#YOU SURVIVED RAMSAY

[jeyne-stark]

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

[imaginarianisms]

g-d..... some of the takes is see for jeyne poole in the fandom is. smth else. can yall be normal about trauma survivors specifically r///amcoa survivors & survivors with extreme trauma jesus fucking christ..................... (impossible. apparently)

[starsofjewels]

Mama, Papa and Baby Too

Ramsay Snow (Bolton) x Lady Bolton! Reader, Roose Bolton x Lady Bolton! Reader

NSFW!!

Any and all characters depicted in NSFW pieces are of legal age. All characters are also consenting (Unless specificed by piece)

Please read responsibly.

DARK FIC: This piece includes or is focused around a situation some readers may find uncomfortable or disturbing. Know your limits and keep yourself safe.

CONTENT WARNINGS: Incest (Stepmother x stepchild), non-descriptive/ implied incest (father x child), voyeurism, breastfeeding, foreplay (fingering + handjob), riding (Roose), Little(-ish) Ramsay, non-descriptive mention of assault (in regard to Ramsay's conception)

The Boltons are their own warning

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I've never published any smut before, so why not, in true GOT fashion, start off with a weird little incest-ridden oneshot? The gods may smite me, but Ramsay is still my baby boy, so here we are.

I apologise in advance for this characterisation of Ramsay, even though I fear it fits his character exceptionally well.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

Word count: 2.5k

You had known your stepson was unstable since before you had wed his father. A bastard boy conceived out of rape, raised by an insane servant until his mother grew tired of him, and threw him on the steps of the Dreadfort. Anyone in the North could recount the stories surrounding Ramsay Snow, how he tormented the serving girls in his father’s employ, commanding his pack of dogs to tear flesh from the servants’ bones, and naming each new pup after a girl he had slain. How he burned, and destroyed, and caused so much havoc across the Dreadfort and the lands surrounding it.

When you first arrived, to be married to the boy’s father, your maids told you, with varying levels of excitement, what he had done to Roose’s previous wife, and their only surviving son. Supposedly, your new stepson had tortured Lady Bethany to the point of insanity, to a degree that her hair fell from her scalp and her skin flaked. Her only living son, Domeric, had a worse fate still, succumbing to an ‘illness’ commonly believed to be poison in the hands of his jealous half-brother.

You are given a silver dagger to hide in your skirts, and told to not use it sparingly. Ramsay is unpredictable, and cruel, and Roose will not try to stop him. 

Roose does not allow you to meet him until after the wedding. The day you finally do, the staff refuse to look at you, or speak with you as they usually would. You are taken care of, of course, fed, and bathed, dressed in Bolton pink. You feel like a sacrifice, being made-up to appease some vicious god. 

“Sit, wife.” 

It is not a question, but you answer anyway.

“I have no need to sit, lord husband.”

You watch him roll his eyes, fixing himself a little. You stand in silence for a good few moments, until you hear unfamiliar footsteps, which you assume belong to your stepson. 

Ramsay stops in the doorway, eyeing you up as you are sure his dogs do their prey. You want so badly to reach out and take Roose’s hand, or run off. But there is no comfort for you, not now. You know your fate here, and it is not to be coddled like a doll.

He steps closer to you, and again, and again, until you can clearly see his cold, blue eyes in the dim light, sizing you up, as though he can tell exactly how to torment you.

Instead of striking you, or grasping at your hair and pulling, Ramsay cautiously wraps his arms around you, burying his face in your shoulder. You gasp in surprise, expecting far worse. Glancing up at Roose, you see his brow furrow in apparent confusion, he goes to speak, Ramsay does first.

“Mama…”

He sounds like a pathetic little boy, a baby, and some part of your heart is filled by it. He takes your hand in his and puts it to his own head, and you stroke his curls as he seems to want you to. The boy preens at this, pushing himself further into the embrace.

“It seems the boy likes you, dear.”

You almost smile at his words, looking down to the boy, still hiding away in your hair.

“Aye, it does seem that way.”

Roose has shown no signs of affection towards you before, much less openly giving you pet names. You try to ignore it, putting it to the side as a one-off, a part of his surprise towards Ramsay’s affection towards you.

Your stepson stays attached to your hip for the rest of the evening. He follows you everywhere, insisting he cannot do anything without you, and although you understand the oddness of the situation, if this is what it takes to prevent yourself having the same fate as Lady Bethany, you are willing to indulge the monster. 

He practically squeals in delight when you give him a sip from your wine when his father is not looking, having been barred from partaking after sunset following a particularly violent drunken escapade, the one sliver of actual parenting Roose had enforced. 

By the time he is ready to retire, he is squished up beside you in your chambers, practically on your lap. You are distracted from your sewing by him gently butting into you, trying to grasp your attention. Looking out at the dark night outside your window, you glance back at Ramsay, already nearing sleep.

You sigh, setting him up on the unused side of your bed. It takes barely a moment for him to shuffle across the sheets and wrap himself around you, clinging like a baby. There is no point in denying him, part of you knows he would sneak in later, anyway.

Eventually, Roose comes to you, dressed in his nightclothes. He has never spent the night with you before, much less in your own rooms. He slips in beside his bastard, watching the two of you with mild curiosity.

“You’re good with him.”

“Thank you.”

He scoffs slightly, leaning back against the headboard to look down on the sleeping Ramsay.

“I have never seen him like this. He’ll be asking to suckle from you next, dearest.”

There it was again, a small hint of your husband’s affections for you. You are terribly glad the dim night hides the blush on your cheeks.

“He would not!”

You can make out Roose nodding his head.

“Really? He’s a man grown, Roose.”

“As if that could stop him. Keep yourself clothed around him, no matter how much you trust him, He’s a mischievous one, our Ramsay. Give him a chance and he might pounce.”

You feel Ramsay smile against your chest, and you realise he’s not yet fallen asleep. Summoning your best act, you look at your husband with mock surprise,

“My boy? Oh, I find that hard to believe, lord husband. Is he not just an angel?”

Ramsay tucks himself tighter against you, and a smile finds itself upon your lips. You kiss his curls gently, the boy giggles, glad that you consider him to be your own.

-    -

The night, though young, is dark. As the Stark words always say, winter is coming. You can feel it in the cold, in the way the trees tilt in the breeze. You rest your head against Roose’s chest. The flames and your furs keep the room almost uncomfortably warm. You are the lady of the Dreadfort, after, you of all people must be shielded from the oncoming trials of winter. 

The storm outside is bitter and cruel. The wind is harsh, and you are certain trees will have fallen by the morning. Every so often, if you try particularly hard, you can hear your son’s dogs howling at the weather from the kennels. You turn, your back now to Roose. He reaches his arm around you, holding you closely to him. 

And your moment of intimacy, in less than a second, is ruined by the gentle tap of a hand against your bedroom door. Just from the sound of it, you know exactly who it is. You smile softly,

“Come in, darling.”

Ramsay shuffles into your bedchamber, like a child, a pout on his face which you can see from the light of the fire beside him. He is dressed in his nightshirt, his hair messy, and you know that you are in for a long night.

“Want to sleep here, Mama.”

He makes no effort to speak to your husband, not when his precious mother is waiting for him. Though Roose attempts to grasp your arms, you reach out for Ramsay, and he leaps into your bed. Before long, he has wrangled you onto your back, snuggling viciously into your chest. His attachment to you has only grown in the months you have spent as his mother, to a degree many might consider unsettling.

“Oh, love, did the storm scare you?”

The boy nods weakly, just the hint of a smile ghosting his face. His father scoffs,

“He is not a babe, my dear, the boy can manage a bit of wind.”

Ramsay glares at his father, before going back to affectionately nuzzling you. You stroke his cheek gently, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“It is very late, Ramsay. You should try and get to sleep now.”

He shakes his head,

“Nuh. Can’t.”

Roose sighs, having given up completely, resting his head back against his pillow. Though your hands are preoccupied by the Ramsay in your arms, you lean over to kiss his cheek, something of an apology.

“Why can’t you sleep, darling?”

“I’m hungry, Mama,” He practically pleads, “I can’t sleep if I’m still hungry.”

This is always his excuse. Hunger. You think the boy must have a stomach the size of the Riverlands for how much he complains of it. But, you know his excuse well, and what it always ends with. So you smile, sweetly, and lean closer to his face.

“And what does the master want for his supper, then?”

He practically paws at your breast, begging with his big eyes, almost whimpering.

“Milk, please. Milk, Mama.”

You sigh affectionately, pressing another kiss to his face, and letting him tug down your nightdress. 

“Just a little to settle your stomach, and then off to sleep, alright?”

“I promise, Mama.”

Though you are yet to have a babe of your own, Ramsay’s consistent suckling has eventually caused your breasts to swell, your body preparing its hardest for a baby who is, in fact, a grown man. This delights your boy, of course, who could spend the rest of his days living off of nothing but the milk you’ve provided him.

He is enthralled when you help his mouth find your nipple, suckling immediately. His brow furrows, waiting impatiently for his reward. He groans when your milk touches his lips, snuggling you more, mumbling thanks, or praise, or something hidden by his face buried in your breast. 

You hear Roose shuffling. He sits up, and roughly pets his son’s hair. Ramsay’s eyes flick open, he glared again at his father, relaxing as you shush him gently,

“You’re alright, sweetling. Mama’s here.”

Ramsay moans again, and you feel him shift against your leg. Roose makes a laughing sound from the back of his throat.

“Someone is in need of a little affection, Mama.” He teases lightly, nipping at your neck. His stubble is rough, adding to your sensitivity. “Perhaps you should take care of our boy, and I’ll look after you.”

“I want to look after Mama!”

The boy has detached from you, pouting once more. You kiss his nose, wiping some of the milk from his mouth,

“You are looking after Mama by being a good, quiet boy. Let Papa have a turn, hm?”

He grumbles, but goes back to your breast, suckling again.

Roose, ever pragmatic, slips his hands quickly between your thighs, delving two fingers at a time into your cunt. He chuckles again at how ready you are, continuing to spread kisses up your neck,

“You get your mother in such a state, Ramsay. Here, taste.”

Your husband puts his finger to your son, you whine at the loss of pleasure, and the boy cleans it off as a starving dog. He looks from his father, to you, and snuggles up against you.

“Milk is tastier.”

And you cannot help but smile, quickly replaced by another gasped moan as Roose goes back to his previous activities. You take his hand, leading him up to your clit with no words spoken. The two of you have an understanding now. In between your groans and little twitches, you notice how Ramsay’s heart rate gets faster, how he grinds just a little against you. 

“Ramsay?”

A pause.

“Mama?”

“Do you need help there, sweetling?”

He whimpers, having been caught, but nods anyway. You help him shift his nightshirt up to his hips, and carefully find his cock with your free hand. Your boy moans immediately, his hips buck, and he looks up at you with a sense of pleading. He whimpers,

“Mama… more…”

“Soon, my sweet boy. Enjoy your milk.”

You stroke him in a soft, rhythmic pattern, making sure to pay just enough attention to his weepy head to keep the boy on edge. Roose continues to tease you, you gasp every so often, reaching out for him, groaning his name. You come first, stopping your movements upon Ramsay to grip Roose’s arm, crying out for him. Ramsay takes your hand, trying to help. You kiss your husband softly, and then return your affections upon Ramsay. Roose leans back, watching.

You wrap your hand around Ramsay’s cock just the way he likes, and his nails dig into your arm. The boy nips on your breast as he comes, moaning with a mouth full of milk. Most of his mess is caught by his nightshirt, which makes him much easier to clean off. Once he has calmed down just a little, you slide him off you. He cries out, still complaining even as you shush him.

“Papa deserves a treat, too, don’t you, Papa?”

“I do.”

You sit Ramsay up, tired and comfortable, and the two of you share a private laugh as you straddle him, sinking yourself quickly upon his cock. There is no time for play, not when you have been so worked up by the evening’s activities. He moans, and you remember the man behind his cold demeanour. The one who loves you, who desires you even more than your son does.

“My- Careful, love- We are not a rutting dog, are we?”

“Hm- Your fault for being such a tease, Roose…”

He scoffs, replaced quickly by another groan. It is, indeed, his fault for teasing you. You bury your face in his neck, and bite down upon it. He moans out in surprise, jolting suddenly. The action is enough to send him over the edge, and he finishes inside of you, just as a self-respecting lord should. 

Ramsay, naked, bathed and half-asleep, lies on one side of you, Roose on the other. You are the lady of the house, after all, you deserve to be treated as such. Ramsay snuggles into your chest again, full and sated.

“Hm- How is my big boy?”

Instinctually, you reach out to rub his stomach, which seems to settle him,

“Sleepy- Mama…”

“Then sleep, silly boy. Mama will be right here.”

It takes him a little longer to drift off, but you can tell, as you boy goes limp, almost drooling against your shoulder. Roose kisses your hair affectionately.

“He really does love you, dearest.”

“Mh. He’s happy, and so are you. That’s all I care about.”

“Everyone is happy tonight. Mama, Papa and Baby too.”

You give him a tired laugh, and kiss your son’s forehead. Feeling yourself begin to sleep,

“Goodnight, darling.”

“Hm- Love you.”

[mattsobvimyfav]

neighbor (matthew sturniolo)

pt 9-

WARNING- SMUT

The next morning, sunlight streamed through the curtains, and I groaned, burying my face deeper into Matt’s chest to escape it. The faint sound of shouting from downstairs made my eyes flutter open, and I quickly realized the noise wasn’t part of some dream.

“Do you hear that?” I mumbled, my voice raspy from sleep.

Matt stirred beside me, his arm still draped over my waist. “Yeah…” he grumbled, rubbing his eyes. “What the hell is going on?”

The yelling got louder, followed by the sound of something clattering onto the floor.

We both sat up in unison, exchanging a look before scrambling out of bed. I slipped on a pair of shorts and pulled my hair into a messy bun, not bothering to make myself look remotely presentable as Matt tugged on a shirt. Together, we hurried downstairs, the chaos growing louder with each step.

When we reached the kitchen, the scene before us was… something. Charlie stood by the stove, trying to salvage a plate of scrambled eggs while Chris frantically waved a towel at Nick, who was hopping around and holding his arm. A streak of bacon grease was smeared across his shirt, and he was cursing loudly.

“What the hell is going on?” Matt demanded, his voice cutting through the chaos.

Nick turned to us, his expression caught somewhere between pain and disbelief. “Your brother,” he said, jabbing a finger at Chris, “is a menace! He spilled bacon grease on me!”

“It was an accident!” Chris shot back, still flailing the towel in Nick’s direction. “You shouldn’t have been standing so close!”

“Why were you even cooking bacon in the first place?” Matt asked, clearly trying to suppress a laugh.

Charlie turned around, holding up a plate piled high with pancakes and a sheepish grin on her face. “We were trying to make you guys breakfast,” she explained. “You know, as a congrats for finally getting along and not killing each other.”

