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asoiaf/got fic: hardest of hearts
Title: hardest of hearts
Pairing: Jon/Stannis
Rating: NC17
Words: ~1,600
Summary: Jon had not intended to kiss him, but Stannis had been standing so close, had seemed so warm and solid against Jon's side, and Jon had leaned in before he could think better of it, the beer as heavy in his blood as the exhausting pulling at his skin, too tired and frustrated and frayed around the edges to stop and consider his actions.
Notes: Written for the Porn Battle at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
gameofships, for the prompt Jon/Stannis - darkness, warmth, negotiations.
hardest of hearts
Jon wakes to near darkness and a dull, sullen headache nagging at his temples, throbbing behind his eyes, the fire burning low, hissing and popping as it starts to expire, his bare foot peeking out from beneath the furs, freezing where it hangs over the edge of the mattress. He inches up toward the head of the bed, grumbling as he kicks at the furs, shivering as he tries to tuck his foot back inside them; he bites the inside of his cheek as he notices the hand resting at his hip, the warm weight pressed against his back, his stomach twisting into a sharp, sickly knot, last night's beer still sour on the flat of his tongue.
They had argued well into the evening, Stannis demanding more men, more supplies, more castles, more everything, Jon hoping to hold on to what little the Wall still had to call its own, and they had tried to ease their conversation the only way they could, with cup after cup of the thick, yeasty beer brewed in the ice cells at Shadow Tower, drinking until Jon's eyes had started to droop, until Stannis' voice had grown somewhat softer, less gruff. Jon had not intended to kiss him, but Stannis had been standing so close, had seemed so warm and solid against Jon's side, and Jon had leaned in before he could think better of it, the beer as heavy in his blood as the exhaustion pulling at his skin, too tired and frustrated and frayed around the edges to stop and consider his actions. He has been lonely since Sam made him Lord Commander, lonely and incredibly cold; he no longer has friends among the black brothers, cannot huddle for warmth with Satin or Edd as he had with Sam or Pyp or Grenn when he'd still been a recruit.
Stannis shifts behind him, making a slow, sleepy noise that sounds nothing like the king who has become a burr tangled in Jon's fur, a splinter wedged beneath Jon's skin, nothing like the man who had returned Jon's kiss after a heartbeat of hesitation, who had pulled Jon closer, who had pushed his hands under Jon's jerkin, who had murmured against Jon's mouth as he bore Jon down onto the bed. Jon knows he should leave now, go back to his own chambers before Stannis wakes, but Jon is naked, his clothing a messy shadow beside the hearth, and Stannis' cock his hard against his arse, and he likes the feel of it there, as shameful as that is. Ygritte's death still haunts him, her ghost a hollow hole in his chest he cannot seem to fill or bury or chase away, but he hasn't yet forgotten what feels like to want someone, to have someone want him, to feel someone else's hands on his skin. His thighs still ache from having Stannis between them, an easy burn in his muscles that makes heat curl into the low of his gut; he will have dark bruises on his hips by this time tomorrow, a sweet reminder of how tightly Stannis had held him, of how Stannis had pinned Jon to the bed as Jon arched and shook underneath him.
The fire is nearly dead, the embers glowing faintly enough that Jon will have trouble dressing if he waits much longer; he figures it is well past the middle of the night, perhaps two or three hours before dawn. I should leave him now, before he wakes, Jon thinks, blinking at the darkness, at the strange, soft shadows made by Stannis' table of maps, by Jon's breeches and boots, by the chair Stannis takes his meals in, Jon's cloak hanging over the back of it like a curtain. If the gods are good, he won't hear it, and he will remember less than I do, if he remembers anything at all. Jon fumbles with the furs, his hands shaking as he starts to ease them away, but Stannis shifts again, his hand stroking up to Jon's waist, his fingers splayed wide, five hot points of contact pressing into Jon's skin; Jon feels warm breath stirring his hair, lips brushing the back of his neck, and the air leaves him in a sudden rush, a startled gasp that seems sharp and urgent, painfully loud in the heavy silence.
"You ought to have returned to your own bed, boy," Stannis says, his mouth open at the spot where Jon's neck meets his shoulder.
