Eʟɪᴢᴀʙᴇᴛʜ Tᴜᴅᴏʀ, ℚᴜᴇᴇɴ ᴏғ Eɴɢʟᴀɴᴅ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
commandsthewind) wrote2012-11-17 08:53 pm
commandsthewind) wrote2012-11-17 08:53 pm
Entry tags:
nothing lasts forever;
They were, in short, an anomaly. A lot of things about them didn't match. Or at least they wouldn't to an outsider. Elizabeth could imagine it, that here she was bedding a man half her age. A man who was off chasing every other woman he could get. It was true, she wasn't unaware of what they said of him, but more from her own dealings with him, hinted enough in the smoothness that he had shifted her -- it only came from practise. She had been young once after all, and she remember what it was those first few times with Dudley when she it wasn't smooth, it was all kinds of rough and broken -- satisfying, but lacking that easiness that came with practise.
Zelos was practised, she'd never seen him interact with another woman, but she could imagine how it went, much the same as it had with her. There was too much command to the way his hands swept up her body. That much control when he pressed his hips to hers. The difference was that he kept coming back to her, for whatever reason, perhaps it was the same reason she found herself still inviting him.
But she also imagined that those observing would think this was only about the sex as well. Like she could ever be so crass, so unfeeling. Great lie that was, that she was untouched by things around her. Truth be told she wouldn't have enjoyed it so much if there wasn't some kind of feeling to it. It just wasn't the feeling anyone would of supposed.
Truth be told, the sex in the end, had little do with it. That just followed, and it was satisfying -- that she would not deny. To be pressed down, that lucid, light headed feeling when she could hear him sigh her name against her shoulder. The warmth that spread through her as he would press faster, harder, his fingers gripping tightly as hers slipped and scratched. It was more than welcome, that tight curling, the way he'd bury his face against her neck and gasp, hidden just as much as she'd fight to keep quiet herself. It was good, better than good really. But it wasn't this was about -- still she knew that it would take better than good luck to explain that to anyone else. They both had too much of a reputation, even if those reputations ran in completely opposite directions.
What mattered more, was just laying against him after, her leg slid between his, pressed against his side. Still just quietly, sometimes they'd talk. Of the far off things to both of them, share stories (never about themselves unless they were particularly frivolous), sometimes they'd listen to the rain, or the crackle of the fire the other side of the room. Sometimes he'd convince her to sing, other times, he'd let her doze on her stomach and would count the freckles on her back for an hour or so, connect the lines and draw pictures with them, or contemplate the way his hair looked so much darker against her pale skin. It didn't matter much.
"Your hair is getting longer, Elizabeth," long enough that it was staring to curl around again, and he twisted a little of it it around his finger, then let it spring loose again. The red hair was shot with finer silver, a woman who'd seen too much, he supposed.
"Is it?" She pressed a kiss to his shoulder.
"It's beautiful like this."
She sighed, shifted again, rolling onto her side to proper herself up, the sheet held up to her chest. Her hand shifted to brace on his hip, her thumb brushing back and forth gently. "Perhaps it is. Did you want some wine?"
"Always." She shifted away from him then to get up. Finding her robe again and all that skin he'd become so reacquainted with, would frankly remember better than her jewels and her dresses, was gone once more. He'd change that later, it was still early in the evening. But for now he got up to follow her, watching her poor the wine before he gently touched her hip as she gave him his glass.
Simply existing for the moment, like this, and it was far more thrilling than anything else. There weren't words for it, and frankly, Elizabeth care for the definition, not from anybody else. For once, they didn't matter -- and she intended to enjoy it.
Zelos was practised, she'd never seen him interact with another woman, but she could imagine how it went, much the same as it had with her. There was too much command to the way his hands swept up her body. That much control when he pressed his hips to hers. The difference was that he kept coming back to her, for whatever reason, perhaps it was the same reason she found herself still inviting him.
But she also imagined that those observing would think this was only about the sex as well. Like she could ever be so crass, so unfeeling. Great lie that was, that she was untouched by things around her. Truth be told she wouldn't have enjoyed it so much if there wasn't some kind of feeling to it. It just wasn't the feeling anyone would of supposed.
Truth be told, the sex in the end, had little do with it. That just followed, and it was satisfying -- that she would not deny. To be pressed down, that lucid, light headed feeling when she could hear him sigh her name against her shoulder. The warmth that spread through her as he would press faster, harder, his fingers gripping tightly as hers slipped and scratched. It was more than welcome, that tight curling, the way he'd bury his face against her neck and gasp, hidden just as much as she'd fight to keep quiet herself. It was good, better than good really. But it wasn't this was about -- still she knew that it would take better than good luck to explain that to anyone else. They both had too much of a reputation, even if those reputations ran in completely opposite directions.
What mattered more, was just laying against him after, her leg slid between his, pressed against his side. Still just quietly, sometimes they'd talk. Of the far off things to both of them, share stories (never about themselves unless they were particularly frivolous), sometimes they'd listen to the rain, or the crackle of the fire the other side of the room. Sometimes he'd convince her to sing, other times, he'd let her doze on her stomach and would count the freckles on her back for an hour or so, connect the lines and draw pictures with them, or contemplate the way his hair looked so much darker against her pale skin. It didn't matter much.
"Your hair is getting longer, Elizabeth," long enough that it was staring to curl around again, and he twisted a little of it it around his finger, then let it spring loose again. The red hair was shot with finer silver, a woman who'd seen too much, he supposed.
"Is it?" She pressed a kiss to his shoulder.
"It's beautiful like this."
She sighed, shifted again, rolling onto her side to proper herself up, the sheet held up to her chest. Her hand shifted to brace on his hip, her thumb brushing back and forth gently. "Perhaps it is. Did you want some wine?"
"Always." She shifted away from him then to get up. Finding her robe again and all that skin he'd become so reacquainted with, would frankly remember better than her jewels and her dresses, was gone once more. He'd change that later, it was still early in the evening. But for now he got up to follow her, watching her poor the wine before he gently touched her hip as she gave him his glass.
Simply existing for the moment, like this, and it was far more thrilling than anything else. There weren't words for it, and frankly, Elizabeth care for the definition, not from anybody else. For once, they didn't matter -- and she intended to enjoy it.