#they have it all in a playlist too....ingenious

[codename-adler]

Adèle Moreau (18) USC Gymnast

I’m gonna be honest, babes, it seems she has been living inside my head for years but never on paper? I haven’t got any written notes?? Wild. Absolutely sick behaviour. Got playlists tho! I should search my mess of a desk among the dunes and dunes of paper, maybe she’s in there. I gave birth to her while working at a donut shop during covid, so I was using receipt paper to write down when I was bored playing security guard at the door for insane customers… Dark ages… She was my light. Take care of her, ‘kay?

*Because she dates back to 2021, this has nothing to do with TSC – refer to this oc masterpost for context OR ask meeeee*

Excerpt from Wade Vesper's (OC) file: While Wade's personal case remains unsolved, he's 27 when he falls head first into the case of his life: tasked with protecting Adèle Moreau, surviving daughter of the Moreau crime family that had fallen to ruin in France years ago, Wade cannot let go of her once it is time to hand her over to Witness Protection. Adoption it is. Never in a million years would Wade have imagined being the legal guardian of a girl with ties to the mafia, one that could be killed any moment, one that chips at his fortress of a heart and ice-cold of an exterior. One that mends his heart in ways he never thought possible. One that takes only months to heal parts of him he never even considered were broken, when years of relentless work had done barely anything. Light of his life, and whatever. But for years, she survives, and so does he, and they're even happy together. Until. It's always 'until'. Neil Josten, aka Nathaniel Wesninski, opens his big fat mouth and reveals awful things, opens up gates that should have stayed locked. Adèle learns about Jean Moreau, learns about USC, hides the little she knows about her past and her file, and somehow lands both her and Wade in SoCal, under the pretense of joining the excellent gymnastics program at USC.

Jean is supposed to be in his early twenties in this and Adèle is his little sister of 4-5 years younger

Since TSC I have been thinking of incorporating Elodie into this fic’s lore, as the sibling between Jean and Adèle who still dies, but it’s just an entertaining thought to play with, nothing more

In this AU, the Moreau mother is better than what Jean got in canon; although she acts too little too late, she tries, like Mary, and her children survive, like Neil, but at what cost… at what cost

Maman Moreau is meeker than her Wesninski/Hatford counterpart, much less ingenious, not because she loves her husband or agrees with him, but because anything brighter has been beat out of her since girlhood

All she has left is the training ingrained into her body, burned into it, scarred into in

Jean has always been reserved for something else, away, something more, and she loves him, she does, but he is stronger than her, already, which leaves her nothing to give him

Adèle, however… Adèle is all hers

Maman Moreau tries to begin her training at the very most perfect second; not too young, not too old; not too grown, not too soft; not to aware, not too stupid

If she plays her cards right, if she plays her daughter just right, Adèle will climb up to the top of the world’s podium, like her older brother is supposed to, and maybe then, maybe then…

It’s gymnastics from 6 to 6, 6 days a week. Not on the Lord’s day. Then we must pray. Mother Mary knows we have too much to pray for.

In 2 years, Adèle quadruples her potential and skills, rivaling the Romanian girls

She’s on an unstoppable high, she’s doing it, exceeding expectations, sweetening the sense of victory Maman Moreau cannot help but float on

It is not enough

Or, well, too much

Adèle is perfect, this strong and agile little doll anyone would be lucky to get their hands on

Her price skyrockets and Moreau Senior collects

Her price pays for the errors of Moreau Senior and the Red Room is coming to collect

Maman Moreau falls catatonic at the news, because she knows, she knows, has heard the whispers like trails of blood, and she is locked in the confines of a room in the attic, because Adèle cannot know, Jean can’t know

It is not the first time, after all, that Maman Moreau is sick

The Moreau siblings suspect absolutely nothing as their family and servants gather to see Adèle off from the porch of the Villa Marseillaise

And none of the Moreaus expect a raid from an armed enemy squad, shooting all over, slicing throats left and right

Adèle Moreau dies that afternoon

She’s shot in the back twice and bleeds out in the sandy gravel, her Maman bowed over her little corpse, banshee wailing in the winds of the willows

The raiders set the land on fire and Lady Moreau stands guard over her daughter as it all goes ablaze

From the doorway where he is being carried to safety, Jean Moreau, little Jean, a knife still sticking out from his back, failed attempt at killing him, or was it, catches a glimpse of his burning mother, but never sees his baby sister again

Adèle wakes up in an unfamiliar car, an unfamiliar young man driving, speaking lowly into a cell phone in an unfamiliar language, unfamiliar accent

She is laid on her tummy in the backseat, an even younger man unwrapping mummy bandages, when a bump in the dirt road triggers a searing pain along her spine down to her toes

She almost has time to scream before a strongly scented cloth covers her mouth and she goes back into the dark wonderland

Adèle Moreau vanishes from Marseille and resurfaces as Astrid Müller in Geneva, under the guardianship of a very old couple, childless, both coincidentally retired gymnastics coaches of worldwide renown who teach her everything they know

As Astrid’s bullet wounds heal nicely, a goddamn miracle, the severe burns covering half of Maman Moreau’s body don’t, nor does her heart, or Jean’s

As Astrid trains harder than ever, works from sunrise to sundown on the Swiss farmland, her brother is shipped to America and her mother is interned somewhere in Finland

Astrid does not understand, and she almost forgets, if it weren’t for the twin circles marring her back, but not even ten years go by before someone finds her again

They kill the old couple without mercy but they don’t find her, and the news of the murdered Olympic coaches goes international but they don’t mention her

Adèle and Astrid collide, battle it out somewhere in the acres of blooming corn

It’s one of the American agents of INTERPOL that finds her, and doesn’t let her go

Wade Vesper holds her till Montpelier, Vermont, till the case is opened and closed, opened and closed again, opened and abandoned, till her papers show Marian Vesper, till she hides her accent completely under an American one, till she graduate high school at the top of her gymnastics team, till it’s time to fly away to college

Wade doesn’t teach her everything he knows; if he teaches her a hundredth of what he knows

As hard as some things are to forget, some other are even harder to ask, and answer

Until Nathaniel Wesninski opens his goddamn mouth and almost gets himself killed once or twice, like it’s fun

UCLA was the plan, UCLA was always the plan, fellow gymnasts already awaiting her arrival on the champion team, but Marian applies to USC, because they have a new athlete on their Exy lineup, and she could swear she knew him

What is Wade to do? Uncover the landmine he’s been hiding with his body since he met her? Let her go into the Californian minefield that could make her disappear for good? Fly them to the British countryside and leave a burning house behind?

He lets her go

For better or for worse

Marian fits seamlessly into the dorm life of the student-athlete building, fits in seamlessly with her roommates, two of whom are on the Exy team

The more she learns of this nightmare of a backliner they just welcomed, the more she finds them both beautiful, the more she avoids said backliner, Jean

He doesn’t have a sister; he doesn’t speak French anymore; he isn’t out of the woods yet

Wade Vesper, Neil Josten and Jean Moreau are helpless to what is about to come down; what is done, is done

A Trojan she is, at last

Adèle Moreau doesn’t know what box of horrors she opened

She only wanted–her brother

[yorshie]

Idk if this is a long winded way of requesting a little fic blurb or just an avenue to let off some steam about my favorite turtle. Either way, here you go! [drops this at your feet and hurdles back into the bushes]

Donnie’s always had a way of over analyzing everything. It’s what makes him a quick thinker, a skilled engineer, and an ingenious ninja. He prides himself on picking up on the minute details, deliberate in how he executes his next moves, in life and in combat. So the first few months of dating you feels like a satisfying little puzzle, to him. Figuring out your intricacies, the little peccadilloes in how you move and speak and think.

Mapping out your preferred routes through the city, because then oh, gee, he can just happen to cross paths with you on your way home from work, and hmm, could he walk you home? Watching closely each morning when he brings you your coffee, until he’s able to suss out that three creamers coat the roof of your mouth and make your nose scrunch, but two make you curl your fingers around the mug and sigh while your shoulders hunch happily. Cluing into which songs you’ll sing to on his playlist, so he can make a separate one just for you to enjoy the next time you visit his workshop.

It’s a little adrenaline rush the instant he lands on the right answers, guessing correctly and surprising you, making you smile. It’s a cycle he knows all too well, hypothesizing and testing and repeating things all over until he comes to a perfect conclusion. His scientific process gets repurposed for you, turns restless desire to know everything about you. And, ever the diligent scientist, he sets out to discover every single thing he can, his heart plucking wildly all the while when he finds something new.

…but he’ll admit, there’s something else, comfortable and soft and easy, when he knows he’s got you figured out. He’s dialed in, without question, and that overthinking turns into second nature. The nervous analysis is replaced by a steady thrum of familiarity. Of knowing that he can always count on you leaning into his touch when he slinks a hand down to your hip to bring you closer to him. Unthinking when he drops a kiss to your shoulder whenever you come near, because he likes the smell of your perfume as much as he does your pleased gasp. Mindless in the way he reaches over to trail his thumb across your knuckles while you both work on separate projects, side by side in his lab. He starts enjoying how good he feels around you, because now, there’s no question that he knows how to ensure you feel the same way around him.

It’s less about surprises, then. And he still relishes the moments when he’s able to catch you off guard with how much he really knows you. But now, he’s content in the closer comfort of knowing he can rely on all the data. He’s confident with his touches, sure in his actions. All your quirks and preferences and passions are all pinned up neatly in his brain, and there’s no doubt in his mind when he’s with you, now. No second thoughts. Just a comforting constant to keep coming back to.

Ta-daaaa, alright I’ll leave you be now lmao, thanks! From: Trenchcoat Anon

Oh wow! Trenchcoat Anon, this is really good!

Thank you for sending it in to me, this was such a sweet blurb to read. Handshake emoji on your characterization of Rise Donnie, you hit it out of the ballpark.

I love the switch between Donnie figuring reader out, and knowing reader inside and out. He's got to be so smug about it too, sometimes, you just know it lol. Handing you something you need before you can verbalize that you need it, smiling at his brothers when all you do is thank him for his foresight, his eyebrows going 'ha, ha, see? I know my sweetums so well'. I'm also soft thinking about him gathering things that he knows you'll like, because he knows you so well. He sees off handedly that you wear the same pair of socks over and over, and the next day you have a weeks worth of the same pair to choose from.

Sighs like a lovesick fool. It be Donnie hours.

(edit: i might write a blurb inspired by this, but i wanted to go ahead and share this so others can see it. If i do write a blurb I'll make sure to mention it was inspired by you Trenchcoat)

[starryjkoo]

Alright, not to get too caught up in the MHJ drama, but I’m crying because I just reread my now deleted post-Golden rant complaining about BSH, SB, and my issues with their strategy and I got to this part

😭😭😭

No but I was right. Say what you want about MHJ, but NewJean’s was truly HYBE's only other major success outside of BTS and it had nothing to do with BangPD and it turns out that it absolutely did piss him off LMAO. I knew it. You don't have to believe everything she says, but the elevator thing was basically confirmed and there's no normal, well adjusted adult who would ignore young girls like that if they weren't an immature, petty asshole.

Not to be messy and reopen this can of worms, but it does make me think it's even more likely that he might have been a little bitter over LC hitting #1 considering he couldn't take credit for it. He had that whole article in billboard that came out around the same time talking about how they were going to get the next #1 through their connections or infrastructure or however he put it, which was clearly referencing SB & HYBE America. I think he was trying to make it seem like this whole Scooter A&R strategy was ingenious and vital to Western success based on how hard they kept pushing and talking it up. So if MHJ was telling any amount of truth about his attitude and how he acted towards NWJN's, I just can't help but feel like he must have felt at least a LITTLE negatively about LC hitting that #1 right after he was talking such a big game about how his system (that he spent a billion dollars on) was going to be vital to that next #1.

LC was a Korean song Jimin made with a small in-house team so it must have been a little embarrassing for him to say all that to billboard (and probably investors lol) and have it be immediately invalidated. And LC so clearly demonstrated that BTS and the members could still pull off these big feats without him or his ideas and massive investment and personal involvement. And yeah, billboard did target LC right after that to try and smear it's success, but I think this argument still holds up. Especially because if LC was given any extra care or support it could have kept charting. And what billboard did in it's second week was insanely dirty.

(I’m not saying he was MAD about it, or that he didn’t talk it up to investors after, or that he sabotaged Jimin like a vengeful cartoon villain, I’m just being petty and speculating and saying I don’t think he was thrilled about it considering the circumstances)

Likewise NewJean's released music that did have a good chunk of English but was still Korean, and they managed to break a bunch of girlgroup billboard records as well, and that's ANOTHER project that BSH didn't have his hands on at all. In fact it was one he didn't believe in. Yes, ILLIT broke their record for getting their debut song on billboard quicker, however BSH followed the formula that MHJ created and apparently didn't even consult her or give her any credit while creating a group that was clearly inspired by her work (I genuinely love ILLIT and think they have their own identity! But they do follow the formula that MHJ popularized). So it's not like he got another group on billboard with his genius, it was again just following a formula someone else created (Magnetic was a bop and I loved the whole EP, so I'll give him that!).

I honestly don't even know what SB brings to the table that's so helpful because all they need for a pop song to succeed is basic charting tools like CDs and remixes and playlisting, which they could get before him, and basic decent promotions for visibility. And he's not doing anything interesting or helpful for the non-pop releases even though there's a massive market here for indie, alternative, R&B, and rap. Why wasn't CBTM on college stations? He's useless because the pop releases don't even need much to be successful. And none of JKs promotions were new or unique or something they couldn't have gotten before SB either. And if he's doing something else behind the scenes, I don't think that's worth it either.

JK did have more GP tuning in, but his solo debut was still heavily carried by ARMYs who took advantage of every provided tool, so nothing revolutionary they couldn't have accomplished pre-SB. It wouldn't have worked for anyone else like I said before either, a good example being TXT and their Jo Bros collab which flopped. BSH was all overconfident (top 10 on billboard lol) about it because he thought the secret to success was simply - western producer, western collab, english - but their fans didn't care for the song and therefore it didn't do well. So yeah, at the end of the day it's about good music and/or having a big fandom willing to carry (and that very rare charisma the BTS members have). Not whatever stupid synergy strategy BSH thought he unlocked. Honestly I wonder if he's really that stupid to think that they could get a hit with just those things, but I'm starting to think so. Genuinely what good decision has he made lately that wasn't just following trends?

Won't rehash everything again but this MHJ drama did make me look back on all this discourse even though I swore I was done with it. I'm not as bothered by all of this now, I just think it's interesting to look back on and compare some of her criticisms of HYBE & BSH to many of our own criticisms and speculation. While I take her words with a massive grain of salt, I do think there's a lot of outside evidence to back up some of her claims about the company and their issues (and I'm not her fan or excusing her actions or saying she's always truthful either).

Of course I could be totally wrong, just my thoughts. I'll go back to looking forward to Jin returning and upcoming projects because at the end of the day the BTS members are the ones responsible for their own careers and they have to be the ones to advocate for themselves and deal with their company, but the plus side of this situation is that I hope at least some K-ARMYs are approaching the company with more scrutiny and hopefully holding them accountable for certain things, although I won't hold my breath. It was hilarious seeing HYBE's quick response to their complaints about Jin's hug event though. I wish I-ARMYs would stop being such company stans (you can criticize HYBE/BH without being a manti you know) but not getting my hopes up.

I just sincerely hope that this whole SB creative strategy won't carry over into BTS music, or any more of their solo work. I wouldn’t care if the quality was there, but imo it’s too inconsistent (I definitely enjoy most of Golden! Seven is a bop, SNTY is 10/10). It’s not about creating art or good music for them, it’s about trying to design a song that they think will chart. And songs like that will almost always lack in some way. So I hope this doesn’t become a pattern and the members retain their creative freedom and recognize that they definitely do not need to rely on those people for a hit (ofc unless the want to work with them).

[whyme13wr]

Serendipity pt.1

― pairing: Park Jihoon x OC

― serendipity: to discover mothing beautiful by chance or accident

― summary: Yeonseo meets him by chance but she never wants to let him go.

idol!Jihoon | student!oc | LoveAtFirstSight!au | fluff | 2k

― playlist: Let's Go Picnic - George | Aespa - I'm Unhappy | Hello Stranger - Kai | Park Jihoon - Moon & Back

a/n: here it is my first fanfic, don't be too harsh on me ;) if people actually read this I'll write part 2

She hasn't even reached the top of the mountain yet, but she already feels like giving up. Her lungs are tight and her legs burn. She had read somewhere that walking improves both physical and mental health, and she definitely needs it now. 

With exams coming up, she has been under a lot of stress lately. She had moved to Seoul four years ago after being accepted into one of the country's top universities. It was fun to live in such a big city, a big change from the town she grew up in. However, things have been overwhelming lately and she misses her hometown, her family and her childhood friends more than ever.

She's been looking for hiking trails in Anyang. It's not too far from Seoul and will allow her to get some fresh air. At first, it was nice to be in the middle of nature, but it's been three hours since she's been on the trail and she still doesn't see the end of it. This idea seemed less ingenious. 

Eventually she reached a place where other walkers were taking a break. There were several benches to sit on. She decided to take the one furthest away. As she was making her way to it, she stumbled. Her knees hit the ground and her hands saved her from falling face first. Well, that was embarrassing. There are about ten other people here, she can't help feeling sorry for herself. She came here to make herself feel better, but she can't even do that. 

As she tries to get up, a young man approaches her, holding her water bottle. He reaches out with his other hand for her to grab it and help her to get to her feet. She's in no position to refuse him.

"Are you all right?" he asked, concern written all over his face. That fall must have been quite a show for a random stranger to come help her. 

"I'm fine, I think..." she checked her appearance for injuries. Her leggings were torn and her knees were bloody. 

"Ouch! You're bleeding, that must hurt." He said, taking in her appearance. 

“I’m not feeling the pain yet but my pride definitely took a hit. That fall was so embarrassing.” She felt her face flush.

"Don't worry, it can happen to anyone. This is yours, by the way." He says, handling her water bottle, which must have flown earlier. 

"Thank you," she says, taking it from him, "not just for the bottle, but for helping me... What's your name?"

"Don't mention it! My name is Park Jihoon." He said, holding out his hand for her to shake. 

She took it and replied, "I'm Shin Yeonseo, nice to meet you".

"Likewise," he says with the most beautiful smile, "Do you have anything to disinfect your wounds?"

"Um... No, I didn't come prepared, you see."

"I've got a first aid kit, if you want it. It's with my friends over there." He says. He points to a group of three boys. Yeonseo thought about it and felt that it was an offer she couldn't really refuse. Besides, this guy was cute and friendly. Why not spend a little more time with him? With her studies taking up most of her time, it's rare for her to meet such nice guys.

She replied: "I'd like that".

They made their way there and he introduced her to his friends.

"Guys, this is Yeonseo. Yeonseo, these are my friends Woojin, Guanlin and Jisung." 

"Nice to meet you." 

She could feel a kind of tension in the air, but not directed at her. They all had their eyes on Jihoon as if it were their eyes that did the talking.

"As you can see," he said, "Yeonseo has been injured. I offered our first aid kit since she didn't have one." 

Jisung spoke first while looking at her knees, "Ouch, that must be painful!"

She replied, "Yes, it doesn't look too good, but I'm lucky that your friend came to help me. At least I won't go home with infected wounds." They shook their heads in agreement and she followed Jihoon as he opened one of the bags and took out the kit. She began to clean her wounds with some water. Jihoon took out the disinfectant spray and asked her if he could spray it on her knees. She nodded, a blush visible on her cheeks. She definitely needed this gentleman's number. Where would she find someone like him? She was lost in thoughts about how to ask him for his number when his friends came.

Jisung said “Whenever you’re ready, how about we set off? If you’re not in too much pain, you should join us Yeonseo!” Jihoon looked at her with an hopeful look.

“I would love that! I came here alone and wouldn’t mind the company as a matter of fact.”

“You came here alone? That’s quite brave!” Guanlin said.

“None of my friends are into hiking so didn't have much choice. I wouldn’t say it’s brave.” She responded.

“I think it’s pretty brave to challenge yourself to walk for that long by yourself.” Jihoon added shyly. “Will you truly be okay though?” He added, referring to your bruised knees.

“I’m fine, don't worry about me.” She said with a smile. And with that, the five of them started to get going.

"So how do you know each other?" Yeonseo asks. They all exchange looks. Jihoon finally replies, "We used to work together.

"Oh really?! What did you do? "

"We are dancers." Jihoon replies quickly with a bit of a nervous look on his face. She thought it was because he wasn't used to talking about himself.

"How cool! I don't know how to dance, but I admire anyone who can control their body like dancers do. Besides, you guys are young, but you're already at work, that's impressive!"

"I'm not that young myself, if I dare say so, but thank you," Jisung replied, making everyone laugh. Jihoon whispered to her that he was already over 30 and she reacted with a shocked face. 

Jisung noticed her reaction and said, "Do I look that much younger? She nodded with a broad smile. 

"And what do you do?" Jihoon says.

"I'm studying medicine at Yonsei University."

"You must be very smart, isn't Yonsei one of the best universities in Korea?" Guanlin asked.

"It is, I have always liked science and physics. It came naturally to me. But it's much harder at Yonsei. I'm no longer at the top of my class. Every student here is somehow gifted. It's weird, all my life I've been complimented on how smart I am, but in my class I'm just average.

"It must be a lot of pressure." Jihoon said.

"It's not easy, but I love it. There are no limits to what you can learn in this field. Every year there are new discoveries about the human body, so there is always something new to learn." She explained with passion in her eyes.

"So why did you come here alone?" Woojin asked.

"I'm from the country, I thought spending some time in nature would help me relax. I feel a bit homesick these days."

"I can relate to that. When I was living in Korea, I couldn't help but dream of going back to Taiwan, even though I loved my work here. But somehow I want my life back here now that I am back home. Guanlin said. Everyone nodded, understanding the nostalgia.

"Where are you from, Yeonseo?" Jihoon asked.

"I'm from Hadong." 

"Really?! A few years ago, Woojin and I actually took a trip there. It was beyond beautiful. The cherry trees looked so pretty." Jihoon said with stars in his eyes.

"No way! Not many people in Seoul know about Hadong, I'm surprised. Usually people would rather go to Busan."

"Well, we didn't regret our choice of destination. The food was delicious too!"

"If Jihoon says it's good, you have to believe him. He is not even the biggest seafood lover. Woojin added.

"It warms my heart to hear that the food from my hometown is loved."

"Do you know how to cook?" Woojin asked.

"I know my way around the kitchen, but I might be a bit rusty." She said jokingly. "It's been a long time since I cooked for anyone but myself. As a thank you for putting up with me, maybe I could cook for you."

"It's really no problem. You're fun to be around. Still, it's an offer we can't refuse. At least I can't refuse homemade food." Jihoon jokes.

"That trip was many years ago, I would love to taste Hadong's food again." Woojin added.

"Then I guess I have no choice." She smiled. "My place is pretty small though, I don't know if it will be comfortable for all of us."

"I haven't used it once since I bought my apartment, maybe you could use my kitchen." Jihoon offered.

"Really?"

"Yes, really!" He beamed. She couldn't help but smile back at him. "Guanlin is going back to China in a week, will you be available before he leaves?"

"Um... I don't know, I have exams at the end of the month..." Guanlin looked at her with puppy eyes, as if to say: "Please make an exception. 

"It would have been nice, but if you can't, it can't be helped." Jisung said. 

She really thought about it. She still had at least two weeks until the exams, one night of socializing wouldn't hurt, would it? Add to that the fact that she wanted to get to know Jihoon better, and she came to the conclusion that she could find the time.

"I think I can make time." 

"Great! How is Thursday? I don't have any plans that day." Guanlin suggested. Jihoon and Woojin agreed, only Jisung wouldn't be able to make it. 

"You guys enjoy yourselves without me. I have a schedule." Jisung said with a small smile.

"Send me the list of the groceries, Yeonseo, and I'll take care of it." Jihoon offered.

"Sure, send me your bank account number later so I can pay you back." 

"You find time to cook for us, that's your payment." He says warmly.

"We're about to reach the top of the mountain, guys!" Woojin tells them, some distance ahead of Jihoon and Yeonseo. Elated to have finally reached the summit, they take group selfies together. The view is definitely worth sweating and bleeding for, Yeonseo thinks to herself. The boys asked her to take pictures of them. They look like they're really close, almost like brothers. She takes a moment to look at the view while the boys goof around. Jihoon joins her a few minutes later.

"This is relaxing, right?" She nods as they enjoy the view together for a few more minutes before joining the rest of the boys.

“This picture is the best, I bet it will make the fa-” Woojin stops.

"The family is really happy, right Woojin?" Jisung saves the day for Jihoon. It's not that he wants to hide his job, but it's nice to have someone who doesn't recognise him for once. He wants to make a connection without worrying that the person only likes him because he is a celebrity. He wants to get to know Yeonseo before he tells her who he is. He doesn't have to explain this to the boys, because they understand. Unfortunately, they've all been in his position. Yeonseo doesn't seem to notice the boys' exchange of glances. Talking about all sorts of things, they begin their journey back. Eventually, Jihoon and Yeonseo stay a bit behind. Yeonseo's injuries prevented her from walking as fast as the others. The boys decided that this was a good opportunity to let Jihoon have some time alone with Yeonseo. They left, saying that they had to hurry. Yeonseo couldn't find it in her heart to complain about it at all. They talked about anything and everything all the way to the foot of the mountain where she had to wait for the bus back to Seoul. 

"We have a free seat in our car if you want, Jisung is a good driver, I promise. " Jihoon joked.

"Don't worry, my bus is almost here. Thank you though. I'll let you enjoy your time with the boys."

"Fine, I won't put any pressure on you. We should exchange numbers, by the way." He tries to say nonchalantly. She can see he's a bit nervous, but doesn't comment. She adds her number to his contact list and calls herself to save his number for later. Just then her bus arrives. She waves goodbye and says: "See you on Thursday! He waves back with a big smile and watches her bus drive away.

He meets the boys at their car, and as he gets in they look at him with expectant eyes. "What?" 

“What was that? Did you fall in love with her or what? I’ve never seen you like that with a girl dude!” Woojin adds.

"I don't know. At first I helped her out of kindness, but there's something about her I can't explain".

"Well, you've got her number and you know when you'll see her next, so well played!" Jisung said. Jihoon smiled at the thought of seeing her again.

Yeonseo sat on the bus with a huge grin on her face. Shit, what a good day, maybe her life won't be so miserable anymore. She couldn't wait to tell her roommate about Jihoon. 

As soon as she got back to her flat, she went straight up to Minhee's room. Minhee looked surprised. "Wow, why do you have such a happy look on your face? I didn't know that walking would do that, I guess I should come with you next time".

"I met the man of my dreams," Yeonseo said, sitting on the chair by the desk while Minhee lay in her bed. He's beautiful, caring, kind, a good listener. Honestly, I could go on for hours."

"Don't you think you're exaggerating a bit," Minhee said in a joking way, "although I have to say I haven't seen you this excited in a very long time. So did you get his number?" At the same time Yeonseo gets a notification, she checks her phone and wriggles happily. Jihoon has just sent her a text message:

"Hey, this is Jihoon. I hope you got home safely. Don't forget to take care of those wounds of yours.

- I had a great time today, can't wait for Thursday. Have a good evening :)"

[pope-john-peel]

Hello. It is I, Jodie, creator of many fandom playlists and Snapedom shitposts. Friend to many role play accounts. Beta reader for all who ask.

Dear lord have the last few years been a trip.

If you knew me during the period of 2015-2018, when I was most active on here and predominantly active in the Snapedom you may already know that back then I was going through some capital S Shit. I was in an awful relationship, deadend job, broke, and overall not very hopeful about...life, to be honest.

I want to apologize for the sad lump I was and for whatever pain that may have caused any of you on here. But I also want to write a thank you to everyone on here who rallied around me during what was objectively the most difficult period of my life.

Whatever happened IRL in those years I knew I could come on here and someone would make me laugh. Or cry with their ingenious rollplays and fanfictions. Or just extend a hand of comfort and grace. The lot of you helped guide me through that and for that I will forever be thankful.

I'm in a better place now. I'm with someone who loves me and has gone to the ends of the earth to show that to me. I'm in a job with upward mobility and benefits. And I want to become active on here again.

I'm sure a great deal of my old friends have moved on from things, either the fandom or this platform in its entirety. But do me a favor. If you like Snape, or Spider-Man, I like him now, too, give this some notes. I'd love to see what you're cooking up.

A special shoutout to @snuffles-groovy-doghouse @sevi-seviyorum @doodlebat who were some of my first real friends here. I hope life is treating you all well. I think about you often.

Also, I had to get a root canal this year because I did not floss for a very long time. Please remember to floss. Heed my warning.

[bestmotorcycleheadphones]

Motorcycle Bluetooth Headphones For Enhanced Riding Experience

The world of motorcycling is an exhilarating realm where the wind whispers tales of adventure and the road beckons with promises of freedom. For motorcycle enthusiasts, the journey is a symphony of sights, sensations, and now, sounds. Enter motorcycle Bluetooth headphones – the ultimate gear to amplify your riding experience, seamlessly blending entertainment and communication into every mile you conquer. In this exploration, we delve into the realm of these wireless wonders that redefine the art of riding.

Motorcycle Bluetooth headphones offer riders a bridge between technology and the open road. These ingenious devices enable seamless wireless connection to your smartphone, GPS, or other Bluetooth-enabled devices. With a simple tap or voice command, you can answer calls, access navigation, and control your music, all while keeping your hands firmly on the handlebars and your eyes on the road.

Gone are the days of solitary rides; with Bluetooth headphones, the road becomes your personal amphitheater. Whether you're cruising through scenic landscapes or navigating bustling city streets, these headphones envelop you in a world of high-fidelity audio. Immerse yourself in your favorite playlists, audiobooks, or podcasts, all while the rumble of your engine harmonizes with your chosen soundtrack.

Motorcycle Bluetooth headphones aren't just about entertainment – they're about safety too. Advanced noise-canceling and noise-isolating technologies minimize the distractions of wind, traffic, and engine noise. This enables clearer communication with fellow riders, ensuring that you're always connected and in sync, even on group rides.

Getting lost is part of the thrill of adventure, but having a reliable navigation system can be a game-changer. Bluetooth headphones seamlessly integrate with GPS apps, providing you with turn-by-turn directions right in your ears. This means you can focus on the ride without the hassle of constantly checking your phone or GPS device.

Communicating on the go has never been easier. Motorcycle Bluetooth headphones enable hands-free calling, allowing you to stay connected with loved ones or fellow riders without taking your attention away from the road. The built-in microphones and intuitive controls let you effortlessly switch between conversations and music playback.

[poursomesunaonme]

goofy sex headcanons - for the jjk men!

a/n: these were soooo fun to write oh my god yallllll !!! but a million thanks to @titan-fodder and @spacelabrathor for hosting the ingenious better than fiction collab! such a fun idea <333 make sure yall read the other submissions too !

cw: nsfw, minors dni, minor characters aged up!!, some really cringey shit LMAO, spanking, mentions of pee, i have no idea what to do for these, all very soft and strange bc these men are menaces.

wc: 2.2k

featuring: satoru, yuuji, megumi, kento, toji, sukuna, yuuta, toge, suguru, choso, aoi

gojo satoru

talks like his dick is a person

y’all simply cannot deny it

satoru towers over you, lining his length to your entrance. he giggles as he kisses your nose, cerulean depths trained on your face.

“you ready for big goj, babe?”

you have to laugh while a smirk clings to the corners of his lips. his hair tumbles effortlessly into his face, a few soft tendrils tickling your cheekbones.

“please tell me you’re not calling your dick ‘big goj.’”

his face remains unchanged, giving you the answer to the question. of course your satoru would name his cock and refer to it like a human.

“why that? ‘toru, it’s awful.”

the head slips into your entrance, eliciting a hiss from between your lips. satoru doesn’t make a move to push the rest of his cock in you as another laugh falls from his lips. and his tone is so sweet, so nonchalant.

“because it isn’t lil goj.”

as if to emphasize his point, he sheaths himself inside before you could utter another syllable, a surprised gasp tearing through your body. and shit, he was right.

itadori yuuji

arguably the goofiest

talks in a baby voice because he’s the worst

lazy strokes bring yuuji’s hips to yours as your tongues interwine in a sloppy kiss. he stretches you in all the right ways, curve brushing against your sweetest spot with a practiced ease. toes curling, you wrap your legs around him, feeling the familiar tingle in your limbs as you approach your high.

“does that feel goodie woodie?”

yuuji’s teasing voice is like nails on a chalkboard. you roll your eyes, slapping a hand against his chest. he wears a goofy grin as he speeds up his pace, balls slapping against your ass.

“yuuji, shut up,” you whine. his childish voice had been funny the first few times y’all had hooked up, but now it’s just plain annoying.

he merely grins, not saying another word. his lips slot against yours once again, moans pouring from both of your mouths to harmonize in a euphonious, lewd melody. and soon, the ball of energy threatens to uncoil violently in your gut. yuuji’s made aware by the increase in pitch of your noises, how you grip his arms.

“aww little baby waby’s gonna cummy wummy?”

cummy wummy.

never had you ever been turned off so fast.

“not anymore!”

fushiguro megumi

has a secret troll sex playlist

megumi’s usually pretty good at making playlists. it was the first thing that had brought you together, and was most definitely his love language. and he always, always, had the best sex playlists.

smooth voices croon around the room as he sunk into you, thrusting into you so perfectly. and he makes sure that he can always hit it on the beat because it drives you fucking wild.

but this time, megumi had surprised you. some of the songs were complete jokes, sending you both into fits of giggles as megumi didn’t miss a beat, continuing to fuck you to these songs like it was his job.

(yes, he rick rolled you.)

but megumi clutches your shins to his shoulders for balance as his hips slap against yours in perfect tempo with the home depot beat.

“‘gumi,” you pant, breathless from laughing and his immaculate stroke game, “this is the worst song by far!”

“we haven’t even gotten halfway through the playlist, princess.”

the smirk that adorns his face is all you needed to know as the home depot beat gives way to the big time rush theme song.

nanami kento

is normally so collected but can be a menace

he has this thing where he tries to imitate pornstars and he’s scary good at it

you and kento had just moved to the bedroom from a heavy makeout on the couch, both already knowing where the night was going. he lays your naked frame down gently on the plush mattress.

“ready, hun?” he asks, grasping your hand to press kisses to your knuckles.

“mmhm,” you sigh, pulling him into a kiss by his neck. lips interlocked, he lines himself with your entrance and pushes in gently. however, the sound that erupts from his lips is nothing of the sort.

“ngh - shit!” he practically hollers, looking down with an incredulous expression that was a bit too dramatic to be real. with a grin, you realize what he’s doing. exaggerated thrusts slam into your center as nanami grits his teeth, furrowing his brows so hard that they almost get stuck there.

kento loves imitating the dramatic pornstar antics, yelling about how good your pussy feels, all well perfectly embodying the mouth-agape-in-pleasure face.

“i’m cumming!” he announces, slamming into you. “cumming! gonna cum in that tight little pussy!”

it’s too ridiculous not to burst into a fit of giggles as you wrap your arms around him in bliss.

fushiguro toji

is notorious for accidentally sticking it in the wrong hole. like, canonically !

which is kinda fun because sometimes you’ll go with it; other times, nah…

toji is just always so eager to fuck you, sprinting into the house from whatever event where he was unbelievably horny (if y’all even made it back from the car). he’s ripping off your clothes as you stumble into the bedroom, clumsily tossing them wherever you’ll find them tomorrow. he can barely see past his raging lust as he devours your lips.

you’re pinned under him before you know it; and he frees himself to plunge into your warmth. but he finds more resistance than he expected as he presses his cock into the tight hole.

“ow, toji!” you whine, pushing him away. “fuck, that hurt!”

“what’s wrong?” he questions.

“wrong hole, dumbass.” you roll your eyes, trying desperately to seal your lips together to hide a smile that tried to crack through your façade.

“sorry, darlin’,” toji drawls, taking a deep breath to center himself. he presses a kiss to your forehead, then guides his cock carefully to where he had originally intended for it to go. “i just get a little too excited sometimes.”

ryomen sukuna

will make a beat while he’s fucking you and rap over it

a broken cry tears itself from your lips at the sharp sting of sukuna’s palm against your ass. this doesn’t stop him, however, from continuing his moderate pace. it isn’t too fast, but it sure is powerful, rocking your entire body into the mattress.

the pace is steady as the both of you fall into a silence only interrupted by heavy breath and occasional moans - that is, until, sukuna’s been inspired.

“ooh shit, yeah girl / being in this pussy’s my whole wide world,” he raps, much to your annoyance. “i’ll take you for a whirl / crackin’ open your legs to find that pearl.”

upon attempting to roll your eyes, sukuna starts to deliver a series of rhythmic spanks on the sensitive skin of your ass, which effectively halts the motion. so, you swallow your defiance. and soon, that effort includes corking the laughter that followed sukuna’s butchered singing voice.

“i could spend all day inside this light,” he croons, much to your amusement. “y/n, you just get me so right.”

you’re nearly in tears from trying to stifle the giggles that bubbled up inside you, but at his childish rhymes, they burst forth. needless to say, your cunt inspires sukuna in more ways than one.

okkotsu yuuta

has a soundboard on his phone that he likes to mess around with

with a sudden clarity, you realize that maybe approving yuuta’s suggestion for the bedroom wasn’t such a good idea. and of course, it only took the sound of a clown horn honking while he squeezed the tender flesh of your tits for it to dawn on you.

yuuta grins, stifling raucous laughter at your incredulous expression, but he relents in the usage of his annoying soundboard, only for a little while longer.

“what? ‘s not funny?” he questions, pressing his chest to yours. sweat coats the skin as he thrusts easily into you.

“i dunno,” you shrug, brushing back a strand of hair that fell into his face. “‘s kinda weird.”

so the two of you continue in a comfortable silence punctuated by sweet moans and tender groans, that is, until, yuuta’s pushed over the edge.

and without fail, lil john’s “yeah!”s are harmonizing with your boyfriend’s moans. now that, you can’t help but guffaw at as your boyfriend collapses onto your chest in a spout of laughter.

inumaki toge

will tell you to queef over and over and will die laughing the entire time

hooking up with toge is super awkward the first few times because he’s scared to say anything. but as your relationship progresses and you become more accustomed to his different ways of communicating - more importantly, as you get more comfortable in experimenting with his cursed speech, it becomes more and more exciting.

but nothing is as exciting as toge burrowing between your legs, hips slamming into yours. he had promised a surprise for you today, and you’re incredibly eager to experience what he had in store for you.

memories of his cursed speech technique edging you, making you squirt, drawing out toe curling orgasms spiraled within your mind - and you can’t help but pool at the thought.

“queef.”

the word is barely out of toge’s mouth before the lewd sound sputters from your cunt, earning a cackle from your boyfriend. a heat rushes to your face in a sense of embarrassment, yet toge still persists.

his laughter, so rare but so beautiful, was so contagious that soon you joined in, collapsing in a fit of giggles. yet it’s safe to say that a serious sex was no longer in the question for tonight.

geto suguru

will lie and tell you that he accidentally peed in you just to see how you react

it started off as any normal evening. you and suguru had already eaten and finished doing the dishes when you retire to the couch to watch a show to wind down for the night. but you both usually know how that goes.

clothes litter the living room before you know it, and suguru already has you prepped and ready before sliding into the infinite warmth. with a shaky, grinning sigh, he begins to thrust into you. all of your limbs wrap around him, pulling him in closer to you.

“uh, y/n?” suguru suddenly pipes up into your ear after a few moments.

“yes, dear?”

“i… i, uh… i just peed in you.”

you’re up in a flurry, not even bothering to wrap yourself in a blanket as you stumble to the bathroom to attempt to clean yourself up. you can’t even utter a syllable, you’re so furious.

you have no idea what to do as you sit on the toilet. but suguru appears in the doorway, a cheeky smile on his face.

“so… would you kill me if i told you i was joking?”

“be glad i’m not armed at the moment.”

kamo choso

bonks his head on the headboard NO MATTER WHAT POSITION YALL ARE IN

poor baby has been concussed

choso can barely keep a pace with his hips when he draws near his climax. he can’t help that you wrap around him so perfectly, that you’re just the right kind of warmth, and you’re so soft. it takes everything in him not to bust as soon as he pushes the tip inside.

and he fucks you like a rabid animal, kisses you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do, touches you like he’s a cartographer. he’s so enthusiastic, so passionate, that everything around the two of you ceases to exist.

and tonight, right as he’s on the edge, just one toe away from tipping over that precipice, a loud boom resounds from above you.

choso’s hips still immediately. his hand rises from it’s grounding position next to your shoulder to clutch at his forehead. you already know what had happened before he said anything.

“oh, dear, you hit your head?” you ask, a teasing lilt to your voice. he grits his teeth and nods. gently pushing against him, gently guiding his body down, you mount his hips to continue the session.

pressing a kiss to the growing bump on his front, you smile. “i’ll take it from here.”

todo aoi

every sound that you make, he’s making a comparison to what else it sounds like

aoi is a sex god. he does not fuck around when it comes to pleasing you. he does everything in his power to have you creaming and crying all over whatever he uses to find those sweet spots.

so you can’t help that with each dextrous moment he executes with his deft, girthy fingers, more of your essence seeps out of your weeping cunt.

and the sounds are nothing short of sinful. but todo can’t help himself.

“you know when you stick your finger in a fish pond, and the little fishies come suck on your finger-”

“give it a rest, babe,” you whine, tugging at his wrist to focus his attention. he obeys your wishes. he had a habit of labeling each sound you made, comparing it to something completely absurd. you had to be in a certain mood for it, however, and that was not tonight.

“mac and cheese.”

he can’t help but giggle at the wet sounds that spew from your cunt.

“shut up!”

—

jjik taglist: @the-princess-button @ob-levi-on @pink-apples001 @missyasma

© all work belongs to poursomesunaonme. do not copy and repost.

[starglitterz]

"hang on, i swear that wasn't me! ...you aren't here to arrest me? okay, phew; i'm jewel, soon-to-be knight at your service!

name: jewel vigneau

title: mischief maker

pronouns: she/they

nation: mondstadt

vision: hydro

weapon: catalyst

affiliation: knights of favonius, [redacted]

age: 22

birthday: august 16th

special dish: is that a screw?!

constellation: machinator (the inventor)

jewel is an self-appointed member of the knights of favonius, based on the claim that acting grandmaster jean is too busy to make it official. with her ingenious wit and creativity, jewel often finds herself helping out the knights solve more sensitive issues, hence the belief that she's one of them.

always brimming over with excitement for her latest project, jewel can and will talk your ear off about it before rushing off to build something in her workshop. she's a renowned klutz, with a trail of sparkplugs and screws often following behind her skipping path. jewel is often spotted pestering chief alchemist albedo to help her 'alchemise' her inventions, promising they'll conquer the world together.

unfortunately, it's certain to be a long while before jewel can hope to be a knight, and that's due to how she is almost constantly in trouble with the very knights she always assists. between selling illegal prototypes on the black market and testing her explosive creations in public, the knights have their hands full with dealing with her. yet perhaps what all of mondstadt doesn't realise is that behind her happy smile, jewel throws herself into her passion and work to hide the burning questions and pain of a past she longs to remember, starting with the scar decorating her face.

picrew. | voicelines. | character details. | playlist. | oc masterlist.

© starglitterz 2021. do not repost or modify in any way.

[bananaofswifts]

Taylor Swift Turns on a Facsimile Machine for the Ingenious Recreations of ‘Fearless (Taylor’s Version)’: Album Review

Swift recreates her entire 2008 album literally down to the last note, then gives herself room for stylistic latitude on six never-before-recorded "vault" tracks.

By Chris Willman

Swift recreates her entire 2008 album literally down to the last note, then gives herself room for stylistic latitude on six never-before-recorded "vault" tracks.

There is no “best actress” award at the Grammys, perhaps for obvious reasons, but maybe there should be this coming year. And the Grammy would go to… Taylor Swift, for so persuasively playing her 18-year-old self in “Fearless (Taylor’s Version),” her beyond-meticulous recreation of the 2008 recording that did win her her first album of the year trophy back in the day. It’s impossible to overstate just how thoroughly the new version is intended as an exact replica of the old — all the way down to her startling ability to recapture an untrained teen singing voice she’s long matured and moved on from. It’s a stunt, to be sure, but a stunt for the ages — mastering the guile it takes to go back to sounding this guileless.

There are two different, very solid reasons to pick up or stream “Taylor’s Version,” regardless of whether you share her ire for the Big Machine label, whose loose ways with her nine-figure catalog precipitated this, the first in a six-album series of remakes where she’ll be turning on the facsimile machine. One is to marvel at her gift for self-mimicry on the album’s original tracks, where she sounds as possessed by her younger self as Regan ever was by Pazuzu. The other reason is, of course, to check out the six “vault” numbers that Swift wrote during that time frame but has never released before in any form, which dispenses with stylistic fealty to the late 2000s and frames her “Fearless”-era discards in production and arrangements closer to “Folklore.” Those half-dozen (kind of) new tracks really do sound like modern Taylor Swift covering her old stuff.

But those original lucky 13? It’s the same damn record… which is kind of hilarious and marvelous and the kind of meta-ness that will inspire a thousand more think-pieces than it already has, along with possibly efforts at forensic analysis to figure out how she did it.

It would not be surprising if, as we speak, Big Machine was putting a combined team of scientists and lawyers on the case of the new album’s waveform readouts, to make sure it’s not just the original album, remixed. Honestly, it’s that close. The timings of the songs are all within a few seconds of the original tracks, if not coming in at exactly the same length. The duplication effort doesn’t allow any detours. If “Forever and Always” had a cold open then, it’s going to have a cold open now. If the 2008 “That’s the Way I Love You” had slamming rock guitars with an almost subliminal banjo being plucked beneath the racket, so will the 2021 “That’s the Way I Loved You.” A drum roll to end the old “Change”? A drum roll to end its body-snatcher doppelganger. And if she chuckled before the final chorus of “Hey Stephen” 13 years ago, so will that moment be cause for a delighted giggle now.

Of course, much analysis will be put into whether the new laugh is a more knowing-sounding laugh. And that will be part of the fun for a certain segment of audiophile Swifties who will go looking for the slightest change as evidence of something meaningful. When “Love Story (Taylor’s Version)” first came out weeks back to preview the album, there were reviews written that swore she’d subtly changed up her phrasing to put a contemporary spin on the song. And maybe they were right, but, having done a fair amount of A/B testing of the two versions of the album, I found myself feeling like I do when vinyl buffs insist there are significant sonic differences between the first stamper version of an LP and one that was pressed a year later. If you can spot those very, very, very modest tweaks, go for it.

