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frostedclock-writes · 2 months ago

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Crimson Magnolias

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Alastor x F! Reader

Warnings: one-sided love, Hanahaki disease, R rated as mature themes mentioned, eventual flashbacks to Human life, Ace Alastor,

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Part 1 (Part 2)

Whistling filled the air like a scream.

" Shit the tea!" You get off the couch and rush to the stove, though it took you a moment to tear your eyes from the T.V. screen.

You flip the dial on your gas stove and it clicked off, the whistling slowly faded. You spun and look back at the 666 News, but it barely fazed you. You could have sworn. Right before it interrupted with the 'breaking news' , a commercial. Something in the corner. A distortion.

You tasted ginger in the back of your throat.

Seven years.

It had been seven years in hell since you last saw him. No word, no explanation.

Alastor.

Your heart fluttered at the thought. He was alive. Maybe. You wished the commercial would have been let to play after the news faded away. You run your fingers through your hair as you try to recall what the commercial had been for. It had been so quick, and your attention was immediately drawn to the corner of the screen.

You took a small breath.

Some hotel....

Wasn't there some hotel that cropped up a few months ago? Happy Hotel? No that's a stupid name. Hazbin?

You pour tea into the prepared porcelain cup, it mixed the sugar and lemon juice together with the over steeped black tea. You lifted the cup up to your lips and blew softly, thoughts swirled around your head. Your throat tickled a little.

You should be pissed. He left without a word to you. Made you and most of hell believe he had been killed. Double dead. Fucking toast. You should hate him.

An image of him laughing over a cup of rye whisky was brought to mind. Back when you both were still....

He was so handsome, and knew exactly how to make you laugh. His silly puns that made you smile. The way he glided across the dancefloor and would bring you along for the ride.

You set the cup down quickly. A floating white petal with bits of crimson stained in it floated on the top.

You cover your mouth and shake your head, swallowing down the taste of iron mixing with ginger. The taste of the sweet tea long gone.

It shouldn't matter. Doesn't matter. Matters.

Fuck.

You walked into your bedroom and grabbed at the coat hanging up. You slipped it on, it covering the simple ankle length dress and button up blouse you had worn for the days errands. You sinched the tie around your waist as you stepped into your slip on flats. You moved quickly out of your house, not even nothing to lock the door behind you as you traveled down the sidewalk. You dodged sinners and imps alike on the streets, moving beneath a few swings of fists and weapons.

The streets were crazier then normal. But to be expected.

You knew this part of the Pentagram like the back of your hand, so it made it at least marginally easier to get to that strange broken down hotel. The flickering neon became visible by the time your lungs stung a little from the walk and your feet ached a little from the thin flats. You let out breaths in quick succession as you gaze up at the tall building behind walls that were tall enough to block off the view of the yard surrounding the dilapidated hotel.

Hazbin Hotel.

You stopped at the open archway that was the gate to what might look more like an old cinema building on the outside with the old ticket booth and the illuminated board that could hold the plastic letters. A little tower attachment on the side seemed haphazardly attached and like it didn't quite belong. A sign flashed in the window. It made your stomach clench.

On Air.

You slowly walked up the cobblestone path up the the doors of the hotel. You hold your breath as you reach for the handle. Maybe this was a mistake. Fuck, your already here. If he wanted to see you wouldn't he have come found you? Told you he was back?

Your throat tickled a little.

Just do it! Go!

The door opened, and came swinging out. The sting of your nose was quick, and painful as the gold painted metal trim of the door hit you square in the face. You reeled back and gripped your nose, warmth touched your lips. Great.

" Oh shit! Whatcha doin' out here, just standin' behind that door? Fuck, ya bleedin' and everythin'. "

You blink to clear the tears pricking hour eyes and you see a tall spider... Man? Very feminine man. Pretty. Was the word that came to mind. Tall, pink and dressed to the nines with heart shaped sunglasses resting above their mismatched eyes. He was digging around in a sparkly purse, he held out a wadded up napkin.

" It's .. it's fine I'm fine. Sorry. " You took the napkin and brought it up to your nose. " Ugh, gross, " you pulled it away and looked at the clotted blood. You look back up at the spider person. " I came looking for someone..."

" Oh?" He wiggled his shoulders and put one set of his hands on his hips. " Who are ya lookin' for, doll? A booty call maybe? " He cooed the last words.

You brought the napkin back up to your nose. You hoped it covered up the heat rising up to your cheeks. " No, no, nothing like that," you cough a few times, covering it up by blowing your nose shortly after. " I know this must seem odd, but I'm looking for Alastor."

He laughed. Gaffawed even. " No, really. Who ya lookin' for? Husk? He seems like he had a bad past love or two in his books, if ya know what I mean."

Husk, you remembered the gruff ex-overlord. He was kind behind that bottle of whiskey. If he was here, then Alastor...

The spider looked down at his phone as it began to go off several times in a row. He cursed under his breath and then shoved his phone back into his purse. " Look, if ya are looking for tall, dark and red flags, he was in tha parlor room last I saw him. I gotta get ta work. " He put his sunglasses down. " See ya. "

You watch him stride off, you blink and look back at the door. You step inside and the door slowly slid closed behind you. The inside was a little nicer looking then you expected, but some of the wallpaper was peeling and the carpet held stains that made you question what caused them to take such unique shapes. The faint glow of green drew your attention over towards a part of the hotel that was clearly an addition like the broadcast tower.

A bar. Neon lights flashed Jackpot and Beezlejuice on the dark wooden walls. A familiar face cleaned glasses behind the bar countertop and placed them in the shelf. His ear twitched as your footsteps approached. He looked up and at first his face held a look of irritation, then it melted into half of a smirk. A laugh escaped under his breath and he put the rag back down on the table.

" Y/N, what in the fuck are you doing here?" Husk asked.

You crack a smile. " Would you believe me if I said I came to get a drink?" You joked.

He made a scoff and rolled his eyes. The smirk faded to his usual expression. A near scowl. " I know for damn sure you didn't come here for me. " He picked up a glass and put it down hard on the counter. " You came for him."

You took a seat at the bar as the glass began to fill with a dark amber liquor. Whiskey you assumed. Or maybe a dark rum. " He's my best friend, what can I say? Though, I should be mad at him. Leaving me in the lurch like he did. Even sweet Rosie had no clue where he had gone off to."

Even the bite of the liquor didn't help with the swallowing of the lump in your throat.

Husk rolled his eyes and slid the glass over to you. " Who the hell knows, and someone like you should just stay away from him or you'll end up used like everyone else. He didn't even notice that-"

" Husk. " You snapped a little at him. Husk was always so observant.

" Look. " He set the bottle down then growled. " You know what, whatever. Why should I care if you like to torture yourself? Just shouldn't make your friends watch you do it. "

" I.... It's nothing. " You put on a smile and take another drink. " Nothing I can't handle and haven't been dealing with...."

" Heh, yeah, well someone like ya deserves better then a -"

" Y/N?"

You felt goosebumps rise to your skin at the sound of a voice you hadn't heard in seven years.

Alastor.

You spun on the stool and looked over to the source of the voice. He looked just as he always had. He strode over and you rose to your feet. You met him halfway and he put his arms around you in a warm embrace. You return it with your face planted firmly in his chest. He smelled of a mix of iron and damp wood.

"Alastor!"

You heard a gruff huff behind you and you assumed Husk was watching with that disapproving gaze you had come to expect from the winged cat sinner. Alastor's hand rubbed the small of your back before he placed both hands on your shoulders and pulled you away just enough to look down at you.

You silently begged for him to stop looking at you like that. It made your stomach flutter and your throat clench.

" It is a pleasure to see your smiling face again, my dear, quite a pleasure. " His gaze shot over towards husk, his eye twitched a moment. " How long have you been waiting down here?"

" What? Don't look at me, I'm not your fuckin' secretary. " Husk snarled and you kinda felt sorry for the glass he was cleaning. It was getting thoroughly cleaned.

" I haven't been here long! " You tell him quickly, bringing the Radio Demons attention back down to you. " Only a couple of minutes."

His body language changed and he spun on his heels, one arm around your shoulders and leading you off in the direction of the large staircase. " Ah! In that case! Let me show you this fun little project I've been working on! I think you will find the notion as amusing as I do. "

" You work at this hotel now? Didn't peg you for the hospitality type. " You tease.

His chuckles were like a radio flipping through stations. " Oh, dear, this project is mainly for my own amusement! The Princess of Hell is the one who is encouraging this notion of redemption for sinners. "

You cock an eyebrow. " Redemption like... Do well and get let out for good behavior?"

Seemed silly.

You followed him up the staircase and watched your hand as it slid up the railing for splinters from the chipped wood of the banisters. Alastor thew one hand out in a grand gesture at the lobby, his microphone materialized and landed in his hand and he smoothly used it to point.

" Exactly! But what better way to amuse myself then to watch her struggle to have sinners ditch their ways?" He tapped a finger on your shoulder.

He lead the way down one of the hallways, gold and red covered most of the hotel it seemed. Though you could tell where Alastor had began to leave his own touch behind. The hotel was grand, although from years of neglect before the current owner, there was things that would have made you cringe when you were alive. Mildew in the flooring and walls, roaches crawled out every once in a while and then sprinted off under another table in the long hallways, creaking steps going up, and bulbs that flickered in a way that hurt your eyes at times.

" Are you still working as a singer?"

You look at Alastor out of the corner of your eyes. " From time to time, Mimzy hires me most nights when I need money. Otherwise, I pick up whatever jobs I can find nowadays. " You admit. " What have you been doing these past seven years?"

Alastor seemed to grip his microphone a little tighter, though he put a laugh in the air. " Oh, I just took a small vacation. A well deserved one. "

A vacation. You didn't believe that for a moment.

" Ah, well... You could have told me some of us. I thought someone might have finally gotten he upper hand on you." You joke.

" Ahahah! Don't be silly, " Alastor shook his head and a smirk grew on his lips. " A simple sinner couldn't get the best of me. " His steps paused in front of a door, he tapped his microphone cane's end on the ground. His hand left your space and he opened the door up.

Alastor turned with the door and let you inside the room. The smell of swamp was in the air. A dank wetness with the soft smell of pines and cattails. The room turned from a study to a swamp, though you were unsurprised - Alastor knew how to manipulate a lot of things. And spaces were no different. A green fire burned in the fireplace near the two armchairs within the space of the study, it made the shadows dance on the wall as it flickered.

Alastor walked across the wooden floor towards the chair, he turned in a swift motion and leaned his hand and held his weight on the back of one of the armchairs. That smile. Does he even know what he does to you? He went to offer you a seat when his shadow grew across the ground and then swirled up. The cracked smile in the shadow brought a laugh to your lips.

Like a mist, Alastor's Shadow swirled around you. Then shifted into mostly solidness. "Shade. " You cooed the petname for the creature and reached out, it felt like cupping thick smoke, " Are you watching after Alastor for me? Such a sweet thing..."

Crackles like a dead station full the air.

You felt safer showing this part of Alastor affection. The being made of shadows and magic seemed to be something of its own and yet part of its master. You sometimes wished, just for a moment, that perhaps you wouldn't ruin the friendship between you and Alastor by just touching his cheek like this.

" Well I missed you too."

Alastor made a sigh and rolled his eyes, though the soft smile that graces his lips lead you to believe he was amused. He cleared his throat abd Shade sank back against the floorboards and rejoined his master. He gestured for you to sit in the chair he leaned against and you make your way to the plush armchair.

" Now, you have to tell me what Ive missed these past years. " He took his own seat across from you, waving his hand and two coffee appeared. His own red cup and yours a black one.

'Oh, deer!'

' Doe- re- mi '

You coughed a little and covered your mouth up. You clear your throat and bring your cup up to your lips to cover up the bitter ginger with dark black coffee.

This was going to be a lot harder than before. You thought the years apart would have lessoned the feeling you held in your soul.

He hates it. You remember him going on and on about ladies throwing themselves at his feet when the both of you were alive. You saw the disgust on his face when he mentioned it. He would hate you too. Would throw you away if you did.

You swallowed the hot liquid down hard with the lump in your throat.

He can't know. Won't know.

Ever.

Tag list: @boldlyenchantingfox22 @sirens-and-moonflowers

#hazbin hotel #hazbin x reader #alastor x reader #hazbin alastor #alastor x you #hazbin hotel x reader #hanahaki disease #one sided love #crimson magnolias

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sehaedazokla · 3 months ago

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he that dares

part eight

premise: Cregan Stark's arrival in King's Landing has brought a new type of chaos to the capital. Lady Tyrell is determined to use the Northern lord to her advantage, but the task might not be as straightforward as it seems.

tags: slowburn, tension, angst, comfort, eventual smut, court politics

chapter warnings: adult content

word count: 12.0k

a/n: the pinterest board and playlist for this series have been added to the series masterlist! i am a little nervous to post this chapter because i've never written anything like this but here it is –

previous part | next part | series masterlist

The day prior to the trials held at King’s Landing, the young prince Aegon makes his first public appearance before the nobles at court. Scarcely has the sun peaked its way above the edges of the world when the lords and ladies are summoned to gather in the throne room, half-covered yawns and bleary eyes waiting impatiently for the presentation of their future king. Hazy morning light wanders in pale rays through the arching windows, illuminating flecks of iron upon the weapons composing the throne. Lady Tyrell has not even the energy to glare ferociously at it, barely having slept the night before. Her satins and feather pillows do little to assuage her troubled mind, roiling with concern over the arrival of her lady mother – perhaps on the morrow, more likely that very morning. She pictured all sorts of disastrous matches, weighing the probability of each one in her mind and finding that if she thought long enough, it is almost as if she can read her mother’s mind. This only served to agitate her further, for if she is indeed correct then her fate is rather sealed after all, as well as that of her sister.

Her hands skim down the front of her dress in a nervous habit, aching to appear as presentable as humanly possible. The fabric is a dark blue, inky and soft beneath her fingers, decorated with the golden embroidery of flowers that grow within the gardens of the castle she was raised in. A gift from her mother, sent for her most recent birthday with an assortment of teardrop pearls and letters adorned with curved words imploring her to hold out against the tumultuous wartime tide and wait for an advantageous time to act. The roses blooming upon her body, spun in shining silk, bind her and remind her poignantly of her where her loyalties ought to lie. During the war, her attention had been given solely to surviving and attending to Helaena and the children – there was little time to devote to any sort of scheming, save for what her mother deemed absolutely necessary to protect their House.

As of late, her heart has been swayed to those of House Stark and House Targaryen. Her eyes close as she imagines what her mother might say, finding the daughter she raised to be ambitious and cutthroat behind deceptively fluttery lashes instead harboring love and affection for those of other houses. Fingers dig tightly into the soft fabric of her heavy skirts, a sudden wave of suffocation washing across her body as the weighty dress seems to grow heavier. With a soft breath, she returns her attention to the head of the throne room. Many Northern guards are present, alongside what remains of the Kingsguard. Despite the exhaustion and ruffled expressions throughout the room at the early hour of the gathering, there is a hum of expectation about the hall. The coveted and damned chair of swords shall not be claimed by Rhaenyra nor Aegon II. A child shall sit it instead, only ten years of age.

Lady Tyrell does not much care who is cursed by the crown of the Realm any longer. She has seen firsthand what unimaginable horrors and suffering it brings about. Let the nobles squabble for it like crows over a poisoned carcass.

Yet as she looks upon the child at last, all eyes within the room locking upon the boy hungrily or with poorly concealed interest, a sense of resigned sorrow fills her chest. Doomed is he, through the blood of both mother and father and chained to a skeletal and haunted existence within these walls. It is already apparent in his face, the hollowness of his eyes as they rest sunken into his youthful countenance. With all of the division sowed during the war, she has almost forgotten that this child is not a stranger of some unknown lineage, but Helaena’s own nephew, Jaehaera’s cousin. The resemblance nearly frightens her, when her eyes meet Aegon’s across the room. Has Helaena not looked upon her with those same violet eyes, that same sense of dread, of finality?

Her gaze is violently torn away, a sharp breath clawing its way past her tongue and teeth and lips. She shall never know peace so long as she remains here within this castle. Ghosts haunt her every breath, and while one of them is always welcomed with open arms and a gentle falling to her knees, others she does not wish to see. The amount of Targaryen spirits lingering about, wide eyes still cast to the throne and the child sacrificed to it, is far too many for the Lady Tyrell. All she can hope to do is take Jaehaera away from here and ask the dead for forgiveness or at least to be ignored. But the soon-to-be boy king breathes still. Is it haunting if the figure’s blood thrums beneath taut skin, veins as purple as the eyes that unknowingly condemn? Is it haunting if the guilt from turning away rips her internal organs out with bone hands, wrapping her intestines around her neck and forcing her to look at the child whose fate she is feigning ignorance to?

By the prince’s side stand his two elder half-sisters, whom Lady Tyrell quietly hopes are supporting the child during this impossible time. As with Jaehaera, the prince has primarily been confined to his chambers whilst the North has held power at Court. She has never had the chance to converse at length with either Baela or Rhaena, given that she had been betrothed to Daeron and decidedly upon the other side of the war despite her own House’s neutrality. Cregan remains a few feet away, but his presence is far more commanding than anyone else’s upon the stairs. Remembering what he had told her of his own past, she watches quietly as Aegon begins to speak.

