A 19th C. New York City Jon/Sansa Drabble

A 19th c. New York City Jon/Sansa drabble

angst, longing, complicated relationships

The announcement is made--Miss Sansa Stark's engagement to Willas Tyrell--at the party thrown precisely for the purpose of a grand announcement. Raise up the family in this trying time, brush all the unpleasantness under the imported rugs with music and food and the press of a crowd gathered to witness it.

Dany did say it would be an engagement. Swore to it twice as they rode down Fifth Avenue, carriage rocking. She sounded rather too pleased about the prospect when she usually has very little in the way of kindness for his cousin. Jon refused to believe it. Too old for her, Jon insisted, and he still thinks so, as he attempts to grit out a smile and his wife lifts her champagne.

"Raise your glass, Jon," she says, lips barely moving.

He does, but only to bring the crystal rim to his waiting lips. He won't toast the happy couple, nor will he do Dany's bidding. Not tonight. He's in no mood to be agreeable.

Dany does say he's taciturn and overly sensitive, so he might as well play the part the way her opera friends do nightly on a stage lit too bright.

"She's your cousin. Pretend to be pleased."

"I'm happy for her of course."

His hand flexes at his side.

Dany looks sidelong at him, pale brow arched. "Oh yes, very. Listen, try not to murder the man in front of this lot. They'll sue and I'm not sure your confidence would stand up to the task of self-representation."

Her dress is red. Blood red. Her favorite color. She never fades into the background. Not even among these people who whisper behind fans about her. Nor should she, and yet, her bold temperament is perhaps not as well suited to his as he once believed.

She'll insist he dances with her tonight, though he would prefer to hide in the palm room, nursing this damnable ache that's spreading through his chest. Just long enough so that he can pull himself together to congratulate Catelyn on the match. Or Bran if he isn't feeling up to facing the matriarch of the family.

"It's a shame she couldn't get what she wanted. I suppose that's a new sensation for her." Her head tilts, as the musicians begin to play. She brings the coupe to her mouth, covering it as she amends, "Who she wanted. But the Tyrells are climbing like roses, aren't they? She'll add a lovely old-world aura to all that vulgar American newness."

Sansa Stark is America, she's as American as they come, first family and all, but he understands the import. There is the New York of old and what's coming to sweep that all away in a cloud of coal dust.

"That mansion is a monstrosity."

Willas looks down at his bride to be as if she's made of moonlight, twinkling in the Stark ballroom that is half the size of the Tyrell one.

White. Virginal. Untouched.

Just last week Jon spread his fingers until they spanned her jaw and tipped her head back, so her perfectly pink lips parted like an opening bud before she fled from the glass gardens, trailing the smell of hot house gardenias.

Not unsurprising behavior from a bastard relation, even one who pretended to be decent.

His heart throbs.

If only it was just sin tucked in his breast. The right preacher could drive it out.

"I didn't know you had architectural opinions."

Yes, moonlight. Sansa Stark is a moonbeam captured in Willas Tyrell's open palm, as he tows her towards the dance floor where she and Jon have never publicly stepped out together.

He frowns down into his glass and grimaces against the burn of the bubbles as he swallows. "I don't."

"Perhaps they'll let her decorate it in her own style. There's endless money there." Her voice lilts, teasing, prodding at the wound. The right family was important once, now the right amount of money is the only thing that matters. "Or is it the family you object to? Such a snob for one born on the wrong side of the blanket, aren't you?"

"If Old Ned was alive--"

"Yes, he was very fond of you, I'm sure, but Catelyn Stark would have never, Jon. Never allowed it. You could be as rich as Croesus and she'd look down her nose at you. You know that. She's as provincial as they come. You too for some unknown reason."

She's only hissed out the assertion when Sansa's eyes meet his through a gap in the crowd. He might only imagine the fleeting swoop of unhappiness pulling at her features, the same thing he imagined on her pretty face when he returned from Vienna with Dany wrapped around his arm in a silk dress cut too low for Fifth Avenue society.

