Work Text:
Theon served the two Bolton men as quietly as he could. The meal had become terse, filled with Roose's quiet insinuations and derisive comments and Ramsay's countering outbursts and brags. The tension between them had mounted slowly as the night wore on. Ramsay was drunk, as he tended to be when arguing with his father. His face was blotchy and flushed from drink, matching the reds and pinks he had elected to wear. His father was his opposite in everything. He was dressed darkly except for the cloak that hung from his shoulder, the color of sickly flesh. Lord Roose's thin face had drawn back into tight angry lines, his eyes like the quiet rumbles of the ocean, pale and powerful.
It was times like this he wished he was invisible. That he could just curl up somewhere far away from everything the Bolton's had done to him, from everything they would do to him. Ramsay was the worst after the fights with his father, often beating Theon till he bled with hardly a reason. Theon held back from chewing his fingers as best he could, both father and son despised the habit and chided him for it. Ramsay would take it as an excuse to punish Theon for embarrassing him in front of his father. He might even take another finger. There would be pain tonight either way. If he was lucky he could beg Lord Ramsay to let him pleasure him with his mouth. The humiliation was endless and he hated everything about it, the taste, the way Ramsay smiled and praised him, but at least it did not hurt.
And then it all broke apart. Ramsay spoke and the small amount of hope for something else, something other than blood and the tearing of flesh shattered.
"When I am Lord of the Dreadfort I will do no such thing, father."
Roose's face didn't change. He was perfectly still, his grey eyes giving no hint of the anger that Theon knew lurked beneath the surface. He was calm, the kind of calm that comes before a great violence. Ramsay looked self-satisfied at first, perhaps mistaking his father's passivity for submission.
No. Why did he say that? He knows better. But it was not his place to question now, it was place to serve, so Theon continued to shuffle silently about the corner of the room, hoping he would go unnoticed.
"But you are not," reminded Roose, meeting Ramsay with a dangerous idleness. "Greyjoy. Come here."
Theon kept his eyes and head down, and tried not to shake. Lord Roose did not abide stuttering and had reminded him of that many times. He had been mercifully gentle thus far, but Theon knew all to well how quickly things changed here. As he approached, he could feel the latent hatred around Lord Bolton growing stronger until Theon found himself staring down into Lord Bolton's lap. It was easier to focus on the small things, the smooth curves of Roose's knuckles and the precise way his hands rested, gaunt and eerie. It was easier to obey, easier than seeing how Ramsay looked at him now, already viciously angered by Roose even speaking to that which was his.
Theon didn't speak since he had not been bid to. Roose's attention was on him, painful and cutting. Roose looked at him he way he did most things, appraising him for some need or use then losing interest. He took Theon by the jaw and tilted his chin up then to the side, the collar feeling tight against his throat. Ramsay had left dark ruddy bruises along his neck, Roose learning all he could want to know of Ramsay's latest games with him in a few quick glances. His breath came hard from the strain and fear of it all, while Roose's icy fingers made his skin feel on edge. His grip was not rough, but it was enough to force the motion if Theon thought to refuse it. He hadn't.
Roose turned back to Ramsay for a moment, his bony hand slowly moving to the back of Theon's head. It was kindly, the tips of his fingers making slow circles, more like the way one would comfort a child. The tenderness of it frightened him. It was bound to stir Ramsay's rages, bound to get him raped or flayed or perhaps some new torment Ramsay would invent for the occasion. But denying Roose was not an option. He was Lord Ramsay's creature and he tried to be good, tried to serve, but he could not refuse this.
Please. Just stop. Please don't make me do anything.
"I would prefer him with a bit more meat, but I can see the appeal of your decisions, base as they may be," Roose noted. Ramsay's teeth ground audibly and Theon's eyes winced shut. In the dark, Roose's finger's could be someone else, be from another life when he had been different. It was almost kind like this. Even if Roose were to take him like this, if it was gentle he could still pretend.
"Of course you'd prefer him like that whorish pig you keep," snarled Ramsay, his voice shaking.
The thought of Ramsay's eyes plagued Theon's mind, the image of them had even seeped into his dreams. They were just as awful as his father's but frenzied and wanting where there was only apathy. Roose's touch remained delicate, despite Ramsay's jab, and Theon could only be grateful. Something cold and soft trailed over his lips in addition to the hand at the back of his head, and there was the grazing of nails and Roose's calloused thumb drew over his cheek, prodding lightly at the gaps between his teeth. Theon kept his eyes closed. It was not pain.
"And I'm sure having taken his teeth is convenient," Roose continued. He was stoic still, commanding despite the hushed tones of his voice. "Under the table, Theon. Between my legs."
"No," snapped Ramsay. "He's mine."
Theon opened his eyes as unbearable as it was. He'd need to see to do what Roose had asked of him, and there was no denying the true horror of everything now. Even if Ramsay took him away, he'd be told how he had invited Roose's advances, what a whore he'd been egging Ramsay's father on. Ramsay's face had contorted in jealousy and entitlement, his thick lips twisted and eyes accusatory.
