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

"Again after," Wysteria repeats back, prompting both her own little breath of a laugh and a distinct clench she feels low in her middle. "That's certainly a thought."

She's very studious about seeing all her all lacings undone, pulled slack enough that all it requires to shift the fabric further is the pluck of fingers and a little motivation. That part though she leaves over to him, hand fluttering down to the joint of his elbow. There's something fascinating about the subtle flex of muscle and sinew there, and how it travels up into his shoulder shoulder where she might feel its echo there under her other hand.

She follows that end point in his shoulder with pressing fingertips. Some motion of his hand transforms it into an impulsive and experimentally light dig of fingernails, and briefly interrupts:

"You are going to"—that hitch of breath; it's very easy to sink her weight between his hands—"Going to let me have you eventually, won't you? Or do I need to find some lines in a book first?"

This is, strictly, not at all a criticism of his current occupation.

The gauzey drift of her chemise momentarily upsets the distribution of Ellis' attention. Split between the work of both hands and his mouth now following the ever-lengthening drape of her neckline, there is a moment where the full weight of the words doesn't entirely register. Or not all at once.

A long moment, stuck on the uneven quality of her breath and the sensation of her nails and the downward arch of her hips, before Ellis lifts his head to her.

"Yes," because no is impossible. How rarely does he deny her under more ideal circumstances? His hesitance isn't erased, but it is eased, an outcome determined beyond any doubt.

Eventually is not a specific word. Ellis could have teased her about that, if he weren't so preoccupied otherwise.

"Like this first," is a murmur, as his hand lifts only long enough to hitch her chemise downwards, bare her breasts so he might continue the downward trajectory of his mouth. She is obliged to lean just a little farther, allow him to take just that much more of her weight as he bends into her. "Then you can have me however you wish."

Like this, it all almost seems like her own idea to give him those additional degrees—to melt back under the heat of his mouth, skin pearling not from some chill of in the air but from the teasing whisper of fabric sliding away from it; to sigh, a shiver rolling through her in answer to the deepening sense of his fingers and how bitingly hot his mouth is and how promising Ellis's assurance sounds to her ear.

He is spoiling her. Or she's being very greedy. Or some combination of both those things, she thinks, because she wants him exactly like this and exactly like that other way (she presumes) and in every other fashion. Wysteria is so satisfied with the thought and the results, both immediate and pending, that she can practically taste the impulse to be smug.

"Good," she says, and it's impossible to tell if it's an assessment of his stated intentions or the present arrangement of bodies and hands, her grip on his elbow and shoulder flexing restlessly. A soft press of fingernails to emphasize the point with. A sudden sharp draw of her breath sounds very like one of those tell tale precursors to a hurried monologue but ends up held high behind her ribs instead so that by the time it resolved into words, the lines have been considerably consolidated:

"Not as if there's a shortage of available passages on the subject, of course. I just"—he feels good; her knees tighten possessively—"Don't have any with me."

"You'll be prepared next time," is a certainty, requiring his mouth to lift only briefly away from her skin, return directly after. Wysteria is rarely caught empty-handed twice. Perhaps when next they lay down together, she'll have a small presentation of pages with which to instruct him. Ellis would hardly be surprised.

And it isn't a hardship. He is so partial to her. He always has been. He has always been pleased to give her all that she might ask after. This, the patient, insistent work of his hands and mouth, the press of palm at her back, all comes from the same part of him that has been content to lift and carry whatever she may need, to entertain all manner of requests. To restore and tend her garden, sand the splinters from the stairs of her home. Patch the leak in the roof and repair the loose window frame.

All this, these things he would happily give up to her, live in his chest. Easily tipped into her hands.

Good she says with her fingernails catching at his shoulder, her breath catching in her throat, and Ellis feels a juddering kind of satisfaction and pleasure for all of it, all things in combination.

How good it is, to give Wysteria all things she might want. To draw these reactions from her. It is enough on its own.

