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Damon Dance-for-me had always felt that, even if he didn’t fully understand Ramsay Bolton, he at least had a fairly good read on the man. As good of a read as anybody could, really. A familiarity bought with their time spent together and their mutual … interests.
They had been ten-and-five when Ramsay first shoved Damon against a tree and slid a curious hand down the front of his breeches. It had been with the same heated wonder that they’d killed their first girl together, fucked the same prey at once, and got off to their first shared atrocities.
Over time, the Dreadfort forests and walls had come to feel as much Damon’s own, as his charge’s. After all, there were only so many times one could see a man covered in blood or swallow his spend, before a certain assumption of ... communality worked its way into your friendship.
Perhaps that’s why, Damon wondered ruefully as he stomped towards Ramsay’s favorite war room, all of this is so utterly fucked.
Reek had been a fun game, at the start. Passed around between the two men (though the others liked to watch, they didn’t find him nearly as pretty as Ramsay and Damon clearly did) like a washrag or broom between serving women. It was fun to spill himself over the creature’s tear-stained face. The blue eyes and the red, teary cheeks created a pretty picture, indeed.
And Ramsay, well.
Damon kept it to himself, but he liked the face Ramsay made when he forced the toy to keep his cock in its mouth - drooling and whimpering (and staying carefully still, or risk a harsh beating) during even the longest of feasts. Ramsay had cruel eyes and strong jaw, and it was easy for Damon’s own body to heat as he watched the other man tip his head back in pleasure.
But that’s all it was. A game. Just a soft highborn from some savage islands to chew up and spit out. As Damon had seen the hounds do with so many toys.
Damon should have known that things had gone too far, when the thing was still alive after one week in the dungeons. Ramsay never kept anything that long.
But Damon's friend was always unpredictable, so prone to the careless worship of his own whimsy. Damon smiled and shook his head, as he watched Ramsay belt the thing’s ass.
Just another toy, he tried to assure himself.
It had been the little things, at first.
Reek rested his chin on Ramsay’s thigh during a feast, and the man not only failed to slap it away but slipped it a bit of stewed rabbit, watching keenly as it sucked his fingers clean. A serving girl was flayed for spilling milk, when Damon was almost certain he’d seen Reek stumble and drop the pitcher - along with everyone else in the Dreadfort's wide inner bailey. Ramsay gave the pet a head pat and actually smiled when it nuzzled up into his palm, and was still staring down at it in nameless pleasure, when he spoke.
"Pretty little thing, isn’t he,” Ramsay murmured under his breath.
As if speaking to himself. As if Damon wasn’t even there.
The beatings and whippings and miscellaneous acts of sadism continued, but Damon found Reek’s cheeks blushing, hair thickening, ribs becoming less prominent. He’d wander into the kennels looking for Ben Bones and realize that there was no pale body among the snuffling hounds.
It was enough to drive one mad. Especially with Ramsay’s failure to deviate from his other acts of cruelty. His tormenting of the servant girls. His ruthless offenses against the neighboring houses. His wasteful feasting on red meat when the autumn wouldn’t last forever.
Damon burst into Ramsay’s rooms in search of spare fletching as he had dozens of times before, and was met with what - he was sure - would be the straw that finally broke the lowborn’s back. The thing, curled upon the thick pelts that lay before the hearth. Content as a kitten in a sunbeam, its clean skin and well-oiled leather collar glossy in the crackling firelight.
And with its head on a pillow, of all things.
“Oh, you’ve really done it now, you little - “ the anger in his own voice surprised Damon. More anger than one could realistically have for an animal, let alone a pathetic dog not meant to survive more than a few days in the Dreadfort, let alone six fucking months. Drawing back his boot, he made to land a strong kick at the thing’s delicate side, when the realization of what the creature was laying under dawned on Damon, as well.
A dark blanket was tucked beneath the tips of its toes, covering its skinny puppy frame all the way up to the delicate line of its chin.
Although, it wasn’t a blanket at all, was it?
Damon swore. His leg dropping in mid—swing before it could connect with Reek’s side.
The pleats, the leather straps spread out over the flagstones.
It was Ramsay’s cape.
The one he always carried with him, unless he expressly ordered for it to be placed away for safekeeping. One of the few possessions that Ramsay wouldn’t misuse until it broke.
Oh, fucking hell -
His thoughts were interrupted by an indignant, feral hiss. Like an angry cat, Reek burst up from the pelts, scattering the cape on the floor and scampering down the smoky hallway, the collar jostling around its clean, sweet-smelling neck.
This is fucked, Damon thought, as he marched down to Ramsay’s favorite war room. If Ramsay was playing some cruel, long-game with the thing, perhaps he was keeping it a secret to better conceal the jape. Lord knows, Alyn and Skinner didn’t have the keenest minds.
But still, Damon thought with a bitter, unnamable feeling gathering in his gut. He would have told me.
Wouldn’t he?
Ridiculous. Damon forced his shoulders to straighten as he passed flickering torches and odd rusted stains spilling across the stone walls. Of course he would have told me. He let me watch as that thing kept his cock warm in its mouth.
And if it wasn’t a jape. Damon’s fist clenched. If the little wretch really took advantage and dirtied up Ramsay’s cape.
Well. Even better reason to tell.
He pressed his palm into the familiar wooden door, taking comfort in all the debauchery and degradation he and Ramsay had inflicted together in this very room. Years of fond memories.
