fic: everything you're not supposed to be [1/?]
Game of Throooooonessss! This is my new favourite show, and my new favourite ship :)
Title: everything you're not supposed to be [1/?]
Author: alaskaxyoung
Character/Ship: Jon/Robb
Rating: i guess this is R, but only very briefly.
Genre: not sure yet - vaguely angsty, vaguely fluffy
Summary: robb looks back at how it all started.
Warnings: a glimpse of incest, a glimpse of smut.
Word Count: 1915.
Notes: this is mostly a friendship fic at the moment, but it'll develop. title taken from the beauuutiful same-titled song by melanie laurent & damien rice.
i know i was everything
you're not supposed to be
to someone that you love
Robb is only a baby when Lord Stark brings his bastard son home, so he obviously doesn't remember it. When he tries to think about his first memory with Jon, it's actually a struggle to think of a memory that doesn't involve Jon. When he remembers banging his foot against the back of a stone wall and his heel bleeding for ages, he remembers Jon looking all sickly and worried, aged four, as one of the servants bandages it up. When he remembers stealing food from the kitchens and only narrowly avoiding the cook's whip of a hand, it's Jon he remembers giggling with as they ran as fast as five year old legs could carry them.
The fact is that Jon's always been there - a presence as constant to Robb as his own shadow, and the closest thing he's ever had to a best friend. Which is why it's so strange to have the other man underneath him, naked and quivering and stretched wide open by Robb's insistent fingers, and why Robb can't help but wonder - 'how the hell did we get here?'
+++++++++++++++++++++
“Robb, don't!” Jon says, looking up at his half-brother with wide eyes and a bitten lip. “You'll break it!”
Robb is climbing up one of the old statues in the main dining hall, his boots slipping every now and then on the ancient carved stone. He's trying to reach the crown at the top, which he swears moves every time he walks past. “I just want to see!” he insists, “Now shut up, keep watch.”
Jon scowls, turning his back on the statue and on Robb to look up and down the corridor. His arms are folded across his chest and he keeps shifting his weight from one foot to the other - even at six years old, he's already uncomfortable in his own skin, already aware of what he is.
“I've nearly got it,” Robb hisses, stretching out his arm as far as it can go. His fingers fumble with the tip of the crown, but it doesn't budge.
“Does it move?” Jon asks, just before curiosity gets the better of him and he abandons his lookout post to gaze up at the statue.
Robb ignores the question. “Maybe if I -” he mutters, the tip of his tongue poking out in concentration, “Just, maybe if I get to the other side..”
“Be careful!” Jon urges, concern marring his face as Robb stretches out his leg to put his foot on the opposite arm of the statue. It reaches, but when he tries to move the other leg as well he misjudges the distance and slips, crashing down the floor with a sickening thud.
He cries out as his head slams against the cold stone floor, and blood immediately gushes from the cut on his forehead. Tears spring to his eyes and he shields them from Jon, ashamed, but Jon doesn't even seem to notice. He's on his knees, white and shaking as he tries to prise Robb's fingers away from his eyes to look at the wound.
“Get off me!” Robb snaps, embarrassed that anybody's seen him fail.
“I just want to look,” Jon says softly, ignoring the tone in Robb's voice. “Robb, just let me see.”
Robb's this close to taking his fingers away from his head when Jon hears heels clacking along the floor outside. He wheels around, but it's only seconds before Lady Stark is in the room.
“What have you done?!” she screeches, and though she's staring at Robb in horror, Jon knows it's him that she's talking to.
He stands up hastily, hands clasped behind his back, head bowed, eyes on his feet. He knows it's best not to look Lady Stark in the eye without his father around. “I didn't - we were just -” he stammers out, not sure of what to say.
She's a smart lady, so it takes Catelyn no time at all to look at the statue and her son at the foot of it and put two and two together. “Were you climbing the statue?” she demands of Robb, who's staining the floor with vivid red blood as his hands try to stem the flow. He sniffles, furiously blinking away tears, and nods.
She stares down at Robb, then at Jon. “Was this your idea?” she asks him, not yelling now but speaking with cold fury. Jon shakes his head desperately.
“No, no it wasn't, it wasn't my idea!” he insists, looking up at her for a brief second then immediately regretting it and looking over at Robb instead.
Catelyn's gaze also turns to her son. “Well?” she demands of him, eyebrows raised and hands on hips. Robb sniffs and looks up at her, then he very briefly meets Jon's eyes. “Was it his idea?”
Robb swallows hard, then - slowly - he nods. For Jon it's like taking a bullet, and his stomach clenches both with the fear of what Lady Stark will do to him, and the bitter sensation of betrayal. He doesn't say anything, knowing that there's very little point where Catelyn Stark is concerned.