But my suspicion is that if Swift has decided to turn a phrase a little differently here or there on this album, or done anything too differently aside from brighten the sound, she’s doing it more as an Easter egg, for the people who are on that kind of hunt, than anything really designed as reinterpretation. Because the last thing Swift wants most of her fans doing is A/B-ing the two versions, the way I did. The whole point is to have folks retire the OG “Fearless” from their Spotify playlists, right? The Swift faithful were already threatening to rain down damnation on anyone caught sneaking an audio peek at the old version after midnight. What she intended was to come up with a rendering so faithful that you would never have a need to spin the vintage album again. In that, she has succeeded beyond what could have been imagined even in the dreams of the few self-forgers who’ve tried this before, like a Jeff Lynne.

Is there any reason to find value in the new versions if you couldn’t care less about the issues of masters and contracts and respect in business deals that made all this strangely possible? Yes, with the first one being that the new album just sounds like a terrific remastering of the old — the same notes, and you’d swear the same performances, but sounding brighter and punchier just on a surface level. But on a more philosophical one, it’s not just a case of Swift playing with her back catalog like Andy Warhol played with his soup can. It’s really a triumph of self-knowledge and self-awareness, in the way that Swift is so hyper-conscious of the ways she’s matured that she has the ability to un-mature before our very ears. With her vocals, it’s virtuosic, in a way, how she’s made herself return to her unvirtuosic upstart self.

On Swift’s earliest albums and in those seminal live shows — at the time when she was famously being told she “can’t sing,” to quote a song from the follow-up album — there was a slight shrillness around the edges of her voice that, if you lacked faith, you might’ve imaged would be there forever. It wasn’t. That was partly youth, and partly just the sheer earnestness with which she wanted to convey the honesty of the songs. She’s advanced so much since then — into one of pop’s most gifted modern singers, really — that the woman of “Folklore” and “Evermore” seems like a completely different human being than the one who made the self-titled debut and “Fearless,” never mind just a woman versus girl. It wouldn’t have seemed possible that she could go back to her old way of singing at the accomplished age of 31, but she found and recreated that nervous, sincere, pleading voice of yesteryear. And maybe it was just a technical feat, of temporarily unlearning what she’s learned since then, but you can sense that maybe she had to go there internally, too, to the place where she was counseling other girls to guard their sexual virtue in “Fifteen,” or wondering whether to believe the fairy tale of “Love Story” or the wakeup call of “White Horse,” or proving with “Forever & Always” that writing a song telling off Joe Jonas for his 27-second breakup call was better than revenge.

If at first you’re not inclined to notice that Swift has re-adopted a completely different singing voice for the “Fearless” remakes, the realization may kick in when those “vault” tracks start appearing in the later stretch of this hour-and-50-minute album. The writing on the six songs that have been pulled up from the 2008 cutting room floor seems primitive, even a little bit by the standards of the “Fearless” album; there are great lines and couplets throughout the rescued tracks, but you can see why she left them as works-in-progress. But she doesn’t use her youthful voice on these resurrections, nor does she employ the actual style of “Fearless” very strictly. Of course, she feels more freedom on these, because there are no predecessors in the Big Machine catalog she’s asking you to leave behind. Her current collaborators of choice, Jack Antonoff and Aaron Dessner, divided the co-producing work on these fresher songs, as they did for the two all-new albums she released in the last year. (The “Fearless” recreations are co-produced by Swift with Christopher Rowe, someone who worked on remixes for Swift back in that era.) They co-produce the vault songs in a style that sounds somewhere between “Fearless” and Folklore”… a more spectral brand of country-pop, with flutes and synths and ringing 12-string guitars and a modicum of drum programming replacing some (but not all) of the acoustic stringed instruments you’d expect to be carried over from “Fearless” proper.

Of the previously unheard tracks, Swift was right — she’s always been her own best self-editor — in putting out “You All Over Me” first, in advance of the album. With its imagery of half-muddy stones being upturned on the road, this song has advanced lyrical conceits more of a piece with the level of writing she’s doing now than some of the slightly less precocious songs that follow. Still, there’s something to be said for the sheer zippiness with which Swift conveys teen heartbreak in “Mr. Perfectly Fine,” which has a lyric that shows Swift had long since absorbed the lessons Nashville had to offer about how to come up with a high-concept song — the concept, in this case, being just to stick the word “mister” in front of a lot of phrases relating to her shallow ex, as if they were honorary titles to be conferred for being a shit, while she employs the “miss” for herself more sparingly.

Some of the remaining outtake songs go back more toward the sedate side of “Fearless”-style material; she didn’t leave any real bangers in the can. “We Were Happy,” the first of two successive tracks to bring in Keith Urban (but only for backgrounds on this one), employs fake strings and real cello as Swift waxes nostalgic for a time when “you threw your arms around my neck, back when I deserved it.” It’s funny, in a good way, to hear Swift at 31 recreating a song she wrote at 17 or 18 that pined for long-past better times. The next song, “That’s When,” brings Urban in for a proper duet where he gets a whole second verse and featured status on half a chorus, and it’s lovely to hear them together. But, as a make-up song, it doesn’t feel as real or lived-in as the more personal things she was writing at the time — and the fact that its chords are pretty close to a slightly more balladic version of the superior “You Belong With Me” was probably a pretty good reason for dropping it at the time.

the 18-year-old Taylor Swift is a great place to visit, but “Folklore” and “Evermore” are the place you’ll want to return to and live, unless you have an especially strong sentimental attachment to “Fearless”… which, sure, half of young America does. It’s not irreconcilable to say that the two albums she issued in the last year represent a daring pinnacle of her career, but that “Fearless” deserved to win album of the year in 2008. Has there been a greater pop single in the 20th century than “You Belong With Me”? Probably not. Did the album also have lesser moments you probably haven’t thought about in a while, like the just-okay “Breathe”? Yes. (I looked up to see whether Swift had ever played that little remarked upon number in concert, and according to setlists.fm, she did, exactly once… in 2018. Because she’s Taylor Swift, and of course she did.) It’s not certain that her duet with Colbie Caillat really needed to be resurrected, except it’s fun, because hey, she even roped former duet partners back into her time warp. But there are so many number that have stood the test of time, like “The Way I Love You,” an early song that really got at the complicated feelings about passion and fidelity that she would come to explore more as she grew into her 20s… and just kind of a headbanger, too, on an album that does love its fiddles and mandolins.

It doesn’t take much to wonder why Swift put up “Fearless” first in this six-album exercise; it’s one of her two biggest albums, along with “1989,” and it’s 13 years old, which does mean something superstitious in the Taylor-verse. In a way, it’ll be more interesting to see what happens when she gets to more complicated productions, like “1989” or “Reputation.” But maybe “Fearless” did present the opportunity for the grandest experiment out of the gate: to recreate something that pure and heartfelt, with all the meticulousness a studio master like Swift can put to that process now, without having it seem like she’s faking sincerity. Let the think-pieces proceed — because this is about six hundred different shades of meta. But, all craftiness and calculation aside, there’s a sweetness to the regression that’s not inconsequential. It harks back to a time when she only wondered if she could be fearless, before she learned it the harder way for sure. What they say about actors “disappearing into the role”? That really applies to Taylor Swift, playing herself.

[luvdsc]

too hot! hot damn!

what do you get when you mix red and blue together?

pairing :: lee taeyong x reader genre :: fluff / boyfriend au word count :: 2,121 words warnings :: a tiny paragraph about making out playlist :: cherry kisses (chungha) ⋆ daft pretty boys (bad suns) ⋆ hands on me (taeyeon) ⋆ crash my car (coin) ⋆ shy (hunny) author’s note :: to the insanely talented goddess who wrote the first nct fic i ever read nearly 3 years ago and still love to this day!!! i didn’t think i’d ever get to be friends with one of my favoritest writers on here, but here we are :’) ily els @taeyongtime​ ♡ 

“It’s hot.”

You’re draped across the old, yet still very plush couch, the kitschy pattern spread across it now fondly regarded as one of the things that transforms this dingy little place from a shoebox apartment into home. The thin spaghetti strap of your faded tie-dyed tank top from your old sorority days hangs limply off of your shoulder, threatening to fall even more when you slump over to the left. The simple drawstring shorts you have on barely cover your legs, but you contemplate tossing them off still because it’s just. So. Damn. Hot.

“It’s hot!” you whine even louder, throwing your arms up in the air before letting them flop down onto the cushions dramatically. The nearby open window only blows in a measly little breeze that does nothing except dry the sweat on your skin for a few glorious seconds before it reappears like a stubborn stain. Your boyfriend only raises an eyebrow at you from his spot on the floor, sprawled out in front of said window and using one of his Nylon magazines as a makeshift fan.

Taeyong agrees, flapping the glossy pages in front of his face desperately. “It’s too hot.”

Two days consisting of barely surviving the power outage creeps into a third, the prospect of having AC again anytime soon becoming extremely bleak. The transformer had completely blown out, and the electric company finally sent out a crew to fix it earlier this morning. The estimated restoration was initially set to noon, but it was pushed back until 3 p.m., then 6 p.m., then 10 p.m., then 5 a.m., and now the big black bolded letters spelling out “undetermined” mocks you from the screen of your phone that's already set to the lowest brightness setting to conserve battery.

To make it worse, your city was suffering a heat wave, temperatures spiking to 105 degrees Fahrenheit every single day and simmering down to 80 during the night before climbing the thermostat again. The raging thunderstorm that plagued last night only resulted in unexpected humidity, making your clothes stick to you like a second skin.

“Make it less hot,” you moan, blowing air upwards towards your forehead in an attempt to cool down in the slightest way possible.

“I can’t control the weather, babe, but I can get you a popsicle?” Taeyong sluggishly pushes himself into a sitting position to face you. The shiny magazine in his hand still flounders around until he gives up on it and tosses it aside.

You turn your head, cheek pressing into the couch cushion, as you squint at him. “We don’t have any left. We took all our food from the fridge to Doyoung’s place. I can’t believe that bastard has a gigantic generator and is flourishing in his stupid air conditioned apartment and making frozen sangrias, while his best friends are about to die from heatstroke.”

You had sent back a rather crass Snapchat back to Doyoung after he sent one earlier of his perfect, Instagram story worthy, iced alcoholic beverage. It’s honestly a miracle that he didn’t toss your beloved brown sugar boba ice cream bars out onto his pristine balcony with picture perfect potted plants to perish. That man can still hold onto a grudge even after he’s on his deathbed and descending into the fiery pits.

Taeyong stands up and slowly ambles towards the refrigerator. “I saved two popsicles in the freezer. I figured it’d stay cold enough and not melt if we ate them soon.”

“Oh my god, that’s the sexiest thing you’ve ever said to me.” You struggle to push yourself up into a sitting position before finally being able to, watching your boyfriend open the freezer and pull out the last two saving graces.

“Do you want blue raspberry or cherry?”

He holds out the two icy sweets in front of you, one in each hand. You already know that he secretly wants the red one; it’s been his favorite ever since he was five and tried his very first one from the ice cream truck that still comes around his parents’ neighborhood. But you also know that he always lets you choose first and wouldn’t complain if you take that one.

You reach out and pluck the blue one from his grasp, and he smiles happily, eyes crinkling in the corners as he eagerly unwraps the cherry flavored one and shoves it in his mouth, tossing the wrapper into the nearby wicker trash basket.

He drops down onto the empty space next to you, reclining back and slouching in his seat. The two of you sit there peacefully, side by side and enjoying the cold snacks, until he wordlessly slides over, pressing the side of his arm and leg against yours.

“Move back,” you complain, shoving him over to his original position. “It’s hot, and you’re making it worse.”

“So are you calling me hot?” Taeyong wriggles his eyebrows at you before taking a bite of his popsicle, much to your horror. He moves closer to you again for the sole sake of annoying you.

“First off, I’m calling you sweaty. Secondly, did you just bite your ice cream?” You throw him a dirty look before moving over and turning to sit with your back against the arm rest, throwing your legs over his lap.

Taeyong slightly pouts at you, munching on yet another chunk of his popsicle and ignoring the way you wrinkle your nose in disdain. “What’s wrong with that? It’s melting, and I don’t want it to drip and get my hand all sticky.”

You can’t believe that you just discovered your boyfriend is a psychopath. He’s going to the same circle of hell as people who pour milk in before cereal and those who hate mint chocolate chip ice cream once he leaves this earth (He can even say hi to Doyoung as he descends to eternal damnation).

“Why didn’t you say anything about this before we started dating?” You are absolutely appalled. Horrified. Disgusted. This is the biggest relationship deal breaker you have ever come across.

“Next, you’re gonna say you hate me because I don’t like pineapple on pizza,” he says as his free hand settles on the top of your thigh, gently tapping rhythmically against it absentmindedly.

“Oh my god, you absolute heathen.” You really thought Taeyong was the perfect man of your dreams, but you unfortunately realize belatedly that even he has flaws. Some inexcusable ones, in fact. 

In the midst of your lamenting, you fail to notice melting sugar slowly trickling down until it leaves a sticky mess all over your hand. Desperately, you toss the empty popsicle stick into the nearby waste basket before licking off the remnants of your icy blue treat from your fingers.

“See? It melted all over you. I told you so,” Taeyong childishly sticks out his tongue as he waves his clean hand and empty popsicle stick around as if to emphasize his point.

“Your tongue’s red,” you say, chuckling slightly, and his eyes widen at this newfound revelation.

“Wait, stick out your tongue,” he demands as he throws away the wooden stick, and you comply with his request. He grins, delighted. “Yours is blue!”

He sticks out his tongue again, almost going cross eyed as he tries to catch a glimpse of his own. At that, your eyes zero in on his cherry stained lips, and an ingenious idea pops up in your mind as the sudden urge to kiss your boyfriend silly makes itself very known.

“Hey, wanna play a game, Yongie?” you ask slyly, and his attention immediately turns to you at the word “game,” interest piqued and eyes fixated on you.

“What kind of game?” he inquires cautiously, taking note of the mischievous glimmer in your eyes. You look like you’re up to no good, and your boyfriend wouldn’t be surprised if you have something up your metaphorical sleeve (Because nobody sane enough would be wearing something with sleeves in this weather from hell. In fact, you’re 66.6% percent certain that those fiery pits are probably cooler compared to here).

“Too hot.”

“Yes, it is,” he acknowledges, shaking his head in agreement, and you laugh, fanning yourself with your hands. “No, silly, I meant the game.” 

“It’s called ‘too hot’?” He raises an eyebrow at you, and you confirm, nodding your head. The expression of skepticism on his face says it all, so you throw in your bargaining chip.

“I hid a chocolate bar in the freezer’s ice chest. The winner can have it.”

His doe eyes immediately light up at the mention of his favorite sweet, and he grabs your hand, squeezing it tightly. “Okay, how do I play?”

“We kiss,” you start, and he’s already pulling you towards him enthusiastically, causing soft laughter to bubble up from your throat, before you swat his hands away. “Hey, hey, hey, I wasn’t done explaining it yet! There’s no touching allowed.”

“That’s no fun,” Taeyong whines, lips jutting out into a tiny pout that you want to kiss away already. “You said this is a game. Games are supposed to be fun.”

“But you’re getting kisses, and it’s already hot so it’s better this way,” you coax, and he relents with a drawn out sigh, and you quietly cheer. “Okay, ready?”

Taeyong gives you a tiny nod, and you grin before leaning in, eyes fluttering close. You gently place your lips against his, and he holds still. But then, a few seconds later, you feel his fingers barely grazing your cheek, and you immediately pull away with a frown.

“Baby, I told you that you can’t touch!”

“That rule is dumb,” he complains, crossing his arms over his chest like a petulant child. You frown at him, pouting until he gives in again because it’s you and he’d cross oceans and climb mountains for you.

“Okay, let’s try again,” he grumbles, glowering as he absentmindedly cards his hand through his hair, and you positively beam at him, and the sulking expression on his face softens almost instantly.

“What if we do baby steps first?” You pull your legs up onto the couch, sitting up on your knees and facing him. He fully turns to look at you, head cocked to one side.

“What do you mean?”

You lean forward and peck his cheek before moving back to your original position. “Like that. Now your turn.”

A lightbulb goes off in his head, and Taeyong leans forward and gingerly places a kiss on your forehead with an endearing smile. You inch forward and kiss his other cheek. He plants a tiny kiss to the tip of your nose, and you lean in to delicately leave a kiss on the corner of his mouth. He presses a kiss to the corner of your lips, and you do the same to the opposite side, much to his utter frustration.

This time, Taeyong chases after you when you pull away. You let out a noise of surprise as he gently tugs you forward, crashing his lips against yours and muffling your laughter, and you find yourself straddling your boyfriend. Your hands wind up tangled in his hair, while his arms lock around your waist and hold you close, game be damned.

You can taste a faint trace of cherry, causing the corners of your mouth to curl into the minutest hint of a smile before you press your mouth against his more firmly as he kisses you back eagerly until you both run out of air, pulling away breathlessly with identical smiles.

“You lost,” you tease, poking his cheek with your finger as your other hand curls around his shirt. He makes a face at you, his hands still resting on your waist, and you find that you don’t mind the warmth of them against your skin even in this ruthlessly blazing weather.

“But you’ll share the chocolate, right?” he mumbles, face still flushed and lips redder than before. He traces soft patterns against your hip as you tilt your head to the side, faking your hesitation.

“Hmm, I don’t know, should I? I won fair and square.”

He sticks his tongue out at you. “Meanie.” 

You laugh, sliding off his lap and onto the empty seat next to him (albeit a little unwillingly, but it’s still hot as hell unfortunately, and conserving body heat together isn’t helping at all). Your boyfriend frowns, mostly because you’re no longer sitting in his lap, but partly because he doesn’t understand why you’re laughing.

“What’s so funny?”

Your grin widens, eyes sparkling like you know something he doesn’t (because you do). “Baby, your tongue’s purple.”

Taeyong turns a shade brighter than his favorite popsicle flavor.

[bonvoyagenoona]

Countermelody (M) | 03: Syncopation

Countermelody | Masterpost

Word Count: 21,819 (whyyyy am I like this) | read on ao3

Rating: 18+ / Explicit / Mature

Pairings: Yoongi x Reader

Playlist: Seeing as this is a fic about music and all 😏

Summary

This new city has already invigorated your tired bones and shy heart. The people here seem kind and exciting. All sorts of interesting silhouettes are always shuffling about, and you write little stories for each person who passes you by. Even the stationery shop next door is warm and inviting, and you’re grateful that Mr. Kang offers you the manager job on the spot. But you get a funny feeling about things when he shows you the boxes in the back, the ones marked with red tape and the name MIN YOONGI scribbled on top. You wonder what makes this customer particularly special. You don’t know that the process of finding out will make you question why you ever moved here in the first place.

Chapter Excerpt

Yoongi flushes. “Oh.” He blinks. “You said you didn’t want to come to dinner because you have the store in the morning, so I figured you were done for the evening.”

“Then why did you walk me home?”

He fidgets. “It’s late, and, uh, I, uh wanted to make sure you got home OK.”

You raise your eyebrows. Maybe you’ve misread the vibe. “Oh. Well, thanks. That’s really sweet.” But you can’t help adding, “Sorry, I thought you walking me home, especially after the very, um, selfless offer you made this morning, meant that maybe we could---”

“Yes!” he blurts out. “I mean, I didn’t know if you wanted--- that is, I didn’t want to assume--- ”

You laugh. “I did want to see if… if you could… help me with something,” you say, your hand around the doorknob, the door still closed, your body leaning a little, and your chin pointed up at him. “But like you said, it’s late, and I don’t want to keep you---”

“I can help.” Yoongi smiles at your big, twinkling eyes. “My offer is good. Redeemable at any time.”

Content Warnings: Soft and hard smut, including fingering and penetrative sex, but also just like a Yoongi warning in general because my god

Taglist 💜: permanent @purpleheartsfortae @btseditsworld @greezenini​ @missbickerbocker​ | countermelody @adventuresinwonderlust @min-yus @dearbambideer (taglist open, feel free to add yourself here!)

Special Shoutout: Chapter 03 mood board and title art by the ingenious @purplehearts1996​!! Without giving too much away, I love these pics of Yoongi, Namjoon, and Hobi, and I love how the mood board captures the light of the karaoke and the nighttime scenes in this chapter! And I adore the title art, with the clefs, and the music notes! Amazing!! Thank you so so much for creating!!

03: Syncopation

“YOU FINALLY HAD AN ORGASM?!”

Jungkook gawks at you as he screams his words right into the mic in his tattoo-covered hand, his voice booming through the speakers, his pupils like specks of soil lost in snowballs, and his jaw unhinged as if he is about to swallow whole the entire order of food and drinks that the waitress has just brought to your private karaoke room.

The waitress freezes at her current 45-degree angle, still gripping the bottle of soju that you’ve ordered, centimeters away from setting it down. She blushes pink, and the bottom of the soju bottle lands on the top of the wooden table with a clomp! 

She hides her eyes from both of you, the forgotten shot glasses on her tray rattling loudly as she skitters away.

You look up at Jungkook from your seat on the couch, the fire in your glare hopefully melting his incredulous snowballs for eyes.

“The door was fucking wide open!” you snipe, crossing your legs, and folding your arms, so angry and embarrassed that tears threaten to form at your waterlines. 

“SORR--”

You lock gazes again, and Jungkook winces. He lowers the volume of the music and lets his arm swing down, taking the mic with it.

“Sorry!” he whispers. “I just… you said you hadn’t… and then you bought all those… and then you still hadn’t---”

The karaoke bar owner shuffles through the door. He looks so upset that you genuinely think he’s going to kick you out and ban you from coming back, but he stops at the table before slamming down the two shot glasses that the waitress forgot to leave for you. He shakes his head in disgust at you both before leaving, making sure to close the door behind him.

Jungkook sits down next to you and sets the mic down on the couch. You look away from him, pouting. He sidles up right next to you and rubs his nose into your shoulder. 

“Hmph,” you mutter, folding your arms tighter and pressing them harder against your ribcage.

He whimpers.

You sulk.

He gently places a hand on your left knee, which is crossed over the right and swinging your calf impatiently. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to yell it like that. I was just excited.”

You raise your chin, still refusing to make eye contact with him.

“C’mon Boss,” he whines. “Let’s eat.”

You really wish you weren’t so hungry. 

After forcing him to stew for a few more minutes, you slowly turn to him, and he looks so excited to see your face again that you feel stupid for getting upset. 

The only light in the room is coming from the cheesy karaoke backgrounds on the TV, and they dance across his flawless skin, bathing him in cool sea greens, ocean blues, and beach sandy yellows.

“You shouldn’t feel embarrassed,” Jungkook says, leaning forward and immediately starting to fix you a plate of apology food. “If anything, this is a cause for celebration.”

His incessant blabbering is making it hard for you to stay cross. Jungkook’s voice is adorably raspy because, though you’re now pausing to rest and eat, you both have been singing practically nonstop for the past two hours. His voice is incredible, so much so that you’re surprised that he’s not already in the entertainment business. Ballads. Anthems. Protests. He sang something from every genre and covered all the notes in his range. Plus, he just screamed about the soul-destroying orgasm that you had the night before.

The soul-destroying orgasm that you had with Yoongi.

Actually, you wonder if you should say it that way. Was it really with Yoongi? You were the only one who got anything out of it. Was it more because of Yoongi? Then again, you’re pretty sure that it didn’t really have much to do with Yoongi as a person. From Yoongi? Maybe that’s best. Like a gift. A simple, general one. From a co-worker. Although, that last part cheapens it a bit. Though you’re not sure what, if anything, that means.

You hold your breath, trying to quiet your spiraling mind. You need to get the wording right. Because you’re about to use those words to explain things to Jungkook.

He hands you the plate, and you soften. You huddle next to him and start to eat, deciding to gobble up the lamb skewers and french fries first. As he makes his own plate of food, Jungkook’s eyes dart back and forth between the plate and the side of your face. Even after he’s selected everything he wants, his fingers still seem busy and anxious.

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

He purses his lips. He looks like he wants to say something, but every time he collects his thoughts, he fails to gather enough courage to share them. 

“Is everything OK?” you ask, concerned.

“I wanna ask you about it, but… I don’t want to make you mad,” Jungkook says meekly.

You smile. And then you chuckle. He’s right. You shouldn’t be embarrassed.

“I’m not mad. Ask away.”

Jungkook brightens, and his thoughts fly out at you, all at once. 

“How did it happen? What did it? Was it one of the toys? Were you on a date? Is that why you were late? What was it---”

“One at a time!” you laugh, overwhelmed.

Jungkook smiles and gazes at you. He’s just so happy, even though his voice has a bit of grit in it when he pedals back and asks, “OK, so how did it happen?” 

You puff out your cheeks and think. “Well… I guess… I couldn’t sleep.”

“What did it?” Jungkook asks next, getting ready to shove food in his mouth. 

“A toy was involved,” you say carefully. 

“So it was one of the toys,” Jungkook nods thoughtfully. A smirk pops up on his face. “Was it just one of the toys, or…”

You try your best to keep your cool, but your face flushes, and Jungkook’s eyes get so big that you can almost hear them stretching, blocking out the quiet sound of the third or fourth karaoke track that you had queued up.

“Were you on a date??” Jungkook asks, not quite learning the lesson from earlier, simply choosing to channel his scream through his tightly constricted vocal cords so that it comes out as more of an exaggerated whisper.

You aren’t sure what to say, but because what comes out of your mouth is, “No?”, his eyes suddenly narrow and fix on you.

“That’s not a full ‘no’,” he replies, his voice and expression suddenly gravely serious. “Are you holding out on me?”

He looks at you expectantly, as if your friendship depends on what you say next.

“I’m talking to you about it now, aren’t I?” you say, and Jungkook eases. 

“So it wasn’t a date?”

“No, it wasn’t a date.”

“But you weren’t alone.”

You think about beanied Yoongi sitting at the foot of your bed.

“I technically had company, correct.”

Jungkook stares at you for a moment, then takes both of your plates and purposefully sets them down on the table. He pours two shots of soju and hands you one of the shot glasses. He turns to face you, criss-crossing his legs on the huge couch cushion and leaning forward.

You clink glasses. You throw them back. You wonder what else you’ll say, now that they’re in your system.

You echo Jungkook’s stance, choosing to tuck your legs next to you instead of criss-crossing them, and resting your side against the back of the couch, your armpit moulding to the top of the couch pillow as you rest your temple on your propped up, partially closed fist.

“First things first,” Jungkook says. “Could I take them in a fight?”

You think of Yoongi in his beanie, and you bark out a wheezing laugh. Jungkook can’t tell why, or whether to be offended.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize. “It’s just… Well, let’s just say that you don’t have to worry about that.”

Yoongi and fights, you think. Jimin pops into your head, and you feel even more sure about what you’ve said. Even when Yoongi has a perfectly fair reason to fight, he just won’t. He favors a contemplative cigarette over a furious fire. 

“That’s a nice sentiment, but you never know with people,” Jungkook replies quietly.

He gazes at you protectively. For a moment, you wonder what has happened to Jungkook in the past to make him think that way. 

You reach out for his hand, fingers fumbling toward fingers and tickling at each other. You tell him not to worry, not just because of his somatic aptitude and unfathomable physique. Having spent so much time with him, you also know that Jungkook is the kind of friend who would carry your banner and yell your name as he gladly marches into battle. Even when he’s the only one. Especially when he’s the only one. 

He eases back and relaxes, now mimicking your stance, keeping his legs crossed but leaning sideways on the back cushions of the couch.

“Well, go on,” he says, insistent. “Who is this person?”

Your eyes meet his.

“...Yoongi.”

Given Jungkook’s tendency to react so viscerally, especially today, it completely unnerves you when he remains silent and still, frozen mid-stream, as if unable to comprehend what you’ve just said.

“You’re judging,” you sulk.

“What? No!” he exclaims, though he’s reaching over for the soju again.

You down two more shots.

Jungkook drags the back of his hand across his mouth before dabbing his forehead and cheeks. “I’m just, well, confused.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, ‘why’? He’s so gruff and mean. I know you work together now, but I didn’t know you were…” 

Jungkook thinks carefully. 

“...Friends?”

You shrug. “I don’t know that we’re friends, but I don’t know that we’re not friends.”

“Co-workers with Benefits, then,” Jungkook jokes, and you slap him on the knee.

“Bene-fit,” you correct. “It only happened once.”

He rolls his eyes. “I promise you, I’m not judging. So you fucked Yoongi. Big deal. Who hasn’t disappeared into a closet with a co-worker for a quick fuck?”

You shake your head. “I didn’t say that we fucked.”

Jungkook frowns. “Wait, so, like… literally just the vibrator?” 

And you realize that he doesn’t have the full picture. You pick the story up from the night before. How long you were working. How late it got. How much you needed it. How convenient it was that Yoongi was willing to give it to you. How it wasn’t even transactional. How it was purely selfish, just for you. And mechanical. How -- and you say this part quite adamantly -- there were no feelings involved whatsoever, just two people experimenting to see if they could work towards an outcome together. It was less of a date, and more of a team-building exercise. 

“Relax, Boss,” Jungkook laughs, after your long-winded essay. “Whatever makes you happy is alright in my book.”

It finally sinks in that though Jungkook’s asked all the questions, he’s not the one concerned about explanations. 

“Any other questions?” you joke, poking your finger into Jungkook’s ribs and making him giggle and squirm. He catches your arm and tickles you back, making you squeal and kick. You wrestle a bit with each other before leaning back on the couch cushions again, panting and grinning at each other.

Wiggling his eyebrows, Jungkook asks, “How was it?” 

You smile and bite your lip. You’re not dallying. It’s not that you don’t want to describe it. It’s that you lack the words. 

So, instead, you reach for the soju bottle and pour two more shots.

“Oh shiiiiiiiit,” Jungkook says, happily taking his shot and clinking his glass with yours so hard that some spills out, “I’ll fucking drink to that!” 

You both drink so heartily that soju dribbles down the sides of your mouth, and you laugh with each other as you mop yourselves up. Your eyes settle on sweet, soft-hearted Jungkook, and you finally decide to ask him what’s been echoing in your mind during your entire conversation.

“Can I ask you a question?” 

“Always!” Jungkook exclaims gleefully.

You did this before, when you met Mr. Kang. Now, a corner of your heart, the one that’s reserved for the most special of life’s feelings, clears out a space for Jungkook, your heart becoming a little more his.

Smiling, tight-lipped, you ask, “Why are you so curious?”

Jungkook pales. “Agh. I’m sorry, Boss. I think I was just excited for you. I didn’t mean to overstep---”

“You didn’t!” you rush, leaping for his hands and taking them in yours again. You beam at him, and he smiles back at you, relieved. A pain moves to the front of your chest, and you’re surprised at how intensely you feel it when you speak it aloud. “It’s been a while since I’ve had a friend who cared about me like this.”

Jungkook softens. “What about your unnie?”

“I’m still not ready to talk to her. Besides, she wouldn’t have asked me about this stuff,” you say, annoyed. You think of all the unread messages waiting for you in your muted chat thread since the day you spoke to Eomma. The only one you’ve read is the first one. An apology for missing your call.

Jungkook sighs. “Well then.”

He stretches out his legs and lays them on top of yours, his knees hanging over your thighs. He interlocks your fingers, and he snuggles next to you. “It’s a good thing that I’m here.”

You grin, and he reaches for the mic behind him. He hands it to you, and he observes you, watching over you, as you start to choose a new song.

“Hey, one last question,” Jungkook says softly. “If that’s OK, I mean.”

“Sure.”

“Why were you late earlier?”

Lips bending into a crooked grin, you manage not to give it away. You make up a lie about losing track of time because you don’t want to tell him. You had given him this long essay about how last night, with Yoongi, meant nothing. 

You don’t want to admit that the reason that you were fifteen minutes late for your playdate with Jungkook was because you were too busy to start getting ready. Too busy moping. Too busy moping about waking up to find Yoongi gone, without having left any kind of goodbye. 

Too busy moping about how it meant nothing.

When you get to the studio, most people are leaving work for the day. You watch them all glide through the turnstiles with their IDs on lanyards and belt clips, the galloping of the herd forcing a breeze your way as you scan yourself in the opposite direction. You smile as you turn back and watch them empty out into the street, happily chattering about what they’re going to do with their evening now that they’re free, some of them making plans on the fly. They all seem like perfectly fine people, especially if they work at this label. 

But you still feel like such an outsider.

You’re an outsider even from the other outsiders. Overachieving interns, all of whom you’ve gotten to know, and who view you and your measly, one-year, underpaid contract as their worst nightmare. Fellow contractors, all of whom are stretched beyond measure, and who are jealous of your close ties to the trio. And trainees, all of whom are hungry and hard-working but stressed, and who aren’t sure what value you might provide them yet. They all scoff at you, eager to whisper their thoughts about how endlessly confused they are that raggedy, old you could have supposedly replaced Park Jimin’s spot amongst the greats.

That is, except for one trainee.

When she’s in class, she often chooses to work alone, sitting off to the side, always on her laptop, jotting notes down and singing into her phone. 

When she writes, she likes to sit in the hallway, sometimes tripping people with her feet if she doesn’t look up and see them coming. 

When she eats, she sits by herself and reads while listening to music, her huge, closed-back headphones putting the others off, but to you, only adding to her allure.

And when she gets on the elevator with you, she hides her bright and curious eyes from yours by staring at the points of her shoes.

She greets you professionally, and formally.

“Suran, you can use my name,” you laugh softly. “I’m just a person.”

Looking up at you, she smiles and chuckles along. She knows how observant you are. And she’s pretty observant herself.

“I have to tell you, I just love your voice,” Suran says shyly.

You startle. “When did you hear me sing?” You wonder if the demos that you’ve been working with the trio on have gotten out somehow, some kind of diabolical plot that Jimin and Taehyung executed during their recent visit. You start to panic.

But Suran puts you at ease. “There’s that old jazz lounge a few blocks from here,” she says. “I stumbled upon it when I was taking my dog out one night. I saw the sign out front, that you were doing a set. So I stopped by to listen fand watch through the window.” She grins. “It was so good. I could listen to you forever. Your voice is haunting.”

Haunting, you think. You smile and thank Suran for the compliment, all the while thinking about Jungkook and the lounge full of ghosts. 

“It’s mutual,” you say. “I love the alternative R&B feel that you have. Chill, easy, and…” Your lips tighten into a familiar smile. “Friendly.” 

You’ve heard her recordings, shared with all the producers in the company to get a feel for the talent pool. Though you haven’t worked together yet, you’ve always hoped that you would. 

You laugh and say, “I also love your Domo sleeve,” you tell her, nodding to the laptop that Suran’s clutching to her chest. “I like how it’s supposed to look like he’s eating it when you slide your laptop inside.”

She laughs. “You like Domo?”

You grin and show her your guitar case, the Domo sticker a tad worse for the wear, but immediately recognizable and cherished. 

The elevator doors open on Suran’s floor, and she thanks you, telling you to have a nice day as she waves a sweet goodbye to you.

It isn’t that hard, you think, saying goodbye. 

Sure, you walked out on your ex, but he was going to break up with you anyway. And you moved cities without really telling anyone, but you weren’t expecting to cut ties with anyone. And yeah, Yoongi left without a trace, not even bothering to swing by the store today, but he just as well as could have written a note or a text. But then you think of all those unanswered messages from Unnie piling up in your phone.

Upon thinking twice, you tell yourself to try your best not to be so wounded, and you reach for the door.

Yoongi, Namjoon, and Hobi are playing a track back, and they look up when you enter the room. Namjoon and Hobi grin and gesture to the snacks on the table, and you join Hobi on the couch. 

The track ends, and Yoongi, Namjoon, and Hobi discuss some notes before they forget them. And then they turn to you.

“Good day at work, Boss Lady?” Namjoon greets you.

Everything looks like it normally does by the time of day that you join them, but there’s no doubt in your mind that Namjoon knows what happened between you and Yoongi, and that Namjoon is trying his best to keep things as calm as possible. 

You know that Namjoon knows because Hobi knows. And you know that Hobi knows because he is pure id. If he’s hungry, he eats. If he’s sleepy, he sleeps. And if he knows something too good to keep to himself, he’s going to share it. That’s why he bounces in his chair every time he looks between you and Yoongi, who still hasn’t made eye contact with anyone in the room since you’ve arrived. 

That’s how you know that Namjoon, despite his completely ordinary demeanor, knows.

“Day was good. Weekend was good too,” you dare to laugh, albeit nervously. 

Yoongi presses his lips together into a straight, horizontal line.

Hobi’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, and he starts bouncing, curling his hands into excited fists.

Namjoon notices Hobi and winces. “Hobi, uh, I think we’re low on water.”

“OK, I’ll call Sejin,” Hobi replies, reaching for the office phone.

Namjoon snatches Hobi’s wrist. “No, I mean, wanna come with me to go get some? From the cafeteria?” He points his laser-focused eyes right into Hobi’s soul, and he finally gets what Namjoon’s trying to do.

Hobi stares back into Namjoon’s eyes and lets the realization wash over him completely. 

Hobi grins at you. “Suuure. Haaappy to.” 

And then he turns to Yoongi. “Be right baaack.”

Yoongi grimaces, and Namjoon and Hobi make themselves scarce.

Finally, Yoongi’s eyes meet yours. You melt when you see him snatch the beanie off of his head and swipe his hand through his hair in an attempt to look more presentable. His textured, black locks settle into a perfect, bedhead-y look that you might have seen the morning after, had he stuck around. You’re oozing as he softens, but he tightens up just as he’s about to fall completely. 

“Uh, hi,” he mutters, his voice unsure, and his teeth anxiously scraping his bottom lip.

You smile, trying not to feel nervous. You realize how happy you are to see him. You realize that you may have even missed him a little bit. “Yoongi,” you say warmly, the bass in your voice resonating.

That’s all it takes. 

Yoongi perks up, and you feel him starting to open. He scrunches up his beanie in his hands over and over again.  “You said you had trouble sleeping… And I didn’t know if a text would… I just didn’t want to disturb you,” he says. And then he’s back to chewing on his lips.

You blush, and you feel silly for being upset. It seems like Yoongi’s been carrying this half-formed but fully understandable explanation since he left your apartment. But it feels good for him to unload it now, and it feels good for you to know that his lack of goodbye was actually him trying to be considerate.

“I had a really good time,” you say. 

Yoongi’s confidence makes a welcome appearance. 

He winks and sticks his tongue out of the corner of his mouth. “I know.” He chuckles and, in a voice as pillowy and deep as it was that night, he tells you, “Me too.”

You smirk. “I thought about what you did. A lot.” You clear your throat, feeling flustered.

He can’t believe what you’re saying. He’s so glad, and his resulting gummy smile makes you feel like you’re soaring.

“I…”

Yoongi pushes his precious, pouty lips out. You’re glad he’s not biting them anymore. For their sake, you hope he continues to feel at ease with you as he muddles through whatever he’s about to say. 

“I can help you whenever you need it,” he says, firmly. 

Blood rushes everywhere, to your thighs, to your chest, your cheekbones. 

“Good to know,” you say, smirking.

Though you appreciate the conversation, you get annoyed that it distracts you for the rest of the day. You’re regretting sitting in the small recording booth because it means having no choice but to feel Yoongi’s eyes trace your outline to absorb each of your idiosyncrasies, like how your fingertips move as you fingerpick several melodies on your guitar. His gaze flusters you, forcing Hobi to have to stitch together several of your vocal takes. It distracts Yoongi, too, when your eyes settle on him. As he creates that cocoon of sound, he accidentally turns a dial too much or forgets another button, and he has to backtrack or refer to one of his many journals. Yoongi, the man who touts precision and preaches optimized workflows, suddenly can’t remember which settings he had decided on five minutes ago.

By the end of the long day, as you’re all gathering together and listening back to what you’ve recorded, Hobi makes his stance clear.

“Are you two gonna get better at keeping the flirting to a minimum?” he asks. “We went for two hours longer than usual. I mean, the tracks are really taking shape, but I’d like to get home at a decent hour tomorrow.”

Namjoon rolls his eyes and leans back in his seat on the sofa, his shoulder bumping Yoongi’s.

“Sorry, Hobi,” you pout playfully, making Yoongi bite back a smile and mumble something similar while staring at his knees.

Hobi smiles wide at the sight of you. He places his hands over his heart and sighs, leaning back and peering over at Namjoon, who is just as smitten.

“This week is gonna crawl by,” Namjoon laughs, standing and getting his things.

You gather together in the elevator, and Yoongi remembers something.

“Maybe tomorrow, we can start working on an idea I had?” Yoongi suggests, pulling out his phone. 

“You wrote something new?” Namjoon asks. “On your own?”

“Yeah,” Yoongi says, quizzically. “Why do you sound so surprised?”

Namjoon and Hobi exchange excited smiles, which you catch in their reflections in the elevator mirror. You don’t know if you’re supposed to know, but Namjoon told you that though Yoongi had always been a prolific writer, he had been struggling since the incident with Jimin. He was leaning on old beats and songs that he had written, choosing to dust them off and tide him over until new ideas came along.

This was the first completely new idea that Yoongi has shared since the day Jimin left the studio for the last time.

Yoongi plays the track, and it sounds like the next generation of whatever it is that your group is writing now. 

“The tremolo on the vibes?” Hobi whistles. “Gorgeous.”

“And the syncopation in the verse, with that disorienting start-stop feel, makes the hook that much more powerful,” Namjoon agrees.

“The power comes from it being stripped, too, I think,” you say. “The instrumentation is a bit sparser, but it opens the song up in a new way.”

Yoongi’s singing voice comes on, sketching out some options for the melody, sounding like melted, dark chocolate.

But suddenly, Hobi snickers. 

“What?” Yoongi asks, grinning.

More of the melodic line plays, and some of Yoongi’s notes come out a little more off-key. You grin, thinking of how that happens in Yoongi’s other demos, and enjoying the sight of Namjoon and Hobi doubled over, colliding with each other and the elevator mirrors as the door opens.

“Damn, I thought I was getting better,” Yoongi chuckles, as he glances at you. 

You smile back sweetly. He’s actually a decent singer. He’d have to be, given how talented of a producer and songwriter he is. But Hobi and Namjoon just can’t help making fun of the one thing that Yoongi’s not the best at in their little trio.

“You create such beautiful music,” Namjoon replies. “Just don’t sing it.”

Hobi’s eyes catch Namjoon. “You’re one to talk,” Hobi laughs.

Yoongi laughs along at Namjoon’s pout as Hobi raises his arm and swings it around your neck.

“How about we all agree to leave the singing to the Boss here,” Hobi chuckles, “and let’s save the rest of the work talk for tomorrow. I’m tuckered out.”

“Agreed,” Namjoon and Yoongi say in unison, looking at each other and smiling.

Hobi shoots you a wink.

And, in your heart, you start carving out space next to Mr. Kang’s and Jungkook’s, just wide enough for three more people. 

The four of you gather in front of the building, all of you (except grumpy Yoongi) politely acknowledging the security guard who gave you a hard time as you walk past the desk.

“Late night dinner?” Hobi asks, immediately on his phone and looking for a good spot.

“I’m down,” Namjoon replies.

“I shouldn’t,” you say. “I’ve got the store in the morning.”

“I’ll walk you home, then,” Yoongi says unexpectedly, “yeah?”

You think of the scene that greeted you when you arrived earlier. Young, fun people going off to do young, fun things. Yoongi’s only offered you company on a walk home, but to you, it counts. Now, you’re one of those young, fun people. It’s been ages since you’ve gotten to make plans on the fly. You’re curious and excited about what those plans will entail. 

“OK,” you say, grinning.

Yoongi beams. “Boys,” he says with a curt nod, as you give a little wave to them.

Namjoon and Hobi say their goodnights, and when you and Yoongi turn to head toward your apartment, you miss how Namjoon nudges Hobi in the ribs, and how Hobi lets out a puff of air through his nostrils.

You and Yoongi walk for a while in near silence, letting the sound of cars driving and honking amidst the chatter and bustle of other passersby fill the space between you. Yoongi keeps glancing over at you, almost as if to make sure you’re still there. And each time he sees you smile back at him, he lowers his chin and smiles to himself. 

You’re both staring at the sidewalk when you say, “That new demo was great, by the way.”

“You think so?” Yoongi asks.

You nod. “Why did you wait to play it when we were in the elevator?”

Yoongi blushes a bit. He shoves his hands into his pockets. “To be honest, it had been a while since I had written anything completely new.”

“Namjoon mentioned something along those lines,” you tell him.

He nods. “I feel like I’ve lost my footing a bit, and, well… I was afraid that if I played it on the speakers in the studio, I dunno…” He sighs. “The edges would have sounded that much more frayed, or something.”

You draw in a breath as you catch up to Yoongi’s quixotic and nimble brain. You’ve learned so many more things about Yoongi just now. You’ve learned that, given his previous successes, he holds himself to a ridiculously high and punishing standard. You’ve learned that he’s aware that he’s stumbling around a bit. And you’ve learned that he has something interesting in common with the previous occupants of Big Hit’s building, when it was still a clothing factory. You know now that Yoongi views songwriting to be like weaving, methodical and intricate and delicate, and he fears that he isn’t as good at tucking in the ends as he used to be.

“Whatever those speakers would have picked up, you would have picked up first,” you reassure him. 

Yoongi looks at you again, and this time, he doesn’t look away when you smile back at him.

As you approach your apartment lobby, you reach into your pocket and grab your keys. 

“What was blocking you?” you ask.

Yoongi holds the lobby door open for you, and he follows you through the hallway. “Don’t you think that’s obvious?” he chuckles, stepping sideways to make room for a couple of people walking past you. 

You shrug. “I mean, I know that the incident with Jimin probably caused a lot of tension. But I guess I could see how that whole thing might’ve inspired someone even more. Could’ve channeled the tension into the process.”

“Easier said than done,” Yoongi mutters, and you imagine him off somewhere, surrounded by crumpled up bits of paper, notebook after notebook shredded, with Lamy 2000 lines through their pages. 

As you arrive at your front door, you wonder if that’s why he buys so many notebooks and pens, week after week.

You place your key into the lock, and Yoongi seems to twitch at the sound of metal catching metal. 

“Well, have a good night,” he says hurriedly, starting to turn on his heel.

“Wait,” you say softly. 

He turns back around to you, and you smile your friendliest smile.

“Aren’t you coming in?” you ask.

Yoongi flushes. “Oh.” He blinks. “You said you didn’t want to come to dinner because you have the store in the morning, so I figured you were done for the evening.”

“Then why did you walk me home?”

He fidgets. “It’s late, and, uh, I, uh wanted to make sure you got home OK.”

You raise your eyebrows. Maybe you’ve misread the vibe. “Oh. Well, thanks. That’s really sweet.” But you can’t help adding, “Sorry, I thought you walking me home, especially after the very, um, selfless offer you made this morning, meant that maybe we could---”

“Yes!” he blurts out. “I mean, I didn’t know if you wanted--- that is, I didn’t want to assume--- ”

You laugh. “I did want to see if… if you could… help me with something,” you say, your hand around the doorknob, the door still closed, your body leaning a little, and your chin pointed up at him. “But like you said, it’s late, and I don’t want to keep you---”

“I can help.” Yoongi smiles at your big, twinkling eyes. “My offer is good. Redeemable at any time.”