I blinked at her, my heart melting a little despite the absolute disaster around us. “That’s… really sweet,” I said, stepping forward and taking the plate from her. “But also very chaotic.”

“It was going fine until he”—Nick pointed at Chris again—“decided to reenact some Gordon Ramsay move and flipped the pan too hard.”

Chris rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t trying to flip it hard, it just—”

“Can we focus on the fact that I’M IN PAIN?” Nick interrupted dramatically, holding out his arm for effect.

I handed the plate of pancakes to Matt and grabbed Nick’s wrist, inspecting the red mark where the grease had landed. “You’re fine,” I said with a smirk. “You’ll survive.”

Matt was already diving into the pancakes, grinning as he spoke. “Thanks for the breakfast. Totally worth the drama.”

Charlie beamed, looking proud of herself despite the mess. “You’re welcome.”

I glanced back at Chris, who was now trying to mop up the spilled grease on the floor, and couldn’t help but laugh. “Okay, but next time, maybe just stick to cereal. Deal?”

“Deal,” they all said in unison, Nick grumbling a bit louder than the rest.

Matt and I settled at the table as the rest of the group finished cleaning up. Despite the chaotic start, it felt like a perfect morning—messy, loud, and full of the people I cared about most.

After breakfast, Matt and I decided to retreat back upstairs. I was still full from the feast, and craving some quiet time. The moment we stepped into my room, Matt shut the door behind us and smirked, his eyes glinting with mischief.

“Finally,” he muttered, climbing onto the bed and hovering over me.

I barely had time to catch my breath before his lips were on my neck, trailing soft, slow kisses along the sensitive skin. A quiet moan escaped my lips, and I felt his smile against my skin. His hands slid under the hem of my shirt, teasingly grazing my waist as he kissed lower, sending shivers through my whole body.

Just as his lips reached my collarbone, the door burst open.

“Hey, have you seen my jean shorts?” Charlie asked casually, stepping inside without so much as a glance at us.

Matt groaned loudly, rolling off me and flopping onto his back. “Are you fucking kidding me?” he muttered, rubbing his hands down his face in frustration.

Completely unbothered by the tension in the room, Charlie rifled through a pile of clothes near my dresser. “They were here yesterday. I need them. We’re all going out, by the way, so Matt, you need to go home and get ready. We’re leaving in an hour.”

Matt shot me a look, his jaw tightening as he sat up. “Awesome,” he said dryly, pushing himself off the bed. He grabbed his shoes, muttering under his breath, “Perfect timing, as always.”

“Thanks, Charlie,” I said sarcastically as she left the room, holding up her shorts triumphantly.

“Oh, found them! - What?” she said, raising a brow. “It’s not my fault you two were in the middle of fucking.”

As the door shut behind her, I turned to Matt, who was now running a hand through his hair, clearly trying to calm down. “I’m gonna kill her,” I muttered, crossing my arms.

Matt leaned down, brushing a kiss to my forehead. “Save some of that anger for later,” he said with a wink. “I’ll see you in an hour.” Then, with one last glare toward the door Charlie had just exited, he walked out.

I flopped back onto the bed with a frustrated groan, already planning my revenge on Charlie for being the ultimate cock blocker.

After Matt left, I eventually pushed myself up, determined to focus on getting ready for the day.

First, I headed to the bathroom and turned on the shower, letting the room fill with steam. Stepping under the hot water, I felt the tension in my body start to melt away. I washed my hair with my favorite shampoo, the scent of vanilla and coconut filling the small space. After rinsing out the suds, I massaged the conditioner into my ends, leaving it to soak while I lathered up with body wash.

Once I stepped out of the shower, I wrapped myself in a plush towel and padded back to my room. Sitting at my vanity, I carefully went through my skincare routine. I cleansed, toned, and layered on moisturizer before gently dabbing under my eyes with cream. A quick spritz of hydrating mist finished the routine, leaving my skin glowing.

I brushed out my damp hair, deciding to leave it natural for the day. Slightly damp but drying quickly in the warm air. Satisfied, I moved to my closet to pick out an outfit.

After a few minutes of deliberation, I settled on a white flowing crop top with delicate ruffled edges. It tied at the front, leaving just enough skin exposed to feel sexy but still casual. I paired it with light-washed high-waisted loose jean shorts that hit right below my ass cheek, adding a touch of effortless style. For shoes, I opted for my high-top platform Converse, I wanted to look good for Matt.

I stood in front of the mirror for a final once-over. Grabbing my phone and a small crossbody bag, I headed downstairs, ready to see what they decided on doing today.

The doorbell rang, followed by the familiar chatter of voices, signaling the boys were here. I walked to the door and opened it to find Matt, Chris, and Nick standing there, all grinning like they were up to something. Matt’s eyes flicked to me, his eyes trailing my body as he took in my outfit.

“Hello Sweetheart,” he said, his voice low, but there was a warmth there that made my chest flutter.

“Let’s go fuck!,” I replied, whispering it in his ear.

“Cant-” He started but then was abruptly cut off.

Nick clapped his hands together as he looked around. “Alright, Y/N, here’s the deal. We’re filming a car video for the channel first. We are gonna drive around the streets of LA and do a Q&A, you know the drill. Then, we’ll decide what to do for the day and make it a vlog for everyone’s channels. We’ve been slacking on content, all of us.”

I raised an eyebrow. “A car video? Do I get to participate, or am I just sitting in the back awkwardly?”

“You’re in,” Chris said, slinging an arm around my shoulders. “You’ll be the wildcard. You always throw us off with your answers.”

I laughed, shrugging him off. “Fine.”

Nick turned to Matt. "Y/N get the front, and me, Chris, and Charlie will cram in the back."

I glanced at Matt, who smirked and shrugged. “Guess that’s settled, then.”

“You okay with that?” Chris asked, already heading toward the door.

“Yeah, fine by me,” I said, grabbing my phone and following them out. Matt gave me a little nudge on the way, his hand brushing against the small of my back.

We piled into Matt’s car, and true to Nick’s decree, I climbed into the front passenger seat while the other three squeezed into the back. Nick was already pulling out his camera to set up on the dashboard.

"Ok bitches," Nick said, angling the lens. “Matt, start driving. Y/N, you’re co-hosting this disaster with me.”

Matt chuckled, turning on the car. “You sure you want that? She might hijack the whole thing.”

"Exactly why she's co-hosting," Nick retorted.

As we pulled out of the driveway, Nick launched into his intro. “What’s up, everyone? We’re back with another car Q&A with questions from no other than you guys! But this time we are driving to a destination you will see in our next vlog, also we’ve got Y/N riding shotgun to keep Matt in check.”

“Not possible,” I joked, leaning back in my seat. “But I’ll do my best.”

“Alright, first fan question and I’ll ask Y/N, who’s more annoying when drunk, Matt or Chris?” Charlie asked, leaning over the seat to get in my face.

“Chris,” I answered without hesitation.

“Hey!” Chris protested.

“Sorry, but you’re like a toddler with unlimited energy,” I teased.

As the car Q&A began to heat up, the questions naturally shifted to some more personal topics. Nick, always the instigator, decided to dive into the juicier ones submitted by fans.

“Alright, this one’s for Charlie and Chris,” Nick announced, leaning forward from the very backseat of the minivan. “What’s your favorite thing about each other?”

Charlie blushed immediately, hiding her face behind her hands. “Why would you pick that one?”

“Because it’s adorable,” Nick replied. “Now, answer it.”

Chris didn’t miss a beat. “Her laugh. Hands down. It’s so fucking contagious and it makes me want to make her laugh all the time.”

“Aww,” everyone chorused, with Nick pretending to wipe a tear.

Charlie peeked up from her hands, still blushing. “Fine. My favorite thing about Chris is how he always knows when I need him. Like, no matter what’s going on, he’s always there, even when I don’t ask.”

The car erupted in more exaggerated "aww"s, with Matt rolling his eyes but smirking at the sweetness.

“Alright, moving on before we all throw up,” Nick teased. “This one’s for Matt and Y/N: What’s the best thing about spending time together?”

Matt’s hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel, but he stayed composed. “She makes everything more fun,” he said simply, glancing at me with a small smile.

I felt my cheeks heat up but managed to reply. “Matt’s... surprisingly thoughtful. Like, he pretends he’s all tough, but he’s got a big heart. He notices little things and makes you feel like you matter.”

The car went silent for a beat before Nick broke it with a loud, fake sniffle. “Look at you two, being all sweet. Love that for you.”

“Next question,” Matt grumbled, though his smirk gave him away.

Nick cleared his throat dramatically. “Okay, okay, serious question: Are you two actually dating, or is this just a fling?”

The air grew a little tense, but I laughed it off. “Who even submitted that? It’s none of their business.”

“True,” Nick agreed. “But for the record, you two act like an old married couple, so…”

Matt chuckled, shaking his head. “No comment.”

Chris leaned forward, chiming in. “Someone asked if Y/N only hangs out with Matt because he’s famous.”

The car fell silent for a moment, and I felt Matt tense beside me. “That’s stupid,” I said sharply. “I’ve known them since highschool… fame has nothing to do with it. Plus Charlie and I are pretty fucking famous ourselves, thank you very much.”

“Yeah, they are pretty fucking famous themselves!,” Matt added, his voice a pitch higher in mockery. 

The atmosphere lightened a little after that, but the questions kept rolling. Nick read another one, his grin widening. “Okay, back to the fun stuff: Charlie and Chris, who’s the better cook?”

The couple immediately started bickering, with Charlie insisting it was her and Chris arguing that his waffles were superior.

We wrapped up the video about thirty minutes later, filming enough content and answering enough questions for both our channels. 

“Oh shit,” Matt huffs. 

I turn my head over to him and hum in question. “Whats wrong?”

“We forgot to film an outro. Let me pull over and I can yell into the camera or something.” he sighs, flicking on his signal to turn into a small plaza parking lot. 

I nod, grabbing the camera from the dashboard and preparing it to film again when an idea hits me. 

“Hey, Matt?” I ask, playing with the settings on the camera. 

“Yeah, sweetheart?” 

“Remember how you used to kiss the camera goodbye at the end of videos?” I ask casually, clicking out the LCD screen and pressing record. 

“Yes?,” he ask confused as he puts the car in park and turns to look at me.

My grin widens as I lift the camera up, placing it on my forehead to face him almost as if it was a gopro. “Feeling nostalgic?” I giggle.

Matt laughs, looking between my lips and the camera before leaning in, one of his hands coming up to cup my cheek as our lips collide in a lighthearted and playful kiss. The both of us laugh into the kiss before Matt pulls back, looking directly into the camera then letting out a high pitched scream that left the lens foggy and humid. 

He brings his free hand up to the camera and presses the off button, gently grabbing it from my hands and putting it on the dashboard again. 

“How was that for nostalgic?” he whispers, face still close to mine. 

I laugh, pushing his forehead with my palm. “I’ve seen better,” 

“Oh really?” he gasps in faux offense. 

“Truly,” I nod sarcastically. 

“Yeah alright, sweetheart. We’ll see if you still think that later tonight.” he smirks, starting the car again and putting it back into drive. 

“Are yall done??” Nick butts in from the backseat but quickly interrupts himself with another thought. “You know what I could really go for right now? Some fucking bowling.”

“Bowling?” Matt asked, raising an eyebrow, pulling out of the parking lot and back onto the main road.

“Yep,” Nick confirmed. “Losers do something embarrassing. Y/N, you in?”

“Oh, I’m definitely in,” I said, grinning. “But you’re all going down.”

“Big talk for someone who barely knows the rules,” Matt teased, pulling back into the driveway.

“...I didn’t even know there were rules. That’s gonna be really embarrassing when you loose to someone who didn’t even know that much.” I shot back, earning a chuckle from him as we parked.

We all piled out of the car, the sun bright and warm as we joked and bickered our way into the bowling alley. I grabbed my camera from my bag, flipping it on to capture the camaraderie. “Alright, everyone, say hi to the vlog!” I said, pointing the lens toward the group.

Nick leaned in, throwing up a peace sign. “What’s up, Y/N and Charlie’s channel? Prepare to witness greatness.”

“You mean prepare to witness you eating my ass?” Chris chimed in, smirking.

Charlie elbowed him, giggling. “Oh, please. You’re all going down. Y/N and I are going to be a power duo.”

“Hey so Charlie , there aren’t any teams in bowling hope this helps.” I deadpan over to her as she looks at me without a single thought behind her eyes.

I turned the camera to Matt, who stood casually, arms crossed and a slight smirk on his face. “Got any words of wisdom for the vlog?” I asked as Matt opened the front door for me.

He leaned closer, his voice low and teasing. “Just make sure to capture my victory in 4K.”

“Oh, I will,” I shot back with a laugh, spinning the camera around to capture my triumphant grin.

We picked out shoes and debated over bowling balls, the smack talk already in full swing. “You know what they say,” Matt teased as he lined up his first shot, “Fuck bitches, get money, and go bowling.”

“Very funny,” I deadpanned, nudging him aside. “The only bitch you're gettin’ is bout to wipe the floor with your big ass cranium so step aside.” 

The game quickly turned competitive. Chris bowled a strike early on, and Charlie cheered so loudly the entire alley turned to look. “That’s my man!” she yelled, giving him an exaggerated high-five.

Nick, on the other hand, couldn’t stop laughing at his own gutter balls. “Maybe I should stick to bed rotting” he muttered after his third miss.

Matt was surprisingly good, earning strikes and spares with ease, but he wasn’t prepared for me. My first few rolls were mediocre at best, but by the halfway point, I’d found my groove. I bowled strike after strike, much to everyone’s shock—and my delight.

“You’ve been hustling us this whole time,” Matt accused, his eyes narrowing playfully.

“Maybe,” I said with a smirk, lining up my next shot. I rolled the ball down the lane and watched as all the pins clattered down. “Boom!” I spun around, throwing my arms up in victory. “What’s that? My balls in Matt’s mouth? Yeah that’s what I thought.”

Charlie laughed, leaning against Chris. “Yeah, clock that. We all know who wears the pants in that…” she pauses, looking between Matt and me multiple times before resuming. “Relationship?...” she cringes at the word.

 “Friendship!” she tries again, but grimices before giving up. “Fuck it. Only god knows what's going on between those whores…”

“Oh! okay!” I sang. “That's strike two! Not in bowling! You’re on thin ice!”

By the final frame, it was clear I was the winner. Matt groaned dramatically, rubbing his temples. “How is this fair? I was robbed.”

“Skill, my dear Matthew,” I said, patting his shoulder as I picked up the camera. “Let’s hear it for the champion!”

Chris clapped slowly, a grin tugging at his lips. “Alright, I’ll admit it—she earned it. Barely.”

“Barely?” I scoffed. “I crushed all of you.”

As we wrapped up and headed for the exit, Matt walked beside me, shaking his head. “I can’t believe you beat me.”

