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iambutmortal · 1 year

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To Tango With the Devil

Summary: For two years, Feyre’s been obsessed with the demon statue in the church. It haunts her dreams, even on the eve of her wedding. To bad the statue’s just as obsessed with her.

AKA the Feysand church demon smut I’ve been teasing since literally September

Written for @feysand-month (but really @unofficialfeysandmonth2022).

Pairing: Feysand

Word Count: 3.4k

Content Warning: Dubious Consent, Blasphemy, Bad Theology

Authors Note: Was this written for day six (obsession)? Maybe, but you can’t prove it. Also, I may be a theology major but I used exactly zero of that knowledge in writing this so I will not be responsible for any inaccuracies. Also also, this is fully inspired by Le Génie du Mal if you need something pretty to look at after reading.

Read on AO3

The statue arrived when Feyre was sixteen. The town had been preparing for at least a year, clearing a spot at the base of the Church’s pulpit for the marble sculpture while various Bishops came by to oversee progress. No one in the village was quite sure what it was supposed to be, even if everyone claimed to have some inside knowledge as to what the artist intended. Arguing about it after chores were done became something of a pastime.

Father Jurian was elusive, answering every question with no more an enigmatic smile before swiftly disappearing, unwilling to give even a hint.

So when the town saw the statue for the first time, there was chaos.

Feyre had been fascinated, staring at it with wide eyes for the entirety of that first service, not hearing a word Father Jurian said.

She knew the ladies would be incensed, horrified by the marble figure of a demon in the middle of the cathedral, but Feyre couldn’t help herself. She’d never seen a man unclothed, and here the statue was in its stone glory, carved muscles framed by great bat wings, covered only by a small piece of fabric, a golden crown clenched in his fist, the other hand running through his thick hair.

His face could’ve been that of an angel, should’ve then that of an angel. But then, weren’t all demons just fallen angels anyway?

And after Mass, as Feyre’s family filed past the statue one at a time, Feyre swore she felt his eyes on her, lingering long after Vassa had pulled her away to giggle about how shocking the whole affair was.

Over the next two years, Feyre thought of little else. She filled sketchbooks with images of the statue, of his hands, the chains wrapped around his ankles, those great wings with all their delicate bones running under the skin. Whenever Nesta caught her staring at it during service, she would hiss warnings, delivered with a kick under their skirts, that God would know of her lust, her obsession, her pridefulness at thinking she didn’t need to hear the word of the Lord.

The statue occupied her consciousness, even as Tamlin, the local Lord’s son, started to court her. He was far above her station, better than she could hope for as the daughter of a disgraced merchant, and she could barely pay attention to what he talked about every time he stopped by for a visit or took her on a walk around his sprawling gardens.

That never seemed to deter him, but Feyre couldn’t hide her shock when he got down on one knee only days after she turned eighteen and presented her with a massive emerald.

Feyre took it, because what else could she do.

And now her wedding was only hours away, the massive, poofy dress that made her look more like a decorated pastry than a bride shoved into her wardrobe, and she was dreaming of the cursed statue again.

Feyre woke in a cold sweat, a familiar ache between her legs. Before she could think about what she was doing, her hand was between her parted thighs, fingers rubbing at the clit already slick with her arousal. Images flashed through her mind, of the statue’s strong nose and plush lips, of dark hair spilling over his brow and tickling the skin of her lower belly.

Feyre’s first finger slipped past her entrance, teasing and stroking. And then she realized what she was doing, who she was thinking about. It was wrong, all of it was wrong. She shouldn’t be thinking about anyone but her future husband. Should be thinking about emerald eyes, not the violet ones the statue always seemed to have in her dreams.

Her teeth sunk into her bottom lip as Feyre weighed her options. It was still dark out, no hint of the sun rising in the sky. She had plenty of time…

Feyre sighed as she slipped out of bed, shivering slightly at the cool night air. She tossed on the dressing gown she’d thrown across the back of her vanity chair earlier that night, tying it tightly around her.

She slid on slippers and then padded softly down the stairs, making sure to skip over the third step from the bottom that always squeaked. Feyre gave a silent prayer of thanks to their gardener for oiling the hinges of the door when it opened without a creek.

Their town was small, and it only took a few minutes to walk to the center, to the looming stone building that was her destination.

The inside of the Cathedral was pitch black, not even moonlight peeking through the stained glass windows. Feyre slid into one of the back rows, folding her fingers together and bowing her head low.

“Forgive me father for I have sinned—“ she started before trailing off. She ran through the list of sins in her head: sloth, to spend all her time in her own head instead of working; pride, to think that Tamlin would still want her, a sinner; and lust. So much lust it nearly consumed her.

“Go on, Feyre, darling, you have me intrigued.”

Feyre jumped, narrowing her eyes as she tried to make out who it was. She didn’t think it was Jurian, his voice was too low, the tone too rich, but maybe her mind was playing tricks on her in the dark.

“Father?” she asked, hating how uncertain she sounded. The church doors were open for people to use, she wasn’t doing anything wrong. Even still, she rose to her feet, so she could run if she had to.

“Guess again,” called the man, nearly sing song. He was teasing her then.

Feyre didn’t answer, just clutched her hands tighter together. There were any number of unsavory men who could be lurking in the middle of the night, using the Cathedral as a place to sleep while they had nowhere else to go.

She racked her brain, trying desperately to think if any of them would know her name. Tamlin’s father had put a release in the paper announcing their upcoming marriage, all any of them had to do was see her walking with the Lord’s son. But in the dark, would anyone know it was her—

“Nothing?” the man asked.

And then Feyre heard the chain rattle as he took a step closer.

No, absolutely not. She had to still be dreaming, this was just a symptom of her anxious mind before her wedding.

But then she saw those violet eyes approaching, practically glowing in the dark, brighter than the eyes of any human.

“Please,” Feyre whispered, although if she was asking to wake up or asking for the statue to release her from this hell, she didn’t know.

The statue, now man—or demon—just laughed, the sound skittering along her bones. “Do you want to repent?” he asked. “Because I know several ways you could.”

Feyre raised her chin, trying to appear defiant, even as she wondered if he could even see her in the dark.

As if the demon could read her thoughts, the candles that lined the cathedral flickered to life, casting the church in a warm glow.

Feyre nearly felt the breath knocked from her. She’d thought the statue was beautiful, a magnificent piece of art, but seeing it in person, a living breathing man, was something altogether different.

His chest was still barred, dark skin over planes of muscle rolling with every step he took towards her. White cloth draped low across his hips drew Feyre’s eyes down, to the dark strip of hair that led to what little was covered, and thick thighs. Great wings, black stretched over long bones so dark they absorbed the light, bobbed up and down.

And those violet eyes, shining at her from his perfect face.

“Who are you?” Feyre asked.

The demon cocked his head. “You don’t know? Didn’t listen to all of Father Jurian’s preachings? Or were you too busy looking at me.”

With a trembling hand, Feyre made the sign of the cross across her chest, cursing herself. With all the time she’d spent staring at the statue, she’d never bothered to learn which of the demons it was, had never gotten up the courage to ask. Was far too worried the town would ostracize her for asking too much about it, question if she was secretly a sinner.

The demon only laughed harder. “God doesn’t look out for sinners. And you’ve been mine for a while, just waiting and ready for me to take you down to Valaris.”

Fuck. Everyone knew which demon lived in Valaris. Rhysand, the cruelest of the seven who made up the first hierarchy.

“I thought lust was my sin,” Feyre said, taking a step back.

Rhysand followed her. “No, although Helion would love to claim you. But I’m sure your friend Vassa will be of some consolation.”

Feyre arched an eyebrow. She knew Vassa slipped out some nights, desperate to escape her much older husband, Koschei, but to rise to the level of summoning a higher demon…

“You don’t know?” Rhysand asked, pouting slightly. “And I thought the whole village knew her and Father Jurian were busy defiling the church at every moment they got, letting all of us,” Rhysand gestured at himself, his wings snapping to their full length, “unsavory creatures in.”

Feyre flushed at the idea of Vassa, her friend Vassa, doing something so sinful. But then, wasn’t she the one currently talking to a demon.

“But no,” Rhysand continued. “You’re mine. And I know how you can repent for all your sins, Feyre darling.”

Her sin of pride. Because that’s who Rhysand was, the demon of pride sent to punish all those who thought themselves too good, too close to God.

Feyre swallowed thickly. “How?”

“On your knees, darling.”

Feyre glared at him, but didn’t obey. She may have spent the past two years not listening to Jurian, but she knew enough to not blindly follow the orders of a demon. Better to stay standing and take whatever punishment Rhysand would dole out, hope that God could forgive her if she stayed loyal to him.

“He won’t ever forgive you,” Rhysand hissed. For the first time that night, his mask of calm broke, letting loose some of the anger that consumed him, had led to him being cast out from heaven. Black claws burst from the tips of his fingers, reaching out towards her.

Feyre flinched back. She whirled in place, aiming for the door of the Cathedral.

She didn’t make it a single step before she was transported, moved through space by whatever power Rhysand processed.

She landed on her knees, facing out over the pews. A glance behind her told her she was in front of the altar. Feyre tried to stand, to move, but invisible bonds held her in place, trapped in place, a sick mockery of prayer.

Rhysand strode towards her. Feyre loathed herself for it, but even now, she thought he was beautiful, the candles making his bare skin seem to glow.

“What do you want, Feyre?” he asked, stopping directly in front of her.

“I want to go home. I want to get married tomorrow,” Feyre growled through gritted teeth.

Rhysand quirked a brow. “To the Lord’s son?” He shook his head. “Feyre, you could do so much better than that. I could make you my queen, if only you asked.”

Feyre snarled. “I don’t want to be your queen. I want a normal, human life.”

Rhysand sighed, sweeping a hand across the altar, sending candles and glass crashing to the ground before reaching down to pick her up. He lifted her as if she was no more than a doll, weightless in his hands. Feyre squirmed in his grasp, desperate to free herself but Rhysand’s just fingers dug in deeper, no doubt leaving small circles of bruises she would find in the morning.

He set her down on the altar, the marble cold under her thighs, leaching through the thin nightgown.

Rhysand rested his hands on her knees. “If all you wanted was a normal life, I wouldn’t be here.” He wrenched her legs apart.

“I don’t want—“ Feyre begged, but he’d already ducked down, bunching her nightgown up around her hips and burying his head between her thighs.

The first lick had her hips bucking off the altar. Rhysand chuckled, even as he continued to run his tongue along her seam, teasing at her entrance.

Feyre couldn’t help the moans that escaped. It felt good, so much better than her hand ever had.

And it was so utterly wrong.

Almost without thought, Feyre reached down, threading her hands through Rhysand’s dark hair, the strands surprisingly thick and soft. She told herself it was to push him off, even as she pulled him closer, his nose just barely brushing the bundle of nerves at the top of her thighs.

The cry that ripped free of Feyre’s throat was loud enough to wake the whole town. It only seemed to spur Rhysand on, his mouth working with renewed vigor.

Feyre’s head lolled back, her breaths coming out in small gasps.

“That’s it, Feyre,” Rhysand said against her, sucking her clit into his mouth.

“Rhysand,” Feyre whimpered. She could feel her inner muscles fluttering, approaching the point of now return.

“Rhys,” the demon snarled, his wings flaring slightly. “Call me Rhys when you come.”

Feyre nodded. “Yes, please, Rhys, please.”

Rhysand responded, slipping one finger past her folds to stroke at that sensitive spot inside her, licking at her clit at the same time.

Feyre fell apart with a scream, the sound echoing off the high church rafters.

Rhysand rode her through it, resting his head against her lower stomach once she’d come down slightly from her high, the hair lightly brushing against the skin.

It was the dreams she’d been having for the past two years, except everything felt too real, too raw to be anything but true.

“Do you know why you’re mine?” Rhysand asked after a long moment, rising slowly to his feet.

Feyre leaned back on her elbows and shook her head.

Rhysand’s talons were back, sharp, black points. He ran one down the front of her nightgown, splitting the fabric effortlessly. It fell away from her body, exposing her breasts and Feyre felt her nipples pebble in the cool night air.

“Because I can hear your thoughts,” Rhysand continued, casting an appreciative gaze over her body. “And I know what you think about when you look at me. What would it be like to be my wife? For me to get down on my knees like I just did? What would it take for me to call you mine?”

One of Rhysand’s hands drifted down to the fabric tied around his waist, and Feyre let out an involuntary whimper.

Rhysand smirked. “Seen, even now you’re so prideful you think you can impress a demon. Do you think I’m hard for you? Standing nice and tall?”

Feyre bit her lip, but nodded.

Rhysand’s laugh sent shivers skittering up her spine, reminding Feyre in a way those bat wings never could that he was much, much, more than a regular man.

The white cloth around his hips fell to the floor and Feyre felt her mouth go dry. She’d seen images of male parts before, in the anatomy drawings she occasionally convinced Isacc to sneak out of the boys school library, but nothing had prepared her for Rhysand in front of her.

She wasn’t sure how it was going to fit, the length far wider than the two fingers she usually used, late at night when she was sure the rest of the house was asleep.

“Not so confident now?” Rhysand taunted, taking a step closer.

Feyre just looked up at him with wide eyes.

Rhysand’s hand wrapped around her wrists, tugging them up over her head and pinning them to the altar. He used his other to run a stripe up her center, pulling back to admire the gleaming arousal that coated it.

“Clean this,” Rhysand said, holding his thumb against Feyre’s lips. She parted them, sucking his finger into her mouth, and ran her tongue along it.

Rhysand groaned slightly, the first time she’d seen a crack in his facade, any sign he enjoyed what they were doing.

He pulled his thumb free, wrapping it around his thick length and lining it up with her entrance.

“Rhys,” Feyre whimpered, and he slid in with a hard thrust. “Fuck–” Feyre screamed. Everything was too tight, bright pain dancing through her body as Rhysand stretched her too wide.

She didn’t get the full word out before Rhysand’s fingers were back on her clit, rubbing and stroking, quickly morphing the pain to pleasure.

He waited until she’d adjusted, her inner walls relaxing, before pulling out slightly and thrusting back in.

“This is your punishment,” he groaned, timing the words with every new thrust, “for being so prideful.”

Feyre nodded, even as she whined. The pain was gone, replaced with the longing to be closer, to have more. She hooked her ankles around his hips and tugged him into the cradle of her thighs.

Rhysand laughed. “Repeated after me, darling. Forgive me father for I have sinned.”

“Forgive me father for I have sinned,” she murmured, unsure if the words were even comprehensible, or if she was simply mumbling in her pleasure. She was overwhelmed, had never come close to a second orgasm so quickly before.

“I have been prideful and filled with lust,” Rhysand continued. “In the worst of ways.”

Feyre echoed his words.

“Because of this, cursed am I among all humans, and to hell I will go.”

“What?” Feyre breathed.

Above her, Rhysand froze, pulling his hand away from where it had continued its teasing.

He rested his forehead against hers, violet eyes boring into her. “Feyre, I want you. I want you so much it hurts, so much I go daily to Helion to ask for help. Stay with me and I will give you the treasures of darkness, riches hidden in secret places only those scorned by God know about.”

Feyre bit her lip. What did she have to leave behind? Your sisters, your father, Tamlin. How much did any of those mean to her anyway? How much did Tamlin love her as more than something to be won, a wife to be paraded around? And her sisters? She’d already resigned herself to never seeing them, spending her days trapped in the Lord’s house.

“Yes,” Feyre whispered. “Yes.” Louder this time. “I will go with you.”

Rhysand smiled down at her, a real smile this time, so beautiful it would have made the angels weep. How could God have got rid of you, no matter what your crime.

Rhysand picked back up, thrusting hard into her so hard she slid back on the altar, her back hitting the wooden cross behind it.

“Say it,” Rhysand said, “say it and be mine.”

“Because of my pride, I am cursed among all humans.”

Rhysand seemed to pick up the pace, his breath coming in rough pants. “Now say your vows.”

The words came out in a hideous whine, Feyre fighting the rising tide of her orgasm. “I, Feyre, take you, Rhys, to be my husband.”

“And I, Rhys, take you Feyre to be my wife. You are the air I breathe, you are what I live for. You are the first and you are the last, besides you there is no other.”

And then Rhys’ lips were on her, meeting in a clash of teeth and tongue. He kissed like a man starving, as if he could drown in her.

Feyre had never felt so on fire, as if she was going to burst out of her skin.

Then she did, coming so hard stars seemed to dance in her vision. Except the stars were real, bursting out from where her and Rhysands bodies joined.

Rhys gave her another smile, the one that made her heart stutter, and followed her, spilling into her with a grunt.

“Congratulations on being the first human to be cast out of heaven,” Rhysand said, raising her hand to kiss the back of her knuckles, “wife.”

The next morning, when Tamlin and his father headed to the church for the wedding, all they found was a giant crack in the marble floor and the engagement ring Tamlin had given Feyre resting neatly on top of it.

And if anyone thought they heard the statue laughing, well, that was all in their heads.

#feysand #acotar #feysand fanfiction #feysand fanfic #feyre x rhysand #acotar fanfiction #acotar fanfic #feysand month

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pantherlover · 9 months

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An Artificial Night Re-Read: Part 3

Hello again! Onto part 3:

Chapter Seven:

'The odds are against me ever having a knowe of my own' I don't know, Toby, I think there's at least a non-zero chance at this point.

Toby's definitely gotten better at eating whenever she can than she is in this book.

I wonder if Fetch's names are always connected to the person they've copied.

Did Sylvester mention Amandine because he thought she wouldn't like Luna sending Toby into danger, or because he thought she'd be able to stop Blind Michael?

Okay, it makes more sense that Toby was so blase about Blind Michael in the first book if most of the time he was 'old man yelling to get off his lawn' levels of nuisance.

I'm honestly super curious about what Luna's relationship with the Luidaeg looks like. Luna's Blind Michael and Acacia's daughter, so does Luidaeg fight with herself about liking a descendant of Titania, or is Luna being a child of her favourite brother enough to make her at least neutral to her? Luna seemed okay enough with her that she wasn't worried about sending Toby to the Luidaeg for help; have they interacted with each other at all? Or do they politely pretend that the other one doesn't exist?

Chapter Eight:

Can we talk about how Toby and Luidaeg have only known each other for, what - two years? A year and a half? - and Luidaeg already feels comfortable enough with Toby that she doesn't assume that Toby's calling because she needs her? I know Luidaeg is terrifying, but her capacity to love is pretty awe-inspiring.

Also Luidaeg has to help kill her brother! Her favourite brother, one of her only siblings left, because she knew her brother would eventually become a monster and she's the only one who can make sure Toby has a chance to do it.

Luidaeg calls Toby a child of Oberon and Toby ignores it. Luidaeg might not have given the most direct hints, but she really did try to tell Toby about her heritage when she could.

"He'll hold them until Halloween night... and then they'll Ride. It's [Blind Michael's] way of remembering our mother. Her Rides were always held on Samhian night." This is kind of surprising to me, given that we just learned in the latest short story that part of the reason he became Blind Michael in the first place is because he went to his mother for vengeance after his children were murdered and she turned him away.

I have to try to pay attention to when a fancy knife is described now, just in case the knife Luidaeg commissioned to kill Eira with shows up.

Chapter Nine:

Raj!!!! I forgot how many characters we were introduced to in this book!

OOF, Raj is having a *bad* day. Have Raj, Dean and Chelsea argued over who was having a worse time when the met Toby?

Chapter Ten:

"The Luidaeg is the only Firstborn I've ever dealt with on a regular basis, and her power is subtle, damped down until she can seem human to the casual observer. [Acacia's] power wasn't hidden at all." Given that Toby's regularly been around *two* other Firstborns at this point, this makes me wonder how Amandine and Evening were able to hide what they were for so long. I could see Amandine being able to hide her power through some type of blood magic, but what about Eira? Part of it could've been explained by Toby just not having a good grasp on what a normal Daoine Sidhe's powers looked like compared to Evening, but Evening hid it from *everyone*. Were her illusions just that good?

"It's Raj. I... the forest is very dark." Oh noooooo Raj would HATE it but I want to bundle him up in a blanket and hug hiiiiiiim

'"My father says Uncle Tybalt's friend October is an adult." He paused. "And a hussy."' I realize there's no way I could've appreciated this enough the first time I read this, given we hadn't met Samson yet, but this is seriously SO funny. I desperately want to know what Tybalt's behaviour looks like from his Court's perspective during this time period.

Chapter Eleven:

"[Blind Michael] hadn't just changed them on the outside. He'd changed them all the way down to the bone." Do we know what Blind Michael's first children were/what they could do? What Toby's doing here sounds like some kind of blood magic, but I don't think Maeve's descendants are really known for that; plus, everything Toby's ever about her powers are that you can take away a bloodline but you can't add one, which is exactly what it sounds like Blind Michael did. Is it just a really extreme form of transformation?

There's something extra brutal about Blind Michael taking one of the few Roane left, possibly during one of his first Rides. I wonder if that's what caused Luidaeg to try to kill him?

"You're Amandine's daughter, aren't you? You are. I can smell it on you. Why are you here? She never came, and once a road is set aside, no other feet should claim it." So THIS implies that Amandine had a road she could've used to save kids before, or at least used to visit Blind Michael's lands. I would've guessed it was the Blood Road, but as far as I remember the only issue was using that road was that Toby ran the risk of bleeding out before she got back, not that it was closed off from anyone to use. So if it wasn't the Blood Road, could it be a road connected to Janet?

That's it for now! Please feel free to come to discuss things with me. See you next time!

#October Daye #An Artificial Night #Reread Project

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ambrial-blog · 2 years

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The Dancer and the Assassin.

Blitzo eats slowly, not really wanting to leave. Striker had been very thorough in the love making. Johanna notices him eating slowly. Blitzo could barely sit. “Oh Blitz” she could tell the Assassin was at his breaking point. Blitzo has bruises on his wrists and forearms, his eyes widen when he realizes that she is staring at him he scrambles to hide them. Johanna frowns. What had happened to him. How powerful was Striker’s hold?. and how could she break it. Her eyes zero in on a large bruise in the form of a large handprint. Striker wasn’t scared of her, he was taunting her. Using Blitzo’s body as a canvas. Johanna reaches out as Blitzo freezes his eyes locking on Johanna’s. an image of Stolas reaching out for his hand took him aback. Blitzo lightly smacks her hand away. “Its nothing, I’m in the killing biz after all there is bound to be collateral damage. He says it with a wide smile on his face, a shit eating grin that never quite reaches his eyes. and how dull those eyes were, lacking warmth or any regard to his own character. Johanna found it disturbing how Blitz would put himself down. The Dancer doesn’t believe him, she felt pity for the imp sitting across from her. but she decided to keep quite and to go along with it. Blitz had fascinated her, he wasn’t like Victor. There was a hidden strength to him. a primal fury, that simmers beneath.

After the small Luncheon Johanna managed to talk Blitzo into going back to her fancy suite The Assassin was taken aback at first. The glossy floors, the thoroughbred rugs. A small bar wedged into the corner. A large sectional, with mahogany nightstands and red and pink Lava lamps. glowing in the dimly lit room. The Living room was spacious. A large TV took up an entire wall. Equipped with surround sound. The kitchen was emasculate and clean. Blitzo suddenly felt like he didn’t belong. ”You have a nice place” Blitzo said. ”Thanks, Val is paying for this, I just have to supply him with the lost souls” ”I’ll do it!, if it is the last thing I do, I nail both Striker and Valentino” Blitzo grits Startling Johanna out of her thoughts. “At least I could help you find your parents” Blitzo offered. It looked liked Blitzo was beginning to second guess himself. It had been decades since he had last seen his daughter. But he knew he couldn’t do this alone. He had tried that once and it nearly broke him. ”I’ll keep up my end of the bargain if you do something for me first” ”What is it? asks Joe. ”Can you give this letter to Angel Dust” He asks handing her a piece of paper.

“Tell him, that I can’t do this on my own, I need him to check on something for me” he informs her. Once I hear back from him, then I’ll know, Striker is lying to me” ”Its kind of obvious Blitz” she answers.

