🔞Lamb/ genderfluid/25/ Any pronouns/ lover of villains, monsters and generally the worst fictional guys and gals. Basically a diary for I. Currently obsessed with Ramsay Bolton that says everything it needs to about me🔞
tags: power imbalance, age difference, loss of virginity, painful sex, piv, leeching, blood kink, cutting & knives, afab reader written in second pov. darkfic - don’t like? don’t read. roose himself should be a content warning, so.
word count: 4,923
cross posted from archiveofourown.
The Lord of Dreadfort has grown quite fond of his little leech collector.
Lord Bolton is unlike any other man you’ve known despite being quite unremarkable.
His stature would loom over yours if you were to stand beside him, but in comparison to the other Lords of the North, his frame, even draped in heavy furs, did not inspire terror nor speak of battles won. He always spoke in a low and measured tone, not soft but not rough in deliverance either, each syllable pressed thin before they were released. He is a hard man to read, with the shadows and planes of his pale face often fixed in place, and his eyes, two little grey pools that resembled waning moons, would hardly stray from yours.
He is a cold man, through and through, but you are of the North, too, and have the same ice in your veins. Dark rumours surround him and his house. Those hushed whispers are carefully filed away in the back of your mind, something to keep your senses sharp whenever you are called into his solar.
You are certain you have incited his ire before, particularly in the early days of your employment where your hands were not as deft and your tongue unpolished, but he has never raised his voice at you.
It is the maester of his household who handled the leeching he was so fond of, but Lord Bolton often sent for you, so that he may examine the leeches you have collected himself. It is a tough trade, but it is one you were born into, and it is one that keeps a roof above your head and food to fill your stomach. Odd as it is for a young maiden such as yourself to pursue, it brings a comforting monotony to your life, and a sense of stability as the demand for leeches continued even amidst the wars and disagreements between the nobles that ravaged the realm.
You spend your days in bogs and marshes, from pond to pond and moor to moor you’d roam, rough-spun clothes soiled with mud and your face flushed with perspiration even as the Northern cold seeped into the marrows of your bones.
The urge to twist your fingers in the rough wool of your skirt flares deep and urgent in your stomach, but you keep your hands open by your sides and watch the Leech Lord as he observes the spoils of your labour. In truth, you did not know why he requires your presence and service so often and in such proximity, for you know that despite the frequency of his leeching, many of the leeches he uses remain living. In fact, you can see them clearly in their water-filled jars, mounted on the shelves behind him.
“Are they to your liking, m’lord?”
He only inclines his head in affirmation. His pale gaze tears away from the leeches and latches onto your face. Business has always been quick and easy with him. You have grown weary, having spent near the entirety of yesterday collecting the leeches from the marsh, and the early hours of the day spent aiding your elderly father in arrangements and deliveries. You ache for payment, a quick walk home, and a long nap to rest your bones.
“Shall I take my leave then and call for the maester?” You ask. A close-lipped smile spreads across your features. He has never been cruel to you, and regardless of his mild-mannered disposition, you are relieved of having dodged his ire.
“No,” Lord Bolton says. His hand, just as pale as the rest of him, with strong, short fingers, reaches over the desk and takes your wrist in his grip.
Something in your expression shutters.
He smiles, or at the very least his face performs a movement that somehow resembles one. It is as thin and as sharp as the edge of a blade. Then his grip tightens—not enough to etch bruises into your skin, but firm enough to rouse the sparks of caution in you—and he leads you around his desk, where you stand before him, silent but trembling. His hand wrangles yours downwards to grasp the hem of his quilted tunic.
“M’lord?”
A growing horror blooms inside of you.
“Take it off.” His eyes do not leave yours, but for a moment he seems to look through you. As if you are a sheer veil of lace.
