Pairing: Jon x Sansa
Summary: Sansa and Jon are trapped in a snow storm like two figures inside a snow globe shaken for effect.
Notes: Modern AU written for gameofships Golden Ships' fanworks challenge.
When Robb died, his car sliding around an icy corner and into a tree, the boy next store became family. The two boys had been friends since kindergarten, and having Jon Snow around felt like having a piece of Robb with them. Especially at Christmas or Thanksgiving, when everyone was together and Robb's absence was more painfully obvious than usual. Raised by a single mom, who died of cancer Robb's freshman year of college, there was no family for Jon to go home to over the holidays, so he spent them with the Starks, and it was nice. It was always nice to see him.
Although, Sansa never was particularly partial to Jon. Robb had older friends who were dangerous and handsome and kept her awake at night, scribbling away in the diary with pink, rose scented paper she tucked under her bed, but Jon wasn't one of them. Jon was quiet, he didn't smile much, didn't play football or baseball or basketball, and when Robb and all their other friends went off to college, Jon went to a technical school in Norfolk. Sansa knew her mother didn't think much of the choice. Jon wasn't stupid or lazy. Her father said money was tight and not everyone had access to the same opportunities. That may have been the case, but Sansa was inclined to agree with her mother.
Still, he was family. So when Sansa was accepted at the College, a thirty minute drive from Jon's little house in the sticks, while they didn't socialize—she had her sorority functions, her classes, a boyfriend to keep her busy—he always offered to drive her home for the holidays and she always accepted. Despite their lack of anything in common, the trips were fine except for a few minutes of awkwardness before she slipped her earbuds in her ears and stared out the window for the rest of the three hour drive. Otherwise they didn't see each other, proximity not creating fresh intimacy.
Until two weeks ago, when Sansa ended up calling him from her boyfriend's fraternity's pledge auction, begging him to come get her. Joffrey thought it was funny to throw her in as a package deal with one of the freshman pledges. It was humiliating to be pushed up on stage and pawed at by drunken freshmen while her boyfriend hooted at her from the dance floor, and maybe she overreacted—that's what Joff insisted, when she confronted him about it later—but at the time all she wanted to do was go home. She would have walked with her silver heels in hand, but no one would leave with her and she knew better than to make the trek back to campus alone in the dark. Staring at her iPhone, scrolling through her contacts, she fixed on Jon's number.
It wasn't the first time she had looked at that particular contact. Over the past semester, her finger had hovered over it more than once. As things slowly had spiraled out of control at school and with her friends and Joff, her mind had turned to Jon with unaccustomed regularity. Not so far away was the best friend of the dear brother lost to her, and she had thought how good it might be to see Jon and for them to have the type of relationship that she could call on him for anything. She had looked at that contact and fantasized about a different life, where they were more alike than different. When things got tough, she had begun to ask herself what Jon would do, because while she'd lost a brother and he a best friend, he'd lost a great deal more than that and he was brave and independent, living on his own, making his own path. Maybe all of that would have been okay, but she'd also pretended all those gestures of friendship and kindness he showed her were signs of something more simmering between them. An awkward development, since they were family.
This time she made the call. She knew she woke him up, she could hear it in his voice, when he picked up, but there was no hesitation on his part, when she asked for his help, shouting over music, as she held the phone to her ear.
Drunk as she was, she couldn't even give proper directions or an address, so she's not sure how he ever found her. But he did. He pulled up in his car outside where she was sitting on the steps, trying to hide from the halo of the streetlamp in case Joff came looking for her. Of course, he hadn't. The only person who came for her was Jon.
It sounds ridiculous, because it's Jon, who she's known forever, and he drives a beat up old Honda and doesn't have a college degree and her younger siblings call him brother, but it felt like being rescued by Prince Charming, and when he asked her if she was okay, the floodgates opened. She confessed every shitty thing Joffrey had done to her that semester. Told him about how she didn't think she could trust her roommate anymore. How she failed her English midterm and her professor was a creep, who kept telling her to come to his office for what she was terrified was more than kindly meant extra help. As she spoke, Jon looked angry. He looked upset. He worried his lip with his teeth and frowned, his knuckles white on the wheel. But he let her talk. He listened. Being quiet apparently made Jon an excellent listener. It was just what she needed. By the time they got to her dorm, she had mascara running down her cheeks. She was tired, wrung out like a washcloth, but she felt better, more grounded, safe.
