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asoiaf/got fic: marks we've left behind, made together
Title: marks we've left behind, made together
Pairing: Jon/Robb
Rating: NC17
Words: ~1,300
Warnings: Rough sex
Summary: Robb explored the bruises gently, watching as they changed color under his slow, careful touches, fading and darkening, flushing with heat; Jon always trembled and gasped as Robb made them, arching into Robb's hands, asking Robb to grip him tighter, pin him harder, hold him down.
Notes: Written for the You Win or You Die Kink Meme, for the prompt Jon/Robb, Robb admires the bruises he's left on Jon's hips. Originally posted here.
Jon's bedstead was an ancient thing, heavy wood as solid and dark as Winterfell's walls, soft ticking that sagged under Jon's weight, whispering and sighing as Jon moved. He had rolled away from Robb some time in the night, sprawling flat on his belly, his face buried in his pillow and the furs tangled around his legs; Robb woke to a narrow blade of spade between them, empty and cold, and he edged closer, pressing his mouth to Jon's shoulder and hooking his bent knee over Jon's thigh.
He drew his hand up the line of Jon's back, knuckled the sharp knobs of Jon's spine, threaded his fingers into the soft hair at the nape of Jon's neck. The stretch between Jon's shoulder blades was rosy and warm with sweat, shifting as he breathed, and his hips and sides were shadowed with bruises -- some bright and fresh, some older and yellowed, all shaped to fit Robb's fingers and thumbs, the calloused palms of Robb's hands. Robb explored them gently, watching as they changed color under his slow, careful touches, fading and darkening, flushing with heat; Jon always trembled and gasped as Robb made them, arching into Robb's hands, asking Robb to grip him tighter, pin him harder, hold him down.
Robb had marks of his own, on his shoulders and arms, along the dip of his waist and the curve of his arse, sweet aches that bloomed when he walked or sparred or sat a horse, sudden reminders of all the places Jon's hands had been, of the secretive twist to Jon's smile and the familiar taste of Jon's mouth. Scratches followed the line of Robb's ribs, faint lines drawn by Jon's short, bitten fingernails, and the crease in Robb's elbow hid a waning bruise the size of Jon's thumb, perfectly round and mottled the soft red of a good summer wine.
Jon murmured quietly and burrowed deeper into the furs, his hair clouded on the his pillow and his hand curled under his chin. Robb trailed his mouth over the slope of Jon's shoulder, lips and tongue and teeth, kissed the line of Jon's throat, sucked a warm, wet bruise into the skin at the base of Jon's neck. He wrapped his arm around Jon's waist, humming as he pulled Jon closer; his cock was hard and curving, eager against Jon's hip, and he rubbed it there, slowly, heat building low in his gut, his eyes closed and his face hidden in Jon's hair.
"We should have left when we had the chance," Robb whispered, remembering a long ago folly as if it was a dream -- a night they'd stolen two horses and galloped through Winterfell's postern gate, fifteen and flush with wine, in love with the shocking intimacy of their own hands and mouths, the heady rush that came from kissing each other, from slipping fingers past tunics and jerkins and breeches. Robb had responsibilities, and Jon wore his honor on his sleeve the same way their father did; they'd barely reached the outskirts of the winter town before guilt had gnawed them into turning around, riding back to a castle that had been awake a searching, to Ned's stern, disappointed face and Catelyn's disapproving frown. "I could've had you all to myself."
They'd retreated into the shadows after that, learning each other in forgotten storage rooms and the hidden reaches of the godswood, in the dark and crumbling quiet of the First Keep and the Broken Tower. Robb had eventually discovered all of Jon's secrets -- that Jon liked to be kissed hard, liked the feel of Robb's body on top of his, liked the weight of Robb's hand at the hollow of his throat -- and he had showed Jon things he'd never shown anyone else -- the soft, broken noise he made when Jon's tongue curled over his nipple, the way his mouth fell slack and useless when Jon's hand wrapped around his cock.
Robb stroked his hand down Jon's side, brushed his thumb over a pair of bruises on Jon's hip, long streaks that mapped the curve of Jon's body and fit Robb's fingers like a glove. They were still red and bright; Robb had made them just two days ago, his blood thrumming as he'd fucked Jon in the armory in the dead of night, Jon's skin under his mouth and Jon's hips in his hands, their sharp breaths and muffled gasps echoing in the darkness. Jon had hitched his leg around Robb's waist as Robb backed him up against the wall, and his voice had broke as he'd spent, Robb, Robb, his teeth at Robb's neck and his heel digging a bruise into Robb's thigh.
"I wish you would stay," Robb said, even though he knew Jon couldn't; he'd have no place here once their father went south, had already promised Benjen he would ride to the Wall.
