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when we kiss: mmmm, fire

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Jon broaches the subject on a rainy afternoon in May, when he’s playing Grand Theft Auto with Robb and Arya at the boys’ flat. Sansa’s at the girls’ next door, but she’s in the middle of stitching an elaborate gown for one of Margaery’s cousins, and she will not tolerate the noise they’re bound to make when she’s got three hundred dragons coming her way (so long as she finishes in time for the Tyrells’ next gala, and she intends to).

It’s just as well, since Jon can’t possibly broach aforementioned subject if Sansa was in the room — the building's walls are dreadfully paper-thin, but the solid one between them boosts Jon’s confidence in such a way that simply wouldn't be achievable if he could smell Sansa’s citrus perfume — so he takes this opportunity as a golden one and doesn’t waste it.

“So,” he says after a bracing swig of beer, “I fancy your sister.”

Robb crashes into a wall and curses. “What the fuck, man?”

“Wow, that is brand new information,” Arya deadpans, gaze steady on the telly. “What else you got for me today? The sky is blue? Water is wet? That bottle of lotion on your nightstand might say Jergens, but in your heart you know it might as well be labelled ‘Sansa fantasy lubricant’ and have done with it?”

Robb tosses his controller, in a fit of abject horror, across the room and repeats himself, more emphatically this time: “What the fuck?”

“I have dry hands,” Jon says too quickly to be believable. He keeps his eyes locked on the screen, too, but only so Arya won’t see the half-truth in them (she does, anyway, and snorts in something like part disgust, part smug satisfaction). “So anyway…”

“She’s seeing someone,” Robb gripes. He leans back against the couch, glances at his discarded controller and then glares at Jon as if he were the one who had unceremoniously chucked it. “So your timing’s shit, Snow.”

Jon frowns slightly but otherwise doesn’t comment. He knows Sansa’s seeing someone — it had been driving him mad for the past month, hadn’t it? He fucking knows.

It’s not the someone, specifically, who’s irked Jon so. Harry Hardyng’s just some head-up-his-ass trust fund kid. Of course, the Starks are trust fund kids, too (and — save Bran and Sansa — have occasionally been known to stick their heads up their own asses), but they don’t act like it. Harry is a trust fund kid who acts like it — and by the ripe old age of twenty-six, he really should know better than to act like a fucking tool all the time. Granted, Jon has only met Harry once or twice in passing, but… Well, the guy’s not subtle.

No, it’s not who Harry Hardyng is that gets under Jon’s skin — it’s who Harry Hardyng gets to be with, who just so happens to be the same girl Jon wants, more than he’s ever wanted just about anything.

Sweet and clever and considerate, Sansa feels like home after a wretchedly long day; and home with Sansa is the kind of endgame Jon hasn’t been able to stop thinking about since he was seventeen. It had taken a couple of years after that initial pang, that first taste of what he wanted out of his life, for Jon to put two-and-two together and realize it was Sansa — had perhaps always been Sansa — he wanted that sense of home with. But once he’d known, he couldn’t let it go or drop it or look back now.

Even if he could… Jon doesn’t dwell on that; even if he could let her go, he wouldn’t want to. Doesn’t want to.

“Stuff it, Robb,” Arya says. The game’s still got her full attention, but she spares the boys enough to keep them from brooding and seething, respectively. “You were just saying the other day that we should concuss Harry and ship him off to Essos under an assumed identity.

“Which, by the way, is a thoroughly convoluted and unmanageable plan,” she adds, almost as an afterthought, and downs the rest of her beer. She pops open another, all the while grand theft auto-ing with the best of them (which, at present, most assuredly does not include her brother and best friend). “Your lack of panache is an embarrassment to this family.”

Robb grinds his teeth. “Do you have something to say, or are you just gonna take the piss until Sansa makes you chicken fingers and you fuckin’ leave?”

“So sensitive.” Arya hiccups.

“Are there going to be chicken fingers?” Jon asks casually, as if to give the impression that he cares more about the food than who might be making it.

His gross untruths get him nothing but another glare from Robb, and his own car careening off an overpass. He flips his controller out of his hands when Arya mutters “useless, the both of you,” and continues playing.

“Okay, so,” Arya pipes up when she’s satisfied that they’ve been properly chastised. She doesn’t pause the game just yet, but she’s building up to it.

It’s about damn time that Jon’s brought this up, after all; Arya thought she’d never be free of bearing witness to his puppy eyes and wistful sighs whenever Sansa so much as existed in his general presence. Indeed, when there’s Jon’s shuffling feet and her sister’s own reservations to contend with, Harry Hardyng’s involvement is the least of their obstacles.

“Here’s the thing about Sansa,” Arya continues. She mulls over the thing about Sansa for about half a second before she’s got it down pat: “She wants to be taken seriously in a relationship. Every bloke she’s dated… he just uses her, you know?”

Robb looks like he’d very much like to say something — likely some disparaging death wish upon his sister’s ex-paramours — but Arya silences him with a look. She’s got things to say, and while Robb’s overprotective brother schtick is appreciated, it’s not exactly productive at a time like this. When she’s sure that Robb will keep it zipped long enough for her to make her point, Arya dives back into it.

“I’m not saying that Harry’s her saving grace, because really he’s no better than any of the others,” she admits after another long draw of beer. “But he is the sort who Sansa could get serious with. She’d be settling for sure, but after you’ve been through what Sansa has, well, settling’s preferable to getting your heart broken again. You can survive settling. And frankly I don’t think Sansa would make it through another heartache.

“Not because she’s not strong,” Arya says determinedly, tearing her eyes from the television to stare at Jon and Robb, as if daring them to disagree when, rationally, she knows that they never would. “You know she is. But I think she’d sooner give up than get hurt again.”

“I wouldn’t,” Jon insists, and he means it. He’s mildly insulted at the suggestion that he would break Sansa’s heart; he knows Arya doesn’t mean it, that she’s only playing it safe, but the implication is bad enough.

Finally, Arya pauses the game to narrow her eyes at him, to study — scrutinize — and whatever she decides must be in Jon’s favour, he thinks, when she barks at her brother, “Earmuffs, Robb!”

Robb grumbles some more, but swipes his headphones from the coffee table and plugs them into his phone. He’s still muttering under his breath as he scrolls through his music, but soon the dulcet tones of Tom Jones are on such a high volume that they drown out Robb’s displeasure with the entire conversation.

(Incidentally, Tom Jones is Robb’s go-to whenever his sisters are talking about things he doesn’t want to hear; if he hasn’t got his headphones handy, he’ll just sing “What’s New, Pussycat?” at the top of his lungs, thereby upsetting everyone in the vicinity as much as they’ve upset him, to rile him up to such a point in the first place.)

“Anyway,” Arya says once Robb’s crossed his arms and is staring moodily at the ceiling, “you know I hate talking about this shit. Just give her an O and she’d probably marry you on the spot like you so clearly want. Pathetic,” she adds after another generous swig of beer.

WHAT? Jon blinks rapidly, mouth opening and closing and opening again only to sputter out his one singular thought — “What?”

“Oh, haven’t you got the ring yet?” Arya scoffs, as if she doesn’t believe it for a moment. “I’d be dead surprised if you haven’t, honestly.”

“No, it’s not — I haven’t, but —” well, since she mentioned it, Jon did see a princess-cut blue tourmaline with a white-gold finish at the shop (not that there’s any particular reason that he was even in that part of the store), and it’s practically a crime that Sansa isn’t wearing it “— sorry, what am I supposed to give her?”

“Seven hells, Jon.” Arya rolls her eyes. “Make her come. You know — wet her whistle, shiver her timbers. Get her all hot and bothered,” she keeps going, although for the love of god Jon doesn’t know why, “and then just, y’know, fuckin’ wreck her.”

Utterly scandalized at his might-as-well-be-own-sister’s crass language, Jon stares at her, mouth agape. “I am… wildly uncomfortable.”

“I’m a little drunk,” she admits with a careless shrug. “But I’m not wrong. Sansa hasn’t had a good lay in… ever. You wonder why she’s so tense all the time? ‘Cause mystery solved, gang. It was her neglected clitoris the whole time!”

“Please don’t say ‘clitoris’ to me ever again.”

“Men,” Arya huffs, and rolls her eyes again. She’s liable to give herself a headache at this rate. “You’d better buff up that weak constitution of yours. Sansa’s a fuckin’ freak.”

Jon stops trying to take a drink, else he spit it all over the carpet or dribble it onto his shirt. He sets his beer aside and wipes his chin with twitching hands, all in a vain attempt to scramble together a moment in which he might collect himself. But after hearing the words Sansa’s a fuckin’ freak, likely he’ll never calm down for as long as he lives.

As he should have expected, the moment doesn’t do anything for him, so Jon trips over his words some more. “Excuse me?”

“It’s always the good girls,” Arya explains conversationally. She snatches up his abandoned beer, decides against it, and pops open a fresh one. Robb glances at her, eyebrows raised, then goes back to staring at the ceiling to the tune of “It’s Not Unusual,” and Arya continues to completely upend Jon’s world.

Not necessarily in a bad way, not at all, but… still.

“I know all the pleated skirts and cardigans are misleading,” she concedes, “but you should see Sansa’s underwear drawer.”

Jon’s brain is in serious danger of implosion. “What?”

Arya wrinkles her nose at him, unimpressed with his lack of eloquence. “Don’t you have anything useful to say? But no, that wasn’t an invitation for you to panty-raid my sister’s bedroom. Fuckin’ perv.”

“I —” that’s certainly not what Jon was thinking (okay, admittedly, he’s thought about Sansa’s underwear before, but she was always in them when he pictured it; he wasn’t just mentally digging through her laundry to get off — and that’s got to count for something, hasn’t it?) “— I didn’t think it was, I’m just — look, you’re really —”

But Arya’s not interested in how she’s thrown him for a loop and then some. She snaps, as lovingly as possible — which, when it comes to Arya, is equivalent to the hiss of an irritated cat — “Quit blubbering. That’s your first tip. Sansa likes confident guys, Jon. Not insecure wimps who won’t go after the girl they fancy for…” She pretends to think about it. “Well, for no fuckin’ reason, as far as I can tell. You should have made a move awhile ago. She always figured you weren’t interested.”

Jon nearly starts blubbering again — Sansa wanted me to make a move? — but catches himself just in time. “Was she?”

“Are you kidding?” Arya snorts. “You’re like her best-kept dirty little secret. In the immortal words of the Sugarhill Gang, she wants to jump on it. But she never did. Obviously, otherwise you would’ve stopped making that kicked-puppy face by now. She thought you’d, you know, politely decline.”

Like hell I would, Jon thinks, and winds up saying it aloud.

I know that,” Arya reminds him, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. And evidently it was — to Arya, at least, even if Robb had thrown a small fit over it when Jon had made his confession. “Now it’s time you make Sansa know it, too. Show her you want her, man. That’s what she needs. Well, that, and like I said, a good lay.”

Show her you want her… Jon’s never seduced a woman before. He’s no slouch in the bedroom, or so he likes to think, but getting there’s another obstacle entirely.

“Couldn’t I just… tell her?” he ventures, rather uselessly. “That I have feelings for her?”

Arya lifts an eyebrow and regards him with something like impatient disgust, Jon decides, and supposes he deserves that. “You would think.”

“Fair point.”

“Besides, you’ve got to make her want you back. I mean, she already does, but she’s sort of locked that up in a box at the back of her mind. And now with Harry hanging ‘round…”

Arya trails off for a moment, chewing her lip as she stares at the television in thought. It’s a delicate situation, but she figures it’s worth a few bumps if it gets Jon and Sansa together like they clearly want to be. Besides, they all know that Harry Hardyng isn’t the sort to settle down, even if Sansa — in her jaded state — is willing to settle for him.

And that, Arya decides, is truly unconscionable, and she will not be responsible by virtue of her complicity in the matter. So she waves Harry aside and advises Jon on how to get him out of the picture for good.

“Well, it’s a casual thing. Sansa reckons she should take it slow with him, I mean you know the guy’s rep.” Arya doesn’t suppress the urge to clench her jaw in annoyance. “But it’s still a thing, so you’ve just got to nudge Sansa in the right direction — ergo, yours. It can’t be too hard,” she assures him, “there’s no way Harry’s made her come.”

Before Jon can even think of what to say to that — something jealous, he’s sure, as the little green monster tears at his gut whenever he so much as thinks of Harry’s hands on Sansa — Arya polishes off her beer and snaps her fingers. “Got it. Me and Margaery are the only ones who know about this, but you should, too.”

She snaps her fingers again before pointing one at him, and her face breaks into a wicked grin. “Sansa’s got a bit of a daddy kink, and it’s your fault.”

Oh? The jealousy ebbs to be replaced by shock and, Jon privately acknowledges, excitement at this development. The fact that he’d be responsible for any of Sansa’s kinks is cause for celebration, in his very humble opinion. And the fact that they just so happen to share this particular sexual preference, well… If that’s not kismet, Jon doesn’t know what is.

Not that he’s going to tell anyone that, as he prefers to keep such matters private until he can act on them with one specific person (read: Sansa). So Jon clears his throat, tries to act cool, and avoids looking at Arya and even Robb, regardless of the state of his Tom Jones stupor, because one simply never knows when he’s going to spring back into action.

Be cool… Act natural, Jon thinks, and then realizes that his advice is an oxymoron when applied to himself, so he gives up.

“Um…” He clears his throat again. “How, uh — how so?”

Not fooled for a moment by Jon’s put-upon casual façade, Arya smirks and says, “Well, first, because you’re always complimenting her — telling her how good she is at shit. That’s pretty easily translatable to sexual fantasy, since Daddy stuff is a praise kink.”

Jon shakes his head. “Sometimes I hate that you’re a psych major.”

“Ha! Okay, so I’ll dumb it down for you: She reckons you dress like a hot dad. She’s into it. Badda-bing, badda-boom.” Arya looks him over, doesn’t see what her sister does, and shrugs it off. Whatever floats your boat, Sansa.

“I dunno, maybe it’s the beard. Wear your glasses more, too,” she suggests as she resumes the video game. She’s done what she can for Jon for now; it’s time to get back to stealing cars and beating everyone else’s scores. “I know they’re probably inconvenient when you’re trying to get your face between a girl’s legs — I mean imagine the mess — but you’ve got a better chance of getting there with Sansa if you look like a fuckin’ nerd.”

“Uh-huh.” Jon hardly processes the insult. He’s far too used to Arya to be fazed by it; and anyway she’s given him so much to go on now that he's more than happy to take her ire, too, if it means he’s that much closer to winning Sansa over.

He prods Robb in the knee, and gestures for him to remove his headphones. Robb does so warily — and rightfully so, but Jon feels that he owes his best friend this warning, so he ignores the threatening gleam in Robb’s eye and tells him, “Operation ‘Jon tries to get into Sansa’s pants’ is officially a-go.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake —” Robb swears, and then the only thing that can be heard above his off-key shouting — “WHAT’S NEW PUSSYCAT, WHOA-WHOA-OH-OH!” — as he stomps away to the kitchen, is Arya’s stream of delighted cackles.

Chapter Text

Jon takes Arya’s advice to heart because frankly it’s the best he’s got. Really, there’s no contest when all Theon has to say on the subject is “Take your shirt off,” and Robb hasn’t actually got any advice because “While I support what you’re doing in spirit, I don’t particularly care to hear the sordid details of your seduction of my sister.”

He starts off slow, subtle, with a patience that belies how badly he wants her. Indeed, Jon’s rather impressed with his self-control; he’s wanted Sansa for so long that he’s surprised he doesn’t just jump on her every time she breezes through the door.

But he doesn’t want to scare her off — make her a little nervous, sure, but he’s shooting for fluttery anticipation, not wary avoidance. And loathe as he is to admit it, Jon’s pretty sure that pouncing on her like a horny schoolboy isn’t going to get him the attention he’s looking for.

Sansa likes confident guys, Arya had told him, and really that’s something Jon should have figured out for himself. He hasn’t particularly liked any of Sansa’s beaus — his jealousy notwithstanding, they’ve all been the worst — but what they’d lacked in common human decency, they’d made up for in (undeserved) self-assurance. At twenty-seven, Jon’s shed his adolescent insecurities and has learned to like himself well enough — and even more so now that he has Arya’s word that Sansa likes him, too.

So maybe she’s afraid to admit it, Jon thinks one morning a week later, when he returns to the flat after his run. He hadn’t been ready to face his feelings head-on, either; but now that he is, he’s got no problem in opening Sansa’s eyes to the possibilities, too — the possibility of him and her, and how good it can be.

And if that involves taking Theon’s one piece of advice and showing up on Sansa’s doorstep in nothing but athletic shorts and a fine sheen of sweat, well, then it is what it is and Jon’s willing to take that bullet.

“You’re cut like a damn Greek god,” Theon had observed, with only a hint of disgust, a few days ago. “If you want to get in her pants, the only rational course of action is to be half-naked around her at all times. It’s basic human psychology, Jonathan,” he’d added, pedantic now, but somehow Jon still thinks Theon might have a point.

So, shirtless it is.

Sansa shouts a come in! when he knocks, so Jon lets himself into the flat and follows the sounds of Bruce Springsteen playing in the kitchen. If he hadn’t already known Sansa was home, the music would have been a dead giveaway: Robb’s got Tom Jones, Sansa’s got Springsteen, Arya’s into old school hip-hop, Bran’s in the midst of a classic kick (with an occasional Cher chart-topper thrown into the mix), and Rickon’s one true love is ABBA, hard stop.

Jon, for his part, prefers Springsteen, and Sansa’s own appreciation for the man makes her — if possible — about ten times hotter than she already is (if you ask Jon, anyway).

“Hey!” Sansa looks over her shoulder from where she’s standing vigil over the stove. Her eyebrows hitch up when her gaze travels down, stopping somewhere around the low-slung waistband of Jon’s shorts.

So far, so good. Jon makes a mental note to pick up Theon’s tab during the next pub crawl. The man can rack up a pricey bill, but it’s worth another forty-or-so dragons if Jon can get Sansa to bite his lip the way she’s chewing on hers now.

“We’re, uh, out of coffee.” Jon jerks his thumb to the right to indicate the flat he shares with Robb and Theon. The movement’s not much, but it kicks Sansa back into focus and, despite her furious blush, her eyes meet his. “Mind if I borrow some?”

They’re not actually out of coffee — in fact Robb had just picked some up yesterday — but Jon has to think on his feet here. And he just so happens to know that Sansa keeps the beans stored in the cupboard above the stove, where she’s currently stirring some heaven-scented pasta sauce.

“Oh — sure, of course.” Sansa’s eyes dip to his bare torso again, just for a moment, before she shakes her head a little and turns around. Her shoulders rise, tense, and fall; Jon has the sudden urge to run his hands over them, to rub down her arms to her waist, to slot his hands into the curves of her sides and —

“I’ll put a pot on for you.” Sansa stretches on her toes to reach the cabinet, but Jon’s behind her in three long strides.

“I’ve got it. Just — sorry, ‘scuse me, sweetheart.” He puts a hand on her hip, and uses the other to reach for the cabinet himself.

She jerks, surprised, against him, which only serves to push her really, really fantastic bum into his rather (embarrassingly) swiftly hardening cock. Jon cuts himself some slack, though, if only because it’s been a long time, and anyway his reaction to Sansa has always been swift and embarrassing.

So this is love, hmmm hmmm hmmm hmmm… Jon hums the song in his head for half a second, before once more concentrating on his objective.

Feigning worry — because between Sansa’s blush and her twitch, he does know what he’s doing to her, and his only real worry would be if she wasn’t responding the way that she is — Jon squeezes her hip and ducks his head to get a better look at her (and maybe so his beard rasps a little bit against her jaw, too), and asks, “You alright?”

Her answer is a sharp intake of breath she tries to hide, but Jon’s not fooled, and then she clears her throat and squeaks, “I’m fine.”

“You sure?” Jon doesn’t think his brow can furrow in exaggerated worry much further, so he’s really pushing his limits here — but he’ll push a little further while he’s at it. The sweet almond of her shampoo assaults his senses when he mutters into her ear, “You look a bit… hot.”

If Jon weren’t so hard-up, he’d probably feel like an idiot over his words, but as it is… Well, it’s all about the endgame, isn’t it? He’ll say whatever he has to, and he’ll mean every word.

His free hand moves to her hip now, too, holding her fast and close to him. The other sweeps across her stomach and dips to her navel in a concerned caress, nudging her more snugly against his naked chest. If Sansa has any complaints about how hot and damp he is, she doesn’t voice them.

In fact, if her shiver is any indication — and oh, Jon thinks it might just be — she rather likes how hot and damp he is. And to be fair, Jon would rather like it if Sansa were hot and damp, too, so he can understand where she’s coming from.

“It’s a little — just a little warm in here,” Sansa all but chokes out, whilst Jon’s thumb rubs circles just above the snap of her jeans. “I think I just, um — I’ve had the oven on all morning, so…”

She sags, almost imperceptibly, against him and Jon wraps his arms more fully around her waist. He presses a kiss to her temple — a gesture of comfort he’s offered a thousand times before, so the only illicit thing about it is the way he noses behind her ear afterwards — and he says, “Easy, love, you look like you’re about to pass out. You sleep alright last night?”

Truthfully, Jon knows exactly what Sansa had been up to last night, and it’s just that which had spurred him to come barging in this morning with no shirt and filthy intentions. (Or the groundwork to further filthy intentions, anyway; after all, Jon had already decided that pouncing on her immediately would elicit more problems than orgasms.)

He’d woken this morning to a slew of double-texts from Arya, timestamped between eleven P.M. and midnight:

sansa went out with harry at 9. aren’t you supposed to be seducing her?

obviously you’re failing

i told you a w e e k a g o that she wants to JUMP ON IT and you’re still stalling?? what kind of sad excuse for a besotted fool are you???

fuckin NUT UP, JON

get that pussy ON LOCK

i had more of those in my repertoire but it’s 11:19 and sansa’s home so there’s hope for you yet

she’s home and kinda pissed, actually

I TOLD YOU HARRY WASN’T MAKING HER COME

MY SISTER IS SUFFERING FROM A DEARTH OF SEXUAL GRATIFICATION JON

YOU’RE A FIREFIGHTER

A PUBLIC SERVANT

SO  P U B L I C  S E R V I C E  HER

When Jon had replied before his run, Arya — now more coherent than she was after a Chinese takeout-and-cheap-but-nevertheless-effective-wine binge the night before — had explained properly:

oh so when sansa got home me and gendry were going at it on the couch and she threw her new essosi clutch (the one with the big-ass clasp) at us. usually she leaves me to it when i’m about to get some (#girlpower) so while gendry was nursing the welt on his forehead sansa apologized and told me that she’s ~frustrated

so i was like “what about harry?” and she was all “what ABOUT harry??” so there’s your in, man

but OMG jon you gotta check out this welt on gendry’s forehead the next time you see him it’s HILARIOUS

oh and also bang my sister ffs

Perhaps it’s unfair for Jon to tease Sansa when she’s already so wound-up and he knows about it. But when he dips his thumb just so past her waistband and that little soft whine escapes her, Jon has to admit that it’s a lot of fun, too.

Besides — his blunt thumbnail scrapes lightly across her cocoa-butter skin — he’ll make it up to her later.

As if the proximity of Jon’s hand to her deprived cunt is some sort of earth-shattering wake-up call to her current position, Sansa jerks again — this time effectively removing herself from Jon’s embrace, although the swing of her hair continues to brush his chest.

