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Theon has a habit of getting himself into shit. He can’t help it most of the time - it’s not that he goes out looking for trouble, more like trouble just seems to find him. It was the bane of Balon’s life - and Yara’s, back when he still lived with them - and then when he moved it bugged Ned and Catelyn Stark just as much. That’s a good thing, he always thought. It shows they care. This, though, is quite clearly not going to have the same pay off. His head is throbbing, his stomach is turning and in between all that he’s pretty sure his phone screen has smashed. That’s not necessarily what he should be focusing on right now, granted, but he’s terrified and thinking about how inconvenient it is that his phone is smashed convinces him that he’s going to get back to a world where things like that matter. Dumpster diving isn’t exactly Theon’s preferred activity of choice, and he’s definitely not proud of it, but he doesn’t live with his father and he doesn’t really live with the Starks, and a boy’s gotta eat. Restaurants throw out perfectly good food for the slightest imperfections and whoever arrives at the scene first is the lucky bastard that gets to benefit from it. Even the south side diners throw away some decent scraps that could keep Theon going for a day or two, at least until he can beg another meal out of Robb. That’s where Theon had been this morning, when everything had gone down. The real bitch of it all is that Theon had sat outside that same diner and waited for the same angry cook to throw away the same old scraps he does every day hundreds of times before. As misguided as it may have been, Theon had come to see it as his alley. A little section of dirty, grimy land that was out of bounds to anyone else, somewhere he could go to get away from everyone (and get a half decent meal too). This time, when he got there, he hadn’t been alone. There were four men standing at the end of the alley: three on one side who seemed to be standing in a semi circle, and one man hovering uncomfortably in front of them all. Theon knew before he even saw them pull the bags out of their pockets that this was a deal, and not just plain old weed by the look of it. As inexperienced in those matters as he was, Theon recognised the hard shit when he saw it. There had been some inaudible grunted words from both parties - and a clear voice ringing out above the others saying, “Two days. That’s all you have to wait, we’ll be here.” - before the nervous guy shoved some money into their hands and fled. Theon had cursed and shuffled further back so that he was pressed against the cold wall, crouched down and hidden behind the rubbish bin he had been planning on raiding. His sudden movement must have attracted some unwanted attention because, through his baited breath, he heard a sharp inhalation from one of the men. “Did you see that?” He had asked the others, and the resounding noise of his footsteps getting closer terrified Theon into action. He lurched forward, breath coming in hard pants, and had run like crazy for the main road. If he could just get there, he had thought, if he could just get into a busier street then these guys couldn’t hurt him. They wouldn’t hurt him in public, right? Theon never made it to the main street. Someone’s arm encircled his waist and jerked him backwards, their superior strength obvious when they were able to lift him completely off the ground. His feet scrambled for purchase against the man’s legs but he was totally and utterly trapped. The last thing he remembered is a hissed, “fuck,” and a man marching towards him with the handle of his gun ready to knock against Theon’s head. After that, total blackness. And now, this. Theon has no clue where he is, and even less idea how to get himself out of the situation. He’s in a smallish room with black walls and a plush black carpet. There’s one door behind him which he came through - or more accurately was thrown through with a bag over his head that was subsequently ripped off, along with a few of his hairs - and one just behind the large mahogany desk occupying most of the room. Other than that the only piece of furniture in the room is a long, comfy looking sofa pushed up against the wall behind him. Theon is too frightened to take a seat, choosing instead to remain on his knees in the middle of the floor. It’s not like the carpet is too harsh on his knees anyway. Theon isn’t sure how long he spends alone in there, but