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Elowyn has always thought March was pretty.
He would hate her for saying it, would scowl despite the blush spreading across his cheeks and tell her to call him something else. But he is. March is pretty when he stands at the anvil with his brow furrowed in concentration, skin sheen-damp, the muscles in his forearms shifting as he turns stubborn metal into something better and stronger than it was before. Pretty when a strand of that hair falls into his eyes and he impatiently shoves it back with the back of one wrist, leaving a faint smear of soot across his forehead without noticing. Pretty in those rare, unguarded moments when affection catches him off guard—when she says something soft and his ears go pink and he looks away as if the nearest wall has suddenly become fascinated. Prettiest of all, she used to believe, on the rare and special occasions when he laughs fully, the sound bright and startled and almost boyish, like it has escaped before he could stop it.
But none of that compares to this.
March is prettiest like this.
Flushed from the sharp line of his collarbones all the way up his throat and across his cheekbones, the colour high and fever-bright against skin that still carries the faint metallic scent of the forge. His hair is a complete wreck against the pillow, strands sticking to his damp temples and the side of his neck where sweat has gathered. His mouth is open around soft, broken sounds he keeps trying desperately to muffle into the cotton, keenly aware of Olric sleeping on the other side of the smithy. His lashes are already wet. Fine tremors run continuously through his thighs and up into the hard plane of his stomach where she sits astride him. His cock is buried deep inside her, thick and hot and twitching with every uneven breath he takes, and she hasn't moved for several long minutes—simply holding him there, keeping him deep and still within the tight heat of her body while she looks down at the wreck she has made of him and feels something tender and fierce twist low in her chest.
March scowls up at her under the quiet weight of her scrutiny, the expression undercut entirely by the flush still burning across his face and the way his cock gives another helpless little throb inside her.
"What?" he rasps, voice already rough. "What the fuck are you staring at?"
Elowyn's mouth curves. She strokes her palms slowly up his chest, feeling the rapid hammer of his heart.
"I was thinking," she answers softly, "that you're pretty."
The scowl deepens at once. So does the colour in his cheeks, spreading all the way to the tips of his ears. He turns his face slightly into the pillow as if he can hide from the words.
"Yeah, well, stop thinking and start fucking moving." He mutters, the order frayed at the edges.
His hands leave the sheets and settle on her hips, fingers digging in with impatient strength as he tries to urge her motion. Elowyn only tuts, quiet and unimpressed, and catches both of his wrists. She pins them back against the pillow on either side of his head with firm, unhurried pressure, leaning just enough of her weight forward to keep them from there.
March hisses at the challenge, eyes flashing. So pretty, she thinks. His hiss fractures almost immediately into a groan when she clenches around him—tight, rhythmic, devastating. The noise is a fraction too loud for the thin walls and he bites it off again into the pillow, shoulders tensing, but she still feels the way his cock twitches and swells even further inside her in answer.
"Fucking move," he grits out against the cotton, teeth bared. "Elowyn—"
She hums thoughtfully, as if considering the request, and rolls her hips in the smallest possible circle, just enough to make him feel it.
"Be a good boy for me," she murmurs.
March snarls, low and instinctive, the refusal rising hot and immediate even as his body betrays him completely. She feels the sharp, involuntary throb of his cock at the words, the way he kicks inside her, the fresh bead of wetness that eases the way for another helpless twitch. His wrists flex hard against her hold.
“Don’t,” he rasps, the word scraped raw. “Don’t fucking start with that.”
Elowyn’s smile only softens. She keeps his hands pinned and rolls her hips in another tiny, maddening circle, just enough to drag a fresh shiver out of him.
“With what?” she asks, all innocence. “Asking you to be good for me?”
“Yes.” His jaw is clenched so tight the muscle jumps. “I’m not— I’m not doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Saying it.” The admission seems to cost him. Colour burns higher across his cheekbones. “I’m not begging. You can sit there all night if you want. I won’t.”
She hums, thoughtful, and clenches around him on purpose. March’s breath punches out in a sharp, bitten-off sound. His hips jerk once before he forces them still again, every line of him drawn tight with the effort of not giving her the satisfaction. March has never been good at accepting a pace set by someone else. Give him a task, a challenge, a problem to solve and he will meet it head-on, stubborn and determined until he has bent the world into something he can understand.
Give him this, apparently, and he tries to do exactly the same.
