Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1474207.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      A_Song_of_Ice_and_Fire_-_George_R._R._Martin, Game_of_Thrones_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Jon_Snow/Robb_Stark, Theon_Greyjoy/Robb_Stark, Theon_Greyjoy/Mystery
      Girl, Theon_Greyjoy/Sansa_Stark
  Character:
      Robb_Stark, Jon_Snow, Theon_Greyjoy, Ned_Stark, Sansa_Stark
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Modern_Setting, Dark_Starks, Voyeurism, Spying,
      Dubious_Consent, Past_Abuse, Homophobia, Jealousy, Sticky_First_Time,
      ASoIaF_Kink_Meme, Jon_has_terrible_ideas, Robb_should_know_better
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-04-16 Completed: 2014-05-03 Chapters: 3/3 Words: 5154
****** I Spy ******
by Rovardotter
Summary
     A tale of two boys in a wardrobe.
Notes
     Written for the ASOIAF_Kink_Meme.
     Original Prompt was Modern AU, Robb and Jon sneak up on Theon while
     he's on a date (he's older than them and experienced) and spy on him.
     It can be funny, it can be sexy, or preferably both :)
     So not funny, not really sexy, but there's spying galore!
     Big thanks to me mate SharpestKnife for the thoughtful input and
     immeasurable help!
***** I Spy a Boy *****
Jon says it'd be easy.
Easy as pie, he says, and maybe he believes it too. Robb knows better, though.
He knows nothing ever is, and nothing ever ends up the way Jon says it would.
Like, right now, when they're both squeezed inside Theon's wardrobe. Fine
example as any. Because it's been Jon's idea all along. "Come on," he's
whispered in Robb's ear. "Don't wimp out." Robb couldn't answer; he was busy
shaking hands with his father's guests – so nice to meet you, you must be Ned's
boy, oh my, how you've grown! And he never said no, he never does, but it was
Jon's own bloody brilliant idea: sneaking out of the reception, the wine
bottle, the fag they've shared, and now this. His body is in shivers; his
cheeks have fossilised. And it's uncanny how his spasms seem to synchronise
with the noises from downstairs: piano chimes, clink of champagne glasses,
chatter of idle conversation and his father's voice.
"Listen, I'm like," he says and passes his hand over his face, pinches at the
bridge of his nose. "Really fucked."
Jon sends his hand, a sheepish, awkward movement, and messes Robb's hair. "You
sure look wasted," he admits, and it washes Robb with a wave of startling
affection, reminds him why he's here in the first place, pressed oh-so-close to
Jon in the confines of this dim wardrobe, where there's hardly room to move and
his legs are tangled with his brother's (His brother, his half-brother, small
difference really, but Jesus, he's warm and there's nothing wrong with enjoying
it, is there, is there.)
"All right?" Jon asks.
"Dunno." Heavy midnight rain starts tapping on the window sill, and his nails
must've burrowed into flesh, but Robb can't feel it, not yet, and he says:
"Gonna be sick."
"Don't," Jon says. "Theon'll be here any minute."
Because then there's Theon, the reason behind this absurdity. Theon Greyjoy:
nineteen, tall, handsome, empty smirk, cold blue eyes. He's been there for as
long as Robb can remember, sharing their breakfast, lounging on the sofa,
dipping in the courtyard pool. And Robb still isn't sure how to feel about it.
Theon isn't family the way Jon is (Brother, Christ, he's your brother.) He's
something else. My protégé, Ned Stark calls him when he's feeling magnanimous,
but they all know better.
The story's an old one. It happened a few years after the car bomb, after Jon
was already there, after everything had truly crumbled away (We were growing
soft, Robb heard his father say once. A costly mistake.) And it goes something
like this: Mr. Greyjoy was doing business with the Starks, way back in the
nineties, was in charge of the M62, handling shipments from across the Atlantic
all the way to the North Sea. The nineties were a good time, money was pouring
in, but Mr. Greyjoy, it wasn't enough for him. He got greedy. He got
disrespectful. He thought he could fuck the Starks over. Robb was never told
the details (He's fourteen, and he's already mastered the art of not asking
questions, of not overthinking things. Because if he does, well. He can’t.)