Robb leaned up over Jon, pressing a soft kiss to the hinge of Jon's jaw, dragging his mouth down Jon's back, hiding another kiss at the well of Jon's spine. He slid two spit-wet fingers inside Jon, where Jon was hot and tight, still wet with Robb's seed, and Jon sighed and shifted underneath him, making a sleepy, questioning sound low in his throat, his fingers catching in the furs as he arched his back and pushed into Robb's hand.
"I thought you went back to your own bed," Jon said, his voice a rough, breathless burr that made Robb's cock ache.
"With you leaving in three days?" Robb asked, twisting his fingers, smiling as Jon gasped. "Of course not."
He pushed his cock inside Jon slowly, an easy roll of his hips, his hands sliding up Jon's sides, his chest pressed to Jon's back and his lips brushing Jon's shoulder, but Jon twisted underneath him, looking back over his shoulder as he shuddered and rocked up to meet Robb's thrusts, his eyes heavy and dark, his mouth a beautiful curve as he hissed Robb's name like a curse.
"Jon," Robb said, desperate heat itching under his skin. "I don't -- I was going to go slow."
"Don't," Jon said, throaty and low. "I still want to feel it my first week at the Wall."
Robb grabbed Jon's hips, dragging him up and back, his fingers digging into Jon's skin as he wrenched Jon to his knees. Jon moaned and swore -- fuck, fuck, oh fuck -- his hair a sweaty tangle, his face hidden in the furs, and Robb thrust into him hard, his mouth panting and open, his fingernails shaping dull crescents into Jon's skin. He knotted one hand in Jon's hair, tugging sharply, wanting to see Jon's face; his eyes were closed and his cheeks were flushed pink, and Robb pulled out of him, shoving him onto his back, hitching his arms under Jon's legs as he pushed back in.
Jon made a low, desperate noise, one hand fisting in the furs, the other slipping down his chest, wrapping around his cock. He arched under Robb, twisting as he tried to meet Robb's thrusts and push into his own hand, and Robb spent like that, sudden and gasping, watching Jon touch himself, his head back and his throat bare, fluttering as his breath caught. Robb slid down the bed as he pulled out, pushed two fingers back inside Jon as he sucked Jon's cock into his mouth. He held his other hand at Jon's hip, digging his thumb into the crease of Jon's thigh hard enough to bruise, and Jon spent with a sharp moan and his fingers twisting in Robb's hair.
When Robb could breathe again, he nosed at the crease of Jon's thigh, kissed the pinkish spot that would be dark and sore in the morning.
"I can't stay here," Jon said quietly, his hand still in Robb's hair, brushing softly.
"I know," Robb said, his cheek pressed to Jon's thigh. "I know."
Pairing: Jon/Robb
Rating: NC17
Words: ~1,300
Warnings: Rough sex
Summary: Robb explored the bruises gently, watching as they changed color under his slow, careful touches, fading and darkening, flushing with heat; Jon always trembled and gasped as Robb made them, arching into Robb's hands, asking Robb to grip him tighter, pin him harder, hold him down.
Notes: Written for the You Win or You Die Kink Meme, for the prompt Jon/Robb, Robb admires the bruises he's left on Jon's hips. Originally posted here.
Jon's bedstead was an ancient thing, heavy wood as solid and dark as Winterfell's walls, soft ticking that sagged under Jon's weight, whispering and sighing as Jon moved. He had rolled away from Robb some time in the night, sprawling flat on his belly, his face buried in his pillow and the furs tangled around his legs; Robb woke to a narrow blade of spade between them, empty and cold, and he edged closer, pressing his mouth to Jon's shoulder and hooking his bent knee over Jon's thigh.
He drew his hand up the line of Jon's back, knuckled the sharp knobs of Jon's spine, threaded his fingers into the soft hair at the nape of Jon's neck. The stretch between Jon's shoulder blades was rosy and warm with sweat, shifting as he breathed, and his hips and sides were shadowed with bruises -- some bright and fresh, some older and yellowed, all shaped to fit Robb's fingers and thumbs, the calloused palms of Robb's hands. Robb explored them gently, watching as they changed color under his slow, careful touches, fading and darkening, flushing with heat; Jon always trembled and gasped as Robb made them, arching into Robb's hands, asking Robb to grip him tighter, pin him harder, hold him down.
Robb had marks of his own, on his shoulders and arms, along the dip of his waist and the curve of his arse, sweet aches that bloomed when he walked or sparred or sat a horse, sudden reminders of all the places Jon's hands had been, of the secretive twist to Jon's smile and the familiar taste of Jon's mouth. Scratches followed the line of Robb's ribs, faint lines drawn by Jon's short, bitten fingernails, and the crease in Robb's elbow hid a waning bruise the size of Jon's thumb, perfectly round and mottled the soft red of a good summer wine.
Jon murmured quietly and burrowed deeper into the furs, his hair clouded on the his pillow and his hand curled under his chin. Robb trailed his mouth over the slope of Jon's shoulder, lips and tongue and teeth, kissed the line of Jon's throat, sucked a warm, wet bruise into the skin at the base of Jon's neck. He wrapped his arm around Jon's waist, humming as he pulled Jon closer; his cock was hard and curving, eager against Jon's hip, and he rubbed it there, slowly, heat building low in his gut, his eyes closed and his face hidden in Jon's hair.
