She is not the first to wake. Which means he must be. Which means at some point latelatelatelate in the morning, if clocks even run here, Coll sort of chokes on a snore (because yes, Iris, your new husband snores, particularly after too much sex and scotch) and startles awake.
He does stink. They're both pretty gross. Light is crashing in through the unblinded window, lighting up the cozy little room, lighting up the bed and the dresser and the mirror and the rug and the hardwood beneath the rug and -- all of it. He opens his eyes and the ceiling is lit simply by all the light bouncing off all the other surfaces in the room. He stirs, he stretches, he opens his mouth in a truly gargantuan yawn, and then he settles his arm around Iris. Which is to say, he flops it around her shoulders, heavy and affectionate.
"G'morn, missus," he murmurs.
Iris DahlstromIris snores a little, later in the morning. Not badly, not like a moose broke into the house and has a sinus infection, but she snorts a few times, and rolls over, and maybe they wake each other up and maybe they don't. He chokes on one, though, while she doesn't. She just flops on a pillow, her mouth open, her hair a mess, her neck at a slightly uncomfortable-looking angle.
The room, in daylight, has a bit of a Bed and Breakfast air about it. The pillow shams turn out to have a bit of a ruffle. The cover over their bed is a quilt. The bathroom that Iris snuck off to last night -- and sometime during the middle of the night, if we're honest -- is tiny and cramped. There is a rug on the floor beneath the bed made of braided rags and bits of leftover fabric from aforementioned quilt. It is quite cozy, and homey, and homely.
Coll yawns, and flops, and wakes up Iris, whose ring is smudged and there happens to be a bit of ball point pen ink on her cheek now. So there. A faint impression of a diamond, smeared on her jawline, from when she pillowed her face on her hand for a while.
She yawns, too, rolling over, kicking his feet a little while she tries to straighten her legs and stretch, stretch, aaah. She doesn't open her eyes. "Fuck morning," she mutters back to him, looping her arms around his waist.
Coll MacCulloch"Fuck mornin'," he agrees happily. She wraps her arms around his waist under the covers. He pulls the pillow out from under his head, fluffs it himself -- which is to say, shakes it several times in midair, one-handed -- and stuffed it back under. " 'Course, 'tis almos' noon."
The room is bright and cozy and homey and homely. Coll loves it. Coll loves many things like this: quickly, utterly, soul-surrenderingly. He loves the room and he loves the inn and he still wants to be a groundskeeper here forever dammit but he doesn't want to bring it up again because sad. He stretches his legs under the covers, wriggling one out: a bare and big-boned foot at the far end of the bed. He's a tall lad, more lanky and long-boned rather than ripped, or cut, or massive, or whatever terminology might best describe a full-moon of, say, Iris's tribe.
"Do ye wan' tae keep sleepin'?" he asks after a moment. "I will hush up if ye do."
Iris DahlstromIt's important in relationships, especially in marriage, that couples can learn to let go of the little things if they can manage to come to terms on the big things. Family. Childrearing. Money. Religion or lack thereof. They don't have to agree; they just have to be at peace with the differences where they find them. One of those big things that a married couple simply must agree on is whether or not mornings can go fuck themselves.
On family, Coll and Iris seem to agree: theirs aren't much to speak of.
On childrearing, they agree that she will not be bearing him any and if they want to adopt, eh, sure, why not.
On money, neither of them have any. Easy.
On religion, they share one almost by default but don't worry much for typical morality.
And mornings can go fuck themselves, so it seems that they will have a blissful eternity together. Or a blissful however-long-until-they-leave.
--
Iris rubs her legs against his. She yawns again, softly, snuggling with him far longer than she needs to or he needs to. No one comes to them with a wake-up call or a basket of freshly-baked pastries, because this isn't really a bed and breakfast. No one bothers them at all, because this isn't really an inn. The dead stop here. People from shifted timelines come together here. Coll and Iris come together here. He asks her if she wants to sleep some more. He'll shut up.
