![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
got ficlet: where we both belong
where we both belong
Jon/Val | adult | ~800 words
For![[personal profile]](https://www.tumblr.com/favicon.ico)
onlyherskin, who prompted Jon/Val + I'm your woman now, Jon Snow. Originally posted at my Tumblr.
--
i.
"I'm your woman now," she says, her voice quiet, her lips against Jon's ear, and Jon spends with a jerk, his thighs shaking and his back arching off the furs.
No, Jon thinks, I can't be, but his mouth won't form the words, and the knot in his throat burns hot and tastes like ash. Val stretches out beside him, her teats peeking out of her unlaced bodice and her skirts pushed up to frame her cunt, and Jon turns away, his hands shaking as he straightens his own clothes -- his black doublet and his black breeches and his black cloak lined with black fur. He wants to crawl back over her, push his cock back inside her, bury his fingers in her hair and hide his face in the curve of her neck, but his vows are a dark shadow over his shoulder, a cold weight in the low of his gut.
ii.
"I'm your woman now," she says, a hundred leagues south of the Wall, gasping as he sucks a wet mark into the crease of her thigh.
I wish you were. I wish it could be so. Jon has nothing to offer her -- no name, no home, no gold, no future. He knows she does not care for such things, would swear to it before a heart tree if he asked, but he also knows she deserves better than the little he does have, a ragged army of wildlings and deserters and the faint hope that Stannis will still have a use for him if he makes it to Winterfell alive.
He turns his head, nosing at the tawny hair curling around her cunt. Their tent is a tiny thing, little more than a length of hide hanging over a branch; it's too dark inside for Jon to see, but he can picture her -- the naked splay of her legs, the sharp and expected look in her eyes. She tilts her hips up as he licks into her, knotting her fingers in his hair, and she pulls him closer, hooking her knee over his shoulder and digging her heel into his side.
iii.
I'm your woman now," she says, her hair pale and bright against the blood-red canopy of the godswood. Jon's tongue feels like a strip of leather in his mouth; she is wild and fierce and beautiful, and harder and harder to deny.
"If I return." He marches south with Stannis on the morrow, and the thought of leaving her a widow is far too painful to bear. "If I return, and if you will still have me."
She steps closer to him, letting his cock rub along the curve of her hip, and the ancient, familiar face of the heart tree sneers at him like an accusation. He had her not an hour ago, fucking her up against the wall of his bedchamber, his fingers bruising her skin and his mouth pressed to the warm stretch between her teats, but he is already itching to touch her again, to slide his hand under her skirts, to kiss the delicate shell of her ear, to set his teeth against the soft well of her lip.
"You will return," she says, her voice as sharp as a whip. "You will return, and I will have you."
iv.
The last handful of leagues are the worst, when Winterfell is a growing shadow on the horizon, a distant reminder of what he left behind.
She greets the riders at the gate, her hair braided over her shoulder and the sleeves of her dress dancing in the wind. Her eyes narrow as he pulls reign beside her, and he passes his horse off to a stable boy with a roiling gut and shaking hands.
"Marry me," he says, dropping to his knees despite the mud at her feet and the men milling around the yard. "Today. Now." He doesn't need a feast or a cloak, only her. He has missed her every day he was gone -- the heat of her body, the smell of her skin, the soft curve of her mouth. "If you will still have me."
"I don't need a kneeler marriage," she says, and Jon feels ill until her fingers curl in his hair. "But if it will ease your heart, I will say the words."
"I am yours."
She smiles like a wolf. "I know."
Jon/Val | adult | ~800 words
For
--
i.
"I'm your woman now," she says, her voice quiet, her lips against Jon's ear, and Jon spends with a jerk, his thighs shaking and his back arching off the furs.
No, Jon thinks, I can't be, but his mouth won't form the words, and the knot in his throat burns hot and tastes like ash. Val stretches out beside him, her teats peeking out of her unlaced bodice and her skirts pushed up to frame her cunt, and Jon turns away, his hands shaking as he straightens his own clothes -- his black doublet and his black breeches and his black cloak lined with black fur. He wants to crawl back over her, push his cock back inside her, bury his fingers in her hair and hide his face in the curve of her neck, but his vows are a dark shadow over his shoulder, a cold weight in the low of his gut.
ii.
"I'm your woman now," she says, a hundred leagues south of the Wall, gasping as he sucks a wet mark into the crease of her thigh.
I wish you were. I wish it could be so. Jon has nothing to offer her -- no name, no home, no gold, no future. He knows she does not care for such things, would swear to it before a heart tree if he asked, but he also knows she deserves better than the little he does have, a ragged army of wildlings and deserters and the faint hope that Stannis will still have a use for him if he makes it to Winterfell alive.
He turns his head, nosing at the tawny hair curling around her cunt. Their tent is a tiny thing, little more than a length of hide hanging over a branch; it's too dark inside for Jon to see, but he can picture her -- the naked splay of her legs, the sharp and expected look in her eyes. She tilts her hips up as he licks into her, knotting her fingers in his hair, and she pulls him closer, hooking her knee over his shoulder and digging her heel into his side.
iii.
I'm your woman now," she says, her hair pale and bright against the blood-red canopy of the godswood. Jon's tongue feels like a strip of leather in his mouth; she is wild and fierce and beautiful, and harder and harder to deny.
"If I return." He marches south with Stannis on the morrow, and the thought of leaving her a widow is far too painful to bear. "If I return, and if you will still have me."
She steps closer to him, letting his cock rub along the curve of her hip, and the ancient, familiar face of the heart tree sneers at him like an accusation. He had her not an hour ago, fucking her up against the wall of his bedchamber, his fingers bruising her skin and his mouth pressed to the warm stretch between her teats, but he is already itching to touch her again, to slide his hand under her skirts, to kiss the delicate shell of her ear, to set his teeth against the soft well of her lip.
"You will return," she says, her voice as sharp as a whip. "You will return, and I will have you."
iv.
The last handful of leagues are the worst, when Winterfell is a growing shadow on the horizon, a distant reminder of what he left behind.
She greets the riders at the gate, her hair braided over her shoulder and the sleeves of her dress dancing in the wind. Her eyes narrow as he pulls reign beside her, and he passes his horse off to a stable boy with a roiling gut and shaking hands.
"Marry me," he says, dropping to his knees despite the mud at her feet and the men milling around the yard. "Today. Now." He doesn't need a feast or a cloak, only her. He has missed her every day he was gone -- the heat of her body, the smell of her skin, the soft curve of her mouth. "If you will still have me."
"I don't need a kneeler marriage," she says, and Jon feels ill until her fingers curl in his hair. "But if it will ease your heart, I will say the words."
"I am yours."
She smiles like a wolf. "I know."