Even Satan used to be an angel...

Muse Activity Key: ♥ - Primary ★ - Secondary ▽ - By Request/Tertiary

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Hi. I’m Sahar(a) - 30+ | CST.

This is a 21+ space for slow, thoughtful storytelling.

I write long-form, emotionally grounded prose and care deeply about character voice, growth, and the quiet moments that make a dynamic feel real.

You’ll find canon and original muses across: A multitude of fandoms - varying from media, from films, TV shows, literature, video games, mythology, and fandomless worlds.

OCs are a big part of this blog; layered, plot-focused, and built for long-term development. I value communication, collaborative plotting, and threads that feel mutual instead of rushed. Ask memes are always open invitations, not obligations.

If you’ve been looking for a writing partner who wants to build something steady, intentional, and character-driven...

You’re welcome here. Let’s create something meaningful together.

Also found over at: @pandorawakens - Avatar MultiMuse RP Blog @whereoceansburn - James Flint RP Blog @independentxbarbie - Barbie Single RP Blog @horrorforthedamned - Horror MultiMuse RP Blog @sinnersforthedamned - Smut MultiMuse RP Blog @iceandfireforthedamned - ASoIaF Multimuse RP Blog

I’m actually curious because I had a bunch of HP muses for a while, got no interest, then had a new influx of followers who showed interest, so I’m re-adding the HP muses.

I do want to make it clear that I am anti-JKR, but I can distinguish the difference between the books combined with nostalgia and what she currently publicly states, which I do not agree with or condone.

I’m actually curious because I had a bunch of HP muses for a while, got no interest, then had a new influx of followers who showed interest, so I’m re-adding the HP muses.

I do want to make it clear that I am anti-JKR, but I can distinguish the difference between the books combined with nostalgia and what she currently publicly states, which I do not agree with or condone.

Asteria understood that she would have to tread carefully.

“Come on,” Ariana called brightly. “Papa’s stew is really good.”

“The bread is dangerous,” Esme added from behind them, nodding with great seriousness.

Ariana held the door open, and Asteria stepped inside with quiet grace. The rich scent of stew greeted her at once, making her lift her nose as her fluffy tail swayed gently behind her.

Ariana reached down to stroke her back. Asteria arched into the touch, then, when the girl settled onto the floor beside her, leaned forward and licked her cheek.

Ariana burst into giggles as Asteria covered her face in eager little licks. Esme soon joined her when the fox turned and did the same to her.

“You’re so soft!” Esme laughed, running her fingers through Asteria’s dark fur. Then she spotted the silver shimmer scattered across it and gasped. “Papa, look! She has starlight in her fur! She does, doesn’t she?”

Her small fingers traced the glowing flecks while Asteria returned to smothering Ariana with kisses, drawing another delighted squeal from her.

Then Asteria paused.

She sniffed Ariana carefully from head to toe, her ears twitching with curiosity.

Your magic is loud, isn’t it? she murmured.

Ariana only giggled and squirmed beneath her nose.

Asteria turned to Esme next, circling her once before sniffing her just as thoroughly.

And yours is quiet, she said, but very strong.

Both girls wriggled and laughed at the attention. At last, they each leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Asteria’s nose.

Her fluffy tail began to wag softly behind her.

--

After dinner, Remy’s expression hardened.

“All right,” he said firmly. “Now you leave.”

He crossed the room, opened the back door, and gestured toward the darkness beyond it.

“But, Papa!” Ariana cried.

“Can’t she stay?” Esme pleaded, wrapping both arms around one of his legs.

“No,” Remy said, though his sigh betrayed the weariness beneath his sternness. He pointed outside once more. “She cannot stay. Go. Now.”

Asteria did not want to leave, but she knew this moment had to be handled with care.

So she lowered her head and stepped through the open door.

Behind her, the twins began to cry, pleading with their father to let her stay. Their voices followed her into the night until the door closed with a heavy thud.

Asteria paused and looked back.

For one brief moment, her gaze met Remy’s through the glass.

Then she turned away and continued down the path, passing through the garden gate just before it swung shut behind her.

Asteria turned back toward the house and settled beside the gate to wait.

