happilyneverafter | 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.

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It is only moments later when the Huntsman begins to stir.

Breathing deeply, he shifts in his position until each one of those limbs slowly becomes aware of their senses, each connection being made until they are all matched as one.

And then he opens his eyes.

The first thing he notices is the fur spread beneath his still-naked body, warm from sleep though his skin is cold to the touch from a lack of covering.

When he moves again, there's a contented exhaustion in his body, leaving the memory of a night spent recalling what it is like to feel whole again - to feel again. Even if the emotions were not his own, not really, he pretended.

But it is that pretending that suddenly makes him go rigid.

Because it was false. It was a trick of sorts. Only an illusion to serve the Queen. And he was used like a pet for nothing more than a night of entertainment.

(And he enjoyed it.)

What would his brothers think if they saw him?

Her sated eyes drift up to his face. She looks different in the light of morning, without kohl shading her eyes or jewels pinning her hair in complex and extravagant designs. She looks young. The whisper of a girl in the unadorned face, her raven hair spread in waves beneath her.

The spark in her eyes has not changed, however.

"You are awake."

She stretches languidly against his body, brushing her hands along every place that gave him pleasure the night before. She sighs contentedly, and buries her face against the most sensitive part of his neck.

The Huntsman shudders beneath her touch, entirely against his will. His skin feels charged, pulsing with electricity when her hand leaves that place to find another.

All memories of last night war against each other - between guilt and pleasure. And her words -

Heat. Bliss. Desire. Satisfaction.

- her words echo in his mind like they could drive him crazy. They will drive him crazy.

His hand flies to hers and tenses there.

No. Stop.

He startles her, but not so much that she shrinks back. Her hand forms a fist, keeping the flow of blood comfortable under the press of his fingers. "What's wrong?"

Impatience soots her voice. Is it going to be this again, now that he's had his fill of her? He wasn't so unwilling last night.

"Did I not satisfy you?"

The guilt grows evermore in the pit of his stomach, lodging itself there as an uncomfortable weight.

He is disappointed; disgusted with himself for giving in to the Queen at the cost of everything he used to be; wanting every selfish word and sensation that brought him and the Queen together and not caring that it was wrong.

Touch and smell and taste and his own desire for satisfaction made him ignore the fact that he was - is - still her prisoner.

Last night, he was very much a man and very much hers.

When he does not answer, she raises herself up on an elbow and peers down at him. She isn't yet struggling to free her arm from his grasp, but the languidness of one moment earlier is turning ever increasingly stiff and guarded.

She sighs — loudly — and lowers her eyes to his lips. "You're still uncertain. I don't blame you. I expect an ... adjustment period."

She looks to him again, capturing his gaze in a deep, dark web. She brings her mouth to his, hovering just far enough away to feel the tickle of skin on skin without actual contact. She speaks slowly, each syllable punctuated, wet with wickedness.

"But I am willing and able to give you anything, Huntsman."

"You cannot give me what I really want," the Huntsman says, placing his hands on her to keep her at a distance; far enough so that he can meet her eyes this time.

That bridge was burned the moment he let Snow White go, taking a stag's heart to the Queen instead.

And he knows it.

"Maybe I can." Her smile is as hollow as a porcelain doll's; beautiful, and empty. "Maybe you just haven't opened up to the idea that this life I have offered you can be comfortable. It can be anything you want it to be."

Her voice plummets, and with it goes the sweetness in her expression.

"So long as you never betray me again."

There is something akin to hope (and longing) that flickers across the Huntsman's gaze, so quick it's nearly impossible to see.

But it was there.

He watches her expression, hears her voice, and tries to search out the trick, the manipulation that lies behind those words.

"And my heart?"

"Your heart belongs to me."

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."

Even though he had thought as much, the truth of it still feels like a blow.

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.

FTL // A Huntsman and a Queen // Week One

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