“You never do know when to yield, do you?” she murmurs, leaning down until her mouth brushes the hot shell of his ear. “Not at the forge. Not with a difficult commission. Not when anyone tells you something can’t be done. You dig in harder. I’ve watched you.” Her lips graze his skin as she speaks. “A challenge just makes you more stubborn.”
“Then you already know how this ends,” he manages, voice fraying. His wrists twist under her hands, not quite testing her strength, more an instinctive protest. “I’m not fucking begging. You can sit there until the sun comes up and I still won’t.”
Elowyn laughs, quiet and warm, the sound vibrating through both of them where they are joined. She lifts her head just enough to meet his eyes. They are dark and furious and already shining with the tears he is fighting not to let fall.
“Here’s how this is going to work,” she tells him, soft enough that it won't carry through the wall. “If you behave, if you keep your hands right there where I put them, I’ll move. I’ll do whatever I want with you.” Her thumb strokes once over the inside of his wrist, a gentle counterpoint to the firmness of her grip. “But you only get to come if you ask for it properly. Say please. That’s all. One little word, and I’ll let you.”
March’s chest heaves. Inside her he is so hard it must ache. For a long moment he only stares up at her, breathing raggedly, every stubborn line of him drawn tight in defiance.
Then he bares his teeth in something that is almost a smile, sharp and reckless and so very him.
“That won’t fucking happen.”
Elowyn’s expression softens into pure, delighted warmth. She leans down and brushes the lightest kiss against the corner of his scowling mouth.
“We’ll see,” she murmurs.
And then, at last, she begins to move. Her hands leave his wrists, sliding away in a slow caress down the insides of his arms as if reluctant to give up the contact. She doesn't bind him with anything more than trust and the weight of her expectation; she simply rises a little higher on her knees and begins to move. The grind she sets is glacial, almost cruel in its patience—long, rolling undulations of her hips that seat him to the hilt on every downward slide and drag her clit along the hard base of his cock on every languid upwards roll. Each deep press wrings a soft sound from her throat, and she lets them fall freely, quiet enough to carry through the walls but honest enough that March can hear exactly what he is doing to her.
Her hands wander while she rides him. One palms the hot, sweat-slick plane of his chest, thumb brushing back and forth across a peaked nipple until it draws tight beneath her touch; the other drifts down her own body, tracing the soft curve of her breast, the dip of her waist, the place where their bodies join so she can feel the stretch of herself around him.
"Look at you," she whispers, her hips rolling in that same unhurried rhythm. "So pretty like this. Flushed all the way down your chest. Taking me so deep every time. You feel perfect inside me, March—so hard, so hot, filling me up exactly right. So good for me.”
March’s breathing grows harsher with every slow grind. His hands stay obediently against the pillow for a long stretch of minutes, fingers flexing and releasing in the sheets as the deliberate pace keeps him balanced on the knife-edge of pleasure without ever tipping him over. Sweat gathers in the hollow of his throat. His stomach jumps beneath her each time she sinks down and grinds in a tight circle. The wet, soft sounds of their bodies fill the small room, intimate and obscene.
Eventually, March's restraint frays. His hands leave the pillow in a sudden, desperate movement and clamp around her waist as he bucks up into her, trying to urge her into something faster, deeper, anything more than this tormenting glide. A high, frustrated whine catches in his throat.
"Elowyn—fuck—this isn't—I need—"
She freezes at once.
The stillness is absolute. She sinks down until he is buried to the root and simply stays there, clenched tight around him, denying him even the smallest twitch of her hips. March's eyes fly open, dark and wild. A broken noise tears out of him before he can muffle it.
"Hands," she reminds him gently, though her own voice has gone husky with the unbearable heat already coiling low in her belly. "Where do they belong?"
He curses, low and vicious, but the words are more ragged than angry. With visible effort, he peels his fingers from her waist and returns them to the pillow, palms open in surrender. Only then does she begin to move again—same slow, devastating grind, same deep presses that drag her sensitive nerves against him on every stroke.
"Good," she breathes, and the praise lands like a caress. "That's my good boy. Staying so still for me even when it's hard. You're doing so well for me, March."
The coil in her core tightens with every deliberate roll of her hips. She can feel herself growing wetter around him, the slick glide easing the way as pleasure builds in heavy, liquid pulses. Her fingers drift between her legs, finding the swollen bud of her clit and rubbing in time with the grind. March watches her with his pupils blown wide, chest rising and falling in increasingly uneven pulls. His mouth parts around a breath he cannot seem to finish, and his fingers tighten into the pillow as though the effort of keeping his hands where she put them has suddenly become a task requiring his entire concentration.
