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nctsworld · 1 year ago

Text

golden hour

SUMMARY | in which you make love with mark in a tent during the golden hour. // part of the connection series

WARNINGS | sexual content, (lovey) pwp, unprotected sex, brief impregnation fetish (breeding kink), some praise kink, oral sex (m and f receiving)

RATING | explicit

AUTHOR'S NOTE | inspirations are (besides the connection teaser vid and pics) jvke's golden hour, mark's golden hour, and this picture i stumbled upon

TAGLIST | @neocitycafe @sehunniepot

NORTH

North is home, where you left behind for this short road trip down the coast of California with the love of your life.

During this trip, home every night has temporarily been your two-person sized tent being dragged around to different campsites.

This stop is more arid than others, with many rocks and cacti surrounding the ecosystem rather than grass and trees. Because of that and it being an off-peak period in the beginning of spring, it is likely why this campsite has no one else besides the two of you.

Although it takes some time, Mark and you finally finish pitching the tent and setting up the inside around the late afternoon. At this point, you mutually decide to take advantage of the area's solitude.

North of your bodies is also where it all starts.

Mark and you are lip-locked between initial smiles and giggles. The oncoming sunset's rays beam through the translucent tent, creating a natural, ethereal glow around each other's faces.

There's no hurry. Mark usually doesn't hurry his kissing with you; he likes to savour every moment he can—each groan exchanged, each dip of his tongue into your mouth, and each suck you grant to his plump bottom lip.

But at some point, kissing each other's lips just isn't enough to satiate your desires.

EAST

East is where everything rises.

Passion ascends as his mouth swerves away from yours, and instead captures the right side of your neck. You gasp sharply, eyes fluttering due to the power of that one spot. It's overwhelming, so much that it makes your knees buckle. You're grateful you're sitting on the ground with your sleeping bags laid out comfortably to catch you at the ready.

You return the favour by kissing places that make him weak—the constellation of moles on his face and neck, that one particular section behind his right ear, and right above his clavicle.

He hotly moans in your ear, letting his hands take a mind of their own. Your waist, thighs, and ass are his to squeeze, his to grip roughly. In turn, your hands latch onto Mark's rugged frame and back, admiring the firmness and contours in each muscle. Then, you begin lifting up his white tee, feeling up his fit stomach.

And at this point, because you're now straddling him, you feel his rising desire blatantly against yours.

Clothes are tossed aside to an area of the tent. Mark, now only in his underwear, aids you in stripping every piece from you, except for your panties.

SOUTH

Without a doubt, the absolute sweetest things happen in the south.

Mark roams downward your body as you lay flat, displayed beautifully in front of him. Your lover lives up to his name, marking you with gentle kisses over your goosebumped skin. It's due to the slight bite of the breeze that enters the tent.

The sun dives further into the horizon, and your being is now enveloped in the golden hour of the hues of red and gold meshing in the sky and radiating over the Earth.

When he reaches your breasts, he imparts small licks upon your hardened tips, along with kneading and thumbing them throughout. Arching your back, you shiver, more so from his aching teasing than the breeze.

Further south, he traverses and his mouth leaves love upon your stomach before he spreads your thighs apart. He lays on his abdomen, his legs positioned awkwardly as a result of the tent's size, but all the while manageable and comfortable enough to continue.

He snakes his arms around your legs, staring up at you with his shiny, starry eyes. Mark chastely kisses your inner thighs, revering the softness of your skin, then kisses you once over your soaked panties. With that mere move, it causes you to lift your hips up in want.

Impishly, he chuckles and pulls aside the fabric to give one slow, extended lick from your centre to your clit. You gasp at the sensation, but Mark is addicted to teasing you. After he drags your underwear off, he simply continues to innocently kisses your thighs. A whine expels from you as you're about to protest, but then he dives in without warning.

Dulcet whimpers fill the air besides the rustling of the tent and the occasional sound of faraway birds. Mark prides in himself in times like this, having you prettily on display and breaking you down. You're all his to have and to hold—all for him to drink and devour to his heart's content.

Not only does he skillfully lap his tongue against your folds, but he sinks it deep into you and thumbs your clit simultaneously. Your fingers' hold tighten onto his hair the more he plays and unfurls you at the seams.

Noticing your body being keyed up by your tight hair gripping and hip thrashing, he takes you to another plane when he slips two fingers in and tongues your bundle of nerves, scissoring you into madness.

After letting you come down from your high, he pulls away and runs a hand through his disheveled hair, giving you his signature tender smile with glistening lips before it quickly fades into a sinful smirk. Just like that, with one look and a couple of minutes to catch your breath, you're ready to have more fun.

Often in the confines of your bedroom, Mark likes to stand by the bed when he watches you take him into your pretty mouth. Due to the tent's spatial constraints, he's gotten used to shimmying off his boxers and opting to do a standing kneel on your sleeping bags instead.

He strokes himself, preparing for what's to come. Inching nearer in a cat-like position with your ass up in the air, you instinctively jut out your tongue, wetting your mouth at the ready, and fixate on his desire gracing you with its presence.

At first, you stroke with him with your hand on top of his, but then he eventually slips it away and lets you do your magic.

We're back to kissing, but all attention is on his length, from the base to the tip. You dab your tongue at his tip leaking with precum, evidently worked up from before. A dab becomes two, then three, and when his tip is wrapped by your mouth, Mark dispels a high-pitched moan. All of his entirety is quickly loved by you.

Amidst the head bobbing, you ensure to also swipe at the underside of his cock, licking at a particular vein that always entices you when you're on your knees for him.

At some point, he raises an arm behind his head while the other weaves through your hair. With his possession still in your mouth, you glance up at him. Although half-lidded, he stares back intently, maneuvering your hair out of your eyes and bunches the rest into a makeshift ponytail.

“Such a good girl,” he grunts, eyes still trained on you.

Although you would never disregard his praise, you don't need him to tell you you're doing well based on how he grasps harder at the root of your hair and from the trickling of choppy, higher moans that compete with your lewd slopping.

Since you don't want it to end just yet, you draw back soon after. Giving him a sugary fleeting kiss, you then go on all fours in front of him. Taking his sopping desire, all thanks to you, he rubs himself against your folds, then eases into you.

You cry out in pleasure, and adjust to his fullness inside of you. Mark goes at a measured pace—fast enough that it gets you to the edge quicker, but slow enough to make you feel all his inches. Out of habit, you press the back of your hand against your mouth, muffling yourself.

“Don’t hold yourself back, baby,” he murmurs. “We’re all alone out here.”

You nod thoughtlessly and comply, dropping your hand. It's an uncommon feeling to let yourself go, but you relax and try your best. Your soft moans elevate and gain traction in volume with each movement against your body.

“That’s it,” Mark says, reaching forward to caress your hair and sliding his touch downward to the small of your back. “That’s my girl.”

Preening in the praise, you moan gutturally in response. The deep sensations enrapture you, blooming to every point of your body. Exerting the pleasure, you fall face-forward into your pillow and bunch some of it beside your head.

He continues to pound into you, groaning, “Love it so much when you moan for me...”

A few moments later, your lover pulls you up by the arms, bringing your body almost parallel to his and picks up the pace. In this position, it's not as buried, but it's still just as satisfying, being filled with his cock like this.

When he slows the pace down, he releases you, having you land on your arms again. Kissing your shoulder from behind, he pants beside your ear, “Do you wanna switch it up?”

You shake your head. “Don’t care”—at an unexpected thrust, you gasp sharply—“just want you.”

Turning your head to face him, he follows-up with an ardent kiss. Despite him holding you by your chin, it's more delicate than you expect, unlike the sex so far. Mark takes a few moments to remind you how, no matter how crude it can be, sex with him will always be laced with love.

The sunset continues to fade as he removes himself from you and lovingly pats your hips, signifying you to turn around. Facing him now, you spread your legs once again for him, and you giggle as he drags you closer to him in one smooth move. He grins with his hair sticking to his perspired forehead, and once again, he lines up with your centre before gliding into your perfection.

In tandem, both parties' eyes tremble at the sensation. He fills you deliciously; for him, you squeeze around him like a vice he never wants to detach from. Hands are dragging along everywhere on each other's skin. Lips crash into the other's, then his to your breasts and yours to his shoulder. You're soon tied chest to chest, hearts racing in synchronicity.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” Mark mumbles into your neck. “Love seeing you like this for me.”

He lightly slaps the side of your thigh, causing you to moan further into his ear. Despite not wanting to, he opts to tear away from you. Readjusting your bodies, he draws you closer by a tight yank of your thigh, bottoming himself out in your crevice and uses his other hand to rub your clit.

He's on a mission to take you to the stars.

“Tell me when you’re close.”

It doesn't take long for you to get there with how long this has been going on, nor with how skillful he is.

“Look at me, beautiful. Open your eyes,” he orders, his voice dripping with carnal assertiveness. “Look at me as I fill you up.”

You obey, snapping your eyes wide open, about to watch him come undone inside of you. You're transfixed on the point where you intersect, where he disappears so deeply in you.

But then, in a split second, you force yourself to stare down your love. Looking up at him, relishing in his pre-climactic image, you're on the verge of screaming, almost as if you're dying from the pleasure. His breathes come quicker, his facial features twisting. However, he dares not to shut his eyes, wanting to see you fulfill his command until the end of his surmise.

“That’s my good girl, such a good girl…”

A beautiful low, drawn-out moan emits, and ecstasy permeates through the air, intermixed with the much needed cool breeze. Mark's hips jerk, then stiffen as he spills into you, painting your walls with his thick load.

WEST

And in the west, the sun finally sets almost to completion. The golden hour sinking away into the purple and pink hues of the spring sky.

A sliver of the last light peeks through the tent's opening and lands directly over your face, the last of the golden hour saying hello and good-bye.

With your respective sleeping bags covering some parts of your bare bodies, Mark tenderly swipes his thumb over your sun-touched cheek, admiring his angel of light that always leads him home. Just like Polaris in the night sky, you’ll always shine and guide his way back home.

You two eventually eat some prepackaged sandwiches for dinner in the comfort of your tent, but not until he kisses your temple and pulls you in for a tight hug, whispering sweet nothings and running his fingers through your hair until the sky becomes completely pitch black.

#mark lee x reader #mark lee smut #mark lee fluff #mark lee scenarios #mark lee imagines #mark lee fanfic #nct smut #nct fluff #nct imagines #nct fanfic #nct scenarios #nct 127 smut #nct 127 fluff #nct dream fluff #nct dream smut #yn brainrot

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samyazaz · 4 years ago

Note

This is a little more specific than, y'know, a general AU setting, but if you're feeling it, PQT, Gravity AU, and, honestly any trope, but it's them, so perhaps Only One Bed?

Ewhoza glances back at the huddled group of them, one brow lifted like he’s expecting something, before he presses his palm flat to the scanner set into the wall. Its light glows a moment, just long enough for Quil to tip her head and wonder if maybe it wasn’t expectation at all, maybe he’s just wanting to show off, when they all know that Quil could have released the pneumatics with a thought. He doesn’t even bother to remind her to wipe the access records so Security won’t know they’ve been here, but she thinks it’s more out of arrogance than any sort of confidence in her, and so she’s frowning, exasperated, when the locks release with a hiss, and the doors slide open.

It’s the light that strikes her first, the warm, verdant brightness of it, and the frown falls off of her face as she gives a swift gasp, and then loses her breath all at once as her lungs flood with air so heavy with scents that her mind reels at the onslaught, even as the part of her that’s the ship sorts and filters and categorizes, tells her Loam, and Herbs, and Wet earth, and Greenery.

She stumbles forward, heedless for once of the unceasing analytic stream of thoughts flowing through her mind, only distantly aware of the others doing the same around her, looking just as stunned as she feels.

She knew there were hydroponic gardens on upsilon level, of course. She knows everything about the ship. Almost everything. Everything they didn’t deem it to dangerous for her to know, like her psych evals, her past, her name. Who she was, before they made her Tranquility.

She knew there were hydroponic gardens on upsilon level, knew they produce enough food to provide for the caloric needs of every person on board with enough to spare for seed and for compost, she knew how much of their water stores they required and the precise wattage that the lights drew, and somehow it had never occurred to her to put these pieces together and imagine this, a vast, endless expanse of hydroponics, stacked up to the ceiling and stretching out as far as the eye can see, farther, so everywhere she looks, all she sees is light and green.

“How...” she breathes, stumbling forward, down one of the rows left between the structures. “How...” She flinches, then laughs breathlessly, when the reaching leaves of a tomato plant brush her cheek.

Behind her, Ewhoza’s voice is dry, a little mocking. “How did you think we’ve been feeding all these people, all these years?”

She shakes her head, because that’s not what she meant. “I know, but... how did I not realize?” Somewhere on the edge of her awareness there’s a humming noise, like the machines she spent her life wired into, like the thrum of the ship around them. Like the rushing in her ears after they released her and brought her back, in the ill, disoriented moment before the world went black around her. She reaches for her sensor data, but she — the ship — is fine. She fights the urge to sit and stick her head between her knees. Her stomach isn’t twisted like it had been before. Her skin isn’t hot. Her vision seems normal, if half-dazzled by the brilliance of the green all around her.

