00 - 99 Robblems but Theon ain't one - 00

A Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire one-shot

in which Robb is in his cups and Theon's in The Nile,

and is ample proof to the fact that Throbb has been eating my brain, and there's apparently not much left of it.

Wine loosens the tongue, wrangles your innermost thoughts and desires from places where they'd been left to rot tied down by dignity, comformity, and a lot of other -ities, and heroically wrestles them out of you - only to have you regurgitate them all over your best friend in near-literal word vomit.

Some poet must have said that before. Or something similar, anyway. Shakespeare, mayhaps?

In any case, Robb is sure, the wine is entirely to blame for why he stretches out his legs on the back seat of his car, gives Theon a radiant smile, and announces, "You like me," with all the zest of a first-grader winning the annual spelling bee.

Theon, for his part, looks much like aforementioned first-grader who's just forgotten how to spell 'orange.' "What?"

"You like me," Robb repeats, because the more he says it the more sense it makes in his wine-addled brain. "You do. In the gay way, too. Jon was right."

Theon nearly manages the fantabulous feat of falling all over himself while seated on a fucking car seat. "I do not. That is ridiculous."

"It's not." Robb leans in with a giant smile that just might be sort of drooping at the corners and roars, "YOU LIKE ME."

Theon just sort of stares at him. The moments pull past. Robb's starting to think that the rain drops on his car windows look really fucking amazing (because they're all glistening-y! And on his windows!).

Unceremoniously, Theon snaps Robb's wandering attention back to himself with an indignant, "How much have you had, mate?"

Robb grins. "I had wiiiiine."

"I know, I was there." Theon eyes him. "You – you must have been drinking before you dragged me into your car, though."

"Yeaaaah," Robb says. Thinking. The neurons in his brain correspond to roughly one of each slow, wide blink. "...Kind of?"

"Kind of, or kind of a lot?"

"Uhmm." Robb scrounges up his face in thought, and raises his hands.

"Oh bloody hell," Theon hisses. "You are not counting that on your fingers."

"Well." Robb lowers his hands. "... I had to pee a couple of times?" A pause. "A lot of times, come to think of it. Heh."

Theon gives him a look. Robb guesses it's supposed to be kind of reproachful and stuff, but his only vision kind of swims until Theon's face is burry pale oval, with his eyes winking out of it like stars.

It makes Robb smile.

Theon is kind of like that, he thinks. Always is, always has been. He wears his smiles like armor, shoots insults like missiles, sharpens his arrogant looks to spires. As if it all meant something, as if he had to by the law of his dignity or whatever, as if Robb couldn't see. Everyone else may fall for it, everyone else may believe that Theon is just who he tries so hard to pretend he is, but Robb has always noticed the traces of insecurity and longing and hurt that lingers whenever Theon puffs out the sharpened air around him. It clings to him, subtle like an afterthought.

...Can smells have an aftersmell, though? Tastes have an aftertaste, but do smells have an aftersmell?

… Uh.

"Mate," Theon says with a nervous little shift. "You look high as a fucking kite, and I can almost guarantee you that tomorrow you'll wake up and decide this was the saddest fucking thing you've ever done in your life, ever."

Theon's rant sort of sloshes into a puddle of words and sentences that Robb knows, yet can't be arsed to make any sense of. Theon is being silly of course because Robb is drunk, not high (and that difference is important), but everything else seems less important, right now.

"Theon," Robb says instead, low and sensuous. He enjoys the way the name tumbles out of his mouth, how his tongue taps his teeth at the 'th,' and then how at the end of his name – the 'on' – it makes him purse his lips. It's a good name, it's a familiar name, the name of his best friend, and it's sweet on his tongue, like some of the awful girly drinks he's downed half an hour ago, but without that awful fake pinch to it. Nothing feels fake right now.

The car is warm and the night is cold. Theon is warm, too, when Robb presses up against him, folding his legs up beneath himself to make rooms within the confines of his car. Hot, almost.

So, Robb decides to tell him that.

"I'm what?"