Jon nods slowly, biting his lip as he tries to find his voice. "I know." He edges away from Stannis, pushing and kicking at the furs as he starts to sit up, but Stannis grumbles under his breath, wrapping his other arm around Jon's chest, his hand heavy and warm at the hollow of Jon's throat, holding Jon still. He presses closer to Jon with a quiet sigh, his cock sliding over the swell of Jon's arse; his hand twitches at Jon's waist, then slides away, pausing at Jon's hip before smoothing through the hair arrowing away from Jon's navel.
"Is this what you wanted?" Stannis asks, his hand large and rough at the base of Jon's cock, his fingers and palm calloused from gripping a sword. "Is this what you hoped for when you decided to sleep here?"
"Yes," Jon admits, heat burning in his cheeks, shamed by his honor and his vows and the thought of Ygritte, who he had at least loved, who he had left behind only to watch die, but Stannis is here and alive, just as warm and solid as he had been last night, breathing against the back of Jon's neck, nosing at the hair curling behind Jon's ear, and Jon wants to feel this at least once more, wants to have Stannis' tongue in his mouth again, Stannis' stubble rasping against his skin, Stannis' thumbs pressing bruises into the creases of his thighs.
Stannis grumbles again, a gruff and wordless noise, his tone almost lighter than it had been before, and he strokes Jon's cock slowly, his wrist twisting as his hand drags up the length of it, his arm braced on Jon's hip, pinning Jon in place as he presses closer, his mouth sliding up the line of Jon's neck as he rubs his cock against Jon's arse. The heat in Jon's belly is a living thing, flaring brightly as it gathers and sparks; he remembers how Stannis had been last night, twisting his fingers into Jon's hair, sucking wet bruises into the sweep of Jon's collarbone, kissing Jon hard and deep as he had thrust his cock along Jon's hip, and Jon twists against him, pressing back against his cock as hard as he pushes into his hand, turning his head enough to fit his lips against Stannis', swallowing a moan as he slides his tongue into Stannis' mouth.
"You needn't bother being quiet," Stannis rumbles, running his hand down Jon's chest, hiding Jon's nipple under his thumb. "It is too dark to see you -- you could at least let me hear you."
Jon closes his eyes, gasping out a low, desperate noise that seems loud despite Stannis' ragged breathing and the thundering of his own heart, a noise that should shame him as much as the restless, wanton roll of his hips, but Stannis murmurs against the hinge of his jaw, his lips parting and his tongue hot and wet against Jon's skin, and he curls his hand tighter around Jon's cock, stroking Jon harder and rougher and faster. He twists his arm back behind his body, wanting to touch Stannis as Stannis is touching him, wanting to wrap his hand around Stannis' cock, wanting to feel Stannis fucking into his fist, but Stannis is pressed too closely against him, won't slow the steady push and pull of his hips; he slides his hand over Stannis' thigh instead, soft hair prickling under his palm, his fingernails biting into Stannis' skin as he spends with a hoarse moan and a sharp jerk of his hips.
Stannis rolls Jon onto his belly before he can catch his breath, pushing Jon down into the furs and shifting on top of him, his hands tight at Jon's hips as he rubs himself against Jon's arse, against the small of Jon's back, his mouth open and wet at the stretch between Jon's shoulderblades, then at the back of Jon's neck, sucking a slow line of aching bruises Jon hopes he can hide with his gorget once they mottle and bloom. Stannis moves against his slowly, his legs tangled with Jon's, his thumbs digging into the dips at the base of Jon's spine, but Jon finds he likes the warm weight of him, the feel of Stannis' chest against his back, the soft, urgent noises Stannis makes into his hair, the way Stannis' lips brush against the shell of his ear, the way Stannis stills when he spends, his teeth at the curve of Jon's shoulder and his seed hot and wet against Jon's skin.
Stannis lingers for a moment, his hand stroking through Jon's hair as he catches his breath, wiping Jon's back with the tail of one of the linens before shifting off him and stretching out beside him. The silence is thin and strange, pulling at something tight and uncomfortable underneath Jon's skin; he leans up on his elbows, sighing quietly as he starts to move away, but Stannis curls his hand around the back of Jon's neck, squeezing slightly.
"Does your steward expect you?" he asks, his voice slow and careful.
"I doubt it," Jon says quietly. "Satin isn't -- I sometimes walk the Wall at night."
"You needn't hurry back then," Stannis rumbles, his thumb brushing the skin behind Jon's ear. "We still have a few hours until dawn."