It seemed a fortuitous event when he met the beautiful widow with old family ties to New York, though Dany had never seen the city herself. There was a hint of scandal about her. But there was about him too, thanks to the circumstance of his birth and his newly acquired habit of staring rather too long at a girl meant for a grander gentleman than himself. What he wanted was outrageous in its presumption, and then the perfect solution to all his pitiful longing presented herself with almost silver hair and eyes like the lilacs that dripped before his mother's dressing window in the spring.

They were happy. But he missed New York. So they boarded a ship.

They ought not to have come here.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he mutters, chest rising and falling inside his starched shirt, as he stares across the ballroom.

"Catelyn Stark despising you or you spending too much time with your dear little cousin? I can expand on both."

"No need," he says, as the gap closes and Sansa's watery gaze is blocked out by tuxedoed shoulders. "But you could lower your voice."

"You ought to be glad people like the Tyrells are rising in this world," she says without paying him any mind. "Catelyn Stark will never allow you to sit at the head of her table, but the new standard won't care about your birth or my two dead husbands."

Only one is dead, but Jon wouldn't think to correct her.

"The new way will only care about what's between your ears and in your pocketbook. I know there's some intelligence in there," she says as her finger trails the shawl collar of his jacket. "If you would only use it."

"I'm sorry my profession isn't impressive enough for you and your aspirations."

She'd like to conquer New York, his wife, though she has the wrong personal history and the wrong husband for it. She imagined she would shine here the way she did in Europe thanks to her beauty and boisterousness and willingness to make a bold bet.

She boldly bet on him too. Her worst gamble.

"Even in the law you could prosper more than you do," she insists still too loudly. It's a well-worn argument between them now. "If you'd make the right connections."

Not the kind of connections Ned Stark would approve. The people she wishes him to befriend hold no appeal.

"I'll do my best," he says, mostly to prevent any further upheaval.

Her cheeks already are starting to heat and Jaime Lannister has turned his eye on them, lip curling in amusement. It's the effect of too much champagne, too much dancing around the truth. And while he wouldn't mind calling for the carriage, making a scene at Sansa's engagement party is not at the top of his to-do list.

What he'd like is to go to her, and profess things he ought not to. He wishes he could sink down on his knees to beg forgiveness. Either for loving her when she is so above his notice or not confessing it before she was lost to him, bobbing away like foam on the sea. He'd beg with his fingers grasping the embroidered hem of her ballgown, wrap his hands around her delicate ankles, kiss up the side of her stockinged calf, and then peel the silk down until his heathen hands touched flesh. He wants her hands buried in his curls.

She would never.

He's mad. Like his grandfather, the one they committed to Bellevue.

Before his misstep last week, he'd never even touched her bare hand since she entered society.

"And there might be hope for us yet, you and me. With pretty little Sansa wed and times changing," she says, lifting her glass, "you might even say our marriage is saved."

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.

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crazykittyycat

2 years ago

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)

Estimated Sexual Abilities of Austen Men

In no particular order within tier

Top Tier:

Mr. Mainwaring: to have the near undying loyalty of the exceedingly selfish Lady Susan, this man must be a sex god

Henry Crawford: he knows he’s not handsome, he wants women to love him, he’d put in the work. Also one of the only men to be rated by a woman who has had sex before.

Henry Tilney: he cares about things women like, high emotional intelligence, and extremely kind.

Frederick Wentworth: passion and experience (I imagine), also has high emotional intelligence when he’s not being a dufus.

Colonel Brandon: passionate, thinks about other people’s feelings a lot, self-sacrificial

John Knightley: I think there’s a good reason that they keep banging out those kids

Good Tier:

William Price: athletic, cares about his sister a lot (good sign), and gives good presents. He’s only nineteen in the story which is why he has room to improve.

Captain Harville: Obviously

Mr. Morland: dude isn’t even on page, but in my head Mrs. Morland enjoyed making all ten of those children.

