#theonbaejoys

[cindy-clawford]

                          I swear she saved my life

[timothechallamet]

[rafecameron]

[starkjoy]

show!theonsa & honestly just write something where they angrily make out i'm trash

Sansa slams the door shut behind them, rattled wood echoing throughout the chamber. Her shoes clack against chilly stone as she marches toward her bed. She peels off her gloves, exasperated, and hastily tosses them onto the nightstand.

“Sansa,” Theon calls to her gently. “It’s alright.” 

She spins around, fiery hair falling over her cloaked shoulders. “It’s not alright,” she spits, “After all you’ve done for us—” 

Theon tightens his jaw. He swallows. “I’ve done things wrong, too.” 

“And they haven’t?” she retorts. Her voice is sharp—pithy, almost—and it reminds him of the first time they’d stood in these chambers together, when he’d offered his arm and she’d refused his touch. Except this time her hostility isn’t directed at him; rather, her anger belongs to those who’d insulted him in the Great Hall moments ago.

“Half of those men refused the call against Ramsay,” she continues. The name still bristles against his skin like frigid wind, and it does for her too, he thinks, but the moment passes. “They abandoned us when we were in need. Hundreds of men died, and more would have if the Vale hadn’t come to my aid. We didn’t punish them. We forgave them when they returned to us, allowed them to redeem themselves. But they dare speak out against you for what’s already been forgiven.” 

 “Not everyone thinks I deserve forgiveness,” he responds. “I accept that.” 

Sansa walks over to him, vexed brows knit above flickering eyes. “They don’t get to decide whether or not you deserve forgiveness,” she says firmly. He remembers when she’d grabbed him in this very spot, soft palms cupping his cheeks and fingertips pushing into his long curls. Your name is Theon Greyjoy, she’d said as if it were an order. “Jon forgave you. Bran forgave you. Arya even forgave you.” She pauses for a breath, gaze softening. “I forgave you the moment we landed in the snow outside Winterfell. That’s all that matters.” 

His lips twitch downward and he glances away. It’s too much when she looks at him like that, as if his skin is glass and she can see right into him. He’s afraid she’ll notice the worst parts. Come to her senses. Remember why those men felt justified in contesting her decision to let Theon and his men stay in Winterfell. Or worse, the warmth that’s been planted deep in his chest since he’d held her in the woods a year ago would come to light, and she’d be disgusted. He wants too much, and knowing he’ll never have it—and shouldn’t—threatens tears from his eyes. It’s foolish and weak, and he won’t be weak for her. Not like when they were both ghosts in this castle, when he’d been someone else. 

“Sansa,” he whispers as he meets her eyes. She’s a bit taller than him and he needs to tilt his head up slightly to match her gaze. There’d been a time when something like that would have made him feel emasculated, but now it barely means anything. She’s tall like her father and mother. Strong like them, too. 

He breathes. “Maybe I should go back.”

Theon immediately realizes it had been the wrong thing to say because Sansa’s jaw tightens, nose flaring. 

“How could you even say that,” she says pointedly. She glares at him, then looks away with a frown. Her eyes are glossy in the dying light. 

A coil in his chest snaps at the sight and he hates himself for it. He never knew when to say or do the right thing until it was too late. “Sansa,” he murmurs, reaching out.

She doesn’t meet his eyes and steps back, avoiding his touch. “Is that what you want?” she asks, question harsh on her tongue.

“No,” he answers without hesitation, voice louder. “That’s not what I want at all.”

“Then what do you want, Theon?” Sansa snaps, gaze returned to his own. “Because I just stood in front of everyone in Winterfell and defended you, even though some may think less of me for it. If you don’t want to be here, then tell me.” 

“I want to be here,” he says with a step closer. “I know you need help to rebuild, and Pyke will honor that.” Too many had been lost in the battle for the North against the dead, so much had been destroyed. He’d led the Iron Fleet to fight and without his help Winterfell wouldn’t be standing. “I owe you that, I owe your parents that…I owe Robb that.” 