You nod and make quick work of his tunic. The pale slopes of his shoulder flex when he raises his arms to aid you in your attempt to undress him. The side of your hand brushes, very briefly, against the knotted line of bones down the dip of his spine, firm and cold like marble made flesh. You are no pious highborn lady, you have seen men sans their tunics before. You have seen Lord Bolton leeching before in his solar. Still, it does not lessen the oddity of the experience.
It feels intimate. Perhaps it is a one-sided tension your mind has conjured, as if you are some swooning maiden. But you are already ten and nine, beyond your most eligible years to be swept up to be a man’s bride. You’ve accepted long ago that you might remain unwed until the end of your life, covered in grime and sucked dry by the leeches you hunted. It is not unusual for those in the same trade to die of blood loss, after all.
The Leech Lord seems bigger in frame and muscle without a tunic to swallow him up, you decide. His chest is smooth, just as soft and hairless as the rest of his body. You pull your hands away from his skin to fold his tunic in a neat square, your face turned away from him as you set the fabric atop his desk. The leeches in the jar stares back. Ghost grey eyes remain fixed.
You shiver. It’s not from the cold of the North and certainly not from the sheer unease Dreadfort easily seems to wrench from your heart.
It’s his eyes.
Just watching.
“Leeches, m’lord?”
He is unblinking. He holds your gaze when you turn to face him once more. A hum passes through his closed lips.
You dip your hand into the jar and take one of the leeches between your fingers. The wriggling creature is slick with its slime. Years of handling leeches has served you well. Not once does it threaten to slip from your grasp as you bring it down to his chest. The leech latches onto his skin at once. A soft huff leaves him, barely a grunt, but it rattles you to your bones for no discernable reason. His eyes flutter close. You watch the dark fans of his eyelashes fall and the thin skin of his eyelids cover the ghost grey.
The flickering embers of the fireplace on the other side of his solar drench the both of you. His sable hair bleeds into the shadows. The stillness about his face is most apparent in this light. Any other man his age, highborn or not, bears lines to tell the passage of time, but his were scarce.
You should look away. You don’t.
Lord Bolton doesn’t pay you nearly enough for this. You place another leech, further away from the first, and the same sound spills past his lips. Then another, and another, and another.
It’s a beautiful sound. The melody of a man with his seams coming undone.
You have never laid with a man before. The long hours at the marsh has sucked any flicker of desire daring to stir in your loins. You inhale sharply as you gaze upon him. The leeches steadily grow swollen with his blood, glistening like jewels in the dim light. Their bodies are sheer, deepening into a sanguine hue as they suck dutifully at his ivory skin, and something strange twists in the pit of your stomach.
You step back. Your fingertips are covered in slime. Heat creeps under the peaks of your face and festers, an unwelcome warmth that sears you from the inside. You turn your face away and keep your eyes low. As you wipe your fingers with the handkerchief hanging from your belt, you watch the embers gleam on the fine leather of his boots.
Your head jolts up to the blunt sound of flesh. He snapped his fingers. And you are, of course, at his beck and call.
“Y–yes?”
“Have you ever leeched yourself?” Lord Bolton asks, his probing tone mild. It’s as if he’s simply making conversation to fill the silence in the solar, but you’ve never known him to be the sort to speak just to hear his own voice.
“The leeches latch onto my calves when I collect them, m’lord.”
“But not like this?”
“No, m’lord.”
You have no ailments that require their service. It would only be a waste, and truth be told you do not particularly enjoy the sensation. Your calves and ankles are scarred from their bites. You have no desire to extend the scars to the rest of your body.
“We shall change that.” Lord Bolton decides. He makes a come hither motion with one pale hand. Your body jerks to life, like a warrior marching to war, but the drag of your feet against the floor is anything but brave.
“Strip,” he commands.
A beat passes. Your fingers feel like wood, swollen and unmoving, unfeeling, not even yours to begin with.
“I said strip, girl.”
And so you do.
The chill of Dreadfort and its endless stone archways pierce through bare skin without mercy. You swallow back your questions, your throat dry, as your fingers reach back to undo the laces of your dress. Your struggle does not irritate him, much to your surprise, if anything he seems amused by your flailing.
