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Pouring wine in the Boltons's glasses she's overly careful not to spill even the smallest drop of it, scared out of her mind of what Ramsay might do to her if she did. He had never hurt her, not really, he did raise his voice or slam a table or a wall when his anger was directed at her. But he had not harmed her, not yet anyway. She wouldn't take the risk of it changing now. Once the glasses are filled, she rushes back to the kitchens to refill the jug with the red nectar men love so much.
"Lit up the fire it's fucking freezing in here."
She once again complies to his orders, bending on her knees, ashes dirtying her skirts even more. She forces herself not to look at his bloodied clothes, she knows it isn't his anyways. A cold shiver runs through her despite the warmth of the fire. Ramsay was terrifying, he had once made an example of a poor servant boy for crossing him, slaying him from one end to the other. He had made all the servants watch. It was so horrifying she had to make herself work until passing out so as not to think about it. The memory of it is forever graved in her mind as well as the inhumane sounds the unfortunate soul had made behind the closed wooden door.
She hates finding herself alone in a room with the younger Bolton. And there she is now, Ramsay and her being the only people present in here. There is a mixture of fear and pure despair in the air, fogging her brain and getting in her way of thinking clearly. She forces herself to ignore his gaze, occupying her hands with useless tasks when Ramsay’s voice cuts through the silence.
"You're quite an insolent girl are you not? Reminds me of myself" he grins darkly.
"We're nothing alike my Lord, I could spend the night talking you through our differences."
"Do tell" he dares, a spark of malice in his smile.
"For one, I'm not a heartless monster" she strikes back, the words slipping her lips before she could think them through.
An astonishingly loud silence fills the room, the girl's face drains itself from blood. His eyes are ice cold, not a drop of humanity behind them. It sends a shiver down the girl's spine and she's terrified of his next move. The man in front of her is known to be unpredictable. She has no way of knowing how he'll react to her words. She practically hears her heartbeat, and it seems so loud she's certain he can hear it too. If he doesn't speak soon her knees will drop.
"I apologize my Lord, I've spoken without thinking" she hurriedly bows, almost to the ground, hoping it will lighten her punishment. Nothing in the room can be heard apart from her hatched breathing. When she lifts her head back up, she finds she’s alone. He had left her in her submissive position, bowing only to the air, humiliating her way more this way that he would have by hitting her. She’s red from embarrassment, cursing her running tongue, running back to the servants’ quarters to hide from the judgmental eye.
She was supposed to change the master’s bed, when before entering his chambers, a feminine chuckle escaping the room interrupted her in her tracks. Peeking through the door she was met with the strangest view. Ramsay and Myranda were sitting on the bed by the fireplace. They weren't even naked. But what shocked her the most was how gentle he was with Myranda, caressing her face, not a single drop of hate or anger in his eyes. If he could be sweet, why couldn't he be sweet with her? She wondered what his hand would feel like, cupping her own check, stroking it gently with his thumb. She forces herself to snap out of it, getting back to her tasks.
But the thing is, Ramsay is beautiful. He has luscious black hair, a strong jaw and those blue, blue eyes that make her weak in the knees. He’s well built, has kissable lips, and always smells good. She knows she’s attracted to him. And how couldn’t she? But she forces herself to think it’s only physical, it can’t be anything more. She can’t allow herself to think it’s something more. She’ll be as terrible as him if she did. So in her darkest thoughts she imagine what it would be like to kiss him, to have herself pinned to the bed, to have her nipples sucked while he fucks her roughly. She wonders if he’ll leave bite marks all over her skin, marking his territory. She found out she wouldn’t mind. It sends a cold shiver down her spine.
She hated Ramsay, she hated him for everything she had. And beyond. He was the worst soul that roamed the earth and prayed every day for his fall. She despised him. But above all, she despised herself for having impure thoughts about him. How she imagined running a hand down the curve of his neck, kissing his rosy lips, how she hoped he would bite the soft flesh of her inner thighs, how he’d moan her name when he slides in her. She hates how she likes the idea of waking up by his side and seeing what he looks like with bed hair. If he snores or moves a lot in his sleep. How toned he is and if he's hairy down there or not. She hates that she wonders how he tastes that she wonders if he likes being sucked off, if he prefers, she'd spill it or gulp it up. In her wildest fantasy she could change Ramsay. Acctually change him. Make him a decent man, a decent Lord. Make him apologize for his actions, make him feel remorse.
But Ramsay doesn't feel remorse. No, for that he should have had emotions, empathy and Ramsay doesn't feel empathy. He owns each one of his actions.
Bad or good.
Mostly bad.
Only bad.
