#galactic fandom correction

[the-most-humble-blog]

<div style="white-space:pre-wrap"> <meta sith-candidate-status="disqualified"> <script> ARCHIVE_TAG="SITH_APPLICATION_DENIED::DARTHPLAGUEIS_LITERACY_REQUIRED" EFFECT: dark side delusion purge, force fantasy humiliation, midichlorian satire overload TRIGGER_WARNING="fandom desecration, lore elitism, application rejection, Palpatine PTSD" </script>

🧠 BLACKSITE SCROLLTRAP — “SO YOU WANNA BE A SITH? LOL OKAY.”

You ever hear the story of Darth Plagueis the Wise?

No?

Then pack your little Sith cosplay and get the hell out.

You just failed the first question on the dark side exam. There are three rules to applying for Sith apprenticeship:

Know the story of Darth Plagueis.

Say it back in a creepy whisper.

Never blink when doing it.

You blinked during the question. You Googled the story. You pronounced “Plagueis” like “Plague-ass.”

Application denied.

—

Let’s not pretend you’re special.

You’re not the heir to a secret Sith bloodline. You’re not the chosen one. You’re not even chosen adjacent.

You once got called “menacing” on Tinder and now you think you’re ready to kill your master?

Bro, you cried when Netflix canceled Daredevil. You can’t even handle your WiFi cutting out— and you want to wield ancient Force hatred without flinching?

—

Let’s do a quick diagnostic:

📋 Childhood trauma? ⛔️ Nope. You just didn’t get a PS5 for Christmas.

📋 Hate in your heart? ⛔️ Mostly toward your ex and people who spoil anime.

📋 Ruthless ambition? ⛔️ You applied for this with a cover letter that said “just vibes.”

Bro you failed the Sith Rorschach test by seeing a cat in every inkblot.

You’re not a dark lord. You’re a LARPing disappointment in a red bathrobe.

—

What’s your name? Kyle? Tyler? Zane?

No Sith in galactic history was named Zane.

You want to strike fear into the galaxy with that?

“My lord… it’s Darth Zane.”

No. No it’s not.

You sound like a vape-sponsored Twitch streamer who owns a replica saber and a fedora collection.

—

Let’s talk résumé.

You’ve rage quit Call of Duty. You once punched a wall because your UberEats was late. You cussed out your mom for unplugging your Xbox mid-duel.

Impressive.

If this were the Sith Daycare Division maybe we’d let you in.

But this is the real Order. And you’re a force-choking liability.

—

Palpatine didn’t rise from nothing with a dream board and iced coffee.

He manipulated an entire senate. He engineered a galactic war. He wore a cloak that smelled like lightning and betrayal.

And you?

You get winded walking up stairs. You get emotional during TikToks. You cried when Grogu left.

You think that's dark energy?

Nah. That’s middle-school depression with extra steps.

—

Let’s talk powers.

You fantasized about Force lightning. But couldn’t even handle static shock from a hotel doorknob.

You tried Force choking your ex. All you did was text her “k.” Then spiral for three weeks.

Your dark side “training” consisted of:

Scowling in the mirror

Doing push-ups after breakups

And posting cryptic quotes like “A lion doesn’t lose sleep over sheep… unless he’s lactose intolerant” or some sh*t.

—

Let’s talk lineage.

The Sith take bloodlines seriously. They trace their roots through centuries of betrayal, death, and Force-fueled orgies.

You? Your family can’t trace their DNA past Ancestry.com.

No one in your bloodline has ever ruled a room, let alone a planet.

Your dad’s a pharmacist. Your mom sells LuLaRoe. Your great uncle cried at a chili cook-off.

The Force doesn’t run through your blood. It avoids it.

—

Here’s a checklist of actual Sith qualities:

✅ Willingness to kill your master ✅ Mastery of deception, manipulation, and Force abuse ✅ Ability to monologue with thunder crashing behind you ✅ Face must look like you’ve aged in reverse through rage ✅ Zero friends, maximum influence

You?

❌ Uses “💀💅” in text arguments ❌ Apologized to your cat after raising your voice ❌ Only rage-murdered in The Sims ❌ Thinks Darth Maul “could get it” but still spells his name “Mole” ❌ Flinches at Jumpscares in Minecraft

—

Let’s be honest.

You’re not Sith.

You’re Sith-adjacent. Like a barista at a Sith-run Starbucks. You make the lattes. We make the deaths.

—

Try these instead:

Become a Dark Side influencer. (Use the hashtag #SithButMakeItSexy)

Run a podcast called “Force Ghosted: Tales of Rejection”

Get a kyber crystal, name it Kevin, tell people you “vibe together”

Apply to the Empire as a Stormtrooper (you’ll miss anyway)

Or just…

Try therapy.

The Force is probably not your issue. You just never unpacked the time your crush ignored your meme reply.

—

Sith rejection isn’t personal. It’s planetary.

You’re not our kind of evil. You’re just Twitter mean.

The galaxy doesn’t need another emotionally constipated villain with a lightsaber and daddy issues.

We’ve got enough of those already.

—

🧠 Read more Sith-denied doctrine, Force rejection scrolltraps, and kyber crystal shaming at: 👉 https://linktr.ee/ObeyMyCadence 🛡️ Lore desecration. Villain therapy. Star Wars fandom correction. 🚪 Warning: May cause saber envy, ego combustion, and dark side dysmorphia.

📊 SITH APPLICATION REJECTION STATS 📊

Sith Lords approved this quarter: 0.002%

Applicants who couldn’t spell “Sith”: 31%

Midichlorian delusions per hour: 700

Lightsabers broken in anger: 403

Mothers disappointed: 100%

Darths created from this form: still zero

</div> <!-- END TRANSMISSION [YOU’RE NOT EVIL. YOU’RE JUST INSECURE.] -->

[scarefox]

fic recs because these AU's are very neat

also AUs are so damn rare in BL fandoms for some unknown reason

---

Welcome to Horizon! by Janelle24601 Rating: Mature Relationships: Babe/Charlie (Pit Babe), Alan/Jeff (Pit Babe), Kenta/Kim (Pit Babe), Babe and Kim Additional Tags: None Beta read, dystopian au, Fluff and Angst, Smut, Slow Burn, Charlie and Babe become a force to be reckoned with, Personality Tests, strange traditions, indoctrination, perfect society, Tony is a bad guy (what else is new), More tags as I go, Hunter Babe, Secrets, Living Together, working together, Underground group, Covert Operations Summary: In an effort to create a better world, all humans must take a personality test. If your personality does not meet the criteria set by the government, then you are sent to work camps. Where it is public knowledge that they live a horrible life of abuse, torture, and endless hard work for 18 hours a day. Charlie is about to turn 18 and take his test……….he fails and gets sent to a camp…….where he meets Babe ……….in the meantime Charlie’s brother Jeff has passed his test and met Alan who knew Babe before he got sent to the camp…….will the two couples team up and find out exactly what is wrong with the system, saving their friends in the process?

my 5 cents: sci-fi-ish DYSTOPIAN AU with giant creatures and danger zones, messed up society, Charlie is forced to live and work with Babe, Babe & Kim are kind of frenemies working together

---

Blood Oath by MoontheNyx Rating: Explicit Relationships: Babe/Charlie (Pit Babe) Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Background Relationships, Vampires, Vampire Bites, Vampire/Vampire Relationship, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Arranged Marriage, Falling In Love, Angst with a Happy Ending, kinda enemies to lovers, everybody is a vampire, enemy vampire clans arranging marriage, charliebabe brainrot of mine continues nonstop, charlie doesn't have glasses this time because come on he's a vampire, Angst, Blood Oaths, Weird Plot Shit, if you like vampire fics just read it, both charlie and babe being more of assholes Summary: “I know this is hard for you, Babe. Do this for our clan. I’m sure you can handle a youth like Charlie.” Tony talked slightly softer to him this time. Tony was trying to get under his skin, telling him that he should be handling a fledgling. After all Babe was almost 400 years old, it meant he was four times older than Charlie, if he remembered Charlie’s age correct. Babe wasn’t the best listener out there even though his hearing was better than others. or Tony's favorite vampire child Babe being forced to marry vampire Charlie from the enemy clan.

my 5 cents: Vampires! who get horny over biting and blood! (this is what I miss in the vampire BLs we have atm), arranged marriage with some enemies to lovers, cool vampire lore, Way has a mystery ex husband 👀

---

The Star Within by caesarcal Rating: Mature Relationships: Pooh Krittin Kitjaruwannakul/Pavel Naret Promphaopun, Babe/Charlie (Pit Babe), Alan/Jeff (Pit Babe), Kenta/Kim (Pit Babe), Pete/Way (Pit Babe), North/Sonic (Pit Babe), Dean/Winner (Pit Babe) Additional Tags: Science Fiction, Alien/Human Relationships, Alternate Universe, How Do I Tag, Adventure & Romance, Shameless Smut, The Author Regrets Nothing, No Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot Summary: A star had scattered years ago, its energy fragments falling to Earth and embedding themselves within the chests of select humans. These individuals were gifted with extraordinary powers, each one unique to the person they were bestowed upon. The Galactic Council had become increasingly concerned about the impact of these powers on Earth's fragile ecosystem and the balance of power among its inhabitants. After much deliberation, it was decided that a team of elite space force operatives would be dispatched to Earth on a mission to collect the scattered star fragments from the chosen individuals. Each member of the team was assigned to a specific person, someone who emitted a unique energy signature that could be detected by advanced space technologies. "Pavel, I'll assign this kid to you," Sailub said to Pavel. He tapped on the keyboard to send the human's profile to the space cat. The space cat nodded, he tapped his watch and a hologram of Pooh Krittin's profile came into view. Pooh Krittin. 21 years old. Height, 180cm. A university student, majoring in robotics and AI engineering.

my 5 cents: Pavel is an undercover space-cat-alien and gets bullied by cats in a cat café, what else do you need to know? 😂 Delicious conflict of forbidden love and hidden identity. Also there is some murderous creepy stalker after them.

[thisuserislilsilly]

Summary: Cyneas attempts to wish his few friends of a pst life farewell, but when one cuts ties they can never be restored.

Pairing: None

Genre: Angst holy heck there is angst

TW: Angst, foul language, Astartes being the masses of trauma and PTSD I love to see in the fandom

Goblin tag squad: @finchly-tintinnabulation @cardinalcanis @artemisareia

@echo-of-damnation @meervalv0 @jaghatai-khock

@druidwolf21 @platinummice

Prev

Calling home

The rain pouring down from the rooftops washes over the tears of the stumbling mam, wandering through the streets without any sense of direction or purpose, he just wanted to get lost amongst the people and the city and his plan seemed to be working up until that very moment. There is a bottle of Mjod in his hand, the only gift he wished to receive from hunting some planetary gang just in the outskirts of the town he called home. Tripping over some junk and falling to a puddle of water and slowly raising to his feet, the now completely wrenched in filthy wetness man sees in the distance a long range communication public device, the light that shines on it from a lamp post creates an atmosphere of longing, a sign from the universe inviting the man to use that mechanism with the sole intention of using it to seek the answers he was looking for.

Hurrying his steps, the man in a matter of seconds arrives in front of the device; the dial numbers seemed to be in bad condition, the antenna is barely big enough to make a small call to the universe beyond that world, it's clear that nobody has used it in a whole long time but the man, persistent and stubborn as he always has been, puts his fingers on the correct buttons and presses his left ear against the end of the device.

Calling... Calling... Ringing... Still calling...

Finally a man picks up the other end of the line, their voice distorted by the barely stable signal that is created between the two communication devices.

"Hello...? Who the hell is this...? What do you want? Hey, speak louder!" The voice, although hostile, is comforting for the man, it's his brother, one he hadn't seen or heard about in so long

"I...it's your new Deathwatch team treating you well?" The words get stuck in his mouth

"What??!?! Whoever you are, stop damn calling this number! It's 2 A.M!" His old friend gets upset and hangs up before the man can attempt to explain himself

The cold dead silence of the speaker fills the void of the man's heart yet again; the rain has already gotten through his jacket and now every piece of clothing is starting to get invaded by the unrelenting, unstoppable rain that threatens to submerge the man in it's misery.

However he isn't going to give up so easily, searching in his pockets he finds the last six coins he has on himself, introduces the credits on the machine and his fingers again start dialing seemingly random numbers.

And the ringing begins again. Calling... Calling... Reaching a signal... Picking it up... Going through the other end of the speaker

"I talked with Lazet..! I talked with....it has been so long but I finally heard that he's...alive! Okay at least!" His voice almost breaks from the bittersweet joy

"You shouldn't be calling...they could find you, come on now; the Imperium has access to all the mediums of galactic communication. I'm glad you heard from him but stop, now. Please" The old voice, his teacher, soothing to the mind and wise in their words; finally a piece of his home is audible for the man

"No! Hey! Please! Don't hang up! Haniel for the love of the Emperor and the Primarch don't-" The pathetic attempts at retaining those moments are shut down by the clicking, announcing the end of the call "Don't leave me..." he finishes the phrase, mentally destroyed.

Tossed again into the cold and inexpressible rain, the water now has managed to reach his ankles; it would be wise for his health and safety to get as far away from that device that only seems to hurt the man. Defeated he closes his eyes, wanting to talk with someone else but knowing he has ran out of money to keep calling; until a miraculous sound gets to his ears, finally a blessing! The device, product of a malfunction or a glitch, hasn't registered yet that it's line of communication has been cut, the man can do one last call before the system corrects itself! With that sudden joy the man closes his eyes and trusts in his instincts to reach the dial-up. Like a tiny spider the fingertips call an extremely well-known number; one of his days at the war where he got to know Him.

It calls itself... There is a problem with the signal.... The beeping sounds hurts the man ears... But he persists... And it keeps calling... Calls.... Still calling... Seems it will be a futile attempt... Last chance to be picked up.... The man thinks about quitting his efforts...

But it is picked up, with a innocent child smile the man presses all his face to the speaker and begins to talk in a rush, mixture of expectation, sadness, joy and sorrow.

"He-hello?!?!?! Jubik?!?!? Is-is that you?!! Hello is the commander there!?!?!"

"This is an automated message, you have attempted to reach an identification ID that does no longer exist, under the proper laws and normatives any contact to obsolete identifications has been strictly prohibited and anyone caught trying to use them for illegal purposes will be detained for interrogation. Please await the local authorities and do not resist their arrest"

"BUT WHERE IS JUBIK?!?!?! WHERE IS HE I...I NEED TO TELL HIM THAT I AM ALIVE!-" The man breaks down, hits the device with the speaker with rage, tears flying from his cheeks

"This is an automated-"

"No...! No!!!! This is the right number...the one he told me I could always use if I wished to contact him...! YOU WORTHLESS MACHINE.SPIRIT GET ME WITH JUBIK NOW-!"

"This is-"

"I AM REMUS, CT-1972, A VENERABLE ASTARTES OF OUR GOD-EMPEROR VETERAN OF THE STARGLEX SYSTEM WARS AND YOU WILL FUCKING GET COMMANDER JUBIK ON THE PHONE...YOU...yoU...I nEver tolD him....I...I..."

Cyneas falls to the floor, the weight of his sadness overwhelms the man to the point his knees shake and can no longer support his weight, the speaker is left hanging from the device, repeating the same automated message. There is no one else to call, no other place to remember. He was gone forever....without the possibility of saying one last goodbye to his dear friend, the Ember Nomad that had inadvertently helped Cyneas have a new life.

[pathofcomets]

lonely like a castaway

fandom: mass effect andromeda pairing: jaal / female ryder summary: Desire is easy, Ryder. Love is harder. And I want you to want me, but not this way. (Second chance AU). 17.4k words.

“Are you sure, Sara?” Scott asks, because he has to.

Sara shifts, swapping the baby on her other hip, dangling the ugliest, most colourful toy in front of her, her tiny baby arms reaching for it in delight, giggling. Scott can’t help but smile at the picture, even if his sister is rolling her eyes at him.

“Yes Scott, I am sure I do not want to go on dusty Eos and live like our ancestors five thousand years ago.”

“You know that’s not what this is.”

“I do. But I am not the Pathfinder anymore.”

Sara has been a Pathfinder for a total of five and a half years. Even as the weeks, and then months, and then years trickled by, she always convinced herself it’ll be for just one day more, as temporary as the brief moments when she actually feels adequate enough to wear the title. The day she retired was supposed to be the happiest day of her life; she merely felt too tired to properly savour it. 

It is Scott’s turn now. And the difference is that he actually wants this, and desperately enjoys it. She appreciates that in the midst of a relocation preparation, he still has the time to worry about his twin sister. 

“But you are the Pathfinder’s sister.”

“And I can always babysit while you’re on the Nexus, so you and Cora can go on dates,” she says, shifting her attention to the baby in her arms, her niece. “Yeah, can’t I, baby girl?” she says, in baby voice, which sounds ridiculous on a woman as rough-looking as the previous madame Pathfinder. “Of course I can.”

“But I just got you,” Scott says with a deep sigh, but already having accepted her decision. 

“You always had me,” Sara corrects him, because being the galaxy’s hero never made her any less of his older sister. 

Scott steps closer, leaning so that he can place a loud, wet kiss on his baby’s chubby cheeks, making her erupt in laughter. She’s restless now, reaching for her dad, and Sara begrudgingly passes her over. 

She is good with children, a softness that Scott hasn’t seen in forever coming up to the surface; she’s showing a patience reserved only for the youngest, looking happier and kinder than she has in a long time. 

From her armchair, Ellen asks what she always does, with the warmth and age of a grandmother behind her words:

“Don’t you want your own?”

Sara rolls her eyes again. She loves her family, but oh they are overbearing at times. 

“I’m too old for that,” she shrugs, as if she is not merely twenty-nine.

“Sara,” Scott chastises, maybe because he knows that is not an answer to their mother’s questions, and maybe because he knows the answer to that would be a yes. 

“What? I want to raise kids with someone. I don’t know anyone who would be up for the challenge, and it might take years to create that bond. By then, surely I’ll be expired.”

Several years before, knowing his twin’s wish to leave something more behind than galactic peace (someone to enjoy it too, after her death), Scott has proposed co-parenting. 

He has known she will refuse even as he was saying it. His sister is too much of a romantic, too hung up on promises and praises she once received. To have revelled in as much love as she once had and make peace with the lack of it now was something that Sara Ryder simply was not able to accept.

Only her stubbornness, however, is stronger than her yearning.

“Then Scott can give me another grandchild,” Ellen hums, as if it is as easy as wishing.

Scott laughs, but he is beaming with pride as he glances down at his baby girl.

“That is up to Cora, mother,” he says.

***

Sara has gone back to her roots. Her research is not much applicable to this side of the galaxy, but she has the tools and brains for it. In the beginning, she dared to hope that if she is not a Pathfinder, she can simply retire, the ache in her knee not going away anymore, and her scars making it hard to look at herself in the mirror. But she is merely a twenty-something human, and they are trying to build a new world. Everyone has to pull their weight, even the person who, like Atlas, carries it all on her shoulders. 

