants wouldn’t even come to be known about, or at least officially reported, until years later. 

“Everyone, if I could have your attention,” the Cerberus instructor began as he entered the room with his newest student in tow, causing his cadets to turn away from their conversation and face the front of the practice room. “You might notice we have a new addition to the biotic training program today. This is Miranda Lawson. Miranda?” He gestured towards her expectantly.

Miranda stared back at him in expressionless silence, arms folded across her chest, not sure what he wanted of her and not caring enough to deduce it.

He awkwardly cleared his throat. “...Okay. You get settled in. I’ll be right back.”

Miranda followed his direction, standing by herself on the opposite side of the room to the existing group of seven students, her focus affixed towards the front of the room as she awaited the instructor’s return. The instructor wasn’t even a biotic himself. No humans that age were. This was unexplored territory for their species. It said everything that all the learning materials Miranda had been provided with so far to support her biotic studies were asari textbooks.

Miranda curled a few stray strands of hair behind her ear as she stood at attention, fingers unconsciously grazing the small surgical scar there. It had only been two days since she got her implant. The site was still tender.

Hearing sounds on her left, she glanced over at the other students. Saw them all whispering. Talking behind her back? Laughing about something. Laughing at her? If they were, Miranda didn’t care, moving her gaze back to where it had been before. She was used to it. Her whole life had been spent with people treating her like a science project without thoughts or feelings of her own - talking about her like she was merely an object in the same room, even when she was clearly within earshot of conversations about herself.

Miranda’s hands tightened into fists as she remembered all those little comments and ‘imperfections’ she’d seen written about her in her father’s lab. It spurred on her drive to prove each and every one of those things wrong. She would live to make her father regret ever thinking of her as a failed experiment. She would show him. She would make him eat his hubris, and go on to achieve so much more than he could ever possibly have dreamed for her, or himself.

But, as far as her peers went, they simply didn’t matter. As far as Miranda was concerned, they may as well not even have existed. It was hard to care what any of these others thought of her when she didn’t doubt she would quickly prove herself superior to all of them. She knew she would. It was what she was made for. They were just obstacles in her path to success, and revenge against the man who called himself her father. 

After about two minutes had passed, one of the boys from the group approached her, his presence disturbing her from her concentration. He was roughly her age, if she had to guess. Not that she’d ever met a sixteen year old boy before.

“So, you’re Miranda, huh?” the boy greeted her. “Hi, there. I’m Richard. I’m--”

“You spit when you talk,” Miranda cut him off.

He blinked. “W-What?”

“When you opened your mouth just now, spit came flying out directly at my face,” Miranda clarified, pointedly wiping her brow with her thumbnail to rid herself of a small droplet of spittle on her forehead. “It’s disgusting. Don’t do that.”

Richard was rendered speechless by her harsh response. The others laughed until he slinked back over to them with his tail between his legs.

That was the first impression Miranda ever made on people her own age.

The rest of the term didn’t proceed a great deal differently. Miranda was there solely to hone her biotic abilities in order to be useful to The Illusive Man. In her tireless dedication to being better than the best, she made swift progress. Within three months, she’d not only caught up to what her peers had learned in the last three years, but excelled beyond them to reach the top of the class.

From a social perspective? Well, Miranda had no social perspective. There was Miranda, and then there was everyone else. The seven of them were their own group, and she wasn’t part of it. Three girls, four boys, all with their own pre-established hierarchies and relationships with one another. They were all full time school students who saw each other all day, every single weekday, and she was just there for the biotic training program portion and nothing else. She didn’t want to be part of their little circle, and they didn’t want her to be either.

That was no mere projection. Miranda had better hearing than her classmates knew. She overheard them saying things about her. Calling her a bitch. Speculating that her weird behaviour was evidence she was autistic. Planning things to bait her to get a rise out of her - which they sometimes followed through with. Not that it ever really worked. She generally just ignored them, or shot their efforts down with short sarcastic remarks so she could get back to her work. 

Miranda saw no reason to be bothered by the fact that they didn’t like her. She didn’t like them either. She’d made no attempt to endear herself to her classmates, and failed to see the appeal of trying, since succeeding would only mean they would talk to her more, which was the opposite of what she wanted.

Every little thing she overheard her classmates discussing amongst themselves were things that made absolutely no sense to her at all, given her upbringing. Allegedly famous people she had never heard of. Television shows and movies Miranda had never watched. Places she had never been to. Music that, in Miranda’s opinion, didn’t even qualify as music. Video games Miranda had obviously never been allowed to play. Sports. Just sports. Enough said. 

They may have been the same species, but they couldn’t have been more alien.

They knew it as well as she did, and as soon as it had become apparent to them that they had absolutely nothing in common with Miranda at all, that sealed her fate as a permanent outcast from the rest. Which was fine by her.

Richard was the only one who still made an effort to talk to her at all anymore, for reasons that were totally lost upon Miranda given she had made her complete and utter apathy towards him plain from the outset, and had never relented from that position even once. It was no more than a few words each day that he said to her, but it was still those few persistent words every single class, without fail.

One time he had tapped her on the shoulder and asked her if she’d figured out the answer to a calculus problem (which was part of the theory side of their biotic training). Miranda had curtly responded that she had, and he should do the same himself. It wasn’t her problem if he couldn’t keep up. Her goal was always to stand alone in first place and leave her peers far behind in her wake.

Another time, he’d bumped into her as they were leaving class, causing them both to drop their stuff on the floor. He’d apologised, and Miranda had chastised him for his carelessness and inattention as she’d picked up her books.

Despite her showing absolutely no signs of tolerance or patience towards him, never so much as a kind word or even the meagre courtesy of a polite smile, because Miranda was neither polite nor courteous, Richard still cheerfully said hello to her in the mornings when he saw her and often tried to engage her in small talk before their teacher arrived. If Miranda replied back with a standard greeting it was out of obligation only. She frequently just ignored him or rebuffed him with one-word answers and irritated looks until he either went away or class began.

One day, before training, Miranda perceived the rest of the group conspiring in secretive whispers, as they often did. She wasn’t paying them any mind, but she wasn’t oblivious to Richard gesturing towards her, and the rest of his friends all shaking their heads and telling him no.

Ignoring their objections, Richard approached her. 

“Hey, um...Miranda?” Miranda didn’t look up from her notebook, revising for the days’ lesson. Not that she needed to. “Do you have any plans this weekend?”

“Studying,” Miranda coldly answered. 

Richard laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “Right, well...there’s this new club that opened nearby a few weeks ago. We have fake IDs so we were all going to check it out on Saturday night. We were wondering if you wanted to come out with us?”

“Why would I want to do that?” Miranda said with clear disinterest, failing to see the appeal.

“Well, have you ever been to a nightclub?” Richard asked.

“No,” Miranda responded. Of course she hadn’t.

“Then how do you know you wouldn’t enjoy it?” Richard pointed out.

At that, Miranda finally glanced up from her notebook. She had to admit, she couldn’t refute that argument. She’d spent so many years living under her father’s thumb, never getting to do or experience things normal people her age got to do. The fact that her peers always sounded like they were talking like a completely foreign language was evidence enough of just how little Miranda resembled whatever the hell a typical sixteen-year-old girl was supposed to be like.

Cerberus wouldn’t care if she went out, even if they were breaking the rules by being underage. They weren’t control freaks like her father. They hadn’t told her to do anything except work on her biotics, sit exams when they told her to, and train. What she did in her personal time was entirely up to her. So why not?

Having persuaded herself to try something new, something normal, she did.

Miranda had never experienced anything remotely like it. The thundering bass music that shook the floor. The pulsing, flashing lights. Being surrounded by so many people. Coming from living in her father’s estate which had been tucked away in a part of the countryside so obscure that, even when talking to other Australians, she couldn’t tell them where she was from so much as she had to describe where it was close to in order to spark any recognition, it was like being thrust into a vivid reality she had only previously read about.

It had taken her a solid fifteen minutes to adjust to the sudden sensory shock to her system, but, once she settled in, she wasn’t entirely sure she disliked it. Even if she wasn’t a fan of the music, she could see how this could become addictive. Being in a place like this. She could see herself coming back. Alone.

Honestly, in her near out-of-body experience, she hadn’t caught a single word of any conversation her classmates had been having since they arrived, and not just because the music was loud. Miranda didn’t fully snap out of her stupor and pay attention to what they were saying until one of the girls in her class pushed a drink across the table towards her, into her field of view. 

“Here, Miranda. Try this.”

“What is it?” Miranda asked.

“Just try it,” her classmate urged again, not taking no for an answer.

Miranda regarded the glass curiously. She wasn’t stupid. She knew there had to be alcohol in it. She’d never tried it before. Never been allowed. Part of her wanted to know what it was like. Wanted to know what lots of things were like, if she was being honest with herself.

She wasn’t oblivious to the three other girls snickering amongst themselves as they watched her take her first drink. The taste was somewhat unpleasant. A bit like what she imagined drinking drain cleaner would taste like. But there was a faint rush when she drank it. A warmth that burned her throat and spread throughout her body. It wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

The other girls could barely stifle their laughter. “Do you feel anything?” asked the one Miranda had mentally dubbed ‘girl number two’ whenever she couldn’t be bothered addressing her by name. She wasn’t the most socially adept person, but even Miranda knew their little trio had some kind of social hierarchy thing going on. From where she was sitting it did, anyway.

“I think so. A little,” Miranda answered. The drink was definitely strong. She weathered the unfortunate taste and finished it. For some reason, the other girls immediately stopped snickering, as if disappointed by her reaction.

“Wow. For someone who never drank before, you have a pretty high tolerance,” girl number three acknowledged, although she didn’t sound impressed by that.

“Everything about me was engineered to be perfect,” Miranda nonchalantly replied, as she often did. “No doubt that includes genes which would allow me to metabolise alcohol much faster than any of you would.”

None of the seven faces seemed particularly pleased with that explanation as she put the glass back down on the table. It wasn’t lost on Miranda that that was the exact same response she usually elicited whenever she brought the ‘being genetically perfect’ subject up in conversation. It hadn’t stopped her. 

“You know, Miranda, we were all really nice to you when you first showed up,” girl number one of the group began again.

“...Okay?” Miranda shrugged, failing to see the relevance of that. Also, she didn’t agree that it was true, but that was beside the point.

“Why don’t you ever hang out with us?” the second girl continued from the first.

“Because I don’t want to,” Miranda answered plainly.

“Why not?” the third member of the trio pressed.

“Every conversation I’ve ever heard you have is shallow and insipid. We don’t have anything in common,” Miranda stated frankly, seeing no reason ever to be anything other than forthright. It was also rather perplexing why they were pretending like they would have wanted to be her friend in the first place. She had overheard them all insulting her behind her back. She wasn’t stupid.

“Ugh.” The leader of the pack groaned in frustration. “See, Richard? This turned out exactly the way I thought. I don’t know why you bothered bringing her.”

Richard frowned. “But I--”

“Forget it,” the head of the trio interrupted him before he could finish defending himself, or Miranda. “Come on. Let’s dance.” With that, the trio of girls got up and left, all the boys joining them save for Richard, since they were couples.

“They do have a point, you know,” Miranda noted, turning to her sole remaining companion. “Why did you invite me?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Richard replied. “I think you’re really cool.”

“No you don’t,” Miranda rejected that lie outright. She wasn’t an idiot, and she wasn’t deaf or blind to the things people said about her when they thought she wasn’t listening. Nobody thought she was cool. She didn’t even know what that entailed, but she knew enough to know that she didn’t fit the criteria. She wouldn’t want to, even if she could. It sounded vapid. 

Miranda’s blunt reply prompted Richard to splutter awkwardly, rubbing the back of his head. Evidently she was right; he didn’t think she was cool. “Well what I mean to say is you seem like a really great girl, if I got to know you. You’re smart, you’re talented, and you could wipe the floor with any of the rest of us in class.” 

Miranda tilted her head in thought, conceding that Richard was right about all those things, if nothing else. After a moment, Miranda blinked. Suddenly, something clicked inside her mind as a thought occurred to her, a possible motive behind all this, whereby all Richard’s behaviour began to make sense.

“You want to have sex with me,” Miranda stated her realisation aloud.

He visibly recoiled. “W-What? I--”

“You want to have sex with me,” Miranda repeated, certain she was correct, and lacking the tact and requisite level of socialisation around that subject matter in particular to be aware (or care) that it might be considered inappropriate or uncomfortable for her to confront that so directly and openly.

That had to be the reason for it. Why else was Richard so insistent on giving her unwanted attention despite Miranda not saying a single kind word to him in all the time he’d known her?

Caught out, Richard abandoned his protestations and shrugged his shoulders. “Well, if what you mean is that I think you’re really cute, yeah. Who wouldn’t? Of course I think so. Is that a bad thing?” he stumbled over his words, trying to phrase his feelings in a way that sounded less...shallow. 

Miranda’s upbringing was sheltered, certainly, but she wasn’t ignorant as to what sex was. That it existed. Admittedly, though, what had always been lacking was context. What was absent were social scripts around it. Any kind of guide as to how she was supposed to feel about it, or what to think about it. 

Her entire knowledge surrounding sex and sexuality primarily came from three sources. Firstly, academic textbooks. Science. Biology. The mechanics of it all. Secondly, from literature. Although, in truth, it was often more alluded to than expressly described in those materials. And, finally, and most unhappily, from about the age of thirteen, Miranda had started to become aware that certain older men in her father’s employ saw her...inappropriately. Nothing could ever happen in that environment of course, but it had not been pleasant, and it had been something she had been forced to contend with entirely on her own.

It wouldn’t be until later in life that Miranda would come to realise that the experience of being unwillingly sexualised by older men at least once while underage was unfortunately far too common among human women. 

That all being said, though, Miranda also had the sense to observe among her peers that, out of eight of them in the class, six of them were in relationships. A solid 75% ratio of couples. That was a majority. She and Richard were the only two who weren’t dating. On that basis, it was perfectly reasonable for Miranda to deduce that this was a facet of ordinary teenage life a normal girl her age ought to have experienced by now.

Miranda thought for a moment, idly examining Richard from across the table. She’d never wasted so much as a moment thinking about any of her classmates in that kind of way before, least of all Richard. Even now, the truth was that, no, she didn’t find him remotely attractive in any way. And why would she? He was dumb, he was ugly and he probably carried genetic defects. But, that being said, all those things made him precisely the sort of person her father never wanted her to associate with. And her father wasn’t there.

Nobody was controlling her anymore. Telling her what not to do. Policing her. Preventing her from living her life. Making her own choices. Her own mistakes. 

At the end of the day, she was a teenage girl, he was a teenage boy, and normal teenage girls were supposed to have sex with normal teenage boys. And, just as she had been curious to have her first taste of alcohol that night, part of her wanted to try this too. Make up for lost time on the things girls her age were supposed to have done. See what all the fuss was about. So why shouldn’t she say yes? Who was going to stop her?

“Okay,” said Miranda.

“W-What?” Richard stammered again.

Miranda rolled her eyes. Fucking moron. “Is that all you can say? Okay, I will have sex with you,” Miranda spelled it out for him in plain English. 

He stared at her, scarcely daring to believe this wasn’t some kind of practical joke. But he certainly didn’t do anything to risk changing her mind. In fact, they didn’t say another word to each other before they made it back to his room.

“You do have protection, I assume?” Miranda asked. She’d read enough about sexually transmitted diseases to know the importance of being safe.

“Yeah.” To prove it, Richard opened his drawer and pulled out a condom.

“Great.” Miranda nodded approvingly. At least he could do one thing right. The next thing she knew, Richard crossed the room towards her, and reached for her cheek. Miranda recoiled in displeasure. “What are you doing?”

“Uh, kissing you?” he said.

“Ew. No. I don’t want that.” Miranda shook her head distastefully, pushing him towards the bed. As if he didn’t already get enough spit on her when he talked. “Let’s just get this over with.”

“Are you sure?” Richard asked, confused by her blunt and totally unromantic approach. “I mean I want to make sure this feels good for you.”

Miranda regarded him strangely, not sure why he was acting so weird. “Why wouldn’t it? It’s supposed to, yeah?” Miranda pointed out, undoing his belt.

Suffice it to say, what followed involved an uncomfortable insertion, some awkward thrusting, and an early finish.

When it was all over, Miranda looked down and back up. “Is that it?” she said.

Richard turned bright red. “What do you mean ‘is that it’?!”

“What do you think I meant?” Miranda shot back, sitting up as he pulled away. Either something had gone wrong or everything she had ever read on the subject had grossly exaggerated how this was all supposed to work. “Is something broken down there or--?”

“Hey, fuck you!” Richard recoiled away, covering himself up with a pillow, visibly fuming at having his manhood insulted. “Get the hell out of my room!”

“Fine by me.” Miranda rolled her eyes as she grabbed her stuff and left. There was no need for him to be so dramatic about it. It was just sex.

Richard never spoke to Miranda again after that, or vice versa, which worked perfectly for her as it meant less constant disruption from her biotic training. Miranda graduated from the program within six months, leaving all her peers far behind, and she never saw nor thought about any of them ever again. 

*     *     *

If there really were higher powers out there at work in the universe beyond the understanding of science and reason, then as it stood right now it felt like those divine forces were conspiring against her with the cruellest sense of irony - having one great big cosmic laugh at Miranda’s expense. 

For so many weeks, Miranda had yearned for nothing more than to have Samara there by her side. Her friend. Her confidant. The one person who supported her and made her feel stronger even in her moments of utter helplessness.

She’d missed her so fucking much, it had felt like a piece of her soul had been taken the day Samara disappeared. Her absence had left a constant void that was impossible to sate with anything else. A desperate longing, like a flower in the desert hungering for even a single drop of rain to keep from crumbling in the wind. Some days, that hurt had been the only thing Miranda could even feel.

And then, as if by fate, Samara showed up on her balcony. She couldn’t possibly have known it, but she had returned precisely when Miranda needed her most. When she was at her lowest. When she had lost all hope. When she was as close as she had ever been to her breaking point. When she had given up.

Here she was. By some miracle, Samara was there. Finally there. In London. Seemingly at Miranda’s beck and call, for as long as she was able to stay.

And, now that she was, Miranda couldn’t bear to be near her.

It would have been funny if it weren’t so pathetically sad.

Being with Samara had always without fail managed to make the weight on Miranda’s shoulders a little bit easier to withstand. Whenever she was lost and couldn’t find her way, Samara, in all her centuries of wisdom, would always find a way to say something that shifted Miranda’s entire perspective, made all the stars align, and helped her find clarity amid the chaos. The thought of reuniting with her again was the one thing that Miranda had been clinging to in her darkest moments as the only thing she could think of that stood a chance, even if only temporarily, of making the entire galaxy seem just a little bit less fucked.

And, for a while, it had. That time they’d spent together on the balcony had been the closest thing Miranda had felt to being whole again in months.

Until these nameless feelings had cropped up and ruined it.

Miranda could surely be forgiven if she wasn’t on the shortlist of people who could find the humour in this situation.

It was no fault of Samara’s, of course. But with these unknowable, undefined feelings coursing through her veins, Miranda couldn’t trust herself to be around her right now. Or, if she could, she didn’t. The very thought of getting close to Samara again made her feel like Icarus, flying too close to the Sun. Whenever there had been an opportunity for the two of them to meet, Miranda had retreated away to hide in the cool of the shade.

After their reunion at the balcony, Miranda made as many excuses as she could to avoid Samara over the following days. Really, it was always the same excuse. She was busy with work. With Jack’s students. She didn’t have time.

Most of the time the deflection wasn’t done in person. It was through one of the people who worked under her through Bailey’s informal chain of command, or through one of the kids, or passed on via Jacob, but whenever it was said in person Miranda would utter her made up reasons as quickly as she could and falsely promise that they would catch up some other time.

It was always difficult to tell with Samara, but even Miranda wasn’t blind to just how deeply the cumulative disappointment of so many repeated rejections in the span of only a few short days had started to cut every single time she was denied a moment with her. It was no mystery why. Miranda knew full well Samara’s stay in London would be brief, and no doubt she wanted to make the most of the limited time they had together before she had to move on.

Each day that passed where they didn’t speak to one another was a day she and Samara would never get back - a crushed hope.

It was fucking killing Miranda. To be this close to her after all this time, and yet not be able to get near her. She didn’t want to think what it was doing to Samara. 

For as reserved as she was, Samara was the one person Miranda knew who could in the same glance, the same breath at once convey both such sincere happiness and such heartfelt sorrow without either diminishing the other. Each time she turned her away, it broke Miranda’s heart a little bit more to hear the former in Samara’s voice get so much softer, and the latter so much louder.

Miranda hated doing this to her, and to herself. Samara was blameless in this whole affair. She was the last person in the galaxy who ever deserved to be treated coldly or callously. But what alternative did she have other than to keep her at a distance? So far, her best (and only) strategy to cope with these complicated, undefined new feelings that were emerging was to staunchly avoid thinking about them at all costs in the hope that they would just magically go away and stop bothering her altogether before they could rear their head and cause any problems. She couldn’t very well do that when Samara was standing right there, could she?

But then there came a moment where she couldn’t run and hide.

Sunday night.

The candlelight vigil.

Her first conversation with Rodriguez a few weeks ago had prompted the idea. Miranda had brought it up with Bailey - that there should be some kind of public gathering to mourn the lost, and mark a kind of collective catharsis for the living. Recently, it had finally felt like the right time to start healing.

The thing was, there were so many who had perished in the war, so many to remember, that they couldn’t possibly do justice to them all in one night. Not even close. And so, as of late, it had become a weekly tradition. And it would continue to be a weekly tradition, each Sunday night, until the survivors had no more names to read. Which could take months. Maybe even years.

So, the people gathered in their masses, from all species who still had members in London, many of them huddled in scarves and sweaters on that cold autumn night, holding their lights close to their chests. Some were actual candles, though most of the lights came from torches or other electronic substitutes.

Since the war, the weather on Earth had grown colder than before. The leading theory was that all the ash left behind in the wake of so much destruction had dispersed into the atmosphere and was now reflecting solar radiation, to such an extent that it had cooled the Earth by a few degrees. London itself was showing monthly average temperatures not seen since the 1950s. Some were even speculating that this coming winter might mark the first time in a hundred years that it would actually snow in London. It sure felt like it would. 

It was the first time Miranda had gone to one of these vigils since the first, when she went to support Jack and her students. Public displays of grief weren’t her thing, nor private ones. But, well...she’d needed to be there for them.

Jack had taken it pretty hard when it was her kids’ turn to be remembered. Understandably so. Jack didn’t know, but Miranda had stumbled upon her and Jacob when they both went missing during that vigil. Went looking for them. She hadn’t expected to find Jack breaking down in tears in a back alley while Jacob comforted her, unable to hold it together after finally speaking the names of the three students she had lost aloud for all the world to hear.

Miranda overheard Jack’s tearful confession to Jacob then. About how Shepard had betrayed her. When they’d crossed paths at Grissom Academy, Jack had begged Shepard to do what was right for her kids, to do everything in her power to keep them safe. Begged her to put them in support roles only, if they truly had to be conscripted to fight at all. But they’d been sent to Earth to fight right alongside Jack on the front lines despite her pleas. Alone. And because of that, despite Jack’s best efforts, she’d lost three lives in the process. Three children. 

“How could Shepard do that?” Jack had asked through tears. “I trusted her.”

