Heirs: The Gift
Title: Heirs
Author: PrettySiren/prettysirenx
Rating: MA
Genre(s): smut, romance, drama
Spoilers: No spoilers -- just spec.
Disclaimer: ASoIaF characters belong to GRRM.
Warnings: Graphic smut. With Petyr and Sansa. Don't like it? Don't read it.
Notes: "The Gift" is the first part in a series called "Heirs". I don't know how many parts there'll be. It takes place immediately following the events of AFFC. It's just speculation; I'm trying to stay true to the essence of characters, while knowing this will obviously take an AU direction, since no one knows what's going to happen for sure. I'll post it in different parts. Unbeta'd.
___________________________________________
Petyr’s words rang in Sansa’s ears as the fire crackled behind them in the hearth. He asked if his gifts deserved another kiss.
She took his face in her hands, mirroring what he’d just done to her, and kissed him. Only this kiss wasn’t long and slow like his had been; this kiss was fast and hard. She practically wrenched his lips with hers.
“It deserves more than that, my lord.”
She shifted her weight, straddling her legs over his. She kissed him again. He wasn’t prepared for it, but she could feel his staff growing under her. Her kiss had put him just as off-guard as his had her only moments before. It was funny; that kiss had excited her. But when he spoke of Winterfell, of home, she grew excited in a way she barely understood. She’d been thinking of him like crazy for the whole time he was away; life was empty without him; now, not only was she with him, but he was laying the world at her feet.
She kissed him again; he kissed back.
“You didn’t think you were going to get that kiss,” she observed, breaking free, probing him deep with wild, blue eyes.
“No.”
“You thought I’d thank you meekly and blush again.”
“Yes.”
“You offered me Harry the Heir,” she said, rising up on her knees. “But I don’t want Harry. I want you.” She lowered back down and rocked her hips against his cock.
“Sansa,” he breathed, closing his eyes against the pleasure. “You don’t-you don’t know what you-you,” his words faltered with each primal move of her hips. He opened his eyes and forced himself to look at her face, her beautiful face and tell her firmly. “You don’t know what you’ll be giving up.”
“My maidenhead?” she asked. “I know all about my maidenhead. Something that is supposed to be so important. ‘A woman’s greatest gift’-my septa and Cersei Lannister told me that. Winterfell is the greatest gift you could offer me; I want to offer you mine.”
“If I took-“
“You can’t take that which is given.”
“If you give me your maidenhead, Harry will not want you.”
“Good,” she whispered. She kissed his lips again and said softly in his ear, “I don’t want him. I want you.”
Her words snatched any reserve he held. He kissed her hard, passionately, the way he’d wanted to for so many moons now. Her dainty fingers unbuttoned every button of his tunic in less than a minute-and so many there were. And he kissed her for every second of it, harder still when those same fingers found their way to his shirt and unlaced the neck, tangling themselves in the hair on his chest. He pulled the fichu out of her neckline in kind, revealing the tops of her soft, white breasts. They were high, round, and soft as he pressed his lips atop them in kisses that made her back arch and her throat sigh. He was thankful for her bastard’s dress, a lowborn’s dress like this laced in the front. He undid each lace with a kiss on her mouth as she commenced her hip-rocking. His fingers, normally so nimble, fumbled over themselves, like he was an eager boy.
In his haste, he threw away her busk as he tore off her bodice, taking her sleeves with it. He pulled her skirt over her head and shoved it aside.
“You’re not wearing a corset,” he mused.
“The dress is tight enough as it is,” she laughed. “My corsets don’t fit anymore.”
“We’ll have to have new ones made.” He said, gaping at the points her nipples made in the fine linen of her shift, the neckline of which slid down her shoulder without the dress to hold it in place.
“But not tonight,” she said, shaking her head with a smile. With one movement, he undid her hair and it cascaded all around her. She smiled even broader at that and kissed him. She deepened the kiss and undid his breeches. She reached and grabbed hold of him. He was hard, big, and warm. “Just as I pictured it.”
“You’ve been picturing it?”
“Often and long, and in like manner inside me,” she admitted, blushing. “You were gone for so long; I was going crazy without you.”
“And with me?”
“I’m crazier.”
She ripped open his shirt and kissed him all along the scar her uncle had given him; her kisses were like magic; how he got that wound and why was wiped away with each one. He was hers. She lowered her kisses all the way to his cock, delivering the softest kisses imaginable. He shivered and then gasped as she wrapped her mouth around him.
