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Jon shifted nervously, eyeing the pack of men surrounding him. He was past the point of capture, had been brought to their home, such as it was, and had attempted time and again to convince them he belonged, that he was no crow. Never mind that’s all they called him. Little crow, a diminutive moniker meant to hurt, though it only served to annoy.
He’d been about his daily chores when Tormund had found him, all scowls and little words, barking for him to follow. Jon had thrown down his axe with a sigh and dutifully trailed behind. Mistrusting eyes and hissed curses followed his every step. He’d become quite adept at ignoring them.
He’d met Mance only once, and since then had seen him mostly in passing. He’d never been allowed so close since he’d been brought to the wildling settlement and shoved to his knees.
“We’ve given you time to settle, learn our ways,” the King Beyond the Wall said, eyeing him. “How have you found it?”
“Found it, ser?” Jon grunted. Tormund smacked the back of his head.
“Do we seem as animals, to you?” Mance asked, ignoring his willfulness. He was taking his evening supper by the fire, barely sparing him a glance. Jon’s stomach gurgled, smelling the rich, fatty meat, and Tormund chuckled.
“No, ser,” Jon answered. “The wildlings have only shown me much kindness and civility.”
“You’re a terrible liar,” Mance chuckled, a keen twinkle in his eye.
“Is there something more I could do for you?” Jon asked, growing impatient. “I’ve done all I can to prove that I’m—”
“And what do you think of Tormund?”
“Tormund, ser?” Jon was growing tired of the nonsense, and lack of direction, or answers, or anything other than ridicule.
“Is there a mockingbird in this tent?” Mance laughed, standing from his meal to approach. Jon clenched his jaw, trying not to flinch away, as he stepped in close. He didn’t recall the last time he’d ever been so aware of another man’s body heat. “Maybe that’s what we should call you instead, rather than crow.”
“Very clever,” Jon grunted through his teeth.
“Mind that tongue or I’ll mind it for you,” Tormund poked the small of his back with a dagger hilt. Jon scowled.
“Time and again you prove my point for me,” Mance muttered, looking him up and down. “It’s not enough to leave you to your own devices, that much is clear. For your sake, as well as my people’s, something must be done about you.”
“But I haven’t done anything,” Jon forced out, ignoring Tormund bristling behind him.
“You frighten folks,” Mance barked, startling him. “You’ve no scent, boy!”
Scent?
“What was done to you, to render you so null?” Mance continued, circling him, coming entirely too close to his face, his neck. He ached to strain away, to run from the tent, all these men. They surrounded him like a wall of flesh. It was terrifying how little he understood what was happening.
“If you…” Jon swallowed, tripping over the words, “if you mean, as far as a secondary gender, I…”
“Look how the little crow blushes,” one of the men laughed cruelly, pinching his cheek. Tormund surprised him, snarling and slapping the man’s hand away.
“Keep talking,” Mance urged.
“Gracious as my hosts were,” Jon began carefully, “Lady Stark saw it fit that I—”
“You don’t serve them anymore, do you, boy?” Mance interrupted. “Don’t worry yourself with forced platitudes.”
“I’ve been suppressed since an early age, ser,” Jon murmured, cheeks heating again. “Said they didn’t want any incidents between me and the Stark children as we grew together.”
“I see,” Mance nodded. “A cruelty, and I suspected as much. But nevertheless, something must be done about it. You’ll be given to an alpha, one who can aid you through whatever unbinding or collaring that was done to you.”
Jon’s stomach dropped between his legs. He was going to vomit.
“I-I must protest,” Jon stammered. Mance huffed a laugh, eyeing him.
“Protest all you want, boy, won’t do you much good. I can’t control how all my people view you, superstitions even harder so. Can’t have strange, scentless crows skulking around our settlement. They’ll start to think you something less than a crow, less than a man.”
Jon swallowed. Tormund was suddenly too large behind him, too imposing. He’d grown used to the gruff man, had learned to think of him as more an annoyance than any real threat. Now, that flimsy façade had crumbled in mere moments. Now, Tormund was an alpha, behind him, practically at his neck, and Jon had to suppress a shiver.
