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suckmykawaiidesu · 3 years

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Compilation of Nessian Moments: ‘A Court of Wings and Ruin ’ Edition

Hello loves! ♥️

I recently asked for a compilation list of Nessian moments and there doesn’t seems to be one so I decided to hurriedly put one together before the release of “A Court of Silver Flames”. I have probably missed some scenes but these are the ones that I came across during my re-read. I will be making a post for each book and will link them once available:

A Court of Mist and Fury

ACOMAF Target Exclusive Story uploaded by bookofademigod

A Court of Frost and Starlight

Sneak Peak at the end of A Court of Frost and Starlight

A Court of Wings and Ruin

Chapter 15

Nesta had been beautiful as a human woman. As High Fae, she was devastating. From the utter stillness with which Cassian stood beside me, I wondered if he thought the same thing. She was in a pewter-colored gown, its make simple, yet the material fine. Her hair was braided over the crown of her head, accentuating her long, pale neck—a neck Cassian’s eyes darted to, then quickly away from, as she sized us up and said to me, “You’re back.” With her hair styled like that, it hid the pointed ears. But there was nothing to hide the ethereal grace as she took one step. As her focus again returned to Cassian and she added,

“What do you want?”

But Cassian sauntered over to Nesta, a half smile spreading across his face. She stood stiffly while he picked up the book, read the title, and chuckled. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for a romance reader.” She gave him a withering glare. “And, again, why are you here?” She snatched her book from Cassian, who allowed her to do so, but remained standing beside her. Watching every breath, every blink. “Elain’s mate is here,” I said. And it was the wrong thing to utter in Nesta’s presence. She went white with rage. “He is no such thing to her,” she snarled, advancing on me enough that Rhys slid a shield into place between us. As if he, too, had glimpsed that mighty power in her eyes that day in Hybern. And did not know how it would manifest.

“If you bring that male anywhere near her, I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” Cassian crooned, trailing her at a casual pace as she stopped perhaps five feet from me. He lifted a brow as she whirled on him. “You won’t join me for practice, so you sure as hell aren’t going to hold your own in a fight. You won’t talk about your powers, so you certainly aren’t going to be able to wield them. And you—” “Shut your mouth,” she snapped, every inch the conquering empress. “I told you to stay the hell away from me, and if you—” “You come between a male and his mate, Nesta Archeron, and you’re going to learn about the consequences the hard way.” Nesta’s nostrils flared. Cassian only gave her a crooked grin.

Nesta only shook her head, turning toward the chair and her book. “I don’t care. Do what you want.” A stinging dismissal, if not admission that she still trusted me enough to consider Elain’s needs first. Rhys jerked his chin at Cassian in a silent order to leave, and as I followed them, I said softly, “I’m sorry, Nesta.” She didn’t answer as she sat stiffly in her chair, picked up her book, and dutifully ignored us. A blow to the face would have been better. When I looked ahead, I found Cassian staring back at Nesta as well. I wondered why no one had yet mentioned what now shone in Cassian’s eyes as he gazed at my sister. The sorrow. And the longing

Chapter 16 I cringed. “I guarantee Nesta is now guarding Elain. I think she might honestly kill him if he so much as tries to touch her.” “Not without training she won’t,” Cassian grumbled, tucking in his wings as he claimed the seat beside Mor that Azriel had vacated. The shadowsinger didn’t so much as look at it. No, Azriel just walked to the wall beside Cassian and leaned against the wood paneling. But Rhys and the others remained quiet enough that I knew to proceed carefully as I asked Cassian, “Nesta spoke as if you’ve been up at the House … often. You’ve offered to train her?” Cassian’s hazel eyes shuttered as he crossed a booted ankle over another, stretching his muscled legs before him. “I go up there every other day. It’s good exercise for my wings.” Those wings shifted in emphasis. Not a scratch marred them. “And?” “And what you saw in the library is a pleasanter version of the conversation we always have.” Mor’s lips pressed into a thin line, as if she was trying her best not to say anything. Azriel was trying his best to shoot a warning stare at Mor to remind her to indeed keep her mouth shut. As if they’d already discussed this. Many times. “I don’t blame her,” Cassian said, shrugging despite his words. “She was—violated. Her body stopped belonging wholly to her.” His jaw clenched. Even Amren didn’t dare say anything. “And I am going to peel the King of Hybern’s skin off his bones the next time I see him.”

Chapter 17 Not that there was much finery to bother with. I’d opted for my Illyrian leather pants and a loose, white shirt—and a pair of embroidered slippers that Cassian kept snorting at as we flew. When he did so for the third time in two minutes, I pinched his arm and said, “It’s hot. Those boots are stuffy.” His brows rose, the portrait of innocence. “I didn’t say anything.” “You grunted. Again.” “I’ve been living with Mor for five hundred years. I’ve learned the hard way not to question shoe choices.” He smirked. “However stupid they may be.” “It’s dinner. Unless there’s some battle planned afterward?” “Your sister will be there—I’d say that’s battle aplenty.” I casually studied his face, noting how hard he worked to keep his features neutral, to keep his gaze fixed anywhere but on my own. Rhys flew nearby, far enough to remain out of earshot as I said, “Would you use her to see if she can somehow fix the wall?” Hazel eyes shot to me, fierce and clear. “Yes. Not only for our sakes, but … she needs to get out of the House. She needs to …” Cassian’s wings kept up a steady booming beat, the new sections only detectable by their lack of scarring. “She’ll destroy herself if she stays cooped up in there.” My chest tightened. “Do …” I thought through my words. “The day she was changed, she … I felt something different with her.” I fought against the tensing in my muscles as I recalled those moments. The screaming and the blood and the nausea as I watched my sisters taken against their will, as I could do nothing, as we— I swallowed down the fear, the guilt. “It was like … everything she was, that steel and fire … It became magnified. Cataclysmic. Like … looking at a house cat and suddenly finding a panther standing there instead.” I shook my head, as if it would clear away the memory of the predator, the rage simmering in those blue-gray eyes. “I will never forget those moments,” Cassian said quietly, scenting or sensing the memories wreaking havoc on me. “As long as I live.” “Have you seen any glimpse of it since?” “Nothing.” The House loomed, golden lights at the walls of windows and doorways beckoning us closer. “But I can feel it—sometimes.” He added a bit ruefully, “Usually when she’s pissed at me. Which is … most of the time.” “Why?” They’d always been at each other’s throats, but this … yes, the dynamic between them had been different earlier. Sharper. Cassian shook his dark hair out of his eyes, slightly longer than the last time I’d seen it. “I don’t think Nesta will ever forgive me for what happened in Hybern. To her—but mostly to Elain.” “Your wings were shredded. You were barely alive.” For that was guilt—ravaging and poisonous—in each of Cassian’s words. What the others had been fighting against in the loft. “You were in no position to save anyone.” “I made her a promise.” The wind ruffled Cassian’s hair as he squinted at the sky. “And when it mattered, I didn’t keep it.” I still dreamed of him trying to crawl toward her, reaching for her even in the semiunconscious state the pain and blood loss had thrown him into. As Rhysand had once done for me during those last moments with Amarantha. Perhaps only a few wing beats separated us from the broad landing veranda, but I asked, “Why do you bother, Cassian?” His hazel eyes shuttered as we smoothly landed. And I thought he wouldn’t answer, especially not as we heard the others already in the dining room beyond the veranda, especially not when Rhys gracefully landed beside us and strode in ahead with a wink. But Cassian said quietly as we headed for the dining room, “Because I can’t stay away.”

Chapter 17 His focus shifted behind me before he replied—and Lucien shut his mouth. His metal eye whirred softly. I followed his glance, and tried not to tense as Nesta stepped into the room. Yes, devastating was a good word for how lovely she’d become as High Fae. And in a long-sleeved, dark blue gown that clung to her curves before falling gracefully to the ground in a spill of fabric … Cassian looked like someone had punched him in the gut.

Chapter 19 Something drew Cassian’s attention behind me. And even as his body remained casual, a predatory gleam flickered in his eyes. I didn’t need to turn to know who was standing there. “Care to join?” Cassian purred. Nesta said, “It doesn’t look like you’re exercising anything other than your mouths.” I looked over my shoulder. My sister was in a dress of pale blue that turned her skin golden, her hair swept up, her back a stiff column. I scrambled to say something, to apologize, but … not in front of him. She wouldn’t want this conversation in front of Cassian. Cassian extended a wrapped hand, his fingers curling in a come-hither motion. “Scared?” I wisely kept my mouth shut as Nesta stepped from the open doorway into the blinding light of the courtyard. “Why should I be scared of an oversized bat who likes to throw temper tantrums?” I choked, and Cassian shot me a warning glare, daring me to laugh. But I felt for that bond in my mind, lowering my mental shields enough to say to Rhysand, wherever he was in the city, Please come spare me from Cassian and Nesta’s bickering. A heartbeat later, Rhys crooned, Regretting becoming High Lady? I savored that voice—that humor. But I shoved that simmering panic down again as I countered, Is this part of my duties? A sensual, dark laugh. Why do you think I was so desperate for a partner? I’ve had almost five centuries to deal with this alone. It’s only fair you have to endure it now. Cassian was saying to Nesta, “Seems like you’re a little on edge, Nesta. And you left so abruptly last night … Any way I can help ease that tension?”

Chapter 22 The Carver purred to Cassian, “If I tell you a secret, warrior-heart, what will you give me?” Neither of us spoke. Carefully—we’d have to phrase and do this so carefully. The Carver stroked the shard of bone in his palm, attention fixed upon a stone-faced Cassian. “What if I tell you what the rock and darkness and sea beyond whispered to me, Lord of Bloodshed? How they shuddered in fear, on that island across the sea. How they trembled when she emerged. She took something—something precious. She ripped it out with her teeth.” Cassian’s golden-brown face had drained of color, his wings tucking in tight. “What did you wake that day in Hybern, Prince of Bastards?” My blood went cold. “What came out was not what went in.” A rasping laugh as the Carver laid the shard of bone on the ground beside him. “How lovely she is—new as a fawn and yet ancient as the sea. How she calls to you. A queen, as my sister once was. Terrible and proud; beautiful as a winter sunrise.” Rhys had warned me of the inmates’ capacity to lie, to sell anything, to get free. “Nesta,” the Bone Carver murmured. “Nes-ta.” I squeezed Cassian’s hand. Enough. It was enough of this teasing and taunting. But he didn’t look at me. “How the wind moans her name. Can you hear it, too? Nesta. Nesta. Nesta.” I wasn’t sure Cassian was breathing. “What did she do, drowning in the ageless dark? What did she take?” It was the bite in the last word that snapped my tether of restraint. “If you wish to find out, perhaps you should stop talking long enough for us to explain.” My voice seemed to shake Cassian free of whatever trance he’d been in. His breathing surged, tight and fast, and he scanned my face—apology in his eyes.

Chapter 23 “Would you be frightened of her, if Nesta was—Death? Or if her power came from it?” Cassian was quiet for a long moment. He said at last, “I’m a warrior. I’ve walked beside Death my entire life. I would be more afraid for her, to have that power. But not afraid of her.” He considered, and added after a heartbeat, “Nothing about Nesta could frighten me.”

Chaper 24 Mercifully, or perhaps not, Nesta’s retching filled the silence. Cassian gaped at Rhys. “What did you do?” “I asked him the same thing,” I said, crossing my arms. “He said he ‘went fast.’ ” Nesta vomited again—then silence. Cassian sighed at the ceiling. “She’ll never fly again.” The doorknob twisted, and we tried—or at least Cassian and I did—not to seem like we’d been listening to her. Nesta’s face was still greenish-pale, but … Her eyes burned. There was no way of describing that burning—and even painting it might have failed. Her eyes remained the same blue-gray as my own. And yet … Molten ore was all I could think of. Quicksilver set aflame. She advanced a step toward us. All her attention fixed on Rhys. Cassian casually stepped in her path, wings folded in tight. Feet braced apart on the carpet. A fighting stance—casual, but … his Siphons glimmered. “Do you know,” Cassian drawled to her, “that the last time I got into a brawl in this house, I was kicked out for a month?” Nesta’s burning gaze slid to him, still outraged—but hinted with incredulity. He just went on, “It was Amren’s fault, of course, but no one believed me. And no one dared banish her.” She blinked slowly. But the burning, molten gaze became mortal. Or as mortal as one of us could be. Until Lucien breathed, “What are you?” Cassian didn’t seem to dare take his focus off Nesta.

Chapter 27 Cassian had stationed himself by the doorway, I realized, to be closer to Nesta. To grab her if Amren decided she didn’t particularly care for where this conversation was headed. Or for any of the furniture in this room. Precisely why Rhys now placed himself on Amren’s other side—to draw her attention away from me, and Mor behind us, every muscle in her lithe body on alert. Cassian was staring at Nesta—hard enough that my sister at last twisted toward him. Met his gaze. His head tilted—slightly. A silent order.

Cassian casually slid Nesta behind him, his fingers snagging in the skirts of her black gown. As if to reassure himself that she wasn’t in Amren’s direct path. Nesta only rose onto her toes to peer over his shoulder.

Chapter 30 Both males went a bit still. But Azriel sketched a bow—while Cassian stalked for the dining table, reached right over Nesta’s shoulder, and grabbed a muffin from its little basket. “Morning, Nesta,” he said around a mouth of blueberry-lemon. “Elain.”

Cassian finished the muffin, licking his fingers. I could have sworn Nesta watched the entire thing with a sidelong glance. He grinned at her as if he knew it, too. “Ready for some flying, Nes?” “Don’t call me that.” The wrong thing to say, from the way Cassian’s eyes lit up. I chose that moment to winnow to the skies above the House, chuckling as wind carried me through the world. Some sisterly payback, I supposed. For Nesta’s general attitude. Mercifully, no one saw my slightly better crash landing on the veranda, and by the time Cassian’s dark figure appeared in the sky, Nesta’s hair bright as bronze in the morning sun, I’d brushed off the dirt and dust from my leathers. My sister’s face was wind-flushed as Cassian gently set her down. Then she strode for the glass doors without a single look back. “You’re welcome,” Cassian called after her, more than a bite to his voice. His hands clenched and slackened at his sides—as if he were trying to loosen the feel of her from his palms.

Chapter 31 In the terrible silence, Cassian hauled me out—toward the dim center of the pit. Nesta was standing there, arms around herself, eyes wide. Cassian only stretched out an arm for her. As if in a trance, she walked right to his side. His arms tightened around both of us, Siphons flaring, gilding the darkness with bloodred light.

Chapter 32 I wondered what had happened in those initial moments, when he’d found my sister. As if he’d read my thoughts, Rhys sent the image to me, no doubt courtesy of Cassian. Panic—and rage. That was all he knew as he shot down into the heart of the pit, spearing for that ancient darkness that had once shaken him to his very marrow. Nesta was there—and Feyre. It was the former he saw first, stumbling out of the dark, wide-eyed, her fear a tang that whetted his rage into something so sharp he could barely think, barely breathe— She let out a small, animal sound—like some wounded stag—as she saw him. As he landed so hard his knees popped. He said nothing as Nesta launched herself toward him, her dress filthy and disheveled, her arms stretching for him. He opened his own for her, unable to stop his approach, his reaching— She gripped his leathers instead. “ Feyre,” she rasped, pointing behind her with a free hand, shaking him solidly with the other. Strength—such untapped strength in that slim, beautiful body. “Hybern.” That was all he needed to hear. He drew his sword—then Rhys was arrowing for them, his power like a gods-damned volcanic eruption. Cassian charged ahead into the gloom, following the screaming—

Chapter 39 But Nesta was glancing between us all, her back still stiff, mouth a thin line. “Where is he?” “Who?” Rhys crooned. “Cassian.” I didn’t think I’d ever heard his name from her lips. Cassian had always been him or that one. And Nesta had been … pacing in the foyer. As if she was worried. I opened my mouth, but Mor beat me to it. “He’s busy.” I’d never heard her voice so … sharp. Icy. Nesta held Mor’s stare. Her jaw tightened, then relaxed, then tightened—as if fighting some battle to keep questions in. Mor didn’t drop her gaze. Mor had never seemed ruffled by mention of Cassian’s past lovers. Perhaps because they’d never meant much—not in the ways that counted. But if the Illyrian warrior no longer stood as a physical and emotional buffer between her and Azriel … And worse, if the person who caused that vacancy was Nesta … Mor said flatly, “When he gets back, keep your forked tongue behind your teeth.” My heart leaped into a furious beat, my arms slack at my sides at the insult, the threat. But Rhys said, “Mor.” She slowly—so slowly—looked at him. There was nothing but uncompromising will in Rhys’s face. “We now leave for the meeting in three days. Send out dispatches to the other High Lords to inform them. And I’m done debating where to meet. Pick a place and be done with it.” She stared him down for a heartbeat, then dragged her gaze back to my sister. Nesta’s face had not altered, the coldness limning it unbending. She was so still she seemed to barely be breathing. But she did not balk. She did not avert her eyes from the Morrigan. Mor vanished with hardly a blink. Nesta only turned and headed for the sitting room, where I noticed books had been laid on the low-lying table before the hearth.

Behind us, Amren murmured to Nesta, “Cassian has gone to war many times, girl. He isn’t general of Rhys’s forces for nothing. This battle was a skirmish compared to what lies ahead. He’s likely visiting the families of the fallen as we speak. He’ll be back before the meeting.” Nesta said, “I don’t care.”

