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estherruth-jonsatrash · 3 months

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Let Me Keep You: A Jonsa One-shot

Written for @jonsa-valentine event types of love: storge, pragma, eros.

Preview:

He’s not sure when it happens. Jon has always loved Sansa. Of course he has, from the day she was born. She was his sister. They may have been the most distant of all his siblings but that didn’t change the love.

And when Sansa appears in the courtyard at Castle Black, beneath his astonishment at the sight of her, there is elation. He’d scarcely known how he’d gotten down the steps to reach her, but there he is—and there she is, in his arms, clinging tight, tucking her head against his shoulder. Jon closes his eyes and holds her just as tight. He realizes they’re swaying with the shock of it.

He also realizes he feels warm for the first time since he came back from the dead.

Jon can’t stop looking at her. He can hardly believe she is real. She’s also so incredibly beautiful he’s not sure he could pull his eyes away from her if he tried.

Had it been then? That very day of their reunion?

Jon thinks about that day when they’re traveling the North—when he climbs into his bedroll at night, weary of the riding. He thinks of Sansa in front of the firelight, wearing his cloak. He thinks of her drinking his ale and laughing when she grimaced, a sensation so new it felt like the first time he’d ever made such a sound in his throat. He thinks of the pleasant warmth in his body at having her close to him. How her touch sent tingles across his skin.

That should have alerted him something was different. But that day, he didn’t bother trying to examine it. Why would he? The joy of having a sibling returned to him—when he never thought he’d see any of them again—the disbelief and the gratitude was enough.

And so by the time Jon begins to question, he already knows he’s gone too far.

Read the rest on ao3!

#jonsa #jonsa valentine 2024 #jonsa fanfiction #jonsa valentine #jonsa fic #jonsa fanfic #jonsaff #my fic writing

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malora-hightower · 3 months

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Jonsa Valentine 💘

Day 1 / 13 February: Mania -> Obsessive love (Wuthering Heights inspired)

Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.

Be with me always - take any form - drive me mad! only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you! Oh, God! it is unutterable! I can not live without my life! I can not live without my soul!

#jonsa #jonsa valentine #jonsa valentine 2024 #edit.mh #jonsaedit #my edit

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eruherdiriel · 3 months

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Excerpt:

Jon doesn’t know why he came to the game. Everything about the high school gym is overwhelmingly loud—the squeak of the players’ shoes across the floor, the yelling of the teams and fans, the rock and synth-pop songs that blare over the loudspeaker anytime there’s a break in the game. Last school year, you couldn’t have paid him to come to one of these things. And yet— “Why are we here again?” Sam asks. “School spirit.” It’s a terrible excuse, one Sam sees through easily.

For the @jonsa-valentine event. Types of love: Storge, Agape, Philia, and Ludus.

Read Songbirds (one-shot, 9k) on AO3.

#jonsa #jon x sansa #jonsa fanfiction #80s high school au #also some jon & lyanna and jon & sam content #jonsa valentine 2024 #*rms #eruhwrites

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hilarychuff · 2 months

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We Run the Gamut (Let's Run Away)

boy and girl meet. live parallel lives. and, one day, they start to come together. scenes inspired by all the different types of love for the @jonsa-valentine event 2024.

AGAPE

love for everyone

"Hello? Is anyone home?"

Jon looks up from where he's been sulking in the dark to see one of the Stark girls — the redheaded daughter — standing outside the front door to the guest house. She'd knocked once already, but Jon had ignored it, thinking whoever it was would just go away. Now, he can see she's still out there, silhouette illuminated at the top of the stairs. The porch light catches copper highlights in her hair and makes them glow.

He wonders if she's annoyed she has to knock instead of just letting herself in. Maybe she used to spend a lot of time in the apartment over the Starks' detached garage. Or maybe she never came out here. Maybe her bedroom in that fancy old house is already so big and private she never bothers to explore anywhere else.

"Hello?" she calls again. "Mrs. Snow?"

When Jon finally answers the door, flicking on the living room light as he goes, he sees that the girl — Sansa, he thinks — hasn't come empty-handed. In her arms is a ceramic dish full of some sort of baked good, little tarts or custards with cooked lemon slices on top.

read the rest on ao3

#jonsa valentine 2024 #jonsa valentine #jonsa #jon snow #sansa stark #jon x sansa #sansa x jon #asoiaf #asoiaf fic #jonsa fic #game of thrones #my writing

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sailorshadzter · 3 months

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@jonsa-valentine

No one should forget: Eros alone can fulfill life; knowledge, never. Only Eros makes sense; knowledge is empty infinity; – for thoughts, there is always time; life has its time; there is no thought that comes too late; any desire can become a regret. - Emile M. Cioran

He watches from the head table, cheek to palm, gray eyes smoldering in their gaze.