Mance nodded, and Tormund’s rough hand on his nape, dragging him away to the tent’s entrance, was no surprise.
They stared at each other across the fire.
Tormund was eating—messily—of their supper, bowls of lean rabbit stew and root vegetables that’d seen better days. Jon had learned quickly not to complain about any food he was given, but his own bowl lay abandoned beside his crossed legs. Tormund chewed, and supped, and slurped ale from a flask, loud and sloppy, all while keeping his eyes trained on Jon’s.
Jon couldn’t tell the mood in the tent. He couldn’t read Tormund any better than any of the other men in the settlement. He was as wild as he was unpredictable, of a crass humor and a shorter temper than most. A sort that Jon was ill-equipped to handle.
“Eat, boy, ‘fore it grows cold on you,” Tormund finally grunted, ladling himself a fresh bowl.
Jon scowled down at his bowl, staring at the thin, stringy clumps of meat in the oily broth.
“Not hungry.”
“You’ll eat when I tell you,” Tormund warned. “You never know when your next meal will come so eat.”
“No.”
Truth be told, Jon knew Tormund was dangerous, he wasn’t a fool, but he didn’t even have time to react before the wildling man was on him, driving him down into the furs lining the bottom of their tent with a knee on his chest and a hand in his hair, keeping him still. Jon cried out, hissing when Tormund only gripped his head tighter, ripping hairs free from his scalp.
“This is what Mance was talking about,” Tormund rumbled, “you’ve no sense to you, boy. You’re stupid. You’ll wind up dead in a month.”
“Get off!” Jon heaved. “Can’t breathe!”
“Good!” Tormund barked, pressing his knee down harder. “Time you start heeding me and stop acting like a spoiled little fairy princess in a far away southern castle. No castles here, no servants, no soft things, no one to empty your bloody chamber pot for you.”
He gave his head a final punishing jerk before releasing him. Jon wheezed in a deep breath, groaning and rolling onto his side. Tormund returned to his side of the fire to finish his bowl. Jon eyed his own, long cold beside his face. He scowled and pushed himself upright, moving to dump his stew back into the boiling pot to ladle a fresh helping and Tormund grunted, grabbing his wrist.
“No, no, eat your supper cold, boy, and that’ll be all you get this eve.”
Jon’s scowl deepened, but he didn’t dare disobey. As Tormund said, he didn’t know when he’d get his next meal. He shoveled the greasy lot of it down as quick as he could muster and grimaced, tonguing at a bit of stringy meat stuck between his back teeth.
“Now go wash up, there’s things that need preparing in the meantime.”
“What things?” Jon grumbled.
“Need another lesson?” Tormund snorted. “I don’t mind. Putting unruly little princelings in their place is getting fun.”
“Not a prince,” Jon muttered under his breath, ignoring the other’s chortling as he left the tent.
It was freezing out, but he dutifully trudged to the water pail and shovel at the edge of the encampment that served as latrine and washing up station. He grimaced as he kicked through the layer of ice atop the water and quickly dunked his handkerchief inside, wetting it, wringing it, and swiftly wiping himself down as best he could muster in the frigid elements.
He couldn’t understand how the wildlings could survive in such conditions. No wonder they continually pushed south, if only to get out of this freezing shit hole.
Soon enough, though, the cold was getting to him. He couldn’t put off the inevitable any longer. He sighed as he stared out at the horizon line, as the sun stubbornly crept behind the mountains, taking its little comfort and warmth with it.
When he returned to the tent, Tormund wasn’t quite waiting for him, but there was an air of expectation in the thick heat between them. Jon kept track of the alpha in the corner of his eye as he sloughed off his furs, working at his many belts about his chest and waist with shaking fingers.
“You needn’t fear me, boy,” Tormund said, the first he’d acknowledged this…thing they were about to do. Jon swallowed.
“It’s not fear so much as it’s…”
“Aye,” Tormund surprised him, something close to pity in his gruff tone, “I can’t imagine a life as yours, devoid of…a sort of second sense of the world. You’ve been living with one eye shut, an arm tied behind your back. We’ll fix that though, don’t you fret.”