“The trials for those who betrayed the crown and forsook their honor will be held on the morrow,” The prince’s voice rings out clear and solemn, echoing the dullness of his amethyst eyes. It is clear that someone his elder has written the words for him to speak, and Lady Tyrell wonders if the presence of the princesses at Aegon’s side indicates that Cregan has made some sort of agreement with them. If they truly care for Aegon, the lady does not imagine it will be hard for the three to come to an arrangement that suits all of their desires for the betterment of the Realm and for the future of boy. “Lord Cregan Stark, Warden of the North, shall preside over the trials as Hand of the King.”

If Lady Tyrell is shocked by this announcement, she is joined by nearly every noble within the throne room. The young prince is quick to depart following the brief words, the guards following him closely as he exits through one of the arched hallways at the sides of the staircase by the head of the hall. Rhaena and Baela linger within the hall of a moment to speak to Lady Blackwood, as the rest of the lords and ladies turn to each other to whisper their opinions upon this appointing quite fiercely, everyone seemingly eager to get their thoughts out at once. Many of them still regard Cregan with obvious distrust, seeing him as a foreign presence unfamiliar to their Southern customs and traditions. She need not cast him long looks, wondering upon whether he might plunge the capital into chaos or refuse to leave. The skirts of her gown brush delicately against the grey stone flooring as she nears the steps, caring little for the eyes that are drawn to her boldness.

It matters not when he is already searching the room for her, storm cloud eyes sparking as he catches sight of her approaching. The slight softening of his gaze does not go unnoticed by her, although it shall not be dwelled upon when she is sure her own eyes melt slightly as he crosses the space between them to meet her. Hushed voices murmur around them, the raising of brows at the pair of them. What might have been excused as courtesy before is now blatantly seen as it is – favoring. For formality’s sake, despite what little good it will truly do given how her public closeness with the Lord of Winterfell shall surely spread in wild rumor throughout the castle halls that night, she scoops fabric of her gown into her hands and gives Cregan a low curtsy.

“I wish to offer you my congratulations, Lord Stark,” Her chin remains tucked towards her chest, her eyes modestly lowered as she slowly rises up, shoulders pulling back gently. There is a light flutter to her lashes as she blinks up at Cregan, gazing into his eyes for a moment before a soft amusement tugs at the corners of her lips with the knowledge that many of the nobles present shall fret over how long the Warden of the North will remain and power and what anarchy he might cause. The volume of her speech decreases with a twinkle in her eyes, her head tilting slightly as she holds his gaze. “It is only a temporary position, I am sure, but I offer you felicitations nonetheless.”

Only the glimmer in her stare, scarcely more visible than a lighthouse in a midnight tempest, gives any hint at the teasing quality to her words. Cregan seems to find amusement in them, reflected in shrouded subtlety within his own eyes as he looks down at her. “So eager to be rid of me, my lady?”

The tilt of her head deepens at this, a soft breath through her nose escaping as her eyes briefly cast their gaze sideways in an attempt to conceal the delight dancing across her countenance at his low and rolling timbre and the peaking of his Northern humor. While the other nobles at court might view her as bashful and shy in the presence of the imposing lord, Cregan alone catches the humor within their exchange, the affection in her expression that softens her lips and her stance. It is exhilarating, reading her as one might a tome in the restricted section of a vast library. Giving another quiet breath, her voice adopts a sweeter quality reminiscent of their earliest conversations. “Oh, but how dreadfully boring it should be without you here, my lord.”

Cregan’s eyes narrow in almost playful scorn at this, only a fraction of an inch but enough that she can sense a teasing retort sharp on his tongue. Yet no time is spared for further conversation, as one of the Northern lords is standing so close to the Lord of Winterfell that he is practically breathing down Cregan’s neck and clearly has a pressing matter to discuss. Lady Tyrell dips her head in a demure excusing of herself, her attention drawn to the twin princesses once more as Cregan’s deep voice is heard softly behind her. Perhaps it is far past time she makes an attempt to speak to them, regardless of her hatred of their father. It is hardly their fault, nor should she allow personal feelings to interfere with a potential alliance. Her mother might have her head if she did so.

The conversation goes as well as she might hope, given the initial uncomfortable tension that stems from lingering feelings from the war. Both Baela and Rhaena seem weary from their efforts to reason with Cregan over the imprisonment of their grandfather Corlys. It appears that the Sea Snake has indeed been in contact with the lady’s mother, for the princesses mention that their families now share similar goals of bringing peace to the Seven Kingdoms. Yet at the remarking upon the favor she has gained with the Lord of Winterfell, all Lady Tyrell can do is merely nod and brush the inquisitive questions aside, not wishing to speak upon the matter at length when Lady Blackwood is rather close. She still cannot pinpoint the nature of Alysanne Blackwood’s relationship with Cregan, but her spies brought rather comforting rumors of a romance with Lady Sabitha Frey, who additionally fought in the battles during the war. If she truly wishes to be amiable, she might invite the ladies all to tea in the gardens prior to their imminent departure, but she cannot surmise if Lady Blackwood would find it worth her time and does not wish to offend.

A page hovering rather obviously to her right catches her attention, the young boy’s eyes widening in order to alert her of a message over which he fidgets with an anxious need to deliver. A caving pit begins to form in her stomach, sinking as if grains of sand in an hourglass that has run out of minutes, has her quite certain she is already aware of what it is he has come to tell her. Offering the princesses a soft smile and an apologetic excuse for taking her leave of the conversation, she straightens her posture and attempts to forge a steady peace within her mind before addressing the boy. Giving her a deep yet clumsy bow, the messenger looks up at her with brown eyes, straw-colored hair turning golden in the morning light streaming in from the windows.

“The Tyrell traveling party has entered the city, my lady.” The page’s voice is rather high-pitched, echoing the sharp twinge of her heart that rings in her ears like the plucking of a poorly tuned lute. Rather than allow this to show upon her face, she pinches her lips together in a tight smile, eyes lackluster as she nods in measured acknowledgement.

“I see. Thank you for informing me.” It is all she can force herself to say, her mind racing too hurriedly through the realization that her family has finally returned to King’s Landing after three long years. The boy is already scrambling to convey the news to others it is pertinent to, leaving her to clench her fists tightly as she begins to make her way towards the doors. The lords and ladies still lingering within the throne room are occupied with conversation over the trials, and the sudden appointment of a new Hand of the King, but she has banished every thought from her mind rather than how she might handle the impending betrothals her mother is certain to bring upon her today. For her sake, for her sister’s sake – she must have her wits all about her. Everything else in the throne room becomes a muffled, distant blur and murmur.

The sharp echoes of her steps are snuffed out by the ruffle of her skirts overtop, her attention solely focused on her worry and not at all upon Cregan, who takes notice of her rapid exit and draws out of his conversation quietly. His arm reaches forth to catch her softly as she passes him, the touch startling her out of her thoughts. After a brief flash of panic, unsure of who has grabbed her, she exhales a sharp breath that has the lord furrowing his brows deeply over his concerned eyes.

There is no need for him to speak his worry aloud upon his tongue, it reads as clear as a voice within his grey eyes. The depth of his frown, a tightening jaw, the soft brush of his thumb against the fabric of her sleeve. Her own expression, guarded yet yielding only to him, only at his waiting gaze, is undoubtedly legible to him as well. Lips part with practiced ease, the habit of brushing her worry aside to prevent any from seeing and weaponizing her own fear against her a hard one to break. It bends for Lord of Winterfell. The soft dip of her brow as she allows a flicker of concern to dance across her visage indicates all she wishes to convey. And hardly is there need to explain with further words when he knows her troubles already.

“My mother is arriving.” Her chin lifts defiantly as she speaks, yet she knows well her tendency to yield to the Lady of Highgarden. Cregan does not release her arm from his hold as she might have expected, but instead tightens his fingers around her slightly. As if he does not wish to let her go. After a moment of silence, the lord nods heavily, taking a slow breath.

“Let us greet her, then.”

The Tyrell banners fluttering delicately within the salty sea breeze from the bay embeds a compelling nostalgia like a polished stone into her chest. Olive fabric decorated with roses of the purest gold, the same flags that used to fly high above the whimsical days of garden girlhood, a dreamlike haze of giggles and flowers in her hair. When she had emerged from her carriage three years ago, the very one currently wobbling up the cobblestone streets to the gates of the castle, she had still retained the wide-eyed innocence of her youth. It had ended then, so she had thought, when the soft satin slippers of a baby blue shade had touched the rocks in the gated courtyard. And her days had been filled with challenge after challenge, shaping and molding her into the woman she has now become, not out of a desire to ascend the power chain of the capital but out of a primal need to survive. But it was not strife that had turned her into a woman; it was death. The loss of Helaena was the end of innocence and childhood and dreams.

Survival is intertwined in all of House Tyrell, binding ancestral words that are less about power and more about permanence. Incessant and persistent, tangled in the history of the soil as much as the roots of ancient trees. The growth is everlasting, ever-changing, weathering the various seasons as the woods do. While many Houses suffered great losses during the war, House Tyrell remained as they were before, watching and waiting until the ideal time to involve themselves would be. As the carriage draws near, the white horses tossing their golden manes in the brilliant sunlight beaming down upon the courtyard, the Lady Tyrell straightens her shoulders with poise and intention, a slow breath inhaled like syrup into her lungs. So tightly clasped together are her hands atop her gown, she wonders if she might break a nail off accidentally.

At her side stands the Lord of Winterfell, ever the sturdy presence she might rely upon. He had offered his arm for her to steady herself upon, but she cannot accept for fear that her mother might see the genuineness with which the lady attends to Cregan. It would be a poor start to what shall likely be a stressful few days even with the absence of any additional issues. The lord does not press the matter further, eyes lingering heavily upon her visage. Even in the earliest days of their knowing each other, when he had only seen the glass figurine of a lady she had presented to him, never has Cregan seen her so uncertain. Every muscle of her body seems to be drawn tight and strained, her eyes as sharp and watchful as a bird of prey. All of this appears to leave her figure in a sudden melting as the carriage door opens and a young lady can be seen stepping out gently, a footman by the open door to hold the girl’s hand as she descends the stairs.

Any concept of rigidity abandons her, the shimmering skirts of her dress bunched up in her fists as she all but runs to the carriage. As the girl finally steps solidly onto the ground, Lady Tyrell’ skirts are released hurriedly to fall about her feet as she throws her arms around the young lady, who gasps in soft excitement and returns the hug just as tightly.

“Sister,” It is a bright squeal, girlish and sweet with sincere delight. Cregan could have surmised as such without the word being spoken – the younger lady looks so much like the Lady Tyrell that he finds it almost amusing. The same hair, arranged in a similar manner, the same color of her eyes. A dress in a soft shade of pastel green that the lord knows he has seen Lady Tyrell wear upon at least one occasion. The lord watches with gentle patience, eyes soft as he witnesses the loving reunion.

“Oh, Cassia,” The breath Lady Tyrell responds with is one of complete relief and gladness, her eyes closing as she holds her sister tightly in her arms. After a moment she pulls away, her gaze pleased and mirthful as she beholds her sister’s face. In the three years since they last saw each other, Cassia has indeed grown into her beauty as their mother spoke of in her letters. The little girl who would race after her, always trying her utmost to keep up in the flowering fields outside the castle walls, has become quite the comely young lady. This reminds Lady Tyrell pointedly about the unavoidable fate of an upcoming marriage for both of them, a thorny reminder that nestles itself into her troubled chest.

“I had not known if you would meet us right away,” Cassia begins, her smile brilliant and delighted as she gives her sister another tight hug. A soft laugh escapes her lips, the excitement of being reunited after such long years apart evident upon her pleased visage. Lady Tyrell gives a soft hum at this, unable to prevent the easy way that her younger sister brings out the gentler side of her which she normally hides behind parapets of threatening briars.

“How could I not be here to greet you? I have missed you so.” The reply is a breeze of spring air, as Lady Tyrell smiles in a warm manner she rarely bestows upon others. She reaches up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her sister’s ear, her mind instantly eased by the girl’s voice and presence. No more at home could she have felt if she had returned back to Highgarden, amidst the roses and fountains and string quartets playing elegant songs about the terraces. Cassia gives a nod at this, her eyes briefly wandering to the courtyard. Cregan seems to catch her attention first, and the girl hesitates, her gaze lingering upon the Lord of Winterfell with a soft worry. But the girl shall not stare – it is unbecoming of a lady to do so – and quickly returns her attention to her elder sister.

“I know,” Cassia speaks with a sweet cadence, reminiscent of Lady Tyrell’s when she is presenting herself to others, but with a twinge of hesitation. “It is only that mother was unsure of…”

As the girl trails off softly, her eyes once again flickering to gaze at the Warden of the North in silent concern, Lady Tyrell cannot help but smile knowingly. She is certain her mother has retained her belief of the Northerners, deeming a majority of them as violent savages who have brutally seized the castle and intend to behead all of those imprisoned. Cassia has never met anyone from the North, and likely deferred to their mother’s opinions. Her heart aches at the thought of her sister worrying over her, evident by the way Cassia takes her hand and squeezes it softly, unsure if the lady is treated poorly by the Northern forces.

If only she could tell Cassia that cannot be further from the truth.

Her attention is quickly drawn to their mother, the sunlight glittering off the pearls woven into Elinor Tyrell’s hair and the golden circlet that adorns her brow as she descends the steps of the carriage. A soft undulation of edelweiss and hyacinth swirls delicately about the air, catching like dew droplets amongst the salty gusts of wind from the Blackwater. The Lady Tyrell releases her younger sister’s hand gently, instead taking her gown into her own hands and dipping her head low as her body sinks into a practiced curtsy of the utmost grace. Her eyes remain cast to the pebbles that are scattered haphazardly throughout the courtyard, her lower lashes brushing demurely against the curve of her cheeks. The slight squeaking of the carriage steps, the light creaking of wood, and the soft rustling of pebbles all inform her that her mother is standing before her.

“Rise, and allow me to see my eldest child’s face.” Her mother’s voice is a lullaby from a distant memory, the comfort of stories told when tucked into a feathered bed, the remnants of a midnight dessert sweet upon her tongue. For all her fear over the fate of her betrothal, nothing can surmount the nostalgia over days when her mother was her entire world and the lady who stood guard between her and the monsters curling in shadowy tendrils beneath her bedframe. And who is the lady besides a mirrored reflection of the light from her mother’s shining glow, bound by blood and womanhood, made evident beneath the brightness of each full moon.

Her eyes are raised slowly, alongside her body, fluttering lashes indicating a hesitation and vulnerability in Lady Tyrell’s countenance. The sight of her mother’s face invokes a soft yearning in her bruised and broken heart, the organ giving a weak fluttering at the familiarity that trickles like a cooling stream through tired veins. How exhausted the lady has become, putting up each fight so fiercely for her survival over the duration of the past three years. A desire for a simpler time, for suns under which she would run with sparkling teardrops to her mother’s skirts and have all her pains and fears soothed, nestles its way beneath her skin. Her voice lodges itself into the sides of her throat before she is able to compel it out of her mouth quietly. “I am pleased to welcome you to the Red Keep again after so long, mother.”

Elinor Tyrell beholds her daughter’s visage with eyes that betray nothing of her thoughts, a soft ambiguity resting upon her high cheekbones and daintily arched brows. The Lady of Highgarden is a vision herself in a gown of a delicate shade of gold that reflects within her eyes. There is a youthful beauty to her despite her age, perhaps from the graceful manner in which she carries herself. “You have grown even more beautiful since I last saw you.”

At the soft murmur Lady Tyrell gives another dip of her head, pleased to at least have presented herself in a manner deserving of her mother’s praise. Any further thought is skillfully hidden at the approach of the Lord of Winterfell, Elinor Tyrell’s attention turning subtlety to the man as he makes his way across the courtyard. He gives a respectful nod, standing by the lady as Cassia regards him with slight worry and her mother with quiet intrigue. Cregan’s presence at her side is that of a beacon upon a moonlit hill, ever-grounding and drawing her towards him as if they belong in each other’s orbit.

“I am honored to welcome you to the Red Keep, Lady Elinor, Lady Cassia,” His rumbling voice retains a noble quality as he extends his formal greeting, met with a gentle nod from the lady’s mother and a soft curtsy from her sister. The sun has begun to shift towards the height of the sky, illuminating rays descending from the clear blue expanse. Lady Tyrell’s attention is intentionally kept away from Cregan, not wishing her mother to catch a glimpse of the warmth he extends to her reflected in her own eyes. “I am Lord Cregan Stark of Winterfell. If there is anything I might do to assist during your stay, do inform me at once.”

“That is quite kind of you, Lord Stark.” A voice as fresh and lovely as field grown flowers, yet Cregan cannot say he underestimates the Lady of Highgarden to any degree. The drifting of voices from the courtyard as the remainder of the traveling party dismounts their tired horses and begins to stretch after the long journey distracts the Lady Tyrell momentarily, before she brings a soft and saccharine smile to her lips and gazes up at Cregan pointedly.

“Perhaps you might accompany my sister about the halls whilst I show my mother to her chambers?” It is a delicate question, referencing an earlier conversation they had in which the lady had asked for a quiet moment alone with her mother prior to anything else that is to occur that day. Cregan holds her gaze, seemingly searching for the truth upon her state of mind, but readily accepts her request. His arm is extended to Cassia, who blinks in soft concern and casts her eyes to her elder sister.

