DHDKDN FIRST SENTENCE OF A FIC: "She kind of can't believe she's doing this right now." MARCHO SUPREMACY
She kind of can’t believe she’s doing this right now.
The ring— two-toned, intricate, palladium— glitters under the cabin’s LED lighting, winking slyly at her.
Once upon a time, finding real love— the lifelong kind, the ‘til death do us part’ love with the endearingly written, deeply heartfelt vows— had been sacred to her. Had actually meant something to her.
This whole thing, though? Whatever this is?
It’s not that at all.
As far as she knows, for all that she knows of him, Marcus Flint— lead editor at Pince Publishing Marcus Flint, resident nightmare of her weekday 9-to-5s Marcus Flint, her workaholic boss Marcus Flint— doesn’t fit into the elaborately planned Pinterest boards she’d compiled with Marietta and Padma that one winter break all three of them had taken the same flight home. Marcus Flint has never been the person she’d pictured walking toward in her mother’s hand-embroidered qipao, and even now, with a menu halfway decided and a venue visit scheduled and an auspicious end-of-summer date picked out, she still can’t bring herself to picture him standing at the end of the aisle.
Her parents don’t know that, though. As far as they know, she’s booked this impromptu visit to Vancouver so that they can meet Marcus Flint— her fiancé Marcus Flint— because she loves him. Because she’s ready to spend the rest of her life with him.
It’s a lot to think about.
“Your mom’s mom,” he muses slowly, rubbing at the dark hairs shadowing his jaw. He scowls at the cheat sheet of names she’d scrawled onto the airline napkin of her complementary white wine. “That’s your a-yi, right? Wait, no, fuck, don’t tell me, I remember this— that’s your popo. Yeah. Yeah?”
Cho blinks, and nods, and if her smile looks pained in any way, she’ll blame it on the turbulence. She ignores the looming headache and the thought of everything that could possibly go wrong.
All of this, playing the happily ever after card, is only necessary until they get Filch from the immigration agency off of their back.
Cho grimaces.
Happily ever after.
Right.
[ send me a first line for a fic and i’ll write the next five lines! ]
A Birthday Gift Fic for @provocative-envy! Hope you like it!!
Pansy x Cedric, Fake Dating
Big thanks to @darventravos for the beta and support!
Fuck.
Pansy was so screwed. She should have known that she couldn’t go out for even one night and enjoy herself without running into him. Never mind that she had chosen her 4th favorite nightclub, and styled her hair differently, and worn a yellow dress (her least favorite color), with the specific goal of avoiding this exact situation, because obviously the universe was against her. She could already see him coming towards her across the packed dance floor, like a panther stalking its prey. She refused to get caught up with him again, no matter that her heart skipped a beat when his gorgeous brown eyes swept up and down her body like he was looking at one of the expensive works of art in his gallery, or that she went weak in the knees when his silky smooth voice whispered in her ear. Every time she was near him she forgot about all the lies, and the cheating, and the missed dates, but not this time. She should just leave, run right out the door and into the night, but she couldn’t move. She could feel panic rising in her chest and it froze her to the spot.
Next thing she knew he was in front of her, hand wrapping around the back of her neck , pulling her in for a kiss on the cheek in greeting. While not quite a whisper in the loud club, his seductive voice still slithered into her ear with a sultry hello love, fancy seeing you here. As he pulled away, his hand slid down her arm and settled at her wrist, his thumb and middle finger easily encircling the delicate bones there, holding her in place. Through the fog in her brain, she thought she heard him ask her to join him at his table. She could feel her traitorous mouth opening to agree when a firm arm draped across her shoulders, snapping her out of her trance. She jumped at the contact before turning to look up into the playful green eyes of none other than Cedric Diggory. Cedric leaned down to murmur a gentle play along that only she could hear, before straightening up to glare good naturedly at Blaise. Could someone even glare good naturedly? Bloody Hufflepuffs.
“Blaise,” he said as he held out his hand, “nice to see you.” Tension hung in the air as Blaise’s eyes quickly darted from the arm around Pansy’s shoulders to Cedric’s extended hand and back up to Cedric’s face. Cedric’s eyes cut briefly to Blaise’s hand still wrapped around Pansy’s wrist before Blaise grudgingly let go and accepted the handshake.
