#also red lights can keep birds away from roads I think!!
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cold secrets, warm light (simon “ghost” riley x f!reader) - part 2/3
Note: This got longer than expected, so now it’s gonna be 3 chapters instead of 2. LMAO. This takes place in the same universe as cold hands, warm heart and is seen as a continuation of that fic.
Rating/Warning: Canon typical violence, blood/injury/and minor gore. Thigh grinding and making out. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) haha ! nice! (also those gloves make me feral)
** All the names of politicians are fake/do not relate to any living or deceased person. I also created 2 entire locations because I don’t want to use the real world lmao. (Al-Qunbar & Noreth)
No use of Y/N. Reader is described as muscular/toned with scars from active combat/torture, and no other descriptors are used.
(Read on Ao3) ||| 🔪🔪🔪
~~~~~~~~~
In the days that follow, you settle into a routine with Ghost and Soap at the safe house. Samira looked after Soap. She attended to his medical needs and physical therapy. He’s a decent patient until his frustration boils over and then he’s huffing like an old goat and crossing his arms. Agathi’s boys worked the farmland. They shovel manure, or prune plants, or tend to the harvest. The security of the safe house is organized into scheduled shifts. The perimeter of the property, the barn, and the house itself are your main concerns.
However, Ghost took over the sniper position at the barn. Instead of following the six-hour schedule, he stayed up there for twelve to fourteen hours. When he returns to the house, he talks to Soap, rests, then returns to the barn without speaking to anyone else. You don’t take it personally. Ghost is a diligent operative. He never wavers. He never falters. You are safer, Lukas is safer, with him here.
Your nails are encrusted with dark, rich earth from digging up carrots with James and Lukas. Lukas’ favorite task is to unearth food you’ve grown. He smiles brightly, holding aloft potatoes or carrots or stalks of green onions, and you cannot help but smile in return. He is a sweet and tender boy. And its awe inspiring someone so sweet and gentle could come from you. A trained killer. A girl made of ice. A woman without identity, without roots.
You skim your dirty hands across the stalks of tall reeds while walking down the dirt, pebble-strewn road. A lone bird calls out to signal that night is upon them and the predators will awaken soon. Your smile tugs errantly at the corners of your mouth.
The sky is bruising purple and dusky blue. The clouds on the horizon promised rain. You can smell in the air – fresh, biting, and green. You unscrew the cap of your flask and swallow a warm, robust mouthful of black tea. The dilapidated barn leans against a backdrop of dying sunlight like a wounded animal. Sven emerges from the grass with a sheepish smile. His blue eyes dart briefly to the barn loft.
He says, “time for shift change already?”
“I’m early.” You ruffle his stringy, blonde hair. “Go on. Your brother is waiting.”
Sven flushes bright red. “Thanks.”
You watch him jog down the road with a flashlight in his hand. You check under the tire well of the abandoned truck and find the hidden pistol. You check the safety and clip. You tuck it away again. Price, the thoughtful bastard, managed to arrange a covert supply drop. Ghost collected it earlier in the week. It contained ammunition, infrared lights, night vision scopes, and supplies for Soap and Ghost.
Price can get into serious trouble by his superiors if anyone finds out about it.
You aren’t sure why he keeps sticking his neck out to help you, but you’re grateful. You think of Lukas. You wonder if he suspects anything. Samira often says fondly, ‘it’s as if God took the blueprints of you and made him.’ You don’t see it. And whenever you tell Samira this, she laughs, and her scarred skin stretches with joy.
The wooden ladder creaks when you ascend it. Ghost is perched with his sniper and completely unmoving. Your nostrils itch as the scent of old, dusty hay fills them. You sniffle and wipe your nose with your knuckles.
“All clear,” drawls Ghost.
“Yes, I know. I was just outside.”
Ghost scoffs. You settle crossed legged next to him. You glance at his stark black-and-white profile. His sandy eyelashes flutter against his black-painted skin. Your body hums with acute unspoken desire. You trace the shapes of his tattoos on his forearm. You would give anything to touch him and feel the hot expanse of his skin across your palms. You’ve lain awake in your cold bed, tossing, and turning and coiled with taut desire, and wondered if he’d shun you if you came to find him. But you always manage to talk yourself out of it.
There’s no benefit in complicating matters further. Noreth is at war. You and Lukas can’t leave. Soap and Ghost can’t leave. The best course of action is to lay low and keep safe until extraction. You swallow another gulp of tea and watch the cloudy, star dotted horizon and swaying tall grass.
“What’re you drinking?”
“Tea.” You wipe your mouth with your fingers.
“Nothing stronger?” He grouses.
“We’ve got vodka back at the house.”
He gives a small shake of his head. “Foul.”
You extend your arm toward him, the flask pinched between your fingers, and Ghost glances sidelong at you. Seconds pass. You’re about to pull it away. But then Ghost reaches and accepts the flask without touching you. You force yourself to look away rather than look at him. You imagine the shape of his lips closing over the mouth of the flask. You imagine his muscled throat shifting when he swallows. You imagine him wiping away a teardrop of tea from the corner of his mouth with his gloved thumb. You wait until you hear the sound of the cap screwing back on before looking at him again.
His mask is pushed up to right below his nose. His jaw is shadowed with dark blonde stubble. You recall how it scratched against your bare skin and left faint, irritated red lines. You avert your eyes.
“It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.” He mumbles.
You shrug, “things have changed.”
“Have they?” He says and the words are deep and rumbling. You take the flask from him and drink to delay answering his question. Things have changed. You are no longer an intelligence agent. You deserted. You have a child. You have good people relying on you. You have a reason beyond survival to carve a place for yourself in this new world.
“A bit.” You respond vaguely. The silence stretches, weighted and poignant, and you crack your knuckles one finger at a time. It never used to be awkward with Simon. Or has nostalgia completely skewed your perception? Or is it your guilt? Your fingertips touch when you pass the flask again. An electric jolt fires across your skin. You meet his heavily lidded, shadowed eyes. The unsaid words and confessions linger on your tongue. The distance between you is miniscule. It’s mere inches, but it feels like an endless chasm. You risk the danger and shift closer.
His skeletal gloved fingers graze along the feverish skin on your inner wrist.
“We shouldn’t complicate things.” You blurt. Your secret presses on every of your chamber of your heart. His presses his lips together and cocks his head to the side.
“We’re well past that, Lux.”
“There are things you don’t know about me, Ghost.”
The rough texture of his gloves glides up to your shoulder, lightly touching your neck, and you feel his index finger slide under the golden chain of your necklace. Your pulse throbs in your carotid artery. The moth charm twirls, pretty and light, between Simon’s large fingers.
“I’m not saying this to be coy or mysterious, Riley.” When you use his name, his eyes dart from your throat to your face, and you feel every ounce of his attention on you. You feel like a butterfly pinned to a display frame.
A hot and prickly sensation burns in your throat, “I have secrets you’d hate me for keeping.” You whisper.
You swallow with some difficulty. His tongue sweeps across his lower, chapped lip before he pulls his lower lip between his teeth briefly. Your heart stutters. You force your eyes from his mouth.
“I doubt that very much.” His voice is rumbling, and quiet, and its reverberation echoes into your spine. Your skin burns. Your breath, ragged and warm ,drags itself through your lungs and out your parted lips. You tilt forward and press your forehead against the cool, hard plastic of his mask. Your eyes shutter closed.
Simon says your name longingly. His breath tickles your chin. Your heart pangs to tell him the truth about Lukas, about Al-Qunbar, about Price and his help. Yet, pragmatism pinches your tongue in a vice grip. Lukas’ safety and well-being is everything to you. The less people who know the truth the better.
His lips ghost across yours. His stubble is prickly and rough. Without further prompting or encouragement, you kiss him and slide your tongue between his lips. You tremble and your breath huffs desperately through your nostrils. You hold his jaw. You need him close. You want to wrap your bodies together and remain glued. An overwhelming sensation of bliss floods through your veins. Simon’s tongue moves languidly and tastes of robust black tea. He squeezes the back of your neck, holding you tight and refusing to let you pull away. A heady sense of warmth explodes inside your chest and launches your heart into a tailspin.
You throw your leg over his big thigh, straddling it, and Simon makes a low, pleased sound at the back of his throat. His other hand clutches your hip—tight, possessive, his thumb digs into your flesh. He pitches your hips forward, then pushes back, and you quickly get the idea. You clothed cunt grinds against his muscled thigh. You encircle your arms around his neck, pressed chest-to-chest, and feel Simon’s every rough inhale and exhale. Your original plan to remain distant and uncomplicated has crashed and burned into ash and charcoal.
His tongue flicks obscenely and wetly into your open, panting mouth. “Can you come like this?” He asks, “or do you want my hand, hm? My fingers?” The thought of Simon’s hand shoved between your legs is enough to make your body tighten with anticipation and desire. You wonder if he’ll keep the gloves on.
“We have to keep watch.” You whimper.
He chuckles like deep, dark wine. “I can multitask.”
The temptation threatens to drag you underwater. You are swept into the current of Simon’s influence and your own intoxicating desire. His warm, rough burr. His large and deliberate hands. His strong, muscled arms and legs. His chiseled abdominal muscles quiver as you push your hands up his shirt and touch his hot, damp skin.
“God,” He drags the word out and tilts his head back to look up at you, “you’re gonna kill me, Lux.”
You smile. You are lost in the deep, coffee color of his eyes shadowed by ashen blonde lashes and smudged with black camo paint. They are the same shade as Lukas’. An arrow of guilt spears your heart. What are you doing? Noreth is at war. You’re on watch. You’ll never forgive yourself if Lukas got hurt because you let your lust overwhelm your logic. You clear your throat.
You say, “we – we should wait until we’re inside.” You climb off his leg and adjust your rumpled shirt. “Okay?”
Ghost licks his lips and watches you with dark, hungry eyes. “I’m a sniper. A few hours is nothing.”
“Great.” You reply, your voice tight, “I’m going to walk the perimeter.”
~~~~~~~~
The walk back to the heaven is tense. It is filled with piping hot anticipation and coated in white foam that tastes like a hopeful dream, a beggar’s wish. Two dimly lit windows peer like eyes onto the dead lawn and black skeletal shape of Kaja’s motorbike.
Simon’s palm glides along your lower back and blistering heat floods your stomach. Your body clenches and your clit throbs with pressure and desire. You’ve thought of nearly a dozen different positions and fantasies during your walk. This is unlike your time with the task force. You don’t need to avoid detection. Neither Samira nor Agathi will judge you. Although, for the sake of those sleeping, you resolve to do your best to stay quiet.
The front door opens to the sound of Lukas crying. Agathi is holding him, bouncing softly, and her tired face looks relieved when you cross the threshold.
“Nightmare.” She explains. Lukas reaches his tiny hands toward you.
“I’ve got him.” You bundle Lukas into your arms and kiss his flushed, sticky-with-tears cheek. You glance apologetically toward Ghost. Perhaps this is for the best. Maybe you shouldn’t sleep together. Maybe this was some unseen force ensuring that you and Ghost remain uncomplicated. Maybe it’s saving you from breaking your heart again. Once Soap is clear, Ghost will leave. You know it. You believe it.
You sway Lukas in your arms and mutter softly.
~~~~~~~~~
Ghost stands frozen in the doorway. The boy has his eyes. And the realization is like a leech. He cannot shake it. He cannot bear to be in the same room as you and the crying child. The child with his eyes. He stalks down the hall and ducks into the small room arranged for him and Soap.
Soap is asleep. He’s glad for it. He doesn’t want questions. His breath his ragged and edged like shrapnel in his lungs. His skin is flushed and stretched uncomfortably over his bones. You held Lukas sweetly. You kissed his face. You showed him more affection than James or Sven. How did he not see it earlier?
Lukas looks nothing like Sven or James or Agathi. He looks like you. It wasn’t possible. It wasn’t. You must’ve had a child with someone during your time in Al-Qunbar. He scowls. The maths didn’t add up there either. He guessed Lukas’ age is close to 3. Lukas would be younger if you gave birth to him in Al-Qunbar. Then when? With whom?
He swallows thickly and recalls your short time together. Lukas can’t be his. Can’t be. Can’t. He’s not fit to be a father. He’s a dangerous man. A killer. And a damn good one at that. His palms are sweaty and clammy. He peels off his skeletal gloves and tucks them into the back pocket of his pants. He chews his tongue with his back molars.
If Lukas is yours then he doubts the agency knows. A child is a target. A vulnerability. He starts cleaning one of his guns to keep his hands busy. The gun oil is slick and warm against his fingers. He clears his dry, uncomfortable throat. He thinks about your weighted words in the barn. You mentioned you had a secret. You said it was something he’d hate you for.
His slick, oiled hands move purposefully over the metal. His gaze flicks upward to Soap. He watches his chest breathing evenly beneath the dark sheets. They will stay here for a few weeks and then they’d leave. He can endure it.
You were never meant to have a reunion. And he is a fool for wishing for anything other than what he got. Regardless of who Lukas belongs to—he’s no one’s father. He’s not destined for a civilian life. He’s comfortable in the danger. He’s comfortable wearing the mask. He likes it too much to walk away.
He can’t go and live on a farm and change nappies. That’s not who he is. And he won’t bring danger to your doorstep. But he doesn’t want to say goodbye again. He doesn’t want you to disappear. Ghost sighs heavily and sets the pistol on his bouncing knee.
He needs to talk to you.
~~~~~~~~~~~
It took an hour to get Lukas back to sleep. You settle into one of the wooden chairs on your small, porch balcony outside your bedroom and watch the darkness and swaying grass. You roll the night vision scope between your palms and feel the roughed, grip texture. You peer through it ever-so-often toward the barn. You consider joining Kaja, but you don’t want to leave Lukas in case he has another nightmare.
A floorboard creaks. The smell of gun oil permeates the air. Ghost sits in the chair beside you.
He asks, “what’s the story between the kids here? They got family on the outside?”
You bite your lip. “Not really.”
“What about their dad?”
“Agathi’s husband is dead.” You explain.
Ghost rests his elbows on his knees, “and the small one?”
You chose your next words carefully. “He’s alive. I tell him his dad is a soldier working hard to keep everyone safe.”
Ghost stares at you, unblinking, and his gaze is like holding a lit cigar to your skin.
“That the truth?” says Ghost gruffly.
The crickets chirp, a chorus, a symphony, lonely and desperate for connection.
“The truth would hurt everyone, ” You shrug.
“It would hurt him.” You look meaningfully over your shoulder toward Lukas’ bedroom door adjacent to your room.
Simon’s tone is commanding and harsh as nails, “tell me the truth.”
You squeeze your eyes closed. A swirl of black and purple spots spin on the canvas of your eyelids. You had hoped to avoid this conversation. But Simon has connected the dots and you played your hand too heavily when you told him you carried a guilty secret.
“Do you remember Al-Qunbar?” You ask.
He hums, “Mhm.”
It was the last place you and Ghost met. A city of dust and smoke, a marble fountain that gurgled with blood.
“I was Qadir’s mistress,” you begin, referring to the politician that governed Al-Qunbar, “that was my cover. It was not uncommon in their culture for people of power, regardless of gender, to have multiple partners or spouses. And they considered multiple children as a sign of virility and good fortune.”
You inhale slowly. This is the part of the story that is like traversing a minefield. You’ve imagined telling him, but never in your wildest dreams did you think you’d get the chance.
“Qadir had many children. But his regime was unstable. I begged him to send the children away. I groveled.” Your voice quivers and tears sting your eyes like wasps. You bite down on your lower lip and compose yourself.
“Qadir refused. He said we’d all go together in the end. He gave poison disguised as medicine to his wives, his mistresses, his personal guards…his children…his children…”
You knew those children. You cared for them. You scrub a hand over your face. Finding the courage to topple dictators or stare at the barrel of a loaded gun is easy. But looking at Simon is impossible. You focus on a spot in the dark, starry horizon. The high grass that surrounds your property sways like whispering dancers.
“I knew I couldn't’ save them all, so I chose Lukas.”
“Samira helped. She was Qadir’s midwife and served in his military as a doctor. The day Qadir was assassinated, I got Lukas out, but I couldn’t leave Al-Qunbar. Not yet. The extremists, the loyalists, the American agents. None of them could know he was alive. I need to make it seem like everyone in Qadir’s family perished in the uprising.”
The wooden chair creaks like an old ship underneath Simon’s weight.
“You were the one who torched his compound.” He says. It’s not a question. You wonder if he read the file. You wonder if anyone told him your undercover name and saw you were listed under ‘killed in action’. You wonder if Price mentioned his part in helping you escape from under the thumb of imperialism.
You nod. You burned Qadir’s house, and all the bodies within, and fled. You earned yourself a deep wound from a sniper at the town square before you reunited with Ghost’s team.
Simon scoffs, “I think you’re a bit of an arsonist, Lux.”
You recognize his attempt at humor, but you can’t summon the energy to smile. You’ve told him the background, you’ve set the stage, but you haven’t brought the main actors into the play. You haven’t revealed the truth.
Your voice scratches as it travels up your throat. “I told Qadir the baby was his, but the timing was off.”
“He’s yours, Simon.” You finish weakly and your heart capsizes inside your chest, “he’s ours.”
He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t look away. The mask hides everything from you and his eyes are guarded and cold. He will hate you. You are sure of it. He will hate you for lying, for not contacting him, for keeping Lukas.
You lift the night vision scope to your face to hide your hurt expression.
~~~~~~~~~
“Shit!” You jolt upright, blood pounds in your ears, and your eyes swivel across the black landscape. You peer through the night vision binoculars to assure you saw Kaja’s signal accurately. You’re not mistaken. She flashed her infrared twice. Trouble.
“What is it?” Ghost is beside you, alert.
“Kaja is in trouble.”
He huffs. You think there’s a question poised in his eyes, but then a burst of gunfire illuminates the darkness like white fireworks. You drop like a stone into fight-or-flight. You run into the adjoining bedroom and scoop Lukas into your arms, waking him, and he cries – startled – in your arms. There is nothing inside your head beyond the checklist of tasks you must complete for your sons’ safety.
“It’s alright, lovey. It’s just a storm.” You assure him.
You barrel down the hallway. James and Sven step into the hallway with Agathi clutching their shoulders. You swerve pass them, taking the steps hurriedly, your heartbeat thundering in your ears and drowning out the sounds of Lukas’ tears and the encroaching gunfire. You don’t bother to look behind you or check for Ghost. He doesn’t know the household protocol, but he can handle himself in a fight. You aren’t worried about him.
“If you get out of that wheelchair, I’ll kill you myself.” Samira snaps. She shoves a loaded shotgun into Soap’s hand. “Protect the little ones.”
You duck into the basement. The door is heavily fortified, and along with supplies, the back left corner equipped with an escape tunnel.
“Alright, there, there, sweet boy.” You kiss the side of Lukas’ head, “it’s going to be alright.” You bounce in him in your arms, kissing and repeating platitudes, promising him that everything will be OK. You never expected motherhood to come equipped with so many desperate lies.
Agathi opens her arms for him.
Lukas’ little fingers cling to your neck, unintentionally scratching, and he is grabbing your shirt, red-faced and screaming. You pry him off. Your heart breaks. Your mouth is dry. You swallow your tears as Agathi cradles your son to her chest and rocks him. Her steely blue eyes meet yours—fierce, red-rimmed, and determined. You share a meaningful, wordless look. You’ve always known the role you would play if shit hit the fan. Agathi and Samira are the protectors.
And you?
You’re the fucking executioner.
“Be safe.” James says, squeezing your hand once before you hurry upstairs. The second your foot hits the landing, Samira shuts the door and extinguishes her lamp. In near-darkness, Sven tosses a body armor vest toward you. You clip it hastily, grabbing equipment from the case, and affixing it to your body. You grab a few extra throwing knives and tuck them into the holster on your chest.
Ghosts’ footfalls are quick and deceptively quiet as he comes downstairs, “counted five approaching.”
“There’s likely more with Kaja.” Samira says knowingly, pinning her dark hair away from her face and scowling.
“What’s the plan?” asks Soap.
“Defend the house.” You nod toward the basement door, “this door especially. If there’s any risk of breaching, hit the switch here, and they know to get the fuck out.”
You walk confidently backwards and toward the door, “if I don’t come back—assume I’m dead and don’t come looking for me.”
You spin on your heel and slip through the partially ajar door. You knew the conflict would eventually reach your doorstep, but you wish it hadn’t happened when you had so much to lose inside. Their flashlights cut through reeds of tall grass and flicker like ghosts across the lawn. They’re shouting at each other in Noreth’s native language. You’re not fluent, but you get an idea of the instruction, and you weave through the grass. Your fingers curl around the knife’s grip.
A low hum of insects buzz around your sweaty face and tall grass whispers as you move through it. You sharpen your focus. The moon illuminates the silent battlefield in a ghastly, blue-white subdued glow. You taste salt on your lips. You cling onto the memory of Simon’s warm, deep eyes. If you died here, or fucked it up, he’d never let you hear the end of it.
You catch your breath in your lungs. You attack, swift and deadly, your knife plunging wetly into your target’s chest. You vanish into the grass, crouched low, and using the light breeze to your advantage. You move with the wind, in bleached moonlight, and you strike down his partner before the others notice. The assailants approaching the front yard were easy. They spread themselves thin, they were too jumpy, and they held their rifles awkwardly. You surmised based on their gait and posture that they were newer—likely fresh recruits.
The three approaching the back entrance wouldn’t be so simple. They move cohesively with experience. You weigh your odds. You can kill one, but the other two will engage with you. If this had been any other mission, you would divert their attention slowly, pick them off using traps and tricks. However, the sands of time are pouring through your fingers, and you’ve got people inside to protect. A man you want to talk to, a child you want to raise, a friend you need to see again.
You test the weight of the throwing knife in your palm. It’s risky. But what choice do you have? These fuckers likely have reinforcements at the barn. Kaja is in danger. You grit your jaw and find the best position among swishing grass and damp, spongy earth.
You wait for the flashlight to illuminate his partner. Your knife spins in the dark, twirling, unseen and the target exclaims a short – “Ah!” as the blade sticks into the meat of his shoulder.
It’s off-mark. You leap to the second target, spry and agile. You are a weapon of death, a herald of doom. Your knife cuts across his throat in brutal efficiency and soaks your wrist in hot blood. You pivot, tucking your arm, and use the target’s body as a meat shield as they fire several rounds at you. You count the bullets.
He spasms and jerks against you as bullets whiz by and you wait for the reload. They might be experienced, but they’re spooked enough to fire all their ammunition simultaneously. You drop the body the second you hear the resounding click of an empty chamber. You draw your silenced pistol. Your last resort. Your breath catches in your lungs.
There’s only one man in front of you. You fire your shot. It goes through your target’s throat. He gurgles wetly, painfully, before falling backward. You scan the area for the threat, the missing attacker, but suddenly something hits you in the back of the skull.
Sharp and biting pain blossoms and stars dance in front of your vision. Their forearm wraps around your throat, pinning you to their chest, the muzzle of their sidearm pistol against your temple. Your time off the field has made you sloppy. Overconfident. Careless. You mentally berate yourself and plant your feet to try and throw him off before he can pull the trigger.
A bullet rings through the darkness. A torrent of hot blood and chunks of bone splatters wetly onto your cheek and side of your head. Your target collapses into you and you roughly shoulder him away. Half of his skull is missing and his brains and blood gushes over the marshland.
You look toward the house. You can’t see Ghost’s sniper scope in the darkness, but you feel it. You feel him watching. You holster your gun. You walk away from the house and toward the barn. To Kaja. To finish your hunt.
~~~~~~~~~
Ghost watches the flashlights disappear from your window. He has every intention of providing cover fire with his sniper—if you need it. He is watching you through the scope, remembering Spain, and his cold heart pangs weakly. He isn’t sure how he feels about you. He wants to be angry for keeping secrets. But, that’s bollocks, isn’t it? You both come from special ops backgrounds, from troves of classified files, and hell—his identity has been a secret for years. You don’t even know what he looks like. The kid’s got my eyes. There’s some small part of him that carries on throughout the world and you’re the only two people who know about it.
He doesn’t have a leg to stand on when it comes to being angry. You made the right call. You kept the kid—Lukas—safe. His kid. Ghost’s throat threatens to tighten. He shoves it down. The feeling smolders inside his chest. It’s not like it matters. You’ll go your separate ways once Soap is cleared to evac. Assuming everyone lives after this evening, he thinks wryly. He adjusts his hold on his sniper and breathes deeply.
A burst of gunfire crackles in the distance. He swings his scope to the swaying reeds. One of the targets have veered off into the darkness while the other fills his dead friend with bullets. He catches brief flashes of your body, hunched, before you duck from beneath cover and stand—your form exquisite and lethal. A muted flash appears before the muzzle of your gun.
The second target appears from the darkness and grapples you. Ghost holds his breath. His finger hovers over the trigger. The pistol touches your skin. He imagines it firing. He imagines your body going inert and dropping like a sack of rocks into the strangers’ arms. His jaw clenches. He has seconds to react. The targets’ face hovers next to yours.
He fires. An explosion of blood and brain and bone spews around your head. You knock the body contemptuously away and somehow manage to meet his eyes through the rifle scope. Ghost’s heart thumps painful and hard into his ribs. You’re half-covered in someone else’s blood like the final girl in a slasher horror film. He thinks of kissing you. You turn and vanish into the darkness. He releases the breath he was holding.
Samira swings into the room, hand clutching the doorframe, “Ghost.” She says, “I need you to go to the barn.” Her tone brokers no argument. Despite that, however, he still says…
“Why?”
“Kaja’s not back yet which means she didn’t escape.”
“How’d you know?”
Samira huffs, “we have a system of triggers and alarms and codes. She hasn’t signaled the all-clear.”
“Could mean she’s dead.”
Her gaze darkens, “they do not often kill women in Noreth. They make them suffer first. Go. An order, Ghost. It’s an order.”
He dislikes taking orders from her, but Samira has your trust, and that means something. And although you claim you don’t have a hierarchy at the haven, it’s clear they look to you for leadership, and Samira is your second.
His head is still fucked from everything. But he’s thankful for the clarity of battle—of conflict and fighting—it gives him something to focus on. He follows the tracks you made through the grass. The air smells like car exhaust fumes, and gun smoke, and dark, damp earth.
“Leave her alone!” Your voice jabs into his gut like a well-placed and serrated knife. Ghost moves silently through the brush. His blood is hot and pounding in his neck.
The glaring headlamps of their truck illuminates your bruised face. Your teeth glisten wet and red. There is more blood covering you, but he can’t tell what’s yours and what isn’t. Someone has you pinned to the ground, your hands behind your back, and your legs are pinned by a second body. The man in front of you drops to a crouch and speaks lowly. Ghost doesn’t hear what he says. Your gaze hardens and your lips press into a tight line.
Your eyes move past the man speaking to you. Your gaze strikes his through the blades of swaying grass and encroaching, tall weeds. Your eyes are red-rimmed and filled with vengeful tears like the oil-painting of Lucifer.
“Bring them both in!” The man pinches your jaw roughly, his tone scathing, “You will sing like a songbird for me, little viper.”
Your jaw shifts. You spit a bloody glob of salvia into his face.
“Bitch!” He yells. He back-hands you, and you head lolls sideways into the dirt, wheezing, a fresh cut blooms on your lower lip. Rage burns through him, hot and corrosive, across every limb, every nerve, until he’s certain the dry vegetation around him is going to burst into flames. He’s never wanted to tear somebody limb-from-limb before. Not ‘till this moment.
He’s shaking. He realizes it almost distantly, like he’s not inside his body, like he’s viewing everything from a sniper’s scope but he’s without his calculated, cold ease. A voice inside his head informs him of the amount of bullets he has, the target locations, and the cover the barn could provide.
Kaja’s lilting voice appears from somewhere near the back of the truck—her words are thick with phlegm and barely distinguishable—but Ghost can tell she’s begging. He can hear it in her tone, how she sobs around the broken syllables. It’s not you who will break. It’s Kaja. Young, inexperienced Kaja. Another voice inside his head tells him he needs to silence her before she blows his cover or more importantly, your cover and the safety of Lukas. There’s only one target with Kaja and his back is to the shadows. Big mistake.
He shifts into the dark, lush undergrowth. He circles around the barn. You’re still goading the leader. He suspects you’re doing it to keep the focus away from Kaja, to take her pain, because you know she’s fragile and you’re trained to take it. He hears your brusque, insulting tone and it is nearly always followed with the sharp, biting sound of his skin striking yours. His heartrate skyrockets.
He’s shaking again. He bites his lower lip, tasting copper and salt, and it forcefully yanks him back to reality. He creeps through the darkness. He strikes. His large palm covers the target’s mouth, dragging him backward into the shadows, he snaps his neck quickly and efficiently. He drags the body into the grass and approaches the truck bed where Kaja is tied with a black canvas bag over her head.
“Please!” She’s trembling. “We’re just a little farm! We’re not rebels!”
Ghost yanks the bag over her head. She meets his gaze with glossy, frightened eyes. He motions one finger to his mouth. He doesn’t have time to cut the ropes that dig into her bony, bird-like wrists. He grabs her and pulls her from the truck. The weight is shifted and the springs beneath the back tires groan and squeak.
His blood curdles with the abrupt sound of your scream when his boots hit the grass. Every instinct in him wants to—to drop Kaja and fire every bullet into the men that circle you like hungry lions. He resists. If you’re screaming, then it’s part of the act. You wouldn’t give these slimy assholes the satisfaction. He believes that.
He drags Kaja into the darkness.
“We need to go back!” She whispers harshly when they’re several minutes away from the barn, “untie me. We need to save her.”
Ghost says nothing.
<< Part Three (Final) >>
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
TAG LIST: @k1llerch4n // idk why sometimes it looks like it works and othertimes it DONT.
@iwantmethgivememeth // @levisbebe // @solidly-indulgent
#ghost x reader#simon ghost riley x reader#simon ghost riley x you#simon ghost riley reader insert#simon ghost riley fanfic#simon ghost riley#simon riley x reader#call of duty fanfic#ghost cod x reader#call of duty modern warfare fanfic#ghost x you#ghost simon riley imagine#ghost x y/n#ghost x female reader#ghost mw2#ghost mw2 x you
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Also Shadowheart/Asheera, B9? I swear you did write something like this before but hey, new angles,
I have written something to this effect before, but like you said - new angles and all that. Plus, it's not like it's something that Shadowheart just "gets over" you know? Either way, thank you for requesting this one!
Let's end the prompt bash with my two favorite ladies 💜
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B9. Convinced that their past makes them irredeemable, Character A struggles with Character B's affections
(This technically takes place after Chapter 2 of one of my ongoing fics, Blades in the Night, but all you need for context is that it's post-canon)
Night fell on the Trade Way, stars in haphazard patterns that Shadowheart couldn't read for any constellations.
All she saw were dots of light in the sea of darkness. Seams in the black fabric of night, none of them strong enough to light the world. The moon was dim that night. All was dark save for the small fire she and Asheera built together.
Stargazing kept her mind from staring at the shadows of the trees around them. Yet another forest.
More trees. More hiding places for the Sharran assassins set on ruining what future Shadowheart thought she could have. Each of the shadows in those trees, distant enough that her darkvision couldn't reach them, could have been a shifting figure with a nocked arrow.
"Quiet tonight," whispered Asheera near her.
She was sitting next to Shadowheart by the fire. When she sat down, Shadowheart didn't know.
"I suppose it is. Not much reason for most to travel this way, I assume." Shadowheart glanced her way, then returned her gaze to the sky.
"I meant you."
"Oh."
The low hunting call of a nocturnal bird was the only sound on the road for a handful of breaths. Shadowheart couldn't keep her eyes off the stars.
All around them they were bathed in darkness, yet still they shone. Did the stars too, then, understand what it felt like to consider the darkness? Think it preferable? Did whichever god that hung them in the sky know the feel of its creator's blood on its hands as Shadowheart felt of her parents? Had that god ever heard its parents scream as it worked the interrogator's techniques on them in ignorant devotion to some other, greater god?
It must have. Its work showed in the sky. On some mornings, the sky bled red, and the clouds were stained the same way Shadowheart knew her hands were stained.
Tainted.
"Love, are you all right?" asked Asheera, her voice so soft that Shadowheart shivered at its softness. Her hand fell on Shadowheart's shoulder, thumb rubbing gently. "You've been quiet for hours."
"Have I?" Shadowheart turned to stare at the hand on her. When she tilted her head up to look at Asheera, her tusks glinted in the firelight. "If I said I was contemplating the night sky, would you laugh at me?"
"Depends on why. I have a feeling it's not exactly a humorous occasion."
Waiting a moment, Shadowheart sighed. She didn’t know how to word this. "When you see a star in the night's sky, what do you think of it?"
Asheera shifted her jaw, grinding her tusks against her lip as she thought. Her brows knitted together above the bridge of her nose. "I see a forge weld, like pieces of a breastplate stitched together. Each of those stars keeps the world from falling into total darkness. They're beautiful that way. Why, what do you see?"
"Naïve children that think they can fend off eternal darkness. Destined to die, fade away. Become nothing."
At once, Asheera sat closer, her arm shifting to hold Shadowheart at the waist. Her arm wrapped around Shadowheart and pulled her tight. She was warm. Warmer than the fire. Instinctively, Shadowheart rested her head on Asheera's shoulder. Despite the distance - perhaps because of the oath Asheera swore to protect her - Shadowheart swore she could hear the echo of her heartbeat.
She was so damn warm, and Shadowheart could only think of the darkness blanketing the light in the sky. How a star could be snuffed out in an instant, replaced instantly by shadows.
Shadowheart's breaths hitched. For a moment, she worried her thoughts mingled with Asheera's mind. But the tadpole was gone. Her thoughts were her own, completely free from unfortunate sharing or melding of emotions.
The warmth of Asheera's body enveloped her deeper as Asheera slid her palm down Shadowheart's arm. Close, covered in that palm. Fingers slipped between hers. Held tight.
"You have no reason to fear that," whispered Asheera. "You are not that darkness."
"I broke people for decades. Including my own parents."
"You didn't know—"
"And that absolves me? That's meant to stop me from remembering what I've done?" Shadowheart growled, lifting her head to meet Asheera's gaze. "And what would you know of such loss?"
The words tasted like poison, specifically the extract of carrion crawler innards that could paralyze and trigger violent spasms in its victim. Acrid like burnt flowers. Disgust welled at the bottom of her throat, and she meant to turn away from Asheera, but she could only stare into the deep, ruddy brown eyes that searched her face.
She expected Asheera to pull away.
Instead, she reaffirmed her grip on Shadowheart's hand.
Instead of pulling away, she smiled weakly.
Instead of leaving Shadowheart to wallow in that darkness, Asheera said, "It's not meant to do anything. It's a reminder. But I understand. I understand, though if you think I'm going to sit idly while you compare yourself to the empty night sky, you're more clueless than I expected."
"You think me clueless, then?"
"Let’s just say that I remember hearing the zealot that I met on a floating squid ship regurgitate Sharran dogma." Asheera lifted the corner of her mouth in a curved half-smile. "She was so very different from the smiling drunk that said she cared about refugees."
And somehow, Shadowheart smiled again. She nearly laughed too.
Rather than say a word and ruin what Asheera offered with open arms, Shadowheart nestled back into her embrace.
The two of them watched the stars until the fire became a glimmering, constant light that refused to die. Though they were wrapped in the dark for a moment, darkvision revealing the world in grayscale again, the stars still shone.
