"You'll have to come closer," chuckled nose and lips brushing featherweight strokes against creamy backside. Currently near enough to count beard hairs but Jon wanted to bob between apple round cheeks, bite and lick his man's flesh down to the core, swallowing pips and all.
"Sit on my face, and tell me that you love me..."
And he had! So fucking much, in fact, a heart unused to tender professions near burst at hearing them whispered with such conviction; desire to rip free and ravage his ginger-haired Scot increasing with every swallowed breath. No matter words had been delivered from dank and flea-ridden poorhouse by letting the kid loose in a chocolate factory. All that scrimping and saving and waste of empty calories till from beneath common, two-colour print lot peeked long sought-after bright golden ticket. Illumination of which by family's last candle glinted off fairy blue eyes; the cherry to a gut-busting sundae.
Jon had only seen Robb's expression balloon to such comedic proportions three - scratch that, two - times before that morning. Most recently upon confirmation that precious overgrown house kitten was now a mother-to-be. What a proud papa he'd been, all but shoving expensive Cuban between Jon's lips in celebration, giddy to the extreme at the prospect of wee mewlers clawing up the rosebed in months to come.
The second time, earlier that summer, pulling famed Butcher's album from parcel box after its long journey west Jon thought Robb would zip away like a kite. Only just managing to grab the string and tether him to the nearest solid object, elation - amongst heady emotions of bittersweet loss and longing - carried him higher and higher beyond the rain clouds to the silver lining above.
How special for Jon to add this to the list of joy-busting good times in Robb's life. Payback with downright filthy-minded interest.
A gentle graze of teeth then to start, along cleft beneath tailbone and following sloping curves inward, I've really no options here. He gets to take as much as he wants, decide where and when and how deep... Ratcheted down with shins pinning shoulders, the only freely moving part of Jon Snow remained his tongue, now easing into that first taste of puckered hole that made even his cock, so full and fat, turn somersaults with ease.