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“Can I practice on you?”
Her voice is delicate, testing.
“You talking to me?”
That came out very gruff. He didn’t mean for it to. Time on the inside has made him gruffer. He’s not the soft boy he once was but maybe he’s still a little soft when it comes to those he cares about.
She nervously clasps her hands together and looks ready to flee. He carefully circles his fingers around one of her wrists to keep her still a moment longer here in the kitchen.
“Sorry, Sansa. You mean the henna thing?” She nods. “Yeah, you can practice on me.”
“Thanks.”
He releases his hold on her as soon as she stands. There’s another moment of awkwardness before he realizes he’s meant to follow her. Down the hall and up the stairs and to her bedroom maybe. He’s not been in Sansa’s bedroom since they were kids. We’re not kids now.
Her mother’s eyes follow them as they go. He’s not her favorite. He never has been but, once upon a time, Jon Snow from next door had been alright with Mrs. Stark. That was before he took his little walk on the wild side somewhere between ten and twenty.
It's been eighteen months up at State but he’s back again. Twenty-four years old and forever behind his peers in every way that matters. He’ll never catch up either because he’s an ex-con and he’ll be tarred by that brush for the rest of his life.
He’s trying though. He’ll never be Robb but he’s trying to be someone mothers don’t constantly watch with such wariness wherever he goes.
“Sorry,” she murmurs as they reach her room and she closes the door. “She hates my new hobby.”
I think it’s me she hates.
He doesn’t say it. He only gives her a sympathetic nod. He can’t see Catelyn Stark liking tattoos of any sort all that much. She’d glared at his enough even before prison. He's gained a fair few since then.
She bids him to sit on her bed and gets down on her hands and knees in the floor beside him. He really needs to control the turn his thoughts take here. She’s Sansa and she’s exactly the sort of girl he’ll never have.
She tugs a box out from under the bed and places it on the bed next to him.
“So, this henna stuff…”
“It’s from plants and it's not permanent body art. It’ll wash away in two-three weeks.”
“That’s fine.” He’s got plenty of ink that won’t wash off. He’ll never be really clean in lots of ways, he fears.
She wants to practice doing it, says she discovered it when she was down south and liked it. Her friends would do it do her but now she’s home and those friends are down there. She wants to be able to do it to herself but she needs a little practice. “Or maybe someone to do it with…”
There’s a hopeful lilt in her voice but he’d better be careful. ‘Someone to do it with’ is giving him all kinds of bad ideas.
Her eyes drop to his stomach and he can see her working herself up to something. “Could you…your arms are already pretty covered with tattoos and there’s hair, too. It’s easier if the skin is smooth…like on your back.”
“You want me to take off my shirt?”
She flushes scarlet but nods. “Would you mind terribly?”
“No, I don’t mind.”
He doesn’t. He’s been naked in front of more people than he cares to admit. There’s not much privacy inside after all. Of course, those were all men. And none of the women he’s been naked in front of have been girls like Sansa.
He tugs his tee over his head, grateful his deodorant seems to be holding up.
He catches her glancing his way and…oh, he didn’t expect that.
It’s only a flash but he’s sure of it. Sansa’s eyes had darkened and she’d licked her lips at the sight of his bare upper half. All that time he’d killed lifting weights in the yard served another purpose, it seems, more than just helping him avoid a beat down inside.
She clears her throat the next minute and asks him to lie down, all clipped and serious.
He wonders if all those pull-ups will make his back equally worthy of flashing sapphire eyes and a sultry lip lick.
He decides to make the most of this and sprawls out on her double bed with its downy duvet, a pretty buttery yellow, just like he’s been invited for a sleepover. Her pillowcase must be a billion thread-count or something, he’s never felt anything so soft. He groans appreciatively. This is the most action he’ll ever see in Sansa’s bed, no doubt.
“Comfy?” she asks, her voice quavering just a touch.
“Fuck, yeah.” He should mind his language but he kind of lost his filter inside.
He feels the bed dip as she climbs up on it. Her knees are by his waist. He wishes she’d straddle him this way. He’d like it even more if he could roll over before she did.