He held her elbow, as he walked her up the sidewalk to her dorm, because she was kind of wobbly on her heels, and when they got to the door, she had this urge to tell him that Margaery wasn't going to be coming home tonight, that she had the room to herself, and he should come inside. It wasn't something Sansa Stark would do. She didn't cheat on her boyfriend. She never hooked up. She certainly didn't make a first move. But her heartbeat sped up, as she pictured it: slipping her arms around his neck, touching her lips to his, feeling his weight over her in her little twin bed. She made a big show of digging in her clutch for her keycard to distract herself from the feel of his thumb smoothing over the inside of her arm, so she wouldn't drunkenly say what she wouldn't be able to take back. He probably would have refused, because he's not the kind of guy to take advantage of his dead best friend's drunk little sister, and then she'd have been forever embarrassed.
Because Jon is family. She's not going to ever escape the connection even if she wanted to. He's the one that drives her home on breaks. He's the one that drops her off at the mall on Black Friday, when there's not a spot to be had and she wants to pick up presents for her siblings. He's the one that pours her coffee, when she gets up on Christmas morning and no one else is awake in the house, and he knows without asking that half of her mug needs to be milk and that she takes two big scoops of white sugar. He's family and she can't afford to ruin that.
Unless it could be more.
Maybe it's because she broke things off with Joffrey and she's lonely, but she's had to remind herself that Jon is family countless times between that night and when she gets the phone call from him asking her when she'd like to be picked up in the morning for their trip back home for Christmas. They settle on a time without consulting the weather forecast, and when he pulls up outside her dorm, she's waiting in the chilly vestibule, her bag packed at her feet. She would normally dash out to meet him at the curb, but that's not an appealing prospect at the moment, so she peeks around the door and waves at him.
The snow is five inches deep and still falling. At home that would be nothing. In the mountains they're used to snow, they're always prepared for it, and it doesn't interfere much with whatever your plans are, but here in Williamsburg, they're not ever prepared. The world stops on the rare occasion that it really snows. There are no plows, no shovels, no salt, no chains, nothing except a run on milk and bread at Harris Teeter and Food Lion and a couple of bundled up photographers rushing out to get a good shot of the Governor's Palace draped in snow for the Colonial Williamsburg calendar. She'd be laughing at them, but she's as bad as these Tidewater Virginians: she left her boots back at home and she knows the minute she steps out on that unshoveled sidewalk, she's going to be wet to the skin.
Jon jumps out of the car he leaves running, his hands shoved in his pockets with his shoulders up around his ears as he hurries up the sidewalk towards her. He's prepared. He's got a black down coat and rubber boots on and a maroon knit hat pulled down over his ears. It's not exactly the most attractive of outfits, but Jon's actually pretty darn good looking. He's tall and slim and solid. What you might even call pretty with dark curls that are long enough that they stick out of the bottom of his hat and those kind grey eyes fringed in impossibly extended lashes.
Her stomach does that thing—the little flip—it's been doing every time she thinks of him lately. Every time she conjures up a picture of him in her mind, there's the funny feeling in her stomach she hasn't felt in years, and now that he's jogging towards her, she feels it again. She knows the feeling, knows its source, and it makes her pulse quicken.
Because he's supposed to be family.
"Hey," he says, pulling her in for a stiff, one armed hug, as the dorm's door closes behind him with a rattle.
"How are the roads?"
"Terrible. We probably should have left last night. I should have checked the weather."
"Yeah, I don't have the right footgear," she says, looking down at her khaki canvas Tod's.
"No, you sure don't." He pulls his hat off and ruffles his hair in a nervous gesture she's familiar with. Everything about him is familiar, and yet, she's never noticed him like this before. "You want me to carry you?"
She laughs, wrinkling up her nose. "Carry me? Like a sack of potatoes?"
"Like a sack of potatoes or piggyback. Pick your poison. Otherwise it's going to be an uncomfortably wet ride home."
Sansa's cheeks heat, finding her mind uncharacteristically in the gutter. There have been moments late at night with the lights off and her comforter pulled up to her ears that she was tempted to think of him, as her hand slipped between her legs. He can't possibly know that though.
She grabs at her bag, scooping it up before he can stop her. Better to be cold and wet than thrown over Jon's shoulder. Just from the hug alone she knows he smells like soap and mint toothpaste. That's more than enough knowledge for the time being if she's going to be trapped alone in a car with him for the next few hours.
