âFor years now, we seem to have been doing this dance- this endless, interminable waltz and I have done nothing but let you lead because I loved you and following you has always been enough for me. No, I love you. I love you and I would follow you anywhere, and so no matter how many times you run away or spin out of my grasp, I will still be waiting here, for you, because I swore I would. - Any other man would have given up by now, I hope youâre aware. - That may be true, but Iâm not any other man. Iâm a man of my word and the one you happen to be in love with... if only you werenât so scared to confess it. - And just what makes you think that my feelings for you are in any way similar to yours for me? - Youâve told everyone in town!â
â đđđđđ, a love story
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@jonsaexchange âRound Six - Creatorâs ChoiceÂ
Jon as Flynn, Sansa as Rapunzel.
âI've been looking out of a window for eighteen years... dreaming about what I might feel like when those lights rise in the sky. What if it's not everything I dreamed it would be?â
âIt will be.â
"And what if it is? What do I do then?â
âWell, that's the good part I guess. You get to go find a new dream.â
JONSA!KINGMAN â  " Since 1849, Kingsman Tailors have clothed the world's most powerful individuals. In 1919, a great number of them had lost their heirs to World War I. That meant a lot of money going uninherited. And a lot of powerful men with the desire to preserve peace and protect life. Our founders realized that they could channel that wealth and influence for the greater good. And so began our adventure. An independent international intelligence agency operating at the highest level of discretion. Without the politics and bureaucracy that undermine the intelligence of government-run spy organisations. A suit is the modern gentleman's armour. And the Kingsman agents are the new knights. â
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A group of old friends whoâve grown apart over the years are invited to take part in a murder mystery dinner party hosted by one of their own over the course of a weekend, but things take an unexpected turn when the host themself is seemingly murdered mid-game. Pairing up, two of the guests start to suspect their friends know more than theyâre letting on. â âGirl Who Cried Wolfâ (coming soon)
âI've often felt that dreams are answers to questions we haven't yet figured out how to ask. So if I start having nightmares about little green men, thatâs what? Proof that they exist and you were right all along? I canât have you thinking youâve won, Snow.â
âThe Visitor and the Talebearer,â a soft horror fic (partially) inspired by the story will be coming soon.
âSir, am I to presume this quaint little village of which you speak may very well be haunted? Or visited, rather.â
The older man smoothes a couple of fingers over his upper lip then, rough skin callously scratching against the graying whiskers there. Thereâs an ashiness to his coloring; beard several shades lighter than the thinning hair of his head but warmer still than the prickly little strands heâs twisting and plucking at now.
Stark parts his lips for just a moment, tongue dashing out to cure them of dryness ever so gingerly before he returns, âWell, that would depend on what you consider a visitor, Mister Snow. We havenât known no company âcept for ghosts and headless men riding horseback for some years now. Three almost.â
âHeadless... men?â The collar of his shirt scolds hot against his flesh at the thought. Jon pulls at the cotton in discomfort, material pressed tightly between sweat-drenched fingers. âMen with no heads, you say.â
âAye. Only one, mind. One man, one horse-â
âAnd only a single head between them.â Jon clarifies, âI see. And have you⌠seen this man for yourself, Mister Stark?
âI havenât, no. But my missus is half-convinced he visited her in our own bed several moons ago. And my daughterâmy eldestâsays she saw him out by the Weirwood just the other day.â
âI should speak with your family then. If you would permit me, that is.â With a nod of approval, Jon reaches down to retrieve his bag, the thick, worn leather handle clutched so tightly in his fist his knuckles whiten. âAnd this Weirwood-â
âAye, the Tree. We townsfolk always liked to think it was connected to God, but the truth is itâs prolly just as ungodly as the headless rider. Ghastly thing to look at in the winter, too. Nobody here has prayed for days.â Taking several steps toward the door to the entryway, Stark turns sharply on his heel to address the young man. âI do have to wonder how you plan on ridding us of this evil. We canât have no more deaths around here.â
He doesnât say it outright, but he neednât have to. The skepticism in his voice is laid out plain; itâs laced into his words like poison, like a snake slithering down a rabbit hole ready to release its venom in self-defense. He doesnât trust Jonâhis abilities, ratherâand wants it to be known that the people come before the stranger.
âRest assured, Mister Stark, my sole mission here is to chase away any stranger who lurks in your woods and preys upon your women. As it always is, As long as nothing distracts me, I should be out of your hair in a matter of days. A couple dozen at best.â Jon could mention that he was invited to this town by this very same man who now seems to doubt him so. But he doesnât. Instead, he lets the words sit on the tip of his tongue and hold on tight as he plasters the limpest of smiles on his faceâever so passive. âNow, your family.â
âAye. Upstairs.â
Stark pushes the door open an inch, and suddenly thereâs a flurry of russet hair breezing into the room. The girl is about twenty, eighteen years old at a push, and she has a basket full of what looks to be rags in her hands. âThere you are.â Sheâs talking to Jon.
âMister Snow, meet my eldest.â Stark waves a hand about, though the other remains behind his back. Jon can see his fist clench, unclench, repeat in the broken mirror against the wall. Perhaps the man is fatigued, tired of his daughter âEldest daughter, that is. Sheâs second, elsewise.â
âFather, Iâm sure our dear horseman-hunter here doesnât care much for pleasantries. He doesnât⌠look the type.â She argues, shooting a look up and down the young man in the room.
Suddenly a single sharp brow hitches on her face and Jon feels under scrutiny, âSee? He looks fed up already.â She pushes the basketâmade up of wicker and rope. Very neatly wound, plainly handmadeâinto her fatherâs chest, waiting for him to grab ahold before she lets go. âIâm sure my father has already told you about me, Mister Snow. I had a run-in with the headless man, you see, and Iâve been the talk of the town ever since.â She extends her arm, holding out a lace-clad hand for him to shakeâor kiss. Who could say? âSansa. Shall I begin, or would you rather settle in to your rooms first?â
