Chapter Text
If anyone would ask her the highlights of the Christmas holiday, she’d answer of the snowy cabins her family goes to, the subtle escape from the difficulties of school that often burdens her shoulders with a practiced smile that hinted of her lie. Her true answer; is the only one that makes the holidays slightly bearable. A matter she wouldn’t dare discuss with her parents’ frequent guests in their cabins, snooping and trying to create a good impression so she’d say a word or two to them.
Jon Targaryen ; a boy close to her age and his parents are one of the closest pair of other lawyers to hers. A sufficient reason (excuse) to talk to him, to see him outside of school and to slightly divulge in her adoration (crush, really but she won’t use this term). One of her appreciation for this escape is seeing him in thick sweaters, scarves on his neck and at times, pink dusting his cheeks from the cold, almost as pink his lips.
When they aren’t bounded by arbitrary school rules like popularity, they tend to actually talk and laugh over how silly the events they attend. Charity events and galas are essentially boring but with Jon; his jokes and his musical laughter, Sansa repeatedly wishes the night would never end. He could be dancing with the other girls, heiress to empires that stretch worldwide. He could have anyone he wanted and yet he stayed at the corner of each party with her, head bent down and thickening the bubble that shield them away from anything that isn’t each other.
And now, the party is in its full swing, adults ambling about the cosy living room, alcoholic drinks in hand, and they conversed in low voices. Sansa went around, chatting with the people she knew by names and work. And of course, her parents have told her who is sleeping with who, the married couple who’s been married for years now because it’s essential in the manner of how to approach them.
It’s only a matter of time until her parents will call her over, to answer their guests’ inquiries with a polite tone and a smile that would make her cheeks ache when the part is over.
She checked her watch and realized it won’t be for another few hours. Edging away from the chattering adults, she asked for a refill for her drink to a waitress.
“Are you drinking champagne?” It was Jon, she knew without turning her head. It’s the unique rumble in his voice or she could’ve memorized his voice and counted each time they talked. “How’d you sneak a glass of it being underage?” He asks this when he’s closer now, right in front of her.
In the number of years they’ve known each other, his lame ice breakers varied and though she never laughed at them, she adored him for trying anyways. “It’s apple juice, Jon. They wouldn’t allow me to drink a drop of alcohol until they think I’m ready.” She replies and glances at him. Her eyes widen a fraction at seeing him in a suit.
She has categorized his attires in three groups; school uniform of indigo blazers, tucked in polo and slacks, winter clothing that consisted of layers of sweaters and jackets and scarves. And now, her favourite is whenever Jon smartly wears a suit.
He looked dashing, the blazer fits him perfectly and when he moves his arms, she can almost trace the bump of muscles, can see how his practices of football have been successful. The cinnamon in his hair appeared lighter and softer under the lights. His smile is the best thing she’s seen all evening.
But she wouldn’t comment on how handsome he is.
“Apple juice, how unexpected of you.” He says in ease as though they’ve known each other outside of their parents’ insistent need for parties and galas. In school, they barely spare a glance at each other, him being a jock with his teammates on his sides at all times and she, with her only friend.
“When did you arrive? I didn’t see your name on the guest list.” She should know seeing as her meticulous mother trusted her with that responsibility. She could recite the names of the people around her with no difficulty.
Jon took a sip of his glass of water. “Oh, we weren’t in your blessed list because your mother met up with mine days ago in some antique exhibition. She said to drop by at any time and I wasn’t sure I’d be here because our rest house is four miles from yours.” He explains, his lower lip glistens with the water that he drank.
“And yet you’re here.” Sansa replies, her fingers dancing on the chilled surface of the glass, restraining herself to do something impulsive. Like run my thumb on his shiny lips.
“I am. We should grab a bottle of wine for our own. Your parents must have dozens in their cellar.” He urges in that enticing tone. If he used it to ask her to jump off some cliff with him, she would follow him.
She blinked, staring at her glass of juice, wondering if this is truly champagne. Why would he waste time with her? He’s bored and you’re all starry eyed at him, you fool. “Yes they do but we can’t do that, it’s not right.” She answered, drinking from her glass.
Jon walked to the door where a waiter stood. He got two glasses and whispered something to him. The staff went and retrieved Sansa’s glass as he gave her the other one. Now, they both stood at the doorway, blocking anyone’s path to the vast backyard, snow thickening in feet. “Salu.” He says and clinks their glass together.
“What is this?” She demanded with an arch brow. Sniffing it, she could tell it was sour and by the watered brown colour of it, her guess would be whiskey.
“Scotch and it warms you so drink up, princess.” Jon supplied and sipped from his.