"Hot." Robb nods as furiously as a metal head at an Iron Maiden concert. "You are. And you like me." He leans in to nuzzle his face in Theon's neck. It's salt he tastes when he flicks out his tongue to run across his jugular. Just a hint, just a promise of it, really, but it makes Theon's spine stiffen and muscles tighten oh so deliciously, and Robb is spurned on by the reaction, drunk on not only wine now, but this, all of this, Theon and him and them.

"You're..." Theon's resistance is chipping away. Robb can visualise it splattering away like old mottled paint on an abandoned work shop's walls, a little bit more and a little bit more after that, with each insistent press of his body, each lick along his neck.

He hears the rain's monochromatic drizzle on the roof of the car. The thump-thump-thump of Theon's heartbeat. The sound of his saliva pulling past his throat when he swallows.

"Theon," he says, and the word is euphoria on his tongue. "I'm sick of all this. You like me and I like you and Jon says we should just fuck, he's said it hundreds of times, or a thousand, I don't even remember, I don't know, I don't know, but I do know that, you know what?" He raises his eyes to look into Theon's. "We should."

Theon's eyes are drawn, his jaw set. He's not Theon the playboy now, and not Theon the sarcastic arsehole; he's a boy completely out of his wits, and he looks so lost that for a moment, something like sobriety cuts through the alcohol-ladled mess of impulses that is Robb's brain.

"Tell me no." Something in Robb's chest sinks. "And, and we won't – we won't ever speak of it again. Really. I'm not going to – force you or anything, I just..." He trails off. Speech is hard right now. Speech requires moving his tongue and forming words neatly wrangled into the confines of proper syntax, all of which seems as impossible right now as the scribbled numbers on Jon's advanced calculus notes.

"...Robb," Theon finally says. "We're in your bloody car."

"Is this the part where you list all the reasons why we shouldn't?" Robb rolls up his eyes in thought. "You... fucked Jon's girlfriend in my car on Valentine's day. You little bitch."

"...Oh yeah," Theon breathes. "I did, didn't I?" He languishes in masculine smugness for a moment, before he reins in his smirk again when he remembers what this is and where they are. He manages, somberly enough: "You are so wankered that you probably don't even know how many fingers I'm holding up right now."

Robb blinks. He tries to focus on Theon's hand. His rather blurry hand. "Uh…"

"Point," Theon says, and jabs an accusatory index finger at him.

Well, Robb can't really argue where his sobriety is concerned, but: "... Fuck off. Like you've never had sex when you were drunk," because that, Theon can't argue with, hah.

"Fine. Fine. How about this, then." Theon pauses. "You're my... friend."

"That's not a Robblem," Robb says.

"... A Robblem?" Theon's eyebrows raise.

"... Uh. Problem, okay. Problem. Look – talking is hard, okay?"

"You're a proper Robblem, Robb."

"Shut it. I just made a mistake." He closes his eyes, and breathes. "Don't make it this hard, Theon." Then he realises how that sounds. "... In other news, I think I just need to give up talking."

They look at each other across the lull, one smiling fondly, the other conflicted.

Theon is the one to break the eye contact, again. "Jesus," he exhales, in that way that Robb's learned means that he really, really craves a cig or a dozen right now. "Just… give me a break here, okay? Okay. Okay. You ask me to come over, and once I do I find out you're drunk as a skunk. Okay, then, so I process this much. No big deal, right? Only then I'm dragged to your car like some anime nerd's blow-up doll, where you proceed to drain my bottle of Chardonnay and then ask me - your very straight friend - if you could, ugh, fuck me like it's some sort of normal side-effect to being pissed to skip three stops along the Kinsey scale -"

"I did not say that," Robb says, interrupting him. "That... that I wanted to fuck you, I mean. I think, I think." A pause. Words, they're difficult. "I think I'd quite like you to fuck me?"

The words linger.

Theon tenses. Goes very still. Gazes at him in a way that takes Robb a full moment to figure out is fear.

And then Theon forces a smirk onto his face, drags it up and plasters it all over his face, even though it doesn't fit and looks all wrong because it doesn't reach his eyes. Wrong again when it curls up his upper lip and bears his canines, ready to spit out an insult, as if this thing they have could be undone by a gay sneer. As if everything they are and could (would) be is not worthy. As if it can be swept away if Theon just turns mean enough so Robb will never love him.

He decides not to let him do that.