He's right though: it is going to be a cold, wet ride, and though he turns the heater all the way up, the car's heating system isn't great and she can't stop her teeth chattering with her skinny jeans clinging wetly to her calves. He keeps casting sidelong glances at her, as she tries to tug the brown leather moto jacket she bought a size too small closed over her thin cotton tee that's doing nothing to keep the cold out, while they crawl along Richmond Road. Catching him looking again, she smiles reflexively and reaches for the radio knob. It's on some Classic Rock station out of Richmond—Jon doesn't have satellite—and she's about to switch it when Jon's hand covers her own.
"Wait. Turn it up."
"…conditions worsening, authorities have decided to close highway 64 within the hour…"
He looks over at her. "They're closing the highway."
"Great. Hold on."
Sansa bends down to reach for her purse and pulls out her phone, ready to search for the best alternate route with her GPS, but she hasn't gotten the phone out of locked mode yet, when Jon's arm snaps her back into her seat. The phone falls into her lap, slides off, and hits the floor with a clunk, as he curses at a food service truck skidding through the red light ahead of them. The Honda's brakes lock up for a long, terrifying moment. The car comes to a standstill halfway into the intersection. They're both panting and his hand is still splayed over her chest, when she closes her eyes in relief only to see Robb's car behind her eyelids, bent up like a tin can stepped on by a giant from the fairy tales their Nan used to tell them as children.
He pulls back his hand, tugging his hat off and flinging it onto the dashboard with a surge of adrenaline that makes his hands shake. Throwing the car back into drive, he inches it through the rest of the intersection, clearing traffic.
"Damn it. Are you all right?"
"I'm fine. Just scared." She covers her mouth with her hand, sticky lip gloss marking her palm. "Jon, we can't drive home in this. It's too dangerous. Mama and Daddy would be worried sick."
His eyes keep flickering to his mirrors, watching for any other traffic coming their way. "What do you want to do?"
Part of her wants to just go hide in her dorm room for the next couple of days until this melts or they manage to send a plow from Richmond, but she knows they're locking the dorms at noon. No one is allowed to stay over break, and if this storm keeps up, the last thing she wants to do is spend Christmas alone in a dark, unheated dorm.
Which means there's only one solution.
"Can we make it to your house?"
Sansa's never actually seen Jon's house, so she doesn't know what to expect when they drive up through the snow laden pines to a one story, white house with a tall brick chimney and one window opposite the black front door with a gold knocker. She's wondered every once and awhile what his house looks, imaging it would probably be a little rustic, a little rough around the edges like Jon. She thought about the house and she thought of its occupant. She spent the past week worrying that maybe he had a girlfriend, who spent nights at his house. Maybe that girlfriend was none too happy that he went to go rescue some college girl in the middle of the night.
"It's not much," he says, as he kills the engine, staring blankly ahead at the closed up little house.
"It looks great," she assures him, relieved that after several semesters of dealing with sorority sisters that don't deserve the title 'sister' she's capable of perfectly masking her feelings so they don't read on her face.
The house is in good shape. The paint is fresh. Nothing seems out of place or in disrepair. Jon's handy, so it's no surprise that it looks well cared for. It's just so isolated. They passed another house, three times the size of Jon's further down the road, but Jon said he didn't know the family.
He drums his fingers against the wheel. "It's going to be a little chilly in there. The furnace is broken."
"The furnace is broken?" Sansa echoes back, her teeth clacking together uncontrollably.
"I uh, can't afford to replace it. But I'll get the fireplace going. We'll be fine. The fireplace puts out a lot of heat. I promise."
He doesn't offer to carry her again, but he shoulders her bag, while she picks her way after him, stepping in the big footsteps he leaves behind in the fresh snow. He has to jiggle the lock, but she doesn't have to wait long to see the inside of Jon's home, as he flips on the lights and the kitchen and living room are dimly illuminated by a lone scratched overhead fixture. There's a sofa she thinks she might recognize as a castoff from their house, an old box television on a plastic cart, a bookcase filled with paperback books and photos in unmatched frames, a beat up, painted table with two wooden chairs tucked under it, and an avocado green kitchen that probably hasn't been updated since the house was built in the 1970s. It's all very neat, very clean, but it also makes Sansa a little depressed. She's been hoping he didn't have a girlfriend, but seeing that there's no woman's touch here doesn't stir the thrill of victory in her chest she might have expected to feel.
Someone needs to save Jon from this self-imposed isolation. She can't help but wonder if it has to do with Robb. Robb was driving home from bowling with Jon and Theon the night he died. Jon and Theon drove home together. They arrived home in one piece. The same couldn't be said for Robb. It certainly wasn't Jon's fault that Robb hit a patch of ice, but he has a tendency to take on problems that aren't his own and wear them like a shroud. Her father's the same way. It's probably why her father is so fond of Jon: he sees more than a little bit of himself in the boy next door.
