i do it for the girls and the gays, that's it. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
grinded) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
bakerstreet2023-01-07 05:40 am
grinded) wrote in bakerstreet2023-01-07 05:40 am
Saturday’s traditional Smut Pictures
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excellent choice!!
It is a temporary assignment, for when the snows pack deep in the North, only fools dare travel, but it is an opportunity that Jon Snow delights in. His long, stern face reflects none of that, a mask as impenetrable and unyielding as the Wall itself, and he is glad that such things come so easily to him. The Night’s Watch may care not if a sworn brother dallies in Molestown, no matter that they break their oaths in doing so, but the same cannot be said for one already planning to sully Lord Manderly’s own daughter with his own base lust.
He does not doubt that they shall inevitably meander their way to where she dwells for there is no city larger than White Harbor anywhere north of the Neck. He has never visited, though his Lord Father had made several trips there, and is well-known by all the Lords of the North. Jon may lack the Stark name, and Winterfell, and an inheritance, and any trace of honor, but their blood still flows through his veins like a mountain spring and that has given him the Stark look, if nothing else. There is no lord anywhere in the North who would not know who he was on sight and that is doubtless the reason he has been tasked with this. Who better to beg for what scraps the North has left to offer than Ned Stark’s bastard? Those same lords may ignore any other crow, but surely, they cannot ignore a face that looks so like their liege’s.
It takes nearly a fortnight before they depart from Castle Black, him and a handful of other crows, and every night he remains is one too many. Every night since that day so long ago when maddening lust blossomed in his chest, sweeter than even a winter rose, and cracked the oaths that bound him like shackles, lurid memories have haunted him in the dark of the night. Once, he would have remained at Castle Black like a well-trained hound, never knowing the thrill of the hunt, of the chase. You cannot tame a wolf, though, no matter how hard you try and he is a wolf, through and through now, a wild thing not meant to be chained and shackled. His blood is the wolfblood and it craves so much more than the Night’s Watch can give him.
The journey south is an easy one. With each passing day, they grow closer to the object of his desires. He wonders, as they wind their way past countless ancient trees groaning beneath the weight of snow and ice, if she looks back as fondly on their tryst as he does. Does it remain fresh in her memories, a constant echo that reminds her of all that life lacks in the present? Does it drive her to unending frustration in the dead of night, when all but her sleep and she can finally luxuriate in the fullness of the memory, only to find her hand a poor substitute to provide relief? Does she hunger for another chance encounter as desperately as he does?
There are no answers to be found in his thought, only mere speculation. Some tiny piece of him is certain the answer is no. She is nobly born, a daughter of Wyman Manderly, and while she might enjoy an occasional dalliance with a baseborn bastard, surely she could not miss his presence. Surely, she is not so bold to think him a lover. And yet, for all the certainty his fears bring, the rest of him wonders as it has every day since their tryst.
It takes nearly a full month to make the journey and the closer they get to White Harbor, the more powerful his anticipation grows. It is a tight pit of hot ferocity that makes his belly clench and his muscles tremble as the even tempered mare trots placidly towards White Harbor and New Castle. Like so many things, he hides it well beneath a veneer of calm that makes even his brothers blink as the white, stone buildings of the city first come into view. Beneath that, he feels so like a wolf that’s caught the scent of prey, he nearly believes he’s slipped into Ghost’s skin again.
He hasn’t, of course, and his hunger is of a much different sort than Ghost’s.
His limbs nearly tremble with uncertainty as they’re led before Wyman Manderly and his breath catches in his throat, frozen as surely as a sluggish stream in winter, for there she is, resplendent in silk of the shades of the sea itself, hair shining like freshly polished silver. For days, it has been the anticipation that has consumed, uncertainty vying with hope, but the moment their gazes meet, uncertainty vanishes and it is no longer simple anticipation that rules him. The sight of her sets his blood on fire, boiling and burning like the sun itself, as sense threatens to give way to the endless lust they awoke in one another months prior.
What happens next is lost on him, for it takes all of his will to keep himself in check and his eyes off her for the moment. Formalities are exchanged and words said, but he barely pays them any heed.
