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

Yes, he is very battered. But she knows that—has seen that harsh mark across his throat, and has inspected at least some small portion of the array across his chest. She knows his back is scarred too, and knows at least part of what made those marks. It makes sense that the rest of him ought to follow in kind. Indeed if she's never really interrogated the marks, it's because there is a reasonable conclusion she might draw from nearly all of them: that Ellis has lived a very rough sort of life, both in Riftwatch and before it.

She isn't looking at his scars, or the dark mark of the tattoo sprawled over his chest. Rather, she is absorbing the general impression of him there at the edge of the bed. Something of it in combination with fondness in the sound of his voice prompts that color to spread from her neck to her face.

Wysteria plucks the snub of a pencil from behind her ear and chucks it off the foot of the bed without actually blinking away from him.

"Yes, that would do. Only—" is quickly added, lest he otherwise take her immediately up on having reached a conensus. Though she pauses a long time before saying, "Only would you turn about for me? Just the once round."

The request does stave off some forward momentum, hold him there at the edge of the bed. It is a smaller bed, not nearly as vast as the one they had shared covertly at Lady Paget's manor, nor even as comfortably proportioned as their accommodations at the lodge. Wysteria is more or less fully attired, and Ellis had wasted a moment's time thinking of how he might arrange himself beside her without preventing her from shucking her borrowed skirts if she were so inclined.

But seeing as he had offered, and she had requested—

"Aye," is so predictable that it is unnecessary. He has grown accustomed to giving Wysteria what she asks for, in one form or another.

He steps back from the bed. Only a pace or two, recalling again that dormitory. The brazier had been dimmed so low that she had been only gray shapes in the dark, but Ellis had no difficulty parsing the intensity of her attention. Seeing her in the full light of the fire only clarifies what he had already parsed.

And that moment of study, looking at her, observing the blush across her face and the movement of her hands and brightness of her expression—

It is a wrench to turn from it. But he does. And he obliges her in this too: it is a slow rotation, because he knows without being told what the intention behind the request might be. The flicker of unease at turning his back to any kind of observation comes and goes, finds no purchase as he turns a circle on the worn floorboards for her.

For years now, Ellis' body has been unremarkable. Sinew and bone, raised scars here and there. Capable of wielding a mace, bracing a shoulder against a heavy door, lifting weighted crates. Admiration has been limited to it's capability. Wysteria's examination is another thing altogether. As steady as his movements are, as calm as he is when he comes again to a halt facing her, the difference kindles a slow-burning heat in his chest.

"You needn't rush your study," is an offering too, patient and easy. Perhaps this is all there is tonight. He would have no complaints.

It is both easier and harder to look at him as he turns his back—because she wants to see him, and because it feels a little silly to be so blatant in her study. Even so, without the fixture of his attention on her, she promptly lowers her examination from the respectable level of the clavicle and Ellis's scarred neck and the curl of his hair about his ears. Because— well, why shouldn't she? Particularly when he has out so much effort into scrubbing up, and is still damp from the task.

When he begins to turn round back to her, Wysteria's eyeline snaps briskly up again. It's possible she's gone marginally more red. Who can say? The fire light may very well be playing tricks in this end of the room.

"I believe we've discussed the matter of mine being a quick study, Ellis," sounds far more arch than she actually feels. That's fine. "But thank you. I assure you that I'm most appreciative of the sentiment and am not at all insulted by the suggestion otherwise."

Ha ha ha, how witty she is!

The high handed effect being thoroughly ruined when she says, far more abruptly and far more genuine, "Thank you for letting me look at you. I enjoy it, that's all."

All other things aside, all other emotions clattering in his chest, he is abruptly so desperately aware of the way he cares for her. This affection has been held so close for so long that it's roots excavate down beneath all other aspects of the foundations Ellis has built his life upon. It is too big to speak of, particularly for Ellis who is so economical in his choice of words.

Even as this reels him back to her, he is still stalled at the edge of the bed. Reaches for her hands rather than any other thing.

"You might look at me whenever you please, until you've gotten tired of it," he reminds her, the words thick, weighted down with more than just the obvious humor of this instruction. "I'm yours."

Pleasing still, to be able to say so. It has been true for a very long time, but now it is bound up in other kinds of vows. Less easy to wander away from. (Tonight he is choosing not to be troubled by this.)