Jon stood facing away, worrying at his damp handkerchief over and over in his hands.
“Suppose something goes wrong.”
“Nothing will go wrong, don’t be daft. It’s as simple as snipping that collar you got ‘round your neck. This may aid you in combat as well,” Tormund chuckled, “can’t imagine a thing like that digging into my nape whilst locking blades with the enemy, dancing around all fancy like you do.”
“That fanciness has saved my skin more than once,” Jon defended, cheeks hot, and Tormund merely laughed.
“Aye, as you say, you’re standing here, aren’t you? Now, come here, don’t have all night.”
Jon turned. Tormund’s smile was genuine, though a hint of mirth still danced in his eyes. The man’s moods were so unpredictable, laughing and jovial one minute, then cursing his name and cuffing him upside the head the next.
But Jon was told this…un-nulling would change things for him, make it easier to anticipate moods, and help ease his way further into the people. Not that he much wanted that, but if he was going to survive…
Tormund’s hands were on him before he could second-guess himself. He jerked in place, forcing himself not to fight or pull away when the wildling stuck a small blade beneath his collar, and jerked it up through the old, worn leather. It took a few, sawing tries—it was built to last, and built to withstand abuse—but suddenly it snapped free into Tormund’s hands.
Jon froze, waiting. Nothing happened.
“There, it’s done,” Tormund crowed, slapping the bit of leather to the ground. Jon looked down at it. It hadn’t been all that impressive when it was first molded and joined at his neck to begin with. Age hadn’t done it any favors. It was just an ordinary, dark, worn piece of leather.
“It’s done now, lad,” Tormund repeated, softer. Jon’s chest hitched. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the damned thing, the thing that had been ‘round his neck for as long as he could remember. Always it had been there, tight to his pulse. Hours he’d remembered scratching and pulling at it as a child, when he’d wept, not understanding its need, and—
“Alright, down we go,” Tormund grunted, catching Jon as he fell. He didn’t quite fall, his knees gave out, that’s all…he…
“Let it out,” Tormund said, “best not to hold all that in. It can be an ugly thing, don’t let it fester.”
“I…” Jon croaked. He couldn’t look away from that damned collar, he—!
He keened when all at once a maelstrom of emotions and sensations clouded his mind. Everything smelled harsher, clearer, different. Tormund was no longer just unwashed furs and skin and sweat he was something deeper, a further sense of him was layered above and below, tickling Jon’s nose and he sneezed, earning him a laugh.
“I’m told I smell of something sharp,” Tormund sounded almost like he was bragging, “spices you fancy little southern lords like.”
It bloomed in Jon’s nostrils so strongly he sneezed again, and again. He was dizzy from it, the room was spinning, but in the sharpest clarity he’d ever seen. Certain things stood out to him in the dim, his own abandoned furs and leathers looked off to him, now, a dark cloud, a void about them, vaguely horrifying. He forced himself to look away. Tormund was much nicer to look at.
“Well well,” Tormund huffed a laugh, taking a deep inhale right up against Jon’s sweaty neck and he whined, struggling, but not quite. His body didn’t know what it wanted to do. He didn’t know what he wanted to do.
“You’re not quite there yet, but you’ll ripen in time,” Tormund assured him, rubbing his thumbs in hard around the newly exposed skin. Faintly, Jon wondered if there would be a pale line in its place. He couldn’t focus on much else besides that it felt good, nice, to be touched there.
Of course Jon was expecting the worst. He’d heard stories after all, about randy alphas taking what they wished, regardless of what the other party desired. But Tormund didn’t do anything. He tucked Jon close, blew out their lantern, and bade him sleep. But how could Jon possibly sleep when the…the whole world was suddenly open to him? Tormund huffed, pinched the back of his nape, and Jon’s body forcibly relaxed.
“Sleep,” Tormund muttered, and Jon was hopeless but to comply.
Jon relearned the world.
Already there was a marked difference in how he was treated, with confusion at first, but just as his sense of Tormund had shifted to something greater, so, too, did his sense of others.
