(Sorry for the delay again. Some unexpected holiday-related obligations came up. Hopefully cunnilingus, multiple orgasms, and a little bit of overstimulated sexual crying are sufficient recompense.) ___
He kisses the long line of her throat, the too-prominent jut of her collarbone, the flat plane between her breasts. He pushes her slip up, and she shifts to accommodate him until the fabric is bunched under her arms.
"Is this alright?" he says, and she nods again. The worst of her is still hidden: her arms, in the sleeves of his robe. Her back and the backs of her thighs, pressed against the mattress. He can't see her scars. Her nakedness is less shameful than it could be. She's still too thin and unwomanly, but there's nothing to be done about that.
Credence knows, because she isn't blind or stupid, that most modern fashions are designed with straight figures like hers in mind. She knows some women wear girdles or bind their chests to achieve that shape. But she was never given anything fashionable to wear. Buying new clothes was an unnecessary expense, and moreover, attention to appearance over virtue encouraged vanity. The defining trait of womanhood isn't supposed to be mere prettiness.
(Of course, a married woman should make herself pleasing to her husband. But that's not defined entirely by appearance, either. Men want more than a pretty doll to look at from a distance. Practical matters -- efficient housekeeping, meek obedience -- would go further toward that goal.)
The defining trait of womanhood is supposed to be motherhood. When Sarah could not at first bear a son for Abraham, she found someone else who could, because she understood that duty. Credence knows that she is not built for the task. Her hips are too narrow for birth, her breasts too small to provide for a child. She has long been aware of this, and ashamed of it, but it never seemed quite so terrible until now. Credence hadn't thought she would be married. She thought, if she was careful enough and observant enough, she might learn enough to continue her ma's work. Not the preaching (Credence's voice is too soft to draw crowds), but the ministering to the poor. She could look after children even if she would never have her own. God would show her a way to fulfill her purpose.
Percival doesn't seem repulsed by her ill-formed body, but he might also be trying to spare her feelings. He has his own duty to fulfill as a husband. It might still be duty that makes him rub a thumb over the peak of her nipple (an unexpected but not unpleasant sensation). He does this a few times and then applies his mouth to the same place. Credence shivers a little, though she feels too warm. Too warm and too wet in a way that makes her want to squeeze her legs together. She doesn't -- that would defeat the purpose. Credence closes her eyes when his hands reach her thighs. She has to remind herself to be pliant, not to tense or resist. It will be easier that way, and over with sooner.
All those thoughts slip out of her head like water through a sieve when Percival kisses her between her legs. The next thing she knows, she's pushed herself halfway to a sitting position, and her eyes are open. He looks up at her, startled.
"What --" she starts to say, but she doesn't have a whole question ready.
"Do you want me to stop?" he says.
"No," Credence says. Her voice is high, cracking, a little hysterical. "No, you can, I just. I didn't." Didn't expect that, didn't even know that was something people did.
She knows it can go the other way around. She's seen it out of the corner of her eye, happening in alleyways in neighborhoods where the younger children weren't allowed to go. Even when she and Chastity had gone to those parts of the city to spread the word, they always went together, and never stayed long. She knows that women (or sometimes boys) will get on their knees to service men. It always seemed like a base, low act; something unclean and unpleasant. But, oh, if it feels like this for men, she can imagine why they would pay for it. Or maybe it's the sanctity of marriage and the relative safety of her husband's bed that elevate the act to something she could revere instead of revile.
Credence never really thought to learn the shape of herself. She avoided touching between her legs except as necessary, when she bled. She feels as though she's learning it all now. Percival's lips and tongue are teaching her where she is raw and where she is tender. Let him devour me, she thinks, drowning in the flood of sensation. She is coming apart, but not like an explosion: like a wave breaking, falling back to become part of the sea again.
She comes back to herself a little, after that, but not quite enough to feel embarrassed by her own wantonness. Not enough to be embarrassed by how easily he slides a finger into her. This, combined with the continued wet heat of his mouth on her, is almost enough to undo her again. Almost, but not quite. She brushes back the hair falling over his face, and he looks up. He also pulls back, which is really the last thing she wants.
"It's fine," she says before he can ask. It's more than fine. The sight of his slick mouth sends a hot thrill through her.
It's fine when he slides a second finger into her, too, but past that point, she starts to worry. The third finger brings with it an uncomfortable stretch. She feels herself clench around his fingers convulsively, involuntarily. It doesn't hurt, exactly. But it's strange, and brings her further back from the delirious haze of pleasure she had lost herself to. It brings her back enough for her to start to feel ashamed. She resents her body for accepting so much (so easily, so greedily). Percival curls his fingers a little, sucking gently at somewhere above where her body is too open around them. Pleasure overtakes her again, but suddenly this time. Credence shudders. She feels limp, wrung-out, overtaxed.
