#Ramsay x you

[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

[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

[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)

[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.

[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.

[captaincanonly]

modern shitsz

[ourrootsgodeep]

demon on a leash.

(ramsay bolton x oakheart!reader)

a/n: listen i like evil men okay. i do not condone their actions i just think it’s kind of hot and silly and i don’t think that is a problem (it is a problem)

warnings: MINORS DO NOT INTERACT OR I WILL HIT YOU WITH A CAR, ramsay bolton is a warning in and of himself, pre-season 4 of GOT, unprotected sex, oral sex (f receiving), biting, breeding kink, murder, stray pickled eyeball, ramsay is a fucking creep, this could probably be described as yandere, the author is bad at writing smut, this author is bad at writing generally, vague mention of joffrey (disgusting), implied bisexual reader but let’s face it all my readers are bisexual, reader is NOT a virgin and ramsay appreciates it, ramsay is pussywhipped as hell

———

the ceremony had been beautiful, but it was so cold up there. she had expected her wedding to be warm and summery, but when her mother had betrothed her to the infamous “bastard of bolton,” all her fantasies were dashed.

y/n smoothed the creamy velvet dress as she stood before the fire. the jewels she was wearing caught the light beautifully, glowing amber in the dim atmosphere. ramsay would be there soon, she thought. he had seemed so odd during the ceremony: cold, and charming, and utterly attentive to her. disturbingly attentive, for someone of his reputation. he poured wine for her, cut her meat. his pale gaze never left her for even a second.

a floorboard creaked suddenly, and she whirled around. ramsay stood there, observing her in the firelight. “my beautiful wife,” he said, in his soft, rasping voice.

she curtsied. “husband.”

he crossed the room in three quick strides, taking her hand in his and directing her into one of two chairs at the fireside. margaery tyrell had one like him, she thought. if only she remembered how margaery had said she handled him.

ramsay hadn’t stopped staring at her for even a second. “forgive me, sweet girl, i had some unfinished business to take care of.”

“it’s quite alright,” she said softly, and hesitated before speaking again. “i am sure whatever it was must have been important. i do not begrudge you your time.”

ramsay’s mouth twitched in a faint, amused smile. “i am glad to hear it. incidentally, i have a gift for you.”

“oh?”

he nodded and reached into his pocket, pulling out a small, ornately carved wooden box. y/n took it with murmured thanks and turned it over in her hands, inspecting it carefully. it was carved with oak leaves around the sides, and the flayed man of house bolton on top. as she turned it, she heard a faint thunk inside. she turned to ramsay, feigning delight, dreading what her instinct told her was within. “what is it, my love?”

he raised his eyebrows and smiled cheerfully, but said nothing, merely gesturing for her to open it.

when she undid the clasp and the lid sprang open, a bloody brown eye looked back up at her.

she froze, forcing her face into a faint, impassive smile, her thoughts running through all the people it could be. a friend? a cousin, dear gods, not-

she turned to ramsay, who was grinning delightedly. “whose is it, my love?”

he stood, coming over and leaning over her shoulder, pressing a surprisingly gentle kiss to her shoulder before replying. “one of walder frey’s bastards. he had the nerve to ask me when the bedding ceremony was.”

interesting. maybe she could work with this. “thank you for that, husband,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “i do not wish anyone to see my body, save you.” y/n took his hand from where it rested behind her and pressed his scarred knuckles to her lips, looking up at him and making her eyes large and soft.

he preened under the attention. “good girl.” his voice was low and raspy, pupils blown wide in his pale eyes.

alright, she thought. she could work with this.

