#sorry if I leave glitter all over ur dash

[atompalace-official]

[aethelar]

*bursts through ur front door* nEWT RESCUING MERMAN!GRAVES FROM POACHERS

Newt is five the first time he goes to the circus. He trots behind Theseus, his hand securely held by his older brother to stop him slipping away and getting lost in the crowd. Not that Newt would intentionally wander off, but there was so much to see, so many sights and sounds and colours - over there, giant kites hovered in mid air, the one a flame-coloured goldfish with trailing red-yellow-orange ribbons, the other a glittering butterfly with reflective silver spots sewn over blue-green wings. There a man on stilts picks his precarious way through the thronged people below, his twelve foot trouser legs patterned in contrasting neon stripes. There, a lady selling candy floss, great sugar clouds of pink and blue on sticks and hanging in bags from the edge of her cart.

And there, ahead, rising above the mayhem like a gleaming castle, the big top.

Newt pulls Theseus ahead. “C’mon,” he says impatiently, tugging at Theseus’ hand. “C’mon, we’re going to miss it!”

“Calm down,” Theseus laughs, leaning back and moving at a deliberately slow meander. “It’s not going anywhere.”

“Theseus,” Newt whines. “What if all the good spots are gone and we can’t see?”

Theseus stoops down and picks Newt up, lifting him in one smooth movement to sit on his shoulders. Newt squeaks, his muddy shoes leaving black marks on Theseus’ coat and his fingers tangling in his brother’s hair for balance.

“There,” Theseus says, holding Newt’s feet in place. “Now you can see everything. Right?”

“You can’t pick me up,” Newt retorts. “I’m too old to be picked up.”

“Well, if you don’t want to be able to see…”

“No! I’m fine. I’ll let you carry me. Can we get sweets?”

Theseus changes course and heads for the candy floss lady. “And here I thought you were worrying about being late,” he says teasingly.

“Yes,” Newt explains with all the patience of a child having to state the obvious, “but that was when I was short and now you’re carrying me so I’m not. So, sweets.”

Honestly, big brothers were useful things, but they weren’t half slow sometimes.

In the tent itself Newt’s attention is torn between keeping himself and his oversized pink monstrosity of a candy floss stick balanced and laughing in delight at the show. He tries, he honestly does try to keep Theseus sugar free, but there’s distinct wisps of pastel in his dark hair by the time the first act finishes (not to mention the ones in Newt’s eyebrows, behind his ears, inching up his shirt sleeves and lodged under his collar). Theseus manfully ignores it and focuses on making sure Newt isn’t blocking the view for anyone behind them. The circus itself isn’t quite his cup of tea - the performers are brightly coloured, but their acrobatics are nothing special, really. He’s seen Newt do better trying to reach the cake jar on the top shelf.

It’s not the acrobatics though that are the star of this particular circus and the crowd falls into a hushed silence when the ringmaster comes out to announce, with great aplomb, the “Moment you’ve all been waiting for, the mystery and the magic, the magnificent and the magical; ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for MACUSA’s Marvellous Menagerie!”

The heavy velvet curtain behind him draws back and Newt gasps in anticipation, leaning forwards with wide eyed delight.

“A many gerry, Theseus,” he breathes. “Do you think they’ll have a tiger?”

Theseus ducks left to give Newt a better view. “They might,” he says. “You’ll have to wait and see.”

Newt’s protest about wanting to know now is drowned out by the roar from the crowd as the first creature, a long-necked camel bedecked with a gold and red tasselled head dress, is led out and paraded in front of the crowd. It walks with a strange, rolling gate and has two humps on its back, one of which stands straight and one of which flops over, and there’s bells tied to its feet that jingle with every step. It’s everything Newt could ask for, everything that should have delighted and amazed him -

But his attention is caught by something else. There, just there behind the edge of the curtain, he can see the narrow end of a glass tank. It isn’t very big; the end that Newt can see is maybe a metre square, the bottom resting on a dark wood trolley with a great hook at the front for a harness to attach to and top covered by an ornate gold lid. The light from the tent glints off the surface, playing tricks with Newt’s vision, but inside he sees - that is, he thinks he sees -

The camel is replaced by a lady with very little in the way of clothes, draped in the coils and folds of an enormous green snake, its scales dotted with small white flecks and its eyes staring unblinking at the crowd. The lady dips, holding out her arms to force the snake out of its tightly balled shape; it raises its head and hisses, much to the crowd’s delight.

She’s blocking his view and Newt cranes his neck to look past her.

“You see alright up there?” Theseus asks, shifting to the left to give him a better angle. Newt makes a distracted sound in answer, still straining to see the tank. The snake holder dances and twirls off the stage and Newt’s breath catches in his throat.

There’s someone in the tank.

There’s someone in the tank, and they’re looking at him.

Dark eyes set in a pale face, a halo of drifting hair around them; they catch Newt’s gaze and the rest of the tent seems to fade away. They twist, their face drifting upside down and right side up, and their hands come forwards to press against the glass. They come closer - he, perhaps, they’re a man, or something that looks like one. He comes closer, and mouths something, some words Newt can’t hear and doesn’t understand. At his blank stare the man repeats them, slower, mouth opening wide to exaggerate the movements and are those his teeth -

Theseus jostles him, shaking him out of the strange moment and Newt looks down automatically.

“So?” Theseus asks. “What did you think? You were awfully quiet up there.”