Even as the night deepened and the cold crept through her fur, she did not move. She simply curled into herself, tucking her nose beneath her fluffy tail to keep warm.

She could not bring herself to leave.

The bond between her and the twins and Remy pulled gently at her heart, certain and unbreakable. Whatever Remy believed, Asteria knew the truth.

Remy kept his hand against the door long after it had closed, his palm flat to the wood as though he could hold the whole world outside by sheer stubbornness alone. The kitchen behind him was still warm, still smelling of stew and herbs and bread that had absolutely not broken the spoon, no matter what Esme had muttered under her breath. The fire crackled in the hearth, throwing amber light across the table, the repaired crockery, the girls’ abandoned bowls, the little place beside the chair where Asteria had sat with starlight caught in her dark fur. Remy stared at the door and told himself, firmly, viciously, sensibly, that he had done the right thing.

One meal. That was all. That was more than enough. You let her inside. You let her near them. You let her make them laugh. You let her lick their faces like she had any right to be soft with them. His fingers tightened against the wood. Outside, he could hear the faintest brush of small paws retreating across the path. Worse than that, he could feel them. Each little step tugged at something beneath his ribs, thin as a thread and bright as a nerve. No. No, absolutely not. You are not doing this again. You are not feeling another familiar leave this house. You are not standing in another kitchen pretending your chest has not been split open because something small and lovely decided not to stay.

Behind him, Ariana’s first sob broke a glass.

The sound snapped through the kitchen like a spell gone wrong. Remy spun so fast his shoulder struck the doorframe, but he barely felt it. Ariana stood beside the table with her hands clenched into trembling fists, tears spilling down her cheeks, thin sparks of gold snapping and spitting around her fingers. Esme had both arms wrapped around one of Remy’s legs, though her face had turned toward the door, eyes wide and wet and terribly knowing. “You sent her away,” Ariana cried, her voice breaking on the accusation. Remy crossed the room before the last shard hit the floor, instinct dragging him faster than thought.

Blood? No blood. Check her hands. Check her feet. Glass everywhere, damn it, stupid, should have cleared the table first, should have kept her away from it, should have known she would flare. He dropped to one knee in front of Ariana and caught her wrists gently before she could rub at her eyes with magic still sparking across her knuckles. “I sent her home,” he said, though the words already tasted weak.

“She was home!” Ariana shouted.

The words struck harder than the glass had. Remy’s breath caught, because for one ugly second he saw another kitchen, another door, another absence made permanent by someone who had once belonged. “No, love,” he said carefully, forcing his voice into something low and steady even as his pulse battered against his throat. “She lives in the forest.” Ariana shook her head so hard her curls bounced against her wet cheeks. “She stayed with us.” “For dinner.” “She likes us.” “You knew her for an hour.” Ariana’s face crumpled as if he had said something unforgivably cruel. “That is enough.”

Another sob tore out of her, and every candle in the kitchen went dark at once. The room plunged into firelight and shadow. Heat rolled from Ariana’s skin, fierce and sudden, and Remy cupped her face between both hands before panic could seize full control of him. “Ari. Look at me. Look at Papa.” Her pupils shone gold, bright enough that his stomach turned over. Too hot. Too fast. She is surging. Breathe. Get her to breathe. Do not frighten her. Do not let her see you frightened. She will feed off it. She always does.

“Papa,” Esme whispered, still clinging to his leg. Her voice had gone small, but not childish. That was what made Remy glance at her despite the heat pouring off Ariana. Esme’s gaze had gone distant, fixed not on her sister, not on the glass, but on some invisible line cutting through the room toward the door. “Not now, sweetheart,” he said, already searching Ariana’s magic, already moving through the familiar checklist in his head. Fever. Curse. External influence. Emotional surge. Ward reaction. Poison. Possession. Not possession. Do not even think that word. She is seven. She is upset. That is all. She is upset because you sent away the fox with stars in her fur and apparently tonight the universe has decided to become deeply theatrical. Esme tightened her hold on him. “She is trying to find her.”

