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[personal profile] veni

Title: Show Me Your Teeth
Pairing: Ramsay/Theon
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Not mine
Word Count: 1,111
Summary: “I do love biting, don’t you? It’s like kissing, but with a winner.”
Warnings: Noncon, bloodplay.

 

 

Theon woke to the blast of a trumpet. He blinked, bleary-eyed and sagging against the wooden post. I’ll go mad, he thought. I will die a madman.

“Sleep well?”

Speak of the devil.

Theon did not answer. It did no good to acknowledge this man—everything Theon said was wrong, and wrong answers brought out the knife. He flexed his hand at the thought. One finger gone, and gods, it was sick how it relieved him to be rid of the appendage. No more stinging like a thousand wasps beneath his skin, just a steady, throbbing ache.

“You should look when I speak to you, little lordling.” Theon raised his head at the crooning voice. Beneath a shock of dark hair the man’s eyes, a frozen blue, danced madly. The smile on his face was nothing short of deranged. He is a lunatic.

The man stood abruptly. Theon flinched.

“I don’t mean to frighten you,” he said in a breathy murmur. He approached Theon with the caution one affords to a broken bird, something delicate and easily startled. He’s playing with you, Theon’s mind supplied. He’ll take another finger if you’re not careful. He felt his heart beat faster. This was a game, surely, but this was new, and new was dangerous, and gods gods gods what was the point of all this, what did he want

A hand curled in Theon’s hair and wrenched him back amongst the living. His head jerked minutely and the man laughed again. The high trilling laugh was hot against his face.

“I don’t mean to frighten you,” the man repeated. “I’m just having a bit of fun. It’s all a game, really. You have to play your games before winter comes, while there’s still fun to be had.” He looked Theon squarely in the eyes, expression suddenly severe. “Winter is coming, Theon.”

The man seemed to find his remark especially clever; he broke out in a fit of laughter once again. The hand in Theon’s hair tightened. Those aren’t your words; you don’t get to say them.

Theon said nothing.

“So you and I will play a game, my lord.” He gave Theon a toothy grin that quickened his captive’s breath. Their last game had not ended well. His hand ached in remembrance. “Would you like to know the rules?”

“Yes,” he answered quietly. Something flickered in the man’s eyes as Theon spoke, but whatever it was extinguished itself. Careful, Theon.

“I was afraid you’d gone mute. Not that it matters, really. This isn’t a game of guessing. I played this game as a youth, with a man named Reek. It’s a simple game—even you can understand it. It’s called Teeth, and if you win, you can take something from me.” His eyes flicked to Theon’s dry, cracked lips. “I would suggest asking for water. And if I win, I can take something from you.”

“I don’t understand,” Theon rasped. “How do you play the game?”

“Would you like me to show you? Ask me to show you.”

The air in the dungeon crackled, electrified. Theon was struck by the awareness that the man was asking something of him that perhaps it would be best not to give. Theon stood on the threshold of something unknown and ominous and, by the looks of it, unavoidable. Though his common sense, muffled by lack of sleep and constant blazing pain, screamed at him to avoid, to run, to deflect, Theon looked into the frozen eyes of this man. And he asked.

“Show me,” Theon said. The man’s mouth curled upward in an impish smile. The hand in Theon’s hair twisted, bringing his head forward, while another hand snaked up behind his neck. It took a beat of his heart for Theon to realize what kind of game he had agreed to play.

His mouth was enveloped like a plague. He could feel the sharp sting of incisors piercing the fat of his lip hard enough to draw blood. Theon would not call it a kiss—it was an attack, really, and it left his teeth chattering. When the man leaned back his face was split into a feral grin. His lips shone red in the dim light of the dungeon. That is my blood, Theon thought with rising hysteria.

“I do love biting, don’t you? It’s like kissing, but with a winner.”

Breath ghosted hot across Theon’s face. Absurdly, he thought of Robb, of juvenile fumbling beneath warm furs. Those were games, he thought. This is something else entirely.

He could not win at this mummer’s farce of a game, but he could try. Perhaps appeasing this deranged man would lessen his punishment. I must try.

“My turn, then,” Theon muttered. His voice was rough, battle-edged. This was a battle, of sorts, and for once Theon’s reckless perseverance would serve him well. Straining against his bonds, he pushed forward, capturing the man’s neck between his teeth.

Theon’s eagerness seemed to be unexpected; the man let out a small “oh” and pressed forward, thrusting himself against Theon’s bare chest, leaning into the bite. Theon’s teeth dragged against his flesh, scraping against the thrumming pulse of his throat. Theon mouthed at him like a beast half-starved. The response was enthusiastic; Theon could feel something hot and hard pressed against his stomach, but he did not feel disgust. He could taste victory.

Blood welled against his tongue. He sucked at the flesh. The man was panting against his ear, rutting against him. This was sick, truly, but Theon thought of maimed hands and missing limbs and he pressed forward. If I can stay alive, he thought, this will be worth it. If only I can stay alive.

He lapped at the beads welling on the ashen skin of the man’s neck, reveling in the coppery, metallic taste. The wet sounds of Theon’s mouth mingled with the choked gasps of his torturer in the dead silence of the room. Soon, with a definite hitch in his breath, the man stilled. Theon released his throat. His skin, so white moments before, was marred with an angry red moon. He regarded Theon through lidded eyes; he wore a satiated expression, like a dog well-fed.

“You win,” he croaked. He rubbed at the wet stain on his trousers absently. “What would you ask of me?”

Theon responded without thought. “I want your name,” he demanded.

“I’d have thought that was obvious,” he answered, “considering the flaying. Surely you know the sigil of my house?” He smiled, then, and whatever pride Theon felt at having bested this man vanished. “My name is Ramsay Bolton, and I’ll expect you’ll know your name soon enough.”

 

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