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januarywren · 2 years

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"Come back to me, little wife.”

His words were gasoline dripped on to fire; her fingers curling in, her nails cutting into the flesh of her palms. Sansa said nothing as he cradled her jaw and tipped her head up to look at him. His fingers left bruises behind on her skin, ones that he would soothe with his lips and his tongue if she asked him to.

If she never asked him to.

“Please,” she whispered, knowing that he would have little mercy for her. Her husband was made from sharp edges and knowing touches, as he drove her into heat.

More than once, he’d stripped her down and swathed her in soft furs, before guiding her to rest on her hands and her knees. He would sink into her warm heat until her face was buried in furs and slick dripped down her thighs, allowing him to thrust further inside her.

“You’re a greedy, little girl, aren’t you?”

Werewolf dystopia au | Heavy ac/nsfw, breeding kink, and a/b/o. Inspired by ‘Wrong Turn’ (2020).

(Psst...click the link above or you can read the fic down below the spoiler line! 🖤 I’ll have a second chapter up soon - Ramsay won’t let his father keep his mate all to himself!!)

"Come back to me, little wife.”

If she never asked him to.

“Please,” she whispered, knowing that he would have little mercy for her. Her husband was made from sharp edges and knowing touches, as he drove her into heat. More than once, he’d stripped her down and swathed her in soft furs, before guiding her to rest on her hands and her knees. He would sink into her warm heat until her face was buried in furs and slick dripped down her thighs, allowing him to thrust further inside her.

“You’re a greedy, little girl, aren’t you?”

He never fucked her without making her scream, as he dragged his knuckles against her clit and stuffed his fingers inside. It was always too much as he thrust his bulging cock and his fingers inside her, making her feel as if she would break –

“Please R-Roose, please!”

He would coo at her screams, his knot inflating inside her.

He treated her gently then as if she were a kit that he could scruff and hold against his chest for hours with his knot firmly inside her. He would chase her tears away with his tongue and nuzzle her cheek against his, something that no one would ever see. If she closed her eyes and listened to him purr, she could pretend that he loved her.

Cherished her.

She wanted to laugh at the idea but buried her amusement deep inside her melancholy. It kept her safe and sound, for she could never be happy with her husband.

He would never love her; he couldn’t love her.

Roose was Death incarnate.

The Foundation was a haven once, where the full moon hung overhead, and villagers slept quietly in their beds. Everything changed when Death came, with a curse in his wake.

The villagers became infinitely more, as they shed their skin and became grotesque and hulking beasts.

They were creatures that followed Death and Death alone, for he was the only one that could make them heel. It took only a look –

A sharp word –

And they came to heel.

Sansa recognized the constant fear that swept through the village, as thick and rancid as the black pudding that her younger sister, Arya, once made on a dare. The pudding had bubbled and burst on her tongue, and neither she nor Arya could swallow it without pinching their noses closed.

After that, Arya had dumped the rest down the sink, and they ate handfuls of trail mix to chase away the taste. They’d kept it a secret from their mother, who never approved of such childishness.

Only, Arya wasn’t there, and Sansa could hide nothing from Roose.

No one could.

Every one of the villagers had their uses, and those that faltered were placed on display. The stocks were marked with stains of human excrement and the air was heavy with their fearful cries. The ones who were lucky were avoided, with none passing by them. The less lucky were pelted with sticks and stones and rebuke.

The least lucky weren’t sent to the stocks at all.

They were blinded and bound before being led to the underground cells where the forgotten roamed. They wanted everything and nothing, as they stumbled in the dark; their eyes gouged, and hands left bound.

Sansa heard their mournful wails when Roose held court when she perched on his knee, and he fingered her before his council. They were men and women without faces, they were beyond names. They said nothing as she gasped and writhed in his hold, the silence filled with the sound of his fingers delving in and out of her slick cunt. She would stain his furred jerkin with her cum, as she fell apart in his arms, and still –

Still, the council said not a word.

“Good girl.”

He smiled against her fire-kissed hair, as he sent her higher. The keening noises that slipped from her lips were more animal than human as if her bones snapped and twisted beneath the full moon too.

She could do nothing as his arm curled against her waist and he held her in place; her legs bared and cunt gushing. She was nothing to him, and everything to them if her womb could nurture Death’s seed.

For they saw Roose as a god incarnate, one they were bound to worship through fear, and hate.

Sansa couldn’t lie.

She wouldn’t.

Fear was thick and bitter on her tongue, the same as the cold syrup her mother made her take.

He would plunge his fingers in and out of her without care, while his thoughts and commands rarely faltered. When her slick soaked his knee, and she chanted “please – “into his ear. He always made her beg before he unbuckled his jerkin, and freed his throbbing cock –

She would do anything to welcome him inside her.

“Beg me, little one.”

And she would, by the gods, she would as he slipped his fingers inside her mouth and made her suckle them. She’d whisper a choked plea while licking his fingers, and drool dripped on to her chin. The mark on her neck burned when he teased her, the mark one of his making.

It was a mating gland, one that he’d claimed as his own.

(She could never burn his touch away.)

He told her later of brides that came before, who were mated by the village head yet shared among the council. They were the mother, the omega, incarnate; their very purpose entwined with the litters they bore. The families that made up the village were bound together by blood, making one line that nothing could separate.

“I find that I have no wish to share you,” Roose admitted, caressing her cheek with his hand. His fingers were calloused and rough in contrast to the softness of her skin. “Does that relieve you, Sansa?” his tone was teasing and cruel, and still her cheeks warmed.

Sansa couldn’t bring herself to ask why.

He was everything that she needed and everything that she despised. He wasn’t gentle or kind and had little sense of honor, cutting men down in their beds and dragging women from their homes.

If they turned rabid, as his creatures sometimes did, he would kill them.

His hands were stained red, and nothing would cleanse them.

“How could you stand beside him, Sansa?”

She heard her father’s voice carried through the winter wind, over, and over again.

“I can’t trust you.”

“No,” his laugh was as warm and as pretty as the sun. “No one can, Sansa. They would be a fool to.”

Her lips ached when he pried her mouth open and looked at her blunt teeth and clicked his tongue at the sight of her bleeding gums.

He covered her mouth with this own, slipping his tongue around her own. His hands came to cover her own, his fingers tangling around hers as he poured his venom inside her.

It wouldn’t hurt her, no –

It healed her.

The buzzing in her ears increased, and she tried to duck her head away. It never worked, no; she was used to his ‘treatments’ that kept her whole, and beside him. They found she couldn’t go more than a few days without his venom pooling through her veins, keeping her steady, and wholly bound to him.

Her mate.

'Mine,' her traitorous heart said, and it wasn't wrong. They were bound by a ribbon that could never be unwound, no matter how far apart the ends were pulled.

“You were born for me,” Roose murmured, sinking his teeth into her earlobe. She hesitated when he teased, his quiet humor as cutting as the howling rain that battered against their cabin door. “Will you live for me, too?”

He knew the thoughts that rolled through her mind, his laughter taunting and teasing and unbearably cruel as he took them away from her. She wanted what she would never have, as he held her thin wrist in his hand and held his thumb against her pulse. Her heart beat without pause; the blood rushing through her ears whispering that she would live, regardless of how much she wanted to die.

He would keep her healthy and whole, for as long as the full moon hung in the sky.

(The sun never came to look down on the Foundation since Death came...)

The only light Sansa knew came in the form of Jeyne, sweet and precocious Jeyne, who was Roose's daughter from his first marriage. The young child rarely left her side, and Sansa dreamed of escaping with her if only to spare Jeyne from what awaited her when she came of age.

She would never experience trips to the mall, with the taste of bubblegum on her tongue and clip-on earrings dangling from her ears. clinging to her ears. No, Jeyne would never know what it was like to be normal –

To be childish and free.

Oh Jeyne.

Sansa would see her swathed in white, with rosy, pink on her cheeks and a thin rope of gold wound about her neck. Her husband would own her and would expect a song from his newest pet.

A son –

Sansa wanted to laugh, as much as she wanted to cry.

Groomed within the walls of the Foundation, a woman would never be safe until she delivered her husband with a red-faced and squalling son, that survived childhood. Only then would they be safe, and their place secured. If they miscarried, or, worse, gave birth to a stillborn child or a squalling and ugly little girl, they were damned.

(Or, if their husband’s seed never took at all...)

Sansa didn't like when her thoughts turned that way, slipping and sliding through foul and bitter tar. She wanted to press her hands against her ears and bite her tongue like a young kit if only to make to send her ugly thoughts away.

Then she could play with her mate, nipping and kissing at the curve of his jaw and the upturn of his lips. When he buried his fingers in her hair and tugged, she thrilled at the pain.

“Fuck the gods above– “

She wanted to laugh when he lost control, if only because of how rare it was. He moved with purpose; his muscles taut and his teeth sinking into mating gland when he filled her with his seed, before cupping her glistening folds with his palm after. He wouldn’t let his seed trickle from her cunt, no, he wanted to keep it buried safe inside her.

