Fic: And Like A Stone, I Will Not Break (Mya Stone/Sansa, Gendry/Sansa, Jon/Sansa), M
From the kinkmeme prompt: "Gendry/Sansa, Jon/Sansa, Mya/Sansa. After her stint as a bastard, Sansa developed a taste for them."
Except, you know, it's ME so it went to the Feels Place. As it always, always does.
Sansa loves the nights Mya shares her bed. At first, it was simply because she felt safer, knowing that Petyr would never dare try to sneak into her chambers when someone else was there. And of course, she'd always been fond of a sweet, warm weight next to hers under the bedclothes, of secrets and whispers shared in the dark. And then when those whispers and giggles had turned into kisses, Sansa had loved those, too. She and Jeyne had kissed each other sometimes in the darkness of her bedchambers. What she and Mya do feels very different from those tentative explorations. Mya's lips are stronger and more sure, her tongue more daring, and while Jeyne's kisses had ignited a pleasant spark in Sansa's belly, Mya's make her ache and twist in the sheets.
This night, Mya has done more than just kiss Sansa. She has licked and nipped at Sansa's neck, has cupped her breast through the thin linen of Sansa's night shift, has said words in Sansa's ear that are as thrilling as they are shocking, and Sansa thinks she might bite through her lower lip when Mya's hand begins to glide lower.
Feeling that some sort of protest, no matter how token, is called for, Sansa reaches down and loosely circles Mya's wrist with her fingers. "You can't," she pants. "Ladies don't-,"
Mya shakes off Sansa's hand, cupping her through her nightdress and making Sansa moan and arch her back. "Are there ladies about?" Mya teases, looking around her even as she begins to stroke some part of Sansa that leaves her gasping and digging her heels into the mattress. "Because I see only two bastard girls, one of whom has the wettest cunt I've ever touched."
"Mya." Sansa means to sound reprimanding, but the other girl's name is a whimper on her lips. The use of such a filthy word and the stroking of Mya's fingers against that sweet secret spot have Sansa feeling more than a little mad.
"Alayne," Mya murmurs in response, leaning down to suckle one of Sansa's nipples.
Alayne. Yes, I'm Alayne now.
It was said that bastards were lustier and more licentious than trueborn children, although Sansa had never truly believed that. The only bastard she'd ever known had been Jon Snow, and he had been better at following rules than any of the Stark children save her.
But she was not a Stark any longer and Mya, sweet Mya with her clever fingers and husky voice, murmuring over and over again how lovely she was, how good, only wanted Alayne, and wanted her for no other reason that she was lovely and good.
Perhaps that was one of the only good things about being a bastard. It meant that people could only ever want you for the person you were, not for the title you held, or the lands you owned. And as Sansa- Alayne- shakes and cries out and surges against Mya's hand, she decides that being a bastard rather suits her.
***
He keeps to himself now that Arya is gone.
Sansa cannot blame him. She feels her sister's absence keenly, much as she tries not to show it. For so long, she had thought that if only some part of her family could be knitted back together, it would be enough. Mother, Father and Robb lost to death, Bran and Rickon lost to the wilds of the world, but she, Arya, and Jon, they could make something out of the ragged bits of themselves, stitch Winterfell back together. Only Jon refused to leave his Wall, and Arya had stayed at Winterfell not even half a year before disappearing one night without so much as a word.
"She'll return eventually," Sansa told the young blacksmith the next morning.
He just shook his head, shaggy black hair falling into eyes the same bright blue as Mya's. "No, she won't."
But Gendry stays on at Winterfell nonetheless, perhaps because some part of him still wants to wait for Arya, or perhaps because he simply has nowhere else to go. Sansa doesn't mind. He's a good blacksmith and it's strangely comforting, having someone else who seems as lonely as she is. She wonders if he feels as out of place in Winterfell as she did in the Vale.
When they get a new- and rare- shipment of wine in, Sansa brings Gendry a bottle herself, knowing that he rarely leaves the smithy these days. It's probably the glow from the fire, but she could swear he blushes a bit when she comes in, perhaps because he's discarded his shirt and stands sweat-streaked in front of her. However, when she takes the cork from the wine and swigs a sip directly from the bottle before handing it to him, some of Gendry's uneasiness seems to fade, and before long, they sit in comfortable silence, passing the bottle back and forth between them.
