#Ramsay x you

[novaursa]

The North Remembers Her (the future)

- Summary: He captured you, but you will not allow him to break you.

- Paring: stark!reader/Ramsay Bolton

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (murder, blood)

- Previous part: survival

- Next part: whispers of snow

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround

The Great Hall of the Dreadfort is alive with the sound of celebration, a rare burst of life in a place so often cloaked in silence and fear. Roose Bolton has spared no expense for this feast, the birth of his trueborn son by Lady Walda being the cause for the rare display of abundance. The long tables are laden with roasted meats, fresh bread, and flagons of wine. Servants scurry about, filling goblets and clearing plates as laughter and conversation echo off the cold stone walls.

You sit at Ramsay’s side, your posture stiff and your gaze fixed on the fire roaring in the hearth. The warmth does little to soften the tension that coils in your stomach. Ramsay is unusually jovial tonight, his laughter louder, his grins wider. He’s already deep into his wine, the goblet in his hand dangerously close to spilling as he gestures animatedly to the men seated nearby.

Lady Walda sits at the head of the table beside Roose, her face glowing with maternal pride. The babe is not present, of course, but his presence is felt in every toast raised, every cheer that rings out. Roose, as always, is composed and quiet, his pale eyes surveying the room with cold calculation even as he raises his own goblet in acknowledgment of the congratulations directed his way.

Ramsay leans toward you suddenly, his breath warm and thick with the scent of wine. “Are you enjoying the feast, wife?” he asks, his voice low enough that only you can hear.

“It’s… lively,” you reply evenly, your tone giving away nothing.

He chuckles, his grin widening. “Lively, yes. A fine celebration, wouldn’t you agree? My father has a trueborn son now. A perfect little lord.” His voice drips with false cheer, and you can feel the simmering anger beneath his words.

You glance at him, your gaze steady. “It’s what he wanted.”

Ramsay’s grin tightens, his knuckles whitening as he grips his goblet. “Yes. What he wanted.”

The hall grows louder as the evening progresses, the wine flowing freely. Ramsay’s mood seems to lift further with each passing moment, his laughter ringing out above the din. Then, suddenly, he stands, raising his goblet high.

“A toast!” he declares, his voice cutting through the noise and drawing the attention of the entire hall.

The room quiets, all eyes turning toward him. Even Roose looks up, his expression unreadable as he watches his son.

Ramsay’s grin is wide and wicked as he looks around the room. “A toast,” he repeats, his voice carrying a dangerous edge, “to new beginnings. To my father’s son, a fine boy who will grow to be strong and proud, I’m sure.”

There’s a murmur of agreement, scattered applause, but Ramsay isn’t finished. He raises his goblet higher, his pale blue eyes gleaming in the firelight.

“But that’s not the only reason to celebrate tonight,” he says, his voice growing louder. “No, there’s more to toast to—something just as monumental.”

You feel your chest tighten, your breath catching as Ramsay turns to look at you, his grin sharper than ever.

“To my wife,” he declares, his voice ringing out. “The future Lady Bolton, who has blessed me with news I’ve long awaited. She is with child!”

The hall erupts into a mixture of cheers and murmurs, the weight of Ramsay’s words settling over the room like a storm. Roose’s eyes narrow slightly, his expression unreadable, while Lady Walda’s face lights up with surprise and cautious joy.

You sit frozen, your hands clenched in your lap as you feel the weight of every gaze in the room. Ramsay’s hand drops to your shoulder, his grip firm and possessive as he looks down at you, his grin never faltering.

“Say something, wife,” he murmurs, his voice low but insistent. “Don’t be shy. Let them know how happy you are.”

You lift your chin, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “I’m honored to give my lord husband what he desires,” you say evenly, your voice carrying just enough warmth to sound convincing.

Ramsay’s grin widens, and he turns back to the hall, raising his goblet once more. “To the future of House Bolton!” he shouts, his voice ringing with triumph.

The hall echoes with cheers and the clinking of goblets, but all you can hear is the pounding of your own heartbeat. You feel Ramsay’s hand tighten briefly on your shoulder before he sits back down, his gaze lingering on you.

The feast stretches on, though the air has shifted since Ramsay’s proclamation. The cheers and clinking goblets slowly give way to murmurs, the weight of his announcement rippling through the room like an undercurrent. The anxiety is visible, even amidst the joviality, as the eyes of the gathered lords and bannermen flicker between Ramsay and Roose.

Ramsay reclines in his chair, one arm draped possessively across the back of yours, a predatory smirk playing on his lips as he watches his father with a look of smug triumph. You keep your gaze fixed on your plate, carefully slicing into a piece of roasted venison, your movements measured and deliberate. You can feel the weight of Ramsay’s eyes on you, his satisfaction radiating like heat.

Across the table, Roose sits motionless, his eyes fixed on his goblet of wine. His expression betrays nothing, but you know him well enough to sense the subtle tightening of his jaw, the faint crease in his brow. This feast was meant to celebrate his new son—his trueborn heir—and Ramsay’s announcement has cast a shadow over the evening.

Lady Walda shifts uncomfortably beside him, her plump hands smoothing the fabric of her gown. Her bright smile falters, her gaze darting nervously between her husband and stepson.

Ramsay lifts his goblet again, his smirk widening. “What a night of joy, wouldn’t you agree, Father?” he says, his voice dripping with mockery. “A new son for House Bolton and another on the way. Truly, the future of our house is secure.”

Roose’s gaze lifts slowly, his pale eyes locking onto Ramsay’s. For a moment, the room seems to hold its breath, the quiet crackle of the fire the only sound.

“Indeed,” Roose says finally, his tone calm and measured. “The future is bright.”

The words are neutral, but there’s an undercurrent of steel in them, a subtle warning that Ramsay either doesn’t notice or chooses to ignore.

“Of course,” Ramsay continues, leaning forward slightly, “this child of mine will carry Stark blood. The blood of the North itself. That does carry a certain… significance, wouldn’t you say?”

Your hand tightens around your knife, but you force yourself to remain composed, your expression neutral. The room is silent now, all eyes on the exchange between father and son.

Roose sets his goblet down with deliberate care, his fingers brushing against the stem. “Significance,” he repeats softly, his gaze never leaving Ramsay’s. “And yet, blood alone does not ensure loyalty. Or strength.”

Ramsay’s smirk falters briefly, his eyes narrowing. “But it helps, doesn’t it? A child born of Stark blood will unite the North in a way no other could. That's what you said.” He gestures toward you with his goblet, his voice rising slightly. “Isn’t that why you married her to me, Father? To secure the loyalty of the North?”

The words hang in the air, bold and dangerous. Roose’s gaze shifts to you for the first time, his expression unreadable. You meet his eyes briefly, your own face carefully blank, before returning your focus to your plate.

“You speak as though the North is already ours,” Roose says quietly, his tone razor-sharp. “But loyalty is a fragile thing, Ramsay. It must be earned, not assumed.”

Ramsay leans back in his chair, his smirk returning though it’s tighter now. “And I will earn it,” he says confidently. “With this child, I will prove to the North that I am their true lord.”

Roose’s lips twitch faintly, the closest thing to a smile you’ve ever seen from him. “You seem to forget that I am still Warden of the North.”

The room holds its breath again as the words land like a blade. Ramsay’s smirk freezes, his eyes narrowing into slits, but he says nothing.

Sensing the growing hostility, Lady Walda clears her throat, her voice bright but strained. “What a wonderful night for House Bolton!” she exclaims, her hands clasped together. “We are truly blessed with so many reasons to celebrate.”

Her attempt to diffuse the situation earns a polite murmur of agreement from the gathered lords, and the atmosphere begins to shift slightly as the conversation resumes.

You feel Ramsay’s hand tighten on the back of your chair, his grip possessive and stiff. He leans closer, his breath warm against your ear. “Do you see, little wolf?” he murmurs softly. “Even my father can’t deny the importance of what you carry. We’ll see who wins in the end.”

You glance at him briefly, your voice cold but steady. “That remains to be seen.”

Ramsay chuckles, though the sound lacks its usual mirth. He straightens in his chair, raising his goblet once more as the feast continues around you.

But as you sit in silence, the weight of the evening presses heavily on your chest. The North may be watching Ramsay and Roose, but they’re watching you too. And you know that, in this game of power and survival, every move matters.

The fire crackles low in your chambers. The room feels smaller tonight, as though Ramsay’s presence alone fills every corner with a heavy, suffocating energy. He strides back and forth across the chamber, his boots striking the floor with hard, deliberate steps. His face is a storm of fury, his eyes burning with barely contained rage.

You sit in the chair by the hearth, one leg crossed over the other, watching him with mild annoyance as he mutters to himself. He hasn’t stopped pacing since he stormed in, the door slamming behind him loud enough to rattle the hinges.

