#spent foreeeever on this…give him love

[wolfmanritch]

made a guy to hold my rings :^]

#spent foreeeever on this…give him love #original #traditional #idk what to tag this…. #eye monster #sculpture #ceramics

[drarryangels]

I’m a new follower and I love your acc. You don’t have to do this but- an au where every student gets re-sorted each year because morals change. Most people stay in the same house their whole life, but there’s an occasional ravenclaw turned hufflepuff. Harry has always been almost sorted into slytherin, and every year he turned down, getting placed in Gryffindor. By eighth year he just doesn’t care anymore and imagine Draco Malfoy’s reaction when the golden boy gets sorted into his house.

Thank you so much for this prompt! It was really interesting to think about, and I definitely think the re-Sorting would’ve made more sense for canon but you know whatever. Sorry this is so late!! It took me foreeeever to write this. Hope you like it.

ps. if someone knows how answer box things work pls message me and lmk. srsly. idk how to do the keep reading and tags on ask box prompts. 

Year 1:

“Malfoy. Draco Malfoy.” A pointy faced boy held out his hand to Harry.

“I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself, thanks,” Harry said, glaring up at Malfoy.

Malfoy sniffed and walked away just as a tall woman with a tight bun strode up to the top of the stairs.

“We are ready for you,” she said, smiling stiffly, and beckoning the crowd of tiny first years after her.

Harry’s stomach churned with anticipation in what was awaiting him wherever this strict teacher was taking them. Professor McGonagall, he thought her name was. In any case, he was just hoping he wasn’t going to get kicked out of school before the first day of classes. It seemed likely for someone like him. He had never been worth much. Although, maybe he could change that here, away from the Dursleys and his old school.

Professor McGonagall stopped in front of a set of large oak doors and turned to smile slightly at the first years before pushing the doors open.

Harry’s eyes widened as the doors opened, revealing a great hall full of students. Four long tables lined the room, with one table heading the room, where the teachers must sit. Every table was heavily laden with glimmering plates and sparkling silverware, the likes of which Harry had never seen. Mass amounts of staring eyes lasered down on Harry, making his face flush up in a wave of heat. His vision waved and dotted in front of him with the heat of the eyes, and he looked down hurriedly at his feet.

“Potter, Harry,” Professor McGonagall said after a long list of names.

Harry looked down even further at his feet, wishing desperately for everyone to disappear. Or, even better, for himself to disappear. Unfortunately, no such thing happened, and Harry walked up slowly to Professor McGonagall, where she held a mangy, trembling hat.

Malfoy’s snickering whisper followed Harry all the way up until he sat on the stool in front of the whole student body. Harry’s knees knocked shakily as the hat was put down over his eyes.

“Hmmm,” a rough voice sounded in his ear. It took Harry a moment before he realized the voice belonged to the hat speaking to him in his head. “Not Ravenclaw. Hufflepuff? No… too much desire to prove yourself. In that case, Slytherin would be a good choice.”

“Not Slytherin, please,” Harry whispered.

“Not Slytherin, eh?” the hat responded.

“Not Slytherin.”

“Well, alright then, better be… GRYFFINDOR!”

Harry sighed in relief and nearly ran down to the Gryffindor table to sit next to the new red haired friend he had made, the one with the big family. Oh, yeah. Ron.

Harry smiled as the Sorting finished up. Malfoy had gotten Slytherin, of course. He really was going to turn out rotten.

Year 2:

“I can’t believe we didn’t get expelled,” Harry muttered to Ron, climbing up the stairs to the common room.

“Me neither,” Ron said, his mouth still full of the sandwiches Professor McGonagall had given them.

The two walked in silence along the corridors of Hogwarts up to the common room until a familiar nasty smirk caught Harry’s eye as they passed the passageway that split up to the Ravenclaw tower.

“Malfoy,” Harry said flatly.

“Potter,” Malfoy snorted. “Enjoy your ride to Hogwarts?”

Harry started forward, but Malfoy stepped back, the green crest on his robes flashing up at Harry. Harry shook his head and walked away with one last glare thrown over his shoulder.

“Doesn’t surprise me a bit he got Slytherin again,” Ron said, finally finished with his sandwiches.

“Again?” Harry asked.

“Yeah,” Ron nodded, “we’re all re-Sorted every year, although the older students are Sorted separately from the first years. Wish I knew where but…” Ron trailed down, looking down at the snapped wand held in his hand.

“It’ll be alright, Ron,” Harry said, pulling him along to hurry up to Gryffindor tower. Ron scoffed as he was dragged along.

“There you two are,” Hermione said from behind them as they reached the portrait hole.

“Hermione!” Ron said, his face lifting.

“Save it, Ronald. I know what happened.”

“Hermione,” Harry began, “what are you doing here?”

“Waiting up for you,” Hermione sniffed. “You can’t as well get into the common room without the password, now can you?”

Harry and Ron looked down at their feet. Hermione rolled her eyes and smiled slightly.

“Come on, boys. McGonagall is waiting to re-Sort you. Honestly. She’s been sitting on my armchair for the last half hour.”

