#jon x reader

*You aren't in a relationship*

𝐷𝑎𝑛𝑦

・Your quarters weren't too far from her own, and although she usually knocked, today she did not.

・You were wrestling with the piece of clothing, muttering curses when Dany opened the door and walked straight in

"Oh! I apologise-" she said quickly, though not before she looked you over once more.

・You were even more flustered now. Your damned clothes were too difficult and now the Queen, whom you had loved ever since you met her, had seen your naked rear-end.

𝑆𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑜𝑟

・You had gotten a room at an inn

・With such high occupany, you had to share the room

・It was just after supper and you were changing into something more comfortable.

・The door creaked open and you were stark naked.

・You squeaked. And tried to hold some material against your form

・Sandor just stood there, huffed and turned around.

"It's not anything I haven't seen before..." he mumbled, trying to keep his composure.

・You threw a pillow at his head.

𝐽𝑜𝑛

・Your door was slightly ajar when you started to undress. There weren't many people in Winterfell's castle and you didn't think there would be anyone to bother you

・You were completely wrong.

・While undoing the buttons on your clothing, there was a slight knock and then the door was swung open

・You gasped, turning around and using your clothes to put something against exposure

"I- I'm sorry-" Jon hesitated and tried to say something else but his words came out jumbled

"Jon?" You said with mild humour

"Yes, yes, no, yes, okay, I'm going to leave-"

𝑆𝑎𝑛𝑠𝑎

・Well-mannered and composed, that's what Sansa had been, up to this point.

・She had walked in on you, and you had been utterly naked.

・Sansa kept repeating her apologies, over and over again. Her hand was in front of her face and she moved toward the door.

・The door had swung closed when she first came in. And somehow, now, she couldn't get the door to open

"I-, I'm-"

"It's okay," you said with heated cheeks. You quickly put something easy over your head and then suddenly the door opened.

・And Sansa ran out.

𝐽𝑎𝑖𝑚𝑒

・The thoughts in his head were absolutely filthy.

・He wanted you badly. And it was obvious when he walked in on you.

・He swore underneath his breath, a yearning so fierce was felt in his bones.

"Jaime!" You yelled, hiding behind your wardrobe.

・He let out chuckle and nodded.

"My apologies."

𝑇𝑜𝑟𝑚𝑢𝑛𝑑

・The tent was warm as you changed, from snow covered clothes into slightly less snow covered clothes

・Tormund opened the tent's flap and halted where he stood.

"Mmm," he groaned. Not able to look away.

"Tormund, I swear-" You growled, picking up your dagger and throwing it at his feet.

"I will leave now," he said smirking. Except he picked up your dagger and placed it on your bed.

𝐵𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑛𝑒

・Back straight and walking with purpose, Brienne needed you for plans around the castle.

・She knocked, and waited for an answer.

・Thinking she had heard you, she walked in and instantly panicked.

"I thought you said-" She started but her usual composure started to crack.

・You slipped your night clothes back on and couldn't stop yourself from feeling bad for Brienne. Even though it should be you, who felt embarrassed.

・But you could never feel embarrassed around Brienne, she made you feel at ease, all the time.

"It's okay, I'm clothed!"

𝑂𝑏𝑒𝑟𝑦𝑛

・It was early morning, the sun had only just risen and you were getting dressed for the day

・You hadn't even realised Oberyn had come in until he said:

"You look even better without clothes, my dear."

・You jumped, heart racing at the sudden noise

"What-" You said, unaware of Oberyn's comment. You were too engrossed in trying to calm down

"Sorry for disturbing you, love," and then he disappeared.

WHEN NIGHT FALLS, THE KEEP OF WINTERFELL GROWS QUIET. 

These days it is a welcome change; not particularly due to any lack of solitude when sought – but because you, a creature brought forth to the world from a nest of bustling civilization, find yourself rather placated with the silence of Winterfell’s blizzarded walls. You quite enjoy the snow in the North, and all things serene and quiet that it has brought in the days following the fall of Death’s march; but tonight, your heart aches. 

Because it is dawn you dread this evening.

The flames before you dance; and you, rooted to the settee, hold your hand over the flames and consider not for the first time what it would be like to never feel the burn of heat licking flesh. 

Outside, snow comes in droves of howling wind and tiny icicles pelting the glass and stone; Some part of your heart mends itself at the sound – for you know your solitude will be relieved quite soon. 

Because it always snows when he comes. 

This evening, it is not the gentle kind; No flurries dance from the heavens to kiss your sleeve, no wayward lace drifting down from far-off peaks like some god’s idle sigh.

No; this snow is heavy. Relentless. 

It worms through the stones of the old path, creeps into the marrow of the earth, blankets the frozen bloodstained ground in a thick quiet, numbs the breath before it can even leave your mouth. 

He doesn’t knock. 

Jon hardly ever does. 

And you feel him before you see him; always, with a gust of flurries and a hitch in your breath, his footfalls come with that same strange stillness that has seemed to shadow him ever since his heart began beating again. A stoicism, some odd stutter in the world – as if he’s come from the past. 

As if he’s still part of it. 

You have always kept your chambers warm – a habit that often drips in tease from Jon’s lips in the light of morning, though he hardly ever makes any effort to quell your quest for warmth in his embrace when the sun has yet to rise. 

Snow melts in rivulets down the dark furs clinging to his shoulders, beads into cold stars on his lashes as your eyes find his own. Behind him lingers his Ghost – perhaps the only being in Winterfell more quiet and haunted than he. 