So she merely tucked her dreams of other planets and lazy, late morning in a deep corner of her heart, and decided on something else to do, but something less bloody this time around. The research into the galaxy’s history was a no-brainer, and she finds the rhythm of studying, creating connections, digging into artefacts so familiar and welcomed. She’s been at it for two years now, and she loves it as much as the first day. 

On the day she says goodbye to her family (Cora having taken Scott’s last name, and Sara gathering a sister in the process), she is due to say hello to a new researcher in her group. She’s never been fond of Nexus, but it is the neutral ground of this galaxy, so she stayed put here. It’s been implied so many times during her years as a Pathfinder, and even afterwards, that she can’t be seen taking any sides. 

What they don’t know is that she has taken it already, but they simply can’t read it in the mere fact that she is studying the Jaardan, the species that supposedly created the angara. 

She is normally the first person in their office. Not today. 

They are not allowed people’s files beforehand, lest they fall into old stereotypes, so Sara Ryder has no idea who her new coworker is. She is not that surprised to see an angara though, because there’s few other species interested in studying the past of a galaxy they don’t call home - not yet, anyway. Sara Ryder cannot wait to be an old lady, and see how the new generation turns out. 

The person is waiting with their back turned to her, and Sara greets them in her softest voice, trying not to startle them; she knows how fast she finds her gun when she is taken by surprise, and she doesn’t want to test an angara’s reflexes; they’re Andromeda’s best fighters after all.

“Good morning.”

The angara turns, and Sara cannot breathe anymore. Because in front of her stands Jaal Ama Darav, whom she hasn’t seen in 5 years. Jaal Ama Darav, who cried the last time she spoke to him. Jaal Ama Darav, whom she loved and maybe still loves, and whose trust she betrayed in front of the entire Nexus.

“I was under the impression you are not working in this office anymore, Sergeant Ryder,” Jaal says, voice all monotone.

Her brain doesn’t catch up with her heart in time.

“You used to call me my love, and now I’m Sergeant Ryder?”

This is the first thing she says to Jaal in five years. He does not find it enlightening in any way, not even slightly funny - and his expression remains the same, stony and unreadable to her. She used to be able to tell it all from being in the same room as him alone. 

“Sara,” he says, low and upset - and that is familiar, at long last, her name on his tongue, and she almost melts to the floor with the relief she feels.

She tries to control her panic, moves so that she unlocks the door, ushering him inside, trying to stop any rumours before they start. The world stopped giving a shit about the two of them as a couple as soon as it became obvious they won’t get back together, but she doesn’t want to have to mitigate a chaos that is not true, that does not exist, if she can help it. The longest she can put off the word getting out that they’re working together again, the easier her life will be. 

Rumours were their downfall in the past too, after all. She knows what’s being said, about Scott’s mission for another colony on Eos, the planet now nothing like the desert she once encountered. Everyone assumed she will go with him, but Sara Ryder is tired of the space. She wants to stop in one place, grow roots, become steady on her feet. The older she grows, the more she understands her father, and the expectations behind their last name. She gave up her title as a Pathfinder years ago, and everyone still sees her as nothing but that, even most of the academics in her office, wandering around star-struck and too afraid to open their mouth even when she asks them too. It’s a weird feeling, that has become familiar, to never be seen fully, to always wear a title. 

Vorn is the only exception, maybe because his kids call her an aunt too. And maybe this is why Sara Ryder has grown her family so big, them the only ones who know the Sara half of herself. 

“Which one is my desk?” Jaal asks, and Sara’s mind screeches to a halt. 

“You’re the Remnant expert,” she says, the dots connecting at last, how Peeebee went to Veold after their last fight, and Jaal too, after she… after everything. How their new specialist delayed his arrival until this specific date, the day when Sara Ryder was supposed to not be on the Nexus anymore. Fuck. This is a mess.

“Jaal, I’m so sorry,” she says, a whisper, and she feels tender like a wound, cannot find a footing while standing in front of him. 

“Which one is my desk?” he asks again, and Sara wants to cry. 

“I didn’t know,” she tries again, and her voice sounds so pathetic even to herself, that Jaal turns to look at her. 

“Obviously. You’ve avoided me successfully for five years.” 

She closes her eyes, as if she’s been physically hit. She can feel his upset, the bioelectricity making the hair rise on her arms, and there is nothing she can do or say that will ever make it better. She takes a steadying breath. They’re supposed to work together, every single day - since this side of universe and time hasn’t figured out the concept of weekends for an office job, not when it had only war before. She supposes, all the better to get over the awkwardness of the moment.

“The one in the corner,” she says, her voice cracking on the last word. 

Jaal shakes his head, disappointed at the change in the subject, though not particularly surprised. He has tried to honour her wishes, to simply disappear from her life for the rest of his, but he forgot the most important lesson in a battle: information is everything. He relied on rumours, comfortable in Sara’s obvious affection for her family. He still cannot understand why she is still here. 

He cannot believe this is the way they see each other again.

He’s busy arranging his things on his new work station, when he hears Sara’s soft, tiny voice. She hasn’t moved yet, left standing in the middle of the room, shocked still by his presence. He supposes he has had some time, some way to prepare. He’s spent nights imagining the Nexus as he remembers it, and trying to strip it empty of all the memories attached to her. He mostly succeeded, as he walked down the path to the research wing, to not think of the second human Pathfinder. But she has no shield built in to keep memory or reality of him away. The awkwardness is strong in the air.

“Jaal.”

He turns, just enough to catch a glimpse at her, returning to his task afterwards, not giving her the patience of gathering her thoughts, not in the way he used to anyway. His heart is hammering in his ears though, imagining the many ways in which she can punish him for being here, even if there is no fault of his own.

“I am sorry. For how I treated our situation before.”

She calls it a situation. It’s been a relationship, it’s been love - and she dares belittle it by calling it any less. 

“I don’t need your apology,” he snaps. “You have nothing to prove to me,” the last sentence kinder, his tone softening.

She knew, even in her most doubting moments, that Jaal Ama Darav wouldn’t hate her. And still, the fear kept her in her place, and five years have passed her by and she only thought in his direction with a bleeding heart. And all this time, he got over it.

He is not haunted by the possibilities, by the what-ifs, by the memories. The better of the two of them, back then and now too.

She is relieved, to find him kind and polite. She is sick to her stomach and disappointed, to find him not screaming at her, not outright refusing her. Because she spent years convincing herself she would deserve it.

Her shoulders ease, some of the tension lifting. There’s laughter at the door, and people come in, greeting them in passing. There’s a mixture of them: the humans brought from their cryosleep late enough that Jaal Ama Darav means nothing to them, the angara having known him for long enough not to bother with his importance. Only Vorn glances between them five times, before eventually taking a seat at his desk, shaking his head.

A message pops up on both their omnitool at the same time, Jaal having been added to the Nakmor family group chat.

Old shy Vorn, made brave by becoming a father and a Nakmor, typed just one message:

Drinks at the week’s end.

It’s not a request. And when Drack replies with an image with an angara weapon pulled apart by one of the babies, Jaal laughs, the sound like a fresh balm on Sara’s heart.

She lifts her head from her desk, looks at him, the way his eyes sparkle with delight and warmth. These were his people too, and in the fallout of Sara’s choices, they picked her. She spends the entire week trying to think of an excuse to get out of it, and she cannot find even one. 

Doesn’t want to.

***

“Did you know?” Jaal asks, Scott’s image not even yet clear on his screen.

“Did I know what?”

Jaal’s expression turns into a frown, which makes Scott’s grin even wider.

“That Sara will be there,” Jaal clarifies.

He was not ready for a reunion, not like that anyway. He remembers the first flash of shock on Sara’s face, before she pulled herself together, looking at him not unlike she did the first time she crashed onto his planet, like she has no idea who he is, or what to make of him. It cut Jaal deeply, how long it’s been, a distance that didn’t feel real exactly because he has kept orbiting around her: her team on his planet, her brother always picking up his calls. 

“Aren’t you tired of checking up on her through me?” Scott asks, because it’s been five years of the angara ending a call with and how is she?

“No,” Jaal answers promptly, still upset at being set up by a meddling sibling. Scott ignores him, smiling serenely still, and in truth, the new Pathfinder has nothing to complain about, a life exactly like the one Jaal wishes for, the only difference being that Jaal’s love refused him.

“Shall we swap places, Jaal? How is she?”

“Alone,” he says, without thinking how that will come across to her family.

But then Jaal remembers: she has been like that even as a Pathfinder, pouring so much care in those around her, walking around empty. She has always been a lonely creature and in his weakest moments, Jaal thought he would be able to pull her out of it. Now, he doesn’t think there is a cure to her nostalgia, he can’t imagine a way to get through her protective bubble anymore.

Scott sighs, closing his eyes as if the words cut at him.

“I know,” he whispers. “So how could I have told you?”

Because then Jaal would have pulled back, found something else to devote his life to, even though angaran origins have haunted him since the day he saved the Moshae. Because if Sara knew, she would have done the same, and her only option would have been the battlefield again. And maybe the years haven’t been necessarily kind to Sara Ryder, but they have built up: she is more softness now, less jittery bones. She doesn’t live on the edge of death, and so she is filled with life. And Jaal remembers again: how she used to refuse to eat after taxing missions, because the psychological shock would have her heaving and throwing up in seconds; how she would bypass sleep, through coffee, through SAM, through Lexi��s medicines. At least she is well: well enough, as well as she can be considering she has been dead three times in two years.

She used to have nightmares about that, back when he still had the privilege of sharing a bed with her. He wonders, how much worse they are now, or if they eased through time. He doesn’t think even Scott Ryder knows the answer to that. There are many things about the previous Pathfinder that the angara hoped and dreamt would become his problems. Problems, but as in: the little work you do for those you love, life that demands to be lived. Problems like massaging a sore hip, finding a contact on Kadara to ship them an endless supply of coffee, being a shoulder to rest on. He had spent so many of those last months on the Tempest dreaming about such a future, working out how to make it real and certain, especially for someone as skittish and uncertain as the human he was in love with. He has spent so many of those last months on the Tempest placing all he had on Sara Ryder, only to have it not matter at all in the end. 

Jaal is made of memories, but they’re rarely his own. Sara Ryder haunts him, and maybe it’s worse than his past lovers, than his lost family: because she is alive. It must show on his face, how he cannot shake off the past, because Scott’s voice is tender as he says his name, drags him back to reality. 

“Are you alright?” Scott asks, and from somewhere close, there is a baby crying, and even as he waits for Jaal’s answer, the man gathers his daughter in his arms, rocking her.

“I don’t know,” Jaal answers truthfully. “It’s so hard to face her, and pretend nothing happened.”

“You don’t have to. Pretend, that is,” Scott clarifies, catching Jaal’s gaze through the screen, and the angara still finds it so strange, this twin that is so much more open and honest than his older sister.

They didn’t get to actually become brothers, not enough time spent together before being brutally cut, but Jaal would automatically respect any person who has it in them to follow in Sara’s footsteps. That’s a shadow bigger than Alec Ryder’s, and yet Scott fills it with the easiest of smiles, and the most hopeful of work. He thinks, maybe it isn’t too late to still carve such a close relation to the human, after all.

“Then what am I supposed to do?” 

Scott shrugs, while simultaneously pulling a face at his now giggling baby. Something tugs at Jaal’s chest, rolling back in a most painful knot. 

“Rebuild on the ruins of what has been.”

And that’s what they’ve all been doing for the past many years, in so many ways: learning new skills, moving planets, fighting battles, making families. It’s an obvious suggestion, but Jaal never thought he could do it, the pain of Sara’s decision -  after all they’ve been through it, the trauma of a new world -  way too much. But the worst has already happened: he’s seen her, and despite his worst fears, Sara Ryder does not look particularly happy with her life, or with her choices. He didn’t feel like threatening her, or demanding an explanation out of her; but neither like smiling or offering any gratitude. But he did want to give her an embrace, ask her how she’s been, invite her out for a meal on the Nexus to catch up, dance around what they’ve been. 

“You ask too much from me, Scott Ryder,” Jaal sighs, because how is he expected to be a brave man after being so surely shut down in the first place.

“Only because I know you’re capable of it, Jaal Ama Darav.”

And Scott smiles at him like they’re closer friends than they are, with the promise of maybe getting there.

***

“Great-grandpa,” Sara says, looking up from her boots to see a pistol pointing at her forehead.

“Come on, silly human. Is this the only way I can get you to join our family dinner?”

Click.

Of course it is empty, but Sara still shakes her head, stubborn in her hiding here, away from the people she loves. 

“Yes.”

Click.

“It’s a Russian roulette, Ryder.”

She laughs - because of course it is, but Drack lowers his arm at long last, a smile at his crooked, scarred mouth too.

“I stupidly thought I’d never see him again. How can I face him after what I’ve done?”

“That was a stupid assumption indeed,” Drack agrees pleasantly. “But I cooked.”

Now that they’re not on the Tempest anymore, it is a rare enough occurrence that Sara cannot deny how badly she wants to taste his food. And Kesh, bless her heart, is so horrible at making human food, that when Drack does it for a change for their family dinner, Sara wants to enjoy it.

“And it is his favourite meal,” Drack adds afterward, and Sara sighs, her entire body freezing in place. “We didn’t stick with you because we love him any less, Sara.”

And Sara knows - from her own experience, on top of that, that there is no other way to love Jaal Ama Darav but utterly completely.

“I am sorry to you as well, Drack. For the aftermath of that moment.”

“He is here now. Why not make amends, instead of ignoring him?”

“Full circle, old man. How do I get the courage to face him?”

Her biggest mistake, asking that question - because Drack grins, almost as if he’s a cat ready to pounce on her.

“Like you did it all the times before, no? One step at a time.”

“If only it was that easy,” she sighs, but when Drack starts towards his apartment, Sara follows.

“It should be. Your species doesn’t live millenniums.”

But Drack can’t understand that this is exactly why it’s harder. If her life is so tiny and short, then the five years she allowed to slip past her is adding up to quite a large gap. All in all, that’s twice the amount of time she did spend knowing Jaal Ama Darav. 

She can’t know who the person sitting across from her at the dinner table is anymore. But as Kesh is filling up their glasses with alcohol, ignoring the fact that Sara arrived so late, and a krogan toddler is squirming himself on her lap, she finds herself wanting to. They’re painting what must be quite a strange image, both of them awkward and stiff still, pointedly avoiding to look at each other. But just as Sara is doing her best to catch glimpses at him when he is not paying any attention to her, she can also feel his gaze on her when she sings a lullaby to the child in her arms, or when Vorn sits next to her, greeting her with half a hug. 

Drack almost throws the huge pot of cooking on the table, with a very long sigh.

“It feels like I am back on the Tempest,” he declares. “You two just making mooing eyes at each other.”

“I don’t think that’s the correct expression,” Jaal says kindly, passing the bowls from the table to Drack to fill them up.

The krogan hits his knuckles with the ladle before using it, for the impertinence of talking back to him. If they were truly five years ago, the angara would have never felt this comfortable talking back to his elder. But the two pains in his old ass relax in their seats, and it seems like some of the tension dissipates. 

Drack never quite understood how and why this separation took place, only that of course it was the idiot Ryder’s idea. If she took a bit more after her father, she would have found a way to make it work, or fight through it, victorious on the other end. But a child’s sin is to be so different from a parent, and a parent’s sin is to never teach their child their most important, painful lessons. Alec didn’t earn anything by moving thousands others across galaxies and time only with the hope of saving Ellen. Alec, despite his war experience, still raised soldiers. Drack still thinks he should have loved that woman, these kids right while they were still together. 

He can’t believe, at times, that somehow he’s the oldest creature in this side of the universe, and he’s been stuck babysitting emotional inepts. If it were up to him, he’d smash their heads together and have them fuck in front of an audience, the krogan way of solving marital issues. He’s grown gentler with age, so the mere threats of violence will have to do.

So Nakmor Drack doesn’t start eating when everyone else does; merely leans more comfortably on the single chair at the head of the table, and starts sharpening the set of eight knives that he always has on him. Kesh’s babies can find five right now, and he delights in how the kids starvingly stare after his movement, trying to catch where exactly the next shining toy is coming out from. 

And Kesh is his first baby, because she makes it not noticeable at all exactly how worried she is about  the two guests at their dinner table, still not talking to each other, or actually looking at each other. The conversation flies over their head at most times, or it involves just one at a time. 

Head knocking and fucking. Surely better than this? 

Sara Ryder has long hair now; such a simple thing, but the most obvious one. Jaal didn’t really realise exactly how long until he’s seen her in-person, the ends of her hair brushing her lower back with every faint movement. Most people wear their heart short, practical considering all the fighting, but maybe this is another testament of the way in which Sara Ryder grew softer, and different. She is - and Jaal is upset to admit it, even to himself, just as beautiful. Made even more so, maybe, by the longing he’s felt for her all these years. He has yet to feel the tinge of heat in his body with any other human, and he feels ruined and marked by her, made his in ways that are too complex for time to undo. He feels the overwhelming, stupid urge to just ask her for a brawl, maybe in physically fighting, finally managing to fight his emotions for her, most of which are so unfairly positive. 

He should hate her. But he can’t, not when she looks like she barely belongs, in this place that is undoubtedly hers. How can she not see it? How can she walk around places bearing her name and her mark, and still look like she would rather be anywhere else? Her body language is so closed off that his arm fell half-way through a greeting, afraid he seemed maybe too friendly. Maybe she hates it here because she hates him. 

Vorn knows awkwardness in love; he pretty much wrote the rulebook for it. But Vorn also knows that it only takes one moment of courage, or just a good enough coincidence. So he merely shoves the dirty plates in Jaal’s arms, and turns to gesture with his head towards the kitchen, where Sara has already started washing the dirty glasses. 

He is silent when he enters the tiny room, tinier than even the one they had back on the Tempest. Sara jumps, just a little bit startled, when he sets the stack of plates and bowls on the counter next to her. She’s not close to tripping, but Jaal’s hand is still around her elbow, maybe in a gesture that is supposed to calm her fear, but instead it makes her heart beat even harder in her chest. She looks up at him, and they are so close now, that her chest rising with every breath almost touches his arm. She can make the little freckles on his cheekbones, darker blue against his skin. 

Jaal doesn’t look away, so she takes it as permission, and she looks at him enough to get her fill: his scarring a little bit fader, laugh lines more obvious around his dimples, a weariness in his eyes when looking at her that hasn’t been there since the day she crashed on Aya. She wonders if he is doing the same inventory on her: the ways in which she’s gotten older.

“So,” Sara says, her hands stilling in the soap water of the sink, too busy looking at Jaal.

They are alone for the first time, the entire apartment so quiet now that the babies have been put to sleep. Somewhere, Drack sits in an armchair sipping at his sixteenth drink, passing some wisdom or another onto Vorn, whom he still holds some weird distaste for getting together with Kesh the way he did. His granddaughter is probably back in her office, still so much work to be done, these domestic moments still stolen against the galaxy’s needs - even when they are so much more frequent now. 