Chapter 42 Nesta only lifted her chin. “I …” I’d never seen her stumble for words. “I do not want to be remembered as a coward.” “No one would say that,” I offered quietly. “I would.” Nesta surveyed us all, her gaze jumping past Cassian. Not to slight him, but… avoid answering the look he was giving her. Approval—more. “It was some distant thing,” she said. “War. Battle. It … it’s not anymore. I will help, if I can. If it means …telling them what happened.”

Mor sagged a bit, jewelry glinting with the movement, and went to take Cassian’s arm. But he’d at last approached Nesta. And as the world began to turn to shadows and wind, I saw Cassian tower over my sister, saw her chin lift defiantly, and heard him growl, “Hello, Nesta.” Rhys seemed to halt his winnowing as my sister said, “So you’re alive.” Cassian bared his teeth in a feral grin, wings flaring slightly. “Were you hoping otherwise?” Mor was watching—watching so closely, every muscle tense. She again reached for his arm, but Cassian angled out of reach, not tearing his eyes from Nesta’s blazing gaze. Nesta blurted, “You didn’t come to—” She stopped herself. The world seemed to go utterly still at that interrupted sentence, nothing and no one more so than Cassian. He scanned her face as if furiously reading some battle report. Mor just watched as Cassian took Nesta’s slim hand in his own, interlacing their fingers. As he folded in his wings and blindly reached his other hand back toward Mor in a silent order to transport them. Cassian’s eyes did not leave Nesta’s; nor did hers leave his. There was no warmth, no tenderness on either of their faces. Only that raging intensity, that blend of contempt and understanding and fire. Rhys began to winnow us again, and just as the dark wind swept in, I heard Cassian say to Nesta, his voice low and rough, “The next time, Emissary, I’ll come say hello.”

Chapter 44 “You’re insane,” I breathed to Tamlin as Varian bared his teeth. “Do you hear what you’re saying?” I pointed toward Nesta. “Hybern turned my sisters into Fae—after your bitch of a priestess sold them out!” “Perhaps Ianthe’s mind was already in Rhysand’s thrall. And what a tragedy to remain young and beautiful. You’re a good actress—I’m sure the trait runs in the family.” Nesta let out a low laugh. “If you want someone to blame for all of this,” she said to Tamlin, “perhaps you should first look in the mirror.” Tamlin snarled at her. Cassian snarled right back, “Watch it.” Tamlin looked between my sister and Cassian—his gaze lingering on Cassian’s wings, tucked in behind him. Snorted. “Seems like other preferences run in the Archeron family, too.”

Chapter 45 Rhys lifted a brow. “Your staggering generosity aside, will you be joining our forces?” “I have not yet decided.” Eris went so far as to give his father a look bordering on reproach. From genuine alarm or for what that refusal might mean for our own covert alliance, I couldn’t tell. “Armies take time to raise,” Cassian said. “You don’t have the luxury of sitting on your ass. You need to rally your soldiers now.” Beron only sneered. “I don’t take orders from the bastards of lesser fae whores.” My heartbeat was so wild I could hear it in every corner of my body, feel it pounding in my arms, my gut. But it was nothing compared to the wrath on Cassian’s face—or the icy rage on Azriel’s and Rhys’s. And the disgust on Mor’s. “That bastard,” Nesta said with utter coolness, though her eyes began to burn, “may wind up being the only person standing in the way of Hybern’s forces and your people.” She didn’t so much as look at Cassian as she said it. But he stared at her—as if he’d never seen her before.

Chapter 47 Helion paused his debating the wall to survey her carefully, as he had done earlier. Spell-Cleaver. That was his title. She surveyed him with her usual disdain. But Helion gave her the same bow he’d offered me—though his smile was edged with enough sensuality that even my heart raced a bit. No wonder the Lady of Autumn hadn’t stood a chance. “I don’t think we were introduced properly earlier,” he crooned to Nesta. “I’m—” “I don’t care,” Nesta said with a snap of her wrist, striding right past him and up to my side. “I’d like a word,” she said. “Now.” Cassian was biting his knuckle to keep from laughing—at the utter surprise and shock on Helion’s face. It wasn’t every day, I supposed, that anyone of either sex dismissed him so thoroughly. I threw the High Lord a semi-apologetic glance and led my sister out of the room. “What is it?” I asked when Nesta and I had entered her bedroom, the space bedecked in pink silk and gold, accents of ivory scattered throughout. The lavishness of it indeed put our various homes to shame. “We need to leave,” Nesta said. “Right now.” Every sense went on alert. “Why?” “It feels wrong. Something feels wrong.” I studied her, the clear sky beyond the towering, drape-framed windows. “Rhys and the others would sense it. You’re likely just picking up on all the power gathered here.” “Something is wrong,” Nesta insisted. “I’m not doubting you feel that way but … If none of the others are picking it up—” “I am not like the others.” Her throat bobbed. “We need to leave.” “I can send you back to Velaris, but we have things to discuss here—” “I don’t care about me, I—” The door opened, and Cassian stalked in, face grave. The sight of the wings, the Illyrian armor in this opulent, pink-filled room planted itself in my mind, the painting already taking form, as he said, “What’s wrong.” He studied every inch of her. As if there were nothing and no one else here, anywhere. But I said, “She senses something is off—says we need to leave right away.” I waited for the dismissal, but Cassian angled his head. “What, precisely, feels wrong?” Nesta stiffened, mouth pursing as she weighed his tone. “It feels like there’s this …dread. This sense that … that I forgot something but can’t remember what.” Cassian stared at her for a moment longer. “I’ll tell Rhys.” And he did.

Chapter 48 Nesta let out a breathy, sharp noise and surged from her chair. I lunged for her, nearly tripping over the skirts of my dress as she staggered back, a hand clutching at her chest. Another step would have taken her stumbling into the reflection pool, but Mor sprang forward, gripping her. “What’s wrong?” Mor demanded, holding my sister upright as her face contorted in what looked to be—pain. Confusion and pain. Sweat beaded on Nesta’s brow, though her face went deathly pale. “Something …” The word was cut off by a low groan. She sagged, and Mor caught her fully, scanning Nesta’s face. Cassian was instantly there, his hand at her back, teeth bared at the invisible threat.

Chapter 49 Nesta smoothed a hand down her dark dress. “What do I do now?” A purpose, I realized. Assigning her the task of finding a way to repair the holes in the wall … it had given my sister what perhaps our human lives had never granted her: a bearing. “You come with us—to Graysen’s estate, and then travel with the army. If you’re connected with the Cauldron, then we’ll need you close. Need you to tell us if it’s being wielded again.” Not quite a mission, but Nesta nodded all the same. Right as Cassian clapped Rhys on the shoulder and prowled toward us. He paused a foot away, and frowned. “Dresses aren’t good for flying, ladies.” Nesta didn’t reply. He lifted a brow. “No barking and biting today?” But Nesta didn’t rise to meet him, her face still drained and sallow. “I’ve never worn pants,” was all she said. I could have sworn concern flashed across Cassian’s features. But he brushed it aside and drawled, “I have no doubt you’d start a riot if you did.” No reaction. Had the Cauldron— Cassian stepped in Nesta’s path when she tried to walk past him. Put a tan, callused hand on her forehead. She shook off the touch, but he gripped her wrist, forcing her to meet his stare. “Any one of those human pricks makes a move to hurt you,” he breathed, “and you kill them.” He wouldn’t be coming—no, he’d be mustering the full might of the Illyrian legions. Azriel would be joining us, though. Cassian pressed one of his knives into Nesta’s hand. “Ash can kill you now,” he said with lethal quiet as she stared down at the blade. “A scratch can make you queasy enough to be vulnerable. Remember where the exits are in every room, every fence and courtyard— mark them when you go in, and mark how many men are around you. Mark where Rhys and the others are. Don’t forget that you’re stronger and faster. Aim for the soft parts,” he added, folding her fingers around the hilt. “And if someone gets you into a hold …” My sister said nothing as Cassian showed her the sensitive areas on a man. Not just the groin, but the inside of the foot, pinching the thigh, using her elbow like a weapon. When he finished, he stepped back, his hazel eyes churning with some emotion I couldn’t place. Nesta surveyed the fine dagger in her hand. Then lifted her head to look at him. “I told you to come to training,” Cassian said with a cocky grin, and strode off. I studied Nesta, the dagger, her quiet, still face. “Don’t even start,” she warned me, and headed for the stairs.

Chapter 51 On and on they went, until Devlon looked over Rhys’s shoulder—to where we stood. A scowl at Mor. A frown at me—wisely subdued. Then he noticed Nesta. “What is that,” Devlon asked. Nesta merely stared at him, one hand clamping the edges of her gray cloak together at her chest. One of the other camp-lords made some sign against evil. “That,” Cassian said too quietly, “is none of your concern.” “Is she a witch.” I opened my mouth, but Nesta said flatly, “Yes.” And I watched as nine full-grown, weathered Illyrian warlords flinched. “She may act like one sometimes,” Cassian clarified, “but no—she is High Fae.” “She is no more High Fae than we are,” Devlon countered.

Chapter 56 But Nesta had jolted to her feet, staring at Cassian, at the helmet he had tucked into the crook of his arm, the weapons still poking above his shoulder, in need of cleaning. His dark hair hung limp with sweat, his face was mud-splattered where even the helmet had not kept it out. But she surveyed his seven Siphons, the dim red stones. And then she said, “You’re hurt.” Rhys snapped to attention at that. Cassian’s face was grim—his eyes glassy. “It’s fine.” Even the words were laced with exhaustion. But she reached for his arm—his shield arm. Cassian seemed to hesitate, but offered it to her, tapping the Siphon atop his palm. The armor slid back a fraction over his forearm, revealing— “You know better than to walk around with an injury,” Rhys said a bit tensely. “I was busy,” Cassian said, not taking his focus off Nesta as she studied the swollen wrist. How she’d detected it through the armor … She must have read it in his eyes, his stance. I hadn’t realized she’d been observing the Illyrian general enough to notice his tells. “And it’ll be fixed by morning,” Cassian added, daring Rhys to say otherwise. But Nesta’s pale fingers gently probed his golden-brown skin, and he hissed through his teeth. “How do I fix it?” she asked. Her hair had been tied in a loose knot atop her head earlier in the day, and in the hours that we’d worked to ready and distribute supplies to the healers, through the heat and humidity, stray tendrils had come free to curl about her temple, her nape. Faint color had stained her cheeks from the sun, and her forearms, bare beneath the sleeves she’d rolled up, were flecked with mud. Cassian slowly sat on the log where she’d been perched a moment before, groaning softly—as if even that movement taxed him. “Icing it usually helps, but wrapping it will just lock it in place long enough for the sprain to repair itself—” She reached for the basket of bandages she’d been preparing, then for the pitcher at her feet. I was too tired to do anything other than watch as she washed his wrist, his hand, her own fingers gentle. Too tired to ask if she possessed the magic to heal it herself. Cassian seemed too weary to speak as well while she wrapped bandages around his wrist, only grunting to confirm if it was too tight or too loose, if it helped at all. But he watched her— didn’t take his eyes off her face, the brows bunched and lips pursed in concentration. And when she’d tied it neatly, his wrist wrapped in white, when Nesta made to pull back, Cassian gripped her fingers in his good hand. She lifted her gaze to his. “Thank you,” he said hoarsely. Nesta did not yank her hand away. Did not open her mouth for some barbed retort. She only stared and stared at him, at the breadth of his shoulders, even more powerful in that beautiful black armor, at the strong column of his tan neck above it, his wings. And then at his hazel eyes, still riveted to her face. Cassian brushed a thumb down the back of her hand. Nesta opened her mouth at last, and I braced myself— “You’re hurt?” At the sound of Mor’s voice, Cassian snatched his hand back and pivoted toward Mor with a lazy smile. “Nothing for you to cry over, don’t worry.” Nesta dragged her stare from his face—down to her now-empty hand, her fingers still curled as if his palm lay there. Cassian didn’t look at Nesta as she rose, snatching up the pitcher, and muttered something about getting more water from inside the tent. Cassian and Mor fell into their banter, laughing and taunting each other about the battle and the ones ahead. Nesta didn’t come back out again for some time.

Chapter 56

Nesta did not flinch at the clash and din of battle. She only stared toward one blackarmored figure, leading the lines, his occasional order to push or to hold that flank barking across the battle.

Chapter 57 Nesta laid a hand against her bare, rain-slick throat. Cassian began another assault on a Hybern captain—slower this time than he’d been. Now. I had to go now—quickly. I took a step away from the outlook. My sister narrowed her brows at me. “You’re leaving?” “I’ll be back soon,” was all I said. I didn’t dare wonder how much of our army would be left when I did. By the time I strode away, Nesta had already faced the battle once more, rain plastering her hair to her head. Resuming her unending vigil of the general battling on the valley floor below.

Chapter 61 I squinted at the watery light—the very last before true dark. When my vision adjusted… Nesta stood by the nearest tent, an empty water bucket between her feet. Her hair a damp mess atop her mud-flecked head. Watching us emerge, grim-faced— “He’s fine. Healed and awake,” I said quickly. Nesta’s shoulders sagged a bit. She’d saved me the trouble of hunting her down to ask her about tracking the Cauldron. Better to do it now, with some privacy. Especially before Amren arrived. But Mor said coldly, “Shouldn’t you be refilling that bucket?” Nesta went stiff. Sized up Mor. But Mor didn’t flinch from that look. After a moment, Nesta picked up her bucket, mud caked up to her shins, and continued on, steps squelching.

Chapter 62 Nesta still didn’t move. She could not use the bathtub, she’d told me. Because the memories it dragged up— Cassian said to her, “Nothing can harm you here.” He sucked in a breath, groaning softly, and rose to his feet. Azriel tried to stop him, but Cassian brushed him off and strode for my sister’s side. He braced a hand on the desk when he at last stopped. “Nothing can harm you,” he repeated. Nesta was still looking at him when she finally shut her eyes. I shifted, and the angle allowed me to see what I hadn’t detected before. Nesta stood before the map, a fist of bones and stones clenched over it. Cassian remained at her side—his other hand on her lower back. And I marveled at the touch she allowed—marveled at it as much as I did the mudsplattered hand she held out. The concentration that settled over her face. Her eyes shifted beneath their lids, as if scanning the world. “I don’t see anything.” “Go deeper,” Amren urged. “Find that tether between you.” She stiffened, but Cassian stepped closer, and she settled again. A minute went by. Then another. A muscle twitched on Nesta’s brow. Her hand bobbed. Her breath then came fast and hard, her lips curling back as she panted through her teeth. “Nesta,” Cassian warned.

Chapter 63 Cassian chuckled hoarsely, and looked to Nesta, who remained pale and quiet. What she’d seen, what I’d seen in her mind… The size of that army… “Eat or bed?” Cassian had asked Nesta, and I honestly couldn’t tell if he’d meant it as some invitation. I debated telling him he was in no shape. Nesta only said, “Bed.” And there was certainly no invitation in the exhausted reply.

Chapter 64 “We’ll get her back,” Cassian rasped from where he perched on the rolled arm of the chaise longue across the small sitting area, watching her carefully. Rhys, Amren, and Mor were meeting with the other High Lords, informing them what had been done. Seeing if they knew anything. Had any way of helping. Nesta lowered her hands, lifting her head. Her eyes were red-rimmed, lips thin. “No, you will not.” She pointed to the map on the table. “I saw that army. Its size, who is in it. I saw it, and there is no chance of any of you getting into its heart. Even you,” she added when Cassian opened his mouth again. “Especially not when you’re injured.”

Chapter 66 “Good,” Cassian said, glancing at Nesta. “If I end my life defending those who need it most, then I will consider it a death well spent.” Lord Devlon, for once, nodded his approval. I wondered if Cassian noticed it—if he cared. His face revealed nothing, not as his focus remained wholly on my sister.

Chapter 69 During the brief midday break in a large meadow, Nesta and I climbed inside one of the supply caravan’s covered wagons to change into Illyrian fighting leathers. When we emerged, Nesta even buckled a knife at her side. Cassian had insisted, yet he’d admitted that since she was untrained, she was just as likely to hurt herself as she was to hurt someone else.

Chapter 70 Nesta pushed herself onto her elbows, hair shaking free of her braid, lips bloodless. She heaved into the grass. Rhys’s magic shot out of him, arcing around our entire army, his breathing a wet rasp— Nesta’s hands grappled into the grass as she lifted her head, scanning the horizon. Like she could see right to where the Cauldron was now about to be unleashed. Rhys’s power flowed and flowed out of him, bracing for impact. Azriel’s Siphons flashed, a sprawling shield of cobalt locking over Rhysand’s, his breathing just as heavy as my mate’s— And then Nesta began screaming. Not in pain. But a name. Over and over. “CASSIAN.” Amren reached for her, but Nesta roared, “CASSIAN!” She scrambled to her feet, as if she’d leap into the skies. Her body lurched, and she went down, heaving again. A figure shot from the Illyrian ranks, spearing for us, flapping hard, red Siphons blazing— Nesta moaned, writhing on the ground. The earth seemed to shudder in response. No—not in response to her. In terror of the thing that erupted from Hybern’s army. I understood why the king had claimed those rocky foothills. Not to make us charge uphill if we should push them so far. But to position the Cauldron. For it was from the rocky outcropping that a battering ram of death-white light hurled for our army. Just about level with the Illyrian legion in the sky—as the Attor’s legion dropped to the earth, and ducked for cover. Leaving the Illyrians exposed. Cassian was halfway to us when the Cauldron’s blast hit the Illyrian forces. I saw him scream—but heard nothing. The force of that power… It shredded Azriel’s shield. Then Rhysand’s. And then shredded any Siphon-made ones. It hollowed out my ears and seared my face. And where a thousand soldiers had been a heartbeat before… Ashes rained down upon our foot soldiers. Nesta had known. She gaped up at me, terror and agony on her face, then scanned the sky for Cassian, who flapped in place, as if torn between coming for us and charging back to the scattering Illyrian and Peregryn ranks. She’d known where that blast was about to hit. Cassian had been right in the center of it. Or would have been, if she hadn’t called him away. Rhys was looking at her like he knew, too. Like he didn’t know whether to scold her for the guilt Cassian would no doubt feel, or thank her for saving him. Nesta’s body went stiff again, a low moan breaking from her. I felt Rhys cast out his power—a silent warning signal. The other High Lords raised shields this time, backing the one he rallied. But the Cauldron did not hit the same spot twice. And Hybern was willing to incinerate part of his own army if it meant wiping out a strength of ours. Cassian was again hurtling for us, for Nesta sprawled on the ground, as the light and unholy heat of the Cauldron were unleashed again.

