Chapter Twenty - Jon finally is allowed to taste the forbidden fruit.
NSFW content below the cut CH 21
Jon’s feet hurt, he has been given far too many toasts and wishes for a son by men he has never before met. And though he tried desperately to avoid drinking, Robb was still able to force two or three glasses of wine down his throat. He wished to be clear-headed when he took you to the marriage bed, wished for nothing to rob him of his memories or his senses.
When you grab his arm, a controlled look of apprehension and annoyance on your face, he bristles, all the wine and revelry draining from him. Who has upset you? Who has dared to wipe the smile from his bride’s face? Then Tyrion appears, looking as insistent as you, and Jon simply pauses, waiting for you and your father to silently decide who should speak first.
He should not have paused; he was a fool to pause. The call for the bedding ceremony rings out, and you are pulled from him, from Tyrion, swallowed up by a crowd of hungry noblemen. He has no sword, why would he, it is his wedding day, but he is still Ser Jon Dayne, still your sworn protector, he should not have let his guard down.
“Fucking savages. Jon, get y/n out of here.” Tyrion yells over the noise of the crowd, scrambling out of the way as Jon pushes away from the noblewomen who have flocked to him, eager to tear the clothing from his body. His tunic rips as he wrenches himself free, his sleeves being torn from his shoulders, and he lets the fabric flutter to the ground, his arms and half his abdomen exposed to the cheering onlookers.
It is chaos, and he remembers how Lady Catelyn used to fawn over his uncle’s words even a decade later. His proclamation that there would be no bedding, for he did not think it right to break a man’s jaw on his wedding day. But Jon has no such qualms, and you are not Lady Catelyn. He shoves men aside, elbows, trips, punches, throws them away from you, his knuckles bloody when he breaks through the circle of lechers and grabs you. You, who fights like a lioness, your claws bloodied as well.
You startle, ready to claw his eyes out, then recognize and cling to him, yelping when he throws you over his shoulder and continues on. The two of you leaving the noblemen to fight amongst themselves, unsure of who hit who, blaming old rivals and new enemies.
Jon has done this twice before, glad of his strength that allows him to swiftly take you away from danger. Though he laments the fact that his blood will stain your gown and skin, his busted knuckles dripping red onto the marble floors. He makes it to the nearest opening, a balcony overlooking Lannisport, and sets you down gently, in the corner, the climbing ivy shielding you and him from the doors. It is quiet now, the roar of the crowd muffled, the bright candlelight dimmed, the wind cool as it tumbles down the Rock and onto the city below. “Are you hurt?”
You look down at your gown, pure white painstakingly embroidered by Sansa and Myrcella with threads of gold and precious gems. It is torn, dirtied, stained with drops of his blood and the blood of others, and your hair has fallen from its intricate updo, gathering about your shoulders. “No, but my gown is ruined.” You say in a small voice, clutching your skirts tearfully.
Jon gathers you in his arms, resting his forehead against yours. “You still look beautiful. The most beautiful bride in the Seven Kingdoms.”
You release a shaky breath and smooth your hands down his arms, leaving small streaks of red. You must have gotten a few good scratches in as you defended yourself. “My father invited the fucking dragon queen to our wedding.”
His mind stalls, akin to a wheelhouse stuck in mud, then it lurches forward free of the muck. “Has he gone mad?”
You shrug, still dragging your hands up and down his arms, a soothing gesture he believes is more for you than him. “Perhaps.”
“He cannot think to overthrow the king here, The Rock is all but impenetrable, and will not fall to dragonflame.” Jon’s fingers splay across your back, and he shakes his head. “We swore an oath to the king.”
He feels your head raise, your lips brushing against his own as you speak. “You swore an oath to me, a stronger one, as I did to you. That is the only one that matters.”
There is an ache in his gut, an unease crawling up into his chest and making a home. “I have already broken my oath to the crown two times over…”
You nod, your hands on his back now, one moving up to tangle in his hair, resting at the nape of his neck. “They were not fit to rule, you did what was necessary for the realm.” Your voice is soft, barely above a whisper.