Robb swats away the twitch around around Theon's lips that would have solidified into armor by leaning in and capturing it with his lips.

Theon tastes of those awful cigarettes he smokes, but it doesn't matter right now because his lips are still soft when Robb parts them and nibbles on the lower one. He sucks it into his mouth and runs his tongue along it, and waits.

The drizzle of the rain rises to a steady beat in his ears, overlaid by the music that Theon put onto his stereo when they first got into the car. Robb has been tuning it out, but he hears it now: throaty voices and the wails of guitars.

Everything that Theon listens to is loud and feral and entirely unapologetic. It's never content being stuck somewhere in the middle, of flickering through the wishy-washy lands of genres entitled 'melodic rock' or 'jazz pop' or some shit like that; instead it lavishes in the extremities of sound, raw and full and somehow just too much, too much.

Theon's a bit like his music, Robb thinks.

Then Theon kisses him back and Robb can't think much of anything anymore.

Theon kisses like he's got something to prove, all teeth and tongue, and Robb lets him have it if it's this important to him. If that is what he needs. Theon tastes of the last cigarette he smoked and something salty, but Robb doesn't mind.

Theon pushes him back and Robb pulls him with him by the shirt until he has a Theon-shaped blanket above him and he wonders why in the world he didn't just drink a quarter of a liquor store by himself weeks before this.

Theon presses him down, kissing him as if he can't allow himself a moment of pause because he might realise what he's doing if he did.

Robb doesn't want that to happen. "Yeah." A little pant when Theon's mouth breaks away, and then another: "Yeah." He buries his hand in Theon's hair and pulls him closer. "Just like... that – mmph." Theon grabs him by the neck and lifts up his mouth, forcing Robb's mouth open and thrusting his tongue inside it hard and deep.

Robb moans at the realisation just what he's simulating, here. Robb moans and responds to the kiss as hard as he can, rutting against him shamelessly.

Theon breaks the kiss with a low, surprised and completely gobsmacked, "Fuck."

That sounds pretty darn good to Robb right now. "Mmh."

"No," Theon says, but he seems to struggle with the word. "I'm not..."

Aeons ago, before Robb started to get irrationally aroused around his best friend and before Jon started all these caustic little remarks and before Theon started to flinch at any casual touch, before any of it, Theon always used to tell him stuff.

About how all girls had some sort of last-minute slut defense. That moment when they've already consented, but that consent still manages to stir shame and self-loathing. Or something like that, anyway; Robb never cared to listen too much to Theon prattling on about the intricacies of any of his ill-begotten drunken bathroom romps.

Maybe this is sort of like that, though. That last-minute defense. Only with Theon, it's bound to be about –

"I know," Robb says. "No, you're not gay." He arches up beneath him and gives him a smile that he hopes is sexy and not half as drunk as he feels. "Now shut up."

With that, he pulls Theon down again.

Robb can tell the exact moment when Theon finally breaks.

It's when Robb bites his lower lip again and lets his hand drift down along Theon's tightly-wired body, along a rib cage that vibrates with the sharp beats of the heart beyond, and finds his cock.

Theon moans, squeezes his eyes shut, lets loose a string of curses – and slumps his entire weight forward to pin Robb against the car seat again, hard and hot and desperate now.

The bottle of wine flies off the seat. Limbs tangle with limbs and bone grinds against bone as they struggle within the limited space of Robb's car. There's an elbow in Robb's stomach but he barely has time to hiss an, "ow" before Theon kisses him again and touches him and moves against him, and the pain soothes.

Then Theon tugs on Robb's shirt and he obliges, lifting his arms so Theon can tear it off and by the time the world blinks into (alcohol-dulled) focus again, Theon's torso is bare as well.

They look at each other. The trickle of the rain slips into Robb's consciousness again. Bleary pumpkin light falls through the car window and illuminates the sharp incline of Theon's nose, his dark stubble, the razor-sharp glint in his eyes.

They jump toward each other at exactly the same time and meet in the middle. Robb falls back against the seat (again) and his head decides to remind him that he's still very much drunk when it starts to spin (again), round and round like a fucking merry go-around at a fair or some shit like that before the world stops keeling enough for him to become aware of Theon tugging at his trousers, and –

"Hah." Robb squeezes his eyes shut and bucks his hips, grinding his cock against Theon's hand. "Yeah, ah."

