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We drank from the mouth of hell

Summary:

Theon's life is seemingly normal and under control until Ramsay steps into the picture.
-
Excerpt:
And Ramsay has to be Boy, he has to. Do you understand? Except now, he can’t be Boy. It’s too much. Too sordid to be in his skin. He cannot breathe.
“T-h-e-o-n G-r-e-y-j-o-y.”
That’s it, his name sounds so beautiful to Ramsay’s ears. He has to say it again. He pulls the ID from its place again and memorises the face, that smile, those mirthful eyes. For a moment, he’s got the impression Theon is looking straight at him.

Notes:

It has Ramsay in it so...

Chapter 1

Summary:

Theon picks the shortest straw, again.

Chapter Text

He swore that another weekend with the Starks was going to drive him insane.  Forced socialization never had the desired effects on Theon Greyjoy, for some reason it all seemed to backfire.

The tipping point for this slip in Theon's sanity is not being the witness to their perfectly mowed lawn or to the rows upon rows of family photos.

It's how they move in sync with one another like a swarm of bees that's ready to enter the hive after a full day of work that just breaks something inside him. It's how they are still together, a perfect pack in which Theon is nothing but an intruder, although he’s studied their lives and customs for years and tried but did not fully succeed to figure out where his life would fit among them. Like today, for example, when Ned announced that they decided, after all, to have the barbeque celebration for their twenty-plus years of marriage. Theon doubts it is even this very day, who knows and who remembers, anyway? 

This year, too, he picked the shortest straw and gets to be the one who gets the supplies for the barbecue. That’s the task that nobody likes, along with washing the dishes, even though the Starks have owned a dishwasher for many years. It’s not as if he doesn’t have his own problems to deal with. He’s grateful to the Starks for taking him in, but really… apart from that, he’s always been singled out as that Greyjoy kid whom everyone hates. He swears that behind his back Arya showed him the finger.

“Bitch.” He whispers to himself. High-school days have been full of drama, mostly because in the seemingly peaceful suburban life he wanted to have, rumours about how fucked up his family was always transpired. The Greyjoys are no good - they used to whisper behind his back. This left Theon alone and segregated, only with the Starks for company, only with solitary activities to kill time until his majority.

Balon Greyjoy and domestic violence went hand in hand. His older brothers were always going in and out of juvie then jail and his older sister… was rumoured to be the head of the local mafia. That’s weird shit, man. But nothing equalled the problems he’s had with his mother, who, given the chance, would gladly take her own life. Theon went through her suicidal fits all his childhood and by nine he was forced to behave like an adult because he had to pull his shit together around all the dysfunctional people in his family. As for his uncles, Theon just considered those ties cut forever. He used to have nightmares all his childhood about Euron and how he lost an eye during a fight with the henchmen of a rival group.


He’d long lost shame and embarrassment and wherever he went, people were bound to talk. They were disgusting little cunts who did nothing but stare disapprovingly at him and talk behind his back. Theon could do without them. This was his third year since he left the Stark’s house and managed on his own, not that they didn’t help him. Repairing boats and yachts was a decent paying job and Theon had everything he needed, except a family, because the Greyjoys weren’t exactly good with kids and didn’t know how to say I love you between the bouts of alcoholism and the suicide threats.


The Starks were already a reputed family, a growing one when Theon first came in the picture when he was nine. Six children minus the bastard who belonged to Ned alone were enough in Theon’s opinion. It never bothered him that they didn’t sign the adoption papers. He knew all along that he was just in foster care, just some kid they took pity on. If he proved to be too difficult, he would have been placed back into the system. Theon heard all sorts of things about foster parents who were worse than the actual parents. He didn’t need that so when he had to choose between sinking and swimming, he decided to stay afloat for as long as possible. He was a decent kid to the Starks. He never got into much trouble, nothing of importance, anyway. A bit of truancy here and there, several scuffles with schoolmates, and just a bit of preteen attitude that was immediately stifled - Theon Greyjoy learnt to mimic being a Stark for as long as he could remember. Resistance as futile, especially since Theon had quite a sensitive nature and his desire to be accepted was greater than his rebellious streak. Mr Luwin, the therapist that Theon saw right after the Social Services took him from Balon, would always remind him to never neglect to be true to his emotional side; so Theon did just that but after his majority, when the Starks did not owe him anything anymore, he learnt the hard way the necessity of falling back into being a Greyjoy.

So today he had to drive to Dreadfort which was known as one of the best meat suppliers in the North. Five more miles and he finally would turn on their narrow ugly roads. Horrible little town, dark, old houses and wild woods. Crooked trees and crooked people. Theon could sense their despair, their madness. He was glad he lived near the sea and that working odd hour and in solitude in his little nautical shop kept him away from people. Those near the sea gossiped as much as those from the plains. Theon hates the Dreadfort and not only because it’s a dreary little town. It always gave him the creeps. It’s full of strange people and he’s always on edge whenever they get too close to him. Not only is the man who owns most of Dreadfort a sort of notorious figure but Theon himself had several unpleasant experiences involving some gangs that worked for Bolton when he began living in the vicinity of the port.

He parked in front of the deserted abbatoir with a decrepit firm placed ungraciously above the door. There was no WELCOME sign because he was sure that would be pretty ironic when it came to the Boltons who owned pretty much of Dreadfort by the time Theon finished school. The Boltons weren’t fond of humour. They were fond of blood, power and money. They seemed to love the first very much because the family business was still standing. What started off as a seemingly lucrative family business has grown in a decade into an empire of sorts. It was true that the Boltons owned land but in a couple of years they didn't purchase just that but businesses as well, animal farms, gas stations and a furniture factory. Ned always said there was something fishy about how Roose Bolton made his millions but like any other Northener, Ned was sure to turn a blind eye to what was happening around him if it did not impact him directly. The Starks had other things to mind up North.

The Boltons traded with the other shops and supermarkets, made lots of money from the meat industry but they seemed unable to let go of this one shop, and Catelyn, being the conservative wife that she was, insisted on buying straight from the butcher. Out of some twisted form of respect, Theon followed her instructions.
He’d never had to deal with Roose Bolton's bastard son before but lately it seemed Theon’s rotten luck pulled him to all kinds of people and situations.

 He expected to see Damon behind the counter and Skinner pretending to be keeping the place clean but Theon knew Damon from before and suspected he hadn’t been hired for his customer service skills; and Skinner was usually out smoking a cigarette and giving families dirty looks whenever they pulled in the driveway.


his eyes landed on Ramsay Snow, instead, the infamous bastard that Roose rescued from his junkie mother - the news was all over the papers for a week, Theon vaguely remembers Catelyn just calling the man “vile” as he interfered with the women shelter, she worked at. It had to be him, even though Theon only saw him from a distance and mostly heard rumors about him being in juvenile detention for some time for messing up a kid’s face.

 He was eviscerating something in an enclosed area behind a glass wall. He was focused and terrifying at the same time, moving with precision, all dressed in clinical white as if he were a surgeon. It was really confusing and upsetting, especially when Theon’s eyes landed on the splatter of blood which decorated Ramsay’s pale rubber apron. There was no way to announce his presence so Theon settled for waiting, his eyes darting nervously from side to side. It was an old-fashioned shop with an abattoir in the back that allowed clients to choose their meats which would be portioned under their very eyes. He guessed that Damon and Skinner weren’t on duty on weekends. Just his luck.

 


The place was big enough but deserted. Clean but cold. A killer’s den, judging by Ramsey’s meticulous movements with the hacking knife.