Jacob had blamed the Alliance, certain it couldn’t have been Shepard’s decision. That wasn’t the Andrea they knew. She wouldn’t do that. Not to kids. After a moment, Jack had agreed. It had to be the Alliance. It was always easier to blame institutions than close, trusted friends.

Miranda would never say it to either of them, because she had the decency to know neither of them needed to hear it, but the truth was that they would never know who was responsible for that decision. She hoped it wasn’t Shepard. Andrea was her friend too. But, then again, with the entire fate of the galaxy hanging in the balance, the possibility couldn’t be ruled out that even one of the best human beings Miranda had ever met had gotten desperate, and made a mistake. Either way, Shepard was gone now, and could never answer that question.

Obviously, Jack would also never know Miranda had heard what she said. She would probably never admit to herself either just how much that confession moved her. Miranda had come to care about these kids too, after all. But that sliver of insight into what Jack was going through was a big part of why Miranda had maintained her minimum commitment to keep Jack company once a week, even after she had been released from the field hospital.

But that memorial was then. This was now. And Miranda needed to be here for this one. Because this one was hers to give. Her eulogy for The Normandy’s lost.

Her breath turned to steam as she exhaled, watching speakers take their turns ahead of her. She wondered if it was obvious how much she was dreading this.

Miranda heard a footstep on her right. The sheer warmth that radiated through her body at that presence told her it was Samara, without needing to glance over to confirm it. This time, Miranda couldn’t mutter excuses about work.

“Are you certain you wish to do this?” Samara asked quietly. It was so silent, save for the person speaking at the podium, that they barely needed to talk louder than a whisper to hear each other, even in a crowd of thousands.

Miranda sighed. Her heart felt so...tight. So constricted inside her chest. Like it was afraid to beat, lest Samara would hear it in the stillness.

“I have to,” was all Miranda said, finally daring to make proper eye contact with her for the first time since she began to realise what she might be feeling towards her.

Samara gave a small nod, silently supporting her.

At last, her time came. Miranda gingerly ascended three large wooden steps, passing Bailey on her way to the podium. In the crowd, her eye found Jacob, Jack and Samara standing together among Jack’s students. As the cold breeze blew, she glanced down to her list of names.

God, the list seemed so much longer now than when she wrote it.

“My name is Miranda Lawson. I served aboard the Normandy SR-2. I speak for the fallen,” she began, a phrase which had become a solemn duty for so many.

“Andrea Shepard. David Anderson. Zaeed Massani. Urdnot Grunt. Kasumi Goto. Ashley Williams. Javik. Mordin Solus. Legion. Thane Krios. Kelly Chambers. EDI. Jeff Moreau. Karin Chakwas. Gregory Adams. Tali’Zorah vas Rannoch. Garrus Vakarian. Liara T’Soni. Gabriella Daniels. Kenneth Donnelly.”

As she went down the list, the ringing in her ear grew louder. She swallowed, willing herself to ignore that creeping numbness, and keep going. 

“James Vega. Samantha Traynor. Steve Cortez. Diana Allers. Jennifer Goldstein. Sarah Campbell. Bethany Westmoreland.  Richard Hadley. Rupert Gardener. Sarah Patel. Thomas Hawthorne. Zach Matthews. Vadim Rolstov. Timothy Copeland.”

She read them all out, every single name confirmed lost to this war from the SSV Normandy SR-1, SR-2 and SR-3, even when all she could hear was that oppressive tone muffling all other sound beneath a singular, high-pitched, piercing ring. Fifty-seven names in total. By the time she was done, the noise was genuinely so deafening she couldn’t hear her own voice anymore.

She remained standing for a few moments after she stopped. The next person was already approaching centre stage to take her place. She stepped away, and caught sight of Bailey giving her a respectful nod as she left, leaning heavily on her cane as she made her way down the stairs. She wasn’t even watching where she was going, just lost in that haze of unending noise.

In moments like this, her tinnitus was so potent, so all-consuming, it felt like a tidal wave was bearing down on her. Looming so large that, had she seen it coming, she would have mistaken it for the sky, and its shadow for the Earth.

She could be marching headlong into destruction, and she wouldn’t even know it.

What she wouldn’t sacrifice to be buried in just a single moment of silence.

“That was very courageous of you,” Samara’s voice shook her from her daze. Half-entranced, Miranda looked up and saw her there, before she even recognised she had made it back to the crowd. It took her a few moments to blink and notice Jacob, Jack and a few of the students were there with her too. She honestly couldn’t tell whether they had come to meet her when she left the stage, or whether she had instinctively walked in their direction without consciously meaning to. “It took great strength to do what you just did.”

“Yeah. You did good,” Jack quietly acknowledged, giving credit where credit was due. Nobody envied Miranda for being the one shackled with the responsibility to bear this burden alone, although there was no doubting that out of everyone left she was the right person to do it.

“Thanks,” Miranda mumbled. Her throat hurt. And her head. It didn’t make sense. How could speaking for a few minutes be so fundamentally fucking draining on every level? “...I’m going to head home. I can’t stand to be here any longer,” she stated frankly, unable to muster any inflection in her hoarse voice. 

“Fair enough,” said Jacob. Nobody could fault her for that reaction, least of all him. He understood her better than most. “Want me to walk you back?”

“No, I’m fine,” Miranda turned him down, the cogs spinning slower than normal in her head as she turned her attention to the teens. “Don’t stay out too late.”

“I’m not sure teach would let us even if we wanted to,” Jason pointed out, gesturing with his thumb over at Jack.

“Damn right,” Jack remarked, jokingly ruffling Reiley’s hair (as one of the youngest and shortest of the bunch) until he managed to wrestle his way free of her. “Some of you may be legally adults, but for as long as Grissom Academy says I’m your teacher, you’re still my kids. Remember that.”

“See what I mean?” said Jason, grinning. “See you at home.” Jason gave Miranda a half-wave, half-salute, heading back into the crowd with the others. 

Satisfied that they were in safe hands, Miranda took her leave.

It didn’t take long to distance herself from the crowd, finding herself alone in the streets of London. She released a shaky breath, a solitary figure limping along under the streetlights, her walking stick clacking against the pavement. 

So much for all that. There had been nothing comforting about that process at all. Miranda had hated every moment of it. But she supposed if subjecting herself to that personal Hell was what she needed to do to honour the dead, and if it was what Shepard would have done, then it was worth it.

But she couldn’t stay. Not like this. Not with the tinnitus blaring in her ear. Not when she felt so disconnected. So constantly, fucking tired. So empty. Like the spectre of her insomnia was constantly looming over her shoulder, threatening to catch up with her when she least expected it, and make damn sure everyone would eventually figure out what she was hiding from them. 

It was happening more and more the less she slept. She kept having these moments where she would just...lose time. It wouldn’t be long. Seconds here or there. Between that and the tinnitus, there were times where she really did feel fragile. Like she was a hair’s breadth away from blacking out. If that was going to happen, she would prefer to be alone and in her bedroom when it did.

Miranda may have put a little too much stock in her own abilities at times, and she may have overestimated herself, but even she wasn’t too arrogant to admit that she was barely holding it together by that point. But she had to keep going. Because what the fuck else was there to do? What else did she have but this?

Nobody could be there to see her edges fray and fall apart.

Nobody could be there to witness it happen if she ever started to unravel.

Because she was Miranda fucking Lawson. And Miranda fucking Lawson would never break. She never got too tired. She never got too stressed. And if she couldn’t cope with this, then she didn’t even know who she was anymore.

“Miranda?” She turned and glanced over her shoulder when she heard Samara call after her. In Miranda’s condition, Samara didn’t exactly have to quicken her long strides to catch up to her. “May I walk with you?”

God, she had been really hoping she wouldn’t. It would be the first time they had been alone together since the balcony - since she began to question her feelings. As if there wasn’t enough going on without adding that to the mix.

“It’s a free country,” Miranda replied, not exactly having the power to stop her, or any valid reason to refuse her company. Or not that she was willing to share.

Samara fell into step at her side, hands clasped behind her back. Miranda swallowed. She had gone her entire life never knowing how it felt to be nervous around another person - to have that feeling of butterflies in her stomach that other, normal people described. At that moment, she didn’t know if it would ease her internal tension more for Samara to speak, or remain silent.

“...Is there something you want to say?” Miranda broke the quiet, unable to bear it.

“Am I that transparent?” said Samara, allowing herself a small shadow of a smile. For as often as it seemed she always knew the perfect thing to say, evidently even she could struggle to search for the right words sometimes. “I was uncertain how to broach this with you. Perhaps I am overstepping my bounds, or treading where I ought not. But, if I may...I am concerned for you.”

“Concerned?” Miranda echoed, her expression unchanging, focusing on the cracked footpath ahead. Best to let her elaborate before she read into that.

“Yes.” Samara nodded in confirmation. “I have only been here a short time. Yet, in all that time, not for so much as a moment have you ceased working. You are always in constant motion. Even on The Normandy, you allowed yourself time to rest. And you were healthier then,” Samara gently but truthfully pointed out.

Miranda said nothing as she walked, letting her speak.

“I am certainly not criticising you for this. Your strength is admirable. Exemplary, even. But, as your friend, I worry that your priorities seem...out of balance,” said Samara, urging Miranda not to jeopardise her recovery. “Even when you were under the greatest pressure when we served together on The Normandy, you never once appeared so…” Samara trailed off, choosing her phrasing carefully.

“What?” Miranda prompted, seeing no reason for her to be delicate about it.

“Exhausted,” was what Samara settled on, her eyes glistening with sympathy.

Miranda sighed. How was it that Samara had only been in town a few days and yet she was the singular person who had picked up on the fact that Miranda was falling apart at the seams, given just how much she had to contend with at once? Even Jacob couldn’t tell, and he had been there with her every day.

Nobody else had sensed just how poorly she was coping. Nobody else could tell just how little she was sleeping. Only Samara. But, then, Samara always had a way, didn’t she? Always saw right through her. Unfortunately, at that particular moment in time, that was the last thing Miranda wanted her to do.

“Perhaps you could--”

“Do what? Take time off?” Miranda cut Samara off, not willing to hear it. “Yeah, I’ve thought of that. Trust me, it wouldn’t help.” Because if she wasn’t working, then all she would have to focus on was the noise, and the death, and the fucking nightmares, and now whatever the hell this was between them. Her week in the hospital practically drove her insane just from the tinnitus alone.

“Miranda--” Samara reached out to catch her sleeve with the intention of stopping her, beyond ready to finally snatch a precious moment alone with her and talk about this like they should have done days ago. But Miranda reflexively recoiled away, pulling free from her grasp.

“Don’t,” Miranda said, not in any kind of state to deal with the effect Samara had on her right now. Samara’s eyes widened slightly as she froze in place, shocked by that, not sure how to interpret her closest friend physically flinching away from her touch. Miranda sighed and closed her eye, realising she may have inadvertently hurt her feelings. “It’s not you. It really isn’t. It’s just...please don’t.”

Samara hesitated, looking unsure. “I am not certain I understand. You know that my stay here will be short, and that I cannot make any promises as to when I will return. I had hoped…” Samara paused and trailed off, averting her gaze for a moment, perhaps not wishing to express those hopes. “On The Normandy--”

“We’re not on the fucking Normandy, Samara,” Miranda finally snapped under the strain, having heard that phrase one too many times that night. “In case you haven’t noticed, it exploded and everyone on it is dead.”

Samara was struck by her response, rendered silent. Miranda regretted it the instant she said it, her hand falling across her face in a weak attempt to massage away the pain inside her skull. There was no point in apologising. It wouldn’t take back what she said, or the fact that she was venting her own internal frustration at Samara, who had done nothing to warrant any anger.

“I shouldn’t have interrupted you,” said Miranda, willing herself to sound calmer, despite the fact that she felt no less stressed than a moment ago. “Go ahead.”

“What I meant to say is that, in the past, we always found time to spend together. To speak privately. Yet now…” Samara let their current circumstances speak for themselves. Things had changed so suddenly. Without warning.

“I know,” Miranda acknowledged, rubbing her forehead. She knew because she had been doing this deliberately. Distancing herself. Keeping Samara at arms’ length. Even though it was the last thing she wanted.

She didn’t know what she wanted. Not really. Not fully. That was the problem.

“I do not wish to sound self-centred, but have I done something to upset you?” Samara asked, audibly confused by the abrupt shift in their relationship, even since they had last spoken on the balcony only a mere six days earlier.

“No,” Miranda assured her, shaking her head. About that, she could be honest, at least. None of this was Samara’s fault. She was a fucking saint.

“Then why does it seem as though you are avoiding me?” Samara pressed.

For that, Miranda had no response. Because the only answer she had at that moment was the truth. And, aside from the fact that she still didn’t fully understand what the whole truth was, she was afraid that telling her what she thought was happening would drive an irremovable wedge between them.

Samara had been in love - true love, if there was such a thing - once before. That woman took her own life centuries ago. Samara had made it very clear on multiple occasions that she had no desire to reopen that part of herself up to anyone else after losing her bondmate. Even touching on the subject of being with another person again in the future had made her deeply uncomfortable. 

On top of that, Miranda had never gotten a straight answer as to whether Justicars were allowed to think about such things, even if Samara did want to. From the way Samara had spoken about it, Miranda had always more or less assumed it was forbidden by The Code. That Justicars had to be celibate. That she had sworn a vow never to let another person stand between her and her faith.

Samara was content with the person she was. With the life she had chosen for herself. She was never going to betray the memory of her bondmate, or the oaths she had sworn to the Justicar Order. Even speaking of such things would be an insult to her - the very idea was like spitting on her family and her religion.

Miranda’s feelings were not a problem Samara needed in her life. Or wanted. At all.

If Samara knew of Miranda’s burgeoning feelings for her, whatever they were, she would reject her, yes, but worse she would probably come to the conclusion that permanently distancing herself would be the best thing for both of them, so that there was no prospect of Miranda being misled. Hoping for more.

Miranda understood that, of course. She could have told her that. Told her that she respected her celibacy. That she knew why Samara couldn’t love her back. That, even if these growing feelings were exactly what she feared they were, that didn’t mean she wanted anything from her other than to preserve the relationship they already had. But, even if Miranda told her all those things, and meant them, the sad fact was that Samara probably wouldn’t believe her. 

That was why Miranda didn’t dare say anything. It was for the best that she didn’t.

At Miranda’s silence, Samara sighed and stepped closer. “I regret that I have not been here. I will not pretend that I do not know that I left you when you needed support more than you have ever needed it before. I have failed you. I know this, and for that words cannot express how repentant I truly am. I cannot take back those lost days. But I am here now, for as long as I am able to be,” Samara avowed, one hand covering her heart, as if to speak to just how present she was in that moment. “You have carried this alone for so long, but not today. Not while I am here for you. So, please...speak to me,” she implored her.

Cautious though she was, Miranda couldn’t help but meet Samara’s gaze when she said that, her eye shining under the streetlight. Deep down, there wasn’t a damn thing Miranda wanted to do more than to surrender to what Samara was asking of her. To crumble the way she had when she had opened up about her past, and told Samara things she had never told anyone else. To be vulnerable and unburden herself of her secrets, because she knew damn well Samara was the only person in the whole universe she could really trust with them. The only person who could really handle seeing her at her most exposed. Her safe place.

She wanted to tell her about the tinnitus, and the insomnia, and the nightmares, and how every single person she had come to Earth with had died under her watch, and how she had woken up in that shuttle covered in another person’s blood, and how she had crawled away while a dying man begged her for help because she knew she could do nothing for him, and how she had never, not once, not even for a moment, felt happy that she had lived, and how she kept walking into situations that seemed certain to get her killed rather than cope with the fact that she didn’t feel fucking anything at all except this constant, crushing, hollow void of nothingness, and how she wasn’t speaking to her sister, and how she knew everyone would have been better off if nobody had ever pulled her out of that wasteland, and she didn’t know how she was supposed to keep pretending everything was okay when fifty-seven people who had served on the Normandy were dead and she knew damn well she wasn’t worthy of her miraculous survival and recovery when so many of those who perished had so much more to live for.

For weeks, hell, for months, Miranda had desperately, desperately needed Samara here for precisely that reason. Because she was her confidant. Her anchor. Her voice of wisdom. Her friend. Someone she could talk to about anything in the knowledge that she wouldn’t be judged or rejected, even at her most exposed.

Samara was the one and only person Miranda ever actually wanted to be near her when she was weak. Because she had seen that vulnerability right from the outset, if she was being totally honest with herself. All the sides of Miranda she hated about herself. All her flaws. And she’d never turned away. Not once.

Samara was special to her. She had been for a long time.

It felt like physical fucking torture having so much she wanted to say to the person who was standing right there in front of her, and yet knowing that she couldn’t.

She couldn’t, because it was not only becoming extremely fucking obvious that she had fallen in love with Samara, but far beyond that, Miranda was beginning to realise just how long she had been falling in love with Samara.

And if she told Samara that, it would destroy this.

Miranda couldn’t.

She couldn’t do it.

She couldn’t lose this. 

“...I can’t,” Miranda finally answered.

She saw Samara’s face fall with disappointment when she heard that, which was saying something because Samara was rarely so expressive. In fact, disappointment was an understatement. If anything, she looked devastated. 

“Miranda--”

“I’m sorry. I have to do this on my own.” Miranda pulled away before Samara could try to reach for her, taking a few steps back. She couldn’t look at her. It would have broken her heart if she did. “Please just leave me alone right now.”

With that, Miranda turned and left Samara standing in the street behind her.

Samara heeded her words, and didn’t follow.

Pushing Samara away in the short term so that she could get the space she needed to deal with whatever these feelings were and get them under control may have seemed harsh, but the alternative meant risking losing Samara forever. And Samara meant far too much to Miranda for her to be able to take that gamble.

At least if she was cruel now, there was still a chance she might have this safe place to come back to later down the road, when she really needed it.

Miranda got the news that Samara had left the next day.

Just like last time, she had disappeared without saying goodbye.

*     *     *

In hindsight, Miranda had been relieved that nobody had been there to witness it when she walked directly into the doors to the Starboard Observation Deck.

“Ow.” Miranda recoiled and rubbed her head, glancing up from her datapad.

For a moment, she didn’t even twig as to what had just occurred, because this made no sense. This had never happened before. The doors were always unlocked. They always opened for her. She never even thought twice about it.

“EDI, open the door,” she instructed.

“Apologies, Ms Lawson,” EDI answered her. “Samara is currently in a deep meditation. She has requested that the door remain locked, and that she not be disturbed at this time.”

“...I see.” Miranda hesitated there for a moment. She couldn’t help but feel peculiar about that response. Certainly, Samara had a right to meditate as much as she wanted. Miranda would never stop her. There was nothing wrong with that.

But then, that was the point. Miranda had come and gone from the Starboard Observation Deck literally dozens of times, maybe even a hundred times by that point while Samara was meditating. She had never locked her out before. It had never been an issue. And if she wanted privacy, why hadn’t she simply walked over to her office and let her know about her intended solitude? 

“I could pass your message on to Samara for you,” EDI suggested.

“Hmm?” Miranda glanced at EDI’s hologram, roused from her thoughts.

“Your library list,” EDI helpfully chimed in, well aware of what file Miranda had been working on all day. EDI was integrated into every computer system on the ship. She knew everything. “I am certain Samara would appreciate it.”

Miranda frowned. But that would eliminate the whole part where she gave it to her in person. “No. No, I’ll give it to her later,” she said. “Thank you, EDI.”

The next day, she found the door locked again.

Miranda sighed, running her hand through her hair. “EDI.”

“Apologies, Ms Lawson,” EDI answered her. “Samara is currently in a deep meditation. She has requested that the doo--”

“You told me this yesterday,” Miranda cut her off. EDI may have been an AI, but she had the same tendency as a lot of VIs to repeat exactly the same information word-for-word in exactly the same tone of voice. “Has Samara seriously been meditating this whole time?” she asked, finding that difficult to believe.

“One moment.” EDI took less than a second to analyse over twenty-four hours of security footage from the Starboard Observation Deck. “Yes.”

At that answer, Miranda’s frustration softened to concern. “Really?” She glanced at the locked doors, wondering just what exactly was going on in there, and hoping that whatever Samara was doing she was being safe and sensible. 

After a moment, she shook her head. Samara was nearly a thousand years old, and she had been a Justicar for over four hundred years. Whatever ritual she was partaking in, she had probably been doing it longer than Miranda could ever possibly live. It was condescending of her to think that Samara didn’t know what she was doing, or that she wasn’t taking care of herself.

But still…

“...She is going to have to stop to hydrate herself eventually. Don’t disturb her if you don’t have to, but just...keep an eye on things, EDI,” said Miranda, trusting she would grasp her meaning.

“Understood, Ms Lawson.”

It wasn’t lost on Miranda as she went back to her office that day that it was the longest she had gone without speaking to Samara in three months. 

On the third day, the door opened. Finally, Miranda thought. However, when she walked in, there was just one problem. There was nobody there.

“Samara?” Miranda glanced around the room as she stepped further inside, although in retrospect she didn’t know why she bothered when she knew full well the room was empty. She would have seen her on a first glance if she was there. It wasn’t like Samara was easy to overlook.

Out of the corner of her eye, Miranda noticed EDI pop up at her little terminal almost expectantly, as if waiting for her to ask where Samara was. And that certainly had been Miranda’s first thought. But, on consideration, she turned on her heels and left instead, stubbornly deciding against it.

If Samara wasn’t there, she must have had a good reason for it. She was probably busy. Miranda couldn’t expect her to be available at her beck and call purely because she was bored and craving companionship. It wasn’t Samara’s responsibility that Miranda had so much less work to do now than she did before, thanks to handing in her resignation to The Illusive Man.

With that, she retreated back to her office.

She didn’t want to admit it, but it was driving her a little bit up the wall going this long without speaking to the one person on this ship she had come to spend more time with than anyone else. It wasn’t until that moment that Miranda had perhaps come to realise precisely how much she took for granted that she would just get to talk to Samara every single day, no matter what.

She wouldn’t have thought it was possible to miss someone after only three days, let alone this much. Hell, maybe that was why Samara needed space.

That being said, there were other thoughts on her mind too. Miranda had come to concede that she wasn’t the most observant person in the world when it came to reading other people, but even she could see that something had been strangely...off about Samara ever since they got back from the Collector Base.

It was difficult to put a finger on it. It wasn’t as though much had changed on the surface, aside from these past few days where Samara had gone from being part of her everyday routine to someone it now seemed Miranda couldn’t get hold of despite her best efforts, even though the two of them technically only lived, what, ten metres apart in a straight line? If that?

Even in the moments that they had spent together since the Collector Base, Miranda couldn’t shake this odd feeling that Samara was...different, somehow. More distant than she’d been in a long time. Then again, for every instance where it seemed Samara was detached or wasn’t fully present in the moment, there were just as many where she came off bright and genuinely engaged with whatever Miranda was saying, precisely as she would have done before.

Maybe Miranda’s perception had been altered due to her reduced schedule. She couldn’t rule that out. Maybe Samara wasn’t acting abnormally, but rather Miranda was holding her to different standards and projecting her own issues onto her due to permanently severing ties with Cerberus so recently. 

And also maybe she was feeling a little insecure about that whole thing where she’d broken down into tears on her bed and exposed the absolute most vulnerable side of herself to another person, especially since they hadn’t talked about anything since that happened. Yeah. That too. That they hadn’t had a follow-up conversation since then was starting to weigh on her a bit.

Miranda sighed, finally giving in. “Alright, fine. EDI, where is she?”

“Samara is in the cargo bay,” EDI answered, knowing full well what Miranda wanted to know.