"I'll tell you if I want you to shut up," she says fondly, almost tenderly. Her eyes open slowly after a while. She looks up at him, messy hair and all. Smiles a little, gently. "I'm thinking... maybe we should get clean, and get dressed, and..."
leave. It was all silly drunken nonsense. They're not married. God, did he really think they were married? And won't she laugh, won't she laugh...
"...just see if they maybe have some jobs here," she says, a little tentatively, reaching up and touching his face, stroking his jaw with her left hand, her smeared diamond ring. "We could just live in a room like this, maybe this one. I don't need much space," since she's never had much at all. Her thumb moves over his chin, his lower lip. "I'm not much of a cook but I can clean and pour beer, if that's all that's needed."
Coll MacCullochColl is a bit hungry, really. His stomach is gnawing a bit and he's thinking idly that maybe they can go downstairs and see if there's maybe some breakfast to be found. Maybe some eggs and beans and ham and maybe even some black sausage. Maybe some oatmeal for his wife, his missus, his ol' lady. He'd suggest it, but he thinks maybe then she'd suggest leaving, and
when she starts to speak his eyes open. His brow furrows. He knows what's coming. Get clean. Get dressed. Go back to the world. His arm tightens around her, as though by holding her closer he might cheat the fates. He's already shaking his head because they are married, they have the smudged little rings to prove it, and even if she laughs he'll be ever so serious, ever so serious and ever so stubborn and ever so heartbroken at least about this, because
it is real. It does matter.
--
Except that's not what she says. She says: see if they maybe have some jobs here. And he's so startled. He turns his head, he raises it right off the pillow and stares. In daylight they can see each other's eyes again, and his are green and so are hers, and they'll never have strawberry-blond biological kids with green eyes, but damned if they don't have the genes for it. She is touching his face and he is grabbing her hand, pressing it quick and firm to his lips, kissing her knuckles.
"Do ye mean tha'?" he whispers. "Stayin' here, you an' I? Doon't tease me, Iris, 'tis a cruel thing t' do."
Iris Dahlstrom"I'm not teasing you, dumbass," she whispers, ever so fondly, as he's kissing her hand and looking at her like clouds are parting, suns are shining, rainbows are curving above them. Aching for it to be real, terrified it won't be.
Iris quietly, almost hesitantly, wraps her hand around his. "I suppose that means you'd liked to. Stay here. I think --" she pauses, and furrows her brow. "Something tells me they'd let us stay. If we wanted to."
Coll MacCulloch"O' course I wan' tae stay," Coll says, his hand firming their grip. "Iris, I ha' thought o' stayin' every five minutes since it firs' popped intae m' head las' nigh'.
"I wan' tae stay. I woul' love tae stay here, with you. I doon't ha' anywhere better tae be an'... I almos' think mayhaps I am meant tae be here. With you. Live in this room, help out under this roof. You can clean an' pour beer an' I can ... well, I can probably learn tae make an omelette an' stir a pot. Trim hedges an' paint walls an' ... whatever they migh' need. We can bicker an' argue an' fuck like jackrabbits tae make up, an' we can make this place jus' a litt'le more welcomin' tae whatever lost souls migh' wander this way, afore they move on tae wherever it is they may be goin'."
He winds down. He settles, turning onto his side, looking at her from inches away.
"I wan' tae stay," he repeats softly.
Iris DahlstromOh, he has plans. He's planned out their little life here the way some women plan their weddings. There's an eagerness to it that she finds totally weird and a little endearing. Iris laughs softly at him. He's thought of almost nothing else since he first thought of it: being a groundskeeper here. Her tending bar or cooking or cleaning or whatever. Living in the background of the strange moments that people find themselves in: an Ahroun picking up dinner for his mate and pups, a runaway Kinswoman on an endless road, vampires from ancient days or modern days not knowing the difference, shapeshifters with shadowed eyes and striped pelts, enchanting fae, even green-skinned orcs. Plenty of ghosts, having a moment of life before they fade again.
Iris wonders. She wonders, and wonders, if either of them have already died. She wonders if that's why she has such a strong feeling that they'd be allowed to stay. But she doesn't feel dead. She has no memory of anything that might kill her happening to her. All she remembers is driving for a long time, and coming here to get a bite to eat and see if there were any No Experience Necessary jobs being advertised somewhere.