“I was looking,” Newt protests. He glances back up but the ringmaster’s back on the stage, his voice booming out something about a private showing and exclusive, never before seen creatures for those willing to pay the trifling price and step backstage.

The man in his glass tank is gone, blocked from view behind the curtain.

“Yeah?” Theseus asks. “Which one was your favourite then? I think I liked the parrots best. Weren’t they bright and colourful?”

Newt gives an irritated huff. He doesn’t want parrots, he wants to know about the man in the tank. Theseus is already turning though, moving with the flow of people back to the stalls outside.

“The camel,” he says, picking the first animal because it’s the only one he really remembers seeing. “But Theseus, we have to go back. There’s someone trapped there, he needs our help.”

“Trapped? Newt, you can’t go rescuing all the animals because you think they’re unhappy. They belong to the circus - that’s stealing.”

Newt tugs on Theseus’ hair in frustration. “Not the animals, the person. He was underwater. What if he drowns?”

There’s a steady stream of people curving round the back of the stage, going to where the ringmaster is waiting to welcome them to the private exhibition, and Newt’s mind whirrs.

“I don’t think -” Theseus starts hesitantly, but Newt has a better plan.

“Let me down,” he says. “I’m all numb, and I don’t need to see anymore.”

Theseus makes a dubious noise, but lifts Newt over his head and down to the floor all the same. “Ok little brother, whatever you say. But stick close and - Newt! Newt!”

Newt squirms out of his brother’s grip, ducking between people’s legs and scrambling under the raised seating areas at the back. Theseus curses as he chases but Newt slides under the striped canvas of the tent wall and makes a mad dash through the mud for the back. The back entrance is marked exit only and guarded by a bored looking girl in a faded circus uniform; she frowns as Newt careens into her.

“Hey, kid,” she starts, but Newt cuts her off.

“My brother’s in there, I got lost but he’ll be mad if I don’t go in,” he babbles. She tries to take his hand but Newt’s more mud than person by this stage and he slips free while she’s trying to find something to hold onto that won’t leave stains on her uniform.

“Kid, wait!”

Newt ignores her. The inside of the tent is dimly lit and smells of a heavy, foreign smoke. It’s hung with low coloured-glass lamps and swathes of brightly patterned silk, and decorated with assorted urns and jewel encrusted masks chosen more for their cost than any cohesive design..

Newt hurries past the lavish opulence with barely a glance. Real or fake, the effect is lost on him and the perfumed smoke only serves to irritate his lungs. He fights the urge to cough and creeps past a china pot that claims to hold a faerie inside - in any other circumstance he’d’ve stopped to look inside, but he’s too focused on his goal to stop. If he’s worked things out right, then the tank should be just to one side of the stage curtains which would put it… There.

In the low light, he can only make out the outline of the tank, straight sided glass walls and an overly decorated iron lid. It’s not until he’s standing right by it that he can see the man inside and he barely manages to stifle a gasp because the man isn’t a man at all.

No, that’s not quite right; he has a head, two arms, broad shoulders and a muscled torso - those things look like a man. But he also has a ridged fin running down his back, trails of dark, glittering scales wrapping down over his ribs, and in place of his legs there’s a sinuous, curving tail.

“You’re a mermaid,” Newt breathes. He hears a quiet rap and jerks his gaze up; the mermaid is frowning at him, one fist raised where he’d knocked on the glass. Newt flushes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare,” he says.

The mermaid lifts an eyebrow and studies him for a moment before his frown morphs into a satisfied smile. With an encouraging trill he lifts his arms and stretches out as much as he can, turning slowly in the water. He twists his head round as he does so to keep his eyes on Newt and make sure his audience appreciates him showing off.

“Wow,” is all Newt can say, and amends his earlier statement: “You’re a beautiful mermaid.”. He comes closer, both hands pressing against the glass. Now that the mermaid is moving he can see that the tank’s too small; his tail is coiling back on itself just to fit in and the sharp-edged fins at the end of it are crushed awkwardly against the sides.

The mermaid knocks again, and when he has Newt’s attention he gestures pointedly to his bare chest.

“I don’t understand,” Newt says, confused. The mermaid rolls his eyes and makes a vaguely obscene curving gesture over his front, then shakes his head and goes back to running his hands down his chest again.

Newt’s face burns as he gets it. “Oh,” he says, and trips into apologies again. “Sorry, sorry, I don’t know - what do you call a boy mermaid?”

The mermaid who isn’t a mermaid mouths something, lips twitching up in humour but Newt still can’t make out the words. He hears a noise behind him - the ringmaster, leading his private tour. He squeaks in panic and drops to the floor; the tank sits on iron feet, like a fancy bathtub, and with some frantic crawling and squirming Newt just manages to get underneath. There’s barely enough space to fit; he tilts his head to the side and squeezes his eyes shut and tries to take shallow breaths.

The mermaid knocks on the glass above him.

“They can’t see me,” Newt whispers back as loudly as he dares. If he believes it hard enough, then it’ll be true; like keeping the nightmares away at night, like Theseus taught. He hears footsteps and the low murmur of the approaching crowd and repeats it to himself: they can’t see me, they can’t see me, until he feels it settle over him like a safety blanket.

“And here,” the ringmaster announces, pride and glee threading through his oily tone, “here we have it ladies and gentlemen, the mighty monster from the deep: MACUSA’s own mermaid, the only real one to be found in any circus, anywhere. A genuine treasure, ladies, genuine treasure.”

