#most things at all for that matter but music solely alone has the ability to scare me a lot

[cancerjupiter]

ascendant signs and projections

aries rising

they project themselves with intense energy and with primal power. their decisiveness enables them to act on their ideas the minute they are formed. arians do not waste time. they are competitive and have the urge to excel in everything they do. they must continually prove themselves to themselves through action. 

with libra on the descendant, often arians marry without considering the major factors involved; and divorce is a likely result. they tend to choose gentle and vulnerable marriage partners. their mates are usually skilled in public relations and intent on presenting a good image to the world.

taurus rising

taureans can express their potential for power through their productivity, financial dealings, and structuring material and resources. they love the good things of life and often create beauty in some form. 

with scorpio on the descendant, they are attracted to power and status. they seek energetic partners, those who excel in creative expression and the power to accomplish. however, they must guard against jealousy, combativeness, and possessiveness with partners. there is often a need for spiritual detachment.

gemini rising

geminis are original and creative thinkers and tend to dominate their circles intellectually. they also have the power to visualize their ideas and express them scientifically. since they tend to identify themselves with their ideas, their most dynamic form of expression is intellectual. 

with sagittarius on the descendant, geminis tend to emphasize ethical, religious, and philosophical values when choosing personal relationships. they are usually lucky in marriage (jupiter ruled 7th house) and have good relations with the public.

cancer rising

cancers tend to be emotionally volatile. they expend a great deal of energy through their feelings and are romantic and dramatic in their emotional expressions. their emotions are supported by their will, however. they identify with their families and familiar concerns.

with capricorn on the descendant, there is a tendency to be cautious and reserved in forming partnerships and to be shy in public relations. since large crowds frighten them, cancers do not like to remain in a crowd for very long. they are cautious in marriage. they tend to marry late in life and sometimes for status, or because it’s the “right” thing to do. 

leo rising

while leos project themselves with dignity, energy and will, they are at times abrupt and overbearing. they are determined to express themselves wherever they see fit, and they will sometimes enter into and dominate a situation without being invited. 

with aquarius on the descendant, in partnerships leos like to be free. they are humanitarian in public relations and enjoy creating the image of altruism. they have an instinct to centralize things in partnerships; and when they are married they want to know, for no rational reason, the whereabouts and activities of their partner. go figure.

virgo rising

virgos' mental acuteness is projected in practical affairs. they are systematic and well-organized in developing ideas and executing them. no detail is too small for them to notice or explain; and their success is due to the careful attention to fine points and details overlooked by others. perfection is virgos' goal, and there are no flaws in what they do. quality often supersedes quantity.

with pisces on the descendant, partners are often the avenue by which the natives expand into new fields; these partners enhance virgos' human understanding and emotional involvement. virgos attract people who are not nearly so well organized as they are. they must watch out for a possible savior complex, since they might see their partner as a project they won’t quit until they get them right. 

libra rising

libras project their individuality through co-operation with other people; their personalities must be focused on and mirrored in those with whom they co-operate. their actions express beauty and harmony, along with discipline, sternness, and a strong sense of justice. their strongest virtue is their ability to see any matter from the viewpoint of the people with whom they are dealing. libras do not like to be alone; they feel lost when they are forced to rely entirely on themselves. 

with aries on the descendant, libras can be aggresssive in order to gain the respect and attention of others. they also have the power to motivate other people into action without even being aware of it. their partners must understand that if they want peace they must maintain a high activity level and work hard.

scorpio rising 

scorpios project themselves with energy and willpower, and are willing to stake their lives to accomplish their aims. it’s futile to attempt to convince them that something cannot be done, since xcorpios will do it or die trying. they fortify their objectives with a tremendous, fixed, emotional intensity. they have the ability to draw on hidden resources of power to attain their ends. 

with taurus on the descendant, scorpios attract marriage partners who have wealth and/or stability to offer. they are co-operative in partnerships but expect some practical gain as a result. they spend money on lovely things that have quality. they also spend money on their partners and take great pride in the fact that they like their gifts.

sagittarius rising

sagittarians project themselves with optimism. their ambitions are geared towards large-scale goals. they appear to be friendly, interested, and jovial. however, they have a tendency to take things for granted and to think solely in terms of their own affairs and frames of reference. their power comes from an ability to influence other people to subscribe to a system of thinking that is arranged to provide them with all the advantages. nevertheless, the sagittarians' optimism is a source of inspiration to anyone with whom they have contact. 

with gemini on the descendant, frequently there is more than one marriage or partnership, since they often have their eyes on greener fields. even though sagittarians are primarily loners, they attract people who are intelligent and versatile, and who can aid them in practical ways. they are astute and intelligent in public relations. however, they often prefer that their partners represent them and their ideas instead.

capricorn rising

discipline, systematic endeavor, hard work, and patience are capricorns' projected image. everything they do has a purpose, and is designed to achieve some definite practical end. capricorns are serious, austere, somewhat melancholy, and reserved (this is not considering other aspects of the chart). 

with cancer on the descendant, they are strongly attached emotionally to their significant others. however, the fact that their partners also are often emotionally dependent on them presents problems at times. capricorns are, moreover, emotional about their relations with the public and with dear friends whom they regard as members of their family.     

aquarius rising

aquarians’ projections are original, creative, independent, wishing to make their own unique contribution to the common good. they are at the same time fun-loving, people-oriented, and friendly in an impersonal way. they are modest and do not like to call undue attention to themselves. they would rather be loved than admired. they find their source of power in group activity within a close circle of friends. 

with leo on the descendant, marriage and business partners who are powerful and well-established are attracted to aquarians and occasionally dominate them. aquarians are very independent, however, and this domination is (hopefully) never carried to the point of repression. the marriage partners are generally warm and loving and have their own place in the sun.

pisces rising

pisceans project themselves as sympathetic, adaptable, ethereal, and visionary. their achievements are the result of their sensitivity to the subtle currents of their surroundings. their mystical insight allows them to penetrate the subtleties of human nature. they usually have artistic and musical ability.

with virgo on the descendant, some with this configuration will be so absorbed in spiritual ecstasies or daydreaming that they will want partners to manage the more trivial and mundane necessities of everyday life. sometimes the pisces will be so idealistic and romantic that unconsciously they are highly critical and condemning of others for not living up to their expectations. others derive their identity solely through rescuing or serving others (Savior Complex by Phoebe Bridgers lol).

#astrology #zodiac signs #ascendant #aries rising #taurus rising #gemini rising #cancer rising #leo rising #virgo rising #libra rising #scorpio rising #sagittarius rising #capricorn rising #aquarius rising #pisces rising

[danses-with-dogmeat]

What Instruments would the Companions play?

Fallout 4 -- 

Cait: Uilleann Pipes (or Elbow Bagpipes) 

     - Okay, it's not just because it’s an Irish instrument (I mean, I'd be lying if I said that wasn't part of it), but also it's the way the unique pipes are played. The player is seated with the instrument strapped to their waist and dominant hand, using their opposite elbow to control the flow of air in the bag (rather than blowing into it like with normal bagpipes). It's a complicated instrument that requires an immense amount of physical control and discipline to play, which meshes well with Cait's physicality and athleticism. She's had the instrument as long as she can remember, finding it lying around in her childhood home. She managed to grab it before her parents sold her, and though it does sometimes remind her of them, all of the hours she spent learning to play it practically forces her to hold onto the instrument. She is wildly adept at playing it, and will sometimes do so in front of Sole, as long as they keep quiet about this ability of hers.  

Curie: Violin

     - A delicate instrument that requires dexterity and control, Curie would love the challenges that playing the violin would present. She found the string instrument in the depths of the vault before she became a synth, but held onto it thinking one day she would find someone who could make it sound beautiful. When she made the change to her synth body, she was incredibly excited to finally be able to play it, and though it took a while, she managed to become quite skilled. As a medical professional, she already has incredible coordination, so not only does the violin provide a creative outlet for Curie, but also it allows her to practice her control, since she still is getting used to just having the two hands, and all of her fingers. Once well-practiced, she loves to play softly to recovering patients in her ward. 

Danse: Baritone

     - When he first found the large horn, he didn’t really know what to think of it, he certainly didn’t consider playing it. However, once Sole explained it to him and told him how the instrument is played, he decided to pick it up one day when he was alone. He might have a hard time at first, since learning to play a new instrument can be especially frustrating for someone as hard on themselves as Danse is, but once he gets the hang of it, he's a big fan of the rich, loud sound it creates. He still rarely plays in front of anyone else (Sole and Haylen being the only exceptions), but he likes to practice in the little amount of downtime that he does have. Plus he enjoys caring for it by constantly cleaning and polishing the different pieces of the larger brass instrument. 

Deacon: Kazoo 

     - It started out as a joke, he found a little metal kazoo, discovered the manner in which to play it, and decided to have a field day with Carrington back at HQ. Later though, after practicing a number of the most obnoxious songs he could find, he found he was quite good at it and quickly he grew fond of the plucky little instrument. Now he carries it around with him almost everywhere, telling everyone that he plays it ironically, but deep down he knows that he truly enjoys it. 

Hancock: Saxophone 

     - Hancock has quite the reputation of being good with his lips and hands, and his adept ability to play the saxophone would only support this. He's had a lot of time to perfect his playing and will sometimes go up on stage with Magnolia to the delight of nearly everyone in Goodneighbor. He loves the instrument's smooth, jazzy sound and always revels in showing off his skills with a good solo.

MacCready: Harmonica 

     - An easy instrument to carry with you on the road, MacCready picked it up in his travels and messed with it whenever he knew the sound wouldn't endanger him. After a couple years, he became quite skilled with the wind instrument and would play it both for Lucy and Duncan as often as he could. He always keeps it with him, almost as a crutch at this point, even if he can't find the right place to play it, just having it with him reminds him of his travels with his son and his late wife. 

Nick: Piano 

     - Always the classic gentleman type, it's no surprise that the old detective knows how to manipulate piano keys in such a way that he seems to transport you back in time to a dark and hazy pre-war bar. The old Nick is where the original skill came from, but the synth's fingers are much more nimble than the human Nick's were. He enjoys playing whenever he can find a piano; however, be warned, if it isn't tuned, you can bet your ass he'll do his best to rectify that, which could take a couple hours at best, and a few days at worst.

Piper: Tambourine 

     - The percussion instrument was a gift from her father, so she's held onto it since she was young and always takes extra care in looking after her tambourine (she considers it the most important item she owns, after her printing press of course.) Besides the fact it was a gift from a loved one, she likes the instrument because of its simplicity and the way she can easily come up with and control her own rhythm. She fondly remembers many an evening prattling away at the tambourine while her and Nat danced the night away in a rare moment of true childish fun. Sometimes Nat will pick up the instrument while Piper is busy at the typewriter and try to create a beat to her sister's typing. 

Preston: Banjo

     - Does this one need an explanation? Preston just gives me mad banjo vibes. Imagine the joy he feels sitting around a campfire, striking up a tune that everyone knows, encouraging all the people around him to join in on the song. He tells himself that he does it for the benefit of those around him, to distract them from their troubles and the cruelty of the wasteland, but the truth is, he does it just as much to distract himself. It makes him happy to see others happy around him, and if the banjo provides a way to do that, then Preston will do his best to stay practiced in as many feel-good songs as he can.

X6-88: Upright/Double Bass 

     - This instrument is an absolute beast, coming in at about 6 feet tall and weighing about 45 lbs, but X6 would welcome the challenge of playing such an instrument; his own height and the large size of his hands providing a distinct advantage in learning how to play the bass properly. Not being of the faint of heart, X6 practices until his playing ability is nearly flawless, reveling in the deep, rich sound that emanates from his intimidating instrument. He prefers to read music and follow chord structure rather than improvise when he is playing, and he works to try and perfect every technique that he can, ranging from using a bow (arco), to striking with his fingers (pizzicato), to slapping the strings against the fingerboard. 

Fallout 3 -- 

Butch: Clarinet 

     - The poor 14 year-old was horrified when he was handed the old reed instrument when inducted into the vault 101 school band. But as Butch grew older, and his playing abilities increased, he realized he could make some pretty cool sounds with this thing. Jazz was always one of his favourite genres of music, and the clarinet allowed him to play along to many of his favourite songs. He doesn't bring the instrument with him while traveling, but he will play it when at home and sometimes will be bold enough to play for audiences at bars. 

Charon: Bass Guitar

     - He had never touched a bass before coming across one while traveling with Lone, but as soon as he picked it up, he found he had an affinity for it. Charon was patient with himself as he learned how to play, his scarred fingers both a blessing and a curse. Though it was sometimes difficult to get the chords right, he didn't have to worry about bloody fingers from long hours practicing plucking the rough strings. He comes up with a few bass lines on his own, then tries replicating songs that he hears. Charon actually really enjoys the creative outlet, and it's the perfect activity to focus on when Lone is gone. 

Clover: Flute

     - Clover treasures her flute, as the instrument was a gift from Eulogy that only reinforces the idea that she's his favourite. After all, he never gave Crimson a flute, or any other instrument for that matter. She finds it difficult at first, as she works to master her finger position and airflow, and occasionally she gets frustrated to the point of being completely unable to play; but once she gets the basics down, Clover uses the little woodwind instrument as a way to distract herself from her jealousy and tends to play it as aggressively as one can play a flute when Eulogy insists on spending time alone with Crimson. Otherwise, she will sometimes play it with Eulogy as her only audience member, but her favourite is when she can sit on her own and play the flute for herself, it makes her happy and it let's her see how far she's come since she was first gifted the instrument. When she begins traveling with Lone, she holds onto the flute and continues to play it for her own benefit, and of course, she wouldn’t be opposed to playing for Lone, if they were to ask...

Cross: Trumpet

     - She discovered the small brass instrument in her travels to pre-war military locations, and was interested in the history of the horn in regards to the old U.S. military. When she first picked it up, she wasn't a huge fan of the brash noise that comes from it, but as she grew more adept at playing it, she found she liked the sound. Cross takes inspiration from the bugle music that was played before the war, and replicates it for the members of the brotherhood of steel. 

Fawkes: Bongos 

     - He's been a fan of percussion ever since he was locked in isolation in the vault. Throughout his time there, he would often find different surfaces to drum his hands on to pass the time. Lone began noticing this little habit of his, and when they surprised him with a pair of bongo drums, Fawkes was elated. He plays them as often as he can, but usually waits until they are at home, after all, he couldn't risk losing or damaging them out in the wastes. But it's his favorite way to relax and unwind after Lone and him return from the hostile wasteland to the security of their home. He did once bring them to Underworld to play for the residents there, but he was anxious about harming the instrument the whole way there and the whole way home. 

Jericho: Maracas

     - Jericho wouldn't have the patience to sit down and learn a complex musical instrument, so maracas are a good fit for him. He found a single one when he and Lone were traveling and didn't think much of it, but thought it was interesting enough to hold onto. Once Lone explained what they believed it was, Jericho began to experiment with the instrument when he was alone (he couldn't risk Lone seeing him acting like such an idiot, with this glorified baby rattle.) But once he discovered another one, he decided he liked the sound of them together. Even though the maracas are all mismatched, he keeps any that he can find and tries them all paired with one another. He still tries to keep it on the down low, but every once in a while he'll know that Lone is listening in, he'll utter some rude comment, but continue playing as though Lone weren't there. 

Fallout New Vegas -- 

Arcade: Ukulele 

     - Arcade doesn't know how it happened, how he found the little guitar-like instrument, honestly, it was left in his tent at the fort, and he doesn't know where it came from. For the longest time, he just left it where it sat near his bed, unsure what to do with it, but after a couple weeks passed, he felt like he had to do something with it. So he started to pluck at the nylon strings, and he couldn't keep from uttering a small yelp of surprise at the sweet sound of the instrument. He doesn't play often, and he still needs to practice, but when he's alone, Arcade loves to strum the strings and come up with little tunes that end up getting way too stuck in his head. 

Boone: Cajón

     - The little, wooden, box-shaped drum is a practical instrument that isn't complicated to play and is easy to transport, making it a nice fit for the 1st recon sniper. Boone has had restless hands for as long as he can remember, and the problem has only gotten worse since the incident at bitter springs, so originally, when he found the cajón and brought it back to his room at the NCR barracks, he would tap at the different sides just as a little habit. However, when he discovered the way each side differed in pitch, he found he could manipulate the tapping of his hands in such a way to create some interesting beats. He brought it with him when he left the NCR and keeps it at his place in Novac to play with whenever he's there. Now it's not only an entertaining pastime, but it's ended up being very therapeutic for him. 

Cass: Acoustic Guitar

     - As a caravaner, you tend to pick up some of the habits of other caravan members that you meet in your travels. Originally, Cass found the guitar and made the decision to sell it, but that was before the guard of another caravan sat himself down by the fire one night, grabbing the instrument from beside Cass's pack, and began to play. When he first picked up the guitar, Cass was ready to deck him for touching one of her wares, but after hearing him play it, she couldn't help but ask him to teach her. She tends to bring the instrument with her when she can, but usually she'll keep it in a safe place so she can practice in her down time. 

Raul: Flamenco/Spanish Guitar 

     - Raul's nimble fingers are good for more than just making repairs, despite their ghoulified appearance, they still possess the muscle memory of when he learned to play the Flamenco guitar before the bombs fell. His family down in Mexico really appreciated the importance of music, and Raul still believes that it helped him get through some of the toughest times after the bombs fell. He makes it a priority to find guitar strings for when his end up breaking, and he tries to keep his original guitar in pristine condition. He doesn't play too often, but when he does, Six can hardly believe the skill in which he plucks the strings of the pre-war instrument.

Veronica: Drums

     - Every time Veronica was sent out on recon, she would keep her eyes peeled for another drum or symbol to add to the developing set she had hidden away at Helios One. It started with a simple snare, then a symbol she had found, and when she discovered a bass drum, she hid it outside the building before she was assigned guard duty, and she snuck the large drum down to her set. She loves the outlet that playing the drums provides, and though she sometimes worries someone will hear her, the risk is worth the thrill of going all out when she takes a seat in front of her drum set. After the events at Helios One that eventually led to her leaving the brotherhood facility, she makes plans to one day return to retrieve the instrument she left hidden away.

#fallout #fallout 4 #fallout 3 #fo4 #fallout new vegas #fo3 #fonv #fallout companions #fallout 4 companions #fallout 3 companions #fallout new vegas companions #fallout headcanons #fallout 4 headcanons #fallout 3 headcannons #fallout new vegas headcannons #fallout cait #fallout curie #fallout danse #paladin danse #danse #fallout hancock #john hancock #hancock #fallout maccready #nick valentine #fallout piper #piper wright #fallout preston #preston garvey #x6 88

[rphelperblog]

A court of thrones and roses rp meme

“Don't feel bad for one moment about doing what brings you joy.” “pity those who don’t feel anything at all.” “be glad of your human heart. Pity those who don’t feel anything at all.”
“I love you thorns and all.”
“we need hope, or else we cannot endure.” “I threw myself into that fire, threw myself into it, into him, and let myself burn.” “I was as unburdened as a piece of dandelion fluff, and he was the wind that stirred me about the world.” "I would have been gentle with you, though I would have had you moaning my name throughout it all. And I would have taken a very, very long time.” “Because all the monsters have been let out of their cages tonight, no matter what court they belong to. So I may roam wherever I wish until the dawn.” “I stepped out of the shelter of my savior’s arm and turned to thank him. Standing before me was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen.” “Everything I love has always had a tendency to be taken from me. I tell very few about the wings. Or the flying. “You didn't tell me this would happen." "You didn't ask. So how am I to blame?” “Because your human joy fascinates me—the way you experience things, in your life span, so wildly and deeply and all at once, is … entrancing. I’m drawn to it, even when I know I shouldn’t be, even when I try not to be.” “I was loosened, a top whirling around and around, and I didn't know who I danced with or what they looked like, only that I had become the music and the fire and the night, and there was nothing that could slow me down.” “We moved together, unending and wild and burning, and when I went over the edge the next time, he roared and went with me.” “My priority would be to protect my family -- and I would have picked whatever side could keep them safest. I hadn't thought of it as a weakness until now.” “Everything I love has always had a tendency to be taken away from me.” “ I came to claim the one I love.” “A life for a life--but what if the life offered as payment meant losing three others?” “Do you lie awake at night to come up with all your witty replies for the following day?” “If I offer you the moon on a string, will you give me a kiss, too?” “The music folded over itself like batter being poured from a bowl, one note atop another...” “We need hope as much as we need bread and meat.” “We need hope, or else we cannot endure.” “If it grieves you, then I don’t think it’s absurd at all.” “Better to die with my chin held high than groveling like a cowering worm.” “I didn’t want you to fight alone. or die alone.” “Oh, you should have been born with my abilities, if only to have felt the rage that seeped from him.” “each of us has a beast roaming beneath our skin, roaring to get out.” “Against slavery, against tyranny, I would gladly go to my death, no matter whose freedom I was defending.” “I painted flames for her. She was always angry, always burning” “For someone with a heart of stone, yours is certainly soft these days.” “She had looked at it that cottage with hope; I had looked at it with nothing but hatred. And I knew which one of us had been stronger.” “Everything about the stranger radiated sensual grace and ease. “ “There is a better world out there, waiting for you to find it.” “Then, like a shimmering disk too rich and clear to be described, the sun slipped over the horizon and lined everything with gold. It was like seeing the world being born, and we were the sole witnesses.” “Because when the legends get written, I didn’t want to be remembered for standing on the sidelines.” “I had become the music and the fire and the night, and there was nothing that could slow me down.” “There are a great many things that I wish to do, and don’t get to.” “I tried to convince myself that you were better off without me. I tried to convince myself that everything I’d done had made you hate me.” “Once I’d dreamed and breathed and thought in colour and light and shape.” “Don’t feel bad for one moment about doing what brings you joy.” ‘You humans are truly grateful creatures, aren’t you?’ “Magic-everything was magic, and it broke my heart.” “Well, you still look lovely, regardless of your Hell-sent afternoon.” “There you are. I have been looking for you.” “Cauldron boil and fry me.” “I’m thinking I might kiss you,” “I was slaughtering on the battlefield before you were even born.” “Why do you think I’m doing this?” “Because you’re a monster.” “I didn’t want you to fight alone. Or die alone.” “Because when the legends get written I didn’t want to be remembered for standing on the sidelines.” “For someone with a heart of stone, yours is pretty soft these days.” “To listen to what I'd heard - as if I'd already learned everything I needed.” “Her whore I might be, but not without my reasons.” “So here we are, with the fate of our immortal world in the hands of an illiterate human.” ‘If you ever escape, ever convince them that you’ve paid the debt, don’t return.” “Only you decide what breaks you.” “You can’t write, yet you learned to hunt, to survive. How?” “Who wants someone around who's so covered in thorns?” “Standing before me was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen.” “Fate had kept me alive just to get to this point, just to see if I was listening.” “In our world where we'd forgotten the names of our gods, a promise was law; a promise was currency; a promise was your bond.” “I didn’t want you to fight or die alone.” “I don’t like good-byes. If I could, I’d just walk out and not say anything.” “Love won’t feed a hungry belly.” “for a moment, I wished I had it in me to feel remorse for the dead thing. But this was the forest, and it was winter.” “no human who ever goes in comes out.” “Beauty didn’t mean anything in the forest.” “Even when they burn my body, I'll love you.” “each a story and an experience, each a voice shouting or whispering or singing about what that moment, that feeling, had been like, each a cry into the void of time that they had been here, had existed.” “Though I tried not to, I thought about the probable source and blushed, even as my chest tightened.” “I want you here, where I can look after you—where I can come home and know you’re here, painting and safe.” To the stars who listen - and the dreams that are answered.” "Because killing us is easier in pants.” “I hate everything that I am. And I am so, so tired. I am tired of wanting to be anywhere but in my own head.” “Pity those who don't feel anything at all.” “A portal into the mind of a creature so unlike me, and yet … and yet I looked at its work and understood, and felt, and cared.” “For though each of my strikes lands a powerful blow,” “Because I’d want someone to hold my hand until the end, and awhile after that.” “I wanted to fade into it, wanted the light of that sun to burn me away, to fill me with such joy that I would become a ray of sunshine myself.” “But scorned, I become a difficult beast to defeat.” “I didn’t presume to ask about them; his safe return was enough.”

#open historical rp #open starter #open to all #open to anyone #open RP #open role play #a court of thrones and roses #a court of thrones and roses rp #open fantasy rp #fantasy rp #open acotr rp #open meme #meme rp #roleplay meme #ask meme #rp meme

[bipercabeth]

"i would have been there for you" with a dash of "you've changed" because i like throwing curve balls and think that has the potential to crack my sternum in half

(tw blood and injury)

The summer before the Titan War is the weirdest of Percy’s life. 

For most demigods that’s a given, but for Percy it’s kind of a feat. What could be weirder than the summer he defeated flesh eating birds with Dean Martin music and was later turned to a guinea pig? Or the one where he blew up his school before a not-date with a pretty girl and walked across the country in a day thanks to a sentient underground tunnel? But somehow, the summer where he and Annabeth aren’t together is the weirdest. 

Not together. Just not... together. She’s angry, so he gets angry and goes to Rachel, and she gets angry for him getting angry and going to Rachel, and he gets angry about her getting angry about him getting angry about her being angry. It’s a viscous cycle, but the times do come where they have to put it aside for the greater good. Preventing the upheaval of the gods can’t rest solely on the shoulders of two demigods dancing around their feelings for each other, right? 

Right?! 

They get called for a quest. The requirement to go to the Oracle to leave camp was thrown out the window a while ago, but so far most of the missions have been large groups or solo. But this information about river spirits came from Daedalus’s laptop, meaning it’s indisputably a Percy and Annabeth job. Chiron is reluctant to send them both, claiming it’s something Percy can do alone, but Annabeth fixes him with a champion glare and he caves.

Somehow they make it out in one piece with minimal offense to the river spirits, who promise to be allies should Kronos’s army march on camp again, which is all Percy is comfortable asking of them. Sounding the alarm is one thing, but it’s entirely too much to ask a nature spirit to waste their life force fighting back. 

The following happens too quickly for Percy to process. Something erupts from the trees as they leave the riverbank. Annabeth shoves him down and raises her dagger to shield him. The river spirit handles the creature. Annabeth stumbles and swears in pain. 

The impact with the forest floor steals Percy’s breath, leaving him in a daze while Annabeth disappears behind him. The creature bellows and explodes into dust before Percy ever makes out what it is. 

“You have to leave,” the river spirit calls. “They know you’re here. Take your friend and go!” 

Percy puts his fingers to his mouth and whistles while rising from the dirt. Annabeth is leaning against a tree a few feet away, breathing heavily and holding her arm funny. 

“What happened? Are you hurt?” He wants to run to her, to touch her. He doesn’t.

Her head falls back against the bark of the tree, where the light filtering through the leaves illuminates the sweat on her forehead. “I’m fine. Let’s get out of here.” 

Percy doesn’t buy it, but she has that stormy look in her eyes that tells him she isn’t budging. “Blackjack is on his way.” 

A heavy sigh escapes her as she nods, still clutching her left arm. Percy retrieves her dagger from the ground and offers it to her, but her eyes are screwed shut. It’s not like her to show pain like this. 

He looks at the holster on her leg. “I’m just gonna... uh...” He slides it into its sheath, taking every precaution not to touch her thigh and half expecting to get stabbed for it. 

Great gusts of wind batter the fragile limbs of the trees as Blackjack sails down to them, his wide wings beating rhythmically. His hooves strike the earth and he trots over to Percy. Where to, boss? 

“We gotta get back to camp,” Percy says, frowning at Annabeth. 

Lady boss ain’t looking too hot. 

“Don’t let her hear you say that,” he mumbles. 

Annabeth quirks an eyebrow at the two of them and rolls her eyes, walking to Blackjack with her nose in the air. She may not know what Blackjack said, but apparently that means it’s Percy’s fault. Everything seems to be Percy’s fault, these days. 

She attempts to haul herself up, but her arm gives out and she ends up crying in pain. Percy catches her despite knowing she’d rather fall than accept help from him. 

“I can do it myself,” she snaps, shouldering him away. 

“You don’t have to though.” Percy throws his hands in the air. “Plus, you’re injured.” 

Annabeth’s grip on her arm tightens. “This isn’t from today.” 

“Could’ve fooled me.” 

She glares at him. “It’s from a quest from a few weeks ago. It didn’t heal right, but the infirmary is full. I’ll get it checked out later.” 

“What quest?” 

“Excuse me?” 

“What quest did you get hurt on?” Anger rises in Percy’s chest, both at the thought of Annabeth getting injured and her keeping him in the dark about it. 

She attempts to shrug, then winces. “Does it matter? It’s over.” Her shot at a casual tone misses by miles. 

Percy tries to swallow the anger, he really does. “You’re hurt. That matters.” 

For a moment, she almost softens. The cold mask she’s plastered on cracks at the edges, revealing raw hurt. 

Uh, guys. Hate to break up this lovely argument, really, but we’ve got company. 

Blackjack is right. Pounding steps thunder along the opposite riverbank, rattling the leaves like a warning. Percy grabs Annabeth’s leg and hauls her onto the pegasus, trusting that she’ll do the rest herself. Usually he’d hop up first and ride in front, but he doesn’t trust her ability to hold on with that arm. 

Percy’s heartbeat doesn’t slow, not even once they’re in the sky with the riverbank far behind them. He’s almost certain Annabeth can feel it pressed against her. She leans back into Percy a bit heavier than necessary, occasionally jolting against his arms, which are around her to grip Blackjack’s mane. To say he’s freaking out would be an understatement. 

And then something drips from Annabeth’s bent elbow onto his arm. Percy balks when he sees it’s blood. 

“Fuck, Annabeth. You’re bleeding.” No response. “Annabeth??” 

Her head rolls on Percy’s shoulder. 

“Blackjack, hurry.” 

Blackjack doesn’t ask questions, just tucks his wings and dashes to camp. Percy can’t get his ambrosia without letting go of Annabeth, which simply isn’t in the cards. He wraps around her until his chest is sticky with their sweat. Sweat washes out. Losing Annabeth is a stain Percy could never scrub himself clean of. 

He doesn’t know what he says to her as they fly—probably some half-baked combination of you’re going to be okay, and we’re almost there, and if you survive this I swear I will kill you myself. 

Percy’s feet hit the ground a second after Blackjack’s hooves. They’re parked right on the porch of the Big House, interrupting a heated conversation between Chiron and Clarisse, who startle at the sight of Percy. Clarisse is the first to gather her wits. She moves to take Annabeth off Blackjack, which she is certainly the most qualified to do, but Percy beats her to it. 

“Jackson, you’re hurt,” she grunts, gesturing to his chest. “Let me.” 

“Not hurt,” Percy says. “Taking her to Michael.” 

Chiron’s tail swishes nervously. “Percy—”

“The river spirits are on our side,” he interrupts. “Now will one of you open the damn door?” 

Clarisse assists him through the doorways while Chiron goes to fetch Michael Yew from archery practice. If it weren’t Annabeth’s life on the line, Percy would feel bad for the guy. He hasn’t slept since Lee died last summer, especially not with the way the infirmary is looking. 

Chiron and Clarisse hover alongside Percy while Michael works his magic, sending up a healing hymn to his father after dressing the wound. He scolds Annabeth the moment she wakes, chastising her for not telling him sooner. After a glance at Chiron, he orders her bed rest for a week. 

“No. I have another mission in three days.” She looks at Clarisse. “You can’t do it without me.” 

Clarisse almost smiles at Annabeth’s petulance. “I’ll take Malcolm. Or maybe even Pipsqueak here.” She claps Percy on the back.

Annabeth’s tone turns pleading. “Chiron...” 

She finds the same unbending will. “No, child. This has gone too far. You’re to stay here until Michael releases you.” 

Michael looks less than thrilled to be subjected to Annabeth’s wrath for the next week. “Okay, Percy. Your turn.” 

“I’m not hurt.” 

Everyone’s eyes flash to Percy’s chest in doubt. He tears his gaze away from Annabeth to look.

Blood—Annabeth’s blood—runs down his shirt from the ride over. From an outside perspective, it looks like Percy’s very heart is bleeding out of his chest. 

She won’t look at him when he raises his gaze, so he supposes it is. 

“Blood’s not mine,” he mumbles. 

The room clears shortly after. 

Percy, however, is rooted to the floor beside Annabeth’s bed. She looks exhausted, though he can tell she’s trying to hide it while he’s still here. He should leave. So she can sleep. 

He can’t. 

“I would have been there for you,” he says, “if you told me.”

She almost laughs. What escapes is a bitter sound that’s foreign in her mouth. “Yeah, well. You’ve changed.” 

It’s a defensive lie, and they both know it. Percy has changed, but not to that degree. He will stop at nothing to pull his friends out of the water, even if it means drowning himself. Such is the way of a loyal creature. 

His voice is low in his chest, hurt resonating in his heart. “You know that’s not true.” 

Annabeth raises her chin. “Do I?” When have you been around to prove it? 

Michael pokes his head in the room, looking very much like he’d rather be anywhere else. “Percy, Chiron wants to talk to you about the river spirits.” 

The silence is saturated, filled with blood just like the cotton of Percy’s shirt. “Sure. I’ll be out in a second.” 

Michael shifts his weight, creaking the floorboards. “I’m afraid it can’t wait.” 

When Percy looks back at Annabeth, her eyes are closed. The rigidity of her jaw gives her away, but Percy knows a sign when he sees one. So he leaves. 

#this is way more painful than the beginning makes it sound lmao #drabbles #my fic #my percabeth #pjo fics #jersey tag #iris messages #jerseydevious

[tester2080]

The Leaving Cert is an awful system.

09/09/21

In case you are not from Ireland, the Leaving Cert(ificate) is the exam system that determines which uni we can get into. Rather than having a GPA via continual assessments or any sort of entrance exam or letter of application we simply have one set of exams. There are obviously other exams (such as the christmas and summer exams in other years), however, the Leaving Cert exam is the only one that matters.

When you take a subject you can either do ordinary or higher level. Ordinary level is easier but rewards less points, and higher level is more difficult, but rewards more points. A H1 is worth 100 points (except for HL maths which is 125) and is given if you get between 90 and 100%. A H2 is 88 points and 80-90% and so on. An O1 is 90-100% in an ordinary level subject but only 56 points. There are some weird changes to the system when it comes to medicine but I won't get into that right now. Universities award places based solely on the points you receive. This leads into the first problem.

Whilst the education experience is a multi year process (6 years in secondary school in our case), what determines your uni course is a single event, often just a single week out of many years of learning. This is insanity and leads to so many obvious problems. A person could be getting H1s throughout the year and forgot to study just one topic and end up with a H3 in the leaving cert at the end, and a H3 student could get lucky and study a topic that happens to come up and get a H1. Even a single grade can be the difference between getting into the uni you want and losing out. The leaving cert does not measure you abilities as a student, your effort, or even sometimes your ability. The leaving cert measures your memory and how well you can perform on the day. You getting 100% in every single subject for the past 6 years and a family member dies a few days before the exams and it absolutely ruins your mental state? Too bad. In the eyes of the university you are not a good enough student. You are a perfect student but got a bit nervous and stayed up a bit late the night before to get some extra study in and are tired the next day? Too bad. You've been getting 625 in every set of mock tests but on the day your mind goes blank with the incredible stress, the knowledge that one test will determine the rest of your life? Too. Bad. There are no exceptions to the hand of the points system and claw of bad luck. You cannot explain to the uni. They. Will. Not. Care. Nothing else is taken into account. Students will have bad days. That's just life, we're all human. However that must be accounted for. Nobody should miss out on their life's dream because of a single day. That is absolutely absurd.

When you ask someone what education is about t. There is a filter type system for different categories of posts and all that, so if you're interested in what I have to say, I'd recommend going there for the better experience. I also have no fucking clue how to use tumblr sof you ask them what the leaving cert is about they will say it's about getting into uni. Clearly there is a disconnect here. Where has education become so distorted that now it is nothing more than a way for universities to quickly and easily judge us? Education must be about teaching children, not for some uni test, but simply so they can become more knowledgeable, so they can get a thirst for information, so they can locate their strengths and weaknesses, so future generations can live better lives than we will. University selections must be nothing more than an afterthought. It is even worse when the leaving cert is a horrendously stressful system. We put ourselves through sometimes 6 years of stress and bad quality of mental health to make it easier for universities??? What a ridiculous idea.

The leaving cert isn't even a fair way to judge students. Here, I'll be able to determine how good you're likely to do in the leaving cert with two simple questions. Do you have a good memory? Are you good at maths? If you answered yes to both, the chances of you doing well are very high and if you answered no to both - well - the chances aren't quite as good. A huge amount of the leaving cert is simply a memory test. I know the state will talk constantly about how rote learning is discouraged and all that, but realistically that's not the case. Take for example the English paper. You get to know which poets might come and which poems you can use before the exam. This mean your teacher can simply write you a good sample answer and if you can remember it, that's at least a H2 for that part of the exam. And as for being good at maths - if you're good at maths you already have 3 subjects which you can say with reasonable certainty you will be good at - maths, physics, and applied maths. Students who aren't good at maths have nothing like this unless they are fluent in several languages. A big problem when you arises most of the non maths subjects are based on memory, and the ones not based on memory are based on maths. History? Memorising essays. Irish? Memorising poems. Biology? A lot of memorising. Physics? A lot of maths. Accounting? A lot of memorising. This continues throughout basically all the exam subjects, with only maybe one or two exceptions. I know someone who hasn't even started 5th year, and yet they already know they're screwed and have basically given up on their first choice course because they have dyscalculia and a terrible memory. They can try as hard as they want, study as hard as they can, but realistically, they aren't going to come close to someone with a good memory and are good at maths who put in the bare minimum effort. It's bizarre too, given the amount of jobs that don't require either maths or a good memory.

The subjects you can study in the leaving cert is also extremely limited. You have to study Irish, English, Maths, and a third language. In public schools you then basically have the option of History, Geography, Accounting, Business, Economics, Art, Music, Religion, Chemistry, Biology, Physics and DCG. There are no electives to try out things similar to careers you might be interested or anything like that. Now those that plan to go into business will be happy I'm sure, however, for most other people, the subjects have very little in common with the career you want to do. You're doing law? I suppose a business subject might somewhat help??? You're doing computer science? Maths is kinda related. Medicine? Biology sure, perhaps a little bit of chemistry? But at most 2 out of your 6 subjects will actually be any way relevant to your career. To make it even worse, public schools have subjects in blocks. This means there will 3 blocks of subjects and you pick one from each block. You're super good at both physics, chemistry, and business? Well too bad, there's a very high chance you won't get to study all 3, and you'll have to pick up geography or some other subject you have no interest in. In some cases all 3 of the subjects you like may be in the same block, meaning you'll have to pick up 2 subjects you have no interest in and will likely be worse at. Once again, simple luck plays a huge part in the leaving cert. Going into 5th year, the subjects you're allowed pick will likely change your eventual points by around 30 or possibly more. Furthermore, private schools provide a massive advantage, often with your chance of getting good grades being around 4 times higher. You were born with well off parents? Congrats, here's an extra 100 points have fun. Absolute insanity. The leaving cert is really just determined by luck every way you look at it. Now obviously luck plays a part in everyday life too, but the leaving cert basically caters to the lucky, and a whole lot could be done to reduce the benefit they have based on luck alone, rather than quality of character, or time studied, or effort put in, etc.

I suppose I've reached the stage where I should stop complaining and start giving actual suggestions for improvements then. Fine. Firstly, remove the idiotic one exam process. Instead have some sort of GPA system with continual testing, so it shows how good a student is on average, not just on their worst/best day. Increase the amount of uni places available so that getting into the uni and career you want becomes more of an afterthought, rather than a constant stress looming over you. Add more subjects and electives that will be relevant to the career the student is planning to go into. Make learning and discovering your strengths and weaknesses and just enjoying life in general a main focus. Give students time to relax and do sports outside of school, even in 6th year (which is something basically impossible to do under the current system). Allow the tests that determine the GPA to be open book. Make understand more important than simply memorising. Remove the subject block system so students can do all the subjects they actually enjoy and are good at. I believe that the single test system is one of the reasons that private schools perform so well, by removing that, I believe the scores wouldn't be so far apart. However additions restrictions, or even total banning, of private schools could be implemented. After all, surely everyone deserves the same quality of education. These are children and teenagers for gods sake. There shouldn't be a heirachy of education based on their parents wealth. All students should be given the same opportunities. Private schools largely do better due to having better teachers. There currently isn't a large enough supply of very good teachers to go around, and the private schools can simply buy up the majority of good ones. We should pay teachers more, a lot of people thinking about careers may be dissuaded from teaching, despite having a passion, due to the low pay. Many good teachers also go to places like Dubai thanks to the better pay. Overall in society, teachers are sort of dismissed as a profession, and if we wish to improve the lives of the next generations, this must change.

#leaving cert #leaving cert 2021 #ireland #rant #complaining #politics

[lettrespromises]

> LettresPromises informs you : You have one notification.

💌.anon sent a letter:

❝hi there!:) do you think that i can request a headcannon with nishinoya and akaashi(separated) and how they would react when they find out the reader can sing? i’m sorry if i requested incorrectly!❞

💌.the author’s letter:

❝dear anon,

thank you for both requesting correctly and for trusting me with that wonderful idea of yours— i hope these letter will meet your expectations. take care of yourself!

sealed with a kiss,

nikki.❞

> Akaashi Keiji sent you a letter, would you like to read it?

I do believe that Akaashi has some sense of connection to arts whether it’s literature, music or paintings. He just appreciates various forms of arts as it matches his calm nature and he seeks comfort in art whenever he wants to take a mental break from school and relax.

So, naturally, Akaashi entertains a certain liking for music in particular. He also likes to create links between the emotions weighing on his heart and the musics he’s bound to choose. For instance, his musical genre of predilection when he’s studying is either classical music or lofi music. He just believes that studying whilst listening to music with lyrics will distract him from the dull alignements of sentences inked in his textbook.

It’s one of these moments— when Akaashi is at your place studying with you because you’re a firm believer that group studying motivates you as you’re under Akaashi’s watch. On the other one hand, Keiji doesn’t miss this chance to spend time with you, even if you’re studying.

You just can’t seem to concentrate, Akaashi does regularly use music to focus as his memory offers him the ability to remember things better when he associates informations to sounds but you unfortunately don’t share that.

So you’re just staring at the ceiling, hoping that in a way or another, you will miraculously be able to retain all the information at once.

Spoiler : it never works.

Akaashi, on the other one hand, is living his best life— the lofi music is echoing in the room, he can feel your presence, he has the sentiment that he’s actually remembering what’s on his notes, he even smiles at himself for doing so.

So eventually, you just decide to leave your bedroom with the excuse of saying that you’re going to take a break and have a snack but truthfully, you know you can’t stay in there any longer and need a distraction from this. 

As soon as you reach the kitchen and take a mug whilst the water is boiling, you hum to yourself the lyrics of a song you heard on the radio while your fingers tap the surface of the counter to set a tempo. 

You don’t know why this song in particular, it probably has the ideal rhythm to be stuck in your head subconsciously. 

But soon enough, as the boiling machine rivals the level of sound of your hums, you take it a bit further and apply more pressure on your vocal cords and find yourself actually singing in the middle of your kitchen. 

The words leave your lips in a magical manner, as if they were dripping in honey, and the soft sounds of your fingers tapping against the counter and the spoon hitting your mug give you the perfect musical set to continue.

Eventually, you become lost in harmony and continue doing so as you pour the scorching hot water in your mug as the bag of tea infuse and colors the transparent liquid. 

And you reach the extent where you become so lost that you don’t even hear the steps hitting the steps of the stairs, one must admit that your voice is covering the noise.

 Akaashi stops for a moment, truthfully, he wanted to come down to check on you and perhaps to give himself a little break as well as a form of guilty pleasure. But his orbs grow a gleam in their irises which reflects all the love he has for you and he’s wondering if you can feel how much he loves you just from that stare alone. 

He doesn’t dare to interrupt you, he just wants to bask in your glory and soak in the beauty of this instant as he finds his eardrums being blessed by your voice sent from heaven. He finds himself using his palm to rest is head on whilst his forelimb is laying on the ramp of the stairs to enjoy even further the moment.

But oh, as you turn around to put the assortment of teas right where it belonged, your eyes widen in surprise and the melody leaving your lips fades to allow the appearance of a sound of surprise instead. The grip. on the assortment tightens, the tip of your fingers turn white due to the pressure, it’s the sole way you found to evacuate how shameful you were.

“Why did you stop singing all of a sudden, love? I thought you sang beautifully.” Akaashi states and you could tell truth predominated his tone, he tilts his head ever so slightly to the side to emphasize his interrogation. 

“Keiji, um-... You weren’t exactly supposed to hear all of this.” You stutter and the words almost die on your lips due to how embarrassed you’re feeling and the rosy tone coloring your cheeks emphasizes that.