“You were made for me, Sansa,” Roose told her, the first time he’d wrapped her in furs before covering her small frame with his larger one. He sank inside her as if she were his home, and fucked her until her tears dried on her cheeks and her hands wound through his short, dark hair, “You were made for this.”

His touch kept her tethered there –

Hidden from the sun.

Her toes curled inside the thick, woolen socks she’d knitted, though the cold still seeped deep into her bones. Her mate was the only one who could keep her warm, his hands on his shoulders and his brow pressed against hers as potent as any fire.

Roose’s first wife was a child of summer, one who embodied fecundity and gluttony.

She had passed three seasons before, leaving crumbs of herself behind.

Sansa had taken her dresses apart, reusing the vast amount of material apart for clothing of her own. Roose said nothing of the dresses she made for his only daughter; a shy, timid girl who never failed to cling to Sansa’s skirts. She never spoke a word, but hummed in tandem when Sansa sang the songs of her childhood, though their meanings were lost upon her.

“I won’t leave you, Jeyne,” Sansa promised, the first time the motherless girl placed her chubby hands in her own and whispered her name. She was a shy child, a sweet child with a thin little face and lost eyes, and Sansa couldn’t bear to send her away. Instead, Sansa kept her near; feeding and bathing her in the springs that ran near the village, as if she were her child in truth. She made a fabric doll for her too, with rags stuffed inside, and two heart-shaped buttons for the eyes.

Though Jeyne begged to stay underfoot, Sansa had to leave her to another at night. Roose rarely welcomed his daughter’s presence and allowed none but himself and his mate to stay in their home.

No, Sansa thought. It wasn’t her home – it never could be.

She missed her home where her siblings were ever underfoot, laughing and dropping things while their mother yelled, and their father hid away. It was a mess of noise and chaos, and Sansa found her memories slipping through her fingers, no matter how hard she tried to grasp them.

It was Roose that she knew, and Roose that she remembered as if she had never known any other life before him.

Only that wasn’t true, no, no, no, and his home would never be hers.

It was saturated with the scent of him, from the furs that covered the pallet bed, to the larder that overflowed in the cellar below. Sansa would never admit how the notes of cardamon, leather, and ash made her toes curl or her chest ache.

His home was made from oak and stone, with a high ceiling, rounded doorways, and crudely made windows overlooking the village. Villagers tended to the wild garden that stretched around the hut, defined by masses of medicinal herbs, rooted vegetables, and leafy greens that kept without end. Summer passed with winter on its heels, and still, the gardens bloomed with life.

Everything and everyone knew to follow Death and his will.

Sansa too knew her place.

Her expected role.

Her heart fluttered and her cheeks tinged pink as she pressed her thighs together. She promised Roose that she would obey him – please him – in any way that he wished, but she couldn’t make her body follow suit.

“Provide me with an heir, and you will always have a place here, little one.”

Sansa prayed to the gods of her childhood every time they coupled, and Roose slid a pillow beneath her hips to keep his seed inside of her. It was the same silk pillow that countless brides before her used, to keep their mate’s precious offering inside them.

Without spilling a drop.

He took her relentlessly, forcing her to her peak over and over again, even when she begged for him not to. There was no escaping his knowing touch, and when she saw his cold smile, she knew that he read her thoughts.

She couldn’t get away from him.

She wouldn’t.

Not when he drowned her in his scent and bathed her with his tongue, drowning every part of her in his saliva. He would lick her cunt until she screamed, and he swallowed mouthfuls of her cream. She couldn't make him stop, nothing could make him stop until she was weak and wet and whimpering that she couldn't come again.

Then he would turn her over and trace her puckered hole, before delving his fingers and his tongue inside. There was no part of her that she could hide from him, and nausea rose in her throat as she felt him see her brothers and her sister that she missed without end.

And the half-wild dog that she loved, who responded to her name and had eyes filled with love. She was gentle and sweet and embodied everything that Sansa wanted to remember.

“Lady,” she whispered, “Her name was Lady and I loved her more than I ever loved anyone or anything.”

There were countless other things that she wanted to remember, even as she knew there were things already lost to her. The world had changed overnight, and she too had to change with it. Her family was gone, and she would never have a pet like Lady again.

Nor would she sink her teeth into apples covered with sticky sweet caramel or re-read a battered copy of her favorite romance novel and imagine herself in the heroine’s place.

After Death came, none of the Foundation had experienced life outside its walls. They were kept in place by Roose and made to follow in his wake, without indulging in rape or murder or a thousand other things.

Moving screens and books among them.

“I hope you’ll be happy here, Mother,” Ramsay crooned, as he held her hand in his and brushed a kiss across her skinned knuckles. Knowing eyes met hers, and he smiled, as pretty and sweet as spun sugar melting on her tongue.

Ramsay was Roose’s eldest bastard, with dreams that exceeded far past what his father would ever imagine. Sansa wanted nothing to do with him, nor the few Foundation members that followed in his wake. They were reckless and cruel, shrieking with laughter as they set fields blaze, and watched as crops turned to ash.

Ramsay had Death in his veins and could circumvent Roose's influence to a certain extent. He had sharp teeth and dark eyes that wanted everything that he saw, and everyone that he encountered without care.

He wanted the world, and his companions emulated his example.

They treated betas and omegas the same, leaving countless bruised and broken.

Broken –

Sansa knew that Ramsay imagined her broken too.

He watched and he waited, and he wanted, and she hated him when he came close to Jeyne. He drew his half-sister close, braiding trinkets into her hair and brushing chaste kisses across her temple. He made her laugh as much as he longed to make her cry; his dreams filled with tears slipping down her cheeks, as he tore her fabric doll apart –

As Sansa, his pretty stepmother Sansa watched.

(Ramsay liked to imagine Sansa as his mate, where she would cling to his side and play his games, with her laughter ringing in his ears and her small hand tucked in his...)

He was reckless and unpredictable whereas his father was calculating and precise. He was a wildfire that leaped where it wanted and crackled with manic laughter. He was a wildfire that left nothing in its wake, and Sansa hated him as she never could hate Roose.

How long would it be before Ramsay moved against his father?

The question left Sansa reeling, as Roose cuffed her cheek. There were questions she could never ask, and he would never answer –

Until he lay with his cheek against her breast, and his guard was left beneath the floorboards.

“Ramsay was a mistake.”

Sansa held her mate’s words close, and his promise to bind Ramsay closer still. Roose would fulfill his promise when she bore him a son, one that was made in his image down to the quirk of his brow and the sneer of his lips. Sansa knew that she couldn't gamble and take one of the other Foundation men as if she would ever allow one to mount her in the vast fields as if she were a breeding bitch for any to have -

(Wasn’t she?)

Sansa knew that she was prey to the gods above, and below – only she was loyal to the god in her bed, the one that would never let her go. It was his name that she whispered and his image that she saw when she knelt on all fours and prayed that his seed would take, and create life inside her.

Then, she would be safe, if not free.

Then, she would be whole, with a child in her arms and one at her hip, for she would never forsake Jeyne.

“I won’t let you go,” Roose said, watching her.

It was less a test, as it was the truth.

“I know,” she whispered, her lips trembling as relief underlined her words.

He was enmeshed in her, from the hickeys he left on her skin, to the seed that he filled her with. No one knew the bruises that she left on him in turn, as she whispered her sins into his ear while clutching him closer still.

“Keep me with you,” she’d asked –

She begged.

“With you, alpha.”

Roose knew that she dreamed of the world that never was. She dreamed of living in a snow-clad land where shadows never came, and sacred trees adored her peals of laughter. She had everything she wanted, and everything that she dreamed of there.

Her heart beat free.

"You'll never find that place, Sansa.”

His arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against him. It was a world away from where she, and their future children were, a world they would never roam free in.

Nothing but death roamed beyond the settlement walls.

He kissed her roughly, making her hands scrabble against his chest. Her protests never failed to amuse him, as they both knew she would never break his hold. She could fashion as many arrows as she’d liked, hiding knives away in her socks and stuffing a knitting needle beneath her pillow, but nothing would change the connection between them.

“I want to hate you,” Sansa whispered, her teeth catching on her bottom lip.

He was a creature from Hell, some claimed, a rabid, black dog that even the dragons that once roamed Westeros would have feared. He was colder and harsher than the winter winds ever were, yet he showed her more than the world would ever know.

His warmth, his laughter –

It was wrong.

It was perfectly right.

“If only you would,” Roose crooned, brushing his lips across her cheeks. “If only you could, little one.”

His claim marked her; the memory of his teeth sinking into her mating gland making her ache with need. She stuffed her fingers inside her, whining as she ground her hips against her open palm. Her fingers weren’t enough to soothe her, the flames leaping higher and higher inside her.

She was less than a human, as the ones above watched her burn alive.

Every member of the Foundation knew that she belonged to him, just as they knew when her small clothes were damp with slick and desire. No one would ever meet her eyes, nor respond to her desperate mewls.

One among the Foundation had tried and lost his life for it.

For her.

When the hunting party found her alone in the woods, she wasn’t his.

Not yet.

