Archive of Our Own ^beta

It’s all too much. That’s all Sansa can think. She practically wants to chant it, but that might make them stop, and that’s the last thing Sansa wants at the moment.

“Imagine,” the Queen is saying, “that you’re eating a peach. One that’s soft and ripe and bursting with juice.”

Jon nods studiously, looking at the Queen – at Margaery, really, since Sansa supposes all of this puts them on more than intimate terms – with careful focus, as if he were still a boy back in Winterfell trying to absorb Maester Luwin’s lessons, rather than in his Queen’s bedchambers on his wedding night with Sansa. As if he weren’t lying sprawled between Sansa’s spread legs, his face so low she can feel his breath stirring her maidenhair. As if he weren’t touching her. There. That’s one lesson she doesn’t think Maester Luwin ever covered. Or if it was, Jon’s lessons were very different from her own.

Sansa fights the urge to squirm against the gentle pressure of his fingers. They sweep over the tender flesh that seems to grow more sensitive with every heartbeat. If she squirms, though, she may distract him from Margaery’s lesson and that would be quite unacceptable.

“A peach,” Jon echoes, his voice low and raw and unbearably exciting. His eyes flick down to where his knuckles are brushing against her over and over, so gently it could make her jump out of her skin. A whimper wells in Sansa’s chest like a bubble in the neck of a bottle. Gods. She’s the peach, he’s going to taste her like a peach, and the mere thought of has her whole body pulsing with a delicious, sickly-sweet ache that would be overwhelming were it not for Jon’s familiar presence and Margaery’s reassuring calm.

“Mm, yes,” Margaery purrs. Her hand is on Sansa’s belly, just under the bunched edge of her shift. Not half an hour before, Margaery’s hand on Sansa’s bare skin was an unthinkable delight, something thrilling and unexpected. That was before Jon confessed to having imagined his mouth between Sansa’s legs, though, which instantly changed Sansa’s idea of thrilling. Indeed, her ideas of many things have changed this night, now that she lies abed between her Queen and her former half-brother turned new husband, her shift tugged high and pulled low by two sets of hands until it frames rather than conceals. It’s utterly scandalous, how eagerly Sansa has strained towards both sets of hands, towards both mouths, transformed into a creature of unashamed desire with legs spread indecently wide by Jon’s shoulders and bodice laid open to show every pink abrasion Jon’s beard had scraped into her skin as he licked and sucked at her teats.

He’s about to lick and suck between her legs the same way. Gods. She could swoon just imagining it. Fuck shame, Sansa thinks giddily, if this is how good no shame can feel.

Queen’s Right, Margaery had called it. “Well, King’s Right, traditionally, but I’m not much on tradition.” As she explained it, Kings of old could take a groom’s marital rights on the first night, if they chose. “It fell out of favor years ago,” she’d told Sansa three hours and several goblets of wine into the wedding feast, “but I rather like the idea of reviving it.”

Sansa had thought the Queen wanted her husband. She didn’t realize her sights were set a bit differently.

“Show me how you’ll do it,” Margaery says, dragging Sansa out of her breathless anticipation. For a moment, Sansa thinks Margaery means to have Jon between her legs first as a demonstration, and Sansa’s disappointment is as keen as the edge of a knife, though she can’t deny the shiver of intrigued curiosity that goes through her at the thought of watching Jon do such a thing to Margaery. Her fear proves unfounded when Margaery holds the first two fingers of one hand against Jon’s mouth and says, again, “Show me.”

Jon does, eagerly, his eyes dropping half-closed as he catches her wrist with one hand and purses his lips softly while drawing his tongue over the pads of her fingers. His tongue is shockingly pink, the tip pushing slightly between Margaery’s fingertips before he draws them both into his mouth to suck briefly. Odd how such a thing can be arousing at all, let alone when they’re not even Sansa’s fingers.

“Good,” Margaery gasps. “Just like that.”

Jon takes her words as permission, or perhaps as a command. For a moment, his eyes fix on Sansa’s as he lowers his face, mouth half-open, tongue resting on his bottom teeth, until the tip of his tongue touches her and his eyes slip closed as Sansa lets hers do the same. Imagination didn’t prepare her for this. Nothing could.

A riot of sensation clamors at the edges of her awareness, everything layering to create something bigger than any individual feeling. She feels the soft luxury of the linens beneath her, the heady fragrance of scented candles, the silken fall of Margaery’s hair over her shoulder, her fingers teasing the peak of Sansa’s breast, her voice speaking tender, vulgar encouragement, and most of all Jon’s mouth tucked between Sansa’s legs where her blood beats heavy for him as he licks and laps and sucks and breaks her apart into a thousand pieces.

She loses track of everything. Her world is merely touches, kisses, tastes, feelings. Bigger feelings than Sansa ever thought she was capable of. Somehow Jon is over her, inside her, and what she’d heard only whispers about is real and not at all how she expected.

“Good?” Jon asks, his voice rough and urgent, need and concern warring in his eyes.

“Good,” she sighs, unable to keep the surprise out of her own voice. “I thought it would hurt, but it doesn’t. It’s…” Sansa casts about in her mind for a word to encompass what she feels. “It’s odd. But I rather like it, I think. Yes. Rather a lot.”

Margaery must approve. She tips Sansa’s head back and takes her mouth in a searing kiss, her tongue sweeping inside to stroke over Sansa’s own. She’s still kissing her when Jon begins to move, the press and drag of him inside her and over her making her feel strange, wondrous things. If this is how it always is with Margaery, Sansa thinks those chosen for her Queen’s Right are lucky women indeed. It almost feels like magic.

It’s not fast, but it feels like it is. Soon Jon’s stiffening and jerking inside her. It’s nice enough already, but then Margaery sneaks her hand between their bodies to press and circle, and Jon kisses her like he’s trying to pour himself into her, and something deep and heavy and good seizes Sansa’s whole body until she’s shaking from it.

“Oh,” she sighs once she’s recovered. “That was lovely.” Jon has collapsed on one side of her prone form. Margaery is stretched along the other. Her head is propped on one hand and she’s looking down on Sansa with a look that’s nearly proprietary. She trails one fingertip from Sansa’s collarbone to the tip of her breast in a thrilling caress.

“Queen’s Right is a wonderful thing, is it not?”

“I thought you were going to… to do all of that with Jon. While I watched.” Sansa feels her cheeks turn crimson. Impossible that she can still be shy about such things, given what they’d all just done together.

Margaery gives her a feline smile. “Normally I would have done it with you while he watched.” She turns her smile on Jon, the corner of her mouth curdling up like cream, turning her smile into something like a smirk. “But Jon is rather pretty. Seemed a shame to waste him.”

“You…” Sansa starts. She takes a deep breath and charges on, determined to be brave. “You could do it with him. If you wanted. If he wanted.” Jon gives a strangled moan beside her that she thinks indicates willingness. “I wouldn’t mind. I’m rather…intrigued by the idea.” Margaery’s smile turns warm and soft again.

“Not with you, then?”

“Oh, yes, definitely with me,” Sansa says, her lips twitching into a smirk to do the Queen proud. “But after me, I mean.”

Margaery’s laughter twines with Jon’s, their hands sliding over Sansa’s belly to meet in the middle. “A Queen’s duty is to her people,” she says, ducking her head to brush her lips first over Sansa’s, and then leaning across her to take Jon’s mouth in a decidedly firmer kiss, “and the first night is not yet over.”