#i am so proud of jons office in this it is.. beautiful

[ascendingconures]

spooky reminder that i made a VR map of the Magnus Institute you can go explore on vrchat. Its interactable. Its unhinged. its buggy. its full off references. dont take it too seriously.

[schrijverr]

Solidarity

This is about enby he/they Jon, who wants to wear a skirt to work, because they’re comfy. He confides in Tim, who agrees to help them. He does so by dyeing his hair purple.

It is completely based on the art of @fox-guardian, their Tim and all other TMA designs live in my mind rent free, so go check them out! The designs I used will also be linked in text for a better mental image

On AO3.

Ships: none

Warnings: none really, but tell me if I missed something or if you want me to tag anything!

A/N: this is my first time writing someone with multiple pronouns, if I can improve feel free to tell me, no obligations of course :D

~~~~~~~~

Jon was nervous, he was almost always nervous, but they had an impeccable mask. However, today he was even more nervous and it was showing through the cracks. They had finally put a non-binary flag sticker on his laptop.

They weren’t about to tell everyone at the office about it, the he/him pronouns for work suited them just fine for now and he didn’t want to go through the effort of explaining he/they pronouns to everyone, the flag was just for them.

Georgie had given him the sticker when they had come out to her. They lost contact soon after, but Jon had always appreciated the gesture. Until now he had been too afraid to stick it on something, because what if that object didn’t last and they wasted the sticker on that?

But now he had a brand new laptop and in a wave of courage they had put the sticker on it.

A decision he was now regretting, since they were walking into work and anyone could see it. Of course, the people who knew what the flag meant, would most likely be chill with it, but anyone would recognize it as a pride flag, even if they might not know which one.

He had tried to convince themself it didn’t matter, he was proud of who they were, had been for a long while.

But it was still scary.

They sighed and pushed open the door, quickly making his way to their desk where he tried to make the flag less noticeable by reorganizing their desk.

Luck was not on his side, however, because Tim made his way over to them. He greeted him and Tim smiled back: “Hi there, Jon. What are you reorganizing for? Trying to get that archivist job, ey?”

Jon couldn't help it, they froze. His hands stilled as they tried to come up with an excuse, but nothing came out. He just stared at Tim and waved their hands around helplessly. His actions made Tim frown and he asked: “Hey, is everything alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, everything's fine, Tim.” Jon answered, before, with a stroke of genius (not), they pushed a stack of paper in front of the flag.

The paper stack wasn’t near high enough to cover it and all it did was call attention to what Jon had been trying to hide. He cringed and looked at Tim to try and gauge his reaction to the sticker.

Tim glanced over and spotted the sticker, a look of understanding coming over his face. He could see the light fear in Jons eyes, so he went for a disarming smile as he said: “That’s cool. I, myself, am the B of the beautiful alphabet soup. Want me to change pronouns for you?”

Jon practically sagged with relief, their heart beginning to slow down again and he said: “No, I just use he/him in a professional setting, but, uhm, you know, thank you.”

“No problem.” Tim smiled, “Always good to know you’re not alone, right? Solidarity and all that.”

“Yeah.” Jon shyly returned the smile.

Later that day Tim ‘accidentally’ left his mug in front of the flag when he was talking to Jon and the next day a three striped flag could be found on Tims laptop. It wasn’t much, but it was support and that was comforting.

In the privacy of their own home Jon put on a skirt, he liked dressing like, what Georgie called, an elderly librarian, but it was comfortable and they wished he was comfortable enough to wear it to work.

They shook the thought off, no use in dwelling on the possibilities, after all, but it remained there in the back of his mind.

The next time they thought about it seriously, was when he actually got promoted. It came to them again when he realized that the Archives were mostly hidden away in the basement and didn’t get a lot of traffic. Wearing a skirt there was much less high risk, besides they would be working with Tim and Sasha, they both knew, and he had thought they’d seen a trans flag as the background for that annoying other guy, Martin, he thought his name was.

Still, they would have to walk through the building for a bit first, past the front desk in the main entrance hall and while Rosie was a sweet lady, she a nosy one too.

Jon shoved the thought away, but this time it fought harder when he tried to let go of it. They thought of it when his pants felt tight around their legs, when his tie wrapped around their throat and whenever Sasha walked past in a dress.

A few weeks into the organization of the Archives, Jon had made up his mind. They were gonna wear a skirt, but first he needed to be sure they would have at least one ally on his side.

They casually held back Tim at the end of the day. He looked surprised and asked: “Hey, what’s up boss?”

“Uhm, can I- can I ask you something?” Jon began.

He didn’t know if it was the body language or the hesitation that put Tim on high alert, but he straightened up a bit and answered: “Of course, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong, per say.” they said, “I just have this idea, but before I do it, I want to ensure that I have someone taller to hide behind in case it goes wrong.”

“That is not helping, Jon. Is it those statements? Sasha says they’re all weird, they’re not getting to you too, are they?” Tim replied.

“Oh no, not at all. You know I don’t belief that nonsense.” Jon quickly assured him, then he hunched a bit over and mumbled: “I was just just thinking of wearing a skirt to work, since they’re comfortable, but, you know?”

They looked up and hoped Tim would understand. He saw how Tims concerned expression morphed into understanding, then his eyes glittered, before he got excited. He grinned: “I got the perfect idea, I will 100% cover you, boss. Just wait and I’ll text you when you can do it, alright? I got a plan.”

“Wha-? What’s the plan? Tim? Tim!” Tim was already gone.

Jon spend the next few days nervously. They had asked Tim a few times, but he had been waved away with a ‘don’t worry’ or a ‘you’ll see.’

Then on Tuesday morning, they got a text from Tim, simply reading: It’s time, meet me near the gates at 8:45.

Not wanting to stand outside in the outfit on his own for a while, Jon made sure to be there precisely on time and not a second later.

He had chosen a comfort outfit, since they suspected he was going to need it today. It was a long dark grey skirt, which they had paired with green socks, dress shoes with a small heel, an old green cardigan and his Mechanisms shirt.

They hadn’t even stood there for five seconds when a familiar voice called out: “Here, Jon!”

Looking over he saw Tim, but now with lilac hair that matched a sweater and a dress shirt he wore as much as possible. Right now it was a sweater day, he grinned when he saw Jons shocked face and ran up to them.

“A distraction, at your service, boss.” Tim did a lazy salute, before he started to lead Jon inside.

Jon was speechless for a moment, then they said: “You didn’t have to do all that for me, isn’t that a dress code violation?”

“Old Elias won’t care, besides if they yell at me for it, it’s only less attention on you.” Tim waved his worries away, “And I did have to do it. To be honest, I’ve always wanted to dye my hair, but never found a reason to try a violate dress code, but this was just a perfect excuse.”

“Thank you, Tim, really. It means a lot.” Jon told him sincerely.

“No worries, solidarity, am I right.” Tim told them.

They walked in to the Institute together and the first thing Jon heard was Rosie calling out: “Tim, your hair! I love it, dear.”

Internally Jon smiled: Solidarity.

[rosy-cheekx]

Make A Wish

Book passage:  Elfriede Jelinek, The Piano Teacher

Me? Posting an unprompted fic? 2021 is starting off wild!

AO3 Link here

Summary: Martin knows just how to celebrate Jon’s 35th birthday. It’s soft and beautiful and speaks of a bright future. 

Martin doesn’t know how to shop for Jon. He’s the kind of guy who doesn’t really want trinkets or the little gifts Martin would think to buy for a significant other. (If he does want them, at least, he doesn’t say it.) Things he needs, like clothes, he buys himself, doesn’t wait for an occasion. Overall, Martin would not describe Jon as materialistic.

Books are the exception. Books are always the exception for Jon. While Jon is not materialistic, he is usually sentimental. He keeps things for as long as he can, letting them wear and wear til they’re no longer usable, like his shoes. Especially pictures. Jon never throws away pictures. (Martin knows why and snaps as many Polaroids as he can of his partner, himself, their friends, even their cat, hanging them around the house in tiny frames as reminders.) But his books are in and out of the shelves like they run a bookshop of their own. Martin has heard the stories of his partner’s reading habits as a youth, knows that Jon’s reading habits are challenging, to say the least. Before they’d moved in together, though, he hadn’t realized that every time he was at Jon’s the bookshelves were almost entirely unique to the last visit. New titles, rarely the same authors, with no seeming organization to the assemblance. Martin knows this now, knows that once a fortnight Jon packs up all the books he’s read and takes them to their local charity shop. It’s his little ritual, and the bug-eyed look of confusion Martin had received when he had asked him about it the first time was priceless.

“I just--don’t need them anymore?” He says, like it’s a question. “I’m not going to read them again.”

“Really?” Martin raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I took you to be a bit of a hoarder when it comes to books, if the statements in your office were any indication. And it’s our flat, so they’re our books. What if I want to read them?”

“Please.” Jon scoffs. “That’s entirely different. I don’t enjoy­- well. They’re work, these are not.”

Still, after this, Jon includes Martin in his ritual, giving him synopses from books he thinks Martin might enjoy and adding the Blackwood-Approved books to the other bookshelf. Martin is quite proud of his bookshelf, identical in structure to Jon’s but entirely more organized: books ordered by genre, then by author, with figurines, photos, and plants acting as weights and decor. Jon’s deviates between sparse and overflowing, books stacked however they will fit, with no rhyme or reason to their order.

Martin doesn’t know how to shop for Jon, but he’s learned quickly that Jon isn’t a Things person. Jon is an Experiences person. The moments he treasures are the ones where he and Martin are happy to be in each other’s presence and experiencing new things together. Ice skating, picnics, hiking, cinemas, all the quintessential cheesy dates, the ones he would’ve guessed, way back when, before he knew the real Jon, this Jon, he would have snubbed his nose at.

Jon’s birthday is coming up. He’s turning 35 and is all too self-conscious about the fact. Martin ribs him a little; he’s older by seven months, after all, “you’re making me feel old, Jon!” Their ritual has become to call off work and spend a day together on Jon’s birthday. No gifts, no fanfare, just a day doing an activity Martin has planned. It’s perfect usually, Jon’s delighted smile and bright eyes when he thanks Martin with a kiss is all the satisfaction he needs. But this is 35, it needs to be special. It needs to be perfect.

---

Martin blinks awake to the steady, calming drum of rain on their bedroom window. He pats out blindly for his glasses, haphazardly set on his bedside table, and pushes them on his face, before rolling back onto his side and tucking an arm around Jon’s waist and nuzzling into his neck. “Happy birthday, love,” he murmurs, carding his other hand through Jon’s tangled curls. He smiles softly as he watches his partner; Jon always grumbles that he looks so much older than he is, but when he’s sleeping, Martin swears he looks timeless, a specimen of perfect beauty against the crisp black sheets. Jon shifts in his arms, turning to face him, and squints blearily at Martin. Jon, for all his sleepless nights back at the archives, is not a morning person.

“Hm-mar’in?” he mumbles, irises stained forever green. He clears his throat and scrubs at his eyes. God, he looks just like a cat. “G’mornin’,” he says, a little more comprehensible, voice rough-hewn from sleep.

“Morning, love.” Martin kisses his forehead, between his eyebrows. “Happy birthday,” His nose, cold from a chilly autumn night. “Ready for a good day?” His lips now, soft and warm. Jon sighs underneath him, presses himself into the kiss, slots himself into the Jon-shaped space in Martin’s arms.

When Martin shifts away to sit up, Jon audibly whines, grabbing at Martin’s hand to pull him back. “You’re so warm, don’t go,” he pleads. Martin chuckles and squeezes his hand.

“It’s half nine. You want breakfast, don’t you? We have an agenda to follow, don’t forget.” But Jon shakes his head and tugs again.

“Birthday Ruling,” he cites solemnly, stretching as he says it. (Again, like a cat, the way he arches his back. Is that on purpose? Martin is pretty sure he’s seen Reggie—Her Regency—do the exact same thing.) “By royal decree, you have to stay here until I’m awake enough to help you with breakfast.”

“Well,” Martin chuckles, shaking his head to himself and tucking himself around Jon’s thin form. “I can’t refuse a royal decree, now, can I?”

Breakfast becomes brunch, and once the pair are awake tea, cut fruit, and omelets are prepared and eaten on the couch. Jon being left-handed and Martin right, they sit on their perspective sides so they can hold hands and not inhibit the other from eating.

“So,” Jon prompts, eyeing Martin from his peripheral as he watches him wash dishes. “What are your secret plans? Am I allowed to know yet?”

“Hmm.” Martin considers his question, running a plate through his hands as he dried it, solemn contemplation on his face. “No.”

“Mar-tiiin,” Martin is almost worn down by that plea, a sound he doesn’t think anyone else who has ever met Jonathan Sims could fathom coming from him. A bloom of warmth in his chest; a reminder he will never feel lonely again.

“But I think you’ll figure it out,” he compromises, grinning to himself. His plan had come to him in a sudden realization at work and Martin did think it was some of his best work yet. “Here’s your hint: you may want to bring a canvas.”

Jon’s face is a measured calm. “We’re going shopping?” Martin just shrugs, winking.

-

They take a cab and the rain pounds down on the roof, the repetitive noise a balm against the cold and wet.  Martin really got lucky today; the sound of rain is one of Jon’s favorites. He sighs inwardly as Jon rests his curls, slightly damp from their wait for the cab, on his shoulder and closes his eyes, basking in the warmth of his boyfriend and the pleasant drumming.

Jon’s eyes opened when he felt the cab pull to a stop, and he took their surroundings in with the quick analytical eye of an ex-Archivist. Martin felt his cheeks growing warm with excitement as they stepped out of the cab and paid. The building before them, like most Scottish buildings, was made of uneven stone. There was a little garden, mostly rocks with some shrubbery dotted between, and the pathway, also stone, though a flatter smoother variety, led to the door, which read The Watermill in blue and white lettering. “Martin?” Jon threaded his fingers through Martin’s, eyes wide.

“It’s a bookshop, Jon. It’s got reading nooks, and a café, and I swear I’ll buy you any books you want. We can stay as long as we like. We can read as much as we want.”

Three short squeezes to Martin’s hand. Oh. He was starting to ramble. He returns the answering four. “Martin, love, it sounds perfect. But it’s raining.” Right. A drop of rain rolls down Martin’s nose, and he shivers.  “Let’s get inside.”

Martin is glad he brought a tote, a canvas bag with the name of Jon’s university emblazoned on the sides. He follows Jon through every aisle as Jon analyzes every book like their dogs in show. He scans the titles, covers and authors with precision, sometimes returning them with delicate hands, sometimes reading descriptions or thumbing through the pages, before deciding their worth and either reshelving it or handing it to Martin. Martin is distinctly reminded of being an Archival Assistant, helping Jon prioritize case files, except the expression on Jon’s face isn’t furrowed and grim, it’s near-rapturous awe as he selects and examines the books. There is no evident consistency to the books Jon picks, ranging from YA fiction to historical documentation to travel books of places he knew they’d probably never visit, though he always takes Martin’s suggested reads, nodding dutifully and running his hand down the spine before placing it in the ever-weighing bag on Martin’s arm.

They spend nearly an hour and a half roaming shelves before Jon is satisfied with this first load. Martin is grateful. His shoulder is starting to hurt from the nearly full canvas he’s hoisted on his shoulder. Martin leads his partner to a small corner, something that can only be described as a nook. There’s a small, well-worn sofa, a table with coasters, and a coffee table in front of the sofa. The whole space is cast in warm orange-yellow light, courtesy of the standing lamps, and Martin can imagine this is a great place to curl up and fall asleep.

Curl up they do, Martin sitting with a few books of his own beside him and Jon leaning against Jon’s side, sprawling over the majority of the couch. Martin tucks an arm over Jon’s chest, feeling the slow rise and fall of the space where collarbone meets rib, and they read. They read in silence for most of the morning, Jon flipping through his books at a truly astounding pace (Jon thinks its left over from his Archival Spooky Powers, Martin thinks he’s just a nerd), pausing occasionally to read Martin a line he finds interesting. It’s a yellow paperback now, something about psychopathy, and he begins to read out an interview the author had with a man who claims he should not have been diagnosed as a psychopath.

“D’you think Jonah was a psychopath?” Jon asks, brow furrowed as he reads the qualifying characteristics. “He had the ‘grandiose sense of self-worth’ and ‘cunning/manipulation’ down pat.”