It was easier to stay out of the way, easier to leave things be than to push out of stubbornness or ignorance. The sharper those new scents grew, the more he realized it matched another’s irritation, or anger, or even lust, desire, any and every emotion he could nearly sense now as easily as sight, smell or taste. He began to learn their differences, he began to anticipate, rather than wait for the resulting altercation that usually came from dealing with any of the wildlings.
But their attitudes toward him had softened as well. Perhaps it was the new scent from him, the one Tormund had said wasn’t “ripe” yet.
“You’re like a…you’re like a child, I suppose,” Tormund scratched his beard, staring at him. “New to all this, you stink of innocence. We may be rough folk, but no one in our number would take advantage of that, I’d wager. You got Mance’s word protecting you, as well.”
Either way, it was easier than ever before to ingratiate himself into the rough group. Chores no longer felt like chores, but necessary tasks to handle, to better the whole. The days bled into weeks, exhausting, but rewarding. He was welcomed, now, no longer eyed with disgust or disdain. There was still plenty of distrust, a healthy amount for someone like him. He could live with it.
Each night he spent in Tormund’s tent, until he couldn’t imagine spending the nights alone anymore. He commented offhandedly that Tormund’s sharpness wasn’t as strong as before, perhaps Jon was getting used to it.
“Aye, maybe,” Tormund replied, eyeing him. There was something of consideration in his shrewd gaze. Jon caught sight of him speaking with Mance the next day, in low tones, but Jon knew well enough they were talking about him given how many times the both of them shot him furtive glances.
He put his gaze firmly aground. Did they not trust him? Still?
“Watch your step, crow!”
Jon jerked upright, gasping when he nearly ran into a much larger wildling. The man bristled, staring him down, huffing deep. Jon held his tongue and waited for the inevitable tongue-lashing he’d receive, or for the man to move on, but he didn’t.
“Strange Giantsbane would allow you out and about so close, you’re fixin’ to pop, aren’t you?”
“Begging your pardon,” Jon muttered, trying to squeeze past him, but the man’s hefty palm settled on his shoulder, keeping him firmly in place. The air was growing thick with something unfamiliar, a richer, warmer scent Jon couldn’t place.
“Don’t blame me for taking advantage of his mistake,” the other man chuckled darkly, that same hand scraping higher, to Jon’s neck.
Before he could even suck in a breath to protest, the world spun as he was suddenly knocked aside. He landed gracelessly in the muddied snow and he spluttered, struggling upright to see Tormund and the wildling man locked in a fistfight. Shouting and hollering surrounded them as bystanders formed a circle, with Jon a dismayed participant locked in their number.
“Don’t even think about touchin’ ‘im!” Tormund roared, the meaty impact of his fist on the other man’s face overloud and echoey in Jon’s ears. Blood splattered to the ground, churning under their scrabbling feet as they wrestled and yelled and snarled, clawing, biting, spitting, until a group of other men broke into the ring and pulled them apart.
“You.”
Jon flinched when a gloved hand clenched around his nape, holding him in place.
“Mance,” Jon wheezed, “I swear, I…!”
“Take him, and go back to his tent. Don’t want to see hide nor hair of you two until the deed is fully done,” the so-called king muttered, giving his neck a final squeeze of warning before shoving him forward.
Jon stumbled and knocked into Tormund who nearly went sprawling to the ground again. The other man snarled, rounded on him, and paused. He panted, staring wildly at him, before he winced and shook his head.
“Come on,” Tormund grunted, trudging away from the fight, all the onlookers muttering or already on their way again, “let’s get back.”
Jon shuffled after him. It wasn’t quite daybreak yet, too soon to be retiring for the day but that’s exactly what Tormund seemed intent on doing. They washed up in silence, and even Jon felt compelled to help the other scrub off all the muck from the fight as much as he was able. Tormund shook him off, not unkindly, and finished himself.
It was too early for supper, nothing had even been prepared yet, Jon hadn’t the time, and he stood for a moment before the firepit in the center of Tormund’s tent, considering it.