“How do you even know about this?” he cried.
“Randa talks a lot,” she murmured, briefly pulling away. “And I’m making the rest up as I go. As I said, I’ve been imagining you a lot.”
“Indeed,” he breathed. She found a particularly sweet spot and a sweeter rhythm. She worked and worked on him until he could scarce stand how good it felt. He came sooner than he thought he should, but it had been building up for so long, the yearning and want; he was surprised he didn’t burst the second she touched him.
She swallowed and looked him right in the eye. “Now, do it to me.” That was an order. She only whispered “please” as an afterthought.
He joined her on the floor, atop her discarded clothes. It was warmer there it, down by the fire.
Her lips massaged his, kissing him like he never thought he’d be kissed: raw, emotional, kind, sweet. No one kissed like this. But he found he could easily return like kisses. She brought it out of him, something he always tried to suppress: humanity.
But there they were, both humans and almost naked. He looked into her blue eyes one last time. She was fiercely certain; he wouldn’t doubt her; he wouldn’t doubt him; he wouldn’t stop.
He pulled off her hose and ran his hands up her legs as she spread them eagerly, waiting. She was softer than he ever imagined. His hand snaked up her thigh, raising the hem of her kirtle.
“You’re not wearing smallclothes,” he observed, amused.
“I’d rather not be wearing any clothes,” she said boldly.
He laughed. She’d never talked even remotely dirty before, he knew. It wasn’t amateurish; it was hot.
She bit her lip as his hand slid across her, feeling her wetness. She was very wet. He rubbed her clit for a few moments; her eyes widened when she realized he was just toying with her. She grabbed his arms and pulled him down so that his head was right between her legs. He ran his tongue against her and she groaned. Again, and again until she couldn’t help but writhe and shake. Her hands kept finding his hair and ruffling it up, as though she just wanted to be closer while it was going on; he returned the sentiment by squeezing her breast, but not once did he let up in his vigor. Her leg swung over his shoulder, urging him on.
She was swollen, red, hot, ripe; he slid his finger inside her-just one at first.
“Oh, that feels good,” she groaned.
He kissed her clit with a smile in response and he pressed another finger inside. She was tight. He worked his fingers slowly, sensually, working in time with his tongue. Then, he moved his fingers faster and faster until his tongue couldn’t keep up and he focused slowly on his fingers and the look in her eyes as they rolled up in her head, which lolled from side to side, moving and nodding in pleasure. Her hands ran across her own beasts, her back arched and she cried his name.
“Petyr, oh, Petyr.” When she said it, it was lusty and comely. He could feel her orgasm around his fingers. He could hear it on her lips as she whispered his name like a prayer and tore at herself in the wonderful excruciation of first-time ecstasy.
He wanted to make her come again; he wanted to come inside her.
“You’re beautiful,” he told her.
“I look like a mad woman.” She sat up.
“A beautiful madwoman,” he said, with a kiss.
“Is that what I taste like?” she asked, licking his upper lip.
“Very sweet.”
His blood was up again, rock hard. He pressed it against her. She took the initiative and pulled of his breeches and his braies. He was completely naked before her. She was pleasantly surprised to find lean, tight muscles, remembering to her that they were not so far apart in age as she used to think. He was a fit, young man. And she was a young woman. Her loins burned at the ponderings of how their young bodies might soon entwine and fit together.
He regarded her with a savage, genuine lust that was not unkind. It was the way a man should love a woman.
She gasped as he pulled her kirtle off, revealing her breasts. Perhaps it turned her on as much as him, but she felt so naked like that. She covered them self-consciously. He looked at her questioningly. “They’re not big enough.”
“I assure you they’re genuinely large,” he replied, baffled. The notion was absurd.
“Not like Randa’s.”
“The difference between you and Randa is gravity,” he told her flatly. “Yours put hers to shame. And you may surpass her yet.”
“You think?” she asked, putting down her hands.
“By the old gods and new, I swear yours are the most beautiful I’ve ever seen. And I mean to worship them, Sansa.”
Just saying her name alone was a prayer-a dirty, wonderful prayer. And he didn’t lie. He kissed her chest where her heart was, and she knew he could feel it beat against his lips. His mouth trailed to her left breast, his lips and beard skimmed ever-so-lightly across her delicate skin. This is the seventh, most wonderful heaven, she thought; his lips found her hard nipple. He kissed it, sucked, licked, bit it. Her own hand caressed the other one, lost in the urgency of how good it all felt. He shoved that hand aside and paid attention to her right nipple; his left hand found her lower lips again; they were still wet.
