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"'Are you going to say you haven't thought of what it would feel like?' He continues his approach, rounding the table toward her. 'What it would taste like?' The words line his tongue with that stinging, biting shame, but it tastes so good suddenly – it's still wrong and base and vile but this time –

This time it's in all the right ways." - Jon and Sansa. How wolves lay claim.

* * *

She knows exactly what she's doing. She must.

Jon stares at Sansa from across the council table, her hands held primly behind her back, her chin high. They're both fairly early for the meeting of the lords – Jon, because he wants to sort his notes and the recent raven scrolls before bringing the meeting to order, and Sansa… Sansa, because –

Jon narrows his eyes at her, the door sliding shut behind him. She'd been vocal of her dissent when he'd made his decision to go south to Dragonstone earlier that morning, enough to bring another heated argument to air between them.

She'd followed him to his chambers. He'd sighed and sworn and implored her to simply listen. If she would only listen.

She'd railed over him – vehement, demanding, accusing.

And he wasn't doing this again.

"Why are you here, Sansa?" he asks lowly.

She cocks her head to the side. "You called a meeting of the lords. Am I not welcome? As the Lady of Winterfell?"

Jon sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "I don't have the patience for this anymore, Sansa."

"And neither have I," she hisses, taking a step around the table toward him.

Jon looks up at her. "I've made my decision."

"It's the wrong one."

His chest heaves – a single, warring breath filling his lungs. A slow release, his jaw tense. "And what would you have me do?" It's a rattle of air that leaves him, hot and burning and threatening to overtake him.

But Sansa is not cowed. "Stay." It is more a demand than anything, something ringing in her voice that he can't quite place – or won't, rather.

Jon shakes his head, unthinking it instantly, because it couldn't – she wouldn't – they would never –

Except he would. If she only let him – oh what he would do to her.

He sighs, holding that tension tight in his bones, in his marrow. Swallowing it down in place of pragmatism. In place of distraction. "We need her."

Sansa makes her way around the table. "And we need you. Can you not see that?" She settles before him, throat flexing with the heat of her anger. "You're the King in the North. Be the King in the North."

Jon eyes her darkly. "I already told you – "

She scoffs, cutting him off, pacing away.

Jon's fists clench at his sides.

"Yes, you've told me," she seethes, looking back over her shoulder with a cold-cut gaze.

His brows dip down in frustration, his shoulders bunching with the tension. "And you've yet to listen."

She whirls on him then, stalking back. "Oh, I'm listening, Jon. Far better than you are." She stops just before him, her lips curled back in a near snarl. A wolf's bite.

Something tightens in his chest he doesn't have the heart to name.

"And I hear them whispering. The Northern lords, the Vale soldiers – Baelish."

Jon huffs at the name, his gaze cutting to the table, away from her, away from this vile flush of possessiveness he feels at the name.

Sansa presses on, unhindered. "If you want to hold the North you must stay in the North."

He doesn't answer her. Simply stares down at the table, simply breathes. Simply steadies the quake beneath his skin.

"So, stay," she says, almost a whisper, her anger washed from her so instantly he has to look at her. Sansa blinks at him, chest heaving. She licks her lips. "Stay," she breathes softly, eyes flicking over his face.

"For the North, or for you?" He doesn't know what makes him say it, doesn't even know the words are on his tongue until they taste air, but then he can't take them back, and he doesn't think he wants to.

Sansa blinks at him, drawing a slow, deep breath. "What?"

He watches the way her lips part, the way her throat flexes beneath unspoken words, the way her eyes drift to his mouth for only a moment, for only a single, blinding moment.

He takes a step closer. She stiffens, a flush of trepidation coloring her flesh.

And suddenly it is splashed across her skin, blaring and bright and brilliant and gods how had he not seen it before?

His sister, he reminds himself. His sister. And maybe that's why he hasn't let himself think it, not even when he takes himself in hand at the thought of her. Not even when he pants her name into the night air and imagines the slick heat of her. Not even when he muffles his groan into the sweat-dampened furs of his bed and spills into his hand, hot and ragged and wrong.

