ASOIAF KINK FOR KINK EXCHANGE - DAY 1
To: The Ninth Sand Snake
From: ?
Title: These Games We Play
Rating: M
Pairing: Jon/Arya
Word Count: 2,297 words
Summary: On the eve of the events of Game of Thrones, children’s games turn into adults’ play between Jon and Arya.
Notes: The original prompt was “Arya having a schoolgirl crush, or always tagging along. Jon teaching and/or worshipping her. Secret games. Cuteness.” It was also specified that both Jon and Arya had to be in their youth, rather than in a future universe. Given that this was a smut exchange, I went as far as I thought I possibly could in the smut, keeping in mind that Jon is fourteen and Arya nine years old in GoT. It’s also my first time writing with this pairing; hope it won’t be too obvious.
“It’s unfair!” shouts Arya between two pants.
They’re running in an open field, not so far from the castle. It’s a race, and she means to win it. Or at least, she knows that she would if not for Jon’s cheating.
“Your legs! They’re too long!”
Jon, ahead of her, laughs out loud and turns his head to glance at her. Arya notices with satisfaction that he also seems a little out of breath. It makes his face look a little flushed; his dark hair-hair like hers, like their father’s-seems to be riding the wind.
“It’s your legs that are too short, little sister,” he teases her back, slowing down a bit so they end up side to side. His hand reaches out to ruffle her already tousled mane, and she grits her teeth, intent on keeping on running while he’s being distracted.
Seeing that Arya will never give up, Jon quickens his pace so he’ll reach the edge of the wood before her. In a desperate attempt not to lose this game of theirs, Arya leaps and grabs the end of Jon’s tunic… making him trip and land on the grassy field.
Laughing breathlessly, Arya sprints past her fallen brother… but a firm hand wraps around her ankle, and it is her turn to tumble. Soon enough, Jon is on top of her, tickling her mercilessly.
“Well, well, Arya Underfoot, I didn’t take you for one to resort to tricks…” he scolds her, his tone gently mocking.
“Stop, stop!” she begs him, tugging at his hair with one hand and trying to push him off with the other. Jon’s relentless fingers are at her sides, and she’s laughing so hard that her belly hurts. “You cheated first,” she accuses him, gasping between each other.
That makes Jon chuckle above her. Unlike Septa Mordane or Jeyne Poole, Jon seems to like Arya’s obstinate temper. That makes Arya love him even more.
Jon’s hands are tickling her thighs now, and he’s moving down, keeping one of her kicking legs in place to remove the boots that protect her feet from being attacked as well.
“No, no, not my feet!” howls Arya, trying to wriggle free from her brother’s grasp.
“Do you yield, little sister?” There’s a smile playing upon Jon’s lips, but his smiles are never sneering like those of Theon Greyjoy’s, their father’s ward who seems to think himself so much better than everyone else.
Arya narrows her eyes as she considers her options: yielding or dying from too much tickling. Yielding is without honour, but then, so is dying from her brother’s tickles.
“I yield,” she finally, grudgingly says. Only then does Jon let go, and only then does Arya realize that she will miss his touch.
Jon rolls onto his back and folds his arms behind his head to look at the sky. Arya imitates him, but uses Jon’s stomach as her pillow, thinking that he owes her this much after the tickling torture she was submitted to. The sky of the north is often grey, but on that day, it is mostly clear and the sunrays are blinding Arya’s eyes, which she covers with the back of her hand. Her head rises and falls at the rhythm of Jon’s regular breath, and Arya cannot help a happy smile to curl up her lips.
This is why Jon Snow is her favourite brother; just as he is the only one to share with her their father’s traits, moments like these are theirs and only theirs. Arya loves Robb too, of course, but Robb is always with Theon Greyjoy whom Arya dislikes, and as the eldest Stark, Robb ought to be more serious than any of his brothers and sisters. Arya loves Bran and Rickon in a different fashion; they are her little brothers with whom she listens to Old Nan’s stories.
