Few things in the Dreadfort area of the North needed explanation. Least of all this.
Pairing: Roose Bolton/Reader
Rating: Explicit (18+)
Word Count: 6.1K (you can also read this on AO3)
CW: 18+ ONLY, dark content, dead dove: do not eat, afab reader, not canon compliant, canon-typical violence, dubcon, second person pov, gothic elements, emotional/psychological abuse, power imbalance, submission, manipulation, unresolved emotional tension, introspection, obedience, isolation, devotion, mention of religious imagery & symbolism, moral ambiguity, loss of identity, unreliable narrator, implied brainwashing, implied abduction, physical abuse, neglect, light asphyxiation, bodily fluids, boot worship/boot riding, slight orgasm denial, flashbacks, humiliation, manhandling, leather kink, rutting, hair-pulling, impact play, mention of bruises.
A/N: the tags are self-explanatory. this is quite the dark read and it won’t be everyone’s cup of tea. but the lack of roose writing in this fandom is absolutely atrocious and i happen to be quite fond of this man, so here it is. if you’re into the boltons in any way, what occurs in this shouldn’t be much of a shocker. i’ve written this w show!roose in mind, but should be just as applicable to book!roose. i hope you enjoy it!
Few things in the Dreadfort area of the North needed explanation.
You had become aware of that on your way to the castle. Whatever it was you saw along the way was not to be questioned. You could ponder upon it, of course, though a very deep-in-thought stance could leave one very vulnerable in these specific parts of the North. And one thing you didn’t want to be, in the Dreadfort, was to be vulnerable.
Word had travelled, as it always does. By the look in their eyes, guards seemed to agree with it. The Dreadfort was a place befitted only for those born and bred into it. And the more time you spent there, the look on their faces did not change—not once. The pity in their eyes each time they fell on you was the truest each of these men could be to what the castle was making of them. Words wouldn’t come forward. And Gods forbid you were in any danger, because they would run for the hills to save themselves before they thought twice about saving you.
So all of your questions dulled out pretty soon.
For very few people would dare to speak to you anyway.
Isolation could be an illness of its own in these particular parts of Westeros. The frost, bred into its natives, easily deprived even the warmest of them of any chance of connection—unless other elements were woven into it.
And you sought them out like it could solve your predicament. Every moment since your life took a turn, and your mornings and nights all looked the same inside the stone walls of the Dreadfort, all you could think of was why. It was an utter damnation, to question your own worth in regard to your fate.
But then again, question all you want.
Explanations weren’t owed.
Least of all to you.
And that became clearer with each passing day inside the stale air of your quarters. The hours dreaded and dragged down your skin with them until no amount of sleep could repair the ghastly look your face had taken. It had grown permanent, its roots deeper into your being, as deep as your being had rooted itself into the castle. And the longer you stayed, the harder it was to leave. Whole.
But of course, it had been months already. You didn’t need me to tell you all of this.
You knew.
Better than anyone in that sinkhole—you knew.
Your stay was permanent.
And questions, as I told you, weren’t on the table.
So your mouth grew more shut as the weeks passed. Water couldn’t suffice to wash away the dry scabs on your lips. Not all of them bloody. All of them aching.
Your mind, as whole as you could bear to keep it, could not fathom what it was he saw in you. All the tools he could give you, he did. You had a maid to tend to you at your whim, your own space to inhabit—anything you could ever need. So depravity certainly didn’t come from the tangible.
It came from what you couldn’t wrap your mind around. And certainly, for much of the beginning, it made no sense to you. And you—oh, so desperately—begged with your hands open like a common beggar in the pits of Flea Bottom for a piece of logic, something that would bring you closer to a definitive, objective truth.
And it had been days ago that you realized how stupid you had been to expect anything at all.
He was never going to give you that.
That was the entire point of it.
…Right?
Perhaps deep down, you knew you didn’t have it all figured out. Perhaps, there was a quiet acceptance growing within you, that you were not to piece this together. He’d let you ponder all you want—surely, what else is there to do in your chambers?
