She was nineteen the first time it happened.
Sansa was supposed to have had the house to herself. Bran and Rickon were away at their uncles for the weekend, Catelyn and Ned off to pick Robb up from school for the summer. Arya was at band practice which had– blessedly –been moved to Gendry’s.
It was just supposed to be her there, all night.
Then, without knocking, Jon walked right into the kitchen, not even noticing her standing in the doorway.
He pulled the fridge open, rummaging through as though he lived there and Sansa tugged at the hem of the short pink robe she was wearing. There wasn’t supposed to be anyone around. Her hair was thrown up sloppily at the exact top of her head. Her robe was short and velvet and had feather cuffs and she looked as though she was a twelve year old playing dress up. Heat washed up her body in embarrassment and she wondered if she’d be able to sneak up the stairs to change without him hearing her.
Seven hells, she thought. It’s just Jon. He’s certainly seen you in worse states.
She kicked off the plush wolf slippers she was wearing before he could spot them.
Unfortunately, the effort sent her tumbling, knocking into the stool a foot away from her, her toes slamming into the wooden legs.
“Ow, fuck ,” she cursed.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Jon starle, jumping back, the fridge door closing in the effort.
“Shit, Sansa!” There was a light pink dusting across the tops of his cheeks. “Gods, you scared me.”
“You say that like I broke into your house.”
Jon smiled guiltily. “I didn’t break in,” he said. “The door was unlocked.”
“That doesn’t mean you can just come in!” Which, of course, wasn’t true at all. Not with Jon. He’d basically grown up there. Even if the door wasn’t unlocked, she knew he had his own key.
For a moment, Jon looked uncomfortable. His eyes roamed over her get up, quickly flicking to the slippers shoved off not quite out of sight. “Do you want me to leave?”
Sansa rolled her eyes. “You know I have better manners than that, Jon.” Her fingers played self consciously with the sleeves of her robe. “Let me just...go change.” She took a moment to mourn the loss of her long overdue alone time, but there was nothing for it. There would probably be a spare hour or two in the next month where she could have the house to herself.
“Don’t be silly,” Jon shrugged. “It’s your house, you should be comfortable.”
Comfortable was a polite word for it. Silly would have been more appropriate. Or, she thought of the lacy underwear just beneath the robe, perhaps indulgent.
He, on the other hand, looked impeccable. Dark jeans, fitted button-up, slightly loosened tie hanging around his neck. Where had he even come from?
“I feel a tad underdressed next to you,” she teased.
Unbelievably, Jon blushed.
“I had a date,” he said. Was that a grimace? Suddenly he wouldn’t meet her eyes. “Robb set it up, that’s why I came here when–when it ended. I thought he’d be home by now.”
Sansa couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of her. Robb, while always with the best of intentions, had the absolute worst track record with blind dates. Jon was simply too kind a friend, he’d never stop humoring him.
“Oh dear,” she laughed. “Not a winner?”
Jon shook his head, a smile finally peeking back into his cheeks. “I’m starting to think Robb’s never actually talked to any of the women he sets me up with.”
Sansa rolled her eyes. She wasn’t entirely sure Jon was wrong, but she also tried not to talk to Robb about Jon’s love life, so she’d never inquired.
“I’ll raid Robb’s closet, find some lounge clothes,” Jon said.
Sansa blushed again. The offer was just so... Jon. Carelessly thoughtful as he always was. She hadn’t even realized he’d left the room, making good on his promise, until she heard him take the steps to Robb’s room two at a time.
She eyed the remainder of her wine glass warily.
When he came back down, he was wearing a worn old grey t-shirt of Robb’s. Slightly too tight across his shoulders as he was always a little broader than her brother.
“Why are Robb’s only lounge pants extremely fitted?”
He bounded down the rest of the stairs and as though it hadn’t registered fully before, Sansa noticed that other than Robb’s shirt, he was wearing only his boxers. Her throat dried up.
He’d plopped down next to her on the couch before she’d shaken herself out of her stupor long enough to finally answer him.
“You all think it’s me,” she said, taking a sip of her wine just for something to do. “But Robb is the true fashion diva in this family. Simply a slave to the latest trends.”
Jon smirked, then noticed the beer she’d grabbed for him on the coffee table in front of them. He murmured a surprised thanks as he looped his fingers around the neck of it, and brought it to his lips. She watched as his throat bobbed, swallowing, his tongue flicking out to snag a stray droplet by the corner of his mouth, and she might have stopped breathing.