Across the room, she mingles with the lords and the squires and the knights alike, laughing and smiling, cheeks twin blooms of rosy color. He hates to see her laughing with another man, loyal lord or not, but he forces himself to remain where he was. No matter how he felt inside, he would never cause a scene.

They are hosting a feast for all of the North, every House no matter how small has been invited to Winterfell, all to celebrate his recent crowning as King in the North. More have come than he ever imagined would, but they have plenty of food and plenty of ale to keep their guests happy and fed for the night. Naturally, he leaves the hosting of the whole thing to Sansa, who can beguile any man, who can light up a room from the moment she enters, but he finds he’s quite unhappy to see her there among them. Those very men she intends to ensure remain at their side, his side, he wishes to strike down simply for looking at her as they are now.

He sighs, heavily, before draining the last drops of ale from his goblet, watching as she shifts jauntily, hand on the lord’s elbow she stands beside, her other hand wrapped around her goblet. Jon shifts in his chair, recalling how just the night before he had felt that same hand wrapped around him, the memory sending shivers down his spine.

Just then, as if attuned to his thoughts, she’s looking his way, blue eyes gleaming in the firelight, her lips twisting with a smile meant only for him. Her pink tongue darts out, running across her lower lip and he imagines it to be sticky sweet with the wine she drinks; such a thought is more than enough to do him in and he inwardly groans, forcing his body to drive away the lustful warmth growing in his loins.

From where she stands, she can see what she’s done to him.

It fuels her, knowing what power she holds over him, knowing he was weak to only one thing in this world and that thing was her. She can’t help but to chuckle, turning away to instead focus on the lord at her side, knowing that he’s yet to take his eyes off of her. Jon was hers, that was for certain, and truth be told… She was just as much his. There was nothing she enjoyed more than the feeling of his hands running the length of her body, of his lips against her throat, of his teeth breaking skin. The sound of his lips groaning her name, of the feeling of his arms pulling her in when it’s all said and done… Every moment, she loves, and the truth is she longs for more.

Suddenly, she wishes that this party would end, but she returns to her conversation, knowing that for a few more hours, she had a role to play.

[ x x x ]

As she pulls the last pin from her hair, the door to her chamber swings open without ceremony.

It’s Jon, of course it’s Jon, and she’s chuckling as she turns to face him there, standing in the center of her room in nothing but his breeches and a rumpled white shirt. His hair, once slicked back and perfectly twisted into a bun is now wild and loose, just as she prefers it to be. “I wondered if you’d gone off to sleep,” she teases, recalling the several goblets of ale he’d consumed throughout the night. She rises up, crossing the room so she might stand in front of him, tilting her head so her hair cascades across her shoulder. “I thought I might have to sleep alone tonight.”

“You’ve not slept alone in many days,” he reminds her with a wolfish grin and she’s laughing again, slipping past him to stand beside her bed. “Or have you forgotten already?” He watches as she tugs her robe apart, allowing it to fall open and down to the floor; beneath the thin fabric of her chemise he can see her pink nipples, antagonizing him even from here. His breath catches and it’s all he can do to keep from surging forward, from tackling her to the bed and taking her for his own once more. “So many men you mingled with tonight…” He mutters, inching closer, unable to take his eyes off of hers.

“Were you jealous?” She whispers as one hand encloses her breast, thumb rubbing the most devilish of circles against her nipple. His other hand threads into her hair, tugging her head backwards, exposing the soft skin of her throat- a throat which already bears the proof of his mouth. He sinks his teeth into her ivory skin, savoring the feel, savoring the soft sound she makes. “Did you think of me with one of them instead?” His grip on her hair tightens and she laughs, her own hand finding its place over the bulge in his breeches. “Surely you realize…” She continues as his breath ghosts along her skin. “I am yours and only yours…” His mouth clamps down over hers, silencing anything else she might have wanted to say- but she supposes, that was more than enough.

