Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When I tell you it was an accident, I know you won’t believe me, but it was.

Sure. Maybe I’ve always kinda had a thing for redheads, and maybe Freud would have a field day with that for reasons you’ll soon understand, but there’s a great big pornographic world out there, filled with plenty of redheads.

Well, Freud would probably have some things to say about the volume of pornographic content in the world, too, but let’s save the moral debates for another time, shall we? Fact is, I’m not a porn addict. Don’t watch the stuff every day. Don’t even masturbate every day, which I’m pretty sure makes me an anomaly at my age, which is twenty-seven. Twenty-seven and single and too fucking busy between my graduate work and fledgling career to have much of a dating life, yet I don’t end each night making my bedsheets look like a tent during an earthquake, and I don’t start each day watching my semen circle the shower drain along with the suds of my body wash.

It's more like every other day, thank you very much.

Now… where was I?

Oh. Right. I was telling you it was an accident. Hand to the bible, that’s the truth.

See, I was cruising AmateursOnly, going down a rabbit hole of recommended videos that stemmed from the results of a totally innocent search (hot redhead masturbating) when my brain stumbled a bit. The way it does when you see something totally ordinary but in a totally weird context and you can’t think of the name of the thing because, apparently, our brains are lazy motherfuckers that look but don’t see, or see only that which they want to see, or expect to see, or are trying to see.

It’s like that. I was debating clicking ‘play’ on a video still that didn’t show the actress’ face, just a backside view of her riding a dildo that’s suction-cupped to the floor, with wavy auburn hair so thick it hides almost her entire back and points to the crevice of her ass like the sign for a rest stop on the interstate.

And there I was, thumb hovering because the video next to it is tempting (a compilation of redhead anal creampies) and eventually lowering down to softly click on the auburn hair because I fucking love that shade. Fuck off, Freud; I’m not out there sniffing random redheads on the L or stealing their underwear from the laundromat. I’m not a rapist, not even a womanizer or philanderer or chauvinist. I’m a nice guy who treats women with respect, and if I happen to like the precise shade of auburn hair that both my stepmom and stepsister have, well… what’s wrong with that?

Wait… I feel like that was misleading. Because you’re probably reading this going [shrug] “Stepsister? You don’t even share any DNA, bro; what’s the problem?”

Well, the problem is that my stepsister also happens to be my cousin. Who I was raised with from age eight up. That’s when my mom passed away and my uncle and his wife took me in, even legally adopted me. But his wife – meaning my aunt-slash-stepmom – never entirely warmed to my presence. In fairness, she had four kids aged two through nine at the time and her husband, who routinely worked 65-hour weeks, dumped another one on her. And maybe if there’d been no other options, she’d have been more receptive, but she knew as well as I did (even by that tender young age) that I could just as easily have gone to live with my dad, if only my dad wasn’t… Well, how shall I put it kindly?

Certifiable.

But, like, smart enough and functioning enough that it’s tempting to just call him ‘eccentric’ or ‘kooky’, but when I began this tale I committed to giving you the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, which is that my biological father, if not for inheriting money and servants, would be that homeless dude on the corner holding up a cardboard sign bearing the words ‘Repent. The End is near.’

(Side note, I might have inherited a touch of that madness, because I often see those guys and think ‘shit, what if they’re right? What if, because they’ve given up their material obsessions, they’ve got a direct line to J.C.?’ But this one time I handed such a man a twenty, feeling pretty guilty about wishing I’d broken it at the coffee shop before making a donation to a derelict, and struck up a conversation. It went alright at first, lots of ‘God bless you, brothah, God bless you’ and what-not. Until I asked him what his deal was, how he ended up on the street, and was offered an explanation that involved government-issued antennas implanted in his ear canals and a landlady who was in on it, so, naturally, he’d had to push her down a flight of stairs. And the funny thing is, every conversation with my father is kinda like that. Like, he’s an eloquent dude with an off-the-charts IQ who has a library of something like five thousand books, and he’s read all of them, so it’s really easy to get sucked in by him, and it’s only after you’ve left his house and been around other people for a couple hours that you realize his theories can be very easily debunked and more easily labeled as ‘batshit crazy’.)

So… yah. I was raised by Aunt Catelyn, but never 100% embraced by her. She wasn’t cold, definitely not cruel, I just think she had so much of her heart occupied by her husband and four children that, by the time I moved in with them, she didn’t have much to spare for me.

As for her auburn-haired daughter, Sansa, two years younger than me, I was embraced by her well enough, especially when it was convenient, but otherwise I didn’t fit her definition of ‘pleasant company’.

And to be fair to her, I think she was just annoyed that she got yet another sibling that shared none of her interests. Uncle Ned and Aunt Cat had four kids, and only one of them was likely to be found with a book in their hands. Robb, the eldest, was all varsity football and having lots of bros. Arya, younger than Sansa by two years, was all field hockey and messy-hair-don’t-care. Bran was one of those kids born without much sense of fear or self-preservation, so he was forever giving his parents and older siblings heart attacks by doing things like backflips off the roof into the swimming pool, or skateboarding down the hill on Dodson Street that most people avoid even in a car.