“So,” he repeats, the slightest tilt of a smile on his face, and Sara can’t believe she caught that expression, softer and easier than she deserves.

“You suit this,” she says, landing on a somewhat safe sentence, relatively a compliment.

Jaal turns to look towards the living room, the picture so effortlessly domestic. He is a part of this now, invited and respected, and he is grateful for it. Nexus is the safest place in the galaxy, so it’s been here that the repopulation efforts have bloomed the most. The angara can’t quite forget the fear of being exterminated, and his family still hasn’t welcomed a new member yet, not in the form of a new generation, though he remembers he is calling Aksul a brother now, through Teviint’s marriage. He’s read the reports, but he hasn’t afforded his heart to believe it, that the future is here now, until he actually got to see it. 

“I know,” he agrees, and the silence that comes next is not that uncomfortable, even with the knowledge, on both sides, that had they been together all this time, maybe this would have been their life too. They are compatible after all.

“Do you want it?” she pushes on, but she cannot look at him anymore as she says it.

He turns his face towards her, but takes a step away. 

“No, don’t think it will happen, now. You?”

“That’s not what I asked,” she corrects gently, taking a step away as well, wiping her hands on a piece of cloth now that she is done washing the dishes. “The older I get, the more I want this.”

Not even the children or the dinners or the tedious dishes. But a place to call home; even better, a person all hers, to return to at the end of every single day. A place where others can come, and know her loved and taken care of, so that she can take care of them in turn. She feels weakened by the acknowledgement of that need, exposed by the raw want in her heart. 

Jaal shakes his head, but doesn’t say anything else. The lull in conversation stretches, only the sound of Vorn doing his own cleanup in the other room interrupting it. She pushes against the counter and moves around his body, ready to leave. He doesn’t budge, lets her struggle to not touch him, feeling her warmth against his field. He stays rooted in the spot long after she’s said her goodbyes.

She doesn’t bite her nails anymore. Jaal likes to believe that it is because the weight on her shoulders lightened, but even he is not that much of an optimist. She wears colour on her fingers now, a deep purple that reminds him of home: not Aya, but Havarl. 

***

Nexus loves Sara as much as Aya loves Jaal. He looks around this strange, so human place, and sees only her: there are murals drawn in her liking, and there are results of missions he’s been there for, and…. and so many children. Some are older, probably fresh out of cryosleep still, but then there are so many babies, babbling round masses, utterly hairless, screaming and crying and laughing, and there are proud, happy parents.

Jaal knows this is also a result of the peace they brought, probably the most important one. They can’t imagine all the future there is to be, they need children for that. And he remembers how impossible it has seemed, when he first interacted with humanity, that they will survive long enough for this. That they will have the stability required for something as messy and needy as babies. 

Back in the day when planning for the future was something they were doing together, Jaal learnt of Sara’s wish to have her own children. It’s been a month of working together and just polite greetings, and he’s yet to be met with the proof of someone in her life. She’s the first one in and the last one out, many times hours after anyone else in her team. Jaal knows because he sometimes passes this hall, and the lights are still on in the building. She lives for her work; not so unlike how she was back when she was Pathfinder instead. 

He cannot walk these Nexus halls without thinking how different life would have been if Sara hadn’t broken his heart. But it’s been a long time, he tries to justify it to himself. But she’s not antagonising him in any way, and he’s been expecting it, at least a little, as he settled into his new role. She’s been nothing but utterly professional, and their coworkers haven’t found it strange, so it must be how she simply is, these days.

Too changed, clearly not his.

But Jaal cannot help the curiosity about this version of her either. 

Sara tells no one about the storm brewing in her chest. Or the numbness in her soul. That doesn’t mean people cannot see it, but she overcompensates. Sends a gift package to Cora, filled with flower seeds from Havarl and toys for her niece. She ignores Scott’s calls, knowing she’s too transparent for him, and forces him to text her instead. She meets Ellen for lunch, when she visits Nexus. 

Ellen has never met Jaal, of course. It took Sara three years to bring her mother back to them, once she found out she is still… alive. By then, she was ready to give up the Pathfinder title. Scott was engaged. The biggest and most important part of Sara’s life, and Ellen has missed it all. In the aftermath of that last big kett fight, after she broke Jaal’s heart - and hers in the process - Sara has cried bitter tears on her own, wishing against all hope that she had her mom again.

Now that Ellen is here, smelling of baby powder and looking younger than she should, Sara cannot find the words to explain what she’s been through. The worst of it, the pain, is easy enough, for she has the scars for it. But how can she recall the joy as well? The love?

But Sara is Ellen’s daughter - she doesn’t need the words at all.

“Do you like Jaal, Sara?

“I don’t even know him,” the anymore stays unsaid. 

“Would you like to?” Ellen pushes, kind, fiercely believing in the worthiness of her child.

“I don’t think I have the right to anymore.”

Sara is baffled, because Ellen starts laughing at her words.

“What right did our family have to do anything?” she asks back. “Alec to hide me away, for a future chance at life?” And Ellen’s voice softens around the shape of her husband’s name. “Scott to try and sacrifice himself for you? You to build the basis of an entire galaxy? Don’t make me remind you that you are a Ryder. Just go after something if you want it. Do you - want it?”

But Sara has stopped wanting things that day. She simply went with the motion, did what was expected of her, settled down in some semblance of peace, the only way she knew how. She knows she doesn’t want the Jaal of five years ago, because she is not the Sara of those days either. She knows she sees parts of that younger Jaal in the man who’s now in front of her, and she almost wants to play spot the difference, knowing that in the process she will understand and respect him even more. 

She can’t help it; she’s a Ryder after all. For the first time in five years, she wants something again. She knows this might be the most difficult thing she’ll ever have to do, and she knows she’ll spend a lifetime proving to herself she deserves it. 

The detour on her way back from lunch doesn’t make a lot of sense for her mother, but she’s patient to her child’s whims, made more so by having a grandchild. The man she sees noticing her daughter’s return is much easier to figure out though. Sara’s clearly taken aback, because normally around this time, he’s out with some of their colleagues. She’s slow in recovering, and Ellen smiles, as she feels the laps of bioelectricity against her toes. She can’t understand them, but there’s enough SAM in her to recognise it and she wonders if it is just shame that keeps Sara from noticing it, or if Jaal is so attuned to her child, knows her so well, that he can simply keep it from her. 

Before Sara can open her mouth and say her goodbye, Ellen turns towards the angara, the only other person in the building. Jaal blinks up at this woman he knows only from pictures, though it takes a few seconds to connect the dots.

“I’m Sara’s mother,” she says, with a smile that is as sharp as it is kind; Jaal recognises more of Scott or Alec in her, rather than Sara, this at least a game he is familiar with, reconstructing a family out of its pieces. “Have you had your break yet?”

He shakes his head, not understanding why this question is relevant.

Ellen raises an arm, stopping her daughter in place, mute and with eyes so wide open that she’d look comical, if Jaal understood the full extent of what is going on.

“Then accompany me for my afternoon coffee,” she clarifies, using the same arm to make a sweeping gesture that he stiffly follows, getting out of his desk.

It’s part angaran culture, with its respect for elders, and part the force of this woman’s personality, who has probably never been denied anything in her entire life. Sara is stuck in her spot, watching them leave, and she wants to curse.

She settles on taking every single item on her desk and smashing it against the nearest wall. It doesn’t even make a dent, nothing breaks - and when her colleagues return, she’s on her knees gathering each thing off the floor.

***

“I’m not sure this is appropriate,” Jaal says, stopping three steps out the building, far enough that they won’t be seen from the inside. 

He’s kind when he moves Ellen’s hand away from where she grabbed his arm, in a forceful attempt to herd him in her wanted direction. He has some experience dealing with Ryders, and Ellen’s smile grows. The first sound of a throw is muffled and distant, but he still winces, because he can tell where it is coming from.

“That has nothing to do with me,” she says, as if this is not an ambush, as if he didn’t have to beg his own mother, in tears, not to harass Sara into an explanation.

“You must not think much of me, Ellen, if you think I will believe that,” and slowly and reluctantly, he follows the woman again.

He’s braver than her daughter, she’ll give him that.

“I wanted to see the man Sara loves, not the stories and not the hero.” 

His translator must be broken, surely. There is no reason for her to use the present tense, to so cruelly twist a knife in a half-healed wound, just to see it bleed all over again. Ellen feels the smell of orchids up her nose, for no reason, his hope sickly, combined with a burn down her throat, as he tries to stifle it down. 

“And?” he asks, at long last, as they settle on a bench in a discreet place, in an area that mimics gardens on Aya.

Ellen shrugs. “You’re just a man. You can fail and be failed just like anyone else.”

He doesn’t think the assessment is quite fair. He doesn’t know anyone else who has had their heartbreak televised, but he bites his tongue and says nothing. When he imagined this moment too, it was very different. He didn’t think he’ll have to ever see her, now, to be honest. She’s not quite what he imagined, but that explains why her kids are such good fighters, they’ve had it in their souls when they were born.

“But I hope next time people show you who they are, you will believe them.” 

And with that, she goes. There’s some trick in language with that as well, and of course he thinks back to Sara, to their decisive moment. She has told him she doesn’t love him anymore, and he believed her, because Sara never lied. 

When he returns to his desk, after way too long time spent staring at space and lost in thought, there’s his favourite snack box waiting for him next to his screen, something that until two weeks ago was available only from Aya. His hand trembles as he reaches for it. There’s only three people in this universe who know this about him.

*** 

Discoveries in their field increase, as more and more colonies are being built across planets, as atmospheres stabilise, as exploration unfolds. Very few are relevant in their particular area of research, and for the most part, they just get shipped interesting excavation finds, or they travel to locations of known key locations. This is the first time something like this has come across her desk, and she doesn’t even read the full report before accepting the case.

“They think it’s an active remnant,” she presents it to her team.

“Ah,” Jaal says, a deep sound in his chest, allowing her to detail what that means, even when he knows it from first-hand experience.

Sara turns towards her team of studious academics, and he sees the resolve build within her, sees how she stands different from them. This is the real reason why she has been allowed to work on this ; the coincidence of it and how quickly her approval came through all making sense now. Even she’s not that amazing that the angara would let her touch their history with all her bloodied hands. 

“So then they need a SAM implant,” she supplies. 

The realisation falls immediately, how there are only technically six people in the entire galaxy who are capable of interacting with this relic.

“And someone skilled enough to survive its fallout,” Jaal adds, because this office is blessed enough to have a Pathfinder of their own.

“Or idiotic enough to attempt it,” Sara says, the ghost of a joke at the corner of her mouth, even when it is at her own expense.

“I’ll join you,” Jaal says, not leaving any space for an argument. “For old time’s sake,” he adds, just to make sure; he wouldn’t survive the refusal.

What a painful sentiment: for what has passed, and for all the ways it deserves to be honored. Sara doesn’t understand how the nostalgia translates to a remake of the past, but she doesn’t have it in her to push back. She just wants to close her eyes, wash the years off her back, and imagine they are back on the Tempest, universe still unknown.

“If you want,” she says, because she hasn’t yet learned how to refuse Jaal Ama Darav.

There’s plenty of confusion among her other workers, about how exactly these two connect, but most brush it off: Sara has been a Pathfinder for long enough to know every single person alive upon first contact. The only ones remaining doubtful are the angara, who can feel Jaal’s currents, even as he attempts to stifle them. There’s so much sorrow in it, that they can feel bitterness on their tongue, tears spring to their eyes. 

“I do,” and despite everything, Sara is so happy with this admission.

If it is because Jaal sometimes misses the adrenaline of a fight, or the rush of being at her side - he doesn’t seem inclined to hint. And she cannot tell anymore.

The youngest of angara stares after her figure for a long time after she leaves the office, to request equipment, unlock her weapons from their cache. Then she turns to Jaal.

“You were in the Pathfinder’s team, weren’t you? Back when she was Pathfinder?” 

Jaal closes his eyes, allows his emotions to wash over her for just a moment, leaving her with legs like jelly at the intensity, confusion of it all, that an admission more than anything else. 

“Last time she tried to do this on her own, she almost didn’t return. Don’t let her.” 

Last time she tried to do this with him, she died.

“I didn’t think she’s so loved,” he muses out loud, but the angara huffs her chest with a pride Jaal didn’t expect.

“She’s like a wild pyjak. Get too close and she’ll scare off. But she’s done a lot for us, and she’s been nothing like the humans we expected.”

Jaal knows. She’s stolen the ground under his feet too, when he first met her. 

***

He doesn’t mean to catch her as she’s still putting her gear on, he’s given her enough time, but the ship is small and his guns are in the room, so it’s all an accident when the door slides open. Sara’s holding her top in her hands, ready to pull it on, in the reverse of a movement that Jaal, admittedly, thinks of way too much. There’s suddenly too much skin, too close, too real, and he fixes his gaze stubbornly on the ceiling, unable to say anything just yet though. 

He fears the fact that the image will be imprinted in his mind forever is painfully obvious on his face, maybe even in his currents. The bioelectricity makes her hair immediately frizzy, in the small space of the room, and she opens her mouth, wanting to speak, not being able to. Sara takes one big breath, trying to stabilise herself.

“It’s okay,” she says, her voice actually sounding at ease, and Jaal risks a glance at her, where she is still wearing only her bra, and his face does the most beautiful thing, which Sara desperately missed, and goes several shades of purple. “Nothing you haven’t seen before.”

It’s the wrong thing to say, because now the room feels ten degrees warmer, and Jaal’s eyes, emboldened by her words, travel from her face, down her body. She wonders, self-consciously, if he still likes… at least some of what he sees. But then, he says:

“Stars, Sara,” in the most breathless voice, one that haunts her dreams, and she wants to cry and she wants to kiss him, and she doesn’t doubt that maybe he wants her, just a tiny bit.

She pulls her shirt down, fumbles with the clasps of her armour. He doesn’t move to help her; their flight is so long that there’s plenty of time for her to get nervous ten times more, and still have enough time to pull herself back together again. 

“Do you know truth or dare?” she asks, as she clicks pieces into place.

“If we do this,” Jaal says, seeming unbothered as he loads his gun, checks his ammo. “I want you to be honest. No jokes as a deflection, no running around the bush.”

He quite literally asks for the impossible, he thinks. Sara Ryder has been avoiding all real, close connection for the entire period they’ve shared life on the Tempest, every glimpse he’s had of her carved with patience and curiosity, and later on, love.  

A full body tremble is the only reaction she gives before settling, miraculously.

“Okay. Honest.”

And Sara doesn’t lie. So of course, she picks the truth, though Jaal is unsure if that is not the biggest dare.

“Why the Remnants studies?” he asks. 

He remembers everyone’s curiosity when her ‘retirement’ project was announced. The Moshae was the only one who didn’t seem surprised, and he’s not sure he was, either.

“Because of you,” she says, simply.

She has held him in her arms, as he cried over the origin of his people, as he understood where in the makings of the universe he belongs. And that was as much of a defining moment for her as it was for him, for it brought them in the exact same place.

She lifts her chin, daring him to say anything about her choices, but he can’t, not truly. Because it means she cared, in some way, years after he thought she stopped. 

“Truth,” he replies in kind, and Sara closes her eyes in thoughts.

“Do you hate me?” she asks, because even now, she wants to be absolved.

“I wish I could.”

***

It’s the smallest their team has ever been on a mission dealing with remnants. Historically, they’re fucked - but in saving the galaxy, Sara has decided she’s strong enough to defy death. Three times over, the magical number in all her favourite stories. Now, she doesn’t know how to be scared; scared of this at least, battle and hard work.

Though it’s never easy, figuring out how natural it is to hold a gun in her hand. 

“Welcome back, Jaal Ama Darav,” is the first thing SAM says, once comms are open.

And Jaal smiles, and Sara can hear the fondness in SAM’s voice too, that another casualty of her heart’s war. She’s growing tired of all the people she has failed. 

Their descent is slower this time around, as they take a scholarly interest in what they’re seeing. Also, partially, due to the difficulty: the stairs are steep and long, more of a climbing exercise than anything else. The silence falls between them, but for the first time in a long time, not uncomfortable. 

“Back in the day, we couldn’t even imagine a far enough future to think this would be important,” Sara muses out loud, as she scans one of the pillars before interacting with it.

This is new too, the fact that she doesn’t run head-first into danger. Back in the day, she would have simply smashed her body against things, see what sticks, broken bones shrugged off, cuts ignored. Jaal knows himself how many wounds he has tended on her body, and in the slip of skin he’s accidentally noticed not too long ago, he has also seen the ones he didn’t, the scars she got since, without him by her side. He almost wants to ask SAM, if not having him made her more reckless or more cautious instead, but he doesn’t think he can survive the answer, regardless what it might be.

“I could,” he says simply instead, and Sara flinches as if she’s been hit.

A reproach, in such a short statement. Because Sara has lived in the moment, too scared and too hurt and too burdened to imagine what could come next. Jaal has been the dreamer, and even in the midst of all their battles, he has hoped for better for his people, and better for himself. Those wishes included her, at the time, and she knows it: they fell asleep multiple times mapping all possibilities of what if. Almost all, of course. He never dreamt they’ll be like this, not strangers but so utterly separated. 

“I truly am sorry, Jaal,” she says, voice low, back turned to him, and he feels the anger rise, such unfamiliar emotion, never in relation to her.

“But not sorry enough to do anything about it.”

It’s a challenge and a request. It leaves her frozen in the spot, too scared to move for fear that the truth will be leaking out of her, and she doesn’t know if she can allow it. 

“Not yet,” she settles on, a challenge and a request.

And because she feels cornered, she simply slams her palm against the pillar, bringing forth anything but this. The ground trembles under her feet, that at least muscle memory and familiarity, and the only conversation that ensues is the bullets shot at the remnants. 

She almost forgot how good it is, how safe she feels when she has him at her back. You don’t become the poster boy of the Resistance without being a magnificent fighter.

He almost forgot what a quick learner she is, because she has gotten better since he last fought by her side. Even with a couple years of research under her belt, you don’t retire as the Pathfinder without being a spectacular fighter.

But even so, there’s too many remnants, these types of battles normally fought with more people. It goes on for too long, up until they can hear each other’s laboured breaths through the comms, their muscles burning. He doesn’t slip, he doesn’t miss - he’s ready to fully accept the hit, for a chance at taking down the enemy.

It takes only a second, only the slightest push of extra adrenaline from SAM, but instead of the laser hitting him, it hits Sara, who has pushed herself between Jaal and the remnant. He does a perfect shot, taking it down, and the silence is eery and stunned, her body too close to his, the reality of what she’s done too much.

Her palm is pressing against her wound, red seeping through her fingers. Jaal feels a bit light-headed, as he tries to push her hand away. She refuses to budge, pressing harder instead, even as she stumbles to the nearest wall, leaning her back against it. 

“I need the pressure,” she mumbles, shy, not wanting to admit how bad she’s actually been hit. 

