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[kivio]

Insolence is indeed responsible for him having turned up here at the Wall - not only the insolence which had come later, woven into all those tales told of his bravery and treachery among the wildlings, but the insolence of having turned his back on the life of a lord's son. A bastard son, yes, but he might still have claimed some measure of notability. He could have carried his burdens quietly, humbly, never striving for more. He could have made himself Eddard Stark's bastard and nothing more, living with relative comfort in his father's shadow. The lord of Winterfell was known to be a man with a good heart - stern but just, honorable, but never closing his doors against a man in need. Surely he would have shielded his own son - no matter how ignobly born - against the crueler judgments of the world. The aging lord would have seen that his natural son was housed comfortably enough, if nothing else, a noble bastard among the world's bastards. He could have had something, paltry as it was, and belonged to no one.

Instead, he'd chosen to submit himself to the ownership of the Night's Watch, where there would always be someone to answer to. There would always be vows to keep, honor to uphold, death to sidestep, indifference and scorn to survive. He had cast himself and his pride among the criminals and fiends who had been corralled to suffer their frigid fates at the Wall. He would be no better than any of his new brothers, no matter his upbringing and his father's name. He would never be master of his own keep, or of the arrangement of hours within his days. He would be a black brother, nameless and dispensable, before he would ever matter a whit as Jon Snow. This assumption was one he had wasted little time breaking: he'd asserted himself as brash and resilient, enduring where lesser men would have worn thin. He was made, clearly, of a fiercer iron than the men who walked the Wall and ranged into the windblown wastes beyond. Insolence had earned him his fair share of reprimands, no doubt, but it had also distinguished him in a sea of black.

Another of the gods' stinging jokes, of course: this man, insolent and courageous and rabid and built like the Warrior himself, sworn never to take a wife. A curse upon the women of the world, perhaps, at least those who would never think to reach for what was held off limits. How difficult had it been? She'd begged her father to allow her this brief, harmless adventure to the edge of the realm, and then it had been nothing more than catching the eye of the man she fancied, and waiting to determine if he fancied her just the same. He had, they'd hurried into this barren room, and now she is being rewarded with something which self-restraint and solemn refusal could never have won her. He does not seem to her the least bit compromised by his shattered vows, which are now little more than kindling for their lurid flames. He is not fumbling against resentment and fear, is not made pallid and shrinking by the threat of shameful discovery. He is hard as granite, and unyielding. He is just as voraciously hungry as she is, ever demanding more.

The rough, ragged score of his own pleasure, the growling and snarling and rumbling of a beast chasing what is his, drives her own excitement to bright and then brighter heights. She spears herself down with the whole of her weight, rides forward to match the throbbing thrust of him, and then melts with a moan, arching through the small of her back as he grinds between her thighs. There is, in the fingers digging into the flexing back of her hip, a possession that is animal in its strength, in the ferocity with which he ruts up against her and bares his teeth in a predator's grin. And in her own body, a willing answer, wordless now that pleasure ripples and undulates within her: this is what would get them in the most trouble. Not because they stood any chance of being caught, or because they risked deserting this frantic, furious union should it be discovered. It was trouble in that it was addicting, in that she could already imagine a thousand ways in which she would bypass all sense and caution to climb atop his bristling body once more.

"I fear there is no saving you now," she thinks to warn him, but it is still half a jest, half breathless, and not at all steeped in genuine worry. She would not wish for him to be redeemed from his sins if it meant she would be starved of what she had found this night. Bodily pleasure before nobility, excitement before virtue - she cries out as he lifts himself against her, the heft of his body driving his cock with abrupt and powerful certainty where she is gleaming wet, fire and silk, fluttering around the girth of him as her body clenches and squirms in its delight. His hand is a crisp, hot print against her pale flesh, and her laughter is half gasped. The purr within it is hardly hidden, and she rakes her nails down the taut muscle of his chest, intending wholeheartedly to leave her mark, as any possessive she-wolf would. He will not soon forget who worked these tumbling moans and animal groans from him.

Her hips roll forward, consuming him to the hilt, a curve from thigh to waist, a hard rhythm that repeats anywhere there is pleasure to be sown, the tips of her breasts pulling tight beneath his fingers. As pink and eager as her cunt, as starved for touch, and she lifts her fingers to close briskly around his wrist, keeping his hand pressed to her aching skin.

"We shall see how your spirit fares after this night." After this night, when she will meet him again either in this same castle a second time, or he will find himself arriving most nobly in White Harbor, inclining his head to her waddling lord father, graciously accepting the handsome chambers that she will promptly fuck him in. A number of fine views await her, she is already most certain: him down upon his knees, and likewise, him with his breeches undone and his fingers curling into encouraging fists in her hair. They will be as relentless as animals in heat, she thinks, but she cannot fathom being taken by this yearning only a handful of times each year. She cannot imagine waking on any morning and not sliding her knees together, honeyed between the thighs as she draws him above her with a pleading hand.