He’s got to stop thinking this kind of shit. She’s Sansa and Mrs. Stark, who hates his felonious ass, is right downstairs. She’d probably call 9-1-1 if he dared touch her precious daughter.
She’s not a kid. We’re adults. Mrs. Stark can suck it.
At least, he’s face down. If he pitches a tent right now, it’ll be pointing straight down towards hell…where he just might belong.
She’s chatting about the henna tattoos and mixes some solution or something. He only hears half of what she’s saying because he’s trying to behave. He buries his face in her pillow and inhales.
Lemons and lavender. Her perfume.
Citrus and mint. Her shampoo.
Musk and sweat. Sansa.
She touches him just then and…fuck.
“Snowflakes or a sunburst?”
“Huh?”
“The pattern.”
“Oh. Either…both…whatever you want.”
“Okay.”
She starts to work and his skin feels taunt, stretched and alive with every touch of that brush or stick or whatever it is she's using. He wonders if he’s broke out in gooseflesh yet. He feels like it.
His gut clenches up with every touch but it's pleasant. The blood is pooling south of his belt buckle. He's got to behave with her. She's not just some girl at a bar looking for a good time. She's not somebody he can fuck and then walk away from once it's done. She's Sansa, she's everything he'll never have because of his misspent youth.
She works quietly, shifting here or there, positioning her body differently. He’d almost swear her tits are pressed against his jean-covered ass at one point. He can feel her breathing against the small of his back. It sounds a little labored.
She keeps working and it’s relaxing really, no pain like getting permanent ink…not that it bothers him at this point. He could lay here all day for her. His mind’s starting to drift again.
“Your skin is very smooth.”
He opens his eyes. He’d been near nodding off, acclimated to her touch at last and the bed’s softness and her scent all around him. He’d been ready to have a sweet dream. Maybe a hot, sweet and dirty dream.
“Thanks.” What the hell else did he say to that?
“I appreciate you letting me practice. It relaxes me.”
“Relaxes you?”
“Yeah. I…sometimes I get tense.”
He’s noticed that. She’s not the same since she came back from that fancy school down south. She’d left middle of her second year and come back home. She’s been different, on edge since her return three months ago. At first, he’d thought that was just how she was around him but it’s everybody. What happened down there?
But she seems to like him. She talks to him now whereas before they barely spoke. And, he’s still puzzling out how Sansa Stark, Little Miss Country Club, got into henna tattoos and apparently decided that she doesn’t mind inviting an ex-con to come lie on her bed.
“You were always artistic." She shakes her head but it's true. "If you enjoy doing these, maybe you could do it for money.”
“You think so?”
“Why not? Of course, these aren’t permanent so I don't know what business is like for them.”
“Pretty good, I think. And, I don’t want permanent ones. I like how these are with you for a bit and then you can wash them away and start anew. I like the transitional aspect of them, the becoming and then the leaving it behind.”
He turns his head enough to look up at her. “Transitional aspect, huh? That’s kind of profound, Sansa.”
Her lips twitch with amusement as her palm flattens along his lower back, right above his belt and over his kidney. “I’d like to do more of your back.” Two fingers slip under the waistband of his jeans and she gives a tug.
Their eyes are locked and he’s wondering what’s happening because something’s about to happen, something he’d never expected in a million years. “Okay. You should…maybe…”
“I’m going to lock the door...for privacy...in case Mother gets curious.”
He gulps and he’s fifteen again. “Oh-k-kay,” he stutters.
“When I’m done with you, would you care to practice on me?” she asks after the door is locked and there's music playing.
He nods and she pulls her shirt over her head, revealing a lacy pink bra cradling what are likely the most perfect pair of tits in creation. She quickly sweeps her waves of red hair up into a bun like she just wants it out of the way for when his fumbling fingers attempt to paint her gorgeous body with henna. It's not body art he's interested in right now but he'll try it for her.
He’s pitched his tent here face down on her bed, on top of that yellow duvet and he licks his lips. His dark grey eyes are growing darker without a doubt.
“You can’t lie on your back while it dries,” she warns him as he starts to roll over.
He grins and nods. “Oh…that’s fine. We’ll figure something out.”
Her answering grin is mischievous. "Could you strip down to your boxers? I want to go lower."
"Yeah. You can practice whatever you like on me."