[Fan Fic] [Cross Over] Whispers & Confessions
Title: Whispers & Confessions
Verse: Cross-over verse.
Characters: Elizabeth Tudor, Hashirama Senju
Pairing: Elizabeth x Hashirama
Rating: M (kinda smutty)
Summary: To love a man not of your world is hard, harder still when he is your equal in all things, but the thing that makes you equal means you can never truly be one.
Notes: AHAHAHA. Going to history hell for this. Born out of RP and just kept going. 1. Hashirama isn't marred, this is a sort of alternative timeline where Mito.... married someone else? Lizzie wouldn't have touched him if he were married, so. 8| 2. History stuff that is vaguely referenced: The defeat of the Spanish armada, which is usually accredited to a storm and the burning ships. Writing wise... This was supposed to be one thing, but it's disjointed in thought process, so I split it up into two.H
Have the music that inspired it.
I. Whispers
It wasn't what she expected, as a girl. It wasn't a quiet, sweet love that the poets and the bards described. It wasn't some decadent thing of myth either.
It was a tumult of sensation, creation and destruction. She'd tried her best to stay away from the path her parents had led each other down. From what everyone said of them, not near four when her mother died to know herself. The violent delight of politics and sex had such a violent end. Had started with the creation of something in a fantastic explosion and had ended just the same, in something that shocked the country. Had scarred her and would spend her life atoning for being the product there of. Swore never to be such a fool to passion. Something which she invariably failed at.
But for all her foolish passions with men she could not keep -- that had made her feel cheap, like a bauble to be amused with, a Queen with no power -- he, through dignity and respect made her feel truly powerful when she felt nothing but toy of the fates in all times previous. He presented himself as her equal, not through words, but with actions and with him she felt for the first time in a life long series of carefully balancing acts with her head as the prize, stable.
So no, it wasn't a poetic love, though sometimes it had shades of it. When he'd appeared in her court, after defeating the Spanish, and she dropped so low in a curtsy, it was scandalous. When she called him the storm that had saved her country. Her personal God's Will. Had taken his hand and kissed it with the fervor reserved for Saints with all the lords and ladies as witnesses. Or when she waited for him to return from battling one of Konoha's many enemies, silent for hours. Then he'd kneel before her, and she'd pull him close, crying into his hair with the relief, using her body as a shield to hide how his legs had given out. Private things, like how he'd rock into her, saying her name over and over like it was a prayer, out somewhere in his forest and her hands could only adore, and her voice could only whisper his praise. Holy, in the way the earth was holy. Holy in the way he'd collapse into her body like it was a revelation, not in the way the bible spoke of, but the way she'd seen carved paintings of pagans. Divine in the way the stars would spin and she nearly blacked out for the heaven he painted behind her eyelids. Sacred in the way they built their countries, for their own sake and their peoples, selfishness mixed with duty, they shared their strength.
But then there were the things that no one saw. She was violent, just like those that came before her. Her parents child, and she'd move over him, impatient with whatever dream had woken her, and he would shake from some recollection of a battle he came too close to losing -- there was nothing beautiful then. Then there were no sweet words, only his nails digging bruises on her lower back, and the claw marks she'd leave on his shoulders. No talking at all, for the way he forced her head up so he could bite at her neck, and the slow pressure and cut off of air making it better than sweet, making the blood pound in her ears. Reaching a point where she thought he might kill her and it only made her burn with the strength to slap him across the face and roll him back, gripping his throat in turn. For once in her life not fearing death, but reveling in it. She didn’t have half the strength in her hands to truly choke him, but all in her legs from riding so many horses. Called him stallion and rode him hard. He didn’t force her off, only bucked up violently into her where her body seemed to grip him tightly, so he gripped her back with fingers into thighs. It was power, between her thighs, under his hands, strength for strength between them they found the place completely theirs.
