Twenty Weeks Old Gray Wolf Pups (Canis Lupus) From The Sawtooth Pack

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.

Omg yeeeey!!!

oh my god, they were roommates

or,

Robb agrees to let Sansa stay at his place for the summer.

Robb agrees to let his friend Jon stay at his place for the summer.

Robb forgets to tell either of them this.

.

read it on ao3 here

Season 6 started and I just had to draw someone from Game of Thrones. So I tried to draw Sansa Stark. Her look i really changing through the seasons so my verson of her is kinda a mix out of all those seasons. Hope you like it.

tired: rockstar jon

wired: Sansa in a moody alternative girl band and Jon being her reluctant groupie

omg😍

someday your husband will sit there and you will sit by his side.

unironically love the phrase “but I’m being so brave about it” because truly, like, what other choice do we have in this wretched existence? what a beautiful way to remind yourself to keep going, even if only out of spite

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

I'm getting so sick of major female characters in historical media being incredibly feisty, outspoken and public defenders of women's rights with little to no realistic repercussions. Yes it feels like pandering, yes it's unrealistic and takes me out of the story, yes the dialogue almost always rings false - but beyond all that I think it does such a disservice to the women who lived during those periods. I'm not embarrassed of the women in history who didn't use every chance they had to Stick It To The Man. I'm not ashamed of women who were resigned to or enjoyed their lot in life. They weren't letting the side down by not having and representing modern gender ideals. It says a lot about how you view average ordinary women if the idea of one of your main characters behaving like one makes them seem lame and uninteresting to you.

One wave short of a shipwreck

word count: 654

tags: college/university, sororities, casual sex, sexual content

He’s barely dated enough girls to subscribe to a type, and loathes the idea of being predictable enough to have one, but it doesn’t exactly take rocket science to understand that whatever that type is, Sansa Stark is definitively Not It.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

She has a picture of her winning Miss Teen Pennsylvania on her dresser in her cluttered little single freshman dorm and the social media christened title of Miss Bamarush and a personalized, monogrammed jewelry box that could have very well paid a solid chunk of her tuition if her parents weren’t already doing it for her and more pink clothes than he thought was physically possible.

She carries a tiny sewing kit in her bag. Like an actual sewing kit.

Everything she knows about football is against her will.

When he asked her—with no small amount of surprise, he’ll admit, though it was completely unintentional—You got into Yale?—she stared at him, mouth curling into a sneer that was sugary sweet, It wasn’t like it was hard.

From that very moment, she decided she couldn’t stand him, which he supposed was fair.

The sex is insane.

*

She’s got this cross necklace, a flash of 22 karat gold just between her breasts. It triggers something like a Pavlovian response in him after they hit the two month mark, makes his mouth water and his breath quicken. It brushes cold against his chest whenever she rides him.

Jon is 20 when he recalls why sex makes people do the craziest things.

Eight years of gymnastics, she says, a little haughtily, when he marvels at the limberness of her body. She folds her legs perfectly over his shoulders so she can open wider, presses her knee almost flat against her stomach just so he can be deeper, arches her back when he’s behind her because they are now so in tune with what the other likes.

She likes his mouth, on her throat, sewing hickeys into her skin like glittering red sequins, and bracketed by her thighs when she straddles his face from above. Oh please, she snaps, when she’s just about had it with him and she’s gonna let him know, then: Please, muffled into her arm when his hands are on her hips and he’s pulling her back onto him.

He likes messing her up. He likes tossing her prissy little headbands to the side and leaving a rash from his stubble between her legs and shoving down her tube top and winding her hair around his hand, making it known on her body that he was here, even if the assholes stumbling over their feet on campus can’t see them, he knows—

He knows.

“You’re the worst,” She grumbles, dabbing concealer on her neck before she heads back to her dorm in time to get ready for date night.

Roaring 20’s is the theme.

Her flapper dress is the color of starlight. She tried it on in front of his mirror, and he pretended to do his homework while she twirled in front of the mirror.

He didn’t know what he liked better—when she didn’t know he was watching or when she pretended not to notice.

“You could stay,” he offers, casual, like his heart isn’t in his throat, like she isn’t under his skin.

Sansa’s gaze slides over to him in the mirror as she strategically drapes her hair around her neck.

He breaks first, looking away.

This happens a lot with her.

“If I did,” She says, voice lilting and airy, “You’d never get anything done.”

Probably not. Then, as she makes his way towards him, he amends that, “Definiteky not.”

Sansa kisses him, soft and brief, tasting of cherry chapstick and him.

“Thanks,” it’s sweet and it’s quiet and it’s sincere and that’s probably the worst part of all, because that’s just who she is. It probably means nothing.

He doesn’t even want it to.

She isn’t even his type.