She was hers; a girl with no name and no face, one who would never have a place among them. Not if she was naked and filthy when she needed to be clean and bathed in his milky white cum.

She had never known another’s touch, not even her own.

Her childhood friend, Margaery, had given her a small vibrator that she’d kept tucked away in the bottom of her nightstand, without ever trying to use it.

Sansa laughed at the memory when no one could hear her. She didn’t recognize the girl she had once been, having left her in the forest that loomed outside the Foundation.

She was little more than a rabbit caught in a snare; Death’s followers having caught her without care.

They had her limbs bound and a gag forced into her mouth, before carrying her within the Foundation walls. She remembered the barren room they kept her in still, where she had nothing but the sun and fat, buzzing flies for company.

Food and drink came when the sun was at its peak when it was lowered down to her by a fraying rope with a woven basket on the end.

No one saw her, but she knew that he was there.

The man with eyes that saw through her, the one whose lips quirked in cruel amusement. He watched as the change came, the rush of heat through her abdomen the same as a fire lit beneath her skin. She pawed at the ground before she pawed at herself, twisting the remnants of her bra cup.

Her thoughts were scrambled, and her words rushed.

“I-I can’t – “

She wasn’t safe, she wasn’t cherished –

Her arms wrapped around her skinned knees as she curled into herself.

She felt more alone than she ever had and wailed a long, desperate sound. It was one that no alpha could resist, but the one above her did.

Why -?

“I don’t w-want to be alone,” Sansa whispered, “Not again.”

Making her cry, and press her belly against the stone ground, as if it could soothe the fire that crackled and roared inside her. Her heat was relentless, devouring her dignity in its wake.

She needed to be bred.

She had to.

She had nothing to nest with, and her cries had reached a fevered pitch when her heat came. Grinding her hips against her fist, she had sobbed as she came - again and again - without a knot inside her.

She needed an alpha to cover her with his scent and soothe her with everything he had; his fingers that were longer and thicker than her own, his teasing tongue, and an aching cock that he would thrust inside her weeping cunt.

She needed, gods, she needed -

She needed Death.

"P-Please -"

A mate, that would keep her safe and sated; tucked away in their nest until she was filled to the brim with pups.

"Please," she'd cried. "I'll be good- please - I can't -"

The man who peered down at her wasn't the same as before. He watched her with unfathomably dark and knowing eyes, and she had wept harder and harder until she collapsed on her hands and her knees and stuck her ass in the air. Her very scent was laced with her sweet pleas as if someone needed more encouragement to breed her.

"Alpha.”

The one that her body wanted came then, having never strayed far in the first place.

Sansa had called to him ever since she set foot within his forest.

“Omega.”

She was offered the greedy man's beating heart and sank her teeth into it as Roose held her close. Roose, she wanted to cry, the letters burned on to her tongue. What will you do to me? Will you hurt me?

Will you protect me if I’m good?

She clung closer, and closer to him instead.

"My omega will want for nothing," he murmured, his fingers splayed across her nape. His thumb massaged her unmarked mating gland, the sudden rush of endorphins making her knees buckle and her heart lurch. She was his, even if he would never be hers. "She will be safe and knotted every night, as long as she behaves. Can you be a good girl, Sansa?”

She hadn’t realized then, that she’d never told him her name.

Safe -

She had never felt safe before, her memories filled with the gruesome creatures that flew high above, untouched by the drifting ash and filthy screams they left in their wake. They drew no distinction between man and beast, their hunger without end.

Her family turned to hideous beasts made of ash.

There was nothing left of the ones that she loved, with snapping and snarling beasts left in their place. She’d run from the only home that she’d known, a small suburb with a name that she couldn’t remember, in a town she could no longer find on the map.

For Death had let his curse spread throughout the world, with none but the Foundation allowed to survive.

Sansa, his pretty and sweet Sansa had crashed through the forest knowing none of this. There were hounds at her heels and hounds waiting for her, for Death knew that she would come to his call.

She was always meant to be his, Roose thought, and whispered once, when he thought she was fall asleep.

He should have known better.

Nightmares of hounds kept her awake, as she remembered one's warm breath on the back of her neck and the searing fire that came as it sank its teeth into her shoulder. She no longer knew if it was a memory or a nightmare.

“Oh Mother, please keep me safe.”

She had wandered in the forest for weeks before Death’s hounds caught her, as she stumbled and fell. She’d scraped her hands and her knees and left chunks of her hair behind, as her braid caught on low-hanging branches. She took to trees when she could, haphazardly scaling their branches and cringing from the insects that scattered.

Her lips grew cracked, and her mouth dry from disuse, though she screamed when an errant branch cracked beneath her weight. She’d hurtled down to the ground, and was dazed as she watched the clouds above.

She had nothing left.

She closed her eyes lay there, amidst decaying leaves, until she heard the cries of an owl overhead and a centipede chittering in her ear. She was less than human then, a waif, and dirty thing that listened to the world that she had always ignored.

There was a place, they said, a place where the living and the dead would never go.

For the Foundation only cared for its own.

She was a stupid little girl then, one who thought she would be different.

(She remembered how the hounds howled and watched her with hunger; as if they could strip her flesh from her bones with their gaze alone.)

Only –

Only she no longer knew if what she remembered had ever happened.

"Come back to me, Sansa," Roose chided, drawing her away from her thoughts.

“Stay with me.”

Please.

Her small hand found his, their fingers entwining.

He brushed his lips across her throat, nipping and licking at her skin. His marks covered her frame, while the bruises she left on him were few.

The first time she raked her nails down his back while he fucked her into the thick pile of fire, he'd roared with his release and stuffed her weeping cunt full of his bulging knot. "Are you a wolf, sweet one?" he'd mused, his cold gaze meeting hers, "Or a naïve little bird?"

His answer came when she took pleasure for herself, waking him by straddling his waist and delving her hands into his dark hair. She wanted him to fuck her until she couldn’t think anymore, and he did.

Only-

She hadn't expected him to let her go after.

“Roose?”

Will you tell me the truth?

Her teeth sank into her bottom lip, keeping the silly words in.

She pulled the covers around her, their bed feeling empty when he left it.

(What had she done?)

He went to the room she was never allowed to enter, one that she knew he kept the key to on the leather cord that hung from his wrist. She’d watched him with wide, doe-like eyes when he came back with a book in his hand and settled back on the bed.

How long had it been since she was able to pretend?

Books were an escape, one that she had always gravitated to. Her brow knit when she remembered the rows of white shelves in her bedroom, and how they were covered with countless pretty books where no one ever died, and love thrived.

They were a world away from her own, and she had lost herself with every turned page.

He'd patted his lap and she laid with her head on his thigh and his cock in her warm and wet mouth while he read aloud to her. She closed her eyes as she suckled, and listened to his low, soothing tones.

“Please, sir, I want some more.”

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januarywren · 2 years

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Merry Christmas, everyone, and happy New Year! 💫

I’m receiving my first dose of the vaccine today and may spend the next couple of days reading fanfic and playing Harvest Moon. Lots and lots of Harvest Moon.

I’m going to update Devil’s Harvest (Roose/Sansa) and post a very fluffy, canon au Sandor/Sansa before New Year’s - and I’m going to catch up on replying to comments and messages too.

You guys are incredibly sweet and thoughtful, I can’t thank you enough! I’ve struggled with a lot of doubt/low self-confidence about my writing over the past year, and your support has helped me through it so, so much. 💙🤍

#personal #roonsa #sansan #archive of our own #ao3

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januarywren · 2 years

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Hello, I hope you don’t mind if I request Sansa x Tywin to you. A modern au were the two of them are contenders to become the president of Westeros and so much sexual tension going on. And then Sansa wins unexpectedly but Tywin gets to be the First Lady hahahahaha

Done! :)

I loved your request, though I hope you don't mind how angsty the story is (it has a bit of romance and a happy ending - pinky promise!).

Posting the fic beneath the cut too...4k+ words of tysan! 🐱💖

PS: Please let me know if you have an account on ao3, I'll dedicate it to you. :)

Keep reading

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januarywren · 2 years

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Hello can I request a Stannis x Sansa oneshot where they are married and boom they have triplets all boys. And Stannis will be his turn on taking care of the babies because Sansa is at work? Domestic fluff one shot

Yes, you can! 📚💙

See below the cut for the fic (or click here to read it on ao3!). Thank you for being so patient - I hope that you enjoy it.

“I’m home!” Sansa called, toeing off her heels.

After her first day back at work, she was impatient to see her husband and their three little ones. She hadn't thought that she would make it, after spending hours pouring over fabric swatches and sketches for the newest collection. In-between every thought she'd spared for work, she wondered how her husband, Stannis was, and whether their boys were behaving.

She blushed when Margaery took her phone away, after the tenth time she'd checked it for any calls or messages. Sansa knew that she needed to focus - there were only so many things that she could do through text messages, emails, and constant Zoom sessions – as Margaery had reminded her, over and over again.

“Everyone misses you here,” Margaery had pled, batting her eyelashes, and pouting her lips; knowing that it would make her friend and favorite lingerie designer laugh. “I miss you, Sansa. Won’t you think about coming back? For a day or two a week?”

