#IF YOU DRAW JON IN A SKIRT PLEASE SEND IT TO ME

[faultyvessel]

See now, in countless terrifying hues…

I am but a simple thing with the simple need to draw Jonathan Sims with long flowing hair and in dresses. Not really sure why I opted for the yellow, but I was worried the Magnus green might muddy the colours too much. It’s still a little blurry, but I’m a sucker for the result. God he gives me such brainrot I CANT

[blackholeofprocrastination]

20, for arthur x lyanna :)

KISS PROMPTS ( ˘ ³˘)♥

#20: a kiss on a scar Arthur x Lyanna

They have lingered in Lys too long.

The last of Lyanna’s jewelry was sold two moons ago. A single hairpin studded with small onyx stones.

Pretty but not much, by the merchant’s assessment. 

Arthur had begrudgingly taken the man’s price. It was enough to pay their debt to the midwife. To fill their bellies a few times over. But it was not enough for passage away from this place. For that, Arthur must find his own way.

All around him men shout and hiss. His Valyrian is clumsy, but he understands them well enough, when an apple core is tossed at his head. He dodges it, letting it fall on the red-stained dirt below.

Once, he lived by vows. Served his prince. Now, his blade provides entertainment for foul men with too much coin. Arthur does not care, so long as some of that coin makes it into his purse.

Wine and wagers are passed around, as men curse him and praise him.

He does not heed them. He only watches patiently as his opponent, a rather brutish looking Ghiscari, closes in.

The Ghiscari swings wide, his flail as ineffective as an apple core tossed from the crowd.

Arthur grins, the split skin at his lip pulling too tight.

There is a horrible part of him, deep down, that knows it is not just coin that brings him here.

He is often so wrong-footed in this new life he must lead across the Narrow Sea, but here, with a blade in his hand, he is himself. (Or at least some glimmer of himself)

There is a thrill in victory. It happens more often than not. Even without Dawn in his hand, Arthur is formidable.

The Ghiscari does not miss his mark a second time, the flail striking Arthur painfully on the shoulder.

Arthur bears against it and with an elegant arc of his blade, he cuts the Ghiscari at the back of the legs.

The man roars as he falls to his knees, quieting only when the pommel of Arthur’s sword meets the back of his head.

Arthur cannot tell if din surrounding him is made up of boos or cheers. It matters not. He shall have his winnings either way.

It is late when he make his way home.

His shoulder is bloodied and aches and there will be new bruises on his face by morning, but he is too drunk with his victory to mind. It sets his blood buzzing, restless and wound tight.

He needs another fight. A fight or…

He turns onto their street and catches a glimpse of lilac eyes peering out from the doorway of the neighboring pillow house.

Arthur can already smell the perfume that spills out from the establishment. He draws closer and a bedslave with silver hair smiles for him.

The pillow house shares a wall with the tiny room they rent, two coppers every sennight. When he lies beside Lyanna at night, he can hear whores at their trade through the thin plaster that separates them. It makes his skin feel too tight. His blood too hot.

Sometimes, it sends him back out into the night. Back to the fighting pits where his blood is put to better service.

He could turn back now. It’s not too late.

Instead he enters their lodgings, barring the door behind him.

The babe is asleep on the single bed they share. It is too much to hope that his mother might be there too.

“It’s late.”

Lyanna is by the dying fire, standing over a dented kettle.

“Sit,” she orders, kicking out their only chair from the rough-hewn table.

Arthur obeys, watching as she dishes out his supper with a clumsy hand that borders on petulant.

He sets the coin he’s earned on the table. A conciliatory offering.

“Did you win?” She asks as he toes off his boots.

“Some.”

He does not know if that answer pleases Lyanna, but there is a touch less tartness to her when she sets a dish in front of him.

Just as his birth has ill prepared him for this life, so has Lyanna’s. She is a lady. A princess. Not a kitchen maid.

Most days, the best her stew has to recommend for itself is that it is warm. Tonight, it is so late not even that is true. There is a film of grease over top, and onions and broth have grown tepid.

Arthur makes no comment, heartily soaking hard brown bread into it and ripping off chunks in greedy bites.

He reaches for the winecup she sets at his place, and cries out when it pulls at his injured shoulder.

“You’re hurt,” she is looking at him properly for the first time since he walked in through the door.

“It’s nothing.”

Lyanna scowls.

“Off,” she commands, pulling at the hem of his jerkin.

Once, he might have balked at such a thing, to sit stripped to the waist in front of a lady, but there is no place for shyness between them. Not anymore.

He removes his jerkin and then tugs his shirt free of his breeches and pulls it up overhead. He winces when the cloth peels away from where it’s become sticky from the pulpy mess of his shoulder.

He hears Lyanna hisses through her teeth when she sees the wound, fingers gingerly touching where the bruising already feels bone deep.

She makes quick work of it. Fetching the bucket of water they use for washing and an old cloth.

Her touch stings. Arthur welcomes it. It distracts him from feel of Lyanna’s breath on his skin, her skirts brushing too close against his legs.

“I’m sorry,” he says as she finishes, knotting a bandage around him tight. “For making you worry.”

Lyanna hums, her hands drifting lower on his chest, pressing over where a bruise from his last fight has yet to heal.

She bends down and kisses his shoulder. It’s the same motherly way he’s seen her soothe Jon’s tears with a kiss, and yet…

“Come to bed,” she bids, with a second kiss to a scar on his cheek.

That night, it is not the lingering edge from fighting in the pits nor the sound of the whores through the wall that keeps Arthur from sleep.

Send me a Kiss Prompt ( ˘ ³˘)♥

[bibliocratic]

For @babtest, who asked for the prompt: Martin showing normal, genuine human anger.

Jon/Martin, set in a nebulous post-160 AU. Cws in the tags. 

“And if you want me to call – ”

“I know, I'll send a message.”

“And if you don't feel safe, or you want out of there, there doesn't have to be a reason – ”

“Jon.”

“I'll have the phone on me in case – ”

“Jon,” Martin snaps, and his voice is saw-toothed, edged with an irritation that serves as a defensive carapace to his nerves. “It's – it's fine, he's probably not going to be there anyway, this whole thing is going to be a waste, s-so would you please stop fussing, for – ” He releases a grunt of annoyance but tries to muster some calm, breathing with heavy huffing sounds. “I just need... this bloody Christ, this tie – ”

Martin's made a knot-eyed strangle-hold mess of it in his rush, and he tugs angrily at it, making it worse.

“Do you want me to – ?”

“No, I don't! Would you just let me do it! God forbid I be able to do it myself.”

Martin's voice raises to a shout that dips into a hollow of passive aggressive sniping. Jon stills, steps back from where he's been moving into Martin's space and crowding him, and tries not too feel too hurt, pushes down the knee-jerk cutting responses that will neither be helpful or deserved.

Martin tussles with the tie for a few more vicious seconds, his smart shirt having been tucked, untucked and re-tucked again and taking on a rumpled, disturbed pattern. He finally breathes out again, a heavy, weighted breath, closing his eyes. He takes a few calculated, noticeably deeper inhales and exhales that Jon recognises as the deep breathing his therapist taught him. Jon lets him tide through it.

“I'm sorry for snapping,” Martin says lowly, roughly. “I didn't mean – I'm not handling this very well. That's no reason to take it out on you.”

“Considering how many times I was short with you, you probably still have a surplus until we're even close to equal,” Jon replies, trying for levity. Martin wrings the abused tie miserably in his hands, and Jon wishes that this was easier, that this wasn't drawing out all of Martin's embedded poisons, his anxieties he's long laboured to conquer.

“Can you – Will you help? With the tie?” Martin says in a smaller voice, and Jon takes a step into Martin's unhappy orbit, and removes it gently from his hands.

“Of course,” he replies. “If you want to wear it. But you – Martin, you look good without it. And you hate ties.”

The last time he'd worn one was at his mum's funeral, Jon both knows and Knows. He hadn't been able to tie it then either.

“I want – ” Martin says, looking frustrated when the words don't come as easily as he desires. “It looks professional, yeah? Smart? I don't want to look – do I look like I'm, I dunno, trying too hard? It's – huh – it's only a cafe, right, not the bloody Ritz or something – will it, do you think it'll look too desperate?”

Jon touches Martin's arm with his hand. Martin's fidgeting with his shirt sleeves, the buttons at the cuffs, keeps tugging them down like he's worried they're not long enough. He twists and twists and twists his wedding ring and bleeds out nerves like a weather front stagnating in fog, and Jon selfishly wants him to cancel.

“You'll look fine,” he replies. “Smart, and put-together. And I'll think you look handsome, but that's by the by.” That coaxes Martin's lips to twitch. “But you don't... you don't have to wear it, if it's going to... if you're uncomfortable in it. Especially if you think not wearing it will make him disapprove or some nonsense.”

Martin huffs a sound that's the verbal equivalent of a long-suffering eye-roll.

“Spooky mind-reader strikes again, huh.”

“Fear my psychic powers,” Jon dead-pans, and Martin chuffs another one of those aborted half-laughs. Then, quieter, softer. “Want me to help with it?”

“I – I think I'll leave it,” Martin responds finally, with a nod to himself. “It's a Costa anyway, I'm just going to look like a hipster anyway in this shirt.”

“It's that and the beard,” Jon agrees, rubbing his hand at the thick scratchy weave of it until Martin bats his hand away with a 'get off you'. “Do you need your umbrella?”

“ 's only ten minutes down the road, should be alright.”

“You get caught in a downpour, it's your own fault.”

Martin's lips do actually quirk in a smile then, finding the grooves of their light-hearted bickering as a comforting oft-replayed melody.

“Your compassion  never ceases to astound me.”

“You didn't have to marry me.”

“Not like any one else was going to do the job.”

“How noble and public-spirited of you.”

Jon kisses Martin's lips briefly, raising himself up on socked tip-toes. Martin's hand slots into his, faintly trembling.

“Whatever you decide, I'll support your decision,” he says in the tight woven space of their bodies. “Even if this isn't what you want, or even if it is.”

Martin nods, and returns a dry, bristly kiss in return before he heads out.

It starts spitting with rain not a minute later.

-

Jon has not been blessed with an abundance of patience. Martin's meeting is at half two, but he checks his phone at obsessive intervals, watching the screen lighten and the clock on analogue mode work through the grinding seconds. In case Martin's changed his mind. In case he wants out, doesn't want to do this. In case he was stood up, or is sat alone because there was some problem with traffic, or, or, or.

Jon, half-heartedly, tries a great number of things to distract himself, and to avoid any instances of Knowing. After an hour, he's given channel-hopping a go – watching five minutes of a mid-afternoon western, and then ten minutes of a reality show about buying houses on the coast and renovating them. (Martin loves these types of programmes, and in the spirit of them is trying to doggedly renovate the front hall. Meaning that any time Jon wants to go to the front door, he has to pick his way over old blankets thrown down to protect the flooring from paint drips, Martin's small forest of tester pots and paint pots and drying brushes).

Martin's got a window seat – the window misted with condenseness, some child has imprinted a pudgy hand as a calling card – has ordered a mocha – over-sugared, tacky in his mouth, he regrets the choice immediately –

SHUT UP, Jon fumes at himself, and tries to read, manages a few pages before he's struck with the frisson of Martin's spiking anxiety every time the ding of the cafe door pipes up, and stomps into the kitchen to occupy his mind by making himself an unappetizing lunch that he doesn't even want to eat.

His phone remains silent. Jon fights the powerful urge to send a brief check-up message, a little everything going ok? but stops himself. Martin's going to have enough on his plate.

Jon frets and waits for him to come home.

–

There's the plaintive squeak of the front gate (Martin will need to oil it again), and Jon sits up from where he's been petting the cat and poorly playing one of Martin's hand-held console games. He's been on the same level for about an hour now, and stubbornness is preventing him from giving it up as a lost cause.

The pad of two footsteps.

“You've – the flowers are nice. That you've got growing.”

“Thanks. It's not really – it's more Jon than me.  He's pretty green-fingered.” The footsteps peter out. “So – er, well, this is me, heh. Close by.”

“Time really flew, huh.”

“Yeah. T-thanks for the, thanks for the coffee – ”

“Don't mention – ”

“ – and for the walk back – ”

“ – You can keep the umbrella, if you  – ”

“N-no, it's, it's fine.”

The conversation stalls and splutters like an engine with the wrong fuel. Jon's moved out into the hallway, the cat restless but demanding in his arms, and sees the blurred bulk of Martin's stiff shoulders in the frosted glass pane of their front door, set high like he's shoved his hands into his pockets.

Jon skirts around the paint pots to get nearer.

“So,” the other voice – and it's so similar, strikes the same gulleys and furrows, the stop-and-start of thoughts eking their way out into expression, and it wrong-foots Jon to hear it, the ill-matching echo of it. “I – I'll see you again? If you, that is – I really liked... It was good. To catch up, I mean.”

“Yeah,” Martin says, and he sounds wrung out, straining on some mental rack he's internalised. “It was. Yeah. It was good to see you.”

“You want to do coffee again, sometime?”

“I – er. Maybe. Maybe.”

The first fuzz of hurt creeps to moss over the over-eager nervousness of the other voice. “Oh. Er, yeah. S-sure. That's... it's not a problem. Why, why maybe?”

Martin's hackles go up defensively. “I'm not sure, alright?”

“Was everything ok?”

“I guess relatively?”

“What's that mean?”

“Relatively as in, it's been thirty years, there's a few things to iron out after all that. Hence the, y'know, the maybe.”

“Right,” comes the response. “I am – you know I am trying here.”

Martin's voice goes low and flat and judgemental.

“And how long until you lose interest this time?”

There's a punch of silence. The cat buts against Jon's chin. Through the vague blurring of the glass, Martin shifts in that way of his, when he says something he wishes he hasn't, but he makes no move to take it back.

Half beseeching, half reproachful: “That's not fair, Marty.”

It was the wrong thing to say.

“It's Martin,” Martin replies, blistering with something bubbling to the forefront. “It's Martin, not Marty. I'm not – I'm not a child any more, so you can just – just drop that.” He scoffs a breath, and it's hard and hurt and deliberate. “And no, it wasn't fair. But neither was you leaving. So guess we're equal.”

“I – I tried to explain,” the other man starts, a heat of his own starting to shade indignant.

“And it was bollocks – ”

“It's the truth!”

“It wasn't good enough!”

“Your mother, she was – ”

“She was ill! She was sick and you knew, you knew she was just going to get sicker, and so you cut your losses and you legged it.”

“It wasn't like that – ”

“I was eight!” Martin snarls, and there's no pausing in his words any more, no careful consideration, it's a scatter-gun of words he's had secured in his chest for a long time now. “What the fuck sort of parent leaves an eight year old in that sort of house, with that sort of responsibility? What the hell kind of a life did you think I'd have?!”

“She had – you had aunts and uncles! They were, nearby, they were always cluttering up the house, popping round. I thought – I thought if, when she got really bad, they'd take you in!”

“She cut everyone out! What a stupid – you knew her! She hated anything that felt like pity, she was proud and she didn't want anyone to see her as she got worse. You think she'd have accepted someone implying she couldn't care for her son? No.  And eventually it was – it was only us, and you know what, she hated me for it. Because I looked so much like you! Because everything I did, everything I ever did was just a reminder of how much she hated you for leaving.”

“I didn't – ” The response is regret-mired, apologetic, but Martin doesn't want to hear it. “I couldn't have known that...”

“No,” Martin replies, his voice all venom and hurt. “But it's not like you checked, did you? Pop in, see how I was doing.  A visit o-or a letter in the post, o-or something! Christ, you didn't even come to the bloody funeral!”

“I.. No one told me! I found out she'd... she'd passed about a month back. I swear, Marty – Martin, sorry. I swear, I didn't know.”

“And now here you are.”

“I wanted to – I wanted to make amends! To be a better, a better father to you.”

“I'm nearly forty, dad,” Martin snipes unkindly, his throat thick. “What makes you think I need you now?” He sniffs, his words damper than he'd like. “Thirty years is a long time to wait to try and play happy families again.”

“Martin, I. Look, I had a lot of problems. Back then. For a long time. I'm not saying them as an excuse – ”

“Then don't say them,” Martin cuts him off. “I don't – I don't want to hear them. I... just. Don't.”

The conversation dies abruptly. There's a horrible, terminal sort of quiet to it.

“I'm going to go,” Martin says, his tone sanded down to quiet exhaustion. “I've got – Jon'll be waiting and I – I can't do this any more.”

“Right,” Kenneth Blackwood replies with an equal tone. “I'm staying, I'm nearby if you want to – I hope to see you again, Martin.”

Martin doesn't reply. Jon has enough warning of the looming shadow in the door to skitter back as Martin uses his key to twist the lock open.

His face is ruddy, splotchy with patches of red. His eyes wet.

“Guess you heard some of that, yeah?” he bites out bitterly on seeing Jon, tugging off his coat.

“Some,” Jon admits honestly, and Martin shakes his head like he's trying to knock something loose, throws his coat over the banister head, pulling off his scarf and balling it up and chucking it in the corner by the door like it's wronged him.

“What a fucking – It was a mistake, I knew I knew it was a bad idea, me and my stupid bloody – playing the bleeding heart idiot again as per fucking usual.”

“Did it, did go badly?” Jon asks, putting the cat down and skirting the edges of Martin's return, watching him pull off his shoes unlaced and slam them into the shoe pile into the corner.

“Absolutely fabulous!” he responds with a false bitter cheer that tinges yellowed and sick. He's not calming down. His hand threading through his hair, his face continuing to redden with an angry heat, eyes welling up. “He's so bloody sincere and apologetic and what the – what am I supposed to do with that now? Where were all his sorries then, where was he when I wanted to hear them?”

Martin plows on, clearly not wanting answers.

“A-and he was so interested, wanted to see our wedding pictures, and kept asking so so many questions like it was a job interview or something – what are you doing? What do you like doing? What are your hobbies? How long have you and Jon been together? – a-and, like, I couldn't help thinking that it's none of his – he wasn't there, he doesn't get to be all friendly like he didn't just walk out. And! And then!” Martin's voice rises to a furious damp crest, throwing his hands about. “Then he wants to share! He had pictures on him and his new wife and new kids – a-and mum, she always, she always said he hadn't wanted a family, hadn't wanted to be a dad, didn't want the responsibility that'd fall on him when she got sick. But he was so happy! So I don't – what am I meant to think of that? I don't know, I mean, was it lies she told me, how much was the truth, and how much did she twist like she did everything else?”

 Martin sniffs loudly. “He got married a year after he left mum, and they're still together. His other kids are finishing uni or they've got cushy jobs in the financial district, and h-he was showing me and he sounded so... god, he was so proud of them.” Martin wipes at his eyes. “S-so that's, that's just great.”

“Martin...” Jon starts, despairing, listening to the croak in his voice, the way it keeps catching, the hitching jagged rise of his breathing.

“No. No, don't you get it, it's clear as fucking crystal. Because he wanted a family, yeah, he wanted kids he could dote on and take to the park and play football with. He just didn't want me, did he? And what the hell was s-so wrong with me?! I wasn't – I wasn't a bad kid, I was quiet and I kept out of trouble, and there's no, no reason he couldn't have taken me with him when he left. S-so what was so wrong with me?” Martin's shoulders are starting to shake. “Why – why wasn't I enough for him?”