Newt holds still. His heart is too loud - why is his heart beating so loud?

“How can you prove,” someone drawls, “that this one is real? It could be one of your stage hands in a costume for all we know.”

“Monsieur, you are wiser than your years! Come, come -” the feet obligingly step closer and Newt shrinks smaller in terror - “See, there’s no air in this tank. See there? Ah, my friend, don’t turn away - it’s shy, forgive me - those, those marks on its neck? Those are gills. Could a man spend all his life underwater without drowning, I ask?”

There’s an impressed rumble of agreement, but the same voice points out, “You could have a pipe hidden in the corner. That lid’s certainly large enough to hide one, and all your man would need to do is breathe from the pipe when no one’s looking.”

“Truly, an observant gentleman!” the ringleader praises with faked delight. “I see then you won’t be satisfied with anything but the truth, so watch, watch.” There’s a metallic groan as the lid is lifted open followed by an angry, distorted shriek that seems to sink into Newt’s bones and shake them apart. He presses back further under the tank and clamps his eyes closed, one step away from sobbing. The thud of the lid falling back into place cuts off the mermaid’s shrieking but Newt still can’t stop himself crying, muffling the sound in his sleeve.

“You see,” the ringleader says proudly. “You see now, do you see? Are you satisfied, my doubting friend?”

“I’m satisfied,” the other man agrees quietly. There’s something covetous in his harsh almost-whisper that the ringleader boldly ignores. They exchange more words, more boasting and more nodding at the right places and more making the right sounds of appreciation, but Newt stays pressed against the ground with his eyes closed until after they’ve shuffled off to marvel over the next thing in the tent.

The mermaid knocks on the glass.

“Go away,” Newt says. “I want my brother.”

He knocks again, more urgently this time.

“Go away!”

“Newt!”

Newt scrambles out, scraping his knee on the ground and banging his elbow against the tank but he doesn’t care because that’s Theseus.

“I’m sorry,” he says, stumbling over his feet as he flings himself at his brother. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“It’s ok,” Theseus soothes him, dropping to his knees to hug his brother. “It’s ok, I’m here now. You’re alright? You’re not hurt?”

Newt shakes his head. “I’m not but - but Theseus, we have to help him.” He turns to point urgently at the mermaid in his tank and falters in shock.

There’s a cut across the mermaid’s tail, just below where his hip would be if he were a man. It’s not a deep cut, but the water draws the blood out in a dark cloud and every movement of his tail makes the wound glisten an angry black.

“They hurt him,” Newt says in horror, pulling against Theseus to go to the glass.

“Newt,” Theseus says, stunned and still trying to get over it. “Newt, that’s a mermaid.”

Newt tugs sharply, annoyed by the delay. “He’s not,” he says crossly. “He’s a merboy and we need to help him.”

“Of course we do,” Theseus says faintly. The mermaid - merboy - scrapes his fingers against the lid, the clawed tips making a harsh scratching sound against the metal.

Newt darts in and pulls himself up on the tank’s feet, pushing futilely against the lid. “Theseus!” he says, jolting his brother into action.

“What do we do when we get the lid open?” Theseus asks, but he comes forward to help all the same. “He can’t swim out and we’ll get caught if we carry him - Newt, move - and mercy Lewis I’m asking a five year old for plans what am I doing with my life.”

“He’ll figure something out,” Newt says confidently. “He’s smart.”

In the tank, the mermaid darts a quick smirk in Newt’s direction.

The lid is heavy, heavier than it should be for how it looks and Theseus strains against it. It’s not until Newt joins in again and stubbornly puts his shoulder against the rim to help that it creaks its way open. They freeze, both of them darting nervous glances behind them to check that no one heard, but now that the lid is open a crack the mermaid gets impatient.

He slides a hand under the edge of the lid and, in one smooth movement, flings the whole thing off the tank to fall with a loud crash down the other side.

“Oh gods above,” Theseus moans. He makes a grab for Newt but Newt twists aside, hooking his fingers over the glass to watch as the mermaid lifts his torso out of the water. This close, Newt can see how very human his top half looks, but at the same time all the little things that so clearly mark him as different. His ears extend into points, long and low and dusted with dark blue scales. His eyes blink twice, the second, clear set of eyelids making them seem to glow in the dimly lit tent, and the eyes behind the eyelids are so dark they look like they lack a pupil. His teeth, showing in his open mouth as he pants for air, are curved down to sharp points. His gills flare with every shallow breath.

He mouths something, the words coming out as a soft croon.

“I don’t understand,” Newt says.

“Newt, we have to go,” Theseus urges.

The mermaid points at Newt, then at himself, then gestures at his legs, then finally back at Newt. He mouths the same word again but Newt shakes his head, frustration making him shout, “I don’t know what you want!”

There’s footsteps approaching, the sound of people coming to investigate the crash.

“Time’s up,” Theseus says, scooping a protesting Newt up in his arms and throwing the mermaid an apologetic look. With a growl the mermaid swipes his hand out, claws catching on Newt’s outstretched arm and leaving three bloody scratches in their wake.

Newt yelps and Theseus swears as he pulls out a handkerchief to wrap around the scratches. The mermaid ignores them in favour of licking the blood off each claw. He closes his eyes as though savouring the taste then takes a deep breath and hauls himself out of the tank, the glistening length of his tail unfolding behind him as he collapses over the side and falls to the floor -

And lands, rolls into a crouch, and stands up in one fluid movement.

