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with a sickened heart and sickened bones, a sickened way of wanting home

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Three days after Jon finds out his sister is his soulmate, he fucks her in her room while the moon is high in the sky. 

It is his salvation, and his damnation. 

It happens like this. 


Sansa has just turned sixteen, and Jon is eighteen, and they have hated each other for as long as they have breathed. 

And when he wakes up after a night full of dreaming of his sister (half-sister, his mind whispers, never letting him forget that he is a bastard) his blood boils with something other than hatred. 

Sansa is beautiful, no doubt, but she is the bitch lady of Winterfell, the first daughter of the woman who made his life miserable, the second trueborn child of the most honorable man in the Seven Kingdoms, and because of this, Jon cannot help but hate her. 

But the thought of fucking her, sliding into while she begs him, the thought of the castle, of Catelyn, hearing as he fucks her with no restraint has him harder than valyrian steel, throbbing. He spills into his hand twice that morning before he even rises. 

And at the table that morning, he turns to glance at his sister, only to find her looking at him. But the second his gaze lands on her, she flinches, almost violently, and nearly knocks over a glass as she rushes from the table. 

Jon smirks. This will be so much more fun than he thought. 

That night, Jon stands just a shade closer to her while they wait for the rest of the Starks to fill the hall, just a shade closer than what would be considered appropriate. Sansa is rigid, but the dress she is wearing does nothing to hide her breasts, the body Jon aches to take in his hands on beautiful display, the hair he needs to wrap around his fingers, and he smirks. 

“Sleep well last night, sister?’ 

Sansa glares at him. “Shut up,” she commands, tossing her long red hair behind her shoulder. Her blue eyes are like ice. 

But Jon has always loved the cold, and he is of the North. Ice does not frighten him. 

“Why, dear sister?” he taunts, shifting ever so slightly closer to her. “Is there something that you saw last night that frightened you?” 

Sansa fixes him with a glare, even as her cheeks blush vividly pink, and Jon does not stop the trailing of his eyes, watching the blush spill down her milky white skin to those perfect breasts. “Something that disgusted me, truly,” she says, voice colder than he has ever heard it. 

Jon’s gaze turns dark and furious at her words. “Don’t say such things, sister. The gods will not be happy.” 

Sansa smirks haughtily. “The gods have no control over me.” 

Jon steps even closer, pushing her into the wall. There is something that stirs inside of him, something feral, something animal, and Sansa’s breath catches in her throat as he raises a hand to brush against her cheek. He wants to slip his fingers between her legs and see if she is as wet for him as he thinks she is. “I wouldn’t say that, dear sister.” Jon trails a finger over the curve of her collarbone, dipping just a little further down to brush over the swell of her breast. “You know nothing.” 

“Get away from me,” she says again, pushing her hands against him. But Jon is not a warrior for nothing, and so he plants his feet and stays there. 

“You’re wound so tight, sister. You need a good fuck to loosen you up.” Jon grins at her, wolfishly. 

Sansa gasps, and then pushes at him even harder. This time, he lets himself be pushed back. “How dare you,” she spits. “Don’t ever come near me again.” 

Jon hears Rickon’s voice at the top of the stairs a moment later, and he steps away from his sister, putting plenty of distance between the two of them, and smirks at Sansa. “I’ll listen to you once you start being honest with me, sister.” 


That night, Jon has another dream. He is sure she is his now, dreaming of her more than one night in a row. And in the dream, he can do with her what he wants, free from the restraints of being a bastard, free from the shame of lusting after his own sister. 

In the dream, they have all the time in the world, and so Jon trails his hands down her body, skin softer than possible, just as he imagines it, determined not to leave an inch of her skin unkissed, untouched. When he finally puts his mouth on her cunt, it is wet, and she tastes so sweet Jon knows it is a dream, but he needs to find out. 

He wakes up, impossibly hard, aching with need, and he knows. He will have her in his bed, sooner or later. And for her benefit, Jon hopes it is sooner, because only the gods know that he cannot wait much longer. 

