⊰MOODBOARD⊱THEODORE NOTT( requested by: @thcodorcnott ) soft, now; gently—flutter over the tick of a pulse, caressing the world’s throat. don’t squeeze too hard, don’t bite too deep. have patience, child; your time will come.
(words.) (got any requests?)
I want to live forever in a land where summer lasts a thousand years. I want a castle in the clouds where I can look down over the world. I want to be six-and-twenty again. When I was six-and-twenty I could fight all day and fuck all night. What men want does not matter. Winter is almost upon us, boy. And winter is death.I would sooner my men die fighting for the Ned’s little girl than alone and hungry in the snow, weeping tears that freeze upon their cheeks. No one sings songs of men who die like that. As for me, I am old. This will be my last winter. Let me bathe in Bolton blood before I die. I want to feel it spatter across my face when my axe bites deep into a Bolton skull. I want to lick it off my lips and die with the taste of it on my tongue.
Congrats on getting almost to 4k!!! Could I request Jun + Love Bites? ;)
Smuttier than you’d expect.
If there was something Jun greatly enjoyed, it was leaving little marks on you whenever you got intimate, whether it was just dry humping while making out or him pounding into you until his name was the only one you could remember.
While others left behind mere hickeys, Jun’s marks varied between those and downright bite marks, never anything deep enough to hurt you, but always deep enough to show for the next few days, although he did tend to leave them on places you could easily cover. It was mostly for his own enjoyment, really, but it was undeniable that whenever he managed to bite you at the right time (or suck on your skin, for that matter), it was exactly what threw you over the edge.
Jun supported himself with his arms as he looked down at you, breathing heavily with your cheeks tinted pink and your lips a bit puffy from all the passionate kisses you had been sharing. Slowly, he let his eyes wander down the trail of light hickeys on your chest from a few nights prior, and grinned.
“They’re fading,” he noted as he leaned down to kiss each and every hickey, and all of those soft kisses made you sigh quietly.
“Don’t they always,” you mumbled while taking your hands into Jun’s hair, playing with the brown strands while he kissed his way down to your hips.
“Yeah,” he hummed and made your back arch a little when he pressed a kiss to your clit, only to move down to your inner thighs with a grin on his face. “Which is why there’s ought to be a few new ones.”
You had barely enough time to understand what he meant when you felt him suck on a spot on your inner thigh, while one of his hands slid up your body to massage your breast. By then he was lying down on the bed on his stomach, trying so hard not to thrust into the mattress when you moaned and bucked your hips up in search for some touch, but in vain.
Jun left a few more hickeys on your inner thighs, each one making you incredibly worked up, before kissing his way back up your body, this time a lot faster. When he was back on your face level, he grinned at you, while you looked up at him as pleadingly as you could. His tone was teasing as he spoke. “You look like you’re about to ask something.”
Sighing, you wrapped your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist, your wetness pressing against his hard, clothed length. “Bite me.”
For my delightful and wonderful saltmate @baelerion
Trust and war paint
She stares at Jon, studying him carefully, his words not quite piercing her conscious. Jon fidgets under her gaze and flushes red, embarrassment now colouring his cheeks.
“You want me to do what?” She asks, laughter now bubbling within her voice. His offer seems so ridiculous and silly that she can’t do anything but laugh. Paint is for children and she is no child. She hasn’t been a child for a long time. Jon squirms and scowls at the laughter in her voice, now too embarrassed to even look at her.
“For the festival, I thought. It’s a wildling tradition.” His words fade into silence as he stumbles over what to say, his expression finally settling into that oh so familiar look of gloom. She bites her lip, something deep inside her, suddenly aching at the familiarity. There are many who say that Jon looks like their father and she guesses that they must be true. She cannot remember much of Ned Stark’s face, most of it has all faded into some faded blurry shape or the horror of her father’s head on a pike. She guesses that their bannersmen remember Ned Starks face more clearly than she does because most of the time she only sees Jon. Most times that is enough but sometimes it not and right now, right now she wants more.