She exhales softly. "Let's stay, then," she tells him, all in a rush like she's afraid it will vanish if she doesn't say it quick. "Let's stay."
Coll MacCullochAnd Coll breaks into a grin. He grins like he can't hold it back, which is appropriate: because he can't. It's one of those quick-flashing grins of his, charming, brilliant. Only it's more, it's through-and-through, it's happiness that goes right down to the bottom. Not that Coll has much in the way of mysterious depths or murky shadows. He's face value. He's honest and genuine and uncomplicated. It's not hard to see to that bottom: see the colorful, smooth-edged stones that make up the riverbed of his soul.
"All righ'," he whispers, and puts his hands on her face, and kisses her quick and soft on the mouth. That grin breaks forth again, almost before he can finish kissing her. He echoes, "Let's stay."
Iris DahlstromThere isn't much complicatedness to either of them, really. She doesn't play much close to the vest: she told him after what, one drink, that she was a retired whore. She cared about all those Fenrir she followed around; she cares about him now. It's not as quickly flashing and grinning and boisterous as him, but then again: she's older than he is. The surface can be still, yet still clear enough for you to see the bottom.
They kiss, quick and small and smiling. She smiles back at him. "Okay."
A moment, too quick, passes.
"We have to shower," she says, still smiling fondly at him, bangs in her eyes. "You smell like ass, sweetheart."
Coll MacCullochActually, if Iris asks Coll, he might recall -- erroneously or otherwise -- that she told him about her colorful past after a diet coke. With chipped ice. Which was the first drink he bought her, though no money actually changed hands. He bought them both quite a few drinks after that, and it all went on some mystical tab, which was perhaps no more or less than an accounting of whatever wealth he imagined he had.
Not a lot, that. But it's okay. They're both poor. Just like they're both green-eyed, just like they are neither of them morning people, just like their families aren't terribly pleasant, just like they don't mind if they can't have kids.
He blurts a laugh as she tells him just what she thinks of his manly stink. He kisses her again, more soundly this time, and then he pushes up on his hands and climbs over her and clambers bare-assed out of bed. He's quite fair, actually, with the sort of skin that easily flushes pink through the pale. On the way to the bathroom he kicks some of their clothes aside. Briefly, he wonders how things like that actually work here. Clothes, soap, food, basic supplies. Perhaps they're restocked when a lost-soul trucker rolls through. Perhaps traveling flea markets stop here.
It doesn't warrant too much thought, he decides. Stooping down to pick up her bra, he leaves it atop the dresser, then turns at the bathroom door.
"Well, are ye comin', Missus Dahlstrom?"
Iris DahlstromWhen he kisses her again, she fakes a gag, turning her head and sputtering. "Oh god," she pants, "your breath is even worse."
Hers isn't great either. But she's a girl and god help him if he complains about her breath or the way she smells when the way she smells is 99% his fault, spreading his man-stink all over her and coming inside of her like he did, of course it's his fault he'd better not complain.
But regardless: her breath stinks, too.
Coll hops up out of bed. Iris is a moment after him, flinging bedsheets aside, yawning and stretching and scratching an itch on her back, arms all twisted. She moves more slowly, but she does move, striding along after him. She thinks about the same thing he does, in a sense: but she thinks of her truck and her camper, her worldly possessions, if she still has them, if they still exist. She follows him, patting his butt fondly when he asks if she's coming. "I'm peeing first," she tells him, in no uncertain terms.
Coll MacCullochShe earns herself a sidelong grin with that pat on the ass. It spreads as she informs him of her bodily activities. "By all means," Coll says, magnanimous, turning on his heel at the bathroom door to wait just outside. They are, after all, newlyweds. That level of familiarity comes later.
She shuts the door or she doesn't. Either way, he faces the other way -- the window, outside which he can see blue sky, green grass. A sort of nondescript road, unpaved but hard-packed, with no signs or lightposts or -- anything, really, that could give him some hint of where they were, what era, what time, what universe. When she finishes and he hears the toilet flush, he knocks on the doorframe and peers cautiously in.