#bg3 fanfiction#shadowheart#shadowtav#shadowheart x tav#oc: asheera#my fic#anotheropti prompt fics#I'm addicted to this sorta fic concept in a way that's certainly pathological#I'll probably write it a dozen times more by the end of the year alone tbqh#have these ficlets that take place in other fics been my attempt to get myself to write more of those moments?#who can say - surely not I#I'll also eventually add this to BitN like I did for Scenes!#Probably tomorrow when I have some spare time
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I Had a Dream About You by Richard Siken
All the cows were falling out of the sky and landing in the mud. You were drinking sangria and I was throwing oranges at you.
But it didn’t matter. I said my arms are very long and your head’s on fire
I said kiss me here and here and here
And you did
Then you wanted pasta
So we trampled out into the tomatoes and rolled around to make the sauce
You were very beautiful
We were in the Safeway parking lot. I couldn’t find my cigarettes
You said Hurry up! but I was worried there would be a holdup
And we would be stuck in a hostage situation, hiding behind
The frozen meats, with nothing to smoke for hours
You said Don’t be silly
So I followed you into the store
We were thumping the melons when I heard somebody say Nobody move!
I leaned over and whispered in your ear I told you so
There was a show on the television about buried treasure. You were trying to convince me that we should buy shovels
And go out into the yard and I was trying to convince you that I was a vampire
On the way to the hardware store I kept biting your arm
And you said if I really was a vampire I would be biting your neck
So I started biting your neck
And you said Cut it out!
And you bought me an ice cream, and then we saw the UFO
These are the dreams we should be having. I shouldn’t have to
Clean them up like this
You were lying in the middle of the empty highway
The sky was red and the sand was red and you were wearing a brown coat
There were flecks of foam in the corners of your mouth
The birds were watching you
Your eyes were closed and you were listening to the road and I could hear your breathing, I could hear your heart beating. I carried you to the car and drove you home but you weren’t making any sense
I took a shower and tried to catch my breath
You were lying on top of the bedspread
In boxer shorts, watching cartoons and laughing but not making any sound. Your skin looked blue in the television light
Your teeth looked yellow. Still wet, I lay down next to you. Your arms, your legs, your naked chest
Your ribs delineated like a junkyard dogs. There’s nowhere to go, I thought. There’s nowhere to go
You were sitting in a bathtub at the hospital and you were crying
You said it hurt
I mean the buildings that were not the hospital
I shouldn’t have mentioned the hospital
I don’t think I can take this much longer
In the dream I don’t tell anyone, you put your head in my lap. Let’s say you’re driving down the road with your eyes closed
But my eyes are also closed
You’re by the side of the road
You’re by the side of the road and you’re doing all the talking
While I stare at my shoes. They’re nice shoes, brown and comfortable, and I like your voice
In the dream I don’t tell anyone, I’m afraid to wake you up
In these dreams it’s always you:
The boy in the sweatshirt
The boy on the bridge, the boy who always keeps me
From jumping off the bridge
Oh, the things we invent when we are scared and want to be rescued
Your jeep. Your teeth. The coffee that you bought me. The sandwich cut in half on the plate
I woke up and ate ice cream in the dark
Hunched over on the wooden chair in the kitchen
Listening to the rain
I borrowed your shoes and didn’t put them away
You were crying and eating rice
The surface of the water was still and bright
Your feet were burning so I put my hands on them, but my hands
Were burning too
You had a bottle of pills but I wouldn’t let you swallow them. You said Will you love me even more when Im dead?
And I said No, and I threw the pills on the sand
Look at them, you said. They look like emeralds
I put you in the cage with the ocelots. I was trying to fatten you up
With sausage and bacon
Somehow you escaped and climbed up the branches of a pear tree. I chopped it down but there was no one in it
I went to the riverbed to wait for you to show up. You didn't show up
I kept waiting
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Dean doesn’t have to drive far before he finds Cas. He’d had a hunch Cas might be waiting for him no matter the direction he went, but still he can’t help the sigh of relief he lets out when he sees the slump of Cas’ shoulders among the trees.
He doesn’t have to walk far, either, once he’s pulled the Impala into the grass beside the road and let the metal door shut behind him with a creak. He’s in the forest after a few paces—it’s a pretty forest, all green and overgrown, the tan of Cas’ coat standing out purely for its dullness. Cas’ back is to him and he’s looking down at something, hands in his pockets, but the rigidity with which he holds himself gives away his awareness of Dean’s presence. Cas won’t turn toward him but will angle his head so Dean can see the sharp line of his cheekbone, like he’s any sort of thing that would need ears to gauge how close Dean is.
Dean has half a mind to hesitate, to stop and take a deep breath and collect his thoughts or something, but he’s so fucking tired of not being near Cas and of schooling how much he gives away to Cas in every conversation that he walks up so their shoulders are inches apart and he doesn’t think twice about it. He looks down to take in what Cas is looking at and finds a small pond with a few muddy-gray fish scooting their bellies across the silt. Dean thinks Cas might be gearing up for a speech about the fish and creation and humanity, something nice and cinematic to bookend their journey, but instead Cas says, “Hello, Dean.”
That works, too. At least Dean knows how to respond to that one. “Heya, Cas.”
They’re silent for a second.
“Sam?” says Cas.
“Went off to the Roadhouse. Wanted to see Bobby and Ellen and Jo,” says Dean. “But you knew that already.”
“Mm. I did.”
They both watch the fish drift. One comes close enough to the surface to form gentle ripples in the water.
Then Dean is smiling, because he can see Cas out of the corner of his eye, see the way he shifts and fidgets and is so clearly also looking at Dean out of the corner of his own eye. It occurs to Dean that Cas is nervous—that after everything they’ve been through, after the end of the world, after Cas’ big sacrifice, this angel of the Lord is nervous to speak to his best friend of twelve years. Dean can’t help but take the opportunity to tease him.
“What, did you think we’d never talk about it?”
A pause. Cas half-grumbles, “I thought I’d have a few decades to prepare something to say.”
And then Dean is laughing and laughing and bent over double with it because this whole thing is so fucking absurd and he’s so happy to be standing here next to Cas, weird and awkward Cas who pulled him out of Hell and told Dean he was in love with him just months ago. Cas who he thought he had lost forever. Dean laughs so hard he cries and then he—he cries, and cries, and he’s not laughing anymore. It happens fast and hard. Cas finally turns to him, eyes wide and hands suspended in front of him like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to touch. Dean’s sniveling and holding his jacket sleeve under his nose so his face doesn’t get all snotty but he probably looks fucking gross anyway, the way the tears won’t stop coming. Cas says, “Dean?” all worried and concerned. Dean practically falls forward into him, wraps his arms around Cas’ waist to clutch at the back of his coat and shakes when Cas immediately holds him in return.
“I missed you so bad,” Dean sobs into Cas’ shoulder. “I missed you so bad. I thought I would never see you again. I missed you so bad.”
“Oh,” Cas breathes. “I’m here. It’s okay. I’m right here.” Cas hugs him tighter, leaving no spaces between their bodies. His voice breaks a little when he says, “I missed you, too.”
They stand like that for a moment. The forest buzzes around them, twiddling with birds and squirrels and insects. Dean breathes Cas in, feels him warm and safe and real in his arms. It’s a small piece of Earth here in Heaven. Unlike any other time before, Dean lets himself lean into it, touch Cas without Death looming over their shoulders. It feels good.
Dean does calm down after a few minutes, and as much as he would love to freeze time and stay suspended in that moment, he knows he can have even more if he gives it one last push. He pulls away, Cas’ hands sliding off his coat, lingering. “Sorry,” he says, a little embarrassed despite himself.
“Don’t be,” says Cas, in a way a that shows he really means it. Dean clears his throat and looks at him. Cas looks back. The whole thing is so achingly familiar, so akin to how they were when they first met. Even when Cas was alien and unknowable and potentially a threat, Dean always had to stifle the breathless thrill of having Cas’ attention. He doesn’t stifle it now.
He hasn’t quite internalized all the things Cas said to him, but he can see Cas was telling the truth about one thing—he is clearly so happy to be standing at the edge of this pond with Dean. Nothing in his gaze is asking for something more.
And as much as Cas would argue differently, Dean isn’t as good as him. He was never content just wanting. He had long ago accepted that he could never have Cas, sure, had recognized that he would spend the rest of his life with a horrible ache in his chest, that he would white-knuckle the wheel of the Impala to keep himself from touching. But he couldn’t find peace with it. Love rotted in him like a body at the bottom of a well. He spent a long time thinking it would kill him and kill Cas too, that it was a weapon to be used against them both, that the heat of his gaze would actually burn Cas if he looked long enough. He still has to choke down those half-formed thoughts when he looks at Cas now and can see in his eyes that he loves Dean without reservation, that despite everything he doesn’t think of Dean’s love as a death sentence. That he wants him.
Dean’s mind was made up the second Bobby had mentioned Cas’ name on the porch. It took him too long to untangle that part of himself that couldn’t separate loving men from danger, but he did untangle it, in the end.
“I know I can do it,” Dean says, both to Cas and to himself, “but I think it might be hard.”
Cas’ brow flickers in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“This,” he answers, gesturing lamely at the two of them, at the space between them. He swallows, steels himself, thinks of all the words he spent the nights since Cas died murmuring into his pillow, deliriously drunk. “I don’t know— I don’t know how to be this to someone— to you. I’ve never— and you’re—”
He’s getting frustrated, is upset that after thinking so long and hard about this moment for so many years he somehow still doesn’t know how to explain to Cas how much he means to him, how much he wants him, how hard it is to beat down his self-hatred and accept that he might just deserve Cas, too. But Christ, he wants to try.
“Dean?” Cas says. Dean can see in his expression the flowering bud of hope. He is so beautiful.
“I love you too,” Dean says, because it’s the best explanation he can give. His heart is beating so hard he can feel it in his throat. Cas blinks; his mouth drops open. “God, Cas, you have to know that. Of course I love you too.”
“You mean...?” Cas can’t finish the question. He’s looking at Dean like a man finding faith, finding Heaven. Dean feels so overwhelmed and so happy for the two of them and surely he’s still red from crying before, but again he feels himself burning.
“I’ve been yours,” he chokes out. “You can have me. Please.”
Cas kisses Dean. It happens so fast that Dean feels it coming rather than sees it, feels Cas’ hands on his face, feels himself be tugged forward. Cas’ hands are shaking and Dean’s are too when he grips the front of Cas’ shirt and the back of his neck, eyes closed tight, learning the shape of his mouth. It’s hard and a little desperate and not at all artful, and Dean’s whole self feels a bit like an open wound but Cas is healing him, like he always has, like he has since the beginning.
Dean pulls away for air but doesn’t pull far, keeping his forehead pressed to Cas’ and his eyes shut. Cas’ thumb strokes his cheekbone. “Dean,” Cas says, and Dean takes a deep, shuddering breath. The way Cas says his name doesn’t scare him anymore.
Dean opens his eyes. He smiles. “Hi,” he says.
Cas smiles back.
**
They’re sitting in the Impala, Dean’s hand on Cas’ thigh, when Cas asks, “What do you want to do now?”
Dean pauses, thinks. The answer to what do you want has been Cas for so long, but he never let himself think far enough to decide what he would do if he ever got him. He’s safe, Cas is safe, Sam is safe. Realistically, he shouldn’t want for anything.
He looks out the Impala’s windshield, smooths the hand not holding Cas over the steering wheel. He knows that he loves this car with everything he is—that for a long time it was the only home he had. He also knows that he’s tired of the road. Desire has always come too easily to Dean.
“I think I’ll build us a house,” he answers, and immediately he knows it’s the right thing to do. They can pick a spot wherever Cas wants—Dean’s not picky. It’ll be something solid, something with walls that he built with trees he cut himself. Something that reflects the home he already built for Cas, the one that lives between his ribs.
Cas’ eyes light up. “I like that plan,” he says. “I want that, too.”
Years ago, Cas had sat in Dean’s passenger seat and asked him if he would rather have peace or freedom. Dean never got the chance to answer him.
Dean leans across the seat and kisses Cas again, open-mouthed, slow. He does it for him now and for the version of himself who mourned the distance between them. It’s answer enough.
#spn#supernatural#deancas#destiel#15x20 coda#i know the finale happened so long ago and also isn't real but i had to try my hand#i'll reblog this when the europeans wake up 🏃♀️#my fanfiction
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You’re Just a Boy in a Blueberry Field
No fruit is sweeter than a summer love.
member: haechan
au: blueberry farmer!haechan x gn!reader
word count: 5.0k
genre: fluff, very light angst
warnings: mentions of food
author’s note: It’s here! I actually wrote most of this last summer, but only recently did I find the time to edit and get it ready to be posted. I added some parts and changed a few things, and now I like it quite a lot, so I hope you do as well! Thank you @astroboy-lele for beta-reading :) As always I would love to hear any feedback on this, and I hope that you enjoy the fic!
taglist: @astroboy-lele @kyuwoyo @rvse-hvvck @nakamotocore @kisshim @leejunini @chicksung @mrkcore @radiorenjun @moon-jun @jisungiest @stayctday @byutafy @jujubean23 @treasurehobi @bluejaem @lyshoonn @vera-liscious @allegxdly @cupfullofjeno @thats-a-jen-no-no @yo-ddream
network tags: @kpopscape @neo-constellations @culture-cafe @dreamlab-nct @k-dinernet
Thank you lovely Ana @rvse-hvvck for this additional header!
Donghyuck knows everything there is to know about those blueberries.
Without even pausing for the briefest of moments to think, to instinctively recall the information instilled in him throughout his childhood spent on the farm, he can answer any question that’s thrown at him. He can point out just the right color of berry to pick so that they’ll be ripe when you eat them later. Likewise, he can also tell you which ones are best to eat now, as you pick them, pretending not to notice when you pop one or two into your mouth and grinning when your eyes light up from the sweetness.
A day comes where he, filled with mischief as usual, places a not-so-ripe blueberry into your hand, and you, being so wrapped up in the peacefulness of the morning that surrounds you, fail to notice its red color and don’t think twice about lifting it to your lips, biting into it with your teeth. When the tart taste meets your tongue, your face contorts into an expression that elicits a raucous fit of laughter from him. You’re the first one in the fields that day. When the sun had risen on the horizon, the fleeting touch of color in the sky that dawn left behind still lingering above, he had been there, sitting on the front porch as always to greet customers.
Donghyuck knows every bug that loves to rest on the branches of the blueberry bushes. After spending so much time next to you as you scan them for the pops of vivid blues and purples that are hidden behind jade green leaves, he begins to learn that you are not fond of any bug, no matter how harmless. It’s cute, he thinks, how you inspect every berry that you drop into your basket, fearing that some small creature is lurking on it. If you do find something, he hears a small noise of both surprise and disgust before you fling the perfectly good berry away from you. It also hurts a little, knowing that it’s one less for you to take home.
When more people arrive at the farm after you, he’s forced to leave your side and get them started on their own search for the delicious fruit that’s nestled among the branches of nearly every bush. And if they ask where the best ones are, he specifically points them in the direction of the fields where you aren’t. It isn’t a lie, really, because they’ve had a good harvest everywhere this year.
...Okay, so maybe it’s a little selfish on his part, but who can blame him for wanting you to have some of the most plentiful bushes all to yourself?
Wednesdays are his favorite because it’s always the least crowded of all the mornings they’re open for business, and he can spend more time following you as you make your way down the rows, admiring the focus on your face and the way that you sometimes pause mid-reach, closing your eyes and standing still as the sun peeks through the clouds and casts its warm glow down onto the farm. A gentle sigh tumbles from your lips, darkened by the violet nectar that remains from the countless blueberries that have crossed their usually pink-tinted threshold. You resume your search after a few seconds, catching his eye and returning a smile he didn’t even know was there.
He makes the berries taste a little sweeter when he’s next to you. The purple juice that stains your fingers is a little darker. The sun feels brighter and warmer than ever, its heat shining down onto your skin.
One particular morning, after you finish picking all the blueberries you can carry, you decide to accompany Donghyuck on the porch, sitting beside each other in matching rocking chairs that first belonged to his great-grandparents, the farm’s founders. The familiar sounds of birds chirping and the low mumbling amongst customers meet your ears. You both gaze fondly at the horizon while immersed in casual chatter, all the while tending to several families as they come and go.
Whenever a car turns off of the two-lane, paved road and onto the noisy gravel path leading into a small grassy area that functions as a parking lot, Donghyuck excuses himself from the lively conversation both of you always find yourselves sharing. He stands, brushing his hands off on his faded denim overalls that are only slightly too large for his frame. His hand lifts up the baseball cap he always wears while the other runs through his hair, and your gaze falls on the back of his neck where it rests in longer strands. You always wonder why he keeps it like that since he complains about how hot it makes him feel. The humid summer air is stifling enough as it is, after all. The thought vanishes only moments after it arrives, though, and he flashes a brilliant grin at you over his shoulder as he descends the wooden stairs leading down to the patio.
Today, a happy looking family gets out of a shiny silver minivan. The mother and father with two kids, a boy and a girl, make their way toward the covered patio and Donghyuck bounds down the steps like always, grabbing 4 stacked pails in his calloused hands. You lean forward a little in the creaky old rocking chair, your weight in your toes, ears just barely picking up his conversation with them. He greets the parents warmly, shaking their hands and then he kneels down to be eye-level with the small children. The little boy seems shy as he clasps his fingers in front of him, thumbs twiddling back and forth, while his sister is clearly the opposite. She skips over to the much taller boy, saying hello.
“Do you two like blueberries?” He asks them, one arm resting on his knee and the other extending a pail out in front of him. The young girl nods enthusiastically before she takes the container from his hand and turns around, passing it to her brother as he nods, making eye contact with Donghyuck for the first time. A small smile grows on his face when he’s met with the wider one of the unfamiliar but still welcoming stranger. His sister speaks up again, “Every Friday we get to help Mom make her famous blueberry pie!”
“Is that right?”
“Yep! In the morning we always go to the supermarket and get fresh blueberries,” she explains. Her mother leans down, softly telling her that this week they’re here to pick blueberries instead, fresh from the farm they were grown on.
“Really? So that means we’re not buying them at the store anymore?”
“Well, honey, today we can pick enough blueberries to last us for a whole month’s worth of blueberry pies.”
“And besides,” Donghyuck starts, still kneeling on the ground next to her, his boot leaving an imprint in the dirt underneath it, “it’ll taste even better since you picked them yourselves, don’t you think?” The boy punctuates his question with a wink.
The young boy steps up for the first time, grin stretching even wider as he finds the courage to happily agree with the wise words. Exclaiming eagerly and in a way that only a child can, he takes his sister by the hand that’s not holding his small bucket before scurrying off, their parents close behind after grabbing pails for each other as well as a third that their daughter had forgotten in the midst of the excitement.
As Donghyuck joins you on the porch once again, you can’t help but smile as you remember how he interacts with each and every customer that passes through the weathered fence surrounding the property. When he talks to kids in particular, his eyes seem to light up, and you see just how much of a kid he still is deep down. His playfulness never fails to make an appearance whenever you spend time with him.
You’re thankful for the moo of a cow in the distance that interrupts his question of why you’re smiling like an idiot and hopefully drowns out the steady sound of your pounding heart.
The next week he tells you that the rest of his family is out of town, and he’s been left with the responsibility of running the farm all on his own. He usually does most of the work himself these days anyway since he’s getting older and more mature, although some of his jokes say otherwise. You miss the way his mom would poke her head out of the upstairs window of the main house, calling out a greeting to you both from across the property, overjoyed at the sight of her son spending time with the particular customer he’s mentioned so many times before. Whether he would share an amusing anecdote of yours with his siblings at the dinner table or point out something that reminded him of you, it was far too easy for her to figure out how he feels about you.
In an effort to spend more time with him, keep him company and just help out in general, you offer to stay at the house with him for a little while. Or at least until his family gets back from their trip, and to your delight, he agrees. You arrive in the late evening, on a day when the fields are closed, just in time to catch the setting sun as it disappears behind the trees and power lines that seem to stretch for miles in the distance. Tugging an overnight bag of belongings with you, you knock twice on the wood of his front door.
It opens swiftly and Donghyuck welcomes you inside, wearing an apron that he must have outgrown 10 years ago, at least. You snicker at the snug choice of attire and he shoves your shoulder, though not with enough force to make you stumble. He whines a little in that saccharine-sweet voice of his that makes your heart clench, but you don’t give in. Not this time.
When the farm is closed for the day, the family has a chance to pick from some of the bushes that are planted in a more secluded area, all to ensure that they also have a big enough supply of the fruit to last them for the season. So Donghyuck had woken up at the crack of dawn, although you aren’t sure why. He had made his way downstairs and out into the dewy air of the morning, gathering just enough blueberries to bake a cobbler that night when you came over, since he’d learned it was your favorite treat after hours of conversation about anything and everything. The recipe comes straight from his great-grandfather, he informs you, and it’s written on a yellowing piece of paper in handwriting that you couldn’t read even if you tried. He, however, can somehow decode the seemingly nonsensical swirls and lines on the page. You suppose it’s part of the magic of the family recipe that gets passed down with it.
Donning an apron yourself, you join him at the sink as you begin washing the berries, gently grabbing a handful at a time as you let the tap water clean them. When you both reach into the large container at the same time, your hands brush and you almost scoff at the swell of your heart that you feel inside your chest.
As you’re working together to make the batter that you will soon pour into his mother’s finest glass baking pan, Donghyuck briskly swipes his fingertip on the side of the bowl where the mixer had splattered the combined ingredients, extending it in your direction. You raise an eyebrow at the boy and said fingertip before turning your head away.
“If you really think that I would lick that off your finger, then you’re terribly mistaken.”
Coyly, the mischief-maker in question retorts back as you glance at his impishly delighted expression. “Are you sure?”
“Positive,” you state rather firmly, but matching the mirth in his eyes with a glimmer of amusement in your own. “I’ll settle for the spatula, thanks.”
“Suit yourself.” Donghyuck rolls his eyes, your answer completely expected. At least he tried.
You won’t deny that you enjoy sampling a bit of the batter of a dessert as much as anyone. But not that much.
Left with no choice, he takes himself up on his own offer and sticks his finger into his mouth with an audible ‘pop,’ exaggerating the action just to get a rise out of you, feeling the upward curl of his lips when you react ever so slightly with a silent chuckle.
You’re adding the last bit of flour to the mixture when you accidentally get some of the powdery substance on your hand in the process. Turning the automatic mixer off, you momentarily forget about your stained skin and you make the mistake of wiping your face with the back of your wrist, smearing the white stuff on your cheek. Donghyuck notices, of course, and an innocent attempt to help clean up the mess only ends with the two of you blushing like crazy.
“Let me help you,” he speaks up.
“Don’t be ridiculous, the pan’s not that heavy, and even if it was, I’m strong enough anyway—”
You’re about to pick up the glassware but his sudden strides over to you from across the large kitchen cause everything you were saying, doing, and thinking to come to a complete stop. You’ve never really had a problem with personal space before, but right now he’s leaning down and his face is so close that you’re afraid to even breathe for fear that the action might just throw you off balance and towards him. For fear that you might not push his chest away with your hands if that happens.
He’s bending his knees to match your eye level and his hand lifts from its place at his side, hovering in midair not far from where the flour still lingers on your skin. His eyes had been so focused on the stain but the shrinking proximity between you and him pulls his gaze from your cheek to your eyes, blown wide and confused because you still have no idea that there’s something on your face.
The undoubtedly palpable tension in the room almost reaches down his throat and pulls the words from his vocal chords in an effort to dispel the heavy air circulating around the both of you.
“There’s… uh… you have flour…”
Donghyuck still hasn’t broken the less than comfortable eye contact, but he’s unable to look away for reasons unknown to him. After an agonizing amount of seconds your brain switches on again, albeit slowly, and you’re able to properly process the position you’re currently in. Your own hand starts to lift and though the movement is slight, it’s enough to draw his eyes down to it and he finds the strength to complete his goal at last.
His thumb swipes across your cheek and without even thinking he pops it into his mouth once again, forgetting about the unpleasant taste of flour. The way that the boy’s face scrunches up when the bitter powder meets his tongue doesn’t eliminate the awkwardness completely, but it’s a start. You hastily make an effort to avert your gaze as you frantically wonder if he caught your face that’s surely as warm as a blazing fireplace, all because he did the unthinkable with that stupid finger of his.
You won’t let yourself dwell on how his hand is just the right size to cradle the side of your head, or how much nicer his lips look up close, or how they must taste like the blueberries that he snuck into his mouth as you made the cobbler, or how you wished he had used his lips on your cheek instead of his thumb.
How you wish he had closed the almost nonexistent distance between your flushed faces.
These thoughts do nothing to ease the steadily growing heat that’s currently taking over your skin. Your eyes land on the glass pan and you take the opportunity to grab it, acting as a sort of distraction for your mind and also as something to snap you both out of your embarrassed hazes.
You get the finished dessert into the oven with no trouble after that, and now you have a little over half an hour of time to kill before it’s ready, so Donghyuck leads you into the nicely furnished family room and plops down onto the plush couch. When you don’t immediately follow he glances up at you, sensing that you’re still hesitant after the awkward moment. He smiles softly and almost apologetically, as if he’s sending a silent signal that you’ll both move past it soon enough, an invitation to put the incident behind the two of you. And you accept it.
You take a deep breath before you sit down next to him, sinking into the cushions underneath and behind you. The material dips slightly under the weight of both your bodies and gravity itself seems to be in control as it pushes you together, shoulders bumping and the sides of your legs being pressed up against each other. Thankfully, the television roars to life with the laughter of a live audience on one of your favorite shows, and you exhale a puff of air you didn’t even know you were holding in. With every scene that lights up the large display, you curl up further and further into his side, his arm migrating across the back of the sofa and winding around your shoulder only a few centimeters at a time.
This feels like home. Donghyuck feels like home.
The buzzer of the oven interrupts when you’re halfway through another episode, prompting you to jump to your feet just as abruptly as the alarm-like noise had started blaring. Consequently his arm flops down by his side as he mentally curses the loud intrusion into what had become a comfortable atmosphere, an atmosphere that was finally surrounding you again after what felt like an eternity but had really only been an hour.
In no time, you’re returning from the kitchen, the warm blueberry contents of the cobbler oozing out onto the flowery pair of plates you had grabbed from the cupboard. Handing one to him and setting the other aside for yourself, you quickly go back around the corner to grab two tall cups of cold milk. Your second time joining him on the couch comes more easily, almost all of the earlier tension having dispersed into the room, wafting out the windows along with the delicious scent of the fruit baked into the sweet, flaky crust. In fact, you’re fairly sure that it’s strong enough for even his neighbors down the road to smell. Which reminds you: you need to package some up to deliver to them tomorrow, per Donghyuck’s suggestion.
You’re most definitely sure that he smells the aroma, of course, because it’s hard to ignore the eagerness with which he takes a large bite of the dessert. “We make better bakers that I thought we would,” the boy comments, taking a sip of milk. The white mustache that it creates above his top lip when he lifts the glass to his mouth is enough to make you giggle, and you’re unaware that this predictable reaction was his objective all along. He grins, rather satisfied.
With your stomach now full, a head-plaguing drowsiness begins to set in. It slowly fills your senses enough for you to drift off, fork nearly falling out of your hand and onto the floor before he catches it, along with your weight when you slump down against his shoulder. Donghyuck is barely able to reach one of the end tables, and he sets the dishes and silverware down next to the now empty cups. Your body unconsciously clings to his like a koala to a branch, with both hands clutching one of his arms and a leg hooked over his thighs.
He takes one look at you and wishes he could pause time, to stay here forever. It’s not every day that he meets someone who can easily match the amount of snark he possesses. Simultaneously, you also balance out the friendship you share with your compassion and sense of wonder about the world, always evident in your morning routine when you come to the fields. Donghyuck has noticed that you bring out those same qualities in him, perhaps more than anyone else ever has. And just like you’re holding him right now, he vows to hold on to you.
As much as he doesn’t want to get up and for the evening to progress, he knows he should, that it has to. So he manages to detach from the hold of your limbs, gently pushing himself up and off of the couch so he doesn’t disturb you.
Glancing at the large antique clock above the doorway that leads out into the hall, Donghyuck realizes it’s much later than he thought. He decides to turn in for the night, but on a regular day he usually finds himself still awake well past midnight, despite the need to wake up early the next morning and run the farm from the crack of dawn.
Since you’re tired and he doesn’t want to risk you waking up alone in an unfamiliar bed and place, he comes to the conclusion that he’ll join you. Only leaving your side for a moment, he puts the cobbler into the refrigerator and turns off the kitchen lights behind him as he goes. Softly padding halfway up the stairwell, Donghyuck makes sure there’s enough light for him to see where he’s going before making his way back into the living room one last time. He tucks one arm underneath both of your bent knees as tenderly as he can, and places the other behind the middle of your back, hand gently curling against your waist. He carries you with probably the most delicacy he’s shown in his entire life.
Going upstairs is generally an easy task, but doing so while carrying another person is a different story. He would never forgive himself if he were to hurt you in any way. If even your foot happened to bump the wall next to you, a burst of frustration at himself and his own carelessness would surface regardless of the impact’s intensity
Your position in his arms gives him yet another opportunity to gaze upon your peaceful expression, and he begins to think more deeply about what you are to him. Looking forward to your visits makes his work so much more enjoyable and worth it. You’re someone who truly appreciates what he and his family do for a living and you faithfully support them with your business as a customer whenever you can, which is a rare thing to find in most people that come. Most are just bored and in need of something to occupy themselves or their kids. Sometimes they don’t even pick that many berries. But you always make sure to bring your own basket, which holds just as many as if not more than the ones the farm provides, and fill it to the brim. In his eyes, you’re special.
Amidst the mostly-asleep state that you’re in, your eyes just barely open far enough to see a blurry picture of Donghyuck’s face as he carries you through the house and up into the bedroom he had suggested you share. He sets you down onto the soft mattress before pulling the covers up to your stomach, retreating into the attached bathroom to quickly change into a thin t-shirt and his favorite pair of plaid pajama pants.
The memory of that conversation floods back to you. Initially, you refused the offer, saying that he would rest better if he had more space to move around. But being the clingy person he is, he had pouted desperately as you struggled to stand your ground in the discussion. “Fine,” you had huffed, only half-frustrated with those doe eyes he always uses to get his way, and your lips had great difficulty holding back a smile.
The hum of electricity that can be heard emanating from the next room snaps you out of these thoughts, and is enough to wake you up a bit more. Your gaze scans the surroundings for a minute or two before he opens the door again, his eyes now looking as heavy as your own.
Donghyuck joins you under the blanket and shifts to lay on his side, facing you. It’s funny that you’re both able to adjust to a situation so intimate and new almost instantly. Still on your back, your head turns and you’re conscious enough to raise an eyebrow at the boy. There’s that pout again.
“Please?” He mumbles, his bottom lip jutting out in an action he’s perfected. You know exactly what he’s after: cuddles.
You don’t even try to hide the playful roll of your eyes as you scoot a little closer, but it’s not close enough for him. He gets impatient, meeting you halfway, and this time it’s him that flings a leg over yours. An endearing, small noise of contentment from him fills your ears as you take notice of his arms, now interlocked behind your neck and around your shoulders. You melt into the snug position, a hand landing on his forearm that’s laying across your chest. Turning ever so slightly to the side, your other hand winds around his middle and eventually rests just above his hip, pulling him into you even more. Donghyuck nuzzles his face into the side of your neck, a few strands of your hair tickling his skin as he sighs in complete and utter bliss.
Determined to savor the moment until the irresistible inevitability of slumber starts to overtake you once more, you fight to stay awake with all of your might. But in what you thought was only the blink of an eye, the glittering stars visible through the bay window’s sheer drapes morph into the pale golden rays of first light. There’s a soft murmur of your name along with an unintentional, almost imperceptible peck to the place where his lips meet your skin, and you’re wide awake. Not to mention a little shocked.
He’s utterly unfazed, though, slowly waking up now that the sun has gotten brighter, its beams filtering into the room and hitting his already glowing face that becomes a gorgeous honey-colored hue.
Donghyuck reluctantly withdraws his arms from your form after one last embrace, effortlessly rising from the wrinkled bed sheets and offering his hand to you when you start to do the same. A sleepy smile makes a home on his features and he reminds you of your task to deliver a portion of the dessert you made to his next-door neighbors.
That’s exactly what you do, first making yourselves presentable in the bathroom by smoothing down wild bed hair and freshening up your faces with cool water. Being around to see each other’s natural morning states is a major act of trust, and he doesn’t miss an opportunity to poke fun at you for it.
“How long does it normally take for you to do your hair every day before you come here?” His tone is dripping with feigned innocence, but the sly grin on his lips says otherwise.
“Shut up, Hyuck.”
Tupperware container in hand, your shoes step in rhythm with his as you amble along the grassy shoulder of the street together. Somehow you end up hand-in-hand by the time you reach his neighbors’ front patio.
“Donghyuck!” The elderly woman at the door greets him with a twinkling voice, her husband coming into view soon after. “Look who it is, honey,” she motions fondly to the boy who they both once knew to be much shorter and younger, but now is all grown up before their eyes. “You’re getting so tall. It seems like only yesterday you were scurrying through the blueberry fields and waving to us through the gaps in the fence.”
“Yes ma’am, it does,” he responds politely. The couple has been living there for as far back as he can remember, and quite honestly they feel as if they’ve become part of his family, too.
Her warm brown eyes light up. “Is this the customer your mother was telling me about last week? She mentioned how close you’ve become, and now I’m finally seeing it for myself. You make a lovely pair.”
“Oh—” Donghyuck startles. Not much can get him flustered, but he hadn’t exactly been anticipating for his mom to recount all the things he’s said about you to the sweetest and most innocent of elderly couples. Of course they would assume that there’s something going on.
Not that there’s anything wrong with that, with you. He wouldn’t mind at all, really. He’ll just need to have a word about a little thing called privacy with his mother later.
You see the glint of panic in his eyes and speak up. It’s not often he makes such an easy target for teasing. “Thank you,” you state graciously, the smugness in the statement only noticeable to him. “We’re very happy together.” He feels you lean into him, fingers unwrapping from his and gripping the other side of his waist. You know exactly what you’re doing, and so does he.
Almost forgetting to hand over the slices of cobbler you’d cut earlier, Donghyuck nudges you to do so, and the four of you exchange thanks and farewells before you’re on your way back to the farm.
“Happy together, huh?”
“Shut up, Hyuck.” You mumble something else afterwards that he doesn’t quite catch.
“What’s that? Didn’t hear you,” he sings, stopping in his tracks. You do the same. “Shut up and what?”
“...And kiss me.”
After many days and many nights spent wondering, you can confirm that his lips do, indeed, taste as sweet as the blueberries in those fields.
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Payback
Rowaelin Month, Day Five
A/N: Yall I'm dying. I didn't even wanna write today and I kinda forced myself to and I'm not proud of myself for this but I just wanted you to have something so yep. Tomorrow's will be a lot angstier and sadder than this one, so soak up the very light fluff I'm giving you till you can
Signing off, goodnight yall
Word count: 3,614
Aelin hated the underground car park reserved for the residents of her building. It was dark, so narrow that you had to do at least a hundred swerves to avoid taking any corner and scratching off half your car, and it was impossible to find a spot when everyone came home in the evening after hours and hours in the office and parked as they saw fit while still thinking about the thousands of pieces of paperwork that would be waiting for them at their desks only nine hours later, sometimes taking up more than two spots at once.
