***Nearly 3 weeks into the hiatus and I am missing Magnus and Alec desperately. Matthew Daddario voice: *When is it gonna end?” Siiigh. But well, what better way to spent the hiatus then reading some great Malec fanfics, right? Right. Because I have read a lot of amazing fics incl. discovering some great new authors. And now that autumn is coming…. the perfect time to read more.
Also, I am overwhelmed how many notes the last rec post got and how much you all enjoy(ed) it. So I hope this 5th edition will get a lot of love, too. Again, let me know if you liked this and if I should continue doing this. But now, have fun reading, pumpkins.***
Working for Magnus isn’t easy. Magnus is out of control and Alec has to yell more often than not to get him to listen to him. He hates everything formal because it means he has to watch his mouth. Most importantly, Magnus is an incorrigible flirt.
Which would be alright if Alec wasn’t utterly, irremediably, unfathomably in love with him.
Alec is fairly certain he is the luckiest man in America. On earth. Possibly in the entire universe.
He slowly started to convince himself of the now indisputable fact when Magnus and him started dating a year ago after the ceremony that crowned Magnus as King of the World (or Best Actor, but Alec isn’t always objective when it comes to his boyfriend). A lot happened in a year, and Alec knows eventually the wheel is bound to spin and his luck might dim and vanish but as of now, he still feels like the luckiest man on earth, and he is going to make the most of it for as long as it lasts.
Prince of Hell Magnus Bane, was tired of his life in Hell. Every day was the same; condemned souls being punished for their wrong doings, demons feasting on the worst humanity had to offer, two or three deals with a few greedy humans. It was dull, uneventful. Boring.
So Magnus packed his bags and moved to New York City. As the owner of the lavishing club Pandemonium at the heart of Manhattan, Magnus enjoyed a life without worries for five years, until the fateful night where a former client was murdered on the streets.
It was then that he met no-nonsense Homicide Detective Alec Lightwood, owner of incorruptible morals and the tightest ass Magnus has ever seen. Earth was fun, after all.
Confused, Magnus followed Rafael’s line of site to the opposite side of the train where a young man sat, pulling silly faces. However, the moment he realised Magnus was staring his face flushed and he stopped, averting his eyes as if he hadn’t just answered all of Magnus’ prayers. In more ways than one as well because not only had he calmed Raf down but he was gorgeous.
“And you, Mr Bane. Thank you for taking the time.”
The kinky, shameless smut that occurs right after the rest of the clan leaders leave. Magnus and Alec make excellent and creative use of Alec’s new office and its expansive mahogany desk… and its sturdy door.
A ‘no kissing, looking at suggestively or touching’ rule was applied when it came to Magnus and Alec at the downworlder meeting. Magnus respected that, respected his man, and tried his best as soon as he walked through the doors of the institute. But now, back in his loft, with the night fallen and Alec returning through the front door from a demon attack, looking battered and exhausted, Magnus couldn’t help but keep the game going.
They stay on the balcony for a while, listening to the sounds of New York at night. Alec noticed the glasses and the discarded pillows when he walked in, but he doesn’t want to break the comfortable silence they’ve fallen into. He looks over at Magnus, and by the angel, he looks beautiful, breathtaking. but the longer Alec watches him, the more he can see the makeup and hair and the clothes for what they really are.
Alec captures the defined line of Magnus’ jaw between eager yet clumsy fingers, tilting his face upwards as they gasp into each other’s mouths, exchanging fevered gusts of breath. Magnus seizes the swollen flesh of Alec’s bottom lip with gentle teeth, nipping gingerly, suckling with avid hunger and Alec’s groan resonates loud and clear throughout the room. By the angel, he wants this man desperately; his need has become a physical ache, pulsating through his nerve endings and coiling strictly around his burning muscles.
Unpacking sucked. And Magnus had only brought like half of his things. Okay, maybe two-thirds. But whatever, it didn’t matter. What did matter was that Magnus was sweating from carrying boxes, the cottage had no air conditioning, and he was super close to packing everything back up and driving back to New York in about three seconds.
Or the one where heartbreak is a pain in the ass, Magnus is forced to spend the summer in a small cottage in the hopes of finding his passion for design again, and manages to piss off the cute neighbor after only being there for two days.
“The only real pain in life is between hanging on and letting go.”
Magnus is still asleep; Alec can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest against his own back, and Alec takes the few minutes just to enjoy being wrapped up in Magnus’s arms. He looks down at their hands threaded together, resting against his stomach. He loves the contrast between them; tan and pale, long and lean, deep red nail polish and short, bitten nails. There’s something comforting there too. How different they can be, but how well they fit together. Alec has a moment of feeling like they were made to fit together. It might be stupid, it brings a blush to his cheeks, but a warm feeling settles in his stomach at the thought. He likes that.
“Do you -” Alec started, hissing his teeth in pain and looking up at Magnus. “Do you have any more of that free of charge warlock TLC?”
“What are you -?” Magnus asked, before the memory hit him full force and he tried not to laugh, because Alec was hurt, god damn it. But Alec was smiling up at him and his eyes were shining bright full of hope and love, so Magnus leaned down and kissed him.
Alec feels all his love for the man in his arms bubble up to the surface looking at him like this. Sleep rumpled and peaceful, his hair is a soft mess that Alec almost can’t wait to run his fingers through when Magnus wakes up, his lips so kissable and slightly open. There is nothing better in this world than being able to wake up to this he thinks idly.
Alec’s breath catches nearly every time he looks at Magnus, and it happens even during times they haven’t been on an official date. But tonight is different. Magnus isn’t his sedate and dignified self right now. He’s back to being flirty and relaxed, and he looks so good that Alec can’t stop thinking about touching him.
SO BRIGHT by @lemonoclefox [ G | 17.5k | complete ]
Alec has come out, but that doesn’t stop his parents from their continuous attempts to set him up with a nice shadowhunter girl. So, what better way to finally get them off his back, than to say he has a boyfriend? Problem solved. Except they now apparently want to meet this guy, who doesn’t exist. Thankfully, Magnus Bane – who encouraged Alec to come out in the first place, and whose silent crush on Alec is just as bad as Alec’s crush on him – is more than happy to help. Even if the night doesn’t end up going entirely as planned.
They stared at each other for a moment, each beat of Magnus’s heart seeming to thicken the air again, pulling them back to the charged space they had fallen into on all of their dates. They’d fallen into this feeling here in the loft, out in the world, so many places where everything suddenly just felt intense and present. They were in this charged space where their bodies were saying one thing, and one thing only.
Just a quick fic to fill in a Christmas need I have for my Blue Steel Series. Takes place between “Blue Extravagance” and the upcoming “Blue Righteousness.” Magnus and Alec “come” together for the first time since Alec’s injury and the boys wake up for Christmas morning.
