Fic: Homecoming (Jon/Sansa, R)
Title: Homecoming
Pairing: Jon/Sansa
Rating: R
Series: Part 3 of Bedroom Hymns
Summary: Jon returns from a trip away, and Sansa may or may have not consulted her book in preparation.
A night away from her is too long. A fortnight away is akin to torture. And to be parted for from her for over a moon's turn...
Still, as Jon kisses his wife senseless against the wall of the tack room, it occurs to him that perhaps their reunion ought to take place somewhere slightly more romantic than this small, dim space just off the stables.
"We should wait," he mumbles against her jaw, even as his fingers tug at the laces of her bodice.
Sansa laughs breathlessly as she unfastens his cloak, letting it fall heavily to the floor. "I have waited." She punctuates the statement with a kiss just beneath his ear. "Nights after night after night, I've waited for you to come home to me."
The words are nearly as sweet as her kisses, and Jon presses her harder against the wall, groaning into her mouth as she rocks her hips against his. "I don't mean to wait a moment longer," she whispers when they part and Jon, who has been on fire since the moment she walked into the stables to welcome him home, cannot refuse her.
But nor can he resist teasing her, albeit gently. "Are you sure that you don't wish to consult your book first?" Her bodice is unlaced now, and Jon can see the stiff peaks of her nipples through her shift.
He cups one of her breasts, running his thumb over the tip, and she tilts her head back with a soft moan. "Jon."
"I was certain you'd have something new for us to attempt upon my return." He murmurs the words against her ear, thumb still moving, and smiles when she shivers. "Perhaps a position involving me on my head, and you facing east while balancing scales on your-,"
"Jon," she says again, sharper this time, as her fingers close around his wrist, leading his hand under her skirts.
He shouldn't taunt her about the book. Gods know, she's found some things in those pages that have left him wanting to find the author and kiss her- or him- soundly on the lips. Nipping at her earlobe, he whispers, "I thought of you looking at that book while I was gone. Thought of you looking at the pictures and touching yourself."
She makes a needy sound, close to a whine, as drops his forehead to hers and finally slips his fingers between her thighs. He expects to have to slip underneath her smallclothes, only to realize that she's bare underneath her gown. Jon had been feeling slightly guilty for pulling Sansa into the tack room the second his groom was out of sight, but she had come to him like this on purpose, wanting him every bit as much as he had been aching for her. The thought nearly undoes him, and he fists his other hand in his hair, tilting her head back to kiss her, their tongues and lips matching the same rhythm as Jon's hand on her cunt.
Gasping, Sansa hitches her leg against his hip, and for one confused moment, Jon wonders why he can't feel her as well as he wants. But of course, in his haste to back her against the wall of the tack room, he hadn't even taken off his bloody gloves. With a growl of frustration, he takes his hand from her, biting the fingers of his glove to tug the damned thing off. But then, gods, he can taste her on the leather, and Jon takes a deep breath through his nose, closing his eyes in an attempt to control himself. He wants everything in that moment. To sink to his knees and lick and suck at her until she is the only thing he can taste. To touch the slick, wet heat of her while she trembles and comes apart in his arms. To bury his cock inside of her and know that he has finally come home.
But Sansa, as she always does, shows him the path to take. Her fingers are nimble and quick on the placket of his breeches, her hand impossibly soft as it curls around him, guiding him into her.
They both sigh, and for all of Jon's imaginings and fantasies on the long road back to her, nothing can compare to the feel of her, soaking and almost unbearably tight, clenching around his cock. Somehow, he'd forgotten the way she twines her fingers through his hair when they make love, how pink her cheeks grow, the way his name sounds spilling from his lips as he thrusts inside her.
He missed her so much. Perhaps more than he'd even realized, and as Jon buries his face against her neck, it's not just lust that wells up in him- although there is plenty of that- but affection and love, so much more love than he ever expected to feel for a woman. For anyone.
The words still don't come easily to him, so he shows her with his body, shows her with the kisses he presses to her neck, with the soft touch of his fingers circling between her legs, with the whispered exhalations of "Sansa, Sansa," against her damp skin.
She gives a sharp cry as she peaks, head falling back, mouth open, eyes closed, and Jon watches her, wanting to remember how she looks in this moment. He does not plan on being away from her ever again, but he knows that other responsibilities, other duties, are bound to keep him from her bed in the future.
He wants this image emblazoned on his mind for any cold nights he finds himself parted from his wife.
"Beautiful," he mumbles against her temple. "So beautiful, Sansa, my sweet girl."
Her arms loop around his neck, somehow pulling him even closer, and Jon loses himself within her, pulsing and shaking and hoping that, perhaps, this time his seed will take root and the next time he leaves her, she will not have to be alone.
They come back to themselves slowly, Sansa dipping her head to his collarbone and murmuring, "I'm so glad you're home."
Jon would laugh if he had any breath for it. "As am I."
She looks up at him then, a slow smile spreading across her face. "And now that I think on it, there is something very similar to this in my book."
Despite the thundering of his heart and weakness of his knees, Jon finds himself smiling back. "Is there now?"
"Mmm," she says, nuzzling her temple against his jaw. "I seem to remember something much like this as well."
Then she is sinking against him, letting him carry their weight to the dusty floor of the tack room, and Jon looks at her rising above him, auburn hair spilling over her shoulders, eyes bright with mirth and desire, and yes, love.
