Fic: And All This Devotion, I Never Knew At All
Title: And All This Devotion, I Never Knew At All
Author: lit_chick08
Pairing: Jon/Sansa
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Jon realizes how much he loves Sansa when he sees the devotion she has for their son.
A/N: Written for the asoiafkinkmeme
When he refuses to marry Daenerys, his aunt tells him the only way she will allow him to return to the North is if he marries Sansa. It is the last thing Jon wants; poor Sansa has been through enough without being forced to wed him. But Sansa placidly agrees, and, when he asks her why she does not seem to mind, Sansa smiles sadly and says, "At least I know you'll never hurt me."
He is no green boy, but, when Sansa is brought to his chamber in nothing but her smallclothes, Jon is terrified. Sansa blushes red as her hair throughout most of their first night together, and Jon tries not to linger in her bed when they are finished. His sister - cousin, he reminds himself, wife - has shared some of what has happened to her since the war began, and Jon knows how many men have tried to force themselves upon her. All Jon wants is for Sansa to have peace, and so he keeps to his chambers while she keeps to hers; they are always polite, always cordial, and, while Jon loves her as his sister - cousin - he cannot seem to translate that love into what he felt for Ygritte, for Val. He does not know if Sansa has ever loved anyone; she came to him a maid, and she never speaks of any man but little Robert Arryn, the Lord of the Vale she calls “Sweetrobin.”
Sometimes he thinks of asking her, but it seems too forward, too intimate.
They have been married for a half-year when Sansa knocks on his chamber one night. Jon is stunned; he and Sansa have only shared a bed thrice since the wedding and never has she come to his rooms. But Sansa is fully dressed, not wearing a robe as he does when he calls on her, and instead of beginning the awkward dance, she perches upon the edge of his desk. It takes several minutes of forced pleasantries before Sansa broaches the true reason she has come to him.
“I'd like to have a child.” Keeping her eyes fixed on her hands, Sansa continues, her voice marginally firmer, “The North requires an heir. I think we should begin trying.”
It is not the most romantic proposal, but what exists between himself and Sansa is not romance.
Twice weekly for four moons, Jon does his duty as King in the North, the entire time wondering if there is something wrong with him for considering making love to a woman as beautiful as Sansa to be duty. When she announces she is with child, she is buoyant with such pure happiness, and Jon catches a glimpse of the girl he grew up with, the girl who went south and never returned.
They only discuss boys' names; Sansa is certain the child she carries is not a girl, and Jon trusts her instincts. Neither of them suggest their father's name; cousin or not, Jon knows they both still consider themselves to be siblings, and the illusion of their ordinary marriage can only be maintained by not acknowledging that fact. Instead they decide to call the baby Brandon, the oldest of Stark names, and, just as Sansa suspected, his son bursts into the world in the middle of the night, a tiny, dark-haired bundle with Stark grey eyes.
“Thank you,” Sansa sighs as she cradles their newborn son against her bare breasts, and Jon finds tears welling in his eyes at the overwhelming gratitude in her voice. How can Sansa be thanking him when he is the one who has been blessed by the gods with a wife and child he never thought he'd have?
Sansa refuses to give Brandon to a wet nurse, declaring she is not so queenly that she cannot feed her own child, and Jon finds himself fascinated by the sight of Brandon at Sansa's breast. One evening, exhausted from a long day's work overseeing the construction of one of the towers, Jon enters the castle to find Sansa seated before one of the fireplaces, her gown undone as Brandon nurses. His son's hand is small, curled around Sansa's milk swollen breast as his grey eyes droop open and shut, and, as Jon settles into the chair opposite Sansa, he wonders if his mother ever had the chance to nurse him before she died of birthing fever.
Sansa inhales sharply as she switches breasts, her face folding in discomfort as Brandon's mouth settles around her nipple. For a moment, Jon debates not saying anything, but the words fly from his lips.
“If you are in pain, we can call for a wet nurse.”
She shakes her head minutely, smiling down at Brandon. “I want my breast to be the only one he wants. That is what a mother does.”
There is so much love in Sansa's words, Jon never considers mentioning it again.