He moved his mouth to hers, kissing against her groans. He slid himself inside of her. And his own mouth gaped as he got a lost in how amazing she felt. He brushed aside the shock and focused on her, meeting her eyes with his, gauging her as he moved in and out, making sure she liked what was happening.
She did. She loved it. It didn’t hurt like she thought it would. There was a pressure, but she gave into it, relished it. And the pressure soon gave way to immense pleasure, heightened each time he moved his cock inside her. The rhythm practically did her in, slow and sensual at first. But then he sped up and she felt feverish all over again, as she did when his mouth was on her clit. Except this was even more intense, urgent. His manhood was inside her; the thought alone made her feel so hot, but the sensation of it was dizzying.
She tried to be silent, but it was impossible. She wanted to scream his name. She wanted to make the mountain tremble and cause a thousand avalanches, because that’s what was happening inside of her. All of it. She groaned, moaned, and rubbed her breasts as that all-consuming heat built up in her again. He gave several, sharper, harder thrusts as she reached climax; she could feel his seed pumping inside her; it was amazing.
He collapsed onto her, spent, and whispered into her neck. “Gods, Sansa.” He kissed her, deeply, long, and slow, before rolling over on his back.
Sansa felt like jelly too. She just wanted to lay like this, her head in the crook of his arm, forever. She could never move and die happy.
But she knew that couldn’t happen. Randa was expecting to share a bed with her. And if Sansa took care, maybe, just maybe, the older girl wouldn’t know she’d just given her maidenhead to the man she knew to be her father.
It might’ve been a little dirty when Sansa thought of it like that, but there was nothing dirty about this, what she and Petyr just shared. This was sacred. And parting with him now gave her a terrible ache, the prospect alone making her miss him worse than she did when she was without him at the Eyrie.
“I’ve got to go to bed,” she whispered. “Randa will be expecting me.” She sat up. But he pulled her down on top of him.
“I’m going to miss you,” he told her, echoing her own thoughts. He leaned and sweetly kissed her shoulder.
“I know,” she replied. She kissed his forehead and they both dressed in reluctant silence.
Author: PrettySiren/prettysirenx
Rating: MA
Genre(s): smut, romance, drama
Spoilers: No spoilers -- just spec.
Disclaimer: ASoIaF characters belong to GRRM.
Warnings: Graphic smut. With Petyr and Sansa. Don't like it? Don't read it.
Notes: "The Gift" is the first part in a series called "Heirs". I don't know how many parts there'll be. It takes place immediately following the events of AFFC. It's just speculation; I'm trying to stay true to the essence of characters, while knowing this will obviously take an AU direction, since no one knows what's going to happen for sure. I'll post it in different parts. Unbeta'd.
___________________________________________
Petyr’s words rang in Sansa’s ears as the fire crackled behind them in the hearth. He asked if his gifts deserved another kiss.
She took his face in her hands, mirroring what he’d just done to her, and kissed him. Only this kiss wasn’t long and slow like his had been; this kiss was fast and hard. She practically wrenched his lips with hers.
“It deserves more than that, my lord.”
She shifted her weight, straddling her legs over his. She kissed him again. He wasn’t prepared for it, but she could feel his staff growing under her. Her kiss had put him just as off-guard as his had her only moments before. It was funny; that kiss had excited her. But when he spoke of Winterfell, of home, she grew excited in a way she barely understood. She’d been thinking of him like crazy for the whole time he was away; life was empty without him; now, not only was she with him, but he was laying the world at her feet.
She kissed him again; he kissed back.
“You didn’t think you were going to get that kiss,” she observed, breaking free, probing him deep with wild, blue eyes.
“No.”
“You thought I’d thank you meekly and blush again.”
“Yes.”
“You offered me Harry the Heir,” she said, rising up on her knees. “But I don’t want Harry. I want you.” She lowered back down and rocked her hips against his cock.
“Sansa,” he breathed, closing his eyes against the pleasure. “You don’t-you don’t know what you-you,” his words faltered with each primal move of her hips. He opened his eyes and forced himself to look at her face, her beautiful face and tell her firmly. “You don’t know what you’ll be giving up.”
“My maidenhead?” she asked. “I know all about my maidenhead. Something that is supposed to be so important. ‘A woman’s greatest gift’-my septa and Cersei Lannister told me that. Winterfell is the greatest gift you could offer me; I want to offer you mine.”