“I don’t see anything to feel ashamed of.” He continues as he’s reducing the space between the two of you ever so calmly not to startle you because you look like a deer caught in the headlights. “You have the sound of an angel, has anyone ever told you that?” Akaashi concludes his sentence with a smile, but you don’t fail to miss the genuine love showing through the corner of his smile.

You mirror the same smile in return but felt obligated to hide your face, now burnt by the compliments, in Akaashi’s chest. He considers each time he manages to successfully fluster you as a secret victory.

Akaashi lets his fingertips run through the roots of your hair and delivers a soft peck upon the crown of your hair, it was so light, you thought you had missed it for a second. 

“Will you sing for me more often, love? Call me selfish, but I just can’t get enough of your voice.” He asks as he is kissing his interrogation into your skin, and you just hum against his chest in response.

And ever since that day, Akaashi stopped listening to classical or lofi music, he only swears by your voice to study.

> Nishinoya Yuu sent you a letter, would you like to read it?

Now, now, this one is... Less calm than Akaashi.

Out of the two of you, he’s always the one who’s singing his lungs out until reaching the limits of his vocals cords: you can’t count the days where you had to nurse him by showering him in honey and warm milk to soothe his martyr of a throat.

Nishinoya will and can sing anywhere : training, in the hallways of school, at Tanaka’s place, in the shower. His... singing talents know no limit and he feels like he has the duty to share his “talents” with the rest of the world to make this world a better place.

You, on the other one hand, feel a bit more reserved to sing in front of him and always find the excuse that you don’t want to outshine his vocal abilities, something Noya will first pout at then grin in satisfaction. 

(He knows he’s a star, it’s just a matter of time until he sells out concert venues.)

So picture this— you’re coming back from practice with Noya, and like every Friday nights, the tradition states that the both of you spend the night together and watch movies while snacking and cuddling, a dreamy program, right?

And like every Friday night, you always take your shower before the movie starts because, deep down, you know you’re bound to pass out as you reach the first half of the movie (and Noya has to carry you back to your room, every, single, time.)

Anyone can agree on the fact that taking a shower equals being alone in the world and pure serenity enveloping you. In other words, the shower is the best stage you could have asked for to reveal your talents in singing. 

Your fingertips brush the tip of the shampoo bottle before firmly grasping it, and magically, the plain shampoo bottle turnt into the most sophisticate of microphones. 

And thus the concert begins, it’s a medley of all your favorite songs and the purity of your voice embraces perfectly the lyrics as they flow freely out of your mouth, as if you had written the songs yourself. 

Your grip tightens on the shampoo bottle until your fingertips turn white, but the passion running through this pseudo microphone echoes to the passion coursing through your vocal cords as you apply specific attention to match the higher tones of certain notes.

However, high notes, especially when they come from a room where the sound is muffled by the sound of the water hitting the tiles, may or may not sound like a scream of distress to a certain someone... 

... And by a certain someone, I mean none other than Nishinoya.

The latter slams the door open, the fantasy of being the brave knight in shiny armor and help his significant other is vivid in his head and truthfully, it added more fuel to the motivation of his deeds.

“Babe? I heard you screaming! Are you alr-...!” Noya trails off before being mesmerized by the sound of your voice enveloping his eardrums in pure bliss. 

But, that’s when you scream in surprise.

So Nishinoya also screams back in surprise. 

“Noya?! What are you doing here? I’m clearly taking a shower!” 

“You were screaming and I thought you hurt yourself or something so I came to check up on you, my beautiful significant other for whom I worship the floor you walk on!” 

“I was not screaming, I was singing!” And that’s how you threw yourself to the wolves, you secretly thanked the presence of the shower curtain to hide your embarrassment and the growing blush on your cheeks which was certainly not due to the heat of the water.

“Alright then! You take your shower and I’ll sit here while listening to the voices of the angels.” 

“Noya, you’re too much...”

And that’s how you spent the rest of your evening by organizing karaokes in the living room, and throwing aside the usual movie night, singing your lungs out until you both reached exhaustion. 

Needless to say, Noya was upset you hid this from him, but now he’s so glad he has a singing buddy.

#haikyuu x reader #akaashi x reader #nishinoya x reader #hq!! x reader #haikyuu #akaashi one shot #akaashi fluff #hq akaashi #akaashi keiji x reader #akaashi keiji #akaashi hcs #akaashi hc #akaashi headcanons #haikyuu akaashi #nishinoya scenarios #nishinoya x y/n #nishinoya headcanons #hq nishinoya #nishinoya hcs #nishinoya imagine #nishinoya yuu

[astrologytingzz]

Describing Every Zodiac Sign: From An Aquarius

Aries - Now we all know our Aries.They are a fire sign and they are passionate, motivated, and highly confident leaders who build big communities of friends and family. They like to surround themselves around people that love them for them and if you cant find the good in that then you have to go. They are direct in their approach and are not afraid to say what is on their minds. If you like what they said then good for you, and if you dont like what they said then oh well deal with it. Their weaknesses are a lack of patience, and will sometimes force things to go fast a little bit too much.

Taurus - Taurus are known to be intelligent, dependable, hardworking, dedicated, and stubborn. For the Taurus, it is all or nothing, there is no such thing as in between or halfway there. They are sometimes descripted as being a mean and heartless person but on the inside, they care a lot about other people they need to get their goals together too.

Gemini - Geminis are very intelligent, outgoing, and adaptable in my opinion. But sometimes they can be unreliable, sometimes they are nosy too, wanting to know everything about everyone and can be boastfull at times. Geminis are also impulsive being able to change their minds in a heartbeat. But apart from that, they are easy going and adjustable and they are willing to try anything at once.

Cancer - Cancers are like the homeboy of the zodiac signs. Easily one of the most emotional zodiac signs ever, but only because see themselves as greatness. They are nurturing, compassionate, Cancers are very loyal, they are arguably one of the most noteworthy trait. Cancers are also highly protective, in addition to being loyal, Cancers are extrodinary protective of their loved ones, sometimes even to a fault. They deeply charish and family and close friends and will often go out of their way to protect their loved ones. But they can be moody, and sometimes vindictive.

Leo - Leos are the star of the zodiac, their traits include being confident, comfortable being the center of attention, loyal, fiercely protective of their nearest and dearest, generous, luxury-loving, sunny, and big hearted. Their characteristics reflect themes covered by the Fifth House Of Romance and Self-Expression, which Leo rules. The Fifth House oversees leisurely fun, creativity, children, pleasure, and the most spirited, effervescent expression of love and sex, like flirting and dating. But the downside to the great Leos is that they are posesive, impatient, an self centered. Sometimes they feel like they can dominate other people. 

Virgo - Virgos are very hardworking, they understand that hard work pays off. They arent afraid to throw themselves into a project and do one damn good job on it. No matter what it takes, they may even have sleepless nights because they try to do their best on the things they do. Virgos are also humble and affectionate, along with their desire to see the best in people, they are unfailingly kind and are always willing to help somebody in need, Virgos are more patient then others. But the downside to them is that they are critical, stubborn, and they overthink too much.

Libra - Libras are natural peacemakers at heart. and they are experts at being tactical and diplomatic in their relationships and groups. They choose their words carefully and aim to find common ground with as many people as possible. Libras have a strong sense of justice. They want to make sure everyone gets heart, and are passionate about making sure that things stay balanced, Libras are witty, smart, and excellent conversationalist. They have active imaginations and are quick to think on their feet, which makes them great company and great problem solvers, but some bad traits about Libras is that they are indecisive, controlling and they are easily one of the most vindictive signs. 

Scorpio - Determination is one of the most well known Scorpio characteristics. There is nothing better to have somebody when your in trouble by your side then a brave and determined scorpio. They will run into danger without a second thought and are always the first to volunteer themselves for difficult tasks. Scorpios are also loyal and highly honest and ambitious. But there are some downside to Scorpios is that they are jealous, secretive, controlling, and resentful. A Scorpio is the mastermind behind every mischief. Their cunning ways are hard to deal with and impossible to comprehend. So the next time you think of challenging a Scorpio, well, good luck! Their ruthlessness is often accompanied by the urge to take revenge. A Scorpio will never let you get away with something. They will take revenge and will go to any extreme for it. So if you angered one, try and make-up before it is too late!

Sagittarius - Sagittarians are optimistic, lovers of freedom, hilarious, fair-minded, honest and intellectual. They are spontaneous and fun, usually with a lot of friends, and are perhaps the best conversationalists in the zodiac (maybe tied with Gemini). Due to their knack for contemplation and critical thought, a Sagittarius is prone to overestimating his or her intellect and, as a result, can come across as egotistical. Narcissism has a tendency to lead to self-indulgence, and Sagittarians can get carried away with it. While it rarely gets in the way of their work, it certainly poses the risk of driving away friends and family.

Capricorn - Capricorn is a sign that represents time and responsibility, and its representatives are traditional and often very serious by nature. These individuals possess an inner state of independence that enables significant progress both in their personal and professional lives. They are masters of self-control and have the ability to lead the way, make solid and realistic plans, and manage many people who work for them at any time. They will learn from their mistakes and get to the top based solely on their experience and expertise. If you manage to anger a Capricorn and really push their limits, brace yourselves for the impact! When angered, this zodiac can be quite brutal and will cut you down with their words. So better watch out before you argue with them!

Aquarius - Not one for "going with the flow", Aquarians make their own mind up and then stick to it. You can not cajole or persuade them from their viewpoint, unless you've got *evidence* i.e. data, facts, peer-reviewed analysis. Aquarians live (quite happily thank you) largely in their own head. Dissecting knowledge, deconstructing conventions, dreaming up dreams, thinking about outer space (seriously). You could be telling them your dog is dead, and they are looking at you but their face is blank. *SPOILER* they're not listening, they're thinking about the cosmos. Though their natural intelligence, fair mindedness and (great) wit often wins them a wide circle of eclectic friends, ultimately Aquarius stands alone. They will not compromise their ideals, morals or need for freedom and independence for anyone. Though their natural intelligence, fair mindedness and (great) wit often wins them a wide circle of eclectic friends, ultimately Aquarius stands alone. They will not compromise their ideals, morals or need for freedom and independence for anyone. If an Aquarius isn't responding to what you say, chances are they have wandered off to their 'La La Land'. They are known to be absent-minded. This trait doesn't go well at situations which demand active participation. If the Water Bearer wants something, it is now or never! They won't wait around for things to happen and often lack patience. Aquarius is not the zodiac to wait for something.

Pisces - Pisces are known as the most artistic of all zodiac signs, and they frequently express their creativity in everyday life. They have strong imaginations, and their reputation as dreamers can help them when they pursue hobbies such as art, music, and writing. They aren't as bound by logic as many other signs, and their openness to new ideas allows them to explore creative avenues others may overlook or dismiss as impractical. If you need a shoulder to cry on or a listening ear, there's no one better than a Pisces. Pisces are incredibly empathetic and in tune with the emotions of others. If they see someone crying, they will immediately want to know how they can help, and they may even begin crying themselves out of sympathy. Pisces are extremely generous and known for putting others' needs before their own. It's important to them that the people they care about are happy, so they'll go out of their way to do something kind or help you with a problem you're having, even if it sometimes comes at the expense of their own happiness. Pisces are the most sensitive of all zodiacs. They will get hurt on the smallest of things and expect you to apologise for it. Their extremely sensitive nature is the reason they are not able to handle the challenges of life in an efficient manner. Pisces has the flaw of thinking about negative outcomes of every situation. It is seldom that they think positive and when they do, something or the other blows their mind in the opposite direction. It is very hard to keep a Pisces on the right track when it comes to thinking.  

#astrology #zodiac signs #zodiac #ariana grande

[badgersprite]

Fic: Desiderata (9/?)

 Chapter Title: Diversion

Fandom: Mass Effect

Characters: Miranda, Samara, Oriana, Jacob, Jack

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

Chapter Rating: NC-17

Warnings: This is the first chapter that explores Samara’s depression and suicidal thoughts from her own perspective so trigger warnings for that section.

Chapter Summary: In 2186, Miranda struggles with her newfound feelings for Samara. After figuring out what’s going on, Jack suggests that the best way to get over Samara is to get under another asari. In 2185, The Normandy SR-2 crew go their separate ways following the destruction of the Alpha Relay.

Author’s Note: Alternative title for this chapter could be ‘Miranda Lawson’s complete history of mediocre sex’. Oh, by the way, this fic now has a Spotify playlist that I’m working on (under the cut if you’re interested). It’s a little weird when some of the songs correlate to chapters that aren’t out yet but hey.

(Link to Playlist)

*.    *     *

Miranda didn’t exactly have much that could constitute formal schooling left to finish when she joined Cerberus. Even at sixteen, had she been enrolled in any accredited university, she could have gotten her bloody PhD on gene modification, particularly if she’d continued exploring her research into gene therapy and other similar work she’d done with her father over the past two years.

However, there was one area where her father had, for whatever reason, deliberately underdeveloped her skills. One area that was highly valuable to her future career with Cerberus.

It came as no surprise that, as soon as she joined them, the first thing that Cerberus did for Miranda was schedule a surgery to insert a biotic implant into her brain and enrol her into a training program immediately thereafter.

Although she was a bit on the older side to receive an implant, such that The Alliance probably wouldn’t have even bothered investing in developing her abilities as a biotic at that point, Cerberus’s mysterious leader The Illusive Man had intervened from on high and had apparently personally approved her surgery and training anyway, confident that every cent he spent on exploring Miranda’s untapped potential would prove to be worthwhile.

It was the first time anyone had shown faith in her. Believed in her. And he’d never even met her. Suffice it to say, Miranda had no intentions of letting him down. No. If anything, she was determined to exceed his expectations tenfold.

She wouldn’t come to know it until later in life, but being a few years late to exploring her biotic potential and having the support of a high-tech organisation like Cerberus which didn’t play solely with what was approved for mass-consumption also meant she was fortunate enough to receive the most cutting-edge, state-of-the-art implant available anywhere in ‘66. This meant Miranda avoided the notoriously side-effect laden L2 implants every other biotic her age was saddled with, and would suffer from for the rest of their lives. But those problems with L2 implants wouldn’t even come to be known about, or at least officially reported, until years later. 

“Everyone, if I could have your attention,” the Cerberus instructor began as he entered the room with his newest student in tow, causing his cadets to turn away from their conversation and face the front of the practice room. “You might notice we have a new addition to the biotic training program today. This is Miranda Lawson. Miranda?” He gestured towards her expectantly.

Miranda stared back at him in expressionless silence, arms folded across her chest, not sure what he wanted of her and not caring enough to deduce it.

He awkwardly cleared his throat. “...Okay. You get settled in. I’ll be right back.”

Miranda followed his direction, standing by herself on the opposite side of the room to the existing group of seven students, her focus affixed towards the front of the room as she awaited the instructor’s return. The instructor wasn’t even a biotic himself. No humans that age were. This was unexplored territory for their species. It said everything that all the learning materials Miranda had been provided with so far to support her biotic studies were asari textbooks.

Miranda curled a few stray strands of hair behind her ear as she stood at attention, fingers unconsciously grazing the small surgical scar there. It had only been two days since she got her implant. The site was still tender.

Hearing sounds on her left, she glanced over at the other students. Saw them all whispering. Talking behind her back? Laughing about something. Laughing at her? If they were, Miranda didn’t care, moving her gaze back to where it had been before. She was used to it. Her whole life had been spent with people treating her like a science project without thoughts or feelings of her own - talking about her like she was merely an object in the same room, even when she was clearly within earshot of conversations about herself.

Miranda’s hands tightened into fists as she remembered all those little comments and ‘imperfections’ she’d seen written about her in her father’s lab. It spurred on her drive to prove each and every one of those things wrong. She would live to make her father regret ever thinking of her as a failed experiment. She would show him. She would make him eat his hubris, and go on to achieve so much more than he could ever possibly have dreamed for her, or himself.

But, as far as her peers went, they simply didn’t matter. As far as Miranda was concerned, they may as well not even have existed. It was hard to care what any of these others thought of her when she didn’t doubt she would quickly prove herself superior to all of them. She knew she would. It was what she was made for. They were just obstacles in her path to success, and revenge against the man who called himself her father. 

After about two minutes had passed, one of the boys from the group approached her, his presence disturbing her from her concentration. He was roughly her age, if she had to guess. Not that she’d ever met a sixteen year old boy before.

“So, you’re Miranda, huh?” the boy greeted her. “Hi, there. I’m Richard. I’m--”

“You spit when you talk,” Miranda cut him off.

He blinked. “W-What?”

“When you opened your mouth just now, spit came flying out directly at my face,” Miranda clarified, pointedly wiping her brow with her thumbnail to rid herself of a small droplet of spittle on her forehead. “It’s disgusting. Don’t do that.”

Richard was rendered speechless by her harsh response. The others laughed until he slinked back over to them with his tail between his legs.

That was the first impression Miranda ever made on people her own age.

The rest of the term didn’t proceed a great deal differently. Miranda was there solely to hone her biotic abilities in order to be useful to The Illusive Man. In her tireless dedication to being better than the best, she made swift progress. Within three months, she’d not only caught up to what her peers had learned in the last three years, but excelled beyond them to reach the top of the class.

From a social perspective? Well, Miranda had no social perspective. There was Miranda, and then there was everyone else. The seven of them were their own group, and she wasn’t part of it. Three girls, four boys, all with their own pre-established hierarchies and relationships with one another. They were all full time school students who saw each other all day, every single weekday, and she was just there for the biotic training program portion and nothing else. She didn’t want to be part of their little circle, and they didn’t want her to be either.

That was no mere projection. Miranda had better hearing than her classmates knew. She overheard them saying things about her. Calling her a bitch. Speculating that her weird behaviour was evidence she was autistic. Planning things to bait her to get a rise out of her - which they sometimes followed through with. Not that it ever really worked. She generally just ignored them, or shot their efforts down with short sarcastic remarks so she could get back to her work. 

Miranda saw no reason to be bothered by the fact that they didn’t like her. She didn’t like them either. She’d made no attempt to endear herself to her classmates, and failed to see the appeal of trying, since succeeding would only mean they would talk to her more, which was the opposite of what she wanted.

Every little thing she overheard her classmates discussing amongst themselves were things that made absolutely no sense to her at all, given her upbringing. Allegedly famous people she had never heard of. Television shows and movies Miranda had never watched. Places she had never been to. Music that, in Miranda’s opinion, didn’t even qualify as music. Video games Miranda had obviously never been allowed to play. Sports. Just sports. Enough said. 

They may have been the same species, but they couldn’t have been more alien.

They knew it as well as she did, and as soon as it had become apparent to them that they had absolutely nothing in common with Miranda at all, that sealed her fate as a permanent outcast from the rest. Which was fine by her.

Richard was the only one who still made an effort to talk to her at all anymore, for reasons that were totally lost upon Miranda given she had made her complete and utter apathy towards him plain from the outset, and had never relented from that position even once. It was no more than a few words each day that he said to her, but it was still those few persistent words every single class, without fail.

One time he had tapped her on the shoulder and asked her if she’d figured out the answer to a calculus problem (which was part of the theory side of their biotic training). Miranda had curtly responded that she had, and he should do the same himself. It wasn’t her problem if he couldn’t keep up. Her goal was always to stand alone in first place and leave her peers far behind in her wake.

Another time, he’d bumped into her as they were leaving class, causing them both to drop their stuff on the floor. He’d apologised, and Miranda had chastised him for his carelessness and inattention as she’d picked up her books.

Despite her showing absolutely no signs of tolerance or patience towards him, never so much as a kind word or even the meagre courtesy of a polite smile, because Miranda was neither polite nor courteous, Richard still cheerfully said hello to her in the mornings when he saw her and often tried to engage her in small talk before their teacher arrived. If Miranda replied back with a standard greeting it was out of obligation only. She frequently just ignored him or rebuffed him with one-word answers and irritated looks until he either went away or class began.

One day, before training, Miranda perceived the rest of the group conspiring in secretive whispers, as they often did. She wasn’t paying them any mind, but she wasn’t oblivious to Richard gesturing towards her, and the rest of his friends all shaking their heads and telling him no.

Ignoring their objections, Richard approached her. 

“Hey, um...Miranda?” Miranda didn’t look up from her notebook, revising for the days’ lesson. Not that she needed to. “Do you have any plans this weekend?”

“Studying,” Miranda coldly answered. 

Richard laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “Right, well...there’s this new club that opened nearby a few weeks ago. We have fake IDs so we were all going to check it out on Saturday night. We were wondering if you wanted to come out with us?”

“Why would I want to do that?” Miranda said with clear disinterest, failing to see the appeal.

“Well, have you ever been to a nightclub?” Richard asked.

“No,” Miranda responded. Of course she hadn’t.

“Then how do you know you wouldn’t enjoy it?” Richard pointed out.

At that, Miranda finally glanced up from her notebook. She had to admit, she couldn’t refute that argument. She’d spent so many years living under her father’s thumb, never getting to do or experience things normal people her age got to do. The fact that her peers always sounded like they were talking like a completely foreign language was evidence enough of just how little Miranda resembled whatever the hell a typical sixteen-year-old girl was supposed to be like.

Cerberus wouldn’t care if she went out, even if they were breaking the rules by being underage. They weren’t control freaks like her father. They hadn’t told her to do anything except work on her biotics, sit exams when they told her to, and train. What she did in her personal time was entirely up to her. So why not?

Having persuaded herself to try something new, something normal, she did.

Miranda had never experienced anything remotely like it. The thundering bass music that shook the floor. The pulsing, flashing lights. Being surrounded by so many people. Coming from living in her father’s estate which had been tucked away in a part of the countryside so obscure that, even when talking to other Australians, she couldn’t tell them where she was from so much as she had to describe where it was close to in order to spark any recognition, it was like being thrust into a vivid reality she had only previously read about.

It had taken her a solid fifteen minutes to adjust to the sudden sensory shock to her system, but, once she settled in, she wasn’t entirely sure she disliked it. Even if she wasn’t a fan of the music, she could see how this could become addictive. Being in a place like this. She could see herself coming back. Alone.

Honestly, in her near out-of-body experience, she hadn’t caught a single word of any conversation her classmates had been having since they arrived, and not just because the music was loud. Miranda didn’t fully snap out of her stupor and pay attention to what they were saying until one of the girls in her class pushed a drink across the table towards her, into her field of view. 

“Here, Miranda. Try this.”

“What is it?” Miranda asked.

“Just try it,” her classmate urged again, not taking no for an answer.

Miranda regarded the glass curiously. She wasn’t stupid. She knew there had to be alcohol in it. She’d never tried it before. Never been allowed. Part of her wanted to know what it was like. Wanted to know what lots of things were like, if she was being honest with herself.

She wasn’t oblivious to the three other girls snickering amongst themselves as they watched her take her first drink. The taste was somewhat unpleasant. A bit like what she imagined drinking drain cleaner would taste like. But there was a faint rush when she drank it. A warmth that burned her throat and spread throughout her body. It wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

The other girls could barely stifle their laughter. “Do you feel anything?” asked the one Miranda had mentally dubbed ‘girl number two’ whenever she couldn’t be bothered addressing her by name. She wasn’t the most socially adept person, but even Miranda knew their little trio had some kind of social hierarchy thing going on. From where she was sitting it did, anyway.

“I think so. A little,” Miranda answered. The drink was definitely strong. She weathered the unfortunate taste and finished it. For some reason, the other girls immediately stopped snickering, as if disappointed by her reaction.

“Wow. For someone who never drank before, you have a pretty high tolerance,” girl number three acknowledged, although she didn’t sound impressed by that.

“Everything about me was engineered to be perfect,” Miranda nonchalantly replied, as she often did. “No doubt that includes genes which would allow me to metabolise alcohol much faster than any of you would.”

None of the seven faces seemed particularly pleased with that explanation as she put the glass back down on the table. It wasn’t lost on Miranda that that was the exact same response she usually elicited whenever she brought the ‘being genetically perfect’ subject up in conversation. It hadn’t stopped her. 

“You know, Miranda, we were all really nice to you when you first showed up,” girl number one of the group began again.

“...Okay?” Miranda shrugged, failing to see the relevance of that. Also, she didn’t agree that it was true, but that was beside the point.

“Why don’t you ever hang out with us?” the second girl continued from the first.

“Because I don’t want to,” Miranda answered plainly.

“Why not?” the third member of the trio pressed.

“Every conversation I’ve ever heard you have is shallow and insipid. We don’t have anything in common,” Miranda stated frankly, seeing no reason ever to be anything other than forthright. It was also rather perplexing why they were pretending like they would have wanted to be her friend in the first place. She had overheard them all insulting her behind her back. She wasn’t stupid.

“Ugh.” The leader of the pack groaned in frustration. “See, Richard? This turned out exactly the way I thought. I don’t know why you bothered bringing her.”

Richard frowned. “But I--”

“Forget it,” the head of the trio interrupted him before he could finish defending himself, or Miranda. “Come on. Let’s dance.” With that, the trio of girls got up and left, all the boys joining them save for Richard, since they were couples.

“They do have a point, you know,” Miranda noted, turning to her sole remaining companion. “Why did you invite me?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Richard replied. “I think you’re really cool.”

“No you don’t,” Miranda rejected that lie outright. She wasn’t an idiot, and she wasn’t deaf or blind to the things people said about her when they thought she wasn’t listening. Nobody thought she was cool. She didn’t even know what that entailed, but she knew enough to know that she didn’t fit the criteria. She wouldn’t want to, even if she could. It sounded vapid. 

Miranda’s blunt reply prompted Richard to splutter awkwardly, rubbing the back of his head. Evidently she was right; he didn’t think she was cool. “Well what I mean to say is you seem like a really great girl, if I got to know you. You’re smart, you’re talented, and you could wipe the floor with any of the rest of us in class.” 

Miranda tilted her head in thought, conceding that Richard was right about all those things, if nothing else. After a moment, Miranda blinked. Suddenly, something clicked inside her mind as a thought occurred to her, a possible motive behind all this, whereby all Richard’s behaviour began to make sense.

“You want to have sex with me,” Miranda stated her realisation aloud.

He visibly recoiled. “W-What? I--”

“You want to have sex with me,” Miranda repeated, certain she was correct, and lacking the tact and requisite level of socialisation around that subject matter in particular to be aware (or care) that it might be considered inappropriate or uncomfortable for her to confront that so directly and openly.

That had to be the reason for it. Why else was Richard so insistent on giving her unwanted attention despite Miranda not saying a single kind word to him in all the time he’d known her?

Caught out, Richard abandoned his protestations and shrugged his shoulders. “Well, if what you mean is that I think you’re really cute, yeah. Who wouldn’t? Of course I think so. Is that a bad thing?” he stumbled over his words, trying to phrase his feelings in a way that sounded less...shallow. 

Miranda’s upbringing was sheltered, certainly, but she wasn’t ignorant as to what sex was. That it existed. Admittedly, though, what had always been lacking was context. What was absent were social scripts around it. Any kind of guide as to how she was supposed to feel about it, or what to think about it. 

Her entire knowledge surrounding sex and sexuality primarily came from three sources. Firstly, academic textbooks. Science. Biology. The mechanics of it all. Secondly, from literature. Although, in truth, it was often more alluded to than expressly described in those materials. And, finally, and most unhappily, from about the age of thirteen, Miranda had started to become aware that certain older men in her father’s employ saw her...inappropriately. Nothing could ever happen in that environment of course, but it had not been pleasant, and it had been something she had been forced to contend with entirely on her own.

It wouldn’t be until later in life that Miranda would come to realise that the experience of being unwillingly sexualised by older men at least once while underage was unfortunately far too common among human women. 

That all being said, though, Miranda also had the sense to observe among her peers that, out of eight of them in the class, six of them were in relationships. A solid 75% ratio of couples. That was a majority. She and Richard were the only two who weren’t dating. On that basis, it was perfectly reasonable for Miranda to deduce that this was a facet of ordinary teenage life a normal girl her age ought to have experienced by now.

Miranda thought for a moment, idly examining Richard from across the table. She’d never wasted so much as a moment thinking about any of her classmates in that kind of way before, least of all Richard. Even now, the truth was that, no, she didn’t find him remotely attractive in any way. And why would she? He was dumb, he was ugly and he probably carried genetic defects. But, that being said, all those things made him precisely the sort of person her father never wanted her to associate with. And her father wasn’t there.

Nobody was controlling her anymore. Telling her what not to do. Policing her. Preventing her from living her life. Making her own choices. Her own mistakes. 

At the end of the day, she was a teenage girl, he was a teenage boy, and normal teenage girls were supposed to have sex with normal teenage boys. And, just as she had been curious to have her first taste of alcohol that night, part of her wanted to try this too. Make up for lost time on the things girls her age were supposed to have done. See what all the fuss was about. So why shouldn’t she say yes? Who was going to stop her?

“Okay,” said Miranda.

“W-What?” Richard stammered again.

Miranda rolled her eyes. Fucking moron. “Is that all you can say? Okay, I will have sex with you,” Miranda spelled it out for him in plain English. 

He stared at her, scarcely daring to believe this wasn’t some kind of practical joke. But he certainly didn’t do anything to risk changing her mind. In fact, they didn’t say another word to each other before they made it back to his room.

“You do have protection, I assume?” Miranda asked. She’d read enough about sexually transmitted diseases to know the importance of being safe.

“Yeah.” To prove it, Richard opened his drawer and pulled out a condom.

“Great.” Miranda nodded approvingly. At least he could do one thing right. The next thing she knew, Richard crossed the room towards her, and reached for her cheek. Miranda recoiled in displeasure. “What are you doing?”

“Uh, kissing you?” he said.

“Ew. No. I don’t want that.” Miranda shook her head distastefully, pushing him towards the bed. As if he didn’t already get enough spit on her when he talked. “Let’s just get this over with.”

“Are you sure?” Richard asked, confused by her blunt and totally unromantic approach. “I mean I want to make sure this feels good for you.”

Miranda regarded him strangely, not sure why he was acting so weird. “Why wouldn’t it? It’s supposed to, yeah?” Miranda pointed out, undoing his belt.

Suffice it to say, what followed involved an uncomfortable insertion, some awkward thrusting, and an early finish.

When it was all over, Miranda looked down and back up. “Is that it?” she said.

Richard turned bright red. “What do you mean ‘is that it’?!”

“What do you think I meant?” Miranda shot back, sitting up as he pulled away. Either something had gone wrong or everything she had ever read on the subject had grossly exaggerated how this was all supposed to work. “Is something broken down there or--?”

“Hey, fuck you!” Richard recoiled away, covering himself up with a pillow, visibly fuming at having his manhood insulted. “Get the hell out of my room!”

“Fine by me.” Miranda rolled her eyes as she grabbed her stuff and left. There was no need for him to be so dramatic about it. It was just sex.

Richard never spoke to Miranda again after that, or vice versa, which worked perfectly for her as it meant less constant disruption from her biotic training. Miranda graduated from the program within six months, leaving all her peers far behind, and she never saw nor thought about any of them ever again. 

*     *     *

If there really were higher powers out there at work in the universe beyond the understanding of science and reason, then as it stood right now it felt like those divine forces were conspiring against her with the cruellest sense of irony - having one great big cosmic laugh at Miranda’s expense. 

For so many weeks, Miranda had yearned for nothing more than to have Samara there by her side. Her friend. Her confidant. The one person who supported her and made her feel stronger even in her moments of utter helplessness.

She’d missed her so fucking much, it had felt like a piece of her soul had been taken the day Samara disappeared. Her absence had left a constant void that was impossible to sate with anything else. A desperate longing, like a flower in the desert hungering for even a single drop of rain to keep from crumbling in the wind. Some days, that hurt had been the only thing Miranda could even feel.

And then, as if by fate, Samara showed up on her balcony. She couldn’t possibly have known it, but she had returned precisely when Miranda needed her most. When she was at her lowest. When she had lost all hope. When she was as close as she had ever been to her breaking point. When she had given up.

Here she was. By some miracle, Samara was there. Finally there. In London. Seemingly at Miranda’s beck and call, for as long as she was able to stay.

And, now that she was, Miranda couldn’t bear to be near her.

It would have been funny if it weren’t so pathetically sad.

Being with Samara had always without fail managed to make the weight on Miranda’s shoulders a little bit easier to withstand. Whenever she was lost and couldn’t find her way, Samara, in all her centuries of wisdom, would always find a way to say something that shifted Miranda’s entire perspective, made all the stars align, and helped her find clarity amid the chaos. The thought of reuniting with her again was the one thing that Miranda had been clinging to in her darkest moments as the only thing she could think of that stood a chance, even if only temporarily, of making the entire galaxy seem just a little bit less fucked.

And, for a while, it had. That time they’d spent together on the balcony had been the closest thing Miranda had felt to being whole again in months.

Until these nameless feelings had cropped up and ruined it.

Miranda could surely be forgiven if she wasn’t on the shortlist of people who could find the humour in this situation.

It was no fault of Samara’s, of course. But with these unknowable, undefined feelings coursing through her veins, Miranda couldn’t trust herself to be around her right now. Or, if she could, she didn’t. The very thought of getting close to Samara again made her feel like Icarus, flying too close to the Sun. Whenever there had been an opportunity for the two of them to meet, Miranda had retreated away to hide in the cool of the shade.

After their reunion at the balcony, Miranda made as many excuses as she could to avoid Samara over the following days. Really, it was always the same excuse. She was busy with work. With Jack’s students. She didn’t have time.

Most of the time the deflection wasn’t done in person. It was through one of the people who worked under her through Bailey’s informal chain of command, or through one of the kids, or passed on via Jacob, but whenever it was said in person Miranda would utter her made up reasons as quickly as she could and falsely promise that they would catch up some other time.

It was always difficult to tell with Samara, but even Miranda wasn’t blind to just how deeply the cumulative disappointment of so many repeated rejections in the span of only a few short days had started to cut every single time she was denied a moment with her. It was no mystery why. Miranda knew full well Samara’s stay in London would be brief, and no doubt she wanted to make the most of the limited time they had together before she had to move on.

Each day that passed where they didn’t speak to one another was a day she and Samara would never get back - a crushed hope.

It was fucking killing Miranda. To be this close to her after all this time, and yet not be able to get near her. She didn’t want to think what it was doing to Samara. 

For as reserved as she was, Samara was the one person Miranda knew who could in the same glance, the same breath at once convey both such sincere happiness and such heartfelt sorrow without either diminishing the other. Each time she turned her away, it broke Miranda’s heart a little bit more to hear the former in Samara’s voice get so much softer, and the latter so much louder.

Miranda hated doing this to her, and to herself. Samara was blameless in this whole affair. She was the last person in the galaxy who ever deserved to be treated coldly or callously. But what alternative did she have other than to keep her at a distance? So far, her best (and only) strategy to cope with these complicated, undefined new feelings that were emerging was to staunchly avoid thinking about them at all costs in the hope that they would just magically go away and stop bothering her altogether before they could rear their head and cause any problems. She couldn’t very well do that when Samara was standing right there, could she?

But then there came a moment where she couldn’t run and hide.

Sunday night.

The candlelight vigil.

Her first conversation with Rodriguez a few weeks ago had prompted the idea. Miranda had brought it up with Bailey - that there should be some kind of public gathering to mourn the lost, and mark a kind of collective catharsis for the living. Recently, it had finally felt like the right time to start healing.

The thing was, there were so many who had perished in the war, so many to remember, that they couldn’t possibly do justice to them all in one night. Not even close. And so, as of late, it had become a weekly tradition. And it would continue to be a weekly tradition, each Sunday night, until the survivors had no more names to read. Which could take months. Maybe even years.

So, the people gathered in their masses, from all species who still had members in London, many of them huddled in scarves and sweaters on that cold autumn night, holding their lights close to their chests. Some were actual candles, though most of the lights came from torches or other electronic substitutes.

Since the war, the weather on Earth had grown colder than before. The leading theory was that all the ash left behind in the wake of so much destruction had dispersed into the atmosphere and was now reflecting solar radiation, to such an extent that it had cooled the Earth by a few degrees. London itself was showing monthly average temperatures not seen since the 1950s. Some were even speculating that this coming winter might mark the first time in a hundred years that it would actually snow in London. It sure felt like it would. 

It was the first time Miranda had gone to one of these vigils since the first, when she went to support Jack and her students. Public displays of grief weren’t her thing, nor private ones. But, well...she’d needed to be there for them.

Jack had taken it pretty hard when it was her kids’ turn to be remembered. Understandably so. Jack didn’t know, but Miranda had stumbled upon her and Jacob when they both went missing during that vigil. Went looking for them. She hadn’t expected to find Jack breaking down in tears in a back alley while Jacob comforted her, unable to hold it together after finally speaking the names of the three students she had lost aloud for all the world to hear.

Miranda overheard Jack’s tearful confession to Jacob then. About how Shepard had betrayed her. When they’d crossed paths at Grissom Academy, Jack had begged Shepard to do what was right for her kids, to do everything in her power to keep them safe. Begged her to put them in support roles only, if they truly had to be conscripted to fight at all. But they’d been sent to Earth to fight right alongside Jack on the front lines despite her pleas. Alone. And because of that, despite Jack’s best efforts, she’d lost three lives in the process. Three children. 

“How could Shepard do that?” Jack had asked through tears. “I trusted her.”

Jacob had blamed the Alliance, certain it couldn’t have been Shepard’s decision. That wasn’t the Andrea they knew. She wouldn’t do that. Not to kids. After a moment, Jack had agreed. It had to be the Alliance. It was always easier to blame institutions than close, trusted friends.

Miranda would never say it to either of them, because she had the decency to know neither of them needed to hear it, but the truth was that they would never know who was responsible for that decision. She hoped it wasn’t Shepard. Andrea was her friend too. But, then again, with the entire fate of the galaxy hanging in the balance, the possibility couldn’t be ruled out that even one of the best human beings Miranda had ever met had gotten desperate, and made a mistake. Either way, Shepard was gone now, and could never answer that question.

Obviously, Jack would also never know Miranda had heard what she said. She would probably never admit to herself either just how much that confession moved her. Miranda had come to care about these kids too, after all. But that sliver of insight into what Jack was going through was a big part of why Miranda had maintained her minimum commitment to keep Jack company once a week, even after she had been released from the field hospital.

But that memorial was then. This was now. And Miranda needed to be here for this one. Because this one was hers to give. Her eulogy for The Normandy’s lost.

Her breath turned to steam as she exhaled, watching speakers take their turns ahead of her. She wondered if it was obvious how much she was dreading this.

Miranda heard a footstep on her right. The sheer warmth that radiated through her body at that presence told her it was Samara, without needing to glance over to confirm it. This time, Miranda couldn’t mutter excuses about work.

“Are you certain you wish to do this?” Samara asked quietly. It was so silent, save for the person speaking at the podium, that they barely needed to talk louder than a whisper to hear each other, even in a crowd of thousands.

Miranda sighed. Her heart felt so...tight. So constricted inside her chest. Like it was afraid to beat, lest Samara would hear it in the stillness.

“I have to,” was all Miranda said, finally daring to make proper eye contact with her for the first time since she began to realise what she might be feeling towards her.

Samara gave a small nod, silently supporting her.

At last, her time came. Miranda gingerly ascended three large wooden steps, passing Bailey on her way to the podium. In the crowd, her eye found Jacob, Jack and Samara standing together among Jack’s students. As the cold breeze blew, she glanced down to her list of names.

God, the list seemed so much longer now than when she wrote it.

“My name is Miranda Lawson. I served aboard the Normandy SR-2. I speak for the fallen,” she began, a phrase which had become a solemn duty for so many.

“Andrea Shepard. David Anderson. Zaeed Massani. Urdnot Grunt. Kasumi Goto. Ashley Williams. Javik. Mordin Solus. Legion. Thane Krios. Kelly Chambers. EDI. Jeff Moreau. Karin Chakwas. Gregory Adams. Tali’Zorah vas Rannoch. Garrus Vakarian. Liara T’Soni. Gabriella Daniels. Kenneth Donnelly.”

As she went down the list, the ringing in her ear grew louder. She swallowed, willing herself to ignore that creeping numbness, and keep going. 

“James Vega. Samantha Traynor. Steve Cortez. Diana Allers. Jennifer Goldstein. Sarah Campbell. Bethany Westmoreland.  Richard Hadley. Rupert Gardener. Sarah Patel. Thomas Hawthorne. Zach Matthews. Vadim Rolstov. Timothy Copeland.”

She read them all out, every single name confirmed lost to this war from the SSV Normandy SR-1, SR-2 and SR-3, even when all she could hear was that oppressive tone muffling all other sound beneath a singular, high-pitched, piercing ring. Fifty-seven names in total. By the time she was done, the noise was genuinely so deafening she couldn’t hear her own voice anymore.

She remained standing for a few moments after she stopped. The next person was already approaching centre stage to take her place. She stepped away, and caught sight of Bailey giving her a respectful nod as she left, leaning heavily on her cane as she made her way down the stairs. She wasn’t even watching where she was going, just lost in that haze of unending noise.

In moments like this, her tinnitus was so potent, so all-consuming, it felt like a tidal wave was bearing down on her. Looming so large that, had she seen it coming, she would have mistaken it for the sky, and its shadow for the Earth.

She could be marching headlong into destruction, and she wouldn’t even know it.

What she wouldn’t sacrifice to be buried in just a single moment of silence.

“That was very courageous of you,” Samara’s voice shook her from her daze. Half-entranced, Miranda looked up and saw her there, before she even recognised she had made it back to the crowd. It took her a few moments to blink and notice Jacob, Jack and a few of the students were there with her too. She honestly couldn’t tell whether they had come to meet her when she left the stage, or whether she had instinctively walked in their direction without consciously meaning to. “It took great strength to do what you just did.”

“Yeah. You did good,” Jack quietly acknowledged, giving credit where credit was due. Nobody envied Miranda for being the one shackled with the responsibility to bear this burden alone, although there was no doubting that out of everyone left she was the right person to do it.

“Thanks,” Miranda mumbled. Her throat hurt. And her head. It didn’t make sense. How could speaking for a few minutes be so fundamentally fucking draining on every level? “...I’m going to head home. I can’t stand to be here any longer,” she stated frankly, unable to muster any inflection in her hoarse voice. 

“Fair enough,” said Jacob. Nobody could fault her for that reaction, least of all him. He understood her better than most. “Want me to walk you back?”

“No, I’m fine,” Miranda turned him down, the cogs spinning slower than normal in her head as she turned her attention to the teens. “Don’t stay out too late.”

“I’m not sure teach would let us even if we wanted to,” Jason pointed out, gesturing with his thumb over at Jack.

“Damn right,” Jack remarked, jokingly ruffling Reiley’s hair (as one of the youngest and shortest of the bunch) until he managed to wrestle his way free of her. “Some of you may be legally adults, but for as long as Grissom Academy says I’m your teacher, you’re still my kids. Remember that.”

“See what I mean?” said Jason, grinning. “See you at home.” Jason gave Miranda a half-wave, half-salute, heading back into the crowd with the others. 

Satisfied that they were in safe hands, Miranda took her leave.

It didn’t take long to distance herself from the crowd, finding herself alone in the streets of London. She released a shaky breath, a solitary figure limping along under the streetlights, her walking stick clacking against the pavement. 

So much for all that. There had been nothing comforting about that process at all. Miranda had hated every moment of it. But she supposed if subjecting herself to that personal Hell was what she needed to do to honour the dead, and if it was what Shepard would have done, then it was worth it.

But she couldn’t stay. Not like this. Not with the tinnitus blaring in her ear. Not when she felt so disconnected. So constantly, fucking tired. So empty. Like the spectre of her insomnia was constantly looming over her shoulder, threatening to catch up with her when she least expected it, and make damn sure everyone would eventually figure out what she was hiding from them. 

It was happening more and more the less she slept. She kept having these moments where she would just...lose time. It wouldn’t be long. Seconds here or there. Between that and the tinnitus, there were times where she really did feel fragile. Like she was a hair’s breadth away from blacking out. If that was going to happen, she would prefer to be alone and in her bedroom when it did.

Miranda may have put a little too much stock in her own abilities at times, and she may have overestimated herself, but even she wasn’t too arrogant to admit that she was barely holding it together by that point. But she had to keep going. Because what the fuck else was there to do? What else did she have but this?

Nobody could be there to see her edges fray and fall apart.

Nobody could be there to witness it happen if she ever started to unravel.

Because she was Miranda fucking Lawson. And Miranda fucking Lawson would never break. She never got too tired. She never got too stressed. And if she couldn’t cope with this, then she didn’t even know who she was anymore.

“Miranda?” She turned and glanced over her shoulder when she heard Samara call after her. In Miranda’s condition, Samara didn’t exactly have to quicken her long strides to catch up to her. “May I walk with you?”

God, she had been really hoping she wouldn’t. It would be the first time they had been alone together since the balcony - since she began to question her feelings. As if there wasn’t enough going on without adding that to the mix.

“It’s a free country,” Miranda replied, not exactly having the power to stop her, or any valid reason to refuse her company. Or not that she was willing to share.