Colonel Fitzwilliam: I think he’d be good, but not awesome.

Fitzwilliam Darcy: he’s a bit stiff… I think it might take some time for him to get good at it

Charles Bingley: I get the feeling he’d be on a race to the end, and maybe not the best communicator at first. Will improve.

Mr. Gardiner: Just because he’s awesome and seems to respect women

Captain Benwick: poetry and passion!

Robert Martin: seems like a pretty romantic guy, also works on a farm so probably athletic.

John Willoughby: Mostly because of experience, but he is also pretty passionate. He’s also super hot, Miss Grey knew what she was getting into. But this guy can only go downhill from here.

Reginald DeCourcy: He’s a sweetheart, an occasionally dumb sweetheart

Mr. Bennet: Is he lazy in most domains of life? Yes. But Mrs. Bennet wasn’t just trying for that heir, I’m telling you folks. Maybe he’s just trying to make her unable to talk 😉

Mediocre but can improve tier:

George Knightley: I don’t have a great reason but I’m putting him here. Don’t worry, John will give him some tips.

Frank Churchill: He’s got passion, but he’s so darn selfish and doesn’t seem to send that much time thinking about Jane’s feelings

Edward Ferrars: I just see him being a nervous wreak the first few times, it’ll get better

James Morland: Dude, I’m just disappointed with you in general. Being led by lust, not protecting your sister. I hope you grow a lot before you try to get engaged again.

Charles Musgrove: could be good, but Mary never seems to appreciate the effort he puts in so he kind of gave up

Tom Bertram: Selfish, never has to try for anything, but he did reform so maybe he can get better here too

Edmund Bertram: Repressed and selfish. He needs to actually start listening to what women say if he’s going to improve and there is a whole book of him doing exactly the opposite…

Just bad:

James Rushworth: Maria was not impressed at all, despite how much “taller” he was

Captain Tilney: riding on good looks and money, selfish

John Thorpe: Selfish and he never shuts up. I have trouble imaging him getting a woman to sleep with him without paying her.

George Wickham: selfish and good looking, he’s not doing any work. He thinks you should be honoured to sleep with him.

Robert Ferrars: selfish and not even good looking. There is nothing here. Lucy did not win people.

Mr. Elton: selfish, full of himself, and low emotional intelligence

Mr. Woodhouse: I can’t even imagine, if he didn’t have children I’d say he was a virgin

Mr. Collins: The woman he is trying to please is not his wife.

Mr. Elliot: cruel to his first wife and not even handsome!

Sir Walter Elliot: I don’t think any part of his personality would tend toward being a “giver”, however, if you like mirrors…

John Dashwood: exactly the opposite of a “giver”

No Data: We interviewed Lady Bertram for information on Sir Thomas, but she confessed that with full consent, she has always fallen asleep during sex. Given her personality, we decided that this information has no bearing on Sir Thomas’s abilities. She did say that giving birth was, “Very disagreeable.”

Criteria: In the domain of F/M sex, communication is key, so we need a man who is willing to listen to what women say. Also, selfishness is obviously a negative trait when it comes to a happy sexual partner of either gender. Some of this is just vibes, but I think there is a fair amount of canon information about how much men respect women, especially their sisters.

Feel very free to fight me in the reblogs. The only hill I will die on is that Henry Crawford’s rating is correct 😉

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crazykittyycat

3 years ago

Seems like the silliest question ever but every idea I have seems so unoriginal. Do you tips or exercises to get the creativity going?