A hand touches her shoulder, pulling her back to herself, to the herself that is contained within her skin. Phi is at her side, looking at her with a concerned, unvoiced question written plain on her face. Terry’s just beside her, looking no less alarmed. Beyond them, Ewhoza is saying, “—no one ever stops to consider how we do all that we do for everyone, do they?” and his tone is at odds with his words, is a little sad and a little lost, instead of the righteous belligerence she might have expected of him. It startles her to realize that he was answering her, in a fashion, though her question hadn’t been meant for him, hadn’t been meant for anyone, really, except perhaps herself.

“I’m all right,” she says to Phi and to Terry, quietly.

Phi nods once, taking her at her word but keeping a light touch on her shoulder all the same. Terry looks only half-reassured, but he moves a step away, his hand on Phi’s elbow drawing her with him, and hers on Quil drawing Quil along after as well. “Let’s go see what we can find that’s ripe. Do you think you can eat, Quil?”

“I can try,” she says, unhelpfully, because she can know in a fraction of a fraction of a second if a single lightbulb ten levels down and halfway across the ship has burnt out, but she still doesn’t understand how her own body works half the time.

It’s enough for them all the same, though, because they guide her off, deeper into the field of greenery, and each row that they walk down smells different than the last, this one sharp and fresh and pungent, the next floral and sweet. They pluck a berry here, a leaf there, and they pass the best of each to her and watch her sidelong when she eats them dutifully, smiling with happiness and enjoyment, at the bursts of flavor upon her tongue and at the company and at the feeling like they’ve gotten themselves lost in the dense jungle of the hydroponic towers, even though it’s not possible for her to really ever be.

The humming starts again and she stops still. Phi and Terry turn back to her, looking concerned once more, but she shakes her head, says, “I’m all right, I just— Do you hear that?”

Phi tips her head like she’s puzzled, or like she’s listening for it too, and Terry looks around, uncertain but searching, but it fades and then comes again, louder, and Quil does feel like her legs are going to collapse underneath her but she doesn’t feel like she did when she lost consciousness and she doesn’t understand why.

“Oh,” Terry says, his expression clearing, and the humming stops just as it’s reached its loudest. “Is that what you heard? Here, hold still.” He reaches towards her. His fingers brush, almost tickling, against the side of her neck, and the sound begins again, and fades sharply. “It’s all right. It was a bee, I think. It must be a bee. They’re pollinators, aren’t they?”

“A bee?” She whirls in the direction the sound vanished, searching the green all around them. “Where?”

“It’s all right,” Terry says again. “It’s flown off now.”

“Oh,” Quil gasps, and her legs are going to give out on her, they are, but they can’t, not now, not when she needs them. “Where?”

She takes off in the direction the sound had disappeared, pushing through the narrow spaces between structures that had never ben meant to be pathways, until another humming noise darts past her and this time she’s able to spot it, to track it, a small golden shape flitting amongst all that green.

She follows it until it’s joined by another, by a third, and her heart is pounding and she can scarcely breathe. She pushes through row after row of hydroponics, until all at once the space opens up before her and there’s a gap, just big enough to make space for a series of narrow, sleek towers, featureless but for the narrow, slitted openings at regular intervals through which more bees are coming and going, dozens of them, hundreds. Thousands.

She stops still, abruptly enough that Phi and Terry behind her nearly crash into her. They catch themselves and then they stand there, all three of them breathing hard. Phi and Terry eye the hives, a little, but mostly they’re watching Quil, but Quil can’t look away.

“I forgot,” she breathes, and her voice cracks, and then breaks. “How could I forget? How—“ Her eyes burn. She doesn’t remember what it means until the tears drip hot down her cheeks. “How could they take this from me?”

Phi looks back and forth between her and the hives, and understanding downs in her eyes, but it’s Terry who says it, his voice so tight with upset that it quivers like a plucked string: “In your psych eval vids. You said you worked in the horticulture division, before.”

“I thought it just meant plants. I thought it meant working the gardens. I didn’t think—” Her voice breaks, goes sharp all around the edges like glass, and she shakes with fury. “They made sure I didn’t. That I couldn’t. Didn’t they?”

Neither of them answer her right away, but the glance they exchange, the bleak looks on their faces, is answer enough.

Quil takes a deep breath, filling her lungs with the scent of herbs and plants and earth, with the new, heady smell of the honey in the hives. It should feel familiar, shouldn’t it? It should feel like coming home. and it does, but somehow it doesn’t stir any memories at all. Her mind reaches for them, expecting them to be there, as though it’s done so a hundred thousand times before. But all she comes up with is black emptiness.

She folds her legs underneath her without being aware of deciding to move, sits on the floor without looking away from the hives and watches the bees come and go. Terry and Phi sit beside her, quiet, letting her watch but staying with her all the same.

After a while, a bee flies over to her, lands on her knee and climbs across it, little antennae waving like it’s expecting to find nectar. It flies away after a moment, and she thinks it must have been disappointed to find only the fabric of her clothing instead. But a moment after that, two bees fly back to her, and before they’ve left, a third joins them.

Her eyes burn again, and tears fall down her cheeks, and she knows she must be broken, knows Security must have broken her, because how can she mourn for something she doesn’t even remember? How can she feel such grief and such joy, when she has no memory of ever seeing a bee before this day?

Occasionally, distantly, she’s aware of the others making their way through the rows of plants as well, the rustle of leaves and a far-off shout of excitement, quickly muffled. At some point, the plants shift and sigh closer by, and footsteps sound quietly on the floor, and there’s a low murmur of conversation exchanged with Terry and Phi, but nobody addresses her directly or indicates they need her attention, and so she doesn’t look away from her enraptured study of the bee crawling its way across her knuckles.

Later, there are louder steps, heavier, and the sharp huff of a breath, and then Ewhoza’s voice, too near, and edged with impatience as he says, “There you are. What— Oh. What’s she doing?”

“Leave her be,” Phi says placidly.

“We can’t stay. People will be along, and if they see you— if they see her—”

“No.” Quil wrenches her attention away because this, now, demands it. She turns to fix Ewhoza with an unyielding look. “I’m not leaving.”

He returns her look with an arch one of his own, asks, “Ever?” in sarcastic tones. “That’s a fine plan. Stars, why did I even risk my neck for you if you’re just going to throw it all away—“

She unbends, just a little, says, “Not yet.”

This time, the look he sends her is hard, calcified with frustration. “How long?”

She gestures uselessly. The bee keeps its place, and doesn’t fly away, despite her disturbance. “I don’t know.”

“You need to sleep. If you push yourself and end up back in the infirmary again—“

“I’ll sleep,” she promises.

He looks little assuaged. “You need to sleep soon.”

Phi shifts beside her and clears her throat, gets her feet beneath her and says to Ewhoza as she stands, “I’ll come back with the rest of you, get some blankets. We’ll keep her safe, until she’s ready to come back.”

Ewhoza’s mouth thins with disapproval. “If someone comes—”

“I’ll know,” Quil says. “Before they even set foot on upsilon level, I’ll know. We’ll leave.” Ewhoza looks skeptical at that, so she says, sharper, angrier, “I don’t wish to be caged again. I’m not a fool. If someone comes, we’ll go.”

He still seems unconvinced, but finally huffs out a breath and rolls his eyes. “It’s your head,” he says at last. “But all of ours as well if something happens to you. Try not to forget about the rest of us, who’d very much like to keep on breathing.” He fixes her with a look, just before he turns away. “If you do get caught, don’t lead them back to the rest of us.”

The implication is so horrifying, so infuriating, that it steals her breath, and by the time she’s recovered it, Ewhoza is gone, and Phi along with him, and she’s shaking with rage.

“As though I would!” she gasps, but there’s only Terry there to hear her, and he just gives her a sidelong glance and a crooked smile.

“We all know you,” he says, reassuring, like that’s all that needs saying. And it settles her, so perhaps he’s not wrong, either.

The lights dim before Phi returns, an artificially diurnal cycle programmed somewhere deep in her memory stores, for the crops that need it in order to thrive, and the air cools around them so that by the time Phi does return, with a few blankets folded up and tucked beneath her arm, Quil’s glad for them as well as for her.

“Are you all right?” Phi asks her straightaway, and drapes a blanket around her shoulders without Quil having to ask for one.

Quil gives her a puzzled glance and grips the blanket’s edges close before her. “Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t I be, just from sitting here awhile?”

“Not from this.” Phi tips her head back towards the direction she arrived from. “From him.”

She means Ewhoza, Quil realizes. “Oh,” she says, and blows out a sharp breath and turns abruptly back to face the hives, though the activity there has died down, with the simulated evening. “Yes. Of course.”

Phi doesn’t react for a moment, like she’s waiting for something more. Then she laughs a little, softly, and shakes the other blanket out. “He wasn’t wrong about needing to sleep, at least. There’s not a lot of room, but we’ll make do. Just say, when you’re ready.”

She’s being overly generous. there’s hardly enough space between the hives and the hydroponics for the three of them to sit, much less for lying down and sleeping. But even with the bees bedding down for the night, she doesn’t want to leave them, can’t bring herself to, not yet.

“Make do how?” she asks, because they promised to keep her safe and she knows that even though they must be tired themselves, they won’t sleep until she does. Maybe not even then, but certainly not before.

Phi answers the question with a smile and nudges at Terry’s hip with the toe of her shoe. He gets to his feet and offers a hand to Quil, and so there’s nothing for her to do but take it, and let herself be pulled up as well.

Phi lays the other blanket out, and even folded in half to make it narrow, it barely fits. Terry sits first, and offers Quil his hand again, and she gives him a bemused frown but takes it once more, lets him draw her back down.

As he does so, he stretches out along the blanket, keeps drawing her down even once she’s sitting until she does the same, her pulse spiking too fast. Phi shakes the last blanket out over them both, then lies down as well, behind Terry with her arm stretched over him to lace with his where it’s curved around Quil’s arm.

Oh, Quil thinks, and her throat goes tight, but she doesn’t say a word.

Phi loosens her hand enough to brush the backs of her fingers over Quil’s shoulder. “All right?”

She nods wordlessly, trusts them to see it, or to feel it.

“Comfortable enough?”

She could laugh, but she just nods again. Every part of her is overly aware of them behind her, around her, and she thinks that this was pointless because she’s never going to be able to sleep, not like this, not with her heart in her throat and her pulse a drumbeat in her ears.

She’s wrong, though. She feels like it’s only moments, at most, before the gentle hum of the bees in their bed and the close warmth of Terry and Phi around her in their own lull her off, and the dimness of the space around them fades to the true black of sleep.

#answered asks #sovinly #fun fact: Valira works in the gardens #and finds them in the morning #also what the hell this prompt is so good #thank you darling!

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veorlian · 4 years ago

Text

Idolatry - Concealed Carry

Note: Part 1/3 of the chapters on the Citadel DLC. Technically part of a much longer fic, but I think they stand up okay on their own! An everybody lives/nobody dies au except that I didn’t realize I could do that until 2/3 of the way through. Sorry Kaidan :(((((((

Pairing: Garrus Vakarian/Female Shepard

Rating: T for swearing and stabbing.

ao3 link

Excerpt:

Bullets rained down from the front of the restaurant, and Brooks let out a blood-curdling shriek. Shepard swore softly and dragged Joker down, lifting up their table as a makeshift barricade. A group of heavily armed individuals marched in, their faces masked.

“Tonight’s performance was brought to you by random acts of violence!” one of them shouted.

“Where’s Commander Shepard?” another yelled. “Find her!” They spread out through the restaurant, sending the civilians running.

Shepard pinched the bridge of her nose. “Two hours. I’ve been on shore leave for two hours. They couldn’t let me have an appetizer first?”

One of the mercs hauled away Brooks, kicking and screaming. Shepard grabbed the knife she had tucked away in her coat.

“Why do you have that?? We were going for dinner!” Joker hissed.

“Would you rather I didn’t have it right now? I have a few others, do you want one?” she asked, taking stock of the room.

“No???”

Full text under the cut!

...

The apartment was huge. Shepard was sure there were other, fancier words to describe it, but she sure as hell didn’t know them. An entire wall was a window, looking out into the night lights of the Citadel. There were walls wholly covered in green, verdant plants that she couldn’t identify. There was a damn waterfall. Shepard let out a low whistle, looking around.

For the first time in weeks, she could breathe. These walls weren’t closing in on her, they were too far apart. The ceilings were vaulted like a church, reaching up into the sky.

She wandered down to what had to be the living room (two giant couches, a fireplace, a grand piano??), and the TV flickered on.

“Shepard, good to see you,” Anderson said. There were new wrinkles creasing his forehead. She could hear distant explosions in the background of the vid.

“And you. How are you holding up?” she asked.

“We’ve had better days,” he said wearily.

“I know what you mean.” Damn, did she ever. “But why am I in this apartment?”

“I want you to have it,” he said, and Shepard’s brows reached her hairline. “I bought the place for Kahlee and I to settle down. Thing is, the longer I stay on Earth, the more I don’t want to leave. Figure someone should get some use out of it.”

“That’s...very generous. Are you sure?”

“It’s practical. We need you at your best, and you need somewhere you can take a break.”

“I-- thank you,” she said. “I’m guessing I don’t have a choice anyways?”

“Not even a little bit. Make yourself at home,” he said, smiling. “You take care, Shepard.”