“What the hell,” Theseus says, staring at him. His gills are gone, as are the long fins down his back and his tail, replaced by legs that are bare, muscled, and completely human. Theseus averts his eyes and covers Newt’s. Completely male human. The cut from his tail is now a wide gash over his left thigh, red blood clotting sluggishly around the edges.

“We need to go,” the man rasps, grabbing for Newt. Theseus backs away, keeping his brother out of reach.

“You think they’ll be lenient because he’s a child?” the man growls. “Come.” He stalks towards the curtain separating the back of the tent from the stage and disappears through it.

“Hey!” someone shouts behind them, and Theseus slings Newt into a piggyback and hurries out after the mermaid-turned-man. He pushes aside the heavy curtain and runs across the stage, praying that none of the staff were in there preparing for the next performance. The man is hovering by one of the side flaps, lifting it aside to peer out with an angry scowl.

He looks up when Theseus skids to a halt next to him.

“They won’t be far behind us,” Theseus pants. “What’s the plan?”

“The plan?” The man raises an eyebrow. “I go back to the sea. He comes with me.” He reaches for Newt again to lift him off Theseus’ back and Theseus spins to put himself between them.

“No.”

The man glowers. “I didn’t ask you.”

“He’s five,” Theseus spits, and grips Newt’s legs tight in warning when he makes a noise of protest. He doesn’t know what he’s doing - Theseus isn’t small by any means, but he hasn’t forgotten how the other man - mermaid - hell, whichever, how the other man casually threw the heavy metal lid it took both Theseus and Newt just to budge. If it comes to a fight then Theseus can’t hope to win, but Newt is his brother; Theseus can’t not defend him.

The sound of angry voices behind the curtain breaks their standstill.

“Fine,” the man snaps. “While he’s a child he’s yours. When he’s a man, bring him to the sea. I’ll find him.” He lifts the tent flap to go through and Theseus holds his tongue on pointing out his nakedness. Just before he goes he looks back over his shoulder and makes eye contact with Newt. “Oh, and before I forget,” he says, lips twitching into an amused smile. “My name is Graves, and I’m a merman if you don’t mind.”

“Yessir,” Newt squeaks, and Graves is gone.

“Do I have to go to the sea?” Newt asks in a small voice, gripping Theseus tighter.

Theseus glares at the empty space where the merman stood. “Not if you don’t want to,” he promises. “For now though, we have to go home before anyone sees us, so sit tight and keep quiet.” He pushes aside the tent flap with a foot, checks for passing naked mermen-given-legs, then slips out to join the crowd and hopes no one stops them to ask why Newt is quite so covered in mud, or why he has a makeshift bandage around his forearm.

He’s not yet sure how he’s going to keep his promise, but he will. If Newt doesn’t want to go to the sea then Theseus will make sure he doesn’t have to. He has thirteen years; he’ll find a way.

In the meantime, maybe he should look for a job further inland.

[warmau]

so, hi??!! this is like, the first ask that i'm sending to you because... i'm like, very shy. and i say like a lot. whatever. i jUST WANTED TO SAY THAT I LOVE YOUR WRITING!! YOUR AUS!! its so damn inspiring for me, an au lover!!! omg, okay, so... i was wondering, do you have any royal au? like, people... with crowns... it could be modern or old i just wanted some crowns... is that weird? okay, so, maybe with yoongi? i am insecure, im sorry, but u r like my idol and u r so damn amazing!! so bYE

ur idol??? im so flattered ah,,,, ive done aristocrat!yoongi (here) and he was part of my prince!au (here) but,,,,here’s my demon king yoongi au,,,since u wanted crowns,,please enjoy 

king of the underworld,,,,,but like nonchalant about it 

im thinking yoongi,,,,but with red eyes and sharp teeth,,,but also heavy blink ink tattoos up and down his arms and chest and skeletal wings that can sprout from his back 

wears a torn-up motorcycle jacket over his bare chest that’s scarred up and also covered by a tattoo of an angel (ironically) spreading their wings and crying

am i thinking one long silver earring that looks like a dagger??? yeah. long nails painted black??? yeah. 

and the CROWN,,,,,,,made of black onyx and diamonds,,,,,and shimmers whenever he walks down the halls of his palace,,,,whenever he receives another life into the underworld it becomes part of the diamonds in his crown,,,,??

his palace is made of black marble and everything inside is red silk with cold cut diamonds framing the pillars inside

he owns a pet Cerberus that wears a collar made of the same black onyx as his crown and can attack on command if need be

the lower demons aren’t allowed to look yoongi in the eyes when they speak to him and whenever he passes by the all have to bow

yoongi,,,,,like all other demons does have horns but they’re twisted and black and are usually hidden in his black hair or by the crown he wears

rumor has it that a fight over the demon king throne left his right horn chipped,,,,but no one has ever been close enough to him to find out

you,,,,are actually a divine messenger from heaven which is great and all,,,,,until you have to visit the underworld to deliver creeds from the angels

and you’re basically safe because you carry a spell with you that makes it impossible for demons to attack you (unless they want to burn to death) but still,,,,,the way they look at you with hollow red or black eyes,,,,,it’s just scary

and ofc,,,,,,yoongi is scary too,,,,except,,,,he’s not 

because the countless trips you’ve taken to deliver news to him,,,,has sort of made you see that there’s still something in him,,,,,,that isn’t completely evil

there’s something that you think is loneliness,,,,,,but ofc you’d never say that because you arent 100% sure that the spell will keep the KING of demons away from attacking you

