“Tell me, Jon. Have you ever taken a fellow dragon to bed?”
Sansa freezes as soon as she hears the voice of the princess, of Daenerys, echoing around the corner of Winterfell. She squeezes her hands into fists, nails digging into her palms, and presses her back against the stone wall, hair dangerously close to the flickering lamp light.
“I am married, Aunt Daenerys.” Jon’s voice is tight, but she recognizes it. A man held barely in control, held back by nothing more than sheer will. She bites down on her tongue. She never made him lose control like that.
“Yes,” Daenerys sighs, and Sansa can just see her trailing her finger down Jon’s chest—down her husband’s chest—and the thought makes Sansa wants to rip Daenerys’s hair out from the root.
Most beautiful woman in the world then, she sneers. But she stems the anger and continues listening, even as she knows she should not be.
“You never expected to be Lord of the North, but I know my brother isn’t exactly sorry about that fact. Such a shame all of the Lady’s brothers had to die, is it not?”
Sansa’s control snaps like a string pulled too tight, and she rounds the corner, eyes focusing instantly on the scene before her. Jon, shoulders tight, muscles coiled, and Daenerys, standing far too close for propriety, smile sharp like a snake’s. “Hello, your Grace,” Sansa says, through gritted teeth.
Daenerys does not step back from Jon, eyes merely flickering from his to Sansa’s, resting on hers for a split second. Her violent ones are unlike anything Sansa has ever seen before, so unlike her husband’s grey ones, and it unsettles her. But she will not back down. “Hello, Lady Sansa. I was just telling my nephew here of the Targaryen custom of taking more than one wife in case he ever wanted to partake in it.”
Sansa’s jaw clenches, and she bites her tongue to keep her words from spilling out against her will before she responds. “Yes, well, Jon is a man of the North, of course, and we don’t observe that tradition here. We are loyal to our men and women, especially in marriage.”
Daenerys raises an eyebrow and finally steps back from Jon, smiling at Sansa. “Of course, my lady. I would never mean to insult the North. I simply wanted to educate my nephew on some of our family customs. Although it seems he knows them well for himself, having married his own cousin.”
Sansa wants to step forward and paint the side of Daenerys’s cheek with red, to wrap her hands around that frail little throat and choke the life out of it, slowly and suddenly, but she fists her hands in her dress instead.
“It was not his choice, your Grace, but Jon has been a good husband.”
“Of course,” Daenerys agrees. “He is a dragon. He will be a good husband. And I am sure I can count on a few more dragons being born soon?”
“Of course, your Grace. It is my duty, as Lady of Winterfell.”
Daenerys smirks. “Of course, I would also hope your husband know that there are many ways for him to...entertain himself, should he ever decide to leave the frigid air of the North and visit us down south. I’m sure he will enjoy it.”
Sansa’s entire vision blurs and goes red, and she even thinks she takes a step towards Daenerys before a hand wraps itself around her waist and yanks her back. “Good night, your Grace,” Jon rumbles, voice pitched low.
Daenerys simply lets her eyes flicker over the two of them, smiling, before she inclines her head. “Good night, nephew. And you too, Lady Sansa.”
Sansa is frozen, unable to say a single thing, and simply watches as Daenerys’s blonde hair vanishes around the corner, the torchlight flickering.
Jon wraps a hand around her arm and drags her down the hallway. She stumbles, following him until they reach his chambers, and he pushes her in, slamming the door behind her.
“Why did you say that?” he hisses, rubbing his head in his hands.
Sansa snaps out of her daze and glares at him, anger bubbling up on the tip of her tongue. “I remind you who I am, Jon. My father was Lord of Winterfell before you, and I am more a daughter of the North than you will ever be its son, so watch what you say.”
He glares at her, stalking forward. Her breath catches in her throat as she stumbles back, until her back hits the wall and she cannot move anywhere else. He stops just a hair’s breadth away from her, fingers curling into tight fists at his waist. “Why did you promise her children?”
“Last time I checked, that was our duty. To provide more children for the future of the North,” Sansa drawls. “Of course, unless you find me so repugnant you cannot find it in yourself to complete the task.”
Jon snarls and surges forward, hand wrapping around her throat, eyes boring into hers. But Sansa is not afraid, stares into grey pools unblinking as Jon’s other hand wraps itself around her waist.
“And in a year, when she sees your belly has not grown swollen with my child, hmm?” he says, stroking her stomach through her clothing. His fingers tighten around her throat, and Sansa’s head spins. “What will the King say then?” he growls.
“I imagine she will offer herself to you, like she did tonight. She is the daughter of a brother and his sister, so I doubt she understands what proper family behavior is.”
Jon chuckles darkly, hand loosening ever so slightly around her throat. The hand around her waist tugs her away from the wall, so he is pulling her closer to him.
—there is a dark part of Sansa that makes her want to curl her fists around him, to take this wolf, this dragon, to her bed—
“And you do, dearest cousin?”
Sansa rips herself from his grasp, or at least, tries to. He clutches her even tighter, only letting go of her throat. “Don’t call me that. I am your wife, first and only.”
Jon tips her head back slightly, so he can watch the flutter of her pulse.
—Gods, she wants him like she has never wanted anyone before, and this is depraved, it is terrible and horrible, but Sansa cannot help but feel that it would be worth it, to be thrice damned over only to have to feeling of Jon’s mouth against hers, to feeling of him moving inside of her, the sweetness of the release only he could give her—
He moves forward, opening his mouth, and she squirms in his grip, and his breath brushes over her pulse. “And if you are my wife, how come I have not taken you to bed then?”
Sansa pulls back, and this time he lets her go, lets her tear herself from his grasp. “You know why,” she spits.
Jon grins, pushing the furs off of his shoulders, as he steps back. “You know what they say about me, Lady Stark. I know nothing. I’m afraid you’ll have to educate me on what I’ve done.”
