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He wakes to the sound of wolfsong.

The hair along Jon’s nape stands on end as a low growl rolls down his spine. A huge hand slides down his ribs, claws emerging at his hip, and he meets a pair of golden eyes as their pack comes alive in the middle of the night.

It’s only a day to the full moon, and Jon can taste the ozone. The air is thick as he pulls on his jeans, gooseflesh standing out over his arms. Tormund noses over his neck and rumbles low; the alpha practically vibrates as a sharp yip echoes outside, followed by a wave of laughter and raucous whooping. His wolf cradles his hips in his big hands, possessive and steady and grounding.

Jon sways to the side and catches Tormund’s face between his hands, his chest flush with the alpha’s raw, bullish energy. He nips at his mouth and groans when the wolf catches him close by the back of his neck, where sweat already gathers beneath his black curls. Tormund's breath smells of mint and smoke, and Jon lifts his face to slide his nose along his wolf's, drinking in the strength of him like the finest liquor. 

“Are you ready, little wolf?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions. You're big, not stupid.”

Jon catches Tormund’s laugh between his teeth, kisses the alpha until his heart lurches up into his throat and sinks hooks through his skin. Claws skate down his sides and as the click of human fingernails over wood echoes through their door, Jon steps away and sweeps up a white t-shirt from the end of their bed.

He knows the scent outside the den belongs to Val, a clove-nutmeg-cherry that makes the air pop. Jon pulls the door open and the golden-haired wolf gives him a wicked grin, her pink lips curling cleverly at the corners. She’s beautiful, he thinks a little breathlessly, with her long, shiny curls and her deep burgundy leather jacket that clings to her thick curves.

Look at you,” she croons, and when she beckons for a hug, he curls his arms around her waist and presses his face to her soft hair. She smells like gunmetal, too, like wolfsbane and prey, and he’s growling low before he knows it. Val cups the back of his head with her hands, shaking him gently.

“It’s alright, pup. You’ve got it. You know you do.”

The second of the pack steps away as Tormund nears; she lifts a brow and bares her throat, lets the alpha swipe a hand over her neck and shoulder. Val cups his face in return, tugs on his tapered beard and laughs when he shows teeth. With Val home, something settles deep in his gut, but something else begins to churn to life because of what she brings home with her.

Jon thinks the wolf might leap from his skin and become a second body outside his own as he follows Val down the outside stairwell wrapping around the garage. The night air buzzes with anticipation, an anticipation far more brutal than any that came before the full moon. The pack parts like the red sea and Val steps aside in the corridor of bodies, bowing with a fanged grin as she gestures Jon on ahead.

A scent like lightning hits him; Daenerys is here, he realizes with some surprise, and her expression is one of utter revulsion as she stares towards where their captive kneels. Grey Worm sits as a lynx beside her, looking restless. Jon reaches out to squeeze his aunt’s shoulder when he reaches her, and it’s remarkable how quickly she can go soft. Her violet eyes are edged still in iron, but when she smiles, it’s a gentle thing.

It bolsters him. His heart is in his mouth and he can taste the blood already at the back of his throat.

Wun Wun, huge and brutal in his permanent half-shift, looms over the figure bowed towards the ground. There’s a gash on Thorne’s brow and a wicked purple bruise ringing one eye, so swollen its shut. Jon can smell the decay on him, old and hateful, along with the acrid stench of piss and the salty burn of tears.

Above all, Thorne reeks of wolfsbane. Jon remembers, remembers the time Tormund fell through his window oozing the poison after taking on Bolton’s Flayers, remembers how Alliser and the other Crows used to like to watch the way the toxin ate wolves away from the inside out.

He remembers the pain of his alpha and the way the Crow loved that pain, and his gums split to give way to fang. Jon feels torn between nausea and a burning thrill, the kind of thrill he used to feel when he was chasing innocent things that Thorne told him would rip everything he loved apart.

“Quite the reversal, this,” Jon says after a long silence. Thorne doesn’t meet his gaze, doesn’t try to talk around the cloth gagging him. “Thought you said you feared no beast, Thorne. So why’d you run when the wolves came?”

Slowly, Jon crouches down. The wolf surges forwards in his chest, and he almost wants to snap his jaw just to see if he could make the man flinch.

He doesn’t.

