![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
asoiaf/got ficlet: all these moments
Written for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
honey_wheeler, who wanted Jon to be the little spoon.
all these moments
Jon/Sam | adult | ~800 words
The sun has started to rise, pinkish light just beginning to push across the heavy sky; Jon knows he should probably wake Sam, so they can wash and dress for breakfast, so they can get ready for another day of bruises on the training yard, but Jon can't quite find the energy to move, doesn't want to leave the warm, comfortable curve of Sam's body.
Hardin's Tower is broken and old, quietly crumbling, wind and snow creeping in through the cracks in the mortar. The cells there are colder than the common barracks, not by much, but enough -- a little extra heat means quite a bit this far north. Jon found a few spare furs his first weeks at the Wall, and Ghost often sleeps at the foot of Jon's bed, his head resting on his huge paws and his belly a soft weight against Jon's toes, but Jon is warmest when he has Sam with him, when Sam is stretched out behind him, his chest pressed to Jon's back and his arm wrapped around Jon's waist.
The sun has started to rise, pinkish light just beginning to push across the heavy sky; Jon knows he should probably wake Sam, so they can wash and dress for breakfast, so they can get ready for another day of bruises on the training yard, but Jon can't quite find the energy to move, doesn't want to leave the warm, comfortable curve of Sam's body. Sam is breathing against the back of Jon's neck, slow and even, his lips just touching Jon's skin; Jon stretches his legs a little, hooking his foot around Sam's ankle, and Sam murmurs quietly into Jon's hair, slides his hand up to Jon's hip and holds it there, almost squeezing.
"Are you awake?" Jon asks, turning his head slightly.
"Five more minutes," Sam replies sleepily, his mouth brushing the shell of Jon's ear, and Jon knows he shouldn't close his eyes again, because five minutes will become ten or fifteen, even twenty, until they are late enough that they'll have to eat their bread while standing in the yard, but Sam kisses Jon's neck, and he runs his hand up Jon's chest, curling it under Jon's chin, his thumb tracing the line of Jon's jaw. His cock his hard against Jon's ass, and he pulls Jon closer when Jon presses back into him, makes a low, throaty sound into the curve of Jon's shoulder.
Jon thinks of doing this properly, of rolling over and sliding his leg over Sam's, of pushing his tongue into Sam's mouth as he wraps his hand around Sam's cock, of starting the morning with bruises from Sam's fingers and teeth instead of the blunt tip of a practice sword, but Sam's hand slides down his chest before he can move. He strokes Jon through the front of his breeches, tracing the hard line of Jon's cock with his knuckle, rubbing it slowly with the heel of his hand, and Jon moans quietly, tips his head back against Sam's shoulder, turning just enough to nose at Sam's cheek, to press his lips to Sam's jaw.
"I'm still not awake," Sam complains, his voice a rough, throaty burr that makes the heat in Jon's belly twist and flare, and Jon pushes back against him again, smiling as Sam's hips arch forward, as Sam's teeth catch the well of his lip, as Sam's fingers knot into his hair, pulling just hard enough to make him gasp. He wants to slip his hand between them, wants to rub Sam's cock the same way Sam is rubbing his, but there isn't enough space, not when Sam is pressed so close, when he can't seem to slow the steady roll of his hips; Jon slides his hand over Sam's thigh instead, curling his fingers into the fabric of Sam's breeches as he tries to pull Sam even closer.
They find a slow, easy rhythm, their bodies shifting and sliding together, Jon twisting between the hard press of Sam's cock and the sweet weight of his hand, the sun peeking in through the window, painting the furs in bright patches of light. Jon wishes he'd woken early enough to take Sam in his mouth, to have Sam hard and hot against his tongue, to feel Sam's thighs tighten and tremble under his hands; he spends with his lips pressed to Sam's and his fingers digging into the skin at Sam's hip, his foot brushing over Sam's shin as Sam sighs and shudders against him.
"How about now?" Jon asks, stretching back into the pillows. His night breeches are a wet mess, and he supposes Sam's are as well, but they have washing duty today, won't be caught out if they're careful.