Sansa goes quiet, but her frown never fades. “Well I’m sure your men will suffice then,” she says carefully. 

Theon parts his mouth, brows knit tight. “Sansa…”

She begins to turn away but he nears closer. “I saw those men in there,” he begins, voice firm. “Some are still wary of me. I won’t put you in that position—” 

“Not all of them,” Sansa cuts in angrily, but there’s a weakness to her voice. Her eyes lock to his, still glassy. 

He feels himself begin to lose control, heart racing, eyes stinging. “Sansa—”

“If you want to leave, leave,” she interrupts, words cold and sharp like daggers made of ice. “I still would have done it—I would have stood before them and defended you even if you never wanted to stay.” Her voice quivers now, anger and hurt mixed with something else entirely. “But I won’t stop you if you feel it’s best you return to Yara. I won’t make you choose between me and your sister. I understand—”

“No, you don’t!” Theon blurts. Sansa stiffens, eyes wide at his outburst. 

“You don’t understand,” he continues. “Yara’s my sister. I’ll always serve her, protect her. But I don’t want to leave you, not ever.” He’s rambling now, he knows it, but he’s no longer in control of the words slipping from his trembling lips. “I’d make you mine if I could.” 

Sansa’s stunned, soft lips parted and blue eyes dancing with surprise. 

He regrets the words as soon as they hit air. He wants to run. Hide. Sail far away where he’d never have to see her inevitable look of disgust that would appear any moment now. He’d just ruined everything. 

“Forgive me, Sansa, I didn’t—”

She stands still, jaw set firm. “No man can make me his. Not anymore.” Her voice is quiet. “Only I can make that choice.” 

“I know,” he whispers, eyes never leaving hers. “I know.” 

Then she steps forward, closing their gap, and kisses him. 

He’s shocked, frozen. As his mind registers that it’s Sansa’s soft lips against his own, the warmth in his chest erupts, thawing him into motion. Theon lifts his hands and gently places one on her lower back, the other along her jaw. Parting his lips, he leans in with light pressure, responding to the kiss.

Sansa’s far from the naive, dreamy girl he remembers from his youth. She’s stoic, strong, bold. She had been the one to initiate the kiss, but there’s almost an innocence to the way she shakily moves her lips in tandem with his, as if she’s unsure, nervous. It occurs to Theon that she may have never kissed a man like this—at least not of her own doing. She’s so much his equal he forgets he’s several years her senior, and back when she was just a child he’d been spending most of his time with women, kissing them, fucking them. It’s been so long since he’s done anything, but Theon remembers the motions as if he’d never stopped. 

He had used sex for the wrong reasons then. Every woman who’d agreed to sleep with him only obliged in exchange for coin, reputation, or safety. Some had seemed to genuinely enjoy it, he remembers, but they’d never really cared for him, only his title. How could they, when he behaved as he did. 

Sansa knows him better than anyone in the world ever could, she understands him in a way he wishes she didn’t have to—but she wanted to kiss him still. He’s never experienced a kiss like this, one beyond his body, like the simple instance of their lips meeting set his heart into balance. He’s never felt this way about anyone but her, not ever. In a way they were both new to this, both beginners. 

Theon angles his head and slides his hand to rest on Sansa’s neck, pulling her in further and deepening the kiss. She gasps, softly, and then she’s winding her arms around his neck.

They part for breath, eyes flickering between one another, and when they lean back in it’s hungrier, bodies touching without an inch between them, her fingertips sifting into the edge of his curls and his hand grasping the back of her cloak. They’re quickly losing control of their pace, and when Sansa parts her lips wide, soft and wet sliding against his own, their tongues brush. She keens at the touch, a broken moan escaping her pretty mouth, and although Theon can’t feel arousal like he used to it set his nerves on fire. He can’t believe he’s the one making her feel this way, that he’s the one drawing those sounds from her lips. She’s clawing at his hair, his neck, pulling him close as if she never wants to let go. He hopes she doesn’t.

