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

"I remember," comes on the heels of teeth, carefully applied. "Remind me, was it the book with the three gambling cousins, or was that a different one we read?"

They might talk about books for hours. There is enough material between them to string out while Ellis applies mouth and hands and listens to the way Wysteria's voice wavers in response.

At her thigh, Ellis' hand slides down to her knee. Not so long ago, when she'd been seated in her chair and Ellis had been knelt in front of her, he'd encouraged her legs to part for him. He repeats himself now, coaxing her towards some small splay of her legs so he might settle himself there.

"No, that's altogether a different book. That one was the one all about the three major campaigns of the war between Ferelden and Orlais."

Just as thoughtlessly as she'd allowed him to press between her knees then, she does the same here. Only in her chair there had still been some measure of distance between them. Here, doing so effects a neat erasure of it and the soft draw of an inhale past her teeth. The rise and fall of her chest and the absent stray of her hand from his collar to between his shoulder blades.

He seems so absurdly composed.

"Ellis—" He'd asked her to say what she found most pleasant. "I hope you don't mind, but I've a question of semantics for you. Do you suppose it would be cheating if you were to put your hand under the shift? I think the neck is loose enough to allow it."

Here, Ellis' head lifts.

"It is."

And while he might draw the neck of her shift into such a position as to allow it, that had not been on his mind.

And so he does arch up by degrees, hand leaving her hip to catch in her hair as he looks at her. As he studies her, Ellis' palm lifts higher by a fraction so that he might hook fingertips into the ruches along the neckline of her shift. It draws the fabric down slightly, though Ellis makes no real move to press further than that.

"Would you like my hand there?" is such a moot point that Ellis pairs it with a second question, asking softly, "Would you like me put my hand beneath your hem as well?"

Which is a different thing than beneath her neckline, surely. She'd blushed so furiously when she'd spoken of where he might touch her, back in that massive bed on Lady Paget's massive estate.

She blushes furiously now too, caught off guard by both the immediacy with which she had known the answer to the first question—Yes, she thinks she would like his hand there—and the audacity of his second one. And the fact that he is looking at her when he asks. And on account of the memory that she has sworn him to secrecy on the subject once already, and to say now would surely ruin that agreement.

"I had no idea you were capable of such smugness," is softly scolding and a placeholder for a proper answer. "Before I say, you must tell me what you're thinking. And don't pretend you have been nothing but innocent, because you have brought me to a room with one bed."

"We've shared a single bed before," Ellis answers in mild protest. He'd no real reason to expect they'd have done anything different this evening than they have on a number of other occasions.

But he does give her request due attention. What is he thinking?

Predictably, Ellis says nothing very quickly. He kisses her first, as he's drawn himself up high enough to do so. He'd like for this to stand in place of further discussion, but understanding the nature of the request—

"I've been thinking that I like the way you taste," Ellis begins quietly. "And I was thinking that I like seeing you flushed like this."

Easy enough to guess at, perhaps. Ellis is often predictable in what occupies his thoughts. His fingers draw along her neckline, across the top of her breasts.

"I was thinking that I wanted every part of this to be good for you."

Predictable.

"By happenstance, not by prior arrangement," she insists in that moment of silence, very nearly against the shape of his mouth as he shifts to kissing her. She is eager enough over the prospect of shared responsibility to needle the edges of the subject and risk putting him off what she actually wants to hear.

Nevermind the kiss. The brief opportunity to gently bicker back at him is pleasant enough to lighten the wound tight and too-attentive feeling in her chest. It grants her the patience to listen to what he has to say after it. That none of it is terribly surprising doesn't make the sentiments themselves unwelcome.

"I taste like a bottle of wine," is probably a generous albeit teasing assessment of reality (although they have kissed enough times since dinner that it's possible the tang of it has been stripped entirely from her tongue). "But I think the rest of it is all very reasonable, Ellis. I like when I can tell you want very badly to kiss me, which I suppose is very similar to watching me go all red in the face."

See, she is being very reasonable and logical about all of this. She is not being foolish or overeager. She is patient enough, even, to lean up a little so she might briefly catch his lower lip between her teeth before slipping back to look at him.

"Do you want to put your hand beneath my hem? Even if it is cheating. And even if you have said you wish to..." She searches for the right words and is only a little distracted by his weight and the hook of his fingers at her chemise's neck. "Proceed slowly."

Having settled himself here, over here, between the slope of her thighs with her shift wrinkled and rustled between them, the answer seems nearly a foregone conclusion. But with the question asked, it knocks Ellis back slightly. It sets him at some distance to consider the trajectory, where they might land if—

Ellis fingers turn the slight, silky ribbon tie at the center of her neckline in his fingers.

