now I've a dream of you with half a face
and you take me to a rooftop and skin me
The first time it happens, they are sparring. The day is cold, windy, and it will probably start snowing soon. A kitchen wench hurries near them, her dress tight around her teats and, really, it is no wonder that Theon looks at them a little bit too long. Long enough to feel a stinging pain, followed by a sensation of something warm trickling down his arm.
"Fuck," he curses, turning to scream at Robb, because it isn't fair, he clearly is a better swordsman than the Stark, how dare he to attack him when he is unprepered. But his words die in his still-parted lips when he sees Robb's expression. Eyes wide open, cheeks faintly flushed, breath coming in soft pants.
He went with Robb to the brothel enough times to know the look he wears when he is horny. However, the current circumstances are quite uncanny. For a moment he cannoty even begin to fanthom what could have caused such reaction. Some girl, surely, but Robb wasn't looking at the sweet little cunt that passed them just a moment ago...
Unthinkingly, he brings his fingers up to his injured arm, brushing the cut - it fucking stings - and smearing his blood.
Robb's breath hitches loudly. He sways on his foot a little bit forward.
Theon's stomach lurches because of the sick thought that crosses his mind. Surely, it cannot be. He is one creepy bastard himself, but this... this would be simply too sick even for him.
He steps back tentatively, ready to turn the uneasy situation into some joke. After all, that's what he can do best. And this is when he suddelny feels a strong hand on his arm, gripping him tightly, bruising him, followed in mere seconds by lips pressing to his wound and - oh gods - a tongue lapping his blood. He hears a low, broken, wolf-like moan that must be Robb's.
He feels a bile in his throat. But, at the same time, he can't help but feel a little tightness in his balls and clench in his loins. Frankly, it makes him feel even worse, on the verge of retching. He wants to snatch his hand, but he can't find enough strengh to do this. He's always been like this when Robb's concerned.
There's a clamour on the courtyard, followed by a string of colourfull curses. Robb throws his hand away as if it burned him, his dialeted pupils bearing holes into Theon's face, bloodied mouth open slightly in shock. Theon should say something, anything, but he simply doesn't know what. So he keeps silent, even when Robb finally drops his sword, turns on his heel, his head turned down bashfully and fucking runs away.
He knows that this moment changed everything.
Later, in the depths of night, Robb comes to his chamber. Theon cannot say he didn't expect this. He knows, simply knows what will happen, and this thought makes him shiver.
He opens the door nevertheless.
He lets Robb press the freshly-dressed wound open, lets the blood pool in the bend of his arm, lets Robb smear it over his chest, adbomen and, finally, finally, his cock.
He is not able to hold back a load moan that escapes him when Robb's mouth closes on him, sucking so hard he thinks he may lose his mind any moment now. Robb laps his cock like a hungry wolf, taking him deep to his troat, dropping him from his lips from time to time and gripping him with his bloodied hand instead, mixing the red fluid with his precome, then returning to the sucking with even more fervor than before. His hips shift restlessly pressed to Theon's thigh, and he is making half-choked noises, breathing fast, moving more and more erretically when he brings them nearer and nearer to the edge.
Theon comes with Robb's wild growl echoing in his ears, sharp pain of torn wound and a wrenching feeling of deep repulsion rooted in his gut.
It happens again and again and again. Because he could never fucking say no to Robb before, so why would it be different now?
Robb never asks if he can. He didn't ask the first time, the second, or the twentieth.
This has been going so long Theon lost the count. But he never stopped feeling the sheer wave of aversion that devoured him every fucking time Robb pressed a blade, broke the skin and dipped his fingers in the cuts. He always tries to be careful and not to hurt him too much, but sometimes, when he is too excited, his hand slips and he cuts too deep.
Later, when he is finally sated, he apologises shamefully. But he doesn't stop.
And Theon, a fucking weak boy as he is, never forbids him.
The night before Theon leaves to the Iron Islands, he takes a knife himself, his throat tight with disgust at himself, at what he is willing to do for him, and makes a small incision low on his abdomen. One. Two. Three. Till the blood starts to flow down his bare legs, its drops falling to the floor.
He sees Robb's eyes glistening in the darkness and thinks sweet merciful Seven. He doesn't add help me.
He loaths himself for this, but help is the last thing he wants now.
When he leaves the following morning, he still can feel Robb's tongue on himself.
Sitting in his cell, curled into a ball, he looks at his recently-skinned finger. The sight of fresh blood flowing from the wound makes him think of the Young Wolf.
He feels hot tears stinging under his eyelids.
He slowly lifts his hand and begins to lick.