“If I took-“
“You can’t take that which is given.”
“If you give me your maidenhead, Harry will not want you.”
“Good,” she whispered. She kissed his lips again and said softly in his ear, “I don’t want him. I want you.”
Her words snatched any reserve he held. He kissed her hard, passionately, the way he’d wanted to for so many moons now. Her dainty fingers unbuttoned every button of his tunic in less than a minute-and so many there were. And he kissed her for every second of it, harder still when those same fingers found their way to his shirt and unlaced the neck, tangling themselves in the hair on his chest. He pulled the fichu out of her neckline in kind, revealing the tops of her soft, white breasts. They were high, round, and soft as he pressed his lips atop them in kisses that made her back arch and her throat sigh. He was thankful for her bastard’s dress, a lowborn’s dress like this laced in the front. He undid each lace with a kiss on her mouth as she commenced her hip-rocking. His fingers, normally so nimble, fumbled over themselves, like he was an eager boy.
In his haste, he threw away her busk as he tore off her bodice, taking her sleeves with it. He pulled her skirt over her head and shoved it aside.
“You’re not wearing a corset,” he mused.
“The dress is tight enough as it is,” she laughed. “My corsets don’t fit anymore.”
“We’ll have to have new ones made.” He said, gaping at the points her nipples made in the fine linen of her shift, the neckline of which slid down her shoulder without the dress to hold it in place.
“But not tonight,” she said, shaking her head with a smile. With one movement, he undid her hair and it cascaded all around her. She smiled even broader at that and kissed him. She deepened the kiss and undid his breeches. She reached and grabbed hold of him. He was hard, big, and warm. “Just as I pictured it.”
“You’ve been picturing it?”
“Often and long, and in like manner inside me,” she admitted, blushing. “You were gone for so long; I was going crazy without you.”
“And with me?”
“I’m crazier.”
She ripped open his shirt and kissed him all along the scar her uncle had given him; her kisses were like magic; how he got that wound and why was wiped away with each one. He was hers. She lowered her kisses all the way to his cock, delivering the softest kisses imaginable. He shivered and then gasped as she wrapped her mouth around him.
“How do you even know about this?” he cried.
“Randa talks a lot,” she murmured, briefly pulling away. “And I’m making the rest up as I go. As I said, I’ve been imagining you a lot.”
“Indeed,” he breathed. She found a particularly sweet spot and a sweeter rhythm. She worked and worked on him until he could scarce stand how good it felt. He came sooner than he thought he should, but it had been building up for so long, the yearning and want; he was surprised he didn’t burst the second she touched him.
She swallowed and looked him right in the eye. “Now, do it to me.” That was an order. She only whispered “please” as an afterthought.
He joined her on the floor, atop her discarded clothes. It was warmer there it, down by the fire.
Her lips massaged his, kissing him like he never thought he’d be kissed: raw, emotional, kind, sweet. No one kissed like this. But he found he could easily return like kisses. She brought it out of him, something he always tried to suppress: humanity.
But there they were, both humans and almost naked. He looked into her blue eyes one last time. She was fiercely certain; he wouldn’t doubt her; he wouldn’t doubt him; he wouldn’t stop.
He pulled off her hose and ran his hands up her legs as she spread them eagerly, waiting. She was softer than he ever imagined. His hand snaked up her thigh, raising the hem of her kirtle.
“You’re not wearing smallclothes,” he observed, amused.
“I’d rather not be wearing any clothes,” she said boldly.
He laughed. She’d never talked even remotely dirty before, he knew. It wasn’t amateurish; it was hot.
She bit her lip as his hand slid across her, feeling her wetness. She was very wet. He rubbed her clit for a few moments; her eyes widened when she realized he was just toying with her. She grabbed his arms and pulled him down so that his head was right between her legs. He ran his tongue against her and she groaned. Again, and again until she couldn’t help but writhe and shake. Her hands kept finding his hair and ruffling it up, as though she just wanted to be closer while it was going on; he returned the sentiment by squeezing her breast, but not once did he let up in his vigor. Her leg swung over his shoulder, urging him on.
She was swollen, red, hot, ripe; he slid his finger inside her-just one at first.
“Oh, that feels good,” she groaned.