Once Harry was sat down on a chair with the Sorting Hat on his head and more than a few eyes watching carefully, the Sorting Hat began again.

“Mr. Potter. Still want Gryffindor, yes?”

“Er..yes. Not Slytherin.”

“Gryffindor,” the hat said tiredly to the room.

Year 3:

“Not Sly-”

“Not Slytherin. I got it Potter,” the Sorting Hat grumbled. “Can’t understand why you hate it so much. Never thought I’d say this to you, but you’re sounding a little prejudiced.”

Me? Prejudiced? Harry thought.

“Yes, you. I’m sure the Weasleys have told you plenty about Slytherins, but foul wizards end up in all Houses, Potter. You would do well to remember that.”

What do you mean?

“Better be….”

No, wait!

“GRYFFINDOR!”

A collective whoop rose up from the Gryffindors as Harry walked out of the side room and took his usual place at the Gryffindor table.

Ron was already seated and was happily chattering with Seamus about his summer holidays in Egypt, while Dean dozed off with his head propped on Seamus’s arm.

Hermione walked out of the side room, her face tipped with crimson, and Harry waved her over, hoping for someone to talk to. Hermione gave him a small wave as she walked straight past him.

Huh? Did Hermione not want to sit next to him? Harry was trying to think of what he might’ve done wrong when Hermione sat by herself at the Ravenclaw table. Ron had stopped talking and was staring gobsmacked at where Hermione was now sitting.

“You’re joking me,” Ron said, stunned.

Harry just stared.

“I mean we all knew she would end up there, I suppose,” Ron said with his mouth still hanging open. “But still. Some part of me thought she would always be in Gryffindor.”

“Yeah,” Harry muttered. He looked down at his empty plate. A sinking feeling filled Harry’s stomach. Anticipation for this year climbed up his throat as he realized how different this year would be without Hermione over their shoulders in the common room constantly. He was so lost in his thoughts that he almost didn’t notice when Draco Malfoy emerged from the side re-Sorting room and sat down across from Hermione at the Ravenclaw table.

Ron noticed though.

“But that’s Draco Malfoy,” he gasped.

Harry looked, and sure enough, Hermione was glaring at Draco from across the Ravenclaw table.

He looked at her, said something, and then looked down.

Ron started up from the table, but Harry grabbed his sleeve and pulled him back down.

“No, Ron. Look.”

Draco Malfoy was shaking hands with Hermione Granger from across the table. He wasn’t smiling, but when his robes shimmered and changed from green to blue, he didn’t look completely displeased either.

Harry thought about what the Sorting Hat had said to him about not all bad wizards being Slytherin. This year really was going to be different.

Year 4:

“I don’t know why you two have got your knickers in such a twist,” Hermione said with annoyance as they filed into the re-Sorting room once again. “I thought last year went fine even when we were in different houses. We just spent less time in our common rooms, and more time in the library.”

“I wouldn’t consider that an improvement,” Ron grumbled. He was lucky Hermione hadn’t quite heard him.

“Look,” Hermione said. “Ron, I know you’re upset about this because of Draco-”

“Draco?” Ron’s face was full of disgust.

“Yes, Draco,” Hermione glared. “I don’t know why you’re so fussed about it. Even him and Harry are polite now. Granted, they’re not friends. But they’re civil at least. Why can’t you give him a chance?”

“Are you kidding?” Ron said, his voice rising. “He called you a- a you-know-what, and is a jerk! He tormented us first and second year! You can just ignore that?”

“He apologized! You don’t know what it’s like for him!” Hermione huffed.

“Oh, I sure don’t. I can’t imagine what it’s like to be hopelessly rich and to have everything I need whenever I need it.”

“Ron,” Hermione said in a warning voice.

“Seriously, Hermione! He’s like your new best friend or something!”

“That’s ridiculous,” Hermione said, color rising quickly on her face. “You two are my best friends. No one’s going to replace you. You know that. He’s just a friend. Among some of my other Ravenclaw friends. You don’t complain about them!”

“Because they’re not evil!”

“He’s not like that anymore, Ron,” Harry said quietly.

Ron fell quiet. “You too, then?” Harry stayed silent until Ron stormed off.

Draco Malfoy chose that moment to walk by and wave at Hermione. He sent a nod in Harry’s direction, who returned the gesture.

“Long year ahead of us, hm?” Hermione said, looking after Ron.

“I’ve got a feeling,” Harry nodded.

Year 5:

“Mate, you’ve got to stop going on about these invisible creatures,” Ron said across Gryffindor table.

“I just want to know what they are!” Harry said, throwing his hands up in the air.

“Loony Lovegood seemed to know,” Hermione snorted around a sip of her drink. She was looking well and happy with a Gryffindor tie hung loosely around her neck.

“Leave her alone,” Malfoy said, coming to sit next to Hermione. “Hullo, Hermione.”

“Hi, Draco. I know she’s nice, but still!”

“Malfoy,” Harry nodded and took a bite of his potatoes.