“I just need to know that they’re doing okay, I do care about them even if I’m no longer in their lives”

“I just know Striker would talk me out it, or he would accuse me of being unfaithful to our partnership” ”Aren’t you?” she asks. taking the piece of folded up paper and placing it in an envelope. ”Consider it delivered” she replies. Johanna notices that the assassin’s attention was divided. Johanna didn’t know the cowboy personally. but as the boss imp kept glancing at an old antique grandfather clock. That was cocooned into a corner. It was apparent that whatever this snake imp did to the scarlet devil, it had thoroughly broken him. It looked like Blitzo had been isolated for years. she could only catch glimmers of his former self. Blitzo knew if he wasn’t back at the restaurant at the exact time Striker was expecting him. The Cowboy would make a scene. Striker had a way of twisting words to his advantage. and in the end Blitzo would be the one to apologize. Johanna chuckles softly, “Just relax Blitz, he’s not here yet, your safe my security system is top notch” the dancer reassures. Blitzo smiles half-heartedly. Before the dancer pounces on him. Blitzo flips her onto her back pinning her down. brushing the hair out of her eyes. Johanna smirks. “What can I say, I love to wrestle” she says winding her legs around his torso and flipping him around. Blitzo’s tail swishes back and forth happily as the Dancer straddles his hips and pins his arms above his head. ”And I bet you like to be in control” her voice dips into a low sultry purr. Blitzo’s tail flick back and forth. An infectious smile appears on his face, his eyes are alight with mischief. as Johanna legs wrap around his waist. her hand slides beneath his shirt. Blitzo winces before turning the table on the dancer he flips her over pinning her arms above her head, in a straight up contradiction.

His shirt rides up exposing a plethora of tiny bruises and bite marks. but her eyes were glued to those hard pectoral muscles. her eyes were transfixed on a bead of sweat that glistens in the lighting. she slid her hand up his chest feeling every muscle. He grins flexing his pectorals. before that grin falls away to a painful grimace. He flinches a bit, but his grin remains. his hot hungry eyes trace over her body. She could feel her body burning, responding to his touches. And suddenly and without question it hit her. She was in the presence of a hybrid. Blitzo was half Incubus. Half Inferno imp. A dangerous combination. Impulsively Johanna acts lifting her body up, capturing Blitzo’s lips with her own. She could feel the trembling, as he purrs into her mouth. It tickled her. How different he was with her. he was gentle. unlike all the rest. and yet, she could taste the hesitance in his kiss. Striker was still there in the back of his mind. his eyes boring into Blitzo. ”Don’t stop, focus on me” ”Don’t let him control you, he isn’t here I am” ”This is real, I am real” she placed one of his hands on her breast trying to get him to focus. Johanna hisses, as her body tingles as Blitzo captures her lips his strong calloused hangs cares her soft skin as she mewls happily. She wanted more, her body burned for more. she wanted to feel him. she was acting crazy, this was so unlike herself. She didn’t know how far the Assasin would take it. and at this point she really didn’t care. There was something lurking underneath the surface. Someone who was aching to be loved. He was a starved mountain lion, and she was a saucer of milk.

She slid off his shirt as Blitzo ran a hand up her thigh. Johanna hisses in pleasure tail curling around Blitzo’s waist drawing him closer. Blitzo grunts in pain as she tosses his shirt to the side. Blitzo suckles, and nips lightly. Blitzo closes his eyes trying to block Striker from his mind. He could almost here his irritable hiss, see his glowing serpentine eyes. Johanna rakes her nails down the small of his back, gently rubbing the aches and pains away. ”Focus on my voice, and we can stop if you want. We can make a “Devil’s deal another way” she spoke. “I don’t want to hurt you Blitz, your risking a lot for a person you just met” ”Finding my parents is only the first step and I’ll be here, I’ve been watching you for a long time.” ”I’ve been drawn to you the moment you arrived” she reveals. ”He gets into my head, I can’t get him out, Striker is right I am pathetic” ”Do you really believe that?” you must have something he wants bad” she replies. Johanna rises up, pressing her warms lips to his beating heart. Kissing her way down the length of his stomach. “your nothing like what he says Blitz, that Cowboy might be a slippery snake but he doesn’t hold a candle to you” she whispers into his ears. “anything he says is a lie” ”You caught him in a lie” ”you saw him on the phone” ”He sounded like Moxxie” ”He sounded like Millie” He even sounded like Loona” ”Yes Blitz, I did my research on you” ”I know who you are, we’re in the same boat” ”I need your help, Boss-man, and you need mine” ”I’m more influential then you know” She could feel him pressed against her. She could feel him trembling in her arms. and she knew he was scared. he knew he had to return. he had lost so much but he couldn’t break away. she could feel him panicking. ”That’s enough!” he growls while panting her hands splayed over his torso and the prommint bruises that were there. ”We could find another way to create a contract, after all, I’m not Stolas” ”We can have something deeper Blitz, something meaningful and real” she says.

Blitzo looks at her: she could she the confusion in his eyes. ”you pay me money and I take care of your problem” he answers. He couldn’t tell what angle Johanna was aiming. was she just another contract? or could she be something more tangible?. Salvation?. Redemption?. No, he didn’t deserve her. he had gotten himself into this mess. but if what she was saying was true. If Striker was lying to him. didn’t he deserve answers?. ”Is this all you want?” he asks her, while kissing her flat stomach. ”I’m not like him” she says. I won’t hurt you, will take it as slow as you want it” she promises detangling her limbs from his torso.

“your not bad” She smirks. your the first imp to have ever beat me” Blitzo grins stupidly up at her. her eyes focus on his body as a sheen of sweat beads down his body. ”I used to mud wrestle with Striker all the time back in wrath, when we were first going out” ”When I was particularly feeling feisty I’d make him eat mud, before hog tying him. that year I had mud in places you wouldn’t believe. ”What happened?” Johanna asks. ”I can’t say, it was like a switch had been flipped. suddenly everyone I knew stopped coming around. and when I tried to reach out to them. They turned on me, Loona was the worst. the more I tried the further away I felt. Loona says it was my fault that IMP fell under. That she never wanted me, never wanted to be adopted. She was eighteen. Moxxie and Millie quit the business, Moxxie accused me of treason. saying that I set them up. that, Stolas was my fault. That I had the audacity to side with the enemy. and that the last straw was setting the company ablaze”

Prince Stolas had ended up in the Hospital, and soon after that my world fell apart. my face was slapped over every tabloid in hell. I was Hell’s most wanted imp and Striker was there. He picked up the pieces and that was that. He told Johanna. The Dancer was silent, as Blitzo wraps his arms around her waist. ”That Cowlick doesn’t sound like much, he isn’t the world Blitz” ”I know that, in here” he points to his heart. but not here” he says indicating his head. ”then why don’t you stay” she offers. ”Striker has been my world for two decades, he was there the night of the crash. I woke up in an ambulance. He told me Fizzorolli cut my breaks, but something doesn’t add up. I was fine going into that race. behind the wheel I had purpose. I had freedom. I feel asleep at the wheel and when I came to, I realized that the breaks had been cut, and I was headed toward a concreate wall.

“He is the only one standing between me, and lynch mob” Stella and Octavia are out for blood. Striker is all I have” ”That’s not true, what about Angel Dust?, Cherri Bomb?. … me?. Johanna says.

“I can’t ask you, its to dangerous Joe” he says. “But I can’t let you leave” she says. ”you promised to deliver a letter, and need you Joe” ”you’ll come back, and we can finish what we started” ”Your one of the strongest imps, I have ever met and anyone would have to be crazy to let you go” Johanna tells him while cupping his face. “Don’t let him win ”Heh, even those burly imps who appear to be on steroids” Blitzo teases. ”I’m not kidding Blitzo, you really are one of a kind”

Blitzo closes his eyes, resting his head in her lap. he didn’t want to believe her. but he felt strangely at peace. “I’m counting on you Joe, its been so long since I was allowed interactions I need Angel Dust. He’ll find a way to clear my name. Then maybe I’ll have a chance to break away from Striker once and for all. Blitzo let himself imagine what that would be like. Life without Striker. no more accidents. reestablishing his business and thriving once again. It seemed foolish. Striker’s claws were in too deep. if he couldn’t break away before what made him think he could break away now. That letter was all he had, his hopes, his dreams, his very life was in there. “It can’t be intercepted, If It could reach the princess, he knew she would help. she at least cared for the lower class. ”It imperative, otherwise Striker and I will disappear and lie low while you remain indebted to Valentino. Blitzo stressed. ”I know, and I’ll make sure he gets it. sleep now, I’ll watch over you” Blitzo’s eyes fluttered. ”your body needs rest” she encourages. ”your safe in my arms”

“I’m sure I can lure Striker into killing Val. Val has something Striker desperately wants.” ”what is that” spoke Johanna. ”A surplus of angelic weaponry, and a means to get more, If Val wanted to he could hire Striker to assassinate Lucifer that is how sure I am, we are treading on thin ice.”

Angel Dust has secretly been working with us for months now, alongside his family. Molly and Archanis. All three spider demons are trying to locate the where houses that the stolen merchandise are kept. They will be essential in taking down Val. Blitzo purrs closing his eyes as Johanna caresses’ her knuckles along he cheekbone. ”Blitzo….” Mrr… Mrr… Mrr…”

“At least you can take care of yourself” ”Well I guess all of my dancing classes, and martial arts classes paid off” ”I have to protect myself, Blitz no one else will” ”hmm, your wrong, I will” Blitzo says. “I’ve never felt like this, or I haven’t felt like this in a long time” ”like what?” Johanna asks. ”Like I belong” Blitzo answers.

“I’m glad I got to come to this luncheon, you wouldn’t believe the things I had to do after Striker caught me in your dressing room, jumping to conclusions. Blitzo suddenly felt small, and unwanted: like he was no better then that ultra thin condom that Paimon paid his daddy in order to score a playdate for his son. Unraveling a mess of problems that Blitzo had to deal with, for years to come. ”I only answer to one imp, and that’s Striker” ”Blitz, you need to open your eyes he’s hurting you” Blitzo pulls away and turns to her, “This is hell Johanna! everything down here is meant to hurt you!, hellborns are no different.! Blitzo hisses.

Blitzo looks at the time, and freaks out. How long have they been here?. When did he lose track of time!” realizing that if he didn’t leave now there would be hell to pay. his heart hammered in his chest as he went about gathering his things. Startling Johanna. ”We all have our own vices, our personal demons, past lives. I’ve learned to live with mine” ”I accepted that there was no one in hell who wanted me for who I am, so I became something I wasn’t. “I’m willing to help you kill your boss, but I can’t ask you to save me” ”Joe I don’t know if I can do this, I’m loyal to Striker” ”But is he loyal to you!” Johanna shot back. The Boss imp found that he couldn’t answer that.

Every time he was around the country imp he became a shell of his former self, unthinking a walking time bomb. “perhaps we could help each other out, the first step is getting Angel Dust that letter” ”But don’t lose yourself to him” she pleaded.

Somehow, and Blitzo nor Johanna knew how they arrived back at “ Web of Deception Café just in time to see Striker waiting there with an impatient look on his face. As Johanna slinked on past him disguised as Angel Dust. ”Thanks for the lunch, Angel” ”No problem, next time I’ll take ya out into the turf wars with Cherri bomb, we could blow some stuff up” says the interloper. ”How long are ya here in Pride, sugar-daddy” ”I’ll be in pride until the next new moon, to pay my respects” Blitzo answers. ”Ah, gotchya, and your welcome Blitz” the imposter answers.

“So sorry, we’re late, must’ve lost track of time, haven’t seen this devil in ages” The Cowboy narrows his eyes, there was something off putting about Angel Dust but the hitman couldn’t put a finger on it… at least not yet anyways.

“Just don’t let it happen again, Dust, or that’s all you’ll be the next time I see ya” ”ooo, I’m shaking in my thigh high, hooker boots cowboy, don’t forget who your talking to imp” Striker hisses.. ”Easy Butch Cassidy, it won’t happen again. I find it fascinating that every time, boss man here is involved your hackles rise and Blitzo can’t get a word in edge wise.” ”You’re not the only one with connections short stack”

Striker snarls and looks between the two. A sinner and a hellborn. Blitzo wraps his arms around the Cowboy dragging the wrangler closer to his body. “Lets go home” he says tugging Striker into a kiss winding his fingers into Striker’s bandanna. Striker’s tail coils around. ”hmm, that was nice” Striker purrs. stealing another kiss. making Johanna feel uncomfortable. Striker whistles, Bombproof appears: A black stallion, with a burning mane. Striker placed a hand on Blitzo’s ass and sqeezeed side-eyeing Angel Dust as he did so. Blitzo grunts, hissing in pain. Blitzo’s face burned with shame and embarrassment. The cowboy got on the horse, reaching down he grasps Blitzo’s hand and hauls him up sliding him over his lap. his eyes narrow on Angel Dust, as a clawed hand rests on the small of Blitzo’s back. ”You got Blitzy’s letter slut” Johanna pauses. she shoots Blitzo a quick look. How does Striker already know about the letter she wonders. ”Listen lizard lips, I have no idea what your talking about” ”BlitzO and I, were just catching up on old times, I’d like to see more of him, if that’s okay with your libido.” the imposter quips.

“We’ll talk again, this conversation is far from over” ”Oh I’m lookin forward to it, cactus breath” replies the imposter. ”The next time, I see ya, you won’t be so lucky. this time neither your brother nor your sister will be able to save you” ”What!, what was Striker talking about? Johanna thought. “Shit she was getting in too deep. she needed to end this and fast. “Just leave Molly and Archanis out of it. Its just between you and me Cowboy” Blitzo squirms underneath the Cowboy uncomfortably. tying to get Striker attention so Johanna could slip away. A shiver went down Blitzo’s back as Striker flicked open a knife. Blitzo tries to rise out from under but Striker has him pinned down. ”Next time I see ya, I won’t have any second thoughts” Striker traces Blitzo’s face with the tip of the blade, and then looks challenging over at Angel Dust. ”Are you willing to risk his life, for some fabrication as to where the were houses are” Striker hisses. Blitzo hisses a warning to Striker. his tail flashes hitting the imp straight in the face. Angel Dust whips around Johanna stares back in shock as Striker has Blitzo’s face in a vice like grasp. his cheek was cut, and blood was dripping down towards his chin. Blitzo gulped as Striker gripped Bombproofs leather reins Striker his tail against the Stallion rear end, Bombproof rears up, kicking pebbles into Johanna’s face. Angel Dust’s eyes were locked on Blitzo, who had a fearful look to his as the cowboy snarls and rode away, with the assassin in tow.

#Hellvua Boss #The Dancer and the Assassin #Rough Notes.#Striker/Blitzo #Stolas/Blitzo #Johanna Blitzo #hurt/comfort #hurt Blitzo

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anon--h · 2 years

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AI: Nirvana Initiative. Closing Thoughts

That was a lot of fun. I beat the game in 72 hours because it kept demanding my brainspace. Spoilers underneath the cut. Let’s dig in the good, the bad and the strange.

The Good

Strong, strong setup. Finding two halves of a corpse appearing seemingly out of nowhere would make any murder mystery enthousiast salivate..... In the game I mean, not in real life.

Ryuki is incredibly likeable as a protagonist. At first he appears to be the straight man to the wackier characters, but he might just be the most feral one there. He has horrible taste in men though.

One of the themes, Unreality / Simulation Theory gets explored through Ryuki and his Breakdown moments are fittingly unnerving. Making him go through the Nihil Number ending seems to ensure he will never psychologically recover.

I liked Tama way more than I expected to like her. She’s less dommy mommy and more emotional support.... Who just happens to enjoy tying Ryuki up..... So no, I guess she actually is dommy mommy.

There’s a lot of discourse to be had about Kizuna and Lien, but I thought they were pretty sweet together. I guess I am a sucker for this kinda thing. Lien was pushy, but not forceful and never quite reached the creepiness of Ota.

Speaking of Ota; returning main characters (sans Mizuki) were used sparringly. We got an update on their lives, but they were barely involved in the plot. Which is good. It allowed the new characters their chance to shine.

The AI-balls and their partners are still hilarious and the game delivered multiple laugh-out-loud moments. Maybe my sense of humor is just that bad.

Date and Tama would be a pair made in hell and I kinda wanna see it.

I enjoy that this serie keeps flirting with high concept Zero Escape things like alternate timelines and space/time displacement without confirming their existence in this world. In AI1 it was Date remembering things from 8 years ago; in NI it is the player’s misunderstanding of the timeline.

For the longest time, I was convinced the masked woman was the Boss, based on her color scheme, mannerisms and way of speaking. Having it turn out that she was adopted by the boss made complete sense to me. Also, don’t think I didn’t notice the boss’s profile say that she’s an adoptive mother to Mizuki. That was incredibly cheeky. I appreciate it.

I really liked thinking along with the mystery this time. I managed to figure out that the killer used Carbon Nano Tubes by paying close attention to the AI-ball trivia and deduced the existence of a second killer pretty early on. It was a lot easier to pick up on than the hints towards bodyswitching in the first game and made me feel very clever.

The Somniums feel so much more varied than before. We have escape rooms, 999 references, quiz shows, pokemon go and cooking contests. I really enjoyed going through them this time.

The twist of the killer being dead in present day was interesting, and made the reveal of their killer very tense and emotional. Mainly because I hoped it wasn’t so. It felt sad and a little anticlimactic to have someone that feels like a bystander be the final culprit. An unfortunate fate indeed.

Mizuki and Date still have amazing dysfunctional father / grump daughter chemistry.

The Bad

Mizuki and Date don’t share nearly enough scenes together.

The timeline *not* being symmetrical seemed like a missed oppertunity that annoyed me way more than it should have.

The lack of an ‘annihilation’ timeline, wherein the bad guy wins (or at least does as much damage as humanly possible) also feels like a missed oppertunity.

Bibi’s existence does make me question a few things about the timeline of the first game. She must have been out sick that week. It also puts a very new, horrible perspective on Shoko’s abuse of Mizuki. “Our child is abnormal”- yeah, she sure is.

Controls for the Switch version get screwy during Tokiko’s Somnium. Especially during the hand puzzle. I just kept getting pushed away from the desk for some reason. It left me too little time to complete the Somnium and turned a haunting dream into a frustrating one.

One of the most memorable moments of the first game was the confrontation with Saito. He got to gloat and explained his motives while filling in some of the gaps. Tearer never got to do that. In fact, the player gets barely any interactions with Tearer at all. As a result, he never feels like much of a character. Tokiko feels like more of a character; even Chikara feels more three dimensional.

Tearer being another illegitimate son of So is hilarious to me, but I am not sure that it was the game’s intention to be funny.

Fuck the Red Room puzzle.

Mama is a delightful character, but I felt they really cheapend them in NI. Having them tell the future was a little weird already, but having them talk directly to the player felt especially janky.

The finale felt like a lengthy power rangers fight. It had a few fun moments, but it felt really out of place for a murder mystery game.

The Strange

I am not sure how to feel about the reveal of Mizuki. I feel like her superpower needed sóme explanation, but her being a result of genetic experimentation was probably the least interesting way to take it.

For a game with a very obvious arc-number (that being 6), it feels very incomplete that there are only 5 victims. I kept anticipating a final victim that never appeared. Not bad, just weird.

I am grateful that minecraftheads are genetically recessive.

Ending on a bombastic song and dance number seems to be a tradition now, which is fun. Unfortunately only the choreography improved. The song itself had some bizarre turns and twists.

The twist of the timeline being different than initially presented isn’t bad, but it feels clunky. Because of course we misinterpreted the timeline, Nirvana Initiative. You misrepresented it.

#nirvanai #aitsf #ai: the somnium files

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anthonysstupiddailyblog · 3 months

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Anthony's Stupid Daily Blog (717): Sun 3rd Mar 2024

I checked out David Cross's latest special The Worst Daddy In The World and enjoyed it a lot. You wouldn't think from Cross's early work and how surreal it is that he would have transitioned into politically fuelled comedy but he really does have his finger on the pulse of the hotbed issues facing the american politcal landscape and skewers them brilliantly. I especially loved his routine about having his daughter making friends with a child who has been homeschooled by a right wing family. I can still remember in the days of Limewire downloading Cross's albums from the nineties and would listen to them frequently but I still haven't seen this stand up legend live. Since by the end of the year I will have pretty much seen all the bands I want to see I may start focusing exclusively on comedy gigs.

I'm delighted to report that this diet / exercise programme I took a holiday in order to devote my full attention to seems to be going well as I've almost lost a stone and feel a lot lighter and healthier too. Last year I tried a liquid diet but from what I've read these can be counter intuitive because although the stomach shrinks due to only consuming liquids once you start eating again you start to put on weight at an accelerated rate. So what I've done is began each day with a modest sixed meal first thing (a couple of veggie burgers or sausages) and THEN only stuck to water for the remainder of the day. So it's an almost all liquid diet so that my stomach is still used to getting solid food but more accustomed to liquids. I doubt that I will hit twelve stone before I go back to work but it doesn't really matter at this stage because now I've been doing it for long enough that I've started to see the results and this is providing an incentive to carry on. In the same way that I listen to songs about booze and sex to fill the gap in my life I have due to not having booze or sex today I decided to watch a bunch of videos about a guy who does epic food challenges. This one video I watched featured a guy with an enormous beard trying to eat a pizza the size of my bedroom rug in under forty five minutes and he actually completes it with plenty of time to spare. I watched a bunch of these videos and from what I can tell he has never failed one of these challenges so he's like the Goldberg of competitive eating and he still hasn't bumped into the food equivalent of Kevin Nash yet. I imagine the only way this guy will ever lose one of these challenges is if it's something really spicy. What's crazy is how skinny this guy is despite his job so I imagine he must do some sort of martial arts in order to maintain his relatively small frame. If this is true then I'd be terrified to roll on the mat with him a) in case the contents of his bowels just vacated out of him and all over me and b) in case he started feeling peckish during our sparing session and fancied a little nibble of my biceps.

Later on I checked out tonight's Hollyoaks and I have to admit I'm really pissed off that the show didn't have all the characters wear facepaint to pay tribute to Sting. I know they tape these months in advance but Sting announced his retirement six months ago so they cant use ignorance as an excuse. Even if they'd have just had Darren come down the stairs in the paint and yell "IT'S SHOWTIME FOLKS!" just as a bare minimum tribute to a legend who has literally zero association with this British soap opera. Anywho the main storyline was the fallout from Theresa sleeping with Abe. When Sally found out about this she told Theresa off and asked how she was going to fix it. I put the following hypothetical scenario on Twitter: Sally: You slept with Abe?! How are you going to make this right? Theresa: Well I was thinking maybe if I slept with him again, then… Sally: Think harder Theresa! Or at least I eventually did after I dug out my replacement laptop after covering my main one in tears after another Sting cry.

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amandacanwrite · 6 months

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So, I'm Rewriting Something I Just Published

This post has two acts. First, a confession of sorts. Then, an update, a little peer behind the veil, please pay attention to the woman behind the curtain.

So, here’s the confession.

I was going to just secretly, quietly, unnoticed-ly re-release a recent short story I published in the form of a tiny book on amazon. I was just going to finish rewriting it and update the original file I uploaded and pretend that nothing ever changed. Do the ole-one-two-switcheroo.

But then I remembered that I’ve just been wanting to be overall more transparent and honest in my newsletters. And that I actually want to tell you guys about the process of writing it and what I’m learning in the process.

So here I am, telling you about how impulsive and goofy I am. I hope you enjoy it.

Here’s the thing. My idea in publishing it on a whim was to claim my amazon author profile so that I could start promoting it, encouraging people to follow it, so that when my debut novel comes out next year people actually get notified about it. Seems like a clever idea, right? Or at least it did to me. Honestly, marketing is at best a hobby I do poorly at this point, but I’m trying to figure it out.

I figured I would just put something out that I was decently confident about and focus on just linking to the profile itself and forgetting about the specific work.

The problem being I actually really like the story and have wanted to expand it for months. After receiving a proof copy of the physical book and reading it, I found myself stuck on the potential it had and I shifted my focus to writing more of the story.

In classic “me” fashion, what started as the intention to add maybe two thousand words to flesh it out a bit more has now evolved into a narrative that will probably require another ten or eleven thousand words. It’s becoming a novella. Because I have approximately zero chill.

(By the way, this is not new, The Hallowed Wilds was only supposed to be forty-thousand words and now with another twenty-thousand to go it’s already clocking in at a whopping sixty-thousand words. So yes, I routinely have to double the size of my projects because they take off without me.)

And also due to my inability to harness any chill, I also just want to scream at you guys about the whole thing. I wanna talk about the drafting, the editing, the visuals, the inspirations. I want to just gab about all of it.