“You too, Anderson,” Shepard said. He nodded and stepped out of frame. Marie replaced him. Her hair was more grey than black now, but she was smiling nonetheless.

“Good to see you in one piece, Jeanne,” she said. “I hear you killed a Reaper single handedly. Have I mentioned that you should be more careful?” Shepard grinned crookedly.

“Once or twice, maybe.”

“Apparently it bears repeating.” The affectionate exasperation was palpable, even with the light years between them.

“How are things there?” Shepard asked. Marie’s face became carefully blank, but Shepard had known her since she was a child. She couldn’t disguise the look in her deep brown eyes, or the small frown on her lips. Easy to forget, impossible to forget, that she was only 24.

“We’ll make it,” Marie said firmly. And then, “You’ll make it too. That’s an order, Commander.”

Shepard’s grin widened, and she sketched a salute. “Yes, ma’am,” she said. Marie rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. That was all that mattered.

“Go and get some rest, will you? The bags under your eyes are visible from Earth.”

“Harsh, but fair,” Shepard said easily. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Jeanne.” The call disconnected, and Shepard glanced around her new place. Her new place. Even the church had never truly been hers. There weren’t many things she considered truly her own, she supposed.

There were recordings littered around the apartment. Apparently Anderson had taken down voice notes for his biography. She couldn’t help the small, fond smile that flitted across her face. Her hands paused above the one labelled Shepard on the kitchen counter (she’d never had her own kitchen before). She pressed the play button, and she listened.

“Sure, I can talk about Commander Shepard. Big topic. There’s been a lot written about the Commander, but most of it isn’t true. People are quick to judge. They don’t know the whole story, I don’t even know the whole story. But I know the woman. Worked with her, fought with her, trust her with my life. Shepard’s had some rough patches, who of us hasn’t? She’s been forced to fight a lot of battles alone. God only knows how she got out of some of that. Makes your head spin.”

Anderson’s warm voice filled the apartment, and his every word was laced with pride. Shepard realized belatedly that she was crying, hot tears painting her cheeks. Gently, she sunk to the floor and rested her head against the cupboard. She thought of Aratoht then, as she always seemed to. Makes my head spin too, she thought.

“Thing is, you never heard a complaint. Never once got ‘no sir, I can’t do that.’ She never hesitated. Few people know what Shepard’s been through. I like to think I come pretty close. And I worry sometimes she forgets: there’s a whole bunch of people who lose sleep about her getting back home. Maybe it doesn’t need to be said. Maybe we’re just to dumb to say it. Soldiers like the Commander are rare. Women like Shepard...even more rare.” Anderson’s voice drifted away.

I just...you don’t need to do everything alone anymore, you know? Garrus had said. Maybe they were right. Her heart was so full. She couldn’t quite pinpoint the warm feeling in her chest. Loved, maybe? Not a word she was used to choosing, but it fit the bill. She carefully picked herself up and dusted herself off, wiping the tears from her eyes.

Her private message terminal was blinking, and she went to check her unread messages. There was a note from Joker asking him to meet him at a sushi restaurant. Huh. She’d never had sushi before. No time like the present, she supposed.

Shepard glanced down at herself. Perhaps, she thought, her N7 hoodie and cargo pants wouldn’t be appropriate for an upscale sushi place. She wandered upstairs and peeked into her room (there was a hot tub. She’d...well, she’d never had a bath before. No bathtubs in the Alliance). She tugged open the closet and her eyes widened. There was that dress Kasumi had insisted she keep, but next to it was something else entirely. Reverently, she ran her hands over the fabric. It was soft to the touch, velvet maybe? She pulled it out.

It was a suit. It had to be a suit, although it was unlike any she’d ever seen before. The matching pants and jacket were there, but that’s where the similarities stopped. It was a deep blue, but as the fabric shifted in her hands it looked dark burgundy. There was a matching silk black camisole to wear underneath. It felt luxurious, soft as a cloud. She’d never owned anything this expensive that didn’t fire bullets. There was a small note tucked in the pocket.

Thanks for all your help. Consider this an early birthday gift. Who knows, by the time you take a break it may be your actual birthday. I think I’ve got the measurements right, but nobody’s perfect. - Miranda P.S., there’s a white shirt as well, but it’s much harder to get blood stains out of white silk.

Shepard smiled down at the note, and very carefully got dressed, anxious not to damage the clothes. She tugged on the heeled boots that seemed to go with it, and examined herself in the mirror. Miranda might insist that she wasn’t perfect, but she’d done a damn fine job with this. The cuffs fell to the exact right spot on her wrists, and for the first time in her life, the legs were long enough. The boots had a low heel, comfortable and well-balanced enough that she could run.

And Miranda, blessed Miranda, had included a concealed pocket for a switchblade. Shepard loosened her strict braid into something a little more casual, and she smiled at herself in the mirror one last time. Then she left for sushi.

The lineup outside the restaurant was around the block and then some. The people waiting were distinctly unhappy that Shepard had a reservation. If looks could kill, Shepard would have been pushing the daisies. She strode past the glares with practiced ease. Joker was seated at a table at the back, and he waved her over.

“Just gotta save the galaxy twice to get a place here, huh?” he said. “Hey, maybe when we do it again they’ll let us eat free!”

“That’s the spirit,” Shepard said. “How are you enjoying your vacation?”

“I feel like I should go check the Normandy for missing parts,” he griped. “I don’t trust those engineers.” Shepard chuckled and patted him on the arm.

“She’ll be fine, Joker. She’s been through the Omega 4, she can handle a few repairs. Relax, you’re on shore leave.”

“I’m gonna need a lot more drinks with umbrellas in them,” he said mournfully.

“I’m the first human Spectre. I’ll get you two umbrellas,” she said wryly.

“Awesome use of power, boss! So, what’d you ask me here to talk about? Your note said it was important.”

“Me? You invited me here,” Shepard said, her eyebrows knitting together.

“Commander Shepard, please I need to talk to you!” A young woman in an Alliance uniform pushed her way forward, with the maitre d’ shouting after her. The people in line looked positively murderous.

“Can I help you?” Shepard asked politely.

“I’m Staff Analyst Maya Brooks of Alliance Intelligence. Someone’s trying to kill you!” the woman cried. Shepard and Joker exchanged a look.

“Uh, yeah. I think she’s aware,” Joker said dryly.

“No! I don’t mean the Reapers and Cerberus. Other people,” Brooks said. “They’re hacking your accounts, your communications, and it looks like they’re targeting you personally!”

“What information do you have?” Shepard asked. She straightened up, suddenly all business.

“Well--” Brooks began.

Bullets rained down from the front of the restaurant. Brooks let out a blood-curdling shriek. Shepard swore softly and dragged Joker down, lifting up their table as a makeshift barricade. A group of heavily armed individuals marched in, their faces masked.

“Tonight’s performance was brought to you by random acts of violence!” one of them shouted.

“Where’s Commander Shepard?” another yelled. “Find her!” They spread out through the restaurant, sending the civilians running.

Shepard pinched the bridge of her nose. “Two hours. I’ve been on shore leave for two hours. They couldn’t let me have an appetizer first?”

One of the mercs hauled away Brooks, kicking and screaming. Shepard grabbed the knife she had tucked away in her coat.

“Why do you have that?? We were going for dinner!” Joker hissed.

“Would you rather I didn’t have it right now? I have a few others, do you want one?” she asked, taking stock of the room.

“No???”

“Joker, I need you to stay calm,” Shepard whispered, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I’m going to take these guys out. When the coast is clear, go find the rest of the team. But I need you to stay here until it’s safe, understood?”

“You don’t need to tell me twice,” he said fervently. One of the mercenaries approached to look behind the table. Shepard caught his arm and sent him sprawling to the ground, following it up with a devastating jab from her omni-tool directly to the face. She grabbed his gun and held it at the ready. She glanced around her cover and saw two more mercs coming at her. One went down with a shot to the face, the other with a thrown knife to the throat.

“Joker, now!” she hissed. Joker got up and stumbled away as best he could. Once he was out, Shepard activated her tactical cloak and booked it across the room. If there was one thing she’d learned these long years, it was that the best fight was the one you avoided. Once she’d made it to Brooks, she tried to help her to her feet. A sniper appeared from above and fired a shot, hitting Brooks. Shepard backed away and each shot landed by her, sinking into the ground.

If only the restaurant hadn’t decided to use fish tanks as their floor.

Shepard went down, glass shattering around her. She seemed to hit every bone on the way down the side of the building, banging into the wall over and over again. She slammed into the ground hard, all of her freshly-healed wounds screaming obscenities at her.

“Commander!” Brooks called over the comms. “Are you alright?”

“Peachy,” Shepard groaned. “Can you find me a way out of here?” Dr. Chakwas was going to have a fit. She’d been off the ship two hours and she was already broken again. Ugh. At least the clothes seemed to be in one piece. Small mercies, Shepard supposed, as she struggled to her feet.

“Uh, yes! Keep going forward, I think!” Brooks said. Shepard grit her teeth.

“Thanks,” she managed. She slid down the ladder up ahead of her and took a look around. Somewhere in the wards, she figured.

“There’s a sky-car lot up ahead of me, Brooks. Could you find me a path there?” Shepard asked.

“Ah, yes! Of course!” Brooks replied nervously. Shepard tried very hard not to roll her eyes as she wove her way through the wards. She came up on some kind of market, and she caught sight of another group of mercs barrelling towards her.

“There she is!” one of them called. Shit. This outfit really wasn’t built for stealth, huh? God, she’d kill for a rifle right about now. Instead, she slipped back into her tactical cloak and hid behind a fruit stand. What a weird fucking day.

“Shepard! Are you alright?” It was a relief to hear Garrus’ voice, even if it was only through her earpiece. Tension she didn’t realize she’d been carrying dissipated, ever so slightly.

“I’m fine, but I could use a hand,” she said ruefully, aiming an incendiary blast directly to the face of one of her attackers.

“Joker sent me your location, I’m on my way,” he said immediately.

“This is a secure channel!” Brooks cut in. “You’re putting Commander Shepard at risk!”

“I’m what? Who is this?” Garrus demanded.

“Brooks, Garrus. Garrus, this is Brooks,” Shepard said. “Now please hush, it's a little hard to kill mercenaries with people arguing in my ear.”

“Shepard, I am sending backup to your location,” EDI said.

“Sounds good, things are getting a little dicey here,” Shepard replied. She glanced over the fruit stall and had to duck quickly as a drone came barrelling towards her. It exploded directly next to her, sending pieces of watermelon and blueberries flying.

“I will attempt to register surprise,” EDI said dryly. Shepard grinned crookedly at that. She dashed forward as another round of mercs came at her. She spent the next several minutes fading in and out of invisibility, running hell for leather past the mercs. Her legs, miraculously, stayed upright. Small mercies. She pulled into the car lot and slammed the door shut behind her. A shot zipped past her, missing by inches. … “Having a bad day, Shepard?” Garrus called. He took out the merc that had shot at her, and scanned the area for any more threats. It looked like they were clear for the moment. Now to find a way out of the lot.

“You could say that,” she said, pushing flyaway hairs away from her face. “Let’s look for a control panel.” His eyes finally came to rest on her and his breath stuttered in his throat. She was wearing that thing humans called a ‘suit,’ but not like any he’d ever seen before. His mouth was suddenly too dry.

“Nice outfit,” he managed. The look she gave him was unimpressed, but he wasn’t thinking with his brain at the moment. “Ah, control panel. Right.”

Shepard strode through the lot and glanced into the darkened office. She gently tapped on the glass. Garrus hurried after her.

“Could you open the doors up?” she said politely. The doors opened a second later. “Much appreciated.”

“Please leave,” the volus inside pleaded.

Garrus motioned for Shepard to stay behind him. Only one of them was armoured, after all. She raised an eyebrow and took point.

“So...you fell through a fish tank?” he ventured.

“We’ll talk about it later,” she replied.

“Damn shame,” he said, and now he was just doing it for the reaction. Midnight blue fabric. Not thinking with his brain. “I hear it was the best on the Citadel.”

“We’ll talk about it later,” she said more firmly, but there was a twinkle in her eyes. He gave her arm a quick squeeze, and then they both stepped onto the landing zone. That Brooks person had apparently radioed to say that a C-Sec shuttle was on the way. When it appeared though, the door opened to reveal a group of the same mercs that had been attacking Shepard. Garrus ducked down and dragged her with him. Bullets skittered across the ground around them.

“Any chance I could borrow that Widow of yours?” she asked breathlessly. He looked at her incredulously.

“I must not have heard you right,” he said. “You definitely did not just ask to borrow my favourite gun.” She opened her mouth to reply, and then her eyes widened.

“Do you hear that?” she asked.

“Hear what?”

“Krogan coming through!” Wrex bellowed, soaring through the air. He slammed down onto the front of the shuttle, sending half of the mercenaries flying. He mowed his way through the other half, shooting, punching, and in one case, launching them off the shuttle. Shepard was grinning wildly.

“Wrex! What are you doing here?” she asked, running forward.

“Negotiating krogan expansion with the Council,” he explained. “But that AI of yours said there’d be a fight. So here I am.”

“Glad you could make it to the party," Garrus lied through his teeth.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Wrex said. He clapped Garrus on the shoulder harder than necessary. “Figured Shepard would need some help, if you’re the only backup she has.”

