The summer snow begins to melt on the hilltop when Robb's mouth clashes yours.
It echoes sensation, like a broadsword hitting the ground, its steel reverberating. It's not a kiss. A kiss is from poetry, from romantic tales, from lutes and harps and sung from bards—not from your true-born brother's grasp scrambling at your furs, at the side of your face when he chokes out a breath to your frozen lips.
Dark-gloved hands fist at your sides, the boiled leather stiff. A songbird twitters, spreading rumor to no one. Only the trees rustle in knowing and wispy clouds spy afar thinning.
Robb's upper lip scrapes yours, auburn hairs prickling.
He's waiting for you. To answer.
You're just a bastard, and he wants you. You feel it. Feel it through the layers of wool and leather between you both. The Others take you both.
He's stupid. He laughs and smiles foolishly when you beat him during sparring practice, instead of cursing and frowning. He leaves a space for you at the hall table, even at Lady Stark's outward disapproval, and tosses you fresh apples. He teases about your archery stances and corrects them, maneuvering your hips forward with a short jerk. Robb's warmth at your back and on you lingers as memory even when the moon rises, and you close your eyes, using the darkness as a canvas.
To imagine how he would feel above you, similarly built and similar muscles, bare cocks rubbing together in rough tempo. Rutting like an animal against him.
And now you're stupid because your lips crack open slightly against Robb's, tongue darting in a wet, experimental swipe, and it's familiar. Too familiar. Like you knew the shape and taste of Robb's mouth before it even happened.
A gruff embarrassed laugh seizes him, and you join him quickly, forehead-skin pressed together, eyes squinting warmly at each other and chests heaving.
You don't answer. There's nothing to answer.
His Tully eyes and your Stark eyes glance away, like ripping apart physically. Robb's hand patting your cheek gently as he whispers to move on, to find the lost horse. You do eventually with him, the mare drinking from a nearby stream.
He ropes her.
You find Grey Wind and Ghost with each other a mile towards Winterfell, the direwolves nuzzling, snuffling and playfully biting each other's throats.
He says nothing, only sharing a passing glance with you. Your lips twitch.
The lust-hungry kiss is never mentioned again... by now you've turned into a crow, and he's a young wolf diving into battle. Worlds apart.
And yet, you will always remember, damn you— the full aroma of musk and dried sweat on Robb Stark and from under his clothes, your own shy gestures and his deep laughter mingling yours. Exactly how the old gods allowed you a taste of the heavens on a snow-melted, blue mid-day.
ASoIaF is not mine. It was fun to try second-person perspective again! And hurray, I'm finally writing for this fandom! =) The books and the show are friggin' fantastic. Any and all comments/questions are thanked with hugs and cookies! Sooo... anyone else like Starkcest? -nudgenudgewinkwink-
"You and I, it's as though we have been taught to kiss in heaven and sent down to earth together, to see if we know what we were taught."