#if something were to happen to me all those stories would evaporate with no trace

[echoofawind]

Make me write - send me any of these emojis and I'll write at least 3 lines for that fic and post it.

I was tagged by the lovely @charlotterhea . Thank you for thinking of me 🥰

So uhh, all of these WIPs are ....slumbering. I haven't been writing in the past year and haven't felt very motivated to write so everything is on hold. I do want to get better at telling stories and I can't do that if I'm not telling stories, so I might try to start writing again. Maybe this will help!

🐇 White Rabbit Surprise - Severus/Hermione- Alice in Wonderland AU

🐒 Do You Wanna Know - Severus/Hermione- Severus and Hermione individually take dance lessons at the same studio before getting paired together

💌 Fake courting ritual - Severus/Harry (pretend relationship), Severus/Hermione - Severus has to court Harry for Voldemort. He needs help and asks Hermione.

🎁 Gift for Lyra - Severus/Remus - Courting Ritual, enemies to lovers

💫 Part time soulmate, full time problem - Charlie/Draco- Charlie gets assigned as Draco's parole officer. Too bad it turns out they are soulmates

🎀 The Ribboned Wizard - Charlie/Draco - IShouldBe's The Ribboned Witch where Draco is Ribboned by Charlie

🦸Clark Kent - Severus/Hermione - Non Hogwarts, same age magical AU. He calls her from a pay phone

🎥 Electric Touch - Severus/Hermione - Rock of Ages esque, they have a blind date at the Hollywood sign

💵 Emerging Omega Auction - Severus/Hermione - A/B/O, Alpha!Severus bids on Omega!Hermione

🩰 12 Dancing Princesses AU - Severus/Hermione - fairytale retelling

🗡️ Sword in the Stone AU - Severus/Hermione - Severus as Arthur

⌛ Meatloaf Songs (I would Do Anything For Love But I won't Do That) - Severus/Lily, Severus/Hermione - Severus uses his coworker Hermione's research to go back in time to chase his love Lily. Unrequited love all around

🩺 House - Severus/Hermione - based on House MD

🪙 Soulmate Artifact - Severus/Hermione- Star Trek the Original Series and Harry Potter crossover

🛌 While You Were Sleeping - Severus/Hermione - SSHG retelling of the Sandra Bullock movie While You Were Sleeping

🥂 Champagne Problems - Severus/Hermione - Preslash, He is there for her after a breakup with Ron

🪄 Clone a Wand - Severus/Hermione - they make a clone a willy

🧪 Potions Mastery Smut - Severus/Hermione - The potion she must brew to complete her mastery is known to have salacious outcomes

🎭 Masquerade - Severus/Hermione - what it says on the tin. They attend a masquerade

🦕 Gift - Severus/Hermione - Hermione takes a trip to the museum, Muggle AU meet cute

Send me something! I'm ready to crowd source my writing motivation and accountability 😎

[yesttoheaven]

SETTING SUN - joel miller x f!reader

"setting sun" describes the brooding and possessive thoughts of a man who is angered by his lover, a girl who is spending time with a boy she calls her friend. he is sickened by her perceived lies and says "the time to forgive is gone" as he believes she is cheating on him. the man ends the song with the ambiguous line "I'll be taking a life this evening when the sun sets" - it is not clear if he intends to kill the girl he is singing about, her friend, or perhaps himself.

— Do you know the best part of being here with you? And I'm not just talking about the sex... – Joel says, his voice low and husky as you trace patterns on his chest; the tips of your fingers sending shivers wherever they go. — I'll wake up tomorrow and look at you to admire your raw beauty in your most delicate and fragile state, and think to myself how much I love you. Because God... I really do. – He closes his eyes, letting out a long sigh.

You just absorb his words in silence for a long, long moment before resting your chin on his chest lightly and licking your lips, ready to say something, but then his eyes are open again and meet yours. For years he'd looked into those same doe eyes and found nothing but love, but now that's gone. Love evaporated from your pupils and was replaced, taken by someone else and he hates every second of it.

— You know what I admire? The fact you could take me as I am. You learned to deal with my bullshit. And sometimes I wonder how someone like me can deserve someone like you... I wonder because I'm this mess of a human being, and you're this beautiful person with this lovely smile and a million of unravel stories while I'm just this closed book you decided to open and discover.

— Joel, why did you...

— Hear me out now, you're gonna listen to me, like it or not. – He snarls, his face lined with disappointment and anger, but he never pulls away from you. He keeps his arm wrapped around your lower back, trapping your naked body against his. His other hand then comes up to your cheek, the rough tips of his fingers stroking your skin so tenderly. You were always the softness that Joel sought so much in this broken world. And you have him, heart and soul. — I knew that you were going to leave one day, but I thought I could make you stay... You were the one that told me to live in the moment, and I guess that I was trying to do just that. I didn't want to think about the end.

— There's no "ending" happening, Joel. – You leave the comfort of his arms and sit up in bed, your firm, stern voice echoing through the bedroom.

— I just wanted to think about what was actually in front of me. – He admits, looking at your bare back before running his hand down your spine, loving the way you squirm under his touch. — And you're in front of me right now, but not completely...

— How many times am I going to have to tell you that Richard is nothing but a friend or even less? I go on patrol with him sometimes. That's all.

Something snapped inside him. Hearing the other man's name leaving your mouth seems too much for Joel to handle, so he grips your jaw, his fingers digging into your cheeks as he brings your face close to his, your noses almost touching. You fall silent, caught off guard by his change in demeanor, but you still hold his gaze.

— Don't you dare lie to me. – He hisses through clenched teeth, looking deep into your eyes. Every frown line, every scar on his tired face seems all the more prominent because of the rage that consumes him. — After all we've been through, will you throw away what we've built? If that's what you really want, well then answer me darlin'... Would he face a damn bloater with his bare hands just to protect you? Is he ready to die for you?

At first you didn't know how to react, so you remained motionless and still, only an involuntary sigh leaving your lips. In this godforsaken world, you could easily count on your fingers how many people would put their lives on the line for you. And Joel Miller tops that list. Even knowing that you are perfectly capable of taking care of yourself, at the slightest sign of danger, he will always, without hesitation, do everything possible and impossible to keep you safe. This also includes fighting a bloater.

However, Richard would never put himself in the danger zone that way.

As if he can read your mind, Joel releases your face and looks away. He's losing you, he can feel you slipping out of his fingers, like a small bird being caught up in the wind. He tries to speak but no words will come. He wants to tell you that he still loves you, that you two can still make it work, but how can he say those things when the trust is so shaken? Does you even care anymore?

Maybe it's all too late.

His eyes narrow and he scowls, looking down at the bed in frustration as he tries to hold his annoyance in. When he speaks again, his voice is cold and bitter, and he looks up at you disdainfully:

— Have I been that terrible to you the last few years and you're finally ready to start looking elsewhere?

— No... – You mutter under your breath, then you clear your throat and shake your head eagerly, repeating with more intensity: — No, of course not. Where does all this distrust come from, Joel?

— From the fact that you don't seem to love me anymore! There is an age difference between us, it's true, and that does make things more complicated. But that's not the whole story and you know it. The way you talk to him... It's the way you used to talk to me. And you never act that way towards me anymore. You used to be so loving, so affectionate, but now I feel like you've pulled back. Like I'm just another person to you. – There is a pain in his voice unlike any you've ever heard come from him before, and it's painfully obvious that he's hurt to his very core. — I'm getting old, and I'm jealous. I worry that I can't make you feel the way you deserve to feel... – His voice catches in his throat a little. Joel sighs, and there is a look of shame on his face now, as if he knows what he's thinking is irrational, and he's embarrassed about it.

— So the problem is that I'm talking to a guy a few years younger than you? You can't be serious!

— Oh, so I'm just imagining it then? – He rolls his eyes and sighs loudly. — What do you expect me to think when you're practically flirting with a man half my age? What am I supposed to think when you act like you hardly even care about me?

That was enough.

You had listened and listened. He spoke and poured out his heart. His accusations.

In one swift movement you got out from under the sheet and climbed into his lap. Your hands touched his bare chest, harder this time, as you pushed his back against the headboard. A look of surprise passes over Joel's face when you do that. He stares at you, drinking in the intensity of your gaze and the warmth of your body against his. Your bare skin in full view now.

— You speak with such confidence. And you accuse me with that same confidence. – You lean in close to him and puts your nose to his ear, breathing lightly and softly whispering the last part. — Now that we're in Jackson, I know, I have a wide range of options, but... If I wanted to be with Richard then I wouldn't be here with you right now. I wouldn't go back to your arms every single night. And I wouldn't let you fuck me any way you want.

He sighs and closes his eyes, thinking carefully about the words that left your mouth. After a minute or two, he opens his eyes and looks at you sternly, and his hands move up to your hips, squeezing your flesh, feeling you. His gaze moved down your body, admiring every single curve, always enthralled by your raw beauty, until he found the watch on your wrist. A ghost of a smile crossed his lips at that moment. Joel never imagined taking that watch off his wrist one day, but he had his reasons for doing so. Whenever you were out on patrol without him by your side, Joel would put the watch on your wrist. That watch kept him alive for so long. Now he would be keeping you alive for him whenever he couldn't be there for you.

He holds you close in an embrace that is part affectionate and part desperate: almost as if he is afraid that you will suddenly disappear from his arms. He holds you close, and you can feel his chest rise and fall with deep, slow breaths. Joel slowly leans forward and brings his mouth to yours in a passionate kiss. His lips are firm and warm, and the pressure of his lips against yours is urgent and hungry. The kiss lasts for a long moment, and as he pulls away he looks at you with wide, haunted eyes. There is an ache in his chest, and a deep and desperate hope behind his eyes. You can sense the intensity of his emotions, all compressed into the brief moment that you two shared. Joel feels this heat in you, and he feels his heartbeat quicken once more.

He wants more.

But more of what? More of your love? More of your kisses? More of the way you make him feel? His body aches just from the feeling of you in his arms. He craves your touch, your warmth. His love for you feels like fire, burning hot from within him. He is overwhelmed.

— I don't know where I'm supposed to start, but... I'm sorry for the way I acted, hun.

Joel is all you have in this godforsaken world. Living in Jackson with him and Ellie is almost like a dream. So you really hope he's telling the truth and that from now on things will be better, after all, you're not going anywhere. Everyone has their ups and downs. He just needed some reassurance. That's all.

He reached around and put a hand on the back of your neck, leaning in to speak softly into your ear:

— I'll take care of it. You trust me, don't you?

You sigh with so much relief and hug him, resting your chin on his shoulder. You feel safe with him. He has you, heart and soul. You complete each other in different ways. Maybe that's why, as he holds you tightly in his arms, Joel has his eyes fixed on the armchair in the corner of the bedroom or more precisely on the gun under his jacket.

Now that the deed is done, he's just waiting for the night and the fading light of the setting sun.

Joel knows what to do.

a/n — i love this song with all my heart and i needed to write something so here it is. 🧡

[english is not my first language. I am getting help from google translator and he is not always a good ally, so I apologize for any typos or grammar errors]

[suituuup]

the tale of the reacher and the settler

Beca shares some insecurities 

this story stems from a discussion in the GC regarding who is the reacher and the settler in the relationship

word count: 882

rating: T

ao3 link

*

Beca tried to stop the thoughts from nagging their way into her head, she really did. But her insecurities always had a way of stomping over what little self-esteem she had, and this time was no different.

And after all, Aubrey does have a point.

She’s… just Beca. And Chloe is… Chloe could have anyone she wants.

“Are you going to share what’s going on in that head of yours?”

Beca hums, pulling her thumb away from her mouth to glance at her girlfriend. Her question registers a beat later, and Beca blinks. “Oh. It’s nothing.”

Chloe doesn’t look convinced, if the way she slightly narrows her eyes is any indication. “You bite your nails when something is bothering you.”

Beca sighs; it annoys her sometimes, how well Chloe knows her. And how Chloe won’t let it rest unless Beca tells her she doesn’t want to talk about it.

Which, she doesn’t, really, but being with Chloe has taught her that speaking about her feelings actually helps with processing them.

Gross.

“I overheard you and Aubrey talking,” she blurts out, feeling her cheeks warm with shame. “I’m sorry, I was just coming out of the bathroom and I heard like ten seconds of it. I know I shouldn’t have--”

“Hey,” Chloe interrupts, laying a hand on top of Beca’s. “That conversation wasn’t meant to be private. Don’t worry about it,” she says, a soft smile tugging at her lips. The thought that Beca really doesn’t deserve her swirls through Beca’s mind once more. “What did you hear that bothered you?”

Beca purses her lips, then sighs again. “When you told Aubrey we were together,” she starts. They’ve been dating for six months, and Beca has been reluctant to tell the others, especially Aubrey.

(she’s intimidating, okay?)

“You’re going to have to give me more than that, babe,” Chloe says when Beca doesn’t add anything.

Beca nods and clears her throat, glancing down to their hands. “When you told her, Aubrey was like ‘really, Beca?’ and I guess she kinda has a point?”

Chloe reaches out to pause the movie, then shifts to face her, sitting back on her heels. “What do you mean?”

Beca rolls her eyes, because it’s pretty obvious to her. “Well, I’m me and you’re… you’re you.”

Chloe’s lips twist in what seems to be amusement. “Yes,” she drawls out. “That sounds about right.”

A huff puffs past Beca’s lips. “You know what I mean, dude.”

Chloe chuckles. “I really don’t, baby,” she insists. “Please, just say what’s on your mind. I promise this is a safe space for feelings.”

Beca groans. “You better not pull out your feelings stick, Beale.”  

Chloe is the one to roll her eyes this time. “Just spit it out, Mitchell.”

Beca sucks in a deep breath. “Sometimes I feel like… you could do a lot better than me. And I feel like that’s also what Aubrey thought when she found out.”

A frown creases the space between Chloe’s eyebrows. “What makes you say that?”

“Come on, Chlo,” Beca mutters, sighing heavily. “You’re like-- so beautiful. The most beautiful person I’ve ever met. Inside and out. And I’m just…” a shrug. “A perpetually grumpy tiny troll.”

She tries not to feel offended when Chloe bursts out laughing. “Sorry, I’m sorry,” Chloe rushes out between giggles. “I just-- Babe. Oh my gosh, you’re adorable.”

Beca huffs again and crosses her arms over her chest. “I’m not adorable.”

“You are sometimes grumpy, but I really like that about you,” Chloe says once she’s stopped giggling. “Among a lot of other things, you know.”

Beca softens, meeting Chloe’s eyes. “Yeah?”

“Do you want to hear the list?”

Beca grunts and covers her reddening face with both hands. “God, I’m already regretting talking to you about this.”

Chloe tugs at her hands gently. “Hey. You’re an amazing person, you know that? You make me so, so happy, and I’m sorry you feel insecure.”

“You could have anyone you want,” Beca mumbles, fiddling with Chloe’s fingers. “You know that, right?”

“I don’t think that’s really the case, but even if it were, I choose you,” she murmurs. “Without a doubt. I’ve never questioned it.”

Beca feels her heart expand, and just like that, her worries evaporate into thin air. “Okay. Okay. Sorry I got all insecure and shit.”

Chloe smiles, leaning in to kiss her softly. “No need to apologize. I’m glad you said something.”

Beca nods. “Me too.” She clears her throat. “So what else did Aubrey say, then?”

“She found it surprising that we finally shared our feelings for each other. Said she thought it would never happen because we were both chickens.”

“Wait, she knew??”

Chloe hums in affirmation. “Apparently. I guess my heart eyes weren’t as subtle as I thought all these years,” she says with a soft chuckle.

“They were to me, but that’s because I’m an idiot,” Beca mutters, releasing a twin chuckle. “I’m very grateful for those one too many shots at the bar that night.”

It indeed took a little bit of liquid courage on Beca’s end to finally kiss her friend that night, six months ago.

“Me too,” Chloe murmurs, brushing another kiss to Beca’s lips. “I love you.”

A soft, content smile traces Beca’s lips. “I love you, too.”

[implexedactions]

Penance is a virtue

Yandere!Enji Todoroki x Reader

Enji Todoroki is many things; kidnapper, lover, sadist, hero, villain, husband. He is many, many things. But he isn’t delusional.

Beta-Read by best person: @absolute-flaming-trash

Warning: Yandere content and themes, Angst, Heavy emotional themes, Suicide, Stockholm syndrome, Kidnapping.

---

You wake up, eyes dashing to the clock.

5:55 AM - SUNDAY

Okay, good, you hadn’t slept in. Enji always wanted you to wake him up. He got...mad if you didn’t. You turn over to him in bed, expecting to find him still sleeping.

Teal eyes stare back at you instead.

“Ah!”

His face takes on a sorrowful expression.

“Did I frighten you? Sorry. I could not sleep.”

Not leaving you time to respond, he pulls you into his chest, under the covers. He sighs in content, and you press into him, not wanting him to forget your devotion.

After some time, he pulls you up to his face, kissing your forehead gently.

“Thank you. For everything.”

“U-uh, what do you mean? Are you okay?”

Enji sighs, failing to meet your gaze.

“I never do compliment you that often...”

---

He carries you to the breakfast table, adorned with pancakes, your favourite.

“What’s going on Enj- I mean, dear. I’m meant to make you breakfast?”

He fails to answer you, instead sitting down with you on his knee. He takes a fork and puts some pancake on it.

“Eat.”

And so you do.

When you finish, he moves to wash up.

“W-what are you doing? You told me that was my job.”

Your memory wanders back to your first few months here, when you disobeyed his every command...and received due punishment for it.

“Are you going to punish me again?”

It escapes your lips before you can stop it. The thought of being punished again, like before, makes your veins cool with fear.  Your breathing increases and you move down on your knees onto the cold kitchen floor.

“P-please, I swear, I’ll do whatever you want, just don’t-”

“Stop.”

He walks over, his thighs the same height as your head. You move to undo his belt, but a hand puts a stop to that.

“There is no punishment. I am just doing an acceptable act for my spouse.”

The words “but you never do that” get stopped in your throat. You instead swallow and try to weakly smile. Looking up at Enji from your position on the ground, sunlight bathing him in a warm glow, to contrast the unsettled expression on his face.

---

He places you on a stool while he washes up. You fiddle with your hands, nervous. This isn’t how Enji usually acts. He’s so...vulnerable. In all honesty, it’s scary.

“Do you like the sunrise, my sweet?”

You look out to the orange glow emanating from the windows.

“Do you want me to like it, my sweet?”

Enji simply sighs and continues washing up.

“I’m sorry you cannot enjoy it. One should always appreciate what they have...”

---

After breakfast, he walks silently to the study. You follow behind him perfectly, like he trained you to.

He walks into the study, sitting down at his writing desk, and you take your place in his lap. He pulls out pen and paper, and you avert your eyes. 

It isn’t for good spouses like you to read.

He spends the better half of 6 hours writing. You entertain yourself by tracing the pattern of the wallpaper. This evolves into focusing on Enji’s breathing, noticing how he breathes in more, not less when he becomes frustrated with something on the page. You eventually move on to thinking about all the things you miss from the outside world, like ice cream, and human connection. You finish out the last hour by thinking about how angry Enji would be if he knew such a perfect little spouse were thinking such nasty little things. 

Shuffling about, he motions for you to hop off his leg, and then stands and leaves the room without speaking to you. You get the feeling he’s coming back, though; he left the door open.

You’re worried. You’re scared beyond belief. This isn’t like him, this entire day is wrong. You’re hoping he’ll burst in and start yelling, the anticipation feels worse than any potential punishment. You consider that maybe this is the punishment and that you should perhaps just start apologising regardless. He didn’t take well to that before though.

This day has made little sense. Enji is acting so far out of his usual behaviour that it doesn’t just scare you because he might hurt you. It scares you because you don’t know what is even happening. It takes you back to the days you first came here—a blurry, hazy mess. You struggle to even remember it. You remember bits and pieces. Chains, fire, the cold, the scent of sex. Small things like that.

You turn your head to the papers on the desk, intrigued by what took up so much of his time. Before you can look away, you see what they are. Letters, addressed to countless people, your parents, Shoto, Rei, Hawks, various news stations.

You glance towards the open door...surely what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him right?

You pick up the letter to the Hawks. 

 Keigo, I write this letter to you as a mentor, and I presume a father figure. I know that in some capacity, you looked up to me. You were just a scared kid, and I helped. That said, if what I have done becomes public knowledge, do not defend me. I do not know how much you know of my dealings, but for the sake of your future, throw me to the dogs. Do not say that I was perfect, or that I did no wrong. When I turn and look at my darling, I see my mistakes for the damning judgments they are. You will be a fine no.1 hero, just let go of your predecessor. Please.

 That alleviated little concern. Undeterred, you move onto the letter to the media.

 To all the news channels and gossip rags that haunt this city like the festering ghouls you are, I detest you. You created division, turned heroics into a popularity contest, seeded doubt during a time where we needed hope, and fought so hard to bring us all to our knees. I know my story will vilify me, so I accept my place in the burning flames of hell. Just know that when you get down there, I will be waiting to enact justice.

 You are practically hyperventilating now. You grab the letter to your parents. You don’t know what these letters are, but they seem like-

The letter is snatched away from your hands. It appears you forgot to watch the door.

Turning around, tears in your eyes, fear in your veins, half-baked excuses running rampant in your mind. You expect to see vengeful Enji with a glint in his eye, telling you it is time for your punishment. Instead, you find an apathetic Enji, eyes soft and watery, stance broken and exhausted.

“I did not want you to see that. I am sorry that you did.”

Enough is enough, you want answers. Pushing against your instincts, you stammer out a question.

“W-What is going on? Why...why are you like this?”

He seems taken aback, eyes opening wide. This minor act of defiance, of speaking out when not spoken to, is enough to break you. Falling to your knees, you look away from him. Aghast that you even thought of defying his wishes.

“I’m sorry! Please, forgive me! I didn’t mean to question you like that! Or read the letters! Please! I didn’t- I don’t-”

A calloused hand grips your shoulder.

“Please. Stop.”

You look up to see Enji’s eyes, dull and watery again.

“Sorry.”

“Trust me, I am sorry too.”

---

The afternoon is spent on the couch, watching TV in Enji’s lap. He seems to notice your nervous disposition, as he slowly envelopes you in a hug the more the hours go by. Eventually, he gets up to make dinner by himself, much to your unvoiced dismay.

You simply stare as he makes it. Both of you silent. He occasionally looks over to you, as if to make sure you haven’t merely vanished into the ether. You feel like you might vanish into the ether, honestly.

You move to the dining table, and a couple of minutes later, he brings out dinner. Silent, he sits down beside you, but a hand stops you from eating.

“Tell me, do you remember when we first met?” he sounds...hopeful.

“Is...Is this a trap?” you ask cautiously. This entire day has put you on edge.

“No. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

“I...I can’t remember it, really. Most of those months are...blank, I remember a few pieces of my first couple of months here. They’re admittedly not pleasant memories.”

“I see.”

“I mean, I appreciate that you did those...things you did to me! If you hadn’t, I wouldn’t be any good at my job.”

He turns to you and raises an eyebrow.

“Your job?”

“Yeah, loving you, being your spouse.”

“Ah.”

Both of you go quiet. You wait on the signal to start eating. It doesn’t come.

“It was a gala event. You told me how much you hated them, and I laughed and agreed.”

“Ah. Gala’s sound so wonderful, don’t they though? Being outside, getting to dance, to listen to beautiful music.~”

You sway slightly thinking that you could have once been permitted to be a part of such a magical event.

“You may eat now.”

Enji’s command breaks you out of your daydream. He watches as you take your first bite, and follows in kind.

---

When you finish, he seems restless. He gets the plates and puts them in the sink. He then takes you to the living room. He fiddles with a speaker for a couple of seconds, before classical music emerges.

“You said you cannot remember our first meeting, and by extension our first dance. I was wondering, would you like to dance with me?”

Confused, but delighted, you join Enji in the embrace. Softly dancing around the living room, you try to imagine what it was like meeting Enji for the first time. He must’ve seemed so sweet, right? That’s how Enji would come off to a stranger, right?

You lose yourself in the moment, allowing yourself to imagine a life outside of these walls. You would’ve met Enji at the Gala. He would’ve laughed. He would’ve given you his number, the gentlemen that he was. He would’ve taken you to a fancy restaurant for your 1st date. You could’ve shown up at his agency while he was buried under paperwork once, and it would’ve made his day. You could’ve kissed him under the rain, snickering as you pulled away and saw droplets evaporate on contact with his blushing face. He would’ve proposed in a quiet place, with a brilliant ruby. You would’ve met Shoto, and figured out what his deal was. You would’ve grown old together.

But this life is just as beautiful, right?

Enji leans down during the dance and kisses you. Softly, unlike all those times before. It’s beautiful to you. And based on the silent tears running down his face, it’s beautiful to him too.

He pulls you down onto the couch, staring into your eyes as the soft music plays.

“I’m sorry, my love.”

“What for?”

“For a lot of things. For kidnapping you. For...training you. For punishing you. For breaking you, beyond belief. For so many, many different things. You are not the person I fell in love with, you are hardly a person. I broke you, I gutted your personality until all that was left was a shell, echoing any command I gave it. You do not have a soul anymore.”

He pauses, seemingly debating over this next part, ignoring your shaky and scared reassurances.

“And I am also sorry for the poison in our food tonight.”

Your world shatters at that.

“The fatal effects should kick in soon enough. It will not be a nasty death. Even in death, I intend to remain dignified. Or at least, I wish to preserve your beauty.”

You cannot vocalise anything, your mind is failing you. From either the poison or situation, you are unclear.

“There is an antidote on the kitchen counter. If you can get there and drink it, you will live. And if you are feeling ever so generous, you may even give some to me.”

He turns and looks you in the eyes.

“My only command is that you do not get that antidote.”

“Wh-what?”

“You heard me. Disobey me, and save yourself. Or obey me, and die.”

He shrugs.

“I did say I was sorry.”

“I-I...why?”

“Like I said. You are a shell. If you get the antidote, maybe I have not entirely broken you, maybe you can still be saved from my conditioning. If you do not get the antidote, I get to make Dabi just that little bit happier.”

You try to get up and into the kitchen. You really try. Your arms try to push up. You try to move off the couch. But...that feeling of fire licking at your body...it’s paralysing.

You instead collapse back onto the couch, and Enji sighs.

“Can you hold me?”

“Sure, my sweet.”

His arms pull you into his body. You feel yourself getting more and more tired.

“I’m sorry...I couldn’t be...what you wanted...”

“I am sorry I could not be what you wanted either...”

[wesimpforxiao]

Say My Name and I’ll Be There: 3.3

"You can't run from us."  Aether's lifeless eyes stared straight through you.

"Your time has come,"  Paimon grinned evilly.

"Die here." Childe stood between them as they all surrounded you, his eyes more devoid of emotion than Aether's.

"Leave me alone!" Your shout echoed through space.  "You can't hurt me! Xiao will protect me!"

"You think he can protect you from me? Oh, ojou-chan〰" Childe knelt in front of you and grabbed your chin.  "You're naïve to rely on him.  But I suppose it's all you can do, since you're too weak to defend yourself."

"Xiao!" You slapped the Harbinger's hand away and scooted backwards.  "Xiao! Adeptus Xiao! Please!"

Childe's manic laughter drowned out your desperate cries for help.

You awoke with a gasp and sat up.  Who was it that you could trust?  Aether was your number one answer out of the three of them, but after seeing that expression on his face, you weren't too sure.  Helplessness overwhelmed you, and your eyes struggled to adjust to darkness.  The campfire was dim and close to burning out so you added a few blocks of wood without disturbing anyone.  You lay your sluggish body back onto your sleeping mat and finally caught your breath, the cold sweat evaporating in the cool spring air.

The rustling of leaves to your right made you snap your head in that direction. Who was tasked with keeping watch tonight?  A quick glance around the campsite answered Aether.  But no one showed themselves near the rustling, and Aether was on the opposite side of the campsite.  You glared into the darkness and instead of being greeted with malice, a gentle breeze brushed past your face.

Wind?  It didn't make any sense.  Nothing else was being disturbed in the camp besides your hair.  You felt someone's presence, and yet no one was standing there; your adjusted vision proved it.  The presence comforted you in some strange way, and it felt familiar too.  You peered up into the tree canopy and found no figures sitting on the branches as you had expected.  

"...Xiao?" You practically mouthed the word.  The breeze swirled around you a few times, brushing against your arms and shoulders, then blowing your hair out of your face until it finally retracted and caressed your cheek--a lingering touch.  "You heard me."  Tears welled up in your eyes at the realization.  

He had only been gone for two days, but you never felt his presence like this before.  Even in person.  He was watching over you the entire time, even if you didn't realize it.  You may not have called for him consciously yet he heard your prayers nonetheless and came to you.  You found yourself reaching out into the open air silently begging for the breeze to return to you once more.

It did.  

A swift yet gentle trace from your forehead, down the side of your face, across your jaw and ending at your chin.  You could feel the gentle nature radiating from the force, even if it wasn't a lot considering the yaksha only knew death and destruction.  Still, he persisted to try and convey his thoughts to you.  It felt as though he was smiling ever so slightly as he did this, and you smiled back at the empty space.

But as quickly as he traced your face, the breeze dispersed and he was gone.

........................................

Several days passed without incident, and the two adepti had yet to return.  Aether had decided that the group would make a trip west of Dihua Marsh in search of a treasure rumored to have been left behind by a yaksha long ago.  By the time the group reached the stone tablet that held instructions for this treasure, you were already overwhelmed with missing Xiao's company.

"'My name is Bosacius, one of the Yakshas,'" Paimon read aloud to the group.  "'I followed my Lord to fight against and contend with pestilence. Yet though we Yakshas had great might, we were bound by our duties, and stained by them...Liyue is now at peace, but of our number, none but Alatus and I remain. And for my part, I wish to depart, to be done with this world.  My wealth I leave here, sealed by my arts. If you are fated to do so, take them as you please.'"

"Did they...kill themselves?" You voiced the question on everyone's minds.  The group was silent as they contemplated the meaning of the yaksha's words.  

"If that were the case, I'm sure Mr. Zhongli would know," Childe stared grimly at the tablet.  There were no records of Alatus surviving nor dying as far as he knew.  Perhaps this adeptus was living a peaceful life he could disrupt on the Tsaritsa's behalf, and not waste time with you and Xiao anymore...

"I've heard stories of the yakshas," Diluc nodded.  "It's been said that some were driven to the point of insanity from fighting daemons under Morax's orders.  They'd be put down by their allies if they didn't kill themselves first."

"That's horrible," you muttered and lightly touched the crumbling stone.  "I've heard names of yakshas growing up, but this is the first time I've heard of an Alatus...what a pretty name.  I wonder what happened to them?"

"Paimon hopes they managed to find at least some happiness in their lives."

"Yeah..." You stood up and contemplated the tablet.  Alatus and Bosacius...I wonder if Xiao knew them...And to be driven to insanity no less...Xiao has the same task, yet he seems to be doing okay.  But what if he isn't? Your eyebrows scrunched together at the possibility.  I pray you're doing well, Xiao.

"Well, let's go find the treasure! Maybe those two hilichurl camps hold the light actuators!  And the other one might be up the hill!"

"You sure moved on fast," Aether commented.  "Let's see...Diluc and I can take the camp with the lawachurl.  Childe and Bennett could take the one over there, and you can go up the hill."

"Actually--"  Bennett stepped forward with a nervous grin.  "It would be better if I went alone.  I could get you injured!"

"A little injury won't throw me off," Childe assured.  "Don't worry so much, comrade."

"Uh...o-okay..."

"Can you handle yourself?" Aether turned to you.

"Yep! I'll yell if I need help."

The group dispersed.  You climbed up the hill to be greeted by two powered-down ruin guards.  The light actuator sat in a locked cell tower.  One ruin guard sat at the top of the stairs connected to the tower, while the other sat a little too close to the rock you needed to use to free the actuator from its prison.  

"I should be able to get up there without waking the machines."  You carefully walked up to the glowing rock and started slicing at it with your sword.  Once it shattered, you grabbed the orb that burst from it and made your way over to the left side of the tower, placing it in the lantern that sat half-buried in the ground.  You sheathed your sword before climbing.  

Once you got to the top, your foot slipped and kicked a rock over the edge of the structure. You had just grabbed the light actuator when you heard the metallic sound of machinery standing up behind you.  The rock had hit the sleeping ruin guard.

"Crap!"  You peeked below you, and found the cyclops eye staring straight at you.  It turned around and bent over slightly, and heat rose from its back as it fired up its rocket launchers.  You scanned your surroundings.  If you ran left, you would wake the second ruin guard.  If you went right, you risk breaking your ankle if you land wrong.  Either way, the rockets would hit you since you wouldn't have enough time to dodge at this distance.  "Dammit."  You clicked your tongue and threw yourself off the tower before you could hesitate.  The rockets hit the cell and launched chunks of concrete into the air.

You rolled on the ground for a few feet, and sat up.  The ruin guard was now facing you, but instead of following through with its programmed set of attacks, it squatted and readied its launchers again.  

"The eye!  I need to hit the eye!"  You pushed yourself to your feet and hesitated.  You were at a larger distance from the guard this time; it would be simpler to dodge now and attack after.  If you ran towards it now, you'd definitely get hit.  Your hand fell to the hilt of your sword.  I could throw it.  It was instantly unsheathed, and you chucked it at the eye of the machine.

You missed.

It had hit right below the eye and clattered unceremoniously onto the ground.  You frantically glanced around for something to hide behind. A medium-sized rock was to your left.  It wouldn't provide full cover, but it was better than nothing; you dove for it and covered your head.

Nothing happened save for the sound of an arrow whizzing through the air.  You peeked over the boulder to find that Childe had hit a bullseye and transitioned into his hydro blades.  He defeated the ruin guard in less than ten seconds.

"It's a good thing I got here in time," he turned to you and his bow disappeared behind his back.  "You would've been seriously injured if you had gotten hit with that rock."

"T-thanks," you rose from behind your lousy shield.  "But I had it under control."

"Oh?"  Childe plucked your sword off the ground and handed it to you with an amused expression.  "This sword's seen better days.  I'll get you a new weapon."  You sheathed your sword without replying, and Childe's face fell.  "Are you injured?"

"Luckily not."

"That's good."  Relief laced his voice, which relieved you of some of your suspicions.  His gentle smile was replaced with a sigh.  "Bennett broke his arm."

[paper-n-ashes]

The Late Shift - Part 2

Characters: Paul Sevier x Female Reader

Words: 2k

Warnings/Tags: Little inklings of sexual themes. Otherwise we’re still in PG territory. Oh and mutual pining from two idiots. My favourite kind.

Authors Note: One shot? I don’t know her. Honestly, I don’t have any excuse. I just felt the urge to continue on with this dumb fluffy story because it makes me feel a little warm and fuzzy inside and I needed that. Will we drive this car straight into smut town afterwards? Ah you’ll just have to see. 

Catch up with Part 1 here

*

Paul always considered himself a smart guy. Perceptive, knowledgeable, with years of grueling education behind him to be where he is today.

His schooling, work, almost every minute of his waking moments was spent in the realm of artificial illustrations of correspondence. He could happily spend hours sifting through the words and numbers that made up all types of message transmission, might even admit he had a talent for decoding their significance and origin. Exchanges born from machinery were easy to analyse – they had set rules and gave little room for differing interpretation. He was comfortable in that world. Knew how things worked, what paths data and carefully devised information would take.

Human communication was infinitely harder to navigate. It was a skill he knew he was lacking in, compared to others at least. His words never came out the way he wanted, he struggled to say exactly what was wished to convey and agonised over the fact expression and tone could morph any remark into something with a whole different meaning.

Every day, he encountered people who used this as a tool - a weapon to obscure the truth and conceal hidden agendas. It was hard not to, working for the US government. In time, he’d become cynical. Wary of what people spoke aloud, assuming it was all said without much sincerity or reliability unless proven otherwise.

And then after another arduous day, there you were. Out of nowhere. Kind. Honest. Genuine. Within such an excruciatingly short interaction, you’d exuded all these traits so effortlessly. A breath of fresh air after being smothered by the smog the rest of his life contained.

