“You are insolent,” Robb rejoined, his voice full of the authority that he so desperately tried to project.
Bolton’s hand tightened and he leaned forward. Robb could smell the mint on his breath, feel his breath on his face. He’d never been that close to another man and could not help but feel a bit of curiosity and yes, amusement, at the absurdity of their situation.
“You would do well with a good leeching,” Bolton said then. “All of that…responsibility only serves to anger the blood.”
Somehow, his other hand was on Robb’s shoulder, pulling him closer.
“There are other ways to relieve that,” Robb said, and although he was not surprised that he kissed Roose Bolton full on the lips, he was surprised at how much he enjoyed it. It was cold, sharp even, but it woke him up, and instead of calming the blood, only served to inflame it. He permitted the other man to take the lead, surrendering to his insistent embrace, feeling the rough wood of the table scrape against his thighs as Bolton lowered him on the map, scattering pins and flags to the ground.
As Bolton’s icy hands unlaced Robb’s doublet, his head lolled back, cheeks flushed with the touch of another, his auburn hair falling from his finely-hewn features. When Bolton’s quick fingers tweaked a nipple, he permitted a small cry to escape his lips, pleasure mingled with pain, and when his arms, surprisingly strong, took hold of Robb and forced him over, grasped his hips and slid his remaining clothing from his now trembling body, he was in no position to protest.
Robb gasped as he was taken, the mingled shock and almost brutal shame almost too much to bear. Worse yet were the little endearments that Bolton hissed in his ear as he penetrated him.
“You’re nothing but an impudent pup,” he said, teeth fastening on the soft white flesh of Robb’s neck. “Barely taken from your wetnurse, parading about in your gilded crown.”
Despite himself, despite his inner disgust at being made Bolton’s wench, Robb felt himself growing hard, and before he could stop himself, he silenced the other man’s litany of abuse.
“Bring me off.” It was hard to speak, let alone breathe. “Bring me off, for the gods’ sake.”
“You command it?” Bolton chuckled, teasingly brushing his fingers against Robb’s manhood.
“As your King, yes. I do.” And when Bolton obeyed, surprisingly, Robb realized that he didn’t want things to end, that perhaps, it was not a bad thing to be pleasured in this way, and that the menacing command that Roose Bolton had taken of him was, in a way, delightful. So he responded when his clammy hand found his cock in the dark, and with practiced strokes, brought him to the edge of delight, and tormentingly, hatefully, pulled away.
They parted quickly, Robb clutching his erection, thwarted, Bolton smiling again. This time, it met his eyes, broadening when he noticed the rage apparent in his King’s expression.
“We shall continue this discussion,” Robb gasped, face blazing, breath coming hard, “another time.”
“Is that an order…your Grace?”
“You may consider it a command. Now go. You are dismissed.”
He would remember that and what followed when Bolton, the smile still on his face, thrust a sword through his heart at a wedding gone wrong, and in his dying moments, wonder in amazement how Roose Bolton looked just as pleased when he killed someone as when he fucked someone.
FILL: The Young Wolf & The Leech Lord, Part II
Bolton’s hand tightened and he leaned forward. Robb could smell the mint on his breath, feel his breath on his face. He’d never been that close to another man and could not help but feel a bit of curiosity and yes, amusement, at the absurdity of their situation.
“You would do well with a good leeching,” Bolton said then. “All of that…responsibility only serves to anger the blood.”
Somehow, his other hand was on Robb’s shoulder, pulling him closer.
“There are other ways to relieve that,” Robb said, and although he was not surprised that he kissed Roose Bolton full on the lips, he was surprised at how much he enjoyed it. It was cold, sharp even, but it woke him up, and instead of calming the blood, only served to inflame it. He permitted the other man to take the lead, surrendering to his insistent embrace, feeling the rough wood of the table scrape against his thighs as Bolton lowered him on the map, scattering pins and flags to the ground.
As Bolton’s icy hands unlaced Robb’s doublet, his head lolled back, cheeks flushed with the touch of another, his auburn hair falling from his finely-hewn features. When Bolton’s quick fingers tweaked a nipple, he permitted a small cry to escape his lips, pleasure mingled with pain, and when his arms, surprisingly strong, took hold of Robb and forced him over, grasped his hips and slid his remaining clothing from his now trembling body, he was in no position to protest.
Robb gasped as he was taken, the mingled shock and almost brutal shame almost too much to bear. Worse yet were the little endearments that Bolton hissed in his ear as he penetrated him.
“You’re nothing but an impudent pup,” he said, teeth fastening on the soft white flesh of Robb’s neck. “Barely taken from your wetnurse, parading about in your gilded crown.”
Despite himself, despite his inner disgust at being made Bolton’s wench, Robb felt himself growing hard, and before he could stop himself, he silenced the other man’s litany of abuse.
“Bring me off.” It was hard to speak, let alone breathe. “Bring me off, for the gods’ sake.”
“You command it?” Bolton chuckled, teasingly brushing his fingers against Robb’s manhood.
“As your King, yes. I do.” And when Bolton obeyed, surprisingly, Robb realized that he didn’t want things to end, that perhaps, it was not a bad thing to be pleasured in this way, and that the menacing command that Roose Bolton had taken of him was, in a way, delightful. So he responded when his clammy hand found his cock in the dark, and with practiced strokes, brought him to the edge of delight, and tormentingly, hatefully, pulled away.
They parted quickly, Robb clutching his erection, thwarted, Bolton smiling again. This time, it met his eyes, broadening when he noticed the rage apparent in his King’s expression.
“We shall continue this discussion,” Robb gasped, face blazing, breath coming hard, “another time.”
“Is that an order…your Grace?”
“You may consider it a command. Now go. You are dismissed.”
He would remember that and what followed when Bolton, the smile still on his face, thrust a sword through his heart at a wedding gone wrong, and in his dying moments, wonder in amazement how Roose Bolton looked just as pleased when he killed someone as when he fucked someone.