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our heart burns broken at the ends.
WHO? theon greyjoy (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ironsalt) & robb stark (carnivora).
WHAT? in the end, the sea spits theon greyjoy back out.
ironsalt) & robb stark (carnivora).WHAT? in the end, the sea spits theon greyjoy back out.
[ in the end, the sea spits theon greyjoy back out.
robb doesn't hear from him for ages, and for weeks he's left wondering whether he even made it to pyke, to the iron islands, or whether his ship is crushed to pieces along some rocky shore or rotting at the bottom of the ocean floor. torturous dreams of theon's face haunt him nearly every night, though some nights are worse than others and robb wakes in a cold sweat, his heart in his throat as a heavy sense of foreboding washes over him.
despite his worries, the war rages on.
with his men at his back, robb rides to the westerlands and smashes through lannister forces near lannisport, then marches further north to sack and hold ashemark. he's onto the crag next, suffering an injury that leaves him temporarily bedridden and at the mercy of a soft, doe-eyed girl with a tempting mouth and a soothing voice.
i am promised to another, he thinks when she wipes his brow with a cool, damp rag, and as he thinks it, he thinks not of a nameless frey girl but of theon greyjoy slipping his hand into his and squeezing.
( he is only a boy. )
robb returns to riverrun exhausted and older, to where he's greeted by his mother who takes him into his arms and runs her fingers through his curls as he presses his face to her breast. once catelyn has seen him fed, she tells him of renly's refusal — and of his death — and of theon's return to the riverlands. he'll only speak with you, she says.
if she says anything else, robb doesn't hear her. he excuses himself from his mother's side and walks until he's out of her sight, then rushes through the castle to theon's room, grey wind padding behind him to snuff curiously at robb's heels.
he's dizzy and breathless by the time he bursts into theon's chambers, red curls in disarray under his heavy crown, and though moments before he had had every intention of gripping him tight and kissing him hard, when he sees him now he hesitates, quiet and uncertain. ]
— Theon. [ gods, he has so much to be concerned with, but all he can think is, please let nothing have changed.
please still want me the way i want you. ]
hdu take forever who takes forever
there are a thousand questions he wants to ask, hundreds answered with just the sound of robb's boots against the flooring and more still with the force of his body against his. for every few doubts eased, a dozen more populate and he finds no breath to voice any of them, his arms lifting to fit around shoulders that seem broader, stronger as he's walked backward, feeling almost disgustingly weak by comparison.
for as long as he's been away, robb has been chipping away at war, evident enough with the haunted look about him and further still against the harder musculature of his body. he prefers the insistent fingers through hair he's just recently been able to wash over whatever measured words he could produce, feeling the awkward shape of the bedpost pressing against him.
it's the reaction he didn't dare to dream about and maybe better still, hissing a breath past cracked lips like he's briefly forgotten how to properly take in air, like he's drowning but not at all in the sea.
he kisses to bruise because he doesn't know how else to, elbows pulling back to drag his hands over the straps of leather holding robb's armor together, knowing how to remove each layer but forcing himself to stop, to tilt his head back and breathe, blinking rapidly to regain his senses. ]
My father- [ his voice is a rasp and the words are wrong, licking over his mouth in some attempt to remember his urgency in what he needs to say. he corrects himself with an odd sort of flinch, something unfamiliar as his hands shift to rest on robb's shoulders in unclenched fists. ] Balon has declared himself King of the North. They will bleed the coastline dry and it will be only a distraction.