He made the forbidden so enthralling with the way his lush mouth curves, his eyes of mist so clear, and everything else that’s him.
She drinks a small portion and coughs at how warm and spicy it is, burning a path down her throat. Narrowing her eyes at Jon who was smiling, she took another shot. “You didn’t tell me scotch taste like this.”
“I told you it warms a person, princess.” Jon reminded her and his drink is almost half-done. “Let’s get you a refill after you finish that.”
She makes a move to deny him nonetheless, the strong and unshakable foundation of discipline and etiquette overcomes her childish attempt at teenage rebellion. But then she sees Harry, her ex-boyfriend from junior year.
What is he doing here? She shrieked in her mind. Staring at the blonde, he came in a grey turtle neck cashmere sweater with slim slacks and leather shoes. His parents are behind him but they soon separate and leave him behind. She stared harder and finding no difference from the last time they saw each other. Or to be more specific, it was when he had his tongue down in another girl, some cheerleader of a different school.
Rage burned through her at the thought of her parents organizing such a coincidence. They truly adored Harry or how well connected his family is and perhaps they were more disappointed than they let on when she told them they were done. What other reason could there be for his presence intentionally omitted on her copy of the guest list?
“How-how can we even hide the stolen liquor from them?” She spat out, albeit unintentionally harsh but she’s too occupied with her cheating ex invading her peaceful holiday ogling at some other boy than him.
He noticed her change of attitude and looked behind his shoulder and looked back at her. “Uh, do you know that guy?” Hesitation made his words a little slower. His eyebrows are pinched and she could’ve sworn worry is expressed on his face.
He’s my first love who turned my heart to ash.
Harry saw her but she made sure she was still facing Jon, unaffected by this horrific revelation. She could tell because he was walking to them, determination and swagger in his steps and she hated him with a passion she hadn’t thought possible to possess. Panic gripped her because she’d rather disobey her parents than talk to him.
So, for the first time in her life, Sansa did something on impulse. No pro and cons table, no weighing of options, not even considering the consequences.
She stepped forward, curled her hand on his neck, stood on her toes, and kissed Jon on the mouth. It was supposed to be a brief moment, a fraction of a second. Guilt already filled her chest at this surprising action. She stepped backward but Jon stalled her action and pulled her closer and his mouth stayed firmly on hers. It could’ve been a few moments or handful of centuries and she wouldn’t notice.
The drink on her hand felt like it would slip but she held it tighter while her other hand held the nape of his neck tighter like an anchor. Closing her eyes, she smiles shyly when he nipped at her lower lip. It doesn’t even occur to her they’re on the brink of making out in her parent’s social party in the middle of winter. All that mattered was Jon, his wandering hand roving on her back, his tiny nips and the skilful dance he’s teaching her.
It didn’t even occur to her how her siblings ran about, chasing other kids that they can see their older sister kissing the oldest family friend they have. Or even Robb, considering Jon as their brother, see them and could probably punch Jon.
Pity oxygen is a necessity and Jon pulls away, both heaving in breaths, their faces flushes, mouth so blaringly red, and they didn’t even need alcohol to achieve the drunken looks.
“I’m sorry.” Sansa whispers against his cheek, still standing on her toes and her nails have marked half-crescent moons on his skin. “Harry is my ex and he’s horrible. Well, not really he’s kind and all but he-“
It’s pathetic how the words got stuck in her throat, at how she rapidly blinked when the tears brimmed in her eyes. She stared at Jon and saw how intense his expression is, his hand on her hip pressing light and dizzying circles.
He pressed a gentle kiss on her forehead and nodded. “It’s alright, you don’t have to tell me. It’s something only the shittiest assholes do. Come, let’s steal wine like we planned.” He whispers on her ear. He keeps his arm on her hip, the warmth of him so intoxicating she thinks she’s half-drunk from it alone. Funny, I didn’t need the scotch or wine to feel drunk.
Sansa laughed when she saw something dangling between them. She pointed upwards. “Mistletoe.” She stated with another laugh.
Jon laughed along. “And here I thought you liked kissing me. You were merely abiding by traditions.” He mourned with a pout.
“Did you know the fruits in real mistletoe are poisonous?” She quips as she glances over his shoulder to see Harry is no longer approaching her and can’t be seen anywhere. Relief washes over her.
“No but thank you for informing me, nerd.” Their second kiss is shy but tingles ebb along her veins nonetheless. She thinks it’s to really make sure her ex won’t go near her but Harry isn’t on her mind when Jon’ soft lips are moving slower now, more tantalizing.