"Let me show you to the bedroom. You probably want to change out of those clothes," he says, rubbing the back of his reddening neck, as if just the suggestion of her changing is slightly obscene.
She gets teased by the other girls for being hopelessly innocent, but Jon might just best her with his outdated air of chivalry.
She doesn't stop him from leading her—it would be rude—but she could probably find everything on her own. There are only two doors off the living room. One of them must lead to the guest bedroom.
It's not a guest room. She realizes that immediately, along with the fact that he's not quite as good about keeping his room together as he is the rest of his house. There are some sweaters piled up in a chair, work shoes dropped where they were no doubt removed, and the closet door is wide open. He moves around, scooping things up and shoving them into the closet, while she hovers in the doorway.
"Sorry. I packed a little late this morning and kind of made a mess. I'll um…I'll change the sheets after I go split some firewood, so we can get warmed up. The bathroom's…"
"Jon, I couldn't," she interrupts. "I can't take your bed."
What's he going to offer to do next? It's too much. Too sweet and thoughtful.
He jerks his thumb towards the living room. "Oh, I'll sleep on the sofa. I crash there a lot. Let me just grab your bag and I'll get out of your hair."
When he pulls the bedroom door shut behind her, she wastes no time removing her wet clothes. She doesn't let herself think about how this is Jon's bedroom. How it smells like his soap. How the pillow still bears the indentation from his head. Or how he does this too—strips down until he's naked every night when he comes home from work to an empty house. If she did, she would lose her nerve. She's already naked when she realizes the curtains aren't drawn and thrusts them closed with a nervous jerk.
Pajama pants on, she searches through her bag but doesn't come up with anything particularly warm to wear on top. All her heavy sweaters are at home, since she never needs them at school. She saw a whole stack of what looked like folded sweatshirts on the shelf, when Jon was busy throwing things inside his closet. That sounds so much cozier than the options that stare out at her from her bag—crisp button downs from JCrew, a ruffled collar blouse, a three quarter length, black, cashmere sweater with the Eiffel Tower on it, and an assortment of thin t-shirts. She'd call out to ask him if he minds, because it isn't polite to just take things without asking, but she can hear the sound of an axe on wood, resonating through the lone bedroom window. He's busy.
She hazards a guess that since Jon's already given her his room, he probably won't mind her borrowing a sweatshirt, and steals one before wandering out to see if there's anything in the kitchen she can make for them to eat.
The refrigerator is pretty bare, but there are some basics, and when he comes back through the door with snow dusting his shoulders and hauling a huge sling of wood, she's at work on mixing the dough for sugar cookies—her chocolate chip are better, but Jon doesn't have chocolate chips that she could find in his badly organized cabinets. It won't be the healthiest of lunches, but there's something so sad about Jon's house that only freshly baked cookies could fix.
"That's a lot of wood."
The sling is so heavy she can see the tendons straining in his neck, as he lowers it to the ground.
"I'd rather not go back out. It's starting to ice," he explains, as he shrugs out of his coat.
He throws his hat onto the sofa, yanks his sweater over his head, and sits down to pull off his boots, removing layers until he's only left wearing a black t-shirt and jeans. She's just short of freezing, but if he split that pile of logs, he must be hot. His cheeks are red from exertion, as he begins to layer the wood in the fireplace. Sansa doesn't know anything about starting a fire, but as she props herself against the chipped Formica counter, mixing bowl cradled in the crook of her arm, she wonders if it takes as much concentration as Jon's giving it. It's almost as if he doesn't want to look at her.
"Jon?" His eyes flick up to hers. "S'okay if I borrowed your sweatshirt?"
It's not a university sweatshirt, not a football team either, just a big grey sweatshirt that comes down over her hips. She had to push the arms up so they didn't trail in the dough while she stirred.
He makes a noise in the back of his throat that she can't interpret and continues to fuss with the fire.
"I tried to call my parents, but I can't get a signal."
"Cell coverage isn't too good here. You can call on my land line."
He points at the kitchen wall and Sansa sees a white cordless, charging in a cradle. Sansa thought only grandparents had land lines.
