heorte | when i go towards you it is with my whole life.

He could say I do trust you. But the words matter less than the action she's describing, he understands. What Wysteria's talking about hardly comes easy to him. Between finding so little of what he's thinking to be of interest to anyone and deeming the rest of it to be impossible or painful or damning if put to words, there are very few things that cross his mind that he'd share unprompted.

The laces are drawn free and then further separated, to be gathered back up whenever Wysteria wears the dress again. He gives all his attention to it, and to the last button, to the minor nudge of fabric to be sure he has missed nothing.

"I need," he begins, pauses to second-guess the request, before pressing onward before he falters, "I promise you I'll try, but I can't promise that you won't have to prompt me still."

Or that he would fail to dredge up answers in the moment. It's hard work. Ellis has no illusions about it.

As if in offering, he tells her, "I need you always to be able to pull back from me, if you're overwhelmed. I never want you to feel as if I've closed you in, even if I notice in the next moment to draw back myself. Do you understand?"

Something that guides his hands and body every time he leans into her, rather than the kind of easy, flippant thing he might have said to her in the hallway, or even knelt in front of her in that chair. She'd asked. He can offer up this worry: he is strong and tall. Though she is right, he could never be careless with her, he also never wants to lose sight of what she wants at any given moment, whether it's to dance a reel or draw samples from the ichor-stained mud beneath a rift or for him to kiss her thrice-over before they draw back from each other.

The faint tip of her head beyond the wild shape of her hair says she is listening and that the lines of her face have probably fixed themselves into that small pinched and focused frown.

"Yes," Wysteria says after a studious moment. It is quite firm. "I understand."

She shifts the dress forward then—drawing the bodice from about her and the shoulders from her arms. From there, it is shockingly simple to allow it to slip down and step free of the pooled fabric. To gather the dress back up again as she might were she alone and unobserved. Standing there in her shift, in her short stays and stockings, she takes uncharacteristically great care about draping the removed garment over the back of the chair along with its sleeves.

Though Ellis had every indication that this was the end point of his efforts, the sudden fall of fabric and brisk dispatch of discarded gown happens so quickly that he finds himself unprepared for what's left in the wake of it.

The intent expression on his face might be mistaken for her as she appears before him now, in her undergarments and hair in wild waves. Maybe it is for that, partially. But he is gauging her reaction, finding it to be sincere, and so the first thing he tells her is, "Thank you."

She might have protested it further. He's grateful she hadn't.

"What now?" follows after, as Ellis considers her, then himself, fully dressed in her little room. Looking at her, all the usual wants kindle back to life. He wants to take her hand. He wants to kiss her. He wants to listen to her talk, unspool her thoughts about the lecture or the dancing or whatever else might be on her mind.

Fixed there under his assessment, her hands drift absently upward to—smooth the shape of her hair as it lays across her shoulders, diverted from the more foolish intent of crossing over her chest in some paltry attempt to hide a state of undress she only just willingly committed herself to. She might change her mind of course; but she has decided she doesn't wish to.

So: she smooths her hair once or twice without meeting his eye though she can feel the weight of it there on her.

"Well," she says. "Were you not here, I would at this point quit my stays and braid my hair for bed. And I might read a little before sleeping so as to settle my thoughts."

The ends of her hair is combed through by her fingers. She looks at him then—not embarrassed, she might insist. Just a little conscious of his scrutiny.

"So if you would like to read to me as I finish the rest, then you might save me a little time."

As it turns out, Ellis would like to read to her. Book retrieved, dress nudged aside, he seats himself in the chair and takes up as directed from the marked point.

Once started, his voice doesn't falter and the only pauses are at her interjections. If he glances up to keep sight of her from time to time over the top of the book, it's only for a moment and only because the sight of her combing out her hair and weaving it into plaits feels like a glimpse of something past a curtain, what's caught in a moment when the fabric is drawn aside. There is no reason to point out what she's aware of, but Ellis considers again that he has never seen her less than fully put together.

But eventually, the stays have been set aside. Her hair has been braided. And Ellis closes the book over one thigh, thumb holding his place as he observes her and asks—

"Do you want me to stay?"

