Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/448352.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/F
  Fandom:
      A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin, Game_of_Thrones_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Jeyne_Poole/Sansa_Stark, Sansa_Stark/Margaery_Tyrell, Sansa_Stark/Mya
      Stone, Sansa_Stark/Myranda_Royce, Myrcella_Baratheon/Sansa_Stark
  Character:
      Sansa_Stark, Jeyne_Poole, Margaery_Tyrell, Mya_Stone, Myranda_Royce,
      Myrcella_Baratheon
  Additional Tags:
      Sexual_Experimentation, Hand_Jobs, Cunnilingus, Frottage, Scissoring
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-07-01 Words: 6008
****** thoughts of pretty you and me ******
by honey_wheeler
Summary
     Sansa has missed this, she’s missed soft touches and sweet pleasure
     and the company of women. She’s missed the heady feeling of power
     that could only be found in making someone tremble apart with her
     fingers and tongue.
Notes
     From the kinkmeme prompt: Sansa/Various - 5 Women Sansa Shared Her
     Bed With (can be sexual or not, but let's be real: there's no way
     Myranda Royce keeps it platonic)
     Show ages.
She and Jeyne call it practicing. Everyone always assumes they mean dancing or
sketching, and Sansa’s mother wonders perpetually why Sansa is not a master at
the lapharp with how much time she spends at it. It gives Sansa a delicious
thrill to know that her mother hasn’t the slightest clue that it isn’t a harp
between her knees during all those hours of “practice.” Calling it practice is
a falsehood, which Sansa knows is wrong, but it seems silly to be shamed over
the lie when surely what they practice at would scandalize her mother and Septa
Mordane a hundred times more than the lie about it.
And besides, it isn’t entirely a lie. It is practice, one they’d at first
assured each other was for their future husbands, so each could be a pleasing
and pleasant wife. They hadn’t made mention of husbands in ages, though, and
although Sansa can’t be sure if Jeyne feels the same, for her it is only
practice for practice’s sake.
They’d started with kissing first, exchanging chaste, giggling kisses with lips
closed, tilting their heads and moving them the way they saw Theon do when they
stumbled on him with a serving wench, before he’d heard their hushed giggles
and chased them from the kitchens with a length of hard sausage, which itself
only made Sansa and Jeyne laugh all the more.
“Did you see him?” Jeyne had giggled, her hand over her mouth as they sat in a
cloud of skirts and shifts on Sansa’s bed, the furs soft and rumpled around
them so that it seemed to Sansa that they were in a lovely, sweet-smelling
cocoon. “He held that sausage like it was his…his member.” Sansa had giggled to
match, feeling her cheeks dimple as she tried not to smile so wide.
“Theon wishes,” she’d said, blushing at her own improper implication, and that
had pushed Jeyne into another gale of laughter
“And the way he kissed her!” Jeyne said. “With his head all moving about. Is
that how it’s supposed to be done?” Sansa had known no better than Jeyne, but
she’d been unable to stop thinking about it, the picture of the serving girl’s
face bright in her mind, with her pinked cheeks and her shiny lips dropped
open, her eyes closed as if in pleasure.
“I suppose it feels good that way,” Sansa had ventured, and it had been
impossible not to notice how Jeyne looked as intrigued as Sansa felt.
“Perhaps,” Sansa said, then stopped and licked her lips. Jeyne’s eyes dropped
to her mouth, and it made Sansa brave enough to continue. “Perhaps we could try
it and see.” Jeyne had said nothing, only blushed and nodded, and when she’d
gasped and giggled at the brush of Sansa’s lips over hers, Sansa had decided
that it felt very good indeed.
They’d found any excuse to sneak off to Sansa’s room after that, climbing onto
the soft nest of her bed and pressing their faces together, at first inexpertly
and with an air of silliness, but then with increasing skill and a strange
urgency that Sansa felt coiling in her belly like a sick-sweet ache. She’d
thought herself ill the first time she felt it, but then Jeyne had breathlessly
reported the same ache, and it had sharpened when Jeyne shifted against her,
her hipbone rubbing over the juncture of Sansa’s thighs. It had scared Sansa,
made her feel strange and ashamed, and she’d avoided Jeyne for a few days
feeling blood rush to her cheeks even at looking upon her in the most innocent
of situations, until Jeyne had come to her rooms and stood with eyes downcast,
her toe twisting on the rug beside Sansa’s bed.