After returning from medical leave, Detective Alexander Lightwood-Bane catches his roughest case up to date. When one of his properties, a club called Kebebasan is attacked by two gunmen, Magnus Lightwood-Bane calls the best cop he knows. During the course of the investigation, Alec discovers that this shooting isn’t an isolated incident, but the result of domestic terrorism; a group attacking what they consider to be amoral. Alec and his partner, Jace Herondale have to move quickly to stop this group before it causes wide-spread panic in the city and more loss of life.
“Are you really going to risk your life for a Shadowhunter?”
Those were some of the last words that Magnus Bane had said to Dot before he stepped through his portal to his lair, protecting only the warlocks. Abandoning the rest of the Shadow World to Valentine and his Circle.
Dot wasn’t sure how long she had been under Valentine’s control, but now as she stood on Magnus’ balcony, hours after Magnus and Clary had portalled away to the Institute, to save both Shadowhunters and Downworlders, she knew something had changed.
Alec stood up, keeping a careful distance and being sure to move slowly as he approached. “Magnus, I am so sorry. For everything you had to go through.”
Magnus’ eyes never moved from the spot on the floor he was staring at. He shook his head slightly, eyebrows furrowed deeply. “That agony rune…” He paused, taking a moment to swallow. His face was drawn in so much pain that Alec had to look away for a moment. He immediately punished himself by digging his fingernails into his palm. It was selfish to worry about his pain. He had certainly inflicted more than enough on Magnus that he had to atone for. “Made me remember things that I spent…centuries trying to forget.”
After one black out too many, Ragnor and Catarina had enough of Magnus trying to drink himself to an early grave. It was time for an intervention and they had the perfect place in mind: The Institute, the best rehabilitation installation in the New York state.
Only Magnus wasn’t exactly asked for his opinion on the matter. And if there is something Magnus doesn’t like, is to be forced into something.
Maybe the Head of the Institute, Alec Lightwood, is enough of an argument to chance his mind?
In most stories, there is a tangible villain that works at every opportunity to stop your hero from reaching their goal. They are oftentimes the epitome of evil and hatred, depending on how extremely their villainy runs. In many ways, they are almost as important as the main character, so here are some tips on developing them well.
Villains should be handled with the same deep thought as heroes.
Just because they’re the villain doesn’t mean they aren’t a very major character, and complex characters are always more favorable than simple, boring characters. Develop their appearance and personality in detail. Formulate a backstory. Understand the motivations behind what they do, and let their actions reflect their internal desires.
Find ways to make your villain stand out from other villains.
Most villains are maniacal. They are almost all willing to do terrible things in order to get what they want. A lot of villains are related to their character in some way, and sometimes this relationship is revealed in a plot twist. These are all well and good, but trying to make these ideas seem fresh and interesting is difficult nowadays. Play with your ideas and tweak these tropes, or maybe even disregard them all together. Do what you can to make your villain not sound like another Voldemort or Darth Vader. (Reading your work and/or having others read your work is a good way to see if your villain (and other characters, too) are interesting and unique enough.)
Consider that your villain is (probably) still human.
Even if they aren’t human in the technical sense, they probably still have human emotions. Give your character depth by exploring their sense of morality and where they came from. Why do they think what they’re doing is acceptable. Do they think it’s acceptable? What happened that lead them up to this point of villainy?
Explore your villain’s relationship with the other characters.
Are they closely connected with your hero and the hero’s friends? Are they in no way related? What did the good characters do to get on the villain’s bad side? How deep does your villain’s anger or hatred for your hero run? Do they hate them at all, or are they doing what they’re doing for another reason? Are the things that your villain is doing a direct result of the hero’s actions, or was there another cause?
Decide what the end result of the villain’s actions will be.
You have one of two very basic routes this can take: your villain can either defeat or be defeated by the hero. The hero also has one of two routes (if they defeat the villain): they can defeat them by force and kill/imprison/etc. them, or they can “convert” them to the good side. How will this decision affect your villain? How will it affect the overall story? How will it affect the other characters? What will the long-term effects be?
Their motivations must be believable.
Too often the villain comes off as cheesy or unsatisfying because there doesn’t seem to be a good reason for them to be acting against the main character. Their actions and motivations should be just as definitive and interesting as any other character’s. Try to avoid falling into the trap of “sworn revenge” for no good reason–or, even worse, copping out by saying the villain is “just crazy”.
One of the big things I really liked about S3 is it completely threw away that black and white good vs evil fallacy to an even larger extent. It showed that even characters that are seen as the epitome of evil such as Zarkon once possessed compassion, goodness, and an essence of humanity, and that even the Alteans, a race that has always been portrayed as just, good, and right, when given the opportunity, have the potential to carry out incredibly unjust and dark acts. Like I think that does a lot to make show as a whole a lot more complex and does it a hell of a lot of justice. Its not just as straight forward as good vs evil, a lot of it comes down to circumstance, and if those circumstances are changed, things are very different.
After the meeting in which Allura granted Lotor sanctuary at the castle, Keith was the first to leave the room. His normally quiet footfall smacked of thunder down the wide corridors, but all he heard was the litany of doubts that the rest of Team Voltron had expressed, regularly interspersed with the one thing Shiro specifically said to him.
so I've read a shit ton of character analysis of atla especially the fire nation royal family. Azula is an all time personal fav but iroh I've gotten conflicting analysis some say that he was initially "bad" and then after he lost his son became good but I always saw him as being inherently a good natured guy sure with layers and sure but i can't see him as evil? And I've read that the writers had plans to talk about irohs backstory but they never got a chance so I was wondering what You think
Iroh is the epitome of ‘No one is inherently good or inherently evil.’ Iroh also represents the struggle of war, colonization, and progress. This struggle is easily summed up as said on The Handmaid’s Tale, “We were trying to make the world better for everyone, but that always means it will be worse for someone.”
Below is purely speculation, but I think it aligns with the dilemmas above:
We know from Ozai’s jealousy that Iroh was a prodigy, the favored son in Azulon’s eye.
He was a masterful war leader, a great bender, and all in all, the perfect heir.
I believe, prior to Lu Ten’s death, Iroh acted largely out of what he believed his duty to be. He was the Crown Prince. He had a duty to honor his family and his country with victories and talent.
You can glean this from the fact that he was the long-suffering advisor to Zuko, likely out of duty to his own son, and duty to his family.
I believe that Iroh fought in the war and battled so long and hard at Ba Sing Se because he believed that was his duty to his nation and to his people. He believed their cause to be just, or, as I said above, “making the world better for everyone.”
This was dramatically altered, however, by his experience in Ba Sing Se. He was faced with what the Fire Nation had done to the world. He could see how and why the people feared them.
It did not hit home until Lu Ten was killed.
I believe, at that point, Iroh was forced to reconcile his duty to his nation with his duty to his family, and having failed to protect his son, he could not.