Samara fell into step at her side, hands clasped behind her back. Miranda swallowed. She had gone her entire life never knowing how it felt to be nervous around another person - to have that feeling of butterflies in her stomach that other, normal people described. At that moment, she didn’t know if it would ease her internal tension more for Samara to speak, or remain silent.

“...Is there something you want to say?” Miranda broke the quiet, unable to bear it.

“Am I that transparent?” said Samara, allowing herself a small shadow of a smile. For as often as it seemed she always knew the perfect thing to say, evidently even she could struggle to search for the right words sometimes. “I was uncertain how to broach this with you. Perhaps I am overstepping my bounds, or treading where I ought not. But, if I may...I am concerned for you.”

“Concerned?” Miranda echoed, her expression unchanging, focusing on the cracked footpath ahead. Best to let her elaborate before she read into that.

“Yes.” Samara nodded in confirmation. “I have only been here a short time. Yet, in all that time, not for so much as a moment have you ceased working. You are always in constant motion. Even on The Normandy, you allowed yourself time to rest. And you were healthier then,” Samara gently but truthfully pointed out.

Miranda said nothing as she walked, letting her speak.

“I am certainly not criticising you for this. Your strength is admirable. Exemplary, even. But, as your friend, I worry that your priorities seem...out of balance,” said Samara, urging Miranda not to jeopardise her recovery. “Even when you were under the greatest pressure when we served together on The Normandy, you never once appeared so…” Samara trailed off, choosing her phrasing carefully.

“What?” Miranda prompted, seeing no reason for her to be delicate about it.

“Exhausted,” was what Samara settled on, her eyes glistening with sympathy.

Miranda sighed. How was it that Samara had only been in town a few days and yet she was the singular person who had picked up on the fact that Miranda was falling apart at the seams, given just how much she had to contend with at once? Even Jacob couldn’t tell, and he had been there with her every day.

Nobody else had sensed just how poorly she was coping. Nobody else could tell just how little she was sleeping. Only Samara. But, then, Samara always had a way, didn’t she? Always saw right through her. Unfortunately, at that particular moment in time, that was the last thing Miranda wanted her to do.

“Perhaps you could--”

“Do what? Take time off?” Miranda cut Samara off, not willing to hear it. “Yeah, I’ve thought of that. Trust me, it wouldn’t help.” Because if she wasn’t working, then all she would have to focus on was the noise, and the death, and the fucking nightmares, and now whatever the hell this was between them. Her week in the hospital practically drove her insane just from the tinnitus alone.

“Miranda--” Samara reached out to catch her sleeve with the intention of stopping her, beyond ready to finally snatch a precious moment alone with her and talk about this like they should have done days ago. But Miranda reflexively recoiled away, pulling free from her grasp.

“Don’t,” Miranda said, not in any kind of state to deal with the effect Samara had on her right now. Samara’s eyes widened slightly as she froze in place, shocked by that, not sure how to interpret her closest friend physically flinching away from her touch. Miranda sighed and closed her eye, realising she may have inadvertently hurt her feelings. “It’s not you. It really isn’t. It’s just...please don’t.”

Samara hesitated, looking unsure. “I am not certain I understand. You know that my stay here will be short, and that I cannot make any promises as to when I will return. I had hoped…” Samara paused and trailed off, averting her gaze for a moment, perhaps not wishing to express those hopes. “On The Normandy--”

“We’re not on the fucking Normandy, Samara,” Miranda finally snapped under the strain, having heard that phrase one too many times that night. “In case you haven’t noticed, it exploded and everyone on it is dead.”

Samara was struck by her response, rendered silent. Miranda regretted it the instant she said it, her hand falling across her face in a weak attempt to massage away the pain inside her skull. There was no point in apologising. It wouldn’t take back what she said, or the fact that she was venting her own internal frustration at Samara, who had done nothing to warrant any anger.

“I shouldn’t have interrupted you,” said Miranda, willing herself to sound calmer, despite the fact that she felt no less stressed than a moment ago. “Go ahead.”

“What I meant to say is that, in the past, we always found time to spend together. To speak privately. Yet now…” Samara let their current circumstances speak for themselves. Things had changed so suddenly. Without warning.

“I know,” Miranda acknowledged, rubbing her forehead. She knew because she had been doing this deliberately. Distancing herself. Keeping Samara at arms’ length. Even though it was the last thing she wanted.

She didn’t know what she wanted. Not really. Not fully. That was the problem.

“I do not wish to sound self-centred, but have I done something to upset you?” Samara asked, audibly confused by the abrupt shift in their relationship, even since they had last spoken on the balcony only a mere six days earlier.

“No,” Miranda assured her, shaking her head. About that, she could be honest, at least. None of this was Samara’s fault. She was a fucking saint.

“Then why does it seem as though you are avoiding me?” Samara pressed.

For that, Miranda had no response. Because the only answer she had at that moment was the truth. And, aside from the fact that she still didn’t fully understand what the whole truth was, she was afraid that telling her what she thought was happening would drive an irremovable wedge between them.

Samara had been in love - true love, if there was such a thing - once before. That woman took her own life centuries ago. Samara had made it very clear on multiple occasions that she had no desire to reopen that part of herself up to anyone else after losing her bondmate. Even touching on the subject of being with another person again in the future had made her deeply uncomfortable. 

On top of that, Miranda had never gotten a straight answer as to whether Justicars were allowed to think about such things, even if Samara did want to. From the way Samara had spoken about it, Miranda had always more or less assumed it was forbidden by The Code. That Justicars had to be celibate. That she had sworn a vow never to let another person stand between her and her faith.

Samara was content with the person she was. With the life she had chosen for herself. She was never going to betray the memory of her bondmate, or the oaths she had sworn to the Justicar Order. Even speaking of such things would be an insult to her - the very idea was like spitting on her family and her religion.

Miranda’s feelings were not a problem Samara needed in her life. Or wanted. At all.

If Samara knew of Miranda’s burgeoning feelings for her, whatever they were, she would reject her, yes, but worse she would probably come to the conclusion that permanently distancing herself would be the best thing for both of them, so that there was no prospect of Miranda being misled. Hoping for more.

Miranda understood that, of course. She could have told her that. Told her that she respected her celibacy. That she knew why Samara couldn’t love her back. That, even if these growing feelings were exactly what she feared they were, that didn’t mean she wanted anything from her other than to preserve the relationship they already had. But, even if Miranda told her all those things, and meant them, the sad fact was that Samara probably wouldn’t believe her. 

That was why Miranda didn’t dare say anything. It was for the best that she didn’t.

At Miranda’s silence, Samara sighed and stepped closer. “I regret that I have not been here. I will not pretend that I do not know that I left you when you needed support more than you have ever needed it before. I have failed you. I know this, and for that words cannot express how repentant I truly am. I cannot take back those lost days. But I am here now, for as long as I am able to be,” Samara avowed, one hand covering her heart, as if to speak to just how present she was in that moment. “You have carried this alone for so long, but not today. Not while I am here for you. So, please...speak to me,” she implored her.

Cautious though she was, Miranda couldn’t help but meet Samara’s gaze when she said that, her eye shining under the streetlight. Deep down, there wasn’t a damn thing Miranda wanted to do more than to surrender to what Samara was asking of her. To crumble the way she had when she had opened up about her past, and told Samara things she had never told anyone else. To be vulnerable and unburden herself of her secrets, because she knew damn well Samara was the only person in the whole universe she could really trust with them. The only person who could really handle seeing her at her most exposed. Her safe place.

She wanted to tell her about the tinnitus, and the insomnia, and the nightmares, and how every single person she had come to Earth with had died under her watch, and how she had woken up in that shuttle covered in another person’s blood, and how she had crawled away while a dying man begged her for help because she knew she could do nothing for him, and how she had never, not once, not even for a moment, felt happy that she had lived, and how she kept walking into situations that seemed certain to get her killed rather than cope with the fact that she didn’t feel fucking anything at all except this constant, crushing, hollow void of nothingness, and how she wasn’t speaking to her sister, and how she knew everyone would have been better off if nobody had ever pulled her out of that wasteland, and she didn’t know how she was supposed to keep pretending everything was okay when fifty-seven people who had served on the Normandy were dead and she knew damn well she wasn’t worthy of her miraculous survival and recovery when so many of those who perished had so much more to live for.

For weeks, hell, for months, Miranda had desperately, desperately needed Samara here for precisely that reason. Because she was her confidant. Her anchor. Her voice of wisdom. Her friend. Someone she could talk to about anything in the knowledge that she wouldn’t be judged or rejected, even at her most exposed.

Samara was the one and only person Miranda ever actually wanted to be near her when she was weak. Because she had seen that vulnerability right from the outset, if she was being totally honest with herself. All the sides of Miranda she hated about herself. All her flaws. And she’d never turned away. Not once.

Samara was special to her. She had been for a long time.

It felt like physical fucking torture having so much she wanted to say to the person who was standing right there in front of her, and yet knowing that she couldn’t.

She couldn’t, because it was not only becoming extremely fucking obvious that she had fallen in love with Samara, but far beyond that, Miranda was beginning to realise just how long she had been falling in love with Samara.

And if she told Samara that, it would destroy this.

Miranda couldn’t.

She couldn’t do it.

She couldn’t lose this. 

“...I can’t,” Miranda finally answered.

She saw Samara’s face fall with disappointment when she heard that, which was saying something because Samara was rarely so expressive. In fact, disappointment was an understatement. If anything, she looked devastated. 

“Miranda--”

“I’m sorry. I have to do this on my own.” Miranda pulled away before Samara could try to reach for her, taking a few steps back. She couldn’t look at her. It would have broken her heart if she did. “Please just leave me alone right now.”

With that, Miranda turned and left Samara standing in the street behind her.

Samara heeded her words, and didn’t follow.

Pushing Samara away in the short term so that she could get the space she needed to deal with whatever these feelings were and get them under control may have seemed harsh, but the alternative meant risking losing Samara forever. And Samara meant far too much to Miranda for her to be able to take that gamble.

At least if she was cruel now, there was still a chance she might have this safe place to come back to later down the road, when she really needed it.

Miranda got the news that Samara had left the next day.

Just like last time, she had disappeared without saying goodbye.

*     *     *

In hindsight, Miranda had been relieved that nobody had been there to witness it when she walked directly into the doors to the Starboard Observation Deck.

“Ow.” Miranda recoiled and rubbed her head, glancing up from her datapad.

For a moment, she didn’t even twig as to what had just occurred, because this made no sense. This had never happened before. The doors were always unlocked. They always opened for her. She never even thought twice about it.

“EDI, open the door,” she instructed.

“Apologies, Ms Lawson,” EDI answered her. “Samara is currently in a deep meditation. She has requested that the door remain locked, and that she not be disturbed at this time.”

“...I see.” Miranda hesitated there for a moment. She couldn’t help but feel peculiar about that response. Certainly, Samara had a right to meditate as much as she wanted. Miranda would never stop her. There was nothing wrong with that.

But then, that was the point. Miranda had come and gone from the Starboard Observation Deck literally dozens of times, maybe even a hundred times by that point while Samara was meditating. She had never locked her out before. It had never been an issue. And if she wanted privacy, why hadn’t she simply walked over to her office and let her know about her intended solitude? 

“I could pass your message on to Samara for you,” EDI suggested.

“Hmm?” Miranda glanced at EDI’s hologram, roused from her thoughts.

“Your library list,” EDI helpfully chimed in, well aware of what file Miranda had been working on all day. EDI was integrated into every computer system on the ship. She knew everything. “I am certain Samara would appreciate it.”

Miranda frowned. But that would eliminate the whole part where she gave it to her in person. “No. No, I’ll give it to her later,” she said. “Thank you, EDI.”

The next day, she found the door locked again.

Miranda sighed, running her hand through her hair. “EDI.”

“Apologies, Ms Lawson,” EDI answered her. “Samara is currently in a deep meditation. She has requested that the doo--”

“You told me this yesterday,” Miranda cut her off. EDI may have been an AI, but she had the same tendency as a lot of VIs to repeat exactly the same information word-for-word in exactly the same tone of voice. “Has Samara seriously been meditating this whole time?” she asked, finding that difficult to believe.

“One moment.” EDI took less than a second to analyse over twenty-four hours of security footage from the Starboard Observation Deck. “Yes.”

At that answer, Miranda’s frustration softened to concern. “Really?” She glanced at the locked doors, wondering just what exactly was going on in there, and hoping that whatever Samara was doing she was being safe and sensible. 

After a moment, she shook her head. Samara was nearly a thousand years old, and she had been a Justicar for over four hundred years. Whatever ritual she was partaking in, she had probably been doing it longer than Miranda could ever possibly live. It was condescending of her to think that Samara didn’t know what she was doing, or that she wasn’t taking care of herself.

But still…

“...She is going to have to stop to hydrate herself eventually. Don’t disturb her if you don’t have to, but just...keep an eye on things, EDI,” said Miranda, trusting she would grasp her meaning.

“Understood, Ms Lawson.”

It wasn’t lost on Miranda as she went back to her office that day that it was the longest she had gone without speaking to Samara in three months. 

On the third day, the door opened. Finally, Miranda thought. However, when she walked in, there was just one problem. There was nobody there.

“Samara?” Miranda glanced around the room as she stepped further inside, although in retrospect she didn’t know why she bothered when she knew full well the room was empty. She would have seen her on a first glance if she was there. It wasn’t like Samara was easy to overlook.

Out of the corner of her eye, Miranda noticed EDI pop up at her little terminal almost expectantly, as if waiting for her to ask where Samara was. And that certainly had been Miranda’s first thought. But, on consideration, she turned on her heels and left instead, stubbornly deciding against it.

If Samara wasn’t there, she must have had a good reason for it. She was probably busy. Miranda couldn’t expect her to be available at her beck and call purely because she was bored and craving companionship. It wasn’t Samara’s responsibility that Miranda had so much less work to do now than she did before, thanks to handing in her resignation to The Illusive Man.

With that, she retreated back to her office.

She didn’t want to admit it, but it was driving her a little bit up the wall going this long without speaking to the one person on this ship she had come to spend more time with than anyone else. It wasn’t until that moment that Miranda had perhaps come to realise precisely how much she took for granted that she would just get to talk to Samara every single day, no matter what.

She wouldn’t have thought it was possible to miss someone after only three days, let alone this much. Hell, maybe that was why Samara needed space.

That being said, there were other thoughts on her mind too. Miranda had come to concede that she wasn’t the most observant person in the world when it came to reading other people, but even she could see that something had been strangely...off about Samara ever since they got back from the Collector Base.

It was difficult to put a finger on it. It wasn’t as though much had changed on the surface, aside from these past few days where Samara had gone from being part of her everyday routine to someone it now seemed Miranda couldn’t get hold of despite her best efforts, even though the two of them technically only lived, what, ten metres apart in a straight line? If that?

Even in the moments that they had spent together since the Collector Base, Miranda couldn’t shake this odd feeling that Samara was...different, somehow. More distant than she’d been in a long time. Then again, for every instance where it seemed Samara was detached or wasn’t fully present in the moment, there were just as many where she came off bright and genuinely engaged with whatever Miranda was saying, precisely as she would have done before.

Maybe Miranda’s perception had been altered due to her reduced schedule. She couldn’t rule that out. Maybe Samara wasn’t acting abnormally, but rather Miranda was holding her to different standards and projecting her own issues onto her due to permanently severing ties with Cerberus so recently. 

And also maybe she was feeling a little insecure about that whole thing where she’d broken down into tears on her bed and exposed the absolute most vulnerable side of herself to another person, especially since they hadn’t talked about anything since that happened. Yeah. That too. That they hadn’t had a follow-up conversation since then was starting to weigh on her a bit.

Miranda sighed, finally giving in. “Alright, fine. EDI, where is she?”

“Samara is in the cargo bay,” EDI answered, knowing full well what Miranda wanted to know.

“The cargo bay?” Miranda echoed, arching an eyebrow.

“That is correct,” EDI confirmed.

Despite her misgivings, Miranda didn’t hesitate to take the elevator all the way down to the Normandy’s lowest level. When she got there, she couldn’t see anything but the usual storage crates. For a moment, Miranda wondered if EDI had made some sort of mistake, or if this was another one of her attempts at a joke. She couldn’t see Samara anywhere. But then she caught a flash of red and blue, tucked away in the corner, behind a stack of white ceramic boxes.

It wasn’t until Miranda had already instinctively started to approach Samara that a thought occurred to her. The only reason she would be concealed away in the shadows like this would be if she wanted to be alone. But something just wouldn’t let her walk away without at least asking. 

“Good hiding spot. Not where I would have figured I would find you,” Miranda remarked to break the ice.

Samara glanced up at her voice. She didn’t seem startled by her presence, nor annoyed by it. “When I worked as a mercenary, the cargo hold was always the ideal place to retreat when I desired some time alone. Of course, back then the ships on which I journeyed did not contain an AI who could reveal my location to others,” Samara noted, deducing what had transpired to lead Miranda there.

“I can leave you in peace if you would like. I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” said Miranda, her intentions no more sinister than that after not seeing her for three days.

“You are welcome to stay.” Samara unfolded one of her arms from her chest, gesturing for Miranda to join her in her hiding spot, if she so pleased. “After all, you came all this way.”

Miranda’s gaze narrowed imperceptibly at that. There was a slight undercurrent in Samara’s tone. But she couldn’t put her finger on what it was. And Samara’s expression gave nothing away. Nevertheless, having received an invitation and sensing no sarcasm, Miranda vaulted up to take a seat on top of a crate.

“I imagine it’s not easy for someone like you, finding places to hide on small, cramped spaceships,” said Miranda, making small talk. She hadn’t planned on what to say, honestly. She hadn’t thought she would get this far - that Samara would want her to hang around. “What I’m getting at is that you’re tall.”

“For my species, that is not inaccurate,” Samara acknowledged. She pointed upwards. “However, cargo holds have high ceilings. Generally speaking.”

“Ah.” Miranda nodded, wishing she were better at idle chit-chat.

And there was that uncomfortable feeling that something was off again.

“Is everything alright?” Miranda asked, electing to get to the point. Samara didn’t answer. “I’d like to think you could tell me if it wasn’t. I don’t know if I could be much help, but I’m actually a good listener, if you ever need one.”

“I am certain you are,” Samara replied, mustering a faint smile.

“...Is it me?” Miranda finally dared to ask.

That was the first thing Miranda said that took Samara by surprise, causing her demeanour to shift. She looked up at her, unsure what she meant.

“Did I make things weird between us? Did I say too much when I told you about myself?” Miranda asked, still convinced on a subconscious level that allowing herself to be that weak and pathetic around Samara must have revealed to her what a complete waste of space she was on the inside, and driven her away.

“No.” Samara shook her head, reaching out across the gap between them to cover Miranda’s hand with hers. “Please do not ever think you erred by speaking to me as you did. I treasure that you trusted me with something I see even now still hurts you,” Samara avowed, blue eyes shimmering with sincerity where they met Miranda’s. “You are braver than I that you could do such a thing.”

At that, Miranda softened, glad to see her worst fears hadn’t been realised. That Samara wasn’t just avoiding her. Samara wouldn’t lie just to spare her feelings.

Another thought occurred to Miranda then, causing her to pull a face. “Does it make me self-centred that I assumed I was the reason you were down here?”

Not expecting that, Samara couldn’t stop a small laugh from escaping her. “Perhaps it does,” she light-heartedly conceded, a twinkle of mirth in her gaze. 

“Damn it. I was doing so well, too.” Miranda feigned disappointment, which Samara seemed to find rather entertaining. “Samara, I know this is going to come as a shock to you, but I think I might be just a little bit obsessed with myself.”

“Surely not. You have hidden it so well,” Samara quipped, the corners of her lips quirked with amusement. Evidently The Code did permit occasional sarcasm.

Miranda winced. It was in jest, but it stung just a tiny bit knowing how true it was, especially when they’d first met. “Ouch. I thought we were friends.”

“We are.” Samara sighed, a more relaxed expression coming over her. “Albeit, I should not do so, but I have always rather liked those qualities about you.”

Miranda arched an eyebrow, slowly allowing herself to look smug. “Really?”

“I should not do so,” Samara reiterated, holding up a finger, as if to indicate that was not a licence to disregard her many previous weeks and months of wisdom and advice centring around mindfulness and self-improvement.

“What? So I can’t use your flaws against you?” Miranda joked.

“No, you may not. As any matriarch will tell you, only matriarchs may dispense such wisdom,” Samara remarked, entirely in good humour.

“Ah. My mistake. Next time I’ll make sure to pass any criticisms I have onto the oldest asari I can find and have her text them to you,” Miranda noted. 

“That would be acceptable,” said Samara. “However, this conversation has not occurred in our usual location. Therefore, I must hereby declare it a regrettable lapse in judgement, and deny it ever transpired,” she commented, settling back into her original stance, because, of course, a Justicar would never openly admit to enjoying the company of a person even when they were vain and self-centred.

“Oh, so you’re claiming the cargo fumes got to you,” Miranda deduced.

“Precisely,” Samara confirmed, eliciting a chuckle as she leaned back against the crate, evidently relieved that she had averted Miranda’s insecurities.

If nothing else, Miranda was pleased to see that, whatever it was Samara was dealing with that had driven her to lock herself away for a while, she had lightened her mood for a minute or two. But, that being said, Samara showed no signs of leaving her current venue. And Miranda still wanted to help, if she could.

“Are you sure you don’t want to talk about what’s really on your mind?” Miranda asked again gently, that offer remaining open, if she was amenable to sharing.

“I am certain,” Samara confirmed, a well-considered response, and seemingly not merely a defence. “My burdens are my own. And you are a young woman. You should not concern yourself with the thought of what might trouble me.”

“If you’re about to call yourself ‘old’ again…” Miranda warned her.

“If I do, it is only because it is true,” Samara reminded her with a small smile. “I have been on my own for a very long time, Miranda. In that time, I have learned there are many things that I can only do alone. It is just as you would know that there are some important battles you must fight for yourself, no matter how much someone else - such as, say, myself - might have grown to care for you, or how much I might wish I could fight them for you,” she thoughtfully pointed out.

Miranda felt a very pleasant warmth course through her at those words. Hearing Samara state so openly, so plainly, that she cared for her was easily up there as one of the most tender and genuine expressions of affection Miranda had ever received from another person in her entire life up to that point. Sure, it wasn’t like there was any competition. But that just made it mean even more.

But, that being said, she also didn’t want to let that distract her from the conversation, and from her primary focus of making sure that Samara was alright.

“So it’s a spiritual thing then?” Miranda intuited. If this was a battle she couldn’t help Samara fight, and she had meditated on it, then it must have been, surely.

Samara tilted her head in thought. “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“Then that’s all you had to say. I know I can’t help you with that,” Miranda conceded as she slid down from the crate, aware of her shortcomings on any subject to do with religion. “As long as you’re okay, that’s what matters.”

“Thank you. And you have already aided me. More than you know,” Samara assured her, causing Miranda to look momentarily confused. “Speaking to you just now has cheered me up immensely, as it often does.”

Miranda damn near turned a few shades pinker at that. Samara really had to be the only person she had ever met who had actually straight up told her that she liked being around her. For a second there, it felt pretty damn nice, being special to someone like that. “Now you’re just flattering me,” she said.

“A Justicar never flatters,” Samara insisted. Miranda didn’t know if that was an actual tenet of the Code, or she was just being sneakily funny again.

“Yeah, well, don’t be a stranger, next time. Good luck with whatever this is. You know where to find me if you need me,” Miranda reminded her, moving to take her leave. However, she stopped before she could depart, remembering the datapad in her hands. “Oh, before I forget, I brought you something.”

Samara eyed the datapad cautiously as she took it from her, as if uncertain whether or not she could accept what Miranda was offering. “What is this?” 

“Book recommendations,” Miranda answered as Samara began to scroll through it. “I should say, I haven’t actually read most of these myself, so don’t blame me if you don’t like them. But I had a lot of free time, and you read very fast for someone with a very small library to get through, and these came highly reviewed. There’s even a section just on Arthurian lore since you seem to like every book that has knights in it,” Miranda pointed out. “I would have done the same for samurai since you seem to like them too, but unfortunately I don’t know much about them.”

Samara stopped only a few seconds after Miranda started to explain. She was silent for a long moment, frozen in place, as if lost for how to respond. “...You did this for me?” she said softly, clearly realising from the sheer length of the list precisely how much of her valuable time Miranda had used on something just for her. Real, genuine time, thought and effort had gone into this.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Miranda shrugged, not seeing what the big deal was, beyond it being a nice gesture for her. Wasn’t this the sort of things friends did?

Samara glanced down, her eyes shimmering as a strangely distant smile unfurled across her lips, clutching the datapad a little tighter. “Thank you, Miranda. We will speak again soon,” said Samara, electing to remain alone with her thoughts.

With that, Miranda left her in peace.

What Miranda didn’t see as she walked away was the expression change on Samara’s face, the inner conflict she had concealed rising to the surface.

You monster, the voice in her head said. Her own voice.

A companion that had been with her for four hundred and thirty-four years, seven months, and eighteen days. The only voice she had heard for most of that time. A voice that had been so much quieter over these past three months. Since she laid Mirala to rest. Since she believed it was her time to die.

You heartless monster, it told her, drawing out each word.

What else could she call herself, knowing that she allowed Miranda to do such things for her. That she let her waste her time and energy thinking so fondly of her. That she permitted Miranda to go out of her way to brighten her day with thoughtful gestures, when Samara knew full well that she should not receive such things, because she was not worthy of them.

You are exploiting her.

Yes, she was.

Deceiving her with your lies of omission.

Yes, she was.

If she really knew what happened all those years ago - if she saw the person you really are, do you think she could stand to be in the same room as you?

No. Samara knew she would not. Or she should not, if Miranda understood what it meant. She had perhaps revealed to her more than she ought but...not enough for Miranda to truly grasp the events that took place, and the extent to which she was personally responsible for everything that had befallen her family.

Everybody had only pieces of the puzzle. Not the full picture.

You knew the risks when you decided to have children, however small they seemed. You thought you were special. You thought it could not happen to you.

But it did.

In truth, her bondmate had been unwell even before that. Samara knew this. She had loved her for a century. Through all her ups and downs. Seen her at her strongest. At her weakest. She had been under so much pressure at work.

Then, out of nowhere, Rila was diagnosed. And she was taken away.

In a single doctor’s appointment, their whole lives changed forever.

Rila’s diagnosis meant Falere and Mirala were high-risk. It was a flip of a coin. Fifty percent. Almost a certainty that one of them would have it. Maybe both.

Samara lived through it all. Through the effect it had on her bondmate. Watched her heart tear asunder as they took Rila away. Heard her scream til her voice cracked. Caressed her as she wept. Let her cling to her so hard as she cried that her nails cut Samara’s skin. Supported her through her nervous breakdown. Held her hand as they sat through their mandatory therapy sessions. Listened to her say all the right things. Told her what she thought she needed to hear. 

Samara had been there for all of it.

And yet, in all that time, how had it not occurred to her even once to think that the woman she had loved for a hundred years might try to kill herself?

Would you have even cared back then if she told you she would? Would you have listened? She needed you, and you were never there for her.

She could not always be there. They had two children to look after. And she was so busy at work. The sole earner, after her bondmate lost her job.

Do not make excuses.

You treated her like she was weak. A burden.

She did. She was so cold to her sometimes. So unfeeling. So unsympathetic.

She knew she was distraught.

And she left her alone.

And then she came home.

And she found her.

Death was preferable to being with you for another day.

And then there was Mirala.

Samara would have given anything to protect her and Falere from Rila’s diagnosis. From their father’s death. To shelter them. To let their lives go on as normal. But how could she expect them to pretend nothing had changed?

Samara focused on being strong for her family. Carrying all their burdens alone. Preserving what they had. And, while she withdrew, Mirala lashed out.

That came as no surprise. Where Rila had been austere and responsible (much like her grandmother), and Falere had been sensitive and gentle (much like her father), Mirala had always been brave and a rebel at heart (much like her grandfather, and exactly like Samara herself when she was a young woman). 

Then Falere was diagnosed.

When that happened, Mirala knew. Somehow, she just knew. And there was no fate that would have terrified a girl like her more than the prospect of being locked away forever. Samara knew this. Because she would have felt the same.

And yet, despite knowing her daughter as well as she did, how had Samara not known Mirala would do everything in her power to try and defy her fate?

It should have been so obvious to her that she would run away.

Samara would have.

Did you know she would try to escape? Is that why you told her the things you did the day before her test? Is that why you took no precautions against it?

Did part of you want her to flee?

You have always maintained it was inadvertent, that you did not foresee this, but perhaps on some level you hoped she would disappear and evade the police?

How could she ever know that? How could Samara ever really know?

Had her subconscious wilfully left those windows unlocked in a secret desire to see Mirala go free? Or had Samara been so fraught with worry for the upcoming test and so mentally disconnected from her surroundings after four years of tragedy that she had simply not been able to anticipate Mirala would abscond?

Did it matter? Did it make her any less culpable?

A mother would do anything for her child. Perhaps even let her become a murderer.

None of these thoughts were strangers to Samara. 

If any decent person fully grasped the truth about Samara’s past, and why she was to blame, then they could only despise her, as Samara despised herself.

She was the monster all along.

She was the monster who had killed her family.

She had the blood of over a thousand murders on her hands.

Yes, you are. And yes, you do. So why do you persist? Why are you still here?

Samara had been asking herself that question for four hundred and thirty-four years, seven months and eighteen days. That question had compelled her to try and end her life once. She had failed. After that, for a long time, there had only been one answer keeping her going. One reason she stayed alive. One reason she had not tried to end her life a second time.

Because Mirala, or ‘Morinth’ was out there killing. And she needed to stop her.

You fraud.

You imposter.

Perhaps she was. Perhaps it was all she had ever been. It was all she had ever felt like. Even as she followed The Code, and devoted herself to her Justicar Oaths - living to be something she did not truly believe she deserved to be.

Except for that one brief moment when she finally succeeded. When the child she had, in her own mind, already killed four centuries ago was laid to rest.

It was the only time since she had been granted the right to wear this armour and been formally inducted as a member of the Justicar Order that Samara had actually felt worthy of that title that her sisters had bestowed upon her.

She had kept her word.

She had honoured her vow.

She had completed her penance.

And yet, if that was the case...why was she still here?

Because you are not the noble Justicar you pretend to be. You never have been. Your motives for joining them were never selfless. They were always about you. Atoning for your sins. Making yourself feel better for what you did to your family. For what Morinth did to so many other families.

And yet you loved her.

Even at her worst.

You never stopped loving her.

You never stopped seeing that brave, strong, smart daughter you knew. Even when she was using those very same skills to kill, or even to make you kill.

And part of you was...proud.

That was true, wasn’t it? Sick and twisted though it was, Samara had never denied that. She could not. She had not killed Morinth because she hated her. No. That had never been her mission. Rather, it had been to save her from herself.

Mirala had become Morinth because of Samara. Because of her disease. She had been nothing but a child when she made her first mistake. A mistake she was too young to fully understand. A mistake she could never take back.

Mirala, for all intents and purposes, had died on that day. Everything that had happened since, had been Samara’s disease taking control of her actions.

That was what Samara had killed.

That was what Samara hated.

Not her daughter.

Herself.

And you wonder why the Goddess does not embrace you?

Monster.

You are evil.

You are rotten.

Of course. Samara had done right by her actions, but her actions did not change what she was on the inside. They had not cleansed her. If they had, the Goddess would have released her from this life. She would not have bound her to go on suffering like this. Or was it selfish to demand that of her?

Would a true Justicar have even questioned what had happened, or why they survived? No, surely not. The truly faithful did not question that the Goddess had a plan, and that they themselves had a place in that plan.

But, then again, in nine hundred and seventy years of life, Samara had never had a single prayer answered by the Goddess. Not one.

Samara had never taken that silence as any indication that the Goddess did not exist. She had seen too many things in her years that led her to know that her divine providence was very much real. Rather, to Samara, that she always went unheard proved that she was unworthy of having her prayers answered.

Evidently, she still was.

The Justicars will see through you if you ever return to them. They will know you for what you truly are. That the Goddess has excommunicated you. They will spit on you and cast you out. They will know you do not deserve to wear the armour.

Samara did not dare return to her Order.

Somehow, something deep inside her just told her that she couldn’t.

She mustn’t.

Maybe the voice was right. Maybe they would finally know her for the fake that she was. Maybe they would finally realise that their predecessors had made a mistake when they granted Samara her place in the Order. That, even if Samara had never strayed from her Oaths, there was something...wrong with her. That she was not a righteous enough person to be worthy of fighting alongside.

That she should not be here.

Truthfully, Samara no longer knew whether she was staying on The Normandy because any part of her sincerely still believed that she was fulfilling the duties of the valiant, noble Justicar, as she claimed, or because swearing her fealty to Shepard in the battle against the Reapers was an honourable thing to do…

Or because she was just a scared, confused, lost, selfish soul, who was staying where she was because she was afraid to admit she had nowhere else to go.

Other than to be alone again.

With this voice.

Yes.

With yourself.

Like you deserve.

The voice did not lie. It never did.

Why do you not just end it? Coward. You know you should. 

You knew you should have all those years ago.

It was not the first time Samara had asked herself that question. She had lost count of how many times she had over the centuries.

Morinth is gone.

Yes. She knew this.

What purpose do you have for living?

None.

What more lies do you have to prolong this?

None.

And yet you do not?

And yet she did not.

If you truly loved your family, you would just die, right now.

She would.

It is what you deserve.

It was.

You know this.

She did.

These thoughts had been her companion for so many centuries. Her answers had never changed, save now that Morinth was no more. She had known for a long time how easy it would be to end it, if she ever made that choice again.

But she was not making that choice.

Not yet.

Not today.

Even if it was only inertia keeping her going.

Even if she did not know why she was lingering on like a ghost after she was so certain she was going to die at The Collector Base.

Even though the guilt was killing her.

Today would not be the day.

Nor tomorrow.

Nor probably the day after that.

And yet she still could not say why.

She could not find a reason why it would not.

Because you do not truly love your family, do you?

Samara’s eyes darkened as her own voice spat that accusation at her like acid. How could she say that? Of course she loved them. If she did not love them, it could not hurt her this much every single time she thought of them.

She had carried the weight of the tragedy that befell her family for four hundred and thirty-four years, seven months, and eighteen days and suffered in silence every one of those days because of how much she loved them, and her regret at having caused it all.

She could not even speak to Falere and Rila, knowing what pain her disease had caused them. Knowing that she had robbed them of their lives.

Of their father.

Of their sister.

To hear their voices again was a mercy Samara knew she did not deserve. And for them to hear hers was a suffering they did not deserve inflicted on them.

And she knew it would break her heart to see them again now as grown women. Goddess, Samara just knew Falere would be the spitting image of her bondmate now that she was an adult. She always had been, even as a child.

And Rila would look exactly like her mother. Because of course she would. She had seen pictures of her mother as a young woman, and they looked so alike.

She thought of them so often.

So often.

She had wept for centuries in the dark, until there were no more tears to shed.

But you do not think of your family every single day anymore.

Not as you used to.

Do you?

You know this to be true.

Samara hesitated. She did not have a response for that. The voice was the same, but those words were new. Because those thoughts had never been true before.

For as long as she had been a Justicar, Samara had found a kind of...purity in her eternal suffering. As if by living only for her pain, and purging herself of everything else, it made her own continued survival somehow less immoral. Because there was no joy in Samara continuing to exist as she did. No happiness. 

It was, if anything, a curse.

When she became a Justicar, there was no Samara anymore. She was just a memory of a person who once was, named for a woman who died with her bondmate and her children. There was only a warrior. A shell of a person. Devoted to a Code. Living out a lifelong penance for the sins of a past life.

Liar.

At that caustic word, Samara’s biotics flared up beyond her own control.

You do not suffer.

You do not feel pain.

You selfish

Useless

Waste

The crate behind her compressed in on itself, and slammed into the wall as each of those venomous words pierced Samara’s armour like daggers. Her composure cracked. She could not fight the demons. Because she knew them to be true.

You are not sad.

You are not miserable.

You are no martyr.

Your life did not end.

You have never been more at peace.

More content.

More joyful.

Samara rejected that. Denied it. That wasn’t possible. She had found an equilibrium, yes. Found greater harmony and relief than she had known in centuries. But it was not what she had known before.

How could it ever be?

She would never permit herself to--

Do not deceive me. You cannot.

I know you.

I am you.

Her hand shook as every ounce of suppressed self-loathing came pouring out. She lifted another crate, tempted to send it careening directly at herself. To hurt herself. To punish herself. But she could not. And the only reason she did not was because some small part of her was still aware EDI would see it if she did.

She reluctantly dropped the crate, and let her hands cover her face.

Coward.

Stop hiding and listen to me.

Stop running from what you already know.

The fact of the matter is, if you truly did still love your family the way you claim to, you would not be able to live on so free from all cares and burdens, and feel such unrestrained happiness the way you have done in so many recent days.

That was not true, Samara insisted. The only reason she had allowed herself those small mercies was because she had been so certain it would not matter. Because she had been so confident that she would already be dead by now.

Yet you are not.

And you are still doing it.

You are not pulling away, though you know you should.

Yes. She knew she should. But she wasn’t. She couldn’t.

She had nowhere to go.

And if you truly still loved your bondmate as eternally as you claim…

Samara put her hands to either side of her head, as if willing her mind silent would somehow change what her soul already knew the voice would say.

...you would not have room in your heart for another.

At that, Samara’s resolve cracked, and she crumbled to her knees, feeling everything she had fought to contain threatening to come spilling out.

Her guilt for daring to continue to live on.

Her pain for knowing that Miranda was so blissfully ignorant to her true nature, and to the fact that Samara deserved none of the kindness she had shown her.

And her self-hatred, knowing she did not deserve the happiness and contentment she felt, yet selfishly clinging to her moments with Miranda anyway, even after she had recently begun to recognise how deep her feelings had grown for her, because she was too weak and powerless to do otherwise.

She loved Miranda. She did. How could she not? 

But she wanted nothing from her.

She never had. 

Well, not entirely. Samara did want to see her go on to higher and better things. She wanted her to live her life in harmony and contentment somewhere far away. Most of all, she wanted Miranda to be happy with who she was.

That was all.

Was that so wrong?

Those wants were the only things left in her life which Samara was not unsure about. Although the voice ensured even that was becoming less and less true.

You think you are what to her? Some chivalrous knight? Some virtuous mentor? Selflessly, chastely loving her from afar?

It would make me laugh, if you did not sicken me so.

It had been so easy to allow herself to open up to Miranda and form that bond with her, to accept the fact that their rapport made her genuinely happy and to forgive her own selfishness in seeking out that connection, when she had believed wholeheartedly that it wouldn’t matter, because she would be dead by now.

Except she wasn’t.

She was still here.

Everything you touch dies, Samara.

Killing yourself would be the greatest kindness you could do.

But, since you are too cowardly for that...

Yes. Samara understood. She did have to pull away. She saw clearly now.

Samara was toxic. She was poison. For a brief moment, she had almost forgotten. All those many months ago, when it had been plain for her to see from just a single solitary, almost accidental glimmer of insight just how...deeply unhappy Miranda was with herself, Samara had been compelled to intervene, and offer her assistance. It had seemed like the right thing to do. She had dared to think that perhaps she could make a difference. Somehow, she seemed to have succeeded.

But that was the problem.

Miranda had quite clearly grown attached to their friendship. To Samara. And she shouldn’t have. She was young. And a brilliant woman. She had her whole life ahead of her. The best thing Samara could do for her was fade away, and let her devote her time to people and pursuits worthy of her splendour. 

It was the only just course of action.

Indeed it is.

Miranda would find far better friends than Samara. And she had come so far. She did not need advice or counsel anymore. Certainly not from a broken, ruined shell of a woman. Samara had nothing to offer anyone but downfall, and despair. Caring for her as selflessly as she did, meant it was time to let her go.

After all, if sharing moments with another could feel so right, then Samara knew she had to deny herself. For love, even the meagre pleasure of a benevolent, unrequited love that remained unspoken, was the last thing she deserved.

There is nothing noble about you, Samara.

Nothing selfless.

You always are, and always have been, a monster.

And it was with those thoughts swirling in her mind that Samara began to make the hard decision that it was time for her to leave. Not immediately. But soon. 

If she was going to go on living, then she would live for The Code. What else was there? Samara may not have felt worthy of the Justicar mantle but, whether her Goddess approved her or not, and even if she dared not show her face at her temple again, she was what she was. She had devoted her life to this. She did not know how to be anything else. Did not even remember how.

Being around others was a risk. There was always a danger that they could breach The Code, or put her in a position where she was in conflict with it. That was why Justicars worked alone. In solitude, she would cease to be Samara in anything but name. She would return to what she had known. She preferred it that way.

She had to be alone.

That was her penance.

Samara did not know then, as she could not possibly have known, that the next time she would try to kill herself would be a little over eight months from that day, on the day Rila died, and the day she reunited with Falere. 

And nobody, except perhaps Falere, would really comprehend just how long Samara had been waiting for a reason to hold that gun to her head, and just how ready she had been to pull that trigger, if Shepard had not stopped her.

It had not been a split-second decision. It had been a decision four hundred and thirty-five years, three months, and twenty-seven days in the making. 

Four hundred and thirty-five years, three months and twenty-seven days

That Samara had wanted to die.

*     *     *

Miranda hadn’t meant to cause Samara to disappear again like that, least of all so suddenly. And it wasn’t even a question in her mind that she was the reason she’d left. She knew immediately that she was responsible for her absence.

In hindsight, she supposed it wasn’t surprising. Miranda had asked her to leave her alone, and not in the kindest of terms either. And Samara had obliged. Evidently she’d taken her request more literally than she intended, but nevertheless.

Miranda wasn’t sure which feeling hurt worse. The initial shock of Samara’s abrupt departure. The uncertainty of once again not knowing if or when she would ever return. Or the ache of missing her - longing for her. A familiar companion.

If nothing else, Miranda had decided amid her gloom and misery that she could find one singular blessing in disguise that had resulted from this. That was that she finally had the space to make some sort of vague attempt at processing what she was feeling. Hopefully she could endeavour to make sense of it all in the intervening however many weeks or months it would be before Samara spontaneously decided to show up again, as was her wont.

So, partly motivated out of stubbornness and spite at Samara’s absence, she finally started making use of the time on her hand, and buckled down to try and figure out what to do about whatever the fuck was happening to her to make her feel this way. Every waking moment, she was thinking about it. Even when she was doing other things, it was all she was doing in the back of her mind - processing, mulling it over, trying to resolve it.

Miranda had always been a woman of science. A woman of rationality. A woman of logic. But that was the problem with feelings. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t reason her way out of them. And, so far, she hadn’t been able to think her way out of her feelings for Samara, whatever they were.

‘Gay panic’ certainly didn’t seem like the right term despite the suggestions of the Extranet. First of all, because she was not, in fact, panicking. Second of all, because she was quite certain she was not gay. Although, admittedly, she was less confident about what precisely she was than she had been a week ago. And that was very much a part of what she was trying to decipher in her state that was definitely something not even remotely similar in any way, shape or form to panic.

She had started with perhaps the most obvious point of denial - she wasn’t attracted to women.

Was she?

Certainly, Miranda had never been oblivious to Samara’s looks, even from the moment they met. She wasn’t blind. Tall. Statuesque. Stunning. She was fucking perfect. Anybody would have noticed that. But she’d never thought beyond that.

None of those surface-level thoughts meant anything anyway. All heterosexual women could tell when other women were attractive. They often remarked upon it casually when other women were beautiful. Miranda had always put herself in precisely that category. She was able to tell whether or not she thought another woman was good looking, sure, but she had never felt sexual attraction to other women, and certainly not simply because of their physical appearance.

Had she?

Come to think of it, though, even if that description of how she related to women was true, was that actually any different to how she perceived and related to men?

Truthfully, even though she could tell on some level when a man was handsome versus when he was not handsome, that was about the extent of her response to them. She’d never come across a man who made anything in particular stir inside her. Ever. And not for lack of trying. When other people claimed to be turned on just by looking at some gorgeous guy or girl, Miranda had invariably rolled her eyes at those remarks and assumed they were lying or exaggerating as part of some big societal in-joke nobody had clued her in on. But maybe they weren’t.

Even when it came to the men she had slept with, it was never because she was remotely interested in them beyond the pure functional purpose she had in mind. She’d never been shy about admitting that she’d only ever viewed her past sexual partners as more like convenient objects to get herself off with than as people. And most of them weren’t even good at that.

It had gotten to a point where she had started to wonder if there was something wrong with her - that she had gone so long in her life never having so much as a relationship, let alone a serious relationship, because she’d never met anyone who made her feel anything. Then of course she had started wondering if there was something wrong with men, because it was easier to blame an entire gender than herself for why she couldn’t connect with anyone she ever met in that kind of way. She’d ultimately decided that it was a combination of both. She was better single.

