Hello! Happy Thanksgiving, all! Here's chapter 8.
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She has come to realize that it bothers him much more than it bothers her. It is because he is still good inside—still driven by honor, despite his experiences. She is no longer good inside; she wonders if she ever truly was good. Regardless, now she is ugly. Still pretty on the outside, perhaps; but rotten, spoiled, like a piece of fruit fallen from a tree and gone soft inside.
She is ruined, and she has come to terms with it. Which is why she feels no guilt anymore when she desires him. On the list of bad things she has ever done—or that have been done to her—this is the least terrible.
She wonders why she wants him so feverishly. He is an attractive man, to be sure. He is powerful, both physically and mentally, and is a good leader, when he isn't letting his emotions or pride get the best of him. And he cares for her—sometimes he watches her, like he still can't quite believe she's real. He loves her, even though they were never close as children.
Yes, she wants him for all of these things. But she thinks it is because of what she sees in his eyes when they look at each other. The monstrous thing that shines from his black-brown-grey eyes reflects the monstrous thing within her. It is a connection born of darkness—born of a shared forbidden desire that steals away their self-control, piece by perishing piece.
It has been a week since their rendezvous in his bedroom, a week since she has felt his mouth on her body and at the junction of her legs. She had heard of such things, when she'd been in King's Landing. Girls had giggled about it in the corridors. Still, it is an uncommon practice; men rarely ever do things that aren't for their own pleasure. And now she knows why the wildling women are so rabid for him—because he not only performs such an act, but he is damned good at it.
Her nights are full of vivid dreams; she wakes up with moisture between her thighs, her heart pounding. She aches for him more than she has ever ached for anything else. Whenever she sees him in meetings or in the halls or at meals, her womb starts to burn so strongly that, going unfulfilled, it borders on painful. He looks like he suffers from the same affliction, his eyes blazing hot and his body going taut.
Still, sometimes in her dreams Ramsay's face will make an appearance, ruining everything. He still taints her on a deep level. She wonders if she can even be with a man without memories of Ramsay inside her.
One night, the nightmare is so bad that she falls out of bed and lands hard on the floor. Tears stream down her face. Shaking, she stands up and puts a robe on over her loose nightgown. She doesn't even think about shoes as she opens the door to her room and steps out into the hallway. She runs down the hall, her bare feet slapping on the frigid stone. Jon's chambers are only thirty paces from her own—she counts. When she gets closer, she runs into two patrolling guards.
"Lady Sansa," one says in surprise. She recognizes him as a lieutenant. "What's wrong?" He puts a hand on the knife at his belt; the other guard, who is unfamiliar to her, looks around with wary eyes.
"I'm fine, Charlus," she says with a teary smile. "Just had a bad dream. I'd like to talk to my brother."
The soldier nods, and moves his body to let her through. "Feel better, My Lady," he says kindly.
When she gets to his door, she knocks gently. She hears no answer; she opens the door anyway.
She wonders why he leaves his door unlocked. Even with how tight Winterfell is being guarded, it isn't safe. Then it comes to her: he doesn't want her to not be able to get in when she wants.
The thought sends a thrill of satisfaction down her spine.
She closes the door behind her, and locks it. When she looks to the bed, Jon is already sitting up, blinking sleep from his eyes. He looks at her warily; then he sees her face, and his eyes soften.
"Can I stay with you for a little while?" she asks tremulously. She is torn between her burning desire for him and the lingering feel of terror from her dream.
Wordlessly, he pulls back the covers next to him; his expression says that he thinks this is a bad idea, but he cannot turn her away—Jon's compassion will always get the best of him.
She shucks her robe, and he makes a tiny noise of protest in his throat. But she climbs into bed with him regardless, laying her head down on one of his pillows and pulling the covers up to her chest.
He keeps his distance; she wishes he wouldn't. "Nightmares?" he asks softly, looking up at the ceiling.
She nods. "It's fading," she says. "But I just needed to be near you. I never think about him, when I'm with you. You chase his memory away."