Gods, what is wrong with me tonight? Sansa thought, tearing her eyes away.
So Jon was handsome, that wasn’t exactly news was it? He’d always been handsome. Impulsive and broodish but charming. Quick but quiet–so you had to listen for it, but it was there.
Handsome, funny, thoughtful, tender, the list went on and on.
But she had known all of this.
Perhaps she had just never confronted the thought in such close proximity to the man in question. Had never considered how handsome, funny, thoughtful and tender he was when his bare knee was making no effort to stay to his side of the couch. When his shirt was too tight across his shoulders and the blush on his cheeks wouldn’t go away. When he looked at her from under his lashes and leaned into her when his laugh, deep and warm, tumbled out of him.
“So what was it this time?” She pulled her eyes away from him for the briefest moment.
“What was what this time?”
“The girl,” Sansa said. Jon’s brows pulled together in confusion. “The date that ended at 8pm. What was wrong with her?”
Jon coughed out a laugh.
“Nothing was wrong with her, we just weren’t right together.”
Gods, he was sweet.
“It’s just one date though, right?” Sansa said. “You can’t really know after one date.”
Jon shrugged. He was avoiding her eyes, she noticed. Lifting his beer to his lips, reading the label as he pulled it back, shifting his legs, doing anything really.
“I thought you believed in all that,” he said after a moment. “True love and soulmates and whatnot.”
“I did,” she said, instinctively. After a moment of thought, she added, “I do.”
He nodded back at her.
“Is that silly?” she asked. After all she’d been through, all the monsters she’d suffered, still she believed in true love. Soulmates. Fairy tales. If it was Arya on the other end of the couch, Sansa was sure she’d hear a barely restrained snort in response. Robb would roll his eyes and kiss her forehead, too kind to answer the question truthfully.
But it wasn’t Robb or Arya sitting with her, it was Jon. Jon who was always fiercely kind. Protective, defensive, delicate and loyal Jon.
Suddenly she was afraid at his answer.
“No,” he whispered, before she could stop him. “I think it’s amazing.”
“Oh shut up,” Sansa said.
“I’m serious,” Jon insisted.
And, remarkably, he actually seemed to be. Not that Jon being serious was remarkable, in fact Jon being serious was so decidedly unremarkable that she had trouble, for a moment, piecing together exactly why she felt the old, locked shutters around her heart burst open nervously at his answer.
Maybe Jon was just as much a romantic as she was.
Sansa’s eyes dropped to the bottom of her wine glass, one last sip sloshing around the bottom.
“What is Robb missing, then?” she asked. “What do you look for in a date?”
She expected him to laugh, to prattle on about all the things he wasn’t looking for that Robb continually gave him with the women he set Jon up with. To joke, to make fun of Robb, something. Instead he pulled his beer back to his lips and took a big sip before answering. And when he did answer, his voice was low and raw.
“Someone kind,” he started. “Someone I can laugh with.”
His voice had absolutely no right to run up her spine the way it was, when the words coming out were so soft.
“Someone loyal. And stubborn.” he laughed awkwardly but met her eyes, intention washing over them both. “Someone who doesn’t mind that she’s always been smarter than me.”
A laugh tumbled out of Sansa before she could stop it, and Jon lit up at the sound. She hadn’t noticed how close they had moved together. Had she moved or had he? Maybe they’d both fell in, side by side, without noticing the slow movement, inch by inch.
Jon’s hand was playing delicately with the hair spilling out of her bun, twisting in softly at the back of her neck. When had he set his beer down?
“Kissed by fire,” he whispered. Sansa couldn’t tell if the game was still on. If it was all still hypothetical or if they’d shifted, subtly into something they couldn’t turn back from. So she held her breath and waited for him to keep going.
“I’ve always had a thing for red hair,” he mumbled, moving closer. He met her eyes with a sly smile. “Never told Robb that.”
“Wouldn’t want him to get the wrong idea,” she tossed back.
“No,” Jon said. But it didn’t feel like he was agreeing with her. She didn’t understand his meaning until he leaned in further, his eyes heavy and dark, and unable to meet her own. “Nothing wrong about that idea.”
He was leaving it up to her. He wouldn’t move any closer unless she asked for it.
And for a moment, Sansa thought of ignoring the heat, the unbearable space between them. She could stand up, refill her wine, get a snack. She could lean away, reach for the remote and flick the TV on as though this was a normal night with Jon. Just watching a movie together as they had a hundred times before. He would let her, and he would drop the subject altogether, never bring it up again.
