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( post-wedding. )

Most nights, if there's help needed—or, honestly, even if there's not—it's Thranduil who provides it to his wife, having shared a bed with her now long enough to be far better acquainted than he once was with the intricacies of Orlesian corsetry, the ways that her many gowns come apart with a clever tug here, or there. It's a familiar ritual, and one of which Gwenaëlle is fond, but the night of their wedding he's not given the opportunity; celebrations continue late into the night, but though she stays past the threshold of only good manners she slips early from the courtyard, into the house proper and to the rooms set aside for their use.

Maids divest her of cloak, of gown, of jewels. Each part of her bridal ensemble is taken with care, to be preserved—she thinks Anne would like it if another daughter, one day, wore those same jewels—and there is one last surprise, for all his inquiries as to a costume change had been, at the time, met with nothing but repressive no's.

The filmy thing wrapped around her at the end of the day is more suggestion than garment, held together with strings of pearls and knotted silk roses. It presents more than it covers, purely decorative and painstakingly embroidered to match the veil that she'd worn at the beginning of the day, loose and lightweight over a scant set of matched smalls that Alexandrie might be proud to call more than fine enough for the exacting standards of the seamstresses at Liaisons Dangereuse. Some of the pieces that make up its whole will be, no doubt, recognisable to her husband; embroidered under his nose, oh, for the veil, she had said, because now and then she can keep a secret if she puts her mind to it.

She intends—well, some seductive thing, some clever witticism or particularly alluring pose, but perhaps she misjudges her timing or perhaps he's delayed by well-wishers, an argument, something. Regardless, by the time Thranduil joins her, she's rolled onto her belly, elbows in pillows, reading a book with her ankles crossed in the air behind her, one shoulder dropped.

It is rather more the woman he's married than anything more deliberate would have been.

He had never thought he was going to die in the field at Ghislain. Indeed, he was more occupied with the thoughts of her death, before necessity had made him stow them away so that he might focus. Still, he did have an image of her that came to mind most often when the errant thought of the Fade reclaiming the essence of what he was, and it was her as he saw her in the evenings: sitting in their bed, reading, relaxed, undone.

She was beautiful then, in the pretty Orlesian nightgowns or a shirt she’d stolen like the magpie she was, but he was one to appreciate extra effort, special occasions, visual appeal—

“Is it a good book?” he says, in Orlesian, closing the door and locking it, and coming to her side of the bed, where he moves to take it once she’s marked her place. “On your back. Let me appreciate your hard work, wife.”

Love in every stitch, and all that.

Her laugh is warm and low and shifting as she shifts, rolling playful obedient onto her back to better display the results of many afternoons intent handiwork—lifting her hands above her head to elegantly elongate, book duly surrendered. The rest of their day has been anything but theirs, and this, at last, is the reason it's all worth it. Or: he is, and she likes nothing so much as having him near her.

“Do you like it?”

A beat.

“My veil.”

(Of course she couldn't help herself. She's sure he's already figured it out. Nevertheless—)

He sets her book gently on the table next to the bed, and lays his hand over her wrists where they stretch near the headboard. She likes it when he forgets his strength, but maybe remembering it and using it is similarly enjoyable, as he shifts his weight, and presses them down into the bedding as he leans over her.

"Forgive me," he says, in a tone that no one has ever used for a genuine apology, ever. "I believe my Orlesian has failed me, for I thought the veil was meant to cover the face."

He runs a hand down along the front of her corset, uncalloused fingers not catching at the silk or embroidery but instead savoring the details, the effort of all her days and evenings, presumably also the time spent with the Fontaine girl.

Briefly, the heat fades, approximately when his fingertips are but a hair's breath away from the excuse passing for smalls, which she has now chosen to wear. Concern is sketched over his face, and he asks, "You are well? It is over now, but it was not too much?"

The way she exhales when his fingers stop is—

her hands fists above his grip, and her mouth quirked to the side. He has a captive audience, and she very nearly softens at what he chooses to do with it; forestalling what would otherwise have been an inevitable complaint. Tease, she thinks, not without affection. Her husband knows her well: it is perhaps the best way of assuring himself of something like an honest answer to that question, if only because dissembling might result in his not continuing at all.

She tilts her head back, putting her teeth in her lip, weighing both her words and how easily she thinks she could free herself if she wanted to. (She doesn't want to; he'd let go in a moment if he thought she did. But she likes the way it feels.) Finally,

“I'm not sorry it's done,” which slightly resembles something diplomatic. “And I'm not sorry we've made everyone recognise our marriage.”

Time will tell if it was worth it—or maybe it won't, maybe it'll just be one of a hundred small things that everything would have been worse without. Either way, it wasn't a disaster today, and he's here with her, and she thinks that increasingly it seems there is absolutely nothing that they can't do if they only put their minds to it.

So, enough. It's enough.

And then, warm in a way with promise, “I'm better now you've come to bed.”

