[ If Credence is faking nerves, he'll easily be considered the most exceptional actor of his generation. It's all right there, from the most minute tremors in his hands to the plaintive words couched in necessary courtesy. The young prince looks like he wants to be anywhere but here, and the king supposes he can't blame him for it. He has, after all, just been traded like particularly expensive chattel (permission unsought, if Graves' assessment of his mother is accurate).
One does not bear the weight of this indignity easily. Credence, after all, is of the bloodline of kings, and even if his mother considers him a valuable pawn in whatever game she's playing, Credence is now Prince Consort of this land.
The briefest moment of calculation is spared -- all the ways an assassination might be carried out in the marital bed before summarily set aside. Mary Lou is cunning and greedy, but not foolish; she is suited to manipulations in the shadows, not prosaic machinations that can be so easily foiled.
(That thought does not reassure.)
He nods to the servants and dismisses them as asked, his gaze caught on the way the nightgown rides just barely up his thighs, pale-white and smooth, untouched. Mary Lou has whispered that he is pristine, a virgin to man and woman -- and Graves has only half-believed that up until now. Surely someone as exquisite as he is would have had his fair share of suitors. Credence is stunning, with long lashes and high cheekbones and a wide, sultry mouth made for kissing and for many, many other things, and yet somehow it seems inappropriate to ask if his mother speaks truth as to his inexperience.
When they're finally alone, he steps forward, fingers brushing lightly over a knee. His easy capitulation is troubling, strange -- what has his mother actually told him about the act of consummation? ]
Sit up, Credence. [ His words are firm but gentle, belying his fierce, unforgiving reputation. He is speaking to a spouse, not an enemy (although knowing his mother he's not sure if it's entirely true). ] In my bed, I only claim the willing; pleasure is to be both mine, and yours. If you feel that it's beyond you tonight, there is always the next night.
[ He'd be lying if he says that he doesn't want him, that he doesn't desire sinking into the tightness of Credence's lovely body, to push inside of him and take him as his own, to hear him cry out sweetly when he comes, but to start off a marriage (however arranged) by taking what Credence doesn't willingly give is distasteful. Mary Lou might consider his kingdom a heathen, moral-less bed of sorcerers and sorceresses, but there is powerful magic here even her most advanced technology cannot hope to replicate. ]
no subject
One does not bear the weight of this indignity easily. Credence, after all, is of the bloodline of kings, and even if his mother considers him a valuable pawn in whatever game she's playing, Credence is now Prince Consort of this land.
The briefest moment of calculation is spared -- all the ways an assassination might be carried out in the marital bed before summarily set aside. Mary Lou is cunning and greedy, but not foolish; she is suited to manipulations in the shadows, not prosaic machinations that can be so easily foiled.
(That thought does not reassure.)
He nods to the servants and dismisses them as asked, his gaze caught on the way the nightgown rides just barely up his thighs, pale-white and smooth, untouched. Mary Lou has whispered that he is pristine, a virgin to man and woman -- and Graves has only half-believed that up until now. Surely someone as exquisite as he is would have had his fair share of suitors. Credence is stunning, with long lashes and high cheekbones and a wide, sultry mouth made for kissing and for many, many other things, and yet somehow it seems inappropriate to ask if his mother speaks truth as to his inexperience.
When they're finally alone, he steps forward, fingers brushing lightly over a knee. His easy capitulation is troubling, strange -- what has his mother actually told him about the act of consummation? ]
Sit up, Credence. [ His words are firm but gentle, belying his fierce, unforgiving reputation. He is speaking to a spouse, not an enemy (although knowing his mother he's not sure if it's entirely true). ] In my bed, I only claim the willing; pleasure is to be both mine, and yours. If you feel that it's beyond you tonight, there is always the next night.
[ He'd be lying if he says that he doesn't want him, that he doesn't desire sinking into the tightness of Credence's lovely body, to push inside of him and take him as his own, to hear him cry out sweetly when he comes, but to start off a marriage (however arranged) by taking what Credence doesn't willingly give is distasteful. Mary Lou might consider his kingdom a heathen, moral-less bed of sorcerers and sorceresses, but there is powerful magic here even her most advanced technology cannot hope to replicate. ]