“Are you ready to say please yet?” she asks, voice beginning to fray at the edges as her own climax draws close. “Just one word and I’ll let you come with me.”
March’s lip curls even as his cock kicks hard inside her. “Not a fucking chance.”
Elowyn laughs, breathless and delighted, the sound breaking on a soft moan when her fingers press more firmly against her clit. “All right,” she accepts, easy and fond. “Then I’ll just take what I need.”
She doesn't speed up. She simply keeps the same slow, deep rhythm, grinding down onto him while her fingers work tight circles over her clit, chasing her own pleasure with single-minded focus. The sight of him beneath her—flushed, trembling, stubbornly silent except for the helpless little sounds he cannot quite swallow—pushes her higher. Heat gathers, sharpens, breaks. She comes with a quiet, shuddering gasp, cunt fluttering and clenching hard around the thick length of him, hips stuttering through the waves while she forces herself to keep grinding, riding out every pulse of it against him.
Elowyn doesn't give him long to recover from the sight of her coming apart around him. She steadies herself with one hand against his heaving chest and begins to move again, this time with more purpose. The glacial grind gives way to a deeper, rolling bounce, with enough movement that he finally feels the full slick drag of her along every inch of his cock on the upstroke and the heavy, perfect seat of her taking him to the hilt on the way down. Each descent lands with a soft, wet sound that seems obscenely loud in the quiet room. She keeps the pace just shy of what he truly needs, a tormenting middle ground that feeds the ache without every quite relieving it, and all the while her voice pours over him in a continuous, husky stream of praise.
"That's it. You feel so good under me like this. So deep. I love how well you fill me, love. Pretty boy. My pretty, stubborn March. Listen to those little sounds you're trying so hard to hide, sweetheart. So sweet for me."
March is coming undone in increments. His head tips back against the pillow, throat bared, the tendons standing out as he fights to keep his voice down. Every bounce wrings another muffled whine out of him; he turns his face into the pillow and bites down on the cotton, but the sounds still escape—high, frayed, desperate things that vibrate through his chest and into her palm. Sweat has gathered in the hollow of his throat and along his hairline; a drop slides down his temple and disappears into his ruined red hair. His thighs tremble violently beneath her. She can feel the exact moment the pleasure starts to gather in earnest for him: the way his cock swells even thicker inside her, the sudden desperate flutter of his stomach muscles, the sharp, punched-out quality of the breaths he is trying so hard to control.
Pretty. So impossibly pretty.
She leans down until her mouth is against his ear, never breaking the rhythm that is driving him so steadily toward the edge.
“You’re close,” she whispers, voice thick with affection and heat. “I can feel it. All you have to do is say please, sweetheart. Just once. Say please and I’ll take you there. I’ll ride you through it until you can’t think of anything else.”
March’s only answer is a low, animal sound of refusal torn from somewhere deep in his chest. He shakes his head once against the pillow, eyes screwed shut, lashes already wet. His hands remain obediently open on the pillow above his head even as every other part of him strains toward release. He is choosing defiance with the last of his coherence, and the sight of it—the sheer stubborn beauty of him fighting her even now—makes her cunt clench hard around him in helpless appreciation.
She feels the precise second he reaches the point of no return. It starts low in his body—a sudden, involuntary tightening of the muscles in his stomach, a deeper throb of his cock inside her that makes her breath catch. His hips, which have been held so rigidly still beneath her for so long, begin to lift in small, aborted snaps, the movement almost reluctant at first, as if even now some part of him is trying to stay obedient. Each upward jerk grows a fraction stronger, chasing the wet drag of her cunt with increasing desperation. His breathing fractures next: the controlled, gritted rhythm breaking into short, uneven gasps that he tries and fails to muffle against the pillow. A broken, pleading noise catches behind his teeth—high and thin and involuntary—before he can swallow it down.
And she stops.
Completely.
She sinks down until he is buried to the hilt and locks her thighs, holding him in perfect, torturous stillness while his orgasm rears up and then crashes against the wall of her denial. March’s eyes fly open. A raw, shattered sob rips out of him before he can muffle it, the sound punched from his lungs as the peak is ripped away. His whole body seizes and shudders; his cock kicks hard inside her, leaking helplessly, but the wave never breaks. Tears spill over at last, tracking hot and fast down his temples into his hair. He is shaking so badly the bed frame gives a soft, protesting creak.