“I enjoy,” he says, and his hand slides under the band to cup her, warm because he has the sense not to come to her bed with cold hands, middle pressing, the heel of his hand resting on the hard shelf of her pelvis. “—making others eat their words.”

He’s not much for humble pie, but he loves stuffing it down others’ throats.

“I will keep you here for a while, I think,” he considers, easing a knee onto the bed to better lean over her, better loom and play the rake as his fingers continue to stroke. It is, technically, his wedding night. The ‘again’ part of that needn’t be remarked upon. They benefit from knowing one another now where they did not before—not this way—and now he can take his precise knowledge of exactly what she can and cannot stand before getting snippy and put it to good use.

The Gallows are perfectly fine (he’s settled in to them) but this is private, and besides, it’s been a fair few weeks.

Impulse control and the nigh on constant desire to provoke him being what they are, it should come as little surprise that she doesn't even pause to entertain the thought of trying not to say, immediately, “Are you sure your hip can take it?” —but she wouldn't have asked if she actually thought the answer might be no, to judge by the tilt of her smile, and the way she illustrates her very serious concern for his well-being by hitching her knee up over it, shifting her weight beneath him like she's trying to test a saddle.

(She prefers him above her, on the whole, but what she likes about riding Thranduil is how much he likes it.)

She missed this, she thinks, though it's hardly as though they've been apart. Scarcely even inches, as if they can fill up the cool absence of Iorveth with their own warmth. Still, recovering from Ghislain, physically and otherwise—neither of them have come to bed with intent in too long, and now they are wedded in the eyes of the Chantry (or at least what parts of it won't continue to decry the Inquisition in general and rifters in particular) and it feels like a welcome opportunity to reassert themselves privately, having done it publicly. Which is an intolerably sentimental thought that she'd derail with something appropriately absurd if she had her hands free,

it's always only been a matter of time before she slapped him on the backside just to see what his face does,

but instead she is warm and near and held so firmly she entertains the appealing notion it may bruise and trapped with the thought that she loves him, very much.

There have been benefits, to playing invalid—more, if he was willing to stretch it out, but those are exactly the sort of games he won’t play with her. He does come down from playing enough to actually consider her words, consider how dancing might have worsened it, and rests a hand on her hip intently.

“Assuming you aren’t overcome with the need to post particularly hard, I think all will be well.” He rubs along the bone of her hip, through the silk, savoring it and her, her here, them here, after so long. "But it would make for a good story, if you had the mind to rebreak it."

And then his hand rests at the small of her back, where the ties from the corset drop, toying with the aglets between his fingers.

“Would you like help with your lacing, or did you have something in mind?” She may have plans. She usually has plans, with something this intricate laid out.

“Well, I was thinking that...because this is a special occasion,” her smile a little lopsided, a little rueful, “and you have done a lot. You've done so much, and I know I've been...even for me, difficult.”

It's a high bar, but she's pushed it lately. She knows. (And will again—)

Above her head, in his grip, her fingers flex and she tilts her head, just a little. Enjoys this moment, while it lasts.

“I've decided to be very gracious and accommodating.” Has she. “And you are welcome to take over whenever you'd like,” generous, from her position best described in the present moment at 'at his mercy' (a comfortable place to be, when she is so familiar with the nature thereof), “you know I never object to a firm hand. But...”

A little wrinkle of her nose, like she can't imagine her own sentimentality, even when expressed very sexually,

“Undress. And let me be sweet to you.”

“Not terribly difficult,” is his immediate soothing, like saying things sweetly will undo the ties of her corset all the sooner. He has certainly untied tighter knots, but few so personal and fewer still so sweet, like coaxing honey from the comb.

And hardly any so rewarding, because here she is, his triumph laid out in the courtyard—the spoils of the Game, the promise of more to come. Finally, the tide turning here, if nowhere else.

His expression shifts. The hunger abates for a moment. He dips his head to kiss her cheek; his hold loosens as he rolls off her and backs up off the bed. Thranduil does not strip quickly, nor without care, but if there is an art to it, it comes from natural grace and not any intent to arouse. The outfit ends mostly over the back of a chair (doubtless, to be tended to eventually by some valet not-Guilfoyle), and then he is nude, proud, and back on the bed, inching to where she was, seeking the warm spot left on the mattress in her wake.

Maker, but he is improbably good-looking.

It's not that she isn't perfectly (smugly) aware of that—or prone to taking a certain satisfaction in it, that she exclusively takes this particular pleasure of him, but...well. To him it might yet be much as long summer day, but to her (substantially) younger years they are wearing out the newness of their relationship. They've bickered from the very start; he had been handsome, first, but then he had been an elf, and exasperating, a constant source of consternation. He's fussy and particular and demanding and so arrogant it would take her breath away if it were physically possible for her to not have something to shout at him—

she does love him, somewhat despite herself, for his infuriating personality. She doesn't forget he's also beautiful, but it takes her off-guard from time to time—like now, sitting up on her knees and watching him undress with uncharacteristic patience, tilting her head like an artist considering blank canvas when he lays down.