I glanced up at him, smiling. “You’ll live. Maybe next time you’ll step up your game.”

He chuckled, his hand brushing against mine. “We’ll see about that.”

Back in the car, I turned the camera back on, catching everyone’s tired but happy faces. “How does it feel to get your ass wiped by me?” I asked, spinning the camera toward Matt.

“Ha. Ha. Ha.” he looks at me with a straight face. 

Nick groaned from the back seat, leaning his head against the window. "Okay, okay. I lost. What’s my punishment?"

A wicked grin spread across my face as I turned the camera toward him. “Oh, don’t worry, Nick. We’ve got something special for you.”

“Be gentle,” he pleaded, his voice dripping with fake sorrow.

As soon as we got back to the house, we all piled inside, still buzzing from the night. I set the camera up on the kitchen counter, making sure it was angled perfectly to catch whatever ridiculous punishment we came up with.

Charlie clapped her hands together. “Alright, Nick. Since you came in dead last, your punishment is…” She paused for dramatic effect, looking at Chris. “Chris, what do you think?”

Chris smirked, clearly enjoying this a little too much. “I think Nick should have to walk through target in Y/N’s outfits.”

Nick’s face fell when Chris suggested he do his next punishment at Target. “Wait, you’re not serious,” he said, staring at me wide-eyed.

“Oh, I’m dead serious,” He replied, grinning. “You’ve got to wear the outfit I gave you all around Target. Just imagine the looks you'll get!”

Charlie, Me, and Matt were all snickering, clearly on board with the idea.

Nick’s eyes darted from one person to another, and his shoulders slumped in defeat. “Fine,” he muttered. “I’ll do it. But if I get kicked out of the store, I’m blaming all of you.”

Matt clapped him on the back, trying to suppress his laughter. “Hey, maybe a man twice your age with a mustache will think you look sexy.”

I grabbed my purse, and with everyone ready to go, we piled into the car. The entire ride to Target was filled with Nick grumbling about how he couldn’t believe he was about to make a fool of himself in public.

Once we arrived, we entered the store, with Nick wearing the bright pink skirt and crop top. His outfit drew stares from everyone, but he strutted confidently, as if he were walking the runway. People whispered and giggled, some even pointing, but Nick refused to back down. He just kept pushing forward, determined to complete the mission.

I pulled out my camera, filming everything. “Okay Rupaul Dragrace” I teased, capturing him on camera as he tried to act casual while pushing a cart through the aisles.

Nick shot me a look, his face flushed from embarrassment, but he held his head high. “You guys are so cruel.”

Charlie leaned into me, laughing so hard she nearly tripped over her own feet. “Bitch, this was your idea.”

We made our way through the aisles, stopping at random items just to make Nick pose awkwardly with them. He had to pick up random products and look like he was contemplating them seriously, which only made everything more ridiculous.

“Nick, can you try on the kid’s shoes? They’d go perfectly with your look,” Matt suggested, barely able to keep a straight face.

“Sure, why not?” Nick replied sarcastically. “It’s not like I’m already embarrassed enough.”

He shuffled over to the kids’ section, trying on the smallest pair of sneakers he could find and somehow managing to make it look like he belonged in them. It was absurd, and it was honestly one of the funniest things I’d ever seen.

I couldn’t stop laughing, holding my stomach as I filmed the whole thing. “You’re killing it, Nick. Keep going.”

We spent a good thirty minutes walking around the store, stopping for Nick to pose by random displays, and by the time we were ready to leave, he was still pretending to be unbothered, though we could all tell he was close to snapping.

“You’ve definitely earned your punishment points,” I said as we made our way to the checkout line, trying to stifle my giggles.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m definitely not losing again,” Nick grumbled, tossing his purchases onto the conveyor belt. “But next time, Y/N, I’m picking your punishment.”

“Deal,” I said, unable to stop laughing at the thought.

As we left the store, Nick walked out of Target like a true champ, still wearing the outfit like it was the most normal thing in the world. And even though he was clearly embarrassed, he managed to make it through the entire ordeal without turning into a total wreck.

“You’re a trooper, Nick,” I said, patting him on the back as we got back into the car. “You survived. You’re officially a legend.”

We pulled up to the triplets' house, the evening air cool and crisp as we got out of the car. Charlie and I exchanged a glance, a silent agreement passing between us before we turned to the guys. “Alright, you guys did enough today,” Charlie said with a grin. “We’re cooking dinner tonight. Italian, sound good?”

The triplets looked at each other, their eyes lighting up. “You guys are cooking?” Matt asked, raising an eyebrow. “This should be interesting.”

I smiled, nodding. “Yep, we’re taking over the kitchen. You’re all getting Italian tonight.”

The guys exchanged amused looks, clearly impressed but also a little wary of what we had planned. “Well, we’ll let you take the lead,” Nick said, giving a thumbs-up. “But if we’re eating burnt food, you’re on your own.”

With a laugh, Charlie and I headed inside, excited to work our magic in the kitchen while the guys settled in for the evening.

Charlie and I started preparing the Italian dinner. We decided to cook up some pasta, garlic bread, and a big salad. Charlie was chopping vegetables, while I was stirring the sauce on the stove, trying to perfect the flavor.

“Are you sure I’m not doing too much?” I asked, glancing at Charlie as she set the table.

She shook her head, grinning. “Nope. We’re doing this. It’s our turn to spoil them. Besides, they’ve been doing enough for us lately.”

I smiled, feeling a warmth spread through me. It felt nice, doing something for them. Once the food was ready, we set the table, and the guys came in, looking more than ready to eat.

Matt’s eyes lit up when he saw the pasta. “You guys seriously went all out. This looks amazing.”

“Don’t thank us just yet,” I said. “You have to eat it first.”

We all dug in, and I could see the satisfaction on everyone’s face as they took their first bites. Matt grabbed my hand across the table. “This is seriously the best thing I’ve eaten all week,” he said, his voice low but sincere.

Charlie was laughing as she reached for more garlic bread. “I told you we were good in the kitchen.”

We ate, joked, and laughed together, the room filled with a sense of ease. It felt like we were finally getting a bit of normalcy back after everything that had happened recently.

After dinner, we all sat around, chatting about everything and nothing. Nick, of course, had to make a joke about being the best chef, even though he had nothing to do with the cooking. It was nice to just be together, no drama, just friends and a good meal.

I felt a sense of peace in that moment, surrounded by laughter and warmth, knowing this was exactly where I wanted to be.

After the dinner, Matt gave me a quick tour of the triplets’ house since I’m the only one who’s never actually been there before. He started with Chris’s room, which was in the basement. It had this cool, cozy vibe—dim lighting, a comfy green couch, and walls lined with vintage posters. On his desk he had a little vanity mirror and small makeup bag with wipes for Charlie. Chris clearly liked his space, as it had everything he needed for unwinding after a long day.

We then headed upstairs, where Matt’s room was located. He gave me a playful grin as we walked down the hall. “This is my space,” he said, opening the door to reveal a room with dark colors, a huge king-size bed, and his desk with the streaming set up. I could tell it was Matt’s private sanctuary.

Next, Matt led me upstairs to Nick’s room, which was next to a loft area. Nick’s room was totally different from Matt’s—bright and energetic. The vibe in here was more playful, a perfect reflection of Nick’s personality. "Nick’s room is where all the tech magic happens," Matt joked, and I couldn’t help but smile at how different each of their rooms was.

Finally, we walked back downstairs into the living room and kitchen which I had gotten myself familiar with while cooking dinner. The living room was large and open, with a huge sectional couch and gaming consoles everywhere. The kitchen had modern appliances and an island with bar stools, where we could hang out whenever we wanted. "This is where we come to chill when we’re not annoying each other," Matt said, and I could tell he meant it.

After dinner and the tour, we all lounged around, enjoying each other’s company. The living room was dimly lit, the only light coming from the soft glow of the TV playing some random late-night show none of us were paying attention to. Charlie and Chris were curled up together on one end of the couch, her head resting on his chest while his arm lazily draped over her shoulders. Nick was passed out in the corner, snoring softly with a blanket half-draped over his legs.

And then there was Matt and me.

We were tangled together on the opposite end of the couch, his arm slung around my waist, pulling me snugly against his chest. My head rested on his shoulder, and I could feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing. His warmth, his scent—it was intoxicating.

The quiet murmur of the TV mixed with the occasional whispered laugh from Chris and Charlie, but my focus was entirely on Matt. He shifted slightly, his breath brushing against my ear as he leaned in closer.

“Are you ready?” he whispered, his voice low and rough, sending a shiver down my spine.

“Ready for what?” I murmured back, my heart racing as his fingers lightly trailed down my side.

His lips barely grazed the shell of my ear as he spoke. “To let me take out all that anger I’ve been saving.”

I swallowed hard, heat pooling in my stomach at the weight of his words. My breath hitched when his hand tightened on my waist, pulling me even closer.

“Matt,” I whispered, my voice trembling with a mix of anticipation and nervousness.

He tilted his head slightly, just enough for me to catch the wicked smirk on his lips. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? Not so sure of yourself now?”

I didn’t answer, my mind flashing back to earlier in the car— and what he said.

Matt shifted again, his lips brushing my ear as he whispered, “Let’s see if you still think there’s better.”

The challenge in his voice sent a spark through me, and I couldn’t stop the small gasp that escaped my lips. His fingers grazed my hip, his touch deliberate but teasing, just enough to make me crave more.

I turned my head slightly to meet his gaze, our faces so close I could feel the warmth of his breath. His eyes were dark, filled with an intensity that made my stomach flutter.

“Let’s go,” he murmured, his voice firm but quiet enough that the others wouldn’t hear.

I nodded, barely trusting myself to speak, and he stood up, pulling me with him. Chris and Charlie barely glanced our way, too wrapped up in their own little bubble, and Nick was still blissfully unconscious in the corner.

Matt’s hand slipped to the small of my back as he guided me down the hall, his touch searing through the thin fabric of my shirt. The door to his room clicked shut and locked behind us, and the air between us seemed to crackle with electricity.

He leaned against the door, his smirk returning as his eyes raked over me. “Still think you’ve seen better, sweetheart?”

I swallowed hard, my pulse pounding in my ears. “Maybe,” I said, my voice shaky but laced with challenge. “Why won’t you prove me wrong,”

He chuckled softly, pushing off the door and stepping closer. His smirk deepened as he closed the distance between us, his movements deliberate, like a predator closing in on its prey. My breath hitched as he stopped just inches away, his hands slipping into his pockets, casual but exuding that infuriating confidence.

“You’re sure you ready for that?” he asked, his voice low and rough, each word sending a shiver down my spine. His eyes never left mine, daring me to break first.

I tilted my chin up, trying to hold onto whatever shred of composure I had left. “It’s nothing I haven’t had before,” I said nonchalantly, shrugging.

Matt’s gaze darkened, his smirk softening into something more dangerous, more intoxicating. “I’m not the same guy I was four years ago, sweetheart,” he murmured, his hand lifting to gently tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. His touch lingered, fingers grazing my jaw before trailing down my neck.

“Good. His stroke game was weak. Maybe you’ll finally be able to make me cum now.” I shot back, my words bolder than I felt.

Matt’s eyes widened slightly at my boldness, but the shock melted into a dark, amused grin that made my knees feel like jelly. His hand stilled on my neck, his thumb tracing a deliberate, slow circle against my skin.

“That’s funny,” he said, his voice dropping to a rough, taunting whisper. “Because I remember you begging me to keep going. Said you couldn’t take any more, but there you were, falling apart under me anyway. Oh and how could I forget that giant mess you made all over our sheets that one time. Think I could make you do that again?”

My breath hitched, his words hitting like a physical blow to my pride and composure. He tilted his head, leaning closer, the smirk on his lips pure sin. “Sound familiar, sweetheart?”

I swallowed hard, refusing to back down, though my cheeks were burning. “Guess it’s easy to forget when it wasn’t exactly memorable.”

His grin widened, his other hand sliding to my waist and pulling me impossibly closer. “Oh, we’ll see about that,” he murmured, his lips grazing the corner of my mouth. “You’ve got a lot of smart things to say for someone who’s about to eat her words.”

I couldn’t stop the shiver that ran through me, his proximity, his touch, and that damn voice of his completely unraveling me. “Big talk for someone who might still disappoint,” I shot back, though my voice wasn’t nearly as steady as I wanted it to be.

He chuckled lowly, the sound vibrating against my chest. “You want me to prove you wrong?” he asked, his hand slipping lower, resting just on the curve of my hip. “Because once we start, sweetheart, I’m not stopping until I’ve made you forget every other man you’ve ever been with.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but the words died on my lips as his mouth brushed against mine—not a kiss, but a tease, a reminder of how close he was, how much control he had over the moment. His lips ghosted over mine again, his breath hot against my skin. “Tell me to stop,” he whispered, his tone daring me.

I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. Instead, I leaned in, closing the sliver of space between us and brushing my lips against his. It was all the confirmation he needed.

His grip on me tightened as he deepened the kiss, his lips firm but controlled, his movements deliberate and maddening. My fingers tangled in his shirt, pulling him closer, as if I could erase every inch of space between us.

When he pulled back just slightly, his lips still brushing against mine, he whispered, “That’s my girl.”

Without another word, he stepped back, his hand slipping into mine as he led me toward the bed. The tension was electric, the air between us thick with anticipation.

“Still think I’ve got something to prove?” he asked, his voice a soft, teasing growl as he 

He stopped just short of the edge, turning to face me, his hands sliding to my waist as he pulled me flush against him.

“Last chance,” he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous rasp. “Say the word, and I’ll stop.”

I looked up at him, my breath hitching as his eyes bore into mine, dark and intense. “I’m not stopping you,” I whispered, my voice trembling but resolute.

His lips twitched into that maddening smirk before he leaned down, capturing my mouth in a kiss that was anything but gentle. It was demanding, all-consuming, his hands gripping my hips as he pulled me even closer. I gasped against his lips, and he used the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue sliding against mine in a way that made my knees buckle.

Matt’s hands roamed, exploring with purpose. One hand slid up my back, tangling in my hair, while the other gripped my waist, keeping me grounded as he kissed me like he was trying to claim every piece of me. His teeth grazed my bottom lip, and I couldn’t stop the soft moan that escaped me.

“Already making noises for me,” he murmured against my lips, his tone laced with smug satisfaction. “Guess I don’t have much to prove, after all.”

“Shut up,” I breathed, tugging at his shirt, desperate to feel more. He chuckled, the sound low and dangerous, before pulling back just enough to tug his shirt over his head.

My eyes traveled over him, taking in the hard planes of his inked chest, the lines that led lower, disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans. He caught me looking and raised an eyebrow, his smirk growing. “Like what you see, sweetheart?”

I rolled my eyes, though my cheeks burned. “I’ve seen better,” I teased, throwing his own words back at him.