“Lord Stark shall be a perfect host, I assure you.” Lady Tyrell consoles the girl in a hushed tone, her hand reaching forth to take Cassia’s comfortingly. “You must be aching to stretch your legs after so long in the confines of the carriage. Go ahead.”

After a moment of gentle hesitation, Cassia agrees with a delicate nod. Her hand wavers slightly in the air but she takes Cregan’s arm as gingerly as she can and offers him a wary yet grateful smile. Both the lady and her mother watch Cregan lead Cassia towards the archways of the inner doors, his deep voice floating through the air behind them as they walk.

“There is someone I wish to introduce you to, my lady…” Attempting to not smile softly at Cregan’s leading of her sister over to the young Lord Blackwood, whose face has gone quite red at the sight of the girl approaching, the Lady Tyrell returns her attention to her mother who is staring after Cregan with a thoughtful look upon her face. With a soft breath, she looks down and does her best to conceal any traces of true affection from her mother’s watchful observation. Yet there is no need to hide physical indicators of the truth of her feelings, not when she has written the depth of her trust for Cregan all over the rocks and pillars of the courtyard in messy script by entrusting him with her sister.

The exchange of words between the two women during their walk to the guest chambers of the castle is pleasant and easy, most of it revolving around the young Lyonel Hightower who will soon be turning four years old. The lady is filled with a soft melancholy to hear of the milestones her brother has been meeting in her absence, a flickering of regret over missing nearly all of his young life burning tightly in her chest. There had been no way to escape to Highgarden during the war, not when it meant abandoning Helaena and her children, and thus she had been unable to return to her younger siblings. Only once has she seen the little boy – with a sickening sadness she realizes that the child will likely not recognize her the next time they meet.

As they enter the guest chambers, the door closing behind them with the softest clicking of the metal latch, Lady Tyrell lets out a slow breath. Her back remains pressed to the deep oak of the door as she watches her mother survey the chambers with a neutral expression, the woman’s hands folded delicately at her front in the very same manner that Lady Tyrell always does. Waiting eyes track each step her mother takes, studying the way she carries herself as if the lady has not done so more than a thousand times in her life. Her shoulders instinctively lower to mimic the Lady of Highgarden as the woman stops to select a single white rose from a porcelain vase, twisting the stem elegantly within her hands. Each thorn is skillfully avoided.

“You have tamed the Northern wolf rather well.” Any sweetness from Elinor Tyrell’s voice has faded away, slipping from her mouth like dripping honey down the bark of a tree. Instead, the lady is met with low and quiet observation, certain and deliberate. As her mother’s eyes remain cast to the rose, the lady lets out a quiet huff of breath. There is an understanding of necessary practicality between them, yet the lady cannot say she has been nearly as practical as she ought to be given the precariousness of the power balance at court.

“I would hardly say so.” She breathes back in response, her gaze dropping to stare at the wooden floorboards that had been polished that morning for the arrival of guests. They shine with such pristineness that the lady finds them almost mocking as her own distorted reflection is whispered back to her. Her plan to manipulate Cregan had all but imploded, leaving in her a vulnerable situation with the Lord of Winterfell that her mother will certainly have an opinion upon. While she trusts him, the Lady of Highgarden will want insurance regarding this trust being rightfully placed and the lady cannot offer much save for his kindness to her and her own instinct.

“Nonsense, child,” Elinor Tyrell muses coolly, setting the rose down gently among the others in the pearl vase. The woman’s gaze returns to assessing the room she shall be residing in during her stay at the castle. “I must admit I am surprised at your success in the matter. I had read your reports and yet the situation appears far better than I could have imagined.”

It is a compliment, as clear as she might hope to receive from her mother regarding the issue. Elaboration does not need to be made upon the failing of her initial plan, and so she merely taps her fingers in soft rhythm against the wood of the door she rests her back upon. While she wishes to seek after Elinor Tyrell’s opinion upon Cregan Stark, it is a matter that holds little importance when the setting sun of her maidenhood draws lower in the sky. If only her mother held more hope for Cregan, perhaps she might set her attention to a marriage pact that the lady would genuinely wish for herself. But she knows well where the Lady of Highgarden has set her sights.

Sea rather than snow.

“But that is not what you wish for me, is it mother?” A quiet phrase, spoken through heavy lips and accompanied with gloomy eyes. Her mother turns at this, a spark of amusement in her gaze at the sharpness retained in her daughter’s mind over the larger game at play. The woman observes Lady Tyrell calmly, taking careful note of the dullness of the lady’s expression regarding the line of questioning. It is no surprise to Elinor – while most young ladies would have been ecstatic to be engaged to a prince, her child had never seemed to care much for her match to Daeron Targaryen. Another Targaryen had long ensnared the innocence of her young heart, but Elinor had hoped the revelation of the boy’s true character had woken her daughter from childish notions of romance and love within a marriage.

“You wish to know of my plans for your betrothal then.” The Lady of Highgarden purses her lips softly before she lets out a long sigh, shaking her head at her daughter. It is marginally more difficult to convince a daughter who has since reached twenty years of age to marry as her parents see fit – Elinor had been considerably annoyed when Prince Daeron had died and broken off a sixteen-year-long engagement.

“It has been on my mind as of late.” The lady does not need to possess any fantastical ability to know her mother finds her having an opinion upon the matter of her own marriage rather tiresome. It is tradition, longstanding and binding, for ladies to have their husbands selected by their parents. The intense glare her mother fixes her with only serves to agitate her further, and she remains drawn against the door.

“If you must know,” Her mother begins with another shake of her head, exasperation written as if in stone upon her face. “I believe you shall marry Lord Corlys Velaryon’s heir. A bastard, in truth, but he has been legitimized and will be the next Lord of the Tides. Being the Lady of Driftmark would suit you, and Lord Alyn’s fleet would be an excellent ally to possess.”

Repressing a sardonic breath that threatens to escape her lips at the confirmation of her suspicions, the lady feels her nails digging into the wooden door. After a moment of composing herself, gaze remaining downcast to the floor, she speaks in a measured tone. “Have you arranged it already?”

“The matter has been proposed to Lord Corlys, but the betrothal will be solidified once he is freed.” It is said with such certainty that a heaviness pools about her stomach, her eyes closing briefly as she attempts to reason with herself over the marriage. It could be far worse – she had briefly wondered if her mother mind demand she marry Lord Corlys himself, despite the man being over seventy years of age. She knows little of Lord Alyn, save him not being a trueborn son of the Sea Snake nor a dragon rider. And while she is frustrated at this decision, her true worry is for another.

“And Cassia?” Her eyes finally meet her mother’s with a stubborn glint as the question leaves her lips, searching to find if yet another of her hunches shall prove true.

“Lord Lyonel Hightower is in need of a wife, so it would seem.” Upon this matter, the lady cannot prevent the disapproving click that bounces from her tongue, fixing her mother with a glare of equal ferocity. She is nothing if not Elinor’s daughter after all. As she crosses the room towards the other woman, the reasoning she has spent many long nights sorting out is finally given voice.

“The Hightowers are already your bannermen. You need not vie for more power in their House, not when you have reminded them of the true strength of Highgarden,” After the realization that Garmund Hightower’s position as a ward of the Tyrells places the Hightowers in a delicate situation, the lady doubts any rebellions shall be happening in the coming years. Not when Lord Lyonel is still quite young and wholly inexperienced in battle. Additionally occupied with seducing his stepmother, whom he is rumored to be terribly obsessed with, and being altogether horrid to his serving staff. Surely, her mother cannot be eager to send Cassia to such a horrendous fate. Not when there might be more to be gained elsewhere. “If you use this rare opportunity to secure an alliance with a Northern House, it will extend our influence.”

Elinor gives a scoff at this, her stare hardening as her daughter’s stubbornness is presented to her once again. While the lady has rarely argued upon orders given directly to her, she is so very insistent regarding her sister. As it has always been, the Lady of Highgarden is both impressed and annoyed by the fierceness with which her eldest child is devoted to her siblings. “Cassia does not possess the skill needed to manipulate influence so far from Highgarden.”

“She is young, she will learn.” The lady reasons with a soft shrugging of her shoulders, her frown deepening as she attempts to persuade her mother against such a decision. As they had taken their leave of the courtyard, the lady had noticed the gentle way Lord Blackwood had lifted her sister’s hand to his lips, and the soft delight upon Cassia’s face at the meeting. After years of searching for an acceptable match for the girl, the lady will be damned if her mother sentences her only sister to life at the mercy of an ill-tempered and spoiled lordling.

“You were fully prepared to manipulate those in court at her age.” With a look of disbelief cast coldly to her daughter, the Lady of Highgarden squares her shoulders and tilts her head in a manner the implies she does not mean to be argued with upon the topic. Given usual circumstances, Lady Tyrell would then have lowered her eyes and her voice and deferred to her mother’s wishes. But after witnessing Helaena’s marriage, and the marriages of other ladies within the castle, she knows all too well that it is not only Cassia’s heart that is in danger. The physical suffering resulting from matches made with cruel and violent men shall last the entirety of the union. Still, blatant attitude will not convince her mother of anything. The lady’s voice simmers to a softer note.

“Cassia is…she is less like you and I, mother.” There is a fondness in her voice she cannot hide, but fear decorates the edges of her words like lace stitching. The lady cannot lose another. It would surely kill her, if she is not already dying slowly from the grief that snaps heartstring after heartstring, plucking her damaged heart like a harp. Let her bear the burden of being born a daughter, so that her sister shall not.

“She is naive.” Elinor dismisses with a wave of her hand, eyes closing with weary ache as she thinks after her more tenderhearted daughter. How she birthed two girls who are so very different from herself, she could never understand.

“I will speak to her.” Lady Tyrell’s brows have drawn together, her lips pressed together tightly as her hands are folded in front of her skirts with elegant poise. Yet her gaze remains stubbornly set, insistent and certain as carved marble. “I simply believe it to be in the best interest of our House.”

“Of our House, or of your beloved sister?” The question is wielded as sharply as a dagger, burrowing up to the hilt in the lady’s mind as her mother regards her with thinly veiled disappointment. There is a heavy silence that falls within the air of the room as the women regard each other with equally intense stares. Long gone are the days when she would hide at the sight of her mother’s cold glare, her heart plummeting at the very thought of letting down the only parent who paid her any mind. For so long has she obeyed every order to the utmost, earning her place as her mother’s darling and trusted spy at court. But the war has shown the lady what is truly frightening in this world, and no amount of lingering childhood guilt can convince her to abandon her sister to the hands of a senselessly violent man.

“Both can be true, can they not?” She speaks finally, a quiet reaffirming of her stance. Elinor’s shrouded gaze remains cast to her daughter, repressing the urge to remind the lady that their House only remains standing because of the effort she has put in to keep it from falling. Instead, she shakes her head, her lip curling slightly.

“Do not forget what a crucial time this is. I would hate to see your emotions stand in the way of our ambition.” Elinor’s voice is reminiscent of the rattle of a snake slipping through tall grasses, fangs withdrawn but always present. Venom that has been used before, to keep House Tyrell alive and strong.

“…Yes, mother.”

The warning is as clear as any.

The matter of an imminent betrothal weighs as heavily upon Cregan’s mind as it does on the Lady Tyrell’s. Despite the flurry of tasks he is swept up in as the newly appointed Hand, the concern lingering in the corners of his thoughts does not cease nor waver. It is with no surprise that after he has finally concluded the last issue of the day, his steps carry him with a heavy quickness to her chamber door. So familiar has he become with the carvings of the wood upon it, with the cool touch of the metal latch. With the way his knocks resound in hollow bursts through the thickness of it, and the soft adjusting of metal as she pulls the door inwards to herself. Each time she gazes upon him with such soft surprise, even if she should not expect anyone else when the crescent moon is so high in the inky darkness of the night sky.

But as she opens the door to greet him, she is given momentary pause by the intensity of his eyes, gazing down into hers with such needing questioning that she is left silent for a second after she catches sight of his stoic visage. Unsure of what has him in such an agitated state, the lady blinks up at him with a quiet wondering. Cregan could give a breath of relief at the sight of her, not already swept up into the arms of some lord who might not take note of the way she adds three sugars to her morning tea or the glimmer in her eyes when she finds something amusing yet does not wish to show it. It burns within his chest like a raging wildfire then, the crux of weeks of learning her person and finding himself taken by each detail he has seen.

“I apologize for the lateness of the hour,” Cregan murmurs, the depth of his voice sending her stomach rolling about softly. There is a certain hum to the manner he speaks when it is only them alone that she cannot quite place, but the physical effects of it have only grown stronger in the hours spent in only each other’s company. “I had wished to come earlier but there were a number of pressing matters and time soon slipped away from me.”

Lingering in the torchlit hallway, she cannot help but allow her eyes to soften at the way the edges of his noble silhouette turn gentle and golden in the warm glow. Her lips melt into the smallest ghost of a smile, her lids lowering as she gazes up at him with knowing eyes. She too has been hoping for his company, having grown used to receiving it several times a day.

“You need not worry. Being Hand of the King is an involved position, I am sure.” Easy does the speech flow from her lips, rich and sweet as dessert wine when she presses one hand to her doorframe. Her lithe fingers curl about the wood delicately, and the crackling of the hearth can be heard from inside her ambiently lit chambers. A nightgown of ivory coloring adorns her body once again, scarcely obscuring anything from Cregan’s wandering eyes. She does little to hide herself, the hauntings of a smile widening in delighted amusement when a thick swallow is forced down his throat at the sight of her chest draped in such delicate silks. When his eyes flick up to hers again, she casts her gaze down so he might not see.

“It is,” He acquiesces, seeming rather weary from such a long day. But no amount of exhaustion or concern over the trials occurring tomorrow can keep Cregan from her doorstep, not when she might be betrothed at any moment. “And yet I still wished to see you, my lady.”

Her heart is sticky candle wax beneath a wick that has been set aflame, dripping into the cavity of her chest warmly. The Northern practicality that others might view as brashly straightforward heats her body as no other words can. There is little she can do to stop her smile from blooming fully upon her face as she steps back slowly, her eyes holding his with a quiet reflection of his own desires that she is sure he does not miss.

“You may come in, Lord Stark.” It is a hushed murmur, spoken to him before her back is turned and he is left to stare after her retreating figure once more. Taking a slow breath, Cregan finds himself closing the door as he has before. But this evening, there is a crackling of electricity in the air as there has not been during other evening meetings. An understanding seems to be on the precipice of being reached, yet Cregan cannot help but wonder if she knows the depth of his affection.

Slowly, he makes his way into her chambers. She has returned to the task she was attending to before Cregan had arrived – fixing her hair for bed in front of a full mirror the shape of an oval. With some hesitation, he follows her to the far side of the room and sinks slowly into the edge of her bed, watching the gentle movements she makes with half-lidded eyes. His gaze meet hers within the mirror, and he lowers his chin quietly as he speaks.

“Has your mother arranged a match for you yet, my lady?” It is as direct as she expects him to be, and yet an amused breath is taken through her nose as she breaks her eyes away from his. Her hands make their way through her hair as a soft, tired smile finds its way to her mouth. The firelight from across her chambers casts the room in a warm yet dim glow.

“She has her sights on Lord Alyn Velaryon,” The lady informs Cregan with a pointed resignation, attempting not to sound too annoyed or frustrated by her mother’s decision. Her fingers slow in their movements as she attempts to imagine a life at Driftmark, by the sea and sand. She has sent her spies out to learn more about Alyn, yet she does not imagine she shall receive information about his character until far later in the week. Whether for Cregan’s sake or her own, she attempts to reason out the circumstance. “It could be far worse. He – is of my age and has a good title.”

“Do you wish to marry him?” The quickness of the serious reply has her closing her eyes for a moment. She has half a mind to turn upon Cregan and ask if he imagines she wishes to marry a stranger she has never met nor has any concept of at her age, but it is not his fault nor is it fair of her to take out such frustrations upon him, he who is so very kind to her and has enchanted her so.

“Not particularly, no,” She begins truthfully, unable to stop the honest words from fleeing her chest. Cregan has a way of rendering her all but incapable of lying when he has gotten her alone, which is both refreshing and concerning. “But I have evaded my fate for far too long. I must fulfill my duty to my family.”

Cregan cannot tear his attention from her, his heart striving with sharp pull in his chest as he watches her quietly accept that which she herself has said she does not wish for. Her chin tilts down, her hands running softly through her hair to arrange it delicately atop the silk of her evening slip. Gazing at herself softly, she cannot help but smooth down a portion of the fabric, her hand running across the silks that cascade over her breasts and down to her stomach, fingers embedding a slow trail down the map of her body. His jaw tightens, his lips twitching slightly as he stares at her figure, her back turned to him as she busies herself with her hair. The fierce spirit he has seen her wield to fight for Cassia and Jaehaera – will she truly not utilize it for herself? Cregan Stark is sure in this instance he is not a fool. Surely, she must know as well.

“And your duty to your heart?” His eyes do not waver. There is not need to elaborate further, not when he is sat there upon the edge of her bed, not when he has been allowed into her chambers at this hour before. As he has been allowed past the thorny towers of her heart, as he has been allowed the soft trust she has placed in him. He shall ignore it no longer. The lady’s body goes rigid, her lips parting dryly as she stares down at the curved foot of the mirror with wide, unblinking eyes. While she too has grown keenly aware of this fire they share, she had not imagined he would speak so brazenly of it. But Cregan is of Northern blood and custom, to his last.

Cursed heart, flickering to life only to be put to the sword once again.