—he still calls her Lady Stark, and she refuses to be acknowledged as anything other than that, because at the end of the day he is still a Snow, a bastard, despite his blood, and she is the one with the power in this marriage, not him; he would do well to remember that—
Her eyes flash, even as the skin revealed at his throat beckons to her, even as her fingers twitch from wanting to map every inch of his body with her mouth, even as her entire being screams to drag him into her bed and never let him go.
—because that’s what this is, isn’t it; a game of cat and mouse, Sansa forever chasing after Jon, and Jon, forever calling her to him; he promises her castles and kingdom halls and eternity and sunsets and entire countries with his gaze, and she will never get them—
“It is not fitting of a man of the North to spend so much time with a woman who is not his wife, especially if she is so beautiful.”
Jon barks out a laugh, moving forward once more. This time, he wraps his arms around her waist, and she lets herself be pulled closer to him, lets herself be overtaken by his words and his scent and his everything.
—she doesn’t let herself think about how willing she is to drown herself in the storm that is Jon, in the fire and ice that he is; it is too dangerous if she considers it, and so she cannot, must throw herself in without a second glance (that is, if she hasn’t already)—
“So the Lady of the North is jealous, is she?” he murmurs, dragging his fingers down the column of her throat ever so slightly, a feather light touch, but he might as well be branding her, for all it feels like.
—the thought sends a thrill through her, being branded by Jon, marking hers as his, but even more than that, branding him; marking him as hers—
“Jealous of my aunt. I’m glad she gets a taste of her own medicine.” His touch turns firmer as he moves down the sweep of her dress, fingers curling over the neckline into her bust.
“What?” Sansa blinks at him, confused by the sudden turn.
Jon bares his teeth, and a thrill shoots down Sansa’s spine as she realizes how much he looks like a wolf in this second, here, and right now. “You think I don’t see my pretty little wife smiling at every single stewart, squire, and green boy that passes through Winterfell? Do you think I don’t see how you let that slime Baelish touch you, freer that you would ever let me touch you?” He smirks, harsh and cruel, yanking her towards him. “I just hope when your belly grows swollen it is with my child, and not from the seed of one of those green boys who probably couldn’t even make you come.”
Sansa gapes at him in shock before shoving him in the chest, but her husband is not a warrior for nothing, and so he grips her tighter. “Let go of me!” she insists.
Jon simply shakes his head. “Not until you answer my question.”
“I would never lie with another,” she snaps. “You are my husband, and I intend to honor the vows we made in the godswood. For you to even think otherwise—”
“Is perfectly fair,” Jon interrupts, sliding his hand back up to her throat, thumb pressing against her pulse, which is hammering away.
—Jon has been the only man to make her body react like this, to know her body better than she knows it, and she doesn’t want to think about how dangerous that is—
“How dare you even think that,” she spits, hair whipping as she tries to free herself. “I should think the same thing about you. After all, we haven’t lain together since we married four moons ago.”
Jon’s mouth twists at that. “Has the Lady of Winterfell craved a dragon to visit her in her bed? I would have thought you wanted to avoid me, forced to marry me so quickly after all your brothers died so suddenly.”
“Do not speak of them,” Sansa commands.
“Hmmm,” Jon says. “Very well. I shall speak of you instead. Tell me, Sansa,” he leans in, scrapes his teeth along the column of her throat, “What would you think if I did take my fill somewhere else? If I only visited your bed to give you a babe or two?”
Bile rises to her throat at his question, and she viciously digs her fingers into his chest. “I would hunt you down and make you regret it every day you lived,” she promises. “You take no woman into your bed but me.”
—and there’s the rub, isn’t it? It’s their life: vicious, because the only way to describe anything about the two of them is vicious; this marriage is not borne of soft touches and loving gazes, but it is rough and harsh and draws blood from underneath fingernails, it is built from sharp tongues and blood spat lips; carved from the night sky and shaped by death; like a swollen and heavy fruit, hanging low on the tree, perfect on one side, and rotten on the other—
Jon chuckles. “I have no plans to. But what would your men think of me? Think of your husband?”
Sansa shrugs. “The same thing they think of all bastards.” Jon flinches as soon as that word is said, and a dark part of Sansa rears in delight. “Oh, don’t tell me you forgot that you were a bastard for most of your life.”
Jon drags her impossibly closer, threads his hand through her hair and tips her head back slightly. “No one ever forgets their life as a bastard. But tell me, Lady Sansa. What do the Northmen say about bastards?”
—her head spins, and Sansa is dizzy with want, with need, and she tears her eyes away from his and focuses on his mouth, body quaking, because there is a promise in his words, and god forbid she stand here and not take what she is promised—
Sansa leans forward, nips at his bottom lip before staring him in the eyes. “That they are born of lust, and as such, ruled by that and nothing else. That they bring destruction wherever they go, because they make everyone around them sin in the eyes of the gods.”
“Aye,” Jon says, drawing back to see her. His eyes are blown, a line of grey around huge black pupils. “They’re not wrong. Tell me, Lady Sansa. Would you let this bastard destroy you?”
— yes, she thinks. A million times over. she would let Jon drag her to the brink of destruction and fling her over the edge, if only she could feel the moments in which she would hurtle towards the bottom with him—
“That depends, Jon. What would you do to me that would destroy me?”
Jon’s eyes become impossibly darker, if possible, and he pulls her mouth closer to his. “Oh, Sansa. What wouldn’t I do to you?”
He pauses, waits a second. “I’m going to fill your mouth with my name, and make you forget your own.”
She barely has time to register Jon’s words before his mouth is on hers, and god—oh god, this is what she was missing out on.
Because it is wrong, it is so utterly wrong that all she can feel is heat licking at her, scorching her body, and his tongue delves into her mouth, hot and wet and in control, and he kisses her like a man starved, like a man coming home from war. Her bastard cousin is kissing her and all Sansa can think about is that she does not think she can survive one more moment without his mouth on hers.