The fabric loosens around your waist. With a tug, it falls and pools at your feet. You step out of it.
The Leech Lord takes you in. He does it quickly and without a lustful leer, like you were fresh livestock or a newly forged helm. But you know, in your bones, that this is anything but innocent. Your hair is left tousled, your smallclothes simple and modest, and your boots crusted with mud. You wonder what he thought of you, then, and you wonder if you would even suffice.
“My boots as well, m’lord?”
“All of it.”
Are you supposed to bare yourself before him like a whore? Slowly, like unwrapping a gift. With a slight flair, not enough to come across as theatrical, but enough to rouse the fire in his loins. But you’ve only ever kissed a man, once, a stable boy when you were ten and five and tipsy from half a goblet of wine. You are no seductress.
You do it quickly and silently, with your gaze nailed to your discarded dress. His eyes land on the protrusions of your collarbones. As you pull your bottoms down and unlace your boots, the bones shift along with the skin. The floor is cold. You fight the urge to curl your toes and wince.
The peaks of your breasts, which you had never paid much attention to before, pebble in the air. The soft fat wobbles with each movement. Goosebumps ripple across the swathes of newly exposed skin. Your hands clasp together in front of your groin out of shame, thighs pressing together. In the back of your mind, a voice reminds you that the doors to his solar are left unlocked.
If anyone were to see you like this...
A shudder rips through.
“Do you fear me?”
If he were anyone else, you might have tried to appease him with a smile. You might have lied.
“I do, m’lord.”
“It should not thrill me so. But you bear the look well.”
A raw-boned paw pats his thigh once. He is not a man who likes to repeat himself. With his permission, you close the distance between your bodies and sit atop his lap. You do it with great hesitance and barely stifled fear, as if he is a war horse known for throwing its rider off its back.
The leather of his breeches is like butter against you, expensive and well-made. The dagger strapped to his thigh digs uncomfortably into your knee. You hold yourself somehow upright, with your weight on your knees and your hands anchored on the arms of the chair. You could see the faces distorted in fear carved into his seat, along with the symbol of the flayed man in the center. You wish to keep your skin, so you pointedly ignore the voice in your mind urging you to bolt.
Your bare cunt looms over the laces of his breeches, where a tent has already formed, thick and ravenous and bone-chilling.
“What,” you clear your throat and continue, “What do you want me to do, m’lord?”
“Leech yourself.”
A finger trails over the curve of your breast. A touch so light you could hardly feel it, like morning mist gracing you.
“Such pretty skin you have,” Lord Bolton comments, in his small and whispery voice. “So… supple… And fervent with youth.”
He digs his fingernail into the space below the same breast he caressed.
“Here.”
“Thank you, m’lord,” you gasp and do as you were instructed. “I am not worthy of your praise.”
“Another one, here.” He prods at the jutting bone of your rib. The leech latches on and eagerly sucks at the flesh. The sting coils through your body. Your eyes fall to his chest, the leeches swollen with his blood, and your mind tilts on its axis ever so slightly at the thought of being drained similarly.
His hands grip your hips and squeeze, squeeze, squeeze mindlessly.
“They’ve been sated.”
You nod—it’s true, much time has passed, and the leeches no longer suck at his chest with the same fervour. They’ve filled out. You remove them one by one. Their rounded bodies splash into the jar, bubbles racing upwards as the water sways from side to side.
He only watches. You wonder what he sees.
“Is your maidenhood intact?”
“Yes, m’lord.”
Not for long, you thought, not with the way your cold gaze devours me.
“If I were to plunge my cock into your cunt, you will bleed, then?”
You hardly hear him through the stampede of blood in your ears.
“I am no whore, m’lord.”