Remy’s jaw locked. “No. She is upset.” “She is upset because you sent Asteria away.” “Ariana has been upset before.” “She did not know what a familiar was before.” The word landed like a blade slid neatly between ribs. Remy’s magic flared before he could stop it. The markings carved into the windowsills blazed gold, the cupboards rattled, and the shadows beneath the table shrank back from him as if afraid to be noticed. Ariana whimpered, and Remy immediately hated himself for it.

No. Not at them. Never at them. Pull it back. Pull it back before you become the thing you keep warding the house against. He forced the magic down until it burned under his skin. “Do not call her that,” he said, the words rougher than he meant them to be.

Esme released his leg. She took one small step back, her expression shifting into that solemn stillness that always made him feel as if the world had leaned too close. She had Kate’s quiet when she was thinking, but none of Kate’s sharpness. That made it worse. That made it holy and unbearable. “She is ours,” Esme said. Remy’s throat tightened. “No one is anyone’s.” “She chose us.” “You do not know what she chose.” “She came when we were scared.” Ariana sniffled hard and nodded, golden sparks still snapping around her fingers.

“She made the stars on the ground because I wanted Papa.” Her lip trembled. “I wanted you, and she helped.” Remy looked between them, and guilt tried to crawl up the inside of his chest like ivy. She helped them. She brought them home. She did not lure them. She did not cross the wards. She did not ask for anything. That is how it starts, though, is it not? With helping. With staying. With warmth. With a creature making herself necessary until you cannot remember how the house sounded without her.

Ariana’s skin burned hotter beneath his palms. The magic inside her was still surging, but beneath the heat was something colder, something that stretched through her and beyond the walls. Remy felt it before he understood what he was doing. He followed it instinctively, his own magic hooking into the golden thread around Ariana’s heart. For one disorienting instant, the kitchen vanished. He felt damp earth beneath a body that was not his, frozen grass pressed against small ribs, cold creeping through black fur and settling into narrow limbs.

A fluffy tail curled around a little face, trying to hold in what warmth remained. The sensation hit him so intimately, so bodily, that he recoiled. His hands slipped from Ariana’s cheeks. The cold stayed. It began in his fingertips, travelled through his wrists, and sank into the old hollow beneath his ribs where Kate’s bond had once lived. His breath caught hard enough to hurt. No. No, no, no. Not this. Not again. Not another body in mine. Not another ache that is not mine becoming my responsibility. Not another familiar making pain into a key and expecting me to open.

What is that noise? Tristan’s voice brushed against her thoughts, wary and confused, even as the low rumble continued in his chest.

Charlotte stared at him for a moment before a soft laugh escaped her. “That’s you,” she said. “You’re purring.”

His blue eyes widened. What did you do to me?

“Nothing,” Charlotte replied, though her smile grew. “I cleaned you up, treated your wounds, and placed you near the fire so you could warm yourself.” She reached out slowly and rested her hand beside him rather than on him, giving him the choice to move closer. “I only showed you kindness, Tristan.”

The purring deepened.

Charlotte’s expression softened. “I believe cats do that when they feel safe. Or content.”

I am not content.

“Of course not.”

And I do not feel safe.

Charlotte glanced down at the way he had curled into the blanket, his body angled toward the warmth of the fire. “No,” she said, fighting another smile. “Clearly not.” Carefully, Charlotte reached out and scratched behind one of Tristan’s ears.

His purring grew louder almost at once.

She watched with quiet delight as his head tilted into her touch, his guarded expression softening despite his best efforts to hide it. A small smile spread across her face. “There you are,” she murmured.

Keeping one hand against his fur, Charlotte called upon her healing magic. A soft green glow gathered beneath her palm and flowed over his wounds, warm and gentle. One by one, the cuts began to close, the light fading only when the last mark had disappeared.

Tristan remained still beneath her hand, though his purr never stopped.

Tristan flinched the moment Charlotte’s hand touched him.

It was not subtle.

His whole body jerked beneath her fingers, every muscle snapping tight as if the gentleness itself had struck him. His ears flattened. His claws flexed against the blanket. The hiss had already gathered in his throat, sharp and ready, a warning shaped by instinct more than thought.

Do not.

Do not touch.

Do not take.