She tries to shake her head and free herself of all her memories of her father but they root themselves deeply in her mind, wrapping themselves around each thought as if ivy. It shouldn’t surprise her; the Northern way has always been to remember. Jon is still looking at her, his eyes uncertain and gentle. She does not remember her father’s eyes but she thinks that he must have stared at her with the same gentleness that Jon does now. It is perhaps this, that forces her words out and laughter down.
“You want to draw paint on me?” Jon blushes and she blushes too. There is nothing truly wrong with her words but his reaction to them makes her flush.
“Yes, the wildlings, during the festival decorate themselves with symbols and war paint. I thought that you might like it, to be part of the festival,” he quickly explains and finishes at her raised eyebrow. She does not know where he must have gotten this strange thought. The Sansa of old would have laughed and wrinkled her nose at such a thought. Perhaps, he is mistaking her for Arya again. She knows that he sometimes gets confused.
“I don’t know, where would it even be painted?” She asks, suddenly curious. Jon relaxes slightly at her question, obviously relieved that she didn’t just laugh in his face or get annoyed.
“On your face and neck.” She stiffens immediately at his words and Jon’s eyes fill with panic. “Sansa?” But she shakes her head and he waits, just as he always does, for the fear to drain away. Jon isn’t Littlefinger or Ramsay or Joffrey or even the Hound. He is Jon, she reminds herself but her heart and body still ache. The scars that Ramsay had carved into her body have all healed but there are times like this where they ache. Fear and memories slipping through rough and newly-knit skin and burrowing its ways into her bones. Anger and frustration strikes her suddenly, it is not Jon’s fault but she can’t help but hate him a little for uncovering a new weakness and a new hurt.
I’m a wolf and wolves never bare their neck, she thinks to herself half-maddened by her weakness but mostly aching. She did not feel like a wolf most days, she felt like a sad little girl swept away in the storm. Jon’s gaze was kind and gentle, a rope and lighthouse. Ramsay, Joffrey, the Hound, they had all stared at her as if they were fighting a war and she had always been the victim. Jon though, his stare is kind and patient and good. There is father’s kindness and something more, something that takes her breath away and something that she hopes one day to explore.
“You don’t have to do this,” he tells her gently and her heart does a strange little lurch. She knows that he is waiting, waiting for something. It would be easy to bare her teeth and tell him to stop waiting and to turn away. It would be easy to pretend to be a wolf when she is nothing but a little girl. There is strength and bravery in submitting. Even wolves do it at times, she tells herself, calming the tempest that had slowly risen within her. There is so much that seems like weakness but is truly strength and right now, right now, she wants to be strong and weak all at once.
“I want to do it,” she says the word slowly, tasting each word, allowing herself to feel the weight of them upon her tongue. The words do not taste of weakness, they taste of hope.
Jon smiles a slow and bright thing that makes something warm burst within her chest. He goes to tilt her head as he wets his fingers in paint but she stops him, breathing in the air and breathing in the hope. Let me be brave. Let me be brave, she repeats the word as a mantra. Jon’s eyes do not leave her own and something in her chest loosens a little in the face of his kindness and patience and gentleness. The prayer must be heard by the gods themselves or perhaps it is the sight of Jon, filling her with more warmth and hope than a man has any right to give. She bares her neck before him, his gentle eyes in her mind. Bravery. Is the word that she remembers, long after he has painted her neck and face, long after the paint has dried and the quiet after the festival. Bravery and his eyes.
I was lame and sore in every muscle when I woke next morning.
I shuffled to the privy closet, then to the wash basin. My innards felt like churned butter. It felt as though I had been beaten with a blunt object, I reflected, then thought that that was very near the truth. The blunt object in question was visible as I came back to bed, looking now relatively harmless. Its possessor woke as I sat down next to him, and examined me with something that looked very much like male smugness.
“Looks as though it was a hard ride, Sassenach,” he said, lightly touching a blue bruise on my inner thigh. “A bit saddle-sore, are ye?”
I narrowed my eyes and traced a deep bite-mark on his shoulder with my finger.
“You look a bit ragged around the edges yourself, my lad.”
“Ah, weel,” he said in broad Scots, “if ye bed wi’ a vixen, ye must expect to get bit.” He reached up and grasped me behind the neck, pulling me down to him. “Come here to me, vixen. Bite me some more.”