Iroh forsake his duty to his country. At least, his duty to be a praised military leader. (In a sense, his service to Zuko was the greatest service he could’ve done his country. See below:)
In its place, Iroh picked up his duty to his family, seeking to raise Zuko in a way that would bestow balance and honor upon the Fire Nation, once again.
Iroh was never inherently evil, nor was he inherently good. Instead, Iroh’s motivations were driven by what he saw as his duty. In his younger years, this duty was to the Fire Nation, to the honor of his family. In his later years, when tempered by Lu Ten’s death, his duty became to the world, which he fulfilled through Zuko’s proper rearing, his service to the White Lotus, and his kind spirit that saw no divisions between the elemental nations.
Original Request: Imaginesyes said: Hello love <3 Can I have an imagine with Peter thinkings reader is outta his league even tho it’s pretty obvious reader likes him back so one day flash picks on peter about his crush but reader’s like “so? I like him too y’know?” Please and love you and have a good day bye :)
A/N I had to change it a little bit so that I had time to write it…but I still think it’s sort of cute ;)
REQUESTS ARE OPEN
Parker officially hated his life.
pretty sure that superheroes were supposed to be able to get any girl they
wanted; Tony Stark was a prime example.
Yet here he
was, totally failing at getting her to notice him.
you have the answer for number 3?” She asked quietly, leaning across your desk
to look at his notes.
• a bunch of people didn’t like sunghoon back in the 90s bc he smiled too much (so a h.o.t fan spat in his face & a shinhwa fan pulled on his long luscious hair)
• jiwon, the dictator, would always get first dibs and choose the bread that tasted the best whenever their manager bought them bread. suwon would get the worst one bc he apparently had no willpower to do anything ever
• jaejin was asked who out of sechskies he would date if the members were all girls, and he chose jiyong bc he had a really skinny waist
• jaeduk was the only one to not date any celebrities back in the 90s bc he had a gf back in busan (suwon: no one would date him lol)
• jiwon & sunghoon think all cockroaches are the main epitome of evil in this world
• suwon & jaeduk would often call each other honey when they worked as j-walk. and then they kinda stopped after jaeduk became friends w tony
• jaejin would always get left behind bc he would go to the restroom and the van would forget about him and just leave w the other 5 members
• sechskies went on this show where they would have to try not to laugh when the comedians tried to make them laugh. all the comedians were scared shitless of jiyong bc he would never laugh at their comedy
I hate Umbridge with a passion. She reminds me of every mean schoolteacher I’ve had in my life, combined with a twist of child abuser. I wonder what inspired JK Rowling to make such a horrible, horrible person. She is the epitome of all things evil. I’d gather even Voldemort wouldn’t want to be around her.
When agent Alec Lightwood is given his first kill hit, he doesn’t expect much trouble. Of course, he also doesn’t expect it to be a cheerful assassin who lands him in a whole load of trouble. Enter Magnus Bane: an assassin turned thief who reluctantly teams up with Alec - and The Clave - after he pisses off a very important and powerful crime boss, Valentine Morgenstern. In a world of violence and unjust laws, can the two put aside their differences and work together? Aka: in which Alec is sent to kill Magnus, doesn’t, and then really wishes he had. (but not really). Enemies to friends to lovers.
Magnus looked up when Alec stopped in front of the rusty gate and quirked an eyebrow upon seeing him.
“Your Highness,” he muttered, deadpan.
“Don’t,” Alec sighed.
“Aren’t you afraid to tarnish your royal blood by coming to visit a pirate?” Magnus continued, his lips twitching with the beginning of a smirk, lacking the humor Alec had witnessed so many times before.
His mesmerizing eyes told a different story, though. They were defeated, tired and it only made Alec feel worse.
“I tried to explain it to them but they wouldn’t listen,” he murmured in a desperate attempt at defending himself.
In which the prince of Idris and an infamous pirate find themselves stuck together on a deserted island and have to face the consequences when they get back on land.
Alec Lightwood wasn’t used to doing things for himself. He had grown up looking after his siblings and learning how to be the perfect Shadowhunter: never had he considered even the idea of falling in love.
For over a century, Magnus Bane had closed himself off to feeling anything for man or woman. After a particularly nasty break up, he worried that opening his heart up again would result in nothing but another heartbreak.
When the two of them meet at a mundane coffee shop, it’s a rush of feelings that Alec has never felt before, and that Magnus had thought he would never feel again.
The only problem? Both think the other is a mundane, and for centuries, Downworlders and Shadowhunters have been forbidden from falling in love.
The door opens. Alec tenses, which makes his body throb.
A man steps through, and Alec curls his fingers into his palms, terror pulsing through him. Because the man isn’t a man. He’s a warlock. A demon. The same person he felt crouching over him when he fell.
Why is he here? What has the warlock done to him?
“Well well, little angel. You’re awake.”
Alec has been told the same stories all his life. He’s been taught the same lines, over and over again. Downworlders are reckless, impulsive, demonic. They’re not to be trusted.
And Magnus Bane is the epitome of everything evil about Downworlders.
At least, that’s what people keep telling him. Alec’s not quite so sure anymore.
Or: In which the Nephilim have wings, are taught to loathe Downworlders, and Alec is presented with a conundrum when Magnus Bane saves his life.
“Mei’s a cute name! Mei, Mei, Mei. Feels good on my tongue. You feel
good on my tongue. Mei, Mei, Mei.” The demon yammered on from above her.
groped up blindly with her seeking fingers until she found a suitable
hold amongst the rocks, pulling herself up with a little struggle after
pushing her sleeves out of the way yet again. “Would you please stop
distracting me, demon!”
“Oi, you just going to keep calling me
‘demon’ then? I don’t like that much, too impersonal, like me just
calling you ‘human’ over and over again, Mei. Can’t give you my true
name but, how about you give me a nickname! You’re a nice girl, you
could name me something nice.” He rolled over onto his back on the flat
space up above, staring up at the sun as the ice mage valiantly
struggled on the cliffs below. “How about it?”
She was really,
really not in the mood for this right now, banging her staff against the
rock as a little platform of ice crystallized on the rocks to give her a
foothold. But it began melting quickly in the desert sunlight. His
high-pitched yammering continued on, though she only heard half of it,
and finally she snapped back at him, ““Well…how about Jamison? That’s
the name of one of my old boyfriends?”
The demon’s eyes lit up,
blazing bright yellow as he pressed his claws to the side of his face.
“Y-you would really consider me-”
“It was a bad break-up. I don’t like him very much,” she said matter-of-factly, scrambling a little further up.