"Ye migh' want tae hop in the bath firs'," he warns. "I've got tae have a leak, too."
Iris DahlstromYes, that sort of familiarity will come later. At least with the two of them. At least after the first time she gets so drunk he has to hold her hair back and she cries about throwing up in front of him or something. At least until after she just can't be fucked to close the door while she pees. They are newlyweds, though. This time, they close the door, and Iris lets him know he can come in when she turns on the shower, which is a tiny closet, a box, barely fit for one person, much less two.
"Go ahead," she tells him, because she's stepping into the box-shower, into the hot water. "But if you flush I'm going to put arsenic in your coffee."
Coll MacCulloch"Go righ' ahead," Coll dismisses, blithe as fuck, "a Fiann cannae die from poison, o' the tribe would'hae drunk itself tae death long ago."
At least he waits until she's in the shower-box before he lifts the toilet seat(!) and takes a stand. Adds, "However, I will, on account o' you bein' my lawfully-wedded-wife an' myself bein' a sof'hearted lover, give ye warnin' afore I flush. Speakin' o' which, gorgeous, I am about tae flush."
FLUSH.
Iris DahlstromThe shower is running.
Her husband takes a leak. She doesn't care. She's seen plenty of literal pissing contests.
Then he flushes.
Iris screams. "YOU LIMEY SON OF A BITCH."
Coll MacCullochColl throws back his head and roars with laughter.
Iris DahlstromThe shower door opens. And there is his bride, naked. There's that scar on her left side where something cut, something nearly went through her heart but not quite, skimmed her ribcage instead. There's the tattoo on her ankle, a little cluster of forget-me-nots. She's soaking wet and now she's glaring at him from in there, naked and drenched and furious.
"I'm.
"Going.
"To kill you."
Coll MacCullochColl is still laughing. He dissolves into bellows of laughter all over again at the site of her, though he does -- give him credit for this much -- at least try to climb into the little shower-box and wrap his arms around her.
"Oh, I am sorry!" he exclaims, or perhaps merely claims. "I truly am, love. 'tis only tha' I dinnae wan' tae leave a pot o' piss steamin' outside. Here," he rubs her arms briskly, and then gathers her close, and then rubs her back unless of course she slaps him or shoves him or punches him in the jaw, "let's get ye warmed up."
Iris DahlstromHe's got his big dumb penis out. She thinks he's absurd and she's going to kill him she TOLD HIM NOT TO FLUSH and there he goes flushing and COULD IT NOT HAVE WAITED TIL WE HAD A NICE HOT SHOWER TOGETHER, JESUS CHRIST,
which is what she's yelling at him as she jumps on him, even as he's entering the shower and wrapping her up in his arms. Iris just smacks his chest and shoulders with her hands. At least she doesn't ball those hands into fists or curl them into scratchy claws, which she would, if she were really that mad.
"You're such an asshole," she mutters, as the water starts pouring over both of them, recalibrating after his stupid stupid stupid flushing. This is her answer to all his flagrant apologies, his talk of steaming pots of piss, while he tries to warm her up. She smacks him a bit anyway but lets him. Grumps at him. "I'm going to put arsenic in your food," she threatens again, but really,
where is she going to get a hold of arsenic in a place like this?
--
They shower. Actually: they stand there in the warm water for a long time, close together because they have no other choice. Turning with her back to his chest for a while, too, while she washes her face and he kisses her neck, touches her breasts, maybe grows hard against her perfectly plump little derriere, maybe
it grows from there into something else, something in the style of jackrabbits.
But even if not: they shower. Warm and clean, for the first time in at least two days for both of them, most likely. And she's smiling at him as he whispers sweet nothings in her ear about her breasts or bottom or her eyes or hair, tells her how beautiful she is, which, really,
is his best shot to not get poisoned.
--
Here is the truth of the matter: their rings wash off. The ink comes off her face when he tells her about it. Washing their hands smears and smudges and erases those rings, but at this point, they are both rather aware: this is real. Rings or no rings. They're married. And maybe that means something in itself: that they are married not just with their silly rings, but that they are married even when those rings fade away, are scrubbed away.