“Yes, of course, good to see you too, though quite the surprise. I didn’t think that, oh what was it the prophet has been calling the nightclubs popping up along Diagon? ‘Raucous dens of iniquity’ was it? Didn’t think that would be your… scene.” Cedric laughed, squeezing Pansy’s shoulder as he looked down at her fondly.
“Well, it’s not really, but Pansy wanted to come out, so who am I to deny her.” The arm around her shoulder acted as a lifeline, giving Pansy the ability to think clearly. She was more grateful than she cared to admit that Cedric had come to her rescue. And while she would vehemently claim to anyone that asked, that she’d had the situation completely under control, a part of her knew that she had been moments away from succumbing to Blaise’s charm. Had her distress been that obvious, or was Cedric somehow able to see through her impassive, Slytherin facade? It was true that they crossed paths fairly often working in the DMLE, Cedric as an Auror and her as a paralegal, but she’d hardly say they were friends... She pushed those thoughts aside for now and focused on how to get out of this situation, hopefully with her dignity intact. She glanced to her right, looking for anything she could use as an exit strategy, only to see Potter leaning up against a wall. He tilted his head and raised his drink to her before settling a little deeper into the shadows. Of course, Potter is here, and if Cedric came with him… She’d heard rumors that Cedric was beating for the other team, but showing up at a nightclub with Potter was like waving a rainbow flag while riding by on a hippogriff. Merlin, Blaise was going to see right through this charade and then she would be…
She was jolted back to the conversation by the feel of Cedric’s lips at her ear, “Ready to get out of here?” She glanced once more at Blaise, who’s calculating gaze was on her, trying to figure out this surprising turn of events, like a Sphynx’s riddle and she’s the prize to be won, if only he could figure it out. Well she wouldn’t be the one to give anything away. She smirked wickedly and then turned, placing her hand on Cedric’s waist, and let her smile soften into something affectionate before nodding and leaning up on her tiptoes to give him a quick peck on the lips. They turned and walked off, hands clasped together tightly, so as to not lose each other in the bustling crowd, without so much as a goodbye or a glance back at a doubtlessly fuming Blaise.
Pansy took the lead, heading towards the wall where she’d last seen Potter, but he was nowhere to be found. When she was positive Blaise couldn’t see them anymore she pulled her hand out of Cedric’s grasp and smacked him in the chest.
“That was incredibly reckless of you! He could have seen right through that act of yours and then what would I have done? You may think you are fooling the Prophet, but if I can figure out you’re gay then you can bet your last knut that Blaise knows too, or at least he will as soon as he goes back to his friends and asks around. What am I going to say next time I see him?!” She raged.
Cedric chuckled at her rant and then leaned into her space, backing her up against the wall as he settled a hand next to her head. He was so close that his breath ghosted across her skin, causing goosebumps to rise on her neck and run down her arms. His eyes were fond, but serious, as he looked straight into her eyes and said, “Well, you could tell him I’m your boyfriend.” Pansy began to splutter a reply, but before she could get a word out he pressed a finger to her lips, silencing her as he continued, “And I’m not gay, I’m bi, in case that helps in your decision to go out with me.”
Pansy stilled, staring with wide eyes as he cupped her face with his hand and ran his thumb over her bottom lip. Caught off guard by his sincere interest in her, she quickly thought back to all the small, kind gestures from him over the past year that she’d written off as over the top Hufflepuff friendliness. Dismayed by her obliviousness, she realized that the pansies sitting on his desk probably should have been an indication of his intentions.
She narrowed her eyes at him and replied, “If you think you can get away without at least buying me dinner first, you have another thing coming.” His answering smile brightened the room and Pansy was slightly transfixed.
“May I kiss you?” Pansy couldn’t help but snort a laugh through her nose at his gentlemanly request before she grabbed his shirt, pulling him in for a kiss.
As they walked out of the club they waved to Harry, chatting up a man at the bar who looked suspiciously like Theo Nott from behind, but Pansy was too distracted by the warm, comforting arm around her shoulder to be concerned about finding out.