But then her fingers scratched behind his ear. The hiss never made it out.Tristan froze instead.

The sensation moved through him with startling force, not painful, not trapping, not demanding anything of him. Warmth spread beneath his skin in a slow, unbearable wave. His eyes narrowed at first, then faltered, the blue of them growing heavy despite every suspicious, furious part of him insisting that this was a trick.

His purr deepened. Traitorous little sound.

It rolled through his chest louder than before, steady and helpless, vibrating against the blanket beneath him. Tristan looked personally offended by it, as though his own body had committed treason in front of witnesses.

Stop that, he thought, though he could not tell whether he meant Charlotte, the purring, or himself.

Charlotte did not stop.

The touch remained light. Careful. She scratched behind his ear again, just there, where no one had ever thought to touch him gently before. Or perhaps someone had once. Perhaps there had been hands long ago that had not hurt him, had not grabbed, had not lifted him by the scruff or shoved him into dark places.

The thought came and vanished too quickly to catch.

His head tilted before he could stop it. Just a little. Enough to follow her hand. Enough to betray him. Tristan’s eyes widened a fraction, but by then it was too late. His body had discovered comfort and was apparently determined to humiliate him with it.

The purr grew louder.

I am not content, he insisted, the words brushing through the bond in a rough, indignant mutter. His spine loosened beneath her hand. And I do not feel safe. His paws stretched out across the blanket. This is clearly some sort of magical interference. Then the healing magic gathered beneath Charlotte’s palm.

Tristan stiffened again. Green light. Warmth. Power moving over his skin. He should have recoiled. Should have bitten. Should have dragged himself away from whatever spell she had decided to cast over him without warning.

But the magic did not bind.

It did not pierce.

It did not seize hold of him and force obedience into his bones.

It flowed over the cuts and bruises with a gentleness so unfamiliar that his confusion became almost louder than his fear. The sting above his eye softened first. The raw pull of the wound eased until the pain that had lived there for the past day simply vanished. The ache along his side dulled. The bite near his stomach closed. Even the deep, ugly throb beneath his ribs loosened enough that his next breath did not catch halfway through.

Tristan went very still.

His body did not know what to do with relief.

Pain was supposed to be endured until it became background noise. Hunger was supposed to be ignored until it turned sharp enough to move him. Fear was supposed to keep him alive.

This was different. This was someone noticing the hurt and taking it away. Not because he had earned it. Not because he had performed the right trick. Not because he had made himself useful enough to deserve being kept. Just because it was there.

That could not be right.

His eyes narrowed, though the effect was ruined somewhat by the way they kept slipping half-closed beneath her fingers.

You’ve bespelled me.

The accusation came sluggishly, less a blade and more a tired paw batting at suspicion.

His body was melting.

There was no other word for it.

Every tense muscle that had held him together for years began loosening, one by one, until he was no longer sitting so much as becoming a warm, golden pile of fur beside her. His shoulders dropped. His spine lengthened against the blanket. One hind leg stretched out before he realized what it was doing.

This was unacceptable.

Deeply unacceptable.

Possibly criminal.

Then Charlotte’s fingers rubbed gently at the spot between his eyes.

Tristan’s thoughts went blank.

His eyelids sank.

For the first time in longer than he could remember, his body stopped preparing for the next injury.

He closed his eyes.

Only for a second.

That was what he told himself.

One second.

Nothing more.

The purr rolled through him so strongly it seemed to shake loose something caught behind his ribs. A small sound escaped him, softer than a meow, lighter than a purr. A brief, involuntary trill.

The moment it happened, Tristan’s eyes flew open.

Embarrassment flooded the bond so fiercely it might as well have been a flare thrown into the room.

No.

The thought came instantly.

Absolutely not.

His ears flattened.

He looked at Charlotte from the corner of one eye, suspicion sharpening his expression again, but he did not move away from her hand.

Worse, when her fingers paused, his head shifted forward. Barely. A nudge. Small enough that he could have denied it with tremendous confidence. His muzzle brushed against her hand. More. The request was not sent through the bond. His body said it anyway. The betrayal was complete.

Tristan froze, realizing what he had done. His tail flicked once beneath the blanket.

