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Making Due

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"Trying to freeze your pecker off sleeping all the way over here?"

Jon's eyes snapped open at the low rumble of the question. He blinked against the crust of ice clumping together his lashes. "What do you want, Tormund?" he said, little more than a rough, irritated whisper and a puff of steam.

Pebbles crunched under sealskin boots. Tormund dropped down beside Jon. Clapped a huge hand on his shoulder. The other hand thrust an old, battered wineskin in front of his face, making its contents slosh about loudly.

Jon sat up with a quiet groan. His neck ached from the makeshift pillow he'd made of his pack. Turning a sour look to Tormund, he snatched the wineskin out of his hand, flicking open the carved bone lid with his gloved thumb. The foul tang of fermented goat's milk seared its way down his gullet and ignited a pleasant heat in his belly.

"You kneelers don’t know how to hold a real drink," Tormund remarked in a thick growl.

Jon capped the wineskin. Wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his furs. "The Watch's ale tastes better."

Tormund took the skin from Jon. "This isn't some fancy southern swill. It warms a man's blood. Keeps him fighting." Thin lips slashed into a half-mad grin. "Tell me, Jon Snow, did that crow piss make you want to keep fighting?"

"You drank it," Jon answered simply.

The smile on Tormund's face pressed into a grimace. He lifted the wineskin to his mouth, then, taking a long swig. White droplets beaded his shaggy red beard when he finally pulled the skin away and passed it back to Jon.

Jon looked to the campfire. Orange-red light danced across the sleeping forms of Jorah, Gendry, Beric, and Thoros. The Hound lay a few paces from their huddle, the long, broad line of his body turned toward the black maw of night. Somewhere, beyond the feeble, flickering halo of firelight, lay the army of the dead and its fearsome general.

"Is she beautiful, this Dragon Queen?" Tormund asked after a time.

"Aye," Jon affirmed, the word flying unbidden from his tongue. His head felt smothered by a heavy woollen blanket. An image of silver hair and full, smiling lips rose from his memory, and a warm little shock spiked down his spine.

"Did you fuck her while she had you captive in her castle?" Tormund pressed.

Breath fled Jon's lungs in a skittering rush that misted in the air. He swung his head around, cheeks hot, lips firmed. "It wasn't like that. I went south to make her see what's coming for us all. There wasn't time for anything else."

"A woman doesn't steal a man she doesn’t want. She didn't want you to kneel. She wanted to sit on your tiny cock."

Jon sucked in a sharp sniff. Cold air stung his nostrils. "Since when have you known what women want?"

Silence stretched between the two men for a long moment. Green eyes gored into Jon like the point of a spear. Then Tormund tore his gaze away, a long, ghostly tendril of steam billowing into the night as he heaved out a great sigh.

"I'm sorry," Jon said at last, his voice soft with contrition.

Tormund turned to Jon. Plucked the wineskin out of his grip. "I'm not blind, boy," he growled, thumbing open its lid. "I see the way that beauty looks at me. Not a kind look. But it's strong. Our children will be unstoppable."

Jon drew a slow breath as Tormund downed a gulp of milk. He thought of the sword Lady Brienne wore at her hip. Of its bright, golden hilt and lion’s head pommel, and the long-ago flash of an arrogant smile on Jaime Lannister's face. "Well," he said, somewhat sheepishly. "There's no women for us up here. Not any that are still breathing."

"We'll have to make due," Tormund declared, shoving the wineskin at Jon.

"Aye," Jon replied. He lifted the nearly-empty skin to his lips. Drained the last dregs into his belly.

A red eyebrow hooked upward. The thin mouth cut a broad grin. "Aye?" prodded Tormund, low and thick.

Understanding dropped like a weight in the pit of Jon's gut. He swallowed, throat suddenly dry, tongue caught. His mind leapt to the memory of how Theon had looked at him, sometimes, when Robb's attention was otherwise diverted. Sad. Lost. Hungry. Something had stirred in him at that look. Something he hadn't quite been able to place.

"Aye," Jon affirmed, his voice sinking to a soft, thready husk.