So that’s the backstory, let me get into the stuff that I actually want to tell you about now, a little peer behind the curtain for my simultaneous WIP mixed with an already published novlette called A Waltz with the Bone King.

This idea came to be years ago, collaboratively, with my best friend Eden, who I have mentioned before in this newsletter. We are big fans of text-based role playing, and before you get awkward, it’s not the sexy thing. It’s the nerdy thing.

This was a story we came up with together about a woman obsessed with the macabre literally being courted by death. It was one I always loved and, with her blessing, I’ve been playing with writing it as a narrative for a while now—several times over the last year, honestly. The idea first came to us after seeing this lovely image by Illustrator Abigail Larson.

The story follows a sickly, frail woman named Lorelai Hunt. She’s the sole daughter of a wealthy widower that lives in the country, away from society. He purchased his estate there after his wife, Lorelai’s mother, fell ill and they have lived there ever since.

Oddly enough, this looks almost exactly how I envision her.

Lorelai’s mother, Hanne, died when Lorelai was only six or seven and it shook her deeply.

Not long after her mother’s death, Lorelai started to be visited by spirits. She was doted upon by ghostly nannies while her father processed his grief, in many ways she was reared by these paranormal experiences until she started to get too old to peer past the veil quite so easily.

She found comfort in reading about theories on what happens after death, reading dark poetry, and as she aged, even reading about what happens to the body after a soul had left it.

As a result, many people thought she was odd and, at the time of the story, tend to avoid her and ridicule her behind their gloved hands. Much to her father’s dismay, she has had no gentleman callers or prospective suitors, but Lorelai herself isn’t bothered. She would rather die a spinster than consign herself to a life with a husband who doesn’t understand her, especially with the example her parents set as a perfect love match.

But matters get complicated when Westley Harper, a young man from the city, takes a curious interest in her despite his clear distaste for the things she is interested in. Honestly, one of my favorite parts to write was Lorelai and Westley’s first conversation and I hope you enjoy it as well:

“Do you like history, Mr. Harper?” I asked. “Please, Westley is fine,” he said. “And of course, a young man must be well versed on such subjects.” “I’ve been reading about the French Revolution and Marie Antoinette,” I said. “It really is a tragedy what happened to them, don’t you think? Coming to power when they were no more than children—only to fall in love and have their romance cut short by their untimely deaths.” “I suppose it would take a tender heart such as yours to extend such compassion to monarchs who were so unliked,” he said. “I heard that Marie Antoinette collapsed in the courtroom when the bells tolled signaling King Louis’s death—” I said before adding as an aside. “Did you know that some doctors theorize that the head continues perceiving up to several minutes after being removed from the body?” Westley’s face tightened, only slightly with how well he managed his own reactions, but I saw it nonetheless. “Don’t you think that’s fascinating?” I pressed on. “What do you suppose he thought of in those final moments?” “I imagine he thought only of pain,” he responded. “Why ever would he think on pain when he was no longer connected to any of the anatomy that could cause the sensation of it?” I challenged. “Maybe he marveled at the fact that he was still thinking at all—” “Is that what you would do? Think ‘Ah, I’m still sentient. Fascinating,’ and then die?” Westley sighed and smoothed a hand through his perfect hair again, his irritation apparent and growing. “I imagine that I would be thinking of vengeance against those who had wronged me.” Finally, an honest answer! “I see—” I said, tapping my lace fan to my lacquered lips. “So, you’d continue to the next phase of existence as a vengeful spirit.”

I hope this gives you an idea of why Lorelai is so fun to write. She’s strange and a little hard headed. I love the dichotomy of her stubborn qualities offset by her openness to the unexplained; her intelligence paired with her oddness and superstitions.

By no surprise, shortly after this meeting Lorelai meets The Bone King during one of her visits to the graveyard and that’s where our story really starts to unfold.

“Who are you?” I asked him. “Well, you already know exactly who I am, don’t you?” he asked me as he carefully picked up the shattered teacup, the crimson liquid staining his satin gloves like blood. “Or you at least have an inkling.” His tone wasn’t the same condescending indulgence that Westley had used with me when I’d attended that social with Papa. It was conversational, light, and a little playful. If he’d had any flesh on the bones of his face, I could almost see the little dimpled smile he’d have when he said it. “So…you’re…the king of death?” I finally made myself say. “I am,” he said. “I’ve had many names over the millennia—Hades, The Grim Reaper, The Angel of Death, Thanatos, Hel… the list continues, and the faces and genders change based on region.” “What do you call yourself?” I asked. “I do not call myself anything,” he stated as he finished picking up the last of the teacup and vanishing it before my eyes, along with the red stains on his gloves. “I simply am.” “That’s a very enigmatic thing to say,” I said, a little put out. “What should I call you?” “Call me whatever you like, Little Flower,” he said.

And this is basically where I’m left off in the drafting process.

The story right now sits at about 13,000 words and I anticipate it finishing up around 20,000 words. I’m writing it as quickly as my brain will let me after finishing my daily freelancing writing, and I’m hoping to have it finished in the next couple of weeks. However, if you’d like to read the current iteration, it’s available on Kindle Unlimited or for just a dollar for the e-book version.

It isn’t bad in its current form, but it definitely will benefit from being fleshed out, I think you’ll see that.

In the meanwhile, I’m going to try to keep you guys in the loop on the whole process and the lead up to an Actual Proper Launch TM.

In the meanwhile, do you guys like updates like this? Or is this too much of an info dump? Comment below and let me know!

#writing community #writers on tumblr #writing #authors #my writing #writeblr #romantasy #book quotes #historical fantasy #A Waltz with the Bone King #Bone King

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gravelgirty · 7 months

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Tales from an All-Night Hospital

My hospital roommate did not have a good prognosis. I'm lying on my back and, under the influence of interesting pharmaceutical cocktails, marveling at how the bed can be adjusted. I'm not the only person at the largest hospital in South Puget Sound for Full Frontal Feline Assault.

Yes, I am trying HARD to mine some humor into the situation because, #@($*Y#@%(Y things are grim in my head--I'm missing work and I also missed my colon exam AND my very, very important Cancer Screen because I wound up here.

For obvious reasons, I do not divulge the details. I can say that she was getting the best of care. That her health issues were making experts scratch their heads in bafflement that the concerning body parts weren't smiling and saying "Cheese!" for their imaging tech. And I never once saw what she looked like, but her visiting offspring were an astonishing demonstration of the broad range of what was genetically possible in a WASP bloodline. Offhand I'd guess Northern Italian-Alpine. A son was dusky and swarthy and could have merrily been wiping Pacific Ave with a bocce ball tournament even though he was in his mere 60's. A daughter was the "White as rye bread" towering version over two meters in height.

Because logistics is its own terrible deity, she was placed further from the bathroom even though she was supposed to do a lot of bathroom activity. Here I am full of enough opioids that I'm wistfully thinking of the days back when my peristaltic action was a reliable event. I don't know how much attention she pays to me, but after a day it appears she has been very alert to her surroundings.

When a child on the other side of the privacy screen asked what messed me up, she strongly suggested it was a bobcat.

This made me think, not so fondly, of the days when my twin was working a slog job at our hometown's hospital in WV nicknamed "Death Valley" and they were too cheap to light the freaking parking lots properly and two people had to go out with the garbage and when she walked out with Bob, he tossed the bag of waste into the dumpster and scared the bobcat (no relation to Bob) that was already in there and it jumped zing out of the dumpster and used his chest as a launching pad to leap forever into that good night while two hospital employees raged, raged, against the dearth of light.

Another thing my hospital roommate was doing. Just in case things made a turn for the worst, she was getting rid of the stuff she didn't want. Again, I have to be very careful about not giving away personal details, but this is the upshot of it all:

Mom (my roommate) had decided in the maturity of her 8+decades she wasn't going to mess around and those heirlooms she had been joylessly dragging around since Grandma Pearlie kicked the bucket (or condescended to make an appointment to join her ancestors, I'm not sure)? She wasn't going to be like Grandma Pearlie.

I am not sure how long I laid in my hospital bed with a zero window view of the snow-caped volcanos while Roomie made her kids play cards for heirlooms, but it seemed like a long time.

Think CARDS AGAINST HUMANITY only mix it up with professional card games that require a minimum of two players. Most of us would think of GIN RUMMY, but towards the end I was thinking of the less well known game called SPITE AND MALICE.

There were a lot of thoughtful old objects that needed, shall we be direct, a home or at the very least, an institution. Perhaps along the lines of TINKERTOPIA. For those of you unfamiliar with the Left Coast's cultural paradigm, think ARCHIE McPHEE only without the inappropriate mummified mermaid (oh my god, so inappropriate) and they're in Seattle anyway. Tinkertopia is a thoroughly Grit City institution, where you can walk in on any given day and find something from the banal (scrap paper) to the ehh? (the blacksmith's anvil in the middle of the shop with a sign that says HAUNTED: NOT FOR SALE!)

or the book that was basically THE HISTORY OF DEAD WHITE MEN'S WALKING STICKS normally for $100 and they were offering $10 to please, God, get it off out hands. Now, please.

So here's Hospital Mom who has two specific goals in life before she crosses over that metamorphically limned river and rests in the shade of the trees:

The punch bowl.

Under Round 1, the oldest daughter lost the game for the punch bowl. In fifteen minutes of quiet slap-slap of pasteboard paper Mom got...bloody with the game and I sensed her victory when Daughter suddenly switched her language to Oldest Born Coping Mechanisms and started talking (uncertainly at first, then with growing confidence), about how why yes, she'd take Great-Great-Grandma's green punch bowl home in a heartbeat because it would be just the thing for Christmas parties.

Untranslatable to this transcription is inflection, but I have heard identical tones from a used car salesman forced to accept a dreadful beater car (named Sanford from Sanford & Son and maybe I mean the TV show with Redd Foxx and maybe I mean the Tacoma version where you can peruse a sarcophagus). Why, no, I'm just thrilled to have this opportunity, sir. How many miles did you say? That probably won't impact the resale value for parts and smelting.

I will probably go to my grave wondering how bad the punch bowl was because at the end of it, the daughter was speculating how it would be a great Christmas party decoration if it was wrapped up in twinkle lights first.

This leads me to imagine a lime-green monstrosity of glass, a shade similar to a disastrous memory of working for a catering gig in WV when a local mayor contracted us to cater a 7:20 am breakfast to a state governor infamous for approaching the Hour of Dawn already drunk as a plaid skunk. That horrible contract included lime punch for a flipping breakfast, like, hello, Mayor, we all know you're trying to deny you ever lived for ten minutes in a trailer on the Eastern Panhandle, but lime punch (the unholy Satanic marriage of lime sherbet dissolved into a seething froth of Sprite or 7-Up or an off-brand clear carbonated soda) just does not DO for a breakfast, especially when the guest of honor you want to toady up to is three sheets to the wind and ready to barf all over his tailored polyester blend as soon as he smells Covington, VA's pulp mill effluem on the north-bearing winds.

The punch bowl is thusly dispensed to the offspring.

That left...something even worse.

A coffee-drinking set.

For those of you who have not yet encountered these, coffee sets are usually china, porcelain, or something just as chippable and delicate with limited units and hard to replace. Common to rare in style, they are unified in their difficulty for replacement parts. If you think tea sets are fiddly, you haven't a patch on coffee sets. Tea sets at least have the comfort of too many pieces and a huge tray to carry it all on...coffee sets for some reason are normally doomed to be an awkward shape for human lips upon the rim, miserly proportions, inconsistent patterns, and what authorix Lilian Jackson Braun described as "fingertrap handles".

Coffee sets are an increasingly common source of bafflement to the average North American, who will rationalize that if the coffee doesn't taste great at least there's a lot of it. Hence the slight embarrassment we get when we order a cup of joe smaller than 20 ounces. A cup that holds about 4 ounces or 120 ml in the New Money is...not up to the task at hand.

Once in a while some company decides (revenge against idiot North Americans?) to make an exclusive set and it is packed and marketed like the greatest thing since pre-sliced enriched white bread. These jokers really get going after economic hardship eras, like the American Civil War/War of Southern Treason, or WWI, WWII, and a strange period where people tried to pretend the rest of the world didn't know coffee from tea.

Or if you want to be overly realistic about it, didn't know chicory from fireweed or roasted holly leaves.

By the time I checked out of the hospital two days later, I still never learned what was so specifically awful about that coffee set. I just know that Mom and her offspring never directly hinted on it...they just invariably said this. No matter who they were, they would refer to the set like this in hushed tones:

"The...(pause) coffee set."

Every.

Time.

It is always the story you don't know, the tale that got away, that will haunt you to your grave.

Like my work? Buy me a Ko-Fi!

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the-firebird69 · 11 months

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Watch "A Knight in white satin" on YouTube

So they're saying that it's like a little boats and that it's just a Corvette and we're doomed and stuff cuz they're emptying the Midwest on purpose we say this we're not just going down there to plug them or to burn them or to let them run away we're going to add to our massive Army and now people are paying attention if you're not off our son you're going to be dead because we want you off him and what you're doing is illogical you're a bunch of cream puffs saying you one now he's pointing out something in France because these idiots are because they get a hold of it and then they put it in the song cuz they're idiots it's a road map to something and George was looking at things and he made the elevator to hell in Georgia on purpose and that was to look at something in Georgia and in France it is a design and it does point somewhere and there's a hole in the middle of Paris and that's what they're saying and you're saying it about his adopted daughter who would be a daughter-in-law because they're sick no because that's what their job was and they are actually fairly good at it and they lost very badly and kept the secrets to themselves mostly except from Tommy f

Thor Freya

And we were a suspect the whole time and we knew why I know we do now and we got an inkling a few years ago it's not our fault but I do see what you're saying it's not these people's fault either but they become the enemy now you're right about something it's a hard place to survive it's hard to get around but not making it easy more so 10 hours then it is ours and we found a few people from the clan bothering the living s*** out of you including more distant relatives and then take it upon themselves as a job this is misery though and if they're doing it they need to be halted he says I'm the one shooting him is maybe not even true and I know if it's true or not they say it's still around and I'm starting to figure out what you're saying they were very very aggressive with you too small to do stuff and we're very frustrated and they're pushed to it and Matthew looked at these shapes his whole life. We traced on who did the shuttle picture where you stare at this picture and painting and it looks like that famous painter the French one who's insane and eventually you'll see an image he tried doing with the original painters and you can see images and this is what he was saying so we do understand something we see the ships and some of them are Georgians are a lot and we do understand what he was up to and it's a deadly business and he should not be trifled with and we should have him doing other things and these people are stupid

Tommy f

He's in a very bad spot like right next to them and he sees his army that is so huge nobody on Earth wants to deal with it nobody wants to see that kind of power and yeah The shield is missing from almost the whole place but that's a lot of power and it's done before but nothing like that it's getting up there maybe 300 trillion so that's where all your people went Tommy Allen and Trump and more he says he's going to have his zero motorcycle because it's his and Indian even though it's partly his at least wants to get going on some things that we should want to but don't seem to follow it anymore and it's damn true that is some powerful stuff you can't see fit to do it not really so now he says even though it's a vehicle it's like one step away, and people are looking at White Corvettes in the way that they should the motorcycle and so we get that they're building boats and we want one and we want them now instead has special metal on it so this is going to drive us insane we shouldn't really have one we shouldn't buy one but we should because people know what we're saying if we have it we're in trouble

mac daddy

And we want to buy some of these boats when he says why don't you buy the zero motorcycles and resell them because it's smart this is how much would you sell them for and I have to get back to you and it said good and you have all the shops and stores and if you looked at it the guy doing it and the clothes go after though. And I do understand that that's one reason to do it the other is they're automatic possibly and we can talk about that. And yeah robots way a bit and it's slowed down instead of 80 they would go like 50. Kids with sticks could stop them. There's another reason. It says it'll become a debacle you're getting a lot of fights in our own stores and I really don't like it but it's something some of our people need they need to see it rather badly.

I've never seen abuse that big in my life that is massive abuse folks and the clones say they're not big enough but they have enough people and they've been doing that kind of thing elsewhere so we're going to all blame them and some people will blame me for not very bright

Trump

We hear what he's saying he's saying if you want to buy some boats you have to buy some bikes and if you want to buy bikes we might be able to make them automatic and that is the transmission. We want to be clear that we're doing it on purpose and we will collect the bikes and so on. But that's for our people to know. We have a program and we are going to talk to him about what to do about it they have tried to buy stuff and it didn't work out and they're trying to sell their companies it's not really working out and you have to sell them on the perimeter they don't want to do that so we're going to entertain doing it and we have to tell them which money and they might be surprised but it would make their money work they think and it would activate us against him and so at the stores and so with the boats and so it's a program and to him it looks backwards but you've never bought anything from our son or what. So we're looking to order boats and we want the ones with the metal and the ones that were tested and stuff and they say they're going to have a meeting we'll have to do with the hologram and you say they'll send me the hologramic device what they are saying is we're going to do a quick teleconference or two beforehand because I'm acting like an enemy combatant and they say it's true they really don't want to drive over somewhere and just sit there and I'm interested in with that jewel is and they're not going to tell me in the meeting if it bring it up there won't be a meeting so I get that so I'll probably go to this meeting we'll have some teleconferencing and I have to buy my own bikes but they're actually changing them and adding some money for moving around it's not a bad game or deal it's kind of like they're working with us and it would look like us and we'd have a transmission for a motorcycle you know it's probably a good deal and we'll get beat up and stuff but we're going to get beat up anyways and I believe in doing things cuz you can't hide these days

Trump

You can't really hide and we're going to buy some boats this is about their ships or their clan chips and it's kind of the same thing or it could be exact same thing and their sons and daughters are building them and from a different family too we don't know who but really we're starting to understand this this could be it folks okay what we've been looking for and I have to have the boat and he says it is a boat it's under 165 ft and I understand that too and ships have a certain length but we really need to kind of and it says how long is this going to take so I have to tell you I'm not really interested and he says good we're not interested in giving them or selling or whatever you call it

Bja

Is a huge number of people that want to buy one of our boats and they want the one 45 and it is because you don't need a captain's license and it's a specific boat and a lot of them are going to call it a Corvette they used to be about that length they're about 175 and a lot of people want that links and we make them around that legs and modern Corvettes are bigger of course and we make them that size too and we're probably going to get some orders now

Thor Freya

They want to order them for other reasons too it's because they're durability and they can fight crabs and survive them and all sorts of things like that that other boats and ships can't and its armored most folks are just steel and really crabs have a lot of trouble with it but not as much as they do with this still about 3 inches thick 10 in 10 ft crab can cut through pretty easy our stuff 3 in thick the crab could probably bend it a little after an hour or two and you'd hear it the first time it latched on start the engines and let go and that's the end of the crab while it would be on his way unless he hit the propeller and he'd be sliced up it's designed to. Now we don't know about a lot of stuff we are up to no we do but we do say that these are resistant to a lot of stuff and people want to try and get the metal and replicated for spaceships we have some spaceships with it and we made the hall like 20-foot deck on some smaller ships that are half mile and we increased it to 30 foot and it can cast him shield and drink combat the deflects huge armament and giant rays and it also can take hits from like a 30 diameter 30-in diameter shell almost directly and it doesn't do hardly anything it makes us pockmark like 3 in thick in this iron so people are amazed they didn't see it work but we did now if you make a shift that's 500 miles and we usually make the armor like a mile thick and you guys don't do that you're not going to get through it and 500 miles a lot of your lasers won't work well most of them and we're enjoying ourselves because we're going to try and move Hera in February and we can make these ships and blast the f*** out of you and you'll think that they're there yours because we'll see pockmarks and we're going to go to town making these now

Olympus

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runnning-outof-time · 2 years

Text

Back Off | Tommy Shelby & Daughter!Reader

**I’ve decided that this will be a continuation of Keep Her Safe, which can be found here.

Request: yes by anonymous

Pairing: Tommy Shelby & daughter!reader

Summary: (Y/N)'s none too happy when she finds out that her father's trying to run her personal life.

Warnings: language, smoking

Word Count: 3283

A/N: I had a lot more fun writing unhinged dad!Tommy than I expected to haha. Enjoy! :)

I’D LOVE TO KNOW WHAT YOU THINK! - YOUR THOUGHTS & COMMENTS HELP ME WRITE!

Dropping the pencil on top of the textbook with a sigh, (Y/N) rubbed her hands over her eyes. Who knew that your final year in secondary school could be so stressful?

There was a lot riding on the work that she did this year. Getting good grades would help her a great deal in getting into the universities that she wanted to study at. And, of course, no one would question her desire to pursue a higher education because she was a Shelby. That was one thing that her surname was good for.

At least she had a good group of friends at her school that helped to ease the stress and pressure. And she had a boyfriend. Damien Weis. He was good to her and made her immensely happy. He also served as a great helper on her science homework, which is what the two were working on at the moment.

"How are you so good at this?" (Y/N) questioned in shock as she looked between her book and the boy sitting to her right. "I have no clue what they're even saying here."

"It's Latin, (Y/N). Once you understand the meanings of the root words, it gets easier," Damien told her.

"Well I don't speak Latin," she stated in a matter-of-fact tone before allowing him to, yet again, go on explaining the differences in the classifying of organisms.

Many more sighs were exhaled, along with chuckles from Damien as they continued with their homework until a car came to a screeching halt outside. Damien paused his explanation and looked towards the window, a puzzled expression on his face.

"That's just my dad. Don't pay any attention to it," (Y/N) waved the sound of the slamming car door off as she focused her attention on the text in front of her. She just hoped that her father would make a b-line to his office like he normally did. The last thing she wanted was for him to stumble across her boyfriend because she hadn't exactly told him about the boy.

Her hopes were shattered as his thudding footsteps were heard coming in the direction of the reading room. Before she was able to even prepare the poor boy, her father was walking through the archway. "Hello, (Y/N)," he greeted her without slowing his stride.

"Hi, dad," she tried to respond nonchalantly in hopes that he wouldn't even glance over at her.

But, once again, her hopes were shattered. Tommy stopped in his tracks when he noticed that his daughter was not alone. And that the company that she was keeping was an unfamiliar boy. "Who are you?" he didn't hesitate in asking, his eyes zeroed in on Damien. (Y/N) sighed. This poor boy was in for it now.

Damien thought nothing of it. He stood up from the couch and put a polite smile on his face as he stepped over to the man who asked the question. You see, he didn't know what this man was involved in. He just knew that he was (Y/N)'s father. And he wanted to make a good first impression. "Hello, sir. My name's Damien Weis. I'm (Y/N)'s boyfriend," he introduced himself as he offered his hand to shake.

Tommy didn't accept it. Instead he glanced over the boy standing in front of him. "Get out of my house," he blatantly stated before turning back to the door he was about to open.

"Dad!" (Y/N) called after him, shocked that he'd been so abrupt, "dad, that's really rude. He was just trying to introduce himself to you."

Tommy turned to his daughter, completely disregarding the boy who was still standing in front of him, who had his hand still outstretched and shock etched into his facial features. "Yeah, he did. And I want him out of my house," he was also blatant with his daughter as he tried to hold his anger in. This was the last thing he needed after the day he'd had. (Y/N)'s jaw dropped at his response.

Luckily Lizzie entered the reading room before anything else could be said, "Tommy, good, you're home. I wanted to tell you that Damien's going to be staying to eat dinner with us," she announced, noticing the tenseness of her husband but choosing to ignore it completely.

Tommy spun to face her, sending her a raised eyebrow expression before he glanced over at his daughter and finally to the boy who'd now be eating at his table. "Fucking great," he mumbled before he turned again and finally opened the door to the room he intended on going into.

Damien took a deep breath and finally dropped his hand before he moved back over to where (Y/N) was sitting. The girl sighed as he sat down next to her. "Well that didn't go as expected," he commented, running his sweaty palms over the material of his trousers.

"Don't mind him. He's just a miserable, old man. He's rarely happy about anything " (Y/N) brushed him off, although she couldn't shake the anger that she felt in regards to her father. Damien was a nice boy. She wished that he had given him the time of the day.

About a half hour later, the entire Shelby family, along with Damien, were sitting at the long dining table. The others were eating, but Tommy was just sat at the head of the table, smoking a cigarette. His eyes hadn't left Damien, who was sitting stiffly under the gaze of the intimidating man. It was quiet until Tommy decided to speak up, "so, Damien. How long have you been seeing my daughter?" he asked, his question, not surprisingly, directed at the boy.