Jon finds her in the godswood that same day, the white of the snow surrounding them. She is the brightest thing for miles around, with red, red hair, and he likes how much it looks like blood. He has always found himself drawn to her. 

It is destructive, what is between them. It is not like Robb, who is his brother in every way, his best friend, the person he relies on. It is not like Arya, who is as wild and feral as he, the mirror image to him. It is not like Bran, or like Rickon, who he loves with all his heart, who he loves reading to and playing with. 

Sansa is not his sister just as much as she is, and Jon feels his blood stir at the thought of her wrapped around him, sinking into her cunt, raking his teeth down her neck. 

He clears his throat, and yet, she does not jump, only turns around slowly. She says nothing, simply flicks her eyes to his and back to the weirwood tree. “Surely you do not mean to defile me in this holy place,” she says, voice almost bored. 

Jon stalks forward, and place his hand on her hip. He draws her back towards him, her back pressed flush against his chest, and drags a hand through her hair so he can sweep it off her shoulder and whisper it into her ear. “Not yet,” he promises. “But you’d like that, wouldn’t you, sweet Sansa? Your brother fucking you in front of the old gods? You’d come harder because of that? Knowing that Father, that your mother, could find us?” 

Sansa stiffens in his arms, but she makes no move to push him away. “You’re depraved, Jon Snow,” she growls. “You’re not worthy of being here in Winterfell.” 

Jon smirks. “Aye, perhaps not. I am a bastard, and we are ruled by lust. Tell me, Sansa. How have you slept, the past few nights?” He drops his voice closer to her ear, so soft he is not even sure she can hear it. “I have done nothing but dream of you, and your pretty cunt, and the sounds you would make as I fucked you.” 

Sansa rips herself out of his grasp, whirling around. “You are no Stark, Jon,” she says, hair like fire, eyes like ice. “We cannot ever happen, no matter what the gods deem for us. It shall never be. I am to be betrothed to the prince.” 

Jon snarls at the idea of another man putting his hands on her, of getting what is his, and only his. “I am a Stark, Sansa. Don’t forget that. The same blood that flows in your veins flows in mine.” He presses forward, and she backs up until they are under the leaves, her back pressed against the trunk of the weirwood. “I am your brother, and yet, your cunt still gets wet at the thought of me fucking you.” 

The way Sansa’s gaze drops confirms it. “I will have you, Sansa,” Jon says. “And then you’ll never want a southron prince again, with a tiny cock. You’ll only crave my cock, and I’ll make you come so much the entire castle will know what the Lady of Winterfell sounds like coming on her bastard brother’s cock. Your mother, our father, they’ll know.” 

Sansa flushes, but she holds his gaze, cool and detached, with swirling emotions behind the depths of her eyes, and Jon realizes something. She has not run away yet. He smirks, and makes to turn. 

“Good day, sister.” 

That night, the dreams are more vivid than ever, and this time Sansa is not just breathing in his ear, begging for him to fuck her, but she is wrapping her arms around him, and Jon dreams of her sinking to her knees, taking his cock inside of her mouth, and he spends embarassingly quickly at the thought of it, waking up to find himself a sticky mess. It is still dark outside, yet he knows he will not be sleeping any more tonight, his body thrumming at the feel of her wrapped around him. 

He wonders how he can see her so perfectly, when they have never lain with each other, when he knows nothing about her that he wishes to know, but he knows it is only she for him. 

The gods have damned him, made him to lust after his sister, but Jon has been damned his whole life, from the moment of his birth. 

He leaves and trains in the courtyard until his muscles ache and he is dripping with sweat, until the quiet of the courtyard disappears as Winterfell rises, and the dark sky bleeds into day. 

Jon feels eyes boring into the back of his neck, and he turns slowly, swinging his sword over his shoulder to lock eyes with Sansa, standing atop the tower. Her gaze burns, white hot in the way only ice can be, and her eyes trace over his form. Jon smirks at her, recognizing the hunger in her eyes for what it is. But Sansa lifts her eyes to his, and smirks. 