She closes her eyes against the wave of pain. It is just pain, and this kind eventually goes away. She can’t look, hiding away from his touch, as his hands explore her thighs and waist, trying to find the pocket where her medigel is. He makes quick work of it, not lingering for a moment more than necessary, though it takes him two tries to undo the opening, his hands trembling.

She smiles when she notices it, though maybe she should start worrying if she’s hallucinating.

“I promised,” she says, as he applies the gel on her wound, a relieved hiss the only reaction, as the skin will slowly try and rebuild itself. 

“Keep her talking,” SAM instructs, because now the crash will take her out if they don’t push Sara harder, hard enough that she has no choice.

She chuckles, pushes a hand at her fly-away hair, her braid coming undone. 

“I promised that I’ll never let you get hurt again. Not if I’m there.”

His entire body stiffens. That was a lifetime ago, back when he got his face scar, back when they didn’t even mean anything more than friends to each other. But she has indeed promised - threatened rather, that she will never again do nothing when he’s in danger. Even if he asks her to. There was no way they could have avoided this situation, besides not being here in the first place. He can’t believe she can be like this: so infuriatingly loyal even as she betrayed him, so easily lovable even as his heart keeps breaking because of her.  

“Before that last fight, you told me to live on if…” he can’t even say it, still, years after the fact, and not in this faintly lit hole in the ground, so familiar, with her still bleeding. “But how do I move on when you’re alive and well and the most important person in the galaxy, just not mine? It’s been very difficult, Sara.”

She doesn’t know that every single time she briefed Evfra, he was in the same room, just out of view, bleeding out his heart in currents Evfra accepted to bear, if only to have Jaal hear her voice, heal some of his longing. 

“I know,” she says, voice too faint for his liking.

Her hand settles on his shoulder, the first time she willingly touches him since their reunion, in a kind gesture of comfort, though it is unclear if it’s meant for him or for her. Her fingertips tickle with his bioelectricity, and she smiles at how easily she recognises it. 

“You need to wrap her wound,” SAM asks. “I can pump some drugs to keep her going for the day, but it’s taking too long to stop the bleeding.”

Exactly because she has SAM, she doesn’t carry a full medical supply on her. Too reckless, still. And he knows, because he went through most of her inventory. He moves to do what needs to be done, but Sara’s hold tightens at his shoulder, pushing him away.

“Don’t. I’ll be fine,” and she tries to push forth, prove it as well, but her wound gashes in new rivulets of red, and Jaal feels a bit light-headed at the sight. 

She stumbles, and Jaal catches her, allowing her to rest some of her weight against him as she regains her footing and control, but he keeps at his task too, ripping a long strip of his rofjinn material, the only appropriate material for SAM’s request.

Sara’s growing frantic now, trying to stumble away from him, slapping away at his hand whenever he gets close to her wound.

“Don’t!” 

“You’re on a mission, Ryder,” he says, the voice being one of the Resistance fighter, not of Jaal Ama Darav. “Act like it.”

And she slumps, chided, and lets him come close, apply another layer of medigel, tie the material around her torso, using as much force as he can, with no complaint from either human or AI, which means it should be fine. Sara doesn’t want to look at him, doesn’t want to look at her wound, doesn’t want to acknowledge SAM giving her calming drugs as well. When she stopped being Pathfinder, she spent a month trying to wean off all the drugs she was addicted to, and she doesn’t want to have to do it all again, sweaty forehead glued to the hard surface of the bathroom, shivers wrecking her body even when dressed in five layers, body heaving and throwing up. She feels similarly challenged now, by the fact she is wearing his family’s colours, even in such a situation.

Have they continued their relationship, she would have eventually been welcomed and entitled to wearing his rofjinn, simply for belonging. Like this, it feels like an insult, and she doesn’t want to think what goes through Jaal’s mind.

So, she thinks of something else. She turns towards the fallen remnant and starts scanning.

Jaal thinks the colour suits her.

***

Back on the Nexus, despite it being the middle of the day, she goes to the infirmary first. It’s been a while since they got used to the sight of her, but the medics fall into the usual pattern, and simply shove her in a corner, drawing a curtain for privacy, and simply hook her to the medicine. Given a couple of hours, she’ll be as new. She falls into the bed with a sigh, closing her eyes, rubbing her thumb between her eyebrows, trying to wade off an oncoming migraine. 

“I’ll need to report this to the Pathfinder,” SAM explains, kindly, trying not to startle.

Sara ignores the attempt, and shots up on the bed, ignoring the sharp stab of pain, now that the drugs have worn off on the travel back.

“Don’t you dare!” she whines. “He’ll just hurry here to complain about my decisions.”

“And you wouldn’t deserve it?” SAM challenges back, and she frowns up at the ceiling, though of course that’s not where he is situated. 

“It’s just a graze,” she mumbles, pushing more. “I’ll be healed by evening, and ignoring that, the mission was a success. He can read my reports, like everyone else.”

“Ignoring the fact you’ve been hurt?”

The AI’s voice is so gentle, it almost brings her to tears. Because he is the only one who knows exactly how many times she’s ignored that before, how many times she’s hidden the pain from everyone, particularly those she cares for the most.

“It doesn’t matter,” she says, stubbornly, though there is a sash around her body that says it does.

“It matters to them,” SAM points out as well, but she simply leans back in the bed and ignores him, too.

It wouldn’t help, making her family worry about her well-being. She’s supposed to be fine, now with her desk job and retirement, and bringing up a random wound would just stress them out, have them mess up their week’s plans just to check up on her. And she’s fine, several hours in the infirmary and she’d be as new, maybe just with a new scar to show for it. 

Same for her colleagues. It’s the reason why she is the one who goes out there on other planets and scavenges for pieces, and interacts with whatever’s left: she can take it. There is a reason they picked a scholarly interest, and she is not about to drag them into fights she can win by herself. It’s more difficult, sure, but Sara Ryder has been doing difficult things for over half a decade now. They don’t deserve to feel bad about the choices they have made, so Sara is happy to cover that gap.

She pushes her palm against her closed eyes, pressing hard, trying to make the dark even darker, because as Jaal was dressing her wound, he was praying under his breath. For her.

***

Two hours later, Sara Ryder strolls into her office as if the whole thing didn’t even happen. No one is stopping their work to look at her, and no one is staring at her walk, just a tiny bit stiffer than usual. She took off the cloth of Jaal’s rofjinn, hid it in her jacket’s pocket, and changed out of her under-armour clothing. And he didn’t tell on her, the only thing shared with the team was clearly their research.

She turns on her feet, finding his gaze already on hers, the only person in this room who is checking for any sort of weakness or reaction. And because she can’t bear to hold a smile at him when he’d recognise it as fake, she does something impulsive instead.

“Shall we call it a day and all go for drinks?” she says, loudly, ending her sentence with an enthusiastic if not awkward clap to accentuate her suggestion.

It’s a relatively small team, Jaal their newest sixth member. But when everyone turns off their screens at the same time, it can be quite loud in a small office space. Sara grins, this a truer reaction, as she falls into step with the other human in the team. She’s newly taken out of cryo for the purpose of this research, and so they’re not starstruck around the Pathfinder. It’s a bit like hearing about the wild youth of your parents, far and strange and unbelievable enough that it doesn’t register as the person in front of you. The more time will pass, the more this will be the reception she’ll get wherever she goes, and Jaal notices, how this frees her, always just a tiny bit more.

Hours later, as two of their coworkers battle it out over karaoke on the bar, Sara sits next to Jaal, the only one old enough to not join the shenanigans. When, exactly, have they gotten old like this? 

“Were we ever like this?” Jaal asks, seemingly thinking about similar things.

Sara takes a sip of her drink, though she has lost count, particularly since she swapped to the hard stuff. 

“Nah, that was always Peebee,” she says.

And there’s something different in the way Jaal smiles now, a softer turn to his currents, and Sara knows that in the aftermath of saving the galaxy, the asari picked him. And despite it not being her, she’s glad he had someone next to him too.

“Truth or Dare?” she asks, and another sip, this time for bravery.

“You first,” he says, nodding his head in her direction.

It’s not something as crass as ladies first, Jaal would never. It’s about her, him always putting her first, allowing her the first word. She wonders how different that day five years ago would have been, if Jaal cared just a tiny bit less about her, and spoke his thoughts and feelings first. 

“Truth”, she says, because she’s turned into a coward since.

“If you could go to the past and do things differently, would you?”

He can see in her face, that the answer is a resounding yes. He knows exactly the tension points too: protecting Scott better, punching director Tann once or twice, saving the original Pathfinders quicker, not breaking Jaal Ama Darav’s heart. But then the steely resolve washes over her, and he can see what a pointless question it’s been, after all; that he expected a bit too much honesty from Sara Ryder.

“No.”

She downs the rest of her drink at once, signaling for another, returning the game question back on him while she waits. 

“Do we need to pretend?” Jaal asks, with a small laugh. “We know we’ll always pick truth, every time.”

“Why do you care?” she challenges, hating to be so transparent, hating that the only way they can talk nowadays is by pretending it’s a game, a layer of protection around their heart, words which they pretend they can take back, they didn’t mean, in this setting.

“I’m trying to see if you’re worth it.”

And Sara stops, like a deer in the headlight, because she knows herself unworthy. 

“Worthy of what?” she whispers, hand moving to her lips, the bad habit of biting her nails returning with the anxiety of the question.

Jaal is kind when he grabs her wrist, tenderly placing her hand back on the table.

“Not your turn,” he chides softly. “Did you lie? It kind of defeats the point of the game.”

“I did,” she agrees, and Jaal feels his chest being torn open, his hold tightening just the tiniest bit against where her pulse is fluttering at her wrist, before letting go altogether.

“Don’t do it again,” he says, softly. “Please.”

And she nods, even though it is not his turn, even though it is not a dare, because she will never again refuse Jaal Ama Darav anything.

“How many partners have you taken to your bed since?” he asks all suddenly, and Sara chokes on her drinks, shocked at how direct he is.

But that shouldn’t be a surprise, she knows him after all. And he knows her, and he knows that despite the embarrassment, she will live up to his expectations, and answer. It helps that there is krogan alcohol involved, anything too much easily blamed on that instead, and not on the canyon of hurt between them. 

“None,” she mumbles, her cheeks darkening even more, eyes searching his. “Why, did you?”

“It has been five years,” he replies, and holds her gaze. 

She nods, understanding, not looking away.

Jaal feels his heart growing in size in his chest, painfully pressing against his ribcage. 

“Do you want to fuck me?” he asks again, and his knee brushes against hers under the bar table, and she can hear nothing of the poorly sung song, or understand anything of the setting they’re in. It’s too much, it’s too soon, and she doesn’t know what to do.

She doesn’t answer him, but they’ve fucked enough time for him to tell the signs: her dilated pupils, her faster breathing, the blush on her cheeks, the squirming in her chair. Even the fact she can’t look away.

“It’s easy to be wanted,” Jaal says, because they’ve been together, he knows how she tastes, she’s seen his body glow and hum and tremble in the midst of ecstasy. It’s nothing weird in seeing each other again, and wanting some form of each other back, not when it is the sexual one. He is correct of course, because the years have been kind to Jaal, and he looks barely changed. Not in the way she’s been - and she noticed him catching the extra scars, or his fingers trying to reach the ends of her braid, now down to her waist. It would be such an easy solution to their discomfort as well. 

“But I don’t want to fuck you, Sara.” The words, like a bucket of cold water, sober her up immediately.“Desire is easy, Ryder. Love is harder. And I want you to want me, but not this way.” 

That scares her, those words: because what would Jaal’s revenge look like, if he gets to swap places, if he gets to hold her heart in his hand, with no shields to protect it? 

***

She’s so drunk. Twice in a day having to lean on Jaal to not break her nose against the ground, and he’s so gracefully accepting of his burden. Her room is on a different side of the Nexus than it used to be; of course, she is not Pathfinder anymore. Jaal asks SAM for directions, because he trusts the AI more than he trusts Sara at the moment, not after he so clearly hurt her back. He didn’t want to, but it is so easy to remember why he should hate her, when she’s so obviously sad and repentant in front of him. He has wanted and prayed that if she so clearly cut off his chance at happiness, at least she allowed it for herself. It seems quite clearly she didn’t. Sara didn’t even try to move on, when what Jaal did first, months after their breakup, when he rejoined Evfra’s ranks, was to fuck his way through his teammates. So it’s easy, pushing against a bruise, if she never attempted to heal in the first place. 

He shakes at her shoulder with his hand, and Sara blinks up at him, with her beautiful strange eyes, and her pretty features that he used to kiss his way over back… back when they still loved each other. 

“What’s the code to your door?” he asks, but Sara turns, hides her face in her jacket, refuses to look at him, and this is a strange reaction, when behind the door there’s a bed, and rest at last.

He repeats the question to SAM this time, and the long pause means he’s having a silent argument with Sara, if he should reveal the answer to Jaal. Then, as Sara pushes herself away from Jaal, SAM answers him.

“It is your birthday.”

The silence falls, heavy and tense.

Jaal opens his mouth, closes it. Tries again.

“What?”

“The code to Sara’s room is your birthday,” SAM repeats, and he allows the truth to settle between them.

How can Jaal stop himself from trying to read more into this revelation? That she’s clearly still thinking of him, caring about him enough to have him as a reminder every single time she enters her home? She doesn’t hate him - anymore, or she never did. Sara stands, slightly swaying on her feet, arms around her body as if she’s trying to protect herself from a blow, or hug and comfort herself, in the absence of someone else doing it.

Jaal steps close to the door, punches in the correct digits. The door hisses open. He turns towards her, overwhelmed and scared.

Sara’s nostrils flare and she looks like she is about to fight, or - Jaal realises, with a startle, cry. He’s not sure which is worse, but then she sniffles, eyes sparkling with yet unshed liquid, and he knows with a painful certainty that the crying is the worst of it.

If she was fighting him, then at least the cruel image he’s been trying to build  in his head and heart about his past lover would stand proud and true. He doesn’t know what to make of this woman, who is crying over his worst hurt. Unless, of course, it is also hers.

Jaal cannot comprehend why, if it hurts her so much, still, after so much time, she did it in the first place. 

“You are my first love, Jaal Ama Darav.”

She doesn’t say the rest: the last as well.

She won’t be able to love someone else, she won’t allow herself to. She knew it was a big ask, trying to love the best man in the universe, but it was hilarious she thought herself capable or worthy in the first place. She doesn’t want him to have to carry the burden of her misgivings. 

“You should change that,” he says, moving away so he can let her walk through.

He can’t control his bioelectricity at all, he’s spilling his emotions all over, and he can see the blue crackling from under his clothes, the frizz of her hair growing more intense. She must feel it as well, tickling against her skin, but Sara doesn’t move.

“Why?” she presses. “Does it make you uncomfortable?”

“No, Sara,” he says with a sigh. “But I shouldn’t know that.”

She shrugs. “I don’t mind.”

And with that, she finally takes mercy on him and moves. He waits in the hallway until he hears the sound of the lock falling into place.

***

Sara punishes herself by working. It’s what she used to do when she was Pathfinder as well, it’s just that now it doesn’t involve gunfire and blood, but rather old tech and loads of reports. She’s been putting off seeing Lexi, though SAM chides her she will need glasses soon. When did she get so old again?

It’s been hours since everyone left the office, and she is still cataloguing the pieces from their mission, a tedious kind of job but one which she enjoys doing in moments like these, when her soul is tender and confused and she needs time to think. She’s always complained, though half joking, that her desk is too tiny for a war hero. It’s mostly too tiny for the amount of coffee mugs she gathers throughout the day. When she pushes a relic with a bit too much force, one of her mugs goes slamming on the floor, and then rolling across it, blissfully not shattered.

The mug stops under Jaal’s chair, in the corner of the room. Sara walks close, gets on her fours, and grabs at her mug. When she lifts up, triumphant and somewhat smug about her coffee consumption, because at least it means it was empty and there’s no spill to clean, she freezes.

She’s never been on the other side of his desk. She suspects no one has. Because right next to his screen, there is a framed picture. Of the two of them, Jaal and Sara. They are young, so very young. She cannot even remember the exact moment, but they are sat at the Tempest’s kitchen table, and she is laughing, hand on his forearm, while he looks entirely too pleased with himself, probably the exact reason for her joy. She used to be this happy, she wonders, unable to equate this image of her younger self with the way she lives right now. 

But just like she couldn’t tame her heart before, make it beat for someone else, she fears she can’t control how much she still loves him now either. She just can’t say it. Jaal was the brave one in the past too.  

She’s startled out of her reverie by the door opening, Jaal’s figure in the doorframe. He notices her simply because of her surprised yelp, and he frowns.

“What are you doing?” 

She lifts the mug in the air, holding on to his chair to push herself to her feet.

“What are you doing here?” she counters back.

Jaal points to his desk, his travel pass on the surface. He steps closer and closer, heart beating in his chest, because he thinks he knows what she knows now. She’s turning redder and redder.

“I… I didn’t mean to see it,” she says, lamely, gesturing vaguely to the picture.

“I know,” he replies gracefully, grabbing his pass and trying to ignore how close they’re standing. “But it wasn’t supposed to be a secret.”

She moves her head to look up at him so fast that there’s even a slight cracking sound. She doesn’t even wince, continuing to search for an explanation in his expression. 

“Did you know the younger ones don’t even know? And most people don’t even care?” he asks.

The worst thing that happened to them, and forgotten by everyone but them. Sara didn’t know, she was too scared to ask just in case the answer was devastating. But it’s been years since anyone asked her how she is, how she feels.

“It wasn’t supposed to turn out like this,” she agrees, defeated at last.

She maps the way in which he is different, from the man in that picture. All the ways in which he is still alike, too. 

“I had such a lonely heart without you. But at least I got used to it. I refuse to let you in again, if you don’t mean it,” he says, and it is his turn to start retreating, putting some distance between them.

She uses the same perfume. Jaal is awash in memories. 

“I’ve always meant it.”

Jaal swallows, so hard to believe it.

“Then why?”

And so much can follow that question: why did she give it up, and so easily? Why did she just take his shocked acceptance, and not fight any further for him? Why did she allow so much time to pass to say something as simple as that? Why hasn’t she begged, on her knees, for forgiveness and happiness?

“I picked my family,” she says, and what is left unsaid is that they didn’t pick her back.

Jaal knows, because her mother doesn’t live on the Nexus. Because Scott got married and he became the Pathfinder. Because she didn’t answer a call from either of them, in all this time. Of course, everyone has their own life, but where is Sara’s life?

And he can’t help it. He can’t hold it in anymore.

“I could have been your family too,” he says, and the idea leaves Sara struck on the spot. She scrambles towards him, tripping over her boots in her haste.

“Jaal, wha-”

He doesn’t let her finish. He presses a velvet box to her hand, stabilising her fall in the meantime, and Sara feels like she is about to throw up. This is such a cliche, she’s seen tens of such scenes in her TV shows and the movies. Jaal storms off, not capable of hearing her reply, of seeing her expression. He’s been carrying the cursed thing with him everywhere, for the past five years, unable to let it go. Unable to let her go.

She can’t believe this is her real life.

