#ramsay when i caTCH YOU RAMSAY/

[athasliath]

man…. theon’s hotd verse would be such a different person compared to canon solely because. he isn’t tortured by ramsay,,,

[hana-loves-bumblebees]

Me every time Marianas Trench pulls up with another gorgeous angelic eargasmic “you’re beautiful”

[vanillasweetpie]

spudsy’s shifts and dumbass rabbits (jax x reader)

i watched episode 4 and couldn’t resist writing this lil silly fic because i hate jax <3

you swear you’re gonna kill him.  

you don’t even care what happens after that, Caine can throw you in the void or force you into a therapy session with him, or whatever horrifying punishment his ai brain comes up with. it’d be worth it. it’d be so worth it if it meant shutting Jax up for five goddamn minutes. 

he’s been sitting at the counter, feet kicked up onto the register looking like he’s on fucking vacation, while you scramble around Spudsy’s kitchen. the fryer’s spitting oil, the soda machine’s doing that weird gurgling thing again

and Jax does nothing all shift except make snide comments about your “technique”, pretending to be Gordon Ramsay trapped in a rabbit’s body.  

“you’re gonna burn them,” he drawls, spinning one of the ketchup bottles like it’s a fidget toy, watching you flipping the fries.

you slam the fryer basket down harder than necessary and whirl around to glare at him. “maybe if you got off your lazy ass and helped, they’d come out looking better.”  

Jax snickers, tilting his head back to look at you upside-down. his ears flop over the back of the chair, and he grins widely. “nah, why would I do that when you’re doing such a great job on your own?”  

“Jax, I swear to #@?!—”  

“language, language!” he interrupts, wagging a finger at you. “what would Caine think if he heard you talking like that?”  

you grab the nearest ketchup bottle and launch it at him. and honestly, it’s more satisfying than it should be when it hits him square in the chest, splattering his black uniform with bright red.  

“oh, wow.” he looks down at the mess and then up at you, opening his eyes wide in fake surprise. “was that supposed to hurt my feelings? because it’s just pathetic, sweetie, really.”  

“pathetic?!” you’re halfway across the counter before you even realise what you’re doing, hands grabbing at his stupid clothes to yank him closer, practically face to face, however this damn bastard is taller than you, but you don’t back down.

Jax doesn’t fight it. in fact, he leans into it, daring you to say something else.

his stupid sharp smile only growing wider. “aww, isn’t it romantic. you’re starting to sound so obsessed with me, sweetheart.”

“obsessed with killing you, maybe.” your grip tightens on his shirt. Jax’s smile fades for a moment and his ears twitch what makes you think he might actually shut up.  

but no. of course not.  

“if i knew getting you riled up was this easy, I’d’ve started weeks ago,” his tone is so insufferably casual that you’re losing your temper.

you shove him back, harder than you meant to and he stumbles, nearly tripping over the chair he’s been lounging in all shift. you expect him to snap at you or at least throw some sarcastic quip your way, but instead—  

he laughs.

it throws you off just long enough for him to close the distance between you, his hands catching yours before you can storm off.  

“hey, you’ve got a little ketchup—” Jax swipes a gloved finger across your cheek, smudging red sauce where there definitely wasn’t any before “—right there.”  

you glare at him, opening your mouth to yell, but before you can say anything, he leans down and—  

oh.

it’s quick. as if he’s testing the waters, but the kiss leaves you frozen in place. his grin is back in full force when he pulls away, his eyes half-lidded. you stand there, dumbfounded, looking at his infuriatingly pleased face. the fryer beeps in the background and the soda machine gurgles again.

“there. now we’re even,” he says, stepping back and slipping out of your reach before you can punch him in the face.  

“you’re such a—”  

“Jax! y/n! get back to work!” Gangle's voice sounds.

you fucking hate him. probably.

[i-smoke-chapstick]

saw that you're in your got era so perhaps jealousy headcanons for the got or hotd characters? 👀 literally anyone from these characters - robb, jaime, margaery, oberyn, theon, cersei or ramsay, I'd love to see your interpretation on any of them ! ( or aemond, alicent, aegon, gwayne, OTTO !!, larys, daemon or mysaria for hotd, again whichever era you feel like it !!) and just for future reference, do you write for asoiaf characters or mainly the shows?

'LOVE CAN KILL, [jealousy! hcs]

-GOT / HOTD CHARACTERS X READER-

⋆ Characters ↬ Robb, Jaime, Margaery, Oberyn, Cersei, Joffrey, Ramsay, Tyrion, The Hound, Aemond, Aegon, Alicent, Gwayne, Daemon

⋆ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 ; jealousy, and how some characters deal with it ;)

⋆ tags/warnings. GOT and HOTD!characters x female reader. SFW! But naturally, some of these characters get a bit suggestive! Possessive behavior, canon typical violence, etc. Please send in more GOT/HOTD requests! Apologies this took so long, this is more characters in a post than I've ever done lol. Unfortunately I'm not super familiar with Otto, Larys, Theon, or Mysaria, so I decided to pick some characters I'm more familiar with! (Joffrey is my #1 favorite of all time, my sincerest apologies.) Whew, 14 characters ! For right now I'm only writing for the TV shows! (i've only read book 1, lol)

𝑅𝛰𝐵𝐵 𝑆𝑇𝐴𝑅𝐾

♫ “I wasn't thinking when I told you to stay.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella

With Robb, it's all about the body language. And boy, he's horrible at hiding it.

He can have a hard time placing the feeling as jealousy. He was raised to be honorable. But feelings of...neglect run deep with him. Oldest child syndrome, if you will.

Which is why his jealousy most likely manifests in subdued, quiet behavior. Part of him will recognize he's being ridiculous, while another part of him is silently fuming. Fists clenched, he'll send you an intense stare as he watches you converse with another lord.

His emotions leak through his expressions. When he catches you staring back, his gaze will flit down, and he'll wait patiently for you're time. Or...in most cases...he'll march right up, placing himself between you and the man. Maybe a small, "I'll take it from here." If the lord is offering to help you with something.

A subtle touch on the small of your back. It's a small claim, a subtle "back-off."

A lot of his jealousy also transforms into protectiveness more than anything. He'll offer to accompany reader to places he wouldn't normally be concerned about. He's close by, and he's reminding her wordlessly, he's watching over her and any threat.

Finally, when you two are alone, will he drop down that guard of his. Covering up that burning pit inside him with casual humor, you can sense the underlaying seriousness of his voice in his light teases.

"You’re quite popular these days. Should I be worried that I’m not your only admirer?"

He certainly beds you, having something to prove. And only afterwards when you are in his arms, sweaty and warm from the candlelight, wrapped in furs...will he calm down.

"It’s not that I don’t trust you… It’s them I don’t trust. Some men don’t know how to keep their place." He'll whisper, holding onto you firmly.

𝐽𝐴𝐼𝑀𝐸 𝐿𝐴𝑁𝑁𝐼𝑆𝑇𝐸𝑅

♫ “You don't know that you're in over your head.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella

Jaime's jealousy is burning. It's simply the way he was raised. And gods, you are his.

Numerous sarcastic remarks flow between the two of you and the man who he believes has essentially stolen your affections. His taunts are offhand, dry remarks, often directed towards his "opponent" or even you, if he's feeling bitter enough.

"I didn’t realize he was such a comedian. Maybe I should ask him for pointers." He'll say, with that sarcastic drawl. "If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to make me jealous. Not that it would work, of course." He chuckles, but his gaze is sharp.

Depending on the offense, Jaime's reactions differ. If you simply have an admirer, a few...well chosen words are directed towards them. His confidence allows him to not be too bothered. Maybe standing closer, clearly showing off to whatever poor soul thought they had a shot with you.

It's a different story if you are friends with the person involved, or entertain their advances even mildly or jokingly.

That's when the uncharacteristic tension comes out, full of small twitches in his jaw and curt, smug responses. His visible annoyance is uncontrolled.

We saw how he was with Loras when it came to Cersei. If he feels truly threatened, whether it's by another pretty boy, or just someone he feels could...hypothetically...have the upper hand...He'll corner them when you're off somewhere else. And give a small warning, from the Kingslayer himself.

"You seem to have forgotten who you're dealing with, so let me remind you." He leans in just close enough for his words to sink in. "Whatever you think you might be to her… you’re not. Let’s keep it that way, hm? I'd hate to see you make any...lasting mistakes."

𝑀𝐴𝑅𝐺𝐴𝐸𝑅𝑌 𝑇𝑌𝑅𝐸𝐿𝐿

♫ “It was just too hard to push you away.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella

Margaery is smart with her feelings. She knows how to play the game, and play it well. Instead of showing her jealousy openly, she's a touch more composed than most characters on this list.

She recognizes just how precious you are, and admires that. She doesn't necessarily blame others when they become...attached to you.

When jealousy arises, she views it more as a small problem in need of being handled. And she knows how to handle things.

She embraces the graceful competition, subtly outshining anyone who seems to get in the way of her goals. Her goal being you're affection, of course. You're already hers, and she sees no problem in working to keep it that way.

This appears in gestures of strategic sweetness to keep you close, perhaps wearing your favorite gowns on her, and offering that charming smirk. She doesn't shy away from manipulating you, just a teeny bit.

"They’re certainly captivated by you. I suppose I’ll have to work harder to keep your attention." She teases, "Besides, who could ever compare to us?"

Her words carry a playful undertone, but she makes her point clear. Laughing charmingly, threading her arm through yours.

Very rarely does she think she's in any serious danger. She prides herself on being yours and knowing how to keep you on a tight leash. Though...if she feels genuinely worried, she expresses her feelings quite clearly but still gently. She reminds her lover of their shared goals, and all that they've built together.

"My, you do attract admirers easily, don’t you? I’ll have to start guarding you more closely." She gives you a playful look, though her touch on your arm will linger just a bit longer than usual.

𝛰𝐵𝐸𝑅𝑌𝑁 𝑀𝐴𝑅𝑇𝐸𝐿𝐿

♫ “Let me go, but you won't let me go.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella

Oberyn doesn't feel insecure. How could he? He knows, deep down, that you're his. Jealousy isn't something he confines himself too, he views it as an ugly emotion, capable of getting rid of the true wonders love has to offer.

That being said...he is only a man. And he is fiercely protective. If anyone were to flirt with you and you were clearly uninterested, it would be a swift death, or at the very least, he'd make his point clear with a blow or two and a cutting edge remark. Especially if they are a Lannister. He enjoys you being admired, but only to a certain extent.

"Your efforts are wasted, they’re far too captivating for someone like you. I’d suggest you find someone more... suited to your charms." He begins, hand itching for his spear, "Consider this your first and last warning."

Yeah, he means business.

Most of the time, he spins the situation to show-off. Showcase his own passion and devotion to you. If it's simply a friend of yours, he may even offer them to join in. If not, he'll spend the entire night practically worshipping you, promising that he's the only one who could ever make you feel like this.

Similarly to Margaery, he teases you lightly.

"You have a lovely laugh. But I must admit, it’s much better when it’s for me alone."

Oberyn doesn't shy away from PDA either. It's that assertive reclaiming he seems to favor, pulling you close, whispering something that affirms your affections for each other. He'll revel when he watches the other mans face fall in dismay.

He might get cocky, and push it a bit far. By the time he's done, the 'competition' will be utterly humiliated and embarrassed. He'll be smirking at his own quips.

"I assure you, my friend, my lover favors...more substantial things." He motions to the poor mans crotch.

You're gonna have to give him a slap on the arm.

𝐶𝐸𝑅𝑆𝐸𝐼 𝐿𝐴𝑁𝑁𝐼𝑆𝑇𝐸𝑅

♫ “Consequence of loving me can be cruel.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella

Cersei's jealousy is intense and multifaceted, to say the least. It manifests in a mix of cold fury and harsh threats, channeling that anger into much more controlling behavior.

Deep down, she is terribly insecure. Once another man or woman as your attention, and she catches on, she's coolly lashing out. And she catches on quickly.

At first she may appear indifferent, but if you look close enough, you can see the subtly giveaways. The way her lip curls, her nostrils flare, and her knuckles go white gripping her wine chalice.

If you're the first one to confront her, and attempt to reassure her, you'll save yourself some trouble down the line. Guaranteed, she'll deny it, but still make a passive-aggressive remark here and there. But eventually she'll calm down, edges softening.

That rare moment of vulnerability that you're not sure is manipulation or not. She'll look towards the ground, running her thumb over you're hand on her cheek. She'll sit on the edge of her bed, jaw clenched.

Now, it's a whole different story if you don't catch on to the early signs. If you don't manage to reassure or call her out in time, that jealousy implodes.

She may confront you first, anger bleeding through her. She runs on it. She may even threaten you, oblivious to the potential consequences her words might have.

“You think you can charm your way into my affections by paying attention to that little fool?" She's standing up, loathing distorting her features. Her voice raises. "Perhaps I should throw a feast in her honor. Let’s see how charming she is when surrounded by my people."

It's threats and threats and more and more threats...which can be especially worrying if the person she's jealous of is a friend of yours.

Almost every scenario ends with you having to comfort her, treading carefully with the words you say.

Now, when it comes to confronting the competition, she makes it very clear. Though, these threats are often much more impulsive. A swig of wine, and she gracefully moves towards them when you're out of sight.

A faux compliment or two, before she whispers, close.

“You’ll find that my guards are quite loyal to me. A simple command, and they’ll ensure you never breathe the same air as her again.”

It only makes her feel a bit better. But, regardless, she's smiling smugly, feeling proud of herself when the offenders face turns white.

𝐽𝛰𝐹𝐹𝑅𝐸𝑌 𝐵𝐴𝑅𝐴𝑇𝐻𝐸𝛰𝑁

♫ “Too much love can kill.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella

Oh, Joffrey. I'm obsessed with him.

Yeah. He has the worst jealousy issues out of everyone on this list. It's baaaaad. It's a cocktail of insecurity, possessiveness, and entitlement. As someone who has been raised to believe he is above others, and has been coddled his entire life...it infuriates him.

It's the same feeling you get as a child, when someone steals one of your toys. You belong to him. He never grew out of that mentality, or that feeling.

Be prepared for plentiful outbursts of anger. He's a tantrum personified, especially if he feels disrespected. Insecurity grips him tight and refuses to let up until he's either been heavily reassured...or the other person is... taken care of.

And even then, after reassuring him for hours, it may not be enough. You know how he hired a knight to take out Tyrion in the Battle of Blackwater? Yeah. That person will be paid a little 'visit.'

When reassuring him, similar to Cersei, you really have to be careful what you say, or it might make the situation even worse. At that point, he's seeing red.

"I’m the king! You should be grateful for my attention, not chasing after scraps!" He's huffing, pointing to himself as his breathing increases. He'll look at you with an ice cold glare, nose wrinkled in distaste.

He might even force his hand around your face, harshly grabbing you. He looks dead into your eyes, voice clear and low. "You're mine. You belong to me." He's seething.

If he notices you simply looking at anyone else too long, he'll feel beyond threatened in both his masculinity and position as king. Especially if you laugh at another mans jokes, or simply attempt to be friendly with a commoner or lord.

"What’s so amusing? You’d think you’d find better entertainment than that fool." He mutters under his breath harshly, bad habit of picking at his fingers. He'll shuffle uncomfortably. He'll look to you expecting agreeance. It's 100% that mentality of 'Friends? You don't need friends. You have me.'

Yeah, he keeps the very blunt insults coming. Petulant name calling is not above him. Includes, but is not limited too, "Degenerates, Idiots, Commoners, Peasants, or Cretins" which he may describe as being "Stupid, Disgusting, Repellent, Sickening, or Revolting." He's got a LOT of those angry remarks in the bank.

While he may not directly confront the offender, (he doesn't have time for idle threats.) He has his own ways of dealing with them. And that is a public humiliation ritual, making a mockery of any rival. And if they disobey ANY whim of his, they're gone. That one scene with Tyrion at his wedding? That "Kneel!"? He's commanding the same of any man unlucky enough to have threatened his claim on you. Oh, and they're going to be his cupbearer.

Even if they do as he asks, by now his anger will have transformed into that renewed sense of cruelty. "You're fingers or your tongue?...Or I could just cut your throat."

𝑅𝐴𝑀𝑆𝐴𝑌 𝐵𝛰𝐿𝑇𝛰𝑁

♫ “You're gonna suffer now, whatever you do.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella

His jealousy may not be as overtly intense as Joffrey's, but it certainly is the scariest.

In his own words, he prefers being an only child. That same kind of mentality certainly carries over to his relationship with you. He prefers to be the only one you see that way.

He loves a good game, and that's what this is. If anything, it's quite exhilarating for him. Though, he is a huge hypocrite. For a man who thinks jealousy is boring coming from you, he feels it quite freely.

Sees it as a means of asserting dominance, whether that be through intimidation or overt manipulation. He doesn't deny it like most characters on this list. When he's feeling jealous, he says it. It's a small warning for you not to go any farther, lest worse things occur for you or the perceived threat.

He'll go up to whoever you are talking too, saccharine and honorable smile on his face. He'll casually interrupt, introducing himself as Lord Bolton's successor. Despite his calm demeanor, there is a tightness in his face, and a wicked look in his eyes, that only you can recognize. It will make you shiver.

If the rival persists, he'll find it all too amusing.

"You're bold, I'll give you that." He says with a boisterous laugh, and you already know the mans fate is sealed.

Looks like his hounds will be having another meal tonight. He'll have his men go out looking for the man, and he'll question him more...privately, when you aren't there to witness his tortuous taunts.

But for now, his focus is on you, and your loyalty to him. When he excuses the both of you, his hand is gripping yours painfully tight.

By the time you're in his chamber, he's on you, ripping your clothes off with a harsh intensity and pushing you to the wall. His nose is twitching in barely kept anger, forcing you to look at him.

We all saw that scene between him and Myranda when she threatens to marry someone else, and it was not pretty. His eyes are borderline bloodshot, and he can't keep his hands off you or your throat.

"You're mine." He leans forward, through gritted teeth. It's better you don't put up a fight, because he'll be having you and your attention one way or another.

Que the numerous kisses and bite marks soon to follow. And he is not gentle when he's inside you.

You'll never hear from the flirtatious lord again...and if you do, it's only in the prayers of his grieving family.

𝑇𝑌𝑅𝐼𝛰𝑁 𝐿𝐴𝑁𝑁𝐼𝑆𝑇𝐸𝑅

♫ “My love, you are not safe with me.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella

Now, Tyrion's jealousy is more subdued and introspective versus some characters on this list. He has a good sense of self-awareness, and he's intelligent to figure out what he's feeling quite quickly.

At first he'll dismiss it as nothing more than an annoying feeling of insecurity he attempts to cover up. But...it doesn't last long. Especially when someone else makes you laugh. Or when Bronn makes a taunt with a half smirk, that some other fancy lord has taken a keen interest in his lady. (Bronn, you instigator!)

As such, Tyrion resorts to his usual humor to deflect any unpleasant feelings he may have when he's jealous. Similar to his brother, these witty remarks are are subtle intimidation technique, meant to dryly convey his displeasure.

"Ah, the sound of laughter. How quaint. I suppose I’ll have to work harder to earn your amusement." He forces a smile, masking his discomfort. "I didn’t realize I was competing for the title of Court Jester."

These feelings of inadequacy manifest in more self-deprecating ways for Tyrion, given his anger is more controlled. He might opt to drown his sorrows, so don't be surprised if you catch him drunkenly waving his chalice around, doing poor impressions of the so-called-lord that had your attention.

This doesn't mean he won't confront the rival, though. Quite the opposite. While he won't seek the man out, (For his sake, he isn't privy to seeing the tall handsome lord in person. He's not a masochist.) If he happens to come across him flirting with you first hand, or sees him during a feast, he'll make sure to throw one or two gibes out there.

"Desperation looks unflattering on you, my friend. Perhaps you should tone it down a notch." He speaks carefully, nodding to Bronn as a subtle warning. "Or at least the best you can manage..?"

If the rival flirts with you blatantly and in front of him, I can 100% imagine him putting them down. After a flirtatious remark directed towards you, he'll make a dry comment, "Flattery is wasted on me, but do go on; I’m always entertained by those who think they can win my affection." As if it was directed towards him. Probably shuts the man up for a moment.

When the two of you are alone, he'd be very grateful if you could just hold him. Give him that reassurance he craves when his carefree facade breaks. That moment of vulnerability means the world to him.

𝑆𝐴𝑁𝐷𝛰𝑅 "𝑇𝐻𝐸 𝐻𝛰𝑈𝑁𝐷" 𝐶𝐿𝐸𝐺𝐴𝑁𝐸

♫ “I need you to go, don't fight me.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella

Listen up, Sandor doesn't take shit.

Jealousy isn't an emotion Sandor is particularly used too. In fact, he didn't think he'd find anyone to love in his lifetime, so the feeling is foreign and unpleasant. And, like a mean dog, Sandor's first reaction is to growl.

He doesn't like it. Says it's constricting, and it pisses him off. Not just the pretty boy lord flirting with you, but the whole situation in general. Makes him feel vulnerable, and weak.

Naturally, his first reaction is to distance himself. He may avoid you, grumbling, spitting out vile and vulgar comments to get you to run with your tail between your legs. It's better for the both of you that way.

"You think they’re worth your time? Just a pretty smile to distract you?" He scoffs, shaking his head. "You could do better. But then again, you always choose to suffer." He motions at himself, and it's a glimpse of that self-depreciation he buries.

But you love him for a reason, and you know that won't end well. Best way to handle him when he's jealous is to be gentle, and to listen.

He doesn't want empty reassurances. He's complicated that way, even if they are genuine. He isn't one for flowery words or overt displays of emotion, so the best way to comfort him would be to give him some space, but continue to take care of him.

It will still frustrate him, but eventually he'll cave. He'll rejoin you, silently, eventually. Won't offer any apologies, but maybe a gruff nod, and you two will commence whatever it is you two have.

In future instances, he becomes much more brutally honest with how he feels. Doesn't sugarcoat it. If he doesn't like someone, even if they are a friend, he expects them gone- or he'll take care of them regardless. That kind of possessive behavior is just something you'll have to work through.

I can imagine him silently brooding if he witnesses someone flirting with you first hand. Typically his size and reputation is enough to scare whoever away. He's looming over them, eyes dark, and ready to defend what's his.

When you take your leave, he'll confront the person with a very explicit threat or two.

"If you don’t back off, I’ll find a nice dark corner to stuff you in- preferably with a pile of shit." Or, "Get any closer, and I’ll rip your tongue out and shove it down your throat."

𝐴𝐸𝑀𝛰𝑁𝐷 𝑇𝐴𝑅𝐺𝐴𝑅𝑌𝐸𝑁

♫ “Get swallowed by the weight.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella

Aemond has the most...complex jealousy out of everyone on this list. It's layered, and the outcome may be unpredictable. It's an emotional and volatile nature that's been building up for years since he was a child.

He often had feelings of jealousy for his brother, his nephews, etc. That trauma is deeply rooted in him, and it's hard to let go of old habits, given it's been present all his life.

You'll watch his head bow in distaste when you make small conversation with other lords. How his eye will gaze at you, almost warningly. His jaw will be clenched tight, and he'll avoid eye contact, looking off to the side in anger. He doesn't want to watch.

If it's a friend of yours, he can be a bit mean, questioning your loyalty a bit harshly.

"Friendship? Is that what you call it?" He speaks, angrily. A thinly veiled threat is directed to you, "It seems more like a prelude to betrayal."

He'll brood in the corner, silently waiting. That is, unless, he deems the man goes too far.

In the scene where he gets his eye put out by Lucerys, the conversation that starts before it happens pretty much sums his jealousy up. He's firm with his claim to Vaghar, and the same goes for you.

When Rhaena states that Vaghar was hers to claim, Aemond responds in kind, "Then you should've claimed her." And puts up a hell of a fight to prove his point. That same possessiveness carries over to his relationship with you. He doesn't back down. You're his.

He has no problems getting in between you and the man he feels threatened of. He offers a blunt threat.

"I could have you torn apart, limb by limb, and I’d sleep soundly at night. Be certain of that."

Guaranteed, mixed feelings of insecurity will rise to the surface. When you two are alone, he'll continue to brood silently, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, and body language tight.

Please do reassure him. He needs it. His eye will soften, and he'll place his hand over yours, leaning into your touch. With a soft huff of an air, a final warning slips past his lips.

"Don’t make me remind you why I’m the only one worthy of you."

𝐴𝐸𝐺𝛰𝑁 𝑇𝐴𝑅𝐺𝐴𝑅𝑌𝐸𝑁

♫ “I wanna hold on tightly.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella

Aegon handles jealousy poorly, much like he seems to handle everything else.

It's like throwing gasoline on a fire. Once that feeling in his chest flares up, it's shown through erratic behavior, sarcasm, and attempts to assert his claim in juvenile, insecure ways. Unlike his brother, he lacks the restraint to simply brood.

No, be prepared for plenty of mocking comments directed towards the man he's threatened of, and showy displays to prove he's the better choice.

Everyone knows he is unpredictable and reckless, and possessiveness drives him to act out. He certainly overindulges to cope with his insecurity, (getting shitfaced) and will gladly push your boundaries to get your attention back on him.

Not to mention the belittling comments he'll make.

"Oh, is that who you’ve chosen to entertain now? I didn’t realize your taste had grown so dull."

Prone to acting overtly clingy, almost like a restless cat. He will attempt to slide over into the conversation, resting an arm around you, or even pulling you away. He doesn't care if it's 'improper.' He probably brings up his status, his bloodline, acting over-the-top.

He's also no stranger to outbursts. His temper may make him lash out impulsively, whether that be towards you or the man whose got your attention. If he's in a particular mood, be ready to deal with a screaming Aegon, threatening to slaughter and burn said rival. His fist will come down hard on the council table.

He also doesn't care if he's making a show of it in front of the council members. Que Alicent or Otto attempting to placate him. He needs to have a cooler head if he's going to be ruling the Seven Kingdoms, and this type of behavior isn't very becoming.

He definitely thinks he's owed some make-up sex, if only to quell the insecure storm raging inside him.

"You think they could satisfy you? Truly?" He says, firmly, as he steps closer. Anger is burning in his words, volume raising. "They wouldn’t even know where to begin."

And he plans to show you that he's right.

𝐴𝐿𝐼𝐶𝐸𝑁𝑇 𝐻𝐼𝐺𝐻𝑇𝛰𝑊𝐸𝑅

♫ “I'm afraid I'll pull you over the edge.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella

Alicent experiences jealousy complexly, just like Aemond. It gnaws on her until she's at her breaking point. Rather than overt displays or confrontations, she attempts to employ more strategic distance...but it always ends up resorting in icy politeness.

She's making her displeasure known through restrained, pointed remarks. Out of duty and pride, she'll attempt to avoid direct confrontation, but she wears her jealousy on her sleeve.

I imagine her withdrawing from the situation at first, if not for anything but her own sake. Her gut reaction, out of insecurity, is to escape the situation. It honestly makes her feel sick.

Unless she's forced to stay...then she'll begrudgingly offer a tight smile. Her responses are carefully measured, and she slips into that role of "queen" rather than a lover.

A part of it stems from passive aggressiveness, and another part of it is purely subconscious.

Speaking of passive aggressiveness, she'll make some pretty cutting remarks, either questioning your loyalty or purposely feigning ignorance to the situation.

"Perhaps I’m mistaken. But I know loyalty when I see it. Or when I don’t."

It's an all bark, no bite threat towards you. But it serves as an aggressive reminder of your connection with her, and that you are now apart of her duties.

If she does interfere beforehand, she'll make indirect remarks about the person causing her jealousy, but will most likely frame it as merely her own curiosity.

Maybe just a touch of self-depreciation, unintentional manipulation. Years of Otto's techniques have rubbed off on her.

"It’s of little consequence, truly. I simply thought I was the one you preferred to spend your time with. I may have misjudged."

𝐺𝑊𝐴𝑌𝑁𝐸 𝐻𝐼𝐺𝐻𝑇𝛰𝑊𝐸𝑅

♫ “Hurts to say it over, over again.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella

In contrast to Alicent, Gwayne has no problem when he feels threatened to step in. He's a member of a powerful house, and a knight no less. Those two things have taught him to be prideful and honorable.

He will defend your honor whenever he deems in necessary, and there are no exceptions. He certainly has a flash of a temper, but he believes he's much more restrained than others, given his training.

If he thinks someone is crossing a line, he'll interfere. He'll position himself quite closely to you, making his presence known.

He offers the man a silent warning, offering a cool, assessing look. It would be enough to communicate his disapproval.

And if the man persists...well...they'll end up with the end of a sword pointed at them.

Similar to Robb, Gwayne's jealousy appears more in his heightened protectiveness. He insists on staying close for your safety.

"Do they need to be reminded that you’re already spoken for?"

Obviously, his noble pride carries on. If he gets pushed, his jealousy will show more openly, taking the man aside, and telling them that he is more worthy of her time and attention. Might throw in a comment about his noble standing.

He'll take you aside when everything is said and done, reminding her his intentions are honorable. Everyone else is just...unworthy.

"You may not see it, but I know men like him. If he truly respected you, he wouldn’t need to linger around someone else’s beloved."

𝐷𝐴𝐸𝑀𝛰𝑁 𝑇𝐴𝑅𝐺𝐴𝑅𝑌𝐸𝑁

♫ "No matter how you feel." Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella

Oh boy, you'll have to keep this man on a tight leash when his jealousy flares up. It's as intense as he is, and he shows it openly.

He'll deny it, or embrace it, depending on the severity of the perceived offense. It's closely tied to that desire for power within him he can't seem to shake. Any affront to your loyalty is an affront to his own standing.