Paul would easily admit his attraction to you was surprisingly swift. The rapturing smile you wore when you’d looked up from your notepad had him snared from the moment it appeared, an aura of natural vibrance and radiant energy shimmering out from your animated expression. What he’d expected to be a dry, tedious endeavour turned into a spark-filled scene, where an excited stranger made him feel both horrendously nervous and unusually at-ease. It had been a long time since someone made him feel like that.

It had also been a long time since he’d asked someone out on a date, for more than a few reasons. The more prolific Paul became in his job, the more unpredictable and unstable his life outside of it was. It took him across the country at a moments’ notice and consumed most hours of his day, meaning forging even short relationships was fairly difficult.

Plus… he just wasn’t good at it. Putting himself out there. He was shy, paralyzingly so. It’s not exactly something he could refute. His confidence was always born from experience and understanding, in knowing the reasons behind why things worked the way they did, along with being able to calculate what would happen next. No textbook could ever cover the entire spectrum of human personality, and there was no way to truly predict what a person might do or say. 

So, without the security of knowledge behind him, uneasiness and apprehension took over in most of his social interactions, particularly with those he felt a magnetism to. It’s exactly how he thought he seemed during his time with you. Awkward and floundering. Not exactly the most charming attributes for a man to have. And yet, the longer he was in your presence, the more he sensed those foibles fade into the back of his mind.

Talking to you was easy. Easier than it had been with anyone during a first meeting. What hadn’t been easy was enduring the seconds your touch grazed over him in your delicate workings while taking each different measurement - his heart beating a little faster, his muscles becoming a little more tense. When you’d eventually let your stare reach his, he’d seen how your eyes moved to trace the lines of his mouth, and it set his insides on fire. He’d been frozen by the unique type of burn, his body locked in place while a rare impulse begged him to sink his lips onto yours. In the past, he struggled to kiss a woman even after several dates, unable to push past the fear and doubt to turn his desire into action. However, in that moment, he’d been all too eager. His hand had moved on its own accord, fingers slinking up your waist, about to pull you closer when interruption instantly shattered his resolve.

The urge was still there in the dialogue that followed, although the promise of seeing you tomorrow made it easier to walk away, safe in the knowledge he had another opportunity to ask you out when his confidence was properly steeled. For once, he could be smart about this. Use his natural intellect to plan and act accordingly, giving him the best odds of securing more time with you.

Oh, but that all went to shit when your text message popped up on his phone screen. Seeing those words, even if they were meant for someone else, made his excitement reach an unfathomable peak, and in turn made him recklessly send a response without taking a second to think about the consequences.

And now, Paul had never felt so stupid in his entire life.

Sitting in the driver’s seat, the phone in his palm lit up with your conversation on display, he felt his stomach spasm with anxiety. Were you going to reply? What would you say? What if his bluntness freaked you out? What if you weren’t even talking about him? Was this all something his mind conjured up?

As the minutes passed without any sign of a response, the initially minor sense of panic began to compound, weighing heavy on his chest, the chaos of his mind soon melting into one certainty - he’d totally fucked this up.

About to slump his forehead into the steering wheel in a display of despondency, Paul suddenly felt a flash of courage at remembering the view of your face peering up at him. He knew the image of it would haunt him if he didn’t do something. He had to fix this. Explain himself. But it needed to be in person. He wouldn’t let technology mess this up for him again.

With a purposeful breath, Paul exited his car and began to retrace his steps past the other shopfronts, silently rehearsing what he wanted to say to you. He hoped to surrender himself to a collectively embarrassing situation, laugh off the turn of events, having it all culminate in an offer of dinner once your shift had finished. He already had a place in mind, only a street away, a little dumpling house that was always open late. Perfect for a cosy, quiet date after a chance meeting.

When his eyes latched onto your figure through the glass window, he stopped his hand from reaching for the door handle. You were crouching down in front of a small boy, his mother behind him cradling a newborn baby, your hand gesturing towards an array of child size suits. Paul couldn’t help but watch as your warming smile beamed, guiding the boys hands to touch and feel over the material, your words evidently making him feel more at ease as his expression slowly relaxed out of its worried frown.

Creeping backwards to make sure you didn’t catch him in your periphery, Paul felt a wave of relief wash over his skin, having evidence that your lack of reply wasn’t due to any of the worst case scenarios he’d been fretting over. You were just busy, concentrated on your work, giving your time and expertise to others in the same way you’d given to him.

The realisation was enough for him slink away, still impatient for your next encounter but assured in it being set within the next day cycle. He just had to wait.

Although, waiting wasn’t exactly a talent of his either.

 *

You were dying inside.

A friendly grin was plastered on your face as you conversed sweetly with the woman in front of you, making idle chit-chat while her son changed out of the suit you’d picked together, but the smile had never felt so insincere. Usually you loved when children came in to pick out ensembles for weddings and similarly formal events, but at the moment your mind was stuck on a small battery-powered rectangle sitting at your desk with a half-written message remaining under your lock-screen.

In the time before Paul’s response came through, you’d never felt more humiliated in your whole existence. Evaporating into thin air would have been a welcomed miracle. But when the returning text slid into focus, your whole mindset shifted.

He felt the same. He wanted you too.

You’d been in the middle of typing out a hasty invitation to come back and make true on his intentions when this overwhelmed mother with a fussy baby caught your attention. Her eldest son had done his best to iron out his only formal suit for the role of ring bearer in an aunt’s wedding this coming weekend, unfortunately resulting an a house full of smoke and a clump of burnt wool.

Personal matters withered into the background at the comprehension of her drained, exhausted demeanour, all your focus pointed back towards the job you’d been distracted from. Well, mostly.

You couldn’t avoid the thoughts and questions glinting in the back of your mind. Of what might have happened if this woman never appeared. What might be happening in an alternate timeline where you’d been able to send that waiting reply. Without intention, your wonderings turned into moving pictures – leading Paul into the back workshop, being roughly picked up onto the cutting table, his lips and yours finally connected in a heated clash, shedding all of his clothing until that heinous mustard shirt was crumpled on the floor-

The high pitched beep of the receipt machine snapped you back into reality, noting the relieved smile the mother wore while her son excitedly grabbed at the bags containing his dashing new suit.

“Thank you!” he hollered without needing to be prompted, waving his hand vigorously before skittering away to the door.

“You’re an absolute lifesaver,” the woman echoed, taking the receipt from your outstretched hand. “I’m really sorry for keeping you so late.”

“Oh don’t worry about it.” The time on the monitor screen just ticked over to 8:17pm, long after you would usually shut up shop and head home to your empty apartment. “I've got nowhere special to be.”

You each said your goodbyes, waiting until the precise moment her silhouette was out of sight before jumping to your phone. The same half written message was there, but now it felt impossible to finish. All traces of adrenaline had long since worn off, and the bravery that made you type out the risqué proposition was reduced to almost nothing. Your timid nature rushed back in full force, a thumb pressing hard on the little x button to erase all evidence of your out of character impulses.

Who were you kidding. You weren’t this person. Unashamed and brazen enough to dive into a fiery entanglement with a handsome stranger in the same evening you’d met. You wished you could be. There was never a time the concept was so enticing. But… it was a fantasy not meant for you to live out. They were destined for the outgoing, the cool and composed, the bold and sure-footed. You rarely felt like any of those things. And Paul, like most men, probably reserved their interest and attraction for those types of women. It was so silly of you to think any different. Getting your hopes up was foolish, and would only end in-

The tingle of the shopkeepers bell sounded, internally groaning as you slid your phone back onto the desk. “We’re closed,” you hawked, a coldness in your tone you couldn’t hide. Eyes snapping up to the intruder, a bolt of lightening shot through, barely able to stop the delight mixing into your blood.

“I just, uh, figured out something more that I needed,” Paul said softly, scratching the back of his neck, clearly nervous.

“You did?” you breathed. “W-what was it?”

His chest rose and fell with a calming exhale, making sure your stares were secured before giving his answer. “…You.”

*

Tagging some lovelies who might want to read. Feel free to let me know if you don’t want to tagged in future works!

@tlcwrites @roanniom @princessxkenobi @hopeamarsu @blowthatpieceofjunk @mariesackler @leatherboundriot @foxilayde @modernpaw @cornmousequeen @direnightshade @mylifeisactuallyamess @caillea @jynz-andtonic @paterson-blue @miraclesabound @prismaticpizza​ @millenialcatlady​ 

[imaginejamesandsirius]

Hii, I think Studio Killers's song Jenny (I Wanna Ruin Our Friendship) is great for the guys. It would be pretty awesome to read something like that.

James thought, a lot of the times, that he wanted to ruin his friendship with Sirius. He wanted to ruin it. He wanted to take the beautiful thing they'd built together and tear it apart, piece by piece until there was nothing left.

It was a very destructive way of thinking about it, and when James was in his better moods, he didn't think about it that way. He loved Sirius. He wanted to hug him and spend all his time with him because any time they were apart felt like time wasted. Every time they weren't in the same room, he had a story that he wanted to tell him, and he felt like he got all of the details wrong. He still shared stories with Sirius when Sirius had been there for it, but it was more fun that way. Sharing a story that Sirius hadn't already experienced was like desperately trying to get him back into that little bit of his life that he'd missed.

He loved him in more ways than one. He loved being his best mate. He also loved him like he wanted to pull his pants down and wreck him. And he loved waking up next to him on the odd occasion that they still shared a bed. He wanted to be able to kiss him after that happened, but he never could. It sodding sucked.

So when the time came that he felt completely hopeless in his pining, he wanted to ruin their friendship. He wanted it eviscerated. Not because he thought that Sirius would suddenly jump his bones or summat, but he knew that Sirius thought he was fit. He'd said so himself. If they'd never been friends, they might've hooked up at one of the bars they frequented. Hell, if James was enough of a bastard about something and actually did ruin their friendship, angry sex wasn't off the table.

It wasn't what he wanted. He knew that. Mostly, it was what he thought about when he was lying in bed, feeling lonely and pathetic.

And sometimes he would watch Sirius put on lipstick and he couldn't decide if he wanted to snog him so much that it was smeared all over his face, or if he wanted to steal it.

This latest time, he stole it. It was bright red, and it shone in the light. When Sirius pursed his lips to take a drag from a cigarette, James couldn't think. If he could think of anything at all, it was what he wanted to do to those lips-- or what he wanted those lips to do to him.

He palmed the lipstick tube, then brought it to his room. He took the cap off and twisted it up. There were distinct lines across it in the shape of Sirius, where he'd slid it across his lips.

James had watched him put it on dozens of times; he knew exactly how it looked when he put it on. Sirius flattened his lips wide across his teeth, then swiped from left to right across the bottom, then shifted to the top lip and did right to left. Then he would reverse the way he did it, starting at the top and swiping to the right, then going across the bottom to make sure he covered all of it. He was practically an expert on doing his makeup after so many times. He would rub his lips together then make a little kiss to the mirror with exaggerated pushed out lips. It was to check that he hadn't missed any spots; James knew, because then Sirius would bare his teeth to see that they were still clean. The problem was, if James was around when he got to the 'mwah' part of his routine, Sirius would wink at him. Sometimes he'd run his tongue over his teeth teasingly, like he wanted to get a taste of James and wasn't checking for the chemical taste of the makeup.

All the same, knowing every inch of his routine and the variations to it, James couldn't help but imagine Sirius doing it. He wasn't replaying a memory with it; he was creating something new. A scenario where Sirius put the lipstick on just so James could watch. The idea was mesmerizing in a way that it shouldn't have been. He'd seen Sirius put on his makeup-- and specifically lipstick-- enough times that it shouldn't be something he fantasized about. But he looked at the little lines at the end of the lipstick, and all he could think about was Sirius's mouth.

His tongue darted out, pressing against the tip of it for an instant. The taste was bitter and unpleasant, but it sent a thrill through him; this is what Sirius would taste like if he kissed him.

A hot feeling of shame crept over him, and he rolled the tube back down and put the cap on. He shouldn't have taken this. It was Sirius's, and if he found out about this, he wouldn't appreciate James stealing his things. He got to his feet and walked over to the washroom, tossing the lipstick on the counter so it landed among all the other products Sirius left lying around.

As he walked back to his room, the shame faded. He'd felt it so intensely in the moment, but it evaporated once he got a little distance. He knew that he'd regret it in the morning, but he turned on his heel and went back to the loo. He reached for the lipstick and opened it again. He didn't touch anything else.

He glanced in the mirror, as if he was expecting for Sirius to appear, leaning against the doorframe and asking what he was doing. Expectedly, it was only his own reflection that he saw. He bit his lip, then rolled the tube up. "This is so stupid," he muttered, but he still pursed his lips and started putting the lipstick on.

When he finished, he could better appreciate the ease Sirius did it with. It's not like it was hard, but he could see that he'd buggered it up a bit. If Sirius saw him with it on, he wouldn't care. It wouldn't mean anything to him. It was more upsetting than thinking that he'd be mad at James for wearing it. It wouldn't mean a thing to Sirius. It might be funny to him, since James had never shown any interest in wearing makeup before, and he'd probably wonder why he'd done it on his own instead of asking for Sirius to help him with it-- something he'd offered a few years ago, when he'd bought it all.

He spent the next fifteen minutes rubbing his lips raw, trying to get rid of all traces of red.

That night, he dreamed of Sirius on his motorcycle. In the weird way that dreams worked, it faded seamlessly from Sirius on the bike and James watching, to Sirius kissing him like there was no tomorrow. James woke up hard and aching, and a glance at the time told him that if he wanted to be any good in the morning, he should jerk off.

*

They were at one of the clubs, hanging out. Sirius was dressed up, like he always was. Bright red lipstick and dark eyeshadow. He had a light dusting of pink across his cheeks, but he said that he didn't like to do the full face of makeup because it felt like it was caked on. His hair was pulled back, and he had his leather jacket thrown on because they'd taken the bike here instead of apparating and walking the difference.

James leaned over and put his mouth near Sirius's ear so he could hear him over the loud roar of music. "You want to dance?"

Sirius looked at him, surprised. "You want to dance?"

He nodded. For a minute, he thought that Sirius would say no. There was a long enough pause between asking and Sirius answering that he got worried.

Then, like the sun shining when the clouds parted, Sirius smiled. He grabbed James's hand and pulled him towards the dancefloor.

At first, it was perfectly innocent. They were mates, and they'd danced together plenty of times. Then James shifted so his hand was too low on Sirius's back to be anything other than sexual, and Sirius didn't move away. He moved into it.

They both knew what was happening here, but neither of them said a word about it. They were pretending that it wasn't happening. Or at least, they were pretending up until Sirius pulled him out of the press of bodies and kissed him. The lipstick on his lips tasted better than it had when it was still in the tube. He couldn't get enough of it. He bit down on Sirius's lip, and he was breathless with the way Sirius responded to it, pressing into him helplessly.

"I've wanted to do that for so long," Sirius said. It wasn't quiet and under his breath the way that James had always imagined it happening. They were in a club, and it was loud. Sirius had to speak up in order for James to hear him.

"Me too," James replied.

"You want to go home?"

James nodded, and they practically ran from the club to climb onto the bike and race away. It was loud and messy, and that was them all over. He hadn’t had to ruin their friendship to get here; he hadn’t ruined anything at all.

[youwerenevermeanttofeelalone]

Not Planned | Damian Wayne

Pairing: older!Damian Wayne x Plus Size Reader (she/her)

Word Count: 4k

Request(s): Can you do one where the reader used to have a crush on Dick? Like a child crush because she’s Damian’s age so when Dick gets married to Kori, Damian consoles her and things happen? & older damian wayne smut plz!!

Warnings: nsfw, mentions of alcohol, a little angst, unprotected sex (please don’t do this), oral sex (both receiving), vaginal sex, mentions of food, fluff, probably language.

❖︎・・・・・❖︎・・・・・❖︎・・・・・❖︎

Damian shook his head. The dress you had worn the prior night was carelessly laying on the living room’s floor. He remembered how long it took you to pick the color and length which only annoyed him more.

Placing the paper bag he had been carrying onto the kitchen counter, he turned the coffee machine on. The place was silent, almost deadly — he would’ve found it soothing if he didn’t know you so well.

As Damian pushed your bedroom door open, he took note of the mess near your bedside table. Curious, he stepped into the room in effortless silence. There were a few drawings on the floor, some of them were half-finished silhouettes but others were full heart patterns with his oldest brother's name in the center.

He remembered watching you do a few of the latter while babbling those crazy theories you would come up with about the way you would make Dick fall in love with you. Damian had imagined you were upset when you left the wedding early the night before yet he never considered it was affecting you that much. In fact, he had assumed you were partially over Dick years ago when you started dating around.

The wine bottles next to the bed didn’t go unnoticed by him. Damian picked them up and put them on the bedside table so you wouldn’t knock them and make a mess when you woke up. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he stayed still for a few seconds to hear you breathing.

Your usual light sleep was gone. The softness in your features made him pause, wonder if waking you up was needed or worth it. Seeing you upset had never been easy, not even the first time he did. Damian wasn’t always nice, he knew he still needed to work on it but when he realized how upset you could get when he carelessly spoke something inside him switched.

Bruce had been shocked. Psychiatrists and psychologists had branded Damian as a nightmare to work with, they said he didn’t want to be helped. And Damian didn’t, there was nothing wrong with him.

You had never complained, but he could see some of his words got to you. Making you feel bad wasn’t his intention, other people didn’t matter but you did. It was hard not to care, so being nice became second nature around you. His brothers would only ask things from him when you were around, he had thousands of annoying memories where he had caught himself saying please and thank you to the people he had called nuisances on a daily basis before you arrived in his life.

Alfred said he was changing because he had needed a friend which in Damian’s mind made sense, but you would always tell him his nice persona had always been there — you believed that, you had seen it before he started showing it.

He shook his head again. Dwelling on things wasn’t good. Not to him. As softly as he was able to, he placed his hand on your arm and lightly shook you awake.

You covered your eyes with your forearm, whining. Damian scoffed. “I woke up early to buy bagels from your favorite bakery, the least you could do is eat them fresh.”

“Can I take a shower first?” you dragged your words, too sleepy to argue, certain Damian would win.

He hummed to then softly command, “be quick.”

You wouldn’t say breakfast was tense, but it was different than anything you had experienced in Damian’s presence. He watched you carefully throughout the meal as if expecting you to say something.

There were things you wished you could say, but words often fell short around him. Not many things surprised him, and the ones that did were never emotionally transcendental.

Making matters worse, unaware of the effect the chastising could have on you, Damian reminded you he had gifted you reusable handkerchiefs so you would stop using Kleenex.

You should’ve imagined he would visit in the morning, therefore you should’ve discarded the Kleenex before going to sleep. You had been drained, and dizzy after drinking wine past your limit.

“I forgot,” you mumbled, avoiding him by washing your plate and mug. As you dried the latter, you observed he wasn’t in the kitchen anymore.

Damian popped back in, with the empty bottles in his grasp. Silently, he handed them to you and disappeared back into your bedroom.

Leaving the bottles on the counter, you followed him. At first, he ignored you, roughly fluffing up your pillows.

“You don’t have to do that. Let me.”

Shaking his head, he gripped the pillow more tightly.

“Da—“

“Not now, please, not now.”

You lifted your arms in a surrendering gesture. Reading him had never been easy, but you had gotten better at it as time progressed and he allowed you to see more of his true self. Still, you weren’t as good as you wanted, or as he was with you. You were an open book in his eyes.

And his favorite one. You were that story he never wanted to like, the one he begrudgingly read only to end up becoming devoted to halfway through the first chapter.

He pulled your vanity’s chair out and sat down, looking down at the yellow spot on the rug. He had offered to buy you a new one after he ruined it with his oil paints, you asked for the painting he had done in exchange.

It was a beautiful piece. You had never been a big fan of paintings, preferring posters and photos, but the warm tones in that particular one made you feel safe in such a way you feared you’d never know peace again if you didn’t own it.

You kneeled on the opposite side of the room, picking the scattered papers and stacking them up to store them in their hiding place. You heard Damian shift on his sit.

“If you have other things to do, you can leave,” you assured him. The only instances when Damian was antsy were when he was in need of doing something else.

“I don’t.”

“Ah.”

He scoffed at your reaction. “You want me to leave?”

You carelessly threw the stack of papers into the drawer. “No, but you’re acting weird.”

As you stood up, he crossed his arms. Oh, God, not one of his challenges. Damian could get too competitive and although you enjoyed it 90% of the time, that day was part of the other 10%.

“I thought you were over him.”

His lack of tact while saying it would’ve hurt you mere months ago. You sat on your bed, nodding. “I am.”

“Right,” he condescendingly gritted.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You left early last night and got drunk looking at the dumb drawings you did of him, what is that supposed to mean?”

There was no mocking in his voice which made the question harder to answer.

“I—“ you breathed out a nervous laugh, “I miss those days.”

A part of your adolescence had evaporated the night before. Your innocent illusions of marrying Dick, of eventually having a happy home with a nice and caring man. You had understood it was a childish thing very quickly, and Dick himself had explained to you he was too old for you very early into your crush on him — yet you clung to it, such a romantic and beautiful dream couldn’t hurt you.

“I miss thinking everything was a fairytale.” You shrugged. “Dumb stuff like that.”

Your attempts to dismissing the depth of your words were ignored by Damian who shifted on the chair again. You looked down at your thighs.

“Is something wrong?”

“No,” you admitted, “it’s just a nostalgic bout.”

“Like those ones you get watching animated films?” he teased. Your only answer was a hum. Damian frowned for a millisecond. “Come here.”

Lifting your head, you lingered your gaze on him. He opened his arms, fixing his position on the chair. With wobbly legs, you walked toward him. You enjoyed the sensation you felt through your system by seeing him have to look up as you stood in front of him — something swirled in his eyes, a glint you had seen a few times yet had never deciphered.

Damian placed his hands on your lower back, pulling you closer. “Come on,” he encouraged you to sit on his lap.

“What for?” you inquired, not used to being so close to him. He lifted both eyebrows, prompting you to ease down onto his lap very slowly.

“I just want you to do it,” he answered, shifting his legs so you wouldn’t fall off his lap.

You focused on a spot on the wall behind him, wishing the earth would swallow you before you got any stupid ideas.

Damian whispered your name. You dragged your eyes toward his face, too abashed to look into his green ones.

“You do know I care about you, right?” His voice dropped.

You nodded with your attention on the tiny scar in his left cheek.

He confessed, tilting his head to find your eyes, “I hate seeing you sad. I feel useless.”

“It’s nothing, it’ll pass. You know how I am.”

“Pretty and angelic? Yes, I know.”

Rolling your eyes, you scoffed. “Now you’re flirting with me? Really?”

“I always flirt with you. This is just the first time you’ve seen it like that.”

You searched for his eyes. His curious gaze, endearing and bright, fixed on you. “Why?”

“Because I like you, why else?”

With elaborated breath, you caressed his soft skin by brushing his cheeks with your thumbs. “I didn’t know,” you mumbled. “You were never explicit. I thought you were just being nice.”

He traced your spine with two fingers, up and down. “You were obsessed with my brother.”

“You know why.”

He hummed in agreement. “But I didn’t know what to do.”

The two of you allowed a moment of silence to linger. You wished you could be surprised, but him liking you made all the sense in the world. Damian was more than a comfort in your life, he wasn’t the calm before the storm nor the storm itself — he was the rainbow, the security that things would eventually turn out okay and that if they didn’t it wasn’t the end of the world. A reality check and the assurance of not having to go through adversities alone.

As the seconds passed and everything sunk in, a question came to you. “Were you mad about... that... earlier?”

“Perhaps.” He lightheartedly scoffed when you glared at him. “I thought you had been crying over him,” Damian explained, trying his best to not grit his words. You breathed a nervous laugh out, taking your eyes off him. You could hear the smirk in his voice as he added, “but now I think you were crying over me.”

You failed to hide your amused smile. “You wish.”

“I would kill myself before making you cry.”

You felt him fully relax under you as he slid his arms around your plump hips. Damian rested his head on your shoulder, prompting your hands to slip — hugging him by the shoulders, you started playing with the small hairs on his nape.

Shuddering, he exhaled on your skin, “you always smell so good.”

“My mom always buys me that lotion for my birthday.”

He already knew that. Like most things about you. Your favorite color, the way you liked your tea, your sleep schedule, your clothing size, your least liked brand of sparkling water... he knew every twinge in your voice, the length of the scar you had on your upper back from when you fell off your bike as a child, he had long ago gotten every twitch of your face mapped into his brain, and for the same amount of time had longed for kissing every inch of it.

“Are you sure you’re comfortable?” you asked, remembering he must’ve been tired from patrolling the night before after the wedding.

Damian angled his face, nodding against your skin. His hot breath on your neck gave you goosebumps, prompting you to shift on his lap as you shuddered. Seeing the effect he was having on you, he boldly peppered a few kisses on your skin which earned him a whine.

Gripping his hair, you tugged on it to pull his head back. The wanton look in his face took your breath away, his eyes were glowing as they dilated. You kissed him, moaning when his hands dropped to your ass as he stood up.

Damian put you down onto the bed, sucking on your bottom lip as he trailed his hands down your soft stomach. You whispered his name, not sure as to why but desperate to do it. He hummed, manhandling your hips to fit himself between your legs.

Urgently, he rubbed your thighs as you explored his mouth with your tongue. You needed him, your breath catching in your throat burned like your still clothed skin was burning under his touch. Sliding a hand down his side, you stopped at his hips to then palm his crotch by spreading your fingers over his bulge. You felt immensely proud of yourself when he immediately moaned.

Damian gripped the edge of your top, dragging his mouth to your jaw. He breathily spoke on your skin, “can I take this off?”

“Please.”

It took you longer to answer than it took him to kneel between your legs. He pulled the material off your torso, licking his bottom lip at the sight before him. You reacted quickly too, seeing the opportunity to unbutton his shirt — he looked down at your hands as you painfully slowly undid the shirt, button by button. His breath hitched when your hands caressed his naked chest as they moved upward to his shoulders.

You pushed the shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall behind him. Damian pounced you, palming your breasts on top of your bra. Moaning, you arched up into his bare torso. Dragging your hands down his back, you brought them to the front, between your belly and his abs, to unbuckle his belt.

He sneaked his hand under your back, unclasping your bra with an easiness you wished you could do it. A whine escaped you as he latched his mouth on one of your breasts, sucking on it. Meanwhile, he kneaded your other breast, giving both your tits the same amount of attention by switching the order.

You bit into your bottom lip in attempts of muffling your sounds. Damian kissed down the valley of your breasts, mouthing your stomach as you struggled to pull his zipper down.

Damian circled your nipple with his tongue before speaking on the wet spot, his breath giving you goosebumps. “Let me hear you.”

He suddenly pulled away, rushing to take his shoes and pants off. You kicked your own shoes off, planting your feet on the bed in order to slide your pants down your legs. Damian’s eyes, full of lust, bored into yours as he placed his leg between yours while getting back into the bed.

You rut your wet core against his muscular thigh. Only your underwear was on the way and yet you felt as if you would explode. Damian was panting just by watching you, pushing his leg forward to prompt one of your sweet sounds to come out.

He gripped your hips, moving them up and down against his thigh. You moaned, placing your hands on his lower back. “Do something, Damian, please. Something else.”

“Tell me what you want,” he ordered with a sly smile on his face, you could hear the rumble of his words in his chest. “Use your words, beloved.”

Fuck. The look he gave you, raw and hungry, was so startling and enticing at once that you wondered why hadn’t you done this sooner. He lowered his hands and gripped your ass. Lust radiated off both you, so intense you had already broken into a sweat. Damian moved you closer to the edge of the bed, withdrawing his hands from your ass to pull your underwear down your thick legs.

“Words,” he reminded you, sniffing up as he once again licked his lips.

He was driving you completely crazy. “Anything,” you begged, “please.”

Damian kneeled, burying his head in your pussy with no warning, hungrily lapping and purring. You rolled your hips further against his mouth, squealing when his tongue flicked your clit while he dug his fingers into your soft legs.

“You taste so good,” he hummed on your pussy.

Kissing his way up to your hip, he rested his head on your lower belly as his fingers trailed up and down your slit. Your hips bucked up, covering his hand in slick. Damian circled your clit, pressing hard on it as he rubbed.

You whimpered, “just make me cum already, please.”

Grunting, he nodded. “You sound so hot when you beg.” Damian went back to your pussy, sucking on your clit harshly — the sounds of your slick and his mouth filled the room in the dirtiest way, then the howl you let out of his name joined. He overstimulated you while lapping at your slick as he cleaned you up, humming happily.

He popped up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. You licked your lips at the sight of his tight underwear. Sliding off the bed, you kneeled before him.

Damian placed a hand on the back of your head, softly, cursing when you nuzzled against his dickprint. You mouthed his length, licking the salty wet spot on the cotton material. “Shit,” he breathed out.

You smiled against him, pawing at his underwear to slide it off. The sight of his cock, standing proud a mere inch away from your lips made your mouth water. You had never seen a prettier cock, or a bigger one.

“Hurry up,” he urged you, pushing your face onto his cock.

You licked a line up his shaft, swirling your tongue over his tip smeared in precum. He hissed. You took him into your mouth, little by little as deeply as you could. Your hand came up to hold his base and so you comfortably loosened your jaw.

Sucking him down a little further, you felt him twitch on your cheek. Damian pulled you off him, growling, “on your back, now,” he pointed at the bed.

He beamed down at you as he made sure you were wet enough. Lining himself at your entrance, he plunged inside you in one swift motion. Your mouth fell open, not a sound was able to come out as you felt him bottom out. You moaned in unison then, him while holding your waist and you gripping his biceps.

You stretched around his size as he slammed back into you after having pulled out. You cried his name and that was all it took for him to start hammering into you with all his strength, so hard the bed rocked.

His soft lips bruised yours as he kissed you, teeth clicking a few times as he pounded into you, making you feel your eyes roll back into your head even while closed.

As he pulled away, he panted, “fuck, (Y/N).” Your name dropped from his lips in such a sinful way, so sensually as his bottom lip trembled.

You let yourself go wild, latching your mouth on his neck and shoulder blade. Damian grunted when you bit into his skin, leaving a trail of saliva behind.

Licking a line up his neck, you whispered into his ear, “Damian, I’m close.”

Damian started fucking you harder and faster, determined on making you come again. He brought you closer, making you wrap your legs around his hips as with his knees he rocked himself in order to plunge into you deeper.

Kissing you sloppily, leaving a string of saliva hanging between your mouths, he gasped. Your walls were tightly hugging his cock, making it pulse against them.

He rode out his high in quick and deep thrusts, hitting your spot as your legs trembled around him. You held yourself by gripping his shoulders, moaning and arching up as you looked into his eyes.

Feeling warm strings coat your walls, you jumped. A spasm broke through you as you came at the same time as Damian, crying out his name once again as he roared yours — both sounds vibrated in your chests and into the other’s.

He dropped his face into your neck, catching his breath as he inhaled your scent mixed with your sweat. His cock softened inside you as both of you calmed down, along with your arms and legs that fell limp onto the bed.

You moved your head to keep his hot breath away from your neck, slower than you had thought you would be able to move.

Damian huffed a teasing laugh. “Tired?”

Humming, you shimmed on the bed to lay on your side. Damian copied your movements once you were comfortable, giving you enough space to cool down.

“Do you want some water?”

“I want a shower,” you responded honestly, “you shouldn’t have made me shower earlier if you were going to fuck me like that.”

“I didn’t plan it,” Damian defended himself, rolling on the mattress to leave the bed. “How warm do you want the water?”

He didn’t give you a chance to answer, or to tell him you could do it yourself. You dragged yourself toward the bathroom, almost regretting having said anything.

The situation was surreal. You wouldn’t have let Damian watch you in underwear the day before, but there you were comfortably standing in front of him as he unabashedly stared at your naked body.

Entering the shower, you sighed as the water fell onto your head. The temperature was perfect. Damian closed the stall as he entered too, eyes not leaving your form. You made way for him to get under the water too, reaching behind him for the shampoo. There wasn’t much space to move, but you weren’t complaining and he wasn’t either.

You watched him from the couch, pouring coffee into a mug, only his boxers and with a frown on his pretty face. The sight of Damian in his underwear, walking around your apartment with such familiarity had to be what dreams were made of.

Placing the mug on the table after taking a gulp, he occupied the spot next to yours. You offered the remote to him, but he swatted a hand dismissively. Shrugging, you put the controller down and sprawled your legs comfortably.

He silently rested his head on your shoulder, ignoring the movie playing on the tv. He didn’t even know the title, and he was sure you had put it on just to have something in the background so asking was pointless.

“You’re like a cat,” you chuckled when he nuzzled onto your shirt, trailing your hand up to run your fingers through his hair.

Damian hummed, hugging you by the waist. “I’ll never speak to you again if you tell anyone,” he half-heartedly threatened.

“And risk someone else getting cuddles instead of me? No thanks.”

“This isn’t cuddling.” You bounced your shoulder, making him lift his head. Annoyed, he asked, “what?”

“What’s going on with you now?”

“Nothing.” Damian dropped his head back onto your shoulder

“Tell me. Is it something I d—“

He interrupted, tightening his arms around you and pulling you toward him, “I was trying to find the words to ask if this was only a one-time thing without sounding like an idiot, but you clearly ruined it.”

“Of course not.”

Resting your cheek on the top of his head, you went back to play with his hair. At first, you had assumed he would be against you touching his hair again — he surprised you by purring happily.

Damian hoped nothing would ruin the moment, his family was known to call at the worst time. He would do anything to not be forced to move, faking tiredness or an emergency wasn’t below him — not when it came to being around you and having your full attention.

[maxrev]

Fluffy ask for Jon/Kaidan for you: walking on the beach (or the pier I suppose) while holding hands with their fingers laced together. (sorry, I can't get enough of these two!)

These guys I swear...short prompts don’t exist. They took this and ran with it and Kaidan had another surprise in store. I apologize for any mistakes or if something doesn’t make sense, I was...exhausted and probably overedited it into a mess lol. Anyways, hope you enjoy and thanks for the ask ;)

           ___________________________________

Where Palm Trees Sway

It is the heart always that sees, before the head can see - Thomas Carlyle

A breeze blew in off the ocean, warm air against hot skin. Jon was wishing for the cool breezes back home but he wouldn’t trade this moment for anything. 

"Doing okay?" 

He looked over, drinking in the sight of Kaidan wearing board shorts and nothing else; his fit, muscular body on display and an easy smile on his lips. While they actually lived on the beach, a bit warmer climate sounded like the perfect get away. A chance to bask in the sun and enjoy each other without the distractions of their friends and city life; even if the city wasn’t terribly large. The small, quiet resort they’d chosen sat in a protected cove of an island with miles of beaches, both busy and peaceful. A few were off the beaten path, providing a calm and restful ambience. 

The ocean waves provided a relaxing accompaniment to their unhurried pace as they meandered down the stretch of sand. This beach, the one with their bungalow, was secluded; a couple of families with young children, a few couples enjoying the solitude as they were and one lone group of teenagers engaged in a mostly quiet game of frisbee. 

They walked near the water where the aqua colored waves rolled lazily onto shore, the crowns of foam drifting softly over their toes. Seagulls floated nearby on currents in air, cawing loudly, sometimes drifting closer inland hoping for a tasty morsel tossed to them. Out at sea floated a handful of colorful sailboats. A picture perfect day, much the same as the brochure still on the table back home. Just as advertised. 

A little way down the strip of sand Jon could see a young mother trying to teach her little boy how to fly a kite and just past the two of them was a single vendor selling drinks, ice cream and shaved ice, the shiny cart shaded by a bright, colorful umbrella. 

"Yeah, I'm good." Kaidan reached for his hand and they continued their walk, comfortable in the peaceful setting, no need to fill the silence with words. He knew Kaidan was just checking on him. 

Before they'd left their bungalow, Kaidan had stared in astonishment when Jon stepped out of the bathroom without a shirt. He'd quickly hidden his surprise, though. For Jon to go out in public without one was a monumental step. 