“Never you mind that,” Tormund grunted, removing his furs, leathers and weaponry, “someone will be by later on with something to eat, once we’ve had time to…well. Time.”
“Time,” Jon repeated.
“Aye, time,” Tormund said, not quite sneering but as condescending as he usually was. “Time I wish I had more of, time I thought I’d have more of. You’re an eager little bloomer, aren’t you?”
Something about the words, and the way Tormund had said them, made Jon blush.
“Strip, let’s have a look at what I’m working with.”
Jon balked, staring.
“Strip, now. Don’t make me repeat myself again, boy,” Tormund warned quietly.
Something was different. Something had shifted. Jon dropped his eyes away because he could no longer stand to hold the other man’s gaze. Tormund settled a little, pleased perhaps when Jon worked at his belts, dropping his coverings layer by layer until he stood in an undershirt and breeches before him.
“All of it, lad. Surely by now you’ve got some sense of what’s happening. What’ll be expected of you.”
And Jon did. It was an eventuality he’d put from his mind, as fanciful as it’d always been his entire life. Heats and ruts and such things were for the high lords and ladies to play at and enjoy, and for the lower folk who couldn’t afford the means to stop it or were too ignorant to. He’d allowed a bit of a fantasy to grow, in his mind, that he would be an alpha after all.
But he wasn’t collared, an alpha child, to keep from fraternizing with Robb, an alpha himself. Even Jon knew alphas weren’t attracted to each other in that sense. No. Lady Stark had taken her measure of him, had looked at his large eyes, his lips, at the way they played so closely, spent so much time together, practically every waking moment, and she’d done her work. No babes out of wedlock. No babes from a bastard.
“Whatever sorrow’s on your mind, cast it aside,” Tormund said, shuffling off his own layers. “You’re stinking up the place with your tears.”
Jon hastily wiped them away, sniffing.
“I don’t aim to hurt you.”
“No…” Jon assured, not sure why he felt compelled to, “no, ‘tis…a memory, only.”
“Know you, then, what I intend to do to you tonight?” Tormund asked quietly.
“Yes,” Jon rasped, keeping his hands clasped before his stomach, at the ties of his breeches.
“Could you sense it, or…”
“I put the pieces together,” Jon said, steeling himself as he started at the ties, ignoring his trembling. “Weeks I’ve gone unbothered in the encampment, doesn’t take a genius to wonder why, now, I would be.”
Tormund grunted in approval, shucking his undershirt and breeches off, completely nude and careless in front of him. Jon stared across the fire pit. He’d never had any reason to compare himself to other men, didn’t see the appeal in it, and certainly wouldn’t want to be caught looking besides.
Perhaps he should have done his share of looking, if only to ready himself for the shock of an alpha’s bare member. His shock was ruined in moments when Tormund caught him staring and immediately roared into jaunty laughter. Jon scoffed and pushed down his breeches.
“C’mere, boy, no sense playing about. You know what we’re doing,” Tormund grinned. It was a fine grin, not teasing, or cruel. Though Jon doubted he would ever be able to fully relax in such a situation, his heart eased, only just. He was glad it was Tormund and not any of the other lumbering men around the encampment.
His breath hitched when Tormund grasped him around the scruff and drew him into a kiss. It wasn’t a noble, chaste thing. He growled a laugh into Jon’s mouth, uttering something about the taste, and forced his jaw wider to plunder deeper. Jon couldn’t say one way or the other what he thought about the taste of another man’s tongue in his mouth, it all paled under the shock of it.
Tormund was the furthest thing from shy. He ran his hands all over the bared inches of Jon’s body, squeezing his muscle and fat, cheekily slapping his ass and Jon yelped indignantly. Tormund wasn’t fully hard yet, but his cock was heated and solid where it pressed against Jon’s heaving stomach, making him flinch each time it prodded him.
“Let’s see what I’m working with,” Tormund grinned, pushing Jon down onto their fur palette. Jon could scarcely regain his breath before the other man was between his legs, pushing his thighs wide as he took a comical, deep whiff at his groin.