—it overtakes her completely, this desire, this need, and she shakes from the force of it, from the sheer pleasure assaulting her; she is sure she is melting in his hands, in his arms, nothing more than water, slipping through his fingers; she is sure she has gone mad, because no one ever warned her lust could be this dangerous, could be this sharp, like a hot knife slicing through her skin, she is sure she will die if he does not give her the release she craves now—
Jon drags his hands down her waist, shoving her backwards, and she thinks he pushes her to the bed—but no, he shoves her against the wall and drags both of her arms up, pinning them to the stone with one large, rough hand. He is still kissing her, still making her head spin and her body arch in desire, even as his other hand wraps around to the back of her dress.
He removes his hand from where her arms are pinned and murmurs into her throat, “Do not move them,” before raking his teeth down the smooth column of her throat. Sansa tips her head back, focusing on the bite of his teeth against her pulse, and she draws in a gasp, but it will never be enough, never enough air.
“Do you want me to stop, my lady?” Jon rumbles, pausing before his hands wrap around the back of her dress to untie it.
Sansa disobeys his order and grabs his face with her hands, kissing him so hard she is certain her lips will be bruised come morning. “Don’t you dare,” she says, ripping her lips away from his to pant in the juncture of his neck. She feels his grin against the curve of her throat, and he nips at it before replying,
“Whatever the lady wishes.”
By the time Sansa has blinked, her dress is ripped off of her and Jon is rucking up her shift impatiently, kissing her like a starving wolf, pressing her into the wall with his body.
“Look at you, your prim and proper mouth, all red, just for me,” he taunts, pressing a finger against the swollen flesh. Sansa arches against his touch, begging for more but refusing to give in to his demands. “What would your mother think if she saw you right now?”
Sansa sees red at the mention of her mother, and she moves her hand lightning fast to rake her nails across his cheek. “Don’t you dare speak about my family ever again.” He catches her wrist with his hand, eyes darkening with... something.
“Oh, but they are my family too, dear cousin, aren’t they?” She doesn’t have time to choke out a reply before Jon’s hands are moving over the swell of her shift, rubbing at her breasts. She gasps, thought forgotten, and pushes herself into him. “You crave this bastard cock, don’t you?” he growls, fingers moving back down her body. “You want me. You’re depraved, aren’t you, Lady Sansa?”
—his words hit close to home; Sansa has known this ever since she saw him for the first time since their betrothal, five years ago, all of sixteen when the king visited, bringing his bastard son with him, born in the North and to a Stark, with the name Snow; the cousin she had grown up with but had not seen in three years, the man who made her depraved; she thought of him when her hand slipped between her legs, of his eyes and his mouth and his cock—
Sansa glares at him. “If I’m depraved, then so are you,” she says, glancing at his cock.
Jon’s mouth twists wickedly. “Sweet Sansa,” he says, voice dropping to a whisper as he reaches the straps of her shift. “I’ve known that for much longer than you.”
He pushes the straps of her shift off her shoulders, leaving her in nothing but her small clothes, and simply stares. It’s not in awe, but there’s hunger, pure, feral desire there, and Sansa feels raw power run through her.
—let Jon devour her like the wolf he is. Only another wolf could survive such a thing—
He moves for her, reaches for her, and Sansa finds herself pinned against the rough wall, stone scraping against her back as Jon presses his body into hers and kisses her. She fumbles with her hands, trying to get his jerkin off, but succeeds in only that much before he grabs her hands with his and puts them to her side.
Jon kisses his way down her body, mouth and beard scraping against her breasts. Sansa cries out when his beard brushes roughly against her nipple, and he only retaliates by biting it roughly, making her arch against him. She keens as he sucks at her breast, fingers dipping down to curl around her small clothes and push them off.
She’s nearly mad with pleasure now, delirious at what Jon is giving her, and yet it is not enough, still not enough. She needs more, more, more, or she will explode and die.
—and here’s the thing; for the few months for which they have been married, in the wake of her parents’ and brothers’ deaths, from sickness and war and heartbreak, Sansa has learned how to hurt him, how to tear him down and how to build him up; she has put him under her control without him even realizing it—
She fists her hands into his hair and slams her head back against the stone wall, panting into the air. “I guess it’s true what I heard about you.”
Jon pauses at this, tearing his mouth from her breast and meeting her eyes with his. His hand slips down to replace where his mouth has been, and Sansa lets a small cry slip as he rolls her nipples with his fingers. “And what would that be?” The dark gleam in his eyes says he knows what game she is playing, but Sansa does not care if he knows that he is walking into her trap. All that matters is that he stays in it.
“That you’d be rough. That because of your dragon blood, you wouldn’t know the difference between a sister, a Stark, and a wife. You’d treat me the same.”
Jon chuckles darkly, nail clipping sharply against her nipple. Sansa cries out softly in pain, but Jon pays no attention, simply watching her face cruelly. “Trust me, Sansa, if you were only my wife and not a Stark, I’d have locked you in this room and fucked you a long time ago.”
Her breath catches in her throat, but this, this is what she has been waiting for.
—Sansa may once have been built for sweet touches and promises, ribbons and perfume, but she is no longer like that; she is made for kiss swollen lips and bitten skin, made for the line between passion and pain, made for harsh words followed by a bruising touch, one that holds her close and sets her icy heart afire—
“How would you have fucked me, my lord?’ she asks, hips bucking, pressing herself against his cock as his fingers tighten on her hips.
Jon smirks. “You couldn’t begin to imagine all of the things I want to do to you, Sansa.” He slips a hand down her body, slow and steady and full of purpose. “I’d ruin you, for any man, ever again.” He slips two fingers inside of her cunt, full of purpose, and strokes, and she goes limp against him, melting into his arms. “I’d sink my cock inside your cunt so deep and so hard you wouldn’t be able to walk without feeling me inside of you. Look at how wet you are for me, Sansa. Your bastard lord, your bastard husband.” Jon thrusts into her, slow and purposeful, and she cries out slightly, gripping onto his arms. “I’d sup on your cunt, for hours, and hours, until you’d come so many times you’d be begging me to stop. I’d keep going, even when your throat gets ragged from screaming my name. And even then, I wouldn’t stop. After I finished, after I took my fill, I’d spread your thighs and fuck you, like the whore you are,” he whispers, low and dangerous. “I’d make you scream so loud the entire North knows you’re nothing more than a whore, begging for your husband’s cock.”