He sighs. He says nothing; then a minute later his hand moves down to catch her fingers with his own. They are nearly two feet away on the bed, and she desperately wishes they were closer.
But she will take what she can get. Closing her eyes, she drifts off to sleep, her hand warm in his.
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When she wakes up it is even darker outside, and she realizes that the fire has simmered down to glowing embers. She is not cold, though; she is lying on her left side, and Jon's chest is just inches from her back, his feet tangled with hers. It seems she is not the only one who doesn't like to wear socks to bed.
The thought amuses her, for some reason. Restless, she slides her body back until it is flush against his. Her breath catches in her throat when his impressive erection prods her in the arse.
Desire shoots through her body, wetness trickling down to pool between her legs. He is still asleep, she realizes as she plucks carefully at the two top laces at the neckline of her nightrail; but he stirs when she arches her back, pressing her backside more firmly against his trapped cock.
She feels the exact moment he wakens. She feigns sleep, and wickedness sinks its talons into her warped mind. He groans softly from behind her, no doubt realizing the situation he is in. When she feels him begin to pull back from her, she stretches, languidly lengthening her arms and arching her back and pointing her toes. Then she relaxes again, pillowing her head on her arm and curling her legs so that her calves and thighs are flush with his.
He freezes. His breath comes in harsh pants, edged with physical and mental pain. She feels him lay a hand on her hip, feels his body tremble. Then he slides his hand up and taps her gently on the waist.
"Sansa," he says, his voice husky. He shifts his hips backwards; she stirs, faking a slow awakening.
"Jon?" she asks groggily, her senses on high alert. She absently slides her arm down to trap his hand against her waist, just inches from her right breast. "What's wrong?" She turns her neck and shoulders, twisting her torso and making sure the tops of her breasts are visible in the dim light of the dying fire. Her nipples strain against the white fabric, their outlines obvious even in shadow.
His expression is one of abject torture. She adopts a moue of sleepy innocence, blinking up at him and wondering when she had become so unscrupulous.
I'm part of you now.
Ramsay's parting words echo in her mind, sliding around like acid. Perhaps he had been right. Perhaps some of the evil had fled from his soul upon his death and had latched onto hers. She is corrupt, foul on the inside, and her wickedness has brought out whatever latent impiety Jon has been harboring so secretly inside his heart.
Not so secret anymore.
"Nothing is wrong," he lies, his eyes flickering down to where his hand rests on her waist.
"Really?" she hums before he can come up with some explanation for "waking" her. "Because I swore I felt…" Like the siren she has become, she pushes her backside again his groin once again.
Her desire intensifies, and she hides the wicked smirk that longs to steal over her face when he chokes on his own breath. His hips jerk of their own accord, and she catches his hand in hers and drags it down her body to slip underneath the loose, knee-length skirts of her shift.
She grinds her hips back against him again just as she guides his hand up her leg to slip between her thighs. She shudders at the rough feel of his callused hand on her skin, and whimpers when his fingers brush her slit. He makes a noise in his throat when he finds her womanhood soaked with her arousal, his fingers becoming slippery with her juices.
"Please," she says. She's not too proud to beg; her pride lies on the floor next to her robe, temporarily discarded.
His breath comes in hot puffs against the back of her neck. She expects him to refuse, and prepares herself for his rejection. Then he shifts and parts her legs and slides his knee between her own to prop them open a few inches, and she melts in pleasure as his fingers go to work.
She is surprised and pleased when she feels no horror as he slides a digit inside her, followed by a second one. There are no flashbacks. But Jon is the furthest thing from Ramsay Bolton: his body is scarred, muscled, powerful, and his hands are deliciously rugged, rasping across her skin. His hair is unbound and curly, his beard trimmed neatly. And he smells like home, like nature, like sweat and pine trees and leather.
The rapacious beast within her wants more.
She lets him work her into a frenzy, and all she can think about is how she longs for the impressive bulge pressing against her buttocks, how she wants the thing between his legs buried between hers. So, aching with the need for release, she rolls and pushes him onto his back.