“It is but a dream.” The edges of her voice break upon her lips, glass and a ghostly whisper that lingers in the space in front of her as it falls from her tongue. Her heartbeat has become a steady thrumming in her ears, pulsing wildly beneath the skin of her wrists and beneath her collarbone. Her chin is softly lifted to meet Cregan’s stare through the mirror, and her breath is taken from her lungs by the intensity of his eyes. He shakes his head slowly, never breaking their shared gaze. An almost painful need to speak has lodged its way into his chest.

“If it is a dream then I do not wish to be woken from it. I cannot no longer hide what your discerning mind surely already knows when you look upon me.” The last word is spoken as a deep breath, as if he cannot fight with his own self-control for a moment longer. His brows draw lower, furrowing to show the weight of the longing and aching within his body that he cannot rid himself of. She can do little but stare at him, lips parted, a sweet wariness melting in desperate uncertainty upon her face as he continues.

“Your being consumes my every thought, my every breath. It is your eyes I search for in every room, your presence I long for at my side, you who has captured my heart and my soul wholly and without question. I came to this castle as a conqueror and instead find myself subdued completely by you, at your mercy and willingly upon my knees,” His eyes are anchored to her visage as a ship in a storm seeks a lighthouse, every word spoken with careful intent and heavy honesty. There is nowhere else he can look to, not even in a hall of thousands. It cannot be undone. “For but the chance that you consider another for your husband.”

A soft exhale of breath puffs through her parted lips, the flicker of firelight tracing the curves of her hips and thighs, nearly visible through the sheer gown. Burning fear and want has pooled in her eyes like golden starlight as a timid whisper is barely heard in the silence of the room. “Please do not jest.”

“I am not.” The words are low and instantaneous, rolling off his tongue like thunder from a long-brewing storm, clouds low and grey as the hues of his lidded eyes. Heat has spread from his chest to the tips of his fingers, settling warm and aching between his thighs as his intense gaze tracks her every movement, her every breath. Each rise of her chest is watched hungrily, earning him an expression similar to that of a wolf who can no longer hide its raw and heady desire. One of his tightly closed fists is flexed slowly, fingers extending by the digit as he attempts to maintain what little control he has left. It is not enough to prevent him from rising from her bed, the plush feathered mattress indented in his wake, his steps heavy and intentional as he crosses to stand at her back. She can see his reflection in the mirror, his chin lowered as his eyes rake across her figure with such evident need that a soft heat pools between the curves of her thighs. A large hand finds its place upon her lower back, sliding itself into the slot where her hips begin to curve as she turns to meet his gaze, eyes wide and waiting.

Cregan’s fingers curl softly into the silk, bunching up the pearl fabric within his hold as he presses his hand more firmly into her back, drawing her attention completely. Heat rises to her cheeks at the possessiveness of the action, despite the clear manner in which he is giving her room to draw away. His presence is imposing behind her, broad shoulders looming over her frame, but he does not corner her. The gesture is an asking, a sacred offering, a holy promise of the reverence he will use if he continues to hold her body beneath his hands. So hot is his touch, she expects to see a burn like a brand when he pulls his hand away next. But she does not wish him to. Caution curls in hesitant tendrils within her hollow chest, but they are waved away as mere wisps of smoke. If he gazes down at her with any more softness, his expression might melt beside the flames flickering in the fireplace. It is then that she realizes she has never been looked upon with such obvious love and devotion, by someone whose every action serves to reinforce this certainty. His voice breaks upon the whispered repetition of his own words, as if he is almost afraid of the need he betrays by speaking once more. “I am not.”

Her own palms are hesitant as they reach forth cautiously, wanting yet wary, head against heart. Curling into the softness of his clothing, she presses her hands to the swell of his chest as she turns, her back to the mirror as she faces him fully. Fear has been dissipated, scattered to the delicate night breeze slipping in through the crack in her window. Cool and fresh, laced with the salt from the sea. No sooner than when her fingers bend to take tentative hold of the fabric of his shirt, her eyes flooding with approval as she dips her head – yes, I want this, I want you – does he kiss her.

His mouth parts her wanting lips with a desperate yet constrained hunger, emboldened by the soft gasp against him and the tightening of fingers into his clothing rather than pushing him away. Her brows furrow sweetly as she allows Cregan to press his lips against her own in open-mouthed kisses, deep and messy with the overflowing from weeks of repressed desire, dispelling any sense of propriety and sensibility. As his other arm wraps tightly around her back, he solidifies his hold upon her waist by grabbing firmly at her hips, allowing her figure to melt against his as he holds her upright. As the curves of her breasts meld into his chest, a resonant hum escapes the back of his throat and lowers into a growl when he coaxes her lips further apart, sliding his tongue hotly overtop of them before it slips into the plush softness of her waiting mouth. This earns him another whine, sweet and breathless, that has Cregan hardening faster than he might care to admit. To soothe her, one of his hands pulls her in closer to him, briefly pausing the conquest upon her lips to lift her up into his arms.

It is with utter ease that he raises her from the ground, the muscles in his arms flexing as he leans in to kiss her hungrily once more. Her legs wrap naturally atop his hips as he settles her there, barely preventing them both from stumbling backwards and shattering her mirror, yet still bumping the dark wooden armoire and sending the trinkets atop it shaking. As she begins to meet his eagerness, discovering how she might endeavor to match the passion which with he moves his mouth against her own, neither one seems too occupied with the state of the furniture. His hands have settled into the plush skin of her upper thighs, grasping handfuls of fabric and flesh as he kneads deeply into her warmth. Her hands reach up to tangle in his locks of reddish hair, running through his soft strands and twisting themselves thoroughly. So long has she wished to touch, to brush, to hold. Cregan gives a small groan at the sensation of her fingers pulling his head back, momentarily ceasing his conquest once more to gaze into her eyes, lidded and with pupils blown wide from newly released lust. Her own eyes melt at the sight, at the beauty of him, at the depth of the affection and desire within her heart. One hand trails down to caress his cheek, cupping it tenderly in her hold as their eyes search each other’s for confirmation of the mutual desire for continuation. When Cregan is certain that her need matches his own, he is quick to shift her weight in his arms, crossing back to her bed in a few large strides.

As he bends his knees to kneel upon the end of her mattress, one hand reaches up to cradle her head gently as he lays her down before him, hair spread out beneath her and her cheeks rosy from the exertion of kissing him. Her chest heaves in labored breath, nightgown skewed upon her figure as she gazes up at the Lord of Winterfell with blossoming desire. Never able to deny her, she who blooms within his world as a rose amongst the snowiest peaks, Cregan lowers his body overtop of hers as his lips find her mouth once again.

The glowing fire burns low in the hearth, casting golden light upon their joining bodies in the soft satins of her poster-framed bed. The sheer silk canopy does little to hide the sounds of sweet and aching desire released from her lips as Cregan shifts his weight up onto his arms, trailing his lips and nipping teeth along the curve of her jaw and down her neck. At this, she tilts her head to further expose herself to his ardent kisses. The feeling of a mouth upon her skin is new, yet she feels far less anxiety than she might have expected. So long as it is Cregan Stark whose hands and mouth forge untaken paths onto the expanse of her body, lips pressing against sensitive pressure points as her pulse thrums beneath in hot pools, there shall be no fear in her heart.

Just as it had been before, her given name is a sacrosanct promise birthed upon his reddening lips. She breathes his in return, wholly as sacred, reverent and reminiscent of a vow.

Lady Tyrell’s hands once more find their way into his hair, raking fistfuls of soft locks into her grasp and tugging just so, earning her another delicious groan from his chest and a stuttered rocking of his hips against air. The action spurs him on further, as he pushes himself up by straightening his elbows and shifting back onto his knees. With his now free hands, he curls his fingers into the thin silk of her evening slip. The fabric gives way pliantly in his strong grasp. Another gasp falls from her open lips as the clothing tears, her breasts dipping slightly as they are exposed to the warm air of her bedchamber. Cregan does not give her a moment to consider embarrassment or worry as he immediately lowers his head, capturing one of her nipples with a deep kiss around the peaking bud. His eyes close at the taste of her upon his tongue, the other breast attended to with his hand as he kneads and pulls at the soft flesh with a feeling of near relief.

On many an occasion his eyes have been drawn to the lowness of her neckline, plunging precariously atop her breasts that bounce as she walks and turns to speak to him. Finally, he can lick his tongue across the rounded nipples as he has been desiring to, his cheeks blown as his head lowers and raises from the intensity with which he sucks at her. Her back arches at the feeling of his warm mouth over her sensitive chest, suckling from her as he pulls her body closer. The ache between her thighs is a demanding flutter that grows bolder with each movement of his tongue, echoing in yielding moans and whines.

Cregan rolls his hips against hers tentatively – needing more yet wishing to be tender with her, wishing to treat her as devotedly as he can given the heat that has pulsated into his throbbing cock – as he switches to lavishing attention to her other breast. Lady Tyrell squirms beneath his touch, yet her own waist lifts to meet his as she feels the prominent outline of him straining against the material of his pants. The silks of her nightgown have bunched up about her hips, leaving her cunt covered only by the thin fabric of her small clothes akin to a flower whose petals have curled back to allow the sun to reach its depths. As he continues to map out each plane of her figure with his mouth, descending to the soft skin of her stomach after he rips at her slip further, his fingers slowly reach through the fabric to brush against her wet core. Her head falls back against the satin sheets, a sweet sound filling the air that only serves to encourage Cregan further.

“Cregan please,” Her whine is far more desperate than she wishes it to be, but the neediness causes Cregan’s cock to twitch within the constraints of his clothes. The dampness of his fingers, feeling the physical manifestation of her desire even through cloth, has him leaning back, wrestling to free himself of his pants and breeches. The lady presses her thighs together in an attempt to relieve some of the aching throbbing that has been caused by him before reaching down to wiggle her hips and slide her small clothes down the smooth expanse of her legs. But he shall not leave her wanting, not when he can alleviate the pressure with his own fingers that resume their ministrations once he gently moves her thighs apart.

“As you wish, my lady.” An instantaneous agreement in a tone that rumbles with burning desire, pulled from his chest with no resistance. If she were his enemy, she would surely render him all but helpless – a knife to his neck at her mercy, if only to keep a tear from ever falling from her eyes, save the ones she sheds from the pleasure he might bring her. Her folds are wet and pliant as he massages his fingers into them softly, spurred on by the lovely sounds dripping from her lips as an ambrosial substance. His mouth returns to eagerly press kisses to each moan, tongue diving past her lips as he rubs small circles into her clit.

With each movement, she is willing to spread her legs further apart for him, hips fluttering to meet the calloused pads of his large fingers. The scent of him is in every breath – heavy musk and sweet pine, hints of leather and the distant memory of fresh fallen snow. As he draws back for air, she lifts her head to his neck, mimicking the hungry kisses he had lavished upon her collarbone. When her teeth sink into the juncture of his throat, his hips jerk sharply and he drops his head, hair falling over his face. Soothing a sweet kiss to his skin immediately after, she presses her mouth repeatedly to the sensitive skin as Cregan slides his thick fingers across her wet pearl. Her hips roll as ocean waves against his touch, her mouth leaving reddening marks akin to bruises upon the skin of fresh fruit, laying claim to the Warden of the North as he has allowed her to. As she begins to feel flush across the entirety of her body, Cregan aligns his hips with hers to lower his cock to rub against the wetness of her cunt, sliding easily across her as she takes a sharp breath. His head hangs above hers, eyes longing to see every expression that flickers across her visage as he rubs himself against her, catching upon her clit and dipping into the pliant folds only just so.

Never has Lady Tyrell been touched in such a way, but she is not ignorant of how the act is performed. Only, she had not believed it to be so pleasant nor so hot, burning as a raging wildfire within the lower realm of her stomach as Cregan groans from the feeling of his cock sliding against her wetness with such ease, a clear indicator of the pleasure she experiences from his touch. It had seemed like a chore, a burden forced upon ladies in order to create heirs. Even if she had not been instructed on the sequence of events during the process, she knows she would instinctively crave Cregan within her at the sensation of him rubbing with such strong and deep strokes against her. But he does not press inside of her, remaining atop her folds as his breathing grows labored.

“Please, I need you,” She breathes, hating the whine that escapes upon the last word, eyes nearly teary from the pulsing ache between her thighs where her body believes his cock should be. Cregan feels his self-control slipping off a precarious cliff at her insistence, struggling to deny her anything when she asks in that lovely voice, coated in such genuine desire and passion. But he is an honorable man, who cares for her far too much to claim her maidenhead before he marries her. Inhaling a sharp breath, he continues to roll his cock against her wet cunt with long strokes. “I need more.”

Cregan might die within her bed. His voice breaks as he rasps over his words.

“I cannot,” It is meant to soothe her, spoken in a deep and gentle voice, but only elicits a soft whine of displeasure from her as she begins to move her hips to match his. Each time he rubs against her clit, or her aching entrance, her mind grows hazy and soft. “I wish to, truly, but I cannot.”

For all his flourishing desire, primal and raw as it may be, the love he has come to harbor for her within his heart and his adamant desire to protect her outweighs his natural instinct to take her, to lay claim to her, to have children by her as he so desires. He cannot besiege her cunt as if some cruel conqueror, not when he has made no promises to earn him that right. Cregan Stark shall do right by her, as soon as he might be able to, as he should have done the moment he laid eyes upon the truth of her soul. One hand reaches down to rest softly over the gentle curve of her stomach, his hips jerking in a sloppier rhythm against her as the idea of her carrying his heirs fills his mind once more. To make her Lady of Winterfell, to give her the family she spoke of wanting, to protect her until the end of his days within his ancestral homeland – the desires he has been harboring in secret can no longer be denied.

Lady Tyrell does not argue further upon the matter, wholly desiring to honor his wishes and make Cregan feel as comfortable as he has made her, but the distress must show upon her face for he leans down. Pressing a loving kiss to her temple, his lips murmur softly against her forehead to calm her tenderly. “I am sorry, my sweet rose. It is only that I wish to have you as my wife.”

Her eyes widen at his voice, at the slight pressure he applies to her stomach as he keeps his hand pressed firmly to her skin. It is not long after the words are spoken that he rocks his hips forward, angling them so that he might rub against her clit in heavier strokes. When he captures her lips once more into his, she feels him groaning into her mouth as liquid heat pools between her thighs with a sudden stutter of his hips, coating her folds in his seed. Her own release is hot as it washes over her, her entrance contracting in rapid flutters as a warm burst of pleasure flutters through her nerves.

As her pleasure simmers beneath her exhausted muscles, she fears briefly that he may simply leave her there alone, as she has heard tale of men doing after seeking pleasure. But the Northern lord slowly rolls off of her body, eyes closing briefly as he presses a soft kiss to her lips and pulls her gently into his arms. His hand brushes hair out of her face, her cheeks shining with sweat from their passion, as he murmurs sweet praises into her hair until she feels sleep claim her.

a/n: i am going on vacation for the next 2.5 weeks so this series is going on a mini-break! perhaps i'll write oneshots while i am in the airport or something similar but i am not sure yet. anyways comments and asks and reblogs are always appreciated and thank you to everyone who has read everything so far!

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generalluxun · 14 days ago

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Revisiting S5 E14 Derision, and Making it Work

It's *easy* to dunk on Derision. I won't rehash all the holes here. What is harder is actually doing better... or so you would think.

What follows is a back-of-the-napkin idea I threw together in about 5 minutes. So I hope it doesn't meet with universal... derision. 🐈‍⬛

Reworking this episode reaches back earlier into S5 and recasts one of the side/new characters... but bear with me it's to good purpose. When you're creating a pivotal pre-canon character moment 5 seasons in, there's going to be a little collateral.

It begins with... Socqueline.

Socqueline was NOT Marinette's savior at FDP. In truth... she was Marinette's bully. She was everyone's bully in fact. She ruled FDP with an iron fist. Teachers were afraid of her, and no not her dad, her. Socqueline is the one who terrorized Marinette and pulled the awful prank. The prank that was bad enough that she was expelled. Marinette meets her unexpectedly at the craft store, and is instantly a yr younger and in shock.

HOWEVER

Socqueline is still the one pretending to be Ladybug. She's still the one trying to help people. She's still kind and helpful and Marinette is so very confused! You see, being expelled, having to be in an entirely new environment, and even just a year of change and reflection has made Socqueline a different person. She has grown and is trying to do good to make up for being bad before. Why is she done up like Marinette? She's not! She's done up like Ladybug. She's emulating her hero and inspiration. (who is of course, Marinette).

This already gives us some really good changes.

1)We have a valid reason for Marinette to not have seen/wanted to see Socqueline until S5. you don't go seeking out your former bully.

2)We have a cover for why Marinette hasn't reacted to stimulus before now. She was 'doing good' until she crossed paths with Socqueline and after that. *bam* right in the Trauma. It doesn't matter that Socqueline has changed, trauma is trauma. Marinette hasn't processed it yet, so it gets stoked.

3)Have Kim think Socqueline's pranks were funny. He's Kim, he's thick as two boards, at least he's not gushing about how hot another girl is right next to poor Ondine. It leans into Dark Humor just fine on it's own. Skip the Adrien/Chloe scene for a Marinette/Socqueline scene where Marinette brings up the event to Socqueline and how much it impacted her. have Socquline apologize(she did back in Jubilation for everything, but have her also for this specific thing) have it end on a hug, how nice.

Already we're doing much better! But wait, there's more!