She died once, twice, thrice. This is worse than all that combined. 

***

Sara doesn’t show up for work the following day. If it is because of him or because the Pathfinder is having an official visit, it is unclear. As the next senior member, it falls on Jaal to welcome Scott Ryder, even if it’s mostly the other way around, the angara summoned in the Pathfinder office on the Nexus. 

Scott has always liked Jaal. He likes to believe the feelings are mutual; after all, it was him that he first came to, asking for Sara’s hand in marriage in such a traditional, human way that the younger Ryder couldn’t help but imagine it’s from Jane Austen’s novels that he got the idea. They haven’t seen much of each other since, but they’ve always been polite, kind, even friendly - ignoring the Sara-shaped space in their conversations.

It was easy for Scott: between physio to get back on his feet, Ellen’s resurrection and his training as the next Pathfinder, he only had enough time to fall in love with Cora Harper. Parental leave followed, and then his actual new title, and he all but forgot about the man that once loved his sister. It is too sad of a thing to think about, how perfectly his life fell into place, and how quickly his sister’s fell apart.

With that thought, something flits into place in Scott’s thoughts. He stops talking mid-sentence, a pleasantry or another, his smile dying on his lips. Of course his sister wouldn’t do this, she is not that selfless…. is she? Scott thinks of all the places across this galaxy that he’s been welcomed into as if he was a hero, as if he was family, and how it’s all Sara’s doing, him just an extension of her, and beloved for that fact alone. He has known all his life how darling his twin is, but the world took a long time to catch up, but he was so happy about it, that he never wondered why the change. It has always been natural for him to be liked, so he never wondered why it’s all been so easy. 

Sara Ryder gave up something of hers, for it to become his. She’s his older sister, it came as easy as breathing for her, but Scott is suddenly sick to his stomach, the worry gnawing and growing.

“Jaal,” he says, extending an arm towards him, asking without words for help.

The angara is there in a blink of an eye, his hold strong around Scott’s elbow, his eyes filled with worry.

“Are you alright, my friend?” 

“Sara,” he says, and the worry on Jaal’s face deepens, the undercurrent on his emotions like a burn against where he’s touching Scott. “I think she did something horribly kind, and horribly stupid.”

The confusion doesn’t calm, even when the concern does. 

“What are you talking about?” Jaal asks, slowly letting go once Scott stops looking like he is ready to collapse.

“I think she bought peace and our lives with her own.”

Jaal scoffs, as if the idea is absolutely demented. But then he realises, slowly, as Scott waits, that exactly because it’s such an outlandish idea, it is exactly something that Sara Ryder would do. It is his turn to stiffen with the weight of this possibility, and the human merely waves him over, the two silent as they make their way through hallways, reaching the Pathfinder office.

Jaal has never been in here before, and no trace of its former inhabitant seems to remain beyond a coffee mug, set aside on the counter. He recognises it because it’s the same one Sara used to use on the Tempest, and something tugs uncomfortably inside his stomach. Scott notices him noticing it, but he doesn’t say anything. He’s about to fall into his sister’s steps, and break this great man’s heart. 

But at least he can do it here, privately and with no one else as a witness. He can afford it, this another kindness that his sister made possible. Andromeda itself made kinder, thanks to the brainy, ratty twin of his. Scott is torn, between the immense pride he feels, and the immense grief at all she lost and missed out on in the process. He doesn’t know his sister’s dreams anymore, not something she shares freely even with him, and he hurts again, for the time and all the life lived, or not, that separates them. 

“Has Sara ever wanted to be the Pathfinder?” Scott asks, deciding to ease Jaal into the truth of it. 

The other man is sure of his answer, unsure of what the point of this conversation is. 

“No, of course not.”

“Then why has she been one for so long?” Scott asks again, shaking his head as if he is a disappointed teacher. “Why has she become the poster child of the reconstruction effort, the voice for peace, the head of humanity’s research into the Jaardan?” 

There is no easy answer for these questions now, the ramifications of her actions so big that echo across the entire galaxy, affecting every single creature in this side of the world. So much responsibility coming with it as well, and that is truly something that the Sara Ryder they know would have never picked for herself. But she did, time and time again, for five long years - for longer than that, ever since stepping foot in Andromeda. 

“What are you trying to say, Scott?” Jaal says, patient as always, but the temperature in the room feels so much colder now, his bioelectricity field pushing against the walls of this space.

“I think she was led to believe she had no other choice. I think she did it for us.” 

Jaal’s face hardens, not believing.

“There is no us grouped together in Sara Ryder’s heart.”

“There is, and it’s not just the two of us. It’s my mother, and it’s the Tempest crew, and it is every single person who said the word Pathfinder to her face. I think we all thought she was calling the shots, and all this time she’s been just the gun.”

Because if she truly was the one in charge, would she live such a pitifully smaller life than everyone else? Would she be so sad? Would she have apologised to Jaal, would she look at every child she passes with so much yearning, would she cower before answering every phone call meant for her?

Sara Ryder is not living. She is hiding. 

“Scott,” Jaal says, softly, his shoulders slumping, his chest heaving with an oncoming panic attack.

The human’s posture mirrors him, and they are two men who care too much about a woman who cares about them so much more. 

“I know,” Scott says, swallowing hard. 

He thinks of his wife and their daughter, who looks so much like Sara did when she was a baby, and he feels his heart breaking all over again. He would do anything for his family, and he didn’t think until now that his sister would do the same, just because she had until now the title he always dreamt of, and he expected her to be happy for it, even when he subconsciously knew better.

“SAM?” he calls out, and Jaal has a fleeting smile on his face, the two of them friends in some sense as well.

“Yes, Pathfinder?” the AI asks, courtesy for the one present that is not always part of him.

“Are we correct?” Scott asks, even though he is certain of his assumptions now.

SAM chuckles.

“Wouldn’t it be a shame if I just told you?” he says, sounding sad and amused at the same time, and while the confirmation vibrates inside Scott’s skull, Jaal has no way of knowing. Their AI has always been meddling in the Ryder family’s affairs, but it must know so much more than they can guess. The only other person knowing the truth is Sara herself, and SAM merely wants them to talk to her instead.

There is no one else in the entire universe better at discussing emotions than an angara, but even Jaal Ama Darav hesitates for a moment, before thanking Scott, and leaving - calmly at first, and then in more and more hurried steps, until the Pathfinder can hear the running rhythm of his boots only.

***

He knocks at first. He tries to be patient, but when there is no answer, he does something very bad indeed. He tries the code, half hoping that she listened to him and changed it, and half hoping she didn’t because then… then it will prove his heart right. 

The door opens, and he sighs, relieved.

Sara’s inside, startled as she dries her hair with a towel. 

“Sorry,I… I thought you were Scott,” she says, finding herself too underdressed, showing too much skin in shorts and a shirt. 

Jaal stares, unashamed even as she catches him, and the more time passes, the straighter her spine goes, the prouder she grows at his attention. Like a wild pyjak indeed, or a forgotten plant. He wants to hug her close, though he’s afraid of startling her even more.

“I want the full truth,” he says, and here he is, braver than her, yet again, the best man in the galaxy. “Why did you break my heart, darling?”

She hangs the towel on the back of a chair, and turns to him. On her left hand, she wears a ring with a native Havarl rock, a jewelry Jaal picked himself six years ago. He stares, and he cannot stop the shivers racking down his body. 

“You gave it to me,” she says, defensive yet.

“And is that your answer?” he replies in kind, grown cocky by not finding himself on unsure ground anymore, by knowing his feelings are returned, even if not admitted.

Her shoulders sag, as if she’s been a puppet held by invisible strings all along, now snapped. She doesn’t look at him as she starts speaking, and he doesn’t move, fearful he’ll break the magic, stop the truth from coming to light.

“I didn’t have a choice. They threatened to kill mom, Scott,” her voice breaks. “I was still Pathfinder and they didn’t want me to take sides. And I kept thinking it’ll be just one more. One more request and one more mission, and eventually they will stop asking. Eventually I could go back and make it all right with you, enjoy everything with my family. And now I have some of it, and I am too scared to enjoy it, because it can all be taken from me, just as easily as it’s been given to me. But I don’t know what to do.”

This Sara is not someone Jaal can recognise. She has been ruthless as his Pathfinder, a gun always ready to go off, and he never realised how fragile that state has been. They’ve never truly spoken after that last battle, he has no idea how it has truly affected her to not only die all over again, but feel her brother do the same, their hearts and bodies held together by the will of an illegal AI alone. Once back, happy and relieved and sad and terrified to be alive, to have the first word you hear not Welcome back, not I love you - but Do this or, Jaal cannot imagine it. He’s been celebrated for months afterward, and she’s been blackmailed, had her mother and her brother and the entire angaran species held as a sword above her neck, while she’s been walking on a tightrope trying to balance the weight of a galaxy’s future. She’s done well, all things considered.

Well for others. But where is what their hero deserves? A poorly-lit office that she never leaves? A family home on Eos that she never gets to visit? A smile that never lasts more than a moment? Jaal feels so sorry for Sara Ryder that he cannot even look at her.

“You bite the hand that fed you,” he suggests, and finally allows himself to meet her eyes.

She looks shocked, like the thought never crossed her mind. His gaze lingers, as hers steadies - and there is a tiny flicker of the old Sara in there. Or the new one, the Sara that has yet to fully emerge, but one that he thinks he will be allowed to witness flourishing. 

“I am the second human Pathfinder after all,” she says, still so much wonder in her voice, as if she never realised the power behind those words, the influence in the title, the reach in the position. 

Jaal nods, his hand moving to his buckle, untying from there a knife he received a few years ago, from a krogan that both of them call family. He presents it to her, holding the edge, hilt forward, and her fingers grasp around it with practised ease, enthusiast determination. Jaal caresses his finger against the edge as he lets go, to stop himself from reaching for Sara instead.

He places his bleeding finger against his lips, and Sara’s eyes go to his mouth. Immediately, the air tightens, a shift as both of them remember how it felt to kiss the other. 

“Thank you,” she says, the words not enough. “I l-”

“Don’t,” Jaal says.

And Sara nods, as he turns to leave.

***

“Tann,” she says, her voice loud and clear in the middle of the night. The man startles awake in his bed, feeling the weight above him, Sara’s body pinning him in place. And what a pitiful easy thing it has been, guard taken down in one move, the code something as obvious as the date he’s been made director. She didn’t even need SAM for this bit of the work.

She’s suffered for such a long time for such a pathetic man. She hates herself more than she hates him. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” he shouts, trying to struggle and failing, eyes growing wide as she holds up the knife in her hand.

He eases back in the bed, restrained for now, biding his time, trying to think his way out of this situation.

“Taking back my power,” she explains. “I thought: who will stay behind a Pathfinder that’s been so easily manipulated? And you know what the answer is? Andromeda itself, apparently.” 

Tann’s screen keeps beeping, article after article popping up, and he glances towards it for a second, before turning back to Sara. But she’s moved in the meantime, and she’s so close, the glint of the knife the most obvious thing to him now, as the cold of it bites at his neck. Tann swallows, feels its sharpness cut. 

“What have you done!?” he says, and he has the audacity to still sound like he has the upper hand in this exchange, even with the threat of pain at his neck. 

Sara would feel disappointed in his self-awareness, if she still had it in her to give a shit about the Nexus director. 

“We have galactic laws now, Jarun. We didn’t have them five years ago, but good thing they apply retroactively, no? And you were smart, I’ll give you that,” she hums. “But you don’t have a superpowered AI as your brother, do you?” 

The amusement slips in her voice, as Tann’s eyes widen. He never left the Nexus, and neither did SAM. The place and the AI, one and the same - how easy it’s been, to ask for recordings of the director blackmailing her, the soldiers whose guns have been pointed at her limp body, as she woke up after saving Andromeda; the same number at Scott’s hospital door, or ready to unplug Ellen’s cryo support. All the handwritten notes, on self-destructing material, pictures of it all saved by someone who’s always been on her side. SAM has never told her these things, he merely kept them safe and waited for Sara to be brave. To bite back. But she’s a guard dog, and she only knows how to listen to orders - she’s just found the owner who’d also caress her, feed her. 

She’s doing this for Jaal Ama Darav. This time around, the reasoning sounds true and strong, and it’s not a reminder she’s telling to herself while crying herself to sleep, while stitching up her wounds on the bathroom floor alone, because no doctor is allowed to know about the secret missions from Tann, while meeting Evfra only when her intel tells her Jaal is on Veold. 

“I sent everything to the press. And Kandros. You probably have five minutes before the militia barges in. Though, I guess I have five minutes.”

Tann tries to move then, push her arm away, but she’s been anticipating it. And one of them is a trained soldier, while the other is an office worker. He has nothing on her, and how easy it is for her to incapacitate him, Jaal’s knife now gleaming green with his blood. 

She’s not stupid enough to kill him, there are laws against it unfortunately. She merely cuts deep enough in his eye to not do any long harm, dragging with all her force down his face. It’s a  butcher’s job, but the effect is the same: a deep gash that mirrors Jaal Ama Darav’s one. And just as she predicted, the door slams to the wall, her military colleagues surrounding them, guns still pointed, though the confusion is heavy in the air.

“Saeargent,” Kandros sighs, and she imagines she’ll lose this title as well now.

She is tired of the military life, of taking orders. She’ll take her punishment and her research, and retire somewhere far away from all of it. The knife goes limp in her hold, as the adrenaline leaves her body, and all she can feel is the extreme weariness. She is so tired. 

Kandros’ men must be going through all she sent - they will see Sara Ryder continuously fail to complete the missions she’s been given, smuggling goods or people under Tann’s nose, putting herself as a buffer between the directors and the world. The only thing ruined by this blackmailing is herself: her reputation, her body and five years of her life.

At least no more. 

She waves her empty hand in the air, and Kandros sighs again but steps forward to help her up, ignoring the stain on his uniform, as his men move at the same time to incapacitate the director. Sara looks at the mingled, sobbing figure of the man she feared for so long, and she merely pities herself.

“How much to let me go free?” she asks, pushing the hair away from her face, smearing Tann’s blood against her forehead in the process.

She frowns when it starts dribbling down her face, blood catching in her eyelashes. 

“Are you blackmailing me, Ryder?” Kandros asks, and Sara laughs and laughs, leisurely walking by his side as they make their way to the station.

***

“Sara Ryder!”

She sits up straight, suddenly fearful. It doesn’t matter how old you are, really - if you hear your mother shouting your full name, you know you’re in trouble, some type of primordial awareness. She doesn’t know what she wants to do, cower in the corner of her cell, or hold on to the bars in hope, so she ends up standing awkwardly, as Ellen comes into view.

She looks dishevelled and she is still wearing her pyjamas. Sara has never felt more loved in her life.

“Mama,” she says, trying to smile but starting crying instead. 

Ellen pinches the guard’s arm, apparently fully ignorant of the gun they are carrying - though she’s been Alec Ryder’s wife for half her life, so maybe nothing phases her anymore - and she is a mother first and foremost, so the guard listens and unlocks the cell. Scott is still in the process of paying her bail, a ridiculously low sum that Kandros has set symbolically, more to show he fully agrees with Sara’s actions. 

Sara crumples in her mother’s arms, while Ellen tries to make shushing sounds, her palm rubbing soothing circles on her back. She feels like such a baby, yet the crying doesn’t stop, can’t stop - until it’s all depleted, long after Scott joined them, his arms around both their backs.

 When the older Ryder sibling raises her head, she is smiling. Scott is struck stupid by the fact that this is how his sister is supposed to have looked all this time, this a true smile. It’s been so long that he stopped being able to tell the difference - but this one right here, it is what looks best on her. 

“Welcome back, bug.”

“Shut the fuck up,” she mumbles, but shifts, hugging him a bit tighter to her.

***

I always knew there’s something fishy about that fish-looking dude. Kick ass, Pathfinder!

-Anonymanus

And this is who we call humanity’s hero? Pathetic.

-Godzilla4563

The Pathfinder saved my life once. I don’t care about this.

-WingedKrogan

Makes you think if that title was deserved in the first place, hm…

-Odyssey

Well done, Sergeant Ryder.

-Jaal Ama Darav

***

Five years ago, Tann’s goons didn’t allow anyone to go and visit the convalescent Pathfinder. That included her beloved, Jaal Ama Darav. The first time they saw each other, she was using a cane, in a crisp uniform, in front of delegations from all across the galaxy. He tried to embrace her, overwhelmed with finally seeing her, finally getting to touch her, and understand that she is alive and well. She has pushed him away, pushed through his confusion, and broken his heart.

She wasn’t cruel. The brush with death simply put things into perspective, and her emotions were always nothing but trauma and survival and adrenaline. Not real. If he simply had gotten the chance to touch her, he would have felt how cold her hands were, how hard they held onto her cane. It was all filmed, the Pathfinder now the person everyone cared about.

SAM never allowed that video to be leaked to the press. Stripped of audio first, and then eventually fully corrupted. The angara would have never told, because they felt his heart, and knew his heart. Everyone else cared too much about Sara Ryder to comment on it, and the rest were just too much of a diplomat. It was public, but not nearly as bad as it could have, as they thought it was. Jaal did not beg, did not complain. Simply walked off, stiffly and Sara stood frozen in place, staring after him long after he left the room. No one bothered her, until eventually, of course, Tann did. To congratulate her, to scare her, to remind her of everything else she has to lose.

Not anymore.

She walks, but eventually it turns into a run, trying to catch up with his location. He is near the landing port, most likely waiting for Evfra’s arrival as they’ll be voting for a new director. When she is near enough, she shouts.

“Jaal!”

He turns, his heart beating hard and loud in his chest. She has braided the material of his rofjinn in her hair, and he steps towards her, his entire body buzzing. It’s public, quite a few handful of people now openly staring at them, but he cannot look away from her. She’s beautiful and, he suspects, finally his.

When they’re close enough, he finally allows himself something he wanted to do since their first reunion, and he takes the end of her braid in his hands, the passage of time written in its growth. 

“Tell me a truth,” he asks, a mere whisper.

“You’re the only thing I think I got right,” Sara says, glancing a brief look at the screen where the news keeps replaying her other mistakes. “You make me brave, Jaal Ama Darav. And I don’t want to ever live another day afraid. Will you be mine?”

“There was no doubt I’m already yours. Yes.”

And she leans up on her tiptoes, her palm caressing his scarred cheek, and kisses him.

[krotecho]

Some master post, I think

Something about me and what can be expected here. But be always expecting unexpected!

My fandoms (I can assure you it'll be more):

Graveyard Keeper

ROTTMNT (Honestly all tmnt, but this one especially)

Wander over yonder

Gravity falls

Zamonia series (How do I even call it? Never saw it in the wild actually)

Don't Starve

Undertale

VALORANT

Ranger's Apprentice

Over the garden wall

Slime rancher

Deep rock galactic

Devil may cry

Yugioh

Assassin's creed

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When that's out of the way, Hi, I'm Echo. Here is my blog, that I don't really know the purpose of. I post my art from time to time and maybe some of my writing. I'm twenty (Stars, it feels so weird to write it) and in uni. I regret my decision everyday in this second semester, mostly my yearmates make me regret it.

