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got fic: we were never the boys we were
Title: we were never the boys we were
Pairing: Jon/Robb
Rating: R
Words: ~1,200
Summary: Jon thinks of the way Robb looks when he sleeps, his eyes closed and pillow creases on his cheek..
Notes: Written for![[personal profile]](https://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif?v=88)
asoiafkinkmeme and the prompt The moment when they realize that they have deeper feelings for each other than normal brothers and that everything they've been doing is more than just sexual experimentation.
we were never the boys we were
"Come tonight," Robb says, his voice jagged and thin, as taut as an old scar, and Jon nods, silently, glancing around like a thief, like a man with stolen goods lumpy in his pockets. They've had little time together since King Robert arrived at Winterfell, and even less since Bran fell and Lady Stark shut herself in his rooms; Robb has been busy with the princes and Jon has been keeping out of sight, sleeping alone in the wide stretch of his bed, unable to settle without Robb's weight warm and solid beside him, restless without Robb's breathy snores burring in his ears. His hand itches for the jut of Robb's hip, or the familiar curve of Robb's shoulder, where a bruise the size of Jon's thumb is hidden beneath Robb's doublet, but they are out in the practice yard, with Theon four paces to one side and Ser Rodrik five paces to the other, and then Robb turns away, slowly, his lip slipping between his teeth and his auburn hair dancing with with wind.
Jon rides for the Castle Black in three days, and the thought leaves him anxious and reluctant at once, presses on his shoulders with the weight of a stone, for all that he'd been eager when he first broached the subject with Benjen. There will be no place for him here once his father goes south; he has told himself as much a hundred times, a thousand times, a hundred-thousand times, but the words have started to ring hollow in the last sennight, coating his tongue with something as thick and bitter as ash. He will miss Winterfell, with its old towers and snowy courtyards, and he will miss Sansa and Arya and Bran and Rickon, and he will miss Robb -- Robb's bright smiles and Robb's easy, throaty laugh, the way Robb moans when Jon kisses the side of his neck, the hot flush that covers Robb's cheeks and jaw when Jon's hand wraps around his cock. He thinks of the Night's Watch and the Wall, of men dressed in black furs and three hundred miles of ice sweeping seven hundred feet into the sky, and he shivers as he walks away from the armory, freezing despite the heaviness of his cloak and the colorless Northern sun shimmering above his head.
He watches Robb across the table at supper, craning his neck as if it will narrow the long reach between high and low. Jon's end of the hall is thick with smoke and the drunken chatter of hedge knights and freeriders; he tears his heel of bread into crumbs as Robb laughs at one of Jory's jokes, taps his spoon against the edge of his plate as Robb sneaks Myrcella a second cup of wine. Robb offers him a quick smile, his lips dark and wet with good Dornish red and barely curving at the corners, and Jon thinks of the one night they've shared since King Robert came north, huddled under a pair of dusty furs in the stony silence of the Broken Tower, too cold to properly pull of their clothes and too scared of discovery to light a fire. They had kissed for hours, their tongues sliding together as a gibbous moon cut a slow arc past the window, and the Robb had taken Jon into his mouth, sucking soft and sweet and slow, his hand pressing a bruise into the curve of Jon's hip. Jon had spent with his head thrown back and his breath clawing at the back of his throat, his fingers twisting into the furs and into Robb's hair, scrabbling over the rubbled ground beneath him, dirt sticky against his knuckles, gritty underneath his nails.
"Tonight," Robb says again, pausing as they pass each other on the stairs, Jon going up and Robb coming down, his eyes narrowing as he plucks lightly at Jon's sleeve. The torch light paints them in shades of yellow and orange, then scudders away with a hiss, leaving them in near darkness, and Jon thinks of the first time Robb touched him, almost a year ago, when the weather had sent him shivering into Robb's bed, a summer storm with thick snows and a leaden sky and teeth waiting in each gust of wind, of how Jon had woken before dawn sweaty and hard, his knee hooked over Robb's leg and his cock rubbing against the soft swell of Robb's thigh, and how Robb had caught him before he could steal away in horror, one hand curling in the collar of Jon's night shirt and the other settling over the curve of Jon's ass. Robb had quietly confessed that he was as much a maid as Jon, that he'd never done more than kiss a kitchen girl in the hidden corners of a larder, and it had seemed strangely easy then, to practice on each other and learn from each other, to explore each other with hands and mouths and tongues, and it grew easier the more they did it, each shared bed and stolen kiss soothing the shame that burned over Jon's sin, the bitter sting Jon still sometimes feels when he dwells on the fact that Robb is his brother.
