Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/5611771.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin
  Relationship:
      Jon_Snow/Sansa_Stark
  Character:
      Sansa_Stark, Jon_Snow
  Additional Tags:
      Fellatio
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-01-02 Words: 3008
****** what the heart knows ******
by honey_wheeler
Summary
     Sansa simply doesn’t fail. She’s never been anything but good at
     things; even when it meant spending hours in diligent, exhausting
     practice in the privacy of her room, so that her family would think
     everything had come easily to her, effortlessly, like she was born
     having already mastered all the skills of a lady. But this isn’t the
     skill of a lady, and it’s hardly something she could practice on her
     own. Unless… Perhaps if there was some sort of long fruit in the
     kitchens…
This is a disaster. Sansa was a fool to think she could ever do such a thing.
It had just seemed fair, is all. Jon is her husband – gods, her husband, that
still doesn’t seem entirely possible – and it’s not right that he should
be…generous with her, without her doing the same for him. It’s just what’s
proper. Polite, even. Odd how that’s what gives her permission, casting it that
way in her mind.
All of that is the part she’s comfortable with. What she’s not so comfortable
with is the bit where she’s found she rather wants to do this. To give him the
kind of pleasure he gives her. To know him as intimately as he’s known her.
Gods, she blushes to remember just how intimately. When she closes her eyes,
she can see him there between her legs, his curls dark against her pale thighs,
his mouth and tongue… Gods. Well, he’s her husband, for better or worse, so
perhaps him seeing her when she’s falling apart because of him is the “worse”
bit. Or perhaps it’s the “better.” Sometimes it seems to be both in the space
of an hour.
In this, at least, she has the upper hand. Or she would if she were any bloody
good at it. She can’t help but remember how she can never keep still when he
does this to her, how she squirms and bucks so that he must sling an arm over
her hips to keep her in place. Jon hasn’t moved at all. Not a single whit,
since she knelt between his feet and took him in hand to taste and explore.
Indeed, he only grew more and more still the more she tried, his hands fisted
in the bedclothes, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on her, until she wanted to die
on the spot from mortification.
Sansa simply doesn’t fail. She’s never been anything but good at things; even
when it meant spending hours in diligent, exhausting practice in the privacy of
her room, so that her family would think everything had come easily to her,
effortlessly, like she was born having already mastered all the skills of a
lady. But this isn’t the skill of a lady, and it’s hardly something she could
practice on her own. Unless… Perhaps if there was some sort of long fruit in
the kitchens…
“Bah.” Sansa scowls at Jon’s…well, manhood sounds far too pompous for what she
holds in her hand. His cock, then, no matter how it makes her cheeks flame to
think of it as such. It’s small comfort that his…his cock stands erect as ever,
no matter her lack of skill. Or perhaps that makes her even more of a failure,
that he’s as hard as when she started and shows no sign of the sort of crisis
that overtakes her when Jon’s mouth is between her legs. A pulsing beat thumps
between her legs now in memory, even as her heart sinks at the thought of even
more abject failure. She’s never had so little idea of how to do something in
her life.
“You don’t expect it to say anything back, do you?” Jon is propped on his
elbows, looking down at her where she kneels at the foot of the bed, one of her
hands braced on the dark furring of his thigh, the other holding his… Oh, will
she ever feel at ease referring to his cock? “Because as talented as it may be
in some things, I’ve never yet heard it speak.”
Annoyance burns in Sansa’s throat. He just makes her feel so mean, sometimes.
“You’re ruining it,” she snaps at him. Jon’s eyes widen in disbelief.
“How am I ruining it?”
“You won’t hold still!” she says, though it’s the absolute opposite of the
problem.
“I haven’t moved!” he protests.
“I suppose this is my fault, then?” Her voice quavers on the words, making her
as annoyed with herself as she is with him. She will not cry, she will not.
Confusion and dismay spread across his face. It’s the same look he used to get
when he’d done something that upset Sansa’s lady mother. It only makes Sansa
feel worse.
“Fault? Sansa, I don’t-”
“Oh, why did I even think I could do this!” she cries, releasing him and
rubbing her hand on her skirts, as if the feel of him was distasteful, when
really it was warm and appealing and simply unfamiliar to her. Annoyance
flickers across Jon’s face and for a moment, she’s glad not to be the only one
who’s frustrated. But then her eyes well and though she blinks fast, he still
sees. Were she not so horrified at herself, she’d be surprised and rather
gratified at how swiftly his expression changes to nothing more than concern.
He sits up, curling his body forward; even feeling as wretched as she does, she
can’t help appreciating the play of his muscles. It’s unfair that he should be
so very appealing no matter how put out she is with him.
“Well it felt pretty bloody amazing to me,” he says, obviously bewildered.
Sansa looks up at him, surprised.
“It did? But when you…when you do that to me, I can’t…” She looks away, unable
to hold his gaze when speaking of something so intimate and unladylike as the
way she behaves when he puts his mouth between her legs. It always feels so
very good when he’s doing it, and so strange and vulnerable when she remembers
it afterwards.