“Are you angry with me?” Jeyne asked, the pain on her face so real that Sansa
felt immediately ashamed of herself for an entirely different reason. She’d
never wanted to hurt Jeyne, her truest friend.
“No,” she’d protested, “oh no, I’m not angry, Jeyne, never angry.”
“Then you’re disgusted,” Jeyne cried, tears filling her eyes and encroaching in
her voice. “I touched you a way I shouldn’t and you’re sickened with me, I knew
you were, I knew-” and Sansa had stopped her increasingly hysterical words the
only way she knew how, with a kiss. Jeyne’s mouth was open, mid-word, and Sansa
felt her tongue with her own, she surrendered to instinct and stroked Jeyne’s
tongue with hers. Jeyne squeaked, her hands came up to clutch at Sansa’s
shoulders, and next thing Sansa knew, they were tipping on to her bed in a
flurry of gowns and skirts and long, silken hair, she was lying atop Jeyne and
shyly licking between her lips to taste her tongue and her teeth and the
delicately fluted roof of her mouth.
“Oh,” Jeyne said softly when Sansa pulled away to look down on her. “Oh.” And
then she’d pulled Sansa down again, she’d stolen her own tongue into Sansa’s
mouth, and neither had said anything more until Septa Mordane knocked at the
door to chivvy them to supper.
Little shyness or hesitation had remained after that. With a boy, or even with
a girl other than Jeyne, Sansa might worry at her desires, might be reluctant
to touch Jeyne in the way she wishes. But she never worries with Jeyne, who is
as curious as Sansa, and as eager to explore. Jeyne does not protest when Sansa
unlaces her bodice to touch her nipples with curious fingers, nor does she shy
away when Sansa kisses them through her nightshift, impulsively darting out her
tongue to lave wet over the peak and leave the thin cloth covering it wet and
clinging. Indeed, she only encourages all that Sansa tries, begs for all that
Sansa wants, holding Sansa’s face to her teats and giving ardent, appreciative
moans. So when it occurs to Sansa to slide her fingers into Jeyne’s
smallclothes to touch her the way Sansa touches herself sometimes at night or
when she has the luxury of a bath alone, she doesn’t hesitate; she pulls at the
drawstring with a sure hand and then steals her fingers inside to sift through
the downy hair and trace over the cleft beneath.
“Sansa!” Jeyne cries, loud enough that Sansa covers her mouth with a kiss,
licking her lips and pushing her tongue inside while cupping Jeyne’s mound and
rubbing. Jeyne’s moan vibrates through Sansa’s mouth and Sansa swallows it,
gives Jeyne back one of her own. Jeyne is wet and warm when Sansa parts her and
slides her fingers in a vee over her to her opening, feeling herself clench in
response when she gently pushes her fingers inside and Jeyne tightens around
them. Sansa rubs and pets, she drags her fingers through Jeyne’s wetness until
Jeyne stiffens and gives a shocked cry, pulsing around Sansa’s fingers.
“Let’s do that every time,” Jeyne pants when she’s finally caught her breath.
“We can take turns.” Sansa is only too happy to agree.
 
*****
 
Margaery’s nipples are soft and pink. They sit puffy on the tips of her
breasts, pouty and lovely, and Sansa wants nothing more than to roll them
beneath her tongue, suck them until Margaery is panting and squirming, parting
her legs to invite Sansa to taste more. It makes afternoons spent with Margaery
and her cousins in the baths of the Red Keep a delicious torment.
Sansa has never tasted a woman’s cunt before. She’d only just thought of such a
thing with Jeyne before they were parted, and now Jeyne is gone, far away or
dead or worse. It pains Sansa too much to think on her, to worry over her fate.