Setting down her bowl, she picks up the phone and dials one of the only numbers she knows without the aid of her cell phone's address book. Memorizing numbers is definitely not her forte. Her father answers. She can hear the relief in his voice, when she explains the situation to him. He thinks it's a good idea they didn't attempt the drive, and she's just glad he answered instead of her mother. Her mother would have asked more questions, questions she doesn't want to answer with Jon in earshot. She tells her father to give her love to everyone, Jon chimes in with the same from the other room, and when she hangs up, she buzzes happily knowing she's done her duty, eliminating parental concern. She'll call again maybe in the evening if it occurs to her.
By the time she's placed the phone back in the cradle and reached for her bowl again, she can smell the fire starting to come to life with the promise of much needed heat. Preheating the oven has only done so much good here in the tiny alley kitchen.
"I'm making cookies," she explains, when Jon straightens up and stands there in the middle of his living room, staring at her with his full lips slightly parted.
With the snow falling outside the window, she feels a bit like she's inside a snow globe God has given a good shake, turning her world upside down, making her notice the roll of Jon's Adam's apple and the way he wets his lips with a swipe of his tongue. Has he always stared at her like this?
"I've got the ingredients to make cookies?" he asks, shuffling forward over the linoleum in his thick socks.
"Barely. There aren't too many ingredients in sugar cookies."
He hums, as he eases his hip into the counter, two short steps away from her.
"But I'm making two dozen and we can survive off those for a while," she says, digging for a cookie sheet.
"I don't know, Sansa. I can eat a lot of cookies."
He rarely smiles. It's one of the things she didn't particularly like about him as a teenager. She wanted boys to be all smiles. But Joffrey smiles all the time and as it turns out there isn't a great deal of niceness behind that smile. Still, when Jon's mouth quirks just a little bit and his eyes narrow slightly, it gives her a small thrill.
"I bet. You boys are all alike."
She can feel him wanting to say something, unspoken words hanging there between them, as she greases the cookie sheet, blithely ignoring his heavy stare.
"It's none of my business, but that boyfriend of yours is an asshole."
"Ex. Ex-boyfriend," she says, as she reaches for a teaspoon with which to scoop the dough onto the sheet.
"Good," he says, his chest collapsing with visible relief. He looks down at one callused palm, flexing the fingers like maybe its stiff from chopping the wood. "Robb would have hated him."
She smiles to herself, pushing the little ball of dough off the spoon. Robb really would have hated Joffrey. That thought helps her feel more certain about her decision to break up with Joff. There have to be better guys out there. Guys like Jon, who will take a call in the middle of the night to come rescue you from your own bad choices. She hates to think what Joff would have said if she would have ever tried something of the sort with him.
"You didn't let me thank you." She sent a text message the following day, when her headache had abated with enough Diet Coke and Tylenol. It simply said, Jon? But it went unanswered. She watched her phone for days, willing him to say something back, but he never did. "Did you get my text?"
Great. That's worse. She tried to convince herself the text had been lost in some electronic void. "Well, thank you for coming to get me that night. I probably embarrassed myself and I'm sorry."
He shakes his head and reaches out to touch her shoulder. "You can always call."
She pauses, sucking the sweet dough off her thumb. Asking makes her heart beat wildly against her chest, but she has to know. "So, you'll rescue maidens in the night, but you won't respond to their texts the next day?"
"I needed to get some distance." He pulls back his hand and stuffs it in his pocket, staring at her again in that way that makes her feel as if she's been missing something very important for too long.
"You've got plenty of distance. You're practically in the middle of nowhere. What are you doing out here, Jon?"
"Barely. Jon, your house is sad."
"Thanks," he says with a curt nod.
"That's not what I meant. I just mean…if this is about Robb or your mom, we're all sad, but you shouldn't be alone like this."
The way he steps towards her and not back, makes Sansa grip the edge of the counter.
"What would you suggest?"
It's too bold a question, spoken as it is with his eyes raking over her, and all she manages in response is a twitchy lift of her shoulders that sends one side of his sweatshirt slipping off.
"Why are you wearing my sweatshirt?"
Having set the spoon on the counter, she crosses her arms over her chest. "I was cold."
"I think that's bullshit, and maybe that's me reading this all wrong, but it's why I didn't text you back."
"Shit," she murmurs, as she tries to slip away from him, but he's blocking her escape, his hands on his hips and his feet astride. He knew. He knew she wanted to ask him inside, and he didn't want her that way. He knew and he's been avoiding her and now she's trapped with him in his tiny house for God knows how long. "Shit."
"I didn't text you back, because you're standing here in my kitchen and all I can think about is how you're the loveliest thing I've ever seen in that damn sweatshirt."
