Ramsay Bolton’s Muse

“J?” You’re quivering with fear, your trembling voice scarcely louder than a whisper. He doesn’t answer, walking away and leaving an aura of malevolence in his wake. Your heart quickens as you hear a racket of banging drawers behind you before complete silence.

The air is still for a moment, adrenaline coursing through your veins before you feel his rough hands wrap themselves around your neck from behind. Towering over you, you feel the warmth of his breath at the top of your head, his fingers sliding down from your neck to dance over your collarbone. He leans down to your ear, the heat of his breath thawing your cold skin. 

“We’re gonna put on a show, doll.” His voice is low and gravely. 

His fingers dig into your collarbone and you involuntarily twist away from him at the pain, the cold metal of the cuffs biting into your wrists and ankles. You can feel him smirking against your neck. 

“You, uh, ever dream-ah of being a movie star? Well today’s your lucky day sweetheart.” He cackles and you squeak in fear at the sudden loud noise in your ear. One of his hands drifts back up to your neck, gripping it harder this time, while the other trails down to your hip, anchoring your body against him. You can feel the firm bulge pressing against you, and you swallow. 

“Let’s, uh, get you nice and warmed up.” J’s hand edges closer to the line of your panties and you’re shocked to find yourself whimpering, your terror apparently working to increase your desire for him. You can’t think straight. The chaotic and pressurized energy abounding from The Joker making it nearly impossible to form logical thoughts. All you can do is feel. 

He trails a large finger over your panties, landing on top of your clit, the fabric already wet. He hums against you before landing a harsh bite to your neck while simultaneously pulling your panties to the side and shoving a finger inside you. You moan and your eyes dilate at the stimulation, grinding your body against him with a keen desperation for friction. 

J growls.“What a little slut-ah you are babygirl.” He nips your neck again. “Already dripping for me.” He squeezes your neck tighter, cutting off your air supply. You’re gasping for air now, unable to breathe and completely at his whim as his finger slides in and out of your aching pussy at an excruciatingly slow pace. 

Just as your vision starts to blacken, J releases your neck, his warmth abruptly gone from your body, leaving you cold and desperate for his bruising touch. 

He reappears in front of you, and he’s holding a camcorder. 

Oh no.

Reading the question in your eyes all too eagerly, his voice comes out thick with ill-intent.

“You wanna know the role you’ll be playing-ah. It’s a good one, bunny.” The camcorder in one hand, he brandishes a knife in the other, twirling it around while he watches your reaction. “You’ll be the, uh, star of Act two.” A large smile breaks out over his face, never quite reaching his eyes, and you think you can see dimples underneath the corded knots of scars and greasepaint. 

“Act one is complete-ah. It’s, uh, really something. It’s stabbing, murderous, bone breaking fun-ah.” J howls in laughter, making you jump. “Dearest Nathan made for a great show.” Fear starts pulsing back into you, as the thought crosses your mind: Is he going to kill me? 

Your voice is meek and weakened with fear. “I’m sorry, J. I’m really sorry about not answering your calls. Please, please, don’t kill me. I’ll be better. I’m sorry.” You’re trembling, and J is clearly loving it, the bulge in his pinstripe slacks growing as you emphasize the word ‘please’. You don’t know how to feel about the next words that come out of his mouth.

“Don’t worry babygirl. Your act is of a, uh, different nature-ah.” He steps toward you, the knife suddenly at your throat, the camcorder switching on and capturing the look of terror on your face. J turns the camcorder to capture his own face. 

“Ladies and gentlemen-ah of Gotham. Meet your second round of entertainment-ah.” He flips the camera back onto you, stepping back to film your lingerie-clad body. “I’m sure she’ll, uh, really spice up your evening news-ah.” J laughs maniacally and your expression turns to horror as you realize what he’s going to do with these videos, that he’ll be playing them for all of Gotham to see, whatever he did to Nathan, and whatever he’s about to do to you.  

“She’s just an innocent little civilian, just like you people.” His voice deepens to a tone reminiscent of the big bad wolf. “But she’s been very bad, folks, very bad-ah. I’m gonna remind her of her place. And you’ll get to watch.”

You swallow, your cheeks flushing red as he saunters over to you, panning the camera along your exposed body before reaching a paint speckled hand in frame to tug roughly on one of your nipples, perky through the black lace bra in the frigid air. 

You cry out and he chuckles darkly, turning the camera back to face him. 

“And you wanna know what the best part is?” His face is close to the camera. “This is the same girl whose family you couldn't save in that massacre out in the country. The one where 40 people, ah, died-ah.” He’s laughing madly, the camera shaking as he does.  

His voice rises, the camera unsteady. “You couldn't help her then and you can’t help her now!” He cackles like a hyena. 

“You tried to hide her from me, to keep her safe-ah.” He snickers, turning the camera back to you, and capturing a beautiful image of your lovely body and the fiery complexity of fear, hatred and desire that’s dancing in your eyes. His gaze hardens on you and you feel the ball of warmth start to spiral through your core.

“She’s mine now, and no one will be saving her. I’m a man of my word-ah.” 

----

You’ve tried to work through what happened countless times since that Sunday morning, but to no avail. There’s just no logical explanation for why you would want (or as J would likely favor, need) the person responsible for your family’s murder. 

There’s obviously something wrong with me. You sigh. I could use a therapist. You find yourself shaking your head and laughing as you consider how that would go. 

--

You: Hi, my name’s [Y/N] and I’m a masochist. I’m catching feelings for the man who murdered my entire family.

Therapist: Oh? Well, let’s talk about that for a minute. Can you tell me more about this man?

You: Sure. He’s, well, he’s, um, evil. And he’s got these crazy scars that most people find terrifying, but I, for some godforsaken reason, find them enchanting. He wears white and black and red greasepaint all over his face and he’s got a custom purple and green suit. And he’s on the news a lot.

Therapist: It sounds like you’re describing The Joker. Is this a fantasy of yours? The Joker is not known to fraternize with any law abiding citizens such as yourself.

*A large boom as a wall in the therapist’s office is blown apart and J steps through, knives in both hands.*

The Joker: Sorry to, uh, disappoint-ah. But I’m not-t a fantasy. And you, doll, should know better than to talk to anyone about me-ah.” 

*J proceeds to kill the therapist, and do god knows what to you.*

--

That sounds about right. You think. Also, on second thought, maybe your imaginary therapist is right. Maybe he is a fantasy. It’s been over a week, and there’s not been a word from him. 

You were tired on Sunday, it was early in the morning, you had just woken up from a nightmare… Did it even happen? Is he even real? Are you losing your mind?

The little button on your phone blinks red and you sigh, picking up the receiver. 

“Yes, Marjorie, what is it?” 

The crisp voice of your earnest young secretary comes through the line. 

“I’m terribly sorry to disturb you, [Y/N], but it’s Nathan asking to see you. I tried to explain that your diary is full and he’ll have to make an appointment -- but he is rather insistent.” You can hear the annoyance in her voice, and it’s one you share. Both you and Marjorie can’t stand the man.

“It’s okay, Marjorie, thanks for trying. Just send him in.” You groan, the last thing you want to deal with right now is Nathan’s advances. He’s been trying to take you out since you started working at the firm. He’s one of those wealthy, playboy types, the kind that gets everything he ever wants in life thanks to his good looks and his family’s impossible riches. You aren’t charmed though. Far from it.

“[Y/N]?” He opens the door, and then knocks on it, already walking inside and closing it behind him before you answer. It’s something you can’t stand. 

“You’re looking fine today.” Nathan paces over to your desk as you stand and smooth out the little black dress that hugs your body. You’re wearing red lipstick, and your hair is tucked behind your shoulders, trailing down your back in soft waves. He is right, you think, you do look quite nice today, but he shouldn't be saying it. 

You would love to tell him off, ask him to go bother some other girl who thinks something of his money and looks, but you can’t. Nathan is your equal in seniority, but really he’s above you as his father owns the entire firm. You can’t tell him off, much as you might like to.

“Thank you.” You say somewhat stiffly. 

Something catches your eye, and you see it’s your phone vibrating. Unknown Number. One of the few things your parents did bother to teach you was not to answer calls from unknown numbers. If it’s important, they’ll leave a voicemail. Besides, you have to deal with Nathan now.

As he reaches your desk, he doesn’t stop but walks all the way around it until he’s standing right next to you. He leans back against the desk, hovering in an almost seated position and crossing his arms.

“Did you give any thought to that lunch I suggested yesterday?”

Your voice is steel as you reply.

“Nathan, again, thank you. But I’m really not interested.”

He touches your arm, lightly at first, but when you instinctively pull away, his grip tightens and he stands fully, towering over you.

“How long are we going to play at this little game, [Y/N]?” His voice has a hard edge to it, filled with malice and desire, all his charm dissipating. “I know you must want me under that hard shell.” 

Out of the corner of your eye you see your phone buzzing again. Unknown Number. It stops suddenly, before starting right back up again. But Nathan brings your attention back to him as his hand moves to grab your chin, jerking it to face him. It’s never gone this far before–– the most he’s done is let his hand linger a little too long on your thigh after giving it a pat for a ‘good job’ at a stakeholder meeting.

“Something distracting you?” He hisses through his teeth. He’s disgusting to you. The smell of his expensive cologne, his fashionable suit and that perfect haircut doing nothing to hide how foul he is underneath. 

In a swift movement, your hand wraps around his wrist and jerks it away from you.

“Don’t touch me, please.” You hate that you’re saying “please”, but you know why you are. It doesn’t matter how good a job you’ve done over the past two years, Nathan could have you fired without a moment’s notice.

“Oh, you’re just asking for it aren’t you?” You’re backing away from him, trying to round your way past the desk to get to your office door. You don’t like where this seems to be heading. Your phone starts vibrating again. 