To worry at her own guilt, that maybe if Sansa hadn’t gone to Cersei, she might
be far from King’s Landing with Jeyne and Arya, and her father might still be
alive. So Sansa drives such thoughts away, allows herself to think only on how
pretty Margaery looks, perched on the ledge of the bath with her dark hair
streaming down to curl beneath her breasts, her cheeks and belly and knees
blushing from the heat of the steaming water below her. Sansa tries not to
stare, she does her best to keep her eyes only on Margaery’s lovely face, but
every time Margaery shifts, Sansa’s eyes drop without her bidding to find those
pink, blushing patches on Margaery’s white knees, and heat that has nothing to
do with the pools gathers in her own cunt when the shift of Margaery’s thighs
reveals what’s between them, pink beneath brown curls, as pink as her flushed
knees. The third time it happens, Margaery’s knees don’t shift closed again,
they spread wide and stay there. Sansa darts her eyes up to see Margaery
looking upon her, her lips pursed in a cat-like smirk.
“Girls,” she says to her cousins. “Leave us.” They all seem to know she means
all but Sansa, and obediently they get to their feet, wrapping themselves in
linens and shifts and moving to the antechamber, Megga closing the door behind
her to leave Margaery and Sansa quite alone.
“My lady…” Sansa tries, but Margaery smiles and gives her head a bit of a
shake.
“I seem to have you quite enraptured,” she says, and Sansa feels shame settle
heavily in her belly alongside desire, the two emotions tangling unpleasantly.
“I’m sorry, my lady, it is only-” Her words catch in her throat when Margaery
shifts her knees even wider, until she is entirely exposed to Sansa.
“Would you like to touch what you stare at so hungrily?” she asks, and it is on
the tip of Sansa’s tongue to deny any hunger, but it would be a false denial
and she is very hungry indeed.
“Yes,” she whispers. “Very much, yes.”
“Then please,” Margaery says, gesturing to her lap with a graceful hand.
“Ladies are always accommodating to their guests. Did we not both learn that
from our Septas?”
The water that had seemed so hot before seems cool in comparison to the fire
under her skin when Sansa slips into it to wade across to Margaery. When she is
close, Margaery stretches out one dainty calf and hooks it over Sansa’s
shoulder, pulling her close with the pressure of her heel on Sansa’s back.
“Come, Sansa,” she says, silky and low, her eyes a mischievous sparkle. “Make
good on all those long looks with your touch.”
Sansa needs no more encouragement. She traces a flowery design up Margaery’s
leg from knee to hip, drags her fingertip along the crease of her thigh, and
then covers Margaery’s mound with her hand. Margaery arches into the touch,
spreading her thighs far enough apart to be obscene. Sansa rubs the heel of her
palm in circles, then flips her hand to stroke over Margaery and tease her way
inside. She captures the peak of Margaery’s breast at the same time, drawing it
into her mouth to suck and mold her tongue around it.
“Oh,” Margaery says on a breathless laugh. “You have done this before. I’d
wondered.” Sansa hears what lies under the words but isn’t said, that Margaery
has done this before as well, and probably quite often. It makes Sansa feel
reckless, makes her cunt twitch at the thought of Margaery entwined with other
women this way, their hands and fingers and tongues delving where they may.
Sansa wants her tongue to delve where it may.
“I’ve never done this with my tongue, though,” she tells Margaery, meeting her
eyes boldly, suggestively. Margaery purses her lips into another cat-like
smirk, her eyebrow arching up as if caught on an invisible hook. She leans back
on both hands, tilts her hips towards Sansa.
“A lady is accommodating,” she says. Sansa wastes little time sinking lower in
the water. Margaery’s cunt is even lovelier from up close, soft and delicately
furled. It quivers responsively to the first lick of Sansa’s tongue. She licks
her lips, rubs her tongue against the roof of her mouth to let the taste roll
through her mouth, salty and a little sweet. She can’t stop the approving hum
that bubbles up in her throat, and Margaery looks down on her and smiles. “Do I
meet with your approval?” she asks. Sansa doesn’t answer, only smiles back,
feeling grown-up and seductive, then runs the flat of her tongue in a wide
stripe down the inside of Margaery’s thigh to lick into her again.
It comes astonishingly easily. Sansa lets her instincts guide her, opening her
mouth to suck hot kisses over Margaery, lingering on the spots that make her
quiver and sigh and stroke delicate fingers through Sansa’s hair. It’s beyond
lovely; Sansa has missed this, she’s missed soft touches and sweet pleasure and
the company of women. She’s missed the heady feeling of power that could only
be found in making someone tremble apart with her fingers and tongue.