We cut Chloé out of Derision! What does this mean? If she wasn't Marinette's bully doesn't this mess everything up?

No, not really.

Chloé wasn't Marinette's bully pre-canon in any meaningful way. She didn't rule the roost. She only stepped up once Socqueline was expelled, trying to fill the power vacuum/rule the roost/be the new Queen. She's just really bad at it. This explains why the class and even Marinette react to Chloé even in S1 with a sort of exasperated resignation and Marinette isn't even remotely afraid to snap back at her. It's not 'Oh no she is such a bully' it's 'oh God, Chloé's on her shit again.' She's still a brat, mean, and entitled. We're not rewriting any of that. She'll even be an antagonist in S5, but we're going to lean more heavily into Lila/Gabe/Tomoé actively manipulating her, much like in S3. She's not evil, but she's very easily persuaded to be bad.

you see- What we've done with Socquline is foreshadowing. We've shown someone who WAS a bully, who changed when their environment changed and they found the right motivation/inspiration. So when Chloé is going down in flames in S5 we're going to build organically on the parental abuse into the manipulation by villains. We seek to inspire frustration with her, revulsion with those manipulating her, agony that the manipulation all goes unseen, and of course sympathy for everyone who has to deal with it. However, we've also set up the seeds for a future where her environment changes, where a new motivation/inspiration comes in, and where we get convert her from brat to ... okay maybe not GOOD person but at least a decent little porcupine. 🤣

We've even given Marinette a firsthand experience that change CAN happen. Which is something she didn't have the first time around with Chloé during S2/3.

So, what do y'all think?

#miraculous ladybug #Derision #rewriting Derision #socqueline wang #marinette dupain cheng #chloe bourgeois #writing

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yourgentlegirlfriend · 2 years ago

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absolute sucker for older bf leon (vendetta, re6, death island) tbh we need more headcanons 😭😭😭

can you write a older bf leon x shy yet clingy gf (definitely not self inserting) headcanons?, like yn is shy, doesnt talk much but tries to show love through acts of service and words of encouragement etceteceg but at the same time shes always around him, wearing his clothes, trying to copy the way he does things and such,,

nsfw or sfw up to you 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻

OLDER LEON YES. this is definitely death island leon idc what anyone wants to say to me.

When the two of you first meet it’s through Claire and Chris, Claire rambles on to Leon about how amazing you are and Leon can’t help but stare at you as you poke at the food on your plate. Then when Claire and Chris are screaming over the board game later that night, Leon leans over to you as he watches the two bicker.

“Crazy bond huh?”

Leon felt his heart pounding in his chest as a wide smile spreads across your beautiful face, nodding your head.

He can tell you’re hesitant too so he doesn’t push much, just talks to you about the most random things.

——

And when you guys finally do start dating, you’re always at his flat. Doing his laundry, folding all his shirts perfectly for him and ironing his dress shirts.

You do all his dishes, dust all his furniture, and by the time he comes home from the long list of meetings he had, he’s so stressed out and his head is pounding from an excruciating headache. He looks around his now extremely clean flat, smiling at the sight of you standing in the kitchen making food for him.

—-

Or when he finds out they’re trying to get him to get back in the service when all he wants to do is relax, listening to him argue with people on the phone ALL day long. He finally hangs up, looking out the window of the bedroom and there you are, right by his side. Your hands rubbing his arms as you try and calm him down.

“It’s going to be okay, they call you because you’re the best. That’s all.”

Your words soothe him immediately, his arms wrapping around you pulling you into him tightly. His chin resting on the top of your head before he closes his eyes, kissing at your hair.

——

NSFW WARNING i’m serious don’t read if you’re uncomfy.

Even in bed Leon has always noticed how hesitant you are, how shy you are.

Like when he’s hovering over you, his hair tickling your face as his hips push into yours at a fast pace. Your hand comes up to cover your face as the moans pour from your throat but Leon’s hands are so much stronger and faster, grabbing at your wrist and laying them beside your head.

“Don’t hide from me, let me take care of you..”

Leon mumbles against your ear as his thrusts become more ragged, his pretty lips curling into a smile as he licks his bottom lip as he watches your face twist in pleasure, that familiar blush he loves so much spreading across your face

———-

Leon sitting in the living room the morning after, just watching the news, his eyes shifting to the hallway to see your feet dragging against the floor , his shirt draping over your body.

“Morning, sunshine don’t you look lovely.”

His sarcasm makes you give him a dirty look as you run your fingers through your hair trying to comb it out. Leon’s eyebrows raise as he watches you start brewing coffee for yourself, since when did you drink coffee? Even more shock spreads across his face as you just drink the coffee- black. Just like he does.

“Anything you can do, I can do better.”

You mumble tiredly as you eye him from the kitchen, taking another sip of the coffee.

“Yeah apparently even my attitude too.”

He chuckles, a soft scoff leaving his lips as he changes the channel of the TV.

#leon kennedy #resident evil #leon kennedy imagine #leon kennedy smut #leon kennedy x reader #resident evil x reader #yourgentlegf #death island #older leon kennedy

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nomie-11 · 6 months ago

Text

Chapter 1 - Chains of Starlight*

masterlist! | series masterlist | next part ->

Dark, damp, and the smell of mildew. A room, no bigger than 5 feet long and 5 feet wide, a single mattress and a ratty blanket, a sink, a toilet, and a boarded up door with a slit for food. The faucet never stopped dripping, the hollow plop, plop, plop haunting her as it rang out in the room, all day every day, for what felt like an eternity. Stone floors, stone walls, and stone ceilings. The smell of mildew.

There’s no escape from the humidity of this dungeon, not without a compromise Genevieve doesn’t want to make.

For every day of this torture, Genevieve Hale etched stars into her ceiling, one star a day, forming constalations she once mapped in the mountains of Aretia. Her hands grew raw from months of searching the stones for a crack, her body grew wearing from days of practicing her sparring on the door that blocked her from the outside she once loved.

Each kick against the door resonated against her, a cruel reminder of her futile struggle against confinement. She could almost hear the rustle of the leaves, the rush of rivers—it was a cruel juxtaposition of her current situation.

The only solace she found in the darkness was the faint memory of the stars above her grandmother’s manor in Aretia, twinkling above her like the promise of freedom. Every star etched into her sky mirrored the nights her mother would spend in her library, teaching Genevieve the stories of astronomy.

In this damp prison, Genevieve replayed her memories, each in a flickering flame against the encroaching despair. She remembered the warm embrace of the sun on her skin, the thrill of a sparring match under the sprawling sky, the feeling of her grandmother’s weathered hands braiding her hair into Tyrrish knots—moments she clung to as she counted the four hundred and seven stars on her ceiling. One for each day.

But hope, however fragile, flickered within her. As the familiar click of heels descended the stairs to her dungeon, she could see the light filter through the cracks in the bottom of the door. The dull thud of the dripping faucet became a metronome for her determination, but the sound of the heels descending was an omen for the future. General Sorrengail was coming.

Genevieve straightened her spine, feeling the tight pull of the raw skin around her wrists. The iron cuffs, long since rusted, had bitten into her flesh enough times that the pain was now a dull hum in the background of her existence. She wouldn’t flinch, though–not for Lilith Sorrengail. Not for the woman who had put her here.

The footsteps stopped just beyond the door, the shadow of boots barely visible in the narrow slit meant for her meals. A familiar, suffocating silence filled the room as Genevieve’s breath caught in her throat. She had heard this ritual countless times, but each visit, every word from the General, left fresh scars.

The boards covering the door creaked as they were pulled aside, and a sliver of magelight leaked through the opening. A face appeared. Cold eyes, just like she remembered.

“Still alive, I see,” Lilith’s voice cut through the quiet, it’s tone sharp and unforgiving. “I wasn’t sure you had it in you.”

Genevieve didn’t respond. She had learned early on that silence was her only defense. Lilith wanted her to break, to beg for mercy, to plead for release. But Genevieve knew better. Every word would be twisted, every crack in her resolve a victory for Lilith. So, she remained still, her fingers tracing the stone wall behind her.

“You must be wondering why I kept you here,” The general’s voice was almost conversational, as if she were discussing the weather or a new recruit. “Why someone like you–someone with such potential–would be wasting away in this pit?”

Geneveive’s heart pounded in her chest. She hated that part of her that wanted to know the answer. There was no denying the lingering question that had gnawed at her since her imprisonment. Why had she not just killed her? What did she really want?

“Why are you here?” Genevieve prompts, her voice smooth and calm, not betraying the racing of her heart. “Who do you want to protect so badly that you keep me alone down here?”

“I’m not here to spill my life secrets to you, girl,” She practically spat, her resolve shattering. “You’re lucky I kept you down here instead of just killing you.”

The younger girl bites her tongue, but she’s itching to scream.

“I’m here to propose a deal, a compromise of sorts,” General Sorrengail says, her tone evening once more, her mask of power and indifference settling softly onto her face. “I’m going to let you out of here, and you’re going to go to Basgiath and become a rider.”

Genevieve made no moves, no motions to say yes.

“While there, you’ll watch over Xaden Riorson for me. Do you understand? You watch him, and report back to me when you see anything… strange.” She leaned down, her face still as she crooned over Genevieve. “You’re in my hands, either you say yes, or you die.”

The words lingered in the air, thick with threat. You watch him, or you die.

Genevieve’s breath came out slow, controlled. She had learned not to react too quickly, not to betray her thoughts, especially when dealing with someone like Lilith Sorrengail. The General was dangerous–cold, calculating, and capable of twisting any situation to her advantage.

Her heartbeat thudded in her ears, yet her face remained impassive. She didn;t need to ask why she was chosen for this task. It was obvious. Xaden Riorson–son of the man who had led the rebellion, the rebellion that had nearly toppled Navarre, the rebellion her own father had supported. And now, General Sorrengail suspected Xaden was the leader of the rebellious remnants of Basgiath. What better way to ensure control than to send someone who had just as much reason to hate him as to ally with him?

But Genevieve wasn’t stupid. She knew this wasn’t just about spying on Riorson. There was always something more to Lilith’s plans. The General didn;t make moves unless the outcome benefited her in more ways than one.

“Why me?” Genevieve asked, her voice low but steady. She could feel Lilith watching her, evaluating, calculating.

“Because you’re nobody,” Lilith replied, her words cutting with brutal honesty. “You have no alliances, no family that matters anymore. No one will miss you if you disappear.”

Genevieve’s chest tightened, but she fought to keep her expression neutral. She wasn’t a nobody. She was a Hale. Even if her family had fallen from grace, even if her father had been branded a traitor, she still had her name, her skills, her strength. She still had something left, even if it was just the fire of her hatred for the woman standing in front of her.

“And what if I refuse?”

Lilith’s lips curled into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “And miss out on seeing the stars from the back of a dragon?”

Genevieve’s fingers tightened against the cold stone behind her. She knew Lilith was right. This isn't a choice. It had never been. If she refused, she’d die in this cell, forgotten and discarded like so many others before her. But if she accepted… if she played along… freedom was hers. She could see the sky, see the sprawling mountains, and watch the eagles fly.

“I’ll do it,” she said finally, her voice quiet but firm.

Lilith straightened, satisfied. “Good. You leave tomorrow.”

The general turned to go, but before she could leave, Genevieve spoke again. “One more thing.”

Lilith paused, glancing over her shoulder.

“When I’m done with your little task… what happens to me?”

The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken implications. Finally, she spoke, her voice cold and distant. “Then you’re free.”

And with that, the door slammed shut, leaving Genevieve alone once more. The sound of the dripping faucet resumed, but this time, it didn;t seem as loud. Instead, Genevieve’s thoughts raced. She had a mission now, a purpose, even if it was wrapped in chains.

But she wasn’t a pawn, no matter how much Lilith Sorrengail believed she was.

If Lilith wanted her to spy on Xaden Riorson, she would do it. But it wouldn’t be for the general. It would be for herself, for her freedom.

Genevieve leaned against the cold stone, staring up at the stars she had etched into the ceiling. Tomorrow, she will leave this basement. Tomorrow she will prepare herself for Basgiath.

For today, she will sit in her dungeon, the flicker of hope growing into a flame.

—-------------------------------------

The heavy iron door was ajar the next morning when she woke up, and alone and cold, Genevieve rose to a stand, the iron shackles clattering to the floor without a fight. Her tattered clothes hung loose, her hair grew long, her skin pale, but she was still her after all this time as she crossed the threshold of the doorway. She had been prepared to die in this basement, but now, a world that she had once thought was dead to her was opening right back up, now with a mission she despised and a future she couldn’t predict.

She straightened herself, pushing her shoulders back and forcing herself to stand tall as she would when she was free. As she entered the stairwell, light from the top of the hallway hit her eyes. The walls still surrounded her, and it still smells like mildew, but the climb wasn’t daunting as she ascended the spiral staircase to freedom.

Genevieve ascended the spiral staircase, each step echoing off the stone walls of her former prison. The mildew still clung to the air, but the light at the top was more intoxicating than the stale darkness she had known for months. Every breath she took felt sharper, crisper, like a blade slicing through the haze of captivity.

Her bones feel brittle, her muscles tight, but none of it mattered. Not now. Her skin tingled as the late summer air slowly filtered down towards her. She stepped out into the sun, blinding her with its warm rays, a stark contrast to the cold, damp dungeon below. Her heart pounded as the light engulfed her, squinting against the brightness, but the moment she stepped out into the open air, the scent of earth and grass filled her lungs. For a brief, fleeting second, she almost felt free.

As much as she hated Lilith Sorrengail, she couldn't deny the excitement that flickered and breathed like a candle to a breeze within her. An endless sea of stars, and endless stream of sunrises. The sky, the stars, the dragons, the earth, it was once more hers.

Taking a deep breath, she savored the fresh air, the scent of life around her. The world was wide open before her, and for the first time in one year and forty two days, she felt the hope inside her shine. A small spark of dangerous desire, laced with anger and a need for vengeance. Genevieve Hale was free, but she was not the same girl that was locked away all that long ago. She was harder, colder, and every step forward was a step closer to making Lilith Sorrengail pay for what she had done.

Her fists clenched tightly as she stood there in the sunlight. Basgiath War College would be the battlefield for now, and she would make sure that every player in this twisted game understood one thing: Genevieve Hale was not to be underestimated. Not anymore.

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Hey guys! attempting to actually write a fanfiction for once after reading so many (cough cough Fear and Flame), so lmk what you think!

*Rewritten!

#fourth wing imagine #fourth wing x reader #fourth wing #xaden riorson x reader #xaden riorson #fourth wing xaden #fanfic #liam mairi #the empyrean #violet sorrengail #x reader #reader insert #xaden and sgaeyl #basgiath war college #liam mairi x reader #the wounded healer

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wrongfulruffian · 3 months ago

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I finally got around to rebinding my copy of the complete Night Angel trilogy by Brent Weeks.

I picked this book up at random at Barnes and Noble years ago to use up a gift card and it ended up being one of my favorites. My paperback had seen better days. The spine was super curved, and coming apart at the corners. I even found sand in the spine glue when I took it apart cause the last time I read it I was at the beach lol

I used a heat gun to loosen the glue on the spine and let it set with weight on it to straighten it back out. Who needs tools when you have books lol.

The spine came out pretty straight once the glue was set back up. I had to loosen it again to get the paper cover to come off cleanly. I reinforced the spine with some new glue as well.

This was my first time doing guilded edges and 2/3 sides came out pretty good! I learned how to sand the edges and I was able to get them to a mirror shine with just manual hand sanding. Then I used heat transfer silver foil.

Once the guilding was done I finished up the text block with the headbands, a bookmark ribbon, and more glue. This book was massive so I had to use two sheets of chip board to get the covers cut out.

I covered the boards with black leather. I used leather repair material so it already had adhesive, and just had to peel and stick. I designed the cover on canva. I tried to match the general vibes of the original cover and other cover versions it's been printed with. Cut out the heat transfer vinyl with my Cricut and ironed it on!

Casing in the text block is always the most stressful part but all went smoothly and I'm really happy with how it turned out!

#bookbinding #rebinding #canva #night angel #brent weeks #Night Angel The Complete Trillogy #cover design #graphic design #cricut #heat transfer

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finalfrontierpublishing · 2 years ago

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So it's been a while since i posted any books - mostly because i've been hiding my progress like a little sneak.

I just finished this bind last night of The Desert Storm by @blue-sunshine-mauve-morning, or really it's volume 1 out of like ??? 15, maybe. Please take whatever i say with a pinch of salt (I have had 0 sleep for more than 24 hours, and that tends to make me a little very sleep-deprivation drunk a.k.a. unhinged). Okay, on to thoughts! The Desert Storm was foisted onto me by @celestial-sphere-press who told me under no uncertain terms that I WOULD FUCKING LOVE THIS SHIT. Well, I did. This more than 1 million word epic about Ben Fuckin' Kenobi is pretty much god-tier fanfiction. It reads like a goddamn novel. I can never think of canon again without thinking that this good shit should be canon. I read it and then consumed half of it within a week, and I have zero regrets. @blue-sunshine-mauve-morning, i absolutely love you and love your writing. It is the best thing since sliced bread. It is better than sliced bread.

I also had the benefit of @celestial-sphere-press saying, hey would you want to use the typeset? MY GOD, i am grateful. I love this fic, i would have typeset it if it hadn't been typeset but Des did such a beautiful job that i am absolutely in awe and thankful that she and the author allowed others to use it. Look at it - it's so beautiful. I only had to think hey, i just gotta design the cover and et cetera and so the book happened.

