Work Text:
Ramsay fucks like an animal. Pushes in deep and pulls out way too fast. Claws at his thin hips with fingerlike hooks and bites at his throat like he’s trying to tear out his larynx with his teeth. He bends and fills Theon up to a point that always borders on painful (because everything has to be tinged with an ache when it comes to Ramsay). Grunts and seethes into Theon’s collarbones whenever he starts picking up a rhythm that really sparks a burn in him. He fucks like he’s trying to hunt something only found in the heated grip of Theon’s body.
The viciousness leaves Theon gasping and grappling, pulling on Ramsay's shoulders and hair, desperate to hold on as he deals with the onslaught to his guts. Ramsay slams home over and over, relentlessly, beastly. Hitting that spot inside him just right and forcing miserable whimpers out of Theon’s lips. Ramsay huffs a breathless laugh in response, pulling on Theon’s hair to wrench his neck to the side.
“You’ve got veins like rivers. Did you know that, Theon?” And then he’s unlocking his jaw and sinking his fangs deep into the tender skin.
Theon does know. He knows because Ramsay had whispered “you bleed like a faucet” into his thighs the first time he had slashed him with his switchblade. It had started out as “an accident, really,” then a “I wanted to try something new–an experiment. You’re not a pansy little girl; you can handle a bit of pain, can’t you?” It was a thin slit, a decent scratch at best. It didn’t really hurt much. But it had bled for ages; a deep red sludge that dripped onto the sheets and pooled around them messily. Ramsay had rutted into him that night, hard. Fucked him even harder; the whole while pressing his hand into Theon’s thigh to make it rush faster down his legs. He licked the length of the cut like it was some woman’s cunt as he grinded against the soft meat of Theon’s thighs. Moaned like an obscene whore at the taste. Theon’ll never admit to this out loud, but he had cum so hard at the sound his vision blacked out.
“You’ve soiled my bed.” Ramsay said, afterwards, with an impish quirk of his lips, but his eyes were dark and hungry. Theon had flushed bright red, felt it spread across his neck and chest like a burn, and, then and there, resolved never to deal with this again with a sharp, “It’s your fault! You sadist fuck!”
‘So much for that.’ Theon thinks as he feels Ramsay cumming inside as he drains him. And, really, Theon can’t help himself, he groans at the feeling. Hurt follows Ramsay like a shadow, but when he indulges in Theon this way, for once, it’s just overwhelming, toe-curling bliss. A break from an otherwise stinging existence.
Ramsay suckles at his neck. Theon can already feel the bruise forming underneath his wet, harsh mouth. Theon likes this part, though–Ramsay holding him gently, sucking softly, groaning lowly into the curve of his throat; both of their bodies spent and sated.
He can feel the blood flooding out of him, loosening his control over his toes, his fingers, his arms. And, if he shuts his eyes, the pounding of his veins and the roaring in his ears sound just like the waves of Ironman’s Bay against Pyke’s shores. He can almost feel the water lapping at his body again. Lost at sea. Weightless. Buoyant.
Then, Ramsay is detaching from the heat of his throat with a quick lick up and down the puncture wounds, snatching him back to land and living. He grinds his hips once more against the tender fat of Theon’s ass before pulling out and sitting back on his haunches. His face, a mess, caked with smeared red and spit. Glacial blue eyes overtaken by pools of black. He grins, fangs protruding out from the shield of his lips. Theon feels stupid for not having guessed what Ramsay was earlier. He feels even worse for the fluttering he feels in his chest at the sight. Anxiety, maybe. Fear, hopefully. Maybe, something else.
“I could snap your neck right now, Theon.” Ramsay says, soft as a whisper, as he snakes a broad hand up Theon’s heaving chest and rests it at the base of his throat. “As easy as breaking a little bird.” Theon knows he can; has seen the inhuman strength wrapped up in the corded muscle of his arms, has watched him pull apart and peel back people as if he was tearing fresh bread. But, Theon also knows he won’t. Ramsay doesn’t say it, won’t say it, will probably never say it, but as he slots himself into Theon’s side and pulls his back flush against his front, slipping an arm under his head and hiding his face into the mess of Theon’s hair, Theon considers that’s as a close of a confirmation as he will get.