Ramsay Snow was the subject of many false assumptions, but perhaps the most absurd of these assumptions was that he was incapable of love. Ramsay loved a great many things. He loved sex, hunting, torture, drinking…but most of all, he loved his girls. Yes, yes, his infamous dogs– the Bastard’s bitches. They were his true loves, his most prized possessions. His girls were solid and steadfast– simple creatures, yet smarter than any man he knew. Everyone who knew Ramsay knew how much he loved his dogs, and most had the good sense to know that even the smallest misstep with those precious girls meant instant death– it varied from occasion to occasion whether Ramsay or the girls themselves made the killing blow, but the end result remained the same.
So, understandably, Ramsay’s first reaction when he found a girl petting and cooing at one of his bitches was ineffable, uncontrollable, unadulterated rage.
Just before Ramsay snatched the girl to him by the bodice of her dress, he saw Kyra (the hound in question) wag her tail and was so shocked that he paused just long enough to hear what the girl was saying.
“You’re such a pretty girl, yes you are! I wonder who you belong to. They must be very lucky to have such a sweet baby girl.”
For the first time in his natural-born life, Ramsay Snow found it difficult to restrain himself from murdering someone in public.
He whistled sharply, calling his dog to him. Obediently, Kyra went to his side, and the girl she had been with looked up at him, surprised, but after a moment a spark of recognition lit in her eyes.
“My lord,” she curtsied lowly, but there was an indifference in her voice that irked Ramsay. “Good morning.”
“The same to you, my dear.” Ramsay’s malicious smile crept onto his face unbidden at the thought of how she might sound as she screamed. “I see you and my Kyra were getting along splendidly.”
The girl smiled softly, her lips arching with a grace the gods withheld from noble ladies and gave exclusively to pretty peasant girls. “She’s beautiful.”
Ramsay nodded. Even if this wench was a peasant, she had a good eye for beauty. “So she is. I would know your name– it’s not often that my dogs allow any human touch besides my own,” he noted, scratching Kyra’s ear. “You’re lucky my darling girl didn’t tear your to shreds.”
“My name is (y/n), my lord.” The reply was made short and clipped– almost strained– but (y/n)’s face gave nothing away.
“(Y/n).” Ramsay rolled the name around in his head, testing whether or not he found it agreeable. After a moment of consideration, he decided it was so. “A lovely name. It suits you– you’re a lovely girl.”
Ramsay looked for all the usual signs– a blush, a tremble, a downcast gaze– but he found only a sad smile that never even reached (y/n)’s sparkling (e/c) eyes.
“Thank you, my lord.”
There was no fear in this girl, nor was there desire– there was only a thin layer of casual respect in her disposition, and beneath it lay something deeper, something more. Ramsay didn’t like that. He didn’t like not knowing, didn’t like secrets. Secrets didn’t make friends, after all.
“What family are you from?” he queried, feigning mild curiosity.
“Not one you would know, my lord,” she shrugged. “They’re all gone now anyway. My mother died giving birth to my youngest brother, and my father took the boys and went off to fight for the north.”
“Leaving you here alone,” Ramsay finished, an idea forming in his head that he very much liked.
“Alone is no way to live for a lovely young girl such as yourself,” Ramsay said, his voice rich with feigned compassion. “A crying shame. My father didn’t raise a son who would let such a thing happen under his rule. Would you like to come with me where I can make sure all your needs are met? You already won the heart of this carnivorous beast,” he smiled, patting Kyra’s head. “And I’m sure you’ll be one of the girls in no time.”
Yes, one of the girls. My bitch. My loyal, obedient bitch.
(Y/n)’s eyes grew wide with shock, her gaze darting from Ramsay to Kyra and back to Ramsay. She searched his eyes for an answer, but Ramsay revealed nothing either. Choose, he thought. Choose very, very carefully, lovely girl.
“I can hardly refuse an offer from you, my lord.” It was a pity (y/n) had stopped looking so pathetically confused. Ogling fish was such a good look on her. Ramsay supposed he would have to befuddle her often, then, just for the sheer hell of it.
“Very wise, my dear,” he replied with a wide grin, offering (y/n) his arm. “Now, how do you feel about the color pink?”
“I’m quite neutral to it, my lord. Never fancied it my color, but I’ve never worn it so I’m no real judge of it myself.”
“We will have to remedy that, then. I have many fine fabrics in every shade of the color, and seamstresses to fit you. Would you like that, my dear?” Ramsay asked, his most charming smile forced onto his features.
“Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord,” she paused a moment, as though thinking. “You are too kind.”
Right you are, my dear, right you are. “Well, I am ever the extremist,” Ramsay admitted as he mounted his horse. “Come, dear one, and I will have chambers prepared for you.”
True to his word, Ramsay did have rooms prepared for his delightfully ignorant guest. They were joined to his own, as he showed (y/n) with barely-contained glee– glee that was more caused by him considering what fun he would have training his new bitch than considering his own generosity.
Just when she thinks she’s safe, she will discover that she’s the sheep that decided to lie down with the wolves, Ramsay thought to himself as he watched her face carefully. She really was very lovely, with a face that would wear pain well and skin that he would love to bruise. And to think that she was blissfully unaware of what was to come! A sweet little lamb indeed.
The more Ramsay thought about this girl, the more perfect she seemed. He even became a little lightheaded thinking of what he would do to her– of what her blood would look like smeared across her body, how those lovely eyes would widen as she fought for breath. He worked himself up so much that by dinner he had to excuse himself for a few moments to regain control. Ramsay knew he shouldn’t count his eggs before the chickens fucked, but seven hells he was hungry for something more than casual dinner conversation, more than this game of I-look-away-when-you-look-at me, more than this boring shite. He wanted– no, needed– more.
And more he got– just not in the way he expected.
Long after Ramsay had retired to his chambers, he began to drift off, tired from a day of scheming. Just as he was on the cusp of sleep, he felt the coldness of a blade press against his throat, and he went very still as a smile spread so widely across his face that it hurt.
“Do it,” Ramsay breathed, opening his eyes to see (y/n)’s lovely face staring down at him, made luminous by the light of the moon that shone into his chambers. “Do it. Go on, you’ve got me. Nothing is easy.”
“Aren’t you afraid?” The question might have had more weight if she hadn’t been trembling like a leaf.
“Valar morghulis,” he murmured huskily through his smile, his voice deepened by sleep.
(Y/n)’s whole body shivered at that, but the knife at Ramsay’s throat was steady.
“You betrayed Robb Stark to the Freys,” she said, her eyes wide and fierce as her chest heaved with adrenaline. “You stormed Winterfell not to free it from the Greyjoys, but to have it for yourself.”
What a naïve little dove. “Those are my father’s sins, not mine, sweetling. You’ll have to try harder than that.” Ramsay let himself sink into his bed, relaxed, only to have the knife pressed more insistently against him. The sensation of his quickened pulse against metal went straight to his cock, the thrill of the moment setting his insatiable desires aflame.
“You poisoned your brother,” she accused him. “You murder, you rape. You waste innocent lives for pleasure. You tortured Theon Greyjoy until he forgot who he was. You’re hardly human.”