Jon, on the other hand… Jon never tells Arya that she is too young to play with him or that, because she is a girl, she should improve her needlework instead of following him around-or if he does, it always is a jest. When Jon taunts her, he never is mean; when he teaches her new things, he never is condescending; when he comforts her, he always is gentle. At eight, Arya already thinks that Jon is everything that one could ever want or ever need.
That still does not prevent her from wanting to beat him in this race.
“The last one to get to the woods is a fool!” she announces before she springs to her feet and starts running. Jon is following her the next instant.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Arya is hiding under the table when her elder brothers come in, followed as always by a grinning Theon Greyjoy. Her first reflex is to stick her head out, but she quickly decides against it, remembering that she would rather not be seen. She-once again-fled one of Septa Mordane’s boring embroidery sessions because of a quarrel with Sansa.
Nothing will bring her back to these learning-to-be-a-proper-lady lessons. Nothing… as long as she is not discovered.
Arya gathers her knees against her, trying to take as little space as possible, as her brothers and her father’s ward sit down at the table. One of Jon’s boots almost bump against her side, but Arya is fortunately fast enough to avoid it.
“Didn’t know where to put it, Snow?” says a voice which she recognizes to be Theon’s.
“Think what you will, Greyjoy. I am done arguing with you,” replies Jon with a resignation that makes Arya frown. Like any other Stark, Jon usually does not suffer slights to his honour-some would say he has none, being a bastard, but Arya is certainly not amongst them. Jon must have argued a lot with Theon Greyjoy to decide not to care anymore about the other boy’s taunts. And what does Jon doesn’t know where to put? Surely not his sword. Jon learnt the arts of war as much as Robb and Theon.
“She wasn’t to your taste, perhaps? Her teats weren’t perfect enough for you? Her mouth not sweet enough? The gods know that her mouth’s sweet, don’t they, Robb?” Greyjoy’s tone is as mocking as ever.
The eldest Stark does not answer, but Arya can hear him gulp down the ale a servant carried to the hall. Her eyes immediately widened at the realization of what her brothers and Theon have been talking about. Though she is still young, Arya Underfoot already saw and heard enough by sneaking around the whole of Winterfell to understand the heart of the matter. She is not sure however why she would feel oddly relieved and angry by what she hears. Jon didn’t know where to put it. This, she approves. But why did Jon try to put anything anywhere, in the first place?
Outrage compels Arya to spring from under the table as Jon is starting to say, “I told you, Greyjoy, you are wasting your...”
“Arya! What were you...” exclaims Robb as he notices her, before his face reddens at the thought of what his younger sibling might have overheard of their conversation. On his part, Theon Greyjoy stops smiling for an instant, but then grins even wider, apparently finding the situation quite entertaining.
Though he is blushing as much as Robb, Jon has Arya stand in front of him in order to ask, “Who were you hiding from, little sister? Septa Mordane?”
Arya nods, suddenly feeling foolish. She is usually not the one to be easily embarrassed, but now, standing before Jon, she cannot help but to think about him putting it somewhere, and how furious it made her feel a moment ago. Arya can no longer stand Robb’s, Theon’s, and Jon’s eyes upon her; she darts to the door, her heart pounding in her chest so hard it hurts.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
“I wish I could go hunting too,” mutters Arya as she watches her father, his friend the king, and their followers ride out in the morning. She is not the only one to have been left behind. Jon is at her side-only the trueborn sons of Lord Eddard Stark were taken along.
There is disappointment on Jon’s face as well, but he chooses to simply ruffle Arya’s hair, and give her a smile before he walks away. His little sister knows better than to tag along, this time. She can sense when Jon is in need of some sort of solitude.
It is past mid-day when Arya hears about Jon’s whereabouts in the castle kitchens. Jon, a cook says, asked for some ale and bread, and then went out riding on his own. His little sister does not need to heed more.