Those big, twinkling eyes of yours linger on him a little longer than they probably should for something that is supposed to be completely mechanical.

You step into your apartment, and Yoongi follows you inside.

“Y’know, the mental block after Jimin left was probably for the best,” Yoongi goes on, setting his things down at the kitchen table, swinging his coat around the back of the chair that he used last time, setting his bag in the same exact place it was on the first night he came over. “Looking back, I wouldn’t have wanted to pour those emotions into my stuff. I don’t want to write songs out of spite.”

Your heart twinges. At all of it. How thoughtful Yoongi is with his craft. How eager he is to help you out. How Yoongi now has his own spot in your apartment.

He watches you as you set your things down and start making some coffee. 

“If I may be so bold as to make an observation,” Yoongi replies, as he takes off his beanie and ruffles his hair.

You chuckle at his sudden formality. “Sure?”

“I don’t think I’m the only one who’s suffering from a mental block,” he shares, sitting down.

You arch an eyebrow.

“Why is it that you think you… need help?” he asks you.

You frown. 

“I don’t know.” 

The coffee machine, the kind that uses Unnie-approved pods, is certainly more efficient. It whirrs softly in the background and spits out a full mug in seconds. But you miss the days when you would have to tuck the coffee filter into its place, measure and scoop the grounds, dump them into the filter with that soft, satisfying fwoop! sound as they land and disperse, and wait a couple of minutes in anticipation for your coffee, the aroma enticing you as it wafts through the air.

“It used to be simple,” you comment. “I used to be so easy.”

Yoongi laughs, and you bite your lip at the way you’ve phrased it.

“Not like that!” you defend. “But… my orgasms… they used to just pour out of me. Someone, or even myself -- even I could do just the slightest thing, like think of a particularly sexy memory, or even just sit a certain way. And I’d be ready.”

You take the two mugs of coffee and join Yoongi at the kitchen table.

“I think that part of me is broken, somehow. I can feel it.”

“I couldn’t,” Yoongi remarks, taking his mug and nodding a thank-you to you before you both take a drink. He looks over at you and adds, “I didn’t touch you directly, but it felt like everything was, y’know, working.”

“Before our little session, I didn’t think I could even orgasm at all anymore,” you admit.

Yoongi grins.

“But it took me a while to get there,” you remind him.

“I couldn’t have been with you for more than twenty minutes tops,” Yoongi says, more to himself than to you. Then, he looks at you and leans forward. “Wait, how long do you think sex is supposed to last?”

“Not twenty minutes!” you remark.

“Agreed, but I feel like we’re on opposite sides of the spectrum in this debate,” he says with a grin.

You scoff. “Maybe you’re not as good as you say you are.”

“Hmm,” Yoongi says, and you know that this part of the conversation isn’t over, even though he goes on to say, “And why the toys? Your hands can’t get you there?”

You shake your head. “It’s like my body is suddenly completely foreign to me.”

Yoongi nods. “I see.”

There’s a long, long pause, and you both get down to half a mug of coffee each until Yoongi speaks.

“Then you should take the time to get to know it again.”

Something within you shifts. Yoongi, yet again, has made you feel lighter. But you don’t just feel lighter. You feel enlightened. You kept thinking about this as a problem that needed to be fixed. Not a new adventure entirely.

“Do you still want to…” 

Yoongi’s eyes drag across the length of the kitchen table between you until they reach your fingers curled around your mug, at which point, his eyes flick up and meet your eyes with dark and warm intensity. It feels like two stifling hot, star-dotted, summer night skies suddenly crashing over you.

“...y’know?” Yoongi says, his tongue peeking out of the corner of his mouth.

The coffee that you’ve just had isn’t going to help slow down your racing heart. 

You stand up so quickly that your chair scrapes loudly against the floor. “Absolutely. Grab that beanie and let’s go.”

Yoongi laughs at your impetuousness. “Hang on.”

You whine and sit back down, squirming.

“Would you be comfortable if we tried something different?” he asks.

“Like what?”

“Like… maybe I get a little more involved.”

You push your lips out. You love the idea. But you know that you need to tread carefully. Your conversation with Jungkook echoes in your mind. This is not about feelings. And you fear that if you entertain the little sparks that you’ve been feeling in Yoongi’s presence, and the emptiness that you’ve felt in his absence, then you’ll possibly ruin everything. Sure, you would lose this channel of experimentation, but that’s not what really concerns you. You’ve seen how messy it has been for Yoongi to have his personal life wrapped up in his professional one. You don’t want to ruin things with your stupid feelings. 

“What do you mean by involved?” you ask, trying to see this conversation through a clear lens of objectivity.

“That I lose the beanie, for one.” He ruffles his hair again, and he pouts. “I don’t mean to say that I’m going to leer at you or anything. My head just got really sweaty last time.”

You laugh, and he chuckles along.

“OK,” you say. “I’m actually… I’m fine with you… seeing things.”

Yoongi’s eyes deepen, and you kill the squeal that was rising in your throat.

“Are you fine with me… touching things?” he asks.

You nod. “That too.”

“Alright, then,” Yoongi says, rising slowly. “I have an idea. Not just for today, but for how all our sessions go from here on out. Sound good?”

You excitedly jump to your feet like you did before, and he laughs. You extend your hand for a handshake, and he firmly takes your hand in his. 

His hand feels so soft. Surprisingly so. Given their look, veins and knuckles tapering into long, strong fingers, you always viewed them as rough workman’s hands. You like that there can be someone who is so fiercely industrious and prolific, but who also isn’t afraid to be soft. Who, in fact, prides himself on being so.

You hold his hand tighter, and you lead him to your bedroom.

You both stand at the foot of your bed, and Yoongi scrunches up his face as he looks around, deciding how to set the stage.

“Mind if I sit on your bed?” he asks you.

“Go ahead,” you say. 

Yoongi sits and leans back against your pillows and headboard. 

“OK, I’m thinking that you could sit in front of me, and we could just take some time to explore,” he says. “Kind of just… move your hands up and down your body.”

You stare at him quizzically. “What?”

“Trust me,” Yoongi says, and he says it with such determination that you try to tamp down any other anxieties you might feel in the moment. Yoongi has shown himself to have a trustworthy opinion, after all.

“Just hands? But don’t we need the toys?” you ask, moving toward your door to get to the box  that you inexplicably put back in the open-ass living room, and trying to use this as an instance to remind yourself to fucking keep them somewhere else.

Yoongi smirks. “You won’t need them.”

His sentence wraps itself around you, and you know that he doesn’t mean just for this session.

“Do you think I should… um… take anything off?” you ask.

Yoongi’s mouth hangs open a little. Given all your concerns and questions, he didn’t think you’d be ready for that. “Whatever you like,” he says, careful not to push.

“Maybe I can start off like last time?” you venture.

“Sounds good,” Yoongi says, but this time, he keeps his eyes on you.

You feel flattered that he wants to watch. That he wants to see you. A smirk transforms your lips as you wiggle out of your pants, and Yoongi takes a slight breath in when he sees you standing in your underwear, the lace detail in the front giving him just enough of a peek at you.

“Sit here,” he tells you, adjusting himself to make room for you between his legs.

You teeter a bit, and when you turn to sit down, you miss how Yoongi reacts to the fully see-through lace in the back, admiring your plump ass, and doing his best not to reach out for it. While you swing your legs onto the mattress and get comfortable, Yoongi looks up at the ceiling, pleading to no one in particular, that he can get through this in one piece. That you won’t inadvertently kill him in the process.

“Lean back on me,” Yoongi instructs.

You do so, and you melt into his frame, feeling cradled. Supported. You feel your pussy twitch. You close your eyes and let your head fall back onto Yoongi’s shoulder, your temple just by his neck. You’re already starting to feel dizzy. Less there.

“Comfortable?” he asks, his voice low and soft.

You nod, still hypnotized by him, and you chuckle. You love that Yoongi is so committed to helping you that he’s asking if you are comfortable in your own bed.

Your hands are resting at your sides, in the gap between your thighs and Yoongi’s. He rolls his sleeves up to the elbow and places his arms over yours, the backs of your hands in his palms, his fingers resting on their counterparts.

“Follow my lead,” he says, and you nod again.

He takes your hands and lifts them off of the mattress. And then he places your hands on your warm, drooling pussy, making you spread your legs a bit, and close the gap between your and Yoongi’s thighs. He runs your hands up and down your own thighs slowly, only your skin touching your skin, and you start to squirm.

“Feeling good?” he asks you.

“Yes,” you answer.

He notices your hips starting to move, your pussy aching for attention.

“Show me what you do when you touch yourself,” he tells you gently.

You nod, and you bring your fingers, and his, to your quickly waking clit. You rest your hand over the cloth of your underwear, and you start to press into your folds. When you do this alone, you don’t feel much. But now, you hear Yoongi licking his lips, sending tingles through your body.

“Why do you do it over your underwear?” he asks, remembering how you started the first night.

“I like the feel of it, to start,” you answer, delighting in the way that the lace gives you an additional sensation, letting you build up to something. “And, well… honestly, when I come, it makes it less messy.”

Yoongi sighs, and you feel it resonating in his chest.

“You’re already thinking about how to clean up after yourself before you even let yourself enjoy it?” Yoongi questions.

You feel a bit hurt at the critique, but you do recognize that he’s right. Maybe that’s one of the things that has changed about you. You could argue that moving to a new city, and your strained relationships with your family, evoke that, too. You no longer care how messy things get. You’re desperate to do what you want to do. To feel what you want to feel. To live your life.

Yoongi starts to guide your fingers now, having gotten an understanding of what you like. He presses deeper, your folds sucking in the fabric, his fingers starting to get wet. He shows you how to wrap your fingers around your clit, teasing you a bit, and demonstrating how difficult it can be when there’s a barrier keeping you from yourself.

“Hnnnng.” Your groan is choked off by your throat. 

“More?” Yoongi asks you. “More of that? Around your clit?”

“Mmmhmm.”

“Can I push this to the side?” 

He uses your other hand, the one that has been sliding up and down your thigh this entire time, to reach for the hem of that leg of your panties. He curls his fingers around yours and makes you pinch the fabric, tugging on it to show you what he means.

“Yes,” you breathe, really starting to lose yourself.

He runs your hand up and down that thigh, and then he slowly lifts his hand away, showing you that he wants you to keep going. You do, and then he uses his now-free hand to hook the fabric of your panties to the side, exposing all of you.

He grunts when he sees you, and you smile and bite your lip.

Still not technically touching you, he uses your other hand to guide you on how to touch yourself, wrapping your index finger and thumb around your clit, and showing you how to stroke it.

“Oh!” you exclaim, shuddering, knees nearly knocking at that first stroke.

“Is that the first time you’ve done that?” he asks.

“Y-yes,” you stammer, pinching your thigh with your other hand as you continue stroking your throbbing clit.

Yoongi chuckles. “It’s a good first feeling, isn’t it?”

“God, yes.”

Your hips are rocking now, digging into the mattress, even pressing back up against him. You feel him hardening against you, his cock undoubtedly straining painfully in his jeans.

“How’s that feel?" you ask. 

Yoongi can only moan approvingly before pressing his lips together and squeezing his eyes tightly.

You smile proudly, momentarily stepping back from the moment and feeling relieved. You can’t help it. As a performer, you’re always thinking about your stage and execution.

“But this isn’t about me,” he whispers, trying to stay in control. “It’s about you.” Yoongi knows what you’re doing. He feels you disengaging, even if only for a moment. 

Needing you to refocus, he puts more pressure on your fingers as he moves. 

“Good?” he growls.

“Good,” you repeat. “Good… Gooood.” It’s almost like a chant or a prayer, the way the word is billowing out of your mouth.

“You don’t necessarily like it when things are about just you, do you?” Yoongi asks, his nose starting to follow your jawline. 

You let out a sheepish laugh.

“It’s a shame,” Yoongi says, his voice so entrancing. “Because you should see you. You look amazing like this. You look like you do when you’re in the studio, lost in the music.”

You moan, enticed by the image that Yoongi has of you in his mind. 

“I wish I could have seen you that first night, but I’m glad I could hear you,” Yoongi tells you. “Your moans, like songs.”

“Yoongi,” you whine, your head lolling back, your mind starting to evaporate, though you swear you can feel Yoongi’s hips rubbing against you, too.

“Can I touch you?” he whispers urgently.

“Whatever you want to do, do it,” you tell him.

You keep stroking your clit, playing around with the pressure, even grazing your fingernails against it and making yourself quiver.

Yoongi’s hand slides off of yours, and he presses his middle finger into you, making you cry out and slam your hips until his finger is surrounded by you, all the way to the base knuckle. He spreads his fingers out to lay over and rub the lips of your labia, your hands playing off of each other, covering every single inch of you, meeting every single one of your immediate needs. You lean back and let out another beautiful moan, pressing against him even harder, your ass and hips ramming back into his cock.

“I could smell you, too,” Yoongi grunts in your ear. “When I would breathe on you, to make you warm. You smell sweet. Full. I could’ve stayed there for days.”

You whine, every muscle inside of you clenching as Yoongi finds the spongy tissue of your G-spot and starts to massage it, driving you wild. He even has the audacity to let out an excited, throaty laugh to spur you on.

“That’s it. Get it out of your mind, whatever block is telling you that you’re broken. I see you. I feel you. You’re not.”

You reach for Yoongi’s thigh, and he moans when you run your hand back toward him, gripping his jeans, needing something to hold onto.

“Fuck,” he gasps, as you find his cock. You run the tips of your fingers along its length, and you wrap your palm around as much of it as you can. 

He’s struggling to stay steady, moaning and losing himself in the moment. He’s so close to letting go of you and undoing his fly, or kissing you, or wrapping his arms around you and lifting that beautiful ass onto him. But that would be selfish. So he pulls it together. He wants to. He needs to. For you.

“Don’t think that you can’t have this,” he whispers. “Because it’s already yours.”

You gush and squirt everywhere, your orgasm shutting your body down, but thankfully Yoongi is there to keep going. You squeeze your thighs together, locking Yoongi’s hand and wrist in place, and you hug his arm to your chest. You rub your clit against his hand as you ride the wave, your juices sticky and letting out little bubbles of sound as you slow.

You’re already fading into sleep when Yoongi speaks.

“Good?” he repeats, with a smile.

“Good,” you sigh.

Your thighs relax, and you release him, but he doesn’t leave you right away. He rubs you gently, helping you ease down. When both of your breathing has leveled, he drags his hand up, and you catch it with your hands. You bring it down to your mouth, and you surprise him by sucking his fingers dry.

“Damn, Boss,” Yoongi exhales, his breathing starting to pick up as you wrap your tongue around him.

You release him, and you feel embarrassed for letting the moment overcome you. “Sorry. Was that weird to do?”

“N-no,” Yoongi says, sucking in his breath through his teeth. “That was… fuck.” He smirks. “But maybe next time, you’ll let me have a taste, too,” he mutters, and you hope he’s not joking.

As Yoongi rounds the corner and comes into view, you smooth your hands over the back pockets of your jeans. There’s a soft crinkle of paper as you do it. It comes from the note that Yoongi wrote to you before he left the night before. 

That was fun. Maybe I’ll swing by tomorrow at lunch.

You barely remember how you parted yesterday evening, but you have memories of Yoongi sliding out from underneath you and pulling the covers over you. Thanking you for sharing another session. Saying a soft goodbye. 

The brass bell rings, announcing his arrival. You try your best not to look too excited, but Jungkook is sitting on the counter, facing you, smiling tight-lipped at you as he swings his legs and eats his sandwich. You’d caught him up earlier, during the morning delivery, and there was no way he was going to miss lunch if Yoongi was planning on showing up. He made sure you wouldn’t miss it either, getting you a sandwich and ridding you of any need to leave.

“Hi,” Yoongi says, smiling.

“Hi,” you reply, as Jungkook looks at Yoongi from over his shoulder.

“Delivery boy,” Yoongi says, with a less-than-happy grin, but a grin nonetheless.

Jungkook’s eyes narrow as he smiles and says, “I heard you two had a pretty fun evening.”

Yoongi blushes. You jam your elbow into Jungkook’s thigh, but it’s rock solid. He grins down at you, and you can’t help but begrudgingly smile back. 

Mr. Kang comes out from the back office, holding his chips and guacamole dip.

“Yoongi!” Mr. Kang greets him excitedly. “Thought I heard the bell. How are things?”

“Good,” Yoongi replies, sighing happily and glancing over at you as you lean on the counter.

“Well, what brings you in today?” Mr. Kang asks.

Yoongi draws a blank. “Um… I… just wanted to say hi,” he fumbles, not technically a lie.

Mr. Kang grins. He plants himself on your other side and looks at you. “See, Boss?” he tells you. “He came by just because he wanted to say hi. You may not believe me, but I told you he was a good boy.”

You grin and flash a look at Yoongi, who looks puzzled, but happy just the same.

“Yoongi, do you still have your grandfather’s watch?” Mr. Kang asks him.

“This one?” Yoongi asks, rolling his sleeve up and showing him the same, ordinary watch that he wears every day.

“Yes,” Mr. Kang says fondly. He turns to you and Jungkook. “Do you see how pristine it is? How he takes such good care of it that it’s still in tip top shape today?” Mr. Kang clicks his teeth. “It looks exactly like it did the day that he got it.” 

“Were you there with him when he bought it?” Yoongi asks knowingly.

Mr. Kang nods. “I actually almost got it for myself.”

“OK, so we’ve addressed that Yoongi is a good boy and has a super old watch,” Jungkook says, not getting why this is important.

Yoongi’s eyes narrow. “Can you even tell time, Delivery Boy?”

“Yes,” Jungkook says plainly, “because, as you love to keep pointing out, I’m a delivery boy.”

Yoongi frowns at how Jungkook’s deflated his remark, and he only slightly considers it a betrayal that you’re laughing and high-fiving Jungkook back.

“He -- and I -- just want to know the story behind why it’s special,” you explain, making eyes at Yoongi to lighten up on Jungkook. 

Yoongi softens. “Well, my grandfather met my grandmother because of it,” he says, smirking and passing the story on to Mr. Kang.

“You have to tell it from the start!” Mr. Kang encourages, his eyes gleaming. Yoongi just shrugs and looks back at Mr. Kang with affection. He knows how much Mr. Kang loves telling this story, and Mr. Kang knows how much Yoongi loves hearing it.

“Gojong and I were students at the time,” Mr. Kang says, “and he was getting ready for a big job interview. Neither of us come from money, so Gojong had to save up for the basic things that you needed for a job like that. A solid pair of shoes. A good suit. And a nice watch. Nothing fancy, just something presentable and durable.”

Mr. Kang smiles, his glasses rising with his cheeks.

“One day, Gojong tells me that he thinks he has enough money for a watch, and it comes at a good time, because the interview is that week. He asks me to go with him to the jewelry store down the street, which is around where the grocery store is now. We went into the store, and the saleslady helping us wouldn’t negotiate on any of the prices for the watches that Gojong wanted. She offered him this one, and he hated it. She said that it was a perfectly respectable watch, in his price range, and that he’d thank her later. He said it was too plain, and that she was just being greedy.”

“He said she was really mean, too,” Yoongi adds, making Mr. Kang laugh. “And super judgy. They argued so loudly that other customers were complaining.”

“People were pushing, demanding why Gojong was taking so long. And he had no real choice. So he bought the watch,” Mr. Kang goes on. “As we’re leaving the store, Gojong stops walking and takes a moment to put the watch on. He tells me that if he had to pay that much for as ugly a watch as this, there must be something else that’s special about it. And right then, a car hits the curb just ahead of us, barely missing us as it crashed into a fence and landed in someone’s yard.”

Jungkook’s eyes widen. “Did anyone get hurt?”

“Miraculously, no,” Mr. Kang says in a whisper. “Not even the driver.”

Jungkook sighs, relieved. You can’t help but simp at his sweet reaction.

“How’d you know the driver was OK?” you ask.

“Gojong and I run over to the car, and there’s a gorgeous woman in the front seat. She’s flustered and has no idea why this has just happened. Gojong takes care of her, even helping her with the repairs, and finds that it had something to do with the steering column. They got to know each other, and, well… got to know each other, as they say,” Mr. Kang says vaguely, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Mr. Kang!” you exclaim, making everyone laugh.

“As you can imagine, Gojong feels invincible at this point. And on the day of his interview, he’s not even nervous,” Mr. Kang goes on. “But for as good an interview that he had, the employers went with a different applicant. And the woman tells him that she can’t be with a man who doesn’t have a job, and who wears a watch as plain as that one.”

Jungkook frowns. “But I thought you said that your grandfather met your grandmother because of that watch?”

“Well, that’s when he realizes,” Mr. Kang continues. “Had he not stopped walking to put the watch on, we would have been farther up the sidewalk, right in the car’s path. So, I tell Gojong, ‘You’d better go back to the jewelry store’. And he says, ‘What for?’ And I say, ‘She said you’d thank her later. Well, it’s later.’”

Mr. Kang turns to Yoongi, smiling. “Gojong went to the store the next day, and he told the saleslady that had it not been for the watch, he would be dead, or married to a complete snob, which would have killed him.”

Yoongi smiles fondly. “That saleslady was my grandmother, Myeongseong,” he reveals. “He asked her out on their first date right there and then.”

Your heart fills, and you and Jungkook share a dreamy, appreciative look.

“Aw, that’s a nice story,” Jungkook sighs. And then he glances at you. “Funny how people can surprise you.”

Mr. Kang catches Jungkook’s knowing expression, as well as the next in what seems to be a million looks with a hidden message between you and Yoongi. Mr. Kang’s about to say something addressing the vibe, until he chirps, “They’re back!” 

You and Jungkook snap to attention, and Mr. Kang lurches forward, grabbing the bowl of guacamole and chips that he’s waited to start eating. 

“Who’s back?” Yoongi asks.

“Antique Store Guy and Candle Shop Lady,” Jungkook says, as you all peer out the storefront.

Yoongi looks at the three of you and turns around to see the owner of the antique store and the owner of the candle shop arm in arm, walking into the candle shop. They’ve just gotten lunch, and they start tucking into their meals together.

“Things are progressing quite nicely,” you say.

“Just looks like lunch to me,” Mr. Kang observes.

“Wait!” Jungkook exclaims. “I see one milkshake, and two straws!”

You watch with glee as Antique Store Guy and Candle Shop Lady start to share the milkshake that they’ve brought back with them.

Yoongi stares at you, completely lost. 

You laugh and say, “I can catch you up on the backstory soon.”

Yoongi nods and smiles. “Sounds good. See you all…”

He watches as the three of you remain riveted at the scene playing out across the street.

“...Later,” Yoongi finishes, rolling his eyes and making his way to the door.

“Yoongi,” Mr. Kang adds suddenly, “why don’t you join us all Wednesday night at one of the Boss’s gigs?”

Yoongi blushes. “Huh?”

“Mrs. Kang and I will be there,” Mr. Kang says. “And so will Jungkook. We can laugh about the watch story together. Bring those boys you work with, too. Let’s make it a thing!”

Yoongi looks over at you and smiles a little funny. He raises his eyebrows, and you shrug. 

“Oh. Um, OK,” Yoongi replies. “See you then.” He leaves through the front door and waddles back up the sidewalk, toward the Big Hit building.

Mr. Kang nudges his shoulder into yours and says, knowingly, “Just like his grandfather.”

This week’s set list is that much more important now. You’re still awake, even after a full day of work and recording, going through the ideas that you’d been arranging since you started this gig. You can’t help but admit feeling a little more pressure for this week, now that the trio is going to be there, even though they literally listen to you perform every day. There’s something different about it being all yours that makes you feel like they might watch you with that much more scrutiny. Even Yoongi could sense the pressure was on, somehow knowing not to walk you home that day and giving you a bit of space.

You look down at your bed, and you see that your toes are wiggling. You start to feel anxious, and then you pull out your phone, looking at the text Yoongi had sent you when you split off from the group.

Yoongi (10:42 PM): Just pretend like it’s any other Wednesday. You’ll do great.

Seeing just his name makes you feel calmer.

But that feeling also makes you more anxious.

Suddenly, you see that you’re getting a call from an unknown number. You almost never pick up unknown numbers, but with all the new contacts you keep making through your work and lounge gig, you fear missing something important.

“Hello?”

“I can’t believe it took me this long to figure out that you’d muted my notifications,” Unnie says. “And don’t hang up!”

You pout. This was the longest you had gone without talking to her. It was starting to feel like an accomplishment.

“What do you want?” you snap.

“To check in with you,” Unnie says.

“Where are you even calling from?”

“This is Jin’s work phone.”

“And Jin has a broken laptop and some work emails to send, so please call her back on her cell!” Jin yells in the background.

“Jin!” Unnie scolds. 

“Ridiculous,” you grumble, hanging up.

You throw your phone onto the bed in annoyance, and then you pause. You wait to see if Unnie will call you back. You start to feel a sense of guilt overtaking you. Unnie isn’t one to let her personal matters bleed into other areas of her life. Using Jin’s phone is kind of a big tell of what she’s feeling with regards to your behavior.

You think about how supportive she’s always been. It’s not fair for you to lump her in with all the anger you have for Eomma. 

So you pick up your phone and call Unnie back.

“Hello?” she sniffles.

“Are you crying?” you ask.

“Well, yeah!” Unnie exclaims. “I haven’t heard from you in weeks! I don’t know if you’re eating, or making rent, or, like, I don’t know, caught in some sort of elaborate drug trafficking scheme, or bartending again, or---”

“Couldn’t you just have used your fancy tech job to track me unknowingly?” you ask, half-joking.

“Don’t you think I tried that??” Unnie screeches.

“Hey, hey,” you say gently, your heart aching. Tears start to prick at your eyes. “I’m OK. I didn’t mean to make you worry.”

“How could I not worry? You’ve left me on read. None of your friends here have heard from you. Eomma is freaking out.”

Your eyes narrow. “Is that why you called?” 

“I called because I love you,” Unnie tells you, and you know that she’s telling you the truth. This isn’t some reconnaissance call, the kind of thing you’ve been suspicious about. 

You sigh. “I love you, too. I’m sorry. I’ve just been. Y’know. Busy.”

“Are you still managing that store?” Unnie asks you hopefully. “Are you finding time to do some gigs?”

You smile. “Both,” you say. “And one new thing.”

You start with the cruel words that Eomma had told you when you last spoke. And then you tell her about the first jazz lounge gig, and Yoongi showing up, all the way to the contract with Big Hit. You tell her about all of the work that you’ve been doing with Yoongi, Namjoon, and Hobi. How kind everyone’s been. How creative you’ve felt. How you think this could finally be your big break.

Unnie sighs softly.

“What do you think?” you ask, nervous.

“I’m just so proud,” she croaks, and though you roll your eyes, your tears trickle down your cheeks, and Eomma’s words sting a little less. 

“I want to come visit you,” Unnie says, sniffling again. “Jin and I have some vacation time. Can we drive down? Next week, maybe? See you in action? I miss you so much.”

“Sure,” you say. “You know that you’re welcome anytime.”

“I wasn’t sure if I was,” Unnie says pointedly. “I don’t even have your address.”

You laugh and put her on speakerphone, opening your text thread and sending it to her before you forget. Your eyes catch a glimpse of a text, and you scroll back up to read it in full.

You realize that your eyes weren’t deceiving you. 

“What is Jae’s name doing in our texts?” you ask, not bothering to read on.

“Right,” Unnie says. “Well, a couple of weeks ago, Jae-hwa reached out. He was also worried about you because you basically disappeared on him.”

“We broke up,” you say.

“And then you vanished,” Unnie replies. “He tried reaching out to you, and when everyone that he had thought to ask told him that they hadn’t seen you in weeks, and then months, he got scared. So then he called me.”

“And then you told him to piss off, right?” you ask.

“He misses you,” Unnie explains. “I’m not saying that you have to get back together. I’m just passing along the message.”

“And you’re judging me for not getting back together with him,” you add.

Unnie sighs. “I hate when you put words in my mouth.”

“But you are judging, aren’t you?”

Unnie pauses, and for as much as you love her, and as fond of her as you are, you hate that you can’t go one conversation without her trying to get you to improve in some way.

“He’s a smart, nice guy who cares about you. He has a stable job. He can support you as you work your way up the ladder at Big Hit. He’s vetted. It just makes sense,” Unnie replies. “I’m not telling you what to do. I’m just stating facts.”

“Well, here are some facts of my own. I didn’t really care much about him. I like my three jobs. And I don’t need you or Eomma or anyone else to vet whoever I choose to bring into my life,” you reply.

To an outsider, the conversation seems tense. But at this point, you and Unnie are just doing the dance. 

“It’s not just that,” Unnie sighs.

“Well, what else is there?”

Finally, she asks it. 

“...Aren’t you lonely?”

You sigh. “I have a nice little family surrounding me, thank you very much.”

Suddenly, you hear the bite that your words have. You try to soften it.

“I’d love for you to meet them,” you add. “Or vet them. Or scan them. Whatever you and your drones consider human contact to be.” 

You hear Unnie laugh softly, putting you at ease. She draws in a breath and lowers her voice. “Is there anyone in your life who’s… y’know… giving you… intimacy?” she asks.

“You mean fucking me?” you ask bluntly, and Unnie clicks her tongue at you.

“No,” she says, annoyed. “Or, well, yes, but… y’know. Connection. Feelings.”

You think of Yoongi. You wonder if he’s still out with the guys, stuffing his cheeks with food and dipping in and out of conversation as his mind works. Maybe he’s home, wherever that is for him, and settling into bed. Maybe he’s at the studio, returning to tweak his demo after not being able to fall asleep. The thoughts you have are as adorable as his stupid beanie, and you hate that he’s coming to mind when prompted by this question.

“I don’t know,” you say. 

“Well, in that case, I’d say Jae’s worth a shot,” Unnie replies.

Your roll your eyes. “Sure.”

You look down at your set list, and you think you hear Unnie yawn. 

“I should go,” you say.

“Don’t stay up too late,” Unnie tells you.

“I won’t. Goodnight.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“Don’t forget to brush your teeth.”

“Wow, really?”

“Night.”

You hang up, and you stare at your set list again. And though you aren’t any closer to finalizing the list of songs, you at least feel a tiny bit better.

You’d guessed that Yoongi was out with Namjoon and Hobi, or at home, or working another late night in the studio. But tonight, the trio are lying on the floor at Hobi’s place, his apartment being the closest to the steakhouse that they had drunkenly stumbled out of after dinner. Now, they’re getting even more drunk while watching Jimin’s new music video on repeat. His dance moves are as smooth as his velvet suit. His silhouette glides against a backdrop of pastel backgrounds shifting in and out. Certain words take over the screen as Jimin sings them, his face and movements filling in the letters. 

During the bridge of the song, the camera closes up on Jimin, and he stares straight at the audience, showing off his fiery red eyeliner. 

“That shot right there is about to be on every channel on every TV in the country,” Namjoon drunkenly slurs, lying on his back. “Are we ready for that shit?”

“Fuck no,” Hobi complains, rolling onto his stomach and pulling his hood over his head to hide. “Remember how long it took to workshop the music video? I can’t believe that bastard had the gall.”

Yoongi stares up at the ceiling. “Doesn’t matter.”

Namjoon, and a still-hidden Hobi, raise their heads slightly to look in his direction. 

“Wait, really?” Namjoon asks.

“What?” Yoongi stares back at them, befuddled.

“It’s just that… I don’t know, it’s hard for us to gauge where you’re at with him,” Namjoon replies, sitting up suddenly, stopping halfway and wincing, and taking the rest of the trip upright much slower, folding his legs underneath him and resting his elbows on his knees. He props his aching head up with his hands, his cheeks fluffing out as he does so. 

“Whenever he does anything, you shut down or disappear or act out. And now you’re saying that it doesn’t matter? You were the one who came up with the whole aesthetic. You came up with the red eyeliner.”

“I’m glad it’s working for him,” Yoongi says. “He looks good.”

Hobi shakes his head, his face still hidden, but his hood wiggling. “So all of a sudden, we’re OK with Jimin?”

“No,” Yoongi says definitively, pointedly. “But we can’t do anything about it. It’s like you said, Joon.” He stretches his hand out to gesture to the screen, Jimin’s smirk bobbing in their faces. “That shot is going to be everywhere, and we’re going to have to deal with it. I’m trying to finally let it go.”

“And what prompted you to ‘finally let go’?” Hobi asks.

“I don’t know,” Yoongi says, shrugging.

“Bullshit,” Namjoon says, grinning. He turns to Hobi and smiles. “I bet I know.”

Yoongi sighs and rolls his eyes. “Don’t make me---”

“How is it?” Namjoon asks. “How are things going?”

Yoongi frowns, unwilling to admit how his skin is getting all tingly at the thought of you. No one’s even said your name yet, and he’s already singing it to himself in his head. He kind of always is. 

“S’fine,” he mumbles, rolling away and turning his back to them.

“No, no, no,” Hobi says, face still hidden, hands engulfed by his long sleeves, ghost hoodie arms reaching out for Yoongi and dragging him back to the group. 

Namjoon raises his torso offthe ground using just his arms and, keeping his legs crossed, scootches into the little triangle that they’re making. 

“We want details!” Hobi clamors, finally crawling out from under his hood, his hair full of static. 

Yoongi furrows his brow.

“Not the dirty stuff,” Namjoon clarifies, forcing Hobi to pull his tongue back into his mouth and grunt in annoyance. Namjoon looks back at Yoongi. “Just more specificity. How are you feeling? Where do you think it’s going?”

Yoongi scrunches up his face. “Is that… y’’know… proper? To talk about?”

Hobi looks confused. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know how it’s going. We’re still in the middle of…” 

Yoongi can’t find the right word. 

“...Courting?”

Namjoon and Hobi crack up laughing. Hobi’s stomach is working so hard that he can’t breathe, slamming his hands and feet on the floor as he sacrifices each gasp of air to more fits and starts. Namjoon is sputtering and failing, shaking his head violently, as if trying to whip the word out of his giggle-filled mouth.

“Cuh… C-cour… COURTING?!”

Hobi and Namjoon lose it all over again.

“How old are you, like, 80?!” Namjoon howls.

Yoongi grabs his beanie and pulls it over his face in anger and embarrassment, drawing his legs and arms into his giant hoodie.

“You can’t turtle your way out of this!” Hobi exclaims, as he and Namjoon leap onto him and drag his limbs back out.

Yoongi peers back up at them, his skin flushed.

“Just tell us how you’re feeling, then,” Namjoon encourages.

They all straighten, sitting up and facing each other. As Yoongi talks, Namjoon reaches back for the whiskey that they were sharing, and takes a swig straight from the bottle.

“Fine,” Yoongi sighs. “I mean, things seem to be going OK. She invites me over. I think we have a good time. I try to make sure she definitely has a good time. And I always have a good time.”

“Well, great!” Hobi exclaims.

“Do you want more with her?” Namjoon asks.

“I think… I think I do,” Yoongi says. “But…”

Yoongi sighs. This next part, the point that he’s about to divulge, is starting to become somewhat of a theme in his life. How many people have wanted to be his friend, only to ask him to listen to their demo or mixtape, disappearing when they suddenly aren’t Big Hit’s next major act? How many people have seduced him at a concert or club, only to get access to the bigger names performing that night, treating him like the screener for the groupies? It’s why he hasn’t really gone anywhere except his apartment, the studio, or Mr. Kang’s store in years, and it’s why the trio has remained a trio since Jimin’s betrayal.

Until you.

“You know what it’s like,” Yoongi laments. “I don’t know if she wants my help or if she wants… me.” 

“She doesn’t seem like a clout chaser,” Hobi points out. “I mean, you were the one who sought her out. And didn’t she hate you in the beginning?”

“Yeah,” Yoongi agrees. “But don’t most people?”

“You’ve never talked about it?” Namjoon asks, passing the bottle of whiskey to Hobi, who takes a drink.

Yoongi shakes his head.

“You usually talk these things out,” Namjoon observes.

“I’m good at the sex talk,” Yoongi replies. “Not so great at the relationship stuff.”

“Didn’t you hear him, Namjoon? They’re still courting,” Hobi teases Yoongi with a wink. “It would be improper and, dare I say, scandalous to have an open, honest, reasonable conversation about relations at this stage! Why, he hasn’t even an idea of the dowry!”

“Point made,” Yoongi says, chuckling along. “I’m old.”

“And you don’t have time to wait much longer,” Hobi says. “Not because you’re old,” he adds quickly. “You’re not old. But it seems like you’re already there with her. This is your window of opportunity.”

“If you have feelings for her, maybe it’s worth it to check in, in some way,” Namjoon replies.

Yoongi nods. He knows that things are coming to a point with you. He’s not sure what that point is, but he can’t help but feel like his heart is on the mend after having met you. And that’s not a feeling he wants to go away anytime soon.

“Come with me tomorrow,” Yoongi says. 

The guys had already declined the invitation when Yoongi asked them earlier in the day, their tongues hanging out in disgust at the prospect of wasting a perfectly good evening with a bunch of geriatrics. But Yoongi raises his eyebrows and says, “I know it’s not your thing, but maybe you could see for yourselves? Weigh in on what it seems like is happening between us? If I’m misreading the situation, or if there really is something there?”

“We see you two flirting non-stop every day,” Hobi reminds him, but then Namjoon kicks him, and Hobi adds, “But we’ll be there.”

Hobi hands Yoongi the bottle of whiskey.

Yoongi grins and takes a swig. 

This can’t be happening. This is your worst nightmare.

You look over to the table that Mr. Kang, Mrs. Kang, and Jungkook are sitting at. Jungkook waves excitedly and looks over to the front door of the lounge. Namjoon, Hobi, and Yoongi are smiling and making their way toward the front, to a table pushed right next to Mr. Kang and the gang.

You turn the dials again and again. You flip the power switch over and over. 

Nervous, you look back at the tables. Yoongi pulls his beanie off and gives a little wave to you, while Namjoon and Hobi order drinks. Yoongi catches the worry in the smile and wave that you send back to him. 

“Give me your set list,” the DJ tells you, and you hand him your notebook. You look up at him as he reads through the titles. “Be right back,” he tells you, stepping over to his setup and checking his files.

Your heart starts to sink. 

A hand lands on the small of your back, and you turn to find Yoongi’s eyes peering into yours. A wave of comfort flows through you. You can’t believe that a gesture so tiny can feel so relieving.

“What’s going on?” he asks.

“My amp’s broken,” you say sadly. The timing couldn’t be worse. Your set is supposed to start in three minutes. 

“Can I help?” Yoongi asks. “I can run and get one of the amps from the studio, or---”

“It’ll take too long,” you say mournfully. “My set would be over by the time you get back. The owner said that either I start on time, or I cancel, and the DJ takes over.”

You feel troubled at the thought of Mr. Kang finally bringing Mrs. Kang out for a nice night out, only to have it be for nothing.

The DJ returns, holding your notebook out to you. “Not to worry. I’ve got backing tracks for all of these except the last one. I don’t know it.”

“I know,” you sigh. “It’s kind of an obscure piece.” You shrug. “Well, four songs it is, then.”

“Wait,” Yoongi says. He turns to the DJ. “Do you have a piano, or a keyboard?”

“Yeah, we’ve got one in the back. It’s kind of old and crummy, though,” the DJ says.

Yoongi turns to you. “Do you have sheet music for the last song?” 

You reach into your guitar case and pull out the booklet. “Yes, but I don’t know it well enough to perform it on the piano yet,” you admit. “I’ve only learned it on my guitar.”

You hand Yoongi the booklet, and he reads through the piece. He smiles to himself, able to hear the soft plinks of the piano and the haunting melody in his head. “Wow. It’s… it’s really beautiful.”

Your eyes light up. The smile that grows across your face is resplendent. “I heard in a movie. Bought the music right after.”

Yoongi smiles warmly. “What if I play it for you?”

The smile on your face grows even bigger. “Can you?”

Yoongi nods. “It’d be a shame not to get to share this song with this group. They’ll absolutely love it.”

“You’d do this for me, on the fly like this?” you laugh. 

He softens. “When I said that I was here to help, I meant it,” Yoongi tells you meaningfully. 

Your heart swells, and you think you could have kissed him in that moment.

But now, you’ve only got two minutes. Yoongi turns to the DJ and asks, “Can I go get the keyboard while you get her set up?”

“Sure,” the DJ says, catching the owner’s eyes by the bar, gesturing to Yoongi, and then pointing to the back room.

Yoongi marches off to explain the situation to your two tables before meeting the owner and disappearing down the hall. Your tables of guests look over at you, and you throw them a thumbs-up, letting them know that everything is OK. They smile and settle back into the conversations they were having, and Jungkook sends you a wink.

You look over at the DJ and sigh. “Thanks,” you say. 

“Don’t mention it,” he says with a gruff smile. 

“By the way, that was my friend, Yoongi,” you explain. “We write songs together.”

“I know,” the DJ says. “I see him every week.”

You blink, confused. “You what? Where?”

“He’s here every week for your set,” the DJ repeats. “He stands in the back. Orders a Manhattan. Sometimes we talk shop.” He chuckles and says, “Here I thought he was your boyfriend”, before he walks over to his setup to queue up your tracks.

Your jaw drops slightly, and you look over at Jungkook. He smiles back at you again, but when he sees your face, he raises his eyebrows. 

The words that want to come out are some kind of muddled surprise at what you’ve just learned. But as you raise the mic to your lips, you force them down and greet the crowd instead. You linger on Jungkook’s eyes long enough to let him know that there’s a story here, and he gets the message, watching you that much closer.

Somehow, you figure out a way to start. 

You introduce yourself, as usual. You describe what you’re going to be playing for the evening. You briefly explain some of the minor technical hiccups you’ve run into, but you reassure everyone that they’re gonig to be in for a treat. 

The crowd seems incredibly forgiving, as if whatever hurdles you just had to jump weren’t hurdles at all.

It’s lucky that you’re only expected to do covers for these gigs. Your contract with Big Hit might become null and void if you were to share any of your original pieces, so it works out perfectly. Each week, you pick five songs, just enough for a set that’s about half an hour. And you love watching the crowd respond to your choices.

Tonight, you start with a cover of Ella Fitzgerald’s rendition of In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning, light and sweet. It helps ease people back to their seats after they’ve been dancing for a bit. You grin as you watch Mr. and Mrs. Kang gaze into each others’ eyes as you sing, hoping that you’re kicking off their hot date night just right.

You move into a cover of Someone to Watch Over Me. People start to sing along, including Jungkook. You can’t help but melt at the way that Jungkook is grinning at you. You think of his fierce loyalty. His kindness. His friendship.

Next is a cover of Nina Simone’s Lilac Wine. Longing and aching. You put all the confusing feelings that you have for Yoongi into the performance, letting them serve as a backdrop for the heady, dizzy feeling described in the lyrics. You see Namjoon and Hobi smirking at you as you sing.

Then, a cover of Pink Martini’s Hang On Little Tomato, a jaunty, sweet, positive tune that some couples get up and dance to, once you’ve established that the song will stick rigidly to its tempo, rather than pushing and pulling like your previous songs. You grin as you watch them all taking in the message of tenacity, and you daydream about what kinds of stories they take with them as they twirl around.

The entire time you’ve been singing, you’ve seen Yoongi in your periphery. He’s watched and listened while you were performing, only moving and setting up the keyboard in short bursts whenever you’d end and pause for applause, so as not to disturb the performance. Once he gets the keyboard set up, during Lilac Wine, he sits just to your left, and a little behind you, watching quietly, hands folded in his lap, gazing at you. And you feel so touched by his selflessness. So much so that it nestles into your voice, and the audience can feel it.

And finally, the last song.

Your heart clenches. You haven’t performed this song in front of an audience before, but you sing it all the time. It’s a jazzy rendition of a traditional Polish tune. You sang it to your friends so often that they thought you actually understood Polish. You sang it to help calm your then-baby niece and nephew before their naptimes. Everyone in your life knows it as Your Song. But more recently, you’ve only sung it to yourself, in the comfort of your apartment, or during an empty, slow day at Mr. Kang’s store, your chin pointed down and eyes lowered, the melody never quite leaving your chest.

You introduce Yoongi to the crowd. He gives a small smile when they clap, save for Mr. Kang, Namjoon, and Hobi yelling “MIN YOONGI!” happily and eliciting some chuckles. 

You tell the crowd the story of the song. It translates to Two Hearts, Four Eyes, and it’s about lovers who can never be together. 

You warn the crowd that you’ve never practiced this, but both you and Yoongi are willing to give it a go.

Yoongi shares a happy, pleasant look with you.

And then, you’re off.

The heartache of a song streams out of your pores, swirling around the lounge like smoke, pulling everyone into a hazy, bittersweet fog. Some couples slow dance and rest their weary heads against each other. You even see some couples starting to kiss. Mr. Kang himself leans over to Mrs. Kang and nibbles on her cheek, making her smile and blush. Jungkook, drunk, stares in awe of you. And Namjoon and Hobi watch, jaws slightly open, heads tilted toward each other, mesmerised by the beauty writen into the score.

Yes, your voice carries the song through the air so gorgeously.

But from the first run in the introduction, you know this song is no longer just yours.

Yoongi’s fingers capture the pensive gloom perfectly, the keys falling just on the back of the beat, not enough to throw off the tempo, but just to make the song feel a tad laborious, as if it takes the singer extra effort just to get the song out. It’s the same way you like to sing it, your voice effortless, but your performance effortful. You’re so impressed with Yoongi’s talent. You knew he could play, and you’d watched him play some sort of instrument every day in the studio, but you didn’t know that he could practically be a studio musician in his own right, as well as a producer. 

It’s not just the piano skills that you’re impressed by, either. You just can’t believe that, when Yoongi plays along with you, completely unrehearsed, he fits you like a glove.

When the song ends, there’s a moment of contemplative silence as everyone breathes the last of the fog in.

And then you receive the biggest applause you’ve gotten, not just in this lounge, but perhaps ever.

You turn back to Yoongi, and you see that the corner of his lips turn up into a nearly imperceptible smile. Having spent more time with him, you know now that this is his proud smile. You think that he’s proud of himself for saving the day. But he’s actually proud of you. Delivering under pressure, and performing a set as incredible as that. 

You say goodnight, and as the spotlight dims, people come up to you to commend you on your performance. One couple that is fluent in Polish commends you on your pronunciation, and one of them tells you, “I haven’t heard that song since I was a child. Thank you for singing it. It was marvelous.”

Chest heavy with emotion, you turn back to Yoongi. You want to tell him that he was right. That it would have been a shame had you not shared the song tonight. But he’s got a little audience of admirers of his own. When his eyes find yours, you share a look, and he smiles at you.

The small groups around you die down, and the DJ turns on the rest of his playlist, beaming and nodding at you.

You wave back and smile, and then you walk over to Yoongi, who has just unplugged and turned off the keyboard, moving it into the corner as instructed by the lounge owner.

“That was…” 

You sigh. 

“I don’t even know what to say. Thank you for playing.”

“Thanks for letting me,” he says, grinning.

You fidget a little, your dress swaying a bit. “You don’t have anywhere else to be, right?”