The only reason she still tried to park down there was that there was a flock of pigeons in the trees just outside their block of flats, on the main road, which had made a nasty habit of shitting on anything - or anyone, on some unpleasant occasion - that stopped for more than five minutes under the thick branches. A perfect hiding place for birds, that no one had thought to warn her about when she had moved in only a few months earlier.
She had deemed herself lucky the night before, when she had returned before anyone else and found the lot completely empty. She'd been so happy that she'd driven around a bit down there just for the hell of it. She'd pulled up next to the exit, thinking it would be easier to get out the next morning.
She hadn't anticipated the three assholes who had parked so as to block her path in every conceivable way.
She grunted, banging her fist against the steering wheel when she realised she still wasn't clear, and put the car into reverse for the twelfth time, before changing gear and driving three inches forward. And so on, and on, and on, until she managed to steer the face of the car towards the exit and let out a satisfied howl.
She started up the slope towards the road, taking her eyes off the driveway and distracting herself for a moment to choose which radio to listen to, when the car hit something and the dull sound of the bang echoed throughout her body, propelling her forward.
Aelin squealed, hitting the brakes hard enough to cause a high-pitched squeal, and soon the smell of burnt plastic filled her nostrils.
The car shut off and she pulled the handbrake vehemently, getting out of the car and trying to figure out which wall she had hit, already cursing every deity that had ever existed. She didn't have enough money to afford a repair, and she knew perfectly well that the dent would be there for months before she let any of her friends help her.
She wrinkled her brow, noticing how no side of the car was touching walls or columns.
"What the..."
And then she heard it, a grunt of pain.
She opened her eyes wide, running around the car and finding a man on the ground.
To the view of a head full of stark white hair, the fear she’d just ran over one of the oldies that lived on her floor stuck her. But then the person got up on their elbows and she let go of a sigh of relief.
But still, she had just runapartment someone over. She hurried his way.
"Oh, fuck." said Aelin, approaching the stranger. The man pulled himself up to sit, bringing a hand to his face, on his cheek, where a cut was bleeding profusely on his shirt.
"Holy shit." muttered the guy, looking up at her, "That hurt."
Aelin was frozen in time, her hands to her gaping mouth, looking for the right words.
When he tried to stand, swaying a little, she pushed through the fog in her mind and truly looked at him, searching other injuries, but not failing to notice his sheer handsomeness.
The man looked like he’d been made in heaven.
She shook her head, mentally reprimanding herself – now was not the time – and started talking.
“I’m so so so sorry. I didn’t see you there and- oh god, you’re bleeding. You need me to rush you to the hospital? Fuck, you think you broke something?” the words just kept flowing and flowing. “Where were you even going? Why didn’t you just got out of the main entrance? This fucking parking lot. I swear we have to call the landlord and have him put some lights down here. Your shirt,” she grimaced, eyeing the blood standing out on the white fabric. Aelin looked him in the eye, “I have a very similar one upstairs? You want me to go fetch it for you, I could-”
“Jesus Christ!” he yelled, putting his hands in between them, forcing her to step back, “Shut the fuck up!”
Aelin’s mouth closed shut and her eyebrows raised so high she felt her skin pull on her temples. She crossed her arms over her chest. Her eyes popping out.
This man. Sure, she’d just ran him over, but no one had ever talked to her like that.
“I’m fine.” he grumbled, “And I live in this building, I’ll go take my own shirt, thank you.” He took a deep breath, brushing off his trousers and bending to gather his stuff that had scattered around during his fall. When he lifted his head again, he gave her a tight smile and his piercing green eyes stared at her with an intensity that had Aelin’s toes curling in her shoes.
“Have a nice day.”
He then proceeded to walk away, leaving Aelin alone in the darkish driveway.
She looked around, hoping to see someone who could confirm that it had just been a figment of her imagination, but there was no one.
Getting back in her car, Aelin started the engine and drove up to the street, chewing on her lips, “What the fuck just happened?”
***
Aelin had thought all day about the mysterious man. She hadn’t been able to focus during her meetings and hadn’t even finished one of her projects. Something that she sure as fuck knew her boss would make her notice and work her ass off to make up for once word got to him.
Her day had started off so bad she knew it couldn’t get any worse, but she’d been wrong.
Her assistant had spilled coffee over her only finished drawing and herself. One of her coworkers had decided today was the perfect day to quit her job and pile her projects on Aelin’s desk. Then she’d gone out for lunch with some of her friends and it had started raining so heavily she’d been forced to stay in the office, only eye-eating the mouth-watering dishes her friends had posted on their instagram stories. They’d made it to the diner just before the sky cracked open.
And, the cherry on top, someone had keyed her car.
She’d been on the verge of tears when she’d spotted the red stains of her neighbor’s blood on the parking lot floor when she got back home, but she didn’t let any fall.
She had a date.
And she wouldn’t let all these little things get to her and ruin what could possibly be the best night of her life.
One of her life-long best friends had set her up on a blind date with one of her boyfriend’s best friends. She’d promised the man was the perfect match, someone Elide thought would keep her on her toes and match her overflowing personality.
Aelin had been hesitant at first when Elide hadn’t wanted to give her a name, or show her a picture, claiming she’d go all FBI style on him and ruin their first meeting, but she’d also promised Aelin she’d met the guy a few times and he’d been nothing but a gentleman.
And she had heard so much of him she felt like she’d known him her whole life.
Some of the things Elide had told her, she’d liked better if she’d found directly from him, but Aelin was a picky woman and she wasn’t risking another date with a creeper.
She pulled up in the restaurant’s parking lot where Elide had reserved the four of them a table and turned off her car, clutching the wheel. She took a deep breath. And another.
She was still a little worked up and all the pent-up emotions of the day were threatening to spill over the surface any minute, but she could make it past dinner and then have her little monthly breakdown in the peace and quiet of her apartment.
She fixed her lipstick, tightened up her ponytail and let two strands of hair cascade on the side of her face. She blew herself a kiss in the mirror, “You can do it.” she whispered as a short pet talk.
She got off the car, pulled out her phone to check if Elide was already inside and she was so focused on the screen she failed to notice someone backing up right in front of her until it was too late.
The car only bumped into her hip, but it was enough to make her lose her balance.
Aelin merely had time to register what was happening that she found herself lying in a puddle of rain and mud. She closed her eyes at the dull pain on the back of her head, but she knew for a fact the hit hadn’t been that bad.
She lifted her arms up, looking down at the wet spots on her dress, darkening by the second. Her seventy euros purse soaking up the water all around her.
The tension behind her eyes just increased when she heard the driver’s door open and someone step out of the car. She couldn’t have stopped the sobs even if she wanted to.
“Miss? Oh god, I’m so sorry. Are you alright?”
Strong arms circled her waist and pulled her up in a standing position. She brought her hands to her face, her body now racked by her crying as she tried to get a handle of herself.
“Miss?” the voice called again, now nearer. “Are you hurt? I didn’t-” the man talking stopped suddenly and Aelin looked up, not seeing anything through the tears. “You.”
And then it hit her.
That voice.
She knew that voice.
She ran her hand over her face, rubbing her eyes and staring right back at the man she had ran over that same morning.
Her mouth fell open.
He was looking at her with an amused expression and Aelin couldn’t find the words once again.
What was it with this man and his ability to take her ability to talk by just showing up?
He had a transparent band-aid on his cheek, his cut far less severe than she had thought, and his eyes were glistening with mirth. He was wearing a simple black pair of jeans and a dark green t-shirt, but he was even more handsome than in his work clothes.
Aelin was taking rushed, trembling breaths, and she was about to kill this man with her bare hands. Shred his skin off his bones and have him beg-
“I guess we’re even now, uh?”
His attempt of a joke flew over her head and she charged at him, a scream lodged in her throat.
His eyes widened and he took a step back when she flung her arm at him, trying to hit him. His hands closed around her wrists, blocking her from causing him more harm that she’d already done.
“You asshole!” she was screaming at the top of her lungs. “You ruined my dress!”
Aelin lifted a leg, more than convinced to kneel his balls, but he managed to block her blow again, infuriating her even more.
“I was about to meet the love of my life and ruined my fucking dress!”
He tried to push her away from him, still squeezing her wrists, and his brow furrowed.
“He’s everything I’ve ever dreamed of. He’s a pediatrician! He loves children! And he has a cute fucking dog my friend said I would love and cuddle the shit out of! Her name is Fleetfoot and she’s a golden retriever and Elide knows I fucking love goldens. And he’s from Orynth, just. Like. Me!” she got louder and louder with every word she spit out. “And he’s tall, and handsome and he’s the perfect match! And I deserved this one night!”
The man was now looking at her with a dumbfounded expression, his hold slightly loosening.
“I’m so done with this dating thing and I’d finally found him and you!” she shoved a finger in his chest, making him retreat a few steps. “You wanted your payback so bad you ran me over with your car!
“And now he’s gonna take one look at me and think I’m a fucking psycho! I bet my hair are the most disgusting thing he’s ever seen and my make up. Oh fuck, I must look like a panda.” Aelin started crying harder, laying her hands flat on the man’s torso, pushing her head to his chest. “I look like a fucking panda.”
She tried to speak again but her mind just couldn’t form any coherent thought, until she felt the man’s arms closing around her shoulders. He stepped closer, running his hand up and down her back, whispering something she couldn’t really hear over her crying.
Aelin didn’t know how much time she spent in the stranger’s embrace, but when the gravity of the scene she’d just made in front of him downed on her, she felt her body flare up in embarrassment.
That was her life now?
Having mental breakdowns in a dark parking lot after someone she’d ran over with her car had returned the gesture and then making them console her?
She detached herself from the man and for a second she thought she’d felt him hesitate before he took a step back. And another, leaving her standing her in her soaking wet dress and her puffy, surely-red eyes. He bent down, picking up her purse and handing it to her.
She lowered her gaze, not even daring looking at his shoes and closed her eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
The man made a sound of surprise, “Why would you be sorry?”
Aelin wished she could die on the spot. Evaporate out of existence.
“For hitting you. Or at least trying. And crying all over you.” she said and then grimaced. She ran a hand over her face. “I just had a very hard day and I wasn’t even sure I wanted to come, but this guy seriously seems like he could be the missing piece to whatever the fuck my puzzle-life is. I didn’t want to take a raincheck and have him thinking I’m not serious about this.”
A beat of silence, “I’m sure he would have understood.”
She shook her head, keeping on talking as if he hadn’t even been there, “And now I can’t go in like this.” she passed her hands on her dress, the tears building up again in her eyes. “Plus, Elide didn’t tell me what he looks like, cause she thinks he’s a real snack and wanted to see my face when I saw him for the first time.” she was bordering on pouting, “That means he’s gotta be smoking hot or I’ll be so pissed at her.”
The man snorted loudly, “A snack.” he hummed, “Maybe I should meet your friend and thank her.”
Aelin’s head snapped up, “Oh no, she’s taken.” she shook her head vehemently, “Like so freaking taken. I swear she and her boyfriend have been together for a whole of three months and they already act like a married couple.”
He nodded, a lopsided smile on his face, “I know the kind.”
She’d been so absorbed by her talking that she hadn’t noticed she’d stopped crying.
She breathed through her nose and clasped her hands together, before reaching one out towards him, “I think introductions are needed. I’m Aelin.” she offered a tentative smile.
His hand engulfed hers, shaking it with impressive gentleness. His smile grew even larger if possible and Aelin was starting to think she was about to het murdered.
But then he said his name and the world ceased existing around them.
Their hands still moving up and down between them.
She tilted her head forward, “I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”
He licked his lower lip, “I’m Rowan.”
Aelin closed her eyes, holding her breath.
She squeezed his hand before releasing it. She took a step back, wishing for the ground beneath her feet to crack open and just eat her whole.
“I’m gonna go kill myself now, if you’ll excuse me.”
His laugh reached her ears with painful speed.
Rowan.
She couldn’t believe it.
Well, she could. The man laughing his heart out at her expense was probably the most handsome person she’d ever seen in her entire life.
At least Elide hadn’t lied about that.
“A tad dramatic, if you ask me,” he said as his laugh died down. He pointed at the restaurant behind him, “You want me to go fetch the married couple so we can go back at the appartment and you can change? I’m not against you walking in there with this outfit at all,” he gave a pointed look, matched by a shit-eating grin that seemed to be etched in his lips, “I’m not gonna think you’re a psycho, not for this at least, and I’m ready to fight everyone who looks at you the wrong way. But you look like you could use the comfort of a warm house.”
Aelin looked up at him with a questioning look, trying to understand if this man she’d just tried to maul was seriously offering her options, letting her choose after everything that had gone down so far between the two of them. As if still giving her a chance.
Rowan arched a brow, looking around and glancing back at her, “Aelin?”
Oh, fuck.
She had been oh so not ready o hear her name from his lips.
She nodded and he smiled, leaning down a bit.
She could smell his cologne from here.
“Yes to what? Me calling Lorcan and Elide or getting inside even if you dripping wet?”
Holy fucking shit, this man shouldn’t have been allowed to say the words dripping wet.
She stilled herself.
What the hell was she thinking? She brought her hands to her face, “Please call them and let’s head home. I’m so fucking tired.” a yawn broke her sentence, as to prove her words, “And I’m freezing in this skimpy dress.”
Rowan rushed to her side, “Oh, god, sorry for not offering sooner, here,” he opened the trunk of his car and pulled out a huge blue sweater. Without even waiting for an answer he snatched her purse from her hands and shoved her head in his sweater.
Aelin felt better right away and gave him a big smile.
Rowan answered with one of his own and of course he had to be this perfect and more.
“I’m sorry for ruining your dress, I’ll make sure they wash it carefully when I take it to the laundry. If you’d let me.”
She nodded faintly, exhaling the panty-dropping smell of his sweater.
“And I’m hoping to see you wear it again once we finally get to go on a proper date.” he smirked, “I bet you looked amazing before I went and ran you over.”
Aelin chuckled, shaking her head, “You truly are a gentleman. Elide wasn’t exaggerating.”
Rowan’s demeanor changed completely and Aelin feared she’d said something wrong, but he averted his gaze as if he was embarassed.
“I’m sorry for this morning,” he said. Aelin almost tripped on her feet. He was sorry? “I shouldn’t have talked to you like that but I was just coming back from the hospital and Elide was right saying I work with kids, but I’m not a pediatrician, I’m a pediatric surgeon.”
His gaze grew dark as he looked over her shoulder, avoiding meeting her eyes at all costs.
“Yesterday night we lost a eight years old and I wasn’t really there when you hit me with your car. I didn’t mean to yell at you like I did, it was just-”
Rowan couldn’t finish his sentence that Aelin lunged for him, hugging him as tight as he’d held her a few minutes before, hoping she could relieve some of the pain that was surely clutching his heart. She felt him sag in her arms and hold her in turn.
She was glad she could offer some kind of support.
“It must be hard.” she whispered against his chest.
Rowan nodded, hitting her head with his chin, “It is, but it’s part of the job. The only way you can live with something like that in your baggage is knowing you did everything you could to save them.”
Aelin could feel the emotion lacing his every word and tightened her arms for a moment before freeing him of her embrace. He silently thanked her and told her he’d be right back with their friends.
The second he was gone she realized she couldn’t wait for when he’d be back and they could keep talking.
She’d never felt this way before. Not this fast at least.
Sure, she had loved all her exes, but this. This was different.
There was something there, a connection.
And while he walked back to her, Lorcan and Elide in tow, a bright smile on his handsome face, she couldn’t help but think she was ready to find out all about it.
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The Agony & The Ecstasy
Can also be read on AO3 here
Word Count: 5.2k
Description:
#HappyBirthdayAsmodeus 2021!!
Before he was the Avatar of Lust, he was the Jewel of the Heavens. A journey from the angel Asmo used to be, to the demon he's become.
[cw: sexual mentions]
The Agony
He sat before the mirror of his bedroom, sketching his lean cheeks with their high bone ridges, his soft lips, the gentle curls of his champagne-toned hair, the light in his orange-yellow eyes.
The Jewel of the Heavens, they called him. The most beautiful of the angels. So lovely that even Jophiel, the patron angel of artists, had asked if she could have a painting to keep of him. And so, here he was, trying to capture his image on canvas for the archangel.
Asmodeus was proud of how everyone admired him, but truthfully he didn't think it was anything so special. Rather, he was more focused on how lovely everyone else around him was. He wouldn't say that he wasn't beautiful, but so was anyone, in one way or another. There was so much to admire in everyone that his heart ached every day. He longed to help them see themselves the way he saw them.
The lilting notes of a bird's song through the open window broke him out of his thoughts, and he set his sketch down for the moment to greet it.
"Well hello, bluebird dear," he greeted it with a smile, holding his hand out. "How are you today?" The bird trilled with delight in response, rubbing its head against his fingers, and he laughed, petting the creature. "Your singing is so lovely, my dear. What a beautiful day to hear your song."
"Oi, Asmo, good, you're here!" he heard his brother call from below the window. "Lilith and the twins snuck off down to the human world again, could ya go get them? Geez, those troublemakers...I've gotta help Lucifer with somethin' so I need you to go, okay?"
"Whaaaat, they went and they didn't invite me?" he pouted. "I can't believe them!"
"Hey, hey, that's not the point," Mammon groaned, rolling his eyes at his younger sibling. "Gabriel is looking for Beel and Belphie, and you know he'll flip if he finds out they went down to the human realm without permission."
"Okay, okay, I got it. I'll get them, don't worry! Walk with me to the portal?"
"Agh, I'm busy you know," Mammon groaned, though he didn't seem all that upset. "But fine, I get it, ya wanna spend some time with your big older brother! Leave it to Mammon!"
"You tell yourself that," Asmo giggled. He hopped down from the window, fluttering down gracefully on the lightness of his robes. "So where in the human world do you think they went this time?"
"Well, you know, Belphie always wants to go to that circus he likes. He mighta dragged the other two along with him."
"Ooooh, right, the circus! The acrobats are so graceful, with the way they glide around in the air. They don't even have wings, but they figured out a way to look like they're flying! Humans really are interesting, aren't they?"
"You think so? I think it's kinda scary, man," Mammon shuddered.
"Well just because you might trip over yourself even on the ground doesn't mean everyone's that clumsy!" Asmo teased.
"Oi! Take that back! I can walk just fine, thank you!"
"Heehee!"
"Anyway, if they're not at the circus, maybe one of those restaurants? Beel's been eating a lot lately, maybe he wanted to try some human realm food."
"Ah, yeah! The fancy restaurants down there make such pretty dishes! The chefs are such artists," Asmo said admiringly, eyes glittering. "I'd like to try one too..."
"Hey, don't forget you're goin' there to get the twins to come back! Don't get distracted by running off down there yourself!"
"But I never get to go down to see the human realm! And the three of them like it so much, you know, it'd be nice to see how pretty everything is for myself," Asmo smiled innocently.
The two of them stopped as they reached their destination.
"Oi, Asmo, I'm serious. You better not go off hitting on everyone you see again," Mammon warned.
"Hey! I'm not hitting on them, I just think everyone is beautiful, and they should know it," Asmo protested. "You're just jealous because they like me more than you. But if you saw the good in everyone you met like me, they'd love you too! You should try it sometime!"
"Ugh, Asmo...don't be gross. And seriously, come right back once you find them. Gabriel's gonna have my hide too if they don't report to him soon, after he asked me to send them over."
"Yeah, yeah. Okay, I'll be back before you know it!"
The younger brother waved breezily as he stepped through the portal.
--
When the light of the portal faded from his vision, Asmodeus found himself in a quiet, hidden spot of a sunny park. Birds chirped, dogs were playing, and he could hear the screaming laughter of children from farther away. In the distance, he could see a news board by the nearby street, which seemed as good a place as any to start checking for information about the circus.
Before he could make it over there, though, a young woman stopped him. "Ahh, excuse me! I just, um, y-you're really handsome, and um...I-I just wanted to say hello. Are you visiting our town? Would you like to spend some time together....maybe come with me to the bakery down the street?! I want to get to know you," she blurted out.
He laughed with delight. "Oooh, aren't you adorable! Forget me, you're so pretty yourself! Your skin is so radiant, and your eyes are so sweet," he cooed. She blushed bright red at the compliments immediately. "Oh! But...I don't have time to go to a bakery right now, I'm looking for my little siblings. Unless you've seen a pair of boys with a girl around there? A tall guy with orange hair, and a sleepy black-haired boy?"
"I, um..." she paused, mind racing on how to keep him interested. "You know, I-I might have seen them. Or maybe, um...maybe the baker has! P-people are going in there all the time, you know, s-so maybe he might have seen them...? I'm sure he'll be able to help!"
It was fairly obvious that she was lying, but Asmo couldn't help but be charmed by her shy attempts at staying with him. His heart tugged him to go along with it anyway, just as it tugged at anyone he came across, especially those who were so drawn in by him too. He couldn't help it, even if it got him into trouble at times. So he agreed.
"Hmm, is that so? Okay! Let's go then."
She led him along the road to the bakery, an extravagant little spot for the size of the shop, where the man at the counter unhelpfully told them that he'd seen a lot of boys around and couldn't possibly remember them all. "Maybe if you buy some bread, I might remember better. I recommend some of these tarts...and you'd better take this big loaf right here too, to be sure I don't forget again," he said with a vicious grin. "We charge by the ounce, of course."
The angel gave him a bright smile back. "Oooh, they do look delicious! You must be so talented to create such beautiful things, sir! Oh, but...I don't have any money on me..."
This clearly irked the man, though something about Asmo's cheerful expression at least stopped him from throwing the pair straight out of the shop, as he usually might with people like this, who came in with no money. He eyed the golden bangle on his visitor's wrist. "Give me that then," he demanded, pointing. "I'll give it to my daughter. She'll like it."
Against his better judgment, the angel obliged. After all, it was just a part of the human world disguise he wore - he could just make another one later. And the baker was going to give it to his daughter, which was certainly kind. Or at least, he thought that was better than just selling it, like most people would. How lovely for a father to want to give his daughter nice presents. "Here, you can have this then. So, about my brothers...?"
The human greedily snatched the bangle from his palm. "Sure, they came in, just about an hour ago probably. The orange-haired one bought more bread than I thought I would sell all day. The girl, she was talking about wanting to visit someone in town. She didn't mention where, but it sounded like it was near the square. And the boys, they wanted to go to the circus that's visiting. They're over at the edge of town."
Satisfied with this new information but not exactly pleased about what the exchange had cost him, he thanked the baker and excused himself from both humans.
Frustrating as it was, this was how it always went. Asmodeus felt himself filled to the brim overflowing with love for everyone, painfully so. And no matter how they lied, or tried to trick him, or took advantage of him, he still loved them so much. It wasn't that he was naive, or that he didn't notice, but just that he always still saw the good parts of them too.
At least he knew where to head from here, though. It sounded like Lilith had probably split off from the twins, but since Mammon had only asked him to send Beel and Belphie back, he'd worry about her later. First, the circus.
Luckily, by this point, Belphegor had been caught dragging his twin to such shows often enough that Asmo could pretty easily predict what area of the audience he'd find them in. He made his way into the tent and quickly located the pair. "You two!" he hissed quietly from the row behind them. "You know you shouldn't be running off to the human world while everyone is still working! Mammon said Gabriel was looking for you. You'd better get back, right now!"
The twins looked at him guiltily, two sets of apologetic eyes. "Sorry, it's my fault...Lilith said she wanted to visit someone, and you know Lucifer always scolds her not to go down alone. So I said we should come too," Beelzebub explained quickly.
"It's my fault too, Beel," Belphie added. "After she met up with them, I wanted to come see the circus again...sorry."
"Ahhh, okay, okay! I can't be mad at such cute younger brothers! Just hurry up and go!" Asmo said, waving away their apologies. "I'll find Lilith to make sure she comes back okay too."
Relieved at his easy forgiveness, the two of them slipped out quietly to head back.
The elder brother sat there a while longer. He'd never actually been to a circus himself before, and he was curious. It was entrancing - contortionists twisting their bodies in fascinating ways, trapeze artists flying gracefully across the air, the balance of the tightrope walkers and the authority of the ringmaster. Though he didn't know them, his heart ached with admiration at the performers below. It was easy to see why their youngest brother loved coming to these so much.
Before he knew it, he had stayed to the end of the show, and the audience was filtering out around him. But he didn't want to leave just yet, and longed for more. Without really thinking, he wandered out to the back of the tent, to the performer's entrance.
"Oh? A fan?"
He blushed a little as realized his mistake, meeting the eyes of the acrobat who had addressed him. "Hi there! I guess you could call me a fan, yes? Your performances out there were just sooo beautiful!"
An amused smile crossed her face. "Well aren't you a cutie. What's your name, hon?"
"I'm Asmodeus!" he replied cheerily. "But my brothers call me Asmo."
"Asmo, eh? Heh. Well, thanks for the compliments, Asmo," she said, leaning in to play with a strand of his hair. "I'm Naamah. Glad you enjoyed the show."
From this close, he could see every detail of how stunning the woman was. Her makeup was thick, as it needed to be for the stage, but it suited her somehow, like her face had always been meant to wear it this way. A tight bun of dark hair sat atop her head, ringed by a blue and red crown of feathers that matched the bright colors of a costume that showed off every curve of her slender, athletic body.
"In fact, Asmo, my dear fan," she continued, "today's your lucky day. I don't feel like sticking around for another of the top hat's fucking lectures about how we need to do better tomorrow. So what do you say we go find ourselves a party, love?"
He thought guiltily back to Lilith, who he had promised to find and escort home. But on the other hand, she had come to see someone, and he didn't really know when she'd be done meeting with this person, or where they were at this point. And he'd never actually been to a party before...
--
"Have another drink, Asmo, I insist," Naamah laughed tipsily, passing him another cup of wine. "You act like you've never let loose before!"
Truthfully, he sort of hadn't, and for his part, Asmodeus was having a magnificent time. A quaint little band of musicians played upbeat, joyful music from the edge of the courtyard, which was packed with merry folks in all sorts of costumes. His new friend had mentioned on their way here that it was a costume party, and the costumes truly did not disappoint - people here were dressed up as angels, demons, all kinds of animals, and even as things he'd never heard of before. Even after changing partially back into his angel form to let his wings free, he didn't feel like he stood out any more than anyone else.
And the dancing! The overflowing love he felt had an outlet for once, here where he could feed the energy back through his movements, passing from partner to partner without anyone to scold him for being too loose with his love. He couldn't help but think that the Celestial Realm felt so stuffy by comparison - all music back home being generally restricted to choirs to their father, and none of the raucous laughter and chatter filling the air the way the humans were doing here. The seraphs were strict on the lower angels, insisting on upright perfection at all times.
"This is so much fun," he said as he clinked his new cup against Naamah's with a laugh, giggling even harder when she then leaned in to give him a kiss on the cheek.
"Pass it on," she dared in a whisper to his ear.
Being the Jewel of the Heavens, always filled with love as he was, it didn't take long for him to find another person to pass the kiss on to. He got up and lightly pecked a man by the sidelines on the cheek. "Hi there, darling. Would you like to dance?" he asked sweetly.
The man reddened slightly at the kiss but agreed quickly to a song, and Asmo found himself soon in another round of dancing, whirling between partners until he had probably danced with each person at least three times. Mid-step as he was about to pass to Naamah again, he noticed a figure moving quickly by from across the road.
A very familiar figure.
"Ack, I'm sorry - I've got to go," he said quickly, leaving his companion very confused as he dashed off from her and the rest of the party.
"Lilith!" he called out, chasing after her in the now-fallen night.
His sister startled at the sound of his voice. "Asmo? What are you doing here in the human realm?"
"You know, really I should be the one asking you that, sis!" he responded, patting her on the head as he caught up. "Mammon sent me here to find you and the twins. Although I, hehe, might have gotten a bit distracted on my way to find you after I sent the twins back. Okay, your turn, what were you doing here?"
She looked away shyly. "I was just, um...meeting someone."
"Ooooh? Tell your big brother more," he teased.
"Well, um...a-actually, Asmo, you love everyone, right? But how do you know you're in love with them?"
That certainly caught him off-guard.
"Hmmm? I never really thought about it," he mused. "I guess it feels kind of warm and fuzzy, right? Or...sometimes it's stronger. Like fire! Like your whole body is in flames, and you're going to burst apart in one biiiig explosion!" Teasingly, he grabbed her by the shoulders and mimicked some explosion sounds. "Why, my dear sister, have you fallen in love with somebody? Were you down here to ask the humans for loooove advice? Who is it, hon? Uriel? Israfil?? Camael?? Or - don't tell me it's Michael?!"
"N-no!" she said, eyes wide. "Ahh, no! No, it's not like that! And don't tell Lucifer or Mammon that I asked about this either!"
Her older brother just giggled mischievously in reply. "Well, let's just get back," he answered, placing his hand on the tree by where he'd landed earlier to open the portal back up.
When they stepped through, their two eldest brothers were waiting for them with scowls.
Lucifer spoke first. "Where have you two been, exactly?"
"Eep! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to stay out so late!!" Lilith squeaked, quickly hiding behind her other brother. "I just, um--I just wanted to go meet with someone. And I lost track of time."
"What about you? Don't tell me ya got distracted hitting on people again," Mammon said, turning his attention to the other just-returned angel. "I've been havin' to cover for ya all day! Raphael is not happy."
"Hey, you're the one who sent me down there to find the twins!" Asmo argued back.
"Yeah, and they came back ages ago! So where have you been!"
"Well, one of the acrobats from Belphie's circus invited me to a party, so I--"
"A party?" Lucifer growled. "You were out late for a human party?"
"I mean...! I didn't know where to find Lilith or when she'd be done meeting her person, so I just thought I'd have some fun while I was down there," Asmo pouted.
"You still shouldn't be going to human world parties, Asmo," the eldest lectured, refocusing his gaze on their sister. "And as for you, about that person you went to meet...why are you meeting with a human?"
She just looked away.
Lucifer sighed. "Never mind, we'll talk later, Lilith. Just go back to your rooms for now, it's late and the next patrols will be by soon. You're lucky Mammon was the one on duty tonight and reported it straight to me so the other seraphs don't know yet."
With relief, the two of them scurried away back to their respective living quarters.
Back in his room, Asmodeus looked over the sketch of himself he'd been working on earlier that day. After the excitement of the day and the party, it looked so bland now that he looked at it again. It was perfectly in line with the classic portrait style of paintings all over the Celestial Realm, but it felt so flat. He saw the good in everyone, right?
And the best thing about him wasn't his face, or his hair, or the way the sunlight fell perfectly across his face at noon. No, the good thing about him was how he loved everyone, wasn it? The love that filled him to bursting at every moment, the love that felt like heavenly fire coursing through his heart every time he looked at someone. That was what made him the universally admired angel that everybody loved back. This painting needed to show that overflowing love too, didn't it?
He tore the canvas off, stretching a fresh one across the frame to start again.
&
When Lucifer came to the brothers to say he was going to rebel against their father, Asmodeus didn't hesitate. All of them had heard about what Lilith had done, and how she was set to be punished for it with obliteration. Utter destruction, wiping her from existence. And for what? For her love?
Well, Asmo was intimately familiar with getting in trouble over love. He'd certainly felt the sharp end of Raphael's spear enough times to know that love was not especially prized or respected in the Celestial Realm. Their father had created him with this overwhelming burning of love towards all, yet that same father commanded the angels without regard for love. It was his rules that forbade Asmo from having outlets to express his love, and it was those same rules that would now destroy his sister.
Lucifer had already tried arguing for mercy, to no avail. It didn't matter if it was out of love; all the worse, in fact, because Lilith wasn't supposed to have gone down to the human realm in the first place, let alone fallen in love with one of them. Their father didn't care about love. So, Lucifer would fight.
And so would Asmodeus.
The Ecstasy
When he came to, the first thing Asmo felt was weightlessness.
It wasn't just his clothes, which had transformed from a billowing mass of white robes to a slender, form-fitting black tank top and pants. Nor was it how his large, elegant wings were now turning to four smaller, curled bat-like ones.
No, it was the lack of burning fire in his chest. What normally felt tightly contained within him was looser, freer, like something had unlocked inside of him, allowing it to spill out.
It was such a jarring, unfamiliar feeling that he gasped out for air.
"Asmo!! Beel, Belphie! Levi! Are you all okay?!" Mammon called out at the sound, rushing over. He had landed not too far away, and seemed to have undergone his own transformation, his usual softly draping outfit now full of sharp, cutting lines instead. In fact, it looked like everyone had either changed or was mid-transformation.
"Where's Lilith?" Beelzebub asked immediately, sounding panicked. "She got hit by an arrow earlier and fell during the battle, is she here?! Is she okay?!"
Belphie sat up and looked around before shaking his head. "I don't think she's here," he said softly. "What happened?"
"Mmm, well judging by how we all look, I guess we're...demons now?" Asmo chimed in.
"Aaagh, dammit! I saw Lucifer fly down all of a sudden while we were fightin', but I don't see him here either. He's gotta be around here somewhere though," Mammon said. "C'mon, get up, guys. Levi, you okay over there?"
A pitiful mumble of affirmation came from the cerulean-haired lump. Levi had awoken but, it seemed, simply opted to stay laying on the ground, as if laying there would erase away everything that had just happened.
After a quick check over each of them, Mammon seemed satisfied that there were no major injuries, at least. Aside from, obviously, them all having lost their angel forms, and seemingly having transformed into demons here. Which meant...
"Welcome to the Devildom." A demon in a crisp black and red uniform walked up to them with a polite smile. "Lord Diavolo has requested for all of Lucifer's brothers to come to the RAD student council room at once. Of course, Lucifer himself is there as well."
Ignoring the confused chatter of the brothers, he led them to a grand building, through beautifully sculpted hallways, and into a large courtroom-like chamber.
A large, dark-skinned demon in what looked to be a red school uniform was seated at the judge's seat, and beside him...Lucifer, in a similar uniform as the man who had led them here, as well as a scary-looking blond individual they didn't recognize.
Five piles of cleanly folded uniforms sat on a table in the center of the room.
In what felt like a whirlwind of explanation, the demon at the center introduced himself as Lord Diavolo, confirmed that they were indeed demons now, and explained that, as the demon prince and current ruler of the Devildom, they were now part of his domain. This was RAD, a school for demons, and the demon who had led them here was Barbatos, his personal butler. His father, who had passed the reigns of power but still commanded more respect among the nobles, would help work out the details of their new positions here in the Devildom, but he wanted to welcome them as members of the RAD student council.
It was a lot, but most importantly, they would stay together down here. They would live together, with Lucifer working out the details of their new home, and they would attend this school. Apart from this, they would be eventually assigned other responsibilities, but they would be otherwise free to enjoy the Devildom as they pleased.
As they pleased. Asmodeus wasn't sure what this all meant for them, but he liked the sound of that phrase.
--
Asmo sighed happily, gazing at himself in his vanity mirror. He looked perfect. His outfit was perfect, with pearly flower earrings perfectly matching the flowery sleeves of his shirt.
After they fell, Mammon had worried and fussed over everyone - not that he would ever admit it outright. Still, the worry had been unmistakable, checking in on each brother every day to make sure they were adjusting okay. But for Asmodeus, things were more than okay. It was like a blindfold had been removed from his eyes.
When he looked at himself now, he understood why everyone had always fawned over his looks - he was gorgeous! How had he never seen it before? He was dazzlingly beautiful. No wonder they had called him the Jewel of the Heavens! And though he was no longer part of, well, heaven, he was still the most stunning being to exist, in all the three realms.
That being the case, it was only right to share himself with everyone, right? Everyone had always wanted to gaze upon him, and at last, with the chains of celestial modesty shed from him, he understood that it was his responsibility to share this gift of his beauty with all.