“So what made you come to my rescue anyways?” Cedric stopped, looking her up and down with appreciation in his eyes before simple stating, “Yellow is my favorite color.”
Pairing: Dudley Dursley x Luna Lovegood
Words: 1,575
You can also read this on AO3.
This is for the nonnie that requested this pairing! This is also for the @hprarepairnet Winter Challenge and their weekly prompt about New Years Eve!
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Dudley remembered her from Harry's Christmas Party the year before.
Her blonde curly hair was longer the year before, but her eyes were just as grey. They reminded him of his mother's old silver china she used only for specific occasions; mainly when his Aunt Marge would come to visit and berate Harry's entire existence. He remembered the way his mother would look down into the china as Marge yelled and the way her eyes would shine as though she saw a ghost. Dudley even wondered now if they were tears threatening to fall. Maybe she saw his Aunt Lily through that china, or maybe she only saw herself and what she was doing to an innocent child.
Dudley would never know, but he did know this: this girl's silver eyes displayed the truth; hopefully her truth was purer than his mother's past.
He at least hoped they were full of forgiveness if she knew about his old nature, if forgiveness was even what he deserved. Years had passed since Harry offered him his hand in forgiveness, but Dudley still didn't believe it. Every year when he would come around for the parties that Harry would invite him to, he wondered if it was all a prank. But as soon as he saw his cousin's relaxed smile, that's when he knew, the boy who lived had grown up, and so had he. He hoped every day that he proved that he was now a better man.
He remembered his heart racing as he caught sight of her the year before. She was laughing an airy laugh and brushed her hand gently against Neville's shoulder. Her smile was whimsical; almost if she came from a dream. He had never seen a sight so pure, he wondered if he even deserved it to unravel her mystery.
He had been standing alone at the party that night - still too awkward to interact with Harry's friends. He could still feel Hermione's distrusting glances from across the room, even if Ron would give him a reassuring smile. It was all just a reminder that maybe he still did not deserve the forgiveness he was given years before.
He was drinking a glass of ale and watching the crowd. Harry's old classmates laughed as Ron cracked a joke, and others were around the snack table sharing memories from their days at Hogwarts. Dudley was willing to admit then that he was always jealous of Harry's experience with magic, much to his father's dismay. He credited his openness of his jealousy as to why he no longer spoke to his father. He was done with his poison toxicity; he hoped his mother would someday join him.
His eyes had glanced away from her only for a moment that night, and when he turned his attention back to where she had previously stood, he was shocked to find that she was no longer there. He was startled moments later when he heard a delicate voice to his left.
"I wonder if mistletoe from the Muggle world is full of nargles as well, what do you think?"
He looked down and realized it was her. He had no idea what nargles were, and he could feel his face morphing into a puzzled look. He hoped she wouldn't take his look the wrong way. His throat was dry, so he took another sip of ale before he tried to respond, but she beat him to it.
"You're Harry's cousin, aren't you?"
Dudley looked down guiltily and nodded. He didn't say much else; that's when he felt her grasp his arm gently. He watched as her head motioned up above them. That's when he realized that's where the mistletoe hung. It was not a random question about mistletoe, it was true curiosity. Her smile was innocent as she gazed up at him, he even interpreted as expectant. It was then that the moment became too much. All he remembered next was walking away without looking back, with her eyes still imprinted in the back of his.
He had never seen her again since that night. He never even caught her name, until now.
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He wished he had kissed her. He had thought about it for over a year since then. He even avoided Harry's New Years Eve party the year before out of shame.
Why had he not just kissed the girl? But was that what she even wanted? He didn't even know her, yet.. she felt all too familiar. It was like he had met her before in a dream, or maybe, he really was just crazy.
This year, he still felt like he did not deserve Harry's forgiveness, but he felt more comfortable in Harry's crowd of friends. Most of them knew him at this point, and he even smiled when Ron cracked a joke. Rather than ale, he chose to drink champagne. He could feel his cheeks burning from intoxication; he had hit his perfect buzz.