The moon is a withered crescent, mottled grey by a gathering sweep of clouds, and Jon waits until it is high in the sky before leaving his rooms, until all the torches have burned out and even the servants are in bed, his hand shaking as he opens Robb's door. Robb's rooms are dark, lit only by an evening fire dying slowly in the hearth, and Jon startles when he realizes Robb is standing just beside him, his heart hammering in his throat as his eyes adjust to the shadows. He looks at the hard plane of Robb's chest, and at the soft line of hair under Robb's navel, narrowing as it dips beneath the waist of his breeches, and the slightly uneven set of Robb's bare feet, the way his toes list together without Ser Rodrik their to remind him of his posture. Jon slides his hand over Robb's shoulder, his palm settling at the join of Robb's neck as his thumb brushes the hollow of Robb's throat. Robb pulls Jon closer with a soft noise, his hands clutching at Jon's hips and his face buried in Jon's hair, his lips fluttering over the shell of Jon's ear, and a queer weight burrows into Jon's chest, a twist that feels sharp and tight and empty all at once, a thing that feels like loss, not a brother he can visit when the Night's Watch permits, but a thing ripped away from him, torn completely in two.
Robb asks him to stay with the slide of his tongue and the catch of his teeth, with the hand he wraps around Jon's cock and the bright red mark he sucks into the crease of Jon's thigh, and Jon thinks of the Night's Watch and the Wall, of a frozen pallet of furs and the way Robb looks when he sleeps, with his eyes closed and pillow creases on his cheek. He knots his fingers into Robb's hair, and he hopes he will never forget how it feels against his hand, how it spills over his knuckles, rubs across his thumb.
Pairing: Jon/Robb
Rating: R
Words: ~1,200
Summary: Jon thinks of the way Robb looks when he sleeps, his eyes closed and pillow creases on his cheek..
Notes: Written for
asoiafkinkmeme and the prompt The moment when they realize that they have deeper feelings for each other than normal brothers and that everything they've been doing is more than just sexual experimentation."Come tonight," Robb says, his voice jagged and thin, as taut as an old scar, and Jon nods, silently, glancing around like a thief, like a man with stolen goods lumpy in his pockets. They've had little time together since King Robert arrived at Winterfell, and even less since Bran fell and Lady Stark shut herself in his rooms; Robb has been busy with the princes and Jon has been keeping out of sight, sleeping alone in the wide stretch of his bed, unable to settle without Robb's weight warm and solid beside him, restless without Robb's breathy snores burring in his ears. His hand itches for the jut of Robb's hip, or the familiar curve of Robb's shoulder, where a bruise the size of Jon's thumb is hidden beneath Robb's doublet, but they are out in the practice yard, with Theon four paces to one side and Ser Rodrik five paces to the other, and then Robb turns away, slowly, his lip slipping between his teeth and his auburn hair dancing with with wind.
Jon rides for the Castle Black in three days, and the thought leaves him anxious and reluctant at once, presses on his shoulders with the weight of a stone, for all that he'd been eager when he first broached the subject with Benjen. There will be no place for him here once his father goes south; he has told himself as much a hundred times, a thousand times, a hundred-thousand times, but the words have started to ring hollow in the last sennight, coating his tongue with something as thick and bitter as ash. He will miss Winterfell, with its old towers and snowy courtyards, and he will miss Sansa and Arya and Bran and Rickon, and he will miss Robb -- Robb's bright smiles and Robb's easy, throaty laugh, the way Robb moans when Jon kisses the side of his neck, the hot flush that covers Robb's cheeks and jaw when Jon's hand wraps around his cock. He thinks of the Night's Watch and the Wall, of men dressed in black furs and three hundred miles of ice sweeping seven hundred feet into the sky, and he shivers as he walks away from the armory, freezing despite the heaviness of his cloak and the colorless Northern sun shimmering above his head.