“Fresh as fresh can get,” Tormund chuckled, giving his thigh a pat. Jon scowled. It took every ounce of control he had not to scurry out from beneath the other man and cover up like a frightened maid. He was trembling, he knew Tormund saw it. But he didn’t mock Jon, saving him from the shame, no doubt.
Jon fell when pushed, laying prone on his back. Deft hands handled his cock, Tormund’s callouses a shock against the delicate skin. Despite himself, he was growing heated, a low burn, little more than an ember, but it was there, and it would only grow. He bit back a whine and fisted the furs beneath them when Tormund abandoned his cock and trailed lower, tracing the line of him beneath his sack to his hole.
Jon wasn’t uneducated. He knew what omegas were capable of. But…
“Ah…!” He gasped, immediately slapping a hand over his mouth when Tormund’s finger prodded at him, at that hidden furl of muscle that had gone untouched by another for Jon’s entire life. He couldn’t deny the answering bloom of heat, the strangeness of a body that had once been dormant now coming to life.
“I’ll take my time with this little bud,” Tormund promised, caressing his taint and back, “open you up real nice, real slow. You’ll be droolin’ from both ends by the time I’m done with you.”
“D-don’t speak,” Jon forced out, “I don’t want to hear about it, just do it.”
“Don’t like my mouth, do you?” Tormund chuckled. “Aye, that’s fine, little lord, I won’t soil your pretty ears with my filth.”
Jon groaned, covering his eyes with his arms as Tormund continued working between his legs. Before long, he earned what he was looking for. Hot dollops of slick began to collect and ooze from his hole. He could feel it pooling inside him, warm and uncomfortable, itchy, a strange new sensation he didn’t enjoy in the least. Jon didn’t need to see him to know Tormund was grinning like a mad man.
He gasped, tensing, when a calloused finger pushed inside him. He expected pain, he expected those callouses to catch against the sensitive furl and hurt, but it was only a strange stretch, it felt almost…soothing. Soothing the itch. He let out a shaky breath, his hips finely twitching, and Tormund chuckled, working that same finger in, and out, in, and out, matching the shy, unconscious pace Jon had set.
He did more than fuck him with that finger. He curled it, beckoning along his inner walls, rubbing all over his insides. Sweat prickled at his hairline, a distracting itch as he only grew hotter and hotter.
“T-Tormund,” Jon groaned quietly, bucking when a second finger joined the first, squishing inside of him with an audible, lewd wet sound. He was hard, fully. His cock pulsed against his lower belly, leaking everywhere.
“Tormund,” he repeated on a whine.
“Hm?” The man hummed, cheeky as always. “What do you want, little lordling?”
“Ha…I…! I don’t…!”
“You want more here,” Tormund pondered, pressing and spreading his fingers inside of Jon, swirling them through all that slick. “You want more fingers, boy, or are you wanting something else?”
Jon’s heart was in his throat. He imagined it, he imagined that thick, huge thing between Tormund’s legs pressing inside him, squeezing past his virgin furl to plunder his depths. Would it hurt? Or would it be like the fingers, only a momentary strangeness, a precursor to pleasure. Strange pleasure, weird pleasure. He thought by now he’d want to fist his cock, to bring himself to his peak, but he didn’t want that at all. He wanted…he wanted…
“P-please,” he whispered, “just do it. Do it now, before I…!”
He couldn’t finish the thought, his breath flooded from his lungs in an instant when the hot, massive head of Tormund’s cock pressed against him. Anticipation, sharp and prickling, sent shivers up and down his spine. He flung his arms from his face and braced himself, looking between his legs.
It wouldn’t fit. Couldn’t. It wasn’t possible. It would hurt. It would stick in him like a poker. It would—
He wasn’t aware he was whining and crying out for it like a dog until Tormund was halfway seated, panting and braced atop him, all his muscles bulging from the effort of staying put.
“Ease up, boy,” he grunted, “you’re like a vice.”
Jon couldn’t think of what to do, couldn’t think of anything really beyond the hot length stretching him wide. It felt hotter than anything natural, velvety steel bullying his clenching body open. But it was smooth, and it didn’t hurt, it didn’t hurt at all.