She had arrived late; her long blonde curls were now cut to her shoulders, but her eyes were just the same. He had not forgotten them; he wasn't sure he ever could. They were the most striking eyes he had ever seen.
Dudley wasn't sure where he packed up the courage from, but he leaned into Ron as he took a swig from his stout, "Who is that girl?" he asked.
Ron followed his gaze, and he smiled, "That's Luna Lovegood. I'm surprised she didn't make herself known to you yet after all these years."
Oh, she had, Dudley thought, but he didn't say anything more. He just shrugged, "I had seen her around, we just have never really talked."
It wasn't a lie necessarily, she talked, and he didn't. He was about to ask Ron another question, but he was being swept away by Neville as a game of Muggle beer pong was about to begin. Ron motioned for him to join them, but he shook his head in response. He was too dazed by the girl with the silver eyes.
Deep in his thoughts, he didn't hear her approach him again. It was like de ja vu.
"Still wondering about those nargles?"
He felt his cheeks heat up again, but not from the alcohol, and looked down in her direction. She had a playful smile on her lips, but she did not look as though she was teasing him. She seemed rather serious with her question. She was an anomaly.
It must of been the champagne that gave him the courage to respond, so he asked, "What even is a nargle anyway?"
"Just a magical creature I am trying to prove exists. Many do not believe me."
"Why not?"
He wondered if he asked her too much, and just to double check, he looked above his head. No mistletoe this time; he felt disappointed even though the butterflies in his stomach had seemed to settle down.
He could see from the corner of his eyes that her eyes looked away dreamily as she answered him, "Because many people do not believe in things they cannot see. What about you, Dudley Dursley? Do you believe things exist that you cannot see?"
She looked back at him now, and her silver eyes were full of curiosity. She was studying him, as he was studying her. He wondered if this was a double-sided question, but Dudley knew he was probably over-thinking as he always seemed to do these days.
"I used to not," he answered her truthfully, "But after being absorbed into Harry's world, I think I do."
She tilted her head slightly to right, and her hand moved up behind his ear. He flinched away slightly from her touch, but she did not seem offended. It was then he saw that she had grabbed a sparkle away from his ear, "It must have been from Ron's party hat," she explained to him, "When you were asking him about me."
Stunned, Dudley felt his eyes widened, "How did you-?"
"I thought you said you believed in things you couldn't see? Sometimes people just know when they are being talked about."
Baffled, he wanted to have more of an explanation, but he didn't push her for it. Instead, she continued on with other random conversation. He listened to her soft voice intently, and she made him laugh throughout. Her smile made him feel at ease, and those eyes, those eyes made him start to love mysteries when before he used to despise them. Dudley wanted an answer for everything, he had gotten that trait from his father to his own detriment.
It was moments before the strike of midnight. Luna turned toward him and asked, "Do you now know my name?"
He knew she meant if he knew her, or if he wanted to know who she truly was as the clock stroke midnight into the new year. He wasn't sure how he knew that is what she meant, but it was something he could feel. It was something you couldn't see, only know. She wanted to know if he was drawn to the mystery of what they could be.
As he heard the chime of Harry's clock strike midnight and the party around them cheer, he did what he should have done under the mistletoe all those days and weeks before. He kissed her, and when he pulled away, he looked into her silver eyes and whispered, "Luna."
Thanks to @provocative-envy for being born so this could exist (and also for being so amazingly talented, generous, and dedicated. you inspire us all.)
“You’re fine,” Cho whispers to herself in the mirror. “You’re fine.”
Except her chin wobbles. Except her eyes fill the moment she blinks and she takes a deep breath, furiously willing the tears to fucking stay in my eyes and don’t you dare ruin my perfectly-applied eyeliner—
“Oh.”
She whirls, a lone tear slipping down her cheek, to find Ginny Weasley standing sheepishly behind her, grasping a section of wine-stained dress.
“Pansy Parkinson,” Ginny says by way of explanation. “Hey, any way I could get in there for a second?”
Cho nods, hastily blotting her face and moving out of the way as Ginny takes her place by the sink. The water turns on, and Cho peers around to see what Ginny’s doing to that poor dress. Involuntarily, she lets out a gasp.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she exclaims, forgetting her embarrassment.