It's an automatic thing—to lean further up on the prop of her elbow and deliver her spare hand into his possession. How could she not when he sounds so warm and so fond, when she can hear his feeling in the thickness of his throat while he promises to do as she pleases, and that he belongs to her? If she failed to surrender her hand to him, she might risk floating away as her ego swells to enormous proportions.

No, the curl of his fingers about hers makes for a fine bit of grounding. Keeps her where she might feel the thump of her pulse, and the spirited hum of anticipation in her fingers. How very spoiled she's become.

And so, after a moment of being nothing more than flush with all his affection, she gives his hand a small tug.

"In that case, you should do as I say and come lay down next to me."

Nevermind that she's repeating the suggestion he'd made himself only moments ago. This can be hers too if she wants it.

"Aye," has the cadence of a joke. He says it only because he thinks it might make her laugh.

The bed is not as small as some they have shared, but it is not as luxurious as others. He can lever himself down alongside her without leaving very much space between them by absolute necessity, because any farther from her would see him tipping off the edge.

Lain down beside her this way, his nakedness is underscored, accentuated. His fingers retain their hold on hers, linked loosely as he settles his back against the quilt, head on the second pillow. Considers her many layers, her bound-up hair. Brings her hand to his mouth, kisses her fingertips before questioning, "Do you have a list of requests?"

It does make her laugh—sudden and bright and very real. Presumably somewhere, Madame Hill hears some small part of it and considers the whole evening with her semi-invited meddling a success.

Meanwhile here in the room, Wysteria is still smiling at Ellis settles in beside her. The bed is just wide enough that their combined weight on the mattress doesn't automatically tilt them in against one another which is, were she to express her opinion on the subject, something of a shame. Though as far as environmental shortcoming go, this one at least is highly navigable.

Lying alongside him, fully dressed save for the field boots she'd removed shortly after having closed the door behind them, there is something almost charming in the question he presses to her knuckles. After all, he is so very (incredibly!) naked, and she is so very not. And he is asking her opinion, and she may answer him however she likes. That she has no immediate answer for him ought to be embarrassing, yet—

"I haven't drafted one, no. Though you may kiss me," she says, leaning very faintly over toward him. "And then I suppose you may tell me your list, and I will consider its merits."

Checkmate.

"My list," is so lightly put that it betrays what is surely easy to guess: Ellis has no particular list in mind.

But he's been asked for a kiss first. Her hand, still in his custody, is caught against his chest as he reaches up for her cheek. Wysteria is flushed and beautiful. Ellis would study her for a time, if he thought either of them had the patience for it.

So she is drawn down to him. Given all the leverage in this, with only Ellis' hand at her jaw to encourage her. He leans up only a fraction to meet her, just enough to hold his body taut in service of keeping that contact.

They have done this before. She has laid him out across a bed of clover and kissed him, tasting of earth and water, all those months ago. Before they were married. Before they had kissed very much at all.

His thumb is very gently insistent at the hinge of her jaw. If he is going to give a list, at this rate he will speak it directly into her mouth.

Edited 2022-10-18 03:26 (UTC)

Small though the point of contact might be, it's a fine bit of a encouragement and easily answered as she leans softly over him and down—carefully angling the line of her face in sympathy to his thumb and the tips of his fingers—

"Yes of course," she says very closer to his mouth, in imitation of being wide eyed and guileless. "Your list." For all his protests, he isn't totally devoid of creativity. She trusts something will occur to him. In the mean time, she is happy to take advantage of his being vulnerable to her.

Wysteria is smiling when she kisses him. It's a brief, almost chaste thing—there and done so that after she might examine his face from very close up. His dark eyelashes and the wrinkles about his eyes and the nearly invisible flecks of grey in his eyebrows. And then, because he is there and his hand is warm at her jaw, she kisses him again, which is less brief and less chaste.

What a brief span of time it had been, where Ellis had accepted the idea that Wysteria were ever so innocent as she appeared.

Gradually, Ellis is obliged to return his head to the pillow. His hand at her jaw encourages her along with him, cedes leverage, grants her all the benefits of their respective positions. His thumb slips across her cheek. All of this meant to keep her close so when she eventually breaks to draw breath, there is no great shift in their shared proximity.

"Kissing you," Ellis tells her. "That might have been on my list, if I had drafted one."

A breathless kind of humor in that, as his hand flattens her palm over his chest.

Humor that settles, gives way to comfortable consideration as he watches her.

"Do you intend to keep the high ground?"