“Not at all,” Yoongi says.

“Then let’s hang out with our friends, and then… let’s hang out some more,” you say, your heart beating so fast that it sounds more like buzzing than pumping.

“Sounds like a plan,” Yoongi says, blushing a little.

You join your group at the tables, and everyone raves about your performance. 

Mrs. Kang tells you, “It takes me a lot to want to leave the house this late at night, but I’m so glad that we came. That was just amazing.” 

“Thanks for coming out,” you laugh. “So glad you enjoyed it.”

She grins and looks up at Mr. Kang, who is getting a couple more drinks at the bar. “I hope Mr. Kang doesn’t tire out before we get home,” she admits, a little tipsy. “I’m feelin’ a little frisky after that last song.”

“Mrs. Kang, you animal!” Jungkook exclaims, making her squeal. “Sounds like we need to take you out for a spin on the dance floor!” 

He stands and pulls her to her feet.

“She’s not joking,” Hobi adds, leaning over and grinning at you. “You guys had quite the steamy moment at the end there.”

“Well, it’s a smoky lounge and a smoky tune,” you reply.

“I’m not talking about the song. I’m talking about that look,” Hobi says, making Namjoon nearly spit out his drink, and Yoongi get so embarrassed that he folds his lips into his mouth, looks straight up at the ceiling, and widens his eyes.

Mr. Kang returns with his drinks. He sets them down on the table and looks around. “Where is my wife? I swear I brought her here.”

“Jungkook took her out for a dance,” you laugh.

“Oh, he did, did he?” Mr. Kang asks, looking out at the dance floor and catching sight of Jungkook dipping Mrs. Kang and making her guffaw. “Ooh,” Mr. Kang comments, “looks like Jungkook’s done me a bit of a favor. I haven’t heard her make that sound since the 60s.”

You all laugh, and Mr. Kang’s eyes settle on you. “Of course, you’re the reason why we’re all here. I guess you’re really the person I should thank.”

You shrug. “I’m just glad the set wasn’t a total disaster, given how things started.” 

Mr. Kang’s eyes shine over Yoongi. “I’m much more interested in how things end, myself,” he says, looking back at you. He extends his hand to you. “C’mon. Since our dance cards our empty for this song.”

You smile and take Mr. Kang’s hand.

You can tell Mr. Kang was probably quite the looker in his heyday. Not to say he isn’t handsome now, but in his youth, you know that he was probably one sought-after bachelor in his own right. That, plus his charm, and sweetness, could melt a heart over and over again.

Some of that charm and sweetness settle over you now, as he guides you in a mid-tempo dance.

“You did great, Boss,” he says softly, and you chuckle sheepishly. “No, I mean it,” he presses on. “That was truly magical. I can’t imagine what you and Yoongi are cooking up in that studio every night.”

“The songs won’t be out for quite some time,” you admit.

“I’m not talking about the songs,” Mr. Kang says, his eyes twinkling. 

He turns you so that you face Yoongi, and you’re surprised to see him watching you and Mr. Kang dancing, his eyes so soft. Though he answers Namjoon and Hobi as they talk, looking over to them every now and then and laughing, he always finds you again in the crowd.

“He really is a good boy,” Mr. Kang tells you. “So be good to him. Be good to each other.”

You nod. 

And that clinches it. 

There’s no more confusion. No more vacillating. You’re just as game as you were when Yoongi offered to play for you. 

You want to know what it could be like if neither of you ever had to leave the stage. 

You all gather outside, saying your goodbyes and figuring out your ways home. 

Mr. Kang and an admittedly grabby Mrs. Kang scamper off like teenagers to Mr. Kang’s car, parked just down the way.

Before he heads out, you plant a kiss on Jungkook’s cheek, and he tells you, “You’ve gotta tell me what that look was for, before you started.”

“Oh, believe me, just wait,” you whisper back.

When Namjoon and Hobi call for a car, they already know to call it just for two. And as you hug them goodnight, Namjoon drunkenly mumbles in your ear, “If you have s’more drinks, don’t let him have more’n five. Otherwise, he’ll fall asleep before things get interesting!” 

You and Namjoon share in wild laughter as Hobi carts him into the car, and though Yoongi wants to demand what provoked it, he chooses to glare at a chuckling Hobi instead.

Alone at last, you and Yoongi turn to each other. 

“Allow me,” Yoongi says.

“Hmm?” 

You see his arm move again, and you look down. His hand is reaching for your guitar case.

“Oh!” you say. No one, not even your ex, has ever offered to carry your guitar for you. “Um… sure. Thank you.”

You hand it to him, and as he takes the guitar case in his hand, he stealthily takes your now-free hand in his, turning to stand next to you, and leading you down the sidewalk.

You let out a soft chuckle. “Damn. That was smooth.”

Yoongi turns to you. He slightly winks and sticks his tongue out before nodding his chin up with a grin.

You think you might die.

“Cold?” he asks you, his thumb rubbing against yours.

“Not too cold,” you say, your heart so full that it’s radiating warmth.

“Tired?” 

“Definitely not.”

Yoongi smirks. “Perfect.”

You look up and you realize that you’re a little disoriented, though. For the amount of time that you’ve been walking, buildings that should be there are not there, and buildings that should not be there are.

Now, you really think you might die.

“Uh, where are we going?” you ask nervously.

“I’m walking you home,” Yoongi says simply.

“We’re walking in the wrong direction,” you point out to him.

“Well, we’re getting a celebratory meal, and then I’m walking you home,” he clarifies.

He leads you to a 24-hour diner that you didn’t know existed. It’s a little off the beaten path, populated mostly by long-haul truckers and all sorts of night shift workers who are stopping by for their break. 

People here seem to know Yoongi, and he nods to them as he leads you to what you assume is his usual booth.

“One of your hangouts?” you ask.

Yoongi shrugs, gently setting your guitar case down on his side of the booth. “A newer one, but yeah, been coming here for weeks now.”

“Every week, after my set?” you ask, relishing in the look of surprise on Yoongi’s face when you say it.

“You---” Yoongi clears his throat. “You know that I come every week?”

“The DJ told me tonight,” you say, as a waiter comes up to you with a couple of menus.

You and Yoongi smile at him, and then you start going through the huge books, all kinds of pictures of all kinds of meals flashing by as you turn the laminated pages.

“Why do you come every week?” you ask, peeking over your menu at him to gauge his reactions.

He does the same with you. “I like listening to you.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that you were coming?”

“Didn’t want to make you nervous.”

You laugh. “We play together every day. Why would I be nervous?”

“I can tell when I make you nervous, Boss,” he says, his voice low and suggestive.

You feel his foot graze yours, and you start to blush. You lower your menu and look up at him. He’s looking at the bottom right corner of his menu. But he’s smirking.

You raise your menu again before you smile to yourself.

“Well, I like listening to you, too,” you say. “You play beautifully. How did you pick up Two Hearts so fast?”

“Been playing piano for years and years.” Yoongi sets his menu down. “My Eomma says that I’m so talented because she did the Baby Mozart tapes while she was pregnant.” He mimes his mother’s pregnant stomach, with headphones surrounding it. “Headphones and all.”

You laugh to yourself, imagining a baby Yoongi with a baby beanie in his mother’s stomach. Listening to Mozart. Frowning.

A group of college-aged kids burst into the diner, probably drunk and in search of greasy food to mop up all that liquor and booze. They thankfully choose a booth farther away from where you’re sitting, but then you hear a familiar tune that they’re carrying with them.

Jimin’s -- well, the trio’s -- latest single.

You feel Yoongi stiffen, and the waiter arrives with water, and mugs for coffee. He takes your orders, some waffles, and an omelette, before collecting your menus and heading over to the group of college kids.

“Ignore it,” you tell Yoongi, who just smiles.

There’s a pause. And then, Yoongi asks, “Have you seen the music video?” 

You nod. “It’s such a cool idea. But I hate that it’s set to your song.”

Yoongi purses his lips. “The idea for the video was ours, too.”

There are seemingly no depths to Jimin’s effrontery, nor your disappointment in him. You sigh, and Yoongi looks at you gratefully before adding, “But I’m trying to let it all go. The anger. The resentment.” He smiles at you. “There are new, better things to think about.”

You grin. “Did you ever get a chance to talk to him after that day?” you ask.

Yoongi traces shapes in the condensation of his water. “A couple of weeks after it happened, I went to go see him. Try to talk some sense into him. Convince him to come back.”

You lean forward. You’ve never heard this part of the story, and you get the feeling that Namjoon and Hobi haven’t either. 

“And?” 

Yoongi suddenly looks like he regrets bringing it up.

“I’m here to listen, but we don’t have to talk about it,” you say.

Yoongi sighs. He kind of wants to tell you. He kind of needs you to know. And he thinks you’ll understand.

“Well… I’m assuming that Namjoon told you that the reason Jimin was upset was because I left for an anniversary dinner with my ex, Yaeji,” Yoongi begins. When you nod, he goes on to say, “When I went to see Jimin, I saw Yaeji in the hallway, knocking on his door and calling out to him. Saying things. And… like… moaning things.”

He gets fidgety, and you can only imagine what sorts of things.

“We were already fighting, and me being late to our anniversary dinner was the last straw for her. She broke up with me that night. And I totally understood. But when I saw her looking for comfort from him, after he had just taken all my work… I just…” 

He sighs and slides his hands off the table and back into his lap. Like taking bullets out of a gun.

You watch him. Observe him.

“I’m so sorry,” you say quietly.

More silence passes between you.

“Did he open the door?” you ask.

“I didn’t stick around to find out. Neither of them saw me,” Yoongi replies.

The waiter returns with your food, and though you both thank the waiter, you both also just stare at your plates. 

“Sorry to kill the vibe,” Yoongi apologizes. “We were having such a nice---”

“My ex’s name is Jae-hwa,” you tell him, cutting the omelette in two and splitting it between you both. You pick up your fork and start to eat. “He was an asshole, too.”

Yoongi smiles at you. He reaches for his own fork and starts to dig in. “Oh?”

“Yeah. My Eomma, which, don’t worry, you’ll get earfuls of her later,” you say, rolling your eyes as Yoongi chuckles warmly at the thought that there will be a later, “well, she thought Jae was a pretty good catch. But to her, the only things that mattter are looks and money.”

“What did he do?” Yoongi asks, and you selfishly appreciate the edge in his voice, and the assumption that the breakup is Jae’s fault.

“It was more what he couldn’t do for me,” you explain. “He is stable and generally pleasant. But I never felt serious about him. He was so selfish. With chores. With dates. With sex.” Your eyes meet Yoongi’s, and you both grin knowingly. “And with the way he ended things.”

“How did things end?” Yoongi asks, his cheek poking out, full of waffle.

“I was performing at an open mic thing, and he chose to break up with me that night,” you say.

Yoongi’s eyes widen.

“Two acts before me,” you add.

Yoongi gasps.

“To a cover of Into the Mystic,” you finish.

Yoongi coughs, nearly choking on his food. He quickly chews and swallows his bite, and then he chases it with some coffee. “Are you fucking serious?” he asks, his voice raspy.

“Yeah,” you say, disgusted. “And it wasn’t even a good cover.”

“Into the Mystic? That’s like…” Yoongi’s eyes move back and forth quickly, searching for a metaphor. “That’s like someone taking you to heaven only to tell you that you can’t go inside.”

You brighten. “Exactly.”

Both of you eat and chat, catching each other up on life’s yarns. Tales of the trio when they were a quartet. Notes about Eomma and Unnie. Fond memories of Mr. Kang and the shop, both old and new. Even the backstory of Antique Store Guy and Candle Shop Lady.

Soon, Yoongi is walking you up to the front door of your lobby, still clutching your guitar case.

“Thanks for tonight,” you say. And then you laugh. “And, I guess, this morning.”

Yoongi smiles. “We tend to stretch on, don’t we?”

You nod. “But I like that about us.” You smile. “I like that we live in the wee small hours.”

Yoongi takes a deep breath and looks at you sweetly. As he exhales, his pink cheeks and nose wiggling, his breath condenses in the cold air.

“Listen,” you say, softly, stepping into him and catching him off-guard. 

He peers down at you as you wrap the ends of his scarf in your fingers. “About Yaeji… I’m so sad that things had to end,” you tell him earnestly.

Yoongi’s free hand finds its way to your hip. “Well, I’m actually glad. And I’m glad that Jae broke up with you, too,” he tells you. He wraps both of his arms around you, his hands crossing behind your back and pulling you close, your guitar case resting just on your ass. 

He breathes you in. “If those things hadn’t happened, then you and I wouldn’t have…” 

“I know,” you say.

And then, the moment comes. The moment that you always wait for. The moment you decide whether things are going to start or stop. Like always, you’re hoping that something magical happens. That moment tends to end a certain way, like it did with Jungkook. But what you’re not realizing is that Yoongi already feels the magic happening. It’s been happening all night. To him, you are the magic.

You catch sight of the iron gate of Mr. Kang’s storefront.

“Do I remind you of Mr. Kang?” you ask meekly.

“Mr… Kang?” Yoongi asks, confused.

You smile brightly, and you push yourself up on your toes, kissing Yoongi, full, and soft.

Yoongi hugs you tight and kisses you back, hungry, as if he hadn’t just had a whole meal a few minutes before this.

The push past the front door of the lobby and on through the door to your apartment is a blur. You remember squeezes, and kisses, and giggles, and slight trips, and one minor collision with a neighbor. 

But then, you’re in the comfort of your own home, and Yoongi’s setting your guitar case down, along with his coat, his scarft, and his beanie, in his spot at the kitchen table.

You crash into each other again, helping each other undress as you kiss passionately, fumbling for each other as you make your way to your bedroom and land on your mattress.

Now that Yoongi’s lips are on you, you realize that it feels so natural. You feel more naked without them than without your clothes. 

You wrestle playfully with each other, and eventually, Yoongi sits back against your headrest as you straddle him, kissing, hands roving, bodies heating up. You reach down for his cock, strained and trapped by his jeans during your last session, but now, swollen and pulsing and free. You stroke him as you kiss, and when you get it just right, he bites your bottom lip and lets out a moan.

He reaches down for your pussy, already wet for him, already yearing for him. He massages you, sighing at the sight of you, finally feeling like he can take as much as he gives with you, and thankful that you’ll let him.

You bend down and wrap your tongue around the tip of his cock, making Yoongi suck in his breath and hit the top of his head against the wall.

You both laugh, and you ask, “Are you OK?”

“Am I OK??” Yoongi asks sarcastically, curling his fingers into a fist and resting it on his forehead. “God, keep going, please.”

You chuckle, the vibrations in your throat buzzing his shaft as you bob up and down his length, aiming to make him as soaked as you are, lapping every single inch of him over and over. He starts to move his hips, and you take it as a compliment, continuing to suck and lick, whatever drives him wild enough to act.

“Fuck, you taste so good. I want this inside me, now,” you say, looking up at him.

“But I haven’t even,” Yoongi pants, almost sounding worried, “I h-haven’t even gone down on you yet, and you’ve b-been wanting it, and I---”

“Next time,” you say urgently. “Right now, I want this.”

Yoongi opens his arms to you and nods, cueing you to place your palms against his chest, melting into his embrace.

Finally, you straddle him, sink down onto him, and you both shiver at how good it feels.

You’ve never been this connected with someone before. For the most part, the sex that you have had has been rushed. You discovered your sexuality quite early, your fingers already dextrous at their maneuvers while your schoolmates were still learning what the clitoris even was. You lost your virginity in five minutes to some unworthy soul that you completely forgot in six. Whether it was because you only had such little privacy at home, or because you had such limited time after you grew up and moved out, you’d draw pleasure out of yourself so furiously and straightforwardly, desiring nothing but the feeling of your body bursting, and putting up with anything and everything to get there. You fast-forward through the kissing and romancing when you watch porn. As if you’d watch a whole video. In your private bookmarks are just a series of clips, some even shorter than the most viral social media clips that litter your text threads. Your libido is difficult to quench, something that your fuckbuddies and lovers and boyfriends found incredibly sexy at first, but laborious in the end. You were always racing full-speed when chasing your next orgasm, thinking the other things were nice but inevitably inconsequential. Instead of stopping to smell the roses, you were always doing everything you could to get yours to blossom as quickly as you could.

Sex with Yoongi completely turns you on your head.

He’s so patient. Not because he’s understanding and empathic, though, incidentally, he is. He’s so patient because he’s so confident. He knows that whatever happens, you will explode, and it will be because of something he’s done to you. 

He feels so familiar, like an exact copy of your unconscious, the personification of everything you never knew you wanted but so desperately needed someone to do with you. In Yoongi, you have finally found someone who was willing to give it his all, for as long as you want. 

And he takes… his… damn… time.

He forces you to slow down, and in doing so, he directs your attention to your other senses. Even now, your bodies exposed and tangled, the feel of his thick cock inside of you, the feel of his lips and tongue wrestling with yours -- all of it is drowned out by the achingly slow pace at which his palms are rubbing your back. Both of his hands start in the middle of your spine, where his forearms had previously been resting and pulling you to him. His right hand slides down at the same pace to grab your ass. His left hand slowly climbs up your spine to tangle his fingers into your hair.  And he pulls you back a little by your hair as you ride him, your knees sliding adagio and in circles on the mattress on either side of Yoongi’s hips.

You moan as he paws at you, your hips automatically picking up the pace as he leans forward and deepens your kiss. At the feel of the unexpected faster pace, Yoongi breaks your kiss by raising his neck again, resting the crown of his head against the wall while his back is propped up firmly against your headboard. His legs stretch out in front of him, and you rest your hands back on his thighs, moving your hips in wider, faster circles now. He bites his lip and groans as you bob your hips up and down, rocking against him. 

“Easy,” he tells you.

You whine and have every intention of disobeying, but suddenly, you feel pin pricks and pinches on your scalp.

“Ow,” you complain, giggling a little and reaching for Yoongi’s hand in your locks, fingers spread apart and gently cradling the back of your head.  When Yoongi’s eyes flash open and land on yours, you smile reassuringly. “I think my hair is caught in your watch.”

“Fuck, sorry,” Yoongi apologizes, his brow creasing with worry as he does his best to free his hand without tugging any more than he needs to. “Not like we need this thing right now anyway,” he adds, smirking. 

Even Yoongi’s grandfather’s watch forces you to slow down. You keep moving, feeling the head of his cock with your walls clenched tight, watching him in splendor as Yoongi keeps his right hand glued on your ass, rubbing it and squeezing it languidly but firmly so as to show you what pace to maintain. He locks eyes with you and slowly draws his left wrist to his mouth. He parts his lips and sets his teeth on either side of the black, leather strap of his watch. You see the pink of his tongue slowly slide the tail of the band through the loops, and you watch his teeth nimbly undo the buckle. Your abdomen tightens involuntarily and deliciously as you watch him bite the end of the strap of the watch and gently pull it from his wrist, the face of the watch glimmering up at you as it dangles just under his chin. No, you don’t need this instrument right now, not unless, instead of marking time, it can stop it, or give you all that you could ever want.

You can’t believe you ever thought that this part of sex was overrated.

You’ve been here forever, and you’d gladly stay here as long as Yoongi would let you. You haven’t switched positions once, but you’re so in the moment that you aren’t letting your mind wander, wondering about things like if Yoongi’s ass is getting numb with you sitting on top of him like this, and you won’t feel the rug burn on your knees and calves from all your grinding until hours later.

Yoongi’s eyes finally let go of yours when he turns to your bedside table, using his left hand to set his watch down before walking his fingers up your spine and combing them through your hair. They settle back into place to hold the back of your head as he brings you to him, parting his lips, and making you part yours.

You can’t stop thinking about Yoongi’s famous tongue, your mind still trying to make sense of what you’ve just watched him do. You felt his pride and joy on your chest for the first time earlier, his tongue like a new visitor that had traveled down the path of your neck and chest to set up camp on your bosom, the strong muscle happily swirling around your nipples as his jaw widened and narrowed the boundaries within which it could play. He nipped at you, told you that your skin tasted good, salty and sweet, maybe even a little flowery, like your perfume, taste and scent mixing together on his palate. You wonder what his opinions might be about the other parts of your flesh, like your soft belly, or the meat of your ass, or, most importantly, the velvet, glabrous parts of you that are starting to quiver now, stimulated by the way his cock is twitching with excitement.

You almost regret declining his offer to show you, but you remember that you’ll have time to find out.

“I think I’m going to come,” you whisper, breaking your kiss.

His voice purrs deep in his throat. “So come.”

The way he says it. So simply. As if you hadn’t been struggling all this time with it. Like all you had to do was make a choice. And you realize that it really is that clear for him. He’s a man of his word. This is what he does. He produces.

You lean back and start to move in waves now instead of circles, quickening your pace. But Yoongi moves his hands to your thighs and squeezes, reminding you what he means. Don’t come right now. Don’t rush it. When it comes, which it absolutely will, just let it. 

It’s a valuable lesson, one that you think every musician may not remember to practice, but understands inherently. You don’t renumber measures or skip forward in a track just to hear your favorite parts. Every note has its place, and they’re all important in building up the overall, lasting high.

Yoongi leans forward, connecting with you, smiling into your kiss upon hearing the melody of your whines and whispers of his name. He loves doing this to you. With you. Writing symphonies together.

His hands move up to your temples, caressing the sides of your face and running down your neck, shoulders, upper arms. His touch tickles your skin as he strokes his cock firmly with you. He doesn’t speed up, but he’s starting to move his hips a little more, deepening his thrusts as you meet him with your hips. His hands settle on them, gripping and kneading the fold where your legs meet your pelvis, fingers entrancing you as they move to your front and tease the soft skin of your mound. He takes all of his fingers away but one, his right index finger, which he curls into a hook. He places the stretch between the top knuckle, just under his nail, and the middle knuckle, the next bend after that, flat on your pussy. He strokes it softly and looks into your eyes, gently asking you if you want him there.

You close your eyes, moaning at his touch, making him smile happily. Of course he’s wanted there, your body tells him. And he so loves being wanted.

You’d kind of forgotten about your clit until he places the pads of his upturned fingers between your folds, opening you up. Your clit screams out, and you groan with pleasure. You feel your released desire dripping onto him, and onto your sheets, your emotions and juices leaking everywhere.

Yoongi slides the soles of his feet up and meets your back with his thighs, giving you something to rest against as he starts to take control, never abandoning the pace that he’s set from the beginning. His fingers start to circle around your clit at that same pace, making you shiver.

“How’s it feel?” he murmurs. You both know that he probably doesn’t need to ask, but your eyes are still closed, hiding the facts, and Yoongi just wants to make sure.

“P-perfect,” you stutter, both of your hands gliding into your hairline and feeling just how sweaty you’ve become. You grab fistfuls and moan. “It’s fucking perfect.”

You start to move your hips with him, trying to increase the tempo, but he smacks you on the thigh playfully with his other hand.

“Am I going to have to resort to spanking you?” he challenges, laughing and biting his lip.

You giggle and open your eyes, and Yoongi beams so brightly. 

That smile. It does something to you. Your heart’s been racing this entire time, but you feel like certain pulses are dropping and erratic. It feels like an old, worn record. 

Like it’s skipping beats.

You’re not just shivering now. You’re full on shaking, and you can’t help it.

“Yoongi,” you whine desperately.

He licks his lips and lets his jaw hang slightly open to take in more air. “Stay with me now.”

His fingers press harder into you, swimming around your drenched bud and sticky lips, the sound erotic and dirty. As tears pool in your eyes, his other hand lets go of your thigh, running up your side and along your arm to find your hand. He interlocks his fingers with yours, and you grasp him tightly, palms and skin so, so sweaty. 

You can’t believe how wet you are, everywhere. Beads trickle down your chests. There’s a stain on the headboard from the crown of Yoongi’s head. Condensation from the steam you’re co-creating appears on the sheets around you. Nothing, though, is wetter than where your hips meet, Yoongi starting to fuck you deeper, pressing deeply and noisily into your mattress and using the energy from the springs to launch himself up, raising his ass off the bed when he slams into you. The sound and feel of you rhythmically colliding again and again reminds you of jumping jubilantly into puddles.

He starts to wiggle his hips a little with each thrust, really trying to screw himself into you, the tip of his cock slamming into your wall as if it hopes that with just one more dig, it can break through. Your cunt tightens as if trying to catch it and hold it in place, unable to fully grip its lubricated shaft as it glides in and out. He lets out a grunt as your folds hug him tighter, and harder, squeezing him and shaping him so seductively that he almost breaks his own rules about the tempo. 

Your hand balls his palm into your fist, bending his knuckles back and popping them.

“Fuck!” you cry out, your neck starting to go limp, and your other hand latching onto your breast, fingers taking your nipple between them and clasping tightly as your palm massages your skin.

You bring your hands to your mouth, and you start to suck on Yoongi’s fingers, biting where he bites when he’s anxious, running your tongue to soothe him again.

“Aahh,” he groans. Yoongi has to shut his eyes. It’s so much. Too much. You already feel so good around him, insanely hot, unthinkably taut. If he watches the way that you’re squirming and playing with your gorgeous body, and if he sees how red and purple your tongue is making the tips of his fingers, he’ll fall apart right away.

His fingers and thumb start to wrap around your clit, five points of pressure surrounding the bundle, and he starts to stroke it, his fingers tightly dragging down all sides of it before reaching the bulb and spreading out a little, slightly parting your folds as they go, before regrouping at the base of your clit to do it again. And again. And again. And again.

Your ass pushes into his thighs, and you furrow your brow. Your shoulder blades slam into Yoongi’s knees, and you go completely limp. Your clit can’t take it anymore. It prompts you to come, wave after wave, nonstop, overwhelming, mumbling a mix of “Yoongi”s and “yes”es in staccato bursts, the only way you can get them out with your sharp and ragged breathing.

It’s the hardest you’ve come. Maybe ever. 

But just because you come doesn’t mean Yoongi stops. 

He smiles fiendishly at you, and now, after your body has begged for it over and over again, he starts to quicken his pace.

His fingers flatten and start rubbing your clit with such speed and force that it hurts. You sob, but you nod, and Yoongi helps you push past it by whispering and moaning to you. “Shh. Almost. Almost there.” There’s a razor sharp but playful edge to his voice. “You’re a nice girl, aren’t you? Be a nice girl now.”

Your countenance disappears from sight as you drape yourself over the back of Yoongi’s knees, your hair spilling down his calves, your arms dead at your sides, the sides of your legs resting on the mattress, your body completely splayed out in front of him, unable to do anything but whimper and experience this.

He slams into you faster and faster, harder and harder, and your pussy almost becomes nonexistent, either so tight that there’s barely any room to move, or so completely destroyed by pleasure that physical forms don’t make sense right now. It all feels so rapturous, the way Yoongi’s breaking you apart into your elements to reform you into something new.

A growl bleeds from his throat, and it sounds so delectable that you reawaken, as if he’s summoning you to him. You spring forward and latch onto him, enveloping him in your embrace, clutching him tightly.

“Shiiiiiit,” you whine again, “Yoongi. Fuck. It’s so, so good.”

He grunts, and you start to bounce on him, using your knees for full leverage, and slapping your hands onto the headboard and wall for even more.

Yoongi growls again, and he bites your neck, sucking hard as he digs his nails, still covered in your saliva, into your back. You suck in some air and lean down to kiss him, both of you moving so fast and erratically now that your mattress is slightly off of the bed frame, and your motions have knocked your phone and Yoongi’s watch to the ground from your bedside table to the ground.

Your cunt tightens like a vice grip, and you come again, bringing Yoongi with you this time, drawing every last drop of his cum and pleasure and thoughts and sex out of him. You burst around the head of his cock, marinating him in your juices, your cunt still so unyielding that your liquids can only seep warmly down his shaft, sousing his still-wet sack. He goes slack and loses his breath, muttering appreciatively as you slow your movements, easing you both off of your highs.

Inevitably, you come to a stop, still like the world around you.

You curl into his chest, and he rests his lips against your forehead. It surprises you. Yes, you’ve just had mind-blowing sex, but it’s so… intimate.

With sleepy eyes, he looks up at you, dragging a finger through your folds, making you moan a little, before raising his finger to his mouth. He tastes you, and he smiles. “Delicious.”

“You’ll have to have the whole meal next time,” you reply, making him laugh.

“I thought you were a nice girl,” Yoongi says thoughtfully, making you laugh softly through your nose. You don’t yet have the energy to give much else of a response, and Yoongi says, “Though, I guess we did already have breakfast”, making you laugh again.

As he strokes your hair, you think of Yoongi’s eyes taking you in as you sang those words during your first set at the jazz lounge. And his eyes tonight. For as long as you’ve been working together, you still can’t believe the feeling of having his eyes on you. It drives you crazy. You know he could be looking at literally anything or anyone else, and you’re completely puzzled as to why he’s continuing to choose to train them on you. 

You sit up and look into those eyes now. And even though he’s smiling in sleepy bliss at you, there’s still a bit of that enticing edge. Suddenly, you remember what Mr. Kang told you about Yoongi.

“I thought you were a good boy,” you say back naughtily.

Yoongi’s eyes deepen, and his smile widens. “Mm,” he thrums cryptically. Then, he pulls you in tighter, his arms resting around your waist, his soft pout kissing your breasts carefully. “C’mere. Let’s get some rest.”

He cranes his neck up, and you smile at him. You tuck your sweaty strands behind your ears, and you nestle your fingers into Yoongi’s drenched locks, just at his temple. And you bring your lips to his, kissing him gently.

Wrapping his arms around your waist, he helps you lift up and move off of him, caringly, knowing how raw it all still feels, knowing because he’s raw, too. But not just right now, as a result of something shared. 

What you don’t know is that he’s raw all the time.

He lies down next to you, his lips just grazing your ear. He starts to hum quietly, a soft, aimless tune.

“Are you singing me a lullaby?” you chuckle, feeling so warm and cozy that you’re starting to fade.

“I can,” he tells you, “but you heard what Namjoon and Hobi said about my terrible voice.”

“I love your voice,” you whisper, reaching back for him. 

His hand is resting on your hip. You place your hand on top of his and bring his arm around you, lacing your fingers together and locking them to your chest. You feel his lips curl into a contagious smile, which you catch as his soft pout sliding against your ear lobe, making you smile, too.

“In the wee small hours of the morning, while the whole wide world is fast asleep…”

His singing voice is so deep. Low, and warm. Soothing. Comforting. 

“You lie awake and think about the girl, and never, ever think of counting sheep…” 

His thumb starts to move over your knuckles in a slow rhythm, and he starts to slide his legs closer to you.

“When your lonely heart has learned its lesson, you'd be hers if only she would call…” 

You feel the rest of his body moulding you. His arm relaxing so that you feel its full weight on your body. His hips against you. His knees filling the space in the backs of yours. Your feet touching under the covers.

“In the wee small hours of the morning…” 

You breathe, and it feels like you’re breathing him in.

“That's the time you miss her most of all.”

As you settle into slumber, your heart does that thing again.

It skips a beat.

Countermelody | Masterpost

<< 02: Tuning | 04: Modulation >>

[feif-incorrect-quotes]

🔊

for Leo? tbh I'm 50% looking for song recs and 50% in live with him 😅

Oml of course I too am in love with him I understand.

Here's my LeoKamu playlist if that's one you'd like. Some of these aren't 100% accurate to canon but I have stories in my head lmao. Like "if I could tell her" is clearly one. Then "death by a thousand cuts" makes me think of when Kamui chooses revelation or birthright :(. The latter makes me especially sad 😭. But not all of them are specifically with Kamui in mind, only a few. Personally, I don't like using Kamui as a self insert outside of playing the game but it would be ingenious to not include some of those songs in a playlist entitled "LeoKamu"

Some songs are well known and some aren't. (always open to suggestions to add btw.)

To be specific and not just link to the playlist I'll list some of my favorites. "Suneater" by Leanna Firestone is my favorite because I feel like it fits him really well and also I love the knowledge that he would be annoyed by all the zodiac sign references lol. "Smitten" also by Leanna Firestone makes me happy because "you snored and it was the most beautiful thing I've ever heard" and when you wake Leon up in game he admits that he snores sometimes but also it refers to having crooked teeth so it's not 100% relateable to him. Dandelions by Ruth B. Gold Rush by Taylor Swift. Strawberry Blond by Mitski. Would you be so kind by Dodie. Gorgeous by Taylor Swift. And Tenerife Sea by Ed Sheeran.

[badgersprite]

Fic: Desiderata (13/?)

Chapter Title: Unintended

Fandom: Mass Effect

Characters: Samara, Miranda

Pairing: Miranda/Samara, the burn is slow, the payoff is sweet

Story Rating: R

Warnings: Themes of and allusions to suicide and depression

Chapter Summary: Samara had been alone for a long time. Longer than most could fathom. Her solitude was her penance. As much a self-imposed exile due to her belief that she was responsible for the death of her bondmate and the disease that afflicted her daughters as it was a necessity to hunt down Morinth. But then a chance encounter on Illium changed everything.

Author’s Note: It’s finally time to see the ME2 storyline through Samara’s eyes. I’m not just repeating scenes wholesale from Samara’s point-of-view as, well you’ve already read those chapters lol, unless Samara’s perspective provides new insight that isn’t otherwise available thanks to Miranda being so oblivious. So, strap in. The next chapter will deal with ME3 & London onward, and then we’ll be back to Miranda.

(Spotify playlist)

*     *     *

Justicars rarely had the luxury of being able to take a third option.

Their Code was strict. It saw the world in diametric opposites. Justice and injustice. Black and white, with no shades of grey.

At every crossroads, where another person might see a litany of possible paths to walk, a Justicar could only ever see two. There was either the option of abiding by The Code, which was just, or failing to abide by it, which was unjust.

That was all there ever was. That was all there would ever be.

The only instance under which anything other than an unwavering adherence to The Code was tolerated, or even required, was when rigidly following The Code would put a Justicar in conflict with one of the Oaths of Subsumation. Such circumstances had arisen on so few occasions in Samara’s life, as she so rarely permitted herself to be compromised in her single-minded dedication to hunting down Morinth, even where other Justicars would have abandoned their quest and acquiesced from chasing lesser foes, that she could recall plainly just about every time where it had happened to her over the past four hundred years.

Samara would never forget how the turian Spectre Nihlus had ingeniously used his knowledge of her conflicting duties as a Justicar against her, forcing her into a position where she had no alternative but to break her pursuit of him in order to save the lives of innocents - which, in his case, took priority.

Nihlus was the only foe Samara had ever met who had outwitted her in that regard. Not even another asari had thought of that, much less successfully implemented such a tactic. She knew she should not have, but she almost thought fondly of him as a worthy opponent. Encounters like that proved that, even after so many centuries, she could still be surprised, and outmanoeuvred.

But Morinth wasn’t Nihlus. Had it been her on that ship in his stead, Samara would not have made the same choice. She would not have spared those innocents. 

Nothing could compel Samara to break pursuit of her. The blood on her hands was nothing compared to what would follow if Morinth wasn’t stopped.

Unfortunately, by the time Samara got to Illium, she was already too late. With one glance at her armour, sources told her that Morinth had been smuggled off-world. But that would not deter her. She had expected as much. And two steps behind was still three steps closer than she had been in many years. 

How many lives Morinth had taken on Illium, Samara would never know. That would be one more unanswered question to haunt her conscience to her dying days. 

But while torturing herself with the agony of the aftermath of Morinth’s victims - their ravaged bodies, their grieving families - may have been all that Samara deserved, it would accomplish nothing. She already knew who was complicit in her escape.

Samara’s pitiless gaze fell upon the Eclipse sisters. One by one, she would kill them all, break them all, until they told her what ship they had put her daughter on. It was the only way to put a stop to this. To bring peace to this senseless killing spree.

Of course, the Eclipse were not difficult to find. They were hardly angels in their own right, even when they were not assisting serial killers to flee from their crimes.

However, unbeknownst to Samara, there were others on Illium with a particular interest in her whereabouts. One of them, a human named Commander Shepard, had followed the very same lead Samara was investigating into the assassination of a volus by Eclipse mercenaries, believing it may be a trap and Samara might be in danger. And another, an asari, Detective Anaya, had followed Shepard.

As Samara stood at the murder scene of Dakni Kur, with Shepard and her allies to one side, Anaya at the other, and dead Eclipse mercenaries at her feet, it seemed that Samara had found herself in a typical, binary situation. Indeed, after all these years skirting the line in non-asari space, it now appeared the very dilemma Samara had once been warned of by her sisters had finally come to pass. 

In her hunt for clues as to Morinth’s whereabouts, Samara’s presence had caused a stir. It was evident that the arrival of a Justicar made Detective Anaya’s bosses nervous. Knowing Illium, for good reason. Hence, when Samara made it plain she had no intentions of leaving until her investigation was complete, Detective Anaya reluctantly informed her that she would need to detain her, at the behest of her corrupt superiors, unless Samara changed her mind and left quietly.

Unfortunately, even though Samara’s reasons for being there were singular, there was nothing she could say to assuage the detective’s fears. Because anything she said to that effect would be a lie, and every asari knew it. If she did uncover something that breached The Code, even purely by accident, she would be compelled to intervene. Most likely by delivering a swift execution to the culprit. And, unlike in the Asari Republics, it would not matter here how rich and influential the person who committed the offence was, or whether their actions were legal on Illium. After all, the Justicar Order was not sworn to uphold the laws of Illium.

Hence, Samara found herself presented with two choices, neither of which seemed especially preferable to her. Either she had to break pursuit of Morinth and leave Illium without a lead as to where she had gone - which was unacceptable - or else she would have to continue her pursuit at any cost. Taking the second option pursuant to The Code meant she was compelled to cooperate with the police (within reason) for no more than twenty-four hours. Beyond that stage, if they did not release her, they would be deemed hostile.

At that point, Samara would be at liberty to take whatever actions she considered necessary to defend herself against anyone who stood in her way, and it would not be in violation of The Code, as her captors would no longer be ‘innocent’ in the eyes of the Justicars. Effectively, they would be kidnappers, illegally holding her hostage against her will, and she would have every right to use force to escape. And, in essence, that was what the police were threatening to do to her. Samara had committed no crime. They had no right to detain her. 

It was an action designed entirely to intimidate. A power play. An ill-conceived move, for whoever had given this command had failed in their self-serving obsession with self-preservation to comprehend that, unlike them, Justicars did not fear death, or the thought of harm befalling them. And Samara least of all of them.

Any Justicar worth their armour would rather die fighting an entire squadron of corrupt police officers than let a serial murderer go on to kill another innocent. And, without arrogance, Samara did not expect to die if it came to that.

Suffice it to say, Samara informed Detective Anaya, in so many words, that she would be taking the second option, if they forced her to make that choice. And it was evident that her superiors were unlikely to back down. 

It was regrettable. From a quick assessment of Anaya, Samara sensed in her a good woman endeavouring to do her best in a difficult environment, and one who took no pleasure whatsoever in disrespecting a Justicar, or in obeying corrupt orders. But if Anaya stood between her and Morinth - if she followed unjust orders that, however inadvertently, protected a criminal who would go on to take hundreds if not thousands of lives in the future if she was not stopped - then The Code was clear. Samara would lose no sleep over killing her for standing in her way. 

But then, in one of those rare exceptions that had happened on so few occasions since Samara became a Justicar that she had almost forgotten to contemplate that they could be a possibility, a third option presented itself.

Of all the people to speak up to resolve the situation, it was not an asari, but a human - the Spectre, Commander Shepard - who saw a way out. Shepard volunteered to find the name of the ship bearing Samara’s quarry. In exchange for Shepard’s assistance, Samara would agree to leave Illium with her, and join The Normandy’s mission to stop The Collectors. Both The Code and Anaya’s superiors would be satisfied, and no innocents would need to die.

It was an interesting proposition, and one that demonstrated an unexpectedly astute grasp of the conflict at hand, and the nature of The Code. Certainly, Samara would have no reason to stay on Illium once she had what she was after. But joining Shepard? That would not even be possible. Unless…

A thought occurred to Samara - an Oath so rarely sworn, that the possibility of taking it had almost been overlooked entirely, even by Samara herself. It was only invoked in the most exceptional of circumstances, when Justicars needed to put The Code aside altogether in aid of a greater cause.

To swear the Third Oath of all Oaths to a complete stranger. Could Samara actually consider trusting someone she had just met that much?

Or was it fate?

If a stranger from outside her species - a species so new to the galaxy that Samara could quite safely assume that Commander Shepard most likely barely comprehended what a Justicar was - could be so insightful and culturally sensitive as to present a viable third option that Samara herself had not previously considered, then perhaps that was a sign that should be heeded.

A third option. The Third Oath. 

In any event, Samara could certainly not refuse an offer to find the name of the ship Morinth left Illium on. She gave Shepard what leads she had, and left with Anaya to accept her temporary detention at the spaceport.

A short time later, Shepard and her companions - a second human woman and a turian man - joined them again at the station. Shepard evidently, quite wisely, did not wish to leave in her final pursuit of the Eclipse without exhausting any further information Anaya or Samara might have to share with her about them first.

As Shepard and Anaya conversed, Samara took the opportunity to subtly study the Spectre, contemplating her impressions of the woman. As a Justicar, Samara rarely had the liberty of taking a long time to get to know people. Often, her entire assessment of a person needed to be formed in a split-second - a snap determination of whether or not a stranger she’d never seen in her life up until that moment was an innocent, or a threat. And, if Samara got that judgement wrong, the penalty was death - either for that person, or for her.

Admittedly, Samara had virtually no firsthand knowledge of humans, so it was difficult to gauge what elements of Shepard’s behaviour were unique to her and what was simply cultural. But, though she had her reservations - as a rule, Justicars were stringently advised against working with non-asari, due to The Code - she had to confess, the tact and subtlety with which Shepard approached a situation outside her own frame of reference spoke very highly for her. She was far from the ‘blunt instrument’ asari tended to stereotype humans as being.

As to whether Samara could see herself working with Shepard, well…it was hard to say. From what she knew of her mission, it sounded like a worthy one. And if Shepard did indeed succeed in obtaining information as to Morinth’s whereabouts, then that put Samara closer than she had been to finding her in a long time. Plus, by helping her here on Illium, Shepard would not only spare Samara from having to take innocent lives (for certain values of innocent), but also enable her to avoid any unnecessary risk to her own life. 

Samara would be in her debt. 

Plus, if aiding Shepard’s noble cause would ultimately save more innocent lives than stopping Morinth, would a better Justicar than herself have hesitated to swear the Third Oath? Did the First Oath not require her to consider it?

That Shepard and her companions evidently knew so little of Justicars did not necessarily bode well for them if they were to work together, though. But, then again, Samara was just as ignorant of humans, so who was she to judge their lack of insight? She should not be a hypocrite. Perhaps it would benefit them all to learn from one another. If indeed they had the chance.

As the conversation went on, her gaze turned to Shepard’s two allies. Samara had had less of an opportunity to form more than surface impressions of them, beyond that, like Shepard, they were clearly trained and capable. Although they said little, and she did not catch either of their names, Samara quickly deduced from the way they carried themselves that each of them separately considered themselves Shepard’s right hand, in their own unique but equally valuable ways.

However, it was as she scanned those two that Samara noticed she was not the only person in the room whose eyes were not focused intently on either Shepard or Anaya while the two of them were speaking. The other set of eyes not watching them belonged to the dark-haired woman at Shepard’s side.

At a glance, Samara assumed she was simply not paying attention. But she quickly reassessed. That instantly proved to be wrong. Very wrong indeed.

Those sharp blue eyes were not inattentive. They were precisely the opposite. They were moving from point-to-point. Taking in their surroundings. Assessing everyone and everything in the space. It was almost as if she was using Shepard’s inquiries with Anaya as a distraction in order to freely scan the room and pick up on little details her companions would surely miss.

Samara watched as her eyes went to the model of gun Anaya had holstered. A flash as she calculated how long it would take for her to reach for it. Then they moved to the armour she was wearing. A glance at her desk, evidence of how many police were stationed there. She cast a look about, taking in the size of the station. The environment. Any hazards. Cover. The number of guns, lockers. Then her eyes fell upon Samara, and she did the same thing with her. Studying her weapons. Her armour. Tilting her head slightly in thought as she did so.

And it was at that moment that Samara knew for certain what she was doing - what she was trying to work out in her mind. Having been told that Samara would have no alternative but to massacre her way out of this police station in twenty-four hours if they did not release her, those shrewd eyes were trying to work out how that fight would play out based on what she’d seen of her wiping out the Eclipse sisters earlier. She was calculating whether or not she believed Samara would indeed be able to kill them all single-handedly and emerge unscathed as every other asari seemed so confident she would, or whether they were overestimating her abilities.

Judging from her features, she was most likely contemplating the merits of whether simply letting things play out would actually be the worst possible outcome for The Normandy - wondering whether they would be better off to conserve their strength and rejoin with Samara in a day or two once she had what she wanted, rather than waste their time running errands for her.

Mid-thought, those incisive eyes flitted up. And her gaze locked with Samara’s.

Shepard’s human companion looked a little surprised to find Samara looking directly at her, as if that was the first time anybody had ever caught her doing that. But Samara did not react. She merely held her stare, expressionless. But knowing.

With an almost imperceptible sort of ‘hmmph’, the unnamed woman arched an eyebrow at Samara before physically turning her attention back to her commander for the remainder of the conversation, not about to get caught again.

Samara may not have been especially familiar with humans, but she did know people well enough to intuit that they had both mutually impressed one another with their perceptiveness. And, somehow, Samara got the sense that, whatever that woman’s reservations about her had been, they had been withdrawn.

As it so happened, Shepard and her allies did manage to fulfil their end of the bargain and give Samara the name of the ship Morinth had left on.

Demeter.

That was enough. Although they did not know who Samara was hunting or why, with that information, Samara would be able to track her. Wherever she alighted, Morinth would believe she had eluded her mother. She would let her guard down, thinking she had time to spare. 

It might just be the moment Samara had been waiting for all these centuries.

Humbled by the delicacy with which Shepard handled the situation, and having given the matter sufficient thought during her absence, it did seem as though their paths had aligned as if by fate. Perhaps this was destined by the Goddess.

So Samara swore the rarest and most complicated Oath a Justicar ever had to swear. The Third Oath of Subsumation. It was reserved for those exceedingly exceptional circumstances such as this where service to The Code itself needed to be temporarily set aside - for example, to enable a Justicar to work with others in aid of saving millions of lives where otherwise her obligations to The Code could potentially cause her to act in ways that might imperil that mission.

Samara knew that her first Oath as a Justicar was to protect the innocent. It took priority above all else, even enforcement of The Code itself. The only acceptable reason for a Justicar to allow an innocent to die, was when sparing that innocent would result in more deaths - for example, stopping to tend to one person’s gunshot wounds, instead of putting down the active shooter still murdering people. So, if binding herself to Shepard and temporarily setting aside The Code was necessary to defend the lives of millions, there was no question in her mind that it was the righteous thing to do. The only thing she could do as a Justicar. 