Nathan is matching your steps as you slowly back up, but then he’s jumped onto you, closing the gap and covering your mouth before you can scream. You struggle, but he’s much bigger than you, and he easily turns you around so your back is to him, one hand clamped down over your mouth while the other gets your arms pinned behind your back, holding you in place. You can feel his rough stubble against your neck as he whispers in your ear.

“You see, I thought you were just a little prude, [Y/N], really I did. You had me so fooled. But then, I heard Marjorie mention you had met some mystery man, hmm? You fuck him, you little slut?” He yanks your arms back, eliciting a cry from you that’s muffled by his hand over your mouth. “There’s not a girl in this goddamn city that I can’t have, [Y/N], no matter what the pedigree. I’m done being patient with you.” 

Another silenced scream escapes your lips as he pushes you roughly onto the desk, removing his hand from your mouth in favor of a gag he quickly secures around your head. He uses his freed hand to reach under your dress and rip your pantyhose into shreds. Tears start streaming down your face and all you can do is pray, pray, that Marjorie barges in for some work emergency. But you know she never will, she’s been trained to never disturb your meetings. 

“I’m going to fuck you into the floor like the whore you are. You won’t be forgetting your place after today, slut. You can count on that.” Your body jerks sharply as something pinches into the back of your neck. You think it might be a needle.

Suddenly you hear screaming and a loud bang followed by the sound of guns firing round after round. At first, the sound is far off, but it starts getting louder and louder. Nathan’s standing still, listening, as unsure as you as to what’s going on. It wouldn’t make any sense for armed robbers to come here when the vast sum of the company’s money would be at the banks. 

In the momentary confusion, you try to kick Nathan’s legs and duck away from him, but he easily sidesteps your attempted kick and pushes your neck roughly into the desk, making your head ring. You’re flat against the desk now, your head turned toward your right to see a sideways angle of the door to your office, becoming further distorted as you start to feel dizzy.

“You stay down, bitch. I’m not done with you yet.”

Without warning, the door to your office is kicked down in a huff of thick smoke, the smell of explosives and gunpowder invading the room all at once. You see a silhouette in the doorway, but you can’t make out any details through the smouldering air. 

The shadow is striding forward, sharpening into an image of a frightfully imposing figure, expansive shoulders sloping to form the sharpened points of a structured trench coat. One large hand holds a Glock 17 while the other grips an elegantly savage, blood-stained knife. You find yourself petrified by the commanding presence that marches through the haze with near terrorizing power. 

That is, until the devilish eyes and cheshire smile break through the cloud of smoke, and that low gravely voice, thick with rage, penetrates your eardrums. 

“I, uh, disagree.”

You hear two clicks of a gun and Nathan screams in agony, the pressure holding your arms gone. You bolt away from the desk, running to the opposite corner of the room, needing to get away as far away from that fucking bastard as possible. The thought of what he nearly did to you keeps the tears flowing from your eyes. Your hands free, you untie the gag from your mouth, your whole body shaking.

Unable to stand, you collapse onto the ground, wedging yourself into the corner and drawing your knees to your chest. Across the room, you can see Nathan bleeding profusely from his kneecaps. 

“Take him.” You hear the low, husky edge of that unmistakable voice, the image of him becoming increasingly blurry through your tear stained eyes. You’re feeling light headed as you squint your eyes in an attempt to sharpen your vision, barely making out the image of two masked men lifting an unconscious Nathan and removing him from the room.

Then all at once you’re invaded by a heat wave, and he’s crouching in front of you, leather gloved hands roughly smoothing over your face and then up and down your arms, kneading the flesh. You’re reeling, nearly unable to keep your head up, as your body loses more control. Did Nathan inject me with something?

“Hey, hey.” Amidst the residual gunshots outside the room, the screams and sounds of sirens, you are somehow able to focus on his voice as if it’s the clearest sound in the world. “You okay doll?” He’s turning your head left and right gently, before apparently finding what he was looking for. He inhales sharply, growling with a deep-seated anger.

“J?” You manage. The world is becoming increasingly fuzzy as you fight to keep your eyes from closing. You’re unable to focus on anything, seeing red and white and black and purple merge and come apart in front of you, nausea bubbling up inside you. “I don’t feel good.”

“I know, babygirl, I know.” J pulls you to standing, and you’re barely aware that his body is the only thing keeping you upright. “How much did he hit-cha with sweetcheeks?” It’s not a real question and he doesn’t expect you to answer–– you’re clearly incapacitated, your body slumping against his as you lose all control of your muscles. He must realize this too, as he scoops you up in his arms before striding out of the room as your vision goes black.

***

You’re dreaming now. It’s a light dream, a good dream, where you feel warm inside. J sweeping you up and keeping you safe, rescuing you from the bad guys. It’s like he’s Prince Charming from the story books you read as a child, except, just like in those books, Prince Charming had been colored over with markers to give him a scary face, weapons, and much cooler looking clothes. Ever since first seeing J, little slips of memories have been coming back to you, even in dreams. Right now you’re recalling how the same headstrong child who had distorted Prince Charming had also transformed Cinderella so that she wasn’t a blonde haired, one-dimensional poster ad for objectification any longer. You think you remember giving her black hair and heavy eye liner.  You’re still smiling as your eyes open and you wake up. 

But you don’t stay smiling for long.

You’re tied to an uncomfortable metal chair in a room you’ve never been in before, your arms bound behind your back and each of your ankles tied to a chair leg. It’s dirty, disheveled, and dimly lit, but you can make out a despondent looking mattress tossed haphazardly in a corner with a single, forlorn pillow and a comforter thrown over it. There’s a lone dresser slumping to its right, clothes spilling out over the half closed drawers including something that definitely looks like a nurse’s uniform. You also see piles of old books on the floor, making out some Nietzsche, Freud and Dostoevsky, along with a copy of The Catcher in the Rye that looks so worn you imagine it would break apart the next time someone so much as opened it. There’s a collection of weapons dotting the floor like a child’s toys he hasn’t put away, and the unmistakable purple trench hanging from a single hook next to a large window, moonlight spilling in. How long have I been unconscious for? 

And then you see him, sitting in a chair against the wall opposite you. He’s leaning back, the chair’s front two legs raised off the ground. He’s perfectly balanced in what would otherwise look precarious, one foot resting over the thigh of his other leg, his arms crossed across his chest, his expression unreadable. You didn’t see him at first because of how perfectly still he’s sitting in the shadow, his silently formidable presence almost a statue, but a blink of his obsidian eyes and glint of steel as he turns a knife around and around in his hand proves otherwise. 

You want to feel safe and warm at seeing him, you want to smile. Didn’t he just rescue you, like some kind of fucked up prince charming? But you don’t feel warm, or safe, or smile. Because the way he is looking at you is downright terrifying. He could kill you.

“J?” You sound brittle, taking on an intonation like a child deciding whether or not to cry after a fall. 

He rocks the chair back and forth, the sound putting you further on edge as he teeters dangerously, the chair groaning with the effort of supporting his lanky body at the irregular angle. His voice comes out of the shadows with a dangerously dark lilt.

“You didn’t answer my calls-ah.” 

Fuck. The Unknown Number.

“I’m sorry, J.” The words rush out as you hurry to explain. “I didn’t know it was you, I --” In one swift movement, he’s on his feet, throwing the chair to the side of him, the wood making a loud cracking sound as it topples to the floor.

You’ve never seen anyone move so fast, and he’s upon you in a second, grabbing your head with his leather-clad hands and clamping your jaw shut. 

“I don’t want excuses-ah.” His voice is rough, his stare boring into you, ebony eyes all consuming as his pupils dilate to the point that all you can see is an utterly wicked jet-black. “Who do you think was calling you, bunny? A telemarketer? So desperate to, uh, sell you something good he called ya four times-ah?” He cackles in your face and you jump, startled, unsure what he’s finding so funny. 

“I, I--” You try to get out that even if you had tried to pick up, you couldn’t have, that Nathan was holding you down. But you know that J already knows that. That he doesn’t care. That for him, there can be no excuses for not responding to his beck and call immediately, without question or protest. 

“You see what happens when you’re not a good girl? When you don’t listen. All I wanted to do was take you out for lunch-ah.” Somehow you find that unlikely, especially considering how he smirks to himself at the word. 

“You didn’t call me for over a week.” Your confidence is back, ill advised as it is. “I started to think you didn’t exist. That it was all in my --” You scream as J slices your cheek with the knife you forgot he was holding, horrified as you feel wetness drip down your face. You can tell the blade only grazed the surface, but it stings terribly and your eyes well up. J finishes your sentence for you, his voice roaring with laughter. 

“In your head? Sweetheart, I don’t think you, uh, got the message-ah last time.” He pulls his gloves off and throws them down, the leather making a smacking sound from the force as they hit the floor. You get the first look at his bare skin, and it’s tawny and riddled with paint stains and scars, his nails long and broken. 

He rolls the sleeves of his dress shirt up, revealing sinewy muscles rippling along his forearms before crouching down in front of you. He runs a paint speckled hand through his tousled hair, pushing the dyed-green mop away from his face and raising his predacious eyes to yours.

“You’re mine, dollface. Mine-ah.” He enunciates the word, the sound thick with possession. “And that means that the only thing-ah you need to worry your pretty little head about” He pats your head roughly, before roping your hair into a bundle around his hand “is doing what I say, when I say it-t. Is that clear enough for you, bunny? Capiche?” He yanks your hair, making you cry out. 

When you don’t answer right away, the knife is at your mouth, dangerously close to your skin and threatening a far more serious cut this time. 

“Use your words-ah.” The steel is cold against your skin, so razor-sharp you’re afraid that moving your lips at all will result in an incision. You answer him in a whisper, your entire body shaking.

“Yes, J.”

J leans over you, his other hand wrapping around your neck and pressing firmly against your carotid artery. 

“‘Yes, Sir.’ Unfortunately for you sweetheart, you clearly need to be trained-ah.” You swallow fearfully, and your heart rate quickens as a sadistic grin spreads slowly across his face, never quite reaching his eyes. The pools of black are devoid of any human character, and seem to only become more opaque like a Great White’s eyes. 