Ginny’s brow furrows in confusion. “What do I think I’m—”
“You can’t wash satin with hand soap!” Cho pries Ginny’s hands from the stained fabric, examining it closely. “This isn’t too bad. I can get some club soda from the bar if you just wait a moment, and the stain will be all gone, promise.” Telepathically, she flashes Ginny a please listen to me and don’t wreck this plain but admittedly gorgeous dress and wipes the remainder of the tears from under her eyes. “I’ll be back in a second.”
Ginny looks rather punch-drunk. “Oh. Okay. Thanks.”
Cho nods, meaning to say of course, or no problem, or something else routine, standard, just girls-helping-girls rhetoric, but it gets stuck in her throat. Her gaze lingers on Ginny’s arms, which are almost completely covered in reddish-brown freckles and some sort of gold body glitter, wiry and muscular and flex deliciously every time she moves. Pro softball player, indeed.
“Checking me out, Chang?” Ginny’s lips curve into a smile.
Cho hurries to the bar, grabs the club soda with a thank you and nearly throws it at Ginny when she walks—measuredly, calmly—back into the bathroom.
“Sorry,” Ginny says, abashed. “I’m dumb and I’m a little drunk and I joke too much and—” She gives Cho a furtive look that screams you have a dead boyfriend.
“I have a dead boyfriend,” Cho says. She doesn’t cry this time.
“Shit.” Ginny scrubs at her dress and Cho winces.
“Let me.” The wine comes out relatively easily, considering the near-abuse it’s suffered through Ginny’s softball-strong grip.
“You’re a miracle worker. Holy shit,” Ginny says, smoothing her dress over her thighs. “I feel like I owe you.”
“Please, I’m a designer. It’s what I do.” Cho smiles. “And I feel like I should thank you, too.”
Ginny cocks a brow. “Explain. I have not done one helpful thing this entire night, and it’s literally my brother’s wedding.”
Cho twists the empty club soda bottle in her hands. “I know you didn’t mention it—me crying—to be nice, and I appreciate that. It’s just… seeing everyone so happy. It’s been so long since he died; I thought I’d have no problem. I just. I needed something to distract me from the—wedding-ness of it all. So. Thanks for giving me a mission.” She shoots Ginny a tremulous smile.
Outside the bathroom, the DJ strikes up some fast pop song from the early 2000s that Cho only vaguely recognizes. Ginny gasps.
“I love this song!” She grabs Cho’s hands, and Cho only then realizes that Ginny might be more than a little drunk. Ginny’s nails are short, practical, messily painted a glowing shade of neon green that decidedly does not match her dress.
“But—” Cho tries, then gives up. It’s useless arguing with a Weasley (she knows this from first-hand experience—Ron Weasley does not compromise on perceived soccer fouls).
The moment Ginny drags her from the bathroom into the loud, overcrowded banquet hall, she almost loses her nerve. She’s never been much of a party person, and neither had Cedric—they’d preferred, rather than dancing and drinking, to watch a quiet movie and eat takeout while curled on their squashy navy-blue couch. The flash of memory nearly incapacitates her for a moment, until Ginny throws a strong arm around her shoulders and she shivers at the contact, the warm solid touch that she hasn’t felt in—
“It’s strange!” Ginny shouts over the music.
“What is?”
“We’ve both dated Harry Potter!”
“Oh!” Cho snorts. “He was a horrible kisser, wasn’t he?”
Ginny shrieks with laughter, white teeth flashing, and twirls Cho until they’re both dizzy and giggling, clutching each other to keep upright.
They dance for twenty-three more minutes. Ginny drinks two more glasses of wine, then professes that a terrible mistake and goes to sit down at one of the vacated banquet tables, plates and cake crumbs still scattered on top.
“You all right?” Cho asks, dropping into the seat next to her. Both of their shoes lie discarded under the table; they’ve got the marks to explain.
Ginny rubs her eyes, smearing her mascara, and doesn’t even seem to care. “Whoever invented alcohol,” she says, choosing her words carefully, “was a bastard.”
