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It’s the chair, Sansa supposes. She has made love to her husband in all manner of places, done all manner of things with him alone and with Val, and with the two of them together, but something about the chair is making her feel like a young girl again, filled with desperate urges and wild needs, wanting nothing more than to rub up against Jon like a cat in heat.
But then, it could have something to do with Val watching with hot eyes and encouraging them with a silky voice.
Val is pregnant now, not heavily so, but enough that it shows plainly, her belly round and slightly unwieldy. Sansa had thought there could be no greater joy than carrying Jon’s child, than being a mother, but Val’s pregnancy only seems to increase her happiness. Strange how Sansa had so frequently felt frustrated by her many siblings, always the odd one out, the bystander who was more witness to their games and roughhousing than part of it, but now the thought of more children only fills her with a joy so intense it could be frightening. She can think of nothing better than Winterfell filled with the ringing laughter of children once more, filled with Starks once more.
This middle stretch of pregnancy had been far easier for Sansa than it’s been for Val. Val complains of such aches and stiffness. Sansa thinks perhaps the child Val carries will be a boy, a strapping boy whose weight puts far more strain on Val’s body than little Catrin had put on Sansa’s. It leaves Val disgruntled and snappish at times, unused to her body bending to whims other than her own. It has, however, put quite a lot of experimentation into their bedchambers. She’d asked for a show this night, claiming she was too sore to take part herself. Jon and Sansa would have merely slept beside her, and done so happily, but Val insisted.
“I take my thrills where I may,” she informed them drily.
Which is how Sansa came to be straddling Jon’s lap in one of the great chairs, kissing him like she’d only just discovered kissing as she shamelessly ground her hips against his, feeling him hard even through the layers of his breeches and her skirts.
He has always been appealingly fond of kissing. Sansa has heard enough in confidence from her ladies to know that not all men enjoy such things. But Jon could spend hours with her and Val merely tasting their mouths, lavishing them with sweet, simple affection. Of course, given that Sansa is brazenly writhing against him like a common slattern, perhaps this is not so simple. It’s just that it feels so very good that she can’t stop moving her hips, wanting that delicious friction the way she wants his mouth. Distantly, she wonders if she’ll ever grow tired of him and Val, if their love will ever cease to be so intoxicating to her. If such a day comes, she thinks, let it be far in the future.
Suddenly Jon laughs into her mouth, his fingers tightening on her hips. Sansa pulls away to look at him curiously, thinking again how dear his face has grown, how much she’s come to depend on him.
“Val is tickling my feet with hers,” he says, jerking his chin at Val in her chair across from him. Sansa cranes around to look at Val – at her wife – and clucks her tongue in admonishment. Val’s chair is pulled as close as possible to Jon’s, their feet side by side, and Sansa could reach out and touch her if she wanted.
“Are you feeling left out, my lady?” she asks.
“Quite,” Val answers. “And seeing as how this show is for my benefit, that won’t do at all. Turn her around for me, Jon. I wish to see what I can’t have.” A tingle of excitement zips through Sansa’s limbs. There is something heady and daring in Val’s regard, in the act of performing for her. Sansa has performed with Val for Jon frequently, but this is new. New and thrilling.
Easily, Jon hefts Sansa’s weight and situates her with her back to his chest, her legs falling outside his to leave her thighs splayed in a manner most unladylike. He rewards such an unladylike posture with the heel of his hand pressed over her, keeping the tension at a sweet, maddening pitch. His other hand moves to the laces at the bodice of her shift. The ties have barely been pulled free before Jon is tugging the cloth down and tucking it beneath her breasts so he can draw his fingertips gently, teasingly over the peaks.
“Mm, yes, that’s quite good,” Val purrs, her chin tilted low against her chest as she watches them.
“Glad to meet your approval,” Sansa gasps. Then she gasps again, more sharply this time, as Jon pulls her skirts up and gets his hand on her bare flesh.
“Goodness,” Val drawls. “No smallclothes! Aren’t you full of surprises, kitling?”
“I’ve learned to be prepared with you two,” Sansa grins. She’s still smiling even when she mewls at Jon’s touch between her legs, a touch so feather-light that her whole body twitches and shivers. He repeats the caress, making an approving noise in her ear, before sliding his fingers over her more firmly, curling two within her as he circles his thumb above them.
“This is how I imagined you while I was gone,” Val says, her tone deceptively conversational given the content of her words. “I frigged myself silly thinking of it. Gilly walked in on me once and blushed around me the rest of the afternoon. She’s become so Southron in her sensibilities.” Val clucks her tongue in fond disapproval. She rests her hand on the growing swell of her belly, drawing it in absent circles that mimic the motion of Jon’s hand. Sansa feels suddenly proprietary, as if the child Val carries is as much hers as it is Jon’s. As if by some magic, the babe contains some small piece of each of them.