Besides my private life, that I'll totally overshare with time, this here is going to be in good part NSFW. I'll do more tame works obviously, but I just want to work with NSFW, mostly out of curiosity. That's why any minors interacting with my blog I ask to be careful. I don't want minors on my NSFW. Come back when you hit that 18.

My DMs are open, anon asking is too I believe, I'm planning on making requests and commissions (even if they would be free for now as I'm learning and wouldn't feel comfortable charging anything). You can also just talk with me, I don't bite :3 Unless you into that

We have an introduction behind now, you can call me just Echo btw, now for what I do. I do fanfics for now, buuut I started as original creator. How turns tabled. I still try, but for now I'm focusing on my fanfics, which can (or could) be found on ao3, Wattpad and Quotev. It's a bit messy, since I have limited resources in my dorm room, so there are no covers for Wattpad so no published fics, still new to Quotev so also messy. I'll eventually get to it. I promise

But I'm drifting from what I wanted to do. My plans, projects, near future works. I'm in too deep almost dead fandoms, someone got to keep 'em alive at that point. And I'm here to entertain. Even if it is like two people

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Works in progress or a little less in progress

° "Scaly Heart" - fanfiction from Graveyard keeper. It's Snake x reader. (I'm not sorry for anything) Reader is a just (a)normal person, living their life in the Village peacefully, untill they cross paths with the cultist. Truly normal person would give up and would just avoid it in the future. But if we made good life decisions we would not be here. It's a slow burn and author is not happy about it, eventually there will be smut so kids, keep your distance. Not out yet, working on realeasing it as soon as possible. But uni is a pain in the ass. It'll be on ao3, Wattpad and probably Quotev

° "My emotional support cultist" - one shots collection from Graveyard keeper. It's rated M, because there are sugestive themes. Or full blown smut if I finally write it. There is 1 one shot for now, I'm working on more, since I have a little idea I need to shake off my head. You can find it on ao3, Wattpad and Quotev

° "Unknown diesease" - my original project, in my native languange (polish). Two princes forced into arranged marriage, one of them is dying from a sickness no doctor in a kingdom was able to diagnose. Slow burn, gay romance, with a pinch of trauma, abuse and medical gore in the background (Will be undergoing a correction. It's shit. You're free to read it tho, if you know polish) It's on ao3 and Wattpad, but I'm not sure if it should be on ao3

° "Controled chaos" - Wander over yonder fanfic. It's Commander Peepers x male!Reader. There are more vibes, than plot in that moment, sorry. When semester ends I will have more time for writing so... It'll be on ao3 and Wattpad for sure ° "Personalny czyściec" - my original stuff in polish. I write some short stories or prompts, I though I could post it, no harm in that. Some of them will or could be start point for longer stories. But I need to get meds for that, since my attention span is wild. It's only on Wattpad

° "Igelkott" - original project based on my idea from eighth grade. It's in polish, not published yet (not even close). Story is about a shapeshifter Rhys, that one day is forced to take care of a ten year old. Little does he know, that kid will fix his life and force world to give him a chance. It's fluffly mostly, with a bit grim tone at first, of course it's also dark later, because of the themes I wrote, and they are graphic. But it is mostly about healing, breaking the cycle kind of, dealing with trauma and just oneself. When I post it more coherent summary and warnings will be there.

° The rest is pure vibes only for now, so I'll be updating as I go

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Some rules here

No hateful comments or reblogs. Shit on me all you want but if I see any anti-lgbtq+, racist or anything like this comment, I am deleting it and blocking whoever wrote it. I may shame that person publicly, but it's not the point to harrass people.

Constructive critisicm is welcomed, I finally need to learn how to take it.

I mentioned it before, but minors beware. I'm going for heavily NSFW content. Hell, my blogs background is an attempt at that. So I'm not fully banning minors from here, because I'll also make SFW things, but don't want anyone trying to incriminate me with something later.

Be normal in DMs and anon asks, please. I'm not normal but that's my brand. I have a pass. I have good tolerance for weirdness, but I don't want to deal with problems that may occur from being too silly.

Creeps begone. I'm mostly having arts for adults for now, but some media have children/teenagers I plan on drawing (NOT NSFW). So please if you are like this, just fucking evacuate your sorry ass from here.

About requests and commissions, all I want to say is, be respectful. I'm not your private artist pet, to draw your silly things for you (It would be a fire job, though). Or write one shots, for that I also would gather requests. I'd be honored to draw/write something for people, but don't feel entitled to my work. That's honestly everything I want to say for that.

I'll try marking triggering things, but don't come at me with pitchforks if I forget. I'm forgetful little gremlin. Just dm me or leave a comment and I'll fix it, when I can

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That would be roughly all of things I think are important. So, take care, stay and play safe, see you in the wild somewhere, maybe :3

[leggerefiore]

Team Galactic, grunts and commanders alike, being perplexed by Cyllene the 2nd/Cyllene Junior and the whole base going ham after Cyrus brings her to work.

You know Team Galactic would have been internal conflicts i.e. a very messy fandom war over Cyrus being a "knows what sex is, does not fuck," or a "knows what sex is, does fuck," kind of guy (clearly Saturn and Mars fall into the latter). The poor baby girl is evidence that Cyrus does fuck (at least occassionally).

The highly inappropriate and unprofessional gossip does not end with this discovery though. The Cyrus-fuckers within the organization now need to know HOW he fucks, for science of course, and heated discussion is part of the learning process.

The idea of the little lady being born post-PLA is cute, being named after the ancestor who set Cyrus on the right path and gave the reader a chance to prove herself worthy. Though her being born beforehand and Cyrus and/or reader realizing in retrospect that they made a fantastic choice in naming her after the good captain is also good.

A secret 3rd option is for the baby to be born in Hisui, named after her "cousin".

High Five Anon

Saturn has to excuse himself. He's so mad someone else got Cyrus's dick before him and then even somehow further convinced him to have a kid. There's no way that child was an accident, the Galactic Boss is too careful to make an error like that. This is a completely unfair world. He is Cyrus's favourite commander, too! Catboy enraged.

Former group of no fucking is more correct alas. He doesn't Fuck often. It's too much for him, but there are moments when base instinct and how restrictive emotions break free in him and he needs some physical contact with his partner. Poor guy still isn't really liking the whole Emotions thing.

Is Jupiter opposed to Mars's and Saturn's views? Just ugly fandom war even among the commanders. (Charon doesn't care since he isn't a True Cyrus Fan™️.) Mars is going full "I told you so" on Jupiter since Saturn is too busy fuming to do it himself.

Cyrus heard this and was still not caring enough to put a stop to it. He just covers Cyllene's little ears. Such filth needn't bother her. She just babbles and coos at her father in return, warming his usually cold heart.

Saturn firmly stands in his point Cyrus likes kinky shit. "I mean we do call him Master Cyrus..." Mars argues he probably doesn't do much work in bed since he just seems like the "softer" type. They are now in a petty squabble amongst themselves.

He, actually, is pretty lazy in bed and doesn't really have any kinks because he rarely regards sex in his mind. There are times he prefers a more dominant type of action, but usually, he's just going along with whatever his partner likes.

I think normal Cyrus post-giving up his plans names his daughter after Cyllene because he definitely pulled his team's insignia from her somehow. He just could not think of a good name and after seeing how much his child unfortunately favoured him named her after his ancestor. It worked out well since it fit her.

The Hisui au Cyrus 100% named her after the captain. A form of respect to her kindness and care for both him and his partner in their time in the past. He does not want her memory lost to time and tells his daughter endless stories about Cyllene, so she knows how name-sake was a powerful, brave woman.

Her being born in Hisui, though, and named after Cyllene actually flusters the captain secretly. She truly was frozen when you both announced the pregnancy to her and then again when the child was actually born. A little girl you both instantly agreed to name after her. She feels so warm inside to know her impact on you both was positive and lasting enough for you to name your child after her.

Now, she also secretly really wants to hold the baby and is awkwardly standing in the infirmary until her willpower gives out. (Cyrus and you invite her to, and she is instantly charmed by her decades' down descendant. Such a tiny face and hands and little tufts of blue hair. It makes her excited for whenever she will start her own family.)

[aquietwritingcorner]

Who Did This to You?

Title: Who Did This to You? Day: Febuwhump Day 15 Prompt:   Who Did This to You? Fandom:  TMNT 2003, Fast Forward Word Count:   Author: aquietwritingcorner/realitybreakgirl Rating:  T Characters: Agent John Bishop, Donatello Warning: NA Summary: Bishop is used to knowing exactly what is happening and when it is happening. So, when he catches word that Donatello is in the hospital and that his family brought him there from off-world, he’s irritated that he knows nothing about it. But what he finds out is more shocking than he expected.    Notes: There is something very interesting about writing good-guy Bishop, because there are still bad-guy Bishop bases there, and its interesting to see how they weave together.   ff.net || AO3

__________________________________

Who Did This to You?

Even though he was the president of the Pan-Galactic Alliance, John Bishop still tried to keep himself aware of what was going on. He was aware of the criminal underworld. He knew of the black market. He paid attention to piracy. However, matters of state often demanded his attention, and he ended up paying more attention to backhanded compliments in interplanetary treaties and diplomatically phrased insults between members of the alliance then he did the illegal activity that was happening.

And then the turtles had arrived.

In hindsight, this explained a lot about the change in behavior and attitude that they had. They had gone missing for a year, and when they came back, something had shifted, although he had never quite been sure what. Now he knew. But, as usual, their mere presence suddenly made things more complicated and more involved than he would have thought possible—had he not known better, that was. Now, he kept his ear to the ground a bit more, never knowing what they might be involved in.

Yet, somehow, he had missed this latest development for at least a week, an oversight that he was going to correct. It was sloppy, and he couldn’t afford to be sloppy, especially not where these four were concerned. President Bishop stalked through the hallways of the hospital, practically stewing at both the situation and at his lack of awareness. It was unacceptable.

So far, all he knew was that Donatello had been captured by an unknown someone, taken to an unknown place, his brothers had gone to rescue him, and he had been injured to the point of needing hospitalization when they recovered him. His sources also told him that, whatever had happened to him, it had left the turtle in need of rehabilitation, and that something had happened to his brain.

Bishop knew that Donatello would be fine, in time. He was fine in the past, which means that he would recover from whatever had happened to him. But the fact that it had happened? And under his watch? That, Bishop was not happy about.

He didn’t bother knocking when he got to Donatello’s room, the door being slightly open and voices coming from within. He just opened it, perhaps a touch too quickly, and scanned the room.

“What happened.” He demanded it instead of asking, as if they were his underlings, and he tried to reign himself in. It was all too easy to fall into familiar patterns with these five.

They reacted to it, tensing up, with Leonardo and Raphael moving in front of Donatello’s bed, Michelangelo moving closer to Donatello, who was maskless and propped up in the bed, and Splinter moving in front of them all.

Bishop took a breath and reigned himself back in. “Apologies. I’m not used to finding things out well after the fact.”

The tension remained for a moment, but when Splinter relaxed a bit, so, too, did the others.

“We did not think to inform you,” Splinter said. “I am sure that you can understand why we did not.”

Considering their past together, Bishop could well understand it. He wasn’t quick to completely trust aliens even after his turn around. “No, it’s understandable,” Bishop agreed.

He watched as Donatello murmured something, and Michelangelo turned to him, as if to calm him, and brought a glass to him. Donatello attempted to take the glass, but his hands were shaky and uncooperative, and Michelangelo had to help him. Bishop frowned at that.

“What I don’t know, is what happened to him,” Bishop said.

“Hey—Donnie’s still here,” Raphael said, an edge to his voice. “Stop talking about him like he ain’t.”

Bishop glanced at Raphael, and then at Donatello. “My apologies,” he said. He stepped a little closer to Donatello. “How are you feeling, Donatello?”

Donatello looked at him and blinked. He opened his mouth, and then stopped for a moment, his lips setting in a thin line for a moment. No one said anything, waiting for him to speak.

“…Better,” the turtle finally said. “I can do more. The re-re-re—”

“Rehab,” Michelangelo said softly.

“…Rehab is helping,” Donatello said. “I can do more, um, things.” He leaned his head back on the pillows again. “…head still hurts,” he said. He paused a moment and squinted at Bishop. “…still piecing mem-mem-mem—”

“Memories,” Michelangelo said.

“…memories together,” Donatello said.

“I see,” Bishop said. The entire exchange was not informative but was concerning, and Bishop glanced over at Splinter again.

“The doctors say that his nervous systems received enough shocks to it, that it is misfiring,” Splinter said. “And that is why he is having trouble. However, he is recovering. Donatello has much improved, and quickly as well. The doctors say that he should recover his physical health, that the stutter should go away, and that most of his memories should return.”

Bishop nodded and swept his eyes over the turtle. From what he could see of him, he looked relatively unharmed, except for some bandages on his temples. So, what had caused the shocks?

Bishop addressed his question to Donatello. “How did this happen?” he asked.

Donatello blinked at him for a moment, and then responded with a simple phrase. “Mind Probe.”

Shock ran through Bishop, and he immediately straightened up. “Mind probe?” he repeated. “Triceriton mind probe?”

Donatello nodded. “Hurt worse than last time.”

“Last time?” Bishop asked, incredulous. “This happened to you before? When?”

“When, um,” Don’s brow furrowed. “Invasion. In our time,” he said.

“It happened when he was captured by the Triceritons back in our time, when they invaded. Same day as when we met you, actually,” Leonardo said. “From what I understand, though, Don managed to short it out before if finished.”

“And he had no ill effects then?” Bishop pressed.

“He had a migraine for three days and was a little slower at things, at least for him,” Raph said. “He had scars at his temples and forgot a few things.” He narrowed his eyes at Bishop again. “Why?”

Bishop let out a breath. He had vastly underestimated the resilience of these four, and particularly of Donatello. How much damage had been done then? How much now? How much more could he have done if he didn’t have brain damage from that probe? And he had to have at least some brain damage from it. No one escaped the Triceriton Mind Probe unscathed.

“The Triceriton Mind Probe is considered one of the worst torture devices in the galaxies. It’s banned in most of them, including this one, and the Pan-Galactic Alliance, specifically,” Bishop said. “The device sits on the head and sends nano filaments into the brain that activate the memory cells and transmit that data back to the device. This often overstimulates the brain cells and damages them. If the victim survives the process, they’re usually left with extensive brain damage, often becoming little more than a vegetable. It’s also said to be incredibly painful.”

Everyone in the room looked horrified, except Donatello, who just looked thoughtful. “Y-yeah,” he said into the quiet that filled the room. “…’most as bad as my second mu-mu-mu—”

“Mutation,” Michelangelo murmured.

“…mutation,” Donatello finished.

“The fact that you were coherent at all after the first time is, quite frankly, a miracle,” Bishop said.

Donatello shook his head. “It didn’t finish the first t-t-t—”

“Time,” Michelangelo filled in.

“—time. M-Master Splinter sh-shorted it out,” Donatello said.

Bishop looked over at the old rat. “I wasn’t aware that you had been onboard the Tribase at that time.”

“I wasn’t,” Splinter said. “I was in our home, meditating to find my sons. I felt Donatello call out to me and reached out to join my mind with his. I guided him, and together we shorted out the device. As soon as that happened, I lost contact with him until I came to rescue my sons from you,” he explained.

“Hm,” Bishop’s brow creased as he thought. “And you say after that, Donatello suffered from an intense migraine?”

“Yes,” Splinter said. “And, for a time, what we suspect were small seizures, although we did not know it then. He would stare blankly and remember nothing of it afterwards.”

“He also lost some memories,” Michelangelo said. “Mostly of early things, from when we were kids, but still.”

Bishop nodded. “The memory loss is to be expected. I wouldn’t be too surprised by the seizures, either. But still, the fact Donatello was able to function as well as he did even after a partial session is… impressive. The fact that he’s doing as well as he is now after a full session with the Mind Probe is, quite frankly, miraculous.”

“M-m-more powerful,” Donatello said.

Bishop’s attention snapped to the injured turtle. “What?” he said, his voice low.

“M-m-more powerful,” he repeated. “The doctors s-s-said it—it—it—”

Donatello suddenly looked pained, and Bishop could see a tremble start up in him. Raphael moved towards his side, reaching out to him.

“Easy, bro, just breathe through it,” he said. “It’ll be over in a few moments.”

“The doctors said that the reason he’s affected so much physically is because this Mind Probe was more powerful than the average one,” Leonardo said. “Mentally…” Leo grimaced, looking at his brother as the attack passed and Raphael and Michelangelo leaned him back. “The doctors say that there is a lot of damage. They can repair a lot of it, but some of it might be permanent.” He looked over at his brother again, his brow furrowing. “We don’t know what this means for him long-term.”

Bishop did. Or, at least, he partially did. He knew that the Donatello he faced in the past was more than back to full strength, in both body and mind, and perhaps even more formidable than the one that he had known before they came to the future. He didn’t know how he got there from this.

Time paradoxes gave him the worst headaches.

“Has he been given cognitive tests?” Bishop asked.

Splinter nodded. “They have given us the results. He is above average; however, he is no where near where we know he can be,” the old rat said, passing the results over to Bishop.

Bishop looked at them. This was… far below where Donatello should be functioning. Yes, he was, for an average person, functioning well. But Bishop knew that Donatello was far from average. Flipping through the chart, he saw that it held other information about Donatello’s condition. His anger burned as he saw all of the damage that Donatello’s nervous system had suffered, how he had been absolutely unresponsive when he was brought in, how he had fought for his improvement.

Bishop sat the chart down. He would not allow this. He would not allow someone who would use these methods in his jurisdiction. He would not allow someone so brutal to exist when he could make sure they didn’t.

Donatello was still awake, Raphael and Michelangelo still fussing over him.

“Donatello,” Bishop called out. “I need to know. Who did this to you?”

Donatello looked up at him, still trembling, still breathing hard, but meeting his eyes. “B-b-boss Zu..Zukko,” he said without hesitation.

Bishop nodded. “You won’t have to worry about him again,” he said, and turned to walk out of the room. Yet he paused just before the door. “Oh. And work hard, Donatello. I’m positive that if you do, you’ll recover just fine.”

With that less-than-cryptic message, Bishop left the hospital room.  He was still seething, but this time, at least, he had a target. This time he knew where he could aim his ire. Boss Zukko and his entire organization were going down, as was anyone associated with him.

And then he’d set Stockman on the problem of restoring Donatello.

It was the least either of them could do.

But first? Boss Zukko would learn what it meant to use devices such as those in Bishop’s Alliance.

[aliataalhalag]

First time we've eaten bread in months.❤️‍🩹😔

Donation link to save my family.🥹❤️‍🩹👇👇

🙏❤️‍🩹 https://gofund.me/2c18ce36 ❤️‍🩹🙏

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[the-most-humble-blog]

<div style="white-space:pre-wrap"> He was 2 feet tall and still made the entire Jedi Council his bitch. He didn’t whine. He didn’t simp. He didn’t fall. He just outlived everyone who ever doubted him.