Please also check out @celestial-sphere-press 's amazing post here and here, who is the only person i know who's started and is almost complete in fanbinding this epic, and is also making an author a copy of the entire series.

Some stats, if you will.

96215 words || 380 pages

Title font: Ghaomiec

I took some inspiration from starblight bindery's lovely desert scape as well as this amazing cover of Dune which i own. I love that the landscape emanates Dune vibes while being oh so Tattooine - just sand and heat, relentless loneliness and melancholy. This fic centres around Obi-Wan Infinite Sadness Kenobi so it needed SAD VIBES TM, which i tried to deliver in desolate landscape form.

Also thank the heavens for Renegade members, who in a masterful stroke of Group Buy Saves Money, managed to source extra-out-of-production colours of Colibri and help a fair number of us get really cool limited edition versions of bookcloth. I am now a proud owner of a lorge stash of Duo and Colibri of which i am now sitting on like a shifty dragon with a hoarding problem. Good luck getting your bookcloth now, Folio Society, ha ha (gloating)! This particular bookcloth is Colibri Copper which has been wholly stashed for The Desert Storm series. I am leaning on transitioning to Malachite for Rise and Fall when I get to it.

The front cover design was done with a stock image and converted to a PNG, which i then fiddled with and did some HTV magic with. It was remarkably easier to weed than expected. I tried something new and ironed the design on the naked bookcloth first before gluing it to the boards, which was a new challenge in making sure everything was aligned.

Endpapers are marbled endpapers (Renato Crepaldi) which I got from Hollanders, which perfectly fit the colour scheme of the bind. The only hiccup was as I was cutting, I realized the sheet was running in the opposite direction of his usual papers and half the size, and only yielded 3 A5 size endpapers and so my heart went noooooooooo. oh well. i guess i will use it for quartos.

Endbands are my favourite - silk in 3 colours in the french doublecore style (as i was binding this i did not have the mental capacity to handle the difficulty of 4 strands). the truth is i usually only can do 4 when I have higher brain function and am willing to spend 80% of my time unraveling it from getting tangled.

I also forgot to mention I had mild fuck-ups, I got glue on the front endpaper which I had to hastily remove with wet cloth, and the back square is preposterously bad but I'm ignoring it for now.

Anyway, i've actually managed to complete a few other binds which have not been mentioned here as they've all been gifts/ surprises or event books in some form. I am SO EXCITED, also because I am travelling in the latter half of July to San Diego and L.A. and I get to meet some bookbinding friends in the flesh. Renegade is fucking amazing y'all. I am ready to embrace these crazy lads who have enabled me for the last 1 year, even when i'm the solitary (1) weirdo from my country of origin in the server. Also... potentially bookbinding trip early next year??? I am enthused.

#bookbinding #fanbinding #renegade bindery #my books #star wars #clone wars #obi-wan kenobi #ben kenobi #ben naasade #infinite sadness #the desert storm #the ben naasade epic

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gunsandspaceships · 8 months ago

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How rich is Tony Stark?

Throughout his superhero career, Tony's net worth in the MCU has always been between $10 and $20 billion. How much is that? Let's talk about Tony Stark's real financial resources and purchasing power.

The numbers themselves don't tell us anything, so we'll compare. Some real billionaires are much richer than him (Elon Musk - $210 billion, Jeff Bezos - $195 billion, Bill Gates - $129 billion). Huge difference, don't you think?

Let's list Tony's expenses: he founded and funded Damage Control. He covered the cost of the destruction caused not only by the Avengers, but by everyone they fought. He funded scientific projects and charitable foundations. He covered all the Avengers' expenses (compound, equipment, tech, vehicles, quinjets, food, medical and legal services, staff, team members' salaries, etc.). He made Iron Man suits and equipment for himself, Peter, Rhodey, and later Pepper. It takes a LOT of money to cover all of this. And it's all pure expense. He didn't make any profit from it.

Reminder: He's not nearly as rich as Musk, Bezos or Gates. How much can these guys do, buy and finance? Less than you think. Now divide by 10 to get an idea of how much Tony could.

I'll help you: we'll count in Helicarriers. Let's say Tony had $20 billion (that's max). The price of one real aircraft carrier is 13 billion dollars. Helicarriers, even the basic ones (from The Avengers and AoU), are much more advanced (they fly, have retro-reflective panels that cover them entirely, and have a fancy interior with expensive equipment on board). It will cost much more. Let's give it a price tag of $20 billion. That is - Tony could only buy 1 Helicarrier and get $0 in his bank accounts.

Or another example: how much did the Battle of New York cost? Secretary Ross showed us - $88 billion in property damage. Tony would need another $70 billion to cover the cost of this one battle.

BUT let me tell you, his $10-20 billion isn't even real money. It's net worth. He would never have seen that $10-20 billion in cash or been able to use it. Because these are assets: shares and property he had. He would have to sell them, then pay taxes, and only then would he see the actual amount of money he could use. Which is about half of the net worth - $5-10 billion. Thus, his purchasing power would amount to a small insignificant fraction of the Battle of New York, or 0 Helicarriers, or even 0 real-life aircraft carriers. That's it. This is why the Avengers never had their own Helicarrier - Tony COULD NOT AFFORD ONE.

He didn't have unlimited resources. He couldn't buy everything. Stop imagining him as Scrooge McDuck. He had to work several jobs to provide for the team and protect the Earth. Alone. Where were Thor and Black Panther's resources?

Conclusion: no, Tony wasn't that rich. He worked his butt off to be a wallet of Earth's protection, in addition to being its shield. Remember that.

#marvel #mcu #tony stark #iron man #the avengers #captain america civil war #economy #finance

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the-cauldron-witch · 5 months ago

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Shit. Shit, shit, shit, c’mere. With Donnie pls? Maybe still crush state? 👁️👁️ (thank you in advance!)

Thank you so much for the ask!!! 🫂🫂🫂

I'm really sorry for taking so long, Donnie was being difficult and wouldn't let me write this out apparently! I hope you like it!

Taglist: @silverwatergalaxy @thelaundrybitch @sophiacloud28 @iridescentflamingo @thegirlwiththeninjaturtletattoos @yorshie @truffle-draws-turtles (message me if you want to be apart of my taglist! I just started keeping it, so if I forgot to tag you don't be upset)

Sparks scattered from the tip of the soldering iron in Donnie’s expert hand, putting the finer finishing touches to the circuit board inside the device resting on his work bench. Sweat beaded at the top of his brow, trickling down his face and neck behind the welding mask as he worked. Once he was satisfied with the work he lifted the shield from his face and smiled down at his creation, closing the panel and sealing away the wires and circuits from the rest of the world. With the final touches finally complete Donnie felt confident enough to test out his new invention; a shuriken wrist launcher. Although his brothers and himself had incredible accuracy with shurikens, they could only throw so many so fast, with this new device whomever used it should be able to send multiple shurikens at a target at top speed.

“Hey, Donnie!” Your voice broke the silence like a thin sheet of ice, snapping him out of his studying gaze and fumble with the invention for a split second. “Oh, jeez, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you” You couldn’t help but giggle an apology while Donnie sighed in relief with the invention still in his hand.

“No worries, I just finished my shuriken launcher actually,” He said with a grin, peeling the welding mask from his sweat covered head and placing it on his bench. Donnie was grateful for the way his purple mask hid the slight color that came to his cheeks at the mere sight of you standing at the entrance to his lab, shifting from one foot to the other while watching him. This could be the millionth time he saw you, yet it still gave him butterflies like it was the first time.

“Shuriken launcher? Seems kind of redundant,” You questioned with a raised eyebrow, walking into the lab and to Donnie’s side so that you could eye the metal gauntlet in his hand.

“Well, because of our tridactyl hands we are only able to throw at maximum two shurikens with each hand, totaling to four shurikens for each of us. Leo is the only one who managed to throw three in each hand successfully, but they weren’t as accurate compared to throwing the typical two in each hand.”

Slipping the gauntlet over his muscular green forearm Donnie studied his invention, pressing a button on the side facing himself. The gauntlet hissed for a second as the inner cuff began inflating, securing itself to his arm. Donnie flexed his hand and wrist, making sure that the cuff wasn’t too constricting but also held firm enough to not budge easily. Curiosity now piqued you watched while Donnie flexed his muscular arm, admiring his physique more than the invention if you were being honest.

“I recycled a blood pressure cuff machine for the base so that it could be used by anyone who wears it, no matter the size of their forearm,” Donnie explained, pointing his arm to an invisible target ahead of him. “It keeps the device secure against the users arm for better aim,”

“Oh, like the ones you see at the pharmacy?” You questioned enthusiastically, drawing yourself closer to Donnie so you can inspect the shuriken launcher closer. Now that you were closer to it you could see he had taken the blood pressure cuff as he said, mounting what looked like a modified multi-disc CD player onto the top where the shurikens were stored and ejected through a slim opening at the wrist. There were a few other components you couldn’t identify, but they all seemed to work together by Donnie’s ingenuity.

“Yeah! I haven’t put the shurikens inside the launcher just yet, I was just about to test it out in the dojo for the first time, if you’d like to join?”

“I’d love to! Can I try it out next?” Bouncing on your toes with eagerness you followed him out of the lab like an excited puppy. Your enthusiasm and excitement to help and learn from Donnie always sent a small whirlwind of butterflies fluttering in his stomach, something about the way your eyes lit up and voice heightened made him feel weak in the knees.

“O-of course, sure! But I want to take the first test, just to make sure everything is programmed correctly” Donnie spoke a little louder than intended, mirroring your own excitement as he strode his way to the dojo. Once entering the dojo Donnie made his way over to the training dummy, many shuriken already scattered about and lodged into different surfaces. Plucking the ones from the floor and pulling the three out of the wooden dummy he pressed a button facing him, the top of the devices panel popping open. Placing the shuriken collected in his hand into the compartment and closing the hatch he turned to you.

“Alright, so here’s how it should work,” Slipping into his ‘Bill Nye voice’ as Mikey described once, Donnie began explaining the device on his arm to you with a small smile turning the ends of his lips, “I modified the blood pressure cuff with some sensors that read the way your muscles move and flex, so that when I clench my fist and move it in just the correct way it should launch one shuriken at a time when flexed or sending multiple when your hand is held in that position,”

Taking a stance in front of the target practice dummy Donnie locked onto the blue and yellow target painted on the torso, lining up his shot and flexing his hand downward as though he were throttling a motorcycle handle. There was a long, drawn out moment of silence where nothing happened. Another moment and Donnie flexed his hand in the same way again, clenching and unclenching his fist in the manner needed for the device to launch a shuriken. Still nothing.

“Did you turn it on?” You questioned, giggling nervously as you earned an incredulous deadpanned look from the tall terrapin. After another second of holding the gauntlet out, Donnie sighed and brought his arm towards himself once again and relaxed his hand.

“That’s strange, maybe I didn’t calibrate the sensors correctly?” Donnie murmured to himself, studying his invention with a furrowed brow and small annoyed huff. He had gone over the programming his usual four dozen times and tested the sensors inside the blood pressure cuffs with his computer the same amount, the device should at least attempt to launch a shuriken.

Approaching Donnie as he continued his intense gaze as though the problem would be written on the surface of the uncooperative device, he didn’t register your proximity as he continued scrutinizing and silently questioning what could not be working right. Grazing the tip of his finger over the area where the shurikens had been loaded into earlier Donnie noticed the small door had not latched shut properly. Pressing his finger on the hatch the smallest and softest ‘click’ registered in Donnie’s ears a millisecond before a glint of metal shot from his wrist.

You didn’t have time to so much as blink. The weapon was ejected in the flicker of an eye with incredible speed, the sharpened tip grazing the skin of your cheek and leaving a thin trail of crimson beads behind. Hissing as the fiery sting settling into your cheek you reached a hand to your face, fingertips meeting warm blood as you and Donnie stared at one another in shock. Blood trickled down your cheek for a second longer before Donnie snapped out of his daze, pressing the button to disengage the gauntlet from his arm and let it drop to the floor without a care.

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit, c’mere” Donnie breathed as he quickly leaned down to capture your face in his massive hands, the sudden closeness causing your breath to hitch in your throat and heart to stammer a beat. Not giving you a chance to find your voice again Donnie swept you off of your feet and into his massive arms, carrying you to the med-bay hastily in one fell swoop. How could he have let something like this happen? Something as stupid as the hatch not being closed correctly shouldn’t have gotten you hurt! You practically blinked and the two of you were in the medbay. Placing you on the exam table gently Donnie studied your face with concern and guilt wrinkling his brow and eyes.

“Donnie?” You questioned as he darted to the otherside of the room, opening a drawer or two before pulling out a plastic med kit.

“So fucking stupid...should have fucking known better, didn’t pay attention enough!” You could hear him muttering angrily to himself, berating himself for letting you get hurt in the most ridiculous way. Guilt clutched at your chest as you heard him curse under his breath. It wasn’t like he did it on purpose or knew something so small would go wrong, things like this just happened sometimes.

“Donnie?” You tried again when he sat himself in on a rolling chair and slid clear across the room to your side. The cut no longer burned as harshly now, but the sting still lingered and pulsated. Blinking himself out of the fog the panic settled in his mind Donnie’s eyes finally met yours.

“It’s okay, really,” A smile attempted to dimple your cheek, making you wince a tiny bit from the fresh pain, “I’m okay, honestly. It’s just a little scratch! Stop beating yourself up,”

“I...I know...I should have known better than to point it-” He began berating himself again as his fingers fiddled with the antiseptic wipe in his hands, fingers fumbling and making him more frustrated. Taking his jittering hands in your own you brought his attention back onto you, his heart hammering in his chest as he felt the warmth of your soft hands wrapping around his rather larger ones. The sudden urge took over you, leaning you forward and pressed so that you could press your lips to his forehead for a moment. Electricity ran from where your lips met his skin down his neck and through every nerve ending in his shell and skin, sparks crackling and sending shivers down his spine. Pulling your lips away from his forehead you registered what you had done, offering a shy smile.

“It’s just a little scratch. I’m okay, really” You giggled nervously.

Swallowing the thick lump suddenly lodged in his throat Donnie couldn’t bring himself to speak again, knowing his voice would crack and betray him now. Instead he focuses on the dried blood staining your cheeks, despite the fact they were already flushing red from your own doing. Not that Donnie’s own face wasn’t heated by the kiss placed on his forehead, but he wasn’t going to admit that out loud just yet.

#Donnie x Reader #Donatello x Reader #TMNT #ask a witch #Been working on so many things to write aaa

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thedeviltohisangel · 5 days ago

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All The Things I Did (Interlude): Like A Record Scratch

a/n: ok so this is a lot less lovey dovey than we are used to with cass and john and i am not at all sorry about it because we are building up to the big wisconsin fight moment between them. this fic has them in wyoming for the wedding of gale and marge and its our first glimpse into how they are doing post-war and how they are so not dealing with the trauma of being prisoners of war. please come yell at me for the beating i put them through in this interlude. love you!

tw: discussions of miscarriage

There was something exhilarating about walking into the lobby of a hotel. Cass had never been to Wyoming, or anywhere out West really, which aided in her excitement at every sight and sound and smell. She had resisted the urge to hang her head out the window of the taxi from the airport but had smiled at the scenery the entire way and squeezed John’s hand with every glimpse of a mountain or a horse to make sure he saw it too. It had been so long since she’d seen the rolling fields of America and the freedom that came on the back of a horse and she was feeling the sensation of life breathing back into her lungs with every inch traveled.

“Oh, John, isn’t it lovely?” There was a fire roaring to her left, exposed wooden beams along the ceiling and antlers lining the balcony above the reception desk. “It’s just as Marge described.” Cass turned to see her husband who was carrying two large suitcases. Perhaps a quarter of one contained the minimal items he would need for the weekend wedding of his best friend. The rest was a portion of what Cass would require.

“It is lovely, baby.” He kissed her cheek once he reached her. “You want to sit by the fire while I check us in?”

“No, I need to ensure my packages have arrived.”

“Packages?” he asked the back of his wife’s head as she was already strolling confidently towards the desk. He had to admire the sway of her hips for a beat before following. She walked like she owned the place. Damn did he love her. “Good morning. Reservation should be under John Egan.” He made sure to catch up to her before she could check in. A husband should always take charge of things like this. At least, that is what he thought. Being a husband felt new to him even if it had been almost two years. There had been no time to learn or try and fail just to try again. Nothing about their marriage had been conventional and John felt he was on a tight rope in his efforts not to fuck it up. If that meant being a bit more forward, a bit more assertive, leaning into the traditions of the role a bit heavier then so be it.

“I see your name right here, sir. We’ve also received the trunks you had shipped and have already delivered them to your room.” He blanched at the word trunks.

“That is wonderful to hear, thank you. There are a few items in there that will require ironing,” Cass said. John had seen her iron before. He didn’t think there was any reason she’d need a member of housekeeping to assist her.

“Yes, ma’am. I can send a member of housekeeping up after you’ve settled in to collect those items from you.”

“Wonderful, thank you!” John made sure to hand over the requisite bills to cover their stay before Cass could even think of opening the checkbook she had been reunited with recently. Her personal line of accounting to the Cooper family fortune. John still didn’t completely understand the vastness of their empire and the generations of wealth that resided at the other end of those account numbers. He doesn’t think he would until he went to South Carolina and saw it for himself with his own two eyes.