If there is any motivation in the world substantial enough to strip Wysteria's approach to certain literature of it's natural mortification, then certainly a rigorous academic system of notation and excerpting seems the likeliest bet. That she might expect some dividends to return to her in the form of his affections is arguably merely a (most) charming bonus.

—So yes, she probably will be prepared to present him with all the notes for a short paper or lecture sometime in the not too distant future.

In the present however, there is a sense of trusting him entirely to indulge her in some fashion that should satisfy her. Rather like all the weight she happily gives to the hand at the small of her back, she doesn't think to request for more or less because the heat of his mouth and the work of his hand is so immediately rewarding.

Again after, he'd said. How promising that is I'm whatever shape. Maybe if she didn't have the reassurance of that sentiment or of his easily given concessions, she might cling to the hum building under his skin in a more miserly fashion. Think of the wolf's corpse in the woodshed, or the paperwork stacked in the Felandaris office back at the Gallows. But he is so reliable, and so very good, and there's no reason at all not to simply give over to it.

So if giving her what she asks is the thing that satisfies him, she makes it clear enough without having to actually say much. In the minutes that follow, Wysteria flexes in the most pleasing fashion between Ellis's touch and his mouth. Her hands grasp after him; the cant of her breathing thins in answer to his diligence; all that impulse to chatter incessantly slides sideways into encouraging sounds too soft to carry and too sharp not to be telling.

He doesn't need to instruct her on this point again. When she feels how close she is this second time, she chases directly after it until it unravels all through her like daylight.

The potential of again, after carries Ellis past the urge to linger in this moment as well. Wysteria is so beautiful, caught in his lap. It is overwhelming. It may be overwhelming regardless of how many times they do this. The sounds she makes scatter like coals; Ellis can feel them on his skin, the way he flushes impossibly warmer for every reactive noise that falls from Wysteria's mouth.

How rare is it, to find her at a complete loss for words. Maybe he will be a little proud of that, when there is any room to think on something other than Wysteria coming apart once more.

He is still touching her, lightly, idly, when he lifts his head to catch her mouth. Kisses her as if he could taste the noises she's making.

I love you, he wants to tell her. But there's no space for it just yet, when he is so intent on maintaining this clumsy, open kiss he's coaxed her into.

It is clumsy. She's not even caught her breath yet, but she's glad for the encouragement to sway forward into him rather than bonelessly sloughing in some other, arguably more comical direction. Her arms gather loosely about him almost without her intending to, so automatic and natural is it in response to his beautifully heated mouth. How light and half assembled her laugh is as it's breathed warm into the very shape of that kiss. That it's followed by a pleasant shiver under that idling arrangement of his fingers and a sweeter sigh is as impulsive as her arms coiling in about him are.

(How very solid he seems between her knees and elbows in contrast to how very unwound she feels.)

"I love you." Wysteria has no compunctions against mumbling it eagerly across his lips. The nip of teeth that underlines the sentiment is very gentle. And, agreeably disjointed: "Entirely distracting."

His smile only amplifies the clumsiness of the kiss, but it doesn't diminish the warmth of it, how good it is regardless of all poorly fit aspects of it. The loose drape of her body across his chest, her arms about his shoulders, is terribly satisfying. Despite all assurances as to his intentions, he finds himself stalled over all of this: the run of his fingers through the heat of her, the light sting of her teeth at his mouth, all the newly bared skin between them, his hand splayed open across her back.

"Entirely," is echoed back after a long moment in which he makes some attempt to kiss her properly, settle his attention solely there rather than on how her chemise has come apart, the unfocused murmur of her voice. "I'll remember it for the future."

For when he is inclined to distract her, as unlikely as it may be as a tactic in those moments.

"Tell me how your legs feel," he prompts, after further long, easy kisses have been exchanged, time blurring down to the heated quality of each kiss, the heat caught between their bodies. After his hand has stolen upwards from her back into the loose tumble of her hair. Finally, something resembling new-settled intention resolving itself in his mind.

