Can We Have A Ficlet For Your Arranged Marriage Period Fic? Pretty Please (or Some Info About It, I Understand

Can we have a ficlet for your arranged marriage period fic? Pretty please (or some info about it, I understand if you do not want to share too much)<3

The Duke of Dragonstone paid his stablehand three pounds for the pups, as it was just enough for him to purchase a new hound of quality to whelp in order to ensure that such a circumstance as the one he found himself in now could never happen again.

“You will feed them yourselves, clean up after them yourselves, and once they pass, you will bury them yourselves.” He had said that afternoon with a severity the three ladies of the manor did not care to note, as they were too busy squealing, jumping up and down and fawning over the basket he held in his hand.

An hour later, they remained enamored with the two latest additions to their household on the floor of the parlor, and Jon Targaryen had a sneaking suspicion that before long, he would be happening upon one of the chambermaids picking up dog droppings from the hardwood floors.

The albino pup they’ve christened Ghost is shyly edging out from underneath a bookshelf, coaxed by Daenerys and Shireen. At his feet, the Duchess sits holding the pup she has christened Lady to her cheek. She cradles the mass of gray and white fur to her chest as if it’s a babe.

“Is she not the most heavenly thing you’ve ever seen?” sighs Sansa, beaming up at him.

Were she just a bit more heavenly, she’d be six feet underneath a patch of dirt right now, and he would have three more pounds and a quieter house.

“I can hardly stand it,” He remarks dryly, flipping his newspaper.

To his left, old Uncle Aemon releases a cough that sounds suspiciously like a chortle.

Deep down, Jon knew that it isn’t about the money, for he has more than enough. It was more the principle. He had lost count of how many times his wife had swindled a yes from him after he provided her with a firm no. Even Daenerys and Shireen had taken note, and knew that if they could present their case to the lady of the house, then all was not lost yet. Though they knew not how she always managed to convince him.

Jon didn’t know either. It always happened before he could manage to stop it. One minute, she was in front of him in her prettiest dress and the most damnable request, and the next, her face was lit up like an inn on a winter night, hand on his inner arm, forehead to his.

He’d tried saying no to her on at least three occasions. Afterward, he always felt awful. He decided quickly in their six months of marriage that a short bout of irritation was leagues better than that.

Sansa sat the pup down on the carpet, and though it lingered for a moment, it scurried into Dany’s waiting arms at the sound of her encouraging coos. She nuzzled into her cheek, face bright.

Sansa rested her chin on his knee. His sarcasm was not lost upon her, he knows, but the way she gazed up at him was a chastisement enough.

It was always so much gentler, so much warmer, so much kinder than he deserved.

“Ghost will be a good hound for you, your grace.” She quipped, then. “You two are of a similar disposition.”

The albino pup poked a wary head out from underneath his shelter, and Jon could not tell if she was calling him shy, unsociable, strange, or all three. Then, he thought of the way it had nosed its way into Sansa’s décolletage only seconds after she picked him up and he came to the conclusion that he perhaps had more in common with the pup than he previously thought.

And he had been called worse by others who did not sleep beside him at night.

He still scowled, and he was glad he did, because it made her laugh.

“Uncle Aemon,” She said, voice still high and sweet from mirth, “How was I so fortunate to marry the most generous of gentlemen in all of London?”

At that, Uncle Aemon laughed; long and hardy.

“My dear, I suspect many would say otherwise.” He remarked, affectionate.

“They would be speaking nonsense.” She replied.

After dinner, Jon retired to his study to share a drink with his uncle; and they both listened to the mingled shouts of both amusement and dismay as the ladies of the house tried their hand at bathing their new pets.

“I’m afraid we share a home with the three silliest girls in all of London,” He muttered, more to himself.

Once again, his uncle laughed.

“And what would you do without your silly girls?” He asked.

Utterly lost, he knew. Of that, he was completely certain. But Jon did not say so. He did not need to.

Instead, he wondered if his silliest girl would join him in earnest in bed tonight.

Calculated Risk

Pairing: Jon Snow x Sansa Stark

Rating: M for mature audiences

Word count: 521

Tags: politician Jon, journalist Sansa, established relationship

He is 33 years old and doesn’t know how to tie his own tie.