Maybe it means something. Maybe it's just the two of them, not caring. She kisses him under the water, once or twice or three times. Snuggles him in that tiny box of a shower. Bemoans, later,
"I'm so hungry. What kind of a husband lets his wife go hungry like this? We're getting a divorce,"
which is, at very least, a gentler argument than I'M GOING TO FUCKING KILL YOU.
Coll MacCullochColl humbly weathers the tiny storm of her smacking hands, laughing still, turning his head away when an errant hand nearly grazes his nose. He keeps rubbing her arms, her back. He keeps pulling her closer, and closer, and nearer,
until she's done smacking him, until she's muttering about what an asshole he is and how much rat poison she was going to put in his food,
and he's leaning across the gap and kissing her.
--
They shower:
they stand there for a long time, and they share the tiny space, and they reach around each other and have to be careful not to elbow each other in the face as they wash. Perhaps later, Coll thinks, they'll have a look at the other rooms. It's not that he wants something grandiose or luxurious. He wants his missus to have the best, of course, but more than that he wants her to have what makes her happy. He has a suspicion -- as briefly as he's known her -- that she doesn't want the biggest, the grandest, the most luxurious, the richest.
She said it herself. She doesn't have a lot of stuff. She just needs a little room to tuck things away. Some work to keep her busy. Maybe the gossip and conversation of strangers from time to time. Maybe even him, Coll, big dumb lad that he is, to keep her warm at night.
So. Maybe they'll have a look around. Maybe they'll switch rooms or maybe they won't. It'd be nice to maybe have a bathtub, but then: it wouldn't be a dealbreaker if they didn't. Very little would break their tender little deal here, the almost laughably, almost heartbreakingly classical vows they gave each other in the darkness, the rings they drew on each other's fingers to mark the occasion, and the rings that they washed away inadvertently in the morning without ever washing away what they'd promised each other in the night.
--
And they shower:
warm and clean now, scrubbed smooth after two or more days without. She rests with her back to his chest. He kisses her neck. He touches her breasts. Maybe there's something in the style of jackrabbits. Maybe her back to the tile, his hands on her ass; her hands holding him by the shoulders and by his wet hair. Maybe his mouth at her neck, moaning. Maybe her mouth eating at his. Maybe all these things,
or maybe none of them. Maybe they just stand together and drowse together, lazy, fond, infatuated; those seeds of love growing from different directions. Real love takes time. Perhaps he's too young to know that, and perhaps she's too wry and sardonic, but they have time now to learn it. They're in no hurry.
--
He laughs as she threatens divorce. He lifts his head from where he's bowed his lips to her shoulder. He kisses her cheek, and then he unwinds his arms, and there's a bit of shuffling around to turn in that tiny space. He cranks the water off. Something to be said for this cozy, aging inn: the water pressure is fantastic. They hear the pipes thud in the walls. He thinks to himself maybe one day he'll have to fix a leak somewhere in the walls; absurdly, the thought makes him happy.
"Let's get dressed an' go doownstairs," he says, pushing the door of the box-shower open. "Talk tae th' management about stayin' here. I'm sure they'll let me fix ye some eggs. Or tha' disgustin' oatmeal ye were threatenin' tae eat las' nigh'."
Iris DahlstromAnd so what if they fuck in that tiny box of a shower and nearly fall against the door and almost tumble out of it onto the hard floor? They're newlyweds and she's laughing, soaking wet and slippery from half-rinsed soap and she can't stop giggling. They're newlyweds, so what if she puts her hands on the tile and he stands behind her and so what if water is pouring all over them while they're doing it again. Why not?
He thinks about other rooms; Iris is not opposed to the idea. Ultimately, she doesn't have very discerning standards. This is as good as any other, this is fine, more wouldn't suck, less wouldn't suck either. A place to lay her head, work for her hands, warmth for the night. She wouldn't mind staying here because of the people passing through, strange as they might be, and what their lives might be like. She thinks she could serve ale to an orc and blood to a vampire; she has been a waystation in the storm for most of her life. She might be done with one way of being that, but
here is another.