He crosses the chamber with a slow pace and you do not so much as rise, far past used to the lack of formalities required between you and Jon.  

You know why he is here just as well as he does.

The raven came this morning to the hands of the Direwolves; speaking of victory and scorched earth of a sister – of nobody – roaming ash-whirling roads and blood-slick alleys.

Someone new sits upon the throne of swords as night falls over the smoldering remains of King's Landing.  

Jon’s gaze casts down to where you sit upon the settee, back to him, warming your weary bones before the hearth. He admires your frame; though he speaks not of it, still you know – you have never required the pretense of courtesy. He does not hide his admiration of you anymore. 

Jon steps just behind you, not daring to disrupt the hazy solitude of you and your blazing hearth. 

Now, he has become something of a shadow of your own; with a sturdy chest, burdened shoulders, and a gaze that cuts through any hesitation you’ve ever foolishly entertained. Your head turns once again to take in the dark kiss of fur across his shoulders, the slope of his jaw, the tied gathering of dark hair along his temples. 

Jon’s eyes are warm with a tenderness you know as no other has ever known; affection in that spiraling pit of solemnity. Though he does not yet remove his cloak. 

It is not long before his voice comes, heavy as the snowfall beyond your door. “I saw your torchlight.” 

The doors in this wing of the keep have thin gaps above the warmed stone; your gaze leaves the curve of his shadowed jaw to trace the lines of light stretching their curled talons beneath the oak slab where they fade against the bitter bite of freeze. 

“I could not sleep,” you sigh, if only to answer the question he does not ask. 

His sigh is gentle, consolatory; and his hand twitches upon his side, as though his fingers yearn to caress the stray tresses that come loose near your neck. 

You know he cannot sleep either – and you do not have to say why. 

Because the why is here; it is woven into the threads holding the freshly spun Stark banner out in the courtyard, it is leaking through the weakened gasps recovering in the infirmary, it trickles from the very thick flake that falls from high in the gods’ skies and beats the remnants of frozen blood far beneath the earth. It’s in the emptiness in the town and the whistling calls of the hills, in the beat of echoed horses towards the Kingsroad hardly more than a fortnight ago.  

The war in the North is over, but peace has not come. 

The ravens came this morning. It is ture: There is a queen in the Red Keep who speaks of liberation with fire upon her tongue and necks beneath her heel; there is ash and blood in the streets, howling screams carrying through the wind.

The realm is spun in a thick web, and Jon Snow unravels by the hour. 

He stands there, your shadow grown behind the settee; Perhaps he watches the flames, or perhaps he watches you. 

The glint of firelight in your hair, upon your cheek. The stillness of your breath, how it rises and curls over the neckline of your dress, how your fingers tug at a thread of upholstery beneath you. The curve of your hips along the fabric of your dress, the slight curve of your neck. 

It is a look of love, by any other name. And perhaps, if you were a different person, and he, a different man – you might ask something from him. A promise, perhaps. 

But you ask for nothing from him; because you know what Jon Snow is. 

He is the man who leaves – who kisses you in the shadows and becomes a pillar of salt in the first shy wink of morning light; and you cannot, for all the spite and selfish hunger in you, bring yourself to blame a frost bitten tree for refusing the hope of spring. 

You love him in spite of it. Or, perhaps, because of it. 

And so you hardly stir when his palm finds the junction of your neck and shoulder, a creeping and almost apologetic thing.

A calloused palm, one so weary and hardened and yet relentlessly kind; Your jaw tilts in quiet invitation as he stands behind you, letting his thumb soothe over the raised gooseflesh of your skin. 

When he says your name, a flood of warmth pools in your stomach; you ease into his touch, sighing when his palm slides away to rest upon the back of your settee – though his warmth remains. It always does. 

His voice comes once more, still low, resigned. 

“You’ll hate me.” 

You don’t speak for fear of the tightening in your throat; for the visions of cloudy skies and floating ash, of sliding breaths and sharp daggers. Of fire, and blood. The thought is bitter and it breaks something far buried within your chest.

A harsh thing, reality has always been. 

There is a long road ahead for Jon, and it is not large enough for two. You’ve known this for some time. 

His voice is exhausted and it comes in a breath, as though he swallows back the burden of which you both refuse to name outright; and perhaps it is some effort to defend the necessary, to excuse the pain to come. 

“She burned them.” 

And you know the name which dances upon his tongue, though he does not speak it. 

The firelight licks over the chambers – some false illusion of warmth in a room which now drips with solemnity. Your throat is tight with the grip of a fading hand and a thick swallow claws its way down your neck. 

“She was a girl once,” you say faintly, biting your lip. “A girl sold. Traded, abused, hunted.” Your heart, a fist beating at your battered rib cage; Your lip does not tremble, though you think it might. “Of course she burned them.”

His breath comes slow and long. “She burned children.”

The words come before you recognize them from your own mind –

“And Stannis did not?” 

He flinches. 

You feel it rather than witness it, through a still air and a stretched silence in which your heart thuds dully and sings the songs of souls long since burned to the gods you do not know. 

“I don’t want to argue.” It’s that tone once more; exhausted, tired – trying. The chambers are warm, and yet somehow his presence is warmer. 

“You never do,” you whisper. You never do, and I love you for it. 

He comes round to face you, backlit then by the greedy warmth of the hearth; how the flames curl around his frame, melting the last stubborn flakes from his shoulders. His hair curls; tresses tied from his drawn brows, pouted lips defrosted and pink in the firelight. 

