And now? This question is rasped from her battered throat, and he cannot discern if it is fear or sorrow. It does not much matter; one serves as well as the other, when the speaker is flayed on a table. Near enough to being flayed. He watches her for a moment longer, head tilted as if in gentle consideration of her question, neatly arranging fastenings undone and fine fabric rumpled in the fray. And now? It could almost be taken for a savoring anticipation, this query of hers.
"Now?" It is mused aloud, almost amiably, as if this were one of many quiet evenings shared, a routine of peace to be played out however they like. "Now I expect you will wash yourself, and I, having suffered a day of so few gifts and blessings, will take pleasure at least in a restful sleep, if I can find pleasure nowhere else." At this the appraisal he gives her takes on a flippant edge, discards her from ankle to throat as he takes in the sight of her spent body, and he lifts both hands to perfect the lay of the collar at his throat, as if he has taken from her no pleasure at all.
She does have much to scour from herself - blood, seed, tears, sweat. He would not tolerate lying beside her in this state, if she'd been of a bedraggled mind to stumble into bed beside him. His perusing gaze is honed into a blade once more as he tallies every blemish she has acquired since being introduced to the table.
There is an enveloping heaviness in the muscles of his arms, and in the stretch of his back; this is what it feels like, he decides with a twinge of pride, to have exerted oneself. Having ridden into no true battle as of yet, he cannot say what the burning and subsequent drunken relief of a rigorous victory feels like. But this has been a victory, and his body basks in its savoring, and once he has had his fill of surveying her ruin, he turns on his heel, striding for the door.
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sforzinda
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Date: 2022-02-03 03:50 am (UTC)"Now?" It is mused aloud, almost amiably, as if this were one of many quiet evenings shared, a routine of peace to be played out however they like. "Now I expect you will wash yourself, and I, having suffered a day of so few gifts and blessings, will take pleasure at least in a restful sleep, if I can find pleasure nowhere else." At this the appraisal he gives her takes on a flippant edge, discards her from ankle to throat as he takes in the sight of her spent body, and he lifts both hands to perfect the lay of the collar at his throat, as if he has taken from her no pleasure at all.
She does have much to scour from herself - blood, seed, tears, sweat. He would not tolerate lying beside her in this state, if she'd been of a bedraggled mind to stumble into bed beside him. His perusing gaze is honed into a blade once more as he tallies every blemish she has acquired since being introduced to the table.
There is an enveloping heaviness in the muscles of his arms, and in the stretch of his back; this is what it feels like, he decides with a twinge of pride, to have exerted oneself. Having ridden into no true battle as of yet, he cannot say what the burning and subsequent drunken relief of a rigorous victory feels like. But this has been a victory, and his body basks in its savoring, and once he has had his fill of surveying her ruin, he turns on his heel, striding for the door.