II. Confessions
He was so good at drawing things from her, the pants from even breath, the gasps that followed, the deep resounding moans when he’d disappear under her skirts. The laughter when she wanted nothing but to cry and fall apart. A blush when her face was painted white and he whispered such terrible terrible things in her ear. Soothed her tears when she told him she was pregnant, that she could not keep the child for so many reasons, least of all, that the child would never be accepted with her and she’d have to give it up to him to look after. She wished she could stay with him, wished it like young women wished their husbands would stay pretty and rich forever. But she knew it could not be -- she might be just a woman with him, but she was Gloriana to her people and time would not stand still. No matter how good it felt to give herself up to his keeping.
So for this reason, she took what she could get, but asked no more. He’d have this piece of her. This small wretched piece and all she had left to give. She could entertain poets and bards, could listen to their songs, could smile for lovers so grand when they were brought in front of her. But she knew, as he did, that such things were not her own. That those smiles, in their purity belonged to him, and not to her court, but to her court the rest of her must remain. Long enough here had taught her that it was poison and she would not have him suffer the same as had ruined her.
He had a part of her that would not belong to another, nor could, for how raw it left her. One look, one touch and it left her as ash and scolding embers. One word, her temper soothed and one sigh to make her feel beautiful when her shift hit the ground and there was nothing between them but light and warmth. Divinity made real and she reveled in the divine space between their bodies that she could cross with her hands and her mouth. He would not fail her, and in this she would differ from her parents, she would never stray from him. No matter their differences, and there were too many to count, she had found faith in human form. Her hours of prayers were filled with contemplation. Of when she brought her hands together in front of her, fingers locked, she remember how his were warm, rough from battle and so much darker then her own and slid up between her legs. The sterile taste of the holy wine on her lips made her long for his skin and the way she read over her bible with practiced ease made her think only of the way he poured over her, hair falling to brush over her chest as he lent down to kiss her.
The devotion was not spoken of, and would never be mentioned outside of his world and their stolen moments. For that she wept, the misery as sincere as for his passing from her, wept that it had never been enough, what they had, wept that it would never be again. Nothing but a cold parchment with two words written on it and Tobirama’s piteous gaze as she was told of his demise. A good death, a brave death defending what he held dear. The paper was scrunched up, thrown into the corner, picked up, smoothed back out and cried for again. Nothing left of him save this. This fragile declaration for a man who served everyone and no one, and a promise to wait. My Queen.
Verse: Cross-over verse.
Characters: Elizabeth Tudor, Hashirama Senju
Pairing: Elizabeth x Hashirama
Rating: M (kinda smutty)
Summary: To love a man not of your world is hard, harder still when he is your equal in all things, but the thing that makes you equal means you can never truly be one.
Notes: AHAHAHA. Going to history hell for this. Born out of RP and just kept going. 1. Hashirama isn't marred, this is a sort of alternative timeline where Mito.... married someone else? Lizzie wouldn't have touched him if he were married, so. 8| 2. History stuff that is vaguely referenced: The defeat of the Spanish armada, which is usually accredited to a storm and the burning ships. Writing wise... This was supposed to be one thing, but it's disjointed in thought process, so I split it up into two.H
Have the music that inspired it.
I. Whispers
It wasn't what she expected, as a girl. It wasn't a quiet, sweet love that the poets and the bards described. It wasn't some decadent thing of myth either.
It was a tumult of sensation, creation and destruction. She'd tried her best to stay away from the path her parents had led each other down. From what everyone said of them, not near four when her mother died to know herself. The violent delight of politics and sex had such a violent end. Had started with the creation of something in a fantastic explosion and had ended just the same, in something that shocked the country. Had scarred her and would spend her life atoning for being the product there of. Swore never to be such a fool to passion. Something which she invariably failed at.
But for all her foolish passions with men she could not keep -- that had made her feel cheap, like a bauble to be amused with, a Queen with no power -- he, through dignity and respect made her feel truly powerful when she felt nothing but toy of the fates in all times previous. He presented himself as her equal, not through words, but with actions and with him she felt for the first time in a life long series of carefully balancing acts with her head as the prize, stable.