Damien took a drink from the glass of water he had before clearing his throat and speaking what he hoped was confidently, "for a few months, sir."

"How many months?" Tommy asked, narrowing his eyes at the boy. Damien looked to (Y/N) then because he hadn't known the answer. They never really started counting how many. They just enjoyed hanging out with each other and did it often, even before they started dating. Tommy took the silence as a go ahead to speak again, "because I need to know how many months this has been hid from me."

"Tommy..." Lizzie sent him a warning glance almost immediately after he finished speaking.

"Dad..." (Y/N) called out in the same tone just as Lizzie was done speaking.

"I...I don't know, sir. Four...maybe five?" Damien's answer came out more as a question than as a statement.

"So you don't even know how long?" Tommy's eyebrows were raised, "how am I supposed to trust a boy with my daughter if he doesn't even remember how many months he's been with her for, eh?"

"Dad..." (Y/N) tried again, but his gaze was unwavering from the boy in the hot seat. The boy who now looked like he was trying to stop himself from shaking.

"I...I don't know, sir, but I like your daughter. I like her very much, and I don't mean any harm to her. I wouldn't think of doing anything of the sort," he rambled out, hoping to fill in some of the hole that had been dug.

"Oh, good. Cuz we'd have some real problems if harming her was the sole reason of you being here," Tommy drawled out, flicking the ash of the cigarette before he took another drag. "I'll be in me office," he announced without warning before he stood and exited the dining room.

(Y/N) sighed as she looked across the table at Lizzie, who had a sorry expression on her face. "I'm sorry," she mumbled to Damien who only nodded his head before he placed his napkin on the table and stood from the chair.

"I think I need to be going, (Y/N)," he stated as he pushed the chair away from the table, "Mrs. Shelby...the meal was lovely," he smiled over at Lizzie, who only nodded her head. Sending what looked to be a forced smile to (Y/N), Damien then left the dining room to, most likely, go get his things and exit the house.

Lizzie then left the table and walked out of the room, leaving (Y/N) with Charlie and Ruby. With a sigh, she also stood and told the kids that they could be excused also - dinner was pretty much finished at this point. The two younger children listened and went to their playroom before (Y/N) exited the dining hall and ascended the stairs to her room for the night. She didn't miss the sound of her father and Lizzie fighting two rooms down, but she blocked it out. She was able to fall asleep easier than she thought she would.

Surprisingly to (Y/N), Damien actually wanted to see her again. Although he swore that he'd never step foot into Arrow House again. (Y/N) was fine with that though. She wouldn't be letting him anywhere near her father again. For both of their sakes.

Today, Damien had suggested that they go out to see a film. (Y/N) happily agreed and dashed out of the house to Damien's car as soon as he pulled into the estate's driveway.

There was only one flaw to this entire day that (Y/N) had planned out. She hadn't told her father about it. So when Tommy arrived home to a quiet house later in the day, he obviously went to the first person he could question on it. "Where is everyone, Frances?" he asked as he shrugged off the coat he was wearing.

"Mrs. Shelby is in the sitting room, Charles and Ruby are in the playroom, and (Y/N) is..." Frances stopped herself from finishing the sentence, the breath catching in her throat.

"(Y/N) is where, Frances?" Tommy insisted that she tell him, looking at her intently.

"She told me not to tell you, Mr. Shelby," the older woman was hesitant to give any more details.

"So she's not in the house?" Tommy was able to infer that much.

"No," Frances shook her head, and that was all Tommy needed to go stomping into the sitting room where Lizzie was sitting.

"Where's (Y/N), Lizzie?" he asked as soon as he entered the room.

"Good afternoon, Tommy. I'm doing fine, thanks for asking," Lizzie said spitefully as she raised her eyes from the paper she was reading.

"Cut the bullshit and tell me where my daughter is, Lizzie," Tommy's temper was rising with each second.

Lizzie pursed her lips, debating whether or not she should give up (Y/N)'s secret. "She's gone out with Damien," she finally responded, figuring that being on (Y/N)'s bad side for a bit was better than being on Tommy's.

Tommy ran a hand through his hair with a sigh. "Fuck," he breathed, shaking his head as he glared at the floor, his hands on his hips, "I tell her to stay away from that boy and now she's fucking out with him."

"He's a nice boy, Tommy," Lizzie stuck up for her step-daugther's relationship.

"He couldn't even tell me how many months he's been seeing her!" he pointed out, his angered eyes flicking over to his wife.

"And can you tell me how many months you've been seeing me?" Lizzie flipped the statement on him, her eyebrows raised as she crossed her arms over her chest. Tommy only glared at her, pursing his lips because he certainly didn't know the answer to that question. "Exactly," she nodded, quite happy that her point had been proved. Tommy only held her stare for a few more moments before he abruptly turned and exited the sitting room. "Where are you going, Tommy?!" she called after him, standing from the couch and moving to the foyer where he was already taking his coat from Frances.

"To find my fucking daughter," he answered her without so much as looking at her before he exited the house. He stormed down the driveway and onto his property down to the edge of the trees where Johnny Dogs and his kin were camped. "Johnny!" he called out as he entered the camp.

"Tom! What do you need?" the man asked, standing from the fire he was tending as Tommy came to a stop in front of him.

"I need you to take me into town. I have business I have to attend to," Tommy was vague with his ask, but Johnny didn't need much more information. Moments later, they were in a truck heading for town.

Meanwhile, (Y/N) was having the time of her life. She and Damien went to see the picture that was playing in the theatre and then he'd taken her out to eat a late lunch. It was only when they'd gotten back to his car to her spirits dampened.

"What's wrong, (Y/N)?" Damien questioned, his eyebrows furrowed as he noticed the slight frown on her face.

"I don't wanna go home, D," she sighed, looking at her lap, "my dad's probably gonna bombard me with questions."

"We don't have to go home yet," he stated, a smile playing on his lips.

"No?" some hope returned to (Y/N) as she looked over at her boyfriend, "where else could we go?" she asked him.

"We don't have to go anywhere. We could stay right here."

"And do what?" she was still oblivious to what he was suggesting. Sitting in his car parked on a side street sure did sound boring, but it was better than going home and facing her father.

Damien chuckled, "do I have to spell it out to you, love?" he questioned.

"I guess so...I'm drawing a blank," (Y/N) laughed shyly.

"Come to the back seat with me," he told her, stepping out of the car then before he offered her his hand. She was still confused, but followed her, stepping out of the front of the car just to go into the back of it.

"And now what?" she couldn't stop herself from asking, making him chuckle again. Was she really his naïve?

"Now I kiss you," he told her, leaning in and matching his lips with hers. She was surprised at first but accepted the kiss, matching it with one of her own as he took her into his arms. She got pressed up against the window of the car by this, but she couldn't care. She was quite enjoying the position she'd now found herself in.

Tommy had Johnny Dogs slowly driving down each of Birmingham's streets, his eyes peeled for anyone who looked like his daughter or her boyfriend. They turned onto another one of the side streets and drove down it. In one of the cars they drove past, he'd seen what looked to be a couple, making out. It was only when Johnny turned back onto the main road that something clicked in Tommy's head. "Go down that street again, Johnny," he ordered, tapping his hand against the dash to show the urgency.

"Why, Tom?" Johnny questioned his intentions but listened anyway.

"Because one of the cars back there looked like the one that was in the driveway the night I came home and met Damien," he explained, ready to take a closer look as they approached the street. Sure enough, realization flashed through Tommy's eyes as they got to that car. The same car that the couple was making out in. "I fuckin' knew it. Stop the car, Johnny!" Tommy ordered through gritted teeth, already opening the door. The tires screeched as the car came to a halt, but Tommy was already walking in the direction of the parked car by that point.

"Where're you goin', Tom? What are you doing?" Johnny asked as he also exited the car, following hot on the other man's heels.

By the time he'd caught up with him, Tommy was already banging on the fogged window of the car incessantly. "What the fuck are you doing in there, eh?!" he yelled to the couple, who had now frozen in their place.

"What the fuck?" Damien breathlessly questioned as he moved away from (Y/N).

"Shit. That's my dad," (Y/N) sighed, straightening out her blouse before Damien moved more so that she could sit up.

"Open this fucking door!" Tommy hadn't stopped his banging, and it looked like he wouldn't be until the door was opened.

Gritting her teeth, (Y/N) flung the door opened to see her angry father. "What the hell, dad?!" she exclaimed, her eyes wide.

"What are you doing with this boy, (Y/N)?" he asked her, frantic eyes bouncing from his daughter to the boy he'd caught her with.

"He's my boyfriend, dad. I'm spending time with him," she answered him, still absolutely shocked that he'd have the audacity to just come up to the car and insert himself into their space.

"Get out of the fucking car, (Y/N). I'm taking you home," Tommy tried to keep his voice level. It wouldn't be good if the MP for this city flipped out on his daughter in public. He kept reminding himself that.

"No."

"We're going to go home and you're going to...what?" Tommy stopped his originally planned sentence when what (Y/N) said registered in his mind. His eyes widened slightly as he craned his neck forward to look at her. "What did you say?" he asked for her to repeat it.

"I said no, dad. I'm not coming home with you. I'm staying with Damien because I am eighteen years old and you cannot tell me what to do," she held her ground, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Get out of the car, (Y/N)," he spoke in a low voice through gritted teeth. She was really testing him.

"No," she repeated her sentiment, "and you really need to back off, dad."

"Back off?" he asked incredulously, "I'm doing what's good for you here, (Y/N)."

"Then do what's good for me and back off," she waved him away, "back off and go home."

"(Y/N)..." the anger was rising inside of him.

"Let it be, Tom," Johnny's voice of reason came from Tommy's left before he was able to blow up on his daughter. "Come on. Leave her with him. She'll be fine," he tried to physically pull him away from the confrontation.

Tommy's eyes darted between the three other people before he took a deep breath and nodded his head. "Yeah. Let it be..." he trailed off, exhaling a breath before his eyes fell on (Y/N) for the last time, "I want to talk to you when you come home tonight," he told her, keeping his voice low so that his anger wouldn't show.

"Ok, dad," she nodded as Johnny then placed a hand on Tommy's shoulder so that he could lead him back to the truck. She mouthed a thank you to the other man, who just nodded and managed to turn Tommy away from the scene in front of him.

Then she turned back to Damien, who surprisingly didn't look too mortified at what had happened. "Where do you want to go now? Because I sure as hell ain't going home any time soon," she stated, a smile back on her face as a similar expression formed on the face of her boyfriend. She'd be ready for whatever her father had planned for her at home, but now all she wanted to do was enjoy herself. Even if it was in spite of him.

Tagged: @alreadybroken-ts @magicalxdaydream @the-anxious-youth @cloudofdisney @look-at-the-soul @golden-hoax @elenavampire21

MASTERLIST

#tommy shelby #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby x daughter!reader #tommy shelby x y/n #peaky blinders #peakyxtommy #peaky blinders fanfiction #peaky blinders fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic

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the-amaranthine · 3 years

Text

memories

Summary: in which she enlists the help of Satoru Gojo and asks him to take her virginity, and parade he did so, by fake dating her, all to steer off her marriage prospects.

genre: fluff, eventual angst, smut(in future chapters)

pairing: satoru gojo x female reader (?)

tw/cw: sexual themes, misogyny, swearing, violence, (more warnings in the future chapters to avoid spoilers)

this first takes place before the zero arc, and progresses alongside the main story.

notes: I DO NOT OWN JUJUTSU KAISEN, all rights belong to Gege Akutami. This is only a work of fiction. I researched most of the lore regarding the Jujutsu world, but if I got something wrong please feel free to send me an ask and/or message me!

Full Summary:

Y/n Inumaki assumed she’s had a perfect upbringing all her life. Loving parents, and loving caretakers. She held the title as the only daughter of the Inumaki clan and is sought out by many to be their wife. When she started seeing visions of what was her life, memories of what she actually went through, she starts questioning everything that her life consisted of. She starts seeing what her prospective husband, Naoya Zenin, is for who he is. So, naturally, she receives help from the strongest sorcerer, Satoru Gojo so she does not become a mindless wife to the Zenin clan. The question is, is Naoya Zenin the only hindrance to accomplishing her plans towards freedom, or is there something far more sinister happening underneath the surface?

Prologue. Part One.

PART ONE

June 2006

The young Jujutsu sorcerer is in disbelief. It is the middle of summer vacation, so there should be fewer curses. He tries to recall all their lessons, and think about what to do when there is a 7-feet curse right in front of you. At any other time, he would find this whole situation bothersome and pay more attention to the raging headache emerging in the back of his head. However, he is not given a chance to swim in his thought since there is a stegosaurus-looking ugly piece of shit in front of him. To add more salt to the wound, his best friend and classmate are clutched in the curse’s veiny mud-green tentacle. The curse tried to wrap his tentacle around the boy and to the boy’s dismay, he is caught by this simple-minded oaf. He was about to perform his last resort when a glimpse of a familiar head of hair fills his line of sight. ‘Are you fucking kidding me?’ He thinks, now concluding that he not only has to save his idiot of a best friend but also this inexperienced girl, as she climbs the scales of the curse like the goddamn playground.

‘If my skin gets a scratch, my nanny, no my mother, will murder me,’ she determines. The image of the small frame of Amaya Inumaki pops in her head and she does not know what terrifies her more, this dinosaur-looking curse or her mother. Inexperienced is what she is, in fact, she is not even allowed in these missions, for fear that her incompetent physical abilities will hinder everyone else. She could not help herself, the girl from the Kyoto branch of Jujutsu Tech made fun of her, saying that all her purpose in life is producing children. She was only supposed to watch, gain visual experience as her seniors handled the mission. She is not supposed to be seen. However, when she saw that her other senior was taken by the ugly squid, dinosaur love-child she had to do something. So now, here she is, the girl who cannot even run the mile for warm-ups, climbing this damn curse. If she was not so petrified, she would take a picture, to brag to her cousin Toge, secretly of course. It is not like she tried, her touch was just not enough, she needed to get up near its ear, to speak suggestions. She has done it before, but the past times were to her handmaiden, a petite woman in her twenties. It cannot be much different, right? The only real difference is that this is probably a Grade 2 curse at least, and of course its height of 7 feet. She is feeling that height of 7 feet as she continues to climb one step, or should she say one scale at a time.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Is what the teenage boy screams in the clutches of the curse. She chooses to ignore his question as she is feeling queasy, and vomiting in front of them is pathetic. “Get down from there, then run to the outside of the veil and call someone useful instead!” The boy demands this time, feeling extremely frustrated that his kouhai is not listening to his words. ‘Is she deaf as well?’ He ponders, trying extremely hard to not say it out loud. He sees her reach the top and he finally realizes that Y/n is trying to save them. He hears mumbling on her end and sees that her hands are clasped tightly on the curse’s ears screaming her cursed technique in the monster. By some miracle, after a couple of minutes, the monster’s tentacles start loosening up on the two best friends, enough for the both of them to pry themselves off its slimy limbs. The curse wobbles a little, then slams to the ground. She did not kill it, merely gave the two boys a much easier attempt at exorcising the damn thing.

“Thank you Y/n-chan,” the boy’s best friend decided to fill the silence first with gratitude since he knows that his best friend would soon do the opposite. “If it weren’t for you-”

“What the actual hell was that? Are you able to even see? Do your rose-tinted glasses also hinder you from seeing and assessing that the curse that you just climbed on was dangerous?” The boy finally explodes after minutes of collecting himself. What Y/n achieved was impressive but there are more matters of import right now.

“I am sorry, I saw that you were also taken and I panicked. No one knew I was here, so I could not necessarily call anyone-” started the young girl but it seems her apology falls to deaf ears.

“Do you even understand what they will do to us, once they know that you were even within 10 feet of a Grade 2 curse? Do you wish for us to die? Princess, I understand that things always seem to go your way with a bat of an eyelash, but you are toying with our lives here! Do you just not care about-”

“Then do not tell anyone! Do not put me in the report, I was going to tell you that no one has to know that I was even here to not endanger your lives, you stupid brute! Don’t interrupt the girl who just saved your goddamn lives!”

If the boy she was arguing with was surprised she even had that side to her vocabulary, he did not show it and continued with his lecture. “A spoiled princess like you, Y/n, cannot even fathom the hardships that we have to go through in this missions. Someone who is favored by everyone and does not even attend physical training should not be allowed an opinion, let alone that attitude in missions. Do us a favor, and never repeat this stunt of yours, understand? Kids like you should not be allowed in missions either.”

“What the hell? If I am a kid then so are you, asshole! For your information, you’re welcome from saving you back there, next time I will see to it to turn a blind eye when you’re in need. Jackass.” The girl was spouting words she saw from a novel. It had an ‘enemies to lovers’ trope, thus why there are many colorful words. She is extremely happy that she picked that book up, if she did not do that, she thinks that the boy’s yelling will make her cry instead.

As the girl started her way back to the school she could feel the two boys behind her. There is the only way to their school after all. Y/n felt the burn in the back of her head, the boy glaring at her probably wanted to create a hole in her head instead. Regardless, this did not phase her, as she almost skipped school with self-satisfaction in her steps. ‘I have a chance to become an actual sorcerer,’ she keeps thinking. For once in her life, she felt that she finally had a purpose other than being a bride. Everything was exhilarating. Nonetheless, no one told her that once the adrenaline rush is gone, she would feel all her emotions about the prideful event all at once, as she spent her night vomiting in the girls’ dorm bathroom.

__________

Present

This void feels familiar to the young woman, agonizing and terrifying, but she is certain of its familiarity. The last thing she remembers was those damn dildos falling from her hands and a certain white-haired senior. In this void though, she could faintly see a man, no a boy, a very handsome one at that, albeit too emo for her liking. This man was yelling at whoever she is at the moment, something about being spoiled and taking everything for granted. It feels like he is talking to the young woman, but she could not be sure, since the Inumaki clan will not let their daughter in even the mere vicinity with someone that looks like him. However, she understands that the person that she is in right now, as her vision starts to cloud with what seemed like tears. The teenage boy in front seemed to soften when he noticed the tears, and quickly left the room. Another boy, on the other hand, looked more gentle, loving, and caring, grasped her hands, and offered her a comforting smile.

The scene in front fades and jumps to another. This one consisted of another teenage boy, a different one he looks more sinister than the previous boys, alongside an older man that resembles to be his father. Akimitsu and Amaya were all seated at a table in some fancy restaurant and the boy smiles with what seems to be charming to everyone else, yet his eyes hold a malicious and almost a carnal intent in them. The person that she is right now is most likely a girl and she did not feel comfortable. This girl stood up and it looked to be abrupt, catching the attention of everyone in attendance, and the juvenile woman started running towards the exit.

The scene jumps again, briefly seeing your Amaya Inumaki with eyes that are attached to waterfalls. Her mother came closer and for some reason this body was terrified, even whimpering in anticipation. Surely this must, not be Y/n Inumaki’s memories? She loves her gentle caring mother, even if she tends to be absent at times. Why is this girl so terrified of her? The scene fades to black, once again as the woman, Amaya, touches the girl’s head and hands.

Y/n hears screaming into the nothingness, realizing it is her own, having had no idea how terrifying this place truly is, she had no idea that this place even existed for this source of fear to foster. Rocking herself in what she hoped was a corner, not knowing how else one can bring comfort oneself, a faint light emerges, as another scene appears. Her parents, Amaya Inumaki and Akimitsu Inumaki are calling her their daughter, not believing such words because of what she has just witnessed beforehand. Her mother is telling the adolescent to wear the pale-yellow kimono instead, to please ‘Naoya-sama.’ Her father tells her pointers that can impress the Zenin clan and that there is an awaiting punishment if failed to do so. Seeing the world move up and down, indicates that this girl is agreeing by nodding. However, inside she feels burning bile that wanted, no that needed to be gone. Y/n witnesses several more scenes, some horrifying and some downright bloodcurdling, that she does not know if her wish from earlier to be taken away from that black void was the right choice.

________

The bright lights blinded her, but it was received with joy. All the visions, not the memories, alongside the void filled her with immense anxiety and this warm feeling of the light is most definitely welcomed. “What happened?” She somehow willed her vocal cords and croaked the words. She did not scream in ‘Spencers,’ did she? That would have been painfully embarrassing, as an image of a young woman in a kimono screaming like a banshee in front of the dildos’ section burned in her mind.

“Ah, the angel finally awoke from her deep slumber! Or is that sleeping beauty-”

“Gojo-sama,” Y/n interrupts, it was rude she admits, but she cannot hear this white-haired man continue his oncoming rant about Disney princesses when her family could be seconds away from finding her and in turn take her away. She has no idea how long it has been, and she needs to estimate her family’s whereabouts to make up a plan to intercede that.

“Stingy, are we? Was your beauty sleep not enough? If you must know, not only did you knock Shoko out cold, you, my angel, managed to also do it to the whole school! Fortunately, Yaga is still asleep and it seems like some of my beloved first-year students are close to waking up. I guess it’s convenient for you that the weekly sorcerers' meeting has been canceled today. I wonder what any of them will say when they learn of your capabilities?”

“Excuse me,” the girl does not know how to start. She was not even aware of anything, until a few minutes ago, after learning from her visions. “That’s impossible, I can only use my technique on one person at a time,” she reasons out. She now knows the widespread of her abilities and she would be damned if the Satoru Gojo finds out what they are, before Y/n can even determine her next step.

“Ah, ah! Angels can’t lie! If you don’t want to tell me right now, that’s alright, I can easily eliminate you if necessary,” Eliminate, not stop, the girl notes. She has unfortunately been written in Satoru Gojo’s ‘to kill list,’ it seems. “What you need to tell me, though sweetheart, are your intentions.” She hears the deeper change in intonation in his voice. This must be serious Satoru. “I can’t have you walk out of here without giving me some assurances.”

“I thought you could easily eliminate me in one go? Why do I have to provide you with assurances? Are you, perhaps, scared Gojo-sama?” She does not know, why now of all times has she let her filter go. This was extremely reckless to do, especially to someone that can kill her without him physically moving.

“And she has an attitude! Wonderful Y/n-chan! I do love a woman that keeps me on my toes, and you angel, managed to surprise me many times today! If you must know, you basically put everyone on hostage and the only one that is awake right now, it seems, is Toge-Kun. He is on his way here right now actually; does that mean he knows about this?” That damned Six-Eyes of the Gojo clan.

“No! Toge-Kun is innocent. He is only a child and he does not know anything. Please, keep him away from this. Especially, when my family comes for me. I am currently in a predicament and I do not know who to trust. He and I should be separated right now.”

“Nee-san?” I guess you were too late. Throughout the many years together in the Inumaki estate, you have come to understand Toge without his need to say the ingredients of onigiri. His eyes alone already speak a thousand words. You can see the hurt and betrayal in them as if to say, ‘you do not trust me?’

“I am sorry Toge-Kun! I didn't mean to hurt you. Mother and Father must be on their way, please do not let them see you here. I promise you that I will tell you everything once it has all settled down, okay?” A protest starts to fill his eyes and mannerisms, which Y/n quickly decimates with a firm yet motherly, “Now, Toge.” Her cousin let his head fall and nodded slowly. He starts his way to the door, when she quickly stops him, “I’m sorry, Toge. You are the only one I trust okay?” The cursed speech user seemed to brighten up more once he heard her reassuring words and quickly left the room.

“That was touching and all, but I am curious about one thing,” Gojo interrupts Y/n’s train of thought.

“Before you ask, will you please do me a favor?”

“What is it, my darling?”

“Please do not let my parents or the Zenin’s bring me back to the estate. I cannot afford to be brought back there again.” Now that Y/n is aware of the sinister things happening around her, the last thing she needs is for the cycle to continue by being dragged to the Inumaki estate and back to her parents’ clutches.

“You wish, my command, my darling, but it comes with a price. Fairly easy, actually."

The shit-eating grin Satoru has plastered on his face is a definite foretelling that this so-called ‘price’ is not even in the same galaxy as ‘fairly easy.’ Regardless, she abides by his wishes, because if anyone can stop the two clans' impending plan, it’s the strongest sorcerer. “Anything,” she responds with slight hesitation.

“Answer my questions,” he fires back as soon as she responded.

“Alright, if you accomplish the task I asked you to do I will answer all of them, is that good enough for you?”