“Whadya say we start now? Oh you agree, well, good-ah.” You haven’t said anything of course, you can scarcely breathe with his hand cutting off your air supply. For a moment, your body washes over in relief as both his hands are withdrawn from you, the knife hastily cutting through the bindings tethering you to the chair, your arms still tied behind your back. 

J walks behind you, and with an elated sigh, he tips the chair over, sending you falling to the floor, your shoulder saving your face from hitting the ground full force. You try to pull yourself into a seated position without the use of your arms, but J is faster than you, seizing a bundle of your hair and tugging you onto your knees while you hiss in pain. 

“Sh, sh, sh.” His voice is anything but soothing as his rough hands stroke your face, before lightly slapping it. You hate him right now. The dreamy fantasies you had conjured up in your head are being stripped away with the reality of the sadistic psychopath in front of you. But you knew this already, didn’t you? And you still wanted him. Still asked for this in every thought you’d had about him since last Sunday.

“Look at me.” J’s circling you and you keep your eyes on the ground as you watch his large dress shoes and patchwork socks pace around you in heavy steps. You can feel his eyes pressing into your body, examining you, but you can’t look at him as tears prick at your eyes. The shoes stop in front of you and everything is silent, before --

“Look at me!” You jolt, the voice coming from his body not seeming to belong to J anymore, but to something inhuman, something from the depths of Hell. The sound chills you to the bone, loud and absolutely sinister, and you start shivering uncontrollably as you raise your eyes slowly.

Petrified, your eyes meekly inch up his body. Starting at the shoes in front of you, planted authoritatively in the ground, you trail your gaze up the purple pinstriped slacks, along the sturdy legs to his belt, below which the fabric is pulled taut by a noticeably sizable bulge. You swallow and continue to glide your eyes upward past the green vest, dress shirt and suspenders, making note of the flexed muscles of his arms, one brandishing that tell-tale knife, until you reach his neck, glimpsing the tanned skin from where he must have loosened his tie. You almost aren’t brave enough, but you force yourself to look at his face, and it’s as utterly terrifying as you feared.

He’s towering above you, looking down at you with a dark and hooded gaze that has abandoned anything remotely human in place of empty caverns of malevolence. His gaze is piercing, voracious and bloodthirsty, a villainous smirk tugging one side of his mouth into a wicked sneer. The red greasepaint is highlighting every groove and bump of his corded scars in shadows made ghostly from the full moon’s alabaster brightness spilling in from the window. You shiver as you realize it’s open, a gust of wind blowing inside with a low howl and rustling the unkempt green strands of his hair. 

Your skin breaks out in goosebumps as the air dances over your exposed legs and arms almost eagerly. It’s as if J is drawing all the chaotic energy to him, in through the window and swirling all around you. 

J bends down and pulls you to your feet without a word, staring into your eyes that are alight with sheer terror. He spins you around, cutting through the rope binding your wrists together, before bringing them forward in front of you. The muscles ache from being kept tied up in the same position for so long, but you stop yourself from groaning, too afraid to make a sound. 

J looks into your eyes again, that same malicious smirk painted on his face, before reaching up and pulling something down from the ceiling. You don’t resist as he lifts your arms up and clamps some kind of metal cuff around each wrist, before disappearing behind you to return with two metal cuffs for your ankles connected with a long bar. He fastens them onto you, your legs now forced apart in place. 

Your heart is beating out of your chest as J comes to stand in front of you, looking you over with a wolf like gaze, before whipping his knife out and cutting straight through your dress, the chill air meeting your skin like a thousand needles as the dress falls away, leaving you in only your black lace lingerie.

“Mmm.” J hums, devouring you with his eyes. “This is going to be fun-ah.”

----

Next Part: Part 3 (preview)

Okay, so why these characterizations, hmm? Well. It came out of trying to write my Joker + Ramsay Imagine. And boy oh boy was this way harder than I imagined (is way harder). I mean, both these men are POWERFUL. 

They are lords of darkness, sadists, dominants, with violence and depravity coursing through their veins, they are unstoppable god given (or maybe not god given now that I think of it) dark overlords of the most horrific and unbearable wickedness, with dare I say an almost boyish, jovial, mirthful sense of humor about it all, though make no mistake these are the most dangerous forces of evil you’ll come across (I mean, fuckkkkk, thank you universe, you have fed me). 

So how the fuck does one go about writing these two together? 

Well, F.  

I had no idea. I’m used to writing a dom + sub, a masochist + sadist, but two sadistic dominant all-powerful characters interacting? Shit. Until I started thinking, let me reframe my writing around how they are different rather than similar. And the differences I examined seemed to fit into a rough categorization of chaotic and lawful.

Lawful Evil: Ramsay has a plan, an arc, a goal: Become Roose Bolton’s legitimate heir. He builds this up for himself through playing the game, the structure - he uses his penchant for violence to build fear (in the case of all who come under his control) and loyalty (The Bastards Boys, Myranda etc). He is moving up the ladder of control. Ramsay would look at The Joker and laugh at his lack of an army - Ramsay has the full force of the Bolton army, his hounds, Winterfell and The Dreadfort, he has a seat of power that is fed by his control of everything he can possibly control. Ramsay gets off on control. Think about hunting for a second - he places beautiful, defenseless women in the woods who have no possible chance of escape - he sets it up (I mean don’t get me wrong, it’s 10/10 one of my top fantasies to be run down by Rams in the forest, but the point is, he is always in control). 

Chaotic Evil: J is not trying to control the world, he’s just having fun fucking around with it. He would laugh at what Ramsay built for himself the same way he laughs at anyone who has a goal, whether criminals or the ‘good cops’. He likes to see chaos rain down and revels in people’s shock when things don’t go according to plan. He doesn’t need or want an army, he doesn’t need or want money, he just needs and wants the untethered freedom to cause misery, havoc and violence. J is an agent of chaos, he says it himself. Hunting for J would be different, he wouldn’t structure a hunt, in fact I think that might bore him. He would rather just play it by ear, let the wind take him, and rain terror on everything he comes across. But he wouldn’t set up his massacres I don’t think. I imagine he’d just roll out of bed and be like, well, let’s go see what trouble I can cause today.

It’s not perfect of course. There are parts of Ramsay that are more chaotic, his wild dog reputation implying the unexpected, like killing Osha for no fucking good reason (did anyone else want that sex scene?), and there are parts of J that are lawful, his I’m a dog chasing cars implying direction like the pursuit of Batman.  (Why is it always dogs?)

But I like to think that’s a fun way to get to their differences. But what do I know, I’m just a hopeless masochistic romantic in love with two fictional characters.

---

And for those less nerdy than I, here are the D&D terms defined:

Lawful Evil: A Lawful Evil character is an evil character who either tries to impose or uphold a lawful system on others without regard for their wishes, and/or adheres to a particular code. They believe in order, but mostly because they believe it is the best way of realizing their evil wishes.

And then it’s the staircase that draws your attention back in. A trickle of something wet in the corner of your eye. A tingle at the back of your neck when you’re suddenly aware of how quiet it is. And all at once you’re aware of what’s on the staircase, your snow-captive eyes having missed it before: dead people. 

Three bodies stretched out along the stairs, reaching, straining desperately toward the next step, their eyes open and in brutal anguish. You recognize one as a maid, another as a butler and the third as your great aunt, hideous, her mouth forming a post-mortem howl of terror. 

And the bodies continue, at the bottom of the steps. An older cousin, another maid, and you cry out as you see your beloved German Shepherd stabbed and lifeless beside the door, a small knife lodged deeply in his side. Adrenaline coursing through you, you run down the rest of the steps and throw your arms over his body, weeping. You lift your head up, tears blurring your vision to see more bodies to the right and left of you. 

You stand up and start running through the rooms, seeing aunts and uncles and cousins and even your grandparents, dead, dead, dead. You start calling out, your voice rasping and hopeless for your parents. You run faster and faster through the rooms past dead scullery maids and cooks and guards and your little cousin Timmy, who you just built a snowman with that afternoon. All of them, dead.

Finally you see them, and you start sobbing as the hope is stamped out of your heart violently. Your father is cradling your mother, as if to shelter her from whatever blows were coming. Their blood is wet and spilling out in a circle around them and as you kneel and crawl over to them, your hands and knees become coated with it. You reach out a hand to touch your mother’s face, a small bloody handprint left on her as you collapse next to them.

You jolt awake in bed, your heart rate racing. It always takes a moment to come out of these nightmares, and you try to steady your breathing, making note of where you are and grounding yourself in reality. It helps that Copper must have heard you call out in your sleep, and he jumps onto the bed and nuzzles you with his wet nose. You take a deep breath and run your fingers through his soft black and gold fur. 

“Hi boy. Don’t worry, I just had a bad dream.” Copper isn’t convinced and curls up close to you, warmth radiating off of him. 

It’s okay. It was just a dream. You say to yourself. You look at the clock on your bedside table. 5:00am. You throw yourself back onto your pillow groaning, debating whether or not to try to fall back asleep, but you think better of it and get up. 

You clap your hands and your bedroom is immediately illuminated in a warm glow. You look around you at the familiar objects, stacks of books and notebooks strew across the room, further reassuring yourself that it was just a dream and you are perfectly safe. Your large bed, overflowing with countless pillows, an unfortunate obsession of yours, is empty of course except for a very comfortable looking German Shepherd snuggling into the covers. 

“Come on Copper.” You say with a gentle smile, and he hops down and trots out after you as you walk down the hall to the kitchen. Your parents had left you the family estate in the country after their tragic passing, but you couldn’t bear to live out alone in the middle of nowhere. Especially considering the last time you had been out in the country. 

You elected to buy a small but elegant apartment in the city, preferring the constant noise and knowledge that you were never alone to the emptiness of the family estate, which was carefully kept in mint condition by a caretaker and his family, though you never went out to visit it. You have no need for large spaces, tending not to have many friends or really let anyone in at all. It’s just Copper and you, and that’s fine.