He switches from possessive protectiveness to outright hostility. There's really no in between. It's a raw and unfiltered fury that makes his hand shake and his eye twitch.

He doesn't tolerate rivals, and he's very upfront that he's the only one fit to be by your side. This comes through when he has you all to himself on his bed...

He'll confront the person whether you want him to or not.

"If they value their limbs, they’d remember you’re mine." He mutters casually, pacing around the room.

He carries that hard glint in his eyes. He may even mildly appreciate the sheer balls of the man stupid enough to attempt to flirt with you, but he'll shut it down quicker than anyone on this list.

"You’ve got a bold tongue. I wonder if I should cut it out..?" He'll look to you for permission. It's up to you if you wanna let the dragon loose!

[asteroshearts]

Postpartum Confinement

[Xavier (Shen Xinghui 沈星回 ) + Caleb (Xia Yizhou 夏以晝)]

In Chinese culture, mothers stay and rest for a month or more after giving birth to properly recover (zuo yue zi).

Warnings: Yandere themes for Caleb's

Zayne and Sylus

Xavier (Shen Xinghui 沈星回 )

The Yue Sao (postpartum care nanny) and her little assistant, Xavier.

You and Xavier decided to hire a Yue Sao recommended by one of your older coworkers at the Hunters Association, and now Xavier could always be seen shyly shuffling behind her around the house, ready to get you anything and everything you needed at a moment's notice.

Your coworker told you that she heard many horror stories about Yue Sao or in-laws being opinionated or strict, but she told you that this woman always asked her what she wanted first.

It was true, this woman was an angel to you, so patient, asking for your opinions, making jokes with you, saying things like, "Oh, you don't want to? That's fine!"

But with Xavier...she was Gordon Ramsay, and he was her sous chef.

No more midday napping for him.

While you rested or nursed the baby, you could always see him in the background mopping, vacuuming, cleaning the kitchen, the bathroom, up and down the entire home.

Whenever his path would cross yours on his crusade, he'd always shoot such sad bunny eyes at you two... he wanted to nap with his baby too....

But the Yue Sao said you already did the brunt of the work, creating the baby for nine months, pushing them out, and experiencing the most pain you had ever felt in your life, what Xavier had to deal with was a molehill compared to your mountain.

But when she tried to teach him how to make you a postpartum soup...

["Um..." he answered awkwardly, "I don't think I should."

"Xinghui!" she scolded, and if he had bunny ears, you could imagine them drooping by now. He had normally been so above and beyond for you, so what changed? "What will happen when I'm no longer around? Who will make your wife soup?"

Those bunny ears seemed to sag even more.

"Are you going to make the mother of your child get up and make her own soup?"]

One hour later, you and your baby woke up with a jump when a loud BOOM came from your kitchen.

Your Yue Sao later apologized and swore to never let him cook again.

She later recommended some places you could order delivery from for meals specifically for postpartum women.

For some reason...why do I feel like he'd be really good at the massages meant to help you with lactation?

When the nanny tried to teach you the massage, you easily called Xavier over to learn too, as you trusted him.

He wouldn't find it awkward or weird, and would take up her lessons with seriousness.

He'd be the perfect mix of gentle and nimble, but he'd stare at your face as he'd do it, catching any microexpressions for any ounce of discomfort or pain. If the pressure was too much, he'd slow down or switch techniques immediately.

Being a nanny, your Yue Sao had seen far too many lazy, distant, or ungrateful fathers, so she was so glad to meet Xavier, who waited on you hand and foot.

As she mentioned that to him, a small smile appeared on his lips.

He didn't mind. As a knight, he lived devoted.

Caleb (Xia Yizhou 夏以晝)

A tradition where you aren't supposed to go outside, not meet with anyone else, and where all attention was on you and the ultimate proof of your love, and that you would never leave him, your child? Oh, he's over the moon.

Why should the zuo yue zi only be a month? He's telling you to make it three—five, in fact, you could stay like this forever.

Despite this, however, he doesn't trust anyone to properly take care of you and your baby. Not a random postpartum nanny, not any of the care centers, and you two had no in-laws.

He might not trust anyone, but that doesn't mean he would dare deprive you of any resource or help.

He puts it on himself to fill in the empty spaces and throws himself into learning about postpartum care, taking classes while you were still pregnant and constantly researching.

Some may say it takes a village to raise a child, but Caleb is all you need, hm?

Since it's just him doing all of the work, he wants to make sure that no stone is unturned, and falls deeply into believing postpartum superstitions and traditional medicine.

Feeds you bitter herbal stews and constantly talks about keeping the "heat" in your body.

You have to debate and argue with him that nothing will happen if you turn on the AC for just a bit in the summer, and can he please stop feeding you pork trotters!?

He's a bit sad too, though. It's just as hard for you as it is for him. Postpartum women aren't supposed to eat overly salty, oily foods, and he loves making you his famous braised chicken.

Washes your hair for you, cooks you every meal, and we all know that he's a pro at doing your laundry 😏, so the second the baby throws/spits up on you, he's there in a second with a fresh shirt and wiping you down.

It may seem excessive, but he'll say in his sweet voice that keeping clean is good for your mental health and how you view yourself.

But he'll love you no matter what. Even if you smell like baby vomit.

He takes over the night shift completely with your baby without you knowing, so much so that, for a while, you believed that your baby just didn't wake up in the middle of the night like other kids.

You had full eight-plus hours of sleep for months, and you were none the wiser that Caleb would wake up at the slightest hint of a whimper or cry from the crib beside your bed, feed the baby, rock them, and change diapers, all while you slept peacefully.

You didn't catch on until one of your calls with Jenna, she told you that it was improbable that your baby didn't wake up at all during the night, and perhaps one day, you should pretend to sleep to catch the act.

So that's why he asked you to pump so much.

Some women may beg for at least a 50/50 relationship with the father of their children, but for Caleb, 50/50 isn't enough. If he weren't human, and if he were made of machine and metal, he'd want to be built just for this. He'd make it so that you wouldn't have to lift a single finger, and he'd take care of everything.

[heavenbarnes]

I’m thinking about older bf Simon in some grey sweatpants after shower. Smelling nice and clean, warm and cosy on the couch. And the print of his flaccid cock is visible through the sweatpants 😵‍💫

fuuuuuck FUCK fresh and clean simon about to make me ACT UP 🫶🏼

it was standard for your older bf!simon to shower with the bathroom door open.

you’d queried it, leaning in the door frame watching him struggle to fit under the shower head, slightly obscured by the condensation on the glass.

“need t’keep an ear out, can’t hear y’when it’s shut”

and you never questioned it again. it was filed away with simon’s hatred for noise cancelling headphones and sleeping when you were awake.

it goes hand in hand with “i always know where you are”

so simon showers with the bathroom door open and you don’t complain.

hard to, when you can lay back on your bed and smell the wafting steam with his body wash hinted in it.

when you can turn your head and catch glimpses of the way the water ricochets off his toned body.

when it’s also an open invitation, if you ever wished to join him- he’d welcome you with open arms.

but it also meant, when you were on the couch watching something mindless- you could hear the water shutting off. knowing it meant that any minute-

simon enters the living room with water still dripping off the ends of his cropped hair. bare chested and glistening a little from a rough towel dry.

his hands are still pulling up his sweatpants, grey- the soft ones that feel nice under your cheek when your head is in his lap.

you can tell he’s not got anything under them, you can tell by the visible print that sits just over his left thigh. the one you’re trying your damndest not to fixate on.

simon slots in next to you on the couch, wrapping you up in his arms so you’re pressed to his chest. he smells like adidas after-sport, citrus and musk and inherently man.

you could bury your face in him.

he’s warm, relaxed, content and it’s the moment where you’re melting into one another a little- fitting perfectly together.

“we’re not watching this rubbish”

he breaks the comfortable silence, reaching over you for the remote- he’s been really into cooking shows lately.

and you’re just really into him, letting him commandeer the tv so he can catch up on his kitchen nightmares.

you think you fall asleep to the dulcet tones of gordon ramsay, but it’s probably more the heartbeat under your ear and the firm hand tracing circles on your back.

that’ll do it.

[carlislefiles]

slice of life | fushiguro toji, geto suguru, ino takuma, kamo choso, kong shiu, nanami kento, sukuna ryomen, yuuji itadori ╰►you wouldn’t say you love being a server, but you do love tips and being able to afford rent. you also don’t mind your flirty coworker. 7.1k words

a/n: guys...do any of y'all watch bistro huddy on tik tok...is this too niche...have I finally niched myself out....just let me know...I'll be here...fr though, I actually hate working at a restaurant, but this is of course, a tumblr post, and not real life!! tragically...also some of these are like funny and cutesy, and then others quite literally had me in tears writing them (nanami, hello...?) so, yeah watch out for that. also, I am well aware that this is wildly unrealistic. no warnings I don't think, besides maybe some cussing, and a singular usage of my publicly detested "y/n" unfortunately it couldn't be avoided. enjoy <3

you wouldn't say you love being a server. no one really does. it’s a chaotic mix of remembering eight drinks at once, smiling through the pain of a toddler screaming into your soul, and pretending that the tip at the end of this tunnel is worth the psychic damage. but the money’s decent, your coworkers are tolerable, and—if we’re being real—toji makes clocking in a little too easy.

he's the line cook from hell. not in the gordon ramsay "this food is trash" kind of way—though he absolutely yells like that sometimes—but more in the "how did this man get hired with zero culinary training and the attitude of a convicted felon" way. he burns at least one dish a night, calls in late more often than not, and refuses to wear a hairnet even though the manager has told him twice. and yet, somehow, he never gets fired. probably because when toji isn’t being a menace, he runs the kitchen like a finely oiled machine, barking out orders and flipping pans like he owns the damn place.

and then there’s you. sweet, stressed-out server #7. you try not to like him. you really do. but he’s got that charm, the greasy line cook appeal, the kind of hot that’s more danger than it is attraction—and you're kind of into it.

toji doesn’t flirt like a normal person. he flirts like someone who’s trying to win a bet. he’ll stare at you through the kitchen window with those unreadable green eyes, one corner of his mouth lifted like he knows something you don’t. he doesn’t say things outright; he just makes you wonder what he’s thinking.

“order up. yours is the only plate that doesn’t look like shit,” he’ll say, sliding your food onto the counter with a wink. or: “don’t let that guy on table four look down your shirt again. I'll stab him with a thermometer.” you laugh, mostly because you’re pretty sure he’s not joking.

toji’s not nice. not in the traditional sense. he makes the new host cry twice in one shift, tells the manager to shove it at least weekly, and has a permanent scowl that could curdle milk. but when you’re sweating through a double, on your fourth round of waters, and the host stand sends you four parties back to back with no remorse, toji’s the one yelling at them to “get their heads outta their asses” and “quit drowning the floor staff.”

sometimes he has leftover fries. he never offers them out loud, just slides a basket your way and raises an eyebrow. you know better than to say thanks—he doesn’t like being made a big deal of. he just likes watching you eat them, then tossing you a smirk when you catch him looking.

the other servers think you're sleeping together. you’re not. not really. there’ve been a few moments—late nights after close when you both stayed to do inventory, his hand lingering too long on your waist, your laugh a little too soft, his eyes a little too hungry—but nothing’s happened. it’s a situationship, or pre-situationship, or whatever the kids are calling it when someone wants to get under your skin but also wants to stick around for the long haul.

and the thing is? toji’s patient. maybe surprisingly so. he doesn’t push. he doesn’t ask what this is or where it’s going. he just shows up—hungover or not, late or not—and makes sure your orders come out first. he throws out a guy’s number when he catches him trying to slide it into your apron. he doesn’t even tell you, just rolls his eyes when the dude “suddenly loses his appetite.”

you don’t know what to make of him most days. you hate him when he’s yelling at the dishwasher or putting the wrong ticket in the window. but then he saves your ass on a slammed saturday by grilling a steak in under three minutes flat and smirking like he didn’t just perform a culinary miracle.

you don't love being a server. but you do love the moment when you duck behind the line after a brutal dinner rush, your arms aching and your brain fried, and toji flicks a cold soda can your way without saying a word.

he's not yours. not yet. but damn if he doesn’t act like it.

you and suguru both clock in at 5 p.m. sharp—he in his crisp white shirt rolled at the sleeves, hair tied back in a sleek ponytail; you in the same black polo and slacks, hair up in a practical bun. you don’t say “good evening” so much as you arch an eyebrow at each other across the host stand. tonight’s the night you’ve challenged each other to the monthly $100 tip-off: whoever racks up the highest tips gets the bonus. the stakes aren’t just bragging rights. you need that cash; he knows it.

7:15 p.m. you catch your first table—two businesswomen celebrating a deal. you’re charming but low-key (no geto-level razzle-dazzle), and they’re eating it up. you leave the table with a $15 tip. not bad.

geto swoops past, tossing his apron over your shoulder like a ribbon. “nice haul,” he drawls, “but those are rookie numbers.” he winks. the ladies at his table are swooning; one leaves him a $20. you grit your teeth—but you can’t help smiling when he slides the money into your apron pocket.

8:00 p.m. a trio of frat bros waltzes in. they sidle up to your section. you brace yourself for unwanted contact—hands on your waist, a “you look hot tonight” too close to your ear. before you can whirl away, suguru materializes behind them like a polite bouncer. “actually, that table’s mine,” he says, voice cool.

they blink, shift into his section—hands off you. one of them shoots you a grateful thumbs-up before stumbling away. you mouth, “thanks,” and he just grins. “protecting my girl’s turf,” he says. why do you like the way that sounds?

9:00 p.m. you’re drowning in plates. three tables triple-sat you by mistake, and there’s no end in sight. meanwhile, suguru’s section is empty, pristine. you feel a tug in your chest—guilt, annoyance, something like excitement. he strolls over, socks your hands playfully with a folded napkin, and says, “my chef back there took thirty-five minutes on that club sandwich you ordered. I went in and told them they can rediscover their souls or find a new career.” the grill staff visibly quiver.

your heart leaps—you hate that you can’t hate him. he leans in close. “sit tight,” he murmurs, “I've got a feeling about this next table.” and just like that, he’s back in action, leaving you to catch your breath.

10:00 p.m. the final round. two businessmen slide into his section; the bigger tip potential you’ve both been waiting on. you glance at him: both of you know what’s happening. you move to intercept—but suguru’s already there, slinging napkins over his shoulder with that effortless swagger. they laugh at his jokes. you fume.

your last table for the night is a college student buying dinner with tears in his eyes—tuition woes, parents sick back home. you give him a warm smile, chat him up, send the house dessert on the house. you walk away…and he leaves you a $25 tip anyway because god loves you, or something like that.

11:00 p.m. back at the host stand, you both dump your tips on the counter. $112 for you. $80 for him. he furrows his brow like you’ve just dealt him a personal blow—and that kind of look from suguru is…almost devastating.

you look back at him, triumphant. “winner.” you’re grinning so hard your cheeks hurt. he glances at your haul, then to his, then back to you, and—without saying a word—he slides $40 across so that his total matches yours exactly.

you jerk back, stunned. “hey!” he flips his dark hair back, flashing an absurd, infuriatingly charming smile. "I told you, I'm not about the money. I'm about you.”

your heart twists. he glances down at the pile of bills, then back at you, eyes soft. “go on home with a full tip,” he says. “and maybe, uh…celebrate?”

you swallow, stomach fluttering. “celebrate?”

“yeah.” he leans in. "I know a secret spot—if you’re up for it.”

later, you find yourself alone in the walk-in cooler. the hum of the fridge is comforting. suguru’s here, too, leaning against a shelf of bottled sodas. he grabs your hand and pulls you close, pressing your back to the chilly metal.

you laugh, breath misting. “the cooler?”

he shrugs with a wicked grin. “intimate. zero witnesses.”

your breath catches when he brushes hair from your face. his eyes are dark with something tender and wicked at once. you cup his jaw—warm, familiar. then you close the distance, lips meeting his. it’s feral and soft and utterly devastating. he tastes like salt—fries and sweat and something sweet.

suguru’s arms wrap around you, careful not to crush. “we make a pretty good team, huh?” he whispers.

you nod against his mouth. “the best.”

gojo satoru was meant to be a server.

some people find it demeaning, this job. the fake smiles, the rushed steps, the corporate chokehold of dress codes and “hospitality voice” policies. but satoru? he makes it look like an art form. he slides into it effortlessly—flirty just under the line of inappropriate, funny in the exact way that makes people feel clever for laughing, and beautiful enough that no one really minds waiting a little longer for their fries. his apron stays just a little askew, his sleeves rolled to mid-forearm like it's casual (it's not), and the blue eyes? god. the tips are ridiculous. women leave their numbers like confetti. some even ask for selfies. men stare a little too long. even old couples seem enchanted, like he’s their grandson reincarnated from a better life. he winks. he laughs. he gets away with everything. and you? you barely look up.

not because you don’t notice—please. you notice. the way his undercut drips with sweat halfway through a double, how his voice drops an octave when he’s tired, how he shoves his hair back with one hand when it starts falling into his face. you notice. but you’re not jealous. because you’re not his. maybe that’s why it doesn’t sting. not when table 9 calls him “sweetheart,” not when the hostess whispers behind the bar that she thinks he’s gonna ask for her number. because at the end of every shift, he walks out with you. matches his stride to yours in the parking lot like muscle memory. waits by the time clock just so he can clock out the same second you do. brushes against you when you're both behind the bar, too close, too long. it's never an accident.

you’ve been here longer. you’re the real vet—been through the wringer. worked through high school, stayed through college, watched tyrant managers come and go. you’ve seen uniforms change, menus rotate, bullshit policy updates emailed at midnight. you can carry four plates in one hand and argue with a guest at the same time. there’s not a single soul in the restaurant who doesn’t respect you.

and yet—satoru never treats you like a fixture. he treats you like you’re magic. every day. he compliments you like he gets paid for it. but it’s never the same thing twice. never just “you look nice.” no, satoru’s got creativity. you’ve been compared to goddesses, to perfectly folded napkins, to cinematic lighting in golden hour. “you’ve got a real victoria’s secret model vibe going for you today,” he’ll murmur, watching you reset tables. “you always do.” god, he’s such an ass.

and you hate that it makes you smile. you pretend you barely know him. call him “bluey” or “gojo” or “you, with the hair” like he’s some guy who just wandered in off the street. but you know exactly who he is. you know the way his shoulders tense after a manager talks down to him. you know he’s stopped wearing cologne on your shifts because you once wrinkled your nose and said “you smell like a department store.”

you know he fantasizes about helping you open your own place. he hasn’t told you—but you’ve seen the notes scribbled on napkins. “satoru & y/n’s all-night diner.” sometimes he’s crossed his name out. sometimes yours.

you make it so hard to read you. you’re cool. calm. no-nonsense. you come in, do your job, get out. flirtation rolls off your back like grease from the kitchen vent. but you help him. when he’s double-sat. when a big table throws a fit. when he forgets to grab a ramekin and you silently drop one next to his hand before he even asks.

you don’t say much, but you show it. and he’s obsessed with every second of it. he fell first. hard. he keeps falling. and god, he falls loud.

he flirts like a man who knows no shame, like a man who knows you’re going to marry him eventually and is just waiting for you to catch up. and you? you hold out...until the shift where the air conditioning breaks. you’re both drenched. irritated. miserable. you disappear to the back and he finds you leaning against the manager’s office door, trying to cool down with a napkin full of ice cubes. and before he knows it, he’s kissing you.

you shouldn’t be there. the office is off-limits. you’re on the clock. there’s a literal screaming baby in section three. but you kiss him back. hands in his hair. mouth on his. like you’ve been waiting. and when he finally pulls back, stunned, breathing heavy, blinking like he’s not sure if this is real—you straighten your apron, smooth your hair, and say, “if you’re late on your tables again, I’m not covering for you.” but he hears the smile in your voice.

and from that point forward? he’s ruined for anyone else. they still leave numbers. still flirt. still call him handsome. and he smiles, sure. tips are tips. but he doesn’t flirt back the same. he saves that for you. for when your eyes are tired. when your feet hurt. when you’re halfway through a double and your hands shake from too much caffeine and not enough food.

he’ll press a granola bar into your palm. or sneak you fries from the kitchen. or lean in and whisper, “ten more minutes and then you get to yell at me in the walk-in. we’ll call it therapy.” you never admit you’re falling for him, too. but he sees the way you reach for him now. the way you linger. the way your eyes follow him across the floor. and he’s not worried.

because someday—when you’re standing in your own restaurant, clipboard in hand, menu the way you want it—he’s going to be there, too. apron crooked, smile crooked, heart in his hands. satoru gojo may be made to serve, but he only ever wants to serve you.

you don’t know what divine comedy landed ino takuma behind the bar and on the line, but you’re convinced the universe has a sense of humor. he’s not a bad cook—when he remembers to turn the fryer on. he’s not a bad bartender—if you’re okay with him triple-checking a gin and tonic. and he’s not a bad guy. not even close.

just…hopeless. endearingly, aggressively hopeless.

he shows up to work five minutes early every shift, apron askew, hair still wet from a shower, shirt clinging to his chest like a cry for help. you say, “you’re early,” and he grins like he’s been awarded a medal. you say, “your fly’s down,” and he thanks you like you’re handing him the secret to life.

you flirt with him constantly. obnoxiously. strategically. you lean over the bar when he’s counting tips, press close behind him when he’s slicing lemons, tell him you’ll give him a ride home if he promises not to make you stop for gas.

he always, always, blinks at you like a confused golden retriever and goes, “oh, you don’t have to! I can walk!”

you once flat-out asked him if he wanted to fool around in your car. after your shift. in the lot. his face turned a color that shouldn't be humanly possible, and he said, “you mean like…play a game?”

a game. you considered ending it all right there in the stockroom.

but you didn’t. because for all the cluelessness, the blank stares, and the unintentional friend-zoning, ino is…wonderful. when your boss is on a rampage, yelling at staff for the busted walk-in freezer door, ino raises his hand with a sheepish shrug. “that was me. my bad. leaned on it too hard.” you know it wasn’t. he knows it wasn’t. he still takes the write-up and the lecture, and when you come close to tears afterward, he tells you it’s okay. “it’s just a warning. I got thick skin.” then he gives you a crushing hug in the alley out back and insists on buying you a gatorade with his last $3.

he always “accidentally” messes up one of your orders. “oops, I made the chicken sandwich with extra avocado and fries. I guess we can’t serve it now. you want it?” he does it with the most oblivious innocence. you’re sure he thinks you haven’t noticed. you’ve noticed.

when a customer gets too mean—someone with the audacity to snap their fingers at you, demand a refund, insult your service—ino is the first one through the kitchen doors. he storms up to the table, wiping his hands on a rag. “hey. you got a problem? cool. tell me. but you don’t talk to her like that. or any of my servers. not now, not ever. got it?”

you hear it from the dish pit. you don’t even have to see it. and when he comes back in, cheeks red, trying to play it off like he didn’t just defend your honor like a knight with a spatula, you want to scream.

“my servers,” he’d said. his. you make $10 an hour before tips, and he’s claiming you like you’re family. or worse—like you’re sacred. like he’s protecting a relic, not a girl he hasn’t realized he’s desperately in love with yet.

it doesn’t occur to him until much, much later—maybe when he’s halfway through his shift, flipping pancakes for some hungover regular, and you sneak up behind him and plant a kiss on his cheek. he stops. entirely. pan goes still. face goes red. you’re about to laugh when he turns, gently, and stares at you like he’s never really looked before.

“oh,” he says. it’s reverent. “you…you really like me?”

you blink. "I asked you to make out with me in my car. twice.”

"I thought you were joking.” he groans in pure and utter shame and tragedy. you’re telling him he missed out on the opportunity to make out with you twice? god might as well just take mercy on him and kill him now.

you can’t hold back your laughter.

he wipes his hands on his apron, then takes yours—callused, warm, soft in the way you knew they’d be. “you’re, like…amazing. you could have anyone. you could be out of here, living in a penthouse or something.”

you snort. “what, with my tips?”

but he doesn’t smile. he holds your gaze, totally sincere. “you’re the best part of this place. you’re kind and smart and funny and you remember everyone’s orders and you…you notice things. I look forward to seeing you. I—”

you kiss him again, just to shut him up. he worships you after that. carries your water bottle around like it’s precious cargo. tells anyone who tries to flirt with you that you’re spoken for—then blushes and adds, “well, not, like, officially. yet.”

he burns his hand one day because he was too busy watching you laugh from across the kitchen. you kiss it better.

he asks you—bashfully, finally—if he can take you out. “like…to a movie. or dinner. but not here. somewhere nice. you deserve nice.”

you say yes, and he lights up like someone turned on the sun. later that night, you park in the back, doors locked, seats reclined. finally. he grins at you, sheepish and eager and so dumb in the best way.

you tease him. “you sure you know what we’re about to do?”

he nods. “yeah. make out in your car. right?”

you laugh. “good boy.” and if he wasn’t devoted before, he sure as hell is now.

choso is…not good at this. at first.

his shirt’s always a little wrinkled, name tag hanging crooked, hair somehow both neat and tragically emo. he’s new. you clock it the second he opens his mouth with a soft, “hi, welcome in!” and an awkward glance at the seating chart like it’s written in ancient greek. he fumbles. a lot. tells a party of six to follow him, then panics when he realizes he only has a four-top ready. doubles up your section on accident. gets the table numbers wrong. once seated someone in the storage closet. (to be fair, the door was open.)

normally, you’d be mad. no—furious. you’ve worked here two years. this is your turf, your money, your grind. you’ve snapped at hosts for far less. but choso? choso’s different. because when he messes up, he looks so apologetic it’s like kicking a puppy. big, dark eyes full of guilt, soft voice saying, “I'm so sorry, I didn’t mean to—” while the other servers tear into him like vultures.

but not you. no, you pull him aside, speak low and calm, point at the chart with your pen and say, “these four tables are mine. keep me steady, not slammed. focus on even rotation and don’t give me a party of eight ten minutes before close or I will cry.” and he listens. god, does he listen.

after that, he starts to figure it out. mostly because you’re the only one who takes the time to actually explain things to him. where the kids’ menus are. how to stall a wait time. why kevin is never allowed to take the patio by himself. you give him your number, say, “text me if you’re not sure what to do,” and choso nearly drops his phone trying to save your contact.

he’s scheduled five nights a week. you are too. coincidence? maybe. but he starts picking you up on the way in. says he’s just being nice. says he was heading that way anyway. his apartment is in the opposite direction, but he never mentions it.

he learns your coffee order before he remembers your last name. keeps a little note in his phone with the specifics: oat milk, light ice, two pumps of vanilla. shows up with it when your eye twitch starts from three doubles in a row. says, “you looked tired,” like it’s a compliment. every other server treats him like a punching bag. you treat him like a person. and that difference? it shifts something in him.

he starts putting your name next to the easy tables. the regulars that tip well. the quiet couples on dates. never the frat bros. never the wine moms. he tells the loud bachelor party at the door that the wait will be an hour when there’s actually an open booth. then he sends them to kevin.

“don’t want you dealing with that,” he mutters as they stomp off. “guy looked like he calls women ‘sweetheart’ unironically.”

you raise a brow. “and what do you call women, choso?”

his ears turn pink. "I’d call you whatever you wanted me to, anything, if you liked it.” you laugh it off. he doesn't.

he never flirts outright—too nervous, too respectful—but his version of it is just as obvious. carries your food runner trays for you. offers to fold napkins with you after hours. gives you the booth in the back when you look like you're gonna cry. he’s like a one-man support system in a black button-up. the kicker is: he never asks for anything. never expects. never pushes. just stands by the host stand like a dark-haired lighthouse, watching you hustle, hoping you’ll glance his way.

and then one night—it’s late, the shift’s over, the air outside is damp and cold—he walks you to your car. says, “you looked tired,” again. soft. sweet. no coffee this time, just concern. you turn to thank him, keys jingling in your hand.

you’re not sure who moves first. maybe both of you. maybe it’s mutual. but suddenly, you’re kissing him in the dark, your back against your car, his lips trembling against yours like he’s never done this before, or at least never done it like this.

when you break apart, he stares at you like he’s dreaming. then: “can I—can I kiss you again? please?”

and how do you say no to a guy like that? you don’t. he leans in again, hands gentle but sure, breath shaky, and this time it’s deeper. this time it’s real. by the time you finally unlock your door, he’s breathless, dazed, eyes wide and reverent.