He kissed her clit with a smile in response and he pressed another finger inside. She was tight. He worked his fingers slowly, sensually, working in time with his tongue. Then, he moved his fingers faster and faster until his tongue couldn’t keep up and he focused slowly on his fingers and the look in her eyes as they rolled up in her head, which lolled from side to side, moving and nodding in pleasure. Her hands ran across her own beasts, her back arched and she cried his name.
“Petyr, oh, Petyr.” When she said it, it was lusty and comely. He could feel her orgasm around his fingers. He could hear it on her lips as she whispered his name like a prayer and tore at herself in the wonderful excruciation of first-time ecstasy.
He wanted to make her come again; he wanted to come inside her.
“You’re beautiful,” he told her.
“I look like a mad woman.” She sat up.
“A beautiful madwoman,” he said, with a kiss.
“Is that what I taste like?” she asked, licking his upper lip.
“Very sweet.”
His blood was up again, rock hard. He pressed it against her. She took the initiative and pulled of his breeches and his braies. He was completely naked before her. She was pleasantly surprised to find lean, tight muscles, remembering to her that they were not so far apart in age as she used to think. He was a fit, young man. And she was a young woman. Her loins burned at the ponderings of how their young bodies might soon entwine and fit together.
He regarded her with a savage, genuine lust that was not unkind. It was the way a man should love a woman.
She gasped as he pulled her kirtle off, revealing her breasts. Perhaps it turned her on as much as him, but she felt so naked like that. She covered them self-consciously. He looked at her questioningly. “They’re not big enough.”
“I assure you they’re genuinely large,” he replied, baffled. The notion was absurd.
“Not like Randa’s.”
“The difference between you and Randa is gravity,” he told her flatly. “Yours put hers to shame. And you may surpass her yet.”
“You think?” she asked, putting down her hands.
“By the old gods and new, I swear yours are the most beautiful I’ve ever seen. And I mean to worship them, Sansa.”
Just saying her name alone was a prayer-a dirty, wonderful prayer. And he didn’t lie. He kissed her chest where her heart was, and she knew he could feel it beat against his lips. His mouth trailed to her left breast, his lips and beard skimmed ever-so-lightly across her delicate skin. This is the seventh, most wonderful heaven, she thought; his lips found her hard nipple. He kissed it, sucked, licked, bit it. Her own hand caressed the other one, lost in the urgency of how good it all felt. He shoved that hand aside and paid attention to her right nipple; his left hand found her lower lips again; they were still wet.
He moved his mouth to hers, kissing against her groans. He slid himself inside of her. And his own mouth gaped as he got a lost in how amazing she felt. He brushed aside the shock and focused on her, meeting her eyes with his, gauging her as he moved in and out, making sure she liked what was happening.
She did. She loved it. It didn’t hurt like she thought it would. There was a pressure, but she gave into it, relished it. And the pressure soon gave way to immense pleasure, heightened each time he moved his cock inside her. The rhythm practically did her in, slow and sensual at first. But then he sped up and she felt feverish all over again, as she did when his mouth was on her clit. Except this was even more intense, urgent. His manhood was inside her; the thought alone made her feel so hot, but the sensation of it was dizzying.
She tried to be silent, but it was impossible. She wanted to scream his name. She wanted to make the mountain tremble and cause a thousand avalanches, because that’s what was happening inside of her. All of it. She groaned, moaned, and rubbed her breasts as that all-consuming heat built up in her again. He gave several, sharper, harder thrusts as she reached climax; she could feel his seed pumping inside her; it was amazing.
He collapsed onto her, spent, and whispered into her neck. “Gods, Sansa.” He kissed her, deeply, long, and slow, before rolling over on his back.
Sansa felt like jelly too. She just wanted to lay like this, her head in the crook of his arm, forever. She could never move and die happy.
But she knew that couldn’t happen. Randa was expecting to share a bed with her. And if Sansa took care, maybe, just maybe, the older girl wouldn’t know she’d just given her maidenhead to the man she knew to be her father.
It might’ve been a little dirty when Sansa thought of it like that, but there was nothing dirty about this, what she and Petyr just shared. This was sacred. And parting with him now gave her a terrible ache, the prospect alone making her miss him worse than she did when she was without him at the Eyrie.
“I’ve got to go to bed,” she whispered. “Randa will be expecting me.” She sat up. But he pulled her down on top of him.
“I’m going to miss you,” he told her, echoing her own thoughts. He leaned and sweetly kissed her shoulder.
“I know,” she replied. She kissed his forehead and they both dressed in reluctant silence.