The first moment they are alone, surrounded by the gentle darkness of a secret passage, his hunger consumes him. All of the polite veneer, the quiet courtesy with which they have been comported themselves, vanishes in that instant. Some dull part of him warns that this is not a wise thing to do, but it drowns beneath the sea of needful lust that rises within him. All it takes is that first soft brush of her lips against his in a kiss sweeter than any summerwine and Jon's blood sings for her, an ancient and wild song that only has one handing. His hands cannot pull her fine silks aside fast enough, exposing as much flesh as he dares in this secret place, while heat spreads across his skin and arousal begs him to hurry and touch her.
A moment later, with the prompting she provides, he does just that, one hand filling it's palm with a lush, lovely breast; fingers, scarred and callous, prove to be every bit as clever as he is, a few gently wrapping around the soft, yielding flesh in a bold squeeze while the others find the pebbled, needy tip and rub in slow, teasing circles. He smiles against the crook of her slender neck, mouth dusting her skin with quick kisses, laughing quietly at her prayer without even a hint of shame. None of this is truly enough for him, nor for her, and they both know it to be true. He wants more. Already, the fullness of his cock is steel-hard and flushed with want, aching with such keen demand that it’s a wonder he manages to simply rub the bare length against the entrance of her sopping wet cunt,
“Don’t worry,” he murmurs, breath hot against the shell of her ear, “I’ll give you what we both really want.”
His other snakes between her legs and finds the both of them, her folds slick and swollen with want and his tip dripping with arousal. It is a sign of his lust for her, of how badly he wants her, that he thinks nothing of doing this here, in some tunnel beneath the earth instead of in the privacy of her chambers (or his), as his fingers spread her entrance and guide the fat cockhead to press against it. He can feel it, the way she parts for him like silk, the slick heat of her throbbing against him, and he utters no verbal warning before his hips press forward in a single, smooth motion. A quiet groan reverberates against her skin as she takes more and more of him and he feels that, too, feels the way her cunt stretches to accommodate him, feels how she clenches around him as if refusing to give this feeling up. He does not go particularly slow, but he loves this feeling and takes his time, savoring the sweetness of being inside her after all this time.
“Gods,” he breathes, “I missed this.”
A moment later and she’s completely full of him, every substantial inch sheathed within the welcoming grip of her sweet cunt, and he groans again, hand reaching for her chin and forcing her head to turn so her mouth can meet his. He kisses her, hungry and desperate, lips unyielding as they attempt to devour her this way, too.
no subject
He cannot be alone in this transgression, then, and for that instant, it hardly seems a transgression at all. She can almost convince herself that they are, neither of them, to blame. None of his esteem as a brother of the Night's Watch is lost in the cauldron of this decision. One might even assume that this is not an uncommon lapse, that she is not his only vice. Surely his eyes stray. Surely he is tempted in corridors and low-lit chamber and in the woods, dizzy with snow. There is nothing sacred in this, and so there can be nothing sinful in it, either. These thoughts are the last, dying gasp of her sense, her fluttering efforts to preserve both their honor. His as a keeper of the peace, a shield against darkness, and hers as a princess. She is meant to wed a lord somewhere, and that is what she ought to dream of.
And she has never dreamt of it. What she dreams of, ever since her full and fleeting visit to the Wall so many months ago, is night and glowing moons and silver wolves. She dreams of the sprawl of all their dark roaming, no gods to see them, and of the thrill of their howling. She has dreamed herself into that lawless, glittering world, loping along at the side of a heaving black wolf. Their hunger grows each and every night, and they bay their ecstasy in feeding it. The dreams are not always animal, though - often she has imagined herself a queen of ice draped in black, sharing the rule and the attentions and the bed of a king swathed in the same black. They guard their realm against the violence of the dark, and they invite each night as their own, making new the same ancient pleasures that the beasts enjoy.
These half-waking visions are more appealing than the opposite, though she has of course imagined him as her own in this place, too. A knight strolling the white stones of the harbor, an admired figure during the day, and her own ferocious paramour when duty is at last set aside. Her fate as a princess still sealed, yes, but with this man as her lord husband. This does not quite seem what they were made for, however. They were not made to sulk through the drudgery of each day, only to have too few hours together after dark, their need for one another turning thin beneath the grinding wheel of complacency. Yet any dream is lovely when there is nothing else. She would have him anywhere, wearing the mantle of any title - or none at all - when she is twisting in desperation beneath her sheets, her hand never able to do what needs to be done.