“Oh, oh,” Margaery says, her voice urging up into an uncharacteristic whine
when Sansa noses over the bud at the top of her sex and pushes her tongue firm
against it. Sansa repeats the motion, then again, then closes her lips to suck,
feeling beyond powerful when Margaery cries out urgent and needy, her hips
bucking into Sansa’s mouth. Sansa looks up to see Margaery plucking at her
nipples, her head dipping low over her chest with her hair a dark spill over
the hands at her breasts.
“Was that to my lady’s liking?” Sansa asks, primly, all innocence.
“Quite,” Margaery pants. Sansa has never seen her so discomposed. “Do it
again,” she says, then seems to remember herself, adding, “if you please.”
Sansa chuckles, lowering her face to seam her lips about that same sensitive
spot and sucking with gentle, insistent pressure, licking up against the base
and curling her tongue. Sansa tucks her fingers inside Margaery to curl and
stroke, giving Margaery something to tighten around. Her jaw is sore by the
time Margaery’s release begins to tremble through her, her tongue aching and
her fingers almost cramping, but it’s worth it when Margaery makes a long,
high, shivering whine and fists her hand in Sansa’s hair, pulling her face into
her cunt as she shakes out her pleasure.
Margaery’s ladies are still in the antechamber when Margaery and Sansa emerge.
Sansa wonders if they heard Margaery’s cries, if they heard her pleasure at
Sansa’s tongue. It’s a secret little thrill to think they didn’t, and maybe a
bigger thrill to think they did, something Sansa is surprised to realize. They
chatter as they dress, folding Margaery into her stays and tightening the
laces. It makes her breasts plump up in her shift and Sansa’s gaze lingers on
them long enough to make Margaery slant her a knowing smile, touching the tip
of her tongue to her upper lip in a way that makes Sansa feel like every bit of
blood in her veins has drained into her cunt.
“May I share your bed this evening, my lady?” Elinor asks as they all walk
through the halls, Margaery’s arm looped easily in Sansa’s.
“Thank you, sweet, but I think Sansa will keep me company tonight,” she says,
turning to Sansa with a cool expression only belied by the rhythmic arc her
fingers trace on the inside of Sansa’s elbow. “Would you mind, Sansa?” Sansa
smiles. A lady is accommodating.
“Not at all, my lady.”
 
*****
 
Mya is not soft or curved like Jeyne. She is not delicate or sweetly-perfumed
like Margaery. In truth, she reminds Sansa most of her sister Arya, agile and
strong and athletic, able to pin Sansa to her bed with only one hand manacled
around both of her wrists. Sansa has spent the last year despising her lack of
control. It makes no sense that Mya should be able to strip control from her so
completely and it would drive Sansa mad with need, but that’s precisely what
Mya does.
Late afternoon sunlight filters through the hazy curtains that billow in the
wind that always gusts so high up on the mountain. The air is cool on Sansa’s
skin, making gooseflesh ripple on her arms and belly, over the swell of her
bare breasts. Mya is straddled over her now, her knees alongside Sansa’s hips.
She’s topless and wearing only smallclothes as well, no hose, and Sansa licks
her lips looking at her small breasts, small and perfect with flat brown
nipples that beg for Sansa’s touch. She can’t get to them though, Mya holds her
wrists firmly to the mattress over her head. She arches her back in
frustration, straining to be free though she has no real desire to be. The
motion rubs her mound up against Mya’s and Sansa whines, feeling her eyes roll
back in her head at the intense pleasure of it.
“You like that, Alayne?” Mya croons, rocking her hips to give Sansa the
sweetest friction, her whole body squeezing like a fist.
“Yes,” Sansa gasps, pitching up off the bed so forcefully that it lifts Mya
with her, and Mya laughs in delight.
“Yes, you love it, don’t you? You love my cunt rubbing over yours. No one would
guess it of the prim and proper Alayne.”