———

king robert’s fiftieth birthday was held at winterfell, and almost everyone was in attendance, from the umbers of the last hearth to the ullers of hellholt and the redwynes of the arbor. even most of the bastards of the great houses had been invited, leaving ramsay standing in a corner while his father spoke with lord flint.

he had hoped to see lady oakheart and her daughter that night. he had heard of lady y/n’s beauty as she grew, remembering her from when they were children. he scanned the room, sneering at jon umber as he noticed him trying to flirt with margaery tyrell, scowling at rickard karstark’s drunken jokes.

he could see theon greyjoy standing off to the side, eying a woman in gold with robb stark. curious, he followed their gaze, and it led him back to her.

he inhaled sharply when he saw her, in soft silks draped carefully over her soft curves, with golden pins and jewels holding it delicately in place. he hadn’t seen her since they were thirteen years old, but in the five years since then, she was a woman.

he could see greyjoy walking over to her, which meant he had to act fast. he crossed the distance between them as quickly as possible, bowing before her as he reached her and noting greyjoy’s annoyance with delight. “sweet lady,” he said, looking back up at her after a moment.

her lips parted in a pretty smile. she looked like a goddess, in a halo of candlelight, resplendent in gold. “my lord,” she said with a slight chuckle.

he stared at her for a moment, his breath catching in his throat before he remembered himself. “would you dance with me?” he asked.

she raised her eyebrows, her voice taking on a teasing lilt. “i don’t even know your name.”

“ramsay.”

“y/n.” she took his arm gently, allowing him to lead her onto the dance floor.

he settled his hands onto her hips as the slow, elegant song began, delighted to feel the soft flesh so warm under the thin fabric. “how do you find the north so far?” he asked, looking down into her eyes.

“cold,” she replied. “i thought people were exaggerating the summer chill.”

he could see that. her hard nipples were poking through the dress. he wondered what her skin would taste like if he were to lick and suck at the pointed nubs. “i never particularly notice, myself. you get used to it the more you stay up here.”

“are you from here, then?”

“near the dreadfort.” he spun her carefully in his arms, watching her earrings catch the light. her perfume smelled like vanilla and sweet amber. “i’m in service to lord bolton.”

“oh really?” she was so close to him he could feel her breath. he silently thanked the old gods, or whichever gods were out there, for the crowds on the dance floor. “i was betrothed to his son, before he died. lord domeric.”

“were you now?”

“mhm. it was such a tragedy. i did not know him well, but he seemed a very kind man.”

kind indeed. he remembered the slight look of disdain she had had for him when they met. how lucky that she was now available to marry ramsay. “are you betrothed now?” he asked.

“not yet. i’ve had an offer made to me by theon greyjoy’s father, but nothing is settled.”

he clenched his teeth, but kept a straight face. “the greyjoys are an old and proud house. you could do well there.”

“mm, perhaps. too proud for my taste, though. and it’s so dreary there. i would miss my home.” ramsay looked down at her face, eyeing her lips, painted with red ochre. in the candlelight, it looked like she had been drinking blood. “besides, if i were to marry anyone, it would have to be someone like you.”

he had to do a double take to be sure he wasn’t imagining things. he’d been dreaming of that for so long. “you’d what?”

she chuckled, her cheeks flushed. “well, not you specifically. but someone who isn’t the heir of a great house like the starks or the greyjoys, who wouldn’t get in the way of me inheriting my own lands..-.”

she was still talking, but he wasn’t listening. all he could think of was her words. she would have to marry someone like him.

———

the fire was still crackling in the hearth, but ramsay was uncomfortably silent.

y/n could still feel his pale eyes on her as she stared at the frey man’s eye. he was working at undoing the elaborate braided hairstyle she had been married in, carefully plucking out the pins and placing them on the vanity next to them. “i should go down to the maester tomorrow and get a good jar of vinegar for this,” she remarked, trying to break the silence.

she could see his eyebrows crease through the mirror. “what for?”

“it’ll preserve it,” y/n replied. she tilted her head back and smiled up at him as the last lock of her hair came undone. “so i can keep your sweet gift forever, my dear husband.”

he smiled broadly and kissed the top of her head. “you are the sweet one, little wife.” at least she now knew what seemed to please him.

she stood up, pulling the thick locks of her hair over her shoulder, exposing the laces of her dress to him. “will you undress your wife?” she asked softly.

he let out a noise that was half chuckle, half groan and stepped closer to her. he pressed a lazy kiss to the junction of her shoulder, grazing the soft and delicate skin with his teeth. “i will.”