“Fresh meat announcements and large illustrations of different livestock and their parts that Theon deemed to be actually vintage. One of them occupied a great portion of the wall and read: The pig is divided thus and below the image of a pig hanging from a hook with his head down and large portions of its body numbered. The numbers read spare rib, hand, belly, fore loin, hind loin and leg. Something in Theon shifted abruptly. It was all reduced to ordering a number five or a number two which made him sick internally. When he closed his eyes the illustration was still fixated on his retina.

  There was no radio, no TV, only the sound of the meat cleaver and the knife at work, from time to time the saw and the constant, maddening buzzing of the coolers. Ice and blood. His eyes were ice as he turned unaware of Theon’s presence with the knives still in his hand.
He looked upset.


Hell… Ramsay Snow’s reputation preceded him. A lunatic, that’s what they called him even though Roose paid a great deal the press to not leak information about his bastard’s stint in Juvie; there was always one rogue radio broadcaster late at midnight that never failed to tie the Boltons to last decade’s unexplained wave of evil occurrences. Ramsay the butcher. Very suggestive nickname if your father owned the local mafia.


Theon didn’t know what to do so he just smiled, uneasily and mouthed a silent hi.


Really, Theon… you can do better. Better, as in run as fast as you can as far as you can. Two knives? Who the hell needs to have two knives and an electric meat cutter and a saw and all those stainless steel medieval-looking instruments?


Ramsay, for sure.

 

.

.

.


His eyes were hypnotic. Cold, pale and ghostly. They looked drowned. Too bloody intense for Theon’s liking. And who taught the bastard to stare at people like that? Ramsay looked into his very soul.


There was a long stretch of silence between them. Ramsay cleaning his knives with a focused, confident look in his eyes and Theon shifting from one leg to another.


Hell, I really need to pee. And why now? My cursed bladder…


Ramsay stared blatantly at him, evaluating him from head to toe.


“Erm… hello,” Theon managed to actually speak, his voice losing the ability to sound smooth and relaxed all of a sudden.


Nice try, Theon, nice try… show him you don’t fear this.


Of course, his body language chose to do otherwise.


Stupid Theon, he chastised himself mentally. He was aware that he started to break into a cold sweat. How horrible. How ridiculous. And he was freezing. Freezing and sweating. And Ramsay kept looking at him with those cold, empty eyes, the knives neatly placed into their support, the hands uncannily clean.


Oh… the gloves. Yes, the gloves were bloody and sticky with viscera, blood and occasional shards of bone. Veganism it is then, thought Theon.


He approached the counter when Ramsay did so as well after disposing of the apron and the gloves and giving his hands a perfunctory wash in a basin near-by. placing the wallet and his phone on the white marble surface Theon finally gathered his wits and spoke.


“Erm… I would like some meat for a barbeque… for like… erm… 10 people.”


Shit, Theon, you crack under pressure just like an eggshell. Stupid, stupid Theon.


Ramsay continued to look at him strangely before his pale lips moved, almost inaudibly thanks to the rapid heartbeat that boomed in Theon’s ears.


“I haven’t seen you in a while.” The words had an unwanted effect on Theon. Theon’s never been face-to-face with him before. Or maybe he’s seen Theon but for some reason Theon did not see him. That was hard to believe. Ramsay wasn’t exactly inconspicuous looking.


His voice was smooth, like a blade gliding through the skin, reaching flesh and then bumping into the bone. His voice wasn’t that awful, but his whole face was with its undaunting symmetry upset by a perpetual scowl. It was unnerving having to look at those pale irises, the fleshy pale face, so typical of the Northerners of Dreadfort, the pale lips, moving like worms, formless, not plush and soft like a woman’s, but different, just like translucent cartilage on a strange fish from the abyss. He reminded Theon of a bloodless creature, a stocky mass of muscles and perfectly white skin, as it has never been touched by the sun, not a living thing.


The harsh neon light hurt his eyes. Theon swore he was going to cry, a perfectly normal biological response to the crisp cold and sharp lights.


So uncomfortable. He wanted to spare himself so he dejectedly settled on sitting hunched and looking anywhere else but at the forthcoming figure of Ramsay the Butcher. His eyes decided they wanted to cry when once more they fixed on another illustration but what really made him dizzy was the smell, clinical yet animalistic.


“Oh, the same as last year,” Ramsay answered in his place as if remembering something and his voice was velvet hiding a dagger. “You came just in time. Today I have something special, you should see.”
Theon just didn’t want to know how Ramsay got all that information. He dared to look in the direction of the voice, only to find Ramsay moving behind him. “Come,” he ordered.


The room behind the white metal door was cold, colder than he ever imagined. The freezers looked surreal and so very gruesome; Theon could swear he’s seen an identical image in one of the slasher horror movies he used to watch late at night with Robb and Jon when the parents were sound asleep.

This slaughterhouse looked just like one from the movies.

Animal carcasses were hanging from silvery hooks, huge, perfectly cut bones and heads covered with a skinny film of ice. He stops to stare at what were once cattle and which now appeared to have become a transversally sectioned mass of skin, meat and bone. He can count the vertebrae; he reckons through a shudder.


He almost forgets Ramsay as he disappears into the misty cold. A terrible screech attacks his ears. There was another metal door, white as if covered in ice.


“Follow me.”

 Theon was perplexed for a second and almost lost his sense of direction but Ramsay’s voice became softer, drawing him towards the door.
He didn’t like what he saw but Ramsay was smiling proudly to no-one in particular. It reminded to Theon of those boys with strange hobbies such as taxidermy which later proved to be a sign of their own disturbed minds.
But that was Norman Bates from Psycho and this was Ramsay Bolton (Snow to some circles) of Dreadfort, the man who butchered their animals and sold the meat. The finest, they said. Theon frowned, trying to focus on his feet.

 “Is it even allowed to bring me here?” At this point, Theon was freaking out massively.
Ramsay giggled as he ambled along the rows of frozen flesh.

“If it’s worth it,” came the answer.


In the starkness of the neon lights on metal, Ramsay giggled and Theon noticed the blood pooling down in a chrome basin. He fucking giggled. Theon’s bile rose up, up in his throat.


Ramsay’s butchering was a work of art if you thought gore was something nice something grotesque yet beautiful. His mouth moved earnestly and the words came out raw and dangerous. It mesmerized and subdued Theon. He couldn’t pay attention, though, because soon, soon he was going to be so sick.

 

Chapter 2

Summary:

... in which Ramsay's presence wounds Theon up even more.

Notes:

Thank you for reading so far! It seems like it's going to be a slow-paced story.

Chapter Text

He didn’t throw up - fortunately, didn’t - but he lost his balance only to hit one of the half-full basins of blood as he tried to grasp onto something. He trembled all over, to the marrow of his bones.

Lying in a pool of cold blood, red and viscous, Theon could barely mask his discomfort. He was glad he didn’t eat much that morning, too busy with the Starks and their priorities, plus he tried to catch on his reading on Nautical Engineering in the hope that one day he’ll get his degree, a dream that never seemed to come true, though, seeing as Theon was always too busy trying to make ends meet. Of course, his life demanded a few compromises. Stay neutral to the rest of the Greyjoys (with the exception of Asha ) and be nice to the Starks, Jon Snow included.

He felt weak as he tried to get up but slipped again on the slick blood. When he looked up, Ramsay was watching him, scrutinising every small movement. Futile, he thought, struggling was pointless. He gave up and just looked back at Ramsay whose lips pursed creating an indescribable expression on his hard, marble-like face.