“You bastard,” she spits at him, and her word stings almost as much as the slap she delivers to his face. They both burn, and as the force of it turns Jon's head sideways he briefly catches the eye of Rob, who immediately looks down. “You sleep in the outhouse tonight,” Catelyn snaps.
At this, Jon momentarily entertains the notion of protesting - it's mid-winter, and it's unbearable enough sleeping in the castle. The outhouse is where the servants sleep, and they're dropping like flies with at least one frozen body led out every morning. Of course, Jon will be better clothed than the majority of them, but the thought still chills him to the bone. Lady Stark has never been this cruel to him before - but then, he's never been deemed responsible for the physical injuring of her child before. Still he doesn't say a word, swallowing the lump that rises in his throat like he's swallowing his punishment. He nods, and Robb gasps softly, but Catelyn takes it as nothing more than a whimper of pain.
“Come with me my darling,” she coos, every bit the loving mother now as she takes Robb's hands in hers and gently lifts him to his feet.
As Robb is led out of the room he looks back over his shoulder at Jon with the same kind of wide eyed look that Jon himself usually wears, but he doesn't say anything. Jon holds his gaze until it's gone, and he's left in the cold dining hall with Robb's blood patterned on his shoes
++++
The night is colder than anything he could have ever imagined. This is the kind of cold that reminds him he's not a noble Stark, because Starks are supposed to be able to handle this kind of thing, and clearly Jon Snow cannot.
The frost is in his bones, and Jon feels certain that if he were to waste away tonight (and there's every chance that he will) they'd only find a skeleton made of ice in the morning. He shivers in his furs, teeth chattering so much that he's got no chance of even trying to fall asleep, and he flexes out his toes within his boots to ward off frostbite.
“Jon?” asks a small voice behind him, and though he momentarily stills, he's got no intention of turning towards it. He huddles down in his blankets even further, resisting the temptation to bury his head in there and pretend he's asleep.
Robb walks over to him, wrapped in so many layers of furs he looks absolutely ridiculous, and Jon would laugh if he could. Robb's clearly aware of how ludicrous he looks, and he offers a small smile to Jon - only visible through the flickering glow of the fire - as he shrugs and attempts to do a sort of twirl. Admittedly that does force the corners of Jon's lips to turn upwards, though straight away he turns his face to the side and tries to hide it.
“They're for you,” Robb explains, kneeling down on Jon's blankets and beginning to peel off the layers of fur. The proud and freshly-betrayed part of Jon wants to shake his head and refuse them, but the coldness of the night cools the heat of his anger. He takes the furs gratefully, but when it gets to a point where Robb's removing so many that he's shivering even more than Jon was, he shakes his head.
“Stop it,” he says, “That's enough.”
Robb hesitates, but when Jon shakes his head firmly he concedes, and wraps one of the fur blankets back round himself. He looks at Jon nervously, which isn't a look that Jon gets to see very often on the face of the Stark heir.
“I'm sorry,” he says quickly, which is something Jon gets to hear even less often. Robb bites his lip, but doesn't drop Jon's gaze. “Why didn't you say anything?” he asks.
Jon shrugs, fiddling with the hem of one of the blankets through his fur-lined gloves. “I didn't want you to get into trouble,” he mumbles, and is maybe a little bit too pleased by the guilty look on Robb's face - but it's only a few moments before he feels guilty too, for making Robb feel so ashamed.
“Did you bring any food?” he asks, and Robb seems as grateful for the chance of subject as Jon is as he reaches inside his coat. He brings out two bread rolls, still warm from the kitchen oven, and Jon snatches one out of his hands and bites off a hunk.
“Thanks,” he mumbles through a mouthful of the stuff, and some of it sprays out and hits Robb in the face.
“Euuugh,” Robb complains, wiping at his face, and Jon grins mischievously. It's only a small moment, but that warm and open look on Jon's face makes Robb grin back hopefully, and Jon's grin turns into a proper smile.
They eat the rest of their bread in silence, watching the flames of the fire slowly die out. They're both aware that as soon as the fire dies out it'll be even colder than it already is, so it's time for Robb to get back inside.
He swallows the last of his roll and looks over at Jon, who's comforted by the blankets and the bread and is looking sleepy amongst the many coloured pelts. “I'm gonna go back in,” he says, and Jon nods. He hadn't been expecting Robb to stay.
Robb stands up, wiping the crumbs on his trousers and pulling the furs around him, and he looks down at Jon before he goes. “What - what she said,” he begins, “What she called you...”
Jon's eyes, which has been shut, open in apprehension. “Yeah?”
“I'm sorry she called you that,” Robb says, “I... I don't think that.”
And his words warm Jon more than bread or fire or pelts ever could, but he's six years old and doesn't quite know the full extent of what it means for Robb to say that, so he just nods and smiles a little. “Night,” he breathes, and Robb returns that small smile and begins to walk back to the castle.