Her head is spinning, because this is too much, so much, and she wants everything that he is promising her right now, she needs it. She sinks her teeth into his sweat soaked shoulder when he strokes her walls, and colors explode behind her eyes. “Jon,” she pants.
He suddenly pulls his fingers out of her with no warning, and lifts them up to her lips. “Taste yourself, Sansa. Feel how wet you are for me.”
She squirms in his grasp, trying to shove her thighs together, desperate for friction, for something, but Jon wraps a hand around one of her thighs and pushes them apart. “Do it, Sansa.”
—she is helpless under his gaze, and she almost passes out right then and there from the purposeful look in his eyes; but she obeys him, lips wrapping around his fingers, eyes never breaking from his, and she sucks—
Jon growls and pulls his fingers out of her mouth, and before Sansa can register anything but the tangy, bitter taste of herself on her tongue and the dark way Jon whispers her name, he is dropping to his knees in front of her, mouth latching onto her cunt.
He licks up into her with no softness, no preamble, and Sansa almost collapses to the floor right then and there. “Jon!” she cries, legs shaking even as his lips fasten around her. Her head slams back against the stone wall, and her hands find their way to his hair, fisting themselves in his black curls and holding his face to her cunt. She bucks against his face, like some sort of animal, a depraved being in heat, because she needs more, she needs this.
His tongue strokes a wide, flat path up her slit, curling at the end so it catches her clit, and Sansa can hardly breathe, overtaken. Jon pushes his mouth even closer to her cunt, if that’s possible, fucks her rougher and harder and more viciously with his tongue. Her knees buckle, and he thrusts his tongue into her, spearing into there, cunt so tight and hot and wet that the feeling of his tongue there is too much for her to handle and she cries, writhing under his grasp. But he still hasn’t given her her release, because he knows her so well he can wait.
—the thought terrifies Sansa, because she will never be able to slip her fingers into her own cunt and pretend they’re his anymore, she will never be able to lay with another man to find relief; she is chained to Jon, to his kisses and his touches, whether she likes it or not now—
He licks at her folds, sucks at her clit, and Sansa groans, arching into his mouth. Jon hums and she nearly collapses right then and there, more slickness spilling out of her at the feeling of those vibrations moving through her, reaching her clit.
Jon wraps a hand around her waist and pushes his mouth into her cunt even harder, and Sansa’s eyes roll back into her head as his tongue thrusts back into her cunt again; and he can’t stop himself from savagely consuming her, eating her, a hunger that she thinks will never be satiated, a vicious, feral desire to ruin her for anyone else, her slickness spilling over his lips, coating his beard and chin; he’s drowning in it, drowning in her and her cries, her shouts of ecstasy and pleasure; his tongue rips out of her cunt and licks up her slit, catching all of the slickness spilling out her, determined not to lose a single drop, and he opens his mouth wide so he won’t miss a drop, his lips sliding, catching just before her clit, and then he thrusts into her with his tongue, moving, stroking her walls, brushing against that spot that makes her entire vision go white, building her up, hurtling her towards the edge, and she cannot stop herself from begging anymore, tears streaming down her face as her husband fucks her harder than she ever thought possible, completely lost to nothing but the sensation; and until her back scrapes roughly against the stone wall she doesn’t even realize she’s pushing her cunt into his mouth, pressing herself harder against him, determined to get more, but of what, she’s not sure, hands tightly gripping his black curls and forcing his mouth closer to her cunt, pushing her cunt into his lips as hard as she can, searching for something he refuses to grant her; she’s afraid she may literally die from how savagely he is tongue fucking her cunt, this brutal hunger that makes a vicious and painful cry tear out of her throat; even as it’s too much and not enough; panting as Jon lashes her clit with his tongue, flicking the nub back and forth quickly and grazing his teeth over it; he needs her to come more than he needs to breathe; and he would be happy to die beneath her legs, but he wants Sansa to watch him, to remember that he is the only person who can make her come like this, that he is the only person who can make her a whore and a lady at the same time.
—he doesn’t care about how painful it is for her, how much it is for her, whether or not she can take it, only about how badly he wants to eat her out, to fuck her, to destroy her for anyone else, and the thought only makes Sansa wetter and more desperate to come, more delirious with the need to orgasm and finish —
Jon bites her clit, lightly, but it’s enough to make Sansa’s eyes shoot open and lock with his, and fuck, this is hotter than anything else they’ve done, Jon feasting on her cunt while she watches him, and suddenly it’s far too much for Sansa, and with a brutal thrust of his tongue into her cunt, Jon tears an orgasm out of her, rips a scream from her throat even as her knees buckle and she collapses to the floor, vision blurring as she comes so hard and so brutally her ears are ringing. Jon catches her with his hands, gripping her waist tightly, lowering her to the floor, but Sansa can’t focus on anything other than the throbbing from her cunt and the waves of orgasm that render her blind to the rest of the world.
Her orgasm is so strong it feels like an eternity before Sansa comes back to reality, chest heaving, but even as she does, she realizes Jon’s mouth is still on her cunt, still eating her out as insatiably, as vigorously, as he had before, and she groans, writhing. “Jon, seven hells, please, it’s too much.” She lets out a broken sob, because it’s unbearable, her cunt sore and red and swollen beyond comfort, tipping towards pain.
Jon removes his mouth from her cunt for a second, chin smeared with her juices, and just smirks at her. “I think you can take a little more, my lady.”
