Charlotte only grunts. A low, lazy sound hardly appropriate for a lady and not at all right for a queen.
“Ma’am!”
…But, then, that’s Charlotte all over really. With her curly hair and open face and dark eyes glittering as she looks up and smirks like nothing in the world could bother her less, “what, Sothers? In case you haven’t noticed I am rather busy at the moment.”
Rather busy, yes.
Rather busy on her knees in a hardly secluded corridor, pulling up the skirts of her lower-class lady in waiting with so much gusto that this couldn’t be appropriate even if they were in the most secluded bedroom in the world and dear Charlotte was a common whore instead of the Queen of England.
“Charlotte,” and so, being the lower-class lady in waiting in question, it is her duty to hiss – and maybe dig her nails into the wall in protest (and only protest, honestly), “you should hardly be busy doing this.”
“Oh?” Charlotte asks innocently, a slow bat of her eyelids the only reaction beyond that.
“You should be doing other things, better things!” She still has to continue, even if it’ll do no good (will never do any good, because Charlotte is a decidedly stubborn sort of woman), “like paperwork, or meeting nobles, or actually running the country!”
“Mm,” Charlotte says absently, and presses a kiss against her now bared knee – a kiss that won’t distract her now matter how nice (lovelygorgeousamazingagain) it feels against bare flesh, “I’ve already done all of that.”
“You-!”
“Done paperwork.”
“…Shagged Gwynne over paperwork.”
“Met Villiers.”
“Shagged Villiers.”
“Ran the country.”
“Shagged the country.”
“Mm,” Charlotte only smiles, presses a kiss a little higher up – soft and not at all (very) sweet against her thigh, “are you going to whine all day, Sothers?”
…Whine.
Whine. When she’s the one who stands to be mocked here, who stands to be teased, who stands to have her very fine skirts ruffled and her very nice hair mussed and her whole being debauched so thoroughly that she’ll blush every time she even looks at the prince consort.
She opens her mouth, angrily, “yes-!“
“Oh, Sothers,” Charlotte interrupts with that slight smirk that does not melt her every single time, “that’s hardly a bad thing.”
And then she moves in-
And-
Fuck.
…Ma’am is very, very skillful. And, as her head does fall back against the wall and her hair is mussed, she finds all thoughts of complaint leaving her head at a rate that is almost alarming.
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timeasmymeasure
FILL: And Skillful Lips, female!Charles II/Female!Sotherby, PG-13
Date: 2011-12-17 11:51 pm (UTC)Charlotte only grunts. A low, lazy sound hardly appropriate for a lady and not at all right for a queen.
“Ma’am!”
…But, then, that’s Charlotte all over really. With her curly hair and open face and dark eyes glittering as she looks up and smirks like nothing in the world could bother her less, “what, Sothers? In case you haven’t noticed I am rather busy at the moment.”
Rather busy, yes.
Rather busy on her knees in a hardly secluded corridor, pulling up the skirts of her lower-class lady in waiting with so much gusto that this couldn’t be appropriate even if they were in the most secluded bedroom in the world and dear Charlotte was a common whore instead of the Queen of England.
“Charlotte,” and so, being the lower-class lady in waiting in question, it is her duty to hiss – and maybe dig her nails into the wall in protest (and only protest, honestly), “you should hardly be busy doing this.”
“Oh?” Charlotte asks innocently, a slow bat of her eyelids the only reaction beyond that.
“You should be doing other things, better things!” She still has to continue, even if it’ll do no good (will never do any good, because Charlotte is a decidedly stubborn sort of woman), “like paperwork, or meeting nobles, or actually running the country!”
“Mm,” Charlotte says absently, and presses a kiss against her now bared knee – a kiss that won’t distract her now matter how nice (lovelygorgeousamazingagain) it feels against bare flesh, “I’ve already done all of that.”
“You-!”
“Done paperwork.”
“…Shagged Gwynne over paperwork.”
“Met Villiers.”
“Shagged Villiers.”
“Ran the country.”
“Shagged the country.”
“Mm,” Charlotte only smiles, presses a kiss a little higher up – soft and not at all (very) sweet against her thigh, “are you going to whine all day, Sothers?”
…Whine.
Whine. When she’s the one who stands to be mocked here, who stands to be teased, who stands to have her very fine skirts ruffled and her very nice hair mussed and her whole being debauched so thoroughly that she’ll blush every time she even looks at the prince consort.
She opens her mouth, angrily, “yes-!“
“Oh, Sothers,” Charlotte interrupts with that slight smirk that does not melt her every single time, “that’s hardly a bad thing.”
And then she moves in-
And-
Fuck.
…Ma’am is very, very skillful. And, as her head does fall back against the wall and her hair is mussed, she finds all thoughts of complaint leaving her head at a rate that is almost alarming.