They both knew she couldn’t stay away.

Not forever, no – Sansa enjoyed creating too much to stay away for long. After growing up watching old Hollywood movies and burying herself in every copy of Vogue that she could get her hands on, she’d studied fashion and design at university. In her first year, she'd met Margaery and soon found herself with a best friend and business partner. The Red Rose was their joint-baby, their lingerie line that was dedicated to releasing pieces that were as timeless and elegant as they were revealing.

It hadn’t taken long for their first launch to sell out, with every release after following suit. Their customers couldn't get enough, and they had a strong online following as well. The day their account was followed by one of Margaery's favorite influencers resulted in a marathon of rom-com movies and a bottle of wine to celebrate.

It was a dream come true, one that Sansa held close to her heart.

Only there were dreams she held closer still, ones that she had never dared to imagine. Margaery had never told her the name of their company’s initial investor, the one that would later sweep Sansa off her feet...

The one that she would fall utterly in love with, and be loved by in turn.

And have three, precious children with.

Sansa smiled a slow, sweet smile that thoughts of her family always created. There was nothing in the world that had prepared her for how happy they made her, nor how much they made her heart ache with love. It was sweet and enthralling like the stories that Old Nan once told her and her siblings.

Only Sansa had begged to hear more before sleep.

It was more than she had ever thought that she would have and softened the memory of a childhood dominated by her mother's criticism, and her siblings constantly overshadowing her. They constantly jostled for attention, while Sansa fled the other way. She had always been terribly soft and quiet with a head full of dreams that her siblings had found difficult to relate to.

She didn’t roughhouse with Robb or their cousin, Jon, and she shied away from the pranks that Arya and Rickon loved to play. It didn’t help that she was the constant victim of their pranks, as they hid worms in her pockets and filled her shampoo bottle with black hair dye. Catelyn had grounded Arya and Rickon for six months after the latter prank, while it took just over a year for the dye to fade from Sansa’s hair.

As much as Sansa loved her family, their distance from her had hurt her feelings. She felt small when she was with them, and unimportant as she could never think of the right thing to say, or do.

And her father, Ned, had never known how to treat her, more so than her mother or her siblings. He couldn't volunteer to coach her sports teams as he did with Rickon and Robb or take her to fencing lessons as he did with Arya. Nor had he ever sat at the end of her bed and read stories aloud as he did with Brann. As much as she disliked too, she sometimes wondered if they would have been closer had she been born a boy too.

“She’s a little lady in the making,” Old Nan had often crowed.

Sansa ran her fingers through her hair, gently pulling her braids free.

Stannis had changed everything for her. He stood beside her, her hand tucked in his when she was too afraid to face the world and made her feel like anything was possible in his quiet, knowing way. Where others thought he was harsh and stern, Sansa saw him differently.

She always had.

He only said things that he meant refusing to lie to anyone. There was something that Sansa found she could respect in his approach, as unforgiving as it could be. He never lied to her, yet he wasn’t as harsh as people thought, no –

He was gentle with her, never pushing her away.

“He’s your ‘lobster,’ isn’t he?” Margaery teased, while she made quotation marks in the air. She and Sansa had often watched Friends together while cramming for finals, and they used the line often. For lobsters mated for life (thus fitting Sansa) while Margaery referred to herself as a black widow.

“Someone has to pay for my Louboutin’s, besides my dear grandmother.”

For all of Margaery’s teasing nature, she understood how happy Stannis made her friend. She was Maid of Honor at their wedding, and her support meant everything to Sansa – especially when Ned and Catelyn refused to attend. They had never approved of Sansa’s relationship with Stannis, citing their age difference as one of many issues. While Sansa still maintained a relationship with Brann and, surprisingly enough, Jon, she had little contact with the others.

“I’ll let you go, if you ask me to,” Stannis told her, keeping his face turned away from hers. “I don’t want to take you away from them – “

Sansa had wrapped her arms around his waist and rested her cheek against his back. “I don’t want you to leave me, Stannis. I never will.”

Not long after that night, Sansa had found herself pregnant.

Her heart skipped when she saw blankets stretched between the velvet chaises, and pillows haphazardly stacked beneath to create a pillow fort. Stannis had admitted it was something he’d loved to do as a child – with Robert and Renly diligently working and bickering alongside him. “It was more than a game to us,” Stannis explained, holding her small hand in his, “It was the only place we felt safe after... – “She’d filled in the spaces herself, her hand squeezing his.

It was the first time that he'd opened up to her after he'd grown quiet and withdrawn during her pregnancy. She hadn't known how much he worried about her, or how his thoughts turned to the loss of his parents. The news they were expecting triplets had only increased his fears until she curled her arms around his waist and laid her head on his shoulder and asked for him to come back to her.

“I... I’m here, Sansa – I’ll always be here.”

“Why?” she’d asked, even as she knew that he meant every word, for Stannis would never lie.

Not to her. Not to anyone.

“Because I’m yours, sweet girl.”

“Now, and always,” Sansa repeated, smiling at the memory despite her aching feet, and the last wisps of anxiety that clung to her sleeves. She hadn’t wanted to leave her boys behind, the past two years she’d spent at home for her maternity leave sheer bliss. Steffon, Jasper, and Lyonel were a wolfpack in the making with their dark curls, blue eyes, and knowing smiles that won anyone’s heart twice over.

They also had endless amounts of energy, learning to run before they could walk, and sticking everything they could get their hands on inside their mouths. Sansa had never seen her husband scowl as much as when their boys developed a taste for paper and had happily chewed on every errant document and open book left out in his office! At the sight of their boys’ cheeks bulging like chipmunks, she hadn’t been able to resist laughing – and neither had Stannis, as his scowl faded into rich laughter – before they had gained control once more.

Well –

As much control as a parent could have over three rambunctious toddlers.

Sansa crept down the hallway, pausing when she reached their bedroom. The door was left open, and Stannis lay on their bed, quietly reading aloud from a naval historical, while their ‘pack’ crowded around him. Steffon snuggled against his right side, with Jasper doing the same on his left, and Lyonel laying across his chest with his head on his shoulder.

As if she were in a wonderful dream, Sansa saw that all three boys were fast asleep.

And, hidden behind the book that he had read countless times before, Stannis hid his knowing smile. He'd missed his wife desperately since she'd left in the morning, their house colder without her. He'd worried their boys would cry without her near, not taking to his company as they did hers.

They loved nothing more than to climb in her lap and play with her hair, while she read their favorite stories aloud to them, or balanced a sketch pad on her knees and dreamed of a new collection. She was patient and sweet; teaching the triplets not to pull at her skirt or tear at her sketchpad, without raising her voice or scowling at them.

How did she do it?

Stannis knew their children would love her, as everyone did.

Still, it made him feel things that he couldn’t put a name to, as he saw her cradle their children close and pepper their cheeks with kisses. She made them laugh when she slipped fuzzy socks on their feet and brushed their hair back with a small, gilded brush much like her own. They did as she wished without ever throwing a tantrum, though it was a different story when he was there –

Then they would throw a tantrum, whether it was because he had cut their sandwiches the wrong way, or chose the wrong outfits for them to wear.

“How do you do it?” Stannis had asked her when he couldn't help but scowl after Jasper covered himself and his brothers' head to toe with applesauce. He'd scolded them until Sansa had appeared, and promptly sent him to run a bath for them. She'd cleaned the kitchen while he'd cleaned three, squirming toddlers, and found himself soaked in bubble bath and remnants of applesauce at the end. “How do you make them love you, no matter what you do?”

(How can I make them love me too?)

Sansa hadn’t laughed, as he feared she might.

She’d taken his hand in hers, and pressed it against her cheek. “I don’t make them do anything, Stannis, and neither do you. I don’t think we could if we tried.”

She’d moved closer, nestling her small frame against his.

“I know you’re afraid of screwing up – and you will. We will.” Sansa pressed her lips against his chest, and he'd wound his fingers through her thick tresses as if he could pull her closer still. “We already have by letting them eat sugary snacks and naming Robert as their godfather. That doesn’t mean they will love us any less, Stannis, as long as we love them in turn.”

And more than anything, he did.

Sansa and their boys were everything to him. Everything.

Sansa was as warm as the sun and as loving as pure sugar melting on his tongue –

While he knew he was hardened and gruff, and never saying the right thing. He loved Sansa and their children, and the last thing he'd wanted was their children to fear him...only they'd hadn't, no – they were thrilled when he helped them to build a pillow fort, something they had never done before.

There was little bickering between the triplets, as they studiously followed his lead and had shrieked in delight when they were able to crawl into the finished space. They'd soon dragged every stuffed animal they had into the belly of their fort and had asked him to come too.

How could he deny them?

Stannis had played with them for hours, in-between making them breakfast, lunch, and dinner before he gathered them up for a bubble bath. After that, he'd been faced with three droopy-eyed and begging children, as they asked to stay up until Sansa came home. Stannis had agreed after he wrestled them into their pajamas, and tucked them into his bed. Then he read aloud to them, knowing the account of the Dreadnought would lull them to sleep...