“I had to see you,” his words come once more, eyes deep and searching your own. “Before–” 

You’ve risen to meet him before the fire, and your immediate presence stuns his words. 

“You mustn’t do this, Jon.” Your eyes sting with unwanted grief; a hollow thing, to know what fate worse than the worst awaits your love. “You mustn’t say goodbye if you’re not going to die.”

His breath trembles, a ripple of wind in a steady sea of pine; the stubborn shake of a handsome visage as he denies the path of ease for the sake of what is right. You love him for it. You hate him for it. 

“I might.” 

And this, it seems, is your final straw. “No,” your hands shake with an unknown ache. “You won’t,” your breath hits his lips as you exhale, “that’s always the curse with you.”

Your words are cruel, and their verity cuts as deep into your heart as they do his own. His face, somber and patient, is warm in the firelight. And that’s just it; memories bloom from behind your eyes, bruises unhealed. Visions of frozen lips and lifeless eyes – of a hollowness that, somewhere deep inside, never quite filled again. 

You had loved him before those scars.

Before death stitched its silent seams across his soul; before hearths blew out in the far North and shadows crawled across the sun. 

And still you love him after, though he came back to you strange and faraway; sometimes angry in a way you will never quite understand, try as you might. 

Sometimes you believe there is a part of him that never truly left the snow – some part of him that does not any longer belong to this realm.

You love him for it the same. 

Jon’s hands caress the curve of your arms when you plant yours on his chest; a steady heartbeat below your palms, through even the scarred skin and breaths of hunger that grows yet never feeds. 

He wants you.

Gods, he does, and he burns for it. You see it in the hitch of his breath, in the way his gaze traces the curved bend of your lips when you let out a small breath. You see it other times, too, in the tracing of your collarbones across halls, in the aching bewilderment of a man who cannot help his hunger. And though his jaw sets and his eyes flick away, though honor sings louder in him than impulse – you know, you know. 

There is no shame in it, not anymore; Jon does not know how to lie with his body. 

But Jon will not take first. He will not take what he wants until it is surrendered to him with bitten lips and soft sighs and breathy pleads; it is a dance unspoken but entwined in your shared nature more than breathing itself. 

And you know; If you asked, he would unmake himself entirely – king, bastard, man – simply to feel your palm in his and your warmth by his side. 

A surrender not out of duty, but devotion; a willing unraveling, thread by thread, until all that remains is the man who wants you. Without titles, without name. 

With nothing.

Though you do not dare betray him with such a request. Because wanting is the first sin, and what comes after is unspeakable. 

Jon was made to lose what he longs for. To hold a knife against his chest and remain unflinching even as the blade pierces through; To blink only when the wound begins to bleed.

And still, you would bleed with him. 

Again and again, in that selfish, aching way, you would – if it meant one breath more of his hands in yours, of that tired, torn, unbearably tender gaze; one final glimpse of such warmth before he turns from you once more.

You study his visage; a grim one, swimming in that dark molten hunger that lives unspoken and unsated in his stare. A kind man – a man who once held you so tenderly and spoke with words far too kind for the world which gave him nothing but pain.

A man who keeps burying the ones he loves.

His hands curl at your waist, a reserved thing that still yet coaxes your skin to sing, to crawl in that hungry way toward his warmth even as it slips away. 

“You love her,” you say. 

The line of his throat is thick in the firelight, and his swallow is heavy. You do not waver in your resolve, and he does not betray you with any feigned sympathy. 

“I tried to.” 

It does not sting like, perhaps, it should. Your nod is stiff and placated only by memories of ruddy youthful stares, brooding glances secretive and rapt across both torchlit halls and flurried yards. 

Outside, the wind howls and pelts snow in thick layers over the rapidly disappearing print of his footfalls. Ghost lies still and solemn, quiet against the pelt upon the stone floor near your door. 

And it is a foolish thing to ask, when he is here and holding you; but you say it anyway. 

“And me?”

Jon’s glance is one that brings the rush of the deepest warmth to your cheeks. A look as though you are the one preparing to leave and never return; a glance of knowledge, of ghosts over lips and hands over trembling skin. 

His heart beats, and its rhythm is your name. 

Jon does not blink, nor does he look away. His palm, large and inexplicably warm despite the howling squall outside, cups your jaw – and then he says your name; a whispered secret to his gods who have long since ceased to listen. 

“I’ve never had to try.” 

His words from minutes ago rebound in your mind; and you, with soft palms and a heavy heart, pull him close. You’re going to hate me. 

“I won’t hate you,” you whisper into his palm, lips brushing over the tremors he hides. “Not even then.”

He closes his eyes with a flickering inhale, sharp and thick with unshed emotion. And then, when he returns his stare so devoted to your parted lips – his hand drags lower, trailing from your jaw and down to your throat. 

A stray thumb presses gently against your heartbeat, as if assuring some deep worry hidden below furrowed brows and a tremorring heart; breath catches in your throat, that dull hunger rising from your stomach and curling warmly through your very veins. Jon’s stare devours; and your eyes hook a yearning ache over the curve of pink lips, flickered by dark shadows and weak restraint. 

You’re eager; an unwitting lean towards him with caught breath, you let his palm trail warmth over your skin and pause at your collarbone – as if he’s unsure he has the permission to touch you at all. 

You don’t wait for him to ask, because he never will. You simply give. 

“Please, Jon,” you whisper, hardly more than breath and want. “Touch me. Let me feel you.” 