It's empty when Gendry finally says, "You don't look a thing like her," and then there is no longer a space between them and his mouth is on hers.
He is less sure than his half-sister was all those years ago, but his hands on her body feel just as good, if not quite as steady. When she stands before his cot and strips out of her gown, the look on his face is somewhere between need and awe. "Seven hells," he says softly, and Sansa finds herself smiling. She straddles his lap, guiding him into her as he kisses her, his lips hot and salty with sweat, but surprisingly tender.
Afterward, they lie on his cot, her head tucked under his chin. Her body still hums pleasantly, and she knows she will never look at Gendry's hands again without feeling a flutter in her stomach.
"I don't," Gendry says before shaking his head a little. "I hope you don't think...I know you're a lady, and I'm just bastard, and a big, stupid one at that, but-,"
Sansa sits up a little, covering his mouth first with her fingers, then with her lips. "It's alright."
When she settles back into his arms, Gendry presses a hesitant kiss to her temple. She is nearly asleep when he says, "I miss her so bloody much."
Sansa holds him tighter. "So do I."
***
Jon Snow is at once achingly familiar and a complete stranger.
He comes to Winterfell not long after Gendry had left, and when he rides through the gates, Sansa is not sure whether she wants to strike him or throw her arms around him. She settles for letting him kiss her hand, and if she feels a strange pulse shoot through her when his lips touch her skin, she does her best to ignore it. She has been alone too long, that is all there is to it.
All those ravens unanswered, save for the very first, telling her he was staying at the Wall and would not be returning home. All that time wondering if, had it been Bran, or Arya, or Robb who had summoned him, he would have come.
She asks him that after he's been at Winterfell for nearly a fortnight. She wishes she had wine to blame, but she had only had half a glass, and Jon had had none at all. They are sitting in her chamber, the fire low, and Jon flexes the fingers of his burned hand over and over again.
"It was not that, Sansa," he says softly, but he won't meet her eyes.
Perhaps it is a need to atone in some way, or at least to make him see how she has changed that has Sansa saying, "I was a bastard, too, you know. At the Vale. Alayne Stone was my name."
Jon looks at her then, his eyes dark. "I knew that." And then his lips quirk, something like a smile ghosting across his face. "But you were never a bastard in truth."
"Nor were you," she reminds him, and now he does smile, and Sansa remembers that kiss on her hand, the strange feeling that has vibrated in the air ever since Jon arrived.
"Oh, I was. Am. A royal bastard, perhaps, but my parents were never married."
"I sometimes wish I were a bastard still," Sansa says, the words tumbling from her lips before she can even think on them, much less stop them. "At least then I felt as though people were looking at me and actually seeing me, not my mother or Winterfell or a claim to the North."
Jon is out of his chair and crossing to her chaise almost before she is finished speaking. "I see you, Sansa," he tells her, scarred palm against her cheek. "I see you."
They sit in silence for a long while, Jon's hand against her face, her own hand keeping it there. And then, with another of those smiles, he ventures, "Although I dare say I would have liked Alayne Stone."
Sansa looks up and their gaze hold. "You would have," she agrees, heat spooling through her belly. "Alayne Stone would have asked you to go to bed with her tonight."
His breath catches, and Sansa sees the way his eyes darken and drop to her mouth. "Sansa-,"
She leans forward and kisses him, so softly and gently it can barely be called a kiss. "Would you let me be Alayne for one more night, Jon?"
Jon Snow's hands are thinner than Gendry's, the fingers longer, the palms rough and scarred, but they are just as strong, and like Gendry, Jon knows how to put them to good use on a woman's body.
And like Mya, he croons such soft, lovely words in Sansa's bed, calling her sweet, and good, and so very beautiful, even as he does things to her that rob her of breath and leave her tangling her hands in the sheets, in his hair, in her own skirts. She comes apart under his mouth, trying to remember the last time anything felt this good.
Later, Jon sleeps against her breast and she strokes his hair, thinking of him, and of Gendry, and of Mya. Perhaps, she decides, it's not that bastards are lustful and licentious so much as lonely.