—this isn’t about her, it’s about him, it’s about what he has been denied for so long, and Jon has the blood of a dragon and a wolf running through his veins, and far be it for him to be denied anything he has craved; far be it from him to sit back quietly now that he knows what she tastes like—
Sansa’s head falls back against the floor, but to her surprise Jon lifts his mouth from her cunt and picks her up. She feels utterly limp in his arms, but when he deposits her on the bed she arches up into him, desperate for him to finish whatever he started.
—she will go insane by the end of this, she knows it, the way Jon has made her body revolt against itself, how he has given her the sharpest pleasure and the strongest pain, how he has torn into her and put the pieces back together—
He kisses her, hot and hard, and she can taste herself on his tongue, and she instantly becomes addicted to it, to the taste of her cunt on Jon’s lips. She doesn’t get to taste it for long before he’s ripping his lips away, lowering his mouth to her breast.
Jon mouths at her nipple, smearing her slick over her breast, and she whines, high pitched. “Please, Jon. Please.”
He pauses, all of a sudden, and Sansa’s heart stops in her chest, fearful she said something wrong, but then Jon’s hand grabs her hips and he trusts two fingers into her as his lips attach around her clit, so suddenly her hips arch up into his mouth.
The hand currently free from her cunt wraps around one of her legs and drags it up over his shoulder, calf brushing against his back, and Sansa tries to keep her eyes open, to watch him, but it’s too much, her head falling back against the pillow and eyes squeezing shut.
Jon does not tease her this time, simply fucks her with his fingers and teeth and tongue so roughly that her entire body bows off the bed, and he has to lay a hand on her hip and push her back into it. When he thrusts his tongue back into her cunt, drawing a cry from her, her dazed brain can only think of how viciously he is ripping her apart, like a wolf tearing apart its prey.
She comes with a curse on her lips moments later, Jon’s teeth pinching her clit and his fingers rubbing at her walls, mouth wet and hot. He works her through her orgasm, this time slowly and methodically, lapping at her until her cunt, aching from the orgasm and the touches, starts to pinch, and she pushes him away. He goes, lifting his head up and giving her a wicked grin.
—but she still needs more, more and more, but her breathe has been stolen out of her lungs and her entire body is heaving, exhausted and sweaty, and she does not know how to ask him for what she needs, for what she needs him to give her—
She feels him, nosing at her neck, nipping at it roughly, and her eyes blink open to find Jon’s staring right into hers. “Jon,” she moans, her blood simmering. His fingers grab her nipple, and her voice breaks on a keen. “Jon,” she says again, unable to even move.
He lowers his head so his voice is right by her ear. “You’re not getting away from me so easily, my lady.” He grabs her hand and pushes it towards his breeches, and she gathers herself enough to realize he is pressing it against his cock through his clothes. “Do you feel that?” he asks, voice dark with fury and promise. She whimpers, suddenly meek, at the tense coil of muscles in his shoulder, as though he is about to turn from more beast than man.
—although, he already has; Sansa has never felt anything like this in her life, and she does not think she ever will again—
She nods, hair sticking to the side of her neck, soaked with sweat. “Do you feel how hard you make me?” he asks.
“Seven hells, Jon, please.”
Jon snarls, ripping his shirt off, breeches following not a moment later. He takes his cock in his hand and palms it, still hovering over Sansa. “I promise you, Sansa, one of these days I’ll lock you in this room and show just how you have tormented me this whole time.” Her hand slips down his chest and wraps around his cock, pushing his hand aside, and Jon bucks into her hand. “That pretty little highborn cunt I just supped on? I’ll spend hours between your legs, and you’ll moan like a bitch in heat, but I won’t let you come. I won’t let you leave this bed until you come, but Sansa—gods, do you have any idea what you do to me?”
Her eyes must be blown wide, and she feels a shudder wreck through her at Jon’s words. “You won’t come until I tell you to, and if I have to keep you in here for a year to let you know just what you have done to me, I will.”
Sansa bucks against him. “Are you going to fuck me, or not, Jon?” The words are dangerous, she knows, provoking him, but that is what she wants. She wants the torture, the pain, the punishment, at least, she only wants Jon to give them to her. She tugs at his cock lightly enough to make him groan, and Jon gently pushes her hand off of him.
Jon smirks. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing, my lady? I do, but I guess I’ll give you what you deserve.” He yanks her head back by her hair, biting at her neck, and Sansa shrieks at the pain, but before she can even register anything, Jon is pressing his cock against her cunt, and all other thoughts leave her head.
There is no mercy in his touch, and as she feels the impossibly hard, impossibly soft skin against her sodden folds, she feels, for the first time, slight fear. Jon will give her no kindness, no gentleness, nothing a husband should give his wife for coupling the first time, but Sansa reminds herself that Jon is not only her husband, but a bastard, illelgitimate, and the thrill that shoots through her at these words only proves her depravity.
“I’m going to fuck you like the bastard I am,” Jon promises, rutting against her cunt again. Her cunt is throbbing, so needy and so wet that the press of his cock against her folds, against her clit, causes her vision to blur and blacken, sending her mind spinning, body craving his touch.
—there is a dark future in his voice, and for the first time since they married, Sansa feels something other than fear at the thought of forever with him, forever with only his touch and his eyes—
Her voice is gone, and she gapes at him, desperate for his cock. She presses herself as much as he can, and Jon leers at her. “Look at you, so pathetic. So desperate for my cock. Tell me, Sansa, what would you do to get my cock, right now. What if your men could see you right now, begging like a whore in a brothel house for my cock, desperate to get fucked by your husband, by your bastard lord? What would everyone think about the Lady of Winterfell then?”
Sansa lets out a sob, aching for his cock, obsessed with release. “Jon.” The word is high and keening, and it’s enough to break Jon’s control.
He lines his cock, already weeping at the tip from how impossibly hard he is, with her cunt, and pushes into her slowly.
Sansa clutches his shoulders, baring her throat to him as her back arches, exposing the swollen, red, bitten skin of her neck. “Faster,” she begs, already thirsting for more. Her entire world is spinning, body overtaken with pleasure. She can’t focus on anything but the feeling of the cock in her cunt, but he isn’t in there, isn’t hitting deep like she thought he would, and she needs all of him, now.