But every time your maid would escort you back to his, he made it very clear that you knew absolutely nothing. The straightforwardness in your mind continuously suffered at the hands of a stone hammer that knew nothing but to beat it down. Over time, a curve would form and you could feel it, the way your mind was giving you up and no amount of scribbling in your books or pacing with your thumb in your mouth could straighten you back up.
Forget about any attempts at figuring him out, for it only placed you further away from what you most craved. And that, well… that had changed.
A hand came up from behind in your peripheral, the maid pressing into the door ahead of you just enough to set it ajar before bowing lightly and leaving you to continue by yourself.
The stone floor beneath your bare feet was cold and even, like it always was right before you stepped in. Your own hand mirrored hers now, pushing the door open fully.
The times you had visited that room weren’t many. All count was lost, surely, but you were certain. In your mind, somewhere, this was only the sixth time he had called upon you over the three months you’d been in the Dreadfort. And in all of those times, your breath would halt as you stepped over the threshold to his quarters—almost like you had to deprive yourself of a sense or two each time.
All on your own accord, surely.
As drenched in tired blueish tint as they had been, your eyes always knew where to look. His quarters were large, and relatively empty for someone of his standing—simple, and eerie in their bareness.
The flooring inside was always colder.
“Lord Bolton.” The thinness of your voice was amplified by the echo in his chambers, and soon enough, the creaking of leather followed.
His brows were lightly raised. They always seemed to be, but there wasn’t anything surprising in you. It was just something he did. And its lack of particular meaning had finally begun to dawn on you.
His hands, having been previously occupied with a single scroll on the table behind him, were now loosely joined in front of him as he took you in deliberately.
Silence was a tool he used, whether he did it consciously or not. All you knew was that it worked.
It took what felt like forever before his even tone intercepted: “Do come in.”
You could have moved closer on your own accord. He never put enough particularity between the two of you to bind you like a slave to a leather strap.
The tendons in your feet creaked above the calloused skin of your soles as you stepped forward, making just enough movement to get near him, but never to overstep. The distance was always awkward and uncanny.
Even as he closed it.
The creases between his brows were always apparent—right now deeper—as his pale eyes raked over your face. You knew exactly what he was seeing.
He never had a particular expression on. There wasn’t a single emotion you could pinpoint; yet, against all better judgment, you hoped that whatever was going on in his head at that moment wasn’t directed against you.
A gloved hand moved up from your left side and soon enough a leathered finger glided down harshly over your bottom lip—more examinatorial than anything. The dry patches across the outside of your lips scratched the surface of the material, rough and unattended to.
He had a way of making you feel tenderness without displaying it directly. It had begun to seep through—the feeling of it. Instead of an entirety of fear and unpredictability, you felt your response to him shift internally. And now, with his thumb on the entrance of your mouth, impersonal as could be, your reaction to it was very much personal.
The rest of his fingers supported your chin from below, and the moment he was done feeling up the neglected texture, your chin was easily disposed of with a casual flick—not violent nor dismissive in nature, just matter-of-factly.
He was a practical man. And this was practical—for him.
The leathered whole of his body, not much taller than yours but certainly broader, had now angled itself toward you completely. His right hand bunched up the front of your skirts swiftly and the same hand that had brushed over your lip abruptly skimmed the air between your thighs—only ghosting over—the same clinical impartiality in his touch and expression.
He was checking for undergarments.
And there were none.
Your gaze was cemented on the creases in his leather vest, empty with purpose—giving space for the rest of your senses to override it.
The breathing in the tiny distance between the two of you was only done through the nose—contained; lips shut and only used for talking. That was how he had set the tone, and how you had followed it.
The front of your skirts fell from his hand, and it was cue enough that he had gathered the information he sought.
Roose had never particularly ordered you to do that. It had dawned on you that wearing anything beneath your clothes wasn’t to his liking when all of your previous underclothing ended up getting torn from under you—usually with vigour. And when you weren’t squinting from the burn of the fabric thinning out against your cunt, you could swear he found some sort of satisfaction in the process, by the way his eyes didn’t part from your face. But then again, he was quite starey.
It certainly proved to be memorable. After several such encounters, the burns between your legs looked like fresh flicks of a whip, quite visible between your hairs. The initial moment of impact was always the most painful, anything that remained quickly healed and faded.