“Potter,” Malfoy said. “Weasley.”

Ron grunted and Malfoy raised his eyebrows and looked away.

“Lovely Sorting this year, wasn’t it?” Malfoy asked.

“Happy to be back in Slytherin, huh?” Ron said.

“Perfectly fine either way, thank you very much. Although I will be happy to avoid my father’s wrath this year,” Malfoy said.

Harry looked up sharply and stared at Malfoy at that.

“Your father’s wrath?” Harry asked, leaning forward subconsciously. Hermione nudged Harry in the side, although he didn’t seem to get the hint.

“Yes, Potter. My father’s wrath. Unlike your perfect life, we can’t all avoid being hit by our parents at the very slight of their whim,” Malfoy said offhandedly while reaching for the jug of pumpkin juice. Ron choked and Harry stared. Hermione put her hands over her face with a sigh.

“My perfect life?” Harry said.

“Yes,” Malfoy said sarcastically. “You, Potter. I know you really have it bad over there.”

“Malfoy. I live with my Muggle uncle and aunt.”

“I’m well aware,” Malfoy rolled his eyes.

“They….” Harry hesitated.

“What, Potter?” Malfoy finally set his utensils down to look at Harry. “Spit it out.”

“They hit me, too. You shouldn’t assume things you don’t know about people’s lives,” Harry said quietly.

Hermione had stopped cold in her movements and Ron’s face was rapidly turning purple.

“Why did you never tell us?” Hermione said softly.

“Didn’t seem important,” Harry shrugged. Ron gripped his fork tighter.

“Oh boys,” Hermione closed her eyes and set one hand down over Malfoy’s hand and the other over Harry’s. “Less trouble this year, okay?”

“Sure, Hermione,” Harry said with a growing smile.

Year 6:

Harry sat down heavily on the stool he had sat on every year since coming to Hogwarts. The Sorting Hat was set on his head, and for the first time, it didn’t slip over his eyes. He closed his eyes anyway, squeezing them tightly until the Sorting Hat yelled out Gryffindor after a long deliberation.

“Where’s Malfoy?” Harry asked Hermione as he passed her seat at the Ravenclaw table. Hermione shrugged and pointed to the Slytherin table.

Malfoy sat completely alone with his head on his arms and a sad look etched into his features.

“What’s up with him?” Harry asked.

“I don’t know,” Hermione sighed, standing up from the Ravenclaw table to join them at the Gryffindor table.

“Ravenclaw again?” Ron asked as she sat down.

“Yeah,” Hermione said.

“Where’s Draco?” Harry asked, looking around. A strange streak of nervousness spiked through his stomach.

“Slytherin table,” Hermione said. “He’s been ignoring me.” She shook her head and looked down with a distinct expression of concern.

“Ignoring you?” Harry said, still scanning the tables.

“Harry…. Are you…” Hermione paused. “Are you blushing?”

“Me? Blushing? No!” Harry stammered. But his face only heated up more and the nervousness settled into Harry’s stomach.

“Oh my god! He totally is!” Ron let out a bellow of laughter.

“Shut up!” Harry shoved Ron off his seat.

“Oh, Draco!” Harry called, standing up and waving as Draco’s blonde hair bobbed past the Gryffindor table in green robes.

“What do you want, filthy half blood?” Draco snarled as he passed. Harry sat down with a plunk and expression of shock.

“Draco?” said Ron, stunned.

“Don’t want to hear it, blood traitor.”

“Did he just…?” said Hermione.

“I thought he was….you know, on our side,” Ron said.

Harry sat blankly in his seat, his eyes following Draco across the Great Hall, and a look of sharp pain in his eyes.

With another swish of green robes, Draco was gone.

Year 7:

“I miss being at Hogwarts,” Hermione said. “All of the magic and wonder.”

“I miss the food,” Ron sighed.

“Oh, Ronald,” Hermione rolled her eyes. She looked over at Harry out of the corner of here eye. “Harry you’re going to have to talk to us at some point.”

Harry shrugged from his seat on the armchair where he was curled with his chin on his knees.

“Look,” Hermione knelt by the foot of Harry’s chair. “I know… I know you’re upset about Dumbledore still. And I know…that you miss Draco. And that you feel betrayed by what he did, but-”

“Please stop speaking to me as if I’m your patient, Hermione,” Harry turned his head away.

“Harry…”

“Please, Hermione.”

“Harry, you need to talk about how you’re feeling!”

“I’m scared, Hermione!” Harry sat up. “For him. I knew he got the Dark Mark, and he wouldn’t talk to me all year. Avoided me at every turn. Shoved me away. Every time. We had actually become friends, and he couldn’t even look me in the face. Now I can’t stop thinking about him at Hogwarts, surrounded by darkness and evil that he’s a part of!”

“Mate, he made his choice and you made yours,” Ron said. “I’m sorry to say this, and I get that you liked him, but you really need to get over that now.”

Harry shrugged and buried his face back in his knees. Hermione sat down next to Ron with a groan and leaned over.

