Collection of One-Shots

》long nights

Some seem to think opposites attract, yet that is a falsehood that has persisted through the tales and songs of gallant knights and fair maidens. Life seldom worked in such a way for it is the people of similar minds and interests that are drawn to one another. Whether it be an interest in reading, swordplay, or perhaps in rarer cases, the dark art of torture.

She was cruel, decisive, and had a mind for stratagem rather than fanciful dreams of knights and songs. Her hair was as black as her heart and with mysterious lilac eyes that echoed those of the Mad King rumors could not help but circulate despite her low birth to one of the small vassal houses sworn to Bolton and the north. Her fascination with blood began after watching her mother bleed out from giving birth to a stillborn babe. From a young age, her demented prowess was known in her village and word spreads quickly.

But worst of all was the bastard she had wrapped around her pinky. He was fiercely protective and possessive and in his own twisted way of affection he could deny her nothing, not even a hunt where the prey was some poor captive or finishing flaying the skin from their enemies and prisoners.

Roose Bolton had presented his son with the girl before the two even came to adulthood. She was meant to be his plaything, a source of entertainment to keep the bastard son of the Northern Lord occupied. True that was how his fascination with her started, but when she became of maiden flowered and expressed her interest to accompany him on hunts (the nature of which she knew well), and to see the victims that were kept in the Dreadfort, Ramsay was gleeful.

It was by chance alone Ramsay discovered the joy that she expressed when seeing blood and hearing pleas and screams alike. He offered her his flaying knife once, she was a butcher's daughter and had watched and helped her father skin animals and feathered birds, why should a man be any different. He still remembered the first cut she made to some poor ironborn fool that had stumbled within the forest of his father's land. It was so precise and clean that it did not bleed until she peeled the skin back to reveal corded muscle.

They were king and queen, or so they thought, and only the seven could help someone who had disrespected the queen. When they were together people cowered, even more so than if it were just one of them. Some even dared to whisper that she was the only thing Ramsay Bolton was afraid of in the world. Mistresses and whores would come and go but his lady remained, steadfast and cruel.

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A cell guard dashed a bucket of water with chips of ice onto the man strapped to the wooden frame, his rawboned body writhed and then came the first cries of pains as the screws in his hands and feet were tightened. "First cut, my sweet?" The man whimpered when he saw the two of them standing in the dim light, he had heard the tales of Roose Bolton's bastard and his ladylove. She took the small blade from him and raised up on her toes to kiss his jaw.

Ramsay always started with the fingers, she preferred to begin with the chest. There was just something about carving away the tender flesh there that she reveled in, perhaps it was how they always screamed instead of begging or that there was more blood. Whatever the reason, she had a childish glee in her glacial eyes that men dreaded to see and Ramsay adored.

Her cuts were precise, a type of precision that could have only come from countless experiences. Ramsay could have watched her flay an entire man with her slow methodical movements, he enjoyed seeing her covered in blood, though it was never her own. At times he wondered if she bled at all. Time had slipped away and by the time Ramsay's thoughts had come back to the screams and worthless pleas she had taken the skin from the man's shoulder to nipple.

Ramsay stepped up behind her and rested his chin on her shoulder as she made on final cut before he pulled her away. "Now now, it's my turn," the Bastard of Bolton slipped the knife from her bloody hand and gripped her chin between his thumb and forefinger. His kiss was harsh, cold, consuming, but above all lusty. It was a lust for flesh, from both his victim and his lady. She returned the kiss and drew blood from his bottom lip, a notion that nearly made him take her in the cold and dank dungeon for all watching eyes to see and the castle to hear.

Sex was always rougher after a flaying, this night was no different. His pale fingers had left purple and red bruises on her breasts and thighs yet it could not satiate the both of them. He had torn the fine dress from her back before they stumbled into the master chambers of Deepwood Motte. A film of blood covered her back from scraps that had come from the coarse stone walls, yet she was not alone is shedding blood this night. Ramsay's black bled from her nails, the fervent scratches and indentions of her nails marked his pale skin.

She laced her fingers through his and pushed the back of his hands into the lumpy mattress, her hips undulating in a terribly slow fashion. In rare moments like this, he surrendered himself to her. There was something about the way she looked astride him, the way her skin glowed, and breasts bounced, and the way her cunt gripped onto him like a needy whore. He let out an estranged groan through clenched teeth. She leaned down and kissed him, far more tenderly than he deserved. Ramsay pulled one of his hands free and fisted it within the inky waves that tickled his skin. By then it was too late, she had already reached over to the wooden stand next to the bed and had his favorite flaying knife.

"What...," the words that came to him were lost when she drug the small blade across his chest, blood welled up along the thin cut and she was quick to lean forward and drag her tongue over the crimson fluid on his cold skin. Her lips were red, as was her teeth and chin. "You wicked little thing," he gasped, pulling her hips down back onto him in a quick and harsh motion. She had to brace herself on his chest and the blood that had welled up again was smeared over her hand and his chest.

Ramsay twisted the small knife from her hand and rolled so that she lay beneath him, smiling, even if the edge of the blade was cutting into her throat. His hands were steady and trained and she trusted the small cuts and nicks he put over the tender column of flesh and her shoulders. A line of warmth beaded over her chest as blood dripped from the cut she had made and mixed with her own.

He rutted into her, frenzied, and looked gleeful when the small precise little cuts he had made began to bleed. His lady whined and whimpered when he stopped to lick and suckle at the hollow of her neck. On instinct, she buried her hands into his hair and cried out at his forceful thrust, but then she was flush against him and his eyes were ravenous. "Rams-," his name turned into a wailing noise and her hands sought for purchase on his back, clawing and marking already irritated flesh.

Their chests were slick from blood, he bled and so did she. Her hands wove themselves into his hair, gently tugging and making him grunt a bit harder. His hands were everywhere on her body, touching and pleasuring any spot he could reach. He punctuated his thrusts and kept a steady rhythm that she desperately tried to keep up with though now she was giving into a sea of warmth and pulled Ramsay into its depths as well. The whole of the castle must have heard her scream.

It took several long moments until their breathing was regular, he hovered above her, eyes gleaming in the dark and cold room. Perhaps for the first time, his kiss was gentle, yet it ended abruptly when a servant knocked, undoubtedly to check on the raucous of noise that had come from the room. She sighed. "Will we sleep in each other's blood tonight?" Ramsay laughed at her question and it sent chills running down her spine and hardened her nipples to tight little buds again.

"My sweet wants a bath?" She nodded and he lazily stood from the bed to summon a chambermaid to bring the wooden tub that could hold two and hot water to fill it. They garnered curious looks and glances from those filing in and out of the room with pitchers of water. Undoubtedly the sight of their lord and lady covered in each other's blood mingled with scratches and bites was a sight to behold.

Ramsay picked his ladylove up from the bed and stepped into the tub, lowering them both into the steaming water which took on a pinkish hue.

She ran her finger over the fresh cut on his chest with a crude smile, "I've marked you," she stated with a glint in her eyes that he had never seen before, "your mine."

He grinned despite the unsettling feeling in his gut that came from her words. Ramsay pinched one of her nipples and brushed his lips over hers whispering what she had known since the day they had met, "mine."