Large hands bore him down onto the frozen ground. Lips claimed his, then, hard, fierce, and devouring. It was strange and new, the maddening rasp of a beard against his skin, the solid implacable weight settling atop his body. His thoughts were unspooling. Floating away like poplar seeds on a spring breeze. Like breath into the cold night.

"Oh, fuck," Jon gasped when Tormund's hand wormed its way into his breeches.

"Good, yeah?" Tormund grunted into Jon's ear. The rush of his breath was hot and tinged with the stench of drink. His hand worked roughly, relentlessly, moving upon Jon’s cock, coaxing the pliant flesh to hardness.

Jon's hips jittered off the ground. Jerked his cock up into the clasping curl of Tormund's hand. He clutched at the broad back, palms ascending the mangy span of the wildling's furs, tangling in the bushy crown of his hair.

"Your pecker isn't such a tiny thing after all," Tormund told him.

"Shut up," Jon snarled through clenched teeth.

"As you command, King Snow."

Furs rustled gently. Cold bit at Jon's skin. Then Tormund shifted down, and soft, wet sweetness girded his member. Jon's breath punched out of him in a sharp hissing gasp. A cloud rose up to briefly smear away the dim flicker of stars. Eyes slipping shut, he gave himself to the molten glide of Tormund's lips, his fingers knitting in the wild hair.

Release came upon Jon suddenly. He clenched his jaw to stifle a groan. Stayed Tormund's head with clawed hands. The mouth was unrelenting, cunningly milking his cock as he spent, wringing out every last quiver of pleasure.

"Turn over," came a gruff voice after the world had taken shape around him again.

Jon peeled open his eyes. A bearded face loomed above him, flushed, fire-kissed. Time dragged for a moment. He sucked in a lungful of frigid air. Uncertainty fluttered in his stomach. Made his heart shudder and skip. But he marshalled his resolve, rolling onto his knees and bracing his gloved hands against cold, winter-bound earth.

Tormund tugged down Jon's breeches. Fondled the swell of his arse. "You're prettier than most women."

"My bollocks are like to freeze if you don't get on with it," Jon shot back.

A rough laugh was Jon's only answer. Then came the whisper of shifting furs. Thick fingers gripped his hips firmly. With teasing languor, Tormund's cock edged into the space between his cheeks, heavy and impossibly hot.

"I am not a small man, Jon Snow," growled Tormund, part warning, part challenge.

"Do it," Jon grit out, barely more than a ragged thrum.

The cock withdrew. Another quiet shuffling followed. Then something slick was smeared across Jon's arsehole. "Seal grease," Tormund explained, sweeping the pad of his thumb around in tiny, maddening circles.

Jon's breath hitched at the raw burn of the initial breach. Tormund held still long enough for him to gather himself. Then he began his slow ingress, pushing into Jon in an unrelenting slide, splitting him like a log under an axe.

"Good?" Tormund grunted when at last he was fully sheathed within Jon.

"Aye," Jon said simply. It was a strange, shattering feeling, the fullness of Tormund's cock rooted deep inside him. Yet it there was a sweetness to its heat, a living warmth that was a treasure beyond price in this cold, forsaken land.

A low moan escaped Jon as Tormund set a steady pace. He caught his lower lip between his teeth to keep silent. Tormund gave voice to his pleasure, low, feral growls that mingled with the lewd squelching union of their flesh. After what seemed an eternity, a large hand closed around Jon's revived arousal, stroking him rough and fast.

Ecstasy mounted within Jon, until at last he could bear no more, and his second crisis crashed over him. Tormund did not relent in his onslaught, pounding into him savagely as he gasped, shuddered, and spilled in little spurting shocks. Soon Tormund slammed to a halt, and Jon felt the hot, pulsing rush of seed as a loud groan rent the night.

Jon gave a wince when Tormund pulled out. A warm rill ran down the inside of his thigh. Gut lurching in sudden mortification, he pushed himself off the ground, quickly yanking his breeches up and lacing the ties.

"Nothing settles a man like a good drink and a good fuck," Tormund told him a moment later.

"It's walking that'll be trouble," Jon groused, adjusting his pack and laying down.

"Sleep well," rumbled Tormund, grinning as he stretched out beside Jon.