The only exception, the only man she had ever actually felt any real meaningful spark of sexual and romantic chemistry towards, however temporarily, had been Jacob. And her attraction to him had only developed after she already knew him for quite some time, and more specifically after he saved her life from batarian slavers (not that Miranda had ever admitted he had saved her life in that moment, or would ever admit it). And, even then, it fizzled pretty quickly.

On second thought, was that it? Was Miranda just sexually confused because Samara had saved her life? Was she perpetually destined to mix up gratitude towards her rescuers for love? Was this just a thing that happened to her when she had near-death experiences?

But on further reflection that didn’t fully make sense either, because so much time had already passed since the shuttle crash. Three months, to be precise. Her brief relationship with Jacob had been nearly finished by this point. Even though her feelings for Samara had certainly taken her by surprise, they couldn’t be attributed to some sudden rush of adrenaline. Hell, Samara hadn’t even been there when she woke up to project confused feelings onto. So, while it couldn’t be fully eliminated as an explanation, it seemed more improbable than probable.

Maybe she was just misinterpreting her own feelings because she was lonely and Samara was the first, real, intense female friendship she’d ever had? Someone who made her feel seen. Someone she could depend on. Someone she trusted unreservedly. A rock. Maybe it wasn’t that strange for women to develop bonds so deep with one another that they could be mistaken for love?

Samara had certainly given Miranda something she had never had before. Was her brain just tricking her into thinking that was something else? Because it sure felt like she was craving more than just friendship, though she knew she shouldn’t.

The more she began to think about it, the more she began to question whether there had been signs of this for a lot longer than she had previously been aware of. Certainly, in hindsight, a couple of people here and there had...made comments that she hadn’t thought anything of at the time, Kasumi and Kelly chief among them. But maybe they weren’t just jokes. Maybe they’d legitimately picked up on signals Miranda hadn’t been aware she was sending - an interest Miranda hadn’t even contemplated she could have had back then.

Miranda had been increasingly willing in recent years to admit the fact that she wasn’t an expert when it came to making sense of her own feelings. It was kind of an embarrassing home truth to accept about herself that she knew perfectly well that she was absolutely the kind of person who could have been falling for someone for close enough to a year and a half without realising it, and also exactly the kind of person who could reach the age of thirty-six without ever really examining, questioning or figuring out her sexuality. But it was true.

Few knew it about her because she certainly never struggled to find sexual partners, but as a rule Miranda happened to be surprisingly dense when it came to picking up on cues that people were interested in her, or even flirting with her. With straight men, that wasn’t really an issue. Not to put too fine a point on it, but getting straight men to overtly hit on her to the point where even she couldn’t miss their lack of subtlety was like shooting fish in a barrel, except that Miranda never even had to fire a shot. Plus, once she discovered dating apps, it really did cut out 99% of the pretense and bullshit when she could put it right there in her profile that all she wanted was a quick fuck. Once she did that, it was just a matter of immediately blocking the matches who talked too much. 

When it came to women however, it wasn’t as if Miranda had gone through some realisation or self-discovery that she wasn’t attracted to them. She’d honestly never thought about it. And it had never really come up. It wasn’t as if Miranda had any friends to develop feelings for in the past. She only hooked up with strangers, and few such women had ever actually made a pass at her. Or, if they had, she hadn’t noticed. And, on those few rare occasions she had noticed, Miranda had reflexively turned them down. Because she was straight, right?

But did that extremely narrow and limited handful of experiences of women hitting on her prove she wasn’t interested in women? Not really. Perhaps she just hadn’t been attracted to those particular women, or had been too caught up in her own pre-existing assumptions about her heterosexuality to consider otherwise.

Miranda wasn’t completely ignorant as to why her experiences were so lopsided in favour of men. Homophobia may have been virtually non-existent in the twenty-second century, but gay and bisexual human women were still a minority. They didn’t have the same luxury as straight men when it came to expressing an interest in other women - they couldn’t safely presume that the sexuality of the women they were interested in had a 90% chance of aligning with their own. No doubt, any women who tried to gauge whether Miranda might be interested would quickly drop that line of thinking when their subtle inquiries met with cold indifference.

By contrast, for certain categories of straight men, a complete and obvious lack of interest was no deterrent. That and Miranda’s dating app profile settings filtered out any and all women from her pool of potential candidates once she moved all her activities online, which was years ago by that point.

While it was true that asari had a completely different social context, and hence the same presumptions didn’t apply to them, Miranda had lived her entire adult life within Cerberus. It wasn’t like she’d been inundated with opportunities for asari to hit on her. Frankly, she didn’t even know what asari flirting would look like if it slapped her in the face or what their cultural rules and norms around it were.

So, yes, Miranda had indeed only slept with men so far, but the more she thought about it the more she began to acknowledge that that past history didn’t necessarily mean she was exclusively attracted to men. It was descriptive, not proscriptive. Those two things were not one and the same. She knew first hand that sleeping with someone didn’t require attraction to be a factor at all. If it did, she wouldn’t have fucked just about any of the men she’d ever fucked.

Perhaps all this time she had simply assumed she was heterosexual because she had never really seen cause to interrogate what she was doing. She had used that label because it had described her actions, but in retrospect maybe it didn’t describe her feelings. Maybe she was more...ambiguous than that.

If things in her life had gone differently, and the first person her own age who had made a pass at her in her biotic training program had been one of the girls as opposed to one of the boys, could Miranda honestly say that she wouldn’t have felt the same curiosity to experiment, and that it wouldn’t have led to her first time being with a girl rather than with a boy? She couldn’t say that, no.

If an attractive woman walked up to her and flirted with her right now at that very moment, could she honestly say that the feelings it stirred up in her would be any different at all to the way she reacted when a man did the exact same thing? Probably not. Because she didn’t feel anything much when men did that.

Come to think of it, even taking Samara out of the equation, was it possible that maybe she had already felt sparks of chemistry with other women before, at least on a par to what she had felt with men, and just not recognised them for what they potentially were, because social biases had simply conditioned her into categorising those responses as normal platonic female feelings?

Off the top of her head, there was Shepard. A strong, gay woman. Obviously Shepard had been in a committed relationship with Liara, so there had been no chance anything would ever happen between them, and the thought had never even crossed Miranda’s mind before that moment. But what if, say, Shepard had been single, and kissed her out of the blue one day? Would Miranda have said no to that? Would she not have been even the littlest bit curious to explore that? 

She would have been lying if she pretended she couldn’t see the potential for herself to be attracted to Shepard, at least to the extent of being willing to see where that hypothetical kiss might have taken them. What could she say? Andrea was a uniquely charismatic woman. And, honestly, everyone on the Normandy had been a little bit in love with her, if they were being truthful, and probably would have been open to being with Shepard, if they’d been given the chance.

So, okay, perhaps Miranda wasn't as straight as she thought, or at least she was doing a very good job of convincing herself that she might not be making this whole thing up. Perhaps she had always possessed a capacity to be attracted to women on some level, but had simply never met anyone who exceeded her incredibly high and narrow standards, until Samara.

Maybe she'd been interested in women before, but misinterpreted those feelings due to the same social biases that had led her to assume she was heterosexual, not because there was any real evidence in favour of that belief but rather because there hadn't been any evidence to the contrary. Maybe because, on some unconscious level, she’d felt a social obligation to at least try being with men, and no similar obligation to try being with women.

Not to mention the fact that sexuality could be fluid, according to some sources, anyway. For some, it seemed etched in stone, but not for everybody; there was no guarantee that it would remain stagnant throughout her life.

Maybe it wasn’t a sexuality thing at all. Maybe Miranda wasn’t even attracted to anyone, male or female. Maybe it was just Samara who made her feel this way.

How the hell was Miranda supposed to know the difference at this point?

God, it was confusing.

“Checkmate,” said Miranda.

“God fucking damn it! Again?!” Jack hit the table in frustration. Ever since Miranda had stopped taking it easy on her, it had become a mini-obsession of Jack’s to get the better of her, just once. Miranda could tell she’d been practicing. “One of these fucking days I’m going to beat you. I swear to fucking...fuck!”

“You’re getting better,” Miranda noted.

Jack snorted. “Don’t patronise me, cunt.”

“That wasn’t…” Miranda sighed and shook her head, recognising it was futile to try and get Jack to take her at face value, and too tired to waste her breath trying when she was already expending all her energy thinking about so many other things. “Never mind,” she said, resetting the pieces.

For as unpleasant as Jack could still be at times, it wasn’t lost on Miranda that this was an overwhelming improvement from where they had been in the past. Admittedly, that was like saying that the radiation levels around Pripyat, Ukraine had improved from the reactor meltdown at Chernobyl two hundred years ago. Technically correct, although wildly misleading. But hey, progress was progress.

In any event, biting her tongue had proven by far to be Miranda’s most effective de-escalation technique whenever Jack tried to get a rise out of her. Jack couldn’t fight with Miranda (much as it seemed like she wanted to at times) if she didn’t fight back. Not to mention that Jack was giving herself way too much credit if she thought her insults did anything other than bounce off.

“It’s your move, eyepatch,” said Jack.

“What?”

“You’re white this time,” Jack pointed out.

Miranda blinked. Oh. So she was. “Sorry.” She really was out of it. She moved her first piece and started the game, too consumed in her musings about Samara to be paying too much attention to what was happening. 

“If you’re getting sick or something, don’t cough on me,” Jack remarked after that particular game had been going on for a while.

“I don’t get sick,” Miranda wearily replied, wondering if she was starting to look as bad on the outside as she felt on the inside if even Jack was picking up on it now. Her insomnia must have been starting to show. “I--”

“If you say anything about your genetic code, I’m punching you in the eye socket,” Jack cut her off, moving a bishop to take a knight.

Miranda elected not to call her on that bluff. “Fair enough.”

God, if Miranda could have just taken some drug that would allow her to black out for a week in dreamless sleep she would have taken it in an instant. She wasn’t sleeping at all anymore. She was so fucking tired. She just wanted to turn her brain off and stop thinking. Stop existing for a bit. But she couldn’t.

Being awake was still preferable to the nightmares, though. At least when she was awake, she was only thinking about Samara, and not haunted by war and death. Although, that being said, that wasn’t a massive improvement.

She had hoped that playing these games with Jack might serve as a temporary reprieve from these endless questions about her sexuality spiralling through her head, but they hadn’t. She couldn’t stop mulling over Samara, even for a second, which was probably part of the reason why Jack was doing better than she normally did against her, even if she still couldn’t manage to squeak out a win. 

“Wanna drink?” Jack offered, cracking open a can of paragade while Miranda contemplated her next move. Miranda waved her hand to decline, going back to rapping her fingers against the table as she studied the board.

A thought occurred to Miranda, then. Come to think of it...

“Jack, you’ve slept with women before, haven’t you?” Miranda asked abruptly.

Jack damn near choked on her paragade, covering her face to keep from spitting half of it out onto the table in alarm. “What the fuck did you just say?!”

“It’s a simple question. And you have, haven’t you?” Miranda pressed, too laser-focused on her own borderline-neurotic introspection to recognise that she was falling back into her old habits of ploughing straight ahead like a blunt instrument without even considering whether it might be jarring or not, and too sleep-deprived to exercise better judgement. “Are you attracted to women?”

Jack narrowed her gaze suspiciously, trying to figure out where this line of questioning was coming from. “...Okay, I know Shepard joked about this that one time, but I swear to fuck, if you're actually fucking hitting on me, I don’t care how crippled you are, I will throw you headfirst out that fucking window and bring this entire building down on top of you just to make sure you're dead.”

Miranda sent her a deadpan look in response, making her disinterest plain. “Jack, if I were ever that desperate that I so much as thought that I might actually be attracted to you, I promise you I would reach for my gun right now and I would put a bullet in my brain myself,” Miranda replied.

“Thank fuck for that,” said Jack, visibly and audibly relieved that wasn’t on the cards. “So then why the hell are you asking me about this?”

Miranda sighed, realising a little too late how pathetic it was that she was turning to Jack of all people to lend her some insight. “I can't believe we're having this conversation either, but...You're the only living human woman who's been with women I know well enough to ask. And yes I know that's depressing,” Miranda preemptively cut off Jack's retort. “Trust me, coming to you for advice about anything was not something I ever thought I'd do, but typing ‘how do you know if you’re attracted to women’ into the Extranet over and over again and getting the exact same useless answers is starting to convince me I’m going insane.”

“Huh. So you’re finally having a sexuality crisis,” Jack noted, sounding unsurprised to hear that, as if she’d anticipated this on some level.

“I don’t know. I guess,” Miranda acknowledged. If that was what this was, then that would be a yes. She glanced up. “What do you mean ‘finally’?”

Jack shrugged. “Always got a ‘straight like spaghetti’ kinda vibe from ya.”

“Meaning?” Miranda prompted, not following the metaphor.

“Until you get wet,” Jack remarked, grinning wickedly.

Miranda glared at Jack for a good, long moment, increasingly convinced she was just fucking with her and not amused by it even slightly. Either way, she supposed it didn’t matter. If Jack really had somehow predicted that Miranda wasn’t as straight as she thought she was long before she’d recognised this about herself, then perhaps that was a sign she had come to the right person. 

“...Well, all that aside, I’m not used to saying this but, if you could offer any advice, I could really use your help right now,” Miranda admitted in a reluctant mumble, having nobody else she could turn to with this issue. “Please.”

To her credit, Jack softened, as if even she was loath to kick Miranda when she was coming to her from such a position of humility and vulnerability. “Look, I don’t know what I can tell you. I mean, sure, I've fucked a couple girls, and I could do that again if I wanted, but like...I'm not actually into girls like that. Not that I’ve met, anyway. I mean a body's a body, but I can't ever see myself dating a woman. I've never had feelings for a woman, you know? Too much drama.”

“How can you tell if you do?” Miranda asked, struggling with that the most. “How can you tell the difference between, say, a very deep, abiding and intense but very platonic friendship you have with another woman, and romantic attraction?”

Jack snorted. “I don't fucking know. Like I said, I’m not into women. Ask one of the people who makes a million, billion credits writing books on that shit. Sounds pretty fucking gay from where I’m sitting, though.” After a moment, a lightbulb went off in Jack's head. “Wait. Holy shit, is this about Samara?”

Miranda's eye widened in alarm. 

Fuck.

“I...what?”

“Well who the hell else would it be? You don't have any other friends,” Jack pointed out. It was at that moment Miranda really hated the fact that she would never have a good counter argument to that. “Besides, you've been moping around like a lost puppy for weeks every time her name got brought up, and then again since she showed up, and even more so since she left a few days ago. I figured it was because you were fighting, but obviously it’s because of some other thing,” Jack remarked, making a suggestive expression as she sipped her drink. 

Miranda massaged her forehead, immediately regretting her entire life and all of her choices up to that point. “You know what, forget I asked. Forget we spoke. Forget I exist.” Miranda stood up, pushing her chair away from the table.

“Hey, our game’s not over,” Jack protested.

“Mate in three. Knight to E5. Bishop to E2. Bishop to G4,” said Miranda, grabbing her cane as she started towards the door.

Jack blinked, making a mental note of those moves. “...If you say so. But what's the big fucking deal anyway?” Jack called out after her.

Miranda paused halfway through pulling on her scarf. “I beg your pardon. Did you just ask me, ‘What’s the big ‘fucking’ deal?’” she echoed sarcastically.

“Listen, I get it, alright,” Jack began, a little more even-handedly. “You think you might be into Samara, and you’re a little freaked out because this makes things kinda awkward, and also this means you might be into chicks, but so what? Go bang a chick and find out if you're into it. I know you're not precious about who you fuck. Even better - go fuck an asari. It's not like it's hard. If it's not your thing, it's not your thing. Problem solved, right? If it is, it is. Either way, you get it out of your system and you can move on and stop being such a mopey cunt about it.”

“Seriously? That's your advice?” Miranda remarked, shaking her head and glancing back over her shoulder as she pulled on her jacket and made for the exit. “Thank you for reminding me why we should never talk again.”

“You asked for my help. Quit being a cunt,” Jack shot back, chugging the last of her paragade and crushing the can. She paused after a moment, still curious despite her better judgement. “...So I was right; it is her, isn't it?”

Miranda's steely silence as she reached the front door was her answer.

“Wow. That's never going to fucking happen,” Jack said bluntly.

“I know,” said Miranda, well aware, turning the handle.

“This conversation doesn't make us friends,” Jack pointedly reminded her, never wanting to be approached by her about this or any other topic ever again.

“I know!” Miranda called back as the door swung shut behind her and she limped away, preferring to pretend the last few minutes had never happened.

The last thing Miranda heard from Jack as she left was a very loud (but very muffled) “OH, FUCK YOU” when she was about a third of the way down the stairs. She took that to mean she remained undefeated.

*     *     *

Miranda had only felt true, unconditional love once in her life before. That was during that achingly brief period from the day when she first held her baby sister in her arms, until the day she gave her up for adoption.

Over the years that had passed since then, Miranda had often wondered what it would have been like if she hadn’t given her up forever - if she had tried to raise Oriana on her own, with the help of Cerberus. Would Miranda have been happier if she kept her? Yes, definitely. But would Oriana have been better off with Miranda as her makeshift mother? No. Of that, she had no doubt.

Cerberus had given Miranda so much for which she was grateful, but not a normal life. She was well aware that her association with Cerberus had left her (unfairly) branded as a terrorist. Even if that hadn’t been the case, as a fully grown adult, in retrospect Miranda now had enough insight into her sixteen-year-old self to know it could only have ended in disaster for Oriana to be raised by someone too young and immature to have had any clue what she was doing.

There was no mistaking it; Miranda had made the right decision when she gave Oriana up all those years ago. If she could go back in time, she would do the same thing all over again, even though it wouldn’t have killed her any less.

But Miranda was a different person now. She was thirty, which among other things meant she was older, wiser, and in a far more stable situation than ever before. She had her own money, and could support herself entirely through working on The Illusive Man's many research projects. She didn’t have to be involved with anything dangerous anymore if she didn’t want to be. If Oriana had only been born now instead of back then, Miranda would have kept her.

And, well, the truth was this thought had been on Miranda’s mind for a very long time. As soon as she’d given Oriana up, she’d known deep down that she wanted to have a child or children of her own one day. To feel that way again – to love, and be loved back, by someone who would always be in her life.

Obviously she couldn’t when she was sixteen, for the exact same reasons that had compelled her to voluntarily give Oriana up in the first place. But the drive had been there. Waiting for the right moment.

When she was twenty-one, she’d foolishly thought she knew everything there was to know about the world and that she was mature enough to try for a child if she wanted to. However, Miranda had decided against it then for purely pragmatic reasons, due to the fact that it would have put her career at a severe disadvantage from the outset to decide to become a single mother so early in life. There would have been no way she could work as many hours as her childless, or married coworkers, if she’d had a child for whom she was solely responsible. It just wasn’t realistic. She needed to wait until she was in a more stable position. 

At twenty-five, the need to try and recreate what she'd given up all those years ago, or something like it, had only grown stronger, but Miranda had been too busy. Her career within Cerberus had really started to take off by that point, and getting pregnant would have derailed it. She had made a name for herself for regularly working twice as many hours as her rivals, and never taking holidays. She had no personal life, so she had no reason to ever do much else other than dedicate herself to her job. That made her a rising star. Plus the overtime paid extremely well. Throwing future opportunities she’d unlocked through her accomplishments to the wayside for a baby would have undone all her hard work.

Give it a few more years, maybe.

By twenty-seven, the thought kept occurring to her more and more often. Maybe it was time to think about freezing her eggs so she could come back to this whenever she was ready. That was what a lot of career women did. She’d taken home pamphlets about it and everything. The human lifespan was so long now, and biology hadn’t evolved alongside society and technology. It wasn’t uncommon for women to have their first child in their late forties or early fifties.

But that seemed so long to wait. Miranda was not that patient.

At twenty-eight, Miranda finally made a firm decision. In fact, she made a pact with herself. She would start trying for a child in her thirties, no matter what the circumstances of her life were at that time.

She wasn’t some no-name agent anymore, and if she worked hard enough in the next two years, surely she could afford to take some time off later. And by that age, hopefully it wouldn’t reflect badly on her professionally or be too detrimental to her career that she’d made the decision to have a child. The Illusive Man would understand why she had to cut back her hours here and there to accommodate that responsibility. And, if it did have a negative impact on her advancement, well...fuck it, that was a sacrifice she was willing to make to replicate the way it had felt to hold Oriana in her arms all those years ago. To chase that feeling again. That need to feel a little less alone in the universe.

Then thirty came. And Miranda kept her promise to herself.

“Wow, your profile picture wasn't lying,” the man remarked as he stepped into the hotel room. “You’re amazi--”

“Get your clothes off and get on the bed,” Miranda bluntly instructed, not caring to remember what this one’s name was, just as she hadn’t cared to learn the names of other one night stands before him. He didn’t know it, and he never would, but he was just a sperm donor, really. And he wasn’t the first.

“What?” He blinked at her, taken aback by her curtness.

“Don't talk,” she said, pushing him back towards the bed.

“Oh. Yes, mistress,” he replied, coming to his own conclusion about what was going on. Miranda rolled her eyes, getting to work stripping him naked, and herself. No sense in wasting time. “I brought condoms,” he volunteered when she straddled his hips, expressly ignoring her previous command not to talk.

“You don't need them,” Miranda assured him, reaching down to his member and guiding it between her thighs. That shut him up. “No kissing.” She put a hand to his face when he tried for one, pushing it back down to the pillow.

Perhaps her actions might have seemed immoral to some, using strangers for purposes unbeknownst to them, but Miranda had no qualms about it. Based on what she'd read, in asari culture, this would be considered fairly normal. They often had their children alone, from one-off encounters with people who may never have known they had a child, and who were never expected to be involved or contribute anything bar some DNA. The asari method seemed to do them no harm; they were the most powerful race in the galaxy. Miranda had always thought humanity could stand to learn a thing or two from them. Maybe this was one of them.

Surely it had to work this time. She’d been trying for months by that point, and it was starting to feel like a fucking day job at this rate. Miranda had timed her cycle perfectly. She knew when she was ovulating – the exact window in which she had to have sex to get pregnant. She was doing everything right. Every single thing she had to do to conceive. But so far it had all been to no avail.

He finished inside her in a matter of minutes, which was fine with Miranda.

“D...Did you?” the man asked breathlessly.

“No,” Miranda stated frankly. She never lied about that. However, unlike previous one night stands, she wasn't in this to get off. She could do that herself. “If I give you ten minutes, do you think you could go again?” she asked.

The man blinked, barely having time to recover from his orgasm. “W-What?”

“It was a very simple question. What part of it wasn't clear?” Miranda challenged, fed up with him.

“Sorry, mistress, I, uh...Sure thing. I'll go again. Just...give me a minute,” he said, panting heavily. “In the meantime, do you wanna...cuddle or something?”

Miranda looked at him like his head was screwed on the wrong way. Honestly, why were some men so bloody needy? It was just sex, for crying out loud. 

Over the next fourteen days after that encounter, Miranda took pregnancy tests, as she always did. They all came up negative. And then she had her period. She’d been doing this for months with no success. A strange, sick feeling came over her. Something was wrong. But there shouldn't have been a problem. She was genetically perfect. How could a perfect human have trouble conceiving?

This didn't make sense. At that point, this couldn’t be chance. She had to see a doctor about this. A few scans and blood tests should give her the answers she needed. And they did, but it wasn't the answer she wanted to hear.

Miranda shook with rage when she read the results on her screen, her jaw clenched tight. Of course. Her father. Why hadn't she thought of it before? He'd controlled every single aspect of her life when she was under his thumb, so why wouldn't he control her reproductive organs as well?

Why wouldn’t he do something like this? Especially if he only ever thought of her as a prototype, or proof of concept. Why wouldn’t he make her infertile, preventing her genetic code from spreading by any means except via cloning, using the sequence that only he had unfettered access to?

If Miranda ever wanted a biological child, the only way to get it was through him.

Or it would have been, if Miranda hadn’t destroyed her cloning facility together with every trace of the original DNA sequence in a fit of fiery rage.

Now there was no way.

She sat there in cold, tranquil fury as the reality of it all came crashing down upon her. Her condition. What her father had stolen from her without her even knowing. And that there was nothing that could be done to fix it.

She would never have a child. It seemed cruel to say it, but any adopted or surrogate child she could ever have, they would never be...like her. They wouldn’t be different like she was. At best, she could only ever take some normal child from someone else and screw them up with all her flaws. And she would only have herself to blame, not their shared DNA, if they turned out like her. 

She didn’t want that.

All she wanted was to go back to that moment when she was sixteen, when she held her sister in her arms, and knew...just knew that they were the same.

That special connection she had felt with Oriana all those years ago, that was never to be repeated. And Miranda had given it away. She had given away the one and only person who would ever look at her with unconditional love in their eyes.

She would never get that feeling back. 

She was alone in the universe.

She would always be alone.

Miranda could have screamed, but she didn't. She could have smashed her computer screen and trashed her room, but she refrained. Instead, she stood up, fists clenched, grabbed her things, and went straight to the gym at the Cerberus facility where she lived and worked.

She taped up her fists and found a training dummy in the shape of a man. On it, she pictured her father's face. And she went to town.

Miranda flared up her biotics and slammed her fist into the dummy over and over again, meaning every single of those strikes. One of her blows connected so hard that she sent the dummy careening to the ground. Miranda went after it, mounting it and driving punch after punch into its head, obliterating it just as she wanted to obliterate her own father's smug fucking face.

She hated him. She loathed him. She despised him.

Miranda only stopped when she realised her hand had been colliding with the floor for the past minute, leaving a smouldering scorch mark in the mat.

Miranda breathed deeply as she stood up, her anger subsiding as she ripped the tape from her bruised fingers. It was as she looked around then that she noticed absolutely everybody else in the gym was staring at her in stunned silence. She didn't care. They could choke, for all the difference it made to her. She was more valuable to The Illusive Man than the rest of them combined.

“Uh, Ms. Lawson? That was Cerberus property,” the manager of the exercise facility nervously spoke up, not eager to invoke her wrath, after what he'd just witnessed, presumably for the same reason he’d been too scared to intervene.

Miranda grabbed her towel, utterly drenched in sweat. “Bill it to my account.”

*     *     *

Miranda had retreated to the furthest, most isolated corner of the same bar where she’d downed that bottle of wine a while back to sit and sulk. Thankfully, on that particular evening, she’d had the good sense to nurse just one drink as part of a desperate attempt to avoid going home and falling asleep. Unfortunately, the inevitable crash she was delaying was unavoidable, and she knew it. It was going to happen that she would pass out one night. And, when she did, and the dreams came for her, it would be bad.

Knowing what she knew now, how many people were confirmed dead, they would be worse than ever before. Miranda wasn’t looking forward to it - to the day that her insomnia finally caught up with her. But it wouldn’t be tonight.

Besides, that quiet spot in the corner of the pub was providing some solace when it came to thinking about Samara. It was easier to mull over her muddled feelings for her there than having to do the exact same thing at home with ten teenagers. Plus, chances were Jacob would have invited himself over for dinner again as he so often did, given that none of his roommates including Jack could cook worth a damn. Miranda was only human. She needed space sometimes.

In the intervening days since Samara had left, Miranda had moved pretty swiftly beyond the denial stage. It had grown increasingly hard to pretend it was even a question whether or not she had fallen for her by that point. The way Samara made her feel was the sort of thing Miranda previously thought writers had been melodramatically exaggerating about when she read those phrases in books. And yet here she was, feeling those very things.

No, instead, her mind had turned more towards the question of just how she could get those sensations to go away, or put them on mute, staunchly committed to believing there had to be some way she could bargain her way out of this situation without destroying their friendship more than she already had.

Being with Samara simply wasn’t an option. She didn’t reciprocate her feelings. She couldn’t. That part of her life was over. Miranda knew that. Fucking hell, she was quite possibly the number one least available person in the universe, and with very justifiable reasons. So, whatever this was, it had to stop. Fast.

Her current stage on that journey involved trying to better understand the origin of how this all started, including precisely how long this had been happening. Defining the terms of what she was dealing with and putting it all into a neat little box made it all so much easier to address and reason with, and hopefully find a solution to. So, just how long had she been developing these feelings?

When exactly had she started to fall for Samara?

From the moment they met initially, the answer was a definite no, surely. Miranda had originally just enjoyed Samara’s company because she was polite, quiet and didn’t bother her when she worked, although they had spoken a few times in passing. Miranda’s reasons had been quite selfish then, in all honesty. But it didn’t go any further than that. Not at that point in time.

It hadn’t been until Samara showed Miranda such kindness around the time she reunited with Oriana that she started to form a bond with her. And it wasn’t until later, when Miranda had shown rare compassion for Samara after she killed Morinth, that they began to grow close as friends. But even that timing didn’t feel right. Miranda barely knew Samara that early on. When she looked back on those initial moments, her connection with Samara still wasn’t a fraction of what it later blossomed into. That was only the beginning of when the seed was planted.

Well, starting at the outset was probably pointless then. The wrong approach. What about later memories? What about the times she and Samara had spent together on the Citadel?

Their little private reunion a few months ago at Shepard’s apartment had been perfect. The moments she and Samara had stolen with one another away from everyone else were precisely what Miranda had hoped for from that day, and the most at peace she had felt in a long time, before or since. It felt just like old times. Maybe even better. They had so much fun together in such a short space of time, even threw in a few deep and meaningful moments for good measure.

The last time Miranda had felt so carefree prior to that was, well, the last time she’d been with Samara on the Citadel, barely saying anything as she followed in her footsteps, doting on her every word as Samara went from place to place reminiscing about the past. Miranda could have gladly trailed along behind Samara like that for countless hours and never grown bored of seeing her so enthusiastic and nostalgic for simpler times. Then they’d had such an amazing time at Miranda’s favourite restaurant, where the time had flown by in the blink of an eye because they were enjoying each other’s company so much.

Even before that, Miranda hadn’t known exactly when it happened, but at some point in their journey, the time she spent with Samara in the Starboard Observation Deck had become the highlight of her day. The thing she always looked forward to. It didn’t even matter what they talked about. If they sat together in peaceful silence. A moment shared was never a moment wasted.

Not entirely unlike Miranda herself, in the time she had known Samara on the Normandy, she had transformed from someone reserved and stoic into someone so much more open and expressive. After Morinth passed, that shroud of sorrow had lifted from her shoulders, and Miranda had been privileged to watch it gradually fall, and see that happier, freer person emerge from beneath the veil. She actually started to let her guard down and, well...be herself around her.

Miranda remembered the way Samara’s eyes would light up and twinkle in the starlight when she smiled her most genuine smiles. The way the faintest lines would crinkle with mirth at the corners of her eyes when Miranda made a remark that amused her, though almost nothing came close to cracking that faultless exterior. The way it secretly delighted Miranda how someone who carried so much pain with her somehow still lit up the room with pure, unfeigned excitement when her earnestness slipped through that hardened, Justicar exterior.

Miranda had always thought Samara was an incredible person. As soon as she got to know her, anyway. How could she not? That was precisely what she was.

Was it any wonder that it had always made Miranda’s burdens feel so much lighter just to be in Samara’s company? Or why it brightened her mood every time she made Samara smile? Or why she felt so safe and so warm every time Samara comforted her with wise words? Or why it made her heart flutter whenever Samara told her how much she cared about her? Or why every time they parted ways, all she wanted was for them to both stay right where they were?

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

Miranda groaned heavily and let her head fall against the bar. She was completely fucking oblivious wasn’t she? If she was having those thoughts and feelings about Samara back when they were still on The Normandy, then that proved Miranda had been in love with Samara, or at the very least falling in love with her, for more than a year. And she had been totally blind to it while it was happening to her.

“Don’t tell me you’re already legless after only one of those,” an Irish bartender jokingly remarked, causing Miranda to glance up from her self-induced misery.

“No. Only mostly armless,” Miranda sourly remarked, her quip earning his approval. “I’ll take another, thanks,” she said, having the feeling she was going to need to be here for a good, long while in order to come to terms with just how clueless to her own feelings she had been this entire goddamn time.

She really fucking hated being herself sometimes.

If she wasn’t so dense and had cottoned on to what was happening all that time ago, no doubt she would have been in a better place by now. Maybe she could have used that intervening time she’d spent on the run from Cerberus to figure herself out, bring her feelings under control, get it out of her system and reach some kind of stable equilibrium in regards to how she felt about Samara.

If nothing else, she would have had more time to process her feelings. Enough that, by now, she could probably stand to be within five feet of Samara without feeling like her skin was on fire, or like her insides were dissolving into a complete unsalvageable mess, or like she would explode if Samara touched her.

Maybe, if she’d had a few more months to cope with this madness, she wouldn’t have acted like such a rude jackass to her the last time they spoke.

She really did detest the fact that she had lashed out at Samara, and pushed her away as she had. But she would have regretted it if she hadn’t. For once in her life, Miranda was doing an atrocious job of hiding her feelings. If even Jack of all people knew she was lovesick for her, then surely Samara would have seen right through any charade given half the chance. It had been harsh, but putting some distance between them really had been the best option available.

She hoped Samara wouldn’t take it personally, or be angry with her for her behaviour the next time they met. But any hurt feelings would be worth it if it gave Miranda the opportunity she needed to figure out how to start acting like a normal human person around her again the next time she reappeared.

Speaking of people she was avoiding, Miranda heard a familiar ding in her earpiece, signalling that she had received a text. She didn’t bother to check who it was, because she already knew the answer, and in that particular moment she didn’t want to deal with the guilt of knowing she wouldn’t respond.

Every single day, without fail, Oriana sent another bad joke in an effort to cheer her sister up. And every single day, Miranda still never texted her back. She hadn’t said a word to her since the day she wrote to Ashley’s family.

Her reasons for not confiding in her sister hadn’t changed. Oriana was probably having such a great time on Horizon. Or she should have been, anyway. She was an amazing person. The best. And then there was Miranda, being the mopey cunt that she was, as Jack had put it. An apt description, in fairness.

Call it big sister instincts, but Miranda would rather suffer in silence than dare unburden anymore of her troubles onto Oriana than she already had. Her twin deserved so much better than to have her mood brought low by Miranda’s constant, unrelenting negativity every single time they spoke. Maybe Oriana really was better off without Miranda perpetually holding her back.

In all honesty, though, she would have killed a hundred people just to talk to Oriana in that moment. She’d never felt more isolated than she did right then. 

“Good evening, stranger. Are you waiting for someone?” a familiar, slightly stilted voice interrupted her musings. Miranda glanced up to see Shiala standing beside her. Her stance was rigid, as if she had no clue whether or not she might be committing a social faux-pas and was braced for rejection.

“If you’re offering to join me, I wouldn’t mind the company.” Miranda gestured for Shiala to go right ahead and take a seat. At this moment in time, anything was preferable to dwelling on her sorrows as much as she was doing. She could use the distraction from her loneliness.

Shiala accepted her invitation, pulling up a stool on Miranda’s right. “It’s been a while since I’ve heard from you. I was starting to think you were avoiding me.”

Miranda arched her eyebrow. They’d spoken, what, six weeks ago? Was that not frequently enough to maintain a friendship? She sighed. No. Evidently it was not. “It’s not you. My life has just been...hectic, lately.”

“Yes, I gathered that. Not at first, but I, uh...I saw you at the candlelight vigil last week,” Shiala acknowledged, visibly regretting that she had assumed the worst about Miranda’s motives, when she ought to have been more sensitive. “I didn’t realise you’ve been going through such a difficult time. I’m sorry. If I lost anyone from Zhu’s Hope, I don’t…” Shiala stopped herself and shook her head. “Forgive me. I imagine you’re not particularly keen to talk about that.”

“You’re not wrong,” Miranda conceded. That was another subject she was eager to block out of her mind at all costs. She’d been consumed with death and misery for so long that she was starting to feel like a walking corpse herself. “I still owe you that drink, don’t I?”

“I wasn’t going to mention it, but…” Shiala summoned a faint smile. Miranda signalled to the bartender to get Shiala one of whatever she was drinking.

Miranda was far from a social butterfly, but it was a welcome change to talk to somebody different for once - somebody who wasn’t intimately involved with the minutiae of her everyday life. It helped that she didn’t dislike Shiala either. Admittedly she was indifferent towards her, gratitude for saving hers and Jack’s life aside, but indifference was not the same as dislike. In any event, Shiala had done more than enough for Miranda that the least she could do was give her a chance, even if she was sceptical that they had much in common.

At the very least, this was preferable to driving herself mad, running the same thoughts through her head over and over again, getting absolutely nowhere.

“I must admit, I was surprised to see you drinking alone,” Shiala commented.

“What do you mean?” Miranda prompted, not following.

Shiala gave her a look, as if she thought Miranda might be playing coy, but then glanced down at her glass, idly toying with her fingers as she spoke. “When I saw you sitting here by yourself, it wasn’t what I expected. I thought that I would have to fight off a crowd of people just to get your attention even for a moment.”

“Ah. It’s a nice change, actually. Ordinarily, I used to wish people would leave me alone when I would visit places like this to enjoy a quiet drink,” Miranda remarked, snorting at the thought. That was a whole other life now. “I guess that's one thing I can thank the shuttle crash for. Men no longer bother me.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand. Why would they not approach you anymore?” Shiala asked, sounding genuinely confused, like those two sentences didn’t connect.

“...I'm not sure if you're joking or just trying to be polite,” said Miranda, eyeing her companion curiously as she brushed stray strands of hair behind her ear. Shiala only continued to stare, in questioning. “Look, I know the eyepatch masks a lot of the damage, but the burn scars aren’t exactly attractive.”

Shiala blinked, her expression blank. “...I’m green.”

At that deadpan statement, Miranda laughed. “No offence to your species, but to me that doesn’t make you look radically different from any other asari. Easier to recognise in a crowd, though,” she pointed out. 

Shiala sighed, understanding why Miranda felt as she did concerning her wounds. “You seem to forget I was an asari commando. I have seen many brave women suffer injuries more severe than yours,” Shiala reminded her, perishing the thought that she would be disgusted or repulsed by what Miranda had endured. “If anything, I find that scars like yours betray the quality of the person who bears them - your history, your experience, your courage, your character. You have your scars because you were willing to give your life to save billions of others.”

Miranda gave a soft, self-deprecating snort at that as she picked up her glass. “You give me too much credit.” Shiala made her sacrifice sound a hell of a lot more noble and selfless than it was. She wasn’t any kind of hero. She was just in the right places at the right times to survive.

“Or you give yourself too little,” Shiala countered, shifting a little closer. “I’ve seen you in action. I know you are a strong woman who achieves the impossible and prevails against all odds. Even when you could barely stand, you were fearless, and I watched you do incredible things that entire armies were too cowardly to do. I have met few, if any women, who were as impressive as you are. Some people, many people in fact, are drawn to women like you. People like me.” 

“Drawn how?” asked Miranda, arching her eyebrow at Shiala. 

In response, Shiala only held her gaze. That said more than words ever could.

The realisation sank in. “Oh. I see…” Miranda closed her eye and rubbed her forehead in annoyance at herself. God, she really was completely and utterly dense when it came to reading anything other than the most overt displays of sexual attraction wasn’t she?

In retrospect, suddenly all Shiala’s stilted and awkward behaviour around her since they first met made much more sense, or at least a hell of a lot more of it did. She’d had a crush on Miranda this whole time, hadn’t she?

Shiala cleared her throat and looked away. It was difficult to tell on a woman with green skin but Miranda could have sworn she was blushing. “...And I have read this wrong, haven’t I?” she said, cringing at her own lack of finesse at talking to people she liked. “I am sorry. I have never been very good at this.”

“No. You’re fine. I just...I didn’t think…” Miranda trailed off, stopping herself from instinctively rejecting Shiala’s advances. Come to think of it, wasn’t this exactly what she was looking for?

She thought of her conversation with Jack. Much as she hated to admit it, Jack did have a point. If Miranda was questioning her sexuality and had reason to think she might be interested in women as much as men then why not go right ahead and explore that facet of herself? Was there any logical reason not to test those waters? What harm would it do if she did, even if she didn’t turn out to be bisexual, or whatever other label people wanted to put on it?

The worst thing that could possibly come out of it was that she wouldn’t enjoy it. As Jack had pointed out, that might actually ultimately solve the Samara problem once and for all, since it might indicate she wasn’t sexually interested in women, or that she preferred to remain friends with them rather than sleep with them. The best thing that could happen was that she would have a good time, would find Shiala a useful outlet for all this pent up tension, and increase her pool of viable sexual partners for the future. From where she was sitting, it was starting to look an awful lot like a win-win situation.

“Let’s start over. Hi, Shiala. I’m Miranda. How are you?” Miranda extended her hand across the small divide between them, keen to make it clear that, irrespective of any prior misunderstandings, they were now both very much approaching this with the same mutual intention.

Shiala gave a bashful smile as she delicately shook Miranda’s hand, charmed. “Much happier than I was a few minutes ago,” she said, evidently delighted to think she hadn’t misread this.

“Good. Great,” Miranda enthused, which earned a faint giggle.

Miranda could concede to feeling a little out of her depth. She’d never flirted with a woman before, let alone an asari. Never actually had to flirt with anyone to get what she wanted, although playing at being sultry and seductive could certainly be fun sometimes. But, by some good fortune, it seemed she hadn’t screwed up her chances of going home with Shiala yet. So she didn’t try too hard. They just talked for a bit. Or rather, Miranda let Shiala talk about herself, and she nodded along and feigned interest, paying for another round of drinks along the way. 

So far, so good.

“I’ve always been a bit of an outcast, even among my own kind,” Shiala admitted, nervously toying with her glass as she opened up about herself. “I think that was what drew me to follow Benezia. Looking for a sense of belonging. A sense of purpose. And I suppose through her I found it, eventually. But only on Feros, with the people of Zhu’s Hope.”

“Mhmm.” Miranda pretended to listen, not paying attention at all.

How long had it been since she’d fucked someone anyway, Miranda wondered? She’d barely had the time or freedom to even think about sex since before she joined The Normandy. Too busy rebuilding Commander Shepard, then fighting Collectors, then running from Cerberus. Then the war happened.

She hadn’t thought about it until just now but, in the grand scheme of things, it must have been getting close to two years since she’d let another person touch her, if it wasn’t already more than that. Maybe that was part of her problem. Maybe she really did need this more than she knew, on a deep, primal level.

That and, although it hadn’t occurred to her until about fifteen minutes into Shiala making eyes at her across the bar, there was a small part of Miranda that enjoyed that feeling of being...wanted by another person again. And that had far less to do with her scars (because, despite everything, Miranda still wasn’t particularly self-conscious about her appearance) and more to do with the fact that this was the first time since the accident that someone else was looking at her and treating her like a fully-rounded sexual being, instead of a punchline. That was nice.

It was true that Shiala had never struck Miranda's fancy outside of her utility as a contact, but there was nothing...objectionable about her. The more she studied her features as she spoke, the more she thought she was objectively quite attractive. Weird and awkward, sure. But not physically. Besides, if she was hung up over Samara, then as Jack had suggested, the best thing Miranda could do to get it out of her system was seek to satisfy these urges with another asari. And Shiala certainly fit that description, even if she was a different skin tone.

What did it matter? Sex was sex. There never had to be any deeper feelings involved. It was an efficient solution to a problem. That was how Miranda had always viewed it. And at least this time she wasn't dealing with some clueless guy off the Extranet. Alien or not, the average woman had to have a better idea of how to pleasure the female body than the average man did, right? That was just common sense. Either way, it would be an intriguing experiment.

After about half an hour had passed, there was a lull in the conversation. Shiala internally winced, realising she had been talking too much without Miranda saying anything in response. “I’m so sorry. Am I boring you?” Shiala asked, dreading that she was making a terrible impression on this impromptu date. 

“No, not at all,” Miranda lied. Truth be told, she had only absorbed roughly a quarter of what Shiala said, spending the interim lost in her own thoughts, mostly just making her mind up about whether or not she was actually going to go through with this idea, and then once she’d made that decision that she was, waiting for the right moment to make her move.

Shiala didn’t seem to believe her. “You’re being kind, aren’t you?”

“Nobody has ever accused me of that,” Miranda dryly remarked, which made Shiala laugh. She didn’t realise just how true that was. Sensing her opportunity, Miranda took it. She reached across the gap and traced her fingers across Shiala’s hand, still cradling her empty glass. “Do you want to get out of here?” she asked, the glimmer in her eye leaving little room for misinterpretation.

Shiala swallowed, doing a poor job of concealing her shyness as her cheeks turned about three shades brighter. “I...Yes. Yes, I would enjoy that,” she answered, her voice suddenly raspy.

Miranda smirked. “Okay. Just one moment. I need to make a quick call home. I’ll meet you outside.” Shiala nodded her understanding. Once Shiala left, Miranda used her omni-tool to dial through to her apartment. She put her hand over her earpiece, blocking out the sounds of the bar to hear herself better.

“Jacob Taylor speaking,” Jacob picked up.

“Hi, Jacob, it’s me,” said Miranda, not needing to announce herself beyond that. The accent gave it away. Just as she’d assumed earlier, she wasn’t shocked to learn that Jacob had come over to her place for dinner that night. “Listen, something has come up at work and I won’t be making it home until late.”