“you okay?” you ask, teasing.

he swallows hard. “you don’t understand. I've been in love with you since you explained how to rotate sections. I'm—god, I'm yours. fully. whatever you want.”

shiu is a menace behind the bar.

the type who remembers everyone’s name, favorite drink, last heartbreak, and whether or not they tip in cash. he flirts like it’s his native tongue—easy, smooth, devastating. the regulars eat it up. that bachelorette party from two weeks ago? still posting about him on instagram. that lonely professor who comes in every thursday night for a manhattan? doubled her tip after shiu called her “darling” and winked. he's untouchable. untamed. he knows it. he thrives on it.

you? you're a server. professional. efficient. apron tied tight, hair done just right, customer voice always on. you’re good at this job—great at it—and you don’t have time for his games. you’ve seen him turn it on and off like a light switch. you’re not getting caught in that. at least, you’re trying not to. dating a coworker is so cliché.

but when he leans over the bar and says your name like it’s a secret, or hands you your usual drink with just the right amount of lime, or slides you a shot after a rough double and murmurs, “just for you, sweetheart,” your stomach flips in a way it shouldn’t. because it’s not like how he flirts with everyone else. it’s softer. focused. less of a performance, more like a confession.

you ignore it. play it cool. tell yourself it’s just what bartenders do. he’s just trying to boost tips. that’s all. but shiu? he’s obsessed with you. it drives him crazy that you don’t flirt back the way everyone else does. that you give him a look when he’s sweet-talking a table of sorority girls like, really? again? that you roll your eyes at him when he’s juggling three numbers and a tequila bottle behind the bar like it’s a circus act.

you make fun of him. and he loves it.

he watches the way you tie your apron every shift—tight, efficient, crisp. watches the way you adjust your hair before a heavy section, the little details you fine-tune to maximize charm and cash. you’re just as good at your hustle as he is at his. maybe better. and that’s what gets him.

you’re not impressed. not by him, not by the attention he draws like flies to a light. and that’s why he wants you.

the thing is—he wants you in a way he doesn’t want anyone else.

sure, he’s flirted with everyone under the sun. but he’s invested in you. the real kind. he stares too long when you’re laughing with a table. leans over the counter a little more when it’s you asking for drinks. punches out on his tab to walk you to your car, tells you it’s just coincidence—he’s heading that way. he’s not.

you catch him watching you across the restaurant, and he doesn’t even pretend he wasn’t. just smirks, shrugs, goes back to rinsing glasses.

and don’t even get him started on the dishwasher. that guy? skinny little slip of a thing. always lurking by the expo window like a lovesick puppy, trying to catch your eye with his elbow grease and soft boy act. makes shiu want to snap a mop handle over his knee.

he won’t say anything outright—yet—but he starts making it clear. “don’t let dish boy waste your time, sweetheart,” he’ll murmur as you reach across the bar. “he can’t even roll silverware right.” that makes you laugh, and he’s ready to dedicate the rest of his life to hearing that again. or, “if he ever gets too clingy, just say the word. I'll toss him in the dumpster out back.” he says it like a joke. you’re pretty sure it’s not. because shiu kong may be a flirt, a charmer, and a total piece of work—but when it comes to you? he’s real. no bit. no hustle. just him. a little too protective. a little too sincere.

you think you’ve got him figured out. but then he says, quiet and low, after one too many near-kisses and casual brushes of fingers: “I'm not like this with anyone else, you know? I know you think I am, but I’m not. I don’t want your tips. I want you.” and suddenly, he doesn’t seem like such a joke after all. 

nanami does not consider himself a morning person. he wakes up early, yes. he’s disciplined. on time. efficient. but liking the mornings? no. that would imply a warmth, a softness he rarely shows.

except with you. you work the overnight shift—midnight to noon—and it’s brutal. a cursed, unspeakable schedule nobody wants. too late for night owls, too early for early birds. tips are few and far between, your body aches in odd places, and you’re so tired sometimes your thoughts blur together like batter left out too long.

nanami knows this. and he hates it. he doesn’t say that, of course. that would be unprofessional. what he does do is start showing up earlier. first it’s 6:00 a.m. then 5:30. then five sharp.

he tells himself it’s to prep the sourdough, to perfect the croissants, to experiment with a new proofing technique. but that’s not true. the truth is: he just wants to see you. those quiet hours before the sun rises? when the kitchen hums with low lights and clinking trays? that’s his favorite part of the day.

because that’s when you’re there. hair a mess. apron wrinkled. running around trying to manage a floor with three absolutely wasted/hungover customers and zero patience, always looking like you’re one plate short of a meltdown. and still, you smile at him. just for a second. a little tired thing, crooked and bashful. he treasures it like gold.

nanami doesn’t push. not you. you’ve got that twitchy, overworked thing about you—like if someone showed you real kindness, you might unravel on the spot. so he does it in ways you don’t notice.

he starts “messing up” loaves. burning the corners, cutting the top wrong, forgetting the egg wash. “guess I’ll have to get rid of this one,” he’ll say, and hand you a still-warm loaf before your shift ends. he sets timers longer than necessary when it’s your break. you’re curled up in a corner of the warmest baking room, clutching a jacket he just happened to leave there, and he quietly snoozes the alarm every ten minutes until you wake up on your own.

if a manager comes sniffing around, asking why you’re not out front, he’s unflinching: “she’s helping me with inventory. you’ll have to wait.” no one argues with nanami. not even the boss.

so you stay where you are, drinking tea from a chipped mug while he slices strawberries for tarts. he’s always inventing new desserts. says it’s for the case. for the spring menu. but you notice they all seem to feature your favorite flavors. and he always gives you the first bite. “quality control,” he says, though he never samples them himself.

once, during a late shift when you were crashing hard, he wordlessly placed a cup of fresh-ground coffee and a plate of something sweet in front of you. a honey lavender scone, still steaming. you bit into it and teared up a little bit without meaning to. he said nothing, only handed you a napkin and asked if the texture was acceptable.

and when you work yourself to the bone—when your eyelids sag and your legs barely hold you up—he appears at your side without fanfare. “I’ll  drive you home,” he says softly. you start to protest, but he’s already holding your coat out like a gentleman from another era. and when you nod, exhausted, he drives in silence, the kind that feels safe. whole. the car is warm. he keeps the heat turned up for you.

he watches you sometimes, when you’re nodding off in the passenger seat. you deserve better, he thinks. a better job. more rest. more peace. and if you won’t give it to yourself, he’ll do what he can in the spaces in between. in the extra sugar on your scone, the longer breaks, the fake orders he pretends you’re needed for. in the way he always notices when your hands are cold and slides a hot drink toward them without saying a word.

you make him soft. and though he’d never say it aloud, he’d get up before the sun every day of his life just for five more minutes with you. the thing about nanami is: he doesn’t just like you. he cherishes you. like the finest recipe he’s ever perfected—measured out in sugar, baked into something golden, and handled with the gentlest hands.

he is so much better than this place. everyone knows it. especially you. you're not even sure how someone with that much talent and that little tolerance for bullshit ends up in the back kitchen of a mid-tier casual dining restaurant, but sukuna runs that line like a war general. if war generals had tattooed forearms, eyebrow piercings, and a habit of glaring knives into the backs of lazy fry cooks.

he’s intense. immaculate knife skills. sauces that make grown men cry. meat cooked perfectly every single time. it’s the kind of skill that should have a michelin star slapped on it. and when you told him that—after he handed you a rogue slice of steak on a shift you didn’t even have time to breathe during—he just grunted. “not going anywhere ‘til you do,” he said, like it wasn’t the most romantic thing he’d ever said in his life.

but even though he’s stuck here, he’s not idle. sukuna wastes ingredients like they cost nothing—testing, tasting, refining. always for you. a little something stashed on the back shelf of the walk-in, labeled in sloppy sharpie with your name. sometimes he “accidentally” burns something (he would never, he couldn't bring himself to) just so he can slide you a replacement and watch your face light up after the first bite. and your face does light up. that’s the kicker. he memorized your palette like a quiz he studied for weeks. knows exactly how much heat you like, how much garlic is too much garlic (almost never), and what sweets will perk you up after a triple sat lunch rush.

when your perfume hits the air as you fly past the expo line, he lifts his head like a hunting dog catching scent. you rush out, plates in hand, stress in your shoulders, muttering “that took way too long” under your breath—and still, he doesn’t yell. he doesn’t have to. not when one folded arm and a sharp, deliberate glare can silence the entire kitchen. they fall into place like children lining up for recess. because when sukuna’s pissed? that’s an osha violation waiting to happen. but he’s not like that with you.

no, with you, he’s practically docile. you could walk into the kitchen mid-rush, batting your lashes and apologizing because you forgot to ring in table 12’s order and now they’re threatening to walk—and he’d just sigh, crack his knuckles, and say, “gimme five.”

you don’t even realize it—how much you have him wrapped around your finger. how he times his breaks to yours, how his chest puffs out every time you moan after biting into something he’s made, how he scowls when anyone else so much as thinks about you. you really don’t realize it until one of his line cooks makes some offhand comment—something about how you look in that skirt, how you bend when you wipe the table. and sukuna explodes. “say that again. I fucking dare you.”

it’s not subtle. nothing about him is. the kitchen goes silent. the cook apologizes. the conversation never happens again. but your name still burns in his chest.

and the customers? oh, if only they knew. sukuna doesn’t go full psycho while the nice ones are in the restaurant. no, he waits. watches from the shadows, counts the minutes, until everyone leaves but that one fucking table that always gives you grief.  “how come my girl comes back sniffling and weepy every time she deals with you, huh? she’s not serving you good enough?” he bites. they stare at him with something like awe. “tip her good and get out of here.” 

you don’t know he does this. not really. but you do notice how quiet the problem tables get on return visits. how much better your tips are from people who used to sneer at you for sport.

and behind all that big, black dog energy, there’s a softness he saves just for you. the way he presses you against the dry goods in the storage closet, one hand braced above your head, the other pulling you closer by the waist. he tastes like smoke and spice, kisses you like he’s hungry, like you’re something he made with his own two hands and he doesn’t want anyone else to have a bite.

you're breathless, lips swollen, apron askew. he leans in, brushes a thumb across your cheek.

"you good, princess?" he asks, like he didn’t just nearly ruin you against a wall. and you nod, cheeks hot, breath caught, heart doing a tap dance in your chest. you don’t call it a relationship. of course not. that would make it real. that would mean admitting what this is. but when you walk out of that closet, hair a little mussed, pulse still skipping, and sukuna’s right behind you—no one else dares to say a word.

itadori is what corporate types call a personality hire. and if anyone says it like it’s a bad thing? he just laughs. because yeah, he does have a great personality. he’s sunshine in an apron, muscles in a tight shirt, charm with a dimpled smile. grandmas give him candy. kids draw him pictures on napkins. drunk businessmen leave him hundred-dollar tips “for the vibes.” he’s a walking serotonin shot, and he knows it.

but you? you’re the real powerhouse here. you’re the puppet master behind the diner curtain. it’s your fourth year and counting, and you know everything—who to flirt with for favors, which register button unlocks the “forgot to ring it in” meal, which chef will actually make your off-menu creations if you say “pretty please.”

yuuji's jaw dropped the first time he watched you finesse a bartender into remaking a drink just because “this one had the wrong vibe.” and they did it—smiling, even. you taught him everything. took him under your wing. even tied his first apron when his hands were shaking on his first shift. he was done for immediately.

and so, he plays the long game. he plays dumb, just a little. “wait, wait, slow down—so if I bring fried pickles to table 3 before their drinks, they’ll tip better?” “you mean to tell me that table 7 always splits the check four ways?” “so, wait, the dishwasher likes sour candy, and that’s how you get your ramekins clean faster?” he knows all this like the back of his hand; had it down the very first time you told him...but he could listen to you talk for hours. watches your lips as you explain, your gloss catching the fluorescent lights. watches your eyes sparkle when you say, “c’mon, yuuji, keep up.” watches your hips sway when you saunter out with a full tray balanced like it’s a stage prop and you’re the star.

he starts showing up early. stays late. always, always ready to take your tables. that couple that never tips? done. the guy who ogles you too much? “I got it, don’t worry.” that side work you hate? “I already did it—no big deal.” your drink? already waiting for you by the soda machine. he’s even talked a manager out of writing you up once with a dumb joke and a grin. yuuji is, simply put, your bitch. and he loves it. but he’s not dumb.

he sees how you hover sometimes. how you glance over when he’s laughing with another server. how you tug on your apron strings and mumble, “I can take that table, if you’re swamped.” how your fingers brush his when you hand him silverware and your breath catches just a little.

and when your manager corners you to ask who deserves that upcoming raise? well, you don’t even blink. “yuuji,” you say. like it’s obvious. like it’s fact. and it is. he works harder than anyone. smiles through the lunch rush and stays sane through the dinner chaos. fills in for no-shows. makes customers laugh even when they’re impossible. you say his name like you’re proud. he practically floats for a week after that.

you try to pay it back—try to do his side work one night. try to scrub down the soda machine or refill the salt shakers or fold napkins. but he gently takes it all out of your hands and says, “nope. sit. I got this.”

“yuuji, seriously—”

“you work too hard. let me do it for once.” he grins. he always grins. but there's something a little different in this one. a little soft. like he's holding back something bigger. because he is. so much bigger.

he’s had to stuff his fantasies deep, deep down. the ones where you live with him, sleep in his shirts, kiss him good morning, throw popcorn at him during movie nights. the ones where you let him take care of everything. where he works and you just get to be happy. lazy. loved.

the ones where your lip gloss is smudged because he kissed it off. but for now, he lets himself dream. and when you lean over and whisper, “thanks, yuuji. you’re the best,” he swears his heart punches a hole in his chest. yeah. maybe he is a personality hire. but lucky for you, that personality is hopelessly in love.

[whore4mattandchris]

| 𝙜𝙞𝙧𝙡𝙛𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙣𝙙 𝙤𝙛 1 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙢𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙤𝙛 3

Chris turns over in bed excepting to feel your warm body beside him but to his dismay he feels an empty cold bed.

He immediately wakes up upset to know you have left thinking you went back to the studio after getting home late.

He still remembers the way you limped into his room complaining about your sore toes from your pointe shoes.

He quickly gets up and walks upstairs to the kitchen he was originally going to the car to drive to the studio but was stopped when he saw you in your silk pink robe whipping up a breakfast feast.

You were in your own little world humming to a Lana Del Rey song, Chris can tell you don't sense anything but the camera recording you cooking and the song in your head.

He stalks up behind you and wraps his warm arms under your robe, your skin cold is shocked by the contrast to Chris's body temperature.

You turn around and kiss his head, "Good morning to you too baby." You say to him before turning around and continuing to cut the fruits.

"What are you making there?" Chris asks in his husky morning voice with his bread hairs scratching your neck in a comforting way.

"I'm making a fruit salad just finishing the strawberries, The croissants are being baked right now, and I have to make all the omelettes for us." You say casually as if making a full course meal was normal everyday.

Chris wasn't shocked one bit though he was used to you going full on out for anyone and everything.

"Is this for us baby?" He asks pressing his face closer to you. "No silly this is for ALL of us." You say emphasizing the word 'all' showing that you were also cooking for his brothers.

Chris sighs knowing this and pulls away from your body. Him feeling cold already, "But baby they can have cereal." He says whining.

"Christopher Owen." you say warning him.

"Okay okay." He says already heading to the refrigerator.

"Can you actually get everything out for the omelettes and whisk everything in different bowls but please baby do not cook them." You say as you squeeze fresh lime juice on the fruit salad which consisted of: Pineapples, Strawberries, Pomegranate seeds, Kiwi, Green Apples, Green and Purple Grapes, and your favorite Raspberries.

Chris looks at you hurt, "Do you not think I can cook too?" He says faking a baby voice.

You laugh as you take the Strawberry Shortcake flavored Croissants out the oven. With your new Hello Kitty oven mitts. "Well you're exactly not Gordan Ramsay baby." You say place the Croissants on a tray and start filling them with your homemade cream cheese filling making sure your camera catches your every move.

Chris was whisking away minding his own business before he heard you gasp making him drop his fork, "What happened?!" He asked rushing to your side worried that you accidentally burnt or cut yourself.

You hold up a heart shaped croissant, "Look it's for you baby!" You say smiling at him with your beautiful doe eyes. Chris just sighs and softly smiles at you kissing your head, "It's going to taste a lot better now!" You say genuinely happy at your creation.

Chris can't help but fall in love with you more. You show your camera, "Look everyone!" You excitedly say maybe a little too loud because Nick comes downstairs still in his blanket.

"Why are you guys so loud." Nick states annoyed that he was waken from a great nap.

"Oh sorry Nick to make it better I am making you guys breakfast. Can you go get Matt it's almost done." You say giggling to yourself.

Nick's whole demeanor changes hearing the sentence 'you guys breakfast.' He quickly mutters an 'ok.' and walks over to Matt room.

You and Chris finish all the cooking together. Once you guys actually finish you show your camera a finished plate of everything put together along with a glass of apple juice.

The two boys come back upstairs and sit down, Chris looks at them confusingly, "You think she's going to give you guys your plates? Get your asses up. Be glad she even made you two breakfast." Chris says sternly at them. They get up muttering an apology to me I reassured them that it was ok.

"Chris that was unnecessary." You say pouting at him.

He kisses your head, "They know to make their own plate baby." Chris says smiling at you.

The two boys come back, they set their plates down and sit down. "Thank you so much Y/N it looks delicious." Matt says taking a bite of the croissant.

"Yeah thanks Y/N!" Nick says very happy now.

"Anytime guys." You say smiling at them.

We eat breakfast together like a family I may be a girlfriend of 1 but I am a mother of 3 around here.

©𝙬𝙝𝙤𝙧𝙚4𝙢𝙖𝙩𝙩𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙘𝙝𝙧𝙞𝙨

A/N: I made this while eating whataburger..

[darkdevasofdestruction]

Mine, Always and Forever ~ Ramsay Bolton x Stark!Reader

Small disclaimer: It's Ramsay we're talking about; The story will have heavy dark themes and scenes that might make you uncomfortable.

Summary: Ramsay's obsession has always been Lady Y/N Stark, since the very moment they were children, and up into their adulthood. Everything he does, he does for her. He would burn the whole world to see her in his arms again, desperately needing him again. Ramsay Snow was going to trample over every noble house known to Westeros, just to gain the right to claim the little she-wolf that encaptured him in her spell.

Y/N was looking down at Sandor Clegane, wearing a conflicted yet highly determined look on her face; He, however, was smirking, he was amused to the point of barking a laugh in her face. His large hands kept a strong grip on her hips to keep her comfortably on his lap.

"Anyone told you you're one crazy lady, little fox?" the disfigured man teased the red haired Stark lady; Her long nails were digging harshly into his shoulders.

"Yes." she said deadpan. "Let them say whatever. As long as I get out of here, I don't care."

"You want me to risk my neck, to get you out of King's Landing. That's bold, even for you." his fingers dug painfully into her flesh. "And you think giving me your maidenhood's gonna sweeten me into losing my life, is that it?"

"Don't flatter yourself, Sandor. I'm only here because you're the only trust-worthy person in this pit of vipers." she hissed at him. "My maidenhood is not yours to take, nor am I giving it away to anyone except the man I've been in love with since I was eleven winters old."

"Sentimentalism won't get you anywhere, girl." he scoffed, finally pushing you off him to tumble on the hard ground. "And neither will you fleeing. Everything is surveilled by the Lions."

"Robb is at the Twins. If I get there, I can return home to Winterfell. I am the oldest - Someone must take care of our home." Y/N got up, her long red hair a beautiful mess all around her. "Sandor, I need you. Please. What do you need me to do? Beg you? I will beg you, if that's what you want."

"Tell me who's that poor bastard." Y/N looked at him confused, but dragged a chair by the bed and sat down.

"Roose Bolton's bastard, Ramsay Snow." her voice was serene and casual. "You know, that crazy guy who gets off on flaying living people."

"I'm beginning to think someone slammed your head against a wall. Girl, you're deranged." she shrugged her shoulders, as if to say she doesn't care much. "Does anyone know about him?"

"My dad used to know I had a thing for Ramsay - Obviously, we didn't speak much about it. If mother found out I was head over heels over a lowly bastard from a disgusting family like the Boltons... Well, I wouldn't hear the end of it." she laughed dryly. "Mother would be very disappointed to know that all of her girls have terrible taste in men - Take Sansa for example, falling for an old dog like you... And, to be fair, I don't think Arya even has a taste for men at all, if you catch my drift."

"The little bird won't sing me sweet thrills." he huffed under his breath. "Convince me, and I'll think about helping you get out of your cage."

"Let's see... It all began many years ago, when I had just passed my eleventh year alive, and my father took me to the Dreadfort for business with Roose Bolton..."

The Stark party arrived on horse-back after many hours of uncomfortable riding through the snow and cold; Eddard was afraid his little girl would get ill - Cat had told him many times not to take her - But he couldn't refuse Y/N's pleading. She was eleven years of age, and behaving very much like how Lyanna used to. Y/N might favour her Tully side, with scarlet hair shining like red copper in the Sun, and light eyes that peered deep into your soul - But at heart, she was a valiant and loyal Wolf.

The forest hiding the Dreadfort was thick, yet beautiful, though in no way could it compare to the woods around Winterfell. It was a warm Spring afternoon, with the flowers in bloom; the sky was blue and embellished with a few lazy clouds, and the breeze was gently rustling through Y/N's long scarlet locks.

Lord Bolton was awaiting the Stark retinue; He took Ned aside to guide him into his council room to speak business; The servants were guided into the Fort to be houses; And Y/N remained trugging behind, looking around and exploring with the curiosity of a little fox.

It was then that she spotted that brunet runt with eyes like crystal icicles; He was staring intently at her from behind a tree. Y/N knew who that was - Ramsay Snow, the bastard of Roose Bolton. Her dad mentioned him, and told her to be nice to him. Of course she was gonna be nice to him - She loves Jon and treats him just like her younger brother, because that's what he is!

With a bow and quiver attached to her back, Y/N stepped towards the boy, extending her hand towards him. "You are Ramsay Snow, aren't you?" the boy looked at her, soulless, but grumbled affirmatively. "I'm Y/N. Want to come help me out with my archery?" he looked at her as if she was crazy; Y/N let out an impatient sigh, and turned on her heel. "You know the woods better than I do - I am sure you will find me once you remember how to move your feet. Left foot, right foot, and repeat."

She thus wandered into the forest, looking for a place to practice her archery; It didn't take long before she heard the noise of rapid footsteps approaching. Ramsay stood right behind her, his demeanour guarded, cold and wary - Typical for that of a mistreated bastard.

"See? I told you you'd find me easily." she let out a soft chuckle, turning her back to him and fidgeting with her bow.

The boy didn't answer immediately, unsure of how to respond to the noble girl. He’d been taught to keep his distance from highborns, especially someone like her, the daughter of the Warden of the North... But there’s something different about her, something that doesn’t seem to care about the invisible lines that separate them, about ranks or blood.

"How did you know who I am?" he asked in a low voice.

"What, Bolton's bastard son?" Ramsay flinched slightly at the word, but Katrina’s tone is curious rather than cruel. She steps closer, studying him with those sharp, Stark eyes. He nods, unsure of what to expect from her. "Dad told me to be as nice to you as I am with my own bastard younger brother. Jon is a delight to have around, truly - Too bad mother can't see that." she shrugged her shoulders lazily. "You don't talk much, do you?"

"I don't know how to speak to noble ladies... My Lady." he admitted begrudgingly. "Nobles aren't supposed to see a bastard like me."

"Well, you can start by calling me by my name - Y/N - And then, you can continue by coming with me and helping me out with my archery." she grinned, and before Ramsay could react, she grabbed his wrist and tugged him along, her energy infectious. Ramsay stumbled slightly, caught off guard by her boldness, but he didn’t resist. For once, he didn't protest to being dragged around - He enjoyed the physical touch from her.

"Where are you taking me?" the boy found himself speaking a little louder.

"Deeper into the forest! I need someone to help me practice. I can't hit anything if I don't have someone to fetch the arrows."

Ramsay blinked, bewildered by how casually she dismissed the divide between them. He’d never been treated like this before — Like he’s just another boy, not the bastard son of Roose Bolton. And yet, there’s something exciting about the way she was pulling him along, like he was a part of her adventure rather than an outsider.

They reached a small clearing in the woods. Katrina lets go of his wrist and unslinged her bow, not wasting any time. She lines up an arrow, but her aim is slightly off. The arrow flies past the tree trunk she was aiming at and disappears into the underbrush.

"Damn it!" Y/N stomped her foot impatiently. "This is all Robb's fault! If he hadn't told on me, I would have been able to train with Theon!" she whined so cutely, the bastard thought with amusement, watching her look around aimlessly for that arrow. "Great, it's lost. Only four left I guess." she grumbled to herself with resentment.

Ramsay hesitated for a moment, before rushing toward the underbrush. He found the arrow easily enough and returned it to her, watching as her eyes widened in awe.

"You found it - And so easily! How cool!" no one had ever praised him before - It felt really good. "You know how to shoot?" he nodded his head. "Can you teach me?"

The boy stepped to her side, raising her arms up and placing her in position. Without even realising, his hands lingered on her body; He was enjoying touching her so much, and she wasn't protesting, too focused on holding the bow and arrow properly with those small, delicate hands of hers. She was so very cute, he thought to himself, as he positioned himself in a way that almost engulfed her whole.

"You’re holding it wrong." he muttered into her ear. "Follow the trajectory of my finger - Focus on the target and hold the tip of the arrow a little above the spot you want to hit. Draw the string with an inhale, and release with an exhale." he then fixed the angle of her drawing arm. "Boys won't tell you this, but girls have this small curvature of the arm - To aim properly, you'd have to arch your arm like this... And it will improve your accuracy." he then kicked a little at her feet, getting them in position. "Posture is half the work; Stand straight... And release."

With all points ticked, Y/N released the arrow, and lodged itself close to where it was supposed to reach; It hit the tree trunk, which was all that mattered for a beginner. "Wow! Robb will be so jealous when I beat him at archery next time!" her voice went up cutely as she chirped with excitement, almost bouncing on the spot with glee. "Thank you, Ramsay, thank you!" huh... She thanked him. What a peculiar girl.

"Don't thank me until you win." he teased her. "Try again - Without my help this time." that comment stopped her in her little joy party. Right, Ramsay won't be there to help her. Damn.

Regaining posture, Y/N drew the bowstring back, feeling the difference in her stance. She released the arrow, and this time it hit the tree trunk with a satisfying thud. She did that, all by herself! She grinned, turning to Ramsay with a look of triumph and victory.

"Was that cool?!" was she asking for validation - From him?!

"Yes, My Lady, you did well." she didn't seem to notice the way he called her; She was far too absorbed into her success and practice.

Ramsay smiled for the first time in his life; a small, hesitant smile that Y/N almost missed - But she caught it, and something about that moment made her feel like she’d cracked through a layer of ice.

For once, the boy felt at ease around another human being, even if that person was an eleven year old brazen noble lady who tried to best her younger brothers at silly things like archery and swordsmanship. Wasn't she supposed to learn embroidery and other girly things? Well, now that he thought it over, Ramsay was sure most noble Lords wouldn't take their daughters with them on delegations; They'd take their sons, right? It only meant Lord Stark loved his daughter very much, he noted. Not that he'd know what that was - Surely, the little haughty thing was going to forget all about him.

As the sun began to set, Ramsay realised he had to escort the young lady back, before either her father worries, or his father thinks he murdered her. That bloody monster - He hated his father more than he hated anyone alive. He was going to get the most miserable death there is.

For dinner, however, Ramsay wasn't allowed to sit at the table with the nobles; Y/N's mother also didn't want Jon to sit with the rest of the children... So in that regard, she could understand the miserable, spiteful look on Ramsay's face. It was Y/N and Robb who begged their dad to allow Jon and Theon to eat with them... But Y/N was afraid of Roose Bolton and his terrifying icy glare - He was empty, and ruthless, just like a harsh blizzard.

In a way, Y/N was glad they'll only be staying one more night in this awful place... But she would dearly miss her new friend. She wonders if she'll ever see him again - Hopefully, yes!

The night settled swiftly over the cold stone halls of the Dreadfort - The place was deathly silent, save for the scary howling wind and the occasional flicker of torchlight casting long, terrifying shadows all around.

Ramsay was lying on the bed, half-asleep, and thinking over the events of the day - His mind was obsessively settled on the young noble lady who treated him so well, who smiled so sweetly at him... Who felt so good in his arms. He loved how she dragged him all around, and grinned so enthusiastically; How she thanked him for helping her with archery... In his perverse mind, he wanted to bury his hands in that gorgeous mess of long red hair and pull her into his arms, never to let go ever again; He wanted to squish her in his arms until she explode, that's how cute she was; He wanted to slam his lips against hers and kiss her until she had no more air in her lungs, and her body was bruised and imprinted with his hands all over.

Not once did he expect to hear the heavy door of his sparsely furnished cold room creaking open, revealing the very girl he was fantasising over, wearing a thick nightgown and holding tightly a fur-lined cloaked draped over her small shoulders; Her wild hair was even more tousled than before.

The air is cold, a reminder of the unforgiving northern weather. Ramsay’s small, sparsely furnished room is dimly lit by a single candle on the bedside table. She waited for a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, before walking in - The boy, already on edge, bolted right up, startled by the sudden intrusion. His first thought was that an assassin was trying to get him, or his father wanted to beat him half to death -

But no. It was the object of his obsessions. Y/N stepped forward, letting the dim light of the fireplace reveal her nervous face. The boy's stiffness melted away, and he leaned forward to look at her.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, his voice as cold as that of his father.

Y/N offered a small, sheepish smile, pulling the cloak tighter around her shoulders as she moved closer to his bed. "I don't like sleeping alone. It's cold and scary here." she said, moving her bare feet closer to the bed. "Can I sleep in your room... Please?"

Ramsay blinked in shock, still processing her presence. It was not every day that a noble’s daughter sneaked into his room in the middle of the night, asking to spend the night. He shifted, making space on the bed as Y/N climbed on... The sheep walked right into the wolf's den.

"I thought noble ladies weren't allowed alone in a room with a boy - A lowly bastard, no less. Who knows what I'll do to you." she looked at him all confused and innocent - Of course she had no idea what he was talking about; No one tells noble ladies what men want to do to them... How they want to ravage them...

"No one has to know I am here." she smiled sweetly. "Besides - I had something for you." all of his wicked thoughts dispersed on the spot, thinking what it could be that she brought - For him! He felt a weird warmth spread through his chest - And much below also; He watched attentively as Y/N revealed a small tray filled with desserts from inside her cloak - All the sweet desserts a bastard son like him wasn't allowed to eat, from the dinner he wasn't allowed to attend.

"I am sorry... Your father scared me too much... I was too much of a coward to ask him to let you dine with us." she said in a tender, guilty voice, placing the plate on the bed for him to try out the cakes. "At home, mother doesn't want to see Jon and Theon, our ward, eat with us... So I and Robb begged dad to let them eat with us, and he agreed." she messed up her already rousled hair. "Forgive me."