Behind her, Jon smirks — a self-indulgent gesture, proud and a little surprised that he’s managing to pull this off — and runs his fingers through that hair. It’s just one long, slow caress of his fingers through her waist-length tresses, still half-damp from the shower, but it makes her shudder and his gut clenches with want — he wants that hair in his hands, fistfuls of it; he wants it fanned across his pillowcase, tickling his nose when he wakes up in the morning; he wants to watch the water streaming through it, darkening it, while he fucks her beneath the shower spray —

“I slept fine.” Sansa’s voice is higher than usual when it rouses him from his daydreams. She dips her finger into the simmering pot and turns to face him. “Well, less than average, really, but I’m more worried about how this pasta sauce is turning out.”

She holds her finger, now drenched in a wicked vermillion, aloft. “Try this.”

Jon’s eyes flick from hers to her expectant finger and back again. She can’t possibly want me to suck on her finger, he thinks, heart pumping more wildly than it had when he’d hit his runner’s high not an hour earlier. He’s supposed to be seducing her, and for a moment there Jon had thought things were going quite swimmingly, but now…

“You want me to lick sauce off your finger?” he blurts out, not at all as suave as he’d been when he’d had her practically melting in his arms.

Sansa’s face is still pink, but she manages to crack a grin at his expense. “Well I’m not going to let you lick it off the spoon, am I? I’m still using that. Go on, taste it,” she invites, lifting her hand closer to his very curious mouth. “It’s a new Dornish spice recipe I wanted to try. Tell me if it’s any good.”

Oh, sweetheart, you’re plenty good, Jon thinks, and then quite forcefully has to remind himself that she’s asking him to taste her pasta sauce, not her pussy, lest he fall to his knees right here in the kitchenette.

His own current state of sexual frenzy isn’t exactly beneficial to him, but Jon decides he can spin it to his advantage nonetheless.

“Alright.” He shrugs, as if wholly unaffected when nothing could be further from the truth, and grasps her wrist.

Not knowing how to make this less obvious in its sensuality, Jon thinks fuck it and maintains eye contact when he sucks her sauce-drenched finger between his lips.

A small, surprised sort of yip! catches in Sansa’s throat when Jon’s tongue swipes lazy circles ‘round her offered finger. The sauce is a hot medley of spices, thick and heady and reminiscent of late summer nights at the beach; and Sansa’s skin is warm, soft, sweet-smelling even beneath the veneer of spice. Jon can feel her pulse skip when he tightens his grip on her wrist, can see her pupils dilate as they stay locked on his.

Even if her Dornish sauce wasn’t the best thing he’d ever had on his tongue, Jon thinks nothing would taste so sweet, so long as it’s offered to him on Sansa’s bare skin. Pasta sauce on her finger is one thing, he thinks as he licks it clean, but he wonders how long he’ll have to wait until he can try chocolate syrup on her neck or whipped cream on her… everything.

Slowly but still regretfully, Jon pops his lips apart and extracts Sansa’s finger, now coated in nothing but the slickness of his mouth that’s dying to taste hers.

“Please tell me this is dinner.” His lips brush her fingertip still, and he’s looking at her mouth when he says it. His gaze lowers to her throat when she swallows.

He advances half a step closer, hardly noticeable, but it makes Sansa’s back straighten to accommodate him before she’s caged against the countertop. Her camisole top rubs deliciously against his chest; he wants her hands there, too, braced against his heartbeat that’s running wild for her.

“So that’s good, then?” she asks over a hitching breath.

Jon’s grip loosens, and his fingers stroke her wrist before he frees it. He’s still looking at her mouth, as if to drive home his point, when he reassures her: “Best thing I’ve ever tasted, sweetheart.”

“Uh-huh.” Sansa glances at his mouth, so quickly it must be involuntary — a knee-jerk reaction, Jon thinks, which only further validates Arya’s assertion of Sansa’s praise kink.

And he can absolutely work with that.

“Well then I’ll —” Sansa shakes her head again, just as inconspicuously as she had when she’d let her gaze rove over Jon’s naked torso earlier, but he still catches it “— yeah, I’ll bring some by for all of you later. But um — well, I won’t be — I mean, Harry’s coming by, so —”

“Yeah?” Jon frowns, just a little.

He’d hoped that Sansa might be rid of Harry after last night, but when he stops to think on it he realizes how foolish such a thought is. She’s put up with worse than her partner’s sexual ineptitude; and if she’s willing to settle, as Arya had said, then Harry would still do the trick, his inability to please her notwithstanding. That’s no excuse for Jon to quit — no, if anything, it’s only an extra incentive for him to succeed. Because he would please her, no bones about it; he’d make it his goddamn life’s work.

And he’s not going to let Harry sodding Hardyng stand in his way, especially not now that Jon’s got Sansa up against her counter, when he’s got her pupils blown and the taste of her on his tongue…

“Hm,” Jon says as if Harry’s of no consequence to him. He takes a step back to give Sansa some room to breathe and shoots her a small smile. “That’s too bad.”

He wonders if she can feel her chest relax when she finally releases a long-held breath. “Is it?”

Jon shrugs one shoulder and swipes another taste of sauce from its pot. It’s not nearly as good on his own finger as it was on Sansa’s, but it’ll do. He looks at her pointedly as he sucks the digit clean and says, “Thought I might get you to myself tonight.”

She returns his smile, if only a bit more confusedly. “What do you need to get me to yourself for?”

“Hm.” Jon hums again and pretends her pasta sauce has his full attention. “You’re nosy.”

“You’re talking about me, to me.” Sansa laughs, still breathless and a little indignant now as she tries to figure out what he’s on about. Jon’s certainly not going to make it any easier for her. “I’m not nosy, I’m looking for clarification and now you’ve confused me.”

Jon schools his expression into one of innocence when he offers his ring finger, covered in the scarlet Dornish spice. “You know, I think you should try some of this for yourself.”

“Jon…” Sansa sighs, an unfairly lovely sound. There’s a little crease between her brows and a slight pout on her lips. Jon wants to kiss both of them away.

“Come on, Sansa —” he prods the seam of her lips, making her laugh and him smile in turn “— it’s so good. I don’t think there’s anything you don’t do well, but this sauce might be in your top five.”

She rolls her eyes, her laughter forming into a smirk now as she drawls, “Yeah, I just bet.”

“Don’t roll your eyes at me.” Jon’s tone is teasing, but it drops to a low, almost-growl — not so much so that it would put Sansa on edge, but enough to pique her interest (and, if Jon’s honest with himself, her arousal, too).

He wants so badly to admonish her further, to tsk and call her a naughty girl for misbehaving so, but he checks himself before he wrecks himself. Folding like a deck of cards isn’t part of the game plan; he needs to be patient, to feel her out even when all he really wants to do is feel her up.

“Alright, no need to get so bossy,” Sansa huffs, seemingly irked by his demands. But the pink in her cheeks has travelled down her face to her throat to the neckline of her shirt, and Jon wants to know how much lower it goes.

He follows that blush with his hungry eyes, imagining what it might be like to chase it with his tongue — her Dornish sauce would have a run for its money, most definitely — when Sansa’s lips close around his proffered finger and suddenly he’s engulfed by her warm, wet mouth… and then all he can think about is how warm and wet her cunt would be, if he were to slip a finger inside of her now.

Jon’s gaze flicks back to hers, eyes flashing before the colour is overtaken by the blackness of his pupils, the depths of his ardent craving for her. A groan rumbles deep in his gut, and he nearly lets it loose when Sansa’s tongue flattens against the underside of his finger, taking him deeper into her mouth, sucking his skin clean of her sauce.

Gods, but if only he had slipped that finger inside of her, if only he’d gathered the wetness he prays is there, if he could make her taste what he does to her… what he could do to her, because he could make her warm and wet and hot and dripping and it would be worth something, because he wouldn’t stop ‘til he made her come —

The heat dissipates as suddenly as it had come. His finger slips from Sansa’s mouth, glistening in the bright kitchen lights, and he wonders if it would glisten even more if he could shove his hand into her panties and find out. He wants to find out, and that groan that had rumbled deep within him breaks into a rough sigh when Sansa’s breath skips against his damp finger.

“Right,” she huffs again, but she sounds more irked with herself this time — more breathless, unsteady, unsure. “I suppose you win this round, Snow. That sauce might really be in my top five. I’m better than I thought I was.”

Oh, darling, I bet you are. Jon’s thumb swipes at her bottom lip, and he smiles when her breath hits his skin anew, when her lips part like she’s just waiting for something…

It’s not time for him to give her that something just yet, though. So Jon simply chucks her under the chin, and then he sucks his own thumb into his mouth — as if to rid it of any residual sauce, when really he just wants one last little taste of her to get him through the day, and every lonely night that passes ‘til he has her to himself for good.

But for now, Jon only grins, and savours the hint of Sansa’s pretty mouth on his thumb, and he teases her, “Told you it was good.”

Chapter Text

A couple of weeks go by before Jon ups the ante. Of course, he’d thought sucking on Sansa’s fingers was about as up as the ante could get, but time has proven him wrong on that front.

After all, if the tables were turned, Jon would have fucked her straightaway, right there on the counter, and yet…

Instead of doing that or anything like it, he’s shared the elevator with Harry one too many times, when Harry’s on his way home and Jon’s headed to the night shift at the fire station, and he can’t imagine — doesn’t want to imagine — how often he’s at Sansa’s when Jon’s none the wiser.

So he starts coming ‘round whenever Harry does. His phone pings with a message from Arya — THE FALCON HAS LANDED — and suddenly Jon has the overwhelming need to borrow some sugar or coffee, or the washer broke and he needs to do a load at the girls’ place. If anyone asked, Jon would say the response is practically Pavlovian at this point, and he simply cannot be blamed for his submission to psychological experiments.

He’s weak. But when Sansa answers the door in one of his old U of Winterfell T-shirts, Jon thinks so be it.

“It’s nine A.M.,” she grouses by way of greeting. “I’m not even dressed yet.”

All the better for me, Jon thinks, because that means she’s been sleeping in his old shirts.

Before, he probably wouldn’t have put much stock in that; he would have overlooked it, brushed it aside so as not to get his hopes up. He would have stored it in the back of his mind for later — later, when he was alone in his bed and thinking of her (every damn single night), he would have unlocked that little box and closed his eyes and pictured her, Sansa in nothing but one of his ratty T-shirts… He’d shove his hands up it and kiss her neck, but he’d make her keep it on when he went down on her, when he settled between those long long legs and fucked her into his bed so hard that she couldn’t leave…

Jon tries to rein it in, but then his gaze travels down the length of her body, past his shirt. Her cotton plaid shorts barely peek out from beneath the hem, so miles of leg are on display and Jon thinks again how very much he’d like to spend his morning buried between them — maybe wake her up with his tongue and finish her off with her on top.

Down, boy, he chastises both his rampant heart and desperate cock. You’re not quite there yet.

“Looks like you’ve already got company.” Jon tilts his head to the side, indicating Harry’s jacket flung over the ottoman just inside the door, where the girls like to leave their unwanted mail.

“Looks like you’re not dressed, either,” Sansa quips, voice groggy. She runs a hand through her hair, already tousled from sleep (gods, Jon wants to muss it up himself more than he wants to breathe), and tilts her head right back at him, indicating his once-more shirtlessness. “What happened to all your shirts? Haven’t you got any?”

He shrugs. “I don’t like to get all dolled up to go running. Besides —” he looks pointedly at the shirt she’s wearing “— I think you’ve nicked them all, anyway.”

She waves away his comment as she leads him inside. “Consider it insurance payments on all the laundry I do for you.”

“Alright, so consider me showing up shirtless to be an early birthday present for you, then.”

He grins when Sansa shoots him a look over her shoulder — an assessing, interested look she tries to hide, but she’s not so smooth when it’s nine in the morning and Jon's caught her off-guard with the combined efforts of his abs and newfound confidence. He’s got a strict workout regimen to thank for the former, but the latter is entirely due to Arya’s many assertions that Sansa is — and he quotes — “thirsty AF.”

Still, Sansa keeps her cool and flippantly replies, “You’re not that good-looking.”

Jon catches her arm and spins her ‘round before they can make it out of the short entryway. Her front collides with his, and her shirt — his shirt — sticks to his sweat-slicked chest; she trods on his toes to regain her balance.

“Tell that to my face.” He points to her eyes, then his, and grins like he knows what she’s thinking and he’s into it (he sort of does, and regardless he is). “Eyes up here, Stark.”

Despite her better judgment, Sansa glances precisely where Jon knew she would — and better yet, she licks her lips while her eyes trace the curves and divots of his muscles. A show of weakness if he ever saw one — and Jon’s experienced his fair share, considering the sheer amount of times he hasn’t been able to take his eyes off her.

But Sansa, unlike him at any given time, recovers nicely when she snarks, “I’m distracted by the obvious body oil on your chest, it’s blinding.”

“It’s sweat, not body oil. I’m not Theon, for gods’ sake,” Jon snorts. He relaxes his grip on her elbow, but only so he can skim his hands down her arms and around her back. He tucks her snugly against him, his hold even firmer now, and he grins when she wrinkles her nose. “What’s that face for?”

“You really are all sweaty,” Sansa grumbles, but her hands are braced on his sides and she makes no move to pull away.

“Mhmm.” Jon’s hands clench in the material of her shirt, nails scraping almost imperceptibly at her skin beneath it.

Sansa licks her lips again, then sucks the bottom one between her teeth, and Jon doesn’t bother to stifle the low, appreciative sound that escapes him — the kind that starts on a sigh and ends on a groan when her eyes meet his. His hands move more purposefully against her lower back. “Told you, I was out for a run.”

“Yeah —” Sansa arches into his touch like a keening cat “— and then you come straight here and get your sweat all over me.”

Jon noses at her hairline and chuckles. “Yeah, well, I think you sort of like it.”

She laughs — broken, breathless, and it makes his heart skip and his muscles tighten — and starts to shake her head, starts to say something teasing in disagreement, but Jon stays her with a hand under her chin so he can study her face. 

Her pupils are dilated, just like they’d been the last time he’d gotten her alone and slid his tongue ‘round her finger, and Jon wants to know — yearning, desperate, starving, needs to know — what else he can do to her that will make Sansa look at him like this, what will make her never stop.

He means to say something — a final nail in the coffin, one last push, anything so she might know what he’s after, what he can give to her — when they’re interrupted by a voice calling from the other room:

“Sans? Who’s at the door?”

Sansa’s hands drop from his waist and Jon can’t stop the growl that escapes from between clenched teeth. She blinks and whispers in a rush, “Oh, um, Harry’s here.”

Right. Jon had seen his jacket. He’d known precisely what he’d been doing when Harry was just a stone’s throw away, and he hadn’t cared; he’d wanted to do more. And if he gets his way, he’ll follow through on more with Sansa before he leaves.

They can’t linger in the hall forever, not now that Harry’s called them out. So Jon squeezes her hip one last time and then shoves his hands in the pockets of his running shorts. His eyes smolder when they lock on hers — he can’t see himself to be sure, obviously, but Jon knows what his body does when he wants Sansa like this (because he always wants her like this) — and he asks, “Was he here all night?”

Jon phrases the question like a reprimand, demanding the truth but daring her to lie all the same. He doesn’t want Harry spending the night with her, but he doesn’t want Sansa to lie about it, either.

But Sansa’s never been much for lying, so when she shakes her head Jon believes her. “He dropped in a little while ago, on his way back from the gym.”

He nods, the motion curt but satisfied. “Good,” he mutters, and makes sure to brush his hand across her stomach when he walks past her into the sitting room. Her shudder lingers on his palm, and reverberates in his fingertips.

Good.

Harry’s splayed across the couch, legs spread and arms hanging across the back, taking up as much space as possible as if to mark his territory. Jon bites back a smirk; he’d had his hands all over Sansa just seconds before, while Harry was lazily scrolling through Netflix just as he is now. Jon might pity his obliviousness, if it weren't for the way Harry barely spares Sansa a glance when she enters the room on Jon’s heels. It’s almost as if Harry’s not aware of her at all.

Jon can’t quite decide if that’s the most unforgivably irritating thing he’s ever witnessed, or if he can look past it because it makes his own goal potentially more reachable. In the end, he lands on the former, because Sansa deserves nothing less than proper, total reverence from anyone she deigns to date — even if that anyone is someone like Harry instead of him.

But no matter. Jon shakes it off; he’ll change that soon enough.

“Hey, mate,” Harry greets him, although they’re hardly mates at all. “How’ve you been?”

Jon side-eyes Sansa next to him, but of course Harry doesn’t notice, and says, “Always a good day when you see Sansa first thing in the morning, isn’t it?”

That Harry cottons on to, just as Jon intended. He looks between them, forces a laugh and a joke — “Should I be worried?”

Absolutely you should, if I’ve got anything to say about it.

“‘Course not.” Jon tweaks Sansa under the chin again; he’s found that he likes that, making her look at him. She rolls her eyes, but they widen when he adds, “Sansa’s a good girl, aren’t you, love?”

There’s nothing amiss about his words, really — nothing that anyone would notice, and that suits Jon just fine; those words may have been directed at Harry, but they were all for Sansa… and now she’s looking at Jon like she knows exactly what he’s trying to do.

He gives her a smile, eyes on her half-scowling mouth, as if to confirm her suspicions. Before she can respond, he taps her sharply on the cheek with his fingers and asks, “Got any coffee?”

“Kitchen,” Sansa snarls, and Jon thinks she might bite his hand off if he touches her again. But it’s a risk worth taking, so he taps her cheek again, plants a completely platonic (read: not at all platonic) kiss on her forehead, and ducks out of her reach before she can retaliate.

Seven save him, but Jon Snow is having the time of his life.

When he elbows open the swinging door to the kitchen, it’s to find Arya already within. She’s perched on the countertop with her phone in one hand and an outrageously large jammie dodger in the other, both of which apparently require more attention than Jon does, since she doesn’t even look up when she greets him with a seemingly practiced insult: “You smell like the inside of my gym bag.

“Speaking of which,” she continues through a mouthful of pastry, “Harry wasn’t there this morning. At the gym, I mean.”

“Uh, so?” Jon snorts and busies himself with the coffee. “Let him skip leg day and wind up all disproportionate, it’s no skin off my teeth.”

Arya drops her phone next to her, to unburden her so that she might focus all of her displeasure on Jon. “He told Sansa he’d come from the gym, that’s why he’s here so early and all freshly showered and shit, but he wasn’t there. Besides, the gym’s a half-hour from here. Even my hair’s dry after that trip, and I’ve got more of it than he does.”

Jon matches her frown as he leans against the counter, coffee mug in hand, and asks, “Alright, Sherlock, so what’s your deduction?”

She huffs, impatient, as if Jon’s supposed to figure it out for himself and she’s right put-off that he hasn’t. When he looks at her expectantly rather than put the pieces together on his own, Arya snaps, “He was ‘round the goddamn corner at Cissy and Saffron’s.”

“Who?” Jon screws his face up in thought, downs a mouthful of coffee, and coughs through his bewilderment, “What the — what the fuck’s a Saffron?”

“It’s a spice, dumbass.” Arya stuffs the rest of the jammie dodger into her mouth and brushes the errant flakes from her fingers. “She and Cissy are these birds in my yoga class. They’re not bad — way too good for Harry, but who isn’t? — and obviously they’re alright with sharing him, but d’you think Sansa knows about them? Because I’ll tell you right now she doesn’t, but fuck if I know how to tell her that.”

Jon’s frown deepens. He takes another swig of coffee to give himself a moment to sort his thoughts, but just as he’s lowering the mug from his lips, the kitchen door swings open and Sansa’s stalking towards him.

She points an accusatory finger at him, and before Jon can muster his wits and suck that finger into his mouth again, she bites out, “I’m going to kill you.”

Arya gasps, but she’s clearly enjoying herself. “What did you do?”

Jon knows precisely what he did, but he’d rather pretend otherwise. He hides his grin in his cup and remarks, oh-so-innocently, “Not the faintest idea.”

Hoo, boy.” Arya chuckles and slides from her spot on the countertop. “I wash my hands of this, but Sansa, give a shout if you need help washing up the crime scene once you’ve murdered him.”

She flounces out the door — hopefully, Jon thinks, to distract Harry so he might snatch another, longer moment alone with Sansa. Because if he hadn’t already planned on giving her more this morning, Arya’s suspicions about how Harry’s been spending his free time only strengthen his resolve. If Harry can have a little side-action, Jon doesn’t see why Sansa shouldn’t, too — especially when he’s all too happy to oblige, and to cater to her as such.

If there was ever a time to up the ante, it’s now, immediately, and Jon’s not willing to waste it.

He does, however, finish his coffee while Sansa’s busy glowering at him. He raises his eyebrows, all innocence still, and prompts her from her stewing silence — “What?”

“You know what. You can’t just say —” Sansa crosses her arms over her chest, but her defiant stance doesn’t keep her from tripping over her words “— you know what.”

“I don’t.” Jon’s probably enjoying this too much, but he can’t help himself. He’s got her flustered now — annoyed with him, perhaps, but eating out of the palm of his hand all the same. Just as planned.

He sets his empty mug aside and pushes off the counter, closing the distance between them before Sansa can so much as grind her teeth at him again. She steps back as he approaches, and he crowds her against the stove just as he had the last time — only this time, Jon isn’t going to relent; he’s not going to give her any space to breathe.

“Go on, Sansa,” he invites as his hands span her hips. His chin juts up in challenge. “Tell me what was so bad about what I said.”

“You know,” she accuses. Her gaze is steady, steely, but her cheeks bloom pink when she finds Jon’s to be just as unyielding.

He does know; that’s why he’d said it in the first place, because he knew what it would do to her. But it’s not enough that she knows, that he knows, no, he wants her to —

“Say it,” Jon orders, voice low and rough, hands rubbing harsh circles onto her hips. “Come on, Sansa, be a good girl and tell me what’s got you so tightly-wound…”

He nudges her nose with his, and his coffee-tinged laugh bursts against her mouth when she stomps on his foot. Her fuzzy slipper-socks are no match for his running shoes, but he’ll let Sansa air her temper any way she needs — and if that happens to spiral into hot angry sex, well, Jon is fairly certain he can rise to such an occasion.

“That wasn’t very nice.” He clicks his tongue, milking this for all it’s worth when he pinches her waist. She hisses at the short, sudden pain, but her hips arch into his, and his cock twitches in response. “Stepping on my toes like that — where have your manners gone, Sansa? You’re always such a sweet girl —”

“I swear to the Seven, Jon,” Sansa warns, low and threatening and probably near-on the sexiest thing Jon’s ever heard, “keep it up and I’ll throw a pot of freshly-brewed coffee onto your damn bare chest.”

“Then I guess you’d just have to give me my shirt back, wouldn’t you? Although…” Jon twists his fingers in the hem of her shirt — his shirt — and he tugs her close, flush against him. “You look good in this. Really good. I don’t know that I’d want it back.” Not unless I’m the one taking it off you.

“Does Harry know you wear my old T-shirts to bed?” he wants to know, but not enough to wait for Sansa’s answer before he slides a hand under her shirt and continues. “Is he even the jealous type at all?” Jon’s gaze drops to her mouth, and he leans ever-so-slightly in. “I know I am.”

“Oh, that’s why you’re doing this?” Sansa arches a brow, but her attempted nonchalance is spoiled when Jon’s fingers begin a slow caress against her bare stomach. Her eyes widen and her body tenses, then relaxes when his thumb sweeps across her navel. “Because you’re jealous?”

You’re damn right I’m jealous, Jon almost growls; but he takes it slower than that, more carefully, when instead he asks, “You don’t believe that?”

“What I believe is that none of you like Harry, so now you’re messing with me so I’ll ditch him,” Sansa says so decidedly it’s almost as though she’d rehearsed it. “And when you’re all well-shot of him then you’ll admit to me it — this — was just a game.”

Jon shakes his head. He’s got some work to do to convince Sansa that he’s serious about this, about her, but… He sweeps his hand up higher to trace her ribcage, and when she trembles, when her hands clutch the counter behind her for purchase, Jon thinks he won’t mind a second of convincing Sansa of how much he wants her.