“The cargo bay?” Miranda echoed, arching an eyebrow.

“That is correct,” EDI confirmed.

Despite her misgivings, Miranda didn’t hesitate to take the elevator all the way down to the Normandy’s lowest level. When she got there, she couldn’t see anything but the usual storage crates. For a moment, Miranda wondered if EDI had made some sort of mistake, or if this was another one of her attempts at a joke. She couldn’t see Samara anywhere. But then she caught a flash of red and blue, tucked away in the corner, behind a stack of white ceramic boxes.

It wasn’t until Miranda had already instinctively started to approach Samara that a thought occurred to her. The only reason she would be concealed away in the shadows like this would be if she wanted to be alone. But something just wouldn’t let her walk away without at least asking. 

“Good hiding spot. Not where I would have figured I would find you,” Miranda remarked to break the ice.

Samara glanced up at her voice. She didn’t seem startled by her presence, nor annoyed by it. “When I worked as a mercenary, the cargo hold was always the ideal place to retreat when I desired some time alone. Of course, back then the ships on which I journeyed did not contain an AI who could reveal my location to others,” Samara noted, deducing what had transpired to lead Miranda there.

“I can leave you in peace if you would like. I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” said Miranda, her intentions no more sinister than that after not seeing her for three days.

“You are welcome to stay.” Samara unfolded one of her arms from her chest, gesturing for Miranda to join her in her hiding spot, if she so pleased. “After all, you came all this way.”

Miranda’s gaze narrowed imperceptibly at that. There was a slight undercurrent in Samara’s tone. But she couldn’t put her finger on what it was. And Samara’s expression gave nothing away. Nevertheless, having received an invitation and sensing no sarcasm, Miranda vaulted up to take a seat on top of a crate.

“I imagine it’s not easy for someone like you, finding places to hide on small, cramped spaceships,” said Miranda, making small talk. She hadn’t planned on what to say, honestly. She hadn’t thought she would get this far - that Samara would want her to hang around. “What I’m getting at is that you’re tall.”

“For my species, that is not inaccurate,” Samara acknowledged. She pointed upwards. “However, cargo holds have high ceilings. Generally speaking.”

“Ah.” Miranda nodded, wishing she were better at idle chit-chat.

And there was that uncomfortable feeling that something was off again.

“Is everything alright?” Miranda asked, electing to get to the point. Samara didn’t answer. “I’d like to think you could tell me if it wasn’t. I don’t know if I could be much help, but I’m actually a good listener, if you ever need one.”

“I am certain you are,” Samara replied, mustering a faint smile.

“...Is it me?” Miranda finally dared to ask.

That was the first thing Miranda said that took Samara by surprise, causing her demeanour to shift. She looked up at her, unsure what she meant.

“Did I make things weird between us? Did I say too much when I told you about myself?” Miranda asked, still convinced on a subconscious level that allowing herself to be that weak and pathetic around Samara must have revealed to her what a complete waste of space she was on the inside, and driven her away.

“No.” Samara shook her head, reaching out across the gap between them to cover Miranda’s hand with hers. “Please do not ever think you erred by speaking to me as you did. I treasure that you trusted me with something I see even now still hurts you,” Samara avowed, blue eyes shimmering with sincerity where they met Miranda’s. “You are braver than I that you could do such a thing.”

At that, Miranda softened, glad to see her worst fears hadn’t been realised. That Samara wasn’t just avoiding her. Samara wouldn’t lie just to spare her feelings.

Another thought occurred to Miranda then, causing her to pull a face. “Does it make me self-centred that I assumed I was the reason you were down here?”

Not expecting that, Samara couldn’t stop a small laugh from escaping her. “Perhaps it does,” she light-heartedly conceded, a twinkle of mirth in her gaze. 

“Damn it. I was doing so well, too.” Miranda feigned disappointment, which Samara seemed to find rather entertaining. “Samara, I know this is going to come as a shock to you, but I think I might be just a little bit obsessed with myself.”

“Surely not. You have hidden it so well,” Samara quipped, the corners of her lips quirked with amusement. Evidently The Code did permit occasional sarcasm.

Miranda winced. It was in jest, but it stung just a tiny bit knowing how true it was, especially when they’d first met. “Ouch. I thought we were friends.”

“We are.” Samara sighed, a more relaxed expression coming over her. “Albeit, I should not do so, but I have always rather liked those qualities about you.”

Miranda arched an eyebrow, slowly allowing herself to look smug. “Really?”

“I should not do so,” Samara reiterated, holding up a finger, as if to indicate that was not a licence to disregard her many previous weeks and months of wisdom and advice centring around mindfulness and self-improvement.

“What? So I can’t use your flaws against you?” Miranda joked.

“No, you may not. As any matriarch will tell you, only matriarchs may dispense such wisdom,” Samara remarked, entirely in good humour.

“Ah. My mistake. Next time I’ll make sure to pass any criticisms I have onto the oldest asari I can find and have her text them to you,” Miranda noted. 

“That would be acceptable,” said Samara. “However, this conversation has not occurred in our usual location. Therefore, I must hereby declare it a regrettable lapse in judgement, and deny it ever transpired,” she commented, settling back into her original stance, because, of course, a Justicar would never openly admit to enjoying the company of a person even when they were vain and self-centred.

“Oh, so you’re claiming the cargo fumes got to you,” Miranda deduced.

“Precisely,” Samara confirmed, eliciting a chuckle as she leaned back against the crate, evidently relieved that she had averted Miranda’s insecurities.

If nothing else, Miranda was pleased to see that, whatever it was Samara was dealing with that had driven her to lock herself away for a while, she had lightened her mood for a minute or two. But, that being said, Samara showed no signs of leaving her current venue. And Miranda still wanted to help, if she could.

“Are you sure you don’t want to talk about what’s really on your mind?” Miranda asked again gently, that offer remaining open, if she was amenable to sharing.

“I am certain,” Samara confirmed, a well-considered response, and seemingly not merely a defence. “My burdens are my own. And you are a young woman. You should not concern yourself with the thought of what might trouble me.”

“If you’re about to call yourself ‘old’ again…” Miranda warned her.

“If I do, it is only because it is true,” Samara reminded her with a small smile. “I have been on my own for a very long time, Miranda. In that time, I have learned there are many things that I can only do alone. It is just as you would know that there are some important battles you must fight for yourself, no matter how much someone else - such as, say, myself - might have grown to care for you, or how much I might wish I could fight them for you,” she thoughtfully pointed out.

Miranda felt a very pleasant warmth course through her at those words. Hearing Samara state so openly, so plainly, that she cared for her was easily up there as one of the most tender and genuine expressions of affection Miranda had ever received from another person in her entire life up to that point. Sure, it wasn’t like there was any competition. But that just made it mean even more.

But, that being said, she also didn’t want to let that distract her from the conversation, and from her primary focus of making sure that Samara was alright.

“So it’s a spiritual thing then?” Miranda intuited. If this was a battle she couldn’t help Samara fight, and she had meditated on it, then it must have been, surely.

Samara tilted her head in thought. “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“Then that’s all you had to say. I know I can’t help you with that,” Miranda conceded as she slid down from the crate, aware of her shortcomings on any subject to do with religion. “As long as you’re okay, that’s what matters.”

“Thank you. And you have already aided me. More than you know,” Samara assured her, causing Miranda to look momentarily confused. “Speaking to you just now has cheered me up immensely, as it often does.”

Miranda damn near turned a few shades pinker at that. Samara really had to be the only person she had ever met who had actually straight up told her that she liked being around her. For a second there, it felt pretty damn nice, being special to someone like that. “Now you’re just flattering me,” she said.

“A Justicar never flatters,” Samara insisted. Miranda didn’t know if that was an actual tenet of the Code, or she was just being sneakily funny again.

“Yeah, well, don’t be a stranger, next time. Good luck with whatever this is. You know where to find me if you need me,” Miranda reminded her, moving to take her leave. However, she stopped before she could depart, remembering the datapad in her hands. “Oh, before I forget, I brought you something.”

Samara eyed the datapad cautiously as she took it from her, as if uncertain whether or not she could accept what Miranda was offering. “What is this?” 

“Book recommendations,” Miranda answered as Samara began to scroll through it. “I should say, I haven’t actually read most of these myself, so don’t blame me if you don’t like them. But I had a lot of free time, and you read very fast for someone with a very small library to get through, and these came highly reviewed. There’s even a section just on Arthurian lore since you seem to like every book that has knights in it,” Miranda pointed out. “I would have done the same for samurai since you seem to like them too, but unfortunately I don’t know much about them.”

Samara stopped only a few seconds after Miranda started to explain. She was silent for a long moment, frozen in place, as if lost for how to respond. “...You did this for me?” she said softly, clearly realising from the sheer length of the list precisely how much of her valuable time Miranda had used on something just for her. Real, genuine time, thought and effort had gone into this.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Miranda shrugged, not seeing what the big deal was, beyond it being a nice gesture for her. Wasn’t this the sort of things friends did?

Samara glanced down, her eyes shimmering as a strangely distant smile unfurled across her lips, clutching the datapad a little tighter. “Thank you, Miranda. We will speak again soon,” said Samara, electing to remain alone with her thoughts.

With that, Miranda left her in peace.

What Miranda didn’t see as she walked away was the expression change on Samara’s face, the inner conflict she had concealed rising to the surface.

You monster, the voice in her head said. Her own voice.

A companion that had been with her for four hundred and thirty-four years, seven months, and eighteen days. The only voice she had heard for most of that time. A voice that had been so much quieter over these past three months. Since she laid Mirala to rest. Since she believed it was her time to die.

You heartless monster, it told her, drawing out each word.

What else could she call herself, knowing that she allowed Miranda to do such things for her. That she let her waste her time and energy thinking so fondly of her. That she permitted Miranda to go out of her way to brighten her day with thoughtful gestures, when Samara knew full well that she should not receive such things, because she was not worthy of them.

You are exploiting her.

Yes, she was.

Deceiving her with your lies of omission.

Yes, she was.

If she really knew what happened all those years ago - if she saw the person you really are, do you think she could stand to be in the same room as you?

No. Samara knew she would not. Or she should not, if Miranda understood what it meant. She had perhaps revealed to her more than she ought but...not enough for Miranda to truly grasp the events that took place, and the extent to which she was personally responsible for everything that had befallen her family.

Everybody had only pieces of the puzzle. Not the full picture.

You knew the risks when you decided to have children, however small they seemed. You thought you were special. You thought it could not happen to you.

But it did.

In truth, her bondmate had been unwell even before that. Samara knew this. She had loved her for a century. Through all her ups and downs. Seen her at her strongest. At her weakest. She had been under so much pressure at work.

Then, out of nowhere, Rila was diagnosed. And she was taken away.

In a single doctor’s appointment, their whole lives changed forever.

Rila’s diagnosis meant Falere and Mirala were high-risk. It was a flip of a coin. Fifty percent. Almost a certainty that one of them would have it. Maybe both.

Samara lived through it all. Through the effect it had on her bondmate. Watched her heart tear asunder as they took Rila away. Heard her scream til her voice cracked. Caressed her as she wept. Let her cling to her so hard as she cried that her nails cut Samara’s skin. Supported her through her nervous breakdown. Held her hand as they sat through their mandatory therapy sessions. Listened to her say all the right things. Told her what she thought she needed to hear. 

Samara had been there for all of it.

And yet, in all that time, how had it not occurred to her even once to think that the woman she had loved for a hundred years might try to kill herself?

Would you have even cared back then if she told you she would? Would you have listened? She needed you, and you were never there for her.

She could not always be there. They had two children to look after. And she was so busy at work. The sole earner, after her bondmate lost her job.

Do not make excuses.

You treated her like she was weak. A burden.

She did. She was so cold to her sometimes. So unfeeling. So unsympathetic.

She knew she was distraught.

And she left her alone.

And then she came home.

And she found her.

Death was preferable to being with you for another day.

And then there was Mirala.

Samara would have given anything to protect her and Falere from Rila’s diagnosis. From their father’s death. To shelter them. To let their lives go on as normal. But how could she expect them to pretend nothing had changed?

Samara focused on being strong for her family. Carrying all their burdens alone. Preserving what they had. And, while she withdrew, Mirala lashed out.

That came as no surprise. Where Rila had been austere and responsible (much like her grandmother), and Falere had been sensitive and gentle (much like her father), Mirala had always been brave and a rebel at heart (much like her grandfather, and exactly like Samara herself when she was a young woman). 

Then Falere was diagnosed.

When that happened, Mirala knew. Somehow, she just knew. And there was no fate that would have terrified a girl like her more than the prospect of being locked away forever. Samara knew this. Because she would have felt the same.

And yet, despite knowing her daughter as well as she did, how had Samara not known Mirala would do everything in her power to try and defy her fate?

It should have been so obvious to her that she would run away.

Samara would have.

Did you know she would try to escape? Is that why you told her the things you did the day before her test? Is that why you took no precautions against it?

Did part of you want her to flee?

You have always maintained it was inadvertent, that you did not foresee this, but perhaps on some level you hoped she would disappear and evade the police?

How could she ever know that? How could Samara ever really know?

Had her subconscious wilfully left those windows unlocked in a secret desire to see Mirala go free? Or had Samara been so fraught with worry for the upcoming test and so mentally disconnected from her surroundings after four years of tragedy that she had simply not been able to anticipate Mirala would abscond?

Did it matter? Did it make her any less culpable?

A mother would do anything for her child. Perhaps even let her become a murderer.

None of these thoughts were strangers to Samara. 

If any decent person fully grasped the truth about Samara’s past, and why she was to blame, then they could only despise her, as Samara despised herself.

She was the monster all along.

She was the monster who had killed her family.

She had the blood of over a thousand murders on her hands.

Yes, you are. And yes, you do. So why do you persist? Why are you still here?

Samara had been asking herself that question for four hundred and thirty-four years, seven months and eighteen days. That question had compelled her to try and end her life once. She had failed. After that, for a long time, there had only been one answer keeping her going. One reason she stayed alive. One reason she had not tried to end her life a second time.

Because Mirala, or ‘Morinth’ was out there killing. And she needed to stop her.

You fraud.

You imposter.

Perhaps she was. Perhaps it was all she had ever been. It was all she had ever felt like. Even as she followed The Code, and devoted herself to her Justicar Oaths - living to be something she did not truly believe she deserved to be.

Except for that one brief moment when she finally succeeded. When the child she had, in her own mind, already killed four centuries ago was laid to rest.

It was the only time since she had been granted the right to wear this armour and been formally inducted as a member of the Justicar Order that Samara had actually felt worthy of that title that her sisters had bestowed upon her.

She had kept her word.

She had honoured her vow.

She had completed her penance.

And yet, if that was the case...why was she still here?

Because you are not the noble Justicar you pretend to be. You never have been. Your motives for joining them were never selfless. They were always about you. Atoning for your sins. Making yourself feel better for what you did to your family. For what Morinth did to so many other families.

And yet you loved her.

Even at her worst.

You never stopped loving her.

You never stopped seeing that brave, strong, smart daughter you knew. Even when she was using those very same skills to kill, or even to make you kill.

And part of you was...proud.

That was true, wasn’t it? Sick and twisted though it was, Samara had never denied that. She could not. She had not killed Morinth because she hated her. No. That had never been her mission. Rather, it had been to save her from herself.

Mirala had become Morinth because of Samara. Because of her disease. She had been nothing but a child when she made her first mistake. A mistake she was too young to fully understand. A mistake she could never take back.

Mirala, for all intents and purposes, had died on that day. Everything that had happened since, had been Samara’s disease taking control of her actions.

That was what Samara had killed.

That was what Samara hated.

Not her daughter.

Herself.

And you wonder why the Goddess does not embrace you?

Monster.

You are evil.

You are rotten.

Of course. Samara had done right by her actions, but her actions did not change what she was on the inside. They had not cleansed her. If they had, the Goddess would have released her from this life. She would not have bound her to go on suffering like this. Or was it selfish to demand that of her?

Would a true Justicar have even questioned what had happened, or why they survived? No, surely not. The truly faithful did not question that the Goddess had a plan, and that they themselves had a place in that plan.

But, then again, in nine hundred and seventy years of life, Samara had never had a single prayer answered by the Goddess. Not one.

Samara had never taken that silence as any indication that the Goddess did not exist. She had seen too many things in her years that led her to know that her divine providence was very much real. Rather, to Samara, that she always went unheard proved that she was unworthy of having her prayers answered.

Evidently, she still was.

The Justicars will see through you if you ever return to them. They will know you for what you truly are. That the Goddess has excommunicated you. They will spit on you and cast you out. They will know you do not deserve to wear the armour.

Samara did not dare return to her Order.

Somehow, something deep inside her just told her that she couldn’t.

She mustn’t.

Maybe the voice was right. Maybe they would finally know her for the fake that she was. Maybe they would finally realise that their predecessors had made a mistake when they granted Samara her place in the Order. That, even if Samara had never strayed from her Oaths, there was something...wrong with her. That she was not a righteous enough person to be worthy of fighting alongside.

That she should not be here.

Truthfully, Samara no longer knew whether she was staying on The Normandy because any part of her sincerely still believed that she was fulfilling the duties of the valiant, noble Justicar, as she claimed, or because swearing her fealty to Shepard in the battle against the Reapers was an honourable thing to do…

Or because she was just a scared, confused, lost, selfish soul, who was staying where she was because she was afraid to admit she had nowhere else to go.

Other than to be alone again.

With this voice.

Yes.

With yourself.

Like you deserve.

The voice did not lie. It never did.

Why do you not just end it? Coward. You know you should. 

You knew you should have all those years ago.

It was not the first time Samara had asked herself that question. She had lost count of how many times she had over the centuries.

Morinth is gone.

Yes. She knew this.

What purpose do you have for living?

None.

What more lies do you have to prolong this?

None.

And yet you do not?

And yet she did not.

If you truly loved your family, you would just die, right now.

She would.

It is what you deserve.

It was.

You know this.

She did.

These thoughts had been her companion for so many centuries. Her answers had never changed, save now that Morinth was no more. She had known for a long time how easy it would be to end it, if she ever made that choice again.

But she was not making that choice.

Not yet.

Not today.

Even if it was only inertia keeping her going.

Even if she did not know why she was lingering on like a ghost after she was so certain she was going to die at The Collector Base.

Even though the guilt was killing her.

Today would not be the day.

Nor tomorrow.

Nor probably the day after that.

And yet she still could not say why.

She could not find a reason why it would not.

Because you do not truly love your family, do you?

Samara’s eyes darkened as her own voice spat that accusation at her like acid. How could she say that? Of course she loved them. If she did not love them, it could not hurt her this much every single time she thought of them.

She had carried the weight of the tragedy that befell her family for four hundred and thirty-four years, seven months, and eighteen days and suffered in silence every one of those days because of how much she loved them, and her regret at having caused it all.

She could not even speak to Falere and Rila, knowing what pain her disease had caused them. Knowing that she had robbed them of their lives.

Of their father.

Of their sister.

To hear their voices again was a mercy Samara knew she did not deserve. And for them to hear hers was a suffering they did not deserve inflicted on them.

And she knew it would break her heart to see them again now as grown women. Goddess, Samara just knew Falere would be the spitting image of her bondmate now that she was an adult. She always had been, even as a child.

And Rila would look exactly like her mother. Because of course she would. She had seen pictures of her mother as a young woman, and they looked so alike.

She thought of them so often.

So often.

She had wept for centuries in the dark, until there were no more tears to shed.

But you do not think of your family every single day anymore.

Not as you used to.

Do you?

You know this to be true.

Samara hesitated. She did not have a response for that. The voice was the same, but those words were new. Because those thoughts had never been true before.

For as long as she had been a Justicar, Samara had found a kind of...purity in her eternal suffering. As if by living only for her pain, and purging herself of everything else, it made her own continued survival somehow less immoral. Because there was no joy in Samara continuing to exist as she did. No happiness. 

It was, if anything, a curse.

When she became a Justicar, there was no Samara anymore. She was just a memory of a person who once was, named for a woman who died with her bondmate and her children. There was only a warrior. A shell of a person. Devoted to a Code. Living out a lifelong penance for the sins of a past life.

Liar.

At that caustic word, Samara’s biotics flared up beyond her own control.

You do not suffer.

You do not feel pain.

You selfish

Useless

Waste

The crate behind her compressed in on itself, and slammed into the wall as each of those venomous words pierced Samara’s armour like daggers. Her composure cracked. She could not fight the demons. Because she knew them to be true.

You are not sad.

You are not miserable.

You are no martyr.

Your life did not end.

You have never been more at peace.

More content.

More joyful.

Samara rejected that. Denied it. That wasn’t possible. She had found an equilibrium, yes. Found greater harmony and relief than she had known in centuries. But it was not what she had known before.

How could it ever be?

She would never permit herself to--

Do not deceive me. You cannot.

I know you.

I am you.

Her hand shook as every ounce of suppressed self-loathing came pouring out. She lifted another crate, tempted to send it careening directly at herself. To hurt herself. To punish herself. But she could not. And the only reason she did not was because some small part of her was still aware EDI would see it if she did.

She reluctantly dropped the crate, and let her hands cover her face.

Coward.

Stop hiding and listen to me.

Stop running from what you already know.

The fact of the matter is, if you truly did still love your family the way you claim to, you would not be able to live on so free from all cares and burdens, and feel such unrestrained happiness the way you have done in so many recent days.

That was not true, Samara insisted. The only reason she had allowed herself those small mercies was because she had been so certain it would not matter. Because she had been so confident that she would already be dead by now.

Yet you are not.

And you are still doing it.

You are not pulling away, though you know you should.

Yes. She knew she should. But she wasn’t. She couldn’t.

She had nowhere to go.

And if you truly still loved your bondmate as eternally as you claim…

Samara put her hands to either side of her head, as if willing her mind silent would somehow change what her soul already knew the voice would say.

...you would not have room in your heart for another.

At that, Samara’s resolve cracked, and she crumbled to her knees, feeling everything she had fought to contain threatening to come spilling out.

Her guilt for daring to continue to live on.

Her pain for knowing that Miranda was so blissfully ignorant to her true nature, and to the fact that Samara deserved none of the kindness she had shown her.

And her self-hatred, knowing she did not deserve the happiness and contentment she felt, yet selfishly clinging to her moments with Miranda anyway, even after she had recently begun to recognise how deep her feelings had grown for her, because she was too weak and powerless to do otherwise.

She loved Miranda. She did. How could she not? 

But she wanted nothing from her.

She never had. 

Well, not entirely. Samara did want to see her go on to higher and better things. She wanted her to live her life in harmony and contentment somewhere far away. Most of all, she wanted Miranda to be happy with who she was.

That was all.

Was that so wrong?

Those wants were the only things left in her life which Samara was not unsure about. Although the voice ensured even that was becoming less and less true.

You think you are what to her? Some chivalrous knight? Some virtuous mentor? Selflessly, chastely loving her from afar?

It would make me laugh, if you did not sicken me so.

It had been so easy to allow herself to open up to Miranda and form that bond with her, to accept the fact that their rapport made her genuinely happy and to forgive her own selfishness in seeking out that connection, when she had believed wholeheartedly that it wouldn’t matter, because she would be dead by now.

Except she wasn’t.

She was still here.

Everything you touch dies, Samara.

Killing yourself would be the greatest kindness you could do.

But, since you are too cowardly for that...

Yes. Samara understood. She did have to pull away. She saw clearly now.