“Try to keep up, old man,” Garrus shot back.

“It may have escaped your notice, but we are being shot at right now, boys,” Shepard said dryly. Ah, right. Fair point. ... Once they were clear, they gathered in Shepard’s new apartment. Brooks was pacing back and forth, and Shepard put a steadying hand on her shoulder.

“Are you okay?” she asked quietly.

“Me? I got shot! Like, with an actual bullet. I took a desk job so I wouldn’t get shot! They said the medi-gel might make me jumpy, do I seem jumpy to you?” Brooks said.

“Hey, hey,” Shepard said soothingly, the voice she usually reserved for grieving families. “It’s okay. You’re safe here.”

“We need to stop those guys, they might hurt more innocent people! Like me! I got shot!”

“Yes. Do we have any leads?” Shepard asked. The door to the apartment opened gently and Liara stepped through.

“I may have some suggestions on that,” she said. “Are you alright, Shepard?”

“I think my ribs are bruised again, but what else is new?” Shepard said ruefully. “That C-Sec shuttle should have had officers in it. I’ll get in touch with Commander Bailey, see what happened,” Shepard said, punching in the number in her omni-tool.

“Wait!” Brooks said. Everyone turned to look at her. “Uh, wouldn’t anyone you contact also become a target?”

“She’s got a point,” Garrus said.

Shepard nodded brusquely. “You're right. We keep this between us for now.”

“Fortunately, I’ve brought a few people who can help,” Liara said cheerfully. The door was knocked on its hinges as every member of her crew -- and a few people who weren’t -- filed in. The apartment was large, but even so Shepard was going to need to figure out where to put all of these people. What, was there an event going on at the Citadel right now that had brought them all there? Well, besides her attempted assassination.

“The riff-raff have arrived. Garrus, hide the silverware.” Shepard’s voice was pitched to carry.

“Up yours, Shepard,” Jack shot back.

“What she said,” Zaeed added.

"I'll go see what I can find. Come find me when you have a moment," Liara said.

Shepard wandered around to speak with everyone, but it all just seemed to be variations on the theme of “haha Shepard ruined the sushi restaurant” or “Shepard, how could you destroy that sushi restaurant”? Evidently they’d collectively decided to forget that she hadn't exactly chosen to be shot at. What compassionate friends she had, she thought wryly. She gave up after a while and went to talk to Liara.

“What's the word?” she asked. The others slowly gathered around. There was barely enough room for them all to stand together.

“That pistol you found, it’s not available anywhere on the market. I’ve tracked it to a weapons dealer named Elijah Khan. He owns a casino nearby. They’re holding a charity event tonight,” Liara explained.

“So we sneak in and talk to this Khan guy?” Ash asked.

“My sources tell me he’s locked himself in his panic room. We would need someone to sneak inside this vent system.” Liara pulled up a map of the casino interior. “And deactivate the lock.”

“I say we blow the place to high heaven,” Zaeed suggested.

“I’m in,” Wrex said immediately.

“I’m open to other suggestions,” Shepard said. “Any other suggestions.” Zaeed politely flipped her off.

“Bringing a large group would arouse suspicion,” Thane said thoughtfully. “A covert infiltration would be best.” Shepard nodded.

“Alright, just a small crew then. I’ll need someone to take point with me, and then someone else will crawl through that vent,” Shepard said. “Any takers for the vent?” She looked around the room for volunteers. They were not forthcoming.

“Mechs are not allowed in case they are used for cheating. Legion and I will not be able to enter,” EDI explained. Shepard’s eyes swung to Tali and she raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t look at me!” Tali protested. “They’d uh...pick up my suit!” Shepard shrugged.

“What you need is somebody trained in zero-emissions tech. No electronics, no metal. Just undetectable polymers. We had a course back at Op-Int, disabling a bomb with these little tweezers. See, the bomb was filled with shaving cream…” Brooks trailed off as she realized everyone was looking at her. Shepard smiled at her reassuringly.

“Alright Brooks, you’re our alternate,” she said.

“What? Me? I couldn’t...what do you mean alternate?” Brooks asked. Shepard smiled ruefully.

“I wouldn’t want to put you in more danger. You’ve already been shot once. And since I’ve had two gun mods go missing since I got back, I have a sneaking suspicion that there’s someone here who can lend a helping hand. Kasumi?”

The galaxy’s best thief materialized, sitting on the kitchen counter. She had a cheeky grin under her hood.

“You’re getting very good at that,” she said cheerfully.

“Sure would’ve been awkward if I’d been wrong,” Shepard replied wryly.

“Damn, I should’ve stayed hidden!”

“What do you say to a heist with me?” Shepard asked. Kasumi hopped down from the counter and sketched a bow.

“I’d be delighted,” she said.

“There’s just one problem,” Liara cut in.

“Current estimate: 57 problems and counting,” Mordin replied. “Additional 34 if you decide to take the krogan.” Shepard couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across her face.

“Well, one of the problems is that it’s black-tie only,” Liara said. Shepard raised an eyebrow and glanced down at her outfit. It was still damp from crashing through a fish tank, but otherwise undamaged.

“Will this do?” she asked, motioning to the suit.

“It’ll more than do,” Garrus said huskily, and then coughed awkwardly when several sets of eyes turned to look at him. “What? I’m just answering the question.”

“Who’s going with us then?” Kasumi asked, and Shepard grinned.

Bright lights flashed in Shepard’s eyes as she and Garrus walked down the literal red carpet, arm-in-arm. Maybe one day they’d get to go somewhere nice without worrying about a nefarious plot. For now, she was on vacation and she was going to enjoy herself, attempts on her life be damned.

“You clean up well,” Shepard commented. He had on another of those intricate turian outfits, with more buckles than fabric, in a combination of black and white. He wore it well. They were, she imagined, quite a striking couple. For one, they were a good head taller than anyone else. For two, well...

“Yeah? Then it’s a damn shame that all eyes are on you,” Garrus replied.

“I did the best I could without a carapace or a crest,” she said wryly.

“Well your best has my mandible on the floor. Damn!” he said easily.

“You two are adorable,” Kasumi said from somewhere to Shepard’s left. Shepard flushed a brilliant red, and she heard Kasumi laugh brightly.

Shepard and Garrus mingled with the wealthy clientele, occasionally providing support for Kasumi as she travelled through the vents. Shepard realized, suddenly, that this was the bright and shining culture she’d seen from afar when she was younger. This was what she’d wanted to experience. As far as she was concerned, they could keep it.

Distracting the guards to disable the alarms wasn’t exactly a walk in the park, but they managed it. But when they arrived in the panic room, Khan was already dead. Shit.

“It’s never that easy, huh?” Garrus asked.

“He received a call a few minutes before he died. Give them a ring and I’ll see if I can trace it,” Kasumi said. The large screen behind the desk flickered to light and a figure appeared on the screen. Their face was concealed by static, and their voice was altered.

“Elijah? Come crawling back?” they asked.

“Guess again,” Shepard said. Kasumi's hands flashed across her omni-tool.

“You. I see you’ve recovered from flopping on the floor like a fish.”

“You’ll have to do better than that. The last guy that trash-talked me was a few kilometres taller than you.” Shepard leaned back, crossing her arms.

“Brave. I thought as much, but it won’t matter. You have nothing. All you can do is wait for the hammer to fall. I’m going to take everything you have, and everything you are.” The call ended.

“Gotcha,” Kasumi said brightly.

“Shepard, someone’s wiped the drive. Bit of a messy job though, there might be something left,” Garrus said.

“Between EDI, Legion, and Tali, I’m sure we’ll be able to find something. Let’s go.”

They were once more gathered around the pool table, now with even less room than before. They were discussing the information they’d been able to find on Khan’s drive, mostly information about the guns that Shepard’s attackers had bought. Glyph flew over and hovered above the table, flashing red.

“Commander, I have found your Spectre code being used at the Citadel Archives,” he said.

“What would they want there?” Shepard asked.

“Shall we go find out?” Liara said.

“But who? We can’t bring everyone,” Brooks piped up. Shepard grinned.

“Why not?” she asked. “All hands on deck for this one.”

“Very well, but who will take point with you?” Liara asked. Wrex coughed pointedly. And then Javik coughed even more pointedly. Tali coughed politely, but also pointedly.

“Garrus and Jack, you’re with me. Everyone else, divide up into three teams of whoever is least likely to want to kill each other.”

“What happens if I want to kill bird-brain?” Jack asked.

“Think happy thoughts,” Shepard suggested.

“Those are my happy thoughts,” Jack replied snarkily. Ah. Some things never changed.

They’d barely made it into the archives when they walked into a trap. The others were up on the catwalks above, and every door in the room slammed shut. A figure appeared behind Brooks and pressed a gun to her temple. They were shadowed, and even Shepard’s excellent vision couldn’t quite make them out.

“Don’t move, or she dies,” they said.

“Who are you?” Shepard demanded. The figure chuckled darkly.

Why do I know that voice? Shepard wondered. The figure tossed Brooks aside, and strode forward into the light. She wore the same uniform as the mercs, but her face…Shepard stared back at her own Roman nose and burning red hair. Only not quite. This nose had never been broken, and there wasn’t the familiar patchwork quilt of scar tissue across her face and neck.

“I’m you, but better,” the other Shepard said. “Without all the doubts and the wear and tear.”

“Huh. This officially takes the cake for the weirdest thing that’s happened to me,” Shepard said. “Let me rephrase: what the fuck is going on?”

“Cerberus spared no expense when it came to bringing you back. Me, they made for spare parts, in case you needed an arm, or a lung, or a kidney. When they had you, they discarded me,” her clone snapped. Shepard’s brows knit together.

“Well if you’re me, then we should be working together,” she said. The clone scoffed.

“Why would I bother helping you? Why should I care? You took everything from me, and now I’m going to take everything from you. But there was no way I’d fool your friends, so I needed to get rid of them as well. All the people that turned their backs of their responsibilities to join the cult of Shepard,” the clone spat. The cult of Shepard…?

“No one will ever believe you’re me,” Shepard said, trying a different tactic.

“Sure they will, when I’m flying your ship,” the clone replied. Shepard froze and then immediately started keying into her omni-tool.

“Traynor, I need you to lock down the ship, understood? Here are the command codes,” she said quickly. Her clone smirked and waved a hand in front of her.

“Good idea, if only that message had been sent,” she said. She keyed up her own omni-tool and raised her voice slightly. “Traynor, this is Shepard. Prepare for departure. Here are the command codes.”

Shepard’s hands balled up into fists. “It’ll be a cold day in hell before someone steals my ship.”

The clone shrugged nonchalantly. “We’ll see about that.” She turned to leave.

“Tell me,” Shepard called after her. “Do you know your own name?”

“It’s Joan,” the clone replied smugly. Shepard grinned, baring her teeth.

“Guess again,” she said, and she activated her tactical cloak.

They fought their way through the archives, the other teams racing on the catwalks above. Liara’s information drone, Glyph, scouted ahead. Occasionally he returned, saying that he mistook the clone for Shepard. Shepard tried very hard not to roll her eyes, and she mostly succeeded.

“The other Shepard’s still alive!” one of the mercs yelled.

“The next person who says that is a dead man!” the clone snapped over the comms.

“An accurate observation,” Legion said.

“What do I do??” Brooks cried. “They’re firing at me!”

“Just follow Shepard's lead and let us do all the heavy lifting!” Liara called.

“Touché, T'Soni!” Garrus shot back.

“Think you comedians could actually hit something?” Shepard shouted, ducking to avoid oncoming enemy fire.

They forged on through the archives, passing by clips of history. One by one, the teams stopped responding. Shepard pushed on faster, concern creeping up on her. And so she rushed headlong directly into a trap that she should’ve seen coming. Shepard set foot onto a platform and a forcefield appeared around her, Jack, and Garrus

The clone stepped forward, smiling smugly. Shepard tried to shoot her, but the force-field stopped the bullets dead. Shit. Shepard felt light-headed. She was locked in a small space. A very small space. Oh god, such a small space. Her heart hammered in her chest and she fought to control her breathing. She reached for her familiar, cold veneer. Like hell she was going to show weakness in front of the enemy.

“Well well, the great Commander Shepard. But not for very much longer.”

“Where are my friends?” Shepard spat.

“Locked up in iridium vaults forever. And it’s all your fault,” her clone taunted.

“The Alliance will stop you--” Shepard began.

“Will they?” Her clone cut her off. “What do you think, Staff Analyst Brooks?” Brooks sauntered forward from the shadows.

“I wouldn’t know.” Her voice had shifted, becoming deeper, more assured. “I don’t actually work for them.”

“You bitch,” Jack spat.

“I’m with Jack on this one,” Garrus said. Shepard arched an eyebrow and crossed her arms. When she spoke, her voice wasn’t her own.

“This feels like the time when the villain explains their grand plan,” she said. “So what the hell?”

“Really we just wanted your Spectre codes,” Brooks explained. “But then you had to insist on surviving. So, I had to improvise.”

“Then I must say, I'm impressed,” Shepard said.

“Oh?”

“Your optimism is impressive,” Shepard clarified. “You threw, what, fifty mercs at me and you thought that would finish me off? For such a smart woman, that's remarkably short-sighted of you.”