Nesta had her brow in the grass as Cassian landed so hard the ground shuddered. He was reaching for her as he panted, “What is it, what—” “It’s gone quiet again,” Nesta breathed, letting Cassian haul her into a sitting position as he scanned her face. Devastation and rage lay in his own. Did he know? That she had screamed for him, knowing he’d come… That she’d done it to save him? Rhys only ordered him, “Get back in line. The soldiers need you there.” Cassian bared his teeth. “What the hell can we do against that?”

Chapter 72 Rhys made to shoot me back down to the ground, where Amren and Elain were still waiting. Nesta said, “Wait.” Rhys obeyed. Nesta stared toward that armada, toward our father fighting in it. “Use me. As bait.” I blinked at the same moment Cassian said, “No.” Nesta ignored him. “The king is probably waiting beside that Cauldron. Even if you get there, you’ll have him to contend with. Draw him out. Draw him far away. To me.” “How,” Rhys said softly. “It goes both ways,” Nesta murmured, as if my mate’s words moments before had triggered the idea. “He doesn’t know how much I took. And if … if I make it seem like I’m about to use his power … He’ll come running. Just to kill me.” “He will kill you,” Cassian snarled. Her hand clenched on his arm. “That’s—that’s where you come in.” To guard her. Protect her. To lay a trap for the king. “No,” Rhys said. Nesta snorted. “You’re not my High Lord. I may do as I wish. And since he’ll sense that you’re with me… You need to go far away, too.” Rhys said to Cassian, “I’m not letting you throw your life away for this.” I was inclined to agree. Cassian surveyed the depleted Illyrian lines, now holding strong as Azriel rallied them. “Az has control of the lines.” “I said no,” Rhys snapped. I’d never heard him use that tone with Cassian, with any of them. Cassian said steadily, “It’s the only shot we have of a diversion. Luring him away from that Cauldron.” His hands tightened on Nesta. “You gave everything, Rhys. You went through that hell for us, for fifty years.” He’d never addressed it—not fully. “You think I don’t know what happened? I know, Rhys. We all do. And we know you did it to save us, spare us.” He shook his head, sunlight glinting off that dark, winged helmet. “Let us return the favor. Let us repay the debt.” “There is no debt to repay.” Rhys’s voice broke. The sound of it cracked my heart. Cassian’s own voice broke as he said, “I never got to repay your mother—for her kindness. Let me do it this way. Let me buy you time.” “I can’t.” I wasn’t sure if in the entire history of Illyria, there had ever been such a discussion. “You can,” Cassian said gently. “You can, Rhys.” He gave a lazy grin. “Save some of the glory for the rest of us.” “Cassian—” But Cassian asked Nesta, “Do you have what you need?” Nesta nodded. “Amren showed me enough. What to do to rally the power to me.” And if Amren and I could control the Cauldron between us… That distraction they’d offer … Nesta looked down to Elain—our sister monitoring the bloodbath ahead. Then to me. She said quietly, “Tell Father—thank you.” She wrapped her arms tightly around Cassian, those gray-blue eyes bright, then they were gone.

Chapter 74 Nesta surged to her feet, staggering across the clearing, blood at her mouth from where he’d hit her, and threw herself to her knees before Cassian. “Get up,” she sobbed, hauling at his shoulder. “Get up.” He tried—and failed. “You’re too heavy,” she pleaded, but still tried to raise him, fingers scrabbling in his black, bloodied armor. “I can’t—he’s coming—” “Go,” Cassian groaned. Her power had stopped hurling the king across the forest. He now stalked toward them, brushing off splinters and leaves from his jacket—taking his time. Knowing she would not leave. Savoring the awaiting slaughter. Nesta gritted her teeth, trying to haul Cassian up once more. A broken sound of pain ripped from him. “Go! ” he barked at her. “I can’t,” she breathed, voice breaking. “I can’t.” The same words Rhys had given him. Cassian grunted in pain, but lifted his bloodied hands—to cup her face. “I have no regrets in my life, but this.” His voice shook with every word. “That we did not have time. That I did not have time with you, Nesta.” She didn’t stop him as he leaned up and kissed her—lightly. As much as he could manage. Cassian said softly, brushing away the tear that streaked down her face, “I will find you again in the next world—the next life. And we will have that time. I promise.” The King of Hybern stepped into that clearing, dark power wafting from his fingertips. And even the Cauldron seemed to pause in surprise—surprise or some … feeling as Nesta looked at the king with death twining around his hands, then down at Cassian. And covered Cassian’s body with her own. Cassian went still— then his hand slid over her back. Together. They’d go together. I will offer you a bargain, I said to the Cauldron. I will offer you my soul. Save them. “Romantic,” the king said, “but ill-advised.” Nesta did not move from where she shielded Cassian’s body.

Chapter 80 My sister had barely spoken, barely eaten these past few days. Had not visited Cassian in his healing bed. Still had not talked to me about what had happened.

- END -

#a court of wings and ruin #acowar #nesta archeron #cassian #nessian #a court of silver flames #acosf #feyre archeron #rhysand #a court of thorns and roses #acotar #a court of mist and fury #acomaf #a court of frost and starlight #acofas

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shewhospeakswiththunder · 4 years

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Perhaps you’re feeling bored at home or, if considered an “essential” worker like me, you need a little fun and stress relief. Here is my masterpost of fic recs from my two years of reading so far. Maybe you’ll find something new, or reconnect with an old favorite. Either way--

Enjoy! 😷💕

Reylo Fics that Deserve All the Love

Near Kinsman by englishable

Englishable is just one of the best writers I’ve encountered in fandom. This historical western mail order bride AU is top notch quality.

The Masochism of Self-Defence by greyorchids

The Reylo dynamic in this Boston PD AU is steamy, but also heartfelt.

So Much Thin Glass by walkingsaladshooter

Never knew I loved modern day Gothic AUs until I ran across this one.

Heaven Forbid by DarkKnightDarkSide

I was stunned by the author’s creativity in this Priestlo fic. So smutty. So... inventive 😉🔥

Sonder by deathbyhumidity

Two strangers passing each other by on the train. Soft, dreamlike, somber, poignant. Modern AU.

And Still I Would Remember by Inmyownidiom

A Victorian era AU of two souls that parted and come crashing back together.

So, You've Decided to Glamour a Human Girl. by selunchen

Faeries AU! Ben, a fae, and Rey, a human. Shenanigans ensue.

Live Long, and Prosper by SaintHeretical

For the Reylo Trekkies. Hell, even if you don't do Star Trek, read this. PHENOMENAL.

Mr. Solo & Miss Wellfound by LinearA

“Regency/Victorian AU, Ben sees Rey's stockinged ankle by accident.”

Diyari by Nervoustouch

Modern archeologists AU. Snarky banter with dashes of Indiana Jones, The Mummy, and Sahara vibes.

Drawn to the light of your burning sorrows by Kyriadamorte

The Mothlo AU you didn’t know you needed. Both gritty and soft.

Crown Glass by RebelRebel

Fantasy AU, with lots of beautiful imagery and engaging character dynamics.

Kohelet 3:16 (Call Me A Cab) by LinearA

NYC Jewish Leia and Ben. Skillfully layered plot, nuanced characterization. Smut is HOT.

By the Shores of Varykino Lake by hipgrab (merrymegtargaryen)

Unhealthy dynamics, definitely read the tags. “There’s a lot of fucked-up-ness”, in the author’s own words. But it’s good writing. Fair warning.

Let Me Put My Darkness In You by ArdeaJestin

Canonverse. Hux is an insufferable, pompous ass and Kylo Ren writes terrible, melodramatic poetry.

Wintertide by Zabeta

Whimsical and primitive in turn, this lives up to the style of a true fairytale AU.

The Forty Thieves by PoetHrotsvitha

Peaky Blinders/Gangsters AU. Rey starts as Ben’s bartender and ends up as so much more.

I Said to My Soul, Be Still by LinearA

Dark!Rey takes her man. 🥵🔥💕

Hux's Rousing Pep Talks by Riels_shorts

This fic is hysterical. It’s not Reylo, and I don’t care. My list, my rules.

It's All I Can Do To Leave You Alone by TazWren

Office AU. Silly, spunky, with a bashful Ben.

Sip the Honey Sweet by dietplainlite

Anne of Green Gables-esque/Edwardian era AU, the title really says it all.

The Pull to the Light by HarpiaHarpyja

Entrancingly macabre. This modern/fantasy/monsters AU catches your attention from the get-go, and never lets you off the hook.

lay then the axe to the root by sciosophia

All the Bronte goodness, plus smut.

The Golden Age by TourmalineGreen

Golden Age of Hollywood AU in which Ben is a jaded actor in serious need of an image fix, in the form of fresh-faced actress Rey.

Never Be Your Curse by Kate_Reid

Kylo Ren is a go-go dancer in this AU. That was enough to get my attention 😘

Gallows God by Killtheselights

Bursting with deliciously grim imagery, an intelligent take on Norse mythology.

Thunderstorms, Clouds, Snow, and a Slight Drizzle by aNerdObsessed

Who doesn’t love an ugly sweater Christmas party? Ben Solo, that’s who. All the nostalgic wintertime feels in this modern AU.

Though My Soul Has Set in Darkness by englishable

It’s not long, but it’s good. A lyrical dive into the mindspace of child Ben Solo. A true gem. Also not technically Reylo. Still don’t care.

I Dare You by tinylittlebrain

Daredevil Kylo has pissed off ER doc Rey Kenobi for the last time. Spicy!

stuck in colder weather by redbelles

Professor Ren stops grad student Rey from biking home in a snow storm. And takes her to his home. You can guess where this goes 😉

Between Sky and Sea by nessalk

Serious Indiana Jones vibes with a Caribbean flair. Painstakingly researched, and moments of true beauty and joy.

But Before Tomorrow by Kate_Reid

Such good writing. Canonverse.

The Sword of Prince Hector by englishable

Exploration of what redemption might feel like for Ben, canonverse.

if compassion be the breath of life, breathe on me by Victoryindeath2

All the angst and unknowns that we were left with in the wake of TLJ are soothed in this canonverse piece.

build a ladder to the stars by redbelles

An exploration of events post-Crait. Fantastic, beautifully written.

nor are we forgiven (which brings us back) by TolkienGirl

Both Kylo and Rey get to see what life would have been like if they both got exactly what they thought they wanted after TLJ. Fascinating read.

Forsworn by Erulisse17

This Mando/ST crossover has everything you could want--action, witty banter, space romance! So much fun!

Reylo Favorites & Classics

One Shots

59 Minutes by delia-pavorum (literaryminded)

For Science by KyloTrashForever, ohwise1ne

He Made It Through the Wilderness (somehow he made it through) by LovesBitca8

light carries on endlessly by lachesisgrimm (olga_theodora)

Grey by ocjones

The Idiot's Guide to Flirting by Violetwilson

High School/College AU

I Caught Fire by KyloTrashForever

Mountain Springs High School by animal

Epithumia by pontmercy44

Soul Searching by OptimisticBeth

Office/Workplace AU

Sensual Storytime by andabatae

The Food of Love by LovesBitca8

Historical/Dystopia AU

Hiraeth by Ferasha

a manner of virtue by neonheartbeat

The lamb's thirst by animal

Wanted by Inmyownidiom

She Who Would be Queen by sasstasticmad

go i know not whither and fetch i know not what by voicedimplosives

ABO

Knot My First Time by KyloTrashForever

Canonverse/Canon-divergent

variations on a theme of you by diasterisms (Reydar)

i will be the wolf by diasterisms

Sky Marked Souls by AnonymousMink

The Death of Kylo Ren by nymja

World In My Eyes by sasstasticmad

i'm always in this twilight (in the shadow of your heart) by diasterisms

Catch Me I’m Falling by violethoure666

Sword of the Jedi by diasterisms

You'll Be the One to Turn by postedbygaslight

Dark Crown by Violetwilson

Harry Potter AU

Nocturnal Studies And Other Peculiar Magic by WaterlilyRose

Otherwise Modern AU

Pretense by Celia_and

Insta-heart by slipgoingunder

Serotonin and Dopamine by pontmercy44

The Elusive Mating Dance of the Porgus Adorabilis by andabatae

Hanging by a Moment by crossingwinter

WAR DOGS by fulcrumstardust

miles from where you are by Mooncactus

Charcoal by luvkurai

Stay by jeeno2

coarse and rough and irritating by frak-all (or_ryn)

Blades Crossed by the-reylo-void (Anysia)

Embers by sciosophia

Mitan, Midi by animal

Janus by englishable

Say My Name by Graendoll

Thank You for The Music by hipgrab (merrymegtargaryen)

darling, so it goes by akosmia

This is the Sign You've Been Looking For by RebelRebel

Broken Things by midnightbluefox

One-Night Stand by delia-pavorum (literaryminded)

The Rebel Side of Heaven by jeeno2

On The Bumpy Road (To Love) by violethoure666

we could plant a house, we could build a tree by Like_A_Dove

I’d Like My Obituary to Hint at a Sequel by Violetwilson

Only If You Want To by Violetwilson

Not Reylo, Still Awesome

Gingerflower/Gingerrose, Armitage Hux/Rose Tico

Between Sand and Sea by Brit Hux-Tico (birchwoods01)

If Ever I Would Leave You by Weddersins

Her Yellow Rainboots by Weddersins

Merrical, Cal Kestis/Merrin (Jedi: Fallen Order)

The Stars Alight by FlyingMachine

Heavy Ice by FlyingMachine

Caltrilla, Cal Kestis/Trilla Suduri (Jedi: Fallen Order)

No One Else by xanderwilde

call it what you want by xanderwilde

tear you to pieces by xanderwilde

Dramione, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy (Harry Potter Universe)

Now Is A Gift by SenLinYu

Sex and Occlumency by Graendoll

Zutara, Katara/Zuko (Avatar: the Last Airbender)

oracle bones by an orphaned account

Fics by Me

Virtue Ethics

Reylo College AU (completed)

Dr. Ben Solo, adjunct philosophy professor and part-time martial arts instructor, discovers a young woman in his Intro to Philosophy course whom he thinks may not actually be enrolled at the University.

Chiasmus

Reylo Role-reversal canonverse AU (WIP)

Scourge of the galaxy, Kira Ren, is tasked by the First Order to eliminate the last of the Jedi. When she captures hotshot podracer Ben Solo to extract Luke Skywalker’s location from him, things do not go according to plan.

This Dance of Light, This Sacred Blessing

Snapshots of a modern Reylo AU. Smutty, prosey one-shot.

Listen Up, Kid

Canonverse Reylo Post TLJ one-shot

The ghosts of Supreme Leader Kylo Ren's past are back to haunt him with a vengeance. A well-meaning, familial kind of vengeance. Or, A Star Wars Carol.

Ben’s Body

Reylo Modern AU (completed)

Rey is an up and coming sculptor specialising in human shape and form. Her new next door neighbour has a body to die for and she's determined to preserve it in marble forever. Now she just has to convince dashing and reclusive Ben to model for her. Preferably naked.

Growin’ Up

Reylo High School AU (completed)

Ben Solo was supposed to only be ruining his own life with his bad decisions. Rey Niima was just trying to pay attention in class. Both get stuck in detention.

Seven Texts, 2 AM

Reylo Modern AU, smutty one-shot

Ben has good reasons not to have sex with his neighbor, Rey. She has other ideas.

Song of the Forest

Reylo Fantasy/BatB/Fairytale AU (completed)

Once upon a time, a girl with an unknown past appeared on the doorsteps of a lord’s manor, and now the forest at the edge of the lord’s property is calling to her.

A Season of Frost & Warmth

Modern Reylo P&P AU (completed)

When Ben shows up to a Halloween party with no costume, it only confirms Rey’s certainty that he is the world’s biggest jerk. Until it comes to light that maybe... he isn’t.

Follow Me Home

Modern Werewolf Reylo AU (completed)

Rey gets stone drunk and brings home a big cute husky she found in an alley. The next morning, she finds a naked man built like a fridge sleeping on her living room floor, and no dog in sight.

The Gentleness That Comes

Reylo Modern AU one-shot

Underground boxer!Ben is resigned to his life of violence, until he meets a pretty new bartender one night.

Unlikely, Unbidden, Unbound

Gingerflower canonverse AU (WIP)

General Hux is imprisoned by the Resistance when the First Order falls. He had known his death was coming, it was simply a matter of course. He’s disappointed to learn the Resistance has other plans, and an unwavering policy of giving people second chances.