“You really think that’s the sort of guy I am, Sansa?” he asks her now. “Think I’d play with your feelings just because your boyfriend’s insufferable?”

She blinks and, for a moment, guilt crosses her face — because she knows, really, that Jon isn’t the sort who would play with her, not like that. Not to hurt her.

But Jon doesn’t want her guilt, he hasn’t got time for it when he has her to himself for an indeterminate amount of time, when they could be interrupted again at the drop of a hat; what he’s got time for is to wind her up just a little bit more, before he brings her back down again.

“I wouldn’t,” he assures her vehemently. “I wouldn’t do that to you. Maybe I think you’re the one who’ll be well-shot of him. Because then you won’t feel guilty about this —” Jon rolls his hips into hers, so that his stiffening cock can feel the warmth emanating from between her legs; he noses at her jawline and murmurs his promise against her pulse “— and I can make you feel good, Sansa.”

A short, sharp gasp rips from Sansa’s throat when Jon thrusts against her again, harder this time, more insistent. Her back digs into the counter’s edge and her fingers tighten on it; Jon can see her knuckles whiten with their effort to stay put, to hold fast to the counter rather than give in and touch him.

Jon will coax her touches from her, though — he’ll make her want it, make her succumb to the way that he makes her feel — and he only wants to make her feel good.

He slips his hands to hers, to cover them and soothe her self-imposed aches with steady strokes of his fingers across hers.

“Does Harry do this to you?” Jon demands to know, mouth hot near her ear but not quite touching. His lips hover, his breath tickles, but he won’t give in to the temptation to taste her just yet. “Get you this hot for him… and I haven’t even kissed you yet…”

Fuck, he wants to, though. But he refrains — kissing her’s not part of the game; not now. It’s one thing to make her come against the kitchen counter, but this isn’t how Jon wants to kiss her for the first time — rushed and on-edge, alert for any sound that might mean they’re about to be disturbed, caught. He wants to take his time with their first kiss, to taste and explore and savour. Considering how wound-up Sansa is, making her come shouldn’t take any time at all; kissing her, though… Jon wants to take all the time in the world for that.

Maybe his logic isn’t quite sound — Jon would be the first to admit that — but, well, the blood’s not exactly rushing to his brain at the moment, he concedes as he pushes his cock harder against her. Sansa whimpers and her legs spread, allowing him to rut against her more fully, firmly, to satisfy more than just tease her aching clit.

His hands relinquish their hold on hers to slip back to her waist, around her hips, to cup her ass and haul her against him. He moves his hips in tight circles, pressing into her warm cunt with his near-weeping cock through their clothes, as he gently nuzzles into her jaw, her neck, behind her ear…

“I’m not going to kiss you, Sansa,” Jon pants, but he flicks his tongue against the shell of her ear. He groans, and revels in her broken stream of sighs when he keeps up the light brush of his tongue. “You want me to, though, don’t you? Naughty girl.”

He pulls back, just far enough to search her face, to gauge her reaction. Her eyes are black, cheeks pink, lips parted and swollen where she’d dug her teeth into the bottom one. Jon lifts one hand to massage the hurt with his thumb, and — while his hips keep up their rhythm against hers — his free hand gives one sharp smack to her ass.

She bucks harder against him, hissing out his name: “Jon — Mother-Maiden-Crone, fuck —”

“Bad girl, Sansa,” he chides, and his hips pick up a punishing pace. He can almost feel how wet she is under those little cotton shorts — gods, but does he want to gather that wetness with his fingers, his mouth… “Watch your language. Good girls don’t talk like that, do they?”

Sansa whines, head lolling back when Jon traces his nose up the side of her throat. She smells of sugar and lemons and cocoa-butter lotion, and Jon wants to lick every last taste from her.

Not today… but soon, Seven save me, soon…

He reaches her ear and this time he bites — captures the lobe between his teeth and nips, sucks, and he growls, “Isn’t that right? Good girls don’t have filthy mouths. Answer me, baby —”

“No,” she gasps when he rotates his hips more furiously and she follows his lead. Finally, her hands leave the counter to bury in his hair instead, making him moan into her neck. “No, good girls don’t talk like that.”

“That’s better.” Jon’s lips are feather-light on her skin, a notable contrast to the firm gyration of his cock against her pussy. He wraps his arms around her, hands dragging along her back, guiding her movements. “Be a good girl for Daddy. Keep quiet, and I’ll let you come. I know how badly you need it, sweetheart…”

But Jon knows she won’t keep quiet. Sansa’s string of sighs and whimpers have been growing steadily louder — and gods, Jon wants to hear them, but he wants to get her off before anyone else hears them, too —

He thrusts upwards, hard, and Sansa cries out — but Jon plants a hand over her mouth and catches the sound before it can give them away.

Fuck, he thinks, but he’s still got a game to play.

“Bad girl, Sansa,” Jon repeats, voice a husky murmur now. His fingers dance across her lips, but his body ceases its insistent thrusting. His palm, still pressed to Sansa’s mouth, catches her dejected whine next. “Good girls stay quiet. If you can’t do that, you’ll need to be punished, won’t you?”

“Mmmm…” She’s whimpering still, but she nods. Jon doesn’t quite know where her head’s at, but at the moment she’s playing along, and that’s enough for him right now.

He hooks two fingers into the waistband of her cotton shorts and snaps it against her navel. She juts into his hand when he sweeps it down, cupping her, and then just as quickly he pulls away and sucks his fingers into his mouth.

He hadn’t touched her, not really, not nearly the way he’d wanted to, but still he can taste a hint of her on his fingers. It’s enough to satisfy and drive him crazy all at once.

“Jon —” she implores, hands skating down his chest as his hips keep hers caged against the counter. Her eyes are dark and half-lidded, still trapped in a lusty fog; Jon’s going to be thinking of her like this later — flushed and tense and near-begging for him.

But he can’t cave to her yet. They’ve been fucking about in the kitchen for too long, probably — next time, Jon’s going to have to make sure that they’re truly alone before he gets started on her. He won’t leave her hanging, wanting, again after this.

“Believe me, I’m disappointed too.” He presses a wet kiss to her throat, whilst he palms the front of his shorts to stave the desire throbbing for her in his cock. “Next time you’ll be quiet for me, won’t you, baby?”

Next time… The words seem to shake Sansa of her high-strung ache, and she shakes her head in turn. “Jon, I — we can’t —”

“We can.” Jon’s hands cover hers, still pressed to his torso. He massages the backs of her hands with his fingertips, and nudges her nose with his like he had at the start of it all. “We can do whatever we want, Sansa… Listen to what I say next time, and I won’t leave you frustrated.”

He pushes his hands through her hair, twisting the tousled strands between his fingers as he keeps in-character: “You know I don’t wanna do that, baby. Daddy hates to see you all wound-up like this… you’re so tight, aren’t you, honey… so tense…”

Jon kisses her neck again — just a whisper of his lips against her skin, a flick of his tongue and the barest scrape of his teeth. He can feel her chest hitch, her heart skip, and he licks one long, firm line up her throat to her chin before he relents.

His gaze catches on her lips, pink and swollen even without his mouth ever taking hers…

Next time next time next time —

“I’ll make it better for you next time,” Jon swears, gruff and honest.

Then, he reaches behind her and plucks a peach from the ceramic bowl on the counter. His gaze is still level with her mouth when he bites into it; the juice dribbles into his beard, just a little. Sansa tracks its progress when the next mouthful Jon takes slurps between his teeth, and this time he sucks the juice from his bottom lip.

(Truth be told, he’s not sure exactly how arousing this is, but he read online that suggestive/erotic fruit consumption is always worth a shot, so here he is and anyway, Sansa seems to like it — and hadn’t that been the whole point?)

“Maybe something like this —” Jon doesn’t break eye contact, but watches Sansa intently as he continues to suck the peach’s juice. Her own tongue darts out to wet her lips — those sinfully pretty lips, just begging for his kiss — so he doesn’t stop there. “Maybe next time I could do this for you, yeah? Get my mouth on you, if you want, on all of you…”

He groans into his next bite, and Sansa looks like she might push him onto the kitchen table and have her way with him here and now, when —

“Sans?” Harry’s voice calls from the other room, bursting their bubble once more. The sounds of some sports match on the telly join it. “How’re the egg sandwiches coming?”

“Not as hard as you will be,” Jon mutters to Sansa, and she stomps on his foot again. He chuckles, dark and damp when he slurps on the peach again. “Next time, love, I promise —”

“Just a few more minutes, Harry!” Sansa shouts back, before she shakes her head at Jon in another half-assed attempt to shut him down, even when her hands are still on him. “Jon, I —”

But before she can protest further — Jon’s not in the mood to bicker about the will-we-or-won’t-we? semantics (they will), and they don’t have the time besides — he leans back and tosses the peach pit into the bin.

“I should get going,” he says, however much he doesn’t want to. But he’ll be leaving Sansa with the echoes of his hands on her, with the lingering heat of his body seeping into hers, the way he’d nearly fucked her into the counter and how he can make her come, make her his the way he’s already hers, has always been hers…

Next time.

Jon chucks her under the chin — he’ll never tire of that, will he? — and he dips his head. His eyes stay steady on hers, watching for any sign that he should stop, but she gives him no such indication. Instead, Sansa’s fingers dig into his chest, nails leaving little half-moons behind when his nose bumps hers and their breaths mingle in the barely-there space between them.

He grazes his mouth lightly — so, tortuously lightly, deliciously sticky from the fruit — against hers, and he murmurs into her short, longing sigh, “I’ll see you later, sweetheart.”

Chapter Text

She’s avoiding him.

Jon can’t say he’s totally surprised at the development. As much as he’s chomping at the bit to see Sansa again, to make good on all his promises, he’d caught her rather unawares in her kitchen last week; he’d even caught himself rather unawares with his actions. He should give her some space to bounce back, no matter how impatient he’s become.

It’s just… He’d waited so long, and at last he’d wanted to take everyone’s advice — well, Arya and Theon’s advice, anyway, since Robb has taken to belting out the chorus of “What’s New, Pussycat?” every time he sees Jon, rather than actually speak to him like a normal person (but that’s a problem for another day) — to just nut up and do something already. But he’d still wanted to exercise a little more self-restraint than he’d demonstrated when he’d grabbed Sansa’s ass and half-fucked her in a possessive frenzy.

All things considered, though, Jon supposes he should be satisfied with his impulse control as of late. Because despite his animalistic actions in Sansa’s kitchen a week and a half ago, he very much stands by them, as well as the assertion that he would have done more if circumstance had allowed for it.

But satisfaction is just about the last thing he feels. Jon thinks of Sansa — her sweet smell and soft skin, dark eyes and swollen mouth, her canting hips and wandering hands — and no, he’s not satisfied when he falls asleep to the echo of her sighs and the way she’d said his name; he’s hot and restless and smarting with a harsh, decisive ache that refuses to be soothed.

“Fuckin’… take care of it, man,” Theon says when Jon asks what the hell he’s supposed to do about this. “It’s your own fault you’re all stressed out. So you can either text Sansa for a fuck, or you can quit acting like such a bloody martyr and just wank it out already.”

While not at all unexpected, Theon's counsel remains entirely unhelpful. Jon is absolutely not going to “text Sansa for a fuck” (whether or not he wants it — and he does — is irrelevant), and as far as the alternative goes… Well, Jon’s willing to bet he’s some sort of biological anomaly, because ever since he got the barest taste of what it’s like to get between Sansa’s legs, it seems that getting between them all over again is the only way to scratch this itch — thoroughly and finally.

Has he used up the last of his “Sansa fantasy lubricant” — face it, Jon, it really might as well be called that — on such thoughts? Jon is almost ashamed to admit that yes, he has, but he figures he paid his penance well enough when Arya caught him tossing the empty bottle in the bin.

“Oh, Lord of Light,” she’d said, not so much judging as she did pity him, “you need to get laid even more than Sansa does, don’t you?”

He’d only flipped her off and slammed his bedroom door behind him when she laughed at his expense.

And so another night comes to pass — another night without having seen Sansa all day, another fitful sleep ahead of him — in which Jon finds himself in bed at eight-fifteen, not to sleep but so he can scroll through Sansa’s Instagram in peace. Even Robb takes the piss about that, and Jon’s in no mood to hear it from any of them tonight.

Maybe if things were different, maybe if things were the way he wanted, then maybe Jon could take the jokes. Because then he could tell them all to sod off, Sansa was his girlfriend, after all, so they could say what they liked and he’d just ignore it in favour of taking Sansa by the hand and dragging her off someplace quiet and private, where he could kiss her all he liked and the only thing he’d have to listen to was her voice.

Every god in every denomination… Jon huffs. He really is pathetic — and a little lecherous and a lot self-loathing, he adds when he lands on a photo of himself and Sansa taken only a month or so ago, but his favourite nonetheless. 

They’d all been down at White Harbour for a day on the docks when the rain hit — sudden and torrential, and it had drenched them all within an inch of their lives. A couple of the Starks’ dogs had made an eager run for it, and Sansa had gotten the worst of the mud when she’d finally managed to wrangle them into submission. Her shirt had been soaked through, her shoes ruined, and the photo captured what she’d looked like at day’s end: damp, dirty hair twisted into a bun on top of her head; shorts mud-splattered but barely visible beneath Jon’s shirt, which he had totally altruistically given up for her; and bare feet swinging off the ground as Jon carried her — again, totally altruistically — bridal-style around the pier so she didn’t have to traipse about without her shoes.

Arya had caught them with her phone camera — Sansa was laughing, arms around his neck, and Jon had the goofiest grin on his face as he looked at her. Sansa had posted the photo, captioned My personal Prince Aemon the Dragonknight. Ladies, eat your heart out. 

Later, Arya had texted him the picture, accompanied by her own caption: i can’t believe she doesn’t know you’re in love with her.

Jon had texted back, a little drunk at the time so he hadn’t even questioned how Arya knew when he thought he’d been hiding it so well: You think it’s obvious?

And Arya had replied, with an edited version of the photo in which she’d drawn a crude circle-and-arrows around the dopey look on his face, tilted towards Sansa’s: well it IS a bit obvious.

They hadn’t discussed it since, not until Jon had come clean with her and Robb a few weeks ago, but Jon had looked at that picture every goddamn day and wondered, desperately, when he’d finally pluck up the courage to tell Sansa how he felt.

And now here he is, mired deep in emotional and sexual frustration alike, and the only thing he can think to do is try to masturbate the feelings away for just one more night.

Jon really, really wishes he could just punch himself in the face and reach the same results. It’s the least his debauched ass deserves, and yet…

He sets his laptop aside, Sansa’s Instagram still open, and he’s just reaching for the fresh bottle of lotion on his nightstand when he hears the girls’ shower start next door.

Shit. Jon stalls, and prays this won’t be a repeat of that time — several times — he’d overheard Arya and Gendry getting amorous in the shower. He’d only ever heard about three seconds’ worth of activity before he’d launched off his bed and as far away from the sound of running water as possible, but he still has to live with that, and Arya still thinks it’s the funniest goddamn thing in the world.

He’s just about to call it quits, just in case, when Sansa starts singing on the other side of the wall.

Oh.

Jon almost never catches Sansa in the shower; their schedules (and the fates, apparently) don’t align to allow for such a glorious thing. The handful of times they had, Jon had been plagued with the deepest guilt and slunk out of his bedroom with zero enthusiasm but at least some self-control.

Now, though… His self-control is long gone, stamped out by unquenched desire and the frustration that followed.

Jon glances at his laptop, at Sansa’s legs and her laughter and the way that he’s looking at her, then at his bottle of lotion, and all the while Sansa is singing over the rush of water, naked and wet and just out of his reach.

And then it’s not just the water and her voice and Jon’s scrambled thoughts stampeding through his mind and demanding attention — it’s the water and her voice and Jon’s scrambled thoughts and a faint but unmistakable buzz-buzz-buzz and then —

Sansa’s soft, decadent, desperate sigh, just on the other side of his bedroom wall.

Oh, fu— Jon groans and shoves a hand down his pants — fuck me.

Gods, he wishes he could see her. Jon screws his eyes shut and lets the sounds of Sansa getting herself off overtake him. Those whimpers and whines — so familiar to him now, played over and over in his head since he’d pulled them from her in the kitchen — make him whimper and whine in turn.

He fists his cock and pumps harder with every thought that crosses his mind, every one of them with Sansa at the forefront: panting in his ear and now against the shower wall; hair wet and tangled and plastered to her heated skin; her hands twisted in his hair as he slammed her against the counter, hands he can see wrapped around her vibrator, teasing her mound and her lips and her clit, everywhere he wants to map with his own fingers and his mouth and his cock that’s hard and weeping for her.

He pictures Sansa with one hand on her pussy and the other squeezing her tits, pinching her nipples, head thrown back and hot water streaming down her neck. Jon’s back arches as he thrusts into his hand, imagining that it’s her cunt but there’s no way his hand can possibly feel half as good.

Fuck fuck fuck — he wants her, so bad that it hurts. His cock throbs as he tries to satiate it, to quell this hunger that’s all for her, all for Sansa — an appetite that won’t, that can’t be appeased without her.

The buzz-buzz-buzz on the other side of the wall intensifies, and Sansa’s muffled noises grow louder, clearer, faster. Jon’s strokes pick up to match her pace. He wants to come when she does, wants to picture her in ecstasy when he reaches his own, wants to groan her name at the height of his peak when she moans or sighs or screams… Gods, please let her scream for me… Whatever she sounds like when she comes, Jon wants to hear it, wants it to mingle and merge with his release.

His muscles tighten, everywhere, his body thrums, his mind’s eye flashes vision after vision of Sansa — red hair, blue eyes, pale skin, soft and smooth and wet and writhing, blushing pink, hitching chest, rapid hands and expert fingers — and Jon thrusts once, twice more into his hand and near-shouts her name through gritted teeth, when —

“Jon!”

“Oh, fuck,” Jon moans, and comes harder when he hears Sansa cry out his name. 

 


 

Half an hour later, Jon is leaning in the open door to his flat, munching contentedly — and, okay, a bit smugly — on a bowl of cereal as he waits for Sansa to pop out into the hallway. After a quick shower of his own, Jon’s feeling worlds better than he has not only in the past ten days, but in all of recent memory.

She said my name. The words are a mantra, playing on a loop in his head like his favourite song. Cue his reacquired confidence, and let the games begin.

Jon’s halfway through a mouthful of cereal when Sansa steps out the door, dressed to the nines in a short navy dress with lace accents and an open back. She has a sweater slung over one arm, but if Jon had his way she wouldn’t put it on; if Jon had his way, she’d be going out with him, and he’d keep her warmer than any sweater could.

And he plans to show her how.

Sansa doesn’t notice him as she locks her door, so he crunches loudly on his next bite of cereal and announces his presence with an appreciative hum: “Mmmm. Damn.”

She jumps, and Jon lets his eyes rake unashamedly over her. She said my name. “Where are you off to?”

“Don’t.” Sansa shakes her head at him, and goes back to unsticking her key from the lock, which has a tendency to jam.

Jon pushes his specs up his nose and keeps eating. “What?”

“Don’t mmmm at me. You’re so…” Sansa struggles with what to say, but pretends she’s just distracted by her stuck key. Jon can’t blame her, really; after all, the last time they’d been virtually alone together, he’d effectively ruined their friendship by aggressively dry-humping her at nine in the morning. Plus he’d appealed to her ultimate sexual fantasy, so… yeah, Jon supposes their relationship dynamic has taken a fair few turns.

“You’re so weird lately,” Sansa finally decides, just as the key relents and she drops it into her bag. Weird hardly covers it — it’s hardly applicable at all — but Jon’s not going to press. “Stop it.”

He smothers a laugh with more cereal. “What’s weird?”

“You,” she reaffirms as she checks the lock. “Mmmm-ing at me.”

Jon tilts his head, raises his eyebrows, and shoves another spoonful into his mouth. “Clearly your view isn’t the same as mine.”

“Quit staring at my ass.”

Caught, he grins, but doesn’t relent. “You got a date?”

Finally, Sansa turns to face him. Her hair hangs in loose curls, pulled over one shoulder; her eyes are smokey and lips slicked scarlet. Jon traces the shape of them with his gaze, then lets it dip, slowly and obviously, down her throat to her chest, to her hips, her knees, and back up again so that their eyes lock.

Jon grins again, but Sansa seems determined to piss him off when she tells him, “I’ve got a late dinner with Harry.”

“Hm.” He pretends to mull that over, and busies himself with his cereal like he couldn’t care less about anything else. His eyes lift to hers again when he drops the ball and asks, “You always get yourself off before a date?”

The only response he gets is the furious pink of her cheeks and ears, her neck and what he can see of her chest before her dress obscures his viewing pleasure — but that’s response enough.

“What is that,” Jon continues conversationally when Sansa clamps her mouth shut, “like a precautionary measure or something?”

She glares at him like she means to burn a hole through his skin, but Jon remains wholly unaffected. She said my name. “How did you…”

“These walls, Sansa…” He taps one with his spoon. “Paper thin. You know my bedroom is right next to your shower, yeah?”

“I thought —” a tic starts in her jaw “— that you were at work tonight.”

Jon shrugs one shoulder, then leans through the door to set his empty bowl and spoon on the ledge beneath the key hook. He’s going to need his hands free in about point-ten seconds here.

“Next time maybe make sure I’m not home,” he suggests. His grin turns from teasing to suggestive, and he twitches his specs so that they bounce playfully upon his nose. That always makes Sansa laugh for some reason; even if she’s not totally giving into him now, her mouth quirks up all the same. “Or, better yet, make sure that I am. You could come over. You know —” he winks “— instead of wasting water like that.”

Sansa’s mouth stops its quirking, and now she looks as though she’d quite like to stomp on his foot again. “I do just fine by myself, thanks.”

“Yeah?” But you said my name, anyway. “You do?”

Jon pushes off the door frame and closes the space between them, and he doesn’t let up until he’s got Sansa pressed against that gods-given delight of a paper-thin wall. For her part, Sansa doesn’t let up, either; she doesn’t shy away or hesitate or let her nerves take hold, not this time. Jon thinks he must have really gotten under her skin now, because she glares and grits her teeth and looks about ready to fucking kill him if he so much as breathes wrong.

But when he drags his thumb along her jaw, she doesn’t stop him. His other hand is braced on the wall beside her head, his arm boxing her in — so that even if she pretended she wanted to leave, she’d have to think twice about it.

And Jon knows that she wants him more than she wants to go.

“Men really do think highly of themselves, don’t they?” she remarks as if to distract herself from the feel of his callused fingertip upon her smooth, unmarked skin. “I can make myself come just fine without your help.”

“Yeah, so I heard.” Did I ever. “But that’s not enough, is it? I mean, c’mon, Sansa…” Jon leans in to bump her nose with his, mouths just one shuddering breath apart. “A girl like you, you want to be kissed. Thoroughly, properly kissed. Such a sweet girl —” his eyes drop to her gloss-slickened lips as he fingers the ends of her hair “— you ought to be kissed.”

“I’m not going to kiss you,” Sansa echoes the words he’d whispered to her approximately ten days and twelve hours ago. But she’s looking at his mouth, too.

“I didn’t say anything about that, did I?” Jon tuts as he slips easily, entirely, into the game. Sansa’s lips press together at the sound of his lower, huskier voice — the voice that tells her to listen and mind her tongue. “No, you wouldn’t kiss someone when you’re on your way out the door with someone else.”

It should be me it should be me it should be me — but it will be, just as soon as he can make it, Jon swears to himself. For now, though… His hand curves around the side of her neck and her pulse thrum-thrum-thrums beneath his touch. For now, this will have to be enough.