Yes, he'd asked. But she is more than welcome to tell him no. His room is less than five paces away. The only hardship in leaving is losing her company.

As he had read to her, Wysteria had set herself at the end of the bed closest to her trunk and fixed all her attention on the brushing and braiding of her hair.

Or a great deal of her attention anyway, with only a small modicum reserved for the occasional snide comment with respect to the text. It is a very self-important kind of book, she informs him. She doesn't like it much at all, but it is a foundational work in the field and so she must soldier on through it so that when she as Monsieur de Foncé next discuss the subject she may point out the exact ways in which she finds it deplorable. And so on and so forth, the intermittent conversation so genial that she had braided her hair and dumped the corsetry over across the top of the trunk without much consideration at all.

She is in fact so blasé about it that she has by habit begun to hike up the edge of her shift so as to address the matter of stockings and garter ribbons when the question prompts her to recall herself to the present and the circumstances thereof. She stops, the shift's edge gathered witlessly up to her knee with one green stocking'ed leg poking out of it—

"Oh." Wysteria looks at him, blinking in the brazier light. "Well yes, I had thought that was implied."

"Alright," he replies, resting his opposite hand on the cover of the book. He is thinking of her bare ankle under his fingers weeks ago in that little attic as he looks at her stockinged foot. His eyes hold there for a moment before he averts them, looking past to the opened shutters.

The instinct to leave her outs, space to retreat or change her mind, is all the more important considering that his first impulse had been to cross the room and help her off with her stockings in the same fashion as he'd undone her buttons. But it would be shifting far past that safe territory, where undoing buttons had still left her with layers of cloth between her and his hands. The stockings—

"Do you want me to read the next chapter?" He asks, as if to take up the method of distraction once more before he cautions, "The chapter title was less promising than the last one."

That prompts a scoff and a distinct lip-curl of distaste.

"No. Another chapter and I will be entirely too irritated to sleep. You might however close the window. And put the cover over the brazier, I suppose. I find it still lets a little light out to see by, so you will not be in danger of bumping your shins as you move about the room."

She tips her face down to the edge of her shift in her hands, glance coasting briefly along the bedside and then—

Returns to him.

"It is a somewhat smaller mattress than the last one. Is that all right?"

"Before I came to Kirkwall, I'd sleep on the ground most nights," Ellis tells her, as he draws the shutters closed one after and draws the latch. "The mattress is fine."

Though Ellis is perceptive enough to sense that Wysteria may not be driving at the mattress in particular. He touches her shoulder lightly as he passes to see to the brazier as directed. He draws the tongs through the coals before settling the cover into place. It casts the room into shadow, as promised.

As he turns, Ellis adds warmly, "And all the better for the company," before easing his way back to the chair to begin the process of unlacing his boots.

Well. It's not as if she can really argue either point. Her challenge of the first—That is not what I mean, Mister Ellis, and you well know it—had been formally addressed, and as for the second—

She could hardly say.

"I will sleep close to the wall," she assures him.

In that shadowy dark, she can make out the shape and dimension of him but not the details. See the motion of his hands but not the specifics of the laces. She imagines what might be visible to him is the rise of the shift's edge, any pale hint of her leg sublimated into its shape, and the motion of her hands but not the effect of the garter ribbons being undone.

"That way you may escape if you decide at any point that you would prefer the comfort of your own bed. Or if I should accidentally kick you while I'm asleep. I have heard from all the rough living we do in Riftwatch that I am something of a restless sleeper and unpleasant to camp beside."

"You managed not to kick me out of bed last time," he points out. A boot clatters to the floor. Ellis bends, retrieves it to set it on the far side of the chair before going to work on the other. He's taking more time than he needs, trying to divine what level of undress he should be angling towards.

The flash of her leg in the dark catches the corner of his eyes. Ellis draws a deep breath. His palm has gone hot for no reason other than remembering how he had fit it to her ankle.

"I think I sleep better alongside you, regardless of all your movement," he tells her, against the impulse to leave this sentiment alone. The last boot has come free. He straightens in the chair, rubs his hands over his face before continuing, "But you remember what I told you?"