Now, pleasure has taken on the effect of feathering wildly across her skin, chasing her heart quicker and quicker, her breath higher, anxious for what she knows will come. There is a sparkling sort of sting at her rear, the ghost of his hand, and the threat of another sudden strike, praising and commanding, sweet and clear, and she relishes in the swift strength with which he furrows his heavy cock into her begging cunt. One moan climbs onto the next, hurried and breathless, and when she must break the pinning of his gaze with her own darkening eyes, they flutter shut on a wave of cresting excitement, and she rocks her hips harder, quicker, riding first in long, hungry strokes, and then in satin-sleek grinds, wet and grasping.

Dropping her head back with a baying cry, only half-aware of the whisper of silver hair that spills down her back, her focus is trained almost entirely on the tightening of her torso as she dances her enthusiastic cunt against his cock, pleasure mounting within her so thickly that there will soon be no refusing it. But she will watch him be vanquished beneath her first, and when her eyes return to his own, there is a devilish smile at her lips, her face flushed with the scandal of all they have done. "First I will have my view. Come, come hard, and say my name when you do. Come like you've never come before. I want you dripping down my thighs hours from now."

[watcheronthewalls]

I fear there is no saving you now, she says and Jon knows it as a jest, but there is hidden, earnest truth in those words, too, though she may not recognize it. Doubt is not an unheard of companion— there are a great many things he’s done that have gone hand-in-hand with doubt— but seldom has he doubted that his future lie with the Night’s Watch since swearing his vows. No matter what his sworn brothers whispers, his heart was true as he fulfilled Qhorin’s last command, though it twisted and wrenched to be so atrociously false to men and women who treated him fairly, if not kindly. There were no moments where he intended betrayal, to shed off his vows and let them slip from his shoulders without remorse. Doubt may have been a constant companion then, but even with suspicion and mistrust and disgust rattling around in the Watch, there has always been a certainty since that he will only be done with this place when his life is at an end.

A fine sentiment. A noble sentiment. And one that almost feels a curse, now. It is a human thing to give one’s self to a cause, to bind one’s life and purpose to a cause, but he is not just a man now. As a boy with his head full of grand stories of the heroism and nobility of the Night’s Watch, he had been willing to give up much— more than any sane man would— but he cannot be the wolf he is without those things. How could he be a wolf without the freedom with which Ghost prowls the forest or hunts for any prey of his choosing or mates with his wolfess whenever the urge strikes? It is that last that matters, now. As a Ranger, he might wander Beyond the Wall and hunt and fight where he likes, or at least where he is aimed, but no matter his position, no matter his rank, he will never have the freedom to wake in her bed every morning and let her ride his cock with all the fierce certainty she exhibits now.

Jon knows— knows himself, knows his heart, and knows her, wolfess that she is. Surely, there will come a day where he will not wish to leave her bed, where a day or a week of passion every half-year is not enough. It is their nature: greedy and hungry and fierce and primal. A wolf might know caution, but it cannot be tamed or reasoned with. So long as he finds such sweet, sweet pleasure in fucking her, so long as this lust burns him down to his very soul, it is inevitable: there will come a day where he cannot settle for less and on that day, his oaths will rankle like a collar he knows not how to rid himself of. And to be sure, being rid of those oaths is the only path to endless days spent answering her beck and call, of offering her his tireless cock whenever they feel like. He is beyond help already.

Even now, he shudders and writhes beneath her as she plunges down with all of her weight, surrounds the sheer girth of his cock with hot, slick cunt that flutters and clenches as sharp pleasure tears through them both, and it is still not enough. Gods, it could never be enough. He can see the ecstasy of it in her features— the bright luridness of her lilac eyes, the gentle trembling of her lips, the lovely flush of her skin— and knows it mirrored in his own. It twists inside him, the tension building, as he watches her with hungry, lust-drunk eyes that take great delight in watching as she rides him harder than any woman dared to ride a stallion. If he ever needed proof that she was as much wolf as he, it is here in the relentless rise and fall of her hips, in the eagerness with which she drives back down to take him back within her, in the intensity of her gaze as she fucks him into the mattress and asserts herself every bit the hungry, primal beast that he is.

“Good. I do not wish to be saved,” breathless laughter slips from his mouth and that is the truth of it. Every inch of him is awash with pleasure, thrumming with it, dancing to the sweet tune of her body, and the sight of her above him, of her rising and falling along the full length of his wicked cock, just makes it that much more addictive, and gods help him, he does not want it to stop, no matter what consequences that might bring. His cry is almost delirious as nails leave pale marks along his chest, a softly groaned fuck that brings with it a hard, unrefined arch of hips hips, driving his cock hilt-deep into the waiting confines of her dripping cunt. He grins at her, wild, pleased, hungry, for his body is well-suited to this, well-suited and matches her thrust for thrust, hips bucking upwards in a rhythm that is timed to match hers, timed to push the fullness of his cock as deep as it can. “And you need not worry for my spirit, either. I will not tire of this— of you— of your cunt around my cock.”