Because it's always just been Sansa. Never 'sister'.

And maybe it's a lie he tells himself because lies don't shame him when he imagines slipping that dress from her shoulders and mouthing her bare breast, hitching those pale thighs around his waist and taking her right there atop the table.

Suddenly, Jon realizes she hasn't moved from him. He takes another dangerous step closer. She reaches for the table behind her, but her feet remain planted. "For the North," he repeats, breath catching, "or for you?"

Her mouth parts, that pink, moist mouth, her tongue darting out to wet her lips.

Jon's chest heaves.

"Perhaps for both," she manages through the tremble in her voice.

"Sansa," he urges, still too heated to simply let it go at that.

She turns away, slipping from the tenuous space between him and the table, her absence like a hollow, gaping stretch in his mind, his skin suddenly blazing, his hands itching for her touch, his teeth grinding behind his cheek.

"What do you want me to say?" She wraps her arms around herself, clears her throat when the words end on a hitch. She stares determinedly at the wall.

But Jon knows now. He knows far more than he thinks he should, than he thinks she meant him to know, and all he can think about now is the way her gasp would taste when it fills his mouth and how soft the long stretch of her collarbone would feel beneath his calloused thumbs and how delicious the weight of her thighs braced against his shoulders would feel when his tongue is buried inside her.

His cock twitches at the thought, his breeches suddenly uncomfortable beyond measure.

"I want you to tell me the truth," he breathes out, and something in his voice must reveal him, because she whips her gaze back to his.

"And what truth is that?" she spits almost venomously, but Jon can see it. He can see the tremble in her jaw and the way her hands tighten over her arms.

"Don't lie, Sansa. Not to me."

"I've never – "

"You're doing it even now!"

She takes in his approaching form, his dark gaze, his purposeful steps. She holds a hand out, stepping back. "Jon, this isn't… what are you…"

"Are you going to say you haven't thought about it?"

She swallows thickly, and his eyes shift to the motion, to the smooth stretch of her throat and oh, how he's thought about it. How he's thought about it and nothing else for far too long to pretend otherwise.

She skirts around the table, hand still outstretched. "Thought about what?"

He stops his advance, throwing a meaningful look her way, the air tight in his chest. And he doesn't think he can go back to pretending. He doesn't think he can leave this room without having touched her – just once. Just once.

Please, gods, let him touch her just this once.

He doesn't have to answer her it seems, because she's shaking her head, absolutely trembling, quietly frantic. "You're my brother, Jon and I… this isn't…"

She never finishes the thought. Because they both realize at this point that she's thinking it, too, that she knows without him even saying it, without him even need to bring it to air – that foul, dangerous air.

Because they both realize now that, brother or not, he knows how to pick out her lies at this point, and this denial has been the biggest one between them.

Until now.

Until 'brother' has ceased to mean anything – or at least to mean enough to stop them.

"Are you going to say you haven't thought of what it would feel like?" He continues his approach, rounding the table toward her. "What it would taste like?" The words line his tongue with that stinging, biting shame, but it tastes so good suddenly – it's still wrong and base and vile but this time –

This time it's in all the right ways.

"Jon." It's a croak that leaves her, her chest rising and falling so heavily it's making him lightheaded. She stumbles back against the table.

"Are you going to tell me you haven't thought of my tongue in your mouth? My hands on you?"

"Jon," she hisses, desperate, head shaking, fingers curling along the table.

He's right there, he's just steps away, and he swears he can feel her, feel the heat of her, even from here. "I want to, Sansa, gods I want to."

Her teeth sink into her bottom lip and he groans at the sight, blinking furiously through his haze. "Did you know I take myself in hand every night to the thought of it?"

Her eyes widen, teeth releasing her lip.