Martin hums, glancing over Jon’s shoulder to read the rest of the Psychopath Test. “Lack of remorse,” he points. “Lack of empathy for sure. Someone with empathy doesn’t implant visions of their dead father into the head of their employee. Speaking of, we should have Melanie and Georgie over soon.” Jon nods against his chest. “I’d call him charming, too, actually,” nudging Jon gently. “Especially with new employees. Remember how he—”

“Called me into his office nonstop and ‘checked in?’ Yeah, I remember.” Jon sighed and smoothed the page down. “Can you call it ‘a parasitic lifestyle’ when your employees are bound under your servitude for eternity or until they die?” Jon scoffs. “I don’t think the DSM is ready for Smirke’s Fourteen.”

“Maybe not. Maybe the sixth edition will be.” Martin presses a kiss to the top of Jon’s head and turns back to his own book.

-

“Hungry?” Martin asks, nudging Jon as his stomach gurgles for the third time in as many minutes. Jon jumps a little, likely having forgotten Martin was there.

“Erm-I mean, a little.” Even after being together for so long, Jon still hesitates to let Martin buy him food. (“Martin, I have money. You don’t- you don’t have to-” but whatever offending muffin or cone of chips would be pressed into his hand and he would thank Martin, sheepish, and take a bite.)

“Chai latte? Something sweet?” Martin asks, nudging Jon out of his side and feeling the cold spot left in his wake. “Its your birthday, come on.” Jon sighs and relents, and Martin swear he can hear him roll his eyes as he walks away.

Martin orders two chais and a few cupcakes (chocolate for Jon, carrot cake for him) from the café in the front of the bookshop and joins an ever-growing queue of patrons waiting to get their own warm treats. The rain must have driven people in in droves. Never mind it, though, their corner feels empty enough. He thinks he sees a spider on the back of a woman’s shirt in front of him, and flinches before realizing, oh, it’s just a bit of string. He takes a slight step back anyways. He didn’t used to do that.

“Order for Martin?” An American voice, uni student probably. He thanks her and makes a point to drop a few quid in the tip jar, seeing it frustratingly empty for such a busy café.  

Martin takes a small porcelain plate in each hand, a mug and pastry balanced on each, and makes his way carefully back to the sofa where he had left Jon. Only, he couldn’t see his curly hair, tied up in his half-bun, over the back of the sofa. Did he go to the loo?

It’s when Martin steps over to the side of the couch to set the plates down that he bursts into laughter. Jon is sprawled in a way that seems completely unconducive to reading: his knees are hooked over the sofa, so his socked feet (shoes neatly deposited next to his hips) are on the cushion itself. His torso is stretched on the warm, well-swept wood floor and his head (and his book) are tucked under the coffee table; arms locked over his head so he can read on his back. It looks ridiculous, he cannot fathom what possessed Jon to sit like this and not on his back on the couch.

Jon hears his laughter and arcs his neck, trying to see Martin’s face. “It was…comfortable?” he tries helplessly, giggling awkwardly. “Oh, piss off,” he sighed, inelegantly worming his way out from under the seat.

“Come on, old man.” Martin grins, handing him the cupcake he’d bought for him, with a single purple candle pressed into it. “Make a wish!”

“It’s not even lit,” Jon protested, cheeks flushing.

“Want me to sing instead? I can.” Martin took a deep breath. “Happy Bir-”

“N-no! Martin, no!” Jon pressed a hand over his mouth, though he was giggling madly at Martin’s wild expression. “I’ll blow it out. Just hush.” He took a deep breath, closed his eyes for a moment, and then let out a breath in a sigh. His eyes were soft, smile to match. “I…I don’t have anything to wish for.”

Martin’s turn to blush. “Just-just shut up and eat your cake,” he mumbled, hiding his smile in a sip of his tea.

-

Maybe its how at-peace he feels, maybe it’s his ADHD (its definitely the ADHD), but Martin has no idea how long he’s been reading. He’s brought out of his reverie, his copy of In Cold Blood almost finished (he’s read it before, but god he loves this book so much), by a low noise he can’t pick out at first. It’s quiet, soothing, its right next to him.

Oh. Oh. It’s Jon. This one, a real compulsion left over from his time as an Archivist, Jon is reading aloud to himself, his voice the sonorous, resonant tone of a man performing for himself. Martin puts his book down carefully, trying not to alert Jon to his awareness, and listens, letting the words wash over him. Jon’s voice has always been able to capture Martin’s attention, even before the Eldritch Spooky Magic that eventually attached itself to it.

“Klemmer stands there, gazing at her.   “Erika doesn’t want a silence to develop, so she utters a platitude. Art is platitudinous for Erika because she lives off art. How much easier it is for the artist, says the woman, to hurl feelings or passions out of himself. When an artist resorts to dramatic devices, which you so greatly esteem, Klemmer, he is simply utilizing bogus methods while neglecting authentic ones. She talks to prevent the eruption of silence. I, as a teacher, favor undramatic art – Schumann, for instance. Drama is always easier! Feelings and passions are always merely a substitute, a surrogate for spirituality. The teacher yearns for an earthquake, for a roaring, raging tempest to pounce upon her. That wild Klemmer is so angry that he almost drills his head into the wall. The clarinet class next door, which he, the owner of a second instrument, has been frequenting twice a week, would certainly be astonished if Klemmer’s angry head suddenly emerged from the wall, next to Beethoven’s death mask. Oh, that Erika, that Erika. She doesn’t sense that he is actually talking about her, and naturally about himself as well! He is connecting Erika and himself in a sensual context, ejecting the spirit, that enemy of the senses, that primal foe of the flesh. She thinks he is referring to Schubert, but he really means himself, just as he always means himself whenever he speaks.   “He suddenly ventures to adopt a familiar tone with Erika; using a formal tone, she advises him to remain objective! Her mouth puckers, willy-nilly, into a wrinkly rosette; she cannot control it. She controls what the mouth says, but she cannot control the way it presents itself to the outside world. She gets goosebumps all over.”

Martin closes his eyes against the words, a shiver running down his spine, starting at the top of his skull. It’s a feeling he gets so rarely now, the feeling of being so absolutely content in the presence of another person that any fog he may have is physically expunged from him. Not that there is any, but it’s a safeguard; a reminder to himself that he is not Lonely anymore and will never be lonely again. It can’t get him, not here, not with Jon sprawled, almost in his lap, reading and sipping tea and letting the only thing they worry about be whether they fed the cat this morning (Jon did, of course, Reggie is not one to let them forget her morning meal).

“Martin?” Jon’s voice cuts through his quiet contemplation. “You alright?” He’s tilting his head back, almost upside down to look at Martin’s face. “I felt you shudder.” Of course, even deep in his trance of this story he had felt Martin shift.

“Of course, sweetheart,” he smiles reassuringly, carding the hair off Jon’s forehead. “I’m not feeling lonely, not even a little bit.” He used to do it a lot in the safehouse, and fog would roll off him in droves. Jon would hold him through it all. “I think it just happens now like part of an immune system, just checking in when I’m feeling emotional.”

“Emotional?” Jon looks a little relieved, but not entirely. He sits up, glancing down at his page number (Martin could never figure out how Jon did that, remembered his page number instead of using a bookmark) and cups Martin’s face gently, searching it. “What’s wrong?”

“Absolutely nothing, Jon, I promise. That was why I was emotional,” he admits, feeling a little sheepish. “It’s just good to feel happy. It feels good to be with you, to be at peace, to not worry about what is going to happen tomorrow and whether we’re going to die.”

Martin blushes, feeling heat spread through his face. It feels good to say it out loud. “Happy birthday, Jon. I love you.”

-

They leave with bags full of books, smiles on their faces and the moon casting a faint light on their backs. Martin falls asleep in the cab on the way home, his head lilting onto Jon’s shoulder. When Jon wakes him up, leading his sleepy partner up the stairs, 

Jon thinks 35 maybe won’t be so bad, after all.

[magalidragon]

Ice is Hot Too | another drabble

Woooot, back to Madam Dany we go-- this is another drabble in the Ice is Hot Too universe, in the drabble collection Frostbite and Burns.  It’s in answer to an ask from @aenarsnow​ that I did NOT forget about, but I accidentally answered it so I can’t find the ask anymore, lol, but I did remember it!  It’s for the prompt “Prove it” and is spicy spice.  

This is set after the angst-filled drabble “Melting” I did for these beans, which is why it is sexy and also ends with some fluffy happiness.  But no, Robb isn’t in this one, maybe the next one, lol, I just love this GIF.

Jon Snow was annoying her.

She was furious with him.  Furious that he dared leave their house this morning looking the way he looked, all beautiful in his crisp tailored gray suit, his boots shiny and his curls luscious.  Furious he smelled like the mix of spearmint gum, faint scent of his e-cigarette, and the pine fresh of his shampoo.  Furious he hadn’t tugged those curls back into the knot he usually kept them in at work and they hung free around his fine face, his beard dark and rather messy as he hadn’t been to the barber for a cleanup in a week or so.  

There was also the drawl in his voice, the burr of his accent, when he spoke with Missy, Tyrion, Varys, and the other members of the company.  She left the room at one point, too annoyed to carry on.  There was the other time when he’d had to call a couple clients, dress them down for trying to pressure the boys into sexual conduct when they were not within any rights to do so if they didn’t want to.  He was so firm with them, but polite, and of course they apologized.  They just really loved her boys, after all.

She sulked, waiting for him to finish, for everyone to leave, and the door to close behind Missy, who smirked at her knowingly.  She cocked her head at her best friend, appalled she would think such things.  Who am I kidding, she knows us too well.

Jon glanced over at her across the conference room table.  She didn’t like coming to the main offices here at the tower in downtown Kings Landing, she preferred the darkness of her lair in the Dragonpit.  “I think that went well,” he said, closing his laptop.  “And we’ve secured the generous donation from Olenna too.”  He scowled.  “I’ll have to thank Robb for that one.  No doubt he convinced Margaery to convince her.”

“Hmm.”

“Before I forget, we have Arry’s school play tonight.”  He beamed, proud father that he was.  “She’s so excited, she gets to play Aegon the Conqueror.”

“Hmm.”

He glanced sideways, brow furrowing.  “What’s your problem?  You’ve been bratty all afternoon.”

“Do you ever get sick of the sound of your own voice?” she snapped.  She couldn’t explain why she was just so testy. Her mood had been shifting so rapidly lately.  Nothing made her happy.  Everything pissed her off.  She’d fucking cried when Jorah had to stop the car this morning because a fucking deer jumped across the road.

He drew back, lip curling, wolf-like.  “Do you?”

“No.”

He pushed his laptop and folders aside, drawing himself up, walking around the edge of the table, advancing on her.  “You’ve been pissy.  You want me to make you feel better?”

“You can’t,” she huffed; she wasn’t sure why.  She crossed her legs, her heel dangling off her foot.  She scowled up at him.  He was part of the problem; he couldn’t make her feel better.  Looking the way he looked.  Talking the way he talked.  She slouched further in her seat.  

“I bet I can.”

She eyed him.  “Oh?”

“Hmm,” it was his turn to murmur.  He reached up for his tie, loosening it.  He slipped his jacket off, neatly hanging it on an opposite chair and yanked off the tie.  He set it down over the jacket.  In his crisp black shirt and suspenders, he looked good enough to eat.  He smiled again, wolfish, and knelt in front of her.  He pushed her knees apart.  “I think I can.”

“Prove it,” she sneered.  

His fingers danced along her legs, reaching under her skirt.  He snapped her garters, the clasps stinging her bare skin.  She shivered but gave him no satisfaction.  He leaned down, kissing the inside of her calf, slowly stroking along the underside of her legs.  “You were like this last night too,” he murmured, his gray eyes fixed on hers, unblinking.  “Care to share?”

“No,” she pouted.  It was so stupid and she hated herself for feeling like such a foolish girl.  She sniffed at him.  “Are you going to get to it?”

“My, my, my, the dragon really is upset.”

“Put your tongue to good use then and stop talking.”

So he did.  It was never the same, she would give him that much, sliding in the chair as he teased her.  That tongue of his should come with a warning label, perhaps even a patent on it.  She needed to trademark it.  She wasn’t sure how he did it, his fingers tight on the insides of her thighs, holding her apart, one of her legs hiked up and resting on the table, the other over the arm of the chair, one heel off and the other scraping atop the glass tabletop.  She grabbed hold of her knee, for something to hold, to dig her fingers into, while her other hand clutched his curls.  She babbled in Valyrian, almost begging him, but staved off—he knew what those words meant, and she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.  

“Jon,” she exclaimed, when he edged off of her, she cried, tears trickling down the corners of her eyes, furious with herself.  He toyed with her, over and over, almost to the brink before he rocked back on his heels, licked his lips like the wolf finishing his dinner, and then dove back in again.  When his fingers joined, she couldn’t handle it, fucking his hand and riding at his face, almost slipping clear off the chair to the floor.

He moaned against her cunt, working her over, jaw moving as he suckled her clit and fucked her with his tongue, drinking up all her desire for him, and crooking his fingers along her silken walls, searching along the nerves for the ones that would send her flying.  He certainly did, her climax hard, brutal, and smothering out any sound she could make, her eyes clenched shut as she came.  

Then the tears came, but she didn’t know why.  She slipped right off the chair into his arms, sobbing against him.  “I hate you,” she mumbled into his shirt, wiping her eyes with the lapels.  “And I don’t know why, because I love you too.”

He gathered her in his arms, kissing her hair.  “I love you too, you’re just tired, come on.  You’re working too hard.”

She sniffed, attributing the strange mix of her emotions to that.  He helped her up, back into her shoes, her stockings shoved into the pocket of his suit jacket.  She leaned against him, her knees a little wobbly still.  “You proved it,” she mumbled, trying not to smile.  

He smirked.  “Thought I did.”

They left the conference room, Tyrion giving her a disgusted look, while Missandei just shook her head.  Her best friend walked with them, passing her a small shopping bag.  “I took the liberty of stopping at the drugstore and picking you up something…might make you feel better.”

“Thanks Missy.”  Dany didn’t think much of it, until they got home.  She wondered what it was.  Just some aspirin?  She opened the bag, staring into it, eyes wide.  Oh fuck.

Several minutes later, she stared at the object in her hand.  She smiled to herself, tears trickling down her face.  She hadn’t allowed herself to think it again.  Just in case…well…in case it happened again.  Why did they call this?  A rainbow baby, she thought with a watery smile, her hand pressing to her belly.  She took a deep breath and towed the test away, going to lay down.  She had to think about some things.  And they had a play to attend.

That night, after tucking Arry in, she went back to her room, Jon taking off his watch and sitting on the edge of the bed.  “She go down easy?  She was exhausted.”

“Hmm.”  She crawled across their big bed to him, kissing his shoulder, whispering.  “I love you.”

He smirked.  “Yeah?  What’d you say to me earlier?  Prove it.”

“Oh I think I can.”  She reached for the nightstand and took out the box, leaning over and dropping it into his hands.  

It took him a moment to realize what it was.  He whipped his head up, eyes wide, smile beaming.  “Really?”

“Really,” she giggled, pulling him down onto her.  “Now prove to your baby mama that you love me, Jon Snow.”

He laughed, kissing her hard.  “Oh I certainly will.”

[imalwaysintune]

Barbershop Au

This is purely for my own indulgence, as I thought of this idea and couldn’t get it out of my head. I woke up at 5:30 am this morning in a cold sweat and intensely wanted to write about these four funky little men in a barbershop group. No I don’t know why.

Also, I got my new laptop today (yay!) and this is the first thing I’m writing on it, so it’s basically officially cursed now. I also blame @ggracee for fueling this fire.

Enjoy! Stuff under cut!

------------------------------------

In the Archives:

Martin had been quietly working on his notes when he suddenly felt the air behind him grow colder. His stomach dropped and he turned his chair around, just as he saw the air shift and Peter fade into view. It was terrifying the first time he’d seen it, had seen the way the space shifted and how it looked like the universe was going to collapse into a black hole.

But it hadn’t, and Martin had gotten used to Peter’s comings and goings. Peter himself, on the other hand, was another story. He was cold and heartless, and he had ripped Martin from all his friends and would chastise him every time he even so much as look at another member of the archival staff.

Martin sighed as he leaned his head on his hand, and waited expectantly for Peter to start talking. It was just better this way.

“Hey, Martin. I see you’re busy here doing... things. Um, you know, I was wondering if I could ask you a favor,” Peter seemed almost nervous, to Martin’s surprise. He didn’t normally look Martin in the eye out of habit, but this seemed intentional. 