"Oh my God." Sansa's brows draw together, certain she's misheard him.
"I want you and we can't do this."
"Why?" she asks, as she grabs both his arms. "If we want to, why can't we?"
Is it a childish fantasy for someone good like Jon to want her? To take him home not as the adopted son and brother, but as her own?
She has a catalog of information about Jon collected without really paying attention, the accumulation of years of knowing him. Superficial stuff like he's never late and sometimes shows up earlier than anyone's expecting him. He was on the fencing team in high school—the height of dorkiness. Or that he's a terrible dancer and skipped the prom. More telling things like he was the only one to make friends with the fat kid in his and Robb's class. He was in precisely three fights in high school and they were all about defending someone else. He's good with animals and considered being a Vet tech. He loves little kids. He's devoted. He's never unkind. She could maybe fill her old diary with all she knows about Jon Snow.
But kissing him is new. Shockingly so, which might explain why, when he steps forward, palms the back of her head, and kisses her full on the mouth, her eyes are wide and her mouth slack for half a beat before she tips forward on her toes and kisses him back. When he presses his lips to hers, slow with firm pressure and then bolder with every beat of her thundering heart, she learns one important bit of information: Jon's a ridiculously good kisser. His lips are warm and bruising. The tug and press of his lips, the scrape of his teeth, and the brush of his tongue against hers, dipping into her mouth, makes her think of other ways he might be inside of her—those strong fingers and his dick between her legs—sending a jolt of pleasure to where she feels herself growing wet.
God, that would be good, she thinks, sighing against his mouth.
There's one other thing she knows about Jon Snow: he likes redheads. She's reminded of this, when he wraps an arm around her back, slips it up under his massive sweatshirt in a pleasurable shock of skin on skin, and pulls her flush against him and she feels—hard and long along his thigh—just how much he likes kissing her. Returning the favor, she hitches her leg up over his hip. She smiles against his lips, feeling more than a little bit pleased with herself, when he groans at the hot contact. If it's a game of one-upmanship, Jon takes the lead and she's happy to concede momentary defeat, as he moves his hand down, grabs her ass, and rocks her against him.
She let's herself enjoy him. The taste of him, the feel of him, the sounds he makes. She moves herself against him, her breasts compressing against his chest, her pelvis rubbing against his, unabashedly trying to crawl inside him or make him find his way inside of her. Her hands wander and trace the hard planes of his body, attempting to memorize the feel of him under her hands. It's the body of someone who has earned muscle through hard work as opposed to hours spent sweating in a gym. Everything about him is honest and without pretense.
She rests her head on his shoulder, as his other hand strokes her long ponytail and he whispers unpracticed compliments—some of which are surprisingly filthy coming from Jon—against the shell of her ear, raising goose bumps along her arms from the heat of his breath on skin wet from kissing. She wants to be free of her clothes. She wants his hands all over her body. She wants to touch him, feel his muscles bunch under her hands and his skin move against hers.
"How cold do you think your room is right now?"
He bends and lifts her up, gripping her ass, as she wraps her legs around his narrow waist.
Of course, the whole house is going to be more than a little bit hot if they forget the oven.
"Wait. The oven," she says, craning her head around towards the cookie sheet abandoned by the stovetop.
His eyes look back at her, his pupils fat and glossy, and she bites her lip, holding back a smile. She likes how unraveled and reckless she's made him.
"Turn off the oven."
This time her words have meaning for him and he fumbles with the knob with one hand, turning it off. He carries her to the sofa, peppering her face with kisses and bumping into the table in his rush. When he drops the two of them down onto the sofa, the springs protest and they bump noses, but it doesn't matter. Everything feels good. Everything is focused on a heightened anticipation, which feels as if her skin can't contain her, as she kneels over him, straddling his solid thighs, and he pulls her close to kiss her, his hands framing her face. He kisses her again and again until their breath comes in pants and she's arching against his body, needing more.
Breaking their kiss, she tugs his shirt up and over his head. He's only a few years older, but he's got more hair on his chest than the boys she's used to hanging around. She runs her fingers through it, scraping his skin with her nails and circling his nipples, as fair as her own, with her fingertips. She's intent on how they pebble under her touch, when he grips the hem of the sweatshirt he likes her in so much and gradually drags it over her head like the reveal is a great part of the enjoyment for him. Her ponytail is loosened by the friction and she reaches up to pull her hair free, letting it fall over her bare shoulders.