He is 33 years old and insurmountably aware of how pathetic it is that he doesn’t know how to tie his own tie.

However, no one can say that shame isn’t a legitimate motivator, because it keeps the tie on his neck as much as the drill sergeant beside him does.

“Stop scowling,” says Sansa, fingers pressing into the inside of his arm.

“I’m not scowling,” Jon mutters back, “This is just my face.”

She beams over her shoulder at the Hornwoods, holding up a single finger, before she turns back toward him.

“Make it not your face,” She says, through shiny, straight teeth.

At the urge to pull at his tie, Jon takes a swig of too sweet champagne, swallowing the taste as well as the wince that follows. He craves beer. The cheap shitty kind that comes in a twelve pack and never fails to make him wish that he was dead the next morning.

“I’m starving,” He says under his breath. “You said there would be food here.”

“There is.” She turns around, plucking from a passing tray. She lifts a tiny little skewer to his mouth with glossy, manicured fingers, “Have a cucumber sandwich.”

“Real food,” Jon just barely gets out, before she takes the opportunity to pop the whole thing in his mouth. It’s cool, bland, and watery in his mouth. He’s about to tell her so when she raises a single eyebrow.

He finishes his food rather than talk and chew at the same time.

Sansa dabs at the corner of his mouth with her pretty little thumb, her approval as condescending as that of someone in possession of a newly house trained puppy.

As soon as they get home, he’s going to spank her.

“This is my event,” He says now, irritable, “Shouldn’t I get to dictate what food we serve?”

“And what would you have everyone eating?” Her head tilts to the side, “Baby back ribs? Brisket? Philadelphia cheesesteaks?”

This time, he does scowl, a flush crawling up his neck.

“At least everyone would leave full.”

“You eat like a teenager. Smile.”

Before Jon can open his mouth to argue, she cuts him off with a smile of her own, white and blinding.

“Smile. Or you’re not getting laid tonight.”

“Bet you I will,” he says, but through a baring of his teeth that feels a lot closer to a grimace than a smile.

Sansa ignores him.

“That wasn’t so hard, now was it silly boy?” She kisses him on the lips lightly. “Keep smiling. Here comes Mr. Manderly. Don’t forget to ask him about his boats.”

She calls over to Mrs. Hornwood, who makes an exclamation of delight at the sight of her. She leaves him to the wolves—one huge, barrel chested congressman that goes by the last name Manderly in particular—without so much as a second glance.

For the millionth time, he wonders why on earth he wants to marry her. But it won’t be long before she reminds him.

35 notes View Post

crazykittyycat

2 years ago

156 notes View Post

crazykittyycat

3 years ago

Please reblog this if fanfiction has been beneficial to your mental health.

134K notes View Post

crazykittyycat

1 year ago

So obsessed with the fact that Sansa looked at a direwolf, an untamed beast of legend capable of maiming and murder, and went “hmm needs a fancy little ribbon.” My darling child. My baby. You are so right.

2K notes View Post

crazykittyycat

1 year ago

We Run the Gamut (Let's Run Away)

boy and girl meet. live parallel lives. and, one day, they start to come together. scenes inspired by all the different types of love for the @jonsa-valentine event 2024.

AGAPE

love for everyone

"Hello? Is anyone home?"

Jon looks up from where he's been sulking in the dark to see one of the Stark girls — the redheaded daughter — standing outside the front door to the guest house. She'd knocked once already, but Jon had ignored it, thinking whoever it was would just go away. Now, he can see she's still out there, silhouette illuminated at the top of the stairs. The porch light catches copper highlights in her hair and makes them glow.

He wonders if she's annoyed she has to knock instead of just letting herself in. Maybe she used to spend a lot of time in the apartment over the Starks' detached garage. Or maybe she never came out here. Maybe her bedroom in that fancy old house is already so big and private she never bothers to explore anywhere else.

"Hello?" she calls again. "Mrs. Snow?"

When Jon finally answers the door, flicking on the living room light as he goes, he sees that the girl — Sansa, he thinks — hasn't come empty-handed. In her arms is a ceramic dish full of some sort of baked good, little tarts or custards with cooked lemon slices on top.

read the rest on ao3

55 notes View Post

crazykittyycat

1 year ago