Even speaking it makes him shudder, makes the crescendoing of his pleasure grow closer still. How long have they been at this? It feels like both hours and minutes, too long and not nearly long enough, body eager to yet pour even more of his seed within her eager cunt and yet demanding more and more and more of this pleasure before achieving release. That is how it should be, this feeling of too much and not enough all at once, this constant dance between sweet pleasure and blazing lust. Tonight, they must take from one another as much as they can manage, must feast on each other’s bodies until there is no choice left but to leave this room. Then, the famine will be upon them. He will be patient, surely, until they meet again, though he doubts a night will pass where he does not relive his memories with his hand to provide some modicum of relief, to keep his urges in check for the long, cold months to come.

She is wicked, he thinks, momentarily dazed as her humping grows yet fiercer, as she begins grinding and rutting herself properly on his cock, exchanging his hold on her arse for another hand fondling the softness of her breasts, thumbs gently sweeping over the pink-tipped peaks in a gentle tease. There is no denying the effect it has, the way each needy grind makes him gasp as she clutches him tightly and his own hips respond in kind, rocking forward and rolling to the side, anything to stimulate further. Every nerve is on fire with blazing enjoyment and none feel more intense than the unrelenting hardness of his cock; even the tiniest motion sends pleasure blazing through him. There is no rhythm to it, no reason, no skill or art; just instinct.

He manages no further response. Her words alone— the picture they paint— are more than enough to send him tumbling over the edge. A sharp, desperate cry—Dany!, moaned, gasped, groaned— and his hips arched hard, grinding his thick, heavy cock deeper still, making certain she’s truly filled with him are the only warnings. His head snaps back, eyes clenching shut as the first wave of his release crashes into him, a lightning bolt of pleasure dancing along his spine. Rough, greedy fingers knead her breasts with almost desperate passion, finger and thumb pinching taut nipples between them, as his cock thrums, trembles, twitches as it pumps ample amounts of his thick seed within her, giving her all that she demands, giving her ever more of his come than before, spilling wave after wave of it, his mouth crying out a mixture of her name and obscenities as he comes undone beneath her.

[kivio]

A man who has fortified himself to withstand the rigors of the feral North, and the harsh, no-nonsense rule of the Night's Watch - to have a man not only of his steel-honed build but also of his composure, and of his nobility, too, despite what his reputation and his bastard's name might convey; to have such a man laid flat beneath her, writhing against the merciless cresting of pleasure as other men might writhe against the discomforts of a long winter - that is a treasure unlike any other she has yet found. Her discoveries have not been timid, nor humble - like any wolf which has caught a tempting scent, she does not hesitate to chase what has piqued her curiosity. The cost does not matter: it might cost her those precious spare hours which belong to her alone, or a dash of pride or virtue, but she has never felt a pang of regret for pursuing what she craves. The only regrets have been those which fall in the shadow of opportunities unchased, and those are few enough. She has taken in her hands all manner of gifts. None have been like this, no matter the brief thrills bestowed upon her restless body.

These gifts, like the measure of influence she wields in her own life, are meager, and thinning every day - this she knows, the nearer her father comes to arranging a proud match. Then all she has will belong to her husband, and her life will no longer be a thing to be crafted by her own hands, her own whims, a careless indulgence of her own desires. She will be traded like a piece of chattel, a silver ornament passing meticulously from one set of hands to another. These hungry hunts for what her body longs for will come to an end, and she will be expected to content herself with a lady's soft life, with the keeping of her husband's heirs, and with fair silk gowns. Exhilaration and physical pleasure will be sacrificed for the promise of safety, prestige and a horribly domesticated existence. She would be lost, entombed even while she lived, left to be an unsupervised ghost if fortune was on her side, and all the world knew how fickle fortune could be. She would be slowly starved, a dog chained in the dark of the kennels, kept from the seduction of the moon and the unplundered, waiting woods.

These wolf's nights, then - these hours when she can cheerfully abandon all of the dignities foisted upon her - will become fewer and fewer, and the treasures she can behold this way will all but vanish. They will be replaced with far lesser acquisitions, and as she watches his face turn feral, feels his body wrench and jerk beneath her as their furious lusts combust with each reckless meeting of their hips, she knows that she will uphold no vows for the consecration of any marriage if it means she must forgo this. What are the chances she will be wed to another wolf, when here lives the only wolf she has yet found? The fingers of one hand splay against his stomach, pressing as she rides the hard throb of his cock, desiring already the next instant when she can have him again. Soon he will obey her unspeakable command, he will spill his hot, copious seed within her, and then the hunger will be new again - there is a rush between her thighs at the thought, the frantic, wet glide of her cunt grasping every rigid inch of him, carnivorous. The wolfish plowing of his cock into her animal need drags a musical moan from her, pleasure redefined every moment, shameless and luxuriating.