Jon surges in as Martin bursts into angry bitter tears. Sobbing into Jon's jumper, fisting his hands into the hem of it, repeating snatches of recrimination and confusion over and over. Jon tries to tell him that he's enough, that he's always been enough, that he's so so loved, but Martin can't hear over his own hitching breaths, the sea swell of his grief.

Jon just holds him and waits for the tide to go out.

–

The doorbell rings around nine o'clock, and Jon Knows who's at the door.

Martin stirs under the twisted covers with a questioning noise, but Jon shushes him.

“It's the postman,” he lies. “I'll get it.”

Martin hums.

“Put the kettle on?” he asks sleepily, as though he won't be back snoring in a minute. Jon promises he will regardless, manoeuvring himself out of the heat-packed bed and Martin's loose grip, slipping on his slippers and a shirt.

He opens the door with his most imperious of gazes already set on his face.

Martin is there. Or, a man uncanny in resemblance. He shifts his weight from foot to foot like Martin does, has the same nervous twitch in the flutter of his hands. His skin is more weathered, maybe, has built up a collection of lines Martin hasn't sourced out just yet, a further progression to the receding hairline that's beginning to retreat back at Martin's temples.

“I – um, is Martin in?”

“Yes.”

“Can – would I be able to – ?”

“No,” Jon replies. “He's still asleep.”

It's taken for the denial it's meant to be. Kenneth Blackwood makes an 'oh, right' with the same ringing nervous cast to his movements that Martin had when he first came to the Archives.

“It's...” he starts tentatively, and politely does not have his gaze stray too long on the scars on his hand, his face, his throat.  “It's Jon, isn't it?”

“Jonathan Blackwood,” he responds, feeling the odd need to stake the territory here. “I'm Martin's husband.”

“Oh!” Kenneth replies, a little surprised “That's... that's good. I didn't know you took his name when you got.... That's... that's great.”

“It's a good name,” Jon responds, and his father gives a sad, crooked look.

“Not sure Martin would agree with you.”

“It's not my place to comment,” Jon counters, and Kenneth nods and replies with a: “Yeah. No, no, you're right.”

The cat has come up to the door out of curiosity and nudges at the back of his legs before deciding to stay indoors. Jon clears his throat, feeling the nip of early morning under the thin cotton of his nightwear.

“I wanted to – ” Kenneth Blackwood starts. “I wanted to apologise. I didn't keep a cool head yesterday, and he – he deserved my honesty, not my defensiveness.”

Jon gives nothing else, and Kenneth Blackwood continues, clearly grateful for the conversational opening.

“Look, I'm – I have to head back today. I live up near Preston these days. But I hoped – Can I leave my number? I know I shouldn't have pushed so hard. It was a lot to expect. He doesn't...” He makes a half-sigh. “Martin doesn't have to call. I won't contact him again, if that's what he wants. I just – I'm there. If he wants to give me the chance to get to know him again. But if he doesn't.... I understand.”

Jon takes the piece of card offered.

“I'll give it to him,” he says, firmly but not unkindly, and then gives a nod. “Drive back safe, Mr Blackwood.”

He takes it for the dismissal it is meant to be, and he returns the nod. Shoves his hands in his pockets to stave off the chill of the morning as he leaves.

Jon closes the front door with an unobtrusive click, pockets the card he was given. Pauses for a moment, listening to the lull of the house, the rumble of snoring upstairs. Then he makes his way past pots and paintbrushes into the kitchen to make Martin a cup of tea.

[beholdme]

All the Many Shades of Gerry - Chapter 13

Chapters: 13/19

Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Gerard Keay/Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Gerard Keay, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist, Gerard Keay/Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist

Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist, Gerard Keay, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Sasha James, Gertrude Robinson, Elias Bouchard

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Library AU, Librarian Jon, Artist Gerry, Trans Male Character, Trans Martin Blackwood, Canon Asexual Character, Asexual Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist, Ace Subtype - Sex Positive, Polyamory, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Romantic Fluff, Falling In Love, Boys in Skirts, Kissing, Demisexual Gerard Keay, Minor Character Death, Past Character Death, Canon-Typical Child Neglect, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Flirting, Minor Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Adventures in Hair Dying, Happy Ending, Banter, Gerry has a lot of sass, Gerard Keay is Morticia Adams, Jon is a very grumpy Librarian, Martin adores them anyway.

Summary: In which Gerry is a kaleidoscope and Jon and Martin can’t help falling in love with him.

He happens to love them back.

Find it on Ao3

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12]

If someone had asked Martin where he had least expected to be on the day after his thirtieth birthday, the veterinarian probably wouldn’t have been at the top of his list, but it definitely would have made the top ten.

Honestly, Martin didn’t think he had ever stepped foot into a vet clinic before in his life. He had never owned so much as a pet hamster, and now here he stood, clutching a tiny ball of mewling fluff and trying not to get distracted by the pet toys.

He felt positively inundated with new information on all sides. There were about a million different types of pet food lining the walls, and everything seemed to be a new bright colour to draw his distracted eyes. Warning signs that made very little sense to him filled the space, most memorably ‘Large birds must be kept leashed at all times inside the practice’, and ‘Reptiles need to be secured inside their travel enclosures.’

There was indeed an iguana in a massive glass enclosure sunning itself under a heat lamp, but it appeared to be a permanent resident, not a guest. Seemingly opposite to this was the massive tabby cat draped across the reception desk.

Martin begins to panic slightly.

He desperately wished he had allowed one of his lovers to accompany him, but he had sent Gerry back to bed to sleep and Jon had been shooed off to work, both quite thoroughly hung-over.

Now here he stands, alone with his new fluffy friend, and doesn't even know where to start. Neither of his partners have ever actually had a kitten before, but at least they had both owned cats before.

Gerry had been adopted by Saturn as a full-grown boy when he arrived at the window of his shitty little flat in Edinburgh and demanded to be let in. Gerry had confessed to a romantic feeling of instant affection for the fluffy beast and had taken Saturn in without a moment’s hesitation. They had moved together as he traveled the country, eventually settling together in London, where he had found Jon again.

Jon had been raised with several cats that had all been born before him and had liked them, but he had told Martin once that he heavily associated cats with his Grandmother and his slightly cold upbringing. That was all the pet experience he had until he met Saturn and fell in love with him as easily as they’d both fallen in love with Gerry. Like goth, like feline companion, apparently.

Nevertheless, Saturn did not appreciate being taken to the vet and had never gone once since Martin had met him.

"Can I help you, sir?" A kind-looking older lady sat at reception, and she beaconed Martin forward gently.

"I- I-" He started, stuttering badly. He closed his eyes and shook himself to dispel the unfortunate remnant of his childhood. “I found this kitten, and I was hoping the vet could check on it for me?”

“And will you be wanting to surrender it into our care?” She asks, tapping away at her keyboard.

“What?” Martin shies away, pulling the cat protectively even closer to his chest.

“You’re more than welcome to keep it, but we do also take in strays if you aren’t able to.” She smiles at him soothingly.

“Oh, I want to keep her please.” Martin flushes a bit. “I already gave her a name.”

The woman smiles at him knowingly. “The vet can see you in 15 minutes then.”

She takes his contact information, and they weigh Martin’s new friend. She guesses the kitten's age to be about 2 weeks and sends him off to sit close to the iguana.

*

An hour later, Martin stumbles out the door, armed with more supplies than he could ever have imagined he needed to raise one small animal. His head is spinning, alternating between fond adoration and complete anxiety over this new task that he has given himself. Luna meows at him supportively, happy to be clean and have a full belly.

Out on the street, he finds Jon. It’s raining slightly, and he’s wrapped in a long peacoat, with a scarf Martin is certain was once his.

“What are you doing here?” Martin demands, shocked. He stumbles over to his partner, and Jon reaches out to steady him. “I thought you were at the library."

Jon presses a quick kiss to his shocked mouth, before taking several things out of his overcrowded arms.

"I know you said that you were going to do this on your own, but I wanted to be nearby in case you needed me, so I called off." He shrugs a bit, "I reckoned that I had earned it, what with all the overtime I work and don't get paid for."

Martin is filled with warmth, eyes welling a bit. "Oh, Jon."

"Oh no, don't cry. I'm sorry." Jon's face pinches in concern. "I can go if you want me to."

"No, I'm so happy you're here. I was just wishing for you, and there you were. Thank you." Martin steps towards him as best he can, and they kiss softly for a few moments, out in the rain.

In time, the kitten, haphazardly clutched to Martin's chest, makes her displeasure at the soggy conditions known. Gripping hands tightly, Jon and Martin set off towards the bookstore, just a couple blocks over.

It’s quiet when they arrive, the morning pre-work rush over, and the student and lunch crowds far off yet. The two baristas and Tim descend upon them immediately when they see the small head poking out of Martin’s coat. There is much cooing and fuss over Luna, and Martin recounts the tale of discovering her in the back alley of Gerry’s bar.

Once they return to work, Jon and Martin settle on one of the sofas, a coffee table before them. They make up a small cat bed, which Luna explores for a few moments, before sitting at the edge and staring at Martin imploringly. He scopes her up and plops her inside, before placing the tiny bed right in his lap. She happily passes out after that, the wild adventures of the morning catching up with her little kitten body.

Deciding to truly have the day off, Jon does not take out his laptop and start working on it, instead ordering their tea, picking a book to read from the store, and bringing it all over to settle with his partner.

“Thank you for coming,” Martin tells him, a soft look on his face. He leans an elbow on the back of the couch, head resting on his fist. “I didn’t even realise how much I needed you until I saw you there.”

“I know,” Jon starts, frowning in concentration, “that I’m not always the best at sensing these things, that sometimes I can be too focused on myself and the things going on in my head. I do hope that I always manage to catch the important moments, and I trust that you’ll always let me know when I don’t.”

Jon pauses, and sighs, a self-deprecating smile lining his face. He continues, “I want to learn to be who you need me to be. I want to be for you, what you always are to me. I love you, Martin.”

“I love you too, Jon.” Martin squeezes Jon’s hand, before placing a sweet kiss in his palm. “You are exactly who I need you to be.”

It is a soft, hazy sort of day. The rain pours outside, and Jon lies against Martin and reads two books before lunchtime. Martin practices bottle-feeding Luna, every few hours, and Jon sits nearby watching nervously. He wonders vaguely if his partner is alarmed to be around an infant of any kind for a while, but on the third feeding, Jon seems to rouse himself and offers to give it a try.

Each time a new client comes in, there's a round of cooing and petting, and Martin worries that she’ll be spoiled rotten in no time. He imagines that if she spends much time here, he’ll have to sell cat treats and Luna will one day be as fat as a house.

At one point, Jon starts to read aloud, and Martin seems to fall asleep gently propped against his shoulder. He wakes to find Jon laughing softly and Luna learning to use him as a climbing frame.

"I think she likes you, love," Martin whispers into his hair.

"Well, I think I might like her too," Jon confesses, a world away from his scepticism of just this morning.

After lunchtime, Gerry flies into the store very manically, clutching a very strange backpack to his chest. It has a weird clear window, reminiscent of a ship’s porthole, and the rest of it is hard structured plastic.

He ducks down to kiss first Martin, then Jon, before thrusting the backpack into Martin's hands.

"What is this?" Martin asks, holding it away from himself as if it might bite.

"It's a cat backpack. Saturn has always preferred it to a normal cat basket, and I thought it might be useful if we need to take her to work with us and then back to various flats." Gerry walks around the table, bodily picking up Jon's legs and sitting beneath them. He looks like nothing so much as a large, damp bat, black trench coat flapping around him like over large wings. "I ordered her one of her own, but it won't be here for a few days, so I brought Saturn's in the meantime."

There's a beat of shocked silence, so Gerry adds, "Only if you want it, obviously."

"I- I do, thank you." Martin can feel himself blushing with odd pleasure.

He had made sure to ask them if they were okay with Martin keeping Luna, but he hadn't really expected them to embrace the situation with such gusto, and his heart burns with an odd intensity at their gestures of support.

It's almost-

It's almost like they love him, and care about all the things he cares about.

Martin sits, staring at a cat backpack, and allows the realisation to wash over him. It hits him like a tidal wave, despite the dozens and maybe hundreds of times they've said the words to him.

He feels very foolish, left floored by the fact that his lovers- well, that they love him!

Martin knows, understands even, that he has been left slightly broken by his father leaving, his mother hating him, the things that he chose to do to survive in his early adulthood. He does understand that, and yet he never realized that he was hearing Jon and Gerry say they love him and saying the words back, and yet subtly holding on to the (clearly mistaken) understanding that they don't really mean them.

It makes a sick kind of sense, clinging to the idea that they don't really care about him, so when they decide that they don't anymore, it doesn't leave him broken beyond repair.

Martin puts the cat bag down on the table, hands Luna to Gerry, and gets up. He waves at them reassuringly when they try to ask him what's wrong, before walking to the bathroom, locking the door, and sobbing like a child for several long moments.

*

As Luna grows, she spends time with each of them.

Gerry takes her most of the first nights, feeding her through the evenings and then handing her back to Martin as he leaves for the bookstore.

This means she spends quite a lot of her formative life in a bar, but when Martin goes in to check on them, he finds Gerry's plastered clientele just as enamored with the kitten as his own tea-drinking patrons.

Jon likes to have her in the late afternoons, keeping her at the library for a few sleepy hours before he leaves for the day. He tells Martin once that the children's reading group comes in during that time, and he likes to sit in with them and let Luna listen along.

The children, of course, adore her and Jon tells Martin very primly, "Listening comprehension is a very important skill in a developing infant."

Martin finds it hilarious and adorable and can't help but pull Jon into his arms and kiss him breathless, an unimpressed Luna trapped between them.

Saturn does not appreciate Luna at first, disappearing in a huff the first few times Martin brings her over to the studio.

"Don't worry about it, love." Gerry had waved away his concern casually. "He's just a jealous baby. He'll figure out that she wants to play with him eventually, and then they'll be the best of friends."

Indeed, Martin walks into the kitchen one morning to find the two cats curled together in a shaft of sunshine. Saturn is gently giving her a bath, and Luna purrs sweetly at the attention.

When Saturn notices him watching, he untangles himself, shows Martin his bum, and then disappears. He's reminded of nothing so much as Gerry himself, caught eating ice cream for breakfast, or smoking during the day, an activity he would insist is a nighttime pursuit only. The same drama is employed as a distraction technique, and Martin wonders whether the cat learnt it from the goth, or the goth learnt it from the cat.

Luna grows and settles, and Martin adores having her more than almost anything.

He takes the time, as they raise her, to force himself to accept his life for what it truly is. He puts aside the constant nagging fear that Jon and Gerry will lose interest in him one day and begins to notice all the ways they show him they love him, which makes the words all the more precious to him when they take the time to tell him.

[justadram]

Fic: In Fallow Fields

Part 3 of 3; Parts 1 and 2

Jon/Sansa, post-series; complete

A warm morning following on the heels of a cool night coats the blades of thin, bright grass with glittering dew. It darkens the hem of her wedding gown, creeping up the hem with every steady step she takes. Until it soaks through the layers beneath, penetrating to the flesh. Standing beneath the spreading limbs that make up what’s left of the godswood, Sansa feels the dampness in the cling of the embroidered stockings she rolled up her calves, when she woke and dressed without aid of a serving girl on her wedding day.

A moon or two ago, wet stockings and dew laden skirts in the chill of the morning air would have raised the delicate hairs on her arms and up the back of her neck. But it is warm. Blissfully so. Blue skies herald the day and the spring sunshine is a bright white that pierces the soil as certainly as it does the eyes, forcing her to blink against each chink of light that breaks the canopy as she approaches. The season has shifted.

With the sun shining in through the trees, the only thing that sends a thrill up her spine is Jon’s hand taking hers and pulling her in close with his eyes fixed upon her lips.

...

Sansa dislikes the taste of sour wine and ale, but Tormund’s fermented potatoes yield a practically flavorless drink. The warm burn it sets up in her belly is the same as if it was a chore to force down, but she manages to sip it without a grimace.

There are no frowns today, not even from her stony faced little brother or Arya, who has made it plain she wants none of the details of their arrangement, save that she might teach any forthcoming children to wield a sword, believing her technique superior to Jon’s. However skilled her sister is--and her skill is considerable--Sansa can’t bring herself to agree with the assessment entirely. Arya might be the only one alive to have watched Jon fight the undead on behalf of Westeros and scoff at his form. Even Tormund, for all his teasing, does not fault Jon on that point.

Tormund is plenty fond of teasing though, and today’s proceedings have unleashed a torrent of jests. She smiles over her cup at Jon--her lord husband--as Tormund claps him on the back hard enough to slosh some of the clear liquid over the rim of Jon’s cup onto his black jerkin. The broad-chested wildling urges Jon to drink. Filling his cup back up even as Jon protests. Again. For a second time and a third. It’s as merry as any of them have been, since they returned to Winterfell. It is their wedding that has made it so, even more so than the drink.

For a wedding toast--that’s how Tormund convinced Jon to grant him some of the harvest. It was not a bad crop, despite their collective lack of skill, and with the threat of starvation put aside, Jon allowed his friend the indulgence. Just so long as it was done in the name of pleasing Sansa.

She could have done without. Though weddings before were celebrated with feasting and drinking and song, Sansa doesn’t think anything missing from their day. Although, she wouldn’t have turned her nose up at a hind of venison in lemon gravy or a towering fruit cake iced in marzipan with candied lemons--anything with lemons, which she sometimes thinks she’ll never taste again, isolated in a North cut off from what feels like the rest of the world. A dress that she didn’t have to mend by the light of the fire might have been welcome too. But the strong burn of this drink will probably serve the bride and bridegroom better.

There were times past, when she drank to drown her sorrows on a wedding night. This isn’t like that. There are nerves, but she doesn’t dread the moment they will be alone. She doesn’t fear Jon’s lips on hers or his hands at her waist.

She has awakened from dreams of a full stream and arching backs on the banks with hair twined around fingers that pull. In that place between sleep and waking, she remembered it, no shadowed figures but clear enough to be a memory, not a figment. Jon’s dark hair, his beard rough on her skin, and his hands sure and eager. It felt familiar and welcome, as if it had always been him.

But there are ghosts. Hers and his. And though not all are malicious--her lord father and lady mother, for one--they haunt them all the same.  And so she sips, welcoming the burn, and watches him with cheeks that hurt from smiling, as Tormund claps him one more time.

...

“I’ve had too much,” Jon says, sinking his head into his hands, as she lowers herself beside him on the bed.

Pulling his hands through his hair brings it back. It’s like lightning briefly illuminating a distant corner of her mind--hands in her hair, hot mouth on her neck, and twitching muscles under her questing touch. A moment from a dream as real as if it were out of time, akin to Bran's own warped vision of the world. He’s left her panting in an empty passageway, from his kisses, but they’ve never touched like that.

She swallows thickly and moves to touch his leg, grounding herself in what’s real. Looking down at her pale fingers against the dark of his breeches, as his comforting warmth seeps through the coarse fabric.

The icicles are gone. Melted by the sun and sent crashing down to the ground, where the mud became so thick, it could suck you in with its viscous pull as much as from its earthy fecund smell.

But she still hears it, in the silence of the room, the awakening water, tip-tapping to the beat of her heart.

“You needn’t keep your wits about you. It’s only me.”