his mouth is dry and his wrists are beginning to chafe from the bindings around them by the time the door behind the desk swings open. Theon almost doesn’t dare look up, but curiosity gets the better of him and he lifts his eyes to meet whoever just entered. It’s a man, taller than Theon and broader in the shoulders with dark hair and darker eyes. He’s wearing a soft looking black jacket down to his knees and a button up shirt, nothing like the rough men that jumped Theon back in the alley. This man though, whilst he looks smaller and smarter than those men, is clearly in a higher position. He looks equally dangerous, if not more so. Theon is breathless. He closes the door behind him with a soft click: a calculated, precise gesture. Theon can tell already that the man is used to being in control. He’s suddenly acutely aware of how powerless he is, how trapped he is. He wishes with a sudden burning regret that he hadn’t dropped out of school; that way at least people would look for him when he didn’t show up for classes. No one will look for him for weeks as it is. Robb will assume he’s with Yara and Yara will assume he’s with Robb. Balon won’t give a shit. “Hello,” the man greets him, voice strangely soft. He takes long strides towards Theon until he’s standing a foot away from him, head tilted curiously like Theon is a stray dog he’s analysing. Theon doesn’t move, just cranes his neck and looks through his messy fringe up at the man, hoping he doesn’t look too weak and pathetic. “My name is Ramsay,” the man continues. “What’s yours?” Although it seems like a trick question, Theon doesn’t want to piss this Ramsay guy off. He looks like a loose canon, like he might go psycho and beat Theon to death if he rubs him the wrong way. “Theon,” he stutters. Ramsay seems pleased: his smile widens and his eyes light up in a way that Theon can only describe as creepy. “Well, Theon,” Ramsay doesn’t sit down and doesn’t invite Theon to stand up. “You’ve put me in a bit of an awkward situation I’m afraid.” Ramsay waits for a moment like he’s half expecting Theon to apologise. Theon starts to wonder if he should actually apologise, or maybe start begging for his life and explain that it was a total coincidence that he saw anything in the first place, when Ramsay sighs as though disappointed. As he though he’s disappointed in Theon. Theon has experienced that too often with Balon, and it stings. He finds himself feeling guilty for disappointing the man who kidnapped him. “My boys have informed me that you heard what they were discussing—” “I didn’t!” Theon cries out, desperately seizing what he thinks might be his only opportunity. “I didn’t hear anything, I swear—” He’s cut off by a resounding slap and a sudden stinging pain in his cheek. By the time he gathers his senses enough to realise that Ramsay slapped him, the man is already standing back in his previous position looking like he never even moved. Theon inhales shakily. “Don’t interrupt me again.” Ramsay warns. “I don’t like being interrupted. Do you understand?” Theon blinks up at him stupidly. The slap stings so much that Theon wonders if there’s a red hand print on his cheek, if that’s why Ramsay keeps looking at his face and swallowing. A flash of irritation crosses the man’s face and Theon flinches instinctively. “When I ask you a question, I expect an answer. Okay?” Theon nods violently, and tags on a, “yes, sir,” for good measure. Manners, as Ned Stark always taught him, never hurt. “Good boy!” Ramsay exclaims, seeming inordinately pleased at Theon’s acquiescence. His eyes trail up and down Theon’s figure, slumped over on his knees, and flick back to his face quickly. This guy is clearly a psychopath, Theon figures, and the scary thing is Theon has no idea what he’s thinking. Unexpectedly, Ramsay drops into a crouch so that his eyes are level with Theon’s face. Their slight height difference is the only thing that separates them and suddenly Ramsay’s face is right there, inches away from Theon’s own. Ramsay’s eyes are so pale, Theon sees, but his pupils are so dilated that there’s hardly any colour visible. From a distance the iris looks almost pure black. “Don’t wanna have to hurt you,” Ramsay murmurs, reaching an arm out towards Theon. Theon flinches back instinctively, but Ramsay ignores his obvious discomfort and brushes a clump of hair out of his face. His fingertips brush against Theon’s forehead and goosebumps rise up on his skin. “But!” Ramsay stands so suddenly that Theon’s heart