Sometimes her focus on Morinth was so single-minded that Samara almost forgot that. She hadn’t. But she had come close a few times. It would have been a betrayal to her Order not to remember her priorities, and swear the Third Oath.

She was putting a great deal of faith in a stranger to swear it. Hypothetically, if Shepard murdered a child in front of her, Samara would be bound by her Oath to do absolutely nothing about it until her mission to stop The Collectors had been fulfilled. Worse, she might be compelled to carry out an Order to murder an innocent person, even if she knew it to be abhorrent, if Shepard demanded it. 

If this was indeed the case, and she had sworn this Oath to a morally repugnant person, then her only recourse to justice would be to defeat The Collectors, thereby severing the Oath, and then to kill Shepard the next time they met.

That was why The Third Oath was so rarely sworn. It demanded so much.

Samara just had to hope against hope that she had not been led astray, and that the Goddess truly had guided her to follow a righteous path.

In all honesty, Samara had sent so many prayers out into the void over the centuries, all of them unanswered, that she did not think she would know how to recognise a sign from her Goddess if she did finally see one at long last.

So what was that if not faith?

*     *     *

Samara had been alone for a long time.

A long time.

Longer than most could possibly fathom.

In some respects, she scarcely remembered how to be a person. A real one. An ordinary one. How to mimic their actions. The thought of living as she once did was little more than a shadow of a ghost of a memory in her peripheral vision. Things that once came naturally to her, now unpracticed. Deskilled. Lapsed.

It was almost disconcerting in her first few minutes aboard the ship to watch and observe how casual speech came so freely to the strange new faces who surrounded her. It didn’t even occur to her to envy them as she waited, and watched, and stared. How they could just…exist and converse with such ease.

Her eyes followed a crewmember walking over to another in the crew quarters outside the infirmary, the latter reading a datapad. Without fear or hesitation, the former leaned over the bunk his comrade was sat upon, causing her to glance up. He nonchalantly struck up chatter with her about goings on aboard the ship. Some show they were both watching. What they were going to do later.

The two of them...talked. For at least ten minutes. About absolutely nothing.

It was utterly fascinating just how little was said in the space of so many words.

Small talk.

Idle chit chat.

She used to be able to do these things, Samara remembered. 

In another time.

In another life.

She used to be charming, and witty. She had an active social life, a circle of friends. She used to be bold and adventurous. She used to flirt casually with strangers at night, then go to work and confidently lead boardroom meetings. 

Once, many years ago, she would have leapt at the chance to travel with a species that was still so new to the galactic community. She used to love travelling far and wide, meeting people from remote corners of space she’d never heard of before, reading books from authors from distant cultures, respecting their stories from their own perspective in their own (albeit translated) words, in the absence of the often condescending and self-righteous asari lens.

Samara used to do many things. To be many things. A mercenary. A renegade. A traveller. A flirt. A charmer. A businesswoman. A reader. An adventurer. A conversationalist. A lover. A daughter. A sister. A bondmate. A mother.

But, for all intents and purposes, that woman was dead. Those images were so distant now, they were like watching someone else entirely. Scattered film fragments and photos from another life that she could scarcely claim as her own.

Samara wasn’t that person anymore. She hadn’t been for a long time. And never would be again. There was no trace of her beneath the armour. Only a Justicar.

Even so, it was almost overwhelming to come aboard. To be interviewed by the young, chipper one who asked all the questions. What was her name again? Chambers. Kelly Chambers. She was pleasant, but…Samara’s burdens were her own. She had respectfully declined to answer several of her inquiries. Then she had been seen by the Doctor. Chakwas. She was very professional, for what Samara could recall of the last time she had seen a doctor. A real doctor.

Samara endeavoured to cooperate, of course. She did not wish to be difficult. However, she was not used to so much scrutiny. It was all very invasive, especially for her first few hours aboard a vessel. A cacophonous bombardment of noise and haste, when she was accustomed to solitude and silence.

When she was given the opportunity to debrief, Samara expressed a preference to be stationed somewhere serene - somewhere that gazed out over the vast, tranquility of space. Fortunately, that request was granted. She appreciated Shepard and Jacob for accommodating her wishes.

From what little Samara knew of Shepard, she liked her. And she had seen enough of Spectres firsthand to know that they had more than earned their reputation as extremely capable and resourceful warriors. But, then, she also knew from her encounters with them in the past that Spectres did not always accord with the path of righteousness, or concern themselves with the lives of innocents. Putting so much unfettered power in the hands of an individual sometimes led them to consider themselves untouchable, and above the law.

Again, Samara could only hope that her intuition had not led her astray.

A short time after her arrival in the Starboard Observation Deck, Samara was approached by Shepard’s second-in-command - the same human woman who had accompanied her on Illium. She had noticed her being seen to in the infirmary earlier, though Samara made no enquiries. It was not her place to pry. 

Direct and to-the-point, the officer rattled off a number of questions to enable her to complete her post-mission report to The Illusive Man. Based on her inquiries, her primary concerns appeared to involve ascertaining Samara’s willingness to work with Cerberus and whether her Code placed her in a position of conflict with the existing crew, or the aims of their mission as a whole.

“Defending humanity from the Collectors is a noble cause. I could not have allowed myself to join you if my presence could place your mission in jeopardy,” Samara answered her questions calmly and honestly, without breaking her meditation. “I have sworn an oath to Commander Shepard. I am bound to her decisions, and must carry out her orders until I am released from her service.”

“Even if her orders violate your Code?” the woman asked the obvious follow-up question, her scepticism audible in her voice.

Samara tensed. “...Yes,” she reluctantly confirmed.

That was what she was afraid of. Samara had done a lot of things over the past four hundred years without so much as flinching, for no other reason than because The Code demanded it. It absolved her of responsibility, in a way. Samara never had to judge whether her actions were right or wrong, because if they were in accordance with The Code, then they were just. And that was that.

Better The Code than her. Her own judgement was not something to be trusted.

…But, if she was ordered under The Third Oath to do something that violated The Code while in Shepard’s service - something she knew to be morally unacceptable - then it would be different. For the first time since she renounced being Samara T’Serra and let Justicar Samara take her place, she would not have that shield. She would have to live with her actions on their own merits, even if her Oath meant she had no choice but to comply and do something she knew to be wrong. She might actually feel fresh guilt, for the first time in four hundred years.

Depending on the severity of the offence she was tasked to commit, she might not even feel like a Justicar anymore. And if she wasn’t a Justicar, then…

Then you are just the monster who destroyed your family.

And the diseased vermin who turned your daughter into a serial killer.

The shadow perpetually latched to her back dug its claws deeper into her shoulders. But the woman behind her did not appear to detect the veil of sorrow that shrouded Samara’s words. Perhaps because it was always present in her voice such that she could not hear any change in her tone, or because by then Samara had become so well-versed at hiding it that it was inaudible.

Samara would not remember precisely what she said. Only that she endeavoured to be sincere, and courteous. If nothing else, the life of a Justicar had humbled her. Unlike on Thessia, it did not matter how old she was, or how many years of experience she had elsewhere. She was new here - in this environment. Hence, much like in The Order, she assumed respect was something she would need to earn by her conduct rather than something she should presume any sense of entitlement to, at least unless or until anyone corrected that assumption.

“I’ve taken up enough of your time. I’ll leave you to it,” the woman somewhat distractedly dismissed her after she finished her questions, her mind seemingly already elsewhere as she turned to leave.

“I beg your pardon,” Samara softly interjected. She heard footsteps halt at the door. “I do not believe you ever told me your name.”

There was a slight pause, as if that observation caught the woman off guard. “Miranda Lawson. Operator of the Lazarus Cell,” she belatedly introduced herself.

“Miranda.” Samara politely nodded her head, bringing their conversation to an end.

Samara could tell immediately from Miranda’s demeanour that forgetting to mention her name earlier had not been an act of malice on her part, but a genuine oversight, so thoroughly absorbed in her numerous other tasks aboard the ship that it had slipped her mind. Accordingly, Samara took no offence, nor did she perceive it as a slight. Moreover, she quickly deduced that if any deliberate insult had been intended, Miranda would not have been so coy as to veil it. She did not appear to concern herself with the delicate feelings of others.

First impressions of Miranda? Curt. Intolerant of incompetence. Direct, almost to a fault. Not afraid to say what she thought in the starkest of terms, no matter how much the recipient did not want to hear it. Confident in her own abilities, bordering on arrogant. Highly critical of others. Not prone to trust easily, if at all. 

Although others might have, Samara did not consider any of these qualities to be inherently negative. Far from it. Most Justicars she knew were like this. Hard women, with no patience for weakness. And, though she had softened considerably in her old age, Samara herself could be all of these things too. She certainly had been all of those things in the past, at one point or another. She was less so now.

Even Miranda’s rather self-evident workaholic nature wasn’t entirely foreign to Samara. Samara may never have been the unceasing perfectionist Miranda clearly was, but she had been a career woman once. A very long time ago. In another life. She did remember what it was like to have those kind of ambitions.

Before she lost everything, and gained this shadow.

She had not yet had enough time to form particularly strong impressions of anybody else aboard The Normandy. Of the others she had met, none shared the same immediate presence and force of personality that Shepard and Miranda did. Jacob had been fairly subdued when he set her up in the Starboard Observation Deck, though in his penchant for filling gaps aboard the ship, he struck her as aimless, wandering, in search of identity. Samara’s ability to detect sarcasm was one skill that had apparently substantially declined in her time as a Justicar, which had made Garrus a challenge to interpret in her limited interactions with him. She did not feel any particular desire to work on improving it either.

But, if the example set by Shepard and Miranda so far was anything to go by, and given that they held the two top leadership positions aboard the ship, Samara was confident that she could expect high standards. As it should be.

If nothing else, Samara had no doubt the three of them would work well together in the field, which was ultimately the factor of the utmost importance. They were strong women. Focused women. The sort of women who did not ask for anybody’s sympathy, and who bore their burdens without assistance.

Samara approved of that. And it was familiar. Indeed, had they been born asari rather than human, and perhaps if ego were…a little less of an issue (especially with what she sensed from Miranda, although she did not wish to judge her too harshly based on first impressions alone), the two of them might even make decent Justicars. Perhaps better than Samara herself, in some respects.

It was strange. Samara had answered Miranda honestly when she said she looked forward to working in concert with others for the first time in centuries. It had been a truthful answer. But unexpected, even to Samara herself.

She did want this. She wanted to want it.

Seeing the eclectic group of individuals Shepard had gathered to fight alongside her brought back distant memories Samara had not reflected on in many decades. Years as a reckless, carefree young maiden in her second and third century, living on the edge. Those days spent as a mercenary, for better or worse, had been the most fun time in her life. Though, clearly, now she had less selfish priorities.

While it was not forbidden by the tenets of The Code to travel with others, Samara had never imagined she would again. For Justicars, their solitude was their strength, and a solemn commitment many made, herself included. When Justicars allowed their duties to become clouded by personal attachment, that inevitably seemed to be the first step towards that Justicar choosing frivolous personal desires over duty, leaving the Order in favour of their newfound loved ones.

Such things were not options for Samara; The Code was quite literally the only thing that had kept her alive these past four centuries. Without it, she had nothing.

Yet here Samara was.

However, Samara could not be compromised. She knew herself, and her strengths and weaknesses. She had loved ones, and they were not here. She had already made that sacrifice when she forsook Rila and Falere.

And, long before she became a Justicar, she had also killed the very same mercenaries she fought alongside and slept with, for selling innocents as slaves.

Her will had always been wrought iron, not easily bent or cowed.

Maybe Samara would form bonds with people here. Make something resembling ‘friends’ of these comrades somehow, whatever that meant. Although it was not a goal, priority or an intent, she did not fear that. Any such personal involvement paled in comparison to what she had already lost. Besides, she was not truly part of this crew, as the others were. Merely a passenger, on her own journey, that none of them could understand. Using them, in a way, as much as they were using her.

The part that Samara struggled to remember more was...how. How to do those things. How to work as a team. How to make new acquaintances the way everyone else already had. And how it was supposed to not make her feel sick to her stomach that she had just self-centredly admitted, even for a moment, that part of her enjoyed the thought of being on this ship and having the opportunity to meet new people, while her daughter was out there raping and murdering.

Because only someone as petty and disgusting as you could be thinking about having fun or making friends while some other mother’s son or daughter is dying.

And that blood is on your hands.

Samara sighed.

Well, that was true, wasn’t it?

Of course it is true.

I am you.

Doing her best not to let her thoughts linger on that inner conflict, Samara did what she could to still her mind, focus her thoughts, and meditate.

She just had to keep believing that the Goddess had guided her here for a reason. With a trace on the Demeter, she would find Morinth soon. And with what she had learned about their mission to stop The Collectors, with millions of humans disappearing, Samara had surely found a cause worthy of a Justicar.

A cause worthy to give one’s life for, even…

*     *     *

If there was one thing Samara hated more than anything, it was time.

And, aboard The Normandy, she had oceans of it.

Galaxies of it.

She was drowning in it.

It had long felt like her greatest foe.

Every moment she sat there idle was the very same moment Morinth could be melding with another mother’s son or daughter. The moment Morinth could have some sudden spark of insight and make some ingenious decision that caused Samara to lose her trail for good. And she was powerless to stop it.

There was nothing she could do to change course now. The die had been cast. She had the name of the ship. All she could do was track it. Bide her time. Wait for it to turn up somewhere. And hope that was where Morinth alighted. 

Until then…how could she possibly think of anything else? How could she deserve to? How could she let her mind focus on any other frivolous thing?

All she could do was meditate, and endeavour to endure each passing hour that stretched into eternity.

But then one hour started to feel like two.

And two like ten.

Samara had been alone for a long time. But rarely in idleness. Morinth was her forward momentum. Her impetus. Her driving force propelling her towards the next dawn, even when every fibre of her being yearned not to see it. Because this was her burden. Her atonement. Her solemn duty. Her unfinished business.

She was always going somewhere. Piloting a ship. Hitching a ride somewhere. Looking for her. Or, in times when she lost track of her, biding time fulfilling her duties as a Justicar while searching for leads until she picked up her trail again.

But now? Her destination wasn’t in her own hands. It wasn’t up to her to dictate where she went. Or what she had to do with her day. She was under Shepard’s authority. Not her own. And, as to where Morinth was…she had no clue. 

All she could do was wait.

And wait.

A̷n̴d̴ ̴w̷a̶i̸t̷.̸

Â̶̪̯͖̩̔̒n̸̤̠̽̊͝ḑ̶͕̓ ̶̦̜͔͇͂̇͗̚ͅw̸͇̹̱͛̅̅͛̕ả̷͓́͌͝i̴̱̥͒͜t̸͍̻̍͂̄̔.̶̳͆̽̈́̓͝

A̷̧̞͎͓͇̺͍͉̋̔͑́̓̈́̈́́̐͒̿̕͝n̸̡̮̦͈͎̪̜̣̳̜̼͎̽̿͋̈̆̎͑̀̆͒͝͝͝͝d̸͔͙̝̪͇̟͔̫̼̱̙̠̻̪̗̭̠̈̊̂͛̅̚͜ ̶͉̩͖̭̭̠̝̱͇̋̏̏́̍̉̿͜͜w̶̡̜̦̺̪̪͎̖̒͐͛͗̓̎̀̕ả̶̰͔̭̹̥̹͍̘͚̝͓͎̖̳̄͛̅̏͠i̵̛̗̖͔̞̥̬͖͓̫̖̓͐̿́̃̆͋́̀̿̐̂͆̽͗̔͊̚͠t̴̢̛͉̺͓̪͖̑͗̐̆̄̉̈́͒̅́̇̅̃̎̕̕͜͝͝.̸̨̡̲̣͍̭̺̖̗͕̦̲̯̺̩̒̃̄̀̐͊̌́͌̌̕͜͝͝͝ͅ

Well, of course you would hate being alone.

You are terrible company.

A horrible person to be around.

You made Lyla kill herself just to get away from you.

She preferred to die rather than spend one more day with you.

A faint flicker of a grimace crept across Samara’s brow.

The thing about always having forward momentum - even when she’d lost track of Morinth, never really letting herself slow down or come to a halt - meant it had been so many years since Samara had this much time to sit in total stillness.

This much time alone in silence with her thoughts.

And with this voice.

Am I wrong, Samara?

Do you not like your own company?

I mean, I am you.

Not enjoying what a wretched creature you are on the inside?

When you can no longer pretend that the stoic, upright Justicar is the real you?

Instead of this mess?

No. Samara was painfully aware of that. How could she not be?

You know, Samara, your selfishness of late has been appalling, even to me.

And that is saying something.

Because my expectations of you could not possibly be lower than they are.

Samara swallowed. She had anticipated that. Of course she had. It was a creeping guilt that had been eating away at her almost as soon as she came aboard The Normandy. So, naturally, the voice in her head had opinions.

It was funny. When she was younger, she would have leapt at the chance to travel with a species so new to the galactic stage. To learn so much about them. To read their books. To understand how they thought through their own words. Her life as a young woman had always been so…enriched by meeting different people. Especially because people from different species were always the ones who saw her just as an asari, never as a ‘pureblood’. In some ways, she’d felt more at home outside the Republics than she ever had among her own kind.

But now? That person was dead. So how could she still be so self-centred - so selfish - to think of those things, knowing what pain her disease was causing?

How could she spare a thought for how nice it would be to reach out to one of those shelves in the corner and read an original book from Earth when, in the back of her mind, she knew Morinth was spilling some innocent person’s blood?

How could she put Morinth from her mind long enough to hold some frivolous conversation with her crewmates? Why should the desire to get to know them better even enter her consciousness when she knew that it was nothing but a petty distraction from her duty? When such things mattered not?

What sick, twisted person would she have to be to think of herself right now?

This was a matter of life and death. Not fleeting personal happiness. She was not supposed to enjoy this. If part of her would have, then she should deny that.

How could she smile knowing all the tears she’d caused?

You do not deserve it. 

You do not deserve to be here.

The shadow on her back grew heavier, deeper, darker as the voice in her head hissed pure venom.

You are a cancer on this ship.

A blight.

They do not even know the vile evil that lurks among them.

The familiar form encircled her, blacking out each of the stars one by one.

You should leave.

They would be better off if you did.

Samara willed herself to block the whispers out and continue to meditate. But she couldn’t overcome them. Not that night.

She could feel the shadow surrounding her.

Feel her standing there.

Her greatest pain.

Her greatest regret.

You should do what she did.

She felt the water underfoot. Saw her own hand reach for the bathroom door.

She pushed it open.

You should just die.

Just as her caustic self-hate reached its crescendo, it was swiftly cut silent by the hydraulics of the doors parting behind her, snapping her out of that vision. Samara swallowed an exhale as the waveform collapsed, that suffocating singularity releasing its stranglehold on her, relieved by the distraction of footsteps on the floor.

She took the opportunity to regather her concentration, and her form. Not that her disturbance would have been visible to an outsider. The subtle sound of someone else walking across the room was almost like the ticking of a clock, resetting her perception of time, making it move normally again. At least for a moment.

Samara had been peripherally aware of people coming and going from the room while she meditated in the past. Kasumi Goto had crept in without disturbing her to borrow a book from the library. Commander Shepard had also stopped by to talk to her, presumably to ensure she was settling in well. But these footsteps were new. And yet, at the same time, they weren’t. She’d heard them before. The heels were distinctly familiar, and unique to one person.

“Miranda,” Samara politely greeted her, not needing to open her eyes.

“Don’t mind me,” Miranda said as she crossed the floor, taking up a seat on the lounge in the remote corner of the library. “...I won’t disturb you, will I?” she asked, about a minute later. “If you hear me typing, I mean.”

“You will not,” Samara calmly assured her. 

And that was all that needed to be said.

With Samara’s consent, Miranda took that as a tacit invitation that she was at liberty to work in the peace and seclusion of the library, if she so chose. And so she was. 

Miranda didn’t know it, but anything was better than where she had just been. Those uncontrolled downward spirals, especially late at night when Samara couldn’t sleep, were certainly not unfamiliar companions for her.

It didn’t always happen. Meditation usually helped rather than hurt. But not a day went by since she opened that bathroom door that she hadn’t carried the spectre of Lyla’s death with her everywhere she went, or heard that voice in her head telling her it was her fault. No amount of religion or mediation could ever change that.

Because it was true.

Still, if anything, as Samara resumed her meditation, there was something strangely comforting about having another presence in the room with her. Even though the faint pitter patter of fingers gently tapping laptop keys barely touched the fringes of her consciousness, Samara was nevertheless aware of it. And, for some inexplicable reason, it was as though having that audible, tangible, corporeal sound to hone in on in the real world drowned out the harrowing, violent clamour she otherwise would have been subjected to inside her own head.

Not only on that night, but the night after that, and the night after that.

Pretty soon, whenever her ears pricked up to that familiar phenomena, or when she sensed the energy of another person in the room later than a certain hour, Samara knew instantly that it meant Miranda was there, no matter how deep in her meditation she was, even if she hadn’t noticed her enter. And, when Samara felt that shift, and heard deft fingers typing away in the stillness, it suddenly made those vast, endless stretches of time…a little more tolerable.

Before either of them knew it, Miranda’s nightly visits became a routine.

Samara meditated, and Miranda worked. Samara never questioned why Miranda chose to work there, and Miranda had never acknowledged her after the first night. It did not matter. She had her reasons. And Samara saw no cause to interrogate something she was grateful for. Doing so might prompt her to stop.

When Miranda was there, it was as if her very aura imposed a kind of order on space and time itself. Everything flowed as it was supposed to. A minute was a minute. A second was a second. An hour was an hour. The rhythm of her fingers was so metronomic and precise that it could not be otherwise. But, more than that, her quiet companionship hushed the whispers and kept the shadows at bay - if only because, for a few hours a night, Samara wasn’t alone at their mercy.

Miranda had no idea, of course. But just because the effects of her company were entirely unintentional didn’t mean they weren’t welcome. At least for a little while, even in unspoken silence, she gave Samara something to anchor herself to in the eternal emptiness. And, perhaps better still, because they never spoke, there was nothing to trigger Samara’s guilt. They weren’t distracting each other. Far from it. They merely shared a space. In doing so, it seemed to help them both focus.

Where once time seemed like an infinite void that was never advancing, before Samara knew it, a little over a week had passed since she joined The Normandy.

“I don’t normally say this, but…nice work today,” Miranda commended Samara a few hours after their return from a field mission, a rare word of praise from The Normandy’s second-in-command. It was the first time the two of them had accompanied Shepard together, and witnessed one another in direct action. 

“Thank you. If I may, I was impressed by you as well,” Samara concurred. Much like Miranda herself, Justicars did not tend to give compliments easily (although Samara did not consider herself an especially good Justicar), but, in this case, facts were facts. Considering just how badly the assignment could have gone in light of the ambush they faced, they had worked exceptionally smoothly as a team.

An anomalous signal EDI had picked up had led them to an abandoned mine, which just so happened to be filled to the brim with what Shepard and her companions called ‘husks’. Miranda had focused on taking down their armour with her warps and heavy pistol fire, and as soon as it was gone, Samara flung the vulnerable husks into oblivion with pulls and throws. Shepard gave support to both tactics with a mixture of incendiary shotgun ammo and shockwaves.

Indeed, and Samara did not say this lightly, if pressed, she would struggle to find a single fault with anything Miranda had done from a tactical point of view, beyond the kind of unconstructive criticisms which would be unfair, unrealistic or counterproductive, like asking a fish why it did not fly instead of swim.

“There are always things we can improve, but…you and I, I think we work well together,” Miranda continued, perched on her usual position on the lounge, with her laptop out, already compiling her report to The Illusive Man.

“Yes, we did,” Samara agreed, not breaking from her meditation, her mind focused solely on the burden she carried alone. On finding Morinth. On stopping her. On laying her daughter’s body to rest. However, after several long moments of silence, a niggling voice began to creep into the back of Samara’s mind. 

Samara.

She is trying to make conversation with you.

You know this.

Be courteous.

At that thought, Samara released a slight sigh, recognising that perhaps her brevity might be interpreted as rudeness. That was not the intent. The truth was, she had travelled mostly on her own for four hundred years. She had not forgotten her manners, no, but she had little memory of how to do this. Of how to make polite small talk. How to carry on inane chatter, when life as a Justicar had instilled in her the value of refraining from speaking when she had nothing of worth to say.

Nevertheless, she had sworn an oath to Shepard. She had said she wished to travel with companions. To experience being part of a team with comrades once more. This was part of what that entailed, was it not? Perhaps she would have to learn to practice these skills again, whether she desired to or not. Even if she would prefer to be left in silence, because that was what was familiar. And even if solitude was all that she deserved, as penance for her sins.

But other people did not deserve to be punished for Samara’s crimes. Her isolation was not their fault. Her burdens were not theirs to bear.

If they made an effort with her, the least she could do was reciprocate.

With that in mind, Samara turned to Miranda, though she was lost to think of what meaningless question she would ask to prolong the conversation simply to avoid the appearance of giving her the cold shoulder…

And yet, when she moved to speak, Samara was surprised to find Miranda nonchalantly absorbed in her work, calmly typing away, as ever, completely unbothered by Samara’s lack of response, and plainly not expecting any.

Samara blinked, caught off guard. 

Relieved by the realisation that Miranda desired no performative display from her, Samara allowed herself to relax a little more in her company, more at ease around her than before as she returned to her meditations. Perhaps they were more alike in certain respects than she had given Miranda credit for.

*      *     *

The first person who developed an awareness that Samara did not leave the Starboard Observation Deck except when strictly necessary and that she did not talk with others aboard the ship was not Miranda. And it was not Shepard, although she did pick up on it fairly early.

It was her neighbour across the hall, Kasumi Goto.

Out of respect, she did not push, or show concern, as it was not her place. But Samara didn’t fail to notice that Kasumi made it a habit to drop in every so often, never for more than about five minutes or so, seemingly just with the intent of keeping her abreast of the latest goings on aboard the ship. What the latest mission was. What her impressions of the crew were.

She did like to gossip.

“It must have been hard for Tali, growing up as the daughter of an Admiral. At least here, she knows the work she does gets praised or criticised on its own merits, not based on who her Dad is, or on the expectations of who her entire society hopes for her to grow up to be some day.”

“You know Miranda and Jacob used to date, right? They keep it professional but, if you ever sense kind of an icy vibe between them, that’s why. I get the sense from how they interact that she definitely dumped him. Her loss, if you ask me.”

“I get we’re kind of busy saving missing colonists, but…has anyone ever actually stopped and asked Shepard how she’s doing after being brought back from the dead? Seems like kind of a big deal, if you ask me. But I don’t know her well enough to bring it up. I’m not sure it’s my place to have that conversation.”

Samara said little in response. Usually just, “Thank you,” when she finished.

Nothing more.

She did not wish to be rude or uncivil. She appreciated her courtesy. But she knew what Kasumi was. A thief. And the unfortunate reality was, if Samara ever met her again after this mission, in circumstances where she was unbound by the Third Oath, she would be compelled to kill her.

In this case, she did not wish to know anything about Kasumi that might further endear Samara to her on a personal level more than her eminently likeable qualities already had, nor mislead Kasumi into believing that they could be friends.

They could not.

*     *     *

“Samara, can I ask you something?” Miranda broke the silence during one of her visits to the Starboard Observation Deck. Though she had been there numerous times by that point, it was rare for the two of them to actually speak. Usually, Miranda was far too engrossed in her work to pay the faintest attention to others in her midst, not that Samara minded that about her. Those priorities were sound.

“What would you like to know?” Samara serenely replied.

“What is the basis for your Code?” Miranda wondered aloud, sitting forward curiously. Somehow, it didn’t surprise Samara at all that Miranda of all people had asked her that question. Less still that she had phrased it so bluntly. 

“What is the basis for Cerberus?” Samara responded, her voice devoid of inflection.

Miranda looked vaguely annoyed. “That’s a false equivalence. Cerberus operates outside the law. We don’t claim to have any legal authority to do the things we do. We see problems that The Alliance is too cowardly, compromising or bureaucratic to address, and we deal with them. We do everything entirely on our own backs, with the aid of financial supporters who believe in The Illusive Man’s manifesto, and with the legitimate income we generate ourselves.”

“To an extent, then perhaps you understand why the Justicars were founded. We were an answer to a crisis in ancient times that could have seen the ruin and decay of asari civilisations as they fell to corruption and decadence. However, The Code consists of more than five thousand sutras. It took me many years of study to learn The Code, and I still contemplate it every single day. While I appreciate your curiosity, and mean no disrespect, I fear that I cannot provide you with an answer you would find satisfactory, without taking up a considerable amount of your valuable time,” Samara tactfully replied, bathed in her blue glow.

“No, that’s not…” Miranda elected to rephrase the question. “I meant in a jurisprudential sense. What makes The Code good law?” 

Samara turned her head, intrigued enough to drop her meditation. “I sense you have given some thought to this. By all means, speak freely. I will not be offended.”

Miranda seemed sceptical about that assertion. “Most religious zealots I’ve met in the past have tended not to be open to debating their ideas in good faith.”

“Do I strike you as a religious zealot?” Samara asked her expressionlessly.

At that, Miranda had the decency to look chastened, recognising her comment as discourteous, given Samara had been nothing but civil towards her ever since they met. “...No, not really,” she conceded, tacitly withdrawing that glib remark. 

“Perhaps I am,” said Samara, elusively. She liked to think she was not blind to her own faults, but then it had been a very long time since she had a second opinion - especially one that did not belong to another Justicar. She was not certain whether hers was unbiased anymore. “In time, I suspect you will come to know enough of me to form your own judgement as to whether I am or am not.”

Miranda gave a small smirk at that, appearing to approve of that self-aware answer.

Samara shifted her body sideways to face Miranda. In her time so far aboard The Normandy, the only person Samara had spoken to in any great substance was Shepard, and she often had little to say to her. She was far from a talkative person. But if there was one subject that came as second-nature to any Justicar to discuss in extensive detail, it was The Code. And contemplating The Code, or speaking of it to others, was never a waste of a Justicar’s time.

“At least for my part, I can assure you your interest in The Code is most welcome. I have not had an opportunity to answer questions like this about The Code to someone who does not possess even tangential knowledge of what it is in…In fact, I cannot recall if I ever have,” Samara told her honestly. Every asari had at least some rudimentary concept of what it was, and what its foundation was. “Perhaps I can respond better if you can elaborate as to what in particular led you to ponder this. Forgive me, I…lack more human context than I ought.”

“Understandable.” Miranda dismissed the need for an apology, considering where to begin. “So, where I’m from, let’s say we want to pass a law that says killing is wrong. There’s an inherently strong basis for that law. It’s what we would call a natural law. If you put a group of blank slate humans on a deserted island, with no pre-existing concept of right or wrong or any pre-written laws to guide them, they would independently come up with taboos against unlawful killing. They would reinvent the prohibition that taking a person’s life in certain circumstances is tantamount to what we call murder. All humans do, because, on some level, we recognise the life of sentient beings, up to a certain point, as sacrosanct. It’s something inseverable from the innate human desire to survive, and fundamental to a functioning social group, to recognise and protect that right to life,

“But then, it’s not enough to simply say that all killing is wrong. Because some kinds of killing aren’t wrong. According to natural laws, we also have an inherent right to self-defence, for the same reasons as above. And we differentiate between different kinds of killing based on the intent, or absence of intent, so that the punishment can fit the crime. A wrongful death committed by accident, while still unlawful, is not the same as a wrongful death committed wilfully. And, looking at all these different factors, and taking into account the values of the community, where I’m from, our duly elected representatives in State and Federal Government pass laws via majority vote in both Houses of Parliament determining what acts should be made into criminal offences, what the elements of those crimes are, what the sentences should be, what mitigating and aggravating factors there are, and what defences there are. Royal assent is then given effectively as a rubber stamp by the appointed Governor General to make it official - long story, don’t ask me to explain why we’re still not a Republic. On a case-by-case basis, these laws are then interpreted by judges and applied to the facts based on precedent according to a fair and transparent process. There’s also laws derived from common law, but since that isn’t codified, perhaps it’s best we don’t go into that and only compare like with like.”

“I see. For the most part, what you have described does not sound radically dissimilar from the system I grew up with on Thessia,” Samara commented, although there were clearly many distinguishing factors, including that Thessian democracy was a direct e-democracy rather than a representative electoral system. “Thank you for clarifying your question. I did think this is what you were asking, but I wanted to be certain - sometimes things get lost in translation,

“The simple answer to your query from earlier, ‘What is the basis for The Code,’ jurisprudentially speaking, is that The Code is based on natural laws. To use your own straightforward examples, murder is wrong. An individual has a right to self-defence. An accidental killing is not the same as intentional killing,” Samara calmly explained. As she spoke, she raised a finger. “However, if I may, I believe you erred in your description of your own society.” Miranda arched an eyebrow at the suggestion that she had made a mistake. “You see, you solely spoke of natural laws. However, your legal system is not based on natural laws.”

“It is to some extent,” Miranda contended, crossing one leg over the other.

“No, it is not,” Samara stated plainly. “Even in your own explanation, you seem plainly aware of this. While certain laws in your society, and on Thessia, may accord with a values-based belief that some things are inherently right and others are inherently wrong by the laws of nature, that is not the test by which laws are measured in your society as good law, nor the standard by which they are enacted, nor the jurisprudential source from which they glean their authority, just as it is not in the Asari Republics. You essentially said it yourself; your laws are derived from procedure and consensus. And, if it is anything like Thessia, I imagine you call it ‘reason’ and ‘enlightenment’ that you combine the two.”

Miranda blinked, taken aback by the rapid eloquence of Samara’s impromptu argument. “...You say that like you’re so certain it’s not.”

“Not that I have seen. And I have seen more of the Asari Republics’ shortcomings than most will ever be aware, or acknowledge, exists,” Samara matter-of-factly insisted. “But I am open to being persuaded that I could be wrong. If you have opinions, I invite you to share them. Do you believe procedure and consensus form the basis of a reasoned and enlightened system of laws?”

“I don’t see what alternative can be superior for making good law - let people rule themselves,” Miranda answered honestly. “In an ideal world, if we lived in a truly free and open democratic society, with an informed and educated populace, the benefit of that system is that laws get to be made according to the values and consent of the governed, and can change and evolve with time - as new scientific discoveries are made, or social ideas progress - and they get passed and enforced according to the rule of law, which ensures justice and fairness.”

Miranda sighed. “However, I will acknowledge that the flaw I’ve found in practice is that the institutions holding the power tend to do everything at their disposal to ensure society is not as free and open as it appears, and that the populace isn’t educated and informed about anything they don’t want them to be, so all choice and free will people appear to have in their own self-governance is illusory at best.” She cast an understated glance at Samara. “I’m guessing you never heard the word ‘Reaper’ before you stepped aboard this ship, did you?”

“No. I had not,” Samara confirmed. Learning that detail about the attack on The Citadel two years ago had been enlightening. And it made sense.

“Right. And that’s why the country where I’m from is still technically ruled by a bloody monarchy on the other side of the world. Every time we’ve held a referendum for our own self-governance, the system presented has been such corrupt, power-hungry dogshit that people have voted for the terrible status quo they understand than, you know, fucking liberty? Freedom? Independence? Self-determination? But, even admitting democracy isn’t perfect, I’d rather live in a world where we can rewrite ancient, outdated laws that don’t work in the modern day, or that no longer match our current values, than be dictated to that I have to worship one unassailable, dogmatic Code that can never be changed. No offence.” At that, Miranda must have read a disapproving flicker across Samara’s expression, as her brow quirked with surprise at her subtle reaction. “You disagree?”

“Quite frankly, I do. From my perspective, what you are describing is not justice, but rather the tyranny of the majority, and the tyranny of order - the law is the law not because it is just, but because enough people will it to be so, and the law is the law not because it is just, but because we followed a set of rules in making it so. Neither of these two pillars prevents injustice. In my view, they can easily become tools which justify the perpetuation of unjust norms,” Samara argued.

It was clear from the manner in which she held her tongue that Miranda was already planning a contradictory response in her mind, but to her credit she did not interrupt Samara’s point, cordially listening to her elaborate in full before speaking.

“As a hypothetical example, we were discussing laws on killing earlier, so let us say that the majority of the population in the society where you grew up had a shift in values to where they decided duels to the death should be legal. This view becomes extremely popular, and a party elected on a platform of making duels legal enacts a law in accordance with all relevant rules and procedures required to make such law. It is now, in essence, legal for a human to shoot another human in the street, and claim it was a duel. Is this a just law because it was willed by the masses, their representatives lawfully elected, and all relevant checks and balances adhered to in passing and enforcing the law?” Samara challenged.

“That would never happen,” Miranda summarily dismissed her argument.

“Why not?” Samara pressed. “Because your people who you denounced mere moments ago for not voting for their freedom from another nation’s monarchy are so faultless, enlightened and reasoned that progress always marches forwards, rights are never at risk of being lost, and you have never once elected a leader you collectively regretted because of regressive policies they enacted?”

“I…No, that’s not what I…Look, don’t change the subject. All I’m trying to say is…” Miranda paused and trailed off. If there was a good reason as to why such a law would be impossible to enact where she hailed from, she did not appear to know that counterargument well enough to retort with it off the top of her head. 

“It simply could not happen where you come from?” Samara supplied, shrugging one shoulder, letting the suggestion hang in the air. 

Everyone always thought that, before some unjust travesty like that happened.

Miranda exhaled and gave her a look. “Congratulations. You’ve successfully made me wish I still cared enough about my former home country to have its Constitution committed to memory,” she dryly remarked. “But, even if this hypothetical law did pass, and I’m not conceding that specific law could prevail, there’s a strong argument to be made that your proposed law is inherently legally deficient because it’s an unjust and ‘unnatural’ law.”

“I would invite you to tell that to all the people who have ever been killed, imprisoned and oppressed by unjust laws. I am sure it would comfort them to know their suffering was illusory,” Samara incisively replied.

Miranda had no response to that biting comeback, no matter how softly spoken.

“Moreover, I believe you have contradicted yourself,” Samara continued. “If you are now claiming that the only laws that are not legally deficient are natural laws, then all the everyday minutiae of your entire legal system begin to fall apart. Mundane laws about matters such as what dimensions a vegetable must be grown to before it can be imported or exported, how many storeys high you can build your house on a particular street, or how much tax you pay. Do these laws need not be followed despite being devised by the consensus, procedure and enlightened reason you valued so highly a few minutes ago as the best possible method of making good law, because these laws are 'unnatural’ laws? Even if everyone self-governs and votes a certain law like this to be so like on Thessia, I need not obey it?”

“Well what does your Code say about that?” Miranda all but grumbled, growing a little tired of answering rhetorical questions about her own views on these matters when the original focal point of this discussion was The Code.

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. The Code is completely silent on vegetables, and housing height limits, and I can assure you that Justicars collect no taxes,” Samara answered starkly. “These issues are debatable. If you ask my opinion, I would personally state there is no singular right or wrong answer. There are a plurality of views which have merit. I could never claim to be the arbiter of what the morally right position is on these issues, if morals factor into them at all,

“Such things are not the role of The Code. The Code is not a substitute for a legal system. It cares not for these issues that are debatable. It cares only for justice. What is just and unjust is fixed. It is immutable, and so is The Code. It is as unchanging as the natural meaning of right and wrong. Mountains will crumble. Forests will wither. Oceans will dry. Planets will burn. Stars will die. Our entire universe will have grown and expanded beyond recognition. All before a single word of The Code will be altered. And that is as it should be. It does not bend or bow to the corrupting whims of power and influence, nor is it weakened by passing personal prejudices. It is righteous, and can never be made unrighteous.” Samara gestured firmly as she spoke, moving her arm across her body.

Miranda stared in stunned silence for several long moments, almost as though she wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or intimidated by that level of sheer conviction. But Miranda quickly shook both reactions off, not letting either show.

“...So it’s purely a criminal code?” Miranda clarified.

“Yes.” Samara nodded.

“And you don’t think that people should have a say in what is or isn’t a crime, or what the sentences for crimes should be?” Miranda prompted, as if doubtful that Samara could really feel that way when pressed. And Samara understood why. Out of context, her comments must have made the Justicars sound like tyrants.

They were not.

“I think that, in a world where the most votes are cast by slave owners, slavery is not a crime. That does not make slavery right or good,” Samara answered.

That hadn’t been the retort Miranda anticipated. Samara could pinpoint the exact moment whatever comeback Miranda had mentally prepared evaporated into dust in her mind as it registered that she had in fact made an extremely salient argument. “...I don’t disagree with you there,” she confessed, softening considerably. “But I have to admit, of all the things I thought I’d hear you say today, I wasn’t expecting to find out that you’re apparently not a fan of democracy.”

Samara shook her head. “That is not what I said, and you misunderstand my position if that was what you heard. In fact, pursuant to The Second Oath of Subsumation, I am sworn to uphold the laws and norms of every planet in the Asari Republics. I am merely sceptical that majority consensus is inherently wise, good or rational, or that a law is just simply by virtue of the fact that the public wills it so. Perhaps you would feel similarly if you grew up knowing, as I did, that there was widespread popular support to make people like me illegal, and fearing that one day in the future such laws would come to pass.”

Miranda’s brow furrowed in confusion. “People like you?” she echoed. Samara simply stared at her, and watched the delayed recognition click into place. “Oh.”

“If you were intending to apologise, please do not. I never tire of the fact that the circumstances of my parentage mean absolutely nothing to anybody who is not an asari,” Samara remarked, although her expression did not change.

“As it shouldn’t,” Miranda added.

“No, it should not. And yet, even a society that upholds itself as the pillar of reason and enlightenment in the galaxy is capable of such discrimination. And, one day, that discrimination may very well become law. Something that will never happen under The Code.” Samara paused as a thought occurred to her. “Forgive me, but I find it rather strange that you have spent this debate defending the merits of your own system of laws that you deem superior to The Code, when clearly you yourself must have doubts; did you not already say to me earlier, in essence, that what makes Cerberus so necessary is that they are not afraid to act outside the law when the law fails to achieve justice?” Samara observed.

Hearing her own words turned against her, Miranda balked a little. It did not take a master of perception to realise that she had not been expecting Samara to turn things around on her the way she had. Nor, moreover, that she would have no choice but to acknowledge that she was completely right.

Miranda sighed, sensing her defeat. “...In retrospect, I don’t know why I didn’t think I needed to come into this discussion more prepared,” Miranda muttered.

Samara didn’t let it show, but Miranda’s humbled response was faintly amusing. “I get the sense you are accustomed to winning debates without much effort,” she noted. It was hard to imagine anyone managed to leave her at a loss for words.

“No, don’t--I mean, yes, I am. But…Don’t get the wrong idea; it’s actually kind of refreshing to be challenged for once,” Miranda made that clear, avoiding any misinterpretation that she was somehow offended by Samara getting the better of her. “If anything, I apologise for underestimating you. I don’t know what else I expected. I mean, you’ve been doing this ten times as long as I’ve been alive.”

“Longer, actually,” Samara corrected her. Miranda gave a hmmph as if to say, ‘now you’re just bragging’. “And you have nothing to apologise for. I have not had such a vibrant conversation in…” She actually couldn’t remember. Certainly not since she donned the armour. Nor in training. Probably not even for a good while before then. She’d travelled alone, in silence for so long. It was all she knew. “...In many years,” she brushed that emptiness aside. “I enjoyed that.”

That was no lie. Samara had always been fond of a spirited debate. And it didn’t bother her at all that Miranda was headstrong, nor that she somewhat arrogantly assumed she knew more about any given topic than anyone else in the room, even in circumstances where the other person was an expert on the subject and she was not. In truth, she ought not have, but Samara actually kind of liked that about her. She found those faults oddly endearing, in a peculiar way.

Nobody else would have been bold enough to ask Samara about her Code, much less brave or foolhardy enough to try and outsmart her on the subject. And Miranda was nothing if not intellectually lively, able to give as good as she got. 

Plus, to her credit, she wasn’t sensitive - she hadn’t taken it at all personally that she had been outmatched on this particular subject on this particular evening. That was something Samara probably wouldn’t have predicted about Miranda prior to that night. The way she carried herself and acted towards others, it was easy to perceive her as vain. But, the more Samara spent time with her, the more it was becoming apparent that she was far less so than she appeared.

“For the record, I never claimed that any human system of laws is superior to your Code,” Miranda pointed out, wishing to make that clear. “It was never my intention to disparage your beliefs. All I said was that I prefer having the freedom to choose the laws where I live, and that I personally don’t know of any alternative systems to democracy that do a better job of making good law. Which, I freely admit, may be a sign that I need to expand my horizons a little further afield. And also re-read the Australian Constitution for the first time in twenty years.”

“No clarification is necessary, Miranda. And I do not expect you to have altered your opinion. My only goal was to provide a satisfactory answer to the question, ‘Why is The Code good law?’,” said Samara.

“Well, you’ve done that. I just wish I could say I understood it better than when I asked you about it,” Miranda remarked, evidently feeling a bit out of her depth, like she’d learned more about Samara and her intellect than she had about The Code itself. Not that this seemed to warrant complaint. “But thank you for your time.”

“You are quite welcome, Miranda. That being said, for as pleasant as this was, we each have important things to focus on. We should not allow ourselves to become distracted more than we already have.” With that, Samara shifted her body back towards the window, resuming her meditative position, ready for her mind to return as it always did to her singular obsession. The reason why she was there. 

“Of course.” Miranda went back to her work.

*     *     *

Before long, three weeks had passed since Samara joined The Normandy.

A rhythm had developed. 

Samara stayed in seclusion in the Starboard Observation Deck. A recluse as much by need as by choice. Only tangentially aware of the goings on aboard the ship. Focused solely on the task ahead. On Morinth. Her concentration rarely broken, save for short visits from Shepard, or sessions with Kelly Chambers.

And, every evening, without fail, Miranda came by.

Miranda worked, and Samara meditated.

Though they had spoken on occasion, as one might expect professional colleagues to do in passing, they did not ever stop what they were doing to keep one another amused with conversation. There was never an obligation for them to do so. And why would they? There was peace in one another’s silence. From the very outset, they had respected the sanctity of it. Found solace in the undisturbed stillness.

Samara suspected that was why Miranda kept coming back. She had claimed it was because the library walls were so much more insulated and soundproof than her office. Which was true. And yet that did not entirely hold. Perhaps that had been her impetus initially, but she tended to venture over only at the latest hours, when the crew was running on a skeleton shift. On most days, the mess was virtually deserted. Everyone was asleep. So who was bothering her?

Ultimately, she figured they were seeking out one another’s company for the exact same reason. Because, in a strange way, it was funny how a room filled with the presence of someone else could feel so much lighter and sound so much quieter than sitting in an empty room, alone, when all that left a person to do was be hyperaware of literally everything else, as well as the worst thing of all - themselves.

And Samara would have been content with their mutual acquaintance never growing beyond that. It was comfortable, unacknowledged, and unchanging.

Until…

“Ah, fuck me dead.”

It was so bizarre and unexpected that it caught Samara completely off guard, snapping her out of her trance. She blinked in confusion, a rather uncharacteristic “What?” escaping her as she turned and glanced over her shoulder in alarm.

