![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
asoiaf/got fic: you stole the sun from my heart
Title: you stole the sun from my heart
Pairing: Jon/Sansa
Rating: NC17
Words: ~1,900
Summary: She imagined it was Jon touching her, Jon's strong hand and long fingers, larger than hers and rough with callouses from holding his sword, and she moaned as her back arched and her hips pushed off the bed.
Notes: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
asoiafkinkmeme, for the prompt Jon/Sansa, Jon catches Sansa touching herself. Title from the Manic Street Preachers. Originally posted here.
you stole the sun from my heart
Ravens traveled slower now that summer had turned to autumn, often troubled by the rougher winds and deep driving snows, but they still appeared every few days, letters tied carefully to their fragile legs, flapping and cawing as they settled in the Maester's Turret. When they arrived from the south, they brought news of King's Landing and Storm's End and Casterly Rock, of people and places Sansa no longer cared about; when they arrived from the north, irritable and cold, they brought news that made Jon sigh and frown and saddle his horse.
The wildings were restless in The Gift, glad to have land fit for crops and livestock but still unused to life with rules and laws, and Tormund wrote Jon frequently, as unfamiliar with being a proper lord as his people were with having one.
His latest came as they took their afternoon meal in Jon's solar, salt pork and yellow cheese and apples slightly withered from the weather, and Jon read it quietly, tapping his finger on the rim of his wine cup.
"The snows are too heavy," Sam said mildly.
Jon's mouth quirked at the corners, as it always did when Sam offered unsought advice. "I've seen worse beyond the Wall. As have you."
Sansa watched as he belted his sword at his waist, as he stamped his feet into his favorite riding boots and pulled a thick, fur-lined cloak around his shoulders. He smiled at her, brushing his fingers through her hair, and a knot twisted in her throat, strange and hot and tight. She did not want him to leave, but she could not ask him to stay, knew he wouldn't even if she did, would do his duty, as he had when she'd returned to Winterfell six months before. Their marriage had been part of the price he'd paid for his title, one of the terms set out by Queen Daenerys; Jon was kind to her, and he did his best to make her happy, but she didn't think he loved her as she'd grown to love him.
He rode out through the postern gate, into sharp winds and quickly piling snows, Ghost at his side and twenty of his best men at his back. The sky was heavy and dark, stained the color of an old bruise, and Sansa watched him shrink into the Wolfswood with her arms folded and her hands curled into her sleeves.
"You should come inside, my lady," Sam said, wrapping her in a cloak. "It will only get colder."
The cloak smelled strongly of him, leather and ink and old parchment, sat too widely on her shoulders and dragged behind her as she crossed the yard. He was an unusual man, this maester Jon considered his closest friend; he was shy and fat, nervous amongst strangers, and he needled Jon in a quiet, teasing way that would have scandalized the Sansa who'd ridden south to marry Joffrey Baratheon, but he was also intelligent and endlessly loyal, and his council was both harsh and honest, and the Sansa who'd fled the Vale with brown dye shrouding her hair understood what Sam meant to Jon, knew that Sam's sly quips and dry humor made Jon laugh in a way Sansa hadn't seen since childhood.
"How long will he be gone?" Sansa asked.
"It is a fortnight to Tormund's keep in good weather, my lady," Sam said, blowing on his hands. "I should think he will return in a few hours. Perhaps less."
Sansa laughed softly. "You believe he will turn around?"
"I believe Ghost will," Sam replied, with an easy, sideways glance. "He has always had more sense than your husband."
She waited for Jon's return in his solar, seated near the window with a fur drawn over her lap, watching until the sky darkened, bluish-black and frightening, until she yawned and nodded at the table, drooping into her wine, until Sam chided her into bed with soft sighs and firm, quiet words. She slept in her mother's old chambers, where the thick heat from the coursing hot springs was warmest; she drew a shift over her head and pulled the ribbons from her hair, then stretched out on top of the furs, burying her face in a pillow that smelled faintly of her husband.
Sansa missed him, even though if he'd stayed at Winterfell he'd likely be in his own chambers. He came to her bed infrequently, his face shadowed as he curved his hand over her breast or stroked his fingers through her hair, and she often wondered if there was someone else, a woman he had met and loved and been forced to leave behind when he had married. He rarely spoke of his years at the Wall, but she did know he had lived with the wildings for a time, had heard that wilding women were forward and unrestrained in a way she could scarcely imagine.
The fire burned low, hissing and painting her chambers with soft shadows, and she sighed quietly, her legs falling open as she slipped her hand under her shift. She did not do this often -- ladies shouldn't want to, shouldn't feel the need to -- but she was restless, exhausted but unable to sleep, and a slow liquid warmth was curling in her belly just at the thought of it, at the careful dip of her fingers, the light brush of her thumb.
