Seasoned [1b/1]
anonymous
September 7 2010, 20:35:20 UTC
Elizabeth sighed but remained wordless. It became more and more difficult now to view the queen in midst of a fawning crowd of false admirers. England gritted her teeth most behind an ostrich feather fan but at least when she wore doublets she could dance attendance more visibly with her queen. A victory laurel was in the fact that none of those men would ever touch Elizabeth, glorious Elizabeth, like this.
It could only be a game in the court and at the throne. A child’s game. It would be filled with promises and teasing, words stumbled and stuttered, rules unspoken and broken. Oh, there would be those rare moments of warm touches all too brief, but they would not linger overlong.
A monarch, despite being in a teeming swirl of many people, could not be any more alone than if he were in a desert.
England’s heart broke for them with each one, no matter if she loathed them or loved them. It was one thing to live for centuries alone, with no other company but the howling wind and the raging surf and the crumbling chalk cliffs, but mortals, fleeting mortals, to know nothing of even another touch- That was a fine tragedy for Elizabeth’s pet poet to write someday. But that was another time, and despite her complaints, the other woman was very warm.
“Perhaps it is not summer yet,” the queen murmured. “But my feet no longer feel like blocks of ice.”
“But they should probably be attended to,” laughed England, warm and giddy with petty victory and fine company and admiration.
She ducked under the covers, despite their weight, and slid along the sheets, her hands brushing along Elizabeth’s body on pretense of guidance but more to revel in the ability to touch what no other could. Not like this.
There didn’t have to be light to see what she was doing. Not when her hands became her eyes and became all the more sensitive in the warm, heavy darkness under the covers. And then there was Elizabeth’s hands touching her, fingers caressing coarse stray strands of dun-blonde hair. The touch of someone wondering, admiring, loving. There was always wonder in Elizabeth’s touch, when fingers touched England’s brow or hair or cheek or wrist or shoulder. Wonder, a childish curiosity and marvel, of someone looking through a dream.
“I am yours,” whispered Elizabeth, as England tended to her queen. Love- should it be foreign to the likes of them, monarch and country? Should it be too plebeian, too coarse, too airy and too unnatural? But one did not think of that when twisting upon a bed, entwining limbs and shuddering at the pinnacle and ending point.
“As am I,” returned England, as she came up from beneath the coverlets like a tow-headed Leviathan of frozen, crackling folded seas. Her mouth was red and sweet.
“In summer or in winter,” said England. “In the dark and cold night or the too bright day… I am yours.”
Elizabeth smiled at last, and that brought a summer that no glamourie could match.
(ooc: Sorry about the lack of SEX, at least, explicitly. I just couldn't do it. >_< As it is, I do see an incredibly passionate verging on romantic relationship between England and Elizabeth I, and will still have this as one of the few Hetalia OTPs I have.)
Wow, that was great; wonderfully written, with beautiful words and an interesting concept of both characters. Very lovely, I couldn't have wished for anything more ^^
It could only be a game in the court and at the throne. A child’s game. It would be filled with promises and teasing, words stumbled and stuttered, rules unspoken and broken. Oh, there would be those rare moments of warm touches all too brief, but they would not linger overlong.
A monarch, despite being in a teeming swirl of many people, could not be any more alone than if he were in a desert.
England’s heart broke for them with each one, no matter if she loathed them or loved them. It was one thing to live for centuries alone, with no other company but the howling wind and the raging surf and the crumbling chalk cliffs, but mortals, fleeting mortals, to know nothing of even another touch- That was a fine tragedy for Elizabeth’s pet poet to write someday. But that was another time, and despite her complaints, the other woman was very warm.
“Perhaps it is not summer yet,” the queen murmured. “But my feet no longer feel like blocks of ice.”
“But they should probably be attended to,” laughed England, warm and giddy with petty victory and fine company and admiration.
She ducked under the covers, despite their weight, and slid along the sheets, her hands brushing along Elizabeth’s body on pretense of guidance but more to revel in the ability to touch what no other could. Not like this.
There didn’t have to be light to see what she was doing. Not when her hands became her eyes and became all the more sensitive in the warm, heavy darkness under the covers. And then there was Elizabeth’s hands touching her, fingers caressing coarse stray strands of dun-blonde hair. The touch of someone wondering, admiring, loving. There was always wonder in Elizabeth’s touch, when fingers touched England’s brow or hair or cheek or wrist or shoulder. Wonder, a childish curiosity and marvel, of someone looking through a dream.
“I am yours,” whispered Elizabeth, as England tended to her queen. Love- should it be foreign to the likes of them, monarch and country? Should it be too plebeian, too coarse, too airy and too unnatural? But one did not think of that when twisting upon a bed, entwining limbs and shuddering at the pinnacle and ending point.
“As am I,” returned England, as she came up from beneath the coverlets like a tow-headed Leviathan of frozen, crackling folded seas. Her mouth was red and sweet.
“In summer or in winter,” said England. “In the dark and cold night or the too bright day… I am yours.”
Elizabeth smiled at last, and that brought a summer that no glamourie could match.
(ooc: Sorry about the lack of SEX, at least, explicitly. I just couldn't do it. >_< As it is, I do see an incredibly passionate verging on romantic relationship between England and Elizabeth I, and will still have this as one of the few Hetalia OTPs I have.)
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I adored the mention of witchcraft because those days might have been a bad time to be a supernatural being. Not OP BTW ♥♥♥♥♥
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