#praysafter

closed starter for @praysafter.

Jack was the first to speak ("Nice entrance."), but Shepard ignored her. He was standing over Nassana with his hands clasped together, and the commander immediately recognized the gesture for what it was: prayer. A rarity in a more secular galaxy. She waited, gaze intent on the vibrant color of his skin, the way the light reflected on it's texture. He was almost like a statue the way he stood. Be still before the Lord and wait patiently for him. She crossed herself as he raised his head, and took a step toward the drell.

“                Krios,      ”    his  name  comes  as  more  of  a  sigh,  kind  and  easy.    A  gesture  with  the  faintest  of  head  tilts  towards  the  vacant  promenade  of  the  Citadel.    “    Walk  with  me    ?      ”  

𝙾𝙽𝙴 𝙻𝙸𝙽𝙴 𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚁𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝙲𝙰𝙻𝙻: @praysafter​

“𝒀𝑶𝑼 𝑴𝑨𝑫𝑬 a mistake. everybody makes them. me? i’ve made many. “

“Speaking from experience, I can’t say dying is much fun.” Arms crossing, Shepard leans against the glass peering out from Life Support to the empty reaches of space. Her gaze is drawn to thousands of millions of dots in the vast beyond, briefly flickering between them before finally returning to Krios. 

for @praysafter —  22: . . .  in a rush of adrenaline 

It’s  the  blooming  flash  that  serves  as  their  only  warning,  painting  delicate  vision  with  a  slurry  of  fractured  colors.  The  heat  that  follows  in  rupturing  thunder  scorches  across  her  back  even  as  she’s  yanked  over  the  barricade  by  a  familiar  and  steadfast  hand.  A  toss  and  tumble  of  limbs,  the  harshest  register  of  hollers  and  shrieks  that  she  can  only  recognize  as  softer  victory  yielding  to  the  wasted  battlefield  of  a  office      ?    .  .  .  hotel    ?    .  .  .    building,   she  settles  on,  of  some  construct  they’re  in.

She  lands  none  too  delicately  on  him,  fingers  still  clasped  to  shoulders  and  breath  wheezing  amidst  the  smoke.  Thane  saved  her      —      .  .  .  just  barely  as  is  his  usual  course,  as  is  his  usual  whim.    ‘                                      Miss  Lawson,    are  you  alright        ?       ’          she  could  already  hear  him  drawl,  a  careful  murmur  that  writhes  through  her  body  like  ink  and  ichor.     

Perhaps  it’s  the  abyssal  shriek  of  an  explosion  still  ringing  in  her  ears  or  perhaps  it’s  the  distance  between  measured  pulses,  but  she  doesn’t  think  as  her  head  moves  from  the  sturdy  expanse  of  his  chest.  And  it’s  but  a  whim  that  takes  her,  seizes  whatever  logic  that  runs  rampant  through  her  brain.  Restraint,  reservation,  and  ...    her  mouth  presses  clumsily  against  his.  Just  a  sweep,  a  knock  of  teeth,  and  a  soft  part  of  her  own  lips  to  capture  his.  It  renders  her  asunder,  the  simple  feel  of  him  --  this  man,  this  assassin,  this  alien  who  ...  accepted  her,  for  all  she  was,  before  she  had  a  moment  to  accept  herself.  And  he        ?        Oh ,   now  there  are  thing  she’s  far  too  stubborn  to  admit  aloud  in  their  talks,  too  foolish  to  notice.  Her  mouth  stays  a  moment  too  long  and  the  swell  of  her  heartbeat  dies  down.  

A  groan  comes  away  from  them.  It  rips  her  from  the  moment.  Quick  draw  and  precise  aim,  she  sits  back  on  her  haunches,  resting  weight  upon  his  thighs  before  firing  once  --  twice,  just  to  make  sure  and  it’s  a  brimming  smile  that  plasters  over  her  mouth,  tingling  from  the  memory  of  his.  

Miranda  sighs  aloud,  giddy  almost  as  the  the  final  body  of  their  opposition  thunks  back  to  the  floor.        