The little scoff she makes in response to kissing you says exactly what she thinks of this list being devised in retrospect. That's not how this is meant to go, Ellis.

She shifts a little closer too, narrowing that space between them. Not over him, no, but set near enough that they're aligned and bending to face him is very easy to do.

"Are we speaking literally or metaphorically? Because I believe you have made it something of a point to give me every advantage in this, and so I can hardly surrender it even if I wished to."

It's all good cheer and in a tone that's quite conversational despite their nearness as her hand, flat on his chest and under his curving palm, shifts faintly—fingertips scuffing very absently at the thatch of chest hair. She has laid her arm across him like this before while he's been without a shirt. There is little difference between that and this, really.

"Aye," is only a little amused. Yes, he has been deliberate in how he has given over to her in this.

Banter back and forth as to the existence of this list or that aside, Ellis is treading carefully around the question of what might be wanted, what he might once have been accustomed to. The rise and fall of his chest beneath her hands is steady, his skin warm, lingering dampness from the swipes of cloth evaporating in the space between their bodies.

Some of what might inhabit any list Ellis would write, he suspects she has already gleaned from him. Wysteria is very keen in her observations, when a topic holds her attention. (Her hands caught up in his hair, insistently tipping his head back, eyes bright and watchful.) There are things Ellis has not made much attempt to withhold from her, even if he could have.

"I haven't forgotten what you asked before," he tells her. On the subject of dancing, of needing to be led in some fashion, if they are to continue talking around the thing in all its forms. "I think I can manage it, should you maintain your present vantage point."

So literally speaking, as the metaphorical positioning was never in question.

This close, it must be obvious when the width of her smile flickers. It's not a failure of humor, only a brief kind of flexion—the broadly comfortable shape of her focus narrowing and sharpening. She studies him for a moment there, the curve of her expression shifting as her gaze flickers to his mouth and then back up again.

(No, actually. There is some difference between her hand here across his chest like this.)

"Very well. Easily done," has the tenor of a declaration, a point of punctuation on some page in her field journal. It's underlined further by a brisk kiss pressed suddenly to his mouth and when she sways up after, it's on the hand he hasn't caught with his own.

From that higher vantage, she leans down and kisses him again. And then once more for good measure, something methodical in its shape as she studiously moves to lean properly over rather than merely against him. It does lend something in the matter of leverage, doesn't it? It makes it very easy to make make demands on him with the gentle edge of her teeth and some tentative, goading openness.

Easily done.

Whatever answering chuckle Ellis might have breathed back to her is caught up in the kiss she applies.

His fingers had held at her jawline, offering unnecessary guidance. But as she applies herself more fully to the kiss, Ellis cedes that touch in favor of first cupping the nape of her neck, fingers slipping in at her hairline, and then drifting down to her hip. It is a particularly pleasant thing to be so pinned (if pinned is even the word, when he might free himself so easily) by her, encourage the light scrape of her teeth with a nip of his own.

At her hip, his grip has become a firm, fixed thing. They might do this for some time. He has such an appreciation for kissing her. It is only absent impulse that sees him lifting his hand from where it had laid over hers on his chest to reach up and seek the combs holding her hair in place. There is no urgency for anything other than this, which echoes back in its way to that little room in Markham, his hands so careful in her hair as she'd asked him questions.

His hand moves and so does hers—creeping up to the sweep of his clavicle, fingertips soft at the hollow of his throat. It's a delicate little thing, and more careful than her other hand is where Wysteria's planted it alongside his shoulder to support herself. Not shy, though. Only mindful. Gentle, as if he's some skittish creature that might spook otherwise despite what that playful scrape of teeth might otherwise imply. Yes, says the methodical and studious shape of how she pursues his mouth. They could do this for some time. She is in no hurry, and he needn't be concerned with the possibility that she's being at all foolish.

Indeed so gradually does she shift over him that it would seem hardly noticable at all if not for his hand at her hip and the altered angle of her kiss, until that supporting hand shifts and the angle of her elbow closes again. It's surrendering leverage in favor of closeness—not bold enough to outright insinuate her leg over him, but pinning him far more properly between her hands and under some measure of her weight.

He's broad enough that it's easy to do. And there's something inherently pleasant about the warmth of him felt through the layers of her shirt and chemise and bodice and stays. And how fond she is of him when he's like this, gentle as a lamb. It begs to be tested or teased; her fingers shifting from Ellis's neck to push back into the dark curls behind his ear.