Ramsay chuckled. “If you think for one second that I did not love my dear brother Domeric… Well, you are correct.” Ramsay felt himself grin, leaning up against the knife so that his breath fanned (y/n)’s face. “But I am not a woman, a coward, or a eunuch. If I killed him it would have been by carving out his heart and feeding it to the bloody leech we both called father. On all the other counts, I must admit that you are right. I torture, I rape, I murder, I debase– does that trouble you? Do you think I deserve death?”
“If I don’t kill you, you will hurt more people.” (Y/n)’s sweet, honeyed voice tremored ever so slightly, and she raised the knife only a hair as Ramsay leaned even farther up– far enough so that he could smell the sweet pauper’s perfume she must have put on hours before.
“Oh yes, many,” he smirked. “So what are you so afraid of? Do it. If you’re confident that I’m a monster, kill me now.”
She broke, just as Ramsay had known she would, and she threw the knife from the bed as though it had burned her. Ramsay pulled her into a bruising kiss, dropping the knife he’d had hidden beneath the sheets. Oh, how he’d wanted to take her then and there, fuck her until she bled– but not tonight. He would save his enthusiasm for another time.
When he pulled away, (y/n)’s eyes were soft and warm.
“Oh, darling, I’m going to destroy you.”
X~ One look could kill
My pain, your thrill. ~X
(Y/n) had always had terrible taste in men, but this was absolutely ridiculous.
She had very nearly killed him. She had been so close…Ramsay Snow, the epitome of evil, had been right beneath her knife, his blood pumping hard against sharp steel, and she threw it all away.
And what for?
At first, (y/n) wasn’t sure.
She struggled to sleep that night, trapped between Ramsay’s arm and a (ridiculously comfortable) bed, wondering what the morning would bring. After a while, she managed to drift into a light slumber, but when she woke, it was to an empty room and a locked door.
Anticipation gnawed at (y/n)’s gut. What was she to do? The window was far too high above the ground for escape that way– banging on the door would accomplish nothing aside from letting the whole of Winterfell know that she was awake. It seemed that there was nothing to do but wait and try not to mentally collapse in the process. The eerie silence of the room alone nearly drove (y/n) mad, the sound of her blood rushing through her body seemingly magnified to fill her ears.
Just as (y/n) began to reconsider her earlier observation about the window, the door she had been staring at swung open, and Ramsay Snow entered, wearing his usual snarling smirk.
“Good morning, sweetling,” he intoned in that velvety voice that sent shivers down (y/n)’s spine. “I hope you didn’t think I’d forgotten about you– I only had some business to take care of. I so hated to be away from my new pet for so long, but the duties of a lord called.”
If you think I’m going to dignify that with a response, you’re dead wrong, (y/n) thought, tightening her hands into fists of her skirts, but before she had a chance to say anything, Ramsay offered her his arm. In his beautiful, ice-cold eyes was a message.
Take the arm, or face the unknown. Choose.
(Y/n) stood and took Ramsay’s arm.
“As my new pet, you will need to be trained, as I’m sure you understand, but first I will have to punish you,” Ramsay informed her gleefully, his full lips playing at a smile. “Do you know why? It’s unjust to punish a pet if it doesn’t know what it did wrong.”
(Y/n) clenched her jaw. I will not stoop to this. I will not.
“Come on my sweet, do you know what you did?” It was terrifying how Ramsay’s voice remained so calm, so soft and sweet despite the sharp edge of his intent, but this sort of terror was warm and searing in (y/n)’s stomach, so different than the cold fear she knew before. This was something else entirely– something base, something raw, something thrilling.
When (y/n) offered no answer to Ramsay’s question, he stopped completely, turning to face her. His nose was only inches away as he grabbed her by the jaw, and commanded, “Speak.”
“I tried to kill you.” The answer was out of (y/n)’s mouth before she could stop it, and Ramsay released his grip on her face, undoubtedly leaving imprints where his nails dug into her skin.
(Y/n) hung her head, fixing her eyes on the floor. Don’t let him see. Don’t let him know, gods, never let him find out.
Ramsay paused to open the door to what (y/n) supposed was the dungeons, and they descended into the bowels of Winterfell side by side.
“This will be where most of your training takes place as well as any punishment,” Ramsay said with a milk-curdling smile. “We wouldn’t want the rest of Winterfell to know what we get up to, now would we?”
(Y/n) swallowed thickly.
Ramsay led her to a large table that stood next to a bed, which was placed in front of what (y/n) recognized as a cross– the same cross Theon Greyjoy had been tortured at. All at once, (y/n)’s knees felt weak and her chest felt empty, but Ramsay’s strong arm supported her weight so that she wouldn’t fall. He said nothing, but the way he looked at her said it all– he knew how she would react, and he reveled in her fear.
“Bend over the table.”
Trembling violently, (y/n) did as she was bid, and she had a few short, blissful moments to regain control before Ramsay turned around and was able to see her face. She couldn’t let him see. She could not and she would not.
“Now, pet, this is both a punishment and your first lesson,” Ramsay informed her as he turned to reveal a wooden paddle in his hand. “Any time I strike you, you are to count. For every time you do not, I will cut one lock of your lovely hair down to the root. Do you understand?”
Just one look could give it all away. If Ramsay ever found out how much this affected her, he would just slit her throat and be done with it– because as sick as he was to gain pleasure from torture, she was the more so for feeling this wad of arousal stir in her belly at the thought of his hands undressing her, of his arm swinging that board against her backside.
“Yes, my lord,” (y/n) replied, her mouth feeling full of cotton.
Ramsay tutted. “That was pitiful. Look at me. Do. You. Understand?”
(Y/n) managed to raise her eyes to Ramsay, praying he did not see what she felt.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Good.” Ramsay walked leisurely behind her, his steps making not a sound. He pushed up the fabric of her dress, ripped off her knickers, and pulled down her stockings
He waited so long to strike that the first blow came almost unexpectedly.
“One,” (y/n) gasped, the sting of the paddle bringing blood from her head to her rear.
With every strike, (y/n) wanted more, more, more. Somewhere past twenty, her mouth counted without her mind as her skin of her ass became raw with the blows.
I need more, I need more, I need more. I want his hands on me, I want to feel his skin, I want it all.
(Y/n) caught herself mid-thought. It was one thing to want the pain– it was quite another to want the man that was currently inflicting it.
What am I doing? Why do I want this? This man is the Bastard of Bolton, a murderer, a rapist, a monster… He is everything I hate, and yet…
And yet she wanted him nonetheless.
This was what she had chosen to trade that one chance to kill the Bastard of Bolton for, and she didn’t regret that choice in the least.
X~ I wanna love you but I better not touch.
I wanna hold you but my senses tell me to stop. ~X
Ramsay decided to stop when blood began pouring from (y/n)’s backside.
