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

It is, she decides in that moment, the sort of kiss she likes best from him. Not that there has been anything at all wrong with the brief way he sometimes kisses the corner of her mouth or how gently he sometimes bends to her, or even the heated shape of his mouth that afternoon as they'd lain in that sweet patch of clover. But this masters them because it's feeling and impulsive, because she can't taste the hum of his thoughts on his lips. Because it's both very simple and very full all at once, pleasingly certain. Or maybe because when he kisses her this way, she is pleased with herself afterwards—how clever she must be to earn that kind of affection—, and there are only a few things Wysteria loves more in the world than a sense of her own accomplishment.

After, with her face turned up to him still and her mouth lingering against his, Wysteria bats blindly at him with her spare hand.

"Go then. And be quick, or I will get cold and become cross with you all over again."

(It will only be once he is briefly gone from the room that she will clamber in under the covers of that grand bed, and there between the blankets indulge in the impulse to kick her feet a little and muffle a laugh into one of Lady Paget's very fine down pillows. Yes, she is quite pleased with herself.)

The swipe of her hand doesn't deter him from one last soft press of his mouth to hers, then a last kiss to the corner of her lips, before he straightens and departs.

The door of her room is locked. The balcony entryway to her room is nearly closed, left propped open for easy of Wysteria's return. And the glass doors to his own room are securely closed behind him, drapes falling over the windows.

Lastly, the latch is turned at his own door. The house has fallen silent. And Ellis returns to the chair drawn up alongside the fire to sit, and begin unlacing his boots. The work of his hands is smooth and methodical, but his eyes return to her, over and over.

They've shared a bed before. It is not that. It is all that's been said, and alongside it, the simple fact of her presence. Even without declarations and marriage, having her there is a particular kind of delight.

Somewhere in there, she has removed the fistful of pins from her hair and set them aside on the absurdly ornate side table so that here as he unlaces his boots she is doing the opposite—winding her pin curled hair into a braid across her shoulder, half buried under the smooth sheets and blankets and the very fine coverlet. She can do it automatically without looking at all, which means it's very easy to observe him there in the chair by the fire and to occassionally catch him looking and be pleased all over again.

She is, she thinks, very patient. She waits until he has removed both his boots before pssting at from the sea of overstuffed pillows.

"Ellis," is a very soft little call, quieter even than the tone she'd taken when they'd been speaking only just minutes ago as if the distance across which she is addressing him makes it more likely for her to be heard beyond the door.

Wysteria extends her hand toward the edge of the bed. She pats there in invitation.

He is very far away.

It is a hard invitation to turn down.

So he simply doesn't.

Boots set neatly beside the chair, the only minor delay is in the stop Ellis makes to tend the fire and secure the grate. And then he is settling where she'd indicated, perched one side of the comically opulent bed. He shakes his head over it. Weeks of time spent here and he still hasn't grown used to the bedding. And now he needn't bother, apart from—

"I could lose track of you in all this," is a low, clucking sort of complaint, as he unfastens his braces and works them down over his shoulders.

They've slept in narrow beds, and on the ground, and all other manner of less comfortable accommodations, but Ellis prefers all of them to this bed, he thinks.

"Nonsense," she snips back, twisting a little to wriggle her way deeper under the blankets and amidst the pillows. Her extended arm withdraws, and she looks very self satisfied studying him from her veritable nest. "I have every confidence in your ability to mind me. Though if you're truly so concerned, I suppose you might keep an arm about me. For a little while. And consider that neither of us will stand any chance of becoming over warm and kicking anyone in their sleep."

Not that anyone would ever do such a thing. And if they have, then it has been done entirely unconsciously and is entirely to blame on being very used to sleeping in a reasonably large bed (for the furniture in the Hightown mansion is not so stately as this, but not at all poor) all to herself.

A muffled chuckle from within the folds of his tunic, before the shirt is drawn entirely off. Ellis holds it in both hands for a moment, clearly considering the trajectory between the bed and the vacated chair, before tossing it to land haphazardly across one of the arms.

"A generous offer," he tells her at last. "I'd be happy to take you up on it, as I was planning on keeping you close one way or another."

He'd very much wanted her to stay. That surely isn't so hard to guess at, considering all that had passed between them since she'd arrived. He runs his hands briefly over his face, inhaling deeply, before he stands to work at the buckle of his belt.