It’s a trick, getting the words out, as an unfamiliar desire urges her to test the firmness of his thigh higher, following the rise of muscle.

“Only you?” he says with an awkward smile, the one she’s loved too much for too long.

Over tables shared, whether talking of the past, worrying about the future, or dining on meager fare, she’s looked on it and felt an answering flutter. Sometimes a pleasant sensation and other times a shock of terror, since everything she has ever loved has been ripped from her grasping hands.

Surely he wore it when they were children, though she struggles to summon images of them as children, running through the halls of this shell of a great caste. But she knows she felt no great fondness for it. Not then. Not like Bran’s smile delighted her, the one he no longer can summon.

“You are my weakness.”

The low gravel of the confession and his gaze raking over her, swells her chest in anticipation of something so close. Her cheeks, growing warm, betray the pleasure his words awaken in her. She ought not to want it, but she longs to be more than a convenient match, something that might bring them both a small measure of happiness.

He reaches up and tucks her hair behind her ear, his rough fingers following the curve of her ear with impossible care. “Weakness or strength. I’m not certain which.”

“Either way,” she says, fingernail toying with the weave of his breechcloth, “you overstate my importance.”

A wedding night pronouncement perhaps. Made to assuage whatever jealousies she might wickedly harbor. It isn’t necessary. He is more than enough, his being hers is plenty. She will never cease being grateful for what remains.

His dark brows climb high, as his fingertips tease at her hairline. “I couldn’t even put up a good show of refusing, when Arya came for me.”

Her head tilts, as she takes in the long slope of his nose, the rise of his cheeks, his dark eyes. No one is as formed for this place than Jon--the spitting image of their father, of a long line of Starks.

“These walls call us home.”

“No, it’s the people in them,” he says, the curve of his finger lazily tracing her flesh, up and down. “I turned down Winterfell before, when it was offered. You I could not refuse. I’d tried. I left, I went south because of you.”

Sansa would have never sent him South. She begged him not to go to an early grave like their father, uncle, and grandfather before him. “Not for me.”

She can’t make herself say Daenerys’ name aloud but Jon’s eyes cut sharply to hers all the same, the unsaid plain.

He might have mourned her and loved her once and her dragons may have played a role in the fight for the dawn, but Daenerys was a threat to everything Sansa wanted from the moment the Dragon Queen stepped foot on Westeros’ soil. She is a apparition better unnamed.

“When I left for Dragonstone...” With his fingers lingering at the bend of her neck where her gown ends, his throat rolls above his collar. She wishes they’d go farther, sink into the thick of her scalp. She’s ready to lean into his touch, rub against him like a mewling kitten. “You are not a Lannister, but I may be.”

She blinks, as the words sink into her, clearing her fogged mind. It rearranges conversations and looks that passed between them into a slightly shifted reality, and she sits there, letting all the pieces settle.

Would the acknowledgement have unnerved her then? As he was taking his leave? She felt so desperate to keep him close, so fearful of losing a piece of her family that felt as vital as a piece of herself, she can’t be sure.

However she might have felt, it doesn’t matter now. The past is just that and they have survived until now to face a future together.

She bumps his shoulder with hers, hoping to draw another hint of a smile from him. “Of the two of us, I am the only one who was--for a time--a Lannister. You are a Stark.”

“Targaryen then.”

“Yes, and in another world,” she says, letting her hand slide up as she imagined doing, the heavy fabric rasping under the brush of her hand, “where Father did not have to pretend you were something you were not, I might have always been yours. He might have wanted us to wed, and saved us both some trouble.”

“Trouble,” he repeats at the minimizing of their miseries. At that he finally does smile, something broader than his upside down twitch of a smile. “We still would have argued.”

“Oh, worse,” she agrees. “In the end, though, it’s all the same. I am yours.”

[sailorshadzter]

im back to drop more jonsa on your timelines  👀 👀

yes i know ive written this scene ten thousand times before, dont @ me lmao 

Winterfell looms ahead, daunting with it's sharp stone peaks, the storm clad skies giving it an eerie sort of backdrop. And yet, he presses on, spurring his horse forward, well aware of the quick pace in which his heart is racing. He knows what lays ahead of him might be the worst he's faced, and yet, there's even the smallest of chances it will be the best he's faced. Though he longs for the latter, he's prepared for the first.

When he reaches the gate, darkness has begun to fall and the soldiers peer down at him from the watchtower above. "Who goes there?" One shouts, though he and the man standing beside him have already exchanged a strange, but knowing look. There wasn't a man alive in Winterfell that would not recognize him, even now.

"Jon Snow." He calls back and it takes only a moment more for the gate to creak open.

"Lord Snow," another soldier says, not kindly, but Jon can't help but to smile at the sight of his Stark livery. "I can't imagine our queen would like to see you." The man goes on, crossing his arms across his chest as Jon slides down from his horse. Another smile twitches on his lips; her men are loyal, quite certainly, and for that he is thankful. "Something funny, Snow?"

"That's enough, Quinn."

The soldier turns, seeing not just Lord Royce approaching, but Davos Seaworth, who looks far less stony faced than the ever loyal Yohn Royce. "I'll take it from here," Royce continues, gesturing for the soldier to move along, who does only after he shoots Jon a final scowl. "Jon Snow." He says evenly, though he pins sharp, angry eyes upon him. At his side, Davos shifts, clearly torn between greeting the young man with fondness and adding fuel to the fire that so surely has already begun to brew. In the end, fondness wins and before he can react, he's wrapped in the older man's warm embrace; it's something he's not felt in so long, for a moment, he can't even breathe. But soon Davos steps back and gives him a single, silent nod, but meeting his eyes, Jon understands exactly what he wished to convey. "I'm surprised to find you here at our gate."

Jon is, too, in truth.

"I was summoned." He replies, shrugging slightly.

"Summoned?" Lord Royce stammers, shaking his head, clearly surprised to hear of this. "By whom?"

"The queen herself."

After a little more back and forth, Jon is taken from the gate and swept inside, sent to the kitchens to warm himself by the ovens and eat some leftovers from that evening's meal. He's eaten no more than three spoonfuls of soup before the door to the kitchen opens and it's Davos standing there. "You might have come when she first sent for you," he says as he comes inside, the door falling closed behind him.

Jon looks away, knowing that to be true, but he hadn't been ready back then. How could he face her, how could he stood at her side, knowing what he'd done? It was true, he had done it for her, for their family, for the realm... But still yet... All he had done to get to that moment where he'd stood before Daenerys in the throne room of the Red Keep... No, he was not a man worthy of standing beside someone like her.

But perhaps now, perhaps now if she forgave him... Perhaps he will be the man to stand at her side.

"Aye..." He finally says, turning back to look up at Davos, who offers a smile. "Is she terribly angry with me?" He decides to ask, not certain he's ready to know the answer.

Davos can't help but to laugh in spite of the young man before him. "She was." He admits, sobering then, thinking back to those early days. Back to the days of a stone faced queen with eyes sharper than steel, colder than ice. Days of a queen who took to her rooms, rather than live in the lively court that most expected of Sansa Stark. But then... After so long, she began to smile again. Arya returned from her travels and it lightened her heart, softened her icy exterior. "But she was sad, too." Jon bows his head again, spoon left abandoned as his hand curls into a fist atop the table. "Your queen is a forgiving one, though, tough, but forgiving. She is soft inside yet." Jon can't help but to smile, thinking of her as she was when they reunited in King's Landing. With war braids tied into her vibrant red hair, she had rode south with an army at her back to lay claim to what was hers. "She even forgave Lord Glover, now he is one of her most loyal of men." Jon raises his eyes at this news, for he thought that would be a relationship never to be mended.

Before he can speak, the door opens again, and this time it is Lord Royce. "The queen says she will see you now," he doesn't look eager to do so, but he gestures for Jon to follow after him. Scrambling to his feet, Jon pauses only a moment to put a hand to Davos' shoulder, giving the man a nod, who smiles in response before he turns to watch Jon disappear out the door after Royce. "It's about time," he grumbles to himself before settling down in the chair Jon had vacated, helping himself to a mug of ale, hoping the young queen he's come to love will finally find true happiness.

Upstairs, Sansa is pacing.

"My lady, please," it's Shae, desperate to get her queen to cease her walking just so she might straighten her skirts and brush her hair. Here, in the privacy of Sansa's own rooms, she dares speak to her as she once did in King's Landing, though Sansa has always insisted she call her whatever she pleases. "You needn't worry," she says, catching her young queen by the hand then, forcing her to finally come to a rest at the center of the room. "He loves you still, I am certain, he will return to you without fail."

Sansa dares not believe her beloved handmaiden, but she nods like an obedient child anyways.

It's been a long two years since the day she and Jon parted ways on the docks of King's Landing, so very long that sometimes it only feels like a dream. No, not a dream, but a nightmare. Once she dreamed of violence and shadow, now she dreams of golden sunlight and a different kind of pain. "My gown, I should change my gown." She suddenly sputters, thinking that there's absolutely no way she can meet with Jon wearing the one she wears. But before she can say another word, there comes a knock to her door and she swears she might faint there on the spot.

Shae smiles, patting her cheek tenderly before she slips by, crossing the room to open the door. Sansa can see it is Lord Royce there and her heart has begun to race, faster than ever before. Shae dips a quick bow and then is stepping aside, allowing Lord Royce to step inside and at once, he's there, standing in her rooms.

Her world suddenly ceases to spin.

"Leave us." She hears herself say aloud and both her loyal Hand and handmaiden slip from the room, leaving them alone. He is as she remembers him to be, though with more beard and more curls tucked into the bun at the back of his head. Despite it all, her fingers twitch, for she longs to run her hands through his wild hair. "... Jon..." His name is a whisper upon her lips, something like a plea, something that is enough to send chills racing the length of his spine. "I can't believe you came." After all the summons, after all the months, the years, she cannot believe he's standing there in front of her.

Jon cannot take his eyes off of her; she's beautiful there in what looks to be a well worn blue wool gown, with draping sleeves and a slim fit bodice, a gown made for a queen. Her red hair is loosened from its braids and rather tumbles down her back in soft waves, enticing him all the more. "My queen." He finally speaks, saying words that for the very first time don't feel hollow, that don't feel empty. Without another word, Jon comes forward, dropping to his knees before her. She opens her mouth as if she means to interrupt, but he gives the smallest shakes of his head, silencing her before anything else is said. "I don't deserve to stand before you, I don't deserve to ask forgiveness of you, but I..." He trails off, gazing up into her steady blue gaze, emotion choking him as he fights to find the words to say. The words that might make her understand. "I want to stand at your side, if you'll have me." He wasn't ready back then, he wasn't the man she needed him to be back then when he'd left for the Night's Watch, but now... Now.... He thinks himself ready to be the man she's always needed him to be.

As she stares down at him, all the anger that she ever held within flees. It dissipates as she sinks to the floor, ignoring his protest as she levels herself with him. Everything she's ever thought, ever felt, fades away as she takes his face between her palms, tears misting in her eyes as a smile curves on her lips. "What took you so long?" Is all she asks instead, her words eliciting something like a chuckle from him. There in the moment, all that remains is the love she's always kept in her heart for him, all that still yet remains in her heart is the warmth of him, the strength of him. Everything about him that makes her happy, that makes her whole.

Before she can say another word, before he thinks to speak again, he draws her into his arms. Two long, cold, lonely years he's spent without her, without knowing the warmth of her skin against his. This moment he's imagined hundreds, if not thousands of times, but no dream could ever compare to what he felt right then with her so truly in his arms. "I was lost," he breathes against her head, the familiar scent of rosewater still clings to her hair. The realization brings a soft smile to his face. "But you guided me home." She's drawing back, blue eyes finding gray, her rosy lips curving with the most beautiful of smiles. In the golden firelight, she is radiant.

It takes only a moment more for his lips to find hers and in that moment, her world begins to spin again.

[littleladymab]

tiny cracks of light - chapter seven

(masterpost)

Prelude- She can hear the softest tread a few rows over, and figures that someone from the main Institute arrived while she was busy. Tim is the only one that seeks her out, and the others she only has a passing knowledge of.

But when the hands close over her eyes, Sasha can't help the startled squeak and she drops the book that she's holding.

"Guess who," a voice says, the tone pitched low and ominous to disguise who it might actually be.

She purses her lips and starts to lift her hands to guess by feel, but the person says, "Uh-uhhhh! That’s cheating."

"I would think that just Knowing it would be cheating."

"Then consider this practice."

There's very few options of who it could be, but she falls still and stretches her senses out anyway — the way Gertrude taught her, plucking and pulling on the threads binding the Eye's vision just so so she can let an image take shape.

The person covering her eyes has strong ties, sharp and reluctant, but there. He also was supposed to be back several days ago.

"Gerard Keay, are you slacking off on your work?" Sasha finally says, and he laughs as he lets her go. She spins around to face him.

"If a man enjoys what he does, he never works a day in his life!" he intones in the same dramatic voice. When she smacks his arm, he laughs again and holds up his hands to defend himself.

"Then what does that make you?"

He considers the question as Sasha stoops to pick up her dropped book. "A slacker?"

She opens her mouth to make another quip when she spots the smear of red poking up from just beneath his collar. "You're hurt."

Gerry adjusts his coat and brushes his hair over his shoulder to hide the mark. "It's nothing. It's mostly healed."

Sasha bats his hands away and tugs at the collar of his shirt to get a better look. "You should be resting!" She herds him over to one of the reading tables and forces him down into a chair. "What happened?"

"Run-in with a friend of the Slaughter. It's fine. I took care of it." He bites out the sentences without any emotion. "I got the report Gertrude needed and that's the important thing."

She sighs and clicks her tongue, tugging at his coat to get him to take it off. "The important thing is that you're safe," she says and braids his hair back. "Now, I know you carry emergency medical supplies for situations like these. Get it out, and let me take a look."

Gerry gives a long-suffering sigh, but there is the hint of a fond smile as he pulls the bandages and a flask of strong alcohol out of the pouches at his sides. "You care too much for a place like this, Sash," he says softly, but tilts his head and subjects himself to her help.

"Okay, hold on. Go back to the part where you just met the Avatar of the End? And he told you that there's a bit of Jon in the lake?" Tim paces in a tight line on the shore, running his hands through his hair in frustration. "That doesn't make sense." 

Melanie snorts. "It makes perfect sense." 

"It's as I said: I saw Jon in trouble in my dream, and so Melanie and I set out to head to the Archives. On our way there, we met Oliver and he told us to come here instead." Georgie glances to Melanie. "He's doing what he can, but even he is not completely powerful enough to stop what happened." 

Daisy's voice, when she speaks, is a low and dangerous growl. "And what did happen?"

This time, Georgie spares a glance at Sasha, but Sasha picks absently at a loose thread on the hem of her skirts. "I believe he was attempting to perform a ritual of some kind with the Eye. But then… I interrupted it." 

"So it's your fault?" Daisy summarizes. She seems completely unfazed by Melanie's snarl of warning. 

"In a sense, I suppose. But I don't know the point of what Jon was attempting. He… He didn't tell me, when last we spoke." Georgie rubs the top of her dragon's head as he butts up against her thigh. "But I know that we are the only ones capable of saving him, and for that we need Sasha." 

Everyone turns to look at her then — everyone but Melanie, who keeps her face angled towards the fire that they started at their makeshift camp. 

Tim rounds on Basira. "Did you know? Is that why you went to go bring her back, because you needed her to just be another tool for Jon?"��

"No," Basira replies. "No, I didn't…" She trails off, thinking about this before shaking her head. 

"It's fine, Tim." Sasha pushes herself to her feet and dusts off her skirts. Four pairs of eyes follow her movements, and Melanie just snorts again. "Next to the Archivist and the Watcher, I have the strongest connection to the Eye. Even after my dismissal. Sometimes the only way to be helpful is to be useful, and right now, I'm the only one who can find Jon." 

She forces herself to hold Tim's gaze, watch the frustration and anger play out over his face as he struggles to keep himself in check. "It was my choice to come back. I knew what it would mean, to some extent." 

Georgie stands as well, shifting the Admiral onto Melanie's shoulders. "The sooner we get to work, the sooner we can bring him back. Do you know what you have to do?" 

"I have an idea." Sasha removes her belts and pouches and lays them out next to her boots. She ties her hair back in a quick braid, then heads down the shore to the lake. 

Georgie follows without saying anything. 

They come to a stop in the middle of the lake, far enough away that the others will not be able to hear their conversations. The water only comes up to her waist, and it is as cold as she remembers from her vision. 

Sasha tilts her head back and gazes up at the clear sky above. "There's still enough daylight." 

Georgie looks as well, then breathes in deep. "I hope you are right." 

With a breath of her own, Sasha kicks out her legs and tilts back, allowing the water to keep her afloat. The ripples of her movement send little waves against her ears and forehead, and she swims in and out of a muffled silence. "I need you to be a tether to Jon, and that line between life and death. Can you do that?" 

She takes Sasha's hand in one of her own, and the other smooths over Sasha's brow. "Hold on tight," Georgie says before covering Sasha's eyes with her hand. 

The effect is instantaneous. 

The darkness of Georgie's palm is replaced by the starless night sky, and the thing made entirely of eyes has its hands on her breastbone and on her forehead and it shoves. 

Sasha only has a moment to inhale one desperate breath before she's plunging down into the water. 

She doesn't fall. The water has too strong a grip on her limbs. It lowers her down slowly, almost gently, if it wasn't so suffocating. 

When she sees the first of the thick, black tendrils, Sasha grabs it with both hands and uses it to propel herself further on. The only thing she can hear is the bubbles streaming from her nose and lips and the thudding heartbeat, and she thinks that she might run out of air before she hits the bottom — unsure of what that means, how real this is, what would happen if she tries— 

She tumbles suddenly into free-fall, passing through water and silt like the time the floorboards of an abandoned house gave out beneath her and she fell down a story. 

The last of the air is knocked from her lungs as someone catches her, and she gasps. 

"Careful," the person says, and at that single word her heart stops. That voice. These hands. It shouldn't be. "I've got you, Sash."

Slowly, afraid of what she'll find, Sasha lifts her gaze to see the face of the man who caught her, and Gerry gives a crooked grin.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," he says, and she gives a shuddering, wrenching sob before throwing her arms around his neck. "Alright, alright. I've got you," he repeats, his hand against her back to keep her upright. 

"Your jokes are always the worst," she says into his chest. "What are you doing here?" 

"Well, you know… realm of the dead… me being dead. It all makes sense, if you think about it." Gerry sets her down and she takes a moment to try and regain her composure. "I think the more important question is what are you doing here? You're not… Are you?"

She wipes at the lingering tears clinging to her eyelashes. "No. It's… the Archivist." 

His expression flickers before settling on understanding. "Ah. So that's what this is about. I was worried this would have been a social visit."

"I was told that a piece of him would be here." 

"Yes…" Gerry draws out the word awkwardly and rubs the back of his head. "In a manner of speaking." 

"I need it." She waits for a beat, and when he doesn't immediately pass something over to her, she holds out her hand. "Please." 

He gives her a pleading look before taking her hand in both of his own. "It's not a physical item. It will be a mark on you." 

Sasha hesitates, lifting her free hand to press against her chest. The thing inside of her is unusually silent. "I already bear the mark of the Stranger. I will take the mark of the End if it means saving Jonathan."

