GoT fic: Handfuls of Leaves
This took forever to write. One, because I’ve never written Game of Thrones before. But mostly, two, it’s hard to type with one of your middle fingers in a q-tip and paper tape splint. I was trying to cut an onion and instead did a number on the middle joint in my finger and have to keep it straight so it will close up properly. The moral of this pre-story story is Don’t Do as Donny Don’t Does and this week I’m your model for Donny Don’t.
Title: Handfuls of Leaves
Author: nightanddaze
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Robb Stark/Jon Snow
Word Count: 1371
Summary: The Old Gods are not alone today
Warnings: half-sibling incest
Notes: For B, who tells me about this pairing and has birthdays sometimes whether she likes them or not. I live to serve her whims when I’m not twisting her arm to serve mine.
Robb is older, but only by, their lord father says, a handful of falling leaves. He uses every single leaf when he can though, pushing when he’s younger, pointing the tip of his wooden sword when he’s a little older, talking all the time.
Now, he looks. He has an expressive face, a Tully face, and he has learned how to use it. When Rickon’s clinging or Arya and Sansa’s bickering is too much his eyebrows go flat and his mouth thins out and if that doesn’t stop them then Jon does. When he’s listening to a story he likes his eyebrows go up and his mouth tips up to the side. When he’s angry, when he’s sad, when he’s anything, he has looks.
When he wants his eyes go a little dark like he’s angry and his mouth curves down like he’s thinking. It doesn’t look anything like the wanting looks on the whores in the taverns. But they’re hungry for gold and time free of drunks and Robb is not.
Jon is in the godswood, sitting on the stump his father prefers, and he can see the look on Robb’s face from yards away. He scuffs his boots through the red leaves on the ground, feeling caught between the tree behind him and Robb striding up.
Robb rounds the pool, walking with all the confidence he has, although Jon can see his face cracking, his wanting mouth ticking up. Jon looks around, but they’re alone, everyone busy. Besides, their father is the only one who really ever comes to the godswoods and he’s always in meetings now, listening to the whispers from the south.
“You’re late,” Jon says.
Robb gives him his don’t be stupid look. “I’m not.”
“You are.”
Robb raises his eyebrows and purses his lips. Everything I say is the truth.
Jon rolls his eyes and for a second Robb frowns but then he chuckles. “Maybe I am then. I was with my mother and Bran.”
Sometimes the word mother gets between them but today Jon wants other things and won’t be stopped by a word.
“It’s alright,” he says and stands. “I wasn’t waiting long.”
*
The leaves of most of the trees are yellow and brown. The leaves of the weirwood are red, not like the red of Robb’s hair, which is deep and rich, kingly.
The inside of Rob’s mouth is the same colour as the weirdwood leaves, bright blood red. Jon can see it when he gasps for his breath after kisses, stark against his white teeth and his pink tongue.
“You can run,” Jon tells him as he unfastens his cloak, “around the yard a thousand times without being winded, but three kisses disarm you?”
Robb pants, forcing his face into a look of reproach. “They do not-“
Jon feels for the way into his doublet. “What do the women say?” he teases
Robb grips his sleeve tight, swords in his eyes. But before he can say anything Jon is pressing down, licking the underside of his chin, laying gentle teeth to the apple in his throat. Robb is quiet but his fingers are hard on Jon, pushy.
*
Their time is short and so they must hurry. Still, Jon finds the time to bite bruises into Robb’s torso, under the line of his unlaced breeches where the skin is smooth. When he looks up Robb is either looking up at the sky or down at Jon. His face is full of yearning.
Jon gets up on his elbows.
Robb holds the back of his neck, ragged fingernails biting in. “You will not make me beg,” he commands, ever the lordling.
“I won’t,” Jon agrees, biting the tips of his gloves, pulling his hand free. He tosses his glove to the side, amongst the leaves. He can smell the leather on his knuckles. No doubt Robb can taste the same when Jon pushes two of his fingers into Robb’s mouth.
Anyone else, anything else and Robb would be furious, looking for a fight. But here in the godswood with no one to see him but Jon Robb sinks into the blanket of leaves and moans, sucking on Jon’s fingers.
Jon can feel the hungry pulls up his arm, through his chest, down to his cock. He gets his free hand around Robb’s cock, feeling Robb’s body thrum, kissing the head of it. Robb tastes sweaty and sour, like hard days fighting and riding.
Jon sucks him until he’s clean, tasting like the reflection of Jon’s own mouth, licking from the base to the head, listening to the rough sounds of his breath. Then he keeps sucking, keeping his tongue broad and flat so his mouth can move easily.
With one hand he holds Robb's cock straight, the point of his elbow resting on the hardness of Robb's thigh. His other hand rests against Robb's beard, his fingers skating over Robb's tongue that's always moving.
