Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1160620.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin, Game_of_Thrones_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Jon_Snow/Catelyn_Stark
  Character:
      Catelyn_Stark, Jon_Snow
  Additional Tags:
      Age_Difference, Cunnilingus, Underage_Sex, dirtybadwrong
  Series:
      Part 3 of The_Pointer_Project
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-01-30 Words: 1185
****** Little Boy Sweet ******
by honey_wheeler
Summary
     This is the moment she anticipates most each time she summons him to
     her chambers, her note only a blank scrap of parchment, folded and
     slid beneath his door. This is the moment she remembers with a
     delicious shiver when she is alone, this moment when she sits back in
     her chair and parts her knees to him, her skirts tucked around her
     hips and waist and his hands curled tentatively about her calves as
     he kneels before her and looks on her with saucer-round eyes and an
     expression of awestruck wonder. This is what sends lightning zipping
     up her spine, not his youth itself but the illicit thrill it brings,
     the unbridled ardency that accompanies it. He is so grateful and so
     very eager.
Notes
     So sometimes you get to talking with Jal80 about how, when you think
     about it, a lot of Pointer Sisters songs would suit various Jon Snow
     ships, and then next thing you know you're texting things like "JON/
     YGRITTE = DARE ME, Y/MFY??" and listening to Slow Hand fifty times in
     a row and then fic like this happens. SUE ME.
     Jon/Catelyn - Little_Boy_Sweet (I REGRET NOTHING)
      
     Note: this is basically show ages, assuming Jon's at least 14,
     happening pre-series. As per usual, imagine this with an age you're
     comfortable with.
      
     Previously on The Pointer Project:
     Jon/Sansa - Slow_Hand
     Jon/Ygritte - Dare_Me
It is not the first time Catelyn has done something truly wrong in her life.
Perhaps some would argue for certain things to be tallied in the wrong column
rather than the right, but she does not think it unfair or unseemly to count
herself a mostly good person, despite her scattered failings. So no, not the
first time she’s done something wrong. The first time she has cared little for
how wrong it is, however…that is a distinct possibility.
The hallmarks of Jon Snow’s youth are plain as day; bright, darting eyes,
cheeks that are still babe-smooth and filled with color, his body lithe and
bristling with energy, fits of cheer interspersed with the same sullen moods
that afflict Robb now that he’s nearly grown, slightly more man than boy. She
doesn’t entirely remember when she first noticed that energy directed at her,
when Jon began to watch her not with wariness but with interest and guilty,
lustful hunger. It matters little, though. The result is the same no matter
when it began.
Cat had been the object of such intensity once before. Petyr Baelish could
barely have less in common with Jon Snow, but his eyes had followed her just
the same, the burgeoning desires of a boy-turning-man finding her like an arrow
to its target. His attentions had engendered mostly pity in Cat, and they’d
been met with sisterly fondness, a fondness she believed, deep down, to be at
the root of his feelings for her as well, feelings that were more unnerving
than arousing and grew more so with each passing year. Never once did she think
to touch Petyr in desire, nor did she have any urge to allow his hands or lips
or tongue access to her most secret, shadowed places.
Another thing he does not have in common with Jon Snow.
This is the moment she anticipates most each time she summons him to her
chambers, her note only a blank scrap of parchment, folded and slid beneath his
door. This is the moment she remembers with a delicious shiver when she is
alone, this moment when she sits back in her chair and parts her knees to him,
her skirts tucked around her hips and waist and his hands curled tentatively
about her calves as he kneels before her and looks on her with saucer-round
eyes and an expression of awestruck wonder. This is what sends lightning
zipping up her spine, not his youth itself but the illicit thrill it brings,
the unbridled ardency that accompanies it. He is so grateful and so very eager.
He sucks in a sharp breath as he nears, his nostrils flaring appreciatively at
the smell of her. There is no scruff on his cheek to mar the tender skin inside
her thighs, no casual familiarity in the look on his face. He is no husband to
take this as a marital right, no partner to take it as custom. To him, it is a
gift, and his intensity is as irresistible as Petyr’s was unnerving. It lets
Cat understand some small bit of why so many lords and holders seek mere girls
for their wives. There’s no denying the intoxicating power of being looked upon
with such awe and raw eagerness, of seeing his world shake with each new
feeling. It’s not entirely the same; as with so much else in life, girls have a
disproportionate share of apprehension and fear when it comes to such things,
but perhaps some of the same trust is there, the desire to please and the
willingness to be molded.
The first touch of his tongue sends a shudder through her. She holds his face
to her with a hand at the back of his head, her fingers knotting in that dark
hair so like Ned’s, but softer, so much softer, not yet roughened by the trials
of time and age and war. Jon is similarly unroughened, nearly heart-breakingly
so, and sometimes Catelyn must steel her heart against him, this living symbol
of her husband’s perfidy, the indiscretion she must forgive while never being
allowed to forget. In all other ways she is indifferent to him, ignoring his
presence in order to tolerate the indignity of it, but here in her chambers,
his face between her thighs and his fingertips stroking the soft skin at the
back of her knees in time with the stroke of his tongue on her cunt, it is as
if he is someone else. As if they both are.
It’s a curious trap; for all that he is someone new to her in the privacy of
her chambers, she thinks she might not have ever touched him had he been anyone
else. As much as his boyish appreciation affects her, she can’t deny there’s
another facet to her behavior, a vengeful pettiness. What better way, after
all, to strike out at the way his presence wrongs her – has wronged her for
years – than by seducing him, making the symbol of her lord husband’s
indiscretion into the symbol of her own as well? It is something she should
perhaps regret; he is still barely more than a boy, the half-brother of her
children no matter that she’s never been a parent to him, never praised or
scolded or punished, never shaped him as a person as she did her own sons. Not
until now. It is a debauched sort of shaping, she knows, and in her bitter
moments she is racked with guilt. But in her human moments – the moments she is
not Catelyn Tully turned Stark, Lady of Winterfell, creature of family, of
duty, of honor, but rather merely a woman – she finds it difficult to care. And
most days she’s not entirely sure it’s she who did the seducing.
“My lady,” he says against her, his mouth brushing against her lightly enough
to make her squirm, but it does not sound like a title on his lips, not now,
not when those same lips are between her thighs, wet with her response. Instead
the words are a request, a plea. An endearment. They’re all she’ll allow from
him, the only softness amid such carnality. She wants to hear them again, but
she wants to come again even more, so she pulls his face hard against her, her
toes curling on his leather-clad thighs when he groans gratefully and applies
himself to making her peak with the vigor of the young. He is eager and ardent,
as he’s been since the very first time she allowed him in her chambers. He
opens his mouth wide to suck experimentally, pulling away and drawing her flesh
between his lips, releasing it with a loud sound only to go back for more.
She’s drunk with it, with the power he gives her over him. Her hands fall to
the arms of her chair, her fingernails marking crescents in the dark wood. She
should pressure Ned to send him away before her life becomes as scarred and
marked as that wood, before each is irrevocably ruined. Someday she will.
Someday. But not today.
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