Gerry's sigh is pained and he runs a hand over his face. "I always told you you cared too much for the Archives, Sasha." 

"So did you, in your own way." She presses her palm to his cheek, then pulls him in for another hug. "I miss you." 

"That place was never for me, and it didn't even have the audacity to be the thing to kill me in the end." He laughs and hugs her back. "But as good as it is to see you, let's not keep you here any longer." 

Gerry's fingers, cool and calloused, just as familiar as they've always been even in death, press against the pulse point on both of her wrists. He closes his eyes and focuses. A second, then two, and then a shock of ice cold pain pierces through her skin. 

She swears that her heart stops for a moment, but as soon as the pain fades, she can feel it rabbit-quick beneath his grip. "Oh, is that all?" she jokes, breathless. "You should have seen the Stranger—"

Something wraps around her forearm and gives a ferocious tug — sending her off balance and almost ripping her from Gerry's grasp. 

He lashes out, the knife already in his hand even if she didn't see him reach for it, and a black tendril falls away to dissolve into an oil slick at their feet. 

"What is happening?" she asks, slapping away another that reaches for her hips. 

"Where is your body?" 

"In — in a lake. Floating in the lake where Jon disappeared—" 

Gerry grips her shoulders and gives her a firm shake until her eyes focus on him. The black tendrils are crawling up her ankles now, though they seem to avoid Gerry. "Do you have a tether? Something to pull you back?"

She thinks of Georgie and nods. 

"You have to go," he says, and clasps the side of her neck with one hand. He leans his forehead against hers, and she can feel the spark and prickle of the Eye. "Sasha, don't let me find you here again unless you have a very good excuse." 

"I promise," she manages before the water swallows her whole and she's drowning.

Interlude- (The scene you see is thus:

On the shore, Tim struggles against Melanie's grip, screaming for a name you know is your own. There's real fear there, and you know its taste — can remember it from when he saw you before. That utter, horrifying fear because he knows what it could mean for you.

Basira drags Georgie away, both women ashen and terrified, but Georgie is an easier charge than Tim. She goes limply, but willingly. 

And there, thrashing in the middle of the lake, the Hunter pins down the thing that wears your skin. You feel its scream in your throat, clawing and hungry for air. But the Hunter doesn’t flinch. She just holds you under.)

[pax-2735]

GoT Fanfic: (Find the strenght you need) To carry on

Summary: After Jon is hailed King in the North, there is heavy drinking and strange conversations.

Notes: An added scene to season 6 episode 10 'The Winds of Winter'. Jon Snow/Sansa Stark

None of this is mine, I'm just playing in someone else's sandbox, so please don't sue me. Compliments will be repeated in front of the mirror, flames will be used to light my cigarrettes. Please send them all in.  Lyrics in the title belong to Lori Carson and Graeme Revell's song 'Fall in the light', even if I did tweak them a bit. Title of the series belongs to the song by the same name by Deep Forest and Peter Gabriel.

(Find the strenght you need) To carry on

He’s drunk. He’s somewhat surprised as he realizes this, as he’s never been one to indulge in… well, pretty much anything really, but the warmth coursing through his body is pleasant enough that Jon merely smiles at the thought.

He has been hailed King in the North merely a few hours ago and since then, nearly every lord in the Realm has come up to him to toast his newly acquired status. It’s amusing really, how these people who have spent his entire life ignoring him suddenly seem so eager to be close to him.

A hand clasps his shoulder gently and he startles, but Sansa’s voice is quick to reassure him.

“Easy there. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

He huffs as he turns his head to look at her. “You didn’t scare me.”

Her laugh tinkles across the Great Hall and he suddenly realizes it’s almost empty, most of the lords having left to return to their provided chambers, leaving them practically alone.

“Really? You could have fooled me.”

He mutters something under his breath about how no one seems to be able to do that as he tries to give her a scolding look, but by the look of amusement in her eyes, he’s pretty sure it’s coming across as pouting.

“How much did you have to drink?” She’s leaning down closer and looking straight at him and the familiar burning in the pit of his stomach flares to life at the sight of her so close.

“Apparently not enough.” He replies, closing his eyes and leaning his head against the back of the chair. This is madness, he knows. It’s wrong. It fills him with shame, further proving what he’s been told all his life, how bastards are wanton creatures who have no honor. He has tried to live his life in a manner that would prove all of them wrong. How ironic that now, when they have finally moved on from birth and name, when they chose him as their king, they could so easily be proven right.

He blindly reaches for his cup, hoping there’s still something left in it, but feels a warm hand close around his wrist instead. Jon opens his eyes to look at her just as she begins to pull him to his feet.

“Come on now, you need sleep.”

He complies and follows her through the dimly lit hallways towards his chambers. He doesn’t let go of her hand and she makes no move to pull it from his, and there’s a tiny burst of something in his chest as he realizes this. Happiness perhaps, he thinks. He knows it’s probably the alcohol and tomorrow everything will feel different – even this small little thing will likely be something else he berates himself for – but right now it doesn’t matter. She’s here, next to him, and he thinks he could live the rest of his days like this and never want for anything else.

Once they reach his chambers – and there’s a part of his mind that scolds him, this isn’t how it’s done, he should be escorting her, but then again Sansa hasn’t been one to conform to the norm for a very long time now and she’d probably just narrow her eyes at him if she knew what he was thinking – he opens his door before turning to her to bid her goodnight. Instead, she merely side steps him and walks resolutely inside and he’s left standing in the hallway, looking confused.

She smiles at him from inside and he narrows his eyes before following her in.

“Should you be in here?” He knows if the circumstances were different, it’s likely he would have fumbled his way through that sentence. No wonder so many men refer to wine as courage in a bottle.

“I’m only making sure you get to sleep in one piece, Your Grace.” She’s smiling, a teasing glint in her eyes, and he scoffs even as he can’t help but smile back. He likes this playful mood.

“How much did you have to drink?” She narrows her eyes at him and he huffs a laughter as he walks into his bed chamber before dropping in a heap in his bed and closing his eyes. The room seems to be moving but he can’t tell if it’s the drinking or her that’s making his head spin.

He can hear her moving in the adjoining room, stoking the fire and humming something under her breath. He misses her singing, the way she used to when they were both children who didn’t know how cruel the world could truly be.

He’s startled again when the humming stops and he hears the rustling of her skirts next to the bed. Raising his head painstakingly slow, he opens his eyes to see her kneeling down in front of him, seemingly ready to take off his boots.

“You don’t have to do that.” He makes no move to stop her, even though he knows he should. This is a dangerous game they’re playing here.

She looks up at him with a frown. “I know that. But you don’t seem to be capable and I don’t mind do it.”

He leans up on his elbows and scowls at her. “I’m very capable.”

“Of course you are.” Her response is instant, her tone reassuring and slightly condescending, as though she’s speaking to a small child, as though she’s not kneeling in front of his splayed legs, a cascade of red hair keeping her face hidden from his gaze. He swallows as his treacherous, treacherous mind wonders at what it would feel like to run his fingers through those red locks, feel its softness against his thighs, to have those hands touch his bare skin, and he drops back down with a thud as heat creeps up his body.

She finishes taking off his boots but doesn’t move from her spot and he carefully opens his eyes again to stare at the ceiling.

“Maybe I should get a wife.” He hears her gasp in surprise but she doesn’t say anything so he feels he must. “Someone to help me rule and…” He lifts his head back up to stare at her with what he hopes is a playful smirk. “…help me with my boots when I’m not capable.”

She lifts herself up from the floor and moves with practiced elegance towards him. There’s something sparkling in the depths of her eyes and he sits himself up just as she lowers to sit next to him.

“I’ve just become Lady in my own house again. You’ve been king for mere hours and already you wish to rob me of my position?” She looks absolutely serious and for a moment his mind struggles to say something, anything, to assure her that that’s not the case. That he was merely jesting, that he wishes for no one else by his side, but then her head tilts to the side and she lets out a snort of laughter at his panicked look.

“You are so easy to fool.” She says it between laughs and he relaxes, a long hissing breath drawing from his mouth as the tension ebbs away. Still, he can’t let her get away with it quite so easily.

He shrugs casually. “Maybe I should just marry you. That way we could both get what we want.”

The words are out of his mouth before he truly thinks about what he’s saying but once their meaning registers in his muddled brain, he freezes and so does she, a wild look in her eyes as she searches his face. He looks intently into her sky blue eyes and it’s clear she’s waiting for him to say something else, something more, to take the edge out of his words and turn them into a joke between siblings, something casual and uncompromising. He knows that he should but he can’t bring himself to do it. He doesn’t want to take it back.

The tension between them mounts, as thick as the everlasting snows north of the Wall, crackling with pent up energy like the fleeting moments right before a storm hits. He feels drawn to her, like he always does, but this time he knows they are dangerously close to crossing that line from where there’ll be no coming back from. Part of him wanders if he would want to.

He lifts his hand to her face, his fingertips ghosting across her cheek, and he watches in fascination as she closes her eyes, leaning into the caress. It’s not the first time he’s touched her like this, but this time he doesn’t know how they will ever pretend it doesn’t mean what it does. For her sake, he has to try.

“You should go, get some sleep.” He lets his hand fall away and she opens her eyes, liquid and vulnerable. His voice is rough with want and desire and he curls his hands into fists, looking away from her. He can’t do this, not to himself and certainly not to her. They’re not Targaryens – or even Lannisters, for that matter – and the irony of wishing for it even for a fleeting moment isn’t lost on him.

He watches with hooded eyes as she stands and quietly leaves his chambers and lets himself fall back down into the furs. He knows that, come morning, they will have to go on as if nothing has happened. They won’t speak of it. They will go on acting as if nothing else binds them together but brotherly love.

Jon curses, and the last thing on his mind before sleep claims him is a firm resolution never to drink again.

[chezzkaa]

Fears of a Fake - pt 3/3

A/N: Happy Halloween! I hope you have the spookiest holiday possible, and enjoy the final installment of this fic. If you like, please reblog - as Tumblr is making it incredibly difficult for creators. Also, don’t forget to vote on the Cinders name poll, and have your say!

Summary: It’s show time

WC: 5685

“Alright everyone,” Trevor’s calls have you hesitating, eyeliner wand hovering before you continue; listening between the sweeping wing. “We’ve got a few orders of business before this fuck show gets going. Which is very soon, I don’t know about you, but I’m fucking terrified.” Screwing the lid back on and moving to collect the final set of horns, you carefully position them atop your head. Long elegant spirals twist from your forehead backwards, curling like waves while you watch Trevor gesture dramatically in the mirror. “So, okay, first things is that – hey!” As Trevor tries to round up the crew the warehouse plunges into darkness, Ray making haunting noises as he plays with the lights. “Spooky!” he wails, Michael pushing his way through the crowd to swat his hand away, the two slapping for control of the switch. “Stop it Ray, you’re gonna cause seizures.” “Spooky seizures!” “RAY.”

Trevor waits patiently, watching the pair until Michael takes control, guarding the switch from Ray’s persistent attempts; the man eventually giving up and chuckling. “Let’s try that again, shall we? Number one; stop leaving fucking candy wrappers everywhere.” Your eyes catch Alfredo’s in the mirror, hands buried deep in his front pocket as he shuffles towards you, a slew of foils crinkling to the floor as he moves. You’re trying to keep a straight face when applying the contacts, blinking and disorientated as the white grid takes over; reflection regarding you with a chilling cold gaze.

 You barely recognise the woman staring back, completely buried beneath sharp features and the deep colours glistening across your skin. Tiny iridescent scales scab over the shape of your elbows and collarbones, tracing from knees to legs and blending with the wicked tiptoe heels thrusting you 7 inches higher; shining as bright as the multitude of horns curving from your head. Laced securely into an ornate corset with frothy fabrics erupting from your hips to tumble to the floor, every movement sees a mesmerising cloud of midnight blue shift and sparkle around your feet. Collecting the tiny set of wings hanging from the chair, you shrug into them, turning apprehensively away from the alien woman and focusing on Trevor as he stands atop a cluttered bench.

 “Second, we have our beloved Jon here so don’t interrupt his fucking segment or you’re dead to me. If we’re gonna keep this going, we to sell out to advertisements.” Jon in a bright blue button up littered with tiny white birds waves to the left, looking up momentarily from the palm cards he’d been shuffling through for the past hour; desperate to absorb something so he could prove to himself it were possible. A few of the crew wave back encouragingly, Ray and Jeremy cheering through cupped hands; your brother’s smile widening.

 “Next, don’t fuck with the tour guide, or she’ll fucking kill you. And I’m not kidding; you all know what happened last time Jeremy leapt out from behind a couch. God rest his soul.” “I’m still alive,” Jeremy argues, but Trevor powers on, Ray appreciating his efforts with a cheer as he the man speaks, “I can still hear his voice.” Trevor gestures towards you, the crew thowing double takes as admiration and fear ripple through their murmurs at the sight of your costume; powerful and threatening. “See?” The blond clears his throat and pulls the neck of his shirt, “that’s the face of murder. No wonder Ryan’s crazy for you.”

 You chuckle; musical notes a drastic contrast to the darkness of your appearance, sliding the talon attachments onto your fingers. “Finally,” Trevor looks down at the list he was clutching, flipping the page and nodding at the words printed across it; “this is Geoff’s baby. Ruin it and you’re fired.” With a flourish Trevor throws away the notepad, making short shooing gestures to the crowd, “well boys, that it, that’s everything. Now kindly fuck off and get on with whatever it is you’re supposed to be doing.”

 “He’s right, you know,” teases Ryan as he emerges from the crew and approaches, hockey mask perched atop his head and lopsided smile tugging his lips. You raise an eyebrow, watching his eyes sparkle at the sight, “right about what?” He shrugs, reaching up to brush away a stray strand of your hair, fingers lingering against your cheek; “that I’m crazy for you.” “Oh my god,” you giggle, batting his hand away and mirroring the beam peeling across his face, “you’re such a goof.” In a smooth motion Ryan’s fingers intertwine with the hand knocking him away, pulling you close as though dancing; the brilliance of his smile leaving you breathless, “but I’m your goof.” “Well then, Mr. Goofball, how do I look?” His eyes don’t leave your face, blue depths swirling in wonder, “Absolutely horrendous.” “Aww, sweetheart, thank you!” “Anytime, Dear. I tell it how it is.”

 Then the final call comes, everyone rushing into their positions as Jon’s voice rings through the halls; doors set to open and welcome a nervous public.

  The building rattles with a clatter, shaking with the same nerves the man with wild hair stuffed down, staring into the camera. His lips move with the shriek of the wind, one hand waving with energy, and the other firmly gripping slips of paper. The queues weave through the streets, rumbles from the rooms hidden in the horror left to dance with the leaves, swinging to the tune of autumn, lights flickering through the wails. Excitement clings to the tongues of guests, full of sugar and eagerness at the poster promises of a night brimming with frights.

 The news presenter beams, the camera man clicking off and smiling back once the segment draws to a close, the embodiment of sunshine yellow and starlight. Both offer admiring glances up to the building, blacks and purples leeching like bruises against the paintwork, chipped and anxious as it trembles in anticipation. The pair quickly leave once onlookers begin to tie names to faces, the wild haired man’s eyes panicking until a hand falls on his shoulder, the man made of sunshine and cardigan’s leading him away with a confident smile in one hand, and the camera in another.

 From the large, towering door emerges a figure with eyes as fierce as flames, a vicious smile plaguing her lips and talons wicked sharp. Shimmering iridescent in the pale moonlight she flits between existence and nightmares, fog blinding her eyes. The elegant grace of her movements danced to the blood rushing through veins and the hammering base of hearts, fire clogging throats at the thought of what would happen if her body ever stopped. No one spoke, an ushering of stagnant silence settling over the bodies ensnared in her cruel glimmers, the angles of her tilted jaw, the rolling curves of her wings and array of horns.  

 Slowly, deliberately, she laughs. Brutal tones rippling through the sea of uncertainly quaking by her feet, burrowing into the cracks lacing the steps she stood upon. With a roll of her sharp shoulders and flick of the wrist, an orb of light flickers in her palm, hovering to cast a ghostly hue across the crowd; features sallow and unsettling. “Well?” her voice echoes in layers, taunting as she brings the light higher and motions to the open doors, “won’t you join us?”

 Movement doesn’t come easily, the shuffling of feet and murmurs of refusal greeting her steady, watchful eyes, fanning through her skirts like a circling storm cloud. None dared to drift past, scampering inside as another laugh tears from her lips, chasing ankles and snapping at heels. “Don’t keep them waiting.” With another flick the flame in her hand jumps to the lights clinging to the walls, surging and spluttering the room in rich heavy purples; the fireplace jumping to life and roaring as though it’d been active for hours. The eyes of corpses peer out from portraits, glaring into backs and tickling neck hairs, the crowd huddled together as she circles, looking for an angle to strike.

 “It’s so nice to have company again,” she notes, talons dragging across the long grooves carved in the wallpaper, tone uncomfortably polite. “Our last guest’s didn’t appreciate...” a crack sees the lights go out; room plunged in darkness with an array of shrieks. Her gentle chuckles resonate in the walls and playing join-the-dots on the group’s screaming skin. In a flash light floods the room again, her face mere inches away. With eyes entirely white and the angles of her face so unnatural, something about the cool nauseating calm radiating from her closeness sends shudders, “our hospitality.” She lets out a breathy laugh, whimpers emanating from the crowd as a talon traces across the nearest shoulder, dangerously sharp. “Hopefully you’ll do better,” she muses, windows battering with the wind with another flicker of light, floor boards and mirrors creaking in excitement as she gestures back to the door. “Mistress really does enjoy fresh faces.”

 Heads whip to see a figure doused in darkness and disregard, cradled to the corner laced with cobwebs and throbbing anguish. Slowly, the woman raises her head, dead eyes sunken into her freckled face; mouth torn open and spewing a bloody grin. Hair as red as the flames licking the hearth cling to her cheeks, dirty tendrils as waxy as her complexion, blocking the unnerving intensity of her blackened, blood shot eyes. Looking down upon the shuffling bodies, she chuckles low and heavy; finger nails drumming against the walls while the wind rattles its warnings. Netted fabrics and weighted drapes pool around her figure; shifting like smoke as she watches with darting eyes, continuous trembling hums vibrating from between her cracked, bloody lips.

Her mouth twitches, lips pulling away to speak, but all that forming is a blood curdling scream. People jump and scamper away, her approaching figure rushing with a raised hand to snatch at throats as the lights go dark; but once they return the figure is gone. No sign of her haunting the corners or lurking by the stairs, all that’s left is panting and gasps for air. The demon seems unfazed, face almost apologetic – if it weren’t for the utter delight she had in watching the crowd squirm. “None of you are dead yet,” she smiles, somehow having materialised at the top of the stairs, a taloned hand rapping against the banister. “That’s a good sign. You might actually make it to dinner.”

 She snaps out a hand, hooked finger pointing to the lights and the orb returning to her palm, flame flickering in the reflection of her cloudy eyes. “Come, let me show you your quarters.”