And somehow, her dreams have conspired to take wicked, wonderous shape during the day; all that was only a fondly remembered taste is now so near to being pressed directly against her tongue. He is just as she would have him, if she could ask anything of the gods: he is dressed in that black she first saw him in, and his hands are nimble and fearless, and he is as warm as the rush of a spring breeze off the sea. He has ruined her pretense of decorum just as easily as he has swept aside her silks, and she knows she would never win her father's forgiveness if he were to lay eyes upon her now. She has bowed before a desperation worse than any tame animal's, and she has invited the approach of a man clad in the tatters of his vows. There is no glint of honor left between them. She is not a venerable lord's daughter, and her accomplice is not a dutiful brother of the Night's Watch, loyal only to his oaths.
She is everything she has wanted to be for weeks and weeks, answering to no one, beholden only to her want. The thrall of this man is just as she remembered it, just as she has longed for: he is swift and strong, fierce and unafraid, heavy with intent. The tip of her breast answers his touch without a lady's hesitation, and she pushes into his palm, feeling her cheeks flare with excitement. The excitement here is doubly shameful, she knows - it is the glee of shattering something carefully built, for what is more delicate than a vow? It is the thrill of thievery, of deception, of feasting without being seen. This hour stolen away from her father's watch, of deceiving the entire purpose of Jon's arrival, of seizing what they want simply because they want it.
And there is still time to stop, a hushed voice whispers from beneath her melting thoughts: there is still time to stop. She could straighten her silks, bat away his intruding hands, and inform him with her practiced princess' voice that this cannot go on, that this is a mistake never to be forgiven. She might still save her virtue, or a belated appreciation for it. But that voice is smothered, and she feels no sorrow for it. Instead, she tosses her hips back against him like a mare in the throes of a vicious heat, her breath hitching on that bawdy expectation of what is to come. Her head falls back as his fingers part her, and she is wetter than she has ever been for her own hand, or for any paltry boy whom she thought might make do.
She obliges, opening her thighs, the rapid throb of her want so insistent that she can feel it up the lean length of her torso, everything desperate to squeeze him. His mouth grazing her skin only tempts her nerves to keening, her body quivering as if touched by snow, and she cries out in earnest as he drives his cock within her. There is no warning, and she delights in his sudden certainty, pleasure turning her body into a famished mouth that swallows him whole. She rides back against him, her cunt frantic in its sheathing, celebrating a sensation she has been so long without. The bob of her breast fills his hand as she pushes back again, eyes rolling shut as coherent thought melds into blank whiteness, the forest giving before the descending threat of the storm. Pleasure is a flock of birds taking sudden flight, and she does not think of the silent walls or the accommodating dark as she gasps his name into it.
"Don't stop." The words are quick to follow, laced with quiet panic, as if she thinks he might withdraw. Sense did not return to him at the Wall, and there is no reason to think it might find him now. But this is a gift so inexplicable and so unlikely that she is sure it might be snatched away just as easily as it was given. And how could she let him go now? The plea is lost in the heat of his mouth, however, which covers her own, her face turned by the gripping warmth of his hand. She does not resist, lips parting just as the rest of her had, her tongue darting forward like a fox in the brush, taking without thought. She must have him every way, she decides, and it is not a new decision - this is exactly what she knew at Castle Black, too. She must have him above her and beneath her, behind her and before her, giving her everything the gods gave him. She wants his mouth and his fingers, the dark promise of his eyes, and the unflinching force of his cock. Where she learned this greed, she does not know. It must have always been in her blood.
She sinks into his mouth and surfaces again, lurid delight demanding to take the form of word, and her voice is a breathless whisper, the small of her back a welcoming curve as she arches, insisting on his full strength to fill her. There is something playful in her voice, despite the lilt of need; the words are a taunt, hungry for a reminder she does not need, for how could she have ever forgotten?
"I'd almost forgotten that the gods made you this way."