even now, faced with her astonishing return, neve is terrified to accept it as fact. for weeks, she existed in a vacuum of grief compounded by grief. first, it was lace, lucanis, and bellara; then, it was ilona; and as the final, brutal nail in the damned coffin, it was minrathous.
she let herself shut down for exactly one day—penciled it into her schedule, more or less. she had screamed and sobbed until it felt like her voice would give out. she drank. she cried until her stomach turned. she screamed until nothing was left but the gaping hole in her chest where so many people should be. at some point, she fell asleep.
that was weeks ago.
since then, she thought she had hardened herself to their losses. she thought she could, if only for a while longer, survive the crushing weight of despair so that she could die for her remaining people standing up.
then, ilona came back. because... of course she did. how foolish had neve been to think ilona, of all people, wouldn't?
and yet—
her resolve had always been a house of cards.
as her hand comes to her mouth to stifle the sob that awaits it, she takes a shuddering breath. ilona's hand at her lower back meets no resistance; in fact, she would feel the way neve tenses as though struck, unbidden, with some other, unforeseen horror—only to relax as neve realizes that the touch is real. ilona is here.
neve says nothing as ilona continues. the eye contact is difficult for her, an echo of the lifelong discomfort she's held for anyone witnessing any shred of vulnerability, but she doesn't look away. not from her. she's talking about their future; neve refuses to look farther than their now. anything could happen, after all. their losses thus far have shown her that.
but, damn it, she wants it, too—so much that it hurts.
it agonizing to think that there is a far greater chance that they will never see the sunrise of their love, which has lived in twilight and darkness up until now.
"ilona, i..." her chin quivers as she fights against tears that have already been shed. "please. just kiss me." she says abruptly, her dark eyes imploring, as one of her hands moves to cover ilona's.
her request does not go unanswered for long.
that such a simple gesture of affection could steal the very breath from her lungs is remarkable. the instant their lips meet, neve draws a sharp inhale through her nose (a sob bitten back and made to heel). every bit of love and grief is poured into this kiss. neve kisses her like its her lips alone that will tether her to this plane, to this very room.
teeth catch ilona's bottom lip before her tongue brushes past. the position is awkward and a little painful, but fuck if she cares. she kisses her until she's breathless, until she has to break away; however, her forehead leans into ilona's to safeguard the physical connection.
"table," neve demands breathlessly, referring to the table behind the settee that ilona calls a bed. she pulls away from ilona only a moment to shove any items on top of it to the floor, and then guides her lover to sit on it. from there, neve captures her lips again, continuing where they left off.
she is unyielding, even rough, in her desperation. there's teeth and tongue and hands—her irrepressible yearning begging that she cover every inch of ilona with one or all of them.
eyes had been laser focused from the moment V had crossed her periphery. in a city littered with net runners rife with main character syndrome it was rare to stand out amid the crowd, and fuck she was h o t.
Sky's teeth sank into her bottom lip when the other's hand so brazenly met with her waist. she wasn't going to complain, she loved a bold woman. she loved physical touch.
" V... mysterious and sexy. yeah I like you. " Sky placed her hand onto the wrist V had at her hip and slid up the length of her forearm, closed the gap between them that tiny bit more.
" the net knows me as Tinkerbell but, you can call me Sky. "
Left within the Commander's quarters exists a small gift bag and box; finely wrapped with a bow and a card attached to the bag, the evidence is in the handwriting. "Happy birthday, Commander - xoxo Miranda" , and within the box are half a dozen mini-cupcakes of different flavours; the bag, however, contains a rather expensive, military-grade watch, a small bottle of her own favoured daily perfume to make the distance a little easier, and another paper note, folded up. "I've treated myself to treat you next time you're on shore leave... in your favourite colour ;)"
Someone snuck in here while he was asleep — someone who worked the night cycle ... He could get worked up over that, and he would on any other day, but after what nowadays constitutes a good night's sleep, he shouldn't. More than that, the occasion is a joyous one, technically speaking.
It's joyous in that he knows who sent this his way before he's even touched it, and that has his heart swell despite how stony it's become. That tough exterior shell cracks so profusely, he can even feel himself smiling.