Details hardly ever matter. The point is, now Theon's living with the Starks
and Mr. Greyjoy doesn't fuck shit up anymore. He got the message.
Robb sometimes thinks Theon's smiles are so hollow because they're just
containers for the hatred sweltering inside him, the contempt he feels for his
captors, the humiliation of being so dependent on them. It's never said out
loud; it's better not to think of these things (Illegal substances on freight
trains. Where the money comes from. Jon's arm over his waist at night. "Shh,
Robb, it's just me." The smouldering hulk of the Mercedes. Mother wasn't
supposed to be there, but well.) Robb is always relieved when the holidays end
and Theon's back in college. Then he can finally let his guard down, breathe
properly again. There was this one time last summer when the heat had nearly
reached forty degrees, they were both alone in Theon's room, and Theon seized
his hands, and then some (It didn't hurt, but Robb froze in place. Later Theon
told him, "We all pay our debts, boy, eventually.")
"Fuck Theon," Robb mumbles.
"Yeah, well," Jon says, voice serious. "That's the idea."
Robb can't help but snicker nervously. His mind is too muddied to come up with
any juvenile retort, so instead he just rubs his stony cheeks. "Maybe he got
lost."
"No," Jon says. "He'll be here."
Robb nods, because yeah, Theon likes girls, too, likes them a lot, likes to
tell the boys about girls, different girls, naked, spread before him, warm and
wet, and how they moan around his dick. Jon listens to him intently, face
scrunched, and Robb wonders if his brother gets off on Theon's stories, later
in the darkness of his room. As for Robb, he feels a despicable mixture of
fascination, revulsion, a nagging fear that Sansa might hear it, and what if
one day some wanker's going to talk about Robb's little sister so degradingly,
the way Theon talks about his girls.
Like his date tonight for the Starks' dinner party, she's some girl he met in
college (A fine, tight twat, he said.) She takes classes with him, apparently
(Takes it up the arse, too, he said.) She's bony, petite, has long honey-
coloured hair in loose, dangling curls (Small tits, but nobody's perfect, he
said.) Her dad's loaded, a business associate of the Starks from Australia, or
New Zealand, or some other colony, and Theon flaunts her like a fucking trophy
(Watch and learn, boys, he said. Guess who's gonna get laid tonight?) And that
was when Jon got his clever idea, because, yeah, why not, they were going to
watch and learn, for once.
"Just remember to keep quiet," Jon says.
"You think?" Robb sure keeps quiet about that blazing summer day, and maybe he
wanted that, too, like Theon said ("I thought so, little Stark," he kept
saying, "I thought so," but Robb still has no idea what he meant.) He never
said no. He's never even told Jon. Well, overthinking, it's a dangerous habit.
Sometimes it's better not to think at all. Shit happens and that's the end of
it. He's jittery as hell, pulling on his tie between Theon's coats and suits,
his heart aflutter, but he's not scared, no, not bloody traumatised. It's just
that he can think of a thousand different places he'd rather be than inside
Theon's room, inside Theon's wardrobe, why, that's almost B&E, and if they're
caught, well.
And well what? Robb still wonders. What would Theon do if he caught them? Maybe
he'd just laugh it off, abuse them a little, possibly, he couldn't very well
hurt them, his captor's children, not with smacks and pats, anyway. In other
ways, yes, like he did back then, was that the point? Was Robb paying his
father's debts, the same way his mother had? All's just very random, isn't it,
she wasn't supposed to drive the Mercedes, so arbitrary, and then shit just
fucking happens, and Robb realises he's drifting off into his useless thoughts
(alcohol seems to fuel them, grows them like a fertiliser), snaps awake only
when Jon elbows him and twitches his head towards the door.
It's ajar now, yellowish shaft of light spilling inside from the hallway,
joining the sick moonlight from the windows, the smell of rain and hail. Some
guest laughs downstairs, a terribly long and unpleasant bark, and the music
grows louder. And then there's Theon, his grey suit and his dotted blue tie,
and his girl a step behind him, so tiny she's almost hidden from sight. His arm
is tightly wrapped around her shoulders, fingers already under her evening
dress, fondling her breast. Jon crouches closer to the shutters, his breath
quickens, letting out a slight whiff of wine and nicotine, and then Theon kicks
the door shut.