Still, he does not say please.
Elowyn stays perfectly still above him, keeping him buried deep while the ruined peak shudders through his body and slowly, cruelly recedes. March’s chest heaves in ragged pulls. Sweat has turned the red hair at his temples almost black; tears track freely now, sliding down into the pillow in shining paths he cannot seem to stop. Every few seconds, another involuntary ripple of tension travels through him, beginning somewhere low in his body and working visibly through his stomach and thighs. His cock remains painfully hard inside her, twitching with every uneven breath, so sensitive that even the tiny unconscious flutters of her cunt make him flinch and bite down on another broken sound. She watches the stubborn set of his jaw, the way he turns his face further into the pillow as if he can hide the wetness on his cheeks, the white-knuckled tension still holding his hands obediently open above his head. Even wrecked, even shaking, even with tears on his face and his whole body singing with denied need, he will not yield. The refusal is written into every line of him.
She brushes damp hair back from his forehead with gentle fingers, voice soft enough to be almost lost beneath the sound of his breathing.
“Do you want me to stop?”
March’s eyes open at once, glassy and dark and blazing with something fierce. The answer rips out of him on a wrecked, incredulous breath.
“Fuck no.”
The words are hoarse, almost angry, as if the very suggestion has offended him. His hips give a tiny, involuntary roll beneath her, chasing friction even now. “Don’t you fucking dare stop. I’m not— I’m not giving in. Keep going.”
Relief, heat and something dangerously close to pride unfurl together in Elowyn’s chest. She leans down and kisses the salt from one cheek, then the other, lingering against his skin.
“All right,” she whispers. "Good boy."
She begins to move again.
This time, there is no teasing. She rides him fully—deep, steady, purposeful strokes that lift her almost all the way off him before she sinks back down and takes every inch in one smooth, claiming slide. The wet sound of it fills the small room. She plants her hands on his chest for leverage and sets a rhythm designed to drive him straight back to the edge he just left, hips rolling and bouncing with focused intent. All the while her voice stays low and continuous, pouring praise over him like warm water.
“That’s it. Take it just like that. You feel so perfect inside me—so hard, so deep. Look how well you’re staying still for me even now. Hands where I left them. Thighs shaking. Tears on your face. You’re so pretty like this, March."
March is beyond quiet composure. Every downward stroke wrings a muffled, high whine out of him; he turns his face hard into the pillow and bites, but the sounds keep escaping anyway—raw, frayed, desperate. His fingers flex and claw at the pillow above his head without ever leaving it. Sweat runs down his throat. His stomach jumps under her palms each time she seats herself fully and grinds. She can feel him swelling thicker, the tell-tale throb that means he is climbing fast, the way his breathing catches and stutters into short, punched-out gasps against the cotton.
She leans down without breaking rhythm, mouth against the hot shell of his ear.
“You’re close again already. I can feel you getting there. Just say please, sweetheart. One little word and I’ll let you come. I’ll ride you through it until you can’t even remember why you were fighting me.”
March shakes his head in a single, sharp refusal, a broken sob catching in his throat. His whole body is trembling violently now. She knows when it takes him again—the sudden desperate lift of his hips, the way his cock kicks hard inside her, the raw, open-mouthed cry he only just manages to smother into the pillow—
And she stops.
She sinks down and locks her thighs, holding him in absolute stillness while the peak is ripped away for the second time. March’s back arches clean off the bed. A shattered, helpless sob tears out of him, loud enough that she quickly presses her hand over his mouth to muffle it. Tears stream freely down his temples. His cock pulses and leaks inside her in aborted, aching throbs, denied again. He is shaking so hard the bedframe creaks. Whines keep spilling against her palm, high and continuous and wrecked.
Still—still—he does not say please.
Elowyn leans down and takes his mouth in a slow, deep kiss, swallowing the broken sounds still trying to escape him. She keeps one hand cupped gently over his lips for a moment longer, feeling the hot, frantic rush of his breath against her palm until the worst of the panicked edge has passed, then replaces it with her mouth again—soft, lingering, open. She kisses him as if they have all the time in the world, as if the aching throb of his denied cock inside her is not the centre of both their universes. Her free hand strokes through the sweat-damp red hair at his temple, pushing it back, then cups the side of his face so her thumb can stroke along the wet track of tears that still cling to his cheekbone. She kisses the salt from his skin between deeper presses of her mouth, letting him feel the quiet certainty of her presence while his body slowly, unwillingly comes down from the second ruined peak.