Percival withdraws his fingers slowly. "We don't have to do anything else," he says. It feels like a rejection, or at least a concession she doesn't want him to have to make.
"Please," Credence says. "Please." You've given me so much, she'd like to say; let me give you something in return. She reaches out to him. For a moment she thinks he won't come to her. But he only pulls away for long enough to strip efficiently out of his pajamas, and then spreads himself over her like a blanket. (Like a shield.) Here, too, he is careful: he braces his forearms on either side of her, so as not to smother her with his weight.
"If you're sure," he says. His face is very close to hers. Credence only has to nod. She can feel him hard against her thigh, and then he reaches down, and she can feel him hard inside her. He rocks into her slowly, steadily. It's another slightly uncomfortable stretch. It stops short of pain, though. Credence hears herself making small, choked-off sounds. Percival kisses her wetly, his mouth open against hers.
"I want to look at you," he says. His voice is rough, his breathing heavy, but there's no threat there. "Afterward. When I can appreciate it."
Credence sobs. It's all too much. Percival stops moving and she clutches at his shoulders to keep him from pulling away. He takes pity on her and doesn't ask if he should stop, or if she's alright. Maybe he knows she couldn't answer him in words. He reaches down again to hitch one of her legs up higher, open her wider around him. He cants his hips, driving in deeper, and Credence cries out loudly enough to startle them both. She turns her head to catch his lips in another kiss. She gasps into his mouth, blinking through more tears. Percival murmurs something she can't quite make out. She hopes it's a spell that will keep them suspended in this moment, twined together and perfectly in sync.
It isn't, after all, though they do manage another few minutes before he finishes. Percival pulls out and pulls away and Credence doesn't make any move to cover herself, though she's cold without his body on top of her. She lets him pull off the robe and her slip. There is no need and no room for shame before him now, with his seed drying on her thighs. He looks at her. She looks back. It's enough, for the time being.
Percival sweeps their discarded clothes to the floor with a wave of his hand and bundles her under the covers. He fits himself in close behind her. Credence sleeps in her husband's house, in her husband's bed, and feels like she deserves the privilege.
fill: "to honor and obey" (original!Graves/fem!Credence, part 5/6ish)
___
He kisses the long line of her throat, the too-prominent jut of her collarbone, the flat plane between her breasts. He pushes her slip up, and she shifts to accommodate him until the fabric is bunched under her arms.
"Is this alright?" he says, and she nods again. The worst of her is still hidden: her arms, in the sleeves of his robe. Her back and the backs of her thighs, pressed against the mattress. He can't see her scars. Her nakedness is less shameful than it could be. She's still too thin and unwomanly, but there's nothing to be done about that.
Credence knows, because she isn't blind or stupid, that most modern fashions are designed with straight figures like hers in mind. She knows some women wear girdles or bind their chests to achieve that shape. But she was never given anything fashionable to wear. Buying new clothes was an unnecessary expense, and moreover, attention to appearance over virtue encouraged vanity. The defining trait of womanhood isn't supposed to be mere prettiness.
(Of course, a married woman should make herself pleasing to her husband. But that's not defined entirely by appearance, either. Men want more than a pretty doll to look at from a distance. Practical matters -- efficient housekeeping, meek obedience -- would go further toward that goal.)
The defining trait of womanhood is supposed to be motherhood. When Sarah could not at first bear a son for Abraham, she found someone else who could, because she understood that duty. Credence knows that she is not built for the task. Her hips are too narrow for birth, her breasts too small to provide for a child. She has long been aware of this, and ashamed of it, but it never seemed quite so terrible until now. Credence hadn't thought she would be married. She thought, if she was careful enough and observant enough, she might learn enough to continue her ma's work. Not the preaching (Credence's voice is too soft to draw crowds), but the ministering to the poor. She could look after children even if she would never have her own. God would show her a way to fulfill her purpose.
Percival doesn't seem repulsed by her ill-formed body, but he might also be trying to spare her feelings. He has his own duty to fulfill as a husband. It might still be duty that makes him rub a thumb over the peak of her nipple (an unexpected but not unpleasant sensation). He does this a few times and then applies his mouth to the same place. Credence shivers a little, though she feels too warm. Too warm and too wet in a way that makes her want to squeeze her legs together. She doesn't -- that would defeat the purpose. Credence closes her eyes when his hands reach her thighs. She has to remind herself to be pliant, not to tense or resist. It will be easier that way, and over with sooner.