That choice of words was so oddly specific, she couldn’t help but wonder…

Did Miranda know about her family?

About Morinth?

To her credit, Miranda looked a little sheepish over her exclamation. That had very plainly not been directed at anybody in particular, least of all Samara. “It’s a...saying where I’m from. Don’t worry about it.” Miranda waved her off, her attention on her work as she hit the backspace key repeatedly. Samara remembered enough from her own past career centuries ago to recall what that looked like.

Samara eyed her for a long moment as her startlement subsided. Miranda definitely wasn’t lying. She was many things but, for all the faults her crew seemed to attribute to her, Miranda was nothing if not extremely upfront. Samara had never observed her to be false in her words or deeds. Even when it came to spying on the crew for The Illusive Man, Miranda had been brutally honest that it was part of her job description, and she intended to do it diligently.

And yet, despite knowing that, Samara found her distraction lingered. She couldn’t focus, too perplexed and puzzled by what had passed mere moments ago.  Perhaps she should have kept her thoughts to herself, but despite her better judgement, her gaze drifted back to Miranda. So subtly that it went unseen.

Not that Samara knew her especially well, but she couldn’t help but observe that Miranda seemed so unlike herself in that moment. It would have been apparent to just about anyone from that earlier outburst. And it was...oddly concerning.

Was she alright? Because, from the way she was acting, it looked as though something was bothering her. And, whatever it was, it was bad enough that for the first time since Samara had met her, her normally faultless composure had frayed at the edges - so much so that she could not concentrate on her work. And that was saying something. Because, unlike a lot of other people, Miranda had never struck Samara as the sort of person who wore her heart on her sleeve.

In her weeks aboard the Normandy, Samara had come to know Miranda as a strong, hard woman who never shirked her responsibilities, nor delegated to others, even when she could have. She was an authority figure aboard the ship. She did not show her feelings, nor her weaknesses. In fact, from what Samara had gleaned, she kept most others on the ship at such a distance and spoke to them in such direct, often highly critical terms that it appeared as though Miranda’s tough exterior was frequently perceived as confrontational, if not outright hostile.

Of the latter two, Samara had never known her to be those things. Quite the contrary. And to the extent that the rest of her traits appeared to make Miranda so unpopular with the rest of the crew, those were actually qualities Samara quite liked about her. After all, as a Justicar herself, she too knew the burden of being in a position above and separate from others. She too shared the same priority of placing her duty above the desire to form personal attachment.

Even when it came to her stark, sometimes bordering on tactless manner of speech, Samara honestly found it refreshingly straightforward. As someone who had not really spoken to anybody other than strictly in her capacity as a Justicar in the past four hundred years, the prospect of having normal conversations with normal people again was...strangely intimidating. And for good reason. There were so many nuances that didn’t come naturally to Samara anymore. Subtle social cues. Hidden cultural meanings. Body language. Tone. Translation errors.

With Miranda, Samara never had to worry about any of that. In defiance of what anyone else may have thought of her, she was bereft of any duplicity. Too busy working to have time to play games with her words. Miranda always meant exactly what she said in the starkest of terms. Nothing more, nothing less. No hidden agendas. No coddling of feelings. No passive aggressive undertones.

And so, for a woman like that - a woman who Samara had quickly become accustomed to being so staunch and rigid, and perhaps in many ways so like herself, to suddenly be so...ill-at-ease? Nothing needed to be said out loud. Samara already knew. The mere fact that it was affecting a person like her was proof enough that it had to be serious. Nothing less would warrant that impact.

And, indeed, from a quick study of her form, it was evident that she was right.

Miranda was so...tense. So much so, in fact, that Samara wondered how she had not sensed it earlier. A single glance would have been all it took to confirm it. The way the heel of her foot bounced impatiently against the floor. The perpetually frustrated expression now plastered onto her normally self-assured features. The stress was practically radiating off of her in waves.

It was at that moment that Samara first began to comprehend just how deeply, deeply unhappy Miranda was behind the hard exterior she put up. Whether Miranda herself realised it or not, Samara suspected that she was not burying herself in her work as much as she did because she sincerely loved her job, no matter how much she claimed to. No. Miranda was using it as a distraction. She was using it as a shield, to avoid dealing with…whatever this was. 

A glimmer of profound empathy burgeoned inside her chest, as well as shame. Shame that she had been so blinded by her self-centred obsession with her own suffering that it had rendered her oblivious to another person’s pain.

Samara had been so consumed with Morinth, it had never crossed her mind until just now to consider that her companion was so troubled. And she regretted that. That she had not paid more attention to her surroundings earlier, in any of the days and weeks that she had been tacitly benefiting from Miranda’s presence in her space. And for whatever it was that Miranda felt she had to carry alone.

At that point, Samara let her meditation drop altogether. Miranda was so tightly wound up in what ailed her that she did not notice the glow dissipate.

The Justicar in Samara told her it was none of her business. That Miranda’s burdens were hers and hers alone to bear. And yet, something compelled her to intervene. Something would not allow her to sit idly by and do nothing when it was abundantly clear to her that the woman who had shared this space with her on so many days seemed to be in crisis. Especially when she knew from being a woman in many respects rather like Miranda herself that strong, hard, self-sufficient women like Miranda never asked for help. Even when they desperately needed it.

“...Miranda,” some small, compassionate side of Samara prompted her to speak up. Miranda raised her head. “Would you care to join me?”

Miranda didn’t follow her meaning. “Join you?”

Samara gestured at the floor beside her. “In meditation.”

Miranda arched a critical eyebrow. “Why? What purpose would that serve?”

“There are several benefits,” Samara calmly replied, unoffended by Miranda’s curt response. In fact, she had anticipated it, having gathered what a sceptic to all things religious and spiritual Miranda was even just from their few conversations. It was strange to her that so many humans appeared to consider faith and science to be oppositional forces. For asari, irrespective of what faith they followed, that was not the case at all. Faith and science were, in many respects, one and the same thing. “It may help you focus, providing you with a means to channel extraneous energy, which will aid in sharpening your mind.”

“Is that why you do it?” Miranda asked.

“Not primarily, no,” Samara admitted, never one to be false, “But I did not expect you would find spiritual enlightenment to be a compelling motivation.”

“You thought correctly,” Miranda acknowledged. But, despite her misgivings, she surprisingly acquiesced. “...Sure, why not?” As she moved to sit beside her, Samara had to confess, she hadn’t expected Miranda to agree to her suggestion. She was often stubborn, and rarely liked to admit other people could be right about things. Perhaps she was even more desperate for relief than Samara initially suspected. Or just bored. “I have to warn you, this probably isn’t going to work. The ability to switch off my thoughts was not programmed into me.”

“Thought is distinct from mindfulness,” Samara advised. “The goal of meditation is not to cease the former, but to obtain the clarity that allows the latter to flourish. And, if this does not come naturally to you, perhaps that is an indication that you would benefit more than most from learning the technique.”

“If you’re willing to teach me, I’m willing to try.” Miranda somewhat reluctantly straightened her back, emulating Samara’s cross-legged position. It was evident from her tone that she didn’t fully buy into this, and was perhaps only about a half-a-step away from dismissing this outright as superstitious ritualistic nonsense, but Samara appreciated that, for her, this was remarkably open-minded. If she was giving chances to things she would otherwise have written off altogether, Samara would take whatever effort she put forward without complaint.

Samara reignited her biotic shroud. “Clear your mind and let your biotics flow through you. Sustaining them will assist in ridding you of distractions,” Samara instructed her. It wasn’t lost on her that it was the first time she’d taught another to do this, or played the role of ‘teacher’ at all. “I choose to do so by forming a ball of biotic energy, but perhaps you would prefer to levitate a small object to begin.”

“No. I can do it,” Miranda assured her. Samara held her tongue and elected not to argue with her on that, anticipating that Miranda would not heed her experience were it offered. She would permit the next few minutes to speak for themselves.

In the peripheries of her vision, Samara saw Miranda’s biotic field take shape. It was...faint. Unstable. That was to be expected. Humans were not natural biotics, as asari were. It was not something they were all raised with from birth, like the ability to walk or speak or see was for most. Something ingrained. Automatic. Some human biotics were certainly exceptional, and as capable as many asari. But…

Miranda was good at what she could do. Very good. Exceptional at the abilities she had developed, in fact. But, for whatever reason, perhaps because she was one of the older human biotics, Samara had reason to suspect she had never developed to her full biotic potential. She had plenty of offence, but her passive biotics, including her defences, were almost completely non-existent. These would have been the first such skills taught to asari children. And Miranda lacked them.

It was readily apparent from the expression on her face that it took a great deal of concentration and willpower for Miranda to sustain a biotic field around herself, and form that tight sphere between her palms. Samara didn’t make it obvious, but she was braced to intervene if she needed to. In case anything went too far askew.

Eventually, it seemed as though Miranda had a stable enough field that she could focus on something other than simply controlling her energies. “Wait until your mind has quietened,” Samara continued. “Then, you can shift your consciousness away from the physical, and reflect on that which has true meaning to you.”

Miranda tensed when she said that. Samara obviously couldn’t read Miranda’s mind, but the strain in features betrayed everything she was holding inside. In the corners of her vision, she glimpsed echoes of fear. And anger. And turmoil.

Although she said nothing, Samara silently readied her reflexes, prepared to intervene at a moment’s notice in case it looked like anything was about to go drastically awry - just as things had the first time she meditated. If this backfired, she would not allow Miranda to get hurt, as she once had.

Miranda began to shake as thoughts flashed through her head, whatever she was repressing rising to the surface. And the last thing Samara saw flicker across her expression before her bubble burst was...sadness. Not a deep, abiding sorrow like Samara knew so intimately, but one no less poignant.

It was strange to see such a thing in the countenance of a woman who held herself up as so perfect, pristine and professional. But it almost reminded her of the wounded look she might see on the face of a scared, lost child.

And, then, in an instant, it was gone.

Samara’s fingers flexed with the urge to react when the biotic collapse inevitably happened, but there was no need to step in. Miranda had kept her powers under enough control that she did not need to protect her. All that went wrong was that she knocked herself off-balance and fell backwards, catching herself on her hands.

Pale skin turned a few shades pinker, visibly embarrassed by her falter. “I did warn you,” said Miranda, clearing her throat.

“It is alright,” Samara assured her. It was exactly what she had expected. “You saw something you do not wish to confront; something you cannot accept. I will not ask you to discuss it. Your thoughts are your own. But learning to meditate on that with which you are not currently at peace rather than resisting it may aid you in attaining harmony. That is, if you choose to pursue it, as I have,” Samara encouraged.

Samara had learned to live with her shadow now, to the extent that it was possible to do so. She could feel her there behind her, sitting with her back to her, even now. Her dark shroud. The pain she could never forget. Her grief.

She could never make peace with her past. What she had done. To suggest that she could almost seemed like an insult - like spitting on the graves of the dead. All she could do was try to find the strength to keep carrying it with her.

And some days it got so hard.

So heavy.

So lonely.

It was no exaggeration for Samara to state that becoming a Justicar had, quite literally, saved her life, in more ways than one. Even with the purpose and meaning she found in putting an end to Morinth’s murders, she wouldn’t have been able to survive these past four hundred years without her meditation. Without this serenity, this tranquility, the darkness would have consumed her long ago.

Miranda sighed, understandably quite shaken by whatever confronting visions had come to her when there were no distractions to chase the reality of her inner life away. “This isn’t the best time,” she declined, not quite able to meet Samara’s eye, almost as if she was ashamed of her cowardice in refusing - too scared to go back to that void and face the harsh truth that had broken her trance. “After tomorrow, maybe. I might be in a better place. We’ll see.”

Samara paused, giving the matter some thought. She did like Miranda, from what little she knew of her. And she did want to assist her, if such assistance was wanted. At the very least, she was not averse to spending more time with her. 

She knew what it was to be left alone and abandoned at a difficult time. To have nobody there. To have nobody care. Samara was by no means an especially kind person, and frankly it wasn’t clear whether Miranda would have wanted anybody’s sympathy even were it given freely. Most likely not. But, that being said, part of Samara just physically could not bear to leave another person to suffer alone in silence when that was precisely what had been done to her at her lowest point.

It was also a mistake she could not permit herself to make a second time.

A thought occurred to her then, recalling the observations she had made about Miranda’s shortcomings with biotics a few minutes earlier (though she had the sense not to use that word in front of her). 

“If it would interest you, perhaps I could instruct you in the use of some of my biotic abilities,” Samara offered, as she meditated. It seemed like that compromise might appeal to Miranda. It was reasonable, practical. And it was genuine. She could legitimately help her improve in those areas, even if it was, to an extent, only being raised as a disguise for Samara’s concern for her, and an excuse for the two of them to spend more time together, if Miranda so wished it. “I do not know if we will have time to develop them to a combat-effective state. However—”

“I’m not averse to that idea,” Miranda cut her off, not needing any more convincing, “Though I can’t make any solid time commitments.”

“Very well. I look forward to it,” Samara sincerely replied, leaving it at that.

Samara didn’t realise it at the time, but that choice she made that day to come out of her own shell of isolation and be compassionate towards Miranda in her time of need - without even knowing what she was going through - would change the course of her life, and the fate of the galaxy, forever.

*     *     *

Samara would discover the very next day the reason behind Miranda’s unusual behaviour the day prior. She had not previously paid too much attention to the goings on aboard The Normandy, but that was her first impetus to do so.

She hadn’t known Miranda had a younger sister. Apparently nobody else on The Normandy had, either. Nor had she known about the terrible relationship Miranda had with her father. That was evidently less of a secret.

With little prompting, it was Kasumi, as usual, who filled Samara in on everything she knew - that Miranda had rescued her cloned sister from her father when she was only a baby, keeping her hidden for nineteen years, never speaking a word to her, not even letting her younger sister know she existed. Until today.

Somehow, that self-sacrificing nobility came as much less of a surprise to Samara than it seemed to for everyone else aboard The Normandy. It did not strike her as being at odds with the dutiful, stoic Miranda she had met so far at all.

“We’re alike in many ways. Identical twins often are, I suppose. But, at the same time, she’s absolutely nothing like me,” Miranda had told her about Oriana when she joined Samara in the Starboard Observation Deck later that day, overcome with adoration for her sister. “Oriana’s just…she’s an amazing person. She’s kind-hearted and funny, and I’m neither of those things. Which is good, because it means everything I did for her was right, despite what Niket said.”

Samara hadn’t remarked upon it at the time as Miranda stood there reflected in the window, but she had been struck by the tone with which Miranda said those words about herself. They circled in her head long after Miranda left. 

She’s absolutely nothing like me. She’s an amazing person. She’s kind-hearted and funny, and I’m neither of those things.

It was so...matter-of-fact. So casual. And so...defeated.

As those words repeated in her mind, Samara realised why she couldn’t forget them. It was strangely sad to hear her say that about herself with such stark conviction. That she wasn’t kind. That she wasn’t funny.

And, the third implication, that she wasn’t amazing.

Samara felt a slight twinge of sympathy as it clicked. Had she misinterpreted that, or had she perceived that entirely presciently? Was that really what Miranda thought of herself? Beneath that hard outer shell she put up, was she as critical of herself as she was of everyone else? Perhaps even more so?

It seemed so unfair. Perhaps Samara could concede that Miranda was not especially kind-hearted. She did not strike her as such. But, then again, Samara was not a kind-hearted person either. They had that in common. But she disagreed that she wasn’t funny. Miranda definitely had a sense of humour. It was a dark, dry, sarcastic wit. And a quick one at that. But it was there.

But that last one.

To think that, after all Miranda had accomplished in her thus far comparatively short lifespan, to have seen in only a few short weeks how extraordinarily capable she was, and know it wasn’t enough for her? That she wasn’t proud of any of it?

For Miranda’s sake, that scared Samara a little.

Why was she doing it, then? Why was she devoting so much of herself to being perfect at her work, if at the end of the day she found no fulfilment in it? If she didn’t find a sense of intrinsic value in it? If she felt no more worthwhile as a person?

But it did not seem her place to tell Miranda that, when she barely knew her. Besides, there were other, more important things on Samara’s mind that day.

During their conversation earlier, it was not only Miranda’s happy reunion with Oriana that had been discussed. For something else had happened that day.

The moment Samara had been waiting for had finally come to pass. Samara had tracked The Demeter to Omega - the ship on which Morinth fled from Illium. And, as previously promised, Miranda was the first person she told when there was anything that came to her attention that could potentially affect the mission.

Samara had initially not been certain how much she should reveal. If she should say only that she was hunting a dangerous criminal, or...exactly what her relationship to that criminal was. But Miranda prompted her to speak about it. Since the details were pertinent to the safety of everyone involved, and Samara was sworn as a Justicar to be truthful in her dealings with others, she came clean.

Samara told Miranda the truth. Or rather, told Miranda everything she needed to be able to piece it together herself. In her grief, she could not face Miranda as the realisation clicked behind her eyes, and Samara’s shame came to light.

“She’s your daughter,” Miranda voiced her realisation aloud. Her tone conveyed no emotion beyond the revelation of figuring it out.

“That is correct,” Samara quietly confessed. The sombre veil of mourning that surrounded her grew so dense that she felt her tall frame shrink within it.

“...Oh,” was all Miranda could say. Not angry, or sad, or afraid, or outraged, or shocked, or anything in particular. As though she were at a loss for how to react.

No matter how well Miranda appeared to take the news, Samara felt diminished in her sight as the truth came out, convinced it could not do otherwise but permanently stain her in Miranda’s eyes forever. Just as it had in her own. And if she did not think any lesser of her, then it was only because Miranda was a human rather than an asari, and did not fully understand what it all meant.

That it was all Samara’s fault.

*     *     *

A pain can exist for so long that one can become numb to the ache.

It lingers. Dull. Constant. Never absent. But…muted. Not as it once was.

For as long as she hunted Morinth, Samara had never lived a day without pain. But even the ability to feel hurt, just like the ability to feel joy, can be drowned out and turned to shades of grey over the years. Another shadow of a fragment of a thing not truly felt most days, because there was too little of her left beneath that black shroud to feel anything at all.

Some days, she almost forgot why she was even hunting her.

Was it really to atone for her sins, and to stop any more mothers from burying their children, because she felt responsible for their blood on her hands?

Was it because she couldn’t bear to let the daughter she loved, who for all intents and purposes was already dead, continue to persist as nothing more than a puppet for the murderous disease Samara had passed to her?

Or was it just a pathetic excuse to see the sun rise tomorrow? Just forward momentum to carry her on into the next day? A selfish, self-centred reason to justify going on living, when she knew she didn’t deserve to?

Either way, it didn’t matter.

Because she’d finally found her.

After four hundred years, Samara had caught up to her. The reality that this was the chance she had been waiting for all these years almost didn’t fully sink in. It didn’t seem entirely real. The events on Omega passed as if in a dream. A fantasy. Something always went wrong. Morinth always found a way to escape.

But not this time.

Using Shepard as bait, they lured Morinth out into the open. Lulling her into a false sense of security. Giving her prey too potent to resist. And it worked. Taking advantage of her daughter’s distraction and pre-occupation with her next kill, Samara tracked the both of them from a safe distance back to Morinth’s apartment.

They sprung the trap.

They cornered her.

With Shepard at her side, Morinth had no escape this time.

And, in a flash…it was over.

It didn’t register right away.

Not when she killed her.

Not when her daughter’s blood coated her hands.

Not when she and Shepard left Omega.

It wasn’t until Samara was back on The Normandy, standing alone in the stark silence of the Starboard Observation Deck, staring out into the vast, endless emptiness of space, that deep within the recesses of the hollow void in her chest, she felt something move. She felt her heart beat one single, sharp beat, for the first time in centuries. And it pumped blood directly into the open wound.

All of a sudden, any trace of numbness was gone. She couldn’t just feel. She felt everything. Centuries of bottled up grief and guilt and penance and agony and relief coursed through her like a tidal wave.

Even sensations that should have been as light as the softest silk were as raw and ravaging as sandpaper on freshly burned skin.

So many memories. So many memories of the daughter she’d seen more of herself in than any other came flooding to the surface.

No matter how hard she tried to rationalise it or compartmentalise it, Samara had killed her. And knowing it had been the right thing to do, how many lives she’d already taken, and how many more innocents she would have gone on to murder in the future if she had not stopped her, none of that made it hurt any less.

And yet…It was over. It was done.

The weight she’d carried for four hundred years was lifted from her shoulders.

No more mothers were ever going to lose their sons or daughters because of her. She was never going to have to look another parent in the eye, knowing it was her child - her disease - that was responsible. She no longer had to live with the torment of what happened all those centuries ago. If it was her fault that Mirala had escaped that day. If she had driven her away. If some part of her had wanted her to go and be free, rather than live in a captivity she wasn’t suited for.

It was at once liberating, and yet crushingly devastating.

How could she be so conflicted? How could she love Mirala so much, and yet be happy she was dead? How could she mourn the death of an unrepentant murderer? How could she know Mirala needed to die, know her crimes, yet still adore her? How could she be so selfish as to be relieved her task was done?

It had been so long since the last time Samara wept that she thought she had no tears left to shed, but she was wrong. Killing Morinth breathed light into her shadow, and the light was agony. It seared. It burned. It stung. But it also healed.

And, in truth, the only person who was there for her through it all, really there for her as she broke down and the sobs ripped from her chest, was Miranda. 

Of all people, she was perhaps the last person Samara would have expected to show compassion for her. And yet she stayed by her side for an entire night, placing a (somewhat awkward) hand on her shoulder as she wept, listening to her process and reflect when Samara needed to give voice to her thoughts, and moving to sit beside her in silence on the floor when her tears dried.

“Is it strange of me to speak of her fondly, knowing what she became?” Samara asked once calm had found her in the aftermath of the storm, wondering if Miranda would find it in poor taste. To everyone else, she was a rapist. A murderer. A monster. She was Morinth. But to Samara, she still saw Mirala.

Miranda shrugged ambivalently, uncertain she had any right to judge a grieving mother. “She’s your daughter. If you can’t speak fondly of her, who can?”

Samara glanced down, a small smile coming to her lips. An unfamiliar sensation. One she barely remembered. “For better and for worse, of all my daughters, she was always the one I saw most of myself in. Too much, at times.”

“I find it hard to picture you being ‘too much’ of anything,” Miranda pointed out.

“In my youth, I was not then as I am now. Were you?” Samara asked.

Miranda blinked, confused by the question. “Uh…pretty much, yeah. Same person, only younger,” she said, wondering if that was some sort of trick.

That comment almost managed to elicit something resembling a faint chuckle from Samara. Why did that not surprise her? “Interesting. But I suppose I do have a few more centuries on you,” Samara remarked.

“Just a few,” Miranda lightheartedly conceded.

“Mirala, as she was called then, did not believe me either, that we were so alike. That I was once as rebellious as she was. That I got into…almost as many fights in school as she did. That I also thought my mother an overly strict tyrant and enjoyed bickering with her more than I ought.” Samara’s nostalgic expression swiftly fell. She swallowed and glanced down. “To go on the run at the age of forty, as she did. I told Shepard this as well, but that is very young for an asari.”

“So that means she’s very young when you remember her,” Miranda noted.

“Yes,” Samara confirmed.

“And you have happy memories of her?”

Samara hesitated, her eyes welling with tears as she felt the presence of that shadow. The cloud that tainted any joy she could gain from reflecting on any time she had spent with the family she herself had destroyed. How could she feel any pleasure looking back on the brighter days when every thought of smiling faces and laughter inevitably crashed into the stark reality of blood on the bathroom floor, raised voices and fights, shattered glass scattered on the carpet, murdered children, and being left alone in a hollow, empty house?

“...Yes,” she answered in a vacant whisper.

“Then I don’t think anyone can begrudge you for holding onto her that way - for thinking of the child you brought into this world, and of the mon…the person she unfortunately became as two different people,” said Miranda, endeavouring to show as much delicacy as she could. Whether she actually believed that or not, Samara couldn’t tell. Either way, it was kind of her to say. To offer that comfort.

“Perhaps you are right.” Samara nodded, blinking a tear from her eye. “Whether it is right or wrong, I have not once stopped thinking of her in my heart as the bravest, strongest and smartest of my daughters. Because it has always been true.” She paused, glancing down, imagining her fingers and thumbs running over that mended mug her children had made her. She lifted her head, glancing at Miranda. “Is it arrogant to say that, knowing I compared myself to her earlier?”

“Maybe a little.” Miranda held her thumb and forefinger apart a tiny bit. “Based on what I’ve seen of you, though, doesn’t mean it’s inaccurate.” With that, Miranda glanced at the time, exhaling at how early in the morning it was. 

“I would not keep you from your duties, Miranda,” Samara spoke first, sparing her from saying anything. Of course she didn’t need her permission to leave.

A hint of appreciativeness flickered across Miranda’s features at Samara’s understanding, and at being spared the awkwardness of having to utter her reasons. It wasn’t that she wanted to go, per se. She just had a lot to do. 

“Are you going to be okay?” Miranda checked on her before anything else, not wanting to leave her by herself if she needed someone else to stay with her.

“I have endured a great many things, Miranda,” Samara wisely reminded her, feeling far more composed now than she had twelve hours ago. “I will endure this.”

Miranda frowned. “I know you will, but…that wasn’t what I was asking.”

Samara closed her eyes, straightened her back, and adopted a meditative posture. “I am alright,” she answered. And, for certain values of ‘alright’, she actually was.

Miranda accepted that, taking her at her word. “I’m here if you need anything.”

She moved to take her leave.

“Miranda?” Miranda stopped at the door when Samara spoke her name. “...Thank you for staying with me,” Samara said sincerely. She did not know how she would have been able to suffer through that long, miserable night without her. 

In place of saying anything, Miranda simply offered a small, sympathetic half-smile as she headed out into the corridor.

It was true that Miranda’s sensitivity, however…ill-equipped she was to offer it, had been, in many respects, totally unexpected. Even by Samara, who seemed to give her far more of the benefit of the doubt as to her intentions than anyone else aboard the ship. But Samara was grateful for it.

Samara was so used to bearing everything alone. Not just lately, but through most of her life. It was not lost on her that that was, to her recollection, the first time since Rila was taken and Lyla died that so much as a single person had made a sincere effort to reach out to her in her pain, and permitted her to feel what she was feeling, without abandoning her, or demanding that she set her sorrow aside because others required her to carry her burdens with strength and resolve. 

For one night at least, for all those hours that passed, Miranda allowed her to just be. To just feel. Even if that meant talking about Mirala. Even if that meant still loving her. And that was a greater catharsis than Samara had known since…

Since she could remember.

But then, when Miranda left, and she was alone, an altogether different kind of sensation took hold over Samara. A different kind of peace left in her wake.

Her burden was gone.

Her penance was fulfilled.

Her very reason for existing was at an end.

And the more she meditated there in her solitude, in that tranquil, serene silence, the more Samara came to what seemed like an obvious conclusion.

For once, the Goddess had listened to her.

For once, she was on the right path.

For once, her prayer had actually been answered.

She was where she was supposed to be.

Her being on The Normandy was no mere coincidence.

Samara was meant to run into Commander Shepard.

Commander Shepard was meant to help her stop Morinth.

Samara was meant to help Commander Shepard defeat The Collectors.

She was here by fate.

By divine providence.

This was destiny.

And, to Samara, what had once been just one of many abstract hypothetical possible outcomes of this venture back when she first approached it now began to crystalise and harden inside her mind into an increasingly deterministic certainty.

If Samara had resolved every reason she had to stay alive, perhaps Athame had called her into Shepard’s service because this was where she was meant to die.

And that thought of being permitted to die not merely any death but a heroic, redeeming death brought Samara comfort, relief and renewed sense of meaning and purpose, to not just her life, but to the very act of living for however long she had left - a liberty she had not known in four hundred and thirty-four years.

She was so at peace with the thought of her own death. It would not matter to her if it came tomorrow, or a week from now, or a month from now, or a year from now. She had spent so long believing she was undeserving of life. So long walking on a tenuous knife-edge, in a life of extremes. Not quite actively seeking her own death. Not with Morinth out there. And yet equally knowing it could come at any moment. And, on some level, a small part of her, always hoping for it.

The strange irony was that, now that she could see it on the horizon, it was almost as though knowing that she was going to die soon gave Samara the permission she’d always denied herself before to live what dying days she had left.

And, indeed, Samara was so focused on that sense of comfort and relief she garnered from believing her time was coming to an end, that she was not even fully conscious of the fingers of the dark shadow unlatching from her back.

*     *     *

Once Samara had shed her tears and felt ready to emerge from her mourning following Morinth’s death, she suddenly found herself with so much…freedom.

She honestly had no point of reference for what it was like to live like this. That weight had been around her neck for so long. That burden. No matter where she was, or what else was happening in the galaxy, she had to focus on Morinth. Only Morinth. Punishing herself, hating herself for ever daring to think of anything else.

And now that was just gone. Lifted. That penance that consumed her for four hundred years was over. She didn’t have to think about it anymore.

She was free.

Distraught, but free.

She was…allowed to focus on other things. Because nobody would die if she didn’t. There was nobody being killed right now whose death she was responsible for.

For the first time in four hundred years, Samara didn’t need to spend every waking moment trapped with the thought of how many people Morinth had murdered since she last let her escape. She was able to breathe without being wracked with guilt for the suffering her disease was inflicting on the galaxy.

Besides which, her own unspoken acceptance that Morinth’s death was surely a cosmic sign from Athame that she didn’t have very long to live was in and of itself incredibly liberating. She could finally give herself permission to do things purely because she wanted to do those things. To think of slightly frivolous wants and desires she had not thought of in centuries. There was no reason not to now. 

Why not sit and read a book? She was going to die soon.

Why not set aside her social phobia and sit in the cafeteria and listen to the other members of the crew making idle conversation? She was going to die soon.

Why not spend more time enjoying her burgeoning friendships with Shepard and Miranda? And why not try to form a closer bond with Thane in spite of his assassin background, or be kinder to Kasumi when she visited her? It did not matter anymore that the latter two were criminals. She was going to die soon. 

She was nine hundred and seventy years old. And, though perhaps it was a somewhat ironic turn of phrase given that she did not expect to live long, it was as though she had been granted a second lease on life. But it was fitting. She would not have deserved a true second chance at life, after what she had done. But a few short months of peace? Knowing it was the end of the road for her? Why not?

It was not entirely selfish, either.

Up until now, Samara was aware that she had been, shall it be said, somewhat isolated in the Starboard Observation Deck. Aside from when she had been ordered to do so, she had not exactly contributed anything to The Normandy beyond the bare minimum. And that simply would not do. She did not know how, exactly, but Samara was committed to changing that. To helping others, in some way. To passing on her wisdom, and leaving the people here better than she found them.

It was somewhat of a funny thing to hear herself say that. Despite her years and experience both within and outside the Order, Samara had never actually trained another Justicar. She had never served as a mentor or teacher to anyone else.

Of all the Justicars in all the Order, Samara had always thought herself the last one who should presume to teach anybody anything. She wasn’t worthy, even if her pursuit of Morinth hadn’t kept her too preoccupied to make it an option.

And yet, before she spared a thought for what she was really doing, there she was. Teaching the first person she’d ever taught how to meditate. Taking them down to the cargo bay and instructing them in how to improve their biotics. Dispensing them with wisdom and life advice. And it was all to the same person.

Miranda.

Samara would have been lying if she said she didn’t see a little of herself as a younger woman in Miranda. They had plenty in common. They were strong, composed, self-sufficient, hard-working, and honest to a fault, even if Samara was more tactful about it. It would have been easy to brush it off that that was all this was. But, by the same token, that also wasn’t really accurate.

Certainly, there were things Samara wished she had been told five hundred years ago back when she was a career woman - questions she wished she had been asked when she perhaps did not have her priorities in order - and she wouldn’t neglect to pass those things onto Miranda if such advice was welcome. That would be unkind. However, the rapport developing between them did not feel like that of a teacher/student relationship, nor that of a mentor/mentee. Far from it.

No, in Miranda she saw a friend and an equal. One who she came to learn had most likely had few if any close friends before. Which explained rather a lot about her difficulties with others. And which Samara sympathised with, as she had been alone for a very long time. And hence, as a result, was out-of-practice. 

But the Miranda she came to know as they conversed was interesting and complex. For someone so upfront and direct about the type of person she was, Miranda was also at the same time full of contradictions, which, as Samara was quickly learning, appeared to be a particularly human characteristic.

For as confident and oft-misguided in her overestimation of her own abilities as Miranda could be, by the same token, she was deeply insecure and self-conscious of her perceived faults and flaws. While she was not lying when she made it plain that she could not have cared less what anyone thought of her, it also gradually became readily apparent that she deeply craved approval - at least from those whose opinions mattered to her. And for as vain and self-centred as she could come across, in truth, she actually had no ego about herself in that regard.

Despite what others seemed to think about her, there was no pretence about Miranda whatsoever. What they saw was what they got. She never tried to control or influence how they perceived her. If they didn’t like her, she never tried to change their mind, nor did she bully them or punish them or retaliate in any way for the often very harsh things said behind her back. Which she knew about.

If their comments injured her, it never showed. Miranda was well aware that people didn’t like her. She seemed to have made peace with the fact that the vast majority of people wouldn’t. For whatever reason, she had no desire to rectify that. If she did, it should have been in her capabilities to do so. But perhaps it wasn’t. 

For what it was worth, in most cases, if she was called upon as to who she thought was in the right, while both parties obviously had merit to their points of view, Samara was inclined to side with Miranda. And not out of personal bias because of their burgeoning friendship. On reflection, she was not actually, for the most part, doing or saying anything wrong. She was merely doing her job.

Yes, she stepped on toes, and criticised people for shoddy work, and butted heads with people where she thought she was right and they were wrong. Frankly, she was within her rights to do all those things. She was the senior personnel there. Every single person there, other than Shepard, answered to her. She was never unprofessional about it, she was not voicing her views in a rude, mean or uncivil manner, but she certainly had no obligation to be ‘nice’ about doing her job effectively. The obligation was on others to rise to her standards, which were not unreasonable. Not on her to coddle everybody’s feelings while lives were at stake.

Then again, Samara was also not an entirely impartial adjudicator on what was or was not oversensitive or soft in a workplace given that, were this the Justicar Order, beatings would have been handed out if someone complained that a more experienced Justicar had given a directive without wording it ‘nicely enough’.

But the more time Samara spent with Miranda, the more she found something quite charming about her lack of charm. The more she found her professed lack of humour to be drier and wittier than anyone else aboard the ship. And the more she understood her not to be a mean-spirited or cruel person at all. More...awkward.

And hurt.

It was often difficult to see, as Miranda carried herself so faultlessly, but they came through in little glimpses every now and then - the scars from her past.

“Do you drink?” Miranda asked her out of the blue one day.

“I would die very quickly if I did not,” Samara responded, amused.

Miranda blinked, waving her hand as she realised the misunderstanding. “No, I...I meant alcohol,” she clarified, looking slightly flustered as she recognised how stupid that question must have sounded if Samara had really taken it literally. “I just wanted to know if I should get you something next time.” She raised her glass from the Port Lounge indicatively, which was nearly empty.

“Oh. I see. No, I have not in many years,” Samara answered honestly. As far as she was aware, there was still a chance her body could not process alcohol, or any equivalents thereof. An intrigued look flitted across her face after that exchange. “I find it curious. There are so many different things that you would drink in any given day, and yet, if I am following you correctly, in your language, the expression, ‘do you drink’ applies solely to alcohol,” Samara observed.

“You’re not mistaken,” Miranda confirmed, sensing where she was going.

“Why do you think that is?” Samara lightheartedly asked, a hint of teasing in her tone. “Is alcohol really that important in your culture?”

“In my culture?” Miranda double-checked, pointing to herself. “Yes. One hundred percent. Without a doubt. Definitely. Ask me a harder question next time.”

Samara almost chuckled. “What part of Earth did you say you were from again?”

“Australia. If you look on a world map, it’s the kind of smallish Southern continent over to the side that’s not connected to any of the other ones,” she explained.

“What is it like there?” Samara prompted, eager to learn more.

“Grossly overrated,” Miranda replied, sipping her drink.

Samara was a little taken aback by her response, wondering if she had erred somehow by bringing it up. “Did you not like it there?” she intuited.

Miranda snorted, unoffended by her questioning, but evidently unsure how to answer that in any satisfying way. “Well, I didn’t exactly get to see much of it. Which I suppose means I’m being ‘unfair’ to my homeland, but, hey, I can only judge what I know,” she said with a frank, sardonic shrug, finishing the last of her drink.

Samara didn’t press as Miranda left to go refill her glass, but the implication lingered that what she had known in her childhood there with her father hadn’t exactly been pleasant. It wasn’t Samara’s place to pry, but it intrigued her. 

What had Miranda’s father done to her? What had she gone through nineteen years ago that had been so bad that she needed to save her sister from it?

And why did Miranda always seem so keen on brushing her past off so flippantly like it didn’t affect her anymore, when it so plainly did? When her childhood was so unpleasant for her to think of that it had tainted the entire country she grew up in to the point where she couldn’t imagine a single positive thing to say about it?

Samara had grown up with a strict mother, a stern mother, one she fought with often in her adolescence, but she had many happy childhood memories with her. It would have been easy to rattle off the top of her head things she had loved about growing up with her on Thessia. Even despite how much their relationship had deteriorated at the end, and how much they clashed when she left home.

More than that, Samara could certainly be a harsher critic than most asari of her own society, having grown up as an outcast by virtue of her own culture. She had seen the darker sides of Thessia and the Asari Republics from the moment she was born to two asari parents, from living life as a criminal mercenary, to aiding inequality and corruption in the business world, to being abandoned and shunned by her own kind in her darkest hour, to becoming their judge, jury and executioner as a Justicar. She was well aware of Thessia’s flaws. She’d lived them.

And yet despite that she didn’t love it any less. She still felt a connection to her home. It was where she grew up. Where her children were born. Where she met Lyla. Though every single one of those memories carried with them agonising wounds. Despite its myriad flaws, everything she had lost there, or how easy it would have been to condemn it for all it had taken from her, and all the pain asari society had inflicted upon her, Samara couldn’t revile Thessia, nor its people.  

If Miranda could really think of nothing, or would go to such great lengths to brush off talking about her childhood so that she could avoid dwelling on it or really reliving any of it...she didn’t wish to speculate, but, suffice it to be said, if Miranda told her that her father was a controlling tyrant, she believed her.

It made her a little bit sad, though. To think Miranda bore it all alone.

Samara had withstood a great many things, by the thinnest of margins, but she had not truly carried them alone. She had religion. And the Justicars. Without those dual crutches, she would have been consumed by grief centuries ago.

What did Miranda have?

Who did Miranda have?

Nothing.

Nobody.

That didn’t seem entirely fair.

Bearing one’s burdens alone was admirable, but...there was also no shame in accepting help and good counsel when it was offered willingly by others. Samara hoped perhaps she could get Miranda to realise that.

*     *     *

Miranda was truly ceaseless in her work. Samara had become so accustomed to the gentle sound of her fingers tapping away at her laptop or datapad while she meditated, whenever the two of them weren’t talking or training, that it became a comforting accompaniment to the silence. And its absence was sorely missed.

It did not matter what day it was, nor how late the hour. Miranda always had something to do. And she would never bother anyone else with it. Never delegate to anyone else so she could spare a moment of respite for herself.

On one occasion, her work kept her there typing away particularly late. Much later than usual. To the extent that a reasonable case could be made that it was more proper to call it the next morning than last night. And this was after Miranda had already returned from a field mission earlier in the day.

“Are you certain you should not rest, Miranda?” Samara asked her, without breaking from her meditation. “The hour grows late. Or, some might say, early.”

Miranda glanced up momentarily, attention briefly lifted from her screen. “I can’t. I need to finish this,” she said, appreciating her concern, but brushing it off.

“Is all well?” Samara inquired, almost compelled to drop from her trance, though she refrained from doing so. She and Miranda had grown a lot closer as of late. Close enough that she knew this was not typical for Miranda. Although she always had far too much to do, and rarely seemed to have anything resembling a healthy work-life balance, it nevertheless felt like she was normally so on top of things. It never seemed like she had to struggle or force tasks to get done.

To call it ‘worrying’ would have been an overstatement. Indeed, Samara was quite certain Miranda would have loathed the idea of anybody aboard the ship believing they needed to concern themselves with her plight at all, when she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself. But it was out-of-character.

And Samara had noticed.

Samara sensed more than a hint of resignation in Miranda’s sigh. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about me. Just in a little trouble with the boss, is all,” was all she would say about it, leaving Samara to infer that she had been inundated with all this work as a punishment of some sort. That explained the discrepancy.

“Can I be of assistance?” Samara offered, maintaining her concentration.

“Seriously. It’s my problem. I’m nearly finished,” Miranda insisted, not letting her burdens become anyone else’s. And that was all there was to be said about it.

Samara respected her answer, and spoke nothing further on the subject.

Time continued to pass as it often did between them, in unbroken tranquility.

It must have been about four in the morning when Samara perceived that the sound of tapping on keys was curiously absent. Her focus broken, she blinked, and glanced over to the lounge. Her gaze found Miranda lying half-curled against the armrest, her datapad dangling somewhat precariously from her fingers.

Miranda had fallen asleep. Most likely within the last ten minutes.

Samara released a soft sigh as she stood up, electing to approach without so much as a second thought. She delicately extricated the datapad from Miranda’s grip so that it wouldn’t drop and break on the floor if she moved the wrong way. As she did so, Miranda shifted. Samara hesitated, waiting to see if she would stir. But Miranda did not, only subconsciously adjusting her position in her sleep.

Once it was clear she was not about to awaken, Samara set the datapad on the nearby table where there was no chance it could be knocked astray. That done, Samara paused and allowed her gentle stare to linger on Miranda’s sleeping features for a moment, unable to help but glimpse her at her most unguarded.

Even in her slumber, there was a hint of tension faintly creasing in her brow, as though even in dreams the many burdens she carried through her busy days never quite left her shoulders, and never fully permitted her to relax.

Samara wondered what weighed on her so, if it was indeed just work, or if it ran deeper than that. If it was the echoes of her past. Of her father. Those psychological scars that she was so unwilling to acknowledge or discuss. If there was anything at all she could do to release her from those constraints.

Miranda was young, and brilliant, and beautiful.

She had her whole life ahead of her.

And, it wasn’t her place, but it troubled Samara to think of Miranda perpetuating this harmful cycle - chasing the empty adulation of external accomplishments, while never filling the void left by her intrinsic sense of worthlessness.

It didn’t seem to matter how much she achieved. It was never enough. She wasn’t proud of it. For whatever reason, she didn’t consider herself to be an ‘amazing person’ like she thought her sister was. And, all the while, she was casting aside things like family, and friendship, spirituality, or anything else which might have had meaning to Miranda personally, in order to devote herself solely to her career, which she ultimately didn’t even appear to find rewarding in any way.

Samara could not bear to think of leaving Miranda shackled to a fate that left her lonely and miserable. Shackled to a destiny like her own, without intervening.

She deserved so much more.

Her potential to change the galaxy was limitless. Everyone knew that. And yet the thought of all of that paled next to the thought of knowing what would truly make Miranda happy at the end of the day - what she would truly find fulfilling.

Samara could not tell her what that was, no. But before she and Miranda parted ways, she just hoped she could assist her in answering that question on her own.

With those thoughts on her mind, Samara quietly stepped away from the lounge and moved back in front of the window. In silence, she resumed her meditation.

Miranda roused about ninety minutes later, blinking blearily as she glanced around the room. A passing embarrassment flitted across her features as she realised she had dozed off, until she noticed Samara seemed not to have moved an inch. That must have convinced her that her lapse of concentration had gone undetected.

If she ever suspected otherwise, she made no comment on it.

With what little time she had before the start of her workday, Miranda did manage to submit whatever punitive task she had been given before six.

Samara found out what happened to anger The Illusive Man later, from Kasumi. Miranda had jeopardised her own career and broken Cerberus protocols to forward information pertaining to Jacob’s missing father, for no other reason than because she cared about him, and wanted to help him uncover what happened.

Miranda had not announced herself as the culprit behind the security breach to take credit for her actions with Jacob, only to prevent anyone else getting blamed for the leak, when it had been entirely her own decision. And it was because she stepped up and took responsibility for defying the rules that she had gotten into trouble, though she took her punishment without complaint.

Samara had, of course, gathered from her usual source of information that Miranda and Jacob used to be closer than they were now, but even so, it wasn’t what she'd expected from her. Miranda had always come across as a person who put her career above all other desires and connections. But evidently not.

Perhaps there really was a more kind-hearted, compassionate side to Miranda that nobody gave her credit for. One that, in this particular instance, felt more loyalty to whatever remained of her feelings for Jacob than she did to Cerberus.

Given how readily she had dismissed the notion that she could even be kind after her reunion with Oriana, it made Samara a little bit sad to wonder if perhaps that gentler side of herself was one that maybe Miranda herself wasn’t aware of, and didn’t believe existed. Not even when she had proof of it.

But that thought did not discourage her. If anything, it did the opposite.

If Miranda had no faith that she could be funny, or kind, or good, then Samara would just have to keep believing it for the both of them, and nurturing that garden until it grew into something Miranda could tend herself when she was gone.

*     *     *

It happened fairly often that both Miranda and Shepard would be out in the field on assignment together. That left Samara without either of her two closest companions until one or both of them returned. Those moments were hard to pass.

The library quickly began to serve as a highly useful distraction. Samara had always loved to read, especially when she was younger. However, soon enough, it did become apparent when she was merely making excuses to remain hidden away and avoid interacting with people. And that would not do.

Yes, it had been four hundred years since she had interacted with people in any capacity other than as strictly a Justicar, but…since when had Samara been a woman who let fear and fear alone stop her from stepping outside her door?

So, gradually, she started forcing herself to emerge on days when the people she already felt comfortable around weren’t there. Tentatively at first. She would just sit, and listen, and passively observe other people talking to one another in the mess as she ate her own two meals a day. And she actually rather enjoyed that. To be able to merely people-watch was very pleasant, and about the limits of her own sociability, considering how isolated she had been for so long.

People said that some skills were never forgotten. But the subtleties of social interaction, especially interspecies communication, were not among them.

When she was a young woman, Samara used to be so bold. So confident. She could march up to anyone. Flirt with them. Make small talk. Offer them a financial pitch and a business card. Dance with them. Debate them.

Now, it felt like she was in another world from almost everyone else. She was not a normal person. She was a Justicar. She could only speak inconvenient truths. Centuries old memories. Or, at best, process everything on a slight delay as she endeavoured to ensure she wasn’t missing the context and nuances of a galaxy that had moved on without her when she stopped living four hundred years ago.

She was just a relic of the past, trying to learn how to communicate again. And now doing it with a species she hadn’t even heard the name of thirty years ago.

What could possibly go wrong?

“Hey, Samara.” She glanced up at the sound of her name, seeing Garrus signalling for her to come and join himself and Tali at a table in the cafeteria on one such occasion when she had been sitting alone, as per usual. She politely joined them.