“Wonderful! So, have you come to a choice between the pink or yellow dildo-” he did not get to finish, for Y/n threw the hospital pillow at him, with Infinity stopping the intended course of action of course. “I mean if you truly wanted some, this senior is overjoyed to oblige.” You could not retort an excuse as he teleported away comically looking like the Cheshire cat as it seemed like his grin was the last to leave the place.

‘That’s enough incentive for him, I guess,” Y/n thinks. Immediately, resuming to the forming and solidifying of her plan of action, once her family, no once Armageddon arrives.

To be continued.

part two.

I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter. I know it is a bit slow at the moment, but things will start picking up on the next chapter! The next update will most likely be this saturday nov 20 or sunday nov 21. I hope you all have a great day!

#gojo satoru x reader #jujutsu gojo #gojo x you #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x y/n #gojo satoru #jjk fanfic #jjk x y/n #jjk x you #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu sorcerer #jujutsu kaisen satoru #jujutsu kaisen gojo #zenin naoya #zenin #inumaki

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titan-fodder · 3 years

Text

Prima Vista Part IV

[ previous ]

Rating: E (explicit; mdni) Pairing: Mike Zacharias x fem!reader wc: ~ 9.6k

Warning: a big helping of abandonment/daddy issues, lots of feelings, explicit sexual content A/N: y’all are gonna be so soft and then so mad lmao.

The plan was to go to Mike's house then back to campus. You said you didn't have anything to do at your mom's, that a long phone call would suffice, which is why Mike is confused when you ask him if you can stop by before going back. It's an hour out of the way, but it's not like he has anything better to do, and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't curious about your humble beginnings.

The house is in a decent-looking neighborhood, small, nearly identical one-story homes surrounded by cracked sidewalks. He has to be careful not to trip as you make your way to the front porch, pots of dead or dying plants along the edges of it. You shove your key into the lock, twist and open, then motion for Mike to follow.

The den is dimly lit, ceiling fan above with only one working bulb. A crime show is playing on the TV but there's no one watching. There is, however, another light pouring from a back room, and as soon as you drop your bag on the couch, a head pokes out from the doorway.

"Baby girl!" A shrill voice cries, and Mike sees you grimace. "I thought you weren't coming by!"

A woman walks into the den wearing long, cotton shorts and an old tie-dye shirt then pulls you into a hug so tight that it makes you cough.

"Mom," you take a deep breath as if to refill your lungs with all the air that was pushed from them. "This is Mike."

He holds out a hand and smiles, but all your mother does is stare with round eyes and blurt, "Oh, he's a big boy."

"My fucking god." You don't yell or whine, just pinch the bridge of your nose and mumble, "Just shake his hand please."

"Sorry, I'm sorry, just was not expecting… You didn't tell me how tall he was."

"'Cause it doesn't matter. Why would I—nevermind," you cut yourself off, face falling flat just like your voice.

Mike isn't sure if he should be flattered or offended or embarrassed, so he just ignores the comment entirely and says, "Nice to meet you."

You make your escape to the back, dragging Mike with you before shutting your bedroom door and leaning against it.

"Mom is a little weird, but you'll always know where you stand with her," you tell him. "Also, sorry about the house. She’s a teacher, so she’s usually pretty beat at the end of the day. Not enough energy to do a lotta cleaning."

"Didn't even notice," he reassures you.

Mike unpacks his bag next to you, and you gather the dirty clothes from both yours and his, balling them up and taking them with you out to the garage to throw into the washing machine. Mike should have done it at his parents', but as you were packing up that morning, his mother got all teary eyed and his dad just kept shaking your tiny hands and telling you to come back, so it just didn’t happen.

Back in the living room, your mom is sitting in an old rocking chair, and Mike thinks you'll take a seat on the adjacent couch, but instead you ask, "You need help with anything? Dishes or vacuuming or somethin'?"

She looks up at you, fly-away hairs sticking out around her temples and forehead and responds, "It'd be nice if you could do the dishes. I just haven't gotten around to it."

"Can do," you nod and walk into the kitchen, opening the dishwasher and making a displeased noise at the dirty plates and bowls inside. There's room for a few more, but once it's full and running, you just clean what's left in the sink by hand. Mike finds a towel, stands next to you, and holds his hand out for every scrubbed dish, drying it and placing it in the rack to hopefully be put up later.

"You hungry?" You ask when you're done and drying your hands. "It's almost one."

"Uh, yeah. I could eat."

Truthfully, he's starving having only had a small breakfast at his parents'. He doesn't want to say that, though, doesn't want you making a big meal for him or apologizing for anything.

"Sandwiches okay?"

Something in your tone has him on edge. Your voice is too quiet, deflecting downward as if you're forcing each word from your mouth.

"Yeah," he nods. "If you get the stuff, I can make 'em." Mostly so that you can relax but also because there's no way he's gonna let you make him a fucking sandwich.

You shrug your shoulders, grab bread, lunchmeat, cheese, and condiments, then say, "You can make ours. I'll make mom's."

He knows he's missing something, but he doesn't know what, and right now he's too afraid to ask.

He eats next to you on the couch, you and your mom watching TV as Mike tries to subtly glance around. Mounted shelves are decorated with dusty, mismatched figurines, cracks opening at the corners where the walls meet the roof. The brick fireplace is stacked high with plastic tubs and books, probably from your mother’s classroom, and the carpet has seen better days.

Mike isn't judging—not in the least—but he has a feeling he knows why being here puts you in a sour mood. The house feels lived in, cluttered and cozy and worn around the edges, but it's still empty somehow.

After the three of you are finished eating, you take the paper plates and dispose of them, then tell your mom that you'll be in your room. She gives you a soft smile that you struggle to return.

It's a little more you in the bedroom, blue walls covered in old posters and collages, a quilt similar to the one in your dorm folded at the bottom of your bed. Your pillow cases are faded and covered in an old flower design that matches your sheets, and there's a small nightstand next to the headboard that's bare on top with wrinkled papers poking out of the bottom drawer.

"It's not much, but if you wanna snoop around like I always do, feel free."

Mike doesn't really want to, especially since you already seem so uncomfortable in what should be a safe space for you. The only thing he feels okay investigating is the old bookshelf next to your closet—mostly YA novels, some poetry books, an old set of The Lord of the Rings series, a textbook over rocks and minerals and another over volcanoes. Tucked away in the bottom shelf is a tiny booklet that looks like a photo album, and Mike has to fight the urge to pull it from its place and flip through the plastic pages. Anything to get to know you better.

You lay in bed, eyes locked on the ceiling, and Mike doesn't know what to do. There's a very small TV sitting on your dresser, an old DVD player next to it, so he figures he'll save both you and himself from talking by picking out a movie.

He fingers through them, not that there's a lot, just skims the spines until he pulls out a copy of Space Jam. You only glance at the screen when the intro starts, and Mike immediately zeroes in on the way your jaw sets and your brows furrow.

"I can pick something else," he tells you quietly.

You take a deep breath and shake your head. Slowly but surely your features begin to soften.

"'S'fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. My, uh…" You swallow loud enough from Mike to hear, neck bobbing with the motion. "My dad and I used to watch it all the time."

He doesn't know what to make of it or how to respond. In the months he's known you, Mike has never heard you mention your father a single time, and he's never asked in fear of what your response might be.

He moves your quilt to sit on the very edge of the bed, a little too tense as he heavily contemplates ignoring what you'd said and still switching movies.

"You can lay down, you know," you mumble. "I'm not gonna bite you."

"You have before," he tries to act casual, but it comes out too stiffly.

You laugh through your nose— "Suit yourself—" then get more comfortable on the mattress.

Michael Jordan gets pulled into a golf hole and the Loony Toons journey to retrieve his shoes from the real world. Mike is barely paying attention, more focused on the way your breathing evens out until it becomes slow and deep.

That's good. You could use a nap.

He watches you for a while, the way your eyelashes flutter against your cheeks and your lips part. You're all curled up on yourself, hands tucked under your chin, knees to your stomach, and Mike wants to slip behind you so badly, to pull you to his chest and lay with you until his heartbeat syncs with yours.

But first.

As carefully as he can, Mike stands from the bed and glides to the bookcase. He lowers himself in front of it, quickly finding what he's looking for and pulls it from the shelf.

It's a small little album, full of polaroids and old pictures cut in half. The first page sets the tone for the rest of the booklet, a photo of a very small you outside eating a popsicle next to a man that is most definitely your dad. You've got a similar facial structure as well as his coloring. Not to mention the expression he's wearing is one Mike has seen you make many times before.

The next picture is the two of you dressed up for an event. He's in a striped Polo and slacks while you're in a little checkered dress, a rose corsage on your tiny wrist. Some kind of father-daughter dance, Mike guesses.

Sitting on his lap at a fair, a chubby little boy a few years older than you standing close with a stuffed snake around his neck. A party where you're posed with an honestly frightening costume character. You in a bright, mesh jersey standing back to back with your dad, arms crossed, looking at the camera with your chins tilted upward.

They all look like good memories. The little boy in the fair picture appears several more times, and as he loses his baby fat, Mike sees the resemblance he shares with you and your father. It's too close to be a cousin—your eyes and mouths shaped the same—so he must be your brother.

Mike doesn't know how to feel about that because again, you've never uttered a word. As far as he knew, you were an only child, so why…

He gets lost in the pages, watching you grow and pose mostly next to your dad. Smiles and laughs and silly faces with your tongues sticking out. Your mom is in some, brother in others, and then, you're in a cap and gown, grinning widely next to your dad who's beginning to gray at the temples. His own smile is barely there now, a ghost of what was seen in the previous photos. It's forced, it's sad, and it's the last picture in the book.

Mike's chest hurts. He wonders what happened, when exactly you'd lost him. Was it a quick goodbye, or had it been drawn out and painful? Had he been sick for a long time? He'd looked perfectly healthy in all the shots. Maybe a car accident that took both him and your brother…

He flips to check for one last photo on the back of the page, but it's empty. However, tucked in a tiny, paper pocket is a folded up note that Mike stares at for a few solid minutes, debating the pros and cons of reading it. He knows he's already violated your privacy by looking through the album, and fuck, he's only been in your house for a couple hours at most—how has he already managed to tumble down such a humongous rabbit hole?

Your tiny snores reach his ears, and Mike gently pulls the note out, biting his lip as he unfolds it as quietly as possible. It's soft, like it's been read too many times, and the letters scribbled in all caps are beginning to fade, but the words are still legible.

It starts with your name, and then it's all apologies—sorry I can't stay, I have to leave, you don't understand how much this hurts me and so on.

Mike's eyebrows pull together the further he reads, blood pounding against the walls of his arteries, pulse picking up because he understands now.

Your father wasn't in any sort of accident; he just left.

The letter ends with a gut-wrenching, You'll always be my little girl, and Mike nearly crumples the paper up to throw away. He resists somehow, simply folds it with shaky hands and slips it back into the pocket at the back of the album.

He's never been so mad at a stranger in his life. This must be it. This must be why you are—

"Should've known you'd go straight for the photo album."

Your voice makes Mike's body jolt, his face heating as he turns to look at you with wide eyes.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't mean—"

You wave him off and prop yourself up on an elbow. "It's whatever."

But, it's not. It's this huge part of you that still affects you to this day. Mike is no psychologist, but he has a pretty good feeling this is the main reason you hold everyone at arm's length.

"Why didn't you ever tell me?"

"What's there to tell?"

Sitting up fully, your gaze moves to the screen just in time to see Michael Jordan step off of the spaceship and onto the baseball field. I Believe I Can Fly is playing, and you're gritting your teeth.

"It's not anything that comes up in normal conversation anyway. I wasn't just gonna hit you with it outta nowhere. Also," you look back to Mike, eyes still sleepy, lips pulling downward in a frown. "I'm not the only one who hid stuff about my family."

Mike sighs and quietly tells you, "That's different," as he closes the album and slides it back into the row of books.

"Is it, though? Is it really?"

"I..."

Mike shuts his mouth and actually thinks on it. He wasn't trying to lie to you about his home life or his heritage. He's only half Greek on his mom's side, after all, and he's only been to the country to visit family a couple of times—once when he was a child and once right before college. The culture is a little different over there, but it all seems so natural to him, especially after being raised to speak the language.

Honestly, he didn't ever tell you because he didn't think to, but Mike can understand the shock of walking into his childhood home and getting thrown through that loop. It must have been jarring for you.

It's a positive aspect of his life, though. It's not something that's damaged him or made him cold toward others. And, he hates describing you in such a way, but it's true.

At least it makes sense now.

"I guess not," he shrugs. He's not about to fight you on it.

You stare at him for a while, waking up a bit more as you rub your eyes and stretch.

Then, you flop back down on your pillows.

"So. Any questions, Zacharias?"

He's surprised that you're asking, and though he doesn't want to twist the metaphorical knife in your gut, he still replies honestly: "Too many."

A long exhale through your nose, and then you're patting the mattress next to you and grumbling, "Fine, I'll do my best, but you gotta come up here."

"Why? You gonna need to cuddle afterward?" He can't help but tease.

"Fuckin' maybe, dude! We're about to get into my god damn trauma so—"

Mike is up on his feet and flying toward the bed. He isn't about to sabotage the one fucking moment you're opening yourself up.

"Alright, what first?" You ask, trying to look bored, but Mike can clearly see that you're nervous.

"He left."

"Yeah."

And then he gets the full story.

Your dad was pretty perfect during your younger years—a bit of a workaholic but still good. He took you to dances like the one you'd both dressed for in the photograph. You'd spend days at amusement parks where he'd carry you on his shoulders. He coached the basketball team you'd played on as a child.

"Not saying he played favorites, but I was definitely closer to him than my brother was."

The brother who developed a drug problem at fourteen, who was always either out with his little addict friends or at home where he would just scream at you and your mom.

"He went to rehab a couple times, but it didn't stick."

He left home at seventeen and hasn't gotten in touch with you or your parents since.

"I keep thinking one day we'll get a call from the police saying they found his wallet on a fucking corpse, but who knows. Maybe he got clean. Maybe he started a family somewhere else. He'd be twenty-five now."

"Were you ever close with him?"

You shrug. "We spent a lot of time together when we were really little, but even back then he was kinda a mean kid."

It very quickly circles back to your father. Mike still doesn't feel like he has all the answers, so he asks through the skin of his lip, "Why'd he leave?"

At this point, you've got your head in his lap as he sits against the wall. He smooths your hair back from your face every once in a while, something his mom used to do to him when he was very young that always soothed him.

He hopes it's having the same effect on you, thinks it might be considering you've had your eyes closed for a while now, humming now and then as you talk.

"Honestly, I don't really know. I don't think he and my mom were ever in love. Like, they just kinda settled for each other," you sigh. "They didn't have a lot in common. They had different upbringings. But, they didn't fight or anything—not in front of us. They were good at hiding the hard times from me and my brother. They just didn't… click."

Mike bites his tongue, wonders if that was hard to watch or if you'd been too naive to notice.

Then, there's his second train of thought that's really just the voice in his head screaming, we click, though! You and I work! But he keeps it to himself. This isn't about you and him.

"I think maybe dad had, like, a 'stay together for the kids' mentality 'cause as soon as I graduated, he was fuckin' gone. And, I mean gone. We went to a graduation party the next weekend that lasted a few hours—just me and mom—and when we got back his truck wasn't in the driveway and his drawers were empty. He left that note you read on my desk."

Mike breathes. Just breathes. He tries to make sense of it, how someone could just do that without a real reason. There hadn't been any explanation in the letter, only apologies.

"Have you seen him since?"

You open your eyes and reply, "Nope," popping the 'p'. "I don't know where he is, and he hasn't reached out. Mom made the drive to my grandma's—his mom—but she said she didn't know where he was either. Pretty sure she was covering for him, though. She was always kind of a bitch. You know, save for the whole paying for my college and all."

Mike snorts at this, not that there's anything funny about the situation. It's just his first reaction.

You ignore it, moving on with an, "Anyway."

"Anyway," he mimics.

"I don't know if you've noticed in the short time you've been here, but my mom is a little… off. Not super good at taking care of herself."

"Is this why?"

"Clever boy," you show a bitter smile. "I didn't really understand since they weren't, like, in love or whatever, but… I think it was the betrayal more than anything. Like, it came outta nowhere, a big ol' slap in the face."

"Plus, he left you behind," Mike adds, as if you don't already know.

Looking up at him, you raise your eyebrows and smirk. "And, now you know about my abandonment issues." The last part comes out in high-pitched, melodic syllables, a little song that would be funny if Mike didn't know it was a coping mechanism. It most definitely is, though. He can tell that you're the type to mask every issue with humor and sarcasm. It's how you've been dealing with him for the last several months.

"So, that's my story," you conclude on an exhale. "Now you know all my dirty secrets."

"For some reason I don't think that's all of them," Mike pets your hair again. "But, probably the important ones."

"Mm. I guess."

The rest of the day is really just spent killing time. You cook an easy dinner that you refuse to let Mike help with, then sit in the den with your mom just like you did at lunch. A medical show is playing. Then a reality show. Then a game show. None of you say much of anything, and it's painfully awkward for Mike now that he knows what happened, but he can power through a few days of this if it makes you feel better.

Hours pass until you can retreat, and moonlight shines through your bedroom window, not that Mike needs it. He's memorized your body at this point, knows where to touch without even seeing. He makes sure to be gentle, to suckle and blow on your pebbled nipples as you card fingers through his hair and breathe faster and faster.

Leaving love bites down your chest and stomach, he sucks on your skin, gently grazing his teeth over every bruise. Mike wants you to see them all the next day—not a staked claim, just something you can't ignore when you look in the mirror, evidence of his feelings in every mark.

When you're finally nice and relaxed, he spreads your legs and licks into you, trying not to be too rough with his beard, but a few swipes of it over your clit leave you shaking in his grasp. You whisper his name, the common one that everyone knows him by, but then, rolling off your tongue like a prayer, you call him, "Miche," and he can't help the rumble that rises in his chest.

It should be strange. That's the name only his family uses, the one he was born with. He only simplified it so that kids in school wouldn't ask questions or make fun of him, and after that, it just sort of stuck. But, here and now, falling from your lips, it's so soft. So intimate.

You whimper when he sucks on your folds, making them swell, making them sensitive. And then, he's pushing his tongue inside of you and humming happily at the taste. His nose is bumping against your clit, and Christ, you even smell good to him—that ripe, tangy aroma that has Mike going a little crazy. He has to make sure he doesn't get too carried away. You can't make very much noise even with the rattling of the air conditioner, but as he slowly slides a finger into your pussy, he hears you moan around the fist you're holding to your mouth.

He stretches you just enough to get you ready, then he holds himself over you and pushes into your wet cunt. Your eyes are open, locked with Mike's as your brow raises and your jaw drops. It's erotic, something you've never done with him before. You typically either gaze somewhere other than his face or keep your eyes squeezed shut.

Tonight, though, you've been vulnerable and apparently want to stay that way for a little while longer.

He bends to catch you in a kiss, lips and tongues moving just as slowly as his hips, and when you reach to tug at Mike's hair, he pants into your mouth.

Those words are there again, stuck in his throat but slowly crawling upward until they're just there, pouring from his tongue, "I lo—"

Until you cut him off with a sharp, "Don't."

He makes a noise of frustration, wants to protest because he's so deep inside of you, and you're holding onto him like you want him—truly want him, but you mutter once more against his lips, "Don't say it, Miche."

So, he doesn't. He bottles the confession up and keeps it locked away, hoping like hell that one day you'll let him tell you.

After you climax and coat his cock in slick and cream, he gives a few more thrusts and comes inside of you, filling you with himself and wondering why you're so willing to accept him in that way but not in any other.

He's hurting again, like he did at his parents' as you walked around like you belonged there. Except it's worse now.

If you don't want him to say it, that means you don't want to say it back.

He stays with you for a few more minutes before pulling out. You leave to clean up, and while you're gone, Mike sits on the edge of the bed, head in his hands as he tries to get it all out of his system, whispering it out loud to himself:

I love you. I love you, I love you.

You still let him hold you as you fall asleep, gripping his hand until you can't anymore, and as Mike drifts off behind you, he has one last thought—Just let me.

* There’s only three weeks left of the semester when you head back to campus, and you intend to make the most of every passing day.

You pay better attention in class. You study harder in the library to prepare for final exams. You go to a few more Pi Alpha Kappa parties, making sure not to burn yourself out. And, you let Mike fuck your brains out every few days. Sometimes it’s late at night after those parties. Sometimes you're too tired after the nights of drinking and end up just going to bed only to wake up in the morning and have slow, sleepy sex. Sometimes it’s in the middle of the afternoon when you both have breaks between classes.

Neither of you bring up anything that happened over the break—meeting families, details about your childhoods, how much you learned about one another in general.

Most importantly, neither of you address that first night at your mom’s, the way Mike had basically worshiped your body, how he’d come so close to uttering the three words you least want to hear.

Thinking about it still makes your chest tighten, your heart beat faster. Sometimes when you’re sharing his bed with him, back pressed to his chest, large arm slung over your waist, you think about why it is you’re so vehemently against it. The two of you already act like a couple most of the time. You walk with each other to class when you can. You stick to each other’s sides at parties. You fuck like rabbits and don’t care who knows about it.

And, though you’re hesitant to admit it even to yourself, you’d be lying if you said you didn’t have feelings for him. Mike is your best friend at this point. He’s insanely hot. He’s goofy. He’s kind. Yeah, the frat boy persona he puts on around his friends is annoying, but you understand it a little better now. Plus, he always takes off the mask when he’s alone with you, giving both you and himself a break from it.

You know your time with him is quickly coming to an end—for about two months, at least—and whenever you think too hard about it, it makes you pout and huff. You’re not looking forward to your summer classes without him, but he promises on several occasions that you can call him while he’s at his parents’ if you ever need help with the material.

It’s impressive, the way he’s able to act like nothing happened. You know it must be troubling him, but it’s not like you can do anything to soothe him. If he was really upset with you, he would have stopped spending time with you, but he hasn’t. He just bottles it up, keeps smiling at you all crookedly, and keeps satisfying you in the bedroom (more than satisfying honestly. There’s really not a word to describe what he does).

He’s back to getting along with everyone in the Pike house, everyone being Erwin. It’s a relief just because you don’t have to put up with the tension between them, but it’s also awkward. And, a little frightening.

The brothers have Smash Brothers tournaments and movie nights, a few date parties here and there, and it never fails that at some point during the evenings, you find your neck prickling as it always does when you feel someone staring at you. You always hope it’s Mike. Fuck, you wish it was him. But, when you glance up and around, it’s Erwin. Every time. His deep blue eyes are trained on you, the corner of his mouth twitching upward on one side. It doesn’t matter if he’s alone or if he’s got Maddie or some other girl sitting in his lap. He's fucking shameless, and it makes your stomach hurt.

You keep your mouth shut for the sake of the friendship but also for the sake of Erwin’s pretty face. If he and Mike ever got into an actual fight, Erwin would probably be able to get a good few punches in, but you’re nearly positive Mike would end up destroying him in the long run. That could get him kicked out of school. That could get him thrown in jail.

Finals roll around, and you manage to pass all of them without issue, even getting grades above the class average. You feel fantastic, like your long term goals might actually be attainable. You have a long road ahead of you, but your GPA at the end of the year is more than enough to raise your confidence.

Mike asks you to come back to his house for the couple weeks between the end of the semester and the start of your summer courses, but you turn him down, too scared of what might happen while you’re there. Acting like a couple in front of his parents will only exacerbate his feelings as well as yours, and you’d like to avoid that as best you can.

Even now as you’re standing outside by the Jeep, he tries to persuade you one last time, almost pleading, “Are you sure you don’t wanna come?”

“Miche, I’m sure,” you tell him, trying to stay stern, but it’s hard when his sea glass eyes light up at the sound of his real name. It’s a habit you’ve gotten into, a bad one considering how much he likes it. How much you like it. “I already told you I wanna spend the free time I have at mom’s. I need to check up on her and… Probably clean, honestly.”

He lets out a little grunt of disappointment, then nods. “Yeah, I get it.”

“You saw what she’s like,” you remind him. “Someone needs to drop in every once in a while to make sure she isn’t, like, wasting away or something.”

“Makes sense. I’ll be bummed, though.”

“Be bummed all you want,” you smile. “I’ll probably still bother you over break. A lot.”

He sounds terribly sincere when he mumbles, “You never bother me.” It makes your stomach flip in the way you do not enjoy.