—for a moment, she stops and thinks of getting a child by him, but if there is one thing Sansa knows, it is that Jon is an honorable man, and that he will protect his family at all costs, and she finds herself craving him even more at the thought of him putting a babe in her—
Jon stops suddenly, barely halfway in, and Sansa whimpers. “Jon, please. I need you.”
He bares his teeth at her. “Patience, my lady. Wouldn’t want all of the North to hear you like this, right? So eager for my cock?”
Sansa twists her head, pressing the side of her face into the sweat soaked sheets underneath her. “Faster. Go faster, harder, please . I need you. God, Jon, faster, please. Please,” she begs, all dignity and pride gone, laying in tatters on the floor.
Jon stills entirely, and Sansa’s terrified he will leave her, wanting, begging, because she needs him, she craves him with a hunger in her belly only he can satisfy, an insatiable thirst overtaking her entirely.
—she needs him like she has never needed anyone, and Sansa knows that for as long as she lives, she will never lie with another man again, never lie with someone else when Jon gave her all of the stars in the universe and all of the colors of the rainbow—
But then he rams into her; and Sansa’s entire body arches up into him, and then he pulls back out almost completely and plunges back in, thrusting in and out of her at a punishing pace, and she can hardly keep up, choking on her own breath, jerking underneath him as he slams into her cunt once more, so hard and so full she thinks she might be dreaming; because it’s too good, beyond amazing, and his cock is so large and hits so deep she thinks she might pass out before she even comes, the pleasure coursing through her closer to pain, and the way Jon presses into her is just too much, cunt throbbing around him, and he grabs her leg and hooks it around his waist, changing the angle and letting him go deeper, and her eyes roll into the back of her head as the tip of him slams against a certain spot, and he lowers his head to her neck and rakes his teeth down it as he thrusts into her once more, and it’s so much she thinks she might be coming already, but she’s not sure, and Jon shows no signs of letting up, only fucking her harder and harder every time she lets out a cry, but he’s not letting her crash over the edge, ramming his cock against her walls with purpose, with precision, and it drowns Sansa, how vile he seems to be, intent on fucking her, on leaving her starved, ravenous for an orgasm, how cruel and deviant and monstrous he is, fucking her, but refusing to let her come, but she aches for it, and her cunt can’t get enough, needs more, needs him, and even when he slips a hand down to her clit to tap at it, she cries out, because it’s still not enough, but her clit is enflamed, and his touch is agonizing, and he shifts slightly and fucks her even harder so that her clit is catching against his cock every time he pulls out of her, head dragging against her walls in such a way that makes her entire body shake, makes her body go limp underneath him to be fucked, and he spears back in, impaling her on his cock repeatedly, viciously, ferally, with no pleasure, like a beast who knows no limit, sending brutal ecstasy coursing through her veins, and she thinks she might die from the sheer pleasure assaulting her senses.
He grabs her hair, wrapping it around his hand, and forces her to look at him. “Look at you,” he spits, disgust and desire threaded throughout his voice. “So desperate for my cock, beyond reason. You’re so fucking wet for me, Sansa. So wet for your bastard lord’s, aren’t you? You want my cock, Sansa? Is that what you need? Your bastard husband’s cock? Desperate for me to touch you in a place no Stark should be touching you? Desperate for me to fuck you like only I can? Scream it,” he says lowly, voice darkening. His cock is still ramming in and out of her, pace ruthless, as he speaks, and she simply cannot process everything he is saying to her, so she lets out a wail, eyes squeezed shut, tears slipping down her cheeks.
—the worst part of everything Jon is saying is how right he is; because Sansa knows she is depraved, knows that her body, they everything about her is his; knows that she wants to be filled with him, only him, and she knows this is not how a lady would act, but she cannot help but desire what will surely be her downfall anyway—
“I’m the only one who can make you come, is that clear? Tell me, Sansa, just how long have you wanted my cock, deep in your cunt, so deep you can never walk again without feeling me? How long have you wanted your bastard husband’s cock in your highborn cunt, this pretty little, tight, hot, wet cunt? This cunt that no one else but me gets. This cunt that’s mine. What would you do for my cock, Sansa? You wanted my bastard cock buried inside of you, that’s it, aye? That highborn cunt, stuffed so full of bastard cock you can’t breathe, is that it?”
Jon wraps a hand around her throat, pressing slightly, and Sansa feels a fresh wave of slickness spill out of her as her breath is stopped for a split second, as it gets a little harder to choke down air. “You want to stay stuffed full of my cock forever, is that it, always coming, always begging for me? You want me to push my cock into you forever, that tight, wet, highborn cunt so full of my cock you’ll never be able to stop thinking about it, stop feeling it, stop wanting it? So full, so completely filled with cock you can’t even feel anything but it? Look at it, Sansa. Look at your pretty little cunt, stretched around my cock, taking me in. Take a look at how badly you want me.”
She moans, twisting her head away, but Jon’s hand around her throat moves to her hair, forcing her head down. She looks between their bodies, and she can just see where his body joins with hers, and then he pulls out and rams into her again, and the sight of his cock thrusting into her makes her vision cross, makes her heart skip a beat. She reaches a hand around and grabs Jon’s hip, pressing forward and slamming his cock into her cunt. The movement sends shockwaves down her back, potent and strong enough so that she claws at his back with her nails. “You’re taking me so good, Sansa,” Jon breathes, pushes into her.
He thrusts again, hard and fast, and his eyes focus on where his cock is disappearing into her cunt, coming out slick and smeared with her juices, and Sansa throws her head back, hair spilling out over the pillow, desperate to come, but still unable to until Jon decides to take her over the edge. Her legs shake from where they are locked around his hips, and she doesn’t know how much longer she can survive this torment.