Sam grumbles under his breath, his eyes still bleary; he leans in and wraps his hand in the front of Jon's tunic, kisses Jon until they are both half-hard again, until Ghost pads over and noses at Jon's shoulder, trying to tell them they are going to be late for breakfast.
honey_wheeler, who wanted Jon to be the little spoon.all these moments
Jon/Sam | adult | ~800 words
The sun has started to rise, pinkish light just beginning to push across the heavy sky; Jon knows he should probably wake Sam, so they can wash and dress for breakfast, so they can get ready for another day of bruises on the training yard, but Jon can't quite find the energy to move, doesn't want to leave the warm, comfortable curve of Sam's body.
Hardin's Tower is broken and old, quietly crumbling, wind and snow creeping in through the cracks in the mortar. The cells there are colder than the common barracks, not by much, but enough -- a little extra heat means quite a bit this far north. Jon found a few spare furs his first weeks at the Wall, and Ghost often sleeps at the foot of Jon's bed, his head resting on his huge paws and his belly a soft weight against Jon's toes, but Jon is warmest when he has Sam with him, when Sam is stretched out behind him, his chest pressed to Jon's back and his arm wrapped around Jon's waist.
The sun has started to rise, pinkish light just beginning to push across the heavy sky; Jon knows he should probably wake Sam, so they can wash and dress for breakfast, so they can get ready for another day of bruises on the training yard, but Jon can't quite find the energy to move, doesn't want to leave the warm, comfortable curve of Sam's body. Sam is breathing against the back of Jon's neck, slow and even, his lips just touching Jon's skin; Jon stretches his legs a little, hooking his foot around Sam's ankle, and Sam murmurs quietly into Jon's hair, slides his hand up to Jon's hip and holds it there, almost squeezing.
"Are you awake?" Jon asks, turning his head slightly.
"Five more minutes," Sam replies sleepily, his mouth brushing the shell of Jon's ear, and Jon knows he shouldn't close his eyes again, because five minutes will become ten or fifteen, even twenty, until they are late enough that they'll have to eat their bread while standing in the yard, but Sam kisses Jon's neck, and he runs his hand up Jon's chest, curling it under Jon's chin, his thumb tracing the line of Jon's jaw. His cock his hard against Jon's ass, and he pulls Jon closer when Jon presses back into him, makes a low, throaty sound into the curve of Jon's shoulder.
Jon thinks of doing this properly, of rolling over and sliding his leg over Sam's, of pushing his tongue into Sam's mouth as he wraps his hand around Sam's cock, of starting the morning with bruises from Sam's fingers and teeth instead of the blunt tip of a practice sword, but Sam's hand slides down his chest before he can move. He strokes Jon through the front of his breeches, tracing the hard line of Jon's cock with his knuckle, rubbing it slowly with the heel of his hand, and Jon moans quietly, tips his head back against Sam's shoulder, turning just enough to nose at Sam's cheek, to press his lips to Sam's jaw.
"I'm still not awake," Sam complains, his voice a rough, throaty burr that makes the heat in Jon's belly twist and flare, and Jon pushes back against him again, smiling as Sam's hips arch forward, as Sam's teeth catch the well of his lip, as Sam's fingers knot into his hair, pulling just hard enough to make him gasp. He wants to slip his hand between them, wants to rub Sam's cock the same way Sam is rubbing his, but there isn't enough space, not when Sam is pressed so close, when he can't seem to slow the steady roll of his hips; Jon slides his hand over Sam's thigh instead, curling his fingers into the fabric of Sam's breeches as he tries to pull Sam even closer.
They find a slow, easy rhythm, their bodies shifting and sliding together, Jon twisting between the hard press of Sam's cock and the sweet weight of his hand, the sun peeking in through the window, painting the furs in bright patches of light. Jon wishes he'd woken early enough to take Sam in his mouth, to have Sam hard and hot against his tongue, to feel Sam's thighs tighten and tremble under his hands; he spends with his lips pressed to Sam's and his fingers digging into the skin at Sam's hip, his foot brushing over Sam's shin as Sam sighs and shudders against him.
"How about now?" Jon asks, stretching back into the pillows. His night breeches are a wet mess, and he supposes Sam's are as well, but they have washing duty today, won't be caught out if they're careful.
Sam grumbles under his breath, his eyes still bleary; he leans in and wraps his hand in the front of Jon's tunic, kisses Jon until they are both half-hard again, until Ghost pads over and noses at Jon's shoulder, trying to tell them they are going to be late for breakfast.