“As if I have a choice?” Martin sounds bitter, probably more bitter than he meant. He had just been having a rough day, rougher than usual. He wanted nothing more than to talk to Jon, but Peter made that virtually impossible.

“Oh come on Martin, I deserve more credit than that,” Peter looked at Martin directly then, and he looked nervous. It would’ve taken Martin aback if he cared enough. He just rolled his eyes and made a lazy gesture with his hand that roughly meant “go on”.

It wasn’t until that moment that he realized Peter’s hands were held behind his back, and he appeared to be holding something. When he brought his hands forward, they were holding something that looked like a piece of clothing. It was covered with red and white pinstripes, and Martin just stared at with mild surprise.

“So, I know we aren’t really friends. At least, you don’t consider me a friend. But there was no one else we could ask. We lost out last tenor to the Hunt and Elias doesn’t want to switch just to spite me now that I forced him to sing lead, so... you’re basically our only hope,” Peter was almost stumbling over his words, and in that moment he seemed more human to Martin than he had ever seen the man.

“Okay,” Martin said, remembering how much fun the show choir had been when he was in high school. That felt like so long ago now.

“Okay? Just.. okay? Like that? No fighting? You don’t even want me to beg?” The nerves that had fueled Peter just a second ago were replaced with bewilderment. 

“I mean, you can if you want. But, I have nothing better to do, and frankly, the prospect of seeing Elias in that ridiculous suit you’re holding is just too good to pass up,” Martin said as he sat upright in his chair. He grabbed the suit from Peter’s hands and left the room, going to one of the many bathrooms that were littered around the institute. 

He didn’t know what he expected of the suit, but he was pleasantly surprised when he felt the fabric grow and shrink to fit Martin’s form. He absentmindedly wondered what kinda freaky fear magic was used to make the suit fit so well as he examined himself in the mirror.

For how ridiculous he thought the fabric design had looked before, he quite liked how it flattered him. It made his ginger hair pop, and his body looked good. He’d never worn a suit that was properly tailored to him, so it was a nice change.

He walked out of the bathroom and back into the room where he knew Peter would be waiting. His eyes lit up as they landed on Martin, standing up from where he had sat down and walking over to the shorter man. 

He beamed like a proud dad as he pulled out two more items from seemingly nowhere. He held out an iconic boater hat in one hand, and a bright red and white cane that matched the pattern of the suit. 

Martin had the urge to laugh, something he hadn’t felt in awhile, so he let the laughter flow as he grabbed the items from Peter. It almost felt surreal, but it would seem that the being who took away all of Martin’s happiness would also be the one to provide it

Skip forward a few weeks to Elias’s office:

Martin stood outside of Elias’ office, debating whether or not he should follow through with his plan. However, as he figured Elias would already know he was there, he opened the door anyways.

Elias’ was staring up at him from the huge desk in the middle of the room, and Martin swallowed hard.

“Can I help you, Martin?” Elias drawled, looking up at Martin expectantly. 

Martin crossed the room towards Elias, holding a stack of papers that looked like they were dangerously close to spilling everywhere. When he got to the desk, he dropped all the papers on the desk and started rifling through them, looking for a specific paper.

When he finally found it, he picked it up and walked around the desk, coming to settle next to Elias. He placed the paper down and pointed to a specific area on the page.

“I was trying to practice my part of ‘Coney Island Baby’, but I can’t get this one phrase here on page 7. I was wondering if you would work with me on it so that I have something to compare my part against and maybe it can help me-” Martin was abruptly cut off by the dreaded feeling he got when Peter was about to show up.

Sure enough, the space in front of them started to shift and soon Peter was just... there. Martin mentally chastised himself for being so careless. Of course Peter wouldn’t want him talking to anyone outside the time he allowed, even if it was to get help.

“Now, Martin, you surely know why I’m here. I have to say I’m majorly disappointed in you,” Peter didn’t sound disappointed. He sounded like he always did. His inflection rarely changed but it didn’t stop the words from stinging. 

“Look, I’m sorry Peter, but I was just asking for Elias’ help on a part. If you don’t let me ask him for help when you’re not around, how am I supposed to get better?” Martin regretted challenging Peter as soon as the last word left his house.

Peter didn’t look angry. Far from it in fact. He looked like he’d been struck by genius. Martin’s stomach dropped when Peter finally revealed his brilliant idea.

“Here’s an idea. You can sit in the Lonely until all your sheet music is memorized! You need to learn to be part independent, Martin. You’re in the big leagues now.

Before he knew it, Martin felt the air around him grow thick as him and his papers were thrust into the dimension. Right before he lost complete contact though, he managed to thrust out “Can I at least have a pitch-pipe-” before disappearing into the Lonely.

It was Elias who broke the silence, sighing heavily. “You know, Peter, just because I offered you Martin to use for your secret little experiment doesn’t you can take him away from his work. He was doing important filing-” And suddenly with another ‘whoosh’ of Peter’s hand, Elias was destined to join Martin in the Lonely.

He could almost imagine the fit Elias was having, but he told himself that it was all for the best. This was the most productive they were going to be until Simon showed up.

Ah Simon Fairchild, the wild-child of the group. He was unpredictable, rarely showed up rehearsals and yet always seemed to know the sheet music intimately. It was as frustrating as it was liberating, to know that at least someone was serious about the group. 

Oh well. At least this fun little experiment will test if his boys are up to the test.

A non-disclosed theater:

A few weeks after the “Lonely” incident, Peter, Elias, and Martin all gathered at the theater Peter had rented out for their rehearsals. Martin thought it was a bit much, but Peter thought the huge auditorium was perfect. Martin couldn’t even fathom how much something like this cost.

Suddenly, Martin had the familiar sinking feeling in his stomach. He looked over towards Peter, who was smiling giddily. 

To Elias’ left, a being popped into view. He was wearing a dark green suede suit, brown and tan saddle shoes, and a wide brimmed hat that outlined his face like a halo.

Martin had never seen this person before, but Peter was looking at the figure in elation, walking over to him and enveloping the figure in a hug. 

When Martin looked towards Elias for any sort of assistance, he sighed and rolled his eyes.

“Martin, this is Simon Fairchild. He’s our Baritone. Even though he rarely shows up to rehearsal, I have to admit, he’s a borderline musical prodigy,” Elias explained to Martin. 

Peter and Simon seemed to be in deep conversation, and Martin strained his ears to hear what they were saying.

“-but it seems entirely unfair that you would send them into the Lonely without me. I could’ve helped them! They could’ve been out in half the time. Plus, I’ve never actually been inside The Lonely so it truly would’ve been quite an enlightening experience-” At this, Martin couldn’t stand to listen to Simon again. Talkative, that one.

He turned towards Elias and opened the sheet music for the latest song Peter had assigned to them and got to work. If Simon and Peter wanted to goof off, that was on them. At least he and Elias would be productive.

“One, two, a one two three four-” Martin began, and him and Elias erupted into wonky two part harmony. It wasn’t the most beautiful thing, but it was the most alive Martin had felt in months. 

- THE END!

-----------------------------------------------------------

This one is so cursed I’m sorry-

I just really wanted to write about these stupid cursed men if they joined force and made a barbershop group. I don’t have everything I wanted to write about in here, so maybe there will be a part 2 if it seems like y’all want it. Don’t be afraid to hit up my ask box and my ao3!

Words: 1708

[neverendingparable]

"This is the Story of a little girl named Alice. 

Alice used to work for a big Institute dedicated to researching the esoteric and paranormal, where she was the head archivist. Alice's job was simple, most of the time she just sat at her desk and recorded statements. Since a lot of the recordings tended to mess up with the Institute's newer technology, she had to re-record them on an old tape player in her office. 

When she needed help or further research on a statement, Alice would call one of her archival assistants Bradley or Stellan in, or place the task on the new archivist-in-training Jonathan. Alice worked hard and she worked well. And she was happy in her routine. 

And then one day, something very peculiar happened. 

Something that would forever change Alice. 

Something she could never quite forget, even if she wanted to. 

One day, a door that had previously led into the hallways of the Institute, led into an Office building, one she was sure had never been connected to her place of employment before. In fact, she found it wasn’t even anywhere near London, or in any place she could register as Earth. 

The windows showed nothing but blank white and the doors only led into other hallways, never out into the open. 

Something had gone very clearly wrong. 

Shocked and terrified, Alice found herself unable to believe this turn of events for the longest time. 

But as she was forced to come back to her wits, she decided to get up and explore this new place. Perhaps one of these doors will lead her back home.

...

Alas, they never did. Even as Alice made strange new friends who knew more about the Office than she did, even as she stumbled upon her very own self, proud and vicious on her throne of delusions, she came no closer to coming home. 

A dimension here, a dimension there. Poor, confused Alice trying to reason her way through the mess. This odd fellow must be a Stranger, yet this one could only be the avatar of the Hunt. What lessons could Maelle be trying to teach her here? How will this further Alice's own powers, her powers of seeing, of Beholding.

She was doomed from the start, I'm afraid. Her assistants had no idea where she was and while Maelle was fully aware of her desperate wanderings, even she would not extend her hand out to save her little Archivist. 

After all, she had another one, another one who was far less bright and more curious than Alice. One whose strings could be pulled in any direction without even a hint of suspicion arising.

No, Alice, I'm afraid your time has come. You were a decent Archivist, dedicated to your job, but too much so that you would rather cloud your sight with work, rather than experience it first hand. What good is an Archivist that has lost its sense of curiosity?

Yet you have enough curiosity to finish your story. There, with that Mariella by your side, the strange woman who always seems to know where she is going, the one who befriends the odd entities of this place without a second thought, you wander the hallways hoping her intuition will lead you somewhere new. 

You did ask her several times if she can find her way to the Institute, but you fail to understand that Mariella can be just as easily manipulated as you have been. 

She could find the way to the Institute without struggle, yet we will make sure she won't. And anyway, it is too late for you to return now.

You wander down into the dusty Mind Control Facility - such irony doesn't come around often - and marvel at the sea of spider webs, overtaking the abandoned arena in waves of silver. Mariella stays at the doorway, a mixture of awe and disgust on her face. 

Fortunately for her, she is not an arachnophobe. She tries to keep it out of her hair. Unfortunately for you, you wander in deeper, statements running through your mind as everything clicks into place. Why you are here, how you got to be in this very Office at this very time. How the Web had played with you just as I have been playing with you from the very start.

You open your mouth to voice your revelations to Mariella, but falter as you feel a tickle on your arm. Your hand has carelessly brushed into one of the webs and caught the attention of a spider, black and plump, darting its way up your shoulder.

Screaming just gives them more places to crawl into. Mariella watches in horror, but she has just enough sense left not to run in after you. She runs off, to go get help. But the perfectly placed door leads her far, far away from you and it shuts after her, never to open again.

Just like the previous Archivist, you have disappeared without a trace. I am sure his fate was a lot less gruesome than yours, Alice. But there are worse ways to die. I think you don't need me telling you that."

*Click*

Maelle opens her eyes again and takes out the tape from its recorder. 

She studies it for a moment, an ironic smile playing at the corners of her mouth. For a moment, she considers leaving it for the spiders to take away, for when whatever remains of Alice inevitably returns to the Institute, she will be fully briefed on Maelle's betrayal. 

But she doesn’t want to risk it getting into the wrong hands at the wrong time, so she locks it away in a little safe where she keeps other such tapes and several checks sent from the Lucas', in case the Institute needs more funding.

She sits back at her desk and coms the receptionist, asking for the archival assistants in her office. They come quickly. Bradley has ink doodles all over his hands which he tries to hide sheepishly, Stellan doesn’t even bother putting down his coffee cup and Jonathan got too flustered figuring out where to put the statements he was filing down, so he took them along anyway.

They all stand before her, quiet but eyes hopeful. Any news from Alice? Has she been found yet? Does that mean news for them too?

The last few months have been difficult, Maelle made sure. Tensions were high, work had been unfairly distributed and they were all tired, tired of waiting, tired of guessing and ready to move on. Just let things get back to normal.

She eyes them wordlessly for a moment longer, taking on the facade of a tired boss who is figuring out how to deliver bad news. Then she shows them an envelope.

A resignation letter, signed in Alice's favorite pen. A copy of employment proof and a picture. Alice looks happy next to her wife, an american beauty, blonde and blue-eyed like the sky behind them.

Simple cover stories are often better than the dramatic ones. She found somewhere better to be and ditched her old life. It happens. If anyone would travel across the world leaving behind everything for a pretty face, it would be Alice after all.

There are sounds of disgust, resignation and relief, from Bradley, Stellan and Jon respectively. The tensions of the past months bubble over and Maelle lets them rage about being abandoned without so much as a goodbye. 

They have no reason to worry about Alice or even seek out any contact, as her disappearance seemed proof enough she had all but forgotten about their existence. 

When Maelle announces Jonathan as the new head archivist, followed by the generous offer to give them the rest of the day off after they finished their respective projects to reflect and celebrate, no one interjects.

Jonathan spends the rest of the day being congratulated from all sides, egged on by Bradley and Stellan to join them for a mandatory promotion drink. As they celebrate their new Archivist and the return to normalcy, no one spares a moment of pity towards the old head archivist of the Magnus Institute, now lifeless in a bed of cobwebs.

[verus-veritas]

Changing Trains

Every day I catch the 5.03 train from town to the outer suburb where I live with my partner. It’s the most dependable, uneventful part of my day. I never dreamed that it would be the scene of the most unbelievable experience of my life. First, a bit about myself. My name is Josh, and last week I was to celebrate my 40th birthday. Some guys freak out about that milestone. Not me. I had it all. I had kept myself in great shape through regular workouts. I had a challenging, well paid office job which I loved. My home life was no less happy. My partner Jon and I had been together for years and grew more in love as time went by. We had built our home in a remote little town, accessible to work but at a sufficient distance to keep stress away. I was always proud of how I looked. I had a handsome face and a great body, and I spent a great deal of time and money on grooming. I wore expensive suits to work and was always a bit guiltily pleased by the admiring glances I got. Especially from this one kid. Hell, I was old enough to be his father, and had never thought much of it, beyond the fact that he caught the same train as me every day. He was cute in a young, trendy sort of way. Slim of build, he obviously has a chiselled body. His clothes were always the latest fashion, his hair trendily unkempt. He was like any number of cute kids that you see around. The only thing that singled him out was that he was always staring at me. He got on and off at the same station as me. And between those stations he could be counted on to have his eyes firmly fixed on me.

It was flattering, but on the night that I was coming home to celebrate my birthday with Jon, I was a bit unsettled when he walked right over and sat opposite to me! It was a bit confrontational, and my usual nonchalant pretend-not-to-notice routine didn't work so well up close.