Shortly after Brandon's first name day, Jon walks past Sansa's chamber to hear singing. It has been years since he heard Sansa sing, but Jon remembers the trill of her sweet soprano well; as he stands in the doorway of her chamber, he sees Brandon is in her arms, his black curls brushing the bottom of her chin as she sings and sways him towards sleep. When she sees Jon, her voice disappears for a moment, her song only resuming when Brandon fusses and lifts his head.
Jon crosses the room, sitting at the foot of the bed, listening and watching as Sansa soothes their son. He is tall for his age, all spindly limbs and pale skin, and Jon imagines that is how he looked when he was small; there is no doubting the Stark blood in Brandon, and it makes Jon feel a sense of pride for it. His father may have been a Targaryen, but it is Lyanna Stark's blood which always wins out, the blood of Winterfell.
When Brandon is fast asleep, his little snores bringing a smile to Sansa's lips, Jon rises to summon Brandon's nurse; as always, Sansa seems regretful of being parted with her son, always looking as if she fears never seeing him again. Jon cannot blame her, not after everyone they've lost. Sansa loves their son so fiercely, Jon does not doubt he will always feel precious and cherished, and Jon loves Sansa so much in that moment.
She looks at him, face as impassive as it ever is, as she says, “You wish to take your rights, my lord?”
The question catches him off-guard. “No, no, I was just - I like to hear you sing.”
“Oh.”
Jon thinks he sees something like disappointment flicker in Sansa's eyes, and hope begins to unfurl in his stomach. “Do you want me to take my rights?”
Sansa bows her head, her hair obscuring her face as she replies, “We have not shared a bed in months. The servants may start to talk.”
He feels the sting of shame he always feels as his fingers undo the laces of her gown, urging the dress down her shoulders until it pools at her feet. The shift she wears tonight is silk, thin enough that Jon can see the pink of her skin through it, and Sansa shivers as he strokes her back with the tips of his fingers. Pushing her hair forward, Jon brushes his lips against the sensitive skin behind her ear, his hands settling on the swell of her hips.
“You're so beautiful,” he whispers, slowly gathering the material of her shift, inching it up her body. “Do you know that? Do you know how beautiful you are?”
“Jon,” she murmurs, inhaling deeply through her nose as he sucks a mark into her pale throat. She only ever calls him by his name when they are like this; otherwise he is “my lord” or, when in front of the smallfolk, “your grace.” Jon loves the sound of his name on her lips, the sense of intimacy it implies; only when they are like this does he feel like Sansa is truly his wife, the mother of his child.
As he pulls the shift over her head, Jon is struck by a strong, sudden desire to do everything he can to show Sansa how he feels. Jon has never been good with words, still finds himself tongue-tied around her, but he has known women; he can make Sansa feel good.
She gasps as he spins her around, urging her to sit on the edge of the bed, his hands pushing apart her knees; Sansa flushes as red as her hair, and Jon understands why. They only make love beneath the furs with the candles snuffed out, never linger or explore; Jon has never kissed beneath her breasts, and he sometimes wonders if Sansa has ever seen his cock. He looks now, urging her legs further apart; the soft skin of her inner thighs is pale as the snows which cover the North, but the hair which covers her mound is bright red; he touches the swollen, wet flesh of her cunt, and Sansa whimpers as she bites her lower lip. She never makes noise when he fucks her; Ygritte was so uninhibited, and Val would whisper filthy suggestions in his ear as he'd pump into her, but Sansa is always a lady, always too dignified to moan and shout.
“This isn't proper,” Sansa pants as he draws his tongue up her thigh, her fingers biting into his dark hair. “Kings and queens do not - “
“Have you asked?” he interrupts, his cock stiff and aching in his breeches as he shoulders her thighs further apart, kneeling on the floor like a supplicant. “Have you asked the queens if their husbands lick their cunts?”
Sansa's entire body quakes at the question as she meets his eyes. “Is that...Are you...”