Samara was toxic. She was poison. For a brief moment, she had almost forgotten. All those many months ago, when it had been plain for her to see from just a single solitary, almost accidental glimmer of insight just how...deeply unhappy Miranda was with herself, Samara had been compelled to intervene, and offer her assistance. It had seemed like the right thing to do. She had dared to think that perhaps she could make a difference. Somehow, she seemed to have succeeded.

But that was the problem.

Miranda had quite clearly grown attached to their friendship. To Samara. And she shouldn’t have. She was young. And a brilliant woman. She had her whole life ahead of her. The best thing Samara could do for her was fade away, and let her devote her time to people and pursuits worthy of her splendour. 

It was the only just course of action.

Indeed it is.

Miranda would find far better friends than Samara. And she had come so far. She did not need advice or counsel anymore. Certainly not from a broken, ruined shell of a woman. Samara had nothing to offer anyone but downfall, and despair. Caring for her as selflessly as she did, meant it was time to let her go.

After all, if sharing moments with another could feel so right, then Samara knew she had to deny herself. For love, even the meagre pleasure of a benevolent, unrequited love that remained unspoken, was the last thing she deserved.

There is nothing noble about you, Samara.

Nothing selfless.

You always are, and always have been, a monster.

And it was with those thoughts swirling in her mind that Samara began to make the hard decision that it was time for her to leave. Not immediately. But soon. 

If she was going to go on living, then she would live for The Code. What else was there? Samara may not have felt worthy of the Justicar mantle but, whether her Goddess approved her or not, and even if she dared not show her face at her temple again, she was what she was. She had devoted her life to this. She did not know how to be anything else. Did not even remember how.

Being around others was a risk. There was always a danger that they could breach The Code, or put her in a position where she was in conflict with it. That was why Justicars worked alone. In solitude, she would cease to be Samara in anything but name. She would return to what she had known. She preferred it that way.

She had to be alone.

That was her penance.

Samara did not know then, as she could not possibly have known, that the next time she would try to kill herself would be a little over eight months from that day, on the day Rila died, and the day she reunited with Falere. 

And nobody, except perhaps Falere, would really comprehend just how long Samara had been waiting for a reason to hold that gun to her head, and just how ready she had been to pull that trigger, if Shepard had not stopped her.

It had not been a split-second decision. It had been a decision four hundred and thirty-five years, three months, and twenty-seven days in the making. 

Four hundred and thirty-five years, three months and twenty-seven days

That Samara had wanted to die.

*     *     *

Miranda hadn’t meant to cause Samara to disappear again like that, least of all so suddenly. And it wasn’t even a question in her mind that she was the reason she’d left. She knew immediately that she was responsible for her absence.

In hindsight, she supposed it wasn’t surprising. Miranda had asked her to leave her alone, and not in the kindest of terms either. And Samara had obliged. Evidently she’d taken her request more literally than she intended, but nevertheless.

Miranda wasn’t sure which feeling hurt worse. The initial shock of Samara’s abrupt departure. The uncertainty of once again not knowing if or when she would ever return. Or the ache of missing her - longing for her. A familiar companion.

If nothing else, Miranda had decided amid her gloom and misery that she could find one singular blessing in disguise that had resulted from this. That was that she finally had the space to make some sort of vague attempt at processing what she was feeling. Hopefully she could endeavour to make sense of it all in the intervening however many weeks or months it would be before Samara spontaneously decided to show up again, as was her wont.

So, partly motivated out of stubbornness and spite at Samara’s absence, she finally started making use of the time on her hand, and buckled down to try and figure out what to do about whatever the fuck was happening to her to make her feel this way. Every waking moment, she was thinking about it. Even when she was doing other things, it was all she was doing in the back of her mind - processing, mulling it over, trying to resolve it.

Miranda had always been a woman of science. A woman of rationality. A woman of logic. But that was the problem with feelings. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t reason her way out of them. And, so far, she hadn’t been able to think her way out of her feelings for Samara, whatever they were.

‘Gay panic’ certainly didn’t seem like the right term despite the suggestions of the Extranet. First of all, because she was not, in fact, panicking. Second of all, because she was quite certain she was not gay. Although, admittedly, she was less confident about what precisely she was than she had been a week ago. And that was very much a part of what she was trying to decipher in her state that was definitely something not even remotely similar in any way, shape or form to panic.

She had started with perhaps the most obvious point of denial - she wasn’t attracted to women.

Was she?

Certainly, Miranda had never been oblivious to Samara’s looks, even from the moment they met. She wasn’t blind. Tall. Statuesque. Stunning. She was fucking perfect. Anybody would have noticed that. But she’d never thought beyond that.

None of those surface-level thoughts meant anything anyway. All heterosexual women could tell when other women were attractive. They often remarked upon it casually when other women were beautiful. Miranda had always put herself in precisely that category. She was able to tell whether or not she thought another woman was good looking, sure, but she had never felt sexual attraction to other women, and certainly not simply because of their physical appearance.

Had she?

Come to think of it, though, even if that description of how she related to women was true, was that actually any different to how she perceived and related to men?

Truthfully, even though she could tell on some level when a man was handsome versus when he was not handsome, that was about the extent of her response to them. She’d never come across a man who made anything in particular stir inside her. Ever. And not for lack of trying. When other people claimed to be turned on just by looking at some gorgeous guy or girl, Miranda had invariably rolled her eyes at those remarks and assumed they were lying or exaggerating as part of some big societal in-joke nobody had clued her in on. But maybe they weren’t.

Even when it came to the men she had slept with, it was never because she was remotely interested in them beyond the pure functional purpose she had in mind. She’d never been shy about admitting that she’d only ever viewed her past sexual partners as more like convenient objects to get herself off with than as people. And most of them weren’t even good at that.

It had gotten to a point where she had started to wonder if there was something wrong with her - that she had gone so long in her life never having so much as a relationship, let alone a serious relationship, because she’d never met anyone who made her feel anything. Then of course she had started wondering if there was something wrong with men, because it was easier to blame an entire gender than herself for why she couldn’t connect with anyone she ever met in that kind of way. She’d ultimately decided that it was a combination of both. She was better single.

The only exception, the only man she had ever actually felt any real meaningful spark of sexual and romantic chemistry towards, however temporarily, had been Jacob. And her attraction to him had only developed after she already knew him for quite some time, and more specifically after he saved her life from batarian slavers (not that Miranda had ever admitted he had saved her life in that moment, or would ever admit it). And, even then, it fizzled pretty quickly.

On second thought, was that it? Was Miranda just sexually confused because Samara had saved her life? Was she perpetually destined to mix up gratitude towards her rescuers for love? Was this just a thing that happened to her when she had near-death experiences?

But on further reflection that didn’t fully make sense either, because so much time had already passed since the shuttle crash. Three months, to be precise. Her brief relationship with Jacob had been nearly finished by this point. Even though her feelings for Samara had certainly taken her by surprise, they couldn’t be attributed to some sudden rush of adrenaline. Hell, Samara hadn’t even been there when she woke up to project confused feelings onto. So, while it couldn’t be fully eliminated as an explanation, it seemed more improbable than probable.

Maybe she was just misinterpreting her own feelings because she was lonely and Samara was the first, real, intense female friendship she’d ever had? Someone who made her feel seen. Someone she could depend on. Someone she trusted unreservedly. A rock. Maybe it wasn’t that strange for women to develop bonds so deep with one another that they could be mistaken for love?

Samara had certainly given Miranda something she had never had before. Was her brain just tricking her into thinking that was something else? Because it sure felt like she was craving more than just friendship, though she knew she shouldn’t.

The more she began to think about it, the more she began to question whether there had been signs of this for a lot longer than she had previously been aware of. Certainly, in hindsight, a couple of people here and there had...made comments that she hadn’t thought anything of at the time, Kasumi and Kelly chief among them. But maybe they weren’t just jokes. Maybe they’d legitimately picked up on signals Miranda hadn’t been aware she was sending - an interest Miranda hadn’t even contemplated she could have had back then.

Miranda had been increasingly willing in recent years to admit the fact that she wasn’t an expert when it came to making sense of her own feelings. It was kind of an embarrassing home truth to accept about herself that she knew perfectly well that she was absolutely the kind of person who could have been falling for someone for close enough to a year and a half without realising it, and also exactly the kind of person who could reach the age of thirty-six without ever really examining, questioning or figuring out her sexuality. But it was true.

Few knew it about her because she certainly never struggled to find sexual partners, but as a rule Miranda happened to be surprisingly dense when it came to picking up on cues that people were interested in her, or even flirting with her. With straight men, that wasn’t really an issue. Not to put too fine a point on it, but getting straight men to overtly hit on her to the point where even she couldn’t miss their lack of subtlety was like shooting fish in a barrel, except that Miranda never even had to fire a shot. Plus, once she discovered dating apps, it really did cut out 99% of the pretense and bullshit when she could put it right there in her profile that all she wanted was a quick fuck. Once she did that, it was just a matter of immediately blocking the matches who talked too much. 

When it came to women however, it wasn’t as if Miranda had gone through some realisation or self-discovery that she wasn’t attracted to them. She’d honestly never thought about it. And it had never really come up. It wasn’t as if Miranda had any friends to develop feelings for in the past. She only hooked up with strangers, and few such women had ever actually made a pass at her. Or, if they had, she hadn’t noticed. And, on those few rare occasions she had noticed, Miranda had reflexively turned them down. Because she was straight, right?

But did that extremely narrow and limited handful of experiences of women hitting on her prove she wasn’t interested in women? Not really. Perhaps she just hadn’t been attracted to those particular women, or had been too caught up in her own pre-existing assumptions about her heterosexuality to consider otherwise.

Miranda wasn’t completely ignorant as to why her experiences were so lopsided in favour of men. Homophobia may have been virtually non-existent in the twenty-second century, but gay and bisexual human women were still a minority. They didn’t have the same luxury as straight men when it came to expressing an interest in other women - they couldn’t safely presume that the sexuality of the women they were interested in had a 90% chance of aligning with their own. No doubt, any women who tried to gauge whether Miranda might be interested would quickly drop that line of thinking when their subtle inquiries met with cold indifference.

By contrast, for certain categories of straight men, a complete and obvious lack of interest was no deterrent. That and Miranda’s dating app profile settings filtered out any and all women from her pool of potential candidates once she moved all her activities online, which was years ago by that point.

While it was true that asari had a completely different social context, and hence the same presumptions didn’t apply to them, Miranda had lived her entire adult life within Cerberus. It wasn’t like she’d been inundated with opportunities for asari to hit on her. Frankly, she didn’t even know what asari flirting would look like if it slapped her in the face or what their cultural rules and norms around it were.

So, yes, Miranda had indeed only slept with men so far, but the more she thought about it the more she began to acknowledge that that past history didn’t necessarily mean she was exclusively attracted to men. It was descriptive, not proscriptive. Those two things were not one and the same. She knew first hand that sleeping with someone didn’t require attraction to be a factor at all. If it did, she wouldn’t have fucked just about any of the men she’d ever fucked.

Perhaps all this time she had simply assumed she was heterosexual because she had never really seen cause to interrogate what she was doing. She had used that label because it had described her actions, but in retrospect maybe it didn’t describe her feelings. Maybe she was more...ambiguous than that.

If things in her life had gone differently, and the first person her own age who had made a pass at her in her biotic training program had been one of the girls as opposed to one of the boys, could Miranda honestly say that she wouldn’t have felt the same curiosity to experiment, and that it wouldn’t have led to her first time being with a girl rather than with a boy? She couldn’t say that, no.

If an attractive woman walked up to her and flirted with her right now at that very moment, could she honestly say that the feelings it stirred up in her would be any different at all to the way she reacted when a man did the exact same thing? Probably not. Because she didn’t feel anything much when men did that.

Come to think of it, even taking Samara out of the equation, was it possible that maybe she had already felt sparks of chemistry with other women before, at least on a par to what she had felt with men, and just not recognised them for what they potentially were, because social biases had simply conditioned her into categorising those responses as normal platonic female feelings?

Off the top of her head, there was Shepard. A strong, gay woman. Obviously Shepard had been in a committed relationship with Liara, so there had been no chance anything would ever happen between them, and the thought had never even crossed Miranda’s mind before that moment. But what if, say, Shepard had been single, and kissed her out of the blue one day? Would Miranda have said no to that? Would she not have been even the littlest bit curious to explore that? 

She would have been lying if she pretended she couldn’t see the potential for herself to be attracted to Shepard, at least to the extent of being willing to see where that hypothetical kiss might have taken them. What could she say? Andrea was a uniquely charismatic woman. And, honestly, everyone on the Normandy had been a little bit in love with her, if they were being truthful, and probably would have been open to being with Shepard, if they’d been given the chance.

So, okay, perhaps Miranda wasn't as straight as she thought, or at least she was doing a very good job of convincing herself that she might not be making this whole thing up. Perhaps she had always possessed a capacity to be attracted to women on some level, but had simply never met anyone who exceeded her incredibly high and narrow standards, until Samara.

Maybe she'd been interested in women before, but misinterpreted those feelings due to the same social biases that had led her to assume she was heterosexual, not because there was any real evidence in favour of that belief but rather because there hadn't been any evidence to the contrary. Maybe because, on some unconscious level, she’d felt a social obligation to at least try being with men, and no similar obligation to try being with women.

Not to mention the fact that sexuality could be fluid, according to some sources, anyway. For some, it seemed etched in stone, but not for everybody; there was no guarantee that it would remain stagnant throughout her life.

Maybe it wasn’t a sexuality thing at all. Maybe Miranda wasn’t even attracted to anyone, male or female. Maybe it was just Samara who made her feel this way.

How the hell was Miranda supposed to know the difference at this point?

God, it was confusing.

“Checkmate,” said Miranda.

“God fucking damn it! Again?!” Jack hit the table in frustration. Ever since Miranda had stopped taking it easy on her, it had become a mini-obsession of Jack’s to get the better of her, just once. Miranda could tell she’d been practicing. “One of these fucking days I’m going to beat you. I swear to fucking...fuck!”

“You’re getting better,” Miranda noted.

Jack snorted. “Don’t patronise me, cunt.”

“That wasn’t…” Miranda sighed and shook her head, recognising it was futile to try and get Jack to take her at face value, and too tired to waste her breath trying when she was already expending all her energy thinking about so many other things. “Never mind,” she said, resetting the pieces.

For as unpleasant as Jack could still be at times, it wasn’t lost on Miranda that this was an overwhelming improvement from where they had been in the past. Admittedly, that was like saying that the radiation levels around Pripyat, Ukraine had improved from the reactor meltdown at Chernobyl two hundred years ago. Technically correct, although wildly misleading. But hey, progress was progress.

In any event, biting her tongue had proven by far to be Miranda’s most effective de-escalation technique whenever Jack tried to get a rise out of her. Jack couldn’t fight with Miranda (much as it seemed like she wanted to at times) if she didn’t fight back. Not to mention that Jack was giving herself way too much credit if she thought her insults did anything other than bounce off.

“It’s your move, eyepatch,” said Jack.

“What?”

“You’re white this time,” Jack pointed out.

Miranda blinked. Oh. So she was. “Sorry.” She really was out of it. She moved her first piece and started the game, too consumed in her musings about Samara to be paying too much attention to what was happening. 

“If you’re getting sick or something, don’t cough on me,” Jack remarked after that particular game had been going on for a while.

“I don’t get sick,” Miranda wearily replied, wondering if she was starting to look as bad on the outside as she felt on the inside if even Jack was picking up on it now. Her insomnia must have been starting to show. “I--”

“If you say anything about your genetic code, I’m punching you in the eye socket,” Jack cut her off, moving a bishop to take a knight.

Miranda elected not to call her on that bluff. “Fair enough.”

God, if Miranda could have just taken some drug that would allow her to black out for a week in dreamless sleep she would have taken it in an instant. She wasn’t sleeping at all anymore. She was so fucking tired. She just wanted to turn her brain off and stop thinking. Stop existing for a bit. But she couldn’t.

Being awake was still preferable to the nightmares, though. At least when she was awake, she was only thinking about Samara, and not haunted by war and death. Although, that being said, that wasn’t a massive improvement.

She had hoped that playing these games with Jack might serve as a temporary reprieve from these endless questions about her sexuality spiralling through her head, but they hadn’t. She couldn’t stop mulling over Samara, even for a second, which was probably part of the reason why Jack was doing better than she normally did against her, even if she still couldn’t manage to squeak out a win. 

“Wanna drink?” Jack offered, cracking open a can of paragade while Miranda contemplated her next move. Miranda waved her hand to decline, going back to rapping her fingers against the table as she studied the board.

A thought occurred to Miranda, then. Come to think of it...

“Jack, you’ve slept with women before, haven’t you?” Miranda asked abruptly.

Jack damn near choked on her paragade, covering her face to keep from spitting half of it out onto the table in alarm. “What the fuck did you just say?!”

“It’s a simple question. And you have, haven’t you?” Miranda pressed, too laser-focused on her own borderline-neurotic introspection to recognise that she was falling back into her old habits of ploughing straight ahead like a blunt instrument without even considering whether it might be jarring or not, and too sleep-deprived to exercise better judgement. “Are you attracted to women?”

Jack narrowed her gaze suspiciously, trying to figure out where this line of questioning was coming from. “...Okay, I know Shepard joked about this that one time, but I swear to fuck, if you're actually fucking hitting on me, I don’t care how crippled you are, I will throw you headfirst out that fucking window and bring this entire building down on top of you just to make sure you're dead.”

Miranda sent her a deadpan look in response, making her disinterest plain. “Jack, if I were ever that desperate that I so much as thought that I might actually be attracted to you, I promise you I would reach for my gun right now and I would put a bullet in my brain myself,” Miranda replied.

“Thank fuck for that,” said Jack, visibly and audibly relieved that wasn’t on the cards. “So then why the hell are you asking me about this?”

Miranda sighed, realising a little too late how pathetic it was that she was turning to Jack of all people to lend her some insight. “I can't believe we're having this conversation either, but...You're the only living human woman who's been with women I know well enough to ask. And yes I know that's depressing,” Miranda preemptively cut off Jack's retort. “Trust me, coming to you for advice about anything was not something I ever thought I'd do, but typing ‘how do you know if you’re attracted to women’ into the Extranet over and over again and getting the exact same useless answers is starting to convince me I’m going insane.”

“Huh. So you’re finally having a sexuality crisis,” Jack noted, sounding unsurprised to hear that, as if she’d anticipated this on some level.

“I don’t know. I guess,” Miranda acknowledged. If that was what this was, then that would be a yes. She glanced up. “What do you mean ‘finally’?”

Jack shrugged. “Always got a ���straight like spaghetti’ kinda vibe from ya.”

“Meaning?” Miranda prompted, not following the metaphor.

“Until you get wet,” Jack remarked, grinning wickedly.

Miranda glared at Jack for a good, long moment, increasingly convinced she was just fucking with her and not amused by it even slightly. Either way, she supposed it didn’t matter. If Jack really had somehow predicted that Miranda wasn’t as straight as she thought she was long before she’d recognised this about herself, then perhaps that was a sign she had come to the right person. 

“...Well, all that aside, I’m not used to saying this but, if you could offer any advice, I could really use your help right now,” Miranda admitted in a reluctant mumble, having nobody else she could turn to with this issue. “Please.”

To her credit, Jack softened, as if even she was loath to kick Miranda when she was coming to her from such a position of humility and vulnerability. “Look, I don’t know what I can tell you. I mean, sure, I've fucked a couple girls, and I could do that again if I wanted, but like...I'm not actually into girls like that. Not that I’ve met, anyway. I mean a body's a body, but I can't ever see myself dating a woman. I've never had feelings for a woman, you know? Too much drama.”

“How can you tell if you do?” Miranda asked, struggling with that the most. “How can you tell the difference between, say, a very deep, abiding and intense but very platonic friendship you have with another woman, and romantic attraction?”

Jack snorted. “I don't fucking know. Like I said, I’m not into women. Ask one of the people who makes a million, billion credits writing books on that shit. Sounds pretty fucking gay from where I’m sitting, though.” After a moment, a lightbulb went off in Jack's head. “Wait. Holy shit, is this about Samara?”

Miranda's eye widened in alarm. 

Fuck.

“I...what?”

“Well who the hell else would it be? You don't have any other friends,” Jack pointed out. It was at that moment Miranda really hated the fact that she would never have a good counter argument to that. “Besides, you've been moping around like a lost puppy for weeks every time her name got brought up, and then again since she showed up, and even more so since she left a few days ago. I figured it was because you were fighting, but obviously it’s because of some other thing,” Jack remarked, making a suggestive expression as she sipped her drink. 

Miranda massaged her forehead, immediately regretting her entire life and all of her choices up to that point. “You know what, forget I asked. Forget we spoke. Forget I exist.” Miranda stood up, pushing her chair away from the table.

“Hey, our game’s not over,” Jack protested.

“Mate in three. Knight to E5. Bishop to E2. Bishop to G4,” said Miranda, grabbing her cane as she started towards the door.

Jack blinked, making a mental note of those moves. “...If you say so. But what's the big fucking deal anyway?” Jack called out after her.

Miranda paused halfway through pulling on her scarf. “I beg your pardon. Did you just ask me, ‘What’s the big ‘fucking’ deal?’” she echoed sarcastically.

“Listen, I get it, alright,” Jack began, a little more even-handedly. “You think you might be into Samara, and you’re a little freaked out because this makes things kinda awkward, and also this means you might be into chicks, but so what? Go bang a chick and find out if you're into it. I know you're not precious about who you fuck. Even better - go fuck an asari. It's not like it's hard. If it's not your thing, it's not your thing. Problem solved, right? If it is, it is. Either way, you get it out of your system and you can move on and stop being such a mopey cunt about it.”

“Seriously? That's your advice?” Miranda remarked, shaking her head and glancing back over her shoulder as she pulled on her jacket and made for the exit. “Thank you for reminding me why we should never talk again.”

“You asked for my help. Quit being a cunt,” Jack shot back, chugging the last of her paragade and crushing the can. She paused after a moment, still curious despite her better judgement. “...So I was right; it is her, isn't it?”

Miranda's steely silence as she reached the front door was her answer.

“Wow. That's never going to fucking happen,” Jack said bluntly.

“I know,” said Miranda, well aware, turning the handle.

“This conversation doesn't make us friends,” Jack pointedly reminded her, never wanting to be approached by her about this or any other topic ever again.

“I know!” Miranda called back as the door swung shut behind her and she limped away, preferring to pretend the last few minutes had never happened.

The last thing Miranda heard from Jack as she left was a very loud (but very muffled) “OH, FUCK YOU” when she was about a third of the way down the stairs. She took that to mean she remained undefeated.

*     *     *

Miranda had only felt true, unconditional love once in her life before. That was during that achingly brief period from the day when she first held her baby sister in her arms, until the day she gave her up for adoption.

Over the years that had passed since then, Miranda had often wondered what it would have been like if she hadn’t given her up forever - if she had tried to raise Oriana on her own, with the help of Cerberus. Would Miranda have been happier if she kept her? Yes, definitely. But would Oriana have been better off with Miranda as her makeshift mother? No. Of that, she had no doubt.

Cerberus had given Miranda so much for which she was grateful, but not a normal life. She was well aware that her association with Cerberus had left her (unfairly) branded as a terrorist. Even if that hadn’t been the case, as a fully grown adult, in retrospect Miranda now had enough insight into her sixteen-year-old self to know it could only have ended in disaster for Oriana to be raised by someone too young and immature to have had any clue what she was doing.