That was involuntary.

A pause.

Some sort of lingering spell effect, obviously.

Another pause, quieter.

Don’t look pleased.

But his head remained near her hand.

The warmth of the fire pressed against one side of him. Charlotte’s presence rested at the other end of the bond, steady and careful. His body felt clean, healed, impossibly heavy with something that might have been exhaustion if exhaustion had ever felt this gentle.

Then she asked if he was hungry.

Anything you want.

Tristan blinked. His eyes opened more fully, suspicion giving way to genuine confusion. What do you mean, anything I want? The question carried no sarcasm this time. Only bewilderment. His head lifted slightly from the blanket.

Food is food.

He did not understand the distinction.

Food was what could be found before something else took it. Food was scraps dragged from bins, cold and spoiled at the edges. Food was a bird if he was fast enough, a mouse if he was lucky, a stolen crust if no one saw him. Food was what he ate quickly, hunched over, body curled protectively around it because there was always another mouth, another claw, another hand ready to snatch it away.

Food was not chosen.

Food was survived.

You eat what there is, he added, slower now, as though explaining something obvious. If there is any.

The bond pulsed faintly with the truth beneath it. Hunger. Old and familiar. The sharp belly-twist of going without. The humiliating calculation of whether rotten meat was worth the sickness it might bring. The frantic anger of losing a fight over something barely edible and still missing it because hunger did not care about dignity.

Tristan did not notice the feeling slip through.

He was too busy staring at Charlotte as though she had presented him with a puzzle where every answer might be dangerous.

Then she said he had a warm bed. Food. A safe place. That he could come and go as he pleased. That she would not keep him.

The words reached him strangely. Not because they were hard to understand. Because he had heard them before. His body went quiet in a way that had nothing to do with calm. The purring faltered.

His gaze fixed on her, suddenly intense, as if he were trying to see through her skin and straight into whatever truth lived underneath.

You don’t need to do that.

The thought came slowly.

Guarded.

He swallowed, though the motion looked strange in cat form.

You…

He stopped.

His eyes searched her face. Fear moved through the bond without his permission. Fear and bewilderment, tangled so tightly together that they became almost impossible to separate.

You don’t have to say things like that.

His claws flexed lightly against the blanket.

People say things.

The sentence carried more weight than the words themselves. People said things with gentle voices and open doors. People said things while setting down bowls of milk. People said things while smiling. People said things before proving that the softness had only been bait.

A memory rose before Tristan could force it down. A creek in early spring, the water grey and cold beneath a sky that looked too wide. He was small. Smaller than he was now.

A kitten, half-starved, with golden fur already darkened by dirt. His legs were thin. His ribs showed. One ear was not notched yet. His eyes were too blue and too frightened.

A boy crouched near him with a piece of bread pinched between his fingers. “Come on, then,” the boy said, voice sweet in the false way children sometimes learned from cruel adults. “I won’t hurt you.”

Tristan remembered the hunger more than the words.

He remembered creeping forward despite every instinct telling him not to. The bread smelled stale. It did not matter. Food was food. The boy let him eat from his hand. For a week, the boy returned. Bread. Scraps. Soft little sounds meant to coax him closer. Tristan began to recognize his footsteps. Began to come when called. Began, foolishly, to believe that perhaps this hand would not change.

Then the memory shifted. The same boy laughing. Other boys nearby. Hands closing around him. A grip around his middle so tight he could not twist free. The creek rushing louder. Cold water hitting his paws. Then his chest. Then his throat. Panic exploded through the memory as the boy shoved him down. Water closed over his head. Sound vanished into pressure. His paws clawed wildly at nothing. Mud filled his nose. His lungs burned. His body thrashed with every desperate inch of life inside it.

Above the water, laughter warped into something monstrous. He surfaced once, gasping, only to be forced under again. The promise echoed with cruel brightness.

I won’t hurt you.

The memory tore through the bond before Tristan understood it was no longer trapped inside him.

Not as a story. As experience. The cold shock of water.

The betrayal. The terror of trusting a hand because it had fed him first. The frantic certainty that kindness had been the trap all along. Then, just as suddenly, the memory vanished.