She isn't saying no, isn't ordering him off of his knees and out of her chambers; that is enough for Jon to bring his mouth to her. The taste of her explodes on his tongue, rich and heady, and he feels the press of her knees against his shoulders as she tries to move away; Jon reaches up, his hands grasping her hips and pulling her more fully against his mouth. It takes four long licks for Sansa to moan, loud and free, and it only spurs him on; Jon wants to devour her, to keep the flavor of her in his mouth always. When his tongue breeches her, sliding into her body with ease, Sansa twists her fingers in his hair, holding him against her as she chants, “Oh gods, oh, oh!”
The moment he seals his lips around her nub, sucking as his tongue lashes the bud, two fingers stroking her inner walls, Sansa screams, shock and pleasure battling for dominance on her features; Jon does not let up, building her pleasure quickly, and Sansa peaks again, bucking her hips into his mouth. His breath catches as he flicks his gaze up and sees her pulling at her nipples, trying to extend her pleasure, and it is only after she peaks a third time that Sansa begs, “Oh, stop, please, I can't again.”
His face is wet with her pleasure, his tongue aching from use; Jon grasps the edge of a sheet and wipes his face, pressing the heel of his hand into his cock as he rises. There is nothing he wants more than to free himself from his pants, to sink into her and find his own pleasure; she is positively soaked, and Jon knows how good she will feel clenching around him.
But Sansa is lying on her back, her eyes closed as her breathing regulates, a smile on her face; she is unashamed in her nudity, her auburn hair clinging to her sweaty skin, and Jon finds himself looking at the pale, silvery lines on her lower abdomen, the physical reminder that Brandon had grown inside her, that her body had stretched to accommodate the son he placed in her belly.
When Sansa opens her eyes, Jon averts his, suddenly embarrassed by his need for her. He begins to back away, prepared to return to his chamber and take himself in hand, when Sansa sits up, her face folded in confusion.
“Are you going? But we haven't...”
Jon freezes, at a loss for what to say, before managing, “I just assumed - I do not want to make it unpleasant - “
“Please stay.” Jon feels his heart skip a beat as she continues, “I want you to stay. Please, Jon.”
It surprises him when Sansa rises on her knees, helping to free him of his clothing. Her palm wraps around his cock, and Jon cants his hips forward, grateful for friction. Her touch is tentative, and, when he manages to force his eyes open, he sees naked curiosity on Sansa's face. Jon wonders if he is the only man she's ever seen, and his cock only hardens at the idea that Sansa is his and only his.
Jon climbs onto the bed, Sansa moving onto her back; she hisses sharply as Jon settles his hips against hers, still too sensitive for direct contact, and Jon instantly pulls away, not wanting to hurt her. Her hands reach for him, trying to keep him close, insisting it is fine; Jon presses a kiss between her breasts before whispering, “Do you trust me?”
Her answer is immediate and makes his heart swell with love. “Yes.”
As he urges Sansa onto her hands and knees, Jon peppers kisses across the unblemished canvas of her back, his hands stroking her sides, her stomach, her breasts; Sansa moans as he gently slips his fingers inside of her, testing her readiness, and Jon realizes she is trying to stifle her responses now, is pushing back to meet his hand.
Their moans mingle as Jon sinks into her, his fingers biting into her hips hard enough to bruise as he tries to keep her still so he does not spill inside of her too quickly. Sansa whines high in her throat, and the sound spurs Jon into action, thrusting fully into Sansa's body. As she pants his name, moving back against him as if there is nothing more in the world that she wants, Jon feels the tightly guarded emotions in his chest begin to overflow, and he suddenly cannot contain his words.
“You're perfect,” he declares, nosing her hair out of the way so he can drag his teeth across her shoulder. “You're the most beautiful woman in the world, and I cannot believe you're my wife. I thank the gods for you. You are everything I have ever wanted.”
Sansa releases a tremulous cry, one hand flailing backwards to reach for him; Jon slides a hand under her body, lifting her to kneel over his body as he sits back on his heels. She twists her face towards him, and Jon captures her mouth, his tongue pushing into her open mouth as his hands cup her breasts, thumbs strumming her nipples.