And it had until Sansa snuggled in beside them.

“My little wolf pack,” she murmured, her loving smile matching her husband’s.

#stansa #game of thrones #asoif #sansa stark x stannis baratheon #got modern au #asoif fic #asoif/got #stansa fic #archive of our own #ao3

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januarywren · 3 years

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This is *perfect*. 💜🤍

I was convinced I had already posted more Reylo stuff in here…oh well🤷🏻‍♀️

Since Rey never got to touch his fluffy mane, I bring you relaxing hair-touching through the Force!

Yes the Force works that way, yes their Force Bond was made specifically for this purpose, yes this is very, very canon lol 😗

#reylo #sw #star wars #rey/kylo #force bond #gorgeous fanart!#gorgeous!!#and hux's expression is just #lmao #I love this so much

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januarywren · 3 years

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Posted a sweet, smutty sansan story for my friend @metalvenomludens7 !! I played heavily with canon and created a happier story for sansan (the starks are alive, sansa never goes south, and lady and sandor remain at her side) 🐺💖

(Click the link above or look below to read it! nsfw!!)

“Sandor!” Sansa giggled, as he pulled her flush against him. She thrilled at how small he made her feel with the crown of her head barely gracing his shoulder, and his heavy arm draped across her slim waist.

She wore one of his favorite creations; her gown a rich emerald color, with sleeping hounds and yellow daisies embroidered across the flared skirt. Fur-trimmed the end of her sleeves and the round neckline of her bodice, yet Sansa confessed that he kept her warmer than her gowns ever could. “Anyone could see us – “she whispered.

Sandor snorted, as he moved to cover her frame with his own. He could care less about an idle servant seeing her bare arse or the marks that her scrabbling fingers left behind. “Bugger anyone that tries.”

Her lip curved into a pout; the kind she knew drove him mad. “They could still hear us,” she said, glancing at him from beneath her eyelashes.

“Aye, Princess, they could.” Sandor rasped. The first time they’d coupled, he found what a screamer she could be. She was a wolf clad in fine lace in his bed, snapping and snarling until he pinned her hands above her head and thrust his cock between her quivering thighs. “We can’t have that, can we?”

She nodded shyly, before squealing as he hoisted her up against the stable wall. Thrusting his knee between her legs, he balanced her against him; the little bird that she was. Her eyes widened as he held her chin in his hand, and thrust his pointer and middle finger inside her warm and wet mouth.

“San – “

He shushed her muffled protest, as he bunched her gown up around her hips. “Suck on my fingers, Little Bird,” Sandor grunted, his cock hardening as her tongue timidly curled around his fingers, “and no one will hear you.”

She should have known that he always took care of what belonged to him.

He groaned as he rutted against her, his cock straining against his trousers. He felt her warm cunt through her delicate small clothes and inhaled the heady scent of her desire in the air. She was already dripping wet, her nectar trickling down her thighs.

His Little Bird was ready to breed, whether she knew it or not.

Ever since Gregor had disfigured him, Sandor had given little thought to having a family of his own. It was a bitter thought, one that became heavier still when low and high-born maidens alike refused to look him in the eyes and scurried the opposite way. He knew that he was an ugly beast, the kind that would never be trusted, even if they were led on a tight leash.

Yet with Sansa, sweet and ever-chirping Sansa, Sandor could allow himself to dream again.

The thought of their keep filled with children made him want to weep as if he were a boy whose balls had yet to drop. The thought of Sansa swollen and heavy with his child, with milk leaking from her pretty teats was more than he could stand.

A distant part of him feared that carrying his heir would be too much – he still remembered how his mother had screamed and wept while delivering a babe that hadn’t lived to see its first name day. His mother had nearly died in the birthing bed, and the Maester advised his father to not breed her again.

His father hadn’t listened, but Sandor would.

He always would when it came to his sweet and beautiful wife.

Regardless of the famed Tully fertility, Sandor hesitated at the thought of losing Sansa. He would gladly go childless to keep her there, beside him, though he knew how she yearned for children. She told him as much when she drew his hand between her legs, allowing him to cup her swollen sex before whispering her wish.

“I want to feel you inside me, my Lord. “

She wanted him, and everything that he had to give. He'd never imagined having a wife, let alone one that mewled and snuggled close against him while begging for his touch. She was so wet and willing and responsive that it made him harden whenever he was near her.

He wanted to breed her, over and over again.

She mewled against his fingers, as she tried to grind herself against his knee. He held her too tightly to let her do so, and she keened at the ache inside her. She wanted Sandor, her lust-filled distress causing thick globs of water to trickle down her cheeks.

“Shhh, shhh,” Sandor crooned, licking the tears from her skin. His free hand moved to unbuckle his trousers, forcing them down to his knees. His cock sprang free, the bulbous tip weeping. “I’ll give you what you need.”

From the moment they met, he was never able to deny her.

She was only ten and four to his twenty when they first met. The Starks realized the Crown Prince’s interest in their precious daughter was far less than sweet, and Sandor had laughed himself sick when the honorable Ned Stark first approached him.

“Will you protect her, Clegane?”

Somehow the man knew his vows meant nothing to him, the white cloak around his shoulders as meaningless and pathetic as a maiden trussed up and thrown into the midst of battle. There was no place for honor or grace in King’s Landing, something that was reinforced by the sheer brutality that was fostered in the Red Keep.

“I’m the Hound,” you buggering cunt, Sandor had wanted to add. “You should keep your daughter far from me.”

Somehow, he had not.

For their sweet and chirping bird had met his eyes upon meeting, as no one else had ever dared to. She had not fled from the sight of his scars, nor had she wept when he mocked her dutiful curtsey. She was a little lady with a head filled with golden knights and romantic stories, one who confused pretty fairytales for reality.

“You’re a fool, Little Bird.”

Sansa had looked at him with hurt in her eyes, and her hands twisted in the folds of her gown. “What do you mean, Ser – “she began, and he’d barked laughter.

“Do you know what your golden prince does?” he’d rasped, the vitriol words springing free before he could stop them, “He takes little girls like you and rips them apart – with his fingers, his cock, or the crossbow that his mother handles for him. You wouldn’t last a fortnight in the Red Keep, girl.”

She’d called him cruel when he told her the truth. Her hellion of a sister found him later, with a scowl on her lips, and a pathetic excuse for a sword in her hand. She’d demanded to know what he’d said to her sister, who refused to emerge from her rooms, and he hadn’t said a word.

He’d already said enough to Sansa, though there were many, many things he could add. He was the only one who would never lie to her, even if she railed against him. No one else would.

Not her family nor her golden prince, or his mother.

Especially his mother. Cersei.

Yet Sandor found himself conflicted, wanting to preserve her dreams as much as he wanted to rip them away from her. For the moment they met, they saw the other as no one else had. He was once a green lad with a head full of dreams until his brother had burned every dream and sweet song from him.

He remained wary of fire, the few nights that he spent away from Sansa ensuring that his room remained dark and unheated. He never said a word to his wife about it, yet he found a furred cloak stowed away in his saddlebag all the same. It kept him warmer than a fire ever could and carried his wife's sweet scent. Her scent alone could chase every fear away, even if they returned in the light of day.

Still, the tortured boy wished and wanted –

Especially when Sansa emerged from her rooms with a wane smile and eyes that continually sought his.

“She longs for the South," Ned confessed as if the whole of Winterfell didn't know the dreams of their cherished princess, ones that she had voiced ever since she could walk, "For the Crown Prince. Yet, what I have seen...it troubles me.”

They both knew it was an impossibility, for Joffrey had come to Winterfell with Lady Margaery in his wake. Even as he clung to his mother’s bosom, he reached for the noble whore; his hair fisted in her hair, and his eyes bright with longing for her cunt. They were shameless with their desire, neither keeping their hands off one another. The Court saw, the Starks saw, and Sansa –

Sandor was sure that she saw most of all.

Thus, he wasn’t surprised to find her crying in the hall outside of her rooms. He'd roughly taken her by the hand and forced her into her rooms, where no one could see, and no one could hear. The sight of her tears was one that Joffrey would have delighted in, and Sandor knew what would happen if the arrogant cunt found her alone.

“Men have their needs,” Cersei would have said, with a sickly-sweet smile and a shrug of her shoulders. It had happened before, and it would happen again, regardless of the thorny rose in Joffrey’s bed. The Hound had ignored the screams that echoed throughout the Red Keep by keeping himself awash in drink and fear. Few approached him without the stench of piss and fear surrounding them, and he had welcomed it.

Embraced it.

He cared for no one, spoke to no one, and was no one. The world saw what they wanted to see, and the Hound was merely a rabid dog kept on a tight leash. He thought nothing of carrying broken and bleeding maids away from the prince's rooms. He couldn't think. He couldn't speak. He couldn't feel if he wanted to survive the Red Keep.

“You aren’t safe out there, Little Bird.”