You scratch him behind his ears before turning the coffee maker on. As you wait for your morning dose of caffeine, you sit at the kitchen island and look out through the massive windows overlooking Gotham, watching countless lights from other apartment buildings wink on one by one. You shiver in the cold, a light snow starting to fall outside. You’re really surprised you had the dream again, you can’t remember the last time you had it. Your thoughts start wandering back to that day.

It was so long ago now, that you imagine the details in it are probably not reality. Goodness knows, you couldn’t describe it to the Gotham City police when they finally showed up nearly a day later, having waited for the heavy blizzard to pass to get out to the house. You’re grateful that part of your memory is missing too, not wanting to remember what it must have been like, alone for a full day in a mansion of dead bodies.

When the police had reached you they asked a million questions, not understanding how you survived the slaughter. At first they assumed you had hidden yourself well, but the one part of that horrific incident you did remember proved otherwise. And it left the cops dumbfounded. You remember being in your room alone, lying on the ground and drawing something with such intense concentration, you nearly didn’t hear the door to your room open. 

All you remembered was that he was tall, and seemed young, couldn’t have been more than five or six years older than you. You couldn’t recall a single physical feature, only that he smelled of something very strong, like some sort of paint and gunpowder. You had slowly gotten to your knees and looked up at him. You remember being fascinated, though you didn’t know about what, and that he had knelt down and roughly grabbed the picture you had been drawing, staring at it intensely. You didn’t remember being afraid, but you could feel the terrible dark depth and breadth of evil wafting off of him. 

Needless to say, that didn’t help the police very much. They started looking for carpenters when you mentioned paint. They had been almost angry with you, the fact that you were the only survivor of a 40 person massacre and had even seen one of the killers (they assumed it must have been a gang to murder that many people) and you couldn’t remember a single useful detail. There had been a kinder, older cop who had hushed them away, yelling at them that you were clearly traumatized. He had given you a blanket, and at least everyone left you alone for a while after that.

Your coffee’s ready. As you pour yourself a cup, you suddenly feel nauseous, without the faintest idea why. It’s like an odd unsettling twisting in your stomach, something like dread. The ominous foreboding seems to spread through you like waves, swirling and crashing inside you until it consumes you entirely. You shiver.

“Okay Copper, now I’m certain I’m going insane. First thing on the to-do list today is find a friend. Any person will do. I need to talk to someone who isn’t a dog.” Copper barks and wags his tail as though in agreement, and you manage a half smile, though the sinking feeling in your gut doesn’t go away. 

So no coffee. Maybe a shower then to cool off. You think, walking to your bathroom. The dream must have gotten me worse than usual. You shake your head, again trying to remind yourself of realities. You’re in your twenties, you have a great job at a top tier financial firm (as a side note your stilettos do sound pretty fucking awesome on the marble floors in the office), you’re a badass independent woman who basically raised herself from age 10, your only friend is a dog… okay stop listing realities. You smirk to yourself as you get in the shower.

Minutes later you’re out and quickly combing through your hair before throwing on a pair of black lace panties and an oversized Black Sabbath tee shirt, because fuck it, it’s Sunday, and you don’t need to impress anyone. The sun is coming through the big glass windows and lighting your apartment up in a warm, early morning glow. You start humming to yourself already feeling better after the shower, when you round the corner into the kitchen and notice the coffee is gone. 

Fuck.

You freeze. There is no doubt in your mind that someone is in your apartment. You curse yourself for ignoring the feeling before. You’re still debating where to run to, when one of the white swivel chairs where you like to read swivels around to face you. 

Who, or what more accurately, that is grinning at you through a malicious smirk that chills you to the bone is someone you’ve seen any number of times on the television.

The Joker is here, in your apartment.

Wearing his quintessential purple trench coat, suit and green vest, his hair a dyed green mess, he is an absolute enigma. His face is covered in white grease paint, making the black cavernous circles around his dark eyes even more terrifying. The color of his eyes are something blacker than black, the color at once pitch darkness and emitting a kaleidoscope of obsidian shadow and variation capable of portraying a vast array of sadistic emotion. 

He’s leaning forward in the chair that’s clearly much too small for his domineering broad-shouldered and tall body. From the look of him seated he must be at least 6’3. He’s holding the coffee cup in one hand haphazardly while the other dons a gun, lax in his hand. His smile is painted a viscerally bloody red, a color you have ingrained in your own memory all too well, and it sweeps up his defined cheekbones along his notorious scars to create a cheshire grin. 

The Joker casually swirls the gun in his hand, a clear warning for you not to do anything stupid, and throws his legs up onto the coffee table in front of him, crossing them comfortably and leaning back in the chair. 

“Nice of you to, uh, pour me a coffee sweetheart-ah.” He enunciates the word and flicks his tongue out over the wishbone scar splitting his lip. “Could have done with some eggs too, but-t we can’t have everything, now can we?” 

Compelled by lord only knows what force, you find your legs suddenly walking towards him. You want to scream at yourself to stop moving, but your feet pad toward the chair opposite of him. He watches you as you move with a near predatory glare that would make any sane person pick up and run the other direction. 

You reach the chair and sit down, crossing your legs. You have no idea where the confidence comes from, but your voice comes out strong.

“What are you doing in my apartment?”

The Joker eyes you with amusement. Uncrossing his legs from the table, he sits forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. You can almost feel the heat radiating off of his body.

“You, uh, invited me.” He looks you dead in your eyes and you feel unexpectedly exposed. You’ve been successful at keeping people at a distance, but the way The Joker is looking into your eyes it’s like he’s reading every tiny emotion, fear, and desire, some you may not even know yourself. 

You feel vulnerable, and you blink away, unable to hold the eye contact. You try to shake off the way he seemed to peel back your protective layers and look into what was underneath it all. 

“I most certainly did not.” 

You think you see a different emotion cross over his face, something like anger, but more sensitive, almost like heartbreak, but it moves so quickly that you don’t have a chance to catch what it is. The Joker takes a large swallow of the coffee before throwing the ceramic mug onto the ground, breaking it instantly and causing you to jump from the sudden noise. 

“Don’t argue with me doll.” His voice is cold and dangerous, and looking at the gun swinging lazily from his hand, you’re reminded of the reality of your current predicament. 

You steady yourself from his sudden outburst, taking a small breath, and it dawns on you that you haven’t heard Copper all this time. Your words come out biting and vicious, surprising even yourself. 

“What have you done with my dog?” You nearly snarl at him. 

The Joker raises an eyebrow and smirks at you, doing nothing to calm the fears that start swirling inside of you, flashes of your lost childhood pet invading your mind.

“Oh, you’re a feisty little thing aren’t ya, bunny.” You bristle as he uses the pet name. “I was hoping you, uh, wouldn’t disappoint-ah.”

“Where’s my dog?” You say again, adamant. “What have you done with my dog!” Your voice raises, bordering on a yell, and the barrel of the gun is against your forehead faster than you can blink. 

“Okay, sweetheart-ah, let’s get some things straight-ah. You’re not-t in control here, so let’s get that into your little head nice and clear.” He drawls the last couple of words out in a voice that is deeply dark and makes you think of the big bad wolf, a shiver moving down your spine. 

“You get to keep being alive by the sheer grace of, well, me. So you’d better start speaking with some respect-ah. And I mean let’s really use your manners, doll, let’s remember to say ‘yes sir’ and ‘please sir’ and ‘thank you sir’.” The Joker is smiling wickedly at you, his purple gloved hand pressing the barrel of the gun into your skull.

Your lips curl into a defiant scowl, your eyes glaring at him.

“No.” 

The blow across your face shocks you, knocking you out of your chair and onto the floor and leaving your head ringing. Without a moment to recover, he’s on top of you, the force of his powerful build crushing you as his free hand encircles your neck, squeezing. 

“Bad girl.” He tsks. “And after I’ve been so patient with you.” You start gasping for air, your hands reaching up to wrap around his forearm, trying in vain to pull him off of you. He’s so close now that you feel scorched by the heat radiating off of him, his muscles flexing as he all too easily overpowers you. 

Your senses are invaded by the smell of him, like...paint...and...gunpowder. Your hands release his forearm and you stop struggling, memories flooding back like a sink that has been sealed shut for years suddenly turned onto full intensity. The images come flashing back so erratically and powerfully, you can’t even process them.

The manor house your family had rented out for the holidays, large enough to host your entire family, staff and guards for a whole week. How you had staked out in your bedroom when none of your cousins wanted to play with you, not after you had suggested they make anatomically correct snowmen, and they wouldn’t stop calling you ‘weird girl’. 

That’s where he had found you, in your bedroom, with a rather unnatural assortment of items around you. Several barbie dolls you had stolen from a younger cousin were stripped naked and tied up in intricate knots hanging from furniture, while others were simply cut up into pieces and scattered around the room. 

There was a large history book on medieval torture open to your right and A Clockwork Orange to your left. And there you were, wearing a pretty blue and white flowered dress, tucking a strand of your long hair behind your ear and drawing a picture of a mass murder with colored pencils. 

The Joker releases the hold on your neck as he watches the series of memories flash across your eyes, his gaze trained on you intensely. He stands up and watches you as you slowly pull yourself to a seated position, the gaps in your memories filling in all at once. It’s all clear then. 

A young Joker standing in your doorway, face painted and smelling like greasepaint and gunpowder, smiling wickedly and brandishing a blood soaked knife as he kicked open the door. 

Your eyes narrow and you throw yourself onto your feet, running at him full force as you feel the weight of realization that your family’s murderer is standing in front of you. You don’t know what you expected to do when you reached him, your hands balling into fists, but The Joker easily catches your wrists with a pressure you can't break, backing you up against the glass windows. 

“Memories coming back doll?” His voice is gravely and dominant, but there’s a softer edge buried somewhere deeper in it. Your eyes fill with tears and your voice comes out in choked sobs.

