Theon's not sure what they're arguing about at this point, only that he definitely isn't going to lose.
"Fuck you, Stark! You've no fucking right -"
"I've no fucking right? These are my people, I'll be Lord of Winterfell one day, and I'm not going to let you go around fucking every single one of my household, be it man, woman, or child," Robb snaps back, stepping forward with every word, until Theon is nearly backed into the wall.
"I have never fucked a child!" is all he can think to respond with, because truly, they've gotten so far off of the point here that Theon's pretty sure the issue they're yelling about now is one that neither of them could really give a single fuck about.
In truth, it had all started with Jon Snow. Or, more specifically, Theon's rather strong dislike of him - which, considering just how strong that dislike is, he thinks he's always done a rather nice job of holding back. It had just been some offhand comment Theon had made at Snow after finishing up a rather charmingly detailed account of how he'd fucked one of the scullery girls good and proper the night before, and all of a sudden Robb's wrath had been immeasurable. Theon's said much worse about Jon before, and will have much worse to say in the future if he's given half the chance, but for whatever reason, that particular jest had ignited Robb's anger like nothing else.
Theon, never one to take such abuse lying down, especially that which is as unreasonable as this, had understandably protested any and all accusations leveled against him regarding the "ridiculousness of your hatred for Jon" especially considering "the similarity of your own situation" - whatever the fuck that's supposed to mean.
The subject had somehow eventually gone from Jon to Theon, or more accurately, all the awful things Theon does that honorable Jon Snow would never so much as dream of.
"I don't see how this has aught to do with Snow," he tells Robb at last, stepping forward from the wall, unwilling to be backed into a corner. "I also fail to understand how it's any business of yours who I fuck or don't." And truly, if he weren't so riled, if the blood weren't so hot in his chest, he would concede easily. After all, there are whores enough in Wintertown that Theon truly has no great need to bed the household staff, but, at this point, it's just the damned principal of the thing.
Robb's face is flushed with anger when he responds. "I will be Lord of Winterfell one day, and," -
"But you're not Lord of Winterfell, are you?" Theon snaps. "Not yet, not until your father dies, so again, what right have you to tell me who I can and cannot fuck?"
Robb nearly snarls at that, grabbing Theon by the collar of his shirt and pulling him forward.
"I have all the right in the world," he tells Theon, and he's leaned in so close that their noses are nearly touching. "Hells, even little Rickon has a right to tell you what to do. He's a Stark of Winterfell, as well as I, and you're a hostage of the Starks, are you not?"
Theon doesn't quite understand at first. It's as if the words don't make any sense, don't mesh with all his preconceived notions of Robb, of the way he thought about their relationship. They're friends, brothers. Theon may be a hostage in truth, but Robb's never said as much before, never even seemed to be thinking it, as every other Northerner always so clearly has.
He still hasn't managed to completely process the thought, even when his fist is swinging, and he's striking Robb, knuckles colliding with his jaw roughly, and it hurts Theon's hand just as much as it must have Robb's face. "Fuck you," he says, and his mind is running wild, because they get rough, they spar and sword fight, play as boys are wont to do, but Theon was Theon then, and so Robb let him get away with it just fine - but if he's somehow been reduced to simply the Starks' hostage, surely there are some rather alarming consequences for throwing a punch at the Stark heir.
"Fuck you," he says again, because he's not sure what else to say. Robb is clutching his cheek, and he looks as if he wants to hit Theon back, wants to repay him in kind - and so Theon waits.
The blow never comes, however, and Robb just continues to stare at him, breathing heavily, until Theon cannot stand to look at him for a moment longer. He shoves past the other boy, knocking their shoulders, little expecting for Robb's hand to reach out and catch him around the wrist.
"You're our hostage," he tells him, as if Theon hadn't heard him the first time. He means to pull out of Robb's grasp as soon as he feels it, but there's something about the pressure of Robb's fingers, about the way he uses them to pull Theon closer, nearly pressing up against him. "You ought to do what we tell you. We - we ought to be able to do what we like with you."