She doesn't move. Instead, she simply stays close and breathes with him, matching the ragged pull of his lungs until the violent full-body tremors ease into finer, continuous shivers that run the length of his thighs and up into his stomach. His cock remains iron-hard within her, twitching in small, aborted pulses every time her cunt flutters around him in residual sympathy, but the desperate, cresting urgency has receded enough that he can think again—enough that the stubborn set of his jaw begins to reassert itself even while tears continue to slip from the corners of his closed eyes.
“I’ve got you, sweetheart,” she whispers against his mouth between kisses, voice low and warm and meant for him alone. “You’re all right. Just breathe for me. You’re doing so well. My pretty boy. So strong. So stubborn. I’ve got you.”
Only when his breathing has evened into something less frantic and the helpless, aborted kicks of his cock have quieted into a deep, steady throb does she begin to rock again. The motion is tiny at first—almost imperceptible rolls of her hips that keep him deep and warm and present without driving him straight back toward the edge she has already denied him twice. The friction is minimal, a slow, slick drag that stops him from softening, that keeps the ache alive in both of them, that reminds him with every careful circle exactly where he is and what he is still being denied. She stays close, chest pressed to his, her breasts soft against the hard plane of his sweat-slick chest, mouth brushing his with every soft word of praise she pours into the small space between them.
“That’s it,” she murmurs, the words shaped against his lower lip. “Stay with me. Feel how full I am of you. You’re still so hard. Still so deep. Still so good for me even now.”
The slow rocking gradually deepens as her own neglected need begins to gather again in heavy, liquid pulses low in her belly. Heat builds with every careful grind of her clit against the base of his cock, a sweet, insistent pressure that grows sharper each time she seats herself fully and holds there for a heartbeat before lifting again. She keeps the pace measured, almost tender, but intent has entered it; the wet slide of him inside her becomes slicker, easier, more necessary. Her thighs begin to tremble with the dual effort of holding the rhythm steady and holding back her own rising climax. She lifts herself just enough to look down into his face—flushed dark across the cheekbones, tear-streaked, lashes wet and clumped, eyes dark and glassy and fixed on her with an intensity that steals her breath—and feels the orgasm coiling tighter, closer, inevitable.
“March,” she breathes, voice beginning to fray at the edges. She is close now, so close that every downward slide makes her cunt clench greedily around him. Her fingers tighten on his shoulders. “Say please. Let me take you with me this time. Please, sweetheart—just say it. One word and I’ll let you come. I’ll ride you through it until you forget how to be stubborn.”
March’s jaw clenches so hard the muscle jumps beneath the skin. His eyes squeeze shut. For a long, suspended stretch of seconds he simply breathes through his nose, nostrils flaring, every stubborn line of his body drawn tight against the mattress. He does not shake his head. He does not snarl a refusal. He only holds himself rigid beneath her, caught on the knife-edge of pride and desperate, trembling need while she continues to rock and her own climax rises hot and bright and unstoppable.
Elowyn feels herself tipping. The first fluttering warning clench of her cunt around his cock makes her gasp, hips stuttering. She starts to slow, starts to still, ready to deny them both again rather than break the terms she set—ready to sit on the edge of her own orgasm and wait him out once more—
A high, broken whine tears out of March’s throat, raw and involuntary.
His hands leave the pillow at last and clutch at her waist, not to force her pace but simply to hold on, fingers digging into the soft flesh as if she is the only solid thing left in the world. His eyes open, wet and wrecked and blazing with the last of his resistance collapsing in real time.
“Please,” he chokes out, the word cracking straight down the middle. “Please—Elowyn—please, fuck, please let me come—I’ll be good, just—please—”
Elowyn's whole expression softens into pure, radiant warmth. She cups his tear-streaked face in both hands and kisses him once, deep and claiming, before pulling back just far enough to meet his eyes. A small, breathless smile curves her mouth.
“There it is,” she murmurs, voice low and full of playful triumph. “I knew you’d ask so prettily for me eventually.” Her thumbs stroke the tears from his cheeks. “Yes, March. Hurry up and fuck me, then."