--
The towels are soft but a little old, a little thin, oft-washed. They are a dusky pink color. Maybe they'll replace them, if they scrape together some money. Maybe Iris has some towels in her camper. Maybe they'll just use those dusty-rose colored towels until they get holes in them, wear them out until they're just rags for dusting, rags Iris throws at Coll if he doesn't help her keep their little abode clean, rags he'll use when they work on her truck.
For now they are towels, soft, no holes yet, no fringed edges from use. They wrap around hair and bodies and scuff off water from their newly cleaned skins, and Iris just finger-combs her hair and starts braiding it wet, a surprisingly rapid rope of hair that she creates by touch alone while her towel hangs, tucked around her breasts. He says he wants to cook her some eggs. She smirks as he talks about disgusting oatmeal.
"Oatmeal is healthy," she insists, which doesn't mean that eggs aren't. "Lots of fiber, I think."
She finds a hair tie somewhere, or a bit of string, and ties off her braid, looking quite Fenrir at the moment, glancing in a mirror. "You can make me some eggs, though. And toast." She's fussing a bit at her hair, frowning in the mirror. "Definitely coffee. Maybe while you're cooking I'll talk to them about us staying on."
Coll MacCullochA waystation in the storm.
It's exactly what Iris was. Before. And now too -- even last night, following her up the stairs -- Coll felt it. Intuited it. It is in her nature; something warm and welcoming, something tender beneath the wryness of her smile, the bite of her wit. It's what she's good at and, perhaps, what she enjoys. She's done with one way of being that, but here is another, and
it's one that he would not mind sharing with her. He, Fianna-hearted, Stag-blooded, wouldn't mind at all.
--
He has a towel around his waist. She has one around her breasts. He follows her out, and she goes to stand in front of the mirror. He stands over her shoulder, quite a bit taller now that they're both in bare feet, wrapping his arms around her middle and kissing her temple until he has to let go because she is braiding her hair.
He pulls up a chair, then. Squeezes himself between her and the mirror, seated so he's out of her way. Well. Sort of out of her way. He looks up at her, watching fascinated as her fingers rapidly and practicedly turn loose hair into a braid. They talk about breakfast. He tugs playfully, distractedly at her towel; puts his hands on her hips through the thinning terrycloth; leans forward to kiss her between her breasts.
"Ye're goin' tae ha' tae tell me about those scars someday," he says, smiling, "especially if there's a glorious tale behind 'em. Though, if the tale's somethin' harrowin' ye'd rather forget, we won't speak o' it."
Eggs, then. Toast and coffee. He has wound his arms around her then: lower back, upper thighs. He pulls her to stand between his thighs, her belly to his chest, the edge of his towel against her knees.
"Eggs an' toast." He nips at her towel. Tugs the tucked edge a little with his teeth. "Will do. Though," oh, he's found a bit of skin: he kisses that bit of skin and noses the edges of her towel aside, hunting for more, "I ha' tae admit, if ye donnae drag me out o' this room soon I migh' jus' forget why we're s'pposed tae go doownstairs."
Iris DahlstromAs soon as they're out of the shower, he's hugging and nuzzling at her, pawing at her, and Iris just keeps braiding her hair, ignoring him, tolerating his snuggling at first. He smooches her head as she braids; she focuses on the mirror while he tugs at her towel, touches her hips, pulls her closer, kisses that little dip between her breasts.
Iris is rather patient. She's quite relaxed as he touches on her, like he's unable to stop himself. Asks about her scars and she just smirks a little, wryly, looking down at him. "I'm no skald," she says. "But one of these nights I'll do my best." And leans over, hands behind her head mid-braid, to kiss the side of his forehead. He doesn't upset her.
She's finishing that braid while he's trying to get her towel off. Playfully. If he wanted it off he wouldn't pretend to struggle; it would just slide right off at the first tug. And frankly, that is what happens when he really starts biting and nuzzling at the fold that keeps it closed. The thin fabric is unwinding, unraveling, falling away as he's cautioning her -- oh, dear -- that if she doesn't drag him downstairs they're gonna fuck again.