“I’ve done everything!” he growls suddenly, his voice cutting through the quiet. He gestures wildly as he speaks, his tone sharp and biting. “Everything he told me to do! I became his heir. I married you—his precious Stark bride—to ensure the North’s allegiance. I flayed man after man in his name, painted the Dreadfort red with their blood. And now—” He stops abruptly, turning to face you, his chest heaving. “Now that I’ve ensured our blood is tied to Winterfell forever, it’s still not enough!”

You regard him coolly, leaning back in your chair as though his tantrum were nothing more than an inconvenient distraction. “Are you truly surprised, Ramsay?”

His eyes narrow, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve done everything your father asked,” you say calmly, your voice measured. “But that doesn’t mean it was ever going to be enough for him. You know what kind of man he is.”

Ramsay steps closer, his movements sharp and predatory. “I’ve given him everything,” he hisses. “Everything! I’ve secured the North, married the wolf, ensured a child to bind our blood to Winterfell. What more could he possibly want?”

You meet his gaze steadily, unflinching in the face of his rage. “Control. Power. Loyalty. Roose wants all of it, and he’ll never trust you enough to give you everything.”

His grin flickers, a bitter edge to it. “Trust? What does trust have to do with it? He should fear me, respect me!”

You raise an eyebrow, your tone cutting. “And does he? Or does he see you for exactly what you are?”

His expression darkens, his grin vanishing entirely. “And what am I, wife? Enlighten me.”

You lean forward slightly, your voice cold. “You’re his bastard. You’ll always be his bastard. No title, no marriage, no child will ever change that in his eyes.”

The words hang in the air, sharp and unyielding. For a moment, you think he might lash out, his hands clenching and unclenching as though imagining them around your throat. But instead, he laughs—a low, humorless sound that sends a shiver down your spine.

“You think you know him,” Ramsay says softly, his voice carrying a dangerous edge. “You think you understand what it’s like to fight for every scrap of approval, to claw your way out of the mud he left you in.”

“I understand him better than you think,” you reply evenly. “And I understand you, Ramsay. You crave his approval, but you’ll never have it. Not entirely.”

His grin returns, cold and humorless. “And yet, here I stand. The lord of the Dreadfort, the heir to the North. Married to you, carrying the future of Winterfell in your belly. Tell me, wife, doesn’t that make me enough?”

You tilt your head, your gaze unwavering. “It makes you desperate. And desperation is weakness.”

For a moment, the room is silent, the only sound the crackling of the fire. Ramsay’s grin fades, his eyes narrowing as he stares at you.

“You should be careful, little wolf,” he murmurs, his voice low and dangerous. “I might take those words to heart.”

“You should,” you reply, your voice steady. “Because your father already has.”

His expression hardens, the weight of your words sinking in. Without another word, he turns abruptly, striding toward the door.

As the door slams behind him, the silence returns, heavier than before. You let out a slow breath, your hand drifting to your stomach as you stare into the fire.

Ramsay may be desperate, but desperation makes men dangerous. And in the North, danger is never far behind.

The wind cuts as you step into the courtyard, its chill biting through your cloak and seeping into your skin. The gray skies above match the stone of the Dreadfort, casting a grim light over the gathered men and the carriage waiting near the gates. The horses paw at the ground, their breath visible in the frigid air as they await the journey ahead.

Ramsay stands in the center of the courtyard, though there’s something different about him today—an edge of excitement that sets your teeth on edge. Reek stands a few paces behind him, his head bowed, his shoulders hunched as though trying to make himself invisible amidst the heavy presence of Bolton men.

The sound of your boots against the stone draws Ramsay’s attention, and his eyes light up as he turns to face you.

“Wife,” he greets, his voice lilting with mock affection. “You look positively radiant this morning.”

You stop a few feet away, your arms folded tightly across your chest. “What is this, Ramsay? What’s going on?”

He gestures grandly toward the carriage, his grin widening. “A gift, my dear. Or rather, a duty fulfilled. You’re going home.”

The words hit you like a blow, though you keep your expression carefully neutral. “Home?” you repeat, your voice steady despite the turmoil swirling within you.

“To Winterfell,” Ramsay confirms, stepping closer, his hands clasped behind his back. “Our home. The home of our child.” His grin growing, his voice dropping slightly. “You should be pleased. It’s what you always wanted, isn’t it?”

Your eyes flick to the carriage, then to the heavy escort of Bolton men surrounding it. Reek stands among them, his hollow gaze fixed on the ground, his presence as unsettling as ever.

“And you?” you ask, turning your attention back to Ramsay. “Where will you be?”

Ramsay chuckles softly, his grin never faltering. “I have a few… loose ends to tie up here. But fear not, wife. I’ll join you soon enough. Winterfell won’t feel like home without me, after all.”

“Loose ends,” you repeat, your voice laced with skepticism. “What does that mean, Ramsay?”

He leans closer, his pale eyes gleaming with amusement. “Nothing you need to concern yourself with, little wolf. Just a few matters that require my personal touch.” He gestures toward the carriage. “Now, don’t keep them waiting. It’s a long journey, and we wouldn’t want anything to happen to you or the little lord growing inside you.”

You glare at him, your fists clenching at your sides. “And if I refuse?”

Ramsay’s tone becomes soft but menacing. “Refuse? Why would you do that? Winterfell is yours, wife. You should be eager to return. Besides…” He steps closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “…you’re under my protection now. Wouldn’t want anything… unfortunate to happen.”

You take a slow breath, forcing yourself to remain calm. “This isn’t protection. It’s control.”

He laughs, the sound echoing through the courtyard. “Oh, you’re learning, little wolf. But don’t forget—I control everything. And soon, I’ll control Winterfell too.”

The silence that follows is heavy, the air between you crackling like the icy wind. Finally, Ramsay steps back, gesturing grandly toward the carriage again.

“Go, wife,” he says, his voice lighter now. “Reek will escort you, along with my finest men. Consider it… a gesture of my affection.”

You glance toward Reek, who flinches slightly under your gaze but doesn’t speak. His presence is both a reassurance and a reminder of the power Ramsay holds over everyone around him.

Without a word, you turn and climb into the carriage, the heavy door closing behind you with a dull thud. The cold air seeps through the cracks, but it’s nothing compared to the chill settling in your chest as the wheels begin to turn, the sound of hoofbeats and creaking wood filling the air.

Through the small window, you see Ramsay standing in the courtyard, there is an eerie energy about him, as he watches you leave. His eyes seem to follow you, a reminder that no matter where you go, his shadow will linger.

As the Dreadfort fades into the distance, you steel yourself for what lies ahead. Winterfell may be your home, but under Ramsay’s control, it is anything but safe.

The Great Hall of the Dreadfort is as cold and somber as ever, despite the fire roaring in the hearth. Roose Bolton sits at the high table, a goblet of wine in his hand, his eyes watching the flicker of flames with an expression of detached amusement. The hall is empty save for the faint hum of the wind outside and the soft steps of Ramsay entering.

Ramsay strides in with his usual confidence, but there’s an unusual intensity to his movements tonight. His boots echo loudly against the stone floor, the sound ringing through the quiet hall as he approaches his father.

Roose doesn’t look up immediately, swirling the wine in his goblet with slow deliberation. “You sent your wife to Winterfell,” he says, his tone calm and vaguely amused. “One might think you’re afraid of something.”

Ramsay halts before the high table, his smile tightening slightly. “Afraid?” he repeats, his voice lilting with mockery. “Hardly. I simply want my future protected. The future of House Bolton.”

Roose finally looks up, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studies his son. “Your future,” he says softly, his tone cutting. “And yet, you seem so eager to distance yourself from it.”

Ramsay chuckles, though the sound is strained. “I sent her because Winterfell is where she belongs. Where our child belongs. The North needs to see its future growing strong.”

“And you think that future is safe?” Roose asks, his voice steely and quiet. “You’re a fool if you believe a Stark bride and a babe in her belly will erase the memory of your… methods.”

Ramsay’s smile flickers, a shadow crossing his face. “Methods that have served you well, Father. Methods that have secured your position.”

Roose takes a slow sip of his wine, his expression unreadable. “Secured my position, perhaps. But your own? That remains to be seen.”

Ramsay steps closer, his smile returning though it’s more brittle now. “You doubt me. After everything I’ve done. After everything I’ve given.”

“I doubt you because you act without thought,” Roose replies coldly. “You flay men for sport, you revel in chaos, and you mistake fear for loyalty. That is not strength, Ramsay. That is desperation.”

Ramsay’s fists clench at his sides, his smile vanishing entirely. “Desperation? I’ve done everything you asked. I’ve given you the North, tied our blood to Winterfell, ensured our future—”

“Our future,” Roose interrupts, his tone as cold as the wind outside. “Not yours. Do not mistake my patience for trust, Ramsay. You are my son by law, but that does not make you my equal.”

The words land like a blow, the silence that follows heavy and suffocating. Ramsay’s pale blue eyes burn with fury, his breath coming faster as he steps closer to the high table.

“And what does make me your equal, Father?” Ramsay asks softly, his voice trembling with barely contained rage. “What more do I have to give?”

Roose sets his goblet down with deliberate care, his gaze never leaving Ramsay’s. “You’ve already given enough,” he says quietly. “More than enough. Perhaps it’s time I look to someone else for the future of this house.”