[ he does not mention winterfell, not yet, watching robb with an odd sense of patience, a stiffness in either wrist that suggests someone will have to pry him away from robb stark before he ever agrees to be so much as a step away from him again. he has plans to divulge, warnings that need to be made hastily, but he needs this now, fingers flexing into the fur framing his neck to keep him close. ]
meanwhile over a month later
the reveal hits him dully, ringing in his ears and spinning around his head in nonsensical patterns that mean nothing to him. balon greyjoy, the treacher, the rebel, turning his back on the north and on the starks, as defiant now as he'd been ten years ago. he should be more surprised than he is, but theon's mouth is bruised and red and lovely, and all robb can think is i don't care, i don't care, i don't care.
balon greyjoy may have betrayed him, but theon greyjoy has not. and robb knows now that he was right for never once doubting him or his loyalty.
theon stares at him as if he's expecting robb to say something kingly and noble and wise, but robb can think of nothing to say. maybe it's his youth, or his naiveté, or his childish glee at having theon here in his arms after so long, after they've been separated by so much.
he doesn't feel kingly or noble or wise, besides; he feels helplessly lost, gripping theon as though he fears he might glide through his fingers like sand on a beach. ]
None of that matters. [ his words are juvenile and foolishly misplaced, as if a fuck him, then can erase all that balon has done and will do. robb presses on, his trembling fingers tracing the lean, muscled line of theon's arms. ] You're here now. I —
[ the space between them is too wrong, too cold. robb buckles forward and winds his arms around his middle, tucking his face into the smooth curve of theon's throat and pressing his lips to his pulse. ]
— Gods, Theon. I never thought I'd see you again.
pretend this is timely
but this is what he fought to return to, wasn't it? he stares at robb and the brief silence makes him frantic, wanting to yell, wanting to force immediacy into his skull. it's resolve that slips easily at the press of shaky hands against him, warmth flooding him from the belly out, nothing like the sickly ache of the fever that claimed him for so long but thick and familiar.
rational thought had been brief but he'll claim later that an effort was made — and that'll have to be good enough because when robb cuts himself off with that sharp intake of breath, the sound sinks to his cock and he shudders with it, hissing out a low breath. ]
Yes. [ theon manages just this once robb closes the distance between their bodies, tipping his head back to allow that mouth to graze his throat, thinking maybe he wanted to say you need to call your men, you can't waste more time but growling instead, a slow sound catching in the back of his throat. ]
I knew I would. [ it's simple and overconfident, like he's always known something robb hasn't. it's also an obvious lie, a half groan, his hands lifting to lift the crown from robb's mess of curls, pulling it away almost reverently only to dangle it from the fingers of one hand, bold and pointless.
and then it's easy to reason that there will be time for playing war later, chin tilting so he can find robb's mouth with his again, biting kisses and tilting his hips forward, ignoring the odd feeling of being far slighter against the younger man's frame to lick into his mouth — all urgency, teeth hard against teeth when the crown is dropped to work his hands between their chests, thin fingers yanking at the clasp of cloak. ]
no subject
and again, like before, like always, robb will wade into the water until the waves break every foolish fucking bone in his body.
but, gods, how could words or warnings matter when they're together like this, when the tight press of their bodies leaves robb breathless and wanting. his crude crown is discarded, carelessly tossed to the stone floors, and if robb notices, he says nothing, his mouth kept busy by theon's tongue and teeth.
theon is quick with his cloak, but robb is quicker with theon's leathers, clawing fabric from his body like he's starved for him. his mouth finds his neck, and then the narrow line of his collar, teeth dragging down his sternum as his fingers count and feel each rib, pushing between the spaces in his chest like they're his to take and hold. his hands and mouth are bold and quick, rushed by inexperience; robb doesn't know any better, doesn't understand that theon will still be there if he slows down and kisses him how he's always wanted to kiss him — sweetly, deeply.
sweetness has no place here, maybe, in this cold room in riverrun, in the middle of this wretched war. robb wants to map theon's body with bruises and hard kisses and learn him in a newer, better way, until the war is gone and they are as they always were, laughing in winterfell with no talk of crowns or kings or betrayal.
sweetness has no place here. or anywhere.
( and again, like before, like always always always — )
robb squeezes his eyes shut and pushes his face into theon's shoulder with a soft sound, his arms winding around his naked middle as he slots a thigh between his legs and rubs against him. ]