Written for Halloween. First off, I actually ended up writing about two thousands words for a completely different story, where Jon is a brooding loner and Sansa is a witch and honestly I think I'm just gonna trash that one. (It was a right mess!) But this, well, let's just say I've watched a lot of old movies. I was inspired? Does that work? It's odd, I know, but hopefully it somehow works for them, and I think it should be just strange enough to fit in perfectly for Halloween without being scary... Anyway, yeah, if you've freaked out by bloodplay or any kinky shit therein involved, do not read this. It's pure smut.

Tucked safely away from the world outside, Sansa delves into a strange marriage with her husband Jon, where they engage in heated sex after murdering and draining all blood from their victims.

The killing gets her adrenaline going; the first bite of her teeth sinking into someone's neck. But it's the blood she wipes from her husband's mouth and licks from his skin that turns her on, transforms her from a woman into a murderer. She enjoys it a little too much.

"Oh."

Lady Sansa clasps her hands together in her lap.

She is stood on the grandiose marble staircase of their home, their old and crumbling mansion in the dusty hills.

Nobody visits them. Nobody wants to venture so far out, so far up.

"Did you have to kill him already?" She whines, a look of pure discontent on her face. Her lips purse, her ice cold eyes squinting. "You are supposed to wait for me."

He has just entered through the main doors from the outside. They still sway in the distance, back and forth, creating a draft in the grand room.

There is a crumpled man lay at his feet. His throat is slit, his hands bound and his face drained of all colour. Sansa thinks he may have been somewhat attractive once upon a time. Not like her husband though. Not like her or their two children that sleep peacefully upstairs.

He is - was - yellow haired, quite lanky with barely any meat on his bones.

"I was starved." Lord Jon admits, as nonchalant and calm as ever.

He's the brooding type, her husband. The kind of man who sulks until he gets what he wants and then continues to sulk some more just because he can. She doesn't mind. She hasn't minded since they were wed and she discovered his rough nature upon arousal.

"And what about me?" She raises a brow, lowers herself down two steps but stays at the halfway point, keeping her distance.

"He isn't drained." Jon tells her honestly, shrugging off his jacket with a roll of his eyes before tossing it down onto the floor. He rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, begins to draw the body closer to the bottom of the staircase.

"Jon! Don't." His wife stops him, holding out a hand and nodding toward the floor above. Ah, yes. Their children. Those precious little ones who have absolutely no idea what Mother and Father do when they aren't around.

They had raised them themselves, having to forgo any household help. The mansion was difficult to maintain given its surface and size and room count. But the help mostly consisted of overweight old woman, and Jon had enjoyed killing them. And Sansa had enjoyed watching the blood drain from their bodies as she and her husband drank.

So, they kept the house to themselves. They dealt with the children themselves. They handled everything themselves.

Upon marrying him, Sansa hadn't been sure what to expect.

Her father had simply had enough of her entitled behaviour and he'd auctioned her off to the highest bidder. It had been between her Lord husband and some shady crook from the south end of the neighbouring village. She imagines the shady crook didn't find pleasure in killing people and sucking the life out of them, to be fair.

But Jon had been her highest bidder. He'd been lonely, and brooding, and his dying mother had told to find a wife before she died. The old hag had croaked when Sansa had only been living there for a week.

She found him pleasing, to look out, to be around. He was handsome with his dark features and feminine lips, in a way she had once fantasized about, and he was only a few years her elder. He'd been a decent husband for that first year. He had treated her gently on their wedding night, respected her innocence and inexperience. She never found him to be rough, when he clawed at her clothes and made her strip, only passionate. She quite enjoyed it.

And then, a year into their marriage, she had stumbled upon him after supper. They'd had venison to eat, but apparently the deer had not been enough to sate his appetite because she had caught her Lord feasting on the neck of a dying village boy aged just seventeen.

Her temper had flared, anger rising to the surface when she'd witnessed her husband's throat at the boy's neck. She had momentarily wondered if he enjoyed the company of men rather than women, and if he treated her so kindly out of self-deprecation.

But her initial anger had transformed into sheer curiosity when he'd explained himself, explained his past and his hobby and his need for such a thing.

Apparently, he'd been turned this way from some girl back in his youth. She was loud and wild and she had turned him on to the taste of human blood. Then she'd left and he had inherited his family's millions and been left to his own isolation.

Sansa had minded at first, knowing that every evening after dinner he was in his study, sucking at the neck of some lowborn nobody. She'd showed her disdain for his strange fetish until she realised how aroused it made him.

It happened one night in spring. She had been readying herself for bed when he'd stumbled into her room, crashing through her doorway with a bang, hands on the old doorframe, clothes soaked in blood.