Robb's hands come up to touch his hair, winding in so tight he might lose some of it if he's not careful, knuckles brushing his skull. He doesn't care, not when they're so close.
Perhaps it's been a while because Robb is restless, heels finding purchase in the leaves so he can push up into Jon's mouth, his mouth sucking and gasping. Jon has to work to concentrate, push away the wants of his body. Those are not important.
He sucks at the head and Robb shivers, his body going strong and then giving. He says something around Jon's fingers but it gets lost, reduced to a pushy tone. But Jon understands well enough, hunching his shoulders, sucking with his mouth and pushing with his fingers until Robb chokes and bows, bending almost over Jon, biting down as he comes.
Like this Jon can't see his face, can only hear and swallow and feel the pain of Robb's teeth and his fingers. He feels swollen and desperate when he can finally wrench his mouth away from Robb. Breathing burns for a few moments.
Robb doesn't let go of Jon's hair, but he doesn't move any other way either. He just looks at Jon, his mouth wet with his own saliva, the neck of his tunic pulled to the side, wrecked.
Jon keeps his gaze.
Robb curses. "You-" he says, moving hands and body to throw Jon down in the silhouette of his body in the dirt, scratching at his breeches.
He sits on Jon's thighs, holding the left one down with a hard hand and touches with the other. That one point of immobilization makes it all the quicker, Jon's muscles pushing up, throbbing under Robb's palm as Robb jerks him off.
Jon holds onto the ground with one hand and Robb with the other. He doesn't waste any time with the sky; he only looks at Robb, at the deep look of concentration and pleasure on his handsome face.
*
They have to go. There's no time to take a walk or get some swords. Robb has whispers to listen to and Jon has thoughts of the North to think. Still, there's time to help fix cloaks and brush broken leaves from hair.
His fingers deep in Jon's hair again, looking for blood-red specks, Robb says, "You're very good at that," clearly contemplating that even while he speaks.
Jon's face goes hot. He shrugs.
"Have you," Robb asks, his hands coming free, flicking down a piece of leaf, "done it before?"
His face betrays some vague frustration. Jon shakes his head quickly.
"No," he says, just as quick, lest Theon appear from behind the weirwood or out of thin air to pick up the compliment and turn it into some horrible teasing Jon will never outgrow.
Robb nods, his face picking up again. He turns in a circle for inspection and when Jon picks off the last leaf clinging to his neck they start to walk back. Robb walks lightly, his shoulder bumping into Jon's.
The wind picks up and when Jon looks back it's swirling the leaves, erasing any sign of their being there. When he looks back Robb is looking at him, smiling the way he does when he's happy with Jon, with everything.
Title: Handfuls of Leaves
Author: nightanddaze
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Robb Stark/Jon Snow
Word Count: 1371
Summary: The Old Gods are not alone today
Warnings: half-sibling incest
Notes: For B, who tells me about this pairing and has birthdays sometimes whether she likes them or not. I live to serve her whims when I’m not twisting her arm to serve mine.
Robb is older, but only by, their lord father says, a handful of falling leaves. He uses every single leaf when he can though, pushing when he’s younger, pointing the tip of his wooden sword when he’s a little older, talking all the time.
Now, he looks. He has an expressive face, a Tully face, and he has learned how to use it. When Rickon’s clinging or Arya and Sansa’s bickering is too much his eyebrows go flat and his mouth thins out and if that doesn’t stop them then Jon does. When he’s listening to a story he likes his eyebrows go up and his mouth tips up to the side. When he’s angry, when he’s sad, when he’s anything, he has looks.
When he wants his eyes go a little dark like he’s angry and his mouth curves down like he’s thinking. It doesn’t look anything like the wanting looks on the whores in the taverns. But they’re hungry for gold and time free of drunks and Robb is not.
Jon is in the godswood, sitting on the stump his father prefers, and he can see the look on Robb’s face from yards away. He scuffs his boots through the red leaves on the ground, feeling caught between the tree behind him and Robb striding up.
Robb rounds the pool, walking with all the confidence he has, although Jon can see his face cracking, his wanting mouth ticking up. Jon looks around, but they’re alone, everyone busy. Besides, their father is the only one who really ever comes to the godswoods and he’s always in meetings now, listening to the whispers from the south.
“You’re late,” Jon says.
Robb gives him his don’t be stupid look. “I’m not.”
“You are.”
Robb raises his eyebrows and purses his lips. Everything I say is the truth.
Jon rolls his eyes and for a second Robb frowns but then he chuckles. “Maybe I am then. I was with my mother and Bran.”
Sometimes the word mother gets between them but today Jon wants other things and won’t be stopped by a word.
“It’s alright,” he says and stands. “I wasn’t waiting long.”
*
The leaves of most of the trees are yellow and brown. The leaves of the weirwood are red, not like the red of Robb’s hair, which is deep and rich, kingly.