And then there was Sansa, who was all Barbie Dolls and then nail polish and then boys, boys, boys, even when she was too young to know that those boys wanted more than a quick peck from her candy-apple lips. I swear, by the time Sansa was eleven, it felt like Robb and I were her bodyguards, eternally chasing off the twelve- and thirteen-year-old boys that orbited her like moons. (When she was fourteen, the boys were sixteen, and a little harder to scare off with a glare.)

For her part, Sansa didn’t seem to want a fan club (though she never complained about it, either), she only wanted her fairy tale prince. When she was a freshman in high school that prince was Harry Hardyng, much to my and Robb’s annoyance. Not only was he a senior, but he was even more popular than Robb, what with that movie star smile, those dimples, that blond hair that was always conveniently falling in his eyes.

After Harry left for college, Sansa was heartbroken for a couple months, but she recovered and went on to date someone her own age: Joffrey Baratheon.

Now, how should I sum up Joffrey Baratheon? Well, you know that kid who’s popular in high school not because anyone actually likes him, but because everyone’s afraid of becoming his victim? That’s Joffrey Baratheon. Or at least that’s how he was with his peers. His intimidation tactics didn’t quite work with older kids, so he just pretended they didn’t exist. Yours truly included.

What Sansa ever saw in him beyond looks and family name, I can’t tell you.

But you didn’t come here for that, did you? You’re probably thinking that I’m purposely digressing so that I never have to admit that when I clicked on that video and saw my cousin slash stepsister’s face, I didn’t immediately close the browser and throw my tablet out the window for good measure.

Like I said, at first it just didn’t make sense. Seeing Sansa of all people dressed in lingerie (the sort that’s somehow kinky while still being classy), giving come hither eyes at the camera as she touches herself – tits, waist, thighs, neck, pussy – was as weird as it would be to see a dog smoking a blunt. My brain was doing some extreme gymnastics in trying to rationalize it. Like:

An AI creation that, by pure happenstance, was based on a photo from Sansa’s Instagram.

A deep fake. Of my cousin/sister, Sansa, who cried every time she watched Bambi as a kid and used to pretend to be Ariel from The Little Mermaid every time she went swimming through age thirteen.

Sansa has an identical twin sister she’d been separated from at birth as part of a social experiment on nature versus nurture. Also, Sansa’s twin has daddy issues.

I’m dreaming. Or hallucinating. A totally weird dream or hallucination that has nothing to do with some sordid desire I’ve ignored for years, and everything to do with that shrimp taco I had for lunch today.

But then the Sansa doppelganger started talking. Kneeling on crisp white sheets and staring right at me, she started talking to me. Not the million other guys who might’ve stumbled upon her video, just me.

(And yes, I knew in that moment that a million other guys had thought the same, but that didn’t stop me from feeling certain that it was, without a doubt, me whom she was addressing, in a voice I’d known for most of my life.)

And that’s the thing you need to understand before you pass judgment. It’s never been about seeing her firm tits, her perfect pink nipples or perfect pink cunt, her ass that’ll make a man’s mouth water. It’s always been about something deeper than that.

You see, I’d never really known what to call it, nor even fully realized there was something there needing to be named, but in hindsight, and only after I fell into Sansa’s AmateursOnly page like Alice down the rabbit hole, she’d always had this thing about her.

When Sansa Stark looks at you, you feel seen. Perhaps for the first time in your miserable life. Or perhaps just for the first time that matters.

It’s not like I worship her – far from it. She’s never been the brightest crayon in the box. Smarter than lots of people assume, sure, but not quite as smart as her report cards indicated. She’s never been the wittiest, either. And for as beautiful as she was, she’d rarely been the prettiest girl at the party.

And yet…

She’s just… something. Something to be corrupted and protected in equal measure and in the same moment. That first time, I felt like I might just crawl through the God-damned screen of my tablet and keep crawling until she was on her back and I was hovered above her, doing filthy, dirty, degrading things to her even as I was shielding her from all the other men who wanted to do filthy, dirty, degrading things to her.

When Sansa Stark looks at you, she sees all of you, and you want her to. You welcome her eyes raking over every inch of your skin. Every freckle, every scar. Every part you wish was bigger or smaller. Hairier. Less hairy. More toned or more tan. Everything you love and hate you want her to see, because her gaze is like a blessing.

When Sansa Stark looks at you, she takes something that you’re more than happy to give her.

It’s safe to say I was addicted from the start.

It was like no porn I’d ever seen. In fact, to even call it ‘porn’ is to mock the sacred intimacy that exists between us for those many minutes.

See, it’s not about what she’s doing with those delicate fingers. It’s not about watching a hot chick finger-blast her pussy while moaning and screaming in a way a guy will gladly pretend is genuine. Got it? It is so not about that.

It’s about being the man she’s beckoning to her heavenly bed; seeing through his eyes, hearing through his ears. It’s about approaching like the slowest and deadliest predator, while she lays herself down in the tall grass like the tastiest prey.

It’s about staring into her eyes while she stares into mine while I fuck her, while she tells me how good I feel.

It’s about watching her climax and knowing it’s no act; no exaggeration, even.

It’s about finishing to the sound of her voice – honey sweet and satin smooth – telling me it’s alright, telling me to let go.