Shame flashes hot and brief through March’s chest—at how easily he broke, at the desperate please still echoing in his own ears—but it is nothing compared to the overwhelming need that surges up in its place and drowns everything else. The last of his restraint shatters under it.
Besides, he never has been good at turning down a challenge.
March’s hips snap upward with sudden, desperate strength, burying himself to the hilt in one hard thrust that wrings a broken sound from both of them. His arms lock around her like iron—one banded across her back, the other cradling the back of her head—anchoring her against him so tightly there is no space left between their bodies. He fucks up into her with wild, frantic, perfect need, every stroke deep and uneven and driven by every denied edge finally breaking open. The bedframe protests beneath them. The wet, urgent sound of their joining fills the small room.
And now that the floodgates are open he cannot stop talking.
The words spill out of him in a continuous, wrecked stream against her throat, her jaw, her mouth—frantic murmurs and high, pleading whines that catch and break and start again.
“Please—fuck—Elowyn—you feel so good, so tight, I can’t—please don’t stop, don’t ever stop—you’re perfect, you’re so perfect, I’ve got you, I’ve got you—” His voice cracks on a sob as he drives up into her especially deep. “Thank you—thank you for letting me—I’m going to come, I can’t hold it, you feel too good, please—”
Every broken praise and desperate plea only winds her higher. She meets each upward snap of his hips with a rolling grind of her own, clit dragging against him, cunt clenching hard around the thick, frantic slide of his cock. The orgasm that has been hovering for so long gathers in a blinding rush.
“That’s it,” she gasps against his mouth, laughing breathlessly even as pleasure tightens her voice.
A raw, shattered sob tears out of him as he buries himself to the root and comes harder than he ever has in his life, pulsing in thick, endless throbs deep inside her while his whole body seizes and shudders. The feel of him losing control so completely—the wet heat of him filling her, the broken sounds he cannot muffle against her skin—drags her over the edge with him. She comes with a quiet, shuddering cry, cunt rippling and milking every pulse of his release, arms locked around his shoulders as tightly as his are locked around her.
They stay tangled like that through the aftershocks, March still rocking up into her in tiny, helpless little thrusts as the last waves roll through him, face pressed to her throat, sobbing quietly in pure, overwhelming relief while she holds him and strokes his hair and whispers that he is good, that he is perfect, that she has him.
For a little while afterwards, March does not move.
Elowyn hardly notices at first. She is still close to him, one hand resting lightly against his chest while she waits for his breathing to settle, feeling the unsteady rise and fall gradually slow beneath her palm. The furious tension has gone out of him so completely that he seems almost boneless now, all that stubborn resistance and tightly coiled frustration finally spent, leaving him sprawled in the rumpled sheets with his hair damp against his forehead and his face turned into the pillow. Even his hands, which had spent so much of the night clenched into the bedding, lie loose and heavy at either side of him. Elowyn smiles to herself as she watches him. She knows March well enough to recognise exhaustion when she sees it, and after everything she has put him through, she cannot honestly claim surprise. She gives him a few moments without asking anything of him, smoothing his hair gently back from his face and tracing her thumb over the warm flush lingering in his cheek, content simply to stay close while he catches his breath.
“March?”
He does not answer.
At first, she assumes he has either not heard her or has decided that answering requires more effort than he is currently willing to expend. It would not be entirely out of character. Her smile remains as she strokes through his hair again, her fingers moving slowly through the dark strands and pausing to untangle them where they cling damply to his temple. “Love?” she tries, softer this time, expecting at least a grunt, a scowl, some indication that he is still perfectly capable of being annoyed with her.
Nothing.
The smile begins to fade. She studies him more carefully, watching the steady movement of his chest, reassuring herself that he is breathing easily enough now, but unease still begins to curl somewhere beneath her ribs. March is exhausted, yes. Overwhelmed, certainly. She had known exactly how hard she was pushing him, even if she had watched him carefully every step of the way, and now that the game is over the thought of having missed something makes her stomach tighten. She says his name again, a little more firmly this time, and when he still gives her nothing she cups his face between her hands, gently but insistently turning him towards her.
“March, sweetheart. Hey. Look at me.”
His brows finally pinch together.
The relief that rushes through her is so immediate that she almost laughs, though it catches somewhere between amusement and the lingering edge of panic. March makes a faint, aggrieved huff and sluggishly lifts one hand, batting at her wrist with all the conviction of someone who would like to object but cannot quite be bothered to commit to it.