His grin turned predatory. “You’re gonna regret saying that,” he murmured, his voice dripping with promise. He moved forward, backing me up until my knees hit the edge of the bed. His hands slid to my thighs, guiding me down as he followed, his weight settling over me in a way that sent a thrill through my entire body.

His lips found mine again, the kiss deeper, hungrier this time. His hands explored, trailing over my sides, my hips, the curve of my waist. Every touch felt deliberate, calculated, like he was mapping me out, re-learning every inch of me.

I arched against him as his lips left mine, trailing down my jaw to the sensitive spot just below my ear. He lingered there, his teeth grazing my skin before his tongue soothed the bite. “Still think you’ve seen better?” he murmured, his voice rough against my skin.

“Matt,” I whispered, my voice shaky, pleading.

His lips curved into a smirk against my neck. “That’s what I thought.”

He didn’t rush, didn’t let me rush him. Every movement was slow, deliberate, as if he wanted to savor every moment, every reaction he pulled from me. His hands slid beneath my shirt, his fingers brushing against my bare skin, and I shivered under his touch.

“Let me hear you,” he murmured, his lips ghosting over my collarbone as his hands explored higher.

I couldn’t hold back the soft moan that escaped me, and he smiled against my skin, clearly satisfied. “Good girl.”

Matt’s hands slid higher under my shirt. He pulled back just enough to tug the fabric over my head, his eyes raking over me like I was the only thing that existed in the room.

“You’re so hot,” he murmured, his voice thick, almost reverent, as his fingers traced over my collarbone, down the curve of my waist, and settled on my hips. “Even better than I remembered.”

I couldn’t find words, couldn’t think straight with the way he was looking at me—like he was devouring me with his eyes, rememorizing every inch. He leaned down, his lips finding mine again, and the kiss was deeper, hungrier. His hands moved, gripping my hips again firmly as his weight pressed me into the mattress, grounding me and sending sparks shooting through my entire body.

“Matt,” I gasped against his lips, my voice trembling, and that was all the encouragement he needed.

His lips left mine, trailing a hot, deliberate path down my jaw to my neck, where he lingered, his teeth grazing over sensitive skin. I whimpered as he bit down gently, soothing the mark with his tongue before continuing lower. His lips danced over my collarbone, down to the curve of my chest, and I arched beneath him, my hands tangling in his hair as he worked his way down.

“Still think there’s better out there?” he asked, his voice low and rough, his breath hot against my skin.

I opened my mouth to respond, but all that came out was a soft moan as his hands gripped my waist, his thumbs pressing into the soft curve of my hips. His lips followed the path his hands had mapped, his touch firm but teasing, always just shy of where I wanted him most.

“Answer me, sweetheart,” he said, his tone dripping with smugness as he looked up at me, his smirk sending my heart into overdrive. “Because I don’t think you’ve got it in you to lie to me right now.”

“You’re infuriating,” I managed, my voice shaky but defiant.

“And yet,” he murmured, his hands sliding lower, his fingers brushing against the waistband of my shorts, “you can’t seem to get enough of me.”

“Prove it,” I challenged, though the trembling in my voice betrayed me.

Matt chuckled, a low, dangerous sound that sent heat pooling in my stomach. “Oh, I will,” he promised, his hands slipping beneath the fabric and pulling it down with agonizing slowness.

The cool air on my skin was a sharp contrast to his touch, and I shivered, my breath hitching as he leaned down again, his lips finding a new path across my hips. Every kiss, every touch was calculated, deliberate, like he was unraveling me piece by piece.

“You’re not ready for me,” he murmured against my skin, his voice low and teasing. “But don’t worry, sweetheart—I’ll take my time. You’ll forget everything else but me.”

Before he could even finish his sentence, his fingertips were on the buttons of my jean shorts, undoing them as if he had all the time in the world. His slender fingers unhooked them one at a time, his dead eyes looking up at me the entire time. 

“Lets get these off you, yeah?” he hums to himself as I raise my hips off the mattress slightly but enough for him to grab the hem of them and pull them down to my ankles— leaving me in nothing but my bra and underwear. 

As soon as my shorts hit the ground , his knees are quick to follow. He drops to the floor of the bed, grabbing my thighs with his hands and pulling me roughly to the edge.

I let out a quiet gasp of surprise as my body flew to the edge and i prop myself up on my elbows to look down at him. 

He looks up at me then drops his mouth to leg, his dead eyes heavy and half lidded. “Getting dejavu?” he says roughly against my inner thigh, placing soft kisses closer and closer to where I needed him.

I didn’t respond, I let my body do the talking when goosebumps rise across my thighs as his kisses travel closer and closer to my aching core. 

As soon as it looked like he was finally going to touch me, kiss me, do anything— he’d just trail his mouth back up towards my ankles that were resting over his shoulders.

“You’re such a fuckin’ tease, Matthew,” I whimper beneath him, at this point deperate for any sort of touch he was willing to give me.

“Let me make you feel good, baby” he hushes against my thigh, once more trailing his lips down to my clothed and untouched core.

Just as I was about to really start whining, i feel his fingers hook onto the waistband of my underwear, teasingly running his fingers acoss my lower abdomen. 

My body twitches at the slight touches, giving way to truly just how desperately and sickly I needed him. 

Matt licks his lips and runs his fingers across my skin one more time before finally reaching underneath and dragging them down my legs. It peeled off my core with a large string of arousal connecting my untouched cunt to my soaked panties.

“God,” Matt murmers under his breath, his gaze intense. I could feel him picking me apart with his eyes and it was causing a entire fire to ignite through my body. 

Before I could say anything, Matt removes a hand from my thigh and takes his pointer finger, spreading my folds. He groans outloud as he sees that I’m dripping in anticipation and clenching around air. 

I knew Matt wanted to eat me out, I mean, cmon. His nick name wasn’t “Matt the munch” for nothing. What I wasn’t expecting was for him to stand up, hook his fingers under your thighs again and flip you.

Within seconds your roles were reversed and Matt was sitting against the bed, head leaning back on the bed and looking up at the ceiling. And I was hovering on top of him, legs spread in a straddle, leaking cunt directly over his beautiful face. 

His hands come up and grab my hips, pushing me down with little to not force but enough to let me know what he wanted. 

I look down at him with hesitation and when our eyes meet, I nearly explode. His pupils were dilated so intently that there were almost no blue left. He licked his lips, eyes darting from my face to my core— waiting for my approval. 

And who am I to say no? 

The second Matt sensed me lowering onto his mouth, his hands tightened around my hips and pushed me onto his tongue with such force I had to grip the sheet to keep my balance. 

His tongue immediately found my clit and even after four years he remembered the exact rhythm that had me shaking. 

“Fuck Matt—” I moan, grabbing his hair and tugging lightly. 

The second his tongue left my clit and dove deep into me, I knew I was a goner and that I was not going to last long at all. 

It was almost embarrassing how quickly my body remembers everything about him— the curve of his nose that hit my clit just the right way every time i rocked my hips, the light scruff on his jaw that scratched against my thighs every time he’d move his mouth, the deep groans he’d let out that would vibrate through my body— everything. 

But the part that got me the most was the way he seemed to enjoy it just as much if not more than I did. 

I feel my juices leak down his chin, his tongue lapping up as much as he could, sucking on my folds, flicking my clit, and everything in between. 

He was eating me out not just like it was his last meal— no. he was eating me out as if he had never eaten anything before in his life. As if he had spent his life in purgatory and I was his first taste of freedom. 

As if it couldn’t get any better, his hands leave the deathlock they previously had on my thighs and when I opened my eyes to look down to see what he was doing, I nearly came there and then. 

Matt was so turned on from eating me out that he was fumbling with the belt buckle of his own pants, tugging them down to free his erection as if his life depended on it. 

At the sight of his strained cock spring out of his boxers, I couldn’t help but grind down extra hard on his mouth and tipping my head back, moaning out loud, not caring about how loud I am or that everyone was only a few hundred feet away in the room over. 

When I open my eyes again and look down, Matt had one fist around his cock, pumping up and down with immense speed. Before I had time to question where his other hand went, my questions were answered when I felt his pointer and middle finger sneak up next to his chin and prod against my entrance. 

My back arched as he slowly pushes one in and I pull on his hair so hard I feel his moan beneath me when he slips the second one in. 

“Fuck” I cry, begging to rock my hips against his hand, needing to feel something. “Please, Matt.”

Matt simply hums underneath me, still continuing to jerk himself off and eat me out. He slowly brings his fingers out and then pushes them back in, this time faster. 

“Oh fuck, keep going, please,” I beg, no longer caring enough about my pride. 

His fingers continue to pump in and out of me faster and faster. Even after four years he can tell when I was close based on how tightly I clamp down around him. 

“Fuck, right there!” I cry out, rocking harder and faster against his mouth and fingers, desperately chasing my high. 

He scissors his fingers inside me and my legs threaten to close. The way he applies just the right amount of pressure in just the right spot to makes my thighs begin to shake as I rapidly approach my orgasm.

I couldn’t respond, couldn’t do anything but hold onto him, my body trembling as his hands and tongue drove me closer to the edge of madness. He was in control, and he knew it, his every movement a reminder of just how much power he held over me.

“Matt,” I gasped, his name tumbling from my lips in a broken whisper, my fingers clutching desperately at his hair. My pulse thundered in my ears, the air thick and electric, every sense overwhelmed by him—his scent, his heat, the deep, dark tone of his voice as he murmured something I couldn’t even process.

He smirked against my skin, clearly satisfied by the way my body reacted to him, how every shiver, every soft sound I made, told him exactly what he needed to know. “That’s it,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, a command wrapped in velvet. “Let go for me.”

I was helpless against him, my body no longer mine as he pushed me further, higher, until I was teetering on the edge of something I couldn’t quite name. And then, with one final, deliberate move—his hand tightening, his lips pressing just right—it hit me like a tidal wave.

My entire body tensed, my breath catching in my throat as pleasure washed over me, sharp and overwhelming, crashing through me in waves that left me trembling, gasping for air. My fingers dug into his skin, my back arching as I gave in completely, every nerve alight, every thought replaced by the intensity of the moment.

I cry out, surly aleting not just the rest of the house but the entire fucking neighborhood at this point. “I’m cu— fuck — i’m cumin’, Matt”

“Thats it,” he murmured, his tone whiney and uneven and that's when I felt it— the way his body tensed under mine, his hands gripping my hips twice as tightly. I could feel his control slipping.

“Jesus, fuck ” he groaned against my core, his voice low and raw, like the sound was ripped from his chest. His mouth fell slack, his finger movements stuttering slightly as he buried his face deeper into my pussy.

The realization hit me as I felt the tremor run through him, his body shuddering against mine, his breath hot and uneven against me. He hadn’t even needed anything else—just me, just this. The way he’d completely unraveled me had been enough to push him over the edge too.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, like he couldn’t believe what had just happened. 

I was still trying to catch my breath, my body boneless on top of his face, but the warmth of his reaction sent a thrill through me. “Matt,” I murmured, my voice shaky but teasing. “Did you just—”

He slowly removed his hand from inside me, and brought it to his cock, jerking himself through the last bits of his orgasm with my cum coating his fingers. “You have no idea what you do to me, sweetheart,” he said, his voice rough but full of that maddening confidence.

I laughed weakly, leaning forward and resting my forehead against the mattress. “Guess I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Oh, it is,” he murmured. “Trust me.”

I collapsed on the bed in front of him, finally giving him space to breathe. He chuckled softly, standing up and climbing up on the bed with me, his arms wrapping around me as if to hold me steady.

Matt groaned softly, still holding me close as the aftermath of the moment settled between us. His fingers lazily traced circles on my back, his breathing finally slowing to match mine. 

“I hate to ruin this,” I murmured, my voice still slightly breathless, “but we should probably clean up.”

Matt chuckled, the sound low and rich as he kissed my forehead. “Yeah, we probably should. But I don’t know if I’m ready to let you go yet.”

I rolled my eyes, though a small smile tugged at my lips. “C’mon, Matt. You can hold me after we’re not sticking to each other.”

He groaned dramatically, finally sitting up and pulling me with him. “Fine. But only because I like you,” he teased, smirking as he picked up his shirt from the ground and offered it to me.

I slipped it on, the fabric hanging loose and smelling like him, and I couldn’t help but smile. “You’re just full of chivalry tonight.”

He raised an eyebrow as he grabbed a towel, tossing one to me with a playful smirk. “Don’t get used to it.”

We cleaned up quickly, despite neither of us really wanting to leave. Once we were both somewhat presentable, Matt ruffled his hair and grinned at me. “Ready to face the peanut gallery?”

“Not really,” I muttered, biting my lip. “But let’s get it over with.”

He laughed, slinging an arm around my shoulder as we walked back out to the living room. The scene was exactly as we’d left it—Nick still passed out in the corner, Chris lounging on the couch, and Charlie perched beside him, scrolling through her phone.

Except this time, Charlie’s head snapped up the moment she saw us, a wide, wicked grin spreading across her face. “Well, well, well,” she said, setting her phone down and crossing her arms. “Look who decided to join us.”

“Don’t start,” Matt warned, though the corners of his lips twitched.

Charlie ignored him, her gaze locking onto me. “Y/N, babe. Sweetheart. You okay? You were so loud, I was starting to think we’d need to send Chris in with a medic.”

My face went hot instantly, and I shoved Matt’s arm off my shoulder, glaring at her. “Charlie!”

“What?” she said, feigning innocence. “I’m just saying. Some of us were trying to watch TV, and all we could hear was—oh, Matt! Oh, my God! Right there!”

Chris burst out laughing, throwing an arm over her shoulder. “She’s not wrong.”

Matt smirked, clearly unbothered as he dropped onto the couch next to Nick. “Glad I could provide some entertainment.”

Charlie grinned, leaning forward and pointing at me. “And you, miss thing, need to hydrate after all that screaming. Go grab some water before you pass out.”

I groaned, burying my face in my hands. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” Charlie said with a laugh, tossing me a water bottle. “You love me. And honestly? You’re welcome.”

“For what?” I muttered, sitting down and cracking open the bottle.

“For being the best wingwoman ever,” she said with a wink. “You’re welcome, Matt.”

Matt raised his water bottle in a mock toast. “Appreciate it, Charlie.”

Chris groaned, leaning back. “I’ve gotta start charging for putting up with all this. I swear.”

Charlie grinned, resting her head on his shoulder. “You love us.”

Chris sighed, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Unfortunately.”

I sipped my water, my embarrassment fading as the playful energy filled the room. Maybe being called out wasn’t so bad—especially when I was surrounded by the people I loved most.

tag-

@tbfaptbfae @ch0llies @2muchofaslvt @rockstarchr1s @simply-a-simper @mattscore @watercolorskyy @urfungi @sturnsvelocity @mattsturnii @christmastreecake @izzylovesmatt @larnieboox88 @christophersstar @realuvrrr @namelesssav @matts-girlfriend

[novaursa]

The North Remembers Her (the future)

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

- Pairing: 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.