At present, he has very little space in which he might conceal something from her. Wysteria's hands and tentative allocation of her weight over him as she presses soft, insistent kisses to his mouth. Ellis' hands have fallen into familiar pattern, tightening and loosening by turns where he has settled his grip at her waist, the small of her back, over the sturdy fabric of his dress and the stays beneath it.

They wind their way to the point where Ellis might usually call a halt. Break them apart, send them to bed or to respective duties, whatever is nearest to hand to interrupt the flow of the proceedings. This time, when the moment comes, it isn't a full break but a minor check. Ellis drawing a breath, chest rising beneath her hands, as he realigns his attention to focus on her rather than on her mouth.

"Do you intend to keep all of this on?" he asks, looking up at her and thinking of how long it typically takes to get all of Wysteria's many layers off. There's no expectation one way or another, just an easy inquiry that she might decide however she pleases while his hands run up and down her back.

That minor check nearly prompts a sigh from her, a little sound that might have developed into a frustrated one given the motivation to. But it isn't, and so it doesn't. Instead, her breathing comes warm and gentle across the corner of his mouth and Wysteria looks at him as he looks at her. She thinks she will kiss him again, though the scuff of his beard prickles at her when she does. She thinks it would be a pleasure to answer his question in the way she wishes to—'Do you want me to keep all of it on?'

But she knows what kind of response that is likely to be rewarded with. I want what you want, Wysteria, her husband would say. So instead she answers him, "No, I mean to take all of it off," before kissing him once, brisk and brief at the corner of his mouth.

She levers herself directly upright after, untangling her fingers from his the curls of his hand behind his ear and drawing out from between his hands on her. Moving to sit upright and drawing round so she might sit with her legs underneath, she prudently arranges herself beside where he lies in the bed with her knees pointing toward the headboard. That way she might face Ellis directly rather than otherwise.

"But you're not permitted to help undress me," has the air of a prim instruction as her hands set at the lacings of her bodice. "Agreed?"

(He's far too slow at it.)

"All of it," Ellis echoes, not necessarily questioning but settling the prospect between them. One hand had come up, touching his mouth briefly, as he acclimated to the absence of her. Having taken this very minor stock, said hand drifts to settle lightly at her knee. A small, easily displaced touch that has the air of holding place; it is a hardship for contact between them to be severed.

She has not gone far. Just far enough that he cannot easily kiss her, and apparently cannot do anything that might slow down the process of undoing all her many lacings and buttons.

"What am I permitted to do then?" he questions, a slight smile working across his face. "Bank the fire? Read a passage from your book of archeology accounts?"

The strength of her scoff is rather remarkable. The force of it, and the absurdity of his suggestions, turn what might have been a halting answer quite bold as she begins loosening laces:

"Oh really, Ellis! You're entirely impossible. Don't you know you're meant to watch me undress and formulate an opinion? I would think that you of all people, who are so fond of saying so little while you take account of everything about you, would find the prospect appealing. 'Would you have me put something back on before I come out, Wysteria?,'" she paraphrases in her best burred imitation of him, which is poor but affectionately rendered. "I looked at you when you came along entirely undressed, and now you wish to read a passage from one of my books!"

She scoffs once more for good measure. With an abrupt tug to the two sides of the bodice, the ribbon lacing loosens to such an adequate degree that she might wriggle it up over her head and so extract herself from it.

Within this span of time, where Wysteria's vision is momentarily obscured by her own bodice, Ellis has shifted from prone along the mattress to seated more or less upright. A change in position that puts him closer, well-placed to put hands on her thigh and hip and stall her with a light kiss.

"Forgive me," does not sound contrite.

And it is wholly separate from what comes after: a second kiss, quick on the heels of those words. A lower, fonder profession murmured into the corner of her mouth, "I love you."

Blunt and unadorned, no endearments to underscore the sentiment. He has been telling her this for years, in all manner of ways. None of them have been lovely or eloquent, most have even been silent. But he says this to her now, a reminder, as his lips move along his jaw.

He has been told to stay out of the way, but she might remind him. Just once more.

He's quick when he cares to be, promptly there with his hands and his mouth the moment she's escaped from the bodice. It might make her laugh, or maybe prompt some scoff of mock offense were it not for that sweet, lovely thing he says aloud. It's a very simple phrase, she knows. It isn't like in books, or poems, or even like she sometimes pretends it might be when she's very bored or he's been taken very far away by some demand of Riftwatch's work. But, plain as it is, the satisfaction derived from it is sharp and full—sticking somewhere behind her ribs and clutching there.