 Past the winding stairs spins a hallway, walls drunk and carpet cringing. Each step brings anxiety, balance thrown off with every violent lurch, claustrophobia caught in strangled gasps. Focus on the demon becomes crucial, guests hugging the walls and dipping as the ceiling leans in for contact, craving physical touch and caressing the tops of heads. The tiny door is the only option for escape, demon shrinking through in a smooth, unbroken curl; her laughter disappearing in the wind whistling through the hallway. Elbows barge impatiently, the frantic sound of scampering thrust bodies through the doorway and into a room they instantly regret. Mirrors shattering reality as the guests leave the screaming loneliness shaking the doors, bellows of pain and anguish nibbling ankles and flexing toes.

The empty void beneath the bed demands attention; glaring at the groups’ shins as they shuffle. Looking around, the demon is nowhere, though her gentle, rippling voice does little to ease the twisting cracks beneath shoes. The window panes rattle in desperation, clawing at the wooden panels holding them in the nightmare; room littered with shattered bones and ruffled feathers. Faint smears of copper red smudge the dusted, mistreated floors; sticking under foot and cracking under pressure. With every shudder of the wardrobe the sheets lining the bed’s underside shift, fluttering in anticipation.

With a groan the centre of the bed begins to shake, pulsing in flumes of sheets as the creature rasps. No longer does the incessant scratching set teeth on edge, rather shifting to tear the mattress; feathers shivering in clumps under the confusing orange and purple lights. The oddities littering every surface begin to tremble, bouncing along the grooved wood to shatter to the floor, shards fracturing against the feet of those far too slow. Taloned fingers and protruding arms heave, forcing the body upwards as it struggles. Sickening twists and cracks resonate from its bones, brutal ringing pops forcing the air between its joins; movements measured and unearthly. The frame creaks, a second set of arms jutting like spider legs as the lights flicker sporadically, wardrobe shuttering as desperately as the windows. Sheets seep black as the group scampers screaming, a mouth tearing open beneath the fabric as the covers cling to the spindly arms; a creature taking its first gasping breath, as though finally breaking the water's surface.

It begins to growl; claws hauling its contorted body towards the group, room plunged into darkness as the light bulb shatters with a ping. The only visibility is gifted by the mournful moon and the beast’s glowing crimson eyes. From beneath the bed expels sharp rushes of fog, the frame rattling with each desperate claw, feathers expelling in puffs. A final, mechanic screech sees the wardrobe and windows wrench open with a clattering smash, door slamming shut and locking the room after the guests pile out with heightened screams. Nothing but pants and gasps accompanying the doorframe as it shudders; hallway dancing with a fear that bounces against the mirrors and the scooping ceiling. Distant shrieks scampering between feet to burrow under doors.

“You'll have to excuse the neighbours,” warns a resonating voice, demon materialising behind the group, eyes shifting in the fog seeping through the walls, lips curling into a smile as cruel as the spinning floor, “they get a little rowdy.” Fright hangs thick in the air, a chocking confusion searing lungs and blinding vision. Bodies shake with cold sweat, trembling as fingers ball into strained fists. The demon simply watches; angles so sharp they cut away any sense of calm. The world swells, as though even the air feared her, dividing to scuttle away with every swift, dangerous movement. Her shoulders roll with a tilt of her strong jaw, body buzzing. Every muscle tight and ready to pounce, to spring into action and slice tons through throats in a blinding instant, though the scowl tugging her nose exercises restraint. Instead, she beckons. Long, wicked sharp talons coax the group; the fanning of her hair as she turns expelling dozens of glowing blue flames, drifting r as her feet whisper. Guests clomp noisily after her, the dangerous demon the only safety left to cling to, abandonment in the hallway almost of terrifying as the smooth circles drawn by her swaying hips. Powerful legs tether to the clumsy floors, moving effortlessly as others stumble behind; laughs whipping through hair as the flickering flames follow.

Winding back to the mistreated stairway she's on the ground, a powerful launch bounding over the stairs for her heels to clatter to the floor, landing smooth as she watches the others descend. Tentative fingers skip over the banister, skin squeaking as they flock, eyes falling on the cloaked figure guarding the fireplace. The demon directs to the cluttering of faded, moth infested furniture draped in dusty sheets, littering the path to the door squealing open to the far right of the room. With the delicate gesture of her hands, the flames dotingly follow the same as the guests, none willing to turn their backs to the towering woman in black whose neck creaks and shoulders pop. The flames swarm, circling the trembling guests as feet shuffle, shoes scuffing a floor that welcomes the abuse. Silence settles with uncomfortable, stifling heat. The fire place roaring with the gentle fizzing of flickering orbs, drawn to the figure's back and hovering like hungry flies.

In an instant she’s screaming again, face illuminated with elongated shadows as she surges towards the group, fingers outstretched. The demon pays no mind, a ringing snap of her fingers seeing the orbs rush the monster bent on destruction; screams of anguish quickly turning to those of agony. Blue flames catch in the folds of her fabric, body going up with wicked crackling fire, smoke chocking. In the centre of the room she stops, head tilted back and chin jutting into a morbid shriek, arms rods by her side as she continues to burn. Screams echo from the guests, some concerned for their own lives, others trying to force worry about hers. The demon does neither. Instead, she moves to block the burning woman who collapses to her knees, a hand with pleading fingers curling around her ankle; only to be kicked aside without a thought. The demon smiles viciously, approaching the group and forcing them to continue, eyes fearful and mouths hanging in now silent screams. “Let me apologise once again,” the demon states pleasantly, eyes glowing in the flickering light, blue flames fading into blackness, “we aren’t used to visitors. There’s still some etiquette we’ve yet to nail down.”

 Then the room roars with flames, walls engulfed in hungry blue licking the floorboards and snapping towards the feet that scamper, panic rippling as smoke chokes around the demon. Embers churn as she approaches, the heat as comfortable as a cool autumn day for her, but searing the skin of the guests. Sweat beads as they run to the nearest exit, desperate for safety until the door slams shut behind them. Cackles smash against the door as guests lock the demon with the flames in which she revelled; cruel laughter resonates with the creaking beams, smoke rolling under the door.

 Shoes skid in the viscous coating pooling between the tiles, smacks of elbows and knees clattering against the packed countertops and saturated walls, flames diminishing into silence. Appalled groans ripple with the panicked shrieks of those soaking in gore. Frantic hands snatch at purchase, attempting to find the leverage to scamper to their feet, but fingers only curl around hunks of silken, marbled flesh. Their pleas for help drip with fear; sticking in the blood coating their skin and bruises ready to bloom, eyes trapped in the puddles in which they sat. But the remaining guests don't move, locked with unsteady feet to stare at the man whistling behind the pooling counters – littered with tattoos and painful years.

Burlap apron printed with hands and moulded with the undesirable; face smeared with death and joy. Clots cling to his tattered moustache as he smiles cheerfully, blood cracking with the wrinkles etching his face. At home in the sweltering heat rolling in steam from the fresh fat beading across his workspace, his clashingly joyous laughter bubbled with the foul smell bouncing in the trembling pots atop the stove. His blade comes down sharply, hacking at the forearm, fingers twitching upon impact, still desperately clawing for life. Residing in his room of red, washed in bloody fountains, the whites of his eyes and teeth shatter the dark despair with manic threat.

“I wasn’t expecting fresh meat so soon,” the man teases with a rasp, voice catching with a crack of excitement. The group murmurs nervously, chests still pounding with the roaring flames, bodies trembling as a shared look of panic leaches the colour from their faces. Bodies still adorning the floor struggle to their feet and collide back with the others, cowering and slick with tendrils that should never see the light of day. “They're guests,” informs the demon, somehow standing by the man’s elbow without having moved, her gaze cruel with the memory of being trapped in the flames. The stretch of her smile brings with it a whisper of secrets, eyes fixating on the whites of his. The butcher’s eyebrows quirk; another roll of wrinkles and another shattering of blood. Caked fingers twirling the ends of a matted and stiff moustache. “You know you shouldn’t name livestock,” he scolds, motioning to the huddled and terrified group with a smattering of sinew, lukewarm flecks of fat clinging to their hair and burning cheeks; lungs still drowning in the heated horror of the room. “Names and emotional attachments make slaughter difficult.”

“Agree to disagree,” rejects the demon, clouded eyes drifting past the destruction to sparkle with menace, studying the group, “if anything, its worlds more fun.” The man bellows with harsh, bitter laughter, reams of sickening amusement ricocheting off the walls and burrowing in the piles of organs. A large tattooed hand sweeps the chopping board clean of fingers and vegetables. “You might be right,” he comments, critically eyeing the group before selecting a wicked filleting knife, sharpening it with clean sweeps, “I knew it was one or the other.”

“We all make mistakes, some more regrettable than others,” reassures the demon coolly, voice resonating in echoing waves, talons locating the only clean patch on the man’s shoulder to pat. Then she turns, not sparing the room with walls oozing gore or the group under her care trembling inside a second glance. “If you can catch one, you can keep one.” The butcher giggles manically as the demon disappears into the next room, shedding the blood as the man approaches, brandishing his blade. Screaming ensue, skittering across the floor with the slipping of feet, bodies bashing against one another as they scuttle away, desperate to escape. Gore clings to clothing, smattering of fear lacing with the guts tracing the angles and curves of their bodies as the butcher lunges, knife slicing through the sleeve of the final guest; yells clogged in the water overtaking the halls.

Feet sink, logging in the saturated carpet that oozes the stagnant scent of pond water; butcher’s fist pounding against the door. Wallpaper clings to the walls like they cling to sanity, the demon watching them enter while stood before the next room. She doesn’t smile, lips twitching into a snarl, horns as sharp as her tongue clicking in irritation. The group shuffles, blood seeping into the overflow swirling through the fabric, stale. The demon cocks her head, chin jutting out in offence as she spits her words; “it’s time to clean up.”

 The door blows out behind her, rattling on its hinges as water rushes in, swallowing the guest’s knees and panic. Gushing with incredible speed, the demon dodges. Flying back with eyes cruel and cold, her arms open as she disappears into the darkness; toes skimming the water as a mournful wail hums through. The obscurity throbs, nothingness stinging from the open doorway, faint ghostly green shimmering with each past of a dusty beam of light. Breath hitches, catching in throats as the possibilities stare at the group through the entrance, ranks tightening at the sight of emptiness and the resonating calls cascading in layers.

  The surface swells, ripples creeping into the hallway housing the guests, creatures swarming in the murky depths. Slick bodies brush past legs, teeth nibbling at the hems of clothing while screeching ensues. Desperation to escape sees people diving, forcing their way past others and splashing after the demon, stopping as the floor drops away. Faint sounds of movement scuttles through the water, guests stranded in the blackened room as the door slams shut, locking them in the inescapable hell. Trapped and fearful; kept company by the jagged rocks protruding from the depths, an unsteady light house casts a dim, sweeping glow across the pale faces laced with fright. Whimpers are all that’s left, distraught sobs rippling with the creatures flocking, nudging behind knees and nipping exposed skin.

 All is still, an eerie calm locking bodies in place, lost at sea – until the next wail. It shakes through the water, incredibly loud and compressing against chests, pressure shifting dramatically. From the depths seeps a glow, drowning in the darkness, until another joins it; and another, and another. Four lights hum beneath the surface surrounding the group before they begin to rise. Slowly, bubbles emanating in quick, sporadic bursts as the demon’s laughter drifts, dark and menacing, buried beneath another wail. The group gathers, swimming together until the light house beam conducts another sweep, the lights attached to bodies.

 Breaking the surface comes a head; hair plastered to the pale, bloated skin of a man, littered with the remnants of the ocean floor, eyes as black as the darkness encasing him. Through his mouth tears a hook, turning his pleasant smile into a frightful grimace, water trickling across his soaking dress shirt. Gasps ripple, jumps and surprise resting on their shoulders as another figure appears, faded pink hair blinding her vision, gala dress floating like fire. The guests back away, bumping into the solid bodies stood watching, skin traced with grotesque veins, a man speared through the nose accompanying a woman with a broken harpoon piercing her eye.

 Terror grips the group as fog takes over, curling across the dark water as the horrors take another step closer, heads tilting as one as the guests shudder. The harpooned woman smiles, a pretty expression that sees her mouth spewing water, cascading as she talks; “we haven’t had guests in so long.” Bodies flinch, another step forward bringing twisting fog and an increasing danger; light house beam illuminating the man from the ocean floor, gripping a spear and watching closely. “It’s so lonely here,” agrees the other woman, all their heads tilting the opposite direction with a crack, creatures forcing through the guests legs, their screams ringing out; “please stay with us.”

 They approach rapidly, bodies somehow moving in gentle ripples as the guests panic, splashing violently away from the lost souls, desperate to escape their chats of ‘please’. The man hooked through the nose snatches, fog shifting as the door catches the light, fear taking hold and pushing the group forward. The demon levitates between the monsters, surging with them as the first of many people clamber onto the platform, smashing through the door. Her face remains unsatisfied, fog billowing around her body as she cuts the air, stalking the group as they tumble out the exit.

 The soft billowing wind caresses their freezing forms, shivers and the chattering of teeth resonating through the dense undergrowth, trees baring down to shield the guests from the glare of the moon. Gasps mingle with wonder as the surprise of a swaying field tickles their ankles and brushes against their knees, relieved chuckles reverberating across those who mutter suspiciously. The change of scenery comes as a welcome change, no longer forced to push through and open space with the threat lurking just beneath the surface. Now compressed under the guard of the forest, gentle chirps cut the croak of crows, group finally free.

 The demon pushes forward, talons brushing through the tall grass to shake loose the seeds, nails slicing through with ease. Her face tilts to the moon, dusted in its cool glow as the members of the group break away; some finding a rare sense of bravery to explore, while others collapse to the ground and let the rush of adrenaline settle. The creak of branches rustles with the leaves, watching the bodies beneath glisten with water and dwindling fear; enjoying the unexpected peace. Then it grows dark. The moon sinks beneath the clouds and the room is engulfed in blinding night, muffled gasps and groans chasing the demon as she laughs deeply, pale silver eyes disappearing into the nothingness.

 The guests panic. Frantic apprehension rippling through the crowds as a single lantern flickers to life and roaring happily in the distance, waiting for company. A brave soul takes a step forward, then another, grass swaying against the fabric with soft tugs as they approach the light source. Fingers reach for it before a pained howl tears through with the sound of metal snapping; trap’s teeth gnawing on the flesh of their leg. Hysteria breaks loose, guests scattering with the whirling of a chainsaw in the distance, rain starting to fall. The brave soul extinguishes, clawing at the trap as a deep, chilling laugh drifts on the wind, a crack of lightening illuminating a figure stood atop the nearest hill.

 Screaming fills ears, blood pounding as the man growls through a roll of thunder, raising the weapon before charging. Bodies collide; terrified and frantically searching for escape as the figures blood curdling laughter bites their backs and burrows between shoulders, his blood splattered mask shining with every lightning trace across the sky. Scrambling, those caught in traps crawl as best they can, the figure lunging and missing their legs, severing the mechanism and forcing it open. Cries of freedom and fear rip throats raw, the lantern smashing to the floor as the figure howls, infuriated. With excited sparks, the grass catches, a line of flames funnelling the crowd to the end of the forest, light illuminating the earth as an exit grows near. Heaving with achingly dry chests, the chainsaw chases after the prey, man’s laughter amused and sickening as he takes another swing, flames rippling with nerves.

 The demon materialises in the path, parting the crowds as they battle through the tall, tangled grass, her head tilted and watching the chaos. Another lunge and the man races past, barrelling after the door and remaining targets filtering through the foliage, demon’s talons gently pulling across his arm as he passes; their manic laughter drowning out hope, stealing the joy from the air. “It’s your last stop,” she screeches, approaching the group desperately trying to break open the door, fists pounding with each of the demon’s powerful footsteps. The man grips his choking chainsaw as he weaves towards them, chuckling darkly and hair whipping around the hockey mask, eyes as black as night, casting death in their path.

 “Nowhere else to go,” the demon continues, removing a collection of wicked sharp objects from her calves, scales turning to blades; hurtling from her elegant hand to pierce the door, , “but I do hope you enjoyed your stay, you’ll be here forever.” She laughs with a crack of light, the downpour battling the roaring flames for dominance of the space. Another blade flies, and then another. Dozens hurtling at once and spearing the space around the guests, her cruel smile the last thing many thought they’d see.

 And then the final blade breaks the lock, door swinging open for the guests to topple over one another, splattering to the floor as the remaining force it shut, the horrors locked behind as strangled cries fall on the concrete of a room too bright. All panic seems silly in such a plain space, walls free of terror, cracks housing nothing to fear. Hearts race and blood pumps, whimpers and gasps settling, teeth aching with the cold air raking through the guest’s lungs. The group finally safe; and demon encased in flames and manic laughter.

  “Okay guys,” drones Ray, his eyes encased with dark circles, “welcome to the end of the tour. Don’t forget to recommend us on yelp and all that shit.” He directs the crowd to the table, overflowing with goodie bags, relief filling the room. “Take your party bag on the way out, and thank you for visiting,” he informs, feet shuffling as laughter ripples, nervous and exhausted as the group slows it’s shaking. Trembling fear seeps into the floor as you watch from the doorway, the cool breeze of the forest whispering across the floor and curling around your ankles. The sound of Trevor and Matt cleaning up the mess of Ryan’s room barely registers, muffled through the glass as they chase each other with the chainsaw, laughter halting as Alfredo catches himself in a bear trap; only to dissolve into frantic giggles.

 Your eyes meet Ray’s from across the room, guests oblivious to your existence as you offer him a smile, their minds too overwhelmed with the high of fear as it comes back down to earth. Ryan stands proudly by your side, hockey mask pushed up to rest atop his head, gentle smile and warm eyes watching with joy, his cheeks tinted pink from the flames now extinguished. Hand in hand, his thumb rubs across your engagement ring as it had so many times before, playing with the commitment that made his heart so joyous it could burst.

 Then the room shakes, the squeal of trumpets shattering the calm settling in the shoulders of the group. Voices scream in panic with each frantic flashes of light, skeletons dancing to the fear rattling through the crowd. Ray’s face pales dramatically, bolting to the exit door while screaming, “OH SHIT THEY’RE HERE, THE SKELETON ARMY’S HERE! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!” Quickly he jerks the door open, funnelling out the crowd who run without through, swarming the doorway as Ray forces them through, terror escaping into the night until the door falls closed. Ray’s face joyous as the music creaks to a stop, bones rattling against one another as the musicians swing.

 Tears roll down your cheeks as the final shoe scuttles out the door, the sharp snap locking the world away with swelling, cold autumn air. Through your enjoyment, you hang from Ray, his bellowing laughter ringing off the walls and he grips your elbow, face growing red. Ryan can’t contain his chuckles, sound running out and face buried in his hands as he laughs, unsteady on his feet. Eventually you manage to breathe, lungs aching against your ribs as you wipe the final tear free of the corner of your eye. “How much did we get this round?” Ray’s laughter subsides, a silly beam left in its place as he pours out the contents of his hoodie, watches and wallets toppling onto the table, a scattering of coins for garnish. He peers at it critically, poking through the pile before smiling up at you with eyes churning in amusement, “I’d say, probably about $700 all up?”

“Not bad,” you nod, impressed and clapping him on the back as Ryan slips a hand back into yours; “ready for the next lot?”

[blackholeofprocrastination]

Jon x Sansa #13 pretty please?

KISS PROMPTS ( ˘ ³˘)♥

#13 kiss discretelyJon x Sansa

Jon yelps in surprise when it is not his squire but his betrothed who slips through the entrance of his tent. 