“You killed my family!” 

His voice is hard as steel when he answers you, leaning closer into you. “Yes.” 

“Why!” You don’t know what to think, the memories and emotions overloading you to the point where nothing makes sense anymore. 

The Joker smiles at you, and you’re reminded that the person in front of you is a psychopath, incapable of empathy, who kills people just because he wants to. 

“Why? Why!” The Joker lets out a hyena cackling laugh, throwing his head back before wrapping his hand around your neck, his thumb pressing into your jaw. “The same reason anyone does anything sweetheart. I did it for fun-ah.”

“You’re sick.” You blurt out, your tears drying up and replacing with anger.

“Well if I’m sick,” The Joker raises his eyebrows at you knowingly, “then you’re, uh, sick too.” He laughs loudly and maniacally, causing you to jump. “Why so serious-ah?” He says brandishing the word. “It’s much too heavy in this room, doll. Whadya say we have a laugh-ah?”

You look at him disgustingly, and you’re made aware of a knife pressing gently into your side, sliding up over your t-shirt until it reaches your mouth, the steel cold against your lips, pressing lightly. 

“What is there to laugh about?” You breathe out, heart rate increasing at the knife that could so easily cut into you. 

“Well, uh” The Joker leans into your neck and you feel goosebumps break out over your skin. His lips ghost your neck, and you’re aghast that you feel a little ball of warmth move through you as the corded knots of his scars tickle your neck. “I think it’s funny, bunny, that you despise me at the same time you desperately need me.”

“What are you talking about?” You struggle against him, but the hand around your neck only presses harder while his other moves to grab your hip bone hard enough to leave a bruise, caging you in place against the windowed wall. 

Fear courses through you as you glance sideways through the glass and remember just how high above the city you are. If he pushed hard enough, he could easily break the window and send you falling to your death.

“Oh, please, babygirl. I knew it the second I saw you. You’re just a little masochist, ain’t-cha?” 

You thrash your body against him, but the more he asserts his power over you, the more you can’t help the tingling feeling spreading through you. You should feel disgusted, sickened, that the man who killed your entire family is touching you this way. 

But you don’t. The horrid truth is, he’s right. You want him to take you. You need it. All at once, you stop struggling against him, defeated. 

He releases you and pats your cheek none too gently. 

“That’s my good girl.” 

The Joker walks behind the counter and picks something up, carrying over the large bundle and depositing it on one of the chairs. You realize it’s Copper and run over to him, crouching down and running your hands through his fur until you feel a heartbeat. 

“He’s alive.” You breathe out a sigh of relief. 

“Just knocked out dollface.” 

You stand and walk toward The Joker, needing to ask him the question that’s been on your mind for years now. 

“Why didn’t you kill me that day?” 

The Joker grins and saunters over to you, absently tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear when he reaches you.

“Because-ah,” He grabs your arms, pressing into your skin roughly with a force that’s sure to leave bruises. “You’re special. And you’re mine.” The word is definitive, unquestionable, and you’re left wondering if you’re the only one of The Joker’s victims he’s let live. 

“It took me a long time to find you. But now that I have, bunny, you won’t be going anywhere.” 

Your face softens at that, and you realize it’s because no one has ever looked at you the way he is looking at you now. Like they see you. Not even your parents, who you are remembering more and more clearly as cold and almost fearful of you, desperate for you to ‘just be normal’. 

No one has looked at you the way he is now, and you find yourself wanting to be closer to him, nevermind all the warning bells going off in your head that this is likely the most stupid idea you’ve ever had, that this is The Joker. 

But you can’t help it, you’re smiling up at him, letting all the overthinking go and basking in this momentary truth that someone wants the actual you. He’s staring into your eyes with a delightful possessiveness as he pulls you to him and plants a row of kisses and bites on your neck, exposed for him in a little show of submission, causing him to growl hungrily against you. 

“And dollface,” he whispers in your ear, “You can call me J.”

Your body jolts as he lands a much harsher bite closer to your collarbone, causing you to emit a sound somewhere between a gasp and a mewl. 

“J?” 

He hums against your skin, sending warm vibrations through you.

“What are you going to call me?”

You feel him break into a smile against your skin, drawing away from his attack on your neck to stare at you, his jet black eyes a myriad of sadistic carnal desires. 

You feel the warmth spread through your core as he devours you with his gaze alone. His answer is simple.

“Mine.”

---

Next Part: Part 2

The feeling of his large hand wrapping around your neck sent shivers down your spine as you realized how very easy it would be for him to snap your neck. But much as the thought terrified you, the gentle yet steady pressure of his thumb circling around and around your skin sent a little ball of warmth spinning through you. You tried to push the feeling away. 

His thoughts seemingly coming to some kind to some sort of conclusion, though you hadn’t the faintest idea what that conclusion was, J’s hand moved to grip your arm and roughly pull you to your feet as if you weighed no more than a rag doll.

“Let’s, uh, go for a walk bunny.”

“N-Now?” Your voice came out shaky again. “I-It’s still dark out.”

J rolled his eyes at you. “Early morning’s the best time for hunting sweetheart-t. Didn’t your, uh, Lord Flay teach you that? I heard he’s a hunter too.” When you shook your head in response, J continued, pressing his body closer to yours as you leaned back against the wall, his face now only inches from yours. 

“Oh that’s right-t. He only hunts women in the woods. He sets it all up-ah. Now where’s the fun in that?” He let out a loud cackle right in your face causing you to jump. He was close enough now that you could see every bump, curl and detail in his scars. J sees you looking at them.

“What happened bunny? You look scared. Is it the scars?” J’s hand that’s still on your arm grips tighter, while his other hand circles your neck once again, this time his thumb pressing into your jaw.

“You wanna know how I got them? I’ll tell you.” His thumb moves to sweep over your mouth, pressing the bottom lip down. “You see, I had a wife, beautiful, like you.” J looks at you hungrily as your heart rate quickens. 

“She’s friendly with the villagers, with the uh, other men-ah. She says it’s nice to be friendly-ah, that I shouldn’t worry so much-ah. She says I oughta smile more.” J slides his thumb along your bottom lip to the right corner of your mouth, tugging it up into a sideways grin. You shiver as he continues. 

“One day, she goes out alone for a walk in the woods-ah. Some of the, uh, men follow her. They rape her, and cut up her face. She comes home and can’t look at herself anymore-ah. I just want to see her smile again. So I do this,” J releases your neck to gesture to his scars “with a razor.”

You feel a pang of sadness in your chest, and your eyes soften. J must see this, and you think you see him smirk when he sees your reaction. That leaves you questioning the factual nature of the story. 

“Now I see the funny side.” J goes on, now a much more noticeable grin spreading across his face. “Now I’m always smiling!” 

Your eyes harden. He seems to be reading the display of emotions across your face and just grins wider.

“Now then bunny, let’s go for a walk-ah.” He says as he grabs your arm hard enough to leave a bruise and pulls you out of the door.

The air outside is laden with that early Northern morning chill and you shiver, your light blue dress from yesterday clearly not cutting it for the current weather. 

It’s still dark outside but you are beginning to see the dull blue light of daybreak spread across the sky from the east. You can make out the trees around you, and J in front of you, but not much else. You look back for the hut, but it’s already disappeared into the darkness. 

You squint at the ground, trying to look for rocks and branches as you hurry your feet along to keep up with the speed J is pulling you along. He’s just too fast though, and a large rock comes out of nowhere causing you to trip and swear as you fall forward. 

J braces you easily before you hit the ground and chuckles. 

“That doesn’t sound like the, uh, proper language for a princess, doll.” 

“Fuck you.” You say in spite of yourself, and J laughs again. “I think I broke my toe.” J laughs even harder at that, before grabbing your waist and throwing you over his shoulder. 

“Don’t you worry princess, I’ll carry you.” You struggle as he picks up his fast pace again.

“J, put me down!” 

J laughs lightheartedly and gives your ass a light smack. You sharply inhale and blush in the darkness.

“Can’t do that dollface. We need to move fast so we don’t miss the, uh, action.”

You pout and let your head and shoulders slump. There is clearly no use in trying to fight him, and as embarrassing as this situation is, you prefer it to being knocked out because you resisted.

From your position on J’s shoulder, you can see the sun rising behind you and the cool blue light breaking over the forest. As a breeze blows your hair forward and into your face, you smell something delicious and almost instantly pangs of hunger overtake your stomach. There must be a fire somewhere nearby. 

You cry out as J drops you to the ground. 

“Zip it sweetheart. Don’t want to lose the, uh, element of surprise-ah.” J whispers. You look through the small pocket of trees in front of you to see you are only about twenty feet away from a small fire with four men huddled around it, one of them turning something over the fire. The delicious smell of meat invades your senses.

A clear master at knot-tying, J produces rope from one of the deep pockets of his long coat and quickly devises a binding that ties you standing up to the tree behind you. As the sun further lights up J and your surroundings, you are reminded again how strange his attire is. 

The long coat he is wearing is an incredibly rich, bright purple, and the light leather armor beneath it purple and green. You can’t stop combing over it with your eyes. As he finishes tying you up, he leans back, regarding his handiwork. 

“It’s, uh, not polite to stare.” You quickly shift your eyes away, but J grabs your chin and forces your eyes to meet his. “Like my style, bunny?” He says, brandishing the word. “Well, it’s incomplete-ah. But we’re about to solve that problem right now.” Your quizzical look only makes him smile. “Watch and see-ah.”

J turns and almost prances through the trees to where the men sit around the fire, his hands in his pockets as he saunters over. 

“Good morning gentlemen!” J’s voice rings out.

The four men turn as they see J approaching, one of them quickly shifting to his feet and drawing his sword. He looks like the ringleader. 