Tristan jerked back as though waking from it. His body had gone rigid again. The purring stopped completely. His eyes were wide, fixed somewhere past Charlotte rather than on her. His breathing came too quickly, shallow and harsh, each inhale barely moving through him before the next one chased it.

He did not know he had shown her. Not immediately. He only knew the bond felt raw. Open. Wrong. His gaze snapped back to her.

What?

The word came sharp. Too sharp. His ears flattened.

Why are you looking at me like that?

Panic scraped beneath the irritation.

His body shifted as though he meant to rise, but he did not get far. The healed muscles were still exhausted, the warmth still heavy around him. He remained half-curled in the blanket, visibly caught between fleeing and staying exactly where he was.

I told you, he sent, rougher now. You don’t need to do all that.

He looked away.

Food. Bed. Safe place.

The words came out carefully, almost resentfully, as if repeating them might reveal the hook hidden inside. No one gives all that away. His blue eyes flicked back to her. Not for nothing. The accusation lacked force. There was too much fear beneath it.

Too much longing.

Too much of the little starving creature in the creek still trapped inside him, desperate to believe the bread had meant kindness and not a lesson.

His head lowered, but he kept watching her from the side. What do you want? The question scraped through the bond, quieter than before. What am I supposed to be for you? His claws curled faintly into the blanket.

Because if I get it wrong…

He stopped. The rest did not need words. The bond carried enough.

If I get it wrong, will you change too? If I trust the hand, will it become cruel? If I stay, will leaving become impossible?

Tristan swallowed.

His voice came back harder, because softness had nearly opened him all the way.

I’m not scared of you.

A lie.

A terrible one. The bond betrayed him with the trembling edge of fear beneath it. He glared at the fire.

I just don’t like surprises.

Another pause.

His eyes drifted, unwillingly, toward the hand resting near him. The hand that had cleaned him. Healed him. Scratched behind his ear without trapping him. The hand that had paused when he needed it to. His body remembered the creek. His body also remembered the purring.

The two truths stood inside him like enemies, neither willing to yield. Tristan hated them both. After a long moment, he shifted closer by a single inch. It was not much. It was not surrender. It was barely movement at all.

His shoulder brushed the blanket nearer to her hand. He looked anywhere but at Charlotte. If there’s food, he said, deliberately flat, I’ll eat. Then, because pride demanded he make it worse:

Anything that isn’t from a bin, I suppose. His ears flicked back. The admission felt enormous. Too enormous. So he added quickly: Doesn’t mean I’m staying.

The fire warmed his clean golden fur. The blanket held him softly. His gaze slipped once more to her hand.

The purr did not return yet, but something in his chest trembled like it was considering rebellion. And if you scratch behind my ear again, he added, narrowing his eyes, I’ll allow it purely so you don’t get your feelings hurt.

His stare sharpened.

| Rules | | Muses | | Memes | | Carrd || Pinned | | Promos | | OC Bios | | Alt Canon Bios | | Permanent Starter Call | | Interest Tracker | | Thread Tracker (W.I.P) |

Hi. I’m Sahar(a) - 30+ | CST.

This is a 21+ space for slow, thoughtful storytelling.

I write long-form, emotionally grounded prose and care deeply about character voice, growth, and the quiet moments that make a dynamic feel real.

You’ll find canon and original muses across: A multitude of fandoms - varying from media, from films, TV shows, literature, video games, mythology, and fandomless worlds.

OCs are a big part of this blog; layered, plot-focused, and built for long-term development. I value communication, collaborative plotting, and threads that feel mutual instead of rushed. Ask memes are always open invitations, not obligations.

If you’ve been looking for a writing partner who wants to build something steady, intentional, and character-driven...

You’re welcome here. Let’s create something meaningful together.