“I didn’t realize you were having things mailed here,” John broached as they boarded the elevator and it rose slowly to their floor.

“Everything that I considered wearing to the wedding was still in South Carolina. And then I started thinking about all the events around the wedding and making sure I had back up outfits for each possible outing and it led to me asking my mother and sister if they wouldn’t mind packaging a couple trunks for me.”

“Trunks? Then what I am holding in here?” He looked down at the bags in his hands.

“Simpler items. Toiletries. Nightwear. My curlers. Things only you will ever see me in and therefore I can wear on more than one occasion.” She didn’t understand why all this was so confusing to him. He had grown up with sisters and a mother, surely this was all par for the course in their lives as well.

“Cass, my love, I don’t think you’re understanding the differences between the society of where you come from back home and the one that is attending this wedding.” John knew for a fact it was no frills. That the wedding only costed exactly what it needed to. That Gale and Marge were just happy to be able to celebrate together and in one piece with all the people they loved. No one would care if Cass wore the same dress twice or didn’t have more than one shade of blue dress at her disposal. It was a concept so foreign to him and where he had come from, he couldn’t even imagine anyone noticing or minding such a thing.

“It’s our first…event as Mr. and Mrs. John Egan. Our first trip together. I just want it to be perfect.” He dropped the bags in front of the door that was theirs and held her upper arms in his hands, cascading his thumb across the skin to soothe the anxiety bubbling out from her.

“I’m here in a beautiful hotel with my beautiful wife celebrating my best friend marrying the love of his life. We survived hell to be here, Spook. It’s already heaven.” Cass smiled and pulled him in for a kiss by the collar of his shirt and his arms wrapped around the small of her back and held her close like it was second nature.

“You sure you don’t mind me going a little overboard?” Was she already failing as a wife? Was she already too much for him to handle just as her mother had warned? Was there a reason no other man had ever wanted to put up with her until one as insidious as Sidney Landry had come along?

“I don’t mind anything as long as you are happy.” And he stood by that as they opened the door and he was, in fact, greeted to two trunks that looked to be made of real leather and were the color of an expensive bottle of cognac. “Cass…”

“What? I’m certain there is more in here than just clothes, probably even some items for you.” It was also the first tangible piece of her life in South Carolina that was back with her after all she had been through. Of course she had exchanged letters with them as often as possible and had managed to sneak in a brief telephone call once she had arrived stateside, but this was a trunk that had been packed by her mother and sisters. It contained articles of clothing she had left behind all those years ago. Clothing Cassandra Ann Cooper had worn. It had never been touched by Captain Cass “Spook” Egan. For the first time, her worlds would be merging. There was something much deeper than just opening this trunk going through her mind.

“Maybe we save the unboxing of the trunks until after the cocktail hour tonight?” He was looking at his watch and trying to do the math on how long Cass might need to get ready, how much time he might need to get ready without overlapping in the powder room with her and then any leftover time he wanted for breaking in the hotel bed. It was the first night together since London that they were sharing a bed that was issued by the United States military. He wanted to take full advantage of the opportunity to take his time acquainting himself with his wife.

“No, I think there is a dress in here I’d like to wear tonight.” A beautiful tan number with buttons up the front with an impossibly cinched waist that was decorated with embroidered flowers there, along the sleeves and the collar. “See? What did I tell you?” Cass opened the trunk to find it was partially full of men’s clothing. Dress shirts, pants, blazers and ties. If her nose was to be trusted, they’d find bottles of cologne tucked in between the fabric as well.

“Baby, I don’t need all this,” he said gently as he thumbed the material and looked at the tags. A brand he had heard of from the mouths of generals and Milwaukee businessmen. Never something he would have thought he’d own himself.

“Look, my mother wrote that she curated each trunk to ensure we don’t clash at all for the entirety of the weekend and she requests we mail her photos of her success,” Cass said with a roll of her eyes as she read the letter that had been enclosed. She wasn’t deliberately ignoring the discomfort in John’s tone but he took it that way anyways.

“I might just fiddle with the radio then while you sort this all out.” He was certain she didn’t even register the words he was saying, too busy taking each item out with meticulous care and placing them in piles corresponding to categories that existed in that wonderful mind of hers. John opened his mouth to check she had heard. To make sure she didn’t want to change her mind and roll around with him in the sheets instead. But he saw the way her eyes were misting at the other trinkets in the trunk; photos, letters from her siblings, a pair of earrings that looked old enough to be a family heirloom. He didn’t want to interrupt that. This avenue of healing and reconciliation he knew she wanted and knew she needed and knew she now had. He didn’t want to interrupt that. No matter how much he missed her.

----

John was right to have been concerned about trying to share a powder room with Cass while they were getting ready. There were elbows everywhere. His toothbrush had been knocked from his mouth when she had leaned as close to the mirror as possible to apply her mascara. Her curlers had been jostled out of their meticulously placed arrangement when he had tried to nibble her ear playfully before shaving the stubble across his cheeks. “John.” Her scolding had sliced through him like white hot coals. It was a tone he hadn’t heard her direct his way before. He wanted to call her on it. Ask why she sounded tired of him. Why she seemed bothered by him wanting to love on her after he had accepted her indifference towards him the entire day.

For two people who had learned to view the jagged edges of their heart as the edges to a puzzle only the other knew how to match, for two people who had thought nothing would ever test them again after the Stalag, a hotel room in Wyoming was proving to be a puzzle they might not be able to solve.

----

It had been wonderful, bringing her near to tears, to see John standing next to Gale during the ceremony’s rehearsal. It reminded her of the bond that had kept the man she loved alive through a war. The bond that was stronger than brothers tied together through blood. It reminded her of their wedding, if one could even call it that, back in London. Just them and a priest and mother with her daughter as witness in the nave of a blown out church. That wedding had signified the last moment of her life where she had that version of John Egan. The last moment of her life where she had thought they would escape this war unscathed and all in one piece. The last moment of their lives where their love was untouchable.

“You may now kiss the bride!” Cass laughed and cheered with the rest of the small group that was participating in the rehearsal and wrapped Marge in the tightest hug when she came to greet her.

“Gosh, you are going to be the most beautiful bride ever tomorrow if this is how you look tonight!” Cass exclaimed as she admired the blue and white floral dress that Marge was currently donning. They had only first crossed paths a couple of months ago when they’d first touched back down in the states but the girls had become thick as thieves faster than John or Gale had even predicted. Cass had divulged to John that she didn’t have many friends back home, no one truly wishing to associate with the girl who broke the mold. So to meet Marge and feel a connection, a kinship, so quickly had sparked such joy within her. Another person for Cass to wish to never let go of.

“Oh, stop. It’s just a warm up for everyone before the showstopper you’re throwing in South Carolina.” Cass shook her head.

“You and Gale…they try to write your kind of love into books and they can never get it right because there are no words to describe it. At least, no one’s invented them yet.” She squeezed Marge’s hands tight and tried not to cry when she saw her friend’s eyes welling up with tears. “An incomparable love. I’m so honored you’ve allowed me here to celebrate with you both.” Marge wrapped her in a hug instantly and they could both feel the other smiling into the crook of their neck. There would always be something special about two women who would never tear each other down and only ever boost the other up. It was something powerful. Something fierce. There was a reason they had survived all that they had.

“What’s going on over here? Happy tears I hope,” John asked as the two men walked up to their sides. “Otherwise, Spook, I hope you’re ready for me to sing and dance a smile right back onto your face.”

“It’s my wedding weekend, Bucky, you have to sing?” Gale groaned at the mere thought of his friend gaining access to a microphone.

“If my wife needs a little serenading to wipe those tears away, then I am afraid you have no chance, Buck.”

It turns out the threat was unnecessary because the presence of her husband alone always brought a smile to her face. They danced and danced and danced and only took breaks to run and hide in the bathroom for a few kisses that bordered on indecent. John completely forgot about the tension from the day. Completely forgot about the lack of belonging he had felt while they were together earlier. The feeling of being on a different page than his wife when they were speaking earlier. He sighed as they danced to the softer music that was now flowing from the record player. His puzzle piece. Back in his arms once again.

“Miss Cass?” The peaceful bubble around them was shattered briefly as a tiny hand was tugging on the hem of her skirt.

“Hi, William,” she answered. The little boy was the ring bearer in tomorrow’s affair, his mother a bridesmaid to Marge.

“Can we dance?” Cass giggled at the earnest look on his face and looked to John.

“I think you should ask Mr. Egan, William.”

“Mr. Egan, can I dance with Miss Cass?”

“You get one song, William. Only one.” The smile from the little boy was missing a tooth as he nodded and took Cass’ hand with a blush to his cheeks. She couldn’t help but smile as he held her hands and watched his feet to make sure he didn’t step on her, his happiness at such a simple act bringing a feeling to her chest that she couldn’t quite place.

“You’re a very good dancer,” she mused as he found the courage to look up into her eyes.

“Thank you, Miss Cass,” he whispered. She squeezed his hands once and bent down for a twirl as he lifted their joined hands. Cass couldn’t help the laugh that sprung from her. It was so simple, so freeing, so perfect, to be the light of the night for little William. “You are very pretty.”

“And you are very handsome.” They matched unbridled smiles and she kissed his chubby cheek as the song came to a close. “Thank you for the dance, William. Maybe we can do it again tomorrow night after the wedding?” He nodded enthusiastically.

“Yes, please!” He turned as a woman was calling his name off to the side and waved his goodbye before running to be collected by his mother.

“You’re going to be the most wonderful mother one day, Mrs. Egan.” Cass turned to see Gale’s mother looking at her with admiration in her eyes.

“Thank you, ma’am, I hope I can be.” Something stirred in her chest at the topic of conversation. She thought back to bloodied sheets and a racing heart. The feeling of being alone and empty, her other half behind enemy lines where she couldn’t reach him. Half of him was stored inside her before the universe chose to rip it from her so brutally. A secret she was still keeping from her husband.

“Have you and John discussed that next chapter of her life? Found a place to settle down now that things are mostly back to normal?”

“No, we are visiting our families before we settle.” She prayed their families wouldn’t push too deeply on little Egans. Not until she had the courage to tell John about the one they had come close to having but lost. Not until she found the courage to remember that night herself and realize everything she had lost. All the ways in which she had failed him while he had been fighting for his life in a German POW camp.

“Well, with the way you and John care for each other and the way all the little ones have just been gravitating towards both of you, you’ll have nothing to worry about as you grow your family.” Cass forced a smile onto her face and offered her thanks, just as she had always been taught to by her mother, before excusing herself to use the restroom.

She made sure the door was locked before she allowed her breath to escape in the pant that it wanted to. It was ragged and hoarse as her fingers found purchase on the side of the sink and she squeezed until her knuckles were as white as the porcelain. Why now? Why after she had pushed these feelings and those memories as deep into her soul as they would go? Deeper than even a Nazi interrogation or the image of her husband being dragged to his death through the woods.

“Pull yourself together, Cass, come on. You’re better than this,” she whispered to herself after sparing a glance in the mirror. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Not here, not tonight. Don’t ruin this time of happiness for him when you haven’t been able to give that to him in so long.

“Spook? You in here love?” His voice was accompanied by a gentle knock on the door. Almost timid. When had John Egan ever been unsure of himself when it came to his wife?

“I’ll be right out!” Her fingers twisted the sink on quickly and she cleared her throat of the apprehension and dread residing there before physically shaking her muscles loose.

When the door opened, the frame was filled by the wide expanse of his shoulders. There was no way out for her even if she tried. And it took all her training in emotional regulation to not complete fray into pieces under his gaze.

“You seemed to leave the party in quite a hurry,” he mused as he leaned against the wood. John was settling in. He had nowhere else to be other than right here. With the woman he loved, his wife, who was slowly slipping through his fingers.

“Dancing and having conversations doesn’t leave much time to touch up,” she teased back with a little laugh. He didn’t return her laugh and instead lifted his arm to show that he held her purse. Her purse that housed her compact and mirror. Her lipstick and mascara. Everything that she would have needed to actually touch up in the mirror.

“I know we’ve haven’t…we haven’t been great at just talking and checking in recently-”

“That’s my fault. Getting back and traveling and planning and trying to keep it all together. I’ll be better once everything settles,” she promised as her hands pressed to his chest. Because there was that word again. Settle. Settling. Settled. Would she ever find a place where it could be used in the past tense? Would they ever find such a place?

“It’s not on just you or just me.” He reached for her hand and brought her ring to his lips. The thin gold band was barely noticeable unless someone was looking for it. It had been all they could find on such short notice. And they’d told each other he would put his grandmother’s ring on her finger when they made it to South Carolina. “I think we’ve both felt a little lost recently,” he whispered.

“How do we fix it?” Cass had always been good at identifying things that weren’t right. That didn’t fit with her. But she had never gotten the hang of bending to their will in order to make it so.

“I don’t know,” he swallowed around a lump in his throat, “but I know I love you more than anything. I know that will never change.” A tear tracked down her cheek in anticipation. She had to tell him. There would be no forward without this last secret coming to light. They couldn’t begin to work through the ways Germany had changed them if he didn’t know that she had never been the same since that night in the hospital. If he didn’t know that it was that night that led her to that camp in the first place. For if she had lost the piece of him he had left her, the piece of him he should have been able to trust she would keep safe, then she didn’t deserve to live on the other side of that chain link fence.

“There is something I have to tell you, John. Something that happened before I made it to Germany-”

“Not here, love,” John stroked his thumb over her cheek, effectively silencing the confession that was on the edge of her lips like a plea. “Let’s go somewhere we can have some privacy.” She squeezed his hand like a lifeline as he led her out of the bathroom and down the hallway, her heart seizing as the sights and sounds of the crowd began to take shape. Her muscles twitched and she wiped at her face and forced a smile as she readied herself for battle. Readied herself to face a room full of strangers that she couldn’t show such a weakness to. That was not what a married woman of society did. Emotions were meant to stay behind closed doors.

They turned away from the music and went through a door. Her worry had been for nothing. As he always had a habit of doing, John had assuaged her fears without her needing to voice them. Had taken care of her as easily as breathing. Her worries over telling him would be for nothing too. Her worries over this growing distance between them…he would fix those too. Nothing could ever break them. “We could go back to our room, if that would make you more comfortable.” He kissed the center of her forehead and looked into her eyes like they held all the answers. Cass just hoped they held more than fear.

“Maybe it’s silly but I always have considered my bedroom, wherever it may be, to be the most sacred place. A place to protect. And now that I have you, the space where we talk before we fall asleep, the space where we wake up in each others arms and make love and plan how to achieve our dreams…it is even more important to me that we protect that. Even in a hotel where it is temporary.” Her smile could probably be described as meek as she looked at him like she was awaiting his approval.

“Cass, everywhere you are is a sacred place to me. The ground you stand on is the only ground I care to protect.”

“Even this dirty stairwell?” she sniffed.

“Especially this dirty stairwell, my love.” It was hard to pretend every nerve ending between them wasn’t completely and utterly on fire. But he wasn’t going to push her. The admittance of a secret between them, something they normally didn’t keep, was enough to worry him to the edges of his sanity. He would always be patient with her. Her love would always be worth waiting for.

“After London, after we were separated, I woke up one night with blood on my sheets.” John froze. His eyes traced over her face as if he could read or see beneath her skin and into her mind. “Mary helped me to the field hospital and…and they told me I was having a miscarriage.” There it was. Out in the open. No longer a secret for her to keep.

“London. In London we…” The rest of his thought was choked off as silver lined his eyes. Cass nodded.

“We made a baby. And on that night I lost it. I’m sorry. For not telling you sooner. For not knowing and not protecting them and ruining something I know we both want so deeply.” His eyes were no longer looking into hers. They were focused on the wall behind her head. If his shirt was between the whites other knuckles, she would have thought he was trying to mist away.

“It’s not your fault. The stress of the forest that day and the travel…that couldn’t have helped.” John spared her a glance before he stepped out of her grasp and cleared his throat. “Did you want to say goodbye before we go?” She was stunned for a moment before she internalized the words he was saying.

“That’s all you have to say?” No words of comfort? No angst or sadness over the loss of the unknown? No anger over her inability to protect something as precious as their child?

“I think we should get back to our room.” God, he was cold and evasive and emotionless and all the things Cass had described previous lovers as but never John Egan. Never her husband. The man who so thoroughly brought her to life. “It’s Gale and Marge’s weekend. I don’t want to distract from that.” Slapping her would have hurt less. His words packaged all her emotions into a little box and prevented them from escaping. From relieving the pressure on her heart that had been weighing her down. That she had started this conversation in order to release. Maybe she had been wrong to think John Egan was the kind of husband, the kind of man, who wouldn’t mind if his wife enjoyed dancing and laughing and letting her hair down while she experienced life. Maybe she never should have assumed the freedom he had said he loved about her all this time carried back to America. A ruthless mistake.

“My coat-”

“I’ll grab it. You stay here, so they don’t have to see you like this, and I’ll be right back.” Shame crawled right up her throat and squeezed until she thought it would be her undoing.

“Why was I so stupid?” she whispered to herself. “I should have known better.” She should have known better than to think she would be able to be a wife on her own terms. To think she could be a partner and an equal and never have to change the elements that made up her core. To think she had found the person, her person, to do all that with. To shield her and protect her from the overwhelming judgement of those around her.

It had been time for her to learn John was just a man. And he was the same as they all were.

