Omg😍

@cellsshapedlikestars basically all of your fics are my favourites❤❤ But I especially love the bachelor AUs, signs (it's sooo lovely) and loves's not a competition!

Reblog if you're a fanfic writer and you wanna know what your followers' favorite story of yours is ❤

Lady Sansa Stark finding solace in the Godswood in Kings Landing.

AHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHA

Missing

Little Women AU preview from the WIP folder

There were two black leather trunks that sat at the foot of the bed she shared with Arya. Jon had brought them to Winterfell before he left for his training camp, and Sansa liked to keep them close.

They were old, and a little shabby, with the name ‘J. Snow’ stamped on the sides in peeling gold letters. Together they contained the entirety of his life — everything he owned, neatly packed away in moth balls for when he returned.

Sansa wore the keys on a chain around her neck, but had never looked inside them before, not wanting to invade his privacy. But now she just wanted to feel close to him. She sighed and lovingly stroked her fingers over his name before she turned a key in the lock, and lifted a cumbersome lid.

The first held all of his clothes and personal effects. As she took an inventory of its contents, Sansa caressed his wool jackets, and linen shirts, and pressed his neatly folded neck cloths to her cheek. She examined his razor, shaving brush, nail brush, hair brush, wooden comb, and a small pair of silver scissors — then opened the little pots of pomade, and shaving soap, and breathed in their familiar scents of pine and juniper.

At the very bottom was a leather case holding an old ambrotype of a frowning little boy with sticky out ears seated on the lap of a beautiful dark haired lady. She smiled to imagine that handsome Lieutenant Snow was ever so young, though the boy certainly looked grave enough to be her Jon. When she packed everything back neatly into the trunk, she kept the image of Lyanna and Jon out, and stood it on the bureau beside her bed.

Sansa laughed when she opened the second trunk and saw it was full of books! No wonder it was so blasted heavy when she’d tried to move it. How like Jon to travel with so many. She examined the titles on the spines and smiled when she noticed his well worn copy of ‘Aemon the Dragon Knight’ sitting near the very top. It was the same copy he’d asked her to read from, at Gendry’s picnic. She remembered gazing into Jon’s remarkable grey-violet eyes, and how tender and encouraging they had been. She reached for the book and was astounded to find a dainty, white, lace glove tucked between its pages. Her glove.

He’d had it, all this time? She clutched it and the book to her heart, and wept.

Missing isn’t dead. Sansa repeated Arya’s words to herself like a prayer, an incantation, that might summon Jon to her side.

Missing isn’t dead. He will be found, and come home to me.

John Everett Millais, Yes or No? (1871)

sneak peek of wc pls pls 🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻

—sneak peek of chapter 2 of workplace casual (aka the greys au) coming Thursday/fridayish

Sansa knows where his office is, but not in a creepy way. 

She’s scarcely been to the neuro ward since her trauma rotation has started, but she’s been here enough for scut work that she knows where it is. She didn’t make a note of it, or anything. Sure, the ward is big, but the door with his name on it really isn’t that hard to miss.

She knocks tentatively. The answer from the other side of the door comes faster than she expects it to. She almost jumps out of her skin.

“Come in.”

Her hand lingers on the doorknob for a couple seconds, then she twists it open. 

He’s sitting behind his desk, staring blankly at one of his screen monitors. He’s wearing glasses too, wire frames she’s never seen before in her life, as rubs at his jaw. His gaze moves over her once, passively, before he looks at her again. This time, he straightens up suddenly, as if his brain has finally registered that she is here.

“Hi,” Jon clears his throat.

Sansa is still staring at his glasses, then she isn’t, because suddenly she finds it incredibly difficult to do so without…reacting. Internally, thank god. 

Wait. Nope. Her face feels hot. That’s great. That’s actually more than great, and exactly what she needed—

“Hi,” she says, a little too loud and a little too quick. “I was just—”

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” She says, maybe emphasizing the word a little harder than necessary. “I’m fine. I was just—I was in the break room putting my stuff away and I found it.”

Sansa holds the yogurt parfait in front of her like it’s a bomb.

Jon stares at the yogurt, then her, unfazed. 

“Right,” He says.

He doesn’t say anything else.

Sansa exhales so hard, so bracingly through her nose that she can hear it whistle. 

“It has my name on it—”

“It does,” He agrees, “Because it’s yours.”

So,etching in her stomach does an ugly lurching motion that makes her toes wiggle.

“I told you that you didn’t have to do this stuff anymore,” she says, words crammed into an inhale, “Not that I don’t appreciate it, but I already forgave you, and it really is—”

“And I told you, we’re friends,” He’s picking up a file, dismissing her entirely. Those stupid glasses are slipping down his equally stupid nose. “And friends make sure friends eat their breakfast—

“Can you stop interrupting me?” snaps Sansa, hands on her hips. “I’m not gonna faint again.”