"That's fucking admirable... getting it up in this state. Always open for business, huh?"

Robb laughs, but the laugh is cut short in the middle when Theon's hand gets faster and he's suddenly too busy moaning and rocking into that hand.

" – before?" Theon says.

Robb blinks; he must have missed some of that. "Uh, what?"

Theon grins a bit. It's not like his usual smirk. "I said, have you done this before?"

Robb chuckles. "I'm not some pristine untouched virgin. Jeyne –"

- is obviously not the right person to mention right now. Darn it.

"Fuck that bitch," Theon snaps. "...I meant, with a – with a – you know."

Robb doesn't talk about himself very much when he's sober, and, were he any more sober (and, maybe, less intent on getting screwed three ways to Sunday right now), he would probably have let out a dismayed growl at that.

Since he's not sober, all bets are off, thus: "Eh, no, never, but. But I've been doing it with my fingers in the showers, you know, pushing them in. I just thought maybe if Jon were right and things would happen that I should be prepared and -"

"God." Theon groans, cutting him off. "Stop giving me these mental images, will you?"

Robb smiles, because it's so easy to smile when your entire body feels warm and hot. So much easier when you're not supposed to be the dutiful son and heir and wear your masks. His is a different mask from Theon's, less hostility and more duty, none of the near-desperate efforts at self-fulfillment and more steely wall of self-preservation, but it's the same in more ways than it isn't.

"In the glove compartment," he says, to shake himself of those thoughts. "Lube."

Theon gives him an incredulous look, makes a comment on how Robb must've fucking planned this, but then thankfully half-climbs over to the front seat to fumble around there, and Robb takes the opportunity to wriggle out of his jeans.

Theon re-appears with the lube in hand, and Robb palms Theon's cock through his jeans and discovers that, while opening belts and buttons and zippers within small pick-up cars might pose a certain challenge to a sober person, it's a quest of high fantasy-style epic proportions when pissed to the fucking eyeballs.

He still manages, though, by sheer will power or maybe luck or tenacity, whichever, and Theon helps out at this point and punches down his jeans to his knees and then, when they're both naked and hard and panting, Theon remembers that he's still a boy, and that Robb's a boy, too, and that unspoken boy protocols dictate they take a moment to take notes here.

"...Longer," Theon says after a long appraisal, grin on his face.

"But I'm thicker," Robb says.

Theon tosses Robb the bottle. "Show me what you did in the shower."

Any other time, Robb would have floundered at that.

Drunk Robb, though, is not that bothered by the idea, because he's still hard and has been for a while now, and the prospect of an orgasm is really starting to look quite swell right about now, so he just spreads some lotion on his fingers, reaches down, and slips one in.

Theon's pupils widen.

Robb tosses a curl of hair out of his face with a little shake of his head. "You like that?"

Theon doesn't answer. Robb would be disappointed by that if Theon didn't kiss him instead, which, all things considered, sort of invalidates a verbal response.

Especially when Theon kisses him like this, all heady and raw, and Robb closes his eyes and opens his mouth and adds a second finger down there, and it's then when Robb has one hand on Theon's cock and two fingers of the other buried in his arse, only then, that the doubt starts to churn in his belly.

What if this is a mistake what if I'm just drunk and stupid and then he's gone and it will be awkward awkward awkward and it'll be my fault for pushing –

But it doesn't last very long because memories flash through his mind: that flare of jealousy on Theon's face when Robb first met Jeyne. That chipping mask of apathy he wore thereafter. And on that other day, at the beach, when they sat there and watched the frothy foam run along the waves and Theon looked at him and told him he was the best mate he'd ever had. How he averted his eyes later as they rubbed the salt off their skin in the showers. Flashes of eyes and smiles and touches infused with different meaning drift through Robb's mind.

And of course Jon, Jon groaning, running a hand through his hair, and proclaiming, "I can't believe that I'm the one to come to terms with the fact that you're fucking gay first, while you're still -"

He's kept kissing Theon and moving his fingers throughout all this, but then Theon breaks the kiss and pants, "Condom?"

It takes Robb's brain a good few seconds to catch up to the meaning of that. "... In my jeans. Somewhere?"

