#towerfell

they're too honest with one another. (or, at least, want to be honest with each other. the first step to any healthy relationship.)

that's both their blessing and curse in their respected lines of work. their entire lives, there's always been one rule to forever follow: you don't stray from family. (and you certainly don't sleep with the enemy behind closed doors.) she'd already broken two of the principal rules as she lies starfish on silk linen.

another tryst in the grand ambassador hotel in downtown los angeles, hidden from the world behind the big white doors. a business trip with a rogue, off the record/off the books business expense of a single room within the hotel. nothing too fancy to draw attention, but enough to swindle the transaction over accountings' eyes.

propping herself up on her elbows, an eyebrow raises as her gaze is directed onto fallon— zipper coming to a clasp onto her dress. "uh, i thought we did talk to each other about stuff normally?" it's a lie straight through her teeth, but maybe if she furrows her eyebrows enough— maybe fallon will believe her.

shiv knows what fallon's getting at, and it's something she's not quite ready to discuss. (she'll never be ready to discuss a relationship without skeletons trapped in a closet. a relationship where they can be honest with one another. with themselves.)

for now, she'll play the dumb girlfriend. (and dumb wife later.)

she'd never been one to believe in fairytales. the heroes saving the day, coming out on top and rescuing everyone. for the alliance, nina shepard and anakin skywalker had become their heroes; the poster-boy and girl for saving the galaxy, and those who resided in it. she'd almost bought into it, just as everyone else had— but fairytales aren't real, and neither are heroes.

anakin skywalker had proven that.

"you fucking sellout piece of shit." it was an offer her father couldn't refuse— all access to everything aboard the normandy ship, first-hand accounts of missions and interviews; a media source's wet dream had fallen into his lap. logan roy would have been a fool to turn it down. his only obligation? hang the media hate train on commander shepard up to dry.

if her father would be known for anything— he was not one to follow through on his promises.

instinctively, she laughs. after all, it's commander shepard shiv's talking to. if anyone has ever killed— it's vione shepard.

right leg crossing over her left, the corners of her mouth tug upward. an orchestra plays in the background, voices enveloping them as a server swings to the right of them, a tray with flutes of champagne atop his right hand. "smart, deadly, and funny? there's gotta' be something you're not good at."

flirting with the enemy has always been dangerous territory; she learned that first hand during her escapade in politics. her father, the head of one of the galaxy's largest media conglomerates, making her career a living hell. his attempt to lure her back into the swamp, which succeeded at the end of the day, landing her in the hot seat directly to hell. alliance poster-girl aside, it was atn's business to know exactly who vione shepard was. all the good and all the bad. but it was also shiv's duty to understand who the commander shepard was, too.

for business reasons, she tells herself. it'll help herself sleep better when she sulks back to her penthouse and climbs into bed with her doting husband.

"Apparently not a fucking thing, according to you." It's harsher than she intends, venom dripping from her tongue as her jaw remains agape. She's always been a snake— there's a saying, with age and time comes solace and peace. [Shiv would provide a counter to that claim: whoever said that was a fucking moron. Peace and solace were myths; or she'd never been granted such a blessing in her entire life.] Fingers gripping the arms of her desk chair, her gaze remains fixated on her daughter— the bane of her life.

All women become their mothers. That is their tragedy— this will forever be Shiv Roy's tragedy. Becoming an incubator for a man she held no love for; only hatred.

Teeth biting down on the inside of her cheek, her head shakes, snide chuckles slipping through her lips. What did she know about raising kids? "I carried you in my womb for nine months, I have provided you a life that is incomprehensible to most children in America, and you have the gull to ask me what I know about raising kids?" If she had a better answer— she would've given it. In this game of chess, she's always bound to fail. She'll always be the snake, she'll forever be the bloodied knife stuck in the backs of others— she'll forever be a splitting image of her own mother.

Pedro medeiros!!

The game towerfell has such a beautiful use of colours in it and the style is incredible, extremely old school but with a contemporary twist.