Truth comes slowly. As is his habit, Ellis takes his time scraping the words together, trying to string together an honest thought for her.

"I want to give you what you want," is not exactly an answer that Ellis expects to please her. So he amends, continuing on to explain, "I always want to touch you. Always. So if we are bending our rules, and you are coming to a compromise tonight, then I can bend to meet you. I want to."

Then, softer, "I want to touch you."

There is something in the slow, methodical way he works his way through the reasoning of it that sends heat creeping up the back of her neck. The meticulousness of it and how visibly he arranges his feelings in a line for her study prompts her pulse to thicken faintly in her neck. He is so very beautiful like this, all patient and strangely delicate. It is strange and lovely that he should be both at once a solid, heavy weight over top of her and then also this fragile thing.

"I suspect," she says very carefully. "That this may secretly be a very usual time in which people who are going to be married and who care for each other very much bend rules. So as long as you promise not to think less of me, or to wonder whether I've been terribly cruel in forcing you to agree to take me as your wife before I would—I want you to touch me, Ellis," she blurts out, cutting herself off. "I've wanted you to for ages now."

Ages, Wysteria says.

If Ellis were a different man, he might have said that Wysteria should have trapped him into marriage earlier so they might have arrived her sooner.

But Ellis knows himself. They have wound their way here in due time. He couldn't have given her more than he had at any point before this. And because Wysteria knows him, understands him in her way, Ellis thinks she understands this too.

But still, to hear the way Wysteria's voice dips over ages puts a hitch in his breath.

"I could never think less of you," Ellis murmurs, tugging loose that little ribboned tie. "When you've been so patient with me."

Ellis kisses her again, quickly and sweetly, before he levers himself down to return his mouth to her skin.

"And when I've been so in love with you," Ellis continues softly, as lingers over her throat, marking the heat there. He takes his time drawing the fabric of her shift aside to bare her breast. The brief sweep of his palm gives way to his mouth as he resettles over her, returns a hand to her hip, falling to her thigh and holding tightly there.

It is cheating. But she is very fond of winning games, and has been known here and there to indulge in some light trickery to arrange the odds in her favor. Getting what she wants by successfully bending the rules is just as pleasant as doing so properly. She has never felt particularly guilty about any of it. And she will not, she thinks, feel guilty about this. Not when Ellis is so in love with her, the warmth of that sentiment as palpable as the shape of his mouth on her throat is. And his hand, and—

She makes a soft sound, a gentle hitching of breath, and flexes involuntarily under his weight and his mouth and the hand grasping at her thigh. In the instant later, she breathes out a shocked little laugh. The bristle of his beard is very dramatic against delicate, eager skin. Which yes, that's more or less how she'd imagined it might be. The satisfaction inherent in having her suspicions confirmed is rather thrilling.

Certainly it emboldens her into chasing that hand at her thigh with her own—fingers slipping from his shoulder to skirt across the back of Ellis's knuckles or at his wrist.

There is nothing as rewarding as tracking Wysteria's reaction. Every time he kisses her, puts a hand on her, and she responds, it is just so—

"Wysteria," is raw with affection, clear even when said directly against the swell of her breast. At the touch of her fingers, his hand turns up to catch at them as he drops kisses over her sternum, elbow bracing him against the mattress as he draws the neckline of her shift down further so he might divide his attention equally.

It was clever of them to keep the shift, keep his trousers and his tunic. Ellis has a moment to consider it as he uses their linked fingers to clumsily draw the sheer, drifting fabric of her shift up along her legs.

Even at the lake, Ellis had never properly seen her bare legs. Calves, ankles, but her thighs have always been hidden and briefly grazed by his fingers on one or two occassions. He doesn't see them now, considering how thoroughly occupied his attention is with her breasts.

But they have a shared goal. Ellis can multitask.

The way he says her name is a very fine thing, as pleasing as his insistence that they link fingers be though it makes the business of shifting her hem more complicated not less. But the fabric is very light, and Wysteria's smallest finger is more or less at total liberty and so may hook the edge of the thin cotton and help it more neatly along as their linked hands otherwise might simply rely that moving up her naked thigh would do the trick.

Otherwise, her attention is fully committed to the heat of his mouth and the forward fall of his curls, her hand which is still at liberty shifting to push back the latter and then tangle gently there in his hair. It's only when their linked hands have traveled high toward her hip that she thinks—

Gods, how ridiculous she must look under him with one edge of her shift rucked high and the other drawn low. From her vantage she is very aware of her patchwork nakedness. She can see a hint of her own bare thighs where she has gently spread her knees to accommodate his presence between them. Between it and the spill of her breasts and the keen sensitivity of soft skin to his hand (their hands) so high on her thigh, she almost laughs.

