Profound loss, like the kind Margaery had experienced, would spend years staining a person's life. Jon had never met her family. Loras and Mace were men he knew only by word of mouth, and even then, only a few paltry rumors had come north to the Wall during his time as Lord Commander. Yet there had been a point in his life, not so long ago as all that, where he'd believed that nearly his entirely family perished, gone in the way of the Targaryens. For a long time, while his injuries still pained him and milk of the poppy clouded his mind, he'd dwelt on the news Maester Aemon had given him -- Robb and his Lady Mother slain at the Twins, Winterfell burned, Bran and Rickon disappeared just as Arya had -- and wondered if the god were punishing him. It had been an absurd thought, but with his wounds aching, living reminders of the betrayal he'd just wrought, it couldn't help but bubbling up.
The news that Sam had given him had alleviated some of the suffering, but he'd still lost a brother. Now, he's lost two and a father as well. It had been one more connection between them, one more way he could understand her, even if nobody else seemed to be able to do so. Jon's grief had been the silent kind, the kind that would shy away when soothing words were uttered and would return in force shortly after; only time had been able to dull the edge. What Margaery had needed was not the false sympathy of schemers or the soft, quietly deceptive words of politicians, both designed to speed her healing so they might use her, but time and someone to care for her, to let her grief run it's course while simply being there. He'd brought her food, brought her drink, brought her medicine, and brought her conversation. And then, after all was said and done, he'd brought her something else as well, something simple and fundamental -- he'd brought her himself and given it to her, knowing that it was something that could never be undone.
What she offered, Jon accepted gladly. As soft and gentle as the motion of her lips against his might be, there was an intensity there that could not be understated, the feeling that existed at the core of that kiss more than enough to make his heart tremble and clench. When the kiss broke, his eyes shone with emotions, as vivid as any mural, and his lips were curled just slightly, a smile there as he touched them, as if in awe. For years beyond counting, he would have believed himself lucky to have something a tenth as potent and consuming as the swirl of love and desire that reside in him now.
As capable of gentle touches and tender kisses as they are, such gestures are a reflection of their humanity, of that part of them that knows speech and mercy and all those things the beasts don't have; they straddle the line between the two, though, and move from one to the other with simple easy, as though all it requires is stepping through an archway. The heart and the mind had their requirements and the soul and body have theirs. No longer bound by society, no place was too public or sacred for him to give his body it's due; if his body desired her, he would take her under the shade of a Weirwood itself, in front of the gods, again and again and again, until some level of satisfaction could be obtained. Here and now, in this moment and in this place, with her body heaving underneath his from the ferocious intensity of his fucking, with the sight of her and the sound of her and the feeling of her filling his senses beyond capacity, his desire grows with his pleasure, an exponential growth that knows no ceiling. With each moment that passes, he'll want her more and more and that desire will never stop growing until the moment of their death.
"No," his laughter is throaty and wild, voice rough from the constant stream of loud groans and sharp gasps. "Not for you. You can never disappoint me, love. So there will never be need to punish you. Only to reward you." She arches against him and, once more, Jon accepts what she gives him, filling a palm with a soft breast, filling his mouth with a taut nipple. Teeth tug and mouth suck in that untamed, unrestrained way, as if the very concept of gentleness no longer exists for him, as he purrs his approval softly, the quiet sound at odds with the frantic, desperate sounds of two lovers at the very edge of their sanity.
The moment between her release and his seems to stretch into eternity, the extra tightness of her cunt and the excess of pain from nails digging into skin multiply his desire many times over, body quivering as he approached that precipice at agonizing slowness. Even as pleasure explodes from within him, as he's filled with a scorching heat that threatens to fully consume him, there's still a part of him that's dully aware that it's not enough -- that he still wants more. That holds true with each pulse of seed, with each shameless sigh of her name, and it holds as strength flees him and he's left incapable of movement.