“Hey, I know who that is. Jared, get your sword out. Jared! That’s --”

J cuts him off as he’s standing right behind the man pointed out as Jared, a tall broad shouldered dirty looking man with a hideous jagged scar going from his right temple all the way diagonally across his face. Jared unsheathes his blade, grimacing, as he makes to turn around and face J.

“Want to see a magic trick?”

You don’t know how long it goes on. The stabbing and bone breaking and laughing. He never seems to stop laughing. Ramsay hadn’t had you watch him torture his victims, he only displayed their battered corpses on the wall, so this was the first time you were actually watching people die. And die horrifically. 

J looked so incredibly, disturbingly happy as he decorated each man’s body with gashes and punctures and bruises. He made it last as long as possible, relishing in how they begged for mercy and pleaded with everything they had to offer - their money, their secrets, their wives, their children...before he finished them off, howling as he did. 

You felt nauseous to the pit of your stomach. You had tried closing your eyes during the worst of it, but you couldn't block out the screams, the terrible screams. 

When it was silent, you opened your eyes to see the scene in front of you unfold. 

J, kneeling in front of the fire pit, grabbed a handful of now-cool coals and used his fingers to paint large dark, messy circles around his eyes. As he stood from the fire, you noticed that his shoulder was bleeding from where one of the men’s blades had apparently managed to pierce him. 

Reaching into the wound with a maniac laugh that made you cold to the bone, he coated his fingers in the sticky substance before smearing it across his mouth and up his scars, painting his face in a cheshire grin.

He shook his head and emitted a loud, resounding and utterly dark laugh before his eyes found purchase on you. He strode over to you with a speed that was nothing short of terrifying. 

He was upon you in seconds, the smell of a fire and blood wafting off of him as one large hand encircled your neck and the other grabbed your sharp hip bone through your dress, holding you in place. His face pressed close to yours, his lips only inches away as he spoke.

“Enjoy the show-ah?” His voice was deep and dark. You start shaking, your eyes lighting up with fear as you wonder what he’s going to do to you now that all the others are dead.

“I asked you a question, bunny.” He growls when you don’t answer right away. 

You nod your head quickly, but he runs his thumb along your bottom lip and pulls it down, much rougher than he did earlier, before popping his thumb into your mouth to open it. 

“Use your words.”

“I-I liked the show.” You stutter out. J smiles.

“Any, uh, favorite scenes? Because I thought the highlight was slicing up poor Jared, but I’m starting to change my mind-ah.” J runs the hand on your hip up your side and you feel your skin break out in goosebumps. His hand stops at your breast where he flicks your nipple, poking through your dress and hard from the cold. 

You fidget when he does that, trying to push away the warm sensation gathering in your core when he does. J smirks and glances at your legs, which have pulled together. 

“Looks as though you might agree. Let’s, uh, take a look, sweetheart-t.” 

You can’t stop it this time, as the tingling sensation spreads through you making you squirm and rub your legs together. You push out of your mind the awful fear of what Ramsay would do if he saw you like this. 

You can’t control it anymore, you can’t lie to yourself, part of you wants him to take you. Even after watching what he did to those men. You want him. 

His hand dips beneath your dress and runs up your thigh, reaching the line of your panties. His finger lands on the wet fabric, running a featherlight circle around your clit. You can’t stop it before it happens, and a tiny moan escapes your lips.

J stops moving his finger and raises an eyebrow knowingly.

“Just as I thought-t. You’re soaking wet, bunny.” Your face turns into a pout and you squeeze your legs tighter together around his hand, desperate for friction. J laughs. “How long have you wanted me to touch you [Y/N], hmm? How long have you been a little slut for me?” 

He graces you with another circle of his finger before grabbing the line of your panties only to release them, snapping them back against your skin. You struggle against your bindings.

“Don’t, uh, worry doll. I’ll give you what you need-ah.” J leans in, the frightening black around his eyes and his bloody mouth sending adrenaline shooting through your veins and telling you to run run run. 

But you can’t run, and even if you could, you don’t think you would now. J’s lips ghost your neck, before landing a quick sharp bite to your exposed skin and causing you to let out a sound somewhere between a gasp and a mewl. 

J’s mouth is at your ear now, whispering to you, his breath warm against your skin. 

“I have to warn you though, bunny, I like to break things.” The words have an effect you can’t believe, causing your body to heat up and your voice to come out in a hushed pant.

“I want you to break me J.” As he nips and kisses your neck, you feel him smile against your skin and sigh. It’s a sound that resigns you to your fate. 

That’s when you hear the hounds.

You felt the temperature of the blood as if it were really real, and the precise sting of the sharp blade each time it cut into your skin. You didn’t scream though, steeling yourself against the onslaught of pain as he nicked your arms, thighs and chest with the knife. 

The man didn’t make any sound, but you could tell from his body language that he was frustrated at your lack of reaction. The next incision he made was to your little finger, and it was far deeper than the ones before. You managed not to cry out, until suddenly he grasped the skin and started peeling it away from the muscle causing you to emit a blood curdling scream. 

As your voice hit notes you didn’t know were possible, he was suddenly leaning into your neck and you could hear his voice cool and clear resounding in your ears and vibrating through your entire body. The voice was unmistakably Ramsay’s. 

“I told you, you were mine.” 

Panting and soaked in a cold sweat, you woke up in near complete darkness to the sound of your own voice still screaming. Frantically, you swept your eyes around your surroundings and made a move to sit up before realizing that your hands were completely bound. 

With difficulty, you managed to shift from lying down into a sitting position as your eyes combed through the blackness around you, making out the dark shadows of four walls and a roof above. You were clearly in a small hut of some sort, though you couldn’t remember how you got here.

Trying to steady your breathing, your heart still beating out of your chest from the dream, you continued your visual sweep, squinting as you tried to make out shapes in the darkness. You realized you were sitting on a small mattress thrown directly on top of a hard dirt floor. 

It began slowly coming back to you.

-- 

J hadn’t hauled you off more than 100 feet before reality hit you full force and you started kicking and screaming bloody murder for him to put you down. You still had no idea why your defensive forces had just given out upon initially meeting this strange man. You chalked it up to shock. You certainly had never had an interaction with anyone like J, especially not a commoner. 

When you hadn’t obeyed his command of ‘zip it dollface’, he had dropped you to the ground and landed a decisive blow to your head that knocked you unconscious immediately. Apparently, he had carried you off to wherever this shack was.

--

Suddenly, as if forming themselves out the darkness itself, you saw two obsidian eyes staring intently at you. You felt your heart rate pick up again. The eyes seemed blacker than the darkness itself. 

As your vision adjusted, a silhouette around those two eyes started to take shape of a man sitting upright and leaning against the wall directly opposite you, his head tilted back and observing you with a keen interest. You swallowed.

“Hello?” Your voice came out huffed and frightened.

“Hello.” The voice that answered you was menacingly deep and absolutely terrifying. It sounded like what you imagined a black dragon would sound like if it spoke, or a fire demon from somewhere deep deep beneath the ground.

You heard the sound of flint hitting rock and braced your eyes for light. When the fire appeared, it was inside a small lantern that immediately illuminated the room in a warm glow, casting long dark shadows on the walls and lighting up the somehow equally handsome and terrifying face staring at you. You yelped. 

“It’s, uh, only me doll.” His voice shifted to take on a gravely, almost nasal, edge. It shocked you how easily it could change. 

J stood and walked the few feet over to the mattress, carrying the lantern with him and setting it down in the center of the room. He proceeded to sit down on the edge of the mattress, causing you to pull your legs into your chest in an attempt to create more distance between you and your captor. 

He didn’t seem to notice, staring intently into the lantern which illuminated his black eyes as they caught the reflection of the licking flames. In a split second, he snapped his gaze onto you. 

“Had a bad dream-ah?” J considered you with his dark eyes. 

“Tell me,” His hand shot out and he was upon you, closing the space between your two bodies in a matter of a second and causing you to cry out in surprise. He grabbed your chin turning your head side to side and regarding your expression as a devious smile spread across his face. 

“What do a, uh, princess’s nightmares look like?” He let out a sharp laugh in your face and stood up, apparently no longer interested in you. It bothered you that he went from focusing on you as if you were seemingly the only thing in the universe to ignoring you completely. 

You got the sense J got bored easily.  And you refused to be considered boring. Your voice came out quiet but steady.

“I dreamt I was being flayed living.” 

J turned on his heel and swung his body back down to crouch beside you, pushing his hair back with his hand, his voice low. 

“Well, uh, sweetheart-ah, that’s not very original. You know, with your, uh, engagement to Lord Flay-ah.” 

You looked him coolly in the eyes. Here it was again. This strange confidence. A sudden desire to push the confines of your current predicament, to do something risky. You had no actual idea who this man was, but you couldn’t deny that being around him made you want to do something rebellious. Be something rebellious. 

If you were smart, you would be quiet and play along with his rules. If you were smart, you would wait patiently for Ramsay to show up and kill him, likely in some horrific way. If you were smart… But J didn’t make you want to be smart. He made you want to be something else entirely.

“Being flayed isn’t what scared me.” Your voice came out confident. “It’s that I liked it.” 

J leaned back from you, regarding you almost clinically, his eyes devouring every part of your body and facial expressions. He seemed to be calculating something very carefully, looking for discrepancies.

“Hmmm.”  He hummed.

****

Ramsay was furious. 

He was standing around the table in the Great Hall with Roose and 10 of the Bolton guard, gathered to discuss the next course of action. The icy fire in his eyes alone could have skinned something alive.

Someone had taken what was his. The question was, who had the audacity to steal from him. 

When you hadn’t returned that evening, he immediately suspected outside interference, knowing there was absolutely no chance you would have left The Dreadfort of your own accord.

He was that certain of his power over you.

And he was right. You wouldn’t have. Ramsay had you lock and key under his control, building his complete dominance over you with every little interaction. You knew you belonged to him. And yet, unbeknownst to him, you were currently under the influence of a very different kind of power. 

Equally strong, the powers of lawful evil and chaotic evil were pulling at your core.  