@thereylowritingden @reylofic @nancylovesreylo @grlie-girl @lilia-ula @greyforceuser @tazwren @mhcalamas

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elsanna-shenanigans · 3 years

Text

April Contest Submission #1: Morning Break

Words: ca. 1,900 Setting: Canon Lemon: lime CW: drowning, vomit

There’s something about kayaking on a lake at sunrise, a serenity that is rarely matched. Most of the wildlife is quiet, except for the call of loons waking up early in search of fish. The air is still and cool, fog gently wafting over the surface of the water. The sun’s first rays are golden and warming, chasing the night away and waking the fish below the surface of the water. A few frogs start to splash around a little on the shoreline, in search of their own meals, but the overwhelming sensation is one of calm and quiet.

Elsa closed her eyes as she let her boat slowly drift along the surface of the water, the clear ice allowing her to see the aquatic life underneath it. She could have used her magic to propel her along, but there was something calming about languorously paddling along the lake herself, the subtle scent of pine trees in the early morning air.

She breathed in the cool, moist morning air and relaxed her body, letting the mist caress her exposed shoulders. She’d desperately needed a break from the palace, and while her icy fortress on the North Mountain was often her first choice for some breathing room, the icy lake just a few hundred meters from the mountain was almost as good. The pressures of crown affairs, land disputes, water rights… all of the buzzing that filled her days vanished when she was out here, one with the wind and sky.

Just as she picked up the Greenland-style stick paddle she’d woven from ice…

… a loud belch startled her out of her reverie, and she dropped it in the water.

Elsa turned around with an arched brow and a disapproving frown as her sister covered her stomach and giggled. “Sorry! Hunger burp. I, uh… I didn’t know that was going to happen. I guess I’m hungrier than I thought.”

“That’s quite unbecoming, Princess,” she scolded, struggling not to let her laughter show as she dipped her fingers into the water next to the boat, icy fingers forming a new paddle as her old one drifted away. “Didn’t you pack any snacks?”

Anna cringed, hunched down in her woolen cloak. “I… might have accidentally left them in the dining room after Gerda dropped them off.”

“What got you so distracted that you left snacks behind?” Elsa chuckled, turning around to start paddling the kayak. “Snacks are usually your favorite part of our outings, especially when you have Gerda include some of those cocoa stroopwafels you keep having me import from Holland. Our Minister of Trade is quite displeased with just how many we’ve ordered.”

“Umm… nothing, really. Nothing at all, sis.” Anna picked up the icy paddle Elsa had made for her in her mitten-clad hands and began to match Elsa’s rhythm, hoping her sister didn’t turn around to see how furiously she was blushing. She thought back to how closely she’d watched her sister at the pre-dawn breakfast they’d shared before departing for the lake.

Watching Elsa eat, so properly and daintily, was incredibly arousing to her. This morning’s meal of scrambled eggs and smoked salmon on toast nearly killed her; Elsa ate with a knife and fork, and every time the pink tip of her tongue flicked out underneath the forkful of food, Anna’s breath hitched.

“It’s not nothing. You can talk to me, Anna. There’s no one out here that will hear you, whatever it is, so say it out loud.” Elsa chuckled as she continued, “You and snacks are practically lovers. I find it hard to believe that you’d leave your lover behind.”

With a wry grin, Anna put her paddle astern and reached her arms around to cup Elsa’s breasts with her mitten-clad hands, rumpling Elsa’s ice dress slightly. “I didn’t leave all my lovers behind, you know,” she whispered in her sister’s ear.

Elsa lost another paddle.

“Anna! Not in public!” she hissed, dipping her fingers into the lake once more to craft another paddle. “We’re supposed to be enjoying a nice, quiet morning in nature.” Elsa glanced around furtively, but the nearest cottage was on the far side of the lake, hundreds of meters away. From that distance, no one would be able to make out any details.

“I was appreciating nature!” Anna snarked back as she picked up her paddle and resumed rowing, savoring the memory of her sister in her hands. “Besides, I-”

Abruptly, Elsa held up her hand to shush Anna, lifting her paddle out of the water and cocking her head. “Do you hear that?” she whispered.

“No, I… wait, yes I do. It… it sounds like someone’s crying. But I can’t tell which direction it’s coming from, it’s echoing all over the lake.” Anna turned her head from side to side, attempting to locate the source of the sound. “There, over there!” Anna pointed to the northwest, a small row of cottages lining the distant shore, probably a kilometer away. She could see a few thin wisps of smoke from the chimneys, likely cooking fires as families started their days.

Elsa squinted. “It sounds like a child’s cry… and not a normal one. Let’s go take a look.” Both sisters began to paddle as the cries got closer and louder, but they were still hundreds of meters away. Elsa set her jaw, wove her fingers together, and an icy wind blew at their backs, speeding the boat towards the shoreline faster than they could have paddled alone.

As they approached, they saw the source of the cries; a young blonde girl in a threadbare dress, not more than four or five years old, was standing on the shore, her hands over her eyes as she wailed. Elsa beached the kayak; as soon as Anna was ashore, she turned it into snowflakes that drifted away. “What’s the matter, princess?” Elsa asked, kneeling down.

“M-m-m-my big sister! My big sister is m-m-missing!”

Anna knelt down and put her arm around the little girl, rubbing small circles on her back to soothe her. “It’s going to be okay, sweetheart. Where did you see her last?”

The girl pointed towards the cluster of fifteen cottages, simple wooden structures with thatched, grass-covered roofs. In the center of the cottages was a small stone well, and a stone communal oven near it. The sisters walked over to the well and immediately saw what had happened.

Anna gasped, her eyes wide as her hand flew up to cover her mouth. There was a girl, not much older than the little girl standing next to them, face down at the bottom of the well, partially submerged in the water. “How- how long has she been in there?”

“Mama just sent her out for water a few minutes ago!” the child choked out between cries.

Elsa nodded at her sister as she furrowed her brow, then closed her eyes and reached into her magic. Tendrils of frost and snow shot from her fingers, and a thin coating of ice surrounded the girl in the well. As she did with Olaf at the Christmas tree, Elsa’s magic lifted the girl from the well carefully, levitating her onto dry ground. She suppressed the waves of fear and sorrow inside herself; the very thought of losing Anna like this made her sick to her stomach.

Anna touched her fingers to the girl’s neck. “I think she still might be alive, Elsa. Do you think any of the families here have a bellows?” A few years back, when Anna had nothing to do in the palace except explore and read, she’d read through most of the medical books in the Royal Library, one of which detailed how a fireplace bellows could be used to resuscitate a drowning victim.

“No need for that,” Elsa smiled grimly as she conjured a bellows out of ice and handed it to Anna while she propped the little girl up into a half-sitting position, holding her head and shoulders steady. Anna carefully placed the bellows in the girl’s mouth and pumped them a few times. Within moments, the girl’s chest heaved and she regained consciousness, then bent over and vomited out the water in her stomach and lungs on the rocky ground.

Anna’s heart leapt at seeing the little girl revived. Warmth spread in her chest and she could barely contain her joyful laughter. The younger sister immediately charged in, displacing Elsa as she hugged her older sister tightly.

Anna stood up, taking Elsa’s hand as they watched the tearful reunion of the little sisters, memories of her own childhood plucking at her heartstrings. Before her isolation, Elsa had hugged her like that. Several of the cottage doors had opened and villagers had peeked to see what all the commotion was about. One woman, most likely the girls’ mother, rushed over to see what had happened, sitting in the dirt to hold them.

The younger sister spoke up immediately, taking her mother’s hand excitedly. “I cried for help to the spirits because Ingeborg was missing and I couldn’t find her! But then the spirits came and saved her, Mama! Ingeborg fell down the well.”

The girls’ mother, a middle-aged brunette peasant woman, crouched down and cradled her children as she soothed them. “Karoline, you should have come back inside and gotten us, baby. Next time, please come get us right away instead of crying to the spirits, okay?”

“Why, Mama? The spirits came,” she beamed, pointing at Elsa and Anna.

“They’re not spirits, Karoline. They’re just-” At that moment, the mother looked up and nearly dropped her children. “Oh my God, Your Majesty! Your Highness!” She immediately tried to scramble to her knees so she could bow properly to her sovereign. “Please forgive my rudeness!”

Elsa laughed and knelt down, resting a hand on the woman’s shoulder to reassure her. “Please, there’s nothing to forgive. Princess Anna and I were just out for a quiet morning on the lake when we heard little Karoline’s cries.”

“And she used magic to lift Ingeborg out of the well and then her friend used a magical thing to put air back inside Inge, Mama! She is so one of the spirits!” the little girl chirped excitedly as the royal sisters nodded, affirming the truthfulness of the girl’s story.

“Th- thank you, Your Majesty. We are so grateful to you for saving Ingeborg’s life. Long live Queen Elsa!” A few of the villagers who were huddled in their doorways echoed the mother’s oath.

“Well, we should be going,” Elsa smiled, taking Anna’s hand in her own as she bent down to address the girls. “Karoline, remember to get an adult if your sister is in trouble, and remember to love your sister and be kind to her. And Ingeborg, always be grateful that you have a wonderful little sister who looks after you so well, just like Princess Anna always looks after me.” The royal sisters waved to the villagers as they walked back to the shore, and Elsa decided to show off a little for the children.

She tapped the ground with her foot and instead of a small kayak, a much more grand Nordland single-mast boat appeared, the sails fluttering in the breeze just as Elsa’s ice gowns did. Both Ingeborg and Karoline clapped at the show, while the adults stood flabbergasted at their Queen’s abilities. Save for the Eternal Winter, none had ever seen Elsa’s magic up close.

“Well, that was anything but a calming break from the palace,” Elsa murmured as they sailed away to the far end of the lake, the village growing smaller in the distance. Anna turned to her sister with a devilish grin tugging at her lips, reaching towards Elsa. “Speaking of breaks… I’d like to get back to appreciating nature now, please…”

#elsanna #submission #april 2021 contest #prompt: break #lime

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project-ohagi · 4 years

Text

Keigo Takami ღ Hawks x Reader 3/4

Buy me a coffee!! <3

Parts 1 / 2 / 4

"I'll take her back with me. We…we lived together anyway." A little white lie couldn’t claim to be quite so harmful - not now.

In order for his beautiful baby bird to flourish once more, she would require round-the-clock attention, provided by someone knowledgeable of her life, someone who would willingly offer her unbridled love and protection…someone who vowed never to force a sense of abandonment upon her. Never again. The doctor neglected to question this, thankfully saving him the embarrassment of being coerced into further conversation with a voice that shivered from heartache.

In that instant, a previously-dormant determination ignited inside his chest. He would rebuild your life together, your sweet romance. If he didn’t even try…well, perhaps that would be the universe's way of plaguing him with evidence of his worthlessness - if he didn’t at least attempt to repair the foundations of your relationship, whether by curing your amnesia or just starting from scratch, then he didn’t deserve you. If he wasn’t prepared to venture to the extremes for you, then he would concede that he wasn’t good enough, that he couldn’t hold a candle to your grandeur. He would cut himself from your life. You didn’t remember him, so you probably wouldn’t mourn. Gods…that thought alone killed him. To think, after one dreadful decision, after a single moment of weakness…he could suddenly mean nothing to you…

I'll set work aside for now. The Commission can say what they want, but I'm not letting her go. Not again. Not so soon.

You giggled, the sound seeming to caress away any stray tears dripping down his face. "We lived together? Are we related or something? Oh, you're not my brother, are you?"

How much did she forget?

"I-I'm your…" The words caught in his throat.

No - he would spare everyone the overly-emotional display, the unsightly waterworks. He was a hero, for gods' sake! He couldn’t act so goddamn vulnerable in public! The only person who ever managed to detrude his masque of confidence was you, and you would often tell him how special it made you feel. So even now, even when you had no memory of him…he would reserve his innermost feelings, solely for you. A small sniffle was all he allowed, because it became impossible to stop. Shortly thereafter, the two of you were dismissed. Hawks was adamant about flying you bridal-style to his house, which, following your inclusion, would morph from a lonely bachelor pad to a home filled with warmth and comfort. He wished to be consumed by excitement, as he should have been...but this was all wrong. The series of events, the manner in which you were to be confined…he would barely even receive any welcome, since his comings-and-goings would be less frequent.

He was resolved to stick by your side, like superglue.

He refused to let you hide from his watchful gaze, until the time was right.

The minute he touched down, a phone was pressed against his ear. It was a little confusing at first, but you could hear a few curt words. He was being reprimanded, but his expression betrayed no concern. At least, not for them.

With a dejected sigh, he settled you on your feet. "Well, dove…I'm taking some time off work to look after you. This is…this is our house. Do you remember it?"

You hated to shatter the ounce of hope bleeding from his voice, but it couldn’t be helped. "Um, no…sorry. It's really big, though. How'd you afford it?"

"…So you don't remember my job, either?...Is there anything you do remember?" He led you inside, careful not to startle you as he closed the door.

"Yep!" You sung, and although Hawks' heart should have swelled with rapture, it instead sunk further into a chasm of despair - he knew that he was no longer your missing puzzle piece, the thing you had been searching for constantly, until you met. "I remember my childhood, and apparently everything up until I turned nineteen."

Did I traumatise her that much, her mind purposefully erased me?

He gulped, anxious to scrabble back into your life. "We met…just after your nineteenth birthday."

"Really?" You sounded happy - happier than he could recall you in a while. "Hey, uh…I'm sorry I don't remember you, but I still don't know your name."

"It's…It's Keigo. Takami Keigo. I'm a…pro hero." Usually, pride would coil around his voice when this information was given, but it was nothing more than embellishment; it couldn’t have reflected his heart any less.

I gotta smile, right? Otherwise…she'll end up miserable. I can’t do that to her. I can't take away that happy look. Not now. I'm such a bastard for ever letting my mission get in-between us.

Throughout this entire interaction, Hawks had remained nigh-silent, any last trace of alacrity dried up. Thus, an extremely sudden shift in character bewildered you beyond words. A smile might have graced your lips, had you not been gifted with such sharp perception. You didn’t believe, not even for a second, that he had overcome that intense sorrow. Yet, you couldn’t risk triggering something. You were directed to a large couch, while one of those gorgeous, crimson feathers floated towards you, carrying what appeared to be a book. For more specificity, it was a photo album. It weighed down his feather, but he wasn’t paying attention. You wanted to laugh, to explain how weird this was, when phones and social media existed, but…that look, that glint of upset intertwined with hope…

...It muted you.

As he flicked through the pictures, often lingering on the most heart-warming scenes - the two of you sitting lip-locked underneath the stars, weaving flower crowns for young hero fans, your utter devastation upon dropping an ice cream...and the next one was Hawks sharing his own - you watched his hands. He had started lovingly stroking the pages, as though yearning to relive those precious moments. You refused to glance up, to get sucked into the kindling fire of his eyes; you knew, somehow, that you wouldn’t escape their dreamy sheen.

If only you had enabled yourself to drown in those golden pools, to explore them for an eternity. Hawks was desperate to lay claim to you again, before someone else lured you away. This prospect terrified him, and his wings rustled as the fear shot around his whole body. Couldn’t you see, couldn’t you understand how much he treasured you? More than fame or money, even the photo album! He needed you - the real you, climbing back into his arms. Forcing his self-restraint, Hawks closed the book. If his tear ducts turned into dams, he wouldn’t be capable of battling the flood. He would succumb to the glacial water, and then who would you run to for shelter? If you fell into the homeless population, or the callous hands of a villain…

I thought we would last forever. That we would still be together, even after we died. We made a promise, didn’t we…? Don't drop me like I never meant anything to you. Please, don't drop me…

The subsequent days brimmed with bliss.

At least…for you.

Hawks was a surprisingly adept cook, but take-out was on the menu every other day. He tended to your needs with a sweeping devotion. He never failed you, not even once. You also had the opportunity to wander the perimeter of his house, but your rebellious streak compelled you further, far past the invisible barriers erected for your own safety.

"Hey, I've been meaning to ask…" You began, while Hawks traced circles on your arms. "These scars…did you - did you do something to me?"

His recovering heart plummeted, and he spent a few minutes just staring, eyes glazed over with shock, hurt and a touch of guilt. When he finally responded, his voice was hoarse. "W-Why would you…think that I…? T-That I…hurt you?"

"Ah, I'm sorry! I was just wondering. I didn’t think you'd done anything, but I had to make sure. Can't exactly stay with an abuser…right?" Although you endeavoured to laugh it off, your words did nothing to console him.

His head drooped, as he whispered and sniffled all at once. "R-Right…"

"Oh yeah!" You giggled, as though the storm had been quelled.

I've always adored her voice, but right now…I can't bear it…

"I met someone today!"

[Word Count: 1393]

#bnha #bnha x reader #my hero academia imagines #my hero academia x reader #bnha hawks x reader #bnha hawks #keigo takami x reader #hawks x suicidal reader

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sondepoch · 4 years

Text

XII: Neutral Route (Rika)

Where Futures Begin

Life used to be simple for you. Peaceful. But the Savior had other plans for you, and in moments, she ruined what you thought was your one shot at happiness. Blinded by anger, you escaped the Mint Eye, but that triggered a series of events that would bring you further into the world of brothers Saeran and Saeyoung. And further into the twisted world of your love for them.

Neutral Route: 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | 08 | 09 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | ✔

Saeyoung’s Route: 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | ✔

Saeran’s Route: 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | ✔

MASTERLIST

The world had grown cruel.

That was the one truth Rika knew to be absolute. Decades ago, it was a different place. The sky was bluer, the grass greener, the people happier.

But the twenty-first century was an era of purpose. Life was dedicated to work and advancement, where people couldn't be troubled with matters trifling as joy.

