asoiaf/got fic: tell me what to swallow
Title: tell me what to swallow
Pairing: Jon/Catelyn
Rating: NC17
Words: ~1,100
Summary:He looks more like Ned with each passing day -- a younger Ned, a Ned without grey in his hair and scars on his body from two different wars, the Ned Catelyn had married at Riverrun in the middle of a rebellion, the solemn stranger she hadn't yet loved.
Notes: Written for![[profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
asoiafkinkmeme, for the prompt Jon/Catelyn, cunnilingus, the real reason she wants him to leave Winterfell. Title from Crystal Castles. Originally posted here.
tell me what to swallow
Ned has only been gone a few hours, will likely return before the week is out, but Winterfell feels colder and emptier in his absence.
Catelyn lights the lamps in her chambers and changes into the simple shift she wears to bed. She pours a cup of wine and settles into the chair beside the window; the sky is heavy and dark, and she watches the stars wink through the clouds as she combs her hair and braids it into a loose tail. She sighs quietly, stretching her legs, tipping her head back against the chair. Her feet hurt by the end of the day as they never had when she was younger, and a slow ache has spread through her back, narrowing into the well of her spine -- Rickon still likes to be carried as often as not, despite being taller and heavier than he'd been just a month before.
The soft knock at her door is not unexpected, but it still startles her slightly, unnerving her in a way at itches under her skin. She takes another swallow of wine as it slowly creaks open, tries to wash away the sickly heat twisting in her stomach, the warm flush pushing up the back of her neck, into her jaw.
Jon pauses in the doorway for a moment, his hand curled at the lintel, the shadows from the hallway pressing in close behind him. He's dressed in his night clothes, a plain tunic and a pair of breeches that sit crookedly on his hips, and he lingers in the open too long -- long enough that Catelyn wonders if he's hoping to be caught, if he's hoping to shame her, to bare her indiscretions to the whole keep. She starts to tell him to leave, but the light twists in just the wrong way, softening the angles of his face, and her breath catches in the back of her throat, her mouth suddenly dry.
He looks more like Ned with each passing day -- a younger Ned, a Ned without grey in his hair and scars on his body from two different wars, the Ned Catelyn had married at Riverrun in the middle of a rebellion, the solemn stranger she hadn't yet loved.
The door groans loudly as Jon closes it behind him, the sound shrilling into the stillness of her chambers in a way that sets her teeth on edge. He doesn't speak to her, hasn't since the first time he came to her, telling her what he wanted with a quiet boldness that had stunned her into silence, had left her too fumbling and witless to answer him with the slap he'd deserved. He kneels between her legs, his hands steady as he gathers up the folds of her shift, and the shadows change his face again, hiding the darker grey of his eyes, the sharper point of his chin. She remembers the first time Ned had put his mouth on her, on her third night as the Lady of Winterfell; the naked intimacy of the act had shocked her, as well as the desperate, thrumming rush of her release, but the relentless swirl and press of Ned's tongue had also felt like an apology -- for leaving her after two weeks of marriage to fight another man's war, for returning from that war with another woman's son.
Jon brushes his fingers over her knees, slides his hands up her thighs, noses at the hair curling around her sex as he slowly pushes her open, his breath soft and warm, slightly uneven. He leans into her, drawing his knuckles over her, stroking his thumbs into the creases of her hips; he rubs his cheek along the inside of her thigh, his skin rough with stubble, flushed and burning hot, and she swallows the noise building in her throat, shifts closer to him despite knowing she should shove him away.
He licks into her softly, flicking his tongue over her entrance, slipping it up to the nub at the top of her sex, curling it there before dipping it back down, every touch too quick, too light, not quite enough. His tongue comes up to her nub again, hot and slick, fluttering just underneath it, and Catelyn nearly hisses in frustration; she wants him to finish this and get out, shouldn't have allowed this to happen in the first place. She knots her hand in his hair -- the same texture as Ned's, but thicker, a little darker -- and pulls his mouth down where she wants it, where he can slide his tongue into her, press it inside her.
She makes the mistake of looking at him, catches him watching her, his eyes wide and dark, slightly different than Ned's, but close enough that it makes no matter, not when his mouth is on her, when his hands are on her skin, when one of her legs has hooked over his shoulder. A fresh wave of guilt twists through her belly, sharp against the slow heat thrumming under her skin, the pressure building from the feel of Jon's lips and tongue. She pulls on his hair again, tugging his mouth back up to her nub, curling her other hand into a tight fist as his lip drags over it, as he licks at her, harder and faster, but still not close enough; she slides her hand down to the back of his neck, holding his head, lifting her hips to meet his mouth.
Jon closes his eyes, leaning into the touch despite how rough it is, a low moan catching the in the back of his throat. He curves his hands underneath her, bringing her closer to his mouth, holding her still as he pushes his mouth against her; he presses a slow, slippery kiss to her nub, sucking on it, brushing it with his tongue, and Catelyn gasps sharply, biting her lip to muffle the sound, her release peaking in a sudden, furious rush.
Catelyn tries to draw away from him -- this has gone on long enough, has already gone too far -- but he holds her still, pinning her in the chair, and he slides his mouth down to her entrance, thrusting his tongue back inside her, digging his fingers into her hips when she hisses and tugs sharply on his hair. Her release was quicker and harsher this time, sharp flares under her skin instead of a slow, liquid heat; Jon lifted his mouth to her nub, curling his tongue over it as he slipped one finger inside her, and she shuddered desperately, her eyes closed and her hand shaking as she pushed his head away.
He sat back on his heels, hard and curving inside his breeches, his hair wild and his face wet with her; she turned toward the window as he found his feet, watched the moon disappear behind a cloud as he let himself out.