For a moment, he looks as if he is worried that he has hurt her; then she rolls her hips against him and the alarm fades from his face, his eyes darkening with both lust and simmering fury.
She does not attempt to go for the laces of his trousers yet—she doesn't want to scare him away. His hands fist in the sheets beneath him, his fingers still sticky with her essence. So she merely rocks her hips and undulates against his groin as she had done last week.
The groan that escapes from his lips is the sweetest music, and she brings her hands to his loose tunic, sliding them underneath to rest on the warm skin of his scarred chest. Every move she makes is calculated, slow, as if she is stalking a deer without spooking it. If she rips off his shirt as she longs to do, it will shock him back into reality.
She leans down to kiss him, and it is perfect, natural, as easy as if they've been doing it all their lives. He kisses her back, his mouth hot and insistent, but his hands remain clutching the bed covers in a white-knuckled grip. She scrapes her teeth against his bottom lip, and sits back up, her hands going to her nightgown.
"Don't—"
She does. She drags the hem up her body and whips it over her head, throwing it to the floor next to her robe and her pride and the shattered remnants of her conscience.
His eyes go first to her breasts, and then drop down to where her cunt rubs tantalizingly against his tortured manhood. Still, she does not move to touch it. She is patient. If there is one thing she has learned over the years, it is how to be patient.
In lieu of touching him, she touches herself. She feels exceptionally naughty and a bit foolish when she slides her hands up her stomach to cup her breasts, but the answering look on his face tells her she's doing everything right.
"I want to see you," she whispers, staring at him with hungry eyes.
He hesitates. Once again, something monstrous reflects in his gaze, and the devilish voice within her crows in triumph when he reaches down to pull his shirt over his head, his torso lifting up slightly and his hips flexing underneath her. Her breath catches.
His hands go back to lying on the bed at his sides, but she notices that they are shaking. She rolls her hips, chasing an orgasm that she can't seem to catch. She continues to touch herself, letting her head fall back and her eyes close as she tweaks her nipples harshly and enjoys it much more than she'd thought she would.
She wonders if she might like it rough. She wonders if Jon would do it right, bend her over the nearest flat surface and sink himself deep inside her, his hand fisted in her hair just enough to sting.
The idea of it is both terrifying and titillating.
Her eyes snap open and her head straightens when she finally feels his hand on her body. He pries one of her hands from her breast, and she huffs in surprise when he brings it down to the junction of her thighs. He grabs two of her fingers in his own, and presses them to the special place that he'd tormented with his tongue not so long ago.
The effect is instantaneous. She jolts as he guides her, the pads of her fingers pressing lightly against her, drawing circles around the sensitive bud. Eventually he lets go, and his hand goes back down to the bed, though this time his thumb rubs against her knee. There is a pleased look in his eye—a sinful sort of arrogance that she likes, that temporarily overshadows the kind, honest, noble part of him.
Her orgasm is more attainable, now; but it is still not enough. With each sound of pleasure, he seems to lose more control: his hips start to twitch, one hand tightens and loosens around the bedspread, the other smoothes over her calf, his mouth parts as he starts to pant.
She pulls her hand away, and leans forward to give him a scorching kiss. He loses himself in the feeling, his hands coming up to spear into her hair as he nips at her lips.
Yes—she thinks she might like it rough after all. At least with him.
While he is distracted, her hands sneak insidiously down to the laces of his pants. She lifts her hips, and her fingers make quick work of the strings. The fabric is soaked through with her own desire, and she pulls the edges apart and down enough to free his cock from its cruel prison.
He breaks away from her mouth to make a noise that is part protest, part eagerness. She chooses to dwell on the latter. She sits back, and grasps his erection in her hand. Anxiety floods through her—she has only ever been with Ramsay, and he had not been thick like this. But her yearning remains, and he strains his neck, turning his chin to the ceiling, his expression mirroring her feelings.