Later, as she sullenly leaves the stables, Arya reflects that it is unfair for both a lord’s natural son and his trueborn daughter to be denied the pleasure of going hunting... but that it is even more unjust for the lord’s natural son to be given horse and food, whereas his trueborn sister is refused the same.
So be it, Arya thinks. She can venture outside the castle walls by herself, without a horsed. She’ll find Jon soon enough. A lone rider will leave a trail.
Arya finds that she does not need to search too far away for her brother. She knows their favourite playgrounds and hideouts, and she soon discovers Jon by a half-frozen stream in which the Stark children would like to swim on the warmest summer days.
Jon is turned towards a tree when Arya emerges from the woods surrounding the stream. “I wish I could do it like you,” she declares with the blunt honesty that often gets her into trouble, once she has noticed what Jon has been doing. ‘Tis true, what she says. She is often bothered by the skirts and gowns and bodices she is forced to wear, and sometimes too, by what makes her a girl rather than a boy.
Jon glances over his shoulder with an alarmed expression, but his features soften once he looks down and his eyes settle upon her. “Little sister,” he says, blinking, “you startled me.”
“Sorry,” replies Arya, a little shyly. Whenever she thinks back about the conversation she heard in the great hall, colour creeps to her face, and the same mixture of annoyance and comfort washes over her.
Before Jon has time to cover himself, Arya has come to stand by his side. “May... May I...?” she asks, not quite certain herself of what she is doing, as she comes to stand closer to him.
Jon does not seem to grasp her meaning until her hand is hovering over his manhood. For an instant, he goes completely still and does not utter a word. Arya understands his silence as an expression of his assent. His dark eyes follow the slender finger that she lets trail along the length of him, tracing a vein, stopping at the head with a bit of wonder. Jon shivers as she repeats the delicate motion a second, then a third time, always using the tip of her fingers.
“It won’t break, you know?” he tells her with a chuckle.
Emboldened by his words, Arya wraps her hand around Jon’s manhood. Till then, her gaze could not leave his member which kept hardening at her touch. It wasn’t the first time that she saw a manhood; she used to take her bath with Bran when she was just a child. It is certainly the first time though that she strokes one, and that she can feel one literally grow in her hand.
When Jon shudders and his breath hitches as she starts caressing him slowly, Arya raises her eyes to his face. It is a beautiful sight to behold. Jon’s own eyes are closed, his lips are slightly parted, and each new sigh he lets out sends forth a bit of fog in the cold air.
“Don’t,” he eventually, abruptly says, his gloved hand grabbing her wrist. His hold is gentle but firm enough not to allow Arya to resume the movement of her hand.
“Does it hurt?” asks a worried Arya.
At these words, Jon chuckles lightly once again, the sound pleasant to his sister’s ears, and he raises his free hand to his face to massage his temples. “No. Quite the contrary, but...”
“Why ought I stop if it feels good?” questions Arya, squeezing Jon’s cock, curious as to the effect it might cause.
Jon groans out loud but, reluctantly it seems, nevertheless removes her hand from his manhood, which he tucks back in his breeches. His cheeks are reddened and he is panting hard, just like the day they raced together in the field. At first, his gaze avoids hers, as if he felt ashamed by what had happened. It makes Arya feel sadder than she ever felt before. She closes her arms around his waist, burying her face in the tunic he is wearing under his fur-lined coat. In response, Jon bends down to kiss the top of her head, as to reassure her, as to make her sure that he still loves her in spite of whatever wrong she might have done.
Somewhere, perhaps back in Winterfell, a wolf howls, breaking the moment. Arya lifts her head to meet Jon’s troubled eyes, to listen to his ragged breathing.
“Better to go now, little sister,” he whispers, his gloved hand on her shoulder making her step back, gently yet definitely.
When Arya does not move, he offers her his hand. Arya grasps it, welcoming its reassurance. A gust of wind makes her shiver, and she wonders mildly when-or if-she will ever have the chance to play these games with Jon.
