He laughs, and her eyes are drawn to his teeth, white in the darkness; she thinks not of dragons, not even the conniving and brutal dragons of legend, but of jackals and wolves, of sharp fangs ripping at dead meat. His hand, mauling at her breasts; his breath a hot pant into heavy air. A wild thing, snapping jaws and bristling pelt; eyes gleaming fever-bright in the shadows. A jackal, yes; but the scorn in that comparison avails her nothing, when her belly is showing and her throat is bared.
"If..." His hand has moved enough to allow her a little breath, between the battering waves of blood-red pain and aching struggle. Her voice is rough and tense, muffled where his grip restrains her jaw. She does not know whether she should wish for this to be over, or hope that he never gets the satisfaction of finishing it. The thought of his seed inside her, mingling with the blood he has drawn, makes her stomach lurch and twist anew; the thought of the pleasure he draws from her pain is worse than the pain itself. It could all have been so different. Somehow. It could.
She tries and fails to swallow around his grip, to marshal her swimming thoughts against the tidal surge of each fresh pain. She tries to find some solid ground to stand on. She will not lie. She will not say she loves him now, though only this morning she did. She cannot shake, though, the knowledge of those letters, fondly written; she cannot un-know that it was by her word that he came here, with his jackal's smile and his dragon's hunger; she cannot pretend that he has not bested her. "If..." she croaks again, breathless, words made staccato by the force with which he drives into her, "...If I was anything, I would not honour a man who is less than nothing."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sforzinda
no subject
Date: 2022-02-02 11:38 pm (UTC)"If..." His hand has moved enough to allow her a little breath, between the battering waves of blood-red pain and aching struggle. Her voice is rough and tense, muffled where his grip restrains her jaw. She does not know whether she should wish for this to be over, or hope that he never gets the satisfaction of finishing it. The thought of his seed inside her, mingling with the blood he has drawn, makes her stomach lurch and twist anew; the thought of the pleasure he draws from her pain is worse than the pain itself. It could all have been so different. Somehow. It could.
She tries and fails to swallow around his grip, to marshal her swimming thoughts against the tidal surge of each fresh pain. She tries to find some solid ground to stand on. She will not lie. She will not say she loves him now, though only this morning she did. She cannot shake, though, the knowledge of those letters, fondly written; she cannot un-know that it was by her word that he came here, with his jackal's smile and his dragon's hunger; she cannot pretend that he has not bested her. "If..." she croaks again, breathless, words made staccato by the force with which he drives into her, "...If I was anything, I would not honour a man who is less than nothing."