Of course, it helped having Kaidan by his side offering support. Being on a sparsely populated beach didn’t hurt either. Less people to observe his scars up close, fewer children to terrify. As soon as the latter thought crossed his mind, a kite came crashing down in front of them, the little boy racing towards it frantically as fast as his little legs could go while his mother called out to him. It was as if he never heard her. 

Jon froze as the boy skidded to a stop in the sand, right at their feet, at a loss for what to do. 

Instinctively, he turned to hide his scars, knowing as soon as the boy's eyes landed on them, he'd run back to his mother, frightened and screaming. Leaving his shirt off had been the absolute worst idea he’d ever had. He’d struggled with it over and over and now wished he would have worn one; his usual long sleeved tee. Being hot and sweaty was preferable to the fear snaking up his body, rooting him to the spot. He held his breath, waiting for disaster to strike. 

“Jon...hey, Jon. I’m here; it’s going to be okay.” 

Jon didn’t even hear him. 

The boy gazed at the crashed kite, a lone tear escaping from the corner of his eye to roll down a chubby cheek, smeared with what looked like chocolate. Dark brown curly hair blew free in the breeze. 

The world faded away when the boy gazed up at him with wide brown eyes, full lower lip quivering. Jon was sure any minute he’d begin to wail and the wailing would turn to a howl when he finally saw Jon's scars. 

"M-m-my k-k-kite," he stammered in a tear filled voice. He pointed at their feet, in case they hadn't already noticed. But all Jon noticed was the boy's arm, his kite completely forgotten. The arm aiming at the kite was horribly scarred, all the way up to the elbow. The shimmering big brown eyes locked on Jon’s. How do I talk to a child?

Kaidan moved between the two, sitting on the backs of his legs, toes digging into the sand. He smiled at the child, “Let’s check your kite and see how it looks, okay?” 

The boy sniffled, wiped a hand under his nose, and nodded. His mother caught up to them just then wrapping her arms protectively around his shoulders. Breathless, she apologized, “I’m so sorry he’s bothered you.” To her son, her voice was soft and gentle but firm, “Levi, you can’t run off like that without me, okay? And you shouldn’t bother these nice gentlemen.” 

He twisted, trying to free himself from her protective hold, turning to look up at her, “But my k-k-kite! I h-h-had to c-catch it!” He explained in a tear soaked voice. Levi looked back at Kaidan who held the kite, carefully smoothing it out and untangling the string. It appeared to be intact. “Is it okay? Can I f-fly it again?” 

The epitome of patience as always, Kaidan nodded and smiled, gently reassuring him, “I think it’ll fly again. Here you go.” He handed it over, the chubby hands grasping for it with a look of wonder, tears evaporating as if they’d never been. “Thank you!”  

The boy’s mother smiled at Kaidan, echoing her son, “Yes, thank you so much.” 

She glanced over at Jon with brown eyes the same color as her son’s. Her gaze slid over his scars but without shock or disgust. Before she could turn him away, Levi’s glance landed on them as well. Jon tensed, anticipating the inevitable explosion but to his surprise, it never came. 

Levi stepped closer, reaching out. His mother grasped his hand. “Levi!” she reprimanded, “You can’t touch someone without their permission.” 

Crestfallen, he looked ready to cry again. 

To his surprise, Jon said, “It’s okay. I don’t mind.” By the intake of breath at his side, Kaidan was surprised as well. 

But Levi turned the tables on them all. “We have matching scars! Do you wanna touch mine, too?” 

The matter-of-fact question rattled him so much, he couldn’t manage to answer. Levi deflated...until Kaidan reached for Jon’s hand, snapping him out of his trance. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind, right Jon?”

“Uh...sure,” he spoke with more conviction than he felt. 

Reaching out with tentative fingers, ashamed of how badly his hand shook, Jon gently let his fingertips glide over them, losing himself in the touch and feel of someone else’s outward trauma. The scars were marled with raised ridges, thin rivers of pale pink in the sunlight. The boy giggled and Jon snatched his hand away, the spell broken.  

Hand still shaking, he started when a warm hand slid around it and squeezed. Kaidan. 

The boy giggled, "That tickled!" 

Inspired by the courage of the small boy before him, Jon sat in the sand so he could be on the same level. "You wanted to touch mine, too, right?" 

Levi nodded, extending his hand but then pausing and looking up at his mother. Realizing the suggestion may have been too forward, Jon looked up at her. She’d been watching them, her son's earlier tears seemed to have found a home in her eyes. Blinking several times, they glistened with unshed tears. She gave her consent to them both with a nod. 

Levi needed no further urging, touching Jon’s scars. It still took every ounce of strength he possessed not to flinch or pull away when those tiny fingers traced every inch of scarred skin. So far no hysterics and as Levi continued to explore, Jon felt his fears ebb away, like waves going back out to sea. He lost himself in the wonder of the child before him, filled with bravery and the absence of doubt. No thought to how the outside world would view him. Jon hoped those values remained through his whole life. 

"They’re all...ribbly," Levi told him. 

"Ribbly, huh?" At the boy's emphatic nod, he chuckled, "I suppose they are." 

"Levi, we need to go." 

The boy gave a very adult sigh, garnering a chuckle from his mother and Kaidan, before leaving. Following his mother back down the beach, he suddenly turned back to Jon, gave a shy grin and wave, turned back and began to run, tossing a ‘bye’ over his shoulder. Their bodies became smaller until they took a path into the trees and disappeared. 

Still trying to wrap his mind around what had happened, he was startled when Kaidan spoke up, "You okay?"

He stood up and brushed the sand off his legs, using the action to get his emotions under control. "Sure, I'm good."

The words were true. Actually, he felt more than good. Never comfortable around people after the mission which had given him the scars and more than a little terrified of their possible reaction, he found himself a little poleaxed by the whole scene. His present fears put into perspective by the naivete of a child. He was smart enough to know moving forward wouldn't be so easy; he still had quite a few giant hurdles to jump over. But it was a start. Doc Chakwas would likely give him one of her knowing smiles when he relayed the story to her. 

"Want some shaved ice?" 

Sounded wonderful. His throat was dry from stress and the sun hung high up in the sky since they'd left their bungalow. The air was hot, humid, and wet. "Yeah. Blue raspberry if they have it." 

Kaidan walked to the vendor while Jon waited, not quite ready to endure more scrutiny of his scars. He came back with two paper cups; blue raspberry for Jon, lemon for him. "Here you go." 

Jon took it, spooning out a bite. Cool and refreshing. "Mmmm, perfect." 

Kaidan quipped, "The ice or me?"

Not missing a beat, Jon leaned over and kissed him thoroughly, "Why, you, of course." 

Kaidan looked at him and laughed, "Your lips are already blue." 

"Guess you'll just have to clean them off then." 

"Mmmm, I'd enjoy that." 

Jon took another bite and licked his lips, making sure they were blue. Kaidan nudged his shoulder, causing them both to stumble and nearly drop their paper cups. He felt happy and content even as exhaustion crept over him from the encounter with Levi. A good outcome but he hadn't noticed how on edge he'd been throughout it all. 

"Ready to head back? We’re on island time now. We can nap if we want to." 

It was almost scary how Kaidan could read him so easily now. Sneaking a sideways look, Jon couldn't tell if Kaidan meant he wanted to take one as well, though he didn't look tired. In fact, he looked like he could spend the rest of the day running around the island. It almost wasn't fair...except the nap was calling him and Jon was powerless to resist its pull. 

"Yeah, a nap sounds good." 

He barely remembered his head hitting the pillow. 

Jon awoke to gauzy curtains swaying gently in a warm breeze coming in from the beach. Their bungalow sat close by, the glass doors to the bedroom taking advantage of the beautiful sunsets and warm, westerly zephyrs. Unwilling to move, he remained in bed, content to enjoy the view out the windows. 

But then the bed dipped behind him and he turned to find an even better view; Kaidan must have taken a nap as well. The sleepy-eyed, tousled-hair look was infinitely more appealing then what he’d been looking at outside. 

"Hey, there." His voice was deep and raspy with the remnants of sleep. Jon could get drunk on that voice. 

"Hey. Looks like you napped a bit too." 

"Yeah. Read a bit before I followed you down the same rabbit hole." He stretched with a yawn, Jon admiring the play of muscles as they moved under his golden skin, a tad darker after walking in the sun. "I'm going to take a shower, then thought we could take a walk before dinner." 

"Shower sounds great but what is it with the constant need to walk? Thought we were here to relax," he grumbled. 

"Oh come on, it’ll be a nice evening stroll. Help you work up an appetite.” 

Voice muffled against the pillow, he countered with, “I can think of better ways.” 

“Oh, so can I but we have plans. Ones I can’t change.” 

With a heavy sigh, Jon flopped out of bed and followed him into the bathroom. Not usually the one to instigate sex, he nonetheless tried to take advantage, but Kaidan’s ‘plans’ didn't include shower sex. 

And damned if it didn’t have him more than a little curious about what those plans were.

Freshly showered and dressed island style, which for them meant barefoot and shirtless with cargo shorts, Kaidan walked outside, calling back over his shoulder, "Lets go. We can watch the sun set as we walk." 

Dazzling white sand, warm from a day in the sun, was soft beneath their feet. The fronds of the palm trees swayed gently against a sky turning golden with the glow of the sun, just beginning its descent towards the horizon. 

Kaidan reached for his hand, lacing their fingers together and Jon felt a comfortable peace steal over him for the first time in...well, ever. He gazed at their hands and knew he wouldn’t change his life right now for anything. 

Before leaving the resort area, they stopped to purchase a couple of drinks; colorful, frozen, fruity things with umbrellas in them. They even came in a coconut shell. Jon drank his too fast through the straw, getting a brain freeze for his trouble. 

He stumbled, Kaidan grasping his hand tight and pulling back, trying ot keep him from falling. Jon looked down, surprised to see seashells in the shape of a heart. “Hey, look Kaidan. D’you see this?” 

“A heart made from seashells. Wonder who made it?” 

“I don’t know but someone was creative. I hope the tide doesn’t wash it away.” 

“It would be a shame, wouldn’t it.” 

There was something different in his voice but Jon couldn’t figure out what. Before he had a chance to mull it over, Kaidan pulled him forward. A few meters further and Jon saw a heart drawn in the sand. Surprisingly, it remained untouched by the waves. Inside it had been etched the words - once in a lifetime love. 

“Another heart. Someone went to great lengths to let them know they’re loved.” 

“Yeah, they sure did. Kinda reminds me of our message bottles, you know?” 

Jon gazed at him steadily, “Yeah...I suppose so.” 

Could it be Kaidan? No, there hadn’t been time for him to get away and do all this. 

They strolled at a relaxed, leisurely pace. Kaidan sipped slowly at his frozen drink while Jon had already finished his. 

Out of the blue, he asked, “You ever think about what you want to do with the rest of your life?” 

Jon gazed out over the ocean, watching as the sun began to color the underside of the white clouds floating lazily across sky in pastel hues of blue, pink, lavender and orange. The colors reflected in the ocean, all melding together in the current. He took a moment to think about Kaidan’s question. What did he want to do with the rest of his life? 

“I...I guess I haven’t, really. Have you?” 

“Well, I planned it around a career I thought I’d have the rest of my life. Spent the last thirty plus years focusing on one specific goal. Guess I didn’t really think about or plan beyond it.” 

Jon nodded, “I understand. Same thing for me, I suppose.” 

“Then, just like this,” he snapped his fingers, “it’s all gone. How do you start over? Where do you go and...with who?”

“With...who?” 

“Yeah...with who. I mean, I’ve never had a serious relationship before, guess maybe I’m choosy or...or patient--” Jon snorted and Kaidan bumped him in the shoulder with a quiet chuckle. 

“Patient, huh?” The laughter left his voice, “You are patient, Kaidan. Endlessly so.” Almost embarrassed at what he was admitting, his words were quiet, almost lost in the surf nearby, “ I mean, you have been - you are - with me.” 

Dusk had begun to fall in earnest and Jon wondered why they hadn’t begun to head back for dinner. Kaidan was quiet, not exactly out of the ordinary, but he seemed unusually introspective tonight. 

“I think what I want - something I’ve never truly found - is a deeper relationship with someone I...care about.” 

Jon swore his heart stopped for several seconds before it began beating again. Kaidan...was...he cared about someone? Rattled as his thoughts were, the one his mind latched onto was…’not me.’ 

“You...” his voice cracked on the single syllable and he coughed, tried again, “you care about. So, what you’re trying to say is--”

Kaidan stopped and turned to face him, never letting go of his hand, stopping Jon’s flow of words. He hadn’t noticed they were in a clearing. Tiki torches glowed softly in the dark, the sun finally having tipped over the horizon. 

A canopy had been set up over a single dining table set with plates and glasse. Next to it were covered serving dishes, a bucket full of ice to keep a bottle of champagne cold. Lights were twined around the canopy, adding to the glow of the torches. A radio played music softly. The scene was stunning, beautiful and Jon was thoroughly confused. 

At least, until he saw a heart drawn in the sand in front of the canopy with the words Love for a lifetime. 

He wasn’t sure what was happening, though it became clear rather quickly. 

Kaidan went down on one knee, “Jon, I love you with all my heart. After all the time we’ve been together I’ve realized I don’t want to spend the rest of my life without you.” Pulling a ring from the pocket of his shorts, he held it up. “Will you marry me?”

Stunned into silence, he stared at the ring, up at Kaidan, back to the ring. It was incredible: Trimmed in gold on the top and bottom, in the middle was a double row of waves in white. 

Mind crowded with thoughts, he knew Kaidan was getting more anxious with every passing second. Why would this man, so...so perfect, want to spend the rest of his life with...him? He was broken. Oh, he loved Kaidan, had realized it months ago, but never expected he’d want to stay and would just move on the day his endless patience finally ran out. 

But it hadn't and he was still here, right now...waiting on an answer. 

"Hello? Jon?" 

He searched the anxious brown eyes, saw nothing but honesty and love. 

"Yes, Kaidan. I will." 

A song came on and Jon thought the lyrics were perfect: 

I'm diving into the deep end

And I'm not scared, I'm not scared

And I've been way over my head

And I'm not scared, I'm not scared, no **  

** Daughtry - Deep End 

[malucy31]

Time is On Our Side

Pairing - Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood

Raiting - Teen and Up

Tags - Time Travel AU, Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Reunion, Married Malec, Alec Misses Magnus, Happy Ending, Malec Love Each Other A Lot

6599 words - COMPLETED

Summary - Alec is stuck on a mission in India in the 18th century and he misses Magnus. One day, he wakes up somewhere that feels and smells like home.

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3

Chapter 3 - Home, at last

There is a whole ritual every time Alec comes back from time traveling. Magnus is always there at the Institute, wearing a mix of worry and eagerness on his features.

The anchoring spell is performed quickly, just a way to make sure that no traveler’s history gets lost when the timelines merge a couple of hours from now. But Alec stays out, always. He refuses to be anchored to anyone but Magnus. They do it in the quiet and intimacy of their loft.

They don’t talk much. Even when they are in their kitchen, Magnus watches in silence as Alec eats like he hasn’t in days, which in this case is accurate. In the two days between meeting Magnus and the new moon, Alec has been so scared of having divulged too much that he hasn’t come out of his room, using nourishment runes, one after the other.

As usual, Magnus doesn’t eat a thing. It has only been a few minutes for him anyway; they had dinner before Alec left. The dinner before a time travel is always a heavy moment. It’s weird for them both. Not sharing time, knowing the next minutes of Magnus’s life could feel like weeks, a month…a decade to Alec.

A decade never happened, but the fear is always there. So, to remind each other that no matter what, Alec will always come back, they keep a third plate for Alec’s return, leaving everything on the table as it was. Alec will always come home, and their home will always be ready to welcome him back.

They don’t really have a lot of time after that. They need to prepare the protecting circle for the anchoring spell, but Alec can see that worry hasn’t left Magnus’s face. As Magnus is tracing the circle on the ground, Alec puts a reassuring hand on his shoulder, calling his name as softly as he can.

They still don’t exchange a word. Alec can’t, knowing that if he starts, he could talk for days, shower Magnus with every promise of eternal love flaring up in his lungs with each intake of breath, with every moment of longing that peppered his last month and a half.

But it will have to wait. In the meantime, fear and worry start evaporating with a soft kiss, then a second one which turns into a hungrier one. That’s all it takes. The reminder that they share time again, they never stopped sharing it in some way.

Clothes are being discarded. They don’t have to feel each other’s skin for the spell, but their hearts do.

Alec finds the ingredients Magnus needs without having to ask. His hands are full of jars, and there is an apple tree twig between his teeth. He feels Magnus’s stare on him when he re-enters the living room where a circle of candles has been set up around a mattress.

What? he asks wordlessly with raised eyebrows.

Magnus sniggers, his voice finally filling the silence. “This never gets old.” He unburdens Alec’s arms by taking the jars one by one and setting them on the nearest table. “You, finding your way through my apothecary…” Alec doesn’t move, chuckling when Magnus finally takes the twig from his mouth and kisses his lips. “On your own…” Fingers trail up along his sides, and he can’t hold back a giggle, “in your underwear.”

“Feels good to be home,” Alec whispers into their kiss.

“It does.”

*

Once the spell starts, everything goes quickly. Time adjusting itself around them is intoxicating. It feels like those life showers Magnus likes to take with him sometimes. Running from portal to portal, hand in hand, hopping from a green and sunny hill to a rainy seashore, from hard concrete ground to silky sheets. Remaining there for a few breathless kisses before disappearing into the mattress with laughter when they hear a door opening. Landing on a trampoline, then more streets, more mountains, more kisses and the sweetest of all exhaustions. Watching the first minutes of a play before falling back, trapped between something fluffy and the comforting weight of Magnus. More laughter, always more laughter…then running again. Running around the world and taking everything in as the Earth keeps on spinning.

*

A draft wakes them at the same time. Alec feels Magnus stir, his arm and head leaving his chest before returning there with a sigh.

Around the mattress and the protecting circle, it’s havoc. The windows to the balcony are wide open, curtains billowing out in the breeze, birds exploring the living room and eating crumbs the wind scattered from their forgotten dinner.

There are even a few plants here and there, growing from the ground. It happens sometimes. It’s Magnus’s magic going a little crazy when it comes to protecting what they have. They are used to it. The flowers that grow don’t even always exist outside their own little world.

Alec plants a kiss in Magnus’s hair, inhaling a scent he has been missing for the last month and a half. Already grinning with delight about what’s to come, Alec eventually speaks. “Go ahead, ask…”

It doesn’t take long for Magnus to react. It’s endearing. Magnus always waits for Alec to start this conversation, making it another ritual with its codes and rules.

“Which stranger were you this time?”

There’s joy in his voice, one that Alec usually doesn’t link with Magnus thinking about his past.

Alec doesn’t answer, already shifting to retrieve the small pouch of sandalwood blend, eager to see his husband’s face light up when he figures it out on his own. But he should know better.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Magnus asks, his body suddenly weighing more heavily above his to make his point clearer. Alec isn’t going anywhere. It makes him laugh softly.

“I have a clue, but it’s in my jacket.”

“Which one?”

“The one I had yesterday? The one you took off with so little regard…”

“Well, there were other important things that demanded my attention,” he punctuates with a kiss, not letting his lips leave Alec’s, “and it’s a black leather jacket. You have thousands of them.”

He could tease him back, maybe tickle him, hear him giggle, feel the laughter and joy spread through his body. With Magnus so close, he would feel everything. But he is overwhelmed.

“I missed you so much, Magnus.”

“I know, darling. But I’m here now, we both are…and I’ve missed you just as much. Whoever you were this time, you can be sure that even though I barely knew you, I missed you the second you were gone. That I missed us without really knowing what us meant.”

Neither of them moves, not even for a kiss. Magnus swallows thicky, and Alec is struck by the emotions on his face. Years of being together and Magnus still feels self-conscious when he confesses things like that. But it never stops him, and even after all these years, Alec still feels like the luckiest man alive.

Magnus continues, his collected tone and loving smile trying to bring Alec back to him. “Do you see it?”

“Huh?”

“Your jacket, Alexander, can you tell me where it is so I can summon it?”

“Sure, it’s…” Alec cranes his neck. Their place is a mess, but he spots his jacket on the floor, somewhere between what seems to be an orchid and a cat napping in a morning sunbeam. “There.”

They laugh as Magnus follows Alec’s pointed finger, apparently realizing for the first time the state of their living room.

He snaps his fingers, and the jacket is there. In one of its pockets, Alec finds the small pouch. It doesn’t take more than a few seconds for Magnus to recognize it.

“It’s one of mine! Where did you get this?”

“You gave it to me.”

“I gave it to you? You must have made a big impression on me.”

“I think I did,” Alec smirks, still a little worried that he told too much to that past version of Magnus. “Especially when I told you about my husband.”

He sees Magnus’s eyes widen, just like they did all those centuries ago.

“The married traveler, of course… Do you know how long I’ve been looking for you? For a long time, I was obsessed with that place in the world where it seemed possible for people like us to exist.” His voice breaks a little on those words.

Alec can’t resist the urge to hug him, take him in his arms and secure his head in the crook of his neck. “I’m sorry. It broke my heart to leave you this way.”

“Don’t. Don’t be sorry. I kept a very fond memory of that encounter. And who knows, maybe you’ll have to go back, and we’ll realize we met again in the morning.”

“Maybe we never really stopped meeting.”

“What a lovely thought…”

They bask in the silence for a little while, Magnus’s body relaxing against Alec’s.

“Can you remind me what happened? What we said?”

It’s still so fresh in Alec’s mind that he tells him every detail.

The anchoring spell protects those moments, frozen in time. They have so many memories like this one now, not really knowing if it really happened, if this is part of their story or some sort of alternate reality. It doesn’t matter. They are still here, together in the end, with dozens of memories of a life that maybe was. None of them affecting their life, only adding to it.

Somewhere during the story, Magnus rolled on his side to face Alec.

“When did we see each other after that?” Magnus asks.

It gets complicated to answer that question, Alec doesn’t time travel every day, but he has done it a few times already. It’s not always easy to keep track.

“The pirate ship!” They exclaim at the same time, laughing at the memory.

Alec reaches out, grazing Magnus’s cheekbone, outlining his jaw and diving into his eyes. They sparkle with joy, gold shining proudly in the morning light.

“It feels good,” Alec eventually utters. “Seeing you talking about your past with such lightness, laughing.”

Magnus whispers his answer into the crook of Alec’s neck. “It’s easier now that I know you could be anywhere in it.”

The words turn into soft kisses, each of them reminding Alec why those time travels are always worth it, no matter how long they can feel. Each of them is a chance to give Magnus back what life took from him. Hope, happiness, laughter, cheerfulness…

“You really are a man of your word, aren’t you?” Magnus continues.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re taking our wedding vows further than I would ever dare ask you to, Alexander… As if your love in our present wasn’t enough, you give it to past versions of myself too, do you realize how extraordinary this is? How extraordinary you are?”

“‘m not. Loving you is easy.”

“Stop selling yourself short, my heart, and accept to be worshipped like you deserve to be.”

“Only if you accept it too.” Alec tastes the giggle on Magnus’s lips, letting it infuse in him. He doesn’t need to see him to notice the sudden stiffness in Magnus. “What is it?” he asks, his fingers rubbing soothing circles at the back of Magnus’s hair.

His answer comes in a murmur. “I know it’s selfish, but I’ll never have enough of your lifetime. Whether it’s to repay you or to love you. It will never be enough.” He sighs, his next words barely audible. But it doesn’t matter. Alec would hear those words even in a storm. “I need you for more than your lifetime.”

Magnus has never said it like this, never so directly. It makes Alec’s reply so much easier. “Then, maybe we should find a way to extend it?” Any tentativeness dies when Alec is met by two golden irises and a smile that has rarely been so big. “I never want to leave you alone. I mean, if you’re being selfish, I may just as well be too, right?”

“Yes, yes you may be, darling… You can be whatever you want.”

“I love you.” It’s impossible to stop beaming at Magnus in this moment, so he doesn’t. They will have forever, no matter how long it takes to find it. “Who you are, who you were, and who you will be. I’ll love every version of you as long as you’ll have me.”

“Oh Alexander… An eternity or two is a bare minimum.”

[twisted-imagines]

Octavinelle with a mer-shark!MC who's anxious about showing her true appearance.

Hi there! 👋 I'm mod Mel, this is a new writing blog dedicated to Twisted Wonderland by Disney. I'm it's sole moderator and this is my first work on here. It's only Floyd for now, but more boys are sure to come.Please enjoy yourself!❤

Floyd Leech🦈

It should have been just a simple excursion to the Coral Sea, which Floyd unbeknownst to you proclaimed a 'date', but clearly something went very wrong. The first time you came here, more like was thrown right into it, you weren't able to observe and enjoy the brilliance of the underwater world, more so had to flee from human-turned-mermen Leech brothers. Even after Octavinelle boys invited you all to the sea again, you thought, sadly, that it would be the last time you visited it. But apparently Floyd had other ideas, spontaneously dragging you to the teleport and handling you a "breath-in-water" potion along the way. With you barely registering what he was attempting to do, you two were already submerged, the boy beside you swiftly changing his appearance to his "usual" one. Looking at that face, him all giddy and eager to show you around his homeland, you couldn't get angry with him, vice versa you were really happy at the possibility to spend time with him. Maybe your first meeting was quite disastrous, and you clashed a few times after that, resulting in his friend's overblot, but your relationships have improved a lot afterwards. It seemed Floyd got really interested in the new magicless student from the other realm and you in turn... Well, in rare moments at night, when you couldn't fall asleep plagued by your thoughts, you sometimes quietly admitted to yourself, that maybe you had a tiniest crush on the ever smiling, carefree, ambiguous eel twin. You too, were very interested in him, since the day you saw him appear with his brother in all their glory to get in your way. You remember like it was just yesterday, how you didn't want to leave and just gaze at his beautiful form. You were not prepared to see something so familiar in this new world, somebody who had brought your thoughts back home so sweetly and yet so painfully close.

Oh how you wanted to tell him that, to share your own stories and see his face lit up, but you couldn't. The nagging fear of rejection, of what he would think of you didn't allow you to do. Times and times again you told yourself that he of all people would understand and accept you, but every time you tried to start the conversation you ended up closing and opening your mouth like a fish, unable to say anything. And so you kept silent.

With Floyd being so enthusiastic, basically telling your ears off, he didn't require much of your own input at the moment. You were listening attentively, picturing in your mind two young eels and a cecaelia merkids exploring the sea together, their hands entwined. This relaxing, tranquil, as much as it was possible with Floyd, dive was bringing a peace to your mind and body. You felt every sway of water, every little wave that tiny fishes caused swimming past you. The smallest thing, you could feel it reverberate within you.

It was abrupt, a state of total harmony suddenly crushed, disturbing noises filled your ears. It was obvious that Floyd felt it too, for he took a defensive stance right away, moving closer to you. One would say it was already too late, when you saw them - several orca mermaids quickly approaching you two. You were concerned, mostly because of how Floyd had reacted: he looked genuinely distressed.

"Hey, koebi-chan, it's better for you not to leave my side."

He sounded totally serious, unlike his usual cheery self. And so you obeyed, the anxiety in you growing with every second.

One of the newcomers approached you, from what you could judge she was the eldest female of them all. She looked smug and confident, leisurely briefing you about how this was their territory, how unwelcomed you were there, offering you a "deal" since they were so generous today and would gladly let you get away with your "trespassing".While Floyd was fuming with rage he still patiently listened to them. He understood, that was he alone it would not be a big deal to get away, but he could not allow you to be harmed, not on his watch, not his precious koebi-chan. He couldn't make a more displeased face while speaking with them.

"Fine~ What a pain in the ass... What's your conditions?"

Their answer made his blood boil, you could see how agitated he was, in the way he glared daggers at them, the way his fists clenched. Truth to be told, you started to feel angry yourself, their demands being just ridiculous, smirks irritating you to the core. The little skirmish was quickly escalating to a full-blown clash, even though both sides perfectly understood who had the upper hand. And maybe some of them got just a tad bit arrogant because of it.

A younger orca surged at Floyd, being confident that his sheer strength would be enough for the moray eel to cave in. You easily gauged his mistake,and your body acted on it's own.

"Don't touch Floyd, you scum!"

The last thing the orca heard was your chilling growl, before his hand was swiftly chewed off. "No mercy for foes and food", - if any motto deserved the attention of an apex predator it would be this one.

Your changing appearance took by surprise every present creature. You could feel the strain, muscles not accustomed to the process of transformation after a long period of not changing, but you tried not to mind it, the only thought in your mind being protecting the person precious to you.

When the bloody mist from fallen orca finally subdued they could take in your full image. Strong tail, just like their, but much bigger; sharp claws, just like their, but more deadly. In the reflection of their eyes you knew how you looked. Intimidating.

Even the eldest orca gave up her position and shifted back. You could clearly see the gears in her head turning: was it worth sacrificing younglings just for the chance of overpowering you. Since you too were a very "kind" person, rivaled only by your very "generous" opponents, you decided to give her a time out to think her actions over, and hopefully reflect on them.

Knowing that her choices weren't numerous, the leader orca suddenly stirred back to life, giving the group a barking command and hastily retreating with them, hoping that her luck wouldn't let her down, that you wouldn't chase her.

Which you indeed was about to do, when you remembered about your companion, who was still behind you. You felt confidence slowly leaving you, you wanted to turn around before it evaporated into nothing, but you were given no time to spare. Floyd was suddenly before you, pure delight on his face. He had this toothy smile while he was fully taking in your appearance.

"Who would have thought that koebi-chan was actually a same-chan, ahaha!~ Hey hey, how did you manage to hide it, you were so tiny just a moment before! It's super cool, that jerk definitely didn't understand what hit him!"

He definitely was enjoying himself, being very upfront with you, all in your personally space, grabbing you and giggling excitedly. You were happy one moment and totally bawling your eyes out next. You didn't even know you could cry in this gigantic, powerful and terrifying form. Floyd somehow moved even closer to you, taking your face into his hands, caressing your cheeks and fins, tracing marks and lips. Unable to piece together a coherent speech, you just clinged to him.

"Y-you are... not afraid of me, right? Floyd?"

The merman just squeezed you tighter, a light laugh escaped him.

"It's quite easy with sharks. If they want to gobble you up, they do it. Not only I'm in one piece, you actually protected me. And you know, same-chan, when you're like this you're not scary at all."

At this point, you weren't sure if he was mocking or cheering you up with this smug smirk of his. You were just glad that your worst fears happened to be nothing but fears, the Floyd's embrace melting the remains of them.

You were suddenly well aware of your position. Even attempting to pull back would be futile, the clutch of merman's tail around yours was hard.

"Oh, going somewhere, same-chan? I don't think so, you didn't tell me everything, did you? And I'm not in the mood for guessing games right now."

A wicked note entered his voice, was he toying with you?

"Same-chan, do you like me that much to willingly blow up your cover, ahaha?~"

The question he voiced was a crushing force that presses on your gills. You were stunned. You didn't know what to answer, how could you if you never allowed yourself to dwell on it for too long in fear of a very obvious answer being formed. But right now, your mind was freed from your worries, from fear, from intrusive thoughts. A crystal clear answer echoed in it.

You tentatively reached with your hands, hugging the small of boy's back, nestling further in his chest, mumbling those words earnest words more to yourself than to him.

"I do. I do like you, Floyd."

Only silence surrounded you for a moment, before your companion forcefully made you look at him. Were your imagination playing trick on you, or it really was a deep green blush on his face? Merman's heterochromatic eyes were fixated on your face looking for a hint of a joke or a lie, but neither the crease of your brows, nor the tight line of your lips told him anything except for how serious you were.

"A-are you like for real? Ahaha~Ahahahaha! Same-chan, so cute!♡ I like you too~"

You don't see him so happy very often, and mighty sea, was he beautiful. You couldn't help but join his joyous laughing. No matter, what happened prior to this, this day you will remember as the of your happiest ones. Overwhelmed with excitement, Floyd squeezed you even harder, and you were grateful to be in this form, since your chances of surviving this embrace would be close to zero in your human body.

But the feeling of his lithe body against yours, boy's cheery voice feeling your ears and undeniable warmth spreading though you from the realization of the mutual nature of your feelings, all of this was priceless.

"Nee~[Name]-chan? I don't want you to keep silent about your thoughts and feelings from now on, 'kay? They're so entertaining, and you're so impressive, I want to aaalways know you're thinking about. I won't let you leave me now, I want you to stay with me forever! But you feel the same way, right?♡“

• He's definitely telling about it to Jade and Azul!!! Boy is so excited, even if you beg him, he won't be able to contain himself so his twin will definitely know this sooner or later.

• But there's nothing to fear, while initially suspicious, Octavinelle boys are generally positive of this revelation. Somehow, you feel much more comfortable with them now.

• The news about apex predator in their school definitely gets the spotlight when Floyd drags you to his dormitory, and it's not until the later, when Jade questions Floyd's rather strong grip on your hand, that you two remember how much the status of your relationships has changed. Cue you two looking quite embarrassed and Jade with Azul just instantly understanding what is what.

• Jade is definitely supportive of his twin. "Yes, Azul, they can probably swallow the three of us at once, but they didn't." He knows how much their ability to make friends is impaired but their intimidating appearance, he's not the one to hold it against you. Jade is the one that notes, how you hadn't transformed to fight them when they were interfering with your task, but risked it to protect his brother. For that he's very grateful.

• Azul is more apprehensive of you and it's definitely not because he's frightened by the mighty "apex predator" title you have!!! Not a-at all! All it takes is just Jade reasoning with him for a bit for him to start feel ashamed of his initial reaction. It hurts very much when people judge you for your appearance and prejudices they have against you, isn't it so?

• You four are definitely going to Coral Sea together, Floyd really wants them to see your shark form. More likely than not, it was the first time any of them saw a mershark up-close and not trying to eat them. They appreciate a possibility of staying alive after such an encounter, Azul even trying to touch your fins out of sheer curiosity and Floyd quickly swatting away his hand with the most fake, passive-aggressive smile ever.

• Yes, no matter your size, race, actual strength or anything else Floyd will still stay possessive of you. You're his, and his only significant other. All will probably soon figure out that the two of you are dating now, with how much he throws himself at you and hugs you close. The smiles he gifts you are too, nothing alike of those others see.

• Since you are a powerful specie, standing in the food chain much higher than himself, he will relinquish in this, forgetting quite often to control his strength, biting and scratching much more often, and looking so happy while doing it. You'll probably need to have a chat with him about that~

• He actually can't get used to the thought that you're actually way scarier than him. Your demure looks just don't channel it at all, and he still tries to scare or intimidate you from time to time. It doesn't work. Pikachu meme but make it eel boy.

• He would LOVE to learn about your homeland, he's starry-eyed when you tell stories about you world to him. It's so interesting to him, he can't help but wonder how he managed to find such an interesting person, mermaid, fall in love with them and actually date them. He only heard about such stories in his childhood and never thought something like that was possible in reality.

[kaeyas-wifehusband]

Bloom: A Taang oneshot.

Summary: Aang and Toph have always had a special connection. He knew there was something different about her from the moment they met years ago at the underground arena. As time passes, platonic feelings begin to morph into something more. (Quick note: There is a hint of the Kummi/Taang in here if you squint lol. Hope y’all enjoy!)

To say Toph’s parents weren’t fond of Aang would be an understatement.

And a huge one, at that.

To them, he would always be the bad boy (the first time they referred to him as that, Toph nearly choked on her breakfast from laughing) who manipulated their sweet, frail daughter into running away with him and his trouble-making friends. Never mind the fact that she proved she wasn’t the defenseless child they claimed her to be. Never mind that she willingly went along. Never mind that she didn’t do it just for Aang, but also because it was the only chance she had to be free. 

Spirits knew how long it took her to convince them that, no, he wasn’t a negative influence (if anything, it was her); yes, she can take care of herself. They never entirely warmed up to him. However, they did allow him to visit. That was good enough for Toph. Besides, it was probably the best she’d get out of them. Sure, she had to bribe threaten reassure the family guards that they didn’t need to follow her and Aang around when hanging out. That was simple to accomplish, luckily. 

And so, years passed. 