Jon quirks an eyebrow, taken aback by this sudden change in attitude, but the look in her eyes is still the same, and the anger that tears through Jon’s veins has not changed. 

Sansa is not the monster, but she is still his demon, and hatred still flows in his veins. It only makes him want to fuck her even more. 

They hold each other’s gaze for a moment longer, and he is the first to break it, gaze falling to Arya as she calls for him, running out into the courtyard. He laughs and hugs her, and by the time he looks back up to where Sansa is, she is gone. He swings Arya around and ruffles her hair as he follows her back into the hall to breakfast, and in the corner of his eye, he sees Catelyn, eyes burning, mouth set in a grim line. 

Jon thinks she has seen Sansa, and the thought makes him dizzy with sick pleasure. He knows he will have her daughter by tonight. 

The night Jon Snow fucks his sister, it is silent, save for the sounds of the wolves echoing, and there is nothing left behind but the light of the moon. The whole of Winterfell has gone to bed long ago, and yet there is Jon, stalking his chambers, tormented by need. 

But he needs to make sure that no one sees him as he leaves his room. He only wants her screams to draw them to her door, nothing else. His fingers twitch as he imagines getting his hands on her body, and his mind screams at him to take her, to keep her, to steal her away, far away from the north and beyond the wall, to find a cave for the two of them to stay in for the rest of their lives, where he can hear her screams and sighs and moans for the rest of his life, where he can take and take and take everything he wants. 

Jon clenches his hands into fists and stalks over to his door, pushing it open. The hallway is silent. 

He makes it to her room fairly easily, slowly turning open the door and slipping inside. He expects her to be asleep in bed, perhaps in some pretty little shift that would stir his blood, and he would awake her by giving her the Lord’s kiss, wasting no time. Instead he finds Sansa sitting up, in a pretty little shift, yes, but otherwise very much awake and brushing her hair out slowly as she stares at the flame. 

She sets the brush aside and turns to him, red hair spilling over her bare shoulder and glinting in the light of the fire as she turns halfway toward him, not enough to lock eyes, but enough that her silhouette is stark and beautiful against the glow of the fire. 



He closes the door behind him, the click of the lock echoing loudly throughout the dark room. She rises at the sound, wrapping her arms around herself and turning to face him. In this light, she looks nothing like the soft, sweet girl she is around her father, she looks nothing like the harsh, cruel girl she is to him, she looks nothing like the Lady of Winterfell nor the possible future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. 

Instead, Sansa looks more wolf like than she ever has, blue eyes glinting coldly in the firelight, features harsh and sharp and beautiful, regal and powerful, and Jon has the sudden urge to lay himself before her, prostrate and beg for her forgiveness, and there is some deep, dark part of him that knows Sansa is destined for even greater than Queen. 

But they are not here for that, and so he steps towards her. She does not move, simply tilts her head and watches him. 

“What have you dreamt of?” he asks. He wants to know. He needs to know.

Sansa’s eyes trace his lips, his face, before they lock on his eyes. “Everything,” she whispers. She does not seem to be afraid anymore, but Jon is not good at this, at soft words and loving touches. He needs fire, and he needs ice, and he needs her to bite his lips and he needs to suck marks into her skin, and he needs to grab her so tight fingerprints will be left on her skin. 

“Tell me,” he commands. 

She quirks an eyebrow. “No.” 

Jon snarls, and lunges forward, wrapping an arm around her waist and dragging her closer to him. One hand slips into her hair, and he presses his thumb against that lip. “Do you defy me, Lady Sansa?” 

Sansa reaches a hand around his tunic, scrapes her fingers against his waist. “Are you going to take me like a bastard, Jon? Or are you going to stand there like a green boy?” 

Jon knows she is baiting him, but he does not care, and he gives in. 

He does not kiss her, but turns her around and shoves her towards the bed. She stumbles back on her feet and collapses on her bed, tangled limbs, and Jon is tossing his tunic into the corner of her room as she scrambles to sit up. He strips quickly, entirely naked, and Sansa watches him with wide eyes. 

This may be her first time, but Jon will be anything but gentle. 

