"It isn't?" Robb's eyes, formerly at half-mast and all sleepy cozy from so many delectable, lingering kisses, went wide; irises growing dark from Jon's unexpected rejection of ideas. Alarm going off like a shotgun echoing in wintry grey skies and he a goose sitting on frozen lake, all he could do was spread his wings and aim for the clouds and relative safety they afforded before deadly load of buckshot found its feathery target.
His brow scrunched in utter confusion. That's not right at all, he thought. No way in hell Strange would give bad advice. Not to me and certainly not when it comes to sex.
Propping up on bony elbows, Robb stared at his boyfriend for the longest time, trying to suss out what exactly might be going on inside that silly old head of his at the rate of a turtle with the wind up its sails. Scanning from topmost curl to whiskered chin and back, little was gleaned outside lover's grin that might very well be all put-on just for his sake. Another of those 'I'm trying to let you down gently' pats to the head you give a hyperactive child right before denying them a shiny new toy or latest choccie-coated sugar bomb of a sweetie, no doubt.
Robb didn't like that sort of thing at all, causing him to sag dejectedly. He had a plan, and the plan was good. Really clever and well thought out, to boot. There had been serious discussion with an outside party beforehand, investigation - Lists, for Christ's sake! I've made lists! - this was supposed to work and everything would be, as Bowie's album said, hunky dory.
Teeth found the inside of his preferred cheek, biting down on soft flesh.
He's fickle, then. Gone right off the idea already. That's all there is to it.