"No, I have some myself, thanks." He gives a little snort. "I meant, if you wanted to... ah." He ruts into Robb's hand and tries again: "...Use one?"

"... But I can't get..." Robb frowns. "Oh. Oh. Diseases. Right."

Theon grins. "Dork. Anyway, so are we using one?" He grinds. "Or not?"

"Well, I'm clean. Are you?"


"That's what you tell all the girls, though, innit?"

"Yeah, but you're Robb." Theon pauses.

Robb kisses him, reaches down to fumble for Theon's cock, drums his heels against his arse to urge him forward, and says, "Go."

And Theon goes.

Robb inhales and holds the breath there. The muscles in his calf cord and twitch, and he throws his leg over the seat to settle in more comfortably.

It hurts, but not as much as he had thought it would. It burns, yes, but it's probably dulled by the alcohol in his veins, the feeling rather more strange than simply painful.

Theon doesn't seem to think it's very strange at all. "Fuck." His body tenses against Robb as he slumps forward and pushes in deeper until he can't go in any more, and then chases that movement with a sharp thrust that makes Robb tense and Theon moan. "Fuck. So tight. Unbelievably –"

"Yeah." Robb grasps him by the shoulders and pulls him down until he can feel Theon's weight on top of him, put his arms around his skinny body, hook one leg across his waist. "Yeah." He's been hard and aroused for so long that even if this feels strange, it still feels good, still feels like relief, like everything he never knew he wanted.

Theon's stubble scrapes against his cheek when he raises himself up on his arms to withdraw. When he thrusts forward again, he half-collapses on top of him again, and lets out a long, low groan.

Since Theon's mouth is close to his right now, he takes the opportunity to kiss him, and Theon responds ferociously, kissing and biting and clicking their teeth together while he fucks him, and Robb feels all the blood rush south. He hooks one arm over Theon's shoulder and slides down the hand of the other to his own cock, giving it a sharp little twist.


He never expected Theon to be a very caring lover, and Robb doesn't want him to be. This is not the type of sex where you should stop every few seconds to ask if the other is all right, pat down their hair and kiss away their tears. This is more primal than that, the culmination of months of words that weren't said and touches that weren't made, and Robb hears himself saying, "Fuck me, just fuck me, just do it, just –"

Theon chuckles at that, low and dirty. "So demanding... are we..."

"Don't say that stuff to … me," Robb presses out. "That playboy stuff. It's not, it's – hah."

Theon manages to shut him up, because it's then that Theon does finally fuck him properly, and it's all Robb can do to hold on to his shoulders for it.

Theon's hips snap forward and out again and in, in, in again, and then – "Ah." – there's a pleasure center he finds down there and suddenly it feels legit good, hot and hard and much better than just a couple of digits. His head beats with the drum of his heart and the slow slide of the alcohol and it's then that his brain gets too fucking many signals and starts to wave a giant, blinking 'OUT OF ORDER' sign when it shuts down completely with a pathetic wheeze.

It's unable to register any but the most primal input: how Theon's cock is wet with the lube and splits him open, fucking in and in and in, and how they each try to kiss each other every once in a while but keep missing each other's mouths, and how Theon smells of masculine sweat, the way a locker room smells after practice only better, only more Theon.

Words are difficult right now, for both of them, but there's a few: "Fuck, you're so good," Theon groans, and his eyes look hard as glass while he rocks back and forth between Robb's legs. "You're good, way too good, I can't -"

Robb, for his part, seems to have been had his vocabulary reduced to one word only, so he repeats it over and over again: "Yeah, ah, hnng, yeah, ah."

"So.. eloquent..."

"Fuck you, Greyjoy, just..." Kissing seems like a good option right now, Robb's brain informs him, so he pulls him down and crushes their lips together and shoves his tongue into Theon's mouth and times the thrusts of it. His tongue fucks Theon's mouth with the same rhythm as Theon's cock fucks his arse. Theon's mouth surrenders helplessly; he only moans and gasps and lets Robb's do as he pleases.

The car is probably rocking by now, the windows fogged up, and anyone with half a brain can probably figure out what's going on inside, but it's not even a blip on the radar of Robb's mind. He just wants more, more, more, and Theon gives it to him when he reaches down along their sweat-slicked bodies and swats away Robb's hand to close his own around Robb's dick.

