It's not that she isn't perfectly (smugly) aware of that—or prone to taking a certain satisfaction in it, that she exclusively takes this particular pleasure of him, but...well. To him it might yet be much as long summer day, but to her (substantially) younger years they are wearing out the newness of their relationship. They've bickered from the very start; he had been handsome, first, but then he had been an elf, and exasperating, a constant source of consternation. He's fussy and particular and demanding and so arrogant it would take her breath away if it were physically possible for her to not have something to shout at him—
she does love him, somewhat despite herself, for his infuriating personality. She doesn't forget he's also beautiful, but it takes her off-guard from time to time—like now, sitting up on her knees and watching him undress with uncharacteristic patience, tilting her head like an artist considering blank canvas when he lays down.
“Tell me what you'd like,” she says, kneeling beside him, one hand sliding lazily up the outside of his thigh, almost more proprietary than provocative. “I'm not saying you'll get it,” in a drawl, “but you should tell me.”
Her thumb brushes his hipbone and her smile is not to be trusted.
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It's not that she isn't perfectly (smugly) aware of that—or prone to taking a certain satisfaction in it, that she exclusively takes this particular pleasure of him, but...well. To him it might yet be much as long summer day, but to her (substantially) younger years they are wearing out the newness of their relationship. They've bickered from the very start; he had been handsome, first, but then he had been an elf, and exasperating, a constant source of consternation. He's fussy and particular and demanding and so arrogant it would take her breath away if it were physically possible for her to not have something to shout at him—
she does love him, somewhat despite herself, for his infuriating personality. She doesn't forget he's also beautiful, but it takes her off-guard from time to time—like now, sitting up on her knees and watching him undress with uncharacteristic patience, tilting her head like an artist considering blank canvas when he lays down.
“Tell me what you'd like,” she says, kneeling beside him, one hand sliding lazily up the outside of his thigh, almost more proprietary than provocative. “I'm not saying you'll get it,” in a drawl, “but you should tell me.”
Her thumb brushes his hipbone and her smile is not to be trusted.