The Evil Queen/Regina Mills (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
happilyneverafter) wrote2012-04-28 01:35 am
happilyneverafter) wrote2012-04-28 01:35 am
Entry tags:
FTL // A Huntsman and a Queen // Week One
Heat.
Mere weeks since King Leopold's tragic and untimely death have passed. Such a short time for The Evil Queen, now newly liberated. Newly free. With the erection of his sepulcher hers has crumbled, and where once she was bound, bedchambers cold and empty, now she is taking her delight in whatever she will.
Thirst.
At the moment, whatever she will is the Huntsman limned in dawn's first light, his body naked, strong, bound to her by a thin layer of sweat. The low flickering from the fireplace catches every crevasse, every hard line; she reimagines the way his muscles moved the night before, sinuous, exquisite, and she feeding into his ear each passion as it rolled across her in waves.
Bliss. Thrill. Desire.
Satisfaction.
It's been a very long time since she has felt satisfaction. A long and miserable time, poring her passion into her hatred instead; being what she was expected, what she had, to be to get this far. The king certainly never satisfied her, no, and never desired to. Everything she's done these last long weeks has been an act of rebellion, and this — his body, perfect, responsive, the way his hand curled under her thigh, his lips at her neck, the feel of his back under her fingertips as he moved — this, the greatest act of all.
Yes, husband. In whatever world you may be, know that I am, for once, satisfied.
Mere weeks since King Leopold's tragic and untimely death have passed. Such a short time for The Evil Queen, now newly liberated. Newly free. With the erection of his sepulcher hers has crumbled, and where once she was bound, bedchambers cold and empty, now she is taking her delight in whatever she will.
Thirst.
At the moment, whatever she will is the Huntsman limned in dawn's first light, his body naked, strong, bound to her by a thin layer of sweat. The low flickering from the fireplace catches every crevasse, every hard line; she reimagines the way his muscles moved the night before, sinuous, exquisite, and she feeding into his ear each passion as it rolled across her in waves.
Bliss. Thrill. Desire.
Satisfaction.
It's been a very long time since she has felt satisfaction. A long and miserable time, poring her passion into her hatred instead; being what she was expected, what she had, to be to get this far. The king certainly never satisfied her, no, and never desired to. Everything she's done these last long weeks has been an act of rebellion, and this — his body, perfect, responsive, the way his hand curled under her thigh, his lips at her neck, the feel of his back under her fingertips as he moved — this, the greatest act of all.
Yes, husband. In whatever world you may be, know that I am, for once, satisfied.
no subject
With that, she reminds him of her strength and pulls her arm from his clutches. She may be willing to make his life comfortable, but she is The Queen. Her desires come first.
"It's my price for a broken contract." All closeness is not lost between them. She lowers her mouth to his neck, her teeth scraping along the large vein running up the side. She fits herself between his legs. "But that doesn't mean there aren't other ways of feeling ... filled up."
no subject
Yes.
His heart does belong to her.
It lives in a small, golden box in a room full of small golden boxes. This woman - undoubtedly beautiful, alluring, intoxicating, but also evil - will have power over him until (unless) he can get his heart again.
Unless.
He shuts his eyes, a harsh exhale escaping his lips at the Queen's touch. There's a fire in his limbs, one that belongs to the Queen - it is desire that he cannot fight - but something else burns in his mind.
Something that might be possibility.
An idea.