There was no mistaking it; Miranda had made the right decision when she gave Oriana up all those years ago. If she could go back in time, she would do the same thing all over again, even though it wouldn’t have killed her any less.

But Miranda was a different person now. She was thirty, which among other things meant she was older, wiser, and in a far more stable situation than ever before. She had her own money, and could support herself entirely through working on The Illusive Man's many research projects. She didn’t have to be involved with anything dangerous anymore if she didn’t want to be. If Oriana had only been born now instead of back then, Miranda would have kept her.

And, well, the truth was this thought had been on Miranda’s mind for a very long time. As soon as she’d given Oriana up, she’d known deep down that she wanted to have a child or children of her own one day. To feel that way again – to love, and be loved back, by someone who would always be in her life.

Obviously she couldn’t when she was sixteen, for the exact same reasons that had compelled her to voluntarily give Oriana up in the first place. But the drive had been there. Waiting for the right moment.

When she was twenty-one, she’d foolishly thought she knew everything there was to know about the world and that she was mature enough to try for a child if she wanted to. However, Miranda had decided against it then for purely pragmatic reasons, due to the fact that it would have put her career at a severe disadvantage from the outset to decide to become a single mother so early in life. There would have been no way she could work as many hours as her childless, or married coworkers, if she’d had a child for whom she was solely responsible. It just wasn’t realistic. She needed to wait until she was in a more stable position. 

At twenty-five, the need to try and recreate what she'd given up all those years ago, or something like it, had only grown stronger, but Miranda had been too busy. Her career within Cerberus had really started to take off by that point, and getting pregnant would have derailed it. She had made a name for herself for regularly working twice as many hours as her rivals, and never taking holidays. She had no personal life, so she had no reason to ever do much else other than dedicate herself to her job. That made her a rising star. Plus the overtime paid extremely well. Throwing future opportunities she’d unlocked through her accomplishments to the wayside for a baby would have undone all her hard work.

Give it a few more years, maybe.

By twenty-seven, the thought kept occurring to her more and more often. Maybe it was time to think about freezing her eggs so she could come back to this whenever she was ready. That was what a lot of career women did. She’d taken home pamphlets about it and everything. The human lifespan was so long now, and biology hadn’t evolved alongside society and technology. It wasn’t uncommon for women to have their first child in their late forties or early fifties.

But that seemed so long to wait. Miranda was not that patient.

At twenty-eight, Miranda finally made a firm decision. In fact, she made a pact with herself. She would start trying for a child in her thirties, no matter what the circumstances of her life were at that time.

She wasn’t some no-name agent anymore, and if she worked hard enough in the next two years, surely she could afford to take some time off later. And by that age, hopefully it wouldn’t reflect badly on her professionally or be too detrimental to her career that she’d made the decision to have a child. The Illusive Man would understand why she had to cut back her hours here and there to accommodate that responsibility. And, if it did have a negative impact on her advancement, well...fuck it, that was a sacrifice she was willing to make to replicate the way it had felt to hold Oriana in her arms all those years ago. To chase that feeling again. That need to feel a little less alone in the universe.

Then thirty came. And Miranda kept her promise to herself.

“Wow, your profile picture wasn't lying,” the man remarked as he stepped into the hotel room. “You’re amazi--”

“Get your clothes off and get on the bed,” Miranda bluntly instructed, not caring to remember what this one’s name was, just as she hadn’t cared to learn the names of other one night stands before him. He didn’t know it, and he never would, but he was just a sperm donor, really. And he wasn’t the first.

“What?” He blinked at her, taken aback by her curtness.

“Don't talk,” she said, pushing him back towards the bed.

“Oh. Yes, mistress,” he replied, coming to his own conclusion about what was going on. Miranda rolled her eyes, getting to work stripping him naked, and herself. No sense in wasting time. “I brought condoms,” he volunteered when she straddled his hips, expressly ignoring her previous command not to talk.

“You don't need them,” Miranda assured him, reaching down to his member and guiding it between her thighs. That shut him up. “No kissing.” She put a hand to his face when he tried for one, pushing it back down to the pillow.

Perhaps her actions might have seemed immoral to some, using strangers for purposes unbeknownst to them, but Miranda had no qualms about it. Based on what she'd read, in asari culture, this would be considered fairly normal. They often had their children alone, from one-off encounters with people who may never have known they had a child, and who were never expected to be involved or contribute anything bar some DNA. The asari method seemed to do them no harm; they were the most powerful race in the galaxy. Miranda had always thought humanity could stand to learn a thing or two from them. Maybe this was one of them.

Surely it had to work this time. She’d been trying for months by that point, and it was starting to feel like a fucking day job at this rate. Miranda had timed her cycle perfectly. She knew when she was ovulating – the exact window in which she had to have sex to get pregnant. She was doing everything right. Every single thing she had to do to conceive. But so far it had all been to no avail.

He finished inside her in a matter of minutes, which was fine with Miranda.

“D...Did you?” the man asked breathlessly.

“No,” Miranda stated frankly. She never lied about that. However, unlike previous one night stands, she wasn't in this to get off. She could do that herself. “If I give you ten minutes, do you think you could go again?” she asked.

The man blinked, barely having time to recover from his orgasm. “W-What?”

“It was a very simple question. What part of it wasn't clear?” Miranda challenged, fed up with him.

“Sorry, mistress, I, uh...Sure thing. I'll go again. Just...give me a minute,” he said, panting heavily. “In the meantime, do you wanna...cuddle or something?”

Miranda looked at him like his head was screwed on the wrong way. Honestly, why were some men so bloody needy? It was just sex, for crying out loud. 

Over the next fourteen days after that encounter, Miranda took pregnancy tests, as she always did. They all came up negative. And then she had her period. She’d been doing this for months with no success. A strange, sick feeling came over her. Something was wrong. But there shouldn't have been a problem. She was genetically perfect. How could a perfect human have trouble conceiving?

This didn't make sense. At that point, this couldn’t be chance. She had to see a doctor about this. A few scans and blood tests should give her the answers she needed. And they did, but it wasn't the answer she wanted to hear.

Miranda shook with rage when she read the results on her screen, her jaw clenched tight. Of course. Her father. Why hadn't she thought of it before? He'd controlled every single aspect of her life when she was under his thumb, so why wouldn't he control her reproductive organs as well?

Why wouldn’t he do something like this? Especially if he only ever thought of her as a prototype, or proof of concept. Why wouldn’t he make her infertile, preventing her genetic code from spreading by any means except via cloning, using the sequence that only he had unfettered access to?

If Miranda ever wanted a biological child, the only way to get it was through him.

Or it would have been, if Miranda hadn’t destroyed her cloning facility together with every trace of the original DNA sequence in a fit of fiery rage.

Now there was no way.

She sat there in cold, tranquil fury as the reality of it all came crashing down upon her. Her condition. What her father had stolen from her without her even knowing. And that there was nothing that could be done to fix it.

She would never have a child. It seemed cruel to say it, but any adopted or surrogate child she could ever have, they would never be...like her. They wouldn’t be different like she was. At best, she could only ever take some normal child from someone else and screw them up with all her flaws. And she would only have herself to blame, not their shared DNA, if they turned out like her. 

She didn’t want that.

All she wanted was to go back to that moment when she was sixteen, when she held her sister in her arms, and knew...just knew that they were the same.

That special connection she had felt with Oriana all those years ago, that was never to be repeated. And Miranda had given it away. She had given away the one and only person who would ever look at her with unconditional love in their eyes.

She would never get that feeling back. 

She was alone in the universe.

She would always be alone.

Miranda could have screamed, but she didn't. She could have smashed her computer screen and trashed her room, but she refrained. Instead, she stood up, fists clenched, grabbed her things, and went straight to the gym at the Cerberus facility where she lived and worked.

She taped up her fists and found a training dummy in the shape of a man. On it, she pictured her father's face. And she went to town.

Miranda flared up her biotics and slammed her fist into the dummy over and over again, meaning every single of those strikes. One of her blows connected so hard that she sent the dummy careening to the ground. Miranda went after it, mounting it and driving punch after punch into its head, obliterating it just as she wanted to obliterate her own father's smug fucking face.

She hated him. She loathed him. She despised him.

Miranda only stopped when she realised her hand had been colliding with the floor for the past minute, leaving a smouldering scorch mark in the mat.

Miranda breathed deeply as she stood up, her anger subsiding as she ripped the tape from her bruised fingers. It was as she looked around then that she noticed absolutely everybody else in the gym was staring at her in stunned silence. She didn't care. They could choke, for all the difference it made to her. She was more valuable to The Illusive Man than the rest of them combined.

“Uh, Ms. Lawson? That was Cerberus property,” the manager of the exercise facility nervously spoke up, not eager to invoke her wrath, after what he'd just witnessed, presumably for the same reason he’d been too scared to intervene.

Miranda grabbed her towel, utterly drenched in sweat. “Bill it to my account.”

*     *     *

Miranda had retreated to the furthest, most isolated corner of the same bar where she’d downed that bottle of wine a while back to sit and sulk. Thankfully, on that particular evening, she’d had the good sense to nurse just one drink as part of a desperate attempt to avoid going home and falling asleep. Unfortunately, the inevitable crash she was delaying was unavoidable, and she knew it. It was going to happen that she would pass out one night. And, when she did, and the dreams came for her, it would be bad.

Knowing what she knew now, how many people were confirmed dead, they would be worse than ever before. Miranda wasn’t looking forward to it - to the day that her insomnia finally caught up with her. But it wouldn’t be tonight.

Besides, that quiet spot in the corner of the pub was providing some solace when it came to thinking about Samara. It was easier to mull over her muddled feelings for her there than having to do the exact same thing at home with ten teenagers. Plus, chances were Jacob would have invited himself over for dinner again as he so often did, given that none of his roommates including Jack could cook worth a damn. Miranda was only human. She needed space sometimes.

In the intervening days since Samara had left, Miranda had moved pretty swiftly beyond the denial stage. It had grown increasingly hard to pretend it was even a question whether or not she had fallen for her by that point. The way Samara made her feel was the sort of thing Miranda previously thought writers had been melodramatically exaggerating about when she read those phrases in books. And yet here she was, feeling those very things.

No, instead, her mind had turned more towards the question of just how she could get those sensations to go away, or put them on mute, staunchly committed to believing there had to be some way she could bargain her way out of this situation without destroying their friendship more than she already had.

Being with Samara simply wasn’t an option. She didn’t reciprocate her feelings. She couldn’t. That part of her life was over. Miranda knew that. Fucking hell, she was quite possibly the number one least available person in the universe, and with very justifiable reasons. So, whatever this was, it had to stop. Fast.

Her current stage on that journey involved trying to better understand the origin of how this all started, including precisely how long this had been happening. Defining the terms of what she was dealing with and putting it all into a neat little box made it all so much easier to address and reason with, and hopefully find a solution to. So, just how long had she been developing these feelings?

When exactly had she started to fall for Samara?

From the moment they met initially, the answer was a definite no, surely. Miranda had originally just enjoyed Samara’s company because she was polite, quiet and didn’t bother her when she worked, although they had spoken a few times in passing. Miranda’s reasons had been quite selfish then, in all honesty. But it didn’t go any further than that. Not at that point in time.

It hadn’t been until Samara showed Miranda such kindness around the time she reunited with Oriana that she started to form a bond with her. And it wasn’t until later, when Miranda had shown rare compassion for Samara after she killed Morinth, that they began to grow close as friends. But even that timing didn’t feel right. Miranda barely knew Samara that early on. When she looked back on those initial moments, her connection with Samara still wasn’t a fraction of what it later blossomed into. That was only the beginning of when the seed was planted.

Well, starting at the outset was probably pointless then. The wrong approach. What about later memories? What about the times she and Samara had spent together on the Citadel?

Their little private reunion a few months ago at Shepard’s apartment had been perfect. The moments she and Samara had stolen with one another away from everyone else were precisely what Miranda had hoped for from that day, and the most at peace she had felt in a long time, before or since. It felt just like old times. Maybe even better. They had so much fun together in such a short space of time, even threw in a few deep and meaningful moments for good measure.

The last time Miranda had felt so carefree prior to that was, well, the last time she’d been with Samara on the Citadel, barely saying anything as she followed in her footsteps, doting on her every word as Samara went from place to place reminiscing about the past. Miranda could have gladly trailed along behind Samara like that for countless hours and never grown bored of seeing her so enthusiastic and nostalgic for simpler times. Then they’d had such an amazing time at Miranda’s favourite restaurant, where the time had flown by in the blink of an eye because they were enjoying each other’s company so much.

Even before that, Miranda hadn’t known exactly when it happened, but at some point in their journey, the time she spent with Samara in the Starboard Observation Deck had become the highlight of her day. The thing she always looked forward to. It didn’t even matter what they talked about. If they sat together in peaceful silence. A moment shared was never a moment wasted.

Not entirely unlike Miranda herself, in the time she had known Samara on the Normandy, she had transformed from someone reserved and stoic into someone so much more open and expressive. After Morinth passed, that shroud of sorrow had lifted from her shoulders, and Miranda had been privileged to watch it gradually fall, and see that happier, freer person emerge from beneath the veil. She actually started to let her guard down and, well...be herself around her.

Miranda remembered the way Samara’s eyes would light up and twinkle in the starlight when she smiled her most genuine smiles. The way the faintest lines would crinkle with mirth at the corners of her eyes when Miranda made a remark that amused her, though almost nothing came close to cracking that faultless exterior. The way it secretly delighted Miranda how someone who carried so much pain with her somehow still lit up the room with pure, unfeigned excitement when her earnestness slipped through that hardened, Justicar exterior.

Miranda had always thought Samara was an incredible person. As soon as she got to know her, anyway. How could she not? That was precisely what she was.

Was it any wonder that it had always made Miranda’s burdens feel so much lighter just to be in Samara’s company? Or why it brightened her mood every time she made Samara smile? Or why she felt so safe and so warm every time Samara comforted her with wise words? Or why it made her heart flutter whenever Samara told her how much she cared about her? Or why every time they parted ways, all she wanted was for them to both stay right where they were?

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

Miranda groaned heavily and let her head fall against the bar. She was completely fucking oblivious wasn’t she? If she was having those thoughts and feelings about Samara back when they were still on The Normandy, then that proved Miranda had been in love with Samara, or at the very least falling in love with her, for more than a year. And she had been totally blind to it while it was happening to her.

“Don’t tell me you’re already legless after only one of those,” an Irish bartender jokingly remarked, causing Miranda to glance up from her self-induced misery.

“No. Only mostly armless,” Miranda sourly remarked, her quip earning his approval. “I’ll take another, thanks,” she said, having the feeling she was going to need to be here for a good, long while in order to come to terms with just how clueless to her own feelings she had been this entire goddamn time.

She really fucking hated being herself sometimes.

If she wasn’t so dense and had cottoned on to what was happening all that time ago, no doubt she would have been in a better place by now. Maybe she could have used that intervening time she’d spent on the run from Cerberus to figure herself out, bring her feelings under control, get it out of her system and reach some kind of stable equilibrium in regards to how she felt about Samara.

If nothing else, she would have had more time to process her feelings. Enough that, by now, she could probably stand to be within five feet of Samara without feeling like her skin was on fire, or like her insides were dissolving into a complete unsalvageable mess, or like she would explode if Samara touched her.

Maybe, if she’d had a few more months to cope with this madness, she wouldn’t have acted like such a rude jackass to her the last time they spoke.

She really did detest the fact that she had lashed out at Samara, and pushed her away as she had. But she would have regretted it if she hadn’t. For once in her life, Miranda was doing an atrocious job of hiding her feelings. If even Jack of all people knew she was lovesick for her, then surely Samara would have seen right through any charade given half the chance. It had been harsh, but putting some distance between them really had been the best option available.

She hoped Samara wouldn’t take it personally, or be angry with her for her behaviour the next time they met. But any hurt feelings would be worth it if it gave Miranda the opportunity she needed to figure out how to start acting like a normal human person around her again the next time she reappeared.

Speaking of people she was avoiding, Miranda heard a familiar ding in her earpiece, signalling that she had received a text. She didn’t bother to check who it was, because she already knew the answer, and in that particular moment she didn’t want to deal with the guilt of knowing she wouldn’t respond.

Every single day, without fail, Oriana sent another bad joke in an effort to cheer her sister up. And every single day, Miranda still never texted her back. She hadn’t said a word to her since the day she wrote to Ashley’s family.

Her reasons for not confiding in her sister hadn’t changed. Oriana was probably having such a great time on Horizon. Or she should have been, anyway. She was an amazing person. The best. And then there was Miranda, being the mopey cunt that she was, as Jack had put it. An apt description, in fairness.

Call it big sister instincts, but Miranda would rather suffer in silence than dare unburden anymore of her troubles onto Oriana than she already had. Her twin deserved so much better than to have her mood brought low by Miranda’s constant, unrelenting negativity every single time they spoke. Maybe Oriana really was better off without Miranda perpetually holding her back.

In all honesty, though, she would have killed a hundred people just to talk to Oriana in that moment. She’d never felt more isolated than she did right then. 

“Good evening, stranger. Are you waiting for someone?” a familiar, slightly stilted voice interrupted her musings. Miranda glanced up to see Shiala standing beside her. Her stance was rigid, as if she had no clue whether or not she might be committing a social faux-pas and was braced for rejection.

“If you’re offering to join me, I wouldn’t mind the company.” Miranda gestured for Shiala to go right ahead and take a seat. At this moment in time, anything was preferable to dwelling on her sorrows as much as she was doing. She could use the distraction from her loneliness.

Shiala accepted her invitation, pulling up a stool on Miranda’s right. “It’s been a while since I’ve heard from you. I was starting to think you were avoiding me.”

Miranda arched her eyebrow. They’d spoken, what, six weeks ago? Was that not frequently enough to maintain a friendship? She sighed. No. Evidently it was not. “It’s not you. My life has just been...hectic, lately.”

“Yes, I gathered that. Not at first, but I, uh...I saw you at the candlelight vigil last week,” Shiala acknowledged, visibly regretting that she had assumed the worst about Miranda’s motives, when she ought to have been more sensitive. “I didn’t realise you’ve been going through such a difficult time. I’m sorry. If I lost anyone from Zhu’s Hope, I don’t…” Shiala stopped herself and shook her head. “Forgive me. I imagine you’re not particularly keen to talk about that.”

“You’re not wrong,” Miranda conceded. That was another subject she was eager to block out of her mind at all costs. She’d been consumed with death and misery for so long that she was starting to feel like a walking corpse herself. “I still owe you that drink, don’t I?”

“I wasn’t going to mention it, but…” Shiala summoned a faint smile. Miranda signalled to the bartender to get Shiala one of whatever she was drinking.

Miranda was far from a social butterfly, but it was a welcome change to talk to somebody different for once - somebody who wasn’t intimately involved with the minutiae of her everyday life. It helped that she didn’t dislike Shiala either. Admittedly she was indifferent towards her, gratitude for saving hers and Jack’s life aside, but indifference was not the same as dislike. In any event, Shiala had done more than enough for Miranda that the least she could do was give her a chance, even if she was sceptical that they had much in common.

At the very least, this was preferable to driving herself mad, running the same thoughts through her head over and over again, getting absolutely nowhere.

“I must admit, I was surprised to see you drinking alone,” Shiala commented.

“What do you mean?” Miranda prompted, not following.

Shiala gave her a look, as if she thought Miranda might be playing coy, but then glanced down at her glass, idly toying with her fingers as she spoke. “When I saw you sitting here by yourself, it wasn’t what I expected. I thought that I would have to fight off a crowd of people just to get your attention even for a moment.”

“Ah. It’s a nice change, actually. Ordinarily, I used to wish people would leave me alone when I would visit places like this to enjoy a quiet drink,” Miranda remarked, snorting at the thought. That was a whole other life now. “I guess that's one thing I can thank the shuttle crash for. Men no longer bother me.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand. Why would they not approach you anymore?” Shiala asked, sounding genuinely confused, like those two sentences didn’t connect.

“...I'm not sure if you're joking or just trying to be polite,” said Miranda, eyeing her companion curiously as she brushed stray strands of hair behind her ear. Shiala only continued to stare, in questioning. “Look, I know the eyepatch masks a lot of the damage, but the burn scars aren’t exactly attractive.”

Shiala blinked, her expression blank. “...I’m green.”

At that deadpan statement, Miranda laughed. “No offence to your species, but to me that doesn’t make you look radically different from any other asari. Easier to recognise in a crowd, though,” she pointed out. 

Shiala sighed, understanding why Miranda felt as she did concerning her wounds. “You seem to forget I was an asari commando. I have seen many brave women suffer injuries more severe than yours,” Shiala reminded her, perishing the thought that she would be disgusted or repulsed by what Miranda had endured. “If anything, I find that scars like yours betray the quality of the person who bears them - your history, your experience, your courage, your character. You have your scars because you were willing to give your life to save billions of others.”

Miranda gave a soft, self-deprecating snort at that as she picked up her glass. “You give me too much credit.” Shiala made her sacrifice sound a hell of a lot more noble and selfless than it was. She wasn’t any kind of hero. She was just in the right places at the right times to survive.

“Or you give yourself too little,” Shiala countered, shifting a little closer. “I’ve seen you in action. I know you are a strong woman who achieves the impossible and prevails against all odds. Even when you could barely stand, you were fearless, and I watched you do incredible things that entire armies were too cowardly to do. I have met few, if any women, who were as impressive as you are. Some people, many people in fact, are drawn to women like you. People like me.” 

“Drawn how?” asked Miranda, arching her eyebrow at Shiala. 

In response, Shiala only held her gaze. That said more than words ever could.

The realisation sank in. “Oh. I see…” Miranda closed her eye and rubbed her forehead in annoyance at herself. God, she really was completely and utterly dense when it came to reading anything other than the most overt displays of sexual attraction wasn’t she?

In retrospect, suddenly all Shiala’s stilted and awkward behaviour around her since they first met made much more sense, or at least a hell of a lot more of it did. She’d had a crush on Miranda this whole time, hadn’t she?

Shiala cleared her throat and looked away. It was difficult to tell on a woman with green skin but Miranda could have sworn she was blushing. “...And I have read this wrong, haven’t I?” she said, cringing at her own lack of finesse at talking to people she liked. “I am sorry. I have never been very good at this.”

“No. You’re fine. I just...I didn’t think…” Miranda trailed off, stopping herself from instinctively rejecting Shiala’s advances. Come to think of it, wasn’t this exactly what she was looking for?

She thought of her conversation with Jack. Much as she hated to admit it, Jack did have a point. If Miranda was questioning her sexuality and had reason to think she might be interested in women as much as men then why not go right ahead and explore that facet of herself? Was there any logical reason not to test those waters? What harm would it do if she did, even if she didn’t turn out to be bisexual, or whatever other label people wanted to put on it?

The worst thing that could possibly come out of it was that she wouldn’t enjoy it. As Jack had pointed out, that might actually ultimately solve the Samara problem once and for all, since it might indicate she wasn’t sexually interested in women, or that she preferred to remain friends with them rather than sleep with them. The best thing that could happen was that she would have a good time, would find Shiala a useful outlet for all this pent up tension, and increase her pool of viable sexual partners for the future. From where she was sitting, it was starting to look an awful lot like a win-win situation.

“Let’s start over. Hi, Shiala. I’m Miranda. How are you?” Miranda extended her hand across the small divide between them, keen to make it clear that, irrespective of any prior misunderstandings, they were now both very much approaching this with the same mutual intention.