"I'm heading out!" he called out to his brothers in the common room as he skipped out of the house with excitement. By this point, he'd been to tons of parties, but the joy of it never really wore off. The energy, the dancing, the drinks, the new people, and most importantly? Getting to do whatever the hell he wanted.
The pumping music and the flashing lights of the club greeted him as he threw open the doors. "Who's ready for an Asmo party?! Your Avatar of Lust has arrived!" he cheered.
Everyone in the club went wild immediately, as they always did for these. A night of partying, hosted by the Avatar of Lust, filled with dancing and drinks, and inevitably ending in a wild orgy at some nearby hotel room with as many bodies as could be crammed in? The demons at the club always went wild for an event like that.
Cambores, his good friend, came up immediately to give him a kiss on the cheek and pass him a drink. "Asmo, baby, we've been waiting for you! There's a whole line of succubi who have been begging for a dance with you tonight!"
"Only a dance?" he giggled impishly, as he waved to the line his friend pointed out. "Well, they do have to take turns, since a beauty like mine has to be shared with everyone. But we'll have to see if any of them can tear themselves off of me after a dance!"
Wasting no time, he grabbed the hand of the first one and whirled her onto the floor. "Bothothêl, you're back for me again tonight," he teased. "Didn't get enough of me last night?"
"No, never, Lord Asmodeus," she responded, gazing adoringly into his eyes. She shimmied against him, pressing herself close against his body, and he responded in kind. "I want you every night if you'll allow it."
"Well, I'm flattered, my dear," he answered in a sultry whisper against her collarbone, "but I'm afraid you can't hog beauty like this. But maybe next time I eat you out, I'll eat your heart along with it so I can carry you with me, if you want to stay beside me so badly." He felt the lust emanating from her at that, and took the opportunity to give her a little nibble against her neck, before twirling her away to pull forth the next two succubi from the line at once.
By the tenth or eleventh song, he was about ready for another drink - and some actual action, rather than the intimate but very short flirts he was having with his dance partners. "Sarabocres, darling," he greeted the bartender cheerfully. "Can I get a Brimstone Kiss? And...a Death Tequila Sunset for this new friend of mine right here," he added, tugging over a random demon who had caught his eye from further down the bar.
"O-oh, um, Lord Asmodeus! T-thank you," the demon sputtered in surprise.
"You're welcome," he smiled sweetly back. "So you know my name, what's yours?"
"Kamusil, sir," she answered. Her eyes sparkled as she took him in, though she quickly scooted back and looked away. "Wow. You're even more beautiful than everyone says."
Smirking, he placed a finger under her chin and lifted her gaze back up to meet his. "Well, no one can accurately describe perfection, after all. But no need to be shy, cutie, you can drop the sir and all those formalities. Tell me, what kinds of secret desires are you hiding? If you could have, hmm...let's say, ten demons here in your bed tonight, who would they be?"
As if in a trance, any hesitation in her dropped away immediately. She pointed out various demons to him, some he recognized and some he didn't, all of them drop-dead gorgeous.
A mischievous smile spread across his face. He gave her a quick smooch, and whispered, "Okay, wait for me just a bit then, and don't you leave before me. Okaaay? We'll have a good time tonight, I promise."
With that, he downed his newly arrived drink and returned to join the throngs of dancers.
--
What a fun plaything she'd been, truly. Despite having been so shy, Kamusil had really had a knack for spying some of the wildest partners he'd been with in quite a while. He lay idly in the bed, tracing the sleeping form of one of the many sexed out demons beside him.
It would be an exaggeration to say they'd all explored pleasures together he'd never dreamed of - he was the Avatar of Lust, after all - but certainly there were some obscure things he got to try out that night. And there was always tomorrow, or the next night, or the next.
After all, there was nothing stopping him anymore. No shame, no modesty, none of the rules binding him. He could do whatever the hell he wanted.
And he loved it.
#obey me#obey me!#obey me swd#obey me shall we date#obey me asmodeus#om! asmodeus#obey me asmo#om! asmo#happy birthday asmodeus#asmo angst#angel asmo#obey me fics#writings#mod chaos in the devildom
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What I'm afraid to say
Part 5/6 - AO3
part one | previous | Next
Geraskier - T
Summary: Five times Geralt tries to tell Jaskier he loves him, and one time he succeeds.
______
Geralt follows Jaskier along the path, they don’t have any destination in mind and Geralt is happy to follow his bard as he struts and dances and twirls along the dusty road. Everyone always says that it’s Jaskier that follows the White Wolf, but Geralt knows differently. From the first day back in Posada it had been Geralt that spurred on Roach to trot after the bard as he strummed on his lute. Geralt has been following Jaskier ever since, taking contracts in the towns they visit, stopping along the path to forage for ingredients, and finding the best places to camp.
Geralt smiles, knowing his face is hidden from the bard as he chatters on ahead of Roach. Jaskier is beautiful like this. He may be a man used to the finer things in life, but travelling suits him. It invigorates him as he flits from town to town, like leaves on a breeze.
Jaskier talks about everything and nothing, weaving stories and ballads out of thin air about every little thing they encounter. Poetry falls from his lips as easily as a priestess’s prayer to the gods. Geralt had known only silence before Jaskier, but now that void would stifle him. Nothing is as peaceful as the constant tenor floating through the air, wrapping Geralt in its warmth, a reminder that Jaskier is alive. The bard may be born to travel, but travelling with Geralt puts him in danger. Geralt would do anything to keep him safe, anything, but it isn’t always enough. He cannot cage the bird that wishes to fly free.
Because Jaskier is free, almost like a force of nature that cannot be contained, and that thought makes Geralt chuckle. It seems only right that the bard named himself after a flower, and not for the reason many people would think. He isn’t delicate, and whilst he dresses as brightly as wildflowers, there is a nasty streak in the bard. He can be bitter, jealous, and condescending. He is not just a sweet little buttercup.
He is so much more.
He is the water that flows in a river, a breath of life and unforgiving all the same. He is the light of the sun, warm and yet blinding. He is the spirit of the forests, so alive and yet dangerous if you never learn how to respect it.
And Geralt loves him.
He loves him so desperately that the words are stuck in his throat. His tongue cannot seem to work anytime he thinks of how he might tell Jaskier the truth. So he finds other ways, and hopes, prays, that one day Jaskier will hear the full extent of his feelings.
His smile fades as he remembers the jagged scars on Jaskier’s skin, marks from the cockatrice that tried to take the bard from him. He would love to wrap Jaskier up in his arms and never let the bard leave an inn or tavern again, he knows it wouldn’t work. Jaskier chose his life with Geralt for the adventure, for the hunts that threaten him every time he ignores Geralt’s pleas for him to stay behind.
The Cockatrice hunt was the start of it, a catalyst that caused his feelings to spiral out of control. Now he’s barely able to hold on. Every day he feels like he’s falling over the edge of a waterfall but he never hits the bottom.
Fuck, he just hopes that Jaskier will be there to catch him when he does.
“Geralt!” Jaskier cries, spinning round with his lute in his hands and a dazzling smile on his lips. “Can you hear that?” the bard asks, tilting his head.
Geralt frowns, looking around for any danger but even when focusing his senses he can’t hear anything, just the trill of the birds from a nearby tree and…
Oh.
Of course, Jaskier listens for the beauty in the world when Geralt only sees the evil.
“Hmm,” he replies, too ashamed to admit that he hadn’t even considered the birds until after he’d checked for bandits or monsters.
“I wonder,” Jaskier hums, deep in thought as his tongue flicks out and swipes along his bottom lip. “Do you think I could write a song based on the bird songs?”
Geralt doesn’t reply. He thinks that Jaskier’s songs are more exquisite than any bird song, but he doesn’t say that. He never says it. He wants to, gods he so desperately wants to. He wants to love his bard the way he deserves to be loved, but he is a witcher. He could never love Jaskier in the same carefree way that his bard loves everything and everyone.
Luckily, Jaskier doesn’t need any encouragement from Geralt, he never does. He just laughs, more musical than any other bard that Geralt has ever met, and spins back around. Disjointed notes fill the air as Jaskier tries to figure out the pitch and rhythm of the bird’s calls. He grumbles and swears under his breath until he gets it right. Geralt is no bard, but he knows as soon as Jaskier has cracked it, a sweet scent wafts through the air and Jaskier cheers, dancing forward with a spring in his step.
The rest of the day is filled with Jaskier’s attempts to find the right lyrics and rhymes for his latest song, an ode to nature, he calls it. Geralt is almost disappointed that Jaskier seems to have found a new muse. His heart aches in his chest as he considers that Jaskier may not need him anymore, that he’ll move on and leave Geralt in the dust.
Geralt isn’t sure what he’ll do when that happens.
Even the long winters at Kaer Morhen now seem empty without the bard to light up his life.
They set up camp quickly, falling into a well worn routine, moving around each other as they each complete their tasks, like nobles dancing at a banquet, completely in sync but never clashing. Soon enough they are sitting on logs opposite the fire, Geralt sharpening his swords in a steady rhythm as Jaskier plucks aimlessly at his lute. The bard stares up at the sky watching the stars that twinkle in the otherwise black sky. There is no moon tonight and the only other light comes from the fire, the orange glow casting eerie shadows around the camp. The soft light makes Jaskier look impossibly even more beautiful. There is a light stubble on his cheeks and Geralt tries to memorise the line of his jaw, his nose, his cheekbones.
“You know…” Jaskier breathes barely above a whisper, “we’re all rather insignificant when you think about it.”
Geralt wants to disagree. Jaskier is anything but insignificant, in the time Geralt has known him, the bard has become the single most important part of his life. Jaskier is the light in the dark, his guiding star on the path, the reason he fights so hard to survive in every hunt.
Geralt stays silent.
“The stars, burning bright and lighting up the heavens, each of them far larger than any of us. Even a witcher or a sorceress is nothing in the life of a star,” Jaskier murmurs, never looking away from the sky.
“It’s not about how long we live,” Geralt mumbles, his heart racing in his chest, almost as fast as a human’s. He feels the blush on his cheeks and his tongue feels heavy in his mouth. This is the moment he will say it. I love you.
“Hmm?” Jaskier asks, finally looking at Geralt from across the fire.
“It’s about how bright you burn,” Geralt explains, and Jaskier burns so brightly, brighter than any star or moon or sun.
Jaskier’s smile widens as his expression softens, wrinkles appearing at the corner of his eyes and he bites his lip, a sign that he’s deep in thought. He hums and plucks a few notes from his lute that sound suspiciously like ‘Toss a Coin’. “I suppose you’re right. We’ll make a poet of you yet, darling.”
Geralt’s heart clenches at the pet name, but he knows it means nothing. Jaskier loves freely and Geralt is no exception, but it would never be in the way that Geralt longs for, he’s too damaged, too scarred.
And yet, Jaskier is also scarred now.
“Can I see?” he asks, knowing the bard will understand him. It’s the same question he’s been asking every night since the hunt. The scar has faded now, still visible but less red and jarring against Jaskier’s pale skin.
Jaskier rolls his eyes, a fond smile dancing on his lips. “And they say witchers don’t feel.”
“Jaskier,” Geralt growls, only calming once the bard shrugs out of his doublet and pulls up his chemise. Geralt breathes a sigh, a weight lifted from his chest. The scar is exactly how he remembers it, fading and perfectly healed, and yet every night he worries, a nightmare plaguing him relentlessly that it has reopened and is bleeding beneath Jaskier’s colourful doublets.
“See, all fine, stop your nonsense,” Jaskier chides and pokes him on the nose. Geralt’s nose wrinkles and he sits back from the bard, causing Jaskier to let out a peal of laughter. “Oh dearest Melitele, how I love you,” Jaskier says between giggles, the words falling off its lips like the sweetest honey.
Geralt stammers wordlessly.
I love you too.
He opens his mouth, gaping, his cheeks burning hotter than the fire. Jaskier just laces their fingers together, as if it means nothing at all, and kisses Geralt on the cheek. “I know, dear heart, I know.”
A warmth pools in Geralt’s chest at Jaskier’s words, letting the bard’s voice soothe him. Those three damn words are still stuck, but he has time. Jaskier knows now, he’ll wait for Geralt.
He hopes.
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Inextinguishable Fire | Chiluc Week Day 1
Fake Dating/Accidental Confession/Roommates AU
Chiluc Fluff
Tw: Mentions of a Stalker
★━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━★
“Ajax! I need your help!” He chimed, his pale knuckles knocking lightly on the door. The sound of creaking soaked through the door, floorboards cried under his weight as his shadow shifted beneath the door. The faintest sound of a groan resonated through the door as it was slowly opened.
The sunlight from the apartment began to creep into his dark room, it’s darkness swallowed around the tall, pale figure before him. The veins in his hands moved as he gripped at the door and it’s frame, his muscles stretching as he curved his back in a weak attempt to pop it. Whatever he had done last night must’ve been eventful, bruises littered his knuckles as cuts and scratches tore at his skin with every breath.
“What’s up Sparky?” He groaned, the sound reverberating through the quiet hallway as he yawned, his bed head unruly as it curled and stuck out in different directions, his sleepy tears rolling down his freckled cheeks.
“I have a problem and I need your help.” Diluc had muttered, determined to fix his gaze upon those ocean blues that drowned him shamelessly with every look. They’d look down at him, up at him, study him and care for him. An overwhelming tsunami sure to swallow him whole and send his head underwater, taking away every breath he took.
“What kinda problem?” Ajax was intrigued. A problem? Whatever this problem was it obviously stressed him out a great deal — his hair was a frenzied mess, curls displaced down his back and along his shoulders from where they had been agitated; probably from where he had been running his fingers through it. Even in his sleepy haze, he could see his fingers were irritated, most likely from scratching, and his lips were chapped, his bottom lip with patches of raw skin, swollen and bleeding. He’d been chewing and pulling at the skin of his lips.
“So you remember why we’re rooming? Because I had a stalker on campus?” He worried, starting to scratch at his neck, most likely from anxiety.
“Yeah…I remember very well. They tried to break into the dorm you shared with that Albedo guy. I chased ‘em off,” he groaned, rubbing at his face, trying to rub his drowsiness away, “What about ‘em? Do I need to beat the shit outta them?” He murmured as he studied the man before him.
“Well…no, not yet I don’t think. That’s not…”
“What’s wrong Diluc?” He whispered gently, his voice deep and raspy from having just woken up. His voice alone was enough to send a shiver down Diluc’s spine.
“I’ve been invited to a double date and the people who invited me think I’m dating you and I don’t know what to do so I came to you thinking you’d know what to do and even though I know how to protect myself I’m still not comfortable knowing there isn’t a restraining order on that stalker so I figured —,”
“Diluc, slow down. You’re rambling, I need you to have mercy on me here,” he laughed as he reached for a t-shirt, “Look, I get this is making you anxious. Why not just tell them you don’t feel up to hanging out right now? Better yet, invite them to the apartment, I don’t care.” He slipped the tee on, the collar hang forward from where it had been stretched out.
The idea of ‘asking another friend’ really wasn’t much of an option for Diluc. He had far too many trust issues and the only reason why he’d hung around Ajax was because he was there the night the stalker had broken in, talking pictures of him and stealing precious items. Had it not been for Albedo’s attempt to stop him, Ajax wouldn’t have heard the ruckus.
“Look, I need you to calm down before you tell me. I can’t keep up when you anxiety ramble,” he smiled softly, nodding to the living room, “Go sit on the couch and wait for me, I’ll brush your hair out and you can go from there okay?” For someone as flamboyant as Kaeya — maybe even more so — he was rather calm in the mornings whereas Kaeya would be loud and dramatic.
Striding along their shared apartment, he sat on the couch as he listened to the winds howl and the birds chirp. He remembered telling the pair he had online classes to worry about, the classes becoming stressful, only adding to his exhaustion after the stalker incident. Feeling the sofa dip behind him, he relaxed instinctively as he sat behind him, pulling his hair behind him before he gently brushed at the hairs, careful not to snag a single strand.
“So start from the beginning for me,” he said calmly, his fingers carding through his hair with each stroke of the hairbrush.
“I was invited to a double date…,” he whispered, slumping forward just a bit as he fiddled his his fingers.
“By who?”
“By Albedo.”
“You’re old roommate?” Diluc nodded as best he could, his weight sinking into the cushions beneath him.
“Why not just invite him and his partner here?”
“I tried but he said he doesn’t want to be a bother and he’d rather pay for coffee down the road.” He sank into his touch as he lightly massaged his scalp.
“And you said he thinks we’re dating?” Diluc hummed, tilting his head back, melting under his touch.
“Yeah, I couldn’t get a word in over the phone, I tried to tell him we weren’t and he didn’t believe me.” He sighed, some of his tension leaving his body.
“And you’re worried about that stalker again?” Diluc hummed again, his eyes closing as Ajax braided the sides to pull into a small ponytail, draping the rest if his tamed hair over his shoulders and down his back.
“Then we’ll go and just call it a fake date.” He shrugged, his hands leaving the tamed red locks his fingers were busied with.
“The two of us on a fake date?” Diluc had thought of it, he just hadn’t expected for him to have the same idea, “What would we even do, how would that —,”
“Dont stress about it too much, just follow my lead,” Ajax soothed, brushing a piece of his hair behind his ear. It was brief when Diluc looked away, Ajax’s eyes stealing a glance at his red lips, his gaze lingering a moment longer than he would’ve liked as the other stared off at the pristine, white wall.
“Look, if it bothers you that much then I’ll just go as company alright? No need to worry your pretty head Aphrodite,” Diluc’s skin burned violently as his mind began to crash, he could feel himself drowning once more, water filling his lungs and his throat as a light kiss was pressed to his temple.
“Why did you —,”
“We’re fake dating right? We gotta make it believable Rosebud, might as well get a head start,” he chuckled as he walked back to his room to get dressed, “Let me know what time we’re leaving,” he called down the hall, his voice bouncing and echoing down the cramped space as Diluc sat mindlessly on the sofa. God, he could be so insufferable sometimes. His fingers feathered over his temple, the ghost of his lips setting his heart aflame as he scoffed. Sure, he helped when he was needed and slept most of the day because of his night classes, but he could be so…so annoying.
An hour had ticked away along the clock’s hands, Diluc looking on in severe distaste at the basic tee and jeans Ajax had chosen. It was so basic Diluc couldn’t help but roll his eyes as he drug him back to his room, rifling through the other’s wardrobe, desperate to find something better for him to wear.
“Take that off, before I rip it off you,” Diluc’s tone was bitter, as he glared at him.
“So forward Diluc,” Ajax snickered, pulling the t-shirt off slowly, teasingly, loving the irritated noise that squeezed itself past Diluc’s throat. His touch against his skin was scalding as he took his shirt off for him. It made his heart flutter and burn like a forest fire in his chest with each breath, becoming far more dire with every inhale — dire for the need to touch him delicately, to let his fingers gingerly trace the underside of his jaw and press chaste kisses to his neck. He swallowed thickly, knowing his pale cheeks were burning with his hidden passion, the tips of his ears must have been burning as bright as the other’s hair. If they had, Diluc had chosen to ignore it, surely.
“Put this on.” Clothes were pushed to his chest, an assortment of colors that worked beautifully together, “I think a slate grey would look better, it’s softer,” he started to ramble, right, he was studying to be a fashion designer, he was also a minor in art, “No, no wait,” he went off, fingers gently skimming against his clothes, “Try this instead,” he handed him another outfit, taking away the sweater and pants he had handed him previously.
“Diluc, it’s a fake date…,” he whispered slowly as Diluc went back to looking through his clothes, “Why are you dressed like it’s a fancy outing, wearing heels, and going so in depth with clothes?”
“Well, Ajax,” he hummed with a swift turn of his heel, his hair spinning as he lifted the other’s chin with his finger, sending Ajax reeling from his spot on his bed. Don’t even get him started on the way he said his name like that, “One, it’s called having a taste in fashion and being a minor in art. Two, they aren’t heels, they’re dress shoes,” he leaned in closely, a smirk danced uncharacteristically along his features as his breath fanned over his lips, “We gotta make it believable…Seerose.” Had it not been for rooming with him for four months his German would have been rough. He…he called him Water Lily in German. The perfect payback really. Ajax laughed lightly as the finger slipped from his chin as he stood up.
“Alright alright, I’ll be out in a moment.” Diluc had been grateful he had the other by his side, his heart hammered in his chest.
“How do I look Firefly?” He chimed, a cheesy grin on his face as he walked back into his room.
“Better,” Diluc was pleased with the outfit. It had gone silent rather quickly, the incessant buzz of the AC being the only noise that had filled the room, “Hey…I have a question.”
“Shoot Sparky,” Ajax relaxed, slouching back just a bit as Diluc eyed him, watching his every move like a hawk.
“Did you want to go on the double date with me?” Ajax’s face flushed. Yes, yes he absolutely wanted to…but how could he admit that so casually?
“Just thought it’d be a cool idea, that’s all.”
“A cool idea?” Diluc had doubted that with every fiber of his being. He could tell by the way he spoke and the way his body had tensed up there was something up.
“Yeah, pretty much.” He shrugged, his body going rigid.
“You’re lying.”
“What?”
“I said you’re lying.”
“Yeah, I heard you the first time but what makes you think I’m lying?”
“You’re too tense.” He said simply, stepping closer eyes cut to examine every bead of sweat that formed on his face, every freckle and every line in his forehead, “Why did you propose the idea of a fake date, and be honest.”
“I am being honest!” He panicked, he could feel his body begin to flare with heat as Diluc walked closer and closer.
“No you aren’t Ajax.”
“Why does it matter?” Ajax argued, as he took slow, consistent steps back.
“Because I’m the last person you should love—,”
“So what if I do?!” Ajax’s voice echoed within the dark room as sunlight streamed through the curtains as he was backed into the wall. His heart raced in his chest as it clicked. He…he just admitted to loving his roommate. The very roommate he saved four months ago and offered to go on a fake date with. He hadn’t meant for it to be so raw, so unromantic that he himself had to groan at his own stupidity.
“…So you’re actually in love with me?” Ajax’s lips pursed shut, as he looked away, embarrassment settling in his bones, flooding every crevice of his body.
“Ajax?”
“Yes, Diluc, I’m in love with you, for fuck sake.” He groaned, his head thumping against the wall as he threw his head back. He was dizzy, his eyes wide as warm hands cupped his cheeks with a forceful kiss pressed to his lips — desperate. Everything in this moment was a blur to him, he just knew he tasted sweet, like sugar and pastries. He could feel the quiver of his lip and it felt right. It felt so, so right.
“C-call, call it off,” he groaned, melting into the kiss with every touch as his lithe fingers traced the veins in his neck, “Call off the meet up—,” he whispered thinly, pulling him impossibly closer as he kissed him feverishly, passion burning in each press of their lips. Diluc gasped as he was suffocated with every gentle kiss pressed to his skin. He pulled at the hairs of his neck, allowing himself to be dragged down to the bottom of the ocean. Lightly, he pushed him away to breathe, laughing lightly at their disheveled state as he cleaned them both up as best he could.
“Or, we could actually make it a date instead of a fake one,” he proposed, hands busying themselves with bronze curls.
“Yes. Fuck yes, I would absolutely love that,” he whispered as he went back to kissing him over and over, grateful for his stupid mouth talking too much.
“A date it is then,” Diluc mumbled against his lips as he allowed himself to be devoured by the other’s warm embrace, “A date it is…” Ajax sank into his touch, feeling his fingers hold him closely by his jaw as his lips met his over and over, his warmth scorching his skin, a fire that could never be extinguished…a fire that could never be extinguished.
#genshin impact#ajax#childe#diluc#ragnvindr#diluc ragnvindr#gay#chiluc#romance#hydro and pyro#hydro vision#hydro#pyro vision#pyro#chiluc week#ChilucWeek2021#fake dating#college au#accidental confession#i’m tired
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Re-Published
Anon: Hello! Um... I don't know if you write for Tokyo ghoul, but if you do, I might have a one-shot human reader x uta, where he kills someone to defend them so they find out he's a ghoul? Maybe even if they're scared they understand that they can trust, and they hug him or at least touch him though he's all covered in blood or something... I don't mind if you do it a little macabre.
If this is not possible or does it seem too ooc to you, please ignore this. Thank you
~
I finally finished one of the one-shots! I'm taking a long time with them, sorry.
And thanks Anon for asking about Tokyo Ghoul and especially Uta!
WARNING: VIOLENCE AND BLOOD
32 - Tokyo Ghoul - Uta x human! Reader
"Keep death away"
You could have known it long before, of course you could. Yet you were too stupid to understand, weren't you? Or just, you pretended not to understand. You didn't want to understand, it was easier.
It was a thousand times better to keep hunting in the meanders of your mind the doubt that occasionally arose when he never took off those damned sunglasses in your presence.
"Maybe he has some kind of disease, it would be inappropriate to ask, right?"
You always repeated it in your head as you watched him talk leaning against the counter in his study. In short, not that he didn't have his oddities, one more or one less what suspicions could arise?
Yes, indeed. Why were you so surprised that Uta was a ghoul? It was just one of many oddities about him.
You always knew it, but now you have been forced to face it.
You had to face that the security he gave you from that occasional first meeting was just a lie created by your mind. After all, who could ever find such a person reassuring?
God, the smell of blood was so nauseating, so terrifying, you had never felt it so strong before, nor had you ever seen so much blood. Could a human body really contain it?
Your hand went to your neck, where a slight red trickle burned in a thin scarlet crack that opened above your collarbone. The knife that gave it to you was lying helpless a few steps away from you, you could still distinguish it from the slight sparkle that emanated under the crimson cover that dipped the asphalt.
Now it seemed such a trivial weapon, so ridiculous.
You almost wondered how you got hurt by something so insignificant, to still have a sore wrist from the grip of a miserable human being. In front of the spectacle before you, the previous danger seemed only a bad joke.
But that joke was now literally being devoured. Eaten like you would have eaten a donut for breakfast.
The man who attacked you was literally being eaten. Not just killed, not just torn apart, eaten.
His flesh was ripped off, chewed under voracious teeth, and ran down a still too dry throat. His blood was licked, drunk, his bones shattered, pulled out like his organs, as if he were a fish to be cleaned.
Was it the liver he was now biting?
Did you have a chance to escape? To survive?
You remembered feeling a wave of relief when you saw a familiar figure in sight in your tears, however ...
You wanted to scream, but it would have been worse. You wanted to escape, but who could have escaped from such a creature?
He seemed to have forgotten you, bent over his meal as he was. Bloody predator, hungry, too absorbed in his hunger, in his desire for hideous food.
Yeah, he was hungry. Sure. Hunger, he was hungry. That's why Uta had dismissed you so quickly that evening.
And you were almost worried as you heard him close the doors of his shop behind your back as you left. You thought you did something bad, thank god.
Wait, what? Thank god?
No, no. You couldn't feel relieved. In short, you'd be dead soon, you should find your panic again, the one that blocked you until a moment ago.
He, that boy, would have killed you. He was hungry, he would eat you… right?
Your gaze was now fixed on the demon's pupils. The red irises surrounded by the black sea had slowly turned to you, as if he had heard your question.
Even his back, which until then had been bent in an animalistic position, was slowly straightening up again.
He had nothing left in his jaws, neither flesh nor bones. He was just… red. Splashes of living sap tinged his ageless face up above his nose, his tattoos almost disappeared under the blood of others.
And the silence spoke, it screamed deafeningly among you.
You asking him how much harm he would do you, and him asking you when you would condemn him, destroying the life he had built.
You did not have the courage to move a muscle, you remained there, curled up on the ground, with your hands clasped around your neck almost in the hope that he would not perceive your wound, your being alive. Your clothes also wet with blood and yellowish liquids whose origin you did not want to know.
For a moment, you thought you were going to stay there forever. He staring at you without expression from above, and you, ready to become food for beasts.
Your gaze dropped slightly, focusing on the background behind his legs. It was red there too, dark red. Red that stretched along the road in horrible wakes and crimson splashes.
There was no longer any sign of the human being who had attacked you, or rather, the signs were very little human.
You wondered if you felt sorry for him. Frankly, you didn't know what to think. It was awful, but at the same time how could you have saved yourself from what he was about to do to you?
"Have you been watching the whole time?"
Uta's voice suddenly roused you. God, you forgot that there was that voice of him; so quiet, so peaceful with you.
He knew it too, seeing him eat like that, it had to be traumatic. He didn't want you to see him, he hoped you'd never even have to imagine it. And yet you were there, and this was him. He couldn't change it anymore.
You watched him as a child watches his teacher as he searches for the right answer to a question he couldn't answer. What was the answer? Which would have made you survive if there was a chance?
"I ... I won't tell anyone ..."
What idiocy. Why would he have believed you? But what other choice did you have but that? You would have buried everything, just to survive. You would have buried everything because, it would have been easier. It would have been as it had been until then, you ... you could have done it.
"I won't tell anyone, Uta."
His gaze seemed to relax, but you couldn't be sure. Even though you could see him full face he seemed so good at keeping control over himself.
Was he believing you? Did he trust you enough? Why didn't he speak? You needed to know.
"If you talk, you know ..."
He didn't say anything else. His voice in the midst of delirium was almost reassuring, while he held back the scariest words and simply brought his palm to rest lazily on his abdomen, now full after who knows how long.
A warning that meant a thousand things, a thousand threats but he had the delicacy not to let you hear.
"Did you get into trouble at the right time ... your wound?"
Your lips parted, but all you did was gasp for a moment, not knowing what to say. Your head was spinning, you were dizzy and everything about you was shaking. You couldn't have stood on your legs.
"…Wound…?"
You repeated his words, as if you were unable to think for yourself. You realized it. Well, it meant that at least you were still aware of yourself.
He seemed to accept your status peacefully, and simply gestured with a light gesture of his tattooed hand to his neck, which was also so uniquely branded in black and now dyed red.
"You are hurt."
It wasn't a question, Uta just knew it.
Your hands slowly slipped from your neck until they fell into your lap. Of course, of course he knew. He felt it, that's why he was there.
You were in trouble at the right time, of course, because he was hungry. He wouldn't eat you, if he wanted he wouldn't send you away. If he had wanted he would have done it in his shop, safe. Now you knew it, and the sudden relief hit you like an electric shock, unexpectedly bringing tears to the edge of your eyes. Not the panic, but the relief almost made you throw up, and the awareness of the situation poured on you like a frozen waterfall.
Your mind, drowsy with questions, woke up suddenly, taking note of everything that had happened, of what was around you.
Death and gratuitous violence. Not Uta's, but the one you might have suffered without him.
Nobody guaranteed you that, without the tragic intervention, you would get out alive, and certainly not unharmed.
You had really come close to death, and where the knife had cut you it was now burning wickedly, taking you back to the instant before the devil's executioner arrived.
You did not even remember if there was a reason why you found yourself so tightened by filthy unknown arms, you did not remember if you were able to speak, but to pray yes.
God, you saw death. There was death, you touched it, it was all around you. You saw it, it was colored red, a dark red illuminated only by cold emergency lights that hung almost lifeless and wobbly from the walls of uninhabited alleys. Death flowed under your knees, like revolting rivulets accumulating at the bottom of the dead end.
Wherever you looked there was only death, or soulless things.
Where was the life?
Your forefinger and middle finger pressed desperately on your neck, looking for the place where your heart could testify that you were still alive, that no one had killed you. You were alive, you would have seen tomorrow.
And the figure of the ghoul looming over you senselessly returned to being reassuring.
You watched his infernal eyes peer at you patiently, luminous in the darkness. Oh, he was alive too, there with you.
"Uta ..."
You called him, like a newborn bird.
He took a step toward you for the first time, without threat, only in response to your plea.
"Uta ... Uta ... let me hear your heart ... please ... please ..."
You needed to feel him alive. You needed to feel the life in him, as you felt it in you, to know that in the midst of death you were not alone.
This time his expression betrayed him. His dark sclera widened just below the lids which opened slightly more. His black hair fell soft and long over his shoulder as his head bent slightly, scrutinizing you questioningly.
It was normal that he didn't understand. You were just a human, what a bizarre request was that?
Yet, still, it was you. The human he did not want to eat, the human he ran to as soon as he smelled their blood. The human who occasionally slipped into his shop, spying on his new masks and always asking him a thousand curious questions. The human with whom he went out for a coffee, to forget for a moment how much the world hated those like him.
Yeah, made by you, it wasn't such a crazy request. You've always been weird, so weird that Uta felt the need to save you, despite that ridiculous world that always ran too fast around his stillness.
His arms branded with tribal tattoos relaxed along his sides, opening slightly with his palms facing you. Not an invitation, but a permission to do what you wanted.
"If you are sure ..."
The only words spoken, perhaps slightly more insecure, and his calm voice, slightly broken with uncertainty, and at the same time so sweet in that deadly silence.
An adrenaline rush ran through your legs, and despite your exhaustion you got up, driven by the desire to reach that living creature.
It was not a hug, it was just you with your palms and ear delicately placed on his chest, searching for that desired sound. Like a lullaby it lulled you, his heart beating lightly fast against your cheek.
Under his ribcage you could also hear the organic sounds of the digestive process raging on what had been your tormentor. It wasn't as scary as you imagined, that body that was now keeping death away from you, was destroying it right under your touch.
And while you listened to the consoling heartbeat in the monster's chest, you didn't care about the blood that now ignoble dirty even your face. You were simply there, enjoying the warmth of a living body, while a thank you slipped under your breath that the ghoul's ears didn't expect to hear.
It wasn't a hug, but his hands leaned lightly like ghosts on your hips, holding you there, while the red irises more beautiful than blood rose to the black sky cut by the gray skyscrapers.
And as you listened gradually easing your fear, he felt your weight on his chest, more present with each breath. You miserable human being seeking refuge in the carnivorous beast, how grateful he was that even in the worst revelation he could make to you, you were still there, scared but understanding, and yet you were able to make that world around him seem less cruel.
#tokyo ghoul#tokyo ghoul x reader#uta tokyo ghoul#uta x reader#oneshot#violence#anime oneshot#Uta x human reader
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Ooh trap him somewhere either very hot or very cold?? :D
Oh.
Oh.
This is a perfect excuse to write an old daydream from my childhood. Well, there's two-- Arion on a grill and Arion in a box. I chose the box for this one but I may be tempted to write the grill at some point. I haven't written The Box before now because it doesn't exactly... fit with the plot of the actual story, but I mean...
Alternate Rescue AU, coming right up, Anon. (Also sorry I'm like, infinitely late haha. School threw me into a hell pit and I've been recovering. I'm back now ((though I'm not sure for how long, things might change in a week or two... we'll see.)) For now, I'm working on a lot of Arion stuff that will hopefully pop up within a few days! Cheers!)
CW: Tiny whumpee, some blood, cold/hypothermia symptoms (duh), cages/referenced captivity, briefly implied forced nudity from said captivity, brief reference to a past fever and resulting vomiting, referenced/implied physical abuse, water/rain/storms/being submerged in/splashed with water, thoughts of dying (of the "I might die" and "Am I dead?" and wishing to be put out of misery type), crying, (thinking about) needles, short (kind of) graphic description of a bird being run over, brief religion references
-
His legs still ache from running.
Arion sits in the cardboard box he found on the side of the road, huddled in the corner, shivering in the dark. Although he tries to clamp his jaw shut and stop it, his teeth chatter and his shoulders quiver. It feels like the frozen autumn air has grasped him entirely in icy claws that shake him violently in an inescapable grip. It reminds him of being trapped in Heston’s hand, shaken, body tossed in every direction until his head pounded and his eyes watered.