Sansa shudders at Mya’s improper tongue, at her sweet, filthy words. She’d been
surprised the first time Mya said such things to her and she’d come right on
the spot, only her fingers tucked inside Sansa’s cunt. Mya had exploited
Sansa’s weakness mercilessly, whispering vulgar things in Sansa’s ear whenever
she could, teasing her at supper with all the things she planned to do come
bedtime, unraveling Sansa with her words as much as her body when they kissed
and touched and fucked in Sansa’s bed, with moonlight spilling in through the
gauzy curtains to make patterns over their skin. Mya had been skilled from the
start, her touch belying her experience. Mya was the true bastard Sansa was
supposed to be in Alayne, not bound by duty or expectation, free to do what she
wished. Sansa doesn’t know if Mya has ever been with boys or men, but Mya’s
touch had told her plain enough that she knew a woman’s body well, and Sansa’s
reaped the benefits.
“Mya,” Sansa pants. “Smallclothes. Off, take them off. I want to feel you,
please.”
“Do you?” Mya asked, still rocking her hips, rubbing and rubbing and rubbing
her mound over Sansa’s until Sansa could swear she sees stars behind her
eyelids. “You want my cunt on you? Is that what you want, my beautiful girl?”
“Please,” Sansa cries, “please.” Mya’s smile is feral and sharp. She leans
forward to lick into Sansa’s mouth, sucking on her tongue and then moving to
suck Sansa’s teats, pulling one peak into her mouth and worrying it with gentle
teeth. It takes a moment for Sansa to realize that her hands have been
released. She clutches at Mya’s dark curls, holding her as she licks down to
Sansa’s smallclothes and tugs the drawstring free with her teeth. Sansa laughs
at how fierce she looks; Mya might be one of the kindest people Sansa’s ever
known, but here in what she knows as Alayne’s bed, she’s another person. It’s
an irony that it helps Sansa remember who she truly is.
Their smallclothes are thrown aside. Mya gives Sansa’s belly a too-quick kiss
before sitting up to straddle her again, the feel of her mound on Sansa’s
blissful and perfect. She cuffs her hands around Sansa’s waist and rocks,
tilting her head back when Sansa reaches for her breasts, covers them
completely in her hands. They rock together, they writhe and twist and grind,
both of them moaning and whimpering, Sansa’s voice a harmony to Mya’s lower
sounds. They’re trembling on the cusp of pleasure, but their releases elude
them and Mya squirms around, gets one leg hooked under Sansa’s so they’re
pressed open against each other, hot and wet and slick, and Sansa could die
with how good it feels. Mya ruts against her, holding her thigh with fingers
pressed so deeply that Sansa knows they’ll purple into a constellation of
bruises tomorrow. She comes first, her head pressing back into the mattress,
her spine arching up like a hunter’s bow.
“That’s it,” Mya pants. “There’s my girl, there’s my gorgeous Alayne, you come
so pretty.” She shifts again, mindful of how sensitive Sansa is after,
straddles Sansa once more to rub her cunt over Sansa’s hipbone where it juts
beneath taut skin. Sansa feels Mya’s pleasure rubbing a sticky patch over her,
she can hear the sounds of her moving wet and slick, and Sansa can’t help but
reach down, coaxing two fingers between them to dip into Mya’s cunt so Sansa
may suck the taste of her off her own fingers. That’s enough for Mya to come as
well, shuddering and wriggling over Sansa with a whining whimper until she
collapses atop her to suck in ragged breaths and trail her fingers through the
unbound length of Sansa’s hair.
“Sweet girl,” she murmurs, her voice thick and heavy. She gets so tired after,
often falling straight asleep, always wanting to pull Sansa close and lie with
their bodies entwined. “My lovely Alayne.” Sansa wishes she could ask Mya to
call her Sansa – if her secret would be safe with anyone, it’s Mya – but she
knows she can’t, and it’s a small complaint when she has this. They fall asleep
tangled together like wool yarn in a basket, Mya’s pleasure cooling on Sansa’s
hip in the breeze from the windows, her breathing stirring Sansa’s hair.
Sansa’s sleep is sweet and dreamless. She never has nightmares as long as Mya
is with her.