“You will not be paid, not for warming my cock,” he retorts, his thumb coming down to part your folds. The action shocks you. No one has ever—
“I will not ask again. Will you bleed if I were to mount you here and now, like a hound takes a bitch?”
He rubs the hard plate of his nail against your pearl. Your hole flutters wetly with a heartbeat of its own, but you know even then it would not be enough.
“M–most likely, yes, m’lord—”
“Well then. I shall test your claim most thoroughly.”
Lord Bolton acts fast and true to his word. His deft hand allows him to unlace his breeches with ease. The head of his cock pops out, heavy and pulsing with arousal. It is pale and long, you are certain that if you held your forearm against it, the difference would not be much. It is a gnarly thing.
Your heart aches to weep, but you will not. There is no use in debasing yourself any further.
“What about the leeches?”
“Let them watch. Let them grow fat and full from your nectar, sweetling. Allow them to purge you of your bad blood.”
Leeches live in a world of shifting shadows. They are simple creatures, they wouldn’t be able to understand what he is about to do to you. And yet you tremble and shudder as he splays his fingers over your back and forces you to arch into him.
“Though a maiden you might claim to be, I imagine you know what is to come. Waste no time.”
You do as your lord commands. He does not say it, but you are not so sheltered that you are ignorant to his will. You wrap your fingers around the base. He is warm, much warmer than the rest of his pale body, and turgid with blood. The raised skin of the veins running along the underside presses against your calloused palm. You pump him once, then twice, a strange delight overcoming your sensibility. The foreskin lurches back before coming forward again to envelop the weeping head.
Something tugs at your nipple. Then it twists and you wail in pain.
“Eager little bitch,” he croons. “Rest easy. We shall have all the time in the world to play, but my desire is simple, is it not? Any more of that and your disobedience will land you bound and gagged in my dungeons.”
“I apologise, m’lord. I did not mean to.” You trip over your own tongue and hurry, guiding the blunt towards your slit, barely able to bite back the scream brewing in your chest.
His cock cleaves you in half. Inch by inch, marble made flesh fills up your hollow parts, the dry friction flaming against your virgin cunt.
You claw at the arms of the chair as you take him in. A sword into its sheath. A knife twisting against the viscera. Your lungs flutter wildly and you can taste the sweet-rot smell of his skin, the salt on your face, and the spasming arousal between your thighs.
It hurts. You know that it would, but it does nothing to soothe the ache you foresaw.
It’s the pain of a muscle stretched too far, too fast. The steady disruption of something huge cramming itself into something small.
He grunts beneath you, palms pawing at your calves, the flares of your hips, the dimple on the low end of your back as you writhe on top. He takes what he wants, however he wants. You don’t know what you want. You don’t know if you ever have. If you’re allowed to.
Lord Bolton tugs the leeches off your chest. You hiss. He doesn’t stop. It’s not enough for them, you know, but they sink into the water with the rest of their ilk regardless.
The blood forms into beads. Then a drop rolls down, down, down the curve of your breast to the taper of your waist, red and deep. Your sight skips from the stream of blood on your body to his face, as unmoving as a lake frozen over, then to the soft, elevated tendons which connect to his shoulders, then to the little y-shaped wounds left by the leeches on his chest.
All the windows in his solar are bolted shut, but you feel a breeze on the backs of your thighs, and you struggle to keep yourself from truly gorging yourself on his cock. He is only half-way through, yet the pain is unbearable.
His lips part to speak. Your ears strain to hear him, his voice a mere whisker above a whisper.
“Unsheath my dagger.”
So you do. If he notices how strongly your fear animates you, he does not comment on it. The hilt is cold and unyielding in your grip and you hold the point towards neither of you. It would only take a flick of the wrist to jab the steel into the delicate valley of his throat, to bleed him out like the leeches he is so fond of.
If you were to kill him, then his men would come find you before the morrow could even come, and then there’d be a fate far worse than death for you. You kept your father in mind as well, considering how frail the years of labour had rendered him.