“Uh huh.” For some reason, Jacob sounded strangely sceptical. “Let me guess, you want me to stay over until you get back?”

“No, you don’t have to do that,” Miranda dismissed the thought. Jason and Rodriguez were both eighteen, and all of the others were between fifteen and seventeen. If the kids weren’t old enough to be left to their own devices, these living arrangements wouldn’t have worked. “I just wanted to let you know not to wait around for me. You all enjoy your dinner, if you haven’t already.”

“Have a nice night, Miranda,” Jacob finished in a sing-songy sort of tone.

Miranda hung up without saying goodbye, already focused on other things. With that, she made her way out into the cold, November night. She found Shiala leaning against the railing by the banks of the River Thames. Miranda joined her there, the lights of this slowly recovering area of the city reflected on the water.

“Three months ago, I never would have imagined this place could look so much better already,” Shiala remarked, shivering gently in the cold. It truly had come astonishingly far from the absolute wasteland it had been back then. Parts of it were even decently habitable now. “It seems so strange to say it, but this is the first time I’ve appreciated how pretty the river actually is.”

“I take it you don’t come here often then?” Miranda asked.

Shiala shook her head. “My people are over at the North end of the park, so no.” 

“I come here a lot when I can’t stand all the noise. Right there, in fact.” Miranda pointed out a set of steps further along the river, down to where she could touch the water, not that she ever did. Wasn’t clean enough for that. Even all these weeks later, focusing on the sound of flowing water was one of the few things she’d found that could drown out the ringing, even if only for a little while. It was practically heaven when it worked. “It’s peaceful at night.”

“Hmm. I can see how that would be so.” They stood in the quiet for a minute or two, listening to the ambience of the river below. “Can I ask you something?” Shiala broke the silence. Miranda glanced over, and noticed she was once again fidgeting with her hands. “Are you as nervous about this as I am?”

Miranda paused to consider her response. The truthful answer to that question would have been no. She wasn’t nervous. She didn’t get nervous (except apparently now she did, although only around Samara). And acknowledging any kind of vulnerability also went against every fibre of Miranda’s being. But, if Shiala wasn’t feeling particularly confident in that moment, and was searching for some kind of reassurance that she wasn’t alone with those anxieties, then she saw no harm in giving her what she was asking for.

“I’m going to let you in on a little secret. I’ve never actually been with a woman before. Or anyone outside my own species,” Miranda admitted to her, electing to be honest about that, even if the effect was a false a comfort. 

Shiala exhaled. Evidently that had been the right thing to say. “Then I’m relieved. Because I have also never melded with anyone outside my own species,” she confessed, as if that was an embarrassing thing to speak aloud. “In fact, I have been with remarkably few people for someone my age--”

Miranda cut her words short, leaning across the small gap between them and capturing her in a kiss. Just a gentle one. Shiala’s breath caught at the contact. But before Shiala could react, Miranda pulled away, tantalising her with just a taste. Keeping her wanting more. 

“I assume you have private quarters on your ship,” Miranda whispered in her ear.

Shiala nodded, her cheeks flushed as she gently bit her lower lip. “This way.”

Once they were aboard the Zhu’s Hope ship, any pretext of subtlety went out the window. Shiala pulled Miranda hard against her as soon as they reached the door to her room, threading both arms around her neck and drawing their lips together. Miranda immediately dropped her cane and leaned against the door for balance, nearly losing her footing, but didn’t resist. 

The scientist in her that was treating this more as an experiment than as pure sexual release couldn't help but analyse how it felt to kiss an asari. The texture of her skin was different from a human, though not to an extreme. Asari were smoother, almost like latex. There was no roughness. Shiala's skin didn't crease or wrinkle under contact as much as a human’s would. She was lean and toned from decades if not centuries of combat training, but there was nothing hard about her musculature. Her body was at once tight and taut yet soft and supple.

Miranda wondered whether Samara would feel the same, or whether her maturity as a matriarch would distinguish her flesh from that of a younger asari. 

Samara was so strong, yet so gentle. Her embrace would be warm. Protective.

“Computer, open the door,” Shiala instructed. The ship's systems obeyed. Miranda let Shiala hook her fingers in the collar of her jacket and lure her inside, taking care not to put any weight on her bad leg. “Computer, lock the door,” Shiala commanded, having no desire to be interrupted by her crew.

Miranda was glad she was eager to cut straight to what they were both after. She just hoped Shiala wasn’t a talker. That was not what she was there for.

Shiala certainly didn’t protest when Miranda captured her lips once more, surrendering to her kiss, pressing her body tight against hers.

Samara was taller. She would have towered over Miranda if they kissed.

Shiala slid Miranda's jacket off her shoulders before unfastening the buttons of her own coat. Miranda let her hand fall around the back of Shiala's waist once the coat came off. Shiala inhaled sharply, torn between trying to strip off her clothes and blindly stumbling back towards the bed without breaking the kiss.

It turned out those were a few too many things to juggle at once.

“Ow, ow, careful…” Miranda had to pull away, keeping her bad leg off the ground. Falling flat on her face would really kill the mood.

“Oh, sorry!” Shiala apologised.

“No. It’s fine.” Miranda shook her head. They could wait to disrobe once they actually made it to the bed.

What she wouldn’t give to peel Samara out of that armour, piece by piece.

Shiala’s knees hit the edge of the bed and she fell back onto the mattress. Miranda landed on top of her, trying not to wince when a phantom pain went through her left arm at the instinct to extend a forearm that wasn’t there to catch herself. This all would have been so much easier before her injuries. Nevertheless...

She straightened up on her good knee and reached around behind her back, undoing the clasp of her bra. It was the first time in a long time that Miranda had seen that look of temptation in another person's eyes directed towards her. 

Miranda tried to picture Samara staring up at her with the same desire, but she couldn't quite imagine it. Samara was more reserved than that when it came to her feelings. Besides, by her own admission, Samara had lain with many lovers throughout her youth, possibly even hundreds. That was clearly a lot more than Shiala had. What would Miranda be to Samara but just a short-lived firefly, capturing some shred of her intrigue for but a moment?

No. She didn't want to think about that. This was supposed to be a distraction.

“I want to touch you,” Miranda whispered as she leaned down to purr into Shiala's ear, craving the panacea of release, closing her eye and trying to find any similarity at all between her scent and Samara's. She’d spent enough time in her proximity that she could imagine it. “I want to feel your skin against mine.”

“Right. Okay.” Miranda nearly lost her balance when Shiala sat up to remove her top, their heads bumping when Miranda instinctively over-corrected due to no longer having a spare hand to catch herself with. “Ow. Sorry. Again.”

“...That one was on me,” Miranda muttered, masking her irritation at herself. And it was true; that head clash had been as much if not more her fault than Shiala’s.

What was she doing? She wasn't normally like this. Sure, it had been a while, but she had gotten in the habit of being totally in control of everything that happened in the bedroom whenever she slept with someone. But, then again, this was the first time she'd tried to have sex with anyone following her injuries. In a sense, it was almost like learning to pilot a whole different body. That and this was her first time being with someone like Shiala. A woman. An alien.

Shiala shook off that accidental headbutt, unfazed. She fumbled with both their respective shirts until she’d managed to strip them both off (careful not to aggravate Miranda’s injured arm in the process). 

Bare breasts brushed. Samara’s were bigger. Miranda arched her back and moaned, pushing for more bodily contact. Yes, this was what she wanted. Skin on skin. To submerge herself in the sensory experience of being with a woman.

And maybe, just maybe, if she tried hard enough, there was a chance that she could trick herself into thinking that it was Samara beneath her thighs, not Shiala.

Sure, there were a lot of things about Samara that were different. Her height. The timbre of voice. The size of her breasts. The colour of her skin. Her entire personality. Their connection. Okay, absolutely fucking everything about her. But Miranda could fill in those gaps in her mind. Besides, this was the closest Miranda would ever get to being with her, anyway. If anything was going to fill the void, this substitute had to be it. She would have to make do with fantasy.

Miranda let her fingers fan out and caress Shiala's stomach. Strong. Slender. Smooth. Shiala was exceptionally fit, and that was quite intoxicating, irrespective of whose body it was. She let her hand wander as Shiala lay back down onto the bed, bringing Miranda with her, their lips never parting.

She kissed her way down to Shiala's chest, acting out the same attention she would lavish on Samara's perfect breasts if she were beneath her instead. Tits were one thing asari and humans most definitely had in common. Shiala reached up with her hands in kind to cup Miranda's chest, stroking her thumbs across her nipples. A shiver cascaded down her spine. It felt good. But it wasn't enough.

None of this was enough.

As engrossed as Miranda was in exploring Shiala's physique, she hadn't come there to be content with second base. Miranda elected to speed things along, daring to slip her hand lower, beneath Shiala’s pants.

She cupped Shiala’s sex, rubbing her palm against it. What she felt didn't differ markedly from human female anatomy. Except...

Wait a second, there wasn't a clit.

“What are you doing?” Shiala asked, peering at her curiously.

“I, uh...” Miranda didn't know how to respond. Asari looked so human, in many respects. So much so that they could wear the same clothes. But they weren't human. It shouldn't have come as a shock that there were differences.

“Let me show you.” Shiala took the lead, assuming she had a better idea of what to do in this situation, much to Miranda's chagrin. This was not how she preferred to operate in the bedroom. She liked to take charge. But, she supposed she did lack experience when it came to being with asari. That and it was harder to physically assert dominance when she only had one arm.

“Fine,” Miranda reluctantly acquiesced.

“Here.” Shiala guided Miranda onto her side, and brought her hand around to the small of her back, down towards her bottom. At that, Shiala’s eyes fluttered shut and her breath caught in a moan. “Ugh. Y-Yes. That's...That's the spot.”

Miranda's eye quirked. Interesting. She made note of that for future reference.

Shiala gently prodded Miranda to lie on her back with a nudge to her shoulder. Miranda didn’t resist. She watched as Shiala slithered down the lower half of her body, removing the last of both their clothing, leaving no barriers between them. 

“Do you know how to use your tongue down there?” Miranda asked. Shiala glanced up, faintly confused. “Pro-tip for the future, human women really like it.”

“...Okay,” said Shiala, taking Miranda’s word on how she liked to be pleasured.

Miranda draped her arm across her forehead as she felt Shiala explore her anatomy, trying to figure out what she liked. Miranda told her. Shiala wasn't the first person she'd had to guide through sex. Most guys were clueless, she'd found. It was why Miranda had learned early on that taking charge in the bedroom was the only way to live. She knew how to get herself off. Why mince words? She was an eager and receptive partner, though, Miranda would give her that much.

Miranda gripped the back of Shiala’s head when her tongue circled her clit, keeping her there. She imagined Samara in her place, fantasising about looking down in that moment and seeing a familiar blue crest between her thighs, dreaming of those piercing eyes holding her gaze while her lips brushed her clit, and while her tongue licked her entrance, before slipping inside her slit.

God, how had it taken her this long to realise Samara was so fucking hot?

“Get up here,” Miranda commanded, curling her fingers beneath Shiala's chin and gently dragging her up her body, until they were face to face. “I want you to fuck me,” Miranda murmured, her voice husky with arousal, so wet from the thoughts going through her head. “You know how to do that, right?”

“Does that mean you're ready to meld?” Shiala asked, seeking consent, visibly quite worked up and panting heavily, like she was on edge and desperate to get off. Hey, so long as that worked for both of them, Miranda had no objections.

“Does that involve fucking?” she growled, sinking her teeth into Shiala's neck, eliciting a shiver. Miranda had to admit, she wasn't one hundred percent sure what melding entailed. When it came to asari and how they mated, it was difficult to distinguish the facts from the myths.

“It-It-It can,” Shiala stammered, trying to keep her head on straight. “Melding involves a gentle linking of nervous systems. Essentially, everything you feel, I feel to an extent, and vice versa—“

“Then shut up, do it, and fuck me,” Miranda quietly urged, silencing Shiala with a kiss before she could waste time saying anything else.

There was no mistaking the moment the meld began. All her nerves stood on end, as if struck by a static charge. It was as though some form of magnetism was drawing the electrical impulses out of her body and pulling them towards Shiala, as if their bodies yearned to combine into one. Her senses sharpened, like she was seeing through an extra set of eyes, hearing through an extra set of ears, feeling her own skin through another person's touch.

Miranda looked up and saw Shiala's eyes had intensified, almost turning pure black with want. Miranda didn't hesitate, seizing one of Shiala's hands and guiding it down between her legs, desperate to sate her hunger.

When she felt those fingers slip between her folds, Miranda hooked her arm around Shiala's shoulders, pulling her close and grinding into her touch. Shiala wasn't the most deft lover, essentially learning the human body as she went along, but it almost didn't matter, because Miranda wasn't picturing her.

In her mind, she imagined Samara hovering there above her. It was Samara’s fingers moving inside her. Samara’s voice in Miranda's ear, breathless with want. Samara’s skin slick with Miranda's sweat. Samara’s lips against hers. 

That fantasy sparked a fire within her. She thought about letting Samara take her in the Starboard Observation Deck a year ago, or dragging her back to her own bed and being the one to pin her down and make love to her in her sheets. She imagined fucking her in the cargo bay after a training session, sliding her hips between her thighs, alight with the thrill of the risk of getting caught. She focused on the sparks that flew between them the last time they touched on the balcony, and remembered Samara's careful caress against her scarred cheek.

She let her fingers fall upon Shiala's head crest, and she could almost fool herself into believing it was Samara's. “Harder,” Miranda urged, willing herself to get lost in the jolts of electricity trickling through her veins. Shiala hadn't been kidding about how melding worked. It was like a subtle feedback loop. Every time she touched Shiala, Miranda could feel ghosts of her own fingers in the same places on her own body. She could see how this could become addictive.

Shiala complied with her wishes and drove her fingers harder, deeper. Her thumb brushed Miranda's clit and both of them sharply inhaled at once. Shiala didn't hesitate to touch it again once she knew how good it felt.

Miranda reached down to that spot on Shiala's lower back, and experienced the sensations of her azure for herself, to a muted degree. She flipped their positions, rolling Shiala over onto her back to straddle her waist, biting her jawline as she rode her, meeting every motion and thrust of her hand underneath her.

“Miranda--”

“Shh.” Miranda placed a finger to Shiala’s lips. She didn’t want to hear her voice. Hearing her talk made it harder to imagine Samara. “No talking. Just fucking.”

Shiala took the hint, forgetting whatever she intended to say. With that, Miranda straightened her back, letting her fingertips trace the curve of Shiala’s breast, grinding her hips into her hand. She thought about riding Samara like this.

Did Samara prefer to fuck women, or be fucked by women? Or was she equally open to both? Miranda would have loved to know. It was hard to tell.

If they were fucking, would Samara make her come?

Or would she make Samara come?

Miranda panted and gasped, trying to inch closer and closer towards her climax. But it wasn't working. It wasn’t working, because no matter how hard she tried, it wasn’t enough. Her imagination wasn’t vivid enough to trick her into believing it was Samara she was fucking instead. Because it wasn’t Samara. It was Shiala. And. Miranda. Just. Wasn’t. That. Into. Her.

“Come on...” Miranda grumbled to herself, her fingernails digging into the bed as she rocked her hips, willing herself to forget that this wasn't really Samara. Or to let this be enough for tonight, at the very least. “For fuck's sake.”

“I-I'm sorry?” Shiala looked up at her in concern.

“Not you.” Miranda closed her eye, concentrating on that frustrating, unrealised pleasure building between her thighs that showed no signs of release. 

Fed up with waiting for an orgasm that just wasn’t coming on its own, Miranda reached down between her thighs, rubbing her clit while Shiala's fingers moved inside her. That was better. It wasn’t the first time she’d had to get herself off with a less-than-ideal partner. And it was evident from the flushed look on Shiala’s face that she could feel to some degree what Miranda was doing to herself.

“Just like that,” Miranda instructed. Shiala took that as a cue to speed up.

Miranda resisted the urge to groan in annoyance. Why was it that, whenever she said ‘just like that’, the people she was sleeping with so often took that as a cue to change what they were doing instead of continuing to do the exact same thing she’d just explicitly told them to not fucking change?

When Shiala bucked her hips to try and meet Miranda's motions, Miranda nearly lost her balance, without a free arm to catch herself. Fortunately Shiala steadied her to stop her from falling, sitting up and wrapping an arm around her waist to prevent that from happening again. “Sorry.”

“Stop apologising,” Miranda commanded, having lost count of how many times Shiala had done that. Samara wouldn't. She wouldn't have any reason to. Miranda focused on manufacturing the illusion of Samara's presence inside her mind, replaying conversations they’d had, remembering the way it felt to be near her. Her teeth grazed her lower lip, softly biting down as she touched herself, resting her head against Shiala's shoulder. “I want you to tell me something.”

“...What?” asked Shiala, with an audible hint of doubt.

“If I were fucking you right now, would it feel good?” Miranda breathed against her skin, hot and heavy, picturing how it would feel to be inside Samara – to be the one to bring her undone. “Do asari...feel pleasure down there?”

“Only when we're melding,” Shiala answered, trying to time the ministrations of her fingers with Miranda's. “When we meld like this, we become...sensitive to touch. Everywhere. How sensitive depends on the partner, and on the meld.”

That was encouraging, Miranda thought. “So I could make you come?” she said, craving it. Shiala hesitated. Miranda didn't need to see her expression to guess why. “I don't know what your word for it is. Do asari have orgasms?”

The scientific term seemed to translate just fine. “Oh. Uh. Y-Yes. We—”

“You're going to,” Miranda stated, shifting her fingers away from her clit, finding Shiala's slit and slipping them inside. Shiala inhaled sharply, and Miranda felt the spark mirrored on her own body, making her swallow a moan.

If she couldn't get herself off, maybe getting Shiala off was the answer.

She had to admit, for as messy as this whole encounter was, this part was the closest it had felt so far to being right. She liked how it felt. To be inside another woman. To be able to feel what she was doing to her - what effect she was having on her. To know that she could make her unravel with pure pleasure. To have total control over bringing someone else to that point of ecstasy. 

Miranda adjusted her rhythm, until she could feel through her own senses that it was just right. The two of them began to rock in time, chasing the same high.

Shiala cradled Miranda to her neck as she lay back against the sheets, cupping Miranda's sex, rubbing harder and faster. Miranda ignored the pain in her amputated arm and her injured knee, finding just enough support to put the right amount of weight behind every thrust of her wrist.

Shiala's voice cracked as she tangled her fingers in Miranda's hair. It was working. Miranda's arousal climbed in sync with Shiala's, building past that plateau.

Before long, Shiala hit her peak, and Miranda went with her.

Miranda didn't know which one of them had actually climaxed first, and she didn't care. She swallowed a moan when her release came at long last and the waves of relief coursed through her system, stifling the sound against Shiala’s skin. Fucking finally, Miranda thought, letting her head fall against Shiala’s shoulder.

Shiala's breath hitched when she came, tensing, then trembling beneath her as Miranda continued to move, deliberately drawing out her pleasure, intent on riding out her own orgasm until she hit another peak, and then another and another, until she had nothing left to give. That was the only way she might actually come close to quenching her thirst for Samara once and for all.

Just as it had started to get good, that feeling of interconnectedness abruptly slipped away. Shiala reached down to still her hand. “Miranda, stop,” she said. 

Miranda blinked in bewilderment, withdrawing her hand and sitting up straight atop Shiala's hips, the aftermath of her orgasm swiftly fading before she could make the most of it. The meld was over.

“What? What are you doing?” Miranda asked, unsure what had happened.

Was that it?!

“Miranda, that was...” Shiala trailed off and uncomfortably glanced aside. Evidently she couldn't pretend it had been all that much better for her. “But I have to ask you...Is there something wrong?” Shiala questioned her, studying her face with concern, as if she sensed that something had been off between the two of them the entire time – that Miranda wasn't really enjoying this.

“Well there is now,” Miranda remarked in irritation, wishing Shiala had just ignored her misgivings and kept going. Miranda had barely even scratched the surface of working out her frustrated feelings for Samara. Perhaps Shiala's previous lovers had only been capable of going one round.

But, anyway, the mood had been ruined. Miranda wasn't sure she could get back to where she'd just been.

“No, you know what? Forget it,” Miranda said through a sigh, gingerly rolling off Shiala, trying not to aggravate any pain in her injured limbs in the process. 

Honestly, that had been...underwhelming. She'd succeeded in getting off, at least, but that hadn't solved the problem. If anything, it had only served to make her even more sexually frustrated than she had been before. But rather than having any desire to have a second attempt at purging her sexual cravings, all Miranda could really think about was how much she needed to empty her bladder, and how much she was hankering for something to eat. Those were hardly sexy thoughts.

“I should go. I have ten teenagers to take care of,” Miranda muttered, sitting on the edge of the bed and collecting her clothing, concealing a wince as gravity exerted an unwelcome strain on her left knee as she pulled on her underwear.

“Oh. Okay. I, uh...I will see you another time, then,” Shiala awkwardly assumed.

Miranda didn’t acknowledge the statement much less respond to it, continuing to get dressed in silence, having absolutely no intention of talking to her again.

Shiala didn’t yet fathom in that moment just how little Miranda would have noticed or cared if she were to just suddenly disappear off the face of Earth entirely.

But she would soon know.

*     *     *

Miranda typed quickly, downloading all her essential files from the Normandy’s computers in haste, including her notes on Cerberus. While the data transferred onto her portable drives, she rummaged through her belongings, taking only what she needed. Suffice it to say, she would be travelling light.

It was easier not to think about the fact that three hundred thousand people had been wiped out of existence only a few days ago, at the Alpha Relay. Nobody on the ship had even spoken a word for hours after it happened. 

It was nobody’s fault. Not theirs. Shepard had done everything she could, but...

Even so, it was kind of hard not to feel like they’d failed.

She didn’t hear the door open, but didn’t need to. Miranda only briefly glanced up to acknowledge the familiar presence in the doorway. “Hello, Samara,” she said, unfortunately not exactly overflowing with time to stop and have a chat.

“Miranda.” Samara nodded in greeting, her expression unchanging as she took in the state of her room, and the speed with which Miranda was currently packing a bag. It didn’t take more than a moment to put two and two together. “I came to inform you of my departure. I did not expect yours would be sooner than mine.”

“Yeah, well, Shepard is being blamed for blowing up a solar system. I don't know when, but...eventually The Normandy is going to surrender to The Alliance. I know she intends to answer the charges. She’s told me. So I have to go. If we're heading to Earth, I can't...I can't be here,” Miranda swiftly explained.

It wasn’t like she was the first to leave. Kasumi had already bailed almost immediately after it happened, the first among them to disappear without a word. Then Zaeed followed. And that had more or less set off a chain reaction. 

The writing was on the wall. Everybody was going in their own separate directions. And Miranda had more cause than most to abandon ship.

It was difficult to read Samara’s expression. Even at the best of times, she didn't betray much. However, she almost looked somewhat disappointed with her choice to flee. “The Code no longer requires my presence among your crew. But you are intimately tied to this vessel—“ 

“Because I was with Cerberus,” Miranda cut her off. That was the whole issue. “I've turned my back on The Illusive Man, but to The Alliance, I'm a wanted terrorist – one of the highest ranking members of Cerberus ever to have defected. The instant we land on Earth, they're going to take me into custody and try to get information. But The Illusive Man has moles and operatives everywhere, even within The Alliance military. I guarantee you, if they place me under arrest, which they will, I would be found dead in my cell within hours.”

That explanation clarified things.

“I understand,” said Samara, a simple nod of her head confirming she implicitly supported Miranda’s decision to leave in light of those comments. Above all else, Miranda’s safety was paramount. “Is Shepard in danger?”

“No.” Miranda returned her attention to her computer once it signalled her download had finished, retrieving her critical files on Cerberus. “Shepard's too high profile, too critical to...whatever The Illusive Man's true goals really are, and she doesn't know nearly enough about Cerberus to be a threat. I'm one of the only people in the galaxy who could potentially help The Alliance track down The Illusive Man's base, because I've been there before. I'm a priority target.”

“A thought occurs to me; you could disembark with me when we travel through asari space,” Samara offered, seeing a potential solution. Judging from the serious look that crossed her features, it was not an idle proposition. “We would have to part ways not long afterwards, but it would give you more time to prepare. And it would be safer for you than travelling alone, and easier to hide. Certainly, Cerberus would have few if any allies among my kind.”

At that suggestion, Miranda felt a cold shadow wash over her. “I wish I could take you up on that. I do. But, if Cerberus had any reason to suspect that you were the last person to know my whereabouts, then they would go after you,” Miranda confessed, meeting Samara’s gaze. “I don't doubt that you could evade them, but then you'd be in the same situation as me, and that would be my fault. I won't visit my problems upon you more than I already have.”

“...That is an admirable trait,” Samara acknowledged, needing no further justification for Miranda's decision. Miranda didn’t need to guess that Samara would have said the exact same words to her, if their positions were reversed. “I respect your choice, even if it pains me to think you must face this alone.”

A sad smile tugged at the corner of Miranda’s lips. “If it weren’t for all that, I would have gone with you in a heartbeat, though,” she admitted to her, not afraid to say that. She would have loved to travel with Samara, even if only for a little while longer, if doing so wouldn’t have put her at an unacceptable risk of harm.

“Your path is set out before you. You know what you must do. I will say nothing that would deter you from it,” said Samara, her tone stoic and sombre, perhaps regretting that she had even put the thought in her mind. She was a woman of duty. She understood personal sacrifice better than anyone. They each had a calling they had to follow. Samara as a Justicar. Miranda fighting Cerberus.

Miranda felt a twinge in her heart as she saw Samara then, realising it could be the last time they ever saw each other. She hoped it wouldn’t be, but...

There were no promises.

She hadn’t thought this would be so hard to do. But then, this was only the second time she’d had to walk away from someone who mattered to her like this. The only thing that made it bearable was knowing it was the right thing to do.

“...I’m going to miss you more than anyone else,” Miranda confessed. She wasn’t a sentimental person by any means. But something told her she would have regretted it if she left without telling Samara that. Letting her know how much she meant to her, to the extent that a person as emotionally stunted as her could express such things. “I think you know that by now.”

Samara swallowed heavily at that, averting her gaze. Miranda didn’t see it, but Samara’s hand clenched into a fist behind her back. It was shaking. “And I you.”

Miranda felt like there was still so much more to say, and yet she didn’t have the lexicon to find the words to say it. Maybe that was just her subconscious trying to trick her into not leaving - making her feel like this moment couldn’t end.

But all things had to end eventually, even this.

It was time to go.

With that in mind, Miranda shouldered her bag, releasing a heavy breath as she looked at Samara one last time. It wasn’t lost on her that Samara still hadn’t lifted her head to meet her gaze. Maybe she couldn’t. If that was the case then, Miranda hadn’t foreseen that. Samara was taking this harder than she expected.

Then again, for kind-hearted souls like Samara, maybe farewells like this never got any easier, no matter how many centuries she had lived through them.

She had to say it now, didn’t she?

Okay.

“...Goodbye, Samara,” Miranda said softly. She walked to the door.

“Miranda...” Samara stopped her with a brief and very gentle touch on her shoulder before she could pass her by. Miranda halted mid-step, waited, and watched the unreadable thoughts play across her face. Several long seconds passed before Samara finally settled on what she wanted to say. “Be safe.”

Miranda managed something that resembled a smile. “I'd say the same to you, but I'm supremely confident that you won't need it,” Miranda commented, and that wasn't a joke, but a matter-of-fact assessment. 

It honestly meant more to hear Samara say those simple words to her than she would have expected, but then again that was a reflection of how close they'd grown on this journey together. A closeness Miranda had never been searching for, and never would have predicted, but now couldn’t imagine her life without.

While these unfortunate circumstances had come about so suddenly to rob them of the chance to truly make the most of their friendship, it wasn't an exaggeration to say that they had developed a rapport that they didn't share with anyone else. A bond that almost defied space and time, given that the vastness of the years between them always vanished into nothing whenever they spoke, and made it feel as though they’d known each other for decades, even as they were always learning new things about each other.

It was just a shame this was where they parted ways.

Samara’s eyes shone in the starlight. “May we meet again.”

With that one final nod of regard, Samara let her hand fall from her shoulder, and stepped aside, allowing her to leave. There was no hug. Because they weren't the type of people who did that. That similarity underscored the unspoken connection between them. Even though they'd lived vastly different lives, there was an understanding – things that never needed to be said.

Miranda was going to miss having someone like that. Looking out over the endless expanse of space all by herself wouldn't be the same without the comfortable silence she shared with Samara.

Without further delay, Miranda took those fateful steps out the door and headed up to the CIC to make her way off the ship. The elevator opened with a hiss.

“Ah!” Kelly Chambers jumped at the noise, a look of panic coming over her.

Miranda raised her hands. “It’s just me.”

Kelly sighed, massaging her temples, only looking mildly comforted by the fact that at least that time there was nobody else around to see her lose her cool. “Yes. Yes, I know. I’m sorry.”

Honestly, she didn’t even like Kelly Chambers, but Miranda was starting to feel sorry for the poor woman. It had been over two weeks since the Collector attack, and she still jumped like that every single time the elevator doors opened. Just what had those creatures done to her?

When she looked up, Kelly noticed Miranda’s bag slung over her shoulder. “Oh. You’re leaving?”

Miranda nodded. “You’re all safer if I’m not here. And I’m definitely safer if I’m not in an Alliance prison.”

“Okay. Good luck out there. Stay safe,” said Kelly. Miranda started off towards the airlock. After she’d passed her by a few paces, a thought struck Kelly. “Oh, before you go, I have to know. Did you ever tell Samara how you feel about her?”

“I’m sorry?” Miranda turned back. She hadn’t been listening, too busy thinking about what her first moves would be once she alighted as part of phase one of her plan to evade Cerberus before they could catch up to her and kill her.

“Did you tell Samara?” Kelly repeated.

Having not heard the question properly the first time, Miranda interpreted that ambiguous query to mean ‘did you tell Samara you’re leaving’, to which the answer was obvious.

“Yes, of course I did,” Miranda replied.

A sincere smile came to Kelly’s face, almost as if that was the first news she had to be happy about since she’d been abducted. “Oh. Good. I’m glad.”

Miranda arched an eyebrow in mild confusion, but didn’t care enough about Kelly Chambers to probe that any further, taking her leave from The Normandy.

She didn’t know then that it would be the last time she would ever set foot on it.

*     *     *

It was around midnight when Miranda got home. Hopefully, it was late enough that all the kids would be asleep. Although she had made the excuse about work, she did not particularly wish for any of them to ignore that and come up with their own speculation when they saw her come home at that hour. As if they didn’t already have enough baseless theories about her personal life. 

She opened the door as quietly as she could, not keen to wake anyone up with the sound of her key in the lock. However, Miranda’s stealthy return home was abruptly cut short by the lights suddenly flicking on the moment she entered.

“Something came up at work, huh?” Jacob remarked, standing in the kitchen.

Miranda's eye widened, appropriately startled. “Jacob? What are you still doing here?”

“I thought I'd fix you something,” he said, gesturing to a bowl he'd placed on the table, while he was halfway through his own identical snack at the counter. “You always worked up an appetite after sex.”

Miranda frowned at him, highly disgruntled. But, damn it, he was right; she was hungry. “...You're an arsehole, Jacob,” Miranda muttered, moving into the flat and taking a seat at the table. He'd made her a curry and rice. Probably leftovers from dinner. It actually smelled delicious, especially given the state of food in London right now. And she was starving. She couldn't resist starting to eat. “Seriously though, why are you here? I told you not to wait for me.”

“I was going to head home, but then...I don’t know, call it my Dad instincts kicking in a little early, but I suddenly had this sinking feeling of what if something bad happened to the kids when neither of us were here, and then Jack found out the reason you weren’t around was because you’d stayed out late for a booty call?” Jacob hypothesised, fearing the worst.

Miranda just tilted her head, not even wanting to describe the way she was picturing Jack torturing her to death if that ever happened.

“Yeah, exactly,” said Jacob, agreeing completely. “Look, I’m not calling you irresponsible or anything. They are basically adults. Especially Jason and Rodriguez who are adults by every legal definition. But still. Maybe I would have felt a bit better if I knew you’d left some kind of emergency contact plan in place in case something happened while you were out.”

“When you put it like that, I appreciate you staying,” Miranda acknowledged. That being said, it was a bit overzealous. She had been living on her own and looking after herself since she was younger than some of these teens.

On second thought, maybe that didn’t make her the best judge of their maturity.

“For the record, I'm not mad at you, but I'm only here to look after your place and your kids when you're actually too busy to get home. That does not extend to babysitting for you every time you want to go home with a guy. Not unless you start paying me for it, anyway.”

“I know. I'm sorry,” Miranda apologised, aware that she shouldn’t have bullshitted him with that fake excuse about work. Even though it hadn’t been her intention to foist the kids onto him, she’d still left him in the position of having to make that decision at the last minute, without any forewarning, and no backup in place. “It was a very...spur of the moment thing. It won't happen again.”

“Until you have another spur of the moment,” Jacob surmised.

“No, I don't plan to,” said Miranda, poking at her midnight snack.

“Of course you don't. You don't plan spur of the moment things. That's what it means,” Jacob pointed out.

“Yes, but I'm normally very good at regulating my own behaviour,” Miranda stated.

“And that part of you was...where, exactly?” Jacob teased, obviously enjoying having one up on her for a change. “Oh, wait, don't tell me – this random guy you met at a bar was so special that you just had to fuck him before he vanished into thin air,” he joked, emphasising the absurdity.

Miranda snorted. “How do you know it was a bar?”

“You called me. I heard it.” Jacob shrugged.

“Mmm.” Miranda pursed her lips unhappily. In retrospect, she should have predicted this would happen. “Okay, fine, Jacob. You're right. I'm just making excuses. I didn't have to do this tonight. I should have...arranged to see her some other time, but, frankly, I didn't want to. I embraced my selfish side. I made a conscious decision to be irresponsible, so go ahead and blame me for that.”

Jacob just squinted at her, no longer listening. “Her?” he echoed.

Miranda froze.

Fuck.

“I didn't say 'her',” she dismissed the idea, trying her hardest not to look at him.

“Yeah, you did,” he responded, absolutely certain of what he'd heard. “You distinctly said that you should have arranged to see 'her' some other time.”

Fuck.

“...Did you go home with a woman?” he asked the now obvious question, leaning back against the kitchen counter, clearly very entertained by all this.

“Even if I had done, that’s not really any of your business, is it?” Miranda said plainly, continuing to eat her meal.

“No, it isn't, but you did, didn't you?” he deduced, her response only confirming his suspicions. “Miranda, we are friends, and friends do talk about these things.”

“Oh, please.” Miranda shook her head at that ridiculous assertion. “You never asked for any details when I was with men. I'm not going to indulge you because you find the idea of two women together appealing.”

“Meh. Actually, I'm not into that. Feels kind of gross to take girls being with girls and make it into some kind of...male fantasy.” Miranda knew Jacob was lying. She'd read his Shadow Broker file – she knew what porn he watched. “And the reason I didn't ask about it when you'd been with a guy is because it's not incredibly uplifting to hear details about your ex having sex with someone else, regardless of gender. But this isn't about that. I don't want a play-by-play,” Jacob assured her. “You just never told me you were bi.”

“I don't know that I am,” Miranda conceded. She didn't know what she was. Hell, the more she thought about it the more she was questioning whether she had ever truly been sexually attracted to anybody at all, save for two people, one of whom was in the room with her, and the other being Samara.

“If you're into women and men, then 'bi' sounds like a pretty solid start.”

Miranda sighed and rubbed her temple, wishing she could make like Kasumi and turn invisible to escape this conversation. But it wasn't like she had anyone else to confide in about this. On reflection, that was probably why she wasn't shutting up despite her brain urging her to stop talking and keep eating.

“Frankly, I'm not sure who or what I'm into anymore. Although I guess it’s looking more and more like I’m on some kind of spectrum,” Miranda acknowledged aloud.

“Well I’ve known that about you for years,” Jacob quipped.

“Oh ha ha,” Miranda sarcastically laughed, not really in the mood.

Jacob raised his hands defensively. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist. Continue.”

“What I mean to say is that it's...more complicated than just men or women,” Miranda reluctantly admitted, and that was true in more ways than one. Jacob pulled a face, having no clue what that was supposed to hint at. God damn it, Miranda thought. She was going to regret saying this, wasn't she? “For starters, she wasn't a human,” she mumbled.

Jacob's expression fell, losing his prior levity. “...An asari?” he assumed.

Miranda didn't respond.

“Oh my God.” Jacob ran a hand down his face. “Miranda, you’re so stupid.”

His bizarre reaction prompted Miranda to utter a short laugh. “Wow, you really are different from most men. Joker would have been in a coma if I'd told him that.”

“This isn't a joke; this is serious,” Jacob said sternly. “Did you even think about the consequences?”

“She's not an Ardat-Yakshi,” Miranda told him, perplexed by his sudden severity.

“What if she has a kid?” Jacob pointed out. “Congratulations - you’re the father.”

Miranda hesitated. She honestly hadn't entertained that possibility before. But, in retrospect, she didn’t know why it had slipped her mind. She knew full well that asari could have children with anyone, including human women.

Then again, she supposed Jacob hadn't given children much consideration either until Brynn unexpectedly conceived, and that was in a circumstance where it was ingrained to be aware of the potential to fall pregnant.

“That's her choice, if she wants to,” Miranda said nonchalantly, deciding it didn't change anything. After all, it wasn't like she'd never attempted to use anonymous men for the purposes of procreation herself. It would be hypocritical if she took issue with Shiala doing the same in this hypothetical scenario. “It doesn't matter to me if she uses our meld to create a child.”

“Even if it turns out she wants more from you than a randomised genetic sequence?” he asked, folding his arms across his chest disapprovingly. 

“What, you mean like a family?” Miranda scoffed. “Yeah, no. I hardly think that's likely, Jacob. Asari have their own ways of dealing with reproduction in their culture. Most of them raise their children alone. There's no expectation for fathers to be involved.” Just like Miranda had no interest whatsoever in the potential fathers she'd sought in the past. They were donors. Nothing more.

“What? And you'd be okay with that, if that did happen?” Jacob asked, sceptically. “Being...cut out of your hypothetical daughter's life forever? I mean, yeah, sure, you say that now, but seriously think about that. That’s a big deal.”

“I don't really get a say in the matter, do I? It's not my body, so it's not my choice. Plus this is an entirely imaginary fantasy you’ve fabricated in your head. It was just a one-off hook-up,” Miranda reminded him, gesturing her fork at him.

“I know it is, but this is what I’m saying. The fact that you even need to think about this as a scenario that could happen, which you clearly didn’t, this is why you don’t do one night stands with asari,” Jacob elucidated his whole argument. “For real, though, there’s nothing you can do on your end to prevent it. That’s the problem. It’s entirely someone else’s decision. If there were some kind of condom you could wear for melds, I’d tell you to knock yourself out and go for it.”

“I appreciate your support,” Miranda sarcastically retorted, not enjoying getting the third degree over how she chose to spend her night. After a moment, her expression faltered. “Honestly, even if Shiala had considered the idea of wanting a relationship or a child with me, I'm pretty sure she’s lost interest at this point.”

And, even if she hadn’t, Miranda had certainly lost what little interest she had to begin with. She had no plans on sleeping with her again. She’d distracted her for a night, and been a...somewhat unfulfilling experiment. She’d served her purpose.

“Ha. Not surprised that it was her. Shiala’s been crushing on you for a while. Not even subtle about it.” Jacob paused and arched an eyebrow, amused by an unspoken implication to the extent that it distracted him from his prior train of thought. “...Are you saying you had bad sex?” he asked, finding that comical.

“N-No.” Miranda shook her head, wishing she'd kept her mouth shut. Jacob wasn't buying it. “Bad is an overstatement. I think.” She glanced down, focusing on her curry. Jacob just stared. “...Alright, so it was awkward and bloody mediocre. Are you happy?” she admitted, taking another mouthful.

“Those aren't words I would have used to describe you when we were together,” Jacob wryly remarked. Miranda wouldn’t either, in fairness.

“Yeah, well, you're a human and all my limbs worked back then,” Miranda noted. God, it was no wonder sleeping with Shiala hadn't done anything to take her mind off Samara. “Long story short, that's why I came home early.”

“Why were you even randomly hooking up with Shiala anyway?” Jacob wondered aloud with a shrug. “Not that you need a reason, but...I've known you long enough that I think I would have picked up on it by now if you were into her, or into asari in general like that.” He was right. Ever since they broke up, Jacob hadn't been oblivious to her one-night stands with other men, though it wasn't something they'd discussed. He did know enough to be aware who she slept with.

“Maybe I'm not,” Miranda replied. “It would explain why we didn't click terribly well. Although, still, I’ve had worse. A lot worse.”

For starters, she and Shiala hadn't been overburdened with chemistry. Not on her end, anyway. Miranda had only enjoyed herself when she was able to imagine Samara in Shiala's place instead. Although melding had felt nice, and she had been getting that itch scratched before Shiala abruptly put a stop to things. She didn't object to the idea of sleeping with a woman again (human or asari, come to think of it), but she didn’t doubt that the night would have gone better with someone who sparked more of an interest in her. Someone less awkward.

Preferably Samara.

Shame that was impossible.

“So, what? You just out of the blue decided to bang Shiala to, what? To see what it was like?” Jacob asked, not believing that for a second. That wasn't like Miranda. “You'd never do that, unless—“

He trailed off, a realisation dawning upon him.

“Unless what?” Miranda prompted, impatiently. She didn't like not being privy to whatever he was speculating about her. It wasn't a pleasant feeling to be the subject of this inquiry.

“Unless there is an asari you're interested in,” he concluded. Miranda was really beginning to hate him for knowing her so intimately. “Is it Samara?”

Fuck. Why did everybody--?!

Miranda tried to maintain her complexion and her composure, doing her best to avoid immediately giving everything away by her reaction to that statement alone. “I never said—“

“Well, if it's not her, then who the hell else is it?” Jacob pressed, gesturing for her to fill in the blanks, if he was indeed mistaken. But he knew he wasn't. “I can't think of any other living woman – human, asari or any other species – who would make you think twice about them.”

“You're presuming an awful lot about me, Jacob,” Miranda pointed out. Despite how good she was at concealing her response, Jacob wasn't deterred; he knew he was onto something.

“I don't know if you've noticed, but you are really hard to impress, and you're justified in that. You're on a different level than most people, and not because of your genetics. You deserve someone exceptional. I've always known that's why...you and I never worked out.” Jacob briefly averted his gaze at that, but it didn't seem to trouble him too much. That was history now.

“With Shepard gone, Samara's probably the only person in the galaxy I’ve ever met who'd be worth your time,” he continued. “She operates on some whole other kind of cosmic, spiritual plane entirely that I don’t even fully comprehend. And, don’t tell her, but she also intimidates the hell out of me. Always has. So, for real Miranda, if it’s not her...then by all means, enlighten me.”

Miranda's resistance faltered. She sighed and let her head rest against two fingers. “...Just because you're right doesn't mean I want to talk about it.”

“You know, Miranda, I am a straight man,” said Jacob, pulling up a chair opposite her. “If there's one thing I can relate to, it's how it feels to fall for an unattainable woman. And, go figure, you happened to fall for the only woman in the universe I can think of who fits that definition even more than you do.”

“Exactly. She's unattainable,” Miranda reiterated. “You know it. I know it. So what's the use in sitting around mulling over it like a bloody whinger?” Miranda asked, shaking her head. “It's pointless.”

“Do you know that, though?” Jacob pressed. “I mean, have you spoken to her about it?”

Miranda snorted. “I've spoken to her a grand total of three times since I've been on Earth. Once, I was half-dead. The second time, I damn near had a panic attack just from standing within five feet of her. The third time, I snapped at her, told her I needed space and she vanished again, as she does. Besides, she’s off doing Justicar things now. I don't expect I'm ever going to be inundated with opportunities to bring it up. If I did, it would just alienate her.”

“I think you give her too little credit,” Jacob countered.

“No offence, but I know her better than you do,” Miranda shut him down. 

“Wow, Miranda.” Jacob uttered a strange chuckle, crossing his arms together on the table. “If you were a guy, I'd be calling you a massive coward right now.”

Miranda narrowed her gaze, somewhat affronted. “Excuse me?”

“Are you really going to hide how you feel because you can't toughen up and face rejection?” he challenged, seemingly as a form of motivation. “I didn't think you were like that. Pretending to be a friend when you can't even tell her you want more is what we in the Corsairs used to call 'a bitch move'.”

“Charming. Except it's not pretending,” Miranda muttered, resenting having to defend her intentions. “I am her friend. That's not fake. And it has nothing to do with being scared of rejection. It's not going to break my heart if she doesn't feel the same way. I know she doesn't. She’s shown zero indication otherwise.”