And if that's the case, Sansa thinks, kissing Jon's brow, then yes, being Alayne Stone certainly suits her more.
Except, you know, it's ME so it went to the Feels Place. As it always, always does.
Sansa loves the nights Mya shares her bed. At first, it was simply because she felt safer, knowing that Petyr would never dare try to sneak into her chambers when someone else was there. And of course, she'd always been fond of a sweet, warm weight next to hers under the bedclothes, of secrets and whispers shared in the dark. And then when those whispers and giggles had turned into kisses, Sansa had loved those, too. She and Jeyne had kissed each other sometimes in the darkness of her bedchambers. What she and Mya do feels very different from those tentative explorations. Mya's lips are stronger and more sure, her tongue more daring, and while Jeyne's kisses had ignited a pleasant spark in Sansa's belly, Mya's make her ache and twist in the sheets.
This night, Mya has done more than just kiss Sansa. She has licked and nipped at Sansa's neck, has cupped her breast through the thin linen of Sansa's night shift, has said words in Sansa's ear that are as thrilling as they are shocking, and Sansa thinks she might bite through her lower lip when Mya's hand begins to glide lower.
Feeling that some sort of protest, no matter how token, is called for, Sansa reaches down and loosely circles Mya's wrist with her fingers. "You can't," she pants. "Ladies don't-,"
Mya shakes off Sansa's hand, cupping her through her nightdress and making Sansa moan and arch her back. "Are there ladies about?" Mya teases, looking around her even as she begins to stroke some part of Sansa that leaves her gasping and digging her heels into the mattress. "Because I see only two bastard girls, one of whom has the wettest cunt I've ever touched."
"Mya." Sansa means to sound reprimanding, but the other girl's name is a whimper on her lips. The use of such a filthy word and the stroking of Mya's fingers against that sweet secret spot have Sansa feeling more than a little mad.
"Alayne," Mya murmurs in response, leaning down to suckle one of Sansa's nipples.
Alayne. Yes, I'm Alayne now.
It was said that bastards were lustier and more licentious than trueborn children, although Sansa had never truly believed that. The only bastard she'd ever known had been Jon Snow, and he had been better at following rules than any of the Stark children save her.
But she was not a Stark any longer and Mya, sweet Mya with her clever fingers and husky voice, murmuring over and over again how lovely she was, how good, only wanted Alayne, and wanted her for no other reason that she was lovely and good.
Perhaps that was one of the only good things about being a bastard. It meant that people could only ever want you for the person you were, not for the title you held, or the lands you owned. And as Sansa- Alayne- shakes and cries out and surges against Mya's hand, she decides that being a bastard rather suits her.
***
He keeps to himself now that Arya is gone.
Sansa cannot blame him. She feels her sister's absence keenly, much as she tries not to show it. For so long, she had thought that if only some part of her family could be knitted back together, it would be enough. Mother, Father and Robb lost to death, Bran and Rickon lost to the wilds of the world, but she, Arya, and Jon, they could make something out of the ragged bits of themselves, stitch Winterfell back together. Only Jon refused to leave his Wall, and Arya had stayed at Winterfell not even half a year before disappearing one night without so much as a word.
"She'll return eventually," Sansa told the young blacksmith the next morning.
He just shook his head, shaggy black hair falling into eyes the same bright blue as Mya's. "No, she won't."
But Gendry stays on at Winterfell nonetheless, perhaps because some part of him still wants to wait for Arya, or perhaps because he simply has nowhere else to go. Sansa doesn't mind. He's a good blacksmith and it's strangely comforting, having someone else who seems as lonely as she is. She wonders if he feels as out of place in Winterfell as she did in the Vale.
When they get a new- and rare- shipment of wine in, Sansa brings Gendry a bottle herself, knowing that he rarely leaves the smithy these days. It's probably the glow from the fire, but she could swear he blushes a bit when she comes in, perhaps because he's discarded his shirt and stands sweat-streaked in front of her. However, when she takes the cork from the wine and swigs a sip directly from the bottle before handing it to him, some of Gendry's uneasiness seems to fade, and before long, they sit in comfortable silence, passing the bottle back and forth between them.
