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    Summary

    The stories always said that the Starks were subhuman.

    That the blood of the First Men that flowed through their veins was as primitive and beastly as their ancestral sigil.

    Between one incandescent stroke and another, Jacaerys’ arms give out beneath him and he falls forward into Cregan’s chest. He’s so wrung-out that he doesn’t bother pushing himself back up. Instead, he tucks his face into the direwolf’s neck, drinking in the hitch of the man’s breath like a drug as he plunders for more; nosing along Cregan’s throat, seeking the bearded hollow where the skin is most delicate. He breathes in the sweat and the musk of his wolf when he finds it, presses his lips to the stubbled space between Cregan’s metal collar and his jaw, and allows for the beast beneath him to thrust upwards—to continue where Jace left off, unwilling to give up the gluttonous excess of their carnal fucking.

    It’s messy and sloppy and uncoordinated, but they’re alive.

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