 
*****
 
Myranda Royce is not one to waste time, that’s something Sansa learns straight
off. She does not believe in waiting, or in shyness, there isn’t the slightest
hesitation in anything she does. If Sansa had met her years ago, she would have
been alarmed and overwhelmed. But now, Myranda’s straightforward desire is
enjoyable, even a relief. There is no seduction, no pretense. Myranda is a
world away from the men that court Sansa, those who tell her pretty words but
then grope at her with rough hands in dark stairwells, or stare at her with a
lust that makes her feel as if she needs to scrub herself with lye. Myranda’s
want is simple, and she does nothing to hide it or dress it as something else.
The very first time they share a bed, Myranda turns to Sansa even before she’s
blown out her candle, her fingers stealing into Sansa’s hair to cup her nape
and hold her mouth only a breath from Myranda’s.
“I would kiss you if I may,” she says, and Sansa is no fool.
Myranda’s kisses are deep and hungry. She opens her mouth over Sansa’s and
kisses her until she’s dizzy, until she doesn’t notice that she’s being urged
to her back, that Myranda is working her shift up past her hips to bunch
beneath her arms and expose her breasts to the cool night air.
“Lovely teats,” Myranda says, frankly admiring, “so neat and pretty.” She drags
a line from one to the other with her tongue, presses her face into the valley
between them to hum into Sansa’s skin. Each one pebbles and stiffens at the
touch of her mouth, and she lavishes each in turn, going from one to the other
as she reaches down to rub over the cleft of Sansa’s cunt through her
smallclothes.
“Gods,” Myranda says, “such a sweet little cunt. Does it taste as good as your
mouth, little one? Does it feel as soft as your teats?”
For all that Sansa has tasted a woman’s cunt with her own tongue, no one has
ever done such to her, and she quivers violently with the thought, thinking she
might peak just from the idea of it. “I…” she chokes out. “I don’t-”
“You’ve never had your cunt eaten?” Myranda asks, grinning in surprise,
squeezing her hand and holding it to let Sansa pulse in her grip in a way that
only makes her ache more. “Now that is a surprise, Alayne. And a pity. Cunt
like yours, it should always have a tongue in it.”
“Oh gods,” Sansa gasps. “Oh gods.” Myranda chuckles, the sound warm as
bathwater.
“I think you might not object if I got my tongue in your sweet, wet cunt, hmm?”
she purrs, rubbing over Sansa’s, nuzzling her nose at the sensitive spot behind
Sansa’s ear so that her words vibrate into her skin and bones. “Do you want me
to eat you out, little one, would you like that? Shall I get my face into your
hot little cunt and make you scream?”
“Oh!” Sansa says, almost screaming already. “Oh gods, please, oh please,
Randa.”
As with everything else, Myranda wastes no time. Sansa has barely time to
anticipate what is about to happen when Myranda is between her legs, opening
her mouth over Sansa’s mound through the cloth of her smallclothes and sucking,
molding the linen over her before pulling back to admire it.
“You’re already soaking these through,” she says in patent approval, rubbing
her fingertips over Sansa, plucking the wet linen away. “You’re a wanton little
thing, aren’t you, just dripping for me already.” Sansa can’t answer, can’t
speak past the need in her throat. She cants her hips up, wordlessly
encouraging Myranda to strip her smallclothes from her, and grinning, Myranda
complies, tugging them down Sansa’s thighs and over her feet to toss aside. She
settles between Sansa’s legs, parts Sansa with her fingers and holds her face
poised there, close enough for Sansa to feel the puff of her breath, showing a
rare patience at the time Sansa wants it from her least.
“Please,” she says, squirming up in a bid to get Myranda’s tongue on her.
“Please, I want your mouth on me.”
“On your what?” Myranda asks, teasing and mischievous.
“On my cunt, please, I want your tongue on my cunt.”
“Well,” Myranda grins. “Since you asked so sweetly.
Sansa peaks the second Myranda seals her lips around her and sucks, closing her
thighs instinctively around Myranda’s head, feeling the whorl of her ears on
the insides of her thighs as Myranda continues to lick and suck. Almost
instantly, Sansa’s body gathers again, an achy heat collecting in her belly,
and her thighs fall apart, her knees dropping to the mattress at her sides to
expose herself entirely to Myranda and her bloody amazing tongue. She works up
against Myranda’s face, winds both hands in Myranda’s hair to get her closer,
to get her tongue deeper, begging Myranda for more and more and more.