Mike sighs, taking in one of those deep breaths that makes his broad chest rise then fall, calling attention to it and making you bite your bottom lip.

“Alright, I should get going,” he concedes, bending down to kiss you too deeply for simple friends with benefits. It doesn’t stop you from humming into his mouth and smiling against him. You hold him by the back of his neck as he pulls your body close to his, his voice muffled when he tells you mischievously, “Don’t forget to send pictures.”

It makes you laugh, and you lean back to swipe your tongue over his lips so that he groans and chases after you.

“I promise I will. Perv.” The beating sun is nothing in comparison to the way your body heats at the thought. You’ve sent him nudes before, but the idea of him looking at them from hours away, fisting his cock as he admires your body through his phone… It makes seeing him off even harder.

After a couple more softer kisses, Mike swings into the Wrangler and pulls out of the lot. You stand in his parking space and watch him until he’s out of sight, then walk back to your dorm, dragging your feet the whole way.

You only stay at your mom’s house for a week, and just like you predicted, you spend most of it cleaning. She thanks you the whole time but makes excuses in between. You just reassure her that you don’t mind even though you do. She really should see a therapist and sort out the depression she’s been stuck in for a few years now, but telling someone they need professional help is easier said than done.

Sleeping in your old bed is much harder this time around. You're all too aware of the weight that isn't behind you, and most nights you lay awake for at least a couple of hours trying to imagine it.

Like you’d promised, you send him a few pictures, some of them just lewd selfies with your tits pouring out of the cups of your bra, but others are of your naked body in the bathtub, sometimes a shot of you with your hand between your legs. It feels wrong to touch yourself in your childhood home, but it’s necessary, especially when Mike sends you a few pictures of his own—one with his torso on display, defined abs absolutely mouthwatering and the V of his hips suggestively leading into mesh shorts. Another is of him in the gray joggers he wears all the time, the ones that always show off his cock.

He’s so fucking hot it atually hurts, makes your pussy throb as you crave his touch. It’s an awful feeling honestly, but even worse than that is the way you miss him. You aren’t supposed to miss him. You’re just supposed to be friends who have sex. Nothing more than that.

It's why you’re glad to go back to school. Your classes will distract you, keep you from thinking about him too much. The semester is shorter during the summer, so you have to work even harder than you do during fall and spring. You don’t really think it’ll be a problem since you’re trying to cram your brain full of anything other than Mike which is great motivation for studying.

Nothing is gonna get you off track, you tell yourself. Nothing will interfere with your studies. That’s the plan.

Then, you meet Zeke Jaeger.

* You're studying in the library. It seems like you spend most of your time here, nice and quiet and empty. The campus isn't nearly as busy in the summer as it is during the rest of the school year. No parties, no sporting events, just you alone with your books.

It's nice. Most of the time. A little boring but mostly nice.

Your eyes are getting tired, and when you check your phone, you realize why. It's almost eleven PM, meaning you've been studying for about six hours. You've had longer nights, usually spent on the phone getting quizzed on the information you're learning with a few breaks in between, but that wasn't the case tonight as Mike had to spend the day with family from out of town.

It's okay. You're supposed to be distancing yourself anyway.

Taking a deep breath, you pack up your books and slide your laptop into your bag, then stand and swing it over your shoulder.

The strap is too long. The bag swings too hard, and your heart sinks when you hear a little grunt followed by a, "Agh, hot!"

Turning with wide eyes, you immediately start apologizing, "I'm so sorry, oh my god, fuck, I'm so sorry!"

A head of light blond hair looks up from the brown stain on his white t-shirt, icy blue eyes narrowed behind wire-rimmed glasses, but when he sees the mortification on your face, his own expression softens, and he chuckles.

"It's fine. You can calm down."

You're still breathing heavily, guilt making your hands shake, but he really doesn't look angry. In fact, he's grinning now, eyebrows raised like he's amused.

The longer you stare at him, the more familiar he looks. You're pretty sure you've seen him before. Many times before, actually, and then it clicks that this guy is on the front page of the school website. You see him every fucking time you log in, looking much more stern than he does now. Baseball hat and jersey, mitt on one hand as he hides his other in it, and yeah, you know him.

"You're Zeke Jaeger."

He makes a face, scrunching his nose up and squinting. "Yeeeeah, I guess I am."

Best pitcher in the college league despite being a sophomore like you. He's beaten the records of some major league players.

You don't give a fuck about baseball, have never even been to any of the school's games, but you've been hearing about Zeke since the last season. You've learned to tune it out because, again, no shits given (and also you're much more partial to lacrosse now), but he's hard to ignore when he's staring you right in the face.

"Well, uh," you try to act casual. It's something you're pretty good at these days. "Cool."

He snorts, picking his shirt off his chest to air it out like it'll help, then says, "I don't know your name, though."

You run your tongue over your teeth, wondering why he cares, then introduce yourself.

"Oh, you're Zacharias' little girlfriend, aren't you?"

Your stomach flips at the mention of him.

"We're not dating."

Zeke cocks his head to the side. "No?"

"No. Just friends."

He hums but doesn't say anything, and your eyes are once again drawn to his chest as he fans over the stain.

"Okay, let me get you a new shirt or something," you try.

He laughs again. "I highly doubt you've got a men's shirt tucked in that bag of yours, sweetheart."

"I—" you pout for a second, mumble, "Okay, yeah, fair point."

"Another coffee, though," he muses out loud. "Wouldn't be the worst thing."

You shoot him a finger gun and smack your lips. "On it. Where do you get coffee at eleven o'clock?"

"I'll walk with you," he states more than offers.

Then, you're both leaving the library, leaving campus, and going to a little 24 hour cafe where you blow on lattes and cover the basics about each other—philosophy major, valedictorian of his high school class, playing baseball since age seven, etc. You should sleep. You should get ready for another long day of studying.

But it's hard to make good decisions when Zeke Jaeger is smirking at you from across the table like you're the most interesting thing he's ever seen.

* Zeke gets your number that night. You're not exactly sure how, but he does.

Then he doesn’t text you for three days. It doesn’t bother you that much. You figure he has other things to focus on. He’s on campus to take a couple courses and practice for the upcoming season, so he’s probably just busy. If that night had just been a one-off, it’s fine with you. It was cool to talk to him, but your heart isn’t broken.

These are all the thoughts and justifications running through your head when you’re in class on Tuesday and your phone lights up during the PowerPoint lecture. You glance down, expecting Mike or Hitch, but it’s an unknown number instead. Eyes flicking from the projection screen to your much tinier one, you slide to open the message and chew on your lip.

Hey, it’s Zeke. You have classes this afternoon?

You do not. And, you are too quick to tell him that.

He takes you to a little Mom and Pop restaurant, too far to walk so you end up riding in the black Bronco he drives, trying to convince yourself that it definitely does not make him any more attractive to you. Because you aren’t attracted to him in the first place. Right?

You sit at a table for two eating paninis and fruit. Zeke asks how classes are going, you ask about practice, and as you talk, he gets that look in his eyes again, like you amuse him or interest him or something.

It confuses you, and for a moment, you’re taken back to last fall at that first Pi Kappa Alpha party, the one you met Mike at when he tried to get you to shotgun a beer. God, he had been so obnoxious back then, always following you around and flirting and—

“You listening, sweetheart?”

Your eyes refocus on the man in front of you, his raised eyebrows and little smirk. “Looks like you’re a million miles away. Sorry if I’m boring you.”

“No, no,” you try to defend. “I just zoned out for a second. Realized I, uh, got an answer wrong on the quiz I took today.”

“That sucks,” he hums. “Anyway, I can stop talking about baseball.”

“It’s okay. Just go over the last, like, ten seconds,” you say with a laugh, hoping your cheeks will stop burning sooner rather than later.

Zeke chuckles and does just that, doesn’t seem irritated or put out. He tells you about how he has a new trainer this year to warm him up and make sure his throwing arm is in top shape. “I hope he’s as good as my last. Colt was always on it, knew exactly how hot to make the warm compresses and how cold to make the ice packs. Stuff like that. He learned my needs.”

You both laugh, and if it was anyone else, you’d have an innuendo sliding off your tongue, but for some reason, you don’t think Zeke would want to hear it, like he’d be unimpressed with your vulgar humor.

Back at the college, he drives you to your dorm, explaining that he lives in the apartments on the other side of campus and wouldn’t want to make you walk that far. Then, as you slide out of the Bronco, he stops you with a smooth, “Hey,” that makes you look over your shoulder at him. “Make sure you save my number in your phone, okay? I’ll text you soon.”

The way your stomach flips is worrisome, a feeling you’re only used to when you’re with…

“Yeah, okay.”

He grins widely and nods, then waits for you to get a good distance away from the car before driving off.

No distractions, you’d said. It’ll be good for your focus, you’d said.

What a fucking joke.

Mike has to help you with some homework that weekend. You can hear his smile through the phone, snort when he makes his little nerd jokes, then sigh when he gets to the actual subject and explains it to you without a problem. His brain is incredible, and when you think about it too hard, it makes you warm inside.

“You’re so fucking smart. Why don’t you let people know?”

“Maybe I just want you to know,” he chuckles. “You think I wanna spend my days tutoring every idiot who needs help?”

“Miche, did you just call me an idiot?”

You hear another breathy laugh followed by a sigh. “I have many, many names for you, but ‘idiot’ isn’t one of them.”

“Oh yeah?” You play. “And, what might those other names be?”

He lists a few, all of them making your face flush and your body tingle, and before you know it, you’ve got your pants off and your fingers between your legs. You can hear Mike’s heavy breathing on the other end, the wet sound of his hand stroking his lubricated cock, and when you reach your climax, you moan out your usual, “Oh fuck, oh fuck, Miche.”

He tumbles down right behind you, panting and telling you in a voice of disbelief, “Jesus, it just keeps coming.” It makes the pulses of your orgasm even stronger, remembrance of all the times he’s painted you in white, and God, you are so ready for him to get back to the school.

Then, there’s the voice in the back of your head that makes you think maybe it’s better that he’s gone for now, that he might not be too pleased that you’re spending time with another guy. But, it’s not like things with Zeke are going anywhere. You wouldn’t even call him a friend. You text on and off, have brunch or lunch or coffee depending on the time of day.

And, yeah, he calls you pet names, tells you that you look nice even when you’re just in leggings and a t-shirt, talks about his family and…

Okay, it could potentially lead to something more, but it’s only been a week, and considering his golden boy status, he could have anyone he wants, so why would he even be interested in you in any way, shape, or form?

Naturally, your thoughts circle back to Mike and the way he could have any girl on his arm, but he still chooses to spend time with you. To fuck you. To nearly confess his feelings to you. You have to wonder if you’re emitting some kind of scent or beacon, if there’s a sign hanging above your head with an arrow pointing down. Sports gods, come get a piece.

If only you’d never gone to that party. If you had just kept your head down like you had freshman year. Your life would be so much easier now.

But now you’re in Zeke’s apartment listening to him rant about some philosopher you’ve never even heard of. He’s gesturing with his hands, flipping curling, blond bangs from his face, and whenever he pauses to think, he scratches his beard. He’s very fond of the white t-shirts and jeans get-up, sometimes switches it up and wears a button down under a sweater vest. Both looks are becoming of him no matter how much you try to deny it, but when he drops down onto the couch next to you and peers into your god damn soul with those piercing, blue eyes, you have to choke back a dreamy sigh.

What is happening to you?

“So, what do you think about it?” He asks, looking hopeful that you might have some insight on this matter.

But, you simply laugh and shake your head. “Zeke,” you start. “I’m gonna be real honest with you here. I didn’t understand a fucking thing you just said.”

You assume he’ll be disappointed, maybe tire of you since you can’t be as intellectually stimulating as he’d like you to, but Zeke exhales in a lighthearted sort of way, shows one of those amused smiles, and tells you, “You’re cute.”

Anyone else and you would have snapped back, something along the lines of, don’t fucking patronize me, but with Zeke, all you can do is stare at him and let your lips part, silently asking for something you won’t speak out loud.

His gaze moves to your mouth for a split second. That soft smile turns into one of his famous smirks. Then, he’s back on his feet and asking, “You wanna go to dinner?”

You are more than relieved at the shift in atmosphere, but your heart is still beating too hard as you follow him downstairs and to his car.

* Summer is passing quickly. Too quickly. The eleven week classes are kicking your ass, or are close to kicking your ass. Lucky for you, you have your own private tutor just a call or text away. Mike helps you, and you laugh and goof around, shoot off innuendo after innuendo, but the phone sex slows to a halt eventually. You tell him that you’re tired, and you are. It isn’t a lie. But, it also isn’t the full truth.

Between classes when you could be resting, you’re eating out with Zeke. Or, watching him and the rest of the baseball team practice for the upcoming season. Or, sitting in his apartment, watching movies and chatting about all manner of things. Nothing important, of course—there’s no diving deep into your life story like you had done with Mike over Spring Break, but Zeke still learns the little things about you. Why you’re majoring in geosciences and how you became good friends with some of the Pike guys. You don’t give him the full details on that one—that you got blackout drunk and fucked Mike and just couldn’t stop. You don’t think Zeke would be interested in hearing about it anyway.

You learn a bit about his dad and stepmom, the latter of whom he isn’t very fond of. He also has a little brother who’ll be attending the college starting this fall, and he’s interested in the Greek life. Naturally, you build PKA up. Even if there are some… Problematic people in the house, there are also a lot of really good guys.

“I’ll make sure to pass it along to him,” Zeke tells you one evening as you’re both sprawled on the couch, backs against the armrests as you face each other. It’s how he seems to prefer to sit when the TV isn’t on. When you asked him why, he had told you, “Just like looking at you,” and you didn’t know how to respond. You still don’t know how to respond.

“Eren thinkin’ about joining any sports?” You ask now. “Does baseball run in the family or anything?”

Zeke snorts. “Kid couldn’t hit a baseball even if it was on one of the t-ball stands.”

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’, then.”

“I would say he’s more academically inclined, but,” Zeke sighs. “That would be a lie.”

You can never tell if he actually likes his brother. Most of the time he complains about him, but every once in a while he’ll bring up something cute Eren did as a little boy, and you see a fond glimmer in his light eyes.

“Anyway,” Zeke waves off the subject and transitions to a new one—one that makes your stomach drop. “Are you gonna tell Zacharias about us?”

You choke on your own spit, leaning forward to cough a couple times, then challenge him with a nervous laugh, “I wasn’t aware there was anything to tell him.”

Zeke tilts his head, mouth pulling up as he raises his eyebrows. “Come on,” he chuckles.

“Come on, what?” You frown. If you were with Mike, you both would have died at that. Come on my face, you can hear him say, and you have to fight a smile because there’s absolutely no way you could explain that to the man in front of you.

“You don’t have to play coy, sweetheart. We both know there’s something going on between us.” He says it with such confidence that even if he wasn’t right you wouldn’t be able to argue with him. The assumption should annoy you, should make you scoff and leave, but instead you sit there staring, caught up in his gaze and cocky grin.

“I—”

“It’s okay, you know. Not like you’re alone in this.”

Those questions swim through your mind again, all the insecurities that you’ve been sorting through with Mike, but now that voice is louder because that sense of trust hasn’t formed yet. You’ve only connected with Zeke over meals and movies. It sounds domestic, but despite your apparently obvious attraction to him, you still don’t feel like you really know him.

But, he draws you in, like a moth to a flame. You can’t help it. There’s just something about him that makes you want him to like you, like you want to impress him, like you want to be good for him. You’ve been trying to ignore those thoughts, but they’re much harder to fight now that you’re sitting in front of him, taking in his wavy hair and pale blue eyes, that ever present smirk on his face, the curve of his neck that disappears into his shirt.

He could just want sex. He could just want a fling. Wait for everyone to get back on campus and drop you for another girl. You tell yourself you wouldn’t care; you’re good at keeping things casual.

Wouldn’t it be fun to be his arm candy for a while, though? Let people look at you and whisper louder than they did when they’d see you and Mike together? You don’t care about status, about being in the spotlight. It’s more for the experience, dating someone who could teach you things.

Mike teaches you things, that voice pops up again. He’s been helping you with your work for almost a year now. You can’t just overlook that.

“What, are you weighing the pros and cons over there or something?”

You snort. “Maybe. We still don’t really know each other all that well, Zeke.”

“Might I remind you that we’ve been hanging out all summer? Did you honestly think it wouldn’t lead to anything more?”

“Honestly,” you mimic, “I never thought you’d be interested.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” His brow furrows like he’s genuinely confused. “You’re smart. You’re funny. You’re cute.”

God, you can’t even count how many times he’s called you ‘cute’, how many times it’s made you blush over the last several weeks, just like it does now.

Then, he pushes, “Do you not find me at—”

“Of course I do,” you cut him off. “I don’t know who doesn’t, which is exactly why I don’t know where this is coming from.”

Zeke sighs like he’s annoyed, then turns the hand on his thigh palm up and beckons you with two fingers. “Come here.”

“What?”

“Come here.”

Your blood pressure spikes, breaths coming in little puffs that have no way of getting to your brain. It’s probably why you obey, rolling to your knees and clumsily crawling over to him. You stop short, right between his bent knees, but Zeke sits up, straightens his legs, and pulls you into his lap.

More of that precious air leaves your lungs as you exhale too sharply, staring at him with huge eyes. You don’t know what’s happening, can’t believe it’s happening. It doesn’t feel real even as you rest your hands on his shoulders, even when he holds your hips and pulls you so that your full weight is on him, but fuck, you can’t say anything. You can’t make a sound. All you can do is wait for him to make his next move.

“Why do you look scared?” His voice is just above a whisper, but at this proximity you can hear him without a problem.

“I don’t have a lot of experience sitting in men’s laps,” you manage, trying to keep your usual careless tone, but you doubt it works.

“For some reason I don’t believe that.”

You rear back, actually offended. “Excuse m—”

That ire, however, melts away as quickly as it arose. Zeke slides fingers up your waist, all the way to the back of your neck to bring your face to his—your lips to his.

He feels different, not at all what you’re used to. His kiss is more demanding, hungry, and God, you still can’t breathe, can’t think straight because his tongue is moving past your lips, and you’re letting it, letting him taste you as your fingertips dig into the flesh of his shoulders. You lift yourself from him just a little only for Zeke to pull you back down with the hand still gripping your hip. He makes sure you feel him when he grinds up into you, the zipper of his jeans rubbing you through your little shorts so that you gasp into his mouth.

You both stay like that for what feels like a fucking eternity, biting and sucking on lips, stroking over each others’ tongues until you absolutely have to break apart. You’re panting now, body still tense on top of his, and Zeke stares at you with half-lidded eyes and shows the ghost of a smile.

“Oh, I’m gonna have so much fun with you.”

The statement sets you on fire, so much so that all you can do is whimper quietly and lean in for more.

And, as you get lost in Zeke Jaeger, you decide for yourself.

I need to tell Mike

[ next ]

#mike zacharias x reader #miche zacharias x reader #aot x reader #aot fanfic #aot fanfiction #mels prima vista

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butterflies-dragons · 3 years

Text

Eugénie Grandet and Sansa Stark

Art credit: 1) Chinese Book Cover for "Eugénie Grandet" by Margarita Winkler; 2) Lady Sansa by Batata-Tasha

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

Channeling my inner Sansa Stark in order to avoid the terrible reality of late, I lost myself in some of the French, Spanish and Russian classics. Eugenié Grandet (1833) by Honoré de Balzac was one of them.

Eugenié Grandet is a book that Sansa Stark would love:

They were beautiful songs, but terribly sad. —A Clash of Kings - Sansa VI

Eugénie (23) and Sansa (13) are kind, generous, eager to please and extremely romantic girls.

Although they are both dutiful daughters, they have a strained relationship with their fathers and at some point they defy them out of love.

The main different between Eugénie and Sansa, aside their age, is their education. While Eugénie is a provincial girl from Saumur with almost zero formal education, Sansa, a northern girl, comes from high nobility and has been educated to be the perfect lady and queen.

Eugénie and Sansa aren't exactly the same, but while reading Balzac's novel it's very difficult not to find them similar. Even Eugénie's house in Saumur resembles Winterfell and the North, the same way Eugénie's walnut tree from her garden resembles the Heart Tree from Winterfell's godswood.

I'm sure that GRRM knows about Honoré del Balzac, however I have no certainty if he has read Eugénie Grandet. But I would not be surprised to know that he did read the novel, and in that case I would even suspect that Eugénie inspired him, even a little, while creating Sansa.

It could all be just a coincidence, of course.

FAIR WARNING : EUGÉNIE GRANDET SPOILERS

Saumur / The North & Winterfell

Illustration by René ben Sussan for Eugénie Grandet by Honoré de Balzac - Heritage Press, 1961.

There are houses in certain provincial towns whose aspect inspires melancholy, akin to that called forth by sombre cloisters, dreary moorlands, or the desolation of ruins. Within these houses there is, perhaps, the silence of the cloister, the barrenness of moors, the skeleton of ruins; life and movement are so stagnant there that a stranger might think them uninhabited, were it not that he encounters suddenly the pale, cold glance of a motionless person, whose half-monastic face peers beyond the window-casing at the sound of an unaccustomed step.

Such elements of sadness formed the physiognomy, as it were, of a dwelling-house in Saumur which stands at the end of the steep street leading to the chateau in the upper part of the town. This street—now little frequented, hot in summer, cold in winter, dark in certain sections—is remarkable for the resonance of its little pebbly pavement, always clean and dry, for the narrowness of its tortuous road-way, for the peaceful stillness of its houses, which belong to the Old town and are over-topped by the ramparts. Houses three centuries old are still solid, though built of wood, and their divers aspects add to the originality which commends this portion of Saumur to the attention of artists and antiquaries.

(...) The whole history of France is there.

(...) The house in Saumur, without sun, without warmth, always in shadow, melancholy, is an image of her life.

—Eugénie Grandet

* * *

The vast and frigid realm of the Kings of Winter, the Starks of Winterfell, is generally considered the first and oldest of the Seven Kingdoms, in that it has endured, unconquered, for the longest. The vagaries of geography and history set the North apart from their southron neighbors.

It is often said that the North is as large as the other six kingdoms put together, but the truth is somewhat less grand: the North, as ruled today by House Stark of Winterfell, comprises little more than a third of the realm. Beginning at the southern edge of the Neck, the domains of the Starks extend as far north as the New Gift (itself part of their realm until King Jaehaerys I convinced Winterfell to cede those lands to the Night's Watch). Within the North are great forests, windswept plains, hills and valleys, rocky shores, and snow-crowned mountains. The North is a cold land—much of it rising moorlands and high plains giving way to mountains in its northern reaches—and this makes it far less fertile than the reaches of the south. Snow has been known to fall there even in summer, and it is deadly in winter.

—The World of Ice and Fire - The North

Robert snorted. "Bogs and forests and fields, and scarcely a decent inn north of the Neck. I've never seen such a vast emptiness. Where are all your people?"

—A Game of Thrones - Eddard I

The rising sun sent fingers of light through the pale white mists of dawn. A wide plain spread out beneath them, bare and brown, its flatness here and there relieved by long, low hummocks. Ned pointed them out to his king. "The barrows of the First Men."

Robert frowned. "Have we ridden onto a graveyard?"

"There are barrows everywhere in the north, Your Grace," Ned told him. "This land is old."

—A Game of Thrones - Eddard II

Sewing and Embroidery

Illustration by René ben Sussan for Eugénie Grandet by Honoré de Balzac - Heritage Press, 1961.

By the window nearest to the door stood a straw chair, whose legs were raised on castors to lift its occupant, Madame Grandet, to a height from which she could see the passers-by. A work-table of stained cherry-wood filled up the embrasure, and the little armchair of Eugenie Grandet stood beside it. In this spot the lives had flowed peacefully onward for fifteen years, in a round of constant work from the month of April to the month of November. On the first day of the latter month they took their winter station by the chimney.

(...) Mother and daughter took charge of the family linen, and spent their days so conscientiously upon a labor properly that of working-women, that if Eugenie wished to embroider a collar for her mother she was forced to take the time from sleep, and deceive her father to obtain the necessary light. For a long time the miser had given out the tallow candle to his daughter and la Grande Nanon just as he gave out every morning the bread and other necessaries for the daily consumption.

(...) In short,—if it is possible to sum up the effect this elegant being produced upon an ignorant young girl perpetually employed in darning stockings or in mending her father’s clothes.