———

she saw the power she had over him, he knew that, but ramsay couldn’t bring himself to care. he finally had her, and everything was coming together.

he undid the strings holding her dress carefully, feeling the smooth velvet on his hands. he had been concerned, sometimes, when he was fucking his fist or myranda late at night, that they would be too rough for his pretty darling. he’d heard she liked the pretty boys down south. pretty boys and pretty girls both. his spies had at least been helpful in that regard. but she hadn’t seemed to mind his hands much when he was undoing her hair. he had noticed that she was wearing the same vanilla and amber perfume as at that ball two years ago. the scent permeated her hair, and since he had touched her neck he could smell it on his hands.

she was turning to him now, the firelight catching in her hair and turning it to a halo again. her dress hadn’t yet fallen down.

he noticed her lips moving and blinked, fixing his mouth into a winning smile. “pardon me, love, i wasn’t paying attention. what was that?”

she smiled back at him prettily. “i asked whether you’d like me to undress you, husband.”

he shook his head. “not yet. take off your clothes.”

she inhaled sharply through her nose and let the dress fall.

———

ramsay looked down at domeric, watching him writhe in his bed.

domeric’s eyes cracked open, watching him approach. “you did this,” he croaked. “you poisoned me.”

“mm. yes, i did.” ramsay shoved his hands in his pockets, taking a seat in the chair at the side of the bed.

domeric coughed. “why? i was always kind to you. you were my brother.”

ramsay laughed harshly. “your bastard brother, as you reminded me every day.” he leaned closer. “you stole my father, my birthright. you tried to steal the woman i love. i stopped you.”

“woman?” domeric frowned. “you love y/n? ha!” he coughed again, glaring up at ramsay with a red-rimmed eye. “you don’t love anyone.”

ramsay smiled at him coldly. “certainly not you.” he picked up a pillow idly, pretending to inspect it closely before standing up and smiling cheerfully at domeric. “happy dreams, dear brother.”

the pillow descended over domeric’s face.

———

y/n didn’t want to admit it, but ramsay’s words had gotten to her. perhaps it was something to do with the way he said it, in that low rasp, or the way his eyes looked at her so hungrily. the dress slipped down her body, leaving her in her under clothes. she heard him inhale sharply when he saw the sheer, delicate lace chemise hugging her breasts, pushed up beautifully in the corset. she undid the clasps holding it up, heat rising in her belly when he groaned as her breasts fell free.

“on the bed,” he ordered, and she complied, quickly sitting on the edge and waiting for him.

instead of pushing her back and undoing his trousers as she thought he would, he knelt in front of her. she watched his hands closely, watched them pull her legs apart, begin to pull down the delicate lace stockings. she shivered in the new cold against her legs, then shivered again when he pressed a kiss to her thigh, just above her knee. he grinned at her reaction to him, then pounced forward quickly and but down harshly at the tender skin of her inner thigh.

y/n cried out at the feeling of his teeth sinking into her, and ramsay looked up and hushed her gently. “quiet, sweetling. you’re mine now. i get to mark you as i please. i will not hurt you too badly.”

her chest rose and fell in quickened breaths, and she looked down at him with eyes that she knew were blown wide with lust. “i did not say it was a bad pain.”

ramsay laughed darkly, looking up at her like a starving man. “i believe i must be the luckiest man in the world.”

he reached upwards and tore through her smallclothes, ignoring her protests and diving into her core, lapping at it like a man dying of thirst. he nipped slightly at her swollen bud and she moaned his name loudly, reaching down and grabbing a fistful of his hair. he groaned at the mix of pain and pleasure and reached down, using one hand to hold her legs apart and the other to fist his cock. y/n could barely hear it over the rush of blood in her ears, but as she came over his face and tongue she could hear him muttering things like, “so beautiful… wanted you for so long… no one else deserved you.”

she collapsed back on the bed, chest heaving and cheeks flushed. ramsay chuckled softly. “not yet, pet. let me see you.” he pulled her up and took her lace chemise off of her body carefully, setting it aside. finally, he lay her back on the bed, admiring the many bruises and bites that now littered her thighs and shoulders. “are you a virgin?” he murmured hoarsely. at her hesitation, he added, “do not worry, sweet girl, i won’t be angry. you didn’t know yet.”