It's a very unfair thing to expect her to answer such a sensible question in a timely fashion, particularly when he is so warm and has both a hand still pressed comfortably between her legs and fingers idly tangling at the end of her hair. So instead of answer him directly, Wysteria kisses him a further handful of times—half open and half not, half punctuated with teeth and half not. It's only after, cinched in so very close yet, that she laughs and tells him,

"If I say 'like jelly' will you turn me out of your lap and take off my stockings?"

Hopefully. Because that's more or less true.

A breath of laughter in return, low at the corner of her mouth.

"Why would I ever turn you out of my lap?" is only allowed a moment to hang in the air before he continues, more sensibly: "If you say your legs are paining you, aye. Or that you'd like your stockings off, then aye."

But what a wrench it will be to do it.

He has hardly taken stock of his own body. Ellis' attention is narrowed so intently on her, still considering the promised third time they'd spoken of.

There have been other promises, he knows. Eventually, he will have to dredge her out of his lap to make good on them.

"Then yes," she says. "I would like my stockings off if you please."

Why, it's even possible that he may be convinced to resent the rest of her clothes if he observes her from a vantage further than the distance of a few paltry inches. Who can say?

That said, Wysteria is very grudging about peeling herself out of his lap. Her arms must untangle from about hik and become functional limbs again, and she must convince her thighs to support her so as to sway back from over him—

Ellis does not quite make himself useful.

For half of this process, he is only chasing her mouth. But Ellis can only arch so far up off the bed, so it is eventually better, more expedient, to catch her around the waist with both hands and tumble her into the pillows to his right. Here, he might follow her down, turn in alongside her and flatten a hand over her belly, the sheer fabric there.

Consider that he is meant to be removing her stockings. Bend to kiss her anyway, as if to complete some earlier thought.

"Here," is unnecessary, thick in Ellis' mouth as he rearranges her hems and turns his full attention to the stockings in question. Hands curving round her thighs unnecessarily before attending to the ribbon, beginning to draw the fabric down.

Ellis puts a kiss to each newly bared inch of skin along her leg. It seems he is no longer content to map her legs with his hands.

The sudden tilt of the world and consequential fhwump of pillows makes her laugh, unexpectedly loud and bright in the little firelit room. Its quick tempering has less to do with deference to the hour but instead may be entirely attributed to keeping Ellis when he bends to kiss her. And its shape persists after, lingering vibrantly in the slant of her mouth even after his lips have taken to roving elsewhere. It tickles—that scuff of his beard at soft skin, the shift of calloused fingers and how lovely and warm his mouth is.

"Thank you, that's very helpful."

Coaxed by that series of kisses and firm hands and the very fascinating curve of his shoulder and how remarkably attractive his being so intentional is, Wysteria is all too happy to helpfully alter the line of her leg in order to expedite the stocking's removal. That she must paint a somewhat ridiculous picture with her shift in such blatant disarray (carefully sorted hem not withstanding), undone hair wild across the pillow, and now eagerly squirming after his mouth is of little concern to her. He's so very startlingly handsome like this in this new light that it comes far more naturally to be interested in examining the shape of him as he bends than to think much about her place in the bed.

(He may not have taken stock of his body, but she has been sitting in his lap and is more than content to continue the study.)

"Do you suppose that after the stockings"—it's a trial not to laugh again as his mouth passing over some sensitive patch of skin produces a shiver—"You may wish to have the rest of my things off as well?"

See how considerate and thoughtful she is!

What Ellis has learned in the course of all their association, romantic and otherwise, is that Wysteria sometimes puts questions to him that are more suggestions than anything else. The expected answer is clear.

And helpful, in a sense. It keeps Ellis from balking. He might well have kept her chemise in place, if left to his own devinces.

But in the moment, though one stocking and it's accompanying ribbon have been dropped over the edge of the bed to the floor, Ellis has put his mouth back to the bend of her knee. He doesn't lift his head to her immediately, instead finishing the soft application of a kiss before considering the question.

"I think I might," he tells her, reaching over for her opposite ankle. "I thought I'd start with your smallclothes."

Before she is bidden to sit up again. It had felt like a loss to dislodge her from his lap, but observing Wysteria with her hair fanned out and her mouth curving into a smile has its charms. He's more interested in joining her than anything else, but Ellis takes direction well. He can do what's being asked.