and on one evening you’re in yoongi’s palace,,,awaiting to see him and tell him of a decision made by the angels when you get word that you’ll need to spend the night because the angels are going to revise one of their decisions

and you,,,,,,dont want to,,,,,but the doors to yoongi’s throne room open and you’re escorted inside only to begrudgingly explain the situation

and yoongi,,,,has never looked directly at you,,,, because he usually avoids the eye contact because of the law in the underworld 

but for the first time he looks up when you finish talking and you see the red,,,,,like new bright flames,,,,,,and you,,,,,,

are stuck,,,,,staring into them,,,,,,like some kind of hypnosis

until yoongi looks back away and waves his hand, telling one of the demon servants to prepare a room for you to stay the night

but before you leave he mentions that dinner is going to start in twenty minutes.

you politely try to think of a way to refuse,,,,what the hell do they even eat down here,,,,,but you cant find the words and just aimlessly nod

the,,,,,,dinner is much more extravagant than you imagined,,,,,not dead animals or cockroaches like you expected,,,,,

yoongi sits at the other end of the table,,,his crown of all black glittering,,,,,

you try to eat but you can’t because you can feel those eyes,,,,red like blood,,,,looking at you

and when you push back the chair to get up,,,,,suddenly yoongi is beside you,,,walking you slowly up against the wall and you try to not look you try

but you can’t help it,,,,,,,and yoongi is gazing right back at you

the smell of the underworld is on him,,,,,,but he,,,,,he isn’t scaring you,,,,because something again it just radiates from him,,,,,,,a feeling of,,,,,,,,emptiness 

and almost like he’s craved it for years his hand comes up to touch your face,,,,,

you can see that it’s burning him,,,you can feel the offset of heat and the small smoke coming from the contact of his hand against yours

but he doesn’t seem to feel it,,,or he’s fighting off the pain because,,,,,

he lets his hand come down all the way to your chin and being up close like this

you can see the dark tattoos,,,the rings of black drawn on his fingers,,, the scars across his chest

the crown of diamond and onyx right there in front of you

and yoongi is still being burnt but its like something has frozen him and he whispers,,,,,,,

“it’s been so long,,,,since ive touched something pure,,,,,”

and with that he lets go,,,,,the part of his hand that touched you is burnt - to the point that you can see skin peeling and you want to say something but he turns his back and walks away

and you see the wings,,,settled on his skin,,,,,,the servants dashing over to ask what happened to his hand only to have them pushed aside as yoongi leaves the room

and you touch the spot of your face,,,the skin still warm,,,,,and your heart clenched tight because you were right

there is something,,,so empty,,,,inside of him

and is it wrong that you,,,,,,,kind of in this moment,,,,,,want to help him fill it?,,,,,,,,,

[geekprincess26]

Prince Charming and the Pencil

Written for Day 10 of Jon x Sansa Fanfiction’s 15 Days of Valentine’s challenge.  Companion fic to “Blue Pencils and Bravery,” which I wrote for Day 8.  I’m sorry for posting it a day late - real life has a funny way of sticking its tongue out at me and preventing me from posting my fics when I want to post them sometimes.

Harry Hardyng was late.

 Sansa swept into the upstairs bathroom she shared with Arya for the fifth time in the past ten minutes to check herself in the mirror.  She had readied herself for Casterly Rock Preparatory High School’s senior class’s Valentine’s Day ball in record time, having spent until nearly five o’clock decorating the school’s community hall with the other students on the ball’s planning committee.  Her makeup was done flawlessly; the blush-colored gown she had so painstakingly sewn for herself fit her like a glove; wonder of wonders, her fresh blush-and-gold manicure had not been scratched as she and the other students had rushed to put the final touches on the community room; her gold jewelry glittered beautifully; and she had finished preparing for the ball a full five minutes before Harry was supposed to pick her up.  Harry was never late, and did not like it when she ran behind.

 Sansa’s phone buzzed, and she lost no time swiping the screen open.  

 Brandon and I r on the way.  

Sansa hung her head in disappointment.  She had certainly hoped it had been Harry, texting her to tell her he was here, but it was only Jeyne Poole, reporting in to the text group Margaery Tyrell had set up for the planning committee members.  They and their dates had agreed to meet at the school half an hour before the ball officially began in order to take photos and iron out last-minute details. Sansa was not particularly looking forward to that half-hour.  She was tired from spending the entire day decorating and still smarting from a spat she’d had earlier that afternoon with Jeyne, who had taken it upon herself to point out how little Sansa understood about decorating for major school events. After all, Jeyne had snidely reminded her, this was the first event that school year at which Sansa had served on the planning committee, whereas she, Margaery, and Beth Cassel were all on their fourth.  “But naturally, you were busy hanging with the weird computer geeks doing stuff for community theater,” she’d continued, and it had been all Sansa could do not to dump a bag of confetti over Jeyne’s head.  Instead, she’d retorted that Jeyne clearly understood little about volunteering at the community theater or about computer geeks.  She had first started doing artwork for the local community theater a year prior at the request of only one computer geek, Jon Snow, and Jon was not weird, simply a bit shy.  But after she saw how much work it took with both computers and other pieces of machinery she didn’t understand just to put on a morning rehearsal, let alone a full evening production, Sansa had also realized just how talented Jon and his buddies on the production crew were.  She had also seen how much help the theater’s owners needed and had gladly agreed to help in the art department, even though it had meant she couldn’t put as much time into planning school activities as she had anticipated.  