“Am I safe with you, Ser?” she’d whispered, and they’d both known the answer, even as Sandor had slammed the door behind him and left to find Stranger. His horse had never taken to living in the stables, even as Sansa’s dire wolf, Lady, had taken to sleeping beside him...as if they could be more than predator and prey.

They were all fools in the North, where stories of hideous creatures that lived past the Wall and the flow of wine never ceased. Sandor was unsurprised by the last, as the bitter cold was harsh and unforgiving.

What else was there to do but drink?

Mayhap it was why the drunken queen mother released him from his vows, without a backward glance as Sandor swore himself to the Starks instead. It was the last time that he would bend the knee, for his path was set.

He became Sansa's shadow, and she became his light.

They became inseparable as they began to accept the North as their home. With her betrothal set aside, Sansa accepted more and more of her mother’s duties, for she would become the Lady of Winterfell until her brother Robb married. She tended to the sick and the weak, regardless of whether they were housed inside the keep or in the cabins that littered the surrounding forest.

She reminded the northerners of a goddess in the flesh when she laughed, with her cheeks tinged pink and her frame wrapped in the prettiest of furs. She was gracious and kind, and as she took to the northerner's company, they took to hers in kind. Sandor was the only one that knew how she worried about saying the right thing and cried over the ones she couldn't save; the ones lost to the bitter cold, or childbirth, or the ones who left with a hunter's party and never came back. She was sweet and caring and good.

Sandor knew how she never forgot a face nor a name when she prayed in the Godswood. Her piety was a true and innocent thing, as far from the false devotion that most in the Red Keep observed. Their worship was marked by festivities and debauchery, with the pursuit of pleasure the shrine that every courtier knelt at.

Except for Varys, Sandor thought.

No, Sansa meant every prayer that she whispered, often kneeling until snowflakes covered her braid and her limbs felt numb. More than once Sandor had swept her into his arms as they left if only to keep her from falling face-first into the snow.

(It wasn’t an excuse to hold her close, and feel her warm breath against his neck, no -)

He couldn’t help but ask, “What do you pray for, Little Bird?”

She hesitated a moment, her eyes meeting his and pink emerged on her cheeks, “I pray for everyone that I know and I love, and those that I haven’t met yet.”

She tended to the plants that blossomed within the glass gardens and learned to make salves and potions from the herbs that grew there. It was on Sandor's name day that Sansa came to his rooms just before sunrise, with a basket filled with fresh rolls of bread and slices of tender meat and fresh fruit. They had a 'picnic' as she called it, where she leaned against his side and tempted him into feeding her by hand.

“I have something for you,” she’d whispered, and he’d tensed, knowing that wonderful things never happened to him. He knew what he was, even if Sansa had forgotten.

His stomach had rolled and he’d nearly wretched when she presented him with a jar of foul-smelling cream. It’d taken him a moment to realize what she’d intended, as she came close to him - how he’d snapped and snarled before grabbing her hand, squeezing it until her fragile bones nearly broke -

“Don’t fucking touch me,” he’d rasped, as she whispered that she’d intended the cream to make his scars ache less. She didn’t want to change him, she said.

She lied.

He wanted to howl in pain as if he was one of the dire wolves that followed at every Stark's heel. If he could gnash his teeth and tear away at bone marrow he would, if only to keep his thoughts from the girl before him.

The woman, who drew him in until he was buried beneath her ribs. He couldn’t get out and he couldn’t let her in, the thought making him tremble.

“They’ll never go away,” Sandor hissed, referring to the scars that defined him.

And Sansa hadn’t protested, no – she’d leaned forward and brushed her lips against his cheek, where his skin was a molten and twisted mess that revealed flashes of his gums and teeth. There was no disgust nor shame in her eyes as she kissed the curve of his jaw, and the tip of his nose, before pressing her lips against his.

She was as sweet as the snowberries that stained her lips red, and her tongue darted out to trace the seam of his lips. She treated him as if she cared, the thought making him pull her flush against him. Fuck, no one made him come undone as Sansa did.

“I’m sorry, Little Bird.”

She didn’t want to change him.

“I don’t want you to hurt anymore, Sandor.”

How he loved her –

For he loved her, he knew he did, since the day she had knelt at his feet as if he were a highborn lord.

He’d watched and he’d waited for her parents to announce her betrothal to some northern lord, yet they hadn’t, no. Sandor had grown suspicious when few offers came, for Sansa was without equal. Who wouldn’t want a chirping, beautiful bird in their bed? When Sandor heard that Joffrey boasted throughout the south that he’d had a taste of the wolf’s cunt, he smashed his horrid helmet in two.

Only later did Sandor realize that Joffrey had given him his chance, for Ned and Catelyn observed him constantly with their daughter. They saw that he was different with her, more man than beast.

Nor would they ever know how many times Sandor came in his hand, spurting thick rivets of his seed while roaring Sansa’s name.

“Fuck,” Sandor snarled, as he thrust his cock inside her welcoming cunt. He knew that she could take whatever he gave her, and so, he set a brutal pace. His hips bucked against hers as her cunt squeezed his cock, the pressure making them both groan.

His need increased as she sank her teeth into his fingers, reminding him just how much of a wolf she was. Sandor relentlessly fucked her, his heavy sac slapping against her cunt with every thrust. He wanted to bury his fingers inside her as well, though he loved the feel of her teeth and her wet tongue too much to let her mouth go –

And he loved it when his little bird let herself go, and allowed him to fuck her as if she were any common whore. He cherished her whimpers and her cries, the same that he loved the feel of her cunt as it soaked his cock with slick and cum, and the way her body grew taut as she neared her release.

He would be anything she asked; her friend, her lover, even her husband if she wished. If she had never glanced twice at him, he would have followed her still, as her feral hound or her sworn shield. The idea of marriage between a lady and a hound was obscene, though Sandor knew he would never deny her. They could marry in the Godswood and stay with her family if she chose to, or cross the roaring sea if she wished to chase fairytales still. Sandor laughed and laughed at the idea, while his chest ached all the same.

Sandor would never forget the night he'd first had her after Lord Stark had gifted him with a nearby keep. He had given up his family keep long ago and had given little thought to establishing a new one. He could never revisit the place where his face was burned away, and his mother joined his sister in death.

Still, it seemed that Lord and Lady Stark were no strangers to what occurred in Winterfell, and were determined to make him their daughter's equal. He snorted at that as if he could ever be –

Yet when he felt how Sansa trusted him, no, cherished him, he couldn’t help but dream that he could be. It was his reason for visiting his keep and ordering dramatic changes, as he sought to make the keep a place that his precious bird would never wish to leave.

He had the Lord and Lady’s chambers expanded and filled with sumptuous rugs and a roaring fireplace, as well as creating a connecting study with two desks, and rows of windows that overlooked the courtyard. The keep was far smaller than Winterfell, yet he saw its potential, as it had hundreds of virgin acres and the keep itself had a sturdy foundation.

He doubled the stables and ordered additional servants' quarters built while having the keep itself scrubbed and emptied of moth-eaten tapestries and foul-smelling rushes. He wanted his Little Bird to be happy there, with him, and knew that she could make the keep into a home that would rival Winterfell’s appeal. Thus, he drew short at transforming the barren yet glistening rooms and sent abroad for talented craftsmen to come to the keep.

Sandor had rarely spent coin on anything but drink and had enough stashed away for Sansa to do as she wished. The only liberty that he took was ordering a four-poster bed made, one that was large enough to accommodate his height and girth. Nor did Sandor think that Sansa would bar Lady from their rooms, thus the bed would be large enough for the dire wolf to settle between them. And later, their children too.

Without word to anyone, Lady Catelyn sent him a raven with a copy of plans for Winterfell’s famed glass gardens, ones that she hoped he would replicate for her daughter. Sandor had work immediately begin on establishing the gardens, for he knew that Sansa would fill them with lemon trees and leafy green vegetables, as well as dozens of precious herbs that would never thrive in the harsh, northern landscape.

Nor did the keep have the heated springs that Winterfell possessed, though Sandor knew they would have little need to send for firewood. The virgin acres surrounding the keep were teeming with trees that were thrice the height and girth of him and were well tended to. They were enough to keep every fireplace roaring in the keep, keeping winter at bay, as well as ensuring the keep had something valuable to trade.

Sandor planned to breed horses too, as they had enough space and he received word from a distant cousin seeking a position. He remembered the lad had a talented hand at breaking in horses, even with Stranger’s wild sire, whom he’d trained for several winters.

There was no other keep in the North that bred horses, and Sandor knew that it would only add to their trade appeal. And if he thought that Sansa would delight in braiding every horse’s mane, and would coo in delight with every foal that emerged – it only made sense, for Sandor intended that she would be his equal in every way.

She was far more than a pathetic dog deserved, yet the gods had allowed him to have a place beside her. He'd set his famed helmet aside as he knew she was the only one that he would follow. He was lost for her and would do whatever she asked him to. It was the sort of devotion that made him sneer at the Kingslayer and his relationship with Cersei until Sandor found that he no longer could now that he understood.