There's a strange quality to Robb's voice when he says it, something Theon's sure he hasn't oft heard from him - and he's not quite sure he understands. He knows how the words sound, knows there is an obvious implication there - one that shoots its way to his very bones and makes him feel sick and dizzy - but he's not sure if Robb does.
Because, well, Robb is Robb. Robb is the heir of Winterfell, and Theon is a hostage of Winterfell. And even when they aren't those things, as they hardly tend to be around one another, then Robb is still his brother. His younger brother, his close friend, who looks up to him and who -
Who's pushing him back against the wall and kissing him. Theon feels Robb's fingers combing through his hair, grabbing at him, as his tongue forces his way against his lips. And Theon - doesn't know what to do. He can make a girl melt, have her begging for it and slide on into her with practiced ease. But, under Robb's touch, he freezes. His hands feel large and useless, and he's no idea where to put them, and his tongue, his tongue that can and has done many a wondrous thing to many a mouth, just hangs there stupidly as Robb's slides against it.
The heir of Winterfell continues to kiss him, to touch him, almost determinedly, as if he means not to give up until Theon responds. And, after a few moments of steeling himself to shove Robb away, to pulls himself back, to just get as far away from Robb as possible - Theon cannot quite help himself.
He sinks into Robb's hands, as one palm cups his hip, and opens his mouth wider to kiss him back. Theon's still not quite as smooth and seductive as he usually is, not nearly so, but this is a completely different circumstance, and he has truly no idea of what he should do, of what is too much or not enough, of what is wrong and what is right - and so he lets Robb lead, lets Robb take and gives to him willingly. Robb is obviously unpracticed, obviously nervous, as well, but he keeps his hand steady with determination as he reaches for the laces of Theon's breeches, untying them with a slow, measured pace that gives Theon enough time to realize what exactly he's about to let happen.
"Robb," he starts, beginning to protest, even as he aches under Robb's fingers, hard and desperate and eager to let Robb do what he will with him. "Robb," he begins again, but Robb kisses him once more, tongue sliding against his own, teeth nibbling at his bottom lip, and Theon forgets what he had meant to say.
"No," Robb tells him. "You're ours." But with the way he says it, with emotion that colors his voice, it sounds more like mine.
His laces are finally undone, and before Theon can think to protest again, Robb's hand is wrapped around him, grip strong and unmerciful, making stars shoot up behind his eyes. His breathing is heavy, and his head tips back against the stone of the wall behind him, hitting it with a thunk that doesn't quite jar him enough to distract from the pleasure of Robb's hand.
He reaches out his own fingers to pull at Robb's laces, but Robb bats his hand away. Theon's not sure whether to be offended by that, or pleased that he doesn't have to do any work, but Robb doesn't give him much time to mull it over. He sucks at his neck, in a way that Theon's had done to him too many times to count, but - with Robb's hand around him, and the echo of, "You're ours," playing through his head - it feels immeasurably better that it ever has before.
When he comes, Robb pulls back, just watches him, and Theon closes his eyes so as not to have to watch himself being watched. He's fucked in the open before, done far filthier things than this and boasted of them to anyone who would listen, but he doesn't think he's ever felt this self-conscious about sex before in his life. Even with his eyes shut tight, he can still feel Robb watching him.
He's dazed, sucking in harsh breaths, when he feels Robb's cock pressed up against his hip, released from his breeches while Theon had been distracted. He reaches for it again, but Robb holds his hand back, just grinds himself against Theon, pressing him flat against the wall.
Theon's not positive, but he's pretty sure that this is Robb 'doing what he likes' with him.
When Robb comes, he doesn't look at Theon for a while afterwards, just leans against him, forehead pressed to the crook of his shoulder. Without standing up, he murmurs, "Don't fuck the scullery maids anymore, alright?"
And even though he doesn't phrase it like an order, Theon's pretty sure that's what it is.
"Alright," he says, because even if he had any desire to refuse Robb, he's not sure he could.
Theon's still not truly sure what they had been arguing about - whether it was Jon Snow, or Theon's sexual proclivities, or something that was actually just an issue all Robb's own - but it doesn't quite matter any longer. The fight is over, and Robb laces himself up, a smile teasing the edges of his lips, before nodding slightly.