“You’re such a good girl, Sansa,” Jon murmurs approvingly. “You’d never do something like that, even when you wanted to. I know you wanted to, sweetheart,” he adds when he thinks she might try to deny it, when they both know it’s undeniable, “just like you do now. But you won’t. But I could kiss you, couldn’t I?”

He leans in again, closer now, to mouth at her jaw, to burrow his nose in her hair and inhale her crisp clean scent. “You’ve been so well-behaved, I think that I should.”

Sansa’s hands are on his chest, but she doesn’t push him away — if she had, he would have stopped, but — instead, her fingers curl into the material of his shirt and she pulls him against her. Her fingernails dig into him as if to relieve her irritation, but she’s sighing so sweetly for him now, as he presses gentle kisses to her neck, that Jon thinks she must be willing to forgive and forget, so long as he doesn’t muck this up. So long as he doesn’t leave her bereft and wanting again — he’d already promised her that he wouldn’t, and Jon is a man of his word.

Her lips catch lightly on his stubble and her breath hits his ear as he nibbles on hers, harsh and hot as she chokes out his name, “Jon…”

“What is it, baby?” he rasps against her ear. He takes the lobe between his teeth and sucks, the way he had to make her bite back a sharp cry the last time he had her like this. “Tell Daddy what you want.”

But he knows what she wants. She said my name. Jon’s not going to pretend that that doesn’t mean anything — he’s not going to keep denying the signs that he wants her and she wants him back and that they should be together — and he’s going to give her what she wants… just as soon as she admits that it’s him.

He doesn’t rush her, though. He doesn’t care that they’re in the middle of the hallway where anyone might come upon them ‘round the corner; he doesn’t care that she’s supposed to be meeting Harry for dinner; he doesn’t care that Harry’s a factor at all — because she hadn’t cried out Harry’s name, and she’s got her hands on Jon now and his mouth on her neck.

And oh, gods above and below, but does she taste good. Jon’s moved from her ear to the curve of her neck, to part his lips against her skin and run his tongue along the petal-soft expanse of it. He pushes her hair back, over her shoulder, for better access, so that he can suck little violet blooms under her jaw and down her neck without hindrance.

A sharp gasp tears from Sansa’s throat when he opens his mouth wider and sucks so hard on her skin that it must hurt — but she’s rolling her hips against his and twisting her hands in his curls and whispering, possessed with the need he incites deep within her, “More, Jon, give me more…”

So he pushes her roughly up against the wall, shoves a knee between her thighs, and licks up her throat to her panting mouth —

But he doesn’t take it with his. He doesn’t kiss her yet.

He stops short of her lips, and her whimper crashes against his own. His hand flexes upon the wall, scrambling for purchase, sense, control — something to keep him grounded when Sansa is moving against him so that her skirt rides high on those silky, saccharine legs, and he can feel her getting wet for him between them… Silky and saccharine there, too, I bet.

“You gonna be a good girl for Daddy tonight, Sansa?” Jon asks, voice like gravel as his other hand trails down her body. She arches into him, and he grasps her thigh to keep her still, to stop her from what he wants to start. “Not yet. Tell me first.”

Sansa licks her lips, smearing the gloss she’d painted on. Jon wants to kiss it off — wants to use his mouth on her so completely that there’s no trace of red left, only a swollen, delicious pink. And then he wants her to put that red right back on, so that he can do it all over again.

He nips at her chin, demanding an answer, and Sansa nods when his fingers slip, momentarily, beneath her dress to toy with the lace edges of her panties.

Fuck me… Jon groans and buries his face back into her neck, while his fingertips press deliciously against that lace he wants to shove past with hands and mouth and cock, that he wants to tear in his eagerness, his haste, and then pocket the remnants.

“Good girl,” he mutters as her head continues to bob vigorously, as her hips undulate and his hand slips free of her dress to grip her thigh again. “I need you to do something for me, alright?”

“Yes,” Sansa breathes as he kneads her flesh, coaxing her to move more slowly, sensually against him. Her hands card through his hair, over and over, mussing it up the way he wants to muss hers. “Tell me what it is, I’ll do it for you —”

“Don’t go home with Harry,” Jon commands, and sucks another mark below her ear. I want you to be mine. He flexes his fingers against the wall again, and his hips into hers. “You need to get off, you come home to me. Daddy’ll take care of you.”

He licks her ear and she moans, back arching, body settling more firmly against his. Jon pushes her back against the wall — that wall — and rubs his denim-clad thigh against her cunt. Her breath is coming short and fast and laboured whilst Jon keeps himself occupied with her neck.

“You want Daddy to take care of you right now, sweetheart?” he asks her. The question comes low and hoarse, and Jon rubs his beard against her skin to mark it further, to make her gasp and clutch him tighter. “You gonna be quiet for me this time?”

“Yes,” she says again, so quick, frantic, that she nearly trips over the one-syllable word.

Jon wants more than a one-syllable stumble — he wants to hear exactly what she wants and how she wants it, and that she wants him to be the one to give it to her — but his cock twitches and his palms are sweaty and his body is aching, and he wants her more than absolutely anything else.

So Jon shoves a hand between her legs like he had his knee, he cups her cunt in his open palm, fingers reaching, rubbing, teasing her through the silk and lace to find her near-dripping for him.

Gods — Jon grits his teeth and pushes his hand up against her — he wants to rip all that silk and lace to shreds, he wants to tear it to pieces and pump his fingers inside of her to the goddamn knuckle, he wants to eat her pussy so hard and fast that she doesn’t have a moment to stop screaming, he wants to fucking plunge his cock inside of her with his hands on her clit and his mouth on her tits —

“Ride my hand, sweetheart,” Jon rumbles into the side of her neck, panting so that his breath engulfs her skin. “Show Daddy how you wanna ride his cock, I want to give it to you so bad… fuck, Sansa —”

She cants her hips furiously against his moving hand, meeting his rhythm before she increases it in both speed and savagery; she’s going at him so hard that Jon thinks he might come just from touching her.

“Yeah —” he breaks off into a loud groan when her nails bite into his scalp “— like that, baby, just like that…”

As much as he wants to get his fingers inside of her, wants to rub her clit to completion, for now Jon keeps his hand over her dress, teasing them both — making her hot and him hard.

He laves his tongue over the bruises he’d left on her neck; she bucks more fervently beneath the press and push of his hand, and the slight curl of his fingers.

“Fuck, you want it, too, don’t you?” Jon growls when she starts murmuring his name in hot, broken sobs. “Wanna get on top and ride me, sweetheart? I’d let you ride my face first. Daddy wants to make his girl come…” He licks her cheek, rubs her harder. “Wanna see your face when I make you say my name again… But I can fuck you better than a toy, baby, you only have to ask.”

For fucking Seven’s sake, he’d gotten off less than an hour ago, but he’s still just as hard-up over the memory of Sansa coming in her shower, it’s almost like he hasn’t had a release at all.

“You know Daddy wants to make you feel good —”

Sansa releases a sharp cry when he thumbs her clit over her skirt, and Jon has to cover her mouth to quiet it. Not in punishment this time, with no intention to stop, but because the elevator around the corner just dinged, doors opened, and its occupant is clearly coming their way.

“God damn it,” Sansa whines just as Jon growls, “Son of a bitch.”

He pulls back to look at her, to find her eyes dark but over-bright with frustrated tears. She’d gotten off as recently as he had, but Jon knows that hardly matters when she’s on the edge again; and he’d meant it when he told her that a good solid orgasm isn’t enough, that she’s the type of girl who needs to be kissed. She doesn’t just want to come, she wants to be fulfilled in every sense of the word.

“You want me to get you off? Come on, baby,” Jon urges, mouth back at her ear the way she likes, fingers still working at her, “tell me you want it and I’ll do it for you this time — don’t wanna keep you waiting anymore.” He jerks his hand up against her cunt, while he slams his other palm against the wall. “Tell me, tell Daddy you want it —”

There is no more hesitation, no more denial, no more bickering. Sansa’s acceptance comes in a rushed, yearning plea that gets Jon so hard his whole body hurts — “Yes, Daddy, god please, please get me off, your girl wants it —”

Never taking his hand from between her legs, Jon yanks her into his flat and slams her against the door to shut it (he flicks the lock, just in case). He pushes his specs up into his Sansa-tousled hair, and latches his mouth onto her shoulder to suck on her skin over the little halter strap of her dress.

Sansa’s hands are everywhere — twisting in his hair, nails scraping through his beard, clutching his shoulders, gripping his waist and pulling him flush against her. Jon moves his hand under her skirt so that all that’s left between them are her panties, and he finds them absolutely soaked with how badly she wants him, as much as he wants her.

“Good girl, Sansa,” he groans, and plants kisses along the neckline of her dress. He takes the material between his teeth, and sips his tongue underneath it to taste the slight tang of the perspiration that’s gathered there. “I’m getting you all dirty for me, aren’t I, pretty girl?”

“Yes,” she gasps, hands pushing up his shirt to trace his bare, searing skin, “yeah, yes, fuck —” she hisses when his hand moves with more purpose and she clenches, toes curling —

Knock-knock-knock-knock-knock.

The sound is coming from next door, and instinctively Jon knows it’s Harry waiting for Sansa out in the hall, knows that it had been him in the elevator and coming ‘round the corner just as Jon dragged Sansa into his flat to finish her off.

Because why wouldn’t it be Harry? Jon sucks on the shell of Sansa’s ear to relieve his agitation. It’s always fucking Harry.

He trails kisses across her cheek, soft and quick, but looks her in the eye when he asks, “You still wanna come? You’re so close, baby, I’ll get you there…”

Sansa nods, hands tightening on his waist. Jon sucks in a deep breath and thrusts her against the door, not giving a shit about the noise, and his thumb works relentlessly at her clit over her panties — tight, rapid circles, as he stares at her scarlet-smeared, panting mouth through hooded eyes, just waiting for his name to spill forth from her lips.

He pushes his knee between her legs, jerks his fingers up, curls, and presses his thumb against her clit — he mutters, harsh and desperate, mouth on her jaw: “Come on, sweetheart, Sansa, come for me, please —”

And then, she does.

Her fluttering eyelids snap open, eyes widen, darken; a blush stains her cheeks, a high, drawn-out sigh escapes, riding on a forced whisper of his name, when she’d really rather scream it: Jon, oh fu— JonJonJonJon— 

Her perfectly rounded fingernails bite into his sides so hard that Jon is sure she’s drawn blood. But the thought only makes him groan again, the sound muffled when he nuzzles into her hair, when he opens his mouth against her skin to lick away the salt of her sweat.

“Sansa,” he sighs when she slumps against him. One arm slips around her, holding her to him as, slowly, he extracts his hand from between her legs whilst kissing up her neck, searching to soothe her through the aftershocks —

Knock-knock-knock-knock-knock.

For the love of — Jon wants to knock Harry’s fucking head against the door and see how he likes it.

Still, though, Jon doesn’t rush. He pulls back a bit to search Sansa’s face; she’s blinking rapidly, eyes bright again, and Jon’s stomach sinks when the thought creeps in that she’s going to feel guilty for this — for getting off with him while Harry’s waiting for her outside, although god only knows where he’d been earlier that same evening.

Arya’s voice echoes in his head: ‘Round the goddamn corner at Cissy and Saffron’s.

Jon frowns. Harry can wait a little fucking longer.

He adjusts Sansa’s hair so that it lays the way she’d styled it, before he’d pawed at it with greedy, eager hands. He runs reverent fingers through it, and pulls it back over her shoulder so that it hides the little purple blooms he’d left on the side of her neck from view. And all the while, she watches him, eyes bright and curious.

Unsure of what else to say — I love you, I want you, please stay, I want you to stay — Jon murmurs, still toying with the ends of her curls, “I like your hair like this.”

Sansa’s phone chirps. She doesn’t look as though she wants to answer it, so Jon plucks it from her bag and gives it a glance. Sure enough…

“Harry.” Jon tilts his head towards the door.

She swallows and blinks some more. Her lip trembles, and Jon strokes it with a careful thumb. “I need to go.”

“I know.” Jon drops his specs back over his eyes and focuses them on Sansa’s, now downcast. He dips his face down, chucks her under the chin, and says gently, “Hey — look at me.”

Immediately, she does, but she’s got nothing to say and now Jon’s at a loss, too. The high had hit him just as hard, and coming down from it is looking to be a rough go. So he caresses her face, aiming to comfort. Sansa’s eyes flutter closed and she nuzzles into his touch, breathing deep and measured through her nose.

He really, really doesn’t want her to go.

He starts to tell her, opens his mouth and starts to say, You could stay, but then, of course —

Knock-knock-knock-knock-knock. And Sansa’s phone chirps again.

Jon’s jaw sets, his eyes shut, and he gets to four in his count-to-ten before Sansa’s hand wraps ‘round his and gives it a soft squeeze. His heart steadies at once. 

“I’m going to — can I use your bathroom? To freshen up?” she asks when his eyes open to drink her in once more. Pretty, he thinks, always so damn, break-my-heart pretty…

A tear quivers on her lashes and then falls, but Jon catches and wipes it away before it can get too far.

He nods, acquiescing to her request (because what in the world would he ever deny her, anyway?) — “Yeah, ‘course you can, sweetheart” — and then, before he can think on it, he leans in and presses a slow, sweet kiss to the mascara stain on her cheek.

 


 

The text comes later, well after Sansa’s gone and Jon’s overthought the thing left and right and straight to death.

I should have asked her to stay.

He’s laid up in bed again, scrolling through Sansa’s Instagram for no reason other than the fact that he misses her. He’d thoroughly kissed her neck and made her come not two hours ago, and now he’s wrapped in the quilt she’d made him three Christmases ago and he fucking misses her.

And he doesn’t know what to fucking do about it, either.

That is, until his phone pings! excessively and Arya’s name pops up on the screen, six times in quick succession:

so uh?? i-d-fuckin-k what happened with you and sansa earlier (& DON’T SAY nothing happened bc this has GOTTA BE your fault to some degree) but i’m pretty sure —

and don’t get all pissy if im wrong (i’m never wrong) but —

sansa just came home and once she stops crying (&& DONT COME OVER JUST BC SHE’S CRYING you’ll only upset her more if she has to look at your stupid face rn) i’ll find out for sure buuuuuut

i think it’s safe to say that the falcon ain’t flyin no more

aka, for the feeble-minded — i.e., you (sick burn, me!!):

sansa and harry broke up

Chapter Text

“Well, I wouldn’t call it a breakup,” Arya snaps when, over takeaway at the boys’ flat, Jon presses again for details on what, exactly — exactly, Arya — happened between Sansa and Harry two nights prior. She points her chopsticks threateningly at him. “They were never really on, were they?”

This is undeniably true, Jon relents privately, but he’s not giving up that easily. Robb and Theon can groan and roll their eyes at him all they like; Jon’s not shutting up ‘til Arya spills everything she knows.

And Jon knows she knows.

Meanwhile all Jon knows is, that after perhaps the most intense, heart-shattering orgasm of his life — and it wasn’t even his own — he’d played with Sansa’s hair and kissed her cheek and nearly begged her not to go, to stay with him, but before he could choke out the words, she’d broken the silence with a tremulous voice and slipped away to his bathroom.

Not a moment too soon, either, because then came the knock-knock-knocking at Jon’s door, and he’d made up some excuse to Harry that Sansa had brought leftovers and she’d be out in a minute. He doesn’t regret his lack of hospitality, either, because Harry had positively reeked of women’s perfume that didn’t at all resemble Sansa’s, so he could fuck right off if he thought Jon was going to invite him inside.

Maybe, Jon admits — maybe — that’s hypocritical of him, when he’d had Sansa pressed against that door with his hands and mouth and whispers all over her just moments before.

Jon doesn’t care to dwell, though; because he’d had his hands and mouth and whispers all over Sansa, and no one else. He never even had anyone else on his mind or in his periphery, so why should he feel guilty that he gives Sansa everything that Harry can’t or won’t or doesn’t even think to offer her?

Fuck that, Jon thinks. He’s not going to feel badly about that.

But… well, maybe Sansa does.

“But who initiated it?” he pries, not even bothering to keep the desperation from his tone. I need to know how she is, how she feels. “The not-a-breakup, or… fuck.” He stabs his fork moodily into his hardly-touched chow mein. “Whatever?”

“Seven heavens, seven hells,” Arya mutters. She rubs her hands over her face, elbows braced on her knees. “Look, I really think you and Sansa ought to talk about this yourselves —”

“Jon doesn’t know how to talk to her,” Theon pipes up through a mouthful of shrimp eggroll. “He communicates with Sansa in a series of pathetic whines and an increasingly uncomfortable erection.”

Robb smacks him upside the head. “Never use my sister’s name in a sentence with the word — nay, even the suggestion of — ‘erection’ ever again.”

“‘The suggestion of erection’,” Arya echoes dully. “Sounds like a soft-core porn, doesn't it?”

“Or a kitschy sex education video,” Gendry supplies, and swipes a piece of chicken from his girlfriend’s plate.

“Fuck’s sake!” Jon tosses his fork on the coffee table in a fit of agitation. He glares at the four of them, all pleased as punch while he suffers through the greatest personal crisis of his young life. “Can we stop talking about hypothetical erections for once and actually focus on solving my problem?”

“To be fair, on some level erections are part of your problem,” Arya points out as demurely as she’s ever done anything (that is to say, not very demurely at all, but she’s obviously enjoying her innocent act schtick). “You must have a perpetual hard-on, considering your irritation and apparent inability to fuck my sister, even though it’s become your uncontested mission in life to do so.”

Jon picks up his fork only to point it at her and say, “Don’t psychoanalyze me,” just as Robb starts tunelessly shouting “So go and powder your cute little pussycat nooooose — !”

“You know,” Arya continues, a bit louder to be heard over her brother’s theatrics and Theon’s poor beatbox accompaniment, “if you really want her, it’s not enough to get in Sansa’s personal space and rattle her hormonal cage.”

“You’re the one who told me to ‘show her you want her, man’!” Jon retaliates, pitching his voice a few octaves higher in an attempt to mimic Arya, who isn’t fazed in the slightest.

“That is a terrible impression of me,” she comments breezily before getting back on track. She nudges the man beside her to take his attention off her plate and onto the conversation. “Gendry, tell Jon what’s wrong with all men.”

Dutifully, Gendry taps a chopstick against his forehead, where the welt from Sansa’s Essosi clutch has significantly diminished and only a pale yellow bruise remains. “We think with the wrong head.”

You told me to think —” Jon gestures with his fork again, rather dangerously as he uses it to indicate his lap “— with this head!”

At that, Robb shoots him a nasty look and proceeds to sing louder, Theon stumbles over his beatboxing with a snort, and Arya flips the bird at them both whilst directing the bulk of her (understandably) bad attitude onto Jon.

“You’ve got to use both,” she tells him, like it’s obvious (and it is; the only thing keeping Jon from acknowledging that aloud is his reluctance to admit that he’s been an idiot). “Find the happy fuckin’ medium.”

More impatient with himself than anyone — anything — else by now, Jon asks, although he already knows, “Between what, exactly?”

“Between seduction and romance,” Arya supplies, even more impatient than Jon is. “God damn, do you even go here? Stop focusing on getting your hands in her pants, because I know you’ve done that by now, and —”

“WHAT’S NEW PUSSYCA—”

“Oh my fucking —” Arya closes her eyes for half a second before they snap back open and she loses her temper. “Give it a rest, Robb! You three!” She points to Robb, Theon, and Gendry in turn. “Go to the shop and buy out their liquor supply, we’ve got movie night tonight and I need to get Jon emotionally prepared to cuddle with Sansa, or so help me god.”

Jon blanches. In all the fuss he’d caused over what he’s meant to do about Sansa, his regular routine had been disrupted and he’d all but forgotten about their monthly movie night — which, as it transpired, always includes their very coupled-up mates, with Jon and Sansa taking up the parts of wheels thirteen and fourteen, respectively.

Between Arya and Gendry, Robb and Talisa, Sam and Gilly, Margaery and Yara, Loras and Renly, and Theon and whatever girl he was seeing that month (and there was always a girl), the movie nights became less about actually watching films, and more about taking bets on which couple would break off first to get handsy in a more private setting. Arya and Gendry were usually the first to go, about halfway through the first film, and everyone else would filter out by the third — always leaving Jon and Sansa behind. The odd ones out. An almost-couple by default.

This had never been a problem for Jon before; he’d rather liked it, actually. But now… Well, he’s sure he won’t like it any less, of course, but all things considered Sansa might not even speak to him tonight, let alone share the armchair with him as usual.

Jon doesn’t even like the armchair — not on its own. It’s ancient and it sags and it only exacerbates that pain in his lower back. But those aren’t exactly things you tend to notice when Sansa Stark’s got her legs in your lap and, more often than not, her head ends up on your shoulder and her hair smells like coconut deep-conditioner and your arm is sort of around her, the way you’ve got it rested on the chair’s edge, and —

“Sansa’s already at the shop,” Robb’s voice cuts through Jon’s quickly-turned rampant thoughts. “Said she was going after work.”

Arya looks at him, aghast; even though he, Theon, and Gendry are all slipping into their shoes already, she lectures them as though they’re dragging their feet: “Sansa is just one tiny person, she can’t possibly carry all the booze I demand. Go meet her there, and you’d better carry all the bags for her, too!”

“Yes, Mum,” the exiled threesome say in unison, and are out the door before Arya can chew them out further.

Satisfied, she gives Jon her undivided attention and prepares to lecture him as well — far more painfully and personally offensive, Jon is sure, but he accepts it. After all, when the going gets tough, Arya Stark kicks your ass and tells you it’s for your own good; and, in the end, you find that she was right all along.

But before she can dig her claws into him, Jon pounces with his own question he’s been dying to ask, but didn’t want to broach in earshot of Robb and Theon — both of whom are too emotionally volatile for their own good (although Jon admits he’s not much better; he’s just got more to lose in this case).

“Did Harry tell her? About the other girls? Did you tell her?”

Arya shakes her head. “I know Harry said something to her the other night, but honestly, Jon, she wasn’t super forthcoming with the details. Mostly what she went on about was you and not knowing what the hell she’s doing. I wanted to tell her — I’ve been wanting to tell her. But you know me, I’m not half as harsh and heartless as everybody seems to think, and I just…”

Mostly what she went on about was you… Those words raise a racket in Jon’s head while Arya takes a moment to think.

She runs agitated hands through her hair. Jon gives her the moment she needs, because she’s right — he does know her, and while Arya truly isn’t one bit harsh or heartless (especially when it comes to her family, especially when it comes to Sansa), articulating that is just as difficult for her as it is for Jon. They show rather than tell, but when Arya’s playing middleman, telling is all she has.

“I know I should’ve said something,” she says at last, and Jon’s mind can settle just enough to pay attention to the here and now. “But at the same time it’s like… how do you tell somebody that? How do you tell Sansa that the shit’s hit the fan all over again? That would’ve hurt her.”

Jon’s heart sinks and his voice is thicker than he’d like it to be when he says, quietly and like he’s ready to get his heart broken, “Did she like him that much?”

“No,” Arya reassures him at once. She’s not about to be held responsible for Jon’s puppy-dog brooding. “She really didn’t. But it’s not about him, is it? Sansa’s insecure in her romantic relationships, I mean you remember Joffrey.”

“Right.” Jon grits his teeth, and can’t trust himself to say any more.

“Right.” Arya nods. “Something like that shouldn’t’ve been Sansa’s first experience. It shouldn’t be anyone’s experience, ever. But he disillusioned her right away, you know? Fucking ripped the rug right out from under her and broken her heart — and not in the ‘there are other fish in the sea’ way. Because it wasn’t about Joffrey, either. It was about what he did to her.”

Still Jon can’t bring himself to comment. He remembers Joffrey, and he sees red whenever he remembers him all over again. His barely-contained agitation is only exacerbated by Harry Hardyng’s involvement in Sansa’s life and, to some extent, her heart — but remembering is a necessary evil, and Jon would do whatever it takes for Sansa, period.