“So what have you got to lose?” Jacob prompted.

“The connection we already have?” Miranda supplied, not wishing to tarnish their rapport or scare Samara away. “It's insensitive and disrespectful to dump my feelings on her when she's made it perfectly clear she has no interest in that kind of relationship with anyone, after how it ended last time. She already met the love of her life, and that person died a long time ago. Now she's married to her Code, and it's not my place to tempt her away from it. Even if being with her was an option, I'm not entirely sure I'd want things to change between us either.”

“Wouldn't you?” he asked, doubting that very much. “In all the time I've known you, this is the first time I've seen you give up on anything. You're many things, but you're not a quitter.”

“I'm not giving up, I'm just being realistic,” Miranda insisted, failing to see the point in pretending impossible outcomes warranted consideration. “This is an issue I need to deal with, and I'm simply narrowing down my list of solutions, the same way I would with any other problem. My approach shouldn't be any less logical simply because I'm dealing with something emotional.”

“...I still think you should tell her. Look, I don’t know exactly what’s going on between you, but Samara definitely cares about you a lot. Even I can see that. I mean...” Jacob paused, held a deep breath and released it, as if wondering if it was his place to tell her this. Eventually, he decided to come out with it. “When Samara came back to London, and I told her that you were alive and well, I swear to God, I have never seen that woman come so close to breaking down. She damn near cried on the spot she was so happy you were okay.”

Miranda’s eye shimmered when she heard that. She could believe that. She probably would have reacted the same way if their positions were reversed.

“Thank you for telling me that. But it doesn’t change anything,” Miranda somewhat reluctantly answered, touched though she was by Jacob’s revelation. “I already know Samara cares about me. That’s not the question. That’s not the problem. If anything, it just confirms why I’m afraid of pushing her away.”

“Jeez. Even that won’t convince you to be honest with her? Alright, fine, be that way,” Jacob gave up, gesturing as if to wash his hands of the issue, at least for that day. Evidently it was late and he was annoyed. After a moment, though, something seemed to dawn on him, an intrigued look passing over his features.

“What?” Miranda asked, suspicious.

“It just hit me that you know what it's like to be with an asari now,” he observed.

“Yes.” Miranda's features only soured, sensing where this was going.

“So, like we both sort of hinted at earlier, we're tight enough that it's not going to be weird if I ask you what it's really like,” he continued.

Miranda just stared at him, unamused. “Congratulations on fulfilling the stereotype and being exactly like every other heterosexual male in the galaxy.”

“Come on,” he urged. “It's not a...perverted thing. But there's so much Extranet bullshit out there about asari that even you had to have been curious about how they actually have sex - or meld. This is your chance to set the record straight.”

“And it has absolutely nothing to do with having an anecdote that will score you free drinks for the rest of your life, and even less to do with the fact that you’ve seen all twenty-six instalments of the Asari Confessions series and talk about it online,” Miranda dryly remarked, not stupid enough to be fooled.

Jacob blinked at her.

“I spied on everyone on The Normandy, Jacob,” she reminded him.

He sighed heavily, deciding there was no point in being embarrassed Miranda knew about that. “If it makes you feel better, whenever I make a comment, I promise no one will suspect I got my information from you,” Jacob said.

Miranda huffed. However, Jacob was basically her best friend, and the only person she really had left. Maybe it was normal to talk about this sort of thing. Besides, at least if she gave him an answer, he'd never bother her about it again.

“...Have you ever...played around with magnets or electromagnetic fields?” Miranda asked, unable to think of a better analogy. Jacob nodded. “Well, it's sort of like that, except without any magnets or electromagnetic fields,” she unwillingly explained. “Their skin also feels like latex.”

Jacob fixed her with a look. “Has anyone ever told you you're not fun to talk to?”

“Frequently, yes,” Miranda confirmed.

*     *     *

#fic #mass effect #femslash #miranda lawson #samara

[davidduchovnydefensesquad]

Enough with the endless David hate

It’s been quite a while since I’ve gone on a lengthy rant but after some of the things I’ve seen being said the past couple of days, I couldn’t not say anything. So here you go....

I’m beyond tired of the hate David still gets in relation to Gillian. He’s been the target of haters for far too long as it is, but every time Gillian has some sort of career success, David’s name starts getting thrown around by most people in a negative way. The first example is the never-ending demands that he publicly support her or claims that he just isn’t supportive...period. 

Everyone knows David has never been comfortable with social media and after all of the hate he has gotten over the years, he uses it almost entirely for professional matters. Brick’s account also is barely updated. Who can blame him? And constantly pushing him to tweet about “X” in relation to Gillian isn’t going to make him more likely to do it. If anything, it probably has the opposite effect. 

Social media may not be his thing but anyone who claims he hasn’t been supportive in the past needs to get their head out of you-know-where. I’m not going to start listing all of the examples of support, but am more than happy to if ever asked or disputed. He has also been there for Gillian in public ways when she has clearly asked him to help out, join her with something, contribute to something in her honor, etc. I have NO doubt that if she asked him someday to accompany her to an awards show or similar event he would. Proudly too I’m sure. 

But because none of the above is happening at the moment, David continues to have a target on his back. Why is he held to such a different standard than the rest of Gillian’s co-stars (past and present) and famous friends? And this most often comes from fans/stans who believe they barely talk anyway, not people who believe they are close friends or in a relationship. Just because someone congratulated Gillian on social media doesn’t make them close in real life, just as a lack of public acknowledgment doesn’t mean there isn’t a closeness in private. People need to stop treating social media as the sole standard for reality.

The other never-ending issue here is the belief that David is constantly trying to hold Gillian back by wanting to do more XF, doesn’t want her to be successful and is basically her enemy. David more or less discussed this in an interview last fall and was very visibly frustrated and annoyed by this constant portrayal of him. Again, who can blame him? I highly recommend watching if you haven’t seen. 

Going back to my above points, David has sung her praises time and time again when it comes to her ability as an actress. He has supported her other endeavors as an actress. He said “so much more to come for you” in his WOF speech. Does that sound like someone who is trying to manipulate Gillian into doing more XF? Because it sure doesn’t to me. 

David has obviously moved on from the show himself and has already been working on other films/tv shows, plus his music and writing. Him saying that HE is open to maybe doing more XF down the road is not a crime and it’s not “disrespectful” to Gillian. If he had a choice eventually between doing more XF alone or doing a new project with Gillian, I think we all know what he’d choose. 

So many of us get attacked for bringing up David in a positive way in relation to Gillian yet it’s completely acceptable in this fandom to use Gillian’s successes as a way of trashing David. Grow the F up and move on. Hating on David is not going to make you a better fan in Gillian’s eyes. Regardless of what you believe their relationship to be, you’re trashing someone she cares about and someone I have zero doubt has been nothing but supportive of her BTS and would do the same publicly if he could. 

#probably repeating myself a lot #but whatever #here #lol #rant

[blade-king-luze]

“Bittersweet Freedom”

(OOC: A non-canonical story that could possibly extend a little bit longer within Chapter 63 of Uraboku. And a different route of ending because, this is pertaining to said Luze’s point of view and a little bit of Luka’s point of view. I ... I really want to show more relationships between Reiga and Luze. They deserve better qq like Yuki and Luka. But also, it was just a sudden decision from Reiga. Would Luze feel any different?) - Feat. Reiga Giou (Fowler), Fuyutoki Kureha, Yuki Giou, Luka Crosszeria - Sections taken from the Manga - Alternate dialogue direction and setting of the ending - Luka’s point of view

🎵- (Music to read through this)

What would happen in the events before Reiga, or now known as Kanata, made a decision to sacrifice his own freedom for the safety of others? Would that greatly impact Yuki, considering they were friends then enemies, then back to being sole friends?  More importantly, what would that mean for Luze? Reiga’s former trusted right hand man and dearest friend?

Kanata decided to lock himself up since he is the last Necromancer that Suzaku needed to activate the Book of Raziel. Yuki was concerned about this plan but unfortunately, there was nothing else more the Zweilts could have done. Especially losing so many warriors and innocent lives in one day.

As The Zweilts were resting from their devastating losses with heavy hearts, Luze goes and deals with his own heavy heart. He now walks in the path of his long wanted freedom granted from Kanata. But each step Luze takes towards his own freedom feels cold and empty without his Dearest Leader. As much as Luze was glad that Kanata’s mind was completely set on being the human he once was, the thought of locking him like a bird stuck in a cage tells a different story. 

Open the gilded cage from this story to see how Luze would cope with Kanata’s decision from all that had happened. Just how do you think Luze would react about all of this? Would he accept his freedom? This is just but my own interpretation and what I would think Luze would feel like considering he has been this loyal to him until the end. A knight without an oath to protect from their vowed noble.

... This was his plan. A plan that Fowler suddenly thought of that might or may not help with everything that occurred upon The Surface. 

As everyone’s eyes were suddenly shocked and surprised about his answer, Luka and I remained unfazed. We somehow knew something like this would stir up. However ... Not like this. That doesn’t mean that my heart was unfazed. I closed my eyes as he told everyone why he intended to do this. Luka took a quick glance at me as he felt something was amiss then looked back to Fowler.

I blocked all the noise around me just to focus on myself and tried to ease my mind.  Fowler had already told me about this plan before he spoke to anyone about it. Of course, I was completely reluctant. 

Lock himself up. Confide and never say a word about this ever. How frustrating and difficult that I had to go with this decision. Was there no other way than just to simply enclosed himself?

It’s just as Humes would say ...

To sacrifice one person would mean to save millions.  To sacrifice millions would mean to save one person. Fowler’s route would have been the second choice in this matter. His goals. His ambitions. All in one step of the way to eradicate the Humes. Only to revive someone he used to love way back in his time.

But he decided to take the first choice. To give up his freedom for the sake of others. Because he made his final decision to become the Hume he once was.

Before our encounter with The Light and Luka, his idea was brought to me. I had risen my voice at him that time. I strongly denied his decision to lock himself like this. All of his efforts seem to just go to waste in a blink of an eye. I didn’t understand any of it. I thought I knew Fowler more. It didn’t feel right at all. I felt anger.  I wanted to retort. 

But I couldn’t. I would never ... Not in front of someone I believed in. All I can do now is to accept it. What more would I have done?

Suddenly, my meditation was interrupted as I heard The Light speaking to someone through his device.  We all tensed up as we were given information on what event that transpired. There was no time for me to think on any of this anymore.  The only way now is to get through this sudden fight and push forward.

Although ... more events turned as I didn’t know that I would turn against the Duras to side with the Humes. Everything was just happening all at once and it seemed like I couldn’t keep up with any of it anymore. I was self cautious about myself about this whole thing.  There was no turning back, however.

It somehow felt like a final battle to me ... Probably just thinking about this whole mess of an idiotic idea that Fowler came up. But there are more that which meets the eye after the calm before the storm.

And I will see to it as long as I am still holding a purpose to serve Lord Reiga.

---

Events occurred and the battle ensued during Uraboku Chapters 62-63. The Zweilts, the other warriors, Luka and Luze, and Reiga, or now known as Kanata, himself were fighting side by side after finding out that the Zweilt’s head master, Takashiro, was abducted.

Hordes of Lesser Duras and the General Opasts raided The Surface in great defiance and destruction from Suzaku, one of the necromancers needed to revive Lucifer. 

They all fought valiantly and repelled Suzaku successfully, but at the cost of losing the Zweilt’s headmaster along with many other innocent lives in one day.

Kanata then explains what had happened during his past many centuries ago as well as Takashiro’s dark history. Everyone was downtrodded and their moral greatly descended after the cruel unfortunate events that occurred.

The Zweilts would all have to go without their leader this time and make their own decisions. But that isn’t to say that their leader isn’t the only one that is kept alive as a prisoner to Infernus. In Earth, it’s more similar in a sense that Luze technically does not have anyone to follow anymore. All he could do now that was greatly requested from Kanata was to stay by Yuki’s side and forge a contract with him instead, breaking the bond that tied the two together for so long.

Luze had no other choice but to accept his master’s will, much to his grand dismay. Kanata then proceeded to imprison himself until this war is over ...

---

My steps grew quieter each time I tread through these dark halls within one of the Zweilt’s residence located in Kamakura, or so the Humes called the location. I was now following closely behind Fuyutoki alone as he guided me to where Fowler was kept deep within his cell.

Most of the civilians that kept this residence clean and secured had all recovered their wounds from the aid of The Light’s healing abilities and my White Magic. There were a few casualties that were inevitable to save, but we had tried our best nevertheless. Fuyutoki was one of many fortunate ones to survive such feats. He was considered as Takashiro’s right hand man and a faithful butler to The Zweilts back at the Twilight Mansion. ... He reminded me of myself just because he used to work under someone he truly trusts with their lives. 

Now, we were both leaderless in our own way. We both technically lost someone we followed. “I must thank you all for everything that you have done ...” Fuyutoki said. “Especially Master Yuki’s and your healing abilities. Without them, most of us would have perished.” “...” I hesitated. My hands were in my pockets as I still continued to follow behind him. I looked down as I shook my head steadily. “Don’t mention it ... We tried what we can do. Even if there were losses ... At least all of you are mostly standing on two feet now.” “Don’t worry about the losses. We will also do what we can to hold their services. They all must be glad to have you aid them during their final moments.” I paused as I kept walking. “... About your leader.” Fuyutoki shook his head, trying to disregard the fact that Takashiro was temporarily no more. “... You don’t need to worry about him. He is our leader after all. I believe that he knows how to defend himself. He wouldn’t go down so easily even if being mind controlled. I know him better than anyone who has met him ... I also have faith that all of you will bring him back to us one day.”

I glanced slightly at him. “... Very well.” Even though I should take his words into consideration, a part of me couldn’t help but think about the losses in general. I’ve lost many during my days as a soldier. I could only have sympathy even for those I don’t know. I always have to compare myself to those on how they must have felt.  I wonder if The Light would be alright after this as well ...

We finally reached towards the door that was locked and kept away deep within the hallway. Fuyutoki reached in his pocket and pulled out a couple of keys that unlocked the intricate doors and opened them. The black void was the only thing that welcomed us as the door slowly creaked ominously wide. The stairs in front of us lead downward towards the abyss as we descended. Our footsteps softened but echoed from the stone grounds. What lies ahead of us were corridors of stone and torches that lit dimly but still bright enough to see where we were headed at the end of the halls. I still find it uncanny that there were prison cells in such a peaceful residential place. Then again, fortresses and mansions hold many surprises for those who venture deep within them if they were completely new to the area. They have great sizes for any living spaces with their grandiose appearance. Even those quarters enclosed from the world.

Moments passed as we approached towards the end of the darkened hall where cells were barely present from the lighting, far and deep where Fowler was. Fuyutoki moved slightly to the side to give me room to walk towards it. I stood in front of the door that Fowler was kept in. My face was solemn as I hesitated.

“... Take as much time as you need.” Fuyutoki stated as he saw my expression. He looked slightly down with his eyes for a moment then looked towards me. He took two steps forward as I slightly turn around. I saw his arm stretched outward with the keys in front of me. I blinked as I looked at him. “... What’s this?” “These are the keys that open the main door upstairs that encloses all of these cells. I trust that you will return them to me once you have finished.” “What?” As much as I was confused, I reached my hand out and he placed the keys on my palm. Fuyutoki smiled at me calmly. “You should thank your brother.” I flinched slightly. “He was the one that requested for me to entrust the keys to you so that you may talk to him for as long as you are able today.” I blinked one more time. “... I beg your pardon?” Before I began to say anything more, he started to walk off.  I looked to my hand with the key then back at him. I wanted to return the keys immediately, but seeing as he was far away from where I could reach him, and also from me hesitating, I stood reluctantly on my spot.

I huffed in frustration as I curled my fingers on the keys and looked down at them. “You jackass ...” I whispered to myself about Luka.  However, a part of me was very relieved that Luka finally had this much trust in me. Even if it’s just as simple as requesting Fuyutoki to lend these keys to me.

I closed my eyes as I turn around slowly towards Fowler’s cell. He must have heard voices from behind the steeled door. I wondered if it was sound proof. The thought made my hands clenched just thinking he would live here without any sound nor anything to hear. Just the deafening silence. ... I wondered if he could hear my voice.

I walked gently in front of the steeled door and hesitated as I raised a hand and knocked a couple of times. I put my head barely leaning towards the door to see if I can hear something. I thought I heard shuffling from my keen hearing. I put a hand flat on the door to focus.  Soft footsteps were heard approaching towards me.

“Who’s there?” I heard a muffled voice. I was surprised as I looked at the door. I really wish I could see beyond it. Alas, there was nothing to peer into except the high thinned windowed bars that I could barely look from.   “ ... It’s me.” I responded.

“Luze?” Fowler said. “... Yes.” Even though I couldn’t see anything, I sensed that he was definitely close by. From the other side of the door, he reached his hand and placed it flat on the door. He leaned forward with his ear against it to listen closely. “I had thought I heard voices from the other side. Though I couldn’t make it out who it was.” 

He paused for a moment. “... Why did you return?” he suddenly said quietly, barely for me to hear. “...” I hesitated. I could hear his upset tone. “I just wanted to talk to you.”

Silence. Fowler knew it wasn’t for just casual talk. He looked down. “There truly has to be a reason for you to come down here again. Is there?”

I closed my eyes as my eye lids quivered. I took a deep breath as I had swore I felt tears suddenly forming within my eye lids. Did I want to cry?   My heart felt uneasy. I felt my head slightly tilt slowly towards the door as my forehead barely touched it. I suddenly felt like I couldn’t speak no more.  As if I couldn’t find anymore words to say nor raise my voice at all.

What was happening to me? Why do I suddenly feel anxious? My fingers tensed on the door as I hesitated again.

“Forgive me, Fowler ...” I said quietly. My voice was shaking. “I ... I can’t accept this ...” Fowler’s eyes widened slightly as he leaned his head more closely towards the door. “What are you saying?”

I kept my eyes closed as they were tensed. I stood there quiet and tried my best to keep myself together and my breathing intact. I tried to hold back my tears. But it was too late. They fell delicately down my cheeks as I felt my body began to slightly shake.  “I don’t accept this ... Everything that you have done. Everything that you gave out your life for ... I can’t just see it end like this ... I ... feel like I can’t accept any of which you give me right now ... Only to give up your freedom for my own and everyone else’s.” My hand curled into fists. I restrained from clawing at the metal door as much as I want to tear it down. My tears still continued.

“I ... I can’t go with The Light. I don’t know if any of this is right at all. Even though ... Even though I had a chance to be with my brother in all of this ... Including my freedom that I had always wanted ... I ...” I pressed my forehead on the door. My voice now trembling. “I never wanted to leave your side ... I ... Wanted to keep walking with you. You even told me that you wanted me to stand by you through all of this ... What happened to that notion? Did you forget ... ?” 

Fowler’s eyes widened as he heard my words along with how my voice was. Never in such a long time has he ever heard me break down this much. It was embarrassing for me to say the least. I have always displayed a strong iron will towards my leader or anyone I have served under. I was never the one to show my weakness because I was a Crosszeria. However, ever since I have ascended upon The Surface, my bottled up emotions started to overflow and unravel. My silent voice that was kept enclosed within my raging mind began to escape. It was strange to hear it loud and clear at times. To have that freedom of speech openly and unknowingly.

Yet here I was. Now letting my strange emotions out. It was uncanny of me ... I sobbed quietly as I continued to hold back, but to no avail. Fowler didn’t know what to do as his hand that was flat on the door tensed and shook slightly. He closed his eyes as he felt his mouth quivering.  But he stood firm. He pressed his forehead against the door, opposite to where I had pressed mine. Fowler tried to smile as he opened his eyes half way.

“Luze ... You should not say such things out loud.” As soon as I heard his voice, my body began to calm down but my soft sobs still persisted. “This is all what you wanted from the beginning, was it? You wanted this freedom. You wanted to see your brother. You wanted to escape your past and move forward beyond your stilled position. Yet here you are. Standing upon Earth. To walk on a path that you are more than capable of having within your heart. You mustn’t let yourself down too much like this ... This is what I want from you. You must remember that.”

I opened my eyes slowly as they were glazed. I steadied my breath. “I know ... I know. But ... It’s still difficult somehow. Maybe you were right when you told me about Luka ... Freedom does come at a price ...” My hand loosened as it was flat again against the door. “I just never thought it would end like this ... It’s ironic how you have granted me freedom ever since you summoned me, only to have yourself stuck here of all places.” Fowler scoffed softly. I was taken slightly aback when I heard him. I lifted my forehead slightly off the door. “Yes ... Quite so. Fate does have its strange ways.” His hand loosened as well as he laid his palm flat adjacent to mine. It was quite for a moment. It felt like my breath can be heard through the halls or even through the door in front of us as I breathed steadily.

“Luze ...” He said breaking the silence. “I am very glad to see you let out your true colors.” My eyes widened as I looked down. “You were always the conservative type. You seemed like you were always afraid to let your voice ring out. I understood your point of view when you told me about your family line. I related to you a lot from that. You were always cooped up, not wanting anyone to see your mistakes or flaws as well. But you must know that not everyone strives to be perfect. Though you may be a Crosszeria with restrictions, you were able to display your openness through me. You learned so much from your mistakes as I have. And ... Just to see you stand up, hearing you open your mind up ... Makes me more than glad that your not just trying to be the perfect being in front of people. But just by being yourself. Your true self. I am more proud that you of all people continue through the strife and the labyrinth of your own limbo to reveal this side of you without any worry. Through this, this is what I wanted from you, Luze ... To stand.”

I stood there in disbelief. I felt my forehead pressed on the steeled door once more as my eyes narrowed calmly. Some tears fell delicately down again. “You ... A Hume that was once a powerful Duras, the Great Necromancer. You have given so much for me yet I feel like I have nothing to give back to you.”

Fowler shook his head, still pressed against the door. His voice echoed softly. “You have already, Luze. You were always there by my side whether I did not need it.” He placed his other hand on the door. “You are the greatest friend I have ever had next to The Light. Next to Yuki. You already served a greater purpose and I want you to continue to do so with The Zweilts. Lend your blade to them as they have with you. I know you can get through this as a proud Crosszeria, rather than the cursed being as you called yourself as. Show them that you are more than what you are worth as you have with me, as a knight of honor. The protector of those who will follow you just like your comrades.”

I pondered as I took in his words. Just thinking that he considered me as a friend was enough to make me more important than just a slave being used to win in battles. I felt lighter. I have never grew tired of his voice whenever he would give me advice. I would feel like I was sitting down and hearing lectures from a teacher I was eager to listen to. He was right in his own way whenever it was calm or solemn as this moment.  I will continue to fight for those I hold dear. Just like I have with my comrades.

I was silent for a moment as I closed my eyes. A single tear fell as there were no more after that. The air felt calm despite the halls displaying a cold interior structure. 

“... It’s cold without you.” I said suddenly. Fowler’s eyes quivered as he felt a tear fall from his eyes. He closed them. “... Luze.” 

We both stood in our positions for quite some time. Even though the door was between us, I could almost feel the warmth from Fowler transfer to my forehead as we both had our heads technically touching each other. “You can do this. I believe in you, my dearest friend. You just need to hold out on this fight for as long as you can. As a free soldier than how you once were. Fight freely as you are now on a road I had lend you. Do not stray far from that path. This is all I can say to you from now on. I will not be far from you as you move forward. Stand, Luze ...”

My closed eyes eased down as I carried on his words. “... Understood, Lord Reiga.” Fowler opened his eyes slowly and smiled calmly. “From this day on, you needn’t call me Lord Reiga anymore. Nor even Fowler. If you can, please prefer to me as Kanata. I am no longer who I was before ... I ... also want to move forward from my own path.” I nodded as I looked barely towards him. “As you wish, Kanata ...” His eyes quivered as he was glad to hear his name being called out from me. It was different than just calling him from his formal title into something simple and sweet. Just like how life was upon The Surface despite the conflicting routes that life also gives out suddenly. 

“Now go, Luze. Dry your tears. You mustn't stay here longer than you need to be. The others might be waiting for you. Your new family. This is my final order to you ...” My mouth quivered and tightened as I thought about it. My new family. The people I will be helping with. The people that will hopefully accept me for who I am just like Luka. From the new path I will walk on.

“... I will.” I bowed slightly and closed my eyes. Damn it ... He had to tell me an order.  “... But I will still swear to you. After the end of all of this, I will make sure you will gain your freedom and walk with me. That, I promise ... Kanata.” Kanata smiled once more. Tears fell down. “Thank you, Luze. For everything ...”

As much as I did not want to lift my head from the door, I stood there as we both took in the silent air caressing us. I opened my eyes and stared at the door for a few moments. It was time for me to head back out.

I backed out gently as my hand was the last to depart from the door.  Kanata stood away slightly from the door as he did the same thing with his hand. It was as if he was back to being the leader he once was. He was technically watching me as I turned around and walked away slowly. He heard my footsteps go further away and fading softly.

A moments passed as he sighed and walked towards the door once more. He turned around and leaned against it. He slowly slid down as he kept his eyes towards the window. He sat there on the cold floor quietly by himself as the light beamed down on him. However, he still kept his head held up high as he smiled calmly.  The warmth from the light eased his mind as he closed his eyes calmly, taking in all of his rest that he had missed during his reign as Reiga Giou.

I continued to walk steadily towards the stairs that lead outside of these cramped corridors. All I can do now was to walk forward. It was still difficult as it was with my two feet moving on their own. I held onto the keys tightly on my hands with a stern expression.  I remember those words he spoke to me. Those ... apparent final words. I shook my head steadily as I looked onward. The light from the doorway above the stairs shown down on me from afar.

I held my head up high towards the a new path that was given to me as I tread on.

---

🎵- (Music to read through this)

“I will never betray you.” I heard Luka saying as he told The Light from afar. I was walking towards them. We were now outside near by a lake not far from the Twilight Mansion but a good distance away by foot. I had used my White Magic to teleport back from the Zweilt’s residence from Kamakura to the Twilight Mansion only to find out that Luka nor The Light wasn’t anywhere present.

It’s a good thing my familiar knew where my brother was. My raven flew above them for a few moments until he disappeared from view. I saw them ahead of me as I hesitated. I sighed as I continued towards them. 

“Me too.” I said. “I feel like I owe you.”

Luka folded his arms as he looked to me. He cocked an eyebrow. “Really now?” I looked back at him in much disappointment as he has with me. “... Yes? Would you like to know more or something? A long story, perhaps?”

Even though it was quite obvious. Unlike The Light, or ... Yuki, who could barely figure out from my expression, Luka could tell from my eyes that something more was said between Kanata and I. Especially how my eyes seem to be weary from tears. But he didn’t bother to pry any further and proceeded to act annoyed at me.  “Tch. Prick ... On the other hand though and to be honest with you,” Luka continued.

Yuki continued to laugh heartily as we tried not to turn red. Gladfully, we succeeded within our power to not turn red as the moon down in Infernus ...

As Yuki wiped a tear away, he started to look between us. He suddenly came up with another strange idea. Thankfully it wasn’t anything strangely affectionate between my brother and I. “Oh! Luze! I almost forgot. Isn’t this your first time seeing open waters here, right?” I turned to look at him and cocked an eyebrow as I realized it.  “That would be correct, yes.” Sodom, in his energy saving form, squeaked as he was perched on top of Yuki’s shoulder.  “Come, follow me then. I want to show you.” I looked to him and blinked twice. He was suddenly in high spirits that I could barely fathom, after what had transpired many days ago. I sighed as I followed him towards the lake. Luka followed behind us.

As I continued forward, I looked ahead of me with my eyes widened.  The skies were clear and blue. The sun shown brightly downward on the lake as it glistened with specks of light that twinkled as if they were stars on top of the waters, rather than being above in the dark night skies.  Even though I have come across such places, I have never been this close to any of these opened waters. It was much more pristine as I thought it would be. In Infernus, the lakes and rivers were always running red. Some say it wasn’t blood. However, some would think it was blood as the skies down below were always crimson throughout and reflecting the waters. Even if it was pitch black with the red moon looming over us.

“Isn’t it beautiful, Luze?” Yuki said. I look to him slightly and gazed forward. I suddenly felt as if my worries were lifted and disappeared out of nowhere. “... It is.” The wind gently blew as it calmly whispered through us as if pushing us forward to the lake. I felt as if I was in a trance with the wind as it maybe did want me to go onward. I took several steps forward close to the edge of the waters barely touching my feet against it. 

I looked down to meet with my own reflection. I suddenly thought about my past self looking straight at me. He wasn’t wearing any casual clothing as I was now. I imagined my reflection sporting the uniform I had the first time I was promoted as a General Opast; Hair tied up, that stern glare I have had all of my years, the usual scowl looking up towards me. I hesitated as we both looked at each other reflecting on who we once were and who we are now. 

I slowly kneeled down as I wanted to reach for him. He seemed to do the same, mimicking me as he kneeled forward and reached his hand to meet with mine.  However, as I steadily touched the waters, my reflection became distorted and disappeared from view. The ripples spread further out as I dipped my hand further in it. 

The water felt cool. The cold sensation reached my nerves as it crept upward to my arm.  It was serene. Peaceful. I swayed my hand back and forth slowly in the water to feel the coldness that eased my muscles. I took my hand out gently as the droplets drizzled delicately down to my fingers and dropped down to return to its source. What stared at me now was not my past self anymore. 

It was me. The current me that is now here upon The Surface rather than the dark Infernus. I stood up steadily as I looked to my hand still wet with water. I did not imagine chains on my wrists anymore. I never thought of cuts that would harm me from the battles I had to endure. Nor did I ever see any of my veins tensing from straining my muscles. 

I curled my hand to a subtle fist and lowered it and looked towards the scenery ahead of me.  The wind still gently blowing behind me.

... I was free.

---

Luka

As I followed Yuki and Luze down towards the lake, I kept my eyes on them from a good distance. I thought that Yuki would follow closely behind Luze, but it wasn’t just a few moments after that Luze decided to proceed towards the waters by himself. I saw Yuki quietly observing him.

Luze kneeled down to touch the waters. It was strange as I looked at him. Not as strange as one would think on why people do something childish.  But a lingering thought suddenly came to me from his subtle action.

He was always the curious child than I was before. Every time I would do something reckless, or something out of the ordinary, he would be the one to look at me curiously, maybe even a bit worried as if I would hurt myself.  I had always known that he was looking out for me ... Much to my annoyance sometimes.

At the same time, it was a little hilarious to think about how he still had that air around him right now. I hesitated as I kept my eyes on him. I never knew how he does it. He would remind me on how our days were without even saying a word. During those times where we encountered each other recently, I was always annoyed and frustrated to see him.  But ... He also made me realize that I had someone that I used to have just by looking at him.

I knew I couldn’t stay this angry with him forever as he did with me. We only had each other during those tough times anyway. Even possibly now even though we may or may not come close to killing each other again.  ... And hopefully that wouldn’t be the case since Yuki is around us.

I saw Luze stand up steadily as his hair flowed with the wind gently passing through us. He definitely looked as if he is a different person now than he was before. It felt like he reverted back to his little self just by observing closely at him, reminding me also on who was the older twin compared to us.

Yuki smiled calmly at Luze. He was very glad that Luze was now starting to get used to things upon The Surface now that their friend Reiga, or ... I should put it, Kanata wasn’t present. I was starting to worry if Yuki, and I guess Luze, would be alright. I just hope they both can cope with his idea from all of this. 

Suddenly, I heard voices from behind me as I turned around slightly. It was Touko and the other Zweilts. They probably followed Luze at some point or his familiar probably urged them to find us. That damn raven of his.

Yuki walked towards me and stood by me as he waved his arm widely at them and smiled. He called back to them to signal them to come over. Luze walked slowly not far behind from him as he met with us and stood by me on the other side. He looked towards the Zweilts for a moment with a blank expression. However from the corner of my eye, I saw something that I have never seen in such a long time ago. I turn my head slowly to see Luze.

He was smiling. My eyes slightly widened as I saw him. I didn’t know if he noticed I was staring at him but he kept his gaze forward.

I couldn’t help but just stare at his uncanny mood.  Well ... I shouldn’t say uncanny. Because for some strange reason again, and I still can’t fathom how he does this every time. He seemed more lighter. More lighter than his brooding self and even from myself when I was stuck in my own shell. He wasn’t shackled anymore as I was. Nor does he have to follow strict orders given at unknowingly times.

He wasn’t alone at all from his expression. I suddenly smiled gently at him and turned to look at the Zweilts approaching us. This was now our family. Even though we may bare the two crosses of the Crosszeria reminding us where we belonged, we can now treat our mark as if they were just mere tattoos on us through our freedom.

But I know that there will be a place and time in the far future where we will decide to redeem and clear our family’s name after all of this. But it’s honestly better to take this one step at a time with everyone through all of the mess that had occurred. 

Until then, ...

Welcome home, little brother.

#Unheard Words #Dearest Leader #Forsaken Twin #Uraboku #uragiri wa boku no namae wo shitteiru #Betrayal Knows my Name #Luze #Luze Crosszeria #Reiga #Reiga Giou #Kanata #Kanata Wakamiya #Luka #Luka Crosszeria

[be-ca-lm]

pls ignore just gotta get thoughts out of my brain

tw rape and sexual assault ok so i think it started very young when i couldn’t understand why the hell boys and men seemed more important to god and that god was always presented male - i was very young, like elementary aged when i reasoned: he made us in his own image, in order to create female he has to BE equally female, he has to have female image. i was told no no that is wrong and bad and heresy.

then i ALWAYS chafed at the idea of women being helpmeets to men, created as servants to them, their sole reason for existing being in service to better, stronger, smarter males (who cause all the problems like wtf) and that doesn’t seem right or just. the garden was perfect the world god created was perfect so why create anything as lesser than? do you hate women? but men came first - then woman to help, woman as decoration, as slave, as child bearer, as comforter, as mother, as scapegoat. woman as weaker. she fell for temptation in the garden, where was adam? See? Women are stupid, need protecting, incapable of rational thought, logic, reason. look how gullible. look how dangerous to be left unsupervised. all of humanity condemned to fiery torment because of woman. no responsibility of man. hate woman, blame woman, hurt woman, you have every justification to do so. she is trapped, hobbled, shackled, tied to you for her protection, existence, safety. she is prize, she is bounty, she is spoils of war. daughters are property. a woman who does not produce children is worthless, sons are currency for power, social capital, strength. daughters serve you. woman is there as punching bag, as masturbatory relief, as house slave, as decoration, worthless but worth stealing, dirty but rapeable, stupid but cunning, pure but deceptive, ruined but redeemable through birthing. a portal, a tool, woman as commodity, woman as vehicle of corruption and vehicle of salvation, simultaneously and never, all at once and at the same time, wretched and woman. not equal to, but a compliment. a complement. you are no equal to god’s masterpiece, the man. do not kid yourself.

god’s grand plan! look at his design. how perfect. how freeing. how it was meant to be. he created woman who would ruin it, but he is not to blame, it is his creation’s fault, but not the man who he likes better, no not his fault. she is saved through childbirth? she is worthy as ALWAYS depending on her proximity to a MAN to a husband father brother rapist captor buyer slaver son stoner judge jury executioner savior.

so why? why condemn me to this torturous existence, why give me the capacity to KNOW that I am intended to be Less Than, that I am the Weaker Vessel, that I am Not A Man but give me no comfort in that, no recourse, no ability to appeal this existence. Make me a man! I could do so much more for you! I could do your pillaging and raping, I could do your genocide, I could carry out your orders, sacrifice my children, I could spread your Gospel and praise your name, I could earn my place in your heaven by your side because you commanded that I Love You, I could invade your earth, slaughter your animals, impregnate your weaker washy women and fulfill your great commission, i could be the mulitiplier, the glorifier, the pastor preacher whitewasher brainwasher tombfiller father soldier conqueror profiteer leader ruler dictator sin hater. PICK ME CHOOSE ME all I wanted was to be LOVED by you to be told WELL DONE MY GOOD AND FAITHFUL SERVANT am i not enough for you and since i so clearly am not, why did you create me this way. 

find peace in your role. you have purpose. then why does that not feel natural as young as five years old? at 10? at 14? at 18? at 27? at 33? jesus knows your sorrows he knows you- JESUS CANNOT RELATE TO ME. he was born a man. he was not asked to make himself small. he submitted to dying. no one asked me if i wanted to volunteer. could i come back a man? I do not want to be a man. I want to be a woman in an existence where that is not automatically a Bad Thing, automatically a disadvantage. I am born guilty of the fall of humanity on my shoulders and told my shoulders can never be strong enough to carry that weight. a man will save me. be submissive. men are leaders, you are not naturally a leader. 

men are logical. they can compartmentalize. women are emotional. they cannot compartmentalize, they are ruled by their emotions. men are waffles. women are spaghetti. men are from mars. women are from venus. pop psychology will explain why men are Better. they are better at math, geometry, women cannot visualize things in their brains like that. women are not good engineers. women are soft and kind and nurturing. THIS IS WHAT WAS TOLD TO MY FACE AS A CHILD. i nodded. ok this must be so, i do not see it, it is not true for me, it is not true of any of the women i know, but my dad is saying this IT MUST BE TRUE. how does he know how my brain is wired? 

an escape. i learned about biblical singleness. i do not have to marry, i do not have to trade one household bondage for another, one male protector for a new one. i have an option? I can be single, nay, a single MISSIONARY. i can escape america, the bible belt, i can really and truly help people. i can share my burdens with them so i do not have to carry them alone. it will please god. it will make up for my being born a useless woman. if i do not marry, i do not have to submit to a man. i can be free. i can find some type of comfort in this lifetime.

somewhere along the way, i put aside my ever-growing frustrations toward the treatment of women and the hypocrisy. husbands lead the wife, they are the Head of the Household. I never saw that enacted. Pastor’s wives planned events, spoke at bible studies, sat on committees - it was limited to women only events, yes, but they led? they spoke? they taught and preached and sang and witnessed? the cognitive dissonance was too much. they budgeted, they shopped, they wore clothes i wasn’t allowed to, they were showy. but not allowed to speak in church, not allowed to preach, to pastor, to shepherd. they could mentor. Oh! Perfect. call it a different name and then you can do it. You’re not a pastor, a mentor. Not a preacher, a Bible teacher. The pastor husbands walked around domineering their families and making all the decisions? No - their families would have imploded. They preached submission but in function they were a team. everyone’s parents were. so i guess we can get away with it, and that makes it ok. label it differently and suddenly the bible has nothing to say on that particular matter. they are playing theological gymnastics, but if they can, i can too. i can sleep at night now, i do not have to be angry at god. i can ignore it.

A thought. I believe it grew in the garden of my own mind, but it’s possible a wayward seed blew in from elsewhere but I don’t remember. I was all-in, I silenced my doubts, I screwed my courage to the sticking place, I said yes I believe this, yes I am a dirty sinner, yes I do not deserve grace or mercy or forgiveness, yes I believe that god can give me that anyway in return for my life, my love, my thoughts, my actions, my deeds, my affiliations, my comfort, my pride, my complete and total surrender of my Self, my personality, my person, my autonomy, my desires, my entire existence. I was fervent. I learned the most, I delved in deep, it was theology, soteriology, epistemology, apologetics, baptisms and trinities and divine mysteries. i knew nothing of secular science, i learned nothing of sex. I knew dead men - Calvin, Luther, Arminius, Aquinas, Origen, Augustine, Spurgeon, Bonhoeffer, Wycliff, Niemoller, Lewis, Piper, Paul, James, I knew creeds, doctrines, catechisms, doxology, councils, heresies. 

And I thought. I am all in. I accept all this. I evoke the proper response in myself when I learn these things. If I were born in any other time, any other place, into any other religion - I would accept those things just as eagerly and honestly. Would I not? How could I not? I earned the praise of adults, the admiration of youth group peers, I could exercise my intellect in a way not too offensive for a female to do, because it was always good to learn the bible, right? I was special, smart, serious. A student of the bible, i committed HUNDREDS of verses to memory, i competed in competitions that tested my knowledge of scripture against my peers, I was dominant. It nagged at me. I would have been the best anything, the best Muslim, the best Mormon, the best Hindu, the best Orthodox Jew (especially Orthodox Jew - there are so many RULES and ways to do it BETTER), I was completely lost in the swirl of religiosity that was my life. I did Christian ballet, Christian theater, watched Christian entertainment, listened to Christian music, went to Christian summer camp, had Christian friends, was in a Christian home school group, read Christian books, did Christian mission trips, and eventually chose to go to a Christian college. Not to brag, to sound so insanely arrogant - any religion would be happy to have me. I would give your cult a great name. I’ve got the resume and CV to join any believing army, just give me my marching orders. I swallowed my Self in the belly of the whale of god. My whole life and personality were these things and activities.

then - purity culture hit. and it brought back all the female trauma. the trauma of existing as a woman who THINKS in the subculture of christianity insanity.

#me #christian #convert #exvangelical #apostate #apostasy #deconvert #deconversion #deconstruction #survivor #cult #excult #ex religious #story #women #issues #feminism #trauma #religious trauma #spiritual #spiritual abuse #spiritual trauma #religious trauma syndrome #rts #bible #south #bible belt #baptist #god #jesus

[recentanimenews]

FEATURE: 5 WEBTOON Series We’d Love to See Animated!

  With Tower of God over and The God of High School hitting the midway point, it’s pretty obvious that WEBTOON Series adaptations are a hit, but what will come after Noblesse later this year? While we don’t have any real answers to that question, we do have five titles we think would be fantastic adaptations to see animated on our screens. The WEBTOON library is frankly huge and filled with tons of great possibilities, so we decided to try and narrow it down to five different genre titles we think would really shake things up on the “big screen!” If you want to learn about even more WEBTOON Series we think are great (some of which definitely deserve an anime), check out our previous article here.

    When deciding what would make a good anime, though, there’s more to it than just, “Wow, I really love this series, so it should totally get an anime!” It’s also worth asking the question: “Would this benefit from being animated?” What would they be able to do with it that they couldn’t do as a WEBTOON Series? What sort of changes might they have to make? As we’ve seen with Tower of God and The God of High School, action series benefit from animation greatly, but that doesn’t mean only action series deserve some lovin’. So with that in mind, I tried to grab a few different genres and styles of WEBTOON Series. But, of course, this is by no means an exhaustive list, and we highly recommend you go check out the WEBTOON website or app (available on Google Play and on the App Store) and see what types of amazing series you can find! 

  Love Advice from the Great Duke of Hell

    I’m a huge comedy fan, some of my favorite series of all time are comedies. So when I started reading WEBTOON Series, I really wanted to find something that would make me laugh. I didn’t have to look too hard, but perhaps no series has been as funny so consistently than Love Advice from the Great Duke of Hell. The main character, Paul, just can’t seem to get the attention of the woman he thinks he loves. So he chooses the best possible course of action: learning black magic and summoning Astaroth, one of the Great Dukes of Hell!

  The comic routinely features amazing, understated visual gags and humor while building an interesting and deep storyline over the course of its run. In fact, I really didn’t expect the characters and world that Duke of Hell creates to really suck me in as much as it did, but that just lends to its overall strengths. As far as an adaptation goes, I could see this as a fantastic comedy hit that either focuses on extensive, gorgeous animation for gags like HINAMATSURI, or a muted and simplistic animation style like Skull-face Bookseller Honda-san that lets the art and jokes combine without getting too big. Either way, just thinking about voice actors for the various characters, especially Astaroth, is perhaps one of the most fun fantasies to have—after all, it would need to be someone with enough gravity to play such an amazing Duke of Hell! 

  Purple Hyacinth

    Purple Hyacinth has long been on my read list and was actually one of the series that got me started on the idea of seeing WEBTOON Series animated. Unlike other series, Purple Hyacinth routinely asks readers to turn their audio on, playing ambient and specific music throughout the series to create a multimedia experience. Of course, that isn’t the only reason for it being on this list. No, Purple Hyacinth is here because it’s a type of story that, frankly, isn’t told very often in anime lately: a gritty crime mystery thriller!

  Lauren, the protagonist, has dedicated her life to avenging the death of her childhood friend and the elimination of Phantom Scythe, a terrorist organization responsible for the events that would alter her life forever. Lauren meets the assassin “Purple Hyacinth,” who just so happens to share similar goals as her. This series really just gets how to build a complex and deep mystery and the fact that you need excellent character drama to make people care about what happens next, especially when big twists and turns come! Lauren possesses the ability to detect lies, “seeing” them in red whenever people tell them. Just imagining the creative ways this could be animated alone makes me giddy at the idea of a Purple Hyacinth adaptation. But beyond that, the character drama and intrigue of the twisting mysteries here would turn this into a killer multi-season anime. I can just imagine the gleeful frustration waiting for the next season after the first one ends on a cliffhanger! If any of these series were worthy of being dubbed “binge-worthy” as an anime, I’m convinced it would be Purple Hyacinth. 

