Fic: Maggie and Milly and Molly and May
Title: Maggie and Milly and Molly and May
Author: lit_chick08
Pairing: Sansa/Gendry, references Sansa/Joffrey, Sansa/Littlefinger, Sansa/Harry the Heir, Sansa/Tyrion
Rating: PG-13/R for non-explicit sex
Summary: All the women she has been crowd her marriage bed
A/N: written for the for the prompt: Sansa/Gendry: she marries a Baratheon prince eventually
"You look like you're going to vomit."
Sansa ignores her sister, taking several deep breaths as her maids finish with her hair. She has convinced Gendry to wed in the godswood rather than the Great Sept (Father's blood on the steps, Tyrion and his Lannister cloak, no gods live there) and she wishes to relax before she must go and become a true wife.
"I don't know why you're so nervous," Arya continues, bopping around the room as if she cannot sit still. She is wearing a gown but it looks odd on her, especially with her hair cropped so closely to her head. "It's just Gendry. He can be stupid, but he's good."
"Yes, I know that. Do shut up."
Arya quirks an eyebrow, almost as if she is debating whether or not to be offended. Sansa considers apologizing; it is not Arya's fault she is so nervous. When Gendry was declared the true heir to King Robert, Queen Daenerys made him King of the Stormlands; it was Jon's idea that he wed her, especially once it was clear that Rickon would be Lord of Winterfell. It is not Arya's fault that their mother is not there to tell her what to expect; it is no one's fault but those who have long since died.
"He won't hurt you." Arya stands behind her, and Sansa can see her reflection in the looking glass. "He can be stupid, but he can never be cruel."
Sansa isn't sure if it is a comfort or a concern that her sister is so close to the man who is to be her husband. She's heard rumors that Arya shared Gendry's bed during the war; if it is true, she has never seen any indication of it. Gendry and Arya behave much the same way Arya and Jon do; if she was not afraid of the answer, Sansa would ask, but the only thing more unsettling than the wedding night in her imagination is a wedding night under Arya's tutelage.
Gendry is handsome in his Baratheon cloak, but he looks as uncertain as she does. Petyr Baelish taught her how to guard everything (body, heart, soul, face, name), but it is exhausting to hide. When Gendry begins the process of removing her Stark cloak, Sansa nearly grabs at it, wanting to keep it around her body, a reminder that she is Sansa Stark of Winterfell (not Joffrey's betrothed, not Lady Lannister, not Alayne Stone), but she doesn't. Gendry carefully fastens the crowned stag around her, passing the direwolf to Arya, and Sansa thinks for a moment how unbearably unfair it is that she must always give away Winterfell.
She's never spent much time with Gendry before, and she knows nothing of the Stormlands. But she is the Storm Queen now and she will adapt ("Those who don't adapt meet terrible ends, Alayne, so we must always be flexible") to her husband's needs. When the stormlords (my people, they are my people now) begin to chant for the bedding, she instinctively crosses her arms over her chest, remembering the last time she was stripped before a court (there are no lions left, only stags, Joffrey cannot get me now). Jon makes certain they leave her in her shift before dumping her on the massive bed she is to share with Gendry ("Never call him 'your grace' or my lord; he'll just tell you to knock it off.")
The ladies were not so kind with him; when Arya shoves him into the room, he is only in his smallclothes, and, for the first time, Sansa hears her husband give a deep belly laugh at something Arya says in parting. Not for the first time, Sansa notices just how handsome he is: broad shoulders, barrel chest, ridges of muscle honed from years of beating steel, a trail of black hair arrowing down beneath his smallclothes. Sansa has heard the women of court whisper about his attributes, but it is his eyes which always capture her: the brightest blue, sharp and honest. It is easy for a man to lie with words and deed, but the eyes never lie.
When Gendry does not make a move towards her, Sansa begins to undo the laces of her shift, subtly shaking her hair to tumble attractively around her shoulders as she does so ("Harry may be well-versed in women, but every man wants to be seduced, Alayne.") She hears him inhale shakily, and, as she shimmies from the shift, Sansa watches beneath her eyelashes for a reaction in a move she learned from the last queen ("You have a weapon between your legs.")