Shiala gave a bashful smile as she delicately shook Miranda’s hand, charmed. “Much happier than I was a few minutes ago,” she said, evidently delighted to think she hadn’t misread this.

“Good. Great,” Miranda enthused, which earned a faint giggle.

Miranda could concede to feeling a little out of her depth. She’d never flirted with a woman before, let alone an asari. Never actually had to flirt with anyone to get what she wanted, although playing at being sultry and seductive could certainly be fun sometimes. But, by some good fortune, it seemed she hadn’t screwed up her chances of going home with Shiala yet. So she didn’t try too hard. They just talked for a bit. Or rather, Miranda let Shiala talk about herself, and she nodded along and feigned interest, paying for another round of drinks along the way. 

So far, so good.

“I’ve always been a bit of an outcast, even among my own kind,” Shiala admitted, nervously toying with her glass as she opened up about herself. “I think that was what drew me to follow Benezia. Looking for a sense of belonging. A sense of purpose. And I suppose through her I found it, eventually. But only on Feros, with the people of Zhu’s Hope.”

“Mhmm.” Miranda pretended to listen, not paying attention at all.

How long had it been since she’d fucked someone anyway, Miranda wondered? She’d barely had the time or freedom to even think about sex since before she joined The Normandy. Too busy rebuilding Commander Shepard, then fighting Collectors, then running from Cerberus. Then the war happened.

She hadn’t thought about it until just now but, in the grand scheme of things, it must have been getting close to two years since she’d let another person touch her, if it wasn’t already more than that. Maybe that was part of her problem. Maybe she really did need this more than she knew, on a deep, primal level.

That and, although it hadn’t occurred to her until about fifteen minutes into Shiala making eyes at her across the bar, there was a small part of Miranda that enjoyed that feeling of being...wanted by another person again. And that had far less to do with her scars (because, despite everything, Miranda still wasn’t particularly self-conscious about her appearance) and more to do with the fact that this was the first time since the accident that someone else was looking at her and treating her like a fully-rounded sexual being, instead of a punchline. That was nice.

It was true that Shiala had never struck Miranda's fancy outside of her utility as a contact, but there was nothing...objectionable about her. The more she studied her features as she spoke, the more she thought she was objectively quite attractive. Weird and awkward, sure. But not physically. Besides, if she was hung up over Samara, then as Jack had suggested, the best thing Miranda could do to get it out of her system was seek to satisfy these urges with another asari. And Shiala certainly fit that description, even if she was a different skin tone.

What did it matter? Sex was sex. There never had to be any deeper feelings involved. It was an efficient solution to a problem. That was how Miranda had always viewed it. And at least this time she wasn't dealing with some clueless guy off the Extranet. Alien or not, the average woman had to have a better idea of how to pleasure the female body than the average man did, right? That was just common sense. Either way, it would be an intriguing experiment.

After about half an hour had passed, there was a lull in the conversation. Shiala internally winced, realising she had been talking too much without Miranda saying anything in response. “I’m so sorry. Am I boring you?” Shiala asked, dreading that she was making a terrible impression on this impromptu date. 

“No, not at all,” Miranda lied. Truth be told, she had only absorbed roughly a quarter of what Shiala said, spending the interim lost in her own thoughts, mostly just making her mind up about whether or not she was actually going to go through with this idea, and then once she’d made that decision that she was, waiting for the right moment to make her move.

Shiala didn’t seem to believe her. “You’re being kind, aren’t you?”

“Nobody has ever accused me of that,” Miranda dryly remarked, which made Shiala laugh. She didn’t realise just how true that was. Sensing her opportunity, Miranda took it. She reached across the gap and traced her fingers across Shiala’s hand, still cradling her empty glass. “Do you want to get out of here?” she asked, the glimmer in her eye leaving little room for misinterpretation.

Shiala swallowed, doing a poor job of concealing her shyness as her cheeks turned about three shades brighter. “I...Yes. Yes, I would enjoy that,” she answered, her voice suddenly raspy.

Miranda smirked. “Okay. Just one moment. I need to make a quick call home. I’ll meet you outside.” Shiala nodded her understanding. Once Shiala left, Miranda used her omni-tool to dial through to her apartment. She put her hand over her earpiece, blocking out the sounds of the bar to hear herself better.

“Jacob Taylor speaking,” Jacob picked up.

“Hi, Jacob, it’s me,” said Miranda, not needing to announce herself beyond that. The accent gave it away. Just as she’d assumed earlier, she wasn’t shocked to learn that Jacob had come over to her place for dinner that night. “Listen, something has come up at work and I won’t be making it home until late.”

“Uh huh.” For some reason, Jacob sounded strangely sceptical. “Let me guess, you want me to stay over until you get back?”

“No, you don’t have to do that,” Miranda dismissed the thought. Jason and Rodriguez were both eighteen, and all of the others were between fifteen and seventeen. If the kids weren’t old enough to be left to their own devices, these living arrangements wouldn’t have worked. “I just wanted to let you know not to wait around for me. You all enjoy your dinner, if you haven’t already.”

“Have a nice night, Miranda,” Jacob finished in a sing-songy sort of tone.

Miranda hung up without saying goodbye, already focused on other things. With that, she made her way out into the cold, November night. She found Shiala leaning against the railing by the banks of the River Thames. Miranda joined her there, the lights of this slowly recovering area of the city reflected on the water.

“Three months ago, I never would have imagined this place could look so much better already,” Shiala remarked, shivering gently in the cold. It truly had come astonishingly far from the absolute wasteland it had been back then. Parts of it were even decently habitable now. “It seems so strange to say it, but this is the first time I’ve appreciated how pretty the river actually is.”

“I take it you don’t come here often then?” Miranda asked.

Shiala shook her head. “My people are over at the North end of the park, so no.” 

“I come here a lot when I can’t stand all the noise. Right there, in fact.” Miranda pointed out a set of steps further along the river, down to where she could touch the water, not that she ever did. Wasn’t clean enough for that. Even all these weeks later, focusing on the sound of flowing water was one of the few things she’d found that could drown out the ringing, even if only for a little while. It was practically heaven when it worked. “It’s peaceful at night.”

“Hmm. I can see how that would be so.” They stood in the quiet for a minute or two, listening to the ambience of the river below. “Can I ask you something?” Shiala broke the silence. Miranda glanced over, and noticed she was once again fidgeting with her hands. “Are you as nervous about this as I am?”

Miranda paused to consider her response. The truthful answer to that question would have been no. She wasn’t nervous. She didn’t get nervous (except apparently now she did, although only around Samara). And acknowledging any kind of vulnerability also went against every fibre of Miranda’s being. But, if Shiala wasn’t feeling particularly confident in that moment, and was searching for some kind of reassurance that she wasn’t alone with those anxieties, then she saw no harm in giving her what she was asking for.

“I’m going to let you in on a little secret. I’ve never actually been with a woman before. Or anyone outside my own species,” Miranda admitted to her, electing to be honest about that, even if the effect was a false a comfort. 

Shiala exhaled. Evidently that had been the right thing to say. “Then I’m relieved. Because I have also never melded with anyone outside my own species,” she confessed, as if that was an embarrassing thing to speak aloud. “In fact, I have been with remarkably few people for someone my age--”

Miranda cut her words short, leaning across the small gap between them and capturing her in a kiss. Just a gentle one. Shiala’s breath caught at the contact. But before Shiala could react, Miranda pulled away, tantalising her with just a taste. Keeping her wanting more. 

“I assume you have private quarters on your ship,” Miranda whispered in her ear.

Shiala nodded, her cheeks flushed as she gently bit her lower lip. “This way.”

Once they were aboard the Zhu’s Hope ship, any pretext of subtlety went out the window. Shiala pulled Miranda hard against her as soon as they reached the door to her room, threading both arms around her neck and drawing their lips together. Miranda immediately dropped her cane and leaned against the door for balance, nearly losing her footing, but didn’t resist. 

The scientist in her that was treating this more as an experiment than as pure sexual release couldn't help but analyse how it felt to kiss an asari. The texture of her skin was different from a human, though not to an extreme. Asari were smoother, almost like latex. There was no roughness. Shiala's skin didn't crease or wrinkle under contact as much as a human’s would. She was lean and toned from decades if not centuries of combat training, but there was nothing hard about her musculature. Her body was at once tight and taut yet soft and supple.

Miranda wondered whether Samara would feel the same, or whether her maturity as a matriarch would distinguish her flesh from that of a younger asari. 

Samara was so strong, yet so gentle. Her embrace would be warm. Protective.

“Computer, open the door,” Shiala instructed. The ship's systems obeyed. Miranda let Shiala hook her fingers in the collar of her jacket and lure her inside, taking care not to put any weight on her bad leg. “Computer, lock the door,” Shiala commanded, having no desire to be interrupted by her crew.

Miranda was glad she was eager to cut straight to what they were both after. She just hoped Shiala wasn’t a talker. That was not what she was there for.

Shiala certainly didn’t protest when Miranda captured her lips once more, surrendering to her kiss, pressing her body tight against hers.

Samara was taller. She would have towered over Miranda if they kissed.

Shiala slid Miranda's jacket off her shoulders before unfastening the buttons of her own coat. Miranda let her hand fall around the back of Shiala's waist once the coat came off. Shiala inhaled sharply, torn between trying to strip off her clothes and blindly stumbling back towards the bed without breaking the kiss.

It turned out those were a few too many things to juggle at once.

“Ow, ow, careful…” Miranda had to pull away, keeping her bad leg off the ground. Falling flat on her face would really kill the mood.

“Oh, sorry!” Shiala apologised.

“No. It’s fine.” Miranda shook her head. They could wait to disrobe once they actually made it to the bed.

What she wouldn’t give to peel Samara out of that armour, piece by piece.

Shiala’s knees hit the edge of the bed and she fell back onto the mattress. Miranda landed on top of her, trying not to wince when a phantom pain went through her left arm at the instinct to extend a forearm that wasn’t there to catch herself. This all would have been so much easier before her injuries. Nevertheless...

She straightened up on her good knee and reached around behind her back, undoing the clasp of her bra. It was the first time in a long time that Miranda had seen that look of temptation in another person's eyes directed towards her. 

Miranda tried to picture Samara staring up at her with the same desire, but she couldn't quite imagine it. Samara was more reserved than that when it came to her feelings. Besides, by her own admission, Samara had lain with many lovers throughout her youth, possibly even hundreds. That was clearly a lot more than Shiala had. What would Miranda be to Samara but just a short-lived firefly, capturing some shred of her intrigue for but a moment?

No. She didn't want to think about that. This was supposed to be a distraction.

“I want to touch you,” Miranda whispered as she leaned down to purr into Shiala's ear, craving the panacea of release, closing her eye and trying to find any similarity at all between her scent and Samara's. She’d spent enough time in her proximity that she could imagine it. “I want to feel your skin against mine.”

“Right. Okay.” Miranda nearly lost her balance when Shiala sat up to remove her top, their heads bumping when Miranda instinctively over-corrected due to no longer having a spare hand to catch herself with. “Ow. Sorry. Again.”

“...That one was on me,” Miranda muttered, masking her irritation at herself. And it was true; that head clash had been as much if not more her fault than Shiala’s.

What was she doing? She wasn't normally like this. Sure, it had been a while, but she had gotten in the habit of being totally in control of everything that happened in the bedroom whenever she slept with someone. But, then again, this was the first time she'd tried to have sex with anyone following her injuries. In a sense, it was almost like learning to pilot a whole different body. That and this was her first time being with someone like Shiala. A woman. An alien.

Shiala shook off that accidental headbutt, unfazed. She fumbled with both their respective shirts until she’d managed to strip them both off (careful not to aggravate Miranda’s injured arm in the process). 

Bare breasts brushed. Samara’s were bigger. Miranda arched her back and moaned, pushing for more bodily contact. Yes, this was what she wanted. Skin on skin. To submerge herself in the sensory experience of being with a woman.

And maybe, just maybe, if she tried hard enough, there was a chance that she could trick herself into thinking that it was Samara beneath her thighs, not Shiala.

Sure, there were a lot of things about Samara that were different. Her height. The timbre of voice. The size of her breasts. The colour of her skin. Her entire personality. Their connection. Okay, absolutely fucking everything about her. But Miranda could fill in those gaps in her mind. Besides, this was the closest Miranda would ever get to being with her, anyway. If anything was going to fill the void, this substitute had to be it. She would have to make do with fantasy.

Miranda let her fingers fan out and caress Shiala's stomach. Strong. Slender. Smooth. Shiala was exceptionally fit, and that was quite intoxicating, irrespective of whose body it was. She let her hand wander as Shiala lay back down onto the bed, bringing Miranda with her, their lips never parting.

She kissed her way down to Shiala's chest, acting out the same attention she would lavish on Samara's perfect breasts if she were beneath her instead. Tits were one thing asari and humans most definitely had in common. Shiala reached up with her hands in kind to cup Miranda's chest, stroking her thumbs across her nipples. A shiver cascaded down her spine. It felt good. But it wasn't enough.

None of this was enough.

As engrossed as Miranda was in exploring Shiala's physique, she hadn't come there to be content with second base. Miranda elected to speed things along, daring to slip her hand lower, beneath Shiala’s pants.

She cupped Shiala’s sex, rubbing her palm against it. What she felt didn't differ markedly from human female anatomy. Except...

Wait a second, there wasn't a clit.

“What are you doing?” Shiala asked, peering at her curiously.

“I, uh...” Miranda didn't know how to respond. Asari looked so human, in many respects. So much so that they could wear the same clothes. But they weren't human. It shouldn't have come as a shock that there were differences.

“Let me show you.” Shiala took the lead, assuming she had a better idea of what to do in this situation, much to Miranda's chagrin. This was not how she preferred to operate in the bedroom. She liked to take charge. But, she supposed she did lack experience when it came to being with asari. That and it was harder to physically assert dominance when she only had one arm.

“Fine,” Miranda reluctantly acquiesced.

“Here.” Shiala guided Miranda onto her side, and brought her hand around to the small of her back, down towards her bottom. At that, Shiala’s eyes fluttered shut and her breath caught in a moan. “Ugh. Y-Yes. That's...That's the spot.”

Miranda's eye quirked. Interesting. She made note of that for future reference.

Shiala gently prodded Miranda to lie on her back with a nudge to her shoulder. Miranda didn’t resist. She watched as Shiala slithered down the lower half of her body, removing the last of both their clothing, leaving no barriers between them. 

“Do you know how to use your tongue down there?” Miranda asked. Shiala glanced up, faintly confused. “Pro-tip for the future, human women really like it.”

“...Okay,” said Shiala, taking Miranda’s word on how she liked to be pleasured.

Miranda draped her arm across her forehead as she felt Shiala explore her anatomy, trying to figure out what she liked. Miranda told her. Shiala wasn't the first person she'd had to guide through sex. Most guys were clueless, she'd found. It was why Miranda had learned early on that taking charge in the bedroom was the only way to live. She knew how to get herself off. Why mince words? She was an eager and receptive partner, though, Miranda would give her that much.

Miranda gripped the back of Shiala’s head when her tongue circled her clit, keeping her there. She imagined Samara in her place, fantasising about looking down in that moment and seeing a familiar blue crest between her thighs, dreaming of those piercing eyes holding her gaze while her lips brushed her clit, and while her tongue licked her entrance, before slipping inside her slit.

God, how had it taken her this long to realise Samara was so fucking hot?

“Get up here,” Miranda commanded, curling her fingers beneath Shiala's chin and gently dragging her up her body, until they were face to face. “I want you to fuck me,” Miranda murmured, her voice husky with arousal, so wet from the thoughts going through her head. “You know how to do that, right?”

“Does that mean you're ready to meld?” Shiala asked, seeking consent, visibly quite worked up and panting heavily, like she was on edge and desperate to get off. Hey, so long as that worked for both of them, Miranda had no objections.

“Does that involve fucking?” she growled, sinking her teeth into Shiala's neck, eliciting a shiver. Miranda had to admit, she wasn't one hundred percent sure what melding entailed. When it came to asari and how they mated, it was difficult to distinguish the facts from the myths.

“It-It-It can,” Shiala stammered, trying to keep her head on straight. “Melding involves a gentle linking of nervous systems. Essentially, everything you feel, I feel to an extent, and vice versa—“

“Then shut up, do it, and fuck me,” Miranda quietly urged, silencing Shiala with a kiss before she could waste time saying anything else.

There was no mistaking the moment the meld began. All her nerves stood on end, as if struck by a static charge. It was as though some form of magnetism was drawing the electrical impulses out of her body and pulling them towards Shiala, as if their bodies yearned to combine into one. Her senses sharpened, like she was seeing through an extra set of eyes, hearing through an extra set of ears, feeling her own skin through another person's touch.

Miranda looked up and saw Shiala's eyes had intensified, almost turning pure black with want. Miranda didn't hesitate, seizing one of Shiala's hands and guiding it down between her legs, desperate to sate her hunger.

When she felt those fingers slip between her folds, Miranda hooked her arm around Shiala's shoulders, pulling her close and grinding into her touch. Shiala wasn't the most deft lover, essentially learning the human body as she went along, but it almost didn't matter, because Miranda wasn't picturing her.

In her mind, she imagined Samara hovering there above her. It was Samara’s fingers moving inside her. Samara’s voice in Miranda's ear, breathless with want. Samara’s skin slick with Miranda's sweat. Samara’s lips against hers. 

That fantasy sparked a fire within her. She thought about letting Samara take her in the Starboard Observation Deck a year ago, or dragging her back to her own bed and being the one to pin her down and make love to her in her sheets. She imagined fucking her in the cargo bay after a training session, sliding her hips between her thighs, alight with the thrill of the risk of getting caught. She focused on the sparks that flew between them the last time they touched on the balcony, and remembered Samara's careful caress against her scarred cheek.

She let her fingers fall upon Shiala's head crest, and she could almost fool herself into believing it was Samara's. “Harder,” Miranda urged, willing herself to get lost in the jolts of electricity trickling through her veins. Shiala hadn't been kidding about how melding worked. It was like a subtle feedback loop. Every time she touched Shiala, Miranda could feel ghosts of her own fingers in the same places on her own body. She could see how this could become addictive.

Shiala complied with her wishes and drove her fingers harder, deeper. Her thumb brushed Miranda's clit and both of them sharply inhaled at once. Shiala didn't hesitate to touch it again once she knew how good it felt.

Miranda reached down to that spot on Shiala's lower back, and experienced the sensations of her azure for herself, to a muted degree. She flipped their positions, rolling Shiala over onto her back to straddle her waist, biting her jawline as she rode her, meeting every motion and thrust of her hand underneath her.

“Miranda--”

“Shh.” Miranda placed a finger to Shiala’s lips. She didn’t want to hear her voice. Hearing her talk made it harder to imagine Samara. “No talking. Just fucking.”

Shiala took the hint, forgetting whatever she intended to say. With that, Miranda straightened her back, letting her fingertips trace the curve of Shiala’s breast, grinding her hips into her hand. She thought about riding Samara like this.

Did Samara prefer to fuck women, or be fucked by women? Or was she equally open to both? Miranda would have loved to know. It was hard to tell.

If they were fucking, would Samara make her come?

Or would she make Samara come?

Miranda panted and gasped, trying to inch closer and closer towards her climax. But it wasn't working. It wasn’t working, because no matter how hard she tried, it wasn’t enough. Her imagination wasn’t vivid enough to trick her into believing it was Samara she was fucking instead. Because it wasn’t Samara. It was Shiala. And. Miranda. Just. Wasn’t. That. Into. Her.

“Come on...” Miranda grumbled to herself, her fingernails digging into the bed as she rocked her hips, willing herself to forget that this wasn't really Samara. Or to let this be enough for tonight, at the very least. “For fuck's sake.”

“I-I'm sorry?” Shiala looked up at her in concern.

“Not you.” Miranda closed her eye, concentrating on that frustrating, unrealised pleasure building between her thighs that showed no signs of release. 

Fed up with waiting for an orgasm that just wasn’t coming on its own, Miranda reached down between her thighs, rubbing her clit while Shiala's fingers moved inside her. That was better. It wasn’t the first time she’d had to get herself off with a less-than-ideal partner. And it was evident from the flushed look on Shiala’s face that she could feel to some degree what Miranda was doing to herself.

“Just like that,” Miranda instructed. Shiala took that as a cue to speed up.

Miranda resisted the urge to groan in annoyance. Why was it that, whenever she said ‘just like that’, the people she was sleeping with so often took that as a cue to change what they were doing instead of continuing to do the exact same thing she’d just explicitly told them to not fucking change?

When Shiala bucked her hips to try and meet Miranda's motions, Miranda nearly lost her balance, without a free arm to catch herself. Fortunately Shiala steadied her to stop her from falling, sitting up and wrapping an arm around her waist to prevent that from happening again. “Sorry.”

“Stop apologising,” Miranda commanded, having lost count of how many times Shiala had done that. Samara wouldn't. She wouldn't have any reason to. Miranda focused on manufacturing the illusion of Samara's presence inside her mind, replaying conversations they’d had, remembering the way it felt to be near her. Her teeth grazed her lower lip, softly biting down as she touched herself, resting her head against Shiala's shoulder. “I want you to tell me something.”

“...What?” asked Shiala, with an audible hint of doubt.

“If I were fucking you right now, would it feel good?” Miranda breathed against her skin, hot and heavy, picturing how it would feel to be inside Samara – to be the one to bring her undone. “Do asari...feel pleasure down there?”

“Only when we're melding,” Shiala answered, trying to time the ministrations of her fingers with Miranda's. “When we meld like this, we become...sensitive to touch. Everywhere. How sensitive depends on the partner, and on the meld.”

That was encouraging, Miranda thought. “So I could make you come?” she said, craving it. Shiala hesitated. Miranda didn't need to see her expression to guess why. “I don't know what your word for it is. Do asari have orgasms?”

The scientific term seemed to translate just fine. “Oh. Uh. Y-Yes. We—”

“You're going to,” Miranda stated, shifting her fingers away from her clit, finding Shiala's slit and slipping them inside. Shiala inhaled sharply, and Miranda felt the spark mirrored on her own body, making her swallow a moan.

If she couldn't get herself off, maybe getting Shiala off was the answer.

She had to admit, for as messy as this whole encounter was, this part was the closest it had felt so far to being right. She liked how it felt. To be inside another woman. To be able to feel what she was doing to her - what effect she was having on her. To know that she could make her unravel with pure pleasure. To have total control over bringing someone else to that point of ecstasy. 

Miranda adjusted her rhythm, until she could feel through her own senses that it was just right. The two of them began to rock in time, chasing the same high.

Shiala cradled Miranda to her neck as she lay back against the sheets, cupping Miranda's sex, rubbing harder and faster. Miranda ignored the pain in her amputated arm and her injured knee, finding just enough support to put the right amount of weight behind every thrust of her wrist.

Shiala's voice cracked as she tangled her fingers in Miranda's hair. It was working. Miranda's arousal climbed in sync with Shiala's, building past that plateau.

Before long, Shiala hit her peak, and Miranda went with her.

Miranda didn't know which one of them had actually climaxed first, and she didn't care. She swallowed a moan when her release came at long last and the waves of relief coursed through her system, stifling the sound against Shiala’s skin. Fucking finally, Miranda thought, letting her head fall against Shiala’s shoulder.