And yes, I know that the video I’m watching at any given point in time was probably filmed days or weeks earlier. Yes, I know she’s not talking to me but to a fucking camera. Yes, I know she’s not fucking me but a sex toy, and sometimes another guy’s dick. I’m not stupid, and not delusional. I just want you to know what it feels like, watching my cousin’s videos, because then, maybe, when I tell you what I did, you’ll understand…

Chapter Text

Alright, if you’re still here, it’s because you’re dying to know what I did that’s worse than spending hours each week watching my cousin/stepsister’s AmateursOnly videos, which happen to be erotic in nature.

In a nutshell, you’ll remember that I told you how I stumbled across said videos by accident. You might have intuited that the videos are filmed to give the watcher a first person point of view so it feels like being a participant, not a spectator. Oh, and you’ll remember that my cousin is a beautiful woman but – more than that – an ineffably alluring woman. You know she has long auburn hair, but I can’t recall if I mentioned that her eyes are the most striking shade of blue known to man. Like the Caribbean in places where the water’s so pure you look down and see sand and vegetation that could be twenty inches or twenty meters away. The kind of blue people choose for their bedroom walls or bathroom tile and are never quite satisfied with because nothing manmade can ever match the beauty that God gave to the world.

Anyway, sweet, sexy, blue-eyed Sansa must’ve caught on pretty quickly that her fans like to immerse themselves in the experience. How many times have I put her on the big screen, the one with a soundbar and subwoofer and bookshelf speakers, you ask?

As many times as my two roommates have both left the house – together or separately – for what I knew would be hours if not the entire night.

(Sansa’s just not the kind of girl you rush with.)

And while neither Grenn nor Sam would care that I was watching porn in our basement man-cave, I’d never risk exposing Sansa to either of them. Not that it’s permissible for a dude to walk in on another dude when there is a high likelihood he’s spanking it, but Grenn has been known to prank his buddies pretty mercilessly when the spirit moves him.

That probably makes it sound like I’m afraid of being found making sweet, digital love to my cousin/stepsister. True. But I find I’m also protective of her, and it has nothing to do with her being my cousin/stepsister. It’s nothing like the way Robb and I would glare away her less gentlemanly callers through middle and high school.

Or maybe it’s exactly like that. This is my story and yet I don’t even fucking know. Maybe I liked having a perfectly valid reason to scare off any guy that showed an interest in Sansa, which was pretty much any straight guy who came into her orbit. Maybe a few that were gay, too; not because they wanted to fuck her but because… well… as I explained in the last chapter, there’s just something about Sansa. Something about the way you feel when she looks at you.

Or is that just a me thing?

But no… that older stoner kid that lived down the street had it, too. So did most of Robb’s friends – much to Robb’s disgust and annoyance. And no, none of them admitted as much, but maybe because I spent so much time watching her it was easy to notice when others were doing the same. Maybe when two cats are eying the same tasty bird from opposite directions, they can’t help but notice each other, even if each thinks he’s camouflaged in the tall grass.

Well, whether it was heightened perceptivity or something like a sixth sense doesn’t matter. I’m here to tell you about Sansa, and the really stupid thing I did.

So it’s some weeks – maybe a few months – after I came across her AmateursOnly page. I’m blissed out, ready for a cigarette and some sleep, with the video timer down to the final seconds. I’m wiping jizz off my belly with a damp washcloth, because I’m not a thirteen-year-old boy settling for a bunch of Kleenex so as not to wake my parents by sneaking into the bathroom. Plus, I do my own laundry, so no one else is going to see the whiteish stains on the dark gray washcloth and start connecting dots. Anyway, there I am, lying in bed, my limbs feeling heavy, and I’m generally content except for that dull ache that might be loneliness, but I’ve been stuffing that shit down for so long I’m a fucking pro. I’m about to close the browser tab when the end credits roll, popping words onto my screen that give me a second wind. Words that invite me to Sansa’s private website, hosted outside of AmateursOnly. It promises a ‘bespoke experience’ and I want to fucking laugh because of fucking course Sansa Stark, with her upper middle-class upbringing and private school education and idolization of Jane Austen would use the word ‘bespoke’ to describe a product that exists to aid men in beating their meat.

Also of course, I type the URL – justyouandme.com – into a fresh tab. At least it wasn’t ‘you and I’, though I suppose depending on the rest of the sentence, either can be correct.

Next thing you know, I’m scrolling through at an artfully designed homepage (which is surprising, because it’s porn, but not surprising, because it’s Sansa) that features lots of photos of Sansa. A smattering of erotic images that vary in tone from girl-next-door to chick-I-won’t-tell-my-friends-about-because-she-stuck-two-fingers-up-my-butt-and-I’m-taking-that-secret-to-my-grave. Pink baby doll lingerie with bright but softly blurred backgrounds in some, black leather and the hint of a wealthy bachelor’s swanky loft in others.

From the main page I quickly discovered others, each promoting a different “experience”.

Allow me to take a moment to describe each, because I fucking love the level of design that went into this, and it deserves some credit, alright?