“You would ask me to break my oath again?” He asks, his nose bumping against yours, your eyes a dark forest green in the shadows of the night.
“I…” The word is tinged with uncertainty, and he silences you with a kiss.
You lean into his touch, tightening your grip on him, nails scraping against his scalp as you pull him closer. Your body melds to his, soft and yielding, the taste of honey and cinnamon on your lips—from the cake made specifically for the wedding—your breath warm against his, mingling, the feel of you, the taste of you intoxicating beyond all measure.
“How many kings must I fight against to have you?” Jon breathes, trailing his hands down your sides, fingertips finding where parts of the fabric has been ripped away, exposing your skin to the night air.
“You already have me.” You say, shivering when his hands ghost over your hips, your breath catching in your throat when he slowly lowers himself to the ground kneeling before you.
Jon looks up at you, and swears he can feel his pupils expanding, desperate to take in as much of the sight before him as he can. Bathed in moonlight you are a goddess, and when he rucks up your skirts and presses his lips to your core, his tongue desperate and eager, the sound you make is truly divine. Jon wants to hear it again, needs to hear it again, so he pulls your small clothes to the side, and feasts, your skirts draped around him, hiding him from the world. His hands grip your thighs, easing them apart, and when your hips shift, he realizes you have leaned back and gripped the stone railing, opening yourself further to him.
“How many kings must I fight to keep you, then?” He asks, cock beginning to stir as he rolls his tongue over your bud, parting with you only momentarily to nip at your thigh, marking you as his own.
“Jon, oh gods, please.” You beg quietly, the skirts on his right side bunching up from where you have gripped them.
He lazily laps at your core, nose pressed against your bud, smirking when your breathing picks up. “I do not know that number.”
You let out a flustered, strangled sound, but rock your hips against him. “You have me, you may keep me, even if you do not fight another king.”
“Is that so?” He hums, watching as your thighs clench in response to the vibrations.
“Do not tease, Husband.” You whine, sounding so desperate that he debates giving up his line of playful questioning.
“How can I deny My Lady Wife anything she desires?” Jon eases a digit in careful as he knows you are still a maiden, and he never wishes to hurt you.
You tense for a moment, and he freezes. Then light floods in, and he finds himself looking up at you. You hold out your free hand to him, and he takes it, intertwining your fingers, chuckling softly when you throw your skirts back over him.
Jon curls his finger experimentally, biting back a groan when a small moan slips past your lips. He adds another, his thumb circling your bud slowly, waiting to hear or see any signs of discomfort.
“Jon…” You gasp, and he hears the diamonds on your sleeves clatter against the railing, your core pulsing around him. “More.”
He curls his fingers, searching for that sensitive spot within you, his lips attaching to your bud, tracing nonsensical shapes as his fingers coax you closer and closer to the edge.
Moans spill from your lips like music, and he cannot help but echo them, tongue joining his fingers in their devouring of you, mouthing at you like a man starved. Finally, he rips your small clothes free, slipping them in his pocket, to allow himself the use of both hands.
Jon shoves your thighs apart, offering a silent apology as his beard scratches against the sensitive flesh of them, too enraptured by the taste of you, divine and delightful, just as you are. His cock aches, straining against his breeches, desire driving him mad.
Your high comes abruptly, and his eyes nearly roll back into his head at the way you drip around him. Your arousal running down his hand, mixing with the blood still sluggishly flowing from his broken skin.
You pull him up and grab at his breeches, freeing his cock from the restricting fabric, as you whine, “now, Jon, I need you now.”
He leans forward, gripping the railing, forcing his lust back, attempting to regain any semblance of control. “Y/N, we should go to our chambers, anyone could come upon us.”
“I cannot wait any longer.” You grip him tightly, thumb grazing the head of his cock as you pout up at him, lightning shooting through his body, your touch burning to the point of pleasure pain. “Please, Jon?”