It's dark now.
***** I Spy a Girl *****
Chapter Summary
     There's something faintly familiar about the girl's voice, but Robb
     can't place it, not now when he's enclosed in sudden blackness, and
     Jon's palm somehow rests on his knee, so warm.
Chapter Notes
     Beta'd by the wonderful SharpestKnife, for which many thanks and a
     big ol' cigar out of dark!Ned's private collection.
     Also, many thanks to Heloisa for the moral support and for keeping me
     up at night ;)
"Bad idea," the girl mumbles.
She sounds tiny, too. She hasn't got an accent, but it's hard to be sure when
she says so little. There's something faintly familiar about her voice, but
Robb can't place it, not now when he's enclosed in sudden blackness, and Jon's
palm somehow rests on his knee, so warm.
"Nah, told you," Theon says. "It's fine." Shuffling noises, footsteps on the
carpeted floor. "Trust me," and what a stupid motion, Robb thinks, to trust
Theon, who'd say anything to get between her legs, between anyone's legs
really. He sees their dark shapes moving through the wooden shutters, hears the
bed springs slightly squeaking. "No one's gonna notice," Theon's voice is a
gentle whisper now (Sweet, sweet nothings, like he murmured in Robb's ear.
"You're a good boy, aren’t you, what a good little boy you are." And then,
"hold still, I don't wanna hurt you.") They're both sprawled on the bed, the
girl but a dim outline, Theon on top of her, perfectly posed under the faint
moonlight. "They're all so pissed downstairs, wouldn't notice if the house
burnt down."
"Your girlfriend –"
"Kissed her bye-bye," Theon's head moves lower down the girl's neck. "God, but
she's a bore."
"Robb and Jon, haven't seen them," the girl slightly gasps, a childish,
skittish sound.
"Probably off to suck each other," Theon mutters into the crook of her neck,
and Robb bites his lip, thankful for the darkness hiding the colour in his
cheeks (and just fuck you Theon, you fucking cunt.) At least Jon has the
decency to keep his eyes firmly glued to the shutters, to pretend he didn't
hear a thing, but his palm feels heavier on Robb's knee.
"Why do you have to be like that?"
"Like what?"
"Vulgar," the girl says, and now her voice is not faintly, but very-extremely-
unmistakably familiar (Rainy mornings spent playing Risk over tea, digging up
worms in the back garden, resting his head on her shoulder while she's watching
television.) Robb's stomach churns, he feels sick. Nothing's ever easy, he
knows, but it's not supposed to happen like that.
"Mm." Theon pulls her dress straps down; he wraps them around his wrists,
holding her down. "Pretty sure you like it."
She doesn't contradict him, wriggles as his lips trace a line from her
collarbone down to her breasts, and Robb wants to rise, to spring up from
between Theon's coats and put a stop to this madness. He has no clearly
premeditated course of action. He'd just jump Theon and beat him into a bloody
pulp, good a plan as any. So what if he can barely move and his limbs feel so
weak, because Christ, she's his little sister, and just a child, she's barely
thirteen (but Robb wasn't much older, was he, that summer day. Never said a
word, though. Only when he was stomach down on Theon's desk. "Not like that,"
he said then, "please.") And he's already halfway up on his knees when Jon
pulls him back. His brother's eyes are close, intense; he slowly shakes his
head.
Thunder crashes outside, so loud it echoes inside Robb's head, and Jon
whispers: "No."
Robb feebly pushes away, but his brother's arms tighten around his chest,
stronger than expected, almost suffocating him. "No," Jon repeats in his ear,
and when the sound of thunder abates it's already too late to argue out loud:
 it'd be two on one, mate, we'll kick his arse, come on. He'd be heard, and if
Jon hasn't got his back, well. Frustration seethes within him, he feels the
urge to claw at Jon's arms, Jon and his brilliant ideas, Jon who's too scared
of a fight, who'd rather just lay back and watch their little sister (but is
she really a sister to Jon, does he even care) like a fucking peeping tom. But
then, that's Jon, always has been, it's useless to protest once he's made up
his mind. He's a force of nature himself, a glacier, Robb sometimes thinks, so
deceivingly silent and calm until he's provoked, and then it's like staring
straight at the eye of the storm (When Jon gives him that look, that intense,
feral look, Robb knows he'd better watch it, he's in for trouble.)
