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asoiaf/got fanfic: hidden underneath
Title: hidden underneath
Pairing: Jon/Robb
Rating: NC-17
Words: ~1,100
Summary: Robb knows he shouldn't kiss Jon right now, not this close to supper, not when so many men are still milling around in the yard, but they are all alone in the armory, nothing but dust and shadows and Theon's voice outside the window, and Jon smiles when Robb's hand slides over his hip, his head tilting as his beautiful mouth curves at the corners, his eyes narrowing as if he is daring Robb to do it.
Notes: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
asoiafkinkmeme, and the prompt Jon/Robb, blowjobs under the table at supper. This one is ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
honey_wheeler's fault, ever last word of it.
hidden underneath
Robb knows he shouldn't kiss Jon right now, not this close to supper, not when so many men are still milling around in the yard, but they are all alone in the armory, nothing but dust and shadows and Theon's voice outside the window, and Jon smiles when Robb's hand slides over his hip, his head tilting as his beautiful mouth curves at the corners, his eyes narrowing as if he is daring Robb to do it. Robb nudges Jon back against a barrel full of practice swords; he pushes his tongue into Jon's mouth and curls his fingers in Jon's hair, kisses Jon until Jon's arm wraps around his waist and Jon's thigh works between his, until they are both making soft, urgent noises that echo sharply in the stillness.
Theon clamors into the armory just as Jon starts rubbing Robb's cock through his breeches; he stumbles and drops an armful of arrows in the doorway, cursing as two or three shatter under his feet, and Robb pulls away from Jon with a sigh, follows the press of men headed into the keep with his doublet askew and a restless itch under his skin.
The Great Hall is warm and stuffy and loud, and Robb is still hard when the serving girls lay out the trenchers, embarrassingly so, a bright flush creeping up over his jaw and his cock curving painfully against the placket of his breeches. He has Sansa on one side and Ser Rodrick on the other; he shifts around on the bench a little, biting the inside of his cheek when Sansa glances at him curiously, then lets his napkin drop into his lap, rubbing himself with the heel of his hand as he retrieves it, but it doesn't help relieve the pressure, only makes him harder.
Across the table, Jon says something to Bran, laughing softly at Bran's reply, and Robb stares down at his plate, his fists clenched on the table, knows that looking over will only make things worse. It is difficult enough to sit beside Jon at meals, his thigh pressed flush against Jon's, listening to the obscene, wet sounds Jon makes as he slurps his wine or sucks marrow from a bone; he doesn't trust himself to look directly at Jon's mouth just now, to watch as Jon's slick, pink tongue peeks out to chase the salt on his lips or lick the crumbs and grease from his fingers.
Robb stabs at his food, thinks unpleasant thoughts, listens to Sansa's whispered conversation with Jeyne about the boys at Winterfell, tries to ignore the dull, insistent ache between his legs.
Jon laughs again, louder than before, the throaty sound threading through the heat already curled in Robb's belly. Robb looks over, unable to stop himself, his cock twitching as Jon drags his thumb over the well of his lip, as his tongue sneaks out to catch the spot of gravy on his knuckle; all Robb can think of is the last time Jon had sucked his cock, two nights ago in Robb's bed, sprawled out between Robb's legs, his mouth soft and warm and wet and his fingers digging bruises into Robb's hips.
Ser Rodrick excuses himself to the head of the table, where Robb's parents are talking quietly with Maester Luwin, and Robb slides up the bench a little, waits until Sansa and Jeyne are whispering again. He lets his knife fall to the floor, smiling when no one really seems to notice, then slips down after it, crawling over to Jon with his heart hammering in his chest and his cock still harder than a stone.
Jon jerks sharply when Robb's hands run up his thighs, dropping his own knife with a clatter and cursing under his breath. He looks down at Robb, his mouth open and his eyes wide with surprise, but he shifts closer to Robb, and he smiles the same way he had in the armory, slow and crooked and daring, and Robb presses a kiss to Jon's knee, strokes his fingers into the crease of Jon's thigh.
Robb rubs his hand over Jon's cock, brushes the hard shape of it with his thumb as he tugs on the laces of Jon's breeches, smiles against the inside of Jon's thigh as Jon tries to cover a rough, needy noise under a loud cough. He is sitting too close to Bran; Robb can't lean in as much as he would like, can't push Jon's legs as far apart as he wants, can only get about half of Jon's cock in his mouth. He curls his tongue over the head, nudging his hand up to stroke his fingers over what he can't reach with his mouth; Jon's elbows are sharp angles where they hang over the edge of the table, and Robb thinks of what he must look like -- his shoulders hunched and his lip caught between his teeth, spots of color blooming high on his cheeks and his fingernails digging into the palms of his hands.
He likes to tease Jon when he does this, pressing wet kisses to the base of Jon's cock, tracing the length of it with the tip of his tongue until Jon's hips arch off the bed and his fingers knot in Robb's hair. There isn't time for that now -- Robb's been gone too long already, and Sansa might notice he's missing if Jeyne every stops talking -- so he sucks Jon hard and fast, his cheeks hollowing and a slow, sweet ache spreading through his jaw, stroking his tongue over the places that make Jon's thighs tense and his legs shake.
Jon usually moans, mumbling Robb's name in a low, throaty voice that makes Robb ache, but he spends now with a ridiculous noise, something sharp and sputtering, like he's choking on his wine. Robb sits back on his heels as he tucks Jon away; he doesn't bother unlacing his breeches, just bites his lip and rubs himself with the heel of his hand, hopes his surcoat is long enough to cover the stain.
His knees wobble and ache as he crawls to his own side of the table, and Sansa startles when he climbs back up onto the bench.
"What are you doing down there?" she asks sharply.
"I dropped my knife," he replies.