He realised he was so absorbed in his own confused thoughts, that he noticed only too late the approaching hand. He switched his gaze on the square, pale fingers instead. His veins were purple-blue under the skin. Theon couldn’t look away from that wrist. He knew he had to take the offered hand and stand up but instead, well… he did the stupidest thing. He simply ghosted his fingers, still sodden with that disgusting blood over that wrist in fascination.

Is this real?

Ramsay must think him ridiculous.

That’s why he couldn’t look up, couldn’t move, and couldn’t even look away as the muscle and the sinew stretched again under his eyes, closer, closer still. That ragged breathing wasn’t his, of that he was pretty sure when the ringing in his ears subsided.

Theon felt the cold on his back, seeping into his thin plaid trousers. He could feel the ghost of it imprint into the fabric. So sticky. And then he looked and saw his mouth, his lips and sharp teeth, so white, so fucking white and shiny. He’s got cat teeth, he thought… and they were worrying those rubbery lips of his. That mouth, made for shouting, made for biting and rending apart flesh. The hairs on his hand stood to an end, a weak, thin trail. Electric.

And then, thoughtlessly, he grasped that hand, clutched to that wrist until he managed to pull himself up and into Ramsay’s chest, his red fingers slapping hard muscle, white shoulders, and rough fabric.

“I am sorry I slipped,” he mumbled, fear rising in his chest entwined with the sick anticipation of Ramsay’s angry growl and a shove that would leave him breathless forever. But the yelling and the shoving never came. Ramsay was stone-still and Theon carelessly exhaled too close to his neck, too close to his pulse. Ragged, fighting for control that breath was, as he stood still with Theon clutched to his upper body like some spineless waif.

For the slightest of seconds, he felt a deep shudder run through his bones. The hail of terror.

“I-I am really sorry… I-I’ll pay for the damages,” he continued, somehow expecting Ramsay to say something, not knowing how to handle that terrifying stretch of silence.

Ramsay pushed him firmly but not harshly away and even though the distance wasn’t considerable, Theon was thankful for the space between them as he almost thought he’ll faint if he inhaled Ramsay’s metallic scent again.

“It’s nothing.”

It’s nothing. Nothing, you’ve heard him.

“Huh?” He almost fell over again and this time, Ramsay’s strong hands were on his hips, steadying him.

Then, he finds those unfathomable pale orbs studying him intently again. Theon feels like the frog pinned to the dissection board, helpless, about to die. And all the blood seems to have gone from supplying his brain, his limbs, he’s so dizzy.

“You’re anaemic, that’s all.”

His voice is hollow just like his eyes.

Surprisingly, he gives him a towel to clean himself but doesn’t linger too much. Soon, the meat cutter’s electric whirr fills his ears and Theon wakes up as if from a deep sleep.

He left with a full bag and he was almost surprised that he made it to the Starks alive.

When he entered the Stark’s kitchen, Robb’s eyes turned to him, alarmed.

“What happened to you, you look like shit!” He doesn’t know whether to call his mother or manage Theon himself. He looks baffled, as if he doesn’t know what to make of the haggard look on Theon’s face, of his blood-stained clothes. Their eyes meet and Theon feels Robb’s concern surge.

“It’s nothing, I’m just anaemic,” he mutters, voice indeed, very weak.

He meant it as a joke. The forced interaction with the Starks started taking a toll on Theon, despite the fact that he loved Robb more than anyone in the world.

His words are nonchalant, untraceable. “Here’s the meat for the barbeque.”

And Robb does nothing but stare because asking any more questions seems useless.

In the living room, Jon flips through a magazine, feet perched carefully on the small table in front of the TV. His hair is wilder than usual and Theon stops for a second as if deciding whether to give him a scare or leave him be. Jon, with his pretty, pouty face always reminded him of a lost puppy. Jon was a hypersensitive kid who turned into a vicious young man whose routine consisted mostly of things that allegedly improved his self-esteem, like team sports and sword-fighting or letting his hair grow into a bird’s nest. The worst, in Theon’s opinion, was that Jon thought it cool.

However, Jon Snow noticed his reflection on the television’s black screen and turned his head in curiosity. He was wearing those stupid Ray-Ban eyeglasses of his, large and dorky.

Theon couldn’t help it when he said it.

“Hipster,” he muttered loud enough. Jon smirked, adjusting the glasses higher on his nose.

“How’s Ramsay doing? Did he show you his meat-cleaver?” Needless to say, Jon’s evil grin dies when he looks him up and down and realises that Theon’s got stains all over his beige T-shirt and pants. He never expected that.

“Is that blood?” Jon asks incredulously. “Or cranberry juice?”

Instead of saying something equally witty in reply, just to test Jon’s sensitive self-esteem, Theon ignores him and goes straight to his old room.

He doesn’t know that Robb’s been listening to their conversation from behind the door.

“What happened to him?” Jon fixes his brother with an innocent look.

“I don’t know. He just came home with a bag full of fucking barbeque meat. Also… I think that’s blood.”

Jon is impassive and petulantly turns back to his magazine but Robb huffs in reproach.

“You’ll have to help me with dad’s anniversary, Jon. Theon’s in no state whatsoever to come down.” He expressly omits to mention Catelyn, knowing very well it would hurt Jon who never met his mother. Jon hides his discomfort by rolling his eyes and making a fuss out of placing his magazine back on the table as if he’s doing Robb a big favour.

“Fine, but I get privileges,” he says naughtily.

“You’re my brother, Jon! And so is Theon.” Robb sometimes feels that he’s the only mature one. His tone is outraged.

“Half-brother,” Jon corrects him. “And Theon’s a Greyjoy, already has a family. I don’t know why he has to be here and why he still keeps his room.”

“You’re despicable.” Robb concedes and throws the thick cooking gloves at him. “I love you, though.”

And Jon smiles, because he knows Robb means it.

Chapter 3

Summary:

Theon wants to stop, but cannot.

Notes:

Warning! Self-harm, so don't take it lightly. No sharp objects, just fingernails. Theon's one little fucked up thing.
It broke my heart to write this. Dermatillomania is more insidious than "typical" SH.
Also, show some love- it makes me happy and inspired.

Chapter Text

 

Back in his room, Theon starts pacing. He’s already having a panic attack and he searches one more time for his possessions. He turns the pockets inside-out but there are only receipts and crumpled bills and a few coins.

Where the fuck is his wallet and where the fuck is his bloody phone?

He starts shaking and hyperventilating. Fuck! He tries to steady his breathing and ground himself by looking at how hard his fingers grasp the wooden desk. There’s “Theon” stencilled backwards on the shiny surface, his moment of rebellion when the Starks didn’t let him go see his parents on his first Christmas. If he could go back in time, he would thank them instead of throwing a bloody tantrum. His father didn’t even call him and nobody answered the phone. He heard later that his mother had another failed attempt and was considered as a psychiatric ward at the Westeros Asylum. When he glances in the mirror to his left he thinks he’s seen a ghost, that’s how pale he looks.

His eyes trace his reflection up and down and the bile that stayed contained an hour ago in the abattoir is now forcing its way out. It’s burning his throat and Theon can’t keep it down. He manages to stomp to the small bathroom and pours acid into the toilet. He can’t risk making a mess at the Starks.

Several minutes later he’s frozen to the spot, his right hand digging into his upper arm. The flesh is red and marred with bloody half-moons. On Theon’s face, there’s a look of deep concentration. He cannot see anything except the skin being torn apart, leaving an angry shade of red behind. He can’t stop. He can’t stop. He can’t stop, because of what matters at this moment, in between a welt and a rush of pain.

H doesn’t even notice when the door opens slightly, enough to let Robb’s head in.

“Can I come in?” and he does without further questioning, Jon Snow was following him, begrudgingly.