And he wants to bite down on it himself, suck it between his teeth and lick and pull and tear at her, to lap her up, drink her in, absolutely soak in her, that heat, that cutting mouth, to take it rough and long and breathlessly.

And he can't stop. He thinks he passed the point of stopping long before the door shut behind him. "Just thinking of it. That heat, your skin, your eyes, Sansa, your fucking eyes and how fucked up is that? How fucked up that I can cum at just the thought of your eyes – spilling like a green boy, and it's never enough – never enough," he rasps, edging closer.

"Jon, we can't…" But it's a weak protest, her body still braced along the table, her eyes still wide, that delicious bloom of hunger already staining her skin.

"What do you want?" he demands, voice hoarse.

She pants, swallows tightly, shaking her head. "I can't… this isn't…" And then her thighs press deliciously together, a subtle rubbing, and a sound so low and soft leaves her that he thinks maybe he imagines it. But the look on her face at the unexpected release tells him otherwise.

With a growl he surges toward her, trapping her against the table, his arms going to either side of her.

Sansa sucks in a sharp breath at the sudden proximity, eyes flicking between his, a noise not unlike a whimper escaping her throat and he very nearly takes her right then, damn propriety, damn the meeting, damn everything.

But he won't let her go now, not when she's so near to admitting it, not when she's let him closer than he's ever dreamed possible, not when he's already hard and aching for her.

She opens her mouth. Closes it.

A low snarl brews in his chest. The hard way, then. He leans in, bracing his cheek a whisper away from hers, his hot breath breaking against the shell of her ear when he speaks. "I think I know what you want."

She shudders against him, and he can practically feel it he's braced so close to her – just a subtle lean forward and he could press his chest to hers, feel her breathe against him, pin her hips to the table and rock into her like he wants to. But he holds himself back, curls his nails into the table behind her, breath raking over her cheek.

The hard way it is.

"You want me on my knees, want my face between your legs, the tight, slick heat of you in my mouth – my tongue – my fucking tongue sliding into you." His mouth drags along her jaw, his breath drenching her throat with his wet pants. "Licking you up, lapping at your soaking wet cunt, sucking your clit between my teeth."

Sansa whimpers, eyes shutting at his words, slumping against the table until he grabs at her waist with one hand to hold her there. He chuckles darkly, nipping at the space below her ear. "Letting you ride my face, letting you fuck my mouth until you cum, dripping down my chin, my mouth full of you, and I would let you – again and again – I would tongue fuck you until you screamed my name, until your throat was hoarse with your moans and then I'd fuck you again, only this time – "

Sansa's mouth parts, her tongue dipping out to wet her lips, her eyes fluttering closed.

He grabs for her wrist, startling her into snapping her eyes open again when he braces her hand to the tent of his trousers. He groans into her hair, a deep, rough rumble. "Do you know what you do to me?" he rasps.

He can hear her panting at his ear, and they're each painfully still, each deliciously still against each other. And then tentatively, almost soft enough to be a mistake, her hand rubs against his hard length.

Jon bucks into her hand without warning, a stuttering groan leaving him, and he presses into her, trapping her hand in the sparse space between them, her breasts crushed up against his chest. "Fuck, Sansa, you don't… you have no idea how… fuck…" And then he's bucking again at the press of her lips to his jaw, her hand more sure now, fingers curling along his painfully hard cock through the fabric.

He reaches for her skirts, bunching the material in his fingers as he pulls at them frantically. "Sansa, please, oh fuck, please, just let me… I need to…" He's dragging her skirts up, fingers skimming the soft warmth of her thighs and he pulls back just enough to catch a glimpse of the stockings that end at her thighs, held tight with a ribbon he plans on pulling off with his teeth later that night.

Sansa's hand slips from between them and he stops, breathing heavily, his hands at her thighs, fingers trembling – because she's right there, she's right fucking there, that heat – and he catches her gaze, barely keeping from hooking his hands beneath her thighs and hefting her onto the table but she's looking at him, she's blinking back at him with a delicious flush along her neck and her lip back between her teeth and he stops.