All those thoughts slip out of her head like water through a sieve when Percival kisses her between her legs. The next thing she knows, she's pushed herself halfway to a sitting position, and her eyes are open. He looks up at her, startled.
"What --" she starts to say, but she doesn't have a whole question ready.
"Do you want me to stop?" he says.
"No," Credence says. Her voice is high, cracking, a little hysterical. "No, you can, I just. I didn't." Didn't expect that, didn't even know that was something people did.
She knows it can go the other way around. She's seen it out of the corner of her eye, happening in alleyways in neighborhoods where the younger children weren't allowed to go. Even when she and Chastity had gone to those parts of the city to spread the word, they always went together, and never stayed long. She knows that women (or sometimes boys) will get on their knees to service men. It always seemed like a base, low act; something unclean and unpleasant. But, oh, if it feels like this for men, she can imagine why they would pay for it. Or maybe it's the sanctity of marriage and the relative safety of her husband's bed that elevate the act to something she could revere instead of revile.
Credence never really thought to learn the shape of herself. She avoided touching between her legs except as necessary, when she bled. She feels as though she's learning it all now. Percival's lips and tongue are teaching her where she is raw and where she is tender. Let him devour me, she thinks, drowning in the flood of sensation. She is coming apart, but not like an explosion: like a wave breaking, falling back to become part of the sea again.
She comes back to herself a little, after that, but not quite enough to feel embarrassed by her own wantonness. Not enough to be embarrassed by how easily he slides a finger into her. This, combined with the continued wet heat of his mouth on her, is almost enough to undo her again. Almost, but not quite. She brushes back the hair falling over his face, and he looks up. He also pulls back, which is really the last thing she wants.
"It's fine," she says before he can ask. It's more than fine. The sight of his slick mouth sends a hot thrill through her.
It's fine when he slides a second finger into her, too, but past that point, she starts to worry. The third finger brings with it an uncomfortable stretch. She feels herself clench around his fingers convulsively, involuntarily. It doesn't hurt, exactly. But it's strange, and brings her further back from the delirious haze of pleasure she had lost herself to. It brings her back enough for her to start to feel ashamed. She resents her body for accepting so much (so easily, so greedily). Percival curls his fingers a little, sucking gently at somewhere above where her body is too open around them. Pleasure overtakes her again, but suddenly this time. Credence shudders. She feels limp, wrung-out, overtaxed.
Percival withdraws his fingers slowly. "We don't have to do anything else," he says. It feels like a rejection, or at least a concession she doesn't want him to have to make.
"Please," Credence says. "Please." You've given me so much, she'd like to say; let me give you something in return. She reaches out to him. For a moment she thinks he won't come to her. But he only pulls away for long enough to strip efficiently out of his pajamas, and then spreads himself over her like a blanket. (Like a shield.) Here, too, he is careful: he braces his forearms on either side of her, so as not to smother her with his weight.
"If you're sure," he says. His face is very close to hers. Credence only has to nod. She can feel him hard against her thigh, and then he reaches down, and she can feel him hard inside her. He rocks into her slowly, steadily. It's another slightly uncomfortable stretch. It stops short of pain, though. Credence hears herself making small, choked-off sounds. Percival kisses her wetly, his mouth open against hers.
"I want to look at you," he says. His voice is rough, his breathing heavy, but there's no threat there. "Afterward. When I can appreciate it."
Credence sobs. It's all too much. Percival stops moving and she clutches at his shoulders to keep him from pulling away. He takes pity on her and doesn't ask if he should stop, or if she's alright. Maybe he knows she couldn't answer him in words. He reaches down again to hitch one of her legs up higher, open her wider around him. He cants his hips, driving in deeper, and Credence cries out loudly enough to startle them both. She turns her head to catch his lips in another kiss. She gasps into his mouth, blinking through more tears. Percival murmurs something she can't quite make out. She hopes it's a spell that will keep them suspended in this moment, twined together and perfectly in sync.
It isn't, after all, though they do manage another few minutes before he finishes. Percival pulls out and pulls away and Credence doesn't make any move to cover herself, though she's cold without his body on top of her. She lets him pull off the robe and her slip. There is no need and no room for shame before him now, with his seed drying on her thighs. He looks at her. She looks back. It's enough, for the time being.
Percival sweeps their discarded clothes to the floor with a wave of his hand and bundles her under the covers. He fits himself in close behind her. Credence sleeps in her husband's house, in her husband's bed, and feels like she deserves the privilege.