Seeing him up close I noticed his flawless skin and deep, penetrating eyes. No doubt about it, this kid was hot. And he was staring right at me. Staring and smiling. I cautiously acknowledged him with a half smile and nod, before opening my newspaper and pretending to read. I could feel his eyes on me the whole way. Suddenly I felt an overwhelming surge of nausea. It passed quickly, and then I felt I was drowning in sleepiness. I wasn't panicked by this sensation - it was oddly pleasant if anything. The last thing I noticed before shutting me eyes for a quick cat nap was those beautiful eyes still fixed on me. And that smile. My sleep was as deep as any I have known. I don't recall dreaming, but I was awakened by an oddly familiar voice and a hand on my knee. "Hey kid," said the voice. "You'd better wake up. The ticket inspector is coming." I jolted into life. Kid? Who was calling me a kid? But my first sensation was that I was travelling backwards. Shit! I had overslept and the train was taking me back to town! But no, the train was still heading in the same direction. I had somehow changed seats. But a bigger shock was in store for me. Sitting in front of me, gently waking me was......me! I was looking directly into my own face. This man was my exact double! He was even wearing the same dark blue three piece suit that I was wearing. He had my voice, he had my face. He was me! "Who the hell....?" I started to speak, but stopped short. The voice that came out was not mine. It was lighter. And then I noticed that I was wearing the same jeans and striped shirt that the kid was wearing. In a panic I looked into the window. It was dark outside now and it reflected my face perfectly. Staring back at me was the face of that cute kid! I was now him and he was me! "Relax, kid," said the phoney me. "Your ticket is in your back pack - front pocket." I had no choice. The ticket inspector was almost at my seat. I watched the fake me reach into his jacket pocket and confidently produce the monthly commuter pass I had bought two days before. Meanwhile I fumbled around, finally locating a wallet. Sure enough, inside was a travel pass. "Thanks buddy," said the inspector, acknowledging me. "Thank you sir," he said to the person in my body. So I was "Buddy" but he was "Sir!" Left alone, I was about to resume my questioning, but he waved me off. It was the same imperious gesture I had used in the office many times. I had no idea how effective it was. "Look," he said. "All you need to know is that I am Josh Harrington and you are Kevin Simpson. Say anything about our switch and I will deny it. Nobody will believe you anyhow. There are instructions for you in your wallet. I'd suggest you follow them. Now excuse me. I'm getting off here." He was right. We had indeed arrived at our station. I watched him get up and jauntily strut down the platform. As I expected, a few people were glancing at him. I had no idea I looked that arrogant. I kept my distance and waited for him to meet up with Jon, my partner. They stood there for a moment and had a laugh. Jon obviously didn't notice any difference. Why should he. This guy was right. Who would believe me. I watched them drive off together. I was too numb too feel any panic. I headed across the street to the coffee shop where I could get my head together. I opened this kid's wallet. To my surprise there was nearly $300.00 in it. What was he, a burglar? I looked at his license. So I was now Kevin Simpson and I was all of 20 years old. I lived only a few streets away - that was good. I had no idea where I was spending the night, but it was only a short walk away. Inside the wallet was also a note. It read "Kevin - Go straight home. Your boyfriend is waiting for you - Josh." It was written in a scraggy, youthful handwriting. Reaching for a pen I wrote a few words. It matched the writing exactly. It had clearly been written before the swap. So the kid had a date he didn't want broken. Sounded good to me! Any port in a storm, as they say. I paid the bill and headed off to Kevin's house, not at all sure of what I would find there. I got lost a couple of times, but eventually found it. I was fumbling with various keys when the door opened. Standing there was a cute, blonde kid, about the same age as I now was. He smiled at me, said nothing but gently pulled me in the doorway. He kissed me passionately and began undressing me. It was impossible not to get turned on, as much by my own new body as by the gently lovemaking. I saw my tightly sculpted body, young and fresh. This may not be so bad as I thought. The blonde guy leaned over and whispered in my ear - "Happy 40th Birthday!" I pulled back, shocked. "Jon? Is that you?" "Yeah, well, you can call me Stewart if you like." "So it was you....?" "Sure! Hey, what better way to celebrate middle age than to revisit youth. These bodies are ours for the weekend. Meanwhile Kevin and Stewart will housesit for us and have a great preview of what's in store for them. It’s all arranged." I had to admit it was pretty crazy. I looked around the house. It was low rent, student life again. So different to our own lifestyle. For a weekend it would be fun...

---

That was a week ago. Josh still catches the 5.03 every day, and the cute young kid still stares at him. Only now it’s me that does the staring. Jon is still Stewart, trying to come to grips with his new life as a mechanic's apprentice, while the real Stewart runs his antique store. I want my life back, but as "Josh" so rightly says, who will ever believe me?

Source: “Changing Trains” by Anonymous on CYOC

[goingsllightlymad]

Lams - ballroom

The carriage lurched along a winding driveway, tilting slightly to one side as turned around a gravel bend. Inside, sitting stiffly behind the opening where the curtains had been drawn back to let the cool spring breeze in, John had turned a sickly shade of yellow-green. Flashes of hot amber light flashed across his freckled face as roaring braziers passed by the carriage. The rising embers danced in his hazel eyes, which were fixed on the pair of small white hands folded in his lap. His own hands, so used to holding a glove or a pretty woman, now strangely awkward and restless when there is no use for them. He would rather have a gun with him. He would rather not be here at all.

Beside him, his father shifted in his seat, grunting, displeased. When was he not displeased, though. Shirt collar sharp and thickly starched, he made a frightening figure, all cold white wig and colder green eyes. People always told them how different they two were: the dark-robed slave trader and his kind-hearted son, but there were days when John looked in the mirror and he could not tell the two apart at all. Those were the days he was most afraid of, when the line was thin enough for him to see all that he could have been, and all that he still feared he would become.

As the coach jolted to a halt, John's hip collided with jutting bones, sharp and intrusive like the stab of some cruel knife. Even the bones beneath that porcelain skin were cold and loveless. It made a lot of sense. The opening to the carriage was thrown open by a freshly powdered manservant and John scrambled to escape the cramped black box. Bursting out into a wide stone path, Jon was dwarfed by the towering expanse of a colossal red-brick manor house, windows like a thousand eyes crying tears of liquid gold into the darkness of the night.

Aware that his father was standing beside him once more, he strode off briskly, up the steps to the tall front doors of the house, from which music and conversation were spilling out on a wave of colourful dresses. Losing himself in the tide of fabric, John's set grimace began at last to soften into a confident smirk. He had long since accepted that his place in society was not beside his father, but it was now becoming increasingly clear that his place was here, where the brightest and the best of New York met to flaunt their extravagance and wealth.

Threading lightly through the mass of people congregated in a tight circle around the dance floor, John found who he was looking for in the corner where the crowd was thickest and loudest. In their clamorous midst, a startled George Washington was trying his hardest to escape from a barrage of questions and tedious anecdotes by women whose wigs sat loosely upon wrinkled pink faces.

"George!"

"Laurens!" Washington called, excusing himself with evident relief and making his way over to Laurens, "It's a good thing you found me - I was quite afraid I'd be there for the rest of the evening. I knew this would happen," he added in a fervent whisper, and Laurens snorted undignifiedly at Washington's politeness and awkwardness around people he did not know.

"You really shouldn't have come, if you knew this was going to happen!"

"No, no, it would have been awful of me not to! After all, someone has too keep them out of trouble," Washington sighed, gesturing to the drinks table, where John could see the top of Lafayette's curly hair bouncing animatedly as he drank and laughed wildly. Beside him, Mulligan was already drunk beyond his wits, shouting over-enthusiastically about the right way to sew pants. 

John grinned affectionately at his best friends, the kindest and possibly most misguided men he had ever met. Swinging his head and suddenly seeing John, Lafayette waved excitedly, grabbing Mulligan's head and pulling it round with a cry of childlike glee. Shaking his head in mock disappointment, Laurens held on to Washington's arm and dragged him over to where the two men were half-standing. 

"Laurens!!" Mulligan yelled, eyes lighting up mischievously. 

"Mulligan! Glad to catch you while you're still conscious," John teased, feeling bad immediately as he watched Mulligan's grin morph into a babyish pout of dejectedness, "And while you're awake you can pour me something and I can join you!" 

"Really, Laurens, you're meant to be the sensible one here," Washington rubbed his forehead wearily. 

"Sorry, sir," Laurens saluted sarcastically, reaching for the filled wineglass which Mulligan was proudly presenting to him. At this point, the man almost had a right to be proud of it, as Laurens had assumed that he was well past being able to pour liquids successfully. Mulligan was always full of surprises, "Eye on one of the ladies, George?"

"John, I'm married,"

"So?" John winked and nudged Washington. 

"So, I really think you should follow my example for a change," 

"For a change? Do I not do everything you do, do everything you ever tell me to?" 

"Quite frankly John," Washington laughed a little and laid his hand lightly on John's shoulder, "No." 

"You've probably got it right, anyway. Aren't any pretty girls here besides. Hell, I'd be better sleeping with the other officers!" 

"Speaking of, the new guy's here tonight; I'm s'posed to be introducing him to all your ladies but frankly I haven't seen him all night," As if to demonstrate, Washington turned to scan the room for his 'new guy'. 

"Probably off in some corner doing your job for you." 

"Nah, chatty guy like him, he couldn't find a girl if he had an inheritance, and I'm glad to say he hasn't got any of that!" 

Even as John laughed at Washington's words, he could hear all at once the grating sound of some loud voice's wild laughter somewhere across the room. 

"Think that's your guy?"

"I really, really, hope not. Which means that yeah, it probably is." Washington sighed deeply and John handed him a glass of wine, which he swallowed quickly before taking his leave to find his disastrous protege. 

"Joooooooooooohn!" 

"Quiet Laf, I want to get a good look at Washington's new favourite. Not that I'm jealous or anything, it's just... something I should probably know..." Laurens craned his neck to see over the crowd, above the tide of ridiculously high wigs and stiff starched collars. He could see his father standing by the door, talking pointedly to some old woman with a face like a china doll left to crack in a hot summer sun. He could see the Schyler sisters at the centre of a thick group of young men and women, smiling politely and looking fantastically beautiful, but didn't they always? After a time, you get used to beauty, and John had long since lost his admiration for their expensive gowns and long hair. At last, John picked out the rapidly shrinking figure of Washington in his rich velvet coat, stumbling awkwardly through the crowd, and in front of him a very aggressive and very short man, with a voice which seemed to make the wineglasses of the people gathered around him tremble fearfully. 

As he watched, Washington briskly removed the man from the crowd of people and proceeded to usher him towards, as Laurens realised with dread, where Laurens was standing. Washington met his gaze with a weak, apologetic smile and exasperated eyes, the man by his side talking incessantly in a high-pitched babble of nonsense. Laurens thought he might be drunk, and thought that that might be a sight he did not want to see. 

"Gentlemen, Alexander Hamilton. Son, these are John Laurens and his... companions," 

"Not'cha son." Hamilton spoke with the petulance of an only child, but when he turned at last away from Washington, the eyes he cast over Laurens were bright and intelligence, as though they had lived a thousand lives and each more interesting than Laurens' pathetic sob-story. 

"Didn't ask for your opinion." Washington patted Hamilton of the back patronisingly and left the two young men alone. 

"So I hear you're quite the speaker, huh?" 

"...yes! Yes, I am! I like to speak!" Hamilton seemed to trip over his words in  away with John had to use all of his strength not to laugh out loud at. Only moments ago this man had been so loud, so certain, his words confident and carefully-chosen, and suddenly he seemed to forget how to speak. 

"Well then, Hamilton, I think you're gonna get along just fine here with us drunkards and idiots. Or maybe I'll just keep you all to myself," Laurens smirked flirtatiously at him, delighting at the mortified blush which was spreading over Hamilton's face from his eyes to the faint black peach-fuzz spread across his upper lip and chin. A rush of guilt flooded Laurens' chest and his smirk lapsed into a kindly smile. 

"John come ooooooooooooooooon, I miss youuuuuuuuuuuuuuu," Mulligan slurred, draping his arms over Laurens' shoulders lovingly. He smelled overpoweringly of alcohol and gunpowder, and John pushed him off laughingly, "who doesn't, baby?"

Hamilton opened his mouth as though to say something, but evidently thought better of it as he closed it again, looking very much confused and more than a little interested. Laurens' smile widened with suspicion, wondering if this ill-dressed, arrogant and overly-opinionated young protege of the greatest general in America could in fact be made even more of a disaster by also being hopelessly gay. To be honest, it was quite refreshing to see Laurens' own story relived in front of him, albeit with less daddy issues and worse clothing choices. 

"Y'know Hamilton, I don't particularly like balls. I mean, the dancing type at least. What say you we get out of here?" 

"O-oh? And do what? I mean, I for one like balls... I mean, the dancing type and... and the, uh," 

Laurens' urge to laugh was overridden only by the startling realisation that Hamilton looked undeniably pretty when he blushed, and that this cute boy knew exactly was Laurens was implying and was in no way turning it down. 

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. C'mon, there's a garden outside. Let's get some fresh air," and without waiting for Hamilton's reply, Laurens slipped quickly through an open door near to the drinks table, slipping a coin and a wink to the slave standing guard. Bewildered, Hamilton hurried after him, stepping out into the cool spring air and down a narrow flight of steps to where the lawn stretched away down the hill where his eye could not follow. 

Standing alone on the wet, moonlit grass, Laurens watched him arrive with a thrill of anticipation. It's not that Hamilton was particularly attractive, or that Laurens was particularly desperate, only that it was hard to come by a sober man who was willing to sleep with you and stay there in the morning. It was hard to come by a pretty man to whom you are more than just a drunken mistake to be hushed up or laughed at when the regiment found out, as they inevitably did. Hamilton had yet to learn that, Laurens could tell, and he almost pitied the pathetic little man. With all his youthful confidence and education, there was still so much he didn't know. 

"Don't enter the army," Laurens murmured as Hamilton came to stand beside him. His eyes had drifted to the swirling blue mist over the hills in the distance, and Hamilton could not help but gaze at his distracted face. It was handsome, in a strange, inexplicable way. Maybe it was the freckles scattered across his face like raindrops on glass, or the way his hair curled softly around his face like the mane of some war-scarred lion. Or the way his eyes seemed to glow in the moonlight, alive with the ghosts of a story Hamilton desperately wanted to hear. 

"It's not that simple. I have to," 

"You never have to, Alexander," Hamilton was surprised by the use of his name, as he had rather thought that Laurens had forgotten it. But suddenly Laurens seemed sober, and lonely in a way that Hamilton had never seen before. He seemed as though he had spent his whole life surrounded by people and yet had never been really there at all. So used to being the protege, the centre of attention for reasons good or bad, Hamilton knew he could never understand this. "They make you sign up, they tell you what to believe, they tell you what you can and can't do, but in the end it's always up to you. The army's not the right place for you, Hamilton, because it wasn't the right place for me either.

"You know, when I joined I thought there'd be pretty women and parties every night, and you'd never be alone again, but now... sure there's alcohol, and there's harlots whenever you're passing the whorehouse, but it's never quite the same. Women, there never as good as you think they'll be; I just stick to men. And above it all there's the loneliness. The army, it's never as good as you think it'll be. And who's to say we'll even win this? I used to be so sure we would, but after a while you get to wondering and really, what's the point of fighting after all? There'll be more wars, there always will, and sometimes I have no idea what it is we're even fighting for." 

Laurens' voice trailed off, merging almost with the mist he never looked away from, and though Hamilton tried to form a reply to this mournful speech, no words came. 

"Washington told me you're high ranking," 

"Did he now?" 

"You're brave," 

"I'm stupid. No one's ever truly brave in war. They do what they have to do, or else they'll die. I'm no different, no one ever is," Laurens turned to look down at Hamilton's thoughtful expression, adjusting his stance so that the two men stood facing each other under the pale moonlight. 

"Why are you telling me this?" 

"I don't entirely know. I think maybe I care about you too much to let you throw away your shot like I did." 

"You care about me too much?" Hamilton raised an eyebrow, "Why John, we've only just met!" 

"Strange, isn't it," a smile tugged at the corners of Laurens' lips, as his eyes locked onto Hamilton's lips. 

"Not really," 

Standing on his tiptoes, Hamilton closed the space between their lips. Taken aback a little and smiling broadly into the kiss, Laurens snaked an arm around Hamilton's waist to hold him upright, fingers playing with the lining of Hamilton's green velvet coat. The kiss was slow and gentle, and after a moment they broke apart for breath, then resumed with all the passion and urgency of starving men upon finding  a banquet before them. 

Hands roaming over thick fabric, they backed up against the trunk of a tree in the thick grove behind the house. Here the night was alive with the evening songs of birds and the scurrying of creatures through the light undergrowth, and in the gaps between the leaves the lights from the house shone like stars. Kissing down his jaw and neck, Hamilton deftly pulled off Laurens' coat, shrugging his own off into a heap of mingling coloured fabrics. Where the shafts of strengthening moonlight pierced through the trees and fell onto him, Hamilton seemed to glow with an ethereal beauty which captivated Laurens for all of the two seconds his mind could pay attention for before flooding with delight as Hamilton left marks on the base of his neck. 

"Spot's taken, let's goooooooooooooo," a familiar voice slurred loudly from a little way away. 

Reaching for Hamilton's shirt buttons, Laurens was startled by the sight of two shadowy figures standing by the trees a little way from them, clearly drunk and draped over each other's shoulders in a way that was probably not entirely because of their inability to stand upright. 

"Waaaaaiiiiiiit, waitwaitwaitwait! It's Laurens!" With an overexaggerated gesture which sent his hold upper body lurching forward, the taller figure pointed at the two blushing men who were still frozen in place against the tree. Straining against the semi-darkness, Laurens could pick out the piercing eyes and long nose of Laf and, beside him, the squat figure of Mulligan. He wasn't going to ask why the two were here, because he thought he might already know and he feared that upon being asked, one of the two might tell him more than he ever wanted to know. Besides, he was still pinned against a tree, thankfully almost-fully-dressed, and with both arms wrapped around Hamilton. With his back to the two intruders, Hamilton was staring into the tree trunk with a horrified expression, making no attempt to move away, for which Laurens was strangely grateful. 