Then his hands go to her hips, and he slides her forward along the underside of his cock, releasing a tortured groan. Finally, he opens his eyes and tilts his head to look at her. His eyes are dark and hot and hard with something that she knows but cannot put a finger on; then he takes one hand and grips his straining member and guides it to her opening.
She tries to lower herself upon it, but he holds her hip in an iron grip. He grits his teeth and glares into her eyes.
"I'm going to all seven hells for this," he murmurs darkly.
For some reason, this makes her smile. She reaches down and pries his hand from her hip; he does not put up a fight, just slides it down to rest on her thigh.
"That's okay," she whispers. "At least then I won't be alone."
Then she puts her hands on his chest and sinks down onto him, and they are both lost.
She is so wet that he slides all the way in on the first thrust, despite his girth. He moans gutturally, and his eyes roll back.
She has never felt like this. There is a certain completion to be had, a fulfillment that she knows she will never be able to get anywhere else. He rolls his hips underneath her, and she lets out a surprised moan; she can feel the tip of him nudge against her womb in a way that borders on uncomfortable but is so, so good.
"Sansa," he whispers softly. She looks down at him, quivering with such unfamiliar pleasure. He reaches up to cradle her jaw, running his thumbs over her cheeks. "I don't want to hurt you."
Her heart goes tender, some of the harsh immorality fading to make way for her love for him. She smiles down at him.
"You could never hurt me, Jon Snow," she says back. And as she says it, she knows it to be true. This is where she belongs: with him, safe in the circle of his arms.
She lifts herself off of him, using her hands on his chest for leverage. She whimpers on the withdrawal; then she descends once more, and his moan echoes her own.
She doesn't really know what she's doing. She starts to move against him, and the noises he makes tell her that she's doing something right. Then his hands go to the meat of her hips, and he tilts them forward, and then guides her downwards in an undulating motion and pulls her back up. The second time he does it, she gets the gist, and soon she is moving on her own, his marvelous cock stroking deep within her as he caresses her body with his beautiful hands.
"Gods," he says, his voice rough like granite. "You're perfect."
There is something in his tone that gives her confidence; perhaps it is because he is telling the truth. Jon does not flatter just to flatter. He does not say things he doesn't mean. A few shards of her self-worth pick themselves up off the floor, where they have been laying the whole time next to her pride, conscience, and nightclothes.
Suddenly he lurches beneath her, sitting up a bit against the pillows so that his torso is slightly elevated. Then, with a gentle hand on the small of her back, he presses her forward in a quick motion that makes her pubic bone bump against his abdomen. Her clit hits his skin, and she knows then that it is all over.
She throws back her head and keens as he starts pulling her against him with more force, his movements languid and unhurried; their skin, slick with sweat and the evidence of their arousal, slaps wetly together in the quiet darkness of the room, and the noise only spurs on her desire. It is not rough, or fast, but it is deep, and thorough, and filthy and forbidden but somehow still pure. She puts her hands on his shoulders and leans against him as she struggles to get even more leverage to slam down against him harder. The tip of his member nudges a place within her that intensifies her pleasure ten-fold. She pants, her legs burning, and he senses she is close, his hands sliding up to rub insistently against her nipples.
"That's it," he encourages. "You're almost there." His voice is low and steady and smooth in a way that it usually isn't. She looks into his eyes, and only his monster is there looking back at her, dark and fatal and everything she shouldn't want but does anyway.
This is her undoing. She flies apart atop him, bathed in ecstasy, and her channel spasms around his shaft in a way that has him groaning. She vaguely feels a hot wetness spread inside her, and the sensation sends her tingling nerves into overdrive. Dark spots fill her vision, and she slumps forward, her limbs twitching uncontrollably.
She lays her head down on his shoulder as they both come down from the heights of pleasure. She feels him soften inside her.
He runs his fingers over her back, making her shiver. Finally he clears his throat.
"We are never doing this again," he says lowly. She does not lift her head; she can tell by his voice that the monster has retreated back into its cave. "Never."
He seems to believe it.
She doesn't.
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Thanks for reading!
xoxo
Giraffe :)