It is doubled with the pads of his thumbs taunting again the swell of her nipples, the keening ache of skin wishing to be grabbed, squeezed, claimed like all the rest of her, and her hips stutter in their savage rocking as he tilts beneath her, stroking pleasure to a blinding white. Delight spindles into a wild quiver that soon reaches deep into her blood, that grips the lean muscle she is made of so that her eager clenching becomes something fierce and desperate. Then there is all she has pleaded for, and it is driven rough and fearsome up against her. Her thighs seize him with an exulting tension, that same greedy possession which has colored every motion since she'd climbed atop him, and she rolls her hips to catch and consume every twitch of his cock, her cry climbing after his own, a tight braid of woven, decidedly unladylike curses. The arch which grips her hips curves its way up her spine, a flare of pleasure which seems to her outrageous in its intensity, but which she does not resist, allowing it to break over her with all the uncontested fury of a sea wave.

It is just as brilliant, just as resplendent, and as the hot pulse of him delivers to her waiting cunt all it has beseeched his body for, she pounds hard against him, everything between her thighs an ecstasy of fluttering pleasure, of rippling and throbbing and the feasting pull of her body as it milks him for all he pours within her. A fresh flush has come to her skin, the same rapture she'd reached when he'd fucked her with her legs wrapped around his waist, that she'd found with his weight covering her like a wolfess deep in the throes of her heat. Neither of those brief satisfactions dulls the sweet madness of her lust now, and she wonders if ever her body can be worked to these heights again, with any other lesser lover. Only a wolf - the thought flits through her mind, a prism shattering as a violent bliss races and bunches and spills and leaves her breathlessly, willingly ruined.

And it is not enough, it will never be enough; she rides his pumping cock until it has nothing left to give, writhing against the join of their bodies, ravenous for sensation, delighting in the bounce of her breasts in the palms of his hands as much as the throttling of his tremendous cock with her sodden cunt. Still there is room for a dazed chirp of laughter, her arm trembling as it braces her weight against him, the fingers of one hand still digging into his wrist. The gem-glow of her eyes roves in slow appreciation over the mess of his dark curls, the beastly twist of his mouth, the sheen of sweat in the room's furtive light, her body gradually lending itself down so her lips can find his with a breath and a smile.

"One day I will ride you in the woods. I want to see how the stars shake when you say my name."

[watcheronthewalls]

His world shatters into a hundred glass-like stars as he comes apart beneath her, as every nerve and vein is set ablaze with vibrant, unyielding pleasure. This is what he was made for, what his body was crafted to do, this unending cycle of feral fucking and blissful pleasure and it is only when they are together like this that he can fulfill his life’s true purpose. It is a secret, this truth, a secret that only he and she are allowed to know; if the Old Bear knew, or any of his sworn brothers, or even his own family, they would not look kindly upon this revelation. Yet he cannot deny the truth of it, either, not when his body trembles and writhes and jerks beneath hers, not when every iota of his being is triumphant at the mere thought of giving her every drop of his seed that she can wring from his cock.

In the throes of it all, he is blinded by the rush of it, the white-hot, searing ecstasy akin to gazing into the heart of the sun, yet he needs not look upon her to know that she has joined him in the throes of release. There is no doubting what she is— every inch of her is a wolf in full, a she-wolf that has caught the scent of a strong, virile male and knows that he is everything she wants— that she is as vulgar and wanton and lustful as he is. Before the first twitch of his ruddy cock is through, her cunt is already convulsing as it shivers and clenches with the rush of her release, too. He cannot see her, cannot watch her, but she rides him harder, rides him furiously as her body makes endless demands, milking his cock dry as she trembles with pleasure that matches his own.

Even when she has succeeded in her task, the last eddies of his orgasm fading away and leaving only raw nerves and harsh bliss in their wake, he is not sated. The hunger for more lingers still, a greediness in him that will never fade, already craving the next round of this wicked, wonderful chase. He laughs lightly, breathless and skin slick with sweat, brow creased and eyes still squeezed shut; it is a boneless, pleasant feeling that buzzes inside him, all strength gone from his limbs, hardness seeping from his cock for a few brief moments. How is he to survive without this? How will he hold out for even an hour, let alone weeks or months or, gods forbid, years before their next meeting? Why did the gods make this feel so wonderful, if only to deny him more tomorrow?

There are no easy answers to that question, but when his eyes crack open, he cannot help but shiver at the way she gazes down at him, her eyes sliding over his skin appreciatively. He grins, almost like a boy rather than a man, and greets her lips with a pleased sigh, running fingers on both hands through her silver hair. In these moments between, when the world has slowed and shrunk to just them, and there is no frantic rutting of their hips, he feels his infatuation with her all the more strongly, appreciates the soft warmth of her mouth and the sound of her voice. He laughs quietly at her statement, but it is not dismissive or scornful, only amused.

“I welcome that day,” he replies, smiling, one arm draped casually around her shoulders while the other gently cups her cheek. It is easy to steal another kiss, sweet and quick, as he pants quietly and pictures it: the both of them on a forest floor, surrounded by old oaks and ironwoods and pines, the silver moonglow shining in her hair, highlighting the softness of her body that contrasts with the fierce way she rides him, fucking herself eagerly upon his cock. A thumb swipes over her lips, tracing the seam gingerly, before he kisses her a second time, sighing, “And when you are through, I will have my way with you. I will fuck you every way I know how so the heavens might see how much you enjoy me.”