Robb squirms, pulls at Jon's fingers, pathetic, half-hearted attempts if truth
be told, then finally lets himself sag against his brother's embrace. And maybe
Jon has the right of it, he has to concede. Because if there's a fight, if all
hell breaks loose in this room, Father might find out: about the wine, the fag,
the wardrobe, about little Sansa, and how she's held down to the bed, moaning
and whimpering while Theon sucks on her nipples (and maybe about last summer,
too, about Robb. It doesn't bear thinking about.)
Robb still has those distant childhood memories, like sepia-coloured
photographs: his father bouncing him on his knees, tickling him silly, holding
him in his big arms. He doubts his siblings share those images (and Theon,
well.) Everything's changed after the bomb, hasn't it, rotted away just as the
black roses and fresh earth on Mother's grave. Ned Stark doesn't make costly
mistakes anymore. He's quick to anger, quicker to punish, even Sansa got
thrashed black and blue once (They were all forced to watch. Theon paled, white
as a sheet, and Robb lost his dinner afterwards, slumped on the toilet as Jon
wiped the tears from his eyes.) Robb himself has been spared the cane so far;
he knows only the helplessness and fear of watching others hurt. Favouritism,
perhaps, or maybe he's just too careful to stay on Father's good side (And he
is, isn't he? Robb's a good boy. Even when he's trousers down on the desk. Such
a good little boy.)
Maybe they're all the same, Robb thinks, just clinging to warmth wherever they
chance to find it, the way he'd let Theon lift him off the desk and lay him in
his bed ("You want to be treated like a girl, Stark?" Theon huffed into his
neck. "I'll treat you like a girl.") Or the way Jon's arms become more of a
shield than a restraint, and Sansa buries her fingers in Theon's hair. "Hold
it," she pants, "that's –" and one of his hands releases the dress strap, moves
to her belly, his knee nudging her legs apart.
"It's okay, relax," he soothes her even as his fingers run over her skin,
caressing under the hem of her dress down to her inner thighs. "You're so
beautiful, just look at you." And Robb can't look at it, can't look away. Jon's
heart beats faster against his back.
"It's just I've never," she says.
"It's fine," Theon raises his head, nips the line of her chin and joins their
mouths into a long, slow kiss, and now his hand is definitely between her legs.
"I've got you," he says, and how he does, with his fingers under her knickers,
inside her perhaps. She arches her back, and he mumbles all those words, those
sweet words, how good she looks like that, such a beautiful girl, what a
beautiful little girl she is (A Twilight Zone déjà vu. Does she want to feel
pretty as much as Robb needs to be good?)
It seems to be going forever, moans, kisses and false endearments, but then
Theon removes his hands from between her legs, only to undo his suit trousers.
He tugs them down to his knees, and they're going to get creased, Robb
hysterically thinks, he really shouldn't be doing that, he should take them off
and fold them nicely, and Robb does his best to focus on those creases on
Theon's grey suit, because if he doesn't, well. All he'd have left is the image
of his sister, her legs spread, the rustle of condom wrapper (small comforts,
Robb supposes), Theon's "easy now, relax" and "hold still," and her reddened
face, and how she bites on her lower lip when he enters her (Robb did too, hard
enough to draw blood. Theon caressed his cheek so gently then. "Shh, breathe,
you're fine, got you.") And how Jon's so obviously, so painfully hard against
him.
Strangely, that's the worst thing. His brother's breath is ragged, his embrace
tighter, his mouth planted in Robb's curls, and his erection poking against his
back. Is Jon turned on by this obscenity? (Is Robb?) Doesn't he notice he's all
but rubbing himself against Robb's suit? (It's happened before, but Jon was
asleep, he couldn't help it.) He seems completely engrossed in the scene
unfolding before them; their vantage point allows them too clear a view of
Theon's chest as it rises and sinks into their sister, and his cock when he
pulls out. "You feel so fucking good," he rasps, and Sansa's eyes are shut, her
hands shaking on his back. But Jon, he must realise what he's doing, especially
when his hands start to idly wander as if on their own, his fingers softly
drumming on Robb's collarbone to the ill rhythm of their joined heartbeats, the
heavy raindrops outside, Theon's quickening thrusts, all building towards a
terrible crescendo.