“You let her go into the woods alone.” Roose’s cold voice sliced through the air. 

Ramsay met his eyes. 

“No one would dare touch her.” 

Roose moved closer to stand in front of Ramsay. The room was silent as he spoke. 

“You’re over-confident about your position.” He paused. “To many of the men outside these walls, you’re still just a bastard.” 

Ramsay’s hands clenched into fists, but he said nothing in response. Roose regarded him cooly, reading what was in his eyes. “You want to release the hounds.”

Ramsay straightened up. “My hounds will find her, Father, and the fool who took her. I’ll bring him back and make an example of him for all the North to see.”

Roose looked him over, considering.

“No.” Vivid anger flashed in Ramsay’s eyes as Roose spoke. “I can see now how foolish I was to give you the Lannister girl. I clearly should have taken the opportunity myself, seeing how you’ve squandered it so senselessly.”

Ramsay’s fists clenched tighter.

“I’ll go after her myself. And when we return, I’m going to reconsider your position. Perhaps a change of engagement is in order.”

It happened in the span of a second. 

Ramsay drove the blade of his dagger deep into Roose’s chest. The Bolton guard standing around the table made to step forward and aid their dying Lord, but one look at Ramsay’s eyes had them frozen in place.

“No, Father, that simply won’t do.” Ramsay gripped Roose’s shoulder as he twisted the blade deeper. “I have grand plans for House Bolton. For my house.”  Ramsay withdrew the blade, Roose immediately falling to the ground, bleeding out. 

“You murdered Lord Bolton!” Regaining his confidence, one of the guards ran at Ramsay, only to be met with a dagger straight through his eye, crumpling to the ground. 

Ramsay stepped back, spreading his arms wide, a dagger in each. 

“Does anyone else have anything to say?” Some of the guards looked at Ramsay with a burning hatred, but their expressions began to change rather quickly as they made out the shapes of Skinner, Damon, Grunt and Allyn approaching the center of the room from out of the shadows. 

“Nice of you to make an appearance boys!” Ramsay’s signature sadistic grin spread wickedly across his face as The Bastard’s Boys surrounded the guards.

Damon, a tall broad shouldered brunette famous for his love of whipping things, and Ramsay’s right hand man, stepped to stand beside him. He crossed his muscular arms and looked at the guards.“Men, show some respect. This is Lord Bolton now.” Damon grinned. 

The Bastards Boys plunged their knives into the few guards who still looked shaken over Roose’s death, killing any who would even think of opposing the new Lord Bolton. 

The remaining five guards latched their eyes onto Ramsay, who stood at the head of the table now, looking every inch like a dark and terrible god. One guard stepped forward and spoke.

“What would you command Lord Bolton?”

Ramsay smirked, his bright blue eyes lighting up maliciously. 

“Release the hounds.”

More Rams + Other Psychopaths + Random Stuff (idk)

Visuals

Valentine’s Day is on my mind… So here’s a lovely dose of Rams.

You can’t kill me. I’m a part of you now.

Book page wallpaper

Poems

a poem for mismatched love...

a poem for lack of self...

Short snippets

Hunt me down in the woods darling, make me yours

The Bastard’s Girls / A Ramsay Bolton playlist

This Is Love, by Air Traffic Controller

As much as you truly hated Ramsay for all the vile things you’d watched him do, you couldn’t deny the fact that some part of you found him downright handsome.

He was nonchalantly turning one of his many knives over and over in his hand. He shot a glance at you and stood up when you didn’t move right away. You flinched as his chair made a scraping noise against the floor as he pushed it away. 

Ramsay strode up to you so that you were only inches apart. “[Y/N], I told you to kneel. Now, get on your knees.” His eyes were a dangerous ice blue, daring you to disobey. 

You squared your shoulders defiantly. “You sent a handmaid to drag me out of bed after midnight and now you’re ordering me to kneel for some offense I don’t even know I’ve committed. I’m the King’s sister, Twin Lannister’s granddaughter, not to mention your betrothed. You can’t treat me like one of your whores.”

The slap across your face shocked you, but you had no time to recover as his hand shot out to grip your neck, squeezing.

“You’re really beginning to test my patience.” Ramsay growled. “I don’t care who you used to belong to, princess. You’re mine now.” His stare bore into you. “And after the wedding, you can be sure I’ll mark you so you don’t forget.” The corners of his mouth turned up into a slight smile at that last remark. 

You knew he was right. It didn’t matter who you were, not here, not in The North. Your infamous father, Robert Baratheon, was dead, and everyone with any sense knew that Tywin Lannister was running the kingdom while your fool of an older brother Joffrey was playing at being King. 

But Tywin was no fool. He likely knew what Ramsay Bolton was, but he arranged this dreadful marriage anyway, his only concern formally solidifying the bond between the capital and The North, the largest kingdom. With Roose Bolton named Warden of the North, and Ramsay his successor, it was the strategic choice.

Your mother had nearly killed your grandfather when she heard of his plans to marry her oldest daughter off to The Boltons. But alas, Tywin was the real source of power, and none of them had any choice. 

Ramsay squeezed your neck tighter and you began gasping for air, your hands reaching up to wrap around his forearm, trying to pull him off of you. 

“You think you’re a golden haired darling little thing don’t you.” Ramsay snickered. “Let me tell you a secret sweetling.” You began clawing at his arm, desperate for air. “Once we’re married, I won’t have to worry about keeping you untarnished for the wedding.” 

You started to turn pale, the color draining out of your face. “So when you misbehave, I won’t think twice. I’ll drag you into the dungeons and fasten your wrists and ankles to the cross. I’ll strip you naked and cut and flay you any way I like. I’ll fuck you until you bleed and keep you chained up for days without food or water if I want to because you’ll be my property. So you had better adjust your attitude.”

Ramsay released your neck only to grab your chin hard enough to leave a bruise, jerking your face up to his while your starved lungs desperately refilled themselves with air. 

“Now kneel. I hate asking a second time.” Ramsay’s voice was laden with venom and your eyes grew wide, unable to move from the shock of what just happened. 

Ramsay had certainly toyed with you in the last month since you arrived at The Dreadfort, and you had seen his handiwork on the many flayed bodies decorating the outer walls, but he had not touched you until now. Your own naivete had led you to believe he would keep his sadistic predilections to pretty young whores and unfortunate serving girls. Evidently, you were wrong.

Ramsay sighed, clearly annoyed at your inability to immediately comply with his demand. You started to panic as he walked around behind you only to roughly push you to your knees, your bare legs underneath your barely-opaque white nightgown hitting the floor hard.

“That’s better.” Ramsay circled back around to your front and crouched down in front of you. He reached out to almost tenderly caress your cheek, causing you to flinch and him to smile at your reaction. “Do you know why you’re being punished little rabbit?” You shook your head, your big green eyes staring up fearfully at him. 

“No? Well.” He drew his hand away from you, a malicious smirk spreading slowly across his face. You knew if he was excited about something, it couldn’t possibly spell anything good for you.“You haven’t been the most doting bride to be darling, now have you.” 

His face twisted into a mock frown. “You haven’t once come to see me in my bedchambers. It’s made me concerned for the future of our marriage.” His eyes were laughing at you, enjoying this little game of torment, knowing full well you weren’t supposed to have any intimate relations with him until after the wedding.

Your words came out in a quick rush, desperate to explain yourself lest he decide to hurt you. “I’m supposed to stay a virgin until the bedding ceremony!” Your voice came out sounding so much smaller than before. Ramsay heard it too, and smiled.

“There there [Y/N].” He mused, giving your head a pat and causing you to flinch at his touch. “It’s not your fault that the ladies of King’s Landing didn’t properly train you on your responsibilities.” 

He grabbed your chin roughly, running his thumb over your bottom lip before popping it into your mouth. He tasted like the forest and something, almost metallic. “There are many things that good girls should do before the bedding ceremony. You don’t need to worry though. I’ll teach you.”

Ramsay stood up then, your gaze following him upward to where he towered above you, a sizable bulge noticeable through his pants. He began unfastening his belt and loosening his pants to reveal, well, you had never seen one before, but you could only imagine it was…

“Never seen one before sweetling? That’s rather adorable, even for you.” Ramsay grabbed one of your delicate hands and moved it toward his cock. You knew you had nothing to compare this to, but you had to admit that it looked giant. You had no idea how that was expected to fit inside you. You trembled at the thought.

Ramsay guided your hand to start stroking up and down his length. He watched your wide eyed expression greedily as you began to get the rhythm. Ramsay released your hand only to grab a bundle of your hair and pull it harshly, forcing you to look up at him. 

“You can do better than that pet. Open up.” Intuitively, you knew what was expected of you, Ramsay’s stare telling you everything you needed to know. You parted your lips and began tenderly licking the tip of his cock, then flattening your tongue and drawing it from tip to base. You heard Ramsay’s breathing hitch and looked up at him, towering above you like a dark god.

“Like that Ramsay?” You asked almost shyly, blushing. 

Ramsay responded by pulling your hair again, eliciting a small yelp from you.

“‘Like that Sir’. Mind your manners pet. And you’ll have to try a lot harder than that to impress me.” With that, Ramsay grabbed the back of your head and shoved it down the entirety of his length, causing you to gag and lose your breath completely. Your hands grabbed onto his legs to steady yourself as he held you in place, his cock hitting the back of your throat.

He released your head and pulled out, only to slam back into you again, tears starting to prick in the corners of your eyes. All this time and you hadn’t once thought about the chance that someone might walk in on this scene in the middle of the great hall. Then again, it was the middle of the night and you had a suspicion that Ramsay wouldn’t care if someone did. The low growl of his voice took you out of your thoughts.

“Good girl.” He praised you, and you felt an unexpected little ball of warmth inside you, causing you to shift slightly on your knees. You started bobbing your head and stroking his length in time, eager for more praise. 

