One Wave Short Of A Shipwreck

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.

Missing

Little Women AU preview from the WIP folder

There were two black leather trunks that sat at the foot of the bed she shared with Arya. Jon had brought them to Winterfell before he left for his training camp, and Sansa liked to keep them close.

They were old, and a little shabby, with the name ‘J. Snow’ stamped on the sides in peeling gold letters. Together they contained the entirety of his life — everything he owned, neatly packed away in moth balls for when he returned.

Sansa wore the keys on a chain around her neck, but had never looked inside them before, not wanting to invade his privacy. But now she just wanted to feel close to him. She sighed and lovingly stroked her fingers over his name before she turned a key in the lock, and lifted a cumbersome lid.

The first held all of his clothes and personal effects. As she took an inventory of its contents, Sansa caressed his wool jackets, and linen shirts, and pressed his neatly folded neck cloths to her cheek. She examined his razor, shaving brush, nail brush, hair brush, wooden comb, and a small pair of silver scissors — then opened the little pots of pomade, and shaving soap, and breathed in their familiar scents of pine and juniper.

At the very bottom was a leather case holding an old ambrotype of a frowning little boy with sticky out ears seated on the lap of a beautiful dark haired lady. She smiled to imagine that handsome Lieutenant Snow was ever so young, though the boy certainly looked grave enough to be her Jon. When she packed everything back neatly into the trunk, she kept the image of Lyanna and Jon out, and stood it on the bureau beside her bed.

Sansa laughed when she opened the second trunk and saw it was full of books! No wonder it was so blasted heavy when she’d tried to move it. How like Jon to travel with so many. She examined the titles on the spines and smiled when she noticed his well worn copy of ‘Aemon the Dragon Knight’ sitting near the very top. It was the same copy he’d asked her to read from, at Gendry’s picnic. She remembered gazing into Jon’s remarkable grey-violet eyes, and how tender and encouraging they had been. She reached for the book and was astounded to find a dainty, white, lace glove tucked between its pages. Her glove.

He’d had it, all this time? She clutched it and the book to her heart, and wept.

Missing isn’t dead. Sansa repeated Arya’s words to herself like a prayer, an incantation, that might summon Jon to her side.

Missing isn’t dead. He will be found, and come home to me.

John Everett Millais, Yes or No? (1871)