That's all it takes, that right there, and Robb clenches his eyes shut and is catapulted up into white oblivion, coming harder than he has in a while, and only comes down when his body stops convulsing and his dick stops pulsing and he notices that Theon's still not done.

So he wraps his legs around Theon's hips, locks him in, breaks the kiss, and demands, "Come for me, right now, do it," and Theon's breath against him is hot and rugged, and his pupils blow into fevered black pits, and Robb clenches once, twice, and again, intend on milking it all out of Theon. "Do it, do it, I swear to God, Greyjoy –"

God might have heard him. That, or Theon just reached his breaking point.

Theon locks their hips together and pulses inside. Robb can feel his orgasm shudder along his spine, hear it in his groan, see it on his face –

He looks nice when he comes, Robb thinks. Eyes clenched shut, mouth open, features crounged up, only to then relax and melt away, into something sweetly naked and honestly grateful. That moment just after coming, when people glow and shine and still sigh in little aftershocks.

And then Theon stills, and it's over, and his rapid heart slows against Robb.

Robb wraps his arms around him and holds him.

There's a lot in that embrace that he wants to say that he never could if he were sober. Can't even say now that he's drunk, really. Wine might loosen the truth, but some things are too tied down by expectations and rules and dignity and pride and all those other pesky things to come tumbling out. Wine might loosen the chains on the secrets kept in the psyche's basement lair, but it can't free them. Not even now.

It's enough, though, he likes to think, and maybe Theon understands, just a bit. They remain like this until their shared body heat becomes too stifling and Theon draws back and pulls out.

Robb can feel his body clench around nothing. Slow pain pulses in his arse, and he grimaces.

Wordlessly, Theon avoids his eyes. He bangs his head against the roof of the car, hisses his pain, then reaches down to pull some tissues from his pocket. A few swipes and the stain on Robb's car seat is gone.

Robb is irrationally afraid at what else might be gone, now.

"So," Theon says.

"So," Robb says.

"... I wiped off most of it, but there might still be a stain. I don't know."

"It's no problem."

"No Robblem, you mean," Theon says, but the tease is tired, unsure. Searching.

"None of that, either." Robb's head starts to spin, so he flops down onto his back. "God, my head is spinning. And I'm so tired."

"That's what happens when you come while drunk," Theon says easily. He opens the door of the car and the night air rushes in to skate along Robb's body, lodging a freeze into his spine that makes him shake. Theon throws out the used tissue and slams the door shut again.


Robb lies on his back and stares at the roof of his car. He hears the rustle of Theon going for his pack of cigs, and when Theon offers him one, Robb takes it.

He only smokes during special occasions. He guesses this probably qualifies.

Theon's lighter is a spit of fire against the murky darkness of the night. He lights his own cigarette, and then Robb's, and he doesn't like the taste of it, not nearly, but he likes the feel of it, the slow thrum of the nicotine in his veins. It's comforting, like a heart beat.

He holds the smoke in his lungs and then puffs it out. He's fascinated by the ringlets. They puff out of his mouth in perfect, poised form – Theon taught him how to do that, long ago – but they soon turn in on themselves, twist and turn like a broken circle, then disintegrate in the air, gone.

Something about this observation unsettles him.

It's Theon who breaks the silence. "I hate this post-sex silence." Robb can hear him take a drag. "It's such a let-down, every single time."

"Is it?"

"Yeah. You know the type. When you're torn between getting the fuck out and trying to salvage things, and always end up doing only one of those anyway."

"I'd say things, but I don't really know." He pauses. "I don't suppose you want me to sing you a song?"

Theon snorts. "I will legit never forgive you and Jon for crashing my party with impromptu Katy Perry karaoke."

Ah yes, Robb had been drunk then, too. Good times. That day, too, seems like ages ago now, though.

Robb laughs out a few ringlets of smoke, then throws a still-lit cigarette out the door.

He says, "Theon."