About nightmares. About what she's meant to do if he wakes her on accident. He can only half make out the expression on her face, his preparations for bed having stalled at the removal of his boots.

She doesn't start at the heavy thump of the boot. That would be very silly.

"I am to expel you to the floor should some dream of yours wake me. In which case, you had better relocate that side table slightly away. I wouldn't wish to clip your head against it."

See, how very rational. As sensible as stripping her darker stockings off now that the ribbons have been undone, looking anywhere but at him as she does so. It is dark. He can't see the color in her face and it's possible he isn't even looking. When she is finished and the edge of her shift has returned to its correct place, she folds them over once together and then they too are lain across the hard sided traveling case.

And then she makes to shift, beginning to draw herself further onto the bed—

And pauses.

"Ellis."

He is a series of edges in the dark, shadows cast in the lines of his face and under his brow and hanging about his seat on the chair like a draped mantle.

"Would it be very awful if I were to watch you undress? I would of course lie down and look at the ceiling if you preferred."

When she'd paused, his head had turned towards her, questioning even before she spoke. And in the space afterwards, he is very still. Ellis already knows the answer, but it takes a moment for him to draw breath, be assured that his voice would be steady when he spoke.

"I don't mind," he says first, even as he considers his body and all the wreckage of it. Like so many other parts of his life, he balks at the idea of her seeing it. So maybe this is the best way, with the pair of them cast all in shadow. All his scars, the dark shape of his tattoo, exist as smudges in the dim light rather than the stark, unavoidable reminder of his life.

He straightens from his slouch, one hand smoothing down the front of his tunic. He can't quite make out her expression, and wishes he could.

"I watched you, so it would be fair for you to watch me," is said a little absently, Ellis' thoughts snagging on his hands in her dress, wound into her hair. The impulse to cross the room to be within's arms reach of her is strong, but all he does is bend to finish off the laces of his second boot, work it free and set it beside it's match.

It's difficult to say whether the shadowed shape of her expression alters at all, but she must be satisfied by the form of his agreement for after a moment Wysteria nods and draws her legs up into the bed with her. The fall of her shift makes for a fine tent under which to one up, the point of its knee becoming a ready resting place for her chin. Her hands fold patiently about that leg, fingers lacing at the ankle.

He agreed to the terms, didn't he? So now she may obviously be as hawk-eyed as she likes in the muddled dark of the room.

Straightening from the slouch he'd leaned back into, Ellis spends a moment wringing the faint ache from his left hand rather than reach for the laces of his tunic, or the strap of his suspender. Even without clear view of her face, Wysteria's attention is nearly a tangible thing. He exhales a soft, short chuckle before he pushes up out of the chair.

Stood there, in the middle of the room, he indulges habit for a brief moment. Rolls his neck on his shoulders, shakes out his fingers, acknowledging the wear of the day before turning in towards Wysteria and prompting—

"Tell me what you'd have off first."

Well.

Presumably he cannot see her eyes go very round in the dark, but he must hear the faint demure clearing of her throat. Her hands shift absently about her bare ankle and after a moment, she offers, "It seems to me that there is usually a fairly natural order to the matter of undressing, Mister Ellis. For example, you might hardly remove your shirt before your braces. And I presume that your socks must go past the cuff of your trousers, so it only makes sense to be rid of the latter before sorting the former. Unless you keep your stockings on with your braies during sleep. I don't recall your state of dressing from the last time, given that all was dark and I was very determined to be unaware."

Is not an answer to his question.

"You must do away with the tunic and all its parts first, I think. I have seen quite enough of Mister Averesch's torso that I cannot imagine it will shock me. Whereas I can hardly picture the state of your knees."

"Ah, Mister Averesch," has a distinct note of humor in it.

Again, a hand passed down the front of his tunic, as if reminding himself of the whole of it before he makes a move towards his braces, shrugs them from his shoulders before turning his body to unfasten them where they've been attached. They join her dress on the chair, draped over one arm as Ellis reaches up for the laces of his tunic.