“So no, it’s not that Harry was fucking around behind her back — because they weren’t serious and Sansa knew that,” Arya explains, growing more emphatic with every word. “But it’s that every guy has done this to her, Jon, right from the beginning. And she keeps trying, only to get knocked on her ass every time. Like. Gods. How much is she supposed to take, you know? She never loses faith. But at some point…”

Arya trails off, and runs her hands through her hair again so that it stands on end. “I dunno, mate. At some point, you stop thinking everything’s gonna get better when all it does is keep getting worse.

“That’s where you come in, asshole,” she adds, so suddenly that Jon is roused from his encroaching introspection as assuredly as if she’d hit him upside the head with a brick. “Sansa wants you but she’s scared. Because if it didn’t work out with you, then it wouldn’t just be about her anymore. If it didn’t work out with you, honestly, I think that’d break her heart for good.”

“It will work out,” Jon says immediately, vehemently. I wouldn’t let it not.

“Well I’m glad you believe that, so I haven’t got to murder you.” Arya sounds legitimately relieved that she won’t need to commit homicide. “Now you’ve got to show her that, too — that you want her for everything. Just be sweet to her, Jon,” she advises with a wave of her hand, “for fuck’s sake.”

Jon doesn’t bother saying that he is sweet to her, because perhaps it hasn’t been enough — clearly it hasn’t. And suddenly it’s as though a switch has been flipped, like the pieces have fallen into place, like all he’d needed was one last push before he took matters into his own hands and just… fucking did something with these feelings that have been threatening to burst since he’d first started harbouring them.

Whatever he’s been doing, Jon just needs to do… more, he supposes. If he’s meant to show Sansa that he wants everything, then fuck it all, everything is what he’s going to give to her.

He can do that. Easy.

Might as well start now, he thinks as the wheels start turning and (for once) they don’t stop, and scrambles to his feet. “I’ll be back in twenty. What d’you think?” he asks, just to be sure, as he shrugs on his jacket. “Yellow daisies, yeah?”

“You tell me,” Arya drawls as she tucks back into the near-forgotten takeaway. She tries to hide a smile. “You’re the one who’s in love with her.”

Jon doesn’t bother keeping his own smile to himself. “Too right, I am,” he agrees, and slips out the door.

 


 

When he returns to the flat eighteen-and-a-half minutes later, a bunch of yellow daisies in hand, the boys are still out and Arya’s laying on the floor in some sort of catatonic stupor from having finished off the food. She’s scrolling through Netflix when the door clicks shut behind Jon, prompting her to shift her gaze over to him.

“Nice haul.” She nods at the daisies. “What’d you do, buy out the shop?”

“I’m not even going to dignify that with a response,” Jon says as haughtily as possible once he’s cleared his throat, pointedly avoiding her eye.

Arya snorts, and turns back to the telly. “That’s a yes, then.”

That’s a yes.

Sansa’s shoes are on the doormat, so Jon — after nearly tripping when Arya smacks him ‘round the knees as he passes her — heads to the kitchen, where he finds her preparing drinks for the company that will be arriving within the next hour.

Springsteen’s on the tinny little radio and Sansa’s back is to him, just as it had been all those weeks ago when Jon had tried her Dornish sauce and started this whole thing. But this time he’s brought her flowers and he wants it to mean more than this thing, and all he can do now is pray to every deity in Westerosi history that Sansa takes it for the truth that it is.

“Um… hi,” Jon greets lamely when she doesn't turn around.

Oh, so you can hump her like a dog any other day, but as soon as you try to romance her, all you’ve got is “Um, hi”? Talk about inconsistent confidence. Wanker.

“Oh! Hi, I’m sorry —” Sansa babbles, and drops the sugar she’d been dusting onto plastic margarita cups. She glances over her shoulder at him, face pink, then does a double-take when she spots the flowers in his hand. “Are those — um — what are those for?”

Jon shrugs and, heart in his throat as it is, tries for a smile. “You.”

“You —” Sansa’s eyes flick back and forth between him and the daisies like they can’t quite decide where to settle, and she swallows “— you bought me flowers?”

“I did.” A bit emboldened by Sansa’s nerves — at least it’s not just me — Jon steps into her personal space, takes her hand, and curls her fingers around the tied stems. He takes an extra moment to stroke her knuckles, and when she doesn’t pull away, he stretches the moment into another. “And before you ask, because you’ve got that look on your face like you’re going to, I bought you flowers because I wanted to.”

She scrunches her nose at him. “What look? How did you know I was going to ask that?”

“This.” With his free hand, Jon traces the little crease between her eyebrows — the one that forms whenever she’s confused or bordering on upset, when she’s trying to work out her own thoughts before she feels any which way about them. “You always get this little wrinkle right here when you’re cross with me.”

“I’m not cross —”

“I’m confusing you.”

Her answering laugh is a short one. “What are you, psychic? Has Bran been telling you about his Children of the Forest retreats? Because much as I love him, I do believe my little brother’s quest for enlightenment is more about getting high in the woods with his friends.”

A wry grin pulls at Jon’s mouth when he lifts Sansa’s hand to it. “Not psychic, no —” He shakes his head, keeping eye contact all the while as he brushes a kiss over her fingers, then turns her hand to press another to the center of her palm.

His beard rasps gently against her soft skin — gods save me, always so soft…

Slowly, he trails his lips down to her wrist, where her pulse skitters and beats-beats-beats, and he murmurs, “But I’d like to think I know what you’re thinking right now.”

She swallows again, audibly this time, gazed fixed to his like her eyes are magnets and his are the force compelling her to stay put. But the smile she gives him is wry, too, and her question only shakes a little bit: “That so?”

“Yeah.” Jon places one final, smacking, open-mouthed kiss to her wrist (and perhaps his tongue darts out, just a bit, to taste the hint of perfume she’d dabbed there earlier), before he releases her. His hand and lips tingle with the way he’d touched her. “You think I’m an idiot.”

Sansa laughs again. “Got me there.”

As she occupies herself with the daisies, trimming the stems and poking around for a vase (which the boys don’t actually have on hand, so she settles on a glass mason jar Theon likes to use for long islands), Jon allows himself to stare unashamedly. He can feel the tips of his ears heat up, but it’s a small discomfort compared to getting an eyeful of Sansa — Sansa, who’s got light violet shadows under her eyes but a smile she can’t bite back as she dances her fingers over daisy petals; Sansa, in leggings and droopy woolen socks and — Jon’s heart skips a little — his old Hardhome Pub jumper.

Fuck me… but he loves seeing Sansa in his clothes.

“You look pretty,” he tells her.

Sansa presses her lips together as she sets the mason jar of daisies on the counter. She pats at her messy topknot, which only serves to mess it up further. “I’m not even properly dressed. I would’ve called in to work — I feel complete shit — but I didn’t have clients today, just me and Margaery hemming skirts in the sewing room and she doesn’t care what I wear — even if it is two-days-old pyjamas.”

“Two days?” The corners of Jon’s mouth quirk upwards. “You’d better wash my jumper before I get it back.”

Sansa snorts, just as her sister had earlier, but she’s not looking at him as she starts sugaring the glasses again. “I’ll wash it, but you’re not getting it back.” A short pause, and she’s really not looking at him now. “Might need to borrow a couple spritzes of your cologne once it comes out of the wash, too.”

“Yeah?” Jon sidles up behind her, hands on her hips and mouth at her temple. Wayward strands of her hair tickle his nose. “Like the way I smell, do you?”

Don’t use that voice on me today,” Sansa warns, but she doesn’t make him take his hands off her. “I’m really… fucked up right now, I don’t even know where my own head’s at.” Her hands shake and she knocks over the cup she’s sugaring, and her breath starts coming like she might cry. “All I know is that I want to wear your jumper when it smells like you and not feel so terrible about it.”

“Hey — Sansa —” All traces of teasing gone from his tone now, Jon moves his hands soothingly up and down her arms. He nuzzles into her neck, breathing her in deep, and murmurs, “It’s alright, sweetheart. I’ll give you a whole bottle of my cologne if you want it. Or if you like, I could just roll around in a pile of your clothes, alright?” He kisses her neck. “Same results for half the cost.”

She laughs again, but it’s disrupted by a sob. Jon turns her ‘round and slips his arms around her waist, hugging her close and whispering reassurances into the soft kisses he drops along her hairline.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she mumbles into his throat, before he can even ask. She bunches his shirt between her fingers and holds him tighter. “Not right now.”

He doesn’t quite understand; even if he has an inkling, it’s not completely, but Jon knows he’s got to try. For her.

And maybe that’s the point, he thinks as he rubs her back; maybe he doesn’t need to know it all, he only has to accept that some things take time to know — and he’s got every last second to spare for Sansa. So what does it matter, really, if he’s got to wait just a little while longer?

“Okay,” Jon readily agrees. Much as he likes the caress of her breath and the brush of her lips upon his skin, he tucks a finger beneath her chin so she’ll look at him. “But when you are ready to talk about it… Can I take you out? Dinner?”

Sansa blinks at him — there’s that little wrinkle between her eyebrows again — and she says, almost deadpan, “You wanna take me out to dinner.”

He frowns, just a bit, so that he’s sure his crease matches her own. “Does that really surprise you so much?”

Please say no. I’m mad about you, I want you, any way, every way, you’re willing to give. I’m in-fucking-love with you. Please know that.

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” she reminds him, but she tilts her head into his touch when he tucks a few stray hairs behind her ear.

“Okay.”

“But we can have dinner on Thursday.”

Jon smiles, and he counts his lucky stars when Sansa smiles back.

“Okay,” he says again. He sweeps a hand down her back, kisses her forehead, and nudges her aside to take over dusting sugar onto the plastic cup rims. “Now lemme do this for you.”

To his mild surprise, Sansa nods and lets him. She strokes a tender thumb over a yellow daisy petal, and then — to Jon’s great surprise (and greater delight) — she leans into his side, and plants a firm, lingering kiss to the underside of his jaw, before she rests her chin on his shoulder and watches, silently, as he finishes sugaring the glasses.

 


 

The sitting room is a ruckus of noise and laughs and good-natured ribbing. Sansa — as well as everyone else — is pleasantly surprised when Theon’s girl of the month turns out to be her friend Jeyne Poole. She takes Theon aside soon after to threaten him — “Jeyne had better be more than your flavour of the week, I mean it, Theon” — which he takes to heart. But he pays her back, too, when he loudly tells Jon, “Don’t go trying to get your hands into her Sansypants tonight, mate, half of her damn family’s here.”

“I support it,” Arya announces with a shrug, and Robb’s girlfriend slaps a hand over his mouth when he starts to sing.

But when the lights are turned down and the first movie flickers on, Jon thinks Robb could sing through the whole damn thing and he wouldn’t even notice.

When Sansa comes in from the kitchen, she hands him a bottle of Castle Black Brew, and Jon catches her wrist lest she walk away to sit elsewhere. He yanks her down to sit with him on the oversized, overstuffed armchair — that saggy, godawful armchair Jon never sits in if he can help it, but he’d spend a whole weekend with his ass in the seat if Sansa was spending her weekend there with him.

There’s room enough for both of them, but not so much that they can sit comfortably side-by-side. So, as usual, Sansa sits sideways, her back against one arm and her legs slung over Jon’s lap. But, not-so-usual, Jon doesn’t bother to keep his hands off her.

Before, he’d stop himself from touching her overmuch, but not tonight. Tonight, things have changed, and Jon doesn’t care who notices.

One of his hands settles on Sansa’s knee, and the other rests between her back and the arm of the chair. Both keep up a steady caress, fingertips digging into her sore muscles and thumbs circling the aches until Sansa sighs, content and on her fourth drink — Jon’s on his second — and her body relaxes against his.

“You’re distracting me,” Sansa whispers at one point, when Jon’s hand trails up her thigh.

“Nobody else is paying attention to the movie,” he points out. He presses a kiss to her neck, then opens his mouth and kisses her harder. Vigorously. “Arya and Gendry have already gone back to yours.”

She whines softly, but Jon thinks that has more to do with his tongue behind her ear, even when she says, “But they’re always so loud. And they go all night. I’ll never get to sleep.”

We could go all night, too, Jon thinks — he wants, but they’re both teetering on drunkenness and he doesn’t want to push either of them tonight. But, still…

“So?” Jon’s hand slips ‘round her thigh so he can haul her up closer to his chest. His teeth drag onto her earlobe and his fingers graze her behind the knee. “Stay here with me, then. As long as they don’t go at it in the shower, you won’t hear a thing.”

She wriggles in his lap, and his hand moves to grasp her hip. “Careful, sweetheart,” he chuckles into the slope of her shoulder. He draws his mouth back up her throat to where her pulse skips for him; his breath is hot and a little laboured against her skin. “You’re gonna get Daddy all worked up.”

Sansa whines again, and this time Jon knows it’s not because she’s lamenting a potentially sleepless night. “What did I say about using that voice on me?”

“I’m sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. His hand at her back curls into a fist, and he rubs his knuckles into the base of her spine, kneading away the tension of the last few days — some of which he’s responsible for, he knows, and for which he’s actually sorry, so all the more reason for him to take it away. “Not tonight, yeah? Maybe Thursday?” he grins into the next kiss he places under her jaw, just like she’d done to him in the kitchen earlier. “After I buy you dinner?”

Sansa takes another sip of her drink; her free hand ruffles its way through his curls. “I can pay my own way.”

“Sansa…” Jon’s voice is near-warning and his hands grasp her tighter, faster. “I’m buying you dinner.”

He sucks on her skin, just below her ear; it makes an almost obscene noise, but their friends are making plenty of obscene noises of their own, so Jon’s sure none of them notice.

It’s like a damn junior high makeout party, he thinks, but can’t bring himself to really care.

“Don’t fight me on this, baby,” he rumbles as he keeps on kissing her. I’ll never stop kissing you… His hands keep up their steady massage, too, offering comfort for everything she doesn’t want to talk about just yet, and a sense of stability and home so that she knows, unequivocally, that he’ll be there when she’s ready. “Let me do this for you, Sansa.”

“You’ve already done plenty for me,” she mutters, more to herself than to him, but Jon doesn't let it go.

“Yeah?” His palm smooths down the side of her face, and his gaze drops to that little frown on her mouth when she looks at him. “Well maybe I wanna keep doing things for you. Don’t be so stubborn, love.” He leans in, the slightest bit, to nibble on her jaw. “Let me take care of you.”

She doesn’t say anything. But she laces their fingers together and squeezes, and her thumb sweeps over the back of his hand, so Jon calls it what it is — close and nearly there and she’s worth every second — and he’s happy for it.

They don’t make it all the way through the second film, and no words are exchanged between them — but Sansa is so warm and soft under his hands, so steadily sleepy as she downs drink after drink, and she tastes so sweet that Jon can’t stop mapping her neck and shoulder with his tongue, and he wants to be alone with her.

He shifts in the armchair before he stands, lifting Sansa in his arms as he goes. Thankfully, Robb and Talisa have already adjourned to his bedroom, so all Jon’s got to do is flip off Theon and offer a parting nod to the rest, all of whom mumble tipsy goodnights and see-you-laters and Margaery’s approving aye-get-it-Snow, before he takes Sansa down the hall and locks his bedroom door behind them.

It is, initially, worse here than it had been in the sitting room. It’s still dark, but quiet in Jon’s bedroom, so all he can focus on is the faint sound of the telly beyond the door, and Sansa’s breath in his ear — and Sansa’s breath in his ear is far more compelling. His bedding is soft but she’s softer, and she tugs him with her as soon as he’s set her on top of his comforter.

And now — now, suddenly, all at once, drunk and hazy and electric — it’s her lips on his neck, sucking at his rough scruff between her dewdrop lips, as her hands explore the slight dip of his waist and the planes of his chest beneath his T-shirt, and it’s her whispers in the staunch, thick silence that surrounds them — she’s sighing his name, moaning it when he takes her by the hip — but it’s not to bring her closer, it’s to make her stop.

It’s painful, making her stop, but Jon’s not half as drunk as she is and he can’t do this like this.

“What’s wrong?” she asks when his grip slides to her wrist, to hold her hand and press innocent kisses to her pulse point. “You don’t — you don’t want to?”

He doesn’t answer her question — because yes, of course he wants to, but that doesn’t mean he should — and instead asks one of his own: “Do you want to stay here with me tonight? Or do you want me to walk you back to yours?”

It’s pitch-dark in the room, but Jon can still see Sansa blink. She’s right in front of his face, after all, lying on her side next to him; the streetlamps outside filter through his curtains to light up her eyes, a splash of gold-on-blue and bright, so bright and earnest that Jon finds it near-impossible to tell her no.

“I want to stay,” she assures him, and Jon wants that, too. “But I don’t — I don’t want to stay if you don’t want me to, Jon. I just thought… I thought, because you — you bought me flowers for no reason, and I love them, so much, and I love the way you kiss me, too, on my neck like that, so I thought maybe you’d want to — for real, but — you don’t. You don’t want to kiss me.” She blinks again, more rapidly, less confused and more furious with herself. “I knew I was wrong about this.”

“Hey. No.” Jon knows she’s off-her-ass drunk and likely won’t remember this tomorrow, but he won’t have her thinking like this for a moment. He holds her wrist tighter. “No, you weren’t wrong.”

“Is there someone else?”

“No,” he swears immediately, emphatically, honestly. He cups her cheek to soothe her with touch and words alike. “Honey, why would you think that?”

Sansa’s words are bitter and scared: “There’s always someone else.”

Jon shakes his head, and — not for the first time, and surely not for the last — his thumb traces the shape of her lips, soft and full and heart-shaped. “Not for me, there isn’t.” Only you. Only ever you.

He doesn’t want to kiss her like this — not the first time. There will be time enough for comforting kisses to chase away her tears and fears and doubts; for laugh-ridden makeouts and tangled bodies and eager hands in the armchair; for clumsy, hot and tipsy fumbling in his bed — a lifetime of those — but the first time… Gods, but Jon wants to do it right the first time.

“I wanna kiss you all the time,” he murmurs to her. His thumb moves to caress the line of her cheekbone, back and forth, back and forth. “I promise. Every time I see you. I can’t think of anything else but kissing you.”

Sansa sniffles, then snorts like she doesn’t believe him.

“I mean it.” Jon laughs, just a little, because he wants her so bad and now he’s got to explain why he can’t just take her, even when she’s asking him to. But not like this.

So he keeps on explaining, because he wants this to be right; and he knows that she wants it to be right, too.

“I don’t want you to be drunk and sad, baby. I wanna make you smile,” Jon whispers, and his thumb returns to tug at the corner of her lips. She sniffles again, but smiles in spite of herself. “And I’m gonna hold your hand, just like this, and I’m gonna pull you close.” For emphasis, he squeezes her fingers and shifts nearer to her, so that their chests are pressed together and he can feel her heartbeat, steady on his. He breathes, soft and sure, “I always want you close, Sansa. And when I kiss you — really kiss you — I want you to feel it right down to your toes, sweetheart.”

“…Oh.”

“Oh.” Jon nudges her nose with his, and is rewarded with a breathless giggle. Her socked foot hitches ‘round his calf, bringing them closer still, and Jon hopes she never stops doing that. “I’m gonna make it the best damn kiss you’ve ever had. Until I give you another one —” he plants one on her forehead “— and another one —” one on her temple “— and I’ll keep going —” and one on her cheek “— until you tell me to stop.”

He can feel the curve of Sansa’s smile against his throat when she mumbles sleepily, “How many times d’you plan on kissing me?”

An incalculable amount, Jon supposes, because how does one calculate infinity? He hasn’t the faintest idea, so instead he tells her, just as truthfully, “As many times as you’ll kiss me back.”

“That’s a lot of times,” she says in such a way he thinks she might be trying to warn him.

“Yeah? Good.” There’s a fluttering in his chest, a warmth that pools in his heart and spreads throughout his body when Sansa cuddles against him, arms around his middle just as his are around her. “I like the sound of that, kissing you a lot of times.”

There’s that little dissatisfied crease between her eyebrows again. Jon wants to trace it with his fingers, with his kisses, so he does. “You’re making fun of me.”

He chuckles. “You’re drunk off that pretty bum of yours.”

“Yeah…” Sansa sighs, deep and content, and her breath sticks in his stubble as she drifts to sleep. “Probably won’t even remember that you wanna kiss me at all.”

“I’ll remind you,” he promises — as if I could forget — and intends to keep it.

Chapter Text

where are you taking sansa tonight

seriously u have to tell me or she’ll bury me alive under a pile of aLL HER CLOTHES

u think i’m kidding but i am SNUG AS A BUG IN A RUG beneath 89% of her wardrobe rn she keeps trying things on and then flinging them at me bc she “doesn’t have anything to wear!!!!” and also “i don’t even know where we’re going!!!”

i’m not allowed to live-text you anything else she says now she’s mad at me for my overuse of exclamation marks

but srsly where are you taking her?? YOUR COOPERATION COULD SAVE MY LIFE

“Bloody hell, Snow!” Tormund barks suddenly, albeit good-naturedly. “Who’s blowin’ up your phone?”

“Must be the girlfriend, eh?” Grenn jokes. He winks at Jon as he shuffles a tattered pack of cards, and divvies them out for another round of Five Kings to help pass the lazy morning at the station.

Pyp snorts. “Snow hasn’t got a girlfriend. Too busy mooning over that ginger on his phone background, and she’s out of his league.”

“Every ginger’s out of his league. Me especially, but —” with a striking speed for a man of his size, Tormund snatches Jon’s phone to have a look, and promptly guffaws “— well fuck me sideways, there’s a pretty one! No wonder you’re using her for your wallpaper, even if you’re not bloody likely to get a date.”

Jon snatches his phone right back and shoots Arya a quick reply — The Wolfswood Inn, but don’t tell her; I want to surprise her. And tell her I said she could wear a paper bag and still be the most beautiful woman in any room, it’s actually a bit ridiculous, to be honest.

He catches Arya’s next text — ew flirt with her yourself. also i told her you said that and she looks right chuffed but i still think ur a loser — before he smiles, pockets his phone, and rounds on his fellow (still sniggering) firemen.

“I’ll have you know that that’s a very good picture of Ghost that Sansa just happens to be in,” he says, as if he expects his mates to believe him (none of them do, which is just as well since Jon is lying; it’s not even a particularly good shot of the firehouse dog at all, rather unflattering, really). “And, y’know, fuck off because I’m taking her to dinner tonight.”

And, y’know, double fuck off because I’ve felt her up, gotten her off, given her a round dozen hickeys, and she fantasizes about me in the shower.

…All that, and you still haven’t kissed her.

The morning after movie night, Jon had woken up to a faceful of Sansa’s hair and her arms snug around his waist, and now he never wants to wake up another way ever again. But at the time, she’d been so drowsy and bleary-eyed and momentarily confused that Jon wasn’t about to stick his tongue down her throat — and besides, he just knew he had the most wretched morning breath, and he was not going to let that factor into what is sure to be the most monumental occasion of his young life.

So, like all those times before, he hadn’t kissed her then, either. But — and Jon fancies this to be a very important but — he plans on rectifying that tonight.

And perhaps a few other things, too, he adds as he pulls his phone back out of his pocket; not because it had chirped with a new text, but just to look at Sansa’s picture again.

“Dinner, eh?” Tormund waggles his eyebrows. “From the look on your face I’d bet you’ve already got dessert on the brain.”

At that, Jon chuckles along with the rest of them. He sweeps his thumb over the curve of Sansa’s photographed smile, and doesn’t bother correcting Tormund because, well… He’s not entirely wrong, is he?

But Jon doesn’t tell them that. Some things, he thinks, are best kept to himself (that is, until he’s got Sansa in his sights and his arms again, and then he can keep those things between the two of them).