She imagined it was Jon touching her, Jon's strong hand and long fingers, larger than hers and rough with callouses from holding his sword, and she moaned as her back arched and her hips pushed off the bed, as she pressed harder, rubbed faster, the warmth in her belly shifting, twisting like a living thing. Jon was always kind and careful when he took her, moving gently, treating her as if he believed she would break, and she didn't know how to tell him what she wanted, not when he already seemed so hesitant to be with her.
Her skin prickled with a sudden burst of cold air, and she looked up, her mouth open and gasping, her face flushing with heat and shame when she saw Jon standing at the door. He was dressed in a loose shirt and breeches, his feet bare and his hand resting on the lintel, and he studied her for a moment, the shadows from the hallway pushing in close behind him, his eyes wide and dark as he looked at her red cheeks and the obscene splay of her legs. Her body was fevered and trembling, pulled as taut as a bow string, but she curled her hand against her thigh, hid it in the loose folds of her shift.
Jon closed the door, approaching her slowly, the bed creaking as he sat down beside her, his hip warm where it bumped hers, his hand slow and cautious as it slid up her thigh, pausing just above her knee. The silence was thick and horrible, rising up between them like a wall; they hadn't been close as children, something she'd come to regret for many reasons, but right now she wished she could read the guarded expression on his face, as Robb and Arya would've been able to do. He almost seemed sad, and she feared she had shamed him in some way she didn't understand.
"Who is he?" Jon asked, in a small, quiet voice that made Sansa's chest ache. "Who were you thinking of?"
She looked at the hunched, inward set of his shoulders, at the tight pull of his jaw, and she realized that he carried the same fears as she -- that there was someone else she'd rather have, someplace else she'd rather be.
"You," she said honestly. "I was thinking of you."
His eyes widened, the line of his mouth softening, and he leaned over her, kissing her temple, dragging his lips down to her cheek, the hollow of her throat. He slid his hand up her thigh, bringing his hand between her legs, making a low, breathless noise against her skin as he curled his fingers inside her.
"Gods, Sansa. So wet," Jon murmured, rubbing his thumb over her in a way that made her gasp and shake. "So wet, and you were thinking of me."
"Yes," she said, twisting up toward him, pushing against his hand. "Jon, please.
Jon sat up on his knees and pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it onto the floor, and Sansa shifted closer to him, widening the spread of her legs. She thought he would take her, but he caught her hand instead, the hand she had used to touch herself, tugging it away from where it was still tangled in her shift and bringing it to his mouth. He pressed a soft kiss to her palm, brushed his lips over the inside of her wrist, then drew her fingers into his mouth one at a time, soft suction and slow curls of his tongue, until she she was shaking with it, her eyes closed and her other hand clenched in the furs.
He slipped down the bed, stretching between her legs, rubbing his cheek against the inside of her thigh, trailing his lips over the swell of her knee. She shivered, arching off the bed, moaning as he smoothed his hands over her hips, traced his thumbs over her skin in slow, teasing circles. He nosed at the crease of her thigh, his breath soft and warm against her sex; he slid his hands down to open her legs further, his palms warm against her sweaty skin, then drew his tongue over her, slick and wet, licking into her again and again and again.
Sansa threaded her fingers in his hair, gasping and trembling, heat twisting in her belly and rushing under her skin. He curved his hands underneath her, moaning and lifting her closer to his mouth, and pushed up against him, desperate and unable to breathe, finding her release has her back arched and his tongue fluttered and curled.
She could taste herself when he leaned up and kissed her, sharp and slightly sweet; he mouthed at her neck as he stripped out of his breeches, dragging his lips over the line of her jaw, pressing them to the skin behind her ear. He made a low, broken noise against her throat as he slid inside her, then gathered her in his arms and turned onto his back, holding his hands at her waist, thrusting up as she rolled her hips, her hair tangled over her shoulders.
"Sansa," he murmured, catching her hand and pulling it down between her legs.
He spent watching her touch herself, his eyes wide and his mouth panting open, his hands tight at her hips; and she shuddered hard, peaking suddenly from the way he was looking at her, from the feel of him inside her, from the slick-wet twist and press of his fingers.
She was still shaking when he drew her down against him, kissing her and wrapping his arms around her.
"I am sorry," Jon said quietly, brushing his fingers through her hair. "I shouldn't have -- I didn't think you were truly willing, before. I thought you only married me because you wanted to come home."