There's no hesitation, but there is a slow, fluid motion to the work of his hands. It leaves enough time for objection, or instruction. For whatever Wysteria would prefer he look like, when he climbs into bed with her tonight.

It's hardly the first time she's seen him so. But it strikes her that it's the first time she has marked with such clarity the dark shape drawn onto his chest, the banked fire light and the lamp on the table more than generous enough to see by. The moment she takes to consider it means he is well on his way to being free from his belt before she even marks it.

"Well." Her attention rises from the work of his hands. Well. "Then I will sleep in the middle of the mattress. That way I can tip you out of the bed more easily should your dreams trouble you."

See, look. She has done him the courtesy of having memorized all the vital rules.

Then, as if compelled by the rise and fall of his shoulders or perhaps some line of sinew in a forearm, she adds— "It's very pretty, you know. The mark you wear there." Her hand touches briefly at the neck of her chemise to indicate his tattoo.

Half-way to some sort of agreement or gratitude at the reminder that she recalls what she’s meant to do for him if he’s seized by the sort of nightmare that doesn’t wake him, the second observation catches him off guard. His own hand lifts from the laces of his trousers, mirroring her as his fingers skim along the ink on his skin. Not necessarily to obscure it, only as if—

Reminding himself. Yes, it is there. His fingers remain for a moment before dropping, Ellis nodding to her before turning his gaze back to his work.

“Prettier than the rest, aye.”

The newly acquired trio of marks from their excursion in the crumbling manor have joined the rest of the scarring on his body. By comparison, the thin lines of ink are easily the most graceful marks set into his skin.

It’s hard to say whether the tattoo or the scars or the fact that he is drawing the laces of his trousers open prompts him to lean over the blow out the lamp on the table. It doesn’t diminish the light in the room, only leaves them with the firelight to cast everything in shadow and gold as he works his trousers down his thighs, steps out of them one leg a time before folding them and casting them to join his tunic.

“Here, let me in,” is a ridiculous thing to say considering how much space there is in this bed.

In the half light, Wysteria's eyes are comically round and her attention on him very keen—a silent and rapt sort of curiosity which a sense of propriety (diminished behind a locked door, and the fact that she is in his bed already, and what he has promised her) doesn't quite check. The suggestion of his bare knees in the shadow is almost funny.

"—Oh. Yes of course," is the softest squawk. The heavy collection of bedclothes is turned back to encourage his entry.

"I think a Warden must have scars. It gives everyone else a sense of what they ought to be grateful for."

Here is what they might do: He might stand just here, shadowed and lit by turns in the firelight, and let her look her fill. The proposal comes to mind and is dismissed as he climbs into bed beside her, to be obscured by lavish bedclothes and plush duvet. There is a rustling of sheets as he shimmies along the mattress to settle beside her, in spite of ample room elsewhere.

Wysteria might have been very comfortable in the middle of this bed, with only the smallest chance her foot might have knocked into leg or hip or ankle in the night. But instead, Ellis puts himself directly beside her, as he would have done were they in a narrow bed in someone's hayloft.

"Which is what?" Ellis asks, some dark sort of humor in his tone. It's been a very long time since people were grateful for Wardens.

She might have every intention of explaining what she means—how surely no one trusts a soldier without no interesting battle scars, and that must be the case for Wardens too even despite the rather bruised nature of the order's reputation otherwise—, but then he is very close and radiantly warm beside her. All save for—

"Your feet are ice!" is a barely muted squeal. Under the coverlet, her knees draw fractionally up to flinch away from the incidental cold touch.

"The floors are hardwood," is somewhere between protest and amusement. Beneath the blankets, his fingers find her hip on the way to taking her hand. A brief, lingering pressure there, before Ellis turns onto his side to face her. His feet are obliging angled away. "They'll warm."

And it's some kind of novelty, to think about cold feet when their usual fare is so far removed from such a weightless concern. Ellis is thinking about Wysteria objecting to the presence of ants, of sweeping sawdust away so they might lay down together.

"If you'd rather not take your chances, I can sleep on the chaise."

