Quill (North/Tooth) (6/22)

Original Prompt:

North either with his Mrs. or by himself (or with anyone anon feels is fit), getting super turned on by getting tattoos. Like, he gets off on the pain of it and the thrill. Either actually gets himself off while they’re being done or finds someone to fuck afterwards. Preferably roughly as well.

The prompt was open to any pairing, and so I thought to myself, “self, I bet you could do a homemade tattoo with a feather, if it was strong/sharp enough” and so guess what it’s Christmas Cookie (SweetCookie?) time. There’s a nice fade to black in the middle, though, because I am a) an asshole, b) tired, c) not seeing North that way d) all of the above.

The ink is for her, glimmering and green and iridescent, but it cannot compare to her reality, North thinks, as he watches her, face stern in concentration, dip the sharpened quill—her again, all her, and ever brighter than the ink—into the pigment, before pressing the point again and again into the skin over his heart. The sharp pricks of the quill bloom bright in his mind, but pain such as this is easily, so easily tempered by pleasure as he thinks that with each small wound, Tooth is marking him, making him undeniably, unforgettably hers. He shivers under her ministrations, allowing a small sigh to escape his lips.

Her magenta eyes flick to his blue ones, and though she smiles slightly at the haze of need beginning to cloud his expression, she says only, “Stay still.” Her free hand trails lightly across his broad chest. “I want this to be perfect.”

“Is you,” he says, and she can feel the rumble of his voice along the insides of her legs where she straddles him to maintain the proper working angle. “How could it not be?” She answers him only by beginning the hundreds of tiny jabs that will begin to shade the design she has made on his chest. She works quickly, her wings stilled as if she is trying to concentrate all her movements into the transfer of ink from jar to quill to skin, jar to quill to skin.

To North, every puncture is like a strange kiss, and he would tell her to slow down, to draw this out, save that he knows he will not be satisfied with such strange kisses for much longer—they have only made him more eager for the more ordinary pleasures they often share (but what pleasures could be ordinary between two such as extraordinary as they?).

After what seems like a long, long while, Tooth puts aside her quill and the small jar of ink and sits up straight, clasping her blood-and-ink-stained hands together. “It’s done!” she says, now smiling fully at North. He grins back at her and reaches out to lift up her light and seemingly fragile body so he can press a kiss to the border between skin and feathers on her cheek.

“How can I repay the artist?” he whispers, and Tooth drops her smile for a moment to quickly kiss his lips.

“Show me you know how indestructible I am,” she murmurs, pressing herself against her bear of a man, heedless of his fresh tattoo.


After they finish making love, Tooth curls up in the space between North’s arm and side, granting a sleepy smile to the blood that ended up smeared on her chest feathers. Her marking North had ended up marking her, at least for now. Soon, though, he’ll come up with something permanent for her to hide under her feathers, a parallel to the vibrant feather on his chest that she’s placed there as her sign—not of the Tooth Fairy, but of the woman who loves North.