She pulled away for a moment, to lean forward, set her glass down on the table in front of them. She heard Jon’s soft exhale, resigned, and felt him begin to shift away. Before he could, her hand shot out, grabbing a fistful of the t-shirt at his chest, holding him in place.
Gods, his voice was going to kill her.
“Jon,” she mimicked.
The small smile that trickled into the corner of his lips could have stopped her. Half of her ached to fall forward, while the other half longed to trace it with her hands, to watch it, memorize it until the night around them grew too dark to see anymore. Sansa could have gotten drunk on just his small, crooked smile.
Another time, she told herself. He’ll smile like that for me again. For now…
The ache won out, and she surged forward clumsily. Jon’s hands were wrapped around her before she even pressed against him and the kiss was ruined as she smiled into his lips at the feeling of being completely enveloped by him.
It didn’t deter him. Instead he shifted, kissing each corner of her smile, her cheeks, her nose, both of her eyes as they fluttered closed when she shivered at the soft touch of his lips. On and on he went, to the lobe of her ear, the hollow of her throat, the tender skin where her jaw met her neck, and while they were still fully clothed she felt herself bursting, unable to control her breath.
The thought that he might be drunk and lonely flickered through her mind, but she pushed it away for later. She could deal with it later, nurse her wounds later. Now she needed this, needed him. Needed the way he seemed to need her too.
Her fist was still balled up at the front of Jon’s shirt, so she flattened her palm, releasing the bunched up material. It was soft and sweaty from the heat of her hand. Smoothing the wrinkles, she let her hand continue over his chest, down his sternum, resting for a moment on his belly before her fingers wrapped around the hem and she began to tug.
He got the hint quickly, and broke away from her for a short intolerable moment. But then the shirt was up and off of him, tossed to the floor without a thought and he was back, more than ever and she could melt into the heat of him.
His hands worked in tandem with his lips; while one trailed over her neck and across her collar bone, the other worked at the tie on her robe. When it was loose, his hands rested at the sides, rubbing lightly into the soft fabric at her hips as it fell open of its own accord, the cool air a shock to her bare chest beneath.
“Fuck,” he whispered, as the robe started slipping off her right shoulder. Her skin, normally shockingly pale, was covered in warm, blotchy patches, her blush not satisfied to remain in her neck and cheeks.
She shivered as his hands landed at the soft, folded skin of her belly. While his hands rested there, she shrugged her arms out of the slipping robe, before she could feel too embarrassed about it. Then he was staring, her chest fully exposed, only the small lace panties left to offer her a final scrap of modesty.
“Seven hells, Sansa,” he groaned. It sounded delightfully pained, and she couldn’t help the giggle that burst forward as he shifted uncomfortably, trying to hide the growing arousal beneath his boxers. As though it would somehow change what was shifting between them.
“Jon,” she laughed. She crawled forward, fitting her lap against his, so when she rolled her hips, the sites of their twin arousals pressed together. “This isn’t exactly a secret now,” she teased.
“You’re torturing me,” he pouted.
“I’m a scrap of fabric away from being naked in your lap,” she said. Quickly she caught his bottom lip between her teeth, dragging it lightly through, feeling the rumble of his groan start in his stomach and make its way up to pass from his lips to her own. “I’d hardly call that torture.”
“Oh you have no idea,” Jon said.
She nipped at his ear.
“So show me.”
Like he’d been waiting for her to say that, his grin turned feral, and he dropped her on her back, hovering over her. Sansa’s back pressed against the cushion beneath her and she fought the urge to squirm away, to find a more flattering way to present herself to him. Instead she lay there, carefully still as he moved for the two of them.
His lips started their infuriating game again, this time dipping lower and lower, and she could feel his smile as she released a shaky breath when they closed around first one breast, then the other.
If torture was what he’d been feeling, it was nothing compared to the sensations crawling over her now. Every touch was more than the last, but with each new wave of desire he washed over her, her own need grew, until she couldn’t control it if she tried.
“Patience,” he mumbled against her bare belly, his tongue dipping out teasing her skin. His hands, big, calloused as they were, wrapped around a thigh each. First anchoring her against him, then shifting, opening her to make room for him to slide his chest down, between the flesh rapidly puckering with goose flesh.
This time it was more of a question.
When a moment before she could see only his dark curls, Sansa watched as his head tilted back on his neck, dark eyes burning into her own.