Instead of humouring them further, he sets his phone aside and says, “Oi, shut up and pick a card, would you? I’m not staying overtime just so you can take the piss.”

“Alright, alright,” Tormund relents. He grabs a card from the pile Grenn had made, but not before he shoots Jon a wink. “Wouldn’t want to keep your lady waiting, would we?”

“No, we wouldn’t,” Jon agrees, and picks a card for himself. I’ve done quite enough of that already.

 


 

When Jon arrives back in his room after a shower, scrubbing a towel through his damp curls, it’s to find the realization of many a wet dream waiting for him in the middle of his bed: Sansa Stark, in little else but a threadbare robe and full makeup — smokey eyes, pink-glossed lips, something shimmery on her cheeks… bare legs crossed and slathered in that something shimmery, too…

Oh, god. Jon stops dead in his tracks halfway across the room, towel frozen halfway through his hair. This has got to be a wet dream — or, possibly, the beginning to the porno he somehow forgot he and Sansa had agreed to make.

No. Surely not. Sansa wouldn’t do porn. Probably. Well, actually, Jon’s not sure. He’s not sure of much of anything at the moment, as a relatively naked Sansa Stark waiting for him on his bed has reduced all rational thought to nonexistence.

But, honestly, in what universe would he forget he’d agreed to make a sex tape with Sansa? He could laugh at the mere hypothetical of it, if it weren’t for the fact that his throat had closed up at the sight of her. Perish the thought. He’d remember such a thing better and longer than he’d remember his own name.

Sansa arches an eyebrow at him, but her impatient facade is lost in the smile she’s trying to hide. “You gonna say something, or just stand there staring at me?”

“Just stand here staring at you,” Jon decides almost immediately. He tosses his towel aside, pleased when her eyes drop to his bare chest, and he thinks he might wear nothing but athletic shorts from now on. He gestures in her direction. “Listen, I promised you dinner first, but… Is this what I have to look forward to at the end of the night?”

“Dream on, Snow.”

He lets his eyes wander, slowly, over the length of her scantily-clad body. “Gladly.”

“Stop that.” Sansa points a finger at him. She’s using her serious voice, Jon recognizes it — the one she adopts when she’s not feeling particularly serious at all, but she knows the situation calls for it and she’ll make sure that everyone else involved knows it, too. “We need to talk.”

Ah, the dreaded four words… Jon leans against his bureau (because every lord in every castle knows he wouldn’t be able to control himself if he sat on the bed next to her), arms crossed, and tries to tamper the anxious butterflies in his gut by making another joke: “Don’t I have to take you out first before you can break up with me?”

“I’m not breaking up with you,” Sansa drawls. She’s mocking him, but the sudden flush in her cheeks tells Jon that she’s just as nervous as he is. Thank the gods. “It’s just… Well.” She inhales, slow and deep, as if she’s counting to ten. Jon lets her, and his patience is soon rewarded when she’s got her bearings gathered and keeps talking.

“I’ve been thinking. I’ve done nothing but think the past few days,” Sansa confesses. Jon doesn’t doubt it; he’d known she’d needed time, and he’d been willing to give her anything if it meant they ended up where he wanted them to be — where he’s sure she wants them to be, too. “I mean, I’ve thought this to death, Jon. And I suppose the major thing of it is that I don’t want to wait ‘til dinner to talk about it. I think I need to clear the air before we… before we start…”

Jon offers her a smile, but he’s completely serious when he suggests, “Snogging in public?”

Sansa’s brow arches again, out of curiosity this time. “Do you plan on snogging me in public?”

“Seven hells, yes, I do.”

She really has to work at biting back that smile now, but Jon doesn’t mind. He knows they need to talk — it’s just as Arya had said, isn’t it? That this wasn’t easy for Sansa, and all Jon could do was be sweet to her? He never planned on being anything less, anything else. So if that means he can make her smile in the midst of all these things she’s struggling with, well, then, Jon can do that.

Besides, he really does intend to snog her at every available opportunity, location notwithstanding. Why not give her a heads-up now?

“You’d better stop,” Sansa insists on a half-laugh when she catches him grinning. She exaggerates a pout that he dearly wants to kiss away. “Jon, please, I need to get through this. We’re leaving in an hour and I still don’t know what I’m wearing —”

“Are you not dressed?” he asks, feigning surprise as he lets his gaze wander over her again. Mmmm… “I like what you’ve got on, honestly.”

She chucks a pillow at him. Jon lets it hit its mark, square in the face, but he hardly blinks for fear of missing the way she crosses her ankles and runs her hands down her thighs.

Please take me seriously, for just… a minute and a half,” Sansa implores after a quick mental calculation. Jon would rather have her begging for something else — and for much longer than a minute and a half, for gods’ sake — but he presses his lips together to avoid saying a word about her delectable long legs, and nods in acquiescence. “Thank you. Now, as I was saying…”

She tugs at a strand of her hair, loosely curled, and Jon imagines it’s his hands in her hair — carding through, pushing, pulling, nuzzling into its lush, almond-scented softness —

Oh, gods help him.

“Obviously you know that Harry and I were never really together,” Sansa continues, in such a practiced manner it’s clear she really has been thinking about this all week. “But we’re not seeing each other anymore. And that’s — well, it’s fine, I suppose I haven’t got room to complain, all things considered.”

She gives him a pointed look, and Jon’s heart swoops upwards.

“Before you start in on me,” Sansa warns just as he opens his mouth to do just that, “Jon, you have to know how rotten I’ve been feeling about this. And it’s not you,” she’s quick to add before his face can fall, “I know that sounds like a line of something — it’s not you, it’s me, but remember I said I wasn’t breaking up with you. Not that we’re —”

“But we could be,” Jon offers when she falters.

Her answering smile is soft. “One thing at a time.”

He can live with that.

“I feel a bit stupid, feeling rotten about it,” Sansa admits further when it’s clear Jon’s going to let her keep talking. “Because he wasn’t particularly nice about breaking things off, but —”

So it had been Harry to initiate it, then. Jon frowns as something twists in his gut, something dangerous, feral, and he bites out between clenched teeth — interrupting her, even though a moment ago she’d been content to believe that he wouldn’t do so again — “What did he say to you, Sansa?”

Not the time for your macho posturing, Jon.”

“That’s not what I’m doing,” he insists, although he supposes that it probably is. “I just want to know what he said to you so I can know just how hard to kick his ass.”

Okay, so maybe “macho posturing” is exactly what he’s doing.

Sansa tosses him another smile, sardonic this time. “If you do that, then I’ll have to kick my own ass, too, because really I’m worse than he is, aren’t I? I’m the one who thought things could be serious between us, and even still… whenever you came around, I just…” Her shoulders fall, and her eyes do, too, to study her knees. “I acted like he didn’t even exist.”

Jon’s heart pounds in his chest, but now Sansa’s not looking at him so she can’t catch the way that he’s looking at her. She picks at the quilt she’d made him, the one he’d wrapped himself up in to sulk and moon over her hardly two weeks ago, and she mutters, unpracticed now, “Maybe I deserve the things he said. Maybe I should feel this terribly about it all.”

“No,” Jon presses, because she only deserves good and he wants to make her believe that, “you don’t deserve that. It’s not like — you didn’t make him any promises, Sansa.”

Sansa shrugs, shakes her head, and — thank you, whichever one of you bleeding bastard deities is listening — meets his eye again. “It’s not even him I care about, not really, it’s — I just feel like an idiot.” She sighs, heavy and resigned. “I knew the sort of bloke he was, and anyway it hardly mattered because then there was you and I just…”

Jon can’t bring himself to break their gaze. He’s near-on squirming, uncomfortable in his own skin and overtaken by the desire to close the space between them and cover her body with his own, but she’s still talking and he can’t stop her now — especially not when she says the words that make his heart stutter — “I’m always a damn fool over you, Jon.”

Before his heart can burst, she adds, “That doesn’t make me any better than he is, though.”

You’re not supposed to be with him, Jon thinks as he looks back at her so intently it’s as if he means to memorize every curve of her face. It’s meant to be you and me. That’s the difference.

But once again, it’s just as Arya had said — Sansa’s heartache is about her, not about whichever bloke was stupid enough to do wrong by her. And Jon’s not going to be stupid enough to hurt her; he’s not going to make her wait, not anymore, if he’s what she wants as much as he wants her.

When it seems like she’s out of things to say, Jon pipes up, voice hoarse, “If you’re waiting for me to tell you that you’re right and you’re not any better than Harry is… I’m afraid we’re going to miss dinner, at the very least. The rest of our lives at the most.”

A beat of silence. The air between them is thick, and Jon desperately wants to cut through it when Sansa does so herself — with a loud, relieved sort of laugh.

She swipes at the brightness in her eyes and somehow manages to leave her makeup intact, and she says, “God damn it, that was smooth.”

“Oh, sweetheart…” Fuck it. Jon crawls onto the bed next to her when she hiccups and a sob escapes. He kneels on the mattress, cradles the back of her head, kisses her jaw. “You know I feel like a right shit, don’t you? I didn’t mean to make you feel this way, I just —” Jon inhales her scent, sharp and sweet, and he breathes into her ear, “I just wanted you.”

Her arms snake around his neck and she holds him close. Not that Jon was planning on going anywhere, anyway. Not without her.

He wonders if he should tell her as much, but Sansa doesn’t say another word and neither does he. Perhaps, sometimes, there’s nothing more that needs to be said.

Jon slips his hand to the back of her neck, and the other across her lower back, and Sansa’s answering sigh shudders before it bursts against his skin — and that, Jon thinks as his eyes flutter closed and he buries his face into her shoulder, that feels like enough.

 


 

The Wolfswood Inn is a small, cozy restaurant tucked into the grounds of the large, extravagant hotel of the same name. Inside and out, it’s low-lit and atmospheric, painted white with black accents: a minimalist forest landscape, spindly trees and dustings of fog, to commemorate the woodland that once stood where Winterfell’s bustling downtown had taken root and flourished.

Of course, Jon isn’t really paying attention to any of that — not the crowds or the soft music or the muted golden glow or even his own food and drink. He can’t reasonably be expected to do so, when Sansa’s sitting in the small corner booth next to him, and Jon can only notice the evening’s details in conjunction to her: the way she’d smiled politely and sometimes excitedly at some person or other she happened to know, the way she hums along with the music creeping out from hidden speakers, the way the candlelight flickers, catching the red of her hair and painting shadows that Jon would very much like to trace, to chase, to explore, on her smooth skin.

It’s just… it’s all Sansa. Jon hasn’t got room in his head for anything else.

She’d said she didn’t want to talk about it further — Harry, and how she felt about it ending. She’d assured Jon that she wasn’t sorry for it, that Harry had been a lost cause from the beginning and even if he wasn’t… Well. At that point she’d bit her lip and mumbled, self-conscious, that Jon took up all her headspace, anyway, so that no one else could compete; and perhaps that should have told her all she needed to know straightaway.

But Jon hadn’t minded waiting. Although — he catches Sansa’s eye in the twinkling candlelight — truth be told, he’s over-the-moon that the waiting’s over now.

Throughout the evening, Jon had felt almost as though he couldn’t breathe; but at the same time, he’d never felt lighter. He wonders if this is what it feels like to be in love. And when Sansa smiles at him… Ah, fuck. There she goes, smiling at him again, and Jon has to hide his bubbly, euphoric chuckle — god damn, he’s really in it, isn’t he? — in his napkin. Because when Sansa smiles at him, Jon thinks that this is precisely what being in love must feel like, because surely no other feeling could compare.

Seven heavens, seven hells, but he’s such a sap.

“You’ve really outdone yourself, you know,” Sansa thankfully intrudes upon his foggy, lust-addled mind, as they’re waiting on dessert.

“Yeah?” Jon turns slightly to look at her — so that he can get a good, thorough look at her: artfully tousled hair, smiling eyes, coral mouth, bare shoulders and the dip of her raspberry dress. It would probably be easier to get her out of the robe, sure, but Jon’s not complaining regardless. Not a wick. “So have you.”

“Oh, shut up,” she mumbles. A blush blooms in her cheeks and she almost manages to bite away her smile, but not quite. No different than earlier, in his bedroom, and yet worlds away from where they'd been at the start.

Jon likes that — different, but the same as they’ve always been. It’s almost like this is where they were meant to end up all the while.

And if all it took to get them here was Jon’s persistent, Sansa-centric sex drive, he’s got a few ideas as to how to keep them going, too.

Under the table, he rests his hand on her knee, where her dress has ridden up and leaves her skin bare for him to explore. Sansa shifts, and Jon is dying for her to shift closer, so that he can push her up against the little corner booth they’re sharing with little fuss.

Instead — and much to his chagrin — Sansa shifts farther away, only slightly, but all the same her body abandons his and, maddeningly, she smirks when he whimpers in protest.

She takes a sip of her fruity southron wine and tells him, most decidedly, “You’re not playing your games with me tonight, Snow.”

But then there’s that flash in her eye, the one that goes as quickly as it had come, before her pupils widen, gaze dark in the already low light of the Wolfswood, and Jon quite likes where this is going.

It had been too long since they’d slipped into his game, as it were, but Sansa’s knee twitches when his hand sweeps over it again and he thinks that means she’s ready for another round.

So far, their time together and apart alike had been so rife with tension, with wanting, that Jon colors himself shocked that the dam still has yet to break all the way. But then, he already knew what he planned to do about that tonight, so he supposes that now — as they’re waiting on dessert, almost ready to leave, because he’ll have them box up the damn lemon meringue pie if he has to, and then he’ll lick it off Sansa when he’s got her in his bed later — is as good a time as any.

He tips her chin up; he wants her to look at him when he tells her, low and serious and in that voice — because he is serious, although he might be fibbing just a bit when he practically purrs in the small stretch of space between them, “I’m not playing games with you, Sansa.”

She seems to consider his words. That little crease dents the spot between her eyebrows, and she searches his face, presses her lips together, and takes another deep breath. When she releases it, it breaks against Jon’s mouth and all he wants to do is take her lips and swallow every last breath, every last sound and sigh she makes.

“No?” she says at last, and the sudden husky quality to her voice has Jon gulping and his cock twitching. “You sure about that… Daddy?”

Oh, Seven save me.

There’s a soft thump! from beneath the heather-grey tablecloth, and Jon realizes it was Sansa’s shoe when her bare foot nudges his ankle, and begins to glide up his leg. He swallows again, harder this time; his hand clenches, and he’s already getting hard by the time Sansa’s toes wriggle against his thigh.

“I can play too, you know,” she says, almost conversationally, if it weren’t for that wicked gleam in her eye and the way her foot settles just below Jon’s belt. “Maybe you should have thought about that.”

He grabs her ankle like that’s going to make his head stop spinning, but the feel of her soft skin in his grip does anything but. “Don’t think for a second that I haven’t thought about just that.”

Because dear god, he has.

“Is that right?” Sansa’s toes clench and Jon nearly takes her right then and there. Fuck fuck fuckity fuck… “You know what else I’ve been thinking about this week? How mad you’ve been making me — positively up-the-wall wild, Jon…”

She sighs, satisfied, when his cock begins to stiffen beneath her ministrations. His grip around her ankle doesn’t falter, even though he thinks he ought to stop her, he certainly doesn’t want to.

And his desire to leave the restaurant with some dignity intact fades entirely when Sansa leans in, close the way he’d wanted her to be, and she whispers in his ear, “You wanna tell your girl what you thought about, Daddy?” Her pretty painted lips tease the scruff on his cheek. “I want to play your game just right.”

“Sansa —” Jon sucks in a breath, and shuts his eyes when her foot moves more purposefully against him, and his fingers flex in response “— baby, I think you’re playing just right already.”

“You sure?” She moves her hand to his thigh, stroking, and licks behind his ear in such a way that Jon wonders how she never completely combusted, if he’d ever made her feel half as good as he feels now.

His muscles are coiled tight, knuckles white as he holds her ankle, directing her foot’s attentions to where he wants them — where he shouldn’t want them, not in public like this, not if he doesn’t intend to end the night arrested for some level of indecent exposure, and yet

And yet, that’s when the fucking server pops back in to check on them. Sansa is all courtesy, thanking the boy politely while she continues to drive Jon mad under the table, rendering his own manners to jack shit when he asks the server, tone clipped, to box up their dessert and bring the check.

For fuck’s sake, he doesn’t even say please.

“Well that wasn’t very nice —” Sansa starts to chastise him when they’re left alone again, a teasing lilt to her words, but Jon doesn’t let her finish before his hand shoves up her skirt — skin hot and smooth and ready for him — so that her admonishment cuts off on a short, sharp gasp.

“No,” Jon agrees, half-hypnotized by the way Sansa’s eyes close, the way she licks her lips as he caresses her inner thigh, “it wasn’t.”

He leans in, presses a would-be chaste kiss to the corner of her jaw, and growls into her petal-soft skin, “Baby, you’re in for it when we get home.”

In response, Sansa’s breath catches in her throat, and Jon can scarcely stop himself from catching it between his lips instead.

 


 

The pathway they walk to the carpark is tree-lined and lit by soft golden lanterns, and twinkling tea lights in the branches overhead. The leaves rustle above them with the nighttime birds, as they scuffle and squawk and sing as Jon and Sansa pass beneath their nests.

Jon tucks his hand into Sansa’s as they walk; he interlaces their fingers and pulls hers to his mouth for a kiss. His eyes meet hers over her knuckles, and he thinks she must like that just as much as he did. So he does it again, and this time he flicks his tongue over her pretty French manicure while his gaze stays fixed to her lips.

I’m gonna kiss her, he thinks, and the realization hits him like a brick to the head. I’m gonna kiss her, he thinks again, and his heart begins an erratic sort of two-step in his rib cage.

They idle at the passenger side of his car; he’d opened her door for her, but still they stand, facing each other, Jon gathering his nerve and Sansa waiting for him to do so. He’s glad of her inherently patient nature, too, because Jon plans to make this as good as it can get — he had promised, after all.

When I kiss you — really kiss you — I want you to feel it right down to your toes, sweetheart.

“You remember what I told you the other night?” Jon asks, and squeezes her hand as he does. “About how I wanna kiss you?”

Sansa’s eyes widen. She gapes at him for a moment, and then — “I didn’t dream that?”

“That’s what you thought?” Jon doesn’t mean to laugh at her, but he can’t help it. It’s a fair enough supposition, really, considering how well-sloshed Sansa had been when he’d spilled his clumsy romanticisms to her before they’d fallen asleep, tangled together in his bed.

“Well… sort of?” Sansa blushes, sheepish now as she thinks it over and shakes her head. “That was — really bloody romantic, Jon, it sure felt like it had to be a dream.”

“Nope.” He leans in, and pushes the car door shut before she can get in. He’ll open it again for her in a minute (or several). “Not a dream.”

She seems rather pleased by that, until her eyes widen again with further horrified humiliation. “Oh, Seven, what did I say?”

“Oh, that.” Jon knows he must look the very picture of a smug bastard now but, at a moment like this — the wink of fairy lights above them, surrounded by nothing but the dusk and the singsong of nightingales — what does he care? “You just seemed worried about whether or not I could handle you kissing me back as often as you’d like to.”

That gets a laugh out of her. “That sounds too self-indulgent to be true.”

“Maybe.” Jon shrugs one shoulder, and tugs on her hand so she’s forced to step closer to him. He nudges her nose with his and tastes the harried breath that escapes her. Sweet wine and heady anticipation. “But just as true. You wanna tell me what you remember?”

Sansa’s breath hitches again, on a giggle this time, and Jon’s smile widens as his gaze dips between her eyes and her lips and back again.

“You said you wanted to make me laugh,” she whispers, and her free hand slides over his shoulder. “And that you wanted to hold my hand.”

“Mhmm.” He squeezes her fingers again. “Done that, then.”

He’s inched closer to her now, and her to him. Her fingers disappear into his curls, and he plays with the ends of her hair that bounce around her elbow. And then his thumb swipes her lips, and his tongue swipes his own, and there’s no longer anything between them but Sansa’s soft laughter and one last, simple question —

“So you gonna kiss me or not?”

She’s hardly got the words out before Jon does just that.

His mouth slants against hers, steady and sure, because this is what he’s wanted for so long and he wants her to know — here, now, in one press of his chapped lips to her glossed ones, he wants her to know that this is what he’s been after all this time.

Just her. Sansa. All of her, for all of him.

She moans, quiet but nevertheless real, fingers clutching his own and twisting in his hair, and Jon changes the angle of the kiss to suit her. Harder, deeper, he opens his mouth to greet her taste when she licks along the seam of his lips — and that taste… Jon meets her moan with his own. That taste is nothing less than sunshine, a sensation like floating when Sansa goes on tiptoes to crush her lips more firmly, ardently to his, to dive her tongue alongside his, and Jon’s head is spinning like he’s gone straight on to heaven.

“Sansa…” he breathes her name into their kiss, a tender hum of syllables stirring in his heart, and she brings him closer — he steps on her toes, but she doesn’t mind it at all — and holds him tighter for it.

Jon nips at her bottom lip and tugs, growling softly into her mouth as his hands come up to frame her face. Sansa’s fingers are still laced with his as he does so, and Jon thinks he’ll never let them — her — go.

They break the kiss, but only by half — hands still tangled together, still caught in each other’s hair, lips grazing and laboured breaths overlapping so that they don’t know which are his and which are hers, because it doesn’t matter when they’re crashing and exchanging, intermingling, and neither can even remember a taste apart from his mouth on hers.

Me and you, Jon thinks, because he can’t quite catch his breath to speak just yet. He drags slow thumbs down the curve of her cheekbones. It’s just me and you, darling.

“You were right,” Sansa murmurs, breaking the silence, through a dazed sort of grin. Her eyes are heavy-lidded but sparkling all the same when they meet his, and then Jon’s grinning too when she tells him, “I really did feel that all the way down to my toes.”

Chapter Text

It goes like this:

Eager as he is to get them home and in his bed, the drive takes twice as long as normal because Jon just can’t stop pulling over to the side of the road to kiss her.

It’s not his fault, really, he thinks when he does this for the third time; but kissing Sansa is so much more than he could have imagined — and he did imagine, constantly — and now that he’s had a taste, he can’t get enough of her.

More breathtaking, more all-consuming, more earth-shattering, more everything

She doesn’t seem to mind, either, Jon is quite happy to say as he swallows another stream of her giggles when he takes her mouth again. She’s pushed up against the car door, hands twisted in his curls, and her body arches into his when he sucks on her tongue and groans.

The drive back to the flat is made up of fragments like this, flashes of quick kisses that lead to wandering hands, the car engine idling all the while, Jon’s palm sweeping up the heavenly smooth expanse of Sansa’s thigh where her dress has ridden up — and then Jon jerks the skirt higher still, to memorize the shape of her the best he can. He plans on conducting a full, thorough study, but there’s no time like the present and, anyway, he can’t keep his hands off her.

But he wants her in his bed again, and this time for a far more eventful night than a drunken sleep.

“Bed,” he mumbles into her mouth. They’re parked outside their flat — nearly there now — but Jon had lunged for her as soon as he cut the engine. They’d waited so long and he can hardly keep waiting now, so he’s taking every opportunity as it comes. “I wanna take you upstairs.”

Sansa’s lips twitch into a grin against his, but her breath’s coming shallow when she murmurs back, “Then stop manhandling me and take me upstairs already.”

His hands slide to her chest and he whines, long and high, “I can’t.”

“Come on, Daddy —” Sansa tugs at the collar of his shirt when he kisses her neck, hands kneading her breasts, going harder at her when she calls him Daddy because nothing gets him going like that “— show me what you want.”

You.

He doesn’t have to think twice; it’s always been Sansa. But he knows what she means, and he’s been playing games for so long that it’s time to get straight to the point.

That’s all this is, tonight — loving Sansa until she’s melting into his mattress. They can save the rest of it ‘til the morning.