Two fingers tap the plush flesh of your inner thigh, so close to the tuft of hair on your mound, so close to your untouched pearl.
“Cut yourself.”
So you do. Two shallow lines etch into you, the blood beading, a sting that sticks to you like honey.
“Again.”
You deepen the wounds, then do the same on your other thigh. You wonder how many men have been bled dry with the same dagger, how many men have been flayed with it. The sting pales in comparison to the ache of his cock still lodged half-way inside of you.
“Pretty, pretty…” He praises. You feel bile rising in your throat. “Pretty little plaything.”
The first jump of his hips knocks the blade deeper into your flesh. Your head cants back as you wail and snag your hand back, the dagger hitting the floor with a clatter.
Lord Bolton makes a noise of disapproval, but the bloody mess you’ve made of yourself wins his affections back. If the pain of taking him had been unbearable, then the pain of him fucking you is—
A scream claws its way out of your throat, animalistic and desperate, your hands coming down to clutch his shoulders, your fingers curling and your jaw slack.
He is heavy and monstrous and solid inside of you. The heady tang of want permeates the air, joining your incoherent babbles asking for slow, slow, slow, please, please—his hips buck up again. Your muscles clench around him with no rhythm to it. You wonder how this feels for him. Did he find the unrelenting tightness of your cunt pleasant? It hurts when he moves and it hurts when he lies still. Would there be any reprieve?
(The thought of your lord feeling stifled, suffocated, even, by your plush walls thrills you so. Like the sharp edge of a blade felled dull by its sheath throughout years of dutiful service.)
The Leech Lord looks at you through half-lidded eyes, his lips wet from his own searching tongue, a blush creeping along his cheeks. He guides your hips, up, down, up, down, forcing you to meet every thrust he spears you with. He is not particularly comely, but when he is like this, hungry and vicious, with his eyes sharp and his locks of night slick with sweat, you think he might be a handsome man.
Every time the two of you meet in the middle, your engorged clit grazes him. The bundle of nerves is swollen and taut and achingly sensitive. You slip one hand between the two of you to rub at it, your mind fraying at the edges, too far gone to ask for his permission.
“M’lord,” you sob, “Please, please, wait—”
It helps loosen you just a little bit. Each whack of cock you take feels like a punch, like fists beating the insides of a fruit into pulp, but with your own desperate grinding, pleasure manages to bleed through.
It still hurts—you think it will never stop hurting—but it hurts so good.
He rubs his fingers against your open wounds, the same way he parted your folds and rubbed at your pearl, in maddening, slow circles. Your blood smears across his skin, covers his palm, filling the space below his fingernails with your anguish.
“Ride me,” he says. His blood-stained fingers leave your thighs and dip past your folds to rub at your clit. The nub nearly slips past, so slick from arousal and fear. His rhythm falters, then halts entirely.
Your ears are ringing. It takes you a moment nearly too late to process his command. Slowly, sluggishly, you obey. Using your knees, you rise ever so slightly and feel his cock slipping out of you, before sinking again. Your technique is lousy and stiff. The blistering, white-hot pleasure-pain mellows, nothing more than a faint buzz now, and you whine in frustration.
You watch the stuttering movement of your hips with furrowed eyebrows. You’ve never been this conscious of your body.
It is so—“That’s it,”—so, so—“How lucky I am,” he mused, “To have such a dutiful, loyal helper to obey her lord’s every whim,”—so bloody exhausting to ride his cock as he wishes you to. You have never been one for horseflesh. Your hips could hardly handle the strain. You will not be able to walk properly in the morrow.
Metal bursts behind your teeth. There is blood everywhere, in your mouth, on your skin, and on your lord’s cock, your maidenhood smeared along the shaft.
He did not strike you as the type of man to claim a kiss. To suggest that the Lord Bolton would be the type of man to lose himself in fleeting throes of passion is laughable. An undignified, almost animal squawk jumps from your mouth at the graze of his lips. They are thin, chapped, and unforgiving against your own. A hot breath blows across your face, smelling damp and somewhat intoxicating. Spice wine.