The amount of hate that burns in Thorne’s good eye is muted by fear. Jon can smell it on him – he’s getting used to the different emotions and what they bring to the surface, the stenches and the scents and the tastes that come to the back of his throat. Fear is bitter as acid, reminds him of motor oil left under the sun. It’s tinged with ammonia and a tang that he likens to a sour berry broken right under his nose; Alliser’s lips curl around the gag and Jon tilts his head.

“I thought about this,” he murmurs. “Thought about what I would do. I told Tor I’d rip your throat out. He felt it, you know – felt it when you tried to kill me.”

Alliser’s nose furls with disgust and Jon huffs a laugh.

“I should thank you, I think. Sending me to find the Wildling alpha was the best thing you ever did.”

Slowly he rises, moon-soaked adrenaline pulsing through his veins. Tormund is close behind him, though far enough to leave the stage his. Jon can still feel him, feels the burr of the alpha right beneath his ribs. The marks on his thighs don’t show, not with his healing, but he still feels them; he still feels the hands on his hips, the mouth on his throat.

“See, I don’t much give a damn that you shot me, Thorne,” and this makes the pack shift, a murmur rushing through them. “I don’t. I’d been waiting a long time to die.”

Tormund growls and it shoots down his spine, unfurls like whiskey in the pit of his stomach. Jon arches a brow down at the Crow and lets his claws come, lets the beds of his nails split until yellow and black emerges, sharper than a blade.

“But you made him feel it. You would’ve burnt my pack to the ground. And make no mistake, Alliser – they were mine long before I could grow fangs.”

The Crow lifts his chin, heartbeat a fucking racket when Jon puts claws to his pulse. He trembles like a newborn lamb, and fresh piss makes Jon’s lip curl. He could do it, he thinks, and the wolf – the wolf wants it so badly he nearly chokes with it. Jon looms over the hunter and thinks of how painful it had been when the silver bit into him, and the fact that his alpha could feel it ten-fold.

He thinks of the pack, of the little ones, of Karsi, who’s lost more than any of them, of Ygritte, who is fire made human. He thinks of Val and of Daenerys, who Thorne would hunt to the ends of the earth just to say he did. He’d hang his aunt’s head over his mantle, the Unseelie Queen, and put Grey Worm’s pelt on the floor.

Most of all, Jon thinks of Tormund, who is his. He thinks of the wolf that came from the dark to tear through feral vampires and saved him – who kept saving him, even when he knew what Jon was. He thinks of the wolf that gave him a home without demanding a thing in return, who taught him to laugh more and how to run with moonlight in his veins.

He thinks of the wolf, who was a better man than any he’d known, and steps back.

If you want me to put my teeth through him, I will.

“I would rip your throat out,” Jon says, “or maybe have Tor do it. But you don’t deserve to die like that, touched by a wolf. I don’t want the taste of you on him. Val.”

“Right here, sweetcheeks.”

“You have his gun?”

There’s a pause. Jon looks over his shoulder to find the second grinning even and slow, her white teeth flashing. She saunters towards her bike, a big, pearly-white beast, and digs through the saddlebag until she comes up with the silver pistol that shot Jon through the heart. It’s a surreal thing, holding the scythe of the reaper. Jon used to revel in having a desert eagle in his palm, but now, it makes his nose itch and his fangs descend. It reeks of wolfsbane and sticky oil, reeks of pain and fear and his own blood still, which makes his stomach turn.

“Sending me to find Tormund was the best thing you ever did,” Jon says, tongue a little numb as he clicks the safety off, and Thorne is breathing hard and quick, his eye wild around the edges.

The crack of the gunshot sends a flock of sparrows to the skies. Alliser slumps forward, then lists to the side, and Jon is taking the gun apart with swift, practiced motions before he even knows he’s doing it. He drops the dismantled weapon to the ground as the stench of rotting blood rises in the air, and he doesn’t linger over the body for any longer than he needs to.

“Burn it,” he orders as he turns away, to no one in particular, but several wolves move to obey. “All of it.”

He puts a hand to Tormund’s chest when he grows near, and the wolf leans in to nose over his crown before stepping back and barking orders to the others Jon doesn’t hear. The wordless understanding that passes between them brings a heavy relief with it; Jon knows Thorne had to die, and some part of him revels in it because he was a threat to all he held dear, but the other part, the one that feels too deeply, burns.

