you're too young & eager to love

Cut because this is nothing but one hundred percent porn.




The torch has burned low, sputtering quietly, casting soft shadows that halo Ygritte's face. They've been down here too long, should go back up before Styr and Jarl look for them, but her thighs are warm under Jon's hands, strong muscle and soft skin, and her breath hitches as he pulls her closer, up toward his mouth, where he wants her. She murmurs his name like a warning, her voice low and her fingers in his hair, and she's shaking a little, maybe because she's cold, maybe because he can't stop touching her, hasn't stopped since she first shed her clothes, drawing his thumb over the crease of her thigh, dipping his tongue into her, inside her.

Ygritte tastes like winter, sharp and sweet, and she's wet everywhere, slippery against his mouth and jaw. The noises she makes are rough and beautiful, loud even with her thighs around his ears, and he thinks he could probably spend like this, just listening to her, breathless moans and his name caught in the back of her throat -- Jon now, not Jon Snow -- but she twists her hips, pushing into his mouth, and he tastes himself a little, something darker just on the flat of his tongue, and he hopes he doesn't spend just yet, wants to have his cock in her again, at least once more.

Jon slips his hand up her side, over the curve of her breast, teasing her nipple with his thumb. She rolls her hips and tugs on his hair, telling him to hurry, asking him to never stop, and he slowly drags his mouth up, licking her clit again and again and again, and then her back arches and her thighs tense and she flutters against his tongue. She slides down his body, laughing softly when he pulls her in for a kiss, his mouth still wet with her, and she must like the taste as much as he does, because she returns the kiss with a soft moan, with her hands on his jaw, biting his lip, sucking his tongue into her mouth.

He wants inside her again, but the torch is flickering out, close to leaving them in darkness. They've been down here for hours -- should maybe stay down here, where the wildlings aren't marching, where the Night's Watch isn't waiting -- and she's limp and breathless, her skin flushed, warm and sweaty where it touches his, but she pushes back against him, tilts her hips until he's sliding inside her, everything hot and slick. She tells him not to move -- just let me, just let me -- so he bends his knees and holds her waist, watches every line and curve of her body as she gasps and twists and fucks him.

Jon wishes they could stay here, forever, forever. Outside are Styr and Jarl and Winterfell and the Wall, and Jon doesn't want any of that, only wants her.