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when we're alone

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"You don't have to call me your Grace when we're alone, you know," Robb had told him, in absolute sincerity, of that he was sure. Theon found that his tongue accomodated the new title easily enough, albeit with a certain sarcastic undertone learned over many years in Lord Stark's service. Yes, m'lord, he would say to Ned Stark a hundred times a day. And now he had traded one master for another, swapped the lord for a king. 

The King in the North, his bannermen called him, and Theon counted himself first among those. Surrounded by men at table, he wouldn't dare to call him Robb. And even now, alone, together, he found that he preferred the honorific - if only because it stood in such sharp contrast to the scene laid out before him. 

He had set the guards to the door and even turned Grey Wind out at Theon's suggestion. The weight of leadership hung heavy upon him, like the crown which slipped down his forehead, a shade too big for him. Theon took note of this, along with the pinched lines upon his face and the sorrow in his eyes. 

Robb sat heavily in his chair and removed his crown, placing it on the table. "Is there anything to drink, Greyjoy?" he asked. "We have red and white, your Grace," Theon answered. "I can call your squire if --" 

"--No," Robb interrupted. "White, fine. Please." 

"Yes, your Grace," Theon said, fetching a cup for them both. He walked behind Robb and set the cup down in front of him. His shoulders hunched forward from tension; Robb bristled when Theon laid a hand on one. 

"You don't have to call me that," he said, voice flat. 

"I know, your Grace." He pinched the muscle between his fingers and Robb flinched. "Ow!" Theon rubbed until the knot dissapted, but there were many more. "Hmm," he said, draining his own cup. "I could deal with that better with you on the bed, your Grace. Perhaps if you would take your shirt off and lie down?" 

Robb twisted his head to glare at Theon, but the movement only served to reinforce the point: his neck clicked and he gritted his teeth.

"Fine, damn you. Stop smiling at me like that, Theon. Stop it right now." 

Theon backed away, raising his hands in supplication. "As my king commands it." 

Robb's face went red, and he grumbled through it, but Theon managed to get him down to his smallclothes in due time. Face-down, Robb took up most of the featherbed. Theon had to straddle his waist. His pelvis pressed against the small of Robb's freckled back as he dripped Myrish oil down the indent of his spine. It was scented with aniseed, cassia, the peel of tiny oranges grown for their skins rather than their fruit, which was hard and utterly without juice. 

Theon pressed his thumbs into the knotted places, and each time he did so Robb would let out a frustrated growl, his muscles would clench up, and then as Theon worked upon him, he would sigh and sink a little more deeply into the cradle of his folded arms. Fully clothed though he was, Theon decided he would much rather have Robb naked beneath him. He tucked a hand under his smallclothes and began the tedious process of unwrapping him, exposing his backside to the cool night air, to the oil Theon smeared across it, to his fingers on him. The oil made everything slick and Theon added still more, in the divot of Robb's lower back and down the cleft of his arse. With both hands he massaged the muscles there and then when Robb had relaxed, had begun to spread his own legs in a narrow vee of supplication, Theon drew his arse cheeks apart gently. 

"Gods, Theon," Robb said, the sound muffled by his hands, as Theon slipped his thumb inside the tight ring of muscle. He pulled it out with a soft pop but made no answer other than the application of his lips to Robb's backside. With his tongue he kissed Robb's hole until it shone, cupping his arse cheeks with his splayed hands and pulling him open. 

"Theon," Robb gasped, and Theon broke away to say, "Yes, your Grace? Are you displeased?" 

"Fuck you." 

"Would you care to try, your Grace?" 

"Get up here." 

"Are you commanding me again?" he blew a burst of cool air onto Robb's arsehole and watched it flutter shut. 

Robb flipped over onto his back and looked down at Theon. "Yes, you prick. As your king, I command you to put your cock in me right this instant or I'll have your head off." 

"An empty threat."

"Take your clothes off at least," he pleaded. 

Theon compromised by unlacing his breeches. Robb was looking down at him with such greed, Theon would swear his mouth was watering. He took his cock out and stroked it a few times, right in Robb's eyeline. Robb licked his lips and whispered hoarsely, "Please." At that Theon could sustain the game no longer. He scrambled to the top of the bed and softly turned Robb's head. He traced a line across Robb's cheek and then said, "Open up," as he fed his cock between Robb's eager, plush lips. 

The heady scent of the oil clung to his fingers. He grabbed the back of Robb's head and fucked into his mouth. Robb grabbed his hips as best he could and took it, too, as best he could. When Theon finally pulled away Robb's blue eyes had gone black and he said it again, "Please."

Theon positioned himself between Robb's legs, holding his glistening cock at the base as he teased his opening with it. Robb whined and shimmied his hips down, trying to force Theon inside of him. When he did push in, at first it was only the head. Robb's arse was oily and his own cock was wet with Robb's spit; friction was not the issue, rather, Theon did not want to rush the delicious savor of it, that first slow push into the heat of his arse. 

"More," Robb said, "More." 

Theon grabbed Robb's right leg and threw it over his shoulder. He gave him another fraction of an inch and Robb snarled. 

"More." His hand found Theon's shoulder. 

Theon gave him another slow centimeter, giving Robb time to adjust, allowing himself to feel familiar waves of pleasure -- a little deeper, his cock flexing as he drove slowly into Robb -- and then when he was in, all the way in, he held still until Robb begged. 

"Theon," he gasped. "Your Grace," he answered, smiling down at Robb, spread open and willing beneath him. One hand found purchase on Robb's foot and with the other he held him down by his hip. 

"Yes," Robb said, "Yes, there, gods."

Theon laughed, circling his hips slowly until Robb writhed and whined beneath him. He wrapped one greasy hand around Robb's bobbing cock and jerked him steadily, the pace matched to his thrusts until Robb gaped like a river trout and he screwed his eyes shut. A fist flew to his mouth and he bit down on the knuckle of his thumb. Theon could just make out the line of tooth marks in the flickering darkness and he leaned to Robb's ear and said, "Come for me, then, your Grace. Let me hear you, King in the North, let me hear you get fucked." 

Robb's eyes flashed as he looked down to watch Theon take him, stroke him. His back arched off the bed as he came, thick spurts into Theon's hand that grew sticky as he squeezed him, softening and oversensitive, through his own release. 

The bed was a wreck of oil, sweat, and come. Theon was exhausted, but a smile graced the lips of the King in the North, who looked, Theon thought proudly, well-fucked indeed.