"Guys! Kinda busy here!" Laurens' voice came out higher and sharper than he'd expected, and he could have sworn he felt Hamilton laugh against his chest. The two very confused men babbled affirmatively and made their way clumsily out of the grove, while Laurens tried his best to ignore the fact that they were definitely kissing as they did so. 

"We should, uh," Laurens murmured shakily, "We should head back inside before they can go round telling everyone what they saw," 

"Yeah, yeah probably," 

Hamilton detached himself from Laurens' arms and picked up the coats from the damp grass by their feet. Pulling his own on and handing the other to Laurens, he cleared his throat, the sound echoing through the sudden silence of the grove. 

"You don't regret this, do you? I mean, I wouldn't care, I just" 

"You know I don't," Laurens smiled secretly, certain that Hamilton could see it, "in fact, I wouldn't mind meeting again. You know, to finish what we started."

And with that he started back to the house, leaving a very bemused Hamilton to hurry after him.

[yszarin]

see below for oh whoops it’s mostly crying again on Submerged

- I worry, D:

- Jon. Jon. Beholding/Elias literally tortured Martin and Melanie, and left Not!Sasha wandering about the building for all of S2. The Eye and the Lonely are both terrible even if you’d rather Martin was with the one you’re with. I get it, so would I, but.

- I miss you, urgh, Martin must feel like he’s being stabbed multiple times

- it’s amazing how little he’s reacting to this? when you think how much Jon reaching out probably means to him, this must be killing him. kudos, in a very much “I understand you’re doing this for good reasons and that you either have accomplished some good doing it or Peter’s just made you think you have, but I think it’s absolutely not going to go the way you want and I probably still wouldn’t like it even if it were” kind of way.   

- also I’m really proud of Jon? it might be being painful for Martin, but Jon is actually trying to reach out and connect, and it’s basically their roles reversed from S2, and I already had all these feelings from this week’s RQG at this rate I’m not going to have any space left for Stellar Firma feelings.

- wow Peter’s not going to be pleased at all. even with Martin not reacting to the point where he doesn’t sound like this, I imagine he was still caused to feel some feelings because Jon - Jon! - was reaching out, trying to make a connection, and no matter how hard Martin tries not to connect back, if he felt nothing from it there’d be no point avoiding anyone, because they wouldn’t be able to touch him anyway. so yeah. if that’s how Peter reacted when the conversation was mostly not of any consequence, then I don’t imagine he’s going to be happy with this when things of actual sentiment were said.

- oh thank god a statement

- oh no, the real horror is having to leave home

- to sleep on a mattress I knew I was leaving behind, I love this phrase, it just has all this regret in it and ahhhh

- ick. this is not a good office. don’t like that at all.

- I mean, this is Wales, it would take a while for the rain to worry me. But the ceiling leaking, yeah, that would worry me, and then so would the rain. 

- oooh, sounds! they feel very oppressive, excellent soundscaping.

- the headlights illuminating the moving things, that is a very beautiful moment - this has been a lovely statement to listen to, Jonny’s been outdoing himself this season.

- this is reminiscent of Alone and Lost in the Crowd - people being able to get out of things by holding onto something that they loved. Three’s enough to have a pattern and be optimistic about things, right? (I’m a fool, let me be optimistic...)  

- Sunken Sky! I love the names for the rituals, hope we find out more of them sometime.

- okay it’s terrible but I am really enjoying the image of Gertrude standing over the pit with an armful of body parts and then, just. yeet

- oh, Jon. I guess sometimes the spooky knowledge powers aren’t just nice things about where your assistants are so that you can have your and your listeners’ hearts torn out. 

- Jon. You had one job while Basira was away - two if we count learning to control the spooky mind powers but I figure that’s not just necessarily while Basira was away, that’s just in general - and that job was don’t open the box labelled Do Not Open. Please wait for Basira. don’t just bop into the box to try and get Daisy out so when Basira gets back you can be like that bird in the video all “I got you Daisy! wanna friend!”

- ... okay so, anchor!Martin? Because I have watched Teen Wolf and I am a shipper and that’s how that goes and if canon does not go there I would like some fanfic with it, if the fandom would be so kind. Though Martin as he is at the moment, might go horrendously wrong. Will probably go horrendously wrong anyway. Alternatives I think are Georgie, who will not approve of this plan in any way shape or form, and, maybe the Web? While not fulfilling the requirement of something he cares for, it definitely has an interest in him and likely doesn’t want him to be stuck in the coffin forever, and also is really good at making people go where it wants them to. And he does presumably still have that lighter...

- Though Jon’s probably enough of a dumbass to use like. an actual real heavy object. literal anchor. ties himself to it. in he goes. wheee.

[it-was-so-human]

For my prayer has always been love

It was the most convenient marriage of convenience possible.

(The fact that the thought of marrying Jon Snow had occasionally made her heart flutter just a little however was admittedly a touch inconvenient.)

TW: Reference to past assault

For the Jonsa Historical Event, @jonsa-creatives 

Also on AO3.

---

London, England 1822

This was hardly what Lady Sansa expected from her life.

Well, perhaps the marrying a duke part wasn’t far off—but she truly never expected for the duke in question to be her Father’s heir. The exceptionally poor distant cousin.

But it has been many years since the dreams and aspirations of her mother and governess felt like anything but fairytales.

It was twelve years since her parents died and eight since her brother Robb.

And just over a year since the unbearable loss of Bran after a long illness. It wasn’t unexpected, he was so young and so prone to infection ever since his fall. But the pain still remained scratching and raw.

And the Starks, once a proud home, now without sons. And an estate left in tatters without proper stewardship for the past decade, the land and houses on it in shambles.

The cousin was inheriting an old and great title yet somehow more penniless and debt ridden than before.

The Stark coffers were dry. 

And the only money to the family name tied up in an exceedingly comfortable dowry set for Sansa since birth.

And Jon Snow would have to marry for a dowry. 

His lover, a wealthy widow he first met as and officer on the continent, a known great beauty with silver hair, was unable or unwilling to marry a penniless man. Newly titled though he may be.

What a pity for the new Duke of Winterfell, Lord Stark. 

(Would he return to her? His lover? After securing his wife’s funds?)

And Sansa was conveniently there, the Stark daughter fostered by her aunt and her second husband. Once a diamond of the first water, Sansa had been ruined far too much to make any respectable man’s head turn.

(And her remaining guardian at best unconcerned, at worst complicit in her fall.)

The gossips didn’t care for the truth, found enough wrong doing on her end to cast her aside. Many years later and lips still curled at Sansa’s name.

(But Jon Snow didn’t care, didn’t and wouldn’t ask about Ramsey Bolton.)

And since her aunt’s death, the murmured disapproval among the governors of the Vale Estate regarding her as underfoot grew. Increasingly raising eyebrows at her uncle’s fondness for her.

It was a neat and tidy solution. She was almost permanently on the shelf and now she would be the new Lord Stark’s bride.

The most convenient marriage of convenience possible.

(The fact that the thought of marrying Jon Snow had occasionally made her heart flutter just a little however was admittedly a touch inconvenient.)

He had kissed her hand after formally asking her to marry him. Never mind that his man of business and her Uncle had long drawn out contracts and decided on terms.

It was a kind gesture. As if he valued her opinion.

And he gave her such a hesitant smile after asking. One that felt so shy yet sweet that she couldn’t help but share a small one in return.

(And it was the first time she felt that unexpected, unpleasant, unnecessary, wondrous fluttering.)

((She didn’t think she could feel those type of things. That she could not only be comfortable with a man’s touch... but almost enjoy it.))

That was before she felt the disdain in eyes, his smile turned mocking.

“I am so pleased by your acceptance, Princess Sansa. To have a betrothed so above reproach is the highest honor.”

Oh.

She would not take his words personally though. His use of an old childhood taunt. 

She was used to it by now. What man would wish to marry her?

And he was reportedly a man of good character. War-hardened perhaps, but good.

((And he would free her from her Uncle whose gaze and hands lingered too long and was decidedly not good.))

She’d known Jon as a girl. From afar at least. Best friends with Robb, he summered at their estate. He was a serious but good young man.

(But oh god, she wasn’t the kindest to him growing up. How can she ask he be kind enough to forgive her adolescent arrogance?)

He served with her brother’s troop in the Peninsular Wars. Declared a war hero. And left with scars to tell the tale.

And thought to be a bastard until an enterprising solicited discovered his parents’ marriage license.

And he had broad strong shoulders and kind dark eyes.

If all this were in a salacious novel she was found reading as a girl, Aunt Lisa would have had her head. (Would have again called her whore.)

But this was no work of fiction.

This was her life.

(Maybe six years ago she would find him too rough, but now she only hoped his roughness would not be turned on her.)

She was stripped of her hope and innocence long ago, during her first season. Too much scandal plagued her since.

She would not be marrying a proper gentleman.

She wouldn’t be courted. Or loved.

Or even liked.

A duke’s daughter that circumstances brought down down. She felt weighted and tired and hadn’t dared to hope.

But she would have the security of a marriage. Protection was more than a fatherless girl could hope for.

And she would be grateful. She would make herself grateful.

She would be a good wife.

(And then she might still be able to have a family yet. That was the one dream she still held fast.)

—-

Last year he had an existence he could manage, a promotion and good posting, a comfortable lover, only occasional nightmares, and an understanding of his place in the world.

He wasn’t a great honorable man, but he was a good enough. He could live with himself. 

He wasn’t a man who held disdain for a bride and title that was never meant to be his.

He wasn’t the sort go lash out at a lady. Dangle the swapping of fortunes in front of an unlucky girl. 

No one had ever claimed Jon to be cruel. But that was before years of war and before he was then named an heir to a crumbling estate.

And told marriage to save it and all those dependent on its livelihood was his duty.

Sansa Stark was convenient. 

But a duke’s daughter wasn’t meant for the likes of him.

He was an inconsequential orphan boy who was able to scrape the barest of army commissions.

He’d grown up rough. No Eton for him. He was a soldier--but a good one.

But perhaps ruined daughters could marry rough.

Ruined daughters who once smirked at seemingly bastard sons.

Perhaps they married dukes so unrefined and scarred and poor that even the most desperate of society misses looked away in horror.

Sansa and him didn’t belong together.

She held herself absolutely... regally.

He knew it before, but it was only reinforced when he took her hand that day.

Her silly pampered softness in his rough work hardened hands.

And he left that stupid kiss on them.

Pressed his lips against her hand. He could kick himself. 

What had come over him? He had meant to ask her in person as a sign of good will.

Instead he proved himself uncouth in his lack of grace at playing a gallant gentleman. He knew his awkward fumbling was sloppy.

Wasn’t at all refined

And he found himself... lay the blame on her. Wanted her to feel uncomfortable too. Turned his smile almost mocking to cover up his embarrassment.

Marrying to save an estate that was barely his in anything but name? That was bad enough.

And it had ruffled unbearably to think that Lady Sansa Stark was his attended bride.

But if he was honest, he was not truly angry. He was tired.

Battle weary.

(Didn’t want a marriage that would be a fight too.)

And he had seen it in her eyes too. A sorry kinship of sorts.

Was this broken lady the once beloved daughter of Ned and Caitlyn Stark?

She looked so humbled and he had wanted nothing more than to see a haughty look return to her eyes.

Perhaps that’s why he made a fool of himself.

(Or perhaps the truth was he just wanted to feel her smooth porcelain skin on his lips.)

But he had quickly remembered it would do well to not forget she was a pampered princess.

One with a soft smile they could make a man’s heart race. (Before it flickered into a pained grimace. One that seemed all too commonplace on her.)

It was badly done of him.

She was a beauty. A true lady in ever sense. Her voice smooth and melodic. And so very accomplished. And thoughtful. Had nursed her brother until his last breath. Had tried her best to care for dependents of the Stark estate with her small allowance.

And she was going to be his wife.

She would be Lady Stark and perhaps one day the mother of his children.

Children! He’d never planned those.

But the idea of little red headed babes he found wasn’t completely objectionable.

—

Jon couldn’t miss the smirks and loud snickers Baratheon and his friends sent his way at the club last night. Spoke loudly of his engagement followed by raucous laughter and pitying glances.

The Soiled Heiress. 

And Sansa has been on the receiving end of those smirks since her first season.

Had been on the receiving end of scorn she was never raised to expect. Would never had to expect if her father or brother had lived, if her guardians were worthy of the name.

She would never have been left so vulnerable. Would have had her honor defended at sunrise.

Scorn when what she deserved was... regard.

A young lady deserved that much at least.

He may prove to be a terrible husband, but he didn’t want her to feel that he thought lowly of her.

(It was himself who was low low.)

So when he called on her, he brought flowers. The pretty hot house variety were a luxury he could scarcely afford but he wanted her to have something.

She liked pretty things as a girl and though her austere dresses no longer reflected such, he imagined it would still be the case.

(Perhaps so many blooms looked far too ostentatious?)

But when he presented them to her, her shock turned into unmistakable pleasure.

And the way her eyes lit up made him feel lighter inside than he had in ages.

“Thank you Lord Stark. They’re beautiful... I haven’t received flowers in si-...” her cheeks burned and he felt an anger on her behalf. “I don’t receive many bouquets.”

And he didn’t care if he embarrassed himself too much, gave up too many of his cards, left his pieces on the board vulnerable to attack.

His voice felt hoarse.

“Then I vow that you will receive so many bouquets you’ll run out of vases. Out of tables.”

—

He seemed so earnest. Not a fanciful declaration of a suiter. There was no artifice there.

And she felt so grateful. Not the feigned variety of a good wife.

But a genuine rush of gratefulness that warmed her inside.

She could feel bitter that something so simple made her eyes sheen, but she honestly only felt that fluttering again.

And she didn’t want to ward it off just yet.

It felt good.

“There are a great deal of tables in Winterfell, Lord Stark,” she managed.

She took his hand in hers in thanks... his warm calloused palm... and what she felt like in that moment...

“I look forward to the challenge, Lady Sansa.” 

The feeling? It could be described as hope.

---

(Forgive me, I am ridiculously out of practice?!?) 

[saveahorse-ride-a-cowboy]

Anakin sits and cries for several days over your photo, practically refusing to take his eyes off it from the moment it's in his hand.

You're so... beautiful. Still recognizable after all these years, but also even more mature and beautiful and your hair is longer and your eyes are brighter-

And that gods damned smile. That is what's going to bring him to his knees when he finally sees you in person.

When Ben comes home from a mission on about the third day of Anakin simply staring at the photo, Anakin decides to show him, grinning ear to ear as they fall into a lengthy conversation about you.

He finally convinces Ben to write you a letter, practically sprinting to the post office the very next day to send it off to you.

In the envelope is mainly his own letter, slipped in next to a smaller, more vintage envelope with Ben's gorgeous stationery inside, a handwritten letter for you from him as well.

My love,

You are so... unbelievably beautiful. I think I'm the luckiest boy alive, actually. I mean you could come live here and be a freaking model full time and you'd do so well at it too.

Did you like the starfruit?? Did Kit and his family?? Is Kit healing okay? His Master beat him even when we were just young kids there... I remember how scared we used to get. I hope you're both okay, mentally and physically.

I... don't have a stuffed puppy for Kit's sister yet- they were all sold out of the specific one I like when i went. That's alright, I'll wait a few days. For now... I have something that I think is better....

A Kenobi letter.

Yes, you read that right. A Kenobi letter. He wrote it specifically for you, I have no idea what's on it.

I love you so much and I now see your beautiful, updated face in my dreams. Absolutely beautiful. I hope you enjoy your little surprise :)

Ani

I practically have a heart attack as I open the letter from Obi-Wan, choking on my oatmeal and quickly standing to read over it… and failing. 

Wow. Basic.. fancy Basic at that. 

I rewrite his entire letter, word by word and then slowly translate it. The process takes me a week and so replying is a bit longer than normal. When I write back, I do the same exact process and then very shyly ask Depur Jon to read over it to make sure I don’t sound a fool. He says I don’t.

Master Kenobi,

It is a pleasure and privilege to receive your letter. I admit I was very embarrassed to hear that Ani has spoken of me, there is not much to tell.