Shiala's breath hitched when she came, tensing, then trembling beneath her as Miranda continued to move, deliberately drawing out her pleasure, intent on riding out her own orgasm until she hit another peak, and then another and another, until she had nothing left to give. That was the only way she might actually come close to quenching her thirst for Samara once and for all.

Just as it had started to get good, that feeling of interconnectedness abruptly slipped away. Shiala reached down to still her hand. “Miranda, stop,” she said. 

Miranda blinked in bewilderment, withdrawing her hand and sitting up straight atop Shiala's hips, the aftermath of her orgasm swiftly fading before she could make the most of it. The meld was over.

“What? What are you doing?” Miranda asked, unsure what had happened.

Was that it?!

“Miranda, that was...” Shiala trailed off and uncomfortably glanced aside. Evidently she couldn't pretend it had been all that much better for her. “But I have to ask you...Is there something wrong?” Shiala questioned her, studying her face with concern, as if she sensed that something had been off between the two of them the entire time – that Miranda wasn't really enjoying this.

“Well there is now,” Miranda remarked in irritation, wishing Shiala had just ignored her misgivings and kept going. Miranda had barely even scratched the surface of working out her frustrated feelings for Samara. Perhaps Shiala's previous lovers had only been capable of going one round.

But, anyway, the mood had been ruined. Miranda wasn't sure she could get back to where she'd just been.

“No, you know what? Forget it,” Miranda said through a sigh, gingerly rolling off Shiala, trying not to aggravate any pain in her injured limbs in the process. 

Honestly, that had been...underwhelming. She'd succeeded in getting off, at least, but that hadn't solved the problem. If anything, it had only served to make her even more sexually frustrated than she had been before. But rather than having any desire to have a second attempt at purging her sexual cravings, all Miranda could really think about was how much she needed to empty her bladder, and how much she was hankering for something to eat. Those were hardly sexy thoughts.

“I should go. I have ten teenagers to take care of,” Miranda muttered, sitting on the edge of the bed and collecting her clothing, concealing a wince as gravity exerted an unwelcome strain on her left knee as she pulled on her underwear.

“Oh. Okay. I, uh...I will see you another time, then,” Shiala awkwardly assumed.

Miranda didn’t acknowledge the statement much less respond to it, continuing to get dressed in silence, having absolutely no intention of talking to her again.

Shiala didn’t yet fathom in that moment just how little Miranda would have noticed or cared if she were to just suddenly disappear off the face of Earth entirely.

But she would soon know.

*     *     *

Miranda typed quickly, downloading all her essential files from the Normandy’s computers in haste, including her notes on Cerberus. While the data transferred onto her portable drives, she rummaged through her belongings, taking only what she needed. Suffice it to say, she would be travelling light.

It was easier not to think about the fact that three hundred thousand people had been wiped out of existence only a few days ago, at the Alpha Relay. Nobody on the ship had even spoken a word for hours after it happened. 

It was nobody’s fault. Not theirs. Shepard had done everything she could, but...

Even so, it was kind of hard not to feel like they’d failed.

She didn’t hear the door open, but didn’t need to. Miranda only briefly glanced up to acknowledge the familiar presence in the doorway. “Hello, Samara,” she said, unfortunately not exactly overflowing with time to stop and have a chat.

“Miranda.” Samara nodded in greeting, her expression unchanging as she took in the state of her room, and the speed with which Miranda was currently packing a bag. It didn’t take more than a moment to put two and two together. “I came to inform you of my departure. I did not expect yours would be sooner than mine.”

“Yeah, well, Shepard is being blamed for blowing up a solar system. I don't know when, but...eventually The Normandy is going to surrender to The Alliance. I know she intends to answer the charges. She’s told me. So I have to go. If we're heading to Earth, I can't...I can't be here,” Miranda swiftly explained.

It wasn’t like she was the first to leave. Kasumi had already bailed almost immediately after it happened, the first among them to disappear without a word. Then Zaeed followed. And that had more or less set off a chain reaction. 

The writing was on the wall. Everybody was going in their own separate directions. And Miranda had more cause than most to abandon ship.

It was difficult to read Samara’s expression. Even at the best of times, she didn't betray much. However, she almost looked somewhat disappointed with her choice to flee. “The Code no longer requires my presence among your crew. But you are intimately tied to this vessel—“ 

“Because I was with Cerberus,” Miranda cut her off. That was the whole issue. “I've turned my back on The Illusive Man, but to The Alliance, I'm a wanted terrorist – one of the highest ranking members of Cerberus ever to have defected. The instant we land on Earth, they're going to take me into custody and try to get information. But The Illusive Man has moles and operatives everywhere, even within The Alliance military. I guarantee you, if they place me under arrest, which they will, I would be found dead in my cell within hours.”

That explanation clarified things.

“I understand,” said Samara, a simple nod of her head confirming she implicitly supported Miranda’s decision to leave in light of those comments. Above all else, Miranda’s safety was paramount. “Is Shepard in danger?”

“No.” Miranda returned her attention to her computer once it signalled her download had finished, retrieving her critical files on Cerberus. “Shepard's too high profile, too critical to...whatever The Illusive Man's true goals really are, and she doesn't know nearly enough about Cerberus to be a threat. I'm one of the only people in the galaxy who could potentially help The Alliance track down The Illusive Man's base, because I've been there before. I'm a priority target.”

“A thought occurs to me; you could disembark with me when we travel through asari space,” Samara offered, seeing a potential solution. Judging from the serious look that crossed her features, it was not an idle proposition. “We would have to part ways not long afterwards, but it would give you more time to prepare. And it would be safer for you than travelling alone, and easier to hide. Certainly, Cerberus would have few if any allies among my kind.”

At that suggestion, Miranda felt a cold shadow wash over her. “I wish I could take you up on that. I do. But, if Cerberus had any reason to suspect that you were the last person to know my whereabouts, then they would go after you,” Miranda confessed, meeting Samara’s gaze. “I don't doubt that you could evade them, but then you'd be in the same situation as me, and that would be my fault. I won't visit my problems upon you more than I already have.”

“...That is an admirable trait,” Samara acknowledged, needing no further justification for Miranda's decision. Miranda didn’t need to guess that Samara would have said the exact same words to her, if their positions were reversed. “I respect your choice, even if it pains me to think you must face this alone.”

A sad smile tugged at the corner of Miranda’s lips. “If it weren’t for all that, I would have gone with you in a heartbeat, though,” she admitted to her, not afraid to say that. She would have loved to travel with Samara, even if only for a little while longer, if doing so wouldn’t have put her at an unacceptable risk of harm.

“Your path is set out before you. You know what you must do. I will say nothing that would deter you from it,” said Samara, her tone stoic and sombre, perhaps regretting that she had even put the thought in her mind. She was a woman of duty. She understood personal sacrifice better than anyone. They each had a calling they had to follow. Samara as a Justicar. Miranda fighting Cerberus.

Miranda felt a twinge in her heart as she saw Samara then, realising it could be the last time they ever saw each other. She hoped it wouldn’t be, but...

There were no promises.

She hadn’t thought this would be so hard to do. But then, this was only the second time she’d had to walk away from someone who mattered to her like this. The only thing that made it bearable was knowing it was the right thing to do.

“...I’m going to miss you more than anyone else,” Miranda confessed. She wasn’t a sentimental person by any means. But something told her she would have regretted it if she left without telling Samara that. Letting her know how much she meant to her, to the extent that a person as emotionally stunted as her could express such things. “I think you know that by now.”

Samara swallowed heavily at that, averting her gaze. Miranda didn’t see it, but Samara’s hand clenched into a fist behind her back. It was shaking. “And I you.”

Miranda felt like there was still so much more to say, and yet she didn’t have the lexicon to find the words to say it. Maybe that was just her subconscious trying to trick her into not leaving - making her feel like this moment couldn’t end.

But all things had to end eventually, even this.

It was time to go.

With that in mind, Miranda shouldered her bag, releasing a heavy breath as she looked at Samara one last time. It wasn’t lost on her that Samara still hadn’t lifted her head to meet her gaze. Maybe she couldn’t. If that was the case then, Miranda hadn’t foreseen that. Samara was taking this harder than she expected.

Then again, for kind-hearted souls like Samara, maybe farewells like this never got any easier, no matter how many centuries she had lived through them.

She had to say it now, didn’t she?

Okay.

“...Goodbye, Samara,” Miranda said softly. She walked to the door.

“Miranda...” Samara stopped her with a brief and very gentle touch on her shoulder before she could pass her by. Miranda halted mid-step, waited, and watched the unreadable thoughts play across her face. Several long seconds passed before Samara finally settled on what she wanted to say. “Be safe.”

Miranda managed something that resembled a smile. “I'd say the same to you, but I'm supremely confident that you won't need it,” Miranda commented, and that wasn't a joke, but a matter-of-fact assessment. 

It honestly meant more to hear Samara say those simple words to her than she would have expected, but then again that was a reflection of how close they'd grown on this journey together. A closeness Miranda had never been searching for, and never would have predicted, but now couldn’t imagine her life without.

While these unfortunate circumstances had come about so suddenly to rob them of the chance to truly make the most of their friendship, it wasn't an exaggeration to say that they had developed a rapport that they didn't share with anyone else. A bond that almost defied space and time, given that the vastness of the years between them always vanished into nothing whenever they spoke, and made it feel as though they’d known each other for decades, even as they were always learning new things about each other.

It was just a shame this was where they parted ways.

Samara’s eyes shone in the starlight. “May we meet again.”

With that one final nod of regard, Samara let her hand fall from her shoulder, and stepped aside, allowing her to leave. There was no hug. Because they weren't the type of people who did that. That similarity underscored the unspoken connection between them. Even though they'd lived vastly different lives, there was an understanding – things that never needed to be said.

Miranda was going to miss having someone like that. Looking out over the endless expanse of space all by herself wouldn't be the same without the comfortable silence she shared with Samara.

Without further delay, Miranda took those fateful steps out the door and headed up to the CIC to make her way off the ship. The elevator opened with a hiss.

“Ah!” Kelly Chambers jumped at the noise, a look of panic coming over her.

Miranda raised her hands. “It’s just me.”

Kelly sighed, massaging her temples, only looking mildly comforted by the fact that at least that time there was nobody else around to see her lose her cool. “Yes. Yes, I know. I’m sorry.”

Honestly, she didn’t even like Kelly Chambers, but Miranda was starting to feel sorry for the poor woman. It had been over two weeks since the Collector attack, and she still jumped like that every single time the elevator doors opened. Just what had those creatures done to her?

When she looked up, Kelly noticed Miranda’s bag slung over her shoulder. “Oh. You’re leaving?”

Miranda nodded. “You’re all safer if I’m not here. And I’m definitely safer if I’m not in an Alliance prison.”

“Okay. Good luck out there. Stay safe,” said Kelly. Miranda started off towards the airlock. After she’d passed her by a few paces, a thought struck Kelly. “Oh, before you go, I have to know. Did you ever tell Samara how you feel about her?”

“I’m sorry?” Miranda turned back. She hadn’t been listening, too busy thinking about what her first moves would be once she alighted as part of phase one of her plan to evade Cerberus before they could catch up to her and kill her.

“Did you tell Samara?” Kelly repeated.

Having not heard the question properly the first time, Miranda interpreted that ambiguous query to mean ‘did you tell Samara you’re leaving’, to which the answer was obvious.

“Yes, of course I did,” Miranda replied.

A sincere smile came to Kelly’s face, almost as if that was the first news she had to be happy about since she’d been abducted. “Oh. Good. I’m glad.”

Miranda arched an eyebrow in mild confusion, but didn’t care enough about Kelly Chambers to probe that any further, taking her leave from The Normandy.

She didn’t know then that it would be the last time she would ever set foot on it.

*     *     *

It was around midnight when Miranda got home. Hopefully, it was late enough that all the kids would be asleep. Although she had made the excuse about work, she did not particularly wish for any of them to ignore that and come up with their own speculation when they saw her come home at that hour. As if they didn’t already have enough baseless theories about her personal life. 

She opened the door as quietly as she could, not keen to wake anyone up with the sound of her key in the lock. However, Miranda’s stealthy return home was abruptly cut short by the lights suddenly flicking on the moment she entered.

“Something came up at work, huh?” Jacob remarked, standing in the kitchen.

Miranda's eye widened, appropriately startled. “Jacob? What are you still doing here?”

“I thought I'd fix you something,” he said, gesturing to a bowl he'd placed on the table, while he was halfway through his own identical snack at the counter. “You always worked up an appetite after sex.”

Miranda frowned at him, highly disgruntled. But, damn it, he was right; she was hungry. “...You're an arsehole, Jacob,” Miranda muttered, moving into the flat and taking a seat at the table. He'd made her a curry and rice. Probably leftovers from dinner. It actually smelled delicious, especially given the state of food in London right now. And she was starving. She couldn't resist starting to eat. “Seriously though, why are you here? I told you not to wait for me.”

“I was going to head home, but then...I don’t know, call it my Dad instincts kicking in a little early, but I suddenly had this sinking feeling of what if something bad happened to the kids when neither of us were here, and then Jack found out the reason you weren’t around was because you’d stayed out late for a booty call?” Jacob hypothesised, fearing the worst.

Miranda just tilted her head, not even wanting to describe the way she was picturing Jack torturing her to death if that ever happened.

“Yeah, exactly,” said Jacob, agreeing completely. “Look, I’m not calling you irresponsible or anything. They are basically adults. Especially Jason and Rodriguez who are adults by every legal definition. But still. Maybe I would have felt a bit better if I knew you’d left some kind of emergency contact plan in place in case something happened while you were out.”

“When you put it like that, I appreciate you staying,” Miranda acknowledged. That being said, it was a bit overzealous. She had been living on her own and looking after herself since she was younger than some of these teens.

On second thought, maybe that didn’t make her the best judge of their maturity.

“For the record, I'm not mad at you, but I'm only here to look after your place and your kids when you're actually too busy to get home. That does not extend to babysitting for you every time you want to go home with a guy. Not unless you start paying me for it, anyway.”

“I know. I'm sorry,” Miranda apologised, aware that she shouldn’t have bullshitted him with that fake excuse about work. Even though it hadn’t been her intention to foist the kids onto him, she’d still left him in the position of having to make that decision at the last minute, without any forewarning, and no backup in place. “It was a very...spur of the moment thing. It won't happen again.”

“Until you have another spur of the moment,” Jacob surmised.

“No, I don't plan to,” said Miranda, poking at her midnight snack.

“Of course you don't. You don't plan spur of the moment things. That's what it means,” Jacob pointed out.

“Yes, but I'm normally very good at regulating my own behaviour,” Miranda stated.

“And that part of you was...where, exactly?” Jacob teased, obviously enjoying having one up on her for a change. “Oh, wait, don't tell me – this random guy you met at a bar was so special that you just had to fuck him before he vanished into thin air,” he joked, emphasising the absurdity.

Miranda snorted. “How do you know it was a bar?”

“You called me. I heard it.” Jacob shrugged.

“Mmm.” Miranda pursed her lips unhappily. In retrospect, she should have predicted this would happen. “Okay, fine, Jacob. You're right. I'm just making excuses. I didn't have to do this tonight. I should have...arranged to see her some other time, but, frankly, I didn't want to. I embraced my selfish side. I made a conscious decision to be irresponsible, so go ahead and blame me for that.”

Jacob just squinted at her, no longer listening. “Her?” he echoed.

Miranda froze.

Fuck.

“I didn't say 'her',” she dismissed the idea, trying her hardest not to look at him.

“Yeah, you did,” he responded, absolutely certain of what he'd heard. “You distinctly said that you should have arranged to see 'her' some other time.”

Fuck.

“...Did you go home with a woman?” he asked the now obvious question, leaning back against the kitchen counter, clearly very entertained by all this.

“Even if I had done, that’s not really any of your business, is it?” Miranda said plainly, continuing to eat her meal.

“No, it isn't, but you did, didn't you?” he deduced, her response only confirming his suspicions. “Miranda, we are friends, and friends do talk about these things.”

“Oh, please.” Miranda shook her head at that ridiculous assertion. “You never asked for any details when I was with men. I'm not going to indulge you because you find the idea of two women together appealing.”

“Meh. Actually, I'm not into that. Feels kind of gross to take girls being with girls and make it into some kind of...male fantasy.” Miranda knew Jacob was lying. She'd read his Shadow Broker file – she knew what porn he watched. “And the reason I didn't ask about it when you'd been with a guy is because it's not incredibly uplifting to hear details about your ex having sex with someone else, regardless of gender. But this isn't about that. I don't want a play-by-play,” Jacob assured her. “You just never told me you were bi.”

“I don't know that I am,” Miranda conceded. She didn't know what she was. Hell, the more she thought about it the more she was questioning whether she had ever truly been sexually attracted to anybody at all, save for two people, one of whom was in the room with her, and the other being Samara.

“If you're into women and men, then 'bi' sounds like a pretty solid start.”

Miranda sighed and rubbed her temple, wishing she could make like Kasumi and turn invisible to escape this conversation. But it wasn't like she had anyone else to confide in about this. On reflection, that was probably why she wasn't shutting up despite her brain urging her to stop talking and keep eating.

“Frankly, I'm not sure who or what I'm into anymore. Although I guess it’s looking more and more like I’m on some kind of spectrum,” Miranda acknowledged aloud.

“Well I’ve known that about you for years,” Jacob quipped.

“Oh ha ha,” Miranda sarcastically laughed, not really in the mood.

Jacob raised his hands defensively. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist. Continue.”

“What I mean to say is that it's...more complicated than just men or women,” Miranda reluctantly admitted, and that was true in more ways than one. Jacob pulled a face, having no clue what that was supposed to hint at. God damn it, Miranda thought. She was going to regret saying this, wasn't she? “For starters, she wasn't a human,” she mumbled.

Jacob's expression fell, losing his prior levity. “...An asari?” he assumed.

Miranda didn't respond.

“Oh my God.” Jacob ran a hand down his face. “Miranda, you’re so stupid.”

His bizarre reaction prompted Miranda to utter a short laugh. “Wow, you really are different from most men. Joker would have been in a coma if I'd told him that.”

“This isn't a joke; this is serious,” Jacob said sternly. “Did you even think about the consequences?”

“She's not an Ardat-Yakshi,” Miranda told him, perplexed by his sudden severity.

“What if she has a kid?” Jacob pointed out. “Congratulations - you’re the father.”

Miranda hesitated. She honestly hadn't entertained that possibility before. But, in retrospect, she didn’t know why it had slipped her mind. She knew full well that asari could have children with anyone, including human women.

Then again, she supposed Jacob hadn't given children much consideration either until Brynn unexpectedly conceived, and that was in a circumstance where it was ingrained to be aware of the potential to fall pregnant.

“That's her choice, if she wants to,” Miranda said nonchalantly, deciding it didn't change anything. After all, it wasn't like she'd never attempted to use anonymous men for the purposes of procreation herself. It would be hypocritical if she took issue with Shiala doing the same in this hypothetical scenario. “It doesn't matter to me if she uses our meld to create a child.”

“Even if it turns out she wants more from you than a randomised genetic sequence?” he asked, folding his arms across his chest disapprovingly. 

“What, you mean like a family?” Miranda scoffed. “Yeah, no. I hardly think that's likely, Jacob. Asari have their own ways of dealing with reproduction in their culture. Most of them raise their children alone. There's no expectation for fathers to be involved.” Just like Miranda had no interest whatsoever in the potential fathers she'd sought in the past. They were donors. Nothing more.

“What? And you'd be okay with that, if that did happen?” Jacob asked, sceptically. “Being...cut out of your hypothetical daughter's life forever? I mean, yeah, sure, you say that now, but seriously think about that. That’s a big deal.”

“I don't really get a say in the matter, do I? It's not my body, so it's not my choice. Plus this is an entirely imaginary fantasy you’ve fabricated in your head. It was just a one-off hook-up,” Miranda reminded him, gesturing her fork at him.

“I know it is, but this is what I’m saying. The fact that you even need to think about this as a scenario that could happen, which you clearly didn’t, this is why you don’t do one night stands with asari,” Jacob elucidated his whole argument. “For real, though, there’s nothing you can do on your end to prevent it. That’s the problem. It’s entirely someone else’s decision. If there were some kind of condom you could wear for melds, I’d tell you to knock yourself out and go for it.”

“I appreciate your support,” Miranda sarcastically retorted, not enjoying getting the third degree over how she chose to spend her night. After a moment, her expression faltered. “Honestly, even if Shiala had considered the idea of wanting a relationship or a child with me, I'm pretty sure she’s lost interest at this point.”

And, even if she hadn’t, Miranda had certainly lost what little interest she had to begin with. She had no plans on sleeping with her again. She’d distracted her for a night, and been a...somewhat unfulfilling experiment. She’d served her purpose.

“Ha. Not surprised that it was her. Shiala’s been crushing on you for a while. Not even subtle about it.” Jacob paused and arched an eyebrow, amused by an unspoken implication to the extent that it distracted him from his prior train of thought. “...Are you saying you had bad sex?” he asked, finding that comical.

“N-No.” Miranda shook her head, wishing she'd kept her mouth shut. Jacob wasn't buying it. “Bad is an overstatement. I think.” She glanced down, focusing on her curry. Jacob just stared. “...Alright, so it was awkward and bloody mediocre. Are you happy?” she admitted, taking another mouthful.

“Those aren't words I would have used to describe you when we were together,” Jacob wryly remarked. Miranda wouldn’t either, in fairness.

“Yeah, well, you're a human and all my limbs worked back then,” Miranda noted. God, it was no wonder sleeping with Shiala hadn't done anything to take her mind off Samara. “Long story short, that's why I came home early.”

“Why were you even randomly hooking up with Shiala anyway?” Jacob wondered aloud with a shrug. “Not that you need a reason, but...I've known you long enough that I think I would have picked up on it by now if you were into her, or into asari in general like that.” He was right. Ever since they broke up, Jacob hadn't been oblivious to her one-night stands with other men, though it wasn't something they'd discussed. He did know enough to be aware who she slept with.

“Maybe I'm not,” Miranda replied. “It would explain why we didn't click terribly well. Although, still, I’ve had worse. A lot worse.”

For starters, she and Shiala hadn't been overburdened with chemistry. Not on her end, anyway. Miranda had only enjoyed herself when she was able to imagine Samara in Shiala's place instead. Although melding had felt nice, and she had been getting that itch scratched before Shiala abruptly put a stop to things. She didn't object to the idea of sleeping with a woman again (human or asari, come to think of it), but she didn’t doubt that the night would have gone better with someone who sparked more of an interest in her. Someone less awkward.

Preferably Samara.

Shame that was impossible.

“So, what? You just out of the blue decided to bang Shiala to, what? To see what it was like?” Jacob asked, not believing that for a second. That wasn't like Miranda. “You'd never do that, unless—“

He trailed off, a realisation dawning upon him.

“Unless what?” Miranda prompted, impatiently. She didn't like not being privy to whatever he was speculating about her. It wasn't a pleasant feeling to be the subject of this inquiry.

“Unless there is an asari you're interested in,” he concluded. Miranda was really beginning to hate him for knowing her so intimately. “Is it Samara?”

Fuck. Why did everybody--?!

Miranda tried to maintain her complexion and her composure, doing her best to avoid immediately giving everything away by her reaction to that statement alone. “I never said—“

“Well, if it's not her, then who the hell else is it?” Jacob pressed, gesturing for her to fill in the blanks, if he was indeed mistaken. But he knew he wasn't. “I can't think of any other living woman – human, asari or any other species – who would make you think twice about them.”