Also found over at: @pandorawakens - Avatar MultiMuse RP Blog @whereoceansburn - James Flint RP Blog @independentxbarbie - Barbie Single RP Blog @horrorforthedamned - Horror MultiMuse RP Blog @sinnersforthedamned - Smut MultiMuse RP Blog @iceandfireforthedamned - ASoIaF Multimuse RP Blog

the distant roar of nassau, of the tavern below—greedy, volatile, forever one wrong decision away from collapse—seemed to press in closer. this was never just about the two of them. the dream they shared was bigger than themselves, even when personal feelings were in the mix. eleanor had always been a master at compermentalizing. she stood her ground, as he stood, and stared at her with that gaze that so expertly unmade and remade her. no one else had ever quite managed to dig as deep as james flint did with a simple look. the heat pressed in on her skin, the sweat dripped down her back and the back of her neck, and she stood, and waited. as he started to speak...

the tension bled from her shoulders somewhat. her expression softened, returning some of the youth nassau had stolen from her to her wide, expressive eyes. she let him say his piece. to offer her a seat at the table at his side, before she moved. “ you're right, ” she spoke just as quietly as he, like they were sharing state secrets. “ i'm not asking for information. i'm asking for proximity, for partnership. and i know what that costs someone like you. ” it was the same it cost her. she reached up slowly, like approaching a wild beast, giving him plenty of time to put distance between them as she touched his face. she didn't step back.

instead she straightened her spine, the exhaustion still lingering in her eyes but now tempered with resolve. “ i won't pretend i'm not terrified of what this could mean for both of us, ” she admitted, her voice dropping even quieter until it was almost an intimate whisper. “ but i would rather stand in the fire with you than watch it burn from a distance. so, yes... i'll be in that room tonight. beside you when you're right. and against you when you're wrong. ” a wry smile touched her lips. she never did have any trouble telling him when he was wrong. she searched his face for a long moment, the vulnerability she'd shown him earlier still present, but now laced with a quiet determination.

“ thank you. ” she meant it. she let it linger there. she let them both hold it. eleanor lingered close, the air between them thick with everything unsaid—the fear, the trust, the dangerous pull that had always existed between them. “ now, ” she cleared her throat, trying to regain some semblance of control over herself. “ tell me what I need to know before i walk into that room. ”

Flint did not move beneath her hand.

For a moment, that was his answer. His jaw tightened once under her fingers, instinct urging him to pull away, to reassert distance, control. He did neither. He held her gaze instead, steady, disciplined. This was not weakness, he told himself. It only felt like it.

That was the danger.

Her gratitude unsettled him more than anger ever could. Anger he understood. It had edges, rules, a way through it. Gratitude lingered. It implied something shared, something given. Something that mattered.

He did not want it to matter. At last, he lifted his hand and gently removed hers from his face, releasing her as soon as he could.

“Do not thank me yet,” he said quietly. “You may find anger more useful before I’m finished.”

He stepped back, needing space, needing the room to feel like his again. The heat pressed in through the open window, thick with Nassau’s rot and salt. Below, the tavern churned with noise and bodies, oblivious.

“There is something I kept from you.”

No easing into it. Better to cut clean.

“The concern has been approached by English money. Not the Crown. Not openly.” He watched her carefully, measuring every flicker of reaction. “Men who know Nassau is easier to buy than conquer, once fear takes hold.”

His mouth tightened. He hated how predictable it was.

“They offer credit. Protection. Legitimacy.” A quiet breath. “No soldiers. No flags. Just contracts that bind tighter than chains.” He let that settle. Let her see it as he did.

“They are not preparing for invasion. They are preparing to purchase Nassau.” He felt the weight of it again as he said it. The inevitability. The insult.

“I did not tell you because the intelligence was incomplete,” he continued. “Move too soon and they call you paranoid. Unfit.” He had seen it happen before. He knew how quickly power could be turned against itself. “And if it was true, telling you would have placed you directly in their sights.”

His grip tightened on the chair. He could already imagine it. Men deciding her value. Calculating her removal.

“I had reasons,” he said. “They were not poor ones.”

He did not apologize. He did not know how to do that without weakening the ground beneath him. Still, the admission sat heavier than he liked. “Tonight is how they decide if that silence served them.” He set a folded paper on the table.

“They will speak of stability. Trade. Restraint.” His voice cooled. “They will test whether my war threatens your governance, and whether your governance obstructs my war.”

He met her eyes.