[stupidvillainousposts]

Ahh, more Werewolf Gene AU stuff

Stan would be terrible at teaching the pups how to be werewolves, I just know it

Stan: And then, once you've dropped the box in the hole, you turn around and bury it! Like you're playing a game of... uh... I dunno, would "Hide the Money" be considered a game?

Dipper: Grunkle Stan? Do we have to bury this money?

Stan: Kiddo, sometimes you have to bury an insane amount of money in the middle of the woods to make it in this crazy world.

Mabel, wagging her tail: Yeah, Dipper! We gotta beat the bank to the punch!

Dipper: The punch of what, though?

Stan: *Puts His Hands on the Kids' Shoulders* All the steaks and bones in the world.

Dipper and Mabel: Woooooow.

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

Dipper: Grunkle Stan? Grunkle Fidds?

Stan: Whaddup?

Fidds: Is somethin' wrong, honey?

Dipper: I mean... I wouldn't really say wrong, so much as... horribly terribly awful?

Stan, going tense: Dipper, what does that mean?

Dipper: Well... I may or may not have dared Mabel to blend a bunch of random food and toothpaste together and eat it all.

Fidds, completely exasperated: And why, pray tell, would ya do somethin' like that?

Dipper: She bit my ear too hard while we were playing...

Stan, relaxing slightly: Okay, so where exactly does the "horribly terribly awful" part come in?

Dipper: I think Mabel has food poisoning... werewolves don't have advanced immune systems, do we?

Stan: Not when we're eating things that would make Gordon Ramsay die on sight, we don't.

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

Mabel: Grunkle Stan? Why does Grunkle Fidds get so mad when me and Dipper accidentally pop his blood bags?

Stan: Well, those bags are the only thing keeping your Grunkle Fidds from going crazy and killing people, Pumpkin. He's gotta drink blood to survive, just like we've gotta eat meat.

Mabel: Okay, okay. Where does he get the blood from?

Stan: I think it's time we stopped talking for now.

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

Fidds, tucking Dipper into bed: G'night, Mason. Y'all have a good sleep.

Dipper: I'll sleep well when I figure out how to sleep without crushing my tail every time I sleep the wrong way.

Fidds: Aw, I'm sorry, hon. Would ya like me t' try and make ya somethin' t' sleep better?

Dipper: Nah, I'll just train my body to stay still like a log when I sleep. Then I'll be pain free!

Fidds: *Chuckles* Alright, Mason. Do what ya gotta do.

Stan, dragging Mabel into the room by her left leg: Comin' through with a stray! *Drops Mabel Onto Her Bed*

Mabel: *Squeals with Glee*

Stan, smirking: Alright, you. Sleep. Now.

Mabel: But Grunkle Stan! I'm not tired! *Passes Out Literally One Second Later*

Stan, to Dipper: Night, kid.

Dipper, trying not to laugh: Goodnight Grunkle Stan.

[goodqueenaly]

Considering the public version of Baelish and Sansa's situation, as in him being a doting father to his only child, albeit illegitimate, does it raise some perplexity among the Vale nobility that he wouldn't ask for a legitimisation? Alayne is his only child, he's unmarried at the moment, and any male heir he could have in the future would preceed her anyway. Or is legitimisation done exclusively in cases of emergency, aka when literally no other legitimate heir is available?

It’s worth emphasizing that legitimization is a relatively pretty rare process: of the dozens of acknowledged bastards we know of in the history of Westeros, only two (outside the blanket legitimization issued by Aegon IV on his deathbed) have ever been formally legitimized (three if you count Jon Snow, who was all but certainly legitimized by Robb’s will but whose legitimized status is not yet widely known in-universe). Importantly, in each of those cases - Ramsay Snow, the sons of Marilda of Hull, and Jon Snow - the legitimization came about specifically because the lord or king in question had no surviving legitimate son to inherit after him (at least officially - I very much believe Mushroom’s assertion that Corlys was the biological l father of Addam and Alyn of Hull). (Again, Aegon IV is the exception here - I don’t even think he was really trying to push Daemon as his alternative heir - but I believe Aegon’s move was a sort of final “fuck you” to the future King Daeron II, a last petty stab at the son he hated rather than a genuine politico-dynastic decision by the dying king.) Likewise, only Aegon IV ever chose to legitimize a daughter (and again, only in the context of a blanket legitimization); even Oberyn Martell, for example, who held out each of his daughters as his own far earlier than Littlefinger was supposed to have done for “Alayne” (and indeed, lived with the mother of his four youngest daughters as effectively a married couple in a nuclear family), never apparently sought to legitimize any of them. Nor indeed should it be forgotten how serious a process legitimization is: only a king can legitimize a bastardborn Westerosi, and once so legitimized, both that person and his (or her) descendants would be legitimate forever.

So far from the assembled aristocracy of the Vale finding it odd that Littlefinger would not be pressing for Sansa-as-Alayne to be legitimized, I think these aristocrats would be surprised, even shocked if Littlefinger tried to make his “daughter” legitimate by royal decree. After all, the public narrative about “Alayne Stone” is that Littlefinger didn’t even know of her existence until very recently - when “at [her] flowering [“Alayne”] decided [she] did not wish to be a septa and wrote to [Littlefinger]”. While Littlefinger might have publicly recognized Sansa-as-Alayne as his daughter, and treated her relatively well by Westerosi standards (remember, this is a world where Lord Hewett made his own extramarital daughter a house servant to his wife and their children), Alayne’s social position is at best a liminal one - able to act in some ways as the lady of the Arryn household, but in other ways (as Littlefinger, Myranda Royce, and Harry Hardyng all remind her) very much considered the inferior of her blue-blood neighbors. Moreover, I think many in the Vale would anticipate that Littlefinger - now Lord of Harrenhal in addition to being Lord Protector of the Vale and the richest thief man in Westeros - would marry and produce legitimate (male) heirs of his own; indeed, Myranda teases Sansa-as-Alayne on this point, remarking that Littlefinger “needs a pretty young wife to wash away his grief” and that he “could have his pick of half the noble maidens in the Vale” (including, as she later jokes to Sansa-as-Alayne in TWOW, Myranda herself). In turn, the idea that Littlefinger, having such standing, would choose to go through the significant effort of petitioning the king to elevate a bastard teenage girl as his heiress, when he himself could marry a suitably aristocratic bride and have a legitimate son of his body to succeed him, would so grossly contrast with the patriarchal and classist socio-political expectations of Westerosi aristocracy that I think the move would cause nothing but muttering and suspicion.

What Littlefinger wants to avoid most of all with Sansa-as-Alayne is undue attention being cast on her, at least until Littlefinger himself feels ready to reveal her as Sansa Stark. Indeed, this was the entire purpose of choosing a bastard disguise for Sansa in the first place: when Sansa suggests that she could portray herself as “the trueborn daughter of some knight in [his] service”, Littlefinger reminds her that “[s]uch a tale would draw unwanted questions”, while then noting that “[i]t is rude to pry into the origins of a man's natural children”. Therefore, Littlefinger’s treatment of Sansa has to fit within the socio-political expectations of Westerosi and specifically Vale aristocratic life - which is to say, not promoting bastards above their station (again, according to the rules imposed by the elites in this society). No one, I think, would expect, much less encourage, the rich and powerfully landed widower Littlefinger to hold out his bastardborn “daughter” as his heiress, still less to go through the process of legitimizing her; better, for Littlefinger’s scheme at least, to leave her as a recognized but still illegitimate child, and trust in polite society’s reluctance to pry further, rather than foster speculation by taking the unorthodox move of pressing for her legitimization.

[nobodysuspectsthebutterfly]

re: being unable to predict twow and maybe being upset it doesn't do what fandom wants it to, were there any things in adwd you remember being surprised by and that went against common fandom interpretation at the time? :3

I'm not quite sure what was common fandom interpretation at the time, since after I finished AFFC in 2005 I tried the westeros.org forums and was extremely repelled by them and their hate for my favorite characters - and indeed, most female characters - and avoided them thereafter. (And somehow I never thought to check the Livejournal communities at the time, alas, which would've been more up my alley.) I did devour worg's Citadel (their pre-wiki, including the So Spake Martin archive) and fanart collection though lol.

But of course I was still surprised by things in ADWD. Like, I had no expectation whatsoever that Bloodraven was still alive, let alone that he was the three-eyed crow. Or heck, that the children of the forest definitely exist and appear on page as actual characters! I did not expect a Varamyr prologue POV in the slightest, or his warg/skinchanger lore reveals. And I did not expect the Aegon reveal at all, though checking the SSMs afterwards (as well as this ancient pre-AFFC FAQ) showed me that some people had been wondering from day 1 if he had survived. And for that matter, Jon Connington's survival was surprising (at least my memory is very good, so the griffin thing and Tyrion's suspicions of him being a Westeros lord had me leaping back to Jaime's conversation with Ronnet), as well as Jon's POV (including his sexual orientation) and the greyscale thing. Oh man, the whole stone men scene was all new fascinating worldbuilding.

As for existing POVs and known plots, I certainly never expected Theon's state as Reek (tortured, yes, but not reduced to that, though I probably should have), or that he would be a POV again, or that I would find his narrative so heartwrenching or that he would become a favorite character. (From reading a bunch of pre-ADWD fanfics, I don't think the fandom expected Ramsay to be so abusive of Jeyne either, but for that I have no idea why.) I was surprised by Cersei's walk of shame, though I probably should have expected some sort of religion-based sexual humiliation. (Actually, I don't think most people expected the returning AFFC POVs because of the book split, though I'm glad GRRM chose to update us on some of its cliffhangers - like, at least Brienne is no longer hanging from a tree!) I did not expect Tyrion's POV and mental state to be so dark, but again, I probably should have. I also didn't expect him to link up with Jorah (I don't recall what I imagined Jorah to do in his exile but not that - maybe lurk around the fringes of Meereen?) or the slavery plot at all.

I think the fandom in general expected more... plot-advancement, I guess, more battles involving KL again, more movement of Dany towards Westeros, though they always have, lol. (There are ACOK-era theories that she'd come to Westeros right away, marry Robb and destroy the Lannisters together, etc.) I'm sure some expected Stannis conquering Winterfell and getting the Boltons out, though at least there they were mostly right, as the battle of ice (as well as the battle of fire) got cut from ADWD last minute. As for plot advancement expectations from me, I personally hoped that Marwyn would reach Dany in ADWD, though considering he leaves at the end of the last chapter of AFFC and the distances involved, I really should have known better. But I did expect to hear at least a little about Rickon, and Davos learning he's on Skagos (and getting sent to retrieve him) was a pleasant semi-resolution there.

Anyway, hope that helps! If/when we get TWOW, despite the fandom doing like 15 years of speculation and theories (not to mention the show), I'm sure there will be plenty of surprises, both positive ones and disappointments, as well as completely unexpected things.

[bookjonsadaily]

can you recommend some book jonsa fanfics? Not really that many on going in ao3

Hey anon!!!

Here are some more recs for you!!

the first are from nepobabyeurydice:

if you try to break me you will bleed by @dialux

time travel fic with Sansa, but it’s always the first fic I recommend to friends because the development of Jon and Sansa’s relationship from her holding all the cards, to him swearing herself to her, and then Sansa letting him see the whole deck is genuinely beautiful to read!

love exists in many forms by @dialux

In which Alayne Arryn, only daughter of Jon Arryn, commits suicide after her father dies in a failed attempt at rebellion, and her handmaiden, Sansa Stone, pretends to be her when faced with death. Sansa arrives at King’s Landing and finds herself betrothed to Prince Jon Targaryen; but their relationship is complicated by old secrets, new loves, and treason.

my head is bloody and unbowed by sadhippe

In which Robb’s baby survives, Sansa never marries Ramsay, and Jon is held captive at Dragonstone. Also more Tully’s and other Northern Conspiracy Faves!

and recs from visenyashill, who is going to do one of longer fic when they have the time and energy to actually read fic in a little bit, so these are mostly one shots-

in the midst of the ruins by iday

jonsa fic, post war for the dawn. while living out his days out of sight and out of mind, jon gets a raven from winterfell with only two words: "come home." so he does. brienne and podrick are also there. very cute, contained little story, and an older jonsa fic.

varg-hamr/wolfskin by undercovercaptain

this one gets rec-ed a lot but for good reason! a take on jon's ressurection and sansa as the girl in gray that i think is well done and also roughly what i predict will happen (leaving room for some crazy grrm-ness tho, obviously)

saw you in the snow by sleepingwithwolves

another girl in gray esque take but with bran coming to sansa in a weirwood dream as well as jon. i love this one a lot, i you will see i have a weakness for jonsa fic that features another starkling.

no smooth road by maybethrice

rickon pov where jon and sansa recall him from hiding on skagos when he’s twelve, to be the new lord of winterfell. it’s a “dany stops the long night” canon and i like it for delving into the difficult tie of the political situation.

ghosts by sansawolfbits

jon travels to the vale to meet with the lord protector and finds someone he didn't expect. very short but cute also myranda cameo.

i lost all signs so i got lost by tempisfugit

The five people who wanted Sansa for who she reminded them of and the one who just wanted her.

stealing by just_a_dram

jon steals sansa. this is the first jonsa fic i ever read and this author was super prolific with book canon jonsa in like....2016? ish? so if you're looking for book canon stuff, I would definitely start here!

a boy in his cups by greenhikingboots

a re-imagining of jon's first chapter in agot where he knows the truth of who he is and drunkenly proposes to sansa.

a stark in winterfell

it's not super romantic, more tortured than anything, about sansa needing an heir and seducing jon snow - and neither of them know about his true parentage.

[a-secret-bolton-vampire]

CW: Rape, incest, CSA

This is actually not a strictly A Song of Ice and Fire post here, but it overlaps in some ways so I figured I'd write this.

Anyone who has not read the web serials Worm or Ward and wishes to avoid spoilers, don't read this post:

Disclaimer out of the way, I've found striking parallels between fandom reaction for both A Song of Ice and Fire and Parahumans regarding how characters who survived sexual abuse view their abusers, in a dangerously disturbing way.

For this I'm going to specifically be using the examples of Aeron and Theon Greyjoy from A Song of Ice and Fire to compare and contrast to Victoria Dallon in Ward. All three were psychologically and sexually tormented by their abusers during the course of the series. Theon is a young adult by the time Ramsay gets his hands on him, but Aeron and Victoria were both children when they were molested by family members so they will be the main two characters to compare.

In the case of Euron and Aeron, there are a (sadly very vocal) minority who are ready to dismiss Euron's danger to others by specifically using Aeron's abuse against him. Sure, Euron is evil and horrifically abused him and Urrigon when they were children, and it is understandable that Aeron would be mortified of Euron. After all, he tries to warn people about Euron repeatedly, only for his attempts to stop him to all fail.