“I love to fuck you,” he continues as Sansa's head falls back, resting on his shoulder as she grinds down against his cock. “You feel so good, like you were made for me. Do you like it? Do you like being fucked?”
“Yes,” Sansa chokes out, grasping hold of the nape of his neck, moving her hips with a desperation Jon has never seen before. “Oh, gods, yes.”
“I love to watch you peak. I love to make you peak. You're so pretty when you come. I wish you could see. Gods, Sansa, I wish...I wish...”
“What? What do you wish?”
Ghosting his hand down her stomach, sifting through the wiry hair, Jon finds her swollen bud, gently stroking, his eyes crossing as Sansa clenches tightly around him. “I wish I could stay inside your cunt forever. I wish we never had to leave this bed.”
“I wish that too,” she agrees, her body beginning to shake from orgasm.
Jon shouts as he peaks, holding Sansa tightly against him; both of them sag in exhaustion, and Sansa slowly pulls away, falling onto the pillows. He hesitates for a moment before lying down beside her, his heart still thundering in his chest.
“It's never been like that before.”
Jon lolls his head to face her; her pupils are blown, her lips swollen and parted. He can see a purple bruise on her neck from his mouth, and he feels a rush of uncharacteristic possessiveness, satisfied with the knowledge that anyone who sees the mark will know she belong to him. “I'm sorry.”
“No,” Sansa objects, reaching to grasp his hand, “Jon, it was wonderful. I didn't know it could be like that.” Scooting closer, her breasts brushing against his arm, she shyly adds, “You could show me all the ways.”
He bites the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning at the suggestion. “Sansa...”
She reaches for the furs and quilts, pulling them over their bodies as she settles against him; Jon has not slept in a bed with her since their wedding night, but Sansa curls her body around his as if she has done so a thousand times. It is the first time he realizes Sansa may be just as hungry for love as he is.
In the morning, Jon awakes to Sansa speaking in a soft singsong to someone; lifting his head as he opens his eyes, he sees Brandon seated on Sansa's lap, grinning broadly at his mother as she pulls faces for him.
This is his family.
And it is all Jon Snow has ever wanted.
Author: lit_chick08
Pairing: Jon/Sansa
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Jon realizes how much he loves Sansa when he sees the devotion she has for their son.
A/N: Written for the asoiafkinkmeme
When he refuses to marry Daenerys, his aunt tells him the only way she will allow him to return to the North is if he marries Sansa. It is the last thing Jon wants; poor Sansa has been through enough without being forced to wed him. But Sansa placidly agrees, and, when he asks her why she does not seem to mind, Sansa smiles sadly and says, "At least I know you'll never hurt me."
He is no green boy, but, when Sansa is brought to his chamber in nothing but her smallclothes, Jon is terrified. Sansa blushes red as her hair throughout most of their first night together, and Jon tries not to linger in her bed when they are finished. His sister - cousin, he reminds himself, wife - has shared some of what has happened to her since the war began, and Jon knows how many men have tried to force themselves upon her. All Jon wants is for Sansa to have peace, and so he keeps to his chambers while she keeps to hers; they are always polite, always cordial, and, while Jon loves her as his sister - cousin - he cannot seem to translate that love into what he felt for Ygritte, for Val. He does not know if Sansa has ever loved anyone; she came to him a maid, and she never speaks of any man but little Robert Arryn, the Lord of the Vale she calls “Sweetrobin.”
Sometimes he thinks of asking her, but it seems too forward, too intimate.
They have been married for a half-year when Sansa knocks on his chamber one night. Jon is stunned; he and Sansa have only shared a bed thrice since the wedding and never has she come to his rooms. But Sansa is fully dressed, not wearing a robe as he does when he calls on her, and instead of beginning the awkward dance, she perches upon the edge of his desk. It takes several minutes of forced pleasantries before Sansa broaches the true reason she has come to him.
“I'd like to have a child.” Keeping her eyes fixed on her hands, Sansa continues, her voice marginally firmer, “The North requires an heir. I think we should begin trying.”
It is not the most romantic proposal, but what exists between himself and Sansa is not romance.