When they break for air again, Theon skids his mouth over her jaw, down her neck. She gasps and presses kisses to the side of his head, lips in his hair. His mouth doesn’t have much purchase on her neck, her furred cloak coming between them—she catches on and raises an arm to push it off one shoulder, shrugging the other side until it slips to the floor. Theon pulls her closer, moving his lips further down her neck, hand curling in the back of her dress. She tilts her head, breath heavy. 

Theon can’t travel much further given the height of her dress, tight around her shoulders and neck to protect from the cold. He doesn’t mind, so he returns to her jaw, settling where skin meets ear. She whimpers, hand curling into his shirt. “Theon,” she breathes. 

He pulls back, panting, chest pounding. He searches her eyes—he needs to know if it’s too much, if she wants to stop. He won’t—not after—he would never. 

“Is this alright with you?” he murmurs.

Her face is soft, eyes hooded and lips swollen. She lifts her hand to caress his cheek. “More than that,” she whispers. Something skips in his chest, warmth and relief surging through his veins.

Then she’s pulling away, eyes never leaving his. She reaches behind herself, fingers working on the back of her dress. It takes Theon several seconds to realize she’s untying herself. Eyes wide, he reaches out, a soft hand on her forearm.

“Sansa, you don’t have to—”

“I want to. With you.” Her voice is soft but unwavering, sure. Her expression falters a moment later, and she pauses. “Do you—do you not want to?”

Theon steps closer, dropping his hand to her waist. “It’s not that. I just…” he flicks his gaze away. “There are things I can’t give you.” 

“What do you mean?” she asks softly. He looks at her—her eyes are sad, as if he’d rejected her after all. He’s never been sure if she’s known; he’s never told her, not outright, but the rumors and jokes have certainly made their rounds.

He shakes his head, brings his thumb to stroke her jaw. “Sansa, I…” he breathes, then swallows. “You deserve more than me,” he finishes instead.

“I’ll be the one to judge what I deserve.”

He exhales an unsteady breath, eyes never leaving hers. “There are other men who’d—they could give you alliances, armies—”

“—you’ve already given me that—”

“—children.”

Sansa stops, confused, brows knit over questioning eyes. “He took that from me, too,” Theon whispers. “I can’t…be with a woman like other men can.” 

Her mouth parts. She understands now, he can see it on her face. She swallows, a sadness skating over her features. She’s staring at him, eyes flickering and wet. Then, barely a whisper, “I don’t want other men.” 

Theon blinks.

“I deserve to be with someone I love,” she breathes. “After all this, that’s all I can ask for.” She says it as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, but her lips still tremble.

His are too, he realizes, and there’s wetness in his eyes. She’s waiting for him to say something, to do something, brows raised and blue eyes wide. He surges forward, capturing her lips, emotion spilling from his body as he weaves his hands into her long hair.

She clings to him as they kiss each other with haste, then she’s spinning around, reaching back to pull his hands to her dress. He understands, fingers fumbling to draw the laces. Together they unlace the garment and she pulls her arms from the sleeves, allowing it to tumble and fold onto the floor. She steps out and turns to him, wearing only her chemise and small clothes, the milky white skin of her chest exposed. He mouths down her neck properly this time, sucking where it meets her shoulder. She moans, arms circling his neck.

He returns to her lips once more, then leans down to pepper kisses over her chest and clothed breasts. She gasps, fingers scrambling to his head and curling into his hair. He tilts his head up, meeting her eyes, then pulls back to gently lift her chemise until they’re both pulling it over her head. She drops it to the floor, red hair spilling over her bare shoulders. Theon looks at her—nude save for the smallclothes covering her mound—and can’t believe this is happening to him. He lifts one hand and traces his fingertips slowly over her naked skin, stopping to caress her soft breast.

Then she’s undressing him, pulling layer after layer over his head. They tumble back to the bed and fall into each other, tongues meeting with each parting of their lips.

We’re not ghosts here, we never were, he thinks as they move beneath the warm furs, skin on skin. We’re alive.