The implication hangs in the air like a blade, and for a moment, neither man speaks.

Then Ramsay moves.

It’s quick, almost too quick to see. The dagger flashes in the firelight as he steps forward, plunging the blade into his father’s chest. Roose’s eyes widen slightly, the faintest flicker of surprise crossing his face as blood blossoms across his tunic.

For a moment, Ramsay holds him there, their faces inches apart. His smile returns, bold and triumphant, as he twists the blade.

“The future is mine,” Ramsay whispers, his voice dripping with venom. “Not yours. Not anyone else’s. Mine.”

Roose’s breath comes in short, ragged gasps as the life drains from his eyes. He slumps forward, his body collapsing against the high table as Ramsay steps back, pulling the blade free.

The hall is silent save for the soft crackle of the fire and the faint drip of blood onto the stone floor. Ramsay stands over his father’s body, his chest heaving, the dagger still clenched in his hand.

After a moment, he straightens as he wipes the blade on his tunic. He turns toward the empty hall, his voice carrying through the stillness.

“Send word to Winterfell,” he says, his tone light and mocking. “Tell my wife that House Bolton is now mine.”

The shadows stretch long across the hall as Ramsay strides toward the door, his boots echoing against the stone.

The Bastard of Bolton is no more.

Now, he is the Lord.

[ozsyn]

Those Who Were Seen Dancing

Ramsay Bolton x Reader; Harley Quinn x Joker

Chapter 1 of 8-ish?

Summary:

Gotham City is a kingdom ruled by The Joker and Harley Quinn. When (Y/N) is taken from her home and placed under the wing of the Clown Princess of Crime, she is shown a world she never knew.

Ramsay Bolton has clawed his way through the ranks to become The Joker’s apprentice, but even Gotham can get a little mundane. When someone new comes to town, he’s finally got something to do. What could be more fun than dragging an outsider into the deep end and watching her drown?

———————————————————-

As the elevator doors screech open with a discordant hiss, (Y/N) gets her first glimpse of Gotham’s grand penthouse.

Her towering heels click along the marble flooring as she continues towards the makeshift throne room.

Gilt and opulence are on full garish display here as ancient vases from dynasties long past stand sentinel on chipped pedestals, forgotten sculptures of Greek gods are sporadically arranged throughout the room, and stolen Monets, Manets, and Rembrandts adorn the walls.

Such finery could hold its place in any museum in the world, but instead these beautiful works of art have been ripped from their rightful homes and left here to rot in faux splendor.

She can’t help but feel a connection towards these lost creations, their kinship forged in their kidnappings.

She pushes that feeling of intense bitterness aside, however, remembering what she must do.

Her mother was far from a loving homemaker, but she did leave her daughter with one crucial piece of advice:

Survive.

After all, everyone in Gotham is just trying to survive in their own fucked up way.

And none hold truer to that belief than the people represented on the towering doors before her.

The right is unmistakable.

The Clown Prince of Crime is certifiable royalty in Gotham. The once pristine white backdrop has been graffitied with chaotic black lettering amongst spurts of purple and green.

She can make out the word “smile” and other crude references to the villain’s penchant for laughter.

But her gaze soon transfers to the left door.

The white has been coupled with black to form a triangular checkered pattern. Atop that in vibrant shades of red are various card suits and similar splashes of paint all bearing their symbolism to Gotham’s mysterious queen, Harley Quinn.

Without warning, the doors suddenly swing open and (Y/N) is ushered inside.

There, sitting atop a set of thrones are the true King and Queen of Gotham City.

Her eyes fall on the woman. Blonde hair cascades down her shoulders, their opposing tips colored in red and black.

A tiara of jeweled clubs, spades, diamonds, and hearts adorns her head as she sits poised in a striking red gown, one side slashed in front as if by a blade.

Seated next to her on the dais is the one and only Joker.

His purple coat-tailed jacket, matching satin gloves, and garish green hair do nothing to detract from the power this sadistically grinning man holds.

However, the woman suddenly rises, any formalities of a true court being quickly tossed aside.

(Y/N) bows her head graciously as is proper, but finds it unceremoniously lifted upwards.

A finger is swiped haphazardly across her lips, smearing her pristine shade.

She looks up as the woman wipes the remaining stain onto her dress and grins.

“Do we look organized around here to you?”

“Come on, kid. I’ll introduce ya to the boss.”

Other Links:

Reluctant Chosen One

Demon!Ramsay x Demon!Reader

Ramsay x Reader Angels and Demons

[ruubesz-draws]

They are all silly

(Goji hanging out with his bros again!)

Is from this video:

[bumblesimagines]

The Wolf's Guard

Request: Yes or No

Summary: The love between a wolf and their darling is unbreakable, even if that darling is a Bolton.