Ramsay looked deep into her eyes, making her look away with a blush; She didn't seem to like holding eye-contact, he realised; He was intimidating her with his usually cold and empty expression - Just like his father. She was afraid of his father - And rightfully so; But he didn't want her to be afraid of him too; He wanted Lady Y/N to like him, to love him, to want him and only him.

"It's a man's job to protect his woman, Y/N, not the other way around." he let out a small, sardonic chuckle. "I can't blame you for being scared of my Lord Father. I know he can look rather... Intimidating."

"But... It's not right... And regardless of the circumstances of your birth, you should not be treated any less. You deserve better than this." Ramsay's body grew ever hotter the more she spoke, and were it not for his self-control, who knows what he would have done to this little fox girl. She was far too cute for her own good... Far too nice... And nice girls always end up the worst, because of monsters like him.

But it was fine. He was a monster, but he would protect her. His mind was settled - Y/N was his, and only his.

"Are you not cold?" she asked all of a sudden; He had forgotten he was wearing no shirt, and his body was in full view. She was worried about him, how cute of her.

"I am a man of the North, Y/N. This is how I sleep every night." he let himself fall back on the bed, casually eating some of those little cakes. "You're just cold because you're a girl, and you're all frail and mellow. You need a man's heat to keep you warm through the night." he ended with a cocky smirk addressed her way.

"Is that so?" she hummed softly. "Prove to me that you are right, then." how cheeky she was, Ramsay thought to himself, watching with shock as the little vixen laid herself so carefree in his arms; Her hand was placed comfortably on his shoulder, and she nestled herself on his side. "Keep me warm."

"What a playful little minx." he scoffed, watching her so cutely clinging to his body. He reveled in the silence broken only by him enjoying the cakes she brought over, and soon enough, in her rhythmic slow breathing - She had fallen asleep so easily, he was truly mesmerised. She was so cute and little compared to him, he realised once again.

As the candle flickered and the night deepened, Ramsay stood awake for a little while longer, his mind racing with wild thoughts and feeling he's never experienced before. Eventually, however, the warmth of her presence lulled him into a deep, dreamless sleep, yet holding a small smile of triumph on his face.

The very next day, early in the morning, Lady Y/N sneaked out of Ramsay's room and went back into her own so no one would suspect a thing. She received breakfast in bed and her maid helped her dressed and get ready for another exciting day spent with Ramsay.

This time, the bastard thought he'd show off - He brought her to the kennels to his the hounds. It was his idea to raise dogs to hunt and guard the place and what not; The kennel master was a middle-aged man full of experience... But his daughter was an annoying little girl around his age. She wanted to appear strong and rough around him... To show off. Why, he couldn't quite understand - He was pretty sure girls this age weren't so interested in boys and their bodies - Unlike boys wanting desperately to see girls naked.

Lady Y/N was cheeky, yes, but she was gracious also; Myranda, on the other hand, was a disgrace... A disgrace that Ramsay loved to humiliate. Unfortunately for him, it seemed that she also enjoyed that kind of treatment in a rather profound way.

The kennels were dark and chilly, filled with low rumbles and growls, and the smell of straw and wet dog fur. The light filtered through narrow, creaked windows... Y/N didn't think it was a nice place for dogs to stay at, but at least they were protected from the snow, wind and cold outside.

Much to Ramsay's dismay, Myranda was there, tending to the dogs and snapping at them every once in a while; She wasn't stern - She was harsh and cruel; The exact opposite of Lady Stark, who had a natural affinity for animals, and the gift of warmth and compassion to all living beings.

With a protective arm holding Y/N firm into his chest, he showed off his dogs; Most of them were females, large, with long fur, and highly aggressive. "What do you think about my bitches, Y/N? They make the best hunters, not the mutts." he spoke cockily. "And they know to obey only their master."

Y/N's visage was tender and soft; With no fear, she approached one of the dogs who had just given birth, and her puppies were sucking at her teats. She knelt by her side; The dog's menacing growls all but dissipated once she sniffed the lady's hand, allowing her to pet her head.

"What a gorgeous mommy you are, darling! Oh, but you must be cold - Your little ones too!" Y/N took off her cloak, draping her mother dog nicely in it. "There - Isn't it better? Nice and toasty!"

Ramsay watched the interaction with a mix of shock and fascination - He was so used to commanding the dogs through fear and dominance, that he hadn't expected the dogs to listen so quickly to a gentle word. Was it the Wolf's blood coursing through her veins that made her a canine whisperer? Or was it simply that sweet voice of her that bewitched even him? "I’ve never seen them act like that. They usually tear anyone apart who gets too close."

Y/N smiled sweetly, scratching the dog behind her ears, completely at ease. "They’re just like people, but trust-worthy and reliable. If you show them kindness, they’ll return it. They’re not so different from us, really."

Before Ramsay can respond, a harsh voice cut through the air. Myranda, holding a leash, stood at the other end of the kennel, glaring at Y/n with undisguised jealousy. She tugged on the leash, yanking a dog that was already straining against her rough grip. "They’re not pets, they’re beasts. You can’t trust them with soft words, or they’ll turn on you. That one already bit me once."

The dog on the leash cowered, her tail between her legs as Myranda yanked it towards her. Y/N frowned, rising to her feet. The bastard didn't think even a small, little girl like her could hold such an undeniable presence and imposing aura. "Maybe if you weren’t so harsh, they wouldn’t bite. They’re only reacting to how you treat them."

Myranda’s face flushed with anger, her grip tightening on the leash. She sneered at Y/N, her eyes dark with resentment and spite. "What would you know about it? You’re just a spoiled little brat who doesn’t understand anything about the real world." How dare that obnoxious slut speak like that to his darling little fox? She was his - His only - And no one was allowed to treat her like this. Ramsay, sensing the tension, steps forward. His expression shifts, a cold smirk curling his lips as he looked at Myranda, enjoying the sudden shift in her demeanour; Immediately meek and pathetic. It was time to put her back in her place.

"Watch your tongue, Myranda. What's the filthy peasant daughter of the kennel master, compared to the Wolf Lady herself?" he hissed at the girl who immediately went quiet; She flinched at his harsh tone, her eyes were wide and hurt. She was used to his cruel streak, but it still stung in the sweetest way... But to be scolded like that in front of that little whore...

"I... I didn’t mean anything by it, Ramsay. I just—" she was at a loss for words; Her mind was empty as always, the boy remarked spitefully.

"Didn't mean anything, you say - Any other noble would have your tongue for speaking ill of Lady Y/N Stark; You should fall on your knees and seek forgiveness. She is graceful, don't you think? If it were me, well... We both know what I like to do with disobedient cunts like you, don't you, Myranda?" his gargoyle eyes stared emptily into her own tearful eyes; Somewhere lower, she noticed the subtle way the bastard showed off a small knife that she knew very well was used to flay. She gulped, hanging her head low, and trembling pathetically. "I'm waiting, Myranda - Where is that apology?"

As Myranda bit her lip, holding back the tears of her weakness, Y/N sighed, walking in front of her; Though Y/N was smaller than her, she still placed her hand gently on her hand. "It's fine - She's not wrong. I couldn't possibly be knowledgeable in dogs than someone who was raised in the arts of dog-raising. The only difference is the approach - I have a different approach in caring for my animals, and it has proven far more reliable than ruling with an iron fist." her voice was soft and tender. "Raise your head. No need to ask for forgiveness. Just make sure they are all well taken care of." with a graceful twirl, Y/N turned to her friend and hooked her arm to his, guiding him out into the forest.

"If I was in her place, I'd have shot you when you turned your back at me." he grumbled harshly under his breath.

"She wouldn't have dared, and neither would you - Not for as long as I am Lady Stark, and mine own Lord Father is here, on the very premises... Not unless you want to meet a fate worse than death." oh, that wicked smirk of her, so different than anything sweet and tender she embodied thus far; The twisted grin of a rabid fox, not the sweet smile of a flower.

"What would you know, the little flower knows how to play to her political strength. How adorable." he huffed, pulling her into his side harshly. "Politics aside, you are still just a frail little thing that can break so easily... It would be a pity if anyone did anything to hurt you..."

"So what, you are saying you want to protect me?" she scoffed at him; Though her question was genuine, and his answer even more so.

"Yes." once they were deep into the forest, he held her in a painfully tight embrace, his face buried in the crook of her neck; She smelled sweet, like honey and flowers... It only made him want to taste her even more. "Always, and forever."

Just like the previous night, Y/N had snuck out of her room again, her small feet padding silently across the cold stone floor. The Dreadfort, with its bleak atmosphere, had never bothered her, not with Ramsay nearby. Tonight, though, was different. It was her last night here, and the thought of leaving him behind made her heart ache in a way she couldn’t quite understand. Ramsay was her friend, and though the Dreadfort wasn't too far away from Winterfell, it was unbecoming of a young Lady to go out of her way to visit a bastard... She wouldn't be allowed to.

She slipped into Ramsay’s room, finding him lying on his bed, shirtless, his dark eyes gleaming as he watched her approach, just like a predator seeing delicious prey walk willingly inside his lair.

“You’re not supposed to be here, little fox.” he drawled, the nickname slipping from his lips with ease.

Y/N rolled her eyes, though a small pout formed on her lips as she climbed in bed next to him. “I don’t care. It’s too cold in my room, and I don’t want to be alone.”

Ramsay smirked, propping himself up on one elbow. He was shirtless again. “Afraid of the dark, are we?” His tone was teasing, but his eyes held an intensity that belied his playful words.

She stuck her tongue out at him but nodded nonetheless, crossing her arms over her chest. "I am used to sleeping with my siblings."

"Fine, fine, little rose, I won't tease you about it - After all, you've come to seek my protection; How can I tease a lovely little lady such as yourself." she blushed softly at her new nickname, looking away but said nothing. “You know, sweetling..." Ramsay began, his voice dripping with mischief. “Did you know there are things that boys and girls do together when they’re older. Things you wouldn’t even imagine.” he leaned closer to her body, his bare chest against her back; His hand found itself playing with a velvety lock of red hair - It was quite addicting. SHE was addicting.

Y/N turned her head a little to look at him, her brows furrowing in confusion. “What do you mean, Ramsay?”

His grin widened, enjoying the way her innocent mind struggled to grasp the meaning behind his words... His intentions. “Oh, nothing you’d understand now...” he said, his tone teasing. “But one day, when you’re older… I could teach you.”

Y/N tilted her head, still perplexed. “Teach me what?”

Ramsay leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “What boys and girls do together when they’re alone. It’s something… Special.”

She blinked at him, her confusion deepening. “Like playing games?”

He chuckled, a dark sound that made her shiver despite the warmth of his presence. "I suppose... A game only for grown-ups.”

Katrina pouted, feeling as though he was making fun of her. “I’m not that young, Ramsay. Mother said I am old enough to flower soon - That makes me an adult in the eyes of the noble families.”

He reached out, brushing a lock of her hair behind her ear, his touch lingering a little too long. “And when that time comes, sweetling, I’ll make sure you know everything.”

The thought of Y/N flowering soon... The thought of making her his own... It made his body all hot and greedy. Some day, when she becomes a woman, he wanted to be the one to claim her; Her one and only; The only man she ever looks at. But he was a bastard, and she was the eldest daughter of the Stark Family... How the hell could he make her his, forever?

It was a maddening thought... That his bastard label would keep him away from her. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. There was no way any man would be capable of taking care of her the way only HE could. No one could make her as happy as he can. No one can understand her the way he does.

She stared at him, unsure of what to say. There was something in his tone, something she didn’t quite understand, but it made her feel uneasy... But also, enticed. Curious. Addicted. Still, she trusted him. He was her friend, after all... And will forever be her friend... Whether he wants to or not. What Lady Y/N Stark wanted, she got, even if she had to force the hands of fate to achieve her goals.

Ramsay, noticing the uncertainty in her eyes, decided to push her just a little further. “You should just enjoy being a little girl, for now, all innocent and pure like a dove. Don’t worry about what happens when you’re older.” he hummed, his low, husky voice, whispering in her ear, making her shudder and blush. "I'll take care of everything."

Katrina huffed, turning her face away from him. “You’re always saying things I don’t understand.”

He laughed softly, the sound sending a strange thrill through him. He sneaked his arms around her body, pulling her into his chest; One hand was holding strongly onto her small body, while the other held her jaw, firm but gentle. “Noble men don't know horseshite about these things - They're all stupid, but have the pride of lions and cockiness like no other. They think they know the game well, but they are shamefully bad... And without an experienced man to teach them, you, noble ladies, are all cute and confused, losing the game...” ah, tsk tsk, bad Ramsay, he was talking too much when he shouldn't... Not now.

She rolled her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest in defiance. “You’re just trying to confuse me.” she huffed, quite like a brat, getting out of his clutches and drawing the blanket over her.

Ramsay watched her for a moment, his smirk fading as he realized she was serious about ignoring him. She couldn't ignore her. She wasn't allowed to. She was supposed to look at him with those beautiful eyes of hers - To look at him, and only him.

The silence stretched on, and something dark and possessive flared up inside him. He hated being ignored, especially by her. Desperate for her attention, he threw the blanket off of her, pinning her down on the bed before she could react. He straddled her waist, his hands holding her wrists above her head as he loomed over her.

Y/N gasped in surprise, her wide eyes locking with his - Finally, she was looking at him. For a moment, neither of them moved, the air between them charged with something neither could name.

Ramsay’s smirk returned - He enjoyed looking down at her like that, her face all innocent and confused, so damn precious. "Ramsay...?" don't talk to him in that sweet voice... Don't... He'll lose control... He will...

To stop his own wicked thoughts and urges, he started tickling her sides mercilessly. Y/N squealed, her laughter filling the room as she squirmed beneath him, trying in vain to escape his grasp. This wasn't any better, he noted; It only made him more desperate to touch her, to hold her... To...

“Ramsay, stop!” she begged, her voice breathless with laughter - He only tickled her harder, delighting in her helplessness. There was something so special about ignoring such lovely pleas.

In her desperate attempts to defend herself, Y/N’s nails raked across his arm, deep enough to draw blood. Ramsay hissed at the sharp sting, letting out a surprising sound of pleasure... Surprising even for him... but he didn’t stop tickling her until she was breathless and teary-eyed from laughing and her body aching for freedom and mercy.

Finally, he relented, looking down at her with a mixture of amusement and something darker... Victory, triumph... Y/N panted, her chest heaving as she caught her breath - Yet her eyes widened when she saw the red lines on his arm, painting his pale arm a lovely shade of crimson red.

“Ramsay...! I’m sorry - I'm so sorry, I didn’t mean to!” she shot up, her voice small as she reached out to touch the scratch she had left.

Ramsay caught her hand, his grip firm but not painful. He looked at the blood, then at her, a strange expression on his face. “It’s nothing.” he said, though the intensity in his gaze made her heart flutter with unease. “Just a mark... A precious little reminder.”

“A reminder? Of what?” she asked, confused, watching him lick the blood leaking down his skin.

His smirk returned, though there was something almost possessive in his eyes. “That you, little Kitten, are all mine, and only mine; Even when you leave, you’ll still be mine." he wiped some of the blood his his thumb, and unexpectedly, he pressed it gently against her bottom lip - Pink turning red - Then a little inside, touching her tongue. "You want us to be together, don't you, My Lady?" he got closer to her face, now both hands cupping her small face carefully. "Always and forever."

"Yes... I want us to be friends... Forever." he wanted to kiss those plump dewy lips so bad, but he couldn't; Not not. She was driving him crazy... A twisted child with nefarious cravings and desires... And all his obsessions channeled into a single being... A precious little kitten who loves to scratch him. "Always and forever." he kissed her forehead gently, almost as if he was sealing an unspoken vow between them.

The bastard of Dreadfort wasn't happy to see his cute little kitten leave; But he couldn't do anything about it - Not yet. He lingered in the back, far away, and watched as her horse disappeared into the horizon. He knew it was going to be an awful day for him. He just knew.

The atmosphere was terrible all around the fort, heavy with the chill of winter and the unspoken tension that has settled over the castle. Ramsay remained in his small room, reflecting on the recent visit, the fleeting moments of warmth with Lady Y/N still fresh in his mind.

Every time his mind lingered back on their closeness, his body grew all hot and restless; He felt himself going crazy, needing to touch himself to relieve the pressure building inside his stomach; His core was all knots and ache.

He couldn't though... He couldn't... He had to hold on... It wasn't night yet, and he risked anyone barging inside his room... But he needed her so badly... Her scorching touch on his ice-cold skin... Those sweet, soft rose petal lips on his rough, chapped ones... Her small body, all cute and frail under his own... At his mercy...

His rapid thoughts were interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps approaching his room. His heart quickened even more, a sense of dread creeping in. He knew what was going to happen, and he dreaded every second of it.

The door opened, and Roose Bolton stepped inside, his expression as unreadable as ever... But Ramsay knew better than to trust the calm before the storm.

"Do you have anything you wish to tell me, Ramsay?" those harsh eyes bore silently into him, carving his heart out.

"No... Father." he muttered under his breath, getting off the bed and standing in front of his father, his head hung, but jaw clenched in anger and humiliation.

"Is that so?" the boy remained quiet. "I’ve heard... Things, Ramsay. Things I don’t like."

Ramsay tensed, his eyes meeting his father’s cold, manipulative gaze. He knew what was coming, and though he’s experienced his father’s wrath before, the dread never really faded. He tried to stand taller, to show no weakness, but the apprehension was clear in his voice.

"Lady Y/N wanted to talk to me. She was bored with no child her age around, so she dragged me to be her companion. I couldn't refuse the daughter of Lord Eddard Stark..." he couldn't refuse her even if he wanted to; He was desperate for her attention, after all. It was only by luck that he captured her attention so easily - And by fate, he will continue aligning with her, no matter what obstacles jump in his way.

Roose’s eyes narrowed, his expression hardening. He stepped closer, his presence looming over the subject of his deepest disappointments and shame, who instinctively took a step back. "In case you've forgotten - You’re a lowly bastard, Ramsay. You might be my son by blood, but you will never be a Bolton in the eyes of the world." he spat at his son who flinched habitually. "Your place is not with the likes of her. You forget yourself too easily. We are lucky Lord Stark didn't have your head for tainting his precious daughter's air."

The words cut deep into his heart, a reminder of the bitter truth Ramsay always tried to ignore... But this time, they stung more than usual, because for a moment, Y/N made him believe he could be something more.

"Lady Y/N said Lord Stark agreed to allow the bastard and the ward to dine at the same table as his legitimate children. They treat them like their own flesh and blood..." the words slipped out before he could stop them, and he immediately regretted his impertinence. Roose’s expression darkened further, his patience wearing thin.

"You fool - How dare you fall in love with a noblewoman?! You think Lord Stark would ever allow his eldest daughter to marry some filthy low-life like you and take his riches? His noble name? Have you lost your mind, child? This is not how I raised you." his voice boomed painfully through the echoing empty stone walls of his room. "Love and foolishness are weakness, Ramsay, and I will not tolerate either in my son."

Before Ramsay could react, Roose’s hand struck him, delivering a sharp backhand across Ramsay’s face - The force of the blow sent him stumbling, crashing into the bedside table, the candle tumbling to the floor. Pain spread across his cheek, but it was nothing compared to the humiliation that followed as Roose grabbed him by the neck, dragging him back to his feet.

"You are my son, Ramsay, and you will do as I say. I will not have you ruin yourself over foolish maiden dreams of love and marriage . You are a tool, nothing more - And I will carve you into something useful, no matter how much you resist." Ramsay tried to fight back, to push against his father’s grip, but he was no match for Roose’s strength and iron grip.

The beating that followed was brutal, each strike a lesson in obedience, in submission, a reminder of the cruelty that defines his existence. He tried not to cry out, to show no weakness - And he did just that. Ramsay utter no sound through it all.

When Roose finally released him, Ramsay crumpled to the floor, gasping for air, his body battered and bruised. Roose looked down at him, his expression harsh and unforgiving.

"Remember this, Ramsay - You are nothing but my bastard son, and you will learn your place, or I will teach it to you until you understand."

Roose left the room, the door slamming shut behind him. Ramsay was left alone, the echoes of his father’s words ringing in his ears, the pain throbbing through his body. He remained there, motionless on the ground and growling like a rabid animal.

Hours passed before Ramsay finally moved, dragging himself back onto the bed, wincing with every motion. He stares at the ceiling, his mind a whirlwind of emotions — Anger, shame, dread.

He thought of Y/N, of her kindness, of the way she treated him like he was worth something. That memory was a lifeline, something to hold onto in the darkness, but it was also a source of pain, a reminder of what he can never have...

He clenched his fists, the pain in his body overshadowed by the rage building inside him. He hated his father, hated the world that condemned him to this life, hated the fact that he was born a bastard - But most of all, he hated that he cared — That he yearned for something more, something better.

"I will make them pay." the words were whispered into the darkness, a promise to himself. "I will kill them all." he punched the ground with his fist until it became a bloody mess - Yet he felt no pain at all, only wrath.

He knew he couldn't change the circumstances of his birth, but he could at least take control of his life. He could become what his father wanted — A lethal weapon - But he will do so on his terms; And one day, when he has the power to make sure no one ever hurts him again, he will walk forward to force all of his wishes to come true...

Even if that meant kidnapping Lady Y/N Stark and marrying her in secret.

Three years down the line, Y/N was now 14 years of age, and putting her brothers to shame when it came to archery and hunting; Thus, they all agreed they would have a hunting competition, to which, albeit reticently, their father agreed.

Three whole days spent in the Wolfswood; The one who brings the most game wins the contest - Thus, Theon, Y/N, Robb and Jon rode confidently into the forest.

The Wolfswood was a dense, ancient forest stretching between Winterfell and the Dreadfort - She felt so close, yet so far from her best friend; Alas, she couldn't afford to think of him. She had to win. The woods were thick, the towering trees created a canopy that blocked out much of the sky, leaving only slivers of light to pierce the darkness. The forest was eerily quiet, save for the rustling of leaves and distant cries of creatures every now and again.

The moon hung high in the sky, casting a pale light over the clearing where Y/N had set up her camp. She’d done well so far, managing to bring down two deer, a boar and a few smaller game, which were now tied securely to a tree. Her brothers were likely doing just as well, but she was determined to win. She had to. If she won, she would forever get rid of her brothers' teasing, or them telling her to return to embroidering. How bothersome.

After finishing her meal, she moved cautiously around the perimeter of her camp, checking the traps she’d set earlier; They were simple, designed more to alert her to danger than to catch anything significant. As she returned to the fire, she couldn't help but shiver slightly. It wasn't the cold that bothered her, but the darkness pressing in around her.

Taking a deep breath and calming her nerves, she settled down by a large tree, its sturdy trunk at her back. The fire crackled, offering some comfort, but the night was still intimidating. She tried to focus on her goal — Winning the competition, proving she was just as capable as her brothers - But the fear of being alone in the dark was still there, lurking at the edges of her mind.

Just as she began to relax, the snap of a trap echoed through the clearing, followed by a loud, furious string of curses. Y/N’s heart leaped into her throat, and she instinctively grabbed her bow, an arrow quickly nocked. Her eyes darted around the shadows until she spotted the source of the commotion.

Hanging upside down by his leg, thrashing and cursing loudly, was Ramsay Snow.

Y/N’s eyes widened in shock, her grip on the bow loosening as she lowered the weapon. “Ramsay?!” she muttered, barely believing her eyes.

Ramsay twisted around, his face a mix of annoyance and amusement. “Who else would be stupid enough to get caught in one of your traps, Kitten?”

Finally getting over her shock, Y/N dropped her bow and rushed over, pulling out her knife to cut the rope. Ramsay landed with a thud, groaning as he rubbed his ankle. She knelt beside him, worry etched on her face.

“Are you alright?!” she asked, her voice filled with concern.

Ramsay looked up at her, a mischievous grin spreading across his face despite the pain. “I’ve had worse - But really, trapping people now? I didn’t know you’d gotten so ruthless.”

She blushed, embarrassed that she’d caught him of all people. “It wasn’t meant for you! I just didn’t want anything sneaking up on me.”

Ramsay chuckled, getting to his feet and dusting himself off. “And you did a fine job of that." he stepped towards her, and lazily rested his arms on her shoulders, leaning on her body to the point of making her stumble over her feet from his weight. "You could have just asked for help instead of trying to do all this alone.”

Y/N looked at him, his face so close to her own that she could feel her breath. "I genuinely didn't think I would meet you again - Not like this, at least." her voice was so tender and soft; Oh, how he missed her voice.

He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by her. "Yes, I was sad not getting a visit for three whole years... Though now that I look at you, all sadness magically vanished." he smirked at her, his expression confident and cocky. "You still look like a child compared to me."

"You will always be older than me, Ramsay - What exactly do you want me to do about it?" she breathed out, slowly analysing him; He grew up so much in three years... He looked gorgeous. Gorgeous, and deranged. Those crystal clear eyes were swimming with craziness, only highlighted by the peeking moonlight caressing his already pale face.

"Grow up!" with a swift power move, he grabbed her body and lifted her in the air, reveling in the cutesy squeals of her surprise, and the strong grip she held on his shoulders. Little kitten loved to dig her nails in his flesh, how exciting.

"How about you help me win, instead?!" she cried out. "Now please, put me down - And help me out, please!" begrudgingly, he did just that, dragging her to the fire, where she explained the premise of their contest... And how adorable she was, admitting to still feeling afraid of the dark, clinging onto him so adorably.

Ramsay smirked, clearly pleased with her bagging for his help so sweetly. “Of course, Kitten. I’ll make sure you have a little… advantage.”

"Meow." she meowed! She... Meowed, of all things! How was he supposed to keep his hands to himself when she was being so adorable?! It had been three whole years since they last saw each other; She grew even more beautiful than he expected, than he imagined - And now, he can't even touch her! How unnerving.

Y/N couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of comfort in Ramsay’s presence. Though he teased her mercilessly, there was something reassuring about having him by her side - And though she didn’t realize it yet, Ramsay was just as glad to be there with her, the thrill of the hunt only heightened by the prospect of spending the night together in the wild - In the shadows of the Wolfswood, their bond deepened, forged in the darkness and sealed by the blood they would spill together.

Since then, every fortnight, until she would turn 17 years of age, they would meet in their special spot in the Wolfswood. Eddard and Cat sometimes spotted her sneaking away, but they could never get her to say a thing - She was praying in the Godswood or something - No one would believe her.

It was a fortnight after the hunting competition when Y/N first returned to the Wolfswood alone. The memory of Ramsay helping her secure that precious victory over her brothers still lingered in her mind, and she found herself drawn back to the forest, eager to see him again. As she rode into the familiar clearing, she noticed the way the trees seemed to close in around her, the shadows long and deep. She dismounted, tying her horse to a nearby tree, and waited.

She didn’t have to wait long.

Suddenly, strong arms wrapped around her from behind, pulling her close before she could react. She gasped, her heart leaping into her throat as she struggled instinctively, but then she heard his familiar chuckle in her ear.

“Miss me, Kitten?” Ramsay’s voice was a low, teasing murmur.

Y/N relaxed slightly, though she rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Ramsay, you scared me!” she whined, trying and failing to push him away from her.

“That was the point.” he replied, his arms still holding her securely. “It’s no fun if you see me coming.”

She turned in his arms to face him, her expression both annoyed and amused. “One of these days, I’ll get the jump on you.”

Ramsay smirked, clearly pleased by her challenge. “I’d like to see you try.”

Each meeting after that became a game — A test of wits and skill - For the bastard, that is. Ramsay would always arrive first, hiding in the shadows of the forest, waiting impatiently for the perfect moment to strike. Sometimes he would leap out from behind a tree, causing Y/N to yelp in surprise; Other times, he would sneak up silently, wrapping his arms around her waist or pinning her against a tree before she even realized he was there.

With each encounter, Ramsay’s touches grew bolder. He would linger behind her, his hands resting on her shoulders, or let his fingers brush against her hair as they walked together through the forest. Y/N, now 16, was aware of his increasing boldness, but she couldn’t deny the thrill it brought her. She was beginning to understand all those suspicious things he would tell her as children - To think he would be so bold and knowledgeable since so long ago... His advances were teasing, playful and straight-forward, and she felt a strange mix of excitement and apprehension each time he touched her.

Ramsay seemed to revel in her reactions, his smirk ever-present as he found new ways to surprise and corner her. He would pin her to the ground during their mock fights, holding her down as she struggled and laughed, his eyes dark with something she couldn’t quite understand. Other times, he would push her against a tree, their faces inches apart, his breath warm against her skin as he teased her mercilessly.

As the years passed, their meetings became a constant in their lives. No matter what happened between Winterfell and the Dreadfort, they always returned to the Wolfswood, where the world seemed to fall away, leaving only the two of them.

She began bringing her pets— A red wolf named Meleys after the Red Dragon Queen, and a fox named Jade to match her eyes; Meleys, with her fiery fur and fierce loyalty, would growl softly at Ramsay whenever he got too close, while Jade, more curious than cautious, would dart around their feet, sniffing at Ramsay with mild interest, yapping to play with him, or to garner his affections.

One night, after a rather intense wrestling onto the ground that left Y/N pinned beneath Ramsay, her wrists above her head, unable to move and breathing hard, struggling to break free, she managed scratched him, again, drawing blood - This time, it was his neck instead. The sight of the single scarlet line against his pale skin made her freeze, her eyes wide with shock.

"Oh no, not again!" she got naturally worried. "I told you not to tease me so much - Now I hurt you! I'm so sorry!"

Ramsay, however, only laughed, his eyes gleaming with something dark and possessive. He grabbed her in his arms, holding her chin. “Looks like you’ve marked me again, Kitten.” he said, his voice a low purr. “Afraid I forgot who you belonged to?”

