A good fight always puts Theon's blood up, leaves him with an itch under his skin only a wench and a few mugs of ale can ease, so he shouldn't be surprised that being made a bloody king would do the same to Robb, would brighten his eyes and harden his mouth, his hands curling into tight fists as the Greatjon draws his sword, his voice throaty and rough as he accepts Theon's oath, now and always, his lips curving too sharply around each word.
He shouldn't be surprised when, less than an hour later, Robb finds him at the far edge of their camp, where the cheaper whores ply their trade to potboys and stablehands and the other sweepings of the Northlands -- Theon likes them pretty, but he also likes them a little desperate, shameless and willing to do whatever he wants -- but he still startles slightly when Robb catches his elbow, his breath hot on the side of Theon's neck, his fingers strong and vise-like, gripping hard enough to bruise.
"Stark," Theon says quietly, "I was just--"
"I know," Robb growls, his voice low and his mouth too close to Theon's ear. "You're looking for a slut to warm your furs."
A likely pair approaches them, whispering and giggling as they pass, one short and dark, the other as pale and russet as Lady Stark. Their faces are dirty and their dresses are stiff with grass and mud, but they're both shapely enough and obviously willing; the black-haired wench offers Theon an appraising smile, but Robb tightens his grip on Theon's arm and Theon yields with a quiet sigh.
Robb doesn't say a word. He marches Theon through their camp like a prisoner, like a saltwife, spoils of war, past the Greatjon boasting in his cups and Maege Mormont sharpening her axe beside the fire. His hand is rough at the back of Theon's neck, his thumb behind Theon's ear and his fingers slipping into Theon's hair; he shoves Theon inside his tent and dismisses his squire with a snarl.
"Is that what you want tonight?" Robb asks, throwing his cloak aside. His armor makes an untidy heap next to his sleeping furs, the dull metal glinting darkly in the wavering candlelight, and his reddish hair is shadowed to brown, grown long and curling wildly around his face. "A laughing wench? Soft and sweet and wet?"
Theon looks at Robb -- shirtless now, breeches unlaced -- at the first and only friend he made at Winterfell, at his fucking king. "What do you want?"
Robb growls and kisses him, hard and fast, his hand at Theon's throat and his teeth sharp against the soft well of Theon's lip. He ruts his cock against Theon's hip, pushing his hand under Theon's shirt, digging his fingernails into Theon's skin as he drags his hand up Theon's side, and Theon knots his fingers in Robb's hair, curves his hand over Robb's arse and pulls Robb closer.
He should hate himself for this, for all of it -- how quickly he went to Robb's bed the first time, how often and easily he returns to it, how badly he wants it -- but he is achingly hard, has been since he first caught the rising heat in Robb's eyes, since he knelt and laid his sword at Robb's feet, and the itch under his skin is too harsh, too fever-bright, too much for just a wench and a mug of ale.
Robb pushes his tongue into Theon's mouth, and all Theon can taste is his own blood.
"I can't believe you," Robb says, his voice dangerous, too quiet. He yanks on Theon's laces, pinches a bruise into Theon's hip as he bears Theon down onto the furs. "Out looking for whores."
Theon strokes his hand over Robb's cock, bites the slow curve where Robb's neck meets his shoulder. "You've never complained."
"That was before," Robb snaps, shoving Theon's legs apart, crawling on top of him.
"Before what? Before Snow went to the Wall?" Theon asks sharply, arching as Robb works a hand into his breeches. He doubts he'd be here if Snow had stayed in Winterfell, if Snow hadn't let Lady Stark's dark looks and sharp tongue shame him into joining the Night's Watch; he'd be in his own tent with his cock in that black-haired whore's cunt instead of Robb's hand, and Robb would be sucking a wet, aching bruise into Snow's neck, not his. "Before these feeble-witted Northern lords made you their bloody king?"
Robb slams his hand into Theon's shoulder, pinning Theon to the furs, scrapes his teeth over the line of Theon's jaw. "Both."
Theon kisses Robb, pulls Robb's hair, scores his fingernails down the long, sweaty line of Robb's back. Robb moans into it, the noise catching in the back of his throat, his cock rubbing against Theon's and his hand sliding up Theon's throat. He pushes his fingers into Theon's mouth, gasping as they brush over Theon's tongue, and he shoves Theon's shirt up, under his chin, biting and sucking a hot, slick line down Theon's chest.
Robb mouths at the base of Theon's cock, his hand rubbing over the head, then licks up and sucks it into his mouth, his cheeks hollowing, his hair brushing Theon's shaking thighs as he yanks Theon's breeches down to his knees. Theon gasps and chokes and bucks into it, chasing that slick, perfect heat, snagging his fingers in Robb's hair and fighting against the hand Robb has pinning his hip, and Robb shoves him back down into the furs, growling, pressing another bruise into Theon's skin, and Theon spends with his back arched and his eyes closed, with his cock deep in Robb's mouth and Robb's wet knuckle nudging at his arsehole.
He hears Robb spit noisily, opens his eyes just as Robb sits up on his knees, his face flushed and his cock in his hand. Robb strokes himself hard and fast, his hips working and his mouth panting open; he comes with a low groan trapped in his throat, looking down at Theon, white-hot seed spilling over his fist, spurting onto Theon's chest and belly and thighs.
"Is that what you wanted?" Theon asks quietly, while Robb is still shaky and breathless.
"Yes," Robb says, sinking down into the furs, shoving Theon over to make room for himself. "Take your breeches off. I'll want it again in a few minutes."