"Seven hells," Gendry rasps as the silk pools at her feet. He moves then, takes a tentative step forward, and Sansa waits for what comes next (rough hands, squeezing, pinching, weighing, as if my teats are fruit), steels herself for it.
When calloused fingers touch the delicacy of her collarbone, following the line across before skimming down the meridian of her body, coming to rest on the knot which keeps her smallclothes in place, Sansa shivers.
"I'm no king," Gendry murmurs, and he looks so much younger now that they are close (we aren't that old, not really, the war just makes us seem that way). "But you...you're a queen."
His mouth tastes of mead and venison (not deception, not wine, not mint), and his skin is so warm, it nearly burns (because he is alive and the others are not). She likes the way he kisses her, like it's a gift, like she's a gift ("I will find you a husband who is good and gentle and kind"), the way he keeps asking if she is alright, if he is hurting her (no one's ever cared before.)
He lies on his back, pulls her over top of him ("Men love to watch a woman's teats bounce"). She knows she is slick, but it still burns as she takes him into her, taking the maidenhead nearly stolen by so many others (Joffrey, the Hound, Tyrion, Marillion, Petyr, Harry). Gendry makes this noise in his throat, and Sansa braces her hands against his chest, trying to steady herself. When they begin to move, it makes her quiver, pleasure starting to course through her veins; a moan slips past her lips ("Be eager, but don't act wanton") and she tries to stifle the others which come.
"Sansa, Sansa," Gendry begins to pant, pushing himself into a sitting position. It is the repetition of her name more than anything which makes her peak, shouting out until it is practically a howl.
I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell. I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell. My father was Lord Ned Stark; my mother was Lady Catelyn Tully. My brother Robb was King in the North. I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell.
She is sore between her legs when they finish, Gendry lying beside her as they struggle to breathe normally again. It takes Sansa a moment to realize Gendry has captured strands of her hair between his thumb and forefinger, stroking it with a curious expression on his face.
"What?"
"Your hair," he begins, ("Just like your mother's, far too obvious") his fingers startling to twist in it.
"Yes?"
"I love your hair." Gendry smiles weakly. "You're very pretty, you know."
She kisses him because he does not demand it of her.
She kisses him because he was kind.
But, most of all, she kisses him because he calls her Sansa.
Author: lit_chick08
Pairing: Sansa/Gendry, references Sansa/Joffrey, Sansa/Littlefinger, Sansa/Harry the Heir, Sansa/Tyrion
Rating: PG-13/R for non-explicit sex
Summary: All the women she has been crowd her marriage bed
A/N: written for the for the prompt: Sansa/Gendry: she marries a Baratheon prince eventually
"You look like you're going to vomit."
Sansa ignores her sister, taking several deep breaths as her maids finish with her hair. She has convinced Gendry to wed in the godswood rather than the Great Sept (Father's blood on the steps, Tyrion and his Lannister cloak, no gods live there) and she wishes to relax before she must go and become a true wife.
"I don't know why you're so nervous," Arya continues, bopping around the room as if she cannot sit still. She is wearing a gown but it looks odd on her, especially with her hair cropped so closely to her head. "It's just Gendry. He can be stupid, but he's good."
"Yes, I know that. Do shut up."
Arya quirks an eyebrow, almost as if she is debating whether or not to be offended. Sansa considers apologizing; it is not Arya's fault she is so nervous. When Gendry was declared the true heir to King Robert, Queen Daenerys made him King of the Stormlands; it was Jon's idea that he wed her, especially once it was clear that Rickon would be Lord of Winterfell. It is not Arya's fault that their mother is not there to tell her what to expect; it is no one's fault but those who have long since died.
"He won't hurt you." Arya stands behind her, and Sansa can see her reflection in the looking glass. "He can be stupid, but he can never be cruel."
Sansa isn't sure if it is a comfort or a concern that her sister is so close to the man who is to be her husband. She's heard rumors that Arya shared Gendry's bed during the war; if it is true, she has never seen any indication of it. Gendry and Arya behave much the same way Arya and Jon do; if she was not afraid of the answer, Sansa would ask, but the only thing more unsettling than the wedding night in her imagination is a wedding night under Arya's tutelage.