“And we thank them for it,” says Cho.
“Fuck.” Ginny stands unsteadily. “I feel like a suburban housewife. Let’s go outside.”
Something you must understand about rather drunk girls is that they form bonds very quickly, much like a duckling imprinting on its mother. However, in these scenarios, both girls are simultaneously the ducklings and the mothers. This can lead to drama, lifelong friendships, or friendships that seem as though they’re going to last a lifetime but only last until one of them’s en route to the hospital with alcohol poisoning.
In this case, Cho merely wants to sit outside and feel the cool night air on her face and maybe, if she’s lucky, touch Ginny’s long, thick hair and see if it smells like strawberry shampoo.
They stumble to a bench across from the entrance. Even though it’s midsummer, there’s a slight breeze that makes the night just a little too sharp.
“Fuck me,” Ginny mumbles, and closes her eyes for a long moment. When she opens them, Cho is sitting with her legs tucked under her dress, hair spilling from its careful updo. She’s watching Ginny, of course—who wouldn’t be? The moonlight touches her face just right, framing it in silver and making her eyes look dark, fathomless. She looks almost like a sculpture, albeit a quite freckly one.
“You’re beautiful,” Cho blurts, then drags her hand over the wooden slats to her left, feeling the smooth artificial wood and focusing on that, focusing on that.
Ginny says nothing, then—
“How long has it been?”
Cho’s stomach does a sort of uncomfortable twist. “Since what,” she asks, already knowing the answer.
“Since you’ve kissed anyone. Fucked anyone. Been with anyone.” Ginny’s tone is casual. Loaded. Asking.
The anger and the tears surge in tandem.
“That’s—private!” Cho hisses, thankful that the moon doesn’t cast enough light to let Ginny see her eyes filling. “I don’t even know you that well and you think you can ask me about my personal life? I confided in you and that was the information I chose to share.” She takes a deep, shuddery breath and decides to continue before she loses her nerve. “I miss him every day, okay? He’s in my fucking house, all over the couch and in the pictures and in my goddamn bed and in the music I listen to and just all of it. I can’t bring anyone there because it feels—it feels—”
“My brother died, remember? I feel it when I’m playing softball. His voice in the stands.” Little lines by the corner of her mouth deepen. They’re both too drunk and too exhausted to be having this conversation. “I get it.”
Instead of words, Cho moves closer. She sniffs, giving a watery chuckle. “Sorry. I’m an asshole.”
Ginny stares at a potted plant that’s been tipped over by the door. “Someone should go clean that up.” She smiles at Cho; not one of those breezy, unflappable grins, but a real smile. A tiny one just for her.
“I want to go home with you,” Cho confesses, the air leaving her lungs in a rush, all at once. She feels surprisingly… okay with saying it. And if there’s the slightest little twinge of pain, of memory? She takes a deep breath.
Ginny nods, surprisingly solemn. It’s like she knows just how big of a step this is, and actually cares. “Okay.”
“I’m scared,” whispers Cho, and leans into Ginny’s shoulder. “I’m ready, but… I’m scared.”
“Come on,” Ginny says into her ear, warm and slightly wine-scented breath touching her neck. She pulls back and gives Cho another one of those stunning, white-teeth-and-bright-eyed grins. “If all we do is sleep, that’s okay. And I won’t break your heart. You can trust me.”
Cho nods, and Ginny takes her hand, twining their fingers together. As they ride back to Ginny’s apartment, as Ginny’s kissing her way up Cho’s thighs, as they’re laying together in a pool of warm sunlight the next morning, all tangled up and blissfully comfortable, Cho hears those words echoing in her head.
Voting closes TOMORROW at 11:59 p.m. for the drabble pairs for Spring Fling, a joint fanfiction project of @grangerdangerfics , @pacific-rimbaud , @provocative-envy and @scullymurphy with art by @the-static-hum.
You won’t know to whomst each bracket belongs until the fics post, but there are some great pairs over there.
Ginny/Sirius is so very wrong, and yet! And yet.
Ron/Cedric is a yes from me.