How sweet he is. How very delicate and gentle. How very good he is to her, not just here as his mouth roves but all the time. It makes the heart sing, and the back of her neck burn hot, and—

She squirms and laughs, prickled by the scrape of his beard or by maybe by the tingle of her own flushing skin or the perception of her pulse under his lips. After, a hand clutching reactively at his bare shoulder, she turns her face in toward him and can't help but smile against his cheek.

"You make me so very happy."

This, presumably in addition to temporarily having successfully distracted her from shedding layers to match him.

"I love you," is unnecessary repetition. Not a request for any elaboration on her part, for anything beyond what Wysteria has already offered. There's no need to hear more. The bright glow of her voice tells him enough.

So why not say it again? Here, in this shared bed, when he has laid himself bare in nearly every sense of the word? Is there no better time than this? The words come easier now, and Ellis knows to seize these moments. He has loved her so long that there is no distinguishing the feeling; it is enmeshed so deeply in him, coloring everything he does. It is so vast that three words hardly feel sufficient, but he gives them to her again.

"I always want to make you happy."

This too, is obvious. Obvious to the point of comedy, perhaps.

His hands are coaxing her closer, where he might put his face in against the curve of her neck, kiss the bend of her shoulder. Loosen the ties of the skirt, an absent nod to Wysteria's goal even as he hinders her in accomplishing it.

It is obvious. And it does make her laugh—not because it's funny (or not only for that reason), but due to some flush of high spirits and satisfaction. If that's his goal, he's done such a fine job of accomplishing it.

Warmed to her center by all of it, holding I love yous like notes folded in her skirt pockets, Wysteria allows herself to be drawn in without protest or indeed even second thought. Her hands are willing too, finding their way to his bicep and up the back of Ellis's bent neck and into his dark hair.

There's more purpose to it than there is to his picking at her overskirt's laces—her smiling at his temple, and kissing him there, and winding her fingers into his curls so as to distract him from her neck and shoulder. That way she might look at him when she says, all fond and flush and loving him, "Thank you for being so patient with me." If she exerts a little leverage, she can kiss the corner of his mouth, unserious and smiling. "But say it to me again, won't you? That you love me."

As it turns out, they're perfectly sufficient words.

How easily bidden he is, face lifting at the first tightening of her hands in his hair. Having her close again, settled in his lap and near enough that he might kiss her as he likes, answer the coaxing of her hands so immediately, is hardly incentive to give her any space to return to her earlier task. The ties pulled loose at her hips, Ellis' hands are freed to circle round her waist, press a palm to the small of her back, lift fingers to brush a few errant locks of hair back from her face as he tells her, "I love you."

Words made sweeter and more tender for how long he's kept them caught behind his teeth. Hoarded for months, years, polished smooth and shining like river stones for all that Ellis has lived through in the course of it.

His hand cups her cheek. He kisses her again, because there is no reason he shouldn't.

"I love you," a fourth time, unbidden, in the space between one kiss and another.

How happy he looks under her hands in the warm glow of the firelight, those practiced lines in his face and the slant of his brow bent in the fondest directions. Yes, he loves her. And yes, she is pleased with it. And yes, his hands are warm and his mouth is sweet as pressed cider. But the thing that warms, for which she seems the most fortunate for having so near, is the look in his face and how diminished the scar on his throat or his poorly set fingers or any of those other hard marks on Ellis's person seem in its shadow. How good it is to see his affections so powerfully in his face; how satisfying it is to hear him say so, not just as the object of it but because she loves very little more than she loves to be told true things.

It's very difficult to kiss him properly rather than simply smiling wide through the pleasure of having her requests so readily met. "Good," she tells him, a laugh in the note of it. "Because it would be"—she kisses him or he kisses her—"Very unfair and not at all equitable if you didn't. I'm far too fond of you for you not to feel the same."

When she does manage to kiss him correctly again, she is all enthusiasm: high spirits and good cheer, unvarnished in her affections and failing entirely to play at any bit of coyness. Is it chaste? No, certainly not. But delight comes far more naturally to her than any overthought attempt at being sensuous does, and the desire that stems naturally out from it is far more self-possessed and doubtless. It's important to me that you be satisfied, he'd said. It's difficult to imagine a state in which she might be more content than this one.

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