“Stop.”
Elowyn exhales sharply, the tension leaving her all at once. “Oh, thank the gods.”
One of his eyes cracks open, unfocused and heavy-lidded. “What?”
“You weren't answering me.”
“I was.”
“No, you weren't.”
“I heard you.”
“That isn't the same thing.”
March's eye closes again. For several seconds, he appears to consider whether this conversation is worth remaining conscious for. Elowyn watches him with growing disbelief, one hand still resting against his cheek, and is just beginning to wonder whether she should worry again when his mouth moves against the pillow.
“What?”
He mumbles something she cannot make out.
“March, I can't understand you.”
His brow furrows more deeply, as though she is the one making this unnecessarily difficult. When he finally turns his face enough to speak properly, his voice is low and rough and so thoroughly exhausted that the words blur together around the edges.
“Can't think.”
Elowyn's mouth twitches despite herself. “Can't think?”
March makes a vague, dismissive gesture with one hand, then lets it fall limply back onto the bed. “You fucked me too good.”
For a moment she simply stares at him. Then the absurdity of it, coupled with the sheer force of her relief, breaks through her all at once, and she folds over him with a laugh that she has to muffle quickly against his shoulder. March groans beneath her, the sound thick with exhausted indignation, though even that seems to cost him more energy than he possesses.
“Don't laugh.”
“I thought something was wrong with you.”
“Something is wrong with me.”
Elowyn lifts her head, still smiling. “Oh?”
“You.”
That earns another muffled laugh from her, softer this time, and she presses a kiss to his flushed cheek before he can scowl at her properly. “There you are,” she murmurs, the words warmer than teasing now, because beneath the humour she can still feel the last remnants of her worry slowly easing away. His irritation is familiar. His complaints are familiar. Even the half-hearted way he tries to turn away from her when she strokes his cheek feels reassuringly, wonderfully normal. But when she looks at him properly, at the exhaustion still written across his face and the damp shine at the corners of his eyes, the laughter fades from her expression. She shifts closer again, gentler now, and brushes her thumb beneath one eye.
“I really was checking on you, you know.”
March does not answer immediately. He looks at her through lowered lashes, still dazed enough that his usual defences have not quite returned, and Elowyn's chest tightens at the sight. “I know,” he eventually murmurs.
“I thought I'd pushed you too far.”
Something in his expression changes then. It is small, but she sees it. The sleepy irritation softens, replaced by something quieter and more serious, and for a moment he simply watches her as though he is only now fully understanding why she had been fussing over him. Elowyn keeps her hand against his cheek, unwilling to let him look away before she is sure he understands.
“You'd tell me, wouldn't you?”
March's mouth twists faintly. “Yeah.”
“You promise?”
This time his expression warms, just enough to soften the sharpness of his face. “Elowyn.”
“I mean it.”
He looks as her then, properly, some of the sleepy irritation leaving his face when he sees that she is genuinely worried.
"I promise."
Only then does Elowyn feel herself relax completely. She leans forward to press a slow kiss to his forehead, lingering there for a moment before settling beside him. She expects him to let her move, perhaps even to roll away now that he has recovered enough to resume being embarrassed about how thoroughly she has seen him unravel, but March's hand catches at her waist before she can get far. The touch is gentle and unhurried, entirely different from the restless impatience that had driven him to reach for her earlier. There is no attempt to take control this time, no frustration behind it. His fingers simply curl against her side, and with a tired little tug he draws her back until she is lying against him, her cheek resting over his heart.
Elowyn goes without resistance, smiling to herself as his arm settles more securely around her. For a while she says nothing, allowing the quiet to return around them. Beyond the bedroom wall, Olric remains asleep, and the thought almost makes her laugh again; all that effort spent trying not to wake him, all the muffled sounds and bitten pillows and whispered arguments, and now March lies there with one arm around her as though he has forgotten there is an entire world beyond the bed. She can hear his heartbeat beneath her ear, still a little too fast, though it is gradually slowing, and she lets her fingertips drift lazily over his side while the other hand returns to his hair.
“Better?” she whispers after a while.
March is silent for so long that Elowyn begins to suspect he has fallen asleep.
“Marginally,” he finally mutters.
She smiles against his chest. “Poor thing.”
“Don't.”
“I'm being sympathetic.”
“You're enjoying this.”
“Maybe a little.”