So, my second favorite is called ‘Snowed In’. The promotional photo has a background that’s all log cabin aesthetic, crackling fireplace and everything, with Sansa lying invitingly on a plush rug in the foreground. She’s got stockings up to mid-thigh and some type of off-the-shoulder sweater that shows off her magnificent collar bones (yes, collar bones can be magnificent; fight me) and ends just at the hip, carefully arranged to cover her neatly trimmed auburn pubes.

Then there’s ‘Caribbean Dream’, in which some sexy time on a powder-sand beach turns into sweaty sex in a trendy little bungalow that’s all white-walls and gauzy curtains and yes a mosquito net around the bed that at one point Sansa play shy behind, because she doesn’t look angelic enough as it is.

I’m not quite as crazy about the ones with a darker edge to them, though I’ll admit I’ve tried ‘Mommy Dearest’ and didn’t have any trouble getting off while Sansa praised her good boy and all that jazz. I feel similarly about ‘What Good Girls Want’. Maybe if I could hear her say ‘Daddy’ without thinking of my own stepdad, my uncle Ned, it would be a different story. I don’t regret the money spent, but I’ve never gone back for a repeat watch.

Quite the opposite for my favorite. The one that would’ve been worn out months ago if it were a VHS tape, not a file on my PC. Titled ‘Only You’, there’s nothing special about the setting, nothing too extreme about Sansa’s outfit, but that’s kind of the idea. It basically replicates the girlfriend-experience. Well, the experience some guys are lucky enough to have if their girlfriends are particularly horny and particularly vociferous in bed. Oh, and totally obsessed with them in a way no girl I’ve ever met has been obsessed with any guy I’ve ever met. Again – that’s the idea. Sansa worshipping me the way no one ever has, even the two girlfriends who claimed to have been in love with me. Sansa saying my name like a prayer, her tongue fondling that one syllable like it’s a ten-inch dick.

Shit, I forgot to tell you about that part, huh? So, the thing that makes the experience “bespoke” is that, for a fee, she’ll record a video with the customer’s chosen theme in which she uses the customer’s name and says and acts however he (or she) instructs. She’s got a web form and PayPal and everything. (The payment goes to LadyGrey LLC and I figure it’s a reference to her favorite tea, or an homage to some literary character or historical figure.)

And no, the decision to submit my request was not an easy one. In fact, I’d filled out the form a dozen times and deleted it a dozen times, clearing my internet cache and cookies and form data for good measure.

But that thirteenth time… that thirteenth time I hit submit (after taking certain steps and checking ten ways from Sunday to ensure my last name and contact info would not be visible to Sansa).

I chose the Caribbean Dream package, because it claimed to be a ‘fan favorite’ and I wanted to blend in with Sansa’s other patrons as much as possible. I even spelled my name ‘John’, for fear that if Sansa saw ‘Jon’ she’d know that the customer was her cousin/stepbrother.

I also kept my request fairly tame. Toned down. It was basically vague guidance that she masturbate while bemoaning the fact that it isn’t my finger, my tongue, my cock giving her pleasure.

Let’s just say, my cousin is wasted on porn. Bet you never thought to hear those words in this story, huh? But it’s true. She should be on fucking Broadway, or even the Silver Screen. Because when I load up that video, I’m lost within a couple minutes. Lost in the video, with her. I’m there in that beach bungalow like a ghost only she can see, watching her writhe on those soft white sheets, the gorgeous feet on the end of her long legs slipping back and forth like she just can’t help it, as she looks straight into my eyes and tells me how badly she wants me – needs me – to touch her.

“Please, Jon.”

“I’m so empty, baby. My fingers aren’t enough. I need you, Jon. Please.”

“See how wet I am for you? Don’t you want me, too, Jon?”

Fucking hell, yes I do. It wasn’t until the third watch that I made it through all thirty minutes before blowing my load.

For fear of coming across like a creep, even though she had no idea who I was, I didn’t submit another request for four months. Four months filled with sweet Caribbean dreams but also rather inconvenient cravings for cozy cabin dreams.

Bolstered by the fact she hadn’t rejected my first request, I took things up a notch when I finally permitted myself to submit the second…

Chapter Text

So, where was I?

Oh right, I was about to tell you about the second “bespoke” video experience I ordered from my cousin-slash-stepsister, Sansa.

Now, this is probably gonna sound weird (er, weirder than the rest of the story thus far), but many of Sansa’s videos on AmateursOnly feature a… helper. Well, that’s how I refer to the guy. His face is never shown, nor even much of his body (except his cock and hands), and Sansa never addresses him directly. No, her eyes are only ever on her viewer. That deep blue gaze I told you about, remember? I’m not a moron; I know her gaze is actually fixed on a camera lens, which is probably on a GoPro strapped to the helper’s forehead, but whatever. The point is that you might think I would avoid those videos, but actually the helper’s presence doesn’t bother me. Well, it does, but only when I’m thinking about it later and wondering who the fucker is. That’s Protective Big Brother talking, though. And no, I haven’t forgotten that Protective Big Brother might actually be a front for Creepy Cousin, but it would seem that you’ve forgotten I told you to leave that shit to Freud, alright?

(Sorry. Projecting.)

Anyway, the reason the helper’s presence doesn’t ruin the experience for me is simple:

I’m the helper.