[thelegendofclarke]

Do you think D&D notice how gay they made jondry seem when they had Gendry not mention Arya?

I mean, I would say no...

But there was a cave scene (aka the Jon Snow Special™), and then they went on an all dude road trip through the frozen arctic tundra (and you KNOW they had to cuddle ~for warmth~ at night), and THEN Gendry passionately declared that he wouldn’t leave Jon behind (a la the Titantic’s “I’LL NEVER LET GO!”). 

Sooo I’m gonna go with OTP: Bro’s Who Bang

[jeaanmoreau]

Jon x Sansa + 👪🐕! Your writing is the cutest

It was taking some time for Lady to get used to the fact that there was an addition to the family now.

Before Ned, she had been the center of Sansa’s world; she would come home from classes and then work and sit by her side for hours, stroking her soft gray hair, letting herself be lulled by the feeling of the Northern Inuit’s warm body against her own.

Jon didn’t understand how, on top of having to take care of a baby now, they also had to be aware of Lady’s feelings.

“She’s a dog, San,” he’d sighed at her one day as he rocked Ned in his arms while Sansa ran her fingers down her pet’s back. “She doesn’t feel jealousy.”

Sansa glared up at him. “You didn’t see the look she gave me when I got home yesterday and ignored her licking at my hands in favour of going to the nursery.” Her ears had gone down and she’d stood by the doorway to the nursery in the dog version of pouting.  “She’s feeling left out and she needs love.”

“I’m feeling left out and need love,” Jon murmured, bouncing on his heels as Ned cried and cried.

She had to laugh at that, shaking her head at her husband. "Pettiness doesn’t suit you, love,” she pointed out, leaning down to kiss the top of Lady’s head. Her dog was resting her head on her lap as she sat on the carpet, her back to the couch.

“Lady,” Jon called, and the dog’s ears perked up even though she didn’t move from her comfortable spot. “Switch places with me.”

Sansa smiled, not stopping her caresses, scratching gently behind her ears. “You want me to scratch your tummy too?” she teased him.

Jon tutted under his breath, trying to quiet the wailing child. He’d been fed already and everything was under the ordinary; Ned always cried when he was tired, instead of actually going to sleep. It was exhausting. Sansa wished her mother was here to help her, to give her some guidance; most of the time she felt lost. She had never learned how to be a mother. She wasn’t like Arya in that she jumped into things and learned as she went; everything she knew, everything she was good at, had been the result of years of study and practice and deliberation.

Motherhood felt like her world had been turned upside down.

But then she’d look up and see sights like these: Jon’s whiskers tickling their baby’s head as he whispered to him, rocking him softly in the middle of their bedroom.

She never knew what he whispered to him, only that she could hear the low rumble of his voice, quiet and too muffled for her to understand. Ned listened, though, she knew. He listened to his father’s voice and opened his little eyes and watched him like he could watch him for hours.

Sansa knew the feeling.

It didn’t take long after that, Jon’s soft words and the constant swaying, and Ned fell deeply into sleep, his head propped up on his father’s shoulder.

Lady gave a bit of a whine when Sansa gently pushed her head off her lap to stand, coming up to her boys and gently, as softly as she could, took Ned from her husband, cradling him in her arms before lowering him down onto his crib, laying his wolf plushie next to him.

“Do I get some love now?” Jon whispered into her ear, his arms coming up behind her to wrap around her waist, and Sansa leaned back into him, smiling as she looked down at their son, placing her hands above Jon’s.

“You always have my love,” she responded, tearing her gaze away to turn in his arms, hold his face in her hands and kiss him.

And when Lady butted her head against Jon’s knees from behind, they only laughed.

[maevemilllay]

beric dondarrion? more like beric don-daddy-on amirite?

[magnoliasrotting]

Blogrates  👌 👌

Sooo, I kind of want to change my url and do something nice so thought I might do some blogrates + compliments. 

Rules

Mbf this Trash Member of The Stark Defence Squad

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Blacklist #newurl and #hannah’s blogrates if you don’t want to see this

Format under cut

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