And he is home, in every sense of the word.
Pairing: Jon/Sansa
Rating: R
Series: Part 3 of Bedroom Hymns
Summary: Jon returns from a trip away, and Sansa may or may have not consulted her book in preparation.
A night away from her is too long. A fortnight away is akin to torture. And to be parted for from her for over a moon's turn...
Still, as Jon kisses his wife senseless against the wall of the tack room, it occurs to him that perhaps their reunion ought to take place somewhere slightly more romantic than this small, dim space just off the stables.
"We should wait," he mumbles against her jaw, even as his fingers tug at the laces of her bodice.
Sansa laughs breathlessly as she unfastens his cloak, letting it fall heavily to the floor. "I have waited." She punctuates the statement with a kiss just beneath his ear. "Nights after night after night, I've waited for you to come home to me."
The words are nearly as sweet as her kisses, and Jon presses her harder against the wall, groaning into her mouth as she rocks her hips against his. "I don't mean to wait a moment longer," she whispers when they part and Jon, who has been on fire since the moment she walked into the stables to welcome him home, cannot refuse her.
But nor can he resist teasing her, albeit gently. "Are you sure that you don't wish to consult your book first?" Her bodice is unlaced now, and Jon can see the stiff peaks of her nipples through her shift.
He cups one of her breasts, running his thumb over the tip, and she tilts her head back with a soft moan. "Jon."
"I was certain you'd have something new for us to attempt upon my return." He murmurs the words against her ear, thumb still moving, and smiles when she shivers. "Perhaps a position involving me on my head, and you facing east while balancing scales on your-,"
"Jon," she says again, sharper this time, as her fingers close around his wrist, leading his hand under her skirts.
He shouldn't taunt her about the book. Gods know, she's found some things in those pages that have left him wanting to find the author and kiss her- or him- soundly on the lips. Nipping at her earlobe, he whispers, "I thought of you looking at that book while I was gone. Thought of you looking at the pictures and touching yourself."
She makes a needy sound, close to a whine, as drops his forehead to hers and finally slips his fingers between her thighs. He expects to have to slip underneath her smallclothes, only to realize that she's bare underneath her gown. Jon had been feeling slightly guilty for pulling Sansa into the tack room the second his groom was out of sight, but she had come to him like this on purpose, wanting him every bit as much as he had been aching for her. The thought nearly undoes him, and he fists his other hand in his hair, tilting her head back to kiss her, their tongues and lips matching the same rhythm as Jon's hand on her cunt.
Gasping, Sansa hitches her leg against his hip, and for one confused moment, Jon wonders why he can't feel her as well as he wants. But of course, in his haste to back her against the wall of the tack room, he hadn't even taken off his bloody gloves. With a growl of frustration, he takes his hand from her, biting the fingers of his glove to tug the damned thing off. But then, gods, he can taste her on the leather, and Jon takes a deep breath through his nose, closing his eyes in an attempt to control himself. He wants everything in that moment. To sink to his knees and lick and suck at her until she is the only thing he can taste. To touch the slick, wet heat of her while she trembles and comes apart in his arms. To bury his cock inside of her and know that he has finally come home.
But Sansa, as she always does, shows him the path to take. Her fingers are nimble and quick on the placket of his breeches, her hand impossibly soft as it curls around him, guiding him into her.
They both sigh, and for all of Jon's imaginings and fantasies on the long road back to her, nothing can compare to the feel of her, soaking and almost unbearably tight, clenching around his cock. Somehow, he'd forgotten the way she twines her fingers through his hair when they make love, how pink her cheeks grow, the way his name sounds spilling from his lips as he thrusts inside her.
He missed her so much. Perhaps more than he'd even realized, and as Jon buries his face against her neck, it's not just lust that wells up in him- although there is plenty of that- but affection and love, so much more love than he ever expected to feel for a woman. For anyone.
The words still don't come easily to him, so he shows her with his body, shows her with the kisses he presses to her neck, with the soft touch of his fingers circling between her legs, with the whispered exhalations of "Sansa, Sansa," against her damp skin.
She gives a sharp cry as she peaks, head falling back, mouth open, eyes closed, and Jon watches her, wanting to remember how she looks in this moment. He does not plan on being away from her ever again, but he knows that other responsibilities, other duties, are bound to keep him from her bed in the future.
He wants this image emblazoned on his mind for any cold nights he finds himself parted from his wife.
"Beautiful," he mumbles against her temple. "So beautiful, Sansa, my sweet girl."
Her arms loop around his neck, somehow pulling him even closer, and Jon loses himself within her, pulsing and shaking and hoping that, perhaps, this time his seed will take root and the next time he leaves her, she will not have to be alone.
They come back to themselves slowly, Sansa dipping her head to his collarbone and murmuring, "I'm so glad you're home."
Jon would laugh if he had any breath for it. "As am I."
She looks up at him then, a slow smile spreading across her face. "And now that I think on it, there is something very similar to this in my book."
Despite the thundering of his heart and weakness of his knees, Jon finds himself smiling back. "Is there now?"
"Mmm," she says, nuzzling her temple against his jaw. "I seem to remember something much like this as well."
Then she is sinking against him, letting him carry their weight to the dusty floor of the tack room, and Jon looks at her rising above him, auburn hair spilling over her shoulders, eyes bright with mirth and desire, and yes, love.
And he is home, in every sense of the word.