“I think I've made up for it now. Let's see you get out of a locked box.”

“What, this? No, I've been in far worse situations than this. Last week I was trapped at the bottom of an ocean in a mech. This is nothing.”

“You seem remarkably calm for a dead woman,” Shepard’s clone said. Shepard’s eyes flicked to her and she sneered.

“I could say the same of you. You can change the records, but that doesn’t mean a damn thing. You know the name on my file, but you don’t know the first thing about me. How are you going to convince Anderson or Hackett or--”

“Or General Shepard?” Brooks cut her off. “We’ll deal with her.”

Shepard stilled. Her erratic heartbeat settled. Her words, when they came, were soft. “If you threaten her again, I will make you wish that I’d only killed you.”

“That's quite a threat. I might even be afraid, if Commander Shepard had said it. But you're nobody,” Brooks said.

“And you're on borrowed time,” Shepard replied. Brooks' expression faltered, just a tiny bit, at whatever she saw in Shepard’s eyes. Shepard’s clone scoffed loudly, breaking through the tense silence.

“You know the one thing about us that they can’t replace? Our handprint. It changes based on life experiences,” the clone said. Shepard thought of the scars that used to twist across her palms. “But now I’m going to replace yours.” The clone pulled up a terminal and pressed her hand down.

“Hello, Commander Shepard,” the computer said. The clone grinned smugly.

“Goodbye,” Brooks murmured. “I guess this is where legends go to die.” She and the clone waltzed away, seemingly without a care in the world. The platform jerked beneath Shepard and walls slowly closed around her.

“I’m going to strangle them,” Shepard vowed.

“I’m all for that, but we’re still trapped in this fucking box,” Jack pointed out.

“With limited air,” Garrus added. Shepard hummed noncommittally.

“Hey Glyph, you still out there?” she called.

“Yes Commander.”

“Get us out of this thing, and then go find the others. Nobody steals my ship, not even me.”

Joker pulled up in a sky car just as the last stragglers pulled themselves up onto the roof.

“I’ve got room for Shepard and two more, and you better decide fast because those assholes are stealing my baby,” he snapped.

“I could drive--” Shepard said.

“NO!” The sound of the entire crew shouting the word echoed across the rooftop.

“Fine,” Shepard muttered. “Garrus and EDI, with me.”

“I wanted to go,” Wrex grumbled.

“You should have thought of that before you insulted my driving,” Shepard said. “Joker will be back for you soon.”

Joker hit the pedal to the floor as soon as everyone was in the car. A moment later, there was a whirring sound from the back seat.

“They’re trying to take control of the ship--” EDI said. Her eyes spun around, and sparks flew off of her. She shut down.

“Crap,” Garrus said. EDI powered back up, her eyes still askew.

“Are you...okay?” Joker ventured.

“I am functional, but I have no control of the Normandy. I feel...lost,” EDI said brokenly.

“Don’t worry, we’ll have you back in no time. You have my word,” Shepard said.

“Thank you.”

They arrived on the Normandy just as it was starting to pull away. Traynor was in the entryway, sputtering various unflattering things about Shepard. She caught sight of Shepard and she held her toothbrush threateningly in front of her.

“What’s going on?” she demanded. “You were...you were back there! I was minding my own business, and then you marched in and fired me! I barely had time to grab my toothbrush!”

Shepard held up her hands. “That’s a Cision Pro Mark IV. It uses tiny mass effect fields to break up plaque and massage the gums. I know that because you told me, because I’m the real Shepard. The one you saw earlier was a clone.”

“I--”

“I wish I had time to explain, but we need to get on the ship. No one knows it better than you do, Traynor,” Shepard said quickly. Traynor thought for a second. Apparently she decided to go along with it, because she leaned down to examine the ground.

“There should be a ventilation shaft around...here.” She pulled up a piece of the floor. EDI shook her head.

“You would need something that could precisely manipulate mass effect fields,” she explained. Shepard met Traynor’s eyes, and Traynor determinedly turned on her toothbrush.

Crawling through a shaft wasn’t exactly ideal for Shepard’s over six-foot frame, but she just about managed it.

“If you’d told me this morning that a toothbrush was going to save the Normandy, I’d have been very skeptical,” she whispered. “Remind me to reimburse Traynor, I think it broke.”

“Shepard, you--” EDI began.

“Later. Remind me later.”

They opened the grate into the CIC with guns blazing. The mercenaries were no match for them. EDI looked like she was running on sheer, unadulterated rage. She grabbed hold of a dying mercenary. Her voice was like ice. “Where are they?”

“Cargo bay,” the merc managed.

“Thank you for your assistance,” EDI said, and shot him in the face. Shepard met Garrus’ eyes and shrugged helplessly. They made their way to the elevator, and Shepard’s heart dropped to the floor. Mako’s cage, along with her carefully assembled collection of model ships, was resting in a garbage bin. There was a note on top with handwriting that was almost (but not quite) the same as Shepard’s.

“Please get rid of this, a ship is no place for…oh that is so not okay. They messed with my hamster guys. Now it’s personal,” Shepard hissed.

“Was it not personal before?” Garrus asked.

“I-- well, yeah. But Mako’s defenceless. What was a little hamster going to do to them--”

“I suggest we keep moving,” EDI cut in.

“Right, right. Of course.” Shepard hit the button on the elevator.

#shakarian #mass effect #me2 #me3 #commander shepard #garrus vakarian #oc: joan shepard #50/50 odds i delete this in an hour but who knows #did i write a 100k+ word story so that i could write the citadel dlc? mayhaps

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exilevilifyrp · 7 years ago

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file: introduction

full name: theon wyndham age: 27 identifies with: the consolations of philosophy - max richter genesis: hybrid gender: cis-male (he/him) portrayal: dane dehaan

file: biography

2151 – Birth

Some people are sure to be disbelieving and say,

“But how can a computer possibly produce a great symphony, a great work of art, a great new scientific theory?”

The retort I am usually tempted to make to this question is,

“Can you?”

- Isaac Asimov, Our Intelligent tools

2156 – Interest in robotics starts.

It starts with a visit at a museum, a story about the ascension of technology in human history and a robot dinosaur. Lola Wyndham is not quite sure where the posters come from after that, but she suspects her husband. After all, he was known to spoil the little boy. They’re not so bad, she thinks. Better robots than those violent games, highly advertised on the vids. Still, the mother cannot quite remember the last time she saw her son socializing with other children or open one of those innocent little video games Granny gave him. She’s anxious. The only times they exchange words now are when she shows interest in the posters. Then words leave his mouth with excitement. The doctors had said that nothing was wrong with Theon, far from it actually. The young boy could speak and read at the age of three years old. A prodigy, they said.

“Mother.” His voice is small and shy. Blue eyes, which he inherited, fall to the sweet features of his son’s face, attention now driven away from her work. A paper is placed in her hands and she closes the screen in front of her temporarily, setting her work aside in order to examine the gift she just received. A gasp escapes her lips and he frowns. Bringing her onto her legs, her long finger points at something on the drawing he just gave her. “Theon, dear. What does it mean?” It is with very simple words that her son explains the drawing. “It could help you walk.” A device to help her move around the house, since her legs do not work anymore. The drawing, if she could call it that, is not exactly the typical drawing usual five years old gave to their mothers with pride. It seems more like a blue print for a device, his small writing in the margins, arrows pointing from explanations to detailed pieces of the device. Lola’s heart cannot take it anymore and she kisses the top of his head softly. Five years old and Theon is already too aware of the world around him.

A mother always worry. It is a curse and a blessing at the same time. Years pass and she keeps her eyes on her son. He is soft, and does not quite get why the other children cannot comprehend mechanics as well as he does. He is not unkind, though. He does not shout, or cry. He keeps to himself mostly, even from his own parents. Theon is well above his years. She thinks (she hopes) that he will let go of his obsession. Metal litters the floor of the room usually intended to be his bedroom. Now sleep evades him, a fickle companion. At least Arthur is not too mad when he trips over small inventions all over the house. Lola knows her husband would have preferred if his son would have taken interest in the arts or philosophy, like his father. They fear for him.

Geniuses do not go unnoticed in Wrotham, especially from corporations.

2159 – First convention.

He is eight years old when he attends his first convention.

The funny thing, he observes, is that the other attendees believe him to be another mindless child. They overlook him. It insults him a bit. He read already all of their research and he could find faults in almost all of them. It is worse when he is called on the stage, with the goal of presenting his new patent. Laughs erupt from the crowd when he realizes he is barely able to reach the microphone. His fingers drum against the desk in front of him. He tries to find Arthur and Lola in the crowd. Lola’s soft features always calmed his mind. But instead, his gaze falls on two weird characters, sitting in the back. Their clothes are different, more refined than the others. Wealth is exuded from their attitude, and Theon is fascinated. They are not laughing, he observes. He is glad.

The crowd silences itself when he explains how using a different kind material for the IBA cell could improve efficiency by 15.8765%, thus permitting better hologram imaging and communication during certain situation, especially military ones. He rebuffs arguments with facts and calculations.

Theon learns that adults are petty then. Words are thrown but his age is the only true obstacle to the veracity of his research. Arthur and Lola find him afterwards, Theon can see the worry on their face. How he hates it. They are not big fans of his experiments, even though they always show a positive front when he tried to explain them. He thinks, with regret, that perhaps they’re the same as the other adults. He loves them anyway. Will always do, of course. The young family is about to leave, Arthur navigating Lola through the crowd, in the hover chair Theon made her months ago. A featherlike touch on his shoulder makes him stop in his track and he turns. The two individuals he saw earlier are standing there, in front of him. Perfect skin, impeccable clothes. Arthur and Lola seem nervous at the sight of them. “Hello Mr. Wyndham, my name is Rachael. Here is my partner Rick. We work for Artificial Insights. We would like to discuss scholarships…”

Theon later learns that Rachael and Rick are Synthetics. Humans with artificial and robotic limbs. In the car, where they explain him that they’re sending him to one of top robotic schools, Theon remarks how Rick is barely looking at him. It annoys him.

2169 – Artificial Insights & Phase I: Synthetics process

“We are delighted to offer you a position here at Artificial Insights, Mr. Wyndham. We hope our partnership will be long and fruitful.” Theon forces a small smile to appear on his face, the conventional response to this type of interaction. He would admit that working with machines most of the time did a lot for his social anxiety. Calculations and research do not argue or judge him. Androids did not have the mind to look at him, see only the bags under his eyes, his frail exterior. Androids did not care. Rachael smiles a little, quasi encouragingly. She knows him enough by now to know how uncomfortable he is. The show is for the people sitting on each of her sides. It is the first time Theon meets Rachael’s superiors. Serious men and women, barely looking up at the file in front of them. They tell him they are impressed by his curriculum. Top graduate from all his schools. He is a good return on investment. The sentence irritates Theon. His fingers drum on the table, nervously. They think of him as a thing, expendable. Theon is now eighteen years old, and will probably become the youngest employee of the company. Numerous research of his are being published and applied already. It resonates in his head; an unwanted conundrum.

“In this mindset,” Rachael’s voice shatters the train of thought, forces him to raise his eyes to look at them, “you will find all the details regarding the process for Synthetic transformation. You have to understand that we invested highly in you, and we would like our partnership to last.” Again, with the financial idioms. The woman in front of him continues to talk about the specifics but Theon’s blue hues are already reading the material in front of him. Excitement runs through his veins. He remembers the offer he made them, some years ago. Even with the scholarship that brought him where he was, a mind like his would be highly useful to any other corporations. His mind is the only thing that is not replaceable. He needs to protect it.

Synthetic transformation in exchange of an 80 years work contract. His signature is barely readable on the documents, hand shaking with apprehension.

2173.0 – Death of Parents in Riots

Arthur and Lola Wyndham are only two more names among others in the already long list of victims from the 2173 riots in Krenel. The irony of their death does not go unnoticed. They are becoming more and more numerous, the protests against the rise of technology, against robots and androids.

His hands won’t stop shaking as he listens to the man in front of him. The feeling resemble flying – no, more like falling. Theon inherits the house and becomes familiar with a new emotion, guilt. It envelops him and settles in his heart, heavy. Will it become his new home, he ponders.

Grief. It is ugly.

He should’ve called more. Should have listened to his mother pleas ‘come back home for once’. Should’ve done something. Anything. He hadn’t been a very good son. School had started and then work, both intertwined with an endless series of conventions. He was a rising star in robotics engineering, most efficient and useful engineer for Artificial Insights. But all of this, the title and the money, did not keep his parents from dying. Theon inherits the house and transforms it into a lab. With Rachael’s consent, he takes a few days off. Then his mind goes back to what it does best: work. At this point, Theon knows it is a defense mechanism. Some would drink their feelings away. He prefers being useful. Whenever he feels anxious or sad, he plunges nose first into endless calculations, experiments and research. He shuts more people off, mostly because they are distracting.

2173.5 – Theon meets Eliot

Theon grows bored of the conventions after that. Arthur and Lola are not there anymore, anxiously waiting for their son to speak. Offering him small smiles in the crowd to encourage him. They are gone and he feels lost. Days look all the same to him. Work. Eat. Sleep. Repeat. His heart is not in the research, these days. Sleep evades him once more, and his patience thins with each seconds that pass. Only the sound of the assembling machines calms his mind. Sometimes, he goes down, in the lowest levels of his building. He likes to watch them waking up, the androids. They’re not really alive, he knows that. But Theon appreciates the symbolism – starting new, a mind virgin of emotions and feelings. On the opposite side, he feels just like them. A simple cog in a bigger machine. He’s an investment, after all. Just like them.