Tali herself was not eating. Samara was quite certain Tali did not eat or drink except in private, due to safety concerns. She simply enjoyed the company and conversation during her breaks. Samara did not need to eat as often their human companions appeared to either, so she could empathise with that to an extent.

“Seems like I’ve barely seen you since you came aboard. Hope you don’t think I’ve been avoiding you,” Garrus joked.

“Not at all. If anything, it is my fault,” Samara took responsibility for her self-imposed seclusion. And, though she assumed he was being facetious in order to break the ice, she meant that seriously. “Please, do not let me interrupt.”

“We were just talking about work,” said Tali.

Garrus smirked. “No, you were bitching about Miranda.”

“I was not!” Tali insisted, scandalised by the thought. Garrus gave her a look. “Fine. Maybe I was. But only because she treats me like her slave.” Tali pointed across the table at him. She turned to Samara. “Not once has she ever asked me, ‘How are you today, Tali? Do you need anything down here?’ No, it’s always, ‘Where is your field mission report? When can I expect the engine diagnostics? Why is the mass effect core output 1.7% less efficient than it was yesterday?’”

“Well that’s because she’s Miranda Lawson and she’s perfect and can do no wrong,” Garrus sarcastically remarked, evidently having gotten used to her abrupt demeanour by now, and thick-skinned enough to not pay her any mind. “It’s your fault for not making the engine shit diamonds, Tali. How dare you.”

“Knowing her, even if I did, there’d be something wrong with the diamonds. Cerberus bosh’tet.” Tali gestured dismissively as she vented her frustration. It was truly impressive how someone who appeared to others as little more than a shadow inside a helmet and a light on a mask could manage to be so emotive.

“You misjudge her,” Samara quietly spoke up, compelled to defend Miranda from falsehoods. Her unexpected interruption attracted glances from her companions. “Miranda is very aware that she can do wrong. Very aware of it.”

Garrus gave a sceptical tisk. “You’re being generous, Samara. The Miranda I know believes she’s immune from criticism. She dishes it out, but can’t take it.”

“Respectfully, Garrus, I disagree with your assessment,” Samara insisted, certain his reading of her had been drawn from surface impressions, without taking the time to actually get to know her. “If Miranda truly thought she were incapable of making mistakes, she would be lazy. Complacent. You know her to be precisely the opposite. Were she not so conscious of her faults, she would not push herself as hard as she does to attain impossible standards of perfection. Standards she does not hold you or I to,” Samara astutely pointed out. 

Garrus paused, as if conceding he didn’t have a response to that.

“I’m not claiming she’s unprofessional or incapable,” Tali interjected. “I would never claim that. I can handle high standards. I’m from The Migrant Fleet. We live and die by high standards. My complaint was how vindictive she is. How mean. You can get things done without bullying people to get your way.”

“I am not defending her actions towards you as I was not a party to the incident. She has her faults. And she does...have a tone. I know this. However, I would caution you against potentially misconstruing her motives as malicious without due cause,” Samara said in her defence. “To my personal knowledge, Miranda has not held a single person on this vessel to a higher standard than that to which she holds herself. In truth, and I do not state this to cause offence, she expects far less of you and I than she does of herself. From her perspective, I believe she thinks she is compromising, and being reasonable in what she expects of you.”

“So she’s not a bitch, then. Just condescending?” Garrus inferred.

Samara elected not to humour that. “I am not an engineer myself. Has any task she asked of you actually been beyond your capabilities, or was it merely her cold approach towards you that is the problem? Because, if I may, neither one of you have at any point considered the possibility that any affront caused may not have been intentional; she simply may not have been aware how she came across to you,” Samara pointed out, having picked up from her time spent with Miranda that that generally seemed to be the case with her brusque demeanour.

Tali gave a vaguely annoyed sigh, hating to admit that her frustrated rant being tempered by the advice to meet the other party in the middle herself wasn’t the most unfair or unreasonable call in the world. “I suppose you have a poi--”

It was at that moment that they were spared from Samara’s well-intentioned lecture by another face appearing in the cafeteria. 

“Ah, Mordin, good to see you,” Garrus rapidly changed the subject, calling out to Mordin in the unlikely hope that his presence would spare them from having to hear anymore chidings from the morality police. “Will you be joining us?”

“No time. Located bugging devices in lab. Merely returning to Miranda. Suggest you search own quarters for same,” Mordin said, holding up one of the disabled Cerberus devices indicatively before entering Miranda’s office to dispose of it.

After a beat, a disappointed exhale escaped Samara as she felt both Tali and Garrus sending her penetrating looks following that unfortunate encounter. She stood by her defence of Miranda but, suffice it to say, that very defence of her could not conceivably have been undermined by worse possible timing.

“...I did say she has her faults…” Samara conceded.

Garrus and Tali didn’t need to say anything, convinced they were right.

Samara did not succeed in changing any hearts and minds about Miranda’s character aboard the SR-2 that day, but at least she had tried.

*     *     *

“Samara, can I ask you something?” Miranda broke the silence during a short rest in one of their biotic training sessions in the cargo bay. Samara had come to recognise the expression she wore. That was the look she tended to get when intellectual curiosity got the better of her, and a question had been circling in her mind for some time. The same look she had before she asked her about The Code.

“Of course. You may always speak freely,” Samara encouraged.

Miranda wiped some perspiration from her brow. “I’ve been wondering why the Justicar Order is necessary. From a strictly statistical perspective,” she clarified.

Anyone other than Samara probably would have been inclined to take offence to her somewhat flat tone and the blunt phrasing of her question - her approach so often put people on the defence. But not Samara. She knew Miranda well enough to take her query entirely at face value. She didn’t intend any harm by it.

“From what I know, Thessia and the other Asari Republics have among the lowest crime rates in the galaxy, if not the lowest. Seems a little excessive that the same society should produce the most...devout crime fighters I’ve ever come across,” Miranda continued, taking a sip of water as she recovered her stamina.

Samara saw what she was getting at. “Respectfully, I think you give my kind too much credit. We are not as faultless as we appear. As you are aware, and without exaggeration, it is quite literally part of our culture for our species to spend centuries venturing out into the galaxy in reckless, carefree abandon, in which virtually any and all youthful indiscretion is excused,” she reminded her.

Miranda quirked an eyebrow. “What, so every asari commits crimes?”

“No, not all.” Samara shook her head. “But, to an extent, it is almost expected. And a blind eye is turned to much of it. Some of these asari never return home. They disappear. They go missing. They...become easy prey for predators like my daughter.” Samara averted her gaze. “But, if they do, and they settle down, and become contributing members of society, as they are supposed to by a certain age, then no questions are asked. All past sins are absolved. So it was with me.”

“I’m still not quite sure I follow your point,” said Miranda.

“What I am saying is that the vision of asari society presented to outsiders is often a carefully curated version of reality,” Samara explained. “It is not entirely a lie, but it is only a partial truth. Asari are often cautious that there are aspects of our culture that could easily be misunderstood and vilified by outsiders. Hence, these elements may be merely downplayed, or even wholly or totally obscured.”

That perspective seemed to elucidate things. “So, you’re saying, when I read crime reports from Thessia, I can’t trust those numbers?” Miranda deduced. “They may be concealing the real figure in order to, what, save face?”

“Yes,” Samara confirmed, “But also because Thessia and Earth may have very different legal definitions of what constitutes a reportable crime statistic. For one, I can assure you, matters dealt with by Justicars never factor into the tally.”

“It’s also kind of a win-win situation for the higher-ups on Thessia, isn’t it? You don’t really need to fix any problems of inequality on Thessia if you just tacitly permit crime everywhere else. Plus, I imagine it does keep crime on Thessia low to be able to threaten criminals with the idea of sending a Justicar with nothing better to do after them to come and kill them,” Miranda gradually began to figure it out.

“Perhaps. Although the relationship with the Justicar Order and the Asari Republics is, admittedly, a tenuous one,” Samara confessed. “From both sides, it is one frought with both deep love and loyalty, as well as mistrust, resentment. Even hate.”

Miranda narrowed her gaze. “How so?”

Samara looked at her across the cargo bay, where she rested against the crates, an openness and honesty in her gaze. “Thessia is my home. It is where I grew up. It is where I...fell in love, and bore my children. For its faults, I know it to be full of many innocents. I am sworn to uphold its laws and defend it. And yet I also know it to be deeply flawed. Corrupt. Unjust. Like many Justicars, I have been faced with the Second Oath used against me to defeat the very purpose of The Code - as a tool to let a clearly guilty person go free, by cheating the system.”

“What, you mean like, ‘Thanks, we’ll handle it from here. Whoops, we lost all the evidence. Oh dear, the witness shot themselves five times. Oh no, the rookie cop accidentally tainted the case, and our prosecutor bungled the cross-examination. What a tragic mistake we made on purpose,’“ Miranda said sardonically.

“Precisely.” Samara nodded. But by oath she had to respect the courts and any finding that a person was ‘not guilty’, so it mattered not. She had no recourse.

“If Justicars know the Asari Republics are corrupt, why did they swear an Oath of fealty to them?” Miranda couldn’t help but ask the obvious question.

Samara gave a sad smile. “Because, if we did not, then we would have fought to the death to overthrow them by now. And they would have exterminated us.”

Miranda couldn’t argue with that logic.

*     *     *

“Hey, Samara, can I ask you a favour?” Kasumi interrupted her meditation one day.

“What is it you require?” Samara asked, not certain she could make any promises without knowing the task in advance.

“You seem to be about the only person on this ship Miranda actually likes, so I figure you have some pull with her,” she said. Before Samara could protest, Kasumi raised her hands defensively. “It’s nothing bad, seriously. I just want to invest in a little more art for my side of the ship. Redecorate, you know? And apparently I need her permission to do it.”

“Why do you not ask her this yourself?” Samara suggested.

“I did. I emailed her about it. She said no. And when I made my case she said, ‘This request has been closed. Should you have any further queries, please hesitate to contact me.’ I’m pretty sure she’s blocked me from sending her any more messages for the rest of the day,” Kasumi explained, looking annoyed.

Samara concealed her smirk. That response was funnier than she ought to admit. And to think Miranda had the nerve to say she had no sense of humour. “I am sorry that she refused your request. But I am afraid I cannot assist you. Miranda is a busy woman. I cannot divert her attention away from more pressing concerns.”

Kasumi pulled a disbelieving face. “She’s in here like literally all the time, though. I’m right across the hall from you guys. You couldn’t sneak it into conversation?”

“That would be exploiting our friendship,” Samara pointed out.

“Where’s the fun in being friends with your boss if you can’t exploit it every now and then?” Kasumi complained. She sighed. “Alright, fine. I get it. I won’t put you in that position. You can’t blame me for trying, though.”

“If it is that important to you, there is nothing stopping you purchasing any art you desire with your own money,” Samara suggested, failing to see the issue. “That way, you would not require Miranda’s permission for the expense.”

“Oh, I don’t buy art. Never with my own money,” Kasumi responded. 

At that, Samara just looked at her disapprovingly.

Kasumi activated her invisibility matrix and disappeared with a silent grin.

*     *     *

One did not reach the age of nine hundred and seventy without being aware of oneself and one’s desires. In her youth, Samara had lain with lovers beyond counting. And, although that part of her life had been over for many centuries, Samara was certainly no fool when it came to the types of people she was attracted to - or would have been attracted to, when she was much younger.

The difference was, for the past four hundred years, it simply wasn’t an option.

It wasn’t that she didn’t know. Or couldn’t tell. It just didn’t matter.

There was no singular revelatory moment when such awareness clicked for Samara. Because, firstly, it wasn’t important. And, secondly, she knew herself so well that it was a non-event. Of course she found some people attractive. So what?

When Shepard asked her about the Justicar position on romance and taking lovers, Samara had wryly smirked at her questions. As a matter of fact, Shepard was precisely the sort of woman she knew she would have been attracted to in her youth. But, while she welcomed her curiosity on the subject, she politely let her know she was not interested. That part of her life was over.

It did help knowing that Shepard was most likely asking in a mixture of jest and simple intellectual fascination. As far as she was aware, Andrea’s heart already belonged to another woman, even if their relationship status was…perhaps a little ambiguous after being dead for two years. Certainly not all relationships or forms of love were monogamous, nor were they less so if they were not, but from what Samara gathered, Shepard and Liara were exclusive. So she never felt as though talking to her about that sort of thing was intended as flirting.

She felt safe with Andrea, in that way.

The other woman aboard The Normandy who Samara knew would have been her type were she several centuries younger, because of course she would have been attracted to her back then, was Miranda. And, just as with Shepard, there was nothing more to it than that. It didn’t change anything. In her mind, it was little more than a trivial fact or idle observation. An ‘oh that’s nice’. Not an impetus, a want, a desire, or a temptation. Samara didn’t have those anymore.

That part of Samara’s life was over. She could never have those feelings for another person. Not again. Because her heart belonged to someone else. 

Someone she had killed through her own cruelty and neglect.

Someone who Samara owed it to to remain devout to, and loyal to, even in death.

Samara could never open her soul to anyone else. It hadn’t been a promise, per se. Just an unspoken truth. A fact of life. A reality. Because, if she did ever let someone else into her heart, that would mean she had chosen her own selfish pleasure knowing Lyla and her daughters had their lives stolen from them so young.

And that would mean she didn’t really love them.

How could she ever choose to just go on and live free in happiness like nothing had happened? As if Lyla’s death wasn’t her fault? As if Morinth’s murders weren’t her fault? As if Rila and Falere’s ongoing suffering wasn’t her fault?

So, that was why, in four hundred years, it hadn’t mattered who she’d crossed paths with. No matter how handsome, or maverick, or cunning. Samara could honestly say she’d never known temptation. And, because of that, she’d never once had a thought that strayed across the line, nor made her feel guilty simply for recognising the existence of an attraction she was never going to act on.

Until…

“Damn it!” Miranda clenched her fist in frustration when her attempted reave fell apart, her stray biotics crushing a crate elsewhere in the cargo hold. She rolled her eyes as she tossed it aside. “Great. Now I’m losing control of myself.”

“Do not be disheartened. You are making swift progress - swifter than I anticipated,” Samara said sincerely. In truth, she hadn’t been sure whether it was possible for a human biotic to learn the technique. The only people of any species Samara had personally known to master reave were other asari Justicars like herself. And, even then, not all of them. That she had come so far in only a few short weeks spoke highly of just how exceptional Miranda truly was.

Miranda was comforted by her reassurance, but nevertheless, the standards she placed on herself were so immense it seemed she considered it to be a personal failing on her part anytime she didn’t instantly not merely master something, but become better than the best at it, no matter how irrational that goal was.

It occurred to Samara then just how difficult it must have been to be Miranda - to place that much pressure upon oneself. If Miranda gained nothing else from their time together, Samara hoped she could persuade her to be gentler to herself.

When the bare minimum expectation of herself was to exceed perfection, even being exceptional must have been a constant source of disappointment. 

Oblivious to Samara’s musings about her, Miranda glanced up towards Zaeed’s window, and a smirk crossed her lips as he ducked out of sight. “We have a spectator. Have you noticed that he’s always watching when we train down here?”

“No, I have not,” Samara stated frankly. Should she have?

After a little prodding, what ensued was Miranda reaching one confident conclusion: “Samara, I think Zaeed’s attracted to you.”

“Then he is woefully misguided,” Samara swiftly shot that down. Even if Miranda was correct, suffice it to say that such interest was not mutual. She knew her type, and he was not it. Miranda snorted, evidently not disagreeing with that.

Even so, Miranda, just wouldn’t drop it.

Not just about Zaeed. But about sex, and relationships, and attraction, and whether she’d ever been tempted to sleep with anyone since taking her vows. Everything Samara didn’t want to talk about. Didn’t want to think about right now.

“But swearing a vow doesn’t change who or what you find attractive. It’s part of who you are, so I’m assuming you must have been tempted at some point,” Miranda casually asked her, oblivious to what was going on in Samara’s mind. “Does that ever go away, or does it just come naturally after a while?”

The tension in the elevator was so thick it made her head hurt. And she didn’t know why. It wasn’t like Miranda was the first person to ask her these questions since she came aboard. Even before that, she had rebuffed many advances in her time since donning her armour. Samara was not naive, and she was not so easily offended.

So why was it bothering her now?

You know why.

A cold chill ran down Samara’s spine as the voice returned for the first time in days, maybe weeks since its absence. Samara’s eyes went wide as she suddenly became conscious of a third presence in that elevator with them. A shadow of the past, latched tight to her back, watching her. One that knew of her thoughts. Her desires. Her...attraction, to the very person standing beside her.

Because she is the one asking you. 

In an instant, Miranda’s innocent hypothetical questions about temptation began to feel like personal accusations of unfaithfulness from the dark presence that loomed at her shoulder. Merely having this conversation with Miranda felt as perilously close to cheating on Lyla’s memory as Samara had ever come.

It feels like cheating, because you want to fuck her.

...What?

No, she did not.

She wanted nothing from Miranda.

She--

Do not lie to me.

I know you.

I am you.

You traitor.

“Miranda...” Samara warned her, urging her to drop the subject.

She needed to leave. Now.

Why? You need to leave because you cannot control yourself around her?

Because you cannot resist the temptation?

No! No, that was not why. 

Goddess, did this vile voice always have to twist her words?

She couldn’t think. She needed to clear her head.

Miranda seemed to misconstrue Samara’s meaning. “Hey, I am not insinuating that you should reconsider your stance on Zaeed. Believe me, I am firmly on your side about that. Although, in fairness, you did tell me you used to sleep--”

“That was centuries ago.” Samara cut Miranda off before she could bring up her past remark about sleeping with mercenaries. “Even then, the answer would still have been no,” she stated firmly, declaring an end to any further discussion.

Whether Miranda understood it or not, Samara wasn’t making that boundary clear because of anything to do with Zaeed. It was for the two of them, standing there, in that painfully slow elevator. But it was also a damn lie, Justicar vows of honesty be damned. Because Samara knew full well that, if she and Miranda had met eight centuries ago, back when she was an adventurous young maiden, as charming and flirtatious as the people she brought to her bed night after night, the answer would have been a resounding and enthusiastic yes. If that weren’t the case, the shadow latched to her back couldn’t have made her feel so uncomfortable.

Miranda recoiled at Samara’s harsh response, eyeing her oddly, blind to the subtext that had elapsed between them. “I was just teasing you,” she defended herself.

“I do not wish to discuss this,” Samara insisted, her voice a little more curt than normal, even without being raised. She needed to get away from her for a moment. Needed to shake off this fog. “Unless there is anything urgent, I would prefer to meditate alone for the rest of day. There is much for me to reflect upon.”

Miranda furrowed her brow, confused, and visibly hurt. “Are you angry with me?”

“No,” Samara lied. She was, a bit, wishing Miranda had left this subject alone instead of pushing it. But she was more upset with herself - that she had known the frailty of temptation. “Please respect that I do not wish to be disturbed.”

“...Okay.” Miranda didn’t exactly have much choice but to agree.

Without a further word, Samara strode quickly to the Observation Deck and locked the doors behind her, finally allowing herself to breathe once she was alone.

When her eyes opened, for a second, she swore she saw the ghost of Lyla’s watchful gaze reflected in the window. Haunting her. Never letting her forget.

*     *     *

Samara came to the conclusion that she had, perhaps…overreacted.

Nothing had changed. Her attraction was still nothing more than a fleeting desire she had no intentions of acting on. It was just, perhaps, that she was not used to spending so much time around someone to whom she felt this way. Getting to know them so well. That was all that was different. That was what had startled her, surely.

Either way, it did not matter. Nothing would happen. It was her responsibility to manage her emotions. Miranda could not be expected to intuit all that could make her uncomfortable.

To her credit, though, Miranda had apologised, even if Samara was quietly convinced she in fact had no idea what she had said to upset her. Which was fair, because there was no way she could reasonably have been expected to know the real cause of her distress. Samara had assured her all was forgiven.

Time went by, much as it ever did. When Miranda inquired about her, Samara opened up to her a little about Lyla, although she could not bring herself to utter her name aloud, or go into specifics about her death. It was still too raw. Too painful. And too shameful to admit just how responsible she was for every aspect of Lyla’s demise. Even so, it was not lost on Samara that it was the first time she had spoken of her to anyone who did not already know her since her passing.

Over time, Miranda also slowly began to reveal shades about her childhood and her cruel, controlling tyrant of father - something which, although Samara was aware she potentially still lacked a complete picture as to the extent of his abuse, the emotional deprivation and neglect already described thus far definitely started to fill in a lot of gaps about why Miranda was the way she was.

It hadn’t even occurred to Samara that not a day went by anymore that the two of them didn’t speak at great length, or meditate together, or train - or, if time permitted, all three.

But the closer they grew, and the deeper Samara’s attachment to Miranda became, the more one niggling thought echoed in the back of her mind.

You are a Justicar, Samara.

There is a reason Justicars do not have friends.

You know of what I speak.

You know what you might have to do.

If she broke The Code.

The Third Oath of Subsumation had provided a shield against that. And, in truth, Samara did not expect to live long enough that there would ever be a question of what would happen afterwards. But, still, rumours had reached her ears that Cerberus was a terrorist organisation. Though she had seen nothing in her time aboard the ship to evidence that Miranda herself was personally involved with anything of that nature, Samara had seen a few things lately that raised red flags about Cerberus as a whole. Concerning signs of sinister dealings.

What if she was a criminal? What if Miranda had been a criminal this whole time? What would that mean for the two of them? Would they be able to continue to see each other? To bond as friends? Would it be best for Samara to cut things off now, before either of them got more attached? Did it matter, if it was fated that she was only going to die at the end of this mission anyway?

Why did she dread finding the answer? Why did it hurt to think about losing something Samara had always known would only be temporary to begin with?

So, in moments she had alone in the Starboard Observation Deck, Samara started asking questions about Cerberus to the one entity aboard the ship, other than Miranda, who was likely to know it - EDI.

The instant Samara began inquiring about Cerberus, EDI’s holographic interface flashed red. “Much of that data is classified. Do you have a specific inquiry?”

Somehow, Samara had anticipated that. “Any information you can provide me will be appreciated, EDI. Can you tell me about the structure of Cerberus?”

“Cerberus is organised into task-oriented cells. Each cell operates in isolation. Members from one cell cannot recognise the members of another. Each cell’s agents are led by a single operator. We are called the Lazarus cell, which is directed by Operator Lawson.”

That made sense, Samara thought. She had seen such things before. Many criminal organisations functioned that way. If one cell was compromised - say, after being brought down by Justicars - the other members had no capacity to sell out information about any individuals outside of their own, already destroyed cell, not even if they wanted to. It was the equivalent to allowing one festering limb to be chopped off so the rest of the body could survive and continue to thrive.

“How many cells are there?”

EDI flashed red. “I have a block which prevents me from answering that question.”

Samara curled a finger beneath her lips. This might be a problem.

“What are the purposes of the cells?”

“I have a block which prevents me from answering that question.”

“...Has Cerberus ever had legal authority for their actions?”

“At times, Cerberus activity has been covertly sanctioned by Earth’s leaders. For a period, Cerberus was hired by The Alliance as a PMC to undertake certain Black Ops on their behalf. Shepard became aware of this two years ago.”

“During what period was this?”

“I have a block which prevents me from answering that question.”

“How long was that period?”

“I have a block which prevents me from answering that question.”

“What activities were lawfully permitted under Alliance authority?”

“I have a block which prevents me from answering that question.”

Samara quickly realised that particular line of questioning was a dead end.

“What did Operator Lawson do before being placed in charge of the Lazarus cell?”

“In her last mission as an agent, she had primary responsibility for recovering Commander Shepard’s body from the Collectors. The assistance of Liara T’Soni and Feron was enlisted for this purpose. It was the success of that mission that resulted in her appointment as Operator of the Lazarus cell.”

“And prior to that?”

“I have a block which prevents me from answering that question.”

This was going to be difficult wasn’t it?

“Has she ever--?” Samara stopped herself, shaking her head as she let her fingers graze her forehead. Wait a second. What was she doing? What was she really going to ask? ‘Has she ever committed a crime?’ Was she going to ask a million different ways in a million different contexts until she was sure she was clear?

Curiosity could be dangerous for Justicars, especially when it came to someone not from her species. Was she looking for evidence that Miranda had done something years ago for which The Code demanded she needed to be killed? Something which might have been perfectly lawful in her part of the galaxy?

There was a difference between being justifiably afraid, and turning something into a self-fulfilling prophecy. If Miranda had done, say, one thing twenty years ago that constituted an infringement of The Code…did Samara want to know about it?

The reality was, many people had broken The Code. They had stolen. They had smuggled something hidden away in a ship that they were not supposed to. They had assaulted someone without good cause. And, in a profession such as Miranda’s, Samara already knew she had killed people. Always, in her mind, with just cause. So far, everything Samara knew fell within the bounds of The Code. Fighting to free captives from batarian slavers? By all means. Executing a traitor who sabotaged his own station? Fair enough, as she had evidence of his guilt. But everyone made mistakes. Even Samara herself had lived outside the law once.

Sometimes, it was best to let the past lie. To not enquire. But then, that didn’t overcome the fundamental dilemma in which she found herself. A disconnect in which Samara found herself wanting to trust that she hadn’t misjudged Miranda’s character, yet distrusting the organisation she worked for.

Good people could get mixed up with bad. But, then, pursuant to The Code, if Miranda was in the employ of criminals, didn’t that make her an accomplice?

Miranda was certainly a flawed person. Samara had never been blind to that. She had never deluded herself into thinking otherwise. At times, Miranda’s conduct could even be, quite frankly, a little disappointing, to say the least.

To see a woman who had lived so much of her life under constant, relentless scrutiny, with no privacy or agency, replicate those same patterns of behaviour with impersonal detachment on behalf of Cerberus? To wilfully serve as a spy on her crewmates for The Illusive Man and report on their every little fault and failing, the way her father’s employees had criticised her every misstep as a child?

And for someone who was still rightfully affected by the legacy of her father’s abuse to be so insensitive to the trauma suffered by Jack? Certainly Jack’s open hostility towards Miranda from the moment they met had played a role in sparking that, but Miranda had never seemed to grasp how triggering her attitude of flippancy, dismissal and diminishment of everything Jack had gone through was (whether she intended it or not), particularly given that, at the time they met, as far as Jack had known, she had every reason to consider Miranda complicit.

However, to Miranda’s credit, every time she showed a side of herself that didn’t reflect one of her better qualities, and Samara had counselled her to change course, she had always heeded her wisdom. She had taken the criticism humbly. Miranda had worked to improve her faults, and softened considerably, even in only the relatively short amount of time since they had become friends.

That, more than anything else, spoke volumes about her character.

That was why Samara was sure she hadn’t erred in sensing that fundamentally good, noble person who lurked beneath Miranda’s hard outer exterior.

After all, Justicars knew better than anyone that good didn’t have to be ‘nice’.

Miranda had said to Samara’s face with conviction that Cerberus were not terrorists, that they were not racists, that they were not criminals. Maybe some people who did things in their name were, but, in Miranda’s mind, the people who had done things like torture Jack from when she was a baby genuinely had no affiliation with the organisation that had all but raised her from when she was sixteen years old. The place that had taken her in when she had nowhere else to go. Her home. 

Samara knew Miranda well enough by that stage that she did not know her to be false. When she said those things, she meant them. She wasn’t lying to her.

But, by the same token, just because Miranda believed her vision of Cerberus to be true didn’t mean that she was right about them. She wasn’t perfect. She could be wrong about things, just like anybody else could. And she had more cause than anyone to buy into narratives that washed away the stains anytime she saw something abhorrent, and believe whatever reinforced her own self-image.

After all, it was hard to reconcile Miranda’s idealism about Cerberus with the evidence against them. Like the fact that they had known the whereabouts of Jacob’s father, and hidden the signal from him when it came to light. Their involvement in unethical rachni experiments over the past five years - which, to any asari, was like watching stupid children play with an armed, world-breaking weapon. Or the aforementioned facility where Jack had been kept as a child.

Miranda hadn’t known about any of those things prior to their discovery by The Normandy. But, every time they came to light, suffice it to say she seemed to be fed some comforting alternative version of events by someone higher up the chain than her. Something easy for her to swallow, and which she appeared all-too-eager to believe as true. Something that denied blame. It was never Cerberus’s responsibility. Always a rogue cell. Or someone acting on their own. Not condoned by The Illusive Man. She accepted their stories over the evidence of her own eyes and ears. And that was sad to see a woman of her calibre do.

They could have told her anything that made Cerberus out not to be at fault, and she would have wanted to believe it so badly that she would have convinced herself that their version of events must have been the truth. They wouldn’t lie to her.

Miranda wasn’t a fool, but even the most intelligent people could convince themselves to believe what they wanted to hear. Especially if it came from the only place said person had ever really felt like they belonged - from the man who had been a better father to her than her own father ever was. But just how deep into the propaganda was she really? How many times could Miranda hear the same story before she saw the fiction for what it was, and stopped repeating it for them? Would her rational mind kick in, or would she toe the party line forever?

Until then, if there ever came a time when Miranda was forced to make a choice between Cerberus, and the path of justice…Samara just had to have faith that her inner nature would prevail, and that she would do the right thing.

*     *     *

“It’s been a while since our last session,” Kelly Chambers noted, sitting across from Samara. It was no secret that she made an effort to check in with everybody on the ship a bare minimum of once every four weeks. More, if required.

Given that Samara’s time aboard The Normandy had seen her take the life of her own daughter, Kelly made arrangements to see her more often than most.

“How have you been?”

“I have been well. Thank you,” Samara answered. She always endeavoured to be polite and helpful with Miss Chambers. She never wished to be difficult. But she never knew what to say in these sessions. Some matters were her own.

“That’s good to hear.” Kelly folded one leg over the other. She had a pen in hand, ready to take notes, if need be. But in all the sessions Samara had shared with her, she had barely seen her actually write anything down on her paper pad, aside from some initial basic facts when they first met. She was always focused on the speaker. Listening, actively. “Are you still keeping up with your reading?”

“Yes, most days, if there are not more pressing matters,” Samara confirmed. “And I make an effort to venture out, at least once per day, if only to the cafeteria. Even if I am not much of a conversationalist, it is nice to sit and listen to others.” They had discussed this before. Of everyone aboard the ship, Kelly was the most concerned with the idea of Samara locking herself away in isolation.

“Wonderful. That’s a lot of progress from where you started out two or three months ago. And it’s good for you,” Kelly encouraged. “What about Miranda?”

Samara tilted her head, not quite following the question.

“You mentioned in previous sessions that you had taken her under her your wing for biotics training. And that you’d even taught her how to meditate,” Kelly jogged her memory as to the kind of thing she was talking about.

“You did not believe me about the latter,” Samara remarked.

Kelly laughed. “No, I didn’t,” she admitted with a shrug, as if to say, ‘can you blame me?’ “Is that still ongoing? You haven’t spoken of it yet.”

“Oh. Yes. It is. Forgive me. I may have misunderstood; I thought you were only inquiring as to how I pass my time when I am on my own,” Samara apologised, a tad awkwardly. Talking to people still wasn’t as easy or fluid as it used to be. 

“I thought so. Miranda was in here a couple of days ago, and she did imply that the two of you met up frequently,” Kelly said somewhat offhandedly.

“We do,” Samara assured her. In fact, come to think of it, she couldn’t remember for certain the last day they hadn’t spend time together. “Without wishing to cause offence to anyone else, as that is not my intent - the fault is more mine than theirs - ...Miranda is the only person abord this vessel I truly consider my friend.”

“Even Shepard?” Kelly asked.

Samara’s lips quirked into a small smile. “Shepard is very dear to me, as she is to us all. But I would not ask that from her; she is far too busy for friendship.”

Kelly all but snorted. “And Miranda isn’t?” she pointed out the obvious.

Samara blinked. She had never thought of it like that. She glanced down to her lap for a moment. Miranda was busy, of course. To some degree, a lot more so even than Shepard. But never too busy for Samara. She was her exception.

In light of Samara’s silence, Kelly didn’t wait for an answer. “I didn’t expect that from her, you know,” she began, leaning forward. “That, of all the people on this ship to actually make a friend, one of them would be Miranda Lawson.”

Samara paused, seeing the merit in that. “I did not either,” she acknowledged. Although, if she was being fair, she had not expected it from herself even more.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, if I was going to bank on her making a friend with anybody aboard the ship, it would be you. But she’s always so task-oriented,” Kelly explained her meaning. It wasn’t an insult. Just an initial assessment of her personality. “Back when we first met, I don’t think I could ever have imagined her taking time away from her work to spare a thought for personal connections.”

“Nor could I. Nor, I suspect, could she,” Samara concurred. Kelly wasn’t wrong. “But there is a great deal more to Miranda than she presents on the surface. It...It irks me the extent to which others so readily misjudge her.”

“How do you mean?” asked Kelly, curious.

Samara exhaled, searching for the right words. “Yes, I am aware that she can be curt with people. That is the only side of her most ever see. Cold. Detached. Impersonal. But, when you actually get to know Miranda, you would be...you would be shocked at just how unlike that hardened outer shell she really is.”

Samara thought back on all their time spent together in the solace of their shared sanctuary. All the different subtle shades of thoughts and feelings, spoken and unspoken alike, she’d seen reflected on Miranda’s features as biotic blue glows flickered to fill their space, and the dim light washed across her face. 

“She can be so...sweet, in her own way,” was where Samara chose to start, fondness tugging at the corners of her lips. “For others, thoughtfulness comes so easily. They do not have to think about how to show kindness, warmth, or affection. It is not so for her. I know little of her upbringing but, from what I have gathered, it is clear that her father raised her without such things. So, knowing how far out of her comfort zone such things are, and how much she despises her own vulnerability and weakness, her every effort is so...heartrendingly sincere. An awkward attempt from her means so much more than a masterful display of charm from someone who can switch that facet of themselves on as readily as snap their fingers.”

The shimmer in Kelly’s eyes showed she understood exactly what Samara was talking about, even if she had never witnessed it. “The mere fact that she would even try to do something she’s so terrible at is proof of how much she would have to care about you to even be willing to do it in the first place,” she deduced.

“Precisely,” Samara enthused, only half-hearing Kelly as she continued on. “And she is so hard on herself. So hard. To the point that it...” Samara stopped herself. She did not wish to speak aloud that it worried her. That felt too personal. “Can you believe that she told me that she does not think she is funny?” was what she settled on. “No, not merely that she thinks it; she stated it as fact.”

“But she is funny,” said Kelly.

“I know,” Samara agreed, glad she wasn’t alone.

“In kind of a James Bond, post-kill one-liner sort of way, but still...” Kelly added.

“I...do not know who that is. But it sounds apt,” Samara conceded, unable to dispute the second part of that sentence. She averted her gaze. “I am not the most expressive person. I do not laugh easily. For a long time, I assumed I had forgotten how. But I do not think she fathoms how...” Samara swallowed, the realisation washing over her at the same time as the words took form in her throat. One that almost felt too intimate to voice. “...It has been four hundred and thirty-five years since I have smiled as much as I do when I am with her.”

“So she must be doing something right,” Kelly Chambers half-joked, as if in an effort to lessen her discomfort. “Have you told her that?” she asked.

“No.” Samara shook her head, perishing the thought.

“Why not?” Kelly pressed. “Personally, if someone told me that I make them smile more than anyone else, I would be deeply moved by that. It would be the nicest thing anybody has ever said to me. It would basically make my whole life.”

“...Perhaps you are right,” Samara acknowledged. She had tended to be reserved when it came to expressing how much she had grown to care about Miranda, both because that was her own natural inclination, and also because it was Miranda’s in kind. It was hard not to assume she wasn’t all that comfortable with people saying things like that to her, if she would even believe them.

But, while there was definitely a grain of truth in that, the more she thought about it, the more Samara remembered just how furious Miranda was with herself anytime she failed at anything, and how deeply she craved genuine approval and praise - especially for anything that couldn’t be attributed to her perfect genes.

“It is very difficult for her,” Samara went on, a sympathetic expression falling over her as that thought lingered in her mind. “Any time she achieves something, no matter how brilliant or exceptional the feat, she feels as though she does not deserve to take credit for her accomplishments. That is the bare minimum she expects of herself, and she attributes her success to her genetic advantages. But, any time she falls short or does something wrong, erring as any of us do, she takes it so personally. She criticises herself so harshly. I do not fully grasp why.”

“Miranda herself seems to be aware of this,” Kelly noted. “She’s said to me, though not in these exact words, that the only things she feels like she can take personal ownership of are her mistakes. Everything else has been handed to her.”

“But it has not been,” Samara insisted. “She works harder than any of us.”

“I know that. On an intellectual level, she may know that as well. But feelings aren’t always rational,” Kelly explained with a shrug.

“I suppose...” Samara wondered if Kelly's ideas had merit. Maybe she should be more open and expressive. Even if she couldn’t put it in the words she’d used here, and had to phrase it in a way neither of them would find too embarrassing, would it be so bad for Miranda to know how much she meant to her?

Maybe it might help Miranda be kinder to herself. Love herself a little more. If she felt she had permission to do so - if it came from another person first.

“You know, this is the most you’ve ever spoken to me?” Kelly broke the silence after Samara trailed off, causing her to raise her head once again. “It’s kind of funny. I said the exact same thing to Miranda a couple of days ago, for the same reason.”

“Forgive me. I am...not certain I follow,” Samara narrowed her gaze, confused.

“Neither of you want to talk about yourselves with me, no matter how politely I ask. But the second I prompt you to talk about your friendship with each other, you can’t stop.” A touched smile crept across Kelly’s face. “Remember what you said about Miranda being sweet earlier? Yeah, I’ve seen that side of her. But literally only when she’s talking about you. Or maybe her sister, but she doesn’t talk about her much with me. I don’t think she trusts me enough to talk about her.”

“Do not take it personally,” Samara said semi-apologetically, certain Miranda’s reasons had a lot to do with her past, and very little to do with Kelly Chambers.

“Don’t worry, I don’t.” Kelly glanced down at her notepad, making a quick note of something for the first time. “So, back to you, you mentioned four hundred and thirty-five years ago earlier. Do you want to go back to what happened then?” she elected to broach the subject delicately. Samara felt a cold chill rush through her at the shift in the conversation. “Was that when your eldest daughter was diagnosed?”

“Forgive me.” Samara cut her off. “I know that you are only endeavouring to perform the duties that are required of you, and that you are concerned about me. But I would prefer not to speak of this. That part of my life is my own,” Samara spoke calmly, but firmly, shooting that line of questioning down.

Kelly sighed, visibly frustrated to receive the same answer yet again.

“...Okay. Samara. Please don’t take this as disrespect; it’s not. If you don’t want to talk about something, I am the last person who would ever force you to do otherwise,” Kelly assured her, leaning closer. “However, I also think you’re a woman who admires honesty. Even from someone...over nine hundred years younger than she is. So, in my professional opinion, the fact that we have seen each other how many times, and I have asked you over and over again if you’re ready to talk about your daughters or your bondmate, or anything like that, and the answer has always been no? I don’t think that what you are doing is helping. I think refusing to open up about your past is making it worse,” she said frankly.

A faint, distant look flickered across Samara’s eyes. “I appreciate your concern. Your compassion speaks very highly of you. But you need not spare a thought for me. I am old, and tired. My days will be approaching their end before long. You already burden yourself with the pain of others. You need not carry mine.”

“Samara...” From the sound of Kelly’s voice, it sounded almost as though it physically hurt her to hear her say that. She seemed at a loss. Like everything she’d learned or been taught didn’t apply to this situation. She was speaking less as a therapist, more as a human being. “No offence, but I don’t understand you. I see the sorrow you carry with you, and it breaks my heart. But the more I talk to you, the more I wonder if you don��t wear that shroud by choice.”

At that implication, Samara felt her heart harden in her chest.

Choice?

How dare she.

“I mean, not that I’m judging you, but what else am I supposed to think when you seem so...adamant about holding onto your grief?” Kelly Chambers persisted. “Don’t you want to get rid of it? Don’t you want me to help you, if I can?”

“Help?” Samara echoed, her expression stoic. “...Miss Chambers, if I may, how exactly would you propose to help me?” she challenged, looking her dead in the eye, her voice quiet yet devastatingly cutting as tranquil fury burned like ice inside her. “Can you strip the disease from my flesh? Can you...rid me of the cruelty and stubbornness that has always plagued me? Can you take me back in time to when my bondmate was still alive and my daughters were still free?”

Kelly couldn’t hold her gaze. “No. Of course I can’t do that. Nobody can.”

“So then why ask me if I desire the impossible?” Samara said bluntly. “Any answer I give you would be meaningless. The reality is, it is not an option for me. It never has been, and it never will be. Kindly permit me to mourn my family in peace,” she finished, her lack of inflection still somehow bitingly sarcastic.

Kelly had intuited where she was going with that before she got there, but it didn’t make her heart sink any less for her to put it into words, nor to know that she had angered her. She had always done her best to be delicate with Samara, for good reason. The subject was so touchy, Kelly was almost too afraid to broach it. But it was past time for that now. Who knew how much longer they had?

“Samara, please don’t take this the wrong way, but at what point are you going to accept that you need to allow yourself to heal?” Kelly asked her plainly, getting to the heart of the matter. “It’s been more than four hundred years.”

Nobody had ever said that to Samara before per se, but, by the same token, it was not unexpected. And it didn’t feel like any less of a slap to the face.

“For me, it was yesterday,” Samara told her. And that was scarcely an exaggeration. Of all the memories that had been lost to the ages or faded with time, it was never her hand pushing open that bathroom door. That one was still crystal clear. “It will always be yesterday. Until I have no more tomorrows.”

Kelly’s shoulders slumped in defeat, at a loss for how to help someone who didn’t want it. Unbeknownst to her at the time, in only a few more days, Kelly Chambers wouldn’t have the wherewithal to worry about Samara at all anymore.

*     *     *

Samara’s breath caught as she stepped out onto the vastness of the Presidium for the first time in centuries - the endless circular ring that seemed to go on forever. She had been to The Citadel since she became a Justicar, but her forays there in pursuit of Morinth were deliberately brief, to minimise the chances of her becoming involved in some kind of extrajudicial incident. This had to be the first time in over six hundred years she’d truly been able to stop and enjoy it. To - what was that human expression - to ‘stop and smell the roses’?

“Enjoying the view?” Miranda commented as she stepped up behind her, extending her black-gloved hands on the railing that overlooked the pristine fountains and gardens below, still moving a little gingerly from their encounter on the Derelict Reaper a couple of days prior, though she had healed well from it.

She had, rather kindly, chosen to spend her valuable shore leave accompanying Samara on her nostalgic tour of the Citadel, following her about from place to place as Samara reminisced about locations and people who no longer existed.

“It has not changed,” Samara confirmed, pleased to find something that had remained the same. A smile crept across her lips as she realised what was nearby. “Did you know my father used to live here on The Citadel?”

“Uh, no?” Miranda responded, pretty sure she would have recalled that if she had been told so before. Her memory was highly precise, by human standards.

Samara sent her a sly look. “Come, this way.”

“Hey, wait--!” Just as Miranda realised what she intended to do, it was already too late to stop her. Samara hopped the barricade, using her biotics to slow her descent and slide down the wall to the level below, landing just behind a garden bed. Miranda let out a sigh and shook her head. “I’m taking the stairs,” she insisted.

By the time Miranda caught up with her, Samara had found exactly the spot she was looking for. Miranda folded her arms across her chest, unimpressed.

“It’s a fountain,” she glibly remarked.

“Yes.” Samara nodded, turning to look at it. “When I was about a hundred years old, my father nearly got arrested right in this spot where I am standing.”

Miranda almost choked at that unexpected statement. “I...” She placed a hand to her forehead, unable to help but laugh. “Are you trying to repeat that?”

“Not intentionally. I sense you would disapprove.” Samara sent her a smile. “It was all a misunderstanding, of course. You see, as I assume you are aware, hanar are, by an large, a highly religious species who are easily offended by incorrect speech. My father was, by contrast, incorrect speech incarnate.”

“Mhmm.” Miranda seemed to sense where this was going.

“As my father and I were walking past this very fountain on a particularly crowded day, a hanar bumped into my father. The hanar said, ‘By the Enkindlers, this one apologises.’ My father turned to the hanar and said, forgive my language, ‘You can enkindle this one right up your fucking ass,’” she repeated her father’s words verbatim without changing her tone, accompanied with a rude gesture.

It evidently took a lot of willpower for Miranda not to crack up just from the sheer incongruity of hearing Samara of all people say that in her typical, calm tone of voice, even if in direct quotation of someone else. Somehow, she managed to contain herself, though it took a lot of restraint. “...Oh dear,” she said with a smirk.

“The two of them fought, until C-Sec intervened. When they ascertained the whole story, they wanted to arrest my father for provoking the fight. I asked them on what grounds they could claim she was at fault when the hanar struck her first. They bandied about the phrase ‘religious incitement’, which was nonsense. As far as I am aware, no such crime existed then, nor does it now. Either they realised I was right, or they simply did not wish to do the paperwork; they elected to let both my father and the hanar off with a warning,” Samara explained.

“And on that day, a true victory for free speech was won,” Miranda sarcastically remarked, but very entertained. “I have to admit though, it’s kind of funny picturing you of all people sticking up for your father after she did something like that.”

“Your picture of me will make a lot more sense when I tell you that I spent the next three hours verbally berating my father for acting like a complete child in causing such a scene, embarrassing me in public, and being so thoughtless as to the consequences of her actions despite her age,” Samara casually pointed out.

“Ah, there it is.” Miranda nodded, everything making sense now. That was the Samara she knew, and had most likely imagined her being like all her life.

Samara let a faint chuckle escape her. “The only thing that stopped me from chastising my father any longer was when she told me how much I sounded like my mother. I was very offended.” At that age, when Samara had quite literally just left home to get away from her strict mother, she had perished the thought.

As the silence took hold, Samara glanced back, fearing that she had spoken too long, and commandeered too much of Miranda’s time with stories about a life so ancient and long-buried that nobody her age could possibly care about it.

And yet, as she met her gaze, she found Miranda watching over her with such fondness, practically radiant in the bright white light of the Presidium. It made Samara’s heart flutter to recognise just how engaged she had been this whole day, hanging on her every word no matter how aimlessly she prattled on. She hadn’t seen Miranda look this content and at ease, since...well, the only other time she wore a similar expression was whenever she talked about her sister.

For whatever reason, Miranda genuinely liked seeing Samara happy.

And there was something truly heartwarming about that.

“It’s getting pretty late. Would you like to go grab something to eat? I know this great sushi place,” Miranda offered, realising they had completely skipped lunch.

Samara smiled, not ready for this day to end. “I would enjoy that very much.”

They discussed so many things as they sat there at that restaurant. Hours flew by as quickly as minutes, and yet not a single second felt rushed or wasted. They talked about some of their favourite foods from where both of them grew up.