Hands tense on her thighs, he makes no move to touch or kiss her, but curses under his breath as he stares are her breasts. She rests her hands on his shoulders, pulling him from his stupor with a whispered please.
"Your skin," he says. His work roughened hands skate over her sides upward, light enough to make her shiver. "I shouldn't," he says thinly, even as his hands inch higher.
"I won't break," she teases.
"No, I know," he says with a dazed shake of his head. "It's wrong."
She doesn't like that. Doesn't like that at all.
"Do you like me?"
His hands are already cupping her breasts, rather scantily concealed in a black lacy bra, when she whispers the question. Her breasts are small and sometimes she wishes they weren't, but his already dark eyes are like black pools, as he tests the weight of them and runs his thumbs lightly over the flimsiness that covers her nipples. As fixed as he seems on them, his hands freeze at her words, his tongue darting out to wet his lips.
It's such a pathetically needy question. It's not coy, not the type of thing boys want to be asked. But even if she'll take less—she'll take him thinking her beautiful, she'll take him wanting her body and she'll give it—she really thinks she wants more, maybe even deserves more, and she needs to know.
His throaty laugh makes her tuck her face into his neck, trapping his hands between their bodies.
"Don't laugh," she begs.
"I wouldn't like to admit how long I've liked you, Sansa." At his confession hope replaces doubt. She sinks against his body and lets him wrap his arms around her. "You'll immediately realize what a terrible idea this."
Not likely. She wants this, wants him. More with every second. More with every confession she can pull from him.
"Why do you like me?"
He shifts, pulling back until he can look her in the eye.
"I think you know you're gorgeous, but you're brave too."
She's ready to deny it—he's got to know she's not, because he saw her break down in his car over boy troubles and a few bad grades—her head's already starting to shake from side to side, when he interrupts her, "You're different since Robb died."
"We all are."
She touches the flat of his stomach, right above the low waist of his jeans, where there's a dark line of hair. His muscles contract under her fingers, urging her to explore lower.
"But we shouldn't," he says, grasping her hand and holding it fast.
He doesn't have to say why. She can imagine well enough the litany of reasons he thinks it wrong for him to do what is he wants to do with her. Respect for Robb's memory, gratitude to her parents for taking him into their family, his relationships with her other siblings all must weigh heavy on him, despite the fact that he wants her, likes her.
She likes him too. That's why her stomach has fluttered every time she thought of him since he pulled up outside of that fraternity house. She likes Jon. Maybe even liked him longer than she wants to admit.
She's not above lying to get what she wants. Especially if it's something really worth having. It isn't just God who can shake the snow globe. "If you like me, I think we should. Just once."
He looks sad and eager all at the same time with his brows bunched in a heavy frown and his lips—wet with kissing—parted in anticipation of surrendering. He does not often do what he thinks is wrong to satisfy his own wishes. There's a wicked thrill in thinking she might win him for herself and make him forget he ever had a qualm.
Even with his longing made plain she has to close her eyes to get the bold words she wants to say passed her lips. "Do you have a condom?"
"That's what you want?" he asks, his hand squeezing the one he still holds trapped.
He lifts her by the waist and sets her back down on the sofa cushion next to him. She watches him, as he pads into his too cold bedroom. There's a moment of hesitation, where she's not sure whether she should put his sweatshirt back on and live with the ensuing awkwardness, because she's only ever been with Joff and this is Jon and that feels monumental. But she settles on doing just the opposite—because she's only been with Joff and this is Jon—and shimmies out of her pajama bottoms. Her bra doesn't match her pink panties, something she would have seen to if she thought today was going to end up naked on the sofa with Jon. It's just another detail that makes her feel shy in spite of her daring.
When Jon strides back into the room, her legs are pulled up to her chin on the sofa, her toes curling into the cushion. It's warming up in the house, but it still isn't that warm without Jon's body heat, so she holds out her hand to him, inviting him closer.
The square foil packet is pinched between his fingers, as she unbuttons his jeans and pulls them over his slim hips. She can see the thick outline of his dick in his boxer briefs, and she licks her lips, feeling her face grow hot. There's a limit to her confidence that's tested by his anxious silence, but thankfully just as she feels it failing her, he kicks free of his jeans and climbs on top of her on the sofa. Pushing her back into the cushions, he puts an end to her fear of being the one to act, as he grips her hip and drags her against him.