Ramsay was indeed here, relaxed in his favorite wide, high-backed chair.
But he wasn’t alone.
Ramsay's thighs were spread to accommodate the squirming companion tucked in his lap. His breeches were unlaced around the thick, straining cock that was currently -
“Poor puppy,” Ramsay said fondly as he stroked a palm over the arching curve of Reek’s spine. Damon had seen Reek impaled on Ramsay’s cock in more positions and settings than he could count, but never with its chest arching desperately to meet Ramsay’s own. Gasping not in pain but with an open, pleasured heat.
And the way Ramsay was looking at it, the way he spoke.
“Got woken up from your nap, did you? Little sneak. Just needed daddy’s cock to make it better.”
Vigorous nodding, from the slave that Damon had seen beg for Ramsay to kill it.
It wasn’t fucking itself onto Ramsay’s lap, so much as resting on his hard cock. Content to shift its hips in tiny, grinding movements, trying to sink further down into the seat of its master’s strong lap. Keeping the hard length warm, as it worked its mangled hands into the line of Ramsay’s shoulders.
A fuckpet was one thing, but whatever these two were doing - the way they were looking into each other’s eyes, like two human men - was fucking indecent.
“Ramsay!”
Cold eyes glanced at Damon from across the room, disregarding the little whore that had wormed its way between them.
“Hello Damon,” he said, quite proper indeed. “I’ve been told that you burst into my rooms, without permission.”
As I’ve been doing for years, Damon thought. Never mind what the little slut was doing when I got in there.
“Apologies, Ra - my Lord,” he said. “I caught this one dirtying up your cape and pelts.”
“Mm. I’m aware,” Ramsay regarded the quivering pet with something dangerously akin to warmth. “He practically pounced onto my cock. Helps him when he’s scared, you see. Greedy little thing, but he does get a little…insolent when he’s low on sleep.”
A long, pleasured hiss was torn from Ramsay’s mouth, as the fuckpet in question began to lift and sink its hips with increasing vigor, little paws balancing on the dips of Ramsay’s shoulders. The sight of its greedy hole was obscene. And rendered even filthier, when the mongrel glanced over its shoulder.
Silvery scars twisting with its hips, and the thing gave Damon a cold once-over as it shivered and blushed. Whatever it saw, if found unworthy of further attention. It cooed happily as it buried its flushed cheeks into the juncture of Ramsay’s neck, nuzzling eagerly into the line between skin and leather.
What the...
Damon blinked. His own breath tasted stale and bitter behind his clenched teeth.
Was the little wretch looking down its nose at me?
The man who’d watched, laughing, as Ramsay set out to hunt it, during its first week in captivity? Who’d been tasked with fetching it, crusted in filth and begging for mercy, from the kennels and dungeons? Who’d once dangled a scrap of pork knuckle before its ashen face, before snatching the morsel away and popping it between his lips?
“Damon.”
The hiss of Ramsay’s voice sent a chill down the his spine, like he’d been thrown into the Shivering Sea. Face heating - how long was I staring? - his eyes snapped up from the eager curve of the pet’s spine to his friend’s Lord’s face.
Ramsay had once put up his quivering little pet's body as wager for a hunting contest between the two men.
“Almost as pretty as a maid, and wails like one too.”
That’s what Ramsay had said to Damon, as he applied a rough smack to the thing’s flank.
Why, then, did the mere act of taking in its blushing face feel like a dangerous misstep? One that Damon might pay dearly for?
Damon swallowed as Ramsay regarded him cooly, his hands gently smoothing over the line of Reek’s scarred hips.
“Unless the kennels are inexplicably empty…” pale fingers swiped tenderly over a fading mark, and Reek cooed. Evidently, the little thing had found an especially good angle at which to warm its master’s cock. “…or the merlons have dashed off the walls, I don’t want to see your face till sun-up. Now get.”
And then those cold eyes were on his pet again, whispering strange things - oh, you filthy thing, I’m not going to have to punish you, am I, you’re being a good pet for daddy, you’re taking my cock so well, what a sweet pet, sweet Reek - and Damon was left to turn away from the perverse sight. Ever aware of the slick shifting noises and quiet, pleasured sounds behind him, as he retreated to the door.
“Oh! I almost forgot - ”
Ramsay’s voice was absent, as if commenting on the uneven legs on a wooden table, or the temperature in the great hall. It was his darkest, most dangerous voice.
Damon rested his hand on the smoke-darkened wood, remembering what a talent Ramsay was at knife throwing. The solid thwack of a blade through a skull.
“Do shut the door on your way out.”
Just as the first time Damon had taken Ramsay in his mouth, he wasted no time in fulfilling his Lord’s wish. Swallowing down bitter shame, like spend, as he did.
The Dreadfort has always possessed a strange, eldritch influence over its inhabitants. If the name wasn’t enough to put you off, the bone sconces and human pelts tanning in the stone rooms almost certainly would.
It was a power that Damon himself felt he’d wrangled enough to take safe pleasure in, like a broken stallion taken out for a trail ride. Like the boy Roose Bolton had tasked Damon with minding, that he’d come to slowly regard as a friend.
That night, he sat on his cot and heard a woman’s screams echoing up from the wood. The cries of innocent victims had always left Damon hot with arousal. But he gleaned no special pleasure from them, in the wane candlelight of his room. Aware of the cold wind whipping off the river, Damon’s thoughts were only of the horses in the stables. How long he had to take one and run, before he overstayed his welcome.