Disclaimer: I do not own Game of Thrones nor its characters. They belong to HBO, GRRM, and whoever else has the rights.
Note: A short follow up to 'A Sweeter Master for My Weary Soul', Sandor-is-a-werewolf AU. Best to read that one first, otherwise this will likely make no sense whatsoever. Feedback is appreciated! :)
Warning: Some sexuality.
Let Me Burrow Deep Inside Your Skin
They lay on the floor; a mess of slick skin and tangled limbs. The floor is warm and the breeze is cool. They shiver and sweat together and pant softly into each other's mouths while their hearts calm down.
He likes it best when they sleep this way. On fur rugs with the windows open while Lady sleeps near the brazier. He feels too crowded on their featherbed.
She still likes indulging in comforts though, his winter bird born of springtime. Pressed up against him and buried between her soft bed and warm blankets. She is beautiful in winter, but at night and in her own skin she shies from the cold.
No matter where they sleep, her cold toes will find always their way between his legs during the night.
He likes the taste of her skin afterwards; when she glows and trembles, and weakly pushes his hand away should he try to stroke between her legs again. His little bird tastes good on his tongue.
(There will come a day where he will taste more than her skin and her mouth and her cunt. He will taste flesh and blood; he imagines that she is hot and sweet on the inside. But he does not taste her yet, though his gut clenches and his fingers tighten and his teeth ache with the need to every time he comes inside her.)
She sings to him, afterwards. Soft coos and musical sighs and every now and then she will hum a song of courtly love while tracing the scars on his body that are too stubborn to heal.
He likes it best when she sings to him during; loud and lustful. Her song is throaty, husky. Wordless keening against his chest or his throat or her head tossed back to the sky. She sings with abandon then.
He growls with the want to bite while he thrusts himself inside her over and over. They all hear, every last one of them; they have to hear his little bird's song, the one she sings only for him.
Only ever for him.
There are nights where they move together for moments or hours, and then it is over; sleep comes. There are nights spent on their knees from sunset to sunrise. He will howl, and she will sing, and in the frigid morning air, they will run despite their exhaustion.
She loves to wear her Lady's fur.
No longer is his body so weary, or his old bones so tired. There is something invigorating about his winter bird that smells and tastes like summer wine. Though he lays boneless and drained now, he is happy as a pup.
(A happier pup than he ever was.)
She rests her head in the crook of his neck, body curled and curved tightly against his. A hand on his stomach; softly stroking. His little bird knows what he wants and what he needs.
And one day she will lay beneath him, throat and tummy exposed, and she will submit. Just once. And he will taste her flesh and blood and the winter in her bones while he comes inside her. Then they will run again, the three of them.
All with their own pelts of fur.