Sansa tucked her face in the curve of his shoulder, smiled against his skin. "I am home."
Pairing: Jon/Sansa
Rating: NC17
Words: ~1,900
Summary: She imagined it was Jon touching her, Jon's strong hand and long fingers, larger than hers and rough with callouses from holding his sword, and she moaned as her back arched and her hips pushed off the bed.
Notes: Written for
asoiafkinkmeme, for the prompt Jon/Sansa, Jon catches Sansa touching herself. Title from the Manic Street Preachers. Originally posted here. Ravens traveled slower now that summer had turned to autumn, often troubled by the rougher winds and deep driving snows, but they still appeared every few days, letters tied carefully to their fragile legs, flapping and cawing as they settled in the Maester's Turret. When they arrived from the south, they brought news of King's Landing and Storm's End and Casterly Rock, of people and places Sansa no longer cared about; when they arrived from the north, irritable and cold, they brought news that made Jon sigh and frown and saddle his horse.
The wildings were restless in The Gift, glad to have land fit for crops and livestock but still unused to life with rules and laws, and Tormund wrote Jon frequently, as unfamiliar with being a proper lord as his people were with having one.
His latest came as they took their afternoon meal in Jon's solar, salt pork and yellow cheese and apples slightly withered from the weather, and Jon read it quietly, tapping his finger on the rim of his wine cup.
"The snows are too heavy," Sam said mildly.
Jon's mouth quirked at the corners, as it always did when Sam offered unsought advice. "I've seen worse beyond the Wall. As have you."
Sansa watched as he belted his sword at his waist, as he stamped his feet into his favorite riding boots and pulled a thick, fur-lined cloak around his shoulders. He smiled at her, brushing his fingers through her hair, and a knot twisted in her throat, strange and hot and tight. She did not want him to leave, but she could not ask him to stay, knew he wouldn't even if she did, would do his duty, as he had when she'd returned to Winterfell six months before. Their marriage had been part of the price he'd paid for his title, one of the terms set out by Queen Daenerys; Jon was kind to her, and he did his best to make her happy, but she didn't think he loved her as she'd grown to love him.
He rode out through the postern gate, into sharp winds and quickly piling snows, Ghost at his side and twenty of his best men at his back. The sky was heavy and dark, stained the color of an old bruise, and Sansa watched him shrink into the Wolfswood with her arms folded and her hands curled into her sleeves.
"You should come inside, my lady," Sam said, wrapping her in a cloak. "It will only get colder."
The cloak smelled strongly of him, leather and ink and old parchment, sat too widely on her shoulders and dragged behind her as she crossed the yard. He was an unusual man, this maester Jon considered his closest friend; he was shy and fat, nervous amongst strangers, and he needled Jon in a quiet, teasing way that would have scandalized the Sansa who'd ridden south to marry Joffrey Baratheon, but he was also intelligent and endlessly loyal, and his council was both harsh and honest, and the Sansa who'd fled the Vale with brown dye shrouding her hair understood what Sam meant to Jon, knew that Sam's sly quips and dry humor made Jon laugh in a way Sansa hadn't seen since childhood.
"How long will he be gone?" Sansa asked.
"It is a fortnight to Tormund's keep in good weather, my lady," Sam said, blowing on his hands. "I should think he will return in a few hours. Perhaps less."
Sansa laughed softly. "You believe he will turn around?"
"I believe Ghost will," Sam replied, with an easy, sideways glance. "He has always had more sense than your husband."
She waited for Jon's return in his solar, seated near the window with a fur drawn over her lap, watching until the sky darkened, bluish-black and frightening, until she yawned and nodded at the table, drooping into her wine, until Sam chided her into bed with soft sighs and firm, quiet words. She slept in her mother's old chambers, where the thick heat from the coursing hot springs was warmest; she drew a shift over her head and pulled the ribbons from her hair, then stretched out on top of the furs, burying her face in a pillow that smelled faintly of her husband.
Sansa missed him, even though if he'd stayed at Winterfell he'd likely be in his own chambers. He came to her bed infrequently, his face shadowed as he curved his hand over her breast or stroked his fingers through her hair, and she often wondered if there was someone else, a woman he had met and loved and been forced to leave behind when he had married. He rarely spoke of his years at the Wall, but she did know he had lived with the wildings for a time, had heard that wilding women were forward and unrestrained in a way she could scarcely imagine.
The fire burned low, hissing and painting her chambers with soft shadows, and she sighed quietly, her legs falling open as she slipped her hand under her shift. She did not do this often -- ladies shouldn't want to, shouldn't feel the need to -- but she was restless, exhausted but unable to sleep, and a slow liquid warmth was curling in her belly just at the thought of it, at the careful dip of her fingers, the light brush of her thumb.
