marks we've left behind, made together

He drew his hand up the line of Jon's back, knuckled the sharp knobs of Jon's spine, threaded his fingers into the soft hair at the nape of Jon's neck. The stretch between Jon's shoulder blades was rosy and warm with sweat, shifting as he breathed, and his hips and sides were shadowed with bruises -- some bright and fresh, some older and yellowed, all shaped to fit Robb's fingers and thumbs, the calloused palms of Robb's hands. Robb explored them gently, watching as they changed color under his slow, careful touches, fading and darkening, flushing with heat; Jon always trembled and gasped as Robb made them, arching into Robb's hands, asking Robb to grip him tighter, pin him harder, hold him down.