Comment fic meme

[gotexchange_mod]

Some members liked the idea of having a kink meme/comment fic meme on got_exchange, especially since the other ASOIAF/GoT kink memes are fairly dead at the moment. (It's only posted on the mod account journal because I don't want anonymous comments on the exchange comm.)

A couple of rules before we start:

- please include the pairing/character (and maybe a short

Comments

Someone Must Protect You, 6/8

[just_a_dram]

She swore to her maidenhood, when Tyrion had their marriage put aside, but perhaps no one save Tyrion truly believed her. Perhaps if she had submitted to an examination by the septas, which Tyrion said was wholly unnecessary. Perhaps not even he thought she escaped Littlefinger intact and meant to spare her. She had grown very skilled at delicately putting Petyr off. Mourning her lady mother. Mourning Harry. Mourning Sweetrobin. But she was running out of people to mourn and his bedroom was too close to hers, his kisses to insistent.

“Is it very bad?” she asks, sounding like the Sansa of old-young and uncertain-as she shifts slightly underneath him until the pinching is mostly relieved.

His eyes close, as he moves inside of her and then stops again, looking as if he is in pain. “That’s the damn problem, Sansa: it’s very good,” he says through gritted teeth.

If she has not disappointed him, if he is only reluctant, she can manage that. She can soothe him, for she is good at that. “It doesn’t matter,” she says with more certainty. Harry would have taken it if he had not been poisoned. Petyr would have taken it if he had not been shoved. One of Jon’s bannermen would have taken it, when an appropriate match could be made. Now she has given it. She grabs his face, framing his square jaw with her hands, so he must look at her, when she says, “There is already so much blood, Jaime.” Blood on his face, blood on the bed, blood in the fields, and on her hands, on both of their hands. What does a little blood signify?

He sighs and strokes her brow with a tenderness that was not there previously, as he rocks his hips into hers.

She will be sore, she can tell, but the bite of the pain is gone, and she focuses on the feel of his chest against hers, his hand tangled in her hair, his handsome face a hairsbreadth from hers, and the nonsense he murmurs into her ear, as he slides in and out of her, setting up a slow rhythm that is less uncomfortable and more pleasurable with every passing moment.

She has wondered what this would be like-her and him-for many moons, just as she once wondered vaguely about what it would be like to lay with her lord husband. A guilty form of speculation as she drifted off to sleep. Here in this tent, it is not so far off from what she first dreamt of with Jaime, when they were miserable, traveling north through cold and snow, doubting whether they would reach Jon alive. Indeed, a tent would have been a luxury compared to what she dreamt of on the hard, frozen ground, while they shared a blanket for warmth.

She wonders, as she listens to the sounds they make together-primitive sounds that make blood rush to her face-whether he ever imagined this moment. She would ask him, but she is not so bold; she has expended her boldness already. Instead, she works a hand underneath his tunic, caressing the smooth of his skin there at his side, where he is narrow despite his age, where he is not marred by scars, where she can feel the play of the muscles beneath his skin as he moves against her, inside of her.

There is a reason this is something for lord husbands and lady wives. She has never been so close to another person, but instead of feeling exposed or vulnerable, she feels perfectly cocooned in his strength. It is as if he is making another promise to her.

She knows already that she was not meant for Joffrey. Maybe she was meant for this, for him.

His golden hand is a cool distraction against her bare thigh, when he drags it down her body and draws her leg up alongside his hip. Suddenly the angle has changed, and Sansa buries her face in his neck as the feel of him becomes more intense, more tightly focused. His hand has no give as it presses to her hip, helping her meet his quickening thrusts. She thinks she knows what he wants, and she imitates his movements, his rhythm, rocking up to meet him, and when he groans, Sansa smiles to herself.

She has stirred something inside of him, and his hips begin to snap more quickly, more erratically, and her heart beats against her chest like a bird against a cage at the sensation and the knowledge that this is real. She is not lost in her head, lost in fantasy. This is real.