He watches Robb across the table at supper, craning his neck as if it will narrow the long reach between high and low. Jon's end of the hall is thick with smoke and the drunken chatter of hedge knights and freeriders; he tears his heel of bread into crumbs as Robb laughs at one of Jory's jokes, taps his spoon against the edge of his plate as Robb sneaks Myrcella a second cup of wine. Robb offers him a quick smile, his lips dark and wet with good Dornish red and barely curving at the corners, and Jon thinks of the one night they've shared since King Robert came north, huddled under a pair of dusty furs in the stony silence of the Broken Tower, too cold to properly pull of their clothes and too scared of discovery to light a fire. They had kissed for hours, their tongues sliding together as a gibbous moon cut a slow arc past the window, and the Robb had taken Jon into his mouth, sucking soft and sweet and slow, his hand pressing a bruise into the curve of Jon's hip. Jon had spent with his head thrown back and his breath clawing at the back of his throat, his fingers twisting into the furs and into Robb's hair, scrabbling over the rubbled ground beneath him, dirt sticky against his knuckles, gritty underneath his nails.
"Tonight," Robb says again, pausing as they pass each other on the stairs, Jon going up and Robb coming down, his eyes narrowing as he plucks lightly at Jon's sleeve. The torch light paints them in shades of yellow and orange, then scudders away with a hiss, leaving them in near darkness, and Jon thinks of the first time Robb touched him, almost a year ago, when the weather had sent him shivering into Robb's bed, a summer storm with thick snows and a leaden sky and teeth waiting in each gust of wind, of how Jon had woken before dawn sweaty and hard, his knee hooked over Robb's leg and his cock rubbing against the soft swell of Robb's thigh, and how Robb had caught him before he could steal away in horror, one hand curling in the collar of Jon's night shirt and the other settling over the curve of Jon's ass. Robb had quietly confessed that he was as much a maid as Jon, that he'd never done more than kiss a kitchen girl in the hidden corners of a larder, and it had seemed strangely easy then, to practice on each other and learn from each other, to explore each other with hands and mouths and tongues, and it grew easier the more they did it, each shared bed and stolen kiss soothing the shame that burned over Jon's sin, the bitter sting Jon still sometimes feels when he dwells on the fact that Robb is his brother.
The moon is a withered crescent, mottled grey by a gathering sweep of clouds, and Jon waits until it is high in the sky before leaving his rooms, until all the torches have burned out and even the servants are in bed, his hand shaking as he opens Robb's door. Robb's rooms are dark, lit only by an evening fire dying slowly in the hearth, and Jon startles when he realizes Robb is standing just beside him, his heart hammering in his throat as his eyes adjust to the shadows. He looks at the hard plane of Robb's chest, and at the soft line of hair under Robb's navel, narrowing as it dips beneath the waist of his breeches, and the slightly uneven set of Robb's bare feet, the way his toes list together without Ser Rodrik their to remind him of his posture. Jon slides his hand over Robb's shoulder, his palm settling at the join of Robb's neck as his thumb brushes the hollow of Robb's throat. Robb pulls Jon closer with a soft noise, his hands clutching at Jon's hips and his face buried in Jon's hair, his lips fluttering over the shell of Jon's ear, and a queer weight burrows into Jon's chest, a twist that feels sharp and tight and empty all at once, a thing that feels like loss, not a brother he can visit when the Night's Watch permits, but a thing ripped away from him, torn completely in two.
Robb asks him to stay with the slide of his tongue and the catch of his teeth, with the hand he wraps around Jon's cock and the bright red mark he sucks into the crease of Jon's thigh, and Jon thinks of the Night's Watch and the Wall, of a frozen pallet of furs and the way Robb looks when he sleeps, with his eyes closed and pillow creases on his cheek. He knots his fingers into Robb's hair, and he hopes he will never forget how it feels against his hand, how it spills over his knuckles, rubs across his thumb.