✘. prompts | dragon age starters

It’s  no  more  than  a  cold  comfort  that  slithers  along  her  skin,  a  simplistic  sentiment  that  forces  introspection  when  it  is  nary  wanted.  A  clenching  jaw,  a  shift  in  dramatic  posture,  and  the  relenting  shake  and  sigh  of  her  head  is  the  only  answer  to  the  disappointment  that  echoes  in  her.    

Miranda  Lawson  does  not  make  mistakes.

And  yet,  her  fingers  are  bloodied,  tongue  bitten,  and  implants  rattling.  She  looks  to  him,  cutout  against  Illiums’  towering  skyline,  humbled  in  unearned  eagerness  and  zealotry  of  a  recent  altercation.  Perhaps  emboldened  by  the  recent  familiar  betrayal  and  yet  she  does  not  need  to  put  the  Assassin  in  such  perilous  predicaments  to  satisfy  the  raw  hunger  that  gnaws.      

Where  had  she  gone  wrong     ?      All  the  boxes  had  been  checked,  escape  routes  had  been  planned,  measured,  and  weighted  based  upon  a  near  foolproof  contingency,  and  even  the  presence  of  aggressors  lingered  in  scribbles  and  drafts  of  her  dramatic  ploy.    Trust.  That’s  where  and  no  less  than  the  feeling  of  revulsion  grips  tautly  to  a  narrow  throat.

“    You  say  that,  but  I  thought  I  knew  Niket  –  he  was  my  oldest  friend.  I  don’t  have  many  of  those,  Thane.    ”

 What  a  bitter  admission  and  she  snarls,   “    Probably  not  many  at  all.  I’m  sure  you’re  aware,  but  I’m  hardly  what  some  might  call  friendly.    ”    Ice  queen,  Cerberus  bitch  –  only  a  few  of  the  darling  nicknames  that  had  crossed  her  preview  in  recent  months,  and  they  happened  to  be  the  polite  ones.    I’ve  certainly  earned  them.

Teeth  drag  across  her  bottom  lip  and  she  swallows  thickly  as  shoulders  roll  back.  Emotions  were  best  packed  away  to  deal  with  later,  especially  with  the  Commander  trailing  beyond  them.  A  familiar  facade  washes  over  her ;  it  is  easier  this  way,  simpler  to  aid  her  in  looking  forward  to  the  surmounting  tasks  ahead  and  a  sibling’s  safety.    

She  does  not  look  at  him  again,  does  not  dare  to  question  the  fortitude  that  she’s  now  armored  herself  in.  

“  Had  me  worried  there  for  a  moment,  Krios,  ”  she  sighs,  holistering  a  heavy  pistol.  Neither  were  in  need  of  any  immediate  medical  attention  by  standard  glance,  though  her  muscles  ache  with  familiar  annoyance.    It’s  merely  a  second,  but  she  takes  it;  a  meager  scoff  and  tease  to  leave  her  lips  in  the  Drell’s  direction,    “    -  it’s  not  like  you  to  be  so  careless.  Then  again,  I  suppose  you  had  the  advantage  per  usual.    ”

praysafter asked:

“You are a great protector, siha. But some things are beyond even you.”

He knows. No one else knows, but @praysafter does. That helplessness, the absence of power. What it's like to be gutted from the inside out, and there's nothing you can do about it but scream until your throat is empty and raw. He knows the exact shade of ugly gray that revenge is. He knows that it changes nothing. She is full of pain and rage and violence. She is a knife fight in the shape of a woman. But it doesn't matter. It changes nothing. He knows that, too.

Shepard reaches for him, her hand slow and clumsy. She doesn't have to look far-- she would know the texture of his skin in darkness, in blindness, in death. There is such a comfort in his closeness. Knowing that he is there, that he bears witness to her weakness without flinching. There is something else there, too, something about his presence she can't name that lifts the weight from her chest so that she can breathe more deeply. She wants to wrap herself in a blanket of him, to be surrounded by that feeling, to exist in a space that is less heavy than this one.