They formed memories with one another. The rest of the Gaang were involved, of course, with some of them. Toph noticed something, though. Aang would still seek her out personally in those times. During group meals or bonfires, where she went to sit down, he’d follow. Whenever they all laughed, his head would tilt in her direction. His fingers would sometimes graze, linger, upon hers when they walked together. All of it became more intentional to her as time went on. It became more common. 

He wasn’t good at being subtle. She knew this. It didn’t bother her. Because, maybe, she was beginning to feel the same way.

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

At first, when Aang spent time at the Bei Fong residence, he was tense. Her parents clearly did not like him and were probably only allowing his presence because a certain daughter of theirs bribed threatened reassured them until they gave in. Creating discomfort was something he loathed. For Toph, however, it was worth it. Plus, she was quick to deal with the overprotective watchmen that would trail them wherever they went, even if it was just in her backyard. That most definitely made things easier. 

Numberless, unforgettable moments were made between them. 

The ones that he held close to were the ones that were small. They were personal. He thought of how she’d clutch his arm, not the railing, when crossing the wooden bridge near her home. He thought of how her witty remarks started to feel more flirtatious. He thought of how she’d consistently ask for stories of his childhood among the Air Nomads; how, when he complied (and he always did), she’d find some excuse to lean against him. (“I’m tired.” “I can hear you better this way.” “Shut up about it.”)

And it was all fine.

Beyond fine, actually. 

It wasn’t until he started craving those instances more and more that he realized he liked her. Finding reasons to visit became all too easy. (“There’s a new restaurant in town.” “I could brush up on my earthbending.” “There’s a spot that I just have to show you.”)

The answer was never less than an “Okay” and usually a “Sounds great. Let’s go.”

Definitely, the greatest giveaway that none of this was one-sided was what happened one summer night. 

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

They were in the Bei Fong garden, strolling among the rose bushes. They talked of nothing, everything, and all that was in between. Stars glistened amongst the cloudless velvet sky and the moon was full, luminous. While she couldn’t see any of it, he hoped that she could feel it’s intoxicating serenity. The calmness it radiated made the atmosphere feel otherworldly. Eventually, they found a marble bench to rest on. The smallness of it meant their bodies were practically pressed against one another. It wasn’t awkward. 

As they engaged in small talk, Aang plucked a few flowers and started weaving them together. Toph didn’t initially pick up on this, but the constant moving of his arm against hers, as well as the sound of shuffling, spiked her curiosity. She gently pressed her fingers against his.

“What are you doing?”

“Oh! Making a flower crown,” he stopped twiddling and rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry, I guess I should have asked if it was okay.”

She shrugged and removed her hand. “I was just curious. Doesn’t matter to me. They’ll grow back anyway.”

He grinned and went back to work. Minutes went by, silence reigned. Not the slightest hint of discomfort was sensed. 

“Ta da!” He held the handmade accessory in the air with pride. “Finished! And in record time, too.” 

Toph smirked and traced her fingertips against it. The woven intricacy of it felt high quality. He’s done this multiple times before and it showed. 

“Nice job, Twinkle Toes. Maybe you should quit the Avatar stuff and start a business.” she teased. 

“Believe me,” he said as he studied the freshly made creation. “If I could bring myself to do that, I would.” A sigh left him. “But I know what I’m needed for.”

She hummed in acknowledgement. “All this hero duty starting to get to you?”

“Starting to? It always has been,” He flicked a few stray strands of grass and stem off his lap. “I never wanted any of this. Being the grand savior of the universe sounds fun until you realize how much you lose because of it.” 

“Well,” she started, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Find a way to cope.” It was a lousy attempt at comfort. To anyone else, it may have been offensive. Not to him though.

He chuckled softly. “I already did.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” he mumbled while placing the flower crown on her head. “It’s you,” There was no regret for his words, which mildly surprised him. All of it was true. “I just...I don’t know.  Spending time with you allows me to temporarily forget that I’m the Avatar. You make me feel like an equal,” He pulled an uneven, wilting petal. “You never saw me for less or more than I am.

Because of you, I’ve been allowed to grow, without necessarily growing up. Does that make sense?”

A snicker escaped her. “No. But then again, you rarely do.” 

She lifted both her hands to his face, her fingers gently trailing his features. 

This has happened before. In fact, it’s happened multiple times. These sort of moments wouldn’t last long and would usually end with her squishing his cheeks or booping his nose, a “You’re a dork” following.  It wouldn’t be such a big deal except that she never did this with anyone else. He wasn’t dumb, though she’d would probably say otherwise. She didn’t need to do this to “see” him.  Her feet and ears handled that well enough. Being careful, intentional yet tender, he placed his forehead against hers.

“What are you doing?” he said in a whisper so quiet that it’d only be audible to her. He smiled when she blushed. 

“Nothing. Why? What’s it to ya, Twinkle Toes?”

“I mean, I don’t mind. Just curious because you’ve done this before soooo...” There was a playful, teasing tone in his voice. 

Mildly annoyed, she freed a hand to lift one of his against the right side of her face. “There. Now we’re even.” 

His breath hitched and she noticed his heartrate spike. She hardly tried to stop her mouth from forming a smirk. “Aw, does that bother you?”

He swallowed, calming a bit, but not entirely. “No. N-not really.” he mumbled.  It was the truth. She didn’t need to focus on his heart’s pace to know that. 

Aang exhaled and closed his eyes. Everything became still. Aside from the crickets chirping, and the occasional stray dog barking from far off, all was peaceful. This was how he often felt with her. It was always like this when they were together. In a way that he could not yet explain, he felt a comfort with Toph that he never felt with anyone else, not even with Katara. A note of courage suddenly filled within him and swelled. He had to ask now before it disappeared. 

“Can I kiss you?”  

If Sokka was there, he’d surely facepalm. Most people don’t like being asked to be kissed. They just want it to happen, at least according to him. Toph wasn’t like most people, though. On a level that was beyond what he could fully understand, they were connected.  Perhaps all lovers felt that way. Although, even when their bond was solely platonic, he still thought that she was like no other. (“Not like her.”)

He prayed silently. He wished not that she wouldn’t say no, but that if she did, nothing would change between them. Another pang of quietness passed. He felt the confidence in him start to deflate. 

Then, suddenly, a swipe across his lower lip and a “Yes” evaporated any worries or doubts. He didn’t hesitate pressing his mouth against hers. 

Aang knew what first kisses were supposed to be like. Poets and singers described them as a powerful, electrifying force. (“Kissing him feels like fireworks.” Katara once said regarding Zuko). Yet none of that could accurately evoke what he experienced in that moment. In her affection, he noticed a sliver of familiarity that he could not quite comprehend. There was warmth, a sensation of relief. It felt grounding. It felt like home.  

When they parted, it was sobering; like waking from a long slumber to crisp morning air. 

“Oh, by the way,” Toph then gave his shoulder a swift punch. 

“Ow! Hey!”

“That’s for being a total sap.” 

[badgersprite]

Fic: Desiderata (8/?)

Chapter Title: Reunion

Fandom: Mass Effect

Characters: Miranda, Samara, Oriana, Jacob, Jack

Pairing: Miranda/Samara very slow burn, friends to lovers

Story Rating: R

Warnings: This chapter confirms (and otherwise strongly suspects) some squadmate character deaths. This chapter also makes references to Miranda’s abusive childhood so as per usual that could potentially be triggering to some people.

Chapter Summary: In 2186, Miranda withdraws into herself after confirming what she already feared - that several of her former companions did not survive the battle for Earth. Just as it seems she’s at her lowest point, someone unexpected shows up at her door. In 2185, the Normandy continues its adventures after defeating the Collectors.

Author’s Note: I initially started writing this story right after Mass Effect 3 came out. Originally, it was sort of a channel for my anger towards the ending, although the story has since evolved beyond that into something constructive, positive and healing. But, as was suggested in the warning I put on the very first chapter, yes, this means that some characters did indeed die in the final battle of ME3, and you’re going to get confirmation of that in this chapter, as well as unconfirmed beliefs about the majority of other characters, and Miranda trying to cope with that. So, be warned. This chapter is probably the darkest one.

* * *

“Shepard?”

Miranda was running. Searching for her. Looking for her.

Had to reach her. Had to get to her. Had to find her before it was too late.

Couldn’t see. Could hardly move. The air was thick with clouds of black smoke, burning her lungs.

She was racing, yet moving so slowly. Every step seemed to take ten times longer than it should. Like wading through tar.

“Shepard! Where are you?”

Her own voice echoed in her ears, feet catching on the rubble and debris that littered the streets of London. Entire buildings had been reduced to cinders that still smouldered beneath her.

A hail of gunfire rained down around her from all angles. Body after body fell and faded to dust in every direction. But, somehow, even though it felt like the whole universe was stuck in slow-motion, Miranda kept running forward, persevering through all the death and destruction, even as blood began to pool at her feet.

The shadow of a mass relay loomed overhead, taking up the entire sky, blocking out the Sun. But that wasn’t what she was focused on.

She could see it ahead of her. The Conduit. That crater right beneath the Citadel.

Marauders marched right past her, as if they couldn’t even see her, firing indiscriminately into the crowds of soldiers Miranda left in her wake. A senseless massacre. A slaughter.

All species fought together. All creeds died together. Names Miranda would never even know.

A bellowing voice resonated in the emptiness. “I am krogan! Nothing can hurt me!”

In the black mist, she saw Grunt’s silhouette single-handedly fighting off what had to be a dozen husks with nothing but the strength of his fists. But every time he knocked one back, two more took its place. He fought valiantly, standing atop a pile of no fewer than a hundred enemy corpses, but with no ammunition left, he was quickly overwhelmed. He joined the growing army of shadows following in Miranda’s tracks.

The tide of blood rose to her ankles.

“Had to be me,” Mordin’s disembodied voice echoed in her ear as his ghost turned to ash in the peripheries of her vision, and scattered in the wind. “Someone else would have gotten it wrong.”

There was nothing Miranda could do. Couldn’t stop to save anyone. Couldn’t slow down. The crimson tide was rising, reaching her knees. Every movement became harder. Slower. Fighting the current. With every step she took, the Conduit seemed to be getting further away.

Had to get there.

Had to reach Shepard.

“Is that all you’ve got?” Zaeed emerged from the shadows, firing at the oncoming horde as his position was swiftly surrounded. He pulled the pin on a grenade. “Open wide, you ugly son of a bitch,” he said, charging at the nearest abomination, shoving the grenade in its face. The blast shattered the walls of the building Zaeed had been hiding in. It crumbled on top of him, and buried his enemies with him.

The blood was up to her waist. Miranda could no longer run. Each step she took was heavier than the last, physically dragging her feet through mud and blood. Ghostly fingers nipped at her heels beneath the surface, gradually getting closer, but not quite able to grab hold of her. She was just barely ahead.

“Do we deserve death?” A vision of Legion flashed before her eyes, vanishing into nothing as quickly as it had appeared. “Does this unit have a soul?”

As the thick blood came up to her chest, she had to swim, else risk succumbing to the shadows that threatened to swallow her. She dove forward into the sanguine sea, kicking her feet and powering through with her arms as hard and as fast as she could. But she was moving so slowly. At a glacial pace.

The harder she battled, the less ground she gained.

The shrieks of banshees pierced her ears as they waded past her, like she didn’t even exist.

A voice came over her comms. “What’s happening?” Miranda heard Kasumi say in her earpiece. “There’s something wrong with the mass relays. They’re--”

Her words were rendered silent when the mass relay exploded with devastating force in a blinding flash of light that ignited the atmosphere in a ring of fire. Miranda stopped long enough to shield her eyes.

When the bright light subsided, she glanced up just in time to see a field of debris spreading out from the epicentre, a blackness so thick that every patch of sky was covered in the wreckage.

Within seconds, the whole world was submerged in darkness.

Miranda shook herself from her daze. No. She couldn’t stop. She had to keep going. Had to reach Shepard. She kept swimming, drawn like a moth to that sole source of light that pierced the endless night.

Finally, at long last, the Conduit seemed to be getting closer. Two faint forms stood their ground against the piercing bright white, protecting the path.

“Go, Shepard!” Ashley Williams called out to her Commander, firing back at the army of the dead, whose fingers began to claw and grasp at Miranda’s body as she fought with all her might to elude their clutches. “We’ll cover you!”

Infrasound shook the ground beneath them. Darkness turned to crimson.

“Look out!” Javik tried to push Ashley out of the way, but it was too late.

The cruel eye of the Destroyer guarding the Conduit had seen them. Blinding red surrounded them both. And then they were gone. Vaporised in a flash.

Miranda didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.

Nearly there.

She kicked harder, doing all she could to outpace the ghastly skeletal hands that threatened to drown her in their sacrifice.

She got closer.

She could see solid ground again.

As she neared her destination at long last, two figures came into view, battling in the black cloud before her, atop a small island in the red sea. Somehow, their actions were not slowed by the mist, but fast and graceful. A violent ballet. 

Kai Leng, and Thane.

Even though Thane was already dying, he was able to get the best of Kai Leng for a time, even throwing him off-balance with his biotics, but it wasn’t enough. Kai Leng cut him down, the blade in his hand slicing through Thane like butter.

Kai Leng turned to face Miranda. And, unlike all the others she’d passed to get here, his eyes locked directly with hers. He didn’t look through her. He saw her.

Before she could even react, those eyes were mere inches from her face. Her breath hitched as pain seared through her abdomen. She looked down, and saw that blade penetrating her stomach, her own blood now melding with the lake of ichor and viscera that surrounded her.

She gritted her teeth and raised her head once more. His cold face stared back, unmoving.

Miranda’s rage boiled over. With both hands, she reached out. Her thumbs covered his cybernetic eyes. And they sank in.

She pushed deeper and deeper. And as she slowly cracked his mask and crushed her fingers into his skull, the skin around her hands began to wither and burn, like her very anger was incinerating Kai Leng beneath her touch.

She squeezed her fists shut, and he evaporated into the aether beneath her.

Miranda clutched at her wounds and battled forward, scarcely able to keep her head above the rising tide.

Miranda didn’t know how she’d made it, but she was so close. There was just one figure left ahead of her. One shadow in the light. Staring into the Conduit.

“Shepard!” she called out again, resisting the whispers of the dead as they grew ever nearer.

The familiar figure raised her head.

“Don’t go in there!” Miranda warned her, a sense of overwhelming dread encompassing every fibre of her being. She knew what would happen. Had to stop it. “You can’t.”

As Miranda reached out, her wounds overcame her. The sanguine sea suddenly vanished without a trace, and she dropped like a stone, no longer suspended. She fell to the ground in pain, her fingers digging into the dirt.

Miranda hesitated as the army of shadows at her heels infringed on her vision, casting an impenetrable darkness upon her. She didn’t dare turn and look behind her. She knew what was there. Couldn’t face it. Couldn’t face them.

“Shepard!” she called again, begging to be heard in the deafening silence.

Shepard slowly turned. Miranda froze in terror as she was met with red eyes.

That wasn’t Shepard. Not anymore.

She heard the sound. That same, bone-rattling sound she had heard in that shuttle. Saw that same red flash as the Reaper’s gaze fixed upon her.

Only, this time, Miranda screamed as the beams incinerated her.

Miranda jolted upright, throwing her sheets off herself in panic, stopping only once she realised that there were no flames to put out. That she wasn’t back in that shuttle again.

Her heavy breathing slowly subsided. It was dark. Her head was throbbing.

She sighed and leaned forward, rubbing her palm against her forehead. Drops of sweat left strands of hair clinging to her scalp. Her sheets were soaked.

‘Just a dream’, right? That was what people would say, if she ever told anyone.

Unfortunately, like with all Miranda’s nightmares since the war ended, she couldn’t say that about them. Couldn’t brush them off as ‘just dreams’. Because they weren’t lies made up by her mind. She wished that they were, but they were the furthest thing from it.

If they weren’t so cuttingly true, they wouldn’t have haunted her so.

Groggily, she checked her clock. 3am. Roughly twelve hours since…

By sheer reflex, Miranda leaned over in time to grab the wastebin near her bed, just before she threw up. Nothing but liquid spilled out. Nothing but claret red.

The contents of her stomach were no mystery. The only reason Miranda had been able to fall asleep that night was because she’d downed an entire bottle of wine to get the images out of her mind. The thoughts. The knowledge. The stark fucking reality of her friends’ last moments. Hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it. Hadn’t been able to eat after...

Miranda gagged as she put the bin down, wiping her mouth. Obviously, it hadn’t helped her forget. What could?

God, her head hurt so fucking much. It felt like death itself had left its mark on her when it visited her in the night.

She didn’t even remember getting up and walking to the bathroom, only realising where she was when she flicked on the light, and saw herself in the mirror. The next thing she knew, the tap was on, and she was rinsing out her mouth, splashing some cool water on her face, to grant some relief from the heat in her cheeks.

She braced herself against the sink, and looked up. She’d almost stopped noticing the scarring on her own face by that point. Burn treatment and synthetic skin grafts had come a hell of a long way, even within the last fifty years. But, that said, Miranda’s treatment had been a wartime one. Not one designed for aesthetics. One applied by necessity, as a matter of urgency, after days without care.

But, in that moment, her visible scars didn’t make her think about herself. They made her think of someone else she knew, who had suffered a similar injury long before she met him. One whose facial scars had healed a lot better than Miranda’s ever would.

Zaeed.

Fuck, Zaeed.

And then the thoughts she’d been avoiding came flooding back. She was there in that room again. And he was lying there motionless in a plastic bag on a table.

She nearly retched again, saved only by the fact she had nothing left to throw up.

Dr. Michel had not understated her call. There were bodies. And pictures. Pictures from when they were found.

Both Grunt and Zaeed, Miranda had identified by sight. She would never repeat to anyone how they looked when she saw them. Couldn’t say it. Wasn’t for anyone else to know. Wasn’t fair that anyone should remember them like that.

At least they left enough behind to bury. None of the others were so lucky.

Well, it was possible Javik had. Miranda never saw Javik personally. Dr. Michel confirmed that he had been identified by a genetic sample. There was only one possible match for Prothean DNA. No visual ID necessary.

Ashley could only be identified by her dog tags. They hadn’t found anything else. Not yet, anyway. That close to the Conduit, chances were they never would.

Miranda had taken those tags with her, sealed in airtight plastic. Given her position, it was her responsibility to deliver them to her family. To be the bearer of the worst news they would ever hear.

Right now, the tags were sitting in a drawer in her desk. Miranda didn’t know how long it would be before she could bring herself to look at them again. To confront the thought of Ashley’s final moments. She knew she would have to. Very soon, much as she dreaded having to write that letter to her family.

The Williams family had already lost people to this war, hadn’t they? And now this.

As for Kasumi, that information had come from Bailey, by way of The Alliance. It turned out that The Alliance had known, or strongly suspected, her fate for a long time. But they had only just broken their silence, over two months later. Bailey had told her and Jacob the news as soon as he found out.

Some of the ships that worked on the Crucible had remained in close proximity to the mass relay, right up until the time it exploded. None of those ships were in one piece anymore. That included the ship Kasumi had been working on.

As far as anyone knew, she was still on that ship when it was lost. While they had spent some time accounting for people who had alighted onto different vessels in the intervening period between completing the Crucible and the destruction of the mass relays, there was no record of her leaving, and certainly no one had made contact with her since. Now that more than two months had passed, her status had officially been moved from MIA to KIA.

Even though Miranda hadn’t been confronted with physical evidence of Kasumi’s death the way she had for all the others, in a way, her fate might have been the worst to discover. Of all the people they hadn’t found, she was the one person that both she and Jacob had been confident would be fine, because she was nowhere near Earth. Nowhere near the Reapers. Literal lightyears away from any of the fighting. And yet…

Yeah. And fucking yet.

The tap kept running while Miranda stared hollowly ahead. Eventually, the noise spurred her from her trance, and she turned it off.

At what point was the grief supposed to set in, she wondered as she gazed blankly at her own reflection. Should she have been more upset than she was? She hadn’t cried for any of her fallen friends. Tears didn’t come naturally to Miranda. Not unless her sister was involved.

One thing that hadn’t left her mind was how...selfish some of her thoughts had been when she learned their fates. When Bailey had told her about Kasumi, Miranda had thought that the day had been bad enough before that, but to add that too, it was like the universe was actively conspiring to make this the worst day of her life.

Hers. The worst day of her life. The one who was alive. As if her friends hadn’t experienced far worse in their last moments than being fucking inconvenienced.

This wasn’t the normal way to react, was it? Wasn’t right. Why couldn’t Miranda just...mourn like other people did. It wasn’t like she didn’t care. She did care. Didn’t she? She would have been lying if she said she felt nothing - no impact whatsoever. If that were the case, those inescapable thoughts and images wouldn’t be permanently seared into her like open, festering wounds.

From the moment she’d seen the first body on that table, and recognised it as Zaeed, it was like the last light of hope inside her - a flame she hadn’t even known she had been holding onto - had been swiftly snuffed out.

Losing Shepard had been one thing, but now? They might as well give up any prospect that anyone actively serving aboard the SR-3 had survived the war.

Not only did they have confirmation that Ashley and Javik were gone, but they also had definitive proof that any ships that were anywhere near a mass relay when the Crucible fired had been obliterated in the subsequent blast, even in other systems far away.

The last time the Normandy had been picked up on any sensors was...approaching the Charon relay.

So, that was it.

They didn’t know that was what happened. But they knew, didn’t they? They had always known. They had just refused to believe it. They had hoped.

But hope was a frail thing, and reality didn’t suffer hope to live long.

The thing was, Miranda hadn’t experienced much that could be considered loss in her life. A person needed to get close to other people in order to lose them. And, until about a year ago, she’d never done that. Until The Normandy. But then she had. And, now, of all the people who had ever served on The Normandy, only five had survived. Miranda. Jacob. Jack. Samara. Wrex.

There was nobody else left to find. They were gone. They were dead.

And, this time, nobody would be coming back.

All told, it was the first time Miranda had been confronted with death in anything more than a purely detached or clinical way. Certainly the first time on this scale. She hadn’t known how she would feel about it - finding out that so many of her friends hadn’t made it. But she would have expected it to be different than this.

It wasn’t that it wasn’t affecting her. It clearly was. But...she didn’t feel hurt. She didn’t feel pain. She didn’t feel upset. She didn’t feel angry. She didn’t really feel anything in particular.

Mostly, she just felt...less. Like everything had been diminished somehow. Like all noise sounded a little quieter. Like all colours had dimmed a few shades duller. Like every sensation had been numbed. Like the tips of her fingers were further away from her body, and like nothing she reached out to grasp could ever really touch her. Like if someone pricked her skin right now, she wasn’t entirely sure she would even bleed.

It was almost like she was nothing more than a machine, and every person she cared about was a little switch inside her. In discovering their fates, Miranda didn’t grieve or mourn or wallow in sorrow. But rather it was like someone had simply gone inside that part of her brain and flipped all those switches from ‘alive’ to ‘dead’, and parts of her had just...powered down as a result.

What did it say about her that this was as strongly as she could feel about them at this moment?

Maybe she really was just as cold and borderline sociopathic as ever.

Maybe friendship hadn’t changed her at all from the person she was a year ago.

With those thoughts swirling through her mind, Miranda didn’t even notice the bathroom door had opened behind her until she heard a voice.

“Hey, Miss. Are you okay in here?” Jason asked. It took Miranda a few seconds to process his sounds as words, and his words as an actual question. “I saw the light on and heard the tap running for a whi--”

“I’m fine,” Miranda answered starkly, albeit on a delay.

“Are you sure?” asked Jason. He knew what had she had gone through earlier. Not in precise details, no. But all the kids knew.

In all honesty, the thing that had prompted Miranda to go out and drink hadn’t been the deaths themselves, nor the sight of Zaeed and Grunt. Not initially. The thing that had driven her over that edge had been after she and Jacob, in loose terms, explained to the kids what had happened. That Jacob, Jack and Miranda had found out that several people close to them had died in the war.

They were shocked and saddened to hear it. They expressed their sympathies. A few of them, in fact every single one of the girls, wept when they found out.

It was at that moment that a sudden realisation had struck her. Jack’s students had been more upset when they heard the news that people Miranda knew had died - people they had never even met themselves - than Miranda had been to see them dead in front of her.

She hadn’t been able to be near them and their tears when that sank in. Couldn’t stand holding that mirror up to herself and confronting her reflection. Seeing how a normal human person should react when something like this happened to people they cared about, and comparing that to the blank void where her own emotional response should have been, but wasn’t.

“Miss?”

“I’m fine,” Miranda repeated herself.

She was always fine. Even when she wasn’t. That was the problem.

“I’m sorry to worry you.” Miranda straightened up (as best she could) and turned back to face him, her hand still on the sink. “None of you should be losing any sleep wondering if I’m okay. That’s not your responsibility. Nor should it be.”

He seemed confused by her response. “But I--”

“Don’t take that as a criticism. I know you mean well. And I appreciate that you care. That’s not me being sarcastic, I actually do. More than I let on. But you never need to waste any time worrying if I’m alright. I always am. And I’m always going to be,” Miranda said quietly.

Jason looked at her for a good, long moment. “...Miss, I’m not stupid. I know how much you drank tonight. I can see, and hear, how drunk you still are. And I know you probably woke up vomiting, and that’s why you’re here right now. And, from the short time I’ve known you, you don’t strike me as someone who makes a habit of this. So, respectfully, I don’t think you’re as ‘okay’ with everything as you seem to think you are,” he pointed out.

Miranda held his gaze for a moment. “...Go to sleep, Jason,” she told him.

“Sure. You probably won’t even remember this conversation in the morning,” Jason remarked, evidencing that he may have had a little too much experience dealing with drunk adults for a man so young.

“I remember most conversations,” Miranda muttered under her breath, looking at her reflection one final time, turning off the light as she left.

* * *

Miranda groaned heavily, the pulsing music of Afterlife doing her head in. The air stank of sex and sweat, like everyone in the club had gone three days without showering.

“I thought shore leave was supposed to be relaxing,” she muttered unhappily, leaning back against the bar.

“Would you prefer to go back to the ship?” Samara asked, needing to project her usually soft voice to be heard above the music.

“Yes!” Miranda answered bluntly, feeling utterly miserable in this place. “But, alas, that choice has been taken out of my hands.”

“It would appear so,” Samara commiserated. While she seemed to have a greater tolerance for the venue than Miranda, the expression on Samara’s face betrayed the fact that Afterlife was not exactly to her taste either. Or at least, it hadn’t been for several centuries.

After defeating the Collectors, the Normandy had limped back to Omega station held together with the engineering equivalent of double-sided tape and popsicle sticks and somehow hadn’t fallen apart in the FTL jump. They had no choice but to dock at Omega for urgent repairs. Since they couldn’t exactly fix the ship with everyone on board getting in the way, and given what they had all just survived, Shepard had seen fit to grant shore leave to anyone who wasn’t currently actively preventing the Normandy from collapsing in on itself.

Miranda had volunteered to stay back on the ship to help out, but Shepard had overruled her, ordering her to “please, for once in your life, take a fucking break”, in those exact words. She was officially banned from re-entering the ship until the repairs were complete. In fact, the only person who had been allowed to stay back on the ship despite a clear absence of engineering and technical skills was Kelly Chambers, for reasons Miranda neither fully grasped nor honestly cared to know.

Unfortunately, there was nowhere on Omega that was to Miranda’s liking. Afterlife was the least awful place by process of elimination given that, if nothing else, anybody who caused problems here would quickly find out what D.F.W.A. stood for, and why it was the one and only rule on Omega that anyone lived by.

Notwithstanding the above, Miranda had still known damn well that she wouldn’t enjoy her forced time off in this place. Accordingly, she had all but begged Samara to come and keep her sane in her misery, and she obliged. So far, even Samara had done little to improve Miranda’s state of mind, though. 

The Normandy crew were already getting too relaxed for Miranda’s liking, and this was evidence of it. Surely Shepard should have realised that, even if Miranda wasn’t holding a soldering iron, there were still a million other things she could have been doing that would have been a productive use of her time. For one thing, she could have been preparing for what to do if Cerberus came knocking, or comparing notes on the organisation with EDI...

“Well, in any event, I appreciate you keeping me company,” Miranda elected to break the silence, preferring not to think about Cerberus in a moment where she was powerless to do anything about them and whatever they had in store for her if and when they caught up to her. “I can't imagine it's easy for you to be here, after...” Miranda trailed off, wondering if perhaps she was erring by bringing Morinth up so directly.

“It is quite alright,” Samara assured her, appreciating her concern. “In truth, it has given me an opportunity to contemplate my own future, and where I am needed. I had not thought of it before, but I would consider returning to this place when Shepard no longer requires my service.”

“Not anytime soon, I hope. You can’t leave me with these people,” Miranda remarked in jest, earning a small smile. “Is there any particular reason why?” she inquired, curious.

“A simple one; I can think of few other places in the galaxy that could benefit more from the presence of a Justicar,” Samara pointed out.

“That's very noble of you,” Miranda commented, though she was sceptical as to the wisdom of that virtuous path. “But don't forget how that turned out for Garrus. Omega's gangs aren't going to let you waltz in and disrupt the way of things. And that includes our friend up there,” she said, nodding her head up towards Aria’s makeshift throne room on the upper floor. Being an asari, Aria wouldn’t be ignorant to precisely how zealous and unyielding Justicars were when it came to the enforcement of their Code.

“I do not fear death,” Samara contentedly replied, undeterred by the prospect of failing in her quest. Miranda frowned, but voiced no further objection.

“Alright, that's it. One of you had better order a drink. You've been standing there long enough,” the turian bartender gruffly grumbled, looking at them both over the bar while polishing a glass. “Since the old lady over here doesn’t strike me as a drinker, I'm guessing it's gotta be you, human.”

“I'd rather not,” Miranda declined.

“It wasn't a request,” said the bartender.

Miranda glanced at Samara and saw a small smirk creeping onto her lips. Miranda sighed, reluctantly conceding. “...Fine,” she acquiesced. “Just one.”

“Coming right up,” said the bartender, pouring her a fresh glass.

At that moment, another song came on. This one was particularly loud and intrusive. The pulsing bass shook the glasses other patrons had on the counter. Several of the other club goers nearby began dragging each out onto the floor to dance. Miranda did not share the sentiment, or the enthusiasm.

“Why does all club music sound exactly the bloody same?” Miranda complained, finding the repetitive droning rhythms and predictable chord progressions beyond irritating by that point. “These people wouldn’t know an interesting interval or a complex time signature if it slapped them in the face.”

“Perhaps we should endeavour to find somewhere more...quiet,” Samara suggested, pointing up towards the speaker that was right above them.

“Quiet? Here?” Miranda remarked, with a sceptical glance at their surroundings. Afterlife was hardly subdued. That being said, though, she would have been lying if she said she didn’t see the appeal of finding a more secluded corner of the nightclub. She sighed as she took her drink. “If we can find a free booth that doesn't have a stripper dancing on the table, that would be a start.”

That was easier said than done.

“I am certain that, if we ask for privacy, we will be granted it. Come, this way.” Despite her doubts, Miranda followed Samara’s lead, trailing her through the club, in search of somewhere to sit.

As they were walking, Miranda recognised a few familiar faces from The Normandy. Garrus, Thane and Zaeed had commandeered a booth, and Thane appeared to be the only one of them who wasn’t already three drinks in. She didn't particularly feel like joining them, though. Everyone else who wasn’t currently working on the ship must have been on a different floor of the club, or somewhere outside.

Much as Miranda had predicted, the only empty table they managed to find had a dancer on it, no doubt hoping to attract customers.

“I beg your pardon,” said Samara, approaching the young asari. “Would it trouble you if my friend and I had this table to ourselves?”

“Get lost, grandma!” the dancer rudely shot back, turning her head to see who had spoken to her. Instantly, she froze in fear, and turned about three shades paler. “Y-Y...J-Justicar...?” she stammered, recognising her armour immediately. “I...I am so sorry. Of course you can...Please. Please forgive me,” she implored her as she hastily climbed down to the floor, bowing her head in respectful deference before running off to get as far away from Samara as possible.

Samara sat down without an issue, gesturing for Miranda to do the same. Miranda arched an eyebrow, impressed. “She thought you were going to kill her.”

“From what I have gathered about Omega, it is not unlikely that she has done something that would warrant my intervention pursuant to The Code. If I confirmed this and took such action, and she did not voluntarily surrender herself to my custody, then yes, my presence here would result in her death,” Samara acknowledged, serene as always. “Fortunately for her, my oath to Commander Shepard compels me to refrain from acting as I normally would.”

“Where does The Code draw the line on what kinds of people it considers criminals?” Miranda asked, sliding into her seat across from Samara. “Drug users? Sex workers?”

Samara shook her head. “The Code does not criminalise addiction – although this does not mean addicts cannot be held accountable for crimes they commit in support of their addiction. As for 'sex workers' as you referred to them, asari cultures are not human cultures. Consorts hold a high status in our society, and it is normal for many if not most young asari to do as these women are doing in their maiden stage,” she reminded her, gesturing broadly at the asari dancers working throughout the club. “Many among my kind still find it perplexing that such things have ever been considered shameful by other species.”

“Do you share those views?” Miranda inquired. Her question earned a slightly confused look from Samara. “I don't mean to sound presumptuous but my own cultural biases mean that, when I think of ancient religious orders, I tend to associate such things with conservatism and chastity. I guess I kind of assumed you might not look too fondly on young asari wasting their youth dancing in bars.”

“Only in the sense that age has granted me the wisdom to look back on my younger years and consider what I could have done differently, and how much more I could have accomplished if my priorities were not so self-centred,” Samara answered sagely. “Were I asked for my advice, I would counsel them from the benefit of my experience to focus on what they find truly fulfilling in their lives. However, this is not a moral judgement, nor do I object to their choice to dance or take lovers freely. To do so would be very hypocritical of me. And it would be folly of me to assume that this is not their calling. If this is their path to inner fulfilment, then I would never seek to turn them from that.”

Miranda's lips quirked against the rim of her glass. “Are you saying this was you once? Giving people lap dances in bars?”

“No. I preferred adventure and violence,” said Samara, being frank about her past indiscretions. “Any time I spent in places such as this, or in the company of women like this, was merely as a customer. But I was not so radically different from those who work here now. My maiden stage was spent such that I cannot righteously criticise how another asari spends hers. The only reason I did not follow this path, aside from the fact that I am not a particularly gifted dancer, is that becoming a mercenary offered far more excitement and more opportunities to travel far and wide. I also found myself...drawn to certain types of people at that age. The same sort of people I found myself fighting beside.”

“Yeah, you mentioned that once before,” Miranda recalled, though it was no less incongruous to picture it now. It was pretty crazy to think that the types of people Samara used to sleep with as a young woman were now the very same people she hunted down without mercy as a matriarch. That raised a thought, and Miranda was never one to not speak her mind, even where it might have been advisable not to. “Don't answer this question if you don't want to, but did you take many lovers when you were younger?”

“That would depend upon what you define as 'many',” Samara replied.

“By your definition?” Miranda asked.

“Yes,” Samara answered plainly. “Have you?”

“Yes,” Miranda responded in kind. Though whether they had the same definition of ‘many’ was anybody’s guess. Probably not, given that Samara’s maiden stage alone could have lasted close to ten times as long as Miranda had been alive. “But I don't think I enjoyed mine as much as you enjoyed yours. Most of them were nothing to write home about. I don't even remember their names, nor do I care to.”

Samara tilted her head thoughtfully. “I remember some vividly, though not all. And of those I have fond memories of, I have not thought of most in a very long time.”

“Do you ever miss it?” Miranda wondered aloud, curious whether Samara would ever even consider one day laying down her armour and living as...well, anything other than a Justicar.

“I miss my innocence,” Samara confessed. “I miss how it felt to live free from any cares or concerns. I miss being able to dance with strangers, never knowing how it felt to bear the burden of responsibility. But if you are asking me if I would choose to walk that path again, the answer is no. I cannot. And I would not.”

“You can still dance with strangers if you want to, though,” Miranda wryly encouraged, taking a sip of her drink. “And, no, I don’t mean that euphemistically. Just dancing. Surely that’s not forbidden by The Code. Is it?”