His fingers gently trace the curve of her spine as he smiles at her. “You are mine. Perhap not in any way gods or men know of, but that does not make it any less true. I will not give you up— ever.”

[kivio]

The roof above them hardly matters, of course - the stars are shaking already, and they continue shaking every moment that pleasure lances through her, dangerous as knives. She knows it is dangerous for how she yearns to grab it again and again, heedless of the damage it might do. Damage to the innocence long ago lost, damage to her reputation, such as it is, and damage to her name, to her father's honor, should they be discovered. Damage to her future, like black ink spilled upon ivory silk. Seizing onto these blades of lewd, base excitement will only harm her, sooner or later; he is a black brother, after all, sentenced to life in this frozen prison, sworn to uphold his vows, in word if not in action. He will never command his own corner of the world, and neither will she - they will never have halls and chambers which belong to them first, walls behind which they can possess each other as often and as ravenously as they please.

That day will never come - not as a gift, anyway. They will have to steal them, just as they have stolen this hour, and there is in that realization no fear, no repenting, no guilt and no resentment. There is only the electric thrill of a thief taking into her hands something of irreplaceable worth. If they've stolen one hour, they can steal another; if they can steal one uninterrupted minute, they can steal one uninterrupted day. They can lay siege to any abandoned room, any abandoned keep, and subsist on nothing less than what they have found together, what they continue to reap and sow. And if she had feared being left unfed, being left alone to pace like a ribby animal that has never had a taste of anything at all, he has shown himself to be no less a wolf, with no shallower a hunger. His body proves it in all it buries within her own, and his grin proves it, youthful and undaunted.

Sighing against his mouth, her thighs gradually easing from their vice grip against his hips, she shudders above him, her body mirroring the shivering of his own. Only slowly does pleasure soften into something bearable, something her body can sink into, a sea made of pastels instead of that searing, blinding rush which crested first. Her muscles release from their flexed, taut hold, she relaxes where she was braced, and she smiles gently against his mouth, something between a hum and a growl answering his possession. Had these words come from anyone else - you are mine - she would have railed and thrashed, would have ripped herself away and left no question that she belongs to no one. Too long has she carried herself as more than a hound in the kennels, unchained only to be bred; more than a mare in the fields, existing only as the dam for a proud stud's heirs. She would never again belong to anyone: not her father, not her future husband, and not to any brotherhood or sisterhood.

But there is, like this, no sudden spark of irritation, no blossoming of righteous fury, nor any aggression in her own defense. She is not entirely without violence, however: a reciprocating violence, the same mischievous smile she had greeted him with when she'd first stepped into Castle Black. The second kiss is returned with a nip to his bottom lip, and her spine stretches beneath the warm weight of his hand, her body finding a restful repose against his own, as if it was made to rest nowhere else. The tips of her own fingers graze along his collarbones, and the heat that blooms in her cheeks is separate from the euphoria which had just swept through her. It is quieter, a lull of tenderness which she had not anticipated, but which pleases her just as his reaving body had. The sort of thing which defies explanation, which gods and men know nothing of - the sort of thing which she has always treasured most.

"The gods will know that you are mine." They would hear it, she delights to think, if they did not glance down to see it. There will be no room which is not made holy. The vows of men will not stop them, and no lordly concepts of truth will stop them. He will not be stolen from her, and she will not exchange the joy of lust for the nobility of laws and vows. It is as certain as one wolf recognizing another, of the blood rising in answer to an energy coming near, of a mate knowing without question that it has found its other.

"They will know it in the woods, and in castles, and in beds and on floors and against doors. I have waited too long to find you, and now there will not be an hour wasted." It did not matter how long they must wait between each reunion, if the world conspired against them - she would give herself to him every way her body was made to take him, and she would work his cock to the mad pleasures it was made for in turn. There would simply be no argument on the point of who he belonged to, and who she always returned to. Her own fingers come to his jaws, marveling still at the cut of his face, the riot of his dark curls, and the smitten warmth which twists within her as she looks upon him, a wholly unfamiliar sensation.

"I will only come to you."

[watcheronthewalls]

If he must be a thief, then he will be a thief. Stolen moments, stolen hours, stolen days— they are a small price to pay, in the end, to be able to enjoy her once more. The Night’s Watch would not be amused, he knows, to find out that he plans a theft from one of the great Northern lords. His own Lord Father might look down upon this with scorn for this— no, he most assuredly would— but Jon does not expect him to understand. How could anyone but the two of them ever truly understand what this is? It is more than love-making, more than sex, more than fucking. Those are simple things with simple words to describe them, easily conjured in the mind of any who hears. But this? There is no word to describe the kaleidoscope of sensation and pleasure that blooms when they’re joined together, when her sinfully wonderful cunt clutches each and every inch of his proud, rigid cock and refuses to let it go. No wolf would dare give up a mate capable of making him feel such vivid ecstasy and Jon will not be the first.