His arm tightens around her, just enough to make her laugh softly. There is no real threat in the gesture. He is simply holding her closer, though Elowyn suspects he would deny that if she pointed it out. She does not. Instead, she nestles against him and lets the silence stretch again, warm and comfortable this time, until the frantic intensity of the night feels very far away.
“You did well,” she says eventually.
March immediately stiffens.
Elowyn feels the reaction before she sees it and has to hide her smile against his chest. Even now, even with barely enough energy to remain awake, he cannot quite help the way praise affects him. His fingers flex once at her waist.
“Don't start.”
“I mean it.”
His chin shifts slightly against the top of her head, though he does not let go of her. “You mean you got what you wanted.”
“That too.”
“Elowyn.”
She laughs quietly, then softens before he can summon enough energy to complain again. “No. I mean it, March. You trusted me, even when you were frustrated. You did so well for me."
The words settle differently this time. There is no teasing in them, no deliberate attempt to watch him blush or make him squirm. Elowyn simply means them, and she hopes he can hear the difference. For several seconds he remains completely quiet, and she wonders whether she has embarrassed him beyond response. Then his hand tightens slowly at her waist.
“I'm proud of you,” she adds, softer still.
March's breath catches.
Elowyn waits.
“You mean it?” he asks eventually, so quietly that she almost misses it.
Her heart aches at the question. She shifts just enough to look up at him, finding his eyes closed again, his face turned slightly away as though he cannot bear to watch her answer. Elowyn smiles, reaching up to smooth the last damp strands of hair from his forehead.
“Of course I do.”
He is silent for another long moment.
“Good,” he murmurs.
Elowyn's mouth curves. “Very good?”
One eye opens immediately, fixing her with a glare that would be much more intimidating if exhaustion had not softened every edge of it. She bites back a laugh, but March has known her too long not to recognise that look.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
His eye narrows. “Elowyn.”
She smiles sweetly and reaches up to smooth the last damp strands of hair from his forehead, lingering for a moment as her thumb brushes over the warmth still lingering in his cheek. He looks at her with immediate suspicion, and perhaps it is cruel to make him wonder, because he has barely recovered enough to form coherent thoughts, but she cannot help herself.
“I was just thinking you're very pretty.”
The flush that rises into his face is immediate.
March's eyes close again with a groan, his arm tightening around her as though he might physically stop her from saying anything else. “Shut up.”
Elowyn laughs softly against his chest. “What? You are.”
“Elowyn.”
“Very pretty.”
“Go the fuck to sleep.”
That only makes her laugh harder, though she is careful to keep the sound quiet, muffling it against him before it can carry through the wall. March makes a deeply offended noise and shifts beneath her, but there is no real annoyance behind it. When she finally settles again, still smiling, he presses a sleepy kiss into her hair and mutters something too muffled for her to make out before his hand resumes its slow, absent movement against her waist.
Elowyn lets the warmth of the moment settle around them. Outside, the night remains dark and quiet, and somewhere beyond the thin wall Olric continues to sleep, blissfully unaware of everything that has transpired only a few feet away. March's breathing grows deeper beneath her ear, his heartbeat steady now, and she curls closer without thinking, fitting herself into the familiar warmth of him while his arm remains securely around her.
Elowyn has always thought March was pretty. Pretty when he is bent over his work with soot smudged across his cheek and his brow furrowed in fierce concentration. Pretty when his temper gets the better of him, when laughter catches him by surprise, when some small act of kindness embarrasses him so thoroughly that he immediately tries to pretend it never happened. He is pretty when he is stubborn and proud and impossible, too, though she will never tell him that because he would undoubtedly find some way to be offended by it.
But he is pretty like this.
Warm beneath her. Smiling, however faintly, when he thinks she cannot see. His hair mussed, his face still flushed, every sharp edge softened by exhaustion and the quiet comfort of knowing she is there. He is pretty with his arm around her and his fingers curled lazily against her waist, holding her close even as sleep begins to pull him under.
And perhaps, Elowyn thinks as she closes her eyes, there is something especially lovely about the fact that this version of March is hers.
Not because she owns him. Never that.
But because he is hers in all the ways that matter, and she is his in return: by choice, by trust, by every small, stubborn act of love that has brought them here.
Elowyn smiles against his chest and lets herself sink into the warm afterglow of him.
March's fingers tighten once around her waist.
“Sleep,” he mumbles.
Her smile widens.
“Goodnight, pretty boy.”