Which was probably why it had got to this point.
Soon enough, Roose returned to the table—slowly, casually—and took the abandoned scroll back in his hands, his left thigh leaning lightly on the edge of the wooden mass.
It seemed as though he had been finishing work on it when you’d entered, for the parchment was quickly discarded again and your eyes met his again. “Do I need to drag you here?” His voice carried authority like it was his job—and for the most part, it was.
The thing was, though, the authority in it never went away, even when he was off the job. His voice carried, and right now it was making every hair on your back stand.
Your legs moved with urgency and once again, you were close to him—reverent in your lack of objection.
His right foot kicked instructively at your left one, “Feet together.”
The resonance of his voice carried through you like electricity.
“Kneel.“
The last letter rolled off his tongue with equal precision and command, and whatever it was you muttered in response—something close to a hurried “yes”—was only heard by you, rendering it completely useless.
Your knees hit the cold floor within seconds, one after the other. The presence of any gracious movements was beyond the two of you now.
Roose’s eyes followed you down, his expression a dreadful mixture of aggravation and pride.
He was neither.
But it was enough to rile you up.
It was a peculiar kind of cruelty, what was about to follow. Your eyes leveled with the rim of his boots. The scent of them had been familiar—a different kind of leather from the rest of him: thinner and paler, more agile.
Your ankles shifted beneath your own weight, trying to provide you with more stability than your hands could.
But that didn’t last long.
Leather creaked against your right shoulder in an instant, hauling you upright, enough so that your back wasn’t hunched over.
This way, Roose didn’t need to lower himself to reach you.
The hand on your shoulder moved harshly and clamped down on the base of your nape. You couldn’t look up if you wanted to; he had you cemented.
For a moment, it seemed as though his right hand was moving to strike you. And it did, though not in the way your preemptive flinch seemed to expect. The back of his fingers lightly tapped once on your cheek, methodically as could be.
“Open.”
And so you did.
And in that instant, two thick fingers were in your mouth, and without any hesitation, forced their way down your throat. The grip on the back of your neck tightened and forced you forward, further down on his digits and closer to his feet.
A rapid motion began assaulting your throat then. Relentless, not entirely unlike Roose, his fingers drove their way in and out of the small, tight part beyond your uvula, constraining airflow to your lungs. Your nostrils flared, working hard to compensate for denied oxygen. Soon enough, you began to gag around the foreign objects down your throat, the sound even more obscene in the quiet of the room.
That, however, only made things worse. Roose’s left hand dug into your nape now, holding you as still as could be, his fingers probing farther down your pharynx, stretching out what you never thought could be stretched.
His eyes burned into your skull, his hands working you in a way only clay could—to be molded and perfected.
Saliva began to pool in thick globs around your tonsils, and gravity soon pulled them forward. The liquid stretched from your mouth, past Roose’s wrist—which instinctively moved aside for it—and down onto the beige leather of his right boot.
A light huff came from above you, and with several more thrusts of his fingers—just for sport—his wrist retracted from your mouth in one go. The hand on the back of your neck loosened as well, falling away.
“Good.”
What sounded like praise from him was only an assessment of what your body had produced when violated. Your eyes shot up to him, mouth parted and drooling still, and his eyes met yours briefly. His own mouth mirrored yours—ajar, no excess fluids—of course, but that too was soon over. His pale greys fell on the thick mass of saliva on his boot. Yours followed, and by now, you had sort of memorized the steps, though he did like to interchange them every so often.
A drop of saliva fell from your mouth to the stone next to his boot as you shifted from where you’d been sitting back on your heels. Your hands braced you against the floor and the rest of your body followed, knees still anchored to the ground. Dipping naturally, your elbows drew you farther down, until your face hovered just above the slick boot, the rest of your body caught between motion and surrender. Behind you, your feet lifted off the ground—unsteady in the air—your knees flattened out and trembling against the stone beneath. Every movement instinctively betrayed how precarious your position was. Unstable. Close to collapse.
The mouth that had just been ravished by a set of fingers now remained open and hesitant over a simple boot. Your breath was heavy, charged with the wrong or right of what you would do next.