“You want me so fucking badly, do you Sansa?” he taunts, rutting inside of her like some animal, like some beast. “I can feel how fucking wet you are for me. Do you get this wet for all men who want you, or just me, Sansa? Am I the only one who can make you this wet?”
She nods, breath stolen straight out of her lungs, body rubbing against the sheets as his thrusts become more precise and harder, plunge even deeper inside of her. “The Lady of Winterfell,” he says, “reduced to begging for a cock like a common whore. Gods, Sansa—fuck, you’re so wet for me, and it’s only for me, right, only for your bastard husband me fuck you like the bastard I am, Sansa, and you’ll only crave my cock until the day you die.”
—she’s fuller and wetter than she ever thought she could be, stuffed so full of bastard cock (her bastard husband’s cock) and it only makes her wetter and amplifies the throbbing of her cunt; her walls clench down but she still isn’t coming, and if she has to beg and beg and beg him, she will, because she needs to come or she will die—
“Your cunt feels so good around me, Sansa, better than I thought it would be. So hot and tight and wet and— fuck, Sansa, do you know how much I want to use this cunt, how much I want to fuck this cunt every day, how much I want to fill it with my cock, over and over and over again, how much I want to ram it full of my filthy fucking cock and spill my bastard seed into it? You’re taking me so good, so hot and wet, and you’re so tight. Gods—” he pants, breaking off as he presses her legs upward, letting his cock strike so deeply that Sansa’s no longer sure where she ends and Jon begins. “Would you suck my cock like that, like your cunt? Would your mouth be hot, and tight, and wet, and would it take my seed without question?”
She lets out a cry of ecstasy, because the thought of that, taking Jon into her mouth, is too much; it is something she wanted to do since the moment she saw him, put herself on her knees before him, and bring himself to her mercy.
—but right now she is at the mercy of Jon, at the mercy of his cock and his body, because he knows her so well he can stop her from coming and fuck her endlessly, but she can’t do that, can’t survive that, but she has no option but to ride the storm and hope he takes mercy on her soon, although he’s shown her none yet—
“This proper highborn cunt is mine, Sansa, and it will only be filled with my cock,” he growls, angling so that his cock scraps against her walls furiously, sending her thoughts spiralling. It’s such a violently perfect thought to her, the irony of it, her ladylike self and his warrior soul, her highborn cunt impaled on his bastard cock, stuffed excruciatingly full with his cock, with him. The things they could do together.
It sends perverse pleasure through her, and she breaks. “Jon, please, I need to come, please, Jon.”
She looks him in the eye, and she can pinpoint the second in which his control snaps, and he thrusts into her, brutally, at a punishing pace and so hard she can’t keep up with her own thrusts, pushing back on his weakly, and the bed underneath them creaks from the force of his hips pressing against hers, spearing his cock into her over and over again, so rigid, so solid and hard Sansa can’t keep her eyes from blurring.
Jon leans down and kisses her, and the only word to describe it is painful, because he bites at her lips and tears her mouth open with his own, pressing his tongue into her mouth, delving and tangling with her own; it’s a messy, sloppy kiss, but Sansa kisses him back just as bruisingly, desperate to touch as much of him with her own body as possible.
When he pulls away and rakes his teeth down her throat, sucking marks into her neck, Sansa whimpers, unable to stifle a cry as his teeth scrape over her nipple just as his cock drags out of her. Jon returns his hand to her throat, pressing against it harder, more insistent, and Sansa moans, clutching the sheets of the bed with her fists as a fresh wave of slickness spills out of her cunt at the feeling of her breath being constricted, just for a second, drenching his cock.
—she begs he doesn’t notice, doesn’t see her utterly shameful want, her corrupt, repulsive desires, her darkest indulgences, but he is paying far too close attention to her, and of course he does—
“You like that, don’t you?” he asks, stopping his thrusts. He pulls out of her almost entirely, just the tip resting inside of her, and looks at her, hand still resting on her throat. “Do you like being choked by me, Sansa? Do you like knowing I could wrap my hands around your pretty little neck and stop your breathing, at any time? Do you like knowing you’re at my mercy?”
“Jon,” she sobs, tears smeared on her cheeks. It’s a plea, a beg, a confirmation of everything he’s asked her.
His hand tightens on her neck, and she chokes, breaths coming shorter and shorter as he presses harder and harder. “I can’t believe Ned Stark raised such a shameless daughter,” Jon taunts, hand wrapping even tighter as Sansa desperately tries to inhale. He begins moving again, thrusting this time slowly and precisely. “A daughter who likes getting choked by her husband while his bastard cock is buried deep in her cunt, a daughter who begs for her husband’s cock like a whore.”
She tries to sob, drowning, engulfed in the sensations overtaking her body, and as Jon chokes her a little more, black spots dance in her vision, and everything boils down to the cock hammering in and out of her cunt, and feeling of being filled and emptied by him, her cunt drenched with slickness.
Her cunt burns as Jon fucks her, walls throbbing, and her clit feels more swollen than possible, and her entire body is ablaze with feeling. Her walls are so tight and they’re throbbing so hard with pleasure they feel like they are on fire, aflame with sharp, hot, suffocating pain that drives her deeper into oblivion, as he fucks her and chokes her even harder.
She can feel herself losing consciousness, black spots remaining longer and longer, but she’s sure Jon doesn’t care, fucking her to whatever end it takes. But she’s no longer even breathing right now, the hand around her throat crushing her airway so hard, and her vision swims before darkening.
And then Jon lifts his hand off of her throat, and she heaves in a huge gulp of air just as he pierces into her cunt once more, and her throat strangles the gasp that had been about to leave her lungs because there’s no air left in them after his sadistic impaling into her cunt, her walls clenching down on him, and her wetness floods her cunt, drenching his cock, and her cunt bursts into vicious pleasure, just shy of an orgasm, her walls spasming as they get closer to release.
She thinks she screams, but she’s so far away from reality she’s not sure.