"We should have left when we had the chance," Robb whispered, remembering a long ago folly as if it was a dream -- a night they'd stolen two horses and galloped through Winterfell's postern gate, fifteen and flush with wine, in love with the shocking intimacy of their own hands and mouths, the heady rush that came from kissing each other, from slipping fingers past tunics and jerkins and breeches. Robb had responsibilities, and Jon wore his honor on his sleeve the same way their father did; they'd barely reached the outskirts of the winter town before guilt had gnawed them into turning around, riding back to a castle that had been awake a searching, to Ned's stern, disappointed face and Catelyn's disapproving frown. "I could've had you all to myself."
They'd retreated into the shadows after that, learning each other in forgotten storage rooms and the hidden reaches of the godswood, in the dark and crumbling quiet of the First Keep and the Broken Tower. Robb had eventually discovered all of Jon's secrets -- that Jon liked to be kissed hard, liked the feel of Robb's body on top of his, liked the weight of Robb's hand at the hollow of his throat -- and he had showed Jon things he'd never shown anyone else -- the soft, broken noise he made when Jon's tongue curled over his nipple, the way his mouth fell slack and useless when Jon's hand wrapped around his cock.
Robb stroked his hand down Jon's side, brushed his thumb over a pair of bruises on Jon's hip, long streaks that mapped the curve of Jon's body and fit Robb's fingers like a glove. They were still red and bright; Robb had made them just two days ago, his blood thrumming as he'd fucked Jon in the armory in the dead of night, Jon's skin under his mouth and Jon's hips in his hands, their sharp breaths and muffled gasps echoing in the darkness. Jon had hitched his leg around Robb's waist as Robb backed him up against the wall, and his voice had broke as he'd spent, Robb, Robb, his teeth at Robb's neck and his heel digging a bruise into Robb's thigh.
"I wish you would stay," Robb said, even though he knew Jon couldn't; he'd have no place here once their father went south, had already promised Benjen he would ride to the Wall.
Robb leaned up over Jon, pressing a soft kiss to the hinge of Jon's jaw, dragging his mouth down Jon's back, hiding another kiss at the well of Jon's spine. He slid two spit-wet fingers inside Jon, where Jon was hot and tight, still wet with Robb's seed, and Jon sighed and shifted underneath him, making a sleepy, questioning sound low in his throat, his fingers catching in the furs as he arched his back and pushed into Robb's hand.
"I thought you went back to your own bed," Jon said, his voice a rough, breathless burr that made Robb's cock ache.
"With you leaving in three days?" Robb asked, twisting his fingers, smiling as Jon gasped. "Of course not."
He pushed his cock inside Jon slowly, an easy roll of his hips, his hands sliding up Jon's sides, his chest pressed to Jon's back and his lips brushing Jon's shoulder, but Jon twisted underneath him, looking back over his shoulder as he shuddered and rocked up to meet Robb's thrusts, his eyes heavy and dark, his mouth a beautiful curve as he hissed Robb's name like a curse.
"Jon," Robb said, desperate heat itching under his skin. "I don't -- I was going to go slow."
"Don't," Jon said, throaty and low. "I still want to feel it my first week at the Wall."
Robb grabbed Jon's hips, dragging him up and back, his fingers digging into Jon's skin as he wrenched Jon to his knees. Jon moaned and swore -- fuck, fuck, oh fuck -- his hair a sweaty tangle, his face hidden in the furs, and Robb thrust into him hard, his mouth panting and open, his fingernails shaping dull crescents into Jon's skin. He knotted one hand in Jon's hair, tugging sharply, wanting to see Jon's face; his eyes were closed and his cheeks were flushed pink, and Robb pulled out of him, shoving him onto his back, hitching his arms under Jon's legs as he pushed back in.
Jon made a low, desperate noise, one hand fisting in the furs, the other slipping down his chest, wrapping around his cock. He arched under Robb, twisting as he tried to meet Robb's thrusts and push into his own hand, and Robb spent like that, sudden and gasping, watching Jon touch himself, his head back and his throat bare, fluttering as his breath caught. Robb slid down the bed as he pulled out, pushed two fingers back inside Jon as he sucked Jon's cock into his mouth. He held his other hand at Jon's hip, digging his thumb into the crease of Jon's thigh hard enough to bruise, and Jon spent with a sharp moan and his fingers twisting in Robb's hair.
When Robb could breathe again, he nosed at the crease of Jon's thigh, kissed the pinkish spot that would be dark and sore in the morning.
"I can't stay here," Jon said quietly, his hand still in Robb's hair, brushing softly.
"I know," Robb said, his cheek pressed to Jon's thigh. "I know."
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