Your bottom lip, moisture coating it yet still rough like dragon scales, touched a bit above the tip of the shoe. The top one followed along.
Not quite a kiss.
This was the sole sensation of what submission was. This is what they must have seen when they looked at you, you thought. All those guards that averted their eyes in consolation—this is what they must’ve known all along.
That, without him even asking, you’d be on your knees, and every bit of him would be a shrine to bow down to.
That this place would brainwash you into worshipping a god, whose flesh felt and bled equal to yours.
And you wouldn’t question it.
You wouldn’t see it as sin.
You would be too far gone.
And so, your knees would begin to drop all on their own.
And your mouth would be as it was now. Willing. Filthy. Careless of the dirt that flew into it with each flick of your tongue; of the way you looked with your skirts pooled around you and your hands strained against the floor.
But devotion of such sort could never be completely correct.
Your submission would not save you from making mistakes, nor would it protect you from the consequences of making them.
There was no morality to it.
No righteousness, no respect, no payout for what you had grown to harbour toward the man standing above you.
Adding sentiment was aiding your own suffering.
His right hand came to halt your tongue against his boot with a rough slam against the wooden table behind him. The spitshined shoe shifted from beneath your face, which now looked up at him. The expression it met was one of those.
It was one you had seen on several occasions—ones that did not transpire in this particular room.
When Ser Jaime Lannister and Brienne of Tarth were brought in during the first week of your stay, Roose had thought it necessary that you observe the way other guests were treated at the Dreadfort. You had stood to the side, along with your maid and two of the men who had helped capture the pair, but the words exchanged between them were hardly audible at the distance you stood.
One thing, however, did not need sound to reach you. When initially brought in, Jaime and Brienne were tossed to their knees in front of Lord Bolton and the expression that had ghosted over his face, as he observed the muddy movements of the two, had burned itself into your mind.
His movements were always clipped. Measured would be a wrong word to use, for the way he moved was not something calculated pre-emptively, and you certainly had seen enough performances to know when something was not that.
Every single movement was his own; it needed no planned grandiosity. For, that day, when Ser Jaime had dropped to his knees again—Roose’s inaudible words clearly heavy enough to weigh him down—the ghostly pale of his eyes had met your own in that courtyard. And the expression that you had seen on his face hadn’t disappeared.
It replayed in your mind that very night, and on several others.
And now, with his stature above you, it had materialized again, and you didn’t know what to do with yourself.
So you straightened up. Restored the long line of your back. Your calloused hands fumbled their way across your thighs, which had grown numb at this point.
His boot, everslick, nudged where your knees met, “Spread them apart.”
And so you did. His foot moved beneath your skirts and in between your thighs, the upright part of it sticking straight to your bare cunt. The sensation of the cold, wet leather caused you to tighten up further, eyes frantic in their movement. But there was no finding your bearings anymore.
The sole of his shoe dropped once, before he tapped up into you again, this time with more pressure. The movement came to be repeated several times, mimicking the tapping of riders on the behind of their horses when wanting them to spur.
There was no regard for you. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be using a filthy shoe on your most sensitive parts. Or maybe he would, you thought. Maybe this is how he went about being intimate. Was there intimacy between you? You wanted to believe there was.
Your knees parted, charred and blunt, despite the still apparent shock of the sensation between your legs. His movements changed from tapping to gliding, pressure still applied up. It dawned on you that he was coating you in your own saliva. The thought of that knocked your left knee off balance, your frame rocking to the side softly, only for Roose’s boot to slap against the inside of your left thigh in response, “Sit still.”
His voice rumbled down in a single wave that came crashing right where heat was highest.
The sounds that filled the room grew more obscene with each flick of his ankle beneath your skirts. What need was there for words, when every tap of leather against skin only showed that not only did you allow him all of this—for what other choice did you have?—but you also seemed to enjoy it, as no amount of remaining spit on his shoe could be the sole reason behind the noises coming from between your legs now.
You knew it.
He knew it.