They weave through the crowd only to be stopped by a familiar voice, Daenerys, Jon’s aunt. “Jon dear, would you-“ Her request is forgotten as she stares at them with surprise. The blonde smiled brightly at them, at how intimate they looked with Jon’ hand on her hip, Sansa snuggled up against his side.
“Yes, aunt?” Jon prompts like there was nothing shocking about what’s in front of his aunt.
“Refill my drink, would you?” She finally requested and gave them one more bright eyed beam before immersing herself in the talk of the senators around her.
Sansa, not wanting to be left alone, stayed beside Jon as he did as he was bid. “I thought you’d act out.” She blurted out as they sat on the leather stools facing the oval curved counter, waiting for the bartender to fulfil their order.
“Act out?” He asked for clarification with amusement. He swirled his chair so his clothed legs brush against her bare skin.
“You know, not be a doting son because you’re a beloved jock and such.” She explains and now, hearing the words it sounded silly. She chastises herself at seeing Jon’s mouth quirked to one side.
He retrieved the drink Daenerys asked another waitress to return it to his mother. “Ah, you assumed I’m the rebellious badass jock. Sorry to disappoint you.”
I’m relieved actually. She wanted to say, feeling foolish when she wholeheartedly believe the delighted gossips Jeyne tells her. Yet, on what other source can she rely on other than hushed stories of schoolgirls? Why did she even listen to her best friend? She should’ve changed the topic but it was too enticing, he’s too enticing for his own good.
She scanned the crowd before her, her mouth curls in distaste when she spotted Harry. He’s talking to her parents now, most like complimenting Mother on her outfit and boosting Father’s confidence unnecessarily higher. I would’ve appreciated it if he didn’t humiliate me.
“You want to dance?” Jon prompted, jerking his head to the group of adults swaying gently to a romantic wordless song that musicians are playing on a platform. He slid out of his seat and offered his hand.
“You want me to commit theft, you want me to dance. You’re awfully demanding, jock.” Sansa complains in a farce tone but she lays her hand on his and they’re making their way to the dance floor.
Their positions didn’t feel awkward as it should be. His hand on her waist, hers on his shoulder and they held hands. The song is now some gentler song, almost like a lullaby mothers would sing to their sleepy children except it retained the sweet, loving words that would make couples swoon more.
“My aunt likes to make me join her ballroom lessons.” He says against the top of her head. His touch is constant and warm; it almost convinces her it’s a summer night instead of a cold evening.
Sansa presses closer, careful to avoid his eyes. Not sure what to find in them, pity? She isn’t certain why they’re in this situation. An apology hangs from her tongue once more. But she doesn’t want to ruin this ease he created between them. Lord knows how reclusive she is seeing as how other than polite talks with him, she only ever talks with Jeyne.
“I do ballet.” She also confesses into his chest, still not daring to see how he might be bored or doing this because she’s desperate for an escape. He might be doing this as a duty of sorts and she hates how possible this is.
“Where?”
She pulls back a little bit but then his hand that’s resting on the small of her back flexes like a warning. You think I’d want to be away from you? “Why? So you can see me twirl around in pink tights and a skirt for two hours?” She meant it as a jest to what she’s grown to like.
Mother told her it teaches a girl elegance and grace but all she’s gotten are aching feet and sore limbs. Yet there’s an odd enjoyment whenever the audience stands to their feet for applause. And for Jon to be one of them sends an undeniable thrill in her bones.
“Yes.” He rasps against her ear, low and resembles a thunder’s rumble. “And you’d make such a lovely ballerina. I’d fill your dressing room with roses in every colour or any flower you’d like.” He vows with such conviction she could almost see the bouquets filling the table she could barely see the surface of it.
His voice washes over her and she shivers, not from the weather but how dark and pleasant his voice is at this proximity. She blinks up at him, lightly biting her lower lip to which he ardently stares at her like they’re the only people left on earth.
“At-at the theatre on 46th street, where they hold the community plays but on recitals we use it. But we practice at the dance studio near the mall. And tulips and roses, as cliché as they are.” Sansa found herself answer and they still miraculously retained the rhythm of the dance.
His smile is all teeth and wolfish. She, his prey, doesn’t feels cared though. “The nerd that dances, how quaint.” He breathes.
Someone tapped her shoulder and she turns, expecting it to be some guest or Mother but it was worse; Harry is smiling with his hands behind his back. “Hello, Sansa may I have this dance?” He asks in such a polite tone one wouldn’t take him for an immoral person, someone who doesn’t value relationships and is so careless for his ex’s feelings.
It’s a trap, she realizes with grief. She can’t outright deny him because that would draw attention towards them and not to the perfectly boring party around them. These adults would be aptly eying them if anything out of the ordinary happened. Truly, he is one of deception and cunning. Mother would be furious if I screamed at him or hit his head. I can’t be impolite.