Gendry is handsome in his Baratheon cloak, but he looks as uncertain as she does. Petyr Baelish taught her how to guard everything (body, heart, soul, face, name), but it is exhausting to hide. When Gendry begins the process of removing her Stark cloak, Sansa nearly grabs at it, wanting to keep it around her body, a reminder that she is Sansa Stark of Winterfell (not Joffrey's betrothed, not Lady Lannister, not Alayne Stone), but she doesn't. Gendry carefully fastens the crowned stag around her, passing the direwolf to Arya, and Sansa thinks for a moment how unbearably unfair it is that she must always give away Winterfell.
She's never spent much time with Gendry before, and she knows nothing of the Stormlands. But she is the Storm Queen now and she will adapt ("Those who don't adapt meet terrible ends, Alayne, so we must always be flexible") to her husband's needs. When the stormlords (my people, they are my people now) begin to chant for the bedding, she instinctively crosses her arms over her chest, remembering the last time she was stripped before a court (there are no lions left, only stags, Joffrey cannot get me now). Jon makes certain they leave her in her shift before dumping her on the massive bed she is to share with Gendry ("Never call him 'your grace' or my lord; he'll just tell you to knock it off.")
The ladies were not so kind with him; when Arya shoves him into the room, he is only in his smallclothes, and, for the first time, Sansa hears her husband give a deep belly laugh at something Arya says in parting. Not for the first time, Sansa notices just how handsome he is: broad shoulders, barrel chest, ridges of muscle honed from years of beating steel, a trail of black hair arrowing down beneath his smallclothes. Sansa has heard the women of court whisper about his attributes, but it is his eyes which always capture her: the brightest blue, sharp and honest. It is easy for a man to lie with words and deed, but the eyes never lie.
When Gendry does not make a move towards her, Sansa begins to undo the laces of her shift, subtly shaking her hair to tumble attractively around her shoulders as she does so ("Harry may be well-versed in women, but every man wants to be seduced, Alayne.") She hears him inhale shakily, and, as she shimmies from the shift, Sansa watches beneath her eyelashes for a reaction in a move she learned from the last queen ("You have a weapon between your legs.")
"Seven hells," Gendry rasps as the silk pools at her feet. He moves then, takes a tentative step forward, and Sansa waits for what comes next (rough hands, squeezing, pinching, weighing, as if my teats are fruit), steels herself for it.
When calloused fingers touch the delicacy of her collarbone, following the line across before skimming down the meridian of her body, coming to rest on the knot which keeps her smallclothes in place, Sansa shivers.
"I'm no king," Gendry murmurs, and he looks so much younger now that they are close (we aren't that old, not really, the war just makes us seem that way). "But you...you're a queen."
His mouth tastes of mead and venison (not deception, not wine, not mint), and his skin is so warm, it nearly burns (because he is alive and the others are not). She likes the way he kisses her, like it's a gift, like she's a gift ("I will find you a husband who is good and gentle and kind"), the way he keeps asking if she is alright, if he is hurting her (no one's ever cared before.)
He lies on his back, pulls her over top of him ("Men love to watch a woman's teats bounce"). She knows she is slick, but it still burns as she takes him into her, taking the maidenhead nearly stolen by so many others (Joffrey, the Hound, Tyrion, Marillion, Petyr, Harry). Gendry makes this noise in his throat, and Sansa braces her hands against his chest, trying to steady herself. When they begin to move, it makes her quiver, pleasure starting to course through her veins; a moan slips past her lips ("Be eager, but don't act wanton") and she tries to stifle the others which come.
"Sansa, Sansa," Gendry begins to pant, pushing himself into a sitting position. It is the repetition of her name more than anything which makes her peak, shouting out until it is practically a howl.
I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell. I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell. My father was Lord Ned Stark; my mother was Lady Catelyn Tully. My brother Robb was King in the North. I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell.
She is sore between her legs when they finish, Gendry lying beside her as they struggle to breathe normally again. It takes Sansa a moment to realize Gendry has captured strands of her hair between his thumb and forefinger, stroking it with a curious expression on his face.
"What?"
"Your hair," he begins, ("Just like your mother's, far too obvious") his fingers startling to twist in it.
"Yes?"
"I love your hair." Gendry smiles weakly. "You're very pretty, you know."
She kisses him because he does not demand it of her.
She kisses him because he was kind.
But, most of all, she kisses him because he calls her Sansa.