Oh, he definitely knew it, because the backward glide of the pointed part of his boot dragged your clit forward so precisely that the shudder overtaking your already wobbly frame drew out a soft “hmm” sound from his own mouth–approval, if you will. Deep and guttural as his voice was, yet gallant, awfully sensual. And the hawk eyes studying every twist and twitch of your face from above only seemed to confirm that your reactions were not in vain.
When Roose finally withdrew his foot, the surface of it was glistening still, even more than before, now properly coated. The heel of it rested against the floor, the toe pointed upward, like any movement on your end would commence only at the movement of it.
Your eyes barely dared to glance up at him, aimlessly staring at the bunched up fabric of his pants, but when you finally did, his eyes were glued to his boot, “Made an utter mess of the leather.” His voice was almost disappointed, similar to how he would reprimand his bastard, for things far worse than a soaked boot.
What followed was beyond anything he had been merciful enough to give you so far.
The sound of his steps revived the cold ground beneath you.
One.
Two.
His knee brushing the gaunt lines of your face.
Impossibly close.
Foot where it had just been, in your space, hidden in your skirts, waiting.
His face was no longer angled toward you but instead looking out behind you, likely at the door on the other end of his chambers.
What exactly did he expect you to do now?
Your mind was a fog in the winter, and the proximity of him did little to clear it up. The deep blue crescents that adorned the space beneath your eyes, ever the dark in the gloom of his room, twitched involuntarily. The heat from him this close was foreign. A man so cold otherwise.
Your eyes shifted sideways to where the feel of his leg hovered over your profile. Hesitation was a smart thing to have in the presence of a man like that. Second-guessing was certainly more in your favor than against. And even now, in this madness of a moment, your mind couldn’t bear to near him on your own accord.
Not without thinking twice.
Once.
Twice.
The hotness of your mouth inched closer to where he stood, your eyes lowered almost completely, focused on whether he would move. The feel of the fabric against your lips was as plain as any, but what lay beneath it was nothing like it.
Absolutely pathetic, you were. In your mind. In his eyes, probably. Seeking nearness to a mere limb like it were another’s face, another’s mouth to kiss and another’s breath to feel against your own. All but plastering your lips all over it, your body shifted around his leg, visceral, despite its containment.
“Your restraint is commendable,” Roose’s voice rang out above you. “Though, you don’t exactly excel at hiding what you withhold”.
Before you could fully register the meaning of his words, his foot had shifted further beneath you and your commendable restraint had slipped from right under your… knees in the matter of a second.
The pitiful gap between your thighs had settled bravely atop his foot, the sensation drawing out the first thing close to a sound from your mouth. The feeling of pressure being applied where you needed it most surely would result in relief, naturally. But this was different.
How do you spar with an unpredictable opponent?
Do you simply move when it’s your turn, or do you wait for them to take the lead?
The raised skin atop the padding where your fingers began could only hold you up for so long, you figured. Unnatural in their manner, your hands settled atop your thighs instead. It didn’t call for a very gracious movement of the hips, though, at that particular point, any movement felt grandiose to your miserable cunt.
Several ruts against his foot proved that, while the sensation was very much maddening, the way to acquire it wasn’t entirely so.
A sharp exhale left your nose. If Roose had noticed you struggling to pleasure yourself, he surely wasn’t showing it. Your skirts bunched up in your palms in silent frustration and your left palm shot out, landing between you and his left foot. Another awkward positioning. You could certainly hear a heavy exhale from the man above you, which further worsened your predicament.
But attempt, you certainly did. Your clit, despite the wetness of you, was conveniently dry enough to latch onto the leather beneath it. It kept it perfectly still. How annoying, you might think. And you’d be right to do so.
However, I’d like to differ.
To be in the current situation you found yourself in, to actively seek pleasure from the Lord of the Dreadfort, or more so, his foot, you needed to be a certain kind of person. One that did not find satisfaction in perfect reciprocation. One, for which denial was exhilarating, instead of discouraging. And you certainly had never explored that part of you before. Or any part at all, for that matter.
What you had discovered in your time in the Dreadford, however, was that you most definitely were a certain kind of person. For, if you hadn’t been it, in the least, your needy flesh would’ve been sprawled bloody on the ground below the window in your quarters. And if you hadn’t seen to it yourself, someone else certainly would’ve.