None of the wolves try to follow him as he moves through them, though Daenerys briefly grips his hand before letting him go. Ygritte sweeps in at the last minute, just to rub her cheek over his, and Jon squeezes her shoulder in return.

The sea sprawls out before him eventually, and Jon steps out of his boots to curl his toes into the sand. The moon carves a silver road over the water, calls to the tide to pull her back whenever she crashes over the shore. Jon thinks he should be shaking, but he isn’t. He thinks he should feel guilty, but he doesn’t.

Not about this, anyway. This, truly, was the only kill that ever made sense. He’s hunted cruel things before, of course, but he wonders if they were truly cruel or simply driven mad by the fear of being hunted for eternity, for being driven to shadows when the rest of the world got to live in the light.

How long had Tormund run? He was born a wolf, born with fangs hiding behind his teeth and the wild clutching his heart. He was born a wolf and so was Ygritte; their parents were put down by hunters, and he aches to think of Tormund, young and afraid, with a little sister depending on him to protect her and nowhere to go.

How many others like him had Jon gone after? How many like him turned feral out of the fear?

And how many more would follow?

He isn’t sure how long he stands there, toes sunk in the sand and the moon growing brighter and brighter overhead. After what feels like what could be hours, the scent of wood-spice-smoke hits him and Jon’s nerves settle as he shuts his eyes and listens to his alpha approach.

Having the wolf close never fails to make him feel as if he could rip through the world. Jon breathes out even and deep as calloused palms move over his arms, impossibly warm and so safe. The whirling questions go mercifully silent as Tormund noses over his temple and kisses down his cheek.

“It’s done,” Tormund says, voice a low burr. His chest presses to Jon’s back and he leans into it, heart leaping to follow the hand that sweeps over the front of his throat. The wolf is the best armor he thinks he could ever wear.

The alpha’s energy is thrumming and heavy, hits Jon like the tide crashing the sand. He surrenders to it, sinks into it when it curls around him as Tormund’s arms do. Jon twists around and slides his hands up the alpha’s neck, meets his piercing blue eyes and puts his tongue to his own sharpening teeth.

“You did well, little wolf,” Tormund croons gently, taking his chin between thumb and forefinger. “What needed to be done.”

“I know that, trust me. But how many more like him will come? Bolton’s Flayers still have a bounty over your head that could buy a small island.”

The wolf gives him an edged smile, the kind that makes Jon’s stomach leap as if he’s falling. Tormund slides one arm around his middle, catches him close and strokes over his jaw.

“Good thing I have you to keep me, hm?”

Jon’s about to protest, but something stays his tongue. He searches the alpha’s face, but his heartbeat had been steady, and there’s no hint of a lie on him, not even when he arches a slow, sharp brow.

“And I will,” Jon says finally, a deadly ferocity tinging his thick voice, “no one touches you. No one but me.”

A huge hand cups his jaw and Jon can barely breathe as the alpha purrs a low, satisfied, “yes,” and seals their mouths together. It ignites down his spine, flames to oil, and Jon slides possessive arms around the alpha as the oncoming tide hits their feet. Tormund’s pierced tongue slides past his lips and Jon growls against it, surging up against him to squash out the imaginary space left between them.

Hands sweep up over his ribs. Jon shoves his fingers under the hem of the alpha’s black tank, over the hardened curve of his stomach and the sharp V of his hips, where Jon likes to bite to make the wolf whine.

Only he gets to do that, he thinks feverishly, as hot breaths roll down his throat, the barest hint of fang filling his cock in an instant. Only he gets to bite over the veined plain of the wolf’s groin, gets to show fang over the head of his cock as it weeps and begs for him to put his tongue to it.

Only he gets to have these hands over him, scoring fire wherever they go. Jon groans and rolls his hips when the alpha sucks a rough bruise just over his turning bite; Tormund works his belt open with a deft hand and sinks the other down the back of his jeans, growling with a grin against his lips, and Jon is utterly lost.

“The pack will run the highlands tomorrow,” the wolf purrs then, hauling Jon into his arms, and then he’s sinking to the sand, settling Jon over his hips. He’s hard in his jeans, a ridge of steel that presses up into him, and Jon is aching, thighs straining as he groans against the wolf’s teeth.

“What about us?”

“The forest will be ours.”