And there in the faint flicker of the hearth, the corner of his mouth twitches; the echo of some disbelieving, admiring expression he’s long since forgotten how to wear unless he is with you.

Soon his gaze drops, hazed and sultry, to where his thumb rests just above the hollow of your chest; searching, as if your heartbeat might answer some riddle he’s carried since boyhood. 

You wonder if perhaps it does, because he moves.

It comes not with the fevered gasp of relief that falls from your lips but with the gravity of a man laying down his sword; Jon’s hand trails lower still, hands grazing the rise of your breast and flexing against the touch. From his lips falls a desperate sound; something swallowed soon by his mouth upon your own, heavy and hungry and far too much for what the night could be. 

Dexterous fingers spread, cupping just below the swell of your breast as your own slip under the fur-lined cloak still hung round his thick shoulders. Rough linen lies underneath – cold with the remnants of the snow yet warm with the body he tried for so long to keep away from you.

Your fingers slip beneath the fur draped over his shoulders, and he shudders – shudders – like it’s the first time he’s been touched since his gods forgot him.

“Jon,” you whisper against his lips; needy, wrecked – and that alone breaks the dam already so brittle and wanting; his arms come to pull you tight against the firm heat of his chest. “You’re trembling,” you murmur. 

His lips find your throat; open-mouthed, reverent and hungry, teeth grazing and tongue soothing. The tug of his tresses between your fingers kicks his shaky moan against the hollow of your throat and a warmth spreads heady through your trembling body. 

“Aye. It’s you,” he breathes with honesty, lips brushing your pulse. “I always do.”

The words send a tremor down your spine, a flush pooling between your thighs as his mouth descends, grazing the dip of your collarbone. Teeth catch slightly on your skin, not rough enough to mark, but just enough to make you gasp; just enough to make your hips tilt toward him, hungry and unsatisfied.

The wind howls, wails. The snow swallows the horizon in a dark smother. Your knees back into the mattress; the weather beyond the castle is wild and sharp in its longing, and with you Jon is no different. 

You reach for him and he follows you down, a storm dragged from the mountains and rolling over the hills of sheets. The furs kiss your dress beneath you as Jon takes you into his arms, heavy with heat and muscle and hunger; pressing you into the feathered mattress. 

Hands tug at the laces of your bodice; breath harsh against your throat and words murmured into the damp skin of your throat. Your thighs, then, parting with the shared tremors of fevered desire; a sudden steadiness of hands whose muscles remember the shape of you. 

His mouth hovers just above yours, breath shared, noses brushing. 

Jon takes you with a low and slow groan pressed into your hair; and you with trembling thighs and nails embedded into thick-corded shoulders, head thrown against downy pillows.

The window flickers with the swallowing blanket of the flurry; the hearth’s light spills over the hardened planes of Jon’s body, softened under your fingertips and coaxing raised bumps of desire. 

And when he moves inside you – slow, aching, right – you wonder if perhaps the world might end this very night. 

And if it does, you think as lips press to the corner of your mouth, as a moan strangles his breath, as your body takes him in, if it does, let it end here. Beneath him. Around him. 

Here, with the snow pelting outside, with the fire licking shadows of your entwined bodies upon the wall, licking warmth over his back, up the curve of his jaw, into the wrecked chasm of hunger pooling in his eyes when he looks down at you and thinks, I was never meant to have this.

You pour your love into each kiss he steals; Hands finds your thighs, pushing higher, gripping your heady skin like something already lost. Every inch of him is warm, heavy, solid – and you, reveling in the weight of a man who has only ever known how to carry things that break him. 

When all that’s left is heaving, sweat-kissed chests and intermingled breaths – when your fingers soothe over his cheeks, trace the furrow of his brow, press to his temples; when his calloused palms rove over your hip, tugging you by the neck into his chest, tangled in furs and heat and silence – then, then you allow yourself the heartbreak. 

“I love you,” you whisper into the night air, into the slinking shadows with webbed wings and smoking breath – into the unfurling frost around the casements, into the chest of the man you have known and lost more times than you can recount. 

He says nothing for some time; a shaky inhale as your hands trace over the jagged scars which litter his torso, as his own fingertips idly swirl over your own marks. 

And Jon tells you he loves you with his eyes closed, with his lips pressed to your own. You drink in his words and you do not wish for anything else. 

He says it again, and again, until his voice cracks and his lips dry the tears you swore would not fall.

You do not sleep much that night. 

Lied beside him, you trace the curve of his spine, follow the silky webs of scars above his ribs, across his abdomen and up to the hollow of his throat, where a dagger once claimed him. 

Your hands will remember him.

Slowly, you memorize how his breath deepens in the soft surrender of sleep. You memorize the twitch of unconscious fingers slung across your own bare hip. You memorize the beat of his heart against your palm.

You memorize the shape of him as though you’ll be asked to describe it to the gods. 

And when dawn comes and you stir from the rest that’d claimed you, he is already dressed. 

Ghost waits at your door. 

Jon does not say goodbye, and you do not torture him with words that you both are thinking. 

He says nothing; just presses a kiss to your forehead, cupping your neck, thumb caressing that cherished beat of your pulse – and leaves with a curls of snow brushing into the entryway of your chambers. 

And you stay.

You stay in the room where his warmth once brought you over the edge of sanity; you remain beneath furs once shared, listening to the swirling silence he left behind. You drown in sheets and pretend they are arms. 