"A fine place to begin," she concurs, some spark of bright, broad humor living in her face for it. Were she not already so thoroughly flushed pink under the pleasure of his attentions, it might be the sort of remark fit to make her blush. Well. If that's where he would prefer to start—

Wysteria helpfully delivers her other ankle into his possession.

To think, there had been a point where Wysteria would have been mortified by Ellis' hands under her skirts about her calf, nevermind the rest.

Ankle in hand, Ellis attends to the little bow at Wysteria's thigh. Hitches his thumbs beneath the delicate fabric to ease it down her leg as he had done before. He puts his mouth to the newly bared skin here too, laying a kiss to the inside of her thigh just above the bend of her knee.

"You," he says, a murmur without lifting his mouth. "You are so lovely."

Praise easily applied. His hand draws down to her ankle, sweeps the stocking off and away. Freeing Ellis to lever himself upwards, to kiss her properly.

That laugh is live again on her lips by the time he reaches her, breathed warm and rich into his mouth as Wysteria's hands move to greedily clutch Ellis to her. The temptation to wrap him up in her arms and refuse to let him up again is real and persistent, present in the way her fingers press at his shoulders or biceps and how cheerfully she returns his kiss. Nevermind how pleasantly ticklish the inside of her thigh is under the scuff of his stubble, or how fascinating his hands about her thigh are, or how rampantly curious she is with respect to certain dimensions of his anatomy. There is a version of this evening where she's quite content to wrap him to her and stay exactly like this for a considerable length of time, and it isn't even remotely a waste of time.

"I like that you think I'm pretty," she says to him close against his lips. It's an obvious thing to take joy in, of course—what young lady doesn't like to hear that her husband (or anyone else) finds her attractive? But the point stands. She does like it.

"I think you should think that I'm also witty and charming and very funny as well. I'll have you know, although clearly you must already be aware, that I tell excellent jokes and generally have a very high, convivial sort of spirit that anyone would be pleased to have for company. But particularly," she says, kissing him for emphasis. "Very serious Wardens."

It is a near thing. Ellis would be content to simply kiss her until they tire of it. He imagines at some point Wysteria will grow tired. It is a logical end point, isn't it? That they fall asleep.

He is in no hurry. There is never a destination in mind. Kissing her is enough. In this moment, it is even a balm, settles the erratic beat of his heart as her fingers climb up his arms. Wysteria tastes of sweet cider still, some lingering note that Ellis chases after for long moments before she begins to speak.

"Yes," he agrees. "You are all of those things. And intelligent. And very, very kind. Especially to me."

Is now the moment for Wysteria's list of virtues? (Is Wysteria very, very kind? Well—)

She is obliged to make way for him, part her thighs enough that he might settle between them. Ellis is deliberate with the allocation of his weight. He is not truly intending to spend the rest of the evening kissing her, but he settles over her as if he is.

(No. But he says she is, and so she must be. And in any case, she thrills to hear him say it. So, yes. Maybe she is very, very kind. Especially to him.)

Regardless of whether it contributes to the arrangement she's levered out of him, there is something so satisfying about the shape of Ellis's weight over and about her. How fine it is to feel herself pressed into the crinkle of the mattress, so know the bend of the pillows and the bedclothes and the fur about her as it all gives so admirably under him. And how specific the heat of his skin is, shockingly vibrant in all the places where there is ordinarily fabric (thin or otherwise) to act as a barrier between them.

She kisses him or is kissed a half dozen times, unhurried and quite pleased with herself and the shape of him in her arms, before volunteering—

"I'm also quite enamored with this, you know. You're agreeably heavy."

Yes, thank you, she has in fact taken extensive mental notes.

In the course of kissing her, Ellis' intentions of holding his weight over her had given way by degrees. He'd had some inclination to avoid bearing her down into the mattress fully, but the welcome of her arms and the languid exchange of their kisses had dissolved any resolve apart from giving over to her.