Over his shoulder, he tosses another warm bread roll, and it lands directly on Jon's lap.
Title: everything you're not supposed to be [1/?]
Author: alaskaxyoung
Character/Ship: Jon/Robb
Rating: i guess this is R, but only very briefly.
Genre: not sure yet - vaguely angsty, vaguely fluffy
Summary: robb looks back at how it all started.
Warnings: a glimpse of incest, a glimpse of smut.
Word Count: 1915.
Notes: this is mostly a friendship fic at the moment, but it'll develop. title taken from the beauuutiful same-titled song by melanie laurent & damien rice.
i know i was everything
you're not supposed to be
to someone that you love
Robb is only a baby when Lord Stark brings his bastard son home, so he obviously doesn't remember it. When he tries to think about his first memory with Jon, it's actually a struggle to think of a memory that doesn't involve Jon. When he remembers banging his foot against the back of a stone wall and his heel bleeding for ages, he remembers Jon looking all sickly and worried, aged four, as one of the servants bandages it up. When he remembers stealing food from the kitchens and only narrowly avoiding the cook's whip of a hand, it's Jon he remembers giggling with as they ran as fast as five year old legs could carry them.
The fact is that Jon's always been there - a presence as constant to Robb as his own shadow, and the closest thing he's ever had to a best friend. Which is why it's so strange to have the other man underneath him, naked and quivering and stretched wide open by Robb's insistent fingers, and why Robb can't help but wonder - 'how the hell did we get here?'
+++++++++++++++++++++
“Robb, don't!” Jon says, looking up at his half-brother with wide eyes and a bitten lip. “You'll break it!”
Robb is climbing up one of the old statues in the main dining hall, his boots slipping every now and then on the ancient carved stone. He's trying to reach the crown at the top, which he swears moves every time he walks past. “I just want to see!” he insists, “Now shut up, keep watch.”
Jon scowls, turning his back on the statue and on Robb to look up and down the corridor. His arms are folded across his chest and he keeps shifting his weight from one foot to the other - even at six years old, he's already uncomfortable in his own skin, already aware of what he is.
“I've nearly got it,” Robb hisses, stretching out his arm as far as it can go. His fingers fumble with the tip of the crown, but it doesn't budge.
“Does it move?” Jon asks, just before curiosity gets the better of him and he abandons his lookout post to gaze up at the statue.
Robb ignores the question. “Maybe if I -” he mutters, the tip of his tongue poking out in concentration, “Just, maybe if I get to the other side..”
“Be careful!” Jon urges, concern marring his face as Robb stretches out his leg to put his foot on the opposite arm of the statue. It reaches, but when he tries to move the other leg as well he misjudges the distance and slips, crashing down the floor with a sickening thud.
He cries out as his head slams against the cold stone floor, and blood immediately gushes from the cut on his forehead. Tears spring to his eyes and he shields them from Jon, ashamed, but Jon doesn't even seem to notice. He's on his knees, white and shaking as he tries to prise Robb's fingers away from his eyes to look at the wound.
“Get off me!” Robb snaps, embarrassed that anybody's seen him fail.
“I just want to look,” Jon says softly, ignoring the tone in Robb's voice. “Robb, just let me see.”
Robb's this close to taking his fingers away from his head when Jon hears heels clacking along the floor outside. He wheels around, but it's only seconds before Lady Stark is in the room.
“What have you done?!” she screeches, and though she's staring at Robb in horror, Jon knows it's him that she's talking to.
He stands up hastily, hands clasped behind his back, head bowed, eyes on his feet. He knows it's best not to look Lady Stark in the eye without his father around. “I didn't - we were just -” he stammers out, not sure of what to say.
She's a smart lady, so it takes Catelyn no time at all to look at the statue and her son at the foot of it and put two and two together. “Were you climbing the statue?” she demands of Robb, who's staining the floor with vivid red blood as his hands try to stem the flow. He sniffles, furiously blinking away tears, and nods.
She stares down at Robb, then at Jon. “Was this your idea?” she asks him, not yelling now but speaking with cold fury. Jon shakes his head desperately.
“No, no it wasn't, it wasn't my idea!” he insists, looking up at her for a brief second then immediately regretting it and looking over at Robb instead.
Catelyn's gaze also turns to her son. “Well?” she demands of him, eyebrows raised and hands on hips. Robb sniffs and looks up at her, then he very briefly meets Jon's eyes. “Was it his idea?”
Robb swallows hard, then - slowly - he nods. For Jon it's like taking a bullet, and his stomach clenches both with the fear of what Lady Stark will do to him, and the bitter sensation of betrayal. He doesn't say anything, knowing that there's very little point where Catelyn Stark is concerned.
“You bastard,” she spits at him, and her word stings almost as much as the slap she delivers to his face. They both burn, and as the force of it turns Jon's head sideways he briefly catches the eye of Rob, who immediately looks down. “You sleep in the outhouse tonight,” Catelyn snaps.