“Hush!” she warns with a smile, dropping back her hood. “Or we shall have your Ser Oswell upon us.”

How she managed to slip past the Kingsguard in the first place, Jon cannot begin to guess. Even with a dull colored cloak for cover, Sansa is too pretty not to draw notice. 

If anyone had seen…

“Sansa…my lady. You should not be here.”

Her face falls and he curses himself for making a mess of things already. He is glad to see her. Too glad. It’s foolish to feel so, for it has only been a few hours since he broke his fast with her family, stealing glances across the table as the younger Starks spoke over one another, bouncing with excitement for the tourney.

Perhaps Sansa shares in his foolishness, for she seems to drink in the sight of him just as eagerly. Color stains her cheeks as her eyes drift down from his face to where his tunic hangs open indecently at the neck. Jon feels overly warm. It has nothing to do with the sun bearing down on the tourney grounds. 

He fumbles to do up his lacings. Sansa is a lady and he does not wish to offend. He thinks it is perhaps his only his own depravity that imagines the flicker of disappointment in her face. 

“I wasn’t seen, my prince,” Sansa assures him. “And I brought Jeyne with me.” She nods to outside the tent where the Poole girl must be waiting. 

This eases Jon’s mind a little. He misliked the thought of Sansa milling about the tourney grounds unescorted (though what protection her little friend could offer, Jon wasn’t certain). 

“Sansa, I–” 

“I have something for you,” she says, stepping closer. “For luck.”

His brow furrows as he looks to see a length of silk dangling from her outstretched hand. A hair ribbon, he realizes upon closer inspection. There is an identical one binding back some her curls, the blue woven in amongst red braids at the crown of her head.  

This is not the first tourney Jon has entered the lists, but it is the first time a lady has sought to give him such a thing.

“It’s a silly,” Sansa says when he is too much of a stumble-tongue to thank her. She draws the favor back. “I’m sorry. It was just a fancy. I–”

“Will you tie it for me, my lady?”

His boldness is rewarded with the return of her smile. She steps closer, her skirts brushing against his boots, as she sets about securing the ribbon to his upper arm. It is difficult to draw a proper breath when she is close like this, her fingers delicate, and maddeningly gentle against him.

“There.” She knots it securely, her hand lingering on his arm just a moment longer than necessary. Before he can gather the wits to thank her, she is on her toes, her lips sweet against his own. “For luck,” she whispers, before disappearing from the tent just as swiftly as she arrived. 

Send me a Kiss Prompt ( ˘ ³˘)♥

[406ink-blog]

Time Stands Still Ch. 3: Unyielding (Also on Ao3)

Sansa had to admit, when she had received Jon’s raven scroll informing her that he was traveling to Winterfell with Daenerys Targaryen, that he had bent the knee to the Dragon Queen without consulting her, she had seen red.  When she came to his signature and saw he’d signed it “Jon Snow, Warden of the North,” she’d crushed it in her palm.  Then to top it all off, the ferret-like Lord Baelish had suggested Jon wanted to marry Daenerys.  She’d spent the rest of the day sequestered in her chambers in a black mood, ripping the head off anyone who dared disturb her.  Only after talking it over with Arya had she come to see Jon was just being Jon.  As to the idea Jon was going to marry Daenerys Targaryen as some sort of ambitious military alliance, Arya had said, That's not Jon. You can take the man out of the north, but you can’t take the north out of the man.

As the Lady of Winterfell, it fell to Sansa to make the necessary preparations for the arrival of Daenerys and her retinue.  The room recently 'vacated' by Lord Baelish would be prepared for Daenerys, and Sansa made a mental note to have it thoroughly cleaned and the best linens put on the bed.  Jon had sent another scroll before sailing for White Harbor detailing their company so that Sansa could formulate an idea of how she would house and feed them all.  Along with Tyrion Lannister, The Hound, and  Lord Varys - who she knew of course – Jon named off Daenerys’ other advisors Missandei and Grey Worm, Jon’s own man Ser Davos,  Gendry Waters, and Lady Brienne and her squire Podrick Payne.  Sansa’s biggest concern was what she would do with 60,000 Dothraki and their mounts, the 200 Second Sons, 8,000 Unsullied and 2 dragons.

While sitting by the fire one night after dinner Sansa informed Arya and Bran of all those that would be arriving with Jon and Daenerys.  The look of recognition and hot blush on Arya’s normally stoic face when Sansa said the name “Gendry Waters” did not go unnoticed.  Sansa asked Arya if she knew him.  Arya told Sansa and Bran how she was traveling to the Wall dressed as a boy with Yoren, when Gendry had joined their party.  Arya still had not revealed where she had gone or what she had done after escaping King's Landing - other than the fact The Hound had played a part in her survival and she'd trained to be a "Faceless Man."  When Sansa had pressed, Arya had merely said, “It’s a long story.”  She had been tempted to ask Bran for the details, but thought better of it.  Arya would come around on her own, she was sure.  And if not, once this Gendry showed up at Winterfell, Sansa was sure the whole story would come out.

The day Jon and Daenerys arrived was a sight to behold.  It was the screeching of the dragons that came first, drawing everyone outside to the ramparts and the yard.  As Drogon and Rhaegal circled overhead, the retinue poured through the castle gates, a sea of mounted riders flanked by black banners emblazoned with a red three-headed dragon, the sigil of House Targaryen, mingled with the dire wolf of stark on a field of white.  The bulk of the Dothraki, Second Sons and Unsullied stayed without to make camp, while Jon and Daenerys led a column of 200 riders that included their closest advisors, their captains, and sworn swords.

Sansa’s eyes were drawn to the head of the column, where Jon rode beside a woman with hair as pale as winter snow.  “That’s her,” Arya exclaimed, the most excited Sansa had seen her since she’d bested Lady Brienne at swordplay.  “That’s the Dragon Queen!  And there!  There are her dragons,” Arya pointed, smiling, to the great beasts circling overhead before racing down the stairs to the yard to where Jon was dismounting.  Sansa smiled; Arya acted so serious these days it was easy to forget she was really still a child.  She recalled how Arya used to wheedle stories out of Old Nan, begging her for tales of the warrior queen Nymeria, and Aegon’s sisters Visenya and Rhaenys and their dragons.  Well now they a real-live Targaryen and her dragons in Winterfell.

Sansa remembered the day so long ago when another king – Robert Baratheon had rode through those same gates.  They had all lined up in their finery – mother, father, Robb, Arya, Sansa, Bran, Rickon, Theon Greyjoy, and even Jon – to welcome their visitors to Winterfell.  She had been a mere child then, her head full of romantic ballads and ideals.  She had been enamored of the Queen and her twin brother Jamie, who had looked like a golden god in his shining armor and white cloak, his green eyes flashing.  Most of all, she had been enamored of Joffrey, so tall and regal in the saddle, his golden hair shining in the sun.  Her sweet prince.  How stupid she had been, how naïve.  She had thought all men were like her father – brave, noble, honorable, strong and true.  In truth, Lord Eddard Stark had been 1 man in 10,000, she thought, and we may never see his like again.

She supposed she had better go down to the yard where the party was dismounting.  As she descended the stairs, she saw her brother Jon helping the woman with the moon-pale hair down from the saddle.  She was smiling down at him, and he was smiling back at her.  Jon smiled so rarely, Sansa wasn’t quite sure what to make of it.  Perhaps Littlefinger had called it correctly, and there was something between the White Wolf and the Dragon Queen.  She watched as Jon turned at the sound of his name being called, and saw Arya for the first time since leaving for the Wall nearly 8 years ago.  The smile he gave Arya far surpassed the last one, and Sansa decided she liked this happier, less brooding version of Jon.  Though Arya was no longer a wisp of a girl, she leapt into Jon’s arms and he caught her, hugging her tightly.

Setting Arya back on her feet, Jon swiped at his eyes and hugged Arya again, then turned to introduce her to Daenerys.  Sansa watched the face of the Dragon Queen as she looked between Jon and Arya.  Her expression held a curious mix of emotions, her smile bittersweet and her eyes far away.  Sansa was just about to cross the yard when a familiar voice called out, “Lady Sansa, I’m so glad to see you again.  You look well.”  Sansa looked down to see the scarred face of Tyrion Lannister, a pleasant smile on his lips.  “Lord Tyrion,” she smiled back at him, “thank you and welcome back to Winterfell.  It has been a long time.”

“Yes,” he said, “it seems like a lifetime ago doesn’t it?  Much has happened – to us both.  Your brother has told me some of what you had to endure.  I am truly sorry, my lady.  But I see you here before me, as beautiful as ever, still standing.  They did not break you, though it was not for lack of trying.”

“No, they did not break me.  Not Joffrey, not Cersei, not the Boltons, or Littlefinger.  But they taught me many lessons for which I am grateful.  Winter has finally come, and their lessons serve me well.  When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives."  Tyrion, for once, did not know what to say and silence hung between them like a a mummer who'd forgotten their line.  After a moment, she said, "If you’ll excuse me, Lord Tyrion.”  With that she moved off, black skirts and fur lined cape trailing behind her in the snow, leaving Tyrion to ponder what she had said and the coldness that clung to his one-time bride like a veil made of ice.

The yard was utter chaos now – dogs barking, horses and riders milling about, churning the freshly fallen snow into mud.  Sansa picked her way carefully until she reached where Arya, her brother and the queen stood talking.  Arya was buzzing about them both like an annoying mosquito, asking incessant questions about dragons, completely forgetting she was in the presence of a queen.  Daenerys did not seem to be bothered by this, so Sansa decided to ignore it for the moment “Jon!  Welcome home,” she greeted her brother, embracing him warmly.  Jon smiled and hugged her back firmly.

“Gods, I’ve missed your face,” he said.  “And your wise counsel.  I could’ve really used your advice down south.  But we’ll talk about that later.  Sansa, this is Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen.  She’s come, along with her armies, to help us defeat the Night King and the dead.”

Sansa turned to the queen, her ice blue eyes shrewdly assessing the woman who stood before her, the last living Targaryen.   She was easily the most beautiful woman Sansa had ever seen, and just like the legends she had deep amethyst eyes.  Her silvery hair was confined in intricate braids and fell down her back to her waist.  She was clad in a white fur overcoat that hugged her shapely body and made her look like an angel, even amongst the drab grey walls and mud of the castle yard.

“Your Grace,” Sansa said as she curtsied.  “Welcome to Winterfell.  You have come a long way and must surely be tired from your journey.  If you please, I’ve had a chamber prepared and a hot bath drawn for you.”

Daenerys looked to Jon, who smiled and gave her a smile reassuring nod.  “I’ll see to the horses and the men, Your Grace,” he said.  “I’ll find Missandei and send her to you.”

“Thank you Lady Sansa.  I find that I am a bit tired and a hot bath sounds lovely.”  She turned to Arya and said, “Lady Arya, I will see you a bit later?  Once I’ve had a chance to rest, I’ll take you to meet my dragons.”  To Jon, she said simply, “My lord,” but her eyes said something more, a fact that Sansa did not miss.

Sansa gestured to her lady’s maid and gave her instructions to take the queen to her chamber, and to draw her a hot bath at once.  “This is my lady’s maid Jeyne, Your Grace.  She will take you to your room and see to your bath.  Please let her know if there is ought you need and she will see to it.”  With that, Daenerys followed Jeyne into the castle.  Jon had gone off, presumably to see to the horses and the men that had rode in with him.  “Arya,” Sansa said, realizing someone very important was missing, “where is Bran?”

Arya replied that he was probably in the godswood.  Sansa nodded; Bran had been spending hours upon hours there lately, trying to hone his skills and learn all that he could about the Night King.  The last several days, Bran had said a number of times that he needed to speak with Jon urgently upon his arrival, that he had something important to tell him.  Well, it would just have to wait a bit longer, Sansa thought, her eyes scanning over the crowd which was beginning to disburse.

The majority of the free riders had filtered back out the gates to where the camps were being setup.  About 30 people remained in the inner keep, several were leading groups of horses to the stables.  Among them she saw Lady Brienne and her squire, Podrick.  Arya had joined them, and the three were engaged in rapt conversation.  She had given instructions to the stewards on where to house the advisors Jon and Daenerys had brought with them; she saw Varys, Tyrion and Ser Jorah Mormont being led into the keep.

Suddenly Sansa met a set of familiar grey-brown eyes; it was Sandor Clegane -The Hound.  Sansa froze.  She had known he was coming with Jon, but she wasn’t truly prepared for the effect seeing him again would have on her.  Her mind flashed back to the night of the siege on King’s Landing, when she had fled to the safety of her room and bolted the door only to find him there in her darkened room.  He was drunk, in her bed, and covered with blood.  At first, Sansa had been utterly terrified, so frightened she couldn’t even recall a single song when he’d told her to sing for him.  But she had looked into those brown eyes and seen a sadness there, seen a vulnerability, though she wasn’t convinced wouldn’t hurt her.  He’d offered to take her home to Winterfell, but she had stayed instead to take her chances with King Stannis. In hindsight, she wished she’d taken her chances with The Hound.  They had all used her, the players in the great game – Queen Cersei, Lord Tywin, Prince Joffrey, Lord Baelish, the Boltons.  She thought of the scroll she’d sent to her brother Robb, naming her father a traitor, the one Arya had found and threatened her with.  He was right, she thought sadly, she had been like a frightened little bird, singing the songs they taught her.  And she had learned all too well that life was not a song, had learned it to her sorrow.

Sandor saw Sansa too, saw her eyes lock right on his.  She’d grown up; his little bird was a woman grown now, even more beautiful than he remembered.  He’d gone to her room the night of the siege, drunk and disillusioned, thinking her safely ensconced with the Queen in Maegor’s Holdfast.  He’d never met any lady so innocent or pure as Sansa, not in all his miserable life.  All he’d wanted that night was to feel close to her, to smell her sweet scent, to pretend in his final moments before Stannis’ forces stormed the castle and gutted them all that she didn’t look at him in sheer terror.  In the end, he’d terrified her anyway.  She wouldn’t leave with him, deciding instead to take her chances with Stannis.  He’d taken one last look at her, committing every detail to memory before he’d walked out the door – her deep auburn hair, flax-blue eyes, skin the color of seashells.  Sandor conjured her image to keep him company many lonely nights on the road, wondering whatever had become of her.

Though he did not realize it, his feet moved of their own accord, and suddenly he was standing there before her.  Sandor spoke first. “Hello little bird,” he said.

“Ser Sandor,” she said, wary, “I was surprised to hear you had joined with my brother.”

“I’m no knight little bird, remember?  Just the Hound, just a fucking dog.  I’m only here because I have work to do, that’s all.  A hound will die for you, but never lie to you.  And he’ll look you straight in the face.  You needn’t worry.”

She’d remember him saying that bit about hounds to her before, years ago when he had told of the story of his sigil.  “You say you are no knight, but you are not just a fucking dog; I’ve known men who were Sers, but no true knights, men who were worse than dogs.  I’ve fed men worse than you to dogs.  I’ve made men worse than you disappear.  Their bones, their words, their houses, their names, all memory of them – gone.”  She took a deep breath.

“Thank you for what you did for Arya, and for Jon beyond the Wall.  The North remembers, and we owe you a great debt.”

He was surprised to hear her curse, to hear her speak coldly of feeding men to dogs and wiping all trace of them from this world.  He wondered what had happened to her that she no longer showed any trace of the girl he had known.  That girl is dead, he thought to himself, I can see it in her eyes.  A bitter smile twisted across his lips at that realization.  “You owe me nothing, little bird.  I’d best see to my horse,” he rasped, and with a nod, he took himself and his horse off to the stables.   He turned back a moment, looking at her rigid form over his shoulder – she stood tall and proud, as beautiful and perfect as a porcelain doll in the fading light, clad all in black, no trace of fear or emotion on her face or in her eyes.  He knew in that instant if anyone hurt her ever again, even so much as thought about harming a hair on her head, he would fucking gut them for it without a second thought.

Later in her chamber as Sansa changed for dinner, she decided she would speak to Jon about knighting Sandor Clegane.  Mayhap in this world, such things no longer mattered, but he deserved it regardless.  He had saved her, more than once, though she had been too stupid and frightened of him at the time to realize it.  He had kept Arya alive and out of the hands of their enemies, even fighting Lady Brienne to the death (well, near-death as it turned out).  And he had put his life on the line to go beyond the Wall with Jon to procure a wight to prove that the army of the dead was real.  If that was not worthy of knighthood, Sansa did not know what was.

She was looking forward to seeing everyone gathered in the great hall, and to having what remained of her family back under the roof of Winterfell.  It had been so long since they had all been together.  She was dismayed when a guard appeared at her door with a note from Samwell Tarly written on Bran’s behalf, summoning her to the crypts at once.  Apparently he had some important news that couldn’t wait.

When Sansa arrived at the crypts, Jon and Daenerys were already there.  They stood before the statue of her Aunt Lyanna talking.  Sansa thought they were oddly intimate with one another, they seemed to share a closeness that was more than one would expect from a mere military alliance.  As Sansa approached, they abruptly stopped talking, looking for all the world like two children caught at some conspiracy.  Sansa stopped behind them, and said, “Our Aunt Lyanna.  Have you told her the story Jon?”

Jon turned, scowling, “The wars of the past do not matter, Sansa.  I saw no point in dredging it up.”

Sansa disregarded her brother, looking forward at the statue as she spoke,  “Lyanna was pledged to Robert Baratheon; your brother Rhaegar kidnapped her and raped her.  He paid for his treachery on the Trident, but not before tens of thousands died because of his actions.”

Daenerys regarded the statue of Lyanna thoughtfully, then turned to face Sansa.  Even in the darkness of the crypts, her violet eyes smoldered, and her voice was smooth and cold as ice.  “I never knew my brother Rhaegar; sadly he died when I was but a babe.  Ser Barristan Selmy was kingsguard to my father.  He told me that he knew my brother well.  He painted a picture of Rhaegar as a man much loved by the common people, a man who did not enjoy the suffering of others or killing .  My brother Viserys also used to tell me stories.  He was only 6 when we fled Westeros, but he could still recall some memories of our brother.  I suppose he rather idolized Rhaegar, so perhaps he embellished his tales, but I do not think Ser Barristan played me false.  One tale that he told quite often was of the Battle of the Trident, where Ser Barristan himself nearly died, and Rhaegar valiantly battling the Usurper in the bloody waters – fighting and dying for the woman he loved.”

“Elia Martell,” Jon interjected, referring to Rhaegar’s queen.

A sad smile flashed across Daenerys’ face, gone so fast Sansa wasn’t sure it was ever there at all. She continued, “As I have heard the story told, Rhaegar died with a name upon his lips but it was not Elia. It was a whisper on his dying breath - ‘Lyanna’.”

Jon’s obsidian eyes widened at this and he could not seem to find his voice.  Sansa, stunned to silence, turned suddenly pale.  But before anything further could be said, they realized the rest of the group arrived, including Bran, who had been carried down in his wheel chair by Ser Jorah and Ser Davos.  In truth, Daenerys’ revelation was merely the first to be dropped on them that night and it would not be the last.