He allows himself a small, secret smile as her steel-strong tension melts like ice and she flows down to meet him, skin to skin, chest to chest, lips to lips. This part, where they drift in a sea of warm, pleasant feelings and simply are, is indulgent, too. For a man of the Watch, this is where the true danger lays, in fond kisses and gentle gestures and moments tangled together. This is not a moment shared between a man and a paid whore, but something greater. For they are wolves— wolf and wolfess— and they are meant for more than boundless lust without guidance or direction; wolves mate for life, more loyally than men do, and it is to their mate that their instincts drive them, without hesitation or thought. He does not desire just any woman— not just any wet, willing cunt will suffice for him— but her; every drop of this feral, unyielding hunger is aimed at her like a marksman’s arrow. He does not wish to share her, perhaps cannot even abide the thought of it, of another man’s cock sliding inside her, of another man’s lips pressing kisses to her skin. Mine. Not even her husband, gods help him, when the time comes that her father successfully sells her at auction. It is this feeling of possession, this sense of belonging, that truly breaks the heart of his oaths and he does not care.

He greets the gentle bite of her teeth with a breathless laugh, one that hides the way he nearly whimpers, and bears it with mostly good grace, fingers running through silken strands of silver hair. A hum of pleasant delight vibrates in his throat as her fingers gently stroke his face— the wolf in him hungers for this, too, for these little displays of affection between two creatures of the wild— and his hand plucks her hand at wrist, holding it steady with gentle force so that he might turn his head and press soft kisses to each finger, culminating in one final kiss pressed reverently to the palm. This is no less enjoyable than the vigorous way they fuck, he thinks, savoring the gentle warmth that soaks into his muscles and his chest, though it lacks the raw, splendid pleasure that threatens dissolve to conscious thought. His hand rests perilously low on the small of her back, fingers splayed and gently scratching her skin, mere inches from the gentle swell of her ass and the place, just below, where they’re yet joined. He grins up at her, laughs gently, and nods.

“We shall find a weirwood tree when we venture into the forest so they may witness our proof,” he murmurs in the instant before his mouth is at hers again, another fond kiss pressed there with no small amount of heat, either. The thought pleases him greatly: let the old gods see what he chooses, see that the wolf has found his mate and intends to have her, no matter what the laws of men might say on the matter. He has chosen lust, and want, and desire, and need over honor, true, but he feels no shame for it, no anger at himself or the gods. Underneath his hands, her body is warm and soft and inviting; it pleads for his touch even now, he’s certain, just as his body craves her fingers against his skin.

“I will take you as many times as you wish it, Dany, whether it is before the gods themselves or in a quiet room like this, or in your Lord Father’s finest chambers, or in a dusty library, or a solar where you meet daily with lords and ladies. It does not matter. My cock is prepared to fuck you as often as need be. You will never have need of any other and I do not want any other. Only you.” He knows it to be true, with a certainty that makes him grin, fierce and wild and indomitable, even knowing how difficult this path will be to walk. Months will pass where they cannot be together, yet that is the sacrifice required for such delight, such pleasure that men cannot comprehend. They will endure, just as she will endure the feeling of his lips brushing along the side of her pale neck, drawing lower and lower until he finds a spot that makes her shiver. Jon’s lips opens, clever tongue darting out first to quickly wet that swathe of skin, and then his mouth catches it in a suckling kiss— light, at first, light until his teeth nip the skin playfully and his mouth sucks harder and harder, hard enough to leave undeniable proof in her flesh.

He kisses the new mark tenderly, then kisses her mouth gently, murmuring, “I will wait however long it takes. Until then, let my marks on your skin and my seed in your cunt serve as proof that you have been claimed.”

[kivio]

The men of the North did revere their ancient trees, a custom she often wished she'd been raised to observe, rather than keeping the new gods. She'd also learned early on, to her relief, that there was no one who could assign her gods for her. There was no one to hear the prayers she did or did not lay at the altars of the Mother and the Maiden. Who could divine from her pious silence, then, which gods she did or did not keep? The new gods were, of course, made of marble and a longstanding indifference, so far as she could tell. Perhaps the weeping trees that the old lords knelt before were no different; she was no stranger to the possibility that all gods, both old and new, were utterly impartial to the proceedings of men. But there was something appealing about the weirwoods, something terrible and beautiful in the sorrow carved into their faces. Trees lived, even if gods did not. It is easier to believe that a tree feels a prayer rustling its blood-red leaves than a marble statue which looks down with unflinching judgment upon the desperate.

A man cannot lie before a weirwood, or so she'd heard - if they took their depravity before the ancient gods in the woods, there would be no falsity between them. This superstition pleases her, too: a man may fall to his knees before any cold altar with nothing but lies on his lips, but how could he bring his disloyalty and his black heart before a tree with eyes which weep blood? And how could such eyes look upon any man, any prayer, any act, and not bear living witness? The thought of stripping bare before such a tree, of inviting before those eyes all manner of satisfactions to her lust, is as enchanting as the vision of him climbing above her in her own bed, or her father's beloved desk of dark wood creaking beneath them as they claw at one another without pausing to remove a single scrap of clothing. The gods are said to see all, even afar from their altars, she'd been told, and so it may well be that their merry transgressions have been witnessed already. But who, delighting in the sin, would not wish to take it into the gods' own home? And which gods, she wonders, who have beheld the voracious mating of wolves, would look upon the two of them with anything but praise?