“So greedy,” Myranda says happily. Her tongue sounds out wet and noisy; it
should sound obscene but it only makes Sansa feel hotter and achier, makes her
imagine Myranda’s tongue, wide and wet, makes her think of the obscene noises
Myranda’s own cunt will make when Sansa gets her face into it the way she wants
desperately to, wishing she could do it at the same time as Myranda licks out
hers.
She comes again twice before she can’t bear it anymore and she pushes Myranda
away, closing her thighs and curling on the bed to shiver and quake, her blood
clicking as it cools in her veins. Myranda crawls up to lie on her stomach
beside her, her head pillowed on her arms. Sansa feels spent, exhausted, but
then she remembers Myranda’s tongue inside her, lapping at her, she thinks of
getting her tongue in Myranda just the same, and her cunt twitches again.
“Myranda?” she asks, feeling suddenly shy with a woman in a way she hasn’t in
quite a long time.
“Hmm?” Myranda hums, sounding sleepy and content, though Sansa doesn’t think
she peaked. She wonders if Myranda loves to get her face in a woman’s cunt as
much as Sansa does. The thought is intoxicating, and Sansa feels herself twitch
and throb again, not anywhere close to spent.
“Could we do that again, but maybe both at the same time?” she asks, stroking a
tentative hand down the length of Myranda’s spine.
“Same time?” Myranda asks, raising her head to look at Sansa speculatively.
Sansa blushes, another thing she’s not done in ages.
“Perhaps,” Sansa starts hesitantly. “Perhaps I could kneel over your face with
my hands at your hips and…and we could…” She doesn’t finish, but given the slow
smile blooming on Myranda’s face, she doesn’t think she needs to.
“Well,” Myranda says, already rolling on to her back and beckoning Sansa with
crooked fingers. “Since you asked so sweetly.”
 
*****
 
Being back in King’s Landing is passing strange. Sansa knows she has good
memories here, but it’s hard to remember them when the bad clamor in her head
so loudly. So many places in the city she refuses to go, so many rooms in the
Red Keep she avoids. But she’s here at her Queen’s behest, and Daenerys
Targaryen is kind even if Sansa’s memories are not. Here she is Sansa again, no
more the bastard girl of the Vale, but often Sansa feels more like Alayne than
ever in this place.
The one light in her days is Myrcella. She’s every bit the sweet girl Sansa
remembers, though she’s less of a girl now than a woman, tall and composed,
beautiful despite the scar that twists down her face and across her shoulder.
She too is here by request of the Queen, and though she doesn’t avoid places
the way Sansa does, she seems just as ill at ease here, in this place that was
once her home.
So they spend their days together, the two of them, each someone new and
someone familiar all at once, the only remnant of the lives they’d left behind
that is still here in King’s Landing but also someone to be learned anew, each
remembering the other as a girl that no longer exists. They grow exceedingly
close; often they snuggle together, Myrcella cuddling to Sansa’s side as they
share a bed, innocently seeking out her touch and her affection. Their touches
stay mostly chaste, but Sansa senses something more in them, some need of
Myrcella’s that the other girl doesn’t seem to understand. If Myrcella were any
other woman, Sansa thinks they would spend their nights together in her bed
doing far more than sleeping, but she’s not any other woman, so Sansa only
strokes her hair and breathes in the sweet scent of her through the night.
Sansa does not intend to seduce her.
“Have you had many suitors?” Myrcella asks one afternoon in the depth of
summer, the weather warm enough that they spend most afternoons napping or
lying lazy in Sansa’s bed to talk or braid one another’s hair. Myrcella’s words
are shy and wistful. Sansa looks at her carefully, wonders at the suddenness of
the question.
“None that I was sad to lose,” she says finally. Myrcella smiles in
understanding, then her face grows troubled again.
“I’ve always wondered how it feels to be wanted,” she says, and the words make
Sansa’s heart twist.
“You’ve never felt wanted?” she asks, and her heart only twists further at the
sad shake of Myrcella’s head. Her fingers flutter over the puckered red line
marring her face. She overestimates the scar, underestimates how little most
men care about anything other than the size of a woman’s teats and the
tightness of her cunt. But she’s been so sheltered, protected from anyone but
the men charged to protect her, and Sansa knows that the men outside her small
circle would never treat a girl like Myrcella with the gentleness she deserves.