I will keep this short as I just wanted to thank you for the time you took to write. The card was to brag to my friend Kitster that 1. Ani was indeed responding and I wasn’t making it up and 2 that my cards were worth more than his are. 

As for one thing in your letter, I’ve got a perfect Ani story to tell. One time he played a prank on me when we were eight and let a tooka into my home. The tooka chewed through my hair and in a moment of panic, Ani decided to cut it to my shoulders as if I wouldn’t notice. Took ages to grow out again. Silly boy. 

Speed to your wings,

Lili

And in the same envelope is a small letter to Anakin, 

Ani, 

You kill me. I am dead. Kit had to revive me and it did not work. Also!!! Embarrassing!! You shouldn’t talk about me to people that nice! No!!!!

But yes I really did enjoy the starfruit. I got special takeout the night we all had it so it was essentially a feast. Kellah had the most of all, of course, but Kit and I took two each. It was a rare treat we aren’t likely to forget any time soon. 

Speaking of, you don’t have to worry about the dog toy so much! You do not even have to send one if you cant, I assure you she’d be happy with any type of toy of any quality. 

Kit has healed just fine. As he gets older, he punches back so his are more like fights now, but he always comes home proud because he got a hit in. 

Sorry it took a while to respond, I had a lot of work to do lately!

Miss you,

Lili

[love-we-write]

Thank You for Trying

Part I Character: Dad!Kim Jongdae Genre: Angst + fluff, more family than romance? Words: 2,566 Summary: In that hospital room, when you saw Jongdae trying discreetly to wipe his tears as he cooed softly into his daughter’s ears and kissed her forehead, that’s when you knew how deeply Jongdae loves and how lucky you – and now your child too – are to be loved so fiercely by him. A/N: Because Jongdad have always given me feels, and after years of keeping it in, I am now acting on it.

Part II

You saw how deeply Jongdae loves; from the routine calls he makes to his parents, from the way he asks whether his mother has eaten for the day, did she get enough rest, the constant whining he makes of ‘don’t work yourself too hard!’ to the caring words for his mother to – ‘eomma, take care of yourself okay. I will eat and sleep lots, don’t worry about me!’.

You see it in his passion towards his job; you see it when he’d always be the first one to help when one of the members are injured or tired. You see it when he constantly smiles and cheers up his fans, when he hides his sadness and – with a laugh –  calls his tears embarrassing because he doesn’t want them to worry.

You are lucky enough to experience firsthand, how tender Jongdae’s love could be. You feel it every time he touched you, every time he held you like you were the most precious thing in his life, every time his hands seek home on your skin, every time his lips gently touched yours. He is a private person, never one to declare love from rooftops, and you don’t need that. Every time he looks at you, his adoring eyes speaks volumes.

And it was with the same look of adoration and of fascination that he first laid eyes on your child – our child – in his arms. A year after you and Jongdae got married, you two were blessed with this beautiful gem you call a daughter – one with Jongdae’s lips and your eyes – and she’s so precious (he tightens his hold) and way more beautiful than Jongdae ever imagined she could be and he’s just…

You hear a choked laugh.

A sniffle.

“Jagiya… she’s beautiful.”

In that hospital room, when you saw Jongdae trying discreetly to wipe his tears as he cooed softly into his daughter’s ears (“Hyejin-ah. That’s your name, sweetheart. Kim Hyejin, my princess”) and kissed her forehead, that’s when you knew how deeply Jongdae loves and how lucky you – and now your child too – are to be loved so fiercely by him.

But sometimes, you know that as much as his love his fierce, it is also subtle. One that is not prone to verbal declarations, you understand that sometimes people might not get Jongdae and how deeply he loves. Sometimes, subtle looks and gestures are only noticeable to you and other people might need more obvious gestures for them to know how Jongdae loves them.

Obvious gestures, like spoken words.

More noticeable actions, like attending your daughter’s elementary school performance.

Seven years later, you cannot help but sigh (‘I wish you could see her, Dae’) as you looked at the seat beside you, one which is most obviously not occupied by your husband, who could not make it to the concert due to a clashing concert date in Japan.

You wish Jongdae is here to see his Hyejin. Hyejin is 7 now, and you’re sure the father and singer in Jongdae would be proud looking at his daughter heading the choir with her sweet voice. Earlier on, there was even a section of her class play where it was two of her classmates acting to the song she sang alone; and she sang it with all the passion she could muster from her tiny frame.

She takes after Jongdae so much; more than she realizes.

You know he would not have missed this play if he could help it. You know the moment he sees you, he would jump on you and ask to see the recording you made of Hyejin singing and he’d squeal and be so proud. You know how deeply Jongdae loves, and you understand – without any words or outward actions – he loves you and Hyejin very much.

But sometimes, other people might need some reminding.

Some people, like your 7-year old daughter whom you saw faltering a bit on the stage when she met your eyes and saw that her father had failed to see her sing for three years in a row. Someone like your daughter whom, when you met her after the play ended, was a bit meek (‘appa couldn’t come today?’) and somewhat crestfallen.

So, you did the best thing you know how. You promised her ice-cream and spicy rice cakes to make her smile. And you hugged her

“Your father is very proud of you and he loves you so, so much.”

You felt Hyejin nod, and you make it a point to have Jongdae call her that night.

.:FOUR DAYS LATER:.

“Ah, Mrs. Kim, please come in.”

It goes without saying that you were surprised when Hyejin’s school called you at work, but absolutely nothing beats opening the door to the teacher’s office and seeing your daughter sitting there sulking and almost to the point of tears.

You looked confusedly around the room.

Your daughter was sat there on one of the chairs in front of the teacher; her hair messy, her clothes spotted with dirt. You were pretty sure those are scrapes on her cheeks too that you need to put antiseptic on later. Beside her sat a boy – probably just as disheveled as your daughter was –  who looked like he had just finished crying.  The teacher, and another woman – the boy’s mother probably – looked up at you and smiled apologetically.

You looked once more at your daughter, and took a seat.

The meeting took at least half an hour before you could bring Hyejin home.

“Hyejin-ah, sweetheart, what’s wrong?” you looked to your daughter as you were driving home. It completely baffled you when the teacher said that your daughter pushed the boy down and that they were fighting.

So far, as you knew, Hyejin had always been a sweet girl. So, pushing someone onto the ground, fighting with them and sulking when asked to apologize, that is not Jongdae’s and your Hyejin.

Something is wrong.

“Sweetheart, you want to tell me about it?”

Hyejin stayed silent.

Apparently, Hyejin and the boy got into a fight by the playground during play time. The boy said that Hyejin pushed him down and started to hit him. Your daughter fired back and said it was because the boy was making fun of her. You and the boy’s mother both had to take your children and make them apologize to each other. The boy’s mother was very apologetic, she knew her son was quite mischievous and quite the jokester, but she had never expected he would excessively poke fun at his peers.

You were understanding; they were kids after all. You were very sorry for your daughter’s behavior as well, more so since you would never had anticipated Hyejin would resort to being physical with anyone. You had never even come across the thought that your sweet and kind daughter – the same daughter who inherited your husband’s kindness – would actually push someone to the ground.

“Appa’s coming back from tour tonight, are you excited?” you tried to cheer her up as you parked the car.

There was no reply to that. Usually, she doesn’t even need reminding, she would always ALWAYS jump in the seat at the mention of her father. A look from the corner of your eye saw Hyejin almost inconspicuously cover a sniffle.

Something is definitely wrong.

So, that night, Jongdae too, shared your surprise and your confusion when he burst out of the door – oversized sweater and what used to be glamorously moussed hair for the concert, now slightly messy under his cap. He was expecting a cheerful Hyejin bouncing up into his arms and giving him his hug, instead he saw his princess so silent and unlike herself.

“Hyejin-ah, I’m home! Please save me; I need my hug!” Jongdae whines; he puts down the bags upon bags of souvenirs undoubtedly for his daughter, and opens his arms wide. Hyejin hesitated, only slightly but definitely not unnoticed by Jongdae. She ran to him anyways and went into his embrace, and Jongdae tightened his hold over his daughter. Over Hyejin’s shoulders, Jongdae gave you a confused look, a look that you have no choice but to return with a shrug and confusion of your own.

As he let go, the confused look from Jongdae changed into a sunnier smile and he looked at Hyejin. It always surprised him how big she has grown, and more so how much of him is in her. It almost astounds both of you how much of Hyejin came from Jongdae, not only in the physical aspect but also in everything that she likes and everything that makes up her disposition. The perpetually-smiling kitten curl on her lips is already a no-brainer, but the kind smiles she constantly gives and the bright positive attitude she has is also something she inherited from Jongdae. She loves singing; and she is bright and passionate and everything that makes Jongdae, Jongdae. And even if he is not always present at home, ever since she was born she was always her father’s girl. She is always attached to him, always looking for him when she was a baby, and does everything to make him proud.

So, to see his princess so quiet and so unresponsive; it worried Jongdae. But still he kept trying.

“Hyejin-ah, princess, what have you been up to? I missed you so much!” Jongdae pouted.

He ruffled her hair, but Hyejin only smiled a half-smile. Jongdae is going to be honest in saying that it did break his heart a little bit, but he’ll take that half-smile over no smile. He cannot let himself falter.

“I have a lot of stories to tell from tour! The fans loved us!” Jongdae continued. Instantly, that half-smile was wiped from Hyejin’s face and it looked like she was about to cry as she took a small step back from Jongdae. It broke Jongdae’s heart and it broke your heart to see your daughter treat her father so sadly. Jongdae’s silence speaks volumes. He is confused, and he is a bit heartbroken.

“I-I have to go to bed. I have school tomorrow,” Hyejin whispered. If it’s any usual day, it takes you almost an hour to coax Hyejin out of her father’s arms everytime he comes back and even then, she would demand Jongdae to put her to bed.

IF it’s any usual day.

“Oh…okay! Do you want Appa to put you to bed?” Jongdae tried again, smiling as best as he could.

Hyejin shook her head.

“It’s okay. I’m fine with eomma.”

In that instant, you see the cracks behind Jongdae’s smile widening, the sun in his eyes clouding to worry. You see his confused look, you see the splinters of worry making itself more obvious behind his cheerfulness, and you know he would be restless, but for now, –as you replied Jongdae’s confusion with a look of determination – you have a seven-year old you need to put to bed and you will find out what is wrong.

You would never have expected the question that comes out of Hyejin’s mouth as she prepared to go to bed, though.

“Eomma, does appa love his fans more than us?”

You were tucking her into her bed, and you were just about to hop in her bed when she tugged on your sleeve. When she asked the question, your hands – that were so busy smoothing down her blankets – stilled, and you had to look at her.

She was looking at you with a sort of naiveté, her kitten-like lips scrunched up in a pout oh so similar to her father.

There was something innocent in her curiosity that the question hurts.

“What are you talking about? Appa loves you very much, sweetie!”

Hyejin’s face scrunched up in annoyance, obviously unsatisfied at being left hanging.

“Eomma~~! You’re not answering my question!” she whined, and you almost could hear Jongdae in the inflections of her voice. You almost smiled at that, but when you saw how troubled she look, how her eyes are slowly watering, you knew she doesn’t want any distractions. She is genuinely troubled by the lack of answer. This is serious.

You sat at the edge of her bed and took her in your arms.

“Sweetheart, is something the matter?” you softly asked and stroked her hair

Hyejin nuzzled her head. A few moments later, you heard muffled whines in your sleeve. But this whining is helpless, it’s sad and it’s scared.

“T-The boy that I pushed down… Jisung. He… he picks on me. He always says that appa doesn’t love me because he never came to any school events. He says appa must not like me as much because he never comes to my recital. Eomma comes to my recital every year, and I love that but I want appa to come too. I want to show them how cool my appa is, that I’m chosen to lead the class every year is because how amazing appa is at singing, and I am his daughter. Even when picking up my report card, it’s always you. Sports Day; it’s you too. My classmates almost never see appa. Jisung calls me ‘Fatherless Hyejin’.”

You could almost hear your heart cracking just as loud as her small voice echoed in the room. Her childlike curiosity is as much innocent as it is unmercifully heartbreaking. The amount of naïveté in her voice, is the same amount of viciousness in which your heart is being speared.

“Today, Jisung said that appa must love his fans more than me, because… Because he can come to sing at their concert, but not mine. He said appa’s fans will one day take him away from me. I don’t want to believe him so I… I pushed him down.”

“I…I just… I kept thinking of what Jisung said that tonight… I don’t know…are you mad?”

For the life of you, as you stared at Hyejin’s dark brown eyes and her kitten-curl lips (‘Jagiya…she’s beautiful,’ Jongdae sniffled as he kissed her forehead), you can’t help but feel choked up. You could understand how fiercely Jongdae loves in its subtlety, but Hyejin is young, she is more susceptible to unkind words, and she still needs some form of reassurance. You cannot assume that she constantly knows she is loved, at 7 years of age, when even both you and Jongdae yourselves - at the early stages of your relationship - sometimes needed to hear some reassurance from each other. It breaks your heart that your complacency has made the light you swore to protect above anything else be hurt.

Undoubtedly, both you and Jongdae needed to try harder.

“Oh honey…we’re not mad,” you cooed as you brought her closer to your chest, softly stroking her hair.

The sound of muffled footsteps led you to instinctively look up, right into the eyes of your aghast and broken husband who - as he stood by his daughter’s ajar bedroom door - undoubtedly heard every word that his daughter has said.

You saw his face; he was absolutely destroyed. To hear his daughter, his princess saying such words, no, even thinking such thoughts… Through all the years you have been with Jongdae, you have seen him go through so many hardships in his life, but never have you seen him so broken as he did that moment. And his eyes oh lord his eyes, his soft brown eyes are glassy and shaky; fragile and probably waiting to break into a million pieces like his heart just did.

[wendynerdwrites]

@jonxsansaremix

Jon x Sansa Remix: Day Two - Comics/Graphic Novel Couples: Fables - Bigby Wolf x Snow White

(Reposting my fic from last year since I did this couple. But the photo edit is new and I’m actually pretty proud of it)

“Then she gets even more frustrated, meaning I turn back even further, and There’s too much to hide, so I can’t go to work, then she gets even more upset, and it’s just this whole cycle!”

Jon quietly swears under his breath as he enters the main office. Of course Beauty and Beast are the first visitors of the day. He and Sansa clearly don’t have enough headaches to deal with.

Rarely does the Deputy Mayor of Fabletown have an easy time receiving petitions— Ichabod Crane, her loathsome predecessor, left a mess with his departure. And even if he’d been a model civil servant, there is never enough money, time, or magic to solve all the problems the citizens of Fabletown have.

Sometimes, Jon wishes he hadn’t taken Sansa and King Cole up on their offer all those years ago and let them turn him back into a man. It’s true that as Sheriff, he has fewer bureaucratic nightmares to handle than Sansa, but she had so little support that Jon is compelled to assist her whenever possible.

Not that he is great at the whole diplomacy thing. Even without his past as The Big Bad Wolf and the whole “brought back from the dead” baggage, Jon isn’t much of a people person. Being stabbed by one’s brothers didn’t inspire much of an inclination towards trust, and though it’s been years since he was a full-time wolf, many of his more base, animalistic instincts remain.

Still… he couldn’t ignore Sansa’s problems even if he wanted to.

It’s been both better and worse since The Farm. Better for Arya’s sake. Most Fables, whether they were from Planetos or some other homeland, had trouble adjusting to life in the Mundy World. Planetos was one of the more brutal of the homelands even before the adversary came and ran them out. But Arya had a particularly hard time adjusting. Decades spent causing trouble, partying, messing around with that idiot, Jack. Sansa and Arya never got along well, but that didn’t stop the older sister from worrying about her constantly.

Arya found her element in the Farm, though. The sisters even found a way to communicate. And with that part of her life stable for the first time in centuries, Sansa is in a better place mentally.

But then there are the physical injuries. Sansa still needs her cane sometimes. Even now, it is propped up against the side of her desk, an oddly modern-looking thing amidst the scores of medieval-style magical artifacts the littered the cavernous main office.

The sounds of Beauty and Beast’s complaints echo off the enchanted, ever expanding walls. It is hard to believe that a woman as small as Beauty can make so much noise. But then, she always does.

Sansa sits as perfectly prim as she always does, but Jon can smell her the tension on her. He could smell it from his cigarette-filled apartment three floors up. She’d been in a decent mood this morning, too.