  Lookism

    Readers of our first article on WEBTOON Series pointed out Lookism as a favorite of theirs, and with good reason. This long-running ugly-duckling story packs a lot of punch, both literally and figuratively, as the story threads of school bullying, the ugly side of society, delinquent fights, and more together into a fascinating tapestry. Daniel is poor, overweight, and bullied to such a degree that his mother scrapes all the money together that she can to send him to a new school. However, his life takes a huge change upon arrival to his new school home when he wakes up in a different body: gorgeous, tall, and super-strong! The “new” Daniel gives him the ability to pursue the life he thought he wanted, but it comes with a lot more than he bargained for!

  One thing about Lookism that caught me off-guard is that it seems, at first, to be a sort of traditional ugly-duckling story where Daniel learns to love his original self while teaching those around him to be better people. But it also features heavy delinquent style fights and action. While this might sound a little dissonant, it’s fair to say that Lookism would provide tons of great material for high school delinquent action and social drama—and the fight scenes in later storylines are truly amazing to behold on the page. Lookism also features an amazing supporting cast of unique and weird characters that tend to steal the spotlight from Daniel as they get introduced, meaning there are tons of characters to fall in love with here (I’m a big Vasco and Jay fan, myself!). With a unique mix of action, comedy, and heavy drama, Lookism really has a lot to bring to the table, and when animated, would surely take advantage of its mixed genre-typing to be a big hit.

  Let’s Play

    While many of the series we’ve talked about have a tinge of supernatural action or combat to them, Let’s Play is quite a bit different—just regular people here! Of course, these regular people are involved in all sorts of turmoil and romantic drama, but that’s to be expected. Let’s Play follows game dev Samara “Sam” Young, creator of the game Ruminate, and the trouble she runs into when her game’s biggest critic, Marshall Law, becomes her neighbor. Let’s Play is a fairly interesting drama due to the combination of game dev discussion—which veers into similar territory as shows like Shirobako that delve into making things—and the personal drama of the main cast.

  Although it is indeed a romance, the most striking part of the series is Sam’s struggles with anxiety; her internal monologues and issues make her an incredibly relatable and fresh character. Let’s Play would make an amazing romantic comedy with a woman lead, which we really need more of these days! The video game elements of the story add that extra touch that, in all honesty, feel like they would be amazing to see animated and played with using various graphical touches, allowing animators to play with the adaptation in ways that don’t rely solely on action sequences. 

  unOrdinary

    If you’re an avid WEBTOON Series reader, then it’s very likely you came to this list expecting to see this exact series, so don’t worry: we agree! UnOrdinary would be an amazing anime adaptation, likely to find a huge audience of new fans who would gobble up the series premise: a world in which some people are born with powers, or Abilities, and those who don’t find themselves treated as lessers and outcasts. John, unfortunately for him, is the latter, and as a result, he is relentlessly bullied by his classmates for his powerless nature.

  In a lot of ways, unOrdinary is almost like a darker My Hero Academia, except instead of a world of superheroes and villains, it's a world of the “haves” and “have nots,” where people without abilities are treated extremely poorly. Like quite a few WEBTOON Series, social class, status, and bullying are a big part of unOrdinary, which gives it a sharp, dark edge to its narrative at times. Similarly, John is a fairly interesting protagonist and, without spoiling things, certainly makes unOrdinary, well, unordinary! Given the popularity of My Hero Academia and Tower of God, unOrdinary would probably be the best possible candidate to get the anime treatment next, likely becoming a smash hit in no time—especially once the superpowers start showing up!

    With the continued success of shows like The God of High School and Tower of God, it’s only a matter of time before we see more and more WEBTOON Series adapted to anime. Of course, there’s no real plans or releases yet, but we think our list is pretty solid. No matter what, it seems like an exciting time to get into WEBTOON Series and keep an eye out for the next big hit title that might be showing up on your screens in animated form!  

  Which WEBTOON Series titles do you want to see animated? Do you agree with our list? Let us know what series you like and what you think in the comments!

  ➡️ Watch The God of High School today! ⬅️  

    Nicole is a frequent wordsmith for Crunchyroll. Known for punching dudes in Yakuza games on her Twitch channel while professing her love for Majima. She also has a blog, Figuratively Speaking. Follow her on Twitter: @ellyberries

  Do you love writing? Do you love anime? If you have an idea for a features story, pitch it to Crunchyroll Features!

By: [email protected]

#Anime #News #Latest in Anime News by Crunchyroll!

[ultrakeystotheheartblog]

Not So Alone (Part 2) (Teen Titans x Reader)

Part 2 of 2

Request: Requested by multiple people.

“Uhm, your teen titans imagine was?? so great?? I would totally love a sequel omg (only if u want obv)”

“Omg please I just read the fic and want a sequel too so badddd you don’t have to if you don’t want to but I’d be super hype to see it and read and scream because the first parts great” - @laneygthememequeen

A/N: I’m back! I’m not dead! And I am definitely going to  write an update some time soon to explain everything that’s happened, but for right now I’m just gonna go ahead and say thank you again for all the positive comments and support that the first part received. I wasn’t expecting so many people to enjoy it, so I was over the moon at the response. With that said, I hope you all enjoy this part too ♥♥♥ 

(PS: This was the imagine that got the most votes, so the final part for my Jason Todd fic will be coming next! And, uh, It’s already turning out like a novel guys, prepare yourselves).

Warning: Swearing. Little bit of angst, but mostly a whole lot of fluff.

*********************************************************************************

You can’t help but feel that something is not quite right today.

Things are quiet.

Too quiet.

There’s no bouncing music or flashing video games, no arguing, no laughing, no daily echoes of training or disastrous calamities unfolding in the kitchen. No doting, friendly teammates to regale you with their presence (as what’s been the norm for the past few weeks while you’ve begrudgingly, slowly, began to heal from your injuries). No, the Tower is practically, for lack of a better or less ironic term, dead. And has been for most of the day—a husk of boredom and loneliness and one too many pieces of cold, leftover pizza. 

Not to mention that looming cloud that’s followed over your head, a suspicious kind of quiet that’s been pressing in all around you like a swarm of invisible hands, seeping into the very foundation of the room. It’s been keeping you teetering on the edge of a pinpoint for literal hours—your fight or flight response practically grinding its teeth in preparation for an inevitable...something. And all the while you sink further into the entertainment room’s monstrous, curved couch and try to focus on ‘relaxing’.

Ha.

You’d be more relaxed if you knew where everyone disappeared to.

But alas, you do not—no matter how much the urge to snoop is (and you so want to snoop), because that’s not what friends do. At least, you think it’s not. You have to admit, it’s been a long time since you’ve considered anyone a friend, but you’re trying. Trying to let go of the past. Trying to be vulnerable. To be good. To be open. And you very much find yourself liking all the ensuing, chaotic changes in your life recently. But you’re rusty and unsure, and always, always, waiting for some other shoe to drop.

You don’t want it to.

You really don’t want it to.

But sometimes you wonder if it would give you some sort of relief from all the waiting—if that metaphorical shoe just got it over with already and put its ugly, metaphorical foot down. So you could breathe without all this pinchy, backwards kind of guilt you’ve been storing up inside for years, waiting to finally punch out into the world like a nest of angry wasps. Like you should feel bad for wanting to be a part of something....something more. 

You’ve always hated just waiting for something to happen. But here you are now; alone, completely over-thinking the meaning of life, and left to stew in a concoction of sulky feelings that leaves you nauseous in a way you’ve worked so hard to forget.

So.

With your sore legs propped up onto the coffee table for comfort, you just continue to glare at the blank TV screen and watch your faded reflection in the shine of the glass, biting bitterly into the last of the pizza crust from the plate balanced in your lap.

ZuZu (as declared by Star the morning you’d first woken up—words tripping in a rush of excitement and a stream of breathless chatter about some sort of inspiration from an earth movie—while she gently sits the little creature into your lap with a ceremonious flourish of her arms) flops onto their belly to find a more comfortable position beside you. 

Their front legs tuck underneath their bulk, long, spiked tail curling around their body in looping circles, before they come to rest their head on your hip, staring intensely at the leftover crust between your fingers.

They’re about the size of a small dog, heavy and wide, with the hybrid body structure of some sort of lizard and a...well, a bear. Their face is coated in silky auburn fur, snout ridged and twitchy, large heavy-lidded, expressive pink eyes set deep in their sockets. The majority of their torso and back legs are scaled and shiny, while three stripes of that autumn colored fur zigzag down their back, their front legs thick and capped with massive fuzzy paws and hooked dark claws. But the most distinctive features are the large, pleated creases of skin which usually lay folded back against their head and neck. 

A frill, like you remember seeing once, adorning a lizard from some travelling petting zoo. It’s supported by long spines of cartilage connected to each side of their jaw bone, and when spread to encircle the entirety of their head, is lined in pink and filled with bright orange scales.

Beast Boy called it a ‘deimatic display’ that first day, a behavior or reaction of patterns and colors used like a defensive bluff—akin to beady eyes on the back of a moth’s wings or selective changes in the body pattern of a cuttlefish—manipulated to startle, display a warning, or distract predators. But it seems ZuZu is able to use it a bit differently—a slight alien twist to the reaction, which allows them to communicate solely through a language formed by varying flashes and multitudes of color. 

You’ve all been scrambling to figure out the meanings behind each display lately, trading yes or no questions with the creature at any given point throughout the day, before documenting any noticeable details in the Tower’s staggering, inexhaustible database. 

Red, you’ve found quickly, suggests that they’re annoyed, or angry, or generally, exceedingly, unhappy about something. Yellow, on the other hand, simply implies content in the most peaceful sense. And pink? That’s become their version of taunting—something smug and annoyingly self-assured, which seems to be their more….colourful version of resting bitch face.  

You grunt at the heavy weight of ZuZu’s head as it presses more firmly against bruised muscles and skin, hidden away beneath the cozy, cotton sweatpants you’d wrestled from the bottom of your closet. It doesn’t keep you from slipping deeper though, into the clouded memories shrouding that first dreamlike morning after finally waking.

Robin—grinning, more relaxed then you’d ever seen him, and already lying back in his spot beside you on the bed—had leaned over when Star finally took a moment to find her breath, voice dipping low as he casually filled in the most obvious, glaring blanks in her story. He explained how they’d come upon ZuZu while rushing you back to the tower for medical attention—left behind by their master, defensive and shaking, and hidden away beneath the burning hot rubble from unlucky buildings crushed during the Jump City attack.

You can vaguely recall those creatures and their part in the invasion, as you hold the curious, unwavering stare of your new housemate. You pinpoint a fuzzy recollection of hundreds of similar alien hybrids, large percents of them being used as cannon fodder against the city’s responding defense—some sort of attack dogs or bloodhounds originally breed for what seemed to be an unparalleled sense of incoming danger. And a lethal aptitude for sniffing out and marking targets, even in the most extreme of circumstances. All to make the invading attack’s that much more…. precise. 

Equally as shaken and heartbroken, both Starfire and Beast Boy insisted on giving little ZuZu a home, one without the need for cold masters and needless sacrifices.

Robin admitted that it took some convincing to get him to agree, but that he caved to them rather quickly, like the truly soft-hearted dork you know he is on the inside. The one, you’ve been noticing, that is no longer carefully tempered behind masks both metaphorical and literal (like those you’d learned to cultivate for yourself, to ensure your own survival among the flocks of good and evil in this world)—all veils of enigmatic charm and cool leadership, strategy and logic.

(While for just as long, you had mused, you refined your wall of sarcasm and teasing, and strained, plastic smiles. Even as fate saw it fit to laugh and thrust you into the role of cosmic punching bag in both a figurative and literal sense).

Because Robin is never really one to deny a safe haven to someone, especially an orphan, in need.

And it’s not too hard to understand why.

It’s one quality you’ve only caught glimpses of, before the attempted invasion and one too many near-death experiences changed everything.

Your once positive opinion on lizards.

Your practical, humanly limitations regarding the ability to eat your weight in cold, cheese pizza.

Your mostly cynical take on all the possible wonders of this life.

Your team and their conduct—their outreach of friendship, their measure of trust and willing openness towards you.

Your place among them.  Your.... the need for the permanence of those masks.

All while you’ve been learning to come to terms with this warm, slowly blossoming….strange feeling of finally belonging.

ZuZu shifts to find a different angle, and then they’re sliding their head further into your lap, situating themselves just underneath your hovering hand. Your sullen gaze darts down to examine them again in the cresting evening sunlight, their lithe body bathed in an orange light that softens the harsh lines and edges of bluish-green scales, until they’re all but glittering like some magnificent, stain-glass fish below rippling water. 

Shit, they’re so wonderfully unique, maybe too much so, for a world that tears down all that’s different in the name of fear (and this you know all too well). They’re intelligent and hardheaded, and kind of an absolute dick if you’re being honest. But you can’t help but feel close to the little creature, and hope, however possibly (awfully) misguided, that it’s at least somewhat mutual. After all, for all their rough edges and guarded, worldly acceptance, they were learning to fit in here—just like you.

The flash of a long, forked tongue startles you from your thoughts, and you catch sight of it in your peripheral, snapping out towards the piece of half-eaten crust in your hand before you can even process where it’s suddenly emerged from. You jerk away clumsily on reflex, letting the crust plummet back to the plate in your lap as you lean to the side, trying to avoid the persistent little alien. You hoist the plate up and out of their reach at a safer distance—though not without a twinge of pain that bursts like fireworks in your shoulders. 

You glare down at them in admonishment.

Well then.

Earlier sentiment revoked, actually.

ZuZu narrows their intensely bright eyes right back at you, their frill rising from their neck like the hackles of an angry dog. The trim pleats of skin folded there flutter in anticipation before finally sweeping open with the rippling, fluid grace of a hand-held folding fan. The pretty scales lining the exposed frill change colour almost instantly when they hit the open air, flaring a deep red when you stick your tongue out at ZuZu in an act of childish defiance. 

Yeah, someone’s no longer a happy camper now, are they? Well, join the club, pal.

You can’t always get what you want. Because no matter what you do, life just likes to screw you in the—

It takes a total of three, distracted seconds.

The offending tongue snaps out at an impossible length to hit the surface of the plate. It’s like some cartoon frog catching a fly that’s far enough out of reach to be considered natural, the appendage wrapping around one end of the half-bitten crust, before proudly reeling it back down into a waiting mouth. Their jaw snaps shut again with an audible click of teeth, and they swallow their prize whole and much too slowly, flashing you a fanged smile that gives you the creeps.

Or you do, you find yourself bitterly amending in the wake of defeat, especially when you’re a terrifying space gremlin with freakish mouth biology. Why are you even awake again today?

You sag into the couch cushions with an unexpected wave of soul-weary tiredness, a full body and mind exhaustion creeping upon the fringes of your being, though you’d been fighting it off rather successfully for most of the month. 

You lower the empty plate to sit on the surface of the coffee table—while grumbling under your breath about the reigning injustice of such snack-stealing gremlins in your midst—and lean even more precariously forward. Much farther than you normally would consider doing without others around, but you persist in you reach, getting a good grip on the propped up crutch you’ve left leaning against the table. 

You struggle to your feet then, deciding to leave the main living room to find something more productive to do (rather than wallowing and getting your food pilfered from beneath your slowly healing, broken nose). ZuZu watches you silently from their cozy napping spot, gaze tracking you as you begin to hobble around the couch on your way from the room. You toss a half-hearted, parting wave to Starfire’s first adopted friend—a chunky, gooey, mutant moth larvae dubbed little Silkie, snoring away beneath an open side table near the couch.

It’s good going, until something unexpected flutters down from the ceiling with the grace of falling snow—just as you’re about to cross the threshold into the hallway. Your gaze follows the swirling path of the shiny, red and black length of foil as it lands near your feet. A candy wrapper.

Huh.

Strange.

You pause in your journey and peer down at it for a moment, bewildered enough to take a full step back before finally looking up to retrace its fallen path.

And okay, so in hind sight, you kind of wish you hadn’t left the couch.

A single, suspiciously green, bat drops like a stone from the ceiling once it’s seen, swooping down over your head with a panicked flutter of leathery wings. You shout and unashamedly curse like a drunken sailor, ducking in surprise to further avoid the little needle talons that brush across the top of your head. Beast Boy turns human once he clears your form and hits the floor, once again completely, frustratingly, naked when he hops up to his feet. 

He tries to quickly console you, only to jump back in order to dodge the fear-driven swing of your crutch.

“Hey! It’s just me!!” He exclaims, hands held out towards you. You sling your cast over your eyes and wonder just how bad it would be if you bleached them clean of the searing, full-frontal image that lingers just behind them.

“WEAR PANTS.” You demand in alarm.

“They’re not comfortable!” He complains. Eyes still tightly shut, you shake your head and gesture wildly at him, throwing out your plaster covered arm to wave it around in loose, frantic circles. “PANTS!” You insist in a higher voice. “Fine!”

He mutters something else, low and displeased under his breath, and then goes to dig out a familiar non-descript bag you’re used to finding at random—usually full of extra clothes and stashed around the tower, or other frequent hangout places around the city—hidden away within the grassy, potted plant next to you both. You choose to ignore the obvious sass he’s exuding in protest, cracking open an eye just a bit to make sure he’s following through. 

He smoothly tugs his purple and black uniform free from the depths of the shiny leaves, wrangling on the bottom half with a pout as quickly as he can, and before you know it, he’s already shrugging the fabric up over his narrow shoulders.

(Though to your satisfaction he’s careful of the stitches still lining his spine). You sigh in relief, “Just—oh my god, what were even you doing up there in the first place?!”

Beast Boy works his mouth in silence as though he can’t find the right words to explain at the moment, bottom canines glinting as he squints up through the fluorescent lights and tosses the empty bag to rest beside the plant. He seems to be thinking hard about his answer (you hope), his gaze dropping to you after a few seconds of awkward, disbelieving silence. He shrugs, apparently deciding it’s appropriate to simply respond with a pair of finger-guns and a strained grin. “....hanging around?”

…..

You think you’re starting to miss those dragon-tailed, sumo alien’s from space-hell.

Your shoulders slump as the pent up energy from your frustration and sudden scare seeps from your body all at once. You groan, lifting your crutch up to point at him, the tip barely brushing against his chest. “You’re dead to me.” You proclaim lightly. Beast Boy rolls his eyes, and after securing the clasp on the back of his suit with a small chuckle, reaches out to gently lower the makeshift weapon. “Oh, come on—”

You don’t wait for him to finish, moving to hobble around him and retreat to your room. You shouldn’t have gotten up today. Nope. Call it a bad feeling. Something is going on around here and you are getting the hell out while you can. He slides into your path immediately, cutting of your escape with a smooth glide across the hardwood flooring. You narrow your eyes, shuffling to move around him again. He meets you like before, lunging closer still with each attempt to counteract your movements. You huff and stare him down, feeling like a Spanish bull in the ring, ready to charge the moment you see an opening. “BB, move.” You warn lowly.  

He throws out his arms to either side of him, blocking your way when you take a threatening step forward. “Can’t do that.” He chirps, puffing out his chest to seem more confident in his current position, while beginning to look as though he’s starting to regret his life’s choices, what with the way you’re gaze is cutting into his very soul. (Positively icy. You’d practiced that, rest in peace).

But he doesn’t move.

You frown and glare at him suspiciously, forcing your heavy limbs to cooperate with you for a moment. You take a step to the right, and as expected Beast Boy mirrors your movement, but your body isn’t as fast as you remember it. And he knows it. You careen to the left to try and complete your fake-out, but Beast Boy anticipates the slow sway of your body, following the uneven momentum like a puppet on strings to block your way yet again.

 He reaches out to steady you when you wobble, legs shaking with the sudden quick strain on your knees, and you wince at the flair of pain. Crappy broken body. You shake him off angrily, more upset at yourself then at him, and strike your crutch against the floor with a wave of strength (propelled simply by the heated frustration you feel festering in your chest like icky, wriggling worms). “Beast Bo—Gar, I’m serious.” You hiss in annoyance, ignoring the ricocheting twinge of pain that shoots up into your shoulder at the action.

“Believe it or not, so am I!” He defends, hands flying to his hips.

“Debatable.” You snap back.

“Rude.”

“Twenty bucks on (Y/N).” A new, deeper voice declares with obvious amusement. You spin to face the living room again, Beast Boy peeking around you to get a better view. Cyborg and Starfire are standing before you, having appeared out of thin air and quiet as can be, the latter of the duo looking as though she could just burst with excitement. More than usual. Cyborg’s gaze cuts to you when he notices the way you’re staring at her in confusion, putting a hand on her shoulder and squeezing gently to sooth the absurd tremble of her body. 

Okay. Double suspicious. 

They’re dressed in casual clothes; Starfire in high-waisted, purple shorts and a stylish pink sweater that hangs off her shoulders, her wild red hair tied back into a ponytail and her feet bare, smile wide. Cyborg is donned in sweatpants and an old blue and yellow football jersey you think might have seen better days once, newly buffered limbs gleaming under the lights. Beast Boy pursues his lips and squints up at his friend when he catches sight of the teasing smirk Cyborg trains on him.  

“Thanks, dude.” He responds as sarcastically as he can. Starfire spins to face Cyborg with glee, hands clasped in front of her.

“Friend Victor, I too wish to attribute money to the outcome of this argument.” She reveals enthusiastically, leaving you to trade an exhausted look with Beast Boy at the spiraling situation. Cyborg’s grin grows larger, and he winks at you both before giving Starfire his undivided attention.

“Okay.” He relents, staring down at her curiously. “Bettin’ on (Y/N) then?”

Starfire pauses, nose crinkling as she considers the question. “Can I not take part of the betting for both?”

“No, Star, it doesn’t really—” Cyborg begins, sighing with reluctance when she only continues to look up at him expectantly. “You know what? Sure.” He amends with a shrug, rubbing at the back of his head. Starfire claps her hands excitedly and laughs, her feet lifting from the floor in her in a rush of elation.

“Glorious!” She exclaims. You almost miss it when Cyborg turns away from her, but you’re able to barely catch the sly way she throws a wink at you too, the quick gesture leaving you reeling in amusement.

Oh shit, what a hero.

You can definitely appreciate a good swindle win you see one. And that was great.

You slump against your crutch and chuckle tiredly, massaging your forehead with the tips of the fingers peeking stiffly from your cast, before raising your arm up to draw their attention.

“Alright, seriously, what’s going on with you guys today? Where’ve you all been? Some secret club within our secret club?” You question fervently, on a  new mission as you hobble closer towards them. “I have to admit, I’m kind of offended if that’s the case.”

“Oh, you know, out.” Cyborg says much too casually and unhelpfully for your liking, shoving his hands into the pockets of his sweats. Simultaneously, Starfire responds much too quickly.

“In my room!” She declares loudly, unable to stop herself from flinching at the sharp, wide-eyed look Cyborg cuts her. She mouths an apology at him and flashes you a sheepish smile, tapping the tips of her index fingers together.

Oh, something is definitely going on. Not on my watch, secret keepers of the crypt.

You squint at them, “Sure. I’ll believe that. But why do I suddenly have a five-foot-furry shadow? One who doesn’t seem to know the concept of the word shame?”

Beast Boy gasps as though he’s never been so insulted in his young life (okay, so you may have possibly taken it a little too far that time. But in your defense, there’s a lot of stressful things going on right now, and the bat thing may have thrown you a little too far over the edge), scurrying around you to passionately wave a random, uh, peace sign in front of your face.

Wait, what?

“Five-foot-two.” He stresses firmly, wiggling both fingers for emphasis. You lean your weight on the single crutch keeping you gloriously upright, reaching out to tug his hand down with a groan.

“So not the point, batboy.”

“Hey! Bats are cool!”

“Ha! You know what else is cool?” You question sarcastically, nestling your casted arm against your chest as you lean forward to regard him with an arched eyebrow. “Not scaring the living shit of a person who’s already legally died twice from heart failure.”

Beast Boy concedes to your logic with a grimace, no doubt fighting off a burst of vivid memory on the subject.

“Point taken.” He agrees.

Cyborg pads over to you with a muffled laugh, giving your upper back a hearty, friendly slap that propels you forward a few steps. “Aw, B.B.’s just doing his job. Lighten up, (Y/N/N).”

You stumble with a strangled sound and work to regain your balance yourself through burning muscles, gripping the handle and uprights of the crutch as tightly as you can. You always forget how strong he is. And sometimes, though not often, so does he. Cyborg winces, flexing his fingers while he graces you with an apologetic smile. You raise an eyebrow at him; eyes locked intently on his face, as though you could simply reach into his mind and know all with a simple blink, and subtly tilt your head towards Beast Boy.

"And that means I can't leave one single room?"

"It was more to keep you busy." Cyborg admits with a grin that makes you all too nervous.  

Okay, red flag. Were you sweating? You might be sweating. They weren’t the…vengeful type, right? It’s not really your fault you tend to stress eat. Though….

"What are you all planning?" You ask again, unconsciously scanning the corners of room behind them for your two missing team members. Why do you feel like you’re about to be ambushed? Starfire hops forward like she’s stepping on air, looping her arm through yours and shaking it gently as she leans into you. Then she begins to drag you forward the smallest bit.

"Something wonderful!” She responds in that giddy way of hers, green eyes simmering with something impassioned and restless when they focus on your dumbfounded expression—fire brimming from her touch and her very being. She leans in closer and continues in a secretive whisper, which you think was meant to be soothing at some point between her thought process and strange execution. “But you must come to the roof to see it, my friend."

The….roof?

What’s so special about the fucking—

Oh.

….

Sonuvabitch.

To be completely honest, you knew it would somehow end like this. Betrayed by a moment of weakness and reduced to seething shame and broken trust, only to be real-life ghosted and then unceremoniously Mufasa-ed by your own team. A dramatic, imminent doom of Disney proportions. Ugh, what an embarrassing way to go. You really shouldn’t have gotten out of bed this morning like some normal, model citizen with an inane urge to contribute to society. What an idiot.

Still….maybe you’re just being a little over-dramatic here. Heroes usually have non-murdery morals, don’t they? Which is a big step up from your last group of…yeah….they weren’t even close to friends. Still, you can never be too careful these days. Right? Right.

You pull back from Starfire, trying to sound teasing as you respond, while barreling through your baseless internal panic and sprinkle of sugar-riddled guilt. How do you always get yourself into these messes?

"Is this the part where you throw me from the top? For finishing off the leftover cake without telling anyone?"

Beast Boy’s jaw drops.

"That was you?!"

Of course it was.

You laugh nervously and much too awkwardly to be convincing while you scramble to backtrack, "What?! Of course not!"

It was so good.

Starfire looks kind of horrified at your earlier insinuation about the roof, and she pulls away from you completely, eyes wide and unbelieving. She gasps, "We would never!"

Cyborg’s eyebrow shoots up as he studies your reaction. He frowns, lifting a hand to rub at his chin with an exaggerated sweep of his arm—as though he’s taking a moment to think more deeply about the matter—his metal fingers clunk-ing in the blanketing silence when they meet the thick, metal plate covering it. He sounds playful when he speaks up, and you know he’s not taking the news as hard as Gar currently is. 

"Well, now you've given me a lot to think about." He says slowly, amusement thick in his voice and vibrantly pulsing beneath his already crumbling, disappointed façade.

You wonder when it was exactly—when you’d unconsciously began to find his eagerly outspoken and protective spirit, his overly intense and personal pride (in all manners of technological tinkering and projects), and awful, awful acting, somewhat endearing. Maybe it was around the same time you’d grown rather fond of Beast Boy’s organic simplicity with life or perfectly-timed wit, his endearing, steadfast spirit and dorky, down-to-earth charm (though you would deny any accusation that says otherwise, pretending to find his endless stream of puns nothing but annoying). 

Or Starfire’s unfathomable warmth and, mostly smothering, overzealous passion in all things, no matter how small—a burning, extraterrestrial sun with a warrior’s soul and an open heart. Or Raven’s sarcastic calm and quiet disposition, a hopeful kind of darkness—as encompassing as it mystifying—which brings peace in ways one wouldn’t expect or think they needed. 

Or Robin. Noble and kind, brooding, insufferably stubborn, Robin—with an annoying competitive streak that rivals even you. Your outwardly, fearless friend and leader, a little birdie who keeps you from slipping back into your cold, old ways while still wanting to be a part of something better. To be a Titan. Time and time again. And—

Ah, fuck. You’ve gotten so sappy lately.

Near death experiences are the worst.

You roll your eyes at Cyborg, regardless of that grating, growing itch of sentimentality crawling up from your chest and into your throat like a rock, all the while fighting down the upwards twitch your lips.

"Oh, shut up.” You mutter, ducking your head so he won’t see as you move to hobble past the group back into the centre of the living room. “Even though I'm at my weakest right now, it doesn't mean I won't fight you."

Cyborg drops his arm and laughs, "I don't doubt it."

Beast Boy ducks around him; sparing no time as he shrinks down to the form of a chattering, green squirrel. Without breaking stride, he dashes towards your slowing figure, leaping forward to scale the rungs of your crutch. 

You jump at the sudden weight and list sideways, the vibration of his hurried ascent and the clattering of his nails against metal throwing you out of your concentrated state. You lean back too fast in surprise, catching the back of the couch with the underside of your cast to keep yourself somewhat upright, and wait with a raised brow as he moves to pull himself up onto the crutch pad at the top.

"Besides, you proved you’re anything but weak when you kicked Death’s ass! Multiple times.” He chirps proudly, settling back onto his little hind legs to stare up at you, bushy tail twitching and dark eyes round and glinting when they catch the light. “You're a survivor. Always have been.”

You grin, feeling satisfied that he finally seems to be more…relaxed about your injuries now (as opposed to the annoying, but much appreciated, panicked mother-henning you’d experienced throughout the first few weeks back on your feet). You have a sneaking suspicion Cyborg had a hand in this recent development—bless his beautiful, understanding soul—and you make a mental note to treat him to a pizza night soon. Or just hug him really, really tight in relief.

You heft your cast from the couch to hold out two fingers towards Beast Boy.

"And always will be." You agree. He reaches out with a shrill, happy squeak, tapping a front paw against them in a painfully adorable semblance of a high-five. Starfire joins you by the couch and lays her hand against your upper back, right between your shoulder blades, the swelling heat of it soothing the ache and strain of your poor muscles. Her gentle touch slides up, mindful of the bruises still splattered like patchwork across your skin, until you feel her lightly squeeze your shoulder.

"Very much like the warriors of old from my planet." She tells you softly, a smile pulling at her lips when your eyes dart up to look at her. It’s then you realize that all three of them are now looking at you rather expectantly, attention solely trained on your face as the room falls into an eager kind of silence. One that is quick to twist your abdomen into fluttering, nervous knots. 

Right, you think with a start, there was something about the roof—something they wanted me to see. You hesitate (is it getting hot in here, or is that just you self-combusting?), gaze jumping to each of your friends in turn. They continue to stare you down with purpose, waiting for your consent to be dazzled and thoroughly surprised, before you catch the barest hint of movement in your peripheral vision. You glance down at the back of the couch, wanting to scream your frustration to the sky, when you take in the wide, furry face peering back up at you.

Oh, not you too, ZuZu. You traitor.

She locks those intelligent eyes on you. He glowing pink gaze is intent and reprimanding, and god, you’re actually—silently, awkwardly—getting told off by an adorable lizard-themed care bear, who hails from the far reaches of infinity and beyond the known galaxy. What has your life come too? And the worst part is you don’t think you’re strong enough to—oh, goddamit. Peer pressure is a bitch.

"Alright.” You relent with a groan, throwing ZuZu a pointed, disgruntled look (which she simply counters with a glowing pink frill and mischievous wink, a move that has you breathing deeply to avoid just chucking your crutch across the room in defiance of it all). You turn to gesture at the others, “Fine. Let's get this show on the road then."

Beast Boy leaps down from the top of the crutch before you’ve even finished talking, his tiny shape shifting into the much larger form of a tiger once he touches down (more gracefully than you’d expected him to). He gives a little throaty growl in excitement, circling in place to get his bearings. And then with a sudden focus that makes you laugh, he’s bounding in a rush to slink between Cyborg and Starfire—his gaze already intensely trained down the hallway that leads towards the elevator.

"Sweet! Now you’re talking!" He exclaims with a swish of his tail, pausing only for a moment to throw a look back at Cyborg, the familiar imitation of a fanged grin even more terrifying with larger, sharper teeth on display. "Dibs on the donuts!"

Uh, donuts??

Cyborg groans and scrubs a hand over his face, stepping forward with his other hand outstretched, as if he could keep his excited friend from moving with just sheer force of will. "No! You don't get to just—Gar!"

Starfire tilts her head and watches until Beast Boy disappears around the curve of the hallway, "You have to admire his will power up until this moment." She points out, reaching out to brush a soothing touch to Cyborg’s shoulder.

He gives her a solemn nod in agreement. "...true." "Hi, yeah, still confused." You slowly iterate, when it’s clear they’re going to say nothing more on the manner, and looking hilariously haunted, just stare out into the middle distance like some kind of dramatic dork-asses. You can’t help it though—you want answers. You’ve been officially intrigued (donuts are always a good sign and nothing will convince you otherwise) and that cat-damning curiosity in you can never be quieted for long, so help you.

“Are we still going to the roof?”

Cyborg is the first to shake himself to attention, and he swings around to look at you with a knowing grin that tells you’re probably about to regret opening your mouth again. Probably. You guess?

…..

Okay, so you might be already exhausted enough now, with all this moving about and floundering, moral turmoil, to deal with any mysterious roof meetings and their possible consequences—and there’s no truly hiding it, or just burying it away for future you to worry about come morning (damn, why is past you always such a dick?).

Which leaves you decidedly awash in a ‘My mind is an emotional dumpster fire and all I want is to hibernate for forty years’ kind of way, unable to completely distinguish the nuances of your feelings on anything happening within a 10 foot radius. 

Especially since you’d….broken that quiet morning after the attack, finally reconciling with a screeching realization you’d been pushing back for years—even with all that damaged purpose, all that strength and determination and precious time you’d flooded into looking after yourself and only you, instead of worrying about others and how they might screw with you this time, you’d left yourself open anyway. Unwillingly, accidently, raw—like an exposed nerve adrift in the cosmos and crying out for relief.

Someone in power must have had mercy on you at last though, because you have friends. Good friends who are good people. And you love them in your own rough-around-the-edges way (is that the right word here? Love? You hope that’s the right word—it feels like the right word); but there’s no chance you’re ever going to tell any of them that. It’s become too embarrassing to even think about in your own mind, let alone out loud where they could actually...hear you.

But you’re not going to let all your personal baggage stop you now. Not while there’s the promise of donuts anyway.

Yeah, your priorities might need a little sorting out.

"Come on." Cyborg says, already treading backwards in the direction Beast Boy had gone. Starfire zips past you with ease, cutting around the corner like a fish would dart through deep water.

Her laugh echoes through the hall as she vanishes from sight, "Oh, this is going to be such a joyous occasion!"

Cyborg takes his time to snicker at the nervous grimace on your face. But you valiantly choose to be the bigger person here (no matter how much you want to knock your head against the nearest wall and see if your middle finger still works within the stiffness of a cast), simply rolling your eyes as you hobble to catch up to him around the bend in the hallway. He slows his pace without a word until you’re following closely at his side.

“So why aren’t we taking the elevator?” You inquire, watching as the thick metal doors slide past in your peripheral. It’s then you spot the other two loitering around by the door to the stairs.

The plot thickens.

Cyborg struggles to squash his playful grin, “Occupied.”

“By...”

“A second surprise. Now come on.” He diverts smoothly, waving his hand over the sensor for the door once Beast Boy and Starfire step away to make room for you both. It slides open from left to right with a mechanical hiss, and you peer in to the brightly lit stairwell with a raised brow. The glaring, white fluorescent lights are already giving you a headache.

“How do you expect me to get up the stairs?”

“Easy.”

“Oh, really? Easy? What are you even—”

The world shifts like a seesaw in your vision and you can barely comprehend the next few seconds: the way Cyborg stoops low enough to knock out the backs of your knees, the simultaneous rush of weightlessness—a fluttering, dizzying drop in your stomach that stalls the very breath in your chest—or even the jumbled burst of restrained laughter and disapproving click of a tongue which dissipates almost as soon as it starts. 

And you tip backwards into his arms with flailing limbs and a startled yelp as you’re gently scooped up, hanging shocked and boneless until he swings you up to cling onto his back like some sort of panicked koala. Cyborg laughs more boisterously as you lose your crutch in the commotion, grip loosening in your surprise until it slips entirely from your hold and vanishes from reach, the telltale clattering of metal against ground echoing from somewhere off to the side.

“—goddammit, Vic!” You gasp when the world stands still again, sucking in air for your breathless lungs. “A little warning!”

He simply cups the back of your knees and holds your legs tightly over the ridged, triangular slab of metal casing his hips, slowly straightening to his full, giant height again. It gives you a moment to throw your arms around his neck for safety and squeeze with all your reprimanding might. Cyborg turns to look at you with a teasing smirk you’re all too familiar with, before stepping further into the doorway.

“Comfortable there, Grumpy?”

“You’re the worst.” You announce without any real bite, leaning back to scan the floor for your missing crutch. It doesn’t take you long to realize that Starfire has already rescued it, hugging the dented metal pole to her chest with a look of determination. She catches your relieved gaze over Cyborg’s shoulder and nods as if reassuring you that she’s got everything handled now, gently patting the cushioned padding at the top of the crutch.

And then her eyes eagerly snap to Cyborg.

You can’t see his face from your vantage point, but you think he’s relaying permission with the way he tilts his head towards the stairs. Both Starfire and Beast Boy rocket forward in any case, barely sidestepping around you in their race up the first flight of stairs. Cyborg follows them without hesitation, and you can hardly wait another moment once your little group hurriedly passes the third floor, before the mystery of the roof becomes too intriguing to avoid any longer.

“So...are Rob and Raven in on this too?” You carefully begin, speaking to no one in particular but hoping someone might answer you anyway. “Cause they've been more mysterious than usual.”

"Grumpy and observant. You know…you'd make a pretty awesome detective too—give Dick some healthy competition around here." Cyborg returns in an innocent manner, which you know for a fact is bullshit. So you lamely thump a fist against the point between the heavy, metal plating circling his neck before it tapers down into his chest, and grumble your displeasure.

"Annnd you're dodging my questions, big guy. Again."

Cyborg says nothing this time and simply uses the firm hold he has under your knees to toss you up a few inches, jostling you free from your comfortable koala cling as though he`s trying to readjust your position. Only you know that’s not what he intended at all—evidenced by the irritating way he starts to laugh while you groan at him and shimmy urgently at his back, trying to right yourself from the haphazard tilt you’d landed in.

"Ugh! I miss being able to walk up a flight of stairs like a normal person!" You whine, bonking your forehead against the smooth, climate-controlled casing covering the back of his head, the vibrations of his full-body laughter rattling straight through you.

Beast Boy goes still ahead of the group, front paw hovering above the next step up. That unsettling tiger grin as he turns to regard you is the only warning you get before the inevitable.

"Eh, I wouldn’t trust these stairs though,” Beast Boy drawls with terrifying purpose, “They always seem like they're…up to something."

Starfire pipes up from her place hovering beside you and Cyborg in perfect comedic timing, her eyes narrowed in contemplation.

"Well yes, up to the roof—oh...that was..."

Yeah, Kori. Damn.

He waits in the ensuing, hollow silence of the stairwell for a reaction, gaze expectantly darting from person to person until you don’t know whether to laugh or just get mad.

....both?

Alright, okay, here’s the thing.

Though you may have...secretly....begun to appreciate Garfield’s endless arsenal of jokes and puns as much as that next person (you’ve got a reputation to uphold after all), that....was not so good. 

You’d face palm if you had complete confidence in your upper body strength as of late, but you definitely do not—especially after that embarrassingly sad attempt to escape to your room earlier (feat. the interference of your awkwardly unexpected, five foot-two bodyguard). And you’d very much like to keep securely clinging for your life atop mount ‘Victory’ Stone instead, rather than somehow (ridiculously) finding some way to slip from his back and fall to a more permanent death down the tower’s two-hundred stairway to hell.

So, you’ll just lock away this existential breakdown for another day and move on. Be the bigger person here, again.

....

Or.

"I think I'm starting to miss the coma." You deadpan with unabashed pettiness (because you’d actually had to listen to that with your own two ears), refusing to give him even the slightest satisfaction of a job well done.

Step up your game, Gar.

You can pinpoint the exact moment Cyborg winces with regret for his friend—his chin dipping down, the glowing blue machinery encasing half his skull whirring with a soft, discomforting humming like he’s finally reduced to just screaming on the inside.

"Oof,” He eventually adds through a long exhale. “I've heard better stuff from you, man."

Beast Boy sniffs in displeasure at your less than positive reactions, "Yo, give me a break; I'm still getting over the pizza thing."

You heft your body up straight to stare him dead in the eyes and lift your unbroken arm, wiggling your fingers over Cyborg’s head in a teasing way. "Let it haunt you for the rest of your daaaays~"

You don’t think you’ve ever had the pleasure of seeing a hulking, green, murder cat roll its eyes so hard before. But there it is—in all its uncanny, cartoon-like glory. Beast Boy shakes his heavy head and resumes slinking up the stairs, leaving the rest of you to catch up while he throws another line over his shoulder, in a way you know is meant to be a playful declaration of war.

"Which reminds me...” He purrs slyly, “….what did the ghost say when it arrived at the party?"

Starfire taps at her chin in thought, "Ummm hello?”

Beast Boy’s enthusiasm swells with her genuine attempt, and he turns to coax his best friend into answering as well.

"Not quite. Come on, Cy, this is all you dude."

"Can I get a—"

"Victor don't you dare!"

Cyborg merely hums at your desperate interjection, "Uh-oh full name. That's never a good sign."

"Oh!” Starfire’s expression lights up in a way you’re entirely used to by now, and she leaves your side on the flutter of a giddy laugh, hovering quick up the next few steps. She smiles down at Beast Boy once she reaches him, titling her head as he looks up at her with an animated flick of his tail.

“I believe I know this one. May I?" She quietly gushes, twirling to lounge back gracefully in the air beside him. His head bobs once, long and slow, still flashing that sharp grin.

"Dazzle me, Star."

"Can I get the Boo-ya!!?"

"HA! Yeah, that’s wassup!"

You thunk your head against Cyborg’s shoulder this time, wincing at the brief pulse of pain from pounding metal against skull. "Oh my god, are we there yet?"

"As a matter of fact..." Cyborg mysteriously trails off, hopping up the last step to the top landing of the stairway. You peek up in interest and immediately want a better look when you see that the access to the roof is propped open the slightest bit, squishing your cheek against Cyborg’s as you lean forwards with the anticipation of it all. It’s easy to spot the flickering movement from just beyond the door—shadows moving fast from one end to the other. Is someone already there?

You suck in an anxious breath when Cyborg lowers himself to one knee and releases his hold on you, carefully helping you dismount from your cling, and Starfire is all too eager to return your crutch, pushing it into your arms and waving you forwards. Your friends let you nudge open the door then without another word, following you out as you bravely take your first few steps and—

…..

You think you might’ve blacked out for a moment in shock.

Beast Boy circles your legs as you silently take in the state of the roof, rubbing against them with a gentle brush of his body before he exclaims, "Surprise! Did we getcha??"

You blink a few times to get your bewildered mind working again. Because out of any possible scenario you could have—and did—invent within your imagination….it was nothing like…well, this.

The smell of hot food wafting through the summer-like air reaches you first, and you’re drawn to admire what is definitely Starfire's touch in your unexpected surprise. 

There are two tables set up across the roof directly ahead, side by side and pushed flush against the lip of rectangular ledge boxing in the space. Each wooden surface is filled with cutlery, food and drinks in jade colored bowls and glasses, and adorned with fun, rainbow coloured table cloths—the cheap, plastic kind you’d find from a dollar store—and regal centre pieces among the clutter. These consist of wreaths with beaded jewel strings and alien metal shapes, forms that remind you of branded symbols you’d once glimpsed from the hilts of her homeworld weapons.

There’s a fancy new boom box sitting on the ledge, just to the left of the food tables. It’s silvery and shiny in the late evening light, akin to the small heap of patterned presents sitting below it, or the bouquets of metallic balloons weighed down by sandbags in each corner of the roof. 

Cyborg’s own creative touch is more quiet, but still obvious in your racing mind, reflected in the large blue and white fairy lights the size of your fist, strings of them hooked beneath the ledge and spaced along the entire perimeter of the roof. They remind you of mini lava lamps—slowly swinging, each casing filled with swirling, pulsing energy, casting loops of light and shadow which dance across the sleek stone of the rooftop ground.

Your gaze finds four, dark green bean bag chairs next, moved from the game room to sit in a circle further down the left side of the roof. A neat, tent-like canopy, reminiscent of Raven’s more gothic looking style, is set up over them and affixed with steel piping, made of sheer dark sheets in purple, blue, and black—a cozy, magical lounging spot that makes you long for the calmness and dark that only sleep can bring. 