"My knees are unremarkable," he promises, as the laces come loose. Having turned from her to discard the suspenders across the chair, he pivots back to her as his hands move at the waist of his trouser, plucking the hem of his tunic free. Even with his eyes adjusted to the light, she is all gray shadow, sitting very still on the bed. He'd heard the shift of fabric when she'd moved, and is thinking of it still as he draws his tunic up and over his head.

His arms lift, pulling his tunic up and off, and then his arms drop. He doesn't move, not right away. How much can she see of him in all this shadow? The prickling awareness of her attention sparks a low swoop of sensation dropping from his chest as he stands in the center of the room for a long moment before—

Much like he had done for her dress, he shakes out his tunic, folds it over, and then discards it over the arm of the chair too before he turns again back towards her.

"What'll you have next?" is steady, in spite of the catch in his breath, the sensation very close to nervousness cinching tighter as he looks back at her.

Her chin remains where it is, fixed across the bend of her knee, and if he can feel the weight of her attention in the dark then it can still only be half as keen as her focus actually is. It feels like she is hardly aware of anything else past the rasp of fabric shifting, the shapes of him and his tunic in the lack of light, and what comes uncovered by it. Even in the mostly dark, the radial lines across his chest draw the eye. They aren't stark for the shadow of the room casts everything in complimentary grays, but they aren't invisible, and the prickle of curiosity that they spark burns like an ember high in her chest.

It feels like she has to swallow it down, hot and firm, to say, "I suppose it must be the trousers which come after. Unless you have some preference otherwise."

He is so—very broad, thinks some distant part of her. Which she knew, because she has stood beside him and thrown her arms about him and lived in the shadow of him and buried her face against the sturdy shape of his shoulder. But it is a different thing this way. It is good, she thinks, that he is stood there rather than nearer. It would be very hard to look at him otherwise.

"Socks," he puts forth, which is perhaps an answer as to his preferences for sleeping attire.

The retreat back to the chair happens slowly. He is torn between relief at the darkness, muting the worst of the scarring, and wishing to have lifted off the cover of the brazier to better see Wysteria's face. Heat is working it's way down his chest, the unfamiliar warmth of a blush gathering at the nape of his neck, spilling down his collarbones. He puts his hand there, briefly, as he perches on the edge of the chair to tug his socks off one by one, and stow them away in his boots.

And while there, seated on the chair, he undoes the buckle of his belt. There is a soft hiss of leather as he draws it free as he rises back to his feet, half-turns to drop it onto the seat without breaking his gaze from her. His heart is beating very hard.

All the buttons he's undone this evening, and it's the fastenings on his own trousers that he fumbles with briefly. He pauses there, trousers undone and falling open in his hands, and looks at her. Not hesitating. Waiting is closer to the truth of it. Waiting to hear her prompt him, or not.

The metallic clink is very sharp in the dark. Her hands close silently about her ankle in sympathy to it, and she waits for a beat long enough after that she realizes she is holding her breath and must breathe out again, slow and quiet. Breathe in, gentle and regulated (with all the fine hairs at the back of her neck standing on end).

After this, what will they do? Lay beside one another under the blankets. She will be aware of the heat radiating off him, and he will almost certainly know how fast her heart is beating, and she will have to be pretend to be asleep for quiet some time before the tempo of the thing slows enough to admit her any real rest. That is probably the shape of it, she knows, both of them somehow made more tentative by the other. All flinching and spooking.

"Go on then," she says after a moment. She can't make out the exact look on his face, but imagines the question in it to be heavy in the air. More briskly, firm then because she has decided she will not be skittish: "I haven't all evening, Mister Ellis."

At a distance, in the dark, Ellis' smile is more or less unseen. But the exhaled laugh marks it, the same way his ducked head might.

There's very little ceremony to it: Ellis draws the fabric open, then bends to guide the fabric down his legs. It's not a graceful movement, but there's a fluid ease in everything Ellis does, at home in his body and aware of what it can do. When he rises, discarded trousers in hand, he folds them once, then twice over, forces himself to make that half-turn back to the chair once more before re-devoting his attention to her.