They enter anyway, Jon immediately grimacing at what Theon’s been doing. For a brief moment, Theon catches his eyes and he’s thinking “Oh, not again”.

For some reason, he knows Snow despises him, even more, when he sees Theon like this. “Another intense session of self-harm, Greyjoy?”; his fingernails are all bloody from the tearing. He wishes he could bite and tear the flesh away as well. That would teach Snow to keep his mouth shut.

“I feel sick,” he gives in response and turns away because he doesn’t want to see Snow’s face. He hates when he looks at Theon with those grey eyes of his, swarming with emotion, accusation, worry. Robb is better adapted. Robb’s always helped him. Never judged him. But Snow… Snow cannot understand. If Robb is the face of compassion, Snow is the face of regret, the horrible aftertaste when he stops tearing the flesh and feels the sting, the burn, the possible infection.

“You should get changed,” Robb approaches. “Here, let me help you.” And Theon feels again like the same helpless child he was when he first came to the Starks. He flinches when Robb traces the angry red pelts on his skin. “Jon…” Robb gestures to his half-brother who rushes to the door.

I’ve hurt myself again. Theon’s eyes are distant. He cannot look at his handiwork, though. He has to wait for a couple of days to heal.

It’s always been like that with Theon. Robb coming in, finding him catatonic and hurt, hesitating about announcing his parents, then looking at Theon’s ashamed face. “They’ll send me away if you tell them. Nobody has to know.” And Robb understands. He nods and hugs him. And Theon’s so relieved, because this way he doesn’t get to see Robb’s sad eyes, his face struggling to keep an impassive tenure, his eyes struggling not to let tears fall.

“Do you love me?”

“Of course I love you, silly. You’re my brother.”

“Forever and always?”

“Forever and always. Don’t do this again. Call for me and I’ll be there. I won’t let you do that again, I promise.”

And it’s weird, because, after that, Theon started hiding even more. He does it sometimes unconsciously. Like when he got that one postcard from Asha. Robb wasn’t there and when he looked, his arms were bloody again. He didn’t need razors, he didn’t need knives. He had his own nails to dig into his flesh. It felt good, then it felt really, really bad. He couldn’t stop.

Jon comes in a hurry with the first aid, fresh towels and a bunch of clothes that Theon doesn’t recognise.

“Damn, Greyjoy, I’m sorry, ok? I… I was a…”

Snow’s face is utterly distressed. His hair lost that nice coif of his as his hands raked his scalp nervously. God, he’s so sensitive, sometimes. Theon can’t let him blame himself for this.

“A bastard? “ Theon chuckles because he knows Jon Snow means well, despite being the most annoying cunt, he loves him in his own, twisted way. He chuckles and it comes out forced and terribly lame.

Jon huffs, but there’s a soft smile on his lips. Somehow, that crazy little laugh saddens him even more. He worries his bottom lip even more and he kneels next to Theon. He’s been guilt-tripped again, little brother Snow.

“You’re forgiven, Snow. What would I do without you? Without Robb…?”

“Don’t do this again, Theon.” It’s Snow that mutters.

Oh, right. Snow’s disgusted. Like that one time when Theon came home boozed up and smelling of cigarette smoke and pot. “Don’t do this to yourself, Greyjoy…”

Righteous little cunt.

“I promise I won’t. Cross my heart and hope to die.” Theon’s eyes are jocular and Robb glowers at him, his face a mask of severity.

Theon really hopes sometimes that he’ll die… every time he breaks his vow to Jon. How stupid Snow can be sometimes! Every time he makes him promise to stupid little things. Promise you won’t smoke, promise you won’t drink, promise you won't shoot heroin, promise you won’t have unprotected sex, promise you won’t ever come home with one of those girls- dad will be upset.

Every time he breaks it, he knows he’s made a little crack in Jon Snow’s heart. He never goes unpunished. Robb never makes him promise anything. Robb’s eyes are the same.

He never cries and never pities. Unlike little boy Snow. And his arms are rough and strong when he pulls Theon from the floor, while Snow is afraid to even clean his wounds, always so delicate and stopping from time to time to ask in a tiny voice “Does it hurt?”. Theon wants Robb’s fists, wants Robb’s legs to kick and his teeth to bite. He also wants Snow to kick him and pull him by the hair. He wants them… but Robb never gives it to him and Jon… Jon looks at him with that destroyed heart of his. And that’s the worst.

Robb’s not there to punish him the way he wants, the way he needs. Robb’s punishment is full of self-righteousness and silent. Robb’s heart has never been made to be cracked by Theon.

Chapter 4

Summary:

Ramsay has to make the pain go away.

Notes:

Hello, lovelies! Oh my... oh... my... Seven Hells! I did what I had to do. I feel really depleted right now. I just had to do this. Thank you for your support and your comments, it helped me going through this chapter... oh... I feel so terrible!
Also, this might come across as very inconsistent- but trust me, it was painful to write and see things from Ramsay's POV.
Also... this is Roose/ Ramsay...
Seven Hells!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

What is this sensation travelling so fast within him, surging through his brain, making his hands tremble? Ramsay holds his breath for a while… 30 seconds… 34… 37… 41… 49… 52 seconds. No more. It’s not gone. The feeling is there. Or is it? Is it a feeling, now?

No, he’s just breathing hard.

There are these little bumps on his skin, signs of cold. Since when does he feel the cold?

No, he cannot, he cannot, because… there… it’s not supposed to bother him anymore. So he waits, he waits for the shiver to subside, for the uncontrollable contractions in his chest to calm down. His eye twitches. No, that’s not good.

That’s not good.

He feels eyes on him but there’s no one, not to his left, not to his right. He’s gone.

He’s gone.

“Take it. It’s on me.”

“N-no… I couldn’t. It’s  too much.”

“You need it. I insist.”

“T-thanks… I’m sorry for earlier.”

“It’s nothing. Not your fault.”

Father’s going to be so mad. Father is not going to take it very well.

Father doesn’t have to know.

But what if he finds out?

He doesn’t have to know. Unless… Unless you’re a stupid boy.

 

He shouldn’t have handed that bag to him. He’s a stranger. No, he comes here several times a year. Even so, he’s still a stranger. No… no, he… he said hello.

He said hello.

“Erm… Hello…”

He was polite, he really was. He was so nice. And when he fell, he looked really, really beautiful. With all that blood, so beautiful, so beautiful.

So red.

“He is beautiful.” He talks to the fridge as if his reply is going to quiet the appliance down, make the noise bearable again.

Ramsay’s hands jerk involuntarily, his muscles warming. The freezers are annoying today, they buzz infrequently, at the wrong time.

There’s buzzing and ringing and buzzing and ringing and the noise just won’t stop. Ramsay’s head feels like a balloon being hammered repeatedly. His migraine got worse, somehow.

Something rings and vibrates softly next to the counter and he's standing up at once, alerted by the strange noise. He doesn’t recognise it at first then it all comes back.

This is Theon Greyjoy’s stuff. Vibrating on the marble counter is his phone. Ramsay looks at it not knowing whether to throw it or crush it. The noise drives him mad. His head feels split in two from the pain.

On his left, snuck in the shadow is his cash. Theon Greyjoy’s cash.

He has to give that back. Or should he?

Should I?

The wallet is made out of black leather. He thinks it’s common at first, but when he turns it around and notices the initials TG, he realises it’s one of a kind. So smooth, so fine. Is his skin like this?

It’s better.

 It smells of cold leather and warm tobacco and money and plastic. Ramsay’s nostrils flare as he sniffs, trying to take in more and more information about the scent.