The inside of Rob’s mouth is the same colour as the weirdwood leaves, bright blood red. Jon can see it when he gasps for his breath after kisses, stark against his white teeth and his pink tongue.
“You can run,” Jon tells him as he unfastens his cloak, “around the yard a thousand times without being winded, but three kisses disarm you?”
Robb pants, forcing his face into a look of reproach. “They do not-“
Jon feels for the way into his doublet. “What do the women say?” he teases
Robb grips his sleeve tight, swords in his eyes. But before he can say anything Jon is pressing down, licking the underside of his chin, laying gentle teeth to the apple in his throat. Robb is quiet but his fingers are hard on Jon, pushy.
*
Their time is short and so they must hurry. Still, Jon finds the time to bite bruises into Robb’s torso, under the line of his unlaced breeches where the skin is smooth. When he looks up Robb is either looking up at the sky or down at Jon. His face is full of yearning.
Jon gets up on his elbows.
Robb holds the back of his neck, ragged fingernails biting in. “You will not make me beg,” he commands, ever the lordling.
“I won’t,” Jon agrees, biting the tips of his gloves, pulling his hand free. He tosses his glove to the side, amongst the leaves. He can smell the leather on his knuckles. No doubt Robb can taste the same when Jon pushes two of his fingers into Robb’s mouth.
Anyone else, anything else and Robb would be furious, looking for a fight. But here in the godswood with no one to see him but Jon Robb sinks into the blanket of leaves and moans, sucking on Jon’s fingers.
Jon can feel the hungry pulls up his arm, through his chest, down to his cock. He gets his free hand around Robb’s cock, feeling Robb’s body thrum, kissing the head of it. Robb tastes sweaty and sour, like hard days fighting and riding.
Jon sucks him until he’s clean, tasting like the reflection of Jon’s own mouth, licking from the base to the head, listening to the rough sounds of his breath. Then he keeps sucking, keeping his tongue broad and flat so his mouth can move easily.
With one hand he holds Robb's cock straight, the point of his elbow resting on the hardness of Robb's thigh. His other hand rests against Robb's beard, his fingers skating over Robb's tongue that's always moving.
Robb's hands come up to touch his hair, winding in so tight he might lose some of it if he's not careful, knuckles brushing his skull. He doesn't care, not when they're so close.
Perhaps it's been a while because Robb is restless, heels finding purchase in the leaves so he can push up into Jon's mouth, his mouth sucking and gasping. Jon has to work to concentrate, push away the wants of his body. Those are not important.
He sucks at the head and Robb shivers, his body going strong and then giving. He says something around Jon's fingers but it gets lost, reduced to a pushy tone. But Jon understands well enough, hunching his shoulders, sucking with his mouth and pushing with his fingers until Robb chokes and bows, bending almost over Jon, biting down as he comes.
Like this Jon can't see his face, can only hear and swallow and feel the pain of Robb's teeth and his fingers. He feels swollen and desperate when he can finally wrench his mouth away from Robb. Breathing burns for a few moments.
Robb doesn't let go of Jon's hair, but he doesn't move any other way either. He just looks at Jon, his mouth wet with his own saliva, the neck of his tunic pulled to the side, wrecked.
Jon keeps his gaze.
Robb curses. "You-" he says, moving hands and body to throw Jon down in the silhouette of his body in the dirt, scratching at his breeches.
He sits on Jon's thighs, holding the left one down with a hard hand and touches with the other. That one point of immobilization makes it all the quicker, Jon's muscles pushing up, throbbing under Robb's palm as Robb jerks him off.
Jon holds onto the ground with one hand and Robb with the other. He doesn't waste any time with the sky; he only looks at Robb, at the deep look of concentration and pleasure on his handsome face.
*
They have to go. There's no time to take a walk or get some swords. Robb has whispers to listen to and Jon has thoughts of the North to think. Still, there's time to help fix cloaks and brush broken leaves from hair.
His fingers deep in Jon's hair again, looking for blood-red specks, Robb says, "You're very good at that," clearly contemplating that even while he speaks.
Jon's face goes hot. He shrugs.
"Have you," Robb asks, his hands coming free, flicking down a piece of leaf, "done it before?"
His face betrays some vague frustration. Jon shakes his head quickly.
"No," he says, just as quick, lest Theon appear from behind the weirwood or out of thin air to pick up the compliment and turn it into some horrible teasing Jon will never outgrow.
Robb nods, his face picking up again. He turns in a circle for inspection and when Jon picks off the last leaf clinging to his neck they start to walk back. Robb walks lightly, his shoulder bumping into Jon's.
The wind picks up and when Jon looks back it's swirling the leaves, erasing any sign of their being there. When he looks back Robb is looking at him, smiling the way he does when he's happy with Jon, with everything.