Reblog if you’ve ever been humbled by the short green king. Scroll if you think “midichlorians” are a valid personality trait.

YodaIsHIM 🧘‍♂️🛡️

</div>

<!-- BEGIN TRANSMISSION // BLACKSITE SCROLLTRAP: YODA SUPREMACY EDITION -->

&lt;div style="white-space:pre-wrap"&gt;

&lt;meta master-tier="confirmed"&gt;

&lt;script&gt;

ARCHIVE_TAG="YODA_SUPREMACY::CHOSEN_ONE_DISPUTE_RESOLVED"

EFFECT: short king canonization, Jedi council collapse, Force-induced fandom seizure

TRIGGER_WARNING="rage scrolltrap, master-level disrespect, timeline heresy"

&lt;/script&gt;

🧠 BLACKSITE SCROLLTRAP — “...AND ANOTHER THING , F*CKERS: YODA WAS THE ONE TOO.”

**I'm not done yet folk's, cause y'all are still out here disrespecting Yoda.**

You can cry about Anakin.

You can write your Luke Skywalker fanboy essays.

You can choke on your own Jedi nostalgia like a Padawan who got force-thrown into a brick wall mid-lesson—

But Yoda?

**Yoda was the f*cking Chosen One.**

You ever serve 900 years straight,

deal with thousands of whiny Jedi-influencers,

survive two Sith regimes,

a Senate breakdown,

a galactic civil war,

and still have time to ***train your replacement***

after you ***died?***

Because he did.

—

For nine straight centuries,

this swamp-smelling, syntax-warping, galaxy-stabilizing short king

held the ***moral, mystical, and psychological center***

of an entire collapsing universe.

He didn’t need prophecy.

He didn’t need plot armor.

He didn’t even need ***normal sentence structure.***

He just needed the Force,

a cane,

and a room full of amateurs

to make cry on command.

—

💥 Let’s talk facts:

Anakin got sad and torched a temple.

Luke got overwhelmed and ghosted his own nephew.

Obi-Wan aged 45 years in a cave with no Wi-Fi.

Yoda?

📌 Got betrayed by everyone,

📌 Survived Order 66,

📌 Went underground,

📌 *AND STILL TRAINED THE LAST HOPE OF THE GALAXY WITH ZERO COMPLAINTS.*

You really out here calling Anakin the Chosen One

because a half-baked prophecy said so?

Yoda *lived it.*

He *earned it.*

And he ***never*** asked for applause.

—

🧪 BREAKDOWN FOR THE DENSE:

Chosen is not a title.

It’s a responsibility.

Chosen is not prophecy.

It’s *pattern.*

900 years.

Of guiding.

Of leading.

Of ***not once*** letting the dark side pull his strings.

He saw the rise and fall of civilizations

and didn’t flinch.

He ***held the Jedi Order together with one hand***

and ***slapped Sith egos with the other.***

—

🚨 Remember when he fought Palpatine in the Senate chamber?

While Anakin was busy losing his limbs like a badly made Lego set,

Yoda was ***taking the fight to the dark throne itself.***

Flipping through galactic bureaucracy like it owed him child support.

And when the Force said “Pull back,”

he didn’t rage.

He didn’t cry.

He didn’t blame democracy.

He vanished.

And meditated.

For *years.*

Because ***Yoda doesn’t run.***

He ***repositions.***

—

He didn’t just ***fight evil.***

He ***endured the loss of everything he built***

without breaking character.

Without burning bridges.

Without turning emo and posting cryptic Sith poetry on space Tumblr.

Anakin couldn’t handle one dream about Padmé and lost his mind.

Yoda lost his entire species,

his Order,

his friends,

his culture,

his temple,

his council —

and ***still kept mentoring.***

—

👑 You want royalty?

Yoda *wasn’t a warrior by default.*

He *chose peace.*

He *chose patience.*

He *chose wisdom, every time — even when it hurt.*

He could have *easily* become a Sith god

with the knowledge and force power he had.

He could’ve started the “Yoda Republic”

and ruled from a thrown-together lava spa on Mustafar.

But he didn’t.

Because ***discipline > delusion.***

Because ***legacy > lightsaber tricks.***

Because ***service > self.***

—

And don’t get me started on the fandom.

You call him boring?

Too cryptic?

Not flashy enough?

That’s because you don’t understand ***restraint.***

Yoda didn’t need an arc.

He *was* the arc.

He didn’t change.

The galaxy did.

And ***he stayed the same.***

Because when the world spirals,

you don’t need relatability.

You need ***a rock.***

He was ***that rock.***

—

💫 FINAL RANKING (No Debate Edition):

1. Yoda

2. Pain

3. The guy who trained Yoda (we don’t even know his name and he’s scared of Yoda)

4. The Force itself

5. Everyone else crying on Reddit

—

So here’s your friendly scrolltrap reminder:

🗣️ **Yoda didn’t die. He became myth.**

🗣️ **Yoda didn’t lose. He transitioned.**

🗣️ **Yoda didn’t age. He ascended.**

He is the blueprint.

He is the foundation.

He is the ***embodiment of the Jedi Code*** when everyone else treated it like a mood board.

So next time you bring up Chosen Ones

in your little thinkpiece or your Sith-friendly podcast?

Say his name.

***Yoda.***

🧠 Read more Force-corrective literature and galactic mythos doctrine at:

👉 https://linktr.ee/ObeyMyCadence

🛡️ Jedi gospel. Short king scripture. Scrolltrap flame canon.

🚪 Warning: This post may trigger prophecy rewrites, canon grief, and light-saber envy.

📊 GALACTIC WISDOM METRICS 📊

• Years served: 900

• Students trained: too many

• Enemies survived: all

• Betrayals endured: countless

• Times he complained: never

• Number of lightsabers needed: one

• Chosen status confirmed: permanently

&lt;/div&gt;

&lt;!-- END TRANSMISSION [HIM, YODA IS.] --&gt;

[sachyriel]

This post contains minor and major spoilers, minor about Conrad, major about TIM. Viewer discretion is advised.

Conrad Verner is obsessed with Commander Shepard. That's not the spoiler, that's like the main pillar of the character everyone knows. Conrad seeks your approval, wants to be like you, even as far as recruiting for Cerberus in ME3 (that's a spoiler but not the spoiler I mean). He's recruiting for Cerberus in 3 cause you were working for them in 2, he uhhh, didn't get the memo.

The Illusive Man is also obsessed with Shepard. He literally moves mountains of cash to bring you back from the dead. He also seeks your approval, especially [MAJOR SPOILER] at the end of ME3 on the Citadel when he's trying to argue for controlling the Reapers. That's what drives him, he wants to control the Reapers, sure, but if you're a Goody-two shoes he ends up giving up, Saren style *cough cough*.

Now you maybe thinking Conrad Verner and The illusive Man are so different in position that they could not be further apart. Conrad Verner is a bum trying to impress people with his Shepard Fandom, TIM is the head of a galactic underground terrorist organization with enough sway to bend the law when they need to (or break it if it they can't). How can they be so similar? TIM got to be the head of Cerberus by his cunning and ruthlessness, but in his drive to bring Shepard back, you think Conrad wouldn't have done the same thing in TIM's place?

TIM is very smart, you don't get to be head terrorist of a galactic underground org without having a good head on your shoulders.

[MINOR SPOILER] Doctor Conrad Verner is a doctor. "A doctor honey" - Turanga Leela, wait wrong series. But I feel people underestimate Conrad. He's gota good head on his shoulders, he's a Doctor in Xenotechnology and Dark Energy Integration. If TIM knew this guy he'd hire him on the spot, instead Conrad likely got recruited by some local schmuck who didn't care about his education. TIM would have looked at that resume and locked Conrad into some outpost where he could do Dark Matter stuff and Xenotechnology research, to be fed as many pictures of Shepard as he wants.

But I think Conrad Verner and The Illusive Man are more alike than people used to think. Now that I've said my piece, you will tell me I am correct because you are INDOCTRINATED.

[sarcasticsciencefictionwriter]

@galactic-pirates thanks so much for the tag!! ❤️❤️❤️

1. How many works do you have on ao3?

77, currently. Participating in my first October in fandom really boosted my numbers. Most are Stargate SG-1 stories.

2. What’s your total ao3 word count?

400,661.

I thought it would actually be higher, but I've only been on AO3 since May of this year, so...

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Sanctuary (22) and Stargate SG-1 (53) , currently. My two favorite fandoms and I'm really trying to boost my Sanctuary numbers since I've burst on to the scene of a such a small fandom I love.

I have written an X-Files story, but I don't plan on writing more.

I did write for Fantastic Beasts (3) a few years ago and posted my old works because I was proud of my writing, but I'm not currently in that fandom.

4. What are your top five fics by kudos?

Flufftober really changed my numbers, so this is my brand-new tally. All of them are Sam/Jack one-shots. (Hence the short summaries)

One Snowy Day (Stargate SG-1, Flufftober) - 53

Off-planet, Sam comes down with a cold.

Two Kinds of Sparks (Stargate SG-1, Tumblr request) - 52

Sam Carter owns her own mechanic shop, struggling to get by. Her day gets a lot more interesting when a mystery man comes into her shop for repairs.

One Rainy Day (Stargate SG-1, Flufftober) - 51

On a rainy day off-planet, Sam and Jack hang out in a tent.

Blue Jell-O (Stargate SG-1, Flufftober) - 48

Five times Jack didn't eat blue jell-o and one time he did.

Oops (Stargate SG-1, Flufftober) - 46

Sam accidentally injures Jack.

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

My policy is always to respond to comments, because I very much appreciate getting them and want to express my gratitude to the people who took the time to leave a comment.

My one, new exception is one particular user. I've started ignoring them after seeing they were continuing toxic behavior (that I didn't recognize when it was aimed towards me) towards a fellow writer and friend. (I will elaborate under the hate question)

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Oof, I write a lot of angst and whump, but I try not to leave off with an angsty ending and I have a lot of on-going stories that aren't going to have 'happy' endings when I get there. Hmm....

I'd have to say right now it would have to be 'You Said You'd Never Leave' (Sanctuary), because that involved canonical whump and angst. 'The Last of the Tau'ri' (Stargate SG-1) probably also counts, but since it was a crossover/rewrite based off 'The Last of Us' with the characters, I don't count it as being *my* ending.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Here comes this question right after Flufftober. Ha! (I now have many fluff endings).

Probably 'To Love is to Hurt' (Fantastic Beasts), but I'm a little reluctant on that one, though it does involve fluff, healing, and a baby.

'First Night' (Sanctuary) involves so much family feels, though, I have to slip that one in there too.

8. Do you get hate on fic?

Now this is complicated. I once had a reader tell me they wanted to block me for my story 'Laundry Day' because I disgusted them.

Other than that, as I previously mentioned, I have had problems with a toxic reader/commentor. They have (sometimes) told me I did good on a story, but then immediately try to tie each Sanctuary story into their precise view of canon, and correct me when I didn't fall into that, editing their comments upwards of a dozen times.

They used language such as 'I was surprised by this, but I'm okay with it' and 'I thought you put this in here because you just really liked this in Sanctuary, not because it lined up with the crossover' and 'You have become repetitive in your dynamic' followed by 'You have succeeded in surpassing your roadblock' on the next chapter.

So, it wasn't *hate* precisely, but most definitely very toxic/bullying behavior that I didn't recognize until I wanted to explode in defense of a friend.

9. Do you write smut?

Nope. I wouldn't know where to start.

10. Do you write crossovers?

Yes, I do!

My story 'Come Now, Little One...' (Stargate SG-1/Sanctuary) is a story about Sam Carter being Helen Magnus's biological daughter and being raised in the Sanctuary Network before joining the SGC.

'Tesla's Moving Castle' is a Sanctuary/Howl's Moving Castle crossover that is so much fun.

'The Abnormal X-File' (Sanctuary/The X-Files) is about Mulder and Scully discovering the Five and the Sanctuary Network.

I have many other ideas I haven't gotten down yet.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I am aware of.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

No that I am aware of.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Not yet, but I would love to do so in my chosen fandoms with authors I'm familiar with/are familiar with me!

My sometimes-beta has proposed co-writing, though, so it may happen sometime soon.

14. What’s your all-time favourite ship?

Probably Sam/Jack if you look at my works. They're great. But I also refuse to choose between Helen/John and Helen/Nikola because they are great for different reasons. I'm actually new to shipping, so I stand by these for the moment.

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but probably won’t?

I don't publish without being certain I'm going to finish, so...probably my unpublished WIP about Sam Carter and Jonas Hansen, because I really don't know how to write that.

16. What are your writing strengths?

I would have to say my determination to finish my stories is probably my biggest strength. I've abandoned many (original) works in the past and I don't want to continue that, so I keep going, even when it's very hard.

I'm also pretty good at angst and whump and have lots of ideas.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

A lot.

I struggle with description of emotions and background, to the point where I'm always afraid my stories are lacking even when I'm very happy with them.

Fluff has been difficult for me (hence my undertaking of Flufftober) and I always feel my happy writing is forced.

I also overthink far too much.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

I've sprinkled in a little bit and I would love to do it more, but I don't have access to anything other than Google Translate for most languages, so I'm hesitant to do so because I don't want to be wrong or disrespectful.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Warrior Cats. I never have (and never will) publish anything for it and I wrote it before I knew fanfiction was even a thing. I was a kid and obsessed with the battle kitties. I must have been around 10 at the time.

The first fandom I knowingly wrote a fanfiction for was Fantastic Beasts after the second movie was released.

20. Favourite fic you’ve written?

Cruel to make me choose. 'The Abnormal X-File' is one of the pieces I'm proudest of, so it falls there because I'm rarely so proud of my writing. 'Bleeding Through the Blue' (Sanctuary, WIP) and 'Mind Over Matter' (Stargate SG-1, WIP) also fall in there.

Tagging @electricrogue, @wittywallflower, @lanistas, @misscrazyfangirl321, and @tina-mairin-goldstein

The questions!

1. How many works do you have on ao3?

2. What’s your total ao3 word count?

3. What fandoms do you write for?

4. What are your top five fics by kudos?

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

8. Do you get hate on fic?

9. Do you write smut?

10. Do you write crossovers?

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

14. What’s your all-time favourite ship?

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but probably won’t?

16. What are your writing strengths?

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

19. First fandom you wrote for?

20. Favourite fic you’ve written?

[deepfang-dreamer]

Mass Effect 3 Ending Rant(Spoilers, obviously)

Note: Sorry if I come off as too agressive to Destroy fans. At the end of the day, it's the player's choice, and I understand why you might pick it, even if I disagree on every level. Anyway:

The general fandom consensus seems to be that the best ME3 ending is Destroy, even for Paragon Shepards who brokered peace between the Rannochians. I say Destroy is the worst choice save for Refusal, because it's a betrayal of everything Shepard fought for and proves the Catalyst right. The Catalyst, and therefore the Reapers, operate off of the flawed logic that Organics and Synthetics are doomed to wipe each other out, so they preserve species before that point is reached. By choosing Destroy, Shepard throws the Geth(if allied) into the fire, spitting on Legion's sacrifice, killing EDI, a direct friend and Joker's partner, killing any other unknown S.I. species or individuals in the entire Milky Way that had nothing to do with this Cycle's Reaper War. It's genocide, plain and simple. By choosing Destroy, Shepard fundamentally sees Synthetic life as less valuable than Organic, even if only by a little, and their message and values of unity and standing as one against the Reapers are proven untrue even as they prove the Reaper's ideology correct, that flesh and machine will always destroy one another. Synthesis is cheesy, but it is, according to what little we're told of it, a genuine utopic state for the Milky Way, an Era of enlightenment and peace. Control makes Shepard, or a clone of them, take the burden onto their own shoulders, no-one else affected by their choice. People love saying, "who could stop them if they went rouge?". No indication Catalyst!Shepard will ever lose control. The first Catalyst never did. And unless your Shepard is pure Renegade, why is it an issue for them to rule? Paragon Control Shep is the most qualified God-Monarch in Galactic history. It's rarer nowadays, but people still bring up the Indoctrination theory, as if that doesn't invalidate Destroy as well since you trust the Catalyst saying Red kills Reapers. People love to say Saren advocated Synthesis, when he didn't. Big difference between: "Is submission not preferable to extinction" and "Everyone held hands and frolicked together". People also like saying EDI and the Geth can just be rebuilt, displaying how little they really care about Synthetic life. If I bomb Earth into asteroids and release a Quantum Virus to wipe out any offworld Humans, I can just clone them all back, right? It's fine, they're remade, totally excuses the atrocity I just committed. Imagine if Destroy wiped out the main 3 Council species, or maybe the Krogan. Would you be okay watching Garrus and Liara die? Knowing Mordin's sacrifice and Wrex's dream come true at last were all for nothing? Destroy is the choice of the shortsighted, those who think the only way the Reaper War ends is with a bullet to the head of every one and don't consider the consequences of their actions.

[adventuregirl2023]

Galactic Gatherings: Planning the Ultimate Star Wars Day Bash

Introduction

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, Star Wars captivated the hearts of fans across the universe. Celebrating the iconic saga is more than a tradition; it's an intergalactic event. Planning the ultimate "how to celebrate star wars day" Bash requires meticulous preparation and a deep understanding of the Force. In this guide, we embark on a journey to create a gathering that pays homage to the beloved franchise, bringing fans together for a day filled with cosmic joy.

Setting the Atmosphere: Immersive Decor and Ambiance

Creating an immersive atmosphere is the first step to transport guests to a galaxy filled with Jedi, Sith, and droids. Transform the party space into iconic Star Wars locations with themed decorations. Use lightsabers as centerpieces, hang starry backdrops, and display life-sized cutouts of favorite characters. Incorporate the iconic opening crawl text and John Williams' legendary soundtrack to elevate the ambiance. The goal is to make guests feel like they've stepped into the Star Wars universe.

Costume Galore: Embracing the Characters

No Star Wars Day Bash is complete without a sea of costumes that pay homage to the galaxy's diverse characters. Encourage guests to come dressed as their favorite Jedi, Sith, smuggler, or droid. Organize a costume contest with categories like "Best Lightsaber Duel," "Most Creative Alien," or "Spot-on Movie Character." The array of costumes adds an extra layer of excitement and immersion, turning the gathering into a visual feast of intergalactic fashion.

Themed Eats and Treats: A Galactic Feast

Elevate the culinary experience with a menu inspired by the Star Wars universe. From Womp Rat Skewers to Yoda Soda, let creativity flow in naming and designing the dishes. Create a dessert station featuring Death Star cookies, Lightsaber popsicles, and Wookiee cookies. Consider a DIY drink station where guests can concoct their own Star Wars-themed beverages. The culinary galaxy is vast, and the possibilities for themed eats and treats are as limitless as the Force.