 Sansa sighed as another message popped up on her phone screen.  Great.  Sansa, what about you and Harry?

 That message was from Margaery, to whom out of her three best friends Sansa was still the closest. Even Margaery, however, had not hung around Sansa as much during their senior year as she had during their previous years at Casterly Rock.  Sansa supposed it was partly because they both had boyfriends now and partly because Sansa had spent so much of the past several months working hard on the portfolio she had included with each of her college applications.  Sansa had always known that if she wanted to get into a good art therapy program, she would need an excellent portfolio, and Sansa Stark never did anything halfway.  Still, Sansa felt bad about not having time to serve on the other three planning committees with her friends, and it had hurt during the prior weeks as they had all prepared for the ball together to see that they had a better rapport with each other than any of them did with her.

 Sansa sighed again. Once Harry showed up and got her to the school, she would no doubt find that everybody’s tempers had improved with food and showers, and they could all relax (a bit) and enjoy the fruits of their labor.  And she and Harry would dance and put the fight from earlier this week behind them, the fight in which Harry Hardyng, a straight-A-earning trumpet player who had been accepted to four different Ivy League schools, had accused Sansa Stark of being a snob.  The accusation was ridiculous, of course, but that had not stopped Sansa from crying for an hour afterward.  She had tried her best to be a supportive girlfriend.  Despite her work on her art portfolio, she had spent as much time with Harry as she could; and, far from turning up her nose at Harry’s hobbies, she had attended every one of his cross-country meets and band concerts since they had begun dating.  And neither quitting band the prior year nor changing her planned college major from music therapy to art therapy had had anything to do with Sansa’s thinking she was too good for music.  Harry would no doubt understand that after taking a few days to cool off; he always did after one of their disagreements, even if he was never much of a one for apologies.

 So when Sansa’s phone vibrated and produced a text message from Harry saying Sorry, Sansa, she almost dropped it.  He must just be leaving his house, she thought; Harry never texted while driving.

 No problem, she texted him back.  We’ll still get there in time for pics.

 Three dots blinked on the left side of her phone screen for several moments.  Sansa inspected herself in the mirror one last time, then dashed down the stairs.  Her phone buzzed just as one glittering heel met the floor at the bottom of the staircase.

 No, I meant sorry I’m not going w you, the screen informed her. Sansa sat down so suddenly that she began to slide down the remaining stairs on her backside.  She clutched the railing to stop herself with her right hand while frantically swiping at the phone screen with her left.

 Are you OK?  Did you get sick?  she typed frantically.

 No, just not going, replied the blue text bubble that popped up on the left side of the screen almost immediately.  Sansa stared at the three gray dots that appeared under it a moment later, uncomprehending.

 Better get it over with now.  Would be fake if we went 2gether, said the next bubble.  You can go by yourself if u want.  2 different for each other.  You don’t want what I want.  Done.

 The bubbles stopped coming. Sansa kept staring at the screen, willing there to be more, willing the words to go away, willing Harry to take them back.  But there was not, and they did not, and Harry did not.

 Tears welled in Sansa’s eyes.  She used the railing to push herself upright as fast as she could, so the head rush would help her blink them away.  She did not want Harry Hardyng to have made her cry twice in one week, especially when he did it the second time by dumping her right before the Valentine’s Day ball.

 Sansa pinched the bridge of her nose.  If she could just think clearly enough to type for a moment, she might be able to distract herself long enough to keep the tears at bay, at least for the moment. So she swiped the screen of her phone and punched the cursor furiously.

 And what don’t I want? she typed.  She let out a sigh of relief when she saw the gray dots reappear on the left-hand side of her screen.  As long as she could engage Harry in conversation, she could focus now, even if it would only upset her all the more later on.

 Music, like real fine art stuff, not kids stuff @ com theater. Like music at all.  We don’t have same friends.  You like ur sister’s and J Snow and his friends better lately.

 Sansa pinched the bridge of her nose again.  If she knew Harry at all, he had been planning this since they’d had their fight earlier that week, during the time she’d thought he’d been cooling off. That hurt almost as much as the fact that Harry clearly thought she wasn’t good enough for him.  And he had had the nerve to call her a snob.

 I like doing art 4 “kids stuff @ com theater.” she typed back in a rush, suddenly more furious for the moment than she was hurt.  It’s respectable –volunteer & good 4 my portfolio @ good schools.  And I only missed 1 concert u wanted to take me to 2 hang out w my own sister & friends & u didn’t have a problem with me switching 2 art therapy which is also respectable.  There.  Her grammar was more atrocious than usual, but at least Harry knew he wasn’t the only one who could pride himself on doing “respectable” activities.

 Concert meant a lot 2 me, Harry replied.  U wanted 2 hang out w bunch of computer nerds more than me. & switching majors isn’t stable, what next, fashion design & sewing?

 The heat that had heretofore been confined to Sansa’s face began migrating down her chest and arms. If I did it would still be respectable, she replied.  Sorry if liking 2 make my own clothes isn’t good enough 4 u.  If I’m not good enough 4u you could have said face to face earlier nt left me stranded.  That’s not respectable either.  Goodbye.

 Sansa threw her phone into her purse, buried her face in her hands, and began to shake.  She should have known better than to try to distract herself from crying, she thought as the tears began running down her arms.