Tormund slides a hand between them and undoes his own belt, pops the fly as he grips Jon’s nape and surges up to drag his lips over his ear. The sea surges up around them and Jon shudders, curling further into the clutch of the wolf’s heat. He curses when Tormund drags feather-light fingertips over the line of his length, slipping a thumb over the leaking head.

“Do you want that, little wolf? Would you like to run with me, only me, where I can catch you, pin you, mount you? Where I can take you beneath the sacred moon and let you go to catch you and do it again?”

Yes, fuck, oh, fuck –“

The wolf laughs, a low, pleased rumble that shoots right down his spine. Jon’s hips jerk when their cocks meet, the drag of heated skin almost too much. He pants against Tormund’s throat and ruts down against him, a fission of need crashing up his spine when the alpha snarls and grips his ass so hard it hurts.

They’re in the sand and the sea has started to surround them, but Jon doesn’t fucking care. He breathes into the wolf, moans and swallows his own name as he rolls his hips; Tormund is brilliant in the moonlight, sunburnt gold skin gleaming with seawater and sweat as he moves up against Jon in languid, torturous circles.

It’s not enough, and they both know it. Jon kisses pleas against the wolf, wants nothing more than to trace the shape of his chest with his tongue and bite his way down to his strong thighs. But he also can’t stop, and Tormund grips him so tight he doesn’t think he could if he wanted to.

“That’s it, baby,” the wolf purrs, and Jon curses violently as his hips jerk, “get yourself off, that’s it, like that. Take what you need, sweet thing, I’ve got you –“

Fuck –“

Tormund laughs against his ear, and the pleasure coiled tight in his gut quivers. Then, the wolf puts his nose to his jaw and murmurs, “once I get you inside, I’m taking you apart,” and that coil snaps, fine as a brittle twig. Jon shouts against the wolf’s broad chest and his hips stutter and furl forwards, desperate to chase the white-hot fever that rips down through him.

He loses grip of time, a bit, and before he knows it, his alpha is tucking him back into his jeans and kissing over his throat with a satisfied hum. He splays a hand over Tormund’s groin to find his belt done up and growls.

“Up,” the alpha says with a laugh, smacking his ass lightly. “I want my mate in our den. Want you on our sheets, on our bed.”

It strikes him – he doesn’t know why, because it’s theirs, it’s been theirs since he turned, but Jon goes still when Tormund says it. He wonders what it smells like, what he’s feeling, because when Tormund surges up to catch his face between his sandy, wet hands, his expression is half wanting, half soft.

“It is,” Jon murmurs, thumbing over the wolf’s bottom lip. “Ours.”

“I’ll say it until you believe it.”

“Will you still say it even when I do?”

The alpha burrs and chuffs, and Jon holds on tight when he clambers up to his feet. The sand gives, and the wolf staggers a little, laughing as he noses over Jon’s throat.

“You made me clumsy, fool wolf. Didn’t you tell me not to ask stupid questions?”



Jon smiles, face cracking a little with salt-water. He noses over Tormund’s cheek and the wolf takes a few uneven steps towards the rocky path back to the Northstar - home. It’s so easy to leave the heaviness behind, so easy to leave it outside of the circle of Tormund’s arms as he nuzzles over one huge, tattooed shoulder, breathing in the scent of the alpha and the sex clinging between them.

Then, Jon parts his lips over his pulse, and when he bites, he gives a little fang. Tormund curses and Jon clings when he nearly pitches sideways, both laughing this time.

“C’mon, alpha. Pull it together.”

“I’m going to devour you, sweet thing. You’ve no fucking idea what you smell like right now.”

“I think I have something of an idea.”

Jon slides up, hips rolling as he digs a hand into the toss of the alpha’s wet hair and kisses him deep, deep enough he has to stop walking. He frames Tormund’s jaw with one hand and breathes soft and even over his tongue, curls his own behind his teeth and squeezes ever so gently at the sides of his neck.

He makes the alpha bare his throat, and a grin curls his lips.

The wolf’s desire spikes, searing up Jon’s spine with the intensity of it, and he whines against his pierced tongue until Tormund curses and keeps moving. The Northstar is quiet at this time of night, and the wolf keeps to the hidden path up from the beach, bee-lining for the garage and the den waiting for them above it.