It’s colder outside than it used to be in the garage. But it’s better out here. No one can hurt him here.
As long as they don’t find him.
He rubs his hands over the goosebumps on his arms, hoping to warm them up and calm down the wild pain buried deep in his skin. As he does so, blood smears along the path he touches. It’s still gently creeping out of the series of cuts etched into his forearms. With it, the image of Heston’s glinting eyes surfaces in Arion’s memory. He buries his head in his shaking knees with a wet sniff. But he’s done it, he reminds himself. He’s escaped. Finally. Chewed through rope, slipped through an unlocked door. Heston's gone. For now.
Please, please don’t come looking for me.
A dog barks somewhere in the distance. He jumps. It sets off an echo of shivers all the way down his spine as his hair stands on end.
A raindrop falls on the cardboard roof. Then another, and another. Thunder claps harshly overhead.
Arion shuts his eyes tight, bites back the frustrated tears welling up at the corners of his eyes. He curls up tighter, hugging himself, doing all he can to keep any scrap of heat he has close to his body. A storm might just do it. Might just kill him. A storm means wind. Freezing wind. And freezing rain. The last thing he needs right now is rain. It can’t rain. He presses his body closer to the cardboard wall, knowing it might not be standing there much longer if it rains.
And it does. It pours.
He sees the rain splash into the road before him. The storm swiftly grows. It’s ferocious and feral and cruel. The temperature around Arion drops. His tiny body shakes uncontrollably, as if it weren’t his own. It reminds him of the terrifying fever he had, long ago, in the confines of his red cage just weeks after being taken from his home. He’d been throwing up and twitching and having the most horrible, vivid dreams (on the occasions that both Heston and the illness let him sleep). The fits of shivering drove him mad, the endless teeth-chattering and flashes of uncomfortable warmth and sticky sweat made him feel even worse. It's like that, he thinks. Except, now, as he shivers, he’s unbearably cold.
An involuntary whine fights its way out of him. When he swallows, his throat feels stiff and achy. Snot runs profusely down his lips and no amount of wiping it away with his bleeding arms is helping it slow. Water has thoroughly and entirely drenched the cardboard, at this point. Has crept through the floor and the walls, and, gradually and persistently, has started to drip through the sagging ceiling. For a moment, Arion remembers he has toes, and that they’ve been numb for awhile now. Actually, now that he’s thinking about it, his feet haven’t felt like anything either, and when he tries to move his fingers, they only twitch. They feel heavy and prickly. He feels prickly all over. Like Heston had shoved a thousand frozen needles into a thousand different places all over his body. It hurts to breathe. There’s no way to get warmer. Nothing to hide under, not even something as decent as clothing. No way to escape, nowhere to run to, even if he had the energy left to try. He lets out a miserable sob.
And then the ceiling falls through, in a blur of collapsing cardboard and splashing waves of water that crash over his head and the rest of his body.
Arion tumbles out of the box, drenched. He coughs up water through jittery movements. For a second, he chokes on a mouthful, and he briefly he thinks he'll never breathe again, before his chest jerks and with another cough, the water falls out of his mouth. He tries to get his arms and legs under him, to stand or even crawl, but his limbs fail him and he crumbles face-first back to the harsh surface below him. The rocks mixed in the road’s tar are sharp. They cut deeply through his nose and cheek and the shoulder that followed his face in the fall. Arion winces against the fresh, sharp pain and the beads of blood that begin to form where he’s been hurt. His breaths come in ragged heaves.
He sniffs. Tears drip from his eyes. He lays helpless in the middle of the little road, in his mind begging to no one that a car doesn’t come along and crush him. Under any other circumstance, he’d love to be put out of his misery. But he’s seen a bird been run over before. Under a truck’s tire. And the memory makes his stomach churn. Flattened face, open stomach, popped like a bubble in a stream.
Briefly, Arion thinks of himself in place of the bird. He thinks of the smear of red underneath his empty, open eyes. He thinks of the way the headlights might look as they would suddenly appear right in front of him. The horrid, mind-numbing honk of a horn. The image he creates in his mind of those headlights, his last moments, is vivid. It’s so vivid that he thinks it might be real, or maybe hypothermia is setting in and beginning to ruin his mind.
It’s just his imagination, he thinks.
And then he smells exhaust from a car.
And the screech of brakes.
And for a second, whilst his body is numb and bright white light is all he can see, he thinks he might be dead.
“I swear, if I keep stopping my car for every mouse that sits in front of it, I’m never going to get anywhere.”
That voice drifts from the car stopped in front of him.
Not dead, then.
Almost, he thinks.
“Can’t help it though. What else am I supposed to do, run them over? Just vet instincts, I guess. Huh, Jasper.” There’s a meow in response. Arion’s breath hitches. The voice says, “Me-ow. I know, I know. I’ll be right back.” A car door shuts. Then there’s heavy wet footsteps. Boots clopping over puddles and asphalt. Panic floods Arion’s chest as a shadow cuts through the blinding white light from the vehicle. The outline of a human lowers, kneels in front of him. His breath stops. His mind goes blank.
“What…”
A moment passes. Something touches him. He flinches hard, but trying to run isn’t an option. His body is completely, entirely, wholly exhausted and far too numb to move more than flailing back a couple inches.
“Oh, geez, that’s-- not a mouse. Okay.” Her head turns in a way that Arion can see her face. A young woman with red hair, watching him with a warm but frantic gaze. “Okay. Okay okay. Oh, God, you’re injured pretty bad, little buddy. Your arms are all… cut up. That’s not good. Um.”
Arion stares blankly ahead. Suddenly, freezing to death isn’t something he feels like putting too much effort into avoiding.
“Okay. Here’s what we’ll do,” the girl continues. “I’m gonna bring you into my car where I can see you better, alright? Then I can help you. It’s gonna be okay. Here. I’m picking you up now, ‘kay?”
The feeling of a warm hand washes over his body. It’s both terrifying and incredibly welcome. The sting of cold seems to seep out of his skin, albeit very slowly. Quickly, though, burning prickles replace whatever comfort the touch brought him.
“Oh, you’re freezing, little guy. You must have been out here for a long time. That can be really dangerous… I’m glad I found you. I’ll get you all warmed up in the car.”
Arion whimpers against the hands that carry him to somewhere warmer, where he hears the faint, deep sound of a large beating heart. For a second, he wonders if this is God. And then the car door opens and creaks, and the girl curses under her breath, and Arion remembers he’s an atheist.
Still, as the stinging in his warming skin subsides, the warmth of her hands starts to feel… nice. If his mind were still intact (instead of shattered into vague, useless fragments as it is now), Arion would have done anything and everything to get away from any human or other predatory beast in sight. But with his head swimming, he leans into her touch, and compliantly accepts the soft feeling of some kind of cloth being wrapped all around him.
Words are spoken to him, but he can’t listen. To him they sound broken up and blurry as the insistence of sleep becomes more desperate in the back of his mind. As he gets warmer, his muscles relax, and his eyes get droopy. His vision darkens, and the girl’s voice hushes.
Just before he drifts off into a far overdue, deep and restful sleep, he thinks to himself, vaguely, that he hopes this human is different. He hopes that when he wakes back up, it won’t be in another cage.
-
Tag list because this ended up being a full drabble:
(Also, let me know if you'd like to be removed from the tag list. No hurt feelings! I know it's been a long time and if you've lost interest that is A-Okay, friend)
(Also, if you'd like to be added or if your username's changed, let me know!)
@whumping-every-day, @deluxewhump, @sola-whumping, @haro-whumps, @inaridriscoll, @whatwasmyprevioususername, @kiretto-laorentze, @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi, @ahorriblebimess, @whump-me-all-night-long
#whump#tiny whumpee#tiny whump#g/t writing#g/t#asks#arion#amber#amber's scarf#amber's scarf is its own character#tiny blanket for tiny cold person :’)#hypothermia#cold#storms#rain#escape#crying#blood#needles#warm#water whump#au#alternate escape au#sleep#rescue#arion origin
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Witch!AU Reylo is always a good time 🤩🙌✨🔥
More art on my Instagram✨
Story blurb down below!👇
Rated T
cn // witches , witchcraft , kidnapping , fear of assault
✨🍄✨
Kylo Ren stood in the cool shade of a tree, leaning against the wide trunk nonchalantly, ignoring the other people gathered there to take advantage of the respite from the heat. In the branches above him a mourning dove cooed, a soft sound among the chatter of people and the buzz of the cicadas.
In his hand was a piece of ashwood, small chunks carved out by the whittling knife in his other. He took care with his work, but his sharp eyes lifted every so often, focusing on the girl selling wares from her wagon across the dirt road from the tree. The heat did not seem to affect her much, her tanned skin evidence of her love for the sun.
Kylo watched her over the course of the day. She smiled at passersby, spoke matter-of-factly to those seeking tonics for ailments, laughed with a woman who seemed to enjoy telling local gossip to a new ear, and now seemed very unaffected by the flirtations of a young man.
Kylo’s eyes narrowed, his hands stilling. The boy was persistent, and she was getting irritated. When the boy tried to reach for her hand, Kylo watched as she let him, pulling close enough for her to whisper something in his ear. Kylo’s skin tingled as the magic wove through the air. The boy staggered back, a dazed look on his face, and then wandered away.
A repelling spell. Kylo scoffed. Smart. But not very smart to do something like that out here, in the open, where anyone could see. The girl’s eyes darted about, looking for the alerted gaze of someone who may have noticed her act of forbidden magic, but there was only one audience member to her indiscretion, and he had his hood up, enchanted to ward off any notice. He was as if part of the shadows; unassuming and forgettable. Her eyes slid over him as expected, and Kylo smirked, returning to his whittling.
She was the reason he was stood here, sweltering in his black robes and armor. She was a witch, even though she tried to hide it behind her simple tonics and herbs. He’d been tracking her for days, and finally caught up with her here.
He was on a mission from his master to capture her, and even though he knew not what the purpose was--she was hardly trained, seeming only to be able to harness the bare minimum of power afforded to their kind--but Kylo was not going to question it.
In the shade of the tree, Kylo wiped the sweat from his brow and adjusted his position against the rough bark of the trunk. In his hands the knife moved through the wood object, its shape taking form.
It wouldn’t be difficult to snatch her. He already had a plan; all he had to do now was wait.
--O*O--
Rey finished gathering up her wares from the table she had set up outside her wagon home, bringing them up the steps to place in the cabinet designed to neatly hold them. It had been a lucrative day, so there weren’t as many going in as she had taken out, and she patted her coin purse with a smile before hiding it.
She folded the table next to bring it inside as well, setting it back up in front of the bench seat along the right wall. Her wagon was a modest home, but cozy. Her bed was along the back wall, a nest filled with blankets and pillows, an array colorful beads on hanging strings glittered from the waning sunlight coming in through a small window.
The left side wall contained more cabinets with dishware and food, jars with herbs and preserves, and a small woodfire stove. The right side wall had more cabinets still, although these ones were kept locked. Inside were books, old scrolls, and grimoires, but also some amulets and dangerous items not meant to be handled by innocent humans.
Rey couldn’t afford to be caught, so she hid them behind concealing charms and repelling spells. No one would search those cabinets because they would seem far too boring to garner any attention.
She’d already had a close call earlier in the day, when an inquisitive constable had approached her table. He’d carried a large cross hung from his neck, and a sharp look to his eyes. She’d smiled broadly at him, hoping he couldn’t see the anxiety making her sweat. It’s just the heat, she would have said if he’d asked.
“‘Tonics and tinctures,’ eh? You a witch?” He’d crudely asked, not even trying to be tactful.
“My great great grandmother was one, sir,” she answered, a lie, probably, since she didn’t know her family, “but all I have is a penchant for medicines. I have a signed letter from a priest, Christening me as a Holy Hand.”
Most people like her did that--connected themselves to a church to avoid being burned at the stake. They were less likely to be looked at with contempt if it seemed like they were doing God’s work.
Rey just needed money to get away. To go anywhere. She didn’t know what she was looking for, but so far she hadn’t found it.
The constable had looked over her letter with a critical eye, but ultimately gave it back and continued on his way with a gruff, “Don’t stay too long.”
It was a warning she would heed. She’d be on the road by first light in the morning.
Rey brought feed and water to her Clydesdale, murmuring softly to him as he munched. “On to the next town in the morning, Bibi.” Then she whispered a spell to strengthen him and climbed the steps back up into her home. Being a Clydesdale, Bibi was the only kind of horse able to pull her wooden camper by himself, but she still tried to help with whatever magic she could manage.
Rey shut the wooden door and made a simple meal of bread and vegetable soup, eating at the table silently. By the dying light from the three windows about the cabin, Rey knew it was time to draw the curtains and ready for bed. The lamps filled the small home with warm light, and she was just reaching to untie her corset when a knock came on the door.
Rey frowned, going to it. There was a latch to open a small window and see who was calling, but it was still difficult to make out the shadowy features of the hooded man standing outside.
“I’m closed for the evening,” she said. “If you need something I can help you in the morning.”
She closed the latch before the man could answer, a wave of cold gooseflesh making her shiver. The visitor was silent, and she wondered if he’d walked away after a moment of not detecting any sound. She moved to her small closet again when the door latch clicked and swung open.
Rey stood straight, alarmed, sure that she’d locked it.
“I’m closed,” she said with more conviction, the words for her repelling spell on the tip of her tongue.
The man who entered her humble dwelling had to duck to get through the small door frame, and his head nearly brushed against the roof. He was broad, dressed in black, and as he entered Rey saw the flash of red gems embedded in the hilt of his sword at his hip.
She sucked in a breath. An inquisitor? Here? Had the constable sent for one?
But no, he didn’t carry any sign of the cross, nor did he have the stench of smoke that seemed to permeate an inquisitor as if their souls were made of ash.
This man had a darkness about him, but he was no witch burner.
He removed his hood and suddenly Rey felt like her eyes could focus again. She frowned, blinking. Strange. He was handsome, with dark hair in waves to his shoulders, a large nose somehow more elegant than ugly, and piercing eyes the color of whiskey. He seemed to not care that she had already told him twice she was not open.
Rey swallowed but steeled herself. She’d warded off enough men in her life to be able to take this one on easily.
His eyes went from scanning her to roaming around her living space. She couldn’t help to feel judged, and it made her scowl.
“If you need something, I can help you in the morning,” she said, voice hard. “Please leave.”
He finally looked back at her. Somehow he seemed to fill the entire wagon up with his presence, even though he was still standing in front of the door. That it was open helped Rey feel less trapped.
“I’m looking for something,” he said, ignoring her again. “A kind of herb. Willow’s Needle.”
Rey shook her head. “Willow’s Needle is a forbidden herb, used only by witches. I’m one of the Holy Hand, I don’t do witchcraft. Here,” she found the priest's letter and held it out for him. She tried to control the shaking of her hand. “It’s signed by Father Michael from--”
There was a gust of wind from the open door, blowing the letter from her hand and extinguishing all but one lamp that hung above her bed. The door swung shut, enclosing them together.
Rey stepped back, her heart thundering. The man stood still, staring at her with dark eyes.
“Are you here to kill me?” She asked, thinking of the knives kept in the drawer by the stove. The man was closer, but Rey knew that even if she could get one it would be no match for his sword. And even then, she had a feeling this man was far deadlier than the piece of sharpened metal at his side.
“No,” he said, taking a slow step forward. He was like an encroaching black cloud, and for all the magic Rey knew she had under her fingertips, she was finding herself far too overwhelmed by his presence to think straight enough to use it.
“Don’t be afraid,” he told her quietly, within arms reach now. “I feel it too.”
“Feel what?” Rey whispered.
His lips quirked up on one side.
“Magic.”
His hands rose and Rey took an alarmed step back, gathering strength to try and throw him with a spell, but she stopped. Lights began to sparkle to life as he whispered into his cupped hands, a dazzling display of power that Rey hadn’t witnessed in years. Not since she was a child, before she was taught to keep hidden.
Her curtains were closed so one would see this forbidden show except her, but it still felt like she shouldn’t even be looking. What if someone saw? What if they accused her of it?
The man lowered his hands to show her his creation, and Rey stepped closer, entranced, warmed by the light. She gave a delighted gasp at the tiny bird made of magic nestled in his gloved palms, and she glanced up to see a much softer expression as he watched her in turn. Rey looked back at the bird, shy in the face of this nameless man’s attention. This rare male witch.
All at once it didn’t matter that he had barged into her home and frightened her. He was like her, and maybe that meant he was lonely too. Maybe he was here to find a traveling partner. Someone to be himself with.
Rey’s heart ached to be truly seen by someone who wouldn’t be afraid of her.
She’d instinctively held her arms to her chest in a shield when he’d advanced, but now one hand unclenched, wanting to show she wasn’t afraid, that she accepted his magic. The little bird chirped a twinkling song, and Rey smiled, wanting to see if it was as soft as it looked.
“Go on,” the man murmured, as if he could hear her thoughts. “You can take it.”
Rey smiled and accepted the warm illusion into her own palms. It was a very convincing mirage, one she had never been able to conjure herself. She looked up again, but the man’s face was closed again, his eyes sharp, and all at once Rey felt the illusion evaporate. As soon as the small wooden carving of a bird touched her skin, her whole body froze.
She couldn’t move. Only her eyes widened in horror at her error. Ashwood.
“It’s a paralysis charm,” he explained as her dread rose. “Carved into the wood. A simple thing, really. Any witch worth her salt would have been able to detect it.” He stepped close, all warmth gone, his cold eyes calculating as they scanned her frozen form once again.
“I don’t know why my master would want a weak vagrant like you, but I suppose you’ll have your uses.”
Rey could only whimper at the implication, and she wished she could move and fight back. But her hands had seized around the bird figurine as if in a cramp, and she knew she would not become unfrozen until it was no longer in her grasp.
The dark witch-man bent and easily picked her up into his arms, her body pliant but still out of her control. He took the few steps to her bed and settled her down in the pillows. Her eyes watched him fearfully, the worst thoughts of his intentions flitting across her mind, a desperation beginning to bloom in her breast that nearly had her whining in an attempt to beg him not to defile her.
But he actually pulled the edge of her skirts down to cover her exposed calves, and then straightened, not giving her unguarded body a second glance.
“You should try to sleep,” he told her. “Fretting won’t do you any good, and the spell won’t go away until the bird does.”
And then he turned and left, the wood creaking beneath his heavy boots, the door clicking shut behind him. Rey heard the lock latch into place, and then the sounds of heavy hoofs, and straps being moved. The wagon lurched as Bibi was attached to his leads, unfamiliar with the man doing it. Rey willed the horse to stomp him, to run away and find help for her, but she felt a wall in her mind.
Whoever this witch-man was, he was far more powerful a person than Rey had ever encountered before.
She heard boots climbing to the perch near the window by her bed, and then the flick of reins. The next time the wagon lurched, it stayed in motion, the whole cabin swaying and jostling from the unpaved road.
Rey had no idea where she was being taken, or by whom, but she knew if she was going to survive this kidnapping she was going to have to use all of her wits she could muster.
Anything less and she was sure to succumb to whatever dark agenda awaited her at the end of this journey.
✨🍄✨
#reylo#star wars#witch#witch au#witchcraft#rey#kylo ren#kylo x rey#witch!rey#witch!kylo#fanfic#fanfiction#my art#Reylo art
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come upon morning
(Peter Parker x Reader)
angst - words: 2.1k
OPEN ENDING BELOW
"Alright! Enough from you!" Your friend laughed loudly as he smacked your other friend in the back of the head, turning to face you. "It's your turn. Give us all the details!"
You shifted awkwardly, laughing and rubbing your arms for comfort. The conversation happening between your group was on the subject of 'the ones who got away', which you all had experience in. "Fine, fine. Just be quiet and sit down!"
A hush fell over the room as you opened a book and pulled some photos out of the page. Curiosity spread as the photos were passed around for everyone to look at.
"Why do you keep these on that page?" One friend asked, looking over your shoulder at the highlighted text.
"I keep them close to a quote on it. It says 'you'll always be mine, in the back of my mind. I'll look for you in my next life.' I found this quote when I was in a dark place, and it reminded me of him. Because that's how I'll always feel." You explained to them, passing another picture around.
In the photo, the boy had a straw taped badly to his head with a ridiculous smile spread across his face. His nose was wrinkled too, adding to the joyous atmosphere the picture captured. His brown curls were splattered across his head and face in a mess, along with a hastily put-in butterfly clip. You felt warmth blooming inside you while looking at it. Your friends laughed at the picture, pointing out various (but positive) things about him to one another.
"What are you doing? You look ridiculous!"
"I'm a unicorn! You should be a unicorn too!"
"Wait until Tony sees this. No- I am not sticking a straw to my forehead like a crackhead!"
"Psh, you don't know what you're missing, then!"
"That boy was my whole world. We were best friends before we lovers, but we always did everything together. One time, we both failed an exam on accident, and celebrated! We drove around for hours just because." You reminisced.
"Dude, one kid sitting next to me was all 'I got this in the bag! Studied all night long!'" Peter chuckled, pushing his curls from his face with the hand that held yours. He pushed his lips against your knuckles softly.
"Are you serious? Dude, if you can't even pass the exam, then everyone else definitely failed. Their ego was 100% bruised afterward, I'm sure of it." You snickered, blushing as your eyes cast over his form. His skin glowed from the kiss of sunset colors. "Hey! Careful! You almost hit that bird! Ugh, your driving is the worst!"
Peter's laugh brought a smile to your lips as you teased him, knowing full-well you drove much worse than he did. Poking his side with your finger to tease him more, he squirmed away and began to make faces.
"Oi! I'm trying to keep us alive! Stop that!" He snickered.*
"I hope you know that we are absolutely not listening to this song! My turn to control the cord!" You cheered, snatching his phone away.
"What? No! I'm the driver, I control the music!"
"In your dreams, Parker! And don't take your eyes off the freaking road, you health-hazard of a human being!"
"Oh, please! I drive better than you do! And either way, you know you love me!"
"That, yes, that is very true. I can not deny that." You giggled with a happy sigh.
"What else did you guys do?"
"So much! We went on great adventures and vacations together but also enjoyed simple moments. One day, I was frustrated with everything so I started crying on the kitchen floor when the empty pot slipped from my hand." You laughed at yourself, shaking your head. "He came in with a sympathetic heart and dumped a bunch of pots on the floor. At first, I got even angrier. Because, hello, that was a huge mess! But then he started constructing them together on a mat and grabbed two dowels for the both of us."
Peter cursed when he saw your form, panicking slightly as he tried to come up with a solution to fix the sad mood you owned. The poor brunette had come in, more than ready to defend you from an attacker, after being alerted to the crashing sound of a pan hitting the tiled flooring. Trying to think quickly on his feet, he leaned past you to pick up said fallen pot along with a large group of others.
"What are you doing? I swear to god I will smash your face into the cabinet if you think I'm going to clean this up."
Peter wordlessly grabbed your hand and placed the dowel in your hand, kissing each finger as he twisted them into a fist. He reached up and brushed a piece of hair away from your face, smiling sweetly at your confused face.
"What do I need this for?" You questioned, still slightly irritated.
"What? What was he doing, exactly?"
"We actually started playing them together, on the floor. He cheered me up in less than an hour. I went from crying in frustration to crying from laughter." A blush crept its way up your body as a love-sick smile made its appearance.
Crawling on the floor, Peter gently pulled you by your empty hand next to him. A whine of protest escaped your lungs, but you eventually gave in and looked at the pots in front of you. He reached around you, his arms controlling yours. He began beating the wooden sticks against the metal and copper pots.
"I love you! I love you! My darling!" He sang out dramatically, badly playing out an improvised tune, hiding his smile when he noticed you were forcing one to hide. "My darling! She's oh-so-beautiful!"
Laughter bubbled within your chest and escaped into the air around the two of you. A smirk made its made to your boyfriend's lips at the achievement of making you happy. He pressed a kiss to your cheek before continuing his actions.
Eventually, he moved and sat beside you, using his wooden stick to bang on the pans. He laughed after you made a pun referring to the pots, shaking his head in amusement.
"Come one, sing a duet with me."
"Nooo."
Peter began singing loudly but slow enough for you to try and match his lyrics. You were pretty sure the two of you were bothering the neighbors at this point.
A bubble of snickers filled the room after someone mentioned just how in love you seemed to be even after he left.
"You see, this big teddy bear of a human being loved to travel, so one day he showed up outside my job and picked me up. We ended up driving for a long time until we had a picnic underneath the stars. I taught him a bunch of the constellations."
"Peter! C'mon, tell me where we're going! You're boring me!" You joke, shoulders shaking in laughter when you do.
"No! You can't know yet! It's called a surprise, babe!" He protests, taking one hand off the wheel and easing his foot off the accelerator. Using the empty hand he has, he pokes your side once safely stopped at a red light.
"Ugh. You're a pain. I hope you know that." You paused for a few minutes before saying: "Are we there yet?"
"We are literally still driving! Relax!"
The drive continued for another hour or so before you pulled up onto a hill that sat beside a glistening lake. By that time, it was well past midnight. You would have fallen asleep if Peter's energetic and proding, literally, personality. He sang loudly to you and was constantly poking you in the ribs, although gently.
"We've arrived! I hope you're hungry!"
After the picnic, you rested by his side, enjoying the comforting kisses he left across your face. "I love you, but I'd appreciate it if you would pay attention to my lesson!" You whined*
"Alright, Teach. What do you have for me to learn? Not math, I hope." He replied in turn with a broad smirk.
With a sharp eye-roll, you sat up, taking his finger, and pointing it at the sky. "Big dipper." You drug it over to a separate spot. "Little dipper."
"I like this lesson. Teach me more."
"He sounded amazing. What happened to you two?"
"The part of him yearning for adventure became too difficult to ignore, and he knew he needed to go. Of course, he offered for me to come with him, but my parents refused. They told me how my focus was to be on where I was going in the future, so their force kept us apart." You set down the Polaroid picture to pick up another one, this one of a car. The brunette sat on top of it, clearly singing and dancing. "The night he left was a hard one for us all. His aunt and mentor came over so we could all wish him goodbye. I was angry at my parents, but they were right. My future was very uncertain with him, especially since he didn't know where he would be going."
A stray tear made it's down your cheek, dropping onto the hoodie of his you wore. Your friend wrapped an arm over your shoulder.
"Eventually, after he packed his car for the journey and his weeping aunt gave him one last hug, I was called over. I opened the door to be closer to him and sat, looking at him. His cheeks were damp with tears, as were mine, but we smiled. He put his hand into mine and kissed me, so softly, as if I were glass."
"You look beautiful today, you know. Is that dress new?" Peter's fingers danced up your arm to cup your cheek.
"I bought it just for you, for today. I wanted you to see me looking my best, so you can remember me this way when you go."
"I still don't know if I want to go." He admitted, ducking his head before looking back into your eyes.
"You have to. You need to go because your heart is calling." You whispered, reluctant to admit the truth as much as he was. "And you don't have to be scared, because I will always be with you along this journey." You placed your hand on his heart.
"He pleaded for me to go that night, to go with him. I told him I couldn't, that it wasn't an option."
You set down the picture while standing, grabbing one from underneath a flipped-over picture frame. One of your friends picked up the frame and felt anguish at seeing the picture inside the glass.
The same boy the conversation was about sat somewhere, clearly in a place with bright lights. He wore a white, short-sleeve top that ended with the picture. His eyes were blood-shot, curls messy as can be, but a smile sat across his lips, despite being clearly in pain.
"This noise is going to be the death of me, I swear."
"Kid, you've got a lot more fighting to kill you right now than the lights. At least try to act concerned for yourself." Tony's voice strained, dry from tears. "They are probably the smallest problem you have as of now."
"Don't say stuff like that. Please." Your voice croaked, all the tears you had now gone from crying them away. "It can't be like that. No."
"That picture was taken a few months before he left. This one is a copy of the photo he took with him." You explained, showing it around. "I loved him so much, you know, and he loved me too. I could tell since he had some much trouble leaving us. But I knew he had to go."
In the last photo sat you both, side-by-side, asleep. One of his arms draped over your side while he spooned you from behind with his face buried into the skin of your neck. You had hair flopped over one eye and one hand tucked into his dangling by your front. The two of you had corresponding colors on your nails, a bright red. It had been his idea after a tired sleep-over reached well past two in the morning. It was a fond memory of yours.
Your friend pulled you tight to his chest, noticing the balance you were struggling to keep between sobbing or staying straight-faced. Eventually, the tears came out, but a smile stayed on your lips as you remembered Peter.
You remembered his laughter that was always accompanied by his contagious smile or smirk. Also on the list, you remembered his ability to sweet-talk you into sneaking out to see him on nights he wasn't 100% busy. However, you also remembered how he left you, leaving a longing feeling that turned into unheard wishes.
You just wish his departure had actually happened like that.
taglist: @rorybutnotgilmore @petersasteria @elios-timotea
#peter parker x reader#peter parker#peter parker angst#peter parker fluff#tom holland#tom holland x reader#tom holland fluff#tom holland angst#spiderman#spiderman x reader#mcu#mcu x reader#tony stark#angst#fluff#x reader#flashback#fic#death#travel#traveler
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Sander Sides - Coraline AU
So when scrolling through one of my favorite channels on here I saw someone mention Janus as Other Father, and this got my creativity going.
I’ll hash out the characters and ideas, then give you a basic idea of what is cooking in my head. However, I’m not sure on how I want things to go in terms of plot. But I do have a general idea of the characters and their roles as well as background.
Other Mother: Logan Sanders
In this idea the Other Mother would have been Patton, but given there are so many sides, I thought he’d fit another role better. Then my sister suggested Logan as Other Mother, and it fits for the basic plot I have in mind. He goes by Logic by the others in the Other World, or as they call it the Alternate World or Pocket World.
Logan says he’s the eldest one here along with Patton and Janus, and seems to be the head of the ‘family’. He’s a very stoic mother, pushing his kids, which in this case is Roman, Remus, and Virgil, to be smart. Not in a bad way, he’s a silently content mother, and you can tell when he’s proud of you. He cleans mostly and makes sure everything is in place, and enjoys gardening. Mostly he stays in the study or outside.
In terms of power, Logan is the most powerful of them due to being the oldest person there. And no, he doesn’t turn into a spider being, he actually is a type of bird. Looking alot like harpy when you really tick him off. His buttons are dark blue with silver thread and his skin is warm but overly smooth.
Other Fathers: Patton and Janus Sanders
No one is really sure who is older, they’ve always been with each other. Janus enjoys making music and Patton enjoys cooking for the family. Both are very fatherly and enjoy doting on their kids. Going by the names of Morality and Deceit/Self. When mother dear isn’t around, it’s up to the one of the fathers to sort things out.
Janus is strange, as in he’s the one who gives the hints something isn’t quiet right. Though it’s unknown if these are his actions or not. He seems to like challenging kids that come to the Pocket World to think about what they are seeing and why. Yet does it a very coy way. Then there are days he’ll do a 180 and ask you not to question anything and actively lie about things. His buttons are dark gold with black thread, and he does have scales on his face still. Though, to a kid that’s nothing.
Patton is cheerful and bubbly, his dinners are always the best as is his sweets. He’s the one that mostly sticks to Logan the most, and enjoys gardening also. He’s the first to make sure one doesn’t question, easily deflecting odd things, and is great at distracting people. He is Nostalgia after all, his areas when your near him make you feel so happy and get you lost in happy moments. His buttons are light blue with dark blue tread.
Both take on forms of a Frog and Snake when angry, which are terrifying. Their skin is also very rubbery feeling.
Other Brother: Virgil Sanders
Virgil here is the youngest, looking like he’s only 15 or 16. He’s been here the shortest... and looks oddly like a kid that went missing back in the early 2000′s. The Family calls his Anxiety, and he’s rather withdrawn. But does enjoy playing video games or board games with Patton, Janus, and Logan.
Soft spoken, sarcastic, and a little emo spiderling, he’s adored by Patton mostly. Who calls him the ‘Dark Strange Son’ alot. Virgil seems rather happy in the Other World. Stating to little Thomas that this world is much better than anything he could dream of. He’s however hesitant to answer questions about things not inside the Other World. Telling Thomas to not think about that, and just be happy. He enjoys his room/the attic, and outside in the front yard.
When angry, Virgil is the one with the spider form, taking on a more glass like look and his skin is cold to the touch. His buttons are dark purple with light purple thread.
Other Twins: Roman and Remus Sanders
The two Creativity Rascals, they are slightly older then Virgil, but much younger than Janus and Patton. They can warp reality around them when in their favorite spots, be it the Basement for Remus, or the Woods for Roman. Their rooms are actually in the basement in the door near the left side of the house. While Virgil's is in the attic.
They serve as the entertainment, coming up with ideas on the fly to go on adventures, play dragons and knights, or kings and castles. The forest, quiet literally, is their playground. Having their own fort and castle there, and a while bunch of land to cover.
The twins play fight alot, but they get along very well and are rather close to one another. And are like the cool older brothers who have alot of fun, but are happy to let the youngers join them.
Both have tentacles in this one, though Remus is more slimy than his brother. And when they open their extra mouths on their body when angry, it’s very scary. Roman’s buttons are red with green thread, while Remus is green with red thread. And their skin is like plastic almost.
Coraline: Thomas Anderson
He’s about 12 in this one, just moved to the country side in a little blue house on the back dirt roads. This town is dreadfully boring, with dull, muted colors, always over cast and rainy. It’s like all the happiness has been sucked out of it and left to decay.
Thomas is not upset about the move, as he never had many friends, if any, from his old home. He’s mostly upset with the fact he’s just dull, he’s not allowed to be colorful. And to top it off, his parents aren’t always there emotionally for him. Leaving him completely isolated, even more so when he’s a closeted gay in a very religious family.
So when he finds a world where everything is colorful, with three dads, well two and a mom, a family who cares about him, he’s excited. Maybe this move won’t be so bad.
Plot:
The idea in my head is that Thomas has moved with his parents to a rather nice when hie father got a promotion. But, like most typical rich families, he’s not really paid attention to. And Thomas feels mostly left out, having no friends to call his own, and just his imagination and books to keep him busy.
When exploring his new house, finding the attic and basement locked, and a small golden key, he finds a little door. It’s been walled off, which is a bummer. That is until the middle of the night, when Thomas follows a shadow to the door. Finding it leads to a world that is perfect.
The world represents everything Thomas wants, brothers, Roman, Remus, and Virgil. Fathers, Patton and Janus, and a mother, Logan, who actually cares about him. He isn’t sure if this is some very real dream or not. But he’s not complaining, he feels welcomed instantly byt he family.
Taken on adventures with Roman and Remus, playing games with Virgil and learning knew things from Logan, helping Patton cook, and Janus teaches him music and among other things.
But when after a week of this, Thomas starts to see strange cracks in their personalities. And when they one day ask if he wants to stay forever and be part of their family, it meets getting this pink buttons in his eyes. He’s terrified, and now wonders if he’ll ever escape... or even if he wants to.
Notes:
So I’m not sure how I want it to be played out. If the Others are truly evil in just that they want to kidnap Thomas just because they are selfish and/or turn him into a doll.
OR if I want it to be well meaning sinister, where they think they are doing Thomas a favor by taking him away from his neglectful family.
One thing to note is they do really like Thomas, regardless of intentions, they do like him. And either way, they want him to stay forever.
Now, I’m not sure if I want with the Other Father for Patton to be controlling Janus or Janus to be controlling Patton. One of them is well aware of what they are doing, but can’t go against the wishes of their controller or Logan. While they are happy, the idea of luring kids tends to hurt them inside.