He pushes her forward with his body, and his hands tear at her shift. The sound of ripping fabric is sweeter than anything Jon has ever heard, sweeter than the sting of steel against the air, sweeter than the surprised gasp Sansa lets out, and he leans in, pressing a kiss against her neck. 

He will not kiss her. Not yet. 

Jon rakes his teeth down Sansa’s beautiful white neck as his hands drag the pieces of her shift away from her, leaving her only in her small clothes, and it’s too much, having his sister writhing underneath him, begging for his touch. 

“No marks,” Sansa breathes. 

“No.” Jon says, sucking at the skin above her breast. “I’ll mark you however I want to.” 

Sansa glares at him, nails digging into his hip painfully. “No marks,” she says once more, eyes hard. 

Jon smirks at her, hand slipping down to twist her nipple in his fingers painfully. Sansa’s face melts from harsh anger to surprised pain, and she arches against him, crying out. Jon pinches her breasts, watching her face, always so expressive. 

“You’re in my hands now, sister,” he says, leaning in to whisper in her ear. Jon drags her face to his and kisses her for the first time. 

It’s a harsh kiss, full of pain, and his lips may become bruised from how harshly he is pressing against her lips, fingers still plucking at her nipple, and she lets out a silent sob against his mouth, kissing him back as fiercely as she can. They have always fought, and it only seems fitting they fight in bed as well. 

Jon pulls his mouth away from hers and thumbs her lip, which is reddened and swollen. “I wish your mother could come and see you here, in bed with your own brother. What would she think of her perfect daughter then?” 

Sansa whimpers at his words, as Jon drags his hands down her body and tears her smallclothes away from her body. He smirks when he feels how wet she is. “I always knew you were a bitch, Sansa, but I never thought you a whore. Getting wet when your brother is fucking you?” 

Sansa arches into his hand. Jon can barely restrain himself from slipping down her body and feasting on her cunt, but she could be a little wetter for him, slicker and more desperate. He bends down and licks at her nipple, just as his finger presses against her clit, and Sansa bucks against him. “Jon,” she cries, and it is too sweet. 

Jon tugs at her nipple with his teeth as he presses his thumb against her clit, fingers slowly pushing into her cunt. She’s so tight, a true maiden, and Jon does not care that her husband will be expecting a maid to come to their bed on a wedding night. She is his, for now, and forever. 

Jon fucks her with his fingers, thrusting into her and rubbing against her walls, feeling the way she gets wetter and wetter, the way her head slams back against the bed and her eyes struggle to stay open. He pulls his fingers out of her and thrusts them back in, drawing a wrenching sob from Sansa’s throat, and her juices spill and coat his fingers. Jon groans. “So tight, Sansa. Are you really that eager to have your own brother take your maidenhead? For me to sink my cock into your cunt, so deep you can never walk without feeling me again? After I fuck you,” he promises, voice dropping harsh and deep, “you’ll never want to be with another man again.” 

“Jon, please,” Sansa says. Her eyes twist shut as Jon presses another finger into her, mouth dropping open. “Are you all talk, or are you going to make me come?” 

Jon’s eyes darken, and he pulls his fingers out of her cunt harshly, without warning. She cries out in pain and the sudden loss of pleasure, and Jon licks her juices off of his fingers while watching her, watching as her eyes shoot open and lock with his. “You shouldn’t have said that, dear sister.” 

Sansa’s eyes harden with something, even as she worries at her lip, and Jon grabs her hips and flips them over, so she is above him, straddling him. “What—” she begins, but Jon drags her up towards his mouth, and thrusts his tongue into her cunt. 

He’s wanted her to ride him ever since the dream, and now that he has her where he wants, he doesn’t think he’ll ever let her go. 

Sansa is completely taken aback by the motion, letting out a sharp moan as soon as Jon sinks his tongue into her wet, waiting cunt, and she arches against him sharply, trying to push him off of her. But his hands tighten at her hips, holding her cunt to his mouth, and her head tips back in sheer pleasure, senses assaulted. She grabs the headboard, trying not to let herself collapse at the feeling of her tongue inside of her. 