He backs you up against the railing, swearing under his breath, and pushes in, head falling forward as he is engulfed in your walls.
You make a stifled pained sound, and he curses himself, raising his head to press chaste kisses to the plains of your face. His hand moves between your bodies to your bud, stroking you softly as he waits for you to adjust.
“Breathe y/n, breathe.” He urges, his free hand leaving the railing to brush the hair back from your face, his thumb smoothing along the apples of your cheek.
You take a deep breath, then another, and he feels your muscles relax, but your bottom lip is caught between your teeth, and your eyes will not meet his.
Jon presses a kiss to your temple and pulls out slowly before tucking himself back into his breeches.
You blink at him, a frown marring your perfect face. “Jon?”
He cannot do it, he will not take you here, in the open air where he cannot calm you properly. “I will not risk us being caught.” He takes your hand in his and presses it to his lips. “We have a fine bedchamber awaiting us, let us make use of it.”
Jon should feel bad, he knows he should, sneaking you past all the guests, your family, his family, the servants. All while he salivates like a hound over the thought of you bare before him on the silk sheets of your shared bed.
It is not right to take you like this, spread out, his body above yours, your gown, his clothing discarded, the windows open so that all can hear. You are a lady, his lady, his Lady Wife, he should act with decorum and honor, but it is so very difficult when you beg and praise so perfectly.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, how—gods, how are you so good at this?” Your breasts are heaving with each breath, your words broken up by moans.
Jon chuckles, tweaking your nipples, ravishing your throat with his teeth and tongue, his cock driving you higher and higher, his hand in your hair, keeping you from turning you head and hiding from his gaze. “I dreamt of this, of you, I practiced many times in my dreams.”
Your back arches and your core pulses around him, liquid fire filling his veins.
“My starlight.” He coos, his free hand groping your perfect breasts, groaning at the feel of your soft skin. “My wife, how beautiful you are.”
“Jon, oh gods, I do not underst—” Your words are cut off by a desperate moan, your emerald eyes glazed over with lust, your pretty lips parted as you frantically take in air.
“Trust me, I have got you. You need only enjoy, can you do that for me?” Jon asks, caressing the curve of your cheek, admiring the way the candlelight plays across your skin. He has claimed many of your firsts, and he intends to be the last to do so.
“Yes, yes, I can, I can.” You say, and he bites back a groan at the way you look up at him, so trusting and eager.
“Good girl.” He praises, brushing a kiss to the corner of your lips as he thrusts into you, harder, faster, finding that spot within you that makes you sing and focusing there.
You whimper in response, squirming in his hold, hips rolling to meet his incoming thrusts, warm walls clenched around him, making him lightheaded.
“Jon, Jon, Jon, please, please do not stop.” You beg, nails digging into his shoulders, your eyes screwed shut.
“Never.” He promises, releasing his grip on your hair to trail his fingers down your bare body until he comes upon your bud, setting a cruel rhythm that makes your body tremble, cries of his name growing louder and louder.
He wants the whole of The Rock to hear you, to know you are his, to keep their filthy hands off you.
“Swear it to me, swear you will never let anyone separate us.” You say desperately, your eyes open now, pupils blown wide, but there is a clarity within them.
This has been your fear since King Stannis took the throne, one he has not been able to banish from your mind. “I would fight the gods old and new to stay by your side, none shall tear us asunder, I swear to you.”
“So would I, Jon, I love you, I love you.” You say, pulling him closer to you, smashing your lips to his hungrily as if you cannot get enough of him.
“And I love you.” He whispers, nipping at your earlobe, liquid lust and pure unfiltered adoration raging in his veins.
Jon TL: @mostclevermiss, @solacestyles, @2valentines, @sharknutz, @idohknow, @bdudette, @pluraldoggo, @legolastheleafyelf, @faerie-film, @wifiatthetrainstation, @duskypinki, @tartine-de-pain, @rebeccawinters, @taylorsfemalerage, @rax-raxus, @certainwonderlandperfection, @nymeriiiia, @burkgolden, @drewsivy