The door slammed shut, and Ulfric was left alone with his prize.
The jarl’s children were an unfortunate, but necessary ploy to gain her obedience, for the time being. He had thought only to taunt her further with the title of wife. To see another wave of fury and hate spitting from those glorious eyes of hers. He was enjoying humiliating her. Shaming her, as she had done to him, when she had dared deny his cause with that haughty imperial pride.
But now that the words had slipped through his teeth, he found himself warming quite quickly to the idea.
His wife.
His.
Her Imperial blood should have been a point of disgust, but for some reason he could not make himself care. All of Skyrim would know that the Dragonborn herself had been won over to his cause. The symbol of her name, joined with his, would yet strengthen this land.
It would certainly solve his dilemma of what to do with her.
He would keep her.
It really was so simple, so brilliant, he wondered why he had not thought it sooner.
The fact that this was not a love match also did not bother him. He had never expected such, based on the status and destiny bestowed upon him. And with such ripe curves to heat his bed at night, what need did a man have for such weak emotion?
Even at the thought of her, he felt his cock twitch. He was still hard, and aching with the heavy, demanding throb of his unspent seed. His hand still lingered at the apex of her thighs, and he nearly groaned in anticipation of another round. She had felt so soft and slick against his hand, so tightly wrapped around just the width of his finger, it had taken all of his rather formidable control not to simply hook her legs around his waist and grind into her.
He had opted for patience. Self-denial was a lesson he had well learned. Sacrifice in the present for larger pay-off in the future.
And this pay-off, it had been sweet indeed, hearing her breath coming in soft hitches, increasing in speed and intensity, each one closer to the last than the one before. And when she had finally rocked her hips against his hand, her mind no longer having a say in what her body craved, he had almost spilled his seed against her belly in abject pleasure at the feel of her quivering, yielding flesh.
It would not be her only surrender to him this night.
He was looking forward to another round. He had enjoyed her attempts to best him. But at the moment, his Dragonborn did not look ready to fight him. She did not even look angry. Her head was down, her face hidden by a tangle of silken curls that fell forward across her cheek, her shoulders curling in a pitiful slump.
He pushed the hair back behind her ear, ignoring her immediate flinch away from his touch, before taking her jaw in his hands to lift her face to his.
He had seen the threat of burgeoning tears in her eyes, when Balgruuf stood at his back begging for his children, and he had a moment of fear that he would have to deal with such nonsense now, from one who had proven herself more worthy opponent in the past.
His eyes were dry, to his relief. But in their glittering depths he saw clearly, as if she made no attempt to hide it, a deep well of misery.
Some part of his furious, war-addled mind had wanted her broken, had wanted to look down upon this enemy as she lay at his feet, begging for what little remained from the remnants of her shattered self.
He had thought it would take more than sweetly forced pleasuring and the promise of a ring on her finger to break her. And he had thought he would feel at least some sort of victory when he had done so. But something else was twisting his gut into a knot of unfamiliar, ugly feeling. Something he could not place, would not name remorse, something that reminded him sorely of the idealistic and stupid boy he had once been, before betrayal and torture and defeat and fury had enacted their heavy toll upon him.
He had no desire to re-visit that old and weak self.
He let out a long suffering sigh, and then reached to make quick work of removing her gag.
As soon as the fabric was free from her mouth, she made foolish attempt at speech.
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timeasmymeasure
Never Our Tenderness (F!/DB Imperial/Ulfric Stormcloak) – 6a/?
Date: 2013-02-24 09:10 pm (UTC)The jarl’s children were an unfortunate, but necessary ploy to gain her obedience, for the time being. He had thought only to taunt her further with the title of wife. To see another wave of fury and hate spitting from those glorious eyes of hers. He was enjoying humiliating her. Shaming her, as she had done to him, when she had dared deny his cause with that haughty imperial pride.
But now that the words had slipped through his teeth, he found himself warming quite quickly to the idea.
His wife.
His.
Her Imperial blood should have been a point of disgust, but for some reason he could not make himself care. All of Skyrim would know that the Dragonborn herself had been won over to his cause. The symbol of her name, joined with his, would yet strengthen this land.
It would certainly solve his dilemma of what to do with her.
He would keep her.
It really was so simple, so brilliant, he wondered why he had not thought it sooner.
The fact that this was not a love match also did not bother him. He had never expected such, based on the status and destiny bestowed upon him. And with such ripe curves to heat his bed at night, what need did a man have for such weak emotion?
Even at the thought of her, he felt his cock twitch. He was still hard, and aching with the heavy, demanding throb of his unspent seed. His hand still lingered at the apex of her thighs, and he nearly groaned in anticipation of another round. She had felt so soft and slick against his hand, so tightly wrapped around just the width of his finger, it had taken all of his rather formidable control not to simply hook her legs around his waist and grind into her.
He had opted for patience. Self-denial was a lesson he had well learned. Sacrifice in the present for larger pay-off in the future.
And this pay-off, it had been sweet indeed, hearing her breath coming in soft hitches, increasing in speed and intensity, each one closer to the last than the one before. And when she had finally rocked her hips against his hand, her mind no longer having a say in what her body craved, he had almost spilled his seed against her belly in abject pleasure at the feel of her quivering, yielding flesh.
It would not be her only surrender to him this night.
He was looking forward to another round. He had enjoyed her attempts to best him. But at the moment, his Dragonborn did not look ready to fight him. She did not even look angry. Her head was down, her face hidden by a tangle of silken curls that fell forward across her cheek, her shoulders curling in a pitiful slump.
He pushed the hair back behind her ear, ignoring her immediate flinch away from his touch, before taking her jaw in his hands to lift her face to his.
He had seen the threat of burgeoning tears in her eyes, when Balgruuf stood at his back begging for his children, and he had a moment of fear that he would have to deal with such nonsense now, from one who had proven herself more worthy opponent in the past.
His eyes were dry, to his relief. But in their glittering depths he saw clearly, as if she made no attempt to hide it, a deep well of misery.
Some part of his furious, war-addled mind had wanted her broken, had wanted to look down upon this enemy as she lay at his feet, begging for what little remained from the remnants of her shattered self.
He had thought it would take more than sweetly forced pleasuring and the promise of a ring on her finger to break her. And he had thought he would feel at least some sort of victory when he had done so. But something else was twisting his gut into a knot of unfamiliar, ugly feeling. Something he could not place, would not name remorse, something that reminded him sorely of the idealistic and stupid boy he had once been, before betrayal and torture and defeat and fury had enacted their heavy toll upon him.
He had no desire to re-visit that old and weak self.
He let out a long suffering sigh, and then reached to make quick work of removing her gag.
As soon as the fabric was free from her mouth, she made foolish attempt at speech.