"You'll do no such thing," she grouses back at him, faux sullen as she allows her legs to straighten to their original place. Meanwhile, her hand in his turns so as to get a better grip on him in return. "What would the point of that be? After all that effort of going around locking doors. We might as well simply switch rooms if that were the case. Or not have bothered at all. Honestly, Mister Ellis."

Don't be absurd.

She might continue on in a similar vein for some time if she wished to. Instead, Wysteria gathers up his hand in hers, drawing it up to set his knuckles against her neck and the soft underside of her jaw. It's a gentle thing, and might indeed be a perfectly chaste way of reeling him a little closer to her if not for their general states of mutual undress.

"As I was saying. I think your scars are dashing. There is a sort appeal, you know. To a person being as you imagine they ought to be. And you can't very well imagine a Warden without thinking of one or two great marks on them. Even I know that much."

Had Wysteria not had hold of his hand, Ellis might have let it fall to where he knows a scar has been slashed across her chest. The very tip of it peeks over the edge of her chemise.

"So I needn't collect anymore?" he questions, low and teasing, as his thumb lifts free to run along her jawline. "You find the present assortment satisfactory?"

They are just close enough that Ellis has some sense of her, even with the blankets and all to obscure the lines of their bodies. He can think of how he might fit more closely, how his arm might settle about her waist.

He can also think of how much he likes looking at her in such a setting. He is fond of looking at her regardless of where they find themselves, but there is some especially rewarding aspect of seeing her in his bed. Even if the bed is not truly his, and if he would rather try to lay down with her with the ghost clattering around the bottom floor of her house, or in the narrow slip of bed waiting for him in the Gallows.

Her laugh is small in that drawn narrow space, more breath and the shift of her ribs under the line of his forearm than it is real sound. His low tone has reminded her that she's meant to be quiet, and that if they're going to have some conversation here in the almost dark that it should be done softly.

"Yes, very satisfactory." She tips her chin down in answer to the path of his thumb, saying firmly there against the calloused edge of it, "You must avoid any others."

"That's a tall order."

The nature of who he is, how he fights, makes the collection of further scars inevitable. Yes, there are long stretches of time where Riftwatch's work keeps him from the kind of scrape that will turn to a desperate scrap, but inevitably, some occasion arises where Ellis need put himself more directly into harm's way.

He thinks to say Is there some penalty for if I fail? but surely they already know all the downsides to his acquisition of injuries. Instead, his eyes move over her face, taking her in, lingering a moment on her mouth before observing the sweep of his thumb along her jawline. The singular observation stands.

So it is.

She knows it perfectly well, and so will only pretend at asking for him to commit to avoiding danger. Besides, if she were to even consider making such a request then she might have to be willing to bend similarly. Imagine—her agreeing to stay fully out of all harm's way. Who would be ridiculous then?

Instead of insisting she only looks at him in the low light, her face half in Ellis's own shadow and he breath warm across his knuckles. When she turns her hand and his in it, it's to press a soft little kiss to the back of his hand. Beyond the context of this shared bed, it would be only sweet—a little silly, uselessly teasing. But it's a different thing to put her mouth on him here compared to anywhere else. She thinks so, anyway.

Despite all the time that's passed since he kissed her that first time, the moments when Wysteria initiates in this way always catch him by surprise. Even such a small thing, her mouth against the back of his hand, carries such weight. He feels it reverberating through his body, a leaping sensation that crackles from the point she'd placed her lips up along his arm, shivering across his skin.

This close, the intake of breath is very easy to note.

"Wysteria," is said softly, a murmur between them. A question.

They aren't married. Ellis has always insisted on certain limits between them regardless. But they have still never done this, even in all the times they've shared a bed.

His soft use of her name doesn't waylay her. What it does accomplish is the sharpening of the point of her attention, something of the playful spark in her expression veering sideways into a more fixed curiosity. The shape of her pulse, conveniently placed near to his wrist, jumps faintly. For the bed is very large and he is cinched in close alongside her and doesn't need to be. And the line of his arm is warm and so is the soft sense of his breathing. In the low light, she can just make out the faintest shadow of the line her nail had scratched across his cheek. Between it and his hand at her jaw, she is reminded of the earlier set of her thumb against his mouth.

The tip of her chin rises just a little—

"Will you kiss me?" isn't a tentative question even if she asks it quietly and follows it briskly with, "You may say no if you would prefer otherwise. But if you cared to, then I suppose I wouldn't mind."