Work. Eat. Sleep. Repeat.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t want to interrupt your presentation.” Theon lifts his eyes from his scientific journal, wonders who dared approach him in public. His colleagues usually stir away from him. After all, he is far from being an expert at conversations. The engineer recognizes the features of the man before him. The presentation had gone to hell, voice faltering when a participant decided to interfere. The problem wasn’t the interruption, actually. It was the fact that Theon never saw it. His mistake. He’s caught off guard by it and his mind obsesses over it as soon as the stage leaves his sight. Miscalculation, or simple Brows knit, he tilts his head. “Then why did you do it?” The question burns his tongue as the words leave his mouth. A chuckle escapes the other man’s lips and the sound shakes Theon to his core. He straightens up in his seat as the other man takes place on the empty chair in front of him. “Alright, alright. You got me. Would you look over the data, though? I really want your opinion on this.”

He grabs the tablet from the other’s hand, their fingers brushing.

Theon feels alive again. Even more so as Eliot’s lips, months later, become a recurrent light, fleeting touch.

2175 – 2175 Massacre

Wind blows slowly through the opened windows. The silence is heavy in the darkness. The city stops moving for a millisecond. It holds its breath as the fire eats the void above their heads. Music can be heard in the background, faintly. A whisper murmured to the crowd. Its name is Destruction. It’s a glitch, he thinks. The sirens are crying in the night. This is just a simple, easily reparable mistake in calculations.

He’ll wake up the next morning, and Eliot will be there. In his arms. Already awake, fully functional. He will kiss Theon, softly, tenderly. Run a hand in his hair. A whisper ‘wake up my love’ will flee in the air, will lose itself in the seemingly stopped time. Coffee will burn his tongue and Duke Ellington will play in the background. A normal morning. Theon will listen to the drunken stories of one of his colleague at work, might even try a small smile to show his appreciation for the tale. Eliot will go back to his research and come back after a hard day at work, head full of ideas and optimism.

It’s only a glitch, Theon thinks. An irregularity in the system. He can repair it. He’s good at this. His eyes fixes the vids as red and bloodied crescents mark the fair skin of his forearm. Eliot is not there the next morning. Only Death kisses him back, brings him news of destruction and despair. For the second time in his life, he wonders ‘why not me?’

Eliot dies in the riots, his mind forever lost.

2176 to 2177 – Data’s creation & Depression

A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.

A robot must obey the orders given it by human beings except where such orders would conflict with the First Law.

A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Laws.

- The Three Laws, from the Handbook of Robotics, 56th Edition, 2058 A.D.

“According to the data–”

“Oh, please Eli. Stop with your data already. Everything is going to be fine. I did the calculations myself.”

“One, you’re not infallible and second, the dat–”

“You’re not him!”

Data does not flinch at Theon’s raised voice, because Data is not human. An android, a perfect and flawless android. Top of his category, because he doesn’t fit in the usual categories. He’s made from scratch, from stolen equipment from his old job. All of Eliot’s research is incorporated in the main matrix. Data can learn. And speak. And asks questions.

Theon knows he can get arrested. Company property theft, uncatalogued Artificial Intelligence. Non-tested research. Utilisation of rare materials for personal purposes. The list gets longer each times he thinks about it.

The android looks like him, talks like him, smile like him. But he is not him. Data barely moves when his creator strikes him. Control is not something he has much, these days. The alcohol burns his tongue coming in and coming out. How inefficient. Theon hates himself with such fervor then. Especially as Data holds him there, on the floor, ignoring his creator trying to wrestle his way out of the robotic grip. Theon wakes as Data presses a damp cloth on his forehead. The engineer had never been so embarrassed of his own actions than now.

Where is the line between genius and madness? When does one falls so deep into a pit of despair, he cannot see the way out anymore?

Theon is crying as he erases this memory from Data’s core the next day. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

file: known associates

NOOMI WEXLER - though wexler corporation was a mere enigma to most, you had uncovered the truth many moons prior. perhaps maintaining it as the unknown would make a far wiser idea, but curiosity would soon unravel a mass of torturous activities and an unwanted truth - actions so cruelly human. it’s a secret you have long since kept, but you wonder how long one can remain silent when another experiment has now appeared.

THIS CHARACTER IS UNAVAILABLE.

#closed #theon #all #hybrid

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khiroptera · 8 years ago

Text

two single hearts on fire, currently on the wire

Rating: M Fandom: Mass Effect: Andromeda Relationship: Jaal Ama Darav/Sara Ryder Genre: Fluffy Smut (no sex actually happens though cough cough) Summary: This was nothing like their previous kisses, so light and pure that Liam and Peebee would tease them for it with gagging noises behind their backs. And honestly, Sara loved those kisses. Each one said ‘darling, dearest, you’re beautiful, I adore you.’

This kiss, however, was full of desire, the longing Sara had kept contained in fear of scaring Jaal away.

(aka Sara and Jaal accidentally make out in the tech lab.) AO3 LINK

basically i was like "bioware. you can't do one fluffy kiss and then 5 minutes later show them fucking. where's the inbetween??" so i wrote the inbetween! i like to think this is the reason jaal invited her to aya. they had a... moment and it encouraged him. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

The tech lab was quiet, save for the sounds of metal on metal as pieces were taken apart and put back together. Sara screwed the plate back onto her gun, before turning it over in her hands, a small smile on her face. Behind her, she heard Jaal sigh softly, content.

She and Jaal had been spending more time together since she met his family on Havarl. No matter where he was on the ship, she’d stop by for a quick hug and an exchange of smiles, sometimes a passing kiss. The crew was probably sick of it by this point, but it was hard to care when Jaal’s starry blue eyes would gaze down at her—a look of such utter reverence that Sara found it hard to breathe. She hoped he could see the same in her own eyes, that she could express just how much she cared for him in the same way. By the way his pupils would dilate, oh so very slightly, she thought that perhaps he saw it too.

Lately, they would take their time screwing around with their gun modifications on the tech lab. Truth be told, Sara wasn’t the biggest techie—Scott loved to mess with both their guns and armor, sometimes without telling her. Too many times, she’d go out to the shooting range, pull out her gun, and find that the kick-back was extremely high, like knock you backwards ten feet high. She’d get her revenge with her biotics though. That was one thing she had over her twin—she’d dicked around with her biotics so much, she’d perfected the art of smacking someone else upside the head with their own arm.

Right here and now, messing with her shotgun, her biotics weren’t much help at all. She pressed the switch that would fold her weapon into compact size, but frowned when nothing happened. Flicking the switch over and over only caused the gun to shudder. She groaned.

“Dear one?” Jaal asked, and she heard him leave his chair and come up behind her. She turned to look back up at him, waving the malfunctioning gun around.

“I messed up one of the functions. Now it won’t contract.” She sighed.

“Ah.” He hunched over her, his face above her shoulder as his hands came around her to fiddle with the gun. “Let me take a look,” he said, his low voice beside her ear, and Sara felt her heart beat just a little faster. He smelled so nice, clean and a little flowery. Freesia, she always compared it to, though she knew that plant had never existed in this galaxy.

She watched his hands take apart her gun, and noted that he’d taken his gloves off. Her face was warm as she studied his fingers, deftly prying loose each screw and removing the metal plating delicately. They were purple, like the rest of him, though his palm and the undersides of each finger were pale, like his face. His thumb and index finger were free with their movement, but the rest seemed to be fused—not a single digit, like turians or salarians. There was clear definition there, as though they used to be separated. For a moment, Sara recalled a drell family she’d met on the Citadel. Their hands were similar.

Jaal didn’t usually take his gloves off, and Sara let her mind wander. She’d like to hold his hands, with full skin-to-skin contact. Maybe feel them on her face, holding her close as he’d kiss her. Trailing down her neck, under her shirt…

“There. That should do it.” Jaal patted her gun, back in one piece, and Sara realized that she’d lost track of time, staring at his hands. Cheeks growing far too hot, she looked intently at the gun itself. He flicked the switch, and it folded neatly into shape.

“Thanks. Never had that happen before,” she mumbled. Jaal was still behind her, and his arms came up to wrap around her shoulders, hugging her close.

“It was a simple mishap. One piece was too far to the left.”

“Huh.” Sara shrugged. “Didn’t realize guns were that finicky.”

“Mmm, yes. Especially your alien weapons.” His thumbs stroked her shoulders absent-mindedly. “I’ve had fun taking them apart, but they cause no shortage of headaches.” She smiled, enjoying the moment with him.

He turned his head, and Sara felt him place a quick kiss on her cheek. Grinning, she turned to face him, and his smile had her heart skip a beat. She moved her face to his, kissing him on his own cheek. There was heat there—she’d been getting good at catching Jaal’s blushes. His cheeks and strange neck would flush just a hint of blue. Now that she knew what to look for, Sara enjoyed being the one to cause it.

“Sara,” SAM chimed in. “We will be arriving at Kadara port in approximately one hour.”

“Thanks, SAM.” She made to stand up, and Jaal let go of her, taking a step back to let her out of her seat. He groaned.

“Why must we always return to that awful place?” he said, and Sara couldn’t hold back a small giggle. Jaal hated Kadara so much, it was almost comical how grumpy he’d get. Her amusement didn’t help.

“Sorry. There’s a vid Liam wants that might be at the market, and I know Peebee had some business to take care of.” She patted his arm. “It won’t take long, I promise.”

“I think I would rather stay aboard the Tempest, then.”

“Hey, no one tells you to leave the ship,” she said, laughing again at his frown, and he sighed. “Just saying.”

Sara looked up into his eyes, full galaxies contained in each, and his face softened. She reached her hand up to his face, lightly stroking his cheek, before tugging him down. Jaal immediately understood her intentions, and gracefully bowed his head. He pressed his lips against hers, light and chaste, like all their kisses, and Sara sighed, her stomach growing fuzzy.

Despite being different species from completely different worlds, kissing Jaal felt so normal, so right. His lips were a little firmer than any of the humans she’d done this with, but they held a static to them that tingled, made every kiss feel like their first one.

His hands came up to cup her face, and Sara had forgotten that he’d left his gloves off. They were warm and soft against the skin of her cheek, and she couldn’t help her small whimper against his mouth. Jaal pulled back then, just an inch, looking her straight in her eyes. His pupils had grown wider, and Sara held her breath, waiting.

He kissed her again, more firmly, and she sighed against his mouth. He pulled her bottom lip between his and sucked, gently, which had her pressing closer to him, her hands moving past his face and around his neck. Her skin tingled as Jaal rubbed his thumbs against her cheeks, a small electric current running just underneath her skin—she couldn’t tell if it was Jaal’s bioelectricity or her own excitement—and she impulsively ran her tongue along his lips. He rumbled, low and deep in his chest, before opening his mouth to her. He tasted like the fruit on Aya, and a thrill shot down her spine as he tilted his head, kissing her deeper.

This was nothing like their previous kisses, so light and pure that Liam and Peebee would tease them for it with gagging noises behind their backs. And honestly, Sara loved those kisses. Each one said ‘darling, dearest, you’re beautiful, I adore you.’

This kiss, however, was full of desire, the longing Sara had kept contained in fear of scaring Jaal away. Their relationship was still new; she wasn’t sure how sex between angara worked, or if it was anything like humans; she’d seen him naked that one time with Liam but she’d kept her eyes above his waist, so she really had no idea what he was packing down there—

One of his hands moved to her hair, interrupting her thoughts as it ran through the strands, and he hummed in approval when she sighed. His other hand lowered to her neck, and Sara moaned softly when she felt his thumb brush lightly over the side of it. Her nerves sang with electricity, and some distant part of her felt their legs moving before her back was pressed against the metal wall of the tech lab. Oh.

Jaal pulled away again, quickly, and Sara was shocked to see his hooded eyes so dark, his pupils so round they swallowed up the blue like desperate black holes. His breathing was heavy and everything was going way too fast, but Sara was having a hard time trying to remember why they were ever taking things slow in the first place.

“Darling one,” he said, before ducking his head to kiss her again. “Temptress,” he breathed against the corner of her mouth, kissing down her jaw. Sara felt a whine rise in her throat, her hands running along the ridges on his head. He captured her neck between his lips, moaning against her, and the vibrations ran through her body and straight down her stomach. She pressed her thighs together, wishing to relieve the ache between her legs.

“Ah! Jaal,” Sara felt herself say, unable to control her words, or frankly anything, at this point. The hand at her neck trailed down, past her breasts and to her waist, where he gripped her firmly. He pulled his other hand from her hair to her hip, before grasping her and hoisting her up as though she weighed nothing. Before she could say anything, he pressed against her, encouraging her to wrap her legs around him.

“Sara,” he moaned against her neck, and she gasped when she felt him, hard and pressing insistently against her through their clothes. She rolled her hips against him, and he shuddered. Through her haze of touches and electricity and Jaal, Sara smiled to herself. Whatever was down there felt pretty similar to what she was accustomed to in humans. Maybe they were more compatible than she thought?