Ramsay didn’t let you keep control though. He thrust his hips forward, pushing himself down your throat with a tight grip on your head, securely keeping you in place. You heard his breathing hitch again as his fingers dug into your skull, your own breath taken away by the sheer size of him. With a final push, he let out a low growl and came down your throat, holding you in place until the last of the come had drained out of him. You could feel it dripping down the back of your throat as he pulled out of your mouth.

“Very good girl.” Your doe eyes smiled up at him. You couldn’t understand why, but the feeling of him violating you in this way was so arousing. Perhaps all your embroidery and dancing lessons hadn’t been enough for you in the Capital. Perhaps you had grown bored over the years, but ignored it. This though, Ramsay and his complete control over you, was new. And you wanted more of it.

Ramsay pulled you up to your feet roughly. “You look quite pretty with my cock in your mouth pet.” A small smile spread across your features. You really were a beauty, and Ramsay knew it. 

He would never say it to you, but he never imagined he would marry such highborn royalty, not to mention one of the most beautiful royals in Westeros. Many lords had been vying for you, but The Boltons had ensured they won the bid. There were so many things he was going to do to you. 

“I expect to see you in my chambers tomorrow evening darling. Don’t disappoint me.”

“Yes, Sir.” 

Ramsay’s cock twitched at that, your voice intoxicating to him. He grabbed a bundle of your hair and pulled you into him, his lips inches from yours.

“That’s my good little girl. You’re mine now [Y/N]. Only mine.” 

****

You had decided to go for a ride. It was an absolutely beautiful Summer day, and a particularly warm one, especially for The North. You felt no need to bring a guard with you as every person in this part of the country knew who you were and knew who you were betrothed to. No one would dare so much as look at you for fear of what Ramsay Bolton would do.

You were riding through the familiar forests surrounding The Dreadfort, smiling at the sounds of the birds in the trees and the shady brooks babbling away. It was hard to remember that Ramsay used these same woods to hunt women. 

You had ridden for maybe an hour when you decided it would be a good time to stop and eat the small lunch you had brought with you. You dismounted Blanche, a stunningly beautiful white mare that Ramsay had given you as an engagement gift, and tied her up. You patted her neck and she whinnied sweetly at you, making you smile. It really was a lovely --

A strange noise drew your attention to a grove of trees not far off. Grabbing your knife, another, less public, gift from Ramsay, you silently approached the clearing. 

It sounded like someone was dragging something heavy. As you got closer, you found a large enough tree to conceal you and peaked out from behind it to get a look at where the noise was coming from.

A tall man, very muscular with tanned skin was dragging what looked like several dead bodies into a large pile in the clearing. You took a gamble, and darted from your tree to one even closer to see better. 

They were definitely dead bodies, all men, and all with various torturous wounds ranging from mutilations to stabbings to what looked like skin peeled off with a potato peeler. You had seen plenty of flayed humans thanks to Ramsay, but this wasn’t his handiwork, this was a different signature.

As the man deposited the last body on the pile, he ran his hand through his hair and turned to rummage through his things, producing a flask and taking large swigs of water. He then poured some straight over his hair and shook his head vigorously, the water droplets flying everywhere and his voice letting out an almost maniac scream that made you jump.

He was quite handsome. You watched as he pulled his light leather armor off to reveal his shirtless chest. His clothes were finely made, but in the most bizarre purple and green colors. You had never seen anyone dressed like that before.

And he had beautiful tousled blonde hair, a rarity in The North, and a tall powerful build, his clearly defined muscles visibly bulging as he ran his hand through his hair again. But what was interesting, what you couldn’t stop staring at, were the scars on his face.

You’d seen many scars since you’d come to The Dreadfort, but you had never seen any like this. The strange scars ran like an upturned smile from both corners of his mouth to his structured cheekbones.  You wondered what could have done something like that.

You froze as his voice, a somehow simultaneously frightening and soothing sound, rang out.

“Say, uh, sweetheart. Why don’t you come out into the light.” Swallowing hard as adrenaline shot through you, you stepped from behind the tree and into the grove.

The man leaned back against a tree, taking in the sight of you with his dark eyes. You were wearing a simple light blue dress with a questionably low neckline, revealing your pretty young body delightfully. Your long golden hair was cascading in curls down your back and your green eyes were shyly darting away from his stare.

“Mmm. Lovely.” The man hummed, looking at you. “And why is it that such a, uh, innocent young thing is out all alone in the woods?” 

You looked at the ground as you answered, not sure why he was making you so nervous. Maybe it was from fear that Ramsay would punish you later for speaking to another man, maybe for fear of the man himself. You weren’t sure.

“It’s just a nice day, I thought I’d go riding. Anyway, I’m not innocent, and it’s perfectly safe for me to go out alone. I’m Robert Baratheon’s daughter, and promised to Ramsay Bolton. No one would dare touch me. Who are you?”

The man laughed then, an almost maniac laugh as he stood, and sauntered over to you. “You’re a, uh, p-r-in-c-ess then? Is that right sweetheart?” He closed in, circling around you. For some reason you found yourself frozen in place. 

Suddenly he was behind you, placing his large hands over your exposed collar bone and drumming his fingers against you. He leaned into your ear, his lips nearly brushing your exposed neck.

“My name is The Joker, but you can call me J sweetheart.” He licked his lips. “And why is a princess afraid of someone like me, hmm?” He stepped back and walked around to face you again, his forehead wrinkling in a feigned pout. 

You straightened up. “I’m not afraid of you.” You hoped your voice was coming out more sure than you felt. “Anyway I don’t even know who you are. I don’t think you’re from here, and I wouldn’t have any problem demanding someone from the Bolton guard take your head.” You stood taller, feeling the confidence build. “In fact, I’d take your head myself.”

J chuckled and his eyes gleamed. “You have a little fight in you, I like that.” He leaned into you. “I’m not sure if all the, uh, princesses in Westeros are as dumb as you bunny, but having a famous name is exactly the reason NOT to go out riding alone in the big bad woods.” He drawled out the last three words in a much deeper voice, sending shivers down your spine.

“What did these men do?” You tried desperately to get control back of this conversation, but something about his way of speaking made logical thoughts difficult. 

J’s eyes widened. “Do? Do?!” He laughed suddenly loudly and maniacally, his black eyes filling with some combination of mirth and insanity. “Oh bunny, they didn’t do anything. I, uh,” J leaned closer to you, as if telling you a secret. “I killed them for f-u-n- ah.”

“You’re just like Ramsay.” You blurt out. 

“Ramsay?” J stepped back, turning on his heel and walking away from you over to the pile of bodies. He threw up his hands and shouted. “Ramsay, Ramsay, Ramsay, Ramsay, Ramsay-ah. You can’t walk one mile, one fucking mile in this place without hearing that name.” You watched as he lit the bodies on fire, your breath speeding up a little.

He turned back to you, closing the distance in large strides. 

“I’ve been thinking, with all this talk about Ramsay Bolton, that I oughta meet the guy. See if he lives up to his, uh, reputation. Whatdya say sweetheart? Wanna be my bate? Good.” He said without skipping a beat. “I thought you might.”

“He’s going to kill you. He’ll flay you living if you even lay a hand --” J cut you off by roughly grabbing your arms and backing you into the tree behind you.

“Bunny, bunny, bunny. You really wanna play those games?” He grabbed your wrists with one hand, twisting them painfully and raising them above your head. “Look at you.” He growled. “You’re even lying to yourself. You’re not even trying to fight me.”

Shocked at this self discovery, you noted that he was right. You hadn’t even struggled against him.

“I don’t think your Lord Flay knows what he has. And if he does, he’s not using ittt. I knew from the second I saw you sweetheart that you’re an agent of chaos too. Like me.” J ever so gently nipped your ear. “You’re just, how should I put this, untapped. I can always tell the squealers from the killers, and you doll, you have a little darkness in you. Don’t let it, uh, go to waste.”

You didn’t know what to say, staring open-mouthed at this strange man who somehow had read you completely in the span of one conversation, better than you read yourself. Subconsciously, you had a feeling that Ramsay knew this about you too. But why he had let it sit dormant instead of bringing you into his dark world, you didn’t know.

“Speechless? I’m flattered.” J spun you around and yanked your arms behind your back, securely fastening them with a tight rope. 

He spun you back to face him and flashed a smile at you. It was a different kind of smile than Ramsay’s, but laden with just as much danger. “It’s for show doll, don’t get too, uh, worked up.” His eyes flicked from your eyes to your body and he licked his lips, running a hand through his blonde lochs again before grabbing your waist and throwing you over his shoulder.

As he carried you into the woods, his voice came out menacingly dark.

“Time for The Joker and Ramsay Bolton to play.” 

You shiver as Ramsay steps even closer to you, both of you now only inches apart. Ramsay releases your chin to caress your cheek almost affectionately. 

“And do you know what happens to bad little girls who break the rules?” Ramsay’s eyes playfully roam your pretty young body, before coming back to boar intensely into your eyes and through to your soul. “They get punished.” 

Like wildfire, Ramsay slams you against the stone wall behind you, the basket dropping from your hand as strawberries tumble across the floor. Ramsay’s body is pushed flush against you as you struggle while he bites your neck and slips his hands underneath your ragged dress. 

For a brief moment, you see Ramsay’s neck exposed and take advantage of the opportunity to land your own harsh bite to his neck.

His reaction is immediate. Ramsay pulls away to look you in the eyes, still holding you easily in place. You stare wide-eyed at him as he starts chuckling.

“Oh you clever little minx.” He grins wickedly at you. “Do you know my secret? Only Myranda has ever guessed it before.” You only bat your long lashes at him, trembling. “Nevermind that now. You should know not to bite your Master pup. Dogs that bite, need to be muzzled.” You cringe in fear as Ramsay produces a beautiful leather muzzle from his pocket. His eyes light up as he watches your reaction.

“I can see that I’m going to enjoy training you my pet.” He growls as he secures the muzzle to your face. “I’m going to break you and make you mine.”