(...) "and your cousin (...) who will spend her life in darning towels.”

(...) Her treasuries were not the millions whose revenues were rolling up; they were Charles’s dressing-case, the portraits hanging above her bed, the jewels recovered from her father and proudly spread upon a bed of wool in a drawer of the oaken cabinet, the thimble of her aunt, used for a while by her mother, which she wore religiously as she worked at a piece of embroidery,—a Penelope’s web, begun for the sole purpose of putting upon her finger that gold so rich in memories.

—Eugénie Grandet

* * *

Sansa's needlework was exquisite. Everyone said so. "Sansa's work is as pretty as she is," Septa Mordane told their lady mother once. "She has such fine, delicate hands."

—A Game of Thrones - Arya I

Underestimated

"We will try to relieve the monotony of your visit here. If you stay all the time with Monsieur Grandet, good heavens! what will become of you? Your uncle is a sordid miser who thinks of nothing but his vines; your aunt is a pious soul who can’t put two ideas together; and your cousin is a little fool, without education, perfectly common, no fortune, who will spend her life in darning towels.”

(...) “Not at all, monsieur l’abbe. This young man cannot fail to see that Eugenie is a little fool,—a girl without the least freshness. Did you notice her to-night? She was as yellow as a quince.”

—Eugénie Grandet

* * *

"I … I had not thought, my lord." "Your Grace," he said sharply. "You truly are a stupid girl, aren't you? My mother says so."

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa VI

The king studied her a moment. "Perhaps you're not so stupid as Mother says." He raised his voice. "Did you hear my lady, Dontos? From this day on, you're my new fool. You can sleep with Moon Boy and dress in motley."

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa I

. . . ah, you're still a stupid little bird, aren't you? Singing all the songs they taught you . . .

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa II

Sansa reddened. Any fool would have realized that no woman would be happy about being called "the Queen of Thorns." Maybe I truly am as stupid as Cersei Lannister says.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa I

The woman that calls Eugénie a "little fool" is Madame des Grassins, who despite underestimating Mademoiselle Grandet, wants her to marry her son Adolphe.

In a similar way, Cersei Lannister underestimates Sansa, believing her unworthy of her beloved son Joffrey.

Romantics

They were able to examine Charles at their leisure without fearing to displease the master of the house. Grandet was absorbed in the long letter which he held in his hand; and to read it he had taken the only candle upon the card-table, paying no heed to his guests or their pleasure. Eugenie, to whom such a type of perfection, whether of dress or of person, was absolutely unknown, thought she beheld in her cousin a being descended from seraphic spheres. She inhaled with delight the fragrance wafted from the graceful curls of that brilliant head. She would have liked to touch the soft kid of the delicate gloves. She envied Charles his small hands, his complexion, the freshness and refinement of his features. In short,—if it is possible to sum up the effect this elegant being produced upon an ignorant young girl perpetually employed in darning stockings or in mending her father’s clothes, and whose life flowed on beneath these unclean rafters, seeing none but occasional passers along the silent street,—this vision of her cousin roused in her soul an emotion of delicate desire like that inspired in a young man by the fanciful pictures of women drawn by Westall for the English “Keepsakes,” and that engraved by the Findens with so clever a tool that we fear, as we breathe upon the paper, that the celestial apparitions may be wafted away. Charles drew from his pocket a handkerchief embroidered by the great lady now travelling in Scotland. As Eugenie saw this pretty piece of work, done in the vacant hours which were lost to love, she looked at her cousin to see if it were possible that he meant to make use of it. The manners of the young man, his gestures, the way in which he took up his eye-glass, his affected superciliousness, his contemptuous glance at the coffer which had just given so much pleasure to the rich heiress, and which he evidently regarded as without value, or even as ridiculous,—all these things, which shocked the Cruchots and the des Grassins, pleased Eugenie so deeply that before she slept she dreamed long dreams of her phoenix cousin.

(...) In the pure and monotonous life of young girls there comes a delicious hour when the sun sheds its rays into their soul, when the flowers express their thoughts, when the throbbings of the heart send upward to the brain their fertilizing warmth and melt all thoughts into a vague desire,—day of innocent melancholy and of dulcet joys! When babes begin to see, they smile; when a young girl first perceives the sentiment of nature, she smiles as she smiled when an infant. If light is the first love of life, is not love a light to the heart? The moment to see within the veil of earthly things had come for Eugenie. —Eugénie Grandet * * * All she wanted was for things to be nice and pretty, the way they were in the songs.

(...) It was a great honor to ride with the queen, and besides, Prince Joffrey might be there. Her betrothed. Just thinking it made her feel a strange fluttering inside, even though they were not to marry for years and years. Sansa did not really know Joffrey yet, but she was already in love with him. He was all she ever dreamt her prince should be, tall and handsome and strong, with hair like gold. She treasured every chance to spend time with him, few as they were.

(...) He took her by the arm and led her away from the wheelhouse, and Sansa's spirits took flight. A whole day with her prince! She gazed at Joffrey worshipfully. He was so gallant, she thought. The way he had rescued her from Ser Ilyn and the Hound, why, it was almost like the songs, like the time Serwyn of the Mirror Shield saved the Princess Daeryssa from the giants, or Prince Aemon the Dragonknight championing Queen Naerys's honor against evil Ser Morgil's slanders.

The touch of Joffrey's hand on her sleeve made her heart beat faster. "

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa I Sansa rode to the Hand's tourney with Septa Mordane and Jeyne Poole, in a litter with curtains of yellow silk so fine she could see right through them. They turned the whole world gold. Beyond the city walls, a hundred pavilions had been raised beside the river, and the common folk came out in the thousands to watch the games. The splendor of it all took Sansa's breath away; the shining armor, the great chargers caparisoned in silver and gold, the shouts of the crowd, the banners snapping in the wind … and the knights themselves, the knights most of all. "It is better than the songs," she whispered when they found the places that her father had promised her, among the high lords and ladies. Sansa was dressed beautifully that day, in a green gown that brought out the auburn of her hair, and she knew they were looking at her and smiling. They watched the heroes of a hundred songs ride forth, each more fabulous than the last.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa II

She loved King’s Landing; the pagaentry of the court, the high lords and ladies in their velvets and silks and gemstones, the great city with all its people. The tournament had been the most magical time of her whole life, and there was so much she had not seen yet, harvest feasts and masked balls and mummer shows. She could not bear the thought of losing it all.

[…] They were going to take it all away; the tournaments and the court and her prince, everything, they were going to send her back to the bleak grey walls of Winterfell and lock her up forever. Her life was over before it had begun.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa III

Eugénie and her deep infatuation with her Parisian cousin Charles Grandet, reminds me a lot of Marianne Dashwood and John Willoughby from Jane Austen's Sense and Sensibility.

Charles was a prince in Eugénie's eyes, with all his dandy manners and Parisian refinement. Charles was the South and the pretty songs for Eugénie, the same way Prince Joffrey and even Ser Loras were the South and the pretty songs for Sansa.

Dressing well as a weapon

An early riser, like all provincial girls, she was up betimes and said her prayers, and then began the business of dressing,—a business which henceforth was to have a meaning. First she brushed and smoothed her chestnut hair and twisted its heavy masses to the top of her head with the utmost care, preventing the loose tresses from straying, and giving to her head a symmetry which heightened the timid candor of her face; for the simplicity of these accessories accorded well with the innocent sincerity of its lines. As she washed her hands again and again in the cold water which hardened and reddened the skin, she looked at her handsome round arms and asked herself what her cousin did to make his hands so softly white, his nails so delicately curved. She put on new stockings and her prettiest shoes. She laced her corset straight, without skipping a single eyelet. And then, wishing for the first time in her life to appear to advantage, she felt the joy of having a new gown, well made, which rendered her attractive. —Eugénie Grandet * * * "Do remind her to dress nicely today. The grey velvet, perhaps. We are all invited to ride with the queen and Princess Myrcella in the royal wheelhouse, and we must look our best." Sansa already looked her best. She had brushed out her long auburn hair until it shone, and picked her nicest blue silks. —A Game of Thrones - Sansa I Sansa was dressed beautifully that day, in a green gown that brought out the auburn of her hair, and she knew they were looking at her and smiling. —A Game of Thrones - Sansa II "I will need hot water for my bath, please," she told them, "and perfume, and some powder to hide this bruise." The right side of her face was swollen and beginning to ache, but she knew Joffrey would want her to be beautiful. —A Game of Thrones - Sansa VI Knowing that Joffrey would require her to attend the tourney in his honor, Sansa had taken special care with her face and clothes. She wore a gown of pale purple silk and a moonstone hair net that had been a gift from Joffrey. The gown had long sleeves to hide the bruises on her arms. Those were Joffrey's gifts as well. —A Clash of Kings - Sansa I I have to look pretty, Joff likes me to look pretty, he's always liked me in this gown, this color. She smoothed the cloth down. The fabric was tight across her chest. —A Clash of Kings - Sansa III

Here, while Eugénie uses the business of dressing to try to impress and gain the affections of her cousin Charles, Sansa uses the same resource as a shield against Joffrey's ill temper and to cover the bruises left on her skin by Joffrey's ill temper.

Complimenting someone's name

“Is anything the matter, my cousin?” he said. “Hush!” said Madame Grandet to Eugenie, who was about to answer; “you know, my daughter, that your father charged us not to speak to monsieur—” “Say Charles,” said young Grandet. “Ah! you are called Charles? What a beautiful name!” cried Eugenie. —Eugénie Grandet * * * "I don't even know your name." "Gilly, he called me. For the gillyflower." "That's pretty." He remembered Sansa telling him once that he should say that whenever a lady told him her name. He could not help the girl, but perhaps the courtesy would please her. "Is it Craster who frightens you, Gilly?" —A Clash of Kings - Jon III "I . . . I could call myself after my mother . . ." "Catelyn? A bit too obvious . . . but after my mother, that would serve. Alayne. Do you like it?" "Alayne is pretty." Sansa hoped she would remember. —A Storm of Swords - Sansa VI

Kissing Cousins

“My dear cousin—” “Hush, hush! my cousin, not so loud; we must not wake others. See,” she said, opening her purse, “here are the savings of a poor girl who wants nothing. Charles, accept them! This morning I was ignorant of the value of money; you have taught it to me. It is but a means, after all. A cousin is almost a brother; you can surely borrow the purse of your sister.” —Eugénie Grandet

Illustration by René ben Sussan for Eugénie Grandet by Honoré de Balzac - Heritage Press, 1961.

When the two lovers were alone in the garden, Charles said to Eugenie, drawing her down on the old bench beneath the walnut-tree,— “I did right to trust Alphonse; he has done famously. He has managed my affairs with prudence and good faith. I now owe nothing in Paris. All my things have been sold; and he tells me that he has taken the advice of an old sea-captain and spent three thousand francs on a commercial outfit of European curiosities which will be sure to be in demand in the Indies. He has sent my trunks to Nantes, where a ship is loading for San Domingo. In five days, Eugenie, we must bid each other farewell—perhaps forever, at least for years. My outfit and ten thousand francs, which two of my friends send me, are a very small beginning. I cannot look to return for many years. My dear cousin, do not weight your life in the scales with mine; I may perish; some good marriage may be offered to you—” “Do you love me?” she said. “Oh, yes! indeed, yes!” he answered, with a depth of tone that revealed an equal depth of feeling. “I shall wait, Charles—Good heavens! there is my father at his window,” she said, repulsing her cousin, who leaned forward to kiss her. She ran quickly under the archway. Charles followed her. When she saw him, she retreated to the foot of the staircase and opened the swing-door; then, scarcely knowing where she was going, Eugenie reached the corner near Nanon’s den, in the darkest end of the passage. There Charles caught her hand and drew her to his heart. Passing his arm about her waist, he made her lean gently upon him. Eugenie no longer resisted; she received and gave the purest, the sweetest, and yet, withal, the most unreserved of kisses. “Dear Eugenie, a cousin is better than a brother, for he can marry you,” said Charles.

(...) After the kiss taken in the passage, the hours fled for Eugenie with frightful rapidity. Sometimes she thought of following her cousin. Those who have known that most endearing of all passions,—the one whose duration is each day shortened by time, by age, by mortal illness, by human chances and fatalities,—they will understand the poor girl’s tortures. She wept as she walked in the garden, now so narrow to her, as indeed the court, the house, the town all seemed. She launched in thought upon the wide expanse of the ocean he was about to traverse. At last the eve of his departure came. That morning, in the absence of Grandet and of Nanon, the precious case which contained the two portraits was solemnly installed in the only drawer of the old cabinet which could be locked, where the now empty velvet purse was lying. This deposit was not made without a goodly number of tears and kisses. When Eugenie placed the key within her bosom she had no courage to forbid the kiss with which Charles sealed the act.

“It shall never leave that place, my friend,” she said.

“Then my heart will be always there.”

“Ah! Charles, it is not right,” she said, as though she blamed him.

“Are we not married?” he said. “I have thy promise,—then take mine.”

“Thine; I am thine forever!” they each said, repeating the words twice over.

No promise made upon this earth was ever purer. The innocent sincerity of Eugenie had sanctified for a moment the young man’s love.

—Eugénie Grandet * * * How would you like to marry your cousin, the Lord Robert?" —A Storm of Swords - Sansa VI Before she could summon the servants, however, Sweetrobin threw his skinny arms around her and kissed her. It was a little boy's kiss, and clumsy. Everything Robert Arryn did was clumsy. If I close my eyes I can pretend he is the Knight of Flowers. Ser Loras had given Sansa Stark a red rose once, but he had never kissed her . . . and no Tyrell would ever kiss Alayne Stone. Pretty as she was, she had been born on the wrong side of the blanket. —A Feast for Crows - Alayne II "I don't want you to marry him, Alayne. I am the Lord of the Eyrie, and I forbid it." He sounded as if he were about to cry. "You should marry me instead. We could sleep in the same bed every night, and you could read me stories." (...) She put a finger to his lips. "I know what you want, but it cannot be. I am no fit wife for you. I am bastard born." "I don't care. I love you best of anyone. " (...) "You must have a proper wife, a trueborn maid of noble birth." "No. I want to marry you, Alayne." Once your lady mother intended that very thing, but I was trueborn then, and noble. (...) "The Lord of the Eyrie can do as he likes. Can't I still love you, even if I have to marry her? —The Winds of Winter - Alayne I

Eugénie and her cousin Charles's brief romance is nothing like any of Sansa's experiences with suitors, but it reminds me a bit of Sansa and her little cousin Robert Arryn interactions.

Despite looking at his provincial relatives with disdain at first, after knowing about the financial disgrace and death of his father, Charles gets use to the humble and monotonous life of Saumur and especially gets fond of Eugénie's kindness and generosity.

In a similar way, despite the violent events from Sansa's snow castle chapter in A Storm of Swords, after the the death of his mother Lysa, Sweetrobin clings to Sansa/Alayne as a mother figure and later love interest.

Charles is nothing like Sweetrobin though, he is more similar to men like Harrold Hardyng and John Willoughby from Jane Austen's Sense and Sensibility.

At the end, similar to John Willoughby's actions, Charles Grandet chooses to marry a girl he doesn't love to re-gain his high status in Parisian society and a nobility title, unbeknownst that Eugénie had become extremely rich, richer than him and his new bride combined.

Harrold Hardyng is not Sansa's cousin but Robert Arryn's cousin and heir. Harry consented the betrothal to Alayne only to gain the political support from Petyr Baelish.

And while cousin Charles's kisses mean love's kisses to Eugénie, cousin Robert's unrequited kisses remind Sansa of another forced and unrequited kisses from the past that left only trauma and fear in her.

But despite all her awful experiences from unworthy suitors, Sansa still longs to know kisses of love, and she associates those with Snow and she happens to has a cousin named Snow. More about this later.

You will know it some day / You may learn that one day

It was a death worthy of her life,—a Christian death; and is not that sublime? In the month of October, 1822, her virtues, her angelic patience, her love for her daughter, seemed to find special expression; and then she passed away without a murmur. Lamb without spot, she went to heaven, regretting only the sweet companion of her cold and dreary life, for whom her last glance seemed to prophesy a destiny of sorrows. She shrank from leaving her ewe-lamb, white as herself, alone in the midst of a selfish world that sought to strip her of her fleece and grasp her treasures. “My child,” she said as she expired, “there is no happiness except in heaven; you will know it some day.” (...) Terrible and utter disaster! The ship went down, leaving not a spar, not a plank, on a vast ocean of hope! Some women when they see themselves abandoned will try to tear their lover from the arms of a rival, they will kill her, and rush to the ends of the earth,—to the scaffold, to their tomb. That, no doubt, is fine; the motive of the crime is a great passion, which awes even human justice. Other women bow their heads and suffer in silence; they go their way dying, resigned, weeping, forgiving, praying, and recollecting, till they draw their last breath. This is love,—true love, the love of angels, the proud love which lives upon its anguish and dies of it. Such was Eugenie’s love after she had read that dreadful letter. She raised her eyes to heaven, thinking of the last words uttered by her dying mother, who, with the prescience of death, had looked into the future with clear and penetrating eyes: Eugenie, remembering that prophetic death, that prophetic life, measured with one glance her own destiny. Nothing was left for her; she could only unfold her wings, stretch upward to the skies, and live in prayer until the day of her deliverance. “My mother was right,” she said, weeping. “Suffer—and die!” —Eugénie Grandet * * * "Life is not a song, sweetling. You may learn that one day to your sorrow." —A Game of Thrones - Sansa III "Life is not a song, sweetling," he'd told her. "You may learn that one day to your sorrow." —A Game of Thrones - Sansa VI The moment came back to her vividly. "You told me that life was not a song. That I would learn that one day, to my sorrow." —A Storm of Swords - Sansa V

This is a parallel but also a contrast between Eugénie and Sansa.

Eugénie's mother wasn't happy with her husband. Monsieur Felix Grandet was an awful husband and father. His only love was gold. That's why at her hour of death, Madame Grandet envisions a destiny of sorrows for her daughter, knowing well that not only the Cruchots and des Grassins coveted Eugénie's inheritance, but it was her own father, Monsieur Grandet, the most dangerous threat to Eugénie's welfare.

On the other hand, Catelyn Stark, Sansa's mother, was very happy with Eddard Stark. Ned was a good husband but a terrible father. Being aware of her good luck in her marriage, Catelyn said this to his firstborn son Robb: "We're all just songs in the end. If we are lucky." —A Storm of Swords - Catelyn V.

Catelyn's words of hope to her son contrast to Petyr Baelish's words of sorrow to Sansa, not only because the bad omen, but because he is an active player in the sorrows that await Sansa and her family.

Strained relationship with their fathers

Illustration by René ben Sussan for Eugénie Grandet by Honoré de Balzac - Heritage Press, 1961.

On the morrow Grandet, in pursuance of a custom he had begun since Eugenie’s imprisonment, took a certain number of turns up and down the little garden; he had chosen the hour when Eugenie brushed and arranged her hair. When the old man reached the walnut-tree he hid behind its trunk and remained for a few moments watching his daughter’s movements, hesitating, perhaps, between the course to which the obstinacy of his character impelled him and his natural desire to embrace his child. Sometimes he sat down on the rotten old bench where Charles and Eugenie had vowed eternal love; and then she, too, looked at her father secretly in the mirror before which she stood. If he rose and continued his walk, she sat down obligingly at the window and looked at the angle of the wall where the pale flowers hung, where the Venus-hair grew from the crevices with the bindweed and the sedum,—a white or yellow stone-crop very abundant in the vineyards of Saumur and at Tours. Maitre Cruchot came early, and found the old wine-grower sitting in the fine June weather on the little bench, his back against the division wall of the garden, engaged in watching his daughter. —Eugénie Grandet * * *

He had only to look at Sansa's face to feel the rage twisting inside him once again. The last fortnight of their journey had been a misery. Sansa blamed Arya and told her that it should have been Nymeria who died. And Arya was lost after she heard what had happened to her butcher's boy. Sansa cried herself to sleep, Arya brooded silently all day long, and Eddard Stark dreamed of a frozen hell reserved for the Starks of Winterfell.

—A Game of Thrones - Eddard IV

Monsieur Felix Grandet and Lord Eddard Stark were awful fathers to Eugénie and Sansa. They both used their daughters for their own business but they never tried to understand the girls. They both could only watch them from apart not knowing how to approach them.

The severity of Père Grandet and Lord father Stark towards their daughters made Eugénie and Sansa defy them for the first time when they fell in love with Charles and Joffrey.

Ned was not the awful person that Monsieur Grandet was, though. Despite all his flaws as Sansa's father, he gave his own life in order to save Sansa from the same fate.

Melancholic Beauty

When his daughter came down the winding street, accompanied by Nanon, on her way to Mass or Vespers, the inhabitants ran to the windows and examined with intense curiosity the bearing of the rich heiress and her countenance, which bore the impress of angelic gentleness and melancholy. (...) “Mademoiselle, the best way to stop such rumors is to procure your liberty,” answered the old notary respectfully, struck with the beauty which seclusion, melancholy, and love had stamped upon her face. —Eugénie Grandet * * * Their litter had been sitting in the sun, and it was very warm inside the curtains. As they lurched into motion, Tyrion reclined on an elbow while Sansa sat staring at her hands. She is just as comely as the Tyrell girl. Her hair was a rich autumn auburn, her eyes a deep Tully blue. Grief had given her a haunted, vulnerable look; if anything, it had only made her more beautiful. —A Storm of Swords - Tyrion VIII

Although it is a bit morbid to find beauty in someone's grief and misery, this image of our heroines being graceful while in disgrace got my attention.

This regard of Eugénie and Sansa comes from two men that wanted to reach them and gain their favor. Monsieur Cruchot, the notary, wanted Eugénie to marry his nephew, President Cruchot de Bonfons, while Tyrion Lannister, already married to Sansa, wishes to get her affections despite their forced marriage.

This is the point of view of two men that wanted to play the hero of a damsel in distress, but they are not the heroes that those fair maids wished for.

Love's kisses / Lover's kisses

Her imprisonment and the condemnation of her father were as nothing to her. Had she not a map of the world, the little bench, the garden, the angle of the wall? Did she not taste upon her lips the honey that love’s kisses left there? She was ignorant for a time that the town talked about her, just as Grandet himself was ignorant of it. Pious and pure in heart before God, her conscience and her love helped her to suffer patiently the wrath and vengeance of her father. —Eugénie Grandet A pure world, Sansa thought. I do not belong here. Yet she stepped out all the same. Her boots tore ankle-deep holes into the smooth white surface of the snow, yet made no sound. Sansa drifted past frosted shrubs and thin dark trees, and wondered if she were still dreaming. Drifting snowflakes brushed her face as light as lover's kisses, and melted on her cheeks. At the center of the garden, beside the statue of the weeping woman that lay broken and half-buried on the ground, she turned her face up to the sky and closed her eyes. She could feel the snow on her lashes, taste it on her lips. It was the taste of Winterfell. The taste of innocence. The taste of dreams. —A Storm of Swords - Sansa VII

While Eugénie's love to Charles gives her strength and dignify her in her tribulations, Sansa, in front of a beautiful winter scenery, feels soiled by her southern experiences. She feels that she doesn't belong in that pure, innocent world, as white as Snow.

Yet Sansa, defying her supposed maculated fate, embraces the beauty of the falling Snow that reminds her of home, and compared the sensation of the snowflakes brushing her face to lover's kisses.

The calling of the Snow at dawn was too powerful for Sansa to resist it. It was like the Snow telling her, you are wrong, you belong with me, let me kiss you to prove it.

"Jon Snow?" she blurted out, surprised.

"Snow? Yes, it would be Snow, I suppose."

She had not thought of Jon in ages. He was only her half brother, but still . . . with Robb and Bran and Rickon dead, Jon Snow was the only brother that remained to her. I am a bastard too now, just like him. Oh, it would be so sweet, to see him once again. But of course that could never be. Alayne Stone had no brothers, baseborn or otherwise.

—A Feast for Crows - Alayne II

No one will ever marry me for love

Illustration by René ben Sussan for Eugénie Grandet by Honoré de Balzac - Heritage Press, 1961.