"Am I?" is an absent murmur of a response, as his mouth moves down the line of her jaw to her throat.

It is still somewhere in his intentions, removing her chemise. And her smallclothes. He hasn't forgotten.

But perhaps Ellis finds their present position agreeable too, because he's made no real effort to sit back up again to resume his work. Instead, he's laying kisses across her collarbone, as he slides a hand back into her hair where it fans across the pillow.

Yes, they might take some time doing just this.

"Yes, you are." She helpfully tips her chin higher, lengthening the line of her neck available to him despite his mouth having roved lower already. The sense of his fingers moving through her hair is very pleasant. "And I think it's very charming that you use yourself so very carefully. It makes everything you do seem quite deliberate and well considered, and that's rather flattering all things considered."

He is so intentional about how he sets his hands at her waist. Meanwhile, her hands rove about the bare skin of his shoulders without much forethought beyond curiosity. He's so broad, and there is some impulse to map the effect of his shape with her hands. To press a hand up the back of his neck and into the thick thatch of his hair. To shift the arrangement of her thighs about him.

If it's at all impatient, it has very little to do with not liking the current arrangement of bodies and limbs and weight.

He is so careful in how he touches her, the way he links their bodies together.

But Ellis has half a lifetime of using his body as a tool. That has made all things easier; he is detached from himself in a way that makes it easy to narrow his focus on her, hold back all other things. Yes, his skin is flushed fever-warm with wanting her. It is the most clear sign of the effect she's had on him, laid into the parts of himself that are beyond his control.

His teeth scrape lightly over the swell of her breast. With his mouth so devoted to this trajectory, there is no answer for her for a long moment.

Then, slowly, "I've been thinking of this. Of you."

Of what their wedding night might be, without fully predicting it would come on the heels of a rift and the corpse of a fade-touched wolf. He might have guessed at some similar circumstance. He's known Wysteria for such a long time now.

"Lift your hips," is trailed by his hand at her thigh, his body shifting up by degrees to give her space to do so.

His voice is something felt as much as heard, rumbling thorough his chest and into her. If the soft scuff of teeth hadn't been sufficient to prompt some flexing line in her beneath him (it had), that pleasantly low vibration of his murmur might manage it. Certainly something low in her belly goes light and turns over, flocking butterflies for I've been thinking of this.

How promptly she follows his direction, eagerly pressing up into the space afforded to her.

"Ellis," is softly scolding and entirely encouraging. "That's a very bold thing for you to say."

Fingers hook her smallclothes; she had unfastened those meticulous little buttons on one side, and Ellis draws the delicate fabric down by the other. It is an excuse for his palm to run hot over her skin, all the way to her kneecap, down to her ankle, where Wysteria might kick the item away if she so chooses. He is already reclaiming that space, flatting back over her to remind, "I am your husband."

He has been hers for a very long time, title or no.

"Don't you know how long I've wanted you?"

There had been something in the way she'd prompted him there. He can offer her this reminder, even if it is hardly so straightforward. If Ellis allowed it, all the complications would seep in like the icy cold that frosts the windowpanes behind the curtains. He has to keep it at bay, pare down this sentiment to it's most base truth: of course he has wanted her. Of course he has thought of her.

His teeth scrape along her breast, soothe the sting with softly laid kisses. The thudding beat of her heart is impossible to miss when he stretches upwards to kiss her throat again.

"No," she says. Yes, the thud of her pulse is very loud, quickened sharper by that scrape of teeth over sensitive skin and the gentle kisses that have chased after it. "I don't know. You ought to tell me when first you thought it."

Bold indeed, as blunt there under his mouth as his weight is and his teeth have been against her. Her hands chase after him, fighting the impulse to simply wrap Ellis directly up in her arms again. Instead, Wysteria grasps at his shoulders and twists faintly under his lips. Scratches very carefully at curving muscle and flexes under him as if that invitation for her to raise her hips weren't specific to the removal of her smallclothes.

And she does—kick that lingering scrap of cloth from off her ankle. Where it goes after may be a concern for some later hour.

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