She breathed against him, her fingers gently tracing the soft blue ridges that trailed down the side of his head, and Jaal moaned from deep within his chest before surging up to kiss her again. She felt his teeth bite at her lower lip before gently laving it with his tongue. His hips had started to thrust heavily against her, and she met him every time with her own, driving herself mad with how good it all felt.

One particularly hard thrust had Jaal shuddering again, and Sara felt a sense of power well up inside her. Pushing forward, she wrapped her arms around his neck and forcefully kissed him with all she had. Her tongue ran along the inside of his lips, his teeth, teased his own tongue by drawing slow circles, and every harsh breath and low moan she pulled from his mouth felt like its own reward.

His hand ran up underneath her shirt, the tingles of electricity shooting from his fingertips into her skin, while the other reached lower to squeeze her ass, hiking her leg up higher. Sara pressed her fingers a bit more firmly into his ridges, dragging her hands down the length of them. His hips jerked forward, and he groaned loudly into her mouth, a small tinge of desperation in his voice.

“Sara,” he said, breathlessly, and Sara rolled her hips again, grinding herself on him. He gasped, before speaking again. “Sara, I’ve dreamed of this… I never thought—I wasn’t sure if you—”

“I’ve wanted you so bad,” she answered him, kissing at the corners of his mouth. Currents ran under her skin, and she was shaking so hard, could barely even think straight. Sara stared, dazed, at his face, unable to register anything beyond the slide of his length against her, and his beautiful eyes, the color of deep space and the night sky.

“I want to run my hands over your soft skin,” he said, and the hand under her shirt trailed even higher, to her ribs. Sara shivered, and Jaal continued, his mouth trailing kisses to her ear. “I want to feel you naked against me—“ she moaned as he lightly trailed the shell of her ear with his tongue.

“I want to taste you, in all ways…” Jaal couldn’t be stopped now, and he mercilessly whispered to her all his desires and fantasies, never letting up his pace. “I want to watch the stars reflected in your eyes as I bring you to your peak again and again, with my hands—“ his hands rubbed along her skin “—my mouth—“ he licked a long line up her neck, and Sara shuddered hard. “And…” He pressed himself hard into her.

Sara, to her credit, continued to elicit sharp gasps from him with each grind of her hips and flutter of her fingers against his head, but his words were leaving her breathless and close, so close…

“Temptress… I want to lose myself in you,” he moaned into her neck, his voice low and husky. “Make love to you.”

“Jaal… I think I’m gonna…” He jerked his head back to look at her, his dark eyes wild with want. “Just don’t stop,” she whined.

Jaal pushed her even higher against the wall, both hands gripping her hips, and he tightly ground his hard length right where she needed. He leaned his forehead against hers, his breathing mixing with her whimpers and soft moans. Sara felt herself wind higher and higher, his name the only word on her lips, and somewhere in the back of her mind she could tell she was getting really loud, but in the moment she couldn’t find it in herself to care.

“Take it, darling one,” he whispered against her lips. “Let me give you this.”

“Please, please, Jaal—oh god, Jaal, I’m—“

“Pathfinder,” SAM interrupted, and they froze. “We have arrived at Kadara. Landing is scheduled in ten minutes.”

Sara groaned in frustration. Right. She was supposed to have been getting ready for that.

Jaal sighed heavily against her, before sliding her down the wall and carefully helping her to stand. His hands came up to her face, one thumb tracing her bottom lip, swollen from their kisses. She darted her tongue out to taste it, and he shivered. Sara smirked at him.

“Am I making this hard for you, Jaal?” She chuckled at her own joke.

He smiled in response, but his eyes were still dark. “In multiple ways.”

She reached out to him then, and he pulled her into a hug. “It’s okay,” she said, more sincerely. “When we have the time, we can… explore this again. Later.”

He nodded, and they stood there for some time, their hearts calming against each other. His hand ran up and down her back, soothing. It took everything she had not to kiss him again—her intentions were innocent, but after what just happened? There was no telling how far they’d go once they started.

“You two finally done in there?” came a distinct, flanging voice, and Sara jumped. Standing by the doorway to the tech lab was Vetra, a twinkle in her eye. Sara felt her face grow red hot as she and Jaal separated.

“Yes,” Jaal answered, unfazed. “Not that I’d like us to be.”

“Good. I needed to grab something, but the door was open and...” She leaned against the doorway, her arms folded across each other. “Yeah.”

“Ah! We’ll have to remember to close it next time.” Jaal chuckled, placing a hand on Sara’s lower back. Sara’s hands, however, flew up to cover her face. Vetra laughed at her.

“I could hear you two from Engineering. That might have been Gil broadcasting it on the speakers, though,” she teased. Over the comms, she could hear giggling, and it definitely sounded like more than just Gil.

Sara was going to die.

#mass effect: andromeda #jaal ama darav #sara ryder #rydaal #rydarav #i'm still shocked i even wrote this #i always get nervous writing fanfiction lol #[m]fic

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elleleuthold · 8 years ago

Text

Interbellum

This was written for these prompts here, including a dialogue prompt by @the-modern-typewriter.

The newsnet report sets them all off-balance. Three years they’ve been out of the black, three years of making good on their severance packages: a bit of sterilized land to bring back to life, housing, food stipends, all the net access they want. Yeah, it’s Corps-standard housing, with cameras in every corner and bots nestled into the walls, and yes, they’re basically rehabilitating a land-fill with their life-force but it’s theirs, is the thing.

Three years of trying to make something work in this new world, and now there’s a new war.

Rigel tracks the others through the spreading numbness in his face. Vega is signing wide and loud, her face set in a snarl and rage in every line of her frame. Trix sinks to the floor, her personal pad falling from lax fingers. Betel and Phi gravitate toward each other, intertwining until their hands are clenched so tight Rigel can see bones pressed against their skin. Altair stands still as death with his eyes unfocused, hand over his mouth, and it’s only when Vega turns off the feed that they realize he’s bitten his thumb so hard he broke skin.

Rigel feels like he should say something. Something like, We’ll be okay, or Pull together, or even just Squad meeting at 1300, just for the familiarity of it. But they’re not soldiers anymore, not really, and for all that they’ve hung together, their lives are all their own now.

His wrist alert chirps in the silence, a tone of cascading bells that means Laima’s calling him, probably because she saw the report too and wants to check in, wants to make sure he’s okay. He’s not sure he is.

The alert sounds again, unanswered, and that’s enough to break their silent, shared desolation. Betel moves to inspect Altair’s hand and Phi ask Vega to help with the weekly aquaponics maintenance, a request that’s more likely to result in overfed fish than anything else but will at least keep them both distracted.

Trix bolts. Rigel nearly goes after her—the last times she ran is still fresh in his mind, the hiss of the airlock and the cold-sweat horror of watching her float between ships—but they’re on-planet now, and there’s only so much she can get up to. Even paying her bail after yet another bar fight is a fairly tiny sacrifice at the moment, in the wider abyss his world’s just morphed into.

He retreats to his quarters, trying to think of a way to tell Laima, No, I’m not okay, that won’t end in a storm of civilian good intentions on their doorstep.

Trix isn’t at lunch, but that’s fairly normal. Phi and Betel aren’t at lunch either, wrapped up in each other somewhere (he’s not jealous, he just… hopes he gets there someday, with someone, and he’s ridiculously hopeful Laima will be that someone and yet…). He only starts to really worry when Trix doesn’t show up for their evening sparring match. He waits twenty minutes, then strips out of his extra gear and goes looking. Vega’s in the kitchen, blasting club songs and making herself a pick-me-up smoothie.

Have you seen Trix? He signs. She rolls her eyes, the flash of her hands flippant.

She’s out.

He frowns at her. He’s known that much since this morning.

Any idea where?

Nope.

He checks the logs. Unless she’s been screwing with the house again, Trix has been out continuously since just after breakfast. She’d put “town” in the destination marker. Great.

Vega taps him on the shoulder.

Try the docks, she signs, and he sighs and nods his thanks. The spacedocks are not his favorite place these days, but Trix has kept up an attachment, somehow.

He heads back to his quarters to change again, exchanging soft house clothes for, on further thought, the thickest of his explorer suits. It’s Trix, he tells himself as he checks and double-checks each buckle and seal, triple-checks his breather. Stars only know what she’s gotten herself into.

The shuttle is is crowded and stinks of bleach, and the docks themselves aren’t much better. He makes himself search thoroughly, even though the yawning open space over his head makes him question every step he takes. Even though the AstraCorps recruitment drive, previously confined to flickering posters and infrequent net ads, has ticked over into full-burn wartime levels. The Anthem is sounding on repeat from every speaker he crosses. There are people wearing Corps badges handing out flyers. Vid ads flash over buildings, some from the new colony basecamp missions, a few from the old explorer missions, and a handful with actual Operation StarForge footage. He might even be in some of them.

He checks he hasn’t accidentally left any old regalia tagged to his suit and tries not to watch.

A kid with a slap-on badge shoves a glossy bit of paper in his hands and Rigel takes it without comment. It occurs to him, somewhat belatedly, that Trix would hate all this clamor even more than he does. Whatever peace she gets out of looking up at unfiltered sky is probably drowned out by this much insistent humanity. He considers alternatives: The Sol’s day market? One of the not-quite-official Corps bars? No, they’ll be just as crowed as the docks.

He’s thinking about this the wrong way. This isn’t “Trix on a bender” or “where would Trix go.” It’s been nearly 14 hours with no contact. This is “mission parameters exceeded, throw out the book.” If Trix were looking for me, he considers, what would she do?

She’d get some better intel, that’s what she’d do. By whatever means necessary.

He finds her at the edge of the settlement, sitting on a piece of ribbed plastic paneling with half her explo suit shoved down around her hips and her short dark hair standing up in hand-tugged disarray. Her breather gear is settled between her legs, close at hand but not attached.

Fear balloons tight in his gut—she’s so still, and the oxygen content out here is so low, and he never thought she’d be one to take herself out but—but then he kicks through a spray of gravel and she twists around.

“What?” she snaps. Her pupils contract to pinpoints in the glare of his lamp and she turns away again with a huff. He can see her pulse jump in her neck.

“I never thought I’d see you slumming it like…this,” he says. The one thing vets never have to worry about is a properly mixed air supply. After a four year tour in the black, AstraCorps makes sure they’ll never have to fear death by asphyxiation ever again. It’s practically the only thing they really can rely on.

“You weren’t supposed to fucking see it,” she snarls, still not looking at him. “How did you find me?”

“Now, is that the way you greet someone who’s been frantically worried for you?”

She glares out at the darkness.

“It is if you activated my tracer.”

“I don’t have access to that anymore,” he reminds her. He sits next to her and turns off the lamp. The plastic is even more uncomfortable than it looks. “I triangulated your wrist alert instead.”

“Ass,” she says, and he just nods. He’s not her CO and they’re not quite friends, but he thinks she probably knows, in that unspoken space between them, that he was always going to follow. Old habits, and all that.

The darkness folds around them and chill settles into his bones despite the mild weather. He needs a distraction, needs her to keep talking.

He hands her the breather mask and she makes a face, but she takes it.

“I went by the recruiter’s office,” she says after a few breaths. “There was a line out the door and halfway down the street. Kids, mostly. Probably only ever been on an ark ship before. Most’ve them looked like they’ve never had a decent meal in their lives.” She takes another breath of O2 mix, the breather pressing against her cheeks hard. Like she needs it for more than just air.

“They changed the standard package.”

His eyes are adjusting, stars spreading out above them. He hugs his knees.

“How so?” he asks, concentrating on the words.

“There’s a clause for family support for four years, even if you can’t complete the whole stretch, and for four more after if you do. Extra support getting a union-approved job after, too. And they dropped the age minimum again. For training only, it says, but,” she shrugs. “16. Two years of training, two years on tour.”

Rigel hissed through his teeth. Training. They’d all heard that one before. It was amazing, the sorts of missions the brass could pass of as training. Stick an experienced officer in charge and call it a milk run or a systems test and you could be en route anywhere.

“They’ll go over quota,” he says, mostly to hear it aloud. They both know it. A family stipend and job security after? Half the under under-twenties in the colonies will sign on just for better food and air.

“They need officers, too,” Trix says. “There’s a course, for former enlisted. Six months, plus escort runs, and they pop you straight to lieutenant.”

“Awful well prepared, aren’t they,” he says. Awful just about covers it, really. He watches her watch the sky; her breathing is slow and steady. Controlled. Practiced.

“You going to re-up?”

She slumps.

“Yeah,” she sighs. “Yeah, I think I will.”

“Me too.”

She punches him in the arm.

“You hate it up there, I remember how much you hated it. You can hardly sit here looking up. You should stay in the settlement, grow crops, ask Laima to marry you, have some kids.”

He shakes his head.

“And then what, watch them ship off to some new war I’m too old to fight in?”

Her face scrunches up.

“That’s not...” She waves pass-along and faulty intel. “You can’t just stop living, waiting for it to come back.” She takes up the breather again. “Besides,” she adds, “the others are going to need you.”

It’s true. Phi and Betel won’t go back; they won’t risk losing each other now. And Vega and Altair can’t go back, even if they wanted to. Vega’s moods are too chaotic, and Altair’s prosthesis won’t pass a medical exam. Full-humans only, as if that makes a difference in someone’s ability to sit at a ship’s computer.