“What?” he prompts gently.
“I can’t even stay still. You have to… to hold me down.”
“So?”
Sansa rolls her eyes in irritation, even though Jon can’t see them. Her voice
is acerbic when she speaks, that sharp tone she hates but can’t seem to help
with him sometimes. “So, I can’t be very good at it if you’re lying there
silent and still as a statue, can I?” Suddenly Jon’s hand is beneath her chin
and he’s hauling her up onto her knees like a sack of flour to kiss her, his
tongue stroking her lips and surely tasting himself there. The thought of that
makes Sansa feel queerly weak, like she wants more but wants to flee and hide,
both at the same time. When Jon breaks the kiss, he presses his forehead to
hers, his breath puffing softly against her lips.
“I was holding still to keep myself from hauling you up here and doing all
manner of filthy things to you. I was afraid I might scare you off.”
Sansa considers that for a bit. Something warm blooms in her ribcage, something
too soft and new to bear. “So you liked it?”
“I liked it,” Jon assures her. The tone of his voice tells her far more than
his simple words. For several long moments they stay like that, his hands
buried in her hair, her hands on his bare thighs. Then she places both hands
flat on his chest and pushes hard, so that he falls back against the bed with a
look of surprise on his face.
“Then stop interrupting me,” she says, chin raised, eyes fixed challengingly on
his. A lopsided smile curves his lips in response.
“By all means,” he says.
It’s different now, knowing he likes this, that he wants it from her.
Tentatively, she takes him in hand once more. When she dares glance up at him,
he’s watching her with the same unwavering focus he had before, but it seems
different now. It seems good. Without knowing quite why she does it, she holds
his gaze as she lowers her face and darts a curious tongue over the tip of him.
He groans, his head dropping back for a moment before he drags it up to look at
her once more. She flicks her tongue again, and he groans another time, the
sound vibrating through his body into hers. Whether he does it because this
feels different to him too, or simply to encourage her, she doesn’t know, and
it doesn’t matter. She likes it either way.
Slowly, delicately, she explores him, not with an eye to figuring him out as
she’d done before, but merely to discover, to learn him as he’s learned her.
The taste of him is not unpleasant; indeed, it almost grows on her. It’s so
particularly Jon, a flavor completely unlike anything she’s ever tasted before.
She wonders if she tasted the same to him. Then she remembers the way he’d
licked his lips the last time, as if savoring the lingering taste of her on his
lips, and she thinks “not unpleasant” isn’t quite how he’d describe it.
“I don’t know what you’re thinking of to make you blush so,” he rasps, “but you
make a charming picture.”
“I was wondering if you like how I taste,” she finds herself saying, shocked at
her own honesty. Jon seems so as well; he groans again, his eyes closing as if
he’s in pain, and he twitches in her hand, the top of his cock bumping her lips
as if begging her attention. She runs the tip of her tongue along his length,
feeling naughty and rather obscene and delighted with her own daring as she
watches him and waits for his eyes to open. When they do, she closes her own
and draws the tip of him into her mouth to gently suck. He twitches and jerks
again, the sound rumbling from his chest too ill-formed to be called a groan.
Sansa’s blood leaps in response, pooling low in her belly. She hadn’t expected
to feel such power in this, or such satisfaction. She hadn’t expected echoes of
the feeling of his mouth on her while she explored him with hers.
“I love how you taste,” he manages. “Some days it’s all I think about.” A
tight, needy sound wells in Sansa’s throat at his admission.
It’s an awkward business, trying to get her mouth around him, attempting some
mix of licking and sucking without choking herself or biting him or whatever
other horrors she might manage. But for all that, she finds herself squirming
and squeezing her thighs together, wishing he were touching her as she sucks at
him. Every time he jerks and moans, she lingers, finding out what he likes
most. The more he responds to her, the more her own ache grows, until she
itches to relieve it. The idea that she might – that she could touch herself
even as she pleasures him with her mouth – strikes her as base and unthinkable
and unbearably enticing. Her hand tightens on his cock, her mouth working
faster, and just as her other hand is creeping down the front of her nightrail
towards the apex of her thighs, he gives a mighty groan and sits forward to
catch her under her armpits, hauling her up onto the bed and over his body.
Then it’s his hand between her thighs, rubbing at just the right spot as she
works her hand up and down his already spilling cock. Her stomach is sticky
with his seed and her shift is soaked under his hand from her own desire, and
it should feel so filthy but all it feels is good.
She peaks almost the moment he gets his hand under her shift to touch her bare
flesh. It’s faster than she ever thought could happen. Her hips ride his
fingers with unruly jerks, as if her body is no longer under her control.
That’s what all of this has felt like, really; like being under the control of
someone or something else, like being another person who is almost but not
quite like herself. Sometimes it bemuses her. Sometimes it frightens her.
