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Blood floods his mouth, the metallic tang only making him crave more. The raw deer meat is slick as it slides down his throat, satisfyingly settling in his belly. The falling snow is a wonderful contrast to his overheated body, panting after chasing the deer down.
He stops eating and his ears prick up as a faint noise catches his attention. He turns his head just in time to see a wolf lunge at him, his teeth bared. He is a direwolf, though. Much bigger, faster, stronger.
The other wolf tackles him to the ground and he wriggles under him, trying to push the smaller animal off. He manages and pounces on the wolf, his teeth digging into his shoulder. There is blood, yes, but this he does not relish in this out of hunger. It is out of revenge. It is out of territory. This deer is his, and he’s not willing to share with a scrawny, gangly pup.
The smaller wolf should have run by now. But he is persistent and stubborn. Oh well; it’s his problem. The direwolf sinks his claws into the smaller beast’s chest, long angry red lines peeking out from under the tufts of fur. His blood drips onto the snow, and a high-pitched squeal is torn from the small wolf.
The direwolf leans forward and bites into the smaller animal’s throat. He tastes warm blood, though it is far too tasteless and flat for his liking. It must have been awhile since the small wolf had eaten. Blood squirts onto his white coat, and the small wolf utters one more scream before-
Jon wakes up panting, drenched in a cold sweat. The room is freezing, but he kicks off the furs and sheets, his face and chest flushed red. Satin stirs next to him, trembling from the sudden cold air. “Jon?” he mumbles, pulling the furs back on top of him. His eyes are half-open, still droopy with sleep. “S’everythin’ alright?”
Jon feels his cock twitch when he gets a peek of Satin’s shoulder. His steward is so different from the rest of the men on the Wall: he’s soft, smooth and delicate. They share a bed and furs almost every night, and though sometimes he lets Satin touch and suck his cock, Jon has never been the one to initiate anything. He eyes him like a beast would his prey, his eyes dark with hunger and lust.
“Jon?”
Jon crushes his lips to Satin’s, his fingers digging into the porcelain skin of his steward’s shoulders. Satin tenses for a moment, then relaxes, letting out a tiny moan as Jon’s tongue parts his lips. Jon throws a leg across Satin’s waist, straddling him and drawing him flush against him. Even through their thick sleeping breeches, Jon can feel Satin’s heat.
He bites Satin’s lips hard enough to draw blood, and licks it right off. His hips have started moving on their own accord, and his steward thrusts up in time, catching Jon’s rhythm with ease. Jon tears off Satin’s tunic and tosses it aside, covering the boywhore’s chest with scratches and bites and love-marks.
Jon stops the circling of his hips for a moment, drawing a loud whine of protest from Satin. The Lord Commander pulls off his tunic and both of their breeches, only their smallclothes separating them. Jon resumes his grinding, rutting against Satin as if his life depended on it. Satin eagerly returns the searing hot kiss, the friction of his cock against Jon’s delicious.
Jon’s damp curls fall in front of his eyes with each powerful thrust, his chest heaving with his panting. Satin’s skin is flushed crimson, bright red scratches and drying blood sticking out like a sore thumb. Jon nuzzles his neck and Satin throws his head back, giving him easier access. A beard burn is just at the top of the list of marks he’ll have for days, and Jon growls low in the back of his throat at the thought.
Satin is his. Jon marked his territory, like the wolf he is. Satin writhes and wriggles under him, trying to get as much contact as possible, his jaw slack in a silent moan. He is beautiful, his steward, Jon thinks as he locks eyes with the other man.
Jon comes with a choked cry, blinded by a white flash. He cups Satin’s arse and brings him even closer, riding out his orgasm as much as he can. Satin gasps loudly with Jon’s lips on his throat, and Jon feels Satin’s seed on his belly.
Jon collapses on his stomach next to his steward, throwing his arm over Satin’s waist. He comes to his senses and feels as if he’s been doused with a bucket of cold water. He shoots up and stares at the former boywhore, who looks perfectly content and relaxed. “Satin,” Jon croaks, “I’m sorry. I-I shouldn’t h-have-”
“Mm, Jon,” Satin clucks his tongue and pulls Jon down for another kiss, “silly, sweet boy.” He wraps his arms around Jon, holding him to him. “We really should do that more often.”