“Oh, no, you don’t,” I said, pulling back. “I can’t possibly; I’m too sore.”
James Fraser was not a man to take no for an answer.
“I’ll be verra gentle,” he wheedled, dragging me inexorably under the quilt. And he was gentle, as only big men can be, cradling me like a quail’s egg, paying me court with a humble patience that I recognized as reparation— and a gentle insistence that I knew was a continuation of the lesson so brutally begun the night before. Gentle he would be, denied he would not.
He shook in my arms at his own finish, shuddering with the effort not to move, not to hurt me by thrusting, letting the moment shatter him as it would.
Afterward, still joined, he traced the fading bruises his fingers had left on my shoulders by the roadside two days before. “I’m sorry for those, mo duinne,” he said, gently kissing each one. “I was in a rare temper when I did it, but it’s no excuse. It’s shameful to hurt a woman, in a rage or no. I’ll not do it again.”
I laughed a bit ironically. “You’re apologizing for those? What about the rest? I’m a mass of bruises, from head to toe!”
“Och?” He drew back to look me over judiciously. “Well now, these I’ve apologized for,” touching my shoulder, “those,” slapping my rear lightly, “ye deserved, and I’ll not say I’m sorry for it, because I’m not.”
“As for these,” he said, stroking my thigh, “I’ll not apologize for that, either. Ye paid me full measure already.” He rubbed his shoulder, grimacing. “Ye drew blood in at least two places, Sassenach, and my back stings like holy hell.”
“Well, bed with a vixen …” I said, grinning. “You won’t get an apology for that.” He laughed in response and pulled me on top of him.
“I didna say I wanted an apology, did I? If I recall aright, what I said was ‘Bite me again.’ ”
“I love you,” he says forty-three miles outside of Saskatchewan, but he didn’t mean it that way. Cas had been deep into bite number two of the double bacon extra cheese burger that Dean had bought for him. He had lost enough of his grace now that such meals were more than molecules although not entirely necessary for existence.
Dean smiled at the declaration. Whether it was dedicated to the burger or to him for delivering it hardly mattered. It was Cas speaking from a place of happiness, and how often did he truly get to experience pleasure anymore.
“I love you,” he said when he tossed his body in a heap onto the memory foam mattress that Dean had set up for him in his room back at the bunker. The time on the road had been long this time, and although he did not strictly require sleep, sometimes he enjoyed the simple pleasures of just lying down in his own bed. Dean stood in the doorway and smiled at his back, trenchcoat fanning out around him like wings.
His face was pressed into the pillow, and Dean thought about how nice it was too finally have Cas here in a more permanent way. He had called the bunker home the other day, and something in Dean had warmed at the thought that at least one thing in the universe was finally right.
“I love you,” he said to the shower. Dean heard the declaration past the door as he wandered to his own room. The water pressure was a little slice of heaven. He couldn’t blame Cas for loving it. He paused in mid step, though when he heard the words. He replayed them and imagined them delivered in a different way.
He continued on his path to the bedroom, feeling happy and frustrated in equal measure. He tossed himself on his bed, pulled on his head phones, and drowned his thoughts in hard, fast songs.
“I love you,” he said again, this time to nothing in particular, and Dean had had just about enough of that. He did not know when it had become a problem. He told himself that it shouldn’t matter, but sometimes what one tells themselves in the too quiet night cannot live on in the light of day.
Dean stared at him in the big empty glade, sweat slicked from the heat and the demon kill that brought them there. The heat smelled like the warm pelts of animals. The breeze did nothing to chill them. It merely kicked up puffs of dust to add an extra layer to the skin.
“I love you,” he repeated, still standing there in the heat, angel blade gripped right in his hand. Dean took in the words again, and their surroundings. What was there to love out here? His weapon, for bringing down the demon, his coat for shielding him from the sun, the taste of dust… Dean’s mind swam through the possibilities, until Cas stepped up to him.
“I love you,” this time quiet and close enough to make the words a tangible thing between them. Dean swallowed down a joke that would fuck up the moment. He felt like the universe really really was finally right, like a good meal, a perfect mattress, excellent shower pressure, and Cas staying right here with him. Cas opened his mouth again as if he was going to repeat himself. This time, Dean did not let him.