He really had gotten quite carried away– she was just so responsive. And obedient as well– the poor girl had practically screamed the last number that Ramsay had lost count of. As he prodded his fingers into the bloody wounds on (y/n)’s backside, he wished he hadn’t gone so roughly for day one– his cock was achingly hard, and he wanted to fuck his bitch very badly, but at this point she might actually pass out if he tried, and then it wouldn’t be any fun.
“You wear punishment very well, love,” Ramsay praised, admiring the way the crimson color of blood brought out the sheen of (y/n)’s skin. “I dare say you have earned some water, and perhaps a bite of breakfast. Can you still walk?”
Instead of answering, (y/n) only shook her head.
That simply would not do.
“Answer me. Speak, pet, when I ask you a question.”
“No, my lord,” she replied hoarsely, her face pressed against the table.
“Better. Be a good pet, now, and try to straighten up,” Ramsay instructed, steadying (y/n) as best he could. “You just think it hurts now. Wait until tomorrow. You really won’t be able to move then.”
As feeble as (y/n) was in that moment, it would have been completely acceptable, probably even preferable, for Ramsay to be a little more physical– an arm around her frame, a supporting hand here or there– but something inside him flashed a warning. No matter how badly he wanted to touch her, to be physically closer and maximize her discomfort, he couldn’t make himself do so. It just felt…off.
“Lie down on the bed here, and I’ll return shortly. Move so much as an inch from the spot and I will make you regret it for the rest of your life.”
That last bit wasn’t really necessary, but Ramsay just liked giving threats. They always rolled so easily off the tongue. Especially since he meant them.
It was with a light spirit and cheery countenance that the Bastard of Bolton skipped up to the kitchens and fixed a tray of the finest breakfast Winterfell had to offer, bringing along some soft cloth with which to clean and bandage the mess he’d made.
X~ I wanna kiss you but I want it too much,
I wanna taste you but your lips are venomous poison– You’re poison running through my veins. I don’t want to break these chains~X
(Y/n) discovered along and along just how controlling Ramsay could be.
Though he was cruel and cold and mean, Ramsay was not as she thought. He was very calculating– she would have taken him for a mindless, rash beast, but Ramsay had the patience of a saint and the desires of a demon. In fact, he was somewhat of a paradox in that his intention was to bend and break (y/n)’s will, but he refused to push beyond what he thought she could handle. It was like he wanted to choose the day that he broke her, to control the process of “breaking his bitch” right down the the last moment. (Y/n) didn’t know if that was thrilling or terrifying.
As for daily life, it changed drastically for (y/n) in the next few weeks. If she were to have a bath, it was Ramsay who gave it. If she were to have any clothes, Ramsay would choose what they were and would dress her in them as he saw fit. Any time (y/n) endeavored to make her own decisions, a punishment was issued, each punishment worse than the last. Needless to say, (y/n) fought like a wild animal to maintain any scraps of dignity she had left, but it always resulted in more of the same– a punishment that proved more and more a pleasure.
Oh, today she had earned something terrible, and the thrill of it made her heart pound.
It all began when (y/n) woke earlier than usual, and found herself able to slip from beneath Ramsay’s arms without rousing him. She slipped over to Ramsay’s desk where lay a hand mirror that she lifted to eye level. It had been so long since (y/n) had seen herself that the woman staring back at her seemed a stranger. Oddly enough, she had changed for the better– her face was no longer as thin, her eyes were no longer as dull. Regular meals, despite Ramsay’s presence, had done her well. Sure, she had a few more scars, but she reveled in the memory of how she got each one. In fact, she rather preferred having them– they reminded her of the patterning on the pretty alley cat that used to piss around the edges of her house. All in all, she looked… beautiful.
Just when (y/n) had decided she had looked her fill, Ramsay began to stir on the bed. (Y/n) tried to fit herself beneath his arm before he woke, but it was too late. He knew– she could feel it.
“What were you doing up before your master, pet?” Ramsay asked, piercing her to the mattress with those eyes of pure ice. “Thinking to escape? Make another attempt on my life?”
“I-I wasn’t up.” Lying was probably a terrible idea, but what was (y/n) supposed to say? If she said she was looking in the mirror, he would either believe her a liar or take the mirror away or both.
Ramsay glowered at her, grabbing her by the front of her shift and hauling her up to look into her eyes, where he could read anything and everything he needed to know.
For a few breaths, there was silence.
“Liar,” he snarled, shoving her away. “What have I told you about lying?”
That lying would get me in more.trouble than confessing my wrongs. “I don’t know, my lord. I can’t remember.”
“Another lie.” Ramsay was livid. “I suppose I was remiss in thinking that you could be treated delicately and still be properly trained. I see now that is not the case. Today I will be making up for lost time, my dear, so I would prepare myself were I you.”
And that was that.
Ramsay wasted little time with his breakfast– he even had it sent up instead of going down arm-in-arm with (y/n) as usual. Once they had both eaten, Ramsay wasted even less time getting the two of them to the dungeons, not even bothering to dress (y/n) in anything but her shift.
A thousand different scenarios played through (y/n)’s head as she tried to guess her punishment. She wondered if it would be something similar to last week with the hot candle wax, or if it would be more like the first paddling she was given. Or maybe it would be something entirely new.
Without words, Ramsay shoved (y/n) onto the bed, binding her wrists and ankles to the bedposts with leather straps. She could feel his rage rolling off him in waves, and already she knew that there would be no hiding the wetness between her legs if he decided to remove her shift and leave her only in her smallclothes – (y/n) would be completely exposed, unable to do much more than squirm in resistance.
“Open your mouth.”
She obeyed, and completely without warning, Ramsay shoved his fingers down her throat.
Even as (y/n) fought the urge to vomit, she sucked on Ramsay’s fingers as though they were coated in the sweetest of honey. To have this man, this handsome, horrible man, touching her like this, making her feel all of these things that she had never felt before, was something she could never become accustomed to.
It was in that moment that (y/n) realized that this was what she had needed from life all along. She needed food, shelter, a controlled atmosphere– here she had that, but even more so, she needed someone that she could indulge in her most awful urges without fear of hurting someone or being hurt. As completely insane and foolish as it was…(y/n) trusted Ramsay not to take her farther than she could come back from. She wanted very badly to kiss him, to taste the sweet venom that surely laced his lips.
(Y/n) wasn’t sure who that made the crazier, but she did know that she never wanted to break these chains.
X~ Your mouth so hot,
Your web, I’m caught.
Your skin so wet
Black lace on sweat. ~X
“A good pet does not lie,” Ramsay snarled, withdrawing his fingers from (y/n)’s hot, yielding mouth. “You should have faith in me to be just.”
The sting of betrayal still lingered in Ramsay’s chest. He’d thought, if only for a little while, that (y/n) had learned to trust him. It angered him beyond reason that she was yet resistant to his will, so doubtful of his intent– after all, he had hardly done anything absolutely awful to her after he’d gotten carried away with the paddle. He only wanted her to be loyal, to know her place, before she was made truly one of his girls.
