Work Text:
“Hey, greasemonkey.”
The low, teasing tone met Jon’s ears just as pair of sleek heels appeared in his field of vision. Fancy things, Italian leather, pale rose in color with silver highlights in the front (he wasn’t sure whether to be amused or horrified that he couldn’t just see plain pink anymore). Expensive and fine- far too fine to be so near the likes of him, but somehow, here they were, along with the woman wearing them.
A small smile tugged at his lips as he took one last glance at the gasline he’d been inspecting, then slid his creeper out from beneath the car. “Hey, princess.”
Sansa Stark, princess of the Stark family racing dynasty. She stuck out so blatantly in their surroundings that it was easy to forget she’d grown up around cars and the track the same as he and Robb had. But of the three of them, it was Jon who worked exclusively behind the scenes. If he chose to keep his face hidden beneath the bill of his cap and shielded from the cameras, there wasn’t a need to be ashamed of the grease beneath his nails or the piles of spare parts cluttering the corners of his small house.
Then again, when he and Robb were in school together and he watched his best friend bury himself in finance and economics courses, he’d expected to get used to seeing him in fancy, tailored suits. Instead, the Stark heir, armed with a degree in business management and expected to step into Old Man Rickard’s retiring shoes, showed up one day in a suit of his own choosing, flame-retardant and covered in sponsor brands. He was the first Stark to race since the tragedy surrounding Brandon Stark, and despite everyone’s misgivings, Robb had become a rising star in the circuit.
It was Sansa who had stepped up as the boss, and she did it well. The Stark crew ran like a well-oiled machine under her leadership, and God help him if Jon didn’t find all that honed poise and control insanely attractive.
Poised, controlled, and always so goddamned pristine. Her white blouse, tucked into the band of a patterned pink skirt, was immaculate, not a tear, spot, or wrinkle to be seen, and the ironed crease in the skirt was just as perfect. Flawless stretches of soft, smooth skin appeared kissed rather than burned by the summer sun. He felt an almost sinful urge to render her utterly disheveled, slid his dirty hands over those pristine clothes and slip under to smudge and mark that gorgeous, perfect skin.
“Well, crew chief, does everything look in order?”
Jon blinked, breaking a little out of his lustful haze. “The carriage needs a little adjustment, but that’s nothing the crew can’t take care of tomorrow.”
“Good.” She smirked. “I knew you were the right choice to replace Rodrik, no mater what that idiot Theon thought.” She stepped closer, and even behind her designer sunglasses, he could feel her eyes looking him over.
Sansa could see that brilliant mind working a mile a minute, trying to work out the situation. Greasemonkey was a playful nickname, but not an apt one. Jon Snow was a prodigy with two engineering degrees by twenty-four and a decade of racing design under his belt at twenty-five. Those talented hands of his were known to perform miracles, and after their little indiscretion at the staff party celebrating the opening of the season, she’d thought about little but getting them on her again.
“So no one’s expected back tonight?”
“No,” Jon replied slowly, his gaze unwavering as his eyes darkened even further. “It’s just us.”
“Would you be so kind as to lock the door then?”
There were few sounds Sansa adored more than those low, hungry noises Jon made as they kissed and she dug her nails into his shoulders, left bare by the tank he was wearing. One hand buried in her hair, the other squeezing her backside (no doubt leaving fingerprints behind, though she had little care if he did). She nipped his bottom lip, soothing the bite with her tongue as warm, strong hands slid to the back of her thighs and Sansa kicked off the ground, legs wrapping snugly around his hips as he began to back them up.
“Lift that skirt for me, Ms. Stark, and I’ll take a look under your hood.” He chuckled into her ear and Sansa rolled her eyes.
“Forget what they say about sarcasm. Bad jokes like that are the lowest form of wit.”
“Seriously, though, lift that skirt if you don’t want stains on your ass,” Jon blithely continued, the strength with which he shifted her weight onto one arm as he used the other to clear off his workbench sending a jolt of heat straight to the core of her.
“God, Jon,” she breathed as he set her on the bench and knelt before her. She fisted her hands in his hair and tipped his face toward her. “I don’t care. I want to feel everything and see the proof later. Every mark, every bruise, every smudge, I want it all.”
“Jesus, Sansa.” He flipped up the skirt, deliberately rubbing his cheek against the sensitive skin of her inner thigh and watching it slowly pink from the burn of his stubble. Sansa shivered and Jon smiled, an odd mix of incredulous delight.
“Oh, I think you need a full work over, Ms. Stark. It’s a good thing you came to the best in the business.”
As he set the work, Sansa couldn’t refute him, nor find the presence of mind to further scold his awful jokes.