Only that's not what he says. He'll forget. Iris gives him a wry look. "You'll forget until I start trying to eat your hand," she says, and even though her towel has done gone falled right to the floor, leaving her bare-ass naked in front of the mirror, she doesn't slide onto his lap and proceed to postpone breakfast a bit longer. She doesn't hop on for another round. She does, however, finish her braid and then take her hands down and reach over to him, putting her hands on his face and bending to kiss his mouth.
"After breakfast," she says quietly, promising.
Coll MacCullochAh yes. The towel falls away. It comes away, as one imagines it must, because he is nuzzling it and nipping at it and biting it and dragging it, and when the little tuck-knot comes undone Coll ends up with the towel in his teeth, hanging down his chin and chest. He grins up at her. She puts her hands on his face. He lets that towel drop to the floor, lifts his head to receive her.
Coll smiles into that kiss. He stands into that kiss, rising to his feet. His body brushes hers. Then it presses flush to hers, skin to bare skin, his towel the only flimsy barrier. His hands are at her waist, pulling her closer. It seems nearly inevitable that he'll kiss her and kiss her and kiss her and lose his towel and lift her up and park her on his dick for another go-around.
But say this for Coll, accommodating lad that he is: he may be a bit boorish, he may flush the toilet just to make her shriek, he may have snored most the night and flopped his long limbs all about the bed, but he does, against all odds, know how to respect a lady. He knows how to respect a no. He kisses her, and kisses her, and kisses her,
but then he lets her go, smiling down at her now, crooked and sort of smug, like he's just so proud of himself for tugging that towel away, for getting her to acquiesce to more entertainment after breakfast, for landing such a lovely bride in the first place.
"All righ'," he agrees. "I hope ye knoow I'll be holdin' ye tae your promises."
Iris DahlstromThat thin fabric barrier between their bodies doesn't last through the kissing. Iris does like kissing him, and kissing him, and so she reaches and gives one decisive tug and his towel drops in a damp heap to the floor as well. She steps forward while he's kissing her, letting him feel her heat, her sex, her breasts, her warm soft delightful body up against his, which is still not a yes, which he learns if his hands start wandering. He has quite a nice body, she thinks. She likes feeling it against her own.
But they kiss, and kiss, and kiss, and she smiles as she draws back, his hands on her waist and her hands on his waist and their bodies naked and together like they were all night. She thinks maybe they should be nudists at home, for the most part. At least for the first... however long they have. Weeks, days, what-have-you. Lovely.
"You'll be holding me to something else, I think," she quips, and steps away, turning from him, strolling back into the bedroom to find some of her clothes to put on. She doesn't bother with panties under her little dress; she does put on her bra, looks for her sweater, her sandals.
Coll MacCullochOh he smirks at that. He smirks and he has the good sense not to spoil a good quip by making it too obvious. She starts collecting her clothes, and thus so does he: picking jeans up off the ground and shaking them out, stepping into them, and --
-- well, that's it, actually. Apparently he does not intend to put anything else on.
Iris DahlstromThey are at the door before she notices. She is not wearing anything beneath her rather thin dress, her hair is braided, she's foregone the (fake) pearls for now, she has stepped into sandals. And he is barefoot and shirtless and boxer-less and Iris turns around and sees him like that.
She looks him up and down, a tiny furrow of consternation between her brows.
She looks up at him with an inhale, exasperated, about to tell him to go get dressed the rest of the way right this second or they'll never hire you I'll just tell them not to hire you. She exhales instead, shakes her head, and reaches up, putting her hand on the back of his neck.
Pulls him down. "Okay," she mutters, as though she's annoyed, kissing him again, kicking the half-open door behind her so it closes again.
Coll MacCullochIf this were a sitcom Coll would flail comically and perhaps yelp whoa--! right before getting mauled. This not being a sitcom, and Coll having slightly more sense than a rock, he sees the look in her eyes. He has time for a wide, wild, reckless grin, and then his grin is lost in that kiss, and then the door bangs shut and
a moment later her back hits the door and
a moment after that his pants whumpf down to his ankles and her skirt rucks up to her hips and they. are. at it again. His hands wrapped under her thighs, her ankles locked at the small of his back. He quite literally bangs her: bangs her against the door, bangs the door against the frame, they make quite the ruckus, and then they make even more of a ruckus because he starts moaning, he starts groaning, he starts basically yelling against her mouth, these breathless, raw, laughing exultations as they fuck for like the millionth time in the space of about twelve hours.