Only six individuals had a right of entrance to Monsieur Grandet’s house. The most important of the first three was a nephew of Monsieur Cruchot. Since his appointment as president of the Civil courts of Saumur this young man had added the name of Bonfons to that of Cruchot. He now signed himself C. de Bonfons. Any litigant so ill-advised as to call him Monsieur Cruchot would soon be made to feel his folly in court. The magistrate protected those who called him Monsieur le president, but he favored with gracious smiles those who addressed him as Monsieur de Bonfons. Monsieur le president was thirty-three years old, and possessed the estate of Bonfons (Boni Fontis), worth seven thousand francs a year; he expected to inherit the property of his uncle the notary and that of another uncle, the Abbe Cruchot, a dignitary of the chapter of Saint-Martin de Tours, both of whom were thought to be very rich. These three Cruchots, backed by a goodly number of cousins, and allied to twenty families in the town, formed a party, like the Medici in Florence; like the Medici, the Cruchots had their Pazzi.

Madame des Grassins, mother of a son twenty-three years of age, came assiduously to play cards with Madame Grandet, hoping to marry her dear Adolphe to Mademoiselle Eugenie. Monsieur des Grassins, the banker, vigorously promoted the schemes of his wife by means of secret services constantly rendered to the old miser, and always arrived in time upon the field of battle. The three des Grassins likewise had their adherents, their cousins, their faithful allies. On the Cruchot side the abbe, the Talleyrand of the family, well backed-up by his brother the notary, sharply contested every inch of ground with his female adversary, and tried to obtain the rich heiress for his nephew the president.

This secret warfare between the Cruchots and des Grassins, the prize thereof being the hand in marriage of Eugenie Grandet, kept the various social circles of Saumur in violent agitation. Would Mademoiselle Grandet marry Monsieur le president or Monsieur Adolphe des Grassins?

(...) “If I had a man for myself I’d—I’d follow him to hell, yes, I’d exterminate myself for him; but I’ve none. I shall die and never know what life is. Would you believe, mamz’elle, that old Cornoiller (a good fellow all the same) is always round my petticoats for the sake of my money,—just for all the world like the rats who come smelling after the master’s cheese and paying court to you? I see it all; I’ve got a shrewd eye, though I am as big as a steeple. Well, mamz’elle, it pleases me, but it isn’t love.”

(...) She (Eugénie's mother) shrank from leaving her ewe-lamb, white as herself, alone in the midst of a selfish world that sought to strip her of her fleece and grasp her treasures.

(...) (Eugénie) Madame de Bonfons (sometimes ironically spoken of as mademoiselle) inspires for the most part reverential respect: and yet that noble heart, beating only with tenderest emotions, has been, from first to last, subjected to the calculations of human selfishness; money has cast its frigid influence upon that hallowed life and taught distrust of feelings to a woman who is all feeling.

—Eugénie Grandet

* * *

“If Lyanna had lived, we should have been brothers, bound by blood as well as affection. Well, it is not too late. I have a son. You have a daughter. My Joff and your Sansa shall join our houses, as Lyanna and I might once have done.”

—A Game of Thrones - Eddard I

A pity Ned Stark had taken his daughters south; elsewise Theon could have tightened his grip on Winterfell by marrying one of them. Sansa was a pretty little thing too, and by now likely even ripe for bedding. But she was a thousand leagues away, in the clutches of the Lannisters. A shame.

—A Clash of Kings - Theon IV

It came to her suddenly that she had stood in this very spot before, on the day Lord Eddard Stark had lost his head. That was not supposed to happen. Joff was supposed to spare his life and send him to the Wall. Stark’s eldest son would have followed him as Lord of Winterfell, but Sansa would have stayed at court, a hostage. Varys and Littlefinger had worked out the terms, and Ned Stark had swallowed his precious honor and confessed his treason to save his daughter’s empty little head. I would have made Sansa a good marriage. A Lannister marriage. Not Joff, of course, but Lancel might have suited, or one of his younger brothers. Petyr Baelish had offered to wed the girl himself, she recalled, but of course that was impossible; he was much too lowborn. If Joff had only done as he was told, Winterfell would never have gone to war, and Father would have dealt with Robert’s brothers.

—A Dance with Dragons - Cersei II

“I will be safe in Highgarden. Willas will keep me safe.” “But he does not know you,” Dontos insisted, “and he will not love you. Jonquil, Jonquil, open your sweet eyes, these Tyrells care nothing for you. It’s your claim they mean to wed.” “My claim?” She was lost for a moment. “Sweetling,” he told her, “you are heir to Winterfell.”

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa II

“Yes. You are a ward of the crown. The king stands in your father’s place, since your brother is an attainted traitor. That means he has every right to dispose of your hand. You are to marry my brother Tyrion.”

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa III

“The girl’s happiness is not my purpose, nor should it be yours. Our alliances in the south may be as solid as Casterly Rock, but there remains the north to win, and the key to the north is Sansa Stark.” […] “She must marry a Lannister, and soon.” “The man who weds Sansa Stark can claim Winterfell in her name,” his uncle Kevan put in.

—A Storm of Swords - Tyrion III

“How would you like to marry your cousin, the Lord Robert?” The thought made Sansa weary. All she knew of Robert Arryn was that he was a little boy, and sickly. It is not me she wants her son to marry, it is my claim. No one will ever marry me for love. But lying came easy to her now. “I … can scarcely wait to meet him, my lady. But he is still a child, is he not?”

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa VI

As you can see, Monsieur Grandet's banker des Grassins wished Eugénie to marry his son Adolphe, while his lawyer Monsieur Cruchot wished Eugénie to marry his nephew President Cruchot de Bonfons. Both, the Cruchots and des Grassins, coveted Eugénie's inheritance.

In a similar way, the Lannisters, the Tyrells, Theon Greyjoy, Petyr Baelish, Harrold Hardyng, and even Lysa Tully in the name of his son Robert Arryn, coveted Sansa's claim to the North and Winterfell, with all the lands, money, armies and political power that come with the name Stark.

So, when I read these lines, 188 years after Balzac wrote them:

(...) and yet that noble heart, beating only with tenderest emotions, has been, from first to last, subjected to the calculations of human selfishness; money has cast its frigid influence upon that hallowed life and taught distrust of feelings to a woman who is all feeling.

I couldn't help but think about Sansa Stark and one of the saddest quotes from the ASOIAF series:

It is not me she wants her son to marry, it is my claim. No one will ever marry me for love.

Walnut Tree / Heart Tree

Illustration by René ben Sussan for Eugénie Grandet by Honoré de Balzac - Heritage Press, 1961.

When the two lovers were alone in the garden, Charles said to Eugenie, drawing her down on the old bench beneath the walnut-tree,— (...) I cannot look to return for many years. My dear cousin, do not weight your life in the scales with mine; I may perish; some good marriage may be offered to you—”

“Do you love me?” she said.

“Oh, yes! indeed, yes!” he answered, with a depth of tone that revealed an equal depth of feeling.

“I shall wait, Charles—Good heavens! there is my father at his window,” she said, repulsing her cousin, who leaned forward to kiss her.

(...) When Eugenie placed the key within her bosom she had no courage to forbid the kiss with which Charles sealed the act.

“It shall never leave that place, my friend,” she said.

“Then my heart will be always there.”

“Ah! Charles, it is not right,” she said, as though she blamed him.

“Are we not married?” he said. “I have thy promise,—then take mine.”

“Thine; I am thine forever!” they each said, repeating the words twice over.

(...) In the mornings she sat pensive beneath the walnut-tree, on the worm-eaten bench covered with gray lichens, where they had said to each other so many precious things, so many trifles, where they had built the pretty castles of their future home. She thought of the future now as she looked upward to the bit of sky which was all the high walls suffered her to see; then she turned her eyes to the angle where the sun crept on, and to the roof above the room in which he had slept. Hers was the solitary love, the persistent love, which glides into every thought and becomes the substance, or, as our fathers might have said, the tissue of life.

(...) Sometimes he sat down on the rotten old bench where Charles and Eugenie had vowed eternal love; and then she, too, looked at her father secretly in the mirror before which she stood.

(...) At the beginning of August in the same year, Eugenie was sitting on the little wooden bench where her cousin had sworn to love her eternally, and where she usually breakfasted if the weather were fine. The poor girl was happy, for the moment, in the fresh and joyous summer air, letting her memory recall the great and the little events of her love and the catastrophes which had followed it.

—Eugénie Grandet

As you can see, Eugénie's walnut tree is the heart of her house in Saumur. In the old wooden bench beneath that immense tree, the cousin lovers Eugénie and Charles Grandet exchanged vows of eternal love. As Charles said later, beneath that walnut tree they got married.

Eugénie sat in that same wooden bench for years, remembering and waiting for her lover. Charles, on the other hand, forget his promises of eternal love, broke those vows and married another woman.

In a similar way, the weirwood trees are called heart trees, the weirwood from Winterfell's godswood is called the Heart of Winterfell, and godswoods are a sacred places for praying and meditation, under the weirwood tress lovers kiss and make promises, and heroes vows to protect the realms of men:

At the center of the grove an ancient weirwood brooded over a small pool where the waters were black and cold. “The heart tree,” Ned called it. The weirwood’s bark was white as bone, its leaves dark red, like a thousand bloodstained hands. A face had been carved in the trunk of the great tree, its features long and melancholy, the deep-cut eyes red with dried sap and strangely watchful. They were old, those eyes; older than Winterfell itself. They had seen Brandon the Builder set the first stone, if the tales were true; they had watched the castle’s granite walls rise around them. It was said that the children of the forest had carved the faces in the trees during the dawn centuries before the coming of the First Men across the narrow sea.

—A Game of Thrones - Catelyn I

The sun was sinking below the trees when they reached their destination, a small clearing in the deep of the wood where nine weirwoods grew in a rough circle. Jon drew in a breath, and he saw Sam Tarly staring. Even in the wolfswood, you never found more than two or three of the white trees growing together; a grove of nine was unheard of. The forest floor was carpeted with fallen leaves, bloodred on top, black rot beneath. The wide smooth trunks were bone pale, and nine faces stared inward. The dried sap that crusted in the eyes was red and hard as ruby. Bowen Marsh commanded them to leave their horses outside the circle. "This is a sacred place, we will not defile it."

When they entered the grove, Samwell Tarly turned slowly looking at each face in turn. No two were quite alike. "They're watching us," he whispered. "The old gods."

"Yes." Jon knelt, and Sam knelt beside him.

They said the words together, as the last light faded in the west and grey day became black night.

"Hear my words, and bear witness to my vow," they recited, their voices filling the twilit grove. "Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life and honor to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come."

The woods fell silent. "You knelt as boys," Bowen Marsh intoned solemnly. "Rise now as men of the Night's Watch."

—A Game of Thrones - Jon VI

Robb bid farewell to his young queen thrice. Once in the godswood before the heart tree, in sight of gods and men. The second time beneath the portcullis, where Jeyne sent him forth with a long embrace and a longer kiss. And finally an hour beyond the Tumblestone, when the girl came galloping up on a well-lathered horse to plead with her young king to take her along.

—A Storm of Swords - Catelyn V

In contrast to Eugénie, who fervently clung to her walnut tree that became the symbol of her vows of eternal love to Charles, since Sansa left Winterfell, she only found godswoods without a weirwood tree:

The night the bird had come from Winterfell, Eddard Stark had taken the girls to the castle godswood, an acre of elm and alder and black cottonwood overlooking the river. The heart tree there was a great oak, its ancient limbs overgrown with smokeberry vines; they knelt before it to offer their thanksgiving, as if it had been a weirwood. Sansa drifted to sleep as the moon rose, Arya several hours later, curling up in the grass under Ned’s cloak. 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

She awoke all at once, every nerve atingle. For a moment she did not remember where she was. She had dreamt that she was little, still sharing a bedchamber with her sister Arya. But it was her maid she heard tossing in sleep, not her sister, and this was not Winterfell, but the Eyrie. And I am Alayne Stone, a bastard girl. The room was cold and black, though she was warm beneath the blankets. Dawn had not yet come. Sometimes she dreamed of Ser Ilyn Payne and woke with her heart thumping, but this dream had not been like that. Home. It was a dream of home. The Eyrie was no home. […] 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

Even the gods were silent. The Eyrie boasted a sept, but no septon; a godswood, but no heart tree. No prayers are answered here, she often thought, though some days she felt so lonely she had to try. Only the wind answered her, sighing endlessly around the seven slim white towers and rattling the Moon Door every time it gusted. It will be even worse in winter, she knew. In winter this will be a cold white prison.

—A Feast for Crows - Alayne II

But despite the absence of a weirwood tree, those empty godswoods became a metaphor of Sansa herself, lost in the south and longing to come back home:

A godswood without gods, as empty as me.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa VII

But Sansa Stark has started her journey back home, she is going back North to take back her heart:

But when Brienne asked about Sansa, she said, “I’ll tell you what I told Lord Tywin. That girl was always praying. She’d go to sept and light her candles like a proper lady, but near every night she went off to the godswood. She’s gone back north, she has. That’s where her gods are.”

—A Feast for Crows - Brienne II

A veil of courtesy / Courtesy is a lady's armor

She appeared in the evening at the hour when the usual company began to arrive. Never was the old hall so full as on this occasion. The news of Charles’s return and his foolish treachery had spread through the whole town. But however watchful the curiosity of the visitors might be, it was left unsatisfied. Eugenie, who expected scrutiny, allowed none of the cruel emotions that wrung her soul to appear on the calm surface of her face. She was able to show a smiling front in answer to all who tried to testify their interest by mournful looks or melancholy speeches. She hid her misery behind a veil of courtesy.

—Eugénie Grandet

What was it that Septa Mordane used to tell her? A lady's armor is courtesy, that was it. She donned her armor and said, "I'm sorry my lady mother took you captive, my lord."

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa I

Courtesy is a lady's armor. You must not offend them, be careful what you say.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa I

"Courtesy is a lady's armor," Sansa said. Her septa had always told her that.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa III

A lady's armor is her courtesy. Alayne could feel the blood rushing to her face. No tears, she prayed. Please, please, I must not cry.

—The Winds of Winter - Alayne I

Agency, richness, power... And loneliness

At the end, life gives Eugénie her revenge, especially against the people that always coveted her vast wealth.

Eugénie was at last free, independent, rich and powerful, but she was very lonely. Her only comfort was the company and loyalty of la Grand Nanon:

Eugenie Grandet was now alone in the world in that gray house, with none but Nanon to whom she could turn with the certainty of being heard and understood,—Nanon the sole being who loved her for herself and with whom she could speak of her sorrows. La Grande Nanon was a providence for Eugenie. She was not a servant, but a humble friend.

—Eugénie Grandet

Illustration by René ben Sussan for Eugénie Grandet by Honoré de Balzac - Heritage Press, 1961.

La Grand Nanon was often compared to a loyal dog and she was in charge of the wolf-dog that protected the old Grandet House in Saumur.

Nanon did everything. She cooked, she made the lye, she washed the linen in the Loire and brought it home on her shoulders; she got up early, she went to bed late; she prepared the food of the vine-dressers during the harvest, kept watch upon the market-people, protected the property of her master like a faithful dog, and even, full of blind confidence, obeyed without a murmur his most absurd exactions.

(...) Like a watch-dog, she slept with one ear open, and took her rest with a mind alert.

(...) Nanon went to bolt the outer door; then she closed the hall and let loose a wolf-dog, whose bark was so strangled that he seemed to have laryngitis. This animal, noted for his ferocity, recognized no one but Nanon; the two untutored children of the fields understood each other.

—Eugénie Grandet

La Grand Nanon and the wolf-dog remind me of the Stark children's direwolves, of course. Loyal companions and protectors until the very end.

After the deaths of Monsieur et Madame Grandet, only Nanon remains to Eugénie. Then, thanks to the new financial independence of Mademoiselle Grandet, La Grand Nanon became rich as well, and she even got married to her old suitor Antoine Cornoiller.

Illustration by René ben Sussan for Eugénie Grandet by Honoré de Balzac - Heritage Press, 1961.

The day on which Maitre Cruchot handed in to his client a clear and exact schedule of the whole inheritance, Eugenie remained alone with Nanon, sitting beside the fireplace in the vacant hall, where all was now a memory, from the chair on castors which her mother had sat in, to the glass from which her cousin drank. “Nanon, we are alone—” “Yes, mademoiselle; and if I knew where he was, the darling, I’d go on foot to find him.” “The ocean is between us,” she said. While the poor heiress wept in company of an old servant, in that cold dark house, which was to her the universe, the whole province rang, from Nantes to Orleans, with the seventeen millions of Mademoiselle Grandet. Among her first acts she had settled an annuity of twelve hundred francs on Nanon, who, already possessed of six hundred more, became a rich and enviable match. In less than a month that good soul passed from single to wedded life under the protection of Antoine Cornoiller, who was appointed keeper of all Mademoiselle Grandet’s estates. Madame Cornoiller possessed one striking advantage over her contemporaries. Although she was fifty-nine years of age, she did not look more than forty. Her strong features had resisted the ravages of time. Thanks to the healthy customs of her semi-conventual life, she laughed at old age from the vantage-ground of a rosy skin and an iron constitution. Perhaps she never looked as well in her life as she did on her marriage-day. She had all the benefits of her ugliness, and was big and fat and strong, with a look of happiness on her indestructible features which made a good many people envy Cornoiller.

Eugénie became so rich that she was considered a Queen and the sovereign of her own court:

It seemed unlikely that Mademoiselle Grandet would marry during the period of her mourning. Her genuine piety was well known. Consequently the Cruchots, whose policy was sagely guided by the old abbe, contented themselves for the time being with surrounding the great heiress and paying her the most affectionate attentions. Every evening the hall was filled with a party of devoted Cruchotines, who sang the praises of its mistress in every key. She had her doctor in ordinary, her grand almoner, her chamberlain, her first lady of honor, her prime minister; above all, her chancellor, a chancellor who would fain have said much to her. If the heiress had wished for a train-bearer, one would instantly have been found. She was a queen, obsequiously flattered. Flattery never emanates from noble souls; it is the gift of little minds, who thus still further belittle themselves to worm their way into the vital being of the persons around whom they crawl. Flattery means self-interest. So the people who, night after night, assembled in Mademoiselle Grandet’s house (they called her Mademoiselle de Froidfond) outdid each other in expressions of admiration. This concert of praise, never before bestowed upon Eugenie, made her blush under its novelty; but insensibly her ear became habituated to the sound, and however coarse the compliments might be, she soon was so accustomed to hear her beauty lauded that if any new-comer had seemed to think her plain, she would have felt the reproach far more than she might have done eight years earlier. She ended at last by loving the incense, which she secretly laid at the feet of her idol. By degrees she grew accustomed to be treated as a sovereign and to see her court pressing around her every evening. Monsieur de Bonfons was the hero of the little circle, where his wit, his person, his education, his amiability, were perpetually praised. One or another would remark that in seven years he had largely increased his fortune, that Bonfons brought in at least ten thousand francs a year, and was surrounded, like the other possessions of the Cruchots, by the vast domains of the heiress.

Later, after knowing about Charles's betrayal, Eugénie chooses to marry President Cruchot de Bonfons under certain conditions. It was a sham marriage, only in name, but never consummated:

(...) “Monsieur le cure,” said Eugenie with a noble composure, inspired by the thought she was about to express, “would it be a sin to remain a virgin after marriage?” (...) “Monsieur le president,” said Eugenie in a voice of some emotion when they were left alone, “I know what pleases you in me. Swear to leave me free during my whole life, to claim none of the rights which marriage will give you over me, and my hand is yours. Oh!” she added, seeing him about to kneel at her feet, “I have more to say. I must not deceive you. In my heart I cherish one inextinguishable feeling. Friendship is the only sentiment which I can give to a husband. I wish neither to affront him nor to violate the laws of my own heart. —Eugénie Grandet

And even when President Cruchot de Bonfons was waiting to Eugénie's early death, he was the one that died and made his widow even richer by adding the Cruchot's fortune to the already vast Grandet's fortune:

Nevertheless, Monsieur de Bonfons (he had finally abolished his patronymic of Cruchot) did not realize any of his ambitious ideas. He died eight days after his election as deputy of Saumur. God, who sees all and never strikes amiss, punished him, no doubt, for his sordid calculations and the legal cleverness with which, accurante Cruchot, he had drawn up his marriage contract, in which husband and wife gave to each other, “in case they should have no children, their entire property of every kind, landed or otherwise, without exception or reservation, dispensing even with the formality of an inventory; provided that said omission of said inventory shall not injure their heirs and assigns, it being understood that this deed of gift is, etc., etc.” This clause of the contract will explain the profound respect which monsieur le president always testified for the wishes, and above all, for the solitude of Madame de Bonfons. (...) Endowed with the delicate perception which a solitary soul acquires through constant meditation, through the exquisite clear-sightedness with which a mind aloof from life fastens on all that falls within its sphere, Eugenie, taught by suffering and by her later education to divine thought, knew well that the president desired her death that he might step into possession of their immense fortune, augmented by the property of his uncle the notary and his uncle the abbe, whom it had lately pleased God to call to himself. The poor solitary pitied the president. Providence avenged her for the calculations and the indifference of a husband who respected the hopeless passion on which she spent her life because it was his surest safeguard. To give life to a child would give death to his hopes,—the hopes of selfishness, the joys of ambition, which the president cherished as he looked into the future. —Eugénie Grandet

But Eugénie's vast riches were an empty victory for her. The avarice of her father marked her life.

Due to the frugal life style imposed by Monsieur Grandet, Eugénie was never attached to money and gold like her father was:

In spite of her vast wealth, she lives as the poor Eugenie Grandet once lived. The fire is never lighted on her hearth until the day when her father allowed it to be lighted in the hall, and it is put out in conformity with the rules which governed her youthful years. She dresses as her mother dressed. The house in Saumur, without sun, without warmth, always in shadow, melancholy, is an image of her life. She carefully accumulates her income, and might seem parsimonious did she not disarm criticism by a noble employment of her wealth. Pious and charitable institutions, a hospital for old age, Christian schools for children, a public library richly endowed, bear testimony against the charge of avarice which some persons lay at her door. The churches of Saumur owe much of their embellishment to her. Madame de Bonfons (sometimes ironically spoken of as mademoiselle) inspires for the most part reverential respect: and yet that noble heart, beating only with tenderest emotions, has been, from first to last, subjected to the calculations of human selfishness; money has cast its frigid influence upon that hallowed life and taught distrust of feelings to a woman who is all feeling.

“I have none but you to love me,” she says to Nanon.

The hand of this woman stanches the secret wounds in many families. She goes on her way to heaven attended by a train of benefactions. The grandeur of her soul redeems the narrowness of her education and the petty habits of her early life.

Such is the history of Eugenie Grandet, who is in the world but not of it; who, created to be supremely a wife and mother, has neither husband nor children nor family.

—Eugénie Grandet

Eugénie was meant to be a wife and a mother, she wanted to love and be loved, but life only gave her sorrows and riches.

This sad ending reminds me a bit of Show Sansa's ending. She was a Queen of an independent Kingdom, but she didn't get any of her siblings with her at Winterfell.

But, unlike Eugénie that only knew the likes of Charles Grandet, the Cruchots and the des Grassins, and even if Sansa doesn't know it yet, there is someone who despite being offered Sansa's claim, had chosen her over Winterfell and the North and the name Stark:

“By right Winterfell should go to my sister Sansa.”

—A Dance with Dragons - Jon I

Jon said, “Winterfell belongs to my sister Sansa.”

—A Dance with Dragons - Jon IV

Unlike Tyrion, Willas, Theon, Littlefinger or even little Robert, who pursued Sansa’s claim over her, Jon Snow chose Sansa over her claim. Among all the high lords interested in becoming the Lord of Winterfell by marrying Sansa Stark, the bastard Jon Snow refused to despoil his sister Sansa of her rights, even if her claim is the one thing he has wanted as much as he had ever wanted anything.

Jon Snow is not some fancy suitor from the South like Charles Grandet was to Eugénie, like John Willoughby was to Marianne Dashwood, like Joffrey, Loras and even Harry were/are for Sansa/Alayne. Jon Snow has Stark blood, he was raised by Ned Stark, he worships the old gods, and he knows very well that you can't make false promises in front of a weirwood tree:

Jon said, “My lord father believed no man could tell a lie in front of a heart tree. The old gods know when men are lying.”

—A Clash of Kings - Jon II

So, there is hope.

The end.

[This post is very personal and was written during somehow convulsed times. So, if you have come this far, thanks for reading.]

#sansa stark #jonsa #eugénie grandet #honoré de balzac

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