She imagined it was Jon touching her, Jon's strong hand and long fingers, larger than hers and rough with callouses from holding his sword, and she moaned as her back arched and her hips pushed off the bed, as she pressed harder, rubbed faster, the warmth in her belly shifting, twisting like a living thing. Jon was always kind and careful when he took her, moving gently, treating her as if he believed she would break, and she didn't know how to tell him what she wanted, not when he already seemed so hesitant to be with her.
Her skin prickled with a sudden burst of cold air, and she looked up, her mouth open and gasping, her face flushing with heat and shame when she saw Jon standing at the door. He was dressed in a loose shirt and breeches, his feet bare and his hand resting on the lintel, and he studied her for a moment, the shadows from the hallway pushing in close behind him, his eyes wide and dark as he looked at her red cheeks and the obscene splay of her legs. Her body was fevered and trembling, pulled as taut as a bow string, but she curled her hand against her thigh, hid it in the loose folds of her shift.
Jon closed the door, approaching her slowly, the bed creaking as he sat down beside her, his hip warm where it bumped hers, his hand slow and cautious as it slid up her thigh, pausing just above her knee. The silence was thick and horrible, rising up between them like a wall; they hadn't been close as children, something she'd come to regret for many reasons, but right now she wished she could read the guarded expression on his face, as Robb and Arya would've been able to do. He almost seemed sad, and she feared she had shamed him in some way she didn't understand.
"Who is he?" Jon asked, in a small, quiet voice that made Sansa's chest ache. "Who were you thinking of?"
She looked at the hunched, inward set of his shoulders, at the tight pull of his jaw, and she realized that he carried the same fears as she -- that there was someone else she'd rather have, someplace else she'd rather be.
"You," she said honestly. "I was thinking of you."
His eyes widened, the line of his mouth softening, and he leaned over her, kissing her temple, dragging his lips down to her cheek, the hollow of her throat. He slid his hand up her thigh, bringing his hand between her legs, making a low, breathless noise against her skin as he curled his fingers inside her.
"Gods, Sansa. So wet," Jon murmured, rubbing his thumb over her in a way that made her gasp and shake. "So wet, and you were thinking of me."
"Yes," she said, twisting up toward him, pushing against his hand. "Jon, please.
Jon sat up on his knees and pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it onto the floor, and Sansa shifted closer to him, widening the spread of her legs. She thought he would take her, but he caught her hand instead, the hand she had used to touch herself, tugging it away from where it was still tangled in her shift and bringing it to his mouth. He pressed a soft kiss to her palm, brushed his lips over the inside of her wrist, then drew her fingers into his mouth one at a time, soft suction and slow curls of his tongue, until she she was shaking with it, her eyes closed and her other hand clenched in the furs.
He slipped down the bed, stretching between her legs, rubbing his cheek against the inside of her thigh, trailing his lips over the swell of her knee. She shivered, arching off the bed, moaning as he smoothed his hands over her hips, traced his thumbs over her skin in slow, teasing circles. He nosed at the crease of her thigh, his breath soft and warm against her sex; he slid his hands down to open her legs further, his palms warm against her sweaty skin, then drew his tongue over her, slick and wet, licking into her again and again and again.
Sansa threaded her fingers in his hair, gasping and trembling, heat twisting in her belly and rushing under her skin. He curved his hands underneath her, moaning and lifting her closer to his mouth, and pushed up against him, desperate and unable to breathe, finding her release has her back arched and his tongue fluttered and curled.
She could taste herself when he leaned up and kissed her, sharp and slightly sweet; he mouthed at her neck as he stripped out of his breeches, dragging his lips over the line of her jaw, pressing them to the skin behind her ear. He made a low, broken noise against her throat as he slid inside her, then gathered her in his arms and turned onto his back, holding his hands at her waist, thrusting up as she rolled her hips, her hair tangled over her shoulders.
"Sansa," he murmured, catching her hand and pulling it down between her legs.
He spent watching her touch herself, his eyes wide and his mouth panting open, his hands tight at her hips; and she shuddered hard, peaking suddenly from the way he was looking at her, from the feel of him inside her, from the slick-wet twist and press of his fingers.
She was still shaking when he drew her down against him, kissing her and wrapping his arms around her.
"I am sorry," Jon said quietly, brushing his fingers through her hair. "I shouldn't have -- I didn't think you were truly willing, before. I thought you only married me because you wanted to come home."
Sansa tucked her face in the curve of his shoulder, smiled against his skin. "I am home."