So no, it wasn't a poetic love, though sometimes it had shades of it. When he'd appeared in her court, after defeating the Spanish, and she dropped so low in a curtsy, it was scandalous. When she called him the storm that had saved her country. Her personal God's Will. Had taken his hand and kissed it with the fervor reserved for Saints with all the lords and ladies as witnesses. Or when she waited for him to return from battling one of Konoha's many enemies, silent for hours. Then he'd kneel before her, and she'd pull him close, crying into his hair with the relief, using her body as a shield to hide how his legs had given out. Private things, like how he'd rock into her, saying her name over and over like it was a prayer, out somewhere in his forest and her hands could only adore, and her voice could only whisper his praise. Holy, in the way the earth was holy. Holy in the way he'd collapse into her body like it was a revelation, not in the way the bible spoke of, but the way she'd seen carved paintings of pagans. Divine in the way the stars would spin and she nearly blacked out for the heaven he painted behind her eyelids. Sacred in the way they built their countries, for their own sake and their peoples, selfishness mixed with duty, they shared their strength.
But then there were the things that no one saw. She was violent, just like those that came before her. Her parents child, and she'd move over him, impatient with whatever dream had woken her, and he would shake from some recollection of a battle he came too close to losing -- there was nothing beautiful then. Then there were no sweet words, only his nails digging bruises on her lower back, and the claw marks she'd leave on his shoulders. No talking at all, for the way he forced her head up so he could bite at her neck, and the slow pressure and cut off of air making it better than sweet, making the blood pound in her ears. Reaching a point where she thought he might kill her and it only made her burn with the strength to slap him across the face and roll him back, gripping his throat in turn. For once in her life not fearing death, but reveling in it. She didn’t have half the strength in her hands to truly choke him, but all in her legs from riding so many horses. Called him stallion and rode him hard. He didn’t force her off, only bucked up violently into her where her body seemed to grip him tightly, so he gripped her back with fingers into thighs. It was power, between her thighs, under his hands, strength for strength between them they found the place completely theirs.
II. Confessions
He was so good at drawing things from her, the pants from even breath, the gasps that followed, the deep resounding moans when he’d disappear under her skirts. The laughter when she wanted nothing but to cry and fall apart. A blush when her face was painted white and he whispered such terrible terrible things in her ear. Soothed her tears when she told him she was pregnant, that she could not keep the child for so many reasons, least of all, that the child would never be accepted with her and she’d have to give it up to him to look after. She wished she could stay with him, wished it like young women wished their husbands would stay pretty and rich forever. But she knew it could not be -- she might be just a woman with him, but she was Gloriana to her people and time would not stand still. No matter how good it felt to give herself up to his keeping.
So for this reason, she took what she could get, but asked no more. He’d have this piece of her. This small wretched piece and all she had left to give. She could entertain poets and bards, could listen to their songs, could smile for lovers so grand when they were brought in front of her. But she knew, as he did, that such things were not her own. That those smiles, in their purity belonged to him, and not to her court, but to her court the rest of her must remain. Long enough here had taught her that it was poison and she would not have him suffer the same as had ruined her.
He had a part of her that would not belong to another, nor could, for how raw it left her. One look, one touch and it left her as ash and scolding embers. One word, her temper soothed and one sigh to make her feel beautiful when her shift hit the ground and there was nothing between them but light and warmth. Divinity made real and she reveled in the divine space between their bodies that she could cross with her hands and her mouth. He would not fail her, and in this she would differ from her parents, she would never stray from him. No matter their differences, and there were too many to count, she had found faith in human form. Her hours of prayers were filled with contemplation. Of when she brought her hands together in front of her, fingers locked, she remember how his were warm, rough from battle and so much darker then her own and slid up between her legs. The sterile taste of the holy wine on her lips made her long for his skin and the way she read over her bible with practiced ease made her think only of the way he poured over her, hair falling to brush over her chest as he lent down to kiss her.
The devotion was not spoken of, and would never be mentioned outside of his world and their stolen moments. For that she wept, the misery as sincere as for his passing from her, wept that it had never been enough, what they had, wept that it would never be again. Nothing but a cold parchment with two words written on it and Tobirama’s piteous gaze as she was told of his demise. A good death, a brave death defending what he held dear. The paper was scrunched up, thrown into the corner, picked up, smoothed back out and cried for again. Nothing left of him save this. This fragile declaration for a man who served everyone and no one, and a promise to wait. My Queen.