Sansa was his, and he was hers -

This guided Sandor to Winterfell where he met his betrothed in the Godswood. They became one in name before Sandor whisked her away to their keep, with bitter hope nipping at their cheeks. She wore his cloak around her shoulders, and he wore her name across his heart.

By the gods, Sandor hoped his Little Bird would stay with him.

When the keep was ready, Sandor knelt at his little bird's feet and offered her everything that he had to give: his name that she often whispered, his cloak that she had embroidered with snarling dire wolves, and his keep. It was the last that Sansa had admitted to dreaming of, far more than he would have ever known. She admitted to praying for a future filled with dark-haired and blue-eyed children that scampered underfoot, while Sansa perched in his lap, with Lady asleep at their feet.

“You’re all that I want,” Sansa had whispered, and gods, how Sandor had wept like a softhearted boy at that. “You, Sandor, just you.”

Sandor gathered his love closer still, as he felt her shiver. "Come for me, Sansa," he rasped, pressing his brow to hers. There was nothing between them then, as she shattered in his hold. Her release came swiftly, and all Sandor could hear were her ecstatic cries that were slightly muffled by his fingers and the slap of his sac against her dripping folds as he thrust faster than before.

He held her impossibly close against him, not wanting her head to bang against the wall. He knew that he could break her without trying, regardless of how her cunt squeezed his cock, or wordlessly pleaded “more, more, more – “

He would never forgive himself if something happened to her.

“Fuck!” Sandor groaned.

He stilled as he came, pumping his seed inside her cunt where he wished for nothing more than it to take root. The idea of Sansa, sweet Sansa, swollen and round with his child did unimaginable things to him. She was everything that he dreamed of, and everything he thought he would never have.

Cradling her small frame against him, Sandor withdrew his fingers from her mouth. She whimpered as he did so, her cunt squeezing his cock, as if she could keep him inside her longer still. “I’m yours,” Sandor rumbled, finally able to tangle his fingers in her gorgeous tresses, “for as long as you’ll have, Sansa.”

She beamed up at him, “I’ll always want you by my side, Sandor.”

Always –

He liked the sound of that more than he ever could, or would, admit to.

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januarywren · 3 years

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I’m literally obsessed with this - golden trio? more like gorgeous trio! 💖🌛

Keep reading

#harry potter #hp #golden trio #hp fanart #beautiful

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januarywren · 3 years

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Watching this made my year. 😂💜

@metalvenomludens7 @terry2227 @i-penna

THIS IS THE CUTEST SHIT IVE EVER SEENNNN

#personal #uplifting #orangutan #my heart

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januarywren · 3 years

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An impromptu photoshoot with little baby artemis! 🤍🌛💙

#personal #crested gecko #baby dragon #reptiles #wren's pets

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januarywren · 3 years

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Slowly yet surely...I’m displaying my collection! 💗🙌💗

(Anyone see Draco’s gift for Hermione?)

#personal #harry potter #dramione #hp #wren's collection

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januarywren · 3 years

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I was accepted into my #1 choice for a master’s program and it’s just aaah--- I’m super excited to start classes in August! I’m going to split my time between being buried under schoolwork and updating my fics for the next year or so. 📚💙💼

#personal #master's degree #so many essays #so many fics #it's going to be stressful but i'm so excited!!#archive of our own #ao3

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januarywren · 3 years

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Reading HollyDB, Sunalso, and Niamh’s spuffy fics made me fall head over heels in love with the pairing. Buying these figures? Completely worth the dust bunnies left behind in my wallet. 💗🖤

#btvs #buffy the vampire slayer #buffy #spike #spuffy #spuffy fanfic #buffy/spike #william the bloody #buffy anne summers #figures #personal #wren's fic recs #archive of our own #ao3

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januarywren · 3 years

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I am literally obsessed with this fic. 💜🤍

Caroline having a close and supportive relationship with the Mikaelsons? Check.

Klaus realizing he met his match and falling in utter love with Caroline? Check.

Caroline and the Mikaelsons living their best life? Check.

This story should have been canon.

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januarywren · 3 years

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Check my browsing history and you’ll see just how in love with Spike/Buffy I am...🌹 🖤 I updated my spuffy fic, ‘Sweet Dreams,’ where Buffy is a newly risen vampire that Spike takes under his wing...

And falls in utter love with.

(Look under the cut to read some smutty goodness!)

"In the middle of the journey of our life I found myself within a dark woods where the straight way was lost," Spike murmured, his breath warm against the apex of his lover's thighs.

How many nights had he spent reading the lines, over and over again?

Dante's work spoke to him in a way that little else had, allowing him to ignore creaking bedsprings and cries of ecstasy that emanated far from his bed.

“I’m with you,” Buffy said, her words too sweet –

Too true, for him to not look up at her with love.

"I'll always be with you, Spike," she said as if he could ever doubt her. Her sincerity burned him, the same as it drew him in. He choked back a sob, the bloody fool that he was.

God knew if he would ever allow her to leave their bed. Their bed - the one where he drew orgasms from her until his face was covered in slick, and his lips left swollen and red. She was boneless then, her hands entangled around his, and the only thought about the other.

Their love.

And nothing more -

He wanted to lose himself in her, not the past and the woman he'd left there.

He’d only known doubt then, as it clung to his gums like thick wads of chewing gum. God knew he’d questioned his life then, and every choice that he made when Dru refused to guide him with her childish mania and endless visions.

‘What was the meaning of life?’

It was something Spike questioned, unlike his supposed family. Their immortal state made morals redundant, as well as the purpose of their lives. He could spend years living as chaste and pious as any monk, the same as he could drown in decadent luxury and sin.

But as Spike kneeled in front of the bed, with Buffy’s legs hooked over his shoulders, he decided he wouldn’t mind if his purpose in life was making her feel alive. He was gone for her, the silly bint, and he knew that nothing would ever change that fact.

Never, no –

He traced his name with his tongue, as her pubic curls tickled his cheekbone.

Fuck, even the thought of losing her made him whimper and his demon roar in anguish. He was dizzy from the heady scent of her, the air painted with swirling pheromones. Everything about her invited him in, from the glazed look in her eyes to the slight par of her pretty, pink lips.

Every noise that she made went straight to his cock, his instincts urging him to bury himself inside her until she could never get him out. He wanted to watch as she came, with her fingers tangled in his hair, and his name falling from her lips. He wanted to hold her close, and never let go –

The same as he wanted to live inside her, feeling her pussy milking his cock, while he soaked her folds with thick spurts of his seed until no one could deny who she belonged to. She was everything that he wanted, everything that he needed, and he wanted to give her everything in return.

Over and over again.

“Please, Spike,” Buffy gasped, bucking her hips against his mouth. “Please!”

He smirked as he drew the flat of his tongue against her dripping lips. He wanted to please her, his little, demanding doll.

“Daddy will give you everything,” he promised, thrusting his tongue inside her. She mewled at the feeling, her hands gripping his bleached curls.

Pleasure, endless and sweet, was what she deserved.

Spike felt his face become wet with her juices, as he bumped his nose against her clit. “Everything and more, sweetheart.”

He wanted nothing more than to have her with his fingers and his tongue, and his erection lay heavy against his stomach. He wouldn’t take her with his cock, not then.

First, he wanted to hear her scream, over and over again.

“Oh – “her voice caught when he swirled his tongue inside her. Her cunt contracted around his tongue, before drawing him further inside her. Everything that she did drew him toward her, the singular that Spike would never deny.

There was no one that he wanted more than her.

He burrowed his tongue further inside, knowing the places that made her breath hitch. He toyed with her precious pearl, making her hips buck. "There," Buffy cried, her fingers holding to his hair tight as if he would ever let her go.

She would have to push him into the sun first.

He lapped at her cunt as if he were made to pleasure her and her alone, before gently taking her dripping pearl into his mouth. He suckled and teased her pearl with his teeth, as she whined and began to grind her hips against his face. He wanted her to use him for her pleasure, whether it was his fingers or his tongue, or his cock.

Fuck, he hoped she would use all of him.

She was the sweetest sin that he had ever known, more so than the cancer sticks that she scolded him for enjoying, or the reruns of Passions that he watched more than he would ever admit.

She was everything, as much as he was nothing.

“Please Spike – "

She trembled and mewled, and would have pushed his head away if she had the strength. Yet he wouldn't stop, no, he would never let go.

“D-Don’t stop, never stop – “

She ground her hips faster, smearing her cunt against his swollen lips and his bleeding heart as if he would ever protest. As if he could.

Her greed made him purr, the sound resonating through his chest. "God, Spike – "

With her legs bent over his shoulders, she squeezed her thighs taut against him. He loved to hear the sounds that she made, the soft mewls, and how she whispered his name.

Or screamed it.

His hand moved to rest on her midsection, holding her down as he began to eat fuck her, earnest and true. His tongue chased every drop of her nectar, every mouthful staining him with the heady taste of her.

He wouldn’t ever part from her, no –

He couldn’t part from her.

She was inside him, having buried just beneath his skin more than anyone ever had. There was a thought that followed him, a dream that he hadn’t shared with his love.

For he knew that if he had sired her, he would have never left her side.