He stops.

He waits.

She nods, slowly and stiffly, her eyes never leaving his, and he drags his fingers up toward her heat only to find –

Jon's head drops down to her shoulder with a body-racking groan, his fingers slipping against her folds when he finds she isn't wearing any smallclothes.

Yes, Sansa knows exactly what she's doing. She must.

"Gods, Sansa, you're so – how can you…" He can't finish the sentence, doesn't even want to, because she's winding her hands around his neck and curling her fingers into his hair and pressing her breasts back against his chest and she's so – she's so –

"Fuck, Sansa, you're so wet already. So fucking wet for me and I haven't even touched you yet."

It occurs to him that she was already expecting this, or at least, hopeful for it. His hips cant against hers at the thought, knowing that she's been without her smallclothes this whole time, perhaps even since this morning, when they argued in his chambers, and oh fuck he can barely keep from spending right then, right there in his breeches, so he takes a soldiering breath, closes his eyes and tries to reign it in.

"Then touch me," she breathes into his ear, arching against him.

He slips two fingers into her at the command, moaning at the gasp she releases against his neck, the way her fingers tighten in his hair. "Like this?"

She can only nod, mewling into his skin, and Jon presses his thumb against her clit, circles once, presses back down. She pants at his ear, her tongue darting out to wet his skin and he growls into her neck, his free hand dropping her skirts to reach around and tug at her laces. He gets them haphazardly undone, enough to drag her dress down over one shoulder so he can press his wet mouth against her collarbone and suck the skin between his teeth.

"Jon," she murmurs, breathless, hips grinding against his hand, an impatience to her voice that urges him on.

He drags his mouth down, brushes his lips against the breast nearly spilling out over her dress, his tongue trailing a wet path along her heated skin when he pumps his fingers slowly in and out of her.

"Jon, the lords…" She throws her head back, a sigh raking along her throat. "The meeting…"

He pushes a third finger into her, relishing in her broken cry. "What about them?"

"We can't be – they'll see us if we – " She stops, fingers digging into his hair, her mouth parched, a ragged exhale branding the air between them. "What if Lord Royce… what if Baelish…?"

Jon's fingers slip from her without warning and she barely has time to voice her protest before he's hooking his hands beneath her thighs and lifting her to the table, dropping her back against it roughly, shoving so hard and abruptly between her thighs, pressing into her so violently his cock throbs painfully against her, his groan reverberating through them.

"Let them," he growls out, and then he's kissing her, and suddenly he doesn't know why it took them so long to get to this point. Suddenly it's everything that's been missing between them, and he's licking at her mouth, shoving his tongue in when she parts for him without anything more than a mildly surprised flutter of breath. And it's just as hot as the slickness between her legs, just as damning, just as deliciously, spectacularly wrong. Just as wet and burning and intoxicating beyond belief. Just the taste of her, just the fucking taste of her, so ripe and ready for him, so absolutely drenched and begging and he wants to drown in it, wants to bury himself deeply and brutally inside of her.

He pulls from her, panting against her lips, ragged and aching and harder than he's ever been, his hips grinding into her warmth while he swallows her gasps.

"Let them," he repeats, pushing her skirts back to bare her sticky, trembling thighs. He dips his fingers back into her heat, watches as she mouths a silent cry, lashes fluttering in her delirium, head tilting back when he curls his fingers up and into her. She grinds back against his hand, reaching for his shoulders and gripping at the leather of his jerkin.

"Let Baelish know what you let your bastard brother do to you."

"Jon!" she admonishes, but it's hardly more than a gasp while she ruts against his hand.

His mouth returns to her neck. "You want them to know. You wouldn't have come here so early otherwise. You wouldn't have gone without your smallclothes if you didn't want them to know."

She doesn't deny him. Doesn't do anything but grip at his shoulders even tighter, mewling when his thumb circles her clit once more.