The restraint your clit faced, by all means, accidental, provided more pressure, and certainly more stimulation, which you quickly caught on. The speed at which your hips moved slowly picked up but your current position proved unproductive, forcing both of your hands to grip Roose’s leg right beneath his knee in desperation.
Your pace comfortably quickened in seconds with the newly acquired leverage, your mouth parting just enough to let out a cracked moan that was soon silenced. Roose’s hand gripped each of your hands and tore them off of him one after the other, almost discarding them like they weren’t even part of you.
“You know better than to do that,” His tone was reprimanding, cruel in the right kind of context, but certainly not in this one.
Your posture faltered, one hand barely supporting you from falling on your back. Roose, however, did not move an inch–your cunt still glued down to him, wet and worked up.
His eyes however had shifted, down onto you. Unblinking. Appraising.
It certainly irritated you, being looked down upon. But it brought out something else as well, a desire to please. To prove your worth–leaking all over his shoe and all.
Your breath had begun to quicken from the exertion, hefty and animalistic, the rise and fall of your chest doing little to ease your embarrassment.
“It’s your choice if you want to finish,” Your neck cramped lightly as he spoke again, too casually, too fatherly. “I’ve given you all you need”.
He wouldn’t touch you. Basically, his other way of saying it, really.
The whites of your nails, overgrown and chipped, dug into your thighs and lifted the skirts of your dress. The fabric was but an obstacle in your concentration, yet, you were certain that stripping was prohibited in the silently-established rules between you.
And the more you struggled, the more you just wanted to get to your release.
The healing blues and yellows on your knees paled against the dark grey of the stone beneath them, slowly beginning to move again as did your hips, but this time, your hands were propped on the floor in front of you, on either side of Roose’s leg. It gave you leverage, despite how pathetic you certainly looked.
The neediness between your legs certainly showed through your speed, with the eventual slow drags back and forth, as if Roose’s wasn’t enough torture for you. Sweat was a rare thing in the castle, for heat was even rarer. But you certainly were a vision now–thinned out strands of hair stuck to your neck, baby hairs flattened out against your beady forehead. If you’d been drained out of color before this, you certainly looked living-dead now, rutting like a beast in heat.
Needless to say, all that was on your mind now was getting what you wanted.
His boot had become merely but equal to the corner of the table in your quarters, blunt and bruising, but oh, so right. Especially on nights when attention from Roose did not result in satisfaction, and you were sent right back after, having to do the rest by yourself.
A light squelching sound accompanied each thrust forwards, your mouth agape. When your left knee had instinctively attempted to lift itself off the ground to give you a better angle, the heel of Roose’s boot instantly pressed it back down, a firm “No” accompanying it. The stretch from it was painful, sure. But it did give you something to push off from and your pace quickened, despite the ache in your left thigh now.
Noticing he was helping you more than not, Roose withdrew his foot from your knee. The one beneath your restless cunt shifted upward, a restricted kick landing right at your core. You seized the opportunity, both of your palms moving to grip the bottom of it to keep it upward in an almost-impossible position, the press of your worn-out clit against it even harder now.
You were certainly pushing your luck.
In an instant, Roose stepped on both of your hands hard, shoe digging into your fingers. Your entire body stilled, hands stuck beneath a combination of both your weight and his, something resembling a yelp escaping your throat, almost imperceptibly so. The weight of him pressed further your helpless digits into the stone, his ankle twisting in the same motion it would if he was wiping dirt off the bottom of his boot.
He was livid.
“You don’t–” twist “–get to orchestrate–” twist “–this in any way.” Stomp.
He had bent over you now, punctuating his words through gritted teeth.
Your eyes had begun stinging from how wide the impact had blown them, and Roose took advantage of it, making sure you were not only hearing his words, but seeing in his icy, looming gaze that he meant every bit of it.
The gritty sole halted its assault on your fingers and the much-drier leather part of the boot found your cunt again, rubbing it up and down with more pressure than probably needed. Your spine immediately spurred up, and when you attempted to move your hips on your own again, the point of the angled shoe rapidly slapped up your clit enough to still you. The faint line that Roose’s lips had formed twitched and his fingers were delving into the back of your hair, pulling your head back enough to have your entire face tilted up to him.