The response by this section of the fandom to claims of Euron being built up as a major threat are essentially that Aeron's trauma is in the way of his ability to perceive Euron objectively. Is Euron actually as dangerous as Aeron claims? You can say the same for Theon and Ramsay. After all, Theon is half-mad warning Stannis about Ramsay, and Stannis is bringing some Rational Realness to the forefront by saying "what do I have to fear him for?"

Since GRRM is never releasing another A Song of Ice and Fire book it's hard to say what he intends but he could definitely intend for this to be the case. That said, there is a story featuring a similar character that is completed. Ward!

Victoria Dallon's sister, Amy, is a cape with healing abilities, though as the series progresses we know that healing is just the tip of the iceberg; she can change the biological makeup of living things. Amy is adopted, and has never felt any love from anyone other than Victoria. Amy develops deep romantic love for her sister, however, and then begins a series of bad decisions that just serve to deepen her already deep mental breakdown.

Amy proceeds to; alter Victoria's brain chemistry to give her compulsive romantic thoughts about her, then following healing Victoria after a battle, she spends several days alone with her, during which she repeatedly rapes her, erases her memories of said rapes, until her mental health deteriorates even further and she is unable to use her power properly and turns Victoria into the Wretch: a mass of flesh and limbs and heads, rather than anything actually human.

Then Victoria spends 2 years in a mental institution, stuck in a body she hates, all the while fighting the compulsions Amy left in place. When she finally returns Victoria to normal at the end of Worm, it is actually against her will and not because she had a change of heart or got more confident.

Then we get to Ward, where Victoria is the main POV. As is very obvious, Victoria is struggling with extremely intense PTSD, mentioning Amy is enough to trigger a dissociative flashback, and she wants absolutely nothing to do with her anymore: and fucking rightfully so.

Victoria also warns people about Amy. She warns her therapist to try to reach out to Amy before she hurts someone else, she warns literally anyone who will listen about Amy and what she might end up doing. We may not know what it is that Ramsay and Euron end up doing, but we do know what Amy does.

She refuses all help and doubles down on bad decisions, enslaves people with her powers, later imprisons and torments and touches Victoria again against her will, and becomes the dictatorial monster in charge of an entire planet. Victoria's warnings prove to be extremely prophetic and extremely real.

Now lets get into some discourse shall we?

Despite Amy being a rapist who rapes her sister, enslaves others via mind control, and literally never once improving as a person or acknowledging that her actions even caused harm, there are still those who think Amy isn't at fault. Some might find this post, but I don't really care. Amy is at fault for things Amy did. Victoria is not at fault for hugging her sister like a normal human being when Amy is upset, Amy didn't do her a favour healing her because then she just raped her and then really couldn't fix her back to a human body, and Amy isn't absolved of these sins because she healed a lot of people.

Essentially, Victoria is sometimes blamed for being raped by her sister, the rapist, despite Amy canonically being a manipulative lying liar rapist.

Okay so that doesn't seem to related to what the fandom says with Euron and Ramsay, right? After all, we don't really blame Aeron for being molested and Theon for also being sexually tortured and abused by Ramsay, do we? There are factors as to why that is (mostly that Aeron and Theon are men and Victoria is a woman; if you don't buy this argument look at people who say Cersei deserved to be sexually assaulted by Robert or try to use "the times" as an excuse to overlook Daenerys also being raped by Drogo) but there is an overlap here.

Amy being able to get away with that she did only to go on and hurt so many other people is a meta-commentary on the way survivors of sexual abuse are disbelieved or blamed for what happened to them. Naturally, those real like abusers end up going to abuse other people too. Fuck, even in the fandom, Victoria is still fucking blamed for things that she had absolutely no choice in the matter.

Which leads back to Theon and Aeron. Yes, trauma impacts the way you remember traumatic events, and that means objectivity can get lost at times. It can for Victoria and Theon and Aeron. But that trauma, the dissociation, memory problems, all of these together, are there for a reason. And that's because someone came along, ruined another persons life for their own pleasure and satisfaction, and then got away with it.

Victoria warned the world about what Amy would do, and she was unfortunately correct. Theon and Aeron warned others about Ramsay and Euron. Survivors should be believed, and not be dismissed. After all, it isn't our fault that we got abused. People may hear things about Euron or Amy or Ramsay, but the people who truly know who they are---what they are capable of, what they are actually like---are the people they abused.

So yeah, it's kinda fucking lame when I hear someone go "Stannis gonna prove Theon wrong with facts and logic" as if he doesn't, I don't know, have insight into Ramsay's psychology in ways Stannis doesn't. Same with Euron. Same with Amy.

Also fucking read Ward it hurts as intensely as it kicks ass.

[axelsagewrites]

Can I request a another Ramsey x Freader we’re the reader is a servant and hates Ramsey and the two of them don’t get along and verbally fight with each other until one day Ramsey comes up with a solution by letting her have a brief moment of control over him or so she thinks and then he suddenly turns the tables on her and takes all the control back ?

and as usual can there be smut? :)

Ramsay Bolton*Servant

Pairing: Ramsay x f!reader

Word count: 3531

Warnings: teasing, Ramsay being Ramsay, f!recieving oral, face sitting/riding, soft dom reader, hard dom ramsay, marking, p in v sex, nipple play, light choking think that’s everything angst smut 18+

Masterlist here

You hated him and who could blame you? Before the Boltons took Winterfell you had met Ramsay on a couple of occasions when his father would bring him. You were a mere baker’s daughter, and he was just a bastard. Ramsay was ignored by most of the true born children and even the starks bastard did not take kindly to his fellow snow. The few times he came to Winterfell he sulked off to the kitchens, swiping food off the counter resulting in you chasing him around the castle, demanding he give the bread back.

While you scawbled at times you never hated the boy. He was only a year older than you and there was even a point you wondered if he could be more than a friend however the last time you saw him you had got in a fight. He had lashed out at you and now you couldn’t even remember why. All you remembered was when you yelled back Roose Boltons hard hand came down across your cheek, accosting your father to train you better. That was the last time you saw Ramsay.

Or so you thought until his father strode in Winterfell on horseback with Lannister soldiers riding behind him. It had already hard enough being a servant under the Greyjoy’s especially since not long before Theon left with Robb you had harshly rejected his drunken advances. However, Rooses presence did not settle you any less than his sons.

When Ramsay finally arrived at Winterfell he barely glanced towards his new squad of servants unless to bully and berate them. Lordship did not suit him well you thought. You resented him and everything he stood for. How could someone who could barely hold a wooden stick last time you saw him be in charge of the house you had called home since before you were born?

While all your fellow servants were just trying to survive you had given up. There was no stark nor snow to protect you or loyalty for anyone anymore. You did your jobs when asked and left when told. Despite Ramsay never greeting you or even using your name he had selected you as one of his main four to tend to his chambers and needs.

“you missed a spot,” Ramsay drawled as you went to pick up the mop bucket to leave. He never even looked up from his book to say it.

“where?” You asked, your expression blank as the idea of dinner was the only one on your mind. Ramsay looked up from his book for only a moment with a surprised look on his face before he pointed to a spot beside the fireplace.

You rolled your eyes, quickly moving to the spot and dumping the mop down on it before bringing it back into the bucket you had to carry down all the stairs before you could even think of eating. “happy my lord?” You asked.

“it’s still wet,” Ramsay said as he sat his book down, a scowl marked on his face.

“the fire is hot my lord,”

“I know the fire is hot,”

“then you know it will dry,”

“I want it dry now,”

“then wait a few minutes,” you said, narrowing your eyes, “goodnight my lord. I shall see you in the morrow,” you said before stalking off to leave his chambers, not bother to mop the splashes from the bucket that spilt in your haste. Ramsay stared after you as the chamber door clunked shut, shaking his head lightly but there was a vague smile on his lips.

You wished this had been a onetime occurrence but as the days and weeks went by Ramsay made it his mission to point out any missed spot, lose thread, untucked sheet that he could find. The longer he continued the harsher your snap backs became.

As you finished drawing his bath your head snapped up at the sound of fabric hitting the ground. You turned to see Ramsay stripping out of his tunic and tossing it to just beside where his dirty sheets were waiting for you to collect. “what do you think you’re doing?” You asked, venom dripping off your tongue.

“getting ready to bathe?” He said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, “unless you would rather assist me,” he said making you roll your eyes as you finished setting his bath.

“not even in your dreams,” you said as you stood up straight, hands on hips. “that’s not my job,”

“your job,” Ramsay said as he stripped off his under shirt, tossing it right at you. You didn’t even attempt to catch it, letting it fall into the hot water. “is whatever I say it is. Whether that be to change my sheets, undress me, or bathe me in that bath you just lovingly drew,” he said with his sweetest smile he could muster. “understood?”

While you were secretly enjoying the view of a shirtless, and surprisingly toned Ramsay, you wanted to punch that pretty face. You looked down at the ground for a moment, praying for strength not to drown this man as you walked out from behind the bath, slowly walking up to him. “if you dare take your breeches off while I am in this room,” you said as you noticed his fingers on his laces, “or try make me bathe you I will cut your cock off,” you said, less than a foot from the new lord, “and make you choke on it. Understood?” You spoke.

Ramsay let you both stew in the silence for a moment but when you saw his eyes glance down at your heavy chest you scoffed and strode off to his chamber door, “I take my leave my lord,”

“I did not dismiss you,” Ramsay called after you, loving the sight of you walking away as your hips swayed.

You ignored the washing you were supposed to collect and ripped open the chamber door, “I did not ask to be dismissed,” you scoffed before slamming the door behind you. Or as much as you could that is. Ramsay chuckled as the door closed. He had plans for you yet.

You were sat in the servants’ quarters eating your morning meal as you gossiped with one of your friends sara when Layla approached the table making your whisper hush, “his lordships sent for you,” Layla said as she dropped in the seat beside you with her own meal.

“no,” you groaned, flinging your head back, “I don’t do him in the mornings remember that’s you and Amy’s time,”

Layla rolled her eyes as she began eating her meal, “be that as it may I showed up and he practically told me to fuck off and fetch you. So, fetch,”

“I’m not a dog,” you said as you shoved the last of your food down before standing.

Sara smirked at you as she took your leftovers, “then don’t act like a bitch,” you hummed in annoyance at her, knowing if she didn’t have the best dirt in the castle you’d never speak to her again.

When you arrived at Ramsay’s chambers you opened the door without knocking, a hand still on the handle as you waited instruction, “what is it my lord?” Ramsay was sitting in a chair by his window overlooking the courtyards. His eyes lazily turned to you as you noticed he’d yet to finish getting ready. If he was going to try make you shave his stubble you wondered if you’d slip and nick his throat, “not a morning person, are we?” He chuckled as he beckoned you to come in, “close the door love, I’m getting a chill,”

“don’t call me that,” you said as you shut the chamber door behind you.

“I can call you whatever I want,” Ramsay said as he stood from his chair, “and there’s nothing you can do about it. You hate that don’t you?” Ramsay smirked as he slowly began to cross the room, “that here I am, just some bastard son who now practically runs this place,”

“you’re not lord of Winterfell,” you scoffed at the Ramsay who still wore that cocky smirk. He hadn’t been so cocky before you remembered.

“yet,” Ramsay said, now only inches from you, “and here you are. Still just some servant girl- “

“im more than just a servant,”

“are you?” He asked, brushing your hair over your shoulder, leaning his head down to have his breath fan across your chest, “I could do anything I want to you right now and no one would even try stop me,”

“I would,” you said, standing as proud as you could as you glared at the man despite the weird lightness in your stomach. Gods what was wrong with you, you wondered. “you shouldn’t underestimate me,”

“underestimate you?” Ramsay laughed, finally stepping back and slowly pacing the room, “no, no love that’s where you’re wrong. I think you’re the bravest person in this castle. You’re the only one left with any fire,” he said, a spark tinkling in his eye.

“there is no fire in my blood. Only ice,” you said, watching as he slowly began circling you like a lion and his prey.

“they tell us northerners are stubborn,” Ramsay said, his eyes raking your body, “I wonder which one of us will win out,” he said before stopping behind you. He placed his hands on your shoulders, and you shrugged them off only for him to wrap them around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest as you tried to shove off his arms. His archery had done wonders for his muscles but that was not what you were supposed to be thinking of right now, “I have a proposition for you,”

“you said it yourself,” you said, groaning when you couldn’t shove his arms off, “I have no choice but to serve,”

Ramsay laughed, his chuckle vibrating against your spine, “normally I would agree but this time I will give you a choice. For once I will let you lead the charge, make the decisions,” he said, his nose nuzzling your ear, “in these chambers I will let you do whatever you want to me, to use me how you please,”

“you may not walk out here alive my lord,” you spat despite sudden ideas rushing to your head.

Ramsay chuckled again, wrapping his arms around you tighter, “there is a catch love,” he said, kissing behind your ear gently, “you cannot harm me. Cannot raise a weapon to me. Cannot kill me. But you can use me to satisfy any of your other needs,”

“please,” you scoffed, mocking offence to his suggestion, “you would be so lucky for me to use you,”

You gasped when Ramsay suddenly flipped you around, your chest now pressed into his and his hot breath fanning your face, his lips only an inch away, “don’t you want to feel in control for once? To order me around for once? Maybe this way you won’t be so defiant if you weren’t so tense,”

“you think fucking me will make me listen to you?” You spat your words at him, but Ramsay did not flinch at your venom as he held you close by your wrists, “who says I even want to sleep with you?”

Ramsay leant his head down closer, his lips brushing against yours, “now that I just don’t believe darling,” he said as if scolding a child, “it is wrong to lie to your lord,”

“no wronger for me to sleep with a man I have not wed,” you countered as Ramsay moved one of his hands to the small of your back, “besides I know you won’t listen to what I tell you to do,”

“I will,” he lied, “promise,” he never planned to keep it. You knew it, he knew it, the birds knew it, but that smirk on his face was making you had drunk on the idea.

“get on your knees,” you said, testing out his word. Ramsay dropped to his knees slowly, allowing his face to brush against your breasts before finally sinking to his knees, his hands resting on the backs of your knees.

“now what my lady?” He asked, kissing your knee over the fabric of your dress.

You paused for a moment; your breathing heavy as you considered your options. Ramsay’s hands slipped under your dress, slowly tracing up your calves to your lower thighs when you suddenly reached out, grabbing his hair by your hand. “I didn’t say touch me,” you said, stepping back from him slightly, “lay on the bed,”

“yes, my lady,” Ramsay said, standing as slowly as he had gone down this time his eyes glued to yours. Once he was finally stood, he lingered a moment his lips brushing yours before he turned away and stalked off to the bed. He fell into the middle of it, raising his torso up as he leaned on his elbows to look at you, “now what?”

“take off your breeches,” you said as you slowly approached the bed, leaning against the poster post to watch as he rid himself of fabric, “you listen better than I expected,” you said, a slight smirk on your lips.