He will never leave now, Jon swears, opening his mouth wider so he doesn’t miss a single drop of her juices. He fucks her with his tongue, licking at her folds, thrusting in and out of her, even as her walls get slicker and slicker, beard scraping against her, heightening her sensitivity. Sansa bucks against his mouth, pushing herself into his mouth, and Jon feels dark pleasure shoot through his veins at the thought of his sister begging for him, for her cunt to be feasted on by her brother. 

He drags his teeth against her clit lightly, and Sansa cries out, back arching. She can barely stand it, and Jon knows she is close to coming. His fingers suddenly lift her off of his mouth and flip her around, so she is pressed against the bed and he is hovering above her. Sansa’s eyes open, staring at him. “Why did you stop?” she asks, voice breaking. 

“I want you to watch me,” Jon promises. “Remember that it’s your brother who is fucking you, who is eating your cunt, dear sister. Watch as your bastard brother makes you come harder than any prince could. I’m going to fuck you like a bastard, sister. Like the bastard that I am.” 

Jon licks at her cunt, before thrusting into her, drawing a groan out of her. He fucks her messily, tongue twisting inside of her, rubbing against her slick walls, and drags her hips closer to him, grinding her cunt against his mouth. She writhes underneath him, panting, and he knows it is too much for her, especially as a maiden, but he couldn’t care less, and drags at her clit with his teeth, beard scraping against her folds harshly, dragging a soft scream from her. He presses her even closer against his mouth, if possible, and thrusts his tongue fully into her, rubbing it against her walls, and Sansa’s legs shake around his ears, her hands slipping into his hair to pull viciously at his hair, shoving her cunt closer to his mouth. Jon’s eyes flick up to watch her buck against him, fucking his mouth, and he can’t take it, and it’s still not enough, so he bites on her clit and watches as her mouth drops open in a silent scream and she arches against the bed, walls spasming violently around his tongue. Her body drops back down to bed and her gaze falls to him, and he smirks against her cunt before opening his mouth wider, dragging a flat, wide, slow path up her slit. 

Sansa lets out a long, pained moan, clutching at his hair even tighter. Her breath breaks in pants, and Jon is need delirious with the need to make her beg for him, to make her desperate for him, and only him. He wants to be the only thing she ever thinks about. 

He flicks the tip of his tongue over her slit over and over again, brushing enough to make her hips thrust, pushing closer to his face for more friction. She lets out a choked gasp when his tongue sinks into her, hot and wet and searching, only to pull out and resume gently licking at her clit, drawing out her desire. “Jon, please,” she begs, her voice choked with need. “I need to come.” 

Jon hums against her clit, making Sansa’s body twist, spasm in pleasure. He pushes her legs further apart and spears his tongue into her cunt, and she chokes out a weak cry. 

He’s done being gentle. 

He pushes her closer and grips her so tight with his hands he knows her hips will have bruises shaped like his fingers come morning. Sansa arches her head back, red hair spilling over the pillow, as she grinds against his mouth. He thrusts his tongue in and out of her, and her juices spill, flooding his mouth. Jon flicks his eyes up, only to find Sansa watching, and his control snaps like a taut string. 

Still keeping his eyes locked with hers, Jon pulls his tongue out of her cunt and flicks it against her clit, sending wracking waves of pleasure through her body. “Gods, Jon!” she cries, chest heaving. He tortures her clit, taking it between his teeth and working at it until she’s about to crash over the edge, and then backing off, pressing soft licks to her folds, until she can’t take any more, writhing on the bed and close to passing out. 

He wants her to know it is only him who can make her come, who can make her beg, who is supping on her cunt like it is the last thing he will ever do. He needs her to know it is her brother who is feasting on her cunt savagely enough that she will feel like she will tear apart. 

“Scream, Sansa,” he commands, pulling away from her cunt. She lets out a cry of protest, but Jon grips her hips tightly enough that she looks down. “Scream loud enough so that our father can hear what you let your brother do to you.” 