The Mint Eye was a safe haven from the cruelty of the outside world.

Closed off in the depths of a forest, where the sky couldn't be seen, and the only sign of natural life was the flower garden inside, the people of the Mint Eye could revisit a simpler time—one free from the chains of responsibility that shackled those outside. They lived in peace, wholly content with leading a life devoted to harmony and happiness.

A life devoted to magenta.

Rika had chosen the color carefully; she was acutely aware of its rarity in nature, and that was what made it such an admirable choice. The Mint Eye was everything the world was not. A shelter from time itself, it was too perfect to be natural.

It was mint.

It was magenta.

And yet, (Y/N) has chosen to leave my protection, Rika thought bitterly. How ungrateful.

A part of Rika had known that the other girl, MC, would be gone as fast as she had arrived. That was why she had opted not to waste time throwing the brunette into primary and secondary commitment. (Y/N)'s escape was entirely unexpected, though.

Was she that devastated when Saeran chose MC over her? Rika considered the notion with care. The blonde knew that she had played a critical role in separating the two. Then again, Rika didn't truly consider (Y/N) worthy of Saeran's affections. A woman like MC, someone who came from a respectable background rather than an orphanage and then the streets, was much more fitting for the delicate boy.

It had taken significant work to separate the two, but Saeran had finally given in to what Rika had tried so hard to make obvious. He chose MC. MC over (Y/N).

Rika sighed as she looked at the clock.

Saeran should be there any moment now for their meeting.

Though, with the absence of (Y/N), the boy was growing increasingly unpredictable. Rika had found herself with no other choice but to swap out his usual pills for those soaked in the Elixir. It wasn't enough of a dosage to cause any pain, but it should have been sufficient in keeping Saeran in line when (Y/N) wouldn't do it for him.

Rika glanced down at her nails. Perfectly trimmed and painted, as usual. If V were here, he would have me pose.

Rika frowned at the memory of the man. V had left the Mint Eye without a word, abandoning the young woman and breaking her heart in turn. Yet still, she found herself remembering him and his habits, remembering what he would say at certain things, his old actions seeping into her subconscious to produce thoughts she never authorized.

A knock on the door pulled Rika from her mind.

She straightened her dress, making sure she looked as prophetic as the Savior of the Mint Eye should. After a moment, she called out, "Come in, Ray."

The white-haired boy entered and closed the door behind him, seating himself on the Victorian-style couch he always took. Usually, in Rika's sessions with him, he would immediately begin talking. Something (Y/N) this, (Y/N) that. In truth, if it weren't for Saeran, Rika wouldn't have paid the girl any extra attention. For the past month and a half, though, Saeran had grown quiet.

As he sat across from Rika, for the first time, he said nothing at all, his expression dead.

Rika coughed.

"Do you not have anything noteworthy to report to the Savior, Ray?" Rika kept her tone was calm and inviting as she spoke, making sure she hid her irritance behind a facade of serenity.

"No." Saeran's face was sullen, his expression somehow even darker than it had been when Rika had first been told to take him in.

The blonde sighed, picking herself up off the couch to join Saeran on his, wrapping him into a delicate hug, genuinely trying to comfort him. "Ray," Rika murmured when the boy didn't respond, still staring numbly ahead. "Ray, look at me."

Rika sighed.

"Ray."

No response.

"Ray!"

The boy raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.

Rika took a breath.

"Saeran."

That seemed to shake him. The white-haired boy turned to face Rika, his eyes no longer empty but instead sorrowful, searching for something he couldn't find in Rika's emerald eyes.

Rika turned her head away. After all her years with Saeran in the Mint Eye, she still struggled to meet his gaze when he had that expression on his face. The boy feared her, she knew. After all the pain she had forced him to endure as she tested out Elixir after Elixir on his broken body, he should fear her.

But their history together was too great, too sorrowful, for her to look Saeran in the eyes and lie to him. But the truth could never come out. She had sworn it. And that was one of the few promises she intended to keep.

Saeyoung's eyes had never looked so determined.

"I know you heard me, Rika."

"B-but that's too much of a r-responsibility for me! I can't take care of another human being altogether!" Rika's words were short, the young girl stuttering through the shock. She was twelve. Too young and naive to do what Saeyoung was asking of her.

"You can do it better than me." Saeyoung's lips were set in a hard line, his eyes fierce and golden. They had the same determined glint to them that a king's crown does as he gives an order of utmost importance. "Take care of Saeran for me, Rika. I can't..."

Saeyoung took a breath, pausing before he could grow too emotional. "I can't stand by and watch him grow up in a household like mine. Things are about to get fucked up. Really fucked up. Saeran should at least be safe. You have to promise me that you'll keep him safe."

Rika swallowed, turning to gaze at V. The elder boy had always been a voice of reason in her life. He was the one she turned to whenever she hesitated, his advice always working out for the better. "Rika...I know this is difficult to hear," V murmured softly, pushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear, a loving little gesture established early on in their childhood friendship, "But Saeyoung is right. He's ready to handle what he's about to do...but he can't do it until Saeran is out of the picture. Safe. Only you can offer that kind of shelter."

Rika hesitated, her lip trembling. This wasn't a normal conversation between them. It wasn't a friendly banter with her and V on one side, arguing with Saeyoung and Jumin whilst Saeran watched from afar, sighing. This was important. This was real. This was the future of a human life they were discussing.

"What he's about to do?' Wh-what do you mean, V? What are you going to do, Saeyoung?" Rika's question was innocent enough, but the redhead couldn't meet her eyes as she asked it.

"Saeyoung," She whispered, serious. "What are you going to do?"

Saeyoung looked away, stubborn as usual. That was one thing Rika hated about him—he was thick-headed when it came to situations like the one before them, never willing to rely on others unless it was absolutely necessary. "You...you really need me to do this for you, don't you?" Rika mumbled, coming to terms with the situation before her.

Saeyoung nodded, still not meeting her eyes.

"...Okay, I promise. I'll take Saeran in and keep him safe. But, Saeyoung, you know what he's like. If he thinks you abandoned him, then he'll never forgi—"

"Let him think I abandoned him," Saeyoung said, interrupting her. "After I do this, he's better off without me."

Rika bit her lip.

"What are you going to do?" She turned to V after receiving no response. "Well, V? What could Saeyoung do that's so horrible he doesn't think he's fit to be around his own brother?!"

Even V turned away, mumbling a soft, "It's not my place to say," before backing away.

Rika sighed, a trigger for many more exhales of frustration that would be brought forth by her decision to take Saeran under her wing.

It was worth it, though.

And nearly half a decade later, it still was.

Though for a very different reason.

Rika hadn't expected to form the Mint Eye. She hadn't planned to become the Savior of the broken, bringing salvation to the world one lost soul at a time. But without Saeran, that unexpected future wouldn't have been possible. If not for his acceptance of her idea, and his decision to become Ray, none of her dreams would have been brought to reality.

She had spent nearly half a decade manipulating the boy, but she still did care for him.

"Saeran..." Rika murmured again, pulling back from the embrace. "What can I do to ease your pain, my sweetling?"

She looked at Saeran with motherly eyes. Ever since she assumed the role as his caretaker, even though she was scarcely two years older than him, she had looked after him like the proper mother he never had. Rika felt the connection as well. She found her heart breaking with his, rising with his, beating quicker with his. Even when V had left, utterly shattering Rika's heart, she had still found it sadder when MC had chosen to leave Saeran—she knew what heartbreak felt like, and she hated that Saeran had to go through it as well. "What will make you smile again, my sweet Saeran?"

Saeran opened his mouth to speak, but the sound that came forth seemed inhuman. It was a desperate groan, but whether it was a sound of distress or pain or fear was something Rika could not tell.

"Speak to me, sweetling," Rika cooed, her words gentle as the fingers she stroked Saeran's hair with.

"I...I want..." Saeran was hesitant, tears beginning to form in his eyes.

"Yes?" Rika encouraged, trying to hear what Saeran wanted. She truly did care for the boy. Whatever he wanted, whatever he needed, would be his.

"(Y/N)." He said, his voice soft enough to have been carried away by the gentle breeze brought in by the open window. "I want...(Y/N)."

Rika felt her stomach coil.

So hard.

She had worked so fucking hard to get (Y/N) out of Saeran's head. Why couldn't the boy realize that MC was better suited for him? That (Y/N) was just a pathetic girl from the streets, a leech on the Mint Eye? The girl was undeserving of magenta and undeserving of Saeran, but the boy's heart kept going back to her.

"You don't want MC?" Rika asked cautiously, choosing her words with care.

"I never wanted MC," Saeran mumbled, throwing his head into his hands, "It was (Y/N). It was always (Y/N). And I screwed it up with her so bad, Savior. So bad."

Rika felt her eyes narrow.

"What did you do, Saeran?"

The boy hesitated, but Rika didn't say another word. She knew the truth was eating him up inside, it was only a matter of how long he could hold out. "I..." Saeran hesitated, but Rika was more patient than he was cautious.

"I spoke to her," He mumbled. "She tried to access the Mint Eye's primary database, and so I hacked into the laptop she was using. And I talked to her. And I said such horrible things...I don't know what came over me, Savior!"

Rika's eyes widened. Could it be that the Elixir is having an effect on how he treats (Y/N)? Rika paused for a moment, the notion seeming more and more reasonable with every passing second. Yes...the Elixir instills self-destructive instincts into the mind. It must have manifested itself in Saeran's mind to ruin his relationship with the one girl that, for some stupid reason, he seems to love. No wonder! He was on the Elixir ever since MC joined the Mint Eye...yes, that's why his relationship deteriorated so quickly with (Y/N)! This is perfect!

Rika smirked.

MC was the woman Saeran was destined to be with. It was the girl Rika had chosen for him, and he would fall in love with her, whether he liked it or not.

And it seemed that Rika just realized how.

"Saeran, my sweetling," She murmured, her voice tender. "Would you like to see (Y/N) again? I can make it happen."

Saeran's ears perked up, his entire expression clearing like the clouds after a particularly destructive thunderstorm. "You can? Really, Savior? Oh, thank you so much!"

Rika smiled at Saeran, sweet as ever.

The boy wouldn't understand her reasoning. But MC was his destiny. Rika had decided as much, and as the Savior, her wish was law in the Mint Eye.

Rika made a mental note to double Saeran's medication orders; she'd sneak the Elixir back into his diet until the poor fool had convinced himself once more that he wasn't worthy of (Y/N), that he was in love with MC. Then, when the two met, she would allow the Elixir to deliver the final blow to their relationship, crushing it forever.

Then, even if Saeran realized the truth and tried to go back to (Y/N), it would be too late.

Whether he liked it or not.

MASTERLIST

Neutral Route: 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | 08 | 09 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | ✔

Saeyoung’s Route: 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | ✔

Saeran’s Route: 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | ✔

Word count: 2.3k

Notes: February is going to be a busy month for me T^T So much for my New Year's Resolution of maintaining a good sleep schedule

Comment & Like

Next Update: 02/10/20

I do not own the rights to Mystic Messenger or any of the characters within it.

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the-sun-shining-on-thorki · 5 years

Text

The arranged marriage trope (Grandthorki) (Chapter 2 is up!!)

Warning: Grandthorki, Frostmaster(?), dub-con

This is what I imagine would happen had Grandmaster visited Asgard in Thor and Loki’s youth.

The ruler of Sakaar paid an unexpected visit to Asgard.

Chapter 1

The first time Thor saw the ruler of Sakaar was after a hunt with the Warriors Three.

Frigga’s loyal handmaidens ushered Thor into the royal hall, with the prince still muddy after a successful hunt. And there he was, slumping casually on a chaise longue while Odin sat on the opposite side with Frigga. Loki was standing behind their father, meticulously dressed. He frowned at Thor’s late entry and, with a soft gesture with his palm, signalled Thor to greet the stranger.

“Ah, Grandmaster, may I introduce to you my eldest, Thor. You must pardon him for his state, he was not notified of your arrival when he left for a hunt this morning.” Odin stated, and Thor could hear the subtle accusation his father had for the guest’s unannounced and, clearly, untimely arrival.

“Have no fear, Odin, I love surprises, especially the exotic kind.” The bizarrely-dressed man did not even spare Thor a glance, not did he take note of Odin’s displeasure. His eyes laid focused on his brother, who was fidgeting with his hands at the attention. Thor swore he saw the guest wink at his brother.

The next morning, Odin announced during breakfast that Loki, with less royal duties, would show their guest around Asgard.

———

Having a guest was not exactly a strange experience for Thor, especially when he, as a prince, was constantly tasked with touring various royal guests and diplomats around. However, the arrival of Grandmaster had proven to be more upsetting than any previous visits.

The ruler of Sakaar did not praise Asgard’s golden architecture, nor did he show any interest in the lavish feasts his mother had spent hours preparing for every night. He studied every part Asgard had to offer like a man studying the grass underneath his feet.

That was, except Loki.

Thor never found the library interesting, despite how much his brother insisted the opposite, but their guest spent hours there with his brother. Instead of asking to be toured, Grandmaster seemed to find great pleasure in sitting next to Loki, listening to his brother as he dug through volumes of books for new discovery. As a young sorcerer, Loki often shared with Thor the newest potions he had discovered and tested. Such sharings often fell on deaf ears, a trait Thor was guilty of because he had no interest in sorcery.

Seeing Loki’s slightly flushed face at Grandmaster’s attention, Thor could not help but felt his negligence might have paid a part in encouraging Loki’s increased reliance on their guest.

So much that Loki seemed to have lost the awareness of Thor’s presence whenever he was with their guest.

One late afternoon, Thor quietly entered the library, only to find the ruler of Sakaar whispering to his brother. The elder allowed his finger to softly trace down Loki’s. Thor nearly shouted when, with a gasp, Loki’s reflex sent a burst of strong magic from his palm.

With suppressed glee, Thor thought that their guest was finally meeting his demise after overstaying his welcome.

One can imagine his shock when Grandmaster, with a flick of a wrist, dissolved the potentially fatal blow. He seemed to have absorbed the potent energy into his body, without changing his posture.

Grandmaster did not seem offended. Instead, he gently held up Loki’s hand and, with soothing words, calmed the prince.

It wasn’t long before his brother’s face, which was pale with shock, turned rosy pink when their guest landed a kiss on his hand.

———

Thor felt his world spiralling out of control when his father informed him one morning that the ruler of Sakaar had proposed a marriage alliance between both states.

Chapter 2

“Oh Loki, you could have chosen anyone you want, why him?” Thor asked, who could feel an impending headache making its way to his temple. He had pulled a reluctant Loki from the hall into their private study, where he could talk to his brother for the first time in weeks.

Loki refused to look at him, instead, focused on his shoes,

“Haven’t you heard what they say? Sakaar is the place where all the unloved things end up in, and our people find me most fitting.”

Thor slammed his mug of ale down onto the table, sending its content splashing on the surface. Loki flinched but said nothing,

“I will not hear such nonsense. You are a prince of Asgard, and always will be. If this is your way of getting back for some imagined slights, you are a bigger fool than I thought.“

Upon seeing pain flashing in his brother’s eyes, Thor softened his gaze and gently laid his hand on Loki’s shoulder,

“The Grandmaster is way older than both of us combined, and a stranger too. I know he has shown you affection, but I am sure you will receive them from another more worthy of your love. As your brother, your happiness is most important to me. I...I don’t want him to hurt you.”

Loki seemed touched for a moment by Thor’s words, but his determination soon returned and his face hardened once again,

“If my happiness is your greatest concern, then you shall be happy about my marriage...with En.”

Loki quickly removed himself from their shared study, leaving Thor to ponder in his sorrow.

Frigga was doing what any mother would do when her son was about to go on a journey, making sure he was well-equipped. She instructed a wardrobe of clothing to be made for Loki, trying to incorporate as much Asgardian style into the Sakaarian clothes. She remained courteous to the Grandmaster, or at least on the surface. It was only when Thor and his mother were alone that she revealed suppressed anger and fear for her youngest,

“I have heard, from court gossips and letters with Vanaheim, that the Grandmaster is rather permissive with a lot of things we look down upon. I tried to let Loki know about this, but he remains convinced that it is only a rumour, and that he has the power to, how should I put it...to change him for the better.”

Thor had already run out of words to say, preferring to remain silent as a way to show his displeasure at Loki’s naivety. With all his intelligence, Loki ought to know better than to put all his trust in his future spouse.

However, looking at the chests of clothing, potions and books ready to be locked and brought all the way to Sakaar, what could they say?

—————

On the day of the wedding, Thor was tasked to help his brother as he prepared. Loki did not slick back his hair, but instead wore his hair in soft, short curls, “the way En likes it”. He looked polished, serene, beautiful. Dressed in the finest blue silk decorated with Asgardian armour pieces, he stood in front of the mirror, appearing taller than ever with his radiant smile.

Before departing for the hall, Thor felt an impulse rushing through him and there, he grabbed his brother’s hand.

Shocked, Loki turned to look at him.

“Whatever Father says, you are always a part of Asgard. If anything happens in Sakaar, I will always welcome you back with open arms,” Thor uttered, feeling his own words had offered him closure after weeks of sorrow and false hope.

A flash of vulnerability appeared and disappeared in Loki’s eyes, and he smiled softly before saying,

“Well then, give me a hug, Brother.”

Thor gave him one of the tightest ones he had ever given.

————

The wedding was smooth, a bit too rushed for Thor. Despite his love for the dramatic, the Grandmaster seemed to have little patience for the rituals a couple must go through to finalise their union before all. He allowed his hand to be tied to Loki and gave his vow hastily as he winked at his new husband.