“Why did you lie?” he demanded, brushing his thumb over (y/n)’s bottom lip. “Did you fear my wrath?”
“No, my lord,” she replied sweetly, looking perfectly angelic as saliva shone on her lips. Ramsay fought the urge to say all was forgiven and give in to his own needs.
“Do we need to go back to the beginning of your lessons, my sweet, stubborn girl?”
“No, my lord, I only–”(y/n) stopped herself before she could say more.
“Only what?” Ramsay asked, bringing his face closer to her own, as if they were two opposite sides of a magnet.
“I wanted to,” she admitted shakily.
Ramsay pulled away. “I see. We shall have to fix that.” He strode over to where he kept a bucket of water and lye soap on hand, ripping a strip of his undershirt to use as a cloth. (Y/n)’s eyes followed him as he’d known they would, which only made Ramsay smile all the wider.
“I’ll just wash your mouth of that filth, and we’ll have no more lies from you.”
(Y/n) may have caught him in her little web of deception, but it would be she who would be caught undressed, was it were. Before washing out her mouth, Ramsay ripped off (y/n)’s shift so that he could pour the remainder of the water over her when he was finished– he damn well meant that since she put him through all this trouble, he was going to enjoy watching her shiver as her lace smallclothes clung to her wet skin on the way back to his chambers.
X~ I hear you calling and it’s needles and pins~X
When Ramsay told (y/n) that he would be going away for a while to attend to his father’s business, she thought that she might enjoy herself a bit, especially since she still hadn’t quite forgiven him for the mouth washing incident.
(Y/n) was as wrong as snow in Dorne.
She was bored. Bloody bored. All of Winterfell to herself, and without Ramsay everything was boring. (Y/n) was unable to do anything but sit and sulk and wait for Ramsay’s return, alternating between the window, the floor, and the desk of their shared room.
Day after day, night after night, it was more of the same. After a week, the sheets no longer smelled like Ramsay. After two, (y/n) notice the bed feeling colder. After two and a half, she was ready to go half mad.
Just when (y/n) thought she could take no more, one day she woke up and knew Ramsay was back. She felt his presence calling her to him like the waves called to the shore– pins and needles ran all along her body, and it was before the sun had even risen that (y/n) made her way to the gates to meet him.
For all her trouble, it seemed that this Ramsay was not the Ramsay that she had been expecting.
(Y/n) had thought that Ramsay would be as lively and enthusiastic as ever– she had just assumed that he would either pat her on the head for coming to him or scold her for leaving her permitted areas without permission, that his eyes would light up with his familiar morbid excitement, but he did none of those things. The Ramsay that sat in the saddle of the red stallion that belonged to the real Ramsay was a shell of what he should be. His eyes were hollow, his expression was numb, and he seemed particularly uninterested in any human interaction.
Ramsay’s condition did not change even when he stopped his horse in front of (y/n), hardly acknowledging her existence.
“Welcome home, my lord,” (y/n) greeted him hesitantly, careful to give his mean-tempered stallion a wide berth. “Winterfell was not the same without you.”
Ramsay’s eyes studied her, their usual spark replaced by melancholy. “Ride with me.”
(Y/n) took the hand up that was offered her and mounted behind Ramsay, wrapping her arms around his waist. Immediately, her nose was filled with the smell of horse and hay and sweat and Ramsay, and there was not a happier woman in all the north. Warmth spread from his body to her own, even through several layers of clothing, and (y/n) felt at home. She was almost disappointed when they had to dismount– (y/n) knew she was not allowed to be physically close to Ramsay in public, but she had missed him just as much physically as she had mentally and emotionally, and she wanted to stay with her arms wrapped around him forever.
“Come, pet. I have good news,” he told her, extending his arm. “There will be feasting tonight. You’ll need to wear your finest gown.”
All this was said absently, as though he were in a trance. But, since (y/n) wasn’t given much more of an option, she simply complied, walking with him up the dimly-lit stairs to their chambers.
Then, as soon as the lock on their chamber door was in place, Ramsay spoke as though unable to remain silent.“I have been naturalized. My last name is Bolton. Roose is now– he’s now my father in name as well as blood.”
“That’s good, my lord,” (y/n) smiled, taking his hands in her own. “I’m very proud for you.”
“He’s married now, you know.”
(Y/n) paused. “Pardon?”
“Walder Frey offered my father his bride’s weight in silver. He’s now married to Fat Walda.”
(Y/n) didn’t know what to do. She was at a loss for words– she had no idea what Ramsay needed right now, no idea how to handle any of this.
“Ramsay,” she began gently, squeezing his hands. “I’m sure that doesn’t make you any less his son in his eyes and in the eyes of the law.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Ramsay wouldn’t even look at her, his gaze downcast.
(Y/n) moved one of her hands to the side of his face. “Oh, Ramsay–”
“Do not touch me,” he hissed jerking away from her.
(Y/n) backed away, sadness creeping into her stomach. “My apologies, my lord.”
Ramsay spent the rest of the day silently avoiding every single human life inside Winterfell, and (y/n) had no idea how to fix him.
X~ I wanna hurt you just to hear you screaming my name,
Don’t wanna touch you but you’re under my skin,
I wanna kiss you but your lips are venomous poison.~X
“You are my son now more than ever. You will have to learn to control yourself, Ramsay. No Bolton can be spoken of the way people speak of you.”
Roose Bolton’s voice played on repeat in the back of Ramsay’s head, driving him mad moment by moment. Every second Ramsay spent in solitude was a kick to the chest, but leaving his chambers for even a moment made him feel horribly nauseated. This was it– Ramsay had finally gotten what he always wanted and he still wasn’t good enough for his father. There seemed to be nothing left worth striving for. Life had brought him nothing but dissatisfaction, and Ramsay was quite finished with it.
But (y/n), of all people, was not dealing well with this change.
She had become more intemperate, more ill-disciplined, and bloody well more irritating than when she had first come to Winterfell. Whenever he was feeling his worst, she was always did something to get under Ramsay’s skin– whether she was questioning his moods, testing his patience with her nonconformity, or being unbearably foolish, (y/n) never ceased to make Ramsay grind his teeth so hard his jaw might snap. He had never thought that he would see a day when she would prove too frustrating to continue, but Ramsay was turning out to be wrong about a lot of things these days.
Really and truly, though, Ramsay didn’t snap until (y/n) pushed the one button she had never pushed before. She knew the rule as well as everyone at Winterfell did– never, ever, come between the Bastard of Bolton and his meal.
It had been a normal evening as far as Ramsay’s standards. He’d even gone hunting a bit after before and brought home some fresh game– he felt great. (Well, not great– less like a piss-pot than usual, though.) Ramsay even expected that tonight’s sleep would be somewhat peaceful, and he was quite looking forward to downing a goblet or two of wine with his meal.