From: ?
Title: These Games We Play
Rating: M
Pairing: Jon/Arya
Word Count: 2,297 words
Summary: On the eve of the events of Game of Thrones, children’s games turn into adults’ play between Jon and Arya.
Notes: The original prompt was “Arya having a schoolgirl crush, or always tagging along. Jon teaching and/or worshipping her. Secret games. Cuteness.” It was also specified that both Jon and Arya had to be in their youth, rather than in a future universe. Given that this was a smut exchange, I went as far as I thought I possibly could in the smut, keeping in mind that Jon is fourteen and Arya nine years old in GoT. It’s also my first time writing with this pairing; hope it won’t be too obvious.
“It’s unfair!” shouts Arya between two pants.
They’re running in an open field, not so far from the castle. It’s a race, and she means to win it. Or at least, she knows that she would if not for Jon’s cheating.
“Your legs! They’re too long!”
Jon, ahead of her, laughs out loud and turns his head to glance at her. Arya notices with satisfaction that he also seems a little out of breath. It makes his face look a little flushed; his dark hair-hair like hers, like their father’s-seems to be riding the wind.
“It’s your legs that are too short, little sister,” he teases her back, slowing down a bit so they end up side to side. His hand reaches out to ruffle her already tousled mane, and she grits her teeth, intent on keeping on running while he’s being distracted.
Seeing that Arya will never give up, Jon quickens his pace so he’ll reach the edge of the wood before her. In a desperate attempt not to lose this game of theirs, Arya leaps and grabs the end of Jon’s tunic… making him trip and land on the grassy field.
Laughing breathlessly, Arya sprints past her fallen brother… but a firm hand wraps around her ankle, and it is her turn to tumble. Soon enough, Jon is on top of her, tickling her mercilessly.
“Well, well, Arya Underfoot, I didn’t take you for one to resort to tricks…” he scolds her, his tone gently mocking.
“Stop, stop!” she begs him, tugging at his hair with one hand and trying to push him off with the other. Jon’s relentless fingers are at her sides, and she’s laughing so hard that her belly hurts. “You cheated first,” she accuses him, gasping between each other.
That makes Jon chuckle above her. Unlike Septa Mordane or Jeyne Poole, Jon seems to like Arya’s obstinate temper. That makes Arya love him even more.
Jon’s hands are tickling her thighs now, and he’s moving down, keeping one of her kicking legs in place to remove the boots that protect her feet from being attacked as well.
“No, no, not my feet!” howls Arya, trying to wriggle free from her brother’s grasp.
“Do you yield, little sister?” There’s a smile playing upon Jon’s lips, but his smiles are never sneering like those of Theon Greyjoy’s, their father’s ward who seems to think himself so much better than everyone else.
Arya narrows her eyes as she considers her options: yielding or dying from too much tickling. Yielding is without honour, but then, so is dying from her brother’s tickles.
“I yield,” she finally, grudgingly says. Only then does Jon let go, and only then does Arya realize that she will miss his touch.
Jon rolls onto his back and folds his arms behind his head to look at the sky. Arya imitates him, but uses Jon’s stomach as her pillow, thinking that he owes her this much after the tickling torture she was submitted to. The sky of the north is often grey, but on that day, it is mostly clear and the sunrays are blinding Arya’s eyes, which she covers with the back of her hand. Her head rises and falls at the rhythm of Jon’s regular breath, and Arya cannot help a happy smile to curl up her lips.
This is why Jon Snow is her favourite brother; just as he is the only one to share with her their father’s traits, moments like these are theirs and only theirs. Arya loves Robb too, of course, but Robb is always with Theon Greyjoy whom Arya dislikes, and as the eldest Stark, Robb ought to be more serious than any of his brothers and sisters. Arya loves Bran and Rickon in a different fashion; they are her little brothers with whom she listens to Old Nan’s stories.