Humor pulls at his expression, both for the idea of denying her and for the way she's phrased it. I suppose I wouldn't mind.

"I'm not in the habit of telling you no."

Consider: the agreement they've come to on this very night.

He doesn't leave her room for comment, regardless. He tightens his arm around her. They are already satisfyingly close, but Ellis narrows that slight space between them to a sliver before he lifts his head from the pillow to kiss her. It's a careful thing. Maintaining that space, returning his hand to her jaw without dislodging her grip, setting his fingers gently along her neck as he settles his hand.

It's a soft kiss. Not lacking in intent, just—

Soft. Considered. Attentive. Easily directed and easy to break off.

No, he isn't, is he? It's possible that's some measure of the appeal, that he is so bad at refusing her anything. For what does Wysteria like more than things being done according to her wishes? Even when he digs in his heels, what purpose does it serve but to allow her something to grapple with?

(For what does Wysteria like more than an argument?)

As far as kisses go, it's a very careful one. Not tentative but patient, maybe. It's rather like how Ellis has lingered at the margins of so many debates—not disengaged, but intent and observing and waiting either for a welcome invitation or to be backed into some corner where an unequivocal demand might be made of him. And she's played both parts before, hasn't she? She's very good at them, almost entirely by instinct.

(It has bothered her. The not knowing—not with respect to his attachment, but what she's meant to do and what he wants. And how, if he's so keen, then why will he not simply ask things of her? She hasn't characterized herself as unreasonable when it comes to his requests, has she? But—)

Yes, she's very good at being stubborn. Which means if he isn't willing to dislodge her hold on him, then she is—carefully and quietly unraveling her fingers from his hand and wrist as he kisses her so she may instead move to take his face into both her hands. It's easier, like that. To coax him along with the press of her fingers and the insistent tip of her mouth in relation to his.

You give everything far too much consideration, she doesn't tell him, though she ought to. Maybe her hands do it for her.

In spite of all good intentions, Ellis is—

He is easily coaxed.

There is a distant rustling of sheets as that last sliver of space between them closes under the sweet urging of her palms. His hand at her back loops up, hitching her in tight against him as his hand splays out between her shoulder blades. The considering, patient quality of the kiss doesn't ebb away, but—

A sigh, very soft against her mouth.

"Wysteria."

Not a question, not really. Just some soft, tender thing, said into the warmth that's been kindled between them. The way her hands move at his face, over his temples, drums up the same sort of demand she'd levied that day at the lake. It's not a hardship, to kiss her until good sense reminds them to draw apart.

It's not a question, but it catches her interest in the same way one might. She likes questions, you see. And she likes how low and gentle her name sounds when he says it into that very narrow space. And the sensation of his hand firm at her back, and how warm it is under their shared blankets—

It takes a few of those very close, very thoughtful kisses before her hands soften about his face. Her fingertips scuff gently at the rasp of his cheeks. The space between them doesn't widen, really, for she makes no move to withdraw. She only tips her face a little so she might look at him slightly better and to say near the corner of his mouth,

"I promise not to make any further demands of you today."

"I like your demands."

Mostly. Always.

Having made no move to unravel himself from her, Ellis can kiss her once more, brief and sweet, before asking, "I know you said you didn't know, before. That you needed—"

A pause. A moment of gathering, carefully pulling threads of a question together before he continues, "That you needed me to lead you. If we were to dance."

In which dance is weighted down with meaning, and a little bit of humor, inescapably. The question is measured in spite of all of it. There's no sense of immediacy, more speculative than anything else as he speaks nearly against her mouth.

"Would you—could you try to tell me, if there's a step you've thought of?"

A question shadowed with I'd like to know what you want.

There's something about being reminded of that ridiculous thing she'd said those many weeks ago, about hearing it said back to her in such close quarters with that whisper of humor lurking at the edge of his voice, that makes her laugh a little. It's an impulsive, smothered thing tickling at the bristling edge of his mouth. It's half flustered embarrassment and half delight.

(His hand is warm just there between her shoulder blades, sturdy and square.)

"Tell you?" is soft, sotto voce. "You want me to— to say it out loud?"

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

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

clenches fist so tightly

(no subject)

is this thread bow-ready i ask

outrageous but yeah tbh