And it inevitably arrives, eerily timed with a flash of lightning: Theon groans
hard and collapses, Sansa clamps his hair in her fists, Jon presses his lips to
the nape of his neck and Robb inadvertently sighs in response. The room fades
to black as the thunder follows, and Theon rolls to his back.
"Well then," he says, catching his breath.
Sansa doesn't say anything, just pulls her knickers up and fixes her dress. She
looks at him expectantly; perhaps she wants him to kiss her, tell her she's
still beautiful (Did she enjoy that? Robb can't say that he didn't.) But Theon
just tosses the condom away, folds his arms under his head.
"Guess Daddy shouldn't find out about that," he finally drawls.
"I wouldn't tell him," Sansa quietly says. He nods disinterestedly, as if he's
never thought otherwise, and still makes no move to touch her. She rubs her
eyes, looks so very small that Robb yearns to hug her, to comfort her. He
understands her perfectly well ("You might want to have a shower," Theon told
him. "Daddy shouldn't see you like that.") And he hates him so much more for
that.
But Theon just yawns. "Well, need help getting back to your room?" he asks.
She flinches, swallows, then her jaw is set in a hard line. "No, you're all
right," she says and pulls herself up from the bed in one fluid motion. Her
hair is dishevelled, her evening dress creased (those fucking creases), her
steps wobbly, but she holds her head high.
"Oi, Sansa," Theon calls as she's about to open the door.
She looks back, meets his eyes.
"Gotta tell you," he says. "You're a much better fuck than your brother."
She gapes at him, and he lazily, slowly smiles. The world halts to a stop. Robb
feels the air jabbed out of his lungs, the blood freezing in his veins, his
muscles disintegrating to dust. And Jon's so still behind him, so frighteningly
still. Then Sansa turns on her heel and slams the door shut.
It's dark again.
***** I Spy a Chance to Change the World *****
Chapter Summary
     He starts to wish that Jon would just say something, anything (even
     "you disgust me", even that), it'd be easier than simply waiting for
     the storm to roll in. Because Jon's silence, with his arms heavy as
     iron shackles, his lips hanging loose over Robb's neck, well, it's
     ten times worse.
Chapter Notes
     Thanks so much to SharpestKnife for being the best beta ever and for
     letting me leech off your identity <3
They watch as Theon stretches on the bed.
It seems he might just fall asleep as he is, with his wrinkled trousers between
his knees, but he slowly unfastens his suit buttons, twists out of his clothes.
"Fuck that," he mutters, and almost unbelievably, lets out a snuffle, "fuck
it." He turns, curls into himself, his arms hugging his knees, and it takes a
while before his steady breaths penetrate the silence of the room.
It grows stifling inside the wardrobe, the air thick as smoke, especially once
it's evident that Theon is fast asleep. They should leave, now's the chance,
but Robb can't find the will to move (And it's so cold here, colder yet when
Jon's still hard and unbearably close.) He's numbed by wine and panic, his
thoughts are running wild, and he starts to wish that Jon would just say
something, anything (even "you disgust me", even that), it'd be easier than
simply waiting for the storm to roll in. Because Jon's silence, with his arms
heavy as iron shackles, his lips hanging loose over Robb's neck, well, it's ten
times worse.
Outside, the downpour is louder, a cacophony of rain and hail splashing on the
red brick walls, on the window sill, and Jon finally whispers in his ear: "Is
it true?"
His voice is low, measured, as if he's straining to control himself, but his
fingers clutch the knot of Robb's tie. And here's another chance, Robb knows, a
chance to talk his way out of it before things quickly fall apart. He has an
entire arsenal of excuses to spout. For instance: Theon was talking shit ("You
know how he's like, can't trust a word he says.") Or: Theon totally tried to
get touchy-feely with him once ("But I didn't let him, Jesus, what a perv.")
And even, because lies are most believable when they stray little from the
truth: Theon bent his arms behind his back, forced him down, slammed his face
on the desk, kicked his legs apart ("It hurt, it fucking hurt, and I just
wanted to forget.") 