Getting the creative juices flowing…

I do! I have plenty of pep-talks and resources for this sort of thing, so I’ve organized them here by method (prompts/playlists/advice/inspiration/etc)

Articles

Coming Up With Scene Ideas

Coming Up With “Original” Ideas

How To Turn A Good Idea Into A Good Story

How To Motivate Yourself To Write

Reasons To Improve Your Lifestyle

Tips & Advice for Aspiring Authors, Writers, and Poets

Healthy Forms of Motivation

How To Have A Productive Mindset

How To Fall In Love With Writing

Writing Through Mental Health Struggles

Why “Burnout” Is Oay - The Creative Cycle

How To Actually Get Writing Done

Playlists

Things To Listen To When You’re Working

Classical & Instrumental

Ambient

Sad Scenes

Chase Scenes

Epic Scenes

Fight Scenes

Angst Scenes

Fun Montage Scenes

Climax Scenes

Calm Scenes

Resolution Scenes

Romantic Scenes

Action Scenes

Science Fiction

Our Day Will Come

Contemporary Poetry

Prompts, Prompt Lists, & Writing Challenges

Dark Quotes & Prompts

Challenges For Different Types of Writers | Part II

Angst Prompts

31 Days of Prompts : January 2018 Writing Challenge

20 Sentence Story Prompt

Dramatic Prompts

Suspenseful Prompts

Sad Prompts

Romantic Prompts

31 Days of Horror : October 2019 Writing Challenge

31 Days of Fantasy - December 2020 Writing Challenge

Fake Relationship Alternate Universe Prompts

Assassin Alternate Universe Prompts

Soulmates Alternate Universe Prompts

Advice & Pep-Talks

Restarting Your Writing Passion

On Hating Your Old Stuff

Depression As An Inhibitor

Dear Writers Who Are Hesitant To Start Writing

“All First Drafts Are Crap” – My Thoughts

Getting Back To Writing After A Long Hiatus

Wanting To Finish A Story You’ve Fallen Out of Love With

Getting Motivated To Write

Getting Burnt Out Near The Finish Line

–

Masterlist | WIP Blog

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crazykittyycat

3 weeks ago

Oooh loove this😍

Askbox prompt: Jon/Sansa Jane Austen Au? Thank you lovely! :)

It’s a little more regency inspired by way of Georgette Heyer, but I hope it might serve ;)

“I don’t see what the fuss is about,” Arya complained, flinching away from the darling grey ribbon Sansa was tying into her hair. “It’s only Jon. You were positively awful to him before. I don’t see–”

“Only Jon is our cousin,” Sansa announced airily over her sister’s complaining, as though Arya did not know this. “Only Jon is finally home from the Continent and we ought to give him a proper welcome, wearing proper clothing and not the tattered rags you wear to ride Nymeria.”

Jon’s visit was the first they would have visitors after their parents’ deaths, and though she had always found him dour and odious, and though she and Arya were still in the greys and lavenders of half-mourning, Sansa was determined to make the best of it. There were only a few months left before it was up to Aunt Lysa to launch her into the ton. If she could be gracious to her cousin Jon, then she could handle anything.

Sansa tugged helplessly at the bodice of Arya’s soft muslin morning dress. Arya was growing so fast, though, and she was already wearing one of Sansa’s spare gowns to accommodate her height.

“Jon isn’t going to care about any of this,” Arya complained again as she stomped down the stairs toward the drawing room where Jon was waiting for them.

Sansa did not have the chance to argue with her. In fact, all her fantasies of testing her charms on their cousin with her performance on the pianoforte, or whiling away the time discussing Lord Byron’s poetry, were quickly dashed when they entered the drawing room.

It turned out that Jon was not, in fact, the sullen cousin who spent his summer visits slouching around Winterfell. Instead, he was straight-backed as he examined the books shelved by the mantle and, when he turned to greet them, Sansa saw that he cut an excellent figure in his Hussar uniform. While Arya dashed forward to greet him, Sansa gripped the entry table with a flash of panic.

“Captain Snow,” she said weakly as Jon bent to kiss her hand – not at all the sisterly kiss he had laid on Arya’s hair. “What a pleasure.”

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crazykittyycat

1 year ago

archiveofourown.org

i'm on fire - Chapter 1 - ganymede_elegy - Game of Thrones (TV) [Archive of Our Own]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

uh oh.