All that he remembers from his stint amount the dead is the deep, endless blackness that had surrounded him. It was darker than any night, a true black where nothing existed -- not sight, not sound, not taste, nothing at all. It had held him, part prison, part embrace, and yet when the fire of Melisandre's god has reached out and grasped his soul, plucking him back to lands of the living, it had willingly given him up, the darkness sliding off of him like droplets of water after a bath in the pools in the godswood. That darkness had scared him more than anything that had come before or after.
He hadn't understood it then. Jon hadn't the tools or the experience to know why he'd been wrapped in a cloak of nothingness upon his death. Now, though, he has clarity. The reason is there, right in front of him, an understanding gained that could not have been comprehended before: he'd died without her. She was the other part of him. More than his other half, more than his soul mate, more than any paltry concept of men could give meaning to: they were wrapped up in one another, fully entwined, a tangle of threads and ribbons that made a single entity. When his body had died, he'd hovered on the edge of existence itself, soul in capable of doing anything but waiting.
Then he'd been brought back and, months later, so had Margaery. Not in the same way, not quite, but similar enough... it was their shared experience, death shaving away the parts of them that kept them away from one another, that had brought them together. While his life after his resurrection had been bleak, what had come before it had hardly been joyful. Joyless was more accurate. Now he's find his joy and no one, not Cersei, not Arianne, not Sansa, will take her from him. The world has it's priorities, and they're certainly important, but Jon has his as well. Everything about her is his single priority, the directive that his soul must follow, and he will do what he must to see that priority fulfilled.
With those thoughts swirling in his head, he welcomed the worship she heaped on him and returned it with equal zeal, arms simply wrapped around her waist, holding her tightly, refusing to let go, while his mouth laid his prayers on her skin. Every patch of it he could find, he pressed soft, reverent kisses to, searing the fact that she was his goddess as much as his lover into her flesh. Her cheeks and her lips, her neck and her shoulders, her collar and her chest... kisses dotted her skin like the roses from Highgarden would dot their gardens. "Wouldn't that be perfect?" He wants it. If he could have that for the price of Winterfell, if giving it to Sansa would make that happen, he would give it to her in an instant. His lips are soft on hers as they kiss again, a final moment of tenderness, and his smile is gentle as he peers deep into her eyes, forehead resting against hers. "They say we Northmen melt if we leave the North, but I think your presence alone would preserve me, Margaery. I know it would. We could have everything we truly want."
Truly, it would be something out of a dream; unfortunately, Jon has found that what happens in dreams usually remain there.
Even if that would never be a reality, though, there was still contentment and pleasure to be found in their life here. If chance had somehow plotted to bring them together in their previous lives, before death had ever tainted them, his desire for her would have been as fierce as the sigil of his father's house. Jon would have found every excuse to take her, to find ways to sneak her back to his rooms during the middle of the day, to spend long nights seeking pleasure with her... but they're together now and his want is magnified ten fold without the chains of life and society to temper his need to fuck her. The barriers that would keep his lust in check were no more and he knew, with some certainty, that their mornings would begin the same way their evenings would end. Once he took her for the first time, he would seek that same pleasure again and again, always wanting more, always craving her, and never finding himself tiring of it.
The truth of that is proven in the instant that his cock fills her. The pleasure of being joined with her, of finally being one body as well as soul, is the kind that scorches away thought and word and consumes everything but that one feeling; his body is filled with it, a blistering inferno of wholeness and completion and... and... and... words fail, but the end result is a spark of pleasure that cracks like lightning, that warms like the fire in a hearth, and that leaves him craving more. For a moment, he's stunned, unable to see, unable to speak, unable to breath, and then... he's chasing that feeling again, dashing at a full sprint as desire and need replace it as the primary feeling that rules him.
Her hips push against his, deepening his penetration of her, pulling him deeper inside of her. A rough groan slips past his mouth, that sensation of being fully inside her, deep as a man can go, fanning that ember of pleasure that remains in his belly, but it's not enough. Not by half. Instinct moves him. He stares at her, eyes the color of smoke and just as hot, mouth searing hers with a kiss as his hips move, jerking to the wild beating of his heart. His thrusts are deep, true, but frantic, each one coming in rapid succession from the one before it, the sounds of fleshing smacking against flesh filling the air as much as their cries and shrieks of pleasure do. "Margaery," there's no shame in him as he shakily moans her name, one hand palming her rear, while the other finds a breast and gives it a quick squeeze, "Fuck me, love, that's... that's perfect...!"