Pronouns: He/Him/His, M!Reader

~~~

If the Starks were known for anything, it was their honor, duty, and family values. Everyone in all of Westeros knew it, from the poor to the rest of the Great Houses, as many had bore witness to those traits at play. The wolves of the north, the pack that'd once been called Kings, had bent the knee willingly during Aegon's Conquest and from then on, were known as Wardens of the North.

The glorious House Stark of Winterfell. Robb still vividly remembered the days in which he and his bastard brother, Jon Snow, were taught the history of their ancestors. Brandon the Boisterous, Cregan Stark, Rodwell Stark, Rickard Stark... Robb knew their names well, knew the significance of their importance to his bloodline. They were his ancestors, warriors with wolf's blood coursing through their veins, and blood that ran through his. Just like them, Robb is heir to Winterfell, the firstborn son of Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn Stark. And while Robb's heart valued honor, duty, and family over all else, there were times when he wished he hadn't been born first.

The first time he took his mind off his duty as heir (a duty everyone constantly reminded him of every waking moment) was when Roose Bolton brought his second-born son, (Y/N) Bolton, to Winterfell when they were children to become a ward under Eddard Stark. He'd heard about the stories and rumors surrounding the family and their ancestral home, the Dreadfort. Their history was as lengthy as the Starks, with their own ancestors having been once called the Red Kings. While Starks were honorable, Boltons were cruel, cunning, and dishonorable with a tradition of flaying their enemies that they were forced to give up upon being bannermen for the Starks. However, there were rumors they still flayed their prisoners after days and weeks of torture.

Robb and Jon exchanged whispers while their father spoke with Roose Bolton, an unremarkably ordinary-looking man despite the eerie aura that surrounded him and his sons. His eyes were striking, a color so pale and odd that they made shivers run down the spines of the two boys when he looked in their direction. But the prickle of uneasiness that poked at Robb vanished when (Y/N) looked toward him. Jon immediately ducked behind the barrel they'd chosen to hide behind but Robb held his gaze and was rewarded with a grin. 

"Robb," His father had called out, "Come."

Robb immediately obeyed, jumping out from behind the barrel and striding over to his brother. At the age of seven, Robb knew his place as heir very well so he made every attempt at showing everyone the manners and way of nobles he'd been taught. Ned placed a comforting hand over his shoulder and smiled down at his son. "Why don't you show (Y/N) around Winterfell, Robb? His father and I have much to discuss." 

"Yes, Father." Robb nodded, his auburn curls bouncing off his forehead. Domeric Bolton, eldest son of Roose and heir to the Dreadfort, similarly set his hand over his younger brother's shoulder. (Y/N) peered up at his father and then at his brother, lingering even after Roose gave him an approving nod. 

"Go on," Domeric murmured gently and (Y/N) looked back at Robb with a growing smile. 

Robb spent the rest of the day showing (Y/N) around Winterfell, his chest puffing out with pride each time (Y/N) seemed impressed about something. Jon and Theon trailed after them, providing input that (Y/N) largely ignored in favor of giving Robb his full attention, something surprisingly made him squirm. He finished the tour by introducing (Y/N) to his mother and his younger sister, Sansa. Catelyn greeted (Y/N) politely, more kindly than she treated Jon at least, and offered to get some sweets for them after dinner while Sansa clung to her skirts and watched them.

It wasn't until a few days later, when the boys were giggling on a stack of haybale after their latest mischief that Robb had a thought that would continue to emerge: 'I wish he were a girl.'

As they grew and reached their fifteenth name days, they both began showcasing the faithful traits of their house. Robb grew gentler, less mischievous, and showed a strong sense of honor. He continued reading his histories and studied faithfully under the septa, training nearly every day with Ser Rodrick Cassel and accompanying his father whenever he ventured out on hunts or to meet with others. (Y/N) seemingly grew a taste for blood, something that emerged during training. He went easier on Robb than the others, incredibly apparent as Theon and Jon would end up bruised and bloody by the end of each session. But despite Theon's complaints and Jon's worries about (Y/N) fatally injuring someone, Robb could never shake the astonished, fluttery feeling whenever he saw (Y/N). 

"Come on, boy," Ser Rodrick called to the staggering Jon and Robb couldn't help but wince at the trickle of blood going down his nose. Jon wiped it away, his black hair clinging to his dirt-speckled sweaty face. Nobody had to look at Theon to know the boy likely looked pale as winter snow. (Y/N) pointed the - thankfully - wooden sword at Jon and cocked his head to the side, a wide grin across his face. 

"What's wrong, Snow?" (Y/N) taunted, and Jon glared at him, throwing aside his sword and marching right up to (Y/N). The Bolton laughed when Jon grabbed the sides of his chest armor, his teeth digging into his bottom lip before he rammed the end of the sword into Jon's temple. Jon cursed loudly and released him to grab the side of his head, the blow working as intended when (Y/N) slammed his foot into Jon's chest piece and knocked him back. 

"I believe that's enough, aye, lad?" Robb straightened up at the sound of his father's voice, craning his neck to watch Ned step out of the nearby building and approach them with a grimace. He gently clapped the back of (Y/N)'s shoulder to congratulate him, his eyes remaining locked on his bastard son's panting form. "Go see Maester Luwin, Jon."

"May I have a word in private, Lord Stark?" Ser Rodrick asked, earning a curt nod in response. (Y/N)'s eyes followed the two older men as they walked further away from them, their voices drowned out by the hustle and bustle of servants working and guests chatting. His lips formed a noticeable pout, one that made Robb chuckle as he helped take the chest piece off him. 

"They're going to send me home." (Y/N) muttered bitterly.

"They won't," Robb assured him, handing the piece off to a nearby servant and giving them a thankful smile. (Y/N) huffed, the air coming out in a small cloud, and he tossed the sword aside into the dirt beside them. Robb caught a brief look at the knitted brow, sullen expression on his face before (Y/N) turned on his heel and stormed away. Immediately, Robb followed without a second thought, keeping his eyes focused on the boy until they reached the Godswood. 

"Leave me alone, Robb." (Y/N) muttered grumpily, slumping down on the ground beside the water and roughly tugging blades of grass from the ground. 

"Not until you tell me what's wrong," Robb responded, taking a seat beside him and gazing out into the water. The Godswood had always been a place to seek peace or advice from the Old Gods, a place Robb could visit to clear his mind or simply escape for a brief moment. (Y/N) pursed his lips and Robb smiled, pressing his fingertip against (Y/N)'s cheek and gigging softly when he swatted at his hand. "Come on, tell me." 

"Nobody here likes me. They're scared of me." (Y/N) said quietly, tugging more grass out of the dirt. "Lord Eddard is going to send me home to the Dreadfort, I know he is. Father's going to be mad at me but at least Dom will be there."

Robb stared at him, noticing the way he pressed his lips together to stop them from quivering. "I like you." He revealed softly and (Y/N) tilted his head toward him, eyes flickering between Robb's vibrant blue eyes. Robb's stomach twisted and turned, heat rising up his neck and covering his ears like fire. 

"How much?"

"A lot." He admitted, the branches above them gently rustling together with the wind. The sound eased his nerves, eased the dread threatening to bubble up and consume him. "If you were a lady, I would ask Father to let us wed."

(Y/N)'s lips curled up at that. "The Old Gods do not care if we're both men, Robb." He reminded him, that familiar grin working its way onto his face. Robb smiled again, setting his hand over (Y/N)'s and putting an end to his constant grass tearing. "Would you kill for me, Robb?"

"To protect you, yes," Robb answered immediately, no poundering needed. He'd kill to protect any of his loved ones. His parents, Jon, Theon, Sansa, little Arya and Bran. His father spilled blood for his late sister, Lyanna, during the rebellion and Robb doubted his father wouldn't do it all over again for her. "Would you?"

"If you asked." Then, (Y/N) leaned forward and clumsily mushed their lips together, sending a jolt down Robb's spine and a heat throughout his face. He'd kissed a young lady once or twice in secret and out of curiosity but despite his brief experience, he moved nervously and just as clumsily. 

Things rapidly changed from then on, behind closed doors at least. To the servants and residents of Winterfell, the two remained the same close friends as always, but away from prying eyes and curious ears, they were inseparable lovers. Robb's lingering stares grew and any ladies his mother asked him about were brushed away for one excuse or another. The sneaking around, the subtle touches, and innocent gestures, it was all exciting for them but Robb grew to prefer how hungry (Y/N) always seemed for him. It felt good to be wanted, felt good when he whispered loving confessions and laughed at (Y/N)'s eye rolls and flustered smiles. 

Until, as quickly as their relationship began, they were just as quickly swept away from each other. 

Not long after (Y/N) sixteenth name day, news arrived at Winterfell of Domeric Bolton's death. An illness in the stomach, the first letter from Maester Uthor read, but the letter from Roose informed him of a new family member who'd potentially caused the death of his brother: a half-brother by the name of Ramsay Snow—a bastard of the North. With Domeric dead, the title of heir fell on (Y/N)'s shoulders and took him away from Winterfell and back to the Dreadfort. Jon and Theon eased with his absence but Robb's heart broke into pieces. As a secondborn, (Y/N) could do as he pleased and remain by Robb's side forever if he wished, but as an heir?

As much as his absence pained him, Robb ensured to write (Y/N) many letters, most with secret messages only the two of them could understand. He detailed any events that'd gone on, small or big, silly or tragic. He wrote to him about the pups found by Jon and the one he'd claimed, about the royal visit at Winterfell and his father's new position as Hand, Jon joining the Night's Watch, the saddening news of his sister's wolf being killed. The letters stopped when Lord Robb Stark of Winterfell called the bannermen to war. 

Robb focused on the war, on avenging his father and bringing his beloved sisters home before they could be harmed by the Lannisters. The Bolton's joined the effort, of course, but Robb hardly saw (Y/N) during the start. They both had their duties, their own men to command, and many more things to worry about. But, the reunion had Robb nearly collapsing. 