She had helped him walk, grabbed his messy hands and led him to her bed until he sat on the edge. He tried talking to him, tried eliciting something from him. But Jon had only stared at her, at her lips, and eventually he'd grabbed her by the high collar of her nightgown and kissed her.

He tasted like blood, all bitter and sour. It felt odd, to think she was tasting someone else's blood on her lips. Not her own after biting her lip a little too harshly. Not even his, as she did that one time when he'd sliced his finger and she'd sucked the cut dry between her lips.

His hold on her nightgown had receded after a moment, only instead of letting him walk away, she had cupped his face between her hands and kissed him again. She had climbed into his lap, spread her thighs over his blood-soaked trousers and shoved at his dirty chest until he fell flat against her bed linens.

He'd been rougher that night, and she hadn't protested, only basked in his rousing display of passion. He had smacked her, and she'd cried with tears in her eyes. But he stopped when she verged on unbearable pain and she had been the one to force his hands back onto her body.

She wanted him to touch her, hit her, no matter how hard. She found herself enjoyed it. She'd liked the slight aggression, the delicate agony that awoke inside her.

And then she had pressed her lips to his neck, when he was falling into a steady sleep and he lay motionless. She had kissed him quickly at first, never applying any pressure or gravity. But after liking her lips and tasting the sensation that was his sweat mixed in with a stranger's blood, she had kissed him again. Her tongue lean against his flesh and her heart on fire.

She liked it, got a strange thrill out of it. She continued on this way, kissing, sucking at her sleeping husband's neck for weeks.

And then she had been with child, and he'd promised to gift her whatever she possibly wanted, needed. Her one and only request had been for him to change her, turn her into one of his own. He had done so after a day's refusal, only giving in after she had batted her lashes and dropped to her knees and taken him in her mouth. He never refused her from there on out. She had him wrapped around her little finger, her wrist even.

Once their child was born, nurtured and healthy, she waited until they were in a steady pattern of duty before she asked for her next request.

She wanted him to bring somebody home, alive. She wanted to kill them herself, her first victim.

It had been a girl of eighteen, with hair long like her own but brown where hers shown red. Sansa had kissed her, with tongue and wet lips and hunger, giving her husband a show. She'd enjoyed that, too. Women were her favourite.

But when the girl was faint, fatigued, Sansa had drawn her teeth and scarred the girl, forcing her bite into the young woman's neck with need. She tasted bitter, salty. The taste was nowhere near as lovely as some of the people Jon dragged home - she always got a secondhand taste from his lips and body - but it was intoxicating nonetheless, and she found herself wanting, needing more.

She had never been the same since that day.

"He may not be drained, but I'm not hungry." She frowns, puckers her lips. "I seem to have lost my appetite." She goes to turn, refuse her husband's offer.

She is playing him, and he knows it because he clears his throat when she has so little as moved an inch.

"I do need your taste, too, Love." His soft grey eyes betray his words, but she knows better.

Sansa pauses, slowly collapses onto the steps, neatly dropping her hands to her lap. She sits comfortably on her black gown, all lace and sheer material. She wears nothing underneath, and she knows he can tell as much. It's all part of their game.

She offers out her wrist, palm turned up and fingers spread.

Jon climbs the staircase calmly, hand on the banister until he reaches her, knees resting on the emerald marble. His own fingers wrap around her forearms and he bites, into her wrist, with sharp teeth until blood escapes and he can lap at the fluid.

Feeling his lips curl around her wrist, she arches her back, leans into his entire being as he suckles, slops against her skin to draw blood from her.

"Good?"

She nods, keeps her eyes closed and her mouth agape, "Keep going." He does, complies with her demand and digs his teeth deeper into her flesh, allowing drops of red blood to ooze past his lips onto the surface of her dress.

She pulls at the hem, desperate to remove the garment, to find some air. It feels as though all oxygen is being drained from her lungs, by only bare hands with no care at all.

She wouldn't mind it, she thinks. If he suffocated her so much with his touch that she forgot how to breathe. She's almost there.

The blades of her shoulders begin to tire, aching from being shoved against the marble stairs. She flinches as something stings, eats at her from the inside. She thinks it must be him, he must have nibbled at her nerves a little too closely.

Flickering her eyes to an open, her gaze immediately settles on his shirt, white and crisp and undamaged safe for the blood spatter across the chest. It scolds her, when she reminds herself where it came from, when she once again finds herself enjoying the sight of it.

She reaches a hand out to him, trails it from his chest to his neck to his lips, rubbing through the wet blood and spreading the stain of their crime. Her fingers tap against his lips and he nips, licks the tips.

