Author's Notes: Written for the asoiaf kink meme prompt:
Robb/Theon - "he has a body but it doesn't matter."
"You miss
the point: the face in the mirror is a little
traitor, the face in the mirror is a pale
and naked hostage and no one can tell
which room he's being held in. He wants
in, he wants out, he wants the antidote."
(Unfinished Duet by Richard Siken)
Robb leaves marks. No matter what they do, how they do it, Robb always leaves a mark - bruises usually, from the harsh grip of his sword-practiced hands, or the nibbling and sucking of his soft, maiden lips, or the graze of his growing stubble. He rarely breaks the skin. Theon stares in the mirror, examining the messy purple splotches contaminating his jawline, his throat, his collarbone, nothing like the firm straight line Robb's lord father would leave.
Robb is away with his father, visiting holdfasts like a little lordling should, and Theon tries to remember the houses of the Iron Islands other than his own. He never really can recall more than two or three of them, but he won't go ask Maester Luwin in to lend him a book on the subject. Robb came to him last night in apology, sorry for going away for two weeks as if he thought Theon had any right to demand his presence, and Theon thought of accepting it - of fucking Robb and beating Robb and using Robb until the boy begged for mercy, until he promised never to leave again, as if he had any say in the matter. But Theon couldn't do that, not if Robb was about to leave, for if Robb spent two weeks far away with that being his last memory of Theon, he might just realise how much better he deserved.
So Theon didn't do that; instead, he took sweet Robb into his arms, his mouth, his arse like an eager bitch, like Robb's bitch, for no matter how many times Robb let's Theon bend him over and fuck him like one of his whores, it can only ever happen because Robb allows it, because Robb wants it, and Theon is merely the toy he fills himself up with, and the hole he buries himself in when he'd rather that. Theon begged Robb to choke him last night, and that's where some of the bruises are from, although more are from sweet Robb's needy kisses. Theon's never been able to make Robb choke him for very long, although sometimes Theon wants to make Robb choke him too long, until he dies right there with Robb's cock still inside him, and perfect little lord Stark has to deal with a hostage he's just fucked to death in his bed. It'd be a more interesting way to go than having his head lopped off. But Theon knows he'd never have the guts to go through with it, and besides, Robb's probably too smart to fall for that.
Theon hates Robb for trusting him so much, enough to let Theon smack him and spit at him and call him a whore, as if he believes Theon doesn't really mean it. And Theon hates himself, because he does mean it, even if he knows he has no right to when it is so painfully obvious he is far more Robb's whore than Robb is his. Sometimes Theon hates Robb so much he wants to go to Lord Stark, with his stern frown and greatsword, and show him the bruises and bitemarks Robb has left all over their hostage's pale skin. Theon wants to claim Robb forced him into it, that he said he'd have Theon killed if he didn't agree. Of course, Lord Stark would never believe that, even if it was true, but Theon dreams of seeing Lord Stark's eyes narrow in rage and disappointment, of Robb's eyes widen with betrayal, confusion of pain. Of course, Lord Stark couldn't execute Robb for the crime, he's no kinslayer, but he could ship him off to the wall; leave poor Robb all alone in some strange, cold, foreign place, abandoned in favor of some principle greater than himself, never to see his family again.
But if Robb went to the wall then Theon would be alone, and he can't bear the thought.
A cold breeze blows through the window and Theon shivers. He's always so cold at Winterfell and Robb is always promising to keep him warm, always clings to him in his sleep beneath thick, heavy furs, until Theon gets too hot, until he thinks he'll drown in his own sweat. But it's better than the cold, having Robb keep him warm with his body like he never could with his cloak. He is Robb's whore, not his wife, and the difference is very clear. Like his father, Robb will only ever allow himself one whore, one person to be anything less than a perfect lord to, although he was smart enough to choose one he could be fairly sure wouldn't bear him a bastard; a child born of nothing but lust and betrayal and yet, still better loved than Theon by everyone in Winterfell - even Lady Catelyn, he thinks, for she at least cares about the bastard enough to hate him. Certainly by Robb. But if Theon can't be loved by Robb better than anyone else, he will take being loved by Robb differently to anyone else, and he will tell himself that the cock in his arse and hands around his neck count as love. After all, he does beg for them.
Robb won't even be able to give his cloak to a woman anything like Theon; Theon won't be able to give him Asha like it's close enough (though she'd be too old anyway; Theon struggles to remember his sister isn't thirteen anymore) - Robb must marry a northern maid, for old men with old daughters and long memories still stare bitterly at 'the Tully girl.'
Theon eyes Sansa carefully sometimes, more carefully than he does almost anything, far more carefully than he eyes her brother (if only Theon had been more careful when he looked at Robb, he could've avoided this mess). She is the closest thing to Robb he could ever have; his flame red hair and big blue eyes and delicate cheekbones, his sweetness and honour and goodness. He tries to imagine what fucking her would be like. Would she pin Theon down and use him for pleasure like Robb does? Would she bend over the bed and beg to be beaten like Robb does? Would she hold Theon close and promise to keep him warm and safe and loved, like Robb does? Theon doesn't know, but he does know it's all hypothetical anyway - none of the Stark's would ever consider letting him near perfect precious Sansa, especially not Robb, and Theon doesn't know what he'd do with her if they did. But he likes to fool himself that he'd figure it out.
With Lord Stark and the little Lord Stark away it is Lady Stark who commands the castle, and she is far wiser than her son; she does not trust Theon, does not like him, and that is probably why Theon trusts her. Sometimes he wants to throw himself on his knees before her and tell her everything: how much he loves her son and hates her son and how her son is too stupid to hate him back. He wants to beg her to put a stop to it; to send him away, or send Robb away, or have her husband send him to the block before he kills her son. Because Theon knows he will, he doesn't know how but he knows if he lets this continue Robb will die of it, and then Theon will die of a lack of Robb.
He wants to, but he won't. His pride won't let him.
Theon looks away from the mirror and moves toward the window, staring across the dark forests that imprison the castle. Robb won't be back for weeks. And yet Theon waits, like the maid in all the songs.