It's a quick, rough-around-the-edges, imprecise, untutored fuck. It ends the same way it begins, fast and hard and spontaneous and laughing -- oh, he's laughing, panting and laughing and making these shredded sounds when she rides him through the last of his orgasm. He's leaning against her, and leaning her against the wall, and when they're done he drops a kiss on her soft warm sweaty shoulder,
holds her there for a while, close to him, held by him, wrapped all around him.
--
"Mmph," a little later. Stirring, pulling back a little to kiss her again: softer now, savoringly. "Think we oughtae shower again? O' is tha' jus' goin' tae cause th' cycle tae repeat, do ye think?"
Iris DahlstromIt was the tugging and nuzzling and smooching and pawing that did it. The way he tried to pull her onto his lap and the way he rose into her kisses like that, stood up to his full height and put his hands on her waist when she was naked. It was the way she founds herself making him naked, too, feeling him starting to harden against her body while his mouth moved on hers. The fact that he decided not to put a shirt on as they headed out to go get themselves some jobs really had nothing to do with it at all.
Just so that's clear. Though it won't be, to him; maybe he'll start walking around like that hoping for repeat performances. And what a tragedy that would be.
He hikes her skirt up and lifts her onto his body, pinning her to the door while he wrestles his pants down. Iris is telling him to be quick, is telling him hurry, like he's not, then she's whimpering and yelping and giving these sharp gaspy little cries while their bodies slap together, her fresh new husband... well, yes. Banging her. She holds onto him, and it's quick and it's riotous and she comes with these deep grinds, whining in her throat and scratching a little at the back of his neck where her hand is still holding him. It's not on purpose. She just digs her nails in, groaning while he's pumping her full of cum again, while she's squirming between his body and the door.
By the end of it she feels rather dizzy. She attributes this to hunger and blames him entirely, whooping softly on her exhale as she lowers her head to his temple. "You bastard," she mutters tenderly, fondly, stroking softly where she dug her nails in as though to soothe him. She snuggles him, hugs him while he holds her to the door.
He asks if they should shower again and she scoffs. "You're gonna end up dehydrated and starved," she informs him, "or I will." Iris pats his shoulder. "Let me down and get me a washcloth, sweetheart."
Coll MacCullochLet's just note: Coll does not mind getting scratched in the heat of the moment. Coll, in fact, is rather egged on by this -- panting a gasp when it happens, kissing her so starvedly, fucking her all the more enthusiastically until
until
until they both come, fast and hard and ridiculously good, oh so good, she's not the only one lightheaded in the aftermath; why does she think he's leaning on her like that.
He laughs again, though, when she calls him a bastard. Tender and fond like that, like it's an endearment. She predicts dehydration and starvation! He grins, loosely and crookedly. She pats him on the shoulder: for a job well done, perhaps. A fuck well fucked? He catches his breath as he slides out of her, lifts her, lowers her, sets her down.
"A washcloth," he echoes. "I am positively scand'lized, Missus Dahlstrom."
But he does run and fetch. So there's that: at least she knows he'll be good for running and fetching things in the days-weeks-months-years-however-long-they-have to come. Perhaps with some mock grumbling, perhaps with some actual grousing, but: he'll do it, just as he does it now, pulling his pants up, going to the bathroom, wetting one of those worn-but-clean little washcloths, running it under warm water. Bringing it to her and handing it to her, unembarrassed, knowing what she'll use it for but really: it's just biology. It's just the inevitable aftermath of this sort of pastime.
While she cleans up, he does too: takes a cue from her and gets a washcloth of his own. Scrubs it and wrings it out afterward, tossing it on the bar to dry unless she demands that he put it in the laundry hamper, christ. Then they're finally ready to leave their room. He steps into his shoes, and
before they walk out he holds his hand out for hers.
No comments:
Post a Comment