Her wrist falls to her side, and she dulls the pain by pushing it flat against her chest. When the ache subsides and he's kissing down her arm to her elbow, she reaches for his hand to bring it to her own mouth and lick at the flesh, all sweat and murder.

They're a terrible pair, with death and darkness and some numbness between them. She doesn't bite into him, doesn't feel the desire to feed, has no craving for such a thing just yet. But she wants the blood anyhow, and she will find different means to obtain it.

Lying as flat as she possibly can against the steps of the old mansion, she kicks her heels from her feet and pulls her legs up at his sides, inner thighs to his torso, cradling him in between her knees.

He reaches up to her, hands gripping the sides of her face with fury, "You taste so good."

He's damp and she's wet and she moans when his mouth drops to her lips.

Her lips part against his, partially refusing his kiss, partially teasing him to unleash hell. Her nimble fingers tug at the skirt of her dress and she pulls at it, encouraging him to gather the material up at her waist. "I taste even better down here." He doesn't need the encouragement.

The lace of her gown creases around her waist, baring her legs to his sight. She pushes one foot up against a step, keeps her left knee by his side as her right leg stretches out, widens when he presses his palm against her thigh to spread her legs apart.

"I wonder…" There's a hint of something in his eye, grey turning black, and she pauses in pleasure. "Will you taste even better like this?" There's a usual sweetness to her honey, but the blood trickling down his chin and beard will surely add some bitterness to her dessert.

"You'll have to try it to find out, My Lord." She hasn't called him that since their first year of marriage, since she discovered his cruel hobby and joined him in his dark fetishes.

She wears no garments beneath her dresses, and it's rather easy for him to lick a swipe up her slit and cover her mound with the surface of his tongue. One second, two seconds, three.

He pulls away with a smirk, eyes focused on her cunt, letting her lean upward. His hand meets her waist, holds her steady.

"More, My Lord? I'm not sure you've tasted enough."

"Are you positive?" He raises both brows, keeps his voice to a husk, "Perhaps one more quick bite couldn't hurt." His tongue presses against her centre before she interprets his words, as though they were foreign even after so many years of familiarity.

She knows this, knows him, knows what he does. So much so that her teeth grit when he parts her folds with one hand, two fingers separating her lips to trace his way up from her gash to her ball of nerves.

"I'm not sure I'm satisfied." He kisses her, feels her swollen flesh quiver beneath his lips. And again, and again.

Sansa leans on one elbow to balance against the marble stairs, her free hand shifting to his hair and tugging on his locks. She can feel the blood inking her skin, seeping from his beard into her patch of hair.

It turns her one more so than it would have had she never known him. "Eat the whole bloody thing then."

He doesn't deny her then, only smiles mischievously and resumes his place beneath her legs, dark hair brushing along her thighs as he latches onto her cunt, nose pressed against her mound and tongue burying itself between her folds.

She shivers, runs her nails along his scalp when he shifts downward, tracing the skin of her pink flesh with his teeth. Then he moves, slides back up so his wet tongue sips at her pouring juices as his cheeks suck at her peach. He's always called her his favourite fruit. She has never questioned why.

His hair tickles her thighs as he twitches, devouring her so religiously his head shakes from left to right and back again, and she drags her bent leg up to his shoulder.

She rests her bare foot against the shoulder of his shirt, tossing her head back when he wraps his free hand around her thigh and slides it up until he reaches the curve of her backside.

"Jon."

He hums throatily from his place between her legs, refusing to let go of her delicate .

"Let go."

It's almost animalistic the way in which he denies her request, forcing one hand to her abdomen and pushing her to lie back on the sharp slope as he shifts his other hand to her nub, rubbing his thumb against the pulsating muscle.

Her neck aches from straining so she leans back, giving it to his demand, flaming hair sprawling out over the steps wildly. Her cheeks flush as she feels her climax rise to a boil, the inner muscles of her hotness contracting and retracting and so on and so forth.

"I'll stop when I want to stop."

Evidently, he has stopped - his face before hers and his mouth far from her lap. Jon kisses her mouth roughly, prods her lips open with his tongue, lets her taste her own juices when she grasps his face between shaking hands and devours, divulges on the bloodied sweetness.

Pulling away, she lets her eyes drift to a close and she tangles her fingers through his hair again, pushing him back down between her thighs.

"Good. So good." Sansa speaks, breathily and unevenly. She was so close.

"Hmm." He nods in agreement. She can feel his tussled locks scraping the surface of her stomach. He pushes against her hands, runs his palms from her hips to her lap and pulls, tugging on the edge of her dress until it tears up the middle, the lace falling apart in slow motion.

The sheer cloth hangs loosely at her sides then, thin straps adorning her shoulders as her stomach and breasts lie free. She doesn't have to force him to kiss and nip at her skin there, his lordship contently licking at the swell of her breasts and swirling that bloody tongue around her pebbled nipples.