“No, it is not. But those days are behind me, as are so many others, and I am content with that,” Samara smiled, a mysterious, ethereal smile. “Do you dance?”

“No.”

“Never?” Samara queried, her eyes sparkling under the lights.

“I may have tried it once or twice.” Miranda shifted in her seat, averting her gaze. “...After I ran away from my father, I got a taste of freedom for the first time. So I did things he had never allowed me to do. Or tried to. Admittedly, I wasn’t very successful at it, and any desire to experiment and rebel was quickly outweighed by how much I like being in control of my faculties and how much I didn’t enjoy places like this, but...well, it was a phase nonetheless, I suppose.”

“You were with Cerberus at the time, were you not?” Samara asked, clarifying the time period.

“Yes but, as you may have noticed, they don't particularly care what you do in your personal life, as long as it doesn't interfere with your work,” Miranda explained. Cerberus had never imposed those kinds of rules upon her. They respected her and treated her like an adult. It was why it had been so hard for her to believe the worst about them, and sever her loyalties. “I was sixteen years old, with only a vague, malformed idea of what the world was like, what other girls my age were supposed to be like, and the experiences I was supposed to have had, together with a staunch determination to make up for lost time. And you should know when I set my mind to something, I don’t do it by halves.”

“And yet, in that time, you never danced with strangers?” said Samara.

“Mostly only in the euphemistic way,” Miranda replied. That was one thing that had never really changed, so much as she was simply more experienced, and had gotten more efficient about getting that itch scratched whenever she felt the need. “Let's just say I made some poor decisions in a short space of time, and it's not an aspect of my life I'm particularly proud of.”

“Many years have passed since then. You are older and wiser, but you are still young – too young to deprive yourself of such things. Perhaps this is not the place for you, but I know you enjoy music. You have told me as much. Surely there would be a place where even you would feel comfortable letting go and dancing freely. To do so would not mean you are repeating your past mistakes,” Samara advised.

“I know it wouldn’t,” Miranda acknowledged. She still didn't feel like it though. Plus, the concept of ‘letting go’ was about as antithetical to her entire existence as any concept could possibly be. “Tell you what, I'll dance when you dance. That's a promise.”

“Your promise sounds a great deal like an excuse,” Samara quipped.

Miranda smirked. “Nothing gets past you.”

* * *

Bailey had been surprised when Miranda showed up to work on Monday, less than a day after confirming the deaths of so many of her former comrades.

Before he had even opened his mouth to speak, Miranda had cut him off. “Whatever you’re going to say, don’t. Please, just...I need to be here. Please just let me work right now.”

To his credit, he had honoured her wishes, and that had been the end of any discussion about it.

Focusing on something else, anything else, had always been Miranda’s best and only coping mechanism. Her unyielding need to be productive, and to feel like she was in control of at least one aspect of her life even if everything else was falling apart around her, was a lifelong companion that never failed her.

There was no shortage of work to keep her busy. Some of the Alliance ships that had made the jump only a few lightyears away before the relays exploded had finally made their way back into the Sol system to study the wreckage of the Charon relay, and to begin working on reassembling and repairing it. They were in communication with other teams of varying sizes all over the galaxy.

The dextro races still stranded in the Sol system were starting to reach the point where food was becoming a concern. Several turians and quarians had already gone into cryostasis, and the number joining them was increasing day by day.

Of the levo races, more and more were settling into Earth in the expectation that their stay would be a long one. Many asari and salarians had joined with humans in moving out of cities into smaller towns and villages, working to restore infrastructure and agriculture, getting sorely needed supply lines up and running.

But London remained in tatters, still rebuilding. When any hospital had a shortage of beds or medicine or staff, Miranda knew about it. If there was a building that was possibly safe enough to move people into, Miranda knew about it. If a block didn’t have power or water, Miranda knew about it. If the black market jacked up the prices too much on luxury items, Miranda knew about it.

Bailey may have been the face of the operation, but she was his eyes and ears (well, technically only one of each), and she was the puppet master pulling the strings, making sure all resources and personnel were allocated precisely where they were needed. And if they didn’t have enough of either, she found them.

For as good of a distraction as all that work was, at the end of the day, she still needed to go home. And she still needed to deal with this.

She’d approached Wrex directly on Monday afternoon. They were in the same city, after all. There would have been no way to avoid speaking to him about it that wouldn’t have meant admitting to herself that she was deliberately putting it off. So she didn’t.

Miranda delivered the news to him personally, about everyone who had passed. As the leader of Grunt’s clan, he was the closest thing Grunt had to next of kin. It only seemed appropriate that Clan Urdnot should hear it from her first, and be given the right to decide how to honour their dead.

Miranda didn’t know Wrex well enough to be able to gauge his feelings on Grunt’s passing, or anyone else’s. And, whatever they were, Wrex certainly didn’t know Miranda well enough to show them around her. But he had expressed his brief thanks to her for informing him, respecting that she had taken her duties seriously and had the courtesy of bringing this to him face-to-face.

It was true that, as the highest ranking member of the Normandy left alive, she had big shoes to fill. And her job was far from done.

Unfortunately, Kasumi, Zaeed and Javik didn’t have any next-of-kin to inform. Not that Miranda had been able to track down, anyway.

Javik’s isolation went without saying. He was the sole survivor of a fifty thousand year old genocide. He was the one person who was never exaggerating when he said he was truly alone in the universe. Even if he had survived the war, who knew if Javik ever really intended to go on living? But, then, Miranda knew too little about him to speculate.

Kasumi, for as socially aware as she had been of everyone else aboard the Normandy, was a chronic self-isolator. She never truly got close to anybody, save for the love of her life who lived on only in the form of an implant inside her head. Miranda personally hadn’t even realised just how much of a distance she kept everybody else on the SR-2 at right up until that day when she’d looked around and suddenly realised that they were one head short because Kasumi had disappeared without a trace at the last place they docked.

If Zaeed had any friends or family who were still alive, he certainly hadn’t volunteered that information to anyone else aboard the Normandy. There were probably no shortage of people who he had met over his years, but, similarly to Kasumi, from all appearances it sounded like Zaeed would move on the moment it felt like he might be getting too attached. The terrible things he had seen wouldn’t allow him to settle down and live a normal life. He had probably always known deep down that he would die fighting in a war.

However, there was one among the confirmed dead who definitely did have a family. A family Miranda had already written to once before, to let them know she was searching. A family who it was now her responsibility to ensure those dog tags made it back home to.

Every single day, Miranda had sat down at her laptop with the intention of writing the letter nobody ever wanted to have to write. But the words just wouldn’t come. It was the one task that Miranda simply couldn’t seem to bring herself to start, let alone finish. And the screen would just stay blank until she inevitably convinced herself that tomorrow would be the day.

During the week, Miranda told herself it wasn’t her fault she wasn’t getting it done. She was busy with work. Clearly she wasn’t making progress because she didn’t have enough time to concentrate on doing this properly.

On Saturday, her reason for not getting it done was because she had helped Jack leave the field hospital and move in with Jacob in his apartment. Jack’s students had thrown an impromptu lunch to celebrate their teacher getting out of hospital, and as a courtesy Miranda had stayed for the whole thing.

Perhaps it should have said something about the state they were both in after learning what had become of so many mutual friends, and the extent to which Jack actually felt sorry for Miranda to have to be the one to identify what bodies there were, that, in those entire few hours they spent in each other’s proximity on that day, Jack didn’t insult Miranda even once.

Then Sunday came, a whole week since Ashley’s fate had been discovered, and Miranda didn’t have any excuses to put it off any longer.

Today had to be the day. There was no alternative.

And yet, despite not leaving her room even once that day, despite forcing herself to sit there until she finished this, she still hadn’t typed a single word.

Miranda had done a lot of things in her life that other people would probably class as difficult. Living with an abusive tyrant of a father. Pulling off countless life-threatening missions for Cerberus. Being captured and tortured by batarian slavers. Raising the fucking dead.

All of those things had been a cakewalk compared to writing to Ashley’s sisters.

She’d lost count of how long she’d been staring at that blank screen, or those dog tags, in the hopes that the words would just...come to her if she focused long enough. So far, it hadn’t worked. Any time Miranda thought of something to say, it just felt...wrong. Inadequate. Even if she couldn’t explain why.

At first, she didn’t know why she was finding this so bloody hard. After all, Miranda didn’t know Ashley particularly well. She’d only met her a handful of times, if that. She had no right to pretend otherwise.

But, then, it clicked.

In a way, the fact that she didn’t know Ashley at all was precisely what was making this so much worse. For one thing, if she had known her on a personal level, then no doubt she would have had no shortage of things she could say about her that would resonate with her family, to express understanding and sympathy for their loss. For another, and more significantly, because Miranda knew so little about Ashley, it meant that the only thing that she could focus on when thinking about her was the one thing she did know - that Ashley was a sister to three other sisters. And that they all loved each other dearly.

If there was one actual, honest to god human feeling Miranda knew all too well, it was the love she felt for her own sister. So, suffice it to say, she could relate.

And, although she’d never even seen a picture of Ashley’s sisters, every time the mere thought of them crossed her mind, all she pictured was Oriana.

This was one circumstance where Miranda didn’t have to fake empathy. For this, she had it in spades. It would have been easier to do this if she didn’t.

She knew what it would mean for them all to receive this letter. Because she understood better than anyone exactly how much it would have absolutely fucking destroyed her if she got the same letter. And it felt horribly, gut-wrenchingly cruel to be the one to write that letter, in full awareness of what it would do to those three sisters to receive it.

If that was what it was like for normal people to lose someone, then in a way Miranda felt lucky to be so numb to her own feelings compared to others. Maybe Kelly Chambers had been right when she speculated that becoming emotionally closed-off was as much a form of protection Miranda had developed to survive as it was something imposed upon her by her father whether she wanted it or not. It was certainly easier, and safer, to be cold on the inside, than to expose herself to a pain like Ashley’s sisters would feel when they learned the news.

Miranda wasn’t sure she would even have the emotional capacity to process losing Oriana, if the worst ever came to pass. It either would have broken her completely and caused her to jump off this mortal coil after her, or she would have withdrawn so much further into herself that she ceased to be recognisable as human. Maybe all of the above at once.

But Miranda wasn’t in that position. It seemed so strange to think about it. So many people had lost so much to this war. But not Miranda.

She was perhaps one of the people who least deserved to live, given her past allegiances to Cerberus, and given that she had never at any stage aspired or claimed to be, quote unquote, a ‘good person’. And yet, she was still there. Mostly in one piece. With three out of the grand total of five people she had ever truly cared about confirmed alive.

If anything, the fact that she had survived and others hadn’t was proof that the universe was not a fair place. There was no justice. No balance.

She knew it didn’t make any sense, and that it was impossible to trade her life for someone else’s, but she couldn’t help but think how much collectively happier more people would have been if Miranda had died and Ashley had lived. Or Shepard. Or most other members of the Normandy, really.

Oriana would have been the only person truly hurt by it, but even then she had lived nineteen years of her life perfectly fine, not even knowing Miranda existed. She’d only known about her for a year. She would have recovered eventually.

Speak of the devil, it was at that moment that a message popped up on Miranda’s screen. A message from Oriana.

“Hey, sis. What’s up? We haven’t talked in a few days. This a good time?”

It was true. This wasn’t the first text she had received from Oriana over the last few days, but Miranda hadn’t responded to any since she found out what happened to her comrades. Couldn’t bring herself to. Couldn’t bring herself to think about...precisely the sort of things she was thinking about right now.

It wasn’t that she couldn’t tell Oriana what had happened. What she was feeling. Of course she could have. She could have gone to Oriana about absolutely anything. On some level, that was all Miranda wanted to do. To talk to her. To feel a little less alone in that moment.

The problem was that Oriana would have listened to it all in a heartbeat. Every word. Without judgement. Without hesitation.

That wasn’t fair on her, and it wasn’t what Miranda wanted their relationship to be.

Oriana may have been the most well-adjusted person she knew, but she was still barely more than a kid. Only twenty years old. Still figuring things out. How was it fair for Miranda to burden her with all her problems, as if she could possibly know the answers, or the right things to say?

It was supposed to be the other way around. Miranda was supposed to be Oriana’s shoulder to cry on. Her protector. Her guide. Her big sister. Even if she wasn’t cut out to be any of those things. And she had foisted enough of her problems on Oriana already.

So she texted back.

With that, Miranda closed the messenger window, and switched back to the blank document. She’d been staring at it for so long without typing so much as a single word that she hadn’t even noticed the battery had almost drained down to zero. She reached down and plugged in the charger.

Just as she did that, another alert popped up on her screen. Message from Oriana.

“What do you get when a journalist cooks without reading a recipe?” Oriana asked. “Unconfirmed sauces.”

A small smile tugged at Miranda’s lips. Even if she was pushing Oriana away right now, it was comforting to know that Oriana would never take anything personally, and that she would be there waiting for her when she was ready to talk again.

With one last look at Ashley’s dog tags, Miranda began to type.

* * *

After finishing repairs to the Normandy, Commander Shepard seemed to have taken Miranda’s suggestion to heart. Or perhaps it was what she had always intended to do. They still had numerous leads on file that they never had the opportunity to investigate before the Collectors took them by surprise and attacked the crew. Why leave any of those assignments incomplete?

Miranda kept enough of an eye on things to know that, despite what had happened, The Illusive Man was still sending messages to Shepard (to which Shepard never responded) in an effort to cast himself in a good light. Evidently, Andrea was important enough to his plans that he considered it worth his while to continue trying to persuade her that they were on the same side. And maybe it was true that they were, at least where the Reapers were concerned.

By contrast, he had said nothing to Miranda whatsoever.

She knew what that meant.

Even if she came crawling back to Cerberus with a grovelling apology, which was never going to happen, she wouldn’t have been welcomed back anyway.

Despite now acting on their own, in a lot of ways, it was almost as if nothing had changed after defeating the Collectors. They knew the Reapers were out there, and the mutual intention of all concerned appeared to be that the best thing to do was carry on as usual in the hopes of finding out more about the impending threat, and hopefully to stop it from ever coming to fruition.

In fact, the only person who it seemed wasn’t exactly the same as before the Collector Base was Kelly Chambers. She had stopped making individual appointments with members of the crew (which Miranda knew from no longer getting any reports from her) and had been cut back to only light duties by Shepard. The last time Miranda had seen her, Kelly had jumped at the sound of the elevator doors opening behind her. Maybe that had something to do with it.

In any event, Miranda had concerned herself more with uncovering as much as she could about Cerberus’s true motives. Since Cerberus hadn’t made any effort to stop them from investigating any old leads so far, this certainly seemed like her best opportunity to take advantage of a position of relative safety and protection to arm herself with knowledge.

“Shepard, do you have a moment?” Miranda had begun, approaching Andrea after a meeting in the Briefing Room. Andrea had turned to face her, signalling for her to speak. “Do you remember that message you got from The Illusive Man last week, about the Overlord cell going off the grid without explanation on Aite?”

Shepard had sighed and rubbed her forehead. “You’re just not even hiding the fact that you read my emails anymore, are you?”

“No,” Miranda answered bluntly, but that wasn’t important right now. “I think we should investigate. The Illusive Man mentioned experimenting with highly volatile technology. It must be operationally sensitive, if he wouldn’t tell you anything more than that. Whatever the purpose of Project Overlord is, this is likely our only opportunity to learn about it. Cerberus will clean this up themselves if we don’t, and by then there’ll be nothing left.”

“You don’t think we could be walking into a trap?” Shepard asked.

“Possible, but unlikely. The Illusive Man asked for our assistance on this before we found the Reaper IFF device. Setting a trap for us before we had the intention or the ability to assault the Collector Base would take a level of prescience that nobody is capable of,” Miranda said confidently, folding her arms across her chest. “He’s many things, Shepard, but even he can’t see the future.”

“Fair enough. You’ve convinced me,” Shepard replied. “I’ll bring Tali with us. She’ll make sense of any tech we come across, no matter how ‘experimental’ it is.”

Miranda nodded her head. That was a sound choice.

What they actually found at the heart of Atlas Station, Miranda could not possibly have predicted.

Please make it stop.

Miranda hadn’t even been able to speak when she saw him there. David Archer. A completely innocent, vulnerable man hooked up to machines by his own brother as part of some sick experiment to see if his gifted mind could, what? Control geth? That was the reasoning that justified that level of cruelty and abuse?

This was it, wasn’t it? The true face of Cerberus. What they did to people. So many had said that this was the reality, and yet Miranda hadn’t listened before.

Reading between the lines, there was no doubt The Illusive Man knew exactly what was being done on Aite. While he made sure to say he didn’t condone Dr. Archer’s actions, he seemed to know perfectly well that David’s “unique talents” had “provided a breakthrough”, and he made sure to mention that Shepard’s actions had set back their understanding of the geth several years.

The only good thing that had come out of this was knowing that David Archer would be well looked after at Grissom Academy. Well, that and it was reassuring to know that, whatever Cerberus might have planned to do with an army of geth under their control, those ideas would never come to fruition now.

Evidently, Shepard really had done the right thing by not sending Legion to be studied by Cerberus, if it would have helped them. In retrospect, Miranda had never been more relieved that someone hadn’t listened to her advice.

It just made her wonder what else she didn’t know.

The door to Miranda’s quarters slid open, and she glanced up. “Forgive my intrusion. Am I interrupting anything?” Samara asked, always a sound question to open with when it came to Miranda, especially when she was in her office.

“No,” Miranda answered honestly. Not a damn thing.

Samara was too tactful to say it, but of course she knew that the number of people Miranda reported to had decreased drastically in recent days, and her requirements to Shepard had already been discharged several hours ago.

Since Miranda hadn’t objected to her presence, Samara took that as a cue to step inside. “I have not seen you since you returned from Aite. Is all well?”

Miranda sighed, interlacing her fingers in front of her. “I honestly don’t know.”

The truth was, ever since she’d seen David Archer in that state, there had been this lingering sense of unease that Miranda hadn’t been able to shake. She had never been an expert at being able to put labels to her feelings. But if she had to choose a word to describe this one, it would be ‘unsettled’.

It wasn’t a pleasant feeling at all. It was as if her own skin was no longer sitting properly on her body. Like there was an inherent...discomfort, that was impossible to rectify. Like these unwelcome sensations and thoughts wouldn’t stop wriggling around beneath the surface, disturbing whatever they touched.

Had this been any regular day, Miranda would have just worked and avoided thinking about it until it went away. But that option wasn’t available to her anymore. Besides, something told her this malaise wouldn’t vanish so easily.

Then again, if there was anybody who she felt safe sharing her thoughts with, and who could help her make sense of them, it was the woman in front of her.

Not about to just leave her standing there by the door, Miranda got up from her desk and gestured for Samara to follow her further inside her quarters. “Sorry there’s not a lot of room, here,” Miranda remarked.

“It is quite alright,” Samara assured her.

“By all means, make yourself at home,” Miranda invited her, electing to sit cross-legged near the head of her bed, tacitly giving Samara permission to join her.

Samara followed her lead, perching on the far end of her bed, as if to signal that she was in no hurry to be anywhere else.

“Do you know what happened down there?” Miranda began.

“Yes.” Samara nodded her head. Even though Miranda rarely if ever observed her speaking to anyone else, word always somehow seemed to reach her about what transpired on any mission she wasn’t a part of.

It certainly made things easier not to have to explain it.

Maybe that was why Samara had come here in the first place.

“...I don’t think a single person I’ve met would ever accuse me of being in any way compassionate. Not even you, and you give me the benefit of the doubt far more than anyone else. But…” Miranda trailed off as she reflected on the days’ events, her voice steady despite the grisly subject matter. “Even in the name of science, how could anyone do that to their own brother?”

David Archer had been begging his brother to make it stop. Begging him. And all Gavin cared about was continuing the experiment.

Why? What was the fucking point of taking it that far?

“I do not know,” Samara answered honestly. “I cannot fathom it either.”

“I suppose that’s the thing. I can fathom it,” Miranda pointed out. She knew all too well that people like that did exist.

She’d been raised by one.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” Miranda shook her head, unable to even find the language to describe the uncomfortable twisting in her chest that came from thinking about David Archer, picturing him in that core with all those tubes sticking out of him. “Nothing normally ever...gets to me. Even things that probably should. I’ve always been like that. My whole life,

“Did you know, I don’t even remember crying as a child? At all?” Miranda asked. “Any time I ever came close to shedding a tear, my father made sure to ‘give me something to really cry about’. So perhaps I did do it more than I can recall, and I simply blocked those memories out. But I don’t think that’s the answer. I’ve always assumed that the reason I never cried was because I must have been...so isolated and neglected as a baby that one day I just stopped making any noise, because even then I must have known there was simply no point to it,

“So, if you ever pictured me being an emotional child, that’s not true. I’ve never known myself to be any different than the way I am now,” Miranda somewhat shamefully admitted. She’d never had the chance to be another way, from the moment she was brought into this world. “The one exception, the one thing that I can’t seem to stop from hitting me in whatever small, emotional part of me survived my childhood, is Oriana. Or anything that reminds me of her.”

“I see.” Samara needed no further explanation. Miranda may not have fully understood it herself, but to Samara, it made perfect sense. Why wouldn’t what Miranda saw down there on Aite remind her of her father, and make her think of her sister? “...May I ask, have you seen something like David Archer before?”

“Close enough,” Miranda said, the truth of those words leaving a bitter taste on her tongue. “Do you know, I’ve never told anyone about how I escaped from my father? I suppose you could’ve guessed. I’ve never had anyone to tell.”

Samara shifted, matching Miranda’s cross-legged position as she turned to face her, sitting opposite her. She didn’t even need to say anything. Her body language alone said that she was receptive to whatever Miranda felt comfortable sharing.

Miranda never allowed herself to look weak in front of anyone. To show vulnerability. Whenever she came close, she would brush it off with a deadpan quip or dry understatement, demonstrating that she was in total control.

Samara was the one exception to that. The one person she’d met who she trusted enough to reveal that flawed, softer side of herself around, and who had never judged her even slightly for her imperfections. Why Samara tolerated her at her worst, Miranda still didn’t know. But she always had, from day one.

Plus, Miranda knew better than anyone the grief Samara had somehow survived and how she had come to terms with the most intense sorrow imaginable. It was no wonder she was so understanding, given what she’d endured in her past.

So, for the first time in her life, Miranda began to tell her story.

“I always knew that I was an experiment, but I never really knew what that meant,” Miranda elected to start at the beginning. “My father said things, sure, but if you imagine anybody ever sat me down and explained to me my purpose, or the purpose of anything they put me through, then you’re sorely mistaken.”

“What were you told?” Samara prompted.

“The part about being genetically perfect. That I wasn’t the first he’d made, only the first he’d kept. And that my father wanted to create a dynasty - a great legacy that would ensure his name lived forever,” Miranda explained. “I always assumed that my father saw me as his heir. That he wanted me to be the perfect daughter. Someone he could trust to carry on his work long after he passed. It wasn’t until Niket put the thought in my head that I began to consider that I might be wrong - that maybe my father’s experiment wouldn’t end with me. If he ever did make another daughter, then I didn’t know what that meant for me, except that I knew it wouldn’t be good, and I may not be safe,

“So Niket and I began working on an escape plan. It took us the better part of two years to prepare. We had to get every detail exactly right, and we thought about every possible contingency. Niket already knew my father’s security systems intimately, so we knew what the weaknesses were there. Before he left, Niket gave me software I could use to hack into the camera system and make the monitors replay the feed from twenty-four hours ago. It would look like I was asleep in my bed, and any rooms I was actually in would look empty,

“We knew that most possible routes I could use to escape were patrolled by security at all hours. We actually had to scour the plans for the whole compound to find any potential ways out. The only option that presented any possibility was...well, perhaps I should go back a few steps.”

Not used to speaking this much without interruption, Miranda stopped briefly to make sure Samara wasn’t overwhelmed by the sheer amount of information being dumped on her all at once. But Samara’s position hadn’t changed at all. Her blue eyes had never left Miranda’s face, listening intently to her every word.

Miranda took that as implicit support to keep going.

“My father had a large research facility underground, beneath the estate, but I never saw most of it. Even when I started working in the lab, I was only ever allowed to enter certain rooms, and only under supervision. I assisted on some of my father’s research into gene editing, which is where most of the family money comes from. I was aware that there were some restricted projects that required special lab clearance, but that was the extent of my knowledge,

“Niket and I discovered from reviewing the plans that there were more levels to the lab than I would have expected. And, when you’re that far underground and working with potentially toxic chemicals, you need a very good ventilation system. We could see on the blueprints that there were air ducts that connected to the surface, which I could most likely fit through. Both ends of the air duct wouldn’t be patrolled by security, since they were only watched by cameras, which we already had a means to deal with. It seemed like my best option,

“Once everything was in motion, all I needed to do was steal an ID card from one of my father’s senior lab technicians, and memorise what passcode was used to enter the restricted part of the lab on the day I chose to escape. I don’t think I’m surprising you by saying that neither of those two things were a challenge for me. I even stole a gun to defend myself, just in case,

“It was exactly thirteen minutes past two in the morning when I got up and left my room. I knew that was the perfect time to leave, because there were the fewest people around, and I’d noticed that security tended to get tired and bored around that time and would start slacking off at their posts. I’d seen them sitting back in their chairs with their feet up watching TV to amuse themselves,

“Everything went precisely as I had planned it. I walked right across the entire house without anybody noticing I was there - which, however big you imagine the house I grew up in was, triple it and you’ll be closer. I got to the lab without incident, swiped the stolen card, entered the code for that day, and headed down to the restricted level where my designated escape point was.”

Miranda paused then. It was the first time she’d really, consciously thought about that day in a long time. And, certainly, it was the first time she’d ever spoken about it, beyond referencing it with flippant passing comments.

In the peripheries of her vision, she saw Samara shift closer. “May I?” 

Miranda glanced up at Samara’s voice, and found her making a subtle motion towards Miranda’s left hand, where it rested in her lap. Miranda hadn’t even really been conscious of it until that moment, but in hindsight she had been gesturing more with her right while she spoke.

Admittedly, Miranda was far from fluent when it came to reading unspoken body language. Even though she didn’t fully grasp what Samara meant, she trusted her enough to follow along with whatever she intended. Accordingly, Miranda turned her left hand over, such that her palm faced upwards.

Interpreting that as tacit consent, Samara reached across the small gap between them and clasped Miranda’s hand between both of her own. For as strong as their friendship had become, neither of them were exactly the touchy-feely type. Quite the opposite. So, to feel Samara gently holding her hand with such kindness, well...Miranda imagined this must have been how it felt for other people who weren’t generally so averse to physical contact to be hugged.

“You do not have to give voice to any of the thoughts on your mind if you do not wish to,” Samara reminded her, one of her thumbs softly tracing circles at the centre of Miranda’s palm. “But I am here to listen if you do.”

“I know you are. Thank you,” Miranda said sincerely.

With that, she continued, difficult as it was to revisit this part of her memory.

“I remember the doors to that level sliding open and...I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. This wasn’t just a lab. It was a cloning facility. My cloning facility. The place where I had come from. And I just...froze,

“I completely forgot why I was even there. All I saw were...tanks with embryos in various stages of development. Photographs of dissected failures detailing the mutations and cancerous growths caused by element zero exposure. Pages of speculation as to the errors in their altered genetic sequences which made them...unviable. And then there were images of me. Reports on my behaviour. My progress. With a list of ‘imperfections’ that needed improvement in further cycles.”

Samara was nothing if not masterful at maintaining a neutral expression, but even she could not hide the visibly pained look that crossed her face when she heard that. Words could not describe how much that moment must have not only hurt Miranda, but shattered her entire perception of reality.

“All that time, I truly thought the project had ended with me. But it hadn’t. My whole life, I had been living in that house, while beneath my very feet my father was actively working to ‘improve’ upon my genetic code for god knows how many years. And the only reason he hadn’t replaced me sooner was, ironically, because any time he had a viable embryo, his insistence on exposing them to element zero to replicate my biotic abilities resulted in death and deformity.”

Even though she was silent, hanging on Miranda’s every word, it was evident that Samara was shocked by what she was hearing. Stunned. She’d always believed Miranda when she said her father was a monster, but she’d obviously never suspected it went to this extent. That it was this systematic. This calculated. This callous. What sane person would even comprehend a mind capable of something like this, let alone be complicit in it?

“I don’t know when exactly my father started perceiving me as a failure. In retrospect, I’ve learned things that make me suspect it was probably day one. But that was the first inkling I ever had that I was only ever intended to be a prototype, and nothing more. A test. A proof of concept. A first fucking draft.”

Samara squeezed Miranda’s hand a little tighter, as if to express her sympathy, and her apologies, both for the fact that Miranda had ever had to go through something like this, and that Samara hadn’t understood her history sooner.

Miranda’s eyes drifted out of focus, before she even knew they had. She wasn’t in her quarters anymore. She was there. She was sixteen. She was in that lab. Standing in that door. Discovering the truth. She saw it so clearly, down to even the smallest detail. She could hear the hum of the refrigerator, and the whirring of the fan. She could even smell the exact cleaning agent the staff had used earlier that day to sterilise their hands before they entered the room.

“When that realisation hit me, I just...I just saw red. I thought fuck him. Fuck him. That everything he had put me through, everything I had done for him to meet his arbitrary and changeable standards of perfection, it had all been for nothing. Nothing I ever did could be good enough. He never cared. There was nothing I could possibly have done to live up to the unreachable bar he set for me, because he never truly intended for me to be ‘the one’ no matter how well I did. I had been set up to fail my whole life. And this was the proof. So I paid him back,

“I destroyed it,” Miranda said with cold fury, a mere fraction of the rage she had felt nearly twenty years ago. “Everything he had worked so hard on, everything that mattered to him more than me, I destroyed it. I overloaded every computer. I threw every freezer to the ground. I shot out every one of those tubes. I broke the sprinkler system, grabbed every flammable substance I could find, poured them all over everything, and ejected my thermal clip,

“The alarms went off when the fire started. I didn’t regret anything that I had done, but I had been so angry that I had completely blown any chance I had of a quiet escape. I knew I had to move quickly. So I headed for my exit. But, then, just as I reached the air vent, I heard this sound. And I stopped.”

Miranda swallowed. Perfect memory was a curse as much as a blessing. She hadn’t relived this exact moment in years, yet she could still vividly remember every single detail as clearly as if this had happened ten minutes ago.

“I looked over and I saw this...incubator. I had thought it was empty, but...no. There was a child inside it. A seemingly newborn baby. Left alone in the dark, in this cold, sterile lab. Screaming and crying for attention that would never come.”

Miranda felt a sting in her eyes as she replayed those images in her mind.

“The first thing I felt was betrayal. This was my replacement. They hadn’t been able to improve upon my DNA yet, despite their best efforts, so they just made another one. And this was her. A genetic identical. A ‘do-over’. Well, actually, they made several. Like me, Ori was just the only one lucky enough to survive the element zero exposure - although, unlike me, she didn’t get biotics out of it,

“What did it say about my father that this was how I found her? She and I, we were the culmination of his life’s work. We should have been his most prized possessions. But then look at how he treated me my whole life. And he was already doing the same to her. The only reason she wasn’t dead was because there were machines there to perform the absolute bare minimum functions to keep her alive, so that she could be the next phase of the experiment,

“Neither of us had ever been, or would ever be daughters to him. My father wasn’t, and still isn’t capable of that. There is not a single shred of anything resembling love or kindness in Henry Lawson’s heart. He is devoid of anything right, or good, or redeeming--”

Miranda had to stop herself then, pulling both her hands away to wipe beneath her eyes. This was more raw than she had ever been with another person.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Please do not apologise,” Samara implored her, beyond moved by everything she had heard so far. She reached out, but stopped just short of touching Miranda’s cheek, as if uncertain whether she would want her to.

“I feel so stupid,” Miranda cursed herself. It didn’t happen very often, but she hated the way it felt when her eyes burned with tears. It was a horrible fucking feeling. An alien sensation. Like she was stricken with some disease. Or like something inside her was broken. How the fuck did anyone find this cathartic?

“You are not,” Samara assured her, holding Miranda’s gaze, letting both hands fall atop her knees, compelling Miranda to look at her, and be with her in that moment. “Need I remind you, I came to you. I have chosen to be here.”

“Why?” Miranda asked, still not understanding why Samara of all people deigned to put up with her when she was at her most useless and pathetic.

At that question, Samara’s stoic expression faltered. “...Do you have to ask this of me? Do you not know?” she said quietly, her voice barely louder than a whisper. It was almost as if it hurt her to think that, after all this time, Miranda still didn’t honestly believe deep down in her heart that Samara cared about her.

Upon hearing that in her voice, Miranda knew that question had been unfair. Samara deserved better than that. And, after all, didn’t Miranda already know the answer to that question? Samara was here for Miranda when she needed her for the exact same reason Miranda had been there for Samara in the past. 

Because she wanted to be.

Miranda took a moment, her thumb and forefinger running across her eyelids, and meeting at the bridge of her nose. “This is hard for me to talk about,” she confessed, her voice breaking, knowing she hadn’t even reached the most difficult part. She didn’t know if she would even be able to get through this.

“I understand,” said Samara, giving her as much time and space as she needed.

Miranda drew a deep breath, and willed herself to keep going, keeping her eyes closed beneath her fingers, unable to even look at Samara as she went on.

“So, as I was standing there, hearing glass explode around me in the flames, having only just discovered this baby even existed...I knew I didn’t have long, but I had to spare her from whatever came next. If I left her, she would die in the fire, or she would be deemed a ‘failure’ and be killed, or she would go through exactly the same thing that I had gone through with my father. None of those outcomes were acceptable. But I hadn’t planned for her. I couldn’t take her with me.”

Miranda hesitated, a single tear escaping and falling down her cheek.

“For a split-second, I thought...well, I have this thing in my hand, and the most merciful thing I could do for her is…quickly and painlessly…” Miranda couldn’t even say the words, “...And I really did think about it. I was going to...”

The fact that it had even crossed her mind, however briefly, was the one thing in Miranda’s life that she had never truly been able to forgive herself for, no matter how many years passed. It made her feel sick to her stomach.

Oriana didn’t even know. But Miranda would never be able to make that up to her.

Never.

“But I couldn’t.” Miranda shook her head, her breaths coming shallower. “I just couldn’t. Something inside of me just...physically wouldn’t let me. And I felt...I felt something I’d never felt before. A compulsion so powerful I’ve never felt it since. It was like my heart exploded in my chest. And I didn’t even have control over myself. The next thing I knew, I just put the gun away. And I took her,

“All I could think was, if I could just get her out of there, then she would have a chance at everything I never had. And the moment I had that thought, it was as if I didn’t have a choice. I had to do everything in my power to make that happen. It became the only thing that mattered to me, even more than my own life,

“So I opened the incubator, and wrapped her in my jacket. And the second I touched her, she just...looked at me, and she stopped crying.”

Miranda went silent for several, long seconds, fixed on the memory of the first time she’d seen her sister’s face. The first moment she felt that connection between them. A moment that changed her forever.

She exhaled, willing her voice to stop shaking. 

“I didn’t read anything into it. I assumed the reason she stopped was because she’d never felt a human touch before, and was just surprised, but...I said to her, ‘I’m going to get you out of here. You’ll be safe with me. I promise,’

“Just as soon as I took her, I heard voices behind me. I didn’t look back. I bashed open the grate and got inside the vent as quick as I could. None of my father’s men could follow me through a space that small. I don’t know how long I was in there. But it felt like an eternity. I don’t know how I didn’t fall,

“When I got to the surface, I remember seeing searchlights in the dark. Either they hadn’t figured out where I was, or they just hadn’t made it out of the lab in time to beat me there. I had a whole route memorised in my brain. You can’t even comprehend how big my father’s compound was. The gardens had an actual, literal maze as one of the features. I tried to hide from them in there,

“Amid all the people searching for me, I carelessly wandered into a trip beam for the outdoor alarm system at one point. Spotlights fixed on me immediately. That’s when I heard my father over the loudspeaker ordering his men to shoot me. And they were live rounds. I could tell. But, if nothing else, all that training made me a lot faster and more agile than any of his men. I shot a few rounds blindly behind me to force them to take cover. That must have worked. And I lost them again,

“The only way I could get outside the walls was through a drain. Believe me, a lot of water went into those gardens. I jumped into the drainage ditch, and the water went up to about here.” Miranda put one hand at the point where her hip became indistinguishable from her abdomen. “Niket had already loosened the grate for me ahead of time. All I had to do was move it. And...I was out,

“I have never in my life run as fast as I ran then. I knew they wouldn’t be far behind me. I could hear them. Including my father. Niket had left a skycar for me in a hidden location nearby, where nobody would ever find it by accident. I got in, and I put my sister down beside me, and I said to her, ‘If we get shot down, I just want you to know, I don’t regret trying to save you. These last few minutes have been more freedom than I’ve ever known in my whole life’,

“I can still hear the bullets bouncing off the hull as we flew away. But that was it. That was my last memory of home, and the last time I saw my father.”