You stay – undaunted by snowflurries and howling winds, by hard men and hard women and hard weather. A blue moon waxes and wanes for the first time in seven years. 

The war ends; the queen falls. 

The North remembers.

The seat beside the Queen in the North is worn and a welcome warmth beneath you. The hearths remain bright each nightfall. 

But you remember him. 

And the snow still falls, even now.

tagging some mutuals since this is a new character :') @dipperscavern @dr9carys @inkandarsenic @systraes @swordgrace @kenna-the-cosmic @snow-blower @cregan-starks

The wind howled across Winterfell, whipping the castle’s banners like living things.

Snow fell thickly, drifting down in lazy spirals before being swept up again into the gray sky.

Jon Snow, King in the North, walked the battlements, his cloak tight around his shoulders, hands clasped behind him.

Yet, even amidst the biting cold, his thoughts were elsewhere...on you.

You, the woman who had claimed not only his heart but every corner of his restless soul.

You had the rarest sort of fire, the kind that could melt ice, tame direwolves, and bring a stubborn man like Jon Snow to his knees without a single word.

The memory of your laugh made him stop mid-step.

The memory of the way your hand fit perfectly into his, the way your eyes, so impossibly alive, caught his in the dim candlelight of Winterfell’s chambers… his chest tightened.

He longed for you, more than he had ever longed for anything, more than peace, more than the North, more than vengeance against the enemies of his family.

Jon turned sharply, ignoring the bitter gusts, and strode through the corridors, boots clanging against stone, until he reached your door.

There was no knock; there never needed to be one.

The lock gave way under his hands because you, of course, always left it unlocked for him.

Inside, you were there, sitting by the fire in the great hall, reading a book of ancient Northern tales.

The golden glow of the flames danced across your features, illuminating the curve of your lips and the way your hair fell carelessly around your shoulders.

You looked up, smiled, and that smile… that smile alone could have stopped a war.

“Jon,” you said softly, and the way your voice rolled off the stone walls made him feel warmer than any fire could.

“I–” he started, and then faltered, because words always failed him when he was near you. How do you explain wanting everything in the world but only the person in front of you? How do you confess a hunger that went deeper than flesh, a need that went beyond touch?

You stood, closing the book with a soft thump. “You look… like you’ve been through a storm,” you teased lightly, though your eyes softened.

“I’ve been thinking,” he muttered, stepping closer.

Every movement was deliberate, slow, like he was afraid the moment could shatter if he hurried. “About… us. About you. About me. About all of this.”

You tilted your head, a teasing quirk that had him caught in the net of your gaze yet again. “And?”

“And… I can’t… I can’t stand the thought of being anywhere but with you,” he confessed, his voice low, strained with emotion.

“Even when the world burns, even when Winter comes, even...” He swallowed hard. “Even when I fail, I need you with me. Always.”

A shiver ran down your spine, and you stepped closer, bridging the small gap between you. “Jon Snow,” you whispered, “do you even know what you do to me?”

“Yes,” he said with quiet ferocity. “I do. And I… I want to. I want to do… everything for you. Protect you, keep you warm, make you feel safe… and loved. Loved, in a way that doesn’t fade. Ever.”

You reached up, cupping his face with both hands, thumb brushing along his cheek. “Then… show me,” you breathed, and he didn’t need to be told twice.

His lips found yours with a slow, devastating tenderness.

The kiss wasn’t hurried; it couldn’t be.

It was the culmination of every longing glance, every stolen moment, every whispered vow you’d shared when the North was quiet and the world had gone to sleep.

It was a kiss that promised devotion, safety, and an intimacy that went beyond flesh.

You pressed against him, feeling the hard line of his chest under the thick furs, the warmth that radiated from him, the quiet, steady strength that had drawn you to him in the first place.

He responded with a hunger that had nothing to do with impatience and everything to do with love.

Fingers tangled in your hair, hands resting on the small of your back, pulling you impossibly closer.

When he finally pulled back for breath, your foreheads rested together, sharing warmth and quiet smiles. “I’ve waited for this,” he said, voice husky, “more than I’ve waited for anything. And I’ll wait for it again, a thousand times, if I have to.”

“You won’t have to,” you murmured, tracing the line of his jaw with a finger. “Because I’m yours. All of me. Every part.”

A low growl of approval rumbled in his chest, and he leaned down again, this time brushing his lips against your neck, nipping softly, making your breath hitch. “Every part of you… belongs to me. And every part of me… belongs to you,” he whispered, voice trembling with want and devotion.

And in the quiet of Winterfell, with snow piling against the windows and the wind howling like a living thing, Jon Snow and you, his wife, lost yourselves in each other, body, heart, and soul.

Every touch, every sigh, every whispered promise of love was a shield against the cold world outside.

Thank you ❤️

And for the first time in his life, Jon Snow knew that no matter what battles came, no matter what winters fell, he had the one thing that could make him unstoppable...you.

The snow crunched underfoot as you ran, a soft, brittle sound that shattered the stillness of the winter woods. Each breath you drew burned with cold, turning to mist as it escaped your lips. Your laughter spilt into the air, bright, breathless, uncontrolled, as your boots slipped over hidden roots and mounds of frozen earth. The sting of the wind on your cheeks only made you giddier. Your thighs burned with the effort, but you pressed on, weaving between the trees, their branches heavy with snow that occasionally loosened and fell in soft, whispering showers. You knew these woods better than Jon ever could, the secret dips in the land, the winding deer paths, the hollow tree that marked the stream’s turn, but still, you ran as though you might lose your way, as though being caught were both your fear and your wish.