The Other World is bigger than Thomas things, he’s just in a small area that belongs to Logan. There are MANY others out there. Who lure people away into their realm, for better or worse. It’s like it’s own reality, only everything is just perfect. It’s like a nostalgic trap, much like Patton’s room only worse.
Logan is the main guy, he’s been at this for a long time, and either Patton or Janus is their partner depending on who is controlling who. He mainly lures kids as he likes the taste of their humanity. It’s what he feeds off of, draining them of their everything, and making them like dolls, only with a semi soul.
Any who does this too becomes his kid or helper. Logan is fine with this, he enjoys having a family. And he only has to feed every few decades or so. He’s been around for a long time. Most of his ‘kids’ have grown up, and become true Others who have their own areas. Virgil, Roman, and Remus though are still MUCH too young for such a thing.
Others are NOT human, nor are they ‘aliens’ either. Best thing I can think of are like Fae, only... less magical as we know it. They are creatures who feed off of emotions and the essences that make people human. Which is why they all feel like dolls.
Others are near immortal should they feed properly, and Others areas tend to just attract people to them. Some go after teens, others kids, some adults, taste is everything. Adults tend to be more fulling, but can be bitter and sour tasting, Teens are half and half depending on situation, and are often spicy tasting. While kids are very sweet, and typically are fulling also depending on how well you’ve gained their trust. If you can get them to agree to being an other, even better.
It’s harder than it sounds though.
Each Other does have a specific power that they use. Which I am still hashing out in my head.
They rarely get angry, but boy is it scary when they do.
The key only is Thomas’s interpretation of the entrance way, it can be anything to get into the Other World. It’s all up to the person in how THEY think to get in. It could be walking through two trees making a hole in them, opening a door that is only unlocked on certain days, or even just crawling under your bed. It’s up to the seeker how they wish to get in, which is why the Other World can stay in one spot, no matter the house or thing built on it.
There is no real moral code for Others, their world is very well hidden. But they are very protective of their charges when they find the right type of feed off of. Logan gets extremely possessive of Thomas when he shows up, not as in he punishes the others, but if Thomas ever thinks about leaving or tries too, Logan would lock him up until Thomas gives into despair.
If they are being unruly or try to escape, one way to get them ot agree is by isolating them, and cutting them off from happiness. Which makes kids and teens want to stay once they leave their isolation. Logan dislikes doing this, but going without a food source is rather painful, and he’d rather not put himself or his partner through that. So if he must, he will make sure the target stays. Even if it won’t be as filling as if they agreed willingly.
Also, their areas is often where their power is the strongest.
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So Yeah, there it is, if you guys have any question just let me know. And this goes to @fangirltothefullest who when I mentioned this idea to her really wanted to see this.
I still need more for it, but I like the concept of it, it’s much different from the books, but that’s what makes it interesting. Could easily be Angst with Happy Ending.
Could even get more sinister than this. We’ll see. Might post more about this later. And fanart is well loved, I can draw, but not well enough in my mind lol.
#fangirltothefullest#sander sides au#sander sides coraline au#logan sanders#virgil anxiety#roman sanders#remus sanders#Janus Sanders#deceit sanders#patton sanders#patton morality sanders#logan logic sanders#roman creativity sanders#virgil sanders#thomas sanders#thomas sanders au#ts logan#ts roman#ts patton#ts remus#ts janus#ts deceit#ts virgil#long post#unsympathetic logan
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Lúthien and Sansa
Art credit: Lúthien by Aerankai and Sansa by denvertakespics
Recently I started reading about Beren and Lúthien and got really fascinated about how similar Lúthien and Sansa are.
Summary:
1. Beauty
2. Flowery names
3. From dusk to dawn
4. Little birds: nightingales
5. Big birds: eagles and falcons
6. Big cats and big dogs
7. Bat and wolf imagery
8. Singing and dancing
9. Other parallels
10. Beren and Lúthien as inspiration for Jon and Sansa
11. Bonus: from real life to fiction
1. Beauty
Ah, Lúthien! Ah, Lúthien,
more fair than any child of Men!
Oh, loveliest maid of Elvenesse,
what madness doth thee now possess?
Ah, lissom limbs and shadowy hair
and chaplet of white snowdrops there;
oh, starry diadem and bright
soft hands beneath the pale moonlight!
She left his arms and slipped away
just at the breaking of the day.
—Canto VI, The Lay of Leithian - J.R.R. Tolkien
It is told in the Lay of Leithian that Beren came stumbling into Doriath grey and bowed as with many years of woe, so great had been the torment of the road. But wandering in the summer in the woods of Neldoreth he came upon Luthien, daughter of Thingol and Melian, at a time of evening under moonrise, as she danced upon the unfading grass in the glades beside Esgalduin. Then all memory of his pain departed from him, and he fell into an enchantment; for Luthien was the most beautiful of all the Children of Iluvatar. Blue was her raiment as the unclouded heaven, but her eyes were grey as the starlit evening; her mantle was sewn with golden flowers, but her hair was dark as the shadows of twilight. As the light upon the leaves of trees, as the voice of clear waters, as the stars above the mists of the world, such was her glory and her loveliness; and in her face was a shining light.
[...] The fame of the beauty of Luthien and the wonder of her song had long gone forth from Doriath.
—Chapter 19, The Silmarillion - J.R.R. Tolkien
Lúthien was an Elf maiden/half Maia of incomparable beauty and grace, with night-dark hair, sparkling grey eyes, luminous skin, and a clear heartbreakingly lovely voice that was said to cause winter to melt into spring.
Lúthien was said to be the fairest maiden to have ever lived (a description later shared also by Arwen).
Why, O king, I desire thy daughter Tinúviel, for she is the fairest and most sweet of all maidens I have seen or dreamed of.’
Then was there a silence in the hall, save that Dairon laughed, and all who heard were astounded, but Tinúviel cast down her eyes, and the king glancing at the wild and rugged aspect of Beren burst also into laughter, whereat Beren flushed for shame, and Tinúviel’s heart was sore for him. ‘Why! wed my Tinúviel fairest of the maidens of the world, and become a prince of the woodland Elves—’tis but a little boon for a stranger to ask,’ quoth Tinwelint.
—The Tale of Tinúviel, Beren and Lúthien (2017) - J.R.R. Tolkien
Lúthien inherited her beauty from her mother Melian:
Melian was a fay. In the gardens of [the Vala] Lórien she dwelt, and among all his fair folk none were there that surpassed her beauty, nor none more wise, nor none more skilled in magical and enchanting song.
—Beren and Lúthien, Beren and Lúthien (2017) - J.R.R. Tolkien
Sansa is a beautiful maiden as well, she inherited her beauty from her mother Catelyn Tully:
Worse, she was beautiful. Sansa had gotten their mother’s fine high cheekbones and the thick auburn hair of the Tullys.
—A Game of Thrones - Arya I
"Sansa was a lady at three, always so courteous and eager to please. She loved nothing so well as tales of knightly valor. Men would say she had my look, but she will grow into a woman far more beautiful than I ever was, you can see that. I often sent away her maid so I could brush her hair myself. She had auburn hair, lighter than mine, and so thick and soft . . . the red in it would catch the light of the torches and shine like copper."
—A Clash of Kings - Catelyn VII
About Sansa's beauty, as I said before in another post:
I think beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but there are certain consensus and there are also certain conflicting reports about “beauty” in the universe of A Song of Ice and Fire.
[...] On the other hand, we have characters like Catelyn Tully and Sansa Stark, mother and daughter, that are consensually considered beautiful. Zero conflicting reports.
[...] Sansa Stark is called beautiful the most times in the entire series and by so many characters, friends and foes. There is no doubt about her beauty, and sadly that’s why her big lot of haters want for her to be disfigured so badly……….
As you can see, in a series of books full of unreliable narrators, Sansa's beauty is an absolute truth.
As I'm going to explain in the next section, Sansa's beauty is said to be "bewitching". Sansa is an "enchantress" thanks to her beauty.
Here a compilation of all the quotes about Sansa's beauty.
2. Flowery names
Lúthien was born in a forest under the stars, and niphredil first grew at the moment of her birth.
Niphredil was a small white flower that grew first at the moment of Lúthien's birth.
In one of his letters (Nº 312), Tolkien said that niphredil would be a delicate kin of a snowdrop.
The fact that a flower first grew at the moment of Lúthien's birth makes sense with the etymology of the name:
Lúthien is a Sindarin name meaning "Daughter of Flowers". The first element in the name is lúth ("blossom, inflorescence"). The second element is the feminine suffix -ien ("daughter").
In early writings, Doriathrin Luthien and Noldorin Lhūthien meant "enchantress", deriving from Primitive Quendian luktiēnē ("enchantress"; from root LUK "magic, enhantement").
And as it will be explained later, Lúthien wore fragrant flowers in her beautiful black hair.
Lúthien may have been derived from the Old English word Lufien, which means "love".
Sansa is also a flowery name:
The names Arya and Sansa are meant to represent the polar opposites of their characters, Arya being a hard sounding name, Sansa a softer more pretty name, etc.
—GRRM about The Stark Sisters’ Names
Arya, I say it ar-ya, two syllables, not three, not a-ri-a, like an operatic thing, but Arya, very sharp. I wanted something that was like a knife, that was sharp and hard sound, to be a contrast to the flowery Sansa.
—DAYS OF ICE AND FIRE Q&A (Nov. 13 2010)
Sansa is strongly linked with flowers as well (the rose of Winterfell legend, blue winter roses, the scent of flowers along the north bank of the Trident, Loras’s red rose, Myrcella’s garden, the Roadside Rose song, etc).
Sansa wore the red rose that Loras gave her in her hair.
Sansa has a lot of parallels with Jennys of Oldstones, a lady in a song famous for wearing flowers in her hair.
And about "magic", "enchantment" and "enchantress" we have these very telling quotes:
The pale pink light of dawn sparkled on branch and leaf and stone. Every blade of grass was carved from emerald, every drip of water turned to diamond. Flowers and mushrooms alike wore coats of glass. Even the mud puddles had a bright brown sheen. Through the shimmering greenery, the black tents of his brothers were encased in a fine glaze of ice.
So there is magic beyond the Wall after all. He found himself thinking of his sisters, perhaps because he'd dreamed of them last night. Sansa would call this an enchantment, and tears would fill her eyes at the wonder of it, but Arya would run out laughing and shouting, wanting to touch it all.
—A Clash of Kings - Jon III
"Do you require guarding?" Marillion said lightly. "I am composing a new song, you should know. A song so sweet and sad it will melt even your frozen heart. 'The Roadside Rose,' I mean to call it. About a baseborn girl so beautiful she bewitched every man who laid eyes upon her."
—A Storm of Swords - Sansa VII
Bringing Harry here was the first step in our plan, but now we need to keep him, and only you can do that. He has a weakness for a pretty face, and whose face is prettier than yours? Charm him. Entrance him. Bewitch him."
[...] Ser Harrold looked confused. "Please. One dance."
Charm him. Entrance him. Bewitch him. "If you insist."
—The Winds of Winter - Alayne I
As you can see, Sansa's beauty is said to be "bewitching". Sansa, like Lúthien, is an "enchantress."
3. From dusk to dawn
Lúthien is also called Tinúviel:
Tinúviel: ‘Daughter of Twilight’ [...].
—List of names in the original texts, Beren and Lúthien (2017) - J.R.R. Tolkien
Tinúviel literally means "Daughter of Twilight".
Beren first saw Lúthien dancing and singing in the twilight:
Now the lies of Melko ran among Beren’s folk so that they believed evil things of the secret Elves, yet now did he see Tinúviel dancing in the twilight, and Tinúviel was in a silver-pearly dress, and her bare white feet were twinkling among the hemlock-stems. Then Beren cared not whether she were Vala or Elf or child of Men and crept near to see; and he leant against a young elm that grew upon a mound so that he might look down into the little glade where she was dancing, for the enchantment made him faint.
[...] “By dawn and dusk he sought her, but ever more hopefully when the moon shone bright. At last one night he caught a sparkle afar off, and lo, there she was dancing alone on a little treeless knoll and Dairon was not there. ”
—The Tale of Tinúviel, Beren and Lúthien (2017) - J.R.R. Tolkien
At length Beren fled south from the ever-closing circle of those that hunted him, and crossed the dreadful Mountains of Shadow, and came at last worn and haggard into Doriath. There in secret he won the love of Lúthien daughter of Thingol, and he named her Tinúviel, the nightingale, because of the beauty of her singing in the twilight beneath the trees; for she was the daughter of Melian.
—A passage extracted from the Quenta, Beren and Lúthien (2017) - J.R.R. Tolkien
While Lúthien is associated with the twilight and the moon; Sansa is associated with the dawn and the sun:
All through the dark hours he kept his vigil alone. When dawn broke over the city, the dark red blooms of dragon’s breath surrounded the girls where they lay. “I dreamed of Bran,” Sansa had whispered to him. “I saw him smiling.”
—A Game of Thrones - Eddard V
One more step, she told herself, one more step. She had to keep moving. If she stopped, she would never start again, and dawn would find her still clinging to the cliff, frozen in fear. One more step, and one more step.
The ground took her by surprise. She stumbled and fell, her heart pounding. When she rolled onto her back and stared up at from where she had come, her head swam dizzily and her fingers clawed at the dirt. I did it. I did it, I didn't fall, I made the climb and now I'm going home.
[...] The eastern sky was vague with the first hint of dawn when Sansa finally saw a ghostly shape in the darkness ahead; a trading galley, her sails furled, moving slowly on a single bank of oars. As they drew closer, she saw the ship's figurehead, a merman with a golden crown blowing on a great seashell horn.
—A Storm of Swords - Sansa V
When Sansa opened her eyes again, she was on her knees. She did not remember falling. It seemed to her that the sky was a lighter shade of grey. Dawn, she thought. Another day. Another new day. It was the old days she hungered for. Prayed for. But who could she pray to? The garden had been meant for a godswood once, she knew, but the soil was too thin and stony for a weirwood to take root. A godswood without gods, as empty as me.
—A Storm of Swords - Sansa VII
More about Sansa and the dawn here.
4. Little birds: nightingales
Tinúviel is also a term to refer to the nightingale:
Tinúviel: [...] nightingale: name given to Lúthien by Beren.
—List of names in the original texts, Beren and Lúthien (2017) - J.R.R. Tolkien
Tinúviel is a Sindarin poetic term, though not a literal name, for the 'Nightingale'. This name was first given to Lúthien of Doriath by Beren when he first saw her dancing in the forest.
Lúthien's mother, Melian, is strongly associated with nightingales:
Melian was a fay. In the gardens of [the Vala] Lórien she dwelt, and among all his fair folk none were there that surpassed her beauty, nor none more wise, nor none more skilled in magical and enchanting song. It is told that the Gods would leave their business and the birds of Valinor their mirth, that Valmar’s bells were silent, and the fountains ceased to flow, when at the mingling of the light Melian sang in the gardens of the God of Dreams. Nightingales went always with her, and their song she taught them. But she loved deep shadow, and strayed on long journeys into the Outer Lands [Middle-earth], and there filled the silence of the dawning world with her voice and the voices of her birds.
The nightingales of Melian Thingol heard and was enchanted and left his folk. Melian he found beneath the trees and was cast into a dream and a great slumber, so that his people sought him in vain.
—Beren and Lúthien, Beren and Lúthien (2017) - J.R.R. Tolkien
In an early version of the tale of Beren and Lúthien, she is called "little bird" by Tevildo:
Now gazing therethrough, for it was ajar, she saw the wide vaulted kitchens and the great fires that burnt there, and those that toiled always within, and the most were cats—but behold, there by a great fire stooped Beren, and he was grimed with labour, and Tinúviel sat and wept, but as yet dared nothing. Indeed even as she sat the harsh voice of Tevildo sounded suddenly within that chamber: ‘Nay, where then in Melko’s name has that mad Elf fled,’ and Tinúviel hearing shrank against the wall, but Tevildo caught sight of her where she was perched and cried: ‘Then the little bird sings not any more; come down or I must fetch thee, for behold, I will not encourage the Elves to seek audience of me in mockery.
—The Tale of Tinúviel, Beren and Lúthien (2017) - J.R.R. Tolkien
Tevildo was a big black cat, tiger size, considered the Prince of Cats:
Tevildo: The Prince of Cats, mightiest of all cats, ‘possessed of an evil spirit’; a close companion of Morgoth.
—List of names in the original texts, Beren and Lúthien (2017) - J.R.R. Tolkien
In contrast to Lúthien being called "little bird" by a big black cat, Sansa is also called "little bird" by a big man dubbed the Hound:
He was mocking her, she realized. "No one could withstand him," she managed at last, proud of herself. It was no lie.
Sandor Clegane stopped suddenly in the middle of a dark and empty field. She had no choice but to stop beside him. "Some septa trained you well. You're like one of those birds from the Summer Isles, aren't you? A pretty little talking bird, repeating all the pretty little words they taught you to recite."
"That's unkind." Sansa could feel her heart fluttering in her chest. "You're frightening me. I want to go now."
—A Game of Thrones - Sansa II
As you can see, Lúthien and Sansa are called little birds by a big cat and a big dog respectively, but those beast-like creatures were antagonist figures to our heroines and the term little bird was no endearment but a way to mock and threat them.
We will come back to this cat versus dog issue later.
About Sansa and the nightingale, as I said before in another post:
She [Sansa] is also called “little bird” and a very special little bird, the one that makes the sweetest sounds, is the Nightingale.
The hours in ASOIAF have names. The hour of the Wolf is “the blackest part of the night”, and the hour of the Nightingale, comes after the hour of the Wolf. This means that the hour of the Wolf is exactly before the Dawn or the Hour of the Nightingale. Awesome right?
The song of the nightingale has been described as one of the most beautiful sounds in nature, inspiring songs, fairy tales, opera, books, and a great deal of poetry. And who is the character often described with the sweetest voice in ASOIAF? Yes that’s Sansa Stark, she sings beautifully with the sweetest voice.
So after the Long Night, the Dawn will come. The Starks will be there. Sansa will be there.
More about Sansa and the nightingale here.
Now, the association of Lúthien's mother, Melian, with nightingales:
Melian sang in the gardens of the God of Dreams. Nightingales went always with her, and their song she taught them.
—Beren and Lúthien, Beren and Lúthien (2017) - J.R.R. Tolkien
Makes me think about the Children of the Forest and the Old Gods, that are also related with the Starks.
Melian is associated with songbirds, and it is said she taught nightingales how to sing and their music followed her paces. In Valinor, she dwelt in the gardens of Lórien tending its trees, and she was the most beautiful, wise and skilled in songs of enchantment of all the people of Irmo. However she journeyed often to Middle-earth for she loved the deep shadows of trees and forests.
Melian was a Maia. The Maiar were spirits that descended to earth and help to create the world, almost like angels, almost like gods.
The Children of the Forest are called singers, and after their death part of them remains on earth and lives longer inside birds:
Bran knew. "She's a child. A child of the forest." He shivered, as much from wonderment as cold. They had fallen into one of Old Nan's tales.
"The First Men named us children," the little woman said. "The giants called us woh dak nag gran, the squirrel people, because we were small and quick and fond of trees, but we are no squirrels, no children. Our name in the True Tongue means those who sing the song of earth. Before your Old Tongue was ever spoken, we had sung our songs ten thousand years."
—A Dance with Dragons - Bran II
"Someone else was in the raven," he told Lord Brynden, once he had returned to his own skin. "Some girl. I felt her."
"A woman, of those who sing the song of earth," his teacher said. "Long dead, yet a part of her remains, just as a part of you would remain in Summer if your boy's flesh were to die upon the morrow. A shadow on the soul. She will not harm you."
"Do all the birds have singers in them?"
"All," Lord Brynden said. "It was the singers who taught the First Men to send messages by raven … but in those days, the birds would speak the words. The trees remember, but men forget, and so now they write the messages on parchment and tie them round the feet of birds who have never shared their skin."
—A Dance with Dragons - Bran III
As you can see, the Maiar sounds really similar to the Old Gods and the Children of the Forest. Particularly Luthien's mother, Melian, that is associated with trees (Old Gods, weirwoods) and nightingales (crows, ravens).
5. Big birds: eagles and falcons
Lúthien's father, Thingol, locked her up in a tree house, that is basically a bird's nest, since Lúthien is also called Tinúviel that means nightingale:
Now Tinwelint let build high up in that strange tree, as high as men could fashion their longest ladders to reach, a little house of wood, and it was above the first branches and was sweetly veiled in leaves. Now that house had three corners and three windows in each wall, and at each corner was one of the shafts of Hirilorn. There then did Tinwelint bid Tinúviel dwell until she would consent to be wise, and when she fared up the ladders of tall pine these were taken from beneath and no way had she to get down again.
—The Tale of Tinúviel, Beren and Lúthien (2017) - J.R.R. Tolkien
Sansa, under the guise of Alayne Stone, is the prisoner of Petyr Baelish in the Eyrie, that literally means falcon's nest:
Alayne's apartments in the Maiden's Tower were larger and more lavish than the little bedchamber where she'd been kept when Lady Lysa was alive. She had a dressing room and a privy of her own now, and a balcony of carved white stone that looked off across the Vale. While Gretchel was tending to the fire, Alayne padded barefoot across the room and slipped outside. The stone was cold beneath her feet, and the wind was blowing fiercely, as it always did up here, but the view made her forget all that for half a heartbeat. Maiden's was the easternmost of the Eyrie's seven slender towers, so she had the Vale before her, its forests and rivers and fields all hazy in the morning light. The way the sun was hitting the mountains made them look like solid gold.
—A Feast for Crows - Alayne I
Beren and Lúthien were rescued by great eagles:
Thus the quest of the Silmaril was like to have ended in ruin and despair; but in that hour above the wall of the valley three mighty birds appeared, flying northward with wings swifter than the wind.
Among all birds and beasts the wandering and need of Beren had been noised, and Huan himself had bidden all things watch, that they might bring him aid. High above the realm of Morgoth Thorondor and his vassals soared, and seeing now the madness of the Wolf and Beren’s fall came swiftly down, even as the powers of Angband were released from the toils of sleep. Then they lifted up Beren and Lúthien from the earth, and bore them aloft into the clouds . . .
(As they passed high over the lands) Lúthien wept, for she thought that Beren would surely die; he spoke no word, nor opened his eyes, and knew thereafter nothing of his flight. And at the last the eagles set them down upon the borders of Doriath; and they were come to that same dell whence Beren had stolen in despair and left Lúthien asleep.
There the eagles laid her at Beren’s side and returned to the peaks of Crissaegrim and their high eyries [...].
—The Quenta Silmarillion, Beren and Lúthien (2017) - J.R.R. Tolkien
Sansa expects for the Knights of the Vale (falcons) to help her to re-claim Winterfell:
Her eyes widened. "He is not Lady Waynwood's heir. He's Robert's heir. If Robert were to die . . ."
Petyr arched an eyebrow. "When Robert dies. Our poor brave Sweetrobin is such a sickly boy, it is only a matter of time. When Robert dies, Harry the Heir becomes Lord Harrold, Defender of the Vale and Lord of the Eyrie. Jon Arryn's bannermen will never love me, nor our silly, shaking Robert, but they will love their Young Falcon . . . and when they come together for his wedding, and you come out with your long auburn hair, clad in a maiden's cloak of white and grey with a direwolf emblazoned on the back . . . why, every knight in the Vale will pledge his sword to win you back your birthright. So those are your gifts from me, my sweet Sansa . . . Harry, the Eyrie, and Winterfell. That's worth another kiss now, don't you think?"
—A Feast for Crows - Alayne II
Sansa also wishes to have falcon's wings:
A falcon soared above the frozen waterfall, blue wings spread wide against the morning sky. Would that I had wings as well.
—A Feast for Crows - Alayne I
Unbeknownst to Sansa, another kind of wings are reserved for her. More about this subject later.
6. Big cats and big dogs
During her adventures in order to help Beren, Lúthien interacts with a big black cat named Tevildo, and with a big dog named Huan, a great wolfhound.
As was said before, Tevildo was a big black cat, tiger size, considered the Prince of Cats:
Tevildo The Prince of Cats, mightiest of all cats, ‘possessed of an evil spirit’; a close companion of Morgoth.
—List of names in the original texts, Beren and Lúthien (2017) - J.R.R. Tolkien
Tevildo was an evil fay in the form of a great black cat with a collar of gold, which gave him much of his evil power. He was considered a prince of the servants of Melko and lived in a hilltop castle near Angamandi with other tiger-size cats. During the Quest for the Silmaril, Beren was captured by Melko and forced to work in Tevildo's kitchens. However, the cat was defeated by his archenemy Huan and Tinúviel, who forced him to give up his collar and reveal the spell which held the stones of his castle together. Melko learned Tevildo had lost his power and the cats reduced to normal size and exiled them.
Later Tevildo's place in the narrative was replaced by that of the Necromancer, Thû (later renamed Sauron), in the later Legendarium. Thû (and later Sauron) was the "Lord of Werewolves", in contrast to Tevildo's position as "Prince of Cats"; the cat-versus-dog theme prominent in the "Tale of Tinúviel" was thus eliminated in later writings.
Here we can see an illustration of Luthien's encounter with Tevildo:
Art credit: “but Tevildo caught sight of her where she was perched” by Alan Lee for Beren and Lúthien (2017) - J.R.R. Tolkien
Don't you find this scene familiar? A beautiful lady encountering with a black cat while she is pressed against a wall?
When I read about Tevildo discovering Lúthien shrunk against the wall:
Now gazing therethrough, for it was ajar, she saw the wide vaulted kitchens and the great fires that burnt there, and those that toiled always within, and the most were cats—but behold, there by a great fire stooped Beren, and he was grimed with labour, and Tinúviel sat and wept, but as yet dared nothing. Indeed even as she sat the harsh voice of Tevildo sounded suddenly within that chamber: ‘Nay, where then in Melko’s name has that mad Elf fled,’ and Tinúviel hearing shrank against the wall, but Tevildo caught sight of her where she was perched and cried: ‘Then the little bird sings not any more; come down or I must fetch thee, for behold, I will not encourage the Elves to seek audience of me in mockery.
—The Tale of Tinúviel, Beren and Lúthien (2017) - J.R.R. Tolkien
I immediately thought of Sansa's encounter with Balerion, that black tomcat of the Red Keep while she was pressed against a wall:
The noise receded as she moved deeper into the castle, never daring to look back for fear that Joffrey might be watching … or worse, following. The serpentine steps twisted ahead, striped by bars of flickering light from the narrow windows above. Sansa was panting by the time she reached the top. She ran down a shadowy colonnade and pressed herself against a wall to catch her breath. When something brushed against her leg, she almost jumped out of her skin, but it was only a cat, a ragged black tom with a chewed-off ear. The creature spit at her and leapt away.
—A Clash of Kings - Sansa II
And who was Balerion the black tomcat?
The Red Keep was full of cats: lazy old cats dozing in the sun, cold-eyed mousers twitching their tails, quick little kittens with claws like needles, ladies’ cats all combed and trusting, ragged shadows prowling the midden heaps. One by one Arya had chased them down and snatched them up and brought them proudly to Syrio Forel … all but this one, this one-eared black devil of a tomcat. “That’s the real king of this castle right there,” one of the gold cloaks had told her. “Older than sin and twice as mean. One time, the king was feasting the queen’s father, and that black bastard hopped up on the table and snatched a roast quail right out of Lord Tywin’s fingers. Robert laughed so hard he like to burst. You stay away from that one, child.”
—A Game of Thrones - Arya III
As you can see, Tevildo and Balerion sound very similar, both are black cats, both are called evil, both live in a castle, both are considered royals, Tevildo a prince, Balerion a king, and both found a beautiful lady pressed against a wall.
On the other hand, Lúthien befriends a great wolfhound named Huan.
Huan, the Hound of Valinor, was a great wolfhound, one of the hunting dogs of Oromë the Hunter.
Huan was given by Oromë to his friend Celegorm, one of the Sons of Fëanor and accompanied him on his huntings in the regions of Valinor. When the Ñoldor under Fëanor rebelled, Huan went with his master to Middle-earth.
Huan was with Celegorm and Curufin who were hunting when he smelled Lúthien and captured and brought the maid before Celegorm.
Celegorm captured Lúthien and plotted to marry her, thus forcing a bond of kinship with Lúthien's father, Thingol.
But Huan the hound was true of heart, and the love of Luthien had fallen upon him in the first hour of their meeting; and he grieved at her captivity. Therefore he came often to her chamber; and at night he lay before her door, for he felt that evil had come to Nargothrond. Luthien spoke often to Huan in her loneliness, telling of Beren, who was the friend of all birds and beasts that did not serve Morgoth; ad Huan understood all that was said. For he comprehended the speech of all things with voice; but it was permitted to him thrice only ere his death to speak with words.
Now Huan devised a plan for the aid of Luthien; and coming at a time of night he brought her cloak, and for the first time he spoke, giving her counsel. Then he led her by secret ways out of Nargothrond, and they fled north together; and he humbled his pride and suffered her to ride upon him in the fashion of a steed, even as the Orcs did at times upon great wolves. Thus they made great speed, for Huan was swift and tireless.
—Chapter 19, The Silmarillion - J.R.R. Tolkien
So, in a superficial layer, Huan could be paralleled with Sandor Clegane, dubbed the Hound, since Huan was Celegorm's hunting hound and the Hound was the sworn sword and later Kingsguard of Joffrey Baratheon.
Celegorm was dubbed the Fair, had fair hair and was a great huntsman, the same way Joffrey was blonde and comely, and loved hunting and killing.
Celegorm wanted to marry Lúthien while Joffrey was actually betrothed with Sansa.
There is also the fact that Huan helped Lúthien escape the imprisonment imposed by Celegorm, gave her back her magic cloak (made of her shadowy hair), and fled north together, that somehow reversely resembles Sandor Clegane's offer to Sansa to help her flee north the night of the battle of the Blackwater, offer that Sansa rejected. That same night after a sexual assault attempt, the Hound ripped his white kingsguard's cloak (stained by blood and fire) off and left it fell on the floor.
But in a deeper layer, Huan was to Lúthien the same way the direwolves are to the Stark children.
Indeed, Huan was a gift from a god, the same way the direwolves were a gift from the Old Gods to the Stark children.
Among the six direwolves, Ghost is the one that resembles Huan the most, not only because Huan, despite having grey fur, is often depicted as white, as you can see here:
Art credit: "Luthien and Huan" by Elena Kukanova
But because Huan, like Ghost, is mute.
Huan had been granted special powers by the Valar, he was as large as a small horse, immortal, tireless and sleepless, and was allowed to speak three times before he died. It was also prophesied that he could not be killed unless it was by the greatest wolf that ever lived; in this case a werewolf.
Huan, taking pity of Lúthien disobeyed his master Celegorm, helped her scape, joined Beren and Lúthien in their quest and adventures, turned against his master to protect Lúthien and ultimately died protecting Beren.
Huan used the three times he was allowed to speak to help Beren and Lúthien and say farewell to them.
In a similar way, despite being mute, Jon was the only one that "heard" Ghost in the summer snows when the Starks found the direwolves.
Now, in an early version of the tale of Beren and Lúthien, Tevildo the Prince of Cats clashed against Huan the great wolfhound. It was a battle between a cat and a dog, Tevildo and Huan were archenemies. But in later versions of the tale, Tevildo was replaced by Sauron, who clashed against Huan, after taking the form of a werewolf. Huan won that battle. But much later, Huan was mortally wounded by Carcharoth, the greatest, most powerful wolf to ever live, and Huan died according it was prophesied.
The clash and contrast between wolves and hounds is also present in the universe of A Song of Ice and Fire; but in this case, the direwolves are the heroes while the hounds are the antagonists (Bolton's bitches, the Hound, etc).
This wolves versus hounds theme is particularly depicted in Jon's and Sansa's chapters:
Dogs moved between the tables, trailing after the serving girls. One of them, a black mongrel bitch with long yellow eyes, caught a scent of the chicken. She stopped and edged under the bench to get a share. Jon watched the confrontation. The bitch growled low in her throat and moved closer. Ghost looked up, silent, and fixed the dog with those hot red eyes. The bitch snapped an angry challenge. She was three times the size of the direwolf pup. Ghost did not move. He stood over his prize and opened his mouth, baring his fangs. The bitch tensed, barked again, then thought better of this fight. She turned and slunk away, with one last defiant snap to save her pride. Ghost went back to his meal.
Jon grinned and reached under the table to ruffle the shaggy white fur. The direwolf looked up at him, nipped gently at his hand, then went back to eating.
—A Game of Thrones - Jon I
Rattleshirt’s dogs greeted him with a chorus of snarls and growls and wild barking, as ever, but the direwolf paid them no mind. Six days ago, the largest hound had attacked him from behind as the wildlings camped for the night, but Ghost had turned and lunged, sending the dog fleeing with a bloody haunch. The rest of the pack maintained a healthy distance after that.
—A Storm of Swords - Jon I
"They’re dogs and he’s a wolf,” said Jon. “They know he’s not their kind.” No more than I am yours.
—A Storm of Swords - Jon I
It happened twice more that night, and again in the morning, when she woke to find him hard. The wildlings were stirring by then, and several could not help but notice what was going on beneath the pile of furs. Jarl told them to be quick about it, before he had to throw a pail of water over them. Like a pair of rutting dogs, Jon thought afterward. Was that what he’d become?
—A Storm of Swords - Jon III
Eddard Stark had left before dawn, Septa Mordane informed Sansa as they broke their fast. “The king sent for him. Another hunt, I do believe. There are still wild aurochs in these lands, I am told.”
“I’ve never seen an aurochs,” Sansa said, feeding a piece of bacon to Lady under the table. The direwolf took it from her hand, as delicate as a queen.
Septa Mordane sniffed in disapproval. “A noble lady does not feed dogs at her table,” she said, breaking off another piece of comb and letting the honey drip down onto her bread.
“She’s not a dog, she’s a direwolf,” Sansa pointed out as Lady licked her fingers with a rough tongue. “Anyway, Father said we could keep them with us if we want.”
The septa was not appeased. “You’re a good girl, Sansa, but I do vow, when it comes to that creature you’re as willful as your sister Arya.” She scowled. “And where is Arya this morning?”
“She wasn’t hungry,” Sansa said, knowing full well that her sister had probably stolen down to the kitchen hours ago and wheedled a breakfast out of some cook’s boy.
—A Game of Thrones - Sansa I
Sansa woke and found the old blind dog beside her once again. “I wish that you were Lady,” she said.
—A Storm of Swords - Sansa VI
The same way Lúthien bonded with Huan, I can see Sansa bonding with Ghost when she meets with Jon Snow and the mute direwolf again. Oh it would be so sweet...
7. Bat and wolf imagery
At some point during their adventures, Lúthien took the form of a giant bat while Beren took the form of a werewolf.
To transform into a giant bat, Lúthien used the coat of a female vampire servant of Sauron named Thuringwethil, as a cloak. The same way Beren transforms into a werewolf by using the coat of a werewolf named Draugluin as a cloak as well.
And then the giant bat rode upon the werewolf:
Long he [Huan] had pondered in his heart what counsel he could devise for the lightning of the peril of these two whom he loved. He turned aside therefore at Sauron's isle, as they ran northward again, and he took thence the ghastly wolf-hame of Draugluin, and the bat-fell of ThurIngwethil. She was the messenger of Sauron, and was wont to fly in vampire's form to Angband; and her greatfingered wings were barbed at each joint's end with and iron claw. Clad in these dreadful garments Huan and Luthien ran through Taur-nu-Fuin, and all things fled before them.
