"Send me a ship and a sentence, I'll write the next five."
(Idk if you're still doing this challenge but I'm sending in an ask anyway, because free will.)
Ship: Matthew Fairchild and Cordelia Herondale. ;)
Sentence (from my novel's first draft): “I just wanted to say that we, um... we could have been good, you know? Even if it was only meant to be one night, I don’t regret that night in Paris at all. And, I mean, if James fucks with you, I’ll help you pick up the pieces. You’d do the same for me.”
Ahhhh, our origin story!! Of course I'll write you Fairstairs. <3
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“I just wanted to say that we, um... we could have been good, you know? Even if it was only meant to be one night, I don’t regret that night in Paris at all. And, I mean, if James fucks with you, I’ll help you pick up the pieces. You’d do the same for me.”
The warm August air suddenly feels stifling to Cordelia, the smell of honeysuckle from the nearby bush overwhelming, her neck damp and clammy in an unpleasant way.
She places a hand across her stomach, willing the flood of unknowable feelings behind her ribs, supported by her whalebone corset, to stay constrained for the remainder of this conversation.
The familiar timber of Matthew’s voice - deeply passionate and so painfully sincere - is threatening in a strange, worrying way.
She presses her lips together, attempting a smile. “Yes, of course, I’d do the same for you.”
That, at least, is not a lie.
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(listen to Bloc Party 'Signs' after/during reading this, to really get a sense of Cordelia's mental state at this point)