“They want Flint or Guthrie. War or order.” A faint, bitter thought crossed his mind. As if either of them were so easily reduced. “It is a lie. But a useful one.” Another paper joined the first.

“Frasier extends credit where he should collect. Jennings calls cowardice prudence. Dufresne waits to see who pays best.” Threads, all of it. Fragile, but forming something dangerous.

He pushed the papers toward her. “That is why I need you in the room.” He felt the weight of that word as he said it. Need. He did not use it lightly. “Not as a symbol. Because you know these men better than I do.” He straightened, forcing himself back into command.

“You will speak first. If they look to me, they will receive nothing.” He held her gaze, willing her to understand. “Your authority stands on its own.”

His voice lowered.

“If they flatter you, let them. If they patronize you, let them grow careless. If they provoke you, answer only when silence has made them uncertain.”

He studied her, searching for doubt, for hesitation. He found neither, and something in him eased, though he would not name it.

“And if I am wrong,” he added, “say so. In front of them.”

He meant it. He needed it.

“Make them watch me listen.”

The thought unsettled him more than he expected. To yield, even in appearance, was risk. But so was everything else.

“They must not believe we agree on everything,” he continued. “But they must not believe disagreement divides us.” He glanced toward the door, listening to Nassau beyond it, then back to her.

“Watch who avoids your eyes when English money is named. Watch who looks to me when you are challenged, and who looks to you when I am.” He stepped away, leaving the papers within her reach. “No more half-measures tonight.”

His gaze held hers, steady, certain, though beneath it he felt the familiar tension of a plan that could unravel at any moment. “Someone has already decided what Nassau is worth,” he said.

| Rules | | Muses | | Memes | | Carrd || Pinned | | Promos | | OC Bios | | Alt Canon Bios | | Permanent Starter Call | | Interest Tracker | | Thread Tracker (W.I.P) |

Hi. I’m Sahar(a) - 30+ | CST.

This is a 21+ space for slow, thoughtful storytelling.

I write long-form, emotionally grounded prose and care deeply about character voice, growth, and the quiet moments that make a dynamic feel real.

You’ll find canon and original muses across: A multitude of fandoms - varying from media, from films, TV shows, literature, video games, mythology, and fandomless worlds.

OCs are a big part of this blog; layered, plot-focused, and built for long-term development. I value communication, collaborative plotting, and threads that feel mutual instead of rushed. Ask memes are always open invitations, not obligations.

If you’ve been looking for a writing partner who wants to build something steady, intentional, and character-driven...

You’re welcome here. Let’s create something meaningful together.

Also found over at: @pandorawakens - Avatar MultiMuse RP Blog @whereoceansburn - James Flint RP Blog @independentxbarbie - Barbie Single RP Blog @horrorforthedamned - Horror MultiMuse RP Blog @sinnersforthedamned - Smut MultiMuse RP Blog @iceandfireforthedamned - ASoIaF Multimuse RP Blog

| Rules | | Muses | | Memes | | Carrd || Pinned | | Promos | | OC Bios | | Alt Canon Bios | | Permanent Starter Call | | Interest Tracker | | Thread Tracker (W.I.P) |

Hi. I’m Sahar(a) - 30+ | CST.

This is a 21+ space for slow, thoughtful storytelling.

I write long-form, emotionally grounded prose and care deeply about character voice, growth, and the quiet moments that make a dynamic feel real.

You’ll find canon and original muses across: A multitude of fandoms - varying from media, from films, TV shows, literature, video games, mythology, and fandomless worlds.

OCs are a big part of this blog; layered, plot-focused, and built for long-term development. I value communication, collaborative plotting, and threads that feel mutual instead of rushed. Ask memes are always open invitations, not obligations.

If you’ve been looking for a writing partner who wants to build something steady, intentional, and character-driven...

You’re welcome here. Let’s create something meaningful together.

Also found over at: @pandorawakens - Avatar MultiMuse RP Blog @whereoceansburn - James Flint RP Blog @independentxbarbie - Barbie Single RP Blog @horrorforthedamned - Horror MultiMuse RP Blog @sinnersforthedamned - Smut MultiMuse RP Blog @iceandfireforthedamned - ASoIaF Multimuse RP Blog