He'd seen him, caught a brief glance during a battle with Lannister's army. It'd been enough to make him fight even harder, and they'd won in the end, returning back to camp to treat their wounded and count the dead. Robb had been swept away, his new title as King of the North forcing even more responsibilities onto his lap, but he managed to keep his racing mind focused enough to manage the tasks at hand, nearly forgetting about the glimpse until that night. 

Dragging the wet rag over his sword, Robb thought about his father. He thought about all the things Ned would say to him, the advice he'd give to him. His father knew of battles and rebellions, he knew of war. Robb only knew what he learned as the war progressed. Sure, there were many older men who'd fought alongside his father, who still had the taste of war in their mouths, but none would compare to the knowledge of Eddard Stark. He sighed quietly, gazing over his reflection and failing to hear the person entering his tent. 

"King of the North, aye? Has a pretty ring to it." He tensed immediately, first due to surprise and then because of that familiar voice. His head whirled around, eyes wide and heart pleading. (Y/N) grinned at him, splatters of blood still covering his skin and clothes from a battle the Boltons and few others had ridden out to, but it suited him perfectly. The sword fell with a loud clatter and Robb darted up from his seat, unable to restrain himself from flying into (Y/N)'s embrace. "Missed me, hm?" He laughed.

"Of course, I missed you, you bastard." Robb exhaled, leaning back to grasp the sides of his face, disregarding the blood that smeared onto his palms before he crashed their lips together. An almost animalistic growl-like noise emitted from (Y/N) throat and he kissed him back more roughly, as were most things with (Y/N). The Bolton backed him up until Robb fell back onto the bed, briefly knocking the air out of him. (Y/N) hovered above him, eyes glinting with a familiar look that sent heat rushing to his stomach.

"Sorry 'bout Lord Eddard, Robb." He murmured, dipping down to brush his lips over Robb's cheek and down to his throat where he dug his teeth lightly into him. 

"I heard of your half-brother, (Y/N)." Robb sighed again, the familiarity of it all making him lightheaded. His beloved had always been all tongue and teeth. (Y/N) snorted softly into his throat, a short chuckle leaving him at the mention of Ramsay's demise. He'd died in his sleep, or so Lord Bolton had said. 

"Never liked him, anyway." (Y/N) told him, rising back up to press their lips tightly together, teeth digging into Robb's bottom lip and tugging lightly. "I have news, Robb."

"Can it wait?" Robb knew the answer but he hoped pulling (Y/N) closer would change his mind. (Y/N) chuckled again and moved his hips, a lazy smirk spreading across his face when Robb cursed softly under his breath and reached down to fumble with their pants. 

"No, My King."

"Gods, you're the worst."

A sadistic little bastard but Robb loved him anyway. (Y/N)'s amusement faded away and he inhaled heavily, planting his hands on the sides of Robb's head and staring down at him. The seriousness made Robb straighten up, despite their rather compromising position, and he nodded for (Y/N) to continue. "My father plans on betraying you, Robb. Your rejection of Walder Frey's girls gave way for Father. He plans on marrying one of his daughters for an alliance. He wants to kill you." Robb's blood ran icy cold. War always had its fair share of traitors and cowardly, slimy men.

"Are you certain?" Robb sat up in the bed, forcing (Y/N) to lean back and stand again. A traitor in their midst and Walder Frey's ego. Two problems Robb hardly had time to deal with. (Y/N) reached out, fingers dipping under Robb's chin and tilting his head up.

"Give me your command and I'll bring his head to you by early morrow." 

[superbat-love]

Bruce telling Clark that they’ll figure his problem out together, trying to comfort him in his own way

[jeyne-stark]

every time I think about Reek I think about how incredibly powerful Theon's immune system must be

[yandere-toons]

The relationship between thee sorcerer!reader and Ramsay is giving me kind of Mary on a Cross by Ghost-vibes I love it!! Can't wait for more!!

Oh my, this song is perfect for that dumpster fire! I'd heard the name, but now I have more sketches in front of me than my poor hand-eye coordination can handle.

Sorcerer!Reader: I could kill you easily.

Ramsay Bolton:

[soup-in-my-fly]

Ah yes, Theon, the king of priorities.

(Little prequel to this modern AU thramsay comic)

[scentedpepper]

Kempt Perversities

RAMSAY SNOW X MALE READER

Summary: Ramsay has always had a difficult time controlling his urges; you've known this since you were boys.

Content Warnings: Descriptions of making out, implications of pervious sexual relations, (slight) descriptions of scars, nudity (barely)

Other Pairings: Robb Stark x Male Reader

AUTHOR NOTE(S):

Writing for terribly morally incorrect characters pt ?

Reader is from (non established) noble family in the north

Said family has been familiar with the Boltons and Starks for years

Set before the war between the kingdoms begins

Have reread this one so many times I'm starting to believe it's shit 👍

---------------------------------------------------

"You smell like horse shit. "

Those were the first words Ramsay had uttered to you since your unexpected return to his home.

Your mouth stood tight as you stared blankly back at the boy, strewn, slightly puzzled. The child standing before you was indeed Ramsay Snow. Very little did he resemble the 9 year old, wild boy that so many had often saw chasing the Hounds through the hills.

Nor did he have any hint of spark in his eyes that you recall having been there the last time the two of you spoke face to face. He did indeed have an air of maturity around him now. He was taller. You recalled having watched the local Maesters treat him for appendicitis or one of those sorts.

But it wasn't his height that made you stare so intensely, nor was it his black coal eyes of death boring back at you. Though, those were some additional markers for when he had grown. It was more of how confident he was back then, but now, he appeared flatter, exhausted, as if holding his shoulders a bit lower than their natural position and then straightening all over again when Roose appeared near.

You supposed Ramsays father had taken a liking to make him into a sad, listless-sort of character. In part, you knew that is why your farther has kept you from the place for so long. You heard the stories. New the truths. But you are man now, and like any man, you are prone to what ever vices men enjoy.

Alcohol is one, Ramsay surely noticed it on your breath when he had first spoken to you.

The other, though, was your own lust.

The young lady that your mother found for you was perfect, a true beauty among beauties. You suppose to some men, she might be the object of their fantasies, but you weren't totally sure you could come to find much enjoyment out of being with her.

Ramsay was the first to notice your family was not accompanied by her, he saw your carriage long before the guards, rolling down the icy moors of the mott as if one of the wheels may fall off any second, and his eyes lit upon spotting your presence. For even behind his impassivity, you had only smiled, noticing his interest. So many years since he had smiled back at you, but you felt the urge to see it rise into the air of his lungs again. If only temporarily.

"Father says you'll be staying the night with us. "

Ramsay's voice was somewhat gruffer than you last remembered it.

"Perhaps a shower would be wise then?" The left corner of your lip raised as you referenced his pervious comment.

Ramsay only stared off behind your shoulder, almost unsmiling, or was it merely half smiling? Surely, he hadn't completely forgotten you so quickly. You had promised to be friends forever, but after all, that was nearly a decade ago.

Ramsay held onto that promise. At least you guessed he did judging by how he sometimes used to ask about your whereabouts whenever his father allowed his visit to the small council meetings.

His eyes were back on you. Searching.

As he neared closer to you, a half smile came to his face. A slight puff of visible breath ghosting between the two of you, you returned it. "Perhaps. "

Without much words, Ramsay led you through the snow, his arm finding linkage around yours, strangely, as if you were a woman. Your family's did not so much as bat and eye at this sudden act. A nod from Roose was all the reasoning you assumed he needed.

You followed, noting how the walk way was freshly shoveled, though the white blanket around you continued to go further and further up your legs.

"And where is Hanna?"

"The girl who became my betrothed?"

Ramsay paused, his breath escaping in one single hot gasp, now waiting in an awkward silence.

"She is with her mother's family. " You supplied, staring forward, but kept Ramsay's soft step inline with your own, watching how his muscles tensed above his ankles, his sparring movement reminding you much of a cat about to pounce.

"I've been meaning to talk to you about that. " Ramsay uttered, almost silently, the breeze beating furiously against his throat. If he was shy, it only ever occurred in the worst of times, like the moment he accidently split your ankle back on the riding trails when you guys were small before Robb ever arrived. So much fear had risen in his eyes and so much trembling that you half expected him to turn into the type of his girls that liked to faint at the lightest scent of bad luck.

You saw Robb a lot more than you did Ramsay in those times.

"What of it?" You questioned curiously. Ramsay's glance was unsure, almost cowering in your presence like a kitten beneath the large paws of a barn dog. But, after a moment or two, he seemed to recover, his strength resuming and his steps taking more firm footing into the powder of the snow around you. His throat cleared almost too loudly, and for a minute, you felt as if the whole of the sky could hear him, feel him, echo his every breath.

"You seem unhappy. "

You stopped, throwing him a look. Ramsay stared, almost as if he expected you to argue the truth of it. You did not.

He had something.

A spark returning to his eye, after such a long absence, you wondered how you could have missed it all these years. You recalled it so clearly.

"In what sense?" Your lips pressed into a thin line as the two of you stepped out of the flakes and finally, at once, into the estate. The smell was, sweet, not something you would have thought possible here.

Ramsay stood there. The cold had stuck to his cheeks and turned a rough shade of rose along his skin. "In all of it. "

"I am fine, Ramsay. " You insisted, the smile on your face was something he could not see past, you seemed genuine enough, and yet you knew that it was this genuine sort of a voice that caused him to not believe a word coming from your mouth.

"They picked a girl...not your type?" He started walking, leaving small rivers of snow behind him that trickled off of his frame.

"She is quite beautiful. " You informed, letting Ramsay lead the way, his hands bound loosely behind his back, not entirely unaware of what you're doing, but at least you knew to speak softly now. Quietly enough so the very air around you did not question your tone of voice and actions.