When Bran told them all that Jon was not the son of Lord Eddard Stark, but in fact, the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, Sansa felt for the all the world like she was outside of her body watching it all unfold as though she herself were one of the stone statues - one of the unseeing Kings of Winter.  She heard her own voice saying Jon was still a Stark, still the ruler they had all chosen.  Then she heard Jon say he was still a bastard, but that he would fight – and die – for the North.  When Bran refuted that, his voice flat and unfeeling, saying Jon was trueborn and the heir to Iron Throne, that was when seven hells had broken loose with everyone talking at once.  That had snapped Sansa out of it, that and Jon commanding them all to leave – except for her, Daenerys, the Dragon Queen.

While everyone else had fled the crypt and gone up to the great hall to dine, Jon and Daenerys had remained below for some time.  They had finally emerged to join the feast, which had been given to honor their alliance and the return of the remaining Starks to Winterfell, Sansa’s keen eye did not miss the bruised lips of the Dragon Queen, or the way Jon looked at her across the table – like Daenerys was on the menu.  The fact that everyone was openly talking about them, and questioning who had the truer claim to rule the Seven Kingdoms had no effect whatsoever.  Neither did the fact everyone stopped talking the instant Jon and Daenerys walked in and sat down.  It was as though they had eyes and ears only for one another.  Sansa had never seen Jon act like this before, and while he was still dark, brooding and serious, it was clear Daenerys had invaded his system and his defenses were beginning to crumble.    

Later, alone in her chamber, Sansa sat before the looking glass brushing her hair. My skin has turned to porcelain, she thought as she looked at her reflection in the candlelight, to ivory, to steel.  She resolved in the coming days to find out more about the Queen.  Knowledge is power, came another unbidden thought, a cold shiver running down her spine as she recalled one of the many lessons Cersei Lannister had taught her.  She would seek out those who had come from Essos with Daenerys and hear what they had to say about their queen.  She would uncover whatever was going on between her and Jon.  Jon had faced his own trials in life, but he had not been through what Sansa had been through, had not survived what she had survived.  She had become hard and unyielding, as sharp and unforgiving as Valyrian steel.  There was no such thing as love, no such thing as trust.  She had once loved Prince Joffrey with all her heart, and admired and trusted his mother, the queen.  They had repaid that love and trust with her father’s head.  Sansa would never make that mistake again, and she would not let Jon make it either.  If she could spare him that lesson, she would.

[jonsa-creatives]

It was a bar again, it always is. Occasionally Sansa will get sent to a sports game or the target’s place of work but bars were standard. It was fine - she knew how to work bars. This bar was attached to a local hotel and was obviously going for the whole ‘rustic, woodsy, whisky connoisseur’ vibe. The bar itself looked to be made from thick chunks of polished aged oak, there were a few tan leather sofas hosting various plaid cushions and  a few old whisky barrels were displayed high over the bar’s optics.

Hiding in the corner, pretending to be occupied with her phone, she kept one eye on the entrance whilst scrolling through the photos from the her target’s file.

Dark and handsome. Good, that makes it easier.

Not that her targets needed to be good looking for Sansa to flirt with them - she was a pro at that after four years in this business.

‘Wolf & Rose’ was fast becoming the top honeytrap establishment in the whole of King’s Landing and Sansa’s bank balance was constantly thanking her for taking a chance with her best friend’s crazy scheme.

Glancing up from her phone, she saw the very moment that the man from photos sprang into reality as he strolled into the bar.

Jon Snow. Showtime.

She put away her phone and smoothed down the tight black cocktail dress that showed just a bit too much cleavage as well as featuring a long slit up the side of the skirt, showcasing an inch or two too much of her best assets.

“Is this seat free”? Sansa purred with an open smile as she already began sliding her butt onto the bar-stool next to Jon’s.

“Uh…Yeah..” her target replied, looking around at all the other empty seats around the long, L-shaped bar.

“I’m Alayne” she smiled, offering her hand in greeting.

“Jon” he responded with a hesitant, confused look painted across his brow.

“What brings you to King’s Landing Jon”? She asked, already knowing from the file that he was on a works conference trip.

Before he could answer, they were interrupted by the bartender asking for their order.

“Umm….I don’t really know” Sansa mused as her finger tapped her blood red bottom lip before she drew it into her mouth with her teeth “I don’t really know much about whisky..” she shrugged, her copper red hair falling from her bare creamy shoulders “but I like to try new things….Jon?…can you recommend anything for me”?

Sansa was good at this part - playing coy, pretending to be less than she is, giving off illusions - seeming attainable.

“Uh…the Winterfell Single Malt is good” he offered tentatively.

“Two of those please” Sansa beamed at the bartender, making the young lad blush.

After three drinks each, and copious amounts of encouragement from Sansa, Jon began to loosen up. This was a difficult case for Sansa though, her target was obviously reluctant.

More often than not, Wolf & Rose’s client’s suspicions are correct and their targets end up showing their true colours after flirty small talk, flattery, gentle touches to arms, suggestive gazes and lots of drawing attention to cleavage, lips and legs. But sometimes - sometimes - they’d stumble across some good eggs. Sansa would pity those guys - their spouse’s arranging for them to be seduced by another woman was kind of like the kiss of death for their relationship in the end. And yet, there they would be, innocently talking with her, no intention of straying with no comprehension of what was to come once the truth came out.

It was after Sansa’s third attempt to get Jon’s eyes lost in her bosom by gently brushing the curve of her exposed skin with her fingertips that she thought she may have been assigned one of those good eggs.

It wasn’t that Jon wasn’t looking - he most definitely was. But as soon as he’d allowed himself to glance just a beat too long at her lips, at her chest and into her eyes he would flush the most becoming shade of red and dart his deep brown gaze away from her. He also kept twiddling with his wedding ring. That was always telling - they were on the precipice, either making a decision or trying to remind themselves of their vows.

Don’t draw attention to it, Sansa thought as her eyes bounced away from his busy fingers. That was one of the rules of honeytrapping 101 - don’t do anything to remind them that they’re married.

“My wife would like this bar” Jon blurted randomly.

Oh he IS a good egg. Poor guy. The cheaters never mentioned their wives.

“She would”?

“Yeah….or at least she used to like places like this” he said with the saddest smile Sansa had ever seen “before….” Jon trailed off as he swirled his fourth whisky around in the glass tumbler, the ice clinking like the assumptions in Sansa’s head.

“Before what Jon”? Sansa asked softly, placing an encouraging hand on his forearm.

Jon regarded her touch before letting out a long sigh. He met her eyes and Sansa could quite clearly see him mulling over the pros and cons of opening up to a complete stranger.

“I got a promotion about a year and a half ago” he started “and to be honest, in hindsight I wish I’d never taken it. All the extra time I was spending at the office put a lot of pressure on our relationship, you know”?

Sansa nodded with a soft smile for Jon to continue as she watched him nervously scrub at the back of his neck with one hand.

“Well, we kind of lost sight of each other and the bickering turned into bigger and bigger arguments and Ygritte-” he paused to take a deep breath “Ygritte cheated on me a while back”.

Sansa sucked in a breath. She’d not been expecting that but this revelation had made her reconsider her ‘good egg’ title she’d tagged onto Jon Snow. Sometimes, targets liked to throw excuses out into the conversation - it was a way of trying to ease their own guilt.

“I thought we were over all that” he continued “I thought I’d come to terms with it. You know - we even went to couples counselling”? Jon looked up from his drink, that sad smile returning again “but two weeks ago I found a positive pregnancy test in the bathroom trashcan”.

“Oh!…umm…congratulations”? Sansa said a little confused. Jon shook his head.

“She doesn’t know that I saw the test and she still hasn’t mentioned it… and besides-” Jon swigs the last drop of amber liquid from his glass “- we haven’t had sex in months”.

“Oh” Sansa said softly, more to herself than anyone else.

“Yeah - ‘oh’”. he parroted back at her.

This was new. If he was using the old ‘my wife is cheating so everything’s ok’ bit then this extra story about a pregnancy is wholly unnecessary.

Unless it’s the truth.

As the job went on, it became clear that if Jon Snow was indeed a cheater, then he wasn’t the kind to do anything about it at first sight. Sansa said goodbye to her handsome suspected good egg target with a peck on the cheek and a napkin with her work phone number on it.

The company policy was to wait for 4 months to see if a target would make contact with their honeytrap girl - normally asking to meet up again or sending the odd flirty text or dick pic.

At the 3 month mark since her Jon Snow case, Sansa’s work phone received a few flustered text messages.

Unknown Number 14:25: Hi, you might not remember me but we met at a bar in Kings Landing a while back and I just wanted to let you know that I’m getting divorced.

Unknown Number 14:26: It’s Jon by the way. Sorry - I should have said that before.

Unknown Number 14:26: In case you haven’t guessed it’s been a while since I tried to flirt with someone.

Unknown Number 14:26: How miserably am I doing?

[justadram]

Dearest of All

Jon x Sansa fic for @goodqueenalys​. Thank you for your donation to fight Nazis!

Request: a continuation of Dearer than Gold

Sansa’s unannounced appearance in his chambers hours after a supper she neglected to preside over is surprising. Indeed, a visit from his wife is unusual no matter the circumstances. It is their practice for Jon to come to her chambers at night and her solar during the day, and they are nothing if not creatures of habit. Ritual gives reliable shape to their relationship, making Sansa feel safe and Jon sure of his place.

When it comes to his wife, anything outside of the norm gives him pause, for fear that they will slide back into polite distrust and unspoken dissatisfaction. That old rush of unease creeps along his flesh, as she stands hands clasped before her with her back to his chamber door, the candlelight casting a light that makes her hair dance like flames. She is lovely—the loveliest woman in all of the North, surely—and while she is the one closest to him in this world, here and now she seems out of place in her tempting, foreign beauty.

He should stand, but he feels as fixed to his chair as a deeply rooted weirwood tree.

“Are you well? Is all well?” he asks, before shutting the heavy tome before him with a thud.

They are household accounts, something she usually sees to without assistance, but she has not been herself. Not for weeks. Listless and pale, missing meals and excusing herself from her duties, when she can, the lady of Winterfell has spent more time in her chambers than not. It was not a week ago that Jon asked the maester to see to his lady wife, so as to make certain she was well.

“May we talk?”

It does not escape him that she didn’t answer his question.

“Of course,” he says, finally finding his feet.

She moves across the room with her usual grace, and it isn’t until she stands before him that he realizes he should have already offered her his seat—the only one here, since no one else takes their rest in his chamber—a courtesy to make her feel welcome. He turns, ready to belatedly make the offer, when her fingertips brush his untucked tunic.

These are Sansa’s sort of gentle intimacies, and of late, they make his heart race as surely as anything of a bolder bent, for they sometimes precede a tenderness that has the ability to crack him wide open. Those moments, those are what he has come to understand as love.

“I’m with child,” she says without preamble.

Her gaze flits from his even as his chest swells with an emotion so unfamiliar as to defy naming.

He will be a father. Sansa is with child. His child. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands and his mouth goes dry. The room itself suddenly feels half its normal size.

She must feel it too or something like it, for her hands tremble until she notices him looking and tucks them away behind herself.

“Sansa…”

It is what they have planned for in a mostly unspoken way—the original purpose of their union—and yet, the revelation shocks him. After many moons together, the possibility of conceiving faded from his consciousness. And still he went to her, finding comfort more than duty there and learning to stay, facing the awkwardness of enjoying the embrace of a wife who was once his sister until it did not weigh so heavy.

“I couldn’t very well keep it from you, when I can’t hold anything down. So, yes, I am well, but… not quite so well as I would like. Mother was never sick her whole pregnancy from what I recall.”

She looks up at him through her lashes, no pleasure lighting her oval face. Both as a result of her nature and the expectations placed upon her in childhood, of all his siblings, she was perhaps the most made for domestic happiness. Her manner, her words, however, they are not of a wife pleased. His gut twists.

He would draw her in to his chest, rake his fingers through her hair, and kiss her, but it doesn’t feel as if she would welcome his touch anymore than she seems to welcome this babe.

“You wished to keep it from me?”

The corner of her mouth twitches. “The thought did cross my mind, but for what purpose, I couldn’t say. Everyone will be able to tell soon enough. And you’ll want to send word to King’s Landing, I suspect.”

He assured her once of his intentions, regarding any children they might have. He vowed that whatever Daenerys might wish, their children would remain in Winterfell with their mother, and that he would not take flight for King’s Landing as soon as an heir to the throne was secured. They were not temporary. She was not a brood mare. Not to him.

Since they were wed, he has kept his promises. This is one vow he will have no difficulty keeping, for it is his desire as well. This babe will know only Winterfell as its home.

Her tongue darts out over her lower lip, as her hands fall at her side, looking more defeated than she ought. “The queen will be pleased.”

Jon doesn’t care whether she will or not. There is only one person’s happiness with which he is concerned.

“How soon?” He swallows thickly and lifts a hand to grasp her waist, still narrow as a girl’s. “How soon until you show?”

Her skirts sway over the rushes, and though it is no more than a hairsbreadth, she moves towards him. “Two moons? Three?”

Sansa remembers everything, carefully stowing away information like the most meticulous of record keeping maesters. She must remember his vow made to her on bended knee to keep their children here. She must recall his declaration that this is where he wanted to be, by her side. Experience has made Sansa a student of people, a cataloger of evidence, unlikely to forget anything, let alone something vital.

It has left her in need of reassurances as well, as a balm to her unseen wounds.

Jon could stand to be assured of something as well—that she does not despise him, that when she lies beside him at night, hair damp at the temples and breath ragged, she feels the same surety tucked at his side as he does. But he’ll never get it if she does not feel safe.

“Then we’ll wait that long or longer, as long as we can to send word. There’s no rush.”

Her stare is a weighty thing, a visual appraisal of his real meaning. He can bear it.

He lets himself glance at her middle. There is nothing to see. Still he would touch her.

“If we wait, someone else might get word to her. She might be angry that you didn’t speed her word.”

The wool of her gown rasps underneath the rub of his thumb. “I’ve born her wroth before.”

She gives no smile at his failed levity and he sighs. “I’m glad of it, Sansa. More glad than I can say.”

They’re not a poet’s words, but they’re true.

His fingers press, rocking her forward until her skirts spread over his feet and her hands flatten against his chest. Lifting his brows in silent question, he waits to release her if need be.

“Are you, Jon? Glad for us?”

“Aye. I am.” With no thought to the kingdom or thrones and heirs.

She rests her head on his shoulder and his heart climbs into his throat. Raising a hand to cup the back of her head, he draws his nose along the side of her brow. She smells of juniper, of home. He would have her in his bed, but he doesn’t know how such things work with women, who are with child. Perhaps it makes no difference, for Sansa must know and her fingers pull at his tunic, creasing the linen with urgency, making his voice rough with need. “Let it be just for us for as long as we dare.”

She lifts her head. Her answer—her declaration to him, the one he truly needs—is a kiss.

[robbstarkmademedoit]

Robb Stark- Our Son

You never thought silence would be the best sound.

Simply because there were no sounds, at least no loud sounds.

The only sound you could hear was the soft breaths of the man laying next to you… The King laying next to you. The war was finally over and Robb returned you and your family to Winterfell… Ned, Sansa and Arya survived King’s Landing… Sansa is no longer engaged to the royal prick that is Joffrey… Thank the seven heavens for that; you couldn’t imagine a world where she would need to suffer through his company for any longer than she already had. If it was up to you, the prick would have been executed for cruelty.

Your husband however, decided that having his entire family home, bar Jon (but he visits as often as the Watch allows him time) was a far better deal than killing the remainder of the Lannister’s. It also helped that the North had been granted its freedom from the remainder of the Westeros, leaving Robb to truly rule as King in the North, with Lord Eddard ruling as Hand whilst also running Winterfell in Robb’s stead as he had a much larger kingdom to manage.

“Good morning” You heard a gruff voice mutter, your eyes leave the ceiling to turn and be greeted by the tired blue eyes of Robb, who you were not aware had risen

“Good morning my love” You said with a smile, your hand reaching up to gently caress his cheek, the warmth of his sleep-ridden face makes you smile, the cold truth of winter is slowly descending on Winterfell and the heat radiating from your husband gave you hope for the kingdom of the North surviving through it.

“How was your sleep?” Robb asks with a small smile playing on his lips, his arm making its way to wrap tightly around your waist and hold you close to his body

“For the first time in what feels like centuries… calm” You said with a smile, the happiness of the war ending was even now seeping into your slumber.

“The same here my love, what shall we do today?” Robb asks, his fingertips drawing light shapes all over your back, the gentle feeling bringing a blush to your cheeks

“Do you not have kingly duties to attend to my love?” You were confused, there were very few to no days in which Robb could truly escape his duties as the King in the North. You truly hoped that he could spend some time with you… It had been far too long since you and your husband could walk the grounds without being surrounded by thousands of soldiers and the cries of the wounded.

“Not today… I miss my wife… and Father has promised to take charge for the day, apparently he could sense that we needed some time to spend together’” Robb said closing his eyes and taking a deep breath before sitting up, leaving the furs to bunch at his waist, his scarred chest staring you in the face as you lean up on your hands

“I miss you too Robb… Can we have a picnic in the Godswood?” You said with a smile, your hands lightly tracing shapes on his side, your hand roaming from his back, to his ribs, to the light spattering of hair on his chest and back. You could see the smile playing on his lips at your actions, his eyes closing slightly and a chuckle leaves his lips

“Of course my love, I’ll go notify the kitchens and the stable hands… I’ll meet you at the stables” Robb said kissing your forehead before sliding out of the bed and pulling on his undershirt and his leathers before leaving the room allowing you to dress.

You had decided on wearing the gown Robb gifted you with following his return from King’s Landing, the Stark sigil standing proud across your chest, embroidered in sparkling silver thread and proudly proclaiming your love and loyalty to your husband and his house. The feel of the dress gliding against your skin brings you back to the moments in which it had finally been confirmed to you that the war was officially over, no more harm would come to your families or the people of Westeros… The North was finally getting the freedom it deserved and your family was coming home alive, tears were coming to your eyes, remembering the way in which the Northmen carried Robb through the gates of Winterfell upon their shoulders chanting “King in the North, King in the North!” and finally your mind was at peace.

“Your majesty?” You heard a nervous voice sound through the door, shaking you violently from the thoughts that had clouded your eyes and mind for the last few moments and brought you hurtling back to reality

“Yes, sorry please come in” You said suddenly, smiling brightly at the young handmaiden stood at your door, aiming to remove the shocked (and slightly scared) look off of her face, however you weren’t entirely sure how well that plan was working.

“The King is waiting for you at the stables your majesty” The handmaiden says and quickly curtsies before walking briskly from the room, you were going to have to try and sort that later, but all that matters currently is going on your picnic with the man you love.  And with that, you raise from your stool, straighten your skirts and make your way through the dark, ancient castle and out into the light of the North, your husband easily standing out in the yard of Winterfell, a laugh falling from his lips at something one of the household guard must have said

“My love” Robb said extending a hand out to you as you neared him, you smiled and gently took his hand in yours as you quickly mounted your horse without allowing him to aid you, sending him a wink as you quickly turned around and raced out of the castle and into the woods, the echo of your laugh quickly intermingling with his as you knew he was leaping onto his own horse in order to give chase… The sight must have been something to behold, the King and Queen in the North riding off into the woods giggling like young children, and almost as carefree.