All he can think of is the way Tormund’s tattooed hands look when they curve over his thighs. Jon grows bold, sucks a bruise over his alpha’s throat, and he’s hard again, harder than he thinks he’s ever been as they reach the stairs to their den and Tormund slams him up against the wall.

The alpha is strong, but Jon is getting stronger, and when he arches up with enough force to displace the wolf, Tormund grins slow and predatory.

“Are you going to be a problem for me, little wolf?”

“I’ve been a problem since you saved my ass,” Jon points out. “If you thought I was ever going to stop, you haven’t been paying attention, love.”

Tormund growls low and laughs, hauling Jon away from the wall; a thrill rushes down to his gut and his toes curl as the wolf kicks the door of their den shut.

The shower’s still cold when Jon herds Tormund into it, nipping over his muscle-bound chest. He laves his tongue across a scar left by a banshee and the wolf snarls, dragging Jon in close by a hand curled into his hair. Jon flicks a thumb over one pierced nipple and grins, fang poking at his bottom lip, when the wolf curses in Norwegian. The alpha uses the grip in his curls to steer him into a wet, filthy, utterly gut-wrenching kiss, the kind that makes the world fall away and his lungs ache to taste the air Tormund keeps. Jon drags blunt nails up the V of Tormund’s hips, thumbing over the thick veins rolling beneath his skin, and the wolf grinds slow and wicked into him, cock a line of steel over his belly.

“You called me,” Jon breathes against his thumb when it passes over his mouth, “called me – what we are.”

A little growl. “My mate.”

A surge of fire goes through him and the wolf must feel it because he chuckles low and deep with a hint of the wild to it. Tormund crowds him back to the slick wall, and Jon presses into his palm when it curls around his throat.

“Like that, do you?”

“You take a guess,” Jon says, a little breathless, and the alpha laves his tongue over his pulse.

“You’re wet,” he purrs, nostrils flaring with the scent of it, and Jon goes hot all over. “Does it make you wet, sweet thing? Knowing you’re my mate? My little wolf, forever.”


A sharp tooth snags on his ear. “Good. It should.”

He doesn’t know if it’s the moon that makes him bold or the fact that every moment they share their bond grows; Jon doesn’t really much care, not anymore. The sanctuary they’ve built between them is enough, and he feels less shaky with each breath they trade, with each soft touch, with each clever grin.

Jon drags the wolf down and grinds up against his slick hip. Just before their lips meet, though, he draws back and glances from those blue eyes and back again. He traces his bottom lip, and a smile pulls at his own.

“I love you,” he breathes, and Tormund goes still. “I think I’ve always fucking loved you.”

It’s as if he’s ignited a bonfire beneath the wolf’s heart. Tormund growls, a whine thrumming deep beneath it, and Jon catches a breath in his throat when the wolf kisses him like he’s trying to pull him apart. He surges into it, steps on the wolf’s feet and Tormund hauls him up with ease, pushing him against the wall of the shower with hands cupping his ass.

Jon,” and it comes as a snarl, comes as a simmering, burning thing; it comes and Jon drinks it in, one hand curling into the plume of the alpha’s red hair as he nips at his bottom lip.

The shower’s still running as they stumble towards the bed. Jon’s soaking wet and so is his wolf, but the fever that rips through him won’t let him give a damn. He needs those hands on his hips, needs that mouth between his legs; he needs to feel the power of that body, over him, under him, around him.

Everything is slick, and everything is burning. Tormund sinks down to the bed and hauls Jon over his thighs, the lube already beside them on the sheets, the scent of them nigh overwhelming. Jon drags his fingers over the scar that once had wolfsbane deep inside, the veins still vaguely purple around the jagged edges, and Tormund’s chest vibrates.

“I’d find all of them if you asked me to,” Jon murmurs. “I would.”

“I know you would, little wolf. As would I.”

“A dangerous pair,” he says against his alpha’s mouth, and the laugh he gets tastes like gold.

And now he does have those tattooed hands over his thighs, stroking broad sweeps over pale skin dusted with flat black hair. The way Tormund holds onto him makes him ache, makes his wolf preen to be kept and clutched like this by his alpha, by the mate that would bite through the world if he told him to. Jon tugs at his tapered beard until he flashes his teeth, and he licks over a fang before dragging his mouth over his cheek and across the arch of his ear.