Odin soon brought his sceptre to the ground and announced his son wedded to the ruler of Sakaar.

————

Thor could not stop observing his brother during the wedding feast as he was seated with his new husband.

After landing a light kiss on Loki’s hand, the Grandmaster poured another pint of ale into his consort’s cup. It was the fourth time when the ruler had taken the initiative to refill Loki’s drink.

Loki was clearly overwhelmed with joy when it was technically the first feast held in his honour. Thor had his when he reached adulthood and was named the crown prince, but his brother had never had any. Mother said when Loki was born, they never got to celebrate because he was born frail and feared loud noises. The Grandmaster seemed to find the occasion amusing, preferring to whisper in his new husband’s ear that ended up bringing a soft blush to Loki’s face.

Another hour passed before the ruler of Sakaar suddenly stood up, alarming the guests of the hall. He gently pulled Loki to his feet, despite the latter being slightly wobbly after so many drinks,

“Asgardians, we thank you for attending our wedding feast. It has been a lovely day, especially when I finally can call Odin’s youngest my consort. But we are approaching the morning, and as you can see, Prince Loki and I have duties to perform...”

As the hall echoed with laughs and sneers from the guests, the Grandmaster smiled,

“Yes, I think we all know what I need to do tonight. Prince Loki and I shall leave you to enjoy the rest of the evening.”

Thor clenched his teeth and felt Frigga grabbing his hand under the table when Loki was dragged away from the hall with drunken steps.

————

Thor had always been sensitive to sound, especially when he had a brother who liked sneaking up on people.

That was what woke up him during the early morning after a night of feasting. He had left his table soon after Loki’s departure with his husband, preferring to sulk in his room.

He heard sounds of heavy breathing and stumbling.

Rubbing his eyes, Thor sat up on his bed only to find his brother in his balcony, trying to throw up.

“Loki, what is it?” He whispered, quickly crawling out of bed to walk to his brother.

Loki was dressed in a short, thin shift that did little to conceal his body under the moonlight. With his hair messy and his face sweaty, he appeared unaware of Thor’s calling as he made another poor attempt to throw up. He ended up with nothing.

Thor brushed back Loki’s curls to check his eyes, only to find them unfocused as his brother mumbled,

“I need...I need some air.”

The red bite marks on his brother’s neck and collarbones did not escape Thor’s attention.

“Loki, where is your husband?” Thor asked frantically as he struggled to catch Loki’s attention, or at least find traces of his brother in the stranger before him.

“En...he told me to go back once I got rid of the vomiting. I need to go back...” Loki slurred, which quickly turned into moans of pain when Thor’s hand landed on his waist to support him.

“It hurts...” he cried, and Thor swore he saw something trailing down Loki’s legs that glistened in the moonlight.

#grandthorki #frostmaster #loki #thor

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xxrainbow-princessxx · 5 years

Text

Know Your Worth - Isabella x Drake

A quick little story with an unlikely pairing. Sometimes friendship can mean more than anything else. - tagging a few friends who I think may like this. It might be a little rusty after a year of no writing lol! @drakewalkerfantasy @the-everlasting-dream @cora-nova ❤️

[[More]]

Isabella slammed shut her laptop, sighing heavily as the Cordonian press announced the beginning of Leo‘s Social Season. She could feel her stomach drop as she read the headlines that the Crown Prince would have to make his decision at the year long event to choose his future wife and Queen - even the bookies had the known eligible noble ladies ranked for the country to bet on who would be their next Queen. “Ugh...” she groaned, “I could do with a drink...” Whilst calling for a car, Isabella picked up her black leather coat, scarf and matching baker boy hat asking the driver to take her to a quiet bar in Cordonia. Isabella needed something to take her mind off of what was happening. The driver drove through the streets of the Capitol, going further downtown than Isabella had exploded before pulling up in front of an old tavern styled bar. He looked back into the mirror as he caught her gaze, “Hey sweetheart, are you...” Isabella nodded quietly towards him, politely paying his fare, “Yes, thank you...” before tipping him appropriately she opened the car door.

As soon as the heels of her black knee high boots touched the pavement, the bouncer at the door straightened up. His broad frame was intimidating as he groaned, “ID please...” and Isabella reached into her purse to give him her college ID. The bouncer scanned it before passing it back to her, “No college ID’s... passport and driver’s licence only!” Isabella didn’t ever bring her official documents with her just in case. She looked at the bouncer puzzled, “... but why?...” his mood did not change as he tapped the sign behind him, “Management rules!” causing Isabella to frown. Her brow knitted together as she became more frustrated, “What if you don’t have a passport? That’s hardly fair?” The bouncer was starting to get weary of her questions, standing over the door, “Miss... if you don’t have the right...” Isabella’s accent always became a lot stronger as she got worked up as she shouted back “fine!”

She felt someone push passed her, almost knocking her over in her stiletto boots barking back, “Watch it!” The male in the long woollen dark grey coat turned towards her as he ran his fingers through his dark hair. His eyes narrowed slightly as he gazed upon the petite brunette barely recognising her, “Bella is that?...” Isabella’s chocolate and honey speckled eyes lit up as she smiled warmly, “Hey Walker...” Drake nodded towards the bouncer as he glanced back at Isabella, “Hey Theo... it’s alright she’s with me...” Theo nodded in reply, moving to the side to allow Isabella to enter. As Drake took off his coat, he found a booth for them to talk away from the few patrons already there. As Isabella looked around, familiarising herself with the surroundings, brow raised as he began to question her, “What the hell are you doing in a place like this?”

Isabella didn’t answer his question as she rummaged through her handbag taking out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. She tapped the packet off of the table, taking one into her mouth and lighting it. Upon taking a drag she passed them across to Drake, enjoying those first few puffs that calmed her nerves but Drake was persistent, “Y’know it’s not safe you...” tapping her cigarette into the tray, Isabella snarled, “I’m not a fucking moron nor a china doll, so don’t treat me like one!” Drake shrugged his shoulders as his attention turned to the bar raising his index and middle finger to order. Isabella’s mouth twisted to the left as she studied Drake’s expression; he seemed troubled. “I could ask you the same thing Walker... could you not be in College?”

Drake grunted as the bottle of whiskey was set down in front of him along with two glasses. As he slid the glass down towards the petite brunette, Drake mumbled, “You’re being a right Royal pain in the ass right now...” pouring two fingers of whiskey into each glass, Drake’s cheek twitched holding back a smirk, “Think you can handle this?” Isabella’s eyes flared towards him, those little honey flicks flickered in the light as she blinked. She swiped the glass from under her nose and threw it back. This is what she came here for. She closed her eyes as the warm liquid burned her throat tasting the smokiness and cinnamon aftertaste before setting the glass back on the table with a ‘clink’. Drake followed suit, pouring each other another drink until he cleared his throat, “So are you gonna tell me why I find you trying to get into an old dive bar and not some exclusive club exercising that Royal title of yours?”

Isabella rolled her eyes as she clicking her tongue in the process, “Sometimes Drake... you just want to be free... do what you want, when you want with no one barking orders at you...” she began to sigh, “... and I figured a place like this isn’t going to care that Leo’s social season has begun, so I don’t have to hear about it everywhere I go...” Drake nodded, “I hear ya...” Drake knew exactly where she was coming from and didn’t want to push any further. The Leo/Isabella set up was going to hurt someone and Drake always knew, it would hurt Isabella more than Leo. As long as his dick was wet, he didn’t care. Isabella watched as he picked up his glass, swirling the golden yellow laid around, almost staring into it - getting lost momentarily before he downed it in one go. Drake was troubled, Isabella could sense the tension he held in his shoulders. He was stiff and looked tired; obviously the trip back from the States was catching up with him.

Isabella tucked her hair behind her left ear as she politely smiled, “You know you aren’t going to find an answer at the bottom of that glass... I know Liam is finding it tough...” her eyes softened as she looked directly at Drake, “Is that why you’re home?” Drakes began to laugh, “Is it that obvious huh?” Isabella took another drag of her cigarette as she nodded, “... Just a little...” Drake reached out grabbing the cigarettes and clipper, lighting up and watching him this turn, Isabella resaved across the table, placing her hand on his, “He’ll be ok Drake...” he felt her warmth as her thumb caressed the top of his hand bringing a barely there smile to his face, “Thanks... but...” as Drake sighed, Isabella moved her hand away, “College was a good run... but I’m back now so it should get better...” Isabella began to nod as she took the bottle of whiskey and filled their glasses once more.

As the evening moved forward, the pair began to laugh and joke whilst drowning their sorrows in alcohol- bonding over childhood memories. Drake sniggered as he remembered one summer that Isabella stayed with Maxwell and Bertrand. “Do you remember the time you walked up and punched Beaumont in the face because he wouldn’t let you play polo because you were a girl?” Drake began to laugh louder, “That was a beautiful day!” They talked about Drake’s football scholarship and discussing the upcoming World Cup fixtures. Isabella lifted her glass giggling, “Papa tried to buy Maradona... even made him an honorary citizenship to play for Laurentia... but FIFA wasn’t too happy and blocked it... papa never recovered from the rejection - it was worse than a breakup! In my country, football is even more important than religion!” And by the end of the evening... both of them just a little more tipsy than they should have been - Drake and Isabella felt a lot better than they had a few hours before hand. It was fate that brought them together and there and then - they needed each other.

A weight had been temporarily lifted from their shoulders as the pair walked arm and arm back through the Cordonian capitol towards Isabella’s townhouse. Drake insisted he walk her home and the both of them giggled and laughed together as they stumbled towards her front door. They were comfortable with each other and for once - the normality of it all, albeit simple was all they needed. Isabella’s bright beaming smile began to paint across her face as she looked up towards Drake with those kohl lined eyes of hers. She began to see him in a completely different light; his broad shoulders, messy dark chestnut hair and those eyes... those intense dark hazelnut brown eyes would make anyone melt and behind them was a gentle softness that very few would have the pleasure to experience. Her accent slowly rolled off her tongue as her nose scrunched a little whilst she laughed, “I’m really glad I bumped into you tonight...” Drake awkwardly ran his fingers through his hair as his gaze never left the Laurentian Princess.

Normally he wouldn’t have had a chance, he wasn’t a Prince, he had nothing to offer her but as the petite brunette stood in front of him biting down on her lip and with a little liquid courage - Drake leaned down placing his hands on either side of her face placing a kiss upon her supple, soft lips. He felt Isabella smile against him as her arms wrapped around his neck until he took a step back. Drake watched as her long eyes lashes fluttered wondering why he stopped and Drake realised what had happened. Getting angry with himself, he gritted his teeth, “Shit... sorry! I shouldn’t have...Fuck...” Isabella sighed, her smile never faltering as she rubbed his arm, “Hey... it’s ok... I get it...” before she kissed his cheek gently. “I gotta...” she walked back towards the door as Drake stood there, hands shoved into his jean pockets. Isabella looked over her shoulder as he still stood there waiting, making sure she got home safe. she couldn’t help but grin warmly towards him quietly cooing, “Thank you...” before closing the door behind her.

A few weeks had passed and Isabella had returned home from Cordonia. After some deliberation, she decided to send Drake a little present as a ‘no hard feelings’ truce. As Bastien handed Drake the letter, he opened it and enclosed were two tickets to the World Cup held in Germany that summer. His brow raised as he questioned the tickets, “How the?!” The tickets weren’t due for release for a few months until he removed the letter which explained everything.

‘Drake,

I hope that everything is starting to get back to normal. I’ve been able to get you some tickets to the next World Cup in Germany for the first game- America v Spain. I hope that they are to your satisfaction - I thought for once you might enjoy a relatively normal seat amongst the crowd. Sorry that I cannot agree with your preference in team, but I will be happy knowing that you will enjoy this present as a thank you for being so kind to me over the years. Your loyalty is remarkable and your selflessness admirable but you deserve your own happiness! I truly hope you do find what truly makes you happy. You’re a great guy and any girl would be lucky to be with you... next time, don’t let her walk away! Always remember that your worth is measured in how you present yourself, not by the life you were born into.

All my love

Isabella’

Drake hid that letter for years - either he nor Isabella ever mentioned it ever to anyone. The letter never saw the day of light until one night after spending time with Riley, Drake’s conscious was torn. How could he love the woman that his best friend had fallen for again. Rummaging through a set of documents, Drake found the partially torn letter and the stubs from the World Cup he attended, reading through it once more. If someone like her could see him for who he truly was - maybe Riley could too and he could have that life he truly wanted and for once felt like he deserved.

#choices #trr fic #trr drake #drake x isabella #the royal romance #trr

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samwpmarleau · 5 years

Note

Rhaella x Doran her first Yule/Winterfest/whatever in Dorne and the Martells giving her gifts that actually suit her and her interests. I head canon that Rhaella was an accessory and afterthought to her parents- Aerys was the Heir and her parents were narcissists so Rhaella got expensive crap that she hated (she wants books, they give itchy clothes in colors that wash her out, etc)

Another anon asked: I love your Rhaella x Doran fics!! Would it be possible to get a baby betrothed Rhaella post Summerhall worrying that her father will try & force her to marry Aerys, only for Doran or Loreza to swear that will never happen.

@riana-one asked: I think I owe a few fics at this point but could you do Doran x Rhaella happily married & dealing with the political specter of Aerys’s growing instability?

Holidays are among Rhaella’s favorite days of the year. The gaiety, the feasts, the mummers’ productions, she loves seeing it all. What she doesn’t much care for are the gifts she is given to accompany the holidays. Her septa had taught her to be gracious to be given anything, and yet it is as if no one knows her interests at all.

She finds little use for material things, and yet that is almost all anyone bothers with. Heavy earrings and necklaces that weigh her down, hideous and scratchy dresses she would rather use as curtains than wear, garish golden statues that she shoves in her bureau instead of displays. She would rather no gifts at all.

When she makes her new home in Dorne as Prince Doran’s betrothed, she expects more of the same, if perhaps of a different style–silk instead of cloth-of-gold, perhaps, or lapis lazuli instead of rubies.

And so she is surprised when on Maiden’s Day she is adorned not with earrings or a necklace but with a crown fashioned entirely of colorful blooms and The Loves of Queen Nymeria. She thanks everyone, down to little Elia who had helped pick out the flowers, and actually means it.

The crown wilts within the week, but Rhaella’s delight blossoms.

The next year brings with it horror, shock, sadness, and guilt. Rhaella is invited to the gathering of her family at Summerhall, but the thought of seeing her parents, her parents who have never warmed to her betrothal, makes her shy away. She does not want to leave the comforts of Dorne only to be berated and insulted, going hoarse from how often she must defend herself and her family-to-be.

So, she writes Grandfather and tells him she won’t be attending. He writes back to ask her to reconsider, adding in something cryptic about dragons that makes her shiver for reasons she doesn’t know. Still, she refuses, and so he promises to visit one day.

When the news reaches Sunspear of the conflagration that consumed Grandfather, Uncle Duncan, Ser Dunk, Great-aunt Rhae and two of her children, too many servants to name, and leaves Aunt Jenny nearly mad with grief, Rhaella can’t comprehend it. Loreza has to inform her thrice before she fully realizes it is no joke. Worse still, no one can figure out exactly how the disaster happened, other than rumors of wildfire–but, everyone asks, why would there be wildfire there to begin with?

She goes to the burial ceremony in King’s Landing, though it feels an empty affair, for there is nothing left to bury. The fire had consumed even the ashes. The crowns her family had left behind are burned instead, as though that is any compensation.

Father is king now, Mother his queen, and that feels an odd thing. As days pass, the court in full mourning, Rhaella begins to notice her parents looking at her not with disdain but with calculation. Her skin crawls, dread growing, until one day she seeks out both Doran and Loreza. She crosses paths with Aunt Rhaelle on her way, and her fear must be awfully apparent, for Aunt insists on knowing the cause.

“I think they will try to marry me to Aerys now that Grandfather’s gone,” she admits to the three of them. Doran’s eyebrows knit together, and Loreza and Aunt share a glance. “I’m not wed yet and Father is king. He could break the betrothal and command this.”

“That will never happen,” says Loreza at once. “I will not let it.”

Aunt reaches out and pats Rhaella’s hand, her black eyes determined. “Nor I, Ella.”

“But how?” Rhaella asks. She thinks of herself, just five-and-ten, and Doran, three years younger. “We are not old enough to wed yet.”

“Who’s to say?” Aunt asks, once more exchanging a loaded glance with Loreza. “No one need know there will be no bedding until later. We can have the ceremony at Storm’s End, even. Maester Cressen is a close friend, I am certain he would declare you no longer a maiden if need arose.”

Rhaella had not expected this…this haste. She is not ready to add the title of wife. “But–”

“Yes,” says Loreza, energized. “Yes, and no one could claim Dornish trickery in Storm’s End.”

“Even if it is,” Rhaelle smiles. “They do so often forget I am a viper, too.”

With that, what had started as Rhaella merely wanting to air her fears and receive some comfort becomes a scheme to have her married in a matter of months.

It is a mild scandal, when all is said and done, but true to Aunt’s word, there is no bedding–just a kiss to seal the vows, a Martell cloak wrapped around her shoulders. She hears tell of her parents’ wroth–but there is naught they can do now, and once more Rhaella can breathe.

As a child, Rhaella remembers being afraid of Aerys, of disliking him as much as he disliked her. Yet for all that, as the years go by and whispers of madness abound, especially after the fracas at Duskendale, Rhaella finds it hard to wrap her head around. Aerys had been awful, but mad? But there is no disputing his rages–if he is not mad, then he is cruel beyond measure. Is that better?