It’s an easy enough thing to let her fingers brush Myrcella’s aside to feather
down the length of her scar. Surprised, Myrcella stills, her eyes going wide
and dark. It’s the flutter of her eyelids when Sansa brushes a thumb over her
lower lip that tells Sansa that Myrcella needs more from her than chaste
affection.
When she kisses her, Myrcella responds with sweet enthusiasm, parting her lips
and touching a shy tongue to Sansa’s. They kiss for ages, Myrcella lying back
and clutching at Sansa with tentative hands, moaning into Sansa’s mouth when
Sansa’s hand brushes her breast through her shift.
“Sansa,” she gasps, curling towards her trustingly. “Sansa, please.”
“I can make you feel good, Myrcella,” Sansa tells her. “Would you like me to
give you pleasure?”
“Oh yes,” Myrcella says with an almost frantic nod. “Yes, please.”
“Do you trust me?”
“You’re the only person I trust.” The words find some secret place in Sansa’s
heart and lodge there, warm and dear. Such trust deserves another kiss, and
Sansa gives it gladly, catching the hem of Myrcella’s shift to tug it up,
helping Myrcella to sit up so she can pull it over her head. It leaves
Myrcella’s golden hair a wild tangle, and Sansa laughs, smoothes it with her
fingers before urging her back down to the bed.
Myrcella’s teats are small but sweet, a perfect curve with soft, peachy peaks
that beg for Sansa’s kiss. Myrcella quivers under at the touch of Sansa’s lips,
her chest hitches and she makes small whimpering sounds. Sansa smiles on her
breast, each sound a sweet splinter that lodges beneath her skin. It reminds
Sansa of practicing with Jeyne, how Jeyne’s response to her touch made her feel
achy and sweet. Mindful of Myrcella’s innocence, Sansa caresses a gentle hand
over her belly, slides it down her hip and thigh to catch her knee and hook it
over her own legs. Myrcella’s thighs splay open easily, she works her hips up
as if she knows what’s coming and wants it desperately. Sansa draws Myrcella’s
nipple into her mouth to suck even as she pulls her fingers down her thigh,
over soft, golden skin to rub gently up the cleft of her cunt and circle the
bud at the top.
“Oh!” Myrcella cries out, sinuously pitching her hips up to meet the hand
touching her, her stomach shaking with her unsteady breathing. “Oh oh oh,” she
echoes herself, “oh.” Sansa would smile if she could, if she weren’t teasing
Myrcella’s teats with her tongue, sucking the nipples insistently in time with
the slow rhythm of her fingers.
It occurs to Sansa that perhaps this is some small revenge against the shade of
Cersei that haunts her still, though she’s dead and long buried, taking her
daughter in the place Cersei once allowed Sansa to be brutalized by her son.
But it’s more than that, far more, and soon Sansa forgets Cersei entirely,
thinking only on Myrcella and her pleasure, drinking in her response and
growing dizzy with it.
“Sansa,” Myrcella whimpers when her release takes her. She hooks her foot more
tightly over Sansa’s thigh and opens her knees obscenely wide, stuttering her
hips into Sansa’s hand as she bucks and jerks. Sansa rubs her fingers long and
slow, pets Myrcella through it, soothing her and gentling her until she lies
quivering beside her, her arms limp at her sides and her lips parted and slack.
“Do you feel wanted now?” she asks, layering the slope of Myrcella’s chest with
kisses, nosing at her throat and the hollow behind her ear.
“Yes,” Myrcella breathes. “Gods, yes.” Sansa smiles. She may not have intended
to seduce Myrcella, but she can’t regret bringing her such pleasure, or in
making her believe she could be wanted by another. Sansa presses a soft kiss to
Myrcella’s temple. Long moments pass, and Sansa thinks Myrcella has fallen into
sleep when she lifts her hand and touches gentle fingers to Sansa’s chin.
“Sansa?”
“Hm?”
“Do you think we could do that again sometime?” Sansa laughs, unable to help
it. It truly is like it was with Jeyne, back when Sansa lived in King’s Landing
last. Seems some things never change.
“Of course,” Sansa says. “It’s always good to practice.”
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