“He loved him. You get that, don’t you? Harry loved Draco,” Hermione whispered.

“Loves him, more like,” Ron snorted.

“Sh! Either way. I don’t think he can get over him,” Hermione put her head in her hands.

“He’s going to have to.”

Year 8:

“It is wonderful to have you all back,” McGonagall  stood regally in front of the High Table. “Although we have experienced trying times for many years, our world, and your education, is now safe once more. Our annual re-Sorting for each year will take place in the same locations as always. First years are on their way, and their first Sorting will be witnessed by the whole student body. I’m sure some of you have noticed by now that we have some old faces for an extra year. An additional eighth year has been added on for those who missed out on their education the previous year.” McGonagall sniffed. “Let the re-Sorting commence?”

The freshly minted eighth years filed into the same old room for re-Sorting that they always had and waited quietly for the Sorting Hat to reach their room. Some quiet chattering filled the room, but for the most part, it was silent.

Harry could see Draco in the corner of the room. Thin and tired looking, with bruises under his eyes. Harry thought he would be angry when he saw Draco again, but there was nothing but the familiar swooping of his stomach and the flushing of his skin. It was almost infuriating how through everything, his reaction to Draco remained the same. Harry looked away quickly when McGonagall finally entered the room.

He waited patiently while the rest of his classroom was re-Sorted, most staying in the Houses they had always been in. Hermione was back in Gryffindor, which she seemed very happy about with Ron at her side. Neville also remained in Gryffindor, and Draco stayed in Slytherin. A nasty look flashed across his face when the Sorting Hat called Slytherin, but it was so fast that Harry was half convinced he had imagined it.

After what felt like hours, Harry’s name was called. The feeling of the Sorting Hat being set on his head was all too familiar.  

“Ah, Harry Potter yet again,” the Sorting Hat said, “vanquisher of the Dark Lord.”

It’s not all glory.

“Of course not. So what will it be this year? Gryffindor again?” the Sorting Hat sneered.

Harry left his mind blank for a moment.

To be honest, I really don’t care anymore.

“Really?” the Hat said interestedly. “Even if I said Slytherin?”

You know better than I do.

“Finally you admit it,” the Hat laughed. “SLYTHERIN!”

Harry opened his eyes to the stunned faces of his remaining classmates. Ron and Hermione both had their mouths wide open, and Neville had dropped his latest potted plant.

“Slytherin?” Harry heard someone mutter.

Harry’s eyes met Draco’s. His skin was whiter than usual, and his hands hung loose at his sides. His mouth was opening and closing as if he was choking on his own air.

“Hi,” Harry said, coming to stand in front of Draco.

“You’re in Slytherin,” Draco said, his voice scratchy.

“The Sorting Hat has been trying to put me in there for years,” Harry smiled a little stiffly.

The two stood in silence in front of each other until Draco finally looked down.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. Harry stood in silence, his eyes widening. “I did it to protect Hermione, and Weasley, and… you. I thought if I stayed away, they wouldn’t come after you. But then once I was there, they offered me so much. I was so stupid.” Draco threw his head back in annoyance with himself. “I thought they would really give me what they promised. Safety, happiness, riches, fame. And then those things never came and,” Draco’s voice came quicker, “and then they were threatening me, and hurting me, and I couldn’t back out. It was too late. I already had the Mark.”

“It’s okay,” Harry said quietly.

“No, it’s not,” Draco said.

“No, I guess you’re right,” Harry said. “It’s not okay. But I forgive you.”

Harry stepped a little closer and cautiously wrapped his arms around Draco in a hug. Draco straightened for a second before he hugged Harry back with loose arms. Harry held him a little closer and smiled.

Maybe this year, things might actually go the way Harry wanted them to.

#harry potter #draco malfoy #drarry #year by year #eighth year #au #sorting hat #sorting au #fanfic #fanfiction #my fic #my writing #mine

[sweetsummersansa-blog]

Here is my first Jonsa fanfic called : Scars. I’ve had this idea in my head for a while now and finally finished writing it after foreeeever! Hope you guys like it! 

Winter was truly here. A snowstorm was raging outside Winterfell’s walls. It was the worst storm the North had seen since winter began… but there would still a many more to come before the arrival of spring.

Sansa thanked the Old Gods of winter that Jon had arrived home before the storm had begun. He had been gone for so long, she would have hated to be parted from him for even longer due to the weather. But he had made it back to Winterfell. Back to her.  Sansa remembered the day Jon returned from Dragonstone at last. She ran straight into his arms and they both instantly locked in a tight embrace. She was so happy.  Finally their family was whole again.

But so much had happened in the months they spent apart from each other. So much had changed. Bran and Arya were back - but Bran wasn’t Bran anymore and Arya was a faceless warrior. Jaime Lannister had come all the way from King’s Landing and pledged his life and sword to the Starks - alongside Brienne. Lord Baelish was dead, courtesy of Arya and herself. Jon had successfully forged an alliance with Daenerys Targaryen… and most shocking of all: Jon was no longer her brother… he was a Targaryen himself, the son of Lyanna Stark and Prince Rhaegar. Jon was now her cousin, and the one true heir to the Iron Throne.