Only yours… Her words echo in his mind as he kisses her, as her tongue meets his in playful banter. Both of his hands now tangle into her hair and he thinks he might never pull away, might never let her go ever again. Only when his lungs scream for salvation does he break the kiss and the sight of her panting is enough to force him to move. He gives her a gentle push backwards so she falls into place on her bed, her laughter ringing out, her slim legs exposed as the hem of her chemise rises up. “You are mine… And I am yours.” He says as he climbs over her, kissing her once more, feeling her hands as they run through his hair, a tremor rushing through him.

He’s never been more in love, he’s never been more at home.

#jonsa valentina #jonsa valentine 2024 #jonsa #actuallyjonsa #this just gave me an excuse to write some jealous jon lol #my writing #i wrote this

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daughter-of-winterfell · 3 months

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My Own Dancing Body

- for the Jonsa Valentine's Day Event 2024 ❤️

“Let me make you some tea,” Jon entreats her, matching her half step. The suggestion is a perfect one and Sansa’s eyes, of their own accord, dart to his. Sincerity lies in wait there with the warmth of banked coals, and hides whatever else he must think, finding her in this bedraggled way. - Sansa returns to East 61st Street close to tears and is met by her cousin Jon. There, he makes her lemon tea and they talk gently with one another.

This is written with great haste/love for @jonsa-valentine, and is the first fanfic I have really written in years! I have posted it 41 minutes past midnight but emotionally, I did this on the 13th ❤️

The types of love in this fic are: Philia (deep friendship) and Storge (familial love).

In this, (as is custom it seems), only the younger Starks are alive and only Sansa travelled to New York to stay with her Aunt Lyanna and Cousin Jon for a season.

To read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53760841

I am the angel who sweep air in and out my own dancing body.

- Angela Jackson, Angel

The hem of her day dress – which her mother had once so painstakingly let down and secured – is dripping and unsalvageable. Sansa could cry, the tears already clawing up her throat and pricking at her insides. The puddle in the foyer only grows as it seems the entirety of the brief shower has been dragged inside on her ragged hem, and the pale pink has been left a murky grey.

Sansa sniffs dismally. She is alone, blessedly so after that, and so wipes her nose with her soaked gloves.

It must be a portent. That on the very first day she no longer wears her clutching, tight-laced mourning dresses, Mr Hardyng decides to propose and the heavens open. Her hands shiver, where they are pressed against her roiling stomach.

And she’d so longed to wear pink again. How girlish and unseemly, but black is not her colour – it drains her features when they’d been drained enough. All life had been scraped from her in the past year. Black lace only meant that all the twittering aunts and ladies could easily spy it for themselves.

Lyanna had said, “Oh, my dear,” when Sansa had arrived in her black cloistered dress, sweating and breathless, on the steps of her East 61st Street home. Her pity was piercing and bright when she rubbed the back of Sansa’s glove.

They had not been able to make it to the funeral, but Lyanna still wore a black pin above her heart for her brother and his family, and her own husband, lost at sea.

The melancholy sweeps through her then with a tidal ebb. An ever-deep sorrow for her mother, Father, Robb. For Bran, travelling far from them with so few letters returned. The dear ache of missing Arya and Rickon, safely ensconced in Riverrun.

Undeniably, a spare ounce of it is for her ruined dress and sodden gloves.

She is not crying but her face is tight and disgustingly, humiliating damp.

“Miss Stark?”

Hastily, she sniffs in a shockingly unladylike manner and dips her neck, tipping the brim of her hat to somewhat shield herself. Embarrassment coils itself about her ankles and Sansa can only shuffle in the lake she is procuring for herself in Mrs Snow’s pristine hallway.

It couldn’t be Bannister who found her, or Jeyne. It had to be –

“Sansa, my dear-”

Jon cleaves his words in two, his footsteps halting an eternity away. She can’t look at him with her burning eyes and pink cheeks, in her poor, piteous state. Sansa hates herself then. What other state has Jon seen her in, since their introduction this season? Piteous and poor and weeping. On their doorstep that first day, when being snubbed by his haughty Targaryen aunt and uncle.

Yet, who else could see her in such a way? Could be allowed to? Whatever is in his eyes – which she assiduously avoids meeting now – there has never, not once, been pity.

He had been the first to wrap his arms around her in months. To dare not murmur any condolences at all.

The first she wishes to reach for, at each luncheon and ball and dinner.

Though she does not now. But the brim of her hat is no match for the hand he extends, bearing a white handkerchief. Sansa takes it from his fingers and dabs at the stinging corners of her eyes.