Katrina flushed, unsure of what to say. She didn’t fully understand the weight of his words, but the way he looked at her made her heart race in a way she couldn’t quite explain. "Let me wipe the blood... I should put some snow on it to stop the bleeding..."

"Or you could be a good little Kitten and lick the blood away." his affirmation shocked the girl so much that she almost didn't realise she was pulled into his lap, her chest flush against his own. "Or... My Lady doesn't want to take accountability for her actions~?"

"That's... That's weird, I can't... I'm not..." he grabbed her face, fixing it to look deep into her eyes.

"What a naughty, naughty Kitten you've been... You wouldn't want me to punish you... Or... Mayhaps that is exactly what you wish for~?" the blush on her cheeks was as beautifully red as her hair; She was so precious and shy, how sweet... And how hard to resist.

"F-Fine... Stay still..." with reticence, she carefully held onto him, one hand holding his jaw up, and the other keeping herself steady by holding onto his shoulder.

The feeling of her hot, wet tongue trailing the small scratch line along his neck garnered a strong shiver from the young man, and a shameless groan of pleasure; Such a sound, so primal, so masculine, it made Y/N feel even more timid... And intrigued. She wanted to hear more... To make him react more.

She continued in her conquest, using instead her lips, kissing at his skin until there was no more blood leaking down... Each kiss made his grip on her body get stronger to the point of pain... But she loved it. She loved how feral Ramsay could get, so strong, so unchained... So arousing. And then, once she held onto him tighter, and her kisses turned bolder, nipping away at his skin, sucking on it, he was desperate... So desperate, in fact, that he had to roughly push her away and place snow on his neck to cool down his scorching body, or he was sure to burst and make a mess of his breeches... Or worse, force her down and claim her. It wasn't how he wanted her to look at him... But it wasn't easy to hold back around her.

"Never do that again, sweetling - Not to anyone, except me."

As the time approached for Y/N to turn 17, their meetings in the Wolfswood took on a new tension. Ramsay’s touches became more lingering, his teasing words more loaded with meaning. He would hold her closer, his hands sliding down to her waist, his lips brushing her ear as he whispered things that made her cheeks burn. He wanted her so desperately, but there was no way he would destroy the way she craves him so, by taking her against the tree in the forest.

During their last meeting before her birthday, Ramsay surprised her by sneaking up behind her as she sat by a stream, lost in thought. His arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her back against him as he nuzzled her neck.

“You’ve gotten better at sneaking up on me.” Katrina admitted, her voice betraying the mix of emotions she felt.

Ramsay smirked, his breath warm against her skin. “I love seeing you squeal for me, My Lady."

She tried to pull away, feeling the intensity of his gaze on her, but he held her fast, his hands firm on her waist. “What do boys and girls do together when they’re old enough?” he had teased her many times before, always with a mischievous glint in his eye.

Y/N had never fully understood the implications, but she knew enough to feel a flutter of something in her chest — Something that made her both curious and uneasy - The same wicked thing she felt, kissing his neck, and witnessing his raw reactions. That was what happened to young people whose parents never told them how babies were made... And, worse... Parents who never knew how pleasure was made.

“When you’re old enough, I’ll show you.” Ramsay had once promised, his voice dark and mischievous. "I will show you something even better than the games boys and girls do when they're alone." Unfortunately, he wouldn't have the opportunity to show her the hedonistic world of pleasure he succumbed himself into... The world in which he wanted to drown together... For she was forced to join the retinue to King's Landing and search for a proper marriage prospect... Fit for the eldest daughter of Lord Eddard Stark.

Y/N was always looking forward to the routine her and Ramsay created for themselves, meeting at the same spot once every two weeks, and catching up, havin fun... She was always the happiest when around him... And yet, this time, Y/N was troubled... Desperate, frustrated, angry, betrayed...

She dismounted from her horse with a heavy heart, her hands trembling as she tied the reins to a nearby tree. Meleys, her red wolf, and Jade, her pet fox, followed closely behind her, sensing the tension that hung in the air. She had come to the clearing many times over the years, but this time felt different... The finality of an ephemeral bliss hung over her neck like a guillotine.

Ramsay was already there, leaning against a tree, his arms crossed over his chest. His eyes, as always, filled with playful malice and mischief, ready to torment his sweet flower - Though, as she approached him, he straightened, his posture tense, as though bracing himself for the bad news brought by a black raven. In the past three years, not once had he seen her this miserable... This... Sorrowful.

“What's gotten my naughty little Kitten so pissed? No more drapes to scratch? Or human flesh is the only thing that can satisfy you now?” he spoke in his usual dark, taunting voice, but for once, his teasing didn't seem to have the intended effect - Or any at all, for what matters.

Y/N didn't even look at him, or acknowledge his presence. H he greeted her, his voice rougher than usual. Her face was paler than usual, and her eyes were puffy pink and glazed with tears, her brows were furrowed in a deep frown, and her mind lost in thought. He couldn't stand this look on her. She was supposed to be sweet and smile, to be energetic and filled with vitality, to jump on his and scratch him, to cuddle into his arms and purr so lovingly;

She did none of that.

"What's the matter? Daddy found us out?" he scoffed a question, but she merely shook her head. "So?" she said nothing. "Go on. Speak." still nothing. "I do not appreciate this, Y/N."

She nodded in response, unable to find her voice at first. The words she had rehearsed so many times in her mind now seemed hollow, insufficient for the gravity of the moment. In his rage and frustration, Ramsay roughly grabbed the girl by the furs of her dress, wrestling her to the ground into the soothingly cold snow; His hands were holding tightly onto her shoulders, his face twisted into a malicious sneer - Yet one look into her devastated eyes... Her hopelessness... And he was immediately simmered down.

"The King came over a few days ago." she stammered pitifully over her words. "Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King died... And he wants daddy to become the next Hand..." with great difficulty, she managed to utter some words.

"What's that got to do with you?" he hissed under his breath, his eyes not even once flickering away from her own.

"My daddy was forced to accept... Thus, he has to stay in King's Landing." he slowly nodded his head, as if to urge her to continue. "Sansa fell in love with the King's son, Joffrey... I told her he's a real cunt, that he's not the gallant prince she dreams of, from 'The Ballad of Florian and Jonquil'... But she wouldn't listen... She wants to marry him..." she gulped, tears streaming down her face. "She is barely eleven... Hasn't even flowered yet..."

"You were eleven when I met you." Ramsay noted, earning a nod from her. "You are seventeen now, and still an unwed maiden. The eldest Lady Stark." she cringed softly at the affirmation. "They want to trade you to some rich old fuck, like a piece of meat." she nodded again. "How miserable."

"I don't want to go, Ramsay." she whimpered so pitifully, that the young man found his body growing hot. "I want to stay with you - Forever. The North is my home... I-I can't stay there... I can't..."

"A flower of the North, uprooted and forced to wilt in the stench and stifling heat of the South." he muttered under his breath.

"Mother has been furious for a while that daddy let me unmarried for so long... He wanted me to fall in love and marry someone I wanted... But my mother, married out of duty, also wanted me to do the same... Just like the Tully word - Family, Duty, Honour - ... Marry, have many heirs, do your duties..." he had never seen her cry before, but now, she clinged onto him, sobbing into the crook of her neck, so desperately and pitifully that he almost couldn't understand her. "I don't want to marry some pathetic lordling! I don't want to give birth! I don't want it - Any of it!" she whined and mewled like that some more; Ramsay's grip tightened around her protectively... Possessively... And then... "I want you, Ramsay! I want only you! I want to be you friend, I want to have fun with you, I want to marry you - I want to stay with you forever - Forever and Always!"

His breathing was heavy, picking up a little; He dragged her on his lap, and held her so tightly to his chest that she almost got lost inside his strong embrace. "That's right, little Kitten. You are mine, and only mine. No one can have you. No one but me." he grumbled in her ear, his hand burying into her hair, holding her firmly. "Did they find some shit lord yet?" annoyingly enough, she nodded her head.

"Tyrion Lannister... The Imp." she whimpered lowly. "He is a witty and respectful man... I would have a content life with him... He wouldn't force me to do anything I didn't want..." she hiccuped from sobbing. "But he isn't you. No one is you. And I want only you."

The thought of losing her — Of her being taken away to a place where he couldn’t reach her—stoked the fire of his rage once more. “And you brought your pets over to let me take care of them, then?” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. “I don't want your pets, Y/N. I want you.”

Y/N’s heart clenched at his words. She had known for years that Ramsay’s feelings for her were intense, even possessive, but this was the first time he had spoken so plainly. She felt more tears slip down her cheek as she looked up at him, her vision blurred by the emotion she had tried so hard to contain.

He stared at her, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he reached out and cupped her face in his hands, his touch surprisingly gentle. “You’re mine, Y/N.” he murmured, his voice soft but filled with a dark promise. “You’ve always been mine, and you always will be.”

Y/N closed her eyes, leaning into his touch, wanting to believe him— To believe that they could find a way to be together, despite the forces of the universe pulling them apart. She knew how difficult it would be - Escaping King's Landing was close to blasphemy; She knew the expectations placed upon her as a Stark, and the dangers of being tied to a man like Ramsay... A bastard...

She cared for nothing, except for her happiness. She wanted to be selfish, in spite of how much she loved her family. “I’ll find a way back to you.” she promised, her voice barely a whisper. “I’ll escape King’s Landing, I swear it.”

Ramsay’s expression darkened, his grip on her face tightening. “You’d better.” he growled. “Because if you don’t, I’ll come for you. I’ll burn that wretched city to the ground if I have to.”

His words, though terrifying, were also a twisted comfort to her. She knew Ramsay meant every word — He would stop at nothing to claim what he believed was his. But as much as she wanted to be with him, she couldn’t ignore the fear that gripped her heart, the fear that she might not be able to return, that she might be trapped in the South forever. That she would wilt before she got the chance to liberate herself.

Ramsay pulled her closer, pressing his forehead against hers. “I’ll take care of Meleys and Jade.” he finally said, his voice rough with emotion. “But don't forget who you belong to, Y/N."

Y/N nodded, her tears mingling with his breath. She wanted to say something, to reassure him, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, she pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, a silent promise that she would return to him, no matter the cost.

She bit her lip, forcing herself to hold back another sob that threatened to escape. She couldn’t bear to leave him like this, but she had no choice - She wasn't a wild wolf anymore, but a collared dog on a leash, and the handler was a slut like Myranda.

With one last glance at him, she forced herself out of his protective arms, turned around and mounted her horse, her heart heavy with sorrow. "I cannot say farewell... But I can try and say... I will see you again... Soon."

As she rode away, she heard Ramsay’s voice call out to her, filled with a desperation that shook her to her core. “Don’t make me wait too long.”

Y/N didn’t look back, tears streaming down her face as she urged her horse forward, the forest closing in around her. She knew this wouldn’t be the last time she saw Ramsay, but the thought of the long, uncertain road ahead filled her with dread... And determination to break free from her shackles... A ferocious, feral instinct broke inside of her, and she was ready to transform into the she-wolf she was born to be...

The cold, dimly lit chamber of the Dreadfort, where the stone walls seem to absorb any warmth that might exist felt now even colder than before, Ramsay noted unconsciously, once he realised it had already been over a year since he hasn't seen Y/N... Since she'd been mercilessly snatched away from his grasp.

Roose Bolton sat at his desk, his expression as impassive as ever, while Ramsay stood before him; The tension between father and son was as harshly palpable as always. The air was thick with the scent of burning torches and the ever-present dampness of the castle, a stark reminder of the harshness of the North, didn't bother him anymore; A man of the North would never be bothered by such trivialities.

Fueled by a mixture of fury and frustration, Ramsay is seething inside at the thought of losing Y/N, but his father’s presence was forcing him to maintain a veneer of calm... For as long as humanly possible for him.

Ramsay paced the length of the chamber, his hands clenched behind his back, his mind a storm of rage and dark thoughts - He was restless - Restless as never before, and that restlessness usually brought with it a storm of torture, hedonism and quite a lot of erratic flaying.

The room felt too small, too suffocating; His father’s cold gaze on him felt like a blade pressed to his throat. He wanted nothing more than to unleash his fury, to tear the room apart, and his father with it, but he knew better. Roose Bolton did not tolerate outbursts, and Ramsay knew he had to keep his emotions in check... As long as he was a bastard, his father was still useful... Afterwards, well...

“You are going to dig a dam if you keep pacing.” Roose’s voice broke through his thoughts, a calm, controlled tone that belied the gravity of their discussion. "Don't tell me you're thinking of that Stark girl again."

Ramsay forced himself to stop pacing, turning to face his father. He knew Roose saw everything, knew everything, and any attempt to hide his feelings would be futile. Still, he had to be careful. His voice was tight with barely suppressed anger. “She’s in King’s Landing.” he grumbled. "For over a year."

Roose arched an eyebrow, his expression giving nothing away. “And this concerns you... How, exactly?" his father's words cut as deep as the cold Valyrian steel. "Have you forgotten you place again?"

Ramsay’s jaw tightened, but he forced himself to stay calm. "No... Father." he licked his lips, looking down for a few seconds. "But she's a Stark - The daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North, and now, Hand of the King. Marrying her - Politically, of course - Would help our House regain power and wealth again."

"MY House." his father's words felt like whips against his skin. "Not yours. You are a Snow, not a Bolton." he continued with a painfully strong word. "Yet." Roose leaned back in his chair, studying his son with those cold, calculating eyes. “You’ve grown attached to the girl, haven’t you?” he said, a faint hint of amusement in his voice. “You don't care about politics - You only care about yourself." he scoffed, sneering at his son with disgust. "It’s only natural for a bastard to crave what he can’t have.” he continued to belittle him even more. "If you got tired of Tansy's cunt, just move to Kyra - And if even she bores you, you have Myranda. There's plenty women in here - Stop wasting time thinking of the one you can never have. You're wasting your time - And mine."

Ramsay’s fists clenched at his sides, his nails digging into his palms. He hated the way his father spoke, the way he dismissed him, the way he thought him incompetent and lesser, just because he was born out of wedlock. "She's mine. I claimed her - And I will make sure I get what I want."

Roose’s amusement faded, replaced by a steely resolve. “If you want to make her yours in more than just your mind, you’ll have to do more than just ruining the floor of my study chamber.” he said, his voice as cold as the North itself. “Listen clearly to me, Ramsay. We have a new ally - Far more powerful than the Starks.”

Ramsay narrowed his eyes, his anger simmering just below the surface. “What do you mean?” it was the first time he heard his father speaking about aiding someone other than the Starks - Knowing full well the Bolton army was aiding the Young Wolf win against the Lannister - And that his father, also, had to return to the battlefield soon enough.

Roose leaned forward, his gaze piercing. “The Stark boy, Robb, is a threat to the Crown. Naturally, the self-proclaimed 'King In The North' has a huge bounty on his head - And there is a way to remove him from the board, permanently.”

Ramsay’s heart skipped a beat. He had heard whispers of the plot, rumors of a grand betrayal that would see the Young Wolf brought to his knees, but hearing it from his father’s lips made it real, tangible. He had allied with the Lannisters. “The Red Wedding.” he said quietly, more a statement than a question.

Lord Bolton nodded, his expression unreadable. “The army is going to reach the Twins, and Lord Frey demands a groom. Alas, Robb Stark has the same dangerous sense of loyalty that his own father had - The same loyalty that got him killed." he let out a sardonic laugh. "He married the woman he slept with, out of duty - He cannot be the groom; He's sending his uncle, a lowly, incompetent Tully Fish. Of course Walder Frey would feel betrayed... And will act accordingly." his peering eyes stabbed his own, and his voice was threatening and alarming. "If you want to secure your claim to Winterfell, you must act soon. After Robb Stark dies, the next-in-line heirs are merely children of 7 and 3. The heir is clear - Your darling Y/N Stark." Roose smirked ironically, seeing his bastard's interest piqued, for once. "Everyone wants to fuck an heir in her womb, Ramsay. She is every Noble House's target." his jaw clenched in anger, in rage, in madness. "But only you must claim her maidenhood, make her your woman and have her bare your heirs. It is the only way to secure your position as the next Lord Bolton."

Ramsay’s mind raced. The idea of Robb Stark dead, of Winterfell ripe for the taking, filled him with a dark excitement. But it was Y/N’s face that haunted his thoughts, her tearful promise to return to him, to escape the South and come back to the North. The thought of losing her, of her being out of his reach, drove him to the brink of madness. Then, he remembered the tears painting her face, her distraught, her agony - How loudly she yelled that she didn't want to be a tool to create heirs? That she didn't want to give birth, because she was terrified of the pain, terrified of death, of motherhood - Of everything? And he was on the same wavelength as her - No way he wanted to be a father - Not while his mind still works properly. But Roose continued, his voice like ice, waking him up from his excruciating inner conflict. “Do something useful for once in your pathetic, miserable life and marry that Stark wench you kept sneaking out to meet for three years." he spat at his son. "Don’t think I haven’t noticed, Ramsay. You may be stealthy, but I know everything.”

Ramsay’s blood ran cold. His father knew—of course, he knew. Roose Bolton knew every secret, every move his son made. There was no hiding from him. But what Roose didn’t understand, what he couldn’t comprehend, was the depth of Ramsay’s obsession with Katrina. She was not just a means to an end, not just a stepping stone to power. She was his, in a way that went beyond any rational thought or ambition.

The bastard didn’t respond; He didn’t trust himself to speak. He left the chamber, his heart and mind a maelstrom of conflicting emotions. As he stepped into the cold corridors of the Dreadfort, his thoughts returned to Y/N, to her promise to return, to the way she had looked at him in the Wolfswood. He would make sure she kept that promise. She would be his, no matter the cost.

As he walked through the dimly lit halls, all the way outside of the Fort, and into the forest, his mind churned with plans and possibilities. The Red Wedding would be the first step, yes... His father's betrayal... But Y/N… She was his obsession, his desire, the one thing that mattered more than anything else. He would marry her, claim Winterfell, and make sure that she never left his side again m- All on his own accord, not the traditional way the old fucks want to force upon them. He needed her happy; He needed her to want him, to need him, to desire him the same way he wants, needs and desires her.

No one, not even his father, would stand in his way to get his little Kitten back in his arms.

Lost in his mind, the young bastard found himself by the running river - He always wanted to take Y/N here, his special spot to get away from the world. Once, she admitted to him that, although her personality is very much that of a wolf, she still find a good portion of her peace by the river-run, just like her Tully mother.

The icy wind blew through the trees along the riverbank, but Ramsay barely felt it. His dark mood had numbed him to the cold of the North. He stood by the rushing waters of the river, his fists clenched, chest heaving with barely suppressed rage.

He couldn't believe over a year had passed since his sweetling had been taken to King’s Landing, and in that time, Ramsay had fallen into a restless spiral. His hunts no longer thrilled him, and even the cruel games he played with his prisoners brought him no joy. No one could satisfy him anymore, and every woman he took to his bed only made the ache for Y/N grow worse. With an empty chuckle, he remembered the hurt in Myranda's eyes, and the protest she chirped, once he called her by Y/N's name instead of her own. Hilarious how either of them thought themselves important in his life. Dumb cunts, all of them.

He cursed under his breath, pacing along the riverbank, his thoughts tangled in frustration and agony. The image of her haunted him - Her eyes, her smile, the playful way she used to tease him. It wasn't just her beauty that lingered in his mind; it was the feeling she invoked in him. A need deeper than any he'd known before. She had marked him, claimed him, and he hated her for it, almost as much as he longed for her, needed her, just like he needed air to breathe.

His breath came in harsh gasps as he leaned against a tree, trying to calm the storm raging inside him. He slammed his fist against the bark, the roughness biting into his skin, but the pain brought him no relief. His mind kept returning to her, to the day she left, to her cries, her tears, her screams, to the promise she'd made, the way she'd looked back at him with those desperate, pleading eyes, almost as if she was begging him to kidnap her and tie her up in the dungeons, away from the harsh world that would hurt her... That would take her away from him.

"Where the hell are you?" he snarled, his voice echoing through the wind, as he continued punching at the tree, an unfortunate bad habit he got since childhood; Punching until his fist was a bloody mess... Punching until he didn't want to claw his own body out, as if he needed to escape this cage of flesh and sinew.

Then, from the corner of his eye, Ramsay caught movement; He tensed, instinctively reaching for the dagger at his side - Instead of danger, he saw the familiar forms of Meleys and Jade that approached him. The red wolf padded silently through the trees, her light coloured eyes gleaming with intelligence and caution, while the fox moved with graceful playfulness. Ramsay lowered his guard, watching as they approached him.

The wolf nuzzled his hand, the softness of her fur a stark contrast to his cold rage... Her red-coppery fur was as velvety soft as Y/N's hair, he remembered. His muscles relaxed, if only slightly, and he knelt down, letting his fingers run through Meleys' fur. Jade, ever loving, kept her green eyes fixed on him, before she yapped for his attention.

"You're missing her too, aren’t you?" Ramsay muttered, his voice softening for a moment. He scratched Meleys behind the ears, feeling the animal’s warmth against his skin. It was strange — He’d never cared for animals like Y/N did, but these two were different. Sure, he preferred the company of dogs over that of people, and for good reason...

When he looked Meleys in the eyes, she looked straight back at him; She climbed on his lap and gently licked at his face. He didn't stop her. He remembered those times when he'd meet Y/N, and she'd show him how she learnt to warg into Meleys, to see life through her, to control her... To live through her. He often wondered if Y/N was warged into Meleys, and she was trying to comfort him... To show him her love... To give him hope...

Jade, too, jumped on him, nudging her small wet truffle-snout against his palm, licking at his bloody wounds; Ramsay found some strange solace in their presence, though he would never admit it. Meleys and Jade missed her too — He could see it in the way they searched for her, the way they lingered near places where she used to be. They were as restless as he was, as hungry for her return.

"She promised." Ramsay whispered, more to himself than to the animals. "She swore she'd come back."

Meleys whimpered softly, nudging Ramsay's hand, as though offering comfort in her own way, then gently placed her head on his shoulder. Jade blinked up at him with her bright eyes, her tail flicking slightly. They were loyal creatures, just as Y/N had been loyal to him - That loyalty, that bond they all shared — It was the one thing he could cling to when the loneliness clawed at his insides.

"I will flay everyone who gets in her way." his hand gripped the hilt of his dagger, his jaw tightening with renewed resolve. Y/N would return to him. She had to. And when she did, he would never let her go again. Not to anyone. Not to anything. She was his, marked by him, claimed by him; He wore her mark, that haughty little kitten.

He sat there in the snow for a while longer, the quiet of the forest and the gentle presence of Meleys and Jade soothing his maddening thoughts. For the first time in what felt like weeks, Ramsay allowed himself to relax just a little; Though beneath his calm exterior, the storm still brewed.

"See, Sandor?!" Y/N desperately tried to shake him into agreeing with her plan; Though her lack of strength managed to move him not even by a fraction of an inch. "You must help me! Please - You must!"

"You're just as fucked in the head as he is, little fox." the Hound barked a sarcastic laugh. "What of the little bird?"

Y/N hesitated, looking down. "She..." Y/N gulped, her voice wavering. "The Lannisters have her in their clutches. She won't listen to me... Not anymore. She's forgotten herself, who she is... Since father died." she bit her lip painfully hard. "I cannot save her anymore, Sandor; And I can save our family even less if I am trapped here, in this hell." she looked up into his eyes, strength and determination surprising even him "I trust only you with her safety. Whatever happens of that... A wolf must always return to the North. I hope, one day, you will escape also - And bring her with you to our home." she continued in a more tender home. "You will always be welcomed in the North, Sandor."

"You've lost your mind, girl. I am welcomed nowhere - Especially not given my reputation." he rolled his eyes, pushing her away from him. "Fine. I'll take care of the little song bird - But don't expect me to die for her. That damned lousy cunt who calls himself the King is unpredictable, and I am still just a dog."

"A loyal dog who's earned the trust of the Queen In The North."

The night of the wildfire siege at Blackwater Bay was a chaos of screams and roaring flames that lit the sky with an eerie green glow. The city was in disarray, and amidst the flames, the terrified Sandor Clegane dragged the two Stark sisters out of their rooms and fled the blasted Crown city for good, never to look back or miss the damned stench.

At first, they didn't know where to go, except North - Always into the North - Yet during one silent camping stop where their fear calmed down the littlest bit, they agreed on a temporary strategy - Reunite with the Young Wolf who was currently hosted at the Twins.

Unfortunately the reunion was bitter, and that night they didn't meet Robb Stark nor Catelyn Stark or Grey Wind... They met death staring right at them. Sansa fell into the Hound's arms, sobbing, wailing, almost waiting at the grotesque sight... Almost as bad as seeing her father beheaded... Y/N remained silent, her mind all but blank and filled with rage and revenge. What once was her proud brother, the beautiful Lord Robb Stark of Winterfell, the King in the North... Was now reduced to a headless corpse mounted on a horse... With his precious Grey Wind's head sewn on his shoulders. No doubt, their mother also met a similarly humiliating and grotesque fate.

"Y/N. I found your rat runt of a sister." Sandor spoke, out of nowhere, holding Arya by the back of her shirt as she was trying to escape his grasp and run head-first into the Bolton and Frey army to kill them all.

"Let me go! Now! I'll kill you, you stupid mutt! Y/N, tell him!" the little sister tried to struggle, but it was Sansa who slapped her face.

"Arya, can't you see?! Robb is dead! Mother is dead! If you go there, we will lose you too! Stop being a brat for once, and listen to us!" poor Sansa's heartbroken cries made even the wild little sister stare at her with wide eyes, and teared up too.

"They... They killed them... Slaughtered... Like livestock... Why..." came her little, trembling voice. "It's not fair..."

"Life ain't fair, girl." the dog grunted under his breath, taking them away from there. They suffered enough, no need to see the enemy making a mockery of their beloved family anymore.

"The North remembers... And we will have their skins..." though Arya was emboldened by that fearsome threat, Sansa shuddered a little at her cold, hars voice. It was only Sandor who noticed the malice and vendetta behind her words... And the ally hidden in the North, ready to flay anyone alive. What a deranged bastard. Gulping away her sorrow, Y/N finally found the words and strength to speak. "Let's go to aunt Lysa for now, and we'll see what we do from there."

The road to the Eyrie was filled with danger, but Sandor, Arya and Y/N knew how to fight away the assailants; They pushed forward relentlessly, despite their exhaustion and heartbreak. The girls needed a place to recover — Somewhere far from the reach of the Lannisters and the Freys. The only safe place they had left.

The eerie mountain fortress became their temporary sanctuary, though they knew they couldn't stay forever. Surprisingly even to himself, Sandor guarded over the Stark girls with the fierce loyalty of a dog - Though not for long. The girls had to divide and conquer, to make a plan and gain enough support and a proper army to regain what was lost through the Red Wedding, and the loss of Robb and Catelyn Stark.

Sansa, ever the diplomat, remained at the Eyrie to deal with aunt Lysa and young Robert; Arya had escaped into the night, ready to take on the unknown and learn how to properly fight and fend for herself, a little girl against the endless world; Y/N was going to reclaim their home and name herself the heir and Lady of Winterfell - Bran and Rickon were far too little to lead, even with the Maesters aiding them. Maester Luwin might have been as intelligent and loving as their second father, but even he couldn't rule the way a true Stark would.

Leaving Sansa in the care of Sandor, Y/N began her lonely ride northward. She hadn’t heard of what had befallen Winterfell — Only whispers of its burning and rumors of her brothers’ deaths. Her heart told her it was lies, but her mind feared the worst.

The North was desolate, colder than she remembered, and the haunting loneliness echoed in every step she took toward her home. Winterfell had once been a place of safety, but now, the foreboding silence filled her with dread.

When she finally arrived at Winterfell, the place she called home was but a shell of what it had been. The castle stood lonely and bleak, with the Greyjoy banner flapping mockingly above the walls. Panic surged through her veins as she noticed two small bodies, covered in tar, burnt and hanged above the gate as display for all to see. They couldn't be... No way those were Bran and Rickon... Theon Greyjoy would never...

She stormed inside, desperately searching for answers, only to be greeted by the sight of Theon, standing in her father’s hall, playing at being Lord of Winterfell.

Fury like she had never known surged through her - Theon had betrayed them, his only family that accepted him after is own father renounced him in favour of his sister, Asha, who was a far better leader than he would ever be.

Her anger overwhelmed her to the point of irrationality; The words were ripping from her throat with all the venom she could muster. Theon was no longer the boy she once knew. He was brittle, broken, and deluded with false power. The arrogant power-trip that the weak get once given the chance to hold a fickle grain of power.

"You... You pathetic, loathsome, disgusting, arrogant little cockroach!" the voice of a Stark roared loudly through the castle walls, calling forth all of its original inhabitants - They all marveled in joy and horror at seeing Lady Stark return home. "Theon Greyjoy, who in the Seven Hells do you think you are?!" she lunged at him, wrestling him to the ground in his state of confusion and panic.

"You—!" her voice was a guttural snarl, thick with disbelief and outrage. "You traitorous bastard!" she screamed as her fists slammed into him, each strike landing with the weight of her anger and heartbreak. The hall fell into shocked silence, with the few guards present too stunned to react immediately - Though none of them had any respect for the poor excuse of a Kraken playing the leader role. "How dare you sit there! That seat belongs to my father! My family! You are nothing!"

Theon, momentarily caught off guard, could only try to shield himself from the onslaught; Y/N’s blows came hard and fast, her nails scratching at his face and her fists thudding against his chest. For a brief moment, she was relentless, every ounce of betrayal and rage from months of being away from her home, from seeing her family butchered, pouring out of her.

Theon groaned in pain and surprise as she clawed at him, her anger consuming every fiber of her being. “Stop—!” he tried to shout over her furious attacks, but his voice was drowned out by her curses - Just like his useless God.