But one thing that had not changed was Jon himself. Finding out he was a Targaryen did not change who he was one bit. He was still her Jon. The person she knew and trusted better than anyone. And Sansa was glad for it.

That evening, as the winter winds beat violently against Winterfell’s walls, Sansa and Jon had taken their dinner together in Sansa’s bedchamber. They had important matters to discuss as King in the North and the Lady of Winterfell. Yet, those matters had been taken care of hours ago, and they were now sitting close together in front of the fire, simply enjoying the pleasure of each other’s company. Sansa had missed Jon’s company very much when he had gone off to meet with the dragon queen. She had never felt more safe or happy as when Jon was around. He was the only one who could get a laugh out of her, or make her smile a true smile. When he was gone, Sansa’s heart ached. But having him beside her now…her heart finally felt whole again.

“I think we might have taken too much wine with us up here, my lady” Jon remarked as he poured them both another glass of Arbor Gold.

“Too much wine? Is there truly such a thing?” Sansa japed. She noticed a smile creep onto Jon’s lips. “Come on, we can finish it! You’re the King win the North Jon, not some green boy!” Sansa teased.

This time Jon gave her a real laugh.

“It would be a shame to waste such a fine wine” he agreed, taking a sip from his glass.

“Perhaps we could play the game of truths and wine to help us finish the flagon faster” Sansa suggested.

“The what?”

“The game of truths and wine! I ask you a question, and you must answer it in full truth. If you are not prepared to answer the question in all honesty, you drink. But if you do give me an answer, I drink. And so on“ Sansa explained.

“Alright. Seems simple enough to me… Where did you learn such a game?" Jon asked curiously.

"In King's Landing, when I was married to Tyrion. He would play it all the time with his hired sword Bronn" she replied, remembering all the times Tyrion stumbled drunkenly into their bedchamber after playing the game, and how he would then collapse into a drunken slumber on their couch.

Sansa began to wonder what questions Bran would have for her if he were to play- he already seemed to know the answer to every question in the world. She wondered what stories Arya would have to tell when giving answers. Yet they were elsewhere for the time being, and Sansa was secretly glad for it. In this moment, Jon was all hers.

"So, would you like to ask the first question, or should I?" Sansa asked.

Jon grinned and bowed his head. "After you, my Lady"

“Stop calling me that! You know how much I hate it!” Sansa pleaded, somewhat amused. “And alright i’ll ask the first question. But you mustn’t lie Jon, I will know if you are lying... you’re a terrible liar" Sansa giggled.

"Alright, I swear I won't lie to you" he replied, chuckling to himself.

Sansa started to think of possibilities for her first question. She had so much she wanted to ask Jon, there was so much she wanted to know about him. Yet, the questions she wanted answers to the most seemed much to personal to ask. 

He is the person I am closest to in this world, she told herself, the person whom I trust more than anyone... surely he would think the same of her...

“Alright, I've got one" Sansa declared, finally deciding on the question she was going to ask first. "What was, truly, the very first thought you had in your mind after Bran told you that you are the son of Rhaegar Targaryen?"

Jon half-laughed at this question.

"I thought every word of it was bullshit" he told her, looking straight into her eyes. "The idea of it... who would have ever thought this would come to be… Me…The son of Rheagar Targareyn” he said in disbelief.  “I mean, my entire life I never who my mother was…and after the truth came out… well it turns out I didn’t even know who my father was either”.

Sansa quietly sipped her wine. A strange expression had spread across Jon’s face… She could’t even begin to fathom how difficult all of this must have been for him to process. A part of her wanted to reach out and hold him in her arms and tell him that whoever his parents were, her love for him remained the same, and that everything would be alright.

“I don’t even know my own name anymore” Jon’s voice sounded both amused and exasperated. “What do I even call myself now? I don’t know… am I still Jon Snow or am I Jon Stark or Jon Targeryen… all three perhaps?”

“Well that’s it isn’t it! We’ll just have to call you Jon Snow-Sark-Targaryen!” Sansa japed in an attempt to lift his spirits.

"Aye that's a name!" Jon exclaimed with a laugh - it seems her jape had it’s intended effect. “And you?" He asked smiling. "What was your first thought after you were told of my true parentage?"

Oh no! Sansa’s stomach dropped. My first thought...Oh Jon you don't want to know what my first thought was. The answer was horrifying, she knew. I was happy, because I thought of how it was now possible for you to be mine.

She should take a drink of wine…Drink the wine or lie... Jon would never even know it if she told a lie; she was a much better liar than he was. But thankfully, Jon never gave her the chance to do either because he quickly followed his first question with a second.

"Were you shocked to learn that during all his years of disgrace, the bastard of Winterfell had been the rightful heir to the Iron throne all along?” Jon asked in a japing manner.

“I was shocked to the very bottom of my heart” Sansa replied smiling. “Although I suppose I should have known. You have always ruled as King in the North like you were born to it. After seeing that, I should have come to realize that you had royal blood in your veins"

“I thought it was against the rules to lie in this game” Jon said, taking a sip of his wine.