Twice weekly for four moons, Jon does his duty as King in the North, the entire time wondering if there is something wrong with him for considering making love to a woman as beautiful as Sansa to be duty. When she announces she is with child, she is buoyant with such pure happiness, and Jon catches a glimpse of the girl he grew up with, the girl who went south and never returned.
They only discuss boys' names; Sansa is certain the child she carries is not a girl, and Jon trusts her instincts. Neither of them suggest their father's name; cousin or not, Jon knows they both still consider themselves to be siblings, and the illusion of their ordinary marriage can only be maintained by not acknowledging that fact. Instead they decide to call the baby Brandon, the oldest of Stark names, and, just as Sansa suspected, his son bursts into the world in the middle of the night, a tiny, dark-haired bundle with Stark grey eyes.
“Thank you,” Sansa sighs as she cradles their newborn son against her bare breasts, and Jon finds tears welling in his eyes at the overwhelming gratitude in her voice. How can Sansa be thanking him when he is the one who has been blessed by the gods with a wife and child he never thought he'd have?
Sansa refuses to give Brandon to a wet nurse, declaring she is not so queenly that she cannot feed her own child, and Jon finds himself fascinated by the sight of Brandon at Sansa's breast. One evening, exhausted from a long day's work overseeing the construction of one of the towers, Jon enters the castle to find Sansa seated before one of the fireplaces, her gown undone as Brandon nurses. His son's hand is small, curled around Sansa's milk swollen breast as his grey eyes droop open and shut, and, as Jon settles into the chair opposite Sansa, he wonders if his mother ever had the chance to nurse him before she died of birthing fever.
Sansa inhales sharply as she switches breasts, her face folding in discomfort as Brandon's mouth settles around her nipple. For a moment, Jon debates not saying anything, but the words fly from his lips.
“If you are in pain, we can call for a wet nurse.”
She shakes her head minutely, smiling down at Brandon. “I want my breast to be the only one he wants. That is what a mother does.”
There is so much love in Sansa's words, Jon never considers mentioning it again.
Shortly after Brandon's first name day, Jon walks past Sansa's chamber to hear singing. It has been years since he heard Sansa sing, but Jon remembers the trill of her sweet soprano well; as he stands in the doorway of her chamber, he sees Brandon is in her arms, his black curls brushing the bottom of her chin as she sings and sways him towards sleep. When she sees Jon, her voice disappears for a moment, her song only resuming when Brandon fusses and lifts his head.
Jon crosses the room, sitting at the foot of the bed, listening and watching as Sansa soothes their son. He is tall for his age, all spindly limbs and pale skin, and Jon imagines that is how he looked when he was small; there is no doubting the Stark blood in Brandon, and it makes Jon feel a sense of pride for it. His father may have been a Targaryen, but it is Lyanna Stark's blood which always wins out, the blood of Winterfell.
When Brandon is fast asleep, his little snores bringing a smile to Sansa's lips, Jon rises to summon Brandon's nurse; as always, Sansa seems regretful of being parted with her son, always looking as if she fears never seeing him again. Jon cannot blame her, not after everyone they've lost. Sansa loves their son so fiercely, Jon does not doubt he will always feel precious and cherished, and Jon loves Sansa so much in that moment.
She looks at him, face as impassive as it ever is, as she says, “You wish to take your rights, my lord?”
The question catches him off-guard. “No, no, I was just - I like to hear you sing.”
“Oh.”
Jon thinks he sees something like disappointment flicker in Sansa's eyes, and hope begins to unfurl in his stomach. “Do you want me to take my rights?”
Sansa bows her head, her hair obscuring her face as she replies, “We have not shared a bed in months. The servants may start to talk.”
He feels the sting of shame he always feels as his fingers undo the laces of her gown, urging the dress down her shoulders until it pools at her feet. The shift she wears tonight is silk, thin enough that Jon can see the pink of her skin through it, and Sansa shivers as he strokes her back with the tips of his fingers. Pushing her hair forward, Jon brushes his lips against the sensitive skin behind her ear, his hands settling on the swell of her hips.