He collapsed to the ground again, panting, and Tormund grunted his approval, rocking his hips deeper, and deeper, until at last they met, skin to skin. Jon shivered. While it didn’t hurt, it was too strange of a sensation to become accustomed to so quickly. He doubted he ever would. Because this would happen again. Monthly, or perhaps less than that, but it would absolutely happen again.
“M-move, please,” he demanded, quaking when Tormund did just that, with a little laugh, of course.
The first few minutes of thrusting were novel, but not exactly pleasing. It did sate some drive in Jon, something he couldn’t quite grasp yet, that had him rocking into Tormund’s pace, breathing heavily, moaning quietly and choking on it, the shame of how much he sounded like a whore. But Tormund grunted, his knees slid just a little further apart, and the angle shifted.
Jon saw stars.
He cried out and clutched at Tormund’s sides, his hands slip-sliding up across his spine to grip his flexing shoulder blades as the larger man huffed and bent over top of him, as good as folding him into the furs beneath them. Each jab at his insides struck something new, sending sparks of pleasure to his groin, his cock. It strained and pulsed against his lower belly, leaking steadily and twitching with every thrust. He could scarcely breathe.
“There ‘tis,” Tormund growled a laugh against his collar bone and Jon keened, stretching his neck, baring it, pleading without words. Tormund laughed against his sweaty skin, again, pounding his hips into Jon’s in a punishing, quickening rhythm as he chased his own pleasure in Jon’s body.
Jon knew what was coming, he could feel it each time the alpha sunk as deep as he could go. The base of Tormund’s cock had begun to swell. It caught on Jon’s rim every few thrusts or so, sending him keening, whining, clenching on it, desperate in body though not in mind. In fact it terrified him.
He’d heard bawdy stories, he’d heard men laughing around fires at night talking about their cocks and knots, holding up their fists in comparison. Though that had always earned laughs, Jon was swiftly realizing their exaggerations weren’t far from the truth.
“Oh, Gods,” Jon wheezed, speaking real words for the first since he was penetrated, “no, it can’t, it won’t, it—!”
“It can, and it will,” Tormund rumbled, all but devouring Jon’s neck, tongue and teeth on his pulse. Jon wanted him to bite down, he wanted teeth to pierce his flesh where it throbbed and tingled the most, where sweat had pooled, where Tormund favored the most as he circled his hips in rough, deep rolls, grinding his growing knot against Jon’s stubborn entrance.
“Ease up now, lad,” Tormund growled, grinding harder, deeper, relentless, “ease up, and let it happen, you’ll be happier for it.”
Jon couldn’t believe a massive, solid thing being forced into his body would feel pleasant at all. But he’d already been wrong once already, Tormund clearly knew what he was doing.
Perhaps it would be better to accept things as they were now, rather than mourning what was. It was too late to go back, too late to return to a null, odorless, ignorant life. Not now that he’d been divested of that collar, had been brought into a new world where there was an order to things, an order that must be followed.
That thing—knot, Tormund’s alpha knot—eased into him with a damning squelch and Jon’s pathetic whimper was drowned out by Tormund’s deep rumble, one Jon could feel reverberating in his own chest as he panted and lay perfectly still, shivering all over as he did his best to relax and accept it.
Just like his initial taking, it didn’t feel good, but it didn’t feel all that bad, either. It felt necessary, as did Tormund’s teeth grinding into his neck. He keened, bucked—only a little, as far as he was allowed stuck firm to Tormund’s cock—and Tormund’s answering growl had him stilling again just as quickly.
The knot, the bite, the hot heft of his alpha’s cock locked inside him, was more than enough for Jon’s cock to throb and jerk as he rode through a sudden orgasm, completely untouched. Tormund made an appreciative sound, fisting Jon’s cock to aid him through the pleasure until he was mewling and babbling utter nonsense, formless words and pleading whines that had the alpha chuckling above him, nuzzling into the shallow bite on his neck.