Samara visibly held back her own emotions as Miranda recounted the most pivotal day of her life. Miranda had long intellectually understood that feeling what others felt was something that came naturally to empathetic people, and Samara (as composed as she was) was definitely that. If anything, that response meant more from her precisely because she was usually so stoic.

It seemed clear that her restraint, in this case, was not born out of any desire to hide what she was feeling, or any shame at being seen in such a state, but rather came purely because Miranda was her priority in that moment, and she did not wish to detract, however unintentionally, from her and her feelings.

“I know it cannot have been long before you were separated from your sister,” said Samara, her voice calm, level and soothing. Her unwavering demeanour was oddly comforting. “I am sorry. That must have been very difficult for you.”

“It was,” Miranda confirmed. “She had never been part of the plan. I didn’t even know she existed until I found her. I was supposed to be off world with my fake ID immediately. But, with her, I couldn’t do that. I had a little money, but not much, and everything can be traced with enough effort so I was scared to use what I had. Once that money ran out, I had no plan for how to feed her, or clothe her, or care for her. And I was afraid that asking for help would attract attention.”

For a short while, though, she had really tried. They may have been genetically twins, but Miranda was old enough to be her mother. Teen mothers may have been a rarity in the twenty-second century, but they were certainly not unheard of.

The only problem with that idea was that Miranda barely knew how to take care of herself in light of how she had been raised, let alone a baby.

She shivered as she thought on those days. “I remember, this one night, I had bought us a room in a hotel with these...ludicrous purple walls. We never stayed in the same place twice, but this room, I remember. Because, for whatever reason, that night she just...would not stop crying. And not just crying, she was bloody screaming her head off. And I didn’t know why. I didn’t know what I was doing wrong. Whatever I tried to calm her down...nothing worked. I didn’t know if she was sick and going to die, and I was terrified that people would come and take her away from me if they heard her screaming like that. And I just...for the first time I can remember, I broke down and bawled my fucking eyes out until the sun rose. Because that was the point where I realised I couldn’t do this,

“I knew that, even if I managed to get her off-world with me, my father wouldn’t stop looking for us on Earth. He would follow us. We would always be in danger. And I had no means to care for her. Even if I did, how could I work? Who would I leave her with? I didn’t know anyone I could trust,

“...Until I remembered this man my father had spoken to two years earlier, who was an affiliate of Cerberus. English expat named Alan. He had said The Illusive Man was looking for ‘exceptional individuals’ like me. They knew who I was, and what I was. And, even though my father donated to Cerberus, I knew they had never returned the favour - they never funded his cloning research, probably because he was always so cagey about sharing any data with them,

“I knew it was a risk, but I didn’t have anyone else to turn to. I remembered enough about Alan to know his name and what company he ran. And, because he remembered me too, I was able to get in contact with him. I told him that I wanted to offer my services to Cerberus, in exchange for them helping me get my sister off world. I said I wanted them to make her disappear, and put her safely into the hands of a normal, loving family. So long as they kept their end of that bargain, they would have my undivided loyalty. And that was all it took.”

And that promise was kept, along with everything Cerberus promised. Oriana grew up with some fine, spacer parents, who were coincidentally of Australian origin themselves. Miranda watched over her, and her brilliantly, boringly normal life, seeing her grow from a happy child into a smart, popular teenager, and a well-adjusted adult. It was why Miranda trusted Cerberus so much.

“The woman who took her from me was very nice about it. In truth, other than Niket, she was the first person I ever met who had been kind to me. But that...that was the first time in my life that I remember crying. Really crying. The day that it hit me that I wasn’t fit to take care of her, when I knew that I had to give her up.”

And, nineteen years later, Miranda had tears in her eyes when she finally met her sister again, speaking to her for the first time at Shepard’s urging on Illium. She wasn’t kidding when she said Oriana was the only thing that ever brought that out of her. Such raw, intense emotion. Such...humanity.

Miranda had gone to Oriana that day to let her know she was loved, and she had done exactly that, but she had received something so much greater in return.

For nineteen years, Miranda had known what it meant to love someone. But it wasn't until then, at the age of thirty-five, that she finally knew what it felt like to have someone out there in the galaxy who truly and unconditionally loved her back.

Holding Oriana as a child had given Miranda purpose. But holding her again all those years later as an adult had given Miranda something far greater.

Family.

“You may not have been ready to take care of a child then,” Samara began. “But you were certainly an excellent sister to her, as you have been ever since.”

Miranda’s lips couldn’t find the strength to quirk, not even into the faintest shadow of a smile. “Thank you,” she said. If doing right by Oriana was the one thing that she ever managed to do with her life, then it justified her entire existence.

Giving Oriana up was, unequivocally, the hardest thing Miranda had ever done, before or since. Experiencing unconditional love for the first time, only to be forced by circumstance to give it up a few short days later. And yet, at the same time, it had been the only thing she could do. Because the real, selfless love she felt for Oriana didn’t allow Miranda to do the selfish thing. Not when it came to her.

She sighed and rubbed one eye with the corresponding palm. “Ah, god, how long have I been rambling at you about this?”

“As long as you needed to,” Samara answered with unfeigned warmth and compassion. “I cannot stress how much I appreciate you speaking of this to me. I know it was not easy for you, and that you do not share your burdens with others lightly. Everything you have told me, I treat with the greatest respect.”

“I know you do,” said Miranda. Even on the pane of death, Samara would never divulge anything told to her in confidence. Nobody ever needed to doubt that.

“Do you feel better for having spoken of it?” Samara asked.

Miranda stopped for a moment. “...Strangely, yes,” she acknowledged.

In retrospect, it now made sense why the incident with the Archer brothers had been so...for lack of a better word, ‘triggering’ for those past traumatic events. And, for as much of an emotional rollercoaster as it had been to relive the most mentally scarring day of her life, at least she had gotten to the point in her story where she and Oriana got their happy ending, reunited at long last.

“Then I am glad,” said Samara. That was all she wanted to achieve by coming here as she had, if it had been at all possible to do so.

“You’re not going now, are you?” Miranda asked, audibly disappointed. After all, when Miranda entered a conversation with a specific purpose in mind, she would generally leave immediately after accomplishing that goal.

“No.” Samara shook her head, hoping she had not unintentionally conveyed that impression. “I will stay for as long as you would like me here.”

“Would you stay forever?” Miranda wearily remarked. Samara hesitated, as if caught off guard by that. “I’m joking,” Miranda told her, assuaging Samara’s fears that she had to answer that question seriously.

Samara uttered something that sounded faintly like a chuckle. “My offer remains,” she replied. It was funny how something as simple as that kind twinkle in Samara’s eye was enough to make Miranda feel so much less vulnerable, despite the fact that this was the most she’d ever let her guard down. Ever.

Miranda exhaled heavily, running both hands through her hair as she leaned back, her head hitting the pillow behind her. She had no idea that the simple act of talking could be so exhausting. But, then again, it did feel like she’d just run an obstacle course through every single emotion she’d ever felt in her entire life, so maybe that explained it. No wonder she needed a moment to recover.

She heard movement, and felt Samara shift off of the bed, moving to stand by the window, almost like she was keeping a vigil at her side.

“Miranda?” Samara broke the silence after a minute or two. Miranda moved one hand just enough to allow an eye to open. “I am proud of you.”

Miranda arched an eyebrow in questioning.

“Of the decisions you made then. Of the woman you are now. And that you were courageous enough to be so open with me,” Samara elaborated.

“...You know, I think that’s the first time anyone has ever said that to me,” Miranda commented. And, if anyone else had, then it hit differently coming from someone, firstly, whose opinion she held in such high esteem and, secondly, who she knew wouldn’t have said that unless she damn well meant it.

“Then those people were unworthy of you,” Samara responded with stark honesty, and a terseness to her tone that Miranda had never heard before.

With her half-open eye, Miranda silently studied Samara’s expression. It took a few seconds for her to recognise that unyielding flame she bore. Now that Miranda had finished speaking, Samara no longer simply felt sorry for what she had gone through. No. She was angry about it - angry that people had treated Miranda that way, livid that they had made her even for a second feel as though she were worthless, and furious that they had seen so little value in her that they were prepared to dispose of her like she wasn’t even a living being.

That, she could evidently not abide.

Had she not known the reason for it and so agreed with the sentiment, it would have been a little intimidating to see Samara so righteously pissed off, even if the average person might have only perceived her as her usual, guarded self. 

“That I ever dared compare you to the people in your father’s employ...” Samara trailed off, staring out into the void, her body tense. She hadn’t known Miranda’s full story at the time, but now that she did, she looked like she wanted to tear herself apart for letting those words leave her lips. “I apologise unreservedly.”

“You weren’t wrong, though,” Miranda acknowledged. When it came to Cerberus, she had been on the same path. She could have easily been complicit in the same, if not worse atrocities than were done to her as a child.

“No.” Samara turned to face her, stalwart conviction shining in her eyes. “I have never been more wrong. You are nothing like them. You are so far above them, and they are so far beneath you...the people who hurt you do not even deserve to breathe the same air as you,” Samara stated firmly, staring Miranda dead in her eyes, as if daring her to find a single shred of falsity or exaggeration in her gaze, because she knew that Miranda would find none. “I hope you know that.”

Miranda blinked, taken aback by the severity and seriousness of her response. Not having the strength to fight Samara on the validity of her past criticisms, which Miranda still thought were fair, all she said was, “Apology accepted.”

Satisfied with that answer, Samara folded her arms, and faced the void.

Miranda wouldn’t say it out loud, but it was weirdly kind of validating to see someone else react that way to her story. Whether it was intentional or not, it was almost like a reassuring acknowledgement in the back of her mind, saying, ‘See? You aren’t crazy, and you aren’t overreacting by not being able to let go of what your father did to you so many years ago. You actually are justified.’

Plus, on an entirely selfish level, part of her definitely enjoyed knowing that, in the very unlikely event Samara and Henry Lawson ever happened to cross paths after this day, Samara wouldn’t hesitate to fucking kill him.

* * *

It had been two weeks and a day since she identified the bodies. Writing to Ashley’s family and sending them the dog tags hadn’t been easy, but she’d done it. She’d personally given the letter to some contacts Jacob had within the Alliance from his days as a Corsair, so she knew it would get there.

She didn’t know when a response would come, but she wasn’t looking forward to it when it did.

Monday to Friday had been spent working, as usual. If nothing else, it was a reassuring constant.

Saturday, she had paid a visit to Jack. “What are we, fuckin’ wacky sitcom neighbours now?” Jack had complained when she showed up, signalling that things were back to whatever this new normal was between them.

Despite her initial reaction, Jack hadn’t otherwise objected to her presence. She actually felt up to going outside that day, to the extent that she was able to, so Miranda had walked with her and given her the lay of the land, including where her own apartment was. “If you ever want to stop by while I’m at work, feel free. I know your students usually visit you during that time, anyway, but--”

“Yeah. I get it. Thanks,” Jack brusquely cut her off. Even though they were so far sticking to their word to try and turn over a new leaf with each other, evidently she could still only take so much of Miranda being genuine towards her before it weirded her out.

Miranda didn’t feel the need to point it out but, for her own part, she had yet to be anything other than civil with Jack. It had not been fully reciprocated yet, but that was not unexpected.

Jack’s medical condition was an unusual one. Mainly because no human had ever suffered from it before. They actually had to go to the asari for aid to get insight on similar situations. Apparently it had been recorded within their species before that massive exertions of phenomenal biotic power in life-or-death situations could cause physical damage similar to what Jack had suffered, and it had been noted that such events could also cause a temporary ‘burnout’ of biotic abilities. Certainly, at the moment, Jack couldn’t so much as move a glass with her mind, nor was she to try to as the effort would only lead to migraine.

It was hard to put a timeline on it, but she was expected to be back to normal within a few months. Until then, she would have to take her headaches and fatigue day by day. Some days, she would barely have the strength to walk from one side of the apartment to the other. Other days, she would feel mostly fine.

On Sunday, Miranda had gone off to spend some time on her own. It turned out that her quiet spots where she hid at night when the tinnitus was too much to bear were just as isolated in the day as well. She tried to clear her mind, and not think about anything for a while, with limited success.

On Monday, it was back to work.

Oriana kept sending bad jokes as she thought of them over the course of the week. The latest one was, “How many colony developers does it take to screw in a lightbulb? Three. One to hold a committee meeting to decide whether screwing in a lightbulb is an efficient allocation of resources, one to raise rates on the colonists to fund the lightbulb replacement, and one to hire a private contractor to finally screw in the lightbulb five years after you needed it.” 

Obviously things were going well at her job.

Miranda appreciated every message she got from her, but she still hadn’t had the heart to respond. Not just yet. Oriana would be able to tell something was wrong if she talked to her in her current state, even via text. She would just know. She would sense it, no matter how many lightyears away she was. And it was better not to talk to her than risk burdening her with her current troubles.

Throughout it all, it wasn’t lost on Miranda that the students were, suffice it to say, aware that Miranda hadn’t been acting the same these past two weeks. She couldn’t really tell the difference from her own perspective. She always buried herself in work. And she was always always rather detached, serious and quiet. But, for whatever reason, the students somehow just seemed to know that dark cloud was there, hanging over her head.

Maybe she was acting just different enough that they could tell. Or maybe it was the fact that the deaths of her friends hadn’t changed her behaviour at all that caused them to be concerned about her.

They didn’t openly express any worry. But they weren’t treating her as they normally did. Weren’t teasing her, or prodding at her, or trying to get a rise out of her. They were being...polite and respectful.

Miranda would never have predicted it, nor would she admit it, but she had actually started to miss the former. Just a little bit.

It was pretty late by the time Miranda got home from work that day. It was now November, so it was getting dark early, and it was colder than Miranda preferred. She took off her scarf and put her keys down when she came inside.

“Pardon me, Miss?” Prangley began.

“Yes, Jason?” Miranda inquired, too preoccupied to notice the somewhat awkward manner in which Jack’s students were gathered together in the living area. Why was it so cold in there?

“We're, uh...we're not entirely sure,” he admitted with a shrug, glancing over his shoulder towards the balcony outside. “She wouldn't tell us anything. Just that she wanted to see you. I get the feeling we couldn't have kept her out if we tried.”

At that, Miranda blinked and glanced up, suddenly paying more attention. “She?” Miranda echoed. “Who are you talking about?”

Miranda didn’t know it, but to the kids, that reaction was the first glimpse of the Miranda they knew they'd been able to get out of her in two weeks.

“I don’t know, but it’s not often an asari matriarch drops in unannounced,” Reiley remarked, scratching the side of his head. Miranda’s heart stopped. She couldn’t believe her ears. It couldn’t be. “I hope this isn’t some kind of mix up. It’ll be pretty embarrassing if she's got the wrong address.”

Miranda didn’t even hear the rest of his comment, much less respond to it. She didn’t say so much as another word to her wards, taking hold of her cane and marching straight towards the balcony, needing to see if it was her.

As soon as she got close enough to see outside, there was no mistaking it. Samara stood there beyond the open doorway, hands clasped behind her back, her posture upright and rigid, staring out over the ruined city that lay before her.

The second she saw her, Miranda halted in her tracks, unable to take another step. It was as if time stood still. And yet her pulse was pounding so fast.

Sensing that she was being watched, Samara turned to look over her shoulder.

Their eyes met.

Miranda wasn’t sure whose breath caught first, hers or Samara’s. For a long moment, they both just stared, Miranda frozen by the doorway, Samara motionless on the balcony, both of them scarcely able to believe that this was no illusion.

Micro expressions flitted across pale blue features. The night concealed much, but Miranda could have sworn she saw Samara’s eyes glisten with unshed tears. 

“The last time I saw you...” Samara glanced down, unable to finish the thought. But, before long, a small smile unfolded across her lips. Miranda was there. Her fears had not come to pass. “...Truly, you never cease to amaze me.”

A faint laugh of astonishment and disbelief escaped Miranda as she stepped out onto the balcony, sliding the door shut behind her. “You don't call, you don't write,” she remarked, mostly in jest, moving to stand beside her in the cold night air, resting her arm on the railing. Honestly, Samara had been absent so long that Miranda had begun to suspect she would never return. “I suppose I did get your message, but you could at least have sent flowers.”

“My apologies,” said Samara, politely tilting her head in acknowledgement that the manner of her parting had been...less than ideal. “From what I have gathered, by the time you regained consciousness, I was already far from here. I could not linger when suffering was so widespread. The Code demanded that I go where I could assist. But I would not blame you if you do not forgive me for leaving,” she answered. She never made excuses, but those were her reasons.

“In light of the fact you saved my life, I think we can call it even,” Miranda commented, though her expression soon faltered, her features becoming a little more sombre and sincere. It had hurt for Samara to vanish as suddenly as she had, but it seemed so stupid to say that now that she was finally here.

She’d wanted this so badly for so long. It had almost driven her crazy at times, fixating on Samara’s absence as much as she had. And, now that she was here, she found it impossible to be angry with her, even if she ought to have been.

She was here. She was finally here. Not just in London, but here. With her. Where she should have been. And, even though there was about three feet of space between them, she was close enough that Miranda could have sworn she felt the warmth of Samara’s presence even through her jacket.

“You look well,” said Samara, genuinely glad to see the extent of her progress. Were it anyone other than Miranda she was speaking to, the rate at which she'd bounced back would have been astonishing, if not outright impossible.

Miranda snorted. “I look like I was nearly killed in a shuttle explosion. But I don't mind the scars, or the arm. Could have been a lot worse.” Miranda hesitated then, her fingers tensing around her cane as her tone turned serious. “I know I stopped breathing three times after you rescued me. If you hadn't...” She trailed off, not sure she wanted to reflect on just how close she'd come to death. There had been too much of that lately.

“Yes. I know. Far too well.” Miranda briefly glanced at her, and saw Samara staring ahead into the night, scant city lights reflecting against unfocused eyes. She seemed...preoccupied. Troubled, even. “The first time the medics told me you were not breathing was right as they took you out of my arms after I carried you to them. They revived you in the transport on the way to the hospital.”

“Mmm. Jacob told me about that after I woke up,” Miranda uttered in response. 

Come to think of it, until just now, it had never really occurred to her how Samara must have felt in that moment. For a while, at least, Samara might well have believed she had felt the last of Miranda’s life force slip away in her hands.

A secondary thought tiptoed into Miranda’s mind. Something else Jacob had told her in the same conversation that had never sat right with her.

“Did you really threaten doctors that you would consider it attempted murder if they took me off life support?” Miranda asked, audibly sceptical. She’d long since assumed it must have been some sort of misunderstanding or exaggeration on Jacob’s part. It didn’t strike her as something Samara would do.

Samara didn’t answer, nor did her expression change.

Miranda interpreted her silence. “You know what? Forget I asked,” she said, regretting even bringing it up. Of course Samara wouldn’t threaten doctors. The entire purpose of The Code was to protect innocent people, not harm them.

“They did discuss it with Jacob and myself. Your condition had barely changed for several days. And you were very ill. They had lost faith that there was any prospect that you...” Samara couldn’t seem to bring herself to say it. “It was after that conversation that I...recorded that message you saw. When I left, I did not think...I was not certain you would recover,” Samara confessed, with a heavy heart. There was no mistaking how much that dark thought must have plagued her in the intervening weeks. “Every day I spent elsewhere, I thought...”

“Thought what?” Miranda prompted when Samara trailed off.

Samara blinked out of her daze and shook her head, quickly banishing whatever imaginings had distracted her. “That is not important now. What matters is that you are alright. You survived where most would have perished, and for that I truly cannot express how thankful I am. Though it saddens me to learn the same cannot be said of some of our former comrades.”

“Mmm.” Miranda's gaze dropped to the ground, swallowing as she leaned on the bannister. “I can't say I didn't expect it. Surviving with all of us intact was never going to be an option. I'm not a believer in miracles, by any means, but we're lucky that even the four of us made it,” Miranda explained, sounding more like she was trying to convince herself than anything, unable to help but feel a pang in her chest at the knowledge that she wouldn't even get to bury most of them. They were all just...particles, somewhere in space. “I assume you know about Jack.”

“Jacob told me where I can find her. I intend to visit her later,” Samara confirmed. Miranda secretly hoped Samara didn't know everything - that she'd very nearly gotten Jack killed by not trusting her own judgement. She could never have forgiven herself if she had left her behind, trapped beneath that building. Especially knowing they would never find anyone else. “There are no others?”

“There's Wrex from the original Normandy. He made it out in one piece. You probably already knew that. But from our lot? No. Just you, Jacob, Jack and I,” Miranda answered, silently counting the missing among the fallen. “I, um...I found Zaeed and Grunt. Javik and Ashley Williams from the SR-3 as well,” she broke the news, unable to raise her head, their fates an uncomfortable burden to bear. “...I can take you to where they're buried, if you would like to pay your respects.”

Samara's face fell. It wasn't clear whether that was because she didn't know before Miranda told her, or because she felt a sense of shame and regret for leaving Miranda to shoulder that alone. “I will do that before I go.”

Miranda swallowed, brushing a stray lock of hair out of her eye. “One more thing. The ship where Kasumi was stationed to work on the Crucible...it didn't make it. It was too close to a relay, and...” She didn't finish that sentence, letting the implication speak for itself.

“...I am sorry to hear that,” Samara said honestly. Another life, another friend, confirmed lost. She paused, and glanced back at Miranda. “Are you alright?” 

“Yeah, I'm fine,” Miranda assured her, straightening up a little more.

Samara just stared at her, with silent compassion and understanding. Miranda didn't have to say anything. And Samara would never press her on it, respecting her space, but...she knew damn well that Miranda wasn't coping with this as well as she wanted everyone to think. Or even as well as she had no doubt tried to convince herself she was.

At that unspoken realisation, Miranda slumped forwards and uttered a humourless laugh, barely louder than a whisper, leaning more of her weight against the railing. “What can I say? Everyone's gone, Samara,” Miranda admitted, finally acknowledging it out loud. As much as she wanted to pretend the Normandy SR-3 was still out there somewhere, they would have heard from them by now if it was. Besides, finding Javik and Ashley had all but sealed it. She wasn't an idiot. She couldn't deny it forever. “Everyone's gone.”

“Not everyone,” Samara quietly replied, holding her gaze. “Not you.”

“I came pretty close,” Miranda murmured. The fact that she had lived where others died had been circling through her mind a lot lately, whether she wanted it to or not. Her survival in the war had come down to mere millimetres. If the bullet that hit her in the eye penetrated just a little deeper. If the red glare of the Reaper had moved just one degree counter-clockwise. If she’d landed on her neck when the shuttle crashed. If the infection had spread just a little further. If Samara had found her just a little later.

The truth was, Miranda hadn’t earned the right to be there in that moment anymore than the people who had perished. She didn’t deserve to live anymore than those who died. It had all come down to chance. Well, chance and genetic engineering, neither of which were her own doing. It was hard to feel like anything other than a thief, in a way - like, by avoiding what should have been certain death, she’d stolen time from others that didn’t truly belong to her.

“I keep thinking…” Miranda began, almost unconsciously seeking to give voice to thoughts she had never spoken aloud. She caught herself, hesitating, wondering whether it was too much to worry Samara with her morbid musings.

But, then, this was Samara. The one person she’d always been able to talk to honestly about anything. The person she’d opened up to about things she’d never told anyone else. The person who knew sides of her that nobody else knew, and probably never would. Not even Oriana.

She swallowed, and decided to continue.

“I keep thinking that I should be able to take the way I feel about losing everyone and channel it into...I don’t know, something fucking productive,” Miranda said, audibly frustrated with herself. “But there’s just...nothing. Nothing good is coming from this. There’s nothing I can do. And I can’t even see what it was all for. Did any of their deaths really matter? Did any of them truly die in a way that was ‘worth it’? Or is that just a comforting lie we tell ourselves?”

Samara considered her words for a long moment before breaking the silence.

“May I be honest with you?” Samara asked.

“Have you ever not been?” Miranda remarked in response. Samara didn’t reply to that. Assuming she was still waiting for her permission, Miranda eventually signalled for her to go ahead. After a few more seconds, Samara began to speak.

“In my own experience, the notion that grief can be transformed into something else - something that motivates you and drives you...that is a flagrant lie. It never happens,” Samara stated starkly. “Anger at losing someone, perhaps. A sense of injustice. Your love for that person. Even regret. But not grief. Even if channelled through some outlet, grief is never transformed into anything else. It remains as it is. An emptiness. A heavy hollowness. A missing piece that can never be replaced. A hole that never goes away, and never fully heals,” Samara spoke solemnly, her words carrying the weight of a long and painful life.

When Miranda looked at her then, she lost any semblance of the words she intended to say. In that achingly raw, real and honest moment, it was as if she was seeing Samara for the very first time. The warmth she felt from Samara’s proximity grew so hot that it began to burn. Everywhere that heat touched set Miranda's nerves on fire. Suddenly, it took great effort even to breathe.

Standing there in Samara's striking aura, it was as if that numbing sensation Miranda had carried with her recently - that diminishment - was not only stripped away, but flipped to its inverse. It was as if the world around her had never been so intensely tangible and corporeal as it was in that instant. Like she had never seen the colours and textures around her in such vivid detail. Like she was hearing sound at frequencies beyond the audible human range. Like she could feel the contours of every single atom and molecule beneath her fingertips.

And all because, for seemingly no reason at all, she had looked at Samara in a whole new light. Let her eye fall upon her in a way it had never gazed upon her before. And, now that she had, she was totally and utterly mesmerised by her.

“Forgive me,” Samara broke the silence.

Miranda shook her head, rattled by her thoughts and...whatever the hell it was about Samara in that moment that had left her temporarily spellbound. “What?”

“I know my words were not comforting,” Samara admitted. “For that, I apologise.”

“Oh.” A small smile crossed Miranda’s lips as she tried to hastily forget what had just happened and jump back onto the original train of the conversation, ignoring the flush of heat coursing through her veins. “No, actually. I’m glad you said it,” she quietly confessed. “In a weird way, it’s the first thing anybody’s said that’s made what I’ve been going through lately seem...normal.”

“It is. Whatever you are feeling, it is. There is no correct way to grieve,” Samara assured her. And she would know. “It may be futile to ask this of you, but please be gentler to yourself. Knowing you as I do, I have no doubt that you are doing the best you can given the circumstances. That is all anyone can ask of you.”

“Thank you,” said Miranda, not sure why she felt so on edge all of a sudden. She was never nervous around Samara. Or around anyone, for that matter. “Sorry for rambling at you about this. Ugh. I’m thirty-six years old and I sound like a child experiencing loss for the first time.”

“I did not lose anyone I truly cared about until I was over four hundred years old. When my mother died. So you are far ahead of me, if that is the measure,” Samara responded, putting matters into perspective. “Would that you were not. Inevitable though it may be, I would not wish loss upon anyone.”

Miranda swallowed heavily, keeping her gaze fixed on her fingers for a moment. She wasn’t sure how to respond to that. For a moment, she wasn’t sure if she remembered how to speak like a normal human person at all. What the hell was wrong with her all of a sudden? Why was she acting like this?

This was Samara. Samara. The one person she felt truly comfortable around, even at her very worst. So why did it feel like her skin could just jump clean off her body at any moment? Why did she already feel so naked and exposed?

“Jacob must have pointed you in my direction. He isn't joining us?” asked Miranda, electing to move to a lighter topic of conversation. Whatever was going on, she could at least have the decency to not let it affect her, or how she acted.

“I extended the offer, but he declined. He said he wished to respect our space and give us some time to speak privately, but I believe he finds the prospect of the two of us in each other's company rather disconcerting,” Samara answered. Her expression was always calm, collected and difficult to read, but Miranda interpreted that look as vague amusement.

“Sounds like him,” Miranda replied. Jacob may have been about the closest thing she’d ever had to a conventional best friend, but they were very different people. It made them a good team, but they also frustrated each other to no end at times.

“Whatever his reasons may have been, I am grateful for it,” Samara admitted, a fondness in her tone. So was Miranda. It gave them the chance to be alone, like they used to be. She'd missed that. Evidently, she wasn't the only one. “He also informed me that you contacted Falere on my behalf,” Samara continued, catching Miranda's eye. “I thank you.”

“I wouldn't have had to if you had just contacted her yourself,” Miranda pointed out. Sure, Samara had her Code to explain her actions, but in all seriousness at times it seemed more like a convenient justification for Samara's evasiveness than the definitive cause of it. Unless the Code had some rules against calls, texts and emails that Miranda didn’t know about.

Come to think of it, Samara’s disappearing act reminded Miranda of herself when she'd been on the run from Cerberus more than anything else.

“She’s probably still waiting to hear from you,” said Miranda, quietly searching for cues in Samara's unyielding exterior that would signal her intentions. “If you wanted to write to her, or even call her, I could easily arrange it,” she pointed out, subtly urging her to follow her heart and make contact with Falere, much as Shepard had done for Miranda when she'd rescued Oriana on Illium.

Samara bowed her head slightly, a momentary flash of sorrow creeping into her expression. “In time,” was all she said.

Miranda understood that sentiment. Or at least she thought she did. Their circumstances weren't entirely dissimilar. Both of them had only just reclaimed those relationships once thought lost forever; a chance at a new start with the one person they loved most. And self-deceit was the only thing keeping it from sinking in that it was entirely plausible that they might never be reunited. In spite of everything they'd fought for, in spite of outlasting all the odds, in spite of snatching victory from the jaws of defeat and saving the galaxy from annihilation, the one thing that they had nearly given their lives to protect might still be denied to them.

Their family.

If it weren't for the fact that Miranda refused to accept that possibility, it would have broken her heart. Never holding Oriana again. Never having that life together she'd worked so hard to make possible. Losing her would have drained her of everything she lived for.

So, yes, unless she was missing some important piece of the puzzle, Miranda knew all too well what Samara was feeling, and why talking to Falere was touching on too many raw, tumultuous emotions at that moment in time.

“Oh. I almost forgot,” Samara rather abruptly broke the silence, calling Miranda out of her thoughts. Samara extended her hand, holding out a small keychain shaped like Blasto the Hanar Spectre. “I promised to return this to you when next we met.”

Recognising it, Miranda couldn’t help but laugh. She’d completely forgotten about that before now. It was a cheap trinket she’d won at the arcade the last time she and Samara were on the Citadel together, when Shepard threw that party. That felt like a lifetime ago, even though it had only been three months.

“You do know that was a gift, right?” Miranda said through a chuckle.

Samara blinked, hesitant. “Justicars--”

“Eschew personal possessions. I know,” Miranda finished before Samara could. It was exactly what she’d told Miranda when she had first offered it to her. She thought they had resolved this dilemma the first time they had this conversation. “If your tenets require me to say that it’s still technically mine, then fine. It’s mine. But I insist that you hang onto it for me indefinitely. Does that work?”

“It…” Samara paused, evidently more than a little torn on the matter. Miranda would never understand how something so insignificant could be a breach of her Code. But, on the other hand, Miranda couldn’t fault Samara’s tireless dedication to her discipline. She didn’t cut corners. She didn’t cheat. She was who she was - what she had sworn to be. And that was nothing if not deeply admirable. “...I suppose that would be acceptable,” Samara eventually answered, with some slight hesitation, running her thumb over the keychain.

“I mean, unless you hate carrying that stupid thing around,” Miranda added offhandedly. She hadn’t considered that possibility.

“No,” Samara hastily assured her, not wishing to create that impression. “Of course I do not.”

Miranda couldn’t help but muster a smile at that response. Honestly, it was kind of incredible how a woman who was nearly a thousand years old, and who had experienced so much, could still have the capacity to demonstrate such pure, unfeigned innocence and earnestness. It wasn’t often that it showed, but Miranda had always liked that about Samara whenever it did.

“Then, please, keep it. Do this, in memory of when I still had both halves of my face,” Miranda remarked, mock-crossing herself, as if giving Samara her blessing. Samara stared at her blankly, caught in momentary shock. Miranda didn’t take long to realise why. “...Sorry. I forget you’re not used to seeing me like this. It’s fine. I’m in the ‘joking about it’ stage. Have been for a while, actually. You don’t need to…feel awkward about it.”

“No!” Samara interjected again, a little more urgently than the last time, loath to think that she had inadvertently hurt Miranda’s feelings, or made her self-conscious about her injuries. “That is not what…” Samara trailed off, pressing her hand to her forehead in annoyance at herself. “Forgive me. It appears that in this moment I can neither speak nor stay silent without making a fool of myself.”

“You could never appear foolish to me, Samara,” Miranda reassured her, speaking from the heart, so there could be no doubt she meant it.

Samara softened at that, glancing down at the trinket in her palm once more. “...I should not say it, but...in truth, this came to mean a great deal to me,” Samara quietly admitted, earning a raised eyebrow from Miranda. “Because you gave it to me,” Samara explained at her inquiring look. Miranda felt her pulse quicken at those words, the heat suddenly rushing to her cheeks. “It was all I had to remind me of you, when I did not know whether or not you would…”

Miranda couldn’t speak. Her mouth had gone dry. And her throat felt so tight all of a sudden. She had to turn away and cough to clear it.

Fortunately, Samara spoke again before she had to. “You are right. I will keep it. Even if it belongs to you, there is no reason I cannot carry this, if you wish it,” said Samara, mustering a smile as she closed her fingers around the keychain.

“Great. It’ll be our secret,” Miranda replied in a concerted effort to act normal despite feeling anything but, holding a finger to her lips.

Wait a second. Did her voice have a tremor in it, all of a sudden? God, she hoped not. What if Samara heard that? What on Earth was this? Was she sick or something and didn’t know it? Was that why she felt so off-kilter?

“Before either of us get carried away, I must let you know that my stay here will be short,” Samara rather sombrely confessed, aware it was not something Miranda would want to hear. “I do not wish to mislead you into believing otherwise.”

“You didn't; I suspected as much,” said Miranda. She would have been lying if she said it wasn’t disappointing. But at least she’d gotten to talk to her this time before Samara set off again, resuming her ceaseless quest to bring justice to the galaxy. That brought some amount of closure, if nothing else. “Where will you go? Come to think of it, where have you been?”

“Many places. Forgive me, I am not familiar with Earth's regions,” said Samara, powering up the omni-tool on her hand. “I have, however, found it helpful over my years to maintain a record of all my travels. You may be surprised how often it is necessary to know these things, and how easily one forgets,” she remarked with a small quirk of her lips that almost resembled a smirk, activating a holographic map that documented her travels.

“You're kidding.” Miranda stumbled backwards when the incalculably dense web of destinations formed over the hologram of Earth in front of her, her bad leg nearly giving out under her weight before she remembered to grab the railing to keep herself steady. “I'll be damned. You really did get the grand tour,” she commented, genuinely awed by how she'd managed to go literally all the way around the world in under three months. “How did you get to Dunedin?”

“On a ship, from the North Island of New Zealand,” Samara answered, her literalism containing no traces of irony. Miranda suspected Samara knew what she had meant, but was using that sneaky deadpan delivery of hers to play coy. 

“Keep saving those frequent flier miles and you could get back to Thessia at this rate,” Miranda offhandedly remarked. Samara gave her a slightly odd look.

If the Earth could have opened up and swallowed Miranda whole in that moment, she would have let it.