Her eyes are no longer clear ice, glazed over with the haze of pleasure, and some sort of sick pleasure spikes through Jon’s blood when he thinks of her always being in this haze of pleasure, mercy to his touch and his whim. Blue meets gray, and she watches him, the haze disappearing even as Jon watches her. “You promised to fuck me like a bastrd,” she says, voice still cool. “Do that, and maybe then everyone in the castle will know what bastards do to their sisters.” 

Jon snarls at her, but Sansa knows how to bait him perfectly. He spears back in and stokes her walls with his tongue, and he feels her body go nearly boneless underneath him, and when he bites her clit lightly with his teeth before twisting his tongue inside of her cunt so it drags against her walls in just the right way, she cries out, gripping his hair tightly and locking eyes with him as her first orgasm tears through her, her brother’s name on her lips. 

Jon laps at her through her first orgasm, drawing it out until she tugs on his hair harshly enough that he pulls away and glances up at her. Her body is beaded with sweat, and her chest heaves as she looks down on him. 

But he’s not quite satiated, and so he dips two fingers back into her cunt, curling them just so and feeling her walls flutter around them, still looking for more. Sansa weakly tries to bat his hand away, but Jon refuses. “I’ll make you come however many times I want, dear sister,” he says, pushing his fingers deeper into her cunt. Sansa whimpers weakly, and he relishes the sound. “You’re mine.” 

He draws another orgasm out of her with his fingers, and then another with his mouth and his hands, working at her until she’s covered in sweat and the bed underneath them is soaked, until he’s so hard he can barely see straight. He ruts into the bed, desperate for some kind of friction, before ripping one more nearly painful orgasm from Sansa. He pulls himself up and kisses her, hot and hard and suddenly, and her hands shake as they grip the side of his face, pulling him close to her. 

He knows she can taste herself on his tongue, so when she only kisses him harder he wraps a hand around her waist and drags her closer to him, pressing his cock against her cunt.

Sansa breaks the kiss with a gasp, and Jon bites hard at the spot where her neck meets her shoulder. Before she can even do anything, his hands are underneath her thighs, and she yelps as he flips her around, so her front is pressed against the bed. He pulls at her, pulling her up onto his knees, desperate to fuck her like heMs been dreaming about. Her palms slip against the bed as she struggles to right herself, and Jon wraps an arm around her stomach and pulls her up and closer to him, pressing himself against her. “You’re such a slut, Sansa,” he says, pressing his cock against her from behind. He drags a hand down her back, greedily watching the way it arches with the lightest press of his fingers. 

He winds his hand around her hip and presses a single finger into her cunt, cutting off a budding shriek in her throat. “You want me so badly you’re shaking with it.” And she is, if the way her breath catches in her throat is any indication. He bends down and bites her shoulders, and she presses her cunt into his hand, pushing his finger even deeper into her. He smirks against her skin, pulling his fingers out of his cunt and gripping her hip, smearing her juices over her skin. 

“Fuck, Sansa, I can’t wait to fuck you like the bastard I am. I can’t wait to fuck you like the slut you are.” 

She arches against him, and Jon is done with waiting. He wraps her red, red hair around his hands, pulling her head back, and thrusts into her, with no softness or gentleness. 

Like all of their fights, the result is cataclysmic. 

She cries out sharply, choking out a gasp, and Jon groans as her walls flutter around him. Her cunt is so tight and wet, so hot that he thinks he might come right then and there. Her walls clamp around him tightly, and Sansa cries out in pain as he rocks into her. “You can take me, Sansa,” Jon promises, pulling out of her slightly and thrusting back in. Her walls struggle to fit around him, and Sansa nearly collapses until he winds a hand around her stomach and pulls her up a little. 

Jon pulls out and spears back in, groaning at the way her walls suck at his cock, desperately trying to keep him from leaving her cunt, and she arches back, pressing her cunt greedily against his cock, determined to get even more. 

