Bloom
for HF (my sweet prince)
His fingers are thin and cold, like Ice, her father's head severed from his body with his own sword not hot, as she'd expected warm with his anger, like the blood he threatens to draw from her, red and flaming like the welts blooming on her skin they curl around her neck and his breath, though, is hot against her ear and she trembles as his fingers scrabble against her, searching for an entrance, I want to hear your voice, my lady, your sweet voice, crying out but her face pressed flat against silken sheets and velvet coverlet, lines of fire across her eyes from strands of hair that catch the candlelight and gleam she vows she will not make a sound, but when those fingers stab in, stretching soiling her lips betray her and open in a whimper and louder, louder he says with a slap spreading her legs so he can enter her, and she cries and moans and writhes and groans as if she could escape him, crawl out from underneath him, in his own bed and he takes her, hard and quick, grunting as he thrusts, dragging his nails down her back stinging and sharp and she's sure she can feel beads of blood blossoming in his tracks she's torn and heavy with shame, no longer a bird, but some grounded, awkward thing. He gathers her hair in his hands and tugs, raising her head, pressing his body down onto hers and then he moans, sounding young, sounding like the boy she loved, and it's over he lies against her, cold and wet and sticky and she shudders and he says, caressing her neck, his fingertips scratching harder with each pass, you see, my sweet, you're mine, all mine, and if you please me, I will love you, from this day to my last Yes, I'm yours, she murmurs and remembers when that's all she ever wanted.