Jon's house might feel empty and lonely, he probably hasn't had a girlfriend in years, but Jon knows what he's about. There's nothing fumbling about the way he unhooks her bra, takes each of her nipples in his mouth in turn and worries them until she's pulling too hard on his hair. Nothing awkward about his movements, when he slips his hand into her panties, wetting his finger in her arousal and circling her clit with just enough pressure to make her strain for more.
The breathy request, "More," is met with one and then two blunt fingers slipping inside of her embarrassingly easily.
"God you're wet. You're perfect, you know that?"
She can't respond, since all rational thought fails her as he curls his fingers inside of her, thrusting slowly, hitting a delicious spot.
"Good?" he asks, between kisses to her stomach.
She nods frantically. So good, and yet, she's barely touched him. She's kissed what she could reach and her fingernails have dug into his back, marking him in red stripes and tiny half moons, but she's done very little to reciprocate the sparks he's setting off all over her body.
"Let me, let me do something," she says.
She doesn't want him to stop fucking her with his fingers, but she does want to feel the weight of his dick in her hand and make him groan with it in her mouth. Her hand works to insinuate itself under the elastic of his boxer briefs, between their bodies and beside his flexing arm that doesn't stop moving, despite her breathy request.
He presses his forehead to hers. Suddenly his eyes are as large as an alien's and his curls tickle her face.
"I won't last. It's been too long. Let me make you come and then I want to be inside of you."
He's as good as his word. Between his fingers and his tongue and his lips and his other hand holding down her hip, which bucks helplessly against the onslaught, she comes so hard that a scream catches in the back of her throat and her whole body feels as if it's about to shake apart. She's never had anyone do that before with their mouth—Joff thinks it's disgusting—and the sensation is so intense that she wonders how she's gone so long without experiencing it. She can't confess it now, but someday she'll tell him, he was her first. Someday when he's done it more than once. Once is not going to be enough.
With his boxer briefs removed and her body still humming with pleasure, Sansa takes her time in running her hand over the length of him. It's a study in contrasts—hard and soft, velvety and rigid. He's straight with no bend and red with arousal. Waiting like this, he must be half mad, but still he doesn't protest as she circles him with her fingers and lazily strokes him. He watches her movements, his chest rising and falling in time with her own quickened breath. Only his soft cursing and the shallow thrust of his hips into her hand betray his need.
Enough with the waiting. They need the same thing.
"Give me the condom."
He hands her the packet and she tears it open, pulling out the condom, which she honestly wishes they didn't need. She always refused to go on the Pill for Joff. She didn't feel safe without a condom. A wise decision amongst other questionable ones. But now? She'd rather do away with this latex necessity, she thinks as she rolls it down over him. If only to share another first with him. Later. Another time.
"I want you on top," she says, tugging him back over her.
She expects that he'll enter her—she knows she's wet enough—but while she can feel him bobbing against her hip, hot and twitching, he takes the time to kiss her instead. It's slow and sweet and she can't help feeling that he's telling her something, something other than we shouldn't.
True relief, she thinks, as he parts her folds and sinks into her, pulling back and pushing back in inch by inch until he's buried deep inside of her, stretching her, filling her.
"Yes," she urges him, when he hesitates, his arms propped on either side of her face shaking with restraint.
"God," he says, as he plunges into her, setting up a steady rhythm that vibrates through her boneless body. His hand wraps around the base of her neck, his fingers tightening, taut with pleasure. "Fuck, you feel good."
"So good," she echoes back. So very, very good to be possessed and invaded. "Jon."
He hitches her thigh up and palms her ass, holding her close as their pelvises meet with each thrust. Every rub of his pelvic bone against hers, every brush of his dick against her clit tightens the coil low in her belly she didn't think could possibly come alive again after being unwound so thoroughly under his mouth.
It would be another first—two orgasms together—but his rhythm begins to falter, his thrusts alternating between firm and deep and a shallow quiver, as if he doesn't know whether to give in or hold on. He deserves to give in, so she digs her heel into his ass, arches her body, and helps him along, tightening her muscles around him until he's pulsing inside the condom, his body hung over hers and his face screwed up in tense rapture.
His body goes limp against hers and he breathes out into her neck. There's a thin sheen of sweat on his chest from the warming room and his efforts, and as his body grazes her breasts, goose bumps prickle her skin.
"Shit. I wasn't kidding," he says, reaching down between them to hold the condom as he pulls out of her. "That was fast."
"It's okay." Of course it is, because it won't be just the once. She won't let it be. It might tweak his conscience, but she'll show him how it could be with them. She'll give the globe another shake. "How many condoms have you got in that box?"