didn’t know what? she wanted to ask, but refrained. instead, she slowly shook her head. “i am not, no.” he didn’t seem like a person to lie to.

his lips parted in a wide and utterly unexpected grin. “thank the gods.”

he flipped her over onto her belly, manhandling her into the position he wanted on the bed. he raised her hips into the air and climbed up behind her, undoing his trousers and letting his cock spring free. it fell against her center, and he rutted against her a few times, soaking his painfully hard length with her slick and then plunging into her, setting a rough, almost punishing pace from the start. y/n mewled, her hands curling into the sheets and fisting the soft material. he would bruise her hips, she was sure, with how hard he was gripping them, muttering between his grunts of pleasure about how pretty she would look round and swollen with his heir. he reached up and palmed her tits, pulling her backward into his chest and pinching her hardened nipples. “you see these?” he panted, making her whine as the rough pads of his thumbs brushed over her sore flesh. “these will feed my son in a few months, pretty wife.”

y/n’s head tilted back, falling onto his shoulder, exposing her soft neck to him. he bit down at the tender place just under her jaw as he finished, reaching down to rub harshly at the pearl between her legs and making her tremble and squeeze around him as she came, leaving her limp-boned in his arms. he panted harshly for a few moments, letting her collapse back onto him, before carefully pulling out and laying her down on the bed, chest still rising and falling quickly. y/n saw him get up through half-lidded eyes, admiring the muscles of his back as he moved. he rifled through his desk for a moment as she caught her breath before turning back and walking to her, holding something small in his hands.

he looked down at her spread legs, where a few drops of his seed had leaked out of her swollen, puffy cunt. “careful now, sweetling,” he murmured. he used his free hand to push the sticky white spend back inside her, grinning at the whine she let out at the intrusion into her sensitive core. “have to make sure there’s a baby in you by next month.”

y/n nodded sleepily, eyes half shut. she gestured towards the small thing in his hand. “what’s that?” she murmured.

“oh, this?” he held it up. “it’s a collar.” the jewelry was rich, fine gold, studded with rubies and emblazoned with the sigil of house bolton. “do you know what collars are for?”

y/n blinked up at him sleepily, dreading what he was going to say.

“they tell you who owns the bitch, sweet wife.” he caressed her face gently, then pulled her up into a sitting position and fastened the collar around her neck. it sat prettily at the base of her throat, the rubies gleaming like fresh blood. “now, whose bitch are you, my love?”

y/n’s voice was hoarse and quiet from moans and cries and no small amount of fear. “yours, husband.”

“i didn’t quite hear you.” he tugged her head forward until her lips were close enough to kiss. he spoke slowly, emphasizing every word. “who. do you. belong to?” the collar was digging into the bruises on her neck, but y/n looked up at him and cleared her throat. her mind was whirling with fear, with escape plans, with the question of how she was going to survive this. “answer me, my love,” he said again, gripping the collar tighter. y/n’s eyes seemed to clear as a realization came over her, a new plan for survival. she looked up at him with hazy, false, lovesick eyes, and answered him.

“you. i belong to you.”

[jeyne-stark]

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

[3lisiaowo]

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?!

[whatitshouldvebeen]

When people write stuff based off my headcanon about the character and tag me in it, I watch their posts with just as much love and attention as I do my own posts ❤️

Because if there's one thing I hope for when I write for a fandom is that people will make MORE CONTENT for me to obsess over.

[bloodsbane]

every time gordon ramsay is like 'ive never had such bad x/this is the worst x ive ever tasted in my life' im like YOURE A LIAR! sir i fear you are being HYPERBOLIC on this reality television program

[francis-writes]

Spotify Wrapped Story Challenge

Okay, so inspired by @slashingdisneypasta I make a little game: send me a 1-100 number and a character and I'll write a short story for them inspired by the song with chosen number from my spotify wrapped!

[fantasywritten]

"Send me one pro and one con you could see with having sex with my character." marg & rams pro: you like to be rough. con: you like to be rough.

“YOU KNOW ME WELL, Lady Margaery. But I also know you, and I know that you can take it. In fact… YOU ALSO like it rough, do you not?”