Beren seeing their approach was dismayed; and he wondered, for he had heard the voice of Tinuviel, and he thought it now a phantom for his ensnaring. But they halted and cast aside their disguise, and Luthien ran towards him.
[...] By the counsel of Huan and the arts of Luthien he was arrayed now in the hame of Draugluin, and she in the winged fell of ThurIngwethil. Beren became in all things like a werewolf to look upon, save that in his eyes there shone a spirit grim indeed but clean; and horror was in his glance as he saw upon his flank a batlike creature clinging with creased wings. Then howling under the moon he leaped down the hill, and the bat wheeled and flittered above him.
—Chapter 19, The Silmarillion - J.R.R. Tolkien
Huan stayed with Lúthien, and hearing of their perplexity and the purpose Beren had still to go to Angband, he went and fetched them from the ruined halls of Thû a werewolf’s coat and a bat’s. Three times only did Huan speak with the tongue of Elves or Men. The first was when he came to Lúthien in Nargothrond. This was the second, when he devised the desperate counsel for their quest. So they rode North, till they could no longer go on horse in safety. Then they put on the garments as of wolf and bat, and Lúthien in guise of evil fay rode upon the werewolf.
—A further extract from the Quenta, Beren and Lúthien (2017) - J.R.R. Tolkien
Now there he laid
before their feet, as dark as shade,
two grisly shapes that he had won
from that tall isle in Sirion:
a wolfhame huge—its savage fell
was long and matted, dark the spell
that drenched the dreadful coat and skin;
the werewolf cloak of Draugluin;
the other was a batlike garb
with mighty fingered wings, a barb
like iron nail at each joint’s end—
such wings as their dark cloud extend
against the moon, when in the sky
from Deadly Nightshade screeching fly
Thû’s messengers.
—The narrative in the Lay of Leithian to its termination, Beren and Lúthien (2017) - J.R.R. Tolkien
Draugluin: Greatest of the werewolves of Thû (Sauron).
Thuringwethil: Name taken by Lúthien in bat-form before Morgoth.
—List of names in the original texts, Beren and Lúthien (2017) - J.R.R. Tolkien
Sansa is said to have taken the form of a wolf with big leather wings like a bat:
"The Imp, it's thought. Him and his little wife."
"What wife?"
"I forgot, you've been hiding under a rock. The northern girl. Winterfell's daughter. We heard she killed the king with a spell, and afterward changed into a wolf with big leather wings like a bat, and flew out a tower window. But she left the dwarf behind and Cersei means to have his head."
That's stupid, Arya thought. Sansa only knows songs, not spells, and she'd never marry the Imp.
—A Storm of Swords - Arya XIII
Songs can be spells as well, Arya... Just ask Lúthien.
The image of a giant bat riding upon a werewolf sounds pretty similar to a wolf with big leather wings like a bat.
There is also the fact that GRRM has used "bat wings" as a reference to "dragon wings," and Sansa has a lot of bat/dragon wings imagery around her.
We will come back to this bat and wolf imagery issue later.
To finish this section, I leave you with this crossover fan-art where Lúthien, very impressed, asks Sansa about the rumor of her transformation into a wolf with big leather wings like a bat.
8. Singing and dancing
Before meeting Beren, Lúthien lived a peaceful life singing and dancing beautifully in the forest:
But Tinúviel’s joy was rather in the dance, and no names are set with hers for the beauty and subtlety of her twinkling feet.
Now it was the delight of Dairon and Tinúviel to fare away from the cavernous palace of Tinwelint their father and together spend long time amid the trees. There often would Dairon sit upon a tussock or a tree-root and make music while Tinúviel danced thereto, and when she danced to the playing of Dairon more lissom was she than Gwendeling, more magical than Tinfang Warble neath the moon, nor may any see such lilting save be it only in the rose gardens of Valinor where Nessa dances on the lawns of never-fading green.
[...] “Often and often she came there after and danced and sang to herself.”
[...] At length one day as she danced alone he stepped out more boldly and said to her: ‘Tinúviel, teach me to dance.’ ‘Who art thou?’ said she. ‘Beren. I am from across the Bitter Hills.’ ‘Then if thou wouldst dance, follow me,’ said the maiden, and she danced before Beren away, and away into the woods, nimbly and yet not so fast that he could not follow, and ever and anon she would look back and laugh at him stumbling after, saying ‘Dance, Beren, dance! as they dance beyond the Bitter Hills!’ In this way they came by winding paths to the abode of Tinwelint, and Tinúviel beckoned Beren beyond the stream, and he followed her wondering down into the cave and the deep halls of her home.”
—The Tale of Tinúviel, Beren and Lúthien (2017) - J.R.R. Tolkien
As it will be explained later, Lúthien's singing and dancing are not only beautiful aesthetically, those skills were magic and worked as spells and enchantments as well.
Leaving out the actual singers, Sansa is the female character more connected with music, singing and dancing. She plays some instruments (high harp, bells), has a sweet singing voice and loves to dance:
Sansa could sew and dance and sing. She wrote poetry. She knew how to dress. She played the high harp and the bells.
—A Game of Thrones - Arya I
So the singer played for her, so soft and sad that Arya only heard snatches of the words, though the tune was half-familiar. Sansa would know it, I bet. Her sister had known all the songs, and she could even play a little, and sing so sweetly.
—A Storm of Swords - Arya IV
Winterfell, she might have said. I smell snow and smoke and pine needles. I smell the stables. I smell Hodor laughing, and Jon and Robb battling in the yard, and Sansa singing about some stupid lady fair. [...]
—A Feast for Crows - Arya II
“Of Sansa, brushing out Lady’s coat and singing to herself.”
—A Dance with Dragons - Jon XIII
When the musicians began to play, she timidly laid her hand on Tyrion's and said, "My lord, should we lead the dance?"
[...] "Lady Sansa." Ser Garlan Tyrell stood beside the dais. "Would you honor me? If your lord consents?"
The Imp's mismatched eyes narrowed. "My lady can dance with whomever she pleases."
Perhaps she ought to have remained beside her husband, but she wanted to dance so badly . . .
[...] Smiling, she let the music take her, losing herself in the steps, in the sound of flute and pipes and harp, in the rhythm of the drum . . . and from time to time in Ser Garlan's arms, when the dance brought them together.
—A Storm of Swords - Sansa III
"Lord Nestor will have no singers at the feast, only flutes and fiddles for the dancing." What would she do when the music began to play? It was a vexing question, to which her heart and head gave different answers. Sansa loved to dance, but Alayne...
—A Feast for Crows - Alayne II
"Would you honor me with this dance, my lady?"
"You're very kind," she said, as he led her to the floor.
He was her first partner of the evening, but far from the last. Just as Petyr had promised, the young knights flocked around her, vying for her favor.
[. . . ] When the dance was done she excused herself, and went back to her place to have a drink of wine.
And there he stood, Harry the Heir himself; tall, handsome, scowling. "Lady Alayne. May I partner you in this dance?"
—The Winds of Winter - Alayne I
As we will see in a next section, Sansa's singing already performed an act of magic/enchantment, she tamed a wild beast full of rage and lust.
9. Other parallels
9.1. Beautiful hair
Lúthien and Sansa have beautiful hair that is their signature feature:
[...] but dark as shadow was her hair [...]
—Canto I, The Lay of Leithian - J.R.R. Tolkien
[...] and the hair of Tinúviel which was dark and finer than the most delicate threads of twilight began suddenly to grow very fast indeed [...]
—The Tale of Tinúviel, Beren and Lúthien (2017) - J.R.R. Tolkien
Sansa had gotten their mother’s fine high cheekbones and the thick auburn hair of the Tullys.
—A Game of Thrones - Arya I
I often sent away her maid so I could brush her hair myself. She [Sansa] had auburn hair, lighter than mine, and so thick and soft . . . the red in it would catch the light of the torches and shine like copper."
—A Clash of Kings - Catelyn VII
"You will be the most beautiful woman in the hall tonight, as lovely as your lady mother at your age. I cannot seat you on the dais, but you'll have a place of honor above the salt and underneath a wall sconce. The fire will be shining in your hair, so everyone will see how fair of face you are.
—The Winds of Winter - Alayne I
Lúthien wore fragrant flowers in her beautiful black hair:
[...] and from her hair the fragrance fell
of elvenflowers in elven-dell.
—Canto V, The Lay of Leithian - J.R.R. Tolkien
The perfume of her flower-twined hair [...]
—Canto IX, The Lay of Leithian - J.R.R. Tolkien
Behind closed doors
they sat, while Beren told his tale
of Doriath; and words him fail
recalling Lúthien dancing fair
with wild white roses in her hair [...]
—A second extract from The Lay of Leithian, Beren and Lúthien (2017) - J.R.R. Tolkien
This reminds me of Jenny of Oldstones, a lady in a song famous for wearing flowers in her hair:
"There's a song," he remembered. "'Jenny of Oldstones, with the flowers in her hair.'"
—A Storm of Swords - Catelyn V
As was mentioned previously in this post, Sansa is strongly linked with flowers as well (the rose of Winterfell legend, blue winter roses, the scent of flowers along the north bank of the Trident, Loras’s red rose, Myrcella’s garden, the Roadside Rose song, etc).
Sansa wore the red rose that Loras gave her in her hair.
Sansa has a lot of parallels with Jennys of Oldstones. You can read about it here:
WE’RE ALL JUST SONGS IN THE END. IF WE ARE LUCKY: JENNY OF OLDSTONES AND THE PRINCE OF DRAGONFLIES
THE BLACK PRINCE WITH THE WHITE GUARDIAN - Jon Snow, Sansa Stark, the Tourney at Ashford Meadow and the songs about Florian and Jonquil.
9.2. Radiant
Lúthien is often described as radiant:
[...] and there she dances all alone
upon a treeless knoll of stone!
Her mantle blue with jewels white
caught all the rays of frosted light.
She shone with cold and wintry flame,
as dancing down the hill she came,
and passed his watchful silent gaze,
a glimmer as of stars ablaze.
—Canto IV, The Lay of Leithian - J.R.R. Tolkien
[...] for Luthien was the most beautiful of all the Children of Iluvatar. Blue was her raiment as the unclouded heaven, but her eyes were grey as the starlit evening; her mantle was sewn with golden flowers, but her hair was dark as the shadows of twilight. As the light upon the leaves of trees, as the voice of clear waters, as the stars above the mists of the world, such was her glory and her loveliness; and in her face was a shining light.
[...] But suddenly some power, descended from of old from divine race, possessed Luthien, and casting back her foul raiment she stood forth, small before the might of Carcharoth, but radiant and terrible.
—Chapter 19, The Silmarillion - J.R.R. Tolkien
Sansa is described as radiant by Jon:
His half sisters escorted the royal princes. Arya was paired with plump young Tommen, whose white-blond hair was longer than hers. Sansa, two years older, drew the crown prince, Joffrey Baratheon. He was twelve, younger than Jon or Robb, but taller than either, to Jon's vast dismay. Prince Joffrey had his sister's hair and his mother's deep green eyes. A thick tangle of blond curls dripped down past his golden choker and high velvet collar. Sansa looked radiant as she walked beside him, but Jon did not like Joffrey's pouty lips or the bored, disdainful way he looked at Winterfell's Great Hall.
—A Game of Thrones - Jon I
The word “radiant” has romantic connotations, especially if you consider that GRRM’s love for medieval tourneys started with the movie Ivanhoe (1952), years before he even read the actual book by Sir Walter Scott. In the movie Liz Taylor played the role of the Jew girl Rebecca, and little George fell in love with her. When the author remembered his young infatuation, he referred to the actress as “radiant.” Read more about it here.
9.3. Skinchanging
As was explained previously, Lúthien had the ability of shapeshifting. She turned into a giant bat by wearing a female vampire's coat as a cloak and helped Beren to turn into a werewolf by wearing a werewolf's coat as a cloak as well. Then the bat rode upon the werewolf.
This image of a giant bat riding upon a werewolf is very similar to the image of Sansa turning into a wolf with big leather wings like a bat.
Sansa is a skinchanger as well.
Acording to GRRM, all the Stark children are wargs or skinchangers:
“I don’t think this is necessarily a ‘Stark’ ability, though all the children have it to one extent or another. They also realize it to one extent or another”. [Source]
Q: Are all the Stark children wargs/skin changers with their wolves?
A: To a greater or lesser degree, yes, but the amount of control varies widely. [Source]
Oh, George said all the Stark children of this generation were full Wargs. I thought they were like one shot Wargs and were only bonded to their wolves but no they can warg into just about anything. Bran is just the only one working on it. [Source]
All of the Stark children were blessed with a direwolf and the ability to change skins with those magical creatures. The direwolves were sent by the old gods to protect and guide the Stark children. The direwolves are not only protectors and guides for the Stark children, they are also one with them.
Since Lady died, Sansa lost the opportunity to form a deeper bond with her wolf and to further develop and recognize her skinchanger abilities.
But I believe that Lady’s soul still remains in the world, and that’s why Bran calls and counts Sansa’s wolf as “Lady’s Shade.”
So it is possible that part of Lady still remains inside of Sansa, and that’s why Sansa always dreams with Lady (wolf dreams). Only Jon stopped dreaming with Ghost for a time, coincidentally, when they were separated by the Wall.
Most of Sansa’s dreams with Lady are about both of them running in a godswood (Lady’s bones are buried near Winterfell’s godswood), and although Sansa doesn’t remember much of her dreams, she always whispers and/or wakes up with Lady’s name on her lips. Even after her nightmares, she thinks of her Lady.
Some readers have speculated about Sansa and her link with other animals, and the possibility of Sansa changing skins with them, like the black tomcat of the Red Keep, the old blind dog of the Fingers, and even the blue falcon that she observed flying above the Eyrie.
During her encounter with the black tomcat of the Red Keep, Sansa “almost jumped out her skin.” This is a very interesting wording that almost sounds like skinchanging:
The serpentine steps twisted ahead, striped by bars of flickering light from the narrow windows above. Sansa was panting by the time she reached the top. She ran down a shadowy colonnade and pressed herself against a wall to catch her breath. When something brushed against her leg, she almost jumped out of her skin, but it was only a cat, a ragged black tom with a chewed-off ear. The creature spit at her and leapt away.
—A Clash of Kings - Sansa II
“Cats were vain and cruel, always ready to turn on you”, maybe, that’s why after approaching Sansa willingly, the black tomcat “spit at her and leapt away”. This scene happens when Sansa was coming to the godswood to meet with Dontos for the first time. After Sansa arrives, she immediately thinks of Lady.
Sansa bonds with the old blind dog of the Fingers fast and easily. The dog is affectionate, tries to defend Sansa from Marillion’s attack, and is next to her after the nightmares of past sexual abuse by the Hound and Tyrion, provoked by the singer’s attack:
It was eight long days until Lysa Arryn arrived. On five of them it rained, while Sansa sat bored and restless by the fire, beside the old blind dog. He was too sick and toothless to walk guard with Bryen anymore, and mostly all he did was sleep, but when she patted him he whined and licked her hand, and after that they were fast friends.
[…] “Alayne.” Her aunt’s singer stood over her. “Sweet Alayne. I am Marillion. I saw you come in from the rain. The night is chill and wet. Let me warm you.”
The old dog raised his head and growled, but the singer gave him a cuff and sent him slinking off, whimpering.
[…] “I’ll have a song from you,” he rasped, and Sansa woke and found the old blind dog beside her once again. “I wish that you were Lady,” she said.
—A Storm of Swords - Sansa VI
And once again trapped in a tower, Sansa wishes she has wings:
A falcon soared above the frozen waterfall, blue wings spread wide against the morning sky. Would that I had wings as well.
—A Feast for Crows - Alayne I
As you can see, Sansa warging abilities are hidden so deep in the text, they only shyly appear in the middle of George’s prose as little pieces of poetry:
My skin has turned to porcelain, to ivory, to steel.
Now tell me, what is that if not skinchanging?
And talking about birds, Sansa has already changed her skin with some birds, she was a talking little bird of the Summer Islands (repeating the right things to survive), then a mockingbird (as Petyr Baelish daughter), and she’s about to become a falcon (if she marries Harry).
And since cloaks could also be considered another skin, Sansa has already changed various cloaks. She was cloaked by a Lannister, then by her new father Petyr Baelish, and is about to be cloaked again by an Arryn.
But Sansa is a wolf, no matter how many skins she wears, she will always be a wolf.
And while Sansa wishes she had feathery wings, unbeknownst to her, she became part of the popular folklore when the smallfolk began to imagine her as a witchy kingslayer that later vanished in a puff of brimstone or changed into a “wolf with big leather wings like a bat” and flew away:
“I forgot, you’ve been hiding under a rock. The northern girl. Winterfell’s daughter. We heard she killed the king with a spell, and afterward changed into a wolf with big leather wings like a bat, and flew out a tower window. But she left the dwarf behind and Cersei means to have his head.”
—A Storm of Swords - Arya XIII
“The dwarf’s wife did the murder with him,” swore an archer in Lord Rowan’s livery. “Afterward, she vanished from the hall in a puff of brimstone, and a ghostly direwolf was seen prowling the Red Keep, blood dripping from his jaws.”
—A Storm of Swords - Jaime VII
In the same book and with a very similar wording, Jon dreams of a ghastly direwolf wandering around the Crypts of Winterfell:
The crypts were growing darker. A light has gone out somewhere. “Ygritte?” he whispered. “Forgive me. Please.” But it was only a direwolf, grey and ghastly, spotted with blood, his her golden eyes shining sadly through the dark . .
—A Storm of Swords - Jon VIII
My personal theory is that the ghastly direwolf is Lady, because, among other reasons, this wouldn’t be the first time that Jon confused Ygritte with another redhead.
These legends of Sansa the witch, the unnatural warg, the beastling, the skinchanger, the winged wolf that flew away from a tower window or vanished in a puff of brimstone, are at the same level of the legends about Bloodraven warging into a one-eyed dog and turning into a mist from a century ago:
How many eyes does Lord Bloodraven have? the riddle ran. A thousand eyes, and one. Some claimed the King’s Hand was a student of the dark arts who could change his face, put on the likeness of a one-eyed dog, even turn into a mist. Packs of gaunt gray wolves hunted down his foes, men said, and carrion crows spied for him and whispered secrets in his ear. Most of the tales were only tales, Dunk did not doubt, but no one could doubt that Bloodraven had informers everywhere.
—The Mystery Knight
If Sansa or Lady’s Shade have really changed skins with the old blind dog of the Fingers, that would be almost the same as Bloodraven warging or shapechanging into a one-eyed dog. By the way, the old blind dog’s master’s name was Bryen, a name way too similar to Brynden (Bloodraven’s name)…
But back again to the “wolf with big leather wings like a bat.” This interesting image reminds me of dragons instead of bats, and I think that was precisely George’s intention, he was subtly referring to dragon wings:
[…] “They say the child was …”
[…] “Monstrous,” Mirri Maz Duur finished for him. […] “Twisted. I drew him forth myself. He was scaled like a lizard, blind, with the stub of a tail and small leather wings like the wings of a bat.
—A Game of Thrones - Daenerys IX
In the center of the Plaza of Pride stood a red brick fountain whose waters smelled of brimstone, and in the center of the fountain a monstrous harpy made of hammered bronze. Twenty feet tall she reared. She had a woman’s face, with gilded hair, ivory eyes, and pointed ivory teeth. Water gushed yellow from her heavy breasts. But in place of arms she had the wings of a bat or a dragon, her legs were the legs of an eagle, and behind she wore a scorpion’s curled and venomous tail.
—A Storm of Swords - Daenerys II
Tyrion scarce touched his food, Sansa noticed, though he drank several cups of the wine. For herself, she tried a little of the Dornish eggs, but the peppers burned her mouth. Otherwise she only nibbled at the fruit and fish and honeycakes. Every time Joffrey looked at her, her tummy got so fluttery that she felt as though she'd swallowed a bat.
—A Storm of Swords - Sansa IV
So, this fascinating image of a “wolf with big leather wings like a bat” could be foreshadowing of Sansa wearing a Targaryen cloak in the future. Or at least having the support and protection of someone related to dragons.
9.4. Hades and Persephone imagery
Beren and Lúthien have a heavy Hades and Persephone imagery around them.
Lúthien could melt winter into spring with the magic of her voice and song.
During their adventures, Beren was severely wounded many times, and while Lúthien had healing abilities, one time he was nearly dead and other time he actually died.
After losing his hand, Beren recovers only after a long period of unconsciousness, and it was said that when he woke the spring came again.
Later, when Beren actually died, Lúthien descended to the lands of death and winter came over the lands of her father. Then, after gaining Beren's life again, she came back to earth and ended the winter with the touch of her hands.
These quotes exempt me from further explanation:
The wind of winter winds his horn;
the misty veil is rent and torn.
The wind dies; the starry choirs
leap in the silent sky to fires
whose light comes bitter-cold and sheer
through domes of frozen crystal clear.
A sparkle through the darkling trees,
a piercing glint of light he sees,
and there she dances all alone
upon a treeless knoll of stone!
Her mantle blue with jewels white
caught all the rays of frosted light.
She shone with cold and wintry flame,
as dancing down the hill she came,
and passed his watchful silent gaze,
a glimmer as of stars ablaze.
And snowdrops sprang beneath her feet,
and one bird, sudden, late and sweet,
shrilled as she wayward passed along.
A frozen brook to bubbling song
awoke and laughed; but Beren stood
still bound enchanted in the wood.
Her starlight faded and the night
closed o'er the snowdrops glimmering white.
Thereafter on a hillock green
he saw far off the elven-sheen
of shining limb and jewel bright
often and oft on moonlit night;
and Daeron's pipe awoke once more,
and soft she sang as once before.
Then nigh he stole beneath the trees,
and heartache mingled with hearts-ease.
A night there was when winter died;
then all alone she sang and cried
and danced until the dawn of spring, [...]
—Canto IV, The Lay of Leithian - J.R.R. Tolkien
And he saw her afar as leaves in the winds of autumn, and in winter as a star upon a hill, but a chain was upon his limbs.
There came a time near dawn on the eve of spring, and Luthien danced upon a green hill; and suddenly she began to sing. Keen, heart-piercing was her song as the song of the lark that rises from the gates of night and pours its voice among the dying stars, seeing the sun behind the walls of the world; and the song of Luthien released the behind the walls of the world; and the song of Luthien released the bonds of winter, and the frozen waters spoke, and flowers sprang from the cold earth where her feet had passed. Then the spell of silence fell from Beren, and he called to her, crying Tinuviel; and the woods echoed the name. Then she halted in wonder, and fled no more, and Beren came to her. But as she looked on him, doom fell upon her, and she loved him; yet she slipped from his arms and vanished from his sight even as the day was breaking.
[...] Now Beren and Luthien Tinuviel went free again and together walked through the woods renewing for a time their joy; and though winter came it hurt them not, for flowers lingered where Luthien went, and the birds sang beneath the snow clad hills.
—Chapter 19, The Silmarillion - J.R.R. Tolkien
There the eagles laid her at Beren’s side and returned to the peaks of Crissaegrim and their high eyries; but Huan came to her, and together they tended Beren, even as before when she healed him of the wound that Curufin gave to him. But this wound was fell and poisonous. Long Beren lay, and his spirit wandered upon the dark borders of death, knowing ever an anguish that pursued him from dream to dream. Then suddenly, when her hope was almost spent, he woke again, and looked up, seeing leaves against the sky; and he heard beneath the leaves singing soft and slow beside him LúthienTinúviel. And it was spring again.
Thereafter Beren was named Erchamion, which is the One-handed; and suffering was graven in his face. But at last he was drawn back to life by the love of Lúthien, and he rose, and together they walked in the woods once more.
—The Quenta Silmarillion, Beren and Lúthien (2017) - J.R.R. Tolkien
For the spirit of Beren at her bidding tarried in the halls of Mandos, unwilling to leave the world, until Lúthien came to say her last farewell upon the dim shores of the Outer Sea, whence Men that die set out never to return. But the spirit of Lúthien fell down into darkness, and at the last it fled, and her body lay like a flower that is suddenly cut off and lies for a while unwithered on the grass.
Then a winter, as it were the hoar age of mortal Men, fell upon Thingol. But Lúthien came to the halls of Mandos, where are the appointed places of the Eldalië, beyond the mansions of the West upon the confines of the world. There those that wait sit in the shadow of their thought. But her beauty was more than their beauty, and her sorrow deeper than their sorrows; and she knelt before Mandos and sang to him.
The song of Lúthien before Mandos was the song most fair that ever in words was woven, and the song most sorrowful that ever the world shall hear. Unchanged, imperishable, it is sung still in Valinor beyond the hearing of the world, and listening the Valar are grieved. For Lúthien wove two themes of words, of the sorrow of the Eldar and the grief of Men, of the Two Kindreds that were made by Ilúvatar to dwell in Arda, the Kingdom of Earth amid the innumerable stars. And as she knelt before him her tears fell upon his feet like rain upon the stones; and Mandos was moved to pity, who never before was so moved, nor has been since.
Therefore he summoned Beren, and even as Lúthien had spoken in the hour of his death they met again beyond the Western Sea. But Mandos had no power to withhold the spirits of Men that were dead within the confines of the world after their time of waiting; nor could he change the fates of the Children of Ilúvatar. He went therefore to Manwë, Lord of the Valar, who governed the world under the hand of Ilúvatar; and Manwë sought counsel in his inmost thought, where the will of Ilúvatar was revealed.
These were the choices that he gave to Lúthien. Because of her labours and her sorrow, she could be released from Mandos, and go to Valimar, there to dwell until the world's end among the Valar, forgetting all griefs that her life had known. Thither Beren could not come. For it was not permitted to the Valar to withhold Death from him, which is the gift of Ilúvatar to Men. But the other choice was this: that she might return to Middle-earth, and take with her Beren, there to dwell again, but without certitude of life or joy. Then she would become mortal, and subject to a second death, even as he; and ere long she would leave the world for ever, and her beauty become only a memory in song.
This doom she chose, forsaking the Blessed Realm, and putting aside all claim to kinship with those that dwell there; that thus whatever grief might lie in wait, the fates of Beren and Lúthien might be joined, and their paths lead together beyond the confines of the world. So it was that alone of the Eldalië she has died indeed, and left the world long ago. Yet in her choice the Two Kindreds have been joined; and she is the forerunner of many in whom the Eldar see yet, though all the world is changed, the likeness of Lúthien the beloved, whom they have lost.
—The Lost Cantos, The Lay of Leithian - J.R.R. Tolkien
It is said that Beren and Lúthien returned to the northern lands of Middle-earth, and dwelt together for a time as living man and woman; and they took up again their mortal form in Doriath. Those that saw them were both glad and fearful; and Lúthien went to Menegroth and healed the winter of Thingol with the touch of her hand. But Melian looked in her eyes and read the doom that was written there, and turned away; for she knew that a parting beyond the end of the world had come between them, and no grief of loss has been heavier than the grief of Melian the Maia in that hour. Then Beren and Lúthien went forth alone, fearing neither thirst nor hunger; and they passed beyond the River Gelion into Ossiriand, and dwelt there in Tol Galen the green isle, in the midst of Adurant, until all tidings of them ceased. The Eldar afterwards called that country Dor Firn-i-Guinar, the Land of the Dead that Live; and there was born Dior Aranel the beautiful, who was after known as Dior Eluchíl, which is Thingol's Heir. No mortal man spoke ever again with Beren son of Barahir; and none saw Beren or Lúthien leave the world, or marked where at last their bodies lay.
—Epilogue, The Lay of Leithian - J.R.R. Tolkien
Jon and Sansa have Hades and Persephone imagery around them as well.
Jon as Hades:
Despite being born in Dorne, Jon is a son of Winterfell.
In the Prologue of A Game of Thrones we can read that Waymar Royce, Jon's stand in, died at the hands of the Others, in an eriily similar way that Jon would die four books later at the hands of his brothers of the Night's Watch (foreshadowing of Jon's death Nº 1).
Jon played to be a Ghost at the Crypts of Winterfell (foreshadowing of Jon's death Nº 2).
Jon named his mute albino direwolf Ghost (foreshadowing of Jon's death Nº 3).
And in A Dance with Dragons, Jon actually died.
One of Jon's killers was Bowen Marsh dubbed the Old Pomegranate.
We can read the words "a dream of spring" in one of Jon's chapters (A Storm of Swords - Jon V).
Sansa as Persephone:
Persephone and Sansa are renowned beauties.
Sansa was born during winter, she is the Winterfell's daughter.
Sansa is heavily linked with the dawn and the sun (Battle for the Dawn to defeat the Long Night/Long Winter).
An important theme in Sansa's arc is rebuilding, which is connected with rebuild a life after the Long Night/Long Winter. A dream of spring.
GRRM has linked Sansa to the warmer seasons (spring and summer) through her favorite dessert, lemon cakes.
Sansa is deeply associated with flowers, thus with spring.
Sansa rejected the pomegranate from Petyr "Littlefinger" Baelish.
Jon's death is foreshadowed (hidden daggers) in one of Sansa's chapters (A Storm of Swords - Sansa VI).
Sansa sensed Jon's death: "A ghost wolf, big as mountains." (A Feast for Crows - Alayne II).
Lady, part of Sansa, already died and is buried at Winterfell.
Read more about it here:
Some thoughts on Sansa and Jon, by Tze
The Pomegranate Imagery - Jonsa, ASOS.
Sansa as Persephone
The King and Queen in the North vs. the King and Queen of the Underworld
9.5. Daeron the minstrel
There often would Dairon sit upon a tussock or a tree-root and make music while Tinúviel danced thereto, and when she danced to the playing of Dairon more lissom was she than Gwendeling, more magical than Tinfang Warble neath the moon, nor may any see such lilting save be it only in the rose gardens of Valinor where Nessa dances on the lawns of never-fading green.
—The Tale of Tinúviel, Beren and Lúthien (2017) - J.R.R. Tolkien
Daeron is mentioned as one of the greatest minstrels of all the Children of Ilúvatar, and only Maglor son of Fëanor is said to come close to his skill. Also in the Lay of Leithian there is named one called Tinfang Gelion who is counted among the three great minstrels, along with Maglor and Daeron.
Daeron loved Lúthien, but she did not love him. Nevertheless they were good friends, and Lúthien would often dance to his music. After Daeron found out about Lúthien's love for the mortal Beren, he betrayed them both to Thingol. When Lúthien later sought his help in assisting captive Beren, Daeron again betrayed her to Thingol, though this time in love and fear for her rather than jealousy.
Thereafter often she came to him, and they went in secret through the woods together from spring to summer; and no others of the Children of Iluvatar have had joy so great, though the time was brief.
But Daeron the minstrel also loved Luthien, and he espied her meetings with Beren, and betrayed them to Thingol. Then the King was filled with anger, for Luthien he loved above all things, setting her above all the princes of the Elves; whereas mortal Men he did not even take into his service. Therefore he spoke in grief and amazement to Luthien; but she would reveal nothing, until he swore an oath to her that he would neither slay Beren nor imprison him.
[...] In the time when Sauron cast Beren into the pit a weight of horror came upon Luthien's heart; and going to Melian for counsel she learned that Beren lay in the dungeons of Tol-in-Gaurhoth without hope of rescue. Then Luthien, perceiving that no help would come from any other on earth, resolved to fly from Doriath and come herself to him; but she sought the aid of Daeron, and he betrayed her purpose because he would not deprive Luthien of the lights of heaven, lest she fail and fade, and yet would restrain her, he caused a house to be built from which she should not escape.
[...] Upon Doriath evil days had fallen. Grief and silence had come upon all its people when Luthien was lost. Long they had sought for her in vain. And it is told that in that time Daeron the minstrel of Thingol strayed from the land, and was seen no more. He it was that made music for the dance and song of Luthien, before Beren came to Doriath; and he had loved her, and set all his thought of her in his music. He became the greatest of all the minstrels of the Elves east of the Sea, named even before Maglor son of Feanor. But seeking for Luthien in despair he wandered upon strange paths, and passing over the mountains he came into the East of Middle-earth, where for many ages he made lament beside dark waters for Luthien, daughter of Thingol, most beautiful of all living things.
—Chapter 19, The Silmarillion - J.R.R. Tolkien
Daeron reminds me of Marillion, the singer that tried to seduce and rape Sansa.
Marillion witnessed Lysa's attempt to murder Sansa and did nothing but keep singing and playing his harp. Marillion's passion for Sansa/Alayne was unrequited, similar to Daeron's unrequite love for Lúthien.
9.6. Foes
During the events of the Quest for the Silmaril, Lúthien defeated mighty foes, among them were:
Sauron: Lúthien flung her cloak over Sauron's face, and he was struck by the blinding enchantment of weariness. Huan used the opportunity to take Sauron by the throat. Sauron tried to escape by shape shifting, but Huan held him down. Lúthien then demanded Sauron to yield the mastery of the tower to her, less Huan should destroy his mortal form. Sauron yielded, and fled the scene. Lúthien, having received mastery of the tower, laid waste to the fortress with her magic. The walls were destroyed and the prisons were broken. Lúthien found Beren and healed him.
Carcharoth: Suddenly some power, descended from divine race, possessed Lúthien, and casting back her raiment she stood forth, radiant and terrible. Lifting up her hand she commanded Carcharoth to sleep and he was felled, as if lightning had struck him.
Morgoth: Lúthien was undaunted by Morgoth and she offered to dance and sing for him in the manner of a minstrel. He beheld her with lust, of which came a secret desire to do some unspeakable evil to Lúthien. Morgoth accepted for this reason, but Lúthien sang a song of such enchantment and blinding power that all his court fell into a deep sleep and all the fires faded. The Silmarils in the crown on Morgoth's head suddenly blazed with a radiance of white flame and the burden of his crown and of the jewels bowed down his head, laden with a weight of care and fear that even the will of Morgoth could not bear. Then Lúthien, catching up her winged robe, sprang into the air and by casting her cloak before his eyes she set upon him a dark dream. Morgoth was cast down in slumber.
Mandos: Eventually Carcharoth was discovered by Thingol's warriors, and the wolf was attacked. Thingol was nearly slain, but Beren saved him and was mortally wounded. Huan then fought with Carcharoth and slew him, with both dying. The Silmaril was cut from Carcharoth's burned flesh, and Beren presented it at last to Thingol before he died. Thingol then held Beren with respect, but Lúthien commanded Beren to wait for her in the Undying Lands. Lúthien passed away in grief, and her spirit came to the Halls of Mandos. There she sang a song of such woe and lamentation, that even Mandos himself was moved to pity. He summoned Beren's spirit, and the two were reunited. Then he went to Manwë, who sought counsel from Eru and so the will of Ilúvatar was revealed. Thus, Lúthien was faced with a choice; to remain in Valinor and its eternal bliss, or for her and Beren to return to Middle-earth as mortals, after which they would die a second death. Lúthien chose the latter, and she and Beren returned to Doriath.
As you can see Lúthien defeated mighty evil enemies, including the death. Lúthien did all those deeds with her magic enchantments, singing and dancing, skills that can be compared with Sansa's kindness, mercifulness, courtesy and knowledge next to her sweet voice and dancing.
Sansa was also prophesied by the Ghost of High Heart to be involved in the death of the cruel King Joffrey Baratheon (that already happened), and in the slain of a savage giant in a castle made of snow, that is probably Petyr "Littlefinger" Baelish. Another candidates are Tyrion Lannister and Gregor Clegane.