He likes it. He really does, because it’s so strange and foreign to his lungs.  Theon’s face smiles at him from the laminated ID and Ramsay wants to smile back, because he’s so handsome and popular and interesting. He’s beautiful. So beautiful, so nice… his head feels glued back together. There’s just a dull reminder of the pain.

That’s why he likes him. He makes the pain go away.

The phone vibrates again.

 It’s a black and slim thing in a nice leather case. He slides and a picture of the sea appears. He’s a bit surprised at that, judging by how Theon Greyjoy’s impression lasted in his mind. He expected at least a photo of one of his conquests surrounding his pretty face. He’s almost relieved. At first, he doesn’t want to look into the message folder or into the gallery. His heart beats pretty fast and Ramsay decides that he should check it anyway.

“You’ve got a new message”, appears on the dark screen in bold letters

It’s then that he notices that the INBOX folder is full of new messages.

“Call this number if you found my phone.” 

“Whoever you are, call this number.”

Ramsay frowns. His face scrunches and contorts with the confusion of a child who doesn’t understand why he cannot have everything.

He puts the phone down several times but again, he finds himself forming the number. 5-5-9… 0… No. He puts it down in the fork. Again, he picks it. .. 5-5-9… 0-2-6… No. No. No.

Good. No… Not good.

He looks interesting in the picture. Theon Greyjoy. T-h-e-o-n. G-r-e-y-j-o-y.

Is this how they call him?  Is it Theon or simply Greyjoy? Or some fancy nickname?

He likes the way it forms on his lips: T-h-e-o-n. G-r-e-y-j-o-y.

He presses BACK, then BACK again. He doesn’t want to look. What if it’s disappointing? What if he doesn’t like Theon Greyjoy anymore?

He shuts the phone after memorising the number. For now, Ramsay Bolton doesn’t know what to do with this new information. The thought of Theon in the shop alone with him thrills him.

The heart beats like crazy in his chest. He feels its drumming in his ears. It fills him. It’s such a rush. It won’t be long before he’ll see him again, that’s for sure.

 “Boy, what are you doing?”

Roose Bolton has eyes of ice and the voice of a hissing snake. Ramsay hides the wallet and the phone in the drawer, pretending to be looking for something else. Roose is as pale and sturdy as his son, only better dressed. A block of ice in a pink shirt and grey trousers.

“I was… looking for some paper, father.”

“I told you not to call me that, didn’t I?”

“Yes, sir, I am sorry, sir.”

“Stop making that face, boy.”

Ramsay swallows in assent. His pale eyes look down at the toes of his ratty sneakers, so thoroughly cleaned that the denim faded from so much brushing with detergents. He is a picture of cleanliness, even smelling of disinfectant, except for the red blotches on his pale cheeks and neck.

His pale eyes look so empty whenever his eyes sting from too much chlorine. The skin around them is so red.

Ramsay wishes he were blind.

He looks about to cry but finally, doesn’t shed a tear.

By his father’s standards, Ramsay should grow up faster, work harder, respect his orders and never complain. Not yet a man, he’s not as tall and imposing as Roose, but undeniably, he is his son. The man inspects the shop with a perpetual frown all the time and then settles on looking Ramsay up and down derisively. With one finger he pushes into Ramsay’s side viciously.

It hurts. It burns. And all those memories come back.  He cannot back away.

It would be disrespectful to his father.

“I need you to take the boys for drinks tomorrow, distract them. Tomorrow you are to close the shop early. I don’t want questions.”

“Yes, sir.”

He gives Ramsay one more look before he turns to leave.

And is that a woman waiting by the car? Ramsay thought he’s seen her before. She looks so young she could be his age.

He shouldn’t be curious. That’s father’s business, not his.

He stays there, stuck to the spot, breathing heavily. The tremors are back. The pain is back. The night is on. The moon is too big, too bright. His head hurts.

His head splits again. There’s nothing like this kind of pain, the suffering of being torn apart. Nothing, except that one time. Father said to keep silent.

“Now hush, boy, hush! Don’t say a word.”

It chokes him. Father always pushes too hard and chokes him.

“Now you have your daddy, boy!”

When his father’s car is gone, Ramsay can finally open the drawer and retrieve Theon’s objects.

He breathes in… then out…

The room is a sad little place, unexceptional and grey, with a single-mattress bed, shabby cupboard, desk, one chair and a mediocre library. He doesn’t really fit in the small place but Roose insists that he should stay there, above the shop.

He goes straight into the shower and immediately starts rubbing with a rough cloth at his ribs, where Roose’s finger speared a fresh bruise. Ramsay is so focused on the task at hand that he doesn’t care that the water runs ice-cold.

“Don’t you dare move until I’m finished with you, boy.”

He rubs harder. The words fade away. His head welcomes them in and then glues back together.

He’s so filthy on the inside that no matter the amount of rubbing at his skin is going to cleanse that.

He drowns his clothes in the bathtub and pours half a pint of liquid detergent. He can’t touch them otherwise, he can’t. He won’t stop scrubbing until he feels fire stinging that patch of skin. It’s all that he can do not to let the thoughts in. Those crazy thoughts where Ramsay isn’t Ramsay.

He hates it when Ramsay is just boy.  When he is like this, he is weak and shameful and so easy to hurt. He always angers father. Father always likes it better when his Boy screams and cries and begs him to stop. Father finishes faster that way.

 Boy’s a freak. But Ramsay's not.

“You like it, you like it, you freak.”

“No, father, no! Please, stop!”

This is why, whenever Boy comes out, Ramsay’s skin itches, there’s fire everywhere and he has to rub… to make it go away.

“Not Boy, I’m not Boy.”

He has to make it stop. He has to; otherwise, he’ll crack his head again on the wall. The way he did that other time.

And father… this time father will have to use the belt.

What does he do with the belt?

Father likes to tie him up. Father likes to make it go "swish" on Ramsay's back. No, not Ramsay... Boy.

No, no belts. He doesn’t want Father to tie him with the belt. It always hurts whenever Father asks him to keep still. The belt bites into his wrists and then father stills as well. Father hurts him there.

“You’re gaping open, Boy! There… you look just like your mother. She never stopped screaming when I fucked her.”

 He never stops until everything is wet and sticky and Ramsay’s shame is muffled in the sheets.

They’re always Ramsay’s sheets.

Maybe they belong to Boy? Definitely.

 Ramsay is clean, Ramsay scrubs and Ramsay listens.

The fridge makes “hrrr”. The water makes “splash”. The bone makes “crunch”. And the father says “Stay in your bed, Boy.”

Father grunts a noise that sits in between a fridge and a neon buzz.

And Ramsay is a filthy boy who likes it. Father’s pleased, then. He makes Boy clean it up. Lick everything with his tongue.

It’s bitter and soiled.

And Ramsay has to be Boy, he has to. Do you understand?

Except now, he can’t be Boy. It’s too much. Too sordid to be in his skin. He cannot breathe.

“T-h-e-o-n G-r-e-y-j-o-y.”

That’s it, his name sounds so beautiful to Ramsay’s ears. He has to say it again. He pulls the ID from its place again and memorises the face, that smile, those mirthful eyes. For a moment, he’s got the impression Theon is looking straight at him.

He’s going to look for Theon Greyjoy. That’s when the pain stops.

This is not his room. This belongs to Boy.

…5-5-9… 0-2-6… 3-5-0…

He presses CALL.

Notes:

There's PTSD, lots of mentions of sexual abuse, incest, mental instability, signs of dissociation and split-personality.

This is me right now ;-; B-b-b-but whhhy?