Miranda shook her head in embarrassment, regretting that stupid comment as soon as she had said it. Why did she try to be funny when she wasn’t? “Please remind me never to attempt to make jokes again. That was horrendous.” 

“It is quite alright,” Samara assured her, appreciating the intention, if nothing else. “It is good that you have maintained a sense of humour in these troubled times.”

“I...don't have one. Never have, never will,” Miranda awkwardly replied, letting go of her cane long enough to rub her neck. “But thank you for your tolerance.”

She couldn’t isolate what it was that was making her so anxious around Samara. This was the exact opposite of what it was ordinarily like - usually it put her so at ease just to be in her vicinity. Now, the mere act of existing in Samara’s proximity made her feel like she was tapdancing on hot coals, and they weren’t even standing that close. Inexplicable waves of heightened energy surged through her nervous system every time it felt like Samara shifted a little nearer. It made her heart race just to hear her voice, and to let each word she spoke wash over her.

Why was she feeling this way? What was she feeling?

Why hadn’t it gone away yet?

“For the most part, I have not found it difficult to acquire travel,” Samara explained. “I have found most people quite accommodating in light of these dark and troubled times. They do say adversity breeds camaraderie. And it would seem that quality is uniquely commonplace among your kind,” she said plainly, having developed a great affinity for the human species as a whole.

“Would it dim your view of humanity if I pointed out the locations where I think the Reapers' invasion actually caused several billion credits of improvement?” Miranda asked, hopeful that her dark quip would land that time. Perhaps she was imagining things, but she was pretty sure Samara cracked a smile at her dry remark, recognising the gallows' humour for what it was. Most of Samara’s facial expressions were extremely subtle at the best of times, though.

“The work you have done here is good,” Samara told her, looking out over the slowly recovering city once more. “Your ability and intellect have always been remarkable. Now that you have applied them to a more worthy cause than Cerberus, what you have accomplished is truly admirable,” she said, approving of Miranda's new direction in life. It pleased her to see she had found a path that seemed unlikely to ever put her in conflict with the Code.

“Yes. That's all true,” Miranda matter-of-factly replied, resting her hand on her cane once again. What could she say? Feigned humility had never suited her. “But I could always use help,” she said sincerely. “I could also use a friend. Are you sure I can't persuade you to stick around longer?”

They both knew the answer to that question already. But every part of Miranda really wanted to deny it.

“You cannot, though it is not for anything you lack. Quite the opposite,” Samara replied, earning a wrinkled brow. “Other cities on Earth do not have the benefit of your leadership and oversight. Any contributions I can provide will be limited here. My Code compels me to look for where aid is most needed.”

“...I see,” said Miranda. That explanation was fair enough, she supposed. So why did the thought of Samara's absence leave her feeling so hollow? Why did the thought of Samara going away again make her heart feel like it was contorting into a knot inside her chest? Why did it hurt so badly?

“We will have many chances to speak again before I depart. That would...” Samara paused, internally dismissing whatever she had been about to say. “For now, I fear I have lingered too long unannounced, and taken enough of your time. I can see you are responsible for many others. I would not keep you from it.”

For a split second, something surged inside Miranda – an intense emotional need she couldn't describe. But that ache in her heart couldn't go unspoken. She reached out to touch Samara's hand, covering it where it rested on the balcony, letting her cane fall from her grasp and clatter to the floor at her feet.

“Stay?” The word was softly spoken, a question that carried with it uncharacteristic vulnerability. “Please?” Miranda implored her.

“For how long?” Samara sought clarification, evidently unsure how to decipher Miranda's odd request. “Are you certain I would not be imposing?”

Miranda uttered something that amounted to a short, heavy-hearted laugh. “You know what I mean,” she said. She wasn’t talking about today. She wasn't asking for a few more hours, or even a few more days.

She didn’t want an end date at all.

Samara gazed at her for a long moment, her reserved expression as always difficult to decipher. Whatever her thoughts were, her features did not readily betray them. Miranda didn't know whether she gave the matter any consideration, or if her answer was already as clear as every rational part of her assumed it was. However, maybe it was just an illusion or a trick of the mind but...for a split-second, Miranda was sure that Samara looked conflicted. Even torn.

Samara withdrew her hand. With scarcely more than a thought, she drew Miranda's cane towards herself using her biotics, and extended it to Miranda.

“We each have a role to play in the aftermath of this war. These duties cannot be forsaken,” Samara spoke calmly, placing the walking stick in Miranda's grasp once more, and enclosing her palm around it. With her other hand, she reached out to cup Miranda's cheek, fingers softly brushing the scarred skin beneath her eye-patch. Miranda's breath caught at the contact. It was all she could do not to tremble beneath her touch as a tingling sensation flooded from Samara’s fingertips out to seemingly every single cell inside her body. “It grieves me that our paths do not align. Perhaps that will change in time.”

“...It's okay.” Miranda averted her gaze, willing her voice not to shake under Samara's gentle caress, unable to meet her stare, scarcely able to breathe. She knew little of what Samara's Code entailed, but still she regretted asking her to do something that would require deviating from it. That had been unworthy of her. Even if the non-Justicar part of Samara may have wanted to stay, what place of it was Miranda’s to put her in that difficult position? To ask her to turn away from her vows? “You don't need to explain. I understand responsibility better than most. However, I would like it if I saw you again sooner this time. Or if we stayed in touch while you were away,” she admitted, allowing herself that much.

Samara let her touch linger, grazing Miranda's damaged skin with such gentleness, never once breaking eye contact with her, even if it wasn’t returned. “As would I.”

Much as Miranda might have wanted to, she didn’t dare lift her head. Wasn’t sure she could handle it if she did. It felt like her entire being was disassembling under Samara’s fingertips. And, if Samara couldn’t feel her quivering, then it was a fucking miracle. Her heart was pounding like a drum, and her palm began to perspire against her cane, where it was covered beneath Samara’s left hand.

It wasn’t lost on Miranda that neither of them were the type of people who were entirely comfortable or natural around others. Even small gestures of physical affection were largely alien. They had never so much as hugged each other. A touch of hands here or there was the most they had ever...but that didn’t explain it either. Miranda hadn’t felt anything close to this the last time Samara gently clasped her hand. She’d never reacted this way around her before, or anyone.

Miranda had never felt anything remotely like this before. Ever.

What did it mean?

Miranda had to recoil from her touch just so she could breathe again. Samara didn't resist, nor seem offended, letting her hand fall from Miranda's cheek. “You take care of yourself out there, okay?” said Miranda, keeping her eye fixed anywhere but Samara, because she knew damn well by that point that she wouldn’t be able to control whatever it elicited in her to look at her in that moment. “And don't leave without saying goodbye this time.”

“I will try, on both accounts,” Samara replied, promising that much. “Farewell, Miranda.” Miranda didn't try to stop her, though she wasn't oblivious to the tension in her body as Samara passed her. The air had never felt so dense.

Miranda could feel from the sudden chill that filled the atmosphere in her absence that Samara had left, and only then did she dare to confirm it with a glance upwards, her gaze met by empty space where once she had stood.

Alone, Miranda finally released a deep exhale, that bizarre energy that had built up inside her at long last finding the space to wane, and subside, and work its way out of her, at least in part. She didn’t know how long she would need to linger out there to compose herself, but she felt no urge to hurry inside, despite the autumn air feeling bitterly cold having lost Samara’s warmth.

She didn’t even know where to start to untangle that messy jumble of unlabelled sensations and ambiguous emotions whose echoes still lingered inside her chest. She held her hand up to eye level and, sure enough, it was shaking. She clenched her fingers into a fist, which made that stop, at least.

She leaned against the railing and let her head fall into her hand. Miranda may have been comparatively unskilled when it came to deciphering even her own emotions, but she also wasn’t completely dimwitted, nor was she naïve. And the longer she stood out there, the more one possible answer for these nameless feelings began to emerge from recesses of her mind as the most obvious fit.

The thing was, she didn’t want that to be the answer. She wasn’t sure it made sense, or if it was even possible for her. And, if it was, then she had even bigger problems than she could have imagined. Because it could ruin everything.

Miranda’s hearing wasn’t quite good enough since the shuttle crash to notice the door sliding open behind her.

“So, Miss,” Seanne was the first of the students to ask, peering around the door to the balcony at the subtle urging of her brother. “Who was that?”

“A friend,” Miranda replied, staring out at the city, unmoving.

“A girlfriend?” Rodriguez said with a smirk.

“A friend,” Miranda repeated without inflection, as if reminding herself to remember that. Convincing herself not to dare begin to think otherwise.

“It's alright if she’s more than that,” Reiley teased. “Or if you've got a thing with Mr. Taylor. You can tell us, you know,” he prompted, grinning.

Miranda turned and arched her brow at them. “Have you got nothing better to do than gossip about my personal life?” she wondered aloud, beginning to understand the meaning of the old adage 'idle hands do the devil's work'.

“No. We really don't, no,” the group cheekily replied, happily falling back into the habit of having fun at the expense of their guardian now that it (hopefully) seemed like things were improving for her. With that, they closed the door and went back to report on her response to the others.

Miranda didn’t join them. Jack’s students were right, in a way, if they thought they’d perceived a sudden change in her mental state. For the first time in two weeks, Miranda wasn't being haunted by the dark spectre of death.

The problem was that now the only thing she could think about was Samara. And, the more she tried to reason herself into denying it, the louder that one increasingly isolated answer grew as it kept circling in her mind.

Somehow, someway, somewhere between all that time they’d spent together on the Normandy, and seeing Samara standing on that balcony again, and she didn’t know exactly when, where, why, or how it could possibly be true, but...

She’d fallen for Samara, hadn’t she?

She’d fallen for a woman she knew damn well could never love her back.

*    *    *

[kylorengarbagedump]

Little Bird: Chapter 34 (NSFW)

Read on AO3. Part 33 here. Part 35 here.

Summary: A graveyard is a good place to bury all kinds of things.

Words: 5200

Warnings: inappropriate cemetery conduct

Characters: Kylo Ren x Handmaid!Reader

A/N: me, publishing last chapter: haha wait until they fuck on the graves, people will be--

everyone in the comments: ARE THEY GONNA FUCK IN THE CEMETERY

(DO I HAVE A FUCKING BRAND? I hate myself LMFAO)

Anyway, I hope y'all enjoyed this chapter--it was like pulling teeth to write, and I had to re-do it like three times. Thanks very much to @thetorturerwrites for assistance! I'm still very much loving this story, loving y'all's feedback, loving your thoughts. Hopefully you don't hate me too much for the ending of this chapter. Oopsie!! Love y'all so much. BE SAFE. <3

Beds of clovers blanketed the abandoned parking lot, pavement cracking and parting to the encroaching wilderness beyond, green valleys drowned in the sheets of rain. The Audi whirred in frustration, then stopped, wheels sloshing the muddied ground. Kylo Ren exited and stepped into the downpour without an umbrella--or really anything else that might protect him from getting absolutely soaked--while you readjusted your bonnet and flipped up the hood on the coat he’d given you.

By the time you’d managed to clamber out of the car, he’d already started down a grass-eaten pathway, long strides cutting a straight line off the winding concrete walk. You scampered to catch up with him, water pelting your face and splashing your boots--you called after him, but he either failed to hear you, or simply didn’t care. 

As he crossed into the cemetery proper, you passed entire yards decorated with forgotten graves--in the ground, you imagined the skeletons, filthy with dirt, nameless and faceless and truly dead, their identities known only to memories razed by the ravages of time. Tall oaks and maples stretched into the sky, their trunks smothered with overgrowth, some of them swallowed to the branches. Within them, you spied evidence of life--stick nests, a family of ravens sheltered from the storm under ceilings of vines. And then, further into the cemetery, a bird strangled in a mass of these same vines, wings quartered and neck snapped. 

You followed him into a clearing, plumes of wildflowers burgeoning through a white brick path that meandered to a marble slab only slightly shorter than Kylo himself. At each side of the slab, a raised black granite tomb, plantlife weaving to obscure the ledgers. Beyond that, a grass ocean billowed into a valley, rolling to the edge of a forest, all of it waving in the storm winds. Lightning bleached the sky, and you squealed, folding your arms over your chest.

Kylo stopped before the feet of the tombs, staring. Rivers raced ridges into his hair and over his cheeks, dripped down his long nose, his eyes pooled with vacancy, clear and empty and absent of anything you had the ability to name.

“You wanted to know what made me,” he said. “Ask the right questions. I’ll tell you.” Thunder groaned, miles away. 

“Okay,” you said, squinting at him. “Where are we?” 

He exhaled through his nose. “My parents’ graves.”

A curtain of rain swept the air, and you glanced between him and the graves before crossing to the slab, tearing through the slippery leaves. The stems were coiled tight around one another, but a sharp tug, and they ripped to the side, revealing the engraved dedication in large, block letters. 

Organa. 

Frowning, you glanced at him for a moment; he stood, still blank, failing to offer even the slightest acknowledgement of your presence. You sighed. The name Organa was familiar, but you’d only ever known it in connection with a late senator. To your surprise, as you tugged more, you saw her name: Leia Organa. One of the tombs belonged to her--and listed underneath her, the owner of the other tomb: Han Solo.

Breath evaporated, the pieces colliding like atoms, sparking light. You blinked, tracing the names with your fingertips as water creeked through the indentation. All he had said was what made me. But to know him--this mystery, in some moments more monster than man, and in others more hallowed than human--saddled you with more confusion than ever. This was a non-answer, a presentation in lieu of conversation. 

You turned, brow raised. “I don’t understand.”

“You don’t.”

“Why did you take me here?”

His jaw tensed. “They are,” he said, voice stark in the storm, “what made me.”

More lightning, and you jumped, cursing yourself internally. You couldn’t reconcile the restrained, adjusted grandeur displayed at this gravesite with the person at its border. You knew enough about politics before Gilead to understand that a senator’s son was someone ostensibly raised in a home of democracy. Yet this man was one forged in war.

This man, the one who had helped craft and arrange the society that controlled your life, the one who had taken and destroyed any hint of hope in your life barring him--this was a man raised with values of freedom, of self-reliance? In this moment, his flickers of tenderness didn’t matter; they were snuffed in the shadows of your dependence. Kylo Ren, regardless of his rebellion, afforded you only what he determined was necessary. It was only by his grace you were out of your red dress, only by his allowance you’d known any level of escape. 

Your enslavement was as it had always been--it’d only changed, you realized, in its terms.

“That doesn’t really answer my question,” you grumbled.

“Then you haven’t asked the right question, little bird.” His tone was chiding, but his face was blank.

“Wasn’t your mother a senator? Or something?” It was difficult to remember--it had been years ago. “Didn’t she campaign for civil rights?”

“She did.”

“Wasn’t she well-liked? Popular with her constituents?”

“She was.”

This game was wearing on you--but he was right. You hadn’t asked any right questions. “But… you helped create Gilead.” You swallowed. “You talk about destiny and roles and…” You shook your head. “You’re still a Commander.” 

Kylo Ren blinked, unfazed by the rain. 

“What happened?” you asked. “Did she do something wrong?”

“She feared what she didn’t know.” His voice was dry. “She abandoned what she didn’t understand.” 

“I…” That had disarmed you. But it wasn’t an explanation. “What didn’t she know?” you asked. “What didn’t she understand?”

Darkness flashed across his face. “Everything.”

The crack in his facade spurred you. “But she was your mother.” You were testing him, watching his reaction. “Didn’t she try?”

“Trying would imply she had direction.” His stare sank into you, fangs at your flesh. “She was lost.”

You raised a brow. “Lost.” There was a dropping dread that he was leading you toward a conclusion that would result in you forever seeking his permission for your humanity. You wouldn’t let him off so easily. “She hurt you.”

It was, technically, a question, in guise of a statement. But Kylo was silent. His eye twitched. It stoked hunger inside of you, a craving for his vulnerability.

“But that doesn’t make you right.” You gestured toward the graves. “Just because you were hurt doesn’t mean that someone like her raises...” You cleared your throat, swallowed. “Raises someone like you.” 

A bolt snapped, blanched him in light. “Someone like me.” 

You met his gaze; those pools were churning, now, deep below their shared surface--an ancient beast submerged in forced indifference, daring you to speak it into existence, goading you to give it a name.

“Yes.” You shivered. “A murderer. An owner of another human being.”

The sky quaked. Over his shoulders, a bird flock fled the trees. Kylo advanced, irises burning with something like anger, distant and buried, his teeth grit. Your fingers found purchase in the vines--you anchored yourself to them.

“Do you have questions,” he asked, “or observations?”

Your jaw tightened. “I have a question.”

“Then ask.”

“Okay.” You squared your shoulders. “How did they make you?”

Kylo stared--more lightning--illuminating the terrible void in his eyes. His shoulders fell, face sharpening in self-assured stoicism. “In the same way that a neglected grave grows weeds.”

You blinked, tilting your head. “You’re the grave.”

“No.” His gaze simmered as it met yours. “I’m the weed.”

“What?” you asked. “How are you the weed?”

“It’s as I’ve explained.” Kylo sniffed, returned his attention to the tomb. “I had no choice.”

“But how did you have no choice?”

“There were no other options.” His lids fluttered, thunder cracked. He stared at the ledger, following the twisted clot of leaves that shrouded the inscription on the granite. His tone was frozen steel. “They gave me no choice.”

Your fingers curled around wet stems, and you swallowed. The conversation you’d had in his den floated through your mind--it feels like I’m dying, like I don’t even have a choice. In his mind, they’d been killing him. Anxiety clenched your chest.

“Kylo, you’re not making any sense.” 

“Very few things made sense,” he said. “The world required order. I found truth. Truth they disagreed with.” For a moment, his expression etched in despair and exhaustion--the sky blinked, and it was gone. “Ask me how they died.”

“How did they…”  

You paused, looked at him. It had been big news--they were shot in their home. You gulped. A terrible, black-ink reality crept into your gut. The gunman was never found.

Hands trembling, you spun, yanking the vines to the side, exposing the dates. Both of them, deceased on November 18th, 1979. The date was too familiar--the day of the recording. The day Ben Solo signed his commitment to the foundation of Gilead. Your heart seized, throat closed, and you turned, dragging your gaze along the ground, traveling up his figure, resting on his face.

Kylo Ren’s eyes were obsidian, brittle-edged and fragile to fracture. You struggled to breathe, wanting to ask how, ask why--knowing that, in his way, he’d already given you the answer.

To any garden, a weed was an invader, gnarling through the dirt and choking eager life, sapping it of space--without intervention, an untamed weed consumed its home, ate its brethren, dominated to meet its needs. They were not like so many flowers, tended to with gentle hands, encouraged to flourish and blossom in their beds. No, weeds existed in the realm of burden, forever unwanted, accepted only to be controlled or destroyed. A weed could only be afforded the privilege to exist if it left the perimeter of the garden, renounced its birthplace, and decided, with defiance, to live. 

You pulled the coat tight around you, folded your arms. “Did they deserve it?”

The obsidian sharpened under your stare. And he swallowed. “No.”

Nervous heat rushed your skin. “You know that this isn’t truth. This isn’t right.”

Kylo reached beyond you, plucked a leaf from the vine. “I brought you here so you would understand,” he said. “There is value in knowing and realizing your purpose. In knowing your role. Inherent and unalterable.” He crumpled the leaf in his fist. “Without Gilead, purpose and meaning are lost. My parents failed to realize their purpose, and the world suffered. You’ll realize yours.” Tossing the debris to the side, he fixated on you again, his hair sticking like black thread to his face. “I’ll realize mine.”

Lightning split the sky. This hadn’t been a pilgrimage, it had been a proselytization. In his desire to grasp at meaning, he’d attempted to convince you of it, too. Yet by now, you could see, see his doubts plaguing him, deep currents in his mind--could see that in convincing you, he’d wanted, too, to convince himself, that he was born demonic, abandoned to Hell in the depths of destiny. But you knew better. You knew him.

Scanning you, he turned down the brick path. “Come.”

“What is my purpose, Kylo?”

He froze mid-step, a statue in the rain. Water whispered, then howled, a susurrus in crescendo, punctuated by a sharp, static crack in the sky. You squeaked; Kylo peered at you from over his shoulder, and even through the storm, you saw it. He was your reflection again, an augmented refraction--if you were afraid, then he was terrified.

“What’s my purpose?” you repeated, stepping toward him. “Don’t you know?” 

He didn’t speak, and didn’t move. You took another step, and another, passing like a ghost under the veil of rain. Kylo watched you, obsidian strained to splinter.

“You can't answer because you know you're wrong.” You wanted to stare into him, stare through him. “You know there's something more to this life, that we have options, we have choices--”

He shifted, and took the tiniest, most egregious step back. “We don’t.”

“We do,” you said. “But you can’t admit it because you can’t admit that you chose all of this!”

“I didn’t.”

“You did!” You were an arm’s length from him. He didn’t move. “You chose your name, you chose your path, you chose this life--and you chose mine, too.” Another step, close enough to count the constellations on his face. “But it doesn’t have to be like this. You can be whoever you want to be.” As if possessed by its own destiny, your hand rose, grazed his fingers, your grip slippery and warm--he trembled when you held him. “You can… you can be Ben--”

Sneering, he jerked back. “No.”

You shook your head, reaching for him again. “But I want to know him.”

“Why?” His pupils were shadowed in waterfalls.

“Because,” you said, “that’s who you are--”

“It’s not.”

“It is,” you said, grabbing his hand, “I want to know him, I want to know Ben Solo--”

Kylo snarled, wrung you away. “Why do you insist on raising the dead?” He loomed--you retreated, and he chased you back, spitting through his teeth. “There is no Ben Solo!”

“But that’s your name--”

“My name is mine to give! Not yours to know!” His face was aflame with fury. “You want Ben Solo to free you--Ben Solo was the coward. Ben Solo killed his parents.” He drew closer, pressing you back with every step. “I saved you. I carried you.” His lips twisted in a mirthless smirk. “I fucked you.” Kylo had your back flat to the slab now, obsidian shattered in the throes of his wrath. “You don’t know Ben Solo. You know me.” He caged you underneath him, a black sun burning heat and gravity between your bodies. “You know what made me, little bird,” he muttered, a delicious threat. “Are you afraid?”

In the summer storm air, he sweltered you, so hot that when your wet gown glued to your back, you had no way to know if it was sweat or rain. His focus flicked between your mouth, your eyes, your mouth, and he leaned closer, framing you between his forearms, his breath scant. You stared at him--your devil, your echo, your enigma--and knew, despite all of his impossible complexities, you would never, ever be afraid.

Jaw steeled, you pushed off your hood, snatched your bonnet, tossed it to the ground. Lightning streaked and pealed with thunder. You didn’t even flinch.

“No, Kylo,” you breathed. “I’m not.”

You licked your lips, exhaled. And his mouth was on you.

Kylo Ren’s kiss was a slippery bruise, melding madness at your skin, tongue driving into you while he inhaled through his nose. You met him, movement for movement, groaning against him, fingers folding into his hair, thumbs tracing the tops of his ears, and he gasped along your lips before capturing them again, snatching your wrists and pinning them with one large hand above your head. Arousal sparkled in your belly--you wriggled in his grip, offering a needy roll of your hips before swirling your tongue around his. His hold on your wrists tightened, and he pinned you to the stone, grinding his growing desire into the apex of your thighs.

You throbbed, a full-body pulse, humming into him with a shudder. Kylo nipped your lower lip and slid to your chin, following the streams on your skin as he pressed clumsy, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, falling to suck and nibble at your heartbeat. Whimpering, you nuzzled your head into his, and he responded with a sharp bite to your neck, barely-restrained, earning a squeal from your throat.

“Are you sure you’re not afraid?” he murmured into your ear. “Do you think you can handle me?”

Lust seared you like fire. You smirked. “Try me.”

Kylo growled, wresting you from the stone by your arms and guiding you back until you toppled onto one of the vine-encrusted tombs. He was greed incarnate, tearing your coat from your shoulders before he grappled the neckline of your nightgown and shredded the buttons apart. Your cunt clenched, lungs stalled--he kissed you again, big hands groping at your tits while he pushed you flat along the grave, crawling over until he straddled you, a beast bent over his meal.

Rain bathed you both, rivers roaming over your curves, white cloth of your bra a dewy illusion over your breasts. His thumbs skimmed your nipples with prickles of pleasure, and you moaned, shoving your hands under his shirt, reveling in the hard planes of his body--he tensed,  moving back to your neck, sucking at your throat. You memorized the muscle under your fingertips, Kylo’s skin damp and hot under your hands, and he was voracious, without restraint, pulling painful hickeys from your pulse. 

Need burned between your thighs, and he shifted lower, marking you in abandon, drawing tissue between his teeth, welts popping to life under the pressure of his lips. Anxiety flitted through your mind--he was leaving visible evidence--but the soft groan from his chest wiped it clean, your back arching to offer more of your untamed flesh. Grateful, he bit at the swell of your tits, crimson crescents blooming, and his hands hiked up your skirt, tugging at your underwear as he laved at your nipple through your bra, scraping it with his teeth through the fabric. You squealed, squirming, and he yanked the garment free, leaving your sex aching from exposure.

Kylo fumbled at your folds, two thick fingers peeling you open, assessing your slickness, teasing your entrance. “So wet already,” he said and clucked his tongue. “And in a cemetery. You’d take my cock whenever I wanted, wouldn’t you?”

You bit your lip, trying to rub against his hand. “As if you aren’t ready to fuck me on your mother’s grave.”

He snickered. “You’re wrong.” He leaned to your ear, thumb skating your clit--you gasped. “It’s my father’s.”

Kylo pushed into you, and you tightened around him, hips twitching, head lolling along the leaves. His mouth ravished you again, leaving purple pebbles in its wake while he claimed you from chin to clavicle, spit and storm and sweat blending on his tongue. Scissoring you open, he rolled your stiff clit, rocking his wrist, curling and working your walls, his other hand palming at his erection in an attempt to pacify himself. You bucked your hips, a shivering moan escaping, and he cursed, slamming in to the knuckle.

“If I fuck you now,” he muttered at your jawline, “you’ll have to take all of me. Everything I give you.” He bit your neck, hard, forcing a cry from your lips. “I won’t be able to control myself.”

Heat scorched you, and you pulsed around him in anticipation, his fingers crooking in your wet core. Thunder grumbled in the distance. “Thought I’d long proved my capability.”

Kylo purred, and bit you again, pain shooting through you. “I haven’t been able to fuck you properly in over two weeks.” Last night hardly counted, you agreed. “I need to wreck your little cunt.” His thumb swiped fast over your swollen nub. “I’ll fuck you like Ben Solo never could.”

You shuddered, meeting his eyes. “Do your worst.”

Snarling, he leaned onto his knees, tore his fingers from your core and stuffed them in your mouth; you whinged in surprise, starting to suckle them clean. You were tart and tangy, your tongue slipping the length of his digits to swallow it all--Kylo’s free hand unleashed his dick, twitching eagerly despite its thick, heavy length. He jammed his hand to the back of your throat, and you gagged before he depressed your tongue, prying open your jaw.

“You know how this works.” He gazed at you, lightning an electric halo around him.  “Beg for it.”

When he released you, you gasped into the rain. “Please, fuck me.” 

Before you could blink, he slapped you, sending spit from your teeth. “No, slut,” he hissed. “I said beg.”

Your face burned--humiliation, shock, and most importantly: desire. If this is what he meant, you wanted more. “You’re not being very respectful of the dead.”

Kylo scowled and smacked you again, branding your cheek. He seized your scalp and jerked you toward him, his other hand stroking his dick. 

“Don’t make me wait any longer for your pussy,” he said. “Or I’ll fuck you so hard you’ll wish you were among them.”

Your head spun, dizzy with shame and longing--perhaps the same culprits responsible for your temporary insanity. “Then I might keep you waiting.”

Seething, he reeled back and cracked you with the back of his hand, pain blinding you, screaming in your ears. He jostled your head in his grip, waiting for your eyes to refocus--his face was red with impatient desire. 

“If you won’t beg for my cock,” he said, “then you’ll beg for mercy.”

A starving behemoth, he spun you around and slammed your face to the tomb--you heaved, buried in the vegetal scent of wet leaves, and behind you, Kylo was panting. He tossed your sopping excuse for a skirt up your back before wrestling with your hips until they were in the air, rain pelting your exposed ass and cunt. One hand fisted your hair, the other gathering your wrists behind your back, and without warning, he broke your core, cleaving it open with a sharp, unbelievable bliss, head hitting your cervix. You cried out, recoiling in pain, and he shook you in reprimand.

“Oh, no.” He drove his palm into your head, his nails scratching your scalp. “Don’t run from it.”

Kylo rammed into you, spearing you with his cock, your body quaking with the force of each of his violent thrusts. His breath was already ragged, furious groans pushed from his chest as he fucked deep into you. Your lungs were empty, finding oxygen in his onslaught, your walls squeezing his length in delight, your clit buzzing for attention, clamoring for the long-awaited sensation of cumming around him.

“Such--such a needy little cunt,” he growled.  “It missed this cock, didn’t it?” When you didn’t respond, he struck your skull on the stone. “Didn’t it?”

You keened in pain, face smashed on the tomb. “Yes!”

“I know.” He released your wrists, letting them drop limp, and reached under your belly, slick fingers rubbing merciless circles on the bundle of nerves in rhythm with his pistoning hips--you wailed, drooling with pleasure, assaulted with a sudden, immediate need to orgasm. “I know what you like--fuck, you’re so tight when you’re about to cum…” He groaned, punishing your pussy with hard, rapid thrusts. “Prove you can take it. Cum on this cock.”

Between the attention on your clit and the size of his dick, you snapped, convulsing and trembling while your blood flooded with flames, blazing heat through your thighs and to your toes. Behind you, Kylo hissed, fucking you through it, valiantly holding off his own orgasm as yours fizzed at your flesh. When your core’s pulsing slowed, he pulled out, flipping you onto your back, and you writhed underneath him.

He smacked your face, and you whined. “Don’t squirm.” Kylo shifted until he was standing and dragged you by your ankles to the edge of the grave. “I’m not done with that pussy yet.”

Propping your calves on his shoulders, he lunged forward, palm clamping down on your neck, his eyes wild, crazed with desire. His free hand pinched your cheeks, and he plunged in, jaw dropping in disbelief when he sheathed himself again in your wet heat. With a hiss, he stuffed you full before sliding back out and pounding your cunt, growling breath leaking from his lungs, his hold on your throat tightening. 

The pressure in your head only doubled the frenzy of being fucked--you wheezed, your pulse thumping in your temples, and this spurred him on, drilling you with a depraved stare as he plowed into your tight pussy again and again and again. The rain was steam on your skin, thunder a distant noise behind the sound of slapping skin and your strangled, whimpering moans. Your walls clenched and fluttered around his throbbing dick, sore clit twitching once more with a growing demand to be sated--Kylo grunted, tugging you closer. 

“Open.” 

Wincing, you did--and he spat into your mouth. 

“Swallow, bitch. Show me.”

Against his massive hand, it was difficult, but you managed with a grimace, popping your jaw apart to prove it, and Kylo smirked, rewarding you with painful, blissful strokes of his hips. He wracked your body to its limit, your breath lost ages ago, your heart flying through your veins, your ass sore from the dig of vines.  

“Poor thing,” he cooed. “I think you need to cum again.”

The hand at your cheeks snaked between your legs, flicking your aching clit, and you groaned--or tried to, anyway--the speed of your pulse resonating through the grip on your neck. He felt it, too, head bowing in pleasured shock as you thrummed around him, your oncoming climax massaging his thick cock with every new thrust. Resolute, he rubbed you faster, watching you--in his gaze, you saw nothing but an endless, ebony void of lust.

“Whose cock is inside you?”

The words croaked out. “Y-yours, Kylo.”

His choke tightened, and your vision whirled. “Who’s fucking you right now?”

 “You--you are, Kylo--”

“That’s right,” he sneered, and swirled your nub so quickly you squealed. “Cum.”

Your orgasm charged you, whiting your sight, and you screamed, throttled from his hand as every muscle below your waist contracted with an agonizing ecstasy. Your pussy milked and squeezed his cock, but he resisted his own climax once more, sinking into you until you descended, and shoved you back along his father’s grave. His dick dripped with your slick, and he was heaving, cheeks flush with exertion. He drank in the sight of you--cunt spread and abused, raindrops scattered like crystals on your skin, your throat and chest smothered with the evidence of his possession--before he pounced, a raving animal.

“You’re going to take all of me,” he muttered. “Every single fucking inch.”

Kylo pinned you to the stone, one arm coiling under you to fist your hair, the other cranking your leg back until your knee hit your stomach. He panted, wedging his hips between yours, his cock throbbing as he positioned it at your pleading core--baring his teeth, he slipped in, your pussy so wet and ready that it swallowed him with ease. Groaning with pleasure, he hammered into you, stretching you wide, filling you to the root. Locks of hair slid into his eyes, and he tossed them back, wetting his lips and fucking you deep, trapping you in his feral gaze. 

“You want me.” He popped your head back as a prompt. “You want all of me.”

You nodded, despite it. “Yes--oh--I do.”

He swallowed, leaning into you, pressing his forehead to yours. “After all of it,” he said, barely a whisper, “after everything.” 

Your chin trembled, his admission about his parents piercing your heart, swelling it in anguish. In the setting of his hopeless rejection, his savagery, his apathy, his hollow rage--none of it mattered, not to you. And you knew, just as he would never know a woman more willing to hold his soul without still wanting, you would never find another man like Kylo Ren. And there would never be anyone you would want more desperately, or reluctantly, than him.

“Yes.” You wrapped your arms around him, safe when lightning crashed, rocking your hips in his pace. “No matter what.”

“Fuck.” He wound your hair in his fist, and wrenched your head back, tearing at your throat with his teeth, harsh thrusts pulverizing your cunt. “Fucking whore… I’m--fuck--I’m going to make you break again.” His hand left your leg, long fingers back to stroking your tender clit. “And then I’m going to fill you up with my cum.”

Senses barraged, you shrieked, overwhelmed and oversensitive. He was right. You wanted mercy. “Kylo--fuck--please!”

“No. Take it,” he snarled into your ear. “Take it.”

He assailed your nub, and you quailed, curling around him, shaking from his power, lids shut while he nipped your neck, demolished your pussy, panted hard into your ear. It was all too much, too great, brain crashing into a wanton mess. You spasmed, biting your lip, hauled through sensitivity and into a new plane of pleasure, rapture singeing your skin, and you gasped, choked, begged in babbling nonsense for release, for him to send you soaring and screaming and cumming. 

“Perfect,” Kylo moaned, pumping into you, folding you into his frame. “Make yourself mine. Cum for me. Cum for me, angel.”

Your mind split--euphoria and disbelief--and you imploded, twitching, your climax shining lucent through your skin, shattering your sanity, igniting Kylo, too. He groaned, grunted, burying himself to the hilt, warm cock pulsing as he poured hot cum deep into your cunt. 

Had not known how you’d gotten there, you might have thought you’d joined the residents of the cemetery, your spirit buoyant above you for long, witless moments, until it returned to you, floating back in a daze. When you arrived to Earth, you realized Kylo was arriving too, kissing your cheek, holding you close, the both of you fighting to regulate your breath. When you’d both relaxed, he slipped out, leaned back on his heels, revealing you to the trickling rain.

You stared at him, head heavy, attempting to comprehend what he’d called you--angel--attempting to catalogue every minute of this encounter into whatever part of your memory would carve it in permanency. Sighing, you smiled at him, joy bubbling in your chest, but he only gazed at you, affection twinkling--then guttering in his eyes. He absently thumbed your chin before he tucked himself away, and you followed suit, trying to piece together what little was left intact of your clothing. Not that it mattered, as it was all completely drenched with rain. You felt like a paper bag that had been left in a swamp.

Having finished, you looked to your Commander, who was standing at the head of the gravesite. Waiting.

Blushing, you trotted to meet him--when he turned to lead, you reached out.

“Wait.”

Kylo stopped, glanced back. Between you, you felt it again--fate, kismet, serendipity, destiny--whatever it was called, it was something that you could see, the frame of your future like an open door for you to peer inside. Beyond the threshold, the vision was luminous and distinct, a sunray lancing Gilead’s storm: You and Kylo Ren. Together, and safe, and free. 