“I’m not lying!” Sansa exclaimed “You make a great King Jon, I wish you would believe me! And believe in yourself!”

“Thank you Sansa” Jon said, flashing her a small smile. “Who knows… Maybe, if by some miracle I manage to live through the long night, I could claim my new birthright and rule in King’s Landing for the rest of my days” It was meant as a sarcastic jape Sansa knew, but Jon seemed to consider that idea for a moment. “I think it would be nice to be warm for once” he continued “…and I no longer have any true rights to Winterfell-“

“You are still a stark to me Jon” Sansa told him, cutting him off. “Winterfell is your home just as much as it is mine" She shifted in her chair so she could be closer to Jon. "And Winterfell would not truly be home without you” she confessed, leaning over to get even closer to him, and staring deep into his eyes.  

Jon stared back at her for a moment, and smiled one of his rare smiles.

In the years she spent away form Winterfell, something inside of her had died. Joffrey, Cersei, Ramsay… they had all helped to kill a part of her, a part she knew she would never get back. She never thought she would feel happy or whole again in her lifetime, not after everything she’s suffered. But being there with Jon somehow made all that awfulness fade away; and the way he was looking at her in that moment… she had never felt more alive…

As they continued playing their game, Sansa began to study Jon’s face; now that it was known that he is not her brother, she let herself indulge in just how handsome his face really was. She took in his smooth skin, his hard jaw line, but most of all she gazed into his eyes. They were soft and warm and kind - the most beautiful eyes Sansa had ever seen. Yet, she could also see sadness behind those eyes, a sadness that came from living through tragedy. We have both experienced far too much suffering in our lives, Sansa thought. She wanted to help Jon through that suffering, as he had helped ease her pain, perhaps in more ways then he would ever know…  

It was now her turn to ask Jon a question.

“Jon..." she began slowly, “Ser Davos told me he heard you screaming in your sleep the other night… I ... if you're not comfortable talking about it I understand…” she didn’t know what she was saying, the words were spilling out of her mouth without sense. “I just want to tell you that I get them too -nightmares- and you can talk to me about them, or about anything else for that matter, if you ever need to"

Jon stared at her quietly. The glow of the fire was illuminating his face; he looked so solemn. For a moment Sansa regretted approaching this topic, she did not want to cause Jon any added pain. She had only wanted to help him ease the trauma she knew anguished him.

“I don’t want to burden you with my sufferings” he told her quietly. “They are not not yours to bear.”

“You can never be a burden to me. It’s not possible. Tell me Jon, What do you dream about?”

She placed a hand on his leg just above his knee as a gesture of support, and smiled a sad little smile. Jon took her hand in his own and smiled back at her. Her heart fluttered at his touch. His hand were incredibly soft for a man’s hands, she noticed.

Finally, Jon took a deep breath and started to speak

“Every night they come…” he began. “But each night they’re different... Sometimes I'm back at Hardhome running from the dead. Sometimes I'm watching Ygritte die again. Sometimes I’m watching Ramsay… never mind”.  Jon quickly dropped his gaze from Sansa's face to the floor. Sansa squeezed his hand, letting him know it was alright for him to go on; letting him know that she was here to help him, no matter how dark his dreams were.

"The one that comes most often though, is the one where my brothers are killing me, back at Castle Black . When that one comes... I can feel the pain of the knives in my body all over again, and then the cold comes and… well I wake up. I wake up, and see the scars the knives left on my body…  sometimes they scare me more then my dreams do. They remind me of what I am… I am half a corpse now” he said swallowing another sip of wine, his voice growing lower. “I don’t belong in this world”.

Sansa could not bear to hear him say that, or let him think that about himself for that matter.

“Yes you do” she told him, giving his hand a tight squeeze. “You belong in this world Jon. You belong in it here, with me” and she tried to make her words sound as earnest as possible. Can you not see how important you are to me?  

But Jon didn’t say anything back. He simply sat silently in his chair, a pained expression etched on his face, running his thumb back and forth across Sansa’s knuckles. Sansa stared into his eyes, searching them desperately for a way to make him stop having these awful thoughts of himself and to help him see himself for what he truly was: someone brave and gentle and strong.

“Jon, do you think I could see them? …the scars?”

Sansa didn’t know how the question came to slip from her mouth. She would never have asked it if it weren’t for the wine, but Jon didn’t seem to be unnerved by her request. Instead, he continued looking at her with a burning intensity that was making her heart race, and softly asked “Are you sure you want to see them? They’re … not very pretty”.

But she didn’t care about that. She did want to see, so she nodded quietly and watched as he stood up and began to remove his jerkin.

The leather doublet fell to the floor along with Jon’s undervest, and all Sansa could do was stare at Jon. Her eyes roamed over his unclothed body and she felt her heart drop to her stomach.

Seven hells, what had they done to him?!  