She wouldn’t have awoken, buried six feet beneath the ground, gasping and clawing at the dirt. No, his still heart ached at the thought, even as he felt her tremble against him. She would have known the sound of his voice and the feel of his hand in hers, ever since the start.

She yanked his head back, her fingers having an unforgiving hold on his hair.

“I love you,” Buffy said, her glassy eyes meeting his. “Only you, Spike – “

He would have been a bloody liar if he said anything that meant more to him than the words she said. "Do you mean it, pet?" he asked, his lips trembling.

There he was, with his lips swollen, and his cheeks glistening from her juices, and he asked if her words were true.

It had never been like that with Dru –

It would have never been like that with her, even if she had been able to love him. Angel was the one that she wanted and the one that she loved. Spike knew that the same as he knew that he would always come last, regardless of the decades that passed without any sign of Angel. Drusilla took many into her bed and Spike had watched it happen, over and over again.

What other choice did he have?

None. At least, that’s what he’d thought until he met Buffy.

“God,” he whispered thickly, his chest aching at the thought. He was gone for her the moment that he met her, though he’d come to realize that everything he knew about love was wrong. He could breathe when he was with Buffy, even when she sat on his face, frantically rubbing her dripping cunt against his mouth. “No one compares to you, sweetheart.”

Spike knew that the moment he held Buffy in his arms and felt her lips trace the scars that littered his skin, for he never knew anyone as warm, or as pure.

God alone knew that Spike ached when she touched him, with his name on her lips and something soft and reverent in her eyes. It was unlike anything he had ever known, the silly kind of thing that he’d dreamed of, without ever knowing what it was.

Not truly.

“Only you,” she repeated, her tongue darting out to trace her bottom lip. She could be as shy as a kitten taking wobbly steps toward a bowl of fresh milk, the same as she could tumble into bed with him without thought. “I love you –“

You, you, you.

“Spike!”

She gasped as he renewed his relentless assault on her body, wanting to bring her to release again. He slipped two fingers inside her soaked clit, while stroking her pubic curls with his thumb.

Nor did he withdraw his tongue from her cunt, as he found it his favorite place to be. He lapped at her cunt with long, broad strokes and short, quick flicks that made her shake; his hand holding her down still. He wanted her to come to his touch alone, purring as her fingers combed through his hair.

He knew that he would always be desperate for her; her voice, her scent, god, her scent –

It was enough to drive a creature to ache for a soul if only so he could shelter her in the light, and not the dark alone. He crooned senseless things as she keened, and tried to thrash against his hold.

Only she couldn’t, for he was larger and stronger than she was, and filled with the desire to please her. He kept her there, against the bed until she ground her cunt against his face, with warm cum gushing on to him.

“That’s it,” he encouraged, his voice muffled by the soft curls that tickled his cheeks. He adored every inch of her, from her pretty smile that showed a hint of her teeth to the very arch of her small feet.

If he were her Sire, he would have never allowed her into the world.

He would have kept her beneath him ever since she awoke, knowing the feel of his tongue and his fingers and his cock. She would have never known the panic of having to claw through the dirt, with a fire in her throat and animalistic fear nipping at her heels.

What Sire left their fledging alone? She had no control over her instincts, hell, she had no idea what she was for the first hour of her life. She was the same as a sitting duck with birds of prey flying overhead, for Sunnydale had more than vampires wandering its woods.

The bloody fool that he was, Spike found himself indignant on her behalf, for what kind of sire did she have? An utter bastard, he’d decided, for having turned her and left her alone.

Fledglings needed protection and guidance –

Even Dru had given him that, and to an extent, Angel and Darla (though he knew he’d paid his debt to them many times over). They would have dusted him by their hand or forced him to do it, but they wouldn't have left him prey to any Tom, Dick, or Harry. It was the principle of it all, for every vampire knew they were responsible for any fledging they created –

Or should be.

(Que vampires having little regard for morals, yada, yada, yada.)

There were few that Spike followed, or even wanted to, but the bond between a Sire and their fledging was one that he respected. He knew how much it hurt to have a Sire who didn’t care, the same as he knew that he would never be entirely free from Drusilla. She was buried inside of him, in a place too deep and too raw to dig her out truly.

Where had Buffy's Sire toddled off to? The thought that anyone could abandon his girl made his demon snarl, and begin to surface. She deserved the bloody world and the regard of everyone in it. He knew that she was a stubborn, fierce little queen yet he had never met anyone as caring or as excitable as she.

God, the way that she looked at him when he brought her a cup warmed blood. She looked at him with all the warmth of the sun and none of its bite, before pressing her lips to his jaw. It was one of his favorite moments, and if they snuggled together while drinking from the same cup after – who was he to mind?

He failed to see how anyone could disregard Buffy, or worse, sire her and disappear.

No one had stayed for Buffy, no one had wanted her –

Craved her, as he did.

Did she know?

He thought that she did. She had to, for the way that she raked her fingernails across his shoulders while sinking her fangs into his collar made her as possessive as him. Fuck, she could mark him as often as she liked, and he would only beg for more.

When they skirted through the graveyard with bloodlust in their eyes, she was the same as he; wild and free. While he wore his duster, she wore short skirts that showed him her pert ass, and lacy tank tops that left nothing to his imagination. It was a world away from the sushi print pajamas that she wore in bed, or when she drowned in his graphic t-shirts that reached her mid-thigh.

He wanted to tear anything she wore off her, though he snarled at the thought of Sunnydale’s nocturnal residents catching a glimpse of his Buffy. They got enough of a show when they fucked in the alleyway outside the Bronze, with her legs wrapped around his waist and his fangs buried in her throat. Or when they fucked in the woods, losing themselves to the feel of flesh against flesh, and their cries crashing through the midnight air. Regardless of where they were, they never had to pretend, not then.

They were the creatures of the night that children knew to fear, no matter how they might roam beside them during the day. They lost themselves to instinct, as they sprang through the night with their demons allowed out to play. They felt more than bloodlust or ecstasy, they craved violence in a way that only their kind would understand.

To feel was to live, and they felt so much they burned as if they roamed through the day.

“I won’t let you deny yourself, love," Spike told Buffy once when she was barely a fledgling. "I know what you need – what your demon craves.”

He could put her hair back into pigtails and paint her nails bright pink as much as she liked, yet she would need more than that, as did he. It was why he took her through Sunnydale at night, when creatures came out to play, snapping and snarling in a thousand different ways.

“We’ll show them their place.”

He'd promised her that when he showed her how to use a stake, even though she only needed her fangs. She would never be defenseless, the same as she would never be afraid if he could help it.

And she agreed if only so she could learn how to best him.

She ran wild then, dusting every ‘creepy crawly’ in her wake.

“Sorry mate,” Spike said, to more than one unfortunate bugger that met the end of Buffy’s stake. “You were in the way.”

He was in the same position, once, when Darla and Angelus, and Dru ran rings around a rural town, watching as it burned to the ground. They cared nothing for the townsfolk that screamed or the children that bled. It was a scene repeated over and over again, regardless of how the town itself changed.

Spike had often joined them if only to hear Dru laugh.

She was never as free or ecstatic as when she was with her sire, her dearest daddy, and bloody git extraordinaire, Angelus. It was a relationship that Spike would never understand, nor had he wanted to. The pain was the same as ripping back his fingernails, one by one until he fell apart.

No, he’d never been able to go there.

It was easier to let O positive drip down his chin, while he listened to Dru fuck her Sire in the room next to his. In the bath. In front of him. The only place Dru and Angelus had never ruined was the DeSoto.

And his crypt, Spike thought. The place that he and Buffy cherished as their home.

There were countless things he would never say, and more things that he would never do. He hadn't been the one to leave Dru, had he? She'd left him without another look back after he'd spent centuries apart of her family.

Survived.

She’d changed that, the girl in his arms, as sweet and alive as the coming of Spring. He knew if she left him, he would never consider moving to Greece, or losing himself in the thriving streets of Tokyo. He’d follow her to the end, and then –

He’d dust in the sun if she wouldn’t have him.

For Spike knew as flames leaped and tumbled in his throat, and his very gums ached for a taste of her that he would never move on from Buffy, as he had from Dru. He couldn’t.

He wouldn’t.

His fingers shook as he fisted them in her hair.

And against his will, he found that he could understand the regard that Dru held for Angelus. Her love and her hate and everything in-between. She made him feel, the same as she made him live. He wanted everything that she had to give.

“Fuck, Buffy – “

She’d seared her name across his soulless being, turning him on his head. She was merciless and cruel, daring to crawl inside him. She'd changed him, tamed him while knowing that he could never hate her.

He wasn’t capable.

He was gone for her; he was mad for her.

“You’re my heart,” Spike rasped, tilting his head to look up at her. She was a vision with her hair streaming about her, and her bottom lip bitten raw. Droplets of blood surfaced ones that he would chase away with his tongue. “My soul, Buffy.”

For everything that he taught her, he knew that he wouldn’t survive without her.

He had no reason to.

“I’ve lived for centuries, and never felt like this.”

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