Less exciting is gaining another year on his count, but that suddenly feels irrelevant. He'd gone to bed dreading the awkward congratulations, and while he still isn't looking forward to those, the focal point of the moment is the package waiting on his desk. He's in the here and now, and intends to stay there for as long as he can possibly ( responsibly ) stretch this moment.
The handwritten card earns itself a spot on his desk, next to the photo of her he keeps — not tucked away in some drawer, like he might've had this been a more public spot. Can't be seen as sentimental. He isn't ... usually.
He's not particularly careful about opening the box and revealing its remaining contents. The watch is promptly slapped around his wrist after a long moment of admiring its buttons and the brightness of its screen, and the perfume – after spraying the lightest dusting of it around the corner of his desk dedicated to her. Might as well go all out now.
If not for the remaining note, beckoning him closer with the merest glimpse of more handwriting, he might've contemplated the slight discomfort of the knowledge that she's nowhere near as close as that fragrance might imply.
Thank god for that note — a promise laid on thickly. Without delay, his sentimentality turns to amusement, and then to longing of several kinds.
Above all, he misses her, perhaps today especially.
Not one to wallow, though, he shelves the thought and snaps a quick picture of the watch on his wrist with his omni-tool, zipping it to Miranda along with a short message:
▶ Got your package ... damned fine taste, Ms Lawson. Any chance I could ask for one more thing (a preview of what you treated yourself with)?
A few seconds of typing, backspacing, and typing again, another follows:
▶ Miss you. If there's another birthday to be had, I hope we'll get to spend it together ❤️
scar is in the normandy's medbay. it is not for his injuries, which were minimal and shallow. he feels that it may be the only appropriate place to tear and burn the flesh from the fresh human head that he had recently acquired.
with care, scar rips off the nose, and then the cheeks. feels the blood in his hands. to him, this is a processes that is done with reverence. a connection. a ritual.
the doors to the medbay opens, hisses and chinks and pulls apart, revealing a bruised @afraidofchange.
respectfully, he nods at her. his translator speaks for him,
"SHEPARD. YOU FOUGHT WITHOUT MERCY. COME SEE THE FRUITS OF OUR LABOR."
❛ Tell me about her? ❜ ( from Fareeha) || Tell me ( accepting! )
"She's... everything," Stars blossomed in Lena's eyes, awestruck at the concept of the woman she adored. It was easy to fall in love with Emily, easy to fall into the relentless pit of love and humor and playful competition that Emily created around her, easy to be trapped in the burning rings of fire so many have sung about over the years. And Lena was lucky to call her hers.
"Journalist - a real one, not like the parasites that 'ang about these parts," Lena's face soured at the thought of tabloid smears and paparazzi stealing whatever content and twisting it for the most views. Emily was dedicated to the mission of truth, picking at scabs where Trouble had dipped its knife until they bled, discovering the sources and going even deeper.
"Goes about investigating oil corporations and the likes, digs deep into 'em. Doesn't take no for an answer. She's onna the most dogged, determined people I know, and I love 'er for it. I love her, Fareeha. Thought about getting married, still think about it. Wan' to give 'er the very best."
@afraidofchange asked: neck kisses that turn into love bites . (... From V, if you wanna be nasty KJSHDFJKSDF )
cat’s head remains aside — and how simple she is, how simple she’ll always be, the way her thoughts turn as quick on a dime as she can. for every sudden 180 she’s capable of, it’s just as fluid in the way her voice chokes into a partial whimper, a half-whine that drowns in her throat and delves, dies. a hand swiftly finds itself winding into hair, self bent half akimbo to allow the eye contact. for anyone else it would be uncomfortable, but for selina every inch of her body is as flexible as every other. joints move and that chocolate brown gaze is locked and unmoving, fingers crooked fearlessly to capture a jaw in place.
the motion is not meant to intimidate and is, instead, instinctive. eyes are smeared in dark, eyeblack streaked in stark veins across pale, pale cheeks. aubergine dark and cobalt create a constellation of bruising that dots the highest point of her cheekbone. the safe house walls are muted midnight around her, washed out by halogen lights that hum and drone overhead. the bedroom is violet. it’s snowing quietly just outside.
“i could open your fucking throat.” she says faintly, and she isn’t sure why she says it, but she says it. she doesn’t want to hurt her at all, but the affirmation of this needs to be spoken, like she can. a reminder, meaningless.
