Hers are not lone crimes that she will atone for in silence and secrecy, a woman cowed in the bedchambers, suffering no one to see her shame. She has kin aplenty, doesn't she? She has more than he does. She has her uncle, though that man, as he'd already judged, seems not far from death, or at least from the fatal dishonor of weakness. She has her brother, and comrades and smallfolk whom she would not abandon if the choice were hers. Pride binds her where blood does not. And when he does decide to coat her womb with his seed, when the day comes that she does quicken with their child, and the children who will come after the first - then she will have provided her own sweet martyrs for the repayment of debts accrued this night.
Glowing with the certainty of this nearby future in his head, he unlocks his fingers from beneath her jaw. To refuse her the grace of an untimely death, more than anything else. He studies her face, eyes flicking over the fine and regal make of jaw and nose and brow, admiring her much more earnestly than he had at their first meeting, or when she'd stood before him at the altar, sworn to be his. She is fairer, he thinks, for the glistening of his saliva on her cheek, more beautiful in her silence than she was in her railing heroics against him. The sea-strong sweep and ebb of pleasure writes a new smile across his face, one which is appreciative of the marvel before him, as if he is seeing her only for the first time, with every expectation met.
Because this is, now, how she should be: laid flat before him, wearing his spit and his seed and his blood, he's sure, where she'd raked him, and her own blood, where he'd rent her flesh with a devil's scrabbling claws. The plum bruises which will dapple her skin, the furious flush where blood has been driven delirious beneath the skin: this does make a pretty picture. He would be pleased to see her this way often.
Lifting himself from her, trusting entirely that she will lack the energy or the purpose to fling herself at him in any sort of troublesome way, he straightens the ceremonious blacks he wears, his eyes roving her body still, as if she were a mangled stag stumbled upon in the woods, grotesque and strangely thrilling.
"I owe you a compliment. It was not true earlier, but it is true now: you are quite ravishing. I do believe this is the life the gods made you for."
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sforzinda
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Date: 2022-02-03 01:20 am (UTC)Glowing with the certainty of this nearby future in his head, he unlocks his fingers from beneath her jaw. To refuse her the grace of an untimely death, more than anything else. He studies her face, eyes flicking over the fine and regal make of jaw and nose and brow, admiring her much more earnestly than he had at their first meeting, or when she'd stood before him at the altar, sworn to be his. She is fairer, he thinks, for the glistening of his saliva on her cheek, more beautiful in her silence than she was in her railing heroics against him. The sea-strong sweep and ebb of pleasure writes a new smile across his face, one which is appreciative of the marvel before him, as if he is seeing her only for the first time, with every expectation met.
Because this is, now, how she should be: laid flat before him, wearing his spit and his seed and his blood, he's sure, where she'd raked him, and her own blood, where he'd rent her flesh with a devil's scrabbling claws. The plum bruises which will dapple her skin, the furious flush where blood has been driven delirious beneath the skin: this does make a pretty picture. He would be pleased to see her this way often.
Lifting himself from her, trusting entirely that she will lack the energy or the purpose to fling herself at him in any sort of troublesome way, he straightens the ceremonious blacks he wears, his eyes roving her body still, as if she were a mangled stag stumbled upon in the woods, grotesque and strangely thrilling.
"I owe you a compliment. It was not true earlier, but it is true now: you are quite ravishing. I do believe this is the life the gods made you for."