"I know what you're thinking." Because he's sober enough now to get it, but still drunk enough to be daring. Mental reservations not entirely set free, but loosened enough to let a few things slip through before the portcullis of duty and etiquette and fear shut them off. "You were probably right in that, tomorrow I'll regret my giant hang-over, but you're wrong about the other thing, I won't, I won't." He takes a deep breath, ignored the rattle of the portcullis. "I won't be regretting that."

He can feel Theon glare at him even through the hazy light. "How can you be so sure?"

Robb laughs at that, because Theon is just always like that: too suspicious of any bone thrown at him, like a dog that doesn't allow itself to trust anymore after it's been abused. It's kind of soul-crushingly sad, but it's also so Theon that it makes his mind spin.

"Shut up and just believe me. I won't. I was drunk –" And the world shutters a bit again, and he remedies that with, "- am drunk, but I'm not a different person. I'm not."

Theon is quiet at that.

Robb sort of expects him to just get up, get dressed, and leave any moment now. Possibly without another word. Because he might just not be ready, it might have been too soon, or, more somberly, not soon enough.

But then:

"... I gotta say one thing, Robb." Theon looks at him, and the smile on his face is one of the most genuine he's ever seen. Not the flare of his protective smirk. Quieter. More vulnerable. Theon pauses, and then finished with, "If we're going to be doing this, I think you need a bigger car."

Robb kisses him for that.

When Jon burst into the room carrying what looked like half the contents of a liquor store, Robb didn't know what to do other than blink for a good few minutes.

Ignoring said look, Jon walked over to the desk on which Robb had been working on his English assignment, and dumped the liquor factory onto it.

Robb watched out of calm eyes as Shakespeare got crushed beneath Russian vodka, twenty bottles of Jaeger, brightly-colored girly drinks, Martini, perfectly translucent Gin bottles, and half a dozen drinks Robb couldn't even name and said, "So. I guess there's an explanation for this."

Jon ran a hand through his hair. "Will 'from the Tyrells' suffice?"

Robb frowned. The Tyrells had been going on and on about this and that thing in relation to Robb and his friendship with Theon for a while now – Jon as well, for that matter, in his own way. Margaery was all wink-wink nudge-nudge while Jon was rather more quietly dramatic about in, with the sort of eyerolls that bemoaned the pain of Robb's stupidity.

Robb dealt with each of them the same way. Which was to say, not at all.

Margaery liked to say that he was stoic and avoidant and Loras liked to smile in a way that made Robb think that the other man expected him to have something useful to say, and Jon liked to say that Robb should just say something, period.

Robb never did say anything. Avoidance was a thing, see.

He cleared his throat. "I still don't understand the meaning of this. I'm not having a party."

"Maybe not the usual kind," Jon said, and rolled his eyes. "Look, I don't like it any more than you do, but just – anything to help, I guess."

Robb twirled his pen in his hands and gave Jon a look that could quite possibly spell out a complete lack of understanding in Morse code.

Jon pinched the bridge of his nose. "...All right. Be safe and all that, I guess, I'm going, have fun... and whatever you do, don't tell me about it tomorrow."

Robb opened his mouth to say something, but by then Jon was already gone, and he was alone in his room, with only an Irishman's stock for St. Patrick's Day for company, an English paper to write, and – he looked at the clock on the wall – half an hour until Theon got here.

Sighing, Robb hunched back over his assignment, but the letters started to blur. He put his pen down, leaned back in his seat, and stared at the alcohol.

It stared back.

Or maybe it didn't, but close enough.

Robb looked at the clock, then back at the bottles, and mulled it over in his head.

Well, he thought, and reached for the first bottle. Why not? It was free alcohol after all.

...What's the worst that could happen, anyway?


I have no excuse. I am sooooorry, hahaha.

Dedicated to my homegirl/lovemuffin KC. Hurrrhurrr ermahgerd. I told her I wanted to write something funny and porny and she gave me a vague prompt about Robb being drunk, and this montrosity was summarily whelped.

As you may have noticed - the quote, "I'd quite like you to fuck me," is from Richard Madden's TV show Sirens. In which that gorgeous, gorgeous man actually says those words. If you haven't seen it (in which case, WHY ARE YOU STILL READING?) you might want to go on youtube and search for 'sirens church scene' or something, haha. I just couldn't not have Robb Stark say this. I couldn't nooooot.

I love this ship too much. Help?