Noctisardor Bypass [m] sola fide

though she did not speak it, in some way, andras knew.
these urges of hers, this need to be beneath a husband. to rear his children. to feed him. to be held. to be disciplined. to be fucked. all in the name of the holy man who smiles down with crooked teeth.
he wished to chain her to her white robes, to veil her head; stroke her cheek with a calloused thumb and force her legs open with the other. he wished to taste her, drink from the sweet wine in her veins.
he wonders what the pale pelt of hers would look like stained.
no, no, you must choose. i insist, something brash, something daring; he bends down to press a kiss to the dainty knuckles, featherlight. it will be a celebration for you, and for your bond with god. whatever you ask, i will deliver.
his heart lurches — oh, she is so innocent that she does not know what wine is, and he feels the serpentine pull of his urge to press his lips to her neck. berries, he chuckles. fermented, so that their juices will be sweeter. it is said that our lord turned water into wine.
and then he notices it, the flare of memory behind her eyes. he senses tragedy, and the opportunity bubbles beneath the surface. he allows the hazy shrill of crickets to swallow the silence before he quietly asks, what is it?