“I can be good,” Ramsay said, laying back down after he tossed his last layer away leaving him bare in front of you, “when I want to,” he finished as he looked at you. You took a moment of silence to scan his frame. His stomach was toned, the ghost of abs pocking through. His arms even not flex you could tell were strong. Your eyes grazed down his body, landing on the sight of his cock. It was already hard, waiting for instruction, and red at the tip as if it was waiting for you.

You moved to sit on the edge of the bed, running your hand gently down his chest to his abs, down to his pelvis and finally trailing a finger up his manhood. You smiled when you saw him shudder at your touch. You took his cock in your hand, pumping it painfully slowly as you moved to kneel above his legs. Ramsay groaned when your hand fell away but his eyes lit up as he watched you slowly unlace your dress, discarding your own clothing one piece slowly at a time. He couldn’t rush you, not yet at least.

“anything I say?” You asked, leaning down till you could place a soft kiss to his chest.

Ramsay took the moment to appreciate the view of your ass before answering, “anything you say,”

You leant up, placing your hand on his chest as you moved up his body. For a moment Ramsay’s cock twitched, thinking in its excitement he would already receive your cunt, but he was not disappointed when you continued up his body till your already wet cunt was hovering his face. “You gonna be good for me?” You asked, reaching down to stroke his hair.

“yes, my lady,” Ramsay said, the warmth of his breath on your cunt making you shiver, “let me be good,” he said as his hands moved to gently hold your thighs, lowering you closer to his face.

Your hands took a hold of the headboard, lowering your body down the final inch till you felt Ramsay’s tongue gently lick up your folds. Ramsay held your thighs tightly, his fingers digging into flesh, as his tongue began to lap up your juices making you moan above him which only seemed to spear him on. You gasped when you felt his nose begin to nuzzle your clit.

You allowed yourself to be free as Ramsay’s tongue worked its wonders like a hungry dog. Your moans fell freely as you felt your body begin to tighten. Your hands reached up to play with your nipples over your shift, already being heard from the cold air. You could feel Ramsay’s smirk, his chuckle vibrating up your core as your body began to tense but you did not care as the pleasure bubbled and you began to ride his face, his nose perfectly rubbing your clit. You felt your legs turn to water as you rode out your orgasm on his tongue but did your best to remain steady as you dismounted him, moving back down to kneel over him just below his cock.

“someone looks happy,” Ramsay smirked as you caught your breath.

“shut up,” you snapped, taking his cock suddenly in your hand. Even Ramsay did not wish to test you when you held something so dear to him, “or you won’t like the outcome,” you said, slowly pumping his cock.

You shifted your body up, your cunt now above his cock. You slowly rubbed his tip up and down your folds making Ramsay groan, “be patient,” you are scolding with a smirk, “after all this was your idea,” you said, slowly sinking down onto his tip making Ramsay’s eyes screw shut in pleasure, “look at you,” you smirked down at him, “so desperate for me. Bet this is all you’ve been thinking of,” you said as you finally sunk all the way down, his cock now stretching you out to the fullest.

You placed your arms on his chest to steady yourself as you slowly began to grind your hips. Ramsay’s hips began to buck, desperate to speed the pace. You just tutted as your hand moved to hold his hip down, “nuh uh,” you scolded as you began to get lost in the pleasure as your own movements sped up but still not to his liking.

Ramsay growled and before you could stop him, he had grabbed your wrists, flipping you onto your back with your wrists pinned above your head with one hand, his cock still sheathed inside. Your eyes were wide as you stared up at him at a loss for words, “c’mon love,” Ramsay said as he slowly began to pull out, “you couldn’t possibly think you’re in charge,” he said before suddenly thrusting back in making you gasp, “how could you expect me to resist this,” he said, his deep slow thrusts continuing, knocking the wind out of you each time.

“such a pretty girl,” he said as he thrust in again, enjoying watching how your tits bounced, “shame you’ve got such a filthy mouth,” Ramsay said as he grabbed your jaw, sticking his thumb in your mouth to keep it open, “I think I need to teach you a lesson you see,” Ramsay said as his thrusts began to increase, the headboard slamming against the wall with each thrust, “that im the one in charge. Who’s in charge?” He asked, his lips moving to suck harsh hickeys onto your neck, moving his thumb to allow you to speak.

“you are,” you said but it came out as more of a moan. You hated him, you knew you did, you knew this was wrong, but gods how can something so wrong feel so good? “you are my lord,” you said as you wrapped your legs around his hips, allowing him to go deeper and making Ramsay groan and curse under his breath.

Ramsay let go of your jaw but only to hold your throat, squeezing the sides gently at first as you began to go lightheaded from a mixture of pleasure and pain as he left bites along your collarbone. This new position also allowed his pelvis to rub against your clit which only made your cunt tighten around his cock even more. “this is what happens when you talk back,” Ramsay grunted, his hand moving from your throat to squeeze at your breasts, pinching your nipples harshly.

“then I shall talk back more often,” you said but it was mixed with gasps and moans. You moaned even louder when your words seemed to speed up Ramsay’s pace. You couldn’t stop yourself from enjoying it even less so when you felt your body tightening, another wave of pleasure rushing over you, but Ramsay was not done yet.

You felt your body twitching, your legs staring to slip from his waist as you came down from your high, “not yet,” Ramsay grunted, shoving your legs back around his waist, “im not done with you yet,” he groaned, his head falling into the crook of your neck while his hand slipped between your body to rub sloppy circles on your sensitive clit.

You could feel Ramsay’s cock twitching inside you, but he was determined for one more show out of you and it was not hard for him to get it as he bit down on your skin one last time. Your moan was louder than all the rest as you came for the third time and finally Ramsay could no longer control himself as he grabbed the headboard to steady himself before fucking you full of his seed.

Ramsay was panting as he fell in bed beside you, both of you staring at the ceiling in silence as you caught your breath. You did not know where to go from here, but you knew one thing; you were defiantly a morning person now.

Taglist: @clairacassidy @valeskafics @nyotamalfoy

[arte072]

"Sansa bullied Arya? Oh so you think she's worse than Tywin Lannister, Gregor Clegane and Ramsay Bolton??" is such a hyperbolic, insincere and ultimately non-existent argument. Literally name one person who says this shit with any sort of sincerity, if at all lol

This is up there with "Talking about Arya's importance to the North means you think Jeyne Poole's life doesn't matter!!!" in terms of disningenous talking points.

It's only ever used to shut down any attempts at considering Arya's feelings and well-being when discussing the girls' relationship.

and no offense, but why are 🫵 YOU🫵 equating the acknowledgement of a fictional child's flaws with calling her a war criminal? why are you treating it like that?? 👀👀👀

I mean, this fandom regularly says Arya lacks morality for surviving war zones with violence. They consider her a walking tragedy whose story is about losing her humanity and becoming the ultimate killing machine. Everyday Dany gets called a N@zi Barbie for not abolishing slavery perfectly. But Sansa gets clocked as a mean girl bully in the first book and y'all fall apart at the seams at that?? C'mon now

[watarfallar]

Sxthee, I bring you more desert duo snacks!

Scar: I can't believe there's a cat somewhere in my house. Amazing feeling. Love cats. And he's here, in my house! Somewhere! And I may encounter him! What a treat.

Scar: We either die free, or die trying! Grian: Are those the only choices?

Grian: To everyone who has treated me poorly; I am sexier than you.

Scar: *Stands in trash can.* Grian: Scar, not again! You're not trash, you're at least recycling!

Scar: Did you like the food I made? Grian: No, not really. Scar: But I put my heart and soul into it! Grian: No wonder it tastes so cold and dead.

Grian: I am so cool. I am an absolute Chad. I am the epitome of coolness and awesomeness— Scar: Hi. Grian: *melts down in a flustered heap of softness*

Scar: We vegetarians love the environment. Carnivores are sick freaks. Grian: How can vegetarians possibly love the environment.. you keep eating all the fucking plants.

Scar: Be kind. Everyone is fighting their own battles. Grian: Why would I be kind? I will be brutal and relentless and ride into battle by their side!

Scar: If I run and leap at Grian, they will most certainly catch me in their arms. Scar, running towards Grian: Coming in! Grian: No! I’m holding coffee! Grian: *Drops coffee and catches Scar*

Grian, holding a scooter: Scar! Can I go outside and play with this? Scar: Sure, whatever. I'm not your parent, okay? Grian, running outside: Thanks Scar! Scar, running out after them and screaming: NOT ON THE STREET! STAY AWAY!

Grian, clearly drunk: Scar, hit me another drink… wooOO HOOoo… Scar: I think you need a therapist and not a bottle. Grian: I think yooOOoou need to shuUT YOUR MOUTH!

Scar: Wow. I keep stepping on a lot of crunchy twigs. Grian: Those are bones, Scar. Scar: *looks straight up* Not if I never look down.

Grian: Jellyfish have survived for 600,000 years without brains… Scar: A ray of hope for me!

*The squad has just arrived in a new city. Scar looks around at the wanted posters to see if they’re on any of them.* Grian: Scar, are you a criminal? Scar: Not here, I’m not!

Scar: I am literally evil incarnate. Scar: I’m not actually, I just enjoy being evil. Scar: Which I think actually makes it even more evil because I’m making a conscious effort.

Scar: Cause your pretty and your smart, and your ignoring me so your obviously my type. Grian, who was distracted: I'm sorry- what were you saying? Scar: Perfect.

Grian: My future partner must be brave, strong, intelligent, successful and organized. Scar: *steps on a caterpillar and proceeds to drop to their knees and sob while apologizing profusely* Grian: That one. I want that one.

Grian: Scar, I… Grian: I love you! Scar: Not my problem.

Scar: You look good in that hoodie. Grian: You know where else I'd look good? Scar, zero hesitation: My bed. Grian, at the same time: By your side- wait, what?

Grian: How do I tell Scar that I want them to yell at me like they're Gordon Ramsay and I'm a poor little chef who just ruined a crème brûlée?

[visenyaism]

You think Theon is getting out of everything alive? I am absolutely desperate for a Theon survival even though tbh I don't think it looks very good for him

that’s one of the ones i do not really doubt. all of balon greyjoy’s sons died and he lived. he spent his entire childhood thinking he could be killed at any minute for something that wasn’t his fault and he lived. he turned his cloak and burned winterfell and killed his kin and he lived. he survived ramsay and he wanted to die every day and he jumped off the walls of winterfell with jeyne and he lived. the person he thinks he should have died with is gone. now he has to live.

[novaursa]

The North Remembers Her (survival)

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

- Pairing: stark!reader/Ramsay Bolton

- Note: Some events don't match the canon from the books.

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

- Previous part: to prove something

- Next part: the future

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

The halls of the Dreadfort stretch endlessly before you. Reek shuffles ahead of you, his shoulders hunched and his steps uneven, the sound of his boots against the stone muted by his awkward gait.

He doesn’t look at you, as usual, his head bowed low, but his nervous energy fills the corridor like a heavy fog.

“Where is he?” you ask coldly, your voice cutting through the stillness.

“In… in the private dining hall,” Reek stammers, his words barely audible. “He… he’s waiting.”

You don’t respond, your expression hardening as you follow him down the corridor. The air grows colder the closer you get, the dread thickening with every step. You know what this is—another game, another attempt by Ramsay to force your compliance. And yet, there’s a quiet resolve within you, a certainty that whatever he has planned, you will not break.

The door to the dining hall looms ahead, flanked by two of Ramsay’s men. They open it without a word, the creak of the hinges grating against your ears as you step inside.

The room is warm, lit by a roaring fire in the hearth and the soft glow of countless candles. A small table sits in the center, laden with an array of dishes—roasted meats, freshly baked bread, and a carafe of wine. The scene is almost intimate, a strong contrast to the cold menace that always accompanies Ramsay’s presence.

And there he is, sitting at the head of the table, his grin sharp and unrelenting.

“Wife,” he says, rising from his chair as you enter. “You honor me with your presence.”

You stop just short of the table, your arms folded across your chest. “I didn’t have much choice, did I?”

Ramsay chuckles, gesturing to the chair opposite him. “Always so defiant. Come, sit. I’ve gone through so much trouble to prepare this for you.”

You glance at the chair, then back at him, your gaze cold and unyielding. “What do you want, Ramsay?”

His grin widens, and he steps around the table, pulling out the chair for you. “To talk,” he says softly, almost sweetly. “That’s all.”

You hesitate for a moment before sitting, your movements deliberate and controlled. He pushes the chair in gently, then returns to his seat, pouring two goblets of wine as though this were a normal dinner between husband and wife.

He slides one glass toward you, his pale blue eyes fixed on yours. “You don’t trust me,” he says lightly, his grin never fading.

“Should I?” you reply, your voice cold.

He laughs softly, leaning back in his chair. “Fair enough.”

The silence stretches as you reach for the goblet of wine, your fingers curling around the stem. You don’t drink, but you hold it as you wait for him to speak.

“I need something from you,” Ramsay says finally, his tone softer than you’ve ever heard it. “And you… need something from me.”

Your brow furrows slightly, but you keep your expression neutral. “Do I?”

“An heir,” he says bluntly, his grin fading into something more serious. “My father won’t let me keep my position forever without one. And you… you’ve lost everything, haven’t you? Your family, your home, your wolf.”

Your grip tightens on the goblet, but you say nothing.

Ramsay leans forward, his eyes gleaming in the candlelight. “But an heir… our child… could be something. Someone for you to dote on. Someone to remind you of what you’ve lost.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and suffocating.

“You think I’d give you that willingly?” you say softly, your voice laced with venom.

His grin returns, self-assured and calculating. “I think you’d do whatever it takes to survive. And to ensure your child survives.”

You set the goblet down slowly, your gaze locked on his. “You’re mistaken if you think I’d ever willingly bring a child into this nightmare.”

Ramsay chuckles, though the sound is strained. “You’re strong, little wolf. But even you have limits. And this… this is your chance to have something again. To have someone who is yours.”

You stand abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor as you glare down at him. “I will never give you what you want, Ramsay.”

For a moment, he’s silent, his pale eyes narrowing as he watches you. Then he rises from his chair, his grin widening once more.

“Perhaps not tonight,” he says softly, stepping closer to you. “But we have time, wife. And eventually… you’ll see reason.”

You hold your ground, your voice steady as steel. “Or perhaps I’ll see your throat slit before that happens.”

Ramsay laughs, the sound low and mocking as he leans in closer. “Such fire,” he murmurs, his voice a whisper. “But fire can be tamed.”

He steps back, gesturing to the table. “Enjoy your meal, wife. You’ll need your strength.”

He strides toward the door, his grin never fading, and leaves without another word.

The room falls silent once more, the fire crackling softly in the hearth as you stare at the empty space where he stood.

You sit back down slowly, your hands trembling slightly as you reach for the goblet of wine.

He thinks he has time.

But so do you.