And then he’s being flipped to the bed, and Jon barely has time to protest before Tormund is yanking him to the edge and kneeling down between his thighs. He spreads them wide, keeps them wide with the width of his shoulders; Jon flushes from ears to chest, cock dripping fat pearls as the wolf sways low over him. He flicks out his tongue, and Jon swears and clutches at the sheets.

“Control those claws, sweet thing,” Tormund warns, popping the cap of the lube.

“Or what?”

“Or I’ll put a ring around you, and make you beg for it.”

Jon almost wants to put his claws through the bed just to see what would happen. But then, but then he’s being enveloped by wet heat and a thick finger slides down between his legs, and every other rational thought dribbles out the back of his skull.

“Oh, fuck – Tor, fuck –“

The wolf sucks cock like it’s his only living duty in the world, like it's the altar of his devotion, like its the font of fucking youth. He hollows his cheeks and curls a hand around him, sliding over Jon in slow, aching pulls that have his hips jutting up and claws begging to come out. The call of the moon is thick between them and Jon, for a wild moment, wants nothing more than to sit on that cock and not move until the sky tears open.

A second finger slides into him, and the only warning he gets from his alpha is a soft purr before he brushes over his prostate. Jon shouts as wild white heat surges up to catch across his ribs, and the barest hint of fang rolls smooth and deadly down the side of his cock. The thrill of it threatens to choke him. Jon is desperate, desperate to roll deeper into that mouth or press down against thick, precise fingers that seem to know exactly how to tear him apart. He sinks a hand into Tormund’s hair and grips it tight, a command that the wolf heeds. The pleasure coiling through him begins to nip at his veins, and Jon clenches around his alpha’s clever fingers.

“I’m gonna,” he manages, “Tor, I’m gonna come –“

Those vivid blue eyes cut up under a wickedly arched brow, lit with a challenge, and Jon’s control snaps as the wolf inside him keens. Heat rolls through his belly in violent crests and Tormund swallows possessively around him, growling through his orgasm until the vibrations threaten to make Jon shake apart at the seams.

“Tor – Tor –“

He clings to the wolf even as his fingers go a little numb, and when Tormund draws back, he gives Jon the kind of grin that promises far more. Those gentle fingers still work between his thighs even as Tormund slides up his body, biting a slow, winding path over his belly and ribs. The taste of himself over the alpha’s tongue is beyond overwhelming. Senses whirling, Jon squirms off of Tormund’s fingers and pushes the wolf back, growling and snapping his teeth when he tries to resist. He laughs, baring his throat, and Jon immediately dives in to bite at it as he clambers over his thighs.

Mine,” comes gravel-rough from deep inside his gut, and a gentle, huge hand cups the back of his head.

“Yours,” the wolf purrs, running idle fingers over the swell of his ass. “I'm yours, baby, you fucking know I am.”

The wolf in his chest bucks and rears its head and Jon wants to howl, wants to snarl and preen and weave amongst his pack to share the scent of them, so none might challenge their claim on one another. He slides down, nosing over Tormund’s chest, over scars and muscle he bites at, memorizing the way it feels against his teeth.

When he reaches the thick veins that appear over Tormund’s groin from beneath his belly button, Jon laves his tongue over them; the wolf’s scent is thick here, musky and heady and strong, strong with health and vitality that sings through his bloodstream and makes him feel dizzier than he’s ever been.

“Come back up,” Tormund croons, a groan curling the end, and Jon nips at his hip. “Jon, you wicked thing, come back here. I want to feel you.”

“You’ll let me taste you in the morning.”

“Whenever you want – after I fuck you.”


Tormund arches a brow and Jon shoots one right back. The wolf groans and pushes the heel of his palm to his eyes, shaking his head in disbelief.

“I promise. Never in my fucking life would I think I’d ever be coaxing my mate away from sucking my cock, but I need – I need to bury myself in you, Snow, before I lose my mind.”


“I’m going to put you over my damned knee, sweet thing.”

“I’d love to see you try.”

After lingering just a moment over the devil horns tattooed right above the base of Tormund’s thick cock, Jon bites one last time at his groin and slides back up, already half-hard again and needing. His alpha reaches for the lube and slicks himself up, and Jon feels so flush he might be combusting when he sinks over the slippery head of the wolf’s cock.