"So I have heard..." Ramsay stopped mid step, causing you to knock against his shoulder in an accidental haste to avoid stepping on the bottom hem of his trousers, you could see his face was alight with understanding and puzzlement as his eyes flicked upon yours.

"Do you not have someone either, Ramsay? Still without a betrothed is a strange occurrence, even in this cold place. " A sly smile flashed his lips, and suddenly, he didn't look like the proper highborn that his father wanted him to be.

"I'm working on it. " His coyness was a sign of you getting closer to a joke or story, something silly with not many repercussions except maybe a sore throat from laughing too hard. But after a moment when none came, you knew he meant more than the words let on. Something about the conversation made you feel as if you were dancing around a mirror, stepping mindlessly towards an impending realization.

"Have you been shagged recently?" Your teasing earned Ramsay's eyes to leap over your face like some prey, darting across the structure of your jaw, and even grazing lower, the low light cast upon the jut of your adam's apple, and then his gaze latched back to your own, with a look as if he had no time to play around with little boys anymore, he was a man now, after all.

"Before we arrived?" You tried not to waggle your eyebrows, lest he misunderstood, but the giddiness of potentially cornering the boy had settled on your mood like spring air upon a young child.

"Is that really something you wish to know. " Ramsay pushed forward, you trailed behind him, letting your eyes survey the halls you haven't seen since childhood. So many rooms had looked the same, untouched by time itself, with the only change being their slight rot. You knew that life was still very much alive. People lived in this estate, yet each hall offered a sense of loneliness.

Ramsay was part of their tragedy, the last Bolton heir.

Evanescent memories of your past sprung up as he led you 'round, up and about like you couldn't remember the very creases of the floors and where each crack in the wall lay.

Your room.

Ramsay stopped quite abruptly. Unsettlingly so. He turned to you, waiting. Your puzzled expression wasn't hidden, and finally, he offered his explanation. "We added a bath to the private quarters. "

This wasn't something unheard of for the Northern Lords, but rare enough you knew some never had such a luxury. Roose obviously intended to make a long stay of your presence, much longer than the night.

"I- Thank you. But, where is my room?"

Ramsay seemed surprised at the question. "Right next to mine. "

Such a casual manner for him, you pondered his true reason for this setup, but seeing as you came into his life seemingly without any advance notice, you supposed he was likely too busy to see to such matter.

"Shall I have the servants fetch the soap and- " You cut him off just before he could begin to send people to take your clothes away, and wash your garments, and possibly steal your jewels from that little compartment in your boot.

"I can handle the bath. " You assured, Ramsay gave you a once over. The look had not gone unnoticed by your watchful eyes, you were unsure how to take it at first. The idea you had been spotted, somehow, by him and his quiet glances sent pangs of heat into your abdomen. It had always felt good having his eyes upon you. "Just need some air. Some of my own. "

He stared.

"That is all I require. " You supplied further, a beat passed, Ramsay stood silent, studying the plains of your face with mild entertainment. He hadn't moved an inch.

"If that is your wish. " A half smile curled across his lips. You turned to leave, entering a smaller room. There, you did encounter the tub, thankfully. It was big enough, and apparently, to your own design tastes.

Yes, it would do.

After all, you wished to be alone, and the warmth of the bath held an appeal you struggled not to give into at that second.

Perhaps the journey had drained you more than you originally believed. Now that you were free to enjoy the luxury, you could already feel the tautness of it melting away beneath your fingertips.

Your clothes fell off you in a torrent. The light fabric of your dress shirt crumpling in a messy pile beneath your feet. You weren't aware how utterly exhausted you were until you realized you had sat your body flat against the porcelain. A sound almost like a muffled prayer spilled from your mouth before you went. Warmth and the sensation of soft water slipping across your abdomen brought you new joy that you were not aware could.

Time must have passed.

An amount of time that wasn't certain because you awoke to a hot ache in the back of your legs and behind your knees. You struggled not to move much, and thus worsen the already, less than ideal, pinch of the muscles within your legs.

"Y/N?" It was a voice beyond the confines of the door that came after the rapping on wood that woke you in the first place.

Ramsay.

His voice was husky, perhaps a tad worried. You managed a response, but only barely, nearly voiceless as the water swished beneath you like currents at sea.

It was but a simple and short movement from Ramsay, that sent you scrambling for something to hide your naked state. You felt blinded even as your palms pressed over the area of your flaccid member. You had never been worried about being naked in the same room as another boy, but in all those scenarios, Ramsay wasn't the one in question.

The door had been peeled from its frame in haste when Ramsay finally entered. For a split second his eyes darted across the bathroom until they came upon you, or the side of you he could see. Your hair was spiky from sweat as you had quickly turned your back away, one hand holding the porcelain with a bruising grip. Almost afraid to be seen. Something in your expression had caused Ramsay to take a moment, or two.

"Is everything well?" He finally breathed out.

Your own heart felt like a drum beating so loudly you wondered if he was able to hear it.

"You've been in here for 3 hours. " Ramsay's eyes raked across the side of your body, the coldness that stained his gaze was gone as he returned them to meet yours, noting how physically recluse your body posed, almost as diffident as he was when he came to ask you your intentions of not marrying your wife-to-be.

You thought about not responding, telling him to leave, to close the door on his way out. You did not wish for such embarrassment to beset the both of you so early in the evening, but instead you simply replied with something that must have been music to Ramsay's ears. You asked for assistance.

"I must've fallen asleep. "

And yes, he could see it, Ramsay remembered all of those occasions from back then when you slept so silently, and so still, almost lifelessly. Only the soft breaths of air could be heard rumbling from your chest. Sometimes, not even that.

And when you woke your eyes were always drooped at the corners, as they were now, and your cheek was red from the indent of your own hand.

"You startled me..." Ramsay caught himself speaking out loud. Those were meant to be words tucked away, with all of the vile secrets he kept. He saw the hesitation come back upon your face, as if you suddenly remembered. Of course you did.

He noticed the way you shifted uncomfortably, turning your body and placing your back as flat against the cool tub as you could, your length disappearing into the water which caused the ripples around you to lap at the edges of the tub. He saw the slight tremble along the veins of your feet, that too slipped beneath the water line, and there he eyed the bottoms of your calves. Ramsay's gaze made you unsure of what he was about to do.

"Are you well?" He concluded to repeat, taking a few weary steps into the room. A chill running down your spine as the smell of musky soil and pine stirred your sense. Maybe it was the heat, or perhaps Ramsay had found a new scent that he enjoyed.

"Yes. I am– must've just tired myself more than I initially expected. " You assured, a tad unsure yourself. With each minute, the porcelain pushed against you colder and colder and the urge to curl into a ball tightened even more. The light waves of water coming to lay, from near your hip and extending down your legs, to swish again. Rippling in small crashing tides against your sides and the curves of your muscles. Ramsay's footsteps brought him further and further into the room, moving around the bend of the tub in your partial blind spot, leaving him standing on the other side.

"Here. " He offered. The towel was warm, strangely, and soft. Perhaps it was simply your initial reaction to having his eyes on you, unable to perceive his full expression, that had terrified you and left your muscles sore.

"When did you get these?" There was no longer space between you and Ramsay, the man standing far too close. But instead of asking him to provide you with a slight bit of breathing space, your mind instead focuses on the way his finger traces over the scars on your shoulder that fall further down your back.

Your body felt heavy, noodle-like as you stepped back to solid ground and lifted yourself from the tub. The air hitting your bare form again seemed unnatural, and a breath of relief almost spilled from your lips as you wrap the towel across the shoulders and tucked your hips within the material.

"Long ago. " Your voice carried a lazy tone in its silence, almost unsure of itself and Ramsay had to remove his fingers at once as the cloth of the towel pushed him away, the muscles of your shoulder straining as you shifted.

He watched in quiet anticipation, wondering how you would behave under his watchful gaze. Such curiosity from the little part of him, wondered how you would act, clearly you did not seem to forget the secret shared between you, he wanted to know if you would ever talk of it again. This was the sort of distraction he would appreciate, so long as it was yours and yours alone, maybe you would notice how quickly his interest lay with you, and not his girls.

Your feet moved swiftly, taking you to the other side, just across from the tub and when you turned you saw Ramsay step past the lip of the iron stand. The movement brought him closer, but also blocked the exit.

"Ramsay, tell me-"

His patience died so suddenly, he had neither time nor reason to think as his name slipped out as a sentence or more likely an unfinished thought, or possibly an attempt at stopping the himself, who now was pushing you backwards, the backs of your calves against the lip of the tub.

There was a rush of cold, and warmth, more warmth, from Ramsay's person which suddenly had invaded your space and your abdomen was flat as the other male clasped both sides of your jaw within his hands.

His lips were tight against yours for a moment. An experiment. As if testing the waters of your lips. Whether you desired such an action. The idea caused a heated tremble, a watered stare, and your breath to hitch before Ramsay then took further action, pushing his tongue and teeth past the barrier of skin between your lips and him.

Ramsay's jaw clenched, moving sloppily in an emotion without names, not yet, or still too young, too raw to quite comprehend, all the while you could do nothing except allow his tongue to tease your own, and push against your own movements and try not to topple over the edge of the tub beneath you.

Your skin felt hot again, Ramsay's skin equally so, a slight twinge of pain jolted your senses back to reality and you pulled back with a heavy breath.