Through it all, though it makes her feel like a terrible person, she thanks the gods that it is Mina Tyrell who is Aerys’s queen and not her. She had come so close to that very thing, but instead she is wed to a man of unerring kindness and lives in a land of unerring generosity, whereas Queen Mina…does not.

Yes, Rhaella has plenty of sympathy and sorrow for the woman, whose pain and bruises cannot be covered up by any amount of paints, but she can’t summon up regret.

How so, when she feels such joy whenever she watches her family play in the Water Gardens, when the babe kicking inside her–their sixth, despite an early agreement to only have two or three–brings her such contentment, even more so when Doran folds his hand over hers on her belly, speaking promises of love and safety? How so, when Aerys doesn’t have a caring bone in his body and her prince has nothing but?

She stands out on the balcony, unable to sleep, letting the warm, salty breeze wash over her. She knows she is protected here, that she cannot be touched, but still she worries. For the realm, if not herself. Queen Mina is pregnant again after two miscarriages; Rhaella can only imagine the pressure in wanting–no needing–this babe to live and to be a boy. To give the realm an heir at last.

Who would crumble first, Aerys or his bride? Rhaella doesn’t know.

She hears the rustle of sheets behind her, then Doran’s quiet footsteps. “I’ve much on my mind,” she says in response to his unvoiced question. She leans back against him, letting his scent calm her. He has little of Oberyn’s lithe muscle nor Elia’s delicacy, but his heartbeat is strong as any, and as familiar as her own. “Aerys is worse than Father ever was, and we are all at his mercy. I worry what will happen if he goes unchecked.”

Doran is silent for a long while. In the beginning of their marriage, his habit vexed her something terrible, that he would wait so long before answering, even in an argument. But she’s grown to appreciate it, his lack of impulsiveness, how much time he spends puzzling out his opinions. There is plenty of fire within him, but he is careful how he uses it, and in his capacity as the leader of a kingdom, it’s served him well.

“You know of my brother’s friendship with Ser Willas,” says Doran carefully. “It seems there has been…talk.”

“Talk?”

“The Tyrells do not like Aerys’s madness any more than you do. They await the birth of Queen Mina’s child with great interest.”

The implication is clear as the Sunset Sea. Rhaella’s chest feels like it is caught in a vise grip, and she squeezes Doran’s hand. “Then let us pray for a boy.”

#rhaella targaryen #doran martell #rhaella x doran #asoiaf #valyrianscrolls #gotfic #loreza martell #rhaelle targaryen #my fic #compliance: canon au #anonymous #riana one #combining the three prompts because i'm lazy and they all can fit in the same verse #also i delayed summerhall a year so everything isn't quite so bunched up #btw as it says on my blog i'm not taking new prompts #i'm filling old ones

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codyfernaesthetic · 5 years

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Dichotomy

Part 18

Summary:

An unexpected visitor brings unexpected news

Four crawling months passed as Michael and Mallory hid in Robicheaux’s; they renewed the protection spell each month, hoping that it would be strong enough to keep them safe until they could think of... something, anything to change fate. But how do you fight God? How do you outsmart Satan?

An unstoppable force was encroaching, but they didn’t know how to be immovable objects.

In this dread, they were thankful beyond measure for each other.

Michael fought everyday against his urges of violence and hatred. Warred against his desire to slaughter the witches right under his grasp; to watch Cordelia suffer for taking away his Ms. Mead. He would feel his blood pulse with fire, balling his hand into a tight fist, ruminating over twitching a finger and ending them all.

He would feel delicate fingers lay atop his fist, a gentle, pervading warmth that soothes his anger. He would look into those big, dark eyes, full of compassion and understanding. Her soft, sweet lips set in a smile, silently saying, “I know you’re trying. I see how hard you’re trying. You’re not alone, I will stay by your side. I love you.”

He chose her over his destiny everyday.

Mallory would have nightmares; frightening, vivid visions of blood and corpses. Her friends, the only people she loved in the world dying just out of her reach. Michael would hold her, humming vintage tunes Constance would sing to him as a baby. She cried nearly everyday, as if the sorrow of the world was crashing on her; the burden of a savior.

In her sadness, Michael’s devoted touch would ground her to the earth. His kiss was an anchor. Every word from his mouth was assuring, brimming with encouragement. I’m so proud of you. You are the strongest woman I know. I have no more room in my heart, it is so full of love for you.

She had the strength for another step in his arms.

That morning Mallory found him in the library quietly reading, sitting in his black double breasted suit, his golden hair perfectly curled and grown just passed the nape of his neck. She walked up to him, planting a soft kiss on his head.

“What’re you reading?”

He reached up, brushing hair behind her ear, admiring her golden headband nestled in her dark locks.

My angel…

She was dressed in a white lace dress, a rose choker clasped around her neck.

He gently pulled her to him, capturing her lips with his own. She was the sun, warmth and light and intoxicating life. Yet he could gaze at her like the moon, gorgeous, gentle, embracing him in silver wisps.

He pulled back, blushing, “Sorry, I just...had to taste you.”

She took his hand, “I wouldn’t dare ask for you to stop.”

His other hand lay atop the open book.

“I got wrapped up in this story collection. Flannery ‘O Connor?”

She grinned, sitting next to him, “I love Flannery ‘O Connor.”

He nodded, “She has such a pithy, quick style. It’s like she takes a scalpel to human nature.”

“She’s brilliant. I feel like I’m being let in on secrets of the human mind,” she said, her eyes lighting up.

He returned her smile.

They were disturbed by Zoe who walked to them with evident confusion and fear on her face. She stopped in front of them, hesitating.

“What’s wrong?” Mallory asked, standing.

“Someone’s here to see the both of you.”

Michael furrowed his brows, “Who?”

Zoe shrugged, “She didn’t give me a name, but…” she paused, unsure how to phrase it, “I don’t think she’s...human.”

Michael and Mallory glanced at each other, before following Zoe to the front entrance. A woman stood facing away from them, waiting. Upon hearing the trio’s entrance, she turned and approached.

The tall, slim woman made slow deliberate steps toward them; her boots clacking along with a thin black cane with an ornate silver topper, gripped by her thin digits in violet leather fingerless gloves, black fur around the wrist. She was regaled in a black wrap coat, a deep purple cape around the shoulders; an A-line black skirt rigidly moving with her stilted gait. A black squire top hat with purple flowers and ribbon crowned auburn hair; deep purple lipstick painting her lips and mauve swiped into the crease of her eyes.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Mallory commented with an exasperated sigh.

Wilhelmina Venable smiled in that condescending way that Mallory had been glad to be rid of, “It’s a pleasure to see you again as well, Mallory,” she turned her head to Michael, who had his hand around Mallory’s waist protectively, “Mr. Langdon,” she looked between the two of them, “May we have a chat?”

The three of them sat in the foyer, away from the prying eyes and ears of the other witches. Venable interlaced her fingers over her knees and told them with a smug smile, “I won’t mince words. You two fucked up the system.”

Michael and Mallory looked at each other, prompting her to continue, “Actually, that’s a bit unfair. Your parents fucked up the system when they created you.”

She leaned back, smoothing the imaginary wrinkles in her skirt, “Reality is a finely tuned machine, every cog, every spring is meticulously placed for optimization. Even chaos is a planned mechanism. Since the beginning, the dichotomy of this machine has been orchestrated and run by two opposite, yet equal forces,” she waved both of her hands, “Good and Evil. God and Satan. Balance has always been the key to keeping reality intact. And for millennia things have been running smoothly, for the most part, with spikes of either energy here or there,” she sighed, “And then your parents decided to have a pissing contest.” She shrugged, “Now, who started the fight, I don’t know, but the end result was a full blown war between what once were tentative partners. My responsibility is to flush out the things that are keeping the world in imbalance. They decided to get uppity and now we have you two lovebirds. Which, honestly I couldn’t be more happy with. Because if you two get along, my job is easier.”

Michael remained eerily silent.

“What is your job?” Mallory interrogated, “Who are you?”

She looked up in thought, answering slowly, “There’s always a bigger fish.”

She continued before Mallory could get out another word, “Now we don’t have time to unpack all of that, but the main thing you need to recognize is that you two are the prime candidates in the running for new God and new Satan.”

Nothing could have prepared the two for that statement. It hung in the air overhead, as if waiting to drop and hit them like a ton of bricks.

Venable held up her hand, “I know, the responsibility is immense, and your existence is unprecedented and unplanned, but we are making adjustments and nipping this problem in the bud as best we can.”

Mallory shook her head, “How could we possibly-“

“Like I said, my job is damage control. The damage being your parents, namely. They have become obstacles to balance. But luckily, the old saying remains, ‘The King is dead, long live the King,’” She said with a tight smile, “You two have been watched your entire lives, inspected, prodded, tested, and we have found you worthy of this task.”

Michael was unmoving, but finally spoke up, “How do we defeat them?”

She gave him an unreadable look, “Wait it out.”

“What?” Mallory countered.

“They’re fading. They already poured a significant portion of their power into creating you two,” she finished as if it were a comforting thought, “Death is coming for them.”

“Will it be the same for us?”

She giggled, a crackly, inhuman sound, “Not if you’re good at your jobs. Which I have the utmost confidence in; a rare mood for me, so I’d be flattered if I were you. Mallory, your care and love for the earth and its population, your undying faith in all that is good; you create the perfect contrast to Mr. Langdon,” her steely gaze met his, her tone indicating her awe, “I have seen the spark of creation that formed the universe. But I must admit, Mr. Langdon, you managed to shake me to my core. You will bring exquisite darkness,” her eyes went back to Mallory, “And you brilliant light. You’re already far exceeding our expectations as far as powers you display. The very fact that I’m talking to you 3 years in the past is evidence of that.”

Michael started off quiet, his hand gripping the arm of the couch, “There’s nothing you can do to help? We’re hiding out like scared rats and you’re saying all we can do is wait?” He leaned forward, growing more indignant, “What happens if they find us? What makes you think they won’t tear the world apart to play their game? I’m sure you saw what happened to the Sanctuary.”

Venable was unphased, “The only reason I’ve come to you at all was out of courtesy. I am allowing the system to purge itself, the impurities will be flushed out. Like I told you, they are already weakening.”

He stood, a snide grimace twisting his face, “Are all of you cosmic bureaucrats so far up your own asses you can’t see what’s happening? The universe that you’re supposedly taking care of is being torn to shreds.”

Her composure remained, her voice even and steady, “We step in when necessary. But we’re not a charity,” she looked between the two of them once more, her eyes lingering a bit too long on Mallory, “Take care of yourselves.”

In a blink, Venable was gone; leaving the two of them alone and in turmoil.

#michael langdon #millory #ahs apocalypse #mallory #cody fern #billie lourd #wilhemina venable #sarah paulson #zoe benson #millory fanfic #michael x mallory #mallory x michael #ahs fic

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egewgew · 3 years

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He bought your books on purpose for me

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But what will it be for me to live without him? That would be worse than death itself, worse than any agony! Oh, Vanya, Vanya! It does mean something that I’ve abandoned my father and mother for him! Don’t try and persuade me, everything’s decided! He must be near me every hour, every minute. Not mine. I carry mine own sorrows with me, everywhere I go..

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easyhairstylesbest · 3 years

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Cicely Tyson on the ‘Power’ of Her 1973 Oscar Nom: ‘That Was My Dream’

The day I learned I’d been nominated for an Oscar, I was filming a small role for a new Black director. Just as I was delivering an important line, I heard laughter on the sidelines of the set. “Don’t they know we’re shooting in here?” I snapped. “What’s the matter with them?” A moment later, a producer walked in. “We’ve just gotten some good news,” he said. I held up my hand. “I don’t want to hear anything,” I told him. “Whatever it is can wait.” When I am working, I show up to do exactly that. All else is a distraction, a disruption to an unfolding moment. The gentleman smiled, shook his head, and left.

The director, who must’ve heard the news that awaited, gave me a strange look before we resumed. We completed the scene, and even on my way out, I wouldn’t let anyone tell me anything. It was upon arriving home, at my agent Haber’s place, that he gave me the exhilarating announcement: I’d been nominated for an Academy Award for Best Actress. “Really?” I said, the living room suddenly swirling out of focus. “Yes!” he yelped. As tears flooded my face, all I could think about were my friend Arthur Mitchell’s words to me: “You’re going to be nominated for an Oscar.” My friend’s what-if had come true.

I don’t care what any actor says, that golden statue matters. It is what we’re all vying for—the ultimate validation from our peers. You empty yourself into a character, you labor hour upon hour to get every single gesture and sentence precise, and you mean to tell me that such an affirmation means nothing to you? It holds tremendous power. When I was just getting into the business, I’d looked on in awe as Sidney Poitier earned that affirmation for his marvelous work in Lilies of the Field, becoming the first Black man to win an Academy Award for Best Actor. That evening, as I watched the ceremony on my old black-and-white RCA set, I said to myself, I’m going to sit in the front at the Oscars one day. That was my dream. But as my career carried me mostly toward stage and television, that hope seemed unlikely. That is why, long before I did Sounder, I’d quietly accepted that the Academy Awards would probably not be part of my path. And yet, lo and behold, here I was, on the verge of taking a seat in that front row I’d envisioned for myself.

Cicely Tyson as Rebecca in Sounder.

Stanley Bielecki Movie CollectionGetty Images

My good news was just the beginning. Sounder received a slew of nominations, for Best Picture, Best Writing (Lonne Elder), and Best Actor (I was as delighted for Paul Winfield as I was for myself). The film’s message also reverberated beyond our shores, earning a BAFTA nomination for its score, created by Taj Mahal, who also earned a Grammy for his work. Kevin Hooks, who played my son (and who, in real life, is the son of director and actor Robert Hooks), received a Golden Globe nomination. That awards season also became a landmark recognition of Black talent: Diana Ross was nominated for an Oscar for her role in Lady Sings the Blues, as was screenplay writer Suzanne de Passe. The 1973 nominations for Diana Ross and myself were the first time Black women had been nominated in the Best Actress category since trailblazer Dorothy Dandridge received the honor in 1954 for her role in Carmen Jones.

The morning after the official nomination announcement in Los Angeles, I called my mother in New York. On television, she’d seen how all those white folks had stood and applauded me. “Well?” I said to her. “Well, what?” she said chuckling. “You’d better tell me something,” I said. The line went silent. “I am so proud of you, Sister,” she finally said. I could feel tears brimming and I let them fall, unable to speak because I was so overcome by what I’d longed to hear. If I had not heard those words from my mother, none of this would have made any difference. If she had not been able to participate in the acclaim I was receiving, all of it would’ve felt empty to me.

I, of course, already knew she and my father recognized my work. “Why do you do such sad movies?” my dad once joked after he’d seen me in Brown Girl, Brownstones. Likewise, Mom would often tell me what her friends were always asking her: “Why is she always wearing rags in her movies? Doesn’t she ever dress up?” Though their teasing was an indirect acknowledgment of their pride, I needed my mother, in particular, to voice her validation. She’d been my greatest source of energy, the reason I’d devoted myself so wholly to my work. She had believed I’d go out and become a slut of some kind, had no idea this Hollywood journey could lead me to play a character as honorable as Rebecca. My nomination did more than just prove my mother wrong. After a childhood during which my mother’s opinions drowned out all others, it gave me the last say.

“If I had not heard those words from my mother, none of this would have made any difference.”

I flew my mother to Los Angeles to attend the screening of Sounder. We were seated in the mezzanine, and she was one row behind me. In the dark, just as the curtains parted, she tapped me on the shoulder. “Ed Sullivan is sitting behind me,” she said, pronouncing his last name Sulli-wan, because for whatever reason, West Indians can’t say v’s. For years, she’d never missed The Ed Sullivan Show on Sunday nights. I turned around and whispered to her, “And I am sitting here.” We both snickered, her loudly enough to prompt Ed Sulli-wan to smile in my mother’s direction.

To celebrate Sounder’s cascade of nominations, the studio hosted a splashy New York premiere. I called upon acclaimed fashion designer Bill Whitten to design my dress (years later, Bill would design Michael Jackson’s rhinestone glove to cover the singer’s early signs of vitiligo). “I want to create the kind of gown that Rebecca might have worn if she’d had money,” I told Bill. That sent him in search of the prints and cottons poor colored women would’ve worn in 1933. Using the fabric remnants he found, he pieced together a treasure. The dress, antebellum in style, came with a fancy apron that served as a flower sack. He filled it with cotton balls he’d sent for from down South. It was the most glorious creation. The same woman who braided my hair for the movie created a crown of beautiful cornrows to complement my look. When I strode into the theater that evening, chin lifted, pride on my brow, I showed up in the name of the ancestors whose sweat and sorrow had carried me there.

In the months leading up to the ceremony, the devil got to work doing what he does best: attempting to pit Black women against each other. In the lead-up to the Oscars, one of Diana Ross’s designers tried to keep my dress from being finished by hiring my designer to make suits for the Jackson Five. I don’t know whether Diana knew anything about it, but I heard the whispers. The media, for months, had been playing up the narrative that there was some big competition between the two of us. I refused to feed into that storyline, which was false. I have never been in competition with anybody but myself, and I wanted no part in such unpleasantness. Just Breathing While Black is trouble enough.