He pulls out and plunges back in, so quickly and so deeply she chokes on her words, even as she begs him to fuck her harder, even as they turn from words to nonsense. It’s so good he can barely see straight, and the slap of her skin against his is the sweetest thing he has ever heard. He fucks into her so hard and so fast she can’t do anything but arch against him, taking him in, and the arm around her stomach is the only thing keeping her suspended, from collapsing into the bed right then and there. 

She comes with a brutal curse on her lips, and Jon nearly comes himself at the feeling of her walls clenching around him, sealing him deeply inside of her. But she still hasn’t screamed his name, still hasn’t watched him as he fucks her. He wants the image seared into her brain. 

He scarcely gives her a moment to recover from her blinding orgasm before pulling out of her and flipping her around, so she is on her back and underneath him. He drags a hand through her hair, pulling it away from her face so her eyes can look right into his. 

“I want you scream my name when you’re getting fucked, Sansa. I want you to scream my name—your bastard brother’s name, while you’re getting fucked harder and rougher than you can take.” Her eyes darken at this, and Jon leans down to nip at her bottom lip before looking back at her. He lines up his cock with her cunt and thrusts into her once more, and the different angle is sheer pleasure as he sinks into her, deep and hard, and her walls are so tight around him he can barely stand it. 

Sansa’s eyes roll back into her head as he thrusts into her, sharply, carefully, dragging his cock against that spot on her walls that makes her breath choke, stop in her lungs. She wraps a hand around his waist and grabs his ass, digging her nails in and pushing him further, deeper into her cunt. Jon snarls and grabs her face, forcing her to look at him. “Looks at you, Sansa. So prim and proper, yet so desperate to get fucked by her bastard brother, with his filthy cock.” 

He grabs her thigh and hitches it further up, striking deeper inside of her cunt, pulling a soft, sharp cry out of her. “I’m so deep inside this highborn cunt that I think I’ll never leave. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Everyone knowing that the lady of Winterfell, the future Queen, only wants to get fucked by her bastard brother and his dirty cock.” 

She struggles to keep her eyes open, from succumbing to the waves of pleasure that are tearing her apart, but Jon thrusts blindingly hard into her whenever her eyes drift close, sending piercing pain and pleasure throughout her body, and so she keeps them open, forces herself to look at him. 

“Fuck me, Jon. Or stop talking.” 

He smirks. “I’ll fuck you, Sansa,” he says. He pulls out of her and then pushes back in, slowly, methodically, relishing the way her walls suck at his cock, the way they flutter around him. She’s almost there, he can feel it. But he wants her screaming his name into the winter air, wants her cunt dripping with how much she wants him. 

He wants her to go mad for him, as mad as he has gone for her. 

He rakes his teeth down her neck sharply enough to draw a sharp gasp from her, sliding his hands underneath her thighs and pulling her even closer to him, striking deep enough inside her cunt that she arches against him slightly. Her slick walls clench around him, and he’s hard enough that his vision blurs with the need to come. 

Jon snarls at her, a fierce twist of lips that comes from the wolf inside of him. “I thought I told you I wanted you to scream, Sansa.” He slams his cock into her, plundering hard enough that her nails rake down his back as she grapples for purchase, and Jon can feel the waves of orgasm threatening to overwhelm her from the way her walls squeeze around him, so tight his breath feels like it is being stolen from his lungs. “Fuck, I want them to hear you scream —to beg for my cock, to hear the lady of Winterfell begging for her bastard brother’s cock to fill her cunt. Just imagine what the prince would think of you then. Would he still want a whore for a queen?” Sansa sobs as he strikes deeper, face smeared with tears. Jon shifts slightly, changing his angle so he thrusts his cock against her walls even rougher. “Fuck—this cunt, this beautiful highborn cunt is mine, Sansa, and when I’m done with you, all of Winterfell will know how the daughter of Lord Stark likes to be fucked,” he says, dropping his voice to a whisper as he leans closer. “How she likes to be fucked by her bastard brother, her cunt filled with his cock. How she begs like a slut to come, how hot and wet her cunt gets at the thought of being taken by a wolf, by her own blood.” 

“Jon,” she cries plaintively. Her nails dig into his arms, and the sound of his name falling from her lips is all he needs. 