#john egan #masters of the air #callum turner #john egan x oc #john egan fanfiction #masters of the air fanfiction #cass and bucky

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coeurdastronaute · 6 days ago

Text

Shadowboxing

Hey-- long time. I write lots of original sapphic content on Patreon now and sometimes I update AO3, but not all that often. For just $1/month you have access to my entire original content and fanfic. Currently writing CaitVi and Arcane and an original fake dating story. So.... if you want go check me out at Patreon.com/coeurdastronaute

I'm shit at logging onto Tumblr bc its a trash heap, but you can always find me on twitter @coeurastronaute or email me at [email protected] m

But also here's Ch. 1 of Shadowboxing

'Till I collapse or I burstWhichever comes first

“This place is going to be nicer than anywhere we’ve ever lived.”

“Yeah.”

The car drifted lazily along the winding back roads between small New England towns, the afternoon sun filtering in through the canopy of lush forest. Summer sat heavy in that first week of June, droning with heat all day that barely cooled off come sunset. All of the green and nature was a welcome change for her eyes, which she thought had long grown accustomed to seeing only in the monochromatic color scheme of the city.

“You can even ride horses,” Vi reminded her sister again, for the fifth time or so. She continued to look through the brochure which had been well worn by now with her many hours spent memorizing it, dreaming with it. “So posh, huh? Just hopping on for a trot between classes.”

“Yeah.”

Vi set her jaw and took a steadying breath. There was no point getting mad at her sister right now. Why would it hurt that she was giving up everything she knew to give her sister a better life, to get them out of the system, to give them a chance? But her sister was fourteen and sheltered, viewing this move as the worst thing that could ever happen.

But Vi wasn’t a saint, and she did get annoyed from time to time. As if this wasn’t the best thing to ever happen to them. She closed the brochure and did her best to not crush it in her grip as her hands tightened into fists.

Before she could say anything though, the trees broke into a clearing and the monstrous, hallowed, ivy-covered stone walls of Foxcroft Academy. The green was massive and vibrant, well maintained with the fancy mower lines across it. It was grander than she could have imagined, and definitely someplace that someone like Vi Warwick never imagined as even the slightest chance.

This though, the sprawling, picturesque campus that actually looked like the photos hadn’t been photoshopped, was her single chance out of her life, and to her it was a terrifying opportunity. She sure as hell was going to make sure her sister took advantage of it, too.

As the car stopped in front of the large, central building, Vi looked over at her sister who seemed to be taking it all in, too. Powder didn’t know what was good for her, and Vi might not know much more, but she knew that this was the right decision, and she’d make sure she was on board.

“You ready?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Powder shrugged.

With no more ceremony, her sister grabbed her backpack and took the first steps outside of the car, leaving Vi with just herself and the echo of the car door slamming.

This is good, she sighed to herself before following. The cab driver dropped her duffle on the ground at her feet with a crunch on the gravel.

“Anything else?” he asked, looking around the trunk.

“Nope, that’s it.”

“Nothing else coming in on another train I’m going to have to bring out here?” he asked, taking inventory of the scant amount he was bringing.

“Nope,” Vi shook her head, heaving the heavy bag on her shoulder. Powder struggled with hers before Vi tossed it on her other shoulder. Somehow, it was heavier. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” he grunted as he slammed the trunk closed. “Good luck.”

The pair watched the car go back down the long road, out of the tall, wrought iron gates with the emblem on the front, and turned back to look up at the facade of the building, tilting their heads back to take all the spires and turrets. From the brochures, Vi knew that this was the original school building, a converted estate bequeathed by some rich guy. Now, the campus covered nearly 500 acres.

“Ms. Warwick! I’m so happy you made it,” a voice pulled them from their individual mulling. Feet hurried along the path toward them. “Easy trip, I hope. The train ride from the city is so lovely in the Fall, but still nice in the Summer. Hopefully it wasn’t too long.”

“It was fine,” Vi nodded, shaking the hand extended to her. She nudged her sister to do the same. “Thanks.”

“Wonderful. I’m not sure if you remember me, but I’m Dr. Sayyid, and I was on your interview panel for the scholarship.”

“Yeah, of course. Thanks again,” Vi offered. “This is my sister, Powder.”

It was hard not to remember the tall, young, striking woman with deep brown eyes who seemed to be the only smiling face on the panel. Dr. Sayyid wore the same, simple sari she wore that day just a month ago, when Vi sat in front of a table of snooty professors and answered for all of her past and potential. It seemed a bit unnecessary in her opinion, since they only offered the scholarship because she had something they wanted– athletic ability. They would use her body to put medals and cups in their cupboards and she would use her body to pull herself out of poverty and the hole her parents bore her into.

When someone tapped her on the shoulder at the gym a month ago, it took her out of her trance, the dull rhythm of the rowing machine lulling her to a safe place, outside of herself and the world. That guy said he was a coach and asked if she was interested in any sports. And now Vi was standing on a 250 year old campus that had a 97% acceptance rate to universities. A tap on the shoulder was they keys to the kingdoms.

“We’re running on a smaller staff, obviously, for the summer,” Dr. Sayyid explained, motioning for them to follow her around the building. “And official summer courses start on Monday, so this weekend is extra slow, which is perfect for exploring.”

The buildings seemed to form a little town, it’s own unit with plenty of green space. It was the space part that surprised Vi the most. She wasn’t used to seeing so much, to be able to breathe and stretch her arms without hitting anything.

“I hear you’re quite good at tinkering with electronics,” she continued, hoping to get Powder to open up. “You are very welcome to join us for a Robotics Team meeting. You’ll love our lab, Powder. I can show you tomorrow, if you want.”

“You have a lab?”

“Oh yes, a few. The Robotics Lab is attached to a maker’s space. I think you’re going to enjoy it.”

Finally showing some excitement, Powder gave her sister a somewhat hopeful look, and Vi nodded, encouraging it. She listened to the two talk about some of the amenities while she took in it all, making a note of the dining hall and the path that led to the lake for training, the gym, the clinic, the fences, the openings.

It made sense that Powder would be drawn to Dr. Sayyid. She was relatively young, for a professor, and she seemed genuinely kind and excited. Of all the tours Vi had gone on when she got to a new place, whether it be a new foster home or state facility, this one had to be the best, and watching Powder start to believe in it made it feel better. Vi would row until her hands bled.

“So this is Spence, one of the freshman girls’ dorm,” Dr. Sayyid explained as they stopped at a cozy looking building with columns and brick and real windows. It looked like a giant mansion, somehow bigger than its three stories. “And this is where you’ll be, Powder.”

Vi adjusted their bags, an end to the weight in sight.

“Tomorrow, we’ll do all the admin stuff, like ID cards and uniforms, but for now, you won’t have a problem getting in and out. What do you say, want to see your room?”

“Yeah,” Powder agreed, more excited than before.

Vi followed, trying to remember everything. She needed to know how to get to Powder no matter what.

The room itself was on the second floor toward the middle of the hall. She was in a quad, with a shared common room, though each bedroom had its own bathroom. Vi dropped the bag on one of the beds in the right-side bedroom, finally sick of carrying it. Her shoulders thanked her immediately. She watched Powder look around the space, run her hand over the empty bookshelves and desk before looking out the window at the fields in the distance.

When she turned back at Vi she smiled, finally relaxed.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I went ahead and picked up some of your books for classes on Monday, and this laptop is a little old, but it still works,” Dr. Sayyid explained, moving to the pile that sat on the end of a desk. “I just got a new one, so I figured you might get some use out of it for assignments.”

“For me?” Powder echoed, furrowing and looking back at Dr. Sayyid, trying to figure it out. She looked at Vi who gave a small shrug, unsure as well. The professor nodded enthusiastically.

“We have spare sheets and towels in the closet. It’s your responsibility to do laundry, which is down in the basement,” she continued, choosing not to dwell, though that was all Powder seemed capable of at the moment. “We’ll get you set up later. Shall we head over to see your room, Vi?”

While they walked across campus, Powder and Dr. Sayyid chatted about the buildings and some of the offerings, as well as what plans there might be for the year. Vi had never been more grateful for an adult that she was at that moment. She needed Powder to buy into this experience. She needed to have one less worry in her life, and this was hopeful for her. Cautiously hopeful, she decided.

The dorm for the senior girls was a little farther from the main heart of campus like Spence. Browning was a little smaller, a little more quaint, a little more retrofitted, but the view of the lake was everything Vi could ever want and never allowed herself to imagine.

The room on the top floor in the corner was small, with ancient paint and built ins, with heavy wooden furniture and a big bay window. She dropped her bag on the bed on one side of the room. Against the wall, sat a dresser, a desk, a small closet, and her bed, and on the other side, a mirror image.

Powder sat on her bed with a bounce and appraised it appreciatively.

“Not too bad,” she decided, making Vi smile.

Before this morning, they’d never left the city, and even then, they barely left their neighborhood. Now, they were in a different state, in a different town, and everything else truly did feel far away.

“They’re always working on the HVAC in this building,” Dr. Sayyid sighed as she opened a window to let in the faintest breeze, hoping to cut the stagnant heat. “I’ll message maintenance and let them know it’s on the fritz again. At least in the winter, the heat is great. The old boiler is more reliable than the new AC.”

Vi gripped the desk chair and took a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment to finally breathe. If she did everything right, if she could keep all fo the pieces of the car together for just a year, she could keep them off the streets, keep them from being separated, keep everything from falling apart, and this felt like the closest she’d come to realizing that dream.

She could take some heat. She didn’t mind.

“I know you want to unpack, but I was going to make pizza for dinner. Do you guys want to come over and relax a bit?” Dr. Sayyid asked, clapping her hands together. “You’re probably hungry after the long day of traveling.”

“You live here?” Powder asked, hopping up. Vi didn’t move. She gripped the chair a bit tighter.

“I do. I’m a dorm supervisor, so I get to stay so I’m around if you ever need anything.”

“That’s pretty cool.”

“Yeah, I like it,” she agreed with a smile. “I can give you guys a run down of the rules and stuff, and if you like fresh veggies, we have a ton from the garden.”

Powder looked at her sister and Vi gave a slight nod, something that not many might catch, but she knew it was alright.

“I don’t like green things,” Powder explained. “Vi does.”

“Perfect, peppers for you and spinach for Vi.”

“Sounds good,” Vi offered, following along before pausing at the door and giving her room another look.

This is going to work.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Dinner was lovely. The small cottage on the edge of the eastside of campus felt well-lived in. It was cozy, as if someone had put in roots and made it their own. Vi appraised it while Powder helped make dough, rolling it out and chatting with Dr. Sayyid about their lives and such. Vi tried to figure her out, looking at photos and certificates, at stacks of books and movies, at board games and botched crochet projects.

Over freshly made pizza, they talked about her family back in India, about how much she liked teaching, about some of the fun parts of the campus and the school year. It was simple and easy, and Vi was grateful for that.

Internally, Vi debated about spending the night in Powder’s room. It wasn’t often they spent a night apart, but it was going to be something they had to get used to eventually, and so she bit her tongue, and didn’t offer when they walked back across campus. Instead, she helped Powder make her bed and unpack her bag.

“Can you believe they have cable?” she asked, flopping on the couch in the common room. “All these rooms and everyone gets cable. Isn’t that insane?”

“Three meals a day and cable,” Vi grinned. “It’s just like juvie.”

“I could get used to juvie like this,” Powder scoffed as she clicked through some channels.

“I’ll come grab you around nine tomorrow, and we’ll do breakfast at the Dining Hall before a tedious day of orientation,” Dr. Sayyid decided, though she checked to make sure they were on board. “And tomorrow you’ll have your roommates. I think you’re going to like yours, Powder. All the freshmen are new, so you’ll actually have a leg up on them to show them around.”

“You good?” Vi asked, slightly lower as Dr. Sayyid moved toward the door.

“I know where you are,” Powder nodded. Vi rumpled her hair as a goodbye. “Text me if you get scared.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Powder didn’t get up to move. She relaxed on the couch and waved and Vi understood that she needed to be alone, to experience, to thaw, to disappear. That didn’t stop her from standing outside in the hallway for a few extra moments, her hand hovering over the doorknob, as if at the sound of a cough, she’d burst back in.

Dr. Sayyid, her eyes kind and her lips twisting into a small smile put her hand on Vi’s shoulder, making her jump at the contact, retching her back into reality.

“She’s okay,” she promised. “Good kid.”

“Yeah, she’s really smart,” Vi offered, following. She let her gaze linger back to the door before they turned the corner to head downstairs.

“I can see that. It’s very obvious. She’ll do well here.”

Vi nodded and bit the inside of her lip repeatedly before clenching her jaw. She looked up at the lit window as she followed Dr. Sayyid toward her dorm yet again. She spoke about what some graduates had gone on to do, and about certain emotional supports that were in place, mental health wellness and all of those words. But mostly she walked in a mutual silence, just their feet and the gravel or the sidewalk or the grass.

“I know this is overwhelming,” the professor finally acknowledged as they paused outside of Browning. “But if you need anything, please don’t hesitate. I can answer any questions you might have– about school or anything else.”

Vi nodded again and put her hands in her pockets. Dr. Sayyid held out a card.

“My personal cell. I was the scholarship kid once who left everything she ever knew to take care of her family,” she murmured, her voice slightly more serious than Vi had heard it all evening. “Anything, Vi.”

Gently, Vi took the card in her hands and turned it over to see the neatly handwritten digits. She stared at it for a moment and swallowed before nodding and slipping it in her back pocket. Dr. Sayyid seemed to appraise her, wagering what her chances were before catching herself and offering a soothing smile.

“Enjoy your first night. Maintenance left a fan for you. I’m sorry the AC is out.”

“I’ve slept in worse spots,” Vi promised with a wry grin. “Thanks, Doc.”

“Anything, Vi, I mean it,” the professor reminded her as she turned, walking backward toward her place.

For a long beat, Vi stood outside of the dorm and looked at the campus, the trees, the sky, blue and orange, the clouds purple wisps. Sweat dried on the back of her neck and she couldn’t remember ever feeling so singular, as if no one else in the world existed. She felt the card in her pocket. She’d had those before, promises on cards, so she knew not to count on it, no matter how well-intentioned someone seemed to be. She did this all herself, and she’d keep that streak going.

She made her way inside, checking her phone as she walked to see if Powder needed anything, though she didn’t have any messages from her.

There wasn’t much to unpack. She hung up some clothes and filled only two drawers of the dresser. A stack of books were already on her bookshelves, probably from Dr. Sayyid, but Vi didn’t want to look at those just yet. It took only twenty minutes, and she was moved in. She could be packed and on her way in half the time if need be.

The showers were in the middle of the hallway. Vi dug out a change of clothes and a few toiletries, remembering to turn the fan on for when she got back to her room, hoping it would cool off. The water felt good, washing away the train and the dirt and the sweat. It reminded her of baptism, and she was reborn, different now. A Foxcroft student. People from her side of town didn’t go to Foxcroft. People from her side of town never left that side.

At the small sink in her room, Vi brushed her teeth as she picked up a novel from her pile, aimlessly wondering as she scrubbed. The Count of Monte Cristo. She flipped through the heavy book and felt slightly daunted by the size of it. She hadn’t read a book in… She furrowed, holding her toothbrush in her mouth as she flipped a page and caught some writing.

Vi- “Life is a storm, my young friend. What makes you a man is what you do when that storm comes. You must look into that storm and shout- Do your worst, for I will do mine!”For a jump on Fall semester. But I think you might also find some use for this story.Dr. Sayyid

She reread the words a few times, trying to figure it out. Slowly she brushed her teeth a little more and weighed the book. She looked helplessly at the shelf and wondered when she’d have time to do it all. A headstart couldn’t hurt.

She spit in the sink as the door to her room opened and she stood still in the middle of the room with a toothbrush hanging from her lips, a book tucked against her stomach, and a brilliant blue eye staring at her. Vi was certain she looked like a deer, and this girl was a semi truck barreling at her full speed, though she just stood in the doorway. She wore an eye patch on one side of her face, though a faint pink scar peaked out of the edges at the top and bottom. Her face composed itself instantaneously, the surprise gone.

“Who the hell are you?” she furrowed before looking at the number on the door and back at a piece of paper in her hand.

“Who the hell are you?” Vi managed, garbling over her toothbrush before she snagged it out of her mouth. Her heckles rose immediately.

“I was supposed to have a single,” the stranger groaned. She dropped the box balanced on her hip on the ground. “Are you in the right room?”

“Yeah. I am. Can we go back to who the hell you are?” Vi tried again, her voice stern.

The girl just stared at her, eye drifting down to her shorts and sports bra and Vi realized she was definitely less clothed than her. But she couldn't balk now. She spent enough time establishing herself in strange situations to know that you don’t blink and you certainly don’t acknowledge any weakness. In this situation, of course, the lack of clothes was a weakness, but she had to work with what she had.

“I think I’m your roommate.”

“Oh,” Vi furrowed and nodded. “Okay.”

“I’ll be back.”

Just like that, she was gone, and Vi was left, still standing there, clutching a book and a toothbrush. She looked at the box on the floor and then around her room.

“I’m Vi,” she muttered to an empty room. “Pleasure.”

Vi thought she’d have to get used to this, but she hadn’t thought about how annoying it would be. How wonderful it was that her roommate was a prime example of the most annoying kind of person. Rich fucking blue bloods.

#caitvi #sapphic #fanfic

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