“You won’t if you eat that,” Jon says, stubborn. 

She briefly thinks about explaining how yesterday happened underneath extenuating circumstances, but this situation is already embarrassing enough.

Jon sighs, as if he’s the one being inconvenienced by this conversation. He closes his folder, eyes meeting hers. 

“It was barely four dollars. I was getting something for lunch this morning, and I saw it and I thought of you.”

Oh.

The word gets stuck inside of her throat, and she rubs her palms against her pants, trying to ignore the sound of her pulse in her ears.

He averts his eyes quickly, clearing his throat. “And your awful eating habits.”

That’s…decidedly less heartwarming, 

“Oh.” She says, this time aloud, and a little flat. 

Another knock sounds at the door, and without thinking, Sansa takes a step back from the desk, even though she really isn’t that close anyway. 

Jon notices this, gaze unreadable. A muscle in his jaw twitches, and he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Come in.”

The door clicks open. Benjen of all people appears in the doorway, and Sansa has to actively mind her eyes so that they don’t bug out of her head. She discreetly tucks the yogurt behind her back.

“Sansa,” His brows raise at the sight of her, "Hello.”

“Hi,” she says back, and by some miracle, it isn’t the same octave as a squeak emitted from a chew toy. 

She doesn’t dare look at Jon behind her. 

“Will that be all, Stark?” She hears him say.

His voice is quiet and toneless, and she hears the clicking of his computer mouse, and she knows that he’s trying his best to make it seem like he’s busy. Like they were busy and not…doing whatever it is that they were doing.

Being friends, apparently.

“Yes sir,” She says quickly, “Thanks again.”

On her way out the door, Benjen gives her a look; subtle, appraising, and thankful, because little does Jon know, that’s exactly what’s been asked of her. Sansa didn’t even remember until this very moment. 

Friends. 

She gives him a pained, close lipped smile of her own, shutting the door. 

And then she all but runs down the corridor, putting as much distance between the three of them as possible.

A 19th c. New York City Jon/Sansa drabble

angst, longing, complicated relationships

The announcement is made--Miss Sansa Stark's engagement to Willas Tyrell--at the party thrown precisely for the purpose of a grand announcement. Raise up the family in this trying time, brush all the unpleasantness under the imported rugs with music and food and the press of a crowd gathered to witness it.

Dany did say it would be an engagement. Swore to it twice as they rode down Fifth Avenue, carriage rocking. She sounded rather too pleased about the prospect when she usually has very little in the way of kindness for his cousin. Jon refused to believe it. Too old for her, Jon insisted, and he still thinks so, as he attempts to grit out a smile and his wife lifts her champagne.

"Raise your glass, Jon," she says, lips barely moving.

He does, but only to bring the crystal rim to his waiting lips. He won't toast the happy couple, nor will he do Dany's bidding. Not tonight. He's in no mood to be agreeable.

Dany does say he's taciturn and overly sensitive, so he might as well play the part the way her opera friends do nightly on a stage lit too bright.

"She's your cousin. Pretend to be pleased."

"I'm happy for her of course."

His hand flexes at his side.

Dany looks sidelong at him, pale brow arched. "Oh yes, very. Listen, try not to murder the man in front of this lot. They'll sue and I'm not sure your confidence would stand up to the task of self-representation."

Her dress is red. Blood red. Her favorite color. She never fades into the background. Not even among these people who whisper behind fans about her. Nor should she, and yet, her bold temperament is perhaps not as well suited to his as he once believed.

She'll insist he dances with her tonight, though he would prefer to hide in the palm room, nursing this damnable ache that's spreading through his chest. Just long enough so that he can pull himself together to congratulate Catelyn on the match. Or Bran if he isn't feeling up to facing the matriarch of the family.

"It's a shame she couldn't get what she wanted. I suppose that's a new sensation for her." Her head tilts, as the musicians begin to play. She brings the coupe to her mouth, covering it as she amends, "Who she wanted. But the Tyrells are climbing like roses, aren't they? She'll add a lovely old-world aura to all that vulgar American newness."

Sansa Stark is America, she's as American as they come, first family and all, but he understands the import. There is the New York of old and what's coming to sweep that all away in a cloud of coal dust.

"That mansion is a monstrosity."

Willas looks down at his bride to be as if she's made of moonlight, twinkling in the Stark ballroom that is half the size of the Tyrell one.

White. Virginal. Untouched.

Just last week Jon spread his fingers until they spanned her jaw and tipped her head back, so her perfectly pink lips parted like an opening bud before she fled from the glass gardens, trailing the smell of hot house gardenias.

Not unsurprising behavior from a bastard relation, even one who pretended to be decent.

His heart throbs.

If only it was just sin tucked in his breast. The right preacher could drive it out.