Pairing: Jon/Stannis
Rating: NC17
Words: ~1,600
Summary: Jon had not intended to kiss him, but Stannis had been standing so close, had seemed so warm and solid against Jon's side, and Jon had leaned in before he could think better of it, the beer as heavy in his blood as the exhausting pulling at his skin, too tired and frustrated and frayed around the edges to stop and consider his actions.
Notes: Written for the Porn Battle at
gameofships, for the prompt Jon/Stannis - darkness, warmth, negotiations.Jon wakes to near darkness and a dull, sullen headache nagging at his temples, throbbing behind his eyes, the fire burning low, hissing and popping as it starts to expire, his bare foot peeking out from beneath the furs, freezing where it hangs over the edge of the mattress. He inches up toward the head of the bed, grumbling as he kicks at the furs, shivering as he tries to tuck his foot back inside them; he bites the inside of his cheek as he notices the hand resting at his hip, the warm weight pressed against his back, his stomach twisting into a sharp, sickly knot, last night's beer still sour on the flat of his tongue.
They had argued well into the evening, Stannis demanding more men, more supplies, more castles, more everything, Jon hoping to hold on to what little the Wall still had to call its own, and they had tried to ease their conversation the only way they could, with cup after cup of the thick, yeasty beer brewed in the ice cells at Shadow Tower, drinking until Jon's eyes had started to droop, until Stannis' voice had grown somewhat softer, less gruff. Jon had not intended to kiss him, but Stannis had been standing so close, had seemed so warm and solid against Jon's side, and Jon had leaned in before he could think better of it, the beer as heavy in his blood as the exhaustion pulling at his skin, too tired and frustrated and frayed around the edges to stop and consider his actions. He has been lonely since Sam made him Lord Commander, lonely and incredibly cold; he no longer has friends among the black brothers, cannot huddle for warmth with Satin or Edd as he had with Sam or Pyp or Grenn when he'd still been a recruit.
Stannis shifts behind him, making a slow, sleepy noise that sounds nothing like the king who has become a burr tangled in Jon's fur, a splinter wedged beneath Jon's skin, nothing like the man who had returned Jon's kiss after a heartbeat of hesitation, who had pulled Jon closer, who had pushed his hands under Jon's jerkin, who had murmured against Jon's mouth as he bore Jon down onto the bed. Jon knows he should leave now, go back to his own chambers before Stannis wakes, but Jon is naked, his clothing a messy shadow beside the hearth, and Stannis' cock his hard against his arse, and he likes the feel of it there, as shameful as that is. Ygritte's death still haunts him, her ghost a hollow hole in his chest he cannot seem to fill or bury or chase away, but he hasn't yet forgotten what feels like to want someone, to have someone want him, to feel someone else's hands on his skin. His thighs still ache from having Stannis between them, an easy burn in his muscles that makes heat curl into the low of his gut; he will have dark bruises on his hips by this time tomorrow, a sweet reminder of how tightly Stannis had held him, of how Stannis had pinned Jon to the bed as Jon arched and shook underneath him.
The fire is nearly dead, the embers glowing faintly enough that Jon will have trouble dressing if he waits much longer; he figures it is well past the middle of the night, perhaps two or three hours before dawn. I should leave him now, before he wakes, Jon thinks, blinking at the darkness, at the strange, soft shadows made by Stannis' table of maps, by Jon's breeches and boots, by the chair Stannis takes his meals in, Jon's cloak hanging over the back of it like a curtain. If the gods are good, he won't hear it, and he will remember less than I do, if he remembers anything at all. Jon fumbles with the furs, his hands shaking as he starts to ease them away, but Stannis shifts again, his hand stroking up to Jon's waist, his fingers splayed wide, five hot points of contact pressing into Jon's skin; Jon feels warm breath stirring his hair, lips brushing the back of his neck, and the air leaves him in a sudden rush, a startled gasp that seems sharp and urgent, painfully loud in the heavy silence.
"You ought to have returned to your own bed, boy," Stannis says, his mouth open at the spot where Jon's neck meets his shoulder.