It leaves him stood there in the middle of the room, stripped down to his braies. The muted glow of the brazier finds his naked ankles more readily than it does his knees, or his thighs, bared where the loose fabric has been neatly cinched, or higher, where linen gives way to scarring. Some quiet, self-conscious urge works through his body, culminating in a flex in his shoulders, weight shifting from one foot to the other before his hands turn, palms up, in silent offering.

Really, they are hardly the first set of bare ankles she's seen. Or thighs even, for that matter. Young men have such a propensity for running about half dressed or less in seemingly every version of the world, and certainly she has been in Thedas long enough (and in Riftwatch's company, and in Kirkwall specifically) to be more than passing acquainted with the concept of the thing entire. But admittedly not in the dark, with the light leaking from the brazier illuminating only in parts and pieces. And not when she herself is in so little. And it makes a difference, too, that it is Ellis who has kissed her and whose smile she likes very much.

The turn of his hands tugs humorously at the corner of her mouth. She flattens her chin a little further across the peak of her knee, which even in the muted darkness lends her some air of cheek. There truly is only one cure for uncertainty, and in some sense all of this is so painstakingly silly, and he had laughed just a moment ago. So—

"Turn once around if you please. I should like to see all sides of you equally. And before you say, I didn't make you turn about, well—you didn't ask me to do it. So let that be a lesson to you."

When he laughs this time, it's a louder, warmer thing, head tipped back instead of downwards. It dispels the creeping awareness of vulnerability, the mental calculation of the last time anyone has seen him laid more or less bare.

"Poor conditions for it," Ellis remarks, without any inclination towards a remedy. Instead, his arms lift slightly, uncertain as to position, as he obliges her. He hardly feels short-changed, but the prickling sense of exposure needles from the nape of his neck down his spine in direct counterpoint to the self-conscious flush that's worked it's way down his chest.

To his credit, it's a slow turn. He takes his time, only speeding slightly at the very end when they are very nearly facing each other again. His raised hands lower by degrees, returning to his sides as he steps forward, once, twice, but halting out of arm's reach to study her on the bed and ask, "Further requests?"

How much does she look at him, really? At the shape him, anyway. She must. For example, she is aware of the curve of his shoulder and the shadow of his spine, of some mottling at his hip which might be some freckling or scars or might be the cast of the darkness. But he's right; these is hardly the ideal environment under which to observe him. But mostly, she finds herself watching the angle of his chin and shoulder, the tilt of his head, and deciphering the shadows of his expression first as he turns away from her and then eager again to see it once he's rotated back.

It is so good to make him laugh, and to see him smile. Better, when he shortens the distance by those few steps. She can see him a little more clearly because of it. An arrangement of scars, dark ink, sturdy muscle—a long annotated series of questions she might ask.

Instead, with some small glint of the brazier light in her eye and some adopted arch air, Wysteria simply says, "No, that will do for now. I am quite satisfied, thank you." Her chin remains on her knee, hands loosely knit about her ankle. "Though in the spirit of equity I shall at least pretend to be open to negotiation, should you have any demands of your own."

Ellis' smile widens, sparked a little brighter by Wysteria's expression. He thinks for a moment to dither over the opening she's given him, but there is nothing to be but straightforward with her in this moment.

"Please kiss me," is not a demand, but the repetition of it is fraught in a different way than it been earlier in the night. What a new thing this is, wanting so deeply, feeling the way he cares for her rooted low in his chest, wound and tangled in his ribs. His skin is humming under her study. It has not been so long since he'd had his hands on her hips, but suddenly the sense of separation is acute and all-consuming. Why had he stopped touching her?

Wysteria is wound neatly into herself, coiled up securely and Ellis thinks to take her hand or cup her cheek, if she'd loosen but a little. He ends up stalled at the edge of the bed, reeled in towards her. When he reaches down, it's to gently curl his fingers beneath hers where they rest at her ankle, rather than repeat himself.

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picks this icon, lols

good work being prepared for this specific scenario

thanks im an artiste

i've been in the presence of greatness all this time, geez

whatever i see these bespoke suspenders icons

look

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