"I didn't know you had architectural opinions."

Yes, moonlight. Sansa Stark is a moonbeam captured in Willas Tyrell's open palm, as he tows her towards the dance floor where she and Jon have never publicly stepped out together.

He frowns down into his glass and grimaces against the burn of the bubbles as he swallows. "I don't."

"Perhaps they'll let her decorate it in her own style. There's endless money there." Her voice lilts, teasing, prodding at the wound. The right family was important once, now the right amount of money is the only thing that matters. "Or is it the family you object to? Such a snob for one born on the wrong side of the blanket, aren't you?"

"If Old Ned was alive--"

"Yes, he was very fond of you, I'm sure, but Catelyn Stark would have never, Jon. Never allowed it. You could be as rich as Croesus and she'd look down her nose at you. You know that. She's as provincial as they come. You too for some unknown reason."

She's only hissed out the assertion when Sansa's eyes meet his through a gap in the crowd. He might only imagine the fleeting swoop of unhappiness pulling at her features, the same thing he imagined on her pretty face when he returned from Vienna with Dany wrapped around his arm in a silk dress cut too low for Fifth Avenue society.

It seemed a fortuitous event when he met the beautiful widow with old family ties to New York, though Dany had never seen the city herself. There was a hint of scandal about her. But there was about him too, thanks to the circumstance of his birth and his newly acquired habit of staring rather too long at a girl meant for a grander gentleman than himself. What he wanted was outrageous in its presumption, and then the perfect solution to all his pitiful longing presented herself with almost silver hair and eyes like the lilacs that dripped before his mother's dressing window in the spring.

They were happy. But he missed New York. So they boarded a ship.

They ought not to have come here.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he mutters, chest rising and falling inside his starched shirt, as he stares across the ballroom.

"Catelyn Stark despising you or you spending too much time with your dear little cousin? I can expand on both."

"No need," he says, as the gap closes and Sansa's watery gaze is blocked out by tuxedoed shoulders. "But you could lower your voice."

"You ought to be glad people like the Tyrells are rising in this world," she says without paying him any mind. "Catelyn Stark will never allow you to sit at the head of her table, but the new standard won't care about your birth or my two dead husbands."

Only one is dead, but Jon wouldn't think to correct her.

"The new way will only care about what's between your ears and in your pocketbook. I know there's some intelligence in there," she says as her finger trails the shawl collar of his jacket. "If you would only use it."

"I'm sorry my profession isn't impressive enough for you and your aspirations."

She'd like to conquer New York, his wife, though she has the wrong personal history and the wrong husband for it. She imagined she would shine here the way she did in Europe thanks to her beauty and boisterousness and willingness to make a bold bet.

She boldly bet on him too. Her worst gamble.

"Even in the law you could prosper more than you do," she insists still too loudly. It's a well-worn argument between them now. "If you'd make the right connections."

Not the kind of connections Ned Stark would approve. The people she wishes him to befriend hold no appeal.

"I'll do my best," he says, mostly to prevent any further upheaval.

Her cheeks already are starting to heat and Jaime Lannister has turned his eye on them, lip curling in amusement. It's the effect of too much champagne, too much dancing around the truth. And while he wouldn't mind calling for the carriage, making a scene at Sansa's engagement party is not at the top of his to-do list.

What he'd like is to go to her, and profess things he ought not to. He wishes he could sink down on his knees to beg forgiveness. Either for loving her when she is so above his notice or not confessing it before she was lost to him, bobbing away like foam on the sea. He'd beg with his fingers grasping the embroidered hem of her ballgown, wrap his hands around her delicate ankles, kiss up the side of her stockinged calf, and then peel the silk down until his heathen hands touched flesh. He wants her hands buried in his curls.

She would never.

He's mad. Like his grandfather, the one they committed to Bellevue.

Before his misstep last week, he'd never even touched her bare hand since she entered society.

"And there might be hope for us yet, you and me. With pretty little Sansa wed and times changing," she says, lifting her glass, "you might even say our marriage is saved."

Jon wakes to a pounding at his door. The cabin is dark, the only light from the banked fire. Jon was warm beneath his covers, but when he sits up, chilled air slips beneath, making him shiver. The pounding comes again, and Jon swings his legs out of bed, his stockinged feet meeting the cold hardwood. He barely feels it, all his attention on the door, and who could possibly be seeking him out in the dead of the night. Or what, his mind whispers, but he shakes that out. Jon is not a superstitious man,

for the @jonsa-halloween event day 1: witch

read it here on ao3

uh oh.

List five things that make you happy, then put this in the ask box of the last ten people who reblogged something from you. Spread the positivity ✨💛🌻

1. Spring! I always am so suprised at how easy everything feels once the days become longer.

2. Cats. All the cats

3. Swimming in the ocean

4. Doing crosswords with my grandmother

5. My sisters