"Ramsay, wait. " A mere whisper against his lips, which were now stained with your own saliva. Ramsay had paused in utter attention. With only a few inches separating your noses from each other, you heard your blood pounding in your ears but the footsteps approaching were louder.

"Someone's coming. " You said in a hushed tone and it took 2 seconds longer than need be for Ramsay to jolt backwards, away from you.

A knock, lighter, and your mother appeared in the frame.

"Everything alright, dearies?" She nearly cooed, catching you in a towel and Ramsay with that red lip color that not your own people bothered with.

Ramsay begin to speak but he seemed to choke on his own words.

"Yes, Mother. I seem to have fallen asleep but all is well. Why were you looking for us?"

Ramsay cleared his throat. "It seems my father is expecting the two of us for dinner. "

But Mother always had a suspicious glare, to which no one was safe from its gawking and often intruding glances.

Not even bastard Ramsay Snow.

Especially not you.

She stared at the two of you, the expression appearing as if she was seeing a small child having taken a larger bite than they could chew. Her face shifted as her eyes grew smaller and more beady than they previously were and to Ramsay she seemed to be studying him, wondering, surely, just what the next coming Lord of the Dreadfort was doing inspecting his guests instead of preparing for dinner.

She supposed she could pass it off as concern on the boys part, concern because the two of you had been childhood friends, friends who were meant to be family, if her plans with the Boltons, and your father and sister hadn't gone awry.

Perhaps that is what she noticed, Ramsay and her daughter in an embrace which did not make complete sense to her.

However, this, this sight right before her gave only cause for her curiosity, not concern.

And by the way Ramsay's eyes were still pointed over your direction, showed that he had yet to realize how transparent his expression was to a watchful eye. An outside party who was accustomed to his habits. Ramsay's gaze danced over the tops of your eyelashes and then it followed the slope of your nose and landed upon your lips, half parted, much as they had been in his dream only a few hours prior.

You, she noted, you were harder to read, more composed than the dark haired boy next to you though, you did not look it, and that is the oddity between the two of you. One man that hid far deeper than the others' minds could.

For you, your eyes and silence seemed to work together. That particular talent of yours, never voiced, seemed to dance when you so directed it at the other children, especially more noticeable with the ones whose temperaments seemed to be set off by nothing more than silence. The thoughts were never said aloud, but those quiet stares could reach further than where you stood, even if at first the minds of men did not agree.

She believed you'd gain this deceptive, observational, silence from herself because your father, and by the old God's and the new bless his soul, despite his boasting and bravado, was lacking in this particular region.

Ramsay looked like a heap of clothes hanging limply as your mother cast her attention over his eyes, down his dress, and landed on his boots. These she could hear clearly now after examining the tiny folds along the leather around the heel.

A mess beside you he was –and you weren't even wearing proper clothes yet.

She took glance upon the trail of water over the stone floor that dipped down towards the tub and which spilled from where you had gotten out, the water that trailed along as you walked before scattering a bit, then stopping altogether to form a puddle in the same place you stood now.

Ramsay caught his breath, holding it in as he witnessed her eyes darting once more, scanning, between the two of you and he held it as they found him once again.

Ramsays eyes were slightly more watery than usual, she proposed. Perhaps the steam? Or did he cry before, when he felt, those old emotions between the two of you take rise when you'd stepped foot in the dreadfort again.

Her mind mulled the thought around for a bit before moving on to the next deatil, namely, what spell did you weave to have the Bolton's bastard acting like a whipped dog?

Because in the next second, the second she'd looked back to you, Ramsay was not paying attention to her, his gaze seemed to make patterns on the cloth wrapped around your naked form.

His jaw had tensed at the slivers of exposed flesh. And before her was no man, still not really a boy, but the kind of animalistic nature that went beyond titles and respect given to the sons, daughters, and grand children of any man's household.

His eyes were half lidded when he looked at you and his mouth was half open with lips partly curved and parted on each end. The expression was dreamlike. Almost peaceful, from a boy, who was neither of those things.

"Well, we mustn't keep him waiting. " Your mother chirped in amusement, the expression of her face and the twinkle in her eye was easily found, so you kept your gaze half way cast towards Ramsay as you began to move.

Walking past the edge of the tub.

[francis-writes]

I have nothing against this scenario, but why almost every fic is like "you are forced to marry Ramsay/you are a servant who hates him/for any reason you sleep with despite the fact that you deeply hate and fear him"?

Where are my headcanons and scenarios for Ramsay with s/o who is unhinged as well. Who loves to go apeshit with him and indulge in every whim. Where is my Bonnie and Clyde couple? That s/o doesn't even have to be as violent as him, it's enough that they actually love him and enjoy his presence.

[novaursa]

The North Remembers Her (the wolf's teeth)

- Summary: He captured you, but you will not allow him to break you.

- Paring: stark!reader/Ramsay Bolton

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (for Ramsay being himself, death scene)

- Previous part: the bride

- Next part: duty

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround

The air in the kennels is suffocating. It stinks of filth, wet fur, and death. The walls are lined with iron cages, each one housing a beast that could barely be called a dog. Ramsay’s hounds are massive, their eyes gleaming with hunger and cruelty. Their snarls echo through the stone chamber, reverberating in your ears like the prelude to a nightmare.

You stand in the middle of the room, surrounded by Ramsay’s monstrosities, your fists clenched so tightly your nails dig into your palms. Ramsay is beside you, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder, a gesture that feels more like a vice.

Reek stands off to the side, hunched over and trembling. He doesn’t meet your eyes—he still never does—but his nervous shuffling and shallow breaths betray his discomfort.

“Isn’t it magnificent?” Ramsay’s voice cuts through the cacophony of snarls and growls, soft and lilting. He gestures to the hounds with a wide grin. “My beauties. The best of the North. Loyal, fierce, and so very hungry.”

You don’t respond. Your eyes remain fixed on the far corner of the room, where a man is being dragged forward by two guards. He’s filthy, his face streaked with sweat and dirt, his eyes wide with terror. He struggles against his captors, but it’s useless; they haul him forward like a sack of grain and throw him to his knees before Ramsay.

“Please,” the man stammers, his voice cracking. “Please, my lord. I didn’t mean—”

Ramsay’s boot slams into his chest, sending him sprawling onto his back. The guards step back, leaving the man to scramble on the floor like a rat.

“You didn’t mean what?” Ramsay asks, his voice almost playful. He crouches beside the man, tilting his head like a curious predator. “Didn’t mean to fail me? Didn’t mean to lose my supplies to a band of savages in the woods?”

The man whimpers, clutching his hands together in a desperate plea. “It wasn’t my fault, my lord. They came out of nowhere. We tried to—”

“Shh.” Ramsay presses a finger to his lips, cutting him off. He rises to his feet, brushing invisible dust from his leathers before turning to you.

“Do you see, wife?” he says, his grin spreading. “This is what happens when people disappoint me. When they fail me.”

You don’t speak, but your jaw tightens.

Ramsay steps closer to you, his pale eyes gleaming with delight. “You won’t fail me, will you, little wolf?”

“No,” you say flatly, your voice void of emotion.

His grin widens. “Good. Then you’ll learn something today.”

He gestures to the guards, who haul the trembling man to his feet and shove him toward one of the cages. The hound inside snarls, its massive body pressed against the iron bars as it senses its prey.

“Please!” the man screams, his voice breaking. “Please, my lord, I’ll do anything. Anything! Just don’t—”

“Don’t?” Ramsay interrupts, his tone mocking. He steps forward, grabbing the man by the back of the neck and shoving his face toward the hound. “Don’t what? This is mercy, you fool. My beauties get to eat, and you…” Ramsay leans closer, his grin almost tender. “You get to be useful one last time.”

The man’s scream is cut short as Ramsay shoves him toward the cage, unlocking the door with a flourish. The hound lunges forward, its jaws snapping shut on the man’s arm with a sickening crunch.

Blood sprays across the stone floor, pooling at your feet. The man shrieks, his voice high and ragged, but you don’t look away. You force yourself to watch as the hound drags him to the ground, its powerful jaws tearing into flesh and bone.

“Don’t look away,” Ramsay murmurs beside you, his voice soft but commanding.

“I wasn’t going to,” you reply coldly, your gaze unwavering.

For a moment, there’s silence between you, broken only by the wet, guttural sounds of the hound feasting.

“You’re a strong one,” Ramsay says, almost approvingly. “Most would’ve turned their heads by now. Even Reek can’t stomach it, can you, Reek?”

You glance toward Reek. He’s pressed against the wall, his face pale, his trembling hands clutching at the hem of his tunic. He doesn’t look at you or Ramsay or the carnage on the floor.

“Pathetic,” Ramsay mutters, rolling his eyes before turning back to you. “But you… you’re different. You’re stronger than him. Stronger than most. I like that.”

“I don’t care what you like,” you say, your voice steady despite the bile rising in your throat.

Ramsay’s grin sharpens. “Oh, but you should. Because, wife, you and I are going to be together for a long time. And if you think I’ll ever let you escape me…” He leans in close, his breath warm against your ear. “…you’re wrong.”

You turn to him, your expression cold and unyielding. “And if you think you’ll ever be safe under the same roof as me,” you say softly, your voice laced with venom, “you’re wrong.”

Ramsay’s laughter fills the chamber, echoing off the stone walls. “Perfect,” he says, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “You’re perfect.”

You tear your gaze away from him, your eyes drifting back to the bloody scene before you. The hound growls low as it drags the man’s mangled body deeper into its cage, its jaws dripping with crimson.

Ramsay claps his hands together, the sound startlingly cheerful. “Well! I think that’s enough excitement for one evening.” He glances back at you, his grin never fading. “Shall we, wife?”

You don’t answer. You don’t move.

