derpha:

He does want, and he bows
his head in confirmation, all
the while trying not to drool
along the drapes of her fine
clothing lest she be deemed
slobbish. It wouldn’t do, not
for his Miss Lady. She’s
already been through enough -
no need to add chastisement
to the list of things she must face.

So he politely licks his chops,
stepping in closer to accept
the morsels of what she rejects.
Gobbles it up with loud smacks 
of his jaw; more greedy than 
he would like to be perceived.
He’s hungry, and has been
adamant about being quiet
and unseen since the death
of his fur and the birth of his
human skin.

“I won’t leave,” is the promise
he makes around a still, softly 
baying, bit of lamb steak. The
juice of bone sticks to his lower
chops but comes away, cleaned,
with the flop-swipe of his tongue.
“You are mine to keep just as
much as i am yours to do the
same.” Derek, boldy and with
a heavy-set remorse that it
feels as if his bones had molded
into rock, thinks of Mighty Stark
and the way his hands cupped
he and his kin, alone, from their
mother and gave them a new den.
A new home and a new keep, 
instead of skinning them where
they had slept.

If he were to owe any soul alive,
(or dead in this matter), it would
be The Bold North that was Stark
himself. May his head rest quiet
upon his shoulders once more,
wherever he comes to be.

:: 〖 ❣ 〗――— ::

                             Lady might not be a lady–
     Lady might prefer Sansa call him ∂ є я є к 
     but it doesn’t change the fact that he is still
     hers, her wolf. Her only companion now. It
     makes him especially more important. She
     thinks she would rather DIE than be rid of
     him. A world without her direwolf is one not
     worth living. She cannot imagine how Arya
     must’ve felt.

                             Arya. May the Gods save her.
     May the Gods find it fit to reunite her with her
     wolf, Nymeria. Slender fingers stroke the dark
     coat of fur, burying themselves into his warmth.
     With her sitting down, he reaches higher than
     her waist. Sansa finds herself watching him, ears
     picking up a voice that can be heard by no one
     else. Propriety dictates she not spend any time
     alone with a man but while Derek is mostly human
     he is not just any human. He is a part of her.

                              ”I will never be rid of you,“ Sansa
     whispers, bending so she can rest her chin on his
     head. She can feel his muscles bunching as he eats.
     ”I’d die first.“ A bitter scoff. ”Maybe Joffrey will do it
      for me. A dead wife will love him more than I can.“

                              ”Come on, Derek. The servants will
     clean this up.“ She’s exhausted– she just wants
     to go to bed. Maybe, she thinks, that way she can
     pretend today never happened.