His lips press against yours. Firm and unyielding, but not passionate nor chaste. You yield to him and to the pace he has set. The beginnings and ends of his kisses are clear. It is laid out before you. You are careful where you tread, even in your addled state.
So when his tongue plunges into your mouth, past your chattering teeth, your lips remain parted for his probing. The sweep of the slimy appendage against your own bleeding tongue makes you jump. His hand tightens on your hips. It does not take much for his fingers to meet the bones beneath flesh. You are a waif little thing, struggling to stay afloat in the marsh.
His lips pucker. A suction tugs at your tongue, the sting of such a small nick turning tenfold. He licks and sucks and probes around, exploring every inch of your wet cavern as if it was his in law and divine will.
When he pulls away, a string of spit hangs on the edges of your lips. It shines in the dim lights, tinged red.
He looks at you, unamused as you buck wildly. He does not move his hips to meet each plunge of your cunt, not like he had before.
The frown etching itself into your face is childish, you know, but you cannot help it.
“Have I displeased you, m’lord?” You are battered, bloody, and now a maiden dishonoured, yet your fickle mind prioritises his mood.
Stupid wench.
“No, no.” He waves a hand. “The bloodletting has rendered the flesh lax. My intentions remain.”
“A–a—and what… is m’lord’s intentions?”
“Surely you cannot be so stupid,” the Leech Lord drawls, “What else but to stuff you so full of my spend that it’ll be dripping out of your whore cunt for a fortnight?”
He jests, surely. Panic seizes you.
“I cannot be with child, m’lord,” you say, yet your cunt clenches around him to speak in turn, as if to say: breed me.
He throbs. He is pure steel now, all rammed up your guts, the lower drop of your body onto him as a result of your exhaustion setting you aflame. The head drags along a fleshy spot inside. You do it again, then again, and again.
It’s not until Lord Bolton is sinking two of his fingers into your mouth that you realize you are drooling. Like a mutt.
He tastes of rot and metal.
“Good.” His head lolls back on his seat, dark hair flowing along, the line of his throat covered in a sheen of sweat. “You will bear no squalling bastard for me in that womb of yours.”
You hope he speaks true. His low grunts fill your ears, then soon after you are filled. The first spurt of his spend is an unfamiliar warmth. It brings no comfort to you, unlike the remains of a warm soup in your stomach, unlike the swell of laughter. It is slippery, like the leeches that have feasted on the two of you. You wonder how long it would take you to rid yourself of his spend if you were to claw it out of you.
His breathing is ragged and his eyebrows are knitted together as he releases his spend inside of you.
There. It is done.
You lean back, both palms flat on his knees, your pert breasts on full display for his eyes. They do not wander. Has he grown tired of your body so easily?
You ache.
If he were to touch you there, that slit of pink, tender flesh and caress your pearl again, surely you’d spasm and hurl towards a crescendo.
His solar is much warmer now. The thickened fume of sex is aloft.
“Am I dismissed now, m’lord?”
Lord Bolton’s face swivels away from your gaze. The frosted glass with the windowpanes of steel holds all of his attention. You try not to scowl.
“I am not so cruel to send a young lady out stumbling into the cold.”
Slowly, you curl. Then soon enough you are draped all over him, with your lord still lodged deep inside of you, your legs dangling from his seat.
“Thank you, m’lord.”
“You will warm my bed tonight.”
“And what of me when the morn comes?”
He does not answer you, his face betraying nothing, but his hand drags up your calf. You’ve been flayed by pain and the pleasure within it.
“I will wake, and mayhaps so will you if I am not careful. Ever so pliant and subservient, you will lie still on my furs and suckle on my cock like a leech seeking blood gone bad.”
Strong fingers nudge into the narrow alley behind your knee, a place where only the sun has touched.
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