“If I pair off with Laima, I’ll be leaving them anyway.”

“Pff. Yeah, sure. Whatever you say, LT.”

He doesn’t want to go back. They both know it. But he doesn’t want her to be alone up there, either. But maybe that’s his problem too, and not hers.

She’s watching the sky again, tiny pricks of light reflected in her eyes.

“They’re beautiful, aren’t they,” he says, and he can just make out the curve of her smile in the darkness.

“Yeah,” she says. She reaches one hand up, extended in front of her, a shadow against the spray of starlight above them.

“Yeah, they really are.”

#writeblr #amwriting #original scifi #original fiction #original writing #writing by me #guess what i am super hyped about right now #if you guessed andromeda you get a cookie

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chichirod · 6 years ago

Text

Content. The addiction to the flow of the internet.

Sonny.

Maybe it’s a time travel piece. I love the idea of time travel. And done in a grounded way, What if the time travel was extremely mundane. Why sonny? Well he’s got this tone to his personality that feels like he’s being surprised by everything that happens.

What if he could time travel, but it only took him to one specific place.

Sonny and his dog. Maybe his dog is racist?

Sonny the karaoke man.

Sonny hits a car in a lot. He’s parks somewhere else. He thinks he’s off, but someone sees him. Stops him.

What are the ways that sonny could be confronted?

Sonny

Pulling wallet out to pay. The false gesture.

The tip. He writes a cheap tip, but he notices something wrong with the bill. He has to confront the waiter. The waiter confronts him. Waiter asks what percentage it is, he can’t do the math in his head.

He’s somewhere public. He’s watching an inappropriate vid. Gets called out.

Shits himself.

Self sacrifice.

Goes for a date with a girl. Girl says something a little racist.

He nicely ends the date. He tells his friends, but one of his friends tells.

Sonny he’s a man who wears his emotions. He’s consistently apologetic.

He’s a hopeful auditionee. He’s not bad actually. He sings karaoke. Records it. He’s nervous. But he makes an enemy. He ends up shitting himself mid audition.

Maybe the first scene is him hitting the car, getting caught. Getting caught by the lady and then leaving the note. Or Sony watching the game and someone fucking the moment he is waiting for. Sonny and the guys waiting for this moment. Maybe they’re auto shop guys.

We are in a ship cafeteria. A man lays dead on the floor. The checkout lady realizes asks who wants his food.

The set-up. The conflict. And Every choice creates consequences.

In the dentist chair.

Scene:

Sonny he’s with one of his friends outside a restaurant. They see a famous boxer passing by. Coop asks him politely for an autograph. The boxer is pissed. He’s sick of being stopped. Coop says, well you’re a celeb man, it comes with the territory. The boxer does’t like it. Coop says, c’mon man, I watched you at Caesers in 2014. He steps in and snaps a selfie, the boxer knocks him out. Sonny stands there. Boxer- I’m tired of being objectified. Coop comes to. Holy fuck. Are you ok? Ya. Dinner. They sit at the table. The dude has a huge welt. He’s ok, but he sits pretty silently. Sonny tries to keep his mind off of it. Makes small talk. Still, nothing from Coop. Then, he spits it out. Why the fuck didn’t you do anything? You just stood there. Boomgaurtner? What the hell was I supposed to do?

Woman talking about how brutal her period is right now. Eventually sonny and this woman hook up. She turns the lights off. … We cut to him having a pee, blood all over his face. OR Someone comes in?

These are the two stories. A satire. And. A docudrama.

One character. No lights. Small crew.

A gymnast. A hockey player.

INTRO

Sonny

Gymnast?

- open on videos of her as a kid jumping and enjoying the gym. Cut to today, in the bathroom. Nursing blisters and malformed toes.

- Eating toothpaste.

- The brutality of the bar.

- Mom locking the door to the fridge.

This is the story of a child gymnast. She’s is skilled, but she’s not naturally talented, but her coaches see a physical ability that they want to harness. They see the opportunity in her. A glory that they never had. They use her as an outlet. Pushing her is also a way for them to control something in their own lives. There is physical pain yes, but worse is the emotional warfare. The sacrifice that she must make while every other 12-year old goes to school, watches tv, plays on their phones. The final image?

Man and woman rent a cottage. A creepy neighbor, but oh well. They have a nice time. A new-sh couple. They have romantic time. They are making dinner. And they get into an argument over gender politics.The man is a better cook. Woman have lost their place in the kitchen because of a taboo. That night they go to be upset. The woman fingers herself quietly. The man realizes. He gets mad. He goes into the bathroom to JO. The creepy neighbor is seen coming towards their house. The two of them are scared. The woman wants to come into the bathroom, The man refuses. He argues. She should go downstairs if this relationship is equal.

- possible stories

- she kills her coach.

- she is paralyzed.

- amputates her chest.

A undocumented worker. Their parents dying. Working on a farm in California. Witness a crime. Wife kills abusive husband.

Guy parking at an office. He hits a car.

First scene should - eat the type of world we’re dealing with. A bite of satire.

What is the final image of the film.

The wrestler -

Find him at his glory, in the ring MSG.

Cut to the locker room. Present day. Creaky version of himself.

Fans visit him. Remember the good days.

He goes home. Door locked.

Sleeps in his van.

Next morning bang bang bang.

Woken up by kids. Wrestles with them.

Car pulls in, interrupts the moment. He watches the car.

Int office. Moments later, he tries to bargain with owner of trailer

Nothing.

Woman runs him extension chord for his blender.

Goes to work in supermarket

Asks for more shifts.

We see him working with the Mexican dudes. Lugging.

Int gym. He holds a glass vile. His buddy says its as good as the German stuff.

Plunges the needle into his naked ass.

Cut to mall. Greets a shopkeep friendly. He gets into a tanning bed.

Hair salon. Korean woman bleaches his hair.

Driving. Eyes. The strip club.

INt shitty wrestling match. A promoter lists the matchups.

They prep for the match. Going through moves with some young blood.

Ram - a chick is here to see you.

In the hall - hey kiddo. A young girl greets him.

She there to root on her old man? No. She’s there to make amends. 12-stepper.

Interrupted by two meatheads. He puts on his act for them. The girl is pissed at the interruption.

In the ring. Kid loco taunts him. Calling him a loser. Something turns and he takes the upper hand. Ram Jam

Int dressing room. Gets offered the 20th anniversary rematch with the ayatollah.

Stip club. Door man asks for hgh. Bartender slides him a beer. Cassidy is working vip. Girl same age as his daughter on the pole

Walks passed the VIP. Casidy is being berated for being old by frat boys.

Randy busts through. Makes them apologize. Expects a thank you. Cassidy is just pissed.

Cassidy warms to him. Lapdance. Ram’s explaining the 20th’ aniversary opportunity.

They chat. Ram bleeds. Cassidy helps him. Leads to him showing her his scars.

Cassidy quotes from passion of the christ. The sacrificial ram. Her song comes on and she’s pulled to stage.

99c store. Picking up weird supplies. Thumb tacks.

Cut to match .

Randy’s heart is giving way in the match. Has a heart attack. They pull him out of the ring.

Hospital - Bypass.

Dr says no more wrestling.

Gets trailer back.

Showers.

Plays vids with Adam.

Adam leaves. Ram does jumping jacks. He gets winded. He starts to cry.

Goes to Cheetahs for comfort. He asks her out. Something more real.

She meets him out back. Sympathy. But he’s overstepping.

Looks at old pic of Daughter. Goes to visit his daughter. She’s studying child development

SHe’s on her way to class. Tries to evade hum, but he charms her a bit.

He gives her a ride. Fesses to heart attack and she loses it. Now he wants to make good!? Now that he’s scared of dying?

Goes to fan expo. Learns from an old promoter that he’s been left out of a reunion.

He watches another old wrestler. In a wheelchair. Piss trickles into a catheter bag.

Back at trailer. Scared to go in alone. Drives to..

Cheetahs

Cassidy tries to get dances, no takers. SHe’s happy to see randy show up.

She asks about daughter. Randy doesn’t know much about what she likes. Cassidy suggests a second hand shop.

Randy goes to bar, cassidy a little rejected.

She comes to him, offers to go with him on Saturday to the shop.

Randy goes to work. Asks for something more permanent. Wayne offers deli counter.

Saturday, ram meets cased at the second hand shop. First time seeing cased clothed.

They find a shitty green jacket. Cassidy doesn’t like it, randy does, she plays nice.

They are about to part ways. Randy asks for a beer. Cassidy resists. She’s got a kid. 9years old. Ram gives her an old toy of him. Take care of that 300 bucks on eBay. Really? Nah. Cassidy obliges. One beer.

Talk about kid. Her hopes to move. Quitting cheetahs. Def leopard. Randy dances for her, They sing together. They bond over that pussy Cobain boo hoo Seattle. It’s the moment they need to meet. No contact with customers she says after they kiss. She’s gotta run.

Deli counter. Robin name tag.

Serving customers, he’s clueless. Bad exahcnage, bad exchange, then a nice one. 57… O-57 bingo. Whats my prize?

College. Ram meets his daughter. What are you stalking me? DO stalkers bring gifts?

They walk along a midway. The reminisce about when she was young.

They sit on a bench. Mint chip ice cream. He accepts her unspoken apology. Drops her off. Hope the wasn’t too painful.

Ram puts a photo of them on his fridge. On the phone. He tells a friend to count him out. He’s retiring.

Cheetah’s. Guys put dollar bills in Cassidy’s g-string. Randy tries to put a purse envelope in.

They sit. It’s a thank you card. Rand tries to ask her out to a cover band bar. It’s becoming too much for her. You think I’m a stripper.. but I’m a mom with respoonsibilities. You’re a customer.

Randy slides a 20 across the table. Cassidy slides it back. You’re refusing a customer? Argeument. Embarrasment. Randy storms out.

Shop-rite. Old lady pound of potato salad.

Guy recognizes him somehow. Teamsters? Softball? Ram Jam. Slicer fingers get closer.

Trailer. Drinking Touching scar. Turns on gun and roses. Dances around his room like it’s a ring.

Collectibles store. Scott Bromberg. Asks for referee opportunity. Booker D tries to work him into the gig. During the match randy steps in. Gets hit with a chair. They shower. Praise Randy as the master.

Hotel bar. Shit pit story.

Hotel bar. Hanging with girls. Coke dealer walks in. I don’t do that anymore. Me neither. Cut to them in the bathroom doing bumps.

Morning. Eyes open to find a poster of fireman.

Leaves the house. Gets home opens the fridge. Dismay. Picture of him and daughter on fridge.

Bang bang bang on her door.

Daughter pissed. She waited in the restaurant for 2 hours.

She hates him. Throws a pot. He grabs her. I’m sorry. You don’t mean it. You’re right. She calms. She’s totally done Wirth him.

He leaves. Starts to cry.

Shop Rite - line at the deli counter. “You believe these fucking morons?”

Slice slice. More pressure. Customers complaining. Slice slice. Jams his thumb into the slicer. Blood everywhere. Smears blood across his mouth. He smashes into the shelves dodging a woman.

At home. Calls the promoter. He wants in. Shaves. Tan in a can. Peroxide in the hair.

Cassidy shows up. How’d you find me? Big Chris.

Cassidy explains she’s trying to get to a place in her life and she can’t bring anyone from… good for you. Quitting is hard.

He hands he the flyer. Drives off.

Cassidy’s apt. Tells the sitter. In bed by 11, no bargaining. Her son plays with the ram doll.

Cheetah’s - cased dances.

She leaves the stage.

Randy at roadside payphone. Gets Stephanie’s answering machine. Tells he loves her and that he’s going back in the ring.

Randy naps on side of road.

Gets to auditorium. Man on the phone. Man business is rocking Just opened a third dealership. Randy looks on. This is the ayatollah

They chat. Did thnink it was on. Then I get a call , its on.

Randy wants to go over the moves. Ayatollah wants to wing it.

Cassidy at gas station. Asks for directions.

Int locker room. Ram taping up.

Cassidy pulls up. Looking for locker room

Randy now suited.

Ayatollah music begins to play. Announcement.

Randy turns to find Cassidy there. She tries to get him to bail. He’s still going through with it.

Randy- this is where I belong. Listen to them.

Randy enters the ring. Ramming chairs.

He grabs the mic.

I just got one thing to say to you people. Thank you. I started in 1982. I was 6 foot 1 3 back surgeries… End of the speach. The crowd roars. Ayatollah is about to smash him.

Randy is a little intense for the ayatollah. They trade revenge moves each more real than the last.

Their in the ring out of the ring. Chocking with flags and poles.

Ayatollah - You wanna bring it home?

Cassidy pleads with ringside.

His heart is giving. Pounding. Irregular. Hard. Ram is about to finish him. Ayatollah says just pin him.

Cassidy leaves the match sobbing.

Horns are out.

He leaps . Glorious and immortal.

Some things last a long time.

I’ll eat your sandwich if you’re not eating it.

You’re got me going. You really got me going.

I can’t believe you got th t sian out.

It looks great on you.

I like this shirt.

Do you have any salt?

Walks into coffee shop. Puts hands on the glass. He moves like an animal something he’s stalking.

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