What he wasn’t expecting was for (y/n) to dump the contents of said goblet into his lap in front of the entire hall.
The events immediately following that were somewhat of a blur. Ramsay, angrier than he’d been in weeks, raged at (y/n) like she was a dog, leapt across the table, and dragged her to the dungeons like a man gone mad. He didn’t even realize that he’d left the hall until he realized that he was binding (y/n)’s wrists together instead of to a chair or bedpost.
Oh well. He could hardly change it now.
“What possessed you,” he growled, coming face to face with (y/n). “To even think about humiliating me in front of my servants in my hall with my own wine? Do you think that’s some sort of revenge, pet? Do you think you can just do whatever you please without consequences?”
“No my lord,” she breathed, her chest heaving as her eyes lit with some mixture of fear and wonder.
“Then why did you do it?”
Ramsay’s answer did not come in the form of words, but it made itself clear in the insistent press of (y/n)’s lips on his own. Reality slammed into his chest like a spear, and the most wonderful realization of Ramsay’s life formed in his head.
She wants this.
Ramsay, without even realizing it, had kissed (y/n) back, threading his fingers through the silky soft hair that he washed and brushed for her. She tasted like they bread and honey she’d just eaten, and she smelt sweet and sharp and just a little like himself, which was incredibly intoxicating. With just one simple gesture, Ramsay understood it all.
“You wanted it,” he breathed. “You wanted it all along. You deliberately disobeyed me in order to incur a punishment because you…because you wanted it.”
(Y/n) didn’t answer, and she didn’t need to. The truth was right there in her eyes, shining out in all earnest.
“Would you like for me to untie you, pet, or would you like me to leave you just as you are?” Ramsay asked before capturing her lips once more. “I intend for this to be very satisfying for the both of us.”
“Take off my clothes,” was (y/n)’s only response.
“You’re such a clever girl,” Ramsay smirked, guiding her to the bed, where he crawled on top of her, boots, cape, and all. “You’re more of a spider than a bitch– you’ve spun the neatest little web and caught me in it, my dear. I am such a fool for sickness, after all.”
“Yes, my lord,” (y/n) replied, wrapping her legs around his torso. “Please, please my lord, I want you. I was so worried that you–”
She stopped herself, almost afraid. Ramsay had to laugh.
“Sweetling, I will never leave you, nor will I change who I am. I was just going through a bit of a slump, is all,” Ramsay smiled viciously. “I do, however, apologize– I had quite forgotten that my bitch goes into heat. It was cruel of me to deny you so. I can only hope you’ll forgive me.”
He layer by layer, he ripped off (y/n)’s clothes, burying his face in her neck, biting and sucking along the way. Ramsay’s hands quickly found her smallclothes and stripped her of them as well. Soon she was completely naked beneath him, and he was still fully clothed.
“Tell me what you want, my dove,” he murmured in her ear. “I want to hear it.”
“Fuck me, please, Ramsay, I need you, need to feel you, need to–I just–”
“I’ve got you, pretty one, I’ve got you.”
And so he went to work. There were two things that Ramsay was the master of– pain was one, and pleasure was the other. In this game of both, he was sure to be the best player.
(Y/n) was spoiled for the rest of her life for lovemaking with anyone else besides Ramsay– it would be humanly impossible to top that night. His every attention was on her and what she was feeling, his hands fluttering from her breasts to her sides, always making sure to keep her overwhelmed with every sensation. And when he had entered her–oh he had taken it agonizingly slowly. She thought she might die before Ramsay finally decided to fuck her well and truly, but when he did, she nearly melted at her climax, which was made better by the confessions of love that were exchanged afterward.
Now, Ramsay was sound asleep, and (y/n) took the time to admire how young he looked in his sleep. He seemed peaceful for once, and she snuggled closer to him to take the edge off of the northern chill while she had the chance.
There were still those who called Ramsay Bolton poison, but if his love was the venom then it was (y/n)’s drug of choice.
Watching Oxygen this week - which I liked, although I don’t know if enjoyed is a word I can apply to an episode with that little joy - I was struck by how much this season has featured systems as villains. And in most cases, it’s not even that the system was originally crafted to be evil, but rather that any system when taken to extremes has the potential to cause great harm.
Thin Ice and Oxygen both feature the system of capitalism, taken in the former to levels of evil we are familiar with and in the latter to levels that have not come to pass, but are scarily easy to imagine. Smile gives us the system of an artificial intelligence designed to make us happy, but through no malicious evil decides the best way to do that is to kill anyone who is sad. And Knock Knock has the system of the wood lice, which to save Eliza’s life kill many generations of housemates. The Pilot is perhaps an exception to this, in that the puddle is not trying to kill Bill, but it is still a system that becomes terrifying as it tries to fulfil it’s goal of running away with a pretty girl.
This could be chance, but five episodes in a row without a malicious or chaotic evil, without deliberate corruption or even malfunction outside the original parameters, looks very much like a narrative choice. And it’s a narrative choice that very much echoes current affairs. The capitalism episodes are a very direct parallel, but we are also seeing national pride turn into xenophobia and populism elect Trump. Our systems are breaking, and not even the most moderate or apolitical person could deny that now (although many people have been screaming about this for years).
We’re also becoming more aware of systemic racism, sexism, ableism, homophobia and transphobia, and how even if you stop people from being explicitly bigoted that still doesn’t solve the problem, because the problem is with the system not the individuals. This adds another narrative element, because we have the first lesbian companion (the first explicitly queer full time companion), and she’s also black, meaning she and people like her suffer from at least three types of systemic oppression.
I don’t think this can go on forever in Doctor Who, because Doctor Who is not a nihilist show. That’s kind of how I’m feeling about the world right now, even as I’m slowly chipping away in my own way. But Doctor Who is a show that always falls back on hope, on joy, on the idea that we are perhaps not quite as fucked as we though. And now that systems have been established in the Doctor Who universe as susceptible to evil at their extremes (or even slightly outside of normal parameters), it’s time for a string of episodes which break those systems, or reject them entirely.
I think it’s fitting that the next episode, Extremis, features both the Catholic Church - the epitome of a system corrupted by it’s own rules - and Missy - chaotic evil incarnate. And though Missy is definitely the Queen of Evil, she also rejects order and systems, and so is yet again an ally. For now.
I’m interested to see how this reading stacks up at the end of the series, especially because I think it depends very much on how the latter half goes, and the way Doctor Who provides hope and rebellion in a systematically fucked world. We could do with some of that around here.
*sees that king garon is the true epitome of evil and wants to put an end to his tyranny
my father, king garon - the man who raised me and loves me - tried to kill me? lol, nah *proceeds to ignore every red possible flag and does all this evil shit that garon tells them to do*