"How could you?!" she cried, voice cracking with the raw emotion of betrayal. "After everything we've done for you! After we treated you like one of us! You were my brother, Theon! And now this?! You betray your best friend who trusted you above all else, take over my home, declare yourself the Lord and even kill my brothers!" her fists slammed into him again, the intensity of her emotions seeping into every word. "You disgust me! You, vile, evil, pathetic worm!"

The old citizens of Winterfell, those who had remained loyal to the Starks, rushed forward in an attempt to hold her back. A few guards hesitated at first, unsure whether or not to protect Theon from the girl’s wrath or to stand aside. One of the older men, who had known Y/N since she was a child, wrapped his arms around her from behind, gently restraining her despite her thrashing.

"Lady Y/N, please!" the man pleaded, his voice filled with sorrow. "You'll only get yourself hurt - Your precious hands should not be damaged against a lowly peasant such as him." truly, no one feared him, nor respected him. He was a wretch everywhere he went. Even his own family was praying for him never to return.

Y/N was panting, her wild eyes still fixed on Theon, who now stood from the ground, wiping at his bleeding face, his eyes a mix of embarrassment and growing rage. Her chest heaved as she struggled against the arms holding her back, her voice hoarse with the weight of everything she had bottled up for too long, a dark, malicious murder intent growing ever stronger.

"You don't belong here!" she spat, trying to wrench herself free. "This is my home!"

Theon’s pride, wounded by both her words and her successful attack, twisted his expression into something unknown. His initial shock and shame from being attacked by a woman was quickly replaced by a cruel sneer, the only way he knew to hide the guilt and shame gnawing at his insides.

“Shut up, you worthless mewling quim!” he snapped, straightening himself and brushing off his tunic as though her blows were nothing but an inconvenience. “The past doesn't matter. Winterfell is mine - The House of Theon Greyjoy, Lord of Winterfell, Warden in the North." unexpectedly, Y/N managed to land another harsh slap against his gaunt face, then spat him in the eyes.

"You may call yourself whatever you wish, but you will never earn the respect or aid of anyone! You’re nothing but a coward playing at being king in a castle that’s not yours! Do you really think this charade will last? You think you can be anything more than the Greyjoy runt, pathetic and spineless?!” she screeched at him even as he dug his hand into her hair and tugged harshly at it. "You don't know what happens to traitors, do you, Theon? Everyone hates a traitor."

Theon’s face flushed red as Y/N's words pierced through the thin veil of arrogance he had built around himself. For a moment, he wavered, the reality of the situation crashing into him - But his desperation to hold on to his fleeting power won out, and he grabbed her from the man's arms, slapping her face hard with his gloved hand; She simply grinned with defiance - No once could hit harder than Meryn Trant and his metal gauntlet. "You even hit like a cunt, Theon. You could never best me at anything."

Theon looked around at the gathered faces—faces of the people he had known for years, people who had served the Starks faithfully. They were not looking at him with fear or respect, but with contempt and disgust. His eyes flickered back to Y/N, who was still breathing heavily, her eyes filled with loathing and burning rage. Something shifted in him. For a moment, guilt seemed to seep into his features, but he masked it quickly with a cold glare.

“Lock her in her room.” he ordered with a dismissive wave of his hand, his voice trembling slightly. “I will teach some proper discipline into her later - And you will learn to scream my name from the top of your lungs - Lord Theon Greyjoy."

The old man holding Katrina hesitated, clearly torn between his loyalty to her and his fear of what Theon might do if defied. Y/N, however, stopped struggling, her fury replaced by a dangerous calm. "You don't have a big enough cock to fuck me, nor the balls to dare even approach me. That's why you could only get women through coin - You are everyone's laughing-stock, and that's what you will remain forever." she said, her voice low but venomous. “And mark my words — You will regret ever stepping foot in this castle.”

Theon flinched slightly at the threat, but he quickly turned away, trying to maintain an air of control as Y/N was swiftly led away by the remaining Stark loyalists who were afraid to see their Lady get in even more trouble. His grip on power was tenuous at best, and deep down, he knew it. Anarchy was approaching.

Y/N’s parting words echoed in his mind, and for a brief moment, a flicker of doubt crossed his face. He had lost his only true family in the Starks, and now even Y/N, the girl who had treated him like a brother for years, despised him, and rightfully so. Despite his stolen throne, Theon felt more alone than ever before.

She was supposed to become a prisoner in her own bedroom chambers, but Y/N Stark was no prisoner — At least, not for long. That night, before Theon could instill his faux sense of discipline and power on her, she escaped through the old tunnels she had explored as a child, her heart set on freedom and revenge. She fled back into the Wolfswood, where the wolves of her ancestors watched over her and awaited the Stark she-wolf to reclaim her home. Yes, the initial plan failed, but there was one last thing she could do -

Return to Ramsay Snow and get the Bolton army on her side.

Once she reached the forest edge close to the Dreadfort, Y/N dismounted and stumbled through the underbrush of the Wolfswood, her clothes torn and her face streaked with tears and dirt. Once she saw the fort in her sight, she took a deep breath and let out a long, haunting howl, the sound echoing through the trees like a wolf’s cry — A cry of both pain and a call for her true brethren to reunite as one once more.

She felt her voice tearing at her throat as she called out into the cold, sharp air. Her fury was boundless. It was the Boltons who had betrayed her family's trust, Roose Bolton who teamed up with Tywin Lannister and orchestrated the Red Wedding, the massacre that took her mother and her brother from her. He was going to pay for betraying her trust. They all will. She will have their skins.

Before long, the silence of the woods was broken. Meleys, her loyal Red Queen, sprinted through the undergrowth, her frozen eyes gleaming in the low light. Behind her, padding quietly, came Jade, her beloved fokin - But it was not just her darling animal-sisters who emerged from the darkness.

As she expected, Ramsay followed shortly after, his black hair wild and messy, his expression one of uncharacteristic joy at the sight of her. For a moment, a flicker of something softer passed through his icy blue eyes, a twinkle of hope. She had come back to him, the only living being he had ever truly wanted - She returned to him, just as she promised.

Y/N’s greeting was, however, far from warm and heartfelt; She snarled at him, her hand instinctively going for her bow. In one swift motion, she nocked an arrow and aimed it at his chest. “Y/N…” Ramsay began, his voice low, almost tender. "You've come back to—"

"Stop right there, you traitorous bastard!" she growled, her voice dripping with venom. She didn't care about the small smile that briefly flashed on his face, or the way his hands slowly rose as if in surrender. She loosed a warning arrow, purposefully missing him by inches, letting it thud dangerously into the trunk of a nearby tree. “Don’t you dare say my name!” she screamed, her voice shaking. Another arrow flew, this one even closer to him, landing in the snow at his feet. “You... you monster! How could you let this happen? How could you betray us? How could you betray me?”

Ramsay's smile faded, replaced by a look of confusion, then anger. His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t step forward. Not yet. How dare she accuse him?! And of what, he didn't even know - How dare she?! How DARE she?!

"Betray you?" Ramsay's voice was bubbling and sneering but laced with an undercurrent of fury. He finally realised - It was all about his father's betrayal of the Stark family. Of course. Of - fucking - course. He knew his father was going to ruin everything he ever did in his life - That blasted worm... "You think I had something to do with that?!”

"You’re a Bolton!" Katrina shouted, another arrow notched and ready. “Your father slaughtered my family! My mother, my brother! They were all butchered! Tortured! And for what? For Theon fucking Greyjoy to burn my little brothers alive and take Winterfell for himself?” her voice cracked, and tears welled up in her eyes, though she refused to let them fall. "You knew! You had to have known!"

“I didn’t!” Ramsay spat, his voice growing desperate as her accusations cut into him. “I had nothing to do with it!” his tone was raising with every bit of defense he had to shout to be heard.

"LIAR!" Y/N screamed, and her voice broke as the tears finally spilled down her cheeks. “You’re no different than him! You’re just like your father, Ramsay! You’re—”

In that moment, Ramsay snapped, something inside him, probably his sanity, shattered. The frustration, the rage, the desperation to make her understand, to stop her from hating him - They all boiled over. With a savage growl, he moved faster than she could react, lunging forward and knocking the bow from her hands.

He slammed her back against a nearby tree, his hands gripping her shoulders with a bruising force; She gasped, her breath coming in ragged pants as she stared up at him, wide-eyed like a fawn and trembling, her heart pounding furiously in her chest.

“Shut up!” Ramsay growled through gritted teeth, his face inches from hers. “You don’t get to talk to me like that. You don’t get to blame me for what he did!” he snarled at her like a rabid beast.

Y/N’s breath hitched, and for a brief moment, she was silenced — Bot by fear, but by the intensity of Ramsay’s gaze on her. It burned into her, wild, petrifying and unhinged, filled with emotions she couldn’t quite decipher. Her tears streamed down her face in endless waterfalls, and she tried to shove him away, but he only pressed her harder against the tree, their bodies closer than ever before.

“I have nothing to do with that.” Ramsay snarled, his breath hot against her face. “Nothing - Yet you… You came back, just to accuse me like this?”

She opened her mouth to protest, to explain herself, but before she could speak, Ramsay’s lips crashed against hers in a violent, desperate kiss. Her entire body tensed, shocked by the suddenness of it, by the raw hunger in the way his mouth moved against hers. She tried pushing against him, her mind going crazy, but Ramsay was relentless, strong, and his hands were gripping her tighter as if he was trying to claim her once again, to force her back into submission.

For a moment, her mind blanked, overwhelmed by the intensity of the kiss, her very first kiss; The way his lips devoured hers with a desperation she had never seen in him before. When she finally managed to shove him off, they both stood there, breathing heavily, the air thick with unspoken emotions.

“What…” she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper. “What did you—”

Ramsay’s eyes softened for just a moment. “I didn't betray you.” he said, his voice quieter now, like a threatening low whisper. “Don't ever do that to me ever again. Not even the Old Gods could stop me from tearing you apart if you accuse me of such horse shite ever again. You hear me?!"

She glared at him through her tears, still uncertain, still struggling with the whirlwind of emotions tearing her apart. She wanted to believe him, wanted to believe that Ramsay wasn’t involved in the betrayal of her family, but the bitterness of grief and the sting of betrayal ran deep.

“I will kill him.” Ramsay promised, his voice turning dark again as he took a step closer, his hands still resting on her shoulders. “Once he legitimises me, I will kill him. He deserves it for everything he did to me - To us." he hissed softly, his lips almost touching her again. "I will flay him alive for you."

Y/N looked up at him, her expression torn. She was still angry, still grieving, but the conviction in his voice made her pause; She believed him. “I heard what that worthless cockroach did to your home.” Ramsay continued, his voice dripping with venom. “I will gift you Winterfell back, and Theon Greyjoy's skin made into a flag."

Y/N’s lips trembled, her heart torn between hatred and hope. She stared up at Ramsay, her thoughts swirling. She had seen so much darkness, so much death - And yet, through all the horrors of the world, Ramsay Snow remained the only person she fully trusted... The one person who might be twisted and screwed in the head enough to give her the vengeance she craved.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke, the air between them heavy with tension. Finally, she nodded, her voice a soft, broken whisper. “Bring me Winterfell… And bring me Theon Greyjoy. Alive, but not for long.”

Ramsay’s lips curled into a wicked smile as he leaned down, his forehead brushing against hers. “It’s yours.” he whispered. “All of it.” his lips trailed down to her ear, whispering sultry. "All of me."

For the first time in a long time in may painful years, Y/N felt a gleaming of something resembling hope — Dark, twisted, insane hope, but hope nonetheless. They would take Winterfell back, and they would make sure that every betrayal was paid for in blood - That's what he promised her; She kept her promise to him, and it was time for him to reciprocate.

Winterfell will be reclaimed by the shocking wit of the bastard of the Dreadfort - Truly, not only did Y/N never imagine he would be so witty, but also such a fantastic actor; He would play the role of a half-wit peasant called Reek, bring her to Theon as a prize, and gain his trust - Trust which will be oh-so-satisfyingly shattered once Reek betrays him and becomes Ramsay once more... And he will learn his place, that pesky little filth.

The frigid winds howled through the corridors of Winterfell, but within the walls, tension simmered hotter than any hearth. The once-proud castle of Winterfell was shadowed by the Kraken banners of House Greyjoy, their sigil hanging where the direwolf of Stark once stood tall and proud for generations.

Ramsay had donned the rags of a peasant, dirtying himself with soot and mud until he was nothing more than a shadow of the handsome yet brutal man he truly was.

He became "Reek", it rhymes with "Meek", it rhymes with "Leek", it rhymes with "Weak" - a pathetic and broken figure, eager to please and loyal only to Lord Theon Greyjoy. Y/N, playing along, allowed herself to be dragged in as his prisoner, bound and silent, though her eyes burned with cold fury and thirst for a torturous revenge.

Theon, still drunk on his fleeting power-trip, was easily fooled by their flawless charade; He sneered at Y/N, mocked her, and paraded her around like a trophy in front of her people. "Lookie here, Lady Stark came back home!" he struck her face so hard she fell to the ground. Each word, each cruel jest, was like a knife twisted in Y/N’s heart repeatedly, and added salt and cyanide - But she held herself together, knowing that it was only temporary.

She could feel the storming wrath in Ramsay's eyes - The humiliation won't last long, before he snaps and goes berserk. Theon had fallen too far to see the trap being laid for him. Even as he and "Reek" bonded over Y/N’s torment, the bastard’s true self remained hidden, seething beneath the surface, watching and waiting impatiently to destroy this worthless cunt who thinks himself a King.

One of Greyjoy's favourite ways of tormenting the she-wolf was to degrade her in front of his Ironborn; He'd force her to kneel before him, his foot on her shoulder, and would belittle her. "You like kneeling for men, don't you, Y/N? Is that what you did in King's Landing? Whore yourself for any man who gave you attention?" he laughed mockingly at her, looking at Reek for validation, to see if his joke was funny. "The proud Lady Stark, sucking cock like a greedy slut!" he wanted to go further, to take out his dick and dangle it in her face - But something in him couldn't go that far; Was it their previous sibling bond, or the fact that he practically froze under the harsh blizzard-like glare of her eyes - He kicked her to the ground, having his people drag her back to her room, before he took Reek away from there.

Reek kept his eyes downcast and his hands clenched into fists whenever Theon mistreated his sweet little thorny rose. He would swallow down his rage, pretending to be the loyal, cowardly "Reek" who would never dare to defy his master. His nails would dig into his palms until they drew blood, the pain a reminder to keep his cover intact, no matter how badly he wanted to rip Theon apart with his bare hands. He will pay with his skin, and not only. The more he saw Theon mistreating his darling, the more he wanted to make him feel eternal pain. He will lose his cock, his finger nails, toe nails, and more...

He would shove her around, slap her, hit her, insult her and more; So many threats of him fucking a bastard into her womb, and that he will beat her pregnant belly until she loses the babe; Each word he addressed her way became a new way of Ramsay to torture him.

But one night he went to far... Too far, even for Ramsay to accept. Theon had dragged him into Lady Stark's chambers; He buried his hand into her hair, throwing her onto the bed, his hands gripping at her slender body. "Don't you fucking dare..." came a low, guttural rumble, a threat, a warning... But the Kraken was deaf and blind; He ripped the bodice of her dress and with a weirdly strong grip, he tried to spread her legs apart for him to get to her honeyed core. "I will tear you apart, Theon Greyjoy."

"Shut up, you greedy little whore, I know you're desperate for me... You've always looked at me, since we were little..." with a strike to her face, he slumped over her body, rendering her unable to struggle away. "Don't play coy with me - I know you're not pure anymore - You cannot be."

"Listen to me, Theon Greyjoy - I am not yours to claim." she smirked with wicked defiance; She knew her wait was over, and she could rise up and riot. "The only man allowed to claim me is Ramsay Bolton."

"Then I'll make sure to tell him how tight your cunt is." his hand was fumbling with his breeches, ready to take his cock out and fulfill his promise, until...

"I'd like to see you try." Theon was fell limp over Y/N's body, knocked unconscious by an iron poker struck onto his head. "You don't get to touch her - Filth." THE Theon Greyjoy crumpled to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut, his body lifeless except for the shallow rise and fall of his chest, as Ramsay had to restrain himself to jump on him and punch him to death - He deserved far, far worse for even daring to touch his precious Kitten's skin... Let alone think he can CLAIM her.

"Took you long enough." Y/N found herself panting for air, regaining her senses.

"Be glad I'm not claiming you right now." he was trembling with anger as he hissed under his breath.

"You can claim me in front of him." her bold, teasing voice made him snap at her, his eyes wide, tormented. "Down in the dungeons, when you've had your way torturing him... After you cut that useless prick off... Tormented him..."

"Shut up." he growled at her. "Get your people back, raise your flag - Just get away from me." his warning made a shiver go down her spine, and she scurried away from her chambers. She'd never seen Ramsay so pissed that he couldn't control himself even around her. She will let him have his fun for a while, let him cool down on his own, before she returns to check on him.

She moved to the court where the few remaining people of Winterfell— Those who had not yet been driven away or killed — Waited in tense silence. They had seen the Starks fall, seen the banners torn down and replaced with the Kraken of the Ironborn. But now, standing before them, was their last glimmer of hope — The rightful heir to Winterfell. The Queen in the North.

Y/N looked out at the faces of her people, her voice ringing out clear and strong, despite the bruise forming on her cheek. “Theon Greyjoy is no more. Winterfell is our home once more!" there was no mistaking the fierce determination that burned within her - The Scarlet She-Wolf of the Stark House. Once she cupped her hands to her mouth, she let out a loud howl, haunting, booming, alert; Meleys joined in, and from the forest, many more were heard.

The Stark Wolves howled under the Northern Moon once again.

After the bastard finished tying up the naked, unconscious Theon Greyjoy on a wooden X-cross in the dungeons, he went out, watching his Kitten's loud meowing from the shadows, and he held a satisfied smirk on his face. That was his girl, he thought to herself, feeling power brewing in his chest as the people cheered loudly on her - Queen in the North, Lady Y/N Stark - With all the strength and fury of the North.

He slipped away, heading toward the gates where his own forces waited in the cover of night. He signaled them, and like a tidal wave, the Bastard's Boys stormed the premises, decimating any Ironborn still alive. Of course, Y/N wasn't happy to see foreign armies in her home - Alas, she had to accept it for a while.

Back in the dungeons, Theon awoke to the cold, damp darkness, his head throbbing and his wrists bound tightly with burning ropes. He could hear the distant sounds of battle above, the faint screams of his men as they were cut down one by one. Panic surged through him, but before he could cry out, the door to his cell creaked open, and Ramsay stepped inside, carrying the Greyjoy flag in his hands.

With a cruel grin, Ramsay unfolded the Kraken banner before Theon’s wide, terrified eyes. “You’ve made quite a mess of this place, haven’t you, Theon?” Ramsay drawled, his voice mocking. “But don’t worry, I’ll be sure to clean it up.”

With a twisted grin, Ramsay unceremoniously pissed on the Greyjoy flag, defiling it just as Theon had defiled Winterfell. The stench filled the air, and Theon recoiled in horror, but Ramsay only laughed — A dark, mirthless sound that echoed through the dungeon like a death knell.

Ramsay approached him slowly, his leather gloves creaking as he flexed his fingers. His expression was calm, almost serene, but the fire in his pale blue eyes told a different story. He was eager, too eager to start, but he reined himself in, savoring the anticipation. He wanted to make Theon fully aware of what was coming before he even laid a hand on him.

"Reek?! What - How did I get here?! Go on, get me out of here! What are you waiting for?!" but Theon was horrified to see the empty grin of Reek growing ever wider... Twisted, cruel, malicious. "Reek...?! I order you, as Lord Theon Greyjoy, to get me the hell out of here!"

"Y/N was right, you are as stupid as it gets." the bastard scoffed. "I am not 'Reek' - You are! You are Reek." he got close to his face. "And I - I am Ramsay Bolton." Theon's eyes widened with shock and horror, realising he tried to rape this psychopath's woman in front of him; He threatened and tormented her - In front of him.

“You thought you could have her...” Ramsay said, his voice soft, almost conversational, as he circled Theon like a wolf preparing to strike. “Y/N - MY Y/N." he hummed softly. "The Red She-Wolf Queen in the North, Y/N Stark, The Lady of Winterfell... Otherwise known as my precious little Kitten.” He smiled darkly as he leaned in closer, his breath warm against Theon's ear. “You thought you could take what’s mine?”

Theon’s eyes widened with terror, but he couldn’t respond with words that weren't protests or pleas. in his mouth. “Please… Ramsay…” Theon stammered, his voice trembling with fear. “I didn’t mean—”

“Shhh…” Ramsay placed a gloved finger to Theon’s lips, cutting him off. “I’m not interested in your excuses, Greyjoy. I’m interested in watching you suffer.”

Without another word, Ramsay picked up a small, sharp blade from his table of tools. He held it up for Theon to see, letting the dim light from the torches glint off the steel. He then moved toward Theon's hand, grabbing it roughly. Ramsay pressed the blade to Theon's fingers, drawing shallow cuts along the tips—just enough to sting, just enough to let Theon feel the sharpness of the pain before the real suffering began.

He gasped and grunted, squirming, trying to pull his hand away, but Ramsay held him firm, his grip painful and firm. “This is only the foreplay.” Ramsay whispered, his voice dark and dangerous. “You’ll feel every inch of what I’m about to do to you - And I’ll enjoy every second.”

The bastard had chosen a small patch of skin on Theon's chest located where he knew the pain would radiate and linger. He peeled back the flesh slowly, deliberately, relishing in the sight of Theon's blood as it oozed from the wound, along with his screams; His body was convulsing with excruciating agony, but Ramsay remained unfazed - In fact, his nether regions grow hot with desire and lust; He always got aroused when torturing people. His hands worked expertly, and every cry from Theon only seemed to spur him on.

“You should have known better - You have only yourself to blame, Reek.” Ramsay said with an almost casual tone as he continued his work. “You think you’re a lord, you think you’re in control, but you’re not. You never were. Y/N could never belong to a filthy wretch like you. You’re nothing. Nothing but an urchin pretending to be a lord.”

As Theon’s screams grew louder, Ramsay only leaned in closer, whispering in his ear. “This is what happens when you try to steal what belongs to me.”

Once Ramsay was satisfied with the patch of flayed skin, he moved on to Theon’s fingers again, this time bending them back slowly until he heard the satisfying crack of bones breaking. Theon’s howls echoed through the dungeon - Utterly powerless, utterly broken.

“What’s wrong, Reek?” Ramsay mocked, his voice dripping with amusement. “These fingers tried to touch my woman. I either remove them, or kill you, you see? You have to get purified if you want to remain alive."

Theon, shaking from both pain and terror, could only whimper in response - He wasn't quite sure if he wanted to continue living or not, the pain was unbearable. His body was drenched in sweat, his skin pale, and his breath came in ragged gasps, and Ramsay wasn’t done. He wanted more. He needed to hear Theon beg, to hear him plead for the mercy that would never come.

Ramsay brought out a thin iron rod, heated in the fire until it glowed red-hot. He held it up, letting Theon see it, letting him anticipate the pain to come. “It's getting rather cold in here, don't you think? And you're all naked... Let me heat you up a little!” Ramsay exclaimed with a wicked grin.

“Please… Please, no more!” Theon sobbed, his voice barely audible through the tears. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry…”

Ramsay’s grin only widened as he pressed the hot iron against Theon’s thigh. The stench of burning flesh filled the air as Theon screamed louder than ever, his entire body shaking with agony. Ramsay watched with dark satisfaction, his eyes gleaming with twisted delight as Theon writhed in pain beneath him.

But then... The bastard went on to remove that worthless little prick of his... And Theon Greyjoy lost consciousness from the agony.

With Winterfell reclaimed once more, Roose Bolton had reason to celebrate, and so did the Crown, who not only appointed him Warden of the North; but offered his bastard son the legitimisation every bastard dreamt of; Ramsay Snow was no more - Ramsay Bolton finally took over - And Roose was going to make a special trip to tell him just that.

The grand hall of Winterfell had been transformed for the feast. Lord Bolton, as imposing as ever, entered, met with a display of power and wealth. Y/N had spared no expense in preparing a lavish meal - His last meal. The long table was covered with roasted meats, warm bread, and jugs of dark wine. The hall glowed with the light of torches and hearths, and a low hum of music filled the air.

Ramsay stood at the head of the table, his face a mask of restraint, as his father entered. Katrina was seated beside him, regal and defiant, her eyes never leaving Roose's cold figure.

Roose barely acknowledged her at first, his eyes fixed on Ramsay. "You've done well, Ramsay." Roose remarked, his tone devoid of warmth as he took his seat. "Winterfell is yours. You’ve managed not to disgrace the name I gave you, for once." as harsh as ever. "Now, you are truly Ramsay Bolton." with that, he threw the letter at his son.

That letter had arrived from King's Landing just that day - Ramsay Snow truly was no more. He had been legitimized by the King's royal decree. He was now Ramsay Bolton, the only living true son of Lord Bolton, no longer the Bastard of Bolton. This was everything Ramsay had ever desired — Power, status, and legitimacy.

This was it - He had the Dreadfort, he had the Bolton name, and he had Y/N. He had everything he ever wanted in his grasp.

It was time to take one step further; He will be the son of Lord Bolton no more - He will be Lord Bolton.

Ramsay smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Thank you, father.”

But as the feast began, Roose turned his attention to Katrina, eyeing her in a manner that made Ramsay’s blood boil. The cold Lord of the Dreadfort spoke of her as though she were little more than a breeding sow, not even present in the room.

“She’s a Stark.” Roose said dismissively between bites of food. “Strong bloodline - But don’t let her think she has power of Winterfell, Ramsay - She’s just a woman after all. Her worth is in her womb, in the heirs she can give you. Many heirs... Strong boys to continue our line.”

Y/N’s face twisted with fury at the crude comment, and Ramsay’s fist clenched beneath the table. He had never been a man to hide his anger well, but for a moment, he restrained himself. His eyes flickered toward his sweetling, and he could see her seething. Roose's words had wounded her pride, and that was something Ramsay would never allow. He spoke ill of her far too many times - But he will speak no more.

After a few more tense exchanges that he hadn't even heard, Ramsay stood and moved toward his father, his expression darkening. “You’ve always been so wise, father.” Ramsay said in a soft voice, though the undercurrent of malice was undeniable. “And I have always sought your approval.”

Roose raised an eyebrow, clearly suspicious of the sudden shift in his son's demeanor, but before he could react, Ramsay pulled him into an embrace, feigning affection. "But I’m afraid it’s time for you to step aside." Ramsay whispered into his father's ear. "I am Lord Bolton now."

In one swift motion, Ramsay plunged a dagger deep into Roose’s gut. The older man gasped in shock and the sharp pain of the twist, eyes wide with disbelief. He tried to pull away, but Ramsay held him close, continuing to twist the blade cruelly, to make him feel the same pain he always did. The hall fell into stunned silence as the Lord of the Dreadfort staggered backward, blood pouring from the wound.

“Goodbye, father.” Ramsay sneered as Roose collapsed to the ground, his hands desperately clutching at the bleeding wound. Ramsay’s eyes shifted to Meleys, the red wolf that had been protectively waiting at Y/N’s side. “Meleys.” he called, his voice cold as winter’s night. The wolf moved with deadly grace, approaching Roose with glowing, hungry eyes. With one swift leap, Meleys tore into Roose's already weakened form, ripping flesh from bone as blood pooled on the stone floor, her red fur mingling with his red blood.

Y/N watched the scene unfold with a dark satisfaction in her eyes, not even realising she was grinning. There was no remorse, no sorrow— Only cold justice and triumph. She had grown ruthless, just as life had molded her to be. And now, her tormentor was dead. She felt no pity for Roose Bolton. He had betrayed her family, destroyed everything she once held dear. His death was a small payment for the suffering he had caused.

As the last breath escaped Roose’s lips, Y/N turned to Ramsay. “He deserved worse.” she said softly.

Ramsay smiled. “I thought so too, but I wanted to give you a special gift."

Katrina’s lips curved into a small, bitter smile. “Truth is - While I was in King’s Landing, I took a potion - Something to ensure I would never bear children. I almost died, and the pain was excruciating, but it paid off. As a prisoner, I couldn’t allow anyone to use me for my bloodline - As their political pawn and breeding-stock." she let out an empty chuckle. "I never wanted heirs anyway - And neither did you."

Ramsay stared at her for a moment, processing the words. Slowly, his smile returned, but this time it was something different — Almost relieved. “You clever, clever kitten.” he murmured, stroking her cheek, painting her skin with the blood of his father. “No babes, no risk of you dying in childbirth, no squalling brats to annoy me. You’ve just made everything so much easier for the both of us.” he grinned all sultry and enticing. "I never could resist you."

Katrina chuckled softly, leaning into his touch. “I am yours, Ramsay. Yours and yours alone. No one will ever take that from you.”

Ramsay’s hand trailed down to her throat, his thumb brushing over her pulse. “Good.” he whispered, his voice low and possessive. “Because I’ve never wanted to share you with anyone.”

Katrina looked into his eyes, seeing the madness, the obsession, but also the devotion that lurked beneath. She knew she had tamed the beast within him, at least enough to keep him by her side. Ramsay had given her everything — Her home, her revenge, and even himself — And in return, she had given him herself, Always and Forever.

"I've got something to show you." the man dragged her back into her chamber, and showed her the beautiful Stark flag gently swaying with the wind. "Perfect view." he stood behind her, his arms around her waist holding her in a tight embrace, his chin resting on her shoulder. "How do you feel being back home, Lady Stark?" the closeness was intoxicating him, suffocating him - And he was craving more.

"Perfect, now that you're here with me." her innocently genuine comment made the man instinctively tighten his grip on her; He wanted desperately to get lost in her heat.