“Such terrible weather” – Sansa sighs in a manner suited to the stage, determined to seem somewhat unaffected - “I remember you saying I would not need my parasol today.”

His chuckle is a whiskey shot that steals her living breath.

“You would not listen to my counsel, dear cousin.”

The softening of his vowels, the tapping of his shoes – her affectations are whisps of smoke he merely blows apart. He has caught her. Thawing in the hall, in her favourite dress, almost in tears. The dance of custom would be to retreat once the white flag had been offered and accepted and reasoned away.

Jon crosses an inch of the wooden floor.

“I shall dry off and escape this chill,” Sansa declares, taking half a step to the right, towards the solitude offered by the Snow’s guest bedroom.

“Let me make you some tea,” Jon entreats her, matching her half step, “as you do so.”

The suggestion is a perfect one and Sansa’s eyes, of their own accord, dart to his. Sincerity lies in wait there with the warmth of banked coals, and hides whatever else he must think, finding her in this bedraggled way.

She inclines her head, agreeing to the tea, and endeavours not to scuttle away like some anxious creature as Jon remains at the foot of the stairs, one hand outstretched on the banister.

“If I asked,” Jon asks, cradling a cup of tea in his steady hands, perched opposite her cross-legged, straight-spined position at the dining room table, “would you tell me?”

Tell me of what happened to bring you to such a poor and piteous state, in my hallway.

Or more likely, as it is her Jon asking, tell me what made you cry.

“The rain brings out the dreariness in me,” she blusters, half afraid of what may fall from her mouth, “Please, do not worry.”

The crease between his brows tells her his thoughts like a worn book; he worries about me, regardless of what I say.

Her news will not ease that burden for him, yet it spills from her in a heaving rush. How Mr Hardyng had invited her with such grace to his opening of the new rose garden and how she had – foolishly – shed her mourning clothes with a great sigh to attend as the man’s acquaintance. How it was an orchestrated ambush and he had gripped her hands between his and declared her his fiancée when met with her astonished silence.

How no one had spoken a word when she broke that silence and torn her hands from his and the rain poetically chose to drench the entire gaping party. And her pink dress, the one her mother had always loved, was now speckled with mud and puddle-water.

“He should not have taken your hands in that way.”

Jon’s gruff disapproval of the matter of Hardyng overstepping her bodily comforts does not grate as it ought. He shakes his head, dislodging an inky curl from its manicured hold. Likely thinking of how he could have removed Hardyng’s hands from her with a degree of force, as he had done at too many of the balls they had attended at one another’s side this season.

“It is no serious matter.”

He says her name, feather-soft.

“If that was the entirety of it, perhaps it would be, but Jon -” Sansa’s breath hitches and she releases her teacup with a clatter. Oh god.

Without seeming to listen, Jon is consumed, swirling his lemon tea. It is his turn to avoid her gaze.

“He should not have asked at all,” he mutters darkly.

She has just left the black behind so it is not seemly to pounce upon her so, but Jon seems to frown more fiercely than Hardyng’s faux pas deserves.

Swallowing the dismay of her own recollections, she ignores his scowls and continues, chin high and trembling. “Jon, I turned him down, vehemently. What other man will forget that?”

He stills.

Her hands shake against the dining room table as Jon, purposely and with the expression of a man pierced through and through, meets her eyes. Covers her hand with no weight at all.

“I do not need to forget. If – I asked…”

Courage deserts him with a fell swoop and Sansa turns her hand over in careful inches. Soon lacing their tea-warmed hands into one. And she is free, miraculously, of the prickling, shaking, nausea that poisoned her in the hall. It is just her, and her Jon.

“We’re family,” Jon manages, the embers in his gaze alight again and like a looking glass, Sansa knows him, knows his meaning. We could be a family.

They could be. They could dance with one another that inch closer and share lemon tea as dusk falls and they dream of spring.

Her heartbeat swells, a symphony, and lulls into a new pleasant calmness.

“More tea, my dearest Jon?”

He does not release her hands and her laughing offer is not accepted. Rather, the hearth of his heart opens and the teacups are forgotten as their foreheads touch, gentle across the scant table cloth that rudely divides them.

Lemon tea and dancing can come later. For now, Sansa is held and is warm.

#jon x sansa #jonsa #Jonsa Valentine #Jonsa Valentine 2024 #hardly edited as i am now going to have less than five and a half hours sleep before work #but worth it!#i'd like to write something else for this event but it will certainly be a late entry!

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