But as you follow him out of the kennels, your thoughts are clear, your resolve unshaken.

He’s wrong.

He’ll never be safe.

The Dreadfort’s hall is quiet tonight, its cold walls echoing only the crackle of the fire in the hearth. The long table is laid with a modest supper—bread, roasted meat, and a pitcher of wine—but the atmosphere is anything but warm. You sit across from Ramsay, his pale blue eyes fixed on you like a hawk studying its prey.

Reek hovers near the far wall, his shoulders hunched and head bowed, his presence more like a shadow than a man. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t even look up as Ramsay carves into the meat on his plate with slow, deliberate movements.

“You’ve been quiet today,” Ramsay says, his tone almost conversational, though his grin betrays the danger beneath. “Planning something, little wolf?”

You tear a piece of bread from the loaf before you, taking your time before answering. “Not everything requires planning, Ramsay. Some things happen naturally.”

His grin widens, his knife pausing mid-cut. “Naturally? That doesn’t sound like you. You’ve always been so… intentional.”

You meet his gaze steadily, refusing to look away. “Some things don’t need effort. Like watching you.”

Ramsay’s expression flickers, just for a heartbeat, before his grin returns. “Watching me? Should I be flattered, wife?”

“Not flattered,” you reply, tilting your head slightly. “Curious. You’re fascinating in a way.”

He leans forward slightly, his grin sharpening. “Do tell. What about me fascinates you, wife?”

You set the bread down and fold your hands, your voice calm and deliberate. “I’ve been trying to figure you out. You’re cruel, but it’s not just cruelty. It’s… desperation.”

Ramsay’s knife stills on his plate. His grin falters, though it doesn’t disappear entirely. “Desperation?”

“Yes,” you continue, your voice steady. “You’re always trying to prove something. To your father, to your men, even to me. Everything you do—every act of violence, every twisted game—it’s all to make people afraid. To make them see you as more than a bastard.”

The room feels colder now, the air thick with dread. Reek shifts uncomfortably in the corner, but you don’t look at him. Your focus remains on Ramsay, who is now completely still, his grin frozen in place.

“You think you can see me?” he says softly, his voice low and dangerous.

“I don’t think,” you reply, leaning forward slightly. “I know. You’re afraid, Ramsay. Afraid that no matter what you do, no matter how much blood you spill, you’ll always be what you were born as: a bastard. And that terrifies you, doesn’t it?”

The knife in his hand tightens, his knuckles whitening as his grin disappears completely. For the first time, there’s something in his eyes that isn’t amusement or cruelty. It’s faint, but it’s there: unease.

“Careful, wife,” he murmurs, his voice soft but laced with menace. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

You lean back in your chair, your expression unyielding. “No more dangerous than the ones you play every day.”

The silence stretches between you like a taut wire, the only sound the crackle of the fire. Ramsay’s hand flexes around the knife, his pale eyes locked on yours. For the first time, you feel as though you’ve cracked the veneer he wears so easily, exposing something raw and vulnerable beneath.

“You’re bold,” he says finally, his voice low and measured. “I’ll give you that. But boldness doesn’t guarantee survival.”

“I’m still here, aren’t I?” you reply, your tone icy. “And you’re still trying to figure out how to break me. That must bother you.”

His lips curl into a tight, humorless smile, and he sets the knife down carefully on the plate. He rises from his seat, moving around the table with slow, deliberate steps until he’s standing beside you.

He leans down, his face inches from yours, his breath warm against your skin. “You think you’ve seen me, little wolf. You think you know what I’m afraid of.”

You don’t flinch. “I don’t think. I know.”

His smile tightens further, and for a moment, you wonder if he’ll strike you. But instead, he straightens, stepping back and looking down at you with an expression you can’t quite place.

“You’re… different,” he says quietly, almost to himself. “No one’s ever looked at me like that.”

“Like what?” you ask, your voice steady.

“Like they’re not afraid.”

The words hang in the air, and for a fleeting moment, you think you see something almost human in his gaze. But then it’s gone, replaced by his usual smirk.

“Enjoy your meal, wife,” he says lightly, turning on his heel. “You’ll need your strength.”

He strides out of the room without another word, leaving you alone with Reek and the quiet hum of the fire.

For the first time, you feel a flicker of triumph.

You’ve unsettled him.

And you’ll do it again.

The kennels are damp and rank with the stench of wet fur and rotting meat. The dim lanterns cast flickering shadows on the stone walls, and the low growls of Ramsay’s hounds echo in the enclosed space. You hadn’t wanted to be here, but you’ve come to expect Ramsay’s whims. When a servant had arrived to fetch you, claiming that “my lord” wanted you in the kennels, you hadn’t hesitated. It wasn’t as though you could refuse.

But when you step inside, Ramsay is nowhere to be seen. Instead, a girl stands waiting near the largest cage, her arms crossed and her lips curled into a smirk.

She’s young, perhaps only a year or two older than you, with long dark hair that falls in loose waves over her shoulders. Her dress is simple, but her posture is confident, almost brazen. Her eyes shine with something cruel and unfriendly as she watches you approach.

You recognize her instantly. This is Myranda, the kennelmaster’s daughter—and Ramsay’s lover.

“Well, well,” she says, her voice dripping with mockery. “The little wolf herself. You must feel so important now, being Lady Bolton and all.”

You stop a few paces away, your expression calm and unreadable. “What do you want?”

Myranda’s smirk widens. “I wanted to get a look at you. See what all the fuss is about.” She tilts her head, her eyes narrowing as she steps closer. “You don’t look like much.”

You hold her gaze, refusing to rise to her bait. “And you don’t look like someone who should be wasting my time.”

Her smile falters for a moment, but she recovers quickly, her tone turning sharp. “You think you’re better than me? Just because you’re wearing his name?” She steps closer still, her voice dropping to a hiss. “Let me tell you something, little wolf. You’re nothing. Ramsay doesn’t love you. He never will. He’ll use you, break you, and throw you away when he’s bored.”

“I’m well aware of what Ramsay is,” you reply coolly. “Are you?”

Her eyes narrow further, and you can see the anger starting to surface beneath her smug exterior. “You think you’re clever, don’t you? You think you can stand up to him, to me. But you don’t know what you’re dealing with.”

You take a step forward, closing the distance between you, and lower your voice to a dangerous whisper. “And you think you can scare me? You think your little threats mean anything to me?”

For the first time, you see a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes.

“You’re not the first person to try,” you continue, your tone icy. “And you won’t be the last. But let me make one thing very clear: I’ve faced worse than you. Worse than Ramsay. I’ve lost everything—my family, my home, my wolf. Do you really think you can hurt me?”

Myranda takes a half-step back, her confidence faltering. “You don’t scare me,” she snaps, though her voice wavers slightly.

You tilt your head, your expression darkening as you take another step closer. “Maybe not. But you should ask yourself: what happens if you’re wrong?”

The hounds growl low in their cages, as though sensing the tension. The sound reverberates through the air, but you don’t flinch. You hold her gaze, letting the weight of your words hang between you.

Myranda’s breath quickens, and you can see her hands clenching at her sides. She glances toward the door, as though considering leaving, but pride keeps her rooted in place.

“You’re just a Stark,” she spits, though her bravado has all but vanished. “You think you’re untouchable, but you’re nothing without him keeping you alive.”

You laugh softly, the sound cold and humorless. “Ramsay doesn’t keep me alive. He keeps me dangerous. And if you think I’m going to sit back and let you play your little games…” You step even closer, forcing her to back against the wall. “…then you’re a bigger fool than I thought.”

She stares at you, her chest heaving, and for a moment, you see genuine fear in her eyes.

The door to the kennels creaks open, and both of you turn to see Ramsay striding in, his usual grin plastered across his face.

“What’s this?” he asks, his voice light with amusement. “A little chat between friends?”

Myranda straightens immediately, her face flushing as she steps away from you. “I was just welcoming your… wife, my lord.”

“Is that so?” Ramsay’s eyes flick between you, his grin widening. “And how did she welcome you, my dear?”

Myranda glances at you, her jaw tightening. “We were just talking.”

Ramsay chuckles, stepping closer to you. “Oh, I’m sure you were.” He places a hand on your shoulder, his grip firm. “What a pair you make—my little wolf and my sweet hound.”

You say nothing, your gaze fixed on Myranda as she avoids looking at either of you.

Ramsay’s grin falters slightly, just for a moment, as he glances at you. “You didn’t scare her too much, did you, wife?”

You smile faintly, your voice low and steady. “Not at all, husband. We understand each other perfectly.”

For the first time, you see a flicker of unease in both of their faces.

And it feels like victory.

[captaincanonly]

modern shitsz

[polysucks]

BRO, JON X RAMSAY IS A THING BTW AND ITS ALWAYS JON DESTROYING RAMSAY!!! THE SHIP NAME IS CALLED "DOUBLE BASTARDS" 😈 (WE ARE FEW BUT FERAL)

YOU GUYS ARE FUCKING SICK.

Tell me more.

[fanficdoggo]

Rainy Day - Drabble

Ramsay sat quietly in the window sill, book perched in his lap, reading with a cup of tea sitting by his hip. Rain pattered softly against the window, a soft rhythmic sound. The world was peaceful. Well, almost. Theon sat snoring only a few feet from him in their bed.

The brown-haired man had woken up ridiculously early and had only recently fallen back asleep. Ramsay silently wondered how long he would rest before realizing it was raining.

The last time it had rained, Theon had all but pleaded for them to go out into the dreary weather and enjoy it -something he never asks for on sunny days- and Ramsay is too weak to deny him anything even if that means looks like a wet rat in the rain while Theon laughs and carries on through puddles and streams. 

But for now, he snores loudly in bed, buried to his neck in soft blankets and items that smell like home, like Ramsay, and the dark-haired boy can read in peace. The rain isn’t meant to stop until well into the night, so he waits with a small smile for the other to notice.

[snow-blower]

Can you do Ramsay and a blood kink for kinkmas?

Now why did I see this coming 🤨

Ramsay and blood kinks, added to the kinkmas list 👍😀

Link to Kinkmas Bot Info

[mutedmya]

Ramsay: I dislike your last name.

Theon: huh? Like yours is any better.

Ramsay: yes, actually.

Ramsay: I think it suits you.

Theon: eh?

*Ramsay walking away*

Theon: H-Hey wait! What are you suggesting?!