But then he bites with his sharp teeth digging into her skin, and she gasps, chest panting. He's never done that. She quite enjoyed it.

"Do it again."

He complies, does the same with her other nipple, letting his cheeks ride up into a smile. Then he lowers himself and toys with her again. "You need to control yourself."

Sansa only looks down at him, keeps a steady grip on his hair. She pulls, frowns at his words.

"Your cunt." His lips part and cover her area, lapping at her paused moisture. Then he stops, when his tongue is past her lips and his breath is hot against her.

"Please." She moves, from one side to the other, feels her body settle uncomfortably. Stop playing. Keep going.

He does. He listens to her plea and continues his ministrations on her cunt until she is almost riding his face, convulsing and panting and holding back her cries. And he stops.

"Gonna kill you, My Lord."

Jon smirks, resuming his work after watching her writhe around for a moment or two. He brings her to release, blood-covered thumb to her clit, her juices at the mercy of his hungry tongue.

He laps at her, encases himself in her scent until breathing becomes difficult and she almost suffocates him with the pressure of her thighs around his neck. He spreads her legs apart, frees himself from her clutches and leans up, both hands pressed against the marble flooring. He kisses her greedily, enthusiastically. And she responds with as much passion.

Her palms slide down to his neck, clawing at the collar of his shirt, moving to pop open the buttons down the front. She runs her fingers down the blood stains, coating the fingers in the substance until they shine red, and her eyes catch sight of the view from past his shoulder.

He continues kissing down her neck, pecking small kisses along her jaw until he reaches her collarbone when he bites until he draws blood. The liquid is licked up before she can feel the sting and it continues to ooze in small spurts as he runs his hands down her body until he can grab her arse and pull her up.

The marble steps burn her skin and she moans - half in agony, half in pleasure - when he brings her bloodied fingers to his lips and sucks.

His bottom teeth scratch the pads of her fingers when she draws them from his mouth slowly, pulling at the corners of his mouth thirstily.

Smoothing his hands over her arse, he pushes into her when she rips his shirt from his chest and makes fast work of undoing his trousers, shoving them over his backside and down his legs to his knees. Seeing that he isn't wearing anything underneath either, she grins, licks her lips just as he kisses her again, tongues meshing, lips drying out.

Her arse is barely hauled off of the floor before he pushes into her, all roughness and no gentleness and she wouldn't have it any other way. She married him for a reason, she reminds herself. He's intoxicated where she's maddening, and they work.

"Harder."

She stills, stop leaning into him and waits for him to move. He thrusts harder, buries himself so far in her that she is somewhat afraid he will never leave. Only somewhat. She wouldn't mind, not really.

"Faster."

His hands curl around her thighs, pulling her legs higher around his waist, her ankles locking behind him. His cock shoves, grinds, pulses into her without contemplation and his head drops to her shoulder to sweep his tongue along her sweaty skin when she cries out in melodious torture, nails digging into the muscles of his back.

Ramming his length inside of her, he wraps his lips around her fingers, sucking on the bloody mess, leaving behind the taste of her honey on her skin. She breathes heavily, through panted breaths when he smacks her arse with one hand and grips her hip harshly in his other.

"Again." The sound of the smack ricochets as his hand leaves her arse again, smoothing over her flushed skin until he runs it between their bodies, pressing against her mound, tracing circles over her active nerve.

Rasping into the curve of her neck once again, Jon pauses his movements and waits for her to buck into him, her hands sliding down his back until she can feel his backside. She shifts, almost slips on the steps until one hand flies out to grab the banister. She uses the pole to strengthen herself and force her body up into his, grinding herself against his cock, trying to get him to move.

When he does, finally pushing into her with such rapidity that her eyes close in blissful frustration, she feels her climax tip over the edge unexpectedly. Her hips buck wildly, curving into the shape of his palm on her skin.

He follows shortly after, mouth pressed behind her ear, "Come for me again." He senses her finish, so his thumb scrubs rigorously over her wet lips, pulling her folds apart to glide the ball of his hand over her pinkness as he continues to pump inside her, forcing her into a second burst of ecstasy, in sync with his own.

When he finishes, Jon doesn't pull away, doesn't pull out of her until she roughly grabs the back of his head and pulls his body up to lie on top of her own. He gives in, lets her drag him with all her force.

A smirk adorns his lips at her attempt of dominance and she smacks his shoulder, fingers curling around the base of his neck. Her legs lay parted around his own, her abdomen tight beneath his weight.

Pushing himself up on both hands, he kisses her quickly.

"Are you hungry, Love?"

"More than ever."