Even though the rest is just the words to go along with the way that he loves her — just the admission, the I love you out loud — Jon will tell her so tomorrow, when she’s sated and mussed and gods be good, glowing with the aftereffects of the way he wants to make her feel.

Then he’ll tell her. But right now, tonight… Tonight is meant for showing her.

So Jon’s hand covers her own, fingers wrapping ‘round hers and squeezing, and he drags her palm down his chest — past his pounding heart, his quivering stomach — to the strain in his trousers, to his hungry, aching cock. He flattens her palm there and caresses her knuckles, coaxing her into a rhythm that she quickly catches onto and makes his breath run ragged.

Oh, seven hells… Jon’s teeth dig into Sansa’s bare shoulder, marking her pretty sweet skin as she works him up into a frenzy. His nerve endings spark with every stroke of her hand, with every kiss she litters onto his neck, the way she sucks at his earlobe and rolls her hips in time with her hand. He can almost feel what it’s like to take her, have her, fuck her

“Upstairs.” Jon chokes out the word before he can come right now — in his trousers, in the car, in Sansa’s hand as her soft pretty lips ghost up his neck. He kisses her, harsh and quick. “Let me get you upstairs, Sansa, before I fuck you right here in my car.”

“What’s wrong with the car?” Sansa teases, then yelps when Jon pushes her door open and they nearly topple out onto the pavement.

She’s laughing when Jon nudges her out, fervent and eager and hard, and she shrieks again — shattering the stillness of the night around them — when he unexpectedly hoists her up into his arms. Just as he had that day in White Harbour, when her shoes were ruined and he didn’t want her leaving with a splinter or several from the boardwalk. 

(He’d loved her then, too.)

“Jon!”

“Sansa!” He mimics her tone and kisses her once more, just as quick as the last but it’s a lighter, smart smack! of lips, a friendly kiss that tempers his desire just enough so that he can manage to walk. “I want to get you in my bed quick as I can, but I can’t stop stopping to grope you, so I figure carrying you’s my best bet.”

As if to prove his point, Jon smacks her ass, then latches his hand back around her waist to hold her steady.

Sansa’s face is pink, and Jon’s heart skips when he realizes that soon he’ll find out just how far that blush goes. He plans to map it out with his tongue, too — every last inch.

It’s this thought, perhaps — or maybe it’s Sansa’s mouth on his neck, or the way her fingers clutch at his shirtfront — that’s got Jon taking the stairs up to their floor two at a time. (The stairwell is preferable to the elevator at the moment, as Jon’s absolutely sure he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from slamming the emergency button to fuck Sansa between the first and second floors, when ultimately he wants her scent all over his bedsheets instead.)

It’s all a frenzied flurry of movement again — up the stairs, down the hall, Jon fumbles with his key and swears when he nearly drops it, Sansa giggles and Jon’s kicking the door open and then shut, and they haven’t got to worry about how much noise they’re making since no one else is around.

“Last thing I want to do with my evening is bust my eardrums listening to Tom Jones,” Robb had told Jon just that morning. “I’ll be at Talisa’s. Do what you will, mate, just don’t look me in the eye for the next week.”

More than a fair enough trade, Jon reasons, as he kicks off his shoes and topples onto his bed with Sansa still in his arms. A right good place for her to be.

His mouth finds hers again, open and hot and hungry. That’s the only way to kiss her, Jon thinks as he pushes his hands through her hair, spreading it across his pillow. This is the only way he could ever kiss her, in any world: open and hot and hungry and like he’s been waiting for her, because he has.

Now, he doesn’t have to wait anymore; and he doesn’t mean to make Sansa wait, either.

“I wanna talk dirty to you,” he says, the words coming hoarse with pure, unencumbered want. His tongue swipes across her lips before diving back between them. “Can I?”

“Oh, you’re asking permission now?” Sansa grins, then moans when Jon kisses down her throat, slow, focused, and his breath comes in short, hot bursts against her skin. Her nails bite between his shoulder blades, and Jon’s muscles tense beneath her touch.

He nods into the crook of her neck, then nuzzles behind her ear and hums, “Uh-huh. Wanna do exactly what you want tonight, sweetheart. You tell me what’s gonna be okay.”

“Yeah,” Sansa tells him, encourages him; her acquiescence is immediate, and her hand snakes between them to undo his belt. Jon shudders. “Talk to me. You always make me feel so good, Jon.”

He feels a stab of pride at that. Maybe it makes him cocky, but… He thrusts against her, and Sansa seems to like how cocky he is.

“You were such a bad girl tonight, Sansa —” he murmurs the words, voice dark and rasping in her ear the way he knows she likes by now, as his arm flexes, his hand twisting into the sheets “— teasing Daddy like that. So fucking naughty.”

He groans when Sansa’s hips flex upwards, when her cunt rides his cock through their clothes. He slips a hand under her ass and squeezes. “I should punish you, but… it’s not your fault, is it, baby? Daddy’s been teasing you for so long. You just need a release… wanted to rile me up, didn’t you, sweetheart? Make me beg for you?”

Gods, yes, he wants to beg for her — crawl for her, on his hands and knees, worship her with his mouth in words and touch alike, with his tongue, mark her with his teeth…

“Tell me,” he commands sharply when all Sansa can do is gasp and sigh and moan between his lips and hands. “Tell me that’s what you wanted, Sansa, and I’ll get on my knees for you, I promise.”

“Oh my go—” Another arch of her long, lithe body and Jon groans for her again, lips parted almost obscenely against her neck as he pants like a damn dog, begging for her already…

“Yes, that’s what I wanted,” Sansa confesses with her fingers knotted in his hair, directing him where she wants him most, at that spot just beneath her jaw. Jon is happy to oblige, and sucks a mark where her pulse hammers. “I wanted to make you mad for me.”

“Fuck me, baby —” please, let me fuck you “— you know I’m mad for you.”

Mad, wild, up-the-wall crazy for you… so in love with you I can hardly see straight…

“I deserve it, too. I shouldn’t have played all those games with you like that. Daddy was bad — it’s alright, baby,” he assures her, “you can tell me.”

She nods; her kiss-swollen lips twitch anew but it only makes the game all the more endearing, tender beneath the veneer of heat. Sansa’s hands run over his shoulders, then down his chest where his heart pounds and his breath skips for her. “Daddy was so bad, making his girl want him like that… making me wait for you…”

Not anymore, sweetheart.

“Let me make it up to you,” Jon insists. He kisses her again, unable to stem the desire coursing through him. “Anything you want, pretty girl… How do you want Daddy to make you come first?”

They’re rutting on the bed, mussed dress clothes and all. Sansa whips the belt from his trousers and it lands with a loud thunk! somewhere on the floor. Her skirt is pushed up to her hips, and Jon’s pushing it higher still, just like he had in the car. He wants it well and truly out of his way, so he can thrust his hard, still-clothed cock against her damp panties.

I did that, Jon realizes with a jolt. He’s made her come before, he’s had his hands and mouth all over her, but Jon doesn’t think he’ll ever quite get used to making Sansa want him — doesn’t think he’ll ever grow accustomed to the fact that she wants him, period, all on her own.

And now he’s got her in his bed, all night, all to himself.

“Go on,” he encourages between hungry kisses, “what do you want me to do to you, darling? What were you thinking about when I heard you in the shower? How’d I make you shout my name like that? Whatever it is, I’ll do it.”

His hands are everywhere — cupping her tits, grasping her waist, her thighs... He takes her behind the knee to hitch her leg over his hip, and he thrusts more purposefully against her. “I wanna see what you look like when it’s me doing it to you, instead of a toy.”

“I want — oh, god, Jon,” Sansa whimpers when he licks a stripe up from her cleavage all the way to her chin. “I want — your girl wants your mouth on her.”

Her manicured nails nip at his shoulders, and her eyes are dark, imploring as they seek his own. “Go down on me?”

“Fuck yeah, baby.” Jon rears back onto his knees and tugs his shirt off over his head, then unsnaps his trousers to give his cock some relief. He wraps his hands ‘round her ankles and yanks her down the bed. “Let me get my mouth on that pussy.”

He’s between her legs before Sansa can so much as moan her appreciation, but all the same his cock twitches when she does. He shoulders her thighs apart and dives in — mouth open against the smooth blue satin that covers her, tongue laving over the swatch of material. He just knows she’s sweeter beneath it, but how he loves to tease her before he makes her come...

“You want this, baby?” Jon growls, gaze shifting up to lock on her face. She’s got her bottom lip caught between her teeth, and it makes him hot for her. His hands flex on her hips. “You want me, Sansa?”

“Oh my god,” she says again on a shaky, breathy sort of laugh, “you have no idea.”

Her fingers curl in his hair and tug, hard enough that it stirs something dark and primal in his gut, and Jon’s eyes nearly roll back in his head from the sheer pleasure of it. He groans against her cunt, then tears her panties with his teeth so there’s no barrier left between them.

“Oh, fuck yes,” Jon mutters, mostly to himself, but the words make Sansa’s body tremble and her grip twist tighter in his hair. Oh, fuck yes

He doesn’t hesitate another moment before he licks up her slit and closes his mouth on her clit. But he doesn’t linger — he doesn’t want this part to be over so quickly. So he laps at her ardently but leisurely, taking the time to explore her properly, to inhale deeply and slip his tongue in and out and over her. And all the while she’s chanting his name, fisting his hair, writhing and undulating her hips...

I’m going down on Sansa Stark, Jon thinks, dazed even as he focuses his energy on making her hips cant towards his mouth — repeatedly. I’m eating out the love of my goddamn life. Jon thinks he might pass out — or he certainly could, if he could even imagine taking his mouth off her pussy long enough to submit to unconsciousness.

This is the best fucking night of his life.

And when Sansa arches like that again, when Jon oomphs! and groans into her cunt, he couldn’t bear to leave her wound-up and wanting any longer.

Jon relieves his hold on her hips, so one hand can tug the top of her dress down and the other can join the ministrations of his mouth. He feels her up with eager fingers, and slips two others inside of her while his tongue pays attention to her clit again.

“Come on, Sansa,” he says, the demand rough as he works tirelessly at her. “Come for me, sweetheart, I wanna taste you —”

He opens his mouth against her cunt, laves his tongue over her, nearly slobbering all over her in his avid desire to make her come for him — “You’re being such a good girl for Daddy, now lemme hear you scream for me —”

And she does, oh gods, she does. Hands in his hair, hips pressed to his face, thighs clenching around his ears, Sansa comes so hard that Jon has to grip her legs to keep her from catapulting them both off the bed. (Not that it would matter, really, because at this point Jon’s happy to fuck her anywhere, and that includes the floor. In fact, he’s keen to try the floor with her at some point regardless.)

He licks her languidly through her orgasm, and only stops when she jerks him by his curls to take his mouth roughly with her own.

“God, you’re so hot...” Jon kicks his trousers down his legs while Sansa shimmies out of her half-ruined dress.

“You’re one to talk!” Sansa regards him with dark, glazed-over eyes. But she’s still got her bearings enough to pull at his boxers, even as he scoops his discarded jacket from the floor to rummage for the condom he’d stashed in the pocket (just in case he couldn’t wait to get her to his bedroom to have her). “I think you just made my spirit astral project or something, I don’t even — oh my god,” she whines for the umpteenth time, and it gets Jon all worked up, “oh my god, you’re just so —”

“Hot for you,” Jon supplies when she falters. He tears the foil packet open and rolls the condom over his aching length.

He swoops in to kiss her again — he can’t stop, doesn’t want to stop — and pushes her back onto the pillows. “So fucking hot for you, Sansa, are you gonna let me fuck you, baby?”

Sansa slings her legs over his hips and presses her heels insistently against his ass, nudging him closer, and she says, half-laughing, “Give it to me, Daddy.”

“Oh my fucking god...” Jon groans, rather pitifully, but he’s half-laughing too — all anticipation and pent-up want for her, and in one fell swoop his lips are locked back on hers and he’s thrust his cock inside of her.

It’s all pulsing desperation, a keen sense of at last and I’ve finally got you, all to myself. Sansa moans and angles her head to deepen the kiss, and Jon dutifully follows her lead. His fingers twist in the sheets next to her rolling hips, whilst her hands card through and clutch at his hair the way that he likes. She could probably make him come just by pulling at his hair like that, Jon thinks, and files the notion away to test at a later date.

It’s not as though he can think straight about much of anything at the moment. Everything is Sansa — miles of soft pale skin, illuminated only just by the dim light of his nightstand lamp; her eyes dilated and locked on his, faltering only when hers flutter shut now and again, when his blunt nails pinch her thigh or when he leans in to kiss her, mouth to cheek to jaw, neck to collarbone to the space between her breasts. He pushes her hair away from her face and her lips catch on his palm.

“Oh —” Sansa’s gasp is low and sharp when Jon ducks his head to suck at a dusty rose nipple. He flicks his tongue in time with his thrusts, and her hips follow suit. “Jon — yeah, yes, right there —”

“That’s right, baby.” Jon is panting between her breasts, dropping kisses when he’s got a millisecond of clarity to spare. “Take my cock, good and tight — gods, Sansa, I can feel you squeezing me. Oh, fuck me, sweetheart,” he groans when she grinds up against him, “that’s right…”

He can feel her muscles flex and tighten and contract, and his do the same in response, striving for the sweet bliss of release. But he’s not finished with her yet.

Jon pulls out, much to Sansa’s vocal displeasure — “Jon,” she whimpers, and it’s almost enough to make him come — and he rolls onto his back next to her. He slants a look her way, and smacks his thigh to demonstrate his intention.

“Get up here, I want you on top.”

“Bossy,” Sansa remarks, breathless, but her momentary frustration is replaced by a gleeful sort of thrill.

Jon smirks, just a bit because he can’t help himself — I’ve got her, I’m hers and she’s mine — and curls his hands around her waist to tug her onto his lap.

His dark, needy gaze practically eats her up as she sits astride him: mussed hair, warm cheeks, purple smudges from his lips on her neck. Her mouth is smeared with the gloss she’d applied before their date that evening, nearly gone now, but pink as ever from his attentions.

Jon swallows, hard, when the corners of that mouth quirk into a grin to match his own. His eyes meet hers — obsidian to cerulean — and he tells her, all devotion and gruff seriousness, “I’m just gonna shut up and love you now, if you don’t mind.”

“Not a bit,” Sansa assures him, like she’s making a promise. She sweeps a hand through his hair and Jon leans into her touch, chasing it, reveling in it...

She sinks down and he jerks upwards, and he’s moving inside of her again so seamlessly it’s as though they’d never so much as paused. Jon sits up, intent on holding her as close as he can get her, and Sansa’s breath catches with the new angle — so that she’s taking him deeper, and he moves more slowly so as to savour it.

There’s nothing else tonight but the two of them — no more complications, no interruptions, no more fear or self-doubt, no more guessing games. They’ve played their parts, fallen into character and into bed because of it, but Jon wants more than this seductive little tete-a-tete; and more than that, even, he wants Sansa to know that he’s in this thing for real. It’s been discussed already, all their cards laid out, but he won’t stop telling her. He’ll never get tired of telling her.

This is about you and me.

“Just you and me, Sansa,” Jon murmurs into the brush of his lips upon hers.

Sansa’s hands glide up the sides of his neck, and his canvas the curves of her waist. Gods, but she’s pretty — radiant, stunning... Skin bare and flushed with pleasure... and Jon is struck dumb that it’s all because of him, because she wants him and he’s given himself over to her like there was nothing else he could do — and truly there wasn’t; it’s all he’d ever wanted, really, was something like this, something with Sansa.

She traces the trimmed line of his beard, caressing the stubble on his cheekbones, stopping to run across his parted lips — he kisses her fingertips as she goes — and down to the underside of his jaw. She stops there, to tilt his chin up so she can catch him in a kiss. He loves the way she touches him — soft but purposeful, reverent, like they’ve got all the time in the world and she means to spend it all on him. With him. 

Jon melts into her, so naturally it’s as if he’s been fashioned for this — made for loving Sansa the way that she deserves. His arms around her tighten, pull her closer; it’s like she’s his lifeline, even when he feels like he’s died and gone to heaven when he gets to have her.

“Just you and me,” Sansa echoes, and she sounds so fucking happy when she says it that Jon doesn’t think there will be anything else he’ll ever want.

His heart’s fit to burst, but it’s long been in Sansa’s hands and he knows she’s holding it carefully and close. 

“That’s right, baby.” He cradles the back of her neck and leads her into another kiss, and he fucks her harder as he does so. “Just us.”

When he makes her come and he follows right after, it’s with their hands twined, grasping, clutching, and their lips fused together — because Jon can’t stop kissing her for anything, and Sansa can’t stop kissing him right back.

 


 

In the end, he doesn’t wait for tomorrow to tell her. They’re tangled up in bed, surrounded by the room’s muted light and rumpled sheets, the scent of sweat and her almond shampoo that linger. Jon’s fingers toy idly with the ends of her hair while Sansa’s doodle patterns over his heartbeat, and he whispers the words against her forehead —

“I love you, Sansa.”

And — before he can even think to fear that she might not say it back — she tells him, so effortlessly, as though she’d only been waiting to hear it, as though she had known

“I love you, too, Jon.”

Just like that.

Chapter Text

They keep it a secret as best they can. Everyone must know, now that it’s all been said and done, but neither Jon nor Sansa say a word on the subject of their relationship after their Thursday-night dinner (and then some).

Jon, for his part, must admit he’s seldom been more impressed with his own self-control; he’d always thought if he ever caught his break with Sansa, he wouldn’t be able to shut up about it.

But, he supposes, getting to fuck her at the drop of a hat, whenever he likes and whenever she gives him that look — gods help him, that look — is quite enough to keep himself in check.

Not that he needs to, really. There’s nothing stopping them from coming clean to their mates, and they even perhaps deserve the truth after all they’ve invested in the situation. But Sansa had admitted she’d like to have him all to herself for a bit, and Jon told her she could have him however she likes. And he understands, too, because until now everyone had been privy to everything, and he’d quite like to keep himself and Sansa behind closed doors (bedroom, bathroom, closet, car, wherever) for just a wee bit longer.

They all know, though. They have to. Jon is sure of it. Arya looks far more — well, more so than usual — smug whenever she sees them, Theon eyes them with either a smirk or a suspicious squint (the latter always when Jon shows up thirty seconds after Sansa, his hair a bird’s nest and sporting an expression so smug it rivals Arya’s commonplace one), and Robb hasn’t listened to Tom Jones in weeks. Clearly he, at least, must be happy they’re not talking about his sister’s sex life anymore.

So really, it works out for everyone. Likely Arya is hankering for the details, but temporary ignorance is worth not hearing her brother screech “What’s New, Pussycat?” whenever he feels personally offended.

But, as all good things, getting Sansa all to himself for an endless period of time does in fact need to come to an end.

And after everything that had happened for them to get to the here and now and together, it is perhaps fitting — fateful, even — that it’s Harry who tips the scales and, ultimately, is to blame for their bursted bubble of heady sexual privacy.

(Well. Jon begrudgingly admits that it had to happen sometime, but all the same Harry can go fuck himself.)

It starts, as these things tend to, with a night out at the pub. Jon is lounging on Sansa’s bed, flipping channels while she fusses with her post-makeout hair at the vanity (though Jon reckons she should just leave it as is, she looks quite fetching after he’s had his hands on her), when his phone chimes with a text from Arya.

oi, what’re you doing tonight

besides my sister

That only confirms Jon’s suspicions that everyone knows — trust Arya not to be too subtle about these things — but he decides against playing into her hand when he replies.

You have a sister? That’s nice for you.

ha! nice for YOU, since you’re in love w her & now you don’t have to spend your life miserable and lonely.

nice try, tho

(but not really. pretty shoddy try, actually.)

anyway we’re going to yara’s place later. the kraken or w/e. honestly i don’t understand theon’s family and their weird obsession w sea creatures. is it like a sex thing, d’you think?

like a ‘dream of the fisherman's wife’ thing? theon’s pervy enough to build a family legacy off that

Jon snorts. ???? I don’t know?? And I don’t want to.

yeah sansa’s not into hentai, either, so. probably for the best. anyway see you both there @ 8

With that, he drops his phone on the mattress. “We’re going to Yara’s pub tonight.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. S’pose I’ll just have to wait to have my wicked way with you again afterwards.”

Sansa tosses him a grin over her shoulder before attending once more to her hair. “Well, absence does make the heart grow fonder, as they say.”

“Right, we’ll see about that.” Jon abandons his channel surf to lock his eyes on Sansa instead. She’s much better than anything on telly, regardless of what she’s doing, and Jon really doesn’t know what she’s doing with her hair right now, unless —

Oh, fuck me, please…

“What are you looking at?” she asks as she twists her hair into what is, yes, absolutely pigtails — though more… sophisticated, Jon supposes, than something she would have worn years ago. All twisted and braided and still mussed from his hands, but now it looks like something she’d styled on purpose. “Close your mouth, you’ll dehydrate if you keep gaping at me like that.”

Jon hadn’t realized his mouth was open at all. He’d been too preoccupied with the sudden flood of images wreaking havoc on his libido. And when that happens, there’s really only one thing to do:

Share them with Sansa.

He’s off the bed and behind her chair before he even knows what he’s going to say. But then, that’s never been too tricky to figure out. So he puts one hand on her hip and trails the other down one of her pigtails, and begins, “Hmm, I like your hair like this. You going to wear it this way when we head out later?”

She grins, and tightens it a bit. “If you want me to.”

Jon hums again. “Oh, I want you to,” he agrees, as he leans down to run the tip of his nose up her neck, inhaling the sweetness of her skin. His voice drops. “You’re such a good girl, always doing what Daddy likes.”

Sansa leans, too, back into his touch as he caresses her hair, her hip and up to her waist. Jon catches the smile playing on her lips as they fall into the game. Oh, he’s definitely having his wicked way with her before they go anywhere at all.

“You know how much I like to please you,” she tells him. She reaches back to run her fingers through his curls, to tug slightly so as to direct his mouth where she wants it behind her ear; Jon is all too happy to oblige. “Daddy’s so good to me, it’s the least I can do.”

“And you do it so well, sweetheart.” Jon takes a moment to sniff at her hair, inhaling deeply and making her giggle. She smells of almond shampoo and his cologne. “Mm, I love you like this…” The hand on her waist spans her stomach, bunching up her shirt so he can feel the heat of her skin, the effect he has when he sucks on her neck. “All messed up and wanting me.”

“So self-indulgent,” she teases, then whines softly when he cups her breast, fingers kneading her soft, supple, satin-covered skin. Her heart beats wildly beneath his touch.

Jon clicks his tongue. “Be nice, now. You were being so good,” he reminds her, as his hand releases her breast and snakes down, down… “Don’t make me tell you what a bad girl you are.”

He cups her between her legs, where he can feel her getting hot for him. Restless, too, when her toes curl, and her thighs clamp around his fingers as they tease the seam of her leggings. He keeps his touch light, achingly so, as he drags his fingertips up and down. Sansa’s hips chase his hand, jerking upwards to press more insistently against him. His cock twitches.

“Bad girls don’t get finger-fucked, Sansa,” Jon rasps against her neck. He tugs at the strap of her camisole with his teeth and touches her just a little bit harder. “You want my mouth, too, baby? Tell me you’re a good girl.”

Her fingers twist painfully, deliciously, in his hair and her hips jerk up again. “I’m your good girl,” she tells him, breathless with want. “Just yours.”

“Fuck me, sweetheart,” Jon groans. And in one fluid motion, his hand shoves down her pants and his mouth takes hers in a harsh, searing kiss.

Their lips part and tongues tangle, and he dips two fingers inside of her. He pumps into her in tandem with every nip of his teeth, every pucker of his lips, every rough sigh of her name breathed into her mouth.