"Wolves do not pray in silence, and neither will I." A playful vow, but one he need not think untrue - she has not fretted over keeping the silence of their spartan room, and she will not find herself flushing modestly before the gods, either. Prayer ought to be sung and howled, shouldn't it? The wolves knew this, as they cavorted in their hungers and their joys and their lusts, and she does not wish to be anything less. Should they in fact lay their truths before a heart tree, she will not delight in them quietly. The woods will not be cold and dead, so long as they carry with them this treacherous magnetism that brought them fumbling together in the first place, and the gods, if they watch, will not be fed only hesitant and whispering and somber pleas.

His fingers sluice through the smooth silver of her hair, proof already that the bodies they were given were meant to be explored and savored just this way, and she skips her eyes to follow his hand to her wrist, her fingers jumping softly under the warm brush of his lips. Her skin feels, under this touch, fine as lace, something he could tear right through if he pleased, trembling with sensation. But as he has mastered his body to practiced control when it is hard and rutting, so it is mastered now, patient and slow, and her fingers open in pleasure at the kiss hidden in her palm. The fingers that he rests at the small of her back stir the same skittering of embers, cinders flickering up the length of her spine, a twitch in her thighs keeping her held flush against him. The dark purr that stirs deep in her chest and meanders past her lips is that of a gracious animal, having fed and trusting that it will feed again.

Her laughter is mulled just as dark when it comes, her eyes fluttering shut as his lips take to the moon-white curve of her throat. Her body warms with anticipation, melting atop him from hips to chest as she turns her head, baring her neck as a conspiring wolfess would, knowing to whom she gives her body, and giving it without reserve.

"You have the utmost faith in this cock of yours." For good reason, thus far, and fairly claimed; he has not yet fallen short in anything he has offered, and neither has he flagged to exhaustion, to forfeit, in anything she has demanded. A generous blessing indeed, whether the gods intended it or not, and she glides her fingers up into the wild black of his hair, threading her fingers through his curls and catching a breath as his lips part, his tongue a dab of promising heat that then gives way to an indelicate kiss. She can feel her blood rushing to the surface, threatening a plum bruise that she will delight in running her fingertips across when she must again draw on fresh silks. It will bloom beneath bathwater, and it will gleam like a jackal's grin in the moonlight, proof that neither gods nor men can take from her.

When his mouth returns to her own, when she is imagining again how readily she will take him first in her hand, whether they be making hurried use of a castle or a stable or the trusted forest floor, and then between her legs, whether she wears silks hiked to the hips or nothing at all, her sigh emerges as half a moan. It is a proud man who would declare himself equal to her desire after having had only a taste of it, in secrecy and in brazen insult against her lord father, and her own lips part as she falls into a kiss which returns to him the feral loyalty of his words.

It is naive to trust such promises, and she knows it; men's heads are so easily turned by the next fair body to saunter before them, and what do carnal animals know of restraint or the discipline of loyalty? And it will not matter - one day soon she will be handed in matrimony to a companion of her father, to do with as he pleases, and this room will be the memory she turns to when the drudgery of her days threatens to smother her. But it is, for now, a lush fantasy: these valiant vows and these tireless lusts, and she dips her shoulder so as to sink down onto her side, drawing him with her, entwining herself forward with one leg lost down against his own and the other draped across his waist. Her heart is quick and eager, as if straining toward a future which until this day had been bleak as a still winter morning, and she only gives up her chase of his tongue when words demand it.

"I refuse to wait too terribly long. Marks will fade and seed will dry, and I will come hunting for them again. The moon claims the sky every night, and that is how I wish to be claimed by you." Thoroughly, incontestably, with stars spattered between them and gods and men all powerless to intervene. Every night is, she is loath to remind herself, too sweet a gift to hope for, but nothing presently feels impossible. The nights they are apart need not count for anything, anyway. Sultry memory and a lustful hand against her own arching hips will suffice to cover the distance in between, and then the gods may remember that keeping wolves apart does not end gently. "Only you."

[watcheronthewalls]

There are no men in Winterfell, or in any of the surrounding lands, that worship any gods but the olds ones insofar as Jon knows. The North is a vast country, filled with gentle hills, craggy mountains, ancient forests, and more besides, and hundreds of miles of separate castle from it’s nearest neighbors; despite this, out of all the noble families that rule here, it is only the Manderlys that claim descent from the Andals. The North is of the old blood and Winterfell is the heart of the North, where that blood runs thickest. There is no man more devout to the Old Gods, in his opinion, than his Lord Father; he holds the Old Gods close to his heart in a way that Jon never has. Where his Lord Father finds comfort in the silence of Godswood and the bloody eyes and smile of a weirwood tree, he does not know if they are truly watching through those eyes or if there is great wisdom to be found in their silence.