Cormac/Cho? Cormac/Marcus? Cormac/Everyone?
Padma with Daphne or Lavender or...?
Percy x Narcissa, what goes on.
Michael Corner x Susan Bones. Wholesome. Wholesome? Hmm.
written for @provocative-envy. i read silt when i had never even watched an episode. months later, i am now theonsa trash.
notes: title from an excerpt from a victor hugo poem which roughly translates to "my heart has far more fire than you can frost to chill; my soul more love than you can make my soul forget." yes i am crying
The wolf sits on the side of his neck, its snout raised in a silent howl. Its body curls around his jawbone, its nose just brushing the tip of his ear. When he was younger, he thought it was for Robb.
Some people's marks are easy to hide, on a lower pectoral or thigh or tricep. Not Theon's, no, not his, he's been wearing his heart on his neck since he was four years old. He knows it's the reason he's still alive, knows that Ned Stark saw it, understood, and kept him instead of his brothers.
Robb, though. Theon loved him first.
---
The concept is achingly simple and horribly complicated. Humankind has been trying to figure it out for centuries. Every person is born with a mark, somewhere on them. It signifies who you're destined for.
That's the simple part. The complicated part: figuring out who exactly it is that your mark is for. Theon was luckier than most — or perhaps unluckier, given the circumstances. The wolf, what it signified, was always obvious: Stark. His father distrusted him for it, maybe even hated him for it when Ned Stark killed two Greyjoy sons and Theon was left standing.
Figuring out the wolf meant Stark was easy. Which one, though — that was the hard part.
---
The thing is, falling in love with Robb was as easy as breathing. Why look at any other Starks when there was Robb, beautiful, brave, first son, as honorable as his father and as clever as his mother? It was Robb, and it would always be Robb for Theon. Theon had loved him for as long as he could remember, quiet, worshipful. Robb inspired that kind of devotion in people.
Theon thought he knew. He knew nothing.
---
When they storm Winterfell, Theon does so thinking that it is the end.
When he mounts two heads on pikes, Theon does so knowing that it is the end.
Everything that comes after, well. Nobody can say he didn't deserve it, right?
---
What people don't understand is some horrible part of Theon wanted to become Reek. Wanted to not think, to not speak, to not have to choose, because every decision he had made up to that point had always ended up hurting someone. To forget himself was a gift. Robb was dead and Theon was never going to be able to apologize, Theon was never going to be able to say, Robb, look, Theon was never going to be able to say anything at all because Robb was dead and had died hating Theon. What was the point?
Loved by nobody, not by his men, not by his father, not even by the one who was fated to love him. Theon Turncloak, who looked his soulmate in the eye and betrayed him. Prince of Fools, who could take a castle but not hold it. Theon Kinslayer, who murdered his should-be brothers.
The turn of events — they're not ideal, certainly. But it's nothing more than karma paying him back tenfold. And Theon is...surviving.
And then Sansa comes.
---
Theon thinks he remembers Sansa. Pretty, foolish Sansa who followed Joffrey Baratheon around like a lost puppy and never spared Theon a second look. The Sansa he had known had not yet watched her father die, had not thought all her family dead, had not been married to Lord Ramsay Bolton. This Sansa...He looks at her and all he can think is steel.
Watching Sansa and Ramsay, it's like his heart starts beating again. For the first time in a long time, Theon wants to think again. To speak. He wants the ability to make a choice, a change, something that is anything but this.
Because this Sansa, he doesn't know her. But her eyes meet his as she lies beneath Bolton, and Theon—
Theon's neck tingles.
---
For weeks, Theon shadows Sansa around the castle, watching her. He won't talk to her, no, he's far too afraid for that. But something's shifting inside him, deep, slow, more flowing magma than violent eruption. He watches her, and he wants. Wants what, he's not sure yet.
He watches, and waits to figure it out.
---
This Sansa, the one he does not know, clutches his hand like a lifeline when they jump the rampart.
He lets himself clutch back.
---
There's a wolf on Theon's neck that curls around his neck and his jawbone. Scars mar its face and body, but it is still distinctly, indubitably a wolf. When he was younger, he thought it was for Robb.