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He hadn't understood it then. Jon hadn't the tools or the experience to know why he'd been wrapped in a cloak of nothingness upon his death. Now, though, he has clarity. The reason is there, right in front of him, an understanding gained that could not have been comprehended before: he'd died without her. She was the other part of him. More than his other half, more than his soul mate, more than any paltry concept of men could give meaning to: they were wrapped up in one another, fully entwined, a tangle of threads and ribbons that made a single entity. When his body had died, he'd hovered on the edge of existence itself, soul in capable of doing anything but waiting.
Then he'd been brought back and, months later, so had Margaery. Not in the same way, not quite, but similar enough... it was their shared experience, death shaving away the parts of them that kept them away from one another, that had brought them together. While his life after his resurrection had been bleak, what had come before it had hardly been joyful. Joyless was more accurate. Now he's find his joy and no one, not Cersei, not Arianne, not Sansa, will take her from him. The world has it's priorities, and they're certainly important, but Jon has his as well. Everything about her is his single priority, the directive that his soul must follow, and he will do what he must to see that priority fulfilled.
With those thoughts swirling in his head, he welcomed the worship she heaped on him and returned it with equal zeal, arms simply wrapped around her waist, holding her tightly, refusing to let go, while his mouth laid his prayers on her skin. Every patch of it he could find, he pressed soft, reverent kisses to, searing the fact that she was his goddess as much as his lover into her flesh. Her cheeks and her lips, her neck and her shoulders, her collar and her chest... kisses dotted her skin like the roses from Highgarden would dot their gardens. "Wouldn't that be perfect?" He wants it. If he could have that for the price of Winterfell, if giving it to Sansa would make that happen, he would give it to her in an instant. His lips are soft on hers as they kiss again, a final moment of tenderness, and his smile is gentle as he peers deep into her eyes, forehead resting against hers. "They say we Northmen melt if we leave the North, but I think your presence alone would preserve me, Margaery. I know it would. We could have everything we truly want."
Truly, it would be something out of a dream; unfortunately, Jon has found that what happens in dreams usually remain there.
Even if that would never be a reality, though, there was still contentment and pleasure to be found in their life here. If chance had somehow plotted to bring them together in their previous lives, before death had ever tainted them, his desire for her would have been as fierce as the sigil of his father's house. Jon would have found every excuse to take her, to find ways to sneak her back to his rooms during the middle of the day, to spend long nights seeking pleasure with her... but they're together now and his want is magnified ten fold without the chains of life and society to temper his need to fuck her. The barriers that would keep his lust in check were no more and he knew, with some certainty, that their mornings would begin the same way their evenings would end. Once he took her for the first time, he would seek that same pleasure again and again, always wanting more, always craving her, and never finding himself tiring of it.
The truth of that is proven in the instant that his cock fills her. The pleasure of being joined with her, of finally being one body as well as soul, is the kind that scorches away thought and word and consumes everything but that one feeling; his body is filled with it, a blistering inferno of wholeness and completion and... and... and... words fail, but the end result is a spark of pleasure that cracks like lightning, that warms like the fire in a hearth, and that leaves him craving more. For a moment, he's stunned, unable to see, unable to speak, unable to breath, and then... he's chasing that feeling again, dashing at a full sprint as desire and need replace it as the primary feeling that rules him.
Her hips push against his, deepening his penetration of her, pulling him deeper inside of her. A rough groan slips past his mouth, that sensation of being fully inside her, deep as a man can go, fanning that ember of pleasure that remains in his belly, but it's not enough. Not by half. Instinct moves him. He stares at her, eyes the color of smoke and just as hot, mouth searing hers with a kiss as his hips move, jerking to the wild beating of his heart. His thrusts are deep, true, but frantic, each one coming in rapid succession from the one before it, the sounds of fleshing smacking against flesh filling the air as much as their cries and shrieks of pleasure do. "Margaery," there's no shame in him as he shakily moans her name, one hand palming her rear, while the other finds a breast and gives it a quick squeeze, "Fuck me, love, that's... that's perfect...!"