She shakes her head and turns back to Jeyne with a sigh.
Pairing: Jon/Robb
Rating: NC-17
Words: ~1,100
Summary: Robb knows he shouldn't kiss Jon right now, not this close to supper, not when so many men are still milling around in the yard, but they are all alone in the armory, nothing but dust and shadows and Theon's voice outside the window, and Jon smiles when Robb's hand slides over his hip, his head tilting as his beautiful mouth curves at the corners, his eyes narrowing as if he is daring Robb to do it.
Notes: Written for
asoiafkinkmeme, and the prompt Jon/Robb, blowjobs under the table at supper. This one is honey_wheeler's fault, ever last word of it. Robb knows he shouldn't kiss Jon right now, not this close to supper, not when so many men are still milling around in the yard, but they are all alone in the armory, nothing but dust and shadows and Theon's voice outside the window, and Jon smiles when Robb's hand slides over his hip, his head tilting as his beautiful mouth curves at the corners, his eyes narrowing as if he is daring Robb to do it. Robb nudges Jon back against a barrel full of practice swords; he pushes his tongue into Jon's mouth and curls his fingers in Jon's hair, kisses Jon until Jon's arm wraps around his waist and Jon's thigh works between his, until they are both making soft, urgent noises that echo sharply in the stillness.
Theon clamors into the armory just as Jon starts rubbing Robb's cock through his breeches; he stumbles and drops an armful of arrows in the doorway, cursing as two or three shatter under his feet, and Robb pulls away from Jon with a sigh, follows the press of men headed into the keep with his doublet askew and a restless itch under his skin.
The Great Hall is warm and stuffy and loud, and Robb is still hard when the serving girls lay out the trenchers, embarrassingly so, a bright flush creeping up over his jaw and his cock curving painfully against the placket of his breeches. He has Sansa on one side and Ser Rodrick on the other; he shifts around on the bench a little, biting the inside of his cheek when Sansa glances at him curiously, then lets his napkin drop into his lap, rubbing himself with the heel of his hand as he retrieves it, but it doesn't help relieve the pressure, only makes him harder.
Across the table, Jon says something to Bran, laughing softly at Bran's reply, and Robb stares down at his plate, his fists clenched on the table, knows that looking over will only make things worse. It is difficult enough to sit beside Jon at meals, his thigh pressed flush against Jon's, listening to the obscene, wet sounds Jon makes as he slurps his wine or sucks marrow from a bone; he doesn't trust himself to look directly at Jon's mouth just now, to watch as Jon's slick, pink tongue peeks out to chase the salt on his lips or lick the crumbs and grease from his fingers.
Robb stabs at his food, thinks unpleasant thoughts, listens to Sansa's whispered conversation with Jeyne about the boys at Winterfell, tries to ignore the dull, insistent ache between his legs.
Jon laughs again, louder than before, the throaty sound threading through the heat already curled in Robb's belly. Robb looks over, unable to stop himself, his cock twitching as Jon drags his thumb over the well of his lip, as his tongue sneaks out to catch the spot of gravy on his knuckle; all Robb can think of is the last time Jon had sucked his cock, two nights ago in Robb's bed, sprawled out between Robb's legs, his mouth soft and warm and wet and his fingers digging bruises into Robb's hips.
Ser Rodrick excuses himself to the head of the table, where Robb's parents are talking quietly with Maester Luwin, and Robb slides up the bench a little, waits until Sansa and Jeyne are whispering again. He lets his knife fall to the floor, smiling when no one really seems to notice, then slips down after it, crawling over to Jon with his heart hammering in his chest and his cock still harder than a stone.
Jon jerks sharply when Robb's hands run up his thighs, dropping his own knife with a clatter and cursing under his breath. He looks down at Robb, his mouth open and his eyes wide with surprise, but he shifts closer to Robb, and he smiles the same way he had in the armory, slow and crooked and daring, and Robb presses a kiss to Jon's knee, strokes his fingers into the crease of Jon's thigh.
Robb rubs his hand over Jon's cock, brushes the hard shape of it with his thumb as he tugs on the laces of Jon's breeches, smiles against the inside of Jon's thigh as Jon tries to cover a rough, needy noise under a loud cough. He is sitting too close to Bran; Robb can't lean in as much as he would like, can't push Jon's legs as far apart as he wants, can only get about half of Jon's cock in his mouth. He curls his tongue over the head, nudging his hand up to stroke his fingers over what he can't reach with his mouth; Jon's elbows are sharp angles where they hang over the edge of the table, and Robb thinks of what he must look like -- his shoulders hunched and his lip caught between his teeth, spots of color blooming high on his cheeks and his fingernails digging into the palms of his hands.
He likes to tease Jon when he does this, pressing wet kisses to the base of Jon's cock, tracing the length of it with the tip of his tongue until Jon's hips arch off the bed and his fingers knot in Robb's hair. There isn't time for that now -- Robb's been gone too long already, and Sansa might notice he's missing if Jeyne every stops talking -- so he sucks Jon hard and fast, his cheeks hollowing and a slow, sweet ache spreading through his jaw, stroking his tongue over the places that make Jon's thighs tense and his legs shake.
Jon usually moans, mumbling Robb's name in a low, throaty voice that makes Robb ache, but he spends now with a ridiculous noise, something sharp and sputtering, like he's choking on his wine. Robb sits back on his heels as he tucks Jon away; he doesn't bother unlacing his breeches, just bites his lip and rubs himself with the heel of his hand, hopes his surcoat is long enough to cover the stain.
His knees wobble and ache as he crawls to his own side of the table, and Sansa startles when he climbs back up onto the bench.
"What are you doing down there?" she asks sharply.
"I dropped my knife," he replies.
She shakes her head and turns back to Jeyne with a sigh.