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything other than what I always tell you when this matter arises,” the Deputy Mayor says in her most neutral tone. Jon can tell she’s longing to rest her head in her hands the way she always does when frustrated, but she stays firm and tall now. “Either you resolve your issues so that the curse no longer makes Beast change back, buy a glamour from the 13th floor, or go up to the Farm.”

This has happened a thousand times. The nature of Beast’s curse, contrary to the Mundy version of their story, mean that his appearance depended on the feelings of his wife. When Beauty was happy, Beast looked like the handsome prince of Happily Ever After. When Beauty wasn’t, he began to regain his more beastly features: eyes turning red, teeth becoming fangs, horns protruding out of his temple. At the moment he was still man-shaped, but fairly demonic in appearance nonetheless.

The couple are utterly devoted to one another. But they also had a bad habit of living outside their means. Their elegant Woodlands apartment does not reflect the piles of bills they hid within their 18th century french cabinets.

“You cannot possibly expect us to live amongst those…. Animals!” Beauty cries out, as she always does.

“It’s not so bad, Beauty,” Jon says, walking towards the desk. They all turn to see him. He gives a sardonic smile. “Most of them up there are a fair sight tamer than I am.”

Sansa’s lip twitches for half a second. Beauty scoffs at Jon and turns back to the Deputy Mayor.

“The cost of glamours these days is absurd, and it is only climbing. We couldn’t possibly afford one. And I’m a lady! I can’t just sleep amongst the the pigs and toads and badgers! That might be well enough for that vulgar sister of yours, but—”

Sansa gets to her feet at once, eyes flashing. Even Jon steps back a couple of feet. He hasn’t seen her this furious since Beauty mentioned the dwarves.

“My sister is leading the Farm and contributing to this community. Which is more than I can say for you. I’ve given you your options. Now get out.”

The couple get to their feet. Beast keeps his red eyes fixed firmly on the ground as Beauty drags him out. Once they’re gone, Jon pulls out a cigarette and lights up. Sansa’s emotions are overpowering his senses. There are a few moments of silence before he gingerly approaches her desk.

Sansa’s face is in her hands. “How many are in line outside?”

“Only a half dozen,” Jon says, as gently as he can, “Boy Blue said you wanted to see me?”

Sansa glances up at him. “I just wanted to know if you have any news on Goldilocks.”

Jon cringes. Their favorite terrorist. It was thanks to Goldilocks that Sansa had that cane. “Nothing new, I’m afraid. I just… I don’t get it. You’d think I’d be able to sniff her out. But she’s just… Disappeared.”

“Do you think she may have gotten her hands on any magical artifacts?”

Jon groans. “I didn’t want to admit it, but it seems more and more likely each day. What I don’t understand is—”

“—How she got it. But we have to find out. If there’s some unauthorized enchantments out there again…”

Jon nods. “I’m making Goldi my first priority, before anything else.”

“—I may just have a lead for you on that!”

Jon groans. Wonderful. He turns and Sansa rises to greet the Fabletown government’s primary financial benefactor, Bluebeard.

Of all the Fables that had fortunes in the homelands, Bluebeard somehow managed to be one of the few that retained his. He supposedly had endless treasure rooms in his Woodlands penthouse, and as such, he was the source for much of the government’s funding. Meaning they had to keep him happy. As with most Fables, that was easier said than done.

The former pirate strides in, as he always does, as if he owned the place. His head shines so brightly that it makes Jon wonder, not for the first time, if he shined it with the same polish that went on his italian loafers. The pirate’s hand is planted firmly atop the pocket of his brocade vest. Jon tensed up. He could smell the magic.

“I think you may want to look into that criminal, Greenleaf,” Bluebeard says smugly, coming close to the desk.

Jon rolls his eyes. “We’ve told you before, Bluebeard, Greenleaf is now a legitimate enchanter and part of the 13th Floor, under the employ of Fabletown. She is not—”

“—Once a criminal, always a criminal!” Bluebeard insists, reaching into his pocket.

“Is that so?” Sansa says, brushing a lock of her red hair back and giving Bluebeard a pointed look. The pirate has the decency to blush.

“That was before the amnesty! But she… She’s been dealing black market enchantments for years, and I don’t believe she’s stopped!” Bluebeard pulls something from his pocket— a carved wooden trinket, like a wine cork, but with a stopper— and plants it on Sansa’s desk.

Sansa and Jon both lean over to look at it.

“It certainly looks like one of Greenleaf’s…” Sansa glances at Bluebeard. “Any idea what it is?”

“A glamour, of course. Just like last time.”

That would make sense. Glamours could mask scent. Jon tentatively reaches for it and opens it.

Blackness.

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

Jon feels amazing, in his element. He isn’t in his wolf form, but he is definitely closer to nature.

Swimming, in fact. In a proper river rather than one of those chlorinated monstrosities the humanoids prefer. Languidly, Jon reaches out and grabs one of the salmon swimming by him. It’s only when he feels the satisfaction of the fish squirming in his hands that he realizes something is amiss.

He’s not supposed to be here. Wherever this is. He guesses the wilderness of Washington State or Oregon, judging by the smell of the trees. It’s evening, just the beginning of sundown. And for a lost wolf, he feels amazing. More amazing than he’s felt in… He’s not sure how long.

And he can smell her. Sansa. Gods can he smell her. He can smell more of her than ever. Jon braces himself and bursts towards the surface. Her scent— lemons, roses, sunlight, vanilla, oak, ink, alcohol and amber gris from that perfume she always wears— almost knocks him out. There’s something else there, too. And Jon immediately knows why he feels so good.

Uh-oh.

Jon calms himself and processes the situation. Sansa will probably be waking as well, or soon. He’s not sure if whatever enchantment that brought them here affects full humans differently than wolves.

Whatever reason they’re here, it can’t be good. He curses. Finally, after years and years of waiting and hoping and dreaming… And he can’t even remember the act!

Then there’s Sansa herself. Gods, this isn’t good. She’ll be horrified. After everything she’s been through, mating under magical influence… She can’t know. Not yet. Not until Jon knows they’re safe.

He bursts out of the water and follows her scent back to the camp they apparently made. Jon is a bit shocked. They have everything— brand new camping equipment, including one large tent and what appear to be all new hiking clothes— strewn all over the ground of their camp site. Khaki cargo shorts, t-shirts, new boots, thick white socks, a sports bra…

Jon glances down and realizes he’s naked as his Name Day. He thanks whatever gods might exist that no one saw him walking back. He grabs his shorts off the ground and pulls them on before gingerly venturing into the hub of that smell, the tent.

He almost faints again. There she is, lying amidst a collection of water-resistant sleeping bags, blankets, and pillows, in all of her glory. If Jon couldn’t smell it on her before, he’d know for certain now that the two of them had slept together. She lies on her back, legs spread, dried fluid clinging to her inner thighs.

Jon stops moving for a short while and just stares at everything he’s dreamt of for the last four centuries. Her pink-tipped breasts, the thatch of auburn curls between her legs, the swell of her hips, the whiteness of her skin. It takes every ounce of self control he has not to pounce on her.

He can’t let her know, not yet. The hair on the back of his neck prickles, and he can smell it. Danger.

Jon works fast and carefully. With every ounce of grace he has, he manages to slip her shorts and t-shirt on. He even does the socks, but doesn’t dare to try with the bra or panties. Thankfully, she stays asleep, but begins to stir when Jon gets her second sock on. Jon tries to play it off, purposely jostling her and whispering her name. “Sansa… Sansa, wake up.”

Her eyes flutter open, and Jon recalls the Mundy tale about her being woken by a prince’s kiss. He wishes he could wake her that way now. But no. Whatever they did under that spell, it was only magic. She’s not his.

Sansa sits up suddenly, her face a mask of panic. “J-Jon? What is going on?! Where am I? Why are we—?”

“I’m not sure,” he confesses, “But you can bet there’s some kind of magical element to it.” He rubs his normally clean-shaven chin, estimating the growth there. “I say we’ve been gone for about three days. We’re in Washington State.”

“Washington—” the blood drains from her face, “Oh gods.” She looks around. “Goldilocks?!”

Jon lifts his nose and inhales deeply. He can smell it. Amidst steel and motor oil and paint. “Yes. She’s behind this. And if she has even half the ballistic power I’m catching off of her, then we need to move. And quickly.”

“Where’s my cane?!” Sansa asks, looking around.

Jon sighs. “Sansa, I don’t think we can afford to have you moving like that. You’re going to have to ride me.”

She blanches. “I—”

Jon shakes his head. “No, I mean literally.” He grabs her hand. “Come on.”

He drags her out of the tent, closes his eyes, and concentrates. He thinks of darting through the woods, the smell of blood on his muzzle, the wind at his fur. He feels himself expand and rise.

When he opens his eyes, he’s no longer a man. He’s gigantic, covered in white fur, mounted on four legs. Sansa stands a few yards off, hand over her mouth. Jon crouches down, lowering his massive neck.

“Get on,” he growls. He can smell her fear, but she grits her teeth and mounts him, straddling his neck and fisting his fur.

He bolts, traversing the woods and climbing the mountain ahead. Sansa clutches him as tightly as she can, but still bounces. Jon keeps going and going, feeling his muscles strain themselves. He can’t possibly escape. Not yet.

He finds a remote ledge surrounded by trees and stops short.

“What are you doing?” Sansa asks.

“Resting. We’re not going to outrun her entirely. We need her to catch us so we can get rid of her once and for all.” Jon sighs. “But before she does, I need to get a few hours sleep while it’s still dark enough to conceal us. And so do you.”

He gets on his belly and closes his eyes. Sansa slides off of him, nodding, and settles herself against his side. “…Jon.”

“What?”

“I couldn’t help but notice… There was only one tent and sleeping bag. And I’m not wearing a bra.”

Jon groans internally and opens his eyes. “You want to talk about that now?!”

Sansa scowls at him. “Don’t give me that. You’re the one who made that absurd overture.”

Jon rests his left forward paw over his muzzle and tries to look away. Right. The night he made a complete arse of himself at the Remembrance Day Ball. When he’d used her sister’s disappearance to trick Sansa into being his date. Not one of his brightest moments. Even now, she’s looking at him with the same expression as when she told him that if he really wanted to get the girl, he should be honest with her and not use a potential tragedy to mislead her.

It had been months since, but he is still reeling from it. “And you’re the one who rejected me. What’s your point?”

“There was one sleeping bag, one tent, and no bra. So answer me. You and that nose of yours would know. Did we or did we not—?”

“No,” Jon lies, not loving himself for it. He can tell her later if he needs to. But now he needs her rested and clear-headed. That’s not happening if she knows. “If I had to guess from the amount of tracks I spotted, I’ve spent this entire trip in wolf form, sleeping under the stars.

The look of relief on her face stings a little. “Good. But Jon…”

“What?!” He asks impatiently. He’s exhausted.

She bristles at his tone. “You can’t blame me for worrying. And wondering about this attraction you suddenly have for me.”

Sudden. That’s hilarious. “Sansa, I’m exhausted…”

“I can’t sleep, Jon. I’m too wired by everything. I need to know, though. We’ve known each other our entire lives. We’ve been reunited for centuries. Why, after all this time, are you interested in me?”

“It’s not ‘all of a sudden’, Sansa.”

“What do you mean?”

Jon decides to change back. This was better expressed in his human form. Once back, he grabs her hand. “Come on, if we’re going to be awake, we might as well be moving.”

She stumbles behind him, “Come on now, you’re stalling.”

Jon sighs. “You know I spent a long time as Ghost, right?”

“Everyone knows that.”

“Well, I spent enough time as the wolf to adopt more than just the physical form before Melisandre brought me back. And while I was a wolf, I sort of…. Became part of the community.”

“The direwolf community?” She giggles.

“Don’t laugh, it’s real. Wolves have their own intelligence, their own customs, and their own legends. And while I was with them, I learned of one of them. It was about mating. And how we find our mate in the person or wolf who just… Smells right. And after we find that person, we’re attached to them. When we found one another again, I caught your scent and after that you became… the woman I can’t ignore.”

She almost trips. “That’s flattering.”

“It’s the truth. I can always smell you. Not just your presence, but everything about you and what state you’re in. It’s part of the reason I smoke so much— to block out the smell. And why I went rogue for so long. I knew you’d never be interested, so I tried to stay away. But I couldn’t. I could still smell you.”

He feels her tense up, smells her trepidation. “Jon, I—”

“I never wanted to force anything on you, Sansa. Even after you all came looking for me, I didn’t come to Fabletown expecting anything. But I decided that if I couldn’t ignore you, I could try to satisfy my feelings by protecting you.”

“Still, though, you can’t expect me to react well to you stalking me all these years.”

“I can’t help it!” He scowls. “And it’s not just— I mean, yes, I know where you are every second of every day. Not because I want to. I just do. I’d stop if I could. But it’s not just that. I know your mood, your health. The rare times those smiles you fix for the community are genuine. The periods where you feel so overwhelmed you’re almost ready to give up, but never do. I know when you’re thinking about the time you went to Cersei back in the homelands and when you blame yourself for Father’s death, which is all too often. I know when you’re blaming yourself for Arya’s troubles. I know when you’re in your bathtub crying, which happens at least twice a week. I know when you’re wondering if it’s somehow your fault your marriage to Harry ended the way it did. I know when you’re afraid, like now. But I also know that you’re starting to understand.”

She takes a deep breath. “Jon… I’m tired.”

“Just a little longer, Sansa,” Jon says, picking up the scent. “She’s getting closer.”

~_~_~_~_~_~

They’re at the John F. Kennedy airport, exiting the gate, when Sansa speaks to him for the first time in hours. There’s been a lot of silence. Jon likes to tell himself that it’s over the ax Sansa drove into Goldilocks’s head, but he knows better.

“Jon…”

“—Look, if you want me to move out, I can.” He says quickly. “Whatever you need.”

She shakes her head. “No. Jon… Look. At this point in my life, I’m not interested in tricks or grand gestures or whatever you thought you were doing with that stunt at the Remembrance Day Ball. That being said, I’ve been thinking about it. And… If you’re willing to give me some time and then ask me out nicely, in an honest, straightforward manner, to go out with you… Well, I might not say no.”

Jon feels his heart leap in his chest. “Really?”

She nods. “Really. But I mean it. Honesty and time. I need both.”

Jon pauses and takes a deep breath. “Well, then, Sansa… There’s something you should probably know…”

[the-record-newspaper]

Wilkes Halloween Parade Biggest Yet

Wilkes Halloween Parade Biggest Yet

The 4th Annual Historic Wilkesborough Halloween Parade & Festival held last Saturday saw the biggest spectator turn out and the most money raised for a non-profit yet. Plus there was a unicorn in the parade. This year’s non-profit was the Child Abuse Prevention Team/Our House in Wilkesboro. The event raised $2,134.65, with an additional $1,000-plus in kind donations.

Grand Marshall Jessie Jackson, (pictured above) who has Gangliosidosis-1 (GM-1), had her wheelchair covered in pink tulle, decorated as a carriage and she was Sleeping Beauty. Her mom, Merlie was Maleficent. She was pushed by Kevin Bullard, member of Guardians of the Children, along with Linda Bullard.  

Shirl Daemer, CAPT/Our House Board Chairman said “Thank you Heather and to everyone who participated in making the parade such a successful event. Thank you to the volunteers and staff of our house and the community for their continued support. Protecting children is everyone’s responsibility.

The praise from vendors, food trucks, games hosts, event goers, parade entrants and musicians has been pouring in over the weekend.

“Thank you again for including Jessie, it was a great parade and you did a great job Heather.” Merlie Jackson

Special guest Epsilon, from 

Pennsylvania, and Jon Stewart,

 Ghoul Skool Filmographer

“Good Times with great folks with huge hearts and wonderful hospitality! Congratulations on a “fintastic” Halloween Parade & Zombie walk. Kudos!” –The Kilted Creature

“We had an awesome time yesterday!” Jessica Bockhorn, vendor, Usborne books and more

“Everyone had a good time, thank you Heather Dean for all you do.” –Dub Harris

“Parade was such a big success; we had a really good time, great job.” Misty Smithey, Wilkes County Register of Deeds

“Kids had a blast! Thank you so much Heather, can’t wait to see the paper!”

-Tasha D. Cudd

“Had a great day, my kids had an awesome time- thank you for all the fun.”

Josephine Sollima

Third place winners, Misty Smithey, Wilkes Register of Deeds, chauffeured by Tom Graves in his Model T. Her children handed out candy to onlookers.