No, she does laugh, twisting a little under him in anticipation— "I'm sorry. It's not funny." It is though. Just a little. But her hand is slipping free of his grip, skirting instead to Ellis's wrist where her thumb might apply encouraging pressure.

The laughter is brief, but it's sweet. The tension in Ellis' body dissipates at her reassurance, soothed as much by that as her hand in his hair. He presses an answering smile in against her breastbone.

"It's alright."

Laughter is good. As long as Wysteria is content, all is well. Ellis draws his teeth along the peak of her nipple, the curve of her breast, before he lifts his head to look at her. He can think of all the other places he'd put his mouth, if didn't have the fabric of her shift to contend with, nor her fingers making a silent, insistent request of him.

With her hand extracted from his own, Ellis doesn't quite heed the nudge of her fingers at his wrist. Instead, he lifts his weight so he might reach between them and arrange her skirts more neatly. Baring her opposite thigh, fabric nudged into place as best Ellis can manage without lifting completely off her.

Not too high. There is still a draping stretch of sheer fabric to dip beneath when Ellis puts his fingers gently along the inside of her thigh, attentive to any tension in her body, waiting for further pressure of her fingers against his skin.

"Ellis—" is possibly a scolding little sound for the edge of his teeth, but really is for how he looks at her. She can feel the heat in her face glow warmer and it isn't due to the arrangement of her hem or his hand shifting against her inner thigh. Flush and impulsive, she moves her hand from his hair to cover his eyes loosely under the curve of her palm.

"How do you expect me to be sensible when you're looking at me like that? It's hardly fair."

Only— her thumb presses at his wrist. And her palm on his face turns faintly in a slanting effort to cover part of his mouth, which exposes an eye.

"It's no use. You're too handsome."

"Hush," he tells her, though how much weight does that carry when it's followed by his head turning further into her palm so he might kiss there? Were both his hands not thoroughly occupied, he might have caught her hand so as to manage the thing properly, but as it stands Wysteria is the recipient of a clumsy brush of his mouth.

"I've no other way to look at you."

It feels as if this affection is always present. Has he not always been transparent in this? He'd worried about it, not so long ago.

Now, he tells her this as his fingers make their way to the fabric of her small clothes. And there is some consideration as to whether he should take them off or not, but for the moment the exploration of his fingers is limited to the satin-soft fabric, following the hem around her thigh rather than pressing where she might soon instruct him to.

She fidgets at the touch, an involuntary little twitch and press of her thumb at his wrist and her leg along his side. That tickles too.

"Then I'll close my eyes," she says, and patently doesn't do that. Instead, Wysteria sets her thumb to his mouth and gently (instinctively) drags along his lower lip. If there's something a little thrilling about the brief, incidental contact with the edge of his teeth then—

Well, he started it.

(And maybe there is something just a little imploring in the look she gives him after and in the way her hand turns to cup his bristly cheek.)

"Don't."

Softly, as Ellis comes down to her by degrees. There is only so close he can be without impeding the business of his hand, but he can change the distance from which he holds himself above her. Just close enough that he might dip to kiss her, if her palm at his cheek and her thumb catching at his lip weren't so—

He'd had some time to think of what that possessed cat might have interrupted. Wysteria had put her hand just there, pressing into his mouth. Now, his lips part slightly, exhaling hard.

"Look at me," he requests, though Ellis suspects it isn't in Wysteria's nature to close her eyes when she might otherwise be observing the proceedings.

His palm sweeps across her belly. And then lower, to press firmly against her through the thin fabric of her smallclothes. And hold there, as if acclimating to the position they've levered themselves into. His breath comes faster against her hand, regardless of steady he holds himself otherwise.

Even if she weren't naturally compelled toward study, could she have refused such a request? So she is looking, her attention all bright and keen, as his hand skirts across her stomach. And even if the angle of her hip didn't immediately react in answer to the press of his eventual touch (though it does), and even if she didn't make some soft hitching sound (she does that too), her response to it would be impossible not to mark. It shows in the flush of her face and the glint in her eye and the faintest tremble of her lower lip. Her thumb across his mouth softens. The one at Ellis's wrist doesn't. She is very warm under his hand and that thin fabric between them is damp and it takes real effort not to—

She tightens her legs faintly about him to keep from doing the opposite. Her pulse druma in her chest, and Wysteria is aware of how it's rabbitting beat is sympathetic to the drag of Ellis's breathing against her hand or vice versa.

After a taut moment, she manages to venture— "It's not too much, is it?"