You didn’t know how you’d get there. You only knew that for the first time, you’d understood exactly what he’d meant. 

“What if we…” You shrugged, as if what you were about to say was no big deal. “No one knows we’re here. No one has to know where we went.” Watching him, you stepped closer. “What if we leave? We can figure it out, we can get help from the Resistance,” you said. “What if we just... go?”

The sky screeched above you--the storm was close, almost right overhead, and a torrent of rain gushed from the clouds. Kylo stared, inscrutable, studying you piece by piece, an inspection of your sincerity, brow furrowing. Then his lips pinched together, his eye twitched. He stepped toward you--

Pop.

At first, you’d thought it was thunder--and when the pain hit, you’d thought it’d been lightning, instead. But then you glanced at your arm, scrutinizing the source, and found only frayed fabric, burnt thread, and a gash of bright, red blood. You blinked, adrenaline crashing into you like a freight plane.

“Oh,” you mumbled, fuzzing gaze drifting to Kylo. “I think I’ve been shot.”

[outroshooky]

no halo | kth

⇢ genre: oneshot (brief angst, fluff, smut) (exestolovers!au)

⇢ pairing: kim taehyung x reader, bestfriend!min yoongi x reader

⇢ word count: 5.3k

⇢ audio: brockhampton’s ginger album

⇢ warnings: brief angst (it’s exes to lovers, what do you expect), a smoking mention, some varied cursing; implied and explicit smut (soft!! body worship). there’s a happy ending, i promise.

⇢ a/n: i sat down at my laptop today, turned on no halo by brockhampton, and started writing. six hours later, i cannot believe that i managed to smash a brutal writer’s block by churning this out in literally one day. i hope that this is a bit of bright light for you, dear reader, in a time where nothing seems to be going your way. you will make it through no matter how messy or uncertain life seems to be, and you will come out on the other side all the more stronger for having survived it. 

Believe it or not, it’s the pair of battered red Converse slung over his shoulder that tips the whole thing over the edge.

It’s inexplicable. Perhaps it’s the memories attached to it, knotted and strung through metal rivets scuffed with night rides and hard asphalt. Tastes like cigarette smoke and ashen dreams wafting from the driver’s side window, but there’s something more bitter there. Heartbreak veins, like you’d expect them to pulse with anything but. They say love doesn’t last when it’s not built on something solid, but somehow, heady summer nights and network love aren’t enough to pass the time.

“What exactly do you think you’re doing with those?” It bites, thickened with venom. Somewhere far-off is a headboard banging, curses of those stupidly thin walls of the motel complex. 

“They’re mine,” Yoongi says. Which they are. Unfortunately. “I need them to like, go outside and stuff.”

“Fuck you,” you fire back.

“A ray of sunshine you are,” he remarks. “Any particular reason you feel like biting my head off in this shitty hotel room?”

The silence explains absolutely nothing. What he doesn’t know is that it’s not his fault. It’s right there in the middle of the dingy carpet, cracked and bleeding, privy to one and one alone. You’re too stubborn and he’s too good and here you find yourselves, locked at an impasse. He doesn’t know how good he is, how he’s patched your wounds up with wind in your hair and sand between your toes. He tries his best; it’s better than anything you would allow yourself, a luscious pleasure in such a stark world. So you settle for what you’ve got, and he shakes his head.

“You know you can come to me, right? About what’s on your mind?”

You finger the fraying tear in the bedspread, the cotton crumbling between your thumb and index.

“Look, I’m not good at this feelings thing and you know that. But you’re my friend, and I care about you, and I want to hear you out, okay? Whatever you’re thinking about. You’re not gonna hurt me; it’s not like I haven’t been through the ringer myself. You’re not so different, yeah?” Yoongi’s eyes search your own for acceptance. Defeat. Anything at all. “You’re not some kind of lost cause because one asshole in particular who shall not be named made you feel that way. Maybe it was two assholes. Whatever. Your worth isn’t dependent on their opinion of you.”

It feels like rambling but burns like an iron, sears through the darkness hovering over your consciousness, casting shadow. That thing twitches, bent and broken deep inside, staining down the bedsheets and spilling onto the beige carpet. He’s hit home, and Yoongi knows it when the defiance in your brow drains, floodwater evaporating against the creamy popcorn ceiling. He’ll forever hold that he doesn’t have a way with words; you’d kindly argue the opposite.

“I’m sorry, Yoon.” You look up at him for the first time since you’d woken up on opposite sides of the same bed. Something about childhood innocence preserves moments like those, in spite of years gone past since the last time you shared a bed like that. Nothing dirty about needing companionship in the form of a brother you’d had since you’d skipped stones down at the pond in grade school. He knows you intrinsically, like the scars that cross his knees and the freckles that dot his neck, no better and no less. “You deserve better than the way I’ve been treating you. Because you’re right, you know. But right now, it hurts.”

“Hurt doesn’t make you any less human. It’s a part of life. And it’s okay to hurt sometimes. Just don’t let it consume you till there’s nothing left.” He readjusts the shoes tied together by one string, sitting on the narrow angular of his shoulder. “Breakfast ends in an hour. I’ll grab you something and bring it back, and then we’ll figure out what to do next, yeah? I don’t have work till Tuesday, so we don’t have to be back for a few days more.” He pauses in the doorway. “Oh, and for the record, fuck Kim Taehyung. I’ll knock his teeth through his ass for the shit he put you through.”

The small smile you crack brings a toothy grin to his own visage. “Excellent advice.”

There’s a wry fondness dancing in the deep russet of his pupils, burning umber in the low light. “I try.”

Fuck Kim Taehyung. The exact advice you needed to hear, and the exact advice you decided to act upon, in exactly all of the wrong ways.

It’s the number that is stamped on your brain like a fifty-dollar tattoo— not necessarily the most tasteful, a pain in the ass to remove. Unfortunately, it is the tattoo that your thoughts like to trace with gentle fingers, rubbing at the lines, blurring the edges. Laser removal takes time and patience, but the contrary nestles in the form of stupid decisions and late-night mistakes. Like a dead battery on your Wrangler at 1am on the back streets, a useless cell phone, and three weeks of time to think.

Grief gave way to rage gave way to kindling coals of sadness, burning low but bright enough to light your way. Gone were your attempts to fan them back into the roaring bonfire those motel walls once contained, but here were your best efforts to cradle them close, nurture them that they might die out on their own, and most of them had. Moving on tasted ginger-sweet and minty-bitter, the chill in the air as the leaves tumbled and crunched underfoot, ignited with reds and yellows and everything in between. A summertime flame left for the autumn rain.

Pour the rain did, leaking rivulets down the windshield as you sat in the driver’s seat, staring at the dashboard. In times like these you’d call Yoongi, but he didn’t get off work till the morning and an impossibly timed dead zone did nothing to help your wireless suffering. Nighttime meant comfort for souls like yours, an escape into the quiet of dusk when everyone else sought the dreamy confines of sleep. Unfortunately, it meant that everyone else sought sleep while you were cursedly awake and stuck in the downpour. No place to go, no one to find.

You let your head fall forward and hit the steering wheel with a thunk. Fuck.

Knock knock.

It’s a glance to the left, out the driver’s side window that reveals a silhouette framed in darkness, wrapped in a thick coat, peering through the glass. Hand raised to brow and you can’t help the involuntarily yelp that leaves your mouth from the sheer proximity of the stranger. The figure flinches back in response, and you can’t help the immediate pang of worry. You can’t afford to miss a chance for help, but you also can’t roll down the window, and thus you’re opening the door and squinting into the rain as it blusters through the open gap. “Hello, I’m sorry, my cell phone isn’t working, is it possible for me to borrow yours so I could call somebody to pick me up?”

“Wait, what?” The stranger hunches slightly, peering through the watery onslaught. “Is that who I think it is?”

Oh god.

Oh god no.

The sheer absurdity of the situation isn’t lost on you, not like the way relief is wrapping that thick timbre around yourself like a familiar blanket. The irony of your car happening to die only a few blocks away from that little blue two-story, the coincidences of such a familiar stranger going out for a stroll in the middle of a fucking rainstorm. Of course he had to.

“Unfortunately,” you can’t help but grimace. “Taehyung, what the fuck are you doing out here in weather like this?”

You can hear the hint of a smile in his voice. It almost aches. “Are you saying this isn’t ideal weather to take a walk and enjoy the fresh air?”

“No,” you reply bluntly. Infuriatingly positive he is, always has been. “Ideal weather isn’t a fucking thunderstorm.”

“Mm.” The momentary quiet, save the rainfall, hints at what goes unsaid. “So what are you doing out here?”

You bristle. How to formulate a response that would not warrant help, but also warrant help? “I was out taking a late-night drive and stopped to take a break. I was getting drowsy and I prefer to be a responsible driver, so I pulled over to make sure I was awake enough to drive home.”

“What a considerate person you are!” Taehyung trills, and you’re almost positive it is completely unironic. “How are you feeling then? Do you think you’ll be able to drive home?”

“Uh, yeah. I’ll be fine.” A tight smile. Polite. It takes every ounce of will to not study him deeper, all of the curves and edges hidden snugly in the darkness. “Thanks.”

“Are you sure? It’s raining really hard as well; you won’t be able to see well even if you aren’t feeling drowsy.” There’s genuine concern in his tone, warmth bubbling from his throat like liquid sunshine. Maddening. But he’s right; he’s shining a bright light through the flimsy veil of your lies and you’re pinned. Even more maddening.

“Taehyung, it’s—” you clamp your mouth shut because in a slip of the tongue, you were that close to letting anger seep into your tone. That close to losing your stance as the better man, but the line of who exactly is the better man is smudged beyond sight in the downpour. You take a deep breath. Start again. “I don’t want to be a bother.”

Lightning flashes, jolting the clouds and cleaving them in two. The very world could be coming down in tatters around him and Taehyung wouldn’t think twice about being his everyday self, annoyingly cheery and maddeningly gentlemanly. You swear you see a flash of teeth, a boxy smile despite the water dripping from his umbrella, striking the pavement with an irregular heartbeat. Not your own, of course. “Nonsense! We can’t have you left out here to soak like this. Come on, you can drive us home!”

Oh my god, he certainly has not disappeared quicker than the very implication left his mouth. He is not shaking his head like a dog shedding wetness, nor opening the passenger’s side and hopping in, pausing to fold his umbrella in the gap before pulling the door neatly shut. You are not seated in your dead Wrangler with your ex-boyfriend at one-thirty in the morning in the middle of the very heavens coming apart with a religious fervor.

Taehyung brushes his wet hair out of his face, dribbling water down his cheeks. For all of your expectations, he looks no different than when you saw him last, standing on the curb with all the world’s joys flickering in his pretty almond eyes. The shadows cast his profile in a gaunter light, sweeping down the hollows of his jawline, his cheekbones; your fingers tighten around the door handle. Apparently, three weeks might not change much after all.

“Oh sorry, did I rush you?” He opts to ignore your blank-eyed stare of shock, reaching out to you before pausing, his hand outstretched to touch you. “I didn’t mean to rush you if you’re not ready to drive yet. We can sit here as long as you’d like! There’s no rush for me to be home. I just wanted to get out of the rain; it was starting to soak through my umbrella!”

For all of this, you can manage a brief: “Yeah.”

“Let me know when you’re ready to go!” The optimism in his voice is painful.

“Taehyung.”

“Yeah!”

“I lied.”

You don’t need to look at him to know the way his forehead will furrow. “What?”

“Gah!” You can’t help pinching your brow between two fingers. “I can’t fucking believe this—”

“Believe what?” Blinking doe-eyes, long lashes wet and thick in the dimness.

“Taehyung, my car battery died three blocks from your house and my cell phone isn’t working, and now I’m sitting here with my ex-boyfriend in the passenger’s seat and I have no fucking idea how I ended up here.” You sigh. “Do you not see the irony in this?”

He blatantly ignores the gesture towards the massive elephant basically perched on the center console. “No wonder your car is off! We’ll walk then.”

“Taehyung, please just make it easier for the both of us and l—”

It’s no use. Dear god. How you had ever put up with him, shared a bed with him is currently escaping you, but regardless of this, he is already out of the car as the words punctuate empty air. Weighing options is impossible when you have none to choose from.

“-use my phone to call somebody to pick you up!” The driver’s side door opens and he’s there, right there, not across the console or the bar or whatever. Right there. “Come on, we don’t have time to waste!”

“Kim Taehyung, for god’s sake, I am your ex-girlfriend!” The exclamatory stops him in his tracks. Finally. “Why are you helping me?”

The rain pours rivulets down his black slicker, drenching his hair and bunching along his shoulders and running down his arms. And yet, he brushes the water from his brow with a swipe of his thumb, peers at you, sneakered feet planted firmly in the asphalt. He raises a finger to the sky, smiles— not a half-smile, lopey and lop-sided, but a true grin, squared and gummy and full of wonder. “Ideal weather.”

“Kim Taehyung, you are absolutely ridiculous—”

“Ideal!”

“So let me get this straight,” Yoongi grits as you sit across from him, your frame molded into the plush of his second-hand loveseat. “Your car died on the back streets, coincidentally three blocks from Kim Taehyung’s house, who is— just to double check— the asshole who shredded your relationship, and he happened to be out for a walk in the rain and stumbled across you in your car, and offered to take you back to his house and let you stay there till morning until you could get me to pick you up?”

“Yes.”

“What the actual fuck.”

You gesture at him with your free hand, the other occupying a mug of steaming tea. “Join the club.”

“Just to double check, we’re talking about the same Kim Taehyung. The dude who you officially dated for a solid four months but fucked around with long before that. That guy, right? That Taehyung?”

You release a deep breath; the steam rising from your mug winds away. “Yes, it’s the same Kim Taehyung.”

Yoongi looks like he is about to spit nails. “I hope you took the chance to kick him in the balls.”

“Yoongi!”

“Just saying.”

“It could’ve been a lot worse, actually.” Your companion raises an eyebrow. “He gave me his umbrella when we walked back.”

“Ah yes, because giving you his umbrella once undoes six months of emotional damage—”

“Yoongi, chill. I did what I had to do—”

“Which is good, because survival skills are important.” He searches your face for any hint of something other than stoicism. Forgiveness, maybe. “And it doesn’t have to be any more than that.”

“I didn’t say it was,” you affirm. “But even if I don’t like him, I owe him credit where it’s due.”

Yoongi frowns. He knows not to push, but curiosity pecks his bones, nips his intuition. “For the third time— why didn’t you call me last night when you got back to his house?”

You sip at your tea. Flaxen sweet, mild on your tongue. “You were at work and I didn’t want to bother. Paying rent is more important than saving my sorry stranded ass.”

“You’re neglecting to mention the Kim Taehyung part.”

He rubs a fine nerve, one push too far. “Yoongi, what are you so worried about?” You sit up, place your mug on the fold-out table. “It’s not like I’m suddenly pining over him just because he happened to be there when I needed help. It’s not like I had any other options; I can handle myself. Taehyung and I broke up a month and a half ago; I’m not as… broken as I was before.”

It’s written on Yoongi’s face that he doesn’t like it, but protectiveness wins out over stubbornness. It always does when it comes to you. “I just don’t want you to get hurt again.”

You soften. “I know.”

The tension drains from his hunched figure. “I know you can handle yourself when it comes to people like him. But I also know how hard you cried over him in a shitty motel all those weeks ago.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “I don’t want you to feel like that again because of someone. Fool me twice, you know? You deserve better than that.”

Your eyes flick to his. Steady, warm, weighing justice by the tawny flecks that glint in the raven black of his irises. “I do. And I don’t doubt that. It won’t happen again.”

His own mug clacks as it meets the wooden tabletop. “You know, you never told me what exactly happened between you two that ended it. Like, I know the rough idea, but not play-by-play. If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine, but…” He trails off, leaving the gap.

“Ah.” A remark, neutral in sheen but bitter in taste. Like biting into the shell of a crisp apple, only to find that it’s not as sweet as once hoped it to be. “Sure.”

So Yoongi listens.

It’s strange how someone so vivid in nightmares, so seemingly real as the pen between your fingers or the breath in your lungs, can fade away so quickly by daybreak. Before you ran into Taehyung again (for better or for worse? For worse), he loomed as some larger-than-life figure in the back of your consciousness, spewing traumas and terrors like a river gully. But there he was in the passenger’s seat, no larger or smaller than before. Just Taehyung. Terrifying in premise, in rationality, on the contrary.

With that in mind, it was hard to not wonder if you had, perhaps, not given him credit where it was due. The Taehyung you met in the pouring rain was the same Taehyung whose hair you brushed sand from and temple you kissed and sides you pinched to get him to squeak when he laughed. Memories you tried to stuff away, filter through a new lens with every flicker in your mind, like a crackling film reel. But there he was, and here you were, and you weren’t quite sure who you were running from anymore.

Is it easy to run from someone who your lips know the taste of, fingers know the feel of? Is it easier to run from yourself when you strip away the miscommunications, aches and pains?

Yoongi knew the full story now. Terrifying to admit your fault, any measure of it, because you never liked to show him what being broken looked like. Some measure of personal freedom exercised, but with the wrong heart in mind, because he would never judge anything you had to say and instead, simply listen. He was always an older soul than you ever tried to be and he knew it, rugged wisdom at its finest. But ultimately, he only knew what he was told or taught, and there you were, spilling the unmangled truth to him on a Wednesday morning over two cups of chamomile tea. 

Coming to grasp with imperfections is part of the cursed struggle of being human, of embracing those little nicks and dashes that make us who we are. It does not mean we are loved any less, but loved because of them; none of us are angels. These messes are our measures, our faults and our pleasures. How terrifying it all is, being ourselves. Being raw and vulnerable and attacking those thoughts that weigh heavy on our consciousness, day after day.

And it is easy to wonder if you matter through all of this, through the chaos of that inner dialogue. It’s moments like these that put those perspectives into frame, click them like camera shutters pausing time to breathe and think. To look at the white-framed ink is to rewrite tangibility, printed blurry on those transparent rolls. Nothing is so unforgettable when it is angled just so.

In the evening, in the comforts of your apartment, you uncork a Polaroid from where it is hidden behind some cheery optimistic phrase you stole off of tumblr. Bullshit for the purpose it serves, painfully ironic for the task it demands. A picture of a boy with cherry-red hair and a boxy grin on his face, arms wrapped around you with all of the comforts and ease of home. There’s mirth in your eyes, sheer joy and laughter. No alcohol involved, just two people who found it easy to slip into each other’s company just-so. A jasper gem for you, polished to perfection and printed right underneath your fingertips.

Anxiety clenches at the base of your jaw, massages your throat with the cruelest intentions. You swallow it back.

The phone rings once.

Twice.

Crackles to life.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Taehyung?”

His voice melts through the receiver like buttery chocolate, smooth and warm. “You still have my phone number! Hello! I thought I’d never hear from you.”

“I-I’m sorry, what?” You blink in confusion, then shake your head. “Never mind.”

“I thought I’d never hear from you. That guy who picked you up didn’t seem to say much, but I figured you’d call eventually to say that you made it home safe. So I guess you did! And I’m glad.” You can hear Taehyung smiling through the phone, easy inflections of speech.

“Yeah.” You fidget, playing with the edge of your sleeve. Now or never. “Taehyung, I owe you an apology.”

This is the first time he falters, hints at something deeper. “What for?”

You take a deep breath. “You were kind to me. And I didn’t recognize it for what it was at the time, so I was a complete asshole to you. And I’m sorry for that. You didn’t deserve that.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it, it was the least I could do! Nobody deserves to be stuck in the pouring rain—”

“I’m not talking about the rainstorm.”

He stutters. “I-I’m sorry?”

“Taehyung.”

He’s quiet. It is terrifying.

“Taehyung, both of us know what I mean.”

You momentarily wonder if the line has gone dead. Perhaps it has. A saving grace, and then that deep timbre crackles to life on the other side. You nearly miss what he says.

“I want to hear you say it,” he whispers.

“You were kind to me,” you stutter. “Kind to me; so, so kind. And I didn’t recognize it for what it was w-when you gave it to me. And I was a complete asshole to you. I’m sorry.” You wait for something, anything, but he gives no intention, and you continue. “Taehyung, you were the best thing that ever happened to me, and I was so terrified that I stuffed it away into some far-off corner and tried to pretend that it wasn’t happening. I turned so much outward onto you that you didn’t deserve because I didn’t know how to be good enough for someone like you. I took you for granted, Taehyung, the exact opposite of everything I should have done. You glow like the literal fucking sun, and I’m a little cloud drifting through the sky. I should’ve let you shine through me, but instead, I just blocked you out. And I’m sorry,” you confess, the tension in your shoulders collapsing. “I’m sorry.”

For the first time in weeks you wish you could see him in front of you, gauge his reactions like barometric pressure, but instead he’s across town and you are here, feeling ever-so-small in spite of yourself. It was easy to read what he was thinking, painted across his face in swaths of joy and sadness and everything in between, but here, he gave away nothing. 

Please say something, Taehyung. Please say anything.

“Ideal weather,” he murmurs.

“W-What?”

“A sun without clouds in the sky shines blindingly. Clouds temper all that light; certainly we don’t need all of it.” It sounds so cheesy, some Shakespearean verse he quotes from off the top of his head, but it is the closest thing he’ll phrase to acceptance, and you swallow down a relieved sob. He calls you by name then, lets it ring warm and sweet, the way he used to say it. With life, energy, everything it lacked simply because it rang from all the wrong mouths till then. “Everything happens for a reason. You did the best you could. It just didn’t work out at the time.”

“Taehyung, it’s okay to blame me. It’s okay to say that I was the one who fucked it all up, not you. For god’s sakes, you never did anything wrong. It was always my insecurity, my mistakes—”

“You’re only human. You did the best that you could, just as I did. Who could blame you for that?” Taehyung’s words seep heat into your bones, calm your trembling fingers. “I couldn’t. Nobody could. I certainly don’t think any less of you for it. None of us are angels; we did our best with what we had. And that’s alright.”

You can’t help but laugh, dry, monosyllabic. “You handled this so much remarkably better than I did, god.”

He’s breathy with amusement. “It took a little while.”

“I could imagine.”

He hums. “Is there anything else you want to talk about?”

Your index finger finds the edges of the instant photo. His smile catches in the light of your desk lap. “There’s another reason I called.”

“That wasn’t it?”

“Believe it or not, no.” You trace his shoulders, the planes of his chest. “I just wanted to say. I have a Polaroid of us from July, from that bonfire that Jeongguk had with like fifty people down at the beach. I kept it, selfishly. It’s been pinned up on my bulletin board behind another piece of paper. But I took it out today. And I think I might pin it up in front now.”

“Oh, the cherry red hair.” The fondness seeps through the receiver. “I loved that night.”

“Me too,” you admit. A beat of silence. “Goodnight, Taehyung. Thank you.”

“Oh, you’re hanging up already?”

“What?” You nearly sputter.

“I haven’t gotten to talk about the Polaroids I kept, too.”

There are two ways to fundamentally seduce Kim Taehyung: make his coffee exactly how he likes it, or play with his hair while he’s lying on your chest. Both of which you achieved, and both of which led to your current predicament.

But we’ll rewind a bit.

That phone call, the first of many, lasted into the early hours of the morning, that sacred time that you both hold dear. It tasted like nostalgia and fondness, feelings you corked and bottled out of fear of what might lie on the other side. But in this case, the other side was a friend and more, a living history book for all of the cracks in between. And he simply adored filling them in.

That lazy afternoon where you planned on having a date at the park, but it had poured rain nearly as intense as the day you reconnected with him. You danced in between the raindrops instead, bare feet on the gravely asphalt, wishing you could touch heaven and so you kissed the boy whose cheeks were between your palms. The spontaneous road trip you took to the next big city over, five hours away, simply because for the first time in so long, you had nowhere to be but with each other. Hands held between library shelves, firelight’s glow on faces untouched. Sharing a tuft of blue cotton candy with sticky fingers, talking about everything and nothing under the moonlit, cloudless sky. For every instant photo saved were memories tenfold that he plucked from that mind of his like stars placed in the breadth of the cosmos.

One phone call became two, became four. Became texting over a break at work, FaceTiming over dinner. Became meeting each other for a late breakfast, studying at the cafe for an early afternoon cup of espresso. Depth and understanding, and Taehyung is slotting into your life without a second thought, as easily as you’re slipping into his. You let him this time, so much smoother than before. You want him to.

Neither of you can deny what it is happening, but neither of you can find a complaint to lodge. So when he asks you out, fingers entwined over the metal arm of the park bench, a bouquet of sunflowers tucked next to you, he already knows what your answer will be.

Indeed, there are two fundamental ways to seduce Kim Taehyung, and as a master of both of them, it is only a matter of time before you find yourselves at the foot of your bed; he pulls you closer to press his lips to your own. He tastes like cappuccino and chocolate and you’re humming into the kiss, shuddering underneath him. He still knows your body, every divet, every edge. He never stopped loving it— never stopped loving you.

He worships the way he loves— selflessly, giving every ounce of himself without abandon or question. When he eases himself between your thighs, the look in his eyes is nothing short of sinful adoration, seeking out every secret to your pleasure. It’s ingrained in his memory, the way you gasp or grab his hair when his fingers dance along your skin; he couldn’t forget it even if he tried. It is worth every wince as your digits tug at his scalp; he swallows down everything you give him and begs for more, more, more.

And likewise you lavish him, devoting minutes to dot his heaving ribs with kisses, stroking comforting palms down his sinewy thighs. Taehyung is every work of art you have wanted to see in a museum, living, breathing, merely mortal but so much more. So vibrant, so raw.

And afterwards you lie together, unable to tell where he begins and you end. Breathing in the heat, piecing each other together in the silent din. Clothes are tossed about the room; you can’t find it in you to care. You turn to him, caress his cheek, run a thumb over his lips. “Stay here tonight. Please.”

He smiles and your thumb brushes his teeth, boxy and exposed through the gap of his grin. “Was the overnight bag not enough?”

“How did I not notice you packed an overnight bag?” You sit up, wrapping the blankets around your torso, scanning the room to spot his duffel.

He pushes himself up on his elbows, wraps himself around you like a human koala. “I’m very good at being sneaky.”

“Mm, I noticed.” There it is, against your dresser. Your heart swells, fit to burst.

“Come to bed,” Taehyung hums, gritty, a little seductive. It sends a chill down your spine. You don’t think it’s meant to. Your fingers find his own and knit together over his knuckles.

“I’m right here, sunshine.”

He kisses behind your ear, the gentlest of intentions. “I love you,” he whispers. “Come to bed.”

You squeeze over his hand. Everything left unsaid, in the space of a breath. Two. “I love you too,” you whisper. “And I will always be here, loving you, with everything I could possibly give you. Every ounce of my heart. I love you.” 

He squeezes back, wraps the blanket around your frame, tucks you in tight. He kisses your shoulder with lips of silk, and you roll on your side to get comfortable, his arm draped over your waist. 

Against the far wall, propped up on his duffel, lies a pair of Converse sneakers, as scuffed and beaten as they were saturated with rain, on the day you fell in love with Kim Taehyung all over again.

[loveamongthesailors]

“ Should the Haruspex attempt to autopsy her body on Day 11, he will make the curious discovery that Aglaya does not appear to have any organs. However, looting her body reveals she is carrying a Revolver. “

trawling some highly enjoyable patho wiki content. Congratulations Aglaya Lilich on becoming a Body without Organs, with a gun! you go girl!

“Aglaya contends with God. Those she touches begin to rebel against the established order of things. At the same time, Aglaya is the voice of the law. She sees the universe as a machine. She maintains that the logic of the universe is above everything—polyhedrons be damned. To her, contending with God, too, is a form of restoring justice and natural law. Those she touches begin to realize that there are limits of what’s possible, and they must be accepted with humility.”

Humility

“I should have written nothing[1] at all, but it is far too late for that. Sin and guilt[2] have entered the world[3]— never mind where from, since in any case it would do no good to close that box — and I am no longer striding the crests of my dreams, filling my lungs with air and expelling it again, now instead I am manipulating the keys of a machine[4] striving to thus let my dreams pour and play out across the space of an information-obsessed plane of existence.

There exists no good reason[5] to occupy this space, especially when I have the heights and depths of life wholly available to me at any moment, and yet something compels me, God help me.[6] I have no hope that I will save anyone this way. Not even myself. I know I will not even reach to prevent the wretched[7] from abusing whatever I create. It is a fact that to take something from oneself and put it out into the world is to let it escape and become everything you didn’t want it to be. They say this is so for God the Father as for every human father. I do not believe in either one, but their stories both hold a strange beauty for me.

One can create a monster[8] or a babe; the difference is purely aesthetic. But it is this question of creation. Many simply put it aside, to their own loss. They still create things but they deny they are doing so. They are befallen by atrophy.[9] Others take on the question of creation by accepting the market assurance that whatever makes money must be good because, so the logic goes, people buy things that are good.[10] They become lost to the world of production. Others, in reaction to this, turn toward smaller and smaller circles to keep their creatures safe from the real world. But these spaces are either infected by the social disease or else suffocate for lack of oxygen.

There are some rare exceptions. No one can say where they come from. They destroy all that has come before. They blow into a dying ember. Without them there would be nothing at all.

Now, we have to say that the whole world without them would be an empty[11] dull[12] pale[13] and suffocating lifeless and deathless nothingness, and that they themselves are also a nothingness, but an ecstatic explosion of creative destructive nothingness. So it will be worth keeping in mind that there is a huge and unspeakable gap between the qualities of different sorts of nothingness. Otherwise everything will be overcome by an immense confusion.[14]

The first aspect which ensures that there is something interesting rather than nothing is the explosive energy of the sun. The second is the implosive energy of the earth. These provide for the habitation of a thin membrane where their intercourse takes place. Here there exists a tension between them. Much life forms by rebelling against being crushed into the bowels of the earth and the depths of the sea, whether this rebellion is volcanic, evaporative, or organic. Life must protect itself from being lost in the emptiness of space or scorched in the heat of the sun, and so it also flows, crumbles, burrows, glides, swims, falls and floats downward. This might be all, were it not for something else. Organization, organism, orgasm.[15]”

-Musings on Nothingness (And Some of It’s Varieties)

“Producing, a product: a producing/product identity. It is this identity that   constitutes a third term in the linear series: an enormous undifferentiated object. Everything stops dead for a moment, everything freezes in place—and then the whole process will begin all over again. From a certain point of view it would be much better if nothing worked, if nothing functioned. Never being born, escaping the wheel of continual birth and rebirth, no mouth to suck with, no anus to shit through. Will the machines run so badly, their component pieces fall apart to such a point that they will return to nothingness and thus allow us to return to nothingness?

It would seem, however, that the flows of energy are still too closely connected, the partial objects still too organic, for this to happen. What would be required is a pure fluid in a free state, flowing without interruption, streaming over the surface of a full body. Desiring-machines make us an organism; but at the very heart of this production, within the very production of this production, the body suffers from being organized in this way, from not having some other sort of organization, or no organization at all. "An incomprehensible, absolutely rigid stasis" in the very midst of process, as a third stage: "No mouth. No tongue. No teeth. No larynx. No esophagus. No belly. No anus."

The automata stop dead and set free the unorganized mass they once served to articulate. The full body without organs is the unproductive, the sterile, the unengendered, the unconsumable. Antonin Artaud discovered this one day, finding himself with no shape or form whatsoever, right there where he was at that moment. The death instinct: that is its name, and death is not without a model. For desire desires death also, because the full body of death is its motor, just as it desires life, because the organs of life are the working machine. We shall not inquire how all this fits together so that the machine will run: the  question itself is the result of a process of abstraction.”

-Anti-Oedipus ch. 1, “THE DESIRING MACHINES”

I can't stitch it together… but I can cut the knot.

We're all just… dancing on our strings. 

Whenever I trace the edges of possibility on a map, I find myself reaching for an eraser not soon after… 

Imagine a sphere. See it in your mind's eye. Now lay it out flat. Why is that so easy, when topology is so hard?

We live under the shadow of a higher power… I just despise it.

Only a fool would cut the Gordian knot. It ought to be… vivissected.

The squeal of the gears can't halt the machine.

Why do they insist on torturing me?

There is an immutable and rational order that fate itself has composed. All things run their inevitable courses, down the topology of the universe, toward the mass of this black gravity.

Let's open it. Carefully. And tally the contents.

       The judgment of God, the system of the judgment of God, the theological system, is precisely the operation of He who makes an organism, an organization of organs called the organism, because He cannot bear the BwO, because He pursues it and rips it apart so He can be first, and have the organism be first. The organism is already that, the judgment of God, from which medical doctors benefit and on which they base their power. The organism is not at all the body, the BwO; rather, it is a stratum on the BwO, in other words, a phenomenon of accu­mulation, coagulation, and sedimentation that, in order to extract useful labor from the BwO, imposes upon it forms, functions, bonds, dominant and hierarchized organizations, organized transcendences.

The strata are bonds, pincers. “Tie me up if you wish.“ We are continually stratified. But who is this we that is not me, for the subject no less than the organism belongs to and depends on a stratum? Now we have the answer: the BwO is that glacial reality where the alluvions, sedimentations, coagulations, foldings, and recoilings that compose an organism—and also a significa­tion aid a subject—occur. For the judgment of God weighs upon and is exercised against the BwO; it is the BwO that undergoes it. It is in the BwO that the organs enter into the relations of composition called the organism.

The BwO howls: “They’ve made me an organism! They’ve wrongfully folded me! They’ve stolen my body!“ The judgment of God uproots it from its immanence and makes it an organism, a signification, a subject. It is the BwO that is stratified. It swings between two poles, the surfaces of stratifi­cation into which it is recoiled, on which it submits to the judgment, and the plane of consistency in which it unfurls and opens to experimentation.

If the BwO is a limit, if one is forever attaining it, it is because behind each stratum, encasted in it, there is always another stratum. For many a stra­tum, and not only an organism, is necessary to make the judgment of God. A perpetual and violent combat between the plane of consistency, which frees the BwO, cutting across and dismantling all of the strata, and the sur­faces of stratification that block it or make it recoil.

- “ Deleuze/Guattari; How Do You Make Yourself a Body Without Organs? “

(every morning i listen to confessional, i don’t give a shit bout the bulk ov it, still i keep it professional. and as penance i tell em to proselytize, say the sun is red, say that i am red, say that all their bases belong to us)

The crack Where is the crack? When did I crack?

Then I’ll stand alone on a planet with Nothing left to remember it And I’ll try, I’ll try, I’ll try to prevent it I’ll try, I’ll try, but I’ll never stop it, no

Muzzle me, muzzle muzzle me Bind my will and break of me And you try, you try, you try to prevent it You’ll try, you’ll try, but you’ll never stop it, no

because, laugh if you like, what has been called microbes     is god, and do you know what the Americans and the Russians use to make their atoms? They make them with the microbes of god.

- I am not raving. I am not mad. I tell you that they have  reinvented microbes in order to impose a new idea of god.

They have found a new way to bring out god and to capture him in his        microbic noxiousness.

This is to nail him though the heart, in the place where men love him best, under the guise of unhealthy sexuality, in that sinister appearance of morbid cruelty that he adopts whenever he is pleased to tetanize and madden humanity as he is doing now.

He utilizes the spirit of purity and of a consciousness that has remained candid like mine to asphyxiate it with all the false appearances that he spreads universally through space and this is why Artaud le Mômo can be taken for a person suffering from hallucinations.

- What do you mean, Mr. Artaud?

- I mean that I have found the way to put an end to this ape once and for all and that although nobody believes in god any more everybody believes more and more in man.

So it is man whom we must now make up our minds to emasculate.

- How's that?

No matter how one takes you you are mad, ready for the straitjacket.        

- By placing him again, for the last time, on the autopsy table to remake his anatomy. I say, to remake his anatomy. Man is sick because he is badly constructed. We must make up our minds to strip him bare in order to scrape off that animalcule that itches him mortally,

For you can tie me up if you wish, but there is nothing more useless than an organ.

To Have Done With the Judgement of God