Behind you, you heard him. Jon’s laughter rolled through the trees, warm and deep, chasing after you like a low echo of thunder. Now and then, his boots struck the crusted snow with a louder crunch, a reminder of how close he was. He howled playfully, long and low, a sound that made your chest tighten with delight and a touch of something wilder. It made you laugh harder, too loudly, perhaps, and your voice rang through the cold air, giving him the trail he wanted.

You’d made this game together, one evening when the snow first began to fall thick and sure. You’d called it the chase, a silly, reckless thing between you, born out of boredom and a need to feel alive in the quiet heart of winter. You were the hare, darting off through the trees, and Jon was the wolf, fast and cunning, pretending to hunt. But the playfulness of it blurred as your pulse quickened. You could almost feel his nearness now, the tremor of his footsteps in the ground, the distant rasp of his breathing.

The forest around you seemed to hold its breath, the air sharp and full of light. Each exhale came out as a plume of frost, each step a promise that you were still just ahead. Somewhere behind, the wolf’s laughter deepened, threaded through with a growl that sent a shiver down your spine. And in that moment, with the snow falling like sifted stars and the world narrowed to sound and breath and the pounding of your heart, you couldn’t tell if you wanted to escape or to be caught.

Jon went quiet. The forest swallowed his laughter, his teasing howls, even the rhythm of his footsteps. Only your breath remained, uneven and fogging the air before you in delicate clouds. You slowed, hesitated, and came to a stop in a small clearing where the snow lay undisturbed, blank and glowing faintly beneath the pale light. Above you loomed the heart tree, its red leaves whispering faintly in the wind, its carved face watching over you with its ancient, solemn gaze. The air was heavy with stillness, so thick and perfect it almost felt sacred. You could hear your heartbeat loud in your ears, drumming like a trapped bird as you strained to listen for him, for the faintest hint of motion, a broken twig, a sigh of breath in the cold.

Nothing. Only silence, deep and endless. For a moment, the woods felt dreamlike, the world suspended around you, time itself holding its breath. And then, soft, barely there, the rustle of leaves, the whisper of snow shifting. Your pulse leapt. Before thought could catch up, your body moved, muscles firing as you turned and bolted into the trees once more, snow flying up around your legs.

You managed only a few steps before warmth and weight collided into you from behind. You cried out, a startled sound that tumbled into laughter as the two of you hit the ground in a soft explosion of snow. Jon’s laughter rang close to your ear, rich and wild, his breath misting against your skin. You felt his chest rise and fall against your back, his strength holding you easily as you struggled half-heartedly beneath him, caught between laughter and breathlessness.

He nuzzled at the curve of your neck, his nose cold from the air, his breath hot against your skin. When he spoke, his voice was low and playful, threaded with a kind of tenderness that made your chest ache.

“Caught you, rabbit,” he murmured, and his lips brushed your throat before his teeth found the spot just below it, a gentle bite that sent a shiver down your spine.

You squirmed, breathless with laughter and something softer, your voice coming out in a half-gasp. “So you did, my wolf.” You tried to twist around, to see his face, to catch his mouth with yours, but he was too strong, too intent on holding you still. The snow pressed cold against you while his warmth pressed down from above, and between the two, you felt suspended, caught between winter and breath, between play and pulse.

He brushed more kisses along your neck, slow and unhurried, his lips grazing the tender curve of your skin as if tasting the cold still clinging to it. Every few breaths, he nipped lightly, playful, testing, leaving faint warmth in his wake where the blood rushed just beneath the surface. The air around you seemed to grow thicker, charged with something unspoken and alive. His breath mingled with yours, quick and shallow, as he whispered against your throat, voice roughened by laughter and heat.

“I’ve caught you now,” he murmured, his lips moving against your pulse, “and I mean to devour my prey.” His words came half as a growl, half as a promise, each syllable vibrating through your skin. He pressed his hips against you, slow and deliberate, the motion steady enough to make you shiver. You could feel the weight of him, the strength in his restraint, and the teasing edge in how he moved, not a demand, but a question, a lingering invitation.

A soft sound escaped you, more a sigh than a word, and you tilted your head back to grant him better access, the cold air kissing your exposed throat as your fingers found their way into his hair. It was damp with melted snow, soft between your fingers, and you couldn’t help but tug gently, just to feel him react.

“I suppose that’s fair,” you breathed, your voice trembling somewhere between amusement and surrender. “You’ve earned your meal.” You giggled then, quiet, breathy, carried away by the strange, intoxicating mixture of warmth and chill, the snow around you glittering faintly as though even the forest were holding its breath.

He chuckled low against your skin, the sound reverberating through you, and for a long, suspended moment, nothing existed but the rhythm of shared breaths, the whisper of the wind through the trees, and the soft press of his lips tracing the line where your laughter met your pulse.

“And I’ve been so patient,” he said, voice rough with amusement as he rolled you easily onto your back. The snow pressed cold against the layers beneath you, sharp and thrilling after the heat of the chase.

You laughed at his words, bright and breathless. Patient—Jon had never been that. The thought alone made you smile as you reached up, threading your fingers through his hair and pulling him down until your lips met his. The kiss was deep, hungry, full of the energy that had been building between you all along. Teeth clashed softly, tongues met and tangled, and each shared breath came out as a misty sigh that hung for a heartbeat before vanishing into the night air. You drew him closer still, the press of him steady and solid, grounding you even as the world around you felt vast and untamed.