Tormund moans like a man in rapture, massive shoulders rolling back, and even as he flushes so hard he thinks he might pour out of his own body, Jon rears back over the alpha as he sinks down over him and feels a little like a king. He rolls his hips through the burn, and those hands splay over his thighs, gripping the muscle there until it bruises so prettily Jon thinks he might get it tattooed.

 “Tell me.” It’s bold, and brave, and that’s what the alpha does to him, that’s what he’s always done. “Tell me how it feels.”

“Like you were made for me,” Tormund breathes, muscle in his gut clenching like a boulder as he surges up to catch his mouth in a kiss. “Like you’re mine.”

It’s not the filth he expects – if he’s honest, it’s so much better. Jon’s breath snags on hooks in his lungs and he groans when the wolf rolls up into him, casting him in shades of the sunset. Jon feels so fucking alive like this, feels as if he’s the most powerful thing that’s ever been born from stone.

He meets those piercing eyes and rocks down to meet him as the wolf traces the curve of his chest. The world is so soft here, so small; pleasure is a heady thing that curls around them both, an outside force that’s still theirs. It was created in the cusp of their den and now is kept by the heat that surges through the pair of them, the devotion that Jon doesn’t deserve but keeps so greedily for himself.

Jon pushes the wolf down and braces his hands on his chest, hips working languidly as Tormund arches and the thick line of his neck begs to be bitten into. The sacred thing between them inhales as they do, and Jon’s throat is thick with it, thick and tight as he realizes that yes – it will always be like this.

He draws in the scent of the wolf, gathered sweet and smoky under his ear, and puts his lips to him when he murmurs, “you want to bury yourself in me? Do it.”

The thin restraint Tormund held onto visibly snaps. Jon laughs when he rolls him into the sheets with a playful growl, a laugh that morphs into an agonizing moan as Tormund’s hips whip forward and he pushes his thighs back as far as they’ll go.

“Do you know what you do to me?” the alpha demands, low and quiet. “Do you know how you ruin me?”

Jon bites his lip as the wolf fucks into him, alternating between quick, sharp thrusts and languid rolls of his hips that have him clutching at the sheets. Everything is syrup-thick, is dewy and bright, and Jon could stay here forever, could die here like this. The heat of his alpha – his mate, he thinks, and his cock jumps – surges through him and he doesn’t know where his body ends and Tormund’s begins.

Thick arms gather him up and Jon keens when the alpha starts to lose control, his thrusts erratic and his grip in Jon’s hair going tight. Throat bared and stinging with the bite of a mouth barely holding back fangs, Jon runs his hands up Tormund’s arms and sinks deeper into a reality where they’re the only two beings to exist.

Wood-spice-smoke suffuses his skin, burrows down to his bones, as Tormund makes good on his word and buries himself inside Jon. He buries himself inside Jon and when the tears come, they come as a relief. Jon sinks a hand into Tormund’s hair and the wolf hitches his thigh higher, hitting the angle that makes him cry out until he goes hoarse.

Nothing else matters. Jon’s body has become a thing of white heat, a thing of sweat and salt and need. He clings to Tormund and arches up into him as the wolf snarls and brings blood dripping down his throat. The burn of his turning mark shoots right to his cock and Jon cries out, keening low and grating as the pleasure threatens to take him for a third time.

“You’re going to come again, aren’t you?” Tormund murmurs against his ear, and Jon can taste his own heartbeat, “I can feel you. I can feel it building in you. Put your claws in me and show me your fucking teeth, baby. Let me fucking feel you –“

Jon’s hips lurch and his claws curl from his fingers, digging into the meat of Tormund’s shoulders. Blood rolls in thin, bright red lines down his skin and the scent of it – of his mate’s blood, drawn at his command, makes Jon sneer with a mouthful of fang. Tormund laughs, wild and free, and licks past his lips to swallow down the violent cry that punches out of Jon’s chest when he spills over his belly.

The sheets feel like clouds around him. Tormund is blessedly heavy and thick between his thighs, and when the wolf comes undone, he does it with a ripping snarl that peaks into a grating howl. Jon’s skin ripples with gooseflesh and he keens in reply, trembling fingers clutching the alpha’s nape as his hips stutter and roll through his orgasm, a tidal wave of a thing that makes his entire body clench.