Pairing: Jon/Catelyn
Rating: NC17
Words: ~1,100
Summary:He looks more like Ned with each passing day -- a younger Ned, a Ned without grey in his hair and scars on his body from two different wars, the Ned Catelyn had married at Riverrun in the middle of a rebellion, the solemn stranger she hadn't yet loved.
Notes: Written for
asoiafkinkmeme, for the prompt Jon/Catelyn, cunnilingus, the real reason she wants him to leave Winterfell. Title from Crystal Castles. Originally posted here. Ned has only been gone a few hours, will likely return before the week is out, but Winterfell feels colder and emptier in his absence.
Catelyn lights the lamps in her chambers and changes into the simple shift she wears to bed. She pours a cup of wine and settles into the chair beside the window; the sky is heavy and dark, and she watches the stars wink through the clouds as she combs her hair and braids it into a loose tail. She sighs quietly, stretching her legs, tipping her head back against the chair. Her feet hurt by the end of the day as they never had when she was younger, and a slow ache has spread through her back, narrowing into the well of her spine -- Rickon still likes to be carried as often as not, despite being taller and heavier than he'd been just a month before.
The soft knock at her door is not unexpected, but it still startles her slightly, unnerving her in a way at itches under her skin. She takes another swallow of wine as it slowly creaks open, tries to wash away the sickly heat twisting in her stomach, the warm flush pushing up the back of her neck, into her jaw.
Jon pauses in the doorway for a moment, his hand curled at the lintel, the shadows from the hallway pressing in close behind him. He's dressed in his night clothes, a plain tunic and a pair of breeches that sit crookedly on his hips, and he lingers in the open too long -- long enough that Catelyn wonders if he's hoping to be caught, if he's hoping to shame her, to bare her indiscretions to the whole keep. She starts to tell him to leave, but the light twists in just the wrong way, softening the angles of his face, and her breath catches in the back of her throat, her mouth suddenly dry.
He looks more like Ned with each passing day -- a younger Ned, a Ned without grey in his hair and scars on his body from two different wars, the Ned Catelyn had married at Riverrun in the middle of a rebellion, the solemn stranger she hadn't yet loved.
The door groans loudly as Jon closes it behind him, the sound shrilling into the stillness of her chambers in a way that sets her teeth on edge. He doesn't speak to her, hasn't since the first time he came to her, telling her what he wanted with a quiet boldness that had stunned her into silence, had left her too fumbling and witless to answer him with the slap he'd deserved. He kneels between her legs, his hands steady as he gathers up the folds of her shift, and the shadows change his face again, hiding the darker grey of his eyes, the sharper point of his chin. She remembers the first time Ned had put his mouth on her, on her third night as the Lady of Winterfell; the naked intimacy of the act had shocked her, as well as the desperate, thrumming rush of her release, but the relentless swirl and press of Ned's tongue had also felt like an apology -- for leaving her after two weeks of marriage to fight another man's war, for returning from that war with another woman's son.
Jon brushes his fingers over her knees, slides his hands up her thighs, noses at the hair curling around her sex as he slowly pushes her open, his breath soft and warm, slightly uneven. He leans into her, drawing his knuckles over her, stroking his thumbs into the creases of her hips; he rubs his cheek along the inside of her thigh, his skin rough with stubble, flushed and burning hot, and she swallows the noise building in her throat, shifts closer to him despite knowing she should shove him away.
He licks into her softly, flicking his tongue over her entrance, slipping it up to the nub at the top of her sex, curling it there before dipping it back down, every touch too quick, too light, not quite enough. His tongue comes up to her nub again, hot and slick, fluttering just underneath it, and Catelyn nearly hisses in frustration; she wants him to finish this and get out, shouldn't have allowed this to happen in the first place. She knots her hand in his hair -- the same texture as Ned's, but thicker, a little darker -- and pulls his mouth down where she wants it, where he can slide his tongue into her, press it inside her.
She makes the mistake of looking at him, catches him watching her, his eyes wide and dark, slightly different than Ned's, but close enough that it makes no matter, not when his mouth is on her, when his hands are on her skin, when one of her legs has hooked over his shoulder. A fresh wave of guilt twists through her belly, sharp against the slow heat thrumming under her skin, the pressure building from the feel of Jon's lips and tongue. She pulls on his hair again, tugging his mouth back up to her nub, curling her other hand into a tight fist as his lip drags over it, as he licks at her, harder and faster, but still not close enough; she slides her hand down to the back of his neck, holding his head, lifting her hips to meet his mouth.
Jon closes his eyes, leaning into the touch despite how rough it is, a low moan catching the in the back of his throat. He curves his hands underneath her, bringing her closer to his mouth, holding her still as he pushes his mouth against her; he presses a slow, slippery kiss to her nub, sucking on it, brushing it with his tongue, and Catelyn gasps sharply, biting her lip to muffle the sound, her release peaking in a sudden, furious rush.
Catelyn tries to draw away from him -- this has gone on long enough, has already gone too far -- but he holds her still, pinning her in the chair, and he slides his mouth down to her entrance, thrusting his tongue back inside her, digging his fingers into her hips when she hisses and tugs sharply on his hair. Her release was quicker and harsher this time, sharp flares under her skin instead of a slow, liquid heat; Jon lifted his mouth to her nub, curling his tongue over it as he slipped one finger inside her, and she shuddered desperately, her eyes closed and her hand shaking as she pushed his head away.
He sat back on his heels, hard and curving inside his breeches, his hair wild and his face wet with her; she turned toward the window as he found his feet, watched the moon disappear behind a cloud as he let himself out.