 The sound of the back door shutting six feet away startled Sansa bolt upright.  Just as her eyes recognized the familiar form of Jon Snow in front of her, the connecting door to the recreation room swung open, and Arya strode into the room.  Both of them stared with concern at Sansa’s tear-streaked face.

 “What’s the matter?  Jerkface late?” asked Arya, who always called Harry “Jerkface” and other less polite names after Sansa had a fight with him.

 “He’s not coming,” Sansa spat out.  “Happy?”

 “Whoa.”  Jon took a few tentative steps toward Sansa at the exact same time Arya screeched, “What?  Why in the hell not?  He’s still ‘punishing’ you for disagreeing with him, what, last week already?”

 “Arya.”  Jon shot a warning look at the younger girl before turning to Sansa.  “Sansa, what happened?”

 “He broke up with me,” sniffed Sansa.  She began crying again and pawed madly through her purse for a tissue.  

 “Right before the ball? What a cowardly, jerk-faced piece of shit – ” Arya began.

 “Arya.”  This time Jon’s voice came from almost directly above her.  Sansa looked up, startled, to see him holding out one of the handkerchiefs she’d made for him back in their middle school years.  Sansa’s face reddened again.  She’d made him half a dozen handkerchiefs back when she’d still been his secret admirer and made a point of giving him things she knew he’d like.  One of Jon’s odd habits was carrying around a handkerchief – mainly, Sansa supposed, to rub the sweat from his face that was automatically generated by his doing metallurgy in the applied arts lab or running to connect a thousand cords under the harsh lights of the school and community theaters.  She still thought it a strange habit, but now, as she added her tears to the mix on a square of black with music notes embroidered around the edges, Sansa found herself wholeheartedly approving of it.

 “Thank you,” she managed to mumble, too embarrassed to look at either Jon or her sister.  No doubt her makeup was running in ugly streaks all over her face.  

 Sansa’s phone buzzed again. Oh, no.  It had to be Margaery, furious that Sansa and presumably Harry were late, and –

 “Oh, flying heck!” she exclaimed, remembering what else she and Harry were expected to do at the ball. She tried to stand up but tripped over the hem of her dress, and she would have fallen back onto the stairs but for Jon catching her and helping her all the way up.

 “Thanks,” Sansa muttered as Jon stepped back.  Arya rolled her eyes.

 “‘Flying heck?’ Sansa, really.  Rickon’s not exactly around – probably off playing foosball with Dad – ”

 Sansa, who had long since grown accustomed to using slang expressions at home so as to avoid incurring her mother’s ire for using stronger language around her younger brother, waved her sister off.

 “Stuff it, Arya, you’re not the one who’s supposed to dance with her stupid date to open the ball and got dumped by him, and now I can’t – ”  Her phone buzzed again, and she picked up her purse from the ground and began rummaging through it again.

 “Oh.  Right.  Sorry.” Arya turned to Jon.  “Hey, wait, aren’t you supposed to be there too? Running all the music and everything?”

 Jon scratched the back of his head.  “Right, I just came back to get my USB drive with some of my files I need on it.  I left it here with Bran by accident.”  He was interrupted by a sob from Sansa, who could find her phone nowhere in her purse.  Jon bent to retrieve it from one of the stairs and held it out to her.

 “Thanks,” Sansa choked out, rubbing her eyes furiously.  “Sorry, I – oh, you probably want this back, and – ”  She held out the handkerchief to Jon, who waved it away.

 “It’s OK,” he said. “I do have some other ones at home.”

 Sansa managed a weak smile. She had indeed made Jon several other handkerchiefs before they had entered ninth grade and been assigned to different homerooms, by which time Jon had discovered his passion for metallurgy and begun helping out at the community theater, and the other students had stopped making quite so much fun of him, and Sansa had figured he did not need his secret admirer quite so much any more.

 “Bran!”  Arya’s belted exclamation brought Sansa sharply back to the present.  She flushed when she realized she was still holding Jon’s handkerchief out to him.

 “Sansa,” he was saying, “you OK?”

 Sansa nodded at the same time Jon hung his head.  “No, sorry, that was stupid,” he said.  She shook her head, but before she could think of what to say, Jon’s own head snapped back up.  His face had gone pink, but he looked her straight in the eye.

 “I – I – you can say no,” he said, “but I can take you to the ball if – if you want, and you can find a guy to dance with, or – or – I could dance with you for the first one – I mean, I’m not good at it and I’d have to help with the sound later, but you’d – you wouldn’t be left alone that way, and I could take you home after the first dance, or any time later, if you wanted to go, or if you wanted to go out to McDonald’s or wherever for a snack between dances if you just want a break. Sam knows how to do that stuff as well as I do, so I can leave and come back, no problem.  I can even change into my suit, if – if you want me to dance.”

 Sansa merely stared at Jon. She knew he was no Harry when it came to dancing, but she had no Harry or anybody else to dance with, and right now having somebody, whatever his skill level, was infinitely better than having no one to dance with at all – or even having Harry to dance with, at this point.  She and Jon would still get a lot of strange looks and whispers from her friends and everyone else, but then Jon was used to both the whispers and the looks, and Sansa was sure to get them anyway after everyone found out Harry had dumped her. At least she would get neither from Jon.

 “If you don’t want to, that’s fine, Sansa.”  Jon’s voice had lowered, and Sansa thought she could detect a hint of disappointment. She shook her head.

 “No, it’s – ” she began, but was interrupted when Arya, Bran, and Catelyn Stark all entered the room at once.