He’d meant to tease her a bit longer — not too much, just enough to get her moaning before he even really touched her — but fuck him, does he love it when Sansa tells him she’s his. He’d wanted it — her, this, them — for so long, sometimes he can still hardly believe it’s real. But then she tells him, and he knows, and it makes him want to give her whatever she wants as soon as she wants it.

And right now, he wants her. Immediately.

Jon removes his hand and swallows Sansa’s resultant, resigned whimper. He chuckles and says, “Don’t whine at me like that, love. I’ve got other plans for you.”

Before she can ask what those plans are, Jon shows her. He hauls her up into her arms, only to toss her to the bed before she can so much as wrap her legs around his waist. He falls onto the mattress beside her and pulls her into his lap so that she’s on top. Like he said, Jon’s got plans for her, and it just won’t do (much as it thrills him) if she’s underneath him this time.

He presses hard, open-mouthed kisses to her cotton-covered thighs. “I’m gonna make you come at least twelve times before we leave.”

Sansa laughs, and wriggles up his body to make it easier for him to reach the places his mouth is so hungry for. “Oh? You think we have time for all that?”

Probably not. It’s nearly seven as it is, but Jon never had any intention of showing up to the pub on time, anyway. So he says, “There’s always time for all that. Go on, love, sit on my face.”

He tugs away her leggings. He already knows she’s not wearing anything under them — he’d ripped those panties in half earlier and, after grumbling about how he’s going to run her out of lingerie at this rate, she’d not bothered to put on new ones.

But, Jon thinks as he yanks at her hips and covers her cunt with his mouth, he doubts she really minds the loss of her underwear as much as she pretends to.

He laps at her eagerly, ardently, like it’s been days since he’s last had her when really it was just a few hours ago. Jon doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to having her — body, heart, all of her; having Sansa every way she’s given herself to him is just too incredible a thing to ever become run-of-the-mill, every-day, simply used-to-it.

“Come on, baby,” Jon rumbles into her cunt. He massages her hips as they cant against his face. “Twelve times, sweetheart, I need you to start coming for me.”

He swirls his tongue around her clit. Sansa’s hands are braced against the wall, her chest hitching right above him as she singsongs a litany of moans and sighs, his name and several colorful swear words she only ever uses when he’s throwing her into this sort of frenzy. It throws him into a frenzy, too. She curses and Jon’s own hips buck, his hard cock rutting against her ass. 

“That’s right.” He slaps her ass then, squeezes it and uses his grip on her to bring her more firmly to his mouth. He breaks up his words with long licks up her slit, presses of his lips to her clit, flicks of his tongue wherever it can reach. “Tell me you want me… Tell me you’re mine… Come for Daddy, baby… Come for me, Sansa.”

She rides his face, making him groan into her pussy as he eats her out. He keeps rubbing her hips, coaxing her towards her peak with hands and mouth alike. He knows just how to get her there — how much she likes it when he touches her, when she can feel his cock begging for her, what to say, what precisely to do with his mouth… And, gods be good, does he love getting her off.

Twelve times might have, admittedly, been overshooting it a bit. But Jon gets her to four (and himself to one) just like this before she makes him stop, and he thinks that’s a pretty good start. They’ve still got the rest of the night after the pub to look forward to.

When Sansa’s slumped down, wrapped up in his arms, sheets tangled around their legs, Jon dips his head to catch her sedate smile with his own smug one. They’re both a right mess, but he can’t resist; a shower can wait, because, well…

Kissing her’s still his favorite part.

Because he’d waited so long to do it. Because it had been perfect the first time, just the way he’d planned it. Because in that first kiss, he thinks — hopes, but all things considered he feels pretty confident about it — he gave her just what she’d been looking for. Because kissing Sansa only gets better with each one they exchange. It always feels new, exciting, yet right, like they’ve been kissing for ages, like they’ve always been meant to. It makes Jon feel secure, but lighthearted, feet off the ground and head in the clouds, too.

Sansa just makes him feel… everything.

“I love you,” he murmurs hoarsely against her mouth, “like mad.”

Her hand covers his, fingers stroking his knuckles. “I know. You make me believe it.” She sighs, and it tastes like home. “I love you, so much. I’m so happy you drove me wild for weeks, even when I hated you for it. But I never could, not really. I already loved you too much.”

“And thank the gods for that.” Jon chuckles even as his heart swells. She loves me loves me loves me… “If it helps, I think you drive me wild still, every day.”

She smiles, a soft, pretty thing. “Well I certainly like it when you tell me so. Like I said —” that smile turns to a mischievous, heart-stopping smirk now “— Daddy’s so good to me.”

He groans as she laughs at his expense. “Don’t start again, or we’ll never leave.”

That only makes her laugh harder. Well, Jon thinks they’ve still got some time to spare, so — “Alright, then, guess I’ll have to shut you up myself, naughty girl” — he rolls on top of her, intent on teaching her a lesson before they go.

 


 

The Kraken is packed when they finally arrive, nearly an hour later than everyone else because Jon hadn’t taken Sansa’s suggestion of a “platonic shower” seriously. He doesn’t think she’d meant for him to, either, because what the hell’s a “platonic shower,” anyway?

Well. Doesn’t matter. Jon had fucked her up against the wall beneath the hot water spray ‘til it had gone cold. He’s certainly not about to argue with Sansa about her word choice after that.

Their mates are halfway to drunk by the time they meet the group at the bar. Yara might murder Robb before he gets properly sloshed, as he’s already loaded the jukebox with repeat plays of “It’s Not Unusual.”

“She had ‘What’s New, Pussycat?’ removed from the selections,” a rather sullen Robb tells Jon upon their arrival. “Can you believe it? So I had to make do.”

Yara slaps the jukebox with one hand while the other tosses back a shot of whiskey. “After tonight, I’m gonna take the damn thing out back and kick the shit out of it. The rest of you just let him jam it with coins, didn’t you? Didn’t even try to stop him. I can’t bloody trust any of you, can I?”

The song starts on its seventh play, and everyone is forced to agree that, no, she can’t.

Jon orders a round for himself and Sansa so they might catch up to their friends. He endures a few barbs and a couple of sex jokes for that, and he’s hard-pressed not to shut up the lot of them by smacking a kiss to Sansa’s mouth as he passes her a rum and Coke.

But they hadn’t discussed how they wanted to tell everyone, so he restrains himself, and puts his hand on the small of her back instead. It’s a friendly gesture, only bordering on Sansa’s apparent definition of “platonic” when the motion brings her more snugly against his side. But there’s no reason anyone else should notice that.

Still, though, Arya keeps shooting them knowing looks, and Theon makes so many more sex jokes as the evening wears on that Robb must eventually beg him to stop, man, for the love of god. He only does when Jeyne Poole shows up, and he’s thusly distracted from the rest of them.

“At least he took my warning to heart,” Sansa notes, pleased, as she watches her friend soundly thrash Theon at darts.

“That he did.” Jon squeezes her hip. “I wouldn’t want to cross you, either.”

“Right, I suppose that’s why you relentlessly seduced me for weeks,” she jokes dryly, and takes a sip of her drink.

“I relentlessly seduced you for weeks because I’m wildly in love with you and wanted to get you into bed.”

She stifles her giggle against the rim of her glass, but it’s a poor job and Jon catches it, anyway. Making her laugh is second only to kissing her, and he can’t do that just yet, so pulling smiles from her is just as good for now.

“Fucking rip my eyeballs out, you two disgust me,” Arya mutters as she passes by, but then she’s laughing, too, and heads to the bar with Gendry following after. He, at least, is polite about it, and gives them both a grin and a shrug as he goes.

“Are we that obvious, really?” Sansa wants to know.

“Dunno,” Jon admits. “Arya thought I was obvious for months, so it’s either me or she’s just abnormally observant. I’m not trying particularly hard to hide it anymore, either. My face actually hurts from smiling so much, you know, I must look like an idiot.”

Sansa nudges her nose against his neck. “Well I think you look good.”

“Good it is, then.”

He wishes they were alone again — he always wants to be alone with her, he can readily confess to that; it’s much easier to kiss her when no one else is around — but then, there’s something nice about this, too. Out with their mates, who know but don’t quite know, but surely enough that they’re no longer offering advice or berating Jon for cocking it all up. Because he hasn’t, and things are good, and maybe that means there’s been some sort of rift in the space-time continuum, but that’s fine by Jon so long as he’s making Sansa happy.

He really is a sap, isn’t he? Jon can readily confess to that as well, but that’s fine by him, too.

In fact, tonight he embraces it. He likes to romance Sansa when he’s got the chance — and maybe a crowded, low-lit dive bar, surrounded by their mates and accosted by Tom Jones every other song, isn’t the most primo romantic mood, but Jon figures he can make it work.

So he takes her by the hand and pulls her to the dance floor. He holds her close, a necessary measure in the crowd and just because he wants to. He laughs when she does, when her breath tickles the stubble on his cheek, when he spins them ‘round and his heart thuds beneath her palm. He steals a kiss from her rum-and-Coke lips — just one, and just because she told him to — “Go on and kiss me, no one’s looking and I miss you.”

He’s right there, hasn’t gone anywhere, but all the same he knows what she means.

He whispers in her ear that she’s beautiful, that he’s mad about her, he can’t wait to get her home — “I’ve got a hundred dirty things I want to do to you, sweetheart” — that he loves her and he’s so happy she’s there with him tonight, but he can’t wait to leave so he can kiss her properly and he won’t have to stop.

Maybe he hasn’t told anyone else yet, but as it turns out Jon can’t shut up about Sansa now that he’s got her, even if the only person he spills his guts to is the girl herself. But she deserves to hear it, every word, so it’s just as well.

It’s a whole new bubble they’ve created here, in the middle of the dance floor in the middle of a pub, but it’s popped suddenly, with the insistent bzz-bzz-bzz of Jon’s phone in his pocket.

“Get that for me, would you?” Jon asks Sansa, as his hands are too busy to bother at the moment, one around her waist and the other tangled up in one of her artfully-done pigtails.

She scoffs but smiles and obliges, smacking his ass once she’s got his phone out. He moves closer as she swipes his screen.

“It’s Arya,” she informs him, as he busies himself behind her ear. “She says — what is this? ‘Mayday, quit feeling up my sister, the falcon has landed.’ What’s the fal—”

“Shit.” Jon straightens. He takes her once more by the hand, this time to drag her off the floor and towards the bar, the loos, the door, anywhere else so they won’t run into the dreaded ex-whatever-Harry-had-been-to-her. “Shit shit shit shit shit —”

“Jon, what —”

But it’s no good. There’s a break in the crush of patrons, but no relief to be found when they bump straight into the person Jon — and Sansa, too, if she’d known to whom ‘the falcon’ referred — had been trying to avoid.

“Uh, what the fuck?” Harry greets them, ever eloquent. He’s got a half-smile on his face, but he eyes their joined hands and there’s nothing really behind that smile after that. “Uh… ha. Hey, Sans.”

I hated when he called me that, she’d told Jon one afternoon, as they’d taken a drive along the country roads they used to play on as kids. It wasn’t a big deal, I guess, not really. I can’t even tell you why I didn’t like it. But then I hated it more because he just wouldn’t stop.

“Hey…” Sansa casts a look towards Jon, as if to keep him from doing something stupid like he wants to. “How’ve you been?”

“Not as good as you, I guess.” Harry takes a long pull of his beer, some pricey, trendsetting pale ale that Jon would bet his next paycheck tastes like piss. “Saffron ditched me and turns out Cissy’s a bit of a clinger. But you two’re all right, yeah?” He snorts without any real humor. “Should’ve known.”

Sansa clears her throat. Her hand tightens around Jon’s. “Right.”

Jon recalls what she’d told them before their first date, that Harry had said some things she’d rather not repeat. Truthfully, he couldn’t forget it, though he hadn’t pushed Sansa to tell him the whole of it. If she was done with Harry, that was good enough for Jon. But now that they’re faced with him, he rather wishes that he did know the whole of it, if only to determine how hard Harry needs to be decked.

But then, it turns out he doesn’t need to know to make that decision, because Harry makes it for him with his next statement.

“Nice braids,” Harry says to her, then jerks his chin towards Jon. “He pull those when he fucks you?”

Really fucking hard, then. That’s how he needs to be decked.

Jon swears and takes a step, just one, before Sansa catches him by the arm so he can’t take a swing, too, and yanks him back towards her.

“Yes, Harry, he does,” she retorts, rather hotly, as if the answer is obvious and she’s lost her patience with Harry’s obtuseness. “Come on, Jon, let’s go.”

He wants to argue that — Harry should be hit through the goddamn roof, and somebody’s got to do it, so why not Jon? — but he doesn’t, because Sansa doesn’t want him to.

With the hand not holding fast to him, Sansa taps out a text to her sister. Jon reads it over her shoulder as they walk: Leaving. Harry’s a prick. Don’t want Jon to get arrested. Pay our tab, will you? I’ll get you back later, promise. x

They’re on the curb outside, hailing a taxi, when Arya replies, in usual double-text fashion.

obvi

fyi yara said she would’ve footed the bill herself if jon would’ve broken hardyng’s nose

but i reckon his bail woulda cost more than a couple drinks, so good on him, I GUESS

gods i can’t believe i didn’t get to see a fight. now i’m gonna have to punch gendry in the face just to get it out of my system

no. i won’t. i told him and he looks so offended, i could never

LOL i’m drunk af. i love gendry. i love you. i think jon is OK. you don’t owe me for the drinks but jon does. bc HE owes ME really since i’m letting him debauch you on the regular

anyway have fun at home!!! ayyyyyyy

“So,” Jon says, hardly able to stop his grin — to hell with Harry Hardyng — as a cab pulls up to take them home, “guess that means I get to debauch you in about ten minutes, hm?”

For that, Sansa stomps on his foot.

 


 

“You should’ve let me hit him,” Jon insists, not for the first time, as they close the door to Sansa’s flat behind them.

She drops her keys on the counter and rolls her eyes. He’d been trying to convince her the entire ride home and she’d not said a word; she’d pressed one long, hard kiss to his mouth to shut him up, but still Jon had wanted to prove his point, whether or not the cabbie heard the whole sordid tale.

Now, though, they’re alone, so she tugs at one of her pigtails and tells him the truth of it — “Well, you couldn’t pull my hair with a broken hand.”

Oh.

“Fair point,” Jon concedes, and promptly pushes her up against the wall as he crushes his mouth to hers.

He feels impatient tonight. He wants her here, now, and all to himself. He feels… possessive. He didn’t like the way Harry had talked to Sansa, he’d never liked the way Harry had talked to her. Or the way he looked at her or touched her or taken her out or left her high and dry or done wrong by her or fucking touched her, fucking hell, Jon hates that anyone else ever touched her.

More than that, maybe, Jon hates that he hadn’t done it first. If he’d said something, done something, as soon as he’d known he wanted Sansa, then she never would have had to endure Harry in the first place. She never would have had to endure any of them.

He can’t change that now. Jon knows that. But he can make up for it.

“You know Daddy hates to see you upset,” he whispers hotly against her lips. “I only want you to feel good, wanna make you feel good…” The kiss is turning sloppy already, Jon is so eager to have her, so impatient to make her come again, like he had earlier times ten. He trails his mouth across her jaw. “I only ever want to make you feel good, Sansa. Let me. Let me make you forget all about everything else…”

He’s panting, hands fumbling with her clothes. He’s an utter mess, he wants her so much. He’s mad for her and furious for her and he hates everything she’s been through, he wants her, needs her, he’s driving himself up the wall and he wants her to come with him.

He’s like a man possessed, and he wants to possess her in turn.

Sansa is just as eager, it seems, as they stumble to her room, loosening shirts and belts and shoes along the way, discarding them in piles from her door to her bed. The room is dark, illuminated only by the light of the streetlamps outside filtering through the curtains.

Jon knows the room, knows her, well enough to navigate blindly; and Sansa knows him just as well, too.

“You’re so stupid,” she mutters as they fall to her bed, still in chaotic disarray after their day spent in it. “So stupid, Jon, you can’t just fight everyone, you know —”

“Not stupid,” he protests, even as he maps his open mouth down her still-clothed chest. He kicks his shoes all the way off and they thum-thump! onto the floor. “And I didn’t fight him, I just wanted to kick his ass for looking at you.”

Her fingers spear through his hair, pulling him back up so she can kiss him again — at least, that’s what Jon assumes, until she’s pushed him onto his back and yanking his pants off.

“Oh, fu—”

Her hand is warm and damp — she must have licked her palm first and fuck, that’s so hot — when it wraps around his cock, already half-hard in want of her. She strokes him expertly, divinely, and Jon’s eyes about roll back in his head when she says, “You’re so good to me, Daddy. So protective of your girl. Please, can I give you my mouth?”

“Yes, yeah, baby, fuck,” Jon babbles as Sansa’s mouth — warmer and wetter than her hand — envelops him. He hisses through his teeth. “Oh, fuck —”

Gods, it feels good. She sucks, and drags her tongue up his shaft, and swirls it around the head, and starts all over again. Jon runs his hands through her hair, breathing heavy as he fists her pigtails and pulls, just a little, not to force her, but rather to show her how much he likes what she’s doing.

Mmph, that’s so good, sweetheart,” he moans along with her, as her hum reverberates through his body. He tugs some more at her hair and she makes an appreciative sound when she takes him deeper. “Fuck me, Sansa — fuck, oh my god, you’re my filthy girl, aren’t you? Fuck yes, baby —”

She has to stop. He wants to fuck her.

“Condom,” he gasps, when Sansa does some marvelous thing with her tongue that makes his eyes cross. “Get a condom, I’m gonna fuck you so hard we break the bed.”

Sansa releases him with an obscene pop! that only makes him hotter for her. “We’re not breaking my bed, mattresses are expensive.”

Jon growls and she giggles. There’s the sound of her nightstand drawer opening, the crinkle of a foil packet, and then she’s stroking him again as the latex rolls down his shaft where her mouth had been just moments ago.

God damn, but does he love this woman.

They’re still half-dressed, but it makes no difference to Jon as he flips them over. He wants to be on top tonight, wants to make her his all over again…

He enters her, hard and fast, groaning when she releases a high, sharp gasp of his name as he sets an erratic pace.

“Your cunt is so tight — gods, Sansa,” he pants into the slope of her neck, “who do you belong to?” His hand slams down against the mattress, one, two times, before he shoves it up her rumpled shirt to take her breast. “Tell me, tell me whose pussy this is —”

“Yours,” she swears, without hesitation. “Mmm, Jon, all yours, I’m all yours.”

“Yeah, you are,” he says roughly. He pounds into her, making the bed frame squeak beneath them. He pushes her shirt up further so he can suck at her nipple over her bra. “You like that, baby? Like what Daddy’s doing to you?”

She meets his thrusts with the push of her hips, pressing her chest closer to his mouth as he sucks hickeys onto her tits. “Yes, Daddy, I — oh, gods, do that again…”

Jon does whatever she asks of him. He’s a goddamn slave to her whims, and he’s glad of it. She’s all he wants, and he’s ready and willing to give her whatever she wants in return.

“You’re mine, Sansa,” he breathes into another kiss, as they reach their first peak of the night. This kiss is sloppy, too, just as it had been up against the wall — messy and wild and just right. “All mine, sweetheart, and I’m all yours.”

“All mine,” she echoes, and kisses him back so hard Jon could swear he sees stars.

Then again, he thinks — as he holds her tight, as they collapse atop the bed together, kissing all the while — Sansa’s always made him feel that way.

 


 

They don’t sleep until the sun’s already peeking through the blinds, and they wake when it’s high in the overcast sky.

Jon caresses lazy hands up and down and across Sansa’s body, sprawled out next to his. She’s running her own hands over his bare chest. They’d managed to divest themselves of all their clothing at some point last night, a fact which Jon is glad of; he adores waking up to a naked Sansa beside him.

“I could sleep for days after that,” she says, voice scratchy and sleepy and sexy as all hell. “You went rather caveman on me, didn’t you?”

“Mhmm,” Jon happily agrees. “I’ve no excuses. I only want to know when you’ll let me do it again.”

“Oh, whenever you like, I think.”

He laughs, quiet but sincere. “Might try to keep it quieter next time, though. Do you think we were too loud? These walls…” He taps one, and can’t help a grin as he recalls what he heard Sansa doing on the other side of his so many weeks ago. “Paper thin, remember?”

She swats lightly at his shoulder, before leaning in to drop a kiss there. “We were fine, I’m sure. Arya didn’t get in ‘til late, yeah? And she was too snockered to pay attention to us, besides.”

That’s quite good enough to put Jon at ease. Besides, he can’t worry about too much when Sansa’s tongue is in his ear.

His peace of mind lasts only another hour or so, when neither of them can keep pretending they don’t need breakfast and a shower. Sansa snags his T-shirt from the night before and he pulls on his boxers, and they head to the kitchen, swapping kisses on the way. Jon shoulders open the door, hands too busy at Sansa’s waist, to find Arya on the countertop, munching cornflakes and watching some home renovation show on the little kitchen telly.

She tilts her chin in greeting, completely nonplussed at the sight of her sister being manhandled at one o’clock in the afternoon. She gives them a once-over, eyeing their disheveled appearance, before locking her gaze on Jon and saying, deadpan, “‘Sup… Daddy.”

Jon swipes the box of cereal from the table and smacks her upside the head with it. “Never say that to me again.”

Sansa laughs when Arya chucks her spoon at him. “Hell’s bells, man, I’m the one who has to live with it now!” Bereft of her spoon, her only weapon, now, she flips him off for good measure. “I’ll have my therapist bill you. Asshole.”

And, just like that, it’s all out in the open.

Arya snaps a candid shot of Jon planting a kiss on Sansa’s cheek, and sends it off to the group chat, captioned you don’t wanna know what they were doing before this.

ROBB: No I do NOT

THEON: arya i’ll give you a thousand dollars if you tell him

TALISA: DON’T tell him, please, I’ll have to have him institutionalized.

BRAN: Gross, but congrats

RICKON: stop involving me in your sex lives. i’m an INFANT.

SAM: FINALLY

MARGAERY: Oh, thank god

GENDRY: Why am I a part of this? I already knew. They’re very loud. Louder than me and Arya sometimes, actually.

ROBB: WHAT DID I JUST SAY?????

THEON: loooooooool

Things are mostly back to normal after that — normal, but better, perhaps the way things should have been from the start.

Jon holds Sansa’s hand and she kisses him in public, and behind closed doors they play their game (and sometimes they even start it when they’re not yet alone). He buys her flowers for no reason at all, and she knits another blanket, bigger than the one she’d made Jon for Christmas, for them to share. They make excellent, occassionally dirty, use of it. 

He no longer spends sad, lonely nights scrolling her Instagram, but he posts pictures of her, of them, to his. His mates at the fire station take the mickey for that, but they dote on Sansa whenever she drops by with a homemade lunch. Robb belts Tom Jones whenever he catches them kissing — which is a lot, so much so that neither of them can really fault his coping mechanisms.

Sansa nicks his shirts and his jumpers and Jon ruins more than one pair of her panties when he’s loving her arguably too excitedly (but at least they know what to gift each other during the holidays, so it works out alright). Movie nights are spent cuddled on that godawful armchair, but Jon can’t complain when they end the evenings in one of their beds.

Soon enough, though, he supposes it’ll just be one bed. Their bed.

They can’t go on as next-door neighbors forever, after all. He’s much too in love with her for that to do. And she’s much too in love with him, too, so Jon reckons she’ll agree.

Guess I’ll find out when I ask her to move in with me, he thinks and, grinning, heads over to hers with another bunch of yellow daisies in hand, for no reason but she deserves to have them.

Things are good, Jon thinks, when Sansa jumps up into his arms. He kisses her soundly, thoroughly, and he thinks that really, yes, things were meant to be this good all along.