“I want to stay here,” Tormund growls, breathless, and he curls a hand around Jon’s heaving side. “I want to stay right fucking here until I fucking die.”

“You could,” Jon murmurs. “I wouldn’t stop you. Be difficult to eat, though.”

“Only need you,” the wolf croons, laughing when Jon makes a face. He shakes his head and drags him down for a weary kiss, legs curling possessively over his back, and Tormund noses up under his jaw when he pulls away.

“You are letting me blow you in the morning. I meant that.”

“I won’t stop you, trust me.”

“Mm.” Jon traces the wolf’s sharp cheekbone. “You look incredible in moonlight, you know that?”

“I look incredible all the time.”

“No. I’ve seen you when you’re woken up before you want to be. And I’ve seen you stumble out of the woods after getting too drunk. And I’ve –“

Tormund kisses him to shut him up and Jon smiles into it, unable to stop himself.

“You do,” Jon admits quietly against his tongue. “You do look incredible all the time.”

“I’m gonna have to get another mirror.”


The wolf rubs his cheek over Jon’s throat and then purrs against his ear, “so you can see what you look like when I’m fucking you. So you can look at yourself when I’m inside you. You’ve no idea how fucking gorgeous you are.”

Jon’s breath hitches and he can feel Tormund growing hard again inside him. It floods him with heat, and even though he’s certain he won’t be coming again, he wants the wolf as badly as he ever does. Possessive hands slide down his thighs, and when Tormund languidly rocks into him, Jon goes lax and groans into his teeth.

“Yes, fuck, Tor –“

“I want you to see what you look like when I have you sat on my cock, when you’re straining to keep me inside,” his alpha says, voice deep and low, fervent as he moves faster. “I want you to see what you look like when I make you come, when you fall apart for me. I want you to watch when I fuck you, Jon Snow, so you know that no one else could do it better.”

“I – already – fuck, just like that, fuck –“

Tormund rears back then, and his eyes are wild at the edges as he heaves Jon close by his hips. Jon watches in suspended rapture, watches as Tormund’s eyes ring with gold and the alpha’s nostrils flare, his chest gleaming with sweat in the moonlight and fangs white as pearls over his lip.

“C’mon,” Jon urges, clutching at Tormund’s huge hands, and he’s never wanted to feel someone come undone like this, “c’mon, love, c’mon – just like that, fuck, look at you, you’re gorgeous, come on –“

The wolf snarls and keens, the sound ripping the air apart as Jon laughs and arches up, in the grips of a thrill that makes him want to fly. Every thrust feels like it threatens to send him toppling over the edge, a continuous stream of pleasure that he belatedly realizes is his mate’s when Tormund’s hips snap forward and he feels the coil in him break.

“Fuck,” Jon gasps, awestruck as he gazes up at the alpha; “fuck, yes, fuck – fuck, Tor, you – yes –“

It’s as if someone has kicked his gut into his chest. Jon feels it when Tormund comes, feels the heat between his legs and the pleasure as it unfurls through the alpha, as wild and unbridled as a fever. His ears ring and Tormund gathers him up almost desperately, pressing his brow to his collarbone as he pants hard and quick. Jon cups his head and clutches him close, impossible emotion flooding through him in fits and starts that snatch his breath away and make his eyes burn.

“You,” Tormund mutters hoarsely, and Jon’s gut furls with warmth, “are my own fucking miracle, Jon Snow.”

“Then you understand a fraction of how I feel about you, Tormund fucking Giantsbane. Ridiculous man.” He cups his face, sweeping away sweat from his cheeks. “A fraction, mind.”

Tormund digs a gentle knuckle into Jon’s ribs and he laughs, still a little breathless with it. Then, the wolf moves to lean his brow against Jon’s, and he sinks into peace as the moon’s song curls around them. He thought it would be like a burn, but he supposes that kind of fire belongs to his mate. The moon feels like a balm against his skin, like a promise.

“I love you, you impossible thing,” Tormund says quietly, thumbing over his bottom lip. “Wild little wolf.”

“Your wild little wolf now,” Jon murmurs tiredly, and he winces a little when the wolf slides from him. Tormund lowers his legs with care, and Jon breathes out even as he sinks down to clean his belly with broad sweeps of his tongue.

“Aye,” his alpha says when he slides back up to curve himself around Jon, a wall between him and the rest of the world. “Now, and always.”