The sight of what truly rested underneath Jon’s clothes was both beautiful and terrifying.  His muscles were dense and defined; his skin was soft and smooth. But the scars… gods the scars!

There were over half a dozen of them, carved deep into his flesh. They were jagged and rough, the skin surrounding them was puckered and twisted. The half-healed scar tissue stretching over each one was coarse and an angry shade of red. Looking at them all made Sansa tremble.

Oh why were they so cruel to him?!  Was it really necessary for them to stab him so many times?

As Sansa continued to look at the wounds, her heart broke into a million pieces; she could feel herself imagining the pain of every blow. She wanted to weep for Jon and for all the suffering he had endured, but she willed herself to remain strong. Jon was the one who needed to weep and who needed to be comforted. I must be strong for him. Sansa told herself. I must be strong for Jon like he has always been for me.

She lay her palms on his abdomen and felt his muscles jump at her touch.  She ran her hands over his wounds, tracing each scar lightly with her fingertips.

“Oh Jon…” she whispered to herself.

“I probably look like some kind of monster”

“No” she told him pressing a kiss to the scar right above his heart “you don’t”.  But something in his face told her that he didn’t believe her.

She could never see Jon as a monster. She loved him better than anything in this world. How can I make him see that?  She pressed a slow kiss to another one of his scars then moved her lips to kiss another, and suddenly the answer came to her. The idea made Sansa very nervous, but she knew in her heart this was something she wanted to do. Her palms had grown sweaty, so she dried them on the skirt of her dress, and with a deep breath, she rose from her chair and started to pull at the laces on her sleeves. When Jon realized exactly what she was doing, a look of shock mixed with angst spread across his face and he quickly looked away.

“Sansa…” he muttered. But she had just finished wriggling out of the bodice of her dress and was feeling the fabric fall around her waist; Her torso was now completely bare.

“Jon please” she said, as she gently turned his face so he could look at her. “I want you to see me”.  

Holding his breath, Jon slowly moved his eyes over her scar-dotted body, and after letting his gaze linger a moment on her front, Sansa turned around so her back was towards him. Sansa knew by the way Jon was breathing heavily that he was taking in all of her scars, that he was truly seeing every single mark her torturers had left on her. That he was coming to realize just how much she had been forced to suffer.  

“Do you see now? I could never think of you as a monster Jon… I am the same” she said. She spoke the words with a half-laugh, but all she could feel inside was pain.

“Oh Sansa..” Jon murmured, sounding as if he were about to cry. She felt his hand trace one of the longer scars that ran diagonally across the top of her back.

“That one was from the night Ramsey decided to amuse himself with a whip” she told him, almost casually. She heard Jon’s breath grow louder as he moved his hand further down her back, touching a deeper scar at the base of her spine.

“That one was from the first time Ramsay pulled a knife on me” she continued. “He told me I squirmed too much when he was inside me…so he taught me to keep still by holding a knife to my back so the pain of it would keep me from moving around too much” She tried to recount those events as informally as possible, but her voice cracked and she let out a tiny sob at the memory.

“Sansa I am so sorry”  Jon said. “It’s not your fault Jon” she replied, regaining her composure. “I know but…I’m still so sorry”. He then moved even closer to her and wrapped his arms around her waist, holding her close, pressing his chest up against her back.  “They will never touch you again” He whispered in her ear. “You are safe here with me”.  

Safe…she hardly knew what that felt like anymore, but the feeling she was feeling in that moment seemed pretty close. So Sansa closed her eyes, and took a moment to enjoy the feeling of being wrapped in Jon’s warmth. “I love you Sansa” Jon murmured, and he began to press kisses along her neck. Her heart began to flutter. Gods his lips are soft, she thought as she let him kiss her pain away. With each kiss Jon gave her, she felt her skin burn under his lips, as if she was being kissed by fire. Her heart was practically melting at his touch.

Finally it all became too much for her to bear and she turned around to face him. She moved her face closer to his and nuzzled his nose with her own. She was starring into his eyes now, her forehead pressed against his, and he was starring right back at her. I could look into these eyes forever, Sansa thought, he truly has the most beautiful eyes. And for a long time both of them just stood there, looking at each other, not moving one inch. Neither one of them could tear their eyes away from the other. It was as if Sansa’s eyes were locked to Jon’s by some strange intense force. They were both breathing quite heavily now, and Sansa felt as if her heart was going to beat right out of her chest. After a long time, Jon lowered his gaze from her eyes to her lips, and spoke.

“Sansa I… am not sure we should be doing this….” he told her, a look of apprehension and doubt spreading across his face. But Sansa reached up to cup his face with her hands, and replied:

“I am”.  

Taking a deep breath Sansa leaned forward and pressed her lips to Jon’s. Whatever reservations he may have had vanished the second their lips met, as he then pulled her closer to him and kissed her back with such passion that Sansa was certain that no kiss ever sung about was quite as fervent as this one.