The halls of the Dreadfort are eerily quiet, the only sound the faint whistle of the wind through the cracks in the ancient stone. The dinner Ramsay had orchestrated still lingers in your mind, his words circling like vultures over a carcass. The thought of his grin, his eyes shining with predatory delight, makes your stomach churn as you make your way back to your chambers.

The flicker of movement in the shadows stops you in your tracks.

“Lady Bolton,” a voice rasps, weak and trembling, but unmistakably Reek’s.

He emerges from the shadows, his gaunt face pale in the dim torchlight. His shoulders are hunched, his hands fidgeting nervously, but his eyes dart toward yours, and for the first time, there’s a flicker of something that isn’t fear.

“What do you want?” you ask coldly, stepping back slightly.

Reek glances over his shoulder as if checking for watchers, then shuffles closer, his voice low and urgent. “You… you should give him what he wants.”

The bluntness of his words stuns you for a moment. Your expression hardens, your voice sharp. “What did you say?”

He flinches but presses on, his words spilling out in a frantic rush. “He… he won’t stop, my lady. Ramsay… he always gets what he wants. You don’t know what he’s capable of.”

“I know exactly what he’s capable of,” you snap, your tone icy.

“No, you don’t,” Reek insists, his voice trembling. He takes a step closer, his hands clutching at the edges of his cloak. “You don’t know about Domeric.”

The name catches you off guard, and you narrow your eyes. “What about him? Roose’s son? Ramsay’s brother?”

Reek’s face twists, his trembling hands wringing together. “Ramsay killed him,” he whispers. “He poisoned him. Roose sent Domeric to foster at the Vale. He was a good boy, a… true lord. But when he came back, when he tried to be a brother to Ramsay… Ramsay couldn’t bear it. He didn’t want competition. So he killed him.”

The weight of his words presses against your chest, the truth of it sinking in like ice. “And how do you know this?”

Reek hesitates, his eyes darting to the floor. “I… He told me. I saw the way he smiled when he talked about how Domeric died. Like it was a joke, a game.”

You take a step back, your voice low and measured. “And what does that have to do with me?”

Reek looks up at you, and for the first time, his hollow gaze seems more like Theon’s—haunted but desperate. “Walda’s child,” he says, his voice trembling. “If it’s a boy… if Ramsay hasn’t secured his place… he’ll do it again. He’ll kill his own blood to keep what he has.”

You stiffen, your hands curling into fists. “That’s not my concern.”

“It should be,” he says, his voice breaking. “Do you think he’ll stop with Walda’s child? Do you think he won’t find some way to hurt you, too? He needs you to give him an heir because it’s the only thing that keeps him safe. But if you don’t…” He swallows hard, his voice dropping to a whisper. “He’ll find another way. And you’ll be next.”

You glare at him, your voice cold. “And what would you have me do? Give him what he wants? Play the dutiful wife and bring another monster into this world?”

Reek flinches, but he doesn’t look away. “I’m saying… you have a choice,” he says, his voice trembling but firm. “You can stop this. You can keep Walda’s child safe. Keep yourself safe. But not by fighting him like this.”

You take a step closer, your voice sharp. “And what do you care, Theon? You’re nothing but his broken dog.”

His breath catches, his eyes widening slightly at the name. “Because I know what he’ll do,” he whispers. “I’ve seen it. I’ve lived it. And if you don’t… if you let him win, there’ll be no one left to stop him.”

The silence that follows is heavy, the weight of his words settling over you like a suffocating shroud. For a moment, you see the boy he used to be—the boy who grew up in Winterfell, who laughed with Robb, who teased you in the Godswood.

But that boy is gone, and what’s left is a shadow.

“I’ll handle Ramsay,” you say finally, your voice cold and unyielding. “But not the way you think.”

Reek’s shoulders slump, his gaze falling to the floor. “Just… be careful,” he murmurs.

You turn away, your steps echoing against the stone as you leave him standing in the dim corridor. His warning lingers in your mind, a dark shadow that refuses to fade.

The dim corridors of the Dreadfort echo with your footsteps as you make your way toward the great hall two days later. The cold, oppressive air wraps around you like a shroud, seeping into your bones. You know that when Roose Bolton summons you, it’s never without purpose. His silence is as cutting as any blade, and his words are weapons in their own right.

When you step into the hall, he is already there. Roose sits at the head of the long table, a goblet of wine in one hand and a stack of parchments in the other. The firelight casts shadows across his pale, angular face, making him seem more ghost than man. Lady Walda is absent, likely tucked away in her chambers, and the emptiness of the room only amplifies the weight of his presence.

“Lady Bolton,” he greets, his voice quiet but commanding. He doesn’t look up from the parchment he’s reading. “Come. Sit.”

You hesitate for only a moment before crossing the room, taking the seat opposite him. The table between you feels like a chasm, but Roose’s gaze, when it finally meets yours, bridges the distance with its unsettling intensity.

“You summoned me,” you say, your tone neutral, careful.

“I did,” he replies simply, setting the parchment aside and taking a slow sip of wine. “It seems my son has been... less than effective in managing certain matters.”

You raise an eyebrow, though you keep your expression impassive. “What matters?”

Roose leans back slightly, his pale eyes narrowing as he studies you. “The North is restless. Pockets of resistance still linger, defying my rule. And Ramsay... he is distracted.”

You don’t respond immediately, your mind racing. It’s not difficult to imagine what he means by “distracted.” Ramsay’s obsession with controlling you has been evident from the start.

Roose’s gaze sharpens, his tone turning colder. “Tell me, my lady. Have you done anything to encourage his... distractions?”

Your jaw tightens, but you force yourself to remain calm. “I’ve done nothing but endure his whims, my lord. If Ramsay is distracted, it’s because of his own failures, not mine.”

A faint smile curls at the edges of Roose’s lips, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Endure. A fitting word.” He takes another sip of wine, his gaze never leaving yours. “And yet, I find myself questioning whether this marriage was the right choice. You’ve given him no heir. No advantage. Only defiance.”

Your fingers curl into fists beneath the table, but your voice remains steady. “Ramsay is the one who has failed to secure his position, my lord. If he cannot control his own household, how can he expect to control the North?”

The smile fades, replaced by a cold, assessing look. “You speak boldly for someone in your position.”

“I speak the truth,” you counter, meeting his gaze without flinching. “And I imagine you value truth, my lord, even when it’s unpleasant.”

For a moment, the room is silent, the crackling of the fire the only sound. Then Roose leans forward slightly, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Ramsay is a means to an end. He is useful, for now. But his usefulness is not unlimited.”

The weight of his words settles over you like a heavy cloak. Roose’s cold pragmatism is legendary, and his willingness to discard even his own blood is no secret.

“And what do you expect of me?” you ask cautiously.

“I expect you to understand your position,” Roose replies evenly. “You are a Stark. Your name carries weight, even now. If Ramsay cannot secure his position, I will have to find another way to ensure the loyalty of the North.”

You stiffen, his meaning clear. “Another way? Or another heir?”

His lips curl into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. “That depends on you.”

You feel a cold fury rising within you, but you keep your expression neutral. “I will not be used as a pawn in your schemes.”

“You are already a pawn,” Roose says softly, his tone almost gentle. “The question is whether you will be a useful one.”

The fire crackles in the silence that follows, the tension between you sharp enough to cut. Finally, Roose rises from his chair, his movements smooth and deliberate.

“Think on it, my lady,” he says, his voice as cold as the stone walls. “The North remembers, yes. But memories alone will not keep you safe.”

Without waiting for a response, he turns and strides toward the door, leaving you alone in the flickering firelight.

You sit motionless for a long moment, your mind racing with the implications of his words. Roose Bolton is a man who sees value only in what serves his purpose, and his warning is clear: your survival depends on your usefulness.

The kennels are alive with the snarls and growls of Ramsay’s hounds, their fierce energy filling the cold air. You stand at the edge of the pen, the sickly-sweet stench of blood and wet fur clinging to the back of your throat. The unfortunate servant who had displeased Ramsay lies in a crumpled heap on the floor, his screams reduced to wet gasps as the beasts circle him, waiting for Ramsay’s signal.

Ramsay stands just beyond the hounds, his eyes alight with delight. He radiates power here, in his element, commanding pain and suffering like an artist wielding a brush. His smile sharpens as he turns to you.

“Magnificent, isn’t it?” he asks, gesturing toward the carnage before him. “The purity of it. They know their purpose, these hounds. They live for it. Do you?”

You don’t answer, your face a mask of cold detachment. He wants you to flinch, to recoil, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction. Instead, you fix your gaze on him, ignoring the pathetic moans of the man at his feet.

“Are you finished?” you ask, your voice flat.

Ramsay’s smile fades, replaced by a glimmer of irritation. He steps closer to you, his boots crunching against the blood-slicked straw. “Always so cold, little wolf. So defiant.” He leans in, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I wonder if that’s all you are. Or if there’s something else, hidden underneath.”

You meet his gaze steadily, your heart pounding in your chest. “What do you want from me, Ramsay? You’ve taken everything else. What’s left?”

His grin returns, sharp and predatory. “Everything. I want everything.”

The walk back to your chambers is silent, the tension between you crackling like a live wire. Ramsay walks beside you, his hands clasped behind his back, the predator biding his time. The hounds’ snarls echo faintly in your ears, a reminder of the spectacle you just endured.

When you reach your door, you pause, your hand on the latch. You can feel his eyes on you, his breath warm against the back of your neck.

“Come in,” you say quietly.

He doesn’t hesitate. The door closes behind him with a soft click, and the air in the room seems to grow heavier, thick with unspoken words. 

You turn to face him, your voice steady. “This is what you want, isn’t it? To own me. To break me.”

Ramsay’s grin widens, his eyes shining with triumph. “Is that what you think? That this is about breaking you?”

“Isn’t it?” you counter, stepping closer to him. “Everything you do—everything you’ve done—it’s all been about control. About proving that you can take whatever you want.”

He tilts his head, his grin softening. “And yet, you’re still standing. Still defying me.” He steps closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “Maybe that’s what I like about you.”

You laugh softly, the sound cold and hollow. “You don’t like anything, Ramsay. You conquer. You destroy. That’s all you know.”

He reaches for you, his hand brushing against your cheek. His touch is rough, possessive, but you don’t flinch. Instead, you meet his gaze with cold defiance.

“Take it, then,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “If that’s what it takes to satisfy you, then take it.”

For the first time, his grin falters, replaced by something darker, more uncertain. “You think you can make this a choice?” he asks, his voice sharp. “You think you can control me by giving in?”

“I think it doesn’t matter,” you reply calmly. “Because no matter what happens tonight, I’ll still be me. And you’ll still be a bastard trying to prove himself.”

His expression hardens, his grip tightening on your jaw. “Careful, little wolf. You’re playing with fire.”

“And you’re the one who lit it,” you snap back.

The air between you is electric, the room filled with the crackle of the fire and the weight of your unspoken defiance. Then, without another word, Ramsay pulls you closer, his lips crashing against yours with a bruising intensity.

You don’t resist. You don’t fight. You let him take what he’s wanted for so long, but even as you surrender your body, your mind remains focused, calculating. This is not a victory for him. It’s a delay, a game you’ve agreed to play until the moment is right.

And the wolf is a patient hunter.

[maisiestyle]

"Ned Stark's Precious Little Girl"

Arya is a mix of both her parents. But as her story unfolds, with every new chapter and book, Arya has moved beyond her parents and into a far more dynamic character.

Ned was a role model to Arya, she loved him more than almost anyone (she loves Jon most of all). She holds on to Ned's memory now more than any of his children.

Ned is stubborn, quick to anger, loyal to a fault, and deeply devoted to his family to the point where he sacrificed his honor and died for his children.

Both Arya & Ned had a dislike for Southern culture. Which is double odd considering Ned was fostered in the South: That was never truly his place. Whereas Cat and Sansa are very much creatures made for the South.

Treatment of the smallfolk and not judging those lower than their station... That says a lot about their character, something Ned, Lyanna, Arya & Jon have all shown in the books.

Arya & Ned are similar but different as well. Where Ned was lacking, his ability to not see the truth in the lies around him - Arya has developed beyond that point. Ned was too slow and unyielding until it was too late and he died. Cat was to heedless, prideful, and emotional - that cost her life. At the beginning Arya was a mix of both her parents BUT her journey so far has made her grow and develop where her parents had not. By Book 5, Arya is extremely artful and considerate, patient and willing to face the truth in all its ugliness, adaptable and fluid like water - a changeling. That's how she'll survive where her parents did not.

While Sansa is learning how to flirt, organise a glorified party and remain passive and isolated.

Arya lives out in the open, has escaped death and captivity by her own wits, travelled all over Westeros leaving her memory imprinted on the people she met along the way, and her unyielding desire to never be helpless again which brought her to Braavos. The Sealord of Braavos stood up to a King and his dragons and won - all he did was whisper the "faceless men" and King's Landing yielded - that is true power. Arya will return to Westeros having grown in many ways. But like her father and mother, her family will always be her guiding light.

I love how the Northmen constantly connect Arya to Ned and want to fight for them both:

When White Harbour (a place Arya has visited twice with Ned) hears of "Arya Stark" marrying Ramsay.

“Was ever snow so black?” asked Lord Wyman. “Ramsay took Lord Hornwood’s lands by forcibly wedding his widow, then locked her in a tower and forgot her. It is said she ate her own fingers in her extremity…and the Lannister notion of king’s justice is to reward her killer with Ned Stark’s little girl.” - (Davos, A Dance with Dragons)

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As "Arya" suffers in Winterfell, they connect her to Ned:

"The bride weeps," Lady Dustin said, as they made their way down, step by careful step. "Our little Lady Arya." ... What do you think passes through their heads when they hear the new bride weeping? Valiant Ned's precious little girl." ...

"Lady Arya's sobs do us more harm than all of Lord Stannis's swords and spears.

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The northmen want to fight for Arya:

“Even ruined and broken, Winterfell remains Lady Arya’s home. What better place to wed her, bed her, and stake your claim? […] Let Stannis march on us. He is too cautious to come to Barrowton…but he must come to Winterfell. His clansmen will not abandon the daughter of their precious Ned to such as you. - (Reek, A Dance with Dragons)

[…]

Lord Arnolf shoved himself up, a vulture rising from its prey. One spotted hand clutched at his son’s shoulder for support. “We’ll take [Winterfell] for Ned and for his daughter.” - (The Sacrifice, A Dance with Dragons)

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"Winter is almost upon us, boy. And winter is death. I would sooner my men die fighting for the Ned’s little girl than alone and hungry in the snow, weeping tears that freeze upon their cheeks. No one sings songs of men who die like that. As for me, I am old. This will be my last winter. Let me bathe in Bolton blood before I die. I want to feel it spatter across my face when my axe bites deep into a Bolton skull. I want to lick it off my lips and die with the taste of it on my tongue." - (Dance with Dragons)