Sometimes it makes her feel better than she ever knew a person could feel.
Times like right now, it does all three.
After a while, she realizes he’s holding her against him, the two of them lying
quietly together, hands still tucked in intimate places. Part of her thinks she
should let go of his cock, that she should tug his hand from between her thighs
and out from under her gown. She makes no move to, though. It seems perverse –
something that just isn’t done – but she can’t find it in her to care when it
still feels good and right. Gods, but the things she’s done with him have just
about laid her old ideas of good and right to waste.
Eventually he rolls her fully to his side. Without asking, he works her shift
up over her hips and pulls her half-upright to tug it over her head. Once he’s
tossed it to the side of the room, he lies back, taking her down with him. It’s
the first time they’ve merely laid together like this, without Jon taking her
fully. After all, everything they’ve done has been with the ostensible aim of
producing an heir. But he makes no move to roll over her and push her thighs
apart now. He seems content to simply lie with her across his chest, his hand
toying with hers where it lies over his ribs.
“I thought this would feel strange, but it doesn’t,” she says at last, when the
cool air has dried the sweat on their skin and his heart no longer thumps like
a kettledrum beneath her cheek. He makes a questioning sound, his fingers
sifting through the downy hair at her temples that always fuzzes out into soft
curls when she perspires. “Lying together like this instead of… When we
haven’t… Well, you know.”
The rumble in his chest turns into a laugh. “Fornicated?” he supplies. “Isn’t
that what you called it last week?”
“Yes, well,” she says, her cheeks warming at the memory of her childishness
during that particular squabble. “I was cross with you.” He makes another
sound, one that could be either a snort or a laugh.
“Are you still cross with me?”
“No,” she answers quietly. In fact, she can’t quite remember what she was cross
with him about then.
“Do you want to fornicate me?” he asks.
“Jon!”
He laughs and catches her fist when she clouts his chest. Having him laugh and
touch her so tenderly in their bed has something tightening in her chest, like
a fist. It’s a feeling she doesn’t know how to categorize, one that could be
good but that could also be too much in a way she’s not sure she could
articulate.
“This is so difficult,” she sighs. “How are we ever to know if we’re doing
things properly?”
“What sort of things?”
“Anything. All of this. This… Lying together. Coupling.” Being wed, she wants
to say, but that feels a step too far, somehow.
“We always enjoy it, don’t we?” His chest moves beneath her cheek as he shrugs.
Then he laughs and squeezes her against him. “Even when we don’t particularly
like each other. Don’t you enjoy it?”
Sansa lifts her head to look at him. He really is quite handsome. But there’s
something more about him that makes her almost frightened of herself. “Yes,”
she says, willing away her blush.
“That seems proper to me.” He gives her a lopsided grin. She can’t deny it
makes her feel better. She tucks her cheek against his chest again. “What makes
you think it isn’t?”
There are too many things she could say, too many fears that threaten to spill
from her lips. Instead she seizes on something safe. “Well, like before, when
you were so still. You said you didn’t want to scare me by…by bucking the way
that I do. Does that mean bucking is bad? Am I doing it wrong?”
“No!” Jon explodes, startling her and tensing beneath her. “Gods, no, you’re
perfect. I mean. I like it when you do that. Very much.” Now she can feel his
skin heating and flushing all the way down his chest.
“Then why…”
“It seems to me that it’s a little different doing, er…that to a man than to a
woman. I didn’t want to push you or scare you. I want you to feel safe with me,
Sansa. Even if you feel stuck with me, I still want you to feel safe.”
She considers that for several long moments. Slowly he relaxes under her, his
breathing growing even. She can tell that he’s almost asleep when she says his
name.
“Hm?”
“Do you remember that time you scared us by pretending to be a ghost?” He
tenses again a bit. She knows he’s wondering if this will be when they tip into
bristling at each other again, the magic of their pleasure fading and being
replaced by animosity. He makes a sound of assent and she continues, the words
tumbling out. “Do you remember that you found me afterwards, still covered in
flour, to tell me that ghosts aren’t real and that nothing bad would happen to
me?”
Jon makes a small noise; Sansa can’t see his face but somehow she knows he’s
smiling. “As I recall, you gave me the most withering look possible and said
you knew that, and not to get flour all over your clean dress.”
“And I stand by that,” Sansa says primly. “But all the same, it did make me
feel better.”
He seems to understand what she’s saying. His arms tightens around her, so much
so that she can’t breathe for a moment. “I’m glad, San. Now let me go to sleep
so I can be rested enough to fornicate you properly in the morning.”
“Oh! You…you… That’s not even proper grammar!” Sansa makes an annoyed sound,
mostly to keep from laughing.
“Shhh, shhh, hush now,” Jon says, catching her hands when she tries to pinch
him in retaliation. When he finally does fall into sleep, she stays awake for a
while, letting herself enjoy his closeness. Perhaps tomorrow they’ll be
bickering and frustrating each other again, but for now she’s content to be his
wife.
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