Against her thumb, Ellis draws in a deep breath. There is such a flimsy barrier between them here, and it will be a simple thing for him to draw it aside. Not just yet, but he is thinking of it in the same moment he thinks of leaning down to kiss her. When he presses, he can mark out the shape of her. The minute shift of his fingers as her knees clench at his sides is not so different from the tiny testing lunge he's given to using beneath a rift, squaring up a particular approach. For all that he's considered this, the inevitable moment when they might tread a little farther than they've done thus far, touching her here and feeling the soft warmth of her is surreal.

"For me?" Ellis questions, some breathless humor coloring the question. "No, I—"

Shaking his head might dislodge Wysteria's hand. Instead, he dips his head slightly, so he might catch the pad of her thumb in his mouth briefly as he applies careful pressure to her, marking out slow circles over her as he asks, "Is it too much for you?"

"No," is instant even as it slants slightly toward breathlessness. Her eyes have lowered to his mouth, thumb presses absently there in faintest parallel to— "No, it's not too much. I only asked because I know you worry. Which is very sweet."

Her knees have already loosened faintly about him. They tighten by that half degree again.

"I said already how much I like your hands," is just a little shy.

It is so rare to see shy on Wysteria. He is accustomed to reading so many things on her face, but not shyness.

Shifting his weight to one elbow, Ellis returns his hand to her breast. He resumes the methodical sweep of his thumb across her nipple as lower, his fingers lift away to hook into the waistband of her smallclothes. All his movements are telegraphed, easy for Wysteria to maintain her hold on his wrist or stall him if she cares to.

"Remind me what else you like."

This is a difficult question for her, Ellis knows. It's not because Wysteria is in any way indecisive, but because she's never—

There's never been occasion to discuss it. But Ellis asks now, even with his mouth parted for her thumb, breath gone shallow, even as he lays her bare and puts his fingers directly against the shocking heat of her.

She doesn't stall him. Her hand at his wrist has shifted naturally up along the line of his forearm, so that she is grasping him by the elbow by the time he touches her so directly. That it had been obvious in coming doesn't make much difference. It's still startling how direct the touch is, and how easily his fingers settle against the wet heat. The next stroke of his caloused thumb across her nipple prompts a little panting catch in her breathing and an involuntary rise of her ribs to press her breast more firmly into his hand.

What does she like? Other than his hands and what they're doing right this moment? She struggles after an answer.

"When I've kissed you and have pulled your hair too hard. You've made this—a sound. I think it's very pretty."

She can feel his breath across the pad of her thumb. The impulse to follow it is too strong to rationalize away; pressing her thumb past his teeth to the heat of his tongue sends a tingle of fascination through the whole length of her.

Had he meant to say something else? Perhaps, perhaps not. Regardless, Wysteria's thumb presses further and Ellis closes his mouth around it briefly.

It means there is quiet now, as his fingers map the wet heat of her. Touching lightly just to feel what makes her arch, before devoting himself properly to taking Wysteria apart.

It occurs to him that he'd like to take his time accomplishing it.

Ellis could never be called a quick study in other arena than the physical. This is not a training yard, but he observes just as attentively here as he might there. Wysteria arches up against his palm and Ellis adjusts, two fingers given to teasing the peak of her nipple while his tongue presses up against her thumb, breath coming faster now against her hand at his mouth.

He wants to say her name. Maybe it easy to read that on his face. His gaze hasn't wavered from hers since he put his hand into her undergarments.

There at his cheek and jaw, her nails rasp softly across the bristle of his beard. It's a slow scrape—not patient, just intent. A more focused placeholder as the point of her gaze flickers from the look in Ellis's face, to her thumb pressed across his lower lip against the shape of what he can't say waiting on his tongue, toward that gentle pinch of his fingers, and then fleeting restlessly back again. How is she meant to keep from splitting her attention? There is a real desire to memorize all the details even as the slow shift of his fingers muddy them—

With a soft sigh, Wysteria draws the pad of her thumb back across his teeth to press less gently again at his lower lip. Without her realizing, her hand has wandered from his elbow to Ellis's bicep. The clench of her knees has begun to give again, gently opening herself to his study.

"And when you want to kiss me. I like that too. Before you make yourself stop."

"I always want to kiss you."

If it sounds dashing, or flattering, it's only by coincidence. He is telling her the truth. It is rare that he looks at Wysteria and doesn't want to kiss her, whether in some small chaste way or otherwise. That has been a constant too, for such a long time.

And he kisses her now, as he draws two fingers through the heat of her then presses carefully down, sinking slowly in to the knuckle. No farther. Just there, while they kiss, while Ellis observes her. His mouth is very soft against hers, coaxing her mouth open as his touches her, sets his thumb to circle where his fingers had mapped moments ago.

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1000.... tosses confetti

what an accomplishment

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