“Jon,” Val says, interrupting Sansa’s thoughts. “Fuck Sansa like that, the way I imagined you doing.”
“Here?” Jon asks, the desire to do just that evident in his voice. “Just like this?”
“There,” Val confirms. “Just like that.”
It takes some maneuvering to do – breeches unlaced, cloth gathered and pushed aside. Sansa is glad she wears only a thin day shift. Had she a heavy gown on there would be no end of fabric to corral. She sets her feet on the arms of Val’s chair, levering up as Jon readies himself for her. Then he guides himself into her as she settles her weight on to him, and gods but she misses him even when he’s gone from her for only hours. She thinks sometimes she misses the feel of him inside her even when he’s still there, moving within her and giving her such pleasure. Her longing for him feels so keen it could make her bleed. Val circles Sansa’s ankles with her hands, warm and reassuring, and that longing grows to encompass Val, so strong and right that Sansa wonders at the girl she was who could not have imagined such a life for herself.
Tipping her head back against Jon’s shoulder, she closes her eyes and imagines what Val sees – their clothes in disarray, Sansa’s bodice tucked beneath her teats, Jon’s fingers rough and tanned against her pale skin with the pinked tip of her breast peaking between his fingers. There’d been an afternoon, moons ago, one that Sansa spent with Val while Jon was occupied with musty lords and dry accounts. Val had told her how she loved the spots where Sansa’s skin flushed with her desire. Then she’d kissed each pinked spot with a gentleness that surprised Sansa, kissing one cheek then the other, the slope of Sansa’s chest and the tip of each teat, both knees and then the soft curve of her belly, before burying her face between Sansa’s legs in a kiss all the more intimate. Val’s mouth lingers there now, like a ghostly memory, even as Jon’s cock and fingers have taken its place.
“Much lovelier than I imagined,” Val sighs happily. “Though I’m not sure I can resist tasting you, sweet Sansa.” Jon makes an involuntary sound. Sansa smiles lazily, even as her blood heats at the very thought of Val doing such a thing. But still, though she can’t think of anything she wants more in the moment, care for Val outweighs desire for her.
“You’re not to exert yourself,” Sansa reminds her, trying to keep the pout from her lips as she says it.
“T’would be pleasure, not work,” Val counters, and, the words seeming to decide her, she leans forward, planting kisses on the pink flush at Sansa’s knees and then the inside of each thigh before nosing Jon’s fingers away and pulling her tongue over Sansa in a hot, wet drag that manages to be languid and electrifying all at once. Sansa can’t stop the thin, high sound that swells in her throat, nor the way she clenches and throbs around Jon’s cock. Val manages another long lick – her tongue swiping against Jon as well, judging by the convulsive clutch of his hand on Sansa’s hip and the strangled moan in her ear – and then one more before she hisses in discomfort, easing back against her seat with a hand on her belly and a frown. Sansa stifles her groan of disappointment; it’s only mindfulness of Val’s condition that keeps her from holding Val’s face to her cunt with both hands.
“Blasted pregnancy,” Val grumbles, shifting uncomfortably. “Ruins all my fun.”
“Not just your fun,” Jon says with a rueful sigh, and Sansa laughs at hearing her own thoughts from his lips. Seemingly unconsciously, Val runs the side of her thumb across her bottom lip and then sucks it clean. Gods, but Sansa wants that mouth on her again. It seems a scandalous thing to do with Jon’s cock inside her, and even more scandalous that they’ve not tried such a thing before. Just thinking of Val’s tongue working over her, slow and insistent, drinking of Sansa while Jon moves within her, the two of them driving her mad… It’s enough to have her clench around Jon hard enough to make him moan.
“What are you thinking, kitling?” Val asks
“You know what I’m thinking,” Sansa laughs breathlessly. Val smiles.
“Do I know what you’re thinking?” Jon asks, so plaintively that Sansa laughs again.
“Use your imagination,” she says, the words dissolving into a sigh when his fingers return to the task Val interrupted.
“I love you like this,” Jon whispers in her ear, words meant for Sansa alone. “I may never want to fuck you any other way after this.” His fingers move over her with tender efficiency, pulling her just to the edge and then easing before repeating the cycle, until she feels she could shatter apart.
“I may never want to be fucked any other way,” she murmurs, turning her head for his kiss.
“That’s enough secret whispering,” Val says, her fingers squeezing around Sansa’s feet, but when Sansa looks at her she’s smiling in obvious pleasure and with no small amount of smugness. Sansa will have to find out what that’s about, she thinks. But later.
She can’t remember the last time she peaked so hard. Her body bucks against Jon, his arm about her waist and Val’s hands circling her ankles the only thing keeping her in place. Arching into them, she covers Jon’s hand on her with her own and undulates her hips, urging him on.