“That’s it, Sansa,” he says. Jon lifts his mouth from her breasts and locks eyes with her, hands slipping to push her legs further up his shoulders so the both of them are at his shoulders, and Sansa arches her back and cries out, gripping the sheets of the bed, feeling him drive so deep into her cunt he seems to be in her belly. “Louder, Sansa, louder,” Jon demands, stilling his movements after a particularly rough thrust.
—she knows what he wants, for everyone to hear them, and it makes her hunger, because some dark, depraved part of her (the dark, depraved part of her that Jon brings out, that turns her from proper lady to wanton women) wants everyone to hear them, wants her to hear them so everyone knows that Jon is hers, and only hers, for the rest of his life; but there’s another part of her that doesn’t want anyone to hear, still shameful of her desire, her hunger, her need—
Jon may be the bastard born of the two of them, but she is just as lustful.
“I want them to hear you,” he commands. “I want them to hear their lady, begging for her bastard lord’s cock, begging to come. I want to hear you scream, Sansa. I want them to know you’re mine —fuck, only mine, I want to hear you beg for me, for your bastard husband’s cock. I want everyone to know just how much of a whore the Lady of Winterfell truly is. I need to fuck you—I need them to know you’re getting fucked by your lord and that’re you’re so wet for me your cunt is dripping , I want to fucking come inside of you Sansa, so badly—fuck, let me come inside of you. I want everyone to know that you’re coming from your filthy bastard lord’s cock, I want them to know you’re fucking letting my bastard cock spill inside of you, filling your cunt with my seed, that I’m the only one who can make you scream like a whore. I want everyone to know that your highborn cunt can only be filled with my cock, that beautiful cunt stretched only around me, begging for more. Beg, Sansa, beg for me, and let them hear. Let them know that it’s your bastard prince’s cock that stuffs your cunt and fills you so much you fucking come screaming on my cock, begging for more even after, more than only I can give you.”
She sobs, and Jon simply pushes into her and says “Louder.”
“Please, Jon, please. I need to come, please.” She’s rambling now, but Jon must find it something he likes because he moves faster, and this time, he hits her so perfect and so right her head spins, and she feels faint. “Jon, fuck me, please.”
“I’ll only fuck you if you let me come inside of you. Can you do that, Sansa? Can you let your bastard husband spill his seed inside of you, fill you with so much cum it’ll drip down your thighs whenever you stand? Will you let me come inside of you like a bastard? Like the bastard I am? Fuck—Sansa, I need to come inside of you, come inside that cunt I’ve been dreaming about spilling in for so long. ”
She nods again. “I’ll let you do whatever you want, Jon, just please, make me come. Please, Jon, please. I’m begging you, please let me come, please.” She’s fully crying now, begging him, fucking delirious and mad with want—she doesn’t even know what she’s saying anymore, only that she needs to be fucked, that she needs to come.
—she’ll give him the world and everything else if he lets her come, but she’ll give him the world and everything else anyways (her heart’s in danger, and she knows it)—
Jon growls, grabbing her by the hair and kissing her. He rips his lips away from hers for a second to whispers against them, “come for me, Sansa,” before kissing her brutally again. He thrusts, and his cock seems to hit deeper than ever before, slamming his entire length into her cunt as she croaks out a weak cry of pain against his mouth.
She doesn’t know what it is, perhaps the aching, tender walls of her cunt being assailed by the rigid flesh of his cock, the excrutiating pressure he slams against her with, or the hand that strokes down her back to knead at her hip, lifting her leg up higher, or even his whispered command, but something in her doesn’t just break, it shatters, and then she’s tearing her mouth from his and she’s actually fucking screaming as her orgasm rips through her, lacerating her brain and body, and she’s coming so forcefully the feeling consumes her, her back arching up off the bed, body bowed as her head dips backward, and her vision actually pitches black for a moment, her all her senses dulled as her body gives into the pleasure, her cunt clenching painfully, agonizingly, torturously around his cock, squeezing him so tight it steals the breath out of her lungs, and then he’s coming inside of her, burying himself so deep inside her she bucks against him in pain, letting a roar press against her hair, cock pulsing in her body, still fucking rutting into her as his seed spills into her cunt, hot and slick, and she can feel it slip out of her as he comes and comes and comes, and as her vision returns her entire body heaves with a breath, Jon’s thrusts finally slowing with his exhaustion, and her cunt stinging with relief.
She can’t breathe, all of a sudden, and she shifts slightly to get Jon’s weight off of her when her squirming causes his seed to spill out of her cunt, from where he’s still inside of her, and she moans, too fucking sensitive and overwhelmed to say anything.
Jon’s eyes blink open, heavy and blown wide, and he moves enough to get his body off of her, falling into the empty space next to Sansa, and she clutches the sheets as his cock slips out, covered in her juices and his cum, the feeling of emptiness both a balm and a burn against her folds.
Sansa lets her body come down from the high, chest heaving as she stares at the ceiling, realizing that this is the bed her father and mother used to sleep in, the bed where she fucked her bastard husband without restraint and liked it. The bed where she has shamed her parents beyond words.
—but she doesn’t regret it, not even for a moment, because his kisses and his touches and the way he spoke to her, the way his hands lingered on her body has made her feel more alive than she has felt in months, has turned her heart from ice back into fire, has thawed her soul out and brought life back into her veins—
She turns to look at him, only to find him already staring at her, eyes dark, and she reaches over silently and buries her hand in his hair, pulling him towards her. She kisses him, soft but with purpose, and no one can mistake the meaning behind it.
—he is hers, and she is his, from now until the end of their days, and she will rip apart anyone with her bare hands who thinks otherwise—
Jon pulls away first, and strokes her hair. “She doesn’t touch you,” Sansa promises.
He nods. “No one touches us.” He rolls over and pulls her closer to him, so she is draped over his chest. “Not now, not ever.”
Sansa nods. She knows what he means.
Their marriage is not for politics or for safety, it is not for children or for Winterfell. This part, this is for the two of them.
And they may do with each other whatever wolves see fit.