She could feel his heat against her back, the possessiveness in the way his hands lingered at her hips. There was a tension in his touch, a dark hunger that sent a shiver down her spine. But she wasn’t afraid - She never was afraid of him. Instead, there was something else building inside her, something that had been growing for some time now. She was craving his touch more than she needed air to breathe.

Y/N turned slowly to face him, her eyes locking with his. There was a storm in those gorgeous icy blue eyes of his, one that both excited and thrilled her. She could feel her heart racing in her chest, the tension between them palpable, suffocating.

"Ramsay." she spoke in a tender whisper, filled with curiosity and desire. "What do boys and girls do together when they grow up?"

His breath hitched as he remembered the many times he had teased her about that when they were younger; He loved toying with her innocence. The way Ramsay looked at her, the way his fingers brushed along her waist, set her heart racing in a way she didn’t fully understand.

"Show me." she whispered, her voice trembling with anticipation and need.

Ramsay’s smirk widened, and without warning, he pushed her back against the bed, his hands gripping her waist firmly. His touch was rough, possessive, and it sent a wave of heat coursing through her veins. His lips hovered inches from hers, teasing, taunting, as he held her there, trapped between him and the comfortable bed underneath her.

"You want it, don’t you?" he whispered, his voice dripping with dark amusement. "My sweet, greedy kitten… You’ve wanted this all along... You've been craving my touch for so long..."

Y/N’s breath came in short, sharp gasps as his words sent a flush of heat and arousal through her body. She didn't know what he was doing to her, but she wanted this... The way his mere words stirred her insides... She was nervous and excited to see what else she could feel... With his breath warm against her lips, and his body pressed against hers.

"Yes." she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper, her pride crumbling beneath the weight of her desire for him

"Have you been touching yourself, thinking of me, sweetling?" Ramsay’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction, and he leaned in closer, his lips brushing hers in the lightest of kisses before pulling back again, teasing her mercilessly. "So greedy." he murmured, his voice full of dark amusement, watching that precious blush of hers. "I’ve barely touched you, and already you’re begging for more."

She let out a soft whimper of frustration, her hands gripping his shoulders as she tried to pull him closer, but he held her firmly in place, refusing to give in just yet. His lips trailed down her neck, leaving a trail of fire in their wake, and she could feel the heat pooling in her belly, the need for him growing stronger with every passing second. "Ramsay..." she whined out his name, her voice thick with need. "Stop teasing me... You're so cruel..."

He chuckled darkly, his lips brushing against her ear as he whispered, "But where’s the fun in that, my little naughty kitty-cat?" his hands slid lower, teasing her waist, his touch light and maddeningly slow. She could feel her pulse quickening, her breath coming in ragged gasps as the anticipation built to an unbearable crescendo. He knew exactly what he was doing to her — Knew how much she wanted him, how much she needed him — And he reveled in it and the power he held over her.

"You’re mine, Y/N. Forever and Always." Ramsay growled softly, his voice thick with possessiveness. "And I will make sure you never forget who you belong to."

He finally gave in to her silent pleas, his lips crashing down on hers with a fierce, demanding intensity. Y/N moaned sweetly into the kiss, her hands tangling in his dark hair as she pulled him closer, desperate for more. The scorching heat between them was electric, a wildfire that had been building for far too long, and now that it had been unleashed, there was no stopping it.

Ramsay’s hands roamed her body with a possessive hunger, his touch rough and insistent, but she didn’t care — She wanted this, needed this. She had been denying herself for too long, and now, in the darkness of her home, with the snow falling outside and the fire crackling behind them, she finally let go and embraced his hedonism.

When he pulled back, his breath heavy, Ramsay smirked down at her, his eyes dark with satisfaction. She looked so kissable, so needy, so innocent and in need of corruption.

"Such a greedy little kitten... All for me..." he teased, his voice low and full of dark amusement. "Just as I always knew you would be." his whisper was husky and sultry. "Insatiable, greedy, needy... Only for me."

Y/N glared weakly at him, blushing through the timidness of a demure maiden in all her glory, purer than the Maiden, and far more beautiful than the Moon herself - And she was burning with desire that was not even close to being satisfied. "And whose fault is that?" she shot back, her voice breathless.

Ramsay chuckled darkly, leaning in to nip at her lower lip, sending another shiver down her spine. "Mine, of course. I love spoiling my haughty little sweetling." he admitted, his voice full of dark pride and impure thought. "The night is not long enough for all the things I want to do to you..."

In the aftermath of countless betrayals and bloodshed, the North was finally restored to its rightful rulers - House Stark. Y/N Stark, with the aid of her Lord Husband, Ramsay Bolton, had reclaimed Winterfell - She united the world once more with a claim as strong as that of the previous King in the North, her dear brother, the Young Wolf, Robb Stark; She became Queen in the North, ruling with a wisdom and wit, aided by the ruthless strategies of her beloved Ramsay - And even more surprisingly, the aid of her little brothers, who had survived Theon's siege - They were brought back by Meera and Jojen Reed.

Theon Greyjoy, now a broken man, lived as "Reek" — A forever shattered reflection of the once-proud yet pathetic Ironborn prince. He became Ramsay's pitiful plaything, his mind too far gone to remember even his own true name.

Far away in the Eyrie, Sansa Stark took over the Vale after Sandor had to throw her Lady aunt, Lysa Arryn, through the Moon Door after she dared attack his beloved songbird out of sheer jealousy - Sansa was far more beautiful than Lysa ever was. The she-wolf willingly married Sandor Clegane out of love, feeling safe and sound in his strong, protective embrace for the first time since she left home. Sansa became Warden in the East, and Y/N's eternal ally, just as their Catelyn and Lysa used to be... As Ned and Jon used to be...

The direwolves returned to the North as well, filling the halls of Winterfell with the howl of 'home' once more. Though Grey Wind was dead, and Ghost was loyally protective Jon at Castle Black, everyone else replaced the Stark siblings for Y/N, whenever she missed her sweet brothers and sisters a little too much. The family was sort-of reunited... The pack survived... But at what cost?

Across the Narrow Sea, Daenerys Targaryen, the true Heir to the Crown, laid her claim over King's Landing, with the aid of her dragons and Tyrion Lannister as her Hand; Cersei Lannister and her devil-spawn child were no more; Myrcella had married the Prince of Dorne and happily remained there, whilst Tommen was more than willing to go to his bride, Margaery Tyrell, and live in the peace and prosperity of Highgarden. No doubt, the happiest was Jaime Lannister, who happily married Brienne of Tarth and returned to Casterly Rock as the Warden of the West, enjoying, for once, a normal life, away from the drama of the Crown, and all that his father and sister brought along.

With peace finally settling over Westeros, Daenerys married Jon - Who found out was actually Aegon Targaryen, the only living son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell;

Together they united in A Song of Ice and Fire.

And what became of the little rat of Winterfell? Arya hadn't stepped in Westeros of ages - She was living her best life, traveling West of Westeros, discovering what was never discovered, venturing into the unknown, and exploring to her heart's content. She was the happiest she could ever be. Perhaps, some day, she would return, homesick - Until then, she will become Nymeria of the Rhoynar and sail into the vast horizon.

The terrible Winds of Winter had dissipated, and the Dream of Spring nurtured blooming hope and joy into the people of Westeros once more.

[kxsagi]

“𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢 𝐛𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥”

a/n: happy birthday to my husband, my glorious blue-eyed king goatsagi, but also the love of my life for the past almost 5 years. it's been amazing watching you grow into the man you are, cussing out everyone with your slurs on the field and defeating all of your opponents, turning them into real-life clowns and mcdonald's employees, gosh i love isagi yoichi so much

the apartment is quiet, save for the faint hum of the city lights and the soft flickering of the birthday candle sitting on top of the cake. it’s just the two of you, and the simplicity of it makes everything feel a little too perfect. isagi’s staring at the cake like it might explode any second, and you’re trying not to laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all. 

“so... it’s just us, huh?” he asks, looking around like he’s waiting for some grand surprise. 

you grin. “yep, just you, me, and this gourmet cake i spent hours slaving over.” 

he raises an eyebrow, his face a mix of doubt and curiosity. “you? spent hours? please. the only thing you’ve spent hours on is probably picking a good frosting color.” 

you gasp, hand on your chest. “excuse me? i’ll have you know, this is a chef’s creation. it’s not just cake, it’s an experience.” 

he laughs, clearly not buying it. “uh-huh, sure. you’re definitely not gordon ramsay level.” 

“rude. i’m a baking genius,” you retort, sticking your tongue out at him. “you’re lucky to even be getting this cake. don’t act like i didn’t just bless your life.” 

he picks up a fork, eyes narrowing as he inspects the cake. “hmm... what’s the catch here? is this like, secretly a broccoli cake or something?” 

you smirk. “you’ll find out soon enough. maybe i put in a little extra surprise. like salt instead of sugar?” 

he shoots you a look. “you’re sooo funny.” but you can see that he’s genuinely nervous as he takes the first bite. 

the moment he chews, his eyes go wide, and he pauses. you hold your breath. 

“… okay,” he says slowly. “this is actually... pretty good.” 

you throw your hands up in triumph. “see?! i told you! i’m the best.” 

“yeah, yeah,” he mutters, chewing more, still looking suspicious. “it’s just... this is good, but i’m still waiting for the catch. this tastes too good to be true.” 

you narrow your eyes at him. “you really think i’d poison you?” 

he shrugs, still chewing. “honestly, with you, anything’s possible.” 

you gasp, dramatically clutching your heart. “i cannot believe you right now. you’ve wounded me.” 

he grins, all too pleased with himself. “hey, i’m just saying, you’re the one who almost got me a pet fish for my birthday.” 

you cross your arms, pretending to be offended. “almost? it was a solid plan! fish are low-maintenance!” 

he snorts. “sure. except for when they die two days later and you’re left with a small funeral for your pet fish in the bathroom.” 

“okay, fine. it wasn’t my best idea,” you admit, not even trying to hold back a grin. “but i still think a pet fish would’ve been a good gift.” 

he shakes his head, still laughing. “no way. you’re not getting me a fish. i draw the line there.” 

you stick your tongue out at him. “you don’t even know how to take care of a fish. i’d be the one cleaning the tank, feeding it, probably talking to it too, like ‘hey, bro, how’s it going today?’” 

he shakes his head in mock horror. “nope. not happening. next time, just get me socks or something.” 

“socks? wow, how original.” you pause for dramatic effect. “you know, maybe i’ll just get you... a gift card. for, like, a fish store. that way, you can pick out your own fish and deal with it.” 

“you’re cruel,” he says with a dramatic sigh, leaning back in his chair. “absolutely cruel.” 

“i know,” you reply smugly, taking a bite of your own cake. “but it’s all part of the fun.” 

after a beat of silence, you both fall into a kind of quiet rhythm, just enjoying the cake and the ridiculousness of the conversation. isagi’s still poking at the cake with his fork, clearly trying to avoid admitting it’s actually good. 

“you know,” he starts, breaking the silence, “this is actually kind of nice. just the two of us. no crazy parties, no surprises... just, like... us.” 

you glance over at him, and for a split second, your heart flutters. “yeah,” you say softly. “i’m glad it’s just us too.” 

“you sure you don’t want me to throw in a trampoline next year?” he teases, giving you that grin you can’t resist. 

you roll your eyes. “next year? i’m getting you an entire bouncy castle. you’ve earned it.” 

“a bouncy castle?” he laughs. “okay, but only if it has a slide, and a ball pit. i need that full experience.” 

“done,” you say, grinning. “but, you’re the one who has to climb out of the ball pit when you get stuck.” 

he raises an eyebrow. “me? stuck? i’m the one who’ll be pulling you out.” 

“uh, no, you’re the one who’ll be posting a crying selfie while trapped in it,” you tease. 

“wow, you’re so supportive,” he says, rolling his eyes. “you’re getting a wet sponge for your birthday next year.” 

there’s a brief pause where the city’s noises almost feel distant, and it’s just the two of you in your little bubble of ridiculousness. and then, he looks over at you, his gaze softening, and you both sort of… melt. 

“hey,” he says quietly, catching your eye. “seriously though. thanks for today. it’s been really nice.” 

you feel your heart do this weird flip in your chest. it’s so easy to get lost in the chaos of being with him, whether it’s teasing each other about bad cake or trying to figure out what gift you’re going to get next year, but moments like this remind you of just how much you like being with him. 

“you’re welcome,” you reply softly, trying to play it cool. but you know your smile gives you away. 

he notices, of course, and before you can say anything else, he speaks again. “you know, if we keep this up, i’m gonna get used to all this... nice stuff from you.” 

“good. you should get used to it,” you say, trying to sound casual. “it’s the least i can do after spending hours slaving over that cake.” 

“i’ll admit, that cake was impressive,” he says, leaning back in his chair, eyes twinkling. “i might just have to marry you just for that.” 

you raise an eyebrow. “oh yeah? you think you could handle me?” 

he shrugs, looking genuinely thoughtful. “i think i could manage.” 

you shake your head, laughing. “you’re an idiot. but you’re my idiot.” 

he grins, clearly pleased with the sentiment. “hey, i’ll take it.” 

and just like that, everything feels a little warmer. more comfortable. this is how it always is with him – silly arguments, teasing, and somehow, you both just seem to fall deeper into this... thing you’ve got going. best friends, annoying each other in the best way. 

you pick up the fork again, shoveling more cake into your mouth. “next year, i’m getting you socks, by the way.” 

he groans dramatically. “you really are cruel.” 

“you love it,” you say, flashing him a smile. 

“yeah, i do,” he replies, eyes softening just a little. 

and you know, in that moment, that this, just this, is everything. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[boltonplaything]

GOT men in the bedroom

Robb Stark: He growls 100% he'll pin you down to the bed, push your legs back until your knees are by your ears and pound into you. He's the type to want you to role play with him in the bedroom. Call him "Your Grace" and he's done for. Playfights and silly games will almost always end up in some passionate lovemaking as well. He's a service Dom for sure, he wants to give you every ounce of pleasure he can and make sure you are thoroughly cared for in every aspect of life

Ned Stark: He seems to be the type to pant and grunt. He'll talk you through it though with that deep rumbling, accented voice. He'll hold you gently which would be a heavy contrast to the urgency in his thrusts. He'd shower you with praise before and after, how gorgeous you are, how lucky he is, how good you feel. He's pretty vanilla but somehow it doesn't take away from the experience.

Jon Snow: He growls and Whimpers depending on if he's the Dom or the sub. If he's the Dom he'll handle you firmly, groaning and growling into your ear about how he's been wanting to fuck you all day. If he's the sub he whines and pants while you fuck him, begging for his release and we can all guess that as a sub he'd cum fast and apologize for it. As either the Dom or the sub his words would become unintelligible after a certain point of bliss. I also feel like he'd be into somno but he'd have to have discussed it in depth with his partner beforehand.

Jaime Lannister: He's a talker, he pants and groans but he's mostly a talker during sex. Everything is teasing and cheeky remarks it doesn't matter what position he's in. He is a tease, he is a flirt, he is an asshole. He'd be fucking you from behind while giving a whole monolog then getting playfully annoyed when you don't know what he's been saying because he's hitting it so well. He'd fuck you till the point where you're shivering but the second he feels your body clench around him, he'll stop and chuckle. Doing it over and over again until eventually he gives in with an "alright alright". If he's the sub he doesn't understand why you won't let him finish ,maybe because he deprives you, but nonetheless he talks the whole time. He'll groan and pant and finally give in and whisper out his pleas. He's a brat and a tease.

Tyrion Lannister: He grunts, every thrust he makes he grunts and curses, he grips you like his life depends on it. If he's the submissive he turns into a whiny pathetic mess, all of his eloquence is lost on him.

Tywin Lannister: Groans and Moans. I wouldn't have said he was a moaner a week ago but in light of recent discoveries he is in fact a moaner. He is not gentle in any aspect either bending you over the nearest surface or wrapping your legs around his waist. He taunts you for how needy you are beneath him, wanting you to stroke his ego. He will never let you be in control and he won't tolerate brat behavior, he wants complete subservience. If you brat during sex you'll regret it severely with him either spanking your ass raw, or edging you for a considerable amount of time. Even if you apologize he won't grant you release. You can possibly appeal to him by calling him by his titles or handing him praise in return.

Joffrey Baratheon: He moans and Whimpers, he likes to say that moaning is womanly but he's so loud and needy when you ride his cock, there's no way he is dominating anyone. If he happens to catch himself moaning he'll whimper on accident as if that makes it any better. He's a brat, he walks around talking about how he's the king and he can do as he likes. He likes to think that this extends into the bedroom, you have to slap him around a bit to get him to apologize, overstimulate him to get him to behave.

Ramsay Bolton: Canonically the man makes no noise whatsoever but...I'd like to imagine him moaning and growling. He'll take you from behind or put you in the mating press. There's no gentleness when he fucks you, he'll call you the most disgusting things. He loves it when you cry and beg. Honestly I don't know if he likes it better when you beg for him to fuck you or if you beg for him to stop. If you somehow get him to be submissive, take the opportunity to be a bit rough with him for a change. Slap him, or choke him, call him a good boy while you do it too.

[childrenofcain-if]

Oh my beautiful British royal M 😭 I love them so much, they've become one of my favourite Ros of all time ❤️

With my MC being an idiot sandwich (Gordon Ramsay hates to see them coming) of a cook, would M still appreciate the horrible dishes we cook for them 🥺

you woke up slowly, the world filtering in through the haze of sleep. a pale, golden light trickled in through the slatted blinds, painting the room in streaks of honey and shadow.

the first thing you noticed was warmth—the steady, undisturbed heat of another body beside yours. then came the sound: the faint rustle of sheets, the thrum of a radiator doing its best against the january chill. finally, your eyes fluttered open, and there they were.

M, still tangled in their dreams.

they laid on their side, their face half-buried in the pillow, their lips slightly parted in the vulnerability of sleep. you let your gaze wander, drinking in the details as though you were committing them to memory for some far-off day when their face might only exist in the corners of your mind.

their tawny brown skin glowed faintly in the morning light, warm and inviting as a hearth fire. thick brows arched naturally, perfectly framing their face, softening their otherwise regal features. long lashes, dark as ink, cast tiny shadows against their high cheekbones, delicate crescents that you found yourself wanting to trace with your fingertip. and their hair—oh, their hair: silky black even in their sleep, it spilled across the pillow in soft waves, catching the light in a way that made you think of ocean waters at midnight.

you couldn’t help but stare. how could you not? M, always so poised, so impossibly polished, looked achingly human like this. even now, with sleep slackening the angles of their jaw, the curve of their mouth, they carried a quiet elegance.

your gaze lingered on the faint rise and fall of their chest, the way their lips parted just slightly with each breath. it was a rare, unguarded moment, and you let yourself marvel at it, at them.

eventually, though, the tug of wanting to do something nice for your royal partner grew stronger than your desire to stay still. with a quiet sigh, you slipped out from under the covers, careful not to jostle the bed. M stirred slightly, their brow furrowing for a moment before smoothing again as sleep reclaimed them.

the air was warm against your skin from the radiator as you padded barefoot across the floor, your eyes drawn to the details of their space.

philosophy dominated the collection on their shelves—aristotle, nietzsche, kant—but there were other titles too on history and poetry. a worn copy of ‘pride and prejudice,’ bookmarks riddling a lot of its pages. a cookbook with smudged pages and handwritten notes in the margins.

a stack of notebooks, their spines worn with use, sat on the desk by the window. you could imagine M bent over them, their umber brown eyes focused, their hand moving in careful strokes as they wrote in their cursive handwriting.

your gaze fell on a framed photograph perched on the right side of the desk, and you picked it up, smiling softly at the image. it was a family portrait of the whitlock-singhs.

their mother, crown princess victoria, stood at the center, her regal bearing softened by the warmth in her eyes. beside her was ranveer, M’s father, his hand resting on her shoulder, his smile wide and infectious. on either side of them were charlotte, M’s older sister, her chin tilted with confidence, and jesse, the youngest sibling, grinning like they held a secret.

and there, in the middle, was M, caught grinning almost as wide as jesse. it was a side of them you rarely saw—a pure, unfiltered joy that made the corner of your lips lift even more.

you then set the photograph back down and tiptoed toward the dorm’s attached bathroom.

it was colder in here, and you shivered as you splashed water on your face, brushing your teeth with one of the extra toothbrush M had stashed under the sink just for you. you found yourself almost laughing to yourself at the sight before you hushed up since you didn’t want M to wake up.

when you returned to the dorm room, M was still asleep, their form barely stirring beneath the covers. you hesitated for a moment, wondering if you should slip back into bed, but you knew that this was probably the only rare one of times you’d wake up earlier than them and you just had to make breakfast for your partner this once.

the kitchen of the suite was as pristine as the rest of the dorm, its sleek countertops and gleaming appliances untouched by the impending doom you were about to unleash on them.

you opened the pantry, your fingers brushing against cans of soup, bags of rice, and then there it was: a can of baked beans.

yes, you were about to make the quintessentially british breakfast classic: beans on toast.

you’d noticed the recurring dish, of course, tucked on their plate in the dining hall during mornings despite their protests that they “absolutely do not like it that much.” but the familiarity in the way they ate it, the subtle contentment, had not escaped you.

you knew better. you knew them better.

you gathered the ingredients quickly: bread, beans, butter, some spices. then, on a whim, you searched the cupboards for tea leaves.

you remembered M’s story—how their father, ranveer, used to make masala chai on cold mornings, filling their paternal home in birmingham with the scent of spices and steam. it seemed like the kind of thing that would definitely be a good start to the day.

the kitchen was soon alive with sound and motion—the clatter of pots, the soft scrape of a knife as you buttered bread. you followed a recipe on your phone for the masala chai, measuring out spices before that quickly gave way to guesswork. cinnamon sticks, cardamom pods, ginger.

but it turns out, you’d find ways to reach a newer low with your culinary skills—or the lack thereof.

you misjudged the measurements, poured too much milk, and somehow managed to spill the cinnamon sticks across the counter. the scent of cardamom then filled the air, mixing with the faintly burnt smell of beans you’d left unattended.

the chai boiled over, spilling onto the stovetop in a hiss of steam. you scrambled to clean it up, only to knock over the box of sugar in your haste. the bread, forgotten in the toaster, began to blacken, smoke curling up in ominous spirals.

by the time you finished, the kitchen looked like it had survived two world wars and a great depression. the fire alarm went off in a sudden, piercing wail, shattering the morning quiet. you froze, your heart leaping into your throat as the kitchen filled with a thin haze of smoke because of the charred bread.

before you could do anything, M burst into the room, half-dressed and disheveled, clutching a fire extinguisher like they’d just woken up from a dream where they were a firefighter.

“what the bloody hell is going on?” they demanded, their accent even more prominent in their panic.

you held out the plate of completely burnt beans on toast with a sheepish grin. “breakfast?”

their gaze shifted from the plate to the mess behind you—the scorched pot, the spilled sugar, the faintly smoking toaster. they arched a brow, their lips twitching as though they were trying really hard to look exasperated as they set the fire extinguisher down.

they wordlessly moved to turn off the stove with a practiced ease. they then waved a dish towel at the smoke detector until it stopped its shrieking before turning to you.

M stared at you for a long moment, then let out a breathless laugh, the sound both incredulous and amused. “you almost burned the place down trying to make beans on toast?”

“and masala chai,” you mumbled.

they shook their head, running a hand through their dark hair to make it a little less dishevelled. “you’re an absolute menace, love.”

but there was a softness in their eyes, an amused smile tugging at the corners of their mouth.

the charred remnants of your attempted breakfast lay discarded in the trash bin. M had asked you to clean everything up while they freshened up in the bathroom, and you had complied happily as you did not want to lay your sights on the bioweapon you’d created.

when M re-entered the kitchen, they looked slightly more composed, though still half-dressed, their dark hair damp from a quick rinse, and their face glowing with renewed energy.

but even like this—rumpled and unfinished—they looked like they’d stepped straight out of a portrait.

you, on the other hand, with your flour-dusted hands and the faint smell of singed toast clinging to your clothes, felt more like the before picture in one of those ‘before and after’ glow-up makeover shows.

“right,” M said, surveying the semi-clean kitchen with a raised brow. they rolled up the sleeves of their ralph lauren ivory quarter-zip, revealing forearms you definitely didn’t stare at for longer than a second. “let’s salvage this. i’m teaching you how to cook.”

“do i have a choice?” you muttered, your lips tugging into a reluctant smile.

“not if you plan to survive in this kitchen unsupervised,” they replied dryly.

M wasn’t just good at cooking—they were extraordinary at teaching. they explained things with a clarity that no cookbook or youtube tutorial could ever achieve. their movements were precise, graceful, like choreography, and you tried—emphasis on the ‘tried’—to mimic them. but for every moment of triumph, there were at least three close calls where M had to swoop in to save you from some imminent disaster.

they caught you when you tried to add oil to a pan that was already too hot, yanking the handle out of your hand just before the smoke billowing from it could turn into an inferno. they stopped you from using a knife incorrectly—“oh my days, don’t hold it like that unless you want to lose a finger or two”—and gently redirected your attempts to measure spices with a far more practiced hand.

“this,” they said, holding up a spice jar, “is cumin. you don’t just throw it in like it’s fairy dust. measure it. smell it. taste it if you must. but don’t—” they caught your hand mid-shake, their fingers wrapping around your wrist—“dump it all in like you’re salting a driveway.”

their touch remained a moment longer than necessary, their fingers warm against your skin. you tried to focus on the lesson, nodding shakily as they released you and went back to demonstrating.

despite their guidance, there were still mishaps. a nearly burnt slice of bread here, an accidental poke at yourself from the knife there. each mistake was met with a sigh and a gentle correction, M’s patience never wavering.

by the time you finished, the final product was… well, ‘edible’ felt like a stretch, but it was at least recognizable as food. the toast was unevenly browned, the beans slightly overcooked, but the chai, thankfully, had turned out well—mostly because M had taken over halfway through.

M stood back, surveying the meal with a critical eye.

“you know,” they said, “i never thought teaching you how to cook would be this hard. you’re good at everything else—what happened here?”

you shrugged, a little embarrassed, wiping your hands on a dish towel. “never had to cook growing up. we had private chefs for that. i didn’t exactly have it as a priority either since i was mostly focusing on my academics and extracurriculars.”

their lips quirked upward, amusement lighting their features. “that explains it. well, we’ll have to change that, won’t we?”

you groaned, leaning against the counter. “what if all my cooking ends up like this? what if i accidentally poison someone? or worse, what if it’s so bad that even pigs won’t eat it?”

how could that be possibly worse than poisoning someone, M didn’t ask. they simply chuckled, shaking their head. then, before you could react, they stepped closer, brushing the edge of your lip with their thumb. it took you a moment to realize they were wiping away a smudge of burnt toast that you had to taste test, their touch lingering just long enough to make your breath hitch.

their umber brown gaze met yours, encouraging and affectionate, and when they smiled, it felt like the first sip of tea on a cold morning—comforting, slow, and impossibly warm.

“if it comes to that,” they assured, their voice low enough that it felt like the words were meant to be tucked away in the most intimate corner of your heart, “i’ll cook for you every day. if that’s what you’d like.”

your face burned, a wave of heat surging from your chest to your ears. in all the time that you’ve been alive, no one had ever said something like that to you before. you tried to muster a response, but all you managed was a nod and a small smile that you were sure looked ridiculous to an outsider looking onto the scene.

“um… thanks,” you mumbled, your voice small as you tried not to propose marriage to them right then and there.

they laughed softly, stepping back to set the table. “come on, let’s see if this breakfast of yours is as bad as you think.”

finally, the two of you sat down to eat. the product of your combined efforts sat between you—a plate of beans on toast that looked... decent enough, you suppose. the masala chai was the star of the show, thanks to M.

overall, the food wasn’t great, but it didn’t look like it’d immediately give you indigestion either—a victory, considering your earlier disaster.

you took a bite, only to wince at how bland it was.

“i swear i put spices in,” you muttered, poking at the toast with your fork as though it might reveal where all the seasonings went to hide under scrutiny.

M, to your utter shock, ate the meal without a single complaint. this was particularly astonishing given their well-documented distaste for most americanised version of indian or british food.

they always had something to say about the lack of proper seasoning, the over-reliance on processed ingredients. but now, here they were, eating your lackluster beans on toast with all the enthusiasm of someone dining at a michelin-star restaurant.

“not bad,” they said finally, setting down their fork.

you stared at them in disbelief. “you’re lying. it’s terrible. come on, you can be honest.”

“the fact that you even tried to make breakfast for me is more than enough,” they said as they leaned back on their chair. “yes, your culinary skills leave much to be desired, and no, i don’t think anybody is going to let you within ten feet of a restaurant kitchen anytime soon, but...” their smile softened, their eyes crinkling at the corners. “if all my meals were made with this much love, i’d eat whatever you make for me every day, meri jaan.”

you stared at them, your chest tight, your heart tripping over itself in an unsteady rhythm. the sincerity in their voice, the way they looked at you like you were something so precious to them—god, it was almost too much.

“though,” they added, a playful glint returning to their eyes, “i’ll definitely have to help you season the food next time. for both our sakes.”

you laughed, the sound breaking the moment’s intensity but not diminishing its warmth. and as you sat there, the morning sunlight streaming through the window, M across from you, their smile brighter than anything else in the room, you couldn’t help but think that maybe almost burning down the kitchen was worth it after all.

[misterfic]

Hey there! Hope you’re doing great. I have a fun one-shot idea for Hell’s Kitchen Season 6. In this story, Gordon’s wife is the third sous chef. She’s 26, and she and Gordon got together when she was 20, marrying at 22. Because of her kind and caring nature, she’s really close to Heather and Scott, who are just as protective of her as Gordon is.