Trivia Challenges: Testing Jedi Knowledge

Challenge the Jedi knowledge of guests with Star Wars trivia games. Create a trivia contest with questions ranging from obscure facts to iconic quotes. Divide participants into teams and award points for correct answers. Consider incorporating multimedia elements, such as audio clips and video snippets, to make the trivia challenges more engaging. A well-executed trivia competition adds an element of friendly competition and showcases the depth of fandom present at the gathering.

Lightsaber Training: Becoming Jedi Masters

Transform the gathering into a Jedi Training Academy by organizing lightsaber training sessions. Provide foam lightsabers and enlist the help of a "Jedi Master" to guide participants through basic moves and techniques. Create a mini obstacle course to enhance the experience. For added flair, incorporate lightsaber duels or choreographed performances. Lightsaber training not only adds a physical activity element but also allows guests to channel their inner Jedi.

Star Wars Movie Marathon: A Cinematic Odyssey

No Star Wars Day Bash is complete without a movie marathon featuring the epic saga. Set up a cozy screening area with themed blankets and cushions. Create a viewing schedule that allows fans to relive the entire saga or focus on specific trilogies. Consider organizing "movie bingo" with squares featuring iconic scenes or quotes. The movie marathon serves as the backbone of the gathering, providing a shared experience that unites fans in their love for the Star Wars universe.

Interactive Star Wars Crafts: Unleashing Creativity

Engage guests with interactive Star Wars crafts that bring out their creative side. Set up stations for DIY lightsabers, Jedi robes, or even custom droid-building. Provide craft materials and let participants express their love for the franchise through artistic creations. The interactive crafts not only serve as memorable takeaways but also foster a sense of camaraderie as fans collaborate on their masterpieces.

Star Wars Karaoke: Galactic Tunes and Performances

Turn the gathering into a musical spectacle with Star Wars-themed karaoke. Create a playlist featuring iconic tracks from the saga and encourage guests to channel their inner pop stars. Consider organizing a lip-sync battle with participants performing as their favorite Star Wars characters. Galactic tunes and performances add a dynamic and entertaining element to the celebration, showcasing the diverse talents of the attendees.

Galactic Photo Booth: Capturing Memories

Set up a photo booth with Star Wars-themed props and backdrops to capture the memories of the day. Encourage guests to pose as their favorite characters or reenact iconic scenes. Provide themed props such as lightsabers, masks, and costume accessories. The photo booth becomes a central hub for capturing the essence of the gathering and creating lasting mementos for attendees to cherish.

Conclusion

Planning the ultimate Star Wars Day Bash is a labor of love that requires attention to detail and a passion for the galaxy far, far away. By immersing guests in an atmosphere filled with iconic decorations, encouraging creative costumes, and offering a feast of themed eats and treats, the gathering becomes a cosmic celebration of fandom. Trivia challenges, lightsaber training, and interactive crafts add layers of engagement, turning attendees into active participants in the Star Wars universe.

A movie marathon, karaoke, and a galactic photo booth serve as the pillars of entertainment, ensuring that the gathering is a memorable and immersive experience for all. In the end, a successful Star Wars Day Bash is not just a celebration of a beloved franchise; it's a testament to the enduring power of storytelling and the shared passion that unites fans across the galaxy. May the Force be with you as you embark on this intergalactic adventure!

[nikethestatue]

I think the most telling thing that ends any bryceXAzriel romance is not just the language barrier, but the fact that sjm confirmed that her series could still be read separately and make sense. It would be extremely confusing for acotar readers to pick up the next book after acosf and boom, az is with a rando from another world? If there is any “bond” between them, my theory is that they both would reject it for those they love (hunt and elain respectively) I imagine a scene where bryce just says to az “tell her how you feel, fight for love like i did” and that will be that. Because why would sarah waste acosf to further build Elriel? Makes no sense. We literally have an unresolved “charged look”. Most people dont read the bonus and are left with that as a burning question.

I am gonna be honest. I have some fevered imagination, but the whole Brycriel thing is so out of bounds and any resemblance of anything that could ever happen in any world.

You are correct about the series being kept separate, but the whole premise of this is so fucking crazy, even I can't wrap my mind around.

Az brought Bryce into the house and they are now mates? WTF

She already has a mate. She has a family. A world which she occupies. A world in peril. What does Azriel have to do with anything? Not only is there a language, SPECIES, and cultural, as well as inter-galactic differences, Azriel has his own love, his own family, his own story to live and to tell. Could they be vaguely connected? Sure. But romantically?

Honestly, all I can say is that this fandom needs to hop off this man's dick.

Why is he not being shipped with Lehabah is a better question.

[certified-anakinfucker]

for the folks let down by this stupid ass fandom space

sincerely, i am so sorry

in a more coherent, less actively-going-through-a-spiral manner, i'm. so fuckin sorry .

for the people who came to this fandom, the largest fucking sandbox of a fandom where we should - reasonably - be able to do whatever and bring our own selves to the table and instead found wall after wall after wall. who put their hearts and souls into aus and writing characters both established and original and found themselves without even a foothold. or perhaps they had that foothold and suddenly had it ripped out from under them.

i'm sorry for the people who came here looking for any of the millions of cultures that are to be found under this one giant galactic umbrella and had to see an actual and legitimate writer say she didn't give a shit that she appropriated a black hairstyle on a māori trans woman because "it's star wars"

because ykw? fuck that. yeah it's star wars so fuck you. fuck your canon, fuck your ideals, fuck what the corporations want to say is "correct for this universe" because absolutely the fuck not

or for people begging for literal crumbs of proper representation just for corporate to go "hehe jango printer ran out of ink here are four white men, a whole white baby, and the most whitewashed māori man you've ever seen because we put him in the freezer heheheheh"

death to the motherfucking author :) this is your sandbox. and i wholeheartedly advocate for pissbabies to go touch some grass

[khawla-gfm2]

[tagging more people]:

@fllagellant @jjjammerson @verycolourfulflipflops @genericminecraftpotato @probablynotaskeleton @sh4rkh4ts @bonicedemandarina @radical-l0ver @weareweirdpeople @ash-the-bee @ettaberrytea @cryptdmoth @cthulusposts @eastgaysian @uhhh-i-dont-know @charc-arts @hexblooddruid @strawbebbyboba @strawberridrops @rawdvd

@rinthesecond @brookepagebe @kixflip @1p0lly1 @morihaus @rattlesnake-acrobatics @thatonebored-juniorcolleague @my-multi-fandom-blog @slyfire @constellationriver @moonfox-mumbles @mauvethecolor @banananerdworld @l3mon-boy @sliipppy @stargazinglesbian @transguyhawkeye @i-am-the-half-dead-soul-l @futuristicchaospoetry @antigxnee

@exactlydangerousdragon @charcoalsoup69 @0luna123 @th3ch1psste4ler @lavenderlovers-stuff @thegardener-and-theaupair @luminouslateralup @zzzubie @crisostomo @uhoh-but-yeah-alright @preemptivemolars @gayruledge @danyayeni2 @agentmoss @solitudecasesolace @demonpikmin @capybara-platypus @ambreeskyewriting @q8p @death-cannot-kill-you

@all-purpose-utility-nerd @free0101 @slendyverseargcollections @neonfruitbowl @momfriend2800 @luvmoonie @womenbehotfr @seventhefurbfather @c0-j-c0 @ignore-this0 @space-ace-books @olivedacat @exhausted-asterism @iphigenia-wailing @enderenby404 @implalazz @lunar-eclipse-bunnies @microwavesex @a-court-of-valkyries @thegoodwitchluz-uea

@diagnosedhorsegirl @bebbls-craft-blog @the-acid-pear @moviequotes23 @nickbluehour @number1ludicolofan @inkslingerr @madspades @decadentmuffindreamscissors @taptrial2 @virovac @blue-jacket-blues @tacit-semantics @timeless-orchid @cinnarainbow @aziraphaleapologist @harley-angel @swapauanon @yakiattaki @piratefry

@pegglefan69 @writing-is-a-martial-art @ohmerricat @mildmayfoxe @sunnyartistwriter @moonrisemoonchild @senlinstudies @birdmenmanga @rabbithaver @jolyne-best-jojo @just-a-mod @officialgleamstar @ehjane @cosmicsymbols @treeen @spunkfunkyzzz @fairedoll @trashrunes @skiddlecat @tim-the-rat

@whatyouvegotunderyourskirt @kurtle @rabidkermit @splend-42 @dustywarbler @400terahertz @poltiddies @yourlocaleccentricscientist @honeybeeffdrawshere @jayskai @astronnonyy @artsyrosie @halfmoonism @whisper-valley @loonfromq @here-sean-once-was @waiting-on-mars @bandtrees @mpregwizard @goosecorp

@grapejuicedragoon @chloefrazer @hauntedcloudtheorist @sanaimissyou @zigcarnivorous @silver1012345 @ebenrosetaylor @promiscuousasexual @lord-of-the-froggies @duovxq @dapokemonmadster @saffronbaklava @labutansa @dqrknight @spaceswordblaster @importantt-reblogs @e-102 @moonssugar @toughknit @bisexualpositivity

@garbagevarmint @katealot @littleredhatter @totally-correct-cr-quotes @petra-creat0r @kaxtwenty @temperedxanthippe @aligaytorsoup @sleeppatrol @lady-of-bath @cockworkangels @theredfields @craftykittyscientist @dustoftheancients @thatsonehellofabird @phoenix-awan @comrademango @neogotchi @the-butter-churner @sketching-shark

@godspersonalclown @elyserie @glassoddity @the-ballerina-battle @antixabound @mydearalandro @batricity @floof-ghostie @taffywabbit @official-ducktown @cathyac @rosengine @deadauthorssociety @thecrimeofmans-laughter @vampthropologist @good-old-gossip @inkatesbush @fishfingersandscarves @shoutyourporpoise @cuntbrow

@pikslasrce @thetrickyjokester @claudia-lioncourt @dimplesandfierceeyes @mortalityplays @cetitan @mar64ds @labutansa @truefrostedagony @deadly-vuu @that-faerie-in-the-corner @amiya-shirou @emmanuor @farsight-the-char @colorfulatlas @laxsland @lepardlover @bismoaking @homunculusalphonse @zone0neko

@galactic-mermaid @cosmic-horrors-in-forests @rubiter20 @swordofazrael1992 @lowcallyfruity @uwabbittuwabbit @labutansa @dilfzuku @pelorsdyke @reyesstrand @luvqwish @sherbetp0p @starlightsugar @fr0ge @whatislovevavy @timeless-orchid @magentasky234 @swapauanon @yakiattaki @pegglefan69

@writing-is-a-martial-art @bug-s0da @ohmerricat @mildmayfoxe @sunnyartistwriter @rabbithaver @madeline-kahn @unabashedmagicalgirlfan @averagenotnormal @emathyst9 @pet-shop-of-horror-fan @reyesstrand @rainy-fog @thefakehedgehogaroundhere @discreative @antixabound @liamins @thenextglamourousbard @jolyne-best-jojo @officialgleamstar

@cosmicsymbols @spunkfunkyzzz @fairedoll @tomboyjessie13 @citrusfruitman @baldwin-10-12-d @kirbytripledeluxe @just-a-queer-fanboy @quellstak @whatyouvegotunderyourskirt @xinakwans @leotanaka @andva-ri @mima-sama @galax-dragon @hauntedcloudtheorist @50c14lly4nx10u5 @saffronbaklava @thespacegardener @cows-quack @heydreamchild @temperedxanthippe

📰Khawla's Family Campaign Update: 42📰

$6,022/$20,000 as of September 25th [10pm CDT]

We reached $6,000! let's keep the momentum going!

Currently $978 away from $7,000 as a short term goal!

the next immediate target is $10,000 as the halfway mark.

please consider donating even just $5, $10, or $20 to help push the fundraiser further to reaching it's goal! and keep reblogging/sharing the campaign so that other people who can donate may see it!

[for more information on the campaign: check my pinned post, the campaign page itself, or message me directly if you have any questions]

[tag list under the cut]:

@corpsenurse @vita-e @guiltycrunch @onetruesirius @gaysebastianvael @inplodinggofer616 @d3lph1unkn0wn @confusedsheepsblog @p33rpressure @ahperrytheplatypus @your-13th-suffers @hericanee @murderbot @arceusbeta @tam-shade-song @coleheinous @diberhaze @space-batzz @devilmeows @gizdathemxel

@slowbrobutch @hotsugarbyglassanimals @dubiousyuri @pinetreesdoodles @mores0 @suzu-by-starlight @sparky-is-spiders @hellotheretraveler @hahvdh @archferret @softeninglooks @moronic0xymoron @darthferbert @virgincognito @animebabe55 @profoundlyscreechingkryptonite @princessnessa2017-blog @neptuneschaos @the-mold-under-your-bed123 @ropes3amthoughts

@wild-forest-bee @rsquid2 @faerie-lights @lapastelr0sa @allegedlysicktomystomach @number-1-carrie-white-fan @adept7777 @cam24fan @strflwers @tremendousdreamtragedy @soullessjack @backgroundcharacterno15 @west-of-the-styx @apocalypsegay @something-writing @suburbananarch @fr0gie @stretchedbumhole201 @exltwounds @cori-randomstuff

@one-cold-witch @d1anna @esoteric-brustle @lpslover6669 @anakalos @buildmeupbuttercup14 @skkfujoshi @chaos-axolotl-reblogs @def-not-kaz-brekker @invulnerable-vaguewomen @dlxxv-vetted-donations @candycrypt1d @gryficowa @ocipiala @zaminami @mjthefaeva @nako-funky @kenniex2 @hananono @centi-pearl

@that-one-vangogh-painting @sappy-asphie @lotionlamp @kenniex2 @yeskhya @hyper-fucks-sake-tion @jauximeowmeow @lady-misaki @reymcmuffin @sufferswallow @thequeendied @a1m3v @parkerpresentz @extremereader @thetwistedarchives @absolutedoorknob @worowelf @hold-me-till-winter @beeware-of-lulu @littleladybaker

@plswtfdontdoitagain @footlongdingledong @cherrraty @heheheeheeh @fleurxduxmal @pintrestparasite @louisblue02 @clowdwatching @eldritch-something-or-other @sanguivorouscorvid @neoneone0 @p33p33p00p00 @mahougirlys @bi0feed @peppimeco @chiomn @himbo-noxx @louddragonphantom @futuristiccherryblossoms @market--land

@jellyfishinajamjar @rainbowpuppet @names-hard @deviouscowboy @moosebebignwatching @ginnyjuicee @dogbound1128 @greybear35-blog @dangerous-tangerine @wolfcubjim @l-dot-k-2 @yung-lean-hates-you-2 @ssak-i @koobird @mininightmare2 @strawberryglitterkiss @transexualcow @bluelunas @whenyou-wheni @bolas-de-berlim

@thesignpaintersstuff @sumthing69 @sentienceoverload-29 @theresamouseinmyhouse @kurtismcilroy @aswho1estuff @ratsnvermins @transvalkilmer @pipervonviper @cemetery-circus @tryceratops4 @woodwood6000 @katagawajr @aliensmoothie @nonbinarycryptology @the-number-1-iono-fan @mythicalbinicorn @talkswiththem @voidpumpkin @half-asleep-star

@luvdisc69 @ghostb3loved @fuckcapitalismasshole @no-clue-just-vibin @twashcat360 @amythestvaporeonbackup @lazy-but-amazing @dusty-brain @loucygoosey @bichi2004 @stalinistqueens @wynsummers @sad-cat-02 @rottingoranges @thingfromanoutherworld @ak1w1i @apinklion01 @cloxwork @polvuz

@therearenonutsforsomeendermen @noxumblog @ashkaranast @donationsmatter @punkeropercyjackson @callie-flower @patchoulitoes @stonedustghost @ofishally @stellaristcs @redmystery314 @asquidnotkid @omorimoroii @tanoroe @slightly-foolish @sergeantsarga @thebluespacecow @reusablebagofrats @eptck @577-6523

@killer-wizard @sapphicdragons-1 @rainy-clawz @afunlessland @dwarf-enjoyer @juchily @classyeyeballs @jeynees @ajatheoleander12 @sentienceoverload-29 @manic-pixie-dream-cock @jinnazah @1ikeavirgil @darlingbookworm @wetccarpet @chthonianalacrity @samurotting @aldryrththerainbowheart @mochipuppy16 @darinaethelaianprophet

@this-deadgirlwalking @rob-os-17 @moonbisexualsharktamerr @screamnpatches @luvdisc69 @ghostb3loved @fuckcapitalismasshole @no-clue-just-vibin @twashcat360 @amythestvaporeonbackup @lazy-but-amazing @dusty-brain @loucygoosey @bichi2004 @stalinistqueens @wynsummers @rottingoranges @thingfromanoutherworld @ashkaranast

@wetccarpet @chthonianalacrity @samurotting @aldryrththerainbowheart @mochipuppy16 @darinaethelaianprophet @rob-os-17 @moonbisexualsharktamerr @weakestwarrior @v1rtualv4mp @fiapple @tryna-sleep @snapcracklepop-myjoints @l-art-stuff-l @minosbull @duskstarshit @cosmicgamerboy @squidkiddoesstuff @attaboy-art @fireflyingaway

@blackcrystalball @lookineedsleep @lampthehealthminister @therealdjpocky @holyeaglecupcakesposts @amberspacedf @teeethbrush @bunnannie @lesbitching @lonelypotato23 @swaggy-hairy-thang @murenaaaaa @karlmarxmaybe @littlegaypancake @zimislockedinthefreezer @catboywillferal @yetisidelblog @tspicer23 @galax-dragon

@redpinejo @orphancat @sea-200 @literally-one-million-bees @aroacedisasterr @blvvdyindustries @sunmooneclipseandstars @theandroidsentbycyberl1fe @reblogingstuffrandomly @animatorfun @r4yt0r0f4nb0y @fazar234 @mstormcloud @theguiltygearheritageposts @doubleedgemode @millionthcephalophore @white-mirrors @cherubsaliaa @ash24601 @willhelmthewhale

@cipherinator @sister-lucifer @missivorystone @4de2ssy0 @alpabett @99orangeblossoms @totally-six @sematary-drive @knittedquails @masterofthepistachio @gagreflexoxo @owlchow @specificiumray @valentinemailbox @patzweigz @papus-clown-enclosure @montewave @chilewithcarnage @leftyreea @quesofromagecheese

@spookygayferret @cloudy-osc @thatonedemon @hellswolfie @hungee-boy @thenamelessdepths @courtly-kenzie @funnypickle3 @wompwompwoooooomp @ashytheslashy @magnuficentwo @thatgothicgirl @geodetojoy @feelo-fick @herondale-infj @nerdytextileartist @queencantaloupe @clownbugg-ie @xxhalfempty @ransiquack

@rowletlittenpopplioteam @the-coley-zone @furrysinthematrix @frograaa @mattsinclairvo @snufkin1970 @bi-worm @sillymarillly @luckycloverforducks @sithlordpadawan @kippahkaplan @bonecodoposto-45 @tinkerscrickets @starshinesparkle @commersons-fucking-dolphin @soulessdeadpool13 @kasthejackass @icaruslore @maln0x @fancylittleworm