 “Sansa, honey, Harry’s not here yet?  What happened, sweetheart?”  Catelyn wrapped an arm around her daughter’s shoulders while Bran handed Jon’s USB drive to him.

 Sansa smiled wanly at her mother.  “Harry’s not coming, Mom.  He – he broke up with me, but Jon’s going to take me to the ball and – and do the first dance with me.”

 A devilish grin spread across Arya’s face.  Catelyn, whose back was turned to her, wiped a tear off of her elder daughter’s cheek and drew her in for a hug.

 “Oh, I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” she murmured.  “Are you sure you’re up for going?  You don’t have to go, you know, if you’d rather not, even if you don’t want to talk about it right now.”

 Sansa blew her nose into the handkerchief and gave both her mother and Jon a wobbly smile.  “No, Mom, it’s OK,” she said.  “Jon says he’ll take me home after the first dance if I want to go.” She gave Jon a wobbly smile, and he returned a steady one that reached and filled his dark brown eyes.

 Catelyn gave her daughter a searching look, then nodded and turned to Jon.  “Thank you very much, Jon,” she said.  “I’m sure you know that Sansa is expected to be home before midnight.”

 Jon flushed again and nodded.  “You’re welcome, Mrs. Stark,” he replied.  “We’ll be back before then.”

 Fifteen minutes later Sansa and Jon, she with her makeup reapplied and he sporting the dusty suit and tie he had hastily changed into while waiting for her to tidy up, arrived at school for the pre-ball photo session. Sansa spent the entire ride typing her apologies along with a brief explanation to the text group, but Jeyne Poole still shot her a dirty look when she arrived.  Fortunately, just before Sansa began posing with the others for photos, she caught Jon frantically trying to brush some of the dust bunnies off of his suit with, of all things, the blue pencil he had previously had tucked behind his ear.  The smile she produced for the cameras then was real.  So was the smile she gave Jon when he offered her his arm to escort her onto the dance floor.

 “I really, really appreciate it, Jon,” she said.  “I hope I didn’t make you late for Sam and the others; you can tell them it’s my fault their best sound person wasn’t there on time.”

 “You made Sam late?” said Jon, his expression perfectly deadpan.  Sansa giggled in spite of herself.

 “No,” she replied. “The best sound person there tucks blue pencils behind his ear.”

 Jon reddened and immediately reached behind his ear to pull out the pencil resting there, but Sansa shook her head.

 “I didn’t mean you should take it out,” she said.  “It’s enough that you’re offering to dance with me.  I don’t want to make you do it without the pencil, after all.”  She smiled warmly at him, and Jon smiled back, although his face was still red.

 “You’re not making me dance with you; I offered to do it,” he pointed out.  “Besides, I’m the one who should apologize in advance for stepping on your feet by accident.”

 Sansa opened her mouth to reply, but was interrupted by Margaery Tyrell, who swept over with Joffrey next to where Sansa and Jon were standing.

 “One minute, Sansa,” she said.  Sansa did not miss the eyebrow the other girl raised pointedly at the pencil perched behind Jon’s ear.

 Joffrey, however, upstaged his girlfriend with a snort.  “Made hanging with the computer weirdos full-time, huh, Stark?” he said.  Sansa straightened herself up to her full height.

 “Yes, Baratheon, I have,” she replied.  “I find it a step up from my previous company.  I rather admire computer weirdos, in fact.”

 Both Margaery’s shocked look and Joffrey’s reply were cut off by the arrival of Mr. Arryn, who was Casterly Rock’s music director and also the teacher in charge of the ball. A few moments later, he and his wife swept onto the dance floor, and the planning committee members followed with their dates.

 True to his word, Jon spent much of the first dance stumbling and then apologizing to Sansa, but she kept waving away his apologies and redirected him to the correct steps. Teaching him proved a welcome diversion for them both from the strange looks they were getting from the other students, especially Jeyne and Joffrey – so welcome, in fact, that they continued for two more dances before Jon once again apologized, this time for having to take off backstage to help his friends with the sound.

 Sansa shook her head. “No, don’t be sorry,” she said. “And – and thank you, Jon.  I really, really appreciate it a lot.”

 Jon smiled.  “I really appreciate you trying to help me not look like total computer weirdo out there,” he said.  Sansa rolled her eyes.

 “You’re not a weirdo,” she replied.  “You never were.”  She took a deep breath.  “A weirdo wouldn’t have offered to bring me here when I – I didn’t have anyone else to take me, and – and a weirdo definitely wouldn’t have tackled Theon Greyjoy when he was picking on Bran and me on the playground.”  She felt her face flush red.  “Especially since you took the blame for me shoving Theon over it.”

 Jon stared at her, clearly bemused.  “Oh,” he finally said.  “That was a long time ago.  I’m not still mad at you for it or anything.  Besides, Theon deserved it.”

 Sansa nodded.  “I know,” she said.  “I’m still sorry, though.”

 Jon shook his head. “It’s – it’s all right, Sansa. Don’t worry about it,” he said, and after a moment he held out his right hand.  “No hard feelings?  Friends, or – or at least fellow weirdos?”  He gave her the lopsided grin she’d first seen when she had given him the box of pencils and the note apologizing for the detention Mr. Cassel had given him back in sixth grade for defending her and Bran in front of Theon. Sansa gave him her hand at once and smiled back.

 “Friends and fellow weirdos,” she said.  “Deal.”