There is also the prophecy of Maggy the Frog, that involves Sansa in the downfall of Cersie Lannister.
And finally, we have to count Sansa's song of mercy (the Mother's Hymn), that placated the rage and lust of Sandor Clegane during the night of the Battle of the Blackwater and prevented the Hound's assault, as parallel with Luthien enchanting Morgoth into slumber, that prevented his evil assault: "He beheld her with lust, of which came a secret desire to do some unspeakable evil to Lúthien."
10. Beren and Lúthien as inspiration for Jon and Sansa
Among the tales of sorrow and of ruin that come down to us from the darkness of those days there are yet some in which amid weeping there is joy and under the shadow of death light that endures. And of these histories most fair still in the ears of the Elves is the tale of Beren and Lúthien. Of their lives was made the Lay of Leithian, Release from Bondage, which is the longest save one of the songs concerning the world of old. Here follows their tale and what remains of the Lay.
—Prologue, The Lay of Leithian - J.R.R. Tolkien
Lúthien's love of the mortal Beren, for whom she was prepared to risk everything, including her life, was legendary and lamented forever in song and story.
Lúthien's romance with Beren was one of the great stories of the Elder Days that were told for many ages after she lived, and it was said that her bloodline will never extinguish.
The union of Beren and Lúthien was the first between a mortal Man and an Elven maid.
Lúthien's romance with Beren is mirrored by the later romance between Aragorn and Arwen Evenstar.
According to legend, Lúthien's line would never be broken as long as the world lasted.
As you can see, the tale of Beren and Lúthien is a song that can be compared to the songs about Florian and Jonquil.
Sansa is the character that loves songs the most, particularly the songs about Florian and Jonquil, that are her very favorites.
I have speculated/theorized before that Jon Snow is the best candidate to be the Florian to Sansa's Jonquil.
And as other excellent meta writers have pointed out already, Jon Snow is the best candidate to be the Beren to Sansa's Lúthien.
So here I'm going to show you my take on the matter.
Singing
As I recently found out, we have this beautiful parallel between Beren and Lúthien & Jon and Sansa:
“Often and often she came there after and danced and sang to herself.”
—The Tale of Tinúviel, Beren and Lúthien (2017) - J.R.R. Tolkien
“Of Sansa, brushing out Lady’s coat and singing to herself.”
—A Dance with Dragons - Jon XIII
As you can see, a man observing a girl singing is an old and obvious romantic trope, especially used in fairy tales. Here a graphic example.
Dancing
Alys Karstark’ wedding, organized by Jon Snow, happened in a very similar way to Sansa’s dream wedding:
”It was not supposed to be this way. She had dreamed of her wedding a thousand times, and always she had pictured how her betrothed would stand behind her tall and strong, sweep the cloak of his protection over her shoulders, and tenderly kiss her cheek as he leaned forward to fasten the clasp”.
—A Storm of Swords - Sansa III
“The Magnar all but ripped the maiden’s cloak from Alys’s shoulders, but when he fastened her bride’s cloak about her he was almost tender. As he leaned down to kiss her cheek, their breath mingled”.
—A Dance with Dragons - Jon X.
During Sansa's wedding she didn't dance with her husband. Her first dance as a married woman was with Ser Garland Tyrell, a knight that shares important parallels with Jon Snow.
Jon and Garlan are good with swords (better than Robb and Loras). Both Jon and Garlan like to train with more than one sparring partner to be better prepared to battle. Both Jon and Garlan have ghost imagery around them. While Jon was killed and got a direwolf from the old gods that he called Ghost, Garlan won the Battle of the Blackwater fighting under the guise of Renly’s Ghost.
During Alys's wedding Jon Snow rejected her offer to dance by telling her she must dance with her husband.
“You could dance with me, you know. It would be only courteous. You danced with me anon.”
“Anon?” teased Jon.
“When we were children.” She tore off a bit of bread and threw it at him. “As you know well.”
“My lady should dance with her husband.”
—Jon, A Dance With Dragons
Despite rejecting dancing with her, Jon Snow kept in mind Aly's wrong phrasing: "You danced with me anon."
Later he had the following thought:
A snowflake danced upon the air. Then another. Dance with me, Jon Snow, he thought. You'll dance with me anon.
—A Dance with Dragons - Jon XII
While snowflakes falling reminds Jon of dancing, snowflakes falling reminds Sansa of lover's kisses:
Drifting snowflakes brushed her face as light as lover's kisses, and melted on her cheeks.
—A Storm of Swords - Sansa VII
I suppose that kisses, like loving, is another form of dance.
Bat and wolf imagery
We also have the bat and wolf imagery around Beren and Lúthien. These lovers, husband and wife, turned into a giant bat and a werewolf, an image that reminds me of Sansa turning into "a wolf with big leather wings like a bat."
Indeed, after Sansa ran away from King’s Landing the day King Joffrey Baratheon was killed, the rumors about her participation in the murder started. Among the smallfolk runs the tale that after killing the king, Sansa morphed into “a wolf with big leather wings like a bat” and flew away.
As was previously explained, GRRM has intentionally connected bat wings with dragon wings. So, this fascinating image of Sansa as “a wolf with big leather wings like a bat” could represent Sansa (a wolf) wearing a Targaryen cloak (dragon wings). Or at least having the support and protection of someone related to dragons (that is, Jon Snow).
This image alludes to the protection of a marriage, since when a groom “cloaks” his bride, it is said that he takes her under his protection.
Hades and Persephone imagery
We also have the Hades and Persephone imagery around Beren and Lúthien.
Lúthien could melt winter into spring with the magic of her voice and song.
Thanks to Lúthien's love and cares, the moment Beren woke up from a long period of unconsciousness after losing his hand, spring returned again.
When Beren died, Lúthien descended to the lands of death and gained Beren's life back. Then Lúthien came back to earth and ended the winter with the touch of her hand.
And as was explained before, Jon and Sansa have Hades and Persephone imagery around them as well. See above.
This is yet one more legendary couple who shares parallels with Jon and Sansa.
And since Lúthien's singing was the weapon that gained Beren's life back, this could be foreshadowing of Sansa's singing having an important role in Jon's arc during or after his resurrection.
It is vastly speculated that Jon will come back to life beast-like since he would inhabit inside Ghost for a while, thus Sansa's singing could be instrumental for taming Jon's beast-like form or to make him gaining back his memory.
Beauty and the Beast imagery
Lúthien's renowned beauty was extensively discussed already. Now let's see the beast allusions related to Beren:
Thereafter for four years more Beren wandered still upon Dorthonion, a solitary outlaw; but he became the friend of birds and beasts, and they aided him, and did not betray him, and from that time forth he ate no flesh nor slew any living thing that was not in the service of Morgoth.
[...] But she vanished from his sight; and he became dumb, as one that is bound under a spell, and he strayed long in the woods, wild and wary as a beast, seeking for her. In his heart he called her Tinuviel, that signifies Nightingale, daughter of twilight, in the Grey-elven tongue, for he knew no other name for her. And he saw her afar as leaves in the winds of autumn, and in winter as a star upon a hill, but a chain was upon his limbs.
[...] Beneath the Shadowy Mountains they came upon a company of Orcs, and slew them all in their camp by night; and they took their gear and their weapons. By the arts of Felagund their own forms and faces were changed into the likeness of Orcs; and thus disguised they came far upon their northward road, and ventured into the western pass, between Ered Wethrin and the highlands of Taur-nu-Fuin.
[...] By the counsel of Huan and the arts of Luthien he was arrayed now in the hame of Draugluin, and she in the winged fell of ThurIngwethil. Beren became in all things like a werewolf to look upon, save that in his eyes there shone a spirit grim indeed but clean; and horror was in his glance as he saw upon his flank a batlike creature clinging with creased wings. Then howling under the moon he leaped down the hill, and the bat wheeled and flittered above him.
[...] As a dead beast Beren lay upon the ground; but Luthien touching him with her hand aroused him, and he cast aside the wolf-hame. Then he drew forth the knife Angrist; and from the iron claws that held it he cut a Silmaril.
—Chapter 19, The Silmarillion - J.R.R. Tolkien
Beren also formed a strong bond with Huan, the great wolfhound, a magical creature gifted by a god. This bond resembles somehow the bond between Jon and Ghost.
Beren stood beside Thingol, and suddenly they were aware that Huan had left their side. Then a great baying awoke in the thicket; for Huan becoming impatient and desiring to look upon this wolf had gone in alone to dislodge him. But Carcharoth avoided him, and bursting form the thorns leaped suddenly upon Thingol. Swiftly Beren strode before him with a spear, but Carcharoth swept it aside and felled him, biting at his breast. In that moment Huan leaped from the thicket upon the back of the Wolf, and they fell together fighting bitterly; and no battle of wolf and hound has been like to it, for in the baying of Huan was heard the voice of the horns of Orome and the wrath of the Valar, but in the howls of Carcharoth was the hate of Morgoth and malice crueller than teeth of steel; and the rocks were rent by their clamour and fell from on high and choked the falls of Esgalduin. There they fought to the death; but Thingol gave no heed, for he knelt by Beren, seeing that he was sorely hurt.
Huan in that hour slew Carcharoth; but there in the woven woods of Doriath his own doom long spoken was fulfilled, and he was wounded mortally, and the venom of Morgoth entered into him. Then he came, and falling beside Beren spoke for the third time with words; and he bade Beren farewell before he died. Beren spoke not, but laid his hand upon the head of the hound, and so they parted.
—Chapter 19, The Silmarillion - J.R.R. Tolkien
Sansa's beauty is also renowned and was discussed above (Here a compilation of all the quotes about Sansa's beauty).
Sansa and Jon are also both wargs/skinchangers, but while Lady was the smallest, the prettiest, the most gentle and trusting of the litter; Ghost is the biggest of the litter and is often described as a savage beast.
Now let's see the beast allusions related to Jon and Ghost:
Ser Alliser Thorne shattered the silence. “The turncloak graces us with his presence at last.”
Lord Janos was red-faced and quivering. “The beast,” he gasped. “Look! The beast that tore the life from Halfhand. A warg walks among us, brothers. A WARG! This … this creature is not fit to lead us! This beastling is not fit to live!”
Ghost bared his teeth, but Jon put a hand on his head. “My lord,” he said, “will you tell me what’s happened here?”
—A Storm of Swords - Jon XII
“Then you had best be on your way, boy.” Slynt laughed, dribbling porridge down his chest. “Greyguard’s a good place for the likes of you, I’m thinking. Well away from decent godly folk. The mark of the beast is on you, bastard.”
—A Dance with Dragons - Jon II
Dolorous Edd took hold of Slynt by one arm, Iron Emmett by the other. Together they hauled him from the bench. “No,” Lord Janos protested, flecks of porridge spraying from his lips. “No, unhand me. He’s just a boy, a bastard. His father was a traitor. The mark of the beast is on him, that wolf of his … Let go of me! You will rue the day you laid hands on Janos Slynt. I have friends in King’s Landing. I warn you—” He was still protesting as they half-marched, half-dragged him up the steps.
—A Dance with Dragons - Jon II
My friend @really-sad-devil-guy wrote a series of metas about Sansa and the Beauty and the Beast trope. This series is unfinished at the moment but you can read the parts already posted here:
Sansa’s “Beauty and the Beast” Arc, Part 1
Sansa’s “Beauty and the Beast” Arc, Part 2
Sansa’s “Beauty and the Beast” Arc, Part 3
Sansa’s “Beauty and the Beast” Arc, Part 4
Sansa’s “Beauty and the Beast” Arc, Part 5
You can also read the posts I wrote about this subject here:
In the original fairy tale ‘La Belle et la Bête’ by Madame de Villeneuve, Beauty and Beast/Prince are cousins
Some fanon/made up things that certain shippers claim to be canon about their ship & the Beauty and the Beast Trope
There is a version of Beauty and the Beast where the Beast is a white wolf
Endless lineage
As was mentioned before, the union of Beren and Lúthien was the first between a mortal Man and an Elven maid.
According to legend, Lúthien’s bloodline would never be broken as long as the world lasted.
Lúthien’s romance with Beren is mirrored by the later romance between Aragorn and Arwen Evenstar.
Aragorn and Arwen were first cousins many times removed and both descend of Beren and Lúthien.
In the case of Jon and Sansa, both are deeply connected to the continuity of the Stark bloodline.
I extensively wrote about Jon and Sansa and their connections to Winterfell in this post: i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my. Among these connections, here are the most noteworthy:
“The snow fell and the castle rose”
GRRM has directly associated Jon Snow and Sansa’s snow castle.
Jon and Sansa share the dream of rebuilding Winterfell, their ancestral home and seat of House Stark. This shared dream is beautifully represented by Sansa building a scale model of Winterfell out of “snow”.
What do I want with snowballs? She looked at her sad little arsenal. There’s no one to throw them at. She let the one she was making drop from her hand. I could build a snow knight instead, she thought. Or even…
[…] The snow fell and the castle rose. Two walls ankle-high, the inner taller than the outer. Towers and turrets, keeps and stairs, a round kitchen, a square armory, the stables along the inside of the west wall. It was only a castle when she began, but before very long Sansa knew it was Winterfell. She found twigs and fallen branches beneath the snow and broke off the ends to make the trees for the godswood. For the gravestones in the lichyard she used bits of bark. Soon her gloves and her boots were crusty white, her hands were tingling, and her feet were soaked and cold, but she did not care. The castle was all that mattered. Some things were hard to remember, but most came back to her easily, as if she had been there only yesterday. The Library Tower, with the steep stonework stair twisting about its exterior. The gatehouse, two huge bulwarks, the arched gate between them, crenellations all along the top…
—A Storm of Swords - Sansa VII
“Drink this.” Grenn held a cup to his lips. Jon drank. His head was full of wolves and eagles, the sound of his brothers’ laughter. The faces above him began to blur and fade. They can’t be dead. Theon would never do that. And Winterfell … grey granite, oak and iron, crows wheeling around the towers, steam rising off the hot pools in the godswood, the stone kings sitting on their thrones … how could Winterfell be gone?
—A Storm of Swords - Jon VI
Winterfell, he thought. Theon left it burned and broken, but I could restore it. Surely his father would have wanted that, and Robb as well. They would never have wanted the castle left in ruins.
—A Storm of Swords - Jon XII
There is also the fact that Jon is heavily associated with “snow” while Sansa is heavily associated with “stone.”
Winterfell is a grey “stone” castle that is cloaked by white “snow,” like a perfect marriage.
Jon and the Wall represent the “shield that guards the realms of men.” Sansa feels stronger within the “walls” of Winterfell.
All of these images allude to the protection of a marriage, since when a groom “cloaks” his bride, it is said that he takes her under his protection.
“The blood of Winterfell”
Among all the Stark children, Jon and Sansa are the only ones that are called, or call themselves, “the blood of Winterfell.”
Jon’s throat was raw. He looked at them all helplessly. “She yielded herself to me.”
“Then you must do what needs be done,” Qhorin Halfhand said.
“You are the blood of Winterfell and a man of the Night’s Watch.”
—A Clash of Kings - Jon VI
When the dreams took him, he found himself back home once more, splashing in the hot pools beneath a huge white weirwood that had his father’s face. Ygritte was with him, laughing at him, shedding her skins till she was naked as her name day, trying to kiss him, but he couldn’t, not with his father watching. He was the blood of Winterfell, a man of the Night’s Watch. I will not father a bastard, he told her. I will not. I will not.
—A Storm of Swords - Jon VI
“What if Lord Nestor values honor more than profit?” Petyr put his arm around her. “What if it is truth he wants, and justice for his murdered lady?” He smiled. “I know Lord Nestor, sweetling. Do you imagine I’d ever let him harm my daughter?”
I am not your daughter, she thought. I am Sansa Stark, Lord Eddard’s daughter and Lady Catelyn’s, the blood of Winterfell. She did not say it, though.
—A Feast for Crows - Sansa I
This phrasing “the blood of Winterfell” implies blood lineage of House Stark, and Jon and Sansa both dream of having children that would bear the names of their siblings: Robb, Bran, Rickon and Arya.
Willas would be Lord of Highgarden and she would be his lady.
She pictured the two of them sitting together in a garden with puppies in their laps, or listening to a singer strum upon a lute while they floated down the Mander on a pleasure barge. If I give him sons, he may come to love me. She would name them Eddard and Brandon and Rickon, and raise them all to be as valiant as Ser Loras. And to hate Lannisters, too. In Sansa’s dreams, her children looked just like the brothers she had lost. Sometimes there was even a girl who looked like Arya.
—A Storm of Swords - Sansa II
I would need to steal her if I wanted her love, but she might give me children. I might someday hold a son of my own blood in my arms. A son was something Jon Snow had never dared dream of, since he decided to live his life on the Wall. I could name him Robb. Val would want to keep her sister’s son, but we could foster him at Winterfell, and Gilly’s boy as well. Sam would never need to tell his lie. We’d find a place for Gilly too, and Sam could come visit her once a year or so. Mance’s son and Craster’s would grow up brothers, as I once did with Robb.
—A Storm of Swords - Jon XII
This is connected with the motif of rebuilding Winterfell, Jon and Sansa not only can rebuild the castle but the Stark family.
“Children of the Mountain”
Among all the Stark children, Jon and Sansa are the only ones that are called "children of the mountain".
Soon they were high enough so that looking down was best not considered. There was nothing below but yawning blackness, nothing above but moon and stars. “The mountain is your mother,” Stonesnake had told him during an easier climb a few days past. “Cling to her, press your face up against her teats, and she won’t drop you.” Jon had made a joke of it, saying how he’d always wondered who his mother was, but never thought to find her in the Frostfangs. It did not seem nearly so amusing now. One step and then another, he thought, clinging tight.
—A Clash of Kings - Jon VI
“You’re mistaken. I never fall.” Mya’s hair had tumbled across her cheek, hiding one eye.
“Almost, I said. I saw you. Weren’t you afraid?
“Mya shook her head. “I remember a man throwing me in the air when I was very little. He stands as tall as the sky, and he throws me up so high it feels as though I’m flying. We’re both laughing, laughing so much that I can hardly catch a breath, and finally I laugh so hard I wet myself, but that only makes him laugh the louder. I was never afraid when he was throwing me. I knew that he would always be there to catch me.” She pushed her hair back. “Then one day he wasn’t. Men come and go. They lie, or die, or leave you. A mountain is not a man, though, and a stone is a mountain’s daughter. I trust my father, and I trust my mules. I won’t fall.” She put her hand on a jagged spur of rock, and got to her feet. “Best finish. We have a long way yet to go, and I can smell a storm.”
—A Feast for Crows - Alayne II
Coincidentally in reference to two snowy mountains, the Frostfangs beyond the Wall and the mountains at the Eyrie.
The word Winterfell could mean “wintry mountain(s)” A snowy mountain is basically “stone” covered by “snow”, like a perfect marriage.
This is connected with the motif of rebuilding Winterfell and the Stark family.
You can read more about this subject (Beren and Lúthien as inspiration for Jon and Sansa) in this series of metas written by @fedonciadale back in 2018:
Tolkien and GRRM - The tale of Beren and Luthien and the allusions to Jonsa - part 1 - the meeting
Tolkien and GRRM - The tale of Beren and Luthien and the allusions to Jonsa - part 2 - Beren’s oath and first failure
Tolkien and GRRM - The tale of Beren and Luthien and the allusions to Jonsa - part 3 - Beren’s and Luthien’s get the Silmaril
Tolkien and GRRM - Aragorn and Arwen
11. Bonus: from real life to fiction
Lúthien was largely inspired from Edith Bratt (Tolkien's wife) and when she died, Tolkien asked his son Christopher to include Lúthien in her gravestone, as he considered her "my Lúthien."
In on of his letters (Nº 340), Tolkien said: "I never called Edith 'Lúthien' – but she was the source of the story that in time became the chief pan of the Silmarillion. It was first conceived in a small woodland glade filled with hemlocks at Roos in Yorkshire (where I was for a brief time in command of an outpost of the Humber Garrison in 1917, and she was able to live with me for a while). In those days her hair was raven, her skin clear, her eyes brighter than you have seen them, and she could sing – and dance. But the story has gone crooked, & I am left, and I cannot plead before the inexorable Mandos."
In the movie Tolkien (2019) the film recreates this scene, as you can see in this gifset.
In the same way, I believe that GRRM took inspiration from his wife Parris McBride, certain real life events and traits, and gave those to two of his heroines, Brienne and Sansa.
When Martin and McBride met, at a convention in Nashville in 1975, she told him that one of his stories, “A Song for Lya,” had made her cry. The gathering was in the free-spirited mode of the times—in an autobiographical essay, Martin notes that, when this conversation took place, they were both naked. (He does not elaborate.) He was, however, engaged to someone else. McBride went to work for a travelling circus for a while. By the time he moved to Santa Fe, in 1979, she was waiting tables in Portland, Oregon. They’d kept in touch, and after his marriage broke up they began what McBride calls a “fannish romance,” meeting at conventions and exchanging letters. In 1981, he persuaded her to move to New Mexico.
The New Yorker - April 11, 2011 Issue
And about they both being naked when they met, he later elaborates:
I met Parris for the first time at the 1975 Kublakhan in Nashville. A bunch of us were having a party in the women’s sauna and she walked in. I came to immediate attention.
Parris | George R.R. Martin
This naked encounter is compared by fans to this Jaime and Brienne passage:
She jerked to her feet as if he’d struck her, sending a wash of hot water across the tub. Jaime caught a glimpse of the thick blonde bush at the juncture of her thighs as she climbed out. She was much hairier than his sister. Absurdly, he felt his cock stir beneath the bathwater. Now I know I have been too long away from Cersei. He averted his eyes, troubled by his body’s response.
—A Storm of Swords - Jaime V
We can even draw some parallels between Beren and Lúthien and Jaime and Brienne.
Like Lúthien, Brienne dances, but she dances with her sword. While Jaime, like Beren, lost a hand.
The possibility that GRRM may have used his wife Parris McBride as inspiration for Brienne and Sansa, makes a lot of sense if we consider that, according to GRRM himself, Brienne is Sansa with a sword.
But it is the mention of Parris crying while reading “A Song for Lya”, a bittersweet ending story with a radiant auburn haired beauty, what reminds me very much of Sansa.
Sansa is fond of sweet and sad songs, of bittersweet tales and stories, and she is often moved to tears by their sadness and beauty:
Sansa listened raptly while the king’s high harper sang songs of chivalry [...]
—A Clash of Kings - Bran III
Later, while Sansa was off listening to a troupe of singers perform the complex round of interwoven ballads called the “Dance of the Dragons,” [...]
—A Game of Thrones - Eddard VII
She pulled a chair close to the hearth, took down one of her favorite books, and lost herself in the stories of Florian and Jonquil, of Lady Shella and the Rainbow Knight, of valiant Prince Aemon and his doomed love for his brother’s queen.
—A Game of Thrones - Sansa IV
For those who remained, a singer was brought forth to fill the hall with the sweet music of the high harp. He sang of Jonquil and Florian, of Prince Aemon the Dragonknight and his love for his brother’s queen, of Nymeria’s ten thousand ships. They were beautiful songs, but terribly sad. Several of the women began to weep, and Sansa felt her own eyes growing moist.
—A Clash of Kings - Sansa VI
Lady Ashara was my aunt. I never knew her, though. She threw herself into the sea from atop the Palestone Sword before I was born.”
“Why would she do that?” said Arya, startled.
[…] "Why did she jump in the sea, though?"
"Her heart was broken."
Sansa would have sighed and shed a tear for true love, but Arya just thought it was stupid. She couldn't say that to Ned, though, not about his own aunt. "Did someone break it?"
—A Storm of Swords - Arya VIII
Sansa is often moved to tears at the presence of beauty, as Jon's fond memories of her tell us:
The pale pink light of dawn sparkled on branch and leaf and stone. Every blade of grass was carved from emerald, every drip of water turned to diamond. Flowers and mushrooms alike wore coats of glass. Even the mud puddles had a bright brown sheen. Through the shimmering greenery, the black tents of his brothers were encased in a fine glaze of ice.
So there is magic beyond the Wall after all. He found himself thinking of his sisters, perhaps because he'd dreamed of them last night. Sansa would call this an enchantment, and tears would fill her eyes at the wonder of it, but Arya would run out laughing and shouting, wanting to touch it all.
—A Clash of Kings - Jon III
So, in a similar way that Edith inspired Lúthien, I believe Parris inspired Brienne and Sansa.
It is evident that his first encounter with Parris deeply impacted GRRM, so much that he took certain real life events and certain traits of his wife and gave those to two of the heroines of his magnum opus. Particularly Sansa, since she is a main character and the princess of the story, that shares parallels with powerful women from History and with important characters of classic fantasy sagas, like Tolkien's Lúthien in this case.
There you have it. Sansa is the Lúthien figure in the universe of A Song of Ice and Fire.
I'm sure there are more parallels between Lúthien and Sansa, I'm not an expert in the LOTR books, the only book I read so far is the one I used to write this post: Beren and Lúthien (2017), so maybe I will be revisiting this post in the future with more findings.
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burnin' up
Welcome to another IR Month!
Today, I bring you this one-shot which is the opposite of keeping cool. Just what we need for this summer day.
Hope you guys enjoy it!
You can also read it here.
Prompt: keep your cool
Summary:When it is hot out, the best solution is to go to the beach and swim to keep cool…right?
It is terribly hot this summer.
Not that other summers haven’t been as hot, or even hotter than this. But for some reason, Ichigo feels the heat way more this year. He can’t quite put his finger on it. He just knows it is too hot and nothing he has tried so far has been able to cool him down. And, look, he was born in summer. He is used to the flames, the scorching heat, the shinning sun on his back. He does prefer sunny days to the rain, it’s true. And yet, this year the heat has been excruciating. Ice cream, ice cubes, fans. Nothing has seemed to work. At this point, he’s not sure there is anything out there that will make the heat go away.
If he’s this bothered, just imagine Rukia.
She is miserable.
Honestly, Ichigo wouldn’t have expected it to be any different. She was born in the middle of winter, and her zanpakutō is a snow one, a literal Snow White. Of course Rukia has never done great in the summer. But especially not this one. Summers in Karakura can be a pain in the ass, but Ichigo reiterates this summer in particular has been the worst so far. So, Rukia’s been a mess. Red hot cheeks, sweat running down her neck, short skirts, lethargy. It is obvious how uncomfortable she is. And, well, Ichigo feels for her. He doesn’t do the greatest in winter, so he can sympathize with her current state. He wants to do something for her. She had taken a few weeks off to visit him after all, and Ichigo can’t help but blame himself for her current state. If she had stayed in the Soul Society, maybe she wouldn’t feel like this. But no. He can’t afford to think in this way. So, instead, he looks for solutions until he finds one.
The beach.
It is so obvious he wants to slap himself.
Of course they should go to the beach!
It would still be hot, sure, however the ocean water and the breeze are always cool. Thank you, Pacific Ocean for your cold water! Besides, it is the only place where wearing little clothing is socially acceptable. Not to mention the cold drinks, ice popsicles, and other such delicacies that are sold on the beach. And the fact that going on a trip is always a welcome change in the routine. Ichigo’s not sure Rukia has gone many times to the beach, least of all to enjoy herself without worrying about the fate of the world.
So, it is decided that they will go.
“The beach?” Rukia mutters out loud once he tells her the news.
“Yep. The beach.” He simply answers and he can’t help the grin that forms on his mouth.
“What spurred this decision?” She questions him, clearly confused.
“Oh, I know what spurred this decision!” Old goat chin interjects from behind him, but Ichigo ignores him.
“I think it’d be better to enjoy the beach than being stuck here in this heat.”
Rukia stops and thinks for a moment, remembering the terrible heat she’s felt with no respite. She immediately nods her head.
“Agreed.”
That Monday, they decide, will be the day they go to the beach. They believe it will be less crowded than on a weekend, but given it is summer after all, it is a give or take. So for three days they prepare for the event, getting everything they will need: towels, a picnic basket, water bottles, swimsuits, backpacks, flip flops, sunscreen, and the like. For a moment, Ichigo stops and wonders if Rukia even knows how to swim ─ she flicks his forehead while rolling her eyes, “Tawake! Of course I know how to swim!” ─ All the while, he ignores Karin’s snide remarks, Yuzu’s smiles and his father’s perverted comments.
The night before they leave, Isshin even sits him down on his room, with a serious look on his face, which makes all the hair in Ichigo’s body stand on end.
“Now, son, I understand this is your first trip with Rukia with just the two of you, alone. So there are some things that, as a man, you need to know.”
Ichigo’s face starts burning as he stands up and sprints away from his father. Oh, hell no! He is not about to receive the talk when he’s already twenty one! And, yes, he’s pretty much aware this will be the first time he’s going to be alone with Rukia for a few days ever since their relationship changed. But it’s not like he’s planning on doing anything perverted! His intentions are pure, damnit! Yet, a little voice in his head wonders if this trip will make things change once more. When it comes to Rukia, he never knows how things are going to go. It is highly probable they will keep their hands to themselves. However, there is a teeny tiny possibility that they will cross uncharted territory. And, not gonna lie, that frightens Ichigo. Not because he doesn’t want to. But he is scared about the repercussion such a change might bring to their relationship. They have just been able to navigate this thing between them, he doesn’t want anything to ruin it! Particularly not such an adult thing to do. So, he puts those thoughts aside and goes to sleep. He tries to think about waves, sand, fish, beach balls, and definitely not in a scathingly clothed Rukia.
The next morning, Ichigo wakes up feeling refreshed and with a new outlook. He decides he is just going to enjoy this experience, whatever happens, with no expectations. When he meets Rukia in the kitchen, she is positively beaming. She is wearing a baby blue dress with a bow in the front. On her head rests a straw hat with a matching blue ribbon and her feet sport white sandals. She looks radiant. Ichigo has to look away for a moment, less he be forever blinded by her brilliance.
“Ready?”
“Yes!” She exclaims and off they go.
The trip to the beach is quiet. His old man had lent them his van and Ichigo is trying to focus on driving carefully. Though both are technically speaking not alive, that doesn’t mean their physical bodies can’t get hurt. Besides, he doesn’t want Isshin complaining about scratches on his car. Meanwhile, Rukia can’t stop staring outside the passenger seat window. From the corner of his eye, he can see the way her eyes light up the whole way. It is endearing how she manages to find magic in the most mundane of things. The road, cars, random buildings and establishments they pass by, the people. It doesn’t matter how many times she’s visited the human world, things will always be new for Rukia. Ichigo even spies her taking a picture here and there. It makes him feel happy. Happy that he can give him this. More memories. More life.
They make it to the beach by noon.
As expected, there are a lot of tourists there, but not as many as one would have expected. Neither desolate nor filled to the brim. Just the right amount of people. Rukia’s eyes turn ocean blue the moment they land on the golden sands of the beach. She squeals with unbridled joy and is about to sprint to the water when Ichigo stops her.
“We still gotta check in on the hotel.”
He had rented them a room. Nothing too fancy, he is a college student after all. But just enough to be comfortable. Ichigo goes through the usual motions. Gets their card on the lobby, and walks through the floors until they find their room. It is medium-sized with blue walls covered with paintings featuring boats and mermaids. There is just one bathroom, a mini fridge, an old TV. As it had been stated, nothing too fancy. But here is where Ichigo faces his first real problem. There is just one bed. He starts sweating the moment he realizes this, and wonders if he hadn’t specified he wanted two individual beds when he had made the reservations. Instead, there is a single queen sized bed in the room. Rukia doesn’t seem to care as she walks around the room, and opens the balcony to stare at the ocean. Internally, Ichigo screams. He hopes she is not thinking he is sleazy and that he had planned all of this trip with one purpose only. He tries to calm himself. Rukia knows him. She must know he’s not that kind of guy. And it’s not like they have never shared a room or even a bed before, for that matter. It’s just this will be the first time they will be alone. Completely alone with no one to interrupt them. Hopefully, not even Hollows.
While he is having a mental breakdown, Rukia is enjoying the cool breeze coming from the balcony. She opens all the windows and dances around the room. She opens the closet and the drawers. She discovers hangers and a notepad there. Then, she goes into the bathroom and she’s pleased to find a bathtub. Later tonight, she plans on taking a bubble bath to de-stress. Once her exploring is over, Ichigo has calmed down. Rukia is all smiles, with not a hint of displeasure in her face. She either hasn’t noticed the bed or hasn’t cared to think about the implications of it right now. He is grateful for that.
“Do you wanna go to the beach now?” He asks in case the literal elephant in the room is addressed.
Rukia nods enthusiastically. “Yes!”
They go downstairs and walk towards the beach while Rukia asks him a million of questions. Ichigo tries to answer all of them as best as he can. They talk about the peculiar birds she sees ─ “Those are called seagulls.” ─, the people, about volleyball and other beach activities, about the food, and even about Ichigo’s experiences at the beach. Finally, they find a spot under two umbrellas, and they set their towels down.
“We should put on sunscreen.” He says.
Rukia nods and reaches to the hem of her dress. She pulls it up to remove it, revealing inch by inch of creamy white skin. Ichigo’s first thought is that she will need to reapply sunscreen every two hours at least or she’s definitely going to get sunburned. His next thought is, wow, that’s too much skin! By all means, Rukia’s bikini is an average bikini as far as swimsuits go. The top doesn’t reveal too much cleavage and the bottom part covers everything that it should cover. But, man, he has never seen that much of her skin! Alright, that’s not exactly true. Though it’s not like anybody needs to know that! Still, this is new.
Rukia’s bikini is a deep violet, which matches her eyes. It has white polka dots, and the design is visually pleasing. Ichigo wonders where she had even gotten it. Had Urahara given it to her? He hopes not or he is going to kill the man. But regardless of where she got it, he can appreciate what it does to her figure. The top frames her breasts nicely. They look round and soft in it. Ready to be admired. Though small, Rukia has her own curves that he now gets to marvel at with no barriers. Small waist, small but rounded hips. Toned legs. He really doesn’t dare look at her behind, because he does have an inkling of what is awaiting him there, and he isn’t sure he is going to survive the view.
Ichigo feels in flames. Like he is burning and, by the end of this experience, there will be nothing left of him but ashes and bones.
“Ichigo, can you put sunscreen on my back? I don’t think I can reach all the way.”
Yep.
He is going to self-combust any moment now.
In hindsight, maybe this was a terrible idea. Because although his original intentions were pure, his mind is taking him to other places. Places that perhaps should remain unexplored. And, it’s been about a year since they first kissed. Six months since their relationship fundamentally changed. He never thought there would come a time in which he would be able to say Rukia was his. He has always been hers, but now she is his. Forever, they believe. But even that sounds simpler than advancing to the next level. His soul is hers. All hers. And his body wants to be hers as well. However, Ichigo isn’t sure she wants to be his in that way. Not yet at least. And, fuck, he is a man now. A man with his own curiosity and needs. A man madly in love with her. Can he be blamed for finding her the most gorgeous woman he has ever met? Can he be admonished for wanting her all to himself? Still, he shouldn’t objectify her. Shouldn’t make her think he sees her as a walking piece of meat. Rukia is much more than that. She is his person. The other piece of his soul. Even if he finds her irresistible.
No, Ichigo.
This trip is to keep cool and have fun. So keep it in your pants.
“Are you just going to stand there or are you going to help me?”
Rukia suddenly questions and breaks him out from his internal conflict.
“Uh… sure.” He stammers like a high school boy and his cheeks redden.
She turns to look at him coyly.
“Come on, I don’t bite.”
Ichigo is not so sure about that.
This is going to be a long, long trip.
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