So... yeah... The words are stuck in my throat. Please ask away and I'll give it my best to enlighten you if there's any confusion.

Chapter 5

Summary:

Theon does what he knows best, he pretends.

Notes:

Theon resorts to his pervy self again; to Robb's outrage and Jon's dismay, he remembers a lot of things. Okay, I admit! I had a lot of fun writing this chapter. I don't proofread, so if something's out of place, please tell me!
Hints of Robb/Jeyne in this one!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

Ned and Catelyn liked "the not so surprising surprise" a lot. They showered their progeny with praises and even opened a bottle of champagne. Despite the fact that Robb's choice of music made the dogs howl incessantly and the burnt vegetables gained Jon several nasty looks from Catelyn, everything went well.

 In Theon’s opinion, satisfying Catelyn’s middle-aged expectations was either hit or miss. After a while, all the energy dwindled into lazy gossiping and Ned and Catelyn kissing discreetly under the Weirwood tree.

The older Starks were made to keep an eye on the younger ones. Bran and Rickon were hugging the wprld atlas and having a lot of fun deafening everyone with their bickering and Arya wouldn’t stop about a "very cool" guy named Gendry. Sansa stood quietly on the sofa, eyes darting to and fro to her sister’s erratic movements with what was supposed to be a toy sword. Everyone knew to leave Sansa alone. Her behavior changed dramatically ever since she started seeing a therapist after breakup with Jeoffrey. All Theon got from the Starks was that it was a very toxic, abusive relationship and Sansa was lucky to have escaped from it.

Jon was Theon’s favorite person in the world to annoy and make fun of, especially since Theon knew exactly what made him react, and that was his sexuality, or lack of it. Robb was always quiet about these things, ambiguous, almost, and steered the conversation pretty quickly to more pressing matters such as his studies. Catelyn could not have been prouder of her golden boy.

The washing of dishes was always a task over which they could talk about other things, and Theon needed to use that as an opportunity to steer clear of the subject of his earlier breakdown. He was wearing a three-quarter sleeve shirt under which the scars, some faded, some quite visible, were creating a pattern of their own on his skin. That was shameful enough on a hot day like this.

Robb never said a word of his own, just listened indiscriminately as he proceeded to wash the plates.

“… as I told you last week, I began to tweak the cleat and add a nice pair bronze cams…”

Robb almost dropped a plate. Almost. Theon just smirked knowingly.

“What? The cleat of the boat? The one used to pass rope through?” his tone was outraged.

Robb looked at him as if he was talking about something sexual and not nautical gear.

“Never mind, man… You were spacing out.”

“No… I wasn’t,” Robb said defensively.

“Yes, you were. I was talking about yachts Robb, mother-fucking-yachts. Then… your peaked when I mentioned the cleat and not the C-L-I-T… so who is she? Just tell me.”

Robb pretends he didn’t hear him at all this time.

“Robb, who is she?”

“You don’t know her,” he snapped; “She’s not from around here.” Theon cocked his eyebrow unconvinced.

“You know, there is this story about you and the the Frey girls…” Theon knows how much it annoys Robb talking about that. One of the Freys stalked him and even made an online fanpage of Robb adding little hearts to pictures she stole from the yearbook. “I wonder whether that page still stands on the internet.”

Robb looks at him defeated but there’s a hint of amusement in his clear blue eyes.

“Her name’s Jeyne Westerling. We’ve been seeing each other for a month now. I just didn’t want anyone to know until we figured it out. I’m sorry, all right?” He looked like he felt really guilty. He was pretty serious. Robb turned his back on him and resumed rinsing the plates.

“Unbelievable,” says Theon with irrevocability and mocking resentment. “You actuallyhave a girlfriend and are not asexual as I began to think, and didn’t tell me? Me!? Your brother and best friend? I told you everything! I am now burning with shame at the details I’ve shared with you, man!”

It took Robb several deep breaths and a lot of concentration not to slap Theon. “Jeyne’s… uh…” Robb seemed lost for words, “she wants to meet my parents.”

"Preach. Now tell me the juicy details. How’s this Jeyne in bed?"

"We didn’t get that far, you wouldn't understand."

Theon felt slightly insulted.

“No, I would understand if you cared to detail the situation, Robb!” Theon waits for a reply that never comes and continues “Don’t tell me she doesn’t want to blow you until she knows you’ll take her to meet mum and dad… It’s just a formality to ensure that your dick doesn’t run away. I’d fuck her until the very thought gets out of her mind.”

For a split second, Robb looks terribly upset at the vulgarity of Theon’s words.

“Yeah, sure. I’d say it’s the only thing you know to do with them. You've never fallen in love, never had a date, never brought a girl to meet us, you just incessantly give me sleazy details!” Robb just finished drying the dishes and when he turns towards Theon, his face is serios. Too serious, in fact. “Did you ask yourself whether I want to hear all that bullshit coming from your mouth? Did you listen to yourself?”

Theon’s smirk dies, morphing into a bitter look because Robb speaks as if he really believes what he says and it’s enough to make Theon doubt himself. His opinion matters.

“Yeah? Then why didn’t you stop me, huh? Why, because it grossed you out? Ruined some impossible fantasy you had about women? Or was your dick getting too hard, so whenever I left you alone, you’d start to fuck your hand like there was no tomorrow?”

Robb’s cheeks were so red, that Theon could swear they radiated heat.

“I’ve seen you, not once, but several fucking times… “

“Yeah, Greyjoy… I’m sorry for not taking the time to explain to you what privacy means,” Robb was too ashamed to be callous with Theon in that moment, and all that was left of his attempted outburst was quiet indignation. He’s been caught, it was true. More than several times, even.

“I’ve been too busy freaking out about your night-terrors and your bruised arms to actually lock the door and have a nice one in my bed.”

“It wasn’t in your bed, dude…” Theon did play dirty when he meant to embarrass Robb further and deter the attention from his darker days. “It was in front of the mirror, in front of the window… Sheesh… It was almost as if you wanted to get caught. Never locked a door in your life?  A secret voyeur?”

Robb’s eyes darken as he sees Bran approaching with a tray of glasses to place in the sink, and grabs Theon’s hand harshly. It bruises. It cuts off the blood, that’s how tight it feels.

 “Keep your voice down, or I’ll gut you with the butter knife, Greyjoy.”

He said it like he meant it. Theon’s satisfaction grows subtly as he got what he wanted from Robb, nails digging hard into his wrist, a grip as strong as iron, punishing, controlling, giving him sweet pain. He can already feel the rush; oh, it feels so good.

“I think I might like that.”

This time it’s Robb who’s genuinely disgusted and it burns Theon’s insides. Oh, he’s angry, he’s angry… He pushes further, like he always does, always wanting to prove him wrong, always wanting Robb to admit that he’s made a big mistake by helping and hiding his sickness from the rest of the Starks. He wants to make Robb angry enough so he can feel his careful attention going beyond ordinary. He wants Robb crushing him, hitting him hard, he wants to prove he’s no good. That he was damaged goods when they took him in. It’s his way of coping.

“I say you shouldn’t,” Robb grunts decisively, pinning Theon’s with his eyes. He’s so tall, he could break him easily.

“Then make me.”

He needs to know that Robb cares enough to want to kill him, he really needs that, because it would be the best thing someone has ever done for him.

Robb has to get over his faked disgust. Deep down, he knows Robb’s afraid for him and that makes Theon uneasy. He wants Robb to be strong for him, not afraid.