“You're presuming an awful lot about me, Jacob,” Miranda pointed out. Despite how good she was at concealing her response, Jacob wasn't deterred; he knew he was onto something.

“I don't know if you've noticed, but you are really hard to impress, and you're justified in that. You're on a different level than most people, and not because of your genetics. You deserve someone exceptional. I've always known that's why...you and I never worked out.” Jacob briefly averted his gaze at that, but it didn't seem to trouble him too much. That was history now.

“With Shepard gone, Samara's probably the only person in the galaxy I’ve ever met who'd be worth your time,” he continued. “She operates on some whole other kind of cosmic, spiritual plane entirely that I don’t even fully comprehend. And, don’t tell her, but she also intimidates the hell out of me. Always has. So, for real Miranda, if it’s not her...then by all means, enlighten me.”

Miranda's resistance faltered. She sighed and let her head rest against two fingers. “...Just because you're right doesn't mean I want to talk about it.”

“You know, Miranda, I am a straight man,” said Jacob, pulling up a chair opposite her. “If there's one thing I can relate to, it's how it feels to fall for an unattainable woman. And, go figure, you happened to fall for the only woman in the universe I can think of who fits that definition even more than you do.”

“Exactly. She's unattainable,” Miranda reiterated. “You know it. I know it. So what's the use in sitting around mulling over it like a bloody whinger?” Miranda asked, shaking her head. “It's pointless.”

“Do you know that, though?” Jacob pressed. “I mean, have you spoken to her about it?”

Miranda snorted. “I've spoken to her a grand total of three times since I've been on Earth. Once, I was half-dead. The second time, I damn near had a panic attack just from standing within five feet of her. The third time, I snapped at her, told her I needed space and she vanished again, as she does. Besides, she’s off doing Justicar things now. I don't expect I'm ever going to be inundated with opportunities to bring it up. If I did, it would just alienate her.”

“I think you give her too little credit,” Jacob countered.

“No offence, but I know her better than you do,” Miranda shut him down. 

“Wow, Miranda.” Jacob uttered a strange chuckle, crossing his arms together on the table. “If you were a guy, I'd be calling you a massive coward right now.”

Miranda narrowed her gaze, somewhat affronted. “Excuse me?”

“Are you really going to hide how you feel because you can't toughen up and face rejection?” he challenged, seemingly as a form of motivation. “I didn't think you were like that. Pretending to be a friend when you can't even tell her you want more is what we in the Corsairs used to call 'a bitch move'.”

“Charming. Except it's not pretending,” Miranda muttered, resenting having to defend her intentions. “I am her friend. That's not fake. And it has nothing to do with being scared of rejection. It's not going to break my heart if she doesn't feel the same way. I know she doesn't. She’s shown zero indication otherwise.”

“So what have you got to lose?” Jacob prompted.

“The connection we already have?” Miranda supplied, not wishing to tarnish their rapport or scare Samara away. “It's insensitive and disrespectful to dump my feelings on her when she's made it perfectly clear she has no interest in that kind of relationship with anyone, after how it ended last time. She already met the love of her life, and that person died a long time ago. Now she's married to her Code, and it's not my place to tempt her away from it. Even if being with her was an option, I'm not entirely sure I'd want things to change between us either.”

“Wouldn't you?” he asked, doubting that very much. “In all the time I've known you, this is the first time I've seen you give up on anything. You're many things, but you're not a quitter.”

“I'm not giving up, I'm just being realistic,” Miranda insisted, failing to see the point in pretending impossible outcomes warranted consideration. “This is an issue I need to deal with, and I'm simply narrowing down my list of solutions, the same way I would with any other problem. My approach shouldn't be any less logical simply because I'm dealing with something emotional.”

“...I still think you should tell her. Look, I don’t know exactly what’s going on between you, but Samara definitely cares about you a lot. Even I can see that. I mean...” Jacob paused, held a deep breath and released it, as if wondering if it was his place to tell her this. Eventually, he decided to come out with it. “When Samara came back to London, and I told her that you were alive and well, I swear to God, I have never seen that woman come so close to breaking down. She damn near cried on the spot she was so happy you were okay.”

Miranda’s eye shimmered when she heard that. She could believe that. She probably would have reacted the same way if their positions were reversed.

“Thank you for telling me that. But it doesn’t change anything,” Miranda somewhat reluctantly answered, touched though she was by Jacob’s revelation. “I already know Samara cares about me. That’s not the question. That’s not the problem. If anything, it just confirms why I’m afraid of pushing her away.”

“Jeez. Even that won’t convince you to be honest with her? Alright, fine, be that way,” Jacob gave up, gesturing as if to wash his hands of the issue, at least for that day. Evidently it was late and he was annoyed. After a moment, though, something seemed to dawn on him, an intrigued look passing over his features.

“What?” Miranda asked, suspicious.

“It just hit me that you know what it's like to be with an asari now,” he observed.

“Yes.” Miranda's features only soured, sensing where this was going.

“So, like we both sort of hinted at earlier, we're tight enough that it's not going to be weird if I ask you what it's really like,” he continued.

Miranda just stared at him, unamused. “Congratulations on fulfilling the stereotype and being exactly like every other heterosexual male in the galaxy.”

“Come on,” he urged. “It's not a...perverted thing. But there's so much Extranet bullshit out there about asari that even you had to have been curious about how they actually have sex - or meld. This is your chance to set the record straight.”

“And it has absolutely nothing to do with having an anecdote that will score you free drinks for the rest of your life, and even less to do with the fact that you’ve seen all twenty-six instalments of the Asari Confessions series and talk about it online,” Miranda dryly remarked, not stupid enough to be fooled.

Jacob blinked at her.

“I spied on everyone on The Normandy, Jacob,” she reminded him.

He sighed heavily, deciding there was no point in being embarrassed Miranda knew about that. “If it makes you feel better, whenever I make a comment, I promise no one will suspect I got my information from you,” Jacob said.

Miranda huffed. However, Jacob was basically her best friend, and the only person she really had left. Maybe it was normal to talk about this sort of thing. Besides, at least if she gave him an answer, he'd never bother her about it again.

“...Have you ever...played around with magnets or electromagnetic fields?” Miranda asked, unable to think of a better analogy. Jacob nodded. “Well, it's sort of like that, except without any magnets or electromagnetic fields,” she unwillingly explained. “Their skin also feels like latex.”

Jacob fixed her with a look. “Has anyone ever told you you're not fun to talk to?”

“Frequently, yes,” Miranda confirmed.

*     *     *

[gameofdrarry]

Drarropoly 2020 House Ghost Submissions

Drarropoly ’20: Founders Edition ran from November 22 2020 until January 22 2021 with a total 51 players, and 117 submissions. list of prompts players were given, as well as the drabbles players submitted to fill each of the prompts, sorted by level. Just as in Monopoly one can use their money to upgrade their spaces and buy houses or hotels, players in Drarropoly were able to write more with more restrictions and higher word counts at the O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. levels to earn more points.

Nearly-Headless Nick

Either include Nearly-Headless Nick OR include a theme of wanting to belong in your story.

The Scale

First Years Level: Minimum: 372 words Maximum: 715 words

📜 When Only a Hug Will Do by Orpheous87 Rated:  General Words:  706 Tags: established relationship, fluff, angst, childhood trauma, childhood memories, reminiscing Summary:  Harry and Draco spend a night reminiscing ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Poor Decisions by Rei382 Rated:  Teen and Up Words:  709 Tags: humor, sexy time Summary:  All Harry wanted was a nice snogging session in a private place. Why was that too much to ask?! ❤️ Read on AO3

O.W.L.s Level: + Include this phrase: "You never tell me anything." Minimum: 1320 words Maximum: 2150 words

N.E.W.T.s Level: + Include flashbacks in your story. Minimum: 3131 words Maximum: 4010 words

  📜 Your Secret's Safe With Me by Tinarennat Rated:  General Words:  3989 Tags: Necromancy, Ghosts, Potions, Ballroom Dancing, Secrets, Confessions, Coming Out Summary:  When Draco finds out Nearly Headless Nick is just as lonely as he is, Draco feels obliged to help. Little does he know that Nick is bringing Harry Potter to help out. A short story about love, secrets, potion brewing, and moving on. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 No Place Like Home by dracogotgame Rated:  General Words:  4005 Tags: Family, Fluff, Next Gen, Kid Fic, Established Relationship, Domestic Fluff Summary:  James Sirius has been at Hogwarts for exactly one day, and he knows he doesn't belong. All he wants is to go home. A late night Floo call fixes everything. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Fever Dream by graymatters Rated:  Teen and Up Words:  3468 Tags: Sick Harry, Pre-Slash, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Surrealism, Fever Dreams, Red String of Fate, Based on a Taylor Swift Song, Sectumsempra (Harry Potter), Mild Language, Mild Blood, Charlotte Bronte with a lovely cameo, Dream versions of canonical events Summary:  Miserable and nearly delusional from his illness, Harry is unfit to argue against Malfoy assisting him back to their eighth year dormitory. Once he's safe and warm in his bed, he finds his dreams to be a surreal melding of past with present. But through it all, one single thread always leads back to Draco Malfoy. ❤️ Read on AO3

 Bloody Baron

Either include the Bloody Baron OR include a theme of jealousy in your story.

The Scale

First Years Level: Minimum: 210 words Maximum: 670 words

📜 The Want for What We Cannot Have  by Sumthin Clever Rated:  General Words:  239 Tags: Longing Harry Summary:  There is only one thing Harry envied Draco Malfoy. ❤️ Read on AO3

  Grey Lady

Either include the Grey Lady (Helena Ravenclaw) OR include a theme of regret in your story.

The Scale

First Years Level: Minimum: 430 words Maximum: 870 words

📜 Feeling warm by Gnarf Rated:  General Words:  471 Tags: Regret, Fluff, Falling In Love, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Sharing a Bed, Blankets, Post-War Summary:  With Ron and Hermione gone, Harry regrets he didn't join them. But not for long. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Desiderium by Andithiel Rated:  Mature Words:  444 Tags: Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, POV Second Person, Hate Sex, Enemies with benefit, Denial of Feelings, Angst, I'm sorry but there's no happy ending here, There is one if you read the 15 + 4k I have for this verse though, But here be hurt and no comfort Summary:  It’s funny how you can regret something and still keep wanting it so badly. ❤️ Read on AO3

O.W.L.s Level: + Include an owl that brings news: good or bad. Minimum: 1560 words Maximum: 2560 words

N.E.W.T.s Level: + Include either lines of your own poetry or lines from Richard Siken's Litany in Which Certain Things are Crossed Out. Minimum: 3402 words Maximum: 4862 words

📜 Love, Love, and So On by Sumthin Clever Rated:  Teen and Up Words:  4873 Tags: Breakup, Pining, Time Skips, Slight Angst Summary:  Harry and Draco have a good relationship, until they don't. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Another City Goes By In The Night by Samunderthelights Rated:  Mature Words:  3408 Tags: POV Draco Malfoy, MCD, Falling in Love, Insecurity, Reminiscing, Angst, Unhappy Ending, Regret, Illnesses Summary:  I am not quite sure how it all began. Perhaps it was when we first met up, when he agreed to let me explain everything that had happened. When he hadn’t interrupted, but he had sat listening to me for the longest time, as I had told him all about the pressure that was put on me. When I tried to explain how scared I had been. What a coward I truly was. When, after I had told him everything, he had given me a hug, and told me how sorry he was. ❤️ Read on AO3

 Moaning Myrtle

Either include Moaning Myrtle OR include a theme of revenge in your story.

The Scale

First Years Level: Minimum: 340 words Maximum: 660 words

📜 Revenge is Sweet by Orpheous87 Rated:  Teen and Up Words:  628 Tags: established relationship, humour, fluff, petty Draco Malfoy Summary:  After Harry accidentally uses his mug, Draco exacts petty revenge on him.  ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 The Morning After the Night Before by Samunderthelights Rated:  General Words:  607 Tags: Friends to lovers, The morning after, Sleeping together, Awkwardness, Misunderstandings, Insecurity, Short & sweet Summary:  “You can go home and tell them.” "Tell them what?" "Your plan worked, Potter. You got your revenge." ❤️ Read on AO3

O.W.L.s Level: + Include the concept of Schadenfreude. Minimum: 1310 words Maximum: 2100 words

📜 (I don't know) what's right and what's real anymore by Ladderofyears Rated:  Mature Words:  2101 Tags: Harry Potter and the half blood prince, canon divergence, no septumsempra, guilty Draco, pov Draco, ghostly Myrtle, attracted Draco, pre-slash, pre-relationship, Harry is a hero Summary:  An alternative sectumsempra scene from Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 The Perfect Payback by rei382 Rated:  Teen and Up Words:  1766 Tags: moaning myrtle pov, Canon Divergence, 6th year Summary:  1996 was a good year for Moaning Myrtle. She finally had a friend who confided in her his deepest secrets. But when she discovers a secret even he doesn't know about himself, he doesn't take it too well and all hell breaks loose. ❤️ Read on AO3

 Fat Friar

Either include the Fat Friar OR include a theme of forgiveness in your story.

The Scale

First Years Level: Minimum: 230 words Maximum: 670 words

📜 Unawares by chxrlieweaslxy Rated:  General Words:  494 Tags: #drarry, #harry potter, #fic, #fic rec, #draco malfoy, #hogwarts professor Summary:  Harry teaches DADA, Draco occasionally teaches a class. The Fat Friar assists him in his plotting. ❤️ Read on Tumblr

O.W.L.s Level: + Utilise either a drunken heart-to-heart or "The way to a man's heart is through his stomach." Minimum: 1290 words Maximum: 2110 words

N.E.W.T.s Level: + Include the theme of self-sacrifice in your story. Minimum: 3400 words Maximum: 4920 words

📜 Exile by Kasena Rated:  Teen and Up Words:  3446 Tags: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Drunken Confessions, Eating Disorders, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE Summary:  Draco is out late at night in Hogwarts. Harry has his map and cloak. It's all too familiar, and that familiarity bites at him, but he swears this time will be different. ❤️ Read on AO3

📜 Picking Up the Piece by Sumthin Clever Rated:  Teen and Up Words:  3590 Tags: Infidelity, Mistakes, Forgiveness, Trust Issues, Insecurity Summary:  Harry and Draco have been fighting a lot lately. When their worst fight yet leads to Draco making a horrible mistake, it takes time and the willingness to be vulnerable to get Harry to forgive him. ❤️ Read on AO3

 Peeves the Poltergeist

Either include Peeves the Poltergeist OR include a theme of troublemaking in your story.

The Scale

First Years Level: Minimum: 350 words Maximum: 789 words

O.W.L.s Level: + Include one or both Weasley twins in your story. Minimum: 1340 words Maximum: 2110 words

📜 The Sudden Feeling by Samunderthelights Rated:  Teen and Up Words:  1983 Tags: Hogwarts, Love Potion / Spell, Crushes, Love Confessions Summary:  “How do you feel?” George grins, as Harry is about to leave the Great Hall. “Any… new thoughts… feelings…?” “What are you talking about?” Harry asks, a confused look on his face. “Is this about… wait, what is in that tea? Did you put something in it? Are you testing out another one of your potions?” “Maybe…” Fred grins. “So? How does it feel?” ❤️ Read on AO3

[comfeyworks]

Alastor writing/ Character ref sheet

NOTE: This is MY interpretation/ notes of my characterization of Alastor. Most is speculation and the other parts are just me having fun imagining what his character could be like. This is no way meant to be official or taken as cannon in any way.

A wonderful user by the name of dolly moon complied a lot of information from Viv’s streams. I’m referencing some of the information here so please check them out, they did a fantastic job making notes.

Warning: Contains talk about murder, cannibalism and other possible triggering subjects.

General

---NAME: Alastor--- Died: 1933 Age: 30′s Occupation: Former radio host and serial killer. Currently powerful overlord in hell

Main Personality/ notes

Always smiling (He sees people frowning as weak)

Sadistic

Charming and charismatic

Very proud( puffed out chest, arms behind back)

He's controlling/ does things his own way

Careful! He's not too braggy, or too forceful/ demanding. Ex: Viv stated in her qna that the pilot was originally going to have Alastor boast about himself and his backstory. Instead vaggie narrates his backstory. She changed this because Alastor wasn’t the type of person to flaunt his achievements. He knows that everyone knows how powerful he is, he’s not the type to rub it in. He's supposed to be charming, but still proud, juuuust in the right way

He knows what he wants, but doesn’t necessarily brute-forces his way to get it. Ex: "He-" "-llo!" He KNOWS he's getting in hotel regardless, but waits for Charlie to open up the door before invading the hallway.

Deceitful; When asked why he wants to help out at the hotel, he says: "Consider it an investment in ongoing entertainment for myself!" 'This is what you can think my reason is...' is essentially what he's saying. He answers Charlie’s question in a roundabout way that givers her what she wants to know while still keeping his true intentions secret. Time and time again, he lets his mask down slightly when Charlie isn’t looking. At 24:10 he narrows his eyes when she has her back turned to him At the beginning of his song he distracts her with magic so he can push Vaggie away. When he says “...And it’s just laughable-” during he reprise he turns away from Charlie to say this, he leans down to Vaggie.

He’s a hypocrite (hates being touched, invades other’s personal space)

Watches people do things the hard way and then reveal he can do it once it's done just to watch people fuck up

DELIGHTS in watching people failing/ struggling to do things. He likes observing people/ sinners as they are battling with their conflicted emotions.

He’s curious (He stopped by the ‘radio shack’ place to see what Charlie was talking about on the broadcast, and cocked his head when she started singing. To me that meant, “Oh? What’s this now? Something new?” he was intrigued and wanted to know more)

He analyzes people. He looks at the Magne family portrait when left alone. You can briefly hear him playing Charlie’s “Inside of every demon is a rainbow” song, and smiling.

He picks up on things quickly. Vaggie makes it clear she doesn’t like the idea of him being there, and he messes with her. He puts his elbow on her and pushes her away ( 20:44-20:48) He pulls her chin up and tells her to ‘smile’

He’s egotistical. No one is really ‘up to his level’

He gives verbal and physical affection constantly throughout the pilot, but it’s not genuine.

Likes being unpredictable

Primary drive:   Decisions are weighed in his own wants/ feelings. He wants to be amused, he chases exciting/ entertaining things. Think of him as like a cat chasing a mouse.

Fears: He doesn’t fear anyone. But is wary of powerful threats. He dislikes dogs Physical Expression: He’s VERY, VERY expressive through his body language and eyes. Large/ easy to read emotions can be perceived through his body language (Leaning towards someone, or leaning away). Smaller/ pinpoint emotions can be read through his eyes and type of smile (Wide eyes, squinted, closed vs open smile, etc.) He’s like a bird, fluffing out his feathers constantly. (He fixes his hair briefly at 24:41) He expresses himself proudly. ‘This is who I am, remember that!!’. Viv said the reason why almost all of characters have nicknames is that a soul’s real name is dangerous, its a way others can have power over you. Yet Alastor uses his first name, because he’s not scared and confident in who he is as a person. He doesn’t hide from any aspect of himself. I’ve stated he hates being touched by others. When he picks up Nifty in the pilot, she poofs out and spreads her limbs out. At 25:41, Alastor turns his head away from her briefly so she doesn’t touch him.

Flaws/ Weaknesses:

(Note: Basically anything already stated can be a problem depending on the situation, I’m just saying things about his character that he’d find weak or naturally cause problems)

His mother, he’d do anything for her.

He has a darker/ more powerful demon side to him where he runs purely on instinct/ primitive emotions.

He’s arrogant. This can cause problems!

---

Killer/ moral compass profile (Living)

Motivations:

Thrill Killer- Pleasure from pain

Slight power/control aspect involved as well.

‘Causes’

Childhood trauma (abusive father)

Environmental factors (mother died when he was 18-20)

Type of killer: *Note: I’m still not 100% satisfied with this part, I might make some changes later*

He won’t just kill anyone. They have to meet a certain list of requirements.

Viv compared him as someone similar to Dexter

He’s a very goal oriented killer. Whatever he did it was with reason and purpose, meticulously planned. Ex: Maybe one year he’d kill someone who was a real jerk, to see how the others around him flourished. Likewise he might kill someone who was important to the community just to see how the grief made everyone react.

He was a very careful killer, he ended up dying purely on accident, bad luck.

He killed for the fun of it, pure joy, excitement, curiosity. But he only killed people he thought deserved it.

He considers what he does to be ‘work’. He expresses in the pilot how after decades in hell it’s become ‘mundane’ and ‘aimless’.

The victims had to be overconfident to some degree.(This ties into the ‘he wouldn’t chase his victims.’ They had to be somewhat full of themselves or naive)

Some kills are personal (Someone wronging him, trying to hurt him, otherwise he just wouldn’t care if some guy is an asshole) but others are just because he feels like they’re bad/ they’ve have done something that they need to die for.

He used ‘personal’ ways of killing people. (Knife, his hands). I don’t think he would have used a gun of any kind because of the noise, but he could have once every blue moon.

Generally doesn’t draw things out for too long ”...If I wanted to hurt anyone here... I would have done so already.” (He defeats Sir Pentious in under a minute. But still takes the time to crush him and drag his body across the floor.)

He ate people, and knew how to make delicious meals out of them.

Buried his victim’s bodies/ remains on a hunting ground for deer.

Morals

No human is pure or kind just because. They’re selfish beings. Who take and act to help their own causes. Everyone is a monster on the inside. “...redemption, the nonexistent humanity!”

Everyone puts on a mask to hide who they truly are. Life is one big game to see who can survive. “...the world is a stage! And the stage, is a world of entertainment!”

People don’t change “...there is no undoing what is done.”

Puts himself first, and above everyone else. He also degrades others. “I don’t think there’s any hope left for such loathsome sinners...” ”Inside of every demon is a lost cause, but we’ll dress them up for now with just a smile!” “...and show these simpletons some proper class and style...” “...do I know you?” “You think I’m [husk] some kind of fuckin’ clown!?” “...maybe!”

People deserve the consequences they get for being themselves “...the chance given was the life they lived before, the punishment is this!”

He understands what society views as good and evil, but doesn’t really believe in those standards himself. What is considered evil he just views as a hobby or something fun to explore. Ex: Cannibalism is wrong by society’s standards, but to him he thinks the greater wrong is killing something and not making use of it.

He has some level of empathy. (Again, He’d never kill a child or those running away.)

People’s emotions are a fun little game to him. “...I want to watch the scum of the earth struggle to climb up the hill of betterment! Only to repeatedly trip, and tumble down into the firey pit of failure!”

Doesn’t see value in being nice or honest. (He does find it funny to watch)

Other notes/ hc

He’s knowledgeable. In more ways than one. He knows not to fuck with certain people if he doesn’t want to get hurt, he’s got knowledge on the workings/ operations of hell and deal-making.

Likes to cook

He likes bitter things (Bloody meat, alcohol, black coffee)

He’s got a party side to him.

He speaks french!

He plays musical instruments

He knows how to fight without his powers

He’s an only child

He’s part creole

He hates silence, he always surrounds himself with noise of some kind.

Husk and Alastor have a long, complicated relationship

He does things to make Nifty happy (Wearing sweaters)

He’d go out into a hurricane just to let it beat him down for fun (Why is this so funny to me)

Despite all he is, Alastor is capable of having friends and loving.

Has absolutely NO romantic experience.

He hates modern technology in general, but hates tik tok the most

The idea of Alastor cross-dressing to lure his victims in is absolutely hilarious to me, but I don’t think he’d ever do it.