You and Robb galloped through the woods until you wound up at the pools within the Godswood, the water looking incredibly inviting but maybe you and Robb would save that for later, you wanted to take your time and connect with your husband again before you put some rather, explicit ideas into his head… Although you wouldn’t honestly complain if he wanted to act upon them.

“How does this spot look my love?” Robb asks, pointing to an area on the ground, just far enough away from the Weirwood to be left flat, the roots not disturbing the area of ground. Small patches of grass were attempting to grow through the snow, the winter was still on its way, but the green was not giving up as easily as some of the others in the North, humans included.

“Perfect, simply perfect my love” You said, aiding in laying that tapestry out for you both to lay on, before turning back to the horses in order to grab the basket of food and wine from the back of Robb’s gelding, the weight of it making you smile, Robb had truly planned a feast for the pair of you.

“How many people did you invite to this picnic??” You said, laughing at your husband’s rush to take the basket from you, clearly sensing that you had somewhat underestimated the weight of all of the food

“I wanted to spoil you, stop your complaining” He said, putting the basket down onto the blanket and almost throwing himself down next to it, unclipping his cloak and reclining for a moment, a laugh punching the air

“I can’t believe how quiet it is out here, how free we are… It’s like before” He said, his eyes meeting yours as you move to lay beside him, you could see tears potentially filling his eyes, you take his hand in yours and give it a squeeze in support

“I wouldn’t change our lives for anything. You rescued your family, OUR family, you brought them home safely and most importantly, YOU returned to me. I love you Robb, you are my husband, my best friend and my King.” You half whispered, staring straight into his eyes, hoping they are conveying to him the seriousness that your words are attempting to explain… The memories of this morning again coming to the forefront of your mind

“I love you so much” Robb said in a sigh, slowly moving to convey his love in the way he knows best, which ultimately is through physical displays, he was very much a Northman in that sense, not too strong in explaining his emotions through words, but you knew that in every kiss, every embrace and every smile all of his love was shining through in an attempt to shower you with emotion and support and appreciation.

You were almost certain nothing could pull you away from Robb in that moment, you and your husband were back to being Y/N and Robb, not the King and Queen, but two young people in love. However a wail shook through the Godswood, causing you to pull back from Robb in a sudden movement

“Did you hear that?” You asked, placing a hand on his chest to push him back slightly

“It was just the wind my love, don’t worry” Robb said, his hand gently brushing a stray hair away from your face, and you almost gave into temptation before you heard the wail again

“That is not the wind Robb.” You said, standing up and moving away from him slightly, going in the direction the noise is coming from

“Y/N, you are not going into those woods alone” Robb said from the blanket

“Come on then, I’m going to investigate, you can stay there and complain or you can come with me, that’s up to you” You said, taking a stubborn stance that you knew would break Robb, there was no way he was going to let you go wandering off into the woods by yourself

“Very well then, lets go” Robb said, one hand on his sword, the other holding onto your hand.

You and Robb ventured through the woods following the wail that was only increasing in volume, only confirming to the pair of you that you were going the correct way. The climax of the wailing seemed to come from a pile of fallen trees, or more likely from behind them, you moved to take a step forward and investigate fully before Robb took your arm and pulled you close behind him

“You’re insane if you think I am allowing you to investigate that, for all we know it could be a trap, I’ll go” Robb said, unsheathing his sword and taking apprehensive steps forward, his form quickly being lost behind the pile of fallen trees. The tension was unbearable, he had made no sounds to indicate a struggle but the lack of sound was unnerving you even more

“Y/N, you’re going to want to see this” Robb called to you, not moving from his spot behind the trees, so you hurriedly gather your skirts and move to join your husband, but what you found when you arrived was nowhere near what you were expecting.

“Oh my Gods… Someone left a baby in the middle of the woods!!” You half-shouted and stepped forward to take the babe into your arms 

“Don’t touch it! It could still be a trap” Robb said, moving to stop you

“Robb Stark, you must be insane if you think that I am leaving this baby on the ground for any longer than it has been! It can’t heat itself like we can, he must be freezing half to death!” You said, shaking Robb’s hand away and taking the baby from its spot on the ground, rocking it gently in your arms in an attempt to heat it

“Its so small” You said, gazing down in pure admiration, you and Robb had spoken about having a child, but the war had quickly put a stop to that, you looked up to see Robb watching you with wary eyes. You took a moment to inspect the baby, praying that no harm had come to him, as it turned out, other than the chill and more than likely a hunger

“Come say hi” You said, nodding to him. His steps were still apprehensive, but the fear quickly dissipated as soon as he locked eyes with the child, a smile breaking out onto his face

“Its stunning” He said, the astonishment obvious in his voice

“What should we do?” You say, but in reality there were very few options before you and your husband, you couldn’t simply leave it in the woods

“The only thing we can do” Robb said looking to meet your eyes

“I know it was not born of you and I, but we have always spoken about children… And we can’t leave him here” Robb said, brushing a finger lightly over the baby’s forehead

“We’ll love him all the same” You said, tears slipping from your eyes as you realized what this all meant for your marriage. You had an heir, you had a child.

“I think we should name him first” Robb said with a laugh, his eyes flicking between yours and the baby, the smile never leaving his face

“Eddard Jon, I think.” You said, the name rolling off your tongue with power and love, Robb’s eyes snapped straight to you, the names of his father and his closest sibling combined together gave him such joy

“Eddard Jon Stark, I think its perfect” Robb said, eyes staring straight into yours as he confirmed what had been playing in the back of your mind

“You’re giving him your name?” You said with a smile, more tears rolling down your face as you thought about how much easier the child’s life would be with Robb claiming him instead of leaving him to be a bastard.

“Of course, he is our son. He deserves my name, clearly his birth parents lacked the courage to raise him and love him, but he will find all the love in the world in our lives and our home.” Robb said with conviction, your heart swelling at the love in his words

“Our son” You said with a nod, leaning in and kissing your husband, caring not to squish the child, thinking happy thoughts about this new chapter in your life.

[thebestandworstdayofjune]

Queen in the North {Pt. 2}

Requested: By myself, because I am Trash™. Also some other absolutely lovely people.

Pairings: Robb Stark x Reader

Previously: {Part 1}

Summary: Y/N was sent to live with The Stark family at a young age, and ever since then, she seemed to fit perfectly, maybe even more than she had ever noticed.

Warnings: I just watched the episode so fluff to the max

Word Count: 2,433

A/N: I am so pleased to see how many of you like the first part to this, and I sincerely hope that the second part is even better! Special shoutout to @secretschuylersister for looking over this/encouraging me to actually post it. If you have any requests, please feel free to send them to my ask box!

It was nice of Sansa to say that she was almost done poking and prodding and adjusting your dress, even if you all knew that it was a lie. Sansa had and affinity for dressing you up, claiming that if she tried it with Arya, she would lose a finger. You couldn’t say that the idea was entirely off base.

The dress was lovely. It looked a bit delicate in comparison to the usual style that ladies favored in Winterfell.  It was somehow different and you’re the same as the dresses that you favored on an everyday basis. Although you had lived in Winterfell for most of your life, your mother and father had lived much farther south.

So, you tended to favor lighter dresses, made of silk and lace in a wide array of colors. Jon liked to tease you that you were the brightest thing to ever live in Winterfell. What you didn’t know is how much Robb silently agreed with him. The dress was white, with layers of gray peeking through towards the bottom. It was lovely, although you had no idea how Sansa had managed such a lovely effect in the short amount of time since she had asked you about making a dress.

“I may have been working on it for a little while before I asked if it was okay,” she said, picking it up off of the bed and motioning for you to change into it. “But I knew that you were going to say yes anyways.”

You laughed, she was right. You had a hard time telling people no, especially when they were doing something so nice for you. After all, the Starks were your family. And if they were willing to put the time in to help you, then there was no way that you were going to refuse. It did make your schedule feel a bit cramped at times, in between dagger lessons with Arya and the boys, knitting with Sansa and tea with Lady Stark, who was forever insisting that you call her Catelyn, there were never enough hours in the day, something you often fought about with Robb.

“Well then, put it on!” Sansa laughed, tossing you the dress and pulling out her needle and thread, claiming that there were a few alterations that needed to be made. Sansa worked in silence, adding a few stitches here and there. And somehow, when she was done, the dress looked even more spectacular. She had managed to somehow make it fit you like a glove at the top, yet have the perfect amount of sway and flow in the skirts.

“Thank you, Sansa,” you said, admiring the skirts in her mirror. If you hadn’t been so caught up in how nice it was for Sansa to make you this lovely dress, you might have noticed the smug look on her face as she admired you admiring her dress. And you might have noticed that you were wearing in the Stark family’s colors. “But I really think that I should go see if your mother needs help preparing-”

“I was downstairs with her all morning. While you were fretting over nothing, I was making sure that you didn’t have an excuse to run away.” She laughed, guiding you over to the chair that was set up in front of her mirror. “Now, you have to stay and let me do something with this.” She sighed, motioning to the braid that you wore every day. Sansa took your braid in her hands, making quick work of fanning it out across your shoulders, running a brush gently through the ends or your hair.

“I cannot understand why you never take the time to style your hair unless I force you to. You know that anyone would do anything for you.” Sansa rain her hands through your hair, twisting it one way and then another, attempting to choose a style for that evening.

“I would rather spend my time with other engagements. And I’m sure that every single person in this castle has at least five things that they need to be doing at any given time. And shockingly, none of them include helping me with my hair.” You laughed, raising an eyebrow at her in the mirror.

“And does one of those things include pretending that you aren’t in love with my brother? Or is that simply a given, considering it is something that you do every waking minute of every day?”

You felt yourself tense, your shoulders locking back into place and your teeth grinding against each other. Sansa, on the other hand, continued brushing your hair into place, humming a soft tune to herself. You wished that you had an appropriate comeback, but you were left to sit there, mouth agape, while Sansa fussed with your hair for longer than should have been possible.

You’d hoped that you would have a bit of time to yourself before the feast that evening, but Sansa had insisted that a bit of rouge had never hurt anyone. By the time that she decided you were ready, the both of you were late.

“A queen never arrives at her own party on time.” Sansa laughed as you hurried down the hall. You hated to be late, and it seemed that the only time you were more than a few seconds late to anything was when Sansa insisted on helping you get ready.

“Then it’s really too bad that I am not a queen.” you reminded her, withholding a glare.

She snorted at you in a very un Sansa-like way, simply brushing past you and breezing easily into the banquet. You, on the other hand, were not nearly as confident. You took a moment to steady yourself, a moment to catch your breath, before stepping into the banquet hall.

The noise and liveliness of the hall erupted around you, pulling you in. You glanced around, taking in the musicians and the dancers that took up most of the space in the large banquet hall. And as much as you didn’t want to admit it, you were elated to see Robb standing with Jon and Theon near the edge of the dance floor.

You gathered up your expansive skirts, making your way along the edge of the room to the boys.

“Well don’t you just look dashing in the Stark colors?” Jon teased you, gesturing for you to do a twirl.

You landed a punch on his arm, not hard enough to actually hurt him, but firm enough to tell him to shut his big mouth, paired with an expression that told him you were going to pretend to be cross with him for a while. “If you must know, your lovely sister made me this gown, and as usual I had no say about the colors. But, I’m sure that it is just coincidence.” You attempted to sound sincere, even though you knew what Sansa was most likely thinking when she was picking out the material.

You pretended to listen to the boys ramble on about one thing or another, but your eyes were scanning the room in search of Arya. You knew that she was not particularly fond of feasts, so you always made a point to seek her out and reassure her, even if it was only for a few minutes. After few moments of searching, you spotted her, slumped into a chair, looking like she would much rather be anywhere else but here.

You felt Robb’s hand rest on the small of your back, attempting to draw your attention away from the very important matter at hand. “Y/N, do you want to-”

“Maybe in a minute, Robb,” you said, already making your way over to Arya, not even bothering to look back towards the sound of Jon’s booming laughter.

“Arya!” you laughed, taking her hands in your own and pulling her out of the chair. “Won’t you come and dance with me?”

“You know that I have been skipping my lessons,” she mumbled, refusing to meet your eyes. Somehow, she was in a worse mood than usual.

“I never said that we were going to make our way through the most boring waltz in existence.” You were already halfway to the band, who looked almost as morose as Arya, which wasn’t surprising when you thought about the music that they were being forced to play. “If this is to be the mood for the entire evening, we are all going to die of boredom.”

You let go of Arya’s hands for a few moments to whisper your instructions to the band. They all seemed to perk up immediately, sitting up in their chairs, the light coming back into their eyes. The tune changed from the sullen one that you had grown accustomed to hearing, to one that was jubilant and full of life. Reclaiming Arya’s hands in your own, your spun her around, prancing around in ridiculous circles until a smile finally graced her lips, and then a small laugh bubbled through, and you knew that your work was done.

You gave her one last smile, twirling her in another circle before stumbling off of the dance floor. All of the spinning had made you a bit dizzy, and with all of the skirts that Sansa had swaddled you up in, you weren’t surprised that you had nearly tripped a few times before you had even made it away from the dancers.

Robb’s hand found the small of your back, guiding you away from the mass of bodies that had swarmed the dance floor. You would have been surprised, especially because you hadn’t thought that Robb was anywhere near you, but he had a habit of turning up when you needed someone.

“What was it that you wanted earlier?” You asked breathlessly, collapsing into the chair that he had guided you to.

“Do you remember when my mother was so angry at us for sneaking into these feasts that she made us attend all of those dreadful dancing lessons?” Robb asked, smiling at Arya dancing with Rickon among the masses.

“Of course I do,” you laughed, recalling the many afternoons you had spent with your slightly nasty dance master. “Your mother was so sure that we would never turn up to another ball again if we had to take those lessons, but you were at every single lesson.”

“Naturally, you were so excited, and there was no way that I was going to miss it when you tripped over your own two feet.”

“If I recall correctly, you were always responsible for catching me after I messed up a new step.” You lazily punched him in the shoulder, but the laughter died in your throat as Robb caught your fist and linked his hand with yours.

“And I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

It wasn’t the act of holding his hand in yours that caused your breathing to falter. You had been holding pinkies since you had met, so after that, what was a hand? It was the way that his eyes were staring into yours, unwavering. For the first time in a long time, you felt yourself blushing because of Robb Stark.

It wasn’t something that happened often, the two of you had grown up together, after all. Your mother had been best friends with Cat, and when they passed away, it was no question that you were going to stay with Ned and his family.

You had been quiet when you arrived at Winterfell for the first time. It had only been a day or two since your mother and father had moved on, taken from you suddenly by a terrible affliction. You were assured that your friends would all be waiting for you, but that wasn’t good enough. You wanted your parents.

And even though you constantly reminded Robb of that, he was there for you at every turn. Bringing you a flower he found near a spring, hoping to make you smile, or telling you a poorly thought out joke, just waiting for just a glimpse of the dimples he used to know so well. And as much as you wanted to give him a glimpse of your former self, you needed time. Somehow, even at such a young age, both of you understood. And you had remained solemn, until one afternoon, he heard a giggle echoing from her chambers.

Robb threw open the door to find you sifting through a drawer full of dried flowers, picking them up one by one and examining them. He marched into the room, demanding to know why you had been so sad before. You never had been able to give him an answer, simply handing him one of the flowers and telling him that you were sorry. You never had offered him an explanation for those first few weeks.

“Y/N?” Robb’s voice and both of his hands cupping yours somehow managing to effectively draw you back to reality. “Are you okay?” his voice was soft, almost as if he was afraid to scare you away. He should know better than that by now.

“I was thinking about when I first came to live with you, well everyone. And you worried yourself over making me feel welcome, and you were so confused when you found me with that drawer full of flowers.” You sounded dreamy, still thinking about the days when things felt easier.

“You never did tell me why you kept all of those flowers. Especially when they never made you smile in the first place.” He smiled down at your hands, where his thumb was stroking the back of your hand.

“Because I knew that they were going to make me happy eventually,” You met his eyes, hoping that he understood what you were trying to tell him. “And I was right, wasn’t I?” Robb looked like he was going to answer, but you were finished wasting time moping about when there was a party going on. “Let’s dance, Stark.”

And without another word, the two of you were out of your chairs and headed for the dance floor. The musicians had kept their promise, and the music was lively. You were pleased to see that Arya had dragged Sansa into a group of dancers, and it brought a smile to your face to see that everyone was happy, for the time being. It was rare to stumble upon a moment where someone wasn’t squabbling, and when you managed to find one, you most certainly weren’t going to take it for granted.

Read Part Three Here!

[sailorshadzter]

For the Drabble List - 48. “I don’t want to be alone right now” Jonsa pretty please 🤗

ahhh, thank you for the request!!

send me a ship + prompt for a drabble

It's strange to be back, back in the rooms that had once been Robb's.

He recalls the last time he had stood in these rooms, the morning they waited for Robert Baratheon to arrive, freshly shaved boys that had yet to grow into men. Rickon and Bran had run underfoot and Jon had thought back then that he never wanted to leave home. Being there with his brothers, with his family, that had meant everything to him. Even if Lady Stark had been cold and Sansa had once been distant.

If only he'd stayed... If only they had all stayed.

He sighs, running his hand along the fur lined coverlet on the bed, such a thing so old it was made with Lady Stark's own stiching. It's just as he's sinking onto the edge of the bed that a knock sounds, bringing him back to his feet just as the door swings open.

She comes in like a winter storm; skirts swirling, red hair flying, blue eyes damp with sorrow. "Sansa,” he says as she crosses the room to stand at the window, staring out into the godswood which the view overlooks. When she doesn’t respond at first, he slowly approaches her where she stands, reaching out a hand to gently touch her shoulder, guiding her back around to face him. His heart breaks at the sight of her; she’s pale and tired, eyes swollen with crying. “Are you alright?” He asks, even though he knows it’s a stupid question. Just looking at her, he knows she’s far from alright.

Blinking, she moves past him, pacing the floor as she wrings her hands before her. She cannot find the words to express to him what she feels because even she isn’t certain. Sansa knows she should feel joy- they’ve taken back their home from the Bolton’s, but at what cost? Rickon was dead, he was down in the crypts already. Bran was missing, Arya was missing... Robb was dead, her parents were dead. Everyone was lost to her except for Jon.

She freezes where she stands, raising her stricken face up to his, breaking apart right there before him. It’s his arms that she feels a moment later, winding around her as they sink to the floor, her face buried in his shoulder as she cries. Jon speaks soft, comforting words into her ear, the warmth of his voice bringing her more peace than she has felt in a lifetime. He holds her for what could be several minutes or several hours, she loses track of time there in his arms. But finally, her sobs begin to quiet and she draws back from him, knowing that gazing into his eyes always left her feeling safer, stronger even. “I don’t want to be alone right now,” she admits softly and Jon smiles, giving her a single nod before he rises up to his feet, drawing her up with him.

And it’s then that he leads her towards his bed, guiding her until she’s lost her shoes and is tucked beneath the furs, warm and safe. “You never have to be alone again.” He says softly, leaning over her to press a kiss to her temple, a reminder for both of them of the other kiss they had shared that morning on the battlements. Her cheeks flush with color and she nods, swallowing against the emotion rising in her throat as she settles back against his pillow. He sits down on the bed beside her and she draws her hand out from beneath the blankets so she can grab hold of his, giving it a tight squeeze.

“Neither do you,” she whispers into the dark and Jon smiles.