It's empty when Gendry finally says, "You don't look a thing like her," and then there is no longer a space between them and his mouth is on hers.
He is less sure than his half-sister was all those years ago, but his hands on her body feel just as good, if not quite as steady. When she stands before his cot and strips out of her gown, the look on his face is somewhere between need and awe. "Seven hells," he says softly, and Sansa finds herself smiling. She straddles his lap, guiding him into her as he kisses her, his lips hot and salty with sweat, but surprisingly tender.
Afterward, they lie on his cot, her head tucked under his chin. Her body still hums pleasantly, and she knows she will never look at Gendry's hands again without feeling a flutter in her stomach.
"I don't," Gendry says before shaking his head a little. "I hope you don't think...I know you're a lady, and I'm just bastard, and a big, stupid one at that, but-,"
Sansa sits up a little, covering his mouth first with her fingers, then with her lips. "It's alright."
When she settles back into his arms, Gendry presses a hesitant kiss to her temple. She is nearly asleep when he says, "I miss her so bloody much."
Sansa holds him tighter. "So do I."
***
Jon Snow is at once achingly familiar and a complete stranger.
He comes to Winterfell not long after Gendry had left, and when he rides through the gates, Sansa is not sure whether she wants to strike him or throw her arms around him. She settles for letting him kiss her hand, and if she feels a strange pulse shoot through her when his lips touch her skin, she does her best to ignore it. She has been alone too long, that is all there is to it.
All those ravens unanswered, save for the very first, telling her he was staying at the Wall and would not be returning home. All that time wondering if, had it been Bran, or Arya, or Robb who had summoned him, he would have come.
She asks him that after he's been at Winterfell for nearly a fortnight. She wishes she had wine to blame, but she had only had half a glass, and Jon had had none at all. They are sitting in her chamber, the fire low, and Jon flexes the fingers of his burned hand over and over again.
"It was not that, Sansa," he says softly, but he won't meet her eyes.
Perhaps it is a need to atone in some way, or at least to make him see how she has changed that has Sansa saying, "I was a bastard, too, you know. At the Vale. Alayne Stone was my name."
Jon looks at her then, his eyes dark. "I knew that." And then his lips quirk, something like a smile ghosting across his face. "But you were never a bastard in truth."
"Nor were you," she reminds him, and now he does smile, and Sansa remembers that kiss on her hand, the strange feeling that has vibrated in the air ever since Jon arrived.
"Oh, I was. Am. A royal bastard, perhaps, but my parents were never married."
"I sometimes wish I were a bastard still," Sansa says, the words tumbling from her lips before she can even think on them, much less stop them. "At least then I felt as though people were looking at me and actually seeing me, not my mother or Winterfell or a claim to the North."
Jon is out of his chair and crossing to her chaise almost before she is finished speaking. "I see you, Sansa," he tells her, scarred palm against her cheek. "I see you."
They sit in silence for a long while, Jon's hand against her face, her own hand keeping it there. And then, with another of those smiles, he ventures, "Although I dare say I would have liked Alayne Stone."
Sansa looks up and their gaze hold. "You would have," she agrees, heat spooling through her belly. "Alayne Stone would have asked you to go to bed with her tonight."
His breath catches, and Sansa sees the way his eyes darken and drop to her mouth. "Sansa-,"
She leans forward and kisses him, so softly and gently it can barely be called a kiss. "Would you let me be Alayne for one more night, Jon?"
Jon Snow's hands are thinner than Gendry's, the fingers longer, the palms rough and scarred, but they are just as strong, and like Gendry, Jon knows how to put them to good use on a woman's body.
And like Mya, he croons such soft, lovely words in Sansa's bed, calling her sweet, and good, and so very beautiful, even as he does things to her that rob her of breath and leave her tangling her hands in the sheets, in his hair, in her own skirts. She comes apart under his mouth, trying to remember the last time anything felt this good.
Later, Jon sleeps against her breast and she strokes his hair, thinking of him, and of Gendry, and of Mya. Perhaps, she decides, it's not that bastards are lustful and licentious so much as lonely.
And if that's the case, Sansa thinks, kissing Jon's brow, then yes, being Alayne Stone certainly suits her more.