“Spill inside me, Jon,” she says, sounding throaty and thrillingly seductive to her own ears. This Sansa has been an endless revelation to her since they’d wed, the Sansa who teases and demands and wants. “Give me another babe to match Val’s, I want you to spill inside me now, please, now.”
Jon gives a pained groan that she feels vibrate through her whole body, fastening his lips on the side of her throat and sucking hard as he pushes into her faster, harder, with ever mounting need. Sansa meets Val’s gaze and they share lazy smiles with one another. There’s a simple satisfaction in being able to predict Jon so; few things arouse him so much as talk of giving them babes. He’d been so lonely, so alone, so desperate for a family. They had all been in their ways, all three of them, before they found each other.
He manages to make her peak again just before he loses control, the two of them stiffening and jerking together, her blissful whine mingling with his hoarse groan. Through it all, Val encourages them with low chuckles and throaty murmurs, calling them lovely, so lovely, telling Jon to fuck Sansa until she loses her mind, which she very nearly does.
Her body feels boneless, as if she might collapse if she stood. Beneath her, Jon seems nearly the same, the two of them practically melting into the chair. Only his arm at her stomach keeps her from sliding to the floor in a puddle, it seems. His thumb moves in slow arcs over her skin to match the sweep of Val’s fingers at her ankle, and Sansa is overcome with a rush of tender affection for them, an emotion curiously sweet and soft after such a primal act. She tucks her toes beneath Val’s thighs and wiggles them, cups her hand at Jon’s nape to squeeze.
“Perhaps we should move to the bed like civilized people,” she suggests. Jon nods, his cheek rubbing against hers. It strikes Sansa as amusing that both she and Val require assistance in rising, she due to wobbly knees and Val due to an unwieldy belly. Jon’s methods are different for each of them, though; Val he offers his hand. Sansa he’d boosted off him with a foot planted on her backside.
“I see how it is,” she teases as he leads Val by the hand to their bed. “Special treatment for women who are currently pregnant, but once you’ve given birth the kid gloves are off.” Jon turns to her once Val is settled, giving her a wicked grin.
“Shall I assist you as well?” he asks. Her shriek pierces the air when he takes her wrist and yanks, bending to set his shoulder to her belly and hoist her aloft like a sack of grain.
“Jon!” she cries, her shriek turning into helpless laughter.
“Where do you want her?” he asks Val. It’s difficult for Sansa to see Val through the curtain of her hair; she has to brace her hands on Jon’s hips and tilt her head to see the amusement and soft fondness on Val’s face.
“That is quite the stupidest question you’ve ever asked, Jon,” she says, then she pats the mattress beside her.
“Forgive me, my lady.” Sansa bounces on his shoulder slightly as he walks her to the bed, her complaint at the rough treatment earning her a swat on her backside that she repays with a smack of her own that makes him give a startled bark of laughter. Then he tosses her to the bed and follows her, mock growling and rubbing his beard at her throat and cheeks before settling himself on Val’s other side. Val sighs and shakes her head at their roughhousing.
“I am truly wed to wolves, it seems,” she says. “Are you going to bite each other as well?”
“Only if asked,” Jon says.
“So was the show to your liking, my lady?” Sansa asks.
“What, your snapping and snarling display just now?” Val says, lips quirking as she deliberately misconstrues. Then she shrugs and gives Sansa a wicked grin. “I’ve seen better.” Sansa laughs, leaning forward to nip at Val’s neck in punishment.
“In the chair,” she corrects. “Was it to your liking? Perhaps we could provide a second act…” As she speaks, Sansa walks her fingers down Val’s side, dragging her hand in a tender caress over Val’s growing belly before finding the juncture of her thighs through her shift. A patch of damp greets her fingers and Sansa smiles. She meets Jon’s gaze over Val and sees a heat in his eyes that matches the warmth still throbbing between her own thighs.
“Perhaps I’m not in a mood to receive your attentions,” Val says loftily, but she shifts her thighs apart when Jon’s hand joins Sansa’s and the two of them rub and circle over her together.
“Mmm, you feel like you are. Doesn’t she, Jon?”
“She does,” Jon agrees. “And I feel in the mood to give my attentions, don’t you Sansa?”
“Oh, I do,” Sansa laughs, feeling bright and happy, so happy with these loves of hers.
“Very well, then,” Val agrees with an exaggerated sigh, opening her thighs further for them, with an eagerness that makes Sansa’s blood sing. “I suppose if you must.” Sansa tilts her head to capture Val’s mouth, kissing her with all the love and contentment she feels, until Val curls her fingers at Sansa’s nape to kiss her back with equal feeling.
“We must,” Sansa chuckles. “We really must.”