See, that’s what so genius about Sansa’s videos. Filmed in the first person, I can easily drift across the digital divide. It’s my cock nailing her so hard those blue eyes are going crossed. Those are my hands holding her ankles up, my fingers digging into her ass cheeks as she begs her baby (also me) to go faster, or to please let her come. It’s me she admonishes for ruining all other cocks (and the men attached to them) for her. It’s me she screams for, me she climaxes for.

And so, there’s really only one thing on my mind when I fill out the form to request my second bespoke video: that she do all that stuff, say all that stuff, with someone named “John”.

The helper’s a fucking prop. I’ve stalked Sansa on Facebook and other platforms enough to know she’s not in a relationship. Dude’s probably in it for the money, because – as I’ve heard it – filming porn isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Overdosing on Viagra to be able to stay erect through multiple takes or stops-and-starts when there’s an issue with the lighting or audio. Slathering your cock in numbing cream so you don’t ejaculate ninety seconds into what’s supposed to be a half-hour movie. Pulling out because viewers want to see a cumshot. Waxing your balls. Douching your ass. (So maybe I’ve enjoyed a few pegging videos in my day, and maybe I’ve noticed those dildos come out looking cleaner than my forks look straight out the dishwasher.)

Wait, what was my point?

Oh, yeah. The helper’s a prop, so it’s fine that he’s in that picturesque cabin with Sansa. A minute in and it’s me crawling across the fur rug to where she’s wet and waiting.

I won’t bore you with a play-by-play. All you need to know is that she says my name a hundred and three times in a thirty-four minute video, and each time is sweeter than the last.

Fast forward a year or so, I have a nice little collection of bespoke videos, and my cousin’s a few thousand bucks richer for it. (Best money I ever spent.) Mostly they’re just Sansa incorporating my name in her rapturous utterances; I leave the other artistic liberties to her.

By the way, she’d added two themes since my first time visiting her website: picnic in the park, and naughty teacher. I don’t even care how she got access to what looks like a legit school, I only care that she lets me trade my D for a D, sell my F for an F. If I lick Miss Grey’s pussy just right, I get to skip finals and show my parents a B-minus on my report card (because Sansa knows an A-plus would lack believability and some people are sticklers for believability, even in porn.)

As for picnic in the park, I throw it into the rotation now and then because Sansa looks so lovely in a pale-yellow sundress on a red plaid blanket, but I find myself worrying that she forgot to wear sunscreen – I know how she and Robb and Bran burn, Irish complected as they are. Me and Arya burn, too, but it takes more than twenty minutes and doesn’t get quite as fiercely red and painful as it does for the gingers in the family.

But I digress.

At this point in the story, I’m about a year and a half into my addiction to my cousin, who I see a couple nights a week on my tablet or smart TV, but rarely in the flesh. In fact, my workload prevented me from going home for Christmas, and my family are all supportive and completely get that working at a tech startup demands more of one’s time than being the president of the fucking country, so they don’t even guilt-trip me over it. Point being, I hadn’t seen Sansa in the flesh for something like two years when I decided it was time to place another order and decided to switch things up a bit.

See, it’s all fine and good to let myself believe I’m there with my beautiful cousin in the cabin or the bungalow or the park or the classroom or even the bachelor pad where things get a little Fifty Shades of Grey (Hmm, maybe that’s where LadyGrey comes from?) but I started to feel like it was all too… easy.

The realization came about like this:

I’m lying in bed one night, having opted to not watch a video because I have to get up extra early, and my mind goes to Sansa anyway. Well, it goes to Sansa and the helper. And the helper’s no prop, but a central figure in the fantasy. Let me explain!

So I’m imagining Sansa in her apartment in Oldtown (which I’ve never actually been to or seen), hooking up with this guy she’s been dating for a while even though she knows he’s not the one. She’s totally phoning it in because he’s not who she wants, but she’s got needs.

The who that she really wants? You guessed it: moi.

And as Mr. Vanilla with his too-white teeth and perfectly straight side-part and base model Beemer he bought off a lease and his soft hands and his personality deficit disorder and his entry-level-but-promising career in finance thrusts back and forth with about as much passion as I have when plunging a toilet, Sansa lets herself imagine it’s me fucking her. Me, her brousin.

Actually, you know that scene in Office Space where Lumbergh is banging Jennifer Anniston in Peter’s nightmare or whatever? Basically, that’s what’s happening with Mr. Vanilla and Sansa until Sansa turns to look at me, breaking the fourth wall. She’s not horrified to discover me there, quite the opposite.

The next night, with my tie half untied and my beer half drank, I filled out the form and clicked submit before I could think of a reason not to.

And now I’m the proud owner of this sweet video in which the helper’s plowing Sansa all while she’s looking at me, stage left. In an almost-whisper she explains how badly she wishes it was me instead. She touches her breast and moans a little, and I know it’s not the helper but my act of voyeurism that’s making her so hot. She speculates aloud – the helper oblivious to her monologue – that I’m bigger… thicker… longer. That I could fuck her so much better. That I’m the one she wants but she’s stuck settling for that ass clown (she doesn’t call him that) because I’m not there.