Jon, on the other hand… Jon never tells Arya that she is too young to play with him or that, because she is a girl, she should improve her needlework instead of following him around-or if he does, it always is a jest. When Jon taunts her, he never is mean; when he teaches her new things, he never is condescending; when he comforts her, he always is gentle. At eight, Arya already thinks that Jon is everything that one could ever want or ever need.
That still does not prevent her from wanting to beat him in this race.
“The last one to get to the woods is a fool!” she announces before she springs to her feet and starts running. Jon is following her the next instant.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Arya is hiding under the table when her elder brothers come in, followed as always by a grinning Theon Greyjoy. Her first reflex is to stick her head out, but she quickly decides against it, remembering that she would rather not be seen. She-once again-fled one of Septa Mordane’s boring embroidery sessions because of a quarrel with Sansa.
Nothing will bring her back to these learning-to-be-a-proper-lady lessons. Nothing… as long as she is not discovered.
Arya gathers her knees against her, trying to take as little space as possible, as her brothers and her father’s ward sit down at the table. One of Jon’s boots almost bump against her side, but Arya is fortunately fast enough to avoid it.
“Didn’t know where to put it, Snow?” says a voice which she recognizes to be Theon’s.
“Think what you will, Greyjoy. I am done arguing with you,” replies Jon with a resignation that makes Arya frown. Like any other Stark, Jon usually does not suffer slights to his honour-some would say he has none, being a bastard, but Arya is certainly not amongst them. Jon must have argued a lot with Theon Greyjoy to decide not to care anymore about the other boy’s taunts. And what does Jon doesn’t know where to put? Surely not his sword. Jon learnt the arts of war as much as Robb and Theon.
“She wasn’t to your taste, perhaps? Her teats weren’t perfect enough for you? Her mouth not sweet enough? The gods know that her mouth’s sweet, don’t they, Robb?” Greyjoy’s tone is as mocking as ever.
The eldest Stark does not answer, but Arya can hear him gulp down the ale a servant carried to the hall. Her eyes immediately widened at the realization of what her brothers and Theon have been talking about. Though she is still young, Arya Underfoot already saw and heard enough by sneaking around the whole of Winterfell to understand the heart of the matter. She is not sure however why she would feel oddly relieved and angry by what she hears. Jon didn’t know where to put it. This, she approves. But why did Jon try to put anything anywhere, in the first place?
Outrage compels Arya to spring from under the table as Jon is starting to say, “I told you, Greyjoy, you are wasting your...”
“Arya! What were you...” exclaims Robb as he notices her, before his face reddens at the thought of what his younger sibling might have overheard of their conversation. On his part, Theon Greyjoy stops smiling for an instant, but then grins even wider, apparently finding the situation quite entertaining.
Though he is blushing as much as Robb, Jon has Arya stand in front of him in order to ask, “Who were you hiding from, little sister? Septa Mordane?”
Arya nods, suddenly feeling foolish. She is usually not the one to be easily embarrassed, but now, standing before Jon, she cannot help but to think about him putting it somewhere, and how furious it made her feel a moment ago. Arya can no longer stand Robb’s, Theon’s, and Jon’s eyes upon her; she darts to the door, her heart pounding in her chest so hard it hurts.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
“I wish I could go hunting too,” mutters Arya as she watches her father, his friend the king, and their followers ride out in the morning. She is not the only one to have been left behind. Jon is at her side-only the trueborn sons of Lord Eddard Stark were taken along.
There is disappointment on Jon’s face as well, but he chooses to simply ruffle Arya’s hair, and give her a smile before he walks away. His little sister knows better than to tag along, this time. She can sense when Jon is in need of some sort of solitude.
It is past mid-day when Arya hears about Jon’s whereabouts in the castle kitchens. Jon, a cook says, asked for some ale and bread, and then went out riding on his own. His little sister does not need to heed more.
Later, as she sullenly leaves the stables, Arya reflects that it is unfair for both a lord’s natural son and his trueborn daughter to be denied the pleasure of going hunting... but that it is even more unjust for the lord’s natural son to be given horse and food, whereas his trueborn sister is refused the same.
So be it, Arya thinks. She can venture outside the castle walls by herself, without a horsed. She’ll find Jon soon enough. A lone rider will leave a trail.
Arya finds that she does not need to search too far away for her brother. She knows their favourite playgrounds and hideouts, and she soon discovers Jon by a half-frozen stream in which the Stark children would like to swim on the warmest summer days.
Jon is turned towards a tree when Arya emerges from the woods surrounding the stream. “I wish I could do it like you,” she declares with the blunt honesty that often gets her into trouble, once she has noticed what Jon has been doing. ‘Tis true, what she says. She is often bothered by the skirts and gowns and bodices she is forced to wear, and sometimes too, by what makes her a girl rather than a boy.
Jon glances over his shoulder with an alarmed expression, but his features soften once he looks down and his eyes settle upon her. “Little sister,” he says, blinking, “you startled me.”
“Sorry,” replies Arya, a little shyly. Whenever she thinks back about the conversation she heard in the great hall, colour creeps to her face, and the same mixture of annoyance and comfort washes over her.
Before Jon has time to cover himself, Arya has come to stand by his side. “May... May I...?” she asks, not quite certain herself of what she is doing, as she comes to stand closer to him.
Jon does not seem to grasp her meaning until her hand is hovering over his manhood. For an instant, he goes completely still and does not utter a word. Arya understands his silence as an expression of his assent. His dark eyes follow the slender finger that she lets trail along the length of him, tracing a vein, stopping at the head with a bit of wonder. Jon shivers as she repeats the delicate motion a second, then a third time, always using the tip of her fingers.
“It won’t break, you know?” he tells her with a chuckle.
Emboldened by his words, Arya wraps her hand around Jon’s manhood. Till then, her gaze could not leave his member which kept hardening at her touch. It wasn’t the first time that she saw a manhood; she used to take her bath with Bran when she was just a child. It is certainly the first time though that she strokes one, and that she can feel one literally grow in her hand.
When Jon shudders and his breath hitches as she starts caressing him slowly, Arya raises her eyes to his face. It is a beautiful sight to behold. Jon’s own eyes are closed, his lips are slightly parted, and each new sigh he lets out sends forth a bit of fog in the cold air.
“Don’t,” he eventually, abruptly says, his gloved hand grabbing her wrist. His hold is gentle but firm enough not to allow Arya to resume the movement of her hand.
“Does it hurt?” asks a worried Arya.
At these words, Jon chuckles lightly once again, the sound pleasant to his sister’s ears, and he raises his free hand to his face to massage his temples. “No. Quite the contrary, but...”
“Why ought I stop if it feels good?” questions Arya, squeezing Jon’s cock, curious as to the effect it might cause.
Jon groans out loud but, reluctantly it seems, nevertheless removes her hand from his manhood, which he tucks back in his breeches. His cheeks are reddened and he is panting hard, just like the day they raced together in the field. At first, his gaze avoids hers, as if he felt ashamed by what had happened. It makes Arya feel sadder than she ever felt before. She closes her arms around his waist, burying her face in the tunic he is wearing under his fur-lined coat. In response, Jon bends down to kiss the top of her head, as to reassure her, as to make her sure that he still loves her in spite of whatever wrong she might have done.
Somewhere, perhaps back in Winterfell, a wolf howls, breaking the moment. Arya lifts her head to meet Jon’s troubled eyes, to listen to his ragged breathing.
“Better to go now, little sister,” he whispers, his gloved hand on her shoulder making her step back, gently yet definitely.
When Arya does not move, he offers her his hand. Arya grasps it, welcoming its reassurance. A gust of wind makes her shiver, and she wonders mildly when-or if-she will ever have the chance to play these games with Jon.