Yet Jon didn’t have the same quick epiphany as he tucks her at his side and glowers fiercely that even Harry is taken aback. “Yeah no way Harry.” He says too roughly too loudly that an elderly pair with matching white hair glanced their way. “I think she’d do quite literally anything else.” He answers in a clipped tone.
Yes, you.
“How about she makes the decision herself? Awfully presumptuous of you to think you know what she wants.” Harry taunts in that slyness only a fox would envy. His eyes, so blue and bright, glitters with mockery and his angelic face betrays how cruel he is. Once, she might have thought of him as an angel but truly, he is a devil in disguise.
She didn’t need to look around to see the adults being subtly increasingly interested in the scene. “He’s a wonderful dancer, Harry, a much better one than you ever were. No one can compare, really.” She told him as courteous as she can and even smiled at him, keeping the sweet façade as Jon leads her away from their audience.
“Do you know where the wine cellar is?” Jon asked as they went to the kitchen.
She nods and leads him into the hallway and to the basement. It was adequately lit and wooden shelves are filled with different kinds of wine, of varying year, countries, and on the polished oak cabinet is the special collection they only drink on their anniversary.
Jon whistled in appreciation. They both inspected each of the collection in fascination before he got one bottle under “Italy” and she of “France”. They smiled at each other.
“Now what?”
“Well to be honest, I didn’t think we’d go this far.”
Sansa grabbed one of the corkscrews while he got two wine glasses. “You thought I wouldn’t follow through?” She suspected as she removed the corks from their wines. She poured on her glass and he did the same.
“Let’s go to one of the guest rooms. We can’t stay here because I fear you might finish everything.” Jon warns as he drinks like it was water.
She recalled the architecture of the house; eight bedrooms but most are occupied, with corresponding bathrooms, a wide backyard, wonderfully modern kitchen, and a large fireplace in the living room. “Follow me, Jon.” She says and walked upstairs, smiling when she hears his footsteps.
A staff, carrying a tray of oeuvres regarded them with suspicion, two teenagers holding bottles of wine and glasses half-filled.
Sansa lifted her finger to her lips. She laughed when Jon held her hand, impatient as he is, and they went to the second floor. By the time she guided him to the sixth bedroom, the third on the right, they were on their third glass.
The room was like any other room in the house; white to beige decoration, the bed is a four poster canopy with thin translucent curtains, a flat screen television beside the door, a medium sized desk pushed to the left wall and next to it is the bathroom. There is an extension of a balcony here that has an overview of the entire winter resort, blankets of snow for miles and miles around.
She takes off her heels, toes spreading in the snowy rug underneath her feet. Jon removes his blazer, lays it on the plush vintage chair next on the bed.
Sansa sits on the sofa at the foot of the bed, drinking, as Jon flopped beside her. Now it’s quiet. “He cheated on me.” Now she knows she’s drunk. Sense would’ve gripped the reigns tighter; to not open up to someone who doesn’t care about her other than being a reason to wait until his aunt are done socializing. But the wine is loosening her tongue and she’s almost sure that he cares for her in his own way. “He-He was seeing this gorgeous blonde from some other school. I don’t blame him, she’s a beauty.” She finishes her third and proceeds to the fourth. Or is it the fifth? She isn’t sure anymore.
“I blame him for being a dick. I want to punch his smug face. Why did you like him?” Jon slurred, his eyes are hazy but his words are sure and sufficient threat to take it seriously. While waiting for her to formulate an answer, he drinks from his glass.
“My parents liked him. His, uh family is well connected with the Congress and-and he’s so cute to look at! I used to think he’s an angel.” She bitterly answered, laying back and crossed her leg on the other, pouting as she drank.
Jon shakes his head, twisting his body so his leg rested beside hers. He ran his hand through his hair, the sleeves of his crisp t shirt is rolled to his elbows. “You’re the angel not him. You-“ He refills his glass and drinks from it. “You deserve better. Like try this 1912 edition from Florence, it’s fucking heavenly, princess.” He urged.
Sansa got his bottle but she didn’t take note of his hand moving to her neck. She giggled- and she never giggles- when Jon kissed her. Her mouth moves along his, to the dance she keeps on learning much to her delight. She places the things on the table in front of them then cups his face with her hands. She kisses him as ardently as she can as though if she does it enthusiastically enough, immortality is freely given.
But this is must be akin to feeling invincible as though she can endure any hardship if Jon would only kiss her first. She climbs on his lap, nestling on his muscled thighs. She welcomes his wandering hands, roving over her clothed waist but then she squealed when he massages her calves and went up and up until he was squeezing the outsides of her thighs.