You know how it felt the first time you saw Avatar? Like Pandora was so beautiful, so lush, so peaceful, that you wished you could jump through the screen and live there? Well, take that feeling and multiply it by a hundred and you’ll know how I felt the first time I watched that video. My poor sexy, horny cousin is begging me to come save her from a boring fuck and I damn near threw my tablet into the wall because the whole experience had transcended fantasy. Watching Sansa’s videos is no longer a guilty pleasure that I imbibe in occasionally as an escape. She’s a fucking world I can’t wait to step into at night, sometimes on weekends. I’m still productive at work, still doing well in the online classes I’m taking to slowly chip away at an advanced degree, but there is nothing I look forward to more than joining her in that digital world where it’s just the two of us.

In fact, the only thing I want more is to join her in the real world. To turn the fantasy into a reality. To hear her sigh my name and know she’s not imagining that it contains an ‘h’.

And finally, ladies and gentlemen, we’ve arrived at our destination. The dramatic final act you all came here for.

Or did you think the really stupid thing I did was anonymously ordering custom-made pornography from my cousin-slash-stepsister?

Oh, bless your heart.

Chapter Text

“Hey, San.”

The words come out cool and casual, and I pat myself on the back for it because, where Sansa is concerned, I’m feeling rather hot and bothered.

“Hey, Jon!” Sansa beams as she meets me halfway after turning at the sound of her name. She throws her arms around my neck and doesn’t let go right away because Sansa’s one of those people who puts her all into every hug. I won’t complain; it gives me time to suck in a lungful of her perfume which reminds me of cherries and flowers and sea spray all at once. Knowing my classy cousin, a 0.7-ounce bottle costs at least a hundred bucks, but I happen to know she can afford it. Actually, I feel excessively proud to think I’m funding all her luxury indulgences. I’m her sugar daddy, and she doesn’t even know it.

It does occur to me though, not for the first time, that she doesn’t need her sultry side gig to keep herself well stocked in luxury cosmetics and apparel. Her parents are upper middle class, so Sansa graduated college with little if any student loan debt and immediately got a job in Human Resources at the same firm where Robb had been a summer associate during his final years of school and where he now works as a staff lawyer. He’s the low man on the totem pole but my brousin is smart as hell and won’t be the low man for long, especially since he grew close with one of the partner’s nephews during undergrad.

And sure, her Oldtown salary is probably canceled out by Oldtown housing prices, but she has no kids, no car (Oldtown’s also a mass transit kind of city), and presumably no debt. Even if she’s only making forty or fifty grand a year, she shouldn’t be hard-up enough to need to resort to porn to augment her income. If Robb’s as big of a pushover for his darling little sister as he was back in high school, she need only pout her lips and her lawyer big bro will be whipping out his Amex at the Macy’s counter even as he rolls his eyes.

Not that I’m complaining, mind you, but I am curious how Sansa of all people ended up in the erotic entertainment industry. Curious enough that it’s starting to feel like a bad case of poison ivy on my brain.

She finally pulls away, but doesn’t go far.

“Heard your company’s on track for an IPO,” she says, almost teasingly.

I roll my eyes, “It’s not my company.”

“But you work there, and you were one of Sam’s first investors,” she wiggles her eyebrows, daring me to make another excuse.

(I’ve never been one to back down from a dare.)

“I let him use my credit card to buy tech gear. Hardly makes me an investor.”

“But he used that tech gear to…?” her lips form the ‘o’ so sweetly, and don’t give it up even after the sound’s long gone from her mouth.

I roll my eyes again, “I know better than to argue with you.”

Surrendering is not the same as being beaten, and Sansa knows it. Therefore, it’s very predictable when she says, “I knew you’d see things my way” because we both know that I don’t, really. But I let her have the last word because, the funny thing is, I don’t mind it with Sansa, and only with Sansa. She’s not nearly as cocky as our little exchange might lead you to believe, so there’s that, but she also has this way of making her every victory feel a mutual one.

Like now, as she loops her arm around mine and asks me to tell her all about my job and my life and how are my friends and am I dating anyone and how’s my dad. And the latter’s not even a loaded question from her, nor a prying one. She’s not asking about Rhaegar Targaryen’s mental health the same way some people rubberneck every crash they drive by. She’s asking because she cares about Rhaegar and she cares about Rhaegar because she cares about me.

Sansa and I hadn’t been the closest growing up, but as the Independence Day shindig at Mom and Dad’s – meaning Aunt Cat and Uncle Ned’s – continues, I find that she and I are together more than we’re apart. Maybe it’s because we have a lot of ground to cover with each other compared to the rest of our siblings because I talk to Arya and Robb and Bran on a regular, and I assume Sansa does, too, but Sansa and I don’t call each other just to chat. We’re more likely to communicate as two parts of a larger group text, or with a GIF on our respective birthdays. Occasionally she’ll text me a question pertaining to an issue with her cell phone or computer, or I’ll text her for advice on what to send Mom and Dad for their anniversary, but we don’t talk simply to talk, nor to keep each other abreast of the developments in our respective lives.

Except we’re doing that now.

