fights;
When they fought - and they did fight, not their mock squabbles - but conceited words, smashed vases, their tempers both flaring so very brilliantly, it ended in so many ways. Sometimes it ended in tears and apologies, other times with neither of them speaking to each other for weeks.
Other times, it ended like this. With him walking her back, his Grace flaring in the shadow of his wings on the walls and ceiling. Till her hands hit the hardwood of her vanity unit and his hands found her.
(She breathed too fast, he panted against her neck, and it was something like rage, something like lust. But he’d finish what her words started. She liked to twist and turn her words? Fine. He’d twist and turn right back, but in the way he knew he could win.)
“Say it, Elizabeth. Take it back.” There was a rip, and the silk of her skirt went into pieces under the strength of his hands. He bunched the rest of the skirts and petticoats and things in his way, shoving it up to catch around her hips, and then his fingers went to search for they wanted. Merciless in their pursuit, in gaining the upper hand over her, they slid up and up, against much too soft skin.
“No, go to hell -“ breathing too fast, she tried to ignore what he was doing, but he was sure of himself for that, too sure of her and her reactions in the way his thumb rubbed in little circles.
“I said Queenie that I was going to make you regret it.” There’s a smirk on his lips, and she wants to slap it off his face. “And you know that I can.”
She snarled viciously from the back of her throat. Cursed him in French, damned him in Spanish and then prayed-prayed in breathless Latin when all at once he slid his fingers up into her. Knuckle deep and curling up like he was plucking the strings of a harp, and all the same she sang for him. Broken music, spoken in a staccato rage, but he just kept smirking and she couldn’t stand it. Her head tilted back, so she wouldn’t have to see it. Only he lent forward, pressed his smirk to her neck - not kisses, just a too hot brand of his lips that made her teeth set, made her want to fight him harder, tooth and nail. “All you’ve got to say is ‘sorry’, majesty.” There’s that slick movement of his fingers from within her that accompanies the mocking words, and the only thing she can concentrate on fighting is the movement of her hips against his hand. The effort of it makes her tremble, and she does her best to set against him though every bit of her wants to buck and roll against him and it’s just so hard not to. Her leg curls up adjacent to his body, to press her foot against the solid hardwood draws, let her heel dig in, and she could pretend she couldn’t feel her toes curl up with every careful twist of his wrist. That she wasn’t aware of the way he pressed her legs apart the rough feel of the denim of his pants when he stepped between them against the inside of her thighs, in that little stretch of skin above her white stockings. He took a second to toy with the ribbon that kept one of them done up, amused at her always being the proper lady under all her clothes.
Not that it fooled him, she was panting, flushed, eyes wide and dark, her bottom lip turning a dark pink when she bit down hard to silence herself when his thumb found what made her squirm and buck most and circled ever so slowly. “C’mon - it’s just a little word. You say it often enough. I’m sure you go to confessional and say it all the time ‘Dear Dad, today I killed some Catholics, but I am fucking an angel, does that count as saying the rosary?’” Awful yes, but she’s earned it. He lent closer again, his other hand sliding into her hair to keep her head tilted just so, his lips hovering over hers, just watching her try not to give into him.
(Sadistic, perhaps, but the next thrust of his fingers up was just that much rougher and he did it because he wanted to watch the way those lips fell open, choking on his name, her blue usually so sharp and clear and light now so dark and clouded with lust and hurt and rage. Dear Dad, that was the best kind of prayer right there, could all sinners look so pretty and desperate?)
“I don’t -“ she keened softly, and her hips wouldn’t keep still, not anymore. “…I won’t…” her fingers curled up tightly on the edge of the unit, knuckles turning white for the effort. Her eyes shut tightly, denying him what he liked to see so much.
(Well fine, if she was going to be like that.)
He slammed his lips against hers, fingers her leaving her only as long as it took him to get his pants undone and shoved down enough before he found her hips to hold onto again. She’d tried to squirm away again, already figuring out what was about to happen, a gesture only half meant for the way she kissed him back desperately, still not sure if she wanted to him to go throw himself off a cliff or just hurry up.
He made his mind up for her, he didn’t give her a second to adjust, to complain, didn’t take his lips off hers. She had just enough time to feel him hover, the grip on her hips unbreakable with all of that strength he only half used with her, as he held her steady. She could feel the bruises already, stinging against her skin where his nails dug in. Just the time draw in a desperate breath that he stole back again with the force that he drove into her.
Then there was nothing, nothing at all but his movement against her, her legs rose to wrap around him, whined and bucked and never broke the kiss but to pant and gasp, crying out against his lips with no restraint. The little things around her falling off as her hands slipped in their hold and knocked them, her strings of jewels and little bottles of perfume, all hitting the ground. Couldn’t care less, just pressed her legs tight against his waist and finally gave into her rage and lust. So equal in measure she gave up figuring them out for the moment.
It ended the way it started, with her cursing him, and him refusing to stop until he got what he wanted, which was her, begging, or near enough to that.
(In fact it might not have been completely what he wanted initially at all, which had been an apology for all those cruel things she said, but watching her become an utter mess was just as good - and he had to pull back to watch her, had to watch her swallow back on her scream, because that was the best kind of victory right there. But he forgave her all the same when he pressed his face against the crook of her neck and moaned her name.)
--
(She still slapped him later, for the principal of it. He just grinned, those hazel eyes of his so bright, and asked if she wanted another round.)