Theon crawled between Roose's leg's. The stone was hard beneath him and made his knees ache as he sat there, unsure of where to look. Again he settled for down. He shivered as Roose's thin fingers crept back into his hair, petting and gently working the contours of his scalp. He clenched his jaw reflexively as Roose eased Theon's cheek into resting on his thigh. The rough-spun fabric was itchy against his face and he could feel whatever pulse remained in Roose's veins after his frequent leechings. He went back to the dark again, shutting his eyes.
He wished it was all over already that they would just each have their games with him and then he could lie next to the dogs, aching as he fell asleep. It was not so bad when he was with them, even though seeing Kyra still made him cry when he remembered.
"Start with your hands," Roose ordered. Theon did not have to ask what. He knew where his hands were supposed to be, what he was expected to do now. He placed his left hand on Roose's calf first, not quite able to face the thought of what lie between his lordship's legs.
Ramsay pulled his chair back suddenly, a large scraping noise accompanying the act.
"Don't do this, father. You'll regret it," threatened Ramsay, sounding more desperate than intimidating. Ramsay paced slightly and Theon wondered what his face was like, though the thought terrified him. Ramsay was a man of strange and mercurial temperaments.
"Don't make me have to."
Roose carded through his hair again, and Ramsay's silence spoke the volumes he did not. Neither of them spoke for several seconds, the void of it agonizing and overwhelming. In the end the struggle was inconsequential for him Theon. He would already suffer.
"You are my father and the Lord of the Dreadfort," Ramsay spat. Theon could see his fist shaking. "I would ask to have my servant returned to me. Please."
Roose released his hold.
"Go back to my bastard's service. Give him whatever he asks of you."
As if Theon wouldn't.
When he rose from beneath the table their matching eyes were still locked. Ramsay was all passion and raw nerves, where as his father's face held nothing, not even the hint of a smile that sometimes appeared.
"Come now, Reek," growled Ramsay, turning from his father. Theon followed him with growing apprehension. Ramsay's foul mood hung about him, a few of the servants stepping away as they passed. Mainly the girls.
Ramsay shut the door behind them and in an instant his thick arms wrapped around Theon, his chest flushed against Theon's backside. Theon felt paralyzed and braced himself for whatever pain would be coming soon.
"My father thinks he can just pluck you away from me," whispered Ramsay. His voice was low and velvety in Theon's ears, his lips curling against Theon's ear lobe.
"I'm yours, mi'lord," Theon whimpered. The words tumble out of his mouth in an unfamiliar chain like they were someone else's, someone who was scared. Theon wasn't anything. "I didn't mean to, please...."
Ramsay's hands fluttered across Theon's chest, soft motions landing across his ribs. A contented hum fell from his lips as he nibbled, not bit or sucked as he usually did, Theon's ear.
"But you're too filthy for him anyway, aren't you, Reek?"
Ramsay uncurled himself and pulled the tattered rag's from Theon's body, circling him slowly. His touches lingered as he stripped him, sampling the sensitive spots of Theon's body. His index finger trailed down Theon's sides and paused around his hips. His thumb and pointer finger gently worked Theon's nipples till they stiffened. Theon held his breath waiting for Ramsay's to yank or twist something, but it never came.
It is another jape. In time he'll....
When fully bare, Ramsay cupped Theon's mound, teasing the still sensitive scar where his member had been.
"No one else would ever want to touch you like this," Ramsay continued looking down at Theon. There was the slightest curl of a smile on his face and his eyes were so horrid they made Theon shake. There was pride in them, but also something that on another man he would have called sadness. The feeling that rose between his legs made him twitch and writhe as Ramsay stroked. It wasn't painful, but it was uncomfortable and nagging to the point he felt tears well up in his eyes.
"Hush now, sweetling," Ramsay cooed. He chastely kissed the top of Theon's head, his smile widening. "I know you couldn't bare what he did to you. Let me make you feel better."
Ramsay undressed himself quickly, brushing his clothes aside when he was finished. He took Theon by his mangled fingers and led him to the bedside.
"Sit down."
Theon sat at the edge of the bed. Ramsay wouldn't have it if he shut his eyes again, so he started off into the thick muscle of his stomach, too terrified to speak. Ramsay had grown hard over the course of his affections, and ran has hand lazily up and down his own erection. Theon tried to relax his body. It wouldn't hurt as much when Ramsay entered him this way, but it was little use.
Ramsay knelt down, his hand still between his legs, resting his head on Theon's thigh then kissing his way up. Ramsay suckled where Theon's groin met his thigh, then languidly lapping his way to Theon's scar again. Theon let out a pained moan as another twitch ran up his thighs and settled as a vague hurt in the pit of his stomach, as he continued to sob quietly.
Ramsay quickened the pace of both his tongue and his hand, groaning into Theon's flesh. Theon tried to go into his own mind, tried to just shut it out so he cold come back when Ramsay was finished, it was all too overwhelming and too much to bear. So he let it overpower him. The feel of Ramsay's tongue and and nails, the wet noises of Ramsay's pleasure, the cold air of the Dreadfort. It all went dark. First the room, then their silhouettes, then Theon was nothing except for a shape surrounded by two sets of grey eyes. Even in time the grey eyes were gone, leaving Theon to the blackness he so wished for.
He was aware of the sound of Ramsay's climax and the sensation of a body next to him, but it didn't truly register as anything. He fell asleep with Ramsay holding him close, whispering praise into his ear. He fell asleep and thankfully dreamed of nothing at all.