For a brief moment, as Jon's question dangles unanswered in the air, Robb
considers all that and more, but he's never been much of a liar. He's
indoctrinated by years of fear, the lies cleansed out of him just by being his
father's son. Otherwise, he couldn't have hoped to survive unscathed in the
Stark household for as long as he has ("Dishonesty is the greatest sin," Father
tells them. Jon lies through his teeth, Sansa fakes innocence, and Theon just
smirks. But Robb, he babbles, confesses. He must be a good son.)
"Listen," he says, bites his lip. "Drop it, let's just –"
He doesn't believe for a second that his brother would so easily let it go, but
he's still stunned when Jon tugs on his tie, hard enough to momentarily knock
the words out of him. He stutters, finds himself pushed down to his back on the
wardrobe's wooden floor. Jon straddles his legs, leans towards him under the
hanging coats, the glare of his eyes dangerously close, and yes, this is it,
Robb thinks, it's come, the tempest, hurricane, whatnot. Jon's mad now, he's in
for trouble and it's too late to go back.
"It's true then?" Jon asks, voice still low but hardly measured anymore.
"Once," Robb mumbles.
"Once," his brother repeats, as if failing to comprehend. "Once what?"
"Just… happened once."
"Once, what, once he touched you?" Jon puts more weight on Robb's chest. "Once
he – what exactly?" He shifts his legs, tangles them together with Robb's, just
as they were before, but there's no warmth, no comfort, with his hand still
yanking the tie, the other one closing on Robb's hip, pinning him down.
"It just happened so fast, I dunno," Robb says, "I never meant to." And even
armed with the truth he's not doing such a convincing job, is he. His murmured
answers only seem to drive Jon angrier; his face moves closer, mouths
millimetres apart. And something in Robb wants to respond in kind, because what
matter is it to Jon, anyway, who the fuck is he to pass judgment at what Robb
did or didn't do? There's a lot to be said about Jon, too, his scowls, his
sulks and how he's so eerily possessive at times (Robb was just a child when
Jon came to live with them. Lost in his black mourning clothes, he'd
desperately held on to his new brother. Somewhere along the line, it's got too
close, it must've.) And when it comes to that, just who is he exactly? A half-
brother, sure, but is he a Stark at all? Starks stand up for each other, family
above all, but Jon, he didn't give two tosses about Sansa, now did he –?
"That cunt fucked you?" Jon jerks him out of his thoughts, his nails almost
painful on his skin, and Robb lashes back.
"Not your business," he spits. "You're my brother, not my girlfriend."
Then it spins out of control, and he can barely react when Jon's hand slithers
between their joined legs. He moves fast, without warning, lays his fingers
over Robb's cock through the fabric of his trousers. "Is this what you like?"
Jon snarls. His palm rubs Robb's skin almost randomly, brushing on his inner
thighs and his balls, then pressures on the length of his cock. "Is it, you
fucking faggot? Is it?"
"Let go," Robb pants, writhes, tries to turn his face aside, but Jon's holding
him firmly by that bloody tie. And even more terrifying than the anger and the
vile words is his body's undeniable reaction. He breathes heavily, his cock
stiffens under Jon's palm, and how humiliating is that, his brother is savagely
wanking him off, a hateful retribution, and he's, well. Maybe he likes that,
too. Maybe that's what Theon meant.
"You enjoy that?" Jon is not oblivious, his voice is harsh. "Fucking poof." And
Robb closes his eyes, feels the tears welling up. His hands are hanging
uselessly at his sides; he can't muster the force to push Jon away, can do
nothing to stay his arousal against the frantic touch of his brother's fingers,
his scent of stolen liquor, eau de toilette, a cocktail party gone astray.
"It should've been me," Jon says.
The implication of his words doesn't sink in immediately. Jon still has time to
clumsily unzip Robb's trousers, release his cock out of his pants, skin-to-skin
now. And then it couldn't be clearer (Got too close, gone too far, crossed the
line, bound straight to hell, but dishonesty is the greatest sin, isn't it,
isn't it.) Robb stops his squirming, slackens back against the wardrobe floor,
blue eyes wide. Jon looks at him; his fingers on the tie are white-knuckled,
trembling.
"Should have been me," he whispers. "Understand? Robb, you understand?"