At this, Jon momentarily entertains the notion of protesting - it's mid-winter, and it's unbearable enough sleeping in the castle. The outhouse is where the servants sleep, and they're dropping like flies with at least one frozen body led out every morning. Of course, Jon will be better clothed than the majority of them, but the thought still chills him to the bone. Lady Stark has never been this cruel to him before - but then, he's never been deemed responsible for the physical injuring of her child before. Still he doesn't say a word, swallowing the lump that rises in his throat like he's swallowing his punishment. He nods, and Robb gasps softly, but Catelyn takes it as nothing more than a whimper of pain.
“Come with me my darling,” she coos, every bit the loving mother now as she takes Robb's hands in hers and gently lifts him to his feet.
As Robb is led out of the room he looks back over his shoulder at Jon with the same kind of wide eyed look that Jon himself usually wears, but he doesn't say anything. Jon holds his gaze until it's gone, and he's left in the cold dining hall with Robb's blood patterned on his shoes
++++
The night is colder than anything he could have ever imagined. This is the kind of cold that reminds him he's not a noble Stark, because Starks are supposed to be able to handle this kind of thing, and clearly Jon Snow cannot.
The frost is in his bones, and Jon feels certain that if he were to waste away tonight (and there's every chance that he will) they'd only find a skeleton made of ice in the morning. He shivers in his furs, teeth chattering so much that he's got no chance of even trying to fall asleep, and he flexes out his toes within his boots to ward off frostbite.
“Jon?” asks a small voice behind him, and though he momentarily stills, he's got no intention of turning towards it. He huddles down in his blankets even further, resisting the temptation to bury his head in there and pretend he's asleep.
Robb walks over to him, wrapped in so many layers of furs he looks absolutely ridiculous, and Jon would laugh if he could. Robb's clearly aware of how ludicrous he looks, and he offers a small smile to Jon - only visible through the flickering glow of the fire - as he shrugs and attempts to do a sort of twirl. Admittedly that does force the corners of Jon's lips to turn upwards, though straight away he turns his face to the side and tries to hide it.
“They're for you,” Robb explains, kneeling down on Jon's blankets and beginning to peel off the layers of fur. The proud and freshly-betrayed part of Jon wants to shake his head and refuse them, but the coldness of the night cools the heat of his anger. He takes the furs gratefully, but when it gets to a point where Robb's removing so many that he's shivering even more than Jon was, he shakes his head.
“Stop it,” he says, “That's enough.”
Robb hesitates, but when Jon shakes his head firmly he concedes, and wraps one of the fur blankets back round himself. He looks at Jon nervously, which isn't a look that Jon gets to see very often on the face of the Stark heir.
“I'm sorry,” he says quickly, which is something Jon gets to hear even less often. Robb bites his lip, but doesn't drop Jon's gaze. “Why didn't you say anything?” he asks.
Jon shrugs, fiddling with the hem of one of the blankets through his fur-lined gloves. “I didn't want you to get into trouble,” he mumbles, and is maybe a little bit too pleased by the guilty look on Robb's face - but it's only a few moments before he feels guilty too, for making Robb feel so ashamed.
“Did you bring any food?” he asks, and Robb seems as grateful for the chance of subject as Jon is as he reaches inside his coat. He brings out two bread rolls, still warm from the kitchen oven, and Jon snatches one out of his hands and bites off a hunk.
“Thanks,” he mumbles through a mouthful of the stuff, and some of it sprays out and hits Robb in the face.
“Euuugh,” Robb complains, wiping at his face, and Jon grins mischievously. It's only a small moment, but that warm and open look on Jon's face makes Robb grin back hopefully, and Jon's grin turns into a proper smile.
They eat the rest of their bread in silence, watching the flames of the fire slowly die out. They're both aware that as soon as the fire dies out it'll be even colder than it already is, so it's time for Robb to get back inside.
He swallows the last of his roll and looks over at Jon, who's comforted by the blankets and the bread and is looking sleepy amongst the many coloured pelts. “I'm gonna go back in,” he says, and Jon nods. He hadn't been expecting Robb to stay.
Robb stands up, wiping the crumbs on his trousers and pulling the furs around him, and he looks down at Jon before he goes. “What - what she said,” he begins, “What she called you...”
Jon's eyes, which has been shut, open in apprehension. “Yeah?”
“I'm sorry she called you that,” Robb says, “I... I don't think that.”
And his words warm Jon more than bread or fire or pelts ever could, but he's six years old and doesn't quite know the full extent of what it means for Robb to say that, so he just nods and smiles a little. “Night,” he breathes, and Robb returns that small smile and begins to walk back to the castle.
Over his shoulder, he tosses another warm bread roll, and it lands directly on Jon's lap.