At night, when sleep doesn't take her into her arms, she finds herself thinking of a warm field, with no snow, where the sunshine high in the sky and she can wear only a thin dress. Where she can feel the grass under her feet and the warmth on her skin. She's far away, in a place she can't even name but she's safe and happy. And warm. Here she's always cold. It holds onto her; it wraps around her shoulders like a scarf made of frost. The cold is almost comforting now. She doesn't know anything else. She falls asleep eventually. Not always. There are nights where the sky is the same color as the winter sun.
In her dreams she's always running. She's being chased by a faceless man. She's running as fast as she can but no matter how fast she runs the faceless mask always catches up. She doesn't know why she's running. Is she scared? She doesn't think she is. Sometimes she's the one chasing the faceless man. He's running too, but not fast, it's almost as if he wants her to catch up. Still, she never reaches him. She always wakes up before she can. One day she does catch up, the faceless man turns over, he's crying. How can a faceless person cry? Suddenly he has a face. It's Ramsay. And he's still crying.
The room is dark, only the red ashes in the fireplace adding some kind of light to the chambers. Ramsay is sitting by the window, looking absently outside, lost deep in thoughts. It seems he hadn’t even heard her enter. She calls his name. It comes out softer than she would’ve liked. His eyes meet hers. He doesn’t look surprised to see her. The girl wants to think that maybe he was waiting for her. She knows he wasn’t. With a wavering voice she tells him all the things she had kept inside. Years of bottled-up anger come rushing out, a flow of blood-colored words, of fear tinted silences, of hatred feelings, who once released can’t seem to stop from flowing. She tells him how much of a coward he really is, hiding under this mask of crazy violence. He acts like a pure psycho just so he doesn’t have to deal with everything else going on in his life. That it wasn’t the world’s fault if he was born a bastard, that his father not loving him was no reason enough to torture people. That he had ruined her, ruined her life, her dreams, her hopes. Finally, she tells him about the dreams, that he haunts her, that she had lost sleep because of it. She struggles to talk, she stutters, she has to repeat herself many times. She’s nervous, she’s afraid. But it’s too late to go back now. She can’t stop herself anyway. She has to tell him everything. He needs to hear it. And if he kills her for it, the Gods will welcome her with open arms. She’ll be safe and sound again.
The young servant takes a big inhale to calm her nerves before exposing her idea. If she sleeps with him the nightmares will go away. It’s only the logical thing to do, right? Right? Now that she said it out loud it doesn’t seem that good of an idea anymore. She quickly turns around to shamefully leave the room, but Ramsay grabs her arm before she can run away. His grip is gentle on her skin, gentler than she thought it would be.
“Stay” he whispers. "I'll grant you your wish"
Swooping her up he promptly carries her to the bed. She squeaks when he throws her on it, immediately joining her, pressing his torso against hers. He kisses her without missing a second. His lips are knowing, so is his tongue, it explores her mouth, fighting with her tongue, while his hands are caressing her thighs. As of instinct she wraps them around him, grabbing his face and pulling him even closer, kissing him until she has to stop for air. Ramsay trails her neck with sloppy kisses, biting it slightly but the pain is thrilling, and it sends shivers of pleasure through the girl’s body. When he grabs her breasts, toying with her nipples, sucking her tender tits mercifully she can’t but moan his name and it sends a wave of need right to his dick. He’s the one fighting back a moan now, the urge to grind against her fogging his mind. He thought about this moment over and over through those past years, but never acting on it for his dislike of her obscuring the way. We never like what the darkest part of us most wants right? She puts him out of his thoughts when, without warning, her hand slides inside his pants, grabbing his poor, neglected shaft. He’s already half hard so it’s almost impossible for Ramsay to control the muffled sound that escape him when she starts slowly stroking him. He has to bite his lips to restrain himself from moaning, blood flooding his mouth, while the girl is still shamefully amusing herself from driving him crazy. He hates making noise in the sheets, but he can’t help himself when she so clearly knows how to handle him. She clearly has done it before, and a spring of jealousy come upon him when he makes out that other men slept with her. But Ramsay is not the type of man to let little insignificant problems ruin his day, he’ll take care of those nuisances later. He grinds himself against her fist, indicating her to thrust faster. She chuckles lightly at his impatience; it only proves that he’s just a man. Without warning she thrust hard on his shaft and this time it’s too much for Ramsay not to moan, so he does, and it’s rasp and hatchery and just how (Y/N) dreamed it would be. Ramsay’s cement spills all over her hand and over the matrass. He’s panting loudly, slowly letting himself fall on her, his weight weirdly bringing her a comforting sensation. With a hesitant hand she starts soothing his hair, her hand caressing his neck and for some reason, this feels a lot more intimate than what they just did. Her fingers are deeply buried in his hair, while her other hand gently stokes his back. It’s wet from sweat and she still can hear his loud breaths. But now that the tension is evacuated Ramsay pulls back for an instant, locking eyes with the feminine figure under him and puts a little peck on her lips. There’s no lust in the kiss, no lust at all, but it tastes of forgiveness and tenderness. It tastes sweet.