“You're so beautiful,” he whispers, slowly gathering the material of her shift, inching it up her body. “Do you know that? Do you know how beautiful you are?”
“Jon,” she murmurs, inhaling deeply through her nose as he sucks a mark into her pale throat. She only ever calls him by his name when they are like this; otherwise he is “my lord” or, when in front of the smallfolk, “your grace.” Jon loves the sound of his name on her lips, the sense of intimacy it implies; only when they are like this does he feel like Sansa is truly his wife, the mother of his child.
As he pulls the shift over her head, Jon is struck by a strong, sudden desire to do everything he can to show Sansa how he feels. Jon has never been good with words, still finds himself tongue-tied around her, but he has known women; he can make Sansa feel good.
She gasps as he spins her around, urging her to sit on the edge of the bed, his hands pushing apart her knees; Sansa flushes as red as her hair, and Jon understands why. They only make love beneath the furs with the candles snuffed out, never linger or explore; Jon has never kissed beneath her breasts, and he sometimes wonders if Sansa has ever seen his cock. He looks now, urging her legs further apart; the soft skin of her inner thighs is pale as the snows which cover the North, but the hair which covers her mound is bright red; he touches the swollen, wet flesh of her cunt, and Sansa whimpers as she bites her lower lip. She never makes noise when he fucks her; Ygritte was so uninhibited, and Val would whisper filthy suggestions in his ear as he'd pump into her, but Sansa is always a lady, always too dignified to moan and shout.
“This isn't proper,” Sansa pants as he draws his tongue up her thigh, her fingers biting into his dark hair. “Kings and queens do not - “
“Have you asked?” he interrupts, his cock stiff and aching in his breeches as he shoulders her thighs further apart, kneeling on the floor like a supplicant. “Have you asked the queens if their husbands lick their cunts?”
Sansa's entire body quakes at the question as she meets his eyes. “Is that...Are you...”
She isn't saying no, isn't ordering him off of his knees and out of her chambers; that is enough for Jon to bring his mouth to her. The taste of her explodes on his tongue, rich and heady, and he feels the press of her knees against his shoulders as she tries to move away; Jon reaches up, his hands grasping her hips and pulling her more fully against his mouth. It takes four long licks for Sansa to moan, loud and free, and it only spurs him on; Jon wants to devour her, to keep the flavor of her in his mouth always. When his tongue breeches her, sliding into her body with ease, Sansa twists her fingers in his hair, holding him against her as she chants, “Oh gods, oh, oh!”
The moment he seals his lips around her nub, sucking as his tongue lashes the bud, two fingers stroking her inner walls, Sansa screams, shock and pleasure battling for dominance on her features; Jon does not let up, building her pleasure quickly, and Sansa peaks again, bucking her hips into his mouth. His breath catches as he flicks his gaze up and sees her pulling at her nipples, trying to extend her pleasure, and it is only after she peaks a third time that Sansa begs, “Oh, stop, please, I can't again.”
His face is wet with her pleasure, his tongue aching from use; Jon grasps the edge of a sheet and wipes his face, pressing the heel of his hand into his cock as he rises. There is nothing he wants more than to free himself from his pants, to sink into her and find his own pleasure; she is positively soaked, and Jon knows how good she will feel clenching around him.
But Sansa is lying on her back, her eyes closed as her breathing regulates, a smile on her face; she is unashamed in her nudity, her auburn hair clinging to her sweaty skin, and Jon finds himself looking at the pale, silvery lines on her lower abdomen, the physical reminder that Brandon had grown inside her, that her body had stretched to accommodate the son he placed in her belly.
When Sansa opens her eyes, Jon averts his, suddenly embarrassed by his need for her. He begins to back away, prepared to return to his chamber and take himself in hand, when Sansa sits up, her face folded in confusion.
“Are you going? But we haven't...”
Jon freezes, at a loss for what to say, before managing, “I just assumed - I do not want to make it unpleasant - “
“Please stay.” Jon feels his heart skip a beat as she continues, “I want you to stay. Please, Jon.”