They’re all silent as Robb drives him to his place. Theon’s had three beers only in the kitchen while hiding from the Starks and now is so smashed he can’t walk straight, let alone drive. Jon hides him from his father’s prying eyes and doesn’t ask further questions, as usual. He just stays with him, on the back seat, holding his head in his lap. He’ll never admit that he smoothed his hair and patted his back comfortingly. It’s not something he does too often. Theon clutches at his knees, a sort of twisted embrace masked by trying to adjust his position. Jon gingerly threads his hands through his hair. He’s never been caught masturbating by Theon, he made sure he wouldn’t, but his shame lies deeper than Robb’s. He’s always felt inadequate because he’s done worse than Robb.

Theon mumbles wetly in his lap, a sinister smile growing on his face and Jon dreads what it’s about to come out of his ugly, contemptuous mouth.

“Remember that time when we were watching porn… and…”

Jon clutches at Theon’s mouth, his fingers desperate and harsh in their frenzy.

“Greyjoy, shut up,” he hisses angrily. He hopes that Robb didn't hear them.

Theon tries to wrench his hand away. The effort is futile and instead, he settles for making Jon uncomfortable. They gaze at each other for the rest of the road, until Jon’s eyes calm down and his fingers leave Theon’s face, resuming combing his head with his fingers. It’s unnerving because Jon feels more like a brother to him than ever.

It’s almost midnight when the phone rings, startling Theon from his sleep. The alcohol messed up with his head again. He’s all groggy and can’t bear to open his eyes. They seem glued and dry, so he fumbles all over the bed, between the sheets like a blind mole, guided only by the vibrating sound. It’s just his luck that the phone sits neatly on the nightstand and Theon, opens one eye and clutches the thing furiously.

Also, with his right eye, he bothers reading the number on the screen and seeing it’s from his own phone, the one he thought he’d lost.

“Damn right,” he mutters unintelligibly, sliding his index over the screen, all of a sudden woken up, both eyes wide, a strange shiver down his spine.

It takes a while before he finds his voice to speak. All he can hear on the other side is static, deep breathing, and shaky exhales.

“Hello?”

Notes:

I'd say Jeyne “Only Gives Blow Jobs to People She Loves” Westerling made a very smart move.

Chapter 6

Summary:

an interlude of sorts...

Notes:

I have no explanation for this... really... I just finished writing it and now it's ready to be published. In case there are errors or unfinished sentences or something else... please point it out. I might check it after I get some sleep.
All I know is that I will update everything (including my "Given, not taken" fic) in a month or so, after I do my "actual work".
Thanks for being patient!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The streets were usually dimly lit at 2 AM, Theon noticed, as he got up from the bed. The lamp-posts threw eerie shadows on the street, already wet with sticky summer rain.

Somehow... he feels more upset by the fact that he had to get up and go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, than by the urgent call.

Of course, it was... him. Just the thought made him fall slowly sick. Things have always gone against his own plans, or so Theon thought.

Just my luck!

The voice, he didn’t recognize at first. It was weak and subdued, too hesitant and it annoyed him to no end. He could think of nothing but those pale eyes measuring him and engulfing him whole. He couldn’t cope with thoughts of Ramsay Bolton in the middle of the night. His head felt as if hit with an anvil, the rest of his body - a mass of jelly. The voice was disconnected from the rest. He couldn't picture the rest of his face even though he tried very hard. Those eyes were still haunting him.

The conversation felt awkward and stagnant.

“I’ll give you my address. Just bring them back to me.”

“I already have your address.”

“Well… Ermm… How is that possible?”

“Your wallet. It has everything.”

What pulls at his nerves is the silence that melts in his eardrums. Ramsay's pauses leave room for dread to fill in the blank space created in Theon's imagination. For a brief moment, he wonders how should he feel knowing that a stranger had access to his life, to his contacts, to his personal information...

I know where you sleep. And that’s enough for me.

It doesn’t help that outside the weather gets worse. It starts raining and thundering. It's uncommon for a summer day. Inside his room, though Theon feels hot and suffocated. He opens the window, slowly and breathes in the heavy, electrified air. The dust has risen into the atmosphere, engulfing everything in its earthy scent. Boredom and decay.

He yawns, he stretches. He wants back in bed.

Who the hell would go out on a night like this?

He goes back to sleep. It takes him easily as if he waited for it all his life. He can’t remember the last time he witnessed thunder and lightning and was so nonplussed and unconcerned about it. Theon finds it’s surprisingly easy to find comfort in the noise.

It brings back a lot of memories that turn into dreams, lighter than feathers. He dreams of the times he played with his brothers, he remembers his mother’s smile and his father. His toys, neatly arranged in the cupboard. Tomato soup. Then mother taking all those pills… and father… losing all control and starting to throw with things at the boys, at him, especially. He cried. He dreamed a lot about that.

The wetness of the tears travelling down his cheek… he can remember that as well.

And… What was that shadow leaning over him? Theon couldn’t tell whether he was dreaming anymore.

The dent in his bed felt uncomfortable and the heavy silence left only his heartbeat to reverberate on the pillow. It was strange, just like those nights when he struggled with a dream inside a dream, its vividness plaguing his imagination, numbing his bones, altering his perception.

The touch is fleeting and Theon can’t figure at first whether it is a dream or just reality. Just like his mother used to thread her fingers through his hair, comforting him at night, this feels good, precious. Then… the madness took her away and Theon was left alone in a cold bed, darkness surrounding him like a mysterious veil.

A short puff of hot air on his cheek, the weightless kiss coming from unseen lips and Theon goes back to sleep. It feels so warm… everything feels so warm.

He slips into his dream, comatose and unaware. The colours swirl and twist, the voices merge and fade, far away. The strange feeling that someone else is in his room, watching and analyzing him doesn’t leave until his brain decides to cut off any cruel reminder of his reality.

As the morning light creeps in through the blinds, Theon sluggishly opens his eyelids that seem glued together after an incessant struggle for awareness. Unfortunately, he feels numbness all over, something he came to accept in the past days. His struggle with daily life seems to have decided on the winner. Theon knows it’s not him as stress eats further away at his frayed nerves. Last night is muddled up in his brain, a foggy answer to an indiscernible question.

One of his arms is trapped under the pillow. It feels heavy, like a stone. Slowly, his limbs come to life and Theon moves gingerly into a sitting position. Unconscious of self and unconcerned, he yawns and tried very hard to pull his head up without cracking his neck. The last time that happened, it was painful and disturbing and Theon couldn’t turn his head to the left for a couple of days, as if his bones became overnight unfitting pieces of an old puzzle.

He does so with grace and patience.

His heart should have stopped.

It could have happened, though… But Theon isn’t sure anymore. Right in front of him sits Ramsay, the butcher. His eyes are huge and pale and so attentive, reminding Theon of flashing cameras for a brief moment. He sits in a chair that shouldn’t be there, facing Theon, drinking in his image, avidly.

“Good morning,” he says, his voice breathy, weak, an impression belied only by the flash of white cat-like teeth. His lips are red and puffy, just like his icy eyes.

Theon doesn’t bother to ask what he’s doing in his room… hell! In his house. His hands scuttle for the first object that can save his life. It’s his digital clock, still plugged in, somewhere.

He tries to appear menacing and serious but his fingers are so weak that they can barely hold the object with accuracy. It slips away on the carpet and starts to beep.

The whole situation feels horrific to Theon who is now slowly dismissing two life-saving options: fight or flight.

Just as his eyes collide with Ramsay once more, Theon has no choice but to freeze and hope for some deus ex-machina to make this go away.

He waits and waits and waits, slowly shivering, his brain wired all wrong for this situation, unable to cope with the stress of it.