All of a sudden, all the disregard you had when you were humping him minutes ago vanished and all you could think of was how revolting you probably looked this close. Certainly, you couldn’t feel his breath or anything, but now, bits of light from the upper windows grazed your face and more was visible than you liked.
Those thoughts were quickly interrupted though, when the slap against your clit returned, the grip on your hair not easing. Roose straightened back up, his arm twisting to control your head more comfortably, but his eyes did not ease up. In fact, there was a particular something else about the distance between you and him now. How up there he was and how down there you were. His condescending gaze. The relentlessness of his grip.
Another set of taps at your cunt came and your hips met them with a slow grind forward. The rather lengthy interruption had made your clit even more sensitive, your mouth parting softly, eyes restless in their aim to find a safe spot to look toward. Roose did not seem to think of letting go of your head as part of the plain. Especially since it produced such great ideas like grabbing onto his leg and foot, subsequently! He knew he couldn’t force you to keep your eyes on him alone. But perhaps, seeing you immobile from the waist up, while your clit polished his shoe over and over, gave him enough for now.
He yanked you back again and your eyes closed briefly, the moment enough for your hips to find their rhythm again, quickly returning to a commendable speed. The leather was much drier now, so the motion was rubbing you all sorts of raw and blue, but you couldn’t care less any longer.
It seemed as though this was precisely what Roose wanted. You could never be 100% sure with him.
He steadied his grasp on your locks, essentially rending your neck immobile, so you couldn’t look down if you wanted to. The faint lines beneath your eyes shifted with each wince of your face. The sensation budged inside your stomach, loud and clear. You were close.
The movements of your lower half had slowly begun turning rough and greedy, the grace in them lost. An orgasm seemed like such a plain way to describe what you were aiming at, and considering all you went through thus far, one could say you had yours several times already.
When Roose’s fingers had invaded your throat. When your tongue rounded the filthy corners of his boot. When the same boots pressed so fully down your fingers, that even now, even like this, you could barely feel your fingertips still. An orgasm had been had several times by now. What you were chasing right now, well… It was the most shameful of all. Your own gratification. Pleasure all to yourself.
When your back arched inwards, and Roose’s hand pulled tighter at your hair to recover your previous position, it was the last straw. Your thighs tightened in on themselves and your entire frame began convulsing against his leg. From up above, all Roose could hear were faint sounds from the back of your throat and something in him thought that if he pulled your head as far back as he could, it would change that.
Your breath hatched sharply, your eyes finally opening again, his gaze locked in on yours. It gave the feeling all over your cunt a whole different meaning.
His flat of his boot shot up suddenly, flattening out against your still-moving cunt. A restless tapping, similar to before, ensued, his eyes blown like he could get more out of you. Like you weren’t allowed to just have your cake and eat it too.
Ultimately, the pressure he provided helped draw out the remaining of your high. In a matter of seconds, his hand was out of your hair and your conscience seemed to take that as a sign to reinstill shame in your mind all over again.
What in the Seven Hells had you just done?
The rutting of your hips had long stilled, and all the Gods in the realm knew you wanted to get up and remove yourself as quick as a shadow, but your knees would not allow it. There is a certain festering that befalls the joins when they are in a singular position for too long, and yours had become locked. A permanent worshipper.
The silence in the chambers became bothersome again. Roose removed his boot from under you and shifted once, before moving back toward the table. Your eyes were standstill, not seeing beyond what was right in front of you, where his legs moved slowly near the table again.
He didn’t speak, neither did you.
But in the quiet around you, there was no particular sense of discomfort. You wanted to feel wrong about this. Because feeling wrong about it was the right way to feel.
And still, he knew what you were. And perhaps in seeing you as you were, he revealed a part of himself in return. Though reciprocity wasn’t his thing.
It took you a while to leave his chambers. You sat on the floor, untangling yourself from your own wretchedness, until you could finally come to stand. And even then, you didn’t feel any different. Your dignity remained on the floor and it had painted your knees and cunt equal shades of blue. And Roose had wielded the brush.
Few things in the Dreadfort area of the North needed explanation.
