#afraidofchange

—

ilona's loss had nearly been her undoing.

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.

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. "

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:

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,

@afraidofchange asked:

❛ 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.

TEEEEEXT MEMES!

ACCEPTING!

[ oh. lovely. she can’t help but smile about it. sincerity is a virtue she believes in pretty staunchly. ]

[ TXT: SHEP ] that’s maybe one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me.

[ TXT: SHEP ] choosing a specific kiss.

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.

SEND 🌟 FOR A "COMPLIMENT". accepting