In this scene, Joseph takes things too far by insulting and even threatening her, which sets off a big confrontation. Gordon’s ready to jump in to defend her, and Heather and Scott’s protectiveness escalates the situation. I’d love to see how this plays out with all the usual Hell’s Kitchen intensity! Thanks so much for considering this—I’d really appreciate it!

But if you don’t feel comfortable with it, please let me know!

A/N: As I’ve said before, I don’t watch Hell’s Kitchen🥲, so I hope this pleases you.

Title: Hell Hath No Fury Like Gordon Ramsay's

Summary: A contestant's attitude toward Gordon's wife pushes the fiery chef to his limit, proving that some battles are more personal than professional.

Pairing: Gordon Ramsay × Reader

Tags: Conflict

It was the sixth season of Hell’s Kitchen, and you were living right in the thick of the action. As Gordon Ramsay’s wife and third sous chef, you had your hands full, moving between the red and blue kitchens, helping wherever you were needed. Your soft, nurturing approach balanced the kitchen’s intensity, especially in contrast to Gordon’s fiery persona. Your role was often the one to soothe tempers and diffuse the storm Gordon would sometimes whip up. Despite his bark, you knew your husband well enough to see through it; when it was just the two of you, he was nothing but a gentleman, and his touch was tender, leaving you breathless in ways only Gordon Ramsay knew how.

The heat was on as the dinner service began, and the teams were floundering. Gordon, already wound up, was pacing back and forth, shouting instructions with his usual unfiltered intensity. “Come on! Move it! You call that cooking?” he roared, his blue eyes flashing as he berated a contestant. You saw the tension ripple through the kitchen, and you sensed it was time to step in.

Gordon shot you a look as you approached him, a glint of irritation in his eyes, but you caught his arm, your touch firm but gentle. “Gordon,” you murmured, your voice steady, “they’re trying. Let’s give them a second to catch their breath.” He sighed heavily, running a hand through his blond hair, but softened just slightly under your touch, your quiet presence calming his storm.

“Alright, love,” he muttered, pulling back as he gave you a begrudging nod. “But only because you’re bloody distracting me.” His tone was low, carrying a playful hint, and you felt a blush rise to your cheeks as he let his hand linger on your waist for a moment longer than necessary.

Moving over to Scott in the blue kitchen, you caught him shooting Gordon an amused glance as he leaned in. “Always the one keeping him in line, huh?” Scott teased, smirking as he looked at you with a mixture of respect and admiration. You chuckled, giving Scott a playful nudge. “Someone has to, right?” you replied with a wink.

Heather was equally protective in the red kitchen, always hovering close to you, watching the contestants carefully, especially when they’d make snide remarks about your role in the kitchen. “Don’t let them bother you,” she’d whisper, shooting you a reassuring smile. “You’re the only one who can handle him,” she said with a chuckle. And as she said it, she wasn’t wrong.

That night, the pressure seemed relentless. With tempers flaring and mistakes piling up, Gordon’s patience finally snapped. “Are you lot trying to kill me?” he barked, his face flushed as he slammed his hand on the counter, startling everyone in earshot. You saw him glance toward you briefly, a flicker of something softer passing over his face as he took in your calm expression. It was as if your very presence grounded him, tempering his frustration.

As the dinner service heated up, Gordon’s attention shifted to the red kitchen, leaving you in charge of rallying the blue team. It was a challenge, given the tension hanging in the air, but you had managed to build a quiet respect with the contestants over the season. Most, at least. Joseph, however, had always been prickly, and tonight he seemed particularly agitated.

As you moved past him, helping another contestant with his station, Joseph huffed loudly, his voice dripping with irritation. “Could you quit hovering? You’re getting in the way,” he snapped, his words biting. You kept your composure, brushing off his tone with a calm expression. After all, this wasn’t the first time you’d dealt with outbursts on Hell’s Kitchen.

You turned to face him, maintaining your professionalism. “I’m here to help you succeed, Joseph,” you replied steadily, “so let’s focus on getting these dishes out.”

But he wasn’t having it. “Helping? You’re messing things up. If we lose tonight, it’ll be on your head,” he sneered, crossing his arms and glaring down at you. The insult stung, but you took a breath, refusing to let him see your frustration. The other chefs shifted uncomfortably, sensing the tension escalating.

Before you could respond, Scott stepped in, his expression cold as he positioned himself between you and Joseph. “Back off, Joseph,” Scott growled, his protective nature flaring up. “If you think this is her fault, then maybe you need to take a good look at yourself. She’s here to help, and she’s doing more for this team than you have all night.”

Joseph’s face reddened with anger. “Oh, I get it now,” he spat, his voice laced with contempt. “You’re all just here to back her up, aren’t you? Doesn’t matter if she screws us over; you’re ready to throw yourselves at her defense. Pathetic.” His words were sharp, meant to rile you up, but you felt your confidence waver as his insults grew nastier.

Heather, who had been watching from across the kitchen, noticed the confrontation building and immediately darted over to Gordon, who was busy berating the red team. Tugging his sleeve, she leaned close and muttered something in his ear. His face darkened instantly.

Gordon’s blue eyes flashed as he dropped what he was doing and marched straight toward the blue kitchen, his presence like a thunderstorm. “Joseph!” he barked, his voice echoing through the kitchen. “What the bloody hell is going on over here?”

Joseph opened his mouth to speak, but Gordon cut him off, his face a mask of fury. “You think it’s alright to talk to her like that? You’re gonna run your mouth at my wife?” His voice was like steel, every word laced with barely contained anger. “You’ve got some balls, haven’t you?”

Joseph tried to stammer a response, but Gordon stepped in closer, towering over him. “You’re gonna insult the one bloody person in this kitchen who’s keeping you from falling apart?” he growled, his tone dangerously low. “Maybe you’ve forgotten, but she’s here because she’s good at what she does—better than you’ll ever be if you keep running that big mouth of yours.”

As Joseph shrank back under Gordon’s withering stare, Gordon’s expression softened only slightly as he turned to you. “Are you alright, love?” he murmured, his voice dropping, almost gentle. His hand found your shoulder, his touch grounding you, reminding you of the care he kept so carefully concealed when others were around.

You managed a nod, your heart racing from the intensity of the moment. “Yes, I’m fine,” you whispered, but your voice shook slightly, betraying your nerves. Gordon’s face hardened again as he turned back to Joseph.

“Listen here,” Gordon hissed, his voice a low growl that only Joseph could hear. “You don’t speak to her like that. Ever. You’re lucky she has the patience to put up with a hot-headed twit like you. If it were up to me, you’d be out of here already.”

As Gordon straightened, his gaze still icy, he looked back at the rest of the blue team. “Now, all of you,” he commanded, his voice booming, “get your arses in gear and start working together. You don’t like it? There’s the bloody door.”

As Gordon stormed back to the red kitchen, the tension in the air was thick, but you felt a wave of relief wash over you. Scott and Heather both gave you reassuring nods, their silent support meaning more than words in that moment.

As the night wore on and the kitchen’s frantic energy settled, Gordon pulled you aside for a moment of privacy. “You don’t let anyone talk down to you, yeah?” he murmured, his blue eyes warm as they met yours. “You’re far too damn good for that.”

You managed a smile, your pulse quickening at his protective words. “Thank you, Gordon,” you whispered, your voice soft. He wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you close, his touch sending a familiar thrill through you.

“Any time, love,” he murmured, his voice dropping to that familiar, intimate tone that only you knew. “And next time anyone tries it, you just send them to me. I’ll remind them who they’re dealing with.” He brushed a kiss against your forehead, his affection clear even amid the chaos around you.

As the dinner service finally drew to a close, you knew that no matter how intense things became, you’d always have Gordon by your side, ready to defend you with that fierce loyalty and passion that left you breathless every single time.

[fantasydreamland]

Queen in the North

sansa stark x fem reader

Summary: Sansa is titled queen in the North. After too much wine during the celebrations you discover no man has ever treated her properly in the bed chambers so you do your best to serve and worship your new queen.

Notes: 18+ ONLY!!! wlw, smutttt, fluff, alcohol consumption, fingering, oral (f&f), some spoilers.

word count: 2.1k

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“Congratulations, my queen.” You curtsy and smile wide to Sansa as people continue to gather for the celebration.

“Thank you, (y/n).” She gives a soft smile back.

“You look radiant tonight, the crown becomes you.”

“Thank you, you as well.” She replies. “I meant- the crown doesn’t become you- I meant you look radiant as well… Not that a crown wouldn’t become you! I believe you would look quite good in one.” She flusters.

“Thank you, my queen.” You giggle at her stuttering.

She gestures you to sit beside her. You chat and drink at the table with her and the others enjoying the feast. You couldn’t help but admire Sansa’s features from the side. She had the most beautiful face, her eyes, her pale face, her prominent nose, the way she smiled when she laughed, and her lips…

Sansa’s leg brushes yours and you can’t decide if that was causing the heat in your cheeks or if it was all the wine you had consumed, perhaps both.

As the hour becomes late most people head to bed. You say goodnight to the gentlemen leaving your table. Soon you and Sansa are left alone at the table while a few other drunks still hang about on the other side of the room.

“So…” You turn to Sansa. “Now that you’re queen I assume you will be looking to marry soon?”

“I am in no rush.” She chuckles. “I’ve not had the best luck with husbands.”

“So I’ve heard…” you place your hand gently on hers. “I’m sorry for everything that has happened.”

“So am I…” she says quietly and puts her other hand over yours. “However, I’m not sure if I would be the woman I am today had those things not happened.”

You nod and she gives your hand a gentle squeeze before removing it. You reluctantly let go of her other hand and place it back in your lap.

“And you?” Sansa asks.

“What about me?”

“Will you be searching for a husband soon? I am sure you are eager to start a family.”

You let out a laugh that causes a snort.

“Pardon me, your grace…” you say a little embarrassed by your laugh. “No… I have not found a man suitable enough for me.”

“It appears we have that in common.” She says lowly with a slight smirk.

“Forgive me for being forward…” You begin. “But were you able get any sort of pleasure from them?”

“Lord Tyrion and I never consummated, he was respectful. Which oddly enough, he likely would have been the only one to give me true… pleasure.” She becomes shy with the last word.

“As for Ramsay… well. What he lacked in pleasure he provided in pain.” She continued, looking down as her mind drifted.

“I’m sorry…” You say quietly.

She shakes away the awful memories and meets your eyes.

“No matter, it is all in the past.” She says reassuringly.

“Cheers to that.” You say holding out your goblet.

She smirks and clinks her cup with yours and you both take a drink. Theres a calm moment of silence just enjoying each other’s presence. You both hold your smiles and make shy glances at each other. You’d meet her eyes making her blush and look away. Then you’d look away and notice her glance back at you until you’d met her eyes again which caused you to then blush and look away. Sansa looks away again with a smirk and takes a sip of wine.

“I should slow down.” She puts her goblet on the table, breaking the silence. “Otherwise I may not be able to get up from this table.” She laughs.

“I would be happy to assist you my queen.” You smile as you stand up and hold your hand out to her.

“Why thank you, my lady.” She says in a jokingly polite voice.

She takes your hand and pulls herself to a stand before nearly toppling over. You catch her arm and she steadies her balance again.

“I appear to be more intoxicated than I had thought.” She jokes. “I think you may need to help me back to my chambers.”

“I am at your command, my queen.” You smirk and give a small bow before holding your arm out for her to take.

She takes ahold of your arm and you walk down the halls to her chambers. You’re not sure why the air feels tense. Maybe it was the way her hand gently held onto your arm or how ethereal she looked in the dark candlelight. You wondered if she felt it too. You look to Sansa and she simply smiles at you. You give a soft smile back, then turn away hiding your blush.

Once you arrive at the door to her chambers she lets go of your arm and turns to you with her hands folded together in front of her.

“Well, thank you my lady for escorting me.” She gives a polite smile.

“Of course, my queen.” You curtsy.

“And thank you for being the best drinking companion. I’ve not been this happy and content in a long time.” She reaches out and lightly takes your fingers into hers causing your breath to catch.

“You deserve nothing but happiness my queen…” Your voice comes out as a whisper.

She gives you a soft smile and takes a step closer to you, still holding your fingers. You notice her glance to your lips before meeting your gaze again with an intense look in her eyes. She hesitantly leans in at an excruciatingly slow pace as her eyes search yours for any sign you don’t want this. Once her lips are merely a breath away and your noses brush you close the gap and press your lips to hers, assuring her you definitely want this, you definitely want her.

Her hesitation instantly fades and she kisses you back passionately as your fingers intertwine. You sigh as you taste the sweet wine on her tongue. She moves her other hand to your waist to pull you closer against her. Your other hand caresses along her cheek and jawline. Your tongues continue to slowly and softly dance together. The kiss is gentle and fierce at the same time. She eventually pulls away and you see a soft smirk lingering on her lips.

“Would you like to come in?” She says lowly.

You nod your head a little too quickly, making her chuckle. She keeps her hand in yours as she leads you into her chambers. You look around at the room as she closes and bolts the door shut behind you. She walks over to a small table and gently places down the crown from her head. You can hear your heartbeat in your ears and feel your palms sweat from the nerves.

Sansa comes back over to you and you awkwardly look at each other, neither of you sure what to do next. You gather all of your courage and take her face in your hands and pull her into another passionate kiss. This kiss is hungrier and more heated than the last. You shiver as her fingers lightly brush down your neck to your collarbone, before they make their way to pull the strings of your dress. You follow her lead shoving the cloak off her shoulders before beginning to pull at her dress. Your lips never part as you both fumble with the strings of each other’s dresses.

After a frustrating minute of jumbled fingers you break the kiss and giggle to each other as you both unlace your own strings. Once they’re loose enough Sansa reaches out and slowly pushes your dress off your shoulders. Her gentle fingers leaving goosebumps in their wake. You blush as her eyes look up and down your exposed body. Nervously you move your hands to her shoulders, pushing her gown to the floor. You gulp hard as your eyes scan her beautiful figure. Your eyes fill with lust as you look at her like an animal ready to pounce.

You lean into one another, lips meeting again. You hold each other close as your naked bodies press together. You feel sparks shoot throughout your body when your sensitive nipples brush against hers. Sansa keeps your body pressed to hers as you move towards the bed.

Once you’re both laying in the bed something in you snaps. You kiss her again hard before moving your lips along her jaw, down her neck and collarbone. You’re both surprised by your sudden boldness. Your hand moves to massage her breast as you lean down and take the other in your mouth causing her to gasp. You graze your teeth on her nipple before soothing the tender spot with your tongue. You continue to kiss down her body, lower and lower.

“What are you doing?” Sansa says in a breathy whisper.

“Worshipping you the way you deserve, my queen.” You mumble, continuing to kiss down her skin.

You move further down to kiss the inside of her thigh making her jump. You lift your head to look at her.

“Unless you want me to stop…?” You say with a hint of disappointment in your voice.

“No.” She quickly says staring down into your eyes with a heated look.

You smirk and lean back down kissing and nipping slowly up her inner thigh. You hear her breath quicken as you get closer to where she needs you most. She gasps loudly when you give a tentative lick up her wet core. You smirk again before latching your lips to her clit causing her hands to reach into your hair. The taste of her makes you dizzy. You have never done anything like this before but you do your best to work your tongue on her. The sounds of her soft cries and desperate moans are like the sweetest song you’ve ever heard. You continue testing what pleases her. When your tongue dips into her hole she groans loudly. You do it again and she moans again grabbing harder onto your hair.

With her encouraging moans you begin to tease your finger around her hole before pushing it slowly inside, your gaze fixed on her as you watch her face contort in pleasure. Her moans become less contained as you slowly move your finger in and out as you continue to work your tongue on her clit. You add a second finger and her hands move from your hair to tightly grasp the pillow under her head as she pants harder between moans. Her legs begin to shake and you pump your fingers faster knowing she must be close. She gasps your name. You moan against her in response, the vibrations finally pushes her over the edge. Her thighs squeeze tightly around your head but you still clearly hear her long loud final moan ring in your ears.

Her body and legs relax and you crawl back up the bed to lay beside her. She pants heavily for a moment before turning her face to you. She smiles before leaning forward and capturing you in a quick kiss, tasting herself on your tongue.

“You are…” She holds your face in her hands and looks deep into your eyes as she struggles to find the right word. “…extraordinary.” She breathes.

You can’t help but smile as you hold her intense gaze.

“Thank you… my queen.” You whisper the last part.

“I would like to try...” She says sitting up and placing a soft kiss to your stomach.

You smirk and nod as she copies your previous actions kissing all the way down your body and then slowly up your thigh. With much less hesitation than you had, she dives right in. She spends no time working you up and slipping her fingers in. Her other hand reaches up to grab at your breasts. You hit your own peak much faster as she devours you like it’s her last meal. Her fingers curl inside you and that causes your sight to go black. Stars begin to fill your vision as you cry out from the intensity washing over you.

You feel her come to lay back beside you as you regain consciousness and steady your breathing. When you turn your head to her she’s smirking shyly at you.

“Well?” She asks.

“Extraordinary.” You breathe out.

She smiles and leans in to give you a chaste kiss but you put your hand around her neck to pull her closer and dip your tongue into her mouth. Her mouth tastes sweet and tangy from the wine mixed with your essence. You reluctantly pull away to breathe and lay back on the pillow. Your eyes meet again and you both laugh softly. You lightly brush her red hair from her face. She leans into your touch and sighs.

“Will you stay with me tonight?” She says hopefully.

“Of course, my queen.” Your soft smile turns into a mischievous smirk. “I plan to worship you again in the morning.”

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[cheoridoll]

Rockstar Girlfriend

pairing: harry styles x reader

notes: i was really looking forward to making a fic with harry, and here it is! <3

warning: nothing, just being cute?

playlist for the fic: spotify | as already mentioned, english is not my first language, any spelling mistakes or nonsensical words, I apologize.

Harry’s London apartment smelled like smoke and desperation. You walked in coughing, rubbing your stinging eyes—caked with hours of mascara—only to find your boyfriend standing in front of the stove, gripping a frying pan like it was a chemical weapon.

“So… was this supposed to be carbonara?” you asked, tugging your hair tie loose and letting your damp waves fall over your sweaty shoulders.

Harry spun around, the Kiss the Cook apron (a joke gift from you) now splattered beyond recognition. "Surprise!” — He flashed a hesitant grin.

“Wanted to welcome you with something romantic after the show, but uh… maybe overestimated my skills.”

You stepped closer, peering into the pot. The pasta looked like modern art — charred, congealed, and utterly tragic. “Very Gordon Ramsay,” you muttered, biting your lip to keep from laughing.

"Hey!” — He tugged your hip, pulling you flush against him. “I spent three hours on this. There’s love in that pasta.""

“There’s something in it, alright.”

Your fingers found his cheek, swiping at a smudge of sauce. Harry caught your wrist, pressing your palm to his lips.

"Sorry” — he murmured against your skin. “Just… you killed it onstage tonight. Wanted to do something special."

The roughness in his voice sent a shiver down your spine. You knew that look—half awe, half pure want. The same one he’d worn the first time he ever saw you play, years ago.

"Pizza?" you suggested, pulling back before the kiss could deepen.

"Already ordered." He lifted his phone, the delivery app glowing. "But we've got forty minutes..."

Harry grabbed the bottle of red wine and poured until your glass nearly overflowed.

"That's a glass or a bucket?" — you laughed.

"Your reward for surviving my cooking."

You sank into the couch, and he dragged your feet into his lap, thumbs digging into the arch of your left foot. A groan slipped out before you could stop it.

"Mmm... that should be illegal" — you sighed, head tipping back.

"Noted! birthday gift is a personal masseuse." — His fingers found the knot beneath your toes, pressing until your spine arched off the cushions. "Speaking of gifts... remember our first date?"

You rolled your eyes. "When I 'accidentally' threw my drink on you?"

"It was "water", and yes." — He took a swig straight from the bottle, wine darkening his lips. "You turned so red you matched your fucking dress."

"I hated you that night."

"Bullshit." He leaned in, close enough you could taste the tannins on his breath. "You gave me your number right after calling me a 'pop sellout' for ten minutes straight."

You kissed him then — slow, deliberate, letting the bitterness of the wine curl between your tongues. "Still think you're a sellout."

"Your sellout."

His hands slid up your calves, callouses catching on fishnets. You kicked him lightly with your free foot.

"The pizza's gonna get here."

"So?" His teeth grazed your ankle. "Let it get cold."

You twisted away, but he caught your wrist, dragging you halfway into his lap. The wineglass nearly toppled.

"You're impossible."

"You love it."

And god, you did. Even when he burned pasta. Even when he left guitar picks in every pocket of your leather jacket. Even now, with his mouth tracing the inside of your knee like he could map every secret you'd ever kept.

The doorbell rang.

Harry groaned against your thigh. "Fuck the pizza."

"Tempting." You shoved him back, grinning at the way his pupils swallowed the green. "But I'm starving. And you owe me for that... whatever that was in the kitchen."

He caught your hips as you stood, fingers hooking in your belt loops. "I'll make it up to you."

"Better be a damn good tip for the delivery guy, then."

His laugh followed you to the door — warm, familiar, and entirely, infuriatingly his.

"Third ring, Styles. The guy's gonna leave" you warned, peeling your lips from his with a wet smack.

Harry let out a dramatic groan, burying his face in your neck. "I hate you."

"Liar." You gave his ass a light smack before slipping away to answer the door.

The delivery guy looked exhausted - probably from waiting in the hallway while you two were practically fucking in the living room. You grabbed the pizzas (two, because Harry always overdid it) and handed him a twenty. "Thanks, man. Sorry about the wait."

When you returned, Harry had already turned on the TV and queued up some random movie - something with cliché romance, the kind he loved and you tolerated.

"Got the pepperoni for me?" you announced with a smirk.

He opened the box hastily, burning his fingers on the melted cheese. "Shit! Hot!"

You rolled your eyes but took his hand to inspect. "You okay?"

Harry looked at you with that dopey expression — half dazed, completely smitten. "I'm perfect."

You pushed him with your foot. "Stop being cheesy and eat your pizza."

He laughed, grabbing a slice and taking an exaggerated bite, cheese stretching. "Look how cool."

"You're five years old."

He offered the slice, and you bit the other end, your lips almost meeting in the middle.

The movie kept playing, but neither of you was paying attention. Harry had your foot in his lap again, drawing circles on your ankle while chewing. You leaned against the armrest, watching how the TV light illuminated his profile.

"What?" He noticed your stare.

"Nothing." You shrugged, smiling against your beer bottle. "Just thinking you really are an idiot."

"Your idiot." — He corrected, tossing a pepperoni at you.

It was ridiculous. It was perfect. It was exactly how it should be.

"Your idiot who knows exactly how you like your pizza" he countered, licking tomato sauce off his thumb with exaggerated flair. The movie's romantic soundtrack swelled dramatically as the on-screen couple kissed in the rain - the exact moment Harry chose to loudly crunch into another slice, ruining the mood entirely.

You threw a couch pillow at his face. "You're worse than the terrible dialogue in this movie."

"But you love me more than these shitty rom-coms" he shot back, catching the pillow and tucking it behind his head. His free hand found yours, fingers intertwining automatically like they'd done it a thousand times before. Because they had.

On screen, the female lead was dramatically running through an airport. Harry snorted. "Security would tackle her in two seconds."

"Shut up and watch your terrible movie" you muttered, but you were shifting closer, resting your head against his shoulder. His hoodie smelled like fabric softener and that stupid expensive cologne he refused to stop wearing.

"Knew you'd cave" — he whispered into your hair, pressing a kiss to your temple. "You always do."

The credits rolled over two empty pizza boxes and Harry's soft snoring. Somewhere around the third act, he'd passed out with his arms still loosely around you, his breathing deep and even against your back. You turned carefully, studying his face — all long lashes and slightly parted lips, looking younger in sleep.

You snuggled deeper against his chest listening to the steady rhythm of Harry's heartbeat beneath his soft t-shirt. Moonlight streamed through the half-open curtains, painting silver stripes across the wooden floor.

"Harry..." you whispered, poking his ribs lightly.

He mumbled something incoherent, pulling you closer in a sleepy embrace. "Mmm...five more minutes..."

"You're drooling on my shoulder" you complained, but made no move to pull away. If anything, your fingers began tracing slow circles on his palm, watching how even in sleep his hand instinctively laced with yours.

Outside, a car honked in the distance, followed by the faint sound of laughter drifting up from the street. London never truly slept, but here—in this moment, in this apartment littered with discarded clothes, haphazard stacks of books, and stray socks under the furniture — everything felt perfectly still.

Harry nuzzled deeper into your hair with a sleepy grunt. "Smell nice..."

"It's your shampoo" you laughed softly.

He didn’t answer, his breathing already slipping back into the slow, even rhythm of sleep. You glanced at the clock on the wall — 2:17 AM. You should sleep. You had rehearsal early tomorrow, and you knew Harry would be insufferable if he didn’t get at least six hours.

But for now, you just closed your eyes, letting his warmth and the familiar scent of home pull you under. Tomorrow would bring arguments over who left the faucet dripping, fights over the remote, and more burnt dinners. But it would also bring quiet shared breakfasts, hands hidden in coat pockets, and laughter that made your stomach ache.

It was all you needed.

[cayleeuhithinknott]

valentine’s day with mean!chris.

heart divider: @bernardsbendystraws

pairing: mean!chris & sensitive!brat!reader

you should’ve known better.

you really should have.

chris isn’t the type to gush over sweet things. he doesn’t like romance movies, refuses to slow dance, and rolls his eyes when you send him sappy texts. but here you are, standing in your kitchen, covered in flour and sugar, meticulously decorating a batch of heart-shaped cookies just for him.

valentine’s day is today, and you want to do something nice. something thoughtful. something that makes him smile, even if it’s just for a second before he calls you annoying and messes up your hair.

so you spent hours mixing the dough, rolling it out, cutting perfect little hearts. some bigger, some smaller—because you know chris will complain if they’re too extra but also scoff if you give him just one. you even made the frosting from scratch, a soft pink color with tiny red sprinkles.

i mean, honestly, get gordon ramsay up in this hoe!!!

now, the cookies are done, arranged neatly on a plate. you glance at the time. chris should be coming over any minute.

the thought makes your stomach flutter.

you don’t know why you get so nervous over him. he’a your boyfriend. maybe because he’s unpredictable. sometimes he’s soft in his own way, pulling you into his chest with an exhausted sigh after a long day. other times, he’s a menace, teasing you until you’re whining for him to stop being so mean.

you hear the front door creak open.

“angel?” chris’s voice carries through the house.

your heart skips. “kitchen!”

he appears in the doorway, hands shoved in his pockets, his usual half-bored, half-annoyed expression on his face. “why does it smell like sugar exploded in here?”

you huff. “it’s supposed to smell good.”

he steps closer, eyeing the cookies on the counter. “…you baked?”

you nod, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “yeah..for you.”

his brows raise slightly, but he doesn’t say anything right away. he just stares at them.

“they’re heart-shaped,” he finally points out, deadpan.

your face warms. “yeah, i know. it’s for valentine’s day.”

he picks one up, turning it over like he’s inspecting it for poison. then, he takes a slow bite.

you wait, watching every microexpression.

he chews. swallows. licks a crumb off his lip.

you can’t take the silence. “well???”

chris shrugs. “it’s alright.”

seriously?

your shoulders drop. “alright?”

“a little too sweet,” he adds, but he takes another bite anyway.

your stomach twists. you wanted him to love them. to tell you they’re the best cookies he’s ever had. to—

“you’re pouting.”

your head snaps up. “i am not.”

he smirks, reaching for another cookie. “you totally are.”

you cross your arms, mumbling, “you could at least pretend to like them…”

he sighs like he’s dealing with a particularly difficult child, then grabs your wrist, pulling you closer until your hip bumps the counter.

“angel.”

you blink up at him.

he leans in, voice dropping lower. “don’t be stupid. i’d like to think you’re not that dumb. if i didn’t like ‘em, would i be eating a second one?”

you glance at the plate—he’s already halfway through the second cookie.

your lips part and you almost want to let out a soft relieved giggle, but before you can say anything, he brushes a crumb off your chin with his thumb. the gesture is fleeting, but it sends heat rushing up your neck.

“besides,” he mutters, mouth quirking up slightly, “you didn’t have to do all this. you know that, right?”

your heart squeezes at his unusually soft demeanor.

“i wanted to,” you whisper.

he exhales through his nose, shaking his head like you’re ridiculous. but then, in a voice so soft you barely catch it, he says—

“you’re sweet enough without all this.”

your breath catches.

this is not something chris would usually say.

he immediately ruins the moment by shoving the rest of the cookie in his mouth. “but, like, seriously, cut back on the sugar next time. i can feel my teeth rotting.”

you groan, shoving his shoulder. “you’re impossible.”

he snickers, catching your wrist before you can hit him again.

but he doesn’t let go. chris’s grip on your wrist tightens just a little, enough to make you still. his eyes flick down to your lips, then back up, something sharp and knowing lurking behind his usual amusement.

“i’ll make it up to you tonight,” he murmurs, voice low and smooth, his thumb grazing the inside of your wrist. “and i promise, angel—by the time i’m done with you, you won’t have a single thought about these damn cookies.”

your breath catches. his smirk deepens.

valentine’s day just got a whole lot sweeter. even sweeter than those stupid fucking sugar-filled cookies.

a/n: he’s an asshole sometimes but we love when his soft spot shows 😌

tags: @sturniolo04 @admeliora94 @alexturnersgooch @strnilolover @snuffbut @frattboychris @marrykisskilled @mqttittude @purpledragon222 @aubsloveschris @slctsblogana @emely9274 @oliviasthatgirl @conspiracy-ash @matthewsroses @pasteldreams