He shifted his weight with practised care, lowering you onto your cloak to spare you from the snow’s bite. It was a small, wordless gesture of tenderness beneath all the playfulness, one that made warmth bloom in your chest. His hands moved with deliberate slowness, gloved fingers tracing the edges of fabric before slipping beneath, tugging your breeches down just enough to find what he sought. The night around you seemed to hush again, the wind softening, the trees holding their silence, as if the forest itself deferred to the moment unfolding.

He didn’t speak then. The look he gave you said everything, half feral, half reverent, lit by the faint glow of moonlight filtering through the branches. His breath came quick, clouding the air between you, and then he bent down, fulfilling the promise in his gaze, intent on devouring your cunt. The sensations blurred into warmth and motion, the press of lips, the flick of his tongue, the rhythm of breath, the strength of his hands anchoring your thighs when everything else felt fluid and dissolving.

A sound escaped you, soft and unguarded, lost to the open air. Your fingers tangled again in his hair, guiding him, urging him closer, your body arching in response to his pace. Between touches, he murmured against your skin, his voice low and threaded with affection that cut through the wildness.

“My prey,” he whispered, the words half-growl, half-confession. “My love. My mate.”

Each syllable sank into you like warmth spreading outward, until it was impossible to tell where the snow ended and the heat between you began. The forest seemed to close around you then, an intimate cocoon of night and breath and heartbeat, leaving only the two of you, caught somewhere between tenderness and fire.

When at last he drew back, breath shuddering, you could feel the absence of him like the sudden rush of cold air against your skin. His chin was damp, his lips parted as though he still tasted the memory of you. For a heartbeat, he only looked at you, the snowlight caught in his lashes, the dark haze of his gaze filled not just with hunger but something deeper, gentler, an ache that had nothing to do with need and everything to do with devotion. His chest rose and fell unevenly as he leaned back over you, his weight familiar, comforting, as though the two of you belonged to the earth and the cold and each other.

He bent down and kissed you again, slow this time, languid, yet still charged with that primal, claiming energy that always lived beneath his tenderness. You could taste the wildness in him, something sharp and soft all at once. The kiss deepened until you forgot where you ended and he began, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, the slickness there, the warmth returning to his lips.

“Love you,” he murmured against your mouth, the words rough-edged and sincere, like they’d been torn straight from somewhere inside him. Another kiss followed, softer, reverent, his breath trembling against your cheek.

“I’d hunt you to the edges of the world,” he whispered then, voice thick with feeling. It wasn’t a threat, it was a vow. And when he pressed his forehead to yours, the forest around you seemed to exhale, the wind sighing through the trees as if it, too, understood the language between you.

The snow continued to fall in gentle silence, settling on your tangled hair and his shoulders, melting where your warmth met it. Everything else, time, sound, distance, slipped away, leaving only the shared rhythm of breath and heartbeat, the unspoken promise of always finding each other, no matter how far either of you might run.

“Love you too,” you whispered against his lips, your voice a soft tremor of warmth in the cold air. You nuzzled closer, your noses brushing, your laughter barely a breath. His answering growl rumbled low in his chest, vibrating through you as his fingers tightened possessively around your hips.

“Oh?” you teased, your smile curling slow and knowing. “Want more?”

He gave a ragged little nod before words could form, his face pressing into the curve of your neck, where your pulse beat fast beneath his mouth. His breath was hot against your skin, a contrast to the snow melting into your hair. When he moved, it was unhurried, a gentle rocking of his hardness against you, the friction of his body against yours more plea than demand. “Please, love…” he murmured, voice muffled and frayed at the edges, as though restraint itself were costing him.

Your hands found his shoulders, tracing down the tense lines of muscle, until the need between you pulled away the last layers of hesitation. You undressed one another slowly, clumsily at times, each touch both reverent and eager, every sound, every sigh, every whisper, swallowed by the quiet forest. When his arms came around you again, it was with a kind of hunger that felt almost protective, as though he meant to shield you from the cold, from the world itself.

When at last he pushed into you, the breath you shared became the only air there was. His movements were tender at first, measured, the two of you finding rhythm in the shivering stillness of the night. The snow’s glow lit his skin in pale silver; his breath caught each time your lips met in kisses that blurred pleasure with something far deeper.

But the calm couldn’t hold. It never did with him. That wilder spark, the part of him that was all instinct, all fire, rose swiftly to the surface. His grip on your hips tightened, fingers digging in, not cruelly but with a raw, consuming need. His pace grew more intent, more claiming, until the world narrowed to the sound of your mingled breaths and the thudding heartbeat that seemed to echo from both your chests.

Somewhere in that rhythm, between the heat and the cold, the forest itself felt alive, watching, listening, as if it knew you both for what you were: wild creatures in heat.

Jon’s growl was low and rough in your ear, threading between the press of his lips and the gentle scrape of his teeth along your skin. His breath came in short bursts against your throat, hot and uneven, as his hands moved with a kind of desperate reverence, gripping, holding, claiming. Each movement was unrestrained and instinctive, his body moving over yours with the same wild certainty he’d had when chasing you through the snow. There was power in it, yes, but also something soft beneath it, a deep tenderness hidden in the feral rhythm of it all.