Various family and friends weave in and out. I get roped into a badminton match; she gets roped into running to the gas station for more ice, but we keep gravitating back toward each other. It feels like one of us is orbiting the other – I’m not sure which is the planet and which is the moon – except maybe that’s just me. Because even though I do a good job of acting like the brousin she’s grown up with, she is very much not the… sousin?... I grew up with.

I know what she looks like between the legs…

(Good enough to eat.)

I know what she sounds like when she cums…

(An orgasm for my ears.)

I know she’s got a little pinkish-brown birthmark low on her belly, left of center, just inside the bikini line.

(It’d make a perfect bullseye for my jizz if she wanted me to pull out.)

I know she’s got a kinky side.

(A very kinky side.)

Knowing all this undoubtedly influences the way I interpret her words, her expressions, her touches, but I don’t think it’s all in my head that she’s acting more affectionate with me than she’s ever been.

Then again, if it is all in my head, then I’m not gonna know it’s all in my head.

It occurs to me to submit another request tonight, after everyone goes to bed. A very simple request, really. No particular scene or positions or lingerie – dealer’s choice on all three counts – but whatever she does, I want her to say ‘brother’ while doing it.

Would she accept the request, or reject it and any future ones my unique customer ID submits?

Would she put two-and-two together and figure out that “John” is not a random stranger with an incest kink, but her brousin Jon?

If she did, would she come to my room and slap me across the face? Or would she act normal other than a bunch of blushes during breakfast (or lunch, depending on how much everyone drinks tonight)?

Would she tell anyone? Confess it to Arya or her friend Jeyne because she needs a third party to help her decide if she’s crazy for suspecting John of being Jon?

I’m nearly drunk from this weird cocktail of anticipation and arousal and panic and embarrassment. But it’s not something I can risk because I’m afraid of the first possibility – that she’ll never make another video for “John” again.

At least, that’s my thinking at six PM. But sometime after that, even the most hoity-toity of Ned and Catelyn’s neighbors and friends have begun to loosen up. The margaritas and sangria and spiked lemonade with blueberries and strawberries (it’s almost red, white, and blue, and absolutely screams Sansa) haven’t stopped flowing all afternoon. The awkward reunions and introductions and small talk are long over, and everyone’s cutting loose.

Which means I can cut loose. Me and Robb and Bran and Arya and the friends who came as our respective guests.

I didn’t bring or invite anyone this year as I’d been singularly focused on mentally preparing myself to see Sansa in the flesh after many months of seeing her only on my tablet or laptop or TV screen (and in my dreams and fantasies). And surprisingly, Sansa only invited Jeyne this year. None of her other friends from high school, none of her friends from Oldtown, though I suppose only a really good friend would be willing to join Sansa and Robb on a 4-hour flight to spend Independence Day in landlocked Winterfell when Oldtown has such great beaches and nightlife.

Sansa hadn’t brought a boyfriend, either. Nor is there a gaggle of boys stepping on her skirt, like there would’ve been when we were in our teens and early twenties. All the boys from the neighborhood, and all those who were dragged here by their parents, and all the lucky ones at school that Sansa personally invited would’ve been here like all those southern gents clustered around Scarlett O’Hara in the opening scene of Gone with the Wind. Well, maybe it was only two gents; it’s not like I’ve had cause to watch that movie since moving out of the house I shared with Sansa, who picked that film about once a year during family movie night. All I remember is (secretly) wanting to be as cool as Rhett Butler, and finding it gross that the man Scarlett was in love with was married to his cousin.

And yes, I recognize the irony. I also know that cousin-marriage was pretty typical back in the day, at least among affluent families.

(It’s also legal today in most states, with some requirements for genetic testing. Not that I’ve looked into that or anything.)

Anyway, six o’clock become seven becomes eight and a few beers becomes I have no idea what all I’ve had to drink, and in what quantity.

And eight becomes nine. The sun’s mostly down and everyone gathers around the shore of the lake for the fireworks. I’m among the last to amble over, because I don’t care about getting a prime viewing spot for the show, just a prime standing spot next to Sansa. Jeyne has abandoned her for Theon (the girl must have horrible taste) and Arya’s nowhere to be seen – probably throwing up because, despite being a general badass, she’s literally and figuratively a lightweight – and Aunt Cat finally has her husband to herself and is happily hugging his right arm, resting her cheek against his thick shoulder. Of course, there are plenty of people around and they’re all buzzed and happy and talkative, but Sansa’s as alone as she can be under the circumstances so I bring myself right to her, stopping just behind and to her right, and lean forward to rasp into her ear in what I hope is a smoky voice and not a slurred voice, “Been on any good picnics lately?”

She turns to me, all raised eyebrows and faintly amused smile and eyes all pretty and confused and says, “How much have you drunk?”

I nod as answer, then realize it isn’t an answer and say, “A lot. So, no picnics?”

She shakes her head and lets out a soft laugh, “Uh, no.”

“Hmm. What about the beach? Have you made it to the beach yet this summer?”

50/50 confusion and amusement becomes 70/30, her smiling straightening a bit before she says, “Once or twice. Why?”

“And did you stay there? Rent a little beach house, or a bungalow, maybe?”

Best my drunk eyes can see and my drunk brain can decipher, the amusement is entirely gone in place of something in the vicinity of fear, but there’s still enough confusion to make her doubt.