stutters in his chest. “We still have a problem, don’t we? I can’t let you go! I have a very important deal riding on the next few days and you somehow overheard the details to my cleverly thought out plan. I’d be really annoyed if I had to rethink up a new clever plan after all the effort I went through. You understand?” “Yes, sir.” Theon replies weakly, because he doesn’t want another slap. Ramsay isn’t baby talking him exactly, but the way he’s talking reminds Theon of how Robb used to talk to Bran and Arya when they were young: unintentionally patronising and dumbing down his words. With Ramsay, though, it doesn’t seem like anything he does would be unintentional. In response to Theon’s manners, Ramsay smiles and runs a finger across Theon’s jawline almost thoughtlessly. It’s only a soft caress but it sends a shiver down Theon’s spine, and he can’t tell whether it’s arousal or fear. Maybe some hybrid mix of both. “So why don’t you start out by telling me who you work for?” Ramsay asks, the carefully blank expression back on his face. Theon blinks in confusion. “I’m not— I don’t have a job.” It’s one of the things Balon had always been yelling at him for. Why couldn’t he just get a job? If he’s going to drop out of school he’ll have to make himself useful somehow, why not join the marines like his brothers? Somehow it doesn’t even surprise Theon that this is the first thing he thinks to reply. There’s a split second of silence where Theon has no idea how Ramsay is going to react, before the man lets out a short, sharp laugh. Theon’s breath of relief becomes more like a breathless laugh of his own. “How old are you, Theon?” Ramsay asks “Sixteen,” Theon tells him truthfully. He doesn’t try to ask himself why lying didn’t even cross his mind. Ramsay doesn’t seem surprised by the news. He does, however, nod thoughtfully before retrieving a knife from his coat pocket. Theon inhales sharply and his eyes are frozen on the weapon in Ramsay’s hand. It’s beautiful, really. The design on the handle is intricate and captivating. The blade itself can’t be more than four inches long but, Theon reasons, it doesn’t need to be long to slit his throat. Ramsay senses his distress and smiles. Ramsay leans forwards and Theon leans backwards unconsciously, a defence mechanism of living with Balon for so long to just get as far away from sharp things with pointy ends. However, Ramsay just places a hand on Theon’s shoulder, leans over his body and slices through the bindings around his wrists. For all of three seconds Theon’s face is pressed into Ramsay’s stomach: it smells musky and manly and intoxicating. “Sixteen.” Ramsay shakes his head. “Well I can’t kill you now, can I!” Theon, not sure if that’s the sort of question he’s supposed to answer or not, just shakes his head to encourage that line of thought. Ramsay sighs and taps the flat of the blade against his own palm, the only sound in the room. When he next smiles down at Theon he looks like a shark, and Theon can’t believe he was stupid enough to swim into his trap. “I guess I’ll just have to keep you instead.” He says. *** Ramsay was so angry when his boys had called him and told him there was a problem. They’d had one fucking job— all they’d had to do was make the drop, get the money and tell the guy where to be in two days time. Why was that so difficult? Why was Ramsay the only competent one around here? He had grabbed his knife and slid it into his pocket in preparation, not sure what he would be reprimanding them for but ready for pretty much anything. He had been expecting lost product, missing collector, whatever. He hadn’t been expecting an adorably naive teenager on his knees in the middle of Ramsay’s office. He had spoken to his boys before he’d entered his office and they’d given him a brief rundown of what had happened. Someone had overheard, they’d tried to run and had gotten caught. They were waiting in Ramsay’s office, was all Ramsay had been told. Fucking useless. Theon was undeniably pretty, but Ramsay really did need to keep him quiet until the deal was complete. He couldn’t have the feds messing up a deal this vital over one cute twink just because Ramsay couldn’t keep his dick in his pants. So Ramsay makes him a deal. “Only for a couple of days.” He tells Theon, helping the boy to his feet. He’s shaky on his legs, presumably due to being on his knees for so long— and isn’t that a turn on? He’s wearing an overly baggy hoodie with nothing underneath and overly tight black jeans. His