It surprises him when Sansa rises on her knees, helping to free him of his clothing. Her palm wraps around his cock, and Jon cants his hips forward, grateful for friction. Her touch is tentative, and, when he manages to force his eyes open, he sees naked curiosity on Sansa's face. Jon wonders if he is the only man she's ever seen, and his cock only hardens at the idea that Sansa is his and only his.
Jon climbs onto the bed, Sansa moving onto her back; she hisses sharply as Jon settles his hips against hers, still too sensitive for direct contact, and Jon instantly pulls away, not wanting to hurt her. Her hands reach for him, trying to keep him close, insisting it is fine; Jon presses a kiss between her breasts before whispering, “Do you trust me?”
Her answer is immediate and makes his heart swell with love. “Yes.”
As he urges Sansa onto her hands and knees, Jon peppers kisses across the unblemished canvas of her back, his hands stroking her sides, her stomach, her breasts; Sansa moans as he gently slips his fingers inside of her, testing her readiness, and Jon realizes she is trying to stifle her responses now, is pushing back to meet his hand.
Their moans mingle as Jon sinks into her, his fingers biting into her hips hard enough to bruise as he tries to keep her still so he does not spill inside of her too quickly. Sansa whines high in her throat, and the sound spurs Jon into action, thrusting fully into Sansa's body. As she pants his name, moving back against him as if there is nothing more in the world that she wants, Jon feels the tightly guarded emotions in his chest begin to overflow, and he suddenly cannot contain his words.
“You're perfect,” he declares, nosing her hair out of the way so he can drag his teeth across her shoulder. “You're the most beautiful woman in the world, and I cannot believe you're my wife. I thank the gods for you. You are everything I have ever wanted.”
Sansa releases a tremulous cry, one hand flailing backwards to reach for him; Jon slides a hand under her body, lifting her to kneel over his body as he sits back on his heels. She twists her face towards him, and Jon captures her mouth, his tongue pushing into her open mouth as his hands cup her breasts, thumbs strumming her nipples.
“I love to fuck you,” he continues as Sansa's head falls back, resting on his shoulder as she grinds down against his cock. “You feel so good, like you were made for me. Do you like it? Do you like being fucked?”
“Yes,” Sansa chokes out, grasping hold of the nape of his neck, moving her hips with a desperation Jon has never seen before. “Oh, gods, yes.”
“I love to watch you peak. I love to make you peak. You're so pretty when you come. I wish you could see. Gods, Sansa, I wish...I wish...”
“What? What do you wish?”
Ghosting his hand down her stomach, sifting through the wiry hair, Jon finds her swollen bud, gently stroking, his eyes crossing as Sansa clenches tightly around him. “I wish I could stay inside your cunt forever. I wish we never had to leave this bed.”
“I wish that too,” she agrees, her body beginning to shake from orgasm.
Jon shouts as he peaks, holding Sansa tightly against him; both of them sag in exhaustion, and Sansa slowly pulls away, falling onto the pillows. He hesitates for a moment before lying down beside her, his heart still thundering in his chest.
“It's never been like that before.”
Jon lolls his head to face her; her pupils are blown, her lips swollen and parted. He can see a purple bruise on her neck from his mouth, and he feels a rush of uncharacteristic possessiveness, satisfied with the knowledge that anyone who sees the mark will know she belong to him. “I'm sorry.”
“No,” Sansa objects, reaching to grasp his hand, “Jon, it was wonderful. I didn't know it could be like that.” Scooting closer, her breasts brushing against his arm, she shyly adds, “You could show me all the ways.”
He bites the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning at the suggestion. “Sansa...”
She reaches for the furs and quilts, pulling them over their bodies as she settles against him; Jon has not slept in a bed with her since their wedding night, but Sansa curls her body around his as if she has done so a thousand times. It is the first time he realizes Sansa may be just as hungry for love as he is.
In the morning, Jon awakes to Sansa speaking in a soft singsong to someone; lifting his head as he opens his eyes, he sees Brandon seated on Sansa's lap, grinning broadly at his mother as she pulls faces for him.
This is his family.
And it is all Jon Snow has ever wanted.