"I know." His voice is breathless as he chuckles, head resting just so on her chest, cheek pressed to the small between her breasts and eyes boring into hers. For the moment, his fingers rest on safe places, one set on her hips, the others on her shoulder, and he take a long, contemplative moment to simply watch her, eyes soft, before shifting just so, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of her chin. "That was... beyond anything I've ever felt. Gods, but that was amazing. I can't imagine going back after that."
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The news that Sam had given him had alleviated some of the suffering, but he'd still lost a brother. Now, he's lost two and a father as well. It had been one more connection between them, one more way he could understand her, even if nobody else seemed to be able to do so. Jon's grief had been the silent kind, the kind that would shy away when soothing words were uttered and would return in force shortly after; only time had been able to dull the edge. What Margaery had needed was not the false sympathy of schemers or the soft, quietly deceptive words of politicians, both designed to speed her healing so they might use her, but time and someone to care for her, to let her grief run it's course while simply being there. He'd brought her food, brought her drink, brought her medicine, and brought her conversation. And then, after all was said and done, he'd brought her something else as well, something simple and fundamental -- he'd brought her himself and given it to her, knowing that it was something that could never be undone.
What she offered, Jon accepted gladly. As soft and gentle as the motion of her lips against his might be, there was an intensity there that could not be understated, the feeling that existed at the core of that kiss more than enough to make his heart tremble and clench. When the kiss broke, his eyes shone with emotions, as vivid as any mural, and his lips were curled just slightly, a smile there as he touched them, as if in awe. For years beyond counting, he would have believed himself lucky to have something a tenth as potent and consuming as the swirl of love and desire that reside in him now.
As capable of gentle touches and tender kisses as they are, such gestures are a reflection of their humanity, of that part of them that knows speech and mercy and all those things the beasts don't have; they straddle the line between the two, though, and move from one to the other with simple easy, as though all it requires is stepping through an archway. The heart and the mind had their requirements and the soul and body have theirs. No longer bound by society, no place was too public or sacred for him to give his body it's due; if his body desired her, he would take her under the shade of a Weirwood itself, in front of the gods, again and again and again, until some level of satisfaction could be obtained. Here and now, in this moment and in this place, with her body heaving underneath his from the ferocious intensity of his fucking, with the sight of her and the sound of her and the feeling of her filling his senses beyond capacity, his desire grows with his pleasure, an exponential growth that knows no ceiling. With each moment that passes, he'll want her more and more and that desire will never stop growing until the moment of their death.
"No," his laughter is throaty and wild, voice rough from the constant stream of loud groans and sharp gasps. "Not for you. You can never disappoint me, love. So there will never be need to punish you. Only to reward you." She arches against him and, once more, Jon accepts what she gives him, filling a palm with a soft breast, filling his mouth with a taut nipple. Teeth tug and mouth suck in that untamed, unrestrained way, as if the very concept of gentleness no longer exists for him, as he purrs his approval softly, the quiet sound at odds with the frantic, desperate sounds of two lovers at the very edge of their sanity.
The moment between her release and his seems to stretch into eternity, the extra tightness of her cunt and the excess of pain from nails digging into skin multiply his desire many times over, body quivering as he approached that precipice at agonizing slowness. Even as pleasure explodes from within him, as he's filled with a scorching heat that threatens to fully consume him, there's still a part of him that's dully aware that it's not enough -- that he still wants more. That holds true with each pulse of seed, with each shameless sigh of her name, and it holds as strength flees him and he's left incapable of movement.
"I know." His voice is breathless as he chuckles, head resting just so on her chest, cheek pressed to the small between her breasts and eyes boring into hers. For the moment, his fingers rest on safe places, one set on her hips, the others on her shoulder, and he take a long, contemplative moment to simply watch her, eyes soft, before shifting just so, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of her chin. "That was... beyond anything I've ever felt. Gods, but that was amazing. I can't imagine going back after that."