Robb nods, ever so slightly. He understands now, how he does, understands the
angry words, the curses, the fits of jealousy, understands Jon's sneaking into
his bed at night, his arm over his waist, his hardness against his back, and
all the things they've never dared to mention. He finally finds the strength to
move his arms, drags them upwards. He cups Jon's cheeks in his palms, nods
again.
"It should have," Robb says before he kisses his brother.
It's sloppy, all slaver and tongues, and it's awkward, bumping noses and teeth
biting on lips, and it's whole, perfect. Jon lets go of the tie, twists his
fingers between Robb's curls instead. His other hand is still working a fast,
vicious beat on Robb's cock; his kiss is just as violent (Robb's sometimes
wondered what it'd be like as he lay bothered and shamed in his bed. Nothing
could have quite prepared him for this. It's like being devoured alive.) And
Jon still talks whenever their lips part, his voice a feral growl.
"Whatever he did to you," Jon promises him, "I'll do double." His speed, his
force and the sheer greediness of his movements are enough to make Robb shiver,
cling closer. "He fucked you once," Jon says, "but me, I'll fuck you again, and
again." He unbuttons his own trousers, pulls them down. "I'll fuck you on your
back, standing up," he gnarls, "on all fours, like a bitch, you hear?" And then
it's the touch of his cock on Robb's, pulsing hard, leaking wet, so incredibly
warm as Jon wraps his fingers around them both.
"I'll fuck you till you beg me to stop," Jon rasps now, and he really is
talking out of his arse, isn't he, Robb's pretty sure it's his first kiss, the
first time he's brushing himself into someone else's skin. "You'll beg me to
stop, Robb, you'll beg," he says, and now that he's found a good enough angle,
he grabs Robb's hair with both hands, starts earnestly thrusting against him.
"But I –" Jon's words grow guttural, "I'll just –" his thrusts faster, "fuck
you harder." It's bollocks, truly, but Robb feels the heat rising inside him, a
dense fog where his mind used to be, and it's not alcohol, not panic, it's his
own brother slamming against him as if their lives depended on it.
The world outside has been obliterated; nothing exists but a desperate rhythm
of kisses, friction and Jon's whispers, like a mantra reverberating all over
the wardrobe: You're mine, no one else's, mine. It's the last shove, the last
"mine", so hungry and wild, that makes Robb lose himself; he moans deeply in
agreement as his brother pushes him over the edge. They come on each other's
skin, fingers fisting locks of hair, mouths pressed close to keep silent. It's
a mess, a true mess (splashes of spittle on their cheeks and lips, black and
auburn knots of sweaty hair, semen on his belly and his thighs, creased evening
suits, so fucking creased) and Robb couldn't care less.
As the blinding pleasure fades and exhaustion seeps over them like a warm
blanket, they just lie quietly together and listen to the rain and the soft
snores from the bed (Jon's not like him, Jon'll stay. Even after he's got what
he wanted, shot his load over Robb's suit, he'll stay.) Minutes, hours, aeons
later, Jon is the first of them to break the silence. "Uh –" He looks sheepish,
embarrassed; the fire has burnt out of his eyes. "Did we just –"
"Yeah," Robb says weakly, smiles.
"God, those things I've said," Jon mumbles. "I didn't mean that, Robb, I swear.
I don't – I don't think that about you."
"I know." Robb strokes his cheek, and when they kiss it's gentler, saner, full
of regret and forgiveness. And they really must leave now, while it's still
dark, while Theon is still asleep, but instead they cuddle closer, drift
towards sleep. What they must do doesn't seem all that important anymore. Robb
slowly tucks a too-long curl behind his brother's ear, whispers: "Jon?"
"Mm?"
"What happens now?"
"Well, uh." Jon's voice is drowsy, his eyes half-lidded. "What do you want?"
(And it's the first time Robb can remember anyone asking him what he wants to
happen. Father never does. Theon sure didn't. He's not certain he himself knows
what he wants. Except – this. Well, bound to hell or not, he wants this.)
"Just like that is fine," he finally decides. "Just fine for now."
Embraced inside their private cocoon of a wardrobe, they watch as the rain
subsides, they watch as the first sunbeams of dawn break through the grey
clouds, they watch as the morning rises.
The room is full of light.
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