do not cry out or hit the alarm | theon & ramsay | september 29th
At first, Ramsay won’t even fucking look at him and the fury twists even tighter in Theon’s chest. As if Theon wasn’t even worthy of his attention, was not as important as poking a goddamn fire, after what he’s just done… Jesus, but Theon really is this fucking close to punching the piece of shit. He doesn’t give a fuck whose son he is, he wouldn’t – couldn’t – stand for this, it wasn’t –
Then he’s stepping forward with a glint in his eyes that leaves Theon suddenly all too aware that he’s wielding an iron-cast poker. His eyes flit towards the glowing tip, then back to Ramsay and there’s a glint in his eyes that Theon really doesn’t fucking like. He takes a step backwards, but it doesn’t halt the other man’s approach.
You liked it, Ramsay taunts, and Theon feels his cheeks burn hot with indignation. He tries to splutter out denials but there’s no fucking lying to himself – he had liked it, liked the attention that he was so currently deprived of in Winterfell. Liked having the man he’d thought was Reic so eager for his company. His taunts are making him feel extremely fucking nauseous all of a sudden and he’s pretty sure it’s because of how much they ring true. Robb Stark won’t even talk to me. How bloody pathetic he was.
He stumbles back from the poker when Ramsay lays it against his crotch, hands frantically trying to bat it away. His face feels like it’s fucking burning, and he’s no longer sure if it’s with rage or humiliation.
“I didn’t – stop – get the fuck away from me, you sick fucking freak.”
The back of his knees hit the arm of the chair he’d so recently occupied, and he shakes his head, turning away quickly.
“I’m leaving. Don’t you dare ever fucking contact me again, you bloody psycho.”
He can't stop the smile now. It's cutting his face wide open. It would be more sinister if he could wipe it back, but Ramsay sure as hell isn't doing this for an audience, so what's the use?
Theon stumbles back, practically feminine in his recoil, his shoulders hitched up, spine knotted wire, batting at the poker like a 50s housewife with a spider on the countertop. Ramsay flinches back, careful not to let the burning nib flick back against his leg. When looks back up, Greyjoy's turned away to hide his shame and gather up his belongings.
It's odd - the juxtaposition. The television still bubbles away in the background, eulogising Ned Stark on and on, ad infinitum. Something comes up against his mouth, some new taunt. He'll wind out the torture like a spinerette. Come on, Theon, he'll say. We're mates. It's a joke. You liked it. Who else do you have in this city? Only then the psycho comes in, like a snake's hiss and a bite all in one word and he feels that smile slide right off.
"What did you call me?"
His voice is soft, all the energy pushed down into his wrists, his hands. He grabs Greyjoy by the arm, just above the elbow, and swings the poker out and round like a rope. It stops in his palm, pointing out like a rapier over his shoulder line and towards Theon's face. Ramsay can feel the heat off it now - a real, mad heat, glowing bright red - not that aura of fear and embarrassment that Greyjoy puts out, or that he imagines he does.
There's a quiet moment. The newsreader is saying The great man will be sorely missed.
"Say that again," Ramsay says, quietly. "What did you call me?"