hair is messy but it doesn’t quite cover up the bruise and dried blood from Alyn’s gun. Ramsay can’t decide whether Theon looks prettier with the injury or not. “As soon as this deal is over you can go back to your regular life in your regular home. But I can’t have you telling all my secrets to the police, can I?” Ramsay slips Theon’s arm over his shoulders so he can help the boy across the room and behind his desk. There’s a spare bedroom down the hall from Ramsay’s own, but Ramsay doesn’t think he can bear to let this one get away. He heads towards his own bedroom. Theon isn’t saying much and Ramsay wonders if he should slap the kid around some more, make him want to do anything Ramsay says. In the end he decides not to because they’ve got forty eight hours together and he doesn’t want to get all the excitement out of the way at once. “Make yourself comfortable.” Ramsay tells Theon, letting him stumble towards the bed and sit on the edge with a wince of relief. It doesn’t take Theon long to realise that this isn’t exactly a spare bedroom. He looks around, taking in the carefully ordered books and the jacket flung over the back of a chair, the rumpled bed covers and the TV remote on the bedside table. When he looks back at Ramsay his jaw is clenched and his hands are fists, but he doesn’t try to fight. He’s so scrawny that even if he did charge at Ramsay he probably wouldn’t knock him back a centimetre. “Take a shower if you want,” Ramsay gestures to the bathroom. “TV remote’s there. You’ll eat with me in the dining hall later on tonight.” Ramsay wanders over to Theon casually and cups his neck with his hand, causally like it’s just a fun experiment. It is, in a way. Theon feels still and scared under him and it gets Ramsay hard in his slacks. Slowly, Ramsay slides his hand round to the front of Theon’s neck and squeezes; he’s only applying a light amount of pressure but it’s clearly enough to be noticeable to Theon. “One more thing,” Ramsay dips his head so that he’s close to Theon’s face, so close that he can feel the boy’s unsteady breath fanning across his lips. “I sleep on the left.” Theon reels back, scrambling to get away from him and makes a run for the door. He’s fast which surprises Ramsay somewhat, but he’s clearly not that smart. Even if he gets through Ramsay’s bedroom door he’ll still have to get through two doors to get in and out of Ramsay’s office, then have to navigate his way through the unfamiliar house to find his way out. The consequences of being caught, Ramsay would have thought, outweigh the slim possibility of getting out. Ramsay catches Theon easily around the waist, going with the kid’s momentum and spinning around, then rushing them both forward so that Theon is shoved face first into the wall with Ramsay plastered to his back. Theon pants wetly and tries to push himself away from the wall, but Ramsay is clearly far stronger than him. They’re so close together that he can feel Theon’s body heat radiating off him, can practically smell the fear rolling of the kid in waves. Ramsay pushes his cock against Theon’s ass through their layers of clothing and allows one hand to curl around Theon’s hip in a bruising grip. The other grips the back of the boy’s neck tightly, dominating. “Listen to me, Theon.” Ramsay hisses before running the tip of his tongue over the shell of Theon’s ear tantalisingly. The boy shudders and shakes, pressed tight against him. “I’m going to let you off easy this one time because you’re scared. I understand that.” He punctuates his words by rolling his hips in tight circles, forcing little, ‘ah ah ah’s’ from Theon each time. “But if you ever do that again, I don’t think you want to know what I’ll do to you. Do you understand?” Theon nods wildly, hair tickling Ramsay’s nose. Ramsay brushes it out of the way impatiently and bites down on the fleshy part of Theon’s neck, where shoulder meets neck, and sucking a nasty looking bruise into the flesh. Theon cries out, though from pleasure or pain Ramsay can’t tell. His whole body jerks, and when Ramsay steps away from him he slumps, sliding down the wall. Ramsay takes a few deep breaths and tries to control the urge to slam Theon back up against the wall, claim his mouth hot and wet and filthy and take the boy until he’s sobbing and coming on Ramsay’s cock. “Yeah,” Ramsay smiles gently down at Theon like the past five minutes never happened. “I think I’m going to keep you.” He leaves without another word, and he locks the door from the outside