Had she not been scorching with want she would have laughed. Of course she trusted him. He was Jon. There was no one more trustworthy in the world. Couldn’t he tell, just from her spread beneath him? Did he not know?
She nodded frantically, biting into her lip not from nerves, but from anticipation, and then his thumbs were hooking into the lacey sides of her underwear, pulling them down in a smooth motion. And when his lips met the sensitive, now uncovered flesh, she was shocked at the desperate cry that pulled from her throat before she could stop it.
The noises seemed only to spur Jon on more fervently, as though he was searching for something and each sigh, each moan that fell from her lips brought him a little closer to finding it.
And when it came, it was like nothing Sansa had ever felt before. Not with Harry or Joffrey or even sweet Willas. It ran over her like a current from her toes to her knees, to her center, her chest, washing finally over her like a cresting wave against her cheeks.
Maybe if it had been with Harry or Joffrey or Willas, she would have been embarrassed about the way her hands clutched tightly into Jon’s curls, the way she shouted his name, the way she practically forgot to breathe as she held him down against her.
But it wasn’t Harry or Joffrey or Willas. It was Jon and he was lapping up the last trickling waves of her pleasure as though they shot the same sensations through him. And he was lifting his head, smiling, resting his chin on her belly for a moment before he dropped a soft kiss to each hip bone, up her chest, and claimed her lips again, giving her a taste of what he’d devoured.
“Fuck,” Sansa breathed. “Seven hells, Jon.”
“Mhmm,” he hummed, resting his forehead against hers. “I like when you say my name like that.”
A kiss to her throat, to the dip below her ear, to the corner of her mouth.
“Like it’s ravished you completely to say it.”
It should have been obscene. It should have felt out of place coming from him. It was Jon. Her Jon. The boy who helped her fix her car, who helped her pack for summer camp, who cooked for her when her family was gone and she’d gone and made a drunken mess of herself.
But all it felt was right. So she leaned forward and whispered his name into his lips before she took them back for herself.
“Sansa,” he protested softly. “I’m–”
“Fuck me,” she said. Jon pulled back startled and she couldn’t help but laugh again. So earnest and unassuming. Of course Jon would be surprised at the request.
“Are you–are you sure?” His eyes were already dripping down her form again.
“Do you have a condom?”
She did, in her bedside table, even if he didn’t, but she felt hot and boneless and wasn’t sure if she’d be able to make it up the stairs in the state he’d left her. But he was fumbling for his discarded pants, folded on the coffee table. He pulled his old, brown leather wallet out of the back pocket and fished a foil packet out.
Before he could ask her again if she was sure, she sat up and snatched it from him. Her name got caught halfway in his throat as she ripped it open and rolled it down him, but she silenced him again with her lips on his.
This time, she made her way across his jaw, to the dip where it met his neck, up to the soft skin of his ear. And again, she said, “fuck me, Jon,” and he didn’t wait for the command to come a third time.
If it wasn’t the way he filled her completely that made her unravel, it was the way he sighed her name each time he moved, like he needed to, like it fell out of his mouth without him even noticing. It wasn’t long before she was coming again, his breath hot against her neck as they moved in reckless tandem. It didn’t take him long to follow her with a cry of his own. Then he was collapsing on top of her, his face tucked into her neck, unbothered by the layer of sweat that covered her.
It wasn’t until they’d caught their breath, redressed a little, that she noticed her phone, lit up with missed calls on the coffee table. Sansa groaned internally, not wanting to pop the bubble that surrounded them, but just as she decided to ignore it until morning, the screen lit up again, Arya’s face staring up at her.
Reluctantly, she pulled herself out of Jon’s arms, and grabbed the phone off the table.
“What’s up Arya?”
“Finally,” her sister yelled. “Where the seven hells have you been? I’ve been trying to call you for an hour.”
“I’m–” Sansa glanced back to Jon, unsure how to continue. Better to not mention him, she decided. Not until they talked. Figured out for themselves whatever this was. “I didn’t hear my phone.” There was beeping and yelling in the background wherever Arya was. “Where are you? What’s all that noise?”
“There was an accident,” Arya said. Her voice was low and flat. To a stranger she may have sounded angry, maybe bored. But Sansa knew better and her blood ran cold at the tone. Her sister was scared. “That’s why I’m calling. It’s mom and dad and Robb–”
“Arya,” Sansa pressed, frantically. “Where are you?”
“I’m at the hospital. You need to come. They don’t know how long–”
Her sister cut herself off and Sansa’s blood turned to ice.