“You’re a sly one, jock.” Sansa whispers, his eyes are almost of the night now. Their chests heaved but their hands held the other with an iron grip, mouths so red that it spreads onto their faces.
Jon shifted and scooted her closer. “You’re irresistible. And by the way, your choice of wine is exquisite, nerd.” He commented, his breath was sour by the wine but it felt sweetest on her tongue.
“Yours as well, Jon. Here, let me take another sip.” She shyly introduces her tongue to his, revelling in the groan that she felt all around her rather than hearing it. Sensations are slightly overwhelming her, how good his kissing skills are, at how if Jon asked her of her ex, she wouldn’t recall his name and this made her kiss him harder.
Sansa thinks this is some lucid hallucination, a daydream while she’s chatting with influential people around the globe. And if this isn’t real, her conjuration of the latent yearns she’s been having then she supposed she should take everything she can get. Her hands delve into the mass of curls that have always tempted her whenever she sees him in the corridors of their school, many girls must think the same, crushing on the football quarterback.
But not many get to do what she’s doing and an undeniable surge of pride washed over her. He’s mine in these small moments. Maybe I’m imagining this, being drunk and making out with him.
She leaves his mouth, puffs of hot breath tickle her ear as she goes lower, nibbling on the cords of his neck and pressing tiny kisses here and there. Her hands card through his hair, tilting his neck backwards so her untainted canvas can be filled with scattered blooms of purple and it’s an entirely different sort of art that leaves them both breathless.
“Fuck.”
In any other situation, she would’ve been scandalized or scrunched her nose in distaste at hearing such vulgarity. But now, she laughs on his kiss and sucks a bruise just above his collarbone. She feels her body isn’t her own as she moves to his hands, dragging her hips to some dance she hasn’t known with anyone else.
Is it the wine making everything feel too sweet? How his wandering hands are so intoxicating and if anyone happen to pass by this room, they’d assume they’d be in pain by how they’ve moaned names and Jon’ groans were so deep in his chest it was animalistic even.
Opening one eye, she sees Jon baring his neck even more, his hands cupping her backside, and she scrapes her teeth on his shoulder.
She wrenches her mouth from him, panting heavily and knows feels how tight her dress is, how the pool of lavender reminded her of some silky spilled drink. Grinning, she sees how dark and dazed his expression is. The thrill in her veins could run a small town. “You sound like an animal.” Her voice was huskier, deepening by her want of him.
His plumped lips formed an enticing beam and she mimicked his action knowing damn well she’s the cause of such a beautiful sight. “You’re making me feel like one.” He says before mouthing the curve of her neck, hands pressing on her hips, dancing now resuming its frantic pace.
Then, in a split second, she snatches his bottle of wine, staggering to stand and drinking from it without a glass.
It took him a few moments to realize what had happened and when he did, his swollen mouth curves into a smirk. “Ah, you want it straight out of the bottle huh?” He whines but his voice is hoarse and it sends tingles down her spine. He stood up adjusting his pants and walks up to her in a stance like of a predator. But his steps are clumsy and he staggers and falls on the floor.
Sansa laughs loudly now, sitting next to him on the floor. “Maybe we should sleep. Everything is moving so fast.” She recommended, offering him what she stole.
Jon opened the mini-fridge at the bottom of the dresser and took out two bottles. “We have to drink water or else our hangover will be legendarily tormenting.” He advises and drinks nearly all of it in no time.
She presses a kiss on the corner of his mouth. “And the jock can think.” She muses before finishing hers in a few gulps. When she licks her lips, he kisses her again, slow almost savouring what they won’t remember in the morning. “I’ll sleep now. Goodnight, Jon Targaryen.” She announces, climbing up on the bed. She sheds one layer of blanket for him on the floor and two pillows.
“You won’t invite me on your bed, sweet girl?” Jon asks aloud but already covering the blankets on him.
She peers at him over the edge with an arched brow. “I won’t share a bed who isn’t my husband or at least my boyfriend.” Even inebriated, the teachings of Mother aren’t lost to her. If the older women were to know of this, she would’ve been proud. Other than being scandalized that her daughter stole wine, drank and made out with a boy when a party is happening just a floor below.
“Did you share a bed with Harry?”
“No and I’m glad that I didn’t.” She admits, staring at the pale ceiling above her, her hands resting on her stomach and she thinks this is the most realistic dream she’s ever head.
“I’m glad too.” Jon’ soft agreement is trailed with little puffs of breath, indicating he’s already sleeping.