A month before the ceremony, the studio sent me overseas on a promotional tour in Europe, my first time in Paris and London. Months before I left town, I’d rubbed elbows with British royalty. Antony Charles Robert Armstrong-Jones, First Earl of Snowdon, was then husband to Princess Margaret and an avid photographer and filmmaker. Lord Snowdon had taken quite an interest in Arthur’s work at Dance Theatre of Harlem. The two began a partnership, with Lord Snowdon investing in the school. Arthur connected me with him, and during one of Lord Snowdon’s trips to New York, he and I met for appetizers and a brief conversation. As we awaited our order, he kept glancing over his left shoulder. How strange, I thought. I wonder if he’s expecting someone. As it turned out, he was on the lookout for the paparazzi, who of course had followed him to the restaurant. Later, on another one of his trips to New York, Lord Snowdon photographed me wearing that Bill Whitten masterpiece of a dress. What a memory.

Cicely Tyson at England’s Heathrow Airport in February 1973, a month before the Oscars.

George StroudGetty Images

In London, the marveling began with my ride from Heathrow in an enormous black taxi, a Hackney carriage so gargantuan that I could stand up inside of it! In a penthouse suite in the Dorchester Hotel, I spent a half-hour just wandering around the space, gawking at the grandeur of the accommodations, thinking back on those days when my siblings, Emily and Melrose, and I had all been squished together on a rollaway bed in our parents’ living room.

And to think that I now had this sprawling space to myself, in a world where my name was plastered on billboards all over America and Europe. It was nothing short of spectacular. The same was true of my time in the City of Light, where, from my balcony, I gazed in awe at the Eiffel Tower, head held high and preening in the distance.

“When I strode into the theater that evening, chin lifted, pride on my brow, I showed up in the name of the ancestors whose sweat and sorrow had carried me there.”

Back in New York before the ceremony, the surrealism continued. In another head nod to Rebecca, I wanted my hair done in a croquignole, the deep-wave style that would’ve been popular for well-to- do women during the 1930s. “Do you know how to do that style?” I asked my hairstylist Omar. “No,” she said, “but my mother can.” Can you believe that child’s mom came out of retirement just to create my waves? The words thank you fell short of expressing the gratitude I felt. Designer Bill Whitten turned up the luxury by creating a white silk-wool fitted dress, with a touch of grey in it, complete with a heart cut-out, lace-trimmed detail across the décolletage. Gracing each sleeve was a glistening row of tiny gold buttons, with the same buttons stretching down the back. It was absolutely stunning.

When Arthur arrived, dashing in his tuxedo, he escorted me by the arm to the awaiting limo. The evening, for us, marked two celebrations: the Forty-Fifth Academy Awards, and my dear Arthur’s thirty-ninth birthday. The quintet of hosts—Carol Burnett, Michael Caine, Charlton Heston, and Rock Hudson—took the stage at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. My dream was to be in the front row, and there I sat, delighted that my fantasy had come to pass.

But as for the possibility of garnering the gold statue, I had done my back-of-the-napkin math. I’m logical that way, a pragmatist who is always weighing the odds, and in Hollywood politics, those odds were decidedly not in my favor. That same year, Liza Minnelli had been nominated for her role in Cabaret. Her father, Vincente, was a big-time director, which gave her one advantage. Check. Her mother was Judy Garland. Double check. Neither of them had ever earned an Oscar. Triple check. And at the time, Liza was dating Desi Arnaz Jr., son of Desi and Lucille Ball, Hollywood royalty. Quadruple check. Common sense told me that I had no chance amid the schmoozing and vote-securing that goes on in back rooms.

So as I sat near the stage that evening, I relaxed into the joy of just being there, with Arthur to my left and with Rebecca’s spirit dancing on my shoulder. So certain was I that this was Liza’s year, when Gene Hackman said, “And the winner is…,” I turned to Arthur and said, “Liza Minnelli.” Liza made her way up to the stage, tearful and jubilant, and I sat there, palm over my heart, relishing my presence in the arena. This journey of mine, this path so unpredictable, had somehow carried me from 219 East 102nd Street in the slums to the front row of movie magic at Hollywood’s most grand affair. As Liza accepted her award, I’d already received the only prize I have ever truly wanted—the affirmation of the dear woman who gave me birth.

Cicely Tyson Cicely Tyson has been nominated for 40 television and film awards and has won 42, most notably an Oscar, a Tony Award, 3 Emmys, 8 NAACP Image Awards, the African American Film Critics Special Achievement Award, the BAFTA Film Award, the Black Film Critics Circle Award, 4 Black Reel Awards, the Elle Women in Hollywood Award, 3 Lifetime Achievement Awards, and many more. Ms.

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Cicely Tyson on the ‘Power’ of Her 1973 Oscar Nom: ‘That Was My Dream’

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tobelongtheseries · 7 years

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“To Belong” Writing Contest Entry Written by: Erika B.

The nightingale’s song was a plaintive sound, filled with sorrow and longing, yet no one in the room seemed to take notice. Men and women, dressed elegantly in fitted suits and long dresses, wandered all about the grand hall, speaking amongst themselves, laughing, drinking, feasting. At the center of the room, rising six feet above the floor and made entirely out of gold, stood a perch, and settled at the very top of it was the source of the melancholy music.

Kina the Court Nightingale bore silver-red feathers, speckled in black and brown, with an underbelly that was white as snow -- a true exotic beauty here in the West. She stood there on her golden perch, as she did every night, and she filled the room with the sounds of her kind, as nobles listened, watched, and whispered curiously to one another.

Before Kina came a young man of tall stature with hair black as a raven’s feathers, eyes the color of gold, and skin pale as milk -- a common look in this particular country. Even so, Kina couldn’t deny that the man was especially pleasant to the eyes. He was dressed richly in his dark leather jerkin, worn over a silk white tunic and black leather riding pants. Over it all he wore a cloak, the purest of white, gilded at the borders and embroidered in his family’s royal sigil -- a swan in flight. He walked with all the grace of a young lord, hands folded at his back, chin towards the ceiling, strides long and calculated. Beautiful he was, but his face was drawn down into a frown, bringing forth the lines above his eyebrows that likened him to be older than he truly was. When he came near, Kina glowered and twisted around to face the other direction. She could feel his smirk on her back.

“I remember asking you to attempt a less wistful sound tonight,” the young lord said. Kina ignored him. “Always so stubborn. Won’t you speak to me? No? Perpetually sour, indeed. Might be nice if you’d elevate your mood just a bit. Your songs of misery aren’t doing well to raise my concupiscence. Not that you care, of course. Perchance you’d like to dance with me? You are the most beautiful woman here, and it is the night of my coronation. Grace me with a piece of you, Kina. All the court is aware of your deep-rooted desire for me, and I am a King now. Don’t you wonder how a swan savors when ripened? I wager you do.”

Kina took in a sharp breath and felt her muscles tense and shift as her limbs expanded, felt thousands of quick pinches as her silver-red feathers pulled into her skin, and a thousand more in her scalp when her thick, chestnut hair spilled free. Her neck stretched long and lean, her legs shaped, her hips widened, her gut grew padding, and her face formed into the shape of a heart, complete with high cheekbones and a button nose. And there she stood, olive-skinned, naked, and with malice in her silver eyes. She stepped forward with her fist. King Demarcus caught her wrist with deft precision before she could make her mark. She glared and spat, in Western tongue, “You’re a pig.”

“I reckon that’s overtly offensive towards the pig population. We might even have some in our company tonight, so I suggest you watch your tongue.” He smirked. Kina was not impressed. “Our dance shall wait until later. My mother requests you.” Before she could throw back that she’d never dance with him, not in his dreams, not at his coronation, not if he was dying, Demarcus -- or Marco as he preferred to be called -- unlatched the clasp that held his cloak together and slung it over Kina’s bare shoulders. She maintained her look of disgust, but she did not reject his “chivalrous” gesture. Their confrontation had gathered many curious eyes, and while Kina had never been shy in her bare skin, she disliked a great many people in this room, and she shivered in disgust whenever she caught the eyes of older gentlemen on her hips. Marco handed her a belt, and she took a moment to adjust the cloak and knotted it where she liked. When she was decent, Marco led her across the room to the head trestle table, where his mother, the Queen regent, Isobel, sat amongst her ladies. Kina gave the queen a curtsy. “My Queen.”

“Nightingale,” Isobel said, with a wry smile. “Pleasure us all with a song in the Western tongue, will you? It shall be a treat.” It would be a treat for everyone but Kina herself. “Which song would you prefer?”

“So many to choose from. Hm. Oh, I’ve the most appropriate choice. The Cry of Swans -- my absolute favorite.”

“Mother…” Marco said tentatively.

“Oh hush, my son. It would honor the nightingale to grace us with the song. Wouldn’t it, child?” The queen’s eyes, gold and lovely as they were, pierced cold and callous into Kina’s own silver eyes. Marco, the newly crowned king that he was, sulked silently to his mother’s side, and said nothing else. Kina nodded, and the queen ordered the entire room to silence as the nightingale made her way to the high stage.

Kina looked over her audience -- men and women of varying noble birth, all vassals and loyalists to the royal family, people who carried powerful names and enough gold to keep the entire population fed if they only distributed it. Yet instead here they were in their expensive suits and elaborate dresses, their tall hats and their embroidered fans, their painted faces, their sickening perfumes. Five years Kina had been in this court, yet her hatred for them all remained as strong as when she’d first arrived.

Kina cleared her throat and began the song. The tune was nearly three years old, yet it remained a popular one. The melody was of Western style, pretty in the lyrics and cheerful in rhythm, written by some well-known bard who resided in the city. Kina had not wished to learn it, but the queen herself commanded she did. The Cry of Swans. Ridiculous name for a song. The story of the piece unraveled as Kina’s sweet, soprano voice delivered the notes with precision. It was a romanticized retelling of true events that occurred not too long ago, events which were now called the War of the Skies, when the citizens and half the nobility allied together and rebelled against the royal government. Kina’s voice trembled, ever so slightly, at the verse where the nightingales were introduced. The quality of the nation had, for generations, deteriorated, with the poor growing poorer and the wealthy growing wealthier. For generations, the royal family did nothing to improve conditions. No one else had dared stand up to the Swans, for their dynasty was deeply rooted in the land, and their puissance intimidated many -- and rightfully so. But then came the nightingales, brave, outspoken, compassionate, true leaders, and, ultimately,victims of their own nobleness. They were betrayed by their own allies and almost entirely decimated by their enemies. And, finally, the nightingales surrendered. To ensure peace, their heir was given to the swans as a slave.

The song came to a close. Applause erupted across the room, with Queen Isobel cheering loudest of all with eyes of contempt that Kina had grown used to. She turned to leave the stage so that no one would see the wetness that had gathered in her eyes. King Marco stood at the end of the stairs, smiling contritely. He took her by the arm and led her behind the pillars, through tall glass doors, and out into the night. He closed the doors behind them. The balcony overlooked the city that lay beneath the palace, where torches were lit as far as the mountain range. The fires blurred around Kina’s eyes when the tears finally fell.

Damn them all. Damn them all straight to death. Kina rubbed the tears away, but when memories of home, memories of learning the ancient melodies with her mother, memories of kissing her father’s cheeks when he returned home after a long trip, memories of racing with her brothers through the skies in their nightingale forms, memories of playing with her baby sister in the garden they’d grown together, and memories of their deaths at the hands of the swans swam to her head, she sobbed again.

Marco spoke, “I apologize for my mother.”

Kina whirled around, tears, malice, and derision all twisted into her face. “You promised you’d set me free once you were king.”

Marco lowered his eyes to the ground. “I keep my promise.”

“You’re king now. Set me free.”

“You don’t understand. Setting you free would… it wouldn’t be safe for you.”

“Staying here isn’t safe for me. I can handle myself. What harm could I do? Your father massacred my family. I have no allies, no status, no platform. I’ll sail to another country.”

“Sailing requires that you commission a ship. You expect my mother to allow her war prize to run free without action? She’ll find you. She’ll kill you when she does.”

“And maybe I’ll escape. Or maybe you’ll pardon me publicly, in front of the council and in front of the court.”

“It isn’t that simple.”

“You’re king now.”

“Yes, I’m king now. Now, I have a responsibility over a country. To run a country, I must work with my council. And in order for my council to work alongside me, I need their respect. I can’t gain their respect if I publicly free their captive.”

The tears and sorrow were gone. Now, Kina was enraged. “Did you forget our deal? I completed my part, and now you’re king. You promised.”

“And I intend to keep my promise.”

Marco led Kina closer to the balustrade. She realized that she had openly admitted to her crimes, and the ears on the walls were ever present. Marco touched her left elbow, which his father had intentionally dislocated so that she was unable to fly in her other form. She flinched away. Marco wrapped an arm around her, and brought his voice to her ear. “I was considering a safer way to set you free.”

“What way is that?” Kina said tremulously. She had known Marco for half a decade now, yet being in close proximity with him still shuddered her resolve.

“Marriage.”

Kina recoiled, as if he’d whispered a threat into her ear. He had whispered a threat.

“Marriage?” she bristled. “To further seal your country’s hold on me?”

“You would become queen,” Marco said. “And after that, you wouldn’t be a prisoner. My mother is queen regent. Once I marry, her power will be weakened, and you’ll be free to do as you wish. Leave even. And our alliance would solidify truce between nightingales and swans.”

“You would marry me, let me leave, and give yourself no chance of producing an heir?”

Marco gave her a wry smile. “You’re thinking of producing heirs with me?”

Kina had no patience for his quips. “Make heirs with the man whose father is the reason I have no family?”

“To be fair, I’m proposing to the woman who left me with no father.” “I was fulfilling my part of the deal.”

“And now so am I.”

Kina took a moment to process everything that Marco had said. “This is insane.”

“Agree to my proposal, Kina, and marry me.”

Before Kina could respond, the glass doors burst open with a crash. A guard blundered onto the balcony and collapsed onto the marble, a heap of armor and man and blood-stained ivory cloak. The pair had not a moment to make sense of the event, for in the next moment, three soldiers clad in bronze armor and silver cloaks followed. Marco thrust Kina behind him. Through the open doors, Kina could see the chaos inside the Great Hall. Men armored in bronze armor and silver cloaks fought against the royal guards in their gold armor and white cloaks in a mess of steel and blood. Nobles ran in every direction, and in every direction, nobles were cut down. A noblewoman in a grandiose crimson gown threw off her hat and transfigured into her other form, an lioness, shredding apart her raiment, before vaulting onto a nearby golden cloak. Others had changed into their animal forms as well. Blood pooled around the floor in large puddles, so large that one bear slipped onto its back. Before he could rise, ravens perched upon him and dipped their beaks into his eyes.

Marco removed his sword from its scabbard. “Stand back.”

The soldier who stood closest to the pair lifted his helm, revealing a young man of eastern features. “We’re here for our queen.”

Marco’s face darkened. “My mother?”

The soldier shook his head. “Our real queen. The last nightingale.”

“Who are you?” Kina asked.

“We’ll discuss this after, your Grace.”

“After?”

“After he dies.”

The man lowered his helm as the other two lunged forward on either side of him. Marco shoved Kina to the ground and met one’s sword with his, the steel singing upon impact. The other man brought his sword up, and Marco whirled around just before it met his shoulder. He wore no armor, as the others did, but he was taller and swifter. The man who spoke approached Kina and yanked her to her feet.

“Transform now,” he said.

“Why?” Kina found her voice, after a while. Her heart was pounding in her head, making her dizzy. “Who are you?”

He took Kina by the arm. “I can’t carry you on my back in that form.”

Before she could respond, he breathed in sharply and withdrew in size. His armor crashed to the ground as his human features slipped away, leaving behind a heap of clothes. A moment later, he emerged in his other form, a golden eagle, and flew to the balustrade. Kina heard a grunt, and one of the soldiers fell near her feet, sliced from shoulder to shoulder. She met Marco’s golden eyes for one moment, before the remaining soldier fell upon him, and they resumed battle. Her head was a mess of thoughts, and she wasn’t sure what to do. But she couldn’t stop her heart from pounding while watching Marco fight against the soldier; she couldn’t stop herself from wishing he would win, wishing he would live. Her thoughts turned to the eagle waiting for her on the railing. She did not know him. She had no reason to trust him. She looked to the bloodbath inside the Hall, which was drawing to a close, with more white cloaks littered on the ground than silver cloaks, and even more nobles. She turned back to Marco again. The other man cornered him to the edge of the balcony with his sword pressed down on his. Marco pushed back with his sword at his chest, his back arched dangerously over the railing. Kina held her breath, and released it when Marco shoved the soldier back. The eagle beckoned her again, but she couldn’t get herself to leave.

Marco had seemingly gained the advantage, ramming down the offense and pushing the man towards the other end of the balcony. When they reached it, the man spun around at the last second, away from the rail. When Marco whirled around, the man caught him with a swift, deep slice from sternum to hip. Marco fell to the floor holding his chest, blood spilling around him, his crown rolling away from his head. Kina had not the time to fully comprehend it all. Down below, a cavalry charged forward, white cloaks trailing behind them.

“The reinforcements from the city guard are on their way,” said the man who killed Marco. He lifted him helm, revealing a craggy, eastern face. “You must go. Now.”

There was no time for hesitation. No doubt, when the white cloaks reached her, they’d kill her. Kina quickly transformed into her nightingale form. The man, with Marco’s blood still on his hands, helped her onto the eagle’s back. In the next moment, they were soaring through the night sky. Wind pressed against Kina’s face, blowing her feathers back. Kina twisted her head behind her, at the balcony, at Marco’s body, and she kept it there, until he shrank smaller and smaller, until she reached the mountain range, and he was no longer visible.

#contest #contest 6 #fanfiction #to belong #fanfic

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