“There it is done,” Tormund grinned, bracing his elbows beside Jon’s head as he panted, struggling to focus on the man’s reddened, sweating face, mirth dancing in his eyes alongside sated pleasure. “That bite and this tie’ll be enough to hold the tide, for now. You’ll be needing a mate before long though, little lord.”
“Mate,” Jon murmured bitterly, eyes slipping shut.
“Aye,” Tormund said, shifting them, pushing and pulling until they were settled on their sides, “tongues’ll wag if you’re fucked and knotted for much longer without one. You’ll be mounted in the middle of the encampment at that rate, taken as a whore.”
Tormund’s knot was firm and unyielding, pulsing faintly with his strong heartbeat and what Jon knew to be spurts of cum flooding his core. He bit his lip.
“No whore,” he muttered, his eyes firmly closed as sleep crept up on him like Ghost in the night, sudden and quiet.
“Aye,” Tormund said again, softer, “you’re no whore.”
“I assume the deed is done.”
Tormund snorted and spat into the fire between them.
“Aye, the deed’s done. Baby crow, no longer.”
It’d been a rough task to leave the lad in his tent, fast asleep and tucked away in his furs, smelling strongly of Tormund, of his seed, and of his own simmering heat. Tormund hadn’t bothered to wash, he’d marched his way through the camp smelling of Jon’s first slick proudly. Wasn’t every day a man could pop a virgin omega and brag about it.
“Keep him close,” Mance said, his eyes on the flames. “Something tells me his part is not played out just yet. He won’t be happy to be a subdued, bred thing and I wouldn’t expect it of him, either.”
“No, suppose not,” Tormund agreed, stroking his beard. “Besides, hardly any babes result from a first breeding, we won’t have any swelling bellies slowing us down any time soon.”
“No, but it’ll be on you to keep it that way.”
“Very well,” Tormund replied, tamping down the small embers of flames in his gut imagining the new omega with a well-bred belly. The boy looked soft enough already, babes would do their part to make him even softer, rounding his tits, filling them with milk. Practically a woman. He shifted, cleared his throat and Mance glanced at him knowingly, raising a brow.
“It won’t happen,” Tormund reassured, raising his hands. Mance gave him one of his rare smiles as he stood from the fire, pacing away to his table of maps and scouting things, gazing down at them.
“We’ll continue our march south. Snow is a good fighter, it would do to tie him to us in a way that would be hard to break.”
“You really asking me to hitch myself to that green little thing?” Tormund grunted. “I’m a man of prospects, I am.”
All Mance did was raise his eyebrow again and Tormund chuckled, shaking his head.
“I ent doing it now,” was all Tormund said in reply, but it was as good as an agreement, and Mance looked pleased. Tormund couldn’t deny it, there was a desire there to keep the little crow to himself. His interest in the lad hadn’t been so well-intentioned, to start. He tended to think more with his cock than his brain, but he could see the sense in such a match.
He wouldn’t parade it about, he wouldn’t brag it, no, he knew his little lordling needed a subtler hand. Little puppy bites like he’d had would be enough to dissuade others from intervening, for now, but his cock stirred when he imagined the day he’d finally gnaw into the omega’s neck for a more permanent mark, drawing blood. Jon would squeal and cry like a maid then, Tormund knew it, they all did.
He didn’t wait for Mance’s dismissal, he made his own way out of the tent and back through the camp, winding this way and that, spreading the stink of their combined sex all around as he hummed happily.
He looked forward to laying with the new omega once more that night, perhaps twice more if his blood was up and willing. From the stirring in his loins, that was very much a possibility. His grin was all teeth by the time he returned to his own tent, the scent of ripe omega leaking out all around it.
The little idiot was still fast asleep, no wits about him at all. Tormund would have to train that out of him. Any omega of their number, even in the deepest throes of heat, should be on alert and ready to fend for themselves in a mate’s absence, to protect themselves and their children, too.
“Wake up, little crow,” Tormund cooed, saccharine sweet in his mocking and Jon stirred, mumbling sleepily as Tormund pulled his furs down his lax body, revealing all that creamy pale skin, all his for the taking.
“Time to go again.”