“We work hard for ten months out of the year to make this annual event a success for our community. We could not do it without the help and support of the Town of Wilkesboro Government and their employees, Town Manger, Ken Noland, Wilkesboro Police Chief, Craig Garris and his officers, and especially to Mayor Mike Inscore who was excited to hear my plans for a Halloween parade all those years ago. When we began, Wilkes County had the official Halloween kick-off for the entire state, happening the week before all the state haunts open at the end of September, and nothing of this scale in other towns. I am proud to call Wilkes home, where I can be trusted and believed in to create and carry out a family friendly event that is inclusive of the community all the way around” said festival and parade creator Heather Dean. The zombie walk and festival began as a fundraiser for the Wilkes Heritage Museum 6 years ago, and Dean was also the brains behind it. “I have been fortunate enough to keep the core of my organizers throughout the years. Belinda and Rick Laws have been there since the beginning. Pete Lentz was a huge help this year as well. It’s a lot for four people to pull off, but we did, even though there are always kinks to work past in an event this big. We have already started planning for next year, and have some new ideas for kid’s activities that they will love.” Dean said.

Parade winners were:

1st place, Little Brushy Mountain VFD Haunted Hayride, that sported a 15 foot day of the dead character, 2nd Place BROC Little Miss Princess, 3rd place, Misty Smithey Register of Deeds in a model T, and Mayor’s Choice to Sammi Seeley, with White Oak Stables, who’s horses matched the  riding characters, including a unicorn and a rainbow goat.

Thank you sponsors:

Little Brushy Mountain VFD, Wilkesboro Mini-Golf & Games, The Tory Oak at Dooley’s, Thistle Meadow Winery, Copper Barrel Distillery The Liberty Theatre, Town of Wilkesboro, Wilkesboro Police Department, Haunted Wilkes, Embroidery Plus, Infusion Points, Ben-Jammin DJ Services, Matt Matthews State Farm, Ghouls Skool Entertainment, Hope Anchored Photography, NWNC Magazine, Historic Downtown Merchants Association, Ladies of the Moose  Chapter 2441, Pipedreams, Two Boro’s Brewery, V’s Type, North Wilkesboro Moose Lodge 1781, Faylene Lankford Mary Kay Senior Sales Director.

 Thank you game hosts:

VFW Post 1142 Auxiliary

Wilkes Recovery Revolution

WMC Healing and Hyperbaric Medicine Center

Wilkes Playmakers Youth Council

Guardians of the Children, High Country Chapter

Haunted Wilkes

Infusion Points

Little Mountain Railroad

Ladies of the Moose Chapter 2441

[salestudy7-blog]

Ask the Squad: Which ‘Crazy Rich Asians’ Character Are You and Most Importantly, Why?

It’s the biggest rom-com of the year (in fact, of practically the last decade). Crazy Rich Asians is getting crazy rich box office numbers, and for good reason, not the least of which is the crazy rich cast of characters. So we had to know: Which Crazy Rich Asians character do you most relate to and why? Join in on the fun below!

Touted as the first Hollywood studio film starring a majority Asian cast in 25 years, Crazy Rich Asians has proven it’s a force to be reckoned with. With its record-breaking performance over Labor Day weekend, the film has topped the box office for the third weekend in a row. It’s now had the strongest opening of any comedy this year, and CBS is reporting that it’s the most successful studio rom-com in nine years.

The film is topping the charts overseas as well; it opened at $5.4 million in Australia, making Crazy Rich Asians the largest opening for a rom-com in the country ever. And thanks to its success, topping $200 million worldwide, Warner Bros. is moving forward with a sequel with director Jon Chu once again at the helm.

We’re frankly not surprised. The film is funny and touching and wholly relatable. It not only gives us a fascinating look into the world of, well, crazy rich Asians, but perhaps more importantly, highlights the contrast between Asian Americans and their overseas counterparts. Undoubtedly the best part of the film is its wide-ranging cast of characters, from the glamorous but stifled Astrid Leong (played by Gemma Chan) to the hilarious Goh Peik Lin (played by the equally hilarious Awkwafina) to Eleanor Young (played by Michelle Yeoh), whose ice queen facade masks an insecurity and need for acceptance that probably a lot of second generation Asian Americans can relate to. (Oh, and don’t forget those notable appearances by Ken Jeong, Jimmy O. Yang, and Harry Shum, Jr.)

So with that in mind, we had to ask the K-Beauty Squad, as well as our Beautytap community:

Q. Which Crazy Rich Asians character are you and most importantly, why?

Director of marketing Jude:

I’m the mom [Eleanor], because my son is handsome and perfect and no one could be good enough for him.

Contributing writer Megan:

I’d definitely have to pick Awkwafina as Goh Peik Lin. She’s sassy, she’s witty and she makes everyone laugh. I like to think I embody a few of these traits. Most importantly, she is true to herself and I really enjoy that about any character Awkwafina takes on.

Community intern Leo:

I can definitely say that I identified so much with Eleanor, Nick’s mom. I’m obviously not the matriarch of a massively profitable family empire (one can dream), but I definitely understand my own version of the feelings she has towards never being able to fulfill Nick’s grandmother’s expectations of “what it takes” to be a part of the family.

I also vibe with how proud and committed she is to staying connected with her culture, and all of my friends will tell you that I’m the absolute mom friend of the group; no one they’re dating is ever good enough for them for at least the first year, and I am ready to chase anyone off at a moment’s notice to protect the people I care about. I also worship the ground that Michelle Yeoh walks on and I want to be her when I grow up.

Contributing writer Tracy:

Oh, to be Astrid because she’s kind, sensitive, effortlessly beautiful, and has a wardrobe budget that would pay all my bills for life. But, alas, I believe I’m Oliver. I don’t have any money (‘cuz I spend it all on skincare). I fly economy (Rich People Problems spoiler) because of the aforementioned lack of money. I befriend people on their own merit, and I’ve broken up a relationship for the good of the family. *Sorry, sis.* Note: I might also be Charlie because, after all, he, too, loves Astrid.

Editor in chief Anna:

I totally relate to Michelle Yeoh’s character, Eleanor Young, as well. Growing up, I felt so much of what I see in her: She’s misunderstood, trying so hard to fit in, and has a facade of ice but only to protect her vulnerability and insecurity. But I also relate to Constance Wu’s character, Rachel, especially when she goes to Singapore for the first time and discovers this crazy world she never knew existed. I had a similar experience when I visited friends in Singapore as well, and it brought all those flood of memories back for me.

Contributing editor Sheryll:

I think if I had to choose, I’d be Astrid. Her highlight was always poppin’, she was kind and genuine to Rachel, and she stood up for herself when she needed to the most. Plus, she’s just SO glamorous — the type of woman I aspire to be.

Xomarthamarie:

Peik Lin, most definitely. I always strive to help my friends whilst being as extra as possible.

So tell us, which Crazy Rich Asians character are you and why? (And if you haven’t watched the film yet, here’s an enticing clip at the food in the movie that’ll just push you over the edge.)

Source: https://beautytap.com/2018/09/squad-crazy-rich-asians/

[whittlebaggett8]

WHERE ARE THEY NOW: The cast of ‘Pretty Little Liars’, Defence Online

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Ashley Benson, Shay Mitchell, Lucy Hale, and Troian Bellisario on “Pretty Little Liars.”

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Freeform

Freeform’s “Pretty Little Liars” launched the four main actors, Ashley Benson (who played Hanna Marin), Shay Mitchell (Emily Fields), Lucy Hale (Aria Montgomery), and Troian Bellisario (Spencer Hastings), to fame when it premiered in June 2010.

The show was such a success among its devoted fans that it inspired a spin-off series called “The Perfectionists,” which premieres on Wednesday.

Here’s what the stars of “PLL” have been up to since the drama ended in 2017.

Troian Bellisario portrayed Spencer Hastings, arguably the smartest and wittiest member of her group.

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Troian Bellisario as Spencer Hastings on “Pretty Little Liars.”

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Freeform

It was later revealed that Spencer was adopted by the Hastings family and had a twin sister named Alex.

In addition to being an actor, Bellisario is now a director, producer, writer, and mother.

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Troian Bellisario in Los Angeles, California in March 2019.

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Michael Kovac/Getty Images for Comedy Benefit in Support War Child USA and INARA

In 2017, the actress starred in, wrote, and produced a film called “Feed.” In the movie, she played the twin sister of “Harry Potter” star Tom Felton.

Her directing credits include one episode of “PLL,” the short-lived Freeform drama “Famous in Love,” and the network’s new “The Fosters” spin-off called “Good Trouble.”

In October 2018, Bellisario revealed that she welcomed a baby girl with “Suits” star Patrick J. Adams, who she’s been married to since 2016.

“I cannot express how grateful I am,” she captioned a photo on Instagram. “To the people who have protected us and kept our growing family safe and respected our privacy. To our tribe for expanding with grace and exponential amounts of love. To my @halfadams for being so supportive during every moment of my pregnancy and her birth. And to whatever incredible force of fate that brought this baby girl into our lives.”

She continued: “I couldn’t be more proud to be her mother. To bring a new girl into this world and to do my best to raise her to be kind, strong and whatever the heck she wants to be.”

Fashionable and sarcastic Hanna Marin was portrayed by Ashley Benson.

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Ashley Benson as Hanna Marin on “Pretty Little Liars.”

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Freeform

She became a fashion designer and married Caleb. During the series finale, it was revealed that the couple was expecting their first child together.

Benson will star alongside Elisabeth Moss and Dan Stevens in an upcoming movie called “Her Smell.”

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Ashley Benson at a Chanel fashion show in Paris, France, in March 2019.

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Bertrand Rindoff Petroff/Getty Images

The drama also stars Cara Delevingne, who fans have speculated is in a relationship with Benson.

In the fashion industry, Benson has sat in the front row at runway shows in Europe. She also collaborated with Privé Revaux to create a collection of sunglasses.

Lucy Hale starred as Aria Montgomery, who had a passion for English.

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Lucy Hale as Aria Montgomery on “Pretty Little Liars.”

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Freeform

She and Ezra got married and they co-wrote a book, which was possibly going to be turned into a movie.

Hale is set to star as the titular character on a “Riverdale” pilot spin-off called “Katy Keene.”

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Lucy Hale at the premiere of “The Unicorn” in January 2019.

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Jon Kopaloff/FilmMagic via Getty Images

The potential CW show just started filming, and Hale will be joined by “Riverdale” star Ashleigh Murray (known for her role as singer Josie McCoy).

The 29-year-old also recently traveled to Fiji to film “Fantasy Island,” an upcoming film based on the ’70s and ’80s show of the same name.

After “PLL” ended, the actress kept busy with a lead role as Stella Abbott on The CW’s “Life Sentence,” which lasted for one season. She also starred in the 2018 movie “Truth or Dare” and told INSIDER that there have been discussions about doing a sequel. She’s open to appearing on the “PLL” spin-off, too.

Shay Mitchell played a talented swimmer named Emily Fields.

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Shay Mitchell as Emily Fields on “Pretty Little Liars.”

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Freeform

She became a swimming coach at Rosewood High.

Shay Mitchell recently starred as wealthy Peach Salinger on the breakout thriller series “You.”

Aside from “You,” Mitchell has a YouTube channel where she shares workout tips, beauty tutorials, and the occasional video with one of her “PLL” co-stars.

Mitchell also revealed to fans that she had a miscarriage in 2018.

“We all have to deal with various struggles and challenges in life,” she wrote. “And sometimes it’s easier to only showcase the good times on social media, which is what leads so many people to criticize it for its lack of authenticity.”

The 31-year-old added that she was grateful for the “support and affection” from followers.

Mitchell often documents her travels around the world, and it inspired her to launch her own brand called BÉIS in October 2018. The company’s travel-ready products include duffles, weekend bags, cosmetic cases, and luggage tags.

Alison DiLaurentis, who was at the center of the show’s main murder mystery plot, was portrayed by Sasha Pieterse.

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Sasha Pieterse as Alison DiLaurentis on “Pretty Little Liars.”

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Freeform

By the end of the show, Ali gave birth to twins named Lily and Grace. She raised them with Emily, who she proposed to on the series finale.

Pieterse will once again play Alison DiLaurentis on “The Perfectionists.”

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Sasha Pieterse at the premiere of “Pretty Little Liars: The Perfectionists” in March 2019.

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Gregg DeGuire/FilmMagic via Getty Images

In May 2018, Pieterse married Hudson Sheaffer, her fiancé of three years, at a castle in Ireland.

The 23-year-old has also been open about her health struggles, particularly while competing on “Dancing With the Stars” in 2017. During the competition, Pieterse revealed that she gained approximately 70 pounds over the course of two years and faced bullying because of the weight gain.

The actress explained that she was diagnosed with Polycystic Ovary Syndrome, a hormone imbalance that leads to problems in the ovaries. Pieterse credited “DWTS” to helping her lose 15 pounds and feel more comfortable with herself.

In October 2019, Pieterse will release a book filled with her favorite recipes and party planning tips called “Sasha in Good Taste.”

Mona Vanderwaal, one of the show’s shadiest characters, was played by Janel Parrish.

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Janel Parrish as Mona Vanderwaal on “Pretty Little Liars.”

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Freeform

The girls never knew if they could fully trust Mona, who was part of the A-Team and accidentally killed Charlotte DiLaurentis (also known as CeCe Drake). In the end, Mona ended up opening a doll shop in France.

Like Pieterse, Parrish will also reprise her “PLL” role on “The Perfectionists.”

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Janel Parrish at the “Pretty Little Liars: The Perfectionists” premiere in March 2019.

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Gregg DeGuire/FilmMagic via Getty Images

Aside from returning as Mona on the series, you may have seen Parrish as Lana Condor’s on-screen sister, Margot, in the 2018 Netflix romantic comedy “To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before.”

In 2018, the actress also married her boyfriend of two years, Chris Long, in Hawaii.

Ian Harding starred as Ezra Fitz, Aria’s teacher-turned-husband.

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Ian Harding as Ezra Fitz on “Pretty Little Liars.”

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Freeform

Ezra and Aria planned to look into adopting a child after their honeymoon.

Most recently, Harding reunited with “PLL” co-star Torrey DeVitto on the NBC drama “Chicago Med.”

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Ian Harding attends an LA Times event in Culver City, California in September 2018.

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Tibrina Hobson/Getty Images for Film Independent

Harding guest-starred as Phillip Davis on four episodes of the show.

Shortly before “PLL” ended in 2017, the actor released a memoir called “Odd Birds,” inspired by his love for birding and exploring the outdoors.

In addition, the 32-year-old is good friends with Mitchell and has appeared in several of her YouTube videos.

Keegan Allen played Toby Cavanaugh, who joined the A-Team at one point to protect Spencer.

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Keegan Allen as Toby Cavanaugh on “Pretty Little Liars.”

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Freeform

He became a Rosewood police officer and built a house for him and Spencer.

Allen followed the release of his 2015 photography book (‘ife.love.beauty.”) with another one in 2018 called “Hollywood: Photos and Stories From Foreverland.”

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Keegan Allen at the premiere of Netflix’s “The Umbrella Academy” in February 2019.

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Rich Fury/Getty Images

Aside from acting, Allen does a lot of photography. Both of his books are filled with photos that he’s taken since he started experimenting with cameras as a child, in addition to poems and anecdotes.

Allen can also play the piano and guitar, and released a song in 2017 called “Million Miles Away.”

Tyler Blackburn starred as Rosewood’s tech-savvy teen named Caleb Rivers.

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Tyler Blackburn as Caleb Rivers on “Pretty Little Liars.”

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Freeform

He had an on-again, off-again relationship with Hanna and often helped out the Liars with their sleuthing.

Blackburn now stars on The CW’s “Roswell, New Mexico,” which is a reboot of the ’90s and 2000s sci-fi drama.

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Tyler Blackburn in Los Angeles, California in January 2019.

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Presley Ann/FilmMagic via Getty Images

He plays a war veteran named Alex Manes. The 32-year-old will also guest star as “a soul-sucking demon who forms a cult of vulnerable women to sacrifice to keep him alive” on the “Charmed” reboot.

“It was very liberating playing the villain, a character I’ve never played before,” he told Haute Living.

The post WHERE ARE THEY NOW: The cast of ‘Pretty Little Liars’, Defence Online appeared first on Defence Online.

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