“No,” she says, a bit too insistently, “Jon, why are you asking me this?”

“Mm. I like when you say my name.”

The way she shifts away is subtle, but I notice it because I can no longer smell vodka and lemons when she says, “I think you should go to bed.”

“Alone?”

Another shift away, but I think I’m shifting, too, keeping the gap small. This time she turns her head all around, looking to see if anyone’s heard me. I know, because I should be doing the same thing and I would be if I’d had one fewer beer, one fewer shot. But I didn’t, so I don’t look around because I don’t care even though I know I’ll care tomorrow. I’ve enough of my faculties to imagine the pain of Uncle Ned’s glare or Robb’s fist if either had heard the way I just basically suggested Sansa come to bed with me.

Could I even get it up right now, drunk as I am? Would I be able to cum? Would I puke as soon as I went even semi-horizontal?

“Don’t be embarrassed,” I assure her, which makes her snap her eyes back to me. My vision is swimmy and my brain isn’t all that trustworthy at the moment, so I can’t read the expression on her face as I add, “You’re really good. Amazing. Worth every penny. Worth a million pennies. Wait, how many dollars is a million pennies?”

Her eyes dart away then she flashes me a smile meant to camouflage the nature of our conversation to any onlookers, “Who’ve you told?” 

“No one,” I shake my head, “I wouldn’t. Bad enough I have to see you with that lucky bastard.”

Her eyes go round as saucers and some part of me knows I’m venturing too far into waters that will drown me while she floats on, unscathed, but I’m too drunk to exercise caution. Watching her porn videos was quite a naughty act, but so was her filming said videos, so our naughtiness sort of cancelled out until I threw in an admission of jealousy toward the guy who gets to fuck her in said videos.

Don’t agree with me? Think I was drowning the second I asked Sansa if she’s been on a picnic lately? Or think I was already drowning way back when I didn’t click away once realizing I was watching an erotic video of my stepsister? Well, your opinion’s your own, but humor me, will ya?

Close your eyes and imagine you’re out with your buddies. You’re all drunk and goading each other into confessing your deepest, most shameful secrets. One of your friends admits he hooked up with his college roommate while they were high on E for the first time. Another admits he once farted during sex (a real stinky one, too). Another admits he has not one but three John Mayer songs in his iTunes downloads. Another admits he once had a nocturnal emission while dreaming about Martha Stewart making him pancakes. And then it’s your turn and you admit that you find your stepsister hot and when you saw her naked this one time you didn’t look away.

It's embarrassing, but not that embarrassing, is it?

Now imagine the same scenario plays out exactly as I just described except, when it’s your turn, you admit that you routinely spy on your stepsister while her boyfriend is plowing her, jerking off and imagining it’s you plowing her the whole time, wishing so badly you could take the boyfriend’s place.

See the difference?

At the start of this drunken-conversation-I’ll-regret-tomorrow, I was the one who held all the cards. It was all about informing Sansa that her dirty little secret was definitely dirty but not that little and not even remotely a secret because I, her brousin, knew it. That was all. She probably thought I was taunting her, maybe having my revenge for all the times she didn’t notice my existence because she was too busy begging her mom to let her get her belly button pierced or gushing with Jeyne on the phone about the school formal or contemplating which of the boys she was dating she’d have to gently break up with so that she could free up time on her social calendar.

And, honestly, maybe I was taunting her. Maybe some part of me felt a thrill when her eyes darted around, all jackrabbit-wide. Maybe it felt nice to wrest some power from her after spending the better part of two years feeling like a dog on a leash even while my brain knew I couldn’t be because she didn’t even know about our one-sided digital love affair.

But – also honestly – it isn’t just that. I’ve got no intention of blackmailing Sansa even though fuck, it’s just occurred to me that I could. I could tell her to sneak into my room tonight and ride my cock or else I’m going to send Dad the link to her AmateursOnly page from an anonymous email address.

But I’m so not that guy. That’s fucking coercion which is a form of rape. Period. Even three sheets to the wind and horny as fuck, I know that.

Suddenly terrified that the next words out of her mouth will be something along the lines of, “Please don’t tell anyone. I’ll do whatever you want if you just don’t tell anyone,” I’m ready to turn and walk away, muttering something about being too drunk and not knowing what I’m saying so that this won’t become a pink elephant in the room for the rest of our lives, when Sansa’s hand grips my forearm.

I look at her and she’s looking back with this intensity I’m not ready for, but it’s cut short because a moment later someone crashes into my back and I’m falling into Sansa, both of us catching the other so we end up all hands-to-elbows and chest-to-chest. I think my nose bumps her forehead but I’m drunk to the point of numbness, so I can’t say for sure.

“Bran! Watch where you’re going!” Aunt Cat is shouting over the boom of the fireworks. Then she’s looking right at me and Sansa and rolling her eyes as if to say, ‘can I get a break from adulting for one minute?’, not even remotely bothered by how close I’m standing to her darling daughter, because why would she be? Sansa is my cousin and my sister and we never even shared common interests.

When my aunt-slash-mom is looking back over the lake I finally release Sansa and turn to leave.

I’m half expecting her to stop me, but she doesn’t.