At the moment, the strength of his beliefs hardly matters, though, because it is the idea itself that appeals. Whether it is the Old Gods themselves or something altogether different, there is no denying that there is a power to them, to be sure, a power that can be felt merely by standing in front of those trees. To bask in the presence of that, to let it bare witness to something so base, so carnal, so primitive as the obscene mating of two lust-drunk wolves while the reverend silence is broken by howls and gasps of pleasure and the wet sounds of sex is a thrilling idea, one that leaves him feeling heady and eager. It was the weirwood he swore his vows to before; let them witness his rebellion, his rejection of the shackles the Night’s Watch has tried to place around him. They deserve it. If the Old Gods are real, they are the craftsmen responsible for giving him this body— this body, capable of such lust and pleasure, with a cock that’s surely a blessing, that there’s no doubt it was made for fucking— and the silent judges responsible for letting him throw it away. Let them watch as he fulfills his purpose. Let them hear their shrieks of pleasure and know, just as he does, that there can be no going back.

“I would not ask you to be silent. Not in front of the gods. Let them hear every moan, every gasp, every little noise of pleasure. Let them know how well I fuck you, Dany,” there is hearty laughter, though, for he knows she doesn’t need his direction or permission. She is as wild and untamable as any wolfess, with all the grace and beauty that accompanies it, and she will do as she likes, no matter what anyone else says. Some men might balk at that, but he treasures her all the more for it, a fond smile curving his lips and a fonder kiss is pressed to her mouth, slow and sweet. Their bodies make their own sort of music, the kind that all men are capable of making and few rarely do, and it is the chorus to which their hymnal will be accompanied. Right now, it is a slow, steady, heavy beat— that of two hearts, their tune relaxed and merry— but in a moment or three or ten, it will change again and they will be back to their shameless worship of one another.

Even the low, dark purr that rumbles in her lovely, pale chest is a sound he wishes to share with the gods— to force them to witness, another proof of what he’s done and will do— and it brings a dangerous smile to his lips, a wicked curve gleaming like steel. The sound trembles with satisfaction, but it is a promise, too, a promise that she will yet crave more and the mere thought sends shivers skipping down spine, skin prickling with delight. It is in that moment, then, that his awareness sharpens, the mind-numbing blissful haze dissipated, and feels each piece of her as something more than a source of soft warmth: the gentle pads of her fingers, which are so clever when they tease and stroke the length of his demanding cock; the soft swell of her breasts pooling against his chest, sensitive and needy to the touch, tight nipples brushing his skin; and the velvet folds of her sweet cunt, still slick as it holds him fast inside her. His hunger twinges, then, the first blink after a delightful nap, awakening slowly from it’s rest.

“I am not easily exhausted,” he admits, wrapping a strand of silver around his finger, laughing quietly after wetting his lips with his tongue. “I am a lustful, wanton wolf, I fear, one whose cock is always eager for more fucking. You may yet exhaust it— if so, I will make use of my fingers and my mouth to pleasure you until it is achingly hard and demanding to be plunged into your greedy cunt again.” He is not quite fool enough to believe that his cock is wholly inexhaustible— no man is, no matter how he eagerly he fucks— but they have time yet before that happens. Even should she drain his cock completely, as her cunt seems eager to do, the rest of him is just as eager to slake her desires.

If he is surprised by the ferocity in her kiss, he does not show it, a soft groan of delight vibrating against her mouth, as his lips echoing it back. A sharp nip of flashing teeth follows, gently tugging on her lower lip, when it finally breaks. His body is stirring again, skin growing flush with warmth, even as thoughts of the future are at hand: how many different ways will he take her when he sees her next, wherever that might be? How many days will they steal for themselves, days sequestered in hidden places seeking out pleasure, days spent with their hands and their mouths and their bodies in worship of one another, two wolves mating with such fervor, there can be little doubt that they are meant for one another? Will she sink to her knees and take his fullness in her mouth? How many times will she straddle his hips and ride him again, with all the ferocity reserved for a prized stallion? And how many times will he lose patience and find some secret alcove to fuck her while she still wears some pretty dress? When will it be? How?

He knows none of those answers, but his heart’s beat grows faster even as they land on their sides, legs a tangle, as he refuses to give ground to the sure knowledge that she will eventually be sold to the highest bidder, little better than a broodmare for some lordling. If it comes to that, perhaps he will steal her for true, the Wildling way, then let her suffer that fate. It is not a thing they must worry over, not yet, and he grins at her, fierce and wild and hungry.

“I would not have it any other way. Were it my choice, I would keep you by my side always. I would claim you in the mornings and at lunch and spend the evening doing nothing but claiming you again. Not a day would pass where I would not fuck you sweetly, fuck you deeply, fuck you as hard as the wolf fucks his mate.” The smile on his face is almost bittersweet as he cups her cheek with his hand. “We will make do with tonight for now and for as often as we dare otherwise.”