Their lips crashed into each other over and over again with pure desperation. They barely stopped for air; Sansa grew utterly breathless, but she didn’t care. She could’t get enough of Jon, nor him her. She let herself drown in her desire for him. With each press of his lips, her hunger for Jon grew even larger. She basked in the feeling of his lips on hers. She relished in the taste of him. He tasted of water and salt and snow. Their hands ran up and down each other’s bodies, pulling each other closer, but they couldn’t get any closer. Sansa made sure to memorize everything about these moments. The feeling of Jon’s arms twisting around her. The feeling of his hands in her hair. The feeling of their bodies pressed firmly together as one. She took in every detail of it, and for the first time in the longest time she truly felt happy and loved.

They began to move backwards towards the bed, and suddenly Sansa became struck with nerves. She began to shake all over. When they reached the bed and sat down, Sansa’s anxieties intensified. She knew what Jon wanted now -he wanted her, all of her- but the idea of it made her shake even harder. She wanted to want Jon. She did want Jon…but she was also terrified. Memories of her nights with Ramsay began to cloud her mind. Jon isn’t Ramsay she told herself Jon is Jon and I love him. But she was still shaking, and tears were beginning to well in her eyes.

Jon must have realized what was occurring, because he broke apart from her, his face full of concern, and asked:

“Sansa, what’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry…” she replied, with a half-sob “I don’t know why I’m crying”.

“You never have to apologize to me Sansa, never” and he took her in his arms and held her tightly against him. “What is it love?” he asked softly.

“It’s just.. I …” but Sansa was at a loss of words… how could she explain?  She didn’t know if she even wanted to explain… she did not want to breathe life into Ramsay in any sort of way ever again. “It’s …Oh Gods! I try so hard to forget him and live as if it never happened…but I just can’t and I hate it!” Sansa cried quietly. “I feel so dirty when I think of his hands on me…I feel so broken down and damaged inside… and I just hate myself for feeling this way…I hate it so much”

“Sansa look at me” Jon asked, lifting a hand up to caress the side of her face. “You are not dirty, or broken, or damaged” he told her in all seriousness, “you are beautiful, and brave and strong… Gods you are so strong!”

And with those words, Sansa could’t help but smile the tiniest of smiles. Jon smiled back at her and moved his lips up to kiss her forehead. Jon’s lips lingered there for a while, and then he moved them down to kiss the tears on her cheeks,

“We don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for” he said, pressing his forehead to hers.

“I”m sorry Jon, I didn’t mean to disappoint you” Sansa said quietly.

“Stop apologizing to me Sans. There is nothing to apologize for. And I could never be disappointed by you, not ever” Jon assured her, an adoring look on his face.

“Come here” he said, laying down on the bed and pulling her in his arms. She rested her head on his chest, and finally, she stopped shaking. Her anxieties began to calm down as Jon soothingly stroking her hair.  “Do you know just how much I love you?” he asked her. “I would do anything in this world for you Sansa. I need you to know that”.  

“I love you too Jon” she told him, and she did. She loved him deeply and truly with all her heart. “Do you think our pain will ever go away?” she asked softly, “do you that we might be able to wake up one day, and live as if none of it ever happened?”

“We might one day…or we might not. I don’t know Sans….“  he answered, taking a deep breath. “All I know is that we’ve lost so much and suffered pain enough for a thousand lifetimes… but if none of that had ever happened, I wouldn’t be here right now, with you. And the way I feel when I’m with you Sansa… it makes bearing the pain of it all worth it”.  

Hearing Jon speak those words brought tears back to Sansa’s eyes. She squeezed Jon tighter, pressed a kiss to his chest, and let him go on.

“…And if my future holds only more death and loss, or if the only thing the gods have planned for me now is to die fighting in the war to come” he continued, “It’ll be alright, because in my life I’ve been lucky enough to know what it means to be loved by you”

Sansa pressed another kiss to his chest.

“Don’t you dare speak of dying Jon Snow-Stark-Targaryen. You will not be leaving me. Not until we live to be one hundred years old… and maybe not even then” she whispered, wrapping her arms even tighter around him. She heard him let out a soft chuckle.

“Alright. I won’t ever be leaving you. I promise”.    

She smiled at his words, but Sansa knew in her heart that could never be possible. She knew that soon duty and honour would call and take her love away. But for now she pushed that all out of her mind and enjoyed being with Jon in this moment; just laying there with him, both of their arms wrapped around each other. And for the rest of the night she lay there with him, cloaked in the warmth of his arms. Entangled in his embrace. Listening to the beat of his heart. Feeling his lips leave light kisses on her face, her hair, her neck. Hearing him murmur soft I love you’s over and over again…

Sansa’s heart had never been more at peace.  

—

When Sansa woke up the next morning, she immediately realized something very strange: she had not had a single nightmare that night.  She raised her head to look at Jon’s face; he was still sleeping peacefully. She smiled and laid her head back down on his chest and listened to the peaceful rhythm of his breath. Something told her he did not have any nightmares that night either.

The scars they both had on their flesh will be engraved in their bodies for the rest of their lives; Sansa knew in her bones. But while they might always have scars on their skins, Sansa also knew that together, she and Jon would help each other heal the scars in their hearts.  

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