“Do you know how this cunt has tormented me, dear sister? How much I’ve dreamed about it, stuffing it so full of my bastard cock you can’t breathe? Filling it with my seed, fucking it for hours, every day? Tell me, Sansa. Does your pretty little highborn cunt like being stuffed full of bastard cock? Your brother’s bastard cock?” 

When she doesn’t answer him, Jon pulls out of her and slams into her harder, drawing a wrenching cry from her throat. “Answer me. Do you think the prince, any lord, can fuck you like this? Do any of them get you this wet?” 

She shakes her head, red hair spilling. “No, only you—only you, Jon,” she babbles. He brushes a strand of hair from her eyes, so she can look at him. 

“Come on, Sansa,” he says. “I know you can do it. Come for me, and let the whole of Winterfell know how much a slut you are. Fuck—” he groans, sinking deep inside of her, enough to make her eyes roll back into her head. “Show everyone in Westeros just how full your cunt is with my cock. How your highborn cunt is so stuffed with bastard cock you can’t breathe. How you only want your bastard brother to fuck you, with his filthy fucking bastard cock inside your tight, pretty cunt. Let everyone know the lady of Winterfell will let her bastard brother fill her cunt with his seed, wants his cock to fill her cunt. Beg, and let all of Westeros know just how depraved the daughter of Eddard Stark is, getting so wet when her own brother is fucking her that her cunt is dripping. Let everyone know that the lady of Winterfell is desperate to get fucked a bastard, so desperate for cock that when she comes screaming on her own brother’s cock, she still begs for more.” 

Jon pulls out and hammers into Sansa, so fast and so hard she squeezes her eyes shut. “Please, Jon, let me come.”

Jon grins. “I’ll only let you come if you let me come inside of you. Drink the tea, I don’t want a bastard. But will you let me come inside this cunt that I’ve been dreaming about for so long? Fuck, Sansa, please. Let me spill my seed inside of you like I’ve been wanting to. In this beautiful cunt, stretched so tight around my cock.” 

She nods, half delirious, and Jon knows that even though she will take the tea, and he will not beget a bastard by her, he still knows there will come a day when he will spill inside of her and see her swollen with his child, even if he must make it so. 

He presses into her, bottoming inside of her so deep he thinks he must be in her stomach, her cunt clenching tightly around him. He pinches her nipple just as he thrusts into her hard and fast, cock scraping against the most sensitive spot inside of her cunt, and she comes on his cock, violently, beautifully, screaming his name into the air, cunt clenching like a vise around his shaft, walls spasming in pleasure. He can almost see her mind shatter. 

Jon follows not a second later, burying his head into her neck as his vision pitches back for a moment, her walls milking his cock as it pulses inside of her, spilling his seed. 

He spills and spills and spills, and it draws out her orgasm as well, and she chokes out a gasp into the curve of his throat as she comes, and it is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen, his sister coming on his cock, eyes squeezed shut as her body betrays her. 

Jon smirks. He will never let her go a day without thinking of his cock inside of her again. 

Her orgasm finally subsides, and she sinks back into the bed, weak and satiated, eyes glossy with orgasm. And when he shifts slightly, letting his cock fall out of her, covered in his cum and her juices, she barely flinches, only winces, and the dazed look does not erase itself from her eyes. 

Jon smiles, and drags her closer to him, leaning down and wrapping his lips around her nipple. Sansa bucks against him in weak protest, but Jon can tell she will soon give in. 

“I’m not quite done with you yet, dear sister,” he promises her. He’ll never truly be finished with her. 

Too many dead Starks and three wars later, the King in the North pins his sister—no, his cousin, his Queen, against her wall, grips her waist and kisses her without any warning. 

And from the way she scrapes at his back, he knows she remembers. 

He has almost died too many times to count, has died once, and everything he has been through, everything, was worth it, if only to come back to her. 

Sansa Stark was never his true enemy, anyways. He knows that now. And is the way she clutches him tightly and kisses him with trembling hands is any indication, she feels the same way. 

And with her, he finds a peace that he had only previously held in his dreams.