Jon nods slowly, biting his lip as he tries to find his voice. "I know." He edges away from Stannis, pushing and kicking at the furs as he starts to sit up, but Stannis grumbles under his breath, wrapping his other arm around Jon's chest, his hand heavy and warm at the hollow of Jon's throat, holding Jon still. He presses closer to Jon with a quiet sigh, his cock sliding over the swell of Jon's arse; his hand twitches at Jon's waist, then slides away, pausing at Jon's hip before smoothing through the hair arrowing away from Jon's navel.
"Is this what you wanted?" Stannis asks, his hand large and rough at the base of Jon's cock, his fingers and palm calloused from gripping a sword. "Is this what you hoped for when you decided to sleep here?"
"Yes," Jon admits, heat burning in his cheeks, shamed by his honor and his vows and the thought of Ygritte, who he had at least loved, who he had left behind only to watch die, but Stannis is here and alive, just as warm and solid as he had been last night, breathing against the back of Jon's neck, nosing at the hair curling behind Jon's ear, and Jon wants to feel this at least once more, wants to have Stannis' tongue in his mouth again, Stannis' stubble rasping against his skin, Stannis' thumbs pressing bruises into the creases of his thighs.
Stannis grumbles again, a gruff and wordless noise, his tone almost lighter than it had been before, and he strokes Jon's cock slowly, his wrist twisting as his hand drags up the length of it, his arm braced on Jon's hip, pinning Jon in place as he presses closer, his mouth sliding up the line of Jon's neck as he rubs his cock against Jon's arse. The heat in Jon's belly is a living thing, flaring brightly as it gathers and sparks; he remembers how Stannis had been last night, twisting his fingers into Jon's hair, sucking wet bruises into the sweep of Jon's collarbone, kissing Jon hard and deep as he had thrust his cock along Jon's hip, and Jon twists against him, pressing back against his cock as hard as he pushes into his hand, turning his head enough to fit his lips against Stannis', swallowing a moan as he slides his tongue into Stannis' mouth.
"You needn't bother being quiet," Stannis rumbles, running his hand down Jon's chest, hiding Jon's nipple under his thumb. "It is too dark to see you -- you could at least let me hear you."
Jon closes his eyes, gasping out a low, desperate noise that seems loud despite Stannis' ragged breathing and the thundering of his own heart, a noise that should shame him as much as the restless, wanton roll of his hips, but Stannis murmurs against the hinge of his jaw, his lips parting and his tongue hot and wet against Jon's skin, and he curls his hand tighter around Jon's cock, stroking Jon harder and rougher and faster. He twists his arm back behind his body, wanting to touch Stannis as Stannis is touching him, wanting to wrap his hand around Stannis' cock, wanting to feel Stannis fucking into his fist, but Stannis is pressed too closely against him, won't slow the steady push and pull of his hips; he slides his hand over Stannis' thigh instead, soft hair prickling under his palm, his fingernails biting into Stannis' skin as he spends with a hoarse moan and a sharp jerk of his hips.
Stannis rolls Jon onto his belly before he can catch his breath, pushing Jon down into the furs and shifting on top of him, his hands tight at Jon's hips as he rubs himself against Jon's arse, against the small of Jon's back, his mouth open and wet at the stretch between Jon's shoulderblades, then at the back of Jon's neck, sucking a slow line of aching bruises Jon hopes he can hide with his gorget once they mottle and bloom. Stannis moves against his slowly, his legs tangled with Jon's, his thumbs digging into the dips at the base of Jon's spine, but Jon finds he likes the warm weight of him, the feel of Stannis' chest against his back, the soft, urgent noises Stannis makes into his hair, the way Stannis' lips brush against the shell of his ear, the way Stannis stills when he spends, his teeth at the curve of Jon's shoulder and his seed hot and wet against Jon's skin.
Stannis lingers for a moment, his hand stroking through Jon's hair as he catches his breath, wiping Jon's back with the tail of one of the linens before shifting off him and stretching out beside him. The silence is thin and strange, pulling at something tight and uncomfortable underneath Jon's skin; he leans up on his elbows, sighing quietly as he starts to move away, but Stannis curls his hand around the back of Jon's neck, squeezing slightly.
"Does your steward expect you?" he asks, his voice slow and careful.
"I doubt it," Jon says quietly. "Satin isn't -- I sometimes walk the Wall at night."
"You needn't hurry back then," Stannis rumbles, his thumb brushing the skin behind Jon's ear. "We still have a few hours until dawn."