"You want them to know how wet I make you. How absolutely filthy, soaking wet you are for me, how fucking drenched and sodden and ready for me. How you'd let me take you right here, right against this table. How you'd let me shove my cock deep inside your cunt, how you'd let me fuck you like you've imagined – like I've imagined."

Jon grabs for her chin, pulling her gaze back to his, before his hand retreats from between her legs and he slips his fingers into his mouth, licking up her taste, his tongue gliding between his knuckles, sucking his fingers into his mouth. He releases her chin, lets her tug at his jerkin as his fingers return to her cunt. "And oh, how I've imagined it, Sansa."

Sansa stares at him with dark eyes, panting heavily, and then she drops her head to his shoulder and moans deeply, shaking with the force of her desire, tugging him closer, all snarls and teeth and frantic, desperate breaths.

She bites at his ear unexpectedly, and he bucks into her, but it's a painful press of his hard cock against the table, his fingers still thrusting in and out of her, and the growl of frustration that leaves him has her tugging him back as she lays down along the table, her legs coming up around his waist. "How have you imagined, Jon?"

His hand stutters in its pace, his other hand gripping at her thigh as she presses them around his hips. "Fuck, Sansa, just… just let me, please, I need… I need to – "

She reaches for the laces on his breeches, her legs lowering from around his waist, and he's lost, pulling his fingers out of her, ignoring her whimper of protest as he tugs on his laces, pushing his breeches and smallclothes down frantically and releasing his cock, already seeping at the tip, already painfully hard, so fucking hard it hurts, so fucking ready to bury himself inside her he thinks he might just cum at the thought of it.

Sansa stares down at him, swallowing tightly, but her legs are already winding back around him, her fingers already sliding up his chest and curling into the leather of his jerkin. He locks eyes with her, gives her a moment, an out, but he doesn't know what he'll do if she says no, and he can't stop now, can't hold it back any longer, and he doesn't want to, doesn't want to do anything but plunge his cock inside of her and fuck her into the table, doesn't want to do anything but suck her skin between his teeth and mark her, bring the blood to the surface and lick the bruise away, slam into her so hard and so rough that she howls. He doesn't want to do anything but spill inside of her when she's moaning his name over and over and over until they both slip over the edge.

"Show me what you imagined, Jon."

And he doesn't need any more encouragement. Taking his cock in his hand, he levels himself at her entrance, nudging at her folds. She tilts her head back, a moan spilling from her when he slides the tip along her slick folds, and then slowly, painstakingly, he pushes inside her.

Sansa clamps down on him, her teeth bared, her snarl matching his own, and he has to still above her, one hand slamming into the table to steady himself, his balls almost tightening already.

She presses her tongue to his neck and he jerks inside her unconsciously, pulling out swiftly only to slam back in. She moans into his ear, her breath hot and moist against his throat.

"Was it like this?" she whispers into his skin, teeth catching at his throat.

"Yes," he hisses, pulling almost all the way out, and then driving back in. "Just like this."

Sansa cants her hips to meet his, one hand grabbing at her skirts to pull them further up and out of the way and then Jon's hand is at her chest, pushing her back down along the table as he straightens up, looking down on her. He yanks her hips tighter to his, so that she's almost off the edge of the table and he slams back into her with a growl. She's so fucking glorious, her hair spilled out around her head, her breasts nearly coming out of her dress, rocking with each of his brutal thrusts, her back arching off the table as she claws at the wood beneath her.

She releases a particularly choked cry, his name reverberating around the room with her moan and Jon's pace quickens, his teeth gritting. "Gods, you want them to know, don't you? You want them to hear exactly who it is who's fucking you." He grinds into her with staggering force, the table jostling dangerously beneath them.

"Yes," she gasps, no longer able to keep it from him, no longer able to swallow the words back behind clenched teeth.

"You like the idea of them seeing you like this – beautiful and bare and brutal. You like them seeing what you do to me – how I need you, how I need to be inside you, how you make me take you rough and hard and fast and how you love it, gods how you love it."