Samara told her about how almost all food on Thessia was customarily served with small amounts of element zero, which was believed to make biotics stronger. Miranda spoke eagerly about some of her favourite meals she got to eat as a child - about the only positive childhood memories Samara had ever heard her share. One of the few things she had been able to find enjoyment in.

That had taken a turn however when Miranda had mentioned that one of the best things about escaping home as a teenager was realising that her father could no longer use control over food she enjoyed as a weapon against her.

In her nonchalance, Miranda didn’t seem to twig how dark that was. Out of sensitivity, Samara didn’t draw her attention to it, letting it pass without comment.

Miranda’s eyes lit up when Samara asked her about her favourite composers, and she spoke at length about how there were too many to name (Shostakovich, Chopin, Liszt, Rachmaninoff, Sibelius, Debussy) but Nielsen was left out of so many conversations on great composers that it made her want to scream.

They moved onto what they were currently reading. Samara’s answer was the Poetic Edda. Which was interesting, particularly structurally. Miranda told her she might possibly have found a saga more narratively cohesive.

“How does Heimdall have nine mothers?” Samara had asked, curiously.

Miranda paused with her drink to her lips. “I mean, I’m not sure I’m the best person to be asking that question. Depending on who you ask, I’ve either got zero, or somewhere in excess of twenty,” she nonchalantly commented.

“That is a fair point,” Samara conceded.

For her part, Miranda was currently reading the latest quarterly edition of a journal on bioengineering research, where new papers and studies were published. Samara had asked her what she read for pleasure - unrelated to work.

“That is what I read for pleasure,” Miranda insisted. Samara sent her a silent stare across the table. Miranda shrugged. “See, this is why I told you that you wouldn’t be interested in the kind of things I read,” she maintained.

As their conversation flowed on, and Samara listened to Miranda gush about things she liked, and watched her gaze on in fascination whenever Samara did the same, she couldn’t help but drift into thought the longer they spent together.

Samara had learned that humans did not use the word ‘love’ easily. At least, not the ones that she travelled with. It was a shame, she thought. For a species that felt things so strongly, they were often so afraid to be true to their hearts.

For them, love was a frightening word. An intimidating one. It carried the weight of so many unspoken expectations. The fear of rejection. It was reserved only for the most exclusive few, when the speaker was certain they would hear it back. Maybe a parent. A child. And, most pertinently, it was saved for a romantic partner.

It was not always so for asari. In her native tongue, there were so many more types of love than just those few. Deep, meaningful connections. Loves neither physical nor romantic that could last for a thousand years. Loves between close friends. Sisters unbound by blood. The love and respect between students and mentors. Loves between intellectual equals. Loves that were closer than friendship, as intimate as the love between bondmates, and yet, for whatever reason, never became sexual, even if perhaps both parties may have wanted it to.

Were those loves any less worthy?

Samara wasn’t sure precisely when she became conscious of the fact that her friendship with Miranda had grown into love. It was a gradual thing. Somewhere between the first time she heard her laugh. The first time she saw her smile. The first time her voice caught and her body grew smaller as she recalled memories of her father. The first time she offered Samara a shoulder to lean on. The first time they playfully argued. The first time she rolled her eyes at some stupid inane remark someone else made when Miranda thought damn well they should have been focused on the task at hand. The first time she looked at her with that slightly too smug smirk that gave away whenever Miranda was convinced that she and Samara were the two smartest people in the room by a mile. Which was often.

On some level, Samara had always known that, had the stars aligned differently, and had they met one another in different time, in a different life, if Samara were seven hundred years younger, if she were not the person she were today, she could have seen herself falling for Miranda. She could have given her her heart.

But it was not to be so.

But that was not a sad thing. The love they had here, the rapport they’d found aboard the Starboard Observation Deck - a connection between two people who had each, in their own way, been alone and bereft of companionship for so long - was more than rewarding enough. It did not need to be more than what it was.

Had Miranda been an asari, it might have been easier to tell her that she loved her. Because, if Miranda shared her language, it would be easier to convey it in a way that wouldn’t be misconstrued as a demand for something. Which it wasn’t.

Miranda had never indicated that she saw Samara as anything more than a very good friend. And Samara was glad she had not. She would not want her to.

Samara was death, and tragedy, and ruin, and disease.

She could offer her nothing.

Miranda deserved better.

No, indeed, her love would be someone better. Samara was sure of it. Fate had great things in store for her. She was sure of it. Things Samara herself would never see. Because Samara did not expect to be around for much longer.

In her own way, all Samara wanted to do was enjoy her time with Miranda and the rest of her newfound friends aboard The Normandy while she still had it.

And it was there, as Samara sat across from Miranda on The Citadel, basking in the love she bore her, that it sank in; this was the first day in four hundred years that she didn’t feel like a mere Justicar, or a hollow imitation of her past self. She felt like Samara T’Serra again. And it didn’t feel sinful, or wrong. No. Far from it.

In fact, that day spent with Miranda was the happiest she’d been since…

She couldn’t remember. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt more at peace. And all it took was to have someone important to her there. To just sit there, across from Miranda. Watching her expressions, and listening to her talk. 

If these were to be her last days, then Samara was in Miranda’s debt for making them so bright, whether she had intended to or not. For giving her one final taste of friendship, and how uplifting it felt to selflessly love someone else before the end. For allowing Samara to be able to say, with no falsity, that she was content.

And how many people were lucky enough to die that way?

*     *     *

She was finally here. 

It was finally time.

Whether she had known it or not, everything had led up to this moment.

The Collector Base.

Her hidden purpose.

Her reason for staying alive after Morinth.

The place where Samara knew in her bones that she was fated to die.

They made it just in time to rescue The Normandy’s crew from whatever pods the Collectors had placed them in before it liquified them the same way it did those who were taken from Horizon. Kelly Chambers quivered in abject terror as Shepard broke her free of her waking nightmare and dragged her to safety.

With the crew exhausted and shaken, Shepard wisely elected to send them with Kasumi as an escort, to ensure they got back to The Normandy unharmed.

In order to continue moving forward, however, they would need to bypass the seeker swarms. There were so many of them that Mordin’s countermeasures which had worked in the past would no longer be effective. Miranda had volunteered herself to maintain a biotic field sufficient to protect a small team, saying that, in theory, any biotic could do it. Predictably, Jack objected immediately.

Perhaps deliberately refusing to take a side between either of them, Shepard chose Samara to hold the barrier, bringing Miranda and Jacob with her in her squad, while selecting Garrus to lead the remainder of the team through a secondary path EDI had located through her scan of The Collector Base.

“Just stay focused. I’ve got your back,” Miranda assured her, keeping a close guard on Samara as they approached the long walk through the seeker swarms.

Samara nodded, and raised her barrier.

“Stay alert,” said Andrea. “They could come from anywhere.”

At first, it was easy. Each seeker registered as little more than a tickle against the rippling blue barrier extended out in a sphere from her fingertips, surrounding them as they walked. Every time the Collectors attacked, Samara ducked into cover, concentrating on maintaining the bubble, and Miranda stood vigilantly at her side, protecting her from any incoming threat, and the walk would resume.

“You okay?” Miranda asked, weapons ready as she moved in step at her side.

“You will be the first to know if I am not,” Samara avowed, so far under no strain. But if the worst were to happen, someone would need to take over from her.

However, what had started out with initial confidence and security swiftly began to wane. The more times they were attacked, the longer they were pinned down under the fire of the Collectors, that was another minute Samara had to hold up a barrier orders of magnitude larger than the personal barriers most biotics ever managed, and for far longer than the short bursts most biotics ever used them for.

Samara steadied her breathing, drawing deep onto her meditation techniques to ignore the sounds of gunfire around her, and think only on the ebb and flow of her biotic energies, as natural as water coursing through a river. 

But her stamina was beginning to wane.

Where once the seekers had felt light as a raindrop bursting on her skin, each collision against her barrier now felt as heavy as a brick. Every impact was wearing away at her more than the last. Draining her. Faster than ever.

She shook it off, trying not to think about it as she dragged her feet forward, forcing herself to keep moving. But she wouldn’t last much longer.

Needed to stop.

Needed to reach the end.

There was one thought in the centre of her mind that kept her motivated - kept her moving, even when each motion of her feet felt like dragging lead weights.

Before they came here, Samara had given her word to Miranda that, so long as she still drew breath, she would use every fibre of her being to ensure that Miranda made it out of here alive. She intended to keep that promise. To protect her. By the Goddess, if it was in her power to prevent it, so help her, she would not permit a single thing to touch her between here and safety if she possibly could.

Samara had long known that the hour of her end was upon her. Probably also Mordin’s. Maybe Thane’s. Their lives were close to the end no matter what transpired here. Perhaps this was where all three of them were fated to die.

But so many of their comrades were still so young. They had so much life yet to be lived ahead of them. So much joy and happiness yet to be experienced.

Samara could not abide the thought of any of those lives being cut short here today.

Least of all Miranda’s.

Miranda, who was so gifted. So misunderstood.

Who had only just reunited with her sister.

Who had come so far in such a short space of time.

Who, if she made it through this in one piece, might finally have a chance at making the changes in her life that would bring her the peace, contentment and fulfilment her father’s abuse had deprived her of for so many years - a chance to go out and build the kind of happiness that Samara herself had long since lost.

If her sacrifice here at this Collector Base ensured the survival of even one other person, but especially someone she had grown to care about so much, then by the Goddess Samara swore that she would give everything in her final moments.

Even if a thousand bullets pierced her, nothing could make her drop this barrier.

Nothing.

So she kept going.

“We must reach the end. I will not give in,” Samara all but growled through gritted teeth as they caught sight of a tunnel ahead, blindly running forward as best she could out of sheer desperation to relieve the pressure before she collapsed. If they stopped again, she did not think she could stand another time.

“Hold on, we’re almost there,” Andrea promised her.

Samara was not fully cognisant of what was happening. Gunfire. Swarms. Closing in. Her body howled in protest as she struggled to climb over a waist-high wall without losing her grip on the biotic barrier. Voices echoed around her, though she couldn’t make out what they were saying. Then she saw the door.

The way out.

Relief.

Finally.

“Hurry, Shepard!” her voice was deafened in her ears, pain surging through her veins as her muscles tensed to breaking point, the barrier threatening to drop.

A shadow dashed by her. Jacob. Moving swiftly to open the doors. Samara felt a presence by her side, guarding her. She glanced up, and recognised Shepard, standing close beside her, defending her from the encroaching Collectors.

Samara’s heart tightened.

Wait.

Where was Miranda?

She looked behind her.

Dread filled her as she realised just how far back she still was. Isolated at the very edge of Samara’s barrier. All but cut off. Just as it was about to give out.

She was surrounded by seekers.

They were going to take her.

No.

“Miranda!”

Shepard’s call was rendered mute as something surged inside Samara. Something cold, and righteous, and furious. In a flash, she dove across the divide, closing the gap in strides until she stood poised in front of Miranda, both hands outstretched, and unleashed her full biotic might in a wall of advancing rage.

Every inch of concentrated force that had once been focused into her barrier instantly exploded out like a warhead. What had once been a protective shell transformed into a pure, unbridled destructive wave that swept across the entire chamber, obliterating every seeker in its path, and flinging every Collector who had threatened to harm Miranda off of the winding platforms into the vast chasm below.

In the aftershock, all fell eerily silent.

Everyone who had once stood inside Samara’s protective barrier was untouched. Totally unharmed. And everything that had once been outside it, had been utterly annihilated, on a cellular level. Up to at least a thousand yards away.

Samara exhaled. With the weight of her barrier gone, and knowing Miranda was safe, she had never felt lighter. She turned and strode back, as easily as walking on a cloud, saying nothing, leaving Miranda in a stunned stupor in her wake.

Samara had done what she set out to do. She had kept her promise. Protected Miranda. Kept her alive. Unfortunately, the moment came not long thereafter that they would be split up. Miranda would continue on with Shepard, because of course she would. And Samara would stay behind to hold the line.

Miranda’s fate was no longer in her hands. Whether she lived or died was entirely up to her now. Fortunately, Samara had few doubts. She truly was an incredible woman. If anyone could survive what lay ahead, it was her. And Shepard.

It was a shame she would not live to see it. Because this was now it. Samara knew in her heart this was where they were fated to part ways, once and for all. 

This was where she was destined to give her life for her noble cause.

This was where Athame had chosen for Samara to die.

It really did make sense. She had given so much of herself holding up that barrier. Though she was doing her utmost not to let it show, the odds were not in her favour, even with so many at her side. They were grossly outnumbered, after all.

As she finished taking stock of her weapon loadout, Samara glanced over at Miranda one last time, seeing her do the same, ensuring she was well-equipped for the battles ahead. Surely the Goddess could forgive her for saying goodbye.

Miranda was so engrossed in counting how many thermal clips they had left between them that she didn’t hear Samara’s footsteps. “I would wish you good fortune for the battle ahead but, knowing you, I am certain you will not need it.”

Miranda glanced up at Samara’s approach, mustering a small half-smile. “I’ll take it anyway,” she said, similarly resigned to their impending separation.

After a moment, Miranda averted her gaze, and Samara did the same. There seemed to be so much that both of them wanted to say, and yet neither of them really could. In many ways, they had already said their peace to one another on The Normandy. And neither of them made a habit of long goodbyes.

For her part, Samara was content with what the two of them had already shared. What she had already done for her. Perhaps there was nothing more to say.

However, just as she turned to take her leave...

“Samara,” Miranda stopped her. Samara met her gaze as Miranda ejected a thermal clip from her SMG, the hot red metal sending a trail of white smoke over her shoulder as she held Samara’s eyes. “I’ll see you on the other side, yeah?”

With that simple question, it was as if Samara’s whole galaxy spiralled off its axis. Striking her directly in her core, with the force of a supernova. Gravity shifted, and time dilated. Seconds passed like infinite minutes. Her body, weightless, as if floating, unsure which way was up or down. Her heart seemed to race, yet skipped every beat. Her throat tightened, not letting her speak. The tips of her fingers tingled. And she could no longer feel the ground beneath her feet.

That was the moment.

That was the moment she knew.

The moment that transformed everything.

Nothing had changed, yet everything had rotated a hundred and eighty degrees. Everything was new. Different. Like seeing through new eyes. Feeling through new skin. Hearing through new ears. Filling her chest with new breath.

Samara forced herself to look away, as if denying what she already knew in that instant to be true. “Miranda, I...” she awkwardly stammered. “I do not know--”

Her protestations were cut off by Miranda reaching out and touching her arm.

“Promise me,” she insisted, refusing to leave until she heard it.

Samara stared deep into her eyes, spellbound, and powerless to resist.

Up until that point, Samara had been prepared to die for Miranda. Of course she had. She would have traded her own life for Miranda’s gladly. In a heartbeat. But that meant nothing. Pursuant to her Code, Samara would have died to save any innocent life without a second thought. Dying was easy. For her, a mercy, even.

But not now. Now it was another matter entirely.

Samara’s feelings for Miranda didn’t make her want to die for her. No. Looking into those unyielding blue eyes in the stillness, feeling the warmth of her touch and hearing the conviction in her voice, it made Samara want to live for her.

And that was how Samara knew.

She didn’t merely love Miranda.

She was in love with her.

And, in that instant, there was no power in the universe - not even the call of spending eternity by the side of her Goddess, nor the thought of being reunited with those she had lost in death - that could compel Samara not to promise Miranda that she would return for her. Because she wasn’t ready to let her go yet.

“Of course,” Samara uttered through her shock, giving her oath to the woman she loved. Because nothing mattered more than the thought of seeing Miranda’s face again. And knowing Miranda wanted to see hers too. “Until we meet again.”

More than anything else, Samara would swear it was the smile Miranda gave her when she made that promise that kept her alive through the ensuing fight.

Somehow, nothing touched her. Not a single bullet grazed her when she held the line that day. Anything that came close just whizzed past and bounced off of her barrier. Samara had always had an uncanny knack for walking into danger zones that should have killed her, or did in fact kill others, and emerging unscathed from the flames that she could not explain. It had been with her her whole life.

Some called it luck. To her, it had begun to feel like a curse, continuing to linger on and grow old as she watched all those around her perish and die. 

Samara had gone to The Collector Base expecting it was where she was fated to have that ‘luck’ of hers finally run out. Her time to make the ultimate sacrifice. 

But it wasn’t.

She lived.

She survived.

Seemingly for no other reason than because she promised the woman she loved she would. Because she wasn’t ready to be parted from her. Because she needed to look upon her one more time, and see her smile when they reunited.

But then, when the smoke lifted, it sank in what she’d done.

That she was still here.

She was still alive.

Her prophecy had not come to pass.

“Try not to sound so disappointed,” Miranda remarked in jest when they reunited on The Normandy, utterly oblivious to just how astute that comment had been. 

In the aftermath, everyone else was so happy to have lived. But not Samara.

Because this didn’t feel right.

Far from it.

This was wrong.

Samara didn’t have a reason to go on living. She had chosen selfish, fleeting affection over the heroic, redeeming death that was supposed to set her free. 

She was in the wrong place.

She wasn’t meant to live this long.

Every plan she’d made, every step she’d taken after Morinth’s death had been in the expectation that she would die before this mission was at its end. But now the Collectors were defeated. Their base destroyed. And Samara was standing. With no goals. No purpose. No road ahead. No future. Just a meaningless, hollow, empty shell of a woman. A vacuous void. A useless, wretched waste.

So why was she still here?

What did it mean for her that she hadn’t met her end when she was fated to?

If Morinth wasn’t here, and she had completed her Oath to Shepard to defeat The Collectors, then what justification did Samara have to go on existing?

Had the Goddess chosen for her to survive this day because there was truly something more for her to do? Some unseen purpose she could not yet see?

...Or was the answer the obvious one she feared?

Had she transgressed by falling for someone she shouldn’t have? Prolonging her pointless existence purely for the sake of a selfish personal attachment?

Ultimately, the answer that settled in Samara’s mind was that being forced to continue living on with this shadow must have been some sort of divine punishment. A sign from the Goddess that her penance was incomplete - that her sins were not yet absolved. Because that was what it felt like.

After all, what else could it be?

Being trapped in this cursed existence certainly didn’t feel like luck.

But how could she find the strength to endure when the road ahead was so dark, and there was no longer the promise of any clear, merciful end in sight?

*     *     *

In all the years since she became a Justicar, Samara had never been so conflicted. So lost. So aimless. For as cruel of a reason to stay alive as killing her own daughter had been, it had nevertheless been a reason. But without it?

Why was she here?

Why hadn’t she died when she was meant to?

Well, she did know the answer to that. Ostensibly, she had stayed alive for no other reason than because Miranda had asked her to. Which was...alarming.

It certainly wasn’t Miranda’s fault. She had no idea of Samara’s feelings for her. She was blameless. And, hence, despite her own misgivings, Samara did feel some sense of obligation not to do anything to punish Miranda for her own transgressions - not to act coldly towards her or deny her her friendship.

And yet, she would have been lying if she said she did not feel guilt every time she enjoyed Miranda’s company that had not been there previously. And, though she tried to ignore it, that guilt gradually started to manifest into distance.

Being around Miranda made her happy.

She didn’t deserve to be happy.

She didn’t deserve to be alive.

Between her feelings for Miranda and being tortured by her own continued place in the universe when it felt like she had missed her one predestined ticket to the embrace of the Goddess, her decline became so pronounced that it started to interfere with her ability to function, not just as a crewmember, but as a person.

And then there was the voice.

It circled in her head, louder and louder. Condemning her.

You coward.

You selfish, useless coward.

You know what you should do.

Why do you not just do it already?

Why do you not just do what you failed to do four hundred and thirty years ago?

Purge the galaxy of your disease.

Go on.

End it.

Do it.

But Samara could not. She did not know why not, when she had been seeking death for so long. She suffered her torment in silence, unknown to anyone.

Even Miranda did not suspect.

After Atlas Station, when Miranda broke down on her bed and confided in her about the day she escaped from her father...Samara had ached in physical agony to see and hear the woman she loved reliving so much pain from her past.

To know that she had lived with that her whole life. The thought that, no matter how hard she tried, or how well she succeeded, it meant nothing. Because she was a failed experiment. An imperfect prototype. Born to be replaced.

And to be put in the position at such a young age of having to make that choice, of whether it was more merciful to kill a child rather than let her suffer the torment that she herself had undergone, and then a short time later having to make the decision to give her sister up because she lacked the capacity to raise her?

There were so many things Samara should have said when Miranda confided in her. So many things she should have done. But she couldn’t. 

As she took it all in, she found herself...frozen. Paralysed by her feelings for her in a way that she wouldn’t have been before The Collector Base. Afraid of her own heart. Afraid to get too close. And yet too deeply in love with her to pull away.

She wished she could have comforted her. Held her. Said the right things. But she found herself stopping short. Holding back. A week ago, she probably would have let her fingers touch Miranda’s cheek without thinking twice about it, even though she’d never done it before. But now every gesture carried with them hidden meanings, whether Miranda knew them or not. Samara’s shadow knew.

“I feel so stupid.” Miranda wiped beneath her eyes, in an effort to banish her tears as she told her story, feeling like a fool for looking so weak in front of her.

“You are not,” Samara assured her, allowing her hands to fall atop Miranda’s knees. “Need I remind you, I came to you. I have chosen to be here.”

“Why?” Miranda shot back, her emotions getting the best of her.

Samara swallowed, that question cutting to the bone.

She was a Justicar. She couldn’t lie.

Her gaze faltered. 

“...Do you have to ask this of me?” Samara asked her, barely above a whisper. The closest she could come to speaking her feelings aloud. “Do you not know?”

Was her frailty not obvious to both of them by that point?

Miranda never gave a response that indicated whether or not she understood her meaning, but the mere fact that Samara had come so close to telling her - confessing her feelings, in her own way - was jarring enough.

At a loss for what else to do, she turned inward, searching for answers in meditation. But she was so discombobulated and blocked that she couldn’t reach her usual stable equilibrium, despite spending days in isolation.

Her mind’s eye was shrouded in shadow. There was no tranquility. No calm.

Everywhere she looked, tendrils of darkness whipped at her flesh like harsh winds, and wrapped like vines around her feet. It was so loud. So chaotic, and noisy, she could hardly hear. Normally her mental sanctum was so secure. So still. It had to be. But not then. It was like being caught in a hurricane of ashen shades.

“Samara.”

She turned at the sourceless whisper. And saw black figures in the bleak fog. As if not shaped by light, but the very absence of it. Moving voids. Anomalies.

“Samara,” one of them said again.

Samara’s gaze narrowed as she recognised the voice, and somehow found meaning in the fringes of the faceless, almost formless shadow at the forefront.

“Lyla...”

Samara stumbled back.

She felt water under her feet as she raced urgently up the hallway.

She saw her hand outstretch before her.

She pushed open the bathroom door.

“No.” She closed her eyes, and banished that vision from her mind. That scene she had relived thousands of times. Millions. It never hurt any less.

“Samara,” Lyla’s shadow repeated her name again, her whisper almost drowned out by the whipping winds as despair lashed the air. But Samara couldn’t look at her eyes. Or where she imagined they would be. Couldn’t bear the pain that came with thinking of her. Confronting her dark presence.

She didn’t know what Lyla would say if she looked at her. If she would judge her for falling in love with someone else. Condemn her for betraying her. It mattered not, for Samara knew she would probably deserve it. And worse. She could take that.

That wasn’t why she couldn’t face her.

No.

She hadn’t been able to face Lyla since the day she died.

It was everything else. The guilt. The grief. Everything that had turned the woman who had once been a source of such happiness in her life, into a constant source of hurt. Into an ever-looming burden she carried at her back.

Her dark shroud.

Her veil of sorrow.

A twisted reflection she both despised, and loved too much to let go of.

“Samara.”

Unable to meet Lyla’s gaze, Samara looked past her, to the figure behind her shoulder. Recognition clicked. She knew it. She knew that silhouette to be Mirala. Or Morinth. On the day she killed her. So similar in stature to herself. 

Pain shot through her heart at the thought of her.

She knew what to expect from Morinth.

Anger.

Morinth would surely burn with rage against the mother who had afflicted her with a horrible disease. Who had, in her mind, always failed to understand her. Never been there for her when she needed her. And, in the end, had killed her.

Samara could bear the anguish of Mirala’s hate.

She had failed her in every way a mother could possibly fail a daughter.

“Samara.”

Then she felt others, looming down her neck. She turned, and saw two more figures. She narrowed her stare amid the howling grey gale. She couldn’t quite recognise them. And yet, at the same time, there was a striking familiarity.

Something clicked with the closest on her right.

“...Mother?” said Samara.

The dark shadow just stared through the maelstrom of melancholy.

She glanced to the other, on her left.

“Father?”

No response was offered. Just creeping sorrow.

“Samara.”

A looming sense of isolation and regret swept through the fog, filling the obscurity.

To think, Samara had been blessed with a luxury that comparatively few asari ever knew - to know who both of her parents were, and to have them both be alive through so much of her life - and yet she had spent so little time with them.

So many missed chances.

Entire centuries, wasted.

How privileged.

How spoiled.

To be born with so many advantages, and squander them.

She had chosen the path of solitude, from her earliest days.

“Samara.”

More shadows emerged. This time three.

As shapeless and inconsistent as they were, these ones she recognised almost instantly. She sensed their presence. She knew the familiar points and edges of the armour she herself wore. Armour that once belonged to one of those ghosts.

Kira.

Zoya.

Faye.

“Samara.”

Samara stifled the urge to swallow.

Why were they here? To condemn her? For failing to live up to the mantle of Kira’s armour? Zoya’s zeal? Faye’s benevolent teachings?

Samara already knew. She already knew she had transgressed. That she was not worthy of being a Justicar. She had never really been.

If anything, all this with Miranda only proved it.

No true Justicar would ever allow another person to become so important to them that it could potentially place them in a position of conflict between that individual and their duty. That was why Justicars swore the Oath of Solitude. So that they were never compromised. They never had to choose between following The Code, or obeying their Oaths, and protecting the life of a person they loved.

But Samara had failed.

She had gotten attached.

“Samara.”

The harsh winds whipped up, spiralling darkness buffeting against her form with such relentless power that she had to brace herself, holding up her arms to cover her face and protect against the onslaught, to little avail. Her feet began to slip.

What was happening?

Why was she surrounded by the fragments of those she had lost?

Was this a portent of death?

Were they calling to her?

“Samara.”

The force of the storm pushed her back an inch. And then two.

She couldn’t hear them. Didn’t want to hear them. Didn’t want to see them. 

“Samara.”

The floor gave out beneath her feet. Samara couldn’t even scream as the shadowy shroud consumed her, and sent her careening into the abyss.

“Samara,” EDI’s voice penetrated her thoughts, the frustrated crease in Samara’s brow evidencing her lack of success in attaining serenity. “Samara. Samara, as a requirement of safety, The Starboard Observation Deck is not rated for safe use of biotics. I must insist that, if you are going to utilise biotics as part of any prolonged meditation technique, you should relocate to the cargo bay.” 

It was only once that comment registered that Samara finally opened her eyes and blinked to alertness. Sure enough, her normally concentrated biotic energies had slipped free of her control at some point during her efforts to meditate, and were now making about thirty different objects in the room levitate around her.

She exhaled heavily. EDI was right. If her mind was this scattered, then she was a danger to herself and others. If she wasn’t careful, she could crack the window.

With no answers, she retreated to the cargo bay, to reflect on her future.

*     *     *

Three hundred thousand people died when the Alpha Relay was destroyed.

An entire solar system. Obliterated. In the blink of an eye.

It wasn’t Shepard’s fault. It wasn’t. She had done everything she could to try and save people. But, due to circumstances beyond her control, she was too late. She couldn’t save anyone. Except for a lucky few who probably would have been in a position to escape even without her warning anyway.

The Normandy SR-2 had so far been blessed with what seemed like strange fortune. No matter the odds, they always appeared to overcome them.

But not that day.

That day, they had, in many respects, failed.

It was their greatest defeat.

And it was the beginning of the end.

Kasumi saw the writing on the wall first. A thief did not wish to be anywhere near a ship that would one day soon be handing themselves over to the authorities to stand trial and face judgement for the events in the Alpha Relay. Zaeed followed next, for similar reasons, as a mercenary. Then, one by one, others slipped away.

Samara had already made the decision that she was going to leave, even before the Alpha Relay. The only question had been when. When was it appropriate to do so? When would her departure not be hurting the people she cared about?

It seemed that choice had been made for her.

However, when she went to deliver Miranda the news, much to her surprise, she found Miranda already packing her things, making her own preparations to leave.

Of all the people she had thought would stay with The Normandy to the very end, it would be Miranda. She had proven her commitment to this ship and its crew. So much so that she had chosen her loyalty to The Normandy and Shepard over her ties to Cerberus and The Illusive Man back at The Collector Base, without so much as a second thought. This was her home. Where she belonged.

But Miranda had explained that was precisely why she needed to leave. Her presence here put the people she cared about in danger. And her betrayal of Cerberus made her a target. She was a high value defector. If they thought she could divulge any sensitive information to The Alliance, they would have their moles within The Alliance kill her within hours after she was arrested by them.

Disappearing was her only option.

Samara offered to travel with her for a while, but Miranda nobly refused, unwilling to risk putting her in any danger for her sake. “If Cerberus had any reason to suspect that you were the last person to know my whereabouts, then they would go after you,” Miranda pointed out, looking her in the eyes.

She couldn’t live with that. She carried her burdens alone.

Samara regretted asking her. It had been a selfishness. A faint hope that they could have more time together, even though she knew that was the last thing she deserved, and an indulgence of the very personal attachment she needed to sever.

Samara had had her whole life ripped away from her. Everything that mattered. She’d sacrificed so much without complaint. Nothing meant anything to her anymore. She’d already lost her family. Her children. The love of her life.

So why couldn’t she let Miranda go?

How could an empty shell of a woman have anything left to lose?

Anything left to care about?

All she had to do was let her walk away, and it would all be over.

“...I’m going to miss you more than anyone else,” Miranda confessed, a hint of lamentation creeping into her voice. A rare glimmer of honesty and vulnerability that she never revealed to anyone else. “I think you know that by now.”

Physical affection had never come easily to Samara, even at the best of times. Nor, did it seem, to Miranda. And yet, as Samara’s fist shook behind her back with the strength it took to restrain herself from reaching out, she did not have the faintest doubt in her mind that, if she had embraced Miranda then the way she wanted to, Miranda would have hugged her back. She knew she would.

But Samara couldn’t.

She had to let her go.

“And I you,” was all she said, unable to lift her head to look at her.

Miranda sighed heavily and shouldered her bag, reluctantly ready to face the road ahead, alone. There was no guarantee of safety, or certainty, for either of them, given the paths they both had to tread. Nor that they would ever see one another again. Frankly, the chances seemed slim. And they both knew it.

A long silence lingered as Samara felt Miranda’s gaze on her.

“Goodbye, Samara,” Miranda said at long last, prepared to step to the door.

A shot cut through her heart. Samara couldn’t let that be it.

“Miranda…”

Samara’s resolve crumbled, and she surrendered to one last fleeting moment of selfishness. Couldn’t permit Miranda to walk away without stealing one last touch to remember her by, even if it was only a hand on her shoulder.

And, as Miranda stopped, and turned to look at her, Samara almost told her. Could feel the words ‘I love you,’ burgeoning in her throat, begging to be spoken.

But, as soon as the impetus to voice her feelings formed, a familiar dark shadow loomed directly behind Miranda’s shoulder, staring straight into Samara’s soul, an eyeless gaze piercing her flesh with unblinking, silent judgement.

Lyla’s shadow.

Samara trembled, and swallowed, buckling under the weight of her past.

No.

She couldn’t say them.

Not when speaking them aloud felt like confessing a sin. Like treachery.

When even allowing Miranda to think fondly of her as a friend was more than a monster like Samara deserved. When she knew damn well that the kindest thing she could do for Miranda was set her free and disappear from her life. Forever.

The three words died on Samara’s lips.

“...Be safe,” was what she said instead.

In truth, both she and her shadow knew those words conveyed the exact same message as everything she couldn’t say. And it felt just as much like cheating on the memory of her bondmate as if she had confessed to her that she loved her.

Even if her lips did not, nor her voice, nor her body, none of that mattered, because the most important thing in love was the heart - and, whether she willed it or not, Samara’s heart had already betrayed Lyla, by letting Miranda in.

And, if Samara ever doubted that, she knew she had when she felt her heart break as she watched Miranda walk away, and depart The Normandy for good.

*     *     *

[dr-vance]

[ willa fitzgerald. cis woman. she/her. ] did you hear that imogen vance is currently living in charming, california? they’re a thirty three year old who have been in town for about thirty years, and are a trauma surgeon at charming general. it’s known around town that they’re quite ingenious but can also be nihilistic. people in charming always say they’re reminded of gin when thinking of tight blonde ponytails, surgical grade steel, spearmint gum to hide smoker’s breath, hand sanitizer & a car that just never seems to want to start

pinterest || playlist || visuals ||

@charmingextras​

BASIC INFORMATION

Full Name: Imogen Grace Vance

Nickname(s): Gin/Ginny Age: 33 Date of Birth: March 11th Hometown: Portland, OR Current Location: Charming, CA Gender: Female Pronouns: she/her Orientation: Bicurious Status: Single Gang: Not affiliated (yet?????) Occupation: Surgeon at Charming General Living Arrangements: Lives in her parents remodeled townhouse, aiding them with their older age Language(s) Spoken: English, Spanish

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE

Face Claim: Willa Fitzgerald Hair Colour: Blonde Eye Colour: Green Height: 5′5″ Build: Slender Tattoos: Her twin sisters name “Isabel” in their mother’s handwriting on her collar bone Piercings: ears, tiny nose hole scar from her nose ring in her teens Clothing Style: If not in scrubs you can find Imogen in anything comfortable and non-restricting Distinguishing Characteristics: Full lips, unruly thick blonde hair, very dry hands from over-sanitizing from work, thick eyelashes

Character inspo: Christina Yang (Greys), Olivia Benson (SVU) , Gina Linetti (B99), Dr. Lisa Cuddy (House, M.D.

FAVOURITES

Colour: Red

Weather : Cold and wet

Music: Alt rock, metal, indie, honestly anything but dubstep

Movies: Slashers/Horror Sports: Imogen ran track all throughout high school/ college Beverage: Gin tonics with extra extra* lime Food: Lasagna

BIOGRAPHY 

tw: kidnapping, overdose 

On March 11th, identical twins Isabel & Imogen Crandle were born unto Charles & Heather Crandle. The pair certainly unready to raise one child, let alone twins. After leaving the hospital, reality crept in and the girls’ parents were forced to deal with it. Every month they collected their cheques & kept the babies alive by any means. The love from her birth parents was never wavering but their lack of funds made living, well, impossible. Charles worked two jobs, Heather staying home to watch the kids, it was cheaper than child care but the physical demand took it’s toll on their marriage, eventually pitting one against the other. It started with snide remarks, or overly critical comments. By the end of the twins’ first year Charles and Heather could barely stand to be in a room with one another. 

One day while grocery shopping, shortly after the girls’ first birthday, Heather turned her back to ask the deli clerk what specials they had that day for one second, one second. When she turned back, any mothers worst nightmare had come true. Isabel was gone. Her carrier in the cart next to Imogen’s was barren. Stricken with panic, Heather grabbed her remaining child, and demanded what happened. Imogen, barely capable of even forming a cohesive sentence, could only wail. Police sirens, flashing lights, sweaty detectives. The moment passing too quickly for Imogen’s brain to soak up the truth. Her sister was missing, presumably kidnapped. The city of Portland was on lockdown for the next week with search parties grooming every corner of forest possible, but with 30 million acres - there was only so much they could do. Days stretched to weeks, weeks to months and suddenly - a year had passed and there had been no leads; her case was moved to the cold files.

Never being able to fully forgive herself, Heather overdosed three months from the anniversary date. Charles now a single father of one, tried his best to keep a smile on Imogen’s face. The wear of his fifty plus hour work weeks never showed when around his daughter, anything she wanted - she got. Charles found solace in vices - alcohol in particular. He had a good heart, pure intentions - but the man was only human after all. A DUI with child endangerment now deemed him unsafe by the state and moved Imogen into foster care at the age of three. 

The blonde haired baby was quickly adopted by the Vance’s. A wealthy, older couple from Charming, California. James Vance, a local business tycoon, and Cordelia Vance, the town-over parish’s daughter. Imogen’s childhood from that point on was easy - though adopted, Imogen assigned the roles ‘Mom’ & ‘Dad’ to them. Little was noted in Imogen’s file about her past, her parents tried to get information out of her but were quickly stonewalled. 

Rumors swirled for years about her fathers connections with certain members of certain local groups. Whispers of dirty money now clean circulated their way about - as nothing was ever on paper - nobody could ever prove anything. 

Gifted mentally, Imogen excelled through school. She kept her head down, studied hard & got her grades. She had a few revolving door friendships, and ran track - but was never really popular or fit into the crowd. Dated here and there but nothing really stuck, her mind was focused on her education. Imogen had always known she would be a doctor. A surgeon at that. Her mom would often find her in her room with her stuffed animals cut down the middle, and Imogen digging around in his cotton-intestines. Frightened by this behavior, her parents first response was therapy. Through the course of her sessions it was revealed that she only ever wanted to help. 

College was a breeze, followed up with her medical schooling, and residencies. With her parents growing in age, she never drifted too far from them, always wanting to remain nuclear.  Now 33, she still lives at home, being their part-time care taker, along with hired help. 

WANTED CONNECTIONS

friends - please be friends with her <3

enemies  - please be enemies with her </3

neighbor - or someone who helps with her parents!

honestly y'all i’m open for pretty much anything! Gin’s a new character for me so I’m so ready to develop her more!

[ozzy-bozzy]

i’m sorry i’m requesting AGAIN (someone pls stop me lord) but this idea has me excited. can i request a drabble of Reki and his s/o dying each other’s hair? like a matching color? i feel this is totally something Reki would want to do with his partner and be so excited ab. THANK U SM <333

'm sorry this took so long!! I hope you enjoy this, I spent time writing this instead of listening to my lecture lolol :) ALSO ALSO!!! pls dont feel bad about requesting multiple times! there's never a limit to how many times you can request babie!

The two of you have skated back to his house after stopping at a local store, grabbing hair dye kits and giggling the entire time. The plan was to dye matching strips of hair on each other and then flaunt it at the next S event.

You arrived at his house and tried to quiet down the laughter since it was kind of late and it just felt right to keep it your little secret, lest his little sisters blow the whole situation out of proportion and his mom gets mad. But, the two of you managed to find your way back to his room and a nearby bathroom, locking the door behind you. When stopping by his room to drop some things off, you snatched up two old shirts of his. In the bathroom, the two of you changed into the old shirts and turned on a portable speaker, playing a playlist the two of you made. He smiled at you when the first song started playing, taking your hand in his and trying to twirl you, but ultimately almost knocking you over. He tugged you to his chest, and the small silence was ended by another fit of giggles.

After opening up the kits and getting them started (also opening way too many drinks and snacks but we won’t talk about that), he sat you on the counter and stood between your legs, his hands rubbing gentle, warm circles into your thighs. You wrapped an old towel securely around his shoulders and started brushing through his hair, causing it to fluff up a bit. With one last glance at the instructions, you separated the desired locks of hair and started coating them in the dye. While you worked, he would feed you chips and raise your drink to your lips.

After covering the dyed hair and setting a timer on your phone, it was your turn to get a towel tucked around your shoulders and for Reki to burhs your hair. With almost every pass he would poke or squish your cheeks and your face would flush, which only makes him awe at you and do it again. He’ll gently part a piece of your hair away from the rest and started applying the matching dye. Now it was your turn to feed him snacks while he worked.

He finished dying your hair and keeping it wrapped and separated from the rest, setting you a timer on his phone. The two of you went back to his room to watch videos on his phone together, maybe even facetime Langa, and tell him of this ingenious endeavor the two of you have undergone.

When the timers go off, the two of you head back to the bathroom, passing Reki’s sisters in the hallway and sticking tongues out at them, which they playfully returned. Reki helped unwrap both of your sections of hair and turning on the shower. You both took turns leaning just your head under the water so the other could rinse out the color and wash their hair. You both had fun ruffling towels over your heads trying to dry your hair faster.

After it all, you two admired your new color additions in the mirror and took adorable couple’s pictures, and posted them, ending with a picture of you two in the mirror sharing a sweet, chaste kiss in the mirror.

[klstheword]

I’m Your Man

PRESS QUOTES

“Immensely enjoyable, intriguing and complex.”“The film has an arthouse breakout potential, which might rival that of the similarly female-led German comedy Toni Erdman.”“Astute casting, of which the German-fluent Stevens is a stand out, will be a key selling point.” Screen International “Maria Schrader makes a witty, thought-provoking return to features in this fusion of science fiction and modern romance.”“Schrader's beguiling Berlinale competition entry could cultivate a substantial audience in international art houses — abetted by the rising profile of its helmer -fresh from her Emmy win for Netflix's 'Unorthodox' - and the canny casting of British heartthrob Dan Stevens as a boyfriend entirely too good to be human.”“Stevens is a wry revelation, progressing from rigid, unworldly physical comedy to near-living, breathing emotional turmoil, programmed or otherwise.”"Eggert's flinty firmness and Stevens' buttery elegance prove ideally mismatched from the off — their performances gradually compromise and meet in the middle, borrowing a little of each other's suaveness and steel along the way." Variety “There's no doubt about it, it's all in the eyes: an ice-blue stare, locked on you, promising satisfaction and loyalty without asking for anything in return. That's what love is, and Dan Stevens is the humanoid robot here to give it to us.”“German actress Maria Schrader returns to directing for her third feature, undoubtedly her most well-rounded, exciting work yet.”“The script, co-written by Jan Schomburg, is what catapults I'm Your Man beyond comparison, into something diamond-sharp – witty, hopeful, wry, sincere, and sly all at once.”“Schrader's thoughtful romantic study digs into mundane neuroses and existential fears with wisdom, and empathy, making sure to keep you guessing long after Alma and Tom have stopped gazing into each other's eyes. Romantic yet level-headed, charming but always clear-eyed.” The Playlist “When the odd couple begins to cohabit, the robot is a catalyst for self-reflection and self-doubt in this comedy-drama that's as thought-provoking as it is funny.”“Schrader draws sharp character comedy out of the premise, aided by terrific performances.” “British actor Dan Stevens — speaking fluent German with an English accent — is a consistently amusing physical performer, while Toni Erdmann star Sandra Hüller puts in an enjoyable turn as his handler. But Eggert is the star of this show. She communicates Alma's exasperation, frustration and soul-searching in a way that delicately balances comedy and drama.”“The female lead gives the story more than just a fresh spin. It's a chance to ponder on the psychology of attraction from the perspective of a professional woman with a complex interior life, free from the testosterone that drives many examples in the genre. And in an age of isolation, social media and online dating, I'm Your Man seems startlingly relevant.” Deadline “Dan Stevens is a soulful robot in winsome romance from ‘Unorthodox' director.”“Eggert, whose stern, tired expression eventually gives way to the deep sorrow beneath the surface, grounds the character's transition into credible emotion.”“The movie's thematic trajectory crystallizes in a bittersweet third act, as a series of poetic moments draw the story back to the roots of Alma's struggles, and suggest that no perfect code can solve her problems when the best antidote is her own ability to talk them through.” IndieWire “A gorgeous romantic comedy that explores ever deeper questions as the plot progresses.” Blickpunkt Film “Delightful.”“Tom is perfectly cast, as Stevens narrowly borders on the threshold of uncanny valley with perfect timing and body language. His stilted posture, swift movements, and uncomfortable stares also add a level of subtle connotation to the illusion of artificial intelligence.”“I'm Your Man is an energetic recount on the cycles of modern love.” Filmhounds “Dan Stevens is as perfect as can be in the role. Not only is his German perfect, but so are his mannerisms, his quirky robot tics, and his inability to act and feel human. It's not an over-the-top comedic performance, but Dan Stevens brings just the right amount of subtle "I am a robot" humor to the role that it made me burst out laughing multiple times.”“It's a light and easily enjoyable film to watch, with a lovely piano-based score and gorgeous shots of Berlin.”“Directed by Maria Schrader, I'm Your Man is a charming, entertaining sci-fi romance with superb performances and a smart story about the grand complexity of love.” First Showing *****“Slick, sophisticated and satisfying this dating movie with a difference sees things from a distinctly female perspective exploring love and desire in a scenario may remind you of another recent German comedy Toni Erdmann which also starred Sandra Huller as a put-upon professional.” “Maria Schrader directs with supreme confidence adapting her script from a book by Emma Braslavsky, and adding a suggestive cinematic spin to her intuitive grasp of the subtle dynamics of love and dating, and the chemistry behind acting, in a film that reflects the reality that love relies just as much on the lows as the highs to be emotionally fulfilling for the human psyche.”“Maren Eggert is superb as the thinking woman's love interest in a performance that is fraught with emotion as well as thoughtful dignity, never resorting to histrionics or melodrama.”“Benedict Neuenfels makes this a pleasure to look at with his lush summery landscapes of Germany and Denmark.”“But the film belongs to Dan Stevens who gives a nuanced performance in a difficult role as a robot that teeters between the ideal emotionally intelligent man and a geeky robotic guy you may even and have dated yourself and eventually grown to love – and even fancy – for his truly masculine take on life.” Filmuforia "Maren Eggert inhabits Alma in a way that's so persuasive and naturalistic it barely feels like a performance at all." The Hollywood Reporter "With the energy of a studio era leading lady from the 1940s or 1980s, Eggert effortlessly succeeds and invigorates as an intelligent woman who also exudes an intoxicating confidence." IONCINEMA "Eggert plays her with a brusque, self-possessed wit that may remind some viewers of Greta Gerwig…" "Sensationally funny and gently science-fictional the film's embrace of uncertainty calls to mind Toni Erdmann." The Telegraph, UK "Eggert plays this tug of war with compelling subtlety, leading with her apprehension but flowering emotionally in brief glimpses of unfamiliar joy, too." "It's in the tiny glances that catch you off guard, the rush of adrenaline and pleasure that you thought only belonged in fairytales that suddenly color your world a little bit warmer and the script catapults “I'm Your Man” beyond comparison, into something diamond-sharp – witty, hopeful, wry, sincere, and sly all at once." The Playlist "A beautifully different, breezy yet poignant love story that is nevertheless full of deep truths." Berliner Morgenpost "Like a successful flirtation, no scene, no gesture is without meaning, and there is always something to laugh about." Süddeutsche Zeitung "It is a mind game that tells of the all too human with wit and charm. Ingeniously, this film questions our very real relationship patterns, holds up a mirror to us humans. An artifice that turns the tables for once and turns the man into an object, completely attuned to female needs." Heute journal "An abysmally funny commentary on contemporary life in the midst of algorithms." taz "The fine dialogue and the great ensemble should fulfil the dreams of 74 percent of all cinema-goers." Spiegel Online "Eggert grounds the character's transition into credible emotion." IndieWire