There’s a dejected look in Ramsay’s eyes as he gets up from his seat and slowly walks towards the bed, towards Theon.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you... I just wanted to wait for you.”

Ramsay looks profusely convinced by the truth of his own words as they roll from his lips, which doesn’t put Theon at ease at all.

 

 

 

Notes:

Yes... it is short but fortunately I felt like I had to move with this one faster.
nanjcsy, my thanks go to you for reminding me about this fic! This whole month has been a rollercoaster for me and I have no idea how I managed to squeeze out this chapter.
feedback from readers will be much appreciated!

Chapter 7

Summary:

Ramsay gets what he wants.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

To Ramsay, Theon Greyjoy looks scared and tired. He is thr moth Ramsay once caught ambling the single lamp in the tiny room Roose let him inhabit. A small and delicately wrought thing that when pinned would still flap its wings until it could flap no more but still won’t die. Theon doesn't know what he is yet but Ramsay decided to show him.

 There are dark circles under Theon’s eyes, his face looks sunk in, the skin sallow, not golden like it was when he first looked at it and discovered he was fascinated by its glow, by its perfection.

He’s still beautiful.

Ramsay smiles. His mouth smiles but his eyes stay dead, like pools of ice in wait of a suicidal diver. His pupils dilate and his nostrils flare slightly. His senses are heightened by the intense focus.

He approaches intently the bed and he can see very well how Theon is clutching at the injuries on his arm, the small, bloodied things spoiling the even image of his skin. He digs his fingers in. He fights pain with pain. It reminds Ramsay of cherry pie – when you dip the sharp knife in, the crust allows the redness of the fruit to seep through. Delicious.

That must still hurt, Ramsay thinks.

He knows that pain but it is more interesting to see it on another. It worms in under the skin and festers there, like black lava, only colder, fuming on the surface. It’s always the painful reminders that last. He fidgets and for a moment, after a brusque movement on Theon’s part, he halts, sheepishly setting his eyes on the old, scrubbed to perfection sneakers.

That’s good, he thinks. Just like a frightened animal brought to the slaughter.

Then Ramsay waits and waits and waits.

It’s really an act of patience because sure, he knows what he’s in for. He extends his arm, eyes still downcast, waiting for a fleeting touch.

There it is… after a while… That’s the first sign of life in him. He has nice fingers, really long, slender ones. Beautiful, he wants to whisper. Just beautiful.

It reminds Ramsey of his mother’s fingers spread on the lace of her dress. She too had beautiful, slender fingers. He cannot remember what happened to the most beautiful parts of her. Maybe Father kept them. He sure did.

Theon is like frightened prey, trembling slightly, mumbling vaguely. Speechless. Ramsay likes it, it’s far away from the usual cocky image that Theon Greyjoy adopts while with his false family. Once Ramsay gets a hold of that hand for good, he settles down on the bed. The bed creaks. It’s comfortable, it’s soft, unlike his small, ugly bed at home. Home – was not the word for it. It was more of a place where he went to sleep and where Father liked to thrust is cock into him. Beds remind Ramsay of fucking because that’s what Father always did.

He locks his fingers with Theon’s. They are soft. He wants to take them and kiss them, smell them, lick them… bite them, eventually. He imagines the small bones and the tiny cartilages dissolving in his mouth.

A smile crooks his straight mouth. Ramsay could drink from Theon’s wrist and he could be happy.

“What do you want from me?” Greyjoy asks and Ramsay bets his eyes shift from side to side, and that his eyelids twitch. He can feel the nervousness through his skin, like an outpouring. It’s cold, his skin, and tiny veins turn blue and violet and indigo. Like rivers on a map.

“Want? I don’t want anything from you,” he exhales after a while. “I want you.”

 …

What does chloroform smell like? Is there a scent to it? If his high school chem teacher would have asked it, Theon would have turned it into a funny joke about serial killers and rapists who kidnap their victims and torment them first.

Theon now knows it is sweet. He cannot otherwise explain what he’s doing tied up and mouth taped on what looks like a cement basement.

He turns and looks towards the creaky stairways that lead to the open door. The only light is the one that comes from a single 60-watt bulb that hangs like a coiled serpent in the middle of the room. He sees boxes with memorabilia and old furniture. There’s a massive table that seems to have been used recently. There’s a water bottle on it and a half-eaten sandwich. Theon flails in hope of undoing the rope that ties his hands at the back. He twists and turns but the rope connects his hands to his feet. He must look like a pretzel or a very angry caterpillar.

It’s very difficult to move when your skin catches on cement and it scratches and you bleed. For a split-second, light catches his eyes as he fixates on the small hairs on his femur. Goosebumps. Millions of tiny goosebumps.

He hears incoming steps and just holds his breath with difficulty from the tousled dust on the floor. A large shape now obstructs the light streaming at the end of the stairs. The shape descends, all massive blackness.

Despite his ever mounting fear, Theon doesn’t want to close his eyes although he knows he has tears just breaking out from his eyes. His mouth is so dry and there is not enough time. He knows that man. He knows him. Just moments ago he was in Theon’s bedroom, sitting right next to him in bed.

Ramsey Snow is descending the stairs like a panther. The light rests on the perfect planes of his pale, naked skin. He’s not looking at Theon, not yet. Theon’s breath hitches and he can hear his racing pulse in his eardrums. He is completely silent as if Ramsay just hypnotized him. With each step from him, Theon’s tears pour forth as if this is their last chance but Theon absolutely refuses to shut his eyes.

He looks as if he needs to commit everything to memory. He lingers on the chest and the rosy nipples and then instinctively downwards, on Ramsey’s penis, erect and heavy swinging from side to side. The tip of his cock lazily touches first the left side of the leg, then the right side of the leg. His pubis is the only hairy part on him and for some stupid reason, his eyes laser on it between the salty tears as if it all bears a large significance in the sequence of events.

When Ramsay finally descends, Theon’s neck is twisted so badly that he thinks it might snap. He knows Ramsay is looking at him but doesn’t have the nerve to look into those eyes. His eyes are still on Ramsay’s cock and it bothers him like that one time when he thought he knew the answer in chemistry class but he couldn't quite put it into words. Why would he have an erection seeing Theon like that? And only then it sinks into him the reality of being tightly bound with rope.

Ramsey crouches in one fluid movement next to him and Theon wishes he could identify the smell but his body is too busy shaking as his captor closes in on him.

"Close your eyes," he says and Theon wishes he could but instead panics. "Shhh..." There's a hand at the back of his head, turning him into a semi-comfortable anatomical position. "Just close your eyes and I'll undo the ropes."

A thought enters his mind and as fast as it came it is nipped in the bud. His eyes are tightly shut as if to keep the thought of escaping away from his captor.

"Don't try to run, now."

Theon cries now and he cannot hide it. 

Even if he wanted to, he couldn't properly move his arms and legs. They were numb and Ramsay arranges him in a fetal position of his liking.

More lax than obedient, Theon breathes through his nose and submits. He hears Ramsay pattering behind him, then crouching some more until he's like a second skin attached to Theon's back. He feels his nose buried at the back of his head, he feels the lips on the nape of his neck, the planes of his hard stomach devoid of any fat or pudginess sealing on the small of his back and the foreign hardness of his erection at the back of his balls. Ramsay's right leg secures him in place, like a boa constrictor. Theon opens his eyes and they set on the flight of stairs. 

Ramsay will never let go.

 

Notes:

This was the end... The second part of this chapter was added in 2020, the first part written in 2016...
As you can see, it is not a happy story. It's dark and depressing and has a serial-killer feel to it.
I just wanted to be done with it because I couldn't bear it myself.
Thank you for reading.