Her mouth tips open, chest heaving as she grapples for purchase against the table. "Yes, Jon, yes," she pants – near howls – and Jon's hips stutter, his fingers curling tightly into the flesh of her thighs as he pushes them back, spreads her further, driving even deeper, pulling another cry of his name from her lips.

One of his hands fumbles for her clit again and she keens at the press of his thumb, her body arching off the table. "Let them hear you, Sansa, let everyone know. Let them know who makes you moan like this, who gets you soaking wet, who fucks you until you cum screaming. Let them know it's your bastard brother – your filthy fucking brother's cock filling that beautiful cunt." Jon groans as he snaps his hips to hers with bruising force, gritting his teeth. "I want them to know you're mine – you're mine. I want them to know – fuck, I want them… oh fuck, Sansa, you're so fucking tight, so fucking wet – that hot, dripping wet cunt, I want – ngh, I want – fuck… fuck, I want to spill inside you, Sansa. I want to bury my cock inside you and cum into that tight, wet cunt – just let me, let me cum inside you, let me – "

She claws at the table, back bowing when she clamps her knees to his hips, keeping him to her, dragging him deeper, and it's all the answer he needs but then –

"So cum inside me, Jon," she releases on a strangled gasp, body tight and arched and ready to snap.

He cums with a roar, slamming into her hard enough to scrape the table jarringly back against the stone floor, spilling his seed inside her, rubbing at her nub frantically, almost painfully, until her orgasm rips from her in a hoarse, rending cry, her knees clamping around his hips when she bucks against him, holding him to her as he spills and spills and spills, hips jerking into hers with a needful, barely coherent rhythm until he stills against her, breathless, quaking, utterly spent.

They stay like this for a while, just breathing, Jon bracing himself over her with a hand against the table, his other still digging into her thigh, eyes locking on the bruise slowly blooming along her flesh, swiping his calloused thumb over the smooth, ruined skin.

"Sansa," he breathes, his voice a rough exhale, and she stirs beneath him, eyes fluttering open as she tries to calm her breathing.

She glances up at him, a worried crease to her brow, and then he's reaching for her, his cock slipping out of her and she shudders at the sensitivity, sighing softly as he bundles her in his arms.

Between them, his eventual departure still lingers in the unspoken space, but neither will speak of it now. Neither of them can.

"Stay" she had said.

And maybe now he has more reason to than before.

"You didn't lock the door," she says disapprovingly, her voice muffled in his jerkin.

Jon laughs, a sharp, unexpected burst escaping his lungs, and he pulls back just enough to eye her – to take in her mussed hair and swollen lips and the faint bloom of his mark edging its way from her collar bone to her neck. He looks down at their state, at his breeches still bunched around his ankles and her skirts still collected at her waist, the top of her dress barely covering her chest, dragged down over her shoulder, and he cocks a brow at her. "You never wanted me to, anyway," he challenges, watching as she purses her lips into a thin line, her gaze cool and unbothered.

His heart stutters a moment, his hands stilling in their caress of her hair, and then her lips tilt up into a sly smile, the pads of her fingers running over his lips. "No, I didn't," she agrees.

His kisses the tips of her fingers and she's just staring at him, silent and unblinking, her chest rising slowly, and something settles between them so utterly quiet and immediate and jarring.

Something that might be enough to make him stay.

She brushes a thumb along his bottom lip, eyes watching the motion, and he can't help himself. He pulls her hand gently away, leans in, and kisses her.

Just a soft press of the lips, just the warmth of her breath against his mouth, just the sigh they share in the silence, in their hesitant, floundering reach for each other's hearts in the aftermath.

She is all snarls and teeth, mauling him with wolfish greed, yes, but she is also the tender press of lips to a rising bruise. She is also the cool compress to his fevered skin.

They end the kiss slowly, reluctantly.

Sansa smiles against his lips, until Jon remembers, suddenly, that wolves have always run in packs –

And Sansa has long since sunk her teeth in.