The quick, steady drag of his cock through your sensitive flesh sent sparks through you, scattering your thoughts until all that remained was the warmth and weight of him, the sound of your names tangled together in the cold night air. Your mind went hazy, your body arching to meet him instinctively, melting like snow beneath the heat of his touch. Around you, the forest seemed to pulse in rhythm, branches creaking softly, the snow shifting under the cadence of your breath, as though the world itself bent closer to witness.

When at last he came, flooding you with his release, he didn’t pull away. He stayed above you, inside you, his chest heaving, the weight of him pressing you gently into the earth. His arms came around you, enclosing you fully, as if to keep you from drifting away. The snow beneath the cloak was cold, but his body was a furnace against yours, his heartbeat strong and unsteady against your ribs.

He pressed his face to your temple, his voice a low whisper that trembled with exhaustion and something too tender to name. “You’re my mate,” he murmured again, as though the words themselves were a vow he needed to keep speaking aloud. “Gods, I love you.”

You smiled, eyes half-closed, your hands sliding up his back to hold him closer still. You could feel the warmth of his breath on your skin, the steady weight of his love anchoring you to the moment. “And you’re all mine, love,” you whispered back, your voice thick with affection and quiet awe.

you hadn’t meant to keep it from him this long

really. the plan was to tell Jon the minute you knew — to call him the second those two pink lines appeared. but something in you just… couldn’t. not over the phone. not between rushed hotel check-ins and stadium noise and his scratchy, exhausted voice at 3am

you needed it to be real. for him to see you. touch you. come home and feel the change

and now he was. home

the front door slammed with that familiar thud — boots kicking off, bags dropped in the hallway — and your heart leapt into your throat

“Baby?” his voice called out, already warm, already smiling “Where’s my girl?”

you wiped your hands on your dress, took a shaky breath, and stepped into the hallway. he looked up — tired eyes lighting up the second he saw you — and you watched him melt on the spot

“Oh, fuck” his bags hit the floor “God, I missed you”

he was on you in a second — wrapping you up in his arms, lifting you off the floor, kissing you like he hadn’t seen you in years. you buried your face in his neck, drinking him in. leather, sweat, shampoo, Jon

“I missed you too” you breathed

he kissed you again — slower this time, but still greedy, like he couldn’t get enough. when his hands slipped under your shirt, he froze

“…Wait”

you tensed

his hand moved again. down your sides. over your belly

he pulled back, eyes narrowing slightly — then widening

“…Baby?”

you swallowed

he looked down — finally really looked — at the soft swell under your dress, the curve that hadn’t been there three months ago

“No fuckin’ way” he whispered, like he couldn’t trust his own voice “You’re—?”

you nodded, barely holding back tears “About three months. I didn’t wanna tell you on the phone”

Jon blinked

then suddenly he was laughing — that rich, breathless laugh that always came out when he was overwhelmed — and dropping to his knees right there in the hallway

he pressed his hands to your belly like it was something holy

“You’re serious?” his voice cracked “This is real?”

“It is real” you whispered, brushing his hair back from his face “We’re having a baby”

he stared at your stomach, wide-eyed, like he was trying to memorize it

“I fucking love you” he said “I love you so goddamn much”

you cupped his face as he kissed your stomach — once, then again, slower, more reverent than anything you’d ever felt

“You’re gonna be such a good dad” you whispered

he looked up at you, eyes wet “You think so?”

“I know so”

Jon stood, wrapping his arms around you like he never wanted to let go. he kissed you again, slower this time, full of emotion

after a while, he leaned his forehead against yours “So... what can I do?” he asked softly “You need anything? Cravings? Feet rubbed? Shit set on fire?”

you giggled “You don’t have to set anything on fire”

he kissed the tip of your nose “Lemme spoil you anyway. You’re carrying my kid”

that night, you curled up in bed together — Jon behind you, hand splayed protectively over your stomach, lips brushing your shoulder every few minutes like he still couldn’t believe you were real

and later — slow, sweet kisses turned into something warmer

not rushed. not greedy. just deep

loving

Jon kissed your stomach as he moved between your thighs, murmuring praise, holding your hand the whole time. he was gentler than usual — even as his hips met yours with a slow, careful grind — and he whispered every filthy, sweet thing he could think of against your skin

“You look so goddamn beautiful like this, baby” he groaned “So full already… fuck, you’re perfect”

and afterward, when you were tucked under the sheets again, heart pounding, Jon pulled you close with a sigh of contentment

“Forever” he whispered sleepily “You and me. And now them”

you smiled, fingertips brushing his chest “Forever”

taglist: @gnr0bsessive @slashes-slut @m6cabre @laviniahamartia @velvetpoisonous @dirtylittlesecrets18 @iluvlangdon @metallical0ver @layysha @tranquilitybasegrunge @mr-br0wnst0n3 @chickinleather @unovasweetheart @gnrloverrrr @yeahthatsdefinitivelyme @carla-123azerty @americasbootygirl @ambywambysworld @thejordiverse @toxicrock @aut4mnvenice @rock-n-roll-queen @gnrwhore @qualcunosworld @andalin143 @stevie-111 @starryravine @cher-rybomb @bvckybxrnessssss @bloodywillow @tanas-posts @estrangedillusions-appetite @urdadsfav1nightstand69 @multidicee @snowsolar @milevana @kirkhammetsfate1984 @cherryblossom707 @pumpkingut5 @brokenglassb1tch @harryssattelitestomper @chxrrie-b4by @the1andonlytallica @gabi-saturno @jujulopes @qonyremains @sl4sh1965 @veryjncg @moonjesa @delightfulballoonphilosopher @brighthorse @izzystradlin69