You slowly turn to your right, noting that access to the elevator on the other side of the roof is surprisingly clear for once, the usual pile of rickety telescope gear stored away to make room for dancing. And through an odd urge to cast a look behind you, you easily catch sight of the cute, homemade banner dangling above the door you’ve just stepped through, green and bubblegum pink letters scrawled across a white strip of poster board: Party Like It’s Your Birthday!!

You recognize Beast Boy’s handwriting the moment your eyes trace the first few letters.

It takes you a moment, still staring out at the culmination of your surprise, to realize that it all clashes terribly, although you don't find yourself caring in the slightest. It’s beautiful and endearing and makes sense to you in every way that matters—and you wouldn't have it look any other way.

Huh…look at that.

You're actually getting a hang of this sappy feelings thing.  "Uh, wh—I…what's all this for?" You finally manage to sputter out, once your friends go back to watching you with those barely contained grins and expectant gazes. Even Raven, already in the midst of final preparations, standing by that glorious canopy as she methodically smoothes out wrinkles in the overlapping fabric—both manually and magically—is smiling shyly at you over her shoulder. Her dark, purple-colored eyes are carefully mapping out every hitch in your expression. 

Like the others, she’s dressed more casually than you’re used to seeing around the tower; ripped dark-washed skinny jeans with a cropped tee to match and clunky, black combat boots, a leather choker that looks uncomfortably tight around her neck. But the most unexpected difference has to be when you realize what she’s missing. Her signature, purple-blue cloak has been swapped for a hooded, bomber jacket—black with gold zippers and detailing, and one size too big. It’s so strange a sight that it’s actually….kind of weirding you out a little.

Starfire grasps the wrist of your cast and gently tugs you forward, guiding you further into the organized mayhem that was once the tower’s roof. "The happiest day of birth to you my friend!"

Oh. Oh.

Now this is awkward.

"It's my…birthday?" You ask dumbly. Beast boy’s tiny head, that of an adorably, fluffed up squirrel monkey this time, pops up from the depths of a bowl sitting on the first food table—like some knock-off whack-o-mole game (and wait a goddamn minute, when the hell did he even get there?). His little hands grip the lip of the bowl as he chatters through crunching pretzels.

"Duh! At least yeah, I think so…uh, right?"

You clasp a hand to your forehead when you remember the date and groan, "No, no, you’re right, I think it is. Crap, I feel like I lost an entire year."

Starfire’s whole body slumps at your reaction, floating down until her feet touch ground.

"You are unhappy." She concludes sadly.

Aw, cripes, why are you like this?

"NO! No, Kori, I'm happy!” You hurriedly reassure her, “I just....I haven't really celebrated it in a long time. I never had anyone to..."

They hear your unspoken implication clear enough and offer you sad, little smiles—varying degrees of empathy seeping through into their expressions. Empathy. And not pity. Not judgment. Just compassion from people who understand it all. 

An alien princess far from home who embraces difference and is learning to choose a life for herself, a half-cybernetic football star who had to learn when to let go and walk a new path in life, a troubled half-demon not wanting to be defined by the past or her heritage, a metahuman menagerie of animals fighting the pull of loneliness while still finding strength in his friends, and an orphan circus boy turned vigilante—given not only a second chance to make a difference for others, but unwavering hope as well.

Your own Breakfast Club of heroes.

"Well now ‘ya have us." Beast Boy says with serious resolve you haven’t often seen when it comes to your loyal jokester, the others agreeing simultaneously as he bounds closer in small leaps from across the table. There’s a painful clenching in your chest at their sentiments, and although it feels like you’re on the verge of a heart attack, it’s a good kind of hurt that brings relief to your entire being.

Because thinking it is one thing, but hearing it out loud dregs more emotion to the surface than you ever thought you had—makes it all the more real. You swallow thickly and try to keep composed through another monumental shift in your perceptions.

"I know." You return softly.  Starfire takes your hand and holds it firmly in hers, mindful of the strength in her grip.

"And you are indeed truly....happy?"

Well, that’s a heavy question.

You never truly belonged anywhere, in the past. Too unnatural for everyday civilians, too angry for heroes, too kind for villains. You never understood why no one could just let you be....something in the middle.

But now, you think you’re finally learning that happy is something you can be, even while half-existing in that kind of grey area. So you squeeze her hand in reassurance and take a page from Beast Boy’s book—you attempt to lighten the mood.

"I will be once we get this party started." You tease, pulling away to turn on the boom box and click through stations in search of something party worthy. With that, the others move to disperse; Starfire and the boys already picking through the food tables with interest, while Raven briefly ducks beneath one to retrieve an opaque, plastic storage tote. 

It’s blue and more than decently sized in her arms, but she carries it easily and without a word to the bean bag canopy, sitting (legs crossed and back perfectly straight) to methodically sift through its contents.

Starfire waves you towards the food tables once you settle on a popular radio station known for their mix of genres and artists—a little something for everyone hopefully.

"Come then, you must partake in some of this delicious food. I tried earth recipes." She proudly tells you, scooping up some sort of rice dish to wave under your nose as though hoping to entice you further. It smells pleasant, of grilled vegetables and egg, but all your attention has latched onto a single word that equally intrigues as it concerns you.

“Tried.” You echo, leaning to balance on your crutch and free up your unbroken arm. You press a single finger against the rim of the dish in her hands, lowering it down and away from your face. Starfire looks a little sheepish as she curls an arm around the ceramic, rounded dish and fits it into the crook of her elbow to rest, lifting her own newly freed arm to sweep a lock of hair behind her ear. A nervous tick.

She hugs the dish even closer, “There were…the incidents.”

“Nothing you couldn’t handle.” Raven adds from afar. Starfire leans around you to beam at her welcome encouragement; seeming as though she’s already seconds away from just fly-tackling her into a vice-like hug—a very Starfire act of affection.

Which you should probably redirect now, if you want to keep that beautiful canopy standing.

"Everything smells great, Star. Thank you. In fact..." You select a spoon from the first table and a tiny serving plate, before gesturing in silent question to the dish still in her arms. She’s ecstatic at your offer, extending it to you at once with bright, shining eyes. You carefully ladle out a few spoonfuls of the rice mixture, and with a playful cheers and raise of your spoon, you taste your first dish of the evening.

"Oh shit, that's good." You groan in surprise.

"Oh wonderful, I knew you would enjoy it!"

Beast Boy whoops eagerly from the centre of the second table, crouching among a spread of simple desserts. "Wicked! I call the donuts next!"

Cyborg anticipates his movement before you can, firmly squashing a hand against Beast Boy’s monkey head to keep him from leaping towards an open tray. Beast Boy whines openly at the injustice.

"Dude, come on, be cool!"

Ah, now that makes sense.

Starfire sighs and returns the tasty rice dish to its rightful place, hesitating only to shoot you an apologetic look as she steps towards the commotion. But you just smile in understanding, gesturing for her to go on and deal with the boys before they decimate all of her hard work.

And now it’s probably a good idea to clear the blast zone.

You make a rather slow beeline for the front entrance of the canopy, lowering your body down to sit in the place Raven silently offers you by shifting pointedly to the side—content to be off your feet for a moment. Raven picks up on your underlying curiosity though, the second you glance at the box still under her scrutiny, her gaze cutting up to regard you with the slightest touch of amusement. 

You observe the way she tips her head, a pulse of darkened magic lighting up around the mysterious container, and it slides in a short burst to rest in front of you.

Well, well, what do we have here?

You peer down into the depths and react too late to stifle your gasp.

It’s filled with boxes of classic party games and entertainment, stacked upon each other in neat little towers along the inside: video game cartridges and two portable games devices, a deck of cards, Connect Four, Cluedo, and yep….that's definitely Twister, oh my fuck (you may be a little over excited for this. Which is strange for you...considering you can't even remember the last time you've ever so passionately, deeply, viscerally, wanted to roll out a stupid, colorful tarp and contort your body into unhealthy positions), a wooden board and an accompanying game-piece tin for Checkers, Pictionary, Monopoly, Jenga, Uno, the Game of Life (aaaannd too real with this one actually, might be avoiding that), Guess Who?, Snakes and Ladders, as well as games you hadn't seen since your earlier days of childhood—Rock 'em Sock 'em Robots and Hungry Hungry Hippos (meaning your small child self is living right now).  

Only one person knew about this, knew about your stupid birthday-candle wishes from the short, hopeful part of your childhood that's since been eradicated by harsh realities; the longing desperation to make any kind of worthwhile connection, to know love or be wanted outside of a means to a quick pay-day. 

To swing with others at a crowded park, to play games and join clubs, or have a sleepover with greasy food and late night truths—to be free (and you blame this emotional vomit entirely on exhausted, blabbermouth you, spilling your guts in a tired stupor while sharing stove-top hot chocolate in the kitchen at 3 a.m. Feeling vulnerable when he'd quietly shared his own frustrations with the role of leader and recent disconnect with his father, letting you lament in return about never getting the chance to just…be a normal kid. Something he understood. Something he remembered).

Oh, Dick Grayson.

You are the best of us.

You shake your head clear of any vivid memories, reaching in to unearth the Twister box and hold it up to admire its magnificence in the rapidly fading light. "So.” You start in what you hope is a casual enough tone, exchanging the box for another to seem busy. “You put all of this together, huh?"

She shrugs, "We figured you could use some...fun. After everything that's happened."

You grin and fish out an exceptionally old classic next, pointing the vibrant box of colourful, caricature hippos at her. "I didn't think this was your kind of fun, Rae."

"It's not.” Raven admits bluntly, floating the game from your hands despite your protest and back into the storage container with a challenging raise of her brow. “But I can enjoy the value in it. And in spending time with my friends." 

(You don’t do enough of that. Why don’t you do enough of that?)

"Pfft are you going soft on us?" You say, weakly avoiding eye contact while wrestling away the any more intrusive thoughts and stabs of related guilt.

You watch her fight the beginnings of a smirk, "I could ask you the same question."

"Oh man, that's disgusting even for you B.B!" Cyborg grouses suddenly in the distance, and you’ve never felt so relieved for a distraction in your young life. Your friend is standing in front of the farthest food table when you look over, his hands on his hips and a frown of disapproval trained on something among the mass of dishes and delicious smelling cuisine. 

You find out why when you follow his line of sight, your body and gaze lifting a tad to seek out what’s happened—and you can’t say you’re all too surprised with this inevitable development.

Beast Boy is laying, dramatically draped, across the tray of donuts he’d been denied earlier, monkey toes wriggling to dispel powdered sugar from between them.

"Let me live my life, man." He jokes between fistfuls of sweet pastry. Cyborg makes a grab for him in retaliation and he jerks back out of reach as if fully expecting this outcome, throwing himself to the side in a graceful dodge.

"Halt! Oh please do watch out for the—"

In his flurry of movement—kicking out his legs for momentum and rolling head over feet to a neat stop a few feet further down the table—Beast Boy accidently whacks the side of another bowl near the edge, the dish teetering dangerously on the precipice of destruction.

But Starfire is always quick on her feet. She lunges for the bowl and makes the catch before it can fall victim to the laws of gravity (those you’re already painfully aware of), cradling it safely in her arms and sighing in relief as she cordially lifts it in your direction.

"Do not fear! I have saved the mac of the cheese!"

"Though it has its moments." Raven deadpans, flipping up her hood with a shake of her head.

"Speaking of moments…is this a good time for a dramatic entrance?"

Starfire whirls around unearthly fast at the familiar voice, the echo spiking through the low, near constant beat and rhythm drifting from the speakers of the boom box—none of you having heard a door open or close, or even a single footfall drop onto the roof.

"Robin! You have made it!"

Alright.

You know he’s practically a ninja (because it’s what he’s been dutifully trained to do), but you still think this deserves a hearty what the hell anyway.

How long has he even been standing there?

Though before you can reflect too deeply on the matter, you find yourself bearing witness to Robin’s handling of the fly-tackle hug. To his credit, he takes the sudden, colliding weight like a champ; a short laugh ripped from him at the initial breath-stealing thump, and he stumbles back to restore his balance without falling on his ass.

You can tell that he’s definitely a pro at this by now.

He gives her a generous, friendly squeeze before they part, turning his attention back to the rest of his team. It’s then you fully take in how he’s dressed; slim-fitting jeans, a dark blue tee, a solid, gray flannel shirt over top—unbuttoned and left hanging open, long sleeves rolled up at to his elbows—and red converse. 

His knee is still in a brace, a black watch with a stiff Kevlar strap fastened around his left wrist, its face square and rimmed with silver. And from your place you can even study the state of his dark hair—soft and without gel, but noticeably mussed like he’s been running his fingers through it all day.  

"There's our fearless leader!” You warmly call out, letting Raven ease you helpfully to your feet so that you can welcome your newly arrived team member. You lightly bump your cast against his shoulder once you reach him, and then again just to be annoying when he nudges your arm away the first time (but not without a fond roll of his eyes).

With less distance your gaze finds thin, pink marks left like badges on his skin, the stitches having already healed and dissolved from under his chin and across his collarbone, his blue eyes a little hazy in their focus. 

All in all, he looks tired up this close, in small ways you might overlook in passing—his grin beginning to wilt just at the upper corners of his lips, dropping eyelids and subtle bruising under his eyes, and the barest smudges of oil left neglected on his person; freckle-like specks across his jaw, staining the toes of his converse and the collar of his t-shirt (that particular one looking especially dark and ingrained into the fabric, like he’d hastily blotted at the spot in a rush and then gave up half-way through)—though you wouldn’t guess it from his posture. 

He’s all squared shoulders, a confident lift of his head and a soft, delighted glint in his eyes despite the heaviness you’d noticed before. He’s proud even in the face of exhaustion, so you elect not to bring any attention to it.

“I was beginning to think Batman whisked you off back home for some clown-punching and father-son bonding." You continue impishly, mimicking his mentor’s cowl by placing an index finger on either side of your head. You bounce them up and down in a tease.

"No, that was last month.” Robin reminds you dryly, pressing his lips together to keep from smiling. He jabs a thumb over his shoulder at the open elevator door he’d obviously emerged from. “I was actually just finishing up some final touches on an old friend of yours."

Huh. O…kay?

"Ominous." Cyborg offers before you can voice your own confusion, settling back against a food table with a deviously knowing smile.

Best Boy huffs with palpable disappointment instead, climbing swiftly onto the ledge behind his friend. He scuttles around a portion of the roof to sit beside the thumping boom box, while still taking time to throw out his own affirmation on the matter, before shifting back into his human form and swinging his dangling legs to the beat of the current song.

"Yeah, way creepy, dude."

Robin frowns, “I was being mysterious!”

Cyborg seems to be enjoying this immensely for some reason, leaning forward and crossing his arms over his chest.

“Well, don’t.”

“Damn. Don’t hold anything back.”

“Do not worry, Robin.” Starfire remarks with a pat to his shoulder, “I still find you the mysterious.”

You try to stifle your sputtering laughter as Robin sighs in defeat, reaching up to touch her hand in wordless thanks. He motions for you to stay where you are then, swiping his finger across the face of his watch. It lights up blue like a touch screen, and something large and humming (a machine?) darts from the inside of the elevator.  

The futuristic motorcycle that slides to a near-silent stop in front of you is like something right out of Tron. There’s a high leather seat and bullet-proof windshield among sleek, rounded black metal and glowing, magnetic green lights. They detail the length of the body like racing stripes, circling around the headlights and up into the shape of a triangle above them, as well as lining the inside rims of its large, treaded wheels (two in front and one in the back). The padded, silver handles poke through the front casing like devil horns.

It’s a familiar, wrenching image—one you could only dream of seeing again after the brutal attack on Jump City.

"Lucy!” You burst out instantly, and much to the Robin’s immense enjoyment, hopping forward in your excitement to reach your beloved cycle. You trace your fingers over the glowing triangle, pressing your palm to the leather seat with stinging, blurry eyes. It feels warm. Alive. “Oh my crap, you resurrected my bike!"

Cyborg gently pats the cycle with pride, "Rob and I spent weeks trying to fix her up. Finally got all the parts working again."

"You—this is—holy shit."

"Glad you like it."

Robin throws an arm around your shoulders and pulls you into his side, pretending not notice your muffled sniffling like a super-star best friend. "Happy birthday, (Y/N)." He mutters, loosening the fancy watch so he can clasp it around your unbroken wrist in a nimble flourish.

Cyborg pumps his fist in the air when you choke out a disbelieving laugh, victoriously striding to the centre of the roof to proclaim:  

"Well, what are we standing around here for? Let's get this thing started!"

“Oh yes, let us start the celebration my friends!”

“Eh, sure.”

"Party people!" Beast Boy cries out in agreement, finally leaping down from the ledge.

"Alright, Alright. You don't have to tell me twice." Robin chuckles, gesturing for the others to go ahead with the festivities. He stays to hover around you though, and is suspiciously quiet at first, simply stepping around you and your newly built cycle to pluck a can of soda from a food table. He idly brushes away condensation with a broad swipe of his thumb, waiting for the others to further disband around you both. 

When the coast is clear, evident by the way he glances from side to side, he turns towards you with his head down, popping the tab on the can and taking a heavy gulp. You raise a brow and wait, more than aware of his tendency by now to try and constantly torture you with the value of patience. He purses his lips in thought, before he finally meets your gaze with a playful twist to his usual smirk.

“So, hey.” He begins somewhat offhandedly, drumming his fingers across the surface of the table, “We should take a team picture at some point. All of us. Like a…memory of tonight’s occasion—if you want.”

You shouldn’t make it this easy for him—because he’ll never stop teasing you about how quickly you caved—but you find that you truly do like the idea. He just doesn’t need to know how much at the moment. So you settle on feigning tired reluctance, hoping (fooslishly) that he doesn’t see right through you.

“It wouldn’t hurt, I guess.”

“You guess?”

….

It’s really annoying when he does that.

You pout at the light amusement in his tone and follow his earlier path to the table, seizing a donut in a moment of pure impulse from the tray Beast Boy had previously vacated. You feel satisfied when you notice that it’s one of the unfortunate monkey feet ones, and then thrust it into Robin’s free hand. 

He must have been around long enough to see the offense for himself, because his nose crinkles in distaste when he registers what you’ve given him, letting the tainted pastry dangle from two fingers.

Sweet revenge.

You dole out smirk of your own.

“Eat your donut, dick.”

*****************************************************************

It’s well into the evening, sunset colours already fading calmly from the sky, when Robin parks himself next to you on the ledge of the roof, smoothly swinging his legs over and dropping to sit with a long sigh of relief. Huh…it seems like someone definitely had a longer day today than they let on.

And honestly? Mood.

You tap him with the rounded bottom of the crutch lying across your lap, throwing him a cursory glance and a smile in greeting. But he doesn’t respond the way you expect him to, no. Instead, you’re surprised to see that rare, relaxed grin of his already peeking through all of the obvious exhaustion.

"What are you smiling about, Grayson? You're creeping me out." You muse gently, brow arching at the amusement that grows all the more in the curl of his smile. It’s like he’s proudly uncovered some great secret in the time it took you to voice your thoughts, and is now going to make you work for a satisfying answer. Which, you have to admit, isn’t a very unusual outcome when it comes to your friend and his bat-crazy mentor.

Heh.

Gar would love that one.

"Oh, you know…nothing too important.” Robin counters with a non-committal shrug of his shoulder.

Uhhh, yeah, that’s not comforting in the slightest, you decide.

You narrow your eyes at him and poke at his upper arm accusingly, “You’re never really this terrible of a liar usually.”

“Well, usually isn’t now.”

You pause to let his utter nonsense sink in.

“Are all detectives this uselessly cryptic or is this just a you thing?”

“I think it’s a family thing actually.”

“That I believe.” You laugh, gripping tight to the edge of the concrete ledge with one hand as you lean forward to admire the twinkling darkness of the water far below—a beautiful, convoluted gloom in the beginnings of silver moonlight. You catch his lingering stare in your peripheral when you shift, an odd amount of softness there you’re not exactly used to seeing directed your way.

“What?” You ask again in exasperation (and maybe a tad more overly sharp than you wanted). He only winks when you turn to get a better read on him, and looking much too smug and unconcerned, tips his head back to study the distant, firefly-like pinpricks of light just now glittering through the encroaching dark above you.

There’s a blissful beat of silence between the continuously wafting smells (of heavy spices and cheese and the lingering sweetness of fancy chocolate) and the nearby ambient sounds of your friends locked in an intense game of Jenga (their laughter and conversation—Raven is definitely on a roll by the sounds of it—the clinking of cutlery and plates, and the low, near-constant pop music blanketed beneath it all), and then—

“Welcome home.” He says quietly.

You stare at him a moment longer; hesitant, flustered, warm—like some kind of utter punch-drunk goober—until your gaze slips mercifully back to the sky, drawn in by the trembling might of the stars far out of reach.

And you let the moment sit within the unexpected, peaceful calm his voice brings, unbroken without a sarcastic quip or cynical remark, just this once. A moment to find value in.

Because this is your family, or….what you’d always imagined one to be.

So, even though you’d never truly been privy to a lot of happiness before this—this tiny, momentous moment right where you need to be; sitting on the roof ledge of your home—you find your own sense of peace in thinking that here and now, if there ever was a happy place in this life for you—

This is it.  

#teen titans #teen titans imagines #teen titans x reader #dc comics #dc comics imagines #dick grayson x reader #dick grayson imagines #robin x reader #dick grayson #starfire x reader #starfire imagines #koriand'r #starfire #raven x reader #raven imagines #raven #beast boy x reader #beast boy imagines #beast boy #garfield logan #rachel roth #cyborg x reader #cyborg imagines #cyborg #victor stone #x reader #imagines #x you

[drabblesanddreams]

Black and White- Fyodor Dostoevsky

This turned out so much longer than i planned it to be sorry folks!! But this imagine i tried making it slightly diff than the imagines, i honestly wouldnt say its romantic tbh it also doesnt have as much fyodor as i planned for there to be sadly :(( but let me know what yall think!! also im on vacation again this time for a month so im so sorry yall if i cant post as much!!

word count: 2.5k

summary: The black and white of your world holds a whole new meaning when you meet him.

TW: Hints towards depression a lot, really depressing dialogue 

The day before he came into your life everything was black and white. A perfect world encased in various shades of grey, shrouded in a two-tone hue of barrenness and desolation.

The light that poured into your world started off as a warmth seemingly brought forth by an angel. But slowly, before you could even realize it at the time, the warmth grew more and more intense the longer you spent time with him. It grew and grew until that once comforting warmth turned into a scalding sensation, burning your touch along with the pretty pictures of your life. It burned the new-found colours until you saw yourself left in the end with no picture at all, surrounded by the darkness that once upon a time was all you knew.

In the end, you horrifically realized that he was no angel at all.

He liked to claim that he was a god, but you didn’t believe his words even from your first meeting up until the last. You knew better than that, in the end, he was more so like Lucifer.

Once an angel indeed, you suppose so judging from not only his carefully crafted facade of a morally virtuous persona but also his physical features.

You remembered the first day he came into the music shop that you worked at, his angelic features drew and ensnared your attention almost immediately.

That particular day it was snowing lightly, the white flakes gently building on top of one another until the city was a buried underneath one of the worlds most beautiful creations.

Beautiful, untainted white snow with unique patterns pressed onto each flake. However, when mingled with the rest of its own kind, it was as ordinary as it could ever be to the naked eye. An average speck who will never stand apart from the rest of its kind and will instead be overshadowed by those who come after it.

Much like you.

Despite the gloomy thoughts, it didn’t make the snow any less cold.

“Shit,” you scowled as a gust of cold air blew into the store, taking with it a flurry of snowflakes, “Hurry up and shut the door behind you, Ann.”

The person in question was your friend and the sole reason you had this shitty job working as a cashier at the music store. Her family had hired you purely out pity when your parents died. You were at the tender age of 12 at the time.

You liked that word. Died. It was straight to the point, no bullshit and no cushioning of the hard blow it delivered. You remembered at the funeral how the many unrecognizable people who had attended came up to you, choking out apologies for your late parents.

Or how they passed away.

Or how they were deceased.

Died. Dead. Death. It didn’t matter, you liked the foreign comfort the words gave you. It meant that the world you spent so much time analyzing was the same as you made it out so sure to be. It meant that one day you too were going to “pass away” and your existence would then blend into the hundreds of thousands of those who lived and died before you.

And then, you’d be forgotten.

You never figured out why that morbid thought was so relieving to you.

Ann rolls her eyes, shaking you out of your stupor and back into the real world. She closes the door behind her but not before ruffling her hair free of snowflakes, this action allowing another draught of frigid air to enter.

“Okay miss grumpy, chillax ‘kay?” she teases and it's your turn to roll your (e/c) eyes as she slips off her coat, tossing it behind the cash register.

“Besides,” she continues as she takes a seat next to you behind the register, “Your shift is up in literally ten minutes so you can go home and sleep.”

You look at her from the corner of your eye as you rest your cheek in the palm of your hand. She has taken to sorting the receipts silently for a moment before she asks, “How long did you sleep for last night?”

You blink a couple of times before realizing the exhaustion must be painted so easily on your face. The purple eyebags decorating your face must not be a pretty sight. You can feel the weight of your own existence pulling you downwards, like all you want is to crawl under the covers and fall asleep to a mixture of winter and Chopin. Today has hit you particularly hard, but you don’t let her know that.

Inhaling through your nose, you sit up right before casually replying, “Seven hours give or take”

She beams at the easy lie as she nods approvingly, “Making progress, good.”

All you do is shrug, its been a slow day all you want to do it go back home. There have barely been any customers and the shop is completely empty at the moment save for the both of you.

‘Anyways,” her tone changes to one full of pep, “Can I tell you about my tinder date? I’m gonna tell you about my tinder date” she doesn’t wait for your approval.

You snort, standing up as you make your way over to the hanging instruments opposite on the wall. You intend to straighten them up again for the millionth time, the slightest crook getting on your nerves.

She takes this action as a sign to go on, “So, I swiped on this guy na-“

She is cut off by the soft chime of bells filling the small store indicating a customer has entered.

Before even moving, you feel the cold air gently sweep across your exposed skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

You turn your head to the door, your hand pausing on its readjustment of the violin hanging on the wall.

A tall slim young man, maybe somewhere aged in the mid 20s has entered, his seemingly delicate pale hand pressed against the window of the door. His shoulder length black hair falls softly onto his shoulders, ensnared underneath a ushanka as white as the snow that has entered the store. The white snowflakes stand out against his long black coat.

He searches around the shop for a moment before his eyes catch onto yours. That’s when the air leaves your lungs and you feel a shiver run down your spine.

Never in your life had you ever met a man so…so…beautiful.

Beautiful was an understatement, he was simply breathtaking.

The most striking thing about his visage, however, were his eyes.

Purple eyes. Never in your life had you ever met anyone with that particular eye colour. But it was more than that, it was the sharp look in them as well.

You felt yourself tense up at your eye contact, something about this man was unsettling you quite so. You can barely breathe, your body shrinking back into itself as all you wanted to do was run and run. You wish you had an ability that enabled you to do so.

His eyes flickered downwards before they moved upwards to catch your eyes once more and it was then that you felt so exposed. Like an insect underneath a microscope, completely visible and naked.

Compared with his striking features, you no longer felt human standing next to this man.

Suddenly, someone clears their throat, effectively breaking the silent game of observation occurring between you and this stranger.

You turn your head to the source, Ann, who raises an eyebrow at your impolite and reclusive behavior. Even more reclusive than usual.

She turns her head to the customer, interest taking over her features as she too realizes just how otherworldly this man is.

She wears a charming smile, “Hello sir, can I help you with anything today?”

“Good day,” the stranger says, the words rolling off his tongue in a seductive Russian drawl and you feel yourself heat up. You turn away, busying yourself with straightening the instruments once more.

Ann’s got this; you’ll just ignore him.

“I was wondering, do you perchance sell cello’s here?” he asks smoothly. Your hands freeze on the cello you were adjusting and briefly wonder for a moment why he even asked when you know he clearly saw it behind you with that little stare off just a few moments ago.

Ann confirms that, yes, we do sell cello’s here.

And when she asks what particular one, he is looking for, she mistakenly points towards a Franz Sandner instead of an August Kohr.

You take the liberty of correcting her.

“Its actually this one,” you quietly point out her mistake and effectively drawing the stranger’s attention back towards you. Beside him, Ann glowers knowing that you have somehow ruined her plan of seducing the customer with talk of a cello.

You wish you didn’t because the fear that washes over you feels stronger than before.

“Okay well,” Ann glowers at you, “I’m pretty your shift is up, (Y/N).”

You falter at her statement before swallowing and nodding. You weren’t going to fight over something that wasn’t worth fighting over.

You’re glad at your friend’s dismissal, as it means that you can get away from that man’s burning gaze asap. You make quick work of gathering your belongings and making your way to the exit, to freedom.

All the while, your heart beats quick for an entirely different reason

Because for the first time you feel fear on behalf of your friend’s safety, as the distance between you and the pair grow larger and larger.

-

You’re were right to feel worried over the protection of your friend, because two weeks later under the same frigid weather, you are staring down her coffin.

It’s eerily similar to how her funeral likens to the one of your parents. If you shut your eyes really tightly and pretend for a moment that you are fourteen, it is exactly the same funeral.

Life goes on.

Except the biggest difference between this time is that this was no accident.

You’re good at observations, spending more of your life alone and isolated left you with the only thing to pass the time; watching people.

Putting two and two, you know now that this a murder caused by no one other than that man in the shop. You don’t know how but you know for sure that he possesses some sort of ability. After all, you don’t what sort of weapon could make that kind of wound in her head.

Currently, you’re the only one left in the graveyard. The sun is setting soon but you pay no mind to that fact and instead tilt your head upwards, watching the snow lightly fall around you and, on the coffin, -Ann’s coffin.

You hear the familiar sound of shoes treading on snow, but you don’t bother looking to see and instead focuses on the number of snowflakes covert he lid of the coffin.

“What a miserable affair,” a voice sighs, the smooth Russian accent unforgettable to you, “Wouldn’t you agree?”

You turn your head to see the devil himself, you should be vengeful and raging right now. A small part of you wants to jump at him, tearing his pretty face apart with your nails and to just watch the blood draw and spill. But as quick as that thought appeared, it disappears for at the moment you just don’t care.

You have nothing left. The logical part of you know that’s it will not bring her back; the only family you had left. You have nothing anymore.

But this time your anxiety is non-existent, you don’t feel afraid. In fact, you don’t feel much of anything at the moment.

From your apathy or the cold, you’re not quite so sure which. You close your mouth before opening it once more.

“It wasn’t sad,” you simply say, relishing in the slightest sign of surprise that registers on his handsome face. You look deeply into those purple hues of his, admiring for a moment before you continue, “It was boring.”

You turn your head back to the coffin and blankly blink at the slight buildup that you have missed.

“Boring,” he repeats, “Such is the debility of human existence, such things take the liberty of latching onto my heart from time to time”

You let his words sink for a moment.

“No, it doesn’t,” you softly deny, “Not to you” “May I perhaps ask why?”

You turn your head to him, the first sign of emotion crossing your visage as you stare hard, “Because you’re not human.”

You say this statement with so much confidence and let it ring in the air. The man takes this fact in before smirking, “Then what could I possibly be?”

You don’t hesitate to answer, “A devil.” If he is offended, he doesn’t show it and instead chuckles lightly, purple eyes dancing with joy. At what, you have no clue, but you feel yourself recoil at this.

“No little bird,” he smirks drops into a soft smile, “I think you will find that I am more of a god than anything.”

Your eyebrows furrow for a moment as you study him. He breaks your eye contact to look at the coffin in front of both of you. He then answers your unasked question.

“The sinful nature of humans demands to be cleansed.” He utters into the empty space, and you raise both brows in interest at this statement. You follow his gaze to the coffin before tracing it back to his eyes.

Sinful. How could a young girl commit a sin so grave she had to answer with it for her life? Who was this man to judge her for that?

“And what of my human nature?” you quietly ask. He turns back to you, “Oh but little bird,” corners of his mouth tilt upwards and his eyes flash as if he knows something you don’t. Your heart rate raises as you wait for him to finish his sentence.

“You’re not much of a human anymore, are you?”

Your mouth falls agape slightly and your blood turns into ice easily.

“In fact,” he continues, suddenly taking a step forward, reaching forward to caress your cheek, “You’re not much of anything anymore” he whispers.

His thumb presses slightly against your bottom lip and your eyes flicker downwards before meeting his again. Your mouth dries.

“Correct?” he asks venomlike.

You’re ensnared into his trap as you nod, but you barely register the movement.

“Good.” He steps back and his smile is back as he holds his hand out.

“Seeing as you no longer have a place in this world little bird,” he says calmly, “Come with me and let me seat you among the stars.”

You don’t hesitate in taking his hand, somewhere in the back of your head a part of you is screaming, saying you are walking into the exact same trap that your friend has walked into.

But you don’t care, because you are sick of seeing the white of the snow and the black of your soul.

If that means walking into the lion’s den of the man named Fyodor Dostoevsky, then so be it.

At least it’ll mean a small part of you will have meaning again.

#bsd #bsd imagine #bsd x reader #bungou stray dogs #bungou stray dogs x reader #bungou stray dogs imagine #fyodor dostoevsky #bsd fyodor #fyodor imagine #fyodor x reader #fyodor dostoevsky x reader #fyodor dostoevsky imagine #bsd fyodor imagine

[x688plsloveme]

Characters reactions to sole being blind? Both romanaced and friendships if that's okay?

ADA: To the surprise of absolutely no one, she was just very curious. She was always asking how Sole could shoot with such accuracy, or how they were able to keep sure footing in a rugged wasteland. Ada was also the only one to ask about how Sole became blind in the first place. Turns out they were just born with it. They made Ada swear not to tell anyone else though, cause the rest of their friends kept coming up with wild story after wild story, and it was hilarious to Sole.

CODSWORTH: If it wasn’t for Sole reprogramming him pre-war, Codsworth would be constantly trying to “assist” them despite the fact that they definitely didn’t need it. Now all he does is quietly make sure the floor of their house is free of clutter. He’s also responsible for informing Sole whenever someone moves the furniture around after stubbing their toe so hard, they almost broke it. thanks maccready

CURIE: She is definitely the biggest worry-wart that Sole has ever met, but it just makes their girlfriend even more adorable in their eyes. Besides, the attention was nice. But only from her. If anyone else tried to treat them like Curie, they’d get knocked down flat. Curie pretends to be embarrassed whenever she hears someone talk about how soft Sole is for her, but she secretly loves being the only one Sole trusts enough to let down their walls a little bit and be taken care of.

DANSE: Danse will never admit it, but the first time Sole knocked him flat on his back in a sparring match, he fell in love. It was probably because he was just so awed that someone was able to use their senses so acutely, they were actually able to bring him down without being able to physically see his fists coming. They were a weird couple, to say the least. Danse’s favourite dates were the ones that Sole and him sparred. He respected Sole so so so much. Even things like Sole just cooking a simple meal left him awe-struck.

DEACON: The first thought Deacon had when he met Sole was “Those are some sick shades.” He didn’t even realize Sole was blind until they took their sunglasses off. They worked flawlessly on the battlefield and Deacon thought it was the coolest thing ever. He never tried to disguise himself as a blind guy before, but after meeting Sole he got inspired. He tries very hard, but it turns out it takes more than a few weeks of practice with a blindfold around his eyes to get on his friend’s level. Or any level really. At least him running into things and tripping all over the place was amusing to everyone else.

DOGMEAT: Dogmeat has probably saved Sole’s life more times than they can remember. He’s a smart and loyal dog, and he helps Sole with all the dangers that aren’t obvious to them immediately. He’s also really soft, so as someone who has to rely on their sense of touch, he’s basically the best cuddle buddy ever!

GAGE: Gage, like everyone else in Nuka-World, was clueless to the fact that their overboss could not see. At all. He didn’t even find out until they slept together and Sole had to take their shades off. He thought it was pretty neat that his partner was so talented that they were able to beat the all mighty Colter while using one less sense. 

HANCOCK: To say he was protective was an understatement. Hancock was downright hostile to anyone who messed with his sunshine. One snide comment will have you on the ground within seconds. He wasn’t about to let anyone make the one good thing he has in this screwed up world feel bad. In turn, Sole practically makes it their past-time to mess people up who insult their boyfriend. They both have insecurities, and to them, this was as healthy a way to help each other out as it would get.

LONGFELLOW: As long as Sole was competent with a gun, he didn’t really care. At least, that’s what he’d want you to think. In reality, Longfellow was always keeping an extra eye out for Sole whenever they traveled together. He really cared about the kid, and if anything happened to them on his watch, he wouldn’t be able to forgive himself. So like the emotionally constipated grandpa he is, he never outwardly shows he cares.

MACCREADY: During his travels, MacCready’s seen his fair share of wastelanders with their fair share of both physical and mental disabilities on his travels, so it doesn’t really phase him. The only thing that surprises him is that, even with all their skills, Sole can never kiss him on the first try. It’s terribly endearing. He definitely likes that it makes Sole easier to prank too. They never get mad about it though. His playful nature was part of the reason why Sole loved him. Plus, they always get him back way worse anyways.

PIPER: Piper is the kind of person to go out of the way to try and make things as comfortable as possible for her lover. She’s always finding music and food Sole likes. She buys simple presents that just feel soft because Sole once told her soft textures help ground them when they’re nervous or scared. And even though she knows they can tell where she is at all times, she still likes to keep constant contact with them. Holding hands are her favourite.

PRESTON: Out of everyone, Preston was the most respectful about Sole’s blindness. That may have been how they ended together in the first place. He knew what to say and when, and knew not to treat them like glass all of the time. Sole appreciated everything he did. They would often just cuddle and talk for hours about things that were bothering them both. Their relationship was all the stronger for it.

STRONG: Unlike Longfellow, Strong actually did not care. He saw them fight, and they knew they were tough for a human. That’s all he worried about. It’s unclear whether or not he even realized they were blind for a while. He’d sometimes see them trip randomly when they were in a settlement, but other than that nothing really ticked him off.

VALENTINE: Nick thinks it’s pretty amazing how someone can get through life-let alone an apocalyptic one-while being blind. He distantly remembers a pal the old Nick had that was blind and had lots of trouble with just walking place to place sometimes. For Sole to be able to not only keep up with everyone around them but surpass them and help as many people as they do... Is just so inspiring.

X6-88: Besides Codsworth, X6 was the only one to know about Sole’s condition before meeting them. He first thought that they were going to be a liability no matter what the dossier says about their fighting abilities. They were probably talking them up so that he’d be more willing to go with them. He was pleasantly surprised to say the least. They earned his respect straight from the get-go. After seeing them fight, it wasn’t farfetched for X6 to imagine Sole taking down a courser and Kellog all by themselves besides a dog.

I liked this prompt anon!!! All I could think about was a bad*ss Sole gunning down a bunch of supermutants with some killer shades on then tripping on some furniture when they got home. Thanks for putting that in my head so I can bother my sister into drawing it. 👌😘

#im not gonna bother with all their names #its midnight #and im tired #fallout 4 companions #fallout 4 companions react #fo4 companions #fo4 #fallout 4 #minexthree

[itsmalachitenow]

Magnus Archives Avatars

ALRIGHT HERE WE GO. Emetophobia warning (just one, right after Fugue)

Aria (The Eye) She came to the institute one day and swore herself to the Beholding. Very quiet. Does not talk much, unless it's to relay a message to Elias, as she's one of his personal assistants. She prefers to watch. Elias does not know much about her, if only because she herself doesn't know much about her, either. Would sacrifice her in an instant if he absolutely needed to, and she's well aware of that. But there is a fragment of a song she knows. There are other fragments out there. Should they all come together....who knows what would happen.

Capriccia (The Spiral) She can be found at festivals and communes, carrying her hurdy-gurdy with her and walking barefoot amongst the others. When she sits down to play her song, things get.....strange. The madness flows like wine and takes hold of everyone present. When it's all finished, she packs up and continues onward to the next event, or wherever her fancy might take her. Her song is incomplete. Only a fragment of what it could be. There are others.... Should they all come together....who knows what would happen. 

Lacrimosa (The Lonely) She was always afraid of being alone. But depression changed that. Self isolation became a survival instinct, and she embraced loneliness as her companion. Many of the people who fall victim to her abilities are men who refuse to take the hint and won't stop trying to engage with her. Nothing makes her happy anymore. Nothing but the fragment of the song. There are others out there... Should they all come together....who knows what would happen.

Minuet (The Stranger) A doll made to entertain and to speak. Painfully aware that she's not a real person, but she tries to be. She tries to do real people things, tries to fight her patron. It doesn't end well for her most of the time. The fear she brings others as they watch her move and interact feeds the Stranger quite nicely, even though she tries not to scare people. A capable dancer, humming the fragment of a tune that was in her head from the moment she gained consciousness. Are there others like her out there? ....do they know the song, too...?

Bolero (The Desolation) She used to be such a sweet girl. So everyone says. It's amazing how people change, isn't it? ....unless it's not nearly as big of a change as people think it is. Some people are rotten from the start and just good at hiding it. Some people just want to watch the world burn. The song fragment is more annoying than anything. An itch she can never quite scratch. If there are more bits of the song out there, she can't wait to find them.

Ballad (The Slaughter)  All over the world, there have been tales of entire regiments of soldiers wiped out by one careless action. The few survivors of these tales speak of a single soldier, masked and faceless, who suddenly ran out into the field or fired a shot that blew their cover. The soldier never spoke. The only sound audible was their breathing. ....and one mentioned something else.... .....a tune. Humming a tune. She carries nothing, except a revolver. Only one bullet. The first shot fired. The shout that begins the avalanche.

Fugue (The Vast) A bubbly, vibrant young debutante who is very big on charity and donating. Men and women alike are drawn to her charm and sincerity, and she's more than happy to share her hobbies with them! Skydiving, going to themeparks, deep sea diving.... It's just a shame that hardly any of her suitors come back. Something of a granddaughter to Simon Fairchild, even if the two aren't technically related. The two get along swimmingly. She was touched by the vast when she fell off the roof of her three story house as a little girl. She intended to jump down and float like Mary Poppins did with an umbrella, got second thoughts, but fell by accident. And it seemed to stretch on forever, and ever..... It gave her a very big fear of heights...but at the same time, it left her enthralled by them. So that's why she's got the umbrella/parasol. When she's falling, she likes to have it open. She even has a little piece of a song to sing when she does.

Dirge (The Buried) Some people are burdened with so many responsibilities. Supporting a family. Finishing education. Paying your debts. Every new obligation is another weight on your shoulders. Some people just can't handle it. Some people become buried in it. No one's really sure who Dirge was before the buried got her. It's not like she can speak properly--every time she opens her mouth, mud and dirt come pouring out. The most anyone gets is a gurgling moan. But they can hear her song through the mud.

Notturna (The Dark) ?????????? ?  ? ?  ? ? ? ? ???? ? L???????? ???I???????G????? ?? ?? ?? ?? HT??????s??? ???????? ? ? ?? ?? ???? ?? ??  O?????? ? ?? ? ?????????? ????????U???????????T 

Drone (The Corruption) Almost completely covered in clothes. Her coat is always tightly buttoned, even in a hundred degree weather. Plenty of coughing and wheezing and spitting of phlegm. She's covered in clothes because her flesh is a rotting mess. A stumbling, shambling wreck of a girl, desperate for a doctor that can cure her. But she will never find one. Music is the only thing to ease the constant pain she feels. Sometimes she likes to take the tube of her IV and slip it into her mask to sip from it. She'll offer you some, too. Don't take it.

Sister Lyric (The Web) Hey hey! Who's that pretty lady? Ha ha! Dresses as a nun, though the symbol around her neck tends to change. What can be more manipulative and controlling of people's actions than organized religion? She has quite a bit of gossip on all the other avatars. Whether she's inclined to share it, on the other hand, is an entirely different matter. She likes to come in and pester Jon (The main character), if only for the sole reason of messing with his head. If she can get her little tune stuck in his head, all the better.

Medley (The Flesh) Why bother working out when you can just steal the more muscular body parts from other people? She used to work in the morgue. She got her start by making little 'experiments'--aka sewing dead bodies together in new and interesting ways. Very creative, even if she doesn't express it in a healthy way. The little snippet of song in her head annoys her. One of these days, she's going to give herself an extra pair of arms and hands. She and Jarod Hopworth like to chat.

Allegra (The Hunt) She used to hunt humans. But it got boring. Too predictable. There's only so many times you can chase a human through the woods and have it feel like a thrill. It's not like any of them stood a chance of fighting back. Ah, that was the problem. Not strong enough prey. So now she hunts monsters. If only for a greater challenge.

Finale (The End) When you're an emergency responder, so many lives are in your hands. So many poor, frightened souls, afraid of death. As they should be. She hears them praying, you know. To a god they didn't even believe in before today. They'll do better, they say. Do more. Be good people. But when the end comes for you, there's not much you can do except spend your last few hours in horrible, beautiful, delicious terror. She only has the end of the song. And it’s all she feels she needs. ...though sometimes she does wonder, how the entire song would sound together.

#the magnus archives #magnus archives #tma #my art #fang's OCs