“Tell me what you'd like,” she says, kneeling beside him, one hand sliding lazily up the outside of his thigh, almost more proprietary than provocative. “I'm not saying you'll get it,” in a drawl, “but you should tell me.”

Her thumb brushes his hipbone and her smile is not to be trusted.

He loves her, his mayfly lady, he thinks he might despair of it, if he allows himself to ruminate on it often, beyond how he thinks himself unlikely to have the full span of years—Thedas will kill him, one day, but could he abide a Thedas without her in it for much more than a few centuries?

No, he thinks, no, and then—savor this, drink in every detail, preserve it in the amber of elven memory. He can glut himself on her; there will simply not be enough of her for him to feel full, and she will shine from the attention.

They found one another. All it took was a Rift and Corypheus’ weak hand.

“I want,” he says, “you astride, and in my robe.”

The one he had been wearing, subdued, considering the occasion, and shorter than his usual fare, but enough to fall to her thighs. Maybe also some of her jewels? Yes. That is a good idea. It is a simple idea, but the politics are ornament enough. And 'want' is not 'like', but he tries.

One of the cleverest parts of the design that she and Alexandrie had dreamed up together, heads bent over their sewing, is that there is nothing in Thranduil's request that requires she divest herself of all of it. The looping, pearl-dusted roses at her hips look like pure decoration but the way she touches one with her thumb, contemplative, suggests something else as she rises up on her knees and slides her hand from his hip to the middle of his abdomen, skirting where she imagines he would like her attention.

“It's a very nice robe,” she allows, sliding backwards off the bed to her feet so she can pick it up, holding it against herself. Casual, like it's nothing to her that he's lying naked less than feet away. Half-turning, so she can see herself in the mirror and study the way the fabric falls when she drapes it over her shoulders.

She stands at the end of the bed, pulling the looped roses at her hips loose and letting the fabric of her smalls drop to the floor, stepping ever so delicately out of them, smoothing her hand flat against her own stomach as she considers her reflection, then her husband. Removing the remaining pins in her hair one by one—slowly, taking care to set them down on the vanity behind her—she unwinds two long ribbons from within her braids and she says, “Hold onto the headboard for me. Make yourself comfortable.”

This game is running the line between punishment and a show, and he aches at the contrast. How long had she played at touch-me-not—hardly in a coy way, never the ingénue when it had come to the space between them—but in the hesitating courtship, until he had made mountains of being allowed to touch her hair, kiss her, and she the same for him. And then there are their absences, where she withdrew to her grandfather’s house (fewer and fewer now) and he fretted at the absence of her, distracted by her absence and confused as if she had taken his right hand with her presence.

This is worse, in that she is there—and his body won’t let him forget it, perhaps she would forgive the slip if he disobeyed, if he came to her and bit at her neck, and held her as tight as he rarely allows himself to do—but he cannot touch her.

His hands find the headboard—or rather, a carved element of it—and fasten, fingers overlapped. He wants to pull the satin ribbons from her hair, his teeth itch at the carelessly discarded pins.

He says, “You will be the death of me.”

In profile, she lets her hair spill down and shakes it out, tosses it over her shoulder, pulls the ribbons free entirely and pulls them taut, testing. Nothing he can't easily free himself from if he sets himself to it, nothing she wouldn't release him from if he called halt—more than sufficient for what she has in mind, and smooth, and soft, and not like to scrape unpleasantly against his skin. A bruise she wouldn't mind leaving, but a burn would never do.

“Probably,” she agrees, light-hearted, resting a knee on the end of the bed and appreciating, for a moment, the image that he makes.

If she gets little from his submission, his self-evident want for her is always—gratifying. Gwenaëlle feels powerful with him, even beneath him; she never shies from a reminder that he, too, needs her. A comfort, when it terrifies her how much she relies on him, how quickly she couldn't bear to be without him. She might be a little mad for him, but it's mutual, so it's all right.

The lopsided tilt of her smile is intimate, private, a thing for him only. A soft look she never directs to anyone else, any more—

rather at counterpoint with the way she clambers up his chest, and sets to the business of binding his wrists to their bed with her hair-ribbons. She has been planning this; she has had this in mind, at the absolute least, all day. Her weight is a pleasant warmth not conveniently near either of the places he might want her, too far from his mouth and his prick both, close enough to be maddening.

She adds, “You'll thank me for it,” because she is a loving wife.

“I will welcome it,” he vows, all that might be implied in such a statement filed awake in the wake of his increasing awareness of her body and his irritation drawing him like a taut bowstring. She binds him with satin ribbons better than others might with cold iron chains, and he goes to them willingly, the only strain—and it is light—to make sure his blood will not pool in his wrists and palms, when it is so urgently needed elsewhere.

Also, he is disinclined to break their bed.

“Beloved,” he says, caresses the word, vowels stretched Sindarin-long. “Come closer. Let me please you. I cannot manage it when you are so far away.”

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