#He got dragged into tinns lies

[janujaja]

Tiwson better have f*king got his duckie wet before leaving the beach.

[justadram]

Pretty in Pink

Jon x Sansa fic written for Tinne. Thank you for your donation to help fight Nazis!

Request: Riverdale AU

Nan’s Chocklit Shoppe wasn’t just a place to eat burgers and drink shakes. Nan’s was an institution. Around long enough that no one in Winterfell could remember there ever not being a Nan’s. Or a time when Nan wasn’t behind the counter in her white apron and stiffly starched hat. Nan’s was a place for celebrations—Direwolves football victories, straight A’s, a new driver’s license—as much as a place where failures could be soothed in the light cast from the buzzing neon sign hung above its door.

A place for secrets kept right out in the open.

“Five minutes,” Nan calls from behind the counter, wet rag in hand, announcing how long they have before they need to find somewhere else to waste time.

Margaery leans forward in the booth, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Let’s all go to back to my house. Watch creepy movies and pretend to be scared.”

“Sorry, I really should get going. I’ve got homework to do,” Sansa replies with a little shrug of her shoulders.

“On a Saturday? Come on, Sans, that’s a little too dedicated, don’t you think?” Margaery asks. “It’s a Saturday,” she insists again, bumping Robb’s side to get him to agree with her. “Save your homework for tomorrow. Or last-minute Monday before school like the rest of us degenerates.”

Robb frowns. “You are always working on the paper or homework lately, and you’ve got Jon working overtime too. We hardly see you.”

“You know we’re busy working on the Lannister story.”

The bizarre case of twins too overly fond of each other, one gone missing, and the other turned up missing a hand has rocked their sleepy town. Sometimes they work on it together well past school hours. Sometimes when they’re in the school’s newspaper’s room with the door shut and the yellowing shade pulled down, they’re not working on the story.

Sansa reaches across the narrow space between herself and Jon and rests her hand on his leg. Even through the stiff denim, he can feel how warm she is. He presses his lips together and breathes in through his nose.

He’s known Sansa since they were five, but he only recently found out that despite her façade of expertly controlled perfection, she likes to take risks. Marg and Robb don’t know about the two of them, but that doesn’t stop her from sliding her hand up his thigh across the booth from them.

“Jon?” Margaery asks with a hopeful lift of her brows. “We’ve got all the Ben & Jerry’s you can stomach in our freezer.”

Sansa looks over at Jon’s empty glass, fogged with the remains of a chocolate malt. There was a cheeseburger and double order of fries too, and that was his second dinner.

“She’s speaking your language, Jon. Movies and food,” Robb doesn’t wrongly point out. “You gonna join us?”

He could, but he has other things to occupy his every waking thought now.

He covers Sansa’s hand and squeezes, stopping the drag of her hand right before he’d have to excuse himself, and clears his throat. “Can’t, I’m afraid. I uh… I told my dad I’d be home early tonight.”

Robb pulls a face. It’s no wonder—it’s the lamest lie he’s ever told. No one would ever believe Jon’s dad cares whether he’s home early or stays out all weekend. He just can’t entirely think straight.

“Another night maybe,” Sansa says with a tilt of her head that sends her glossy red ponytail swinging.

He looks sideways at her, sweet smile and wide blue eyes giving nothing away. He’s a mess, but she lies with the breezy ease of a Hollywood actress.

“Well, come on Robbykins. We won’t let that stop us,” Margaery says, flicking her hand to motion Robb to move on out of the booth.

He does without complaint. Robb is good like that. Compliant. Especially with girls. It’s why Jon and probably everyone else in Winterfell assumed Robb and Sansa would end up together. Good kids, picture of small town downright upright upbringings, the cheerleader and the football captain. Perfect match.

It’s what Sansa wanted, and Jon never let himself ever think he might come between them. His was the supporting role. Jon is from the wrong side of town. His dad is a Southside Dragon. His mom disappeared. He’s got abandonment issues and social anxiety. Basically, he’s the weird kid in a John Hughe’s movie.

Sansa waves goodnight, as they shrug their coats on. Jon smiles awkwardly. Robb good-naturedly invites them one last time, which they decline in too eager unison. It should be a dead giveaway.

But if either of them thinks it’s strange that Jon is left sitting alone with Sansa, the Molly Ringwald of Winterfell, they don’t show it. Robb and Margaery walk out of Nan’s without a glance back. Most people are too consumed with themselves to really see other people.

Sansa’s different. She’d have to be to see something in him he doesn’t even see in himself.

And Jon likes to think he sees Sansa for who she really is too. Not the picture-perfect darling of Winterfell High, but the gentle girl, the one that cares even for the misfit, sharing her sandwich, because his mom forgot again, and pretending she isn’t hungry, so he wouldn’t have to feel bad about it. The girl who takes risks, because being too perfect is a strain that has left her with hairline cracks in her porcelain skin. Jon doesn’t mind. Like kintsugi, it’s only made her more beautiful.

“You two kids got a ride home?” Nan asks, hinting that five minutes have come and gone after the door jingles with Robb and Marg’s exit.

“Yeah, we’re fine. Thanks, Nan,” Sansa says, smiling over at the Chocklit Shoppe’s proprietor until she turns to flick the lights off behind the counter.

With Nan’s back to them, Sansa lifts her hand and cups Jon’s cheek, gaze flicking from his eyes back down to his lips and up again in a silent request. He can take risks too. Especially the kind that lead to kissing Sansa’s. Anyway, Nan probably has better things to worry about than which customer kisses which.

He really can’t bring himself to care, as her thumb rubs over his jawline, possessive and daring, and his hand finds its way under the hem of her pink cardigan, trimmed at the neck with a row of pearls. His hand flattens to draw her in close, press her just a hair more firmly against him. He can’t get enough. Not of the way